Drink with the Devil

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph 1996

Copyright © Harry Patterson 1996

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Photography and illustration © Nik Keevil

Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780008124830

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2011 ISBN: 9780007352296

Version: 2016-08-25

To Denise Best of girls

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Irish Sea Map

BELFAST 1985

Chapter 1

LONDON THE LAKE DISTRICT 1985

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

NEW YORK STATE IRELAND LONDON WASHINGTON IRELAND 1995

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

THE LAKE DISTRICT 1995

Chapter 15

About the Author

Also by Jack Higgins

Further Reading

About the Publisher

Rain swept in from Belfast Lough and, as he turned the corner, there was the rattle of small-arms fire somewhere in the darkness of the city centre followed by the crump of an explosion. He didn’t hesitate, but started across the square, a small man, no more than five feet five, in jeans, reefer coat and peaked cap, a seaman’s duffel bag hanging from one shoulder.

A sign said Albert Hotel, but it was more a lodging house than anything else, of a type used by sailors and constructed originally by the simple expedient of knocking three Victorian terrace houses together. The front door stood open and a small, balding man peered out, a newspaper in one hand.

There was another explosion in the distance. ‘Jesus!’ he said. ‘The boys are active tonight.’

The small man said from the bottom of the steps, ‘I phoned earlier about a room. Keogh is the name.’ His voice was more English than anything else, only a hint of the distinctive Belfast accent.

‘Ah, yes – Mr Keogh. Off a boat are ye?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Well, come away in out of the rain and I’ll fix you up.’

At that moment a Land Rover turned the corner followed by another. They were stripped down, three paratroopers crouched behind the driver, hard young men in red berets and flak jackets, each one carrying a sub-machine gun. They vanished into the darkness and rain on the other side of the square.

‘Jesus!’ the old man said again then went inside and Keogh followed him.

It was a poor sort of a place, a square hall with a reception desk and a narrow staircase. The white paint had yellowed over the years and the wallpaper was badly faded, damp showing through here and there.

The old man pushed a register across the desk for Keogh to sign. ‘RUC regulations. Home address. Next port of call. The lot.’

‘Fine by me.’ Keogh quickly filled it in and pushed the register back across the desk.

‘Martin Keogh, Wapping, London. I haven’t been to London in years.’

‘A fine city.’ Keogh took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.

The old man took a room key down from a board. ‘At least they don’t have Paras hurtling around the streets armed to the teeth. Crazy that, sitting out in the open, even in the rain. What a target. Suicide, if you ask me.’

‘Not really,’ Keogh told him. ‘It’s an old Para trick developed years ago in Aden. They travel in twos to look after each other and, with no armour in the way, they can respond instantly to any attack.’

‘And how would you be knowing a thing like that?’

Keogh shrugged, ‘Common knowledge, Da. Now, can I have my key?’

It was then that the old man noticed the eyes, which were of no particular colour and yet were the coldest he had ever seen, and for some unaccountable reason he knew fear. And at that moment Keogh smiled and his personality changed totally. He reached across and took the key.

‘Someone told me there was a decent café near here. The Regent?’

‘That’s right. Straight across the square to Lurgen Street. It’s by the old docks.’