Free Without Mercy by Jack Higgins Page A

assuming it’s the IRA. But could she have been doing it for somebody else?”
    One of the waitresses brought the drinks. Dillon looked at his Bushmills and swallowed it down. “Whoa, Billy. A girl like her, her whole background smacks of decency. I bet she went to Mass twice a week. And she’s a nurse, she chose a caring profession. A girl like that wouldn’t kill a fly normally. She would need strong persuasion to do what she did. When I was a boy, the Jesuits at school right here in London taught me an important thing. ‘By the small things shall thou know them.’ ”
    It was Billy, in many ways Dillon’s other self, who said, “And the small thing here is the fact that her father was an IRA activist.”
    “Who died in a British prison,” Roper said.
    “A girl like her would need to believe fervently,” Dillon said. “She’d have to believe it was the right thing to do. A girl who goes to Mass? So what would make her do such a thing? She would need to believe it was acceptable, if you like.”
    “A political act, in a way?” Roper said.
    Ferguson shook his head. “An act of war.”
    “Which explains why the IRA connection is so important,” Harry Salter said. “But who would it be? Who put her up to it?”
    Roper said, “And then was reckless enough to knock her off afterward?”
    Ferguson said, “Well, the Murder Squad is working hard at it.”
    “They’ll get nowhere,” Dillon said bleakly. “You leave this with me. I’ll find the truth here, if it’s the last thing I do.”
    “Nothing stupid, Dillon?”
    “Oh, he’s always that,” Billy said.
    Ferguson nodded. “Which leads us to a bit of business. The terrible thing that’s happened has left us shorthanded in my department. I could ask for someone from Special Branch to replace Hannah, but I’ve decided not to. Billy, you’ve impressed me, more than you know, in the past few years. You know what it entails, you’ve helped out enough, killed on many occasions.”
    “Now you’re being nice to me. What is this?”
    Ferguson took an envelope from his pocket. “In there you will find a warrant card making you an agent of the Secret Intelligence Service in my employ, filling the gap left by Superintendent Hannah Bernstein. The photo was easy. Blame Major Roper for obtaining the more complicated information.”
    Harry Salter turned to Roper. “You conniving bastard.”
    Billy said, “Shut up.” He took out the warrant card and opened it. He turned to Dillon, then back to Ferguson. “What is it the Yanks say? Proud to serve.”
    “Excellent. Do remember one thing. When you present yourself at the Ministry of Defence, do wear one of your better suits. Dillon, of course, has his own standards. You don’t need to report at nine o’clock in the morning. I intend to be present at Golders Green at ten o’clock at Superintendent Bernstein’s interment. I’m sure I’ll see you there.”
    Harry Salter said, “I think you’ll see us all there.” He turned to Roper. “Don’t worry about your wheelchair, old son. We’ve got a People Traveller thing. Takes eight. We’ll go together. What about you, Dillon?”
    Dillon was very pale, his eyes dark holes. “I’ll see you there. I’ll make my own way.”
    He went to the bar, got another drink and came back. Blake Johnson said, “I’d join you, but I’ve got a plane standing by. As I said before, my instincts tell me that some of the answers to the Belov affair might be found at Drumore Place. I was thinking of dropping in at Belfast Airport on my way back, hiring a car and driving down there, an American tourist on the way through to Dublin. How does that sound?”
    “Jesus,” Billy said. “Are you sure?”
    Dillon said, “Your plane is official, booked out by the Embassy?”
    “Of course.”
    “Right. We took out Kelly and his boys, but that still is IRA country. I’d take a Walther PPK for your armpit and a Colt twenty-five with hollow-point cartridges in an ankle holster.