much. They found some old-fashioned shackles in the boathouse hanging on a peg with two keys, which they were careful to take with them when they left him chained.”
“And Tulley’s boys?”
“The first roadblock was enough, and they held their hands up.”
“And Eli?”
“The police found him, still shackled. He said he heard the boat’s engines and managed to peer through a crack in the wall planking and glimpsed a shadow in the wheelhouse as the Maria Blanco moved out to sea.”
“And Tulley and company?”
“He was crippled. They were in the Maze together with Finbar when the legend of the Maria Blanco and its cargo was born.” Dillon shrugged. “The RUC looked at every possibility, turned the criminal underworld in Ulster inside out, but never got a hint, and that’s the way it is to this day.”
“I bet it is. So what happened to Eli?”
“Well, as he’d been a victim, life went on, Finbar serving his time in the Maze for another year, obsessed with the knowledge of what had happened. I think it was the fact of it all having taken place in Drumore and, because of that, having it somehow slip through his fingers that got to him.”
Hannah nodded. “I can see that.” She was frowning. “Sean, I hope you don’t mind my saying that you seem incredibly knowledgeable about the whole business. Did you by chance have anything to do with it?”
“Thank God I didn’t,” he said cheerfully. “Booked out of Belfast on the afternoon plane to London Heathrow, which I left the following morning on the ten-thirty flight to Algiers.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me?” she said.
“Of course not. You can’t be in two places at the same time. So let’s leave the mystery of the Maria Blanco to continue to torment Finbar.”
“That’s all very well, cousin,” she replied. “But I think it will continue to torment a lot of people, including me. Twenty-five million in bullion, how much will that be now?”
“I wouldn’t think about that; it will ruin the rest of your day.”
Dillon laughed and turned into the safe house at Holland Park to find Ferguson’s Daimler parked there, and as he and Hannah got out of the Mini, Ferguson, Cazalet, and Blake emerged from the main entrance.
Ferguson said, “Everything go all right at the funeral?”
“Not really,” Dillon said. “The father turned up, drunk as usual, and distinctly not wanted.”
“Always bad news, Finbar,” Ferguson said. “But we’ve been having a further development here. The Master’s on the phone again. Roper will fill you in. Henry Frankel’s returned to Downing Street, and we’re off to join him and the Prime Minister.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Dillon asked.
“Yes, actually. Since you’re an old IRA hand, the Prime Minister may value your opinion on al-Qaeda and ISIS and the possibility of them hitting the streets of London. If you can spare us the time, that is?”
Dillon, at his most Irish, said, “God save you, General, for giving me the opportunity to serve.”
“Get in, damn you,” Ferguson ordered, which Dillon did.
Ferguson turned, a smile on his face. “Impossible man, but what can one do? You’d better go and report to Major Roper, Hannah.”
He climbed in beside Doyle, the Daimler moved away, and Hannah turned and went in.
ROPER, SMOKING A CIGARETTE, a glass of whiskey in his hand, leaned back in his wheelchair, Sara sitting beside him enjoying a coffee.
“Where’s Dillon?” he asked.
“The general decided he should accompany them to Downing Street and that Sean might be useful because of his IRA experience.”
“Well, Dillon could certainly write the book on that.”
Hannah jumped to Dillon’s defense. “He had reason enough. His father died in a firefight in Belfast, so he was fighting a just cause.”
“So was I, defusing bombs all over Belfast, the kind that murdered your parents and crippled you.”
“I thought he was your friend.” Hannah was angry, face flushed.
“But he is,” Roper said. “Also an enigma. Fought the revolution worldwide, found it just as easy to work for the Israelis as he did the PLO. Learned Arabic when the IRA sent him to one of the Gaddafi training camps and discovered he had a gift for languages, and now he speaks several.”
She looked bewildered. “I didn’t know all of that.”
“And you probably don’t know this,” Roper said. “His attempt to blow up the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet almost succeeded. That was during the Gulf War.”
Hannah took a deep breath. “Damn him, he even plays the best barroom piano I ever heard.”
“A lively lad.”
They were on their way in to lunch, but they got no farther than the door when an alert call sounded. “Hang on,” Roper said. “Ferguson wants a word.”
Ferguson’s face came on the screen from his office on the third floor of the ministry. Hannah could see paneled walls, a picture or two, and a mahogany desk that somehow suited Ferguson’s personality. Henry Frankel and Dillon sat on either side of him.
Frankel said, “Just to let you know that President Cazalet has made it clear he intends to honor his speaking commitment, so we’ll need to keep the security high. He’s at Downing Street now with Blake Johnson, and I’ll be joining them soon.”
Sara said, “I imagine the White House will be annoyed that he’s not returning to the States.”
“Perhaps,” Ferguson told her. “But these are troubled times, and good friends need to stand together.”
“So what do we need to do? It’s like we’re going to war.”
Dillon cut in. “Someone once said that in war all a soldier knows is his own small part of the front. Al-Qaeda may be all over the world, but this is our part of the front. We’ve disposed of two Masters already, and now we have a third. Our battle is to give him what we gave them.”
“Well said, Sean,” Ferguson said.
“There you go,” Dillon said. “Calling me Sean again.”
“On your way, you rogue,” Ferguson told him. “And don’t forget to check underneath your car for bombs.”
“As if I would,” Dillon said, and the screen faded to black.
“ANY QUESTIONS?” Roper asked Sara, but it was Hannah who replied.
