The Violent Enemy. Jack Higgins

to crash out for? Nine months and I can spit in their eyes once and for all. My old woman’s got a nice little boarding house going in Eastbourne. They won’t see me back here again.’

      ‘I seem to have heard that one before,’ Rogan said. ‘Can you still work that trick of yours on the door?’

      ‘Always happy to oblige.’

      Martin took an ordinary spoon from his bedside locker and went to the door. He listened for a moment, then dropped to one knee.

      The lock was covered by a steel plate perhaps six inches square, and he quickly forced the handle of the spoon between the edge of the plate and the jamb. He worked it around for several minutes and there was a slight click. He pulled and the door opened slightly.

      ‘Now that’s one thing that always impresses me,’ Rogan said.

      ‘There’s thirty years’ hard graft there, Irish. The best screwsman in the business.’ Martin sighed. ‘The trouble is I got so good they could always tell when it was me.’

      He pushed the door gently into place and worked the spoon round again. There was another slight click and he stood up.

      ‘There have been times in my life when I could have used you,’ Rogan said.

      ‘You don’t want to start consorting with criminals at your age, Irish.’ Martin grinned. ‘An old lag’s trick. Plenty of cons in this place could do as much. These old mortice deadlocks are a snip. One of these days they’ll get wise and change them.’

      He went back to his bed, produced a packet of cigarettes and tossed one across to Rogan. ‘There’s at least six other gates to pass through between here and the yard and most of them are guarded, remember. It’ll take more than a spoon to get you out of this place.’

      ‘Anything can be done if you put your mind to it,’ Rogan said. ‘Come to the window and I’ll show you.’

      Martin held up a hand quickly and shook his head. ‘Nothing doing. What I don’t know can’t hurt you.’

      Rogan frowned. ‘You’re no grass, Jigger.’

      The old man shrugged. ‘We can all be pushed just so far in a place like this.’

      There was a rattle at the door and, turning quickly, Rogan was aware of an eye at the spyhole. The key turned in the lock and the Principal Officer came in.

      ‘Outside, Rogan. Someone wants to see you.’

      Rogan frowned. ‘Who is it?’

      ‘A bloke called Soames. Lawyer from London. Something to do with an appeal. Seems you’ve got friends working for you.’

      As he waited in the queue outside the visiting room, Rogan wondered about Soames, trying to decide what could be behind his visit. As far as he was aware, there was no chance of an appeal against the Home Secretary’s decision for at least another year, and to his certain knowledge there was no one working for him on the outside. Since the Organization had gone into voluntary liquidation the previous year, he’d become a dead letter to most people.

      When his turn came, the Duty Officer took him in and sat him in a cubicle. Rogan waited impatiently, the conversation on either side a meaningless blur, and then the door opened and Soames came in.

      He was small and dark with a neatly trimmed moustache and soft pink hands. He carried a bowler hat and briefcase and wore a neat pin-striped suit.

      He sat down and smiled through the wire mesh. ‘You won’t know me, Mr Rogan. My name’s Soames – Henry Soames.’

      ‘So I’ve been told,’ Rogan said. ‘Who sent you?’

      Soames glanced each way to make sure that no individual conversation could be overheard in the general hubbub, then leaned close.

      ‘Colum O’More.’

      A vivid picture jumped into Rogan’s mind at once, one of those queer tricks that memory plays. He had just volunteered to ‘go active’ as they’d called it in the Organization in those days, a callow, seventeen-year-old student. They’d taken him to a house outside Dublin for the final important interview and had left him alone in a small room to wait. And then the door had opened and a giant of a man had entered, the mouth split in a wide grin as he laughed back over his shoulder at someone outside, wearing his strength and courage for all to see like a suit of armour. Colum O’More – the Big Man.

      ‘Are you sure, avic?’ he’d said to Rogan. ‘You know what you’re getting into?’

      Mother of God, who wouldn’t be sure and face to face with such a man?

      ‘So Colum sent you?’ Rogan said.

      ‘Not directly.’ Soames smiled faintly. ‘I believe there’s something like half of a ten-year sentence still hanging over his head in this country. He is in England at the moment, but we’ve only met personally once. Since then I’ve been working through an accommodation address.’

      ‘If you’re thinking of raising my case again with the Home Secretary, you’re wasting your time.’

      ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Soames smiled slightly. ‘To be perfectly frank, Colum O’More was thinking of adopting more unorthodox means.’

      ‘Such as?’ Rogan said calmly.

      ‘Assisting you to leave without the Home Secretary’s permission.’

      ‘And what makes you think I could?’

      ‘A man called Pope,’ Soames said. ‘I believe he shared a cell with you for a year? He was released six months ago.’

      ‘I still have the stink of him in my nostrils,’ Rogan said contemptuously. ‘A cheap, two-a-penny tearaway. The worst kind. Was a peeler with the Metropolitan and got done for corruption. He’d sell his own sister on the streets if you made it worth his while.’

      ‘He tells an interesting story, Mr Rogan. He insists that in 1960 you were caught in the early hours of the morning outside the walls of this prison. That to this day the authorities have never been able to find out how you got out.’

      ‘He has a big mouth,’ Rogan said. ‘One day someone will be closing his eyes with pennies.’

      ‘Is it true?’ Soames said, and for the first time there was an urgency in his voice. ‘Have you a way out?’

      ‘And if I had?’

      ‘Then Colum O’More would be glad to see you.’

      ‘And how could that be managed?’

      Soames leaned even closer. ‘You know the quarry and the hamlet between it and the river – Hexton?’

      ‘I’ve been working there for the past year.’

      ‘Below the quarry there’s an iron footbridge. On the other side of the river you’ll find a cottage. You can’t miss it. It’s completely isolated.’

      ‘Will Colum be there?’

      ‘No, Pope.’

      ‘Why him?’

      ‘He’s proved very useful. He’ll have clothes, a car, even an identity for you. You could be clear of the moor within half an hour.’

      ‘And where do I go?’

      ‘Pope will have full instructions. They’ll take you to Colum O’More. That’s as much as I can tell you.’

      Rogan sat there, a slight frown knitting his forehead, considering the situation. He wasn’t happy about Pope, and Soames was a hollow man if ever he’d seen one, but was there really any choice? And if Colum O’More was behind the organization …

      ‘Well?’ Soames said.

      Rogan nodded. ‘How soon can Pope be ready?’

      ‘He’s