A Prayer for the Dying. Jack Higgins

Daly here. I wonder if you’d mind doing me a favour?’

      He knew at once by the second’s hesitation, by the strain in her voice, that old Michael’s supposition had been correct.

      ‘Oh, yes, Mr Daly.’

      ‘The thing is, I’m expecting a phone call at nine o’clock. Take the number and tell them I’ll ring back when I get in. I haven’t a hope in hell of getting there now. I ran into a couple of old friends and we’re having a few drinks. You know how it is?’

      There was another slight pause before she said as if in response to some invisible prompt, ‘Sounds nice. Where are you?’

      ‘A pub called The Grenadier Guard in Kensington High Street. I’ll have to go now. See you later.’

      He replaced the receiver, left the phone-box and moved into a doorway from which he had a good view of No. 13 halfway down the short street.

      A moment later, the front door was flung open. There were eight of them. Special Branch from the look of it. The first one on to the pavement waved frantically and two cars moved out of the shadows at the end of the street. The whole crew climbed inside, the cars moved away at speed. A car which was parked at the kerb on the other side of the main road went after them.

      Fallon crossed to the corner and paused beside the old newspaper seller. He took out his wallet, extracting the four remaining pound notes and pressed them into his hand.

      ‘God bless you, Mr Fallon,’ Michael said, but Fallon was already on the other side of the road, walking rapidly back towards the river.

      This time Kristou didn’t hear a thing although he had been waiting for something like an hour, nerves taut. He sat there at the table, ledger open, the pen gripped tightly in his mittened hand. There was the softest of footfalls, wind over grass only, then the harsh, deliberate click as the hammer of the Browning was cocked.

      Kristou breathed deeply to steady himself. ‘What’s the point, Martin?’ he said. ‘What would it get you?’

      Fallon moved round to the other side of the table, the Browning in his hand. Kristou stood up, leaning on the table to stop from shaking.

      ‘I’m the only friend you’ve got left now, Martin.’

      ‘You bastard,’ Fallon said. ‘You sicked the Special Branch on to me.’

      ‘I had to,’ Kriston said frantically. ‘It was the only way I could get you back here. It was for your own good, Martin. You’ve been like a dead man walking. I can bring you back to life again. Action and passion, that’s what you want. That’s what you need.’

      Fallon’s eyes were like black holes in the white face. He raised the Browning at arm’s length, touching the muzzle between Kristou’s eyes.

      The old man closed them. ‘All right, if you want to, go ahead. Get it over with. This is a life, the life I lead? Only remember one thing. Kill me, you kill yourself because there is no one else. Not one single person in this world that would do anything other than turn you in or put a bullet in your head.’

      There was a long pause. He opened his eyes to see Fallon gently lowering the hammer of the Browning. He stood there holding it against his right thigh, staring into space.

      Kristou said carefully, ‘After all, what is he to you, this Krasko? A gangster, a murderer. The kind who lives off young girls.’ He spat. ‘A pig.’

      Fallon said. ‘Don’t try to dress it up. What’s the next move?’

      ‘One phone call is all it takes. A car will be here in half an hour. You’ll be taken to a farm near Doncaster. An out-of-the-way place. You’ll be safe there. You make the hit on Thursday morning at the cemetery like I showed you in the photo. Krasko always leaves his goons at the gate. He doesn’t like having them around when he’s feeling sentimental.’

      ‘All right,’ Fallon said. ‘But I do my own organising. That’s understood.’

      ‘Of course. Anything you want.’ Kristou opened the drawer, took out an envelope and shoved it across. ‘There’s five hundred quid there in fives, to be going on with.’

      Fallon weighed the envelope in his hand carefully for a moment, then slipped it into a pocket. ‘When do I get the rest?’ he said. ‘And the passport?’

      ‘Mr Meehan takes care of that end on satisfactory completion.’

      Fallon nodded slowly. ‘All right, make your phone call.’

      Kristou smiled, a mixture of triumph and relief. ‘You’re doing the wise thing, Martin. Believe me you are.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s just one thing if you don’t mind me saying so?’

      ‘And what would that be?’

      ‘The Browning – no good to you for a job like this. You need something nice and quiet.’

      Fallon looked down at the Browning, a slight frown on his face. ‘Maybe you have a point. What have you got to offer?’

      ‘What would you like?’

      Fallon shook his head. ‘I’ve never had a preference for any particular make of handgun. That way you end up with a trademark. Something they can fasten on to and that’s bad.’

      Kristou unlocked a small safe in the corner, opened it and took out a cloth bundle which he unwrapped on the table. It contained a rather ugly-looking automatic, perhaps six inches long, a curious-looking barrel protruding a farther two inches. The bundle also contained a three-inch silencer and two fifty-round cartons of ammunition.

      ‘And what in the hell is this?’ Fallon said, picking it up.

      ‘A Czech Ceska,’ Kristou told him. ‘Seven point five millimetres. Model twenty-seven. The Germans took over the factory during the war. This is one of theirs. You can tell by the special barrel modification. Made that way to take a silencer.’

      ‘Is it any good?’

      ‘SS Intelligence used them, but judge for yourself.’

      He moved into the darkness. A few moments later, a light was turned on at the far end of the building and Fallon saw that there was a target down there of a type much used by the army. A lifesize replica of a charging soldier.

      As he screwed the silencer on to the end of the barrel, Kristou rejoined him. ‘Any time you’re ready.’

      Fallon took careful aim with both hands, there was a dull thud that outside would not have been audible above three yards. He had fired at the heart and chipped the right arm.

      He adjusted the sight and tried again. He was still a couple of inches out. He made a further adjustment. This time he was dead on target.

      Kristou said, ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

      Fallon nodded. ‘Ugly, but deadly, Kristou, just like you and me. Did I ever tell you that I once saw a sign on a wall in Derry that said: Is there a life before death? Isn’t that the funnlest thing you ever heard?’

      Kristou stared at him, aghast, and Fallon turned, his arm swung up, he fired twice without apparently taking aim and shot out the target’s eyes.

       2

       Father da Costa

      … the Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. Father Michael da Costa spoke out bravely as he led the way up through the cemetery, his words almost drowned in the rush of heavy rain.

      Inside, he was sick at heart. It had rained heavily all night, was raining even harder now. The procession from chapel to graveside was a wretched affair at the best of times, but this occasion was particularly