On Dangerous Ground. Jack Higgins

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      ‘There are times for waiting, Brigadier, and this is one of them,’ Dillon said. ‘If you want my thoughts on the matter, it’s simple. We’re in Ahern’s hands. There will be a move tomorrow, sooner rather than later. Based on that, I might have some thoughts, but not before.’

      Dillon lit a cigarette with his old Zippo, turned and walked back to the Daimler.

      It was just before nine the following morning when Ahern drove the Telecom van along the Mall, stopping at the park gates opposite Marlborough Road. Norah followed him in a Toyota saloon. Ali Halabi was standing by the gates dressed in a green anorak and jeans. He hurried forward.

      ‘No sign of Quigley.’

      ‘Get in.’ The Arab did as he was told and Ahern passed him one of the orange Telecom jackets. ‘He’s ill. Suffers from chronic asthma and the stress has brought on an attack.’ He shrugged. ‘Not that it matters. All you have to do is drive the van. Norah and I will lead you to your position. Just get out, lift the manhole cover then walk away through the park. Are you still on?’

      ‘Absolutely,’ Halabi said.

      ‘Good. Then follow us and everything will be all right.’

      Ahern got out. Halabi slid behind the wheel. ‘God is great,’ he said.

      ‘He certainly is, my old son.’ Ahern turned and walked back to Norah parked at the kerb in the Toyota.

      Norah went all the way round, passing Buckingham Palace, turning up Grosvenor Place and back along Constitution Hill by the park. On Ahern’s instructions she pulled in at the kerb opposite the beech tree and paused. Ahern put his arm out of the window and raised a thumb. As they moved away, the Telecom van eased into the kerb. There was a steady flow of traffic. Ahern let her drive about fifty yards then told her to pull in. They could see Halabi get out. He went round to the back of the van and opened the doors. He returned with a clamp, leaned down and prised up the manhole cover.

      ‘He’s working well, is the boy,’ Ahern said.

      He took a small plastic remote-control unit from his pocket and pressed a button. Behind them the van fireballed and two cars passing it, caught in the blast, were blown across the road.

      ‘That’s what dedication gets for you.’ Ahern tapped Norah on the shoulder. ‘Right, girl dear. Billy told them they’d get an explosion and they’ve got one.’

      ‘An expensive gesture. With Halabi gone we won’t get the other half of the money.’

      ‘Two and a half million pounds on deposit in Switzerland, Norah, not a bad pay day, so don’t be greedy. Now let’s get out of here.’

      It was late in the afternoon, with Ferguson still at his desk at the Ministry of Defence, when Hannah Bernstein came in.

      ‘Anything new?’ he asked.

      ‘Not a thing, sir. Improbable though it sounds, there was enough of Halabi left to identify, his fingerprints anyway. It seems he must have been on the pavement, not in the van.’

      ‘And the others?’

      ‘Two cars caught in the blast. Driver of the front one was a woman doctor, killed instantly. The man and woman in the other were going to a sales conference. They’re both in intensive care.’ She put the report on his desk. ‘Quigley was right, but at least Ahern’s shot his bolt.’

      ‘You think so?’

      ‘Sir, you’ve seen the President’s schedule. He was due to pass along Constitution Hill at about ten o’clock on the way to Downing Street. Ahern must have known that.’

      ‘And the explosion?’

      ‘Premature. That kind of thing happens all the time, you know that, sir. Halabi was just an amateur. I’ve looked at his file in depth. He had an accountancy degree from the London School of Economics.’

      ‘Yes, it all makes sense – at least to me.’

      ‘But not to Dillon. Where is he?’

      ‘Out and about. Nosing around.’

      ‘He wouldn’t trust his own grandmother, that one.’

      ‘I suppose that’s why he’s still alive,’ Ferguson told her. ‘Help yourself to coffee, Chief Inspector.’

      At the studio flat in Camden Ahern stood in front of the bathroom mirror and rubbed brilliantine into his hair. He combed it back, leaving a centre parting, then carefully glued a dark moustache and fixed it in place. He picked up a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and put them on, then compared himself with the face on the security pass. As he turned, Norah came in the room. She wore a neat black skirt and white blouse. Her hair was drawn back in a tight bun. Like him she wore spectacles, rather large ones with black rims. She looked totally different.’

      ‘How do I look?’ she said.

      ‘Bloody marvellous,’ he told her. ‘What about me?’

      ‘Great, Michael. First class.’

      ‘Good.’ He led the way out of the bathroom and crossed to a drinks cabinet. He produced a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses. ‘It’s not champagne, Norah Bell, but it’s good Irish whiskey.’ He poured and raised his glass. ‘Our country too.’

      ‘Our country too,’ she replied, giving him that most ancient of loyalist toasts.

      He emptied his glass. ‘Good. All I need is our box of cutlery and we’ll be on our way.’

      It was around six-thirty when Ferguson left the Ministry of Defence with Hannah Bernstein and told his driver to take him to his flat in Cavendish Square. The door was opened by Kim, the ex-Gurkha corporal who had been his manservant for years.

      ‘Mr Dillon has been waiting for you, Brigadier.’

      ‘Thanks,’ Ferguson said.

      When they went into the living room Dillon was standing by the open French window, a glass in his hand. He turned. ‘Helped myself. Hope you don’t mind.’

      ‘Where have you been?’ Ferguson demanded.

      ‘Checking my usual sources. You can discount the IRA on this one. It really is Ahern and that’s what bothers me.’

      ‘Can I ask why?’ Hannah Bernstein said.

      Dillon said, ‘Michael Ahern is one of the most brilliant organizers I ever knew. Very clever, very subtle, and very, very devious. I told you, he doesn’t let his left hand know what his right is doing.’

      ‘So you don’t think he’s simply shot his bolt on this one?’ Ferguson said.

      ‘Too easy. It may sound complicated to you, but I think everything from Quigley’s betrayal and death to the so-called accidental explosion of the Telecom van on the President’s route was meant to happen.’

      ‘Are you serious?’ Hannah demanded.

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