Solo - Jack Higgins [46]
Perhaps he'd expected too much from O'Hagan. Perhaps the gulf was too wide now.
He sipped a little of his whiskey and a uniformed porter tapped him on the shoulder. 'Colonel Morgan? Your taxi's here, sir.'
The driver was an old man badly in need of a shave. Seated in the rear, Morgan was aware of the eyes watching him in the driving mirror. Not a word was said as they drove through gathering darkness and rain. At most main street corners, there were soldiers of one kind or another, but there was a considerable amount of traffic on the road and a surprising number of people about.
They were somewhere on the Falls Road, with the Catholic Turf Lodge area on the left. Morgan knew that and then the old man turned into one of the mean little side streets.
There was a builder's yard at the end. As they approached, the high gate swung open. They drove inside, the gate closed behind them.
There was a lamp above a door which illuminated the yard. The old Ford van standing next to it had Kilroy's Bakery painted on the side.
There was silence, only the rain. The old man spoke for the first time. 'I think you'd better get out, mister.'
This was the most dangerous moment, Morgan knew that. The moment that would tell him whether his calculated risk had paid off or not. He lit a cigarette calmly, then opened the door and got out.
A heavily built man in a dark anorak, the hood up, came round from behind the van holding a Kalashnikov assault rifle. Morgan waited. There were footsteps and a second figure emerged from the darkness. A tall man in an old belted raincoat and tweed cap. He was very young, little more than a boy. As he came close, Morgan saw the face beneath the peaked cap, the dark, tormented eyes that hinted at a soul in hell.
'If you'd be good enough to assume the position, Colonel.'
He was Belfast, his accent said as much and he knew his job, running his hands expertly over Morgan as the Colonel leaned against the side of the van, arms braced.
Finally satisfied, he opened the rear doors. 'All right, Colonel. Inside.'
He climbed in after Morgan, the other man handed him the rifle and closed the doors. Morgan heard him walk round to the cab. A moment later, they drove away.
The journey took no more than ten minutes. The van stopped, the driver came round and opened the doors. The boy jumped out and Morgan followed him. The street was a scene of desolation, littered with glass. Most of the lamps were smashed and a warehouse on the other side had been reduced to a heap of rubble.
The small terrace houses showed little sign of life except for the odd chink of light where a curtain was badly drawn. The boy lit a cigarette and tossed the match away.
'A grand place to raise your kids, wouldn't you say, Colonel?' he said without looking at Morgan, then started across the road, hands in the pockets of his old raincoat.
Morgan followed him. There was a small cafe on the corner. The boy pushed the door open and entered. It wasn't much of a place. There was a row of brown-painted booths down one side, a marble-topped bar on the other with a large old-fashioned tea urn operated by a gas burner.
There didn't seem to be any customers. The only sign of life was the old grey-haired woman in the soiled white apron who sat by the urn reading a paper. She glanced at Morgan briefly, then nodded to the boy.
A quiet voice called softly from the end booth, 'Bring the Colonel down here, Seumas.'
Liam O'Hagan was eating egg and chips, a mug of tea at his elbow. He was in his early forties with dark curly hair. He wore a denim shirt open at the neck and a donkey jacket and looked like a shipyard worker who'd stopped off for a bite to eat on his way home.
'Hello, Asa,' he said. 'You're looking well.' The boy went to the counter and asked for two teas. Morgan sat down. 'A bit young for it, isn't he?'
'Who, Seumas?' O'Hagan laughed. 'They didn't think so in the Falls Road, back in August sixty-nine, when the Orange mobs swept in to burn the place to the ground, chase out every Catholic family who lived