Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins [3]
‘You were a sick man, Martin,’ O’Hara said smoothly. ‘You weren’t in your right mind.’
Fallon laughed grimly. ‘I was right in my mind for the first time in my life,’ he said. ‘I’d had plenty of time to think it over.’
‘But you can’t leave the Organization,’ Doolan said. ‘Once you’re a member, it’s for life. There’s only one way out.’
‘I know,’ Fallon said. ‘Feet first, but that’s where I had them, you see. You can’t court-martial and shoot the greatest living hero you’ve got. That wouldn’t do at all because the rot might set in. People might begin to think there was something wrong. No, you just put up with him and heave a sigh of relief when he buries himself in the wilds. And who knows – if you’re really lucky he might even drink himself into the grave.
Doolan stared helplessly at him and O’Hara said, calmly, ‘What a one for the words you always were. Martin. What a one. But we still haven’t got down to business.’
Fallon shook his head and, despite himself, a reluctant smile came to his lips. ‘You’re wasting your time, O’Hara,’ he said. ‘I’m safe here. Four strong walls and a roof to keep out the rain, my typewriter to pay the bills and plenty of booze.’
‘Just so,’ the old man replied. ‘The whisky to try and fill the emptiness in you.’ He cackled suddenly. ‘Why man, the Irish Sea itself couldn’t fill that hole inside you.’
For a brief moment Fallon’s face slipped and a terrible expression came into his eyes and then he regained control and smiled lightly.
‘It’s you that should be writing the books and not me,’ he said.
O’Hara leaned back, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘Are you ready to hear why we’ve come, then?’
For a moment Fallon hesitated and then curiosity got the better of him. He shrugged. ‘All right. I’m listening. It can’t do any harm.’
O’Hara nodded and Doolan leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Have you heard of Patrick Rogan, Mr. Fallon?’
Fallon frowned. ‘I knew him well. A mad, hair-brained fanatic. He was shot dead in a running fight with the police on the Belfast Docks.’
‘He had a son,’ O’Hara said, quietly.
‘Yes, he had a son,’ Fallon said. ‘Shamus they called him. He was killed in nineteen-forty-five in a raid on a police barracks in County Down. I’ve forgotten the name of the place.’
‘There was another son,’ Doolan said. ‘Did you know that? Only a nipper when his father was killed. Don’t you read the papers here, Mr. Fallon?’
‘I’m careful not to,’ Fallon said.
Doolan smiled briefly and went on. ‘Two years ago there was a clean sweep made in Belfast and the polis lifted most of the leaders. Patrick Rogan was only twenty and he hadn’t been over there long but he rose to the occasion and proved himself his father’s son. He took over leadership of the Organization and was so successful we left him in charge.’
Fallon raised his eyebrows. ‘He must be quite a boy.’
‘He is indeed, Mr. Fallon,’ Doolan said, ‘and one we can’t do without. He’s walked the path of danger these two years, a hero and a legend to his people.’ He paused and the only sound in the room was the crackling of the logs in the fire and the drumming of the rain against the window. O’Hara coughed asthmatically and Doolan said, heavily, ‘He was taken the day before yesterday.’
There was another short silence and then Fallon said, ‘Well, it comes to us all in the end. He lost, that’s all.’
‘We must have him out,’ O’Hara said suddenly. ‘He must never stand trial.