Angel of Death. Jack Higgins

in his pocket. He smiled and put his hands on her shoulders.

      ‘We who are about to die salute you. A fella called Suetonius wrote that about two thousand years ago.’

      ‘You’re forgetting I went to Cambridge, Dillon. I could give you the quote in Latin.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Try and come back in one piece.’

      ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘You mean you care? There’s still hope for me?’

      She punched him in the chest. ‘Get out of here.’

      He walked to the door, opened it and went out.

      The rush-hour traffic was already in place as he turned out of the Europa car park and moved along Victoria Avenue. He expected to be followed, although monitored would be a better description. It was difficult, of course, with all those cars, but he’d seen the motorcyclist in the black helmet and leathers turn out of the car park quite close behind him, then noticed the same machine keeping well back. It was only when he turned down towards the waterfront through deserted streets of warehouses that he realized he was on his own. Ah, well, perhaps he’d been mistaken.

      ‘You sometimes are, old son,’ he said, and as he spoke a Rover saloon turned out of a side turning and followed him.

      ‘Here we go, then,’ Dillon said softly.

      At that moment, a Toyota saloon emerged from a lane in front of him and blocked the way. Dillon braked to a halt. The man at the wheel of the Rover stayed where he was. The two men in the Toyota jumped out carrying Armalites.

      ‘Out, Friar, out!’ one of them shouted.

      Dillon’s hand slipped under his coat and found the butt of the Browning. ‘Isn’t that you, Martin McGurk?’ he said, getting out of the car. ‘Jesus, and haven’t you got the wrong man? Remember me from Derry in the old days?’ He pulled off the rain hat to reveal his blond hair. ‘Dillon – Sean Dillon.’

      McGurk looked stunned. ‘It can’t be.’

      ‘Oh, yes it can, old son,’ Dillon told him, brought up the Browning and fired through the open door, knocking McGurk on his back, then swinging and shooting the man beside him through the head.

      The man at the wheel of the Rover pulled forward, drew a pistol and fired through the open passenger window, then put his head down and took off. Dillon fired twice at him, shattering the rear window, but the Rover turned the corner and was gone.

      There was quiet, except for the steady splashing of the rain. Dillon walked round to the two men he had shot and examined them. They were both dead. There was a burst of Armalite fire from somewhere above. As he ducked, an engine roared and the motorcycle he had noticed earlier passed him, sliding sideways on the cobbles.

      As it came to a halt, he saw the black-suited rider raise some sort of weapon. He recognized the distinctive muted crack of a silenced AK47. A man fell from a platform high up in a warehouse on the other side of the street and bounced on the pavement. The rider raised an arm in a kind of salute and rode off.

      Dillon stood there for only a moment, then got in behind the wheel of his car and drove away, leaving the carnage behind him.

      He parked near the warehouse with the sign Murphy & Son where he had first met Daley. As he turned the corner, he saw the Rover at the kerb. The big man, Jack Mullin, was standing by the Judas gate, peering inside. As Dillon watched, Mullin went into the warehouse.

      Dillon followed, opening the gate cautiously, the Browning ready. He could hear Jack Mullin’s agitated voice. ‘He’s dead, Curtis, shot twice in the back.’

      Dillon moved quickly towards the office, the door of which stood open. He was almost there when Mullin turned and saw him. ‘It’s Friar,’ he said and reached inside his coat.

      Dillon shot him, knocking him back against the desk. He slumped to the floor and Daley got to his feet, panic written all over his face.

      ‘No Daniel Quinn,’ Dillon told him. ‘Naughty, that, and you made another mistake. It’s not Barry Friar, it’s Sean Dillon.’

      ‘Dear God!’ said Daley.

      ‘So let’s get down to business. Quinn – where is he?’

      ‘I can’t tell you that. It’s more than my life is worth.’

      ‘I see.’ Dillon nodded. ‘All right, I want you to watch something.’ He reached and pulled Mullin up a little. The big man moaned. ‘Are you watching?’ Dillon asked, then shot him through the heart.

      ‘No, for God’s sake, no!’ The panic was in Daley’s voice now.

      ‘You want to live, then? You’ll tell me where Quinn is?’

      ‘He’s on his way to Beirut,’ Daley gabbled. ‘Francis Callaghan’s been there for a while setting up a deal. Some Arab group called Party of God and the KGB are going to start supplying us.’

      ‘With arms?’

      Daley shook his head. ‘Plutonium. Daniel says we’ll be able to cause the biggest bang Ireland’s ever seen. Really show those Fenian bastards we mean business.’

      ‘I see. And where does all this take place?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ Dillon raised the Browning and Daley screamed. ‘It’s the truth, I swear it. Daniel said he’d be in touch. All I know is Callaghan is staying at a hotel called Al Bustan.’

      He was obviously telling the truth. Dillon said, ‘There, that wasn’t too hard, old son, was it?’

      He aimed the Browning very quickly and shot Daley between the eyes, tumbling him back out of the chair, then he turned and walked away.

      No more than a mile away from Garth Dock, where the shootings had taken place, the motorcycle turned into a narrow side street and entered a yard, driving straight into an open garage. Tom Curry closed and barred the gate to the street, then went into the garage. The black-clad rider pushed the motorcycle up on its stand, then turned and took off the helmet.

      Grace Browning smiled, pale and excited. ‘Quite a night. A good job I was there.’

      She unzipped her leather jacket and took out the AK47, butt folded.

      ‘What happened?’ Curry asked.

      ‘They’d set him up. Quite a man, our Mr Dillon. He killed two and shot up the second car. They had an extra man up on a platform with an Armalite. He tried to shoot Dillon; I shot him. End of story, so I cleared off.’

      She was taking off the leathers as she spoke, revealing jeans and a jumper. She draped the leathers over the motorcycle.

      ‘Just leave everything’ Curry told her. ‘Belov’s people will clear up.’

      ‘You’ve got my bag?’

      ‘Sure.’ He handed her a holdall and she opened it and took out a light raincoat.

      ‘The car’s parked not too far away in the main road,’ he told her.

      He opened the side gate and they left the yard.

      ‘Do we claim credit for January 30 on this?’ Curry asked.

      ‘Well, we’re entitled to one, so why not the lot? Somehow I don’t think Dillon and the Prime Minister’s private army would be happy to go public.’

      ‘Right. I’ll phone the news desk at the Belfast Telegraph.’

      ‘Good.’ She checked her watch. ‘Just after seven. We’ll have to hurry. Curtain up at eight.’

      The Lear jet with two RAF pilots at the controls climbed steadily after lifting from Aldergrove, levelling off at thirty thousand feet. Hannah Bernstein sat on one side of the aisle, facing Dillon, who sat the other. He found the drawer containing the bar box and the thermos of hot water. He made coffee for her and tea for himself, then took a miniature of Scotch from the selection