The President’s Daughter

He turned and smiled. “Perfect. Heard everything they said.”

And at nine o’clock that evening, Palace Square in Holland Park was sealed off by the police. Ferguson, Dillon, and Riley sat in the Daimler at the gate of Park Villa and watched armed police of the antiterrorist squad smash the front door down with their hammers and flood inside.

“So far so good,” Ferguson said.

Dillon took the car umbrella, got out and lit a cigarette, and stood there in the pouring rain. Hannah Bernstein emerged from the front door and came toward them. She wore a black jump suit and flak jacket, a holstered Smith & Wesson pistol on her left hip.

Ferguson opened the door. “Any luck?”

“A stack of Semtex, sir, and lots of timers. Looks as if we’ve really nipped some sort of bombing campaign in the bud.”

“But no Active Service Unit?”

“I’m afraid not, Brigadier.”

“I told you,” Dillon said. “Probably long gone.”

“Sod it!” Ferguson told him. “I wanted them, Dillon.”

Riley said, “Well, I kept my side of the bargain. Not my fault.”

“Yes, but not enough,” Ferguson told him.

Riley was really working very well. He added a little anxiety to his voice. “Here, you won’t send me back, not to Wandsworth?”

“I don’t really have much choice.”

Riley switched to panic. “No, not that. I’ll do anything. Lots of things I could tell you and not just about the IRA.”

“Such as?”

“Two years ago. The Jumbo from Manchester that blew up over the Irish Sea. Two hundred and twenty dead. That Arab fundamentalist lot, the Army of God, was behind that, and you know who was in charge.”

Ferguson’s face had gone very pale. “Hakim al Sharif.”

“I can get him for you.”

“You mean you know where that murderous bastard is?”

“I spoke with him last year. He was also supplying arms for the IRA.”

Ferguson raised a hand. “That’s enough.” He looked up at Hannah. “Get in, Chief Inspector. We’ll go to Dillon’s cottage and pursue this further.”

The kettle in Dillon’s kitchen was the old-fashioned kind that whistled when it boiled. Ferguson was on the telephone checking in to the office and Riley was on the couch by the fireplace, Hannah Bernstein at the window.

She got up as the kettle sounded, and Dillon said, “None of that. It wouldn’t be politically correct. I’ll make the tea.”

“Fool, Dillon,” she told him.

He made a large pot, put it on a tray with milk and sugar and four mugs, and took it in. “Barry’s Tea, Dermot,” he said, naming Ireland’s favorite brand. “You’ll feel right at home.”

Hannah poured and Ferguson put the phone down. He took the tea Hannah offered and said, “All right, let’s start again.”

Riley said, “Before I was lifted here in London last year, I was pulled in by the Chief of Staff in Dublin as a courier. I had to fly to Paris, visit a certain bank where there was a briefcase in a safe deposit. All I know is it was a lot of money in American dollars. I never knew how much. I understood it was a down payment against an arms shipment to Ireland.”

“And then?”

“I had exact instructions and I followed them. Flew to Palermo in Sicily where I hired a car and drove across to the south coast of the island, a fishing port called Salinas, a real nothing of a place. I was told to phone a certain number and simply say: ‘The Irishman is here.”’

“Go on,” Ferguson urged.

“Then I was to wait at this bar on the waterfront called the English Café.”

The story was so good that Riley was almost believing it himself, and it was Dillon who said, “And they came?”

“Two men in a Range Rover. Arabs. They took me to this villa by the sea about six or seven miles out of Salinas. Nothing else around. There was a jetty, some sort of motorboat.”

“And Hakim al Sharif?” Hannah asked.

“Oh, yes. Very hospitable. He checked out the cash, gave me a sealed letter for the Chief of Staff in Dublin, and made me stay the night.”

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