Drink With The Devil Page 2

  “This is Martin Keogh,” the girl said.

  Ryan came round the bar and held out his hand. “You did me a good turn tonight. I shan’t forget.”

  “Lucky I was there.”

  “That’s as may be. I owe you a drink, anyway.”

  “Bushmills whiskey would be fine,” Keogh told him.

  “Over here.” Ryan indicated a booth in the corner.

  The girl took off her raincoat and beret and eased behind the table. Her uncle sat beside her and Keogh was opposite. Ivor brought a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses.

  “Can I get you anything, Kathleen?”

  “No, I’m okay, Ivor.”

  He plainly worshiped her but nodded and walked away. Ryan said, “I’ve checked with a contact at the Royal Victoria. They just received three very damaged young men. One with a bullet in the thigh.”

  “Is that a fact?” Keogh said.

  Kathleen Ryan stared at him. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “No need.”

  “Let’s see what you’re carrying,” Ryan asked. “No need to worry. All friends here.”

  Keogh shrugged, took the Walther from his pocket, and passed it across. Ryan examined it expertly. “Carswell silencer, the new job. Very nice.” He took a Browning from his pocket and passed it over. “Still my personal favorite.”

  “Preferred weapon of the SAS,” Keogh said, lifting the Browning in one hand. “And the Parachute Regiment.”

  “He served with One Para,” the girl said. “Bloody Sunday.”

  “Is that a fact?” Michael Ryan said.

  “A long time ago. Lately I’ve been at sea.”

  “Belfast, but raised in London, Kathleen tells me?”

  “My mother died in childbirth. My father went to London in search of work. He’s dead now.”

  Ryan had ejected the magazine from the butt of the Walther. “And a good Prod. You must be because of what you did for Kathleen.”

  “To be honest with you religion doesn’t mean a thing to me,” Keogh told him. “But let’s say I know which side I’m on.”

  At that moment, the door was flung open and a man in a cloth cap and raincoat rushed in, a revolver in one hand.

  “Michael Ryan, you bastard, I’ve got you now,” he cried and raised the revolver.

  Ryan was caught, the magazine from the Walther on the table beside it. Keogh said, “What do I do, shoot him? All right. Bang, you’re dead.” He picked up the Browning and fired once. The man dropped the hand holding the revolver to one side. Keogh said, “Blanks, Mr. Ryan, I could tell by the weight. What kind of a game are we playing here?”

  Ryan was laughing now. “Go on, Joseph, and get yourself a drink at the bar.”

  The supposed gunman turned away. The old men by the fire continued their card game as if nothing had happened.

  Michael Ryan stood up. “Just a test, my old son, in a manner of speaking. Let’s adjourn to the parlour and talk some more.”

  THERE WAS A fire in the grate of the small parlour, curtains drawn as rain drummed against the window. It was warm and comfortable and Ryan and Keogh sat opposite each other. The girl came in from the kitchen with a teapot, milk, and cups on a tray.

  Ryan said, “If you’re a seaman, you’ll have your papers.”

  “Of course,” Keogh said.

  Ryan held out his hand and Keogh shrugged, opened his reefer, and took a wallet from his inside pocket.

  “There you go. Ships’ papers, union card, the lot.”

  The girl poured tea and Ryan examined everything closely. “Paid off the Ventura two weeks ago. Deck hand and diver. What’s all that?”

  “The Ventura’s a supply ship in the North Sea oilfields. Besides general ship’s duties I did some diving. Not the really deep stuff. Just underwater maintenance, welding when necessary. That sort of thing.”

  “Interesting. A man of parts. Any special skills from the Parachute Regiment?”

  “Just how to kill people. The usual weaponry skills. A considerable knowledge of explosives.” Keogh lit a cigarette. “But where’s all this leading?”

  Ryan persisted. “Can you ride a motorcycle?”

  “Since I was sixteen, and that’s a long time ago. So what?”

  Ryan leaned back, took out a pipe, and filled it from an old pouch. “Visiting relatives, are you?”

  “Not that I know of,” Keogh said. “A few cousins scattered here and there. I came back on a whim. Nostalgia, if you like. A bad idea really, but I can always go back and get another berth.”

  “I could offer you a job,” Ryan said, and the girl brought a taper from the fire to light his pipe.

  “What, here in Belfast?”

  “No, in England.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Why, the kind of thing you did tonight. The kind of thing you’re good at.”

  It was very quiet. Keogh was aware of the girl watching him eagerly. “Do I smell politics here?”

  “Since nineteen sixty-nine I’ve worked for the Loyalist cause,” Ryan said. “Served six years in the Maze prison. I hate Fenians. I hate the bloody Sinn Fein, because if they win they’ll drive us all out, every Protestant in the country. Ethnic cleansing to the hilt. Now if things get that bad I’ll take as many of them to hell with me as I can.”

  “So where’s this leading?”

  “A job in England. A very lucrative job. Funds for our organization.”

  “In other words we steal from someone,” Keogh said.

  “We need money, Keogh,” Ryan said. “Money for arms. The bloody IRA have their Irish-American sympathizers providing funds. We don’t.” He leaned forward. “I’m not asking you for patriotism. I’ll settle for greed. Fifty thousand pounds.”

  There was a long pause and Ryan and the girl waited, her face somber as if she expected him to say no.

  Keogh smiled. “That’s a lot of money, Mr. Ryan, so you’ll be expecting a lot in return.”

  “Backup is what I expect from a man who can handle anything, and from the way you’ve carried yourself tonight you would seem to be that kind of man.”

  Keogh said, “What about your own people? You’ve as many gunmen out on the street as the IRA. More even. I know that from army days.” He lit a cigarette and leaned back. “Unless there’s another truth here. That you’re in it for the money, you’re in it for yourself.”

  Kathleen Ryan jumped up. “Damn you for saying that. My uncle has given more for our people than anyone I know. Better you get out of here while you can.”

  Ryan held up a hand. “Softly, child, any intelligent man would see it as a possibility. It’s happened before, God knows, and on both sides.”

  “So?” Keogh said.

  “I can be as hungry as the next man where money is concerned, but my cause is a just one, the one certainty in my life. Any money that passes through my hands goes to the Protestant cause. That’s what my life is about.”

  “Then why not use some of your own men?”

  “Because people talk too much, a weakness in all revolutionary movements. The IRA have the same problem. I’ve always preferred to use what I call hired help, and for that I go to the underworld. An honest thief who is working for wages is a sounder proposition than some revolutionary hothead.”

  “So that’s where I come in?” Keogh said. “Hired help, just like anyone else you need?”

  “Exactly. So, are you in or out? If it’s no, then say so. After what you did for Kathleen tonight you’ll come to no harm from me.”

  “Well that’s nice to know.” Keogh shrugged. “Oh, what the hell, I might as well give it a try. A change from the North Sea. Terrible weather there at this time of the year.”

  “Good man yourself.” Ryan smiled. “A couple of Bushmills, Kathleen, and we’ll drink to it.”

  “WHERE ARE YOU staying?” Ryan asked.

  “A fleapit called the Albert Hotel,” Keogh told him.

  “Fleapit, indeed,” Ryan toasted him. “Our country too.”


  “May you die in Ireland,” Keogh replied.

  “An excellent sentiment.” Ryan swallowed his Bushmills in a single gulp.

  “So what happens now?”

  “I’ll tell you in London. We’ll fly there, you, me, and Kathleen. There’s someone I have to see.”

  Keogh turned to the girl. “An activist is it? A little young I would have thought.”

  “I bloody told you, they blew up my family when I was ten years old, Mr. Keogh,” she said fiercely. “I grew up fast after that.”

  “A hard world.”

  “And I’ll make it harder for the other side, believe me.”

  “You hate well, I’ll say that.” Keogh turned back to her uncle. “So that’s it, then?” He shook his hand. “What am I really getting into? I should know more.”

  “All right, a taster only. How well do you know the northwest of England? The Lake District?”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  “A wild and lonely area at this time of the year with the tourists gone.”

  “So?”

  “A certain truck will be passing through there, a meat transporter. You and I will hijack it. Very simple, very fast. A five-minute job.”

  “You did say meat transporter?”

  Ryan smiled. “That’s what this truck is. What’s inside is another matter. You find that out later.”

  “And what happens afterwards?”

  “We drive to a place on the Cumbrian coast where there’s an old disused jetty. There will be a boat waiting, a Siemens ferry. Do you know what that is?”

  “The Germans used them in World War Two to transport heavy equipment and men in coastal attacks.”

  “You’re well informed. We drive on board and sail for Ulster. I’ve found a suitable spot on the coast where there’s a disused quarry pier. We drive the truck off the boat and disappear into the night. All beautifully simple.”

  “So it would seem,” Keogh said. “And the crew of this Siemens ferry? What are they doing?”

  “Earning their wages. As far as they are concerned, it’s just some sort of illegal traffic or other. They do it all the time. They’re those sort of people.”

  “Crooks, you mean.”

  “Exactly. The boat is tied up near Wapping at the moment. That’s why we’re going to London. To finalize things.”

  There was a pause and then Kathleen Ryan said, “What do you think, Mr. Keogh?”

  “That you’d better start calling me Martin as it seems we’re going to spend some time together.”

  “But do you think it would work?”

  “Its greatest virtue, as your uncle says, is its simplicity. It could work perfectly just like a Swiss watch. On the other hand, even Swiss watches break down sometimes.”

  “O ye of little faith.” Ryan smiled. “Of course it will work. It’s got to. My organization needs the means to buy arms for our people. It’s essential. There’s a passage in the Koran that says there is more truth in one sword than ten thousand words.”

  “I take your point.” Keogh stood up. “It’s late. I’d better get back to my hotel.”

  “Join us here for breakfast in the morning,” Ryan told him. “We’ll catch the noon plane. I’ll take care of the tickets.”

  “I’ll say goodnight, then.”

  “The bar is closed. Kathleen will let you out. I’ll keep your Walther here. No way of passing through airport security with that, but it doesn’t matter. Our London connection will provide any weapons we need.” He held out his hand. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  THE GIRL OPENED the door and rain drove in on the wind.

  “A dirty old night,” she said.

  “You can say that again.” Keogh turned up his collar. “An Ulster fry-up will do me fine for breakfast especially if you cook it yourself. Two eggs and don’t forget the sausage.”

  “Go on, get on your way.” She pushed him out and laughed that distinctive harsh laugh of hers and closed the door.

  KEOGH HAD DIFFICULTY finding a phone box. Most of them seemed to be vandalized. He finally struck luck when he was quite close to the hotel. He closed the glass door to keep out the rain and rang the Dublin number. Barry was seated at the desk of his small study with his Chief of Intelligence for Ulster, a man named John Cassidy, when he took the call.

  “It’s me,” Keogh said. “Worked like a charm. I’m in it up to my neck. Ryan’s taken me on board.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  Which Keogh did in a few brief sentences. Finally, he said, “What could be in this meat transporter?”

  “Gold bullion if it’s the job I’m thinking of. It was put to the Loyalist Army Council about a year ago and thrown out as being too risky.”

  “So Ryan has decided to do it on his own initiative.”

  “Exactly, but then he always was the wild one. That’s why I wanted you in there when I got the whisper through an informer that he was up to something.”

  “Up to something big,” Keogh told him.

  “That’s right. Stay in close touch. You’ve got those alternate numbers for the mobile phone, and watch your back.”

  BARRY LEANED BACK thoughtfully and lit a cigarette. Cassidy said, “Trouble?”

  “Michael Ryan up to his old tricks.” He ran through what Keogh had told him.

  Cassidy said, “My God, if it is gold bullion, the bastards would have enough money to arm for a civil war. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t need to do a thing except have a suitable reception committee waiting when that boat delivers the truck somewhere on the Ulster coast. Then we’ll have enough money to start a civil war.”

  “And you’re certain of knowing the time and place?”

  “Oh, yes. The man on the other end of the phone just now is one of our own. He’s infiltrated under a false identity. He’ll be going along for the ride every step of the way.”

  “A good man?”

  “The best.”

  “Would I be knowing him?”

  Barry told him Keogh’s real name.

  Cassidy laughed out loud. “God save us, the Devil himself, so God help Michael Ryan.”

  THERE WAS NO one at the reception desk when Keogh entered the hotel. He went up the stairs quickly and unlocked the door to his room. It was unbelievably depressing and he looked around with distaste. It certainly wasn’t worth taking off his clothes. He switched off the light, lit a cigarette, lay on the bed, and went over the whole affair.

  The astonishing thing was, as had been said, the simplicity of it. He’d have to consider that again once Ryan had taken him fully into his confidence, of course. Not a bad fella, Ryan, a man hard to dislike. And then there was the girl. So much hate there in one so young and all blamed on the bomb which had killed her family. He shook his head. There was more to it than that, had to be, and finally he drifted into sleep.

  KATHLEEN RYAN TOOK a cup of tea in to her uncle just before she went to bed. Ryan was sitting by the fire smoking his pipe and brooding.

  “You think it will work?” she asked.

  “I’ve never been more certain and with Keogh along-” He shrugged. “Fifty million pounds in gold bullion, Kathleen. Just think of that.”

  “A strange one,” she said. “Can you trust him?”

  “I’ve never trusted anyone in my life,” he said cheerfully. “Not even you. No, don’t you fret over Keogh. I’ll have my eye on him.”

  “But can you be sure?”

  “Of course I can. I know him like I know myself, Kathleen, my love. We’re cut from the same bolt of cloth. Like me he’s got brains, that’s obvious. He’s also a killer. It’s his nature. He can do no other, just like me.” He reached up to kiss her cheek. “Now off to bed with you.”

  She went out and he sat back, sipping his tea and thinking of a lonely road in the Lake District, a road that not even his niece knew he had visited.

  LONDON

  THE LAKE DISTRICT

  1985

  TWO


  IF THERE IS such a thing as an Irish quarter in London, it’s to be found in Kilburn along with a profusion of pubs to make any Irish Republican happy. But there are also the Protestant variety identical with anything to be found in Belfast. The William amp; Mary was one of those, its landlord, Hugh Bell, an Orange Protestant to the hilt, performing the same function in London for the Loyalist movement as Sinn Fein did for the IRA.

  In the early evening of the day they had arrived in London, Ryan, Keogh, and Kathleen sat with him in a backroom, an assortment of handguns on the table. Bell, a large, jovial man with white hair, poured himself a whiskey.

  “Anything you like, Michael, and there’s more where that came from.”

  Ryan selected a Browning, hefted it, and put it in his pocket. Keogh found a Walther. “Would you have a Carswell for this?” he asked.

  “A man of taste and discernment, I see,” Bell observed. He got up, went to a cupboard, rummaged inside, and came back. “There you go. The latest model.”

  Keogh screwed it onto the end of the Walther. “Just the ticket.”

  “And the young lady?” Bell asked.

  “My niece doesn’t carry,” Ryan told him.

  The girl bridled instantly. “I’m as good a shot as you, Uncle Michael, and you know it. How am I expected to protect myself? Kick them in the balls?”

  Bell laughed. “I might have a solution.” He went back to the cupboard and returned with a small automatic. “Colt.25, quite rare. Slips in a lady’s handbag or stocking quite easily.”

  “And no bloody stopping power,” Ryan told him.

  “Enough if you’re close enough,” Bell said.

  The girl took the weapon from him and smiled. “This will do me just fine.” She slipped it into her handbag.