Midnight Runner - Jack Higgins [73]
"But why?"
Billy leaned toward him. "Say you're an actor in London. You get a phone call to say your father's dead, caught in the crossfire of a firefight between Brit Paras and the IRA. What do you do? You come home and bury him, then you join the glorious cause. It's the kind of thing you do at nineteen."
There was silence, then Quinn said, "I'm sorry," but before things could go any further, Dillon's Codex rang.
"Who is it?"
"Ferguson. Roper told me you went to, which I assume you meant him to do. Where are you?"
"The Falls Road."
"Just the place for you. Anyway, the minute you know what she's up to, let me know."
"Why, Charles, I thought I was on my own now. I thought I no longer worked for you. Isn't that what you said?"
"Don't be coy, Dillon, you know exactly what's going on."
"Well, what if I don't want to work for you anymore?"
"Don't be stupid, either. Where else would you go?" And Ferguson put his phone down.
"Who was that?" Billy inquired. "Ferguson?"
"Welcoming me back into the fold."
"Unctuous bastard."
"Why, Billy, you've been reading another book. We'll drop in at a real Irish bar I know on the way back to celebrate, and then an early night."
D rumcree was typical of the villages on the Down coast. A small harbor, gray stone houses, fishing boats--that was about it. They pulled up outside the Royal George, an eighteenth-century inn, nicely refurbished, the sign a portrait of King George the Third, obviously recently repainted.
"I'm starving." Dillon got out and they followed him. He said over his shoulder to Quinn, "Don't forget, you're the Yank abroad."
A bell tinkled as they went in. Three young men, one in a reefer coat, two in anoraks, were sitting in the windowseat eating sizable breakfasts. There was no one behind the bar.
Dillon assumed his version of a Southern accent and said genially, "Hey, what you boys are eating looks real good. How's a man get service round here?"
The three stopped talking amongst themselves, and one of them, a hard-faced youth with cropped red hair, looked Dillon and his friends over with a certain contempt.
"Tourists, are you?"
"That's right," Dillon said, and indicated Quinn. "My friend's grandpappy was born in. Emigrated to the good old US of A years ago."
"Well, that must have been nice for him," Red Hair said. "Ring the bell on the bar."
Which Dillon did, and a moment later, the publican came out, one Patrick Murphy, who Dillon remembered well from his last visit. He didn't recognize Dillon for a moment but was obviously surprised to see them.
"Can I help?"
"You can indeed. A large Bushmills whiskey, a pint of Guinness, and an orange juice."
One of the three men, the one who sported a fringe beard, burst into laughter. "Have you ever heard the like? Orange juice."
Dillon put a restraining hand on Billy's arm and ignored them as Murphy got the drinks and said, "Will there be anything else?"
"Yes," Dillon told him. "We'll have some breakfast. Where's the men's room?"
"Just along the corridor."
Dillon knew very well where it was, next to the snug, but, of course, he wasn't supposed to. He brought the drinks to the table.
"I need the toilet," he announced. "Anyone else?"
"I'm fine," Quinn said.
Dillon went along the corridor, paused outside the men's room, aware of sounds from the kitchen, then opened the snug door and moved in. There was a fire on the open hearth, chairs arranged beside it, a coffee table in between, a smell of polish and a general tidiness that argued that Murphy had made a special effort. A row of books stood on the window ledge beside the fire. Dillon placed the recorder behind them, turned, and went out.
The breakfast was excellent and Dillon kept up the performance. "Hey, this is damn good."
"It sure is," Quinn told him. "A hell of a good idea dropping in here."
Murphy appeared with a large pot of tea, milk, and three cups. Dillon said, "Fantastic. Is there anything round here worth looking at? That old castle up on the hill, for instance?"
"There's not much there," Murphy