The Savage Day

The bank, unfortunately, was closed, so I went immediately to my rather pleasant little house on the edge of town and recovered from the corner of the garden by the cistern, the steel cash box containing five thousand dollars mad money put by for a rainy day. As I started back to town, there was a rattle of machine-gun fire from the general direction of the palace, which was comforting, if only because it proved that my judgement was still unimpaired, Rubat, the heat and the atmosphere of general decay notwithstanding.

I called in at police headquarters on my way down to the harbour and discovered, without any particular sense of surprise, that there wasn’t a man left in the place except Meyer, whom I found standing at the window of his cell listening to the sound of small arms fire when I unlocked the door.

He turned immediately and there was a certain relief on his face when he saw who it was. ‘Hamal?’ he enquired.

‘He never was one to let the grass grow under his feet,’ I said. ‘Comes of having been a prefect at Winchester. You don’t look too good. I suggest a long sea voyage.’

He almost fell over himself in his eagerness to get past me through the door.

* * *

As we moved out of harbour, a column of black smoke ascended into the hot afternoon air from the palace. Standing beside me in the wheelhouse, Meyer shook his head and sighed.

‘We live in an uncertain world, my friend.’ And then, dismissing Rubat and its affairs completely, he went on, ‘How good is this boat? Can we reach Djibouti?’

‘Easily.’

‘Excellent. I have first class contacts there. We can even sell the boat. Some slight recompense for my loss and I’ve a little matter of business coming up in the Somali Republic that you might be able to help me with.’

‘What sort of business?’

‘The two thousand pounds a month kind,’ he replied calmly.

Which was enough to shut anyone up. He produced a small cassette tape-recorder from one of his pockets, put it on the chart table and turned it on.

The band which started playing had the unmistakably nostalgic sound of the ’thirties and so did the singer who joined in a few minutes later, assuring me that Every Day’s A Lucky Day. There was complete repose on Meyer’s face as he listened.

I said, ‘Who in the hell is that?’

‘Al Bowlly,’ he said simply. ‘The best there ever was.’

The start of a beautiful friendship in more ways than one.

I was reminded of that first meeting when I went down to Meyer’s Wapping warehouse on the morning following my arrival back in England from Greece, courtesy of Ferguson and RAF Transport Command, and for the most obvious of reasons. When I opened the little judas gate in the main entrance and stepped inside, Al Bowlly’s voice drifted like some ghostly echo out of the half-darkness to tell me that Everything I Have Is Yours.

It was strangely appropriate, considering the setting, for in that one warehouse Meyer really did have just about every possible thing you could think of in the arms line. In fact, it had always been a source of mystery to me how he managed to cope with the fire department inspectors, for on occasion he had enough explosives in there to blow up a sizeable part of London.

‘Meyer, are you there?’ I called, puzzled by the lack of staff.

I moved through the gloom between two rows of shelving crammed with boxes of.303 ammunition and rifle grenades. There was a flight of steel steps leading up to a landing above, more shelves, rows and rows of old Enfields.

Al Bowlly faded and Meyer appeared at the rail. ‘Who is it?’

He had that usual rather hunted look about him as if he expected the Gestapo to descend at any moment, which at one time in his youth had been a distinct possibility. He wore the same steel-rimmed spectacles he’d had on at our first meeting and the crumpled blue suit was well up to his usual standard of shabbiness.

‘Simon?’ he said. ‘Is that you?’

He started down the steps. I said, ‘Where is everyone?’

‘I gave them the day off. Thought it best when Ferguson telephoned. Where is he, by the way?’

‘He’ll be along.’

He took off his glasses, polished them, put them back on and inspected me thoroughly. ‘They didn’t lean on you too hard in that place?’

‘Skarthos?’ I shook my head. ‘Just being there was enough. How’s business?’

He spread his hands in an inimitable gesture and led the way towards his office at the other end of the warehouse. ‘How can I complain? The world gets more violent day by day.’

We went into the tiny cluttered office and he produced a bottle of the cheapest possible British sherry and poured the ritual couple of drinks. It tasted like sweet varnish, but I got it down manfully.

‘This man Ferguson,’ he said as he finished. ‘A devil. A cold-blooded, calculating devil.’

‘He certainly knows what he wants.’

‘He blackmailed me, Simon. Me, a citizen all these years. I pay my taxes, don’t I? I behave myself. When these Irish nutcases approach me to do a deal, I go to the authorities straightaway.’

‘Highly commendable,’ I said and poured myself another glass of that dreadful sherry.

‘And what thanks do I get? This Ferguson walks in here and gives me the business. Either I play the game the way he wants it or I lose my licence to trade. Is that fair? Is that British justice?’

‘Sounds like a pretty recognizable facsimile of it to me,’ I told him.

He was almost angry, but not quite. ‘Why is everything such a big joke to you, Simon? Is our present situation funny? Is death funny?’

‘The sensible man’s way of staying sane in a world gone mad,’ I said.

He considered the point and managed one of those funny little smiles of his. ‘Maybe you’ve got something there. I’ll try it – I’ll definitely try it, but what about Ferguson?’

‘He’ll be along. You’ll know the worst soon enough.’ I sat on the edge of his desk and helped myself to one of the Turkish cigarettes he kept in a sandalwood box for special customers. ‘What have you got that works with a silencer? Really works.’

He was all business now. ‘Handgun or what?’

‘And sub-machine-gun.’

‘We’ll go downstairs,’ he said. ‘I think I can fix you up.’

The Mk IIS Sten sub-machine-gun was especially developed during the war for use with commando units and resistance groups. It was also used with considerable success by British troops on night patrol work during the Korean war.

It was, indeed still is, a remarkable weapon, its silencing unit absorbing the noise of the bullet explosions to an amazing degree. The only sound when firing is the clicking of the bolt as it goes backwards and forwards and this can seldom be heard beyond a range of twenty yards or so.

Many more were manufactured than is generally realized and as they were quite unique in their field, the reason for the lack of production over the years has always been something of a mystery to me.

The one I held in my hands in Meyer’s basement firing range was a mint specimen. There was a row of targets at the far end, life-size replicas of charging soldiers of indeterminate nationality, all wearing camouflaged uniforms. I emptied a thirty-two round magazine into the first five, working from left to right. It was an uncomfortably eerie experience to see the bullets shredding the target and to hear only the clicking of the bolt.

Meyer said, ‘Remember, full automatic only in a real emergency. They tend to overheat otherwise.’

A superfluous piece of information as I’d used the things in action in Korea, but I contented myself with laying the Sten down and saying mildly, ‘What about a handgun?’

I thought he looked pleased with himself and I saw why a moment later when he produced a tin box, opened it and took out what appeared to be a normal automatic pistol, except that the barrel was of a rather strange design.

‘I could get a packet from any collector for this little item,’ he said. ‘Chinese Communist silenced pistol. 7.65 mm.’

It was certainly new to me. ‘How does it work?’

It was ingenious enough. Used as a semiautomatic, there was only the sound of the slide reciprocating and the cartridge cases ejecting, but it could also be used to fire a single shot with complete silence.

I tried a couple of rounds. Meyer said, ‘You like it?’

Before we could take it any further, there was a foot on the stairs and Ferguson moved out of the darkness. He was wearing a dark grey double-breasted suit, Academy tie, bowler hat and carried a briefcase.

‘So there you are,’ he said. ‘What’s all this?’

He came forward and put his briefcase down on the table, then he took the pistol from me, sighted casually and fired. The result was as I might have expected. No fancy shooting through the shoulder or hand. Just a bullet dead centre in the belly, painful but certain.

He put the gun down on the table and glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got exactly ten minutes, then I must be on my way to the War House so let’s get down to business. Meyer, have you filled him in on your end yet?’

‘You told me to wait.’

‘I’m here now.’

‘Okay.’ Meyer shrugged and turned to me. ‘I had a final meeting with the London agent for these people yesterday. I’ve told him it would be possible to run the stuff over from Oban.’

‘Possible?’ I said. ‘That must be the understatement of this or any other year.’

Meyer carried straight on as if I hadn’t interrupted. ‘I’ve arranged for you to act as my agent in the matter. There’s to be a preliminary meeting in Belfast on Monday night. They’re expecting both of us.’

‘Who are?’

‘I’m not certain. Possibly this official IRA leader himself, Michael Cork.’

I glanced at the Brigadier. ‘Your Small Man?’

‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘but we don’t really know. All we can say for certain is that you should get some sort of direct lead to him, whatever happens.’

‘And what do I do between now and Monday?’

‘Go to Oban and get hold of the right kind of boat.’ He opened the briefcase and took out an envelope which he pushed across the table. ‘You’ll find a thousand pounds in there. Let’s call it working capital.’ He turned to Meyer. ‘I’m aware that such an amount is small beer to a man of your assets, Mr Meyer, but we wanted to be fair.’

Meyer’s hand fastened on the envelope. ‘Money is important, Brigadier, let nobody fool you. I never turned down a grand in my life.’

Ferguson turned back to me. ‘It seemed to me that the most obvious place for your landing when you make the run will be the north Antrim coast, so Meyer will rent a house in the area. He’ll act as a link man between us once you’ve arrived and are in the thick of it.’

‘You intend to be there yourself?’

‘Somewhere at hand, just in case I’m needed, but one thing must be stressed. On no account are you to approach the military or police authorities in the area.’

‘No matter what happens?’

‘You’re on your own, Simon,’ he said. ‘Better get used to the idea. I’ll help all I can at the right moment, but until then …’

‘I think I get the drift,’ I said. ‘This is one of those jolly little operations that will have everybody from cabinet level down clapping their hands with glee if it works.’

‘And howling for your blood if it doesn’t,’ he said and patted me on the shoulder. ‘But I have every confidence in you, Simon. It’s going to work, you’ll see.’

‘At the moment, I can’t think of a single reason why it should, but thanks for the vote of confidence.’

He closed his briefcase and picked it up. ‘Just remember one thing. Michael Cork may be what some people would term an old-fashioned revolutionary and I think they’re probably right. In other words, he and his kind don’t approve of the indiscriminate slaughter of the innocent for political ends.’

‘But he’ll kill me if he has to, is that what you’re trying to say?’

‘Without a second’s hesitation.’ He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Must rush now, but do promise me one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Get yourself a decent gun.’ He picked up the silenced pistol, weighed it in his hand and dropped it on the table. ‘Load of Hong Kong rubbish.’

‘This one is by way of Peking,’ I told him.

‘All the bloody same,’ he said cheerfully and faded into the darkness. We heard him on the stair for a moment and then he was gone.

Meyer walked up and down, flapping his arms again, extremely agitated. ‘He makes me feel so uncomfortable. Why does he make me feel this way?’

‘He went to what some people would term the right school. You didn’t.’

‘Rubbish,’ he said. ‘You went to the right schools and with you I feel fine.’

‘My mother was Irish,’ I said. ‘You’re forgetting. My one saving grace.’ I tried another couple of shots with the Chinese pistol and shook my head. ‘Ferguson is right. Put this back in the Christmas cracker where you found it and get me a real gun.’

‘Such as?’

‘What about a Mauser 7.63 mm Model 1932 with the bulbous silencer? The kind they manufactured for German counter-intelligence during the second war. There must still be one or two around?’

‘Why not ask me for the gold from my teeth while you’re about it? It’s impossible. Where will I find such a thing these days?’

‘Oh, you’ll manage,’ I said. ‘You always do.’ I held out my hand. ‘If you’ll give me my share of the loot I’ll be on my way. Oban is not just another station on the Brighton line, you know. It’s on the north-west coast of Scotland.’

‘Do I need a geography lesson?’

He counted out five hundred pounds, grumbling, sweat on his face as there always was when he handled money. I stowed it away in my inside breast pocket.

‘When will you be back?’ he asked.

‘I’ll try for the day after tomorrow.’

He followed me up the stairs and we paused at the door of his office. He said awkwardly, ‘Look after yourself, then.’

It was as near as he could get to any demonstration of affection. I said, ‘Don’t I always?’

As I walked away, he went into his office and a moment later Al Bowlly was giving me a musical farewell all the way to the door.

3

Night Sounds

They started shooting again as I turned the corner, the rattle of small arms fire drifting across the water through the fog from somewhere in the heart of the city. It was echoed almost immediately by a heavy machine-gun. Probably an armoured car opening up with its Browning in reply.

Belfast night sounds. Common enough these days, God knows, but over here on this part of the docks it was as quiet as the grave. Only the gurgle of water amongst the wharf pilings to accompany me as I moved along the cobbled street past a row of warehouses.

I didn’t see a soul, which was hardly surprising for it was the sort of place to be hurried through if it had to be visited at all and they’d obviously had their troubles. Most of the street-lamps were smashed, a warehouse a little further on had been burnt to the ground, and at one point rubble and broken glass carpeted the street.

I picked my way through and found what I was looking for on the next corner, a large Victorian public house, the light in its windows the first sign of life I’d seen in the whole area.

The name was etched in acid on the frosted glass panel by the entrance: Cohan’s Select Bar. An arguable point from the look of the place, but I pushed open the door and went in anyway.

I found myself in a long narrow room, the far end shrouded in shadow. There was a small coal fire on the left, two or three tables and some chairs, and not much else except the old marble-topped bar with a mirror behind it that must have been quite something when clipper ships still used Belfast docks. Now it was cracked in a dozen places, the gold leaf on the ornate frame flaking away to reveal cheap plaster. As used by life as the man who leaned against the beer pumps reading a newspaper.

He looked older than he probably was, but that would be the drink if the breath on him was anything to go by. The neck above the collarless shirt was seamed with dirt and he scratched the stubble on his chin nervously as he watched me approach.

He managed a smile when I was close enough. ‘Good night to you, sir. And what’s it to be?’

‘Oh, a Jameson, I think,’ I said. ‘A large one. The kind of night for it.’

He went very still, staring at me, mouth gaping a little and he was no longer smiling.

‘English, is it?’ he whispered.

‘That’s right. Another of those fascist beasts from across the water, although I suppose that depends upon which side you’re on.’

I put a cigarette in my mouth and he produced a box of matches hastily and gave me a light, his hands shaking. I held his wrist to steady the flame.

‘You’re quiet enough in here in all conscience. Where is everybody?’

There was a movement behind me, the softest of footfalls, wind over grass in a forest at nightfall, no more than that. Someone said quietly, ‘And who but a fool would be abroad at night in times like these when he could be safe home, Major?’

He had emerged from the shadows at the end of the room, hands deep in the pockets of a dark blue double-breasted Melton overcoat of a kind much favoured by undertakers, the collar turned up about his neck.

Five foot two or three at the most, I took him for little more than a boy in years at least, although the white devil’s face on him beneath the peak of the tweed cap, the dark eyes that seemed perpetually fixed on eternity, hinted at something more. A soul in torment if ever I’d seen one.

‘You’re a long way from Kerry,’ I said.

‘And how would you be knowing that?’

‘I mind the accent, isn’t that what they say? My mother, God rest her, was from Stradballa.’

Something moved in his eyes then. Surprise, I suppose, although I was to learn that he seldom responded with any kind of emotion to anything. In any event, before he could reply, a voice called softly from the shadows, ‘Bring the major down here, Binnie.’

There was a row of wooden booths, each with its own frosted glass door to ensure privacy, another relic of Victorian times. A young woman sat at a table in the end one. She wore an old trenchcoat and headscarf, but it was difficult to see much more than that.

Binnie ran his hands over me from behind, presumably looking for some sort of concealed weapon, giving me no more than three opportunities of jumping him had I been so disposed.

‘Satisfied?’ I demanded. He moved back and I turned to the girl. ‘Simon Vaughan.’

‘I know who you are well enough.’

‘And there you have the advantage of me.’

‘Norah Murphy.’

More American than Irish to judge from the voice. An evening for surprises. I said, ‘And are you for the Oban boat, Miss Murphy?’

‘And back again.’

Which disposed of the formalities satisfactorily and I pulled a chair back from the table and sat down.

I offered her a cigarette and, when I gave her a light, the match flaring in my cupped hands pulled her face out of the shadows for a moment. Dark, empty eyes, high cheekbones, a wide, rather sensual mouth.

As the match died she said, ‘You seem surprised.’

‘I suppose I expected a man.’

‘Your sort would,’ she said with a trace of bitterness.

‘Ah, the arrogant Englishman, you mean? The toe of his boot for a dog and a whip for a woman. Isn’t that the saying? I would have thought it had possibilities.’

She surprised me by laughing although I suspect it was in spite of herself. ‘Give the man his whiskey, Binnie, and make sure it’s a Jameson. The Major always drinks Jameson.’

He moved to the bar. I said, ‘Who’s your friend?’

‘His name is Gallagher, Major Vaughan. Binnie Gallagher.’

‘Young for his trade.’

‘But old for his age.’

He put the bottle and single glass on the table and leaned against the partition at one side, arms folded. I poured a drink and said, ‘Well, now, Miss Murphy, you seem to know all about me.’

‘Simon Vaughan, born 1931, Delhi. Father a colonel in the Indian Army. Mother, Irish.’

‘More shame to her,’ I put in.

She ignored the remark and carried on. ‘Winchester, Sandhurst. Military Cross with the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment in Korea, 1953. They must have been proud of you at the Academy. Officer, gentleman, murderer.’

The American accent was more noticeable now along with the anger in her voice. There was a rather obvious pause as they both waited for some sort of reaction. When I moved, it was only to reach for the whiskey bottle, but it was enough for Binnie whose hand was inside his coat on the instant.

‘Watch yourself,’ he said.

‘I can handle this one,’ she replied.

I couldn’t be certain that the whole thing wasn’t some prearranged ploy intended simply to test me, but the fact that they’d spoken in Irish was interesting and it occurred to me that if the Murphy girl knew as much about me as she seemed to she would be well aware that I spoke the language rather well myself, thanks to my mother.

I poured another drink and said to Binnie in Irish, ‘How old are you, boy?’

He answered in a kind of reflex, ‘Nineteen.’

‘If you’re faced with a search, you can always dump a gun fast, but a shoulder holster …’ I shook my head. ‘Get rid of it or you won’t see twenty.’

There was something in his eyes again, but it was the girl who answered for him, in English this time. ‘You should listen to the Major, Binnie. He’s had a lot of practice at that kind of thing.’

‘You said something about my being a murderer?’ I said.

‘Borneo, 1963. A place called Selengar. You had fourteen guerrillas executed whose only crime was fighting for the freedom of their country.’

‘A debatable point considering the fact that they were all Communist Chinese,’ I said.

She ignored me completely. ‘Then there was a Mr Hui Li whom you had tortured and beaten for several hours. Shot while trying to escape. The newspapers called you the Beast of Selengar, but the War Office didn’t want a stink so they put the lid on tight.’

I actually managed a smile. ‘Poor Simon Vaughan. Never did really recover from the eighteen months he spent in that Chinese prison camp in Korea.’

‘So they didn’t actually cashier you. They eased you out.’

‘Only the mud stuck.’

‘And now you sell guns.’

‘To people like you.’ I raised my glass and said gaily, ‘Up the Republic.’

‘Exactly,’ she said.

‘Then what are we complaining about?’ I took the rest of my whiskey down carefully. ‘Mr Meyer is waiting to see you not far from here. He simply wanted me to meet you first as a – a precautionary measure.’

‘We know exactly where Mr Meyer is staying. In a hotel in Lurgan Street. You have room fifty-three at the Grand Central.’

‘Only the best,’ I said. ‘It’s that public school education, you see. Now poor old Meyer, on the other hand, can never forget getting out of Germany in what he stood up in back in ’38 so he saves his money.’

Behind us the outside door burst open and a group of young men entered the bar.

There were four of them, all dressed exactly alike in leather boots, jeans and donkey jackets. Some sort of uniform, I suppose, a sign that you belonged. That it was everyone else who was the outsider. The faces and the manner of them as they swaggered in told all. Vicious young animals of a type to be found in any large city in the world from Belfast to Delhi and back again.

They were trouble and the barman knew it, his face sagging as they paused inside the door to look round, then started towards the bar, a red-haired lad of seventeen or eighteen leading the way, a smile on his face of entirely the wrong sort.