We can’t afford a civil war.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Prime Minister.”
“I want Dillon on this; Brigadier,” John Major said. “All fight, I do not approve of his IRA and terrorist background, which is why I distance myself, but there is no doubt of the man’s extraordinary capabilities.
He saved the Royal Family considerable anxiety over the Windsor affair the other year. All that nonsense over the Nazis. Then the attack on the Peace Process by the terrorist group Janua 30. He saved the life of Senator Patrick Keogh when he had the courage to address Sinn Fein and the IRA in Ireland and beg for peace. No, I know that Dillon is a
totally ruthless man, but he’s what we need for this business.”
“I agree, Prime Minister.”
John Major looked up at him as Ferguson stood.
“They call your people the Prime Minister’s Private Army, so it gives you extraordinary powers. Use them, Brigadier, use them.” WHEN HANNAH BERNSTEIN AND SEAN DILLON were summoned to Ferguson’s office, they found him standing by the window. He turned, very serious.
“Absolutely top priority. Everything else stops. I have direct orders from the Prime Minister to expedite a current problem to the utmost. There is a file there on my desk marked IRISH ROSE. Take it to your office, Chief Inspector. Read it, the both of you, then come back.” HANNAH BERNSTEIN WORKED HER WAY THROUGH
the file, reading the old news clippgs,
the
details
of
Ryan’s activities, then Salamone’s account of what had happened at Green Rapids. Dillon leaned over her shoulder and read it, too.
She said, “All right, we have a very nasty Prod activist, Michael Ryan, and his vicious little niece, Kathleen. What do we know? The gold bullion heist in the Lake District, the Irish Rose seen, according to the police, by a young boy and his dog out fishing at Marsh End. So we presume the truck went on board–presume.
Next fact. Lifebelts and bits from the Irish Rose wash up on the Down coast. 7
“Then we have Salamone. For Ryan.read Kelly, who robs a bank in New York State, kills a copper, and gets twenty-five years. In the sweat of his fever he discloses that he’s the only one who knows where the Irish Rose is. The rest we know.”
“So Ryan and the girl are on the loose aided by the Russo family. So what? We know nothing, Dillon.”
“Except that logically; all roads lead to Ireland, girl dear, and there’s more. I’ve a terrible confession to make. Let’s go in and see the man, and I’ll tell you both at the same time.” FERGUSON SAT BEHIND THE DESK, HANNAH Bernsteiffacing him. Dillon lounged by the window, hands in his pockets.
“Well, what do you think?” Ferguson said. “Putting all things together including informer’s tittle-tattle and rumors plus information from the swine Reid, back in nineteen eighty-five, one hell of a slick job was pulled by Michael Ran, his niece Kathleen, and some mystery man called Martin Keogh. That is confirmed in an obscure Royal Ulster Constabulary report of a raid they made on Ryan’s pub in Belfast, the Orange Drum. Some wretched one-armed barman named Ivor somebody remembers the girl being saved from gang rape by some Catholic youths, saved by this Keogh. This was only a day or two before he saw them for the last time. He said they left together in a taxi for the airport and he understood they were going to London.” ZZO “That’s right, Brigadier,” Hannah said. “Reid mentioned their contact, a Protestant organizer called Hugh Bell, who ran a pub in Kilburn called the William and Mary. Killed in a road accident.” “Was he bollocks. Too convenient, that,” Dillon said. “He was seen off by Reid and his minder, a bastard called Scully.” They both stared at him. “But that isn’t in the file.
How would you know?” “Because I was Martin Keogh,” Dillon said and turned to Ferguson. “Fll just help myself to your whiskey, Brigadier, and then I’ll reveal all.”
FERGUSON SAID, “DEAR GOD, DILLON, YOU never cease to amaze me.” “I had a pat, Brigadier. You knew that when you took me on.” “Yes, a past is one way of describing it. An IRA activist for something like twenty years.” “British paratroopers killed my ather, Brigadier, I was trying to make someone pay. When you’re nineteen you look at things that way.” “And the PLO. Was that for political belief or money?” “A man has to earn a living, Brigadier.” Dillon smiled. “I’d remind you I worked for the Israelis,