Sean Dillon 15 - Rough Justice by Jack Higgins

Author:Jack Higgins
Language: eng
Format: mobi, azw3
Published: 2011-02-08T00:00:00+00:00

9

TWO DAYS LATER, MILLER RETURNED TO LONDON TO AN EXCEPTIONALLY busy time in politics, debate after debate in Parliament, crucial votes necessary again and again. Add Cabinet Office business to that, and he saw little of Olivia. He also saw little of Ferguson.

But he himself was not forgotten, certainly not by Quinn, who was thinking a lot about the old days and about one man in particular. He?d been not only a top bomb maker, but a mechanical genius, and his name was Sean Fahy. Born in Kilburn, the Irish quarter of London, he?d lived there all his life, a problem solver of the first water. Quinn wondered . . . He went to his laptop and soon found a number and an address: Derry Street Garage. He phoned a special number from the old days and waited. It seemed to ring forever?and then, unbelievably, it was picked up.

* * *

FAHY WAS SIXTY-FIVE and looked older, with sallow cheeks and a kind of eternal sadness to him, the general look of a man who had found life more disappointing than he had hoped. He wore an old raincoat over a dark suit, a shirt so old-fashioned it lacked a collar, and a battered tweed cap, touched with oil from too much time spent under automobiles. He had been out in the yard, about to leave his premises, when he?d heard the sound of the old telephone, the one someone in the Movement had fitted illegally for him in the pantry. He hadn?t answered a call in years, because there hadn?t been one. He slumped on a stool, breathing hard from his rush to get in, and put the phone to his ear.

?Who is this??

?Michael Quinn, you old sod. How are you??

?Mother Mary, after all these years. Quinn! What in the hell do you want??

?A kind word would be welcome, especially as I have work for you that would be right up your street. Take my number. I?m calling from County Louth. Go on, take it. You won?t regret it.? There was an old pencil in a jar beside the phone, so reluctantly he used it to write on the whitewashed pantry wall. He was slightly incredulous, and in any case didn?t feel well.

?For God?s sake, Quinn, it?s over, the whole bloody game. Peace in Ireland and all that shite. I was your best bomb maker and that?s a fact, but the days of the bomb are over, except for the damned Muslims.?

?Never mind the bombs, you were also a mechanical genius, you knew more about car engines than any man I knew. Remember that judge who was killed in his car in County Down when you came over from London special? That was no bomb, just your touch with the engines.?

?I remember him well enough, and also the wife that was with him and left in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. No, whatever it is, I?m not interested. Now I?m due at a nursing home to see my wife, so I?ll say good-bye.

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