A Prayer for the Dying. Jack Higgins
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JACK HIGGINS
A PRAYER FOR THE DYING
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by
William Collins Sons and Co. 1973
Copyright © Jack Higgins 1973
Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007234882
Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007290284 Version: 2018-05-23
For Philip Williams, The Expert
Contents
Title Page Copyright Dedication Publisher’s Note Chapter One: Fallon Chapter Two: Father da Costa Chapter Three: Miller Chapter Four: Confessional Chapter Five: Dandy Jack Chapter Six: Face To Face Chapter Seven: Prelude and Fugue Chapter Eight: The Devil and all his Works Chapter Nine: The Executioner Chapter Ten: Exhumation Chapter Eleven: The Gospel According To Fallon Chapter Twelve: More Work for the Undertaker Chapter Thirteen: The Church Militant Chapter Fourteen: Grimsdyke Chapter Fifteen: The Wrath of God About the Author Also by Jack Higgins About the Publisher
A PRAYER FOR THE DYING was first published in the UK by William Collins Sons and Co. in 1973 and in 1996 by Signet, but has been out of print for some years.
In 2008, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back A PRAYER FOR THE DYING for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.
When the police car turned the corner at the end of the street Fallon stepped into the nearest doorway instinctively and waited for it to pass. He gave it a couple of minutes and then continued on his way, turning up his collar as it started to rain.
He walked on towards the docks keeping to the shadows, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his dark-blue trenchcoat, a small dark man of five feet four or five who seemed to drift rather than walk.
A ship eased down from the Pool of London sounding its foghorn, strange, haunting – the last of the dinosaurs moving aimlessly through some primeval swamp, alone in a world already alien. It suited his mood perfectly.
There was a warehouse at the end of the street facing out across the river. The sign said Janos Kristou – Importer. Fallon opened the little judas gate in the main entrance and stepped inside.
The place was crammed with bales and packing cases of every description. It was very dark, but there was a light at the far end and he moved towards it. A man sat at a trestle table beneath a naked light bulb and wrote laboriously in a large, old-fashioned ledger. He had lost most of his hair and what was left stuck out in a dirty white fringe. He wore an old sheepskin jacket and woollen mittens.
Fallon took a cautious step forward and the old man said without turning round, ‘Martin, is that you?’
Fallon moved into the pool of light and paused beside the table. ‘Hello, Kristou.’
There was a wooden case on the floor beside him and the top was loose. Fallon raised it and took out a Sterling submachine-gun thick with protective grease.
‘Still at it, I see. Who’s this for? The Israelis or the Arabs or have you actually started taking sides?’
Kristou leaned across, took the Sterling from him and dropped it back into the box. ‘I didn’t make the world the way it is,’ he said.
‘Maybe not, but you certainly helped it along the way.’ Fallon lit a cigarette. ‘I heard you wanted to see me.’
Kristou put down his pen and looked up at him speculatively. His face was very old, the parchment-coloured skin seamed with wrinkles, but the blue eyes were alert and intelligent.
He said, ‘You don’t look too good, Martin.’
‘I’ve never felt better,’ Fallon told him. ‘Now what about my passport?’
Kristou smiled amiably. ‘You look as if you could do with a drink.’ He took a bottle and two paper cups from a drawer. ‘Irish whiskey – the best. Just to make you feel at home.’
Fallon hesitated and then took one of the cups. Kristou raised the other. ‘May you die in Ireland. Isn’t that what they say?’
Fallon swallowed the whiskey down and crushed the paper cup in his right hand. ‘My passport,’ he said softly.
Kristou said, ‘In a sense it’s out of my hands, Martin. I mean to say, you turning out to be so much in demand in certain quarters – that alters things.’
Fallon went round to the other side of the table and stood there for a moment, head bowed, hands thrust deep into the pockets of the blue trenchcoat. And then he looked up very slowly, dark empty eyes burning in the white face.
‘If you’re trying to put the screw on me, old man, forget it. I gave you everything I had.’
Kristou’s heart missed a beat. There was a cold stirring in his bowels. ‘God help me, Martin,’ he said, ‘but with a hood on you’d look like Death himself.’
Fallon