On Dangerous Ground Read Free Page B

jacket appeared. “Is that you, Norah?”
    “And who else?” she replied. “Who’s your friend?”
    “Ali Halabi, meet Norah Bell. Come away up.”
    “I’m sorry,” the Arab said.
    She ignored him and went up the stairs and he followed, noting with approval the way her skirt tightened over her hips.
    When she went into the office the man in the reefer coat put his hands on her shoulders. “God help me, but you look good enough to eat,” and he kissed her lightly on the lips.
    “Save the blarney.” She put her umbrella on the desk, opened her handbag, and took out a packet of cigarettes. “Anything in a skirt, Michael Ahern. I’ve known you too long.”
    She put a cigarette in her mouth and the Arab hurriedly took out a lighter and lit it for her. He turned to Ahern. “The lady is part of your organization?”
    “Well I’m not with the bloody IRA,” she said. “We’re Prods, mister, if you know what that means.”
    “Norah and I were in the Ulster Volunteer Force together and then the Red Hand of Ulster,” Ahern said. “Until we had to move on.”
    Norah laughed harshly. “Until they threw us out. A bunch of old women, that lot. We were killing too many Catholics for their liking.”
    “I see,” Ali Halabi said. “Is it Catholics who are your target or the IRA?”
    “The same difference,” she said. “I’m from Belfast, Mr. Halabi. My father was an Army sergeant, killed in the Falklands War. My mother, my kid sister, my old granddad, all the family I had in the world, were killed in a street bomb planted by the IRA back in eighty-six. You might say I’ve been taking my revenge ever since.”
    “But we are open to offers,” Ahern said amiably. “Any revolutionary organization needs money.”
    The door banged below. Ali took the gun from his pocket and Ahern moved to the door. “Is that you, Billy?”
    “As ever was.”
    “Would that be Billy Quigley?” Norah asked.
    “Who else?” Ahern turned to Ali. “Another one the Red Hand threw out. Billy and I did some time together in the Maze prison.”
    Quigley was a small, wiry man in an old raincoat. He had faded blond hair and a careworn face that was old beyond his years.
    “Jesus, is that you, Norah?”
    “Hello, Billy.”
    “You got my message?” Ahern said.
    “Yes, I drop in to the William of Orange in Kilburn most nights.”
    Ahern said to Ali, “Kilburn is what you might call the Irish quarter of London. Plenty of good Irish pubs there, Catholic and Protestant. This, by the way, is Ali Halabi from Iran.”
    “So what’s it all about?” Quigley demanded.
    “This.” Ahern held up the Evening Standard with the headline about the American President. “Ali, here, represents a group of fundamentalists in Iran called the Army of God. They, shall we say, deeply deplore Arafat’s deal with Israel over the new status of Palestine. They are even more unhappy with the American President presiding over that meeting at the White House and giving it his blessing.”
    “So?” Quigley said.
    “They’d like me to blow him up for them while he’s in London, me having a certain reputation in that field.”
    “For five million pounds,” Ali Halabi said, “don’t let us forget that.”
    “Half of which is already on deposit in Geneva.” Ahern smiled. “By God, Billy, couldn’t we give the IRA a run for their money with a million pounds to spend on arms?”
    Quigley’s face was pale. “The American President? You wouldn’t dare, not even you.”
    Norah laughed that distinctive harsh laugh, “Oh, yes he would.”
    Ahern turned to her. “Are you with me, girl?”
    “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
    “And you, Billy?” Quigley licked dry lips and hesitated. Ahern put a hand on his shoulder. “In or out, Billy?”
    Quigley smiled suddenly. “Why not. A man can only die once. How do we do it?”
    “Come down below and I’ll show you.”
    Ahern led the way down the steps and switched on a light at the bottom. There was