The President’s Daughter

“And you want me?” Dillon said.

“Of course. After all, you knew the damn man. You, too, Chief Inspector. I’d like your input.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “The Daimler is waiting, so let’s be off,” and he led the way out.

They waited in the interview room at Wandsworth, and after a while, the door opened and Jackson pushed Riley into the room and closed the door.

Riley said, “Sean, is that you?”

“As ever was, Dermot.” Dillon lit a cigarette, inhaled, and passed it to him.

Riley grinned. “You used to do that in the old days in Derry. Remember when we ran rings round the Brits?”

“We did indeed, old son, but times change.”

“Well, you’ve certainly changed,” Riley said. “And from one side to the other.”

“All right,” Ferguson broke in. “So you’ve had the old pals act. Now let’s get down to business. What do you want, Riley?”

“Out, Brigadier.” Riley sat on one of the chairs at the table. “Six months is enough. I can’t face anymore, I’d rather be dead.”

“Like all those people you killed,” Hannah said.

“And who might you be?”

“A Detective Chief Inspector, Special Branch,” Dillon told him, “so mind your manners.”

“I was fighting a war, woman,” Riley began, and Ferguson cut in.

“And now you’ve had enough of the glorious cause,” Ferguson said. “So what have you got for me?”

Riley appeared to hesitate and Dillon said, “Hard as nails this old bugger, Dermot, but very old-fashioned. A man of honor, so tell him.”

“All right.” Riley raised a hand. “You people always thought there were three Active Service Units operating in London. There was a fourth and a different kind of setup. Nice house in Holland Park. Three guys and a woman, all with good jobs in the City. Another thing—all handpicked because they’d been born in England or raised here. Perfect for deep cover.”

“Names?” Ferguson demanded.

“It won’t do you any good. Not one of them has a police record of any kind, but here goes.”

He rattled off four names, which Hannah Bernstein wrote down in her notebook. Dillon watched impassively.

Ferguson said, “Address?”

“Park Villa, Palace Square. It’s on old Victoria Place in a nice garden.”

“So you had dealings with them?” Dillon asked.

“No, but a friend of mine, Ed Murphy, was their supplier. He got a little indiscreet one night. You know how it is with the drink taken. Anyway, he told me all about them.”

“And where’s Murphy now?”

“Rotated back to Ireland last year.”

Dillon turned to Ferguson and shrugged. “If it was me, I’d be long gone, especially after Dermot was lifted.”

“But why?” Hannah demanded. “There’s no connection.”

“But there always is,” Dillon said.

“Stop this bickering,” Ferguson told them. “It’s worth a try.”

He banged on the door, and when it opened and Jackson appeared, took an envelope from his pocket. “Take that to the Governor and get it countersigned. It’s a warrant for this man’s release into my custody. Afterwards, take him back to his cell to collect his things. We’ll be waiting in my Daimler in the courtyard.”

“Very well, Brigadier.” Jackson stamped his booted feet as if back on the parade ground and stood to one side as they filed past.

A number of people were waiting in the rain outside the main gate for prisoners on release. Among them was the lawyer who had called himself George Brown, standing beside a London black cab, an umbrella over his head. The driver looked like your average London cabbie, which he was, a very special breed, dark curly hair flecked with gray, a nose that had at some stage been broken.

“Do you think it’s going to work?” he asked.

At that moment, the gates opened and several men emerged, the Daimler following.

“I do now,” Brown said.

As the Daimler passed, Riley, sitting beside Dillon and opposite Ferguson and Hannah, glanced out and recognized Brown at once. He looked away.

Brown waved to a Ford sedan on the other side of the road and pointed as it moved away from the curb and went after the Daimler.

Brown got into the cab. “Now what?” the driver asked.

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