Jack Higgins - 2008 - [Sean Dillon 15] - Rough Justice by Jack Higgins

Jack Higgins - 2008 - [Sean Dillon 15] - Rough Justice by Jack Higgins

Author:Jack Higgins
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-07-11T23:08:31+00:00


‘You’ll arrange a bank draft for fifty thousand pounds within the next twenty-four hours.’

‘You want payment in advance?’

‘No, I want the first installment in advance. Successful completion costs you another twenty-five.’

Quinn laughed. ‘You old bastard. You thought I’d quibble’ Your money is in the bag. First thing in the morning.’

‘So who are we going to ease into the next world?’

‘A Major Harry Miller. He’s a Member of Parliament and an under secretary of state. Does that scare you off’ He put plenty of your comrades in their graves in the old days, believe me.’

‘I’m not worried in the slightest. So what are the specific details?’

‘Do you have a computer?’

‘I have for years. It’s old, but it seems to do the job.’

‘I’ll pass a load of stuff to you now. When we were talking earlier, you said you had to get off to see your wife in a nursing home. Maggie, as I remember. Is there a problem?’

‘Not at all,’ Fahy told him. ‘A woman’s thing.’

‘That’s good. Just give me your e-mail address.’

* * *

BY THE TIME he got to the computer in his office, the attachments were there and he printed them out, three sheets in all, then sat down, took a bottle of Bushmills out of a drawer, poured another one, and started reading. It was just like the old days: details of the target, family, general circumstances, Miller’s wife, his sister, and then Miller himself. He sat looking at the photos and the material collated by Ali Hassim’s people, photos of Dover Street. The whiskey he’d taken had killed most of the pain now, so he sat back and smoked a cigarette and allowed all the information to come together. One thing was essential. He needed to check out Dover Street for himself, so he went downstairs, opened the garage, and drove away in the Triumph roadster.

* * *

HE LIKED MAYFAIR, always had, the network of streets lined with fine properties, some from as early as the eighteenth century. Dover Street was no exception. Most townhouses didn’t have garages, but that was common enough and parking was at the curb when available. Fahy noted the Mini Cooper outside Miller’s house. He’d already seen that on a surreptitious photo taken by a sweeper.

Fahy reversed into the cul-de-sac now. There were two other cars there, and when he checked, they each had a residential parking permit. He went out into Dorset Street and checked Chico’s. There were a couple of tables with chairs in the wide doorway. For the moment, the café was quiet, just one girl behind the bar. He went in and asked for a coffee, then sat in the doorway, looking along the street.

It was luck, of course, but it wasn’t long before a black limousine turned into the end of the street, not a Mercedes, but an Amara. It halted next to the Mini Cooper, and a driver got out and held the passenger door open. Miller had a bundle of files under one arm and carried a briefcase.



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