A Season in Hell. Jack Higgins

the time. Undercover. South Armagh.’

      ‘Distinguished Conduct Medal in the Falklands. Badly wounded. Eight months’ hospitalization. Left knee plastic and stainless steel or what-have-you. Speaks French, Italian and Irish. That’s a new one.’

      ‘His father was Irish,’ Villiers said.

      ‘Another interesting point. He went to quite a reasonable public school,’ Warden added. ‘Dulwich College.’

      Like Villiers, he was an Old Etonian and the Colonel said, ‘Don’t be a snob, Daniel. A very good school. Good enough for Raymond Chandler.’

      ‘Really, sir? I never knew that. Thought he was an American.’

      ‘He was, you idiot.’ Villiers crossed to the desk, helped himself to tea from a china pot and sat in the window seat. ‘Let me give it to you chapter and verse on Sean Egan, all Group Four information and most of it very definitely not on your computer. A lot of remarkable things about our Sean. To start with, he has a rather unusual uncle. Maybe you’ve heard of him? One Jack Shelley.’

      Warden frowned. ‘The gangster?’

      ‘A long time ago. In the good, bad old days he was as important as the Kray brothers and the Richardson gang. Very well liked in the East End of London. The people’s hero. Robin Hood in a Jaguar. Made his money from gambling and protection, night clubs and so on. Nothing nasty like drugs or prostitution. And he was clever. Too clever to end up serving life like the Krays. When he discovered he could make just as much money legitimately he moved into a different world. Television, computers, high tech. He must be worth twenty million at least.’

      ‘And Egan?’

      ‘Shelley’s sister married a London Irishman called Patrick Egan. He was an ex-boxer who ran a pub somewhere on the river. Shelley didn’t approve. He never married himself.’ Villiers lit another cigarette. ‘And there’s one thing you should get straight about him. He may be a multi-millionaire who owns half of Wapping, but he’s still Jack Shelley to every crook in London and a name to be reckoned with. He took a fancy to young Sean. He was the one who paid for him to go to Dulwich College and Sean was good. Got a scholarship to Trinity College, Cambridge. Intended to read Moral Philosophy. Can you beat that, Jack Shelley’s nephew reading Moral Philosophy?’

      Warden was well hooked by now. ‘What went wrong?’

      ‘In the spring, of ’76, Pat Egan and his wife went across to Ulster to visit relatives in Portadown. Unfortunately they parked next to the wrong truck.’

      ‘A bomb?’ Warden asked.

      ‘Big one. Took out half the street. They were only two of the people killed. Egan was seventeen and a half. Turned his back on Cambridge and joined the Paratroopers. His uncle was furious, but there wasn’t much he could do.’

      ‘Is Egan Shelley’s only relative?’

      ‘No, there’s some woman in her sixties, Sean’s cousin, I think. He told me once. She runs his father’s old pub.’ Villiers frowned, thinking. ‘Ida, that was it. Aunt Ida. Girl called Sally, too, adopted by Egan and his wife. I think her parents died when she was a baby. Shelley didn’t count her – not family. He’s like that. She went to live with his Aunt Ida when Sean joined up.’

      ‘Sean, sir?’ Warden said. ‘Isn’t that a little familiar between a half-colonel and a sergeant?’

      ‘Sean Egan and I have worked together a dozen times undercover in Ireland. That alters things.’ Villiers’s clipped public school tones changed to the vernacular of Belfast. ‘You can’t work on a building site on the Falls Road with a man, risk your life every waking minute, and expect him to call you sir.’

      Warden leaned back in his chair. ‘Am I right in thinking that Egan joined the army looking for some sort of revenge on the people who’d killed his parents?’

      ‘Of course he did. The Provisional IRA claimed responsibility for that bomb. It was the kind of reaction you’d expect from a boy of seventeen.’

      ‘But wouldn’t that make him suspect, sir? I mean, his psychological assessment would throw it all up. Must have.’

      ‘Or perfect for our requirements, Daniel, it depends on your point of view. When he was a year old his parents moved to South Armagh from London, then Belfast. When he was twelve they came back to London because they’d had enough of the situation over there. So, a boy with an Ulster background, a Catholic, for what it’s worth, who even spoke reasonable Irish because his father had taught him. The kind of brain which earned a scholarship to Cambridge. Come on, Daniel, he was pulled out of the crowd within six months of joining the army. And then, he does possess one other very special attribute.’

      ‘What’s that, sir?’

      Villiers walked to the window and peered out into the rain. ‘He’s a killer by instinct, Daniel. No hesitation. I’ve never seen anyone quite like him. As an undercover agent in Ireland he’s assassinated eighteen terrorists to my certain knowledge. IRA, INLA …’

      ‘His own people, sir?’

      ‘Just because he’s a Catholic?’ Villiers demanded. ‘Come off it, Daniel. Nairac was a Catholic. He was also an officer in the Grenadier Guards and that’s all that concerned the IRA when they killed him. Anyway, Sean Egan has never played favourites. He’s also taken care of several leading gunmen on the Protestant side. UVF and Red Hand of Ulster.’

      Warden looked down at the file. ‘Quite a man. And now you’ve got to tell him he’s finished at twenty-five years of age.’

      ‘Exactly,’ Villiers said, ‘So let’s have him in and get it over with.’

      When Sean Egan entered the room he was in shirtsleeve order, creases razor sharp, the beige beret tilted at the exact regulation angle. He wore shoulderstrap rank slides with sergeant’s chevrons. On his right sleeve were the usual SAS wings. Above his left shirt pocket he also wore the wings of an Army Air Corps pilot. Below them were the ribbons for the Distinguished Conduct Medal, the Military Medal for Bravery in the Field and campaign ribbons for Ireland and the Falklands. He stood rigidly at attention in front of Warden who sat behind his desk. Villiers remained in the window seat smoking a cigarette.

      Warden said, ‘At ease, Sergeant. This is completely informal.’ He indicated a chair. ‘Sit down.’

      Egan did as he was told. Villiers got up and took a tin of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘Smoke?’

      ‘Given it up, sir. When I got my packet in the Falklands, one bullet chose the left lung.’

      ‘Some good in everything, I suppose,’ Villiers said. ‘Filthy habit.’

      He was filling time and they all knew it. Warden said awkwardly, ‘Colonel Villiers is your control officer on this one, Egan.’

      ‘So I understand, sir.’

      There was a pause while Warden fiddled with the papers as if uncertain what to say. Villiers broke in. ‘Daniel,’ he said to Warden, ‘I wonder if you’d mind if Sergeant Egan and I had a word in private?’

      Warden’s relief was plain. ‘Of course, sir.’

      The door closed behind him. Villiers said, ‘It’s been a long time, Sean.’

      ‘I didn’t think you were still with the regiment, sir.’

      ‘On and off. A lot of my time’s taken up with Group Four. You did a job for us in Sicily, as I recall. Just before the Falklands.’

      ‘That’s right, sir. Still part of D15?’

      ‘On paper only. Anti-terrorism is still the name of the game though. My boss is responsible only to the Prime Minister.’

      ‘Would that still be Brigadier Ferguson, sir?’

      ‘That’s it. You’re well informed – as usual.’

      ‘You