to the Europa. They got their keys at the desk and she turned to him. ‘I really enjoyed that, Dillon, she was wonderful, but I’m tired. I think I’ll go straight up.’
‘Sleep well.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I think I’ll have a nightcap.’
He went into the Library Bar, which was reasonably busy, and ordered a Bushmills. A moment later Grace Browning walked in with a man in an open-necked shirt, tweed jacket and slacks. He looked in his forties, had brown hair and a pleasant, rather amiable face. They sat down at a corner table and were immediately approached by a woman who’d been to the show. Dillon recognized the programme. Grace Browning signed it with a pleasant smile which she managed to retain even when a number of other people did the same thing.
Finally, the intrusion stopped and the waiter took a half bottle of champagne over and uncorked it. Dillon swallowed his Bushmills, crossed the room and paused.
‘Not only a great actress, but a woman of taste and discernment, I see – Krug non-vintage, the best champagne in the world.’
She laughed. ‘Really?’
‘It’s the grape mix.’
She hesitated, then said, ‘This is my friend, Professor Tom Curry and you are …?’
‘God save us, that doesn’t matter one damn bit. Our only connection is that like you I went to RADA and did the odd thing for the National.’ He laughed. ‘About a thousand years ago. I just wanted to say thank you. You were magnificent tonight.’
He walked out.
She said, ‘What a charmer.’
‘He’s that all right,’ Curry said. ‘Just have a look at the colour fax Belov sent me.’
He opened an envelope, took out a sheet and passed it across. Her eyes widened as she examined it. ‘Good God.’
‘Yes, staying here under the name of Friar, but in actuality Sean Dillon, a thoroughly dangerous man. Let me tell you about him, and more to the point, what we’re going to do.’
The following evening just after half-five Dillon stood at the window of his suite, drinking tea and looking out across the city. Rain was driving in and it was already dusk, lights gleaming out there. There was a knock on the door and he went and opened it.
Hannah Bernstein entered.
‘How are you?’
‘Fine. The grand cup of tea they give you here.’
‘Can’t you ever take anything seriously?’
‘I could never see the point, girl dear.’ He opened a drawer, took out a 9mm Browning pistol with a silencer on the muzzle and slammed in a twenty-round magazine.
‘Dear God, Dillon, you really are going to war.’
‘Exactly.’
He slipped the Browning into the waistband of his slacks at the rear, pulled on a tweed jacket and his rain hat, took another twenty-round clip from the drawer and put it in his pocket. He smiled and put his hands on her shoulders.
‘We who are about to die salute you. A fella called Suetonius wrote that about two thousand years ago.’
‘You’re forgetting I went to Cambridge, Dillon. I could give you the quote in Latin.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Try and come back in one piece.’
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘You mean you care? There’s still hope for me?’
She punched him in the chest. ‘Get out of here.’
He walked to the door, opened it and went out.
The rush hour traffic was already in place as he turned out of the Europa car park and moved along Victoria Avenue. He expected to be followed although monitored would be a better description. It was difficult, of course, with all those cars, but he’d seen the motorcyclist in the black helmet and leathers turn out of the car park quite close behind him, then noticed the same machine keeping well back. It was only when he turned down towards the waterfront through deserted streets of warehouses that he realized he was on his own. Ah, well, perhaps he’d been mistaken.
‘You sometimes are, old son,’ he said, and as he spoke a Rover saloon turned out of a side turning and followed him.
‘Here we go, then,’ Dillon said softly.
At that moment, a Toyota saloon emerged from a lane in front of him and blocked the way. Dillon braked to a halt. The man at the wheel of the Rover stayed where he was. The two men in the Toyota jumped out carrying Armalites.
‘Out, Friar, out!’ one of them shouted.
Dillon’s hand slipped under his coat and found the butt of the Browning. ‘Isn’t that you, Martin McGurk?’ he said, getting out of the car. ‘Jesus, and haven’t you got the wrong man? Remember me from Derry in the old days?’ He pulled off the rain hat to reveal his blond hair. ‘Dillon – Sean Dillon.’
McGurk looked stunned. ‘It can’t be.’
‘Oh, yes it can, old son,’ Dillon told him, brought up the Browning and fired through the open door, knocking McGurk on his back, then swinging and shooting the man beside him through the head.
The man at the wheel of the Rover pulled forward, drew a pistol and fired through the open passenger window, then put his head down and took off. Dillon fired twice at him, shattering the rear window, but the Rover turned the corner and was gone.
There was quiet, except for the steady splashing of the rain. Dillon walked round to the two men he had shot and examined them. They were both dead. There was a burst of Armalite fire from somewhere above. As he ducked, an engine roared and the motorcycle he had noticed earlier passed him, sliding sideways on the cobbles.
As it came to a halt, he saw the black-suited rider raise some sort of weapon. He recognized the distinctive muted crack of a silenced AK47. A man fell from a platform high up in a warehouse on the other side of the street and bounced on the pavement. The rider raised an arm in a kind of salute and rode off.
Dillon stood there for only a moment, then got in behind the wheel of his car and drove away, leaving the carnage behind him.
He parked near the warehouse with the sign Murphy & Son where he had first met Daley. As he turned the corner, he saw the Rover at the kerb. The big man, Jack Mullin, was standing by the Judas gate, peering inside. As Dillon watched, Mullin went into the warehouse.
Dillon followed, opening the gate cautiously, the Browning ready. He could hear Jack Mullin’s agitated voice. ‘He’s dead, Curtis, shot twice in the back.’
Dillon moved quickly towards the office, the door of which stood open. He was almost there when Mullin turned and saw him. ‘It’s Friar,’ he said and reached inside his coat.
Dillon shot him, knocking him back against the desk. He slumped to the floor and Daley got to his feet, panic written all over his face.
‘No Daniel Quinn,’ Dillon told him. ‘Naughty, that, and you made another mistake. It’s not Barry
