The Wolf at the Door Read Free

undertaker’s come for him.”
    “Away with you. You hardly ever see old Vladimir wearing anything but a black suit. It’s his personal statement.”
    “The hard man, you mean? Never mind that now. We need to talk.”
    “What about?”
    Miller put his right foot on the edge of the bathtub, eased up the leg of his slacks, and removed the ankle holder.
    “What the hell is that for?” Dillon said. “I’d like to remind you it’s the United Nations we’re going to. You wouldn’t have got inside the door wearing that.”
    “True, but I never intended to try. On the other hand, a walk in Central Park is quite another matter, it seems, so it’s a good thing I was carrying.”
    As always with Dillon, it was as if a shadow passed across his face that in the briefest of moments changed his entire personality.
    “Tell me.”
    Miller did, brief and succinct, because of the soldier in him, and, when he was finished, he took out the wallet he’d taken from his assailant and offered it.
    “A folded computer photo of me, no credit cards, a Social Security card, plus a driver’s license in the name of Frank Barry, with an address in Brooklyn. I doubt any of it is genuine, but there you are. I need a shower and a fresh shirt, and we’re short on time.”
    He cleared off to his own bedroom, and Dillon took the items from the wallet and unfolded the computer photo. It showed Miller walking on a relatively crowded pavement, one half of a truck in view and, behind it, the side of a London cab. Now, where had that come from? A long way from Central Park.
    Dillon went to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey, thinking of Frank Barry, the hit man. Poor bastard, he hadn’t known what he was up against. Miller was hardly your usual politician. He’d served in the British Army during some of the worst years of the Irish Troubles, for some of that time an apparent deskman in the Intelligence Corps. But Dillon knew the truth. Miller had long ago decided that summary justice was the only way to fight terrorism. Since the death of his wife, the victim of a terrorist attack aimed at Miller himself, he had grown even more ruthless.
    Dillon folded the computer photo and tried to slide it back into the wallet. It refused to go because there was something there. He fiddled about and managed to pull out a card that was rather ornate, gold around the edges, with a sentiment inscribed in curling type. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.
    Miller came in, ready to go. “What have you got there?”
    “Something you missed in the wallet.” The card was creased and obviously old, and Dillon held it to his nose. “Candles, incense, and the holy water.”
    “What in hell do you mean?” Miller held out his hand, and examined the card.
    “So Barry is a Catholic, so what?”
    “Such cards are very rare. They go back in history to Michael Collins, the Easter Rising. The card begs the Virgin to pray for ‘we who are ourselves alone.’ The Irish for ‘ourselves alone’ is Sinn Fein. ”
    Miller stared at the card, frowning. “And you think that’s significant?”
    “Maybe not, but Barry is an Irish name, and you told me that after you shot him he said, ‘They didn’t say it would be like this.’ ”
    “That’s true, but he claimed he didn’t know who’d hired him, even when I threatened to put one through his other knee.”
    Dillon shrugged. “Maybe he lied in spite of the pain.” He took the card from Miller’s fingers and replaced it in the wallet.
    Miller said, “Are you saying there could be a smell of IRA here?”
    Dillon smiled. “I suppose anything is possible in the worst of all possible worlds. You were right not to kill him, though. He’ll stick like glue to the story of being the victim of a mugging. He wouldn’t want the police to think anything else.”
    “And the IRA connection?”
    “If there was one, it’s done them no good at all.”