Midnight Runner - Jack Higgins [45]
He sat next to Percy. Helen was across the aisle from him. Grant averted his gaze and looked out of the window. The girl smiled.
"It's quite exciting, really," she said to Rupert.
"Your first riot."
"Oh, I don't believe all that. It'll be fine, I'm sure of it."
"Let's hope you're right."
She turned away, her face troubled.
B obby Hawk's funeral was at eleven o'clock that same morning at a small village called Pool Bridge in Kent, an hour out of London. Ferguson went down and Dillon accompanied him. It was still bad March weather, with only the hope of spring to look forward to.
Dillon lit a cigarette and opened his window. "Nice countryside."
It started to drizzle. Ferguson said, "I wonder what she's been up to since they got back?"
"I have no idea. The events in Hazar the last few days must have given her something to think about, though."
"Anything new from Roper?"
"Not a thing. He says he's been through all available leads. He can't explore her mind. He can only try and find a pattern to her actions, which means she's got to make the next move."
"I take your point."
"Anyway, I'm seeing him this afternoon, just in case."
"Good." Ferguson leaned back. "I wonder how Tony's making out."
"She shouldn't have annoyed him," Dillon commented. "That was a serious error on her part. She'll live to regret it."
"Let's hope so," Ferguson told him, and they entered Pool Bridge.
The village was typically old English, with cottages, an ancient church, a pub, and a country hotel that looked Georgian. There was a line of cars parked at the side of the church, and Ferguson cursed softly.
"Damn it, we're late. Come on, Dillon," and he got out and hurried to the large oak door.
The service had just started, and the church was so full that they had to stand at the back. They saw the coffin, and the rector in his vestments on the steps of the sanctuary above it. Mrs. Hawk and her two daughters, all in black, occupied the front pew. The commanding officer of the Lifeguards was there, and his opposite number from the Blues and Royals, supporting each other, as always.
Late in the service, the Lifeguards' colonel joined the rector on the steps, and outlined Bobby Hawk's brief career, praising him for his service and character.
Yes, but what does it all mean? Dillon asked himself. What's the point? The boy was only twenty-two years old, and then the organ started and the hymns began.
Outside at the graveside, the drizzle turned to heavy rain and the General's chauffeur appeared and discreetly offered an umbrella.
"Why does it always rain at funerals?" Dillon asked.
"Some kind of tradition, I suppose," Ferguson said.
And then it was over, and the crowd started to make their way to the country hotel. There was a selection of wines, a buffet. Most people seemed to know each other. Dillon asked one of the waiters to get him a Bushmills and stood back.
Mrs. Hawk approached Ferguson and kissed his cheeks. "Good of you to come, Charles."
"I'm surprised you'll talk to me. To a certain extent, your son was working for me."
"He was doing his duty, Charles, and that's all that matters."
She moved on, and the Lifeguard colonel approached. "Nice to see you, Charles. It's a bad business. That's two cornets Tony Villiers has lost out there."
"You think he'll find difficulty in replacing young Hawk?"
"Not while there are enough mad young fools just out of Sandhurst."
He glanced curiously at Dillon, and Ferguson said, "Sean Dillon. He works for me."
The Colonel's eyes seemed to widen. "Good Lord, the Sean Dillon? I was trying to catch you in South Armagh more years ago than I care to remember."
"And thank God you didn't, Colonel." Dillon turned to Ferguson. "I'll see you at the car."
I t was just after three when the coach unloaded by the river, and the students joined the steady stream of people walking up Horse Guards Avenue to Whitehall. Rupert and Percy drifted along at the back, unknowingly passing the corner where, during the Gulf War, an IRA professional named Sean Dillon had mortar-bombed Number Ten Downing