Solo - Jack Higgins [26]
He squinted through it now as he leaned the barrel on the parapet. 'I'll take the bloody paratrooper, first.'
'No you won't,' O'Hagan told him softly.
'And why not?'
'Because I say so.'
A Land-Rover swept round the corner below, followed by another very close behind. They had been stripped to the bare essentials so that the driver, and three soldiers who crouched in the rear of each vehicle behind him, were completely exposed. They were paratroopers, efficient, tough-looking young men in red berets and flak jackets, their Sterling submachine-guns ready for instant action.
'Would you look at that now. Just asking to be chopped down, the dumb bastards. You'll not be telling me I can't have a crack at one of them?'
'It would be your last,' O'Hagan told him. 'They know exactly what they're doing. They perfected that open display technique in Aden. The crew of each vehicle looks after the other. Without armour plating to get in the way they can return fire instantly.'
'Bloody SS,' the boy said.
O'Hagan chuckled. 'A hell of a thing to say to a man who once held the King's commission.'
Down below, Asa Morgan climbed in beside the driver of the first Land-Rover and the two vehicles moved away.
The Marine lieutenant gave an order and the section stood up and moved out. The street was silent now, only the flames still burning fiercely in Cohan's Bar, the occasional explosion of a bottle inside as the heat got to it.
'Mother of God, what a waste of good whiskey,' Liam O'Hagan said. 'Ah, well, the day will come, or so my Socialist Democratic comrades tell me, when not only will Ireland be free and united again, but with whiskey on tap like water in every decent man's house.'
He grinned and slapped the boy on the shoulder. 'And now, Seumas, my boy, I think we should get the hell out of here.'
Morgan stood by the desk in the OC's office at the Grand Central Hotel in Royal Avenue, the base for the city centre regiment and billet for five hundred soldiers.
He stared down at the signal in his hand blankly and the young staff officer who had brought it from HQ, shuffled uncomfortably.
'The GOC has asked me to offer his sincere condolences. A terrible business. He's authorized your onward transportation to London by first available flight.'
Morgan frowned. 'That's very kind of him. But what about Operation Motorman?'
'Your duties will be assigned to someone else, Colonel. Orders from the Minister of Defence.'
'Then I'd better start packing.'
Somewhere in the distance there was the dull crump of an explosion and the rattle of machine-gun fire. The young officer started in alarm.
'Nothing to worry about,' Asa Morgan told him. 'Belfast night sounds, that's all,' and he walked out.
Steeple Durham was in Essex, not far from the Black-water river. Marsh country, creeks, long grass stirring to change colour constantly as if brushed by an invisible presence, the gurgle of water everywhere. An alien world inhabited mainly by the birds. Curlew and redshank and brent geese coming south from Siberia to winter on the fiats.
The village was a tiny, scattered community, Saxon in origin, and the crypt of the church was that early at least, although the rest was Norman.
Francis Wood was working in the cemetery, cutting the grass verges with an old handmower, when the silver sports car drew up at the gate and Asa Morgan got out. He wore slacks, a dark blue polo-neck sweater and a brown leather bomber jacket.
'Hello, Francis,' he said.
Francis Wood looked across at the Carrera Targa. 'Still got the Porsche, I see.'
'Nothing else to spend my money on. I keep on the flat in Gresham Place. There's a basement garage there. It's very convenient.'
Rooks lifted out of the beech trees above their heads calling angrily. Wood said, 'I'm sorry, Asa. More than I could ever say.'
'When's the funeral?'
'Tomorrow afternoon. Two-thirty.'
'Are you officiating?'
'Unless you have any objection.'
'Don't