It was late afternoon on Garrison Street, Brooklyn, as Daniel Holley sat at the wheel of an old Ford delivery truck, waiting for Dillon. There were parked vehicles, but little evidence of people.
Rain drove in across the East River, clouding his view of the coastal ships tied up to the pier that stretched ahead. A policeman emerged from an alley a few yards away, his uniform coat running with water, cap pulled down over his eyes. He banged on the truck with his nightstick.
Holley wound down the window. âCan I help you, Officer?â
âI should imagine you could, you daft bastard,â Sean Dillon told him. âMe being wet to the skin already.â
He scrambled in and Holley said, âWhy the fancy dress? Are we going to a party?â
âOf a sort. You see that decaying warehouse down there with the sign saying âMurphy & Son â Import-Exportâ?â
âHow could I miss it? What about it?â Holley took out an old silver case, extracted two cigarettes, lit them with a Zippo, and passed one over. âGet your lips round that, youâre shaking like a leaf. Whatâs the gig?â
Dillon took a quick drag. âGod help me, but thatâs good. Ferguson called me from Washington and told me to check the place out, but not to do anything till I got a call from him.â He glanced at his watch. âWhich Iâm expecting just about now.â
âHow kind of him to think of us. Brooklyn in weather like this is such a joy,â Holley told him, and at that moment, Dillonâs Codex sounded.
He switched to speaker and General Charles Fergusonâs voice boomed out. âYouâve looked the place over, Dillon?â
âAs much as I could. Two cars outside it, thatâs all. No sign of life.â
âWell, life there undoubtedly is. I made an appointment by telephone for you, Daniel, with Patrick Murphy. Your name is Daniel Grimshaw, and youâre representing a Kosovo Muslim religious group seeking arms for defence purposes.â
âAnd who exactly is Murphy and whatâs it all about?â Holley asked.
âAs you two well know, several dissident groups, all IRA in one way or another, have raised their ugly heads once again. The security services have managed to foil a number of potentially nasty incidents, but luck wonât always be on their side. Youâll remember the incident in Belfast not long ago when a bomb badly injured three policemen, one of whom lost his left arm. Since then another policeman has been killed by a car bomb.â
âI heard about that,â Dillon said.
âPolice officers are having to check under their cars again, just like in the bad old days, and some of them are finding explosive devices. We canât have that. And thereâs more. Attempts have started again to smuggle arms into Ulster. Last week, a trawler called the Amity tried to land a cargo on the County Down coast and was sighted by a Royal Navy gunboat. The crew did a runner and havenât been caught, but Iâve firm evidence that the cargo of assorted weaponry originated with Murphy & Son.â
âWas your source MI5?â
âGood Lord, no. You know how much the security services hate us. The Prime Ministerâs private army, getting to do whatever we want, as long as we have the Prime Ministerâs warrant. At least thatâs what they think. They just donât appreciate how necessary our services are in todayâs worldââ
Holley cut in. âEspecially when we shoot people for them.â
âYou know my attitude on that,â Ferguson said.
âGetting back to Murphy & Son, why not get the FBI to handle them? We are in New York, after all.â
âIâd rather not bother our American cousins. This comes from Northern Ireland, and thatâs our patch. Part of the UK.â
âIâve always thought that was part of the problem,â Dillon said with a certain irony. âBut never mind. What do you want us to do?â
âFind out who ordered the bloody weapons in the first place, and I donât want to hear any crap about some Irish American with a romantic notion about the gallant struggle for Irish freedom.â
âLean on them hard?â Holley asked.
âDaniel, theyâre out to make a buck selling weapons that kill people.â He was impatient now. âI couldnât care less what happens to them.â
âWonderful,â Dillon told him. âYouâve appointed us to be public executioners.â
âItâs a bit late in the day to complain about that,â Ferguson told him. âFor both of you. What do they say in the IRA? Once in, never out?â
âFunny,â Holley said. âWe thought that was your motto. But never mind. Weâll probably do your dirty work for you again. We usually do. How do you want them? Alive or dead?â