A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [19]
“But the ideal to strive for has always been a united Ireland,” Dillon said. “So as long as Ulster remains with the Crown, dissident factions will have a reason to continue the struggle.”
“A bleak prospect,” Ferguson said. “Which simply means they—whoever they are—have an excuse for continuing general mayhem.”
“I’m afraid so.” Dillon shrugged. “There are supposed to be sleepers all over London, just awaiting the call to action.”
“Which brings us to Jack Kelly,” Roper said. “A well-known Provo who’s served time in the Maze Prison he may be, but he was automatically pardoned as part of the peace process. So what’s to be done?”
“A bullet in the head as he walks home some wet night?” Holley suggested.
Sara said, “I wonder how many times he did that himself during his years with the IRA.”
“So what do we do?” Holley asked. “Lift him?”
“Impossible,” Roper said. “His lawyers would run rings around the prosecution.”
“You’re all right,” Ferguson told them. “Even you, Sara, though I would point out that assassination is the business we’re in. No, we’ll apparently do nothing, leaving you, Roper, genius that you are, to come up with some way of monitoring his comings and goings.”
“That’s asking a lot,” Miller said. “He’ll be using only encrypted mobiles.”
Roper shrugged. “We’ll see. Something might turn up.”
“I’d sleep on it if I were you,” Miller told him.
“You clown, Harry, it’s breakfast time here.”
The screen went dark and Ferguson promptly fell asleep. Sara was in the rear of the cabin and Holley took the next seat.
“Are you tired?”
“I certainly should be.”
“Because it’s all so exciting.” He said it as a statement.
“Disturbing, Daniel, that’s what I’d say, and rather frightening.”
Holley smiled through the half-light. “We’ll have to do something about that.”
In front of them, Dillon muttered, “For God’s sake, kiss the girl good night, and let’s get some sleep.”
Sara smiled and murmured to Holley, “See you in the morning.”
She pulled a blanket over her knees, closed her eyes, and lay back. Holley watched her for a while, wondering what was happening to him, then he also closed his eyes.
The drone of the engines in flight was the only sound now. Parry peered in from the cockpit and dimmed the lights even further.
Dillon wasn’t sleeping, just lying back considering what the day had brought. A lovely young woman, Sara Gideon, and she’d obviously had a profound effect on Holley, but they were in entirely the wrong profession for that kind of thing. A pity, but there it was.
He moved on to analyzing the new situation in Ulster. Always the same. Reactionary dissidents who would never be satisfied till the sound of gunfire echoed in the streets and the killing began once more. What the hell was Jack Kelly playing at? He’d lost his only son to the conflict, spent years in jail.
“Christ,” Dillon murmured, “you’d think he’d have learned some sense by now.”
But there was no forgiveness in this world, and he remembered Jean Talbot in the Zion Gallery. She’d appreciated why he’d had to shoot her son, but couldn’t possibly forgive, had put out a contract on him—one of the advantages of being rich, she’d said.
Nothing to be done about that. People had been trying to kill him for years. He remembered the old days, going to the horns in the bullring in Ibiza, waiting for the bull to rush out of the gate of fear. It comes as God wills, the toreros used to say, which just about summed it up.
One-thirty over the Atlantic, but seven-thirty in London, where Jean Talbot was already enjoying the first cup of coffee of the day. She’d lived in the Regency House in Marley Court in Mayfair for years. It was just off Curzon Street, convenient for Hyde Park, and only ten minutes’ walk away from Owen Rashid’s apartment, a decided plus in view of the way their relationship was developing.
Her mobile sounded and there he was. “Are you up for lunch today? There’s something I wanted to run by you.”
“Sorry, Owen,