The train jolted to a halt with the rattle of couplings.
The older man stood and stretched.
"Canadian? Are they fond of their beer there, tell me."
"Fairly."
The tanned man followed them out onto the platform. Groups of people were wrestling luggage down toward the rear of the platform.
He looked at some of the others walking down the platform. A couple with a sleeping child and too many bags. A heavy-set man, his suitcase tied with a belt, walking unsteadily.
"Is there a big line-up here?" he asked the red-faced navvy.
"Ah no. Nothing to it. Sure they know the half of us going across."
"What about a ticket?"
"Go round the corner there. There's a sweet shop and a ticket office at that gate in. Here, hold on, I'm going meself."
He saw no police. He couldn't ask the navvies about the police. The red-faced navvy was paying for his ticket ahead of him.
"Cabins?" The red-faced man was saying to the woman behind the counter.
"Do I look like Jack Tar or something, like Moby Dick? What would I want a cabin for? Here look after your man here, he's a Canadian. He's a long way from home."
The tanned man grinned, but he felt an icy touch. He didn't want any attention drawn to himself.
After he bought the ticket, they rejoined the other two. They were now leaning against the wall at the end of the passageway leading to the passenger entrance to the ship. He smelled the pungent air, a mix of fish and engine oil. Through the window he saw Dun Laoghaire pier and the waving masts of moored yachts. Isolated figures walked from light to light along the pier.
"Me belly thinks me throat is cut," the short navvy said.
"Give over bellyaching, Joey. There's plenty of gargle on the bloody boat. We'll be on in a minute," the older navvy said.
A uniformed member of the crew opened the doors leading to the gangplank. Two men in grey overalls stood next to the gangplank, idly looking at the waiting passengers. The line began to move.
The tanned man practised his breathing to ease his tension.
"No big deal, is it," he said. "They don't make a fuss, do they?"
"Why would they? Sure aren't they glad to be sending us back? There's no jobs here," the older navvy remarked wryly.
Another member of the crew walked down the gangplank. Still, the tanned man saw no one that looked like the police. He shuffled along beside the red-faced navvy. They were within a dozen people of the doors. Then he saw a stocky man standing to the side of the doors, outside. He looked to the other side of the door, but he could not yet see far enough around the jamb.
"Aye, aye Captain!" the red-faced man called out to the two crew-members. Both looked over at him. One of them grinned.
"Here, look it," he said to the other one.
"Well lads, did you fix the hole in the boat?" the older navvy asked loudly.
Both crew members were grinning now.
"Where would a fella get a bit of refreshment here, Admiral?" the small navvy called out.
"Yiz could try a swim. That's very refreshing," one of the crewmen said.
"Very funny. Pass the chicken, the feather's worn out. We'll see yiz later, hah?" the small navvy said.
The tanned man had lost the breathing routine. His neck felt as if it were in a vice grip. As he stepped through the door jamb he saw the other cop, his hands in his pockets, looking over the faces. He cursed the wit of the three navvies for drawing attention to themselves. Better not try to avoid their eyes. Look surprised, a bit puzzled. The cop on the left was looking at him. Without thinking about it, the tanned man had drawn his elbow in so that he could feel the gun under his arm. He couldn't see any metal detector. He stopped breathing.
Minogue did not speak on the way back to Dundalk. Agnes McGuire's face kept pushing his thoughts aside. Occasionally he noticed that the detective beside him was watching him. Scully sat in the front looking ahead. The most that Minogue knew about her came from Davies, who reminded him somehow of a stale room. Davies was making little of it, as an object lesson for what he saw as Free State clodhoppers who needed instruction in the violent ways of the North. Davies probably wouldn't admit that the whole thing was out of his hands anyway, that he was dragged in to front the operation for the British Army.
Minogue had stood beside the customs post back on the Republic side while Scully radioed in a report to be passed on to Dublin. He watched as the vehicles drove out of the aura of light back up the Belfast road. The floodlights turned off all at once. There were more troops and police on the Republic side than when they'd crossed. They had stood around, not sure what to do. Then they began dispersing.
Allen had asked him what he could do. Minogue told him he'd try to get news of Agnes to him but that he, Allen, was going North. As Davies slammed the door he said to Minogue:
"There ye hove it. For a perfesser he's a torrable stypud mon."
Minogue's loathing for the broken man in the back of the van broke through his own numbness and threatened to overwhelm him. For a few moments, Allen's face had communicated the strain he had been under, but then Minogue's mind reddened with anger. He might be a step closer to Walsh's murderer, but who paid in the end?
When the car stopped, Scully got out and walked over to Minogue.
"You got what you wanted, Minogue. So far as I'm concerned that episode is over. There's no need for it to be written into the record. It was quite understandable when you think about it. I mean, you had your priorities. The word from on high was to pass the ball. That's hard to live with these days, I know."
Minogue looked beyond Scully to the helicopter.
"What with policemen being shot in the streets. I put two and two together you know, even if nobody told me all the ins and outs of it. It's connected with the things in Dublin, isn't it, the murders? You don't have to tell me," Scully continued.
Minogue began to walk off. Scully walked alongside.
"Just ask yourself this: if it helped to find the killers of those lads in Dublin and if it helps stop more police being killed, shouldn't you weigh that in the balance?"
Minogue stopped and faced Scully.
"You know, Scully, you sound exactly like a brother of mine. He talks the exact same way. The same kind of logic, but he's on the other side. Does that bother you at all? Allen and the girl were thrown to the wolves just so the various custodians of this bloody island can tell all of us to sleep soundly. You know and I know that car should never have crossed the border. But you're just doing what you're told to do, same as the rest of us. That stuff doesn't work in the long run you know. Our kids can see through that rubbish as easy as kiss hands."
Scully frowned.
"Nice speech Minogue. Except it doesn't fit in this world." As the helicopter lifted off, Minogue reflected that Scully was right, but it shouldn't be Scully saying it. It was after nine now. As they came in sight of the northern suburbs of Dublin, the message was relayed from Kilmartin that the Special Branch were outside Loftus' flat, waiting for the word to go in.
He felt claustrophobic as the passengers crowded closer at the door. He met the cop's gaze for a few seconds. The cop's gaze rested briefly on the tanned man and then it moved on. He began walking toward the gangplank railing. The other cop had not looked at him.
The first cop glanced at him again. He felt the skin at the back of his neck prickle. He patted his jacket to make sure it was zipped. As his feet started up the metal tongue of the gangplank, he risked a look at the cop. Unbelievably, the other cop was stepping onto the gangplank as well, timing it to match his arrival. The tanned man froze as the two cops met on the gangplank directly in front of him. He realised he had left it too late. He looked directly into the face of the cop who was blocking his way. The cop flicked a glance at him but looked over his shoulder. The passengers had come to a standstill. The two cops edged around the tanned man and one grasped the arm of a teenager behind.
"Will you step aside for a moment, please," the cop said.
The tanned man turned to see the teenager dart a look from one cop to the other. Then he shook his head and stepped off the gangplank. The tanned man resumed his climb. The navvies looked behind.
"What's with your man there. Is he mitching from school or what?" red-face said.
"Maybe he did in the budgie at home," the older navvy replied.
The tanned man realised he was breathing heavily through his nose. His legs were lazy springs that barely carried him onto the ship.
"Here lookit, where's the gargle?" the short navvy yawned.
"Jases, you're a divil," the older one replied. "It's a wonder those fellas didn't take you aside. You're not out on bail for something, are you?"
"Out on bail is right. It's baling out is what I'm doing. Bloody place."
"What was all that about?" the tanned man managed to ask.
"Your man? The young fella?" red-face said. "I don't know. Maybe he was skipping the country or something. Looks like they were waiting for him."
"Here, do you miss the place already?" the red-faced navvy said. "Come on up and I'll stand you a drink. You have to have something to puke up if it gets choppy."
The tanned man forced a smile.
"Do they let Canadians buy drinks on this boat?" he asked. The older navvy laughed.
It had begun to rain in Dublin. Kilmartin's face was streaked with the shadows of rain which clung like eyelashes to the windows of the car. The constant hush of rain washing up under the car made Minogue sleepy. Kilmartin's face brightened and darkened alternately with the passage of the streetlights as he talked.
Minogue turned to him.
"I want to ask you something about that business earlier on," Minogue said.
Kilmartin returned Minogue's steady gaze.
"I want to know if you knew it would turn out like that."
Kilmartin blinked and said:
"You mean the girl being shot? Of course I didn't-"
"Not that," Minogue interrupted. "I mean dumping them with the Brits."
Kilmartin paused. He took in Minogue's darkened face, the tiredness and the wariness gathered around his eyes.
"No I didn't, Matt."
Kilmartin let his eyes go out of focus as he gazed out beyond the driver and the squeaking wipers.
"They don't tell me that stuff. They're a law unto themseves, so that's that," Kilmartin said softly. He wondered if Minogue believed him. Kilmartin's unease impelled him into talking.
"Our mystery man stayed at the Shelbourne. One of the porters put a good face on him, right down to the shoes he was wearing. 'Looks a bit like a bank manager,' says he. Between what McCarthy told us and what the nosey staff up above in the Shelbourne say, we have a rough-and-ready Identikit of this fella. There were clothes left in a room and there's no sign of the man who stayed. No visitors. He was there for a while," Kilmartin was saying.
"What will he do?" Minogue asked.
"I don't know. Something tells me he is a very polished performer entirely. The Branch are quite up in a dander about him. They don't know anything about him. Came out of nowhere. I'd say he'll lie low here. I wouldn't put it past him to have other passports and things."
Minogue imagined a well-groomed, confident American. He'd have good teeth anyway, probably aftershave, one of those diver's watches on an expandable strap. Hairs would poke out under the strap. He might chew gum. What was he doing here though?
"Irish American. A true son of Erin," Minogue murmured.
"Seems likely, doesn't it?"
"If he's so well set up, then why would he shoot someone?" Minogue wondered aloud.
"Strictly speaking, we don't know that he did," Kilmartin answered. "It's a lead."
"Hardly coincidence then about Walsh," Minogue said.
"Well what do you think, Matt?"
Minogue didn't answer immediately. Then he said;
"I'd better fill you in on Allen."
After he had finished, Kilmartin said:
"God, isn't that the back of the neck? Great oaks from little acorns grow. How long ago was this?"
"Well, Allen is getting on fifty. So let's say nearly forty years ago."
"And what happened?"
"Took psychiatric treatment. Made to. And it worked, he says."
"So he changed his name…"
"… and turned out to be a model. Got interested in the psychology and took it up. He's a very smart fella, Allen."
Kilmartin harrumphed.
"— Not smart enough to deal with Loftus I'll warrant. He had nothing to fear. Jesus God in heaven, people are nearly getting credit for any kind of perversion these days. Sure what age was he?"
"Thirteen," Minogue said.
"And didn't he pull himself up by the bootstraps ever since. I can tell you I couldn't hold it against him. He should have skinned Loftus when Loftus put the pressure on."
"Well," Minogue murmured as a bump interrupted him, "he had to gild the lily, or so he thought. He wanted to measure up, you see. His father was dead these years, probably the only one who could tone down the mother."
"Go on," Kilmartin said. "A real bloody cop-out. 'It started with me mother' and all the psychology stuff. And he told you this in a van in the middle of nowhere?"
Minogue wondered if he could tell Kilmartin how relieved Allen had been to let out with the intolerable stresses he had endured. He had said it all in a matter of minutes. Minogue had felt less disgust than some vague and frightening acceptance of Allen's story. He didn't need to tell Kilmartin the real, the simple and the quite absurd truth which Allen had communicated to him. Allen, elbows on his knees and looking at the handcuffs, had told him in so economical a way as to be devastating, that he could not have Agnes McGuire know about his past. Ordinary, like the rest of us, Minogue had understood, he wanted deliverance and love too. There had been no accounting for that.
On the way back to Dublin, Minogue shivered and spent most of the time wondering how it would come out, how much damage would be done to Allen's work for peace. All come to nothing, probably.
"Pressure," Minogue said, "You never know what people'll do."
Kilmartin did not miss the tone of Minogue's remark. Had MinOgue known all along that everyone was watching him to see if he was the full shilling? Maybe he even played on it, controlling it in his own way. Kilmartin gathered himself in the seat.
"Anyway. Allen is small fry. I want Connors' killer and you want whoever killed that lad in Trinity. We may well be talking about the same character, hah? We'll root him out in short order and there'll be no bones about it."
Loftus looked quite different without a tie, Minogue observed. Still, he retained the appearance of confidence mixed in with a knowingness and a contempt. He had not ranted and raved but slipped on a coat and gone to Donnybrook Station with the three Special Branch detectives. He appeared almost relaxed. His hair had been oiled by the rain. He sat in his coat some six feet from the table. When Minogue entered, an amused glance of recognition came from Loftus. Then he returned to observing the desk and walls. Minogue nodded to the Branch man standing outside the door as he closed the door gently. He stood next to the desk looking at Loftus' face. Loftus smiled.
"Unorthodox. And melodramatic too," Loftus said.
"These are dramatic times, Captain Loftus. Less comedy though, I'm thinking."
"You're wrong there. I was at home watching the television and now I'm here. It's fairly comic, wouldn't you agree?"
"Do you want the rigmarole about what you're doing here and what you're being held under?"
Loftus didn't answer.
"I requested to interview you alone."
"I recall you doing that in my office last week, Sergeant. Am I supposed to be disoriented and confess to something now that I've been dragged down here?"
"You'd know about that stuff, Captain. I mean you've been trained. How long were you in the States on your training?"
Loftus raised his eyebrows.
"Really now, you haven't brought me down here to get me to start an autobiography. I've been out of the army for eleven years."
"When did it all turn sour for you?" Minogue asked.
Loftus laughed briefly.
"Get someone in here to get on with whatever I'm supposed to be here for. And make it good. After I get amused, I'll be none too pleased and heads will roll about this."
"Is that so, now? I have convinced the Special Branch crowd and even my superiors, who are all waiting to talk to you, that I can get you to help us. Now I don't mind telling you that they think I'm cracked. I don't even want to tell you that they are in a fierce hurry to talk to you. Pressure, you see. We're all under pressure. So I'm here to pass on some pressure to you."
Loftus' bemused look had changed to one of curiosity.
"Everyone seems to believe that systems can be designed to rule out human weakness. Perversity, maybe I should call it. I mean nothing is ever watertight. People don't behave according to plan. Isn't that really banal, Captain?"
"You're putting it mildly."
"The best-laid plans and all that. You think you can depend on people. Especially if you control their motivations. I mean, young people are called cynical the way they scorn the carrots dangling in front of them-the job, the car, that stuff. What happens when the incentive isn't there though?"
"You're nearly as entertaining as the programme I'm missing at home," Loftus said.
"Weakness, though. Some people can live with it and some can't. Some despise weakness, don't they? They fall in love with efficiency, action. Any action if it comes to that. Looking for to be heroes of some description."
Loftus drew in a breath and expelled it noisily through his nose.
"Or was it Captain Loftus, the great nationalist, who has all the ready solutions at hand…?"
Loftus' eyes glittered with contempt but he said nothing.
"… If I had to place my bet, though, I'd not put money on your brand of patriotism, Loftus. Not even your love affair with the problem-solving know-how that you learned off the Yanks when you were there… Oh no, I see the dark horse as the one for this course. You're a good, upright lad who probably still goes to Mass and visits his mother, are you? But every day in the college you rub up against what's left of the Anglo Irish. And you find that you're not really their equal, no matter what the job description says… You're just not a college boy, are you? A Catholic lad, up from Cork, you have your wits about you, but you find it's not quite enough to be ace-"
Minogue saw Loftus' nostrils flare. Loftus leaned forward in the chair.
"Easy does it now, like a good man, Loftus. There are men outside here who have had friends killed by the types of people you favour with your politics. Do you follow the gist of what I'm saying?"
What would have been a sneer had Loftus not controlled it eased into a strained grimace of a smile. He sat back stiffly in the chair.
"I'm getting tired of this ramble, Minogue. I've been patient. I have an idea how things work for security organisations. The more you talk, the bigger a stink I'm going to make about this. I'm not your common or garden-variety citizen who has to put up with this. I maintain enough links through the college with people who can have you on the carpet-"
"So Murphy's Law of Damage is true again," Minogue continued.
"What?"
"You know. If there's a one percent chance of something going wrong, it'll go wrong ninety-nine percent of the time and cause one hundred percent damage."
"That's rich all right. I'll remember that. Now-"
"Now we'll talk about Allen, Captain."
"Who?" asked Loftus.
"Allen, the one who's putting the finger on you. You don't have a lever on him anymore. Something else came up. Didn't you know? I'm sure you did. Agnes McGuire? Well she was in the car with him, but he didn't make it this time. Someone tipped off the Brits. They were waiting for him. Yes. Allen tried to make a run for it, but they shot up the car. Yes. Don't know if she'll live or not."
Minogue stood up and crossed his arms. He began to stroll slowly around the room, watching Loftus out of the corner of his eye. Minogue felt the day would never end. He had an ache like a kick in his belly. The tea would be burned by now and he'd reneged on one of his resolutions. Kathleen would be worried. As he paced the room, he recalled the blades beating the air as he bent to walk to the cockpit of the helicopter. Rust-coloured blood on Allen's face and shirt, but not Allen's blood. He stopped and sat on the desktop.
"He has nothing to lose now, you see," Minogue murmured.
Inspector Colm Quigley arrived at a run from the car which had raced through Dun Laoghaire. Even before he stepped from the car, he had been breathing heavily. The drizzle came as a relief to him. Somehow the smell of the sea calmed him. He reminded himself to be more regular with his exercise as he approached the van.
Other policemen were jealous of what they thought was glamorous stuff that Quigky's Emergency Response Team did: hostages, shoot-outs, surveillance. Often arriving unannounced, Quigley walked heavily on many toes. His teams were called cowboys. At meetings, Quigley spent a lot of time returning the gazes of senior uniformed Gardai whose looks indicted his forty-three years as well as the paramilitary operations he reported on.
Three other cars stood next to the van, their engines running. He tapped on the window of the van. A face behind the drops widened in recognition.
"They're ninety percent sure," the driver of the van said, rolling down the window. "Come in outa the rain, sir," Sergeant O'Rourke added.
Quigley declined.
"He was in the crowd getting on," O'Rourke said.
"And how did it get this far?"
"Came out on the train, sir. We don't have anyone actually on the train."
"Are the two detectives down there armed?" O'Rourke asked quickly, nodding toward the ferry lights, half hidden in the trees which lay below the carpark on Marine Road.
"No, sir. A fair crowd on the boat tonight," O'Rourke said.
Quigley recognised the tact and he privately admonished himself.
"Right. How many are we?" Quigley said.
"Gibbons, Maher and meself here, sir. There's eight more in the cars outside. All the stuff is here."
Quigley thought for a minute. This could be buggered up very easily. If it was the fella, then there might be shooting. There were a lot of confined spaces on the boat. Too many places to cover as well. The drizzle was soaking down his hair now, settling, cool.
"Anybody told the Gardai yet?" Quigley asked.
O'Rourke shook his head.
More trouble, thought Quigley. He'd have to tell them sooner or later. Maybe this fella was standing up on a deck looking around for police. Imagine a crowd of yahoos tearing down here with the lights flashing…
The ferry was due to leave at a quarter to nine. They had twenty minutes before having to ask for a delay and arouse the man's suspicions. Now: if they could coax the fella out on a deck alone. No one would be out in this weather.
Quigley could see the beginnings of the pier's lights below. The rest of it hid behind the trees, curling around to meet the East Pier at the mouth of the harbour. Behind him he could hear music coming from the lounges in the seafront hotels. The idling engines reminded him that time was running out fast.
"O'Rourke, listen. This fella may have the same gun on him. It's a 45 Calibre, an automatic, so it'll put out a lot in a hurry. Under no circumstances are you or any of these lads to challenge him if there is another party present. Bystanders and it's out, completely. That doesn't leave us much leverage. No one is to take submachine guns on board."
O'Rourke raised his eyebrows, then he nodded twice, slowly. "Moloney, you get a call through to the bridge for the captain or first officer only. TeR, them we're coming on board. Don't tell them why. Tell him I'll go directly to him so have someone meet me and tell any crew at the entrance."
O'Rourke paused. He was aware of a slight tremor in his voice.
"Then you'll wait for ten minutes and you'll radio in for Garda assistance. If there's any questions asked of you later, you'll refer them to me, and me only. Gibbons, I want a vest. You and O'Rourke and myself are going to go ahead, one by one at a half minute apiece. I'll go first. The two lads at the gangplank say he might be with a crowd of navvies, but I don't get it. He has a red outdoor jacket, like an anorak, like something for climbing mountains. One bag. When you get on, just disperse, move around. We don't have much time. He'll be suspicious if the boat is late. If you spot him and there's none of us near, then use the radio. If he's clearly on his own and you've got the space, well and good. Assume he is armed so follow procedures. I repeat: assume he is armed." ^
Quigley paused before continuing. He looked from face to face and worried lest the men see his own fear.
"Have you some kind of duffle bags to carry? Something casual…?"
"What about the other lads, sir?" Gibbons said.
"Too much. We can't take that chance. Moloney: tell'em to scatter around the dock and maintain radio silence. We'll be wired up, but we can't use an earpiece. We'll only use it if we have to. Just be ready to get on board in a hurry if you hear anything on your set."
O'Rourke was looking down at the gauges on the dashboard. He's not happy, thought Quigley, but he won't say anything. This was the worst kind of operation. A not-so-hot description, a boat half full of people, a million cubby-holes to get lost in. They hadn't even got a plan of the decks. The suspect wouldn't hesitate to use a gun. In a small space the jacket wouldn't mean much. He could even go for a head shot. There'd be ricochets.
Quigley hunkered into the back of the van and slipped off his anorak. He undid the strap and elbowed out of the harness. Where the leather had warmed, now felt exposed. He banged his head off the panel as he got into the Kevlar vest. Before he put on his anorak, he undipped the Browning and checked the magazine. He remembered O'Rourke looking at it one day.
"They let you have one of those things? That's a very all-or-nothing yoke if it's the one I'm thinking of, sir. Bit of a whack to it for a nine millimetre."
Quigley hadn't had to use the standard automatic off the firing range, but the double action had never jammed yet. He took a deep breath. He zippered his anorak right to the neck to cover the vest beneath.
He closed the van door behind him. Men were getting out of the parked cars. Two he recognised, Lacey and Doyle, strolled over to take over the van when Gibbons and O'Rourke left. As O'Rourke stepped lightly onto the tarmacadam, Quigley noticed the sergeant was blowing air around his tightly closed lips, running bulges around his gums. Nervous. Quigley touched O'Rourke on the shoulder.
"All right Donal, give me a half minute. No radio contact until we need to, all right?"
O'Rourke nodded. He shifted from foot to foot as if winding up for a race. Quigley felt a slippery warmth like pins and needles at his knees as he descended the glistening steps toward Marine Road. As he got under the trees, more of the ferry came into view. Its gaping maw, beak upturned, seemed to draw the cars into its yellowed belly. He looked up at the decks and railings but could see no one there. The floodlights floated above triangles of light, misted by the drizzle.