Back in his room, Minogue doodled. He wrote down names and events. Then he tried to join them with lines so he could work out cause and effect later. Nothing.
They'd be burying the boy now. There'd be beads of rain on the coffin. The wet would give the bouquets more colour. Minogue reached a disagreeable decision. He phoned the Drug Squad.
While Minogue doodled, thought and telephoned, a well-dressed man in his late thirties took up a padded barstool in the Bailey public house. He held a copy of the Irish Times under his arm. He had stepped from a taxi but feet from the door.
The barman prided himself on recognising customers' occupations by the way they dressed. He took the order for a small Paddy, and he registered some surprise at an American accent, soft but there all the same. The customer unfolding the paper had the ruddy tan of a robust Yank with any amount of rhino for holidays and grub. Took care of himself.
The barman put him as a legal eagle, but that was a long shot, he realised, as he poured the water into the jug. Irish-looking, all the same, probably in the early thirties. The barman recognized a forty quid shirt when he saw one. The plain grey suit had the looks of having cost three hundred quid. Although he hadn't seen the customer hang up his coat, the barman guessed an Aquascutum.
The customer opened the paper to the editorial, which concerned itself with a condemnation of the murders of policemen, culminating in another one yesterday. He sipped at the whisky. The barman returned to his preparations for the lunchtime crowd.
When the customer's pal showed, the barman pegged him for a journalist or a theatrical type. Maybe not though. He served him a pint and returned to setting up glasses. He felt the light grab at the small of his back, the twinge that would grow to an ache by lunchtime. The barman's name was Gerry, and he wasn't any more interested in politics than he was in soccer, but he talked about both endlessly every working day. He heard enough guff. The tanned and fit-looking barrister who was not a barrister was likewise disinterested in what passed for politics. He was so antipathetic toward the way politics ran on this island that he carried a large-calibre automatic pistol holstered under his armpit. The magazine was fully loaded and there was a bullet in the spout. The man wanted nothing to do with talking politics or any other conversation which policemen might wish to engage him in.
Before starting out on this project, he had weighed the things he felt were necessary and those which he could get around. Daily, and with no sense of excitement, he cleaned the gun in his hotel room. Carrying it was a non-negotiable item in his list and he felt quite at home with yet another hard and fast rule in his life.
Gerry the barman's guess about the other fellow, who was dressed half as a farmer and half as a priest, was partially correct in that the man was a playwright. The playwright had spent the best part of a half hour making sure he was not being tailed.
The tanned man disliked the playwright, not least for the maudlin viciousness of his nationalism. He regarded him as a fool whose brains were stewed by decades in fifth-rate theatricals. He did not trust the playwright, but he knew that having to work with him was a test which others were watching.
"You can see that results come quickly," he began.
"There's no gainsaying that," agreed the playwright. "So it went smoothly this time and the volunteers got away. Maximum effect, oh yes, I can see that."
"But…? You have reservations?"
The playwright observed the bubbles rising to the ice in his glass before replying.
"I'll say this much. All this firepower and technology are fine and well. You are well able to do the fancy footwork. But I've been in this thing for most of my life. I know how the lads on the ground feel. I can tell you that they're not too excited about the Russians getting in on this like they've started to."
The tanned man saw the beginnings of a faint irony in the smile on the other's face. Patronising.
"What don't they like?"
"Don't get me wrong. The movement is all for arms supplies, even from the man in the moon. As long as there's no strings attached. What do I say when they ask what we're supposed to hand over in return? Some of the lads'll think maybe it's too much of an assembly line thing. They wonder what we had to give to get this kind of support."
The tanned man looked directly at the playwright.
"Does it really matter to the active service units where the stuff comes from? It's a command council decision. I haven't traded away the place to get this stuff. And that consideration has really nothing to do with either of us, has it? I'm here to monitor things. I have to report to them at some point otherwise they won't hand over any more," he added.
"Risk," the playwright said.
"Everything has risk. It was even a risk trying to persuade the council to go along with this scheme. The drop to the trawler went off without a hitch, didn't it? The Soviet boat didn't pick up on anyone. And they're stuffed with monitoring gear. It went off perfectly. The guns were in use and even safely back across the border within a week."
"Could be the Yanks are stringing them along and waiting for a big haul so they can tip off the Brits. I read where those satellites can read the paper you have in your hand from up there," the playwright said.
Testing my patience, the tanned man thought, to see how far he can go with me, how much he can find out.
"Could be," he began. "But we're not talking of sheer numbers of weapons. The risk of detection is not as high as you might think. It's a matter of having the right weapon at the right time. Look at all the publicity about the grenade launcher. Let them think we have these things coming out our ears. They think we have any amount of nightsights. That's what works. Effectiveness, economy. There's more yet."
"Another toy?" the playwright asked.
"You don't need to know details. Just get your guys to set up a car to take something the size of a suitcase. The guidance and the sights fit into the suitcase too. It looks like a typewriter case. Light, portable; about twenty-five pounds."
"A suitcase?" The playwright had become very attentive.
"Have you heard of a Sagger?"
"I've heard of a shagger. I've met a lot of them…"
"They were big in the Egypt and Israel war in seventy-three."
"What is it?"
"It's a guided missile, an anti-tank missile. It'll go a mile and a half. If it hits dead-on, it'll go through 400 mil plate."
The tanned man watched the playwright lose his battle to keep his composure.
"Jesus, Mary and Holy Saint Joseph. Is it here?"
"It was in, as of eleven o'clock last night."
"Same stunt?" the playwright whispered.
"Same route, different boat. I told you they're serious about this. It's a whole new approach. You've missed out on the global picture here. They're peeved with the Americans sending in stuff to Afghanistan. There's Central America. We're all part of the big picture. It's not just a local squabble."
"So it could be released a mile and a half from target?" the playwright asked.
"It's proven accurate to that. It needs two men, one to sight and control as it's in flight, the other to set up behind. It's wire-guided. Not for space cadets. It's reliable. It works."
The playwright frowned. He wondered yet again what this Yank, or whatever he was, had as a stake in this. The rumour was that the Yank was actually Irish, even born here. Another part of the mythology which had gathered around his arrival was that he was a tycoon businessman. That was too much to hope for, that image of Ireland's emigrant sons renewing the struggle. In any event, the council had put their suspicions aside and allowed this newcomer some rope. So far, to their astonishment, he had delivered. Although they had no way of checking, few could doubt that indeed he had enough links to set up the deliveries right from the Soviet Union. Still, no one could fathom his motives enough to allay their suspicions. He hadn't approached any of the movement in the States. A search on him had turned up things that the leadership had kept to themselves, causing the rumours to fly around even more. Some suspected a plant, but again they were discredited when the guns went into use in the North.
As the playwright tried to digest this news, the tanned man observed with some scorn. Resentful, befuddled. This remnant of a green peasant Ireland was out of his depth.
The playwright and his like didn't want a rational solution to the mess, because they wouldn't be the kings of the pygmies any more afterwards. He had no commitment to unloading the mess, the national inferiority complex, the energy deflected into 'politics,' the bitterness. Like any neurotic, the playwright didn't see how he was clinging to the neurosis itself.
"And will you be wanting those couriers still…?" the playwright asked.
"You sound like you want to tell me there's some hitch," the tanned man said.
"It's not a hitch."
"Well, what's the big deal then?"
"There's no big deal. I hope you've got a car lined up yourself for this. I don't have anything in the garage right now. Seeing as you don't like Mercedes and all that."
"Get your guys to boost something a lot less conspicuous next time, that's all I said. You ditched it like I said, right?"
"Almost."
"What does that mean?"
"Some of the boys are down from Belfast and I had to give them a car. The only one in the garage was the Merc, so I gave it to them for today and tomorrow. What's the point of torching a perfectly good car?" the playwright answered.
"Look. You know the cars are for this operation." The tanned man's voice began to rise.
"I know, I know. Don't be getting yourself-"
"Shut up for a minute. I say what goes here. Just because I say dump that car, that doesn't mean it's yours and you can loan the god-damn thing out. Get it back off those hoods straightaway. Tell them to boost their own transport if they have to. I want this operation watertight. Get it back and burn it, OK?"
The playwright held his palms up in mock surrender.
"Anyway. I have the guy I need for this one. Good cover and a car thrown in as well, all legal. I want you to use the gas-the petrol tank for the package."
The playwright finished his drink and got up to leave.
"Better get the car to me soon. Can't do much at the garage until they have the exact dimensions. It's a very precise thing. The cars are not as big over here," the playwright said.
The tanned man turned aside the veiled jibe and merely nodded his head. You must be kidding, he thought. Whip off the gas tank and secure the thing inside another one. No doubt this loser favoured putting it on his shoulder and running across the fields. Or taking chances on the roads even when they didn't know which roads the Brits were likely to crater from one day to the next. The British Army had infra-red and thermal surveillance as well as roving patrols out in the fields at night.
When the playwright left, the tanned man took up the newspaper again. Much to the chagrin of the barman, he ordered a coffee. Gerry was twenty years in the trade and still couldn't get used to serving up tea and cake in a public house.
As the lunch time crowd began coming in, Gerry noticed the well-dressed fella get his coat and leave. The man crossed Duke Street and entered the shopping arcade. He went to a phone booth, deposited the money and dialled.
"I'm calling about the matter we discussed on the weekend. It's ready to go."
"Have you got a day on it yet?"
"No. But I'll know by tomorrow evening probably. It'll be your fellow doing it again."
The other person paused.
"Is there a problem with that?"
"Not really. We might need to let some things blow over."
"Like?"
"That business about the student. My fellow balked a bit. It scared him a lot."
"Is that it?"
"We have an irritation which prevents things from, shall we say, healing over. The dick who's looking into it. Not what you'd call a sleuth, but I have a bad feeling about him. Deceptive kind. Behind the scenes."
"Did you spin oil? the drug thing?"
"Yes. I think it's working."
"Well, we can't wait forever."
"No. I'm thinking that we should maybe nudge more things on him, set him going on the trail."
"That's your affair. Just make it work. We have to work this thing to show we can deliver. Then we can relax."
While the tanned man left the arcade, the person he had called sat wondering what to do about Minogue.
For his part, the playwright was not a happy man. He sat in a taxi which had been caught in a traffic jam in College Green. A bloody bomb scare, wasn't that funny? The playwright did not like the man he had met in the Bailey. He didn't like him one bit. He was a snotty, smart, pushy, well-to-do Yank. Telling him who he could give out one of the cars to. What was this well-connected Yank going to get out of this anyway? What would the Russians get out of it? Surely they knew that Irish people wouldn't accept their way even if they did help to win in the Six Counties. Although it was tougher and tougher to get in the stuff from the States, at least it didn't alienate the rank and file. What if the Yank was an undercover, a set-up?
It had come hard to the playwright to be told by the leadership to give this man all assistance. It might even be that this new thing could change everything. The taxi inched around College Green, under the portals of the Bank of Ireland and the haughty Trinity College. He smiled grimly at the sight: god-damn it to hell, he decided, if that institution can claim to have any say in the business of Irish liberation. He knew then what he would do. The preparations would go ahead, but the weapon would find a different route to the North. We'll test out this fancy scheme, he thought. Well and good if they make it through, then he'll have been wrong and he'll admit it. No one would blame him in the end for being so vigilant. He'd find a way to get the weapon in by his own route.
More and more as he thought about it, the playwright began to believe that this was the acid test. The Brits would have stepped up searches with the latest incidents. Any number of things could banjax this whiz kid's operation and all its glamour. A tip-off was the worst danger, of course. Tip-offs. At least such betrayals sent the command council scurrying around trying to find the traitors and made them rely again on the proven loyalty of men like himself. Tip-offs, yes. A constant worry, something that high-flying boyos with their shady deals overlooked.
The taxi-man swore long and loud.
"Everything'd be just dandy if people just knew the ropes in this city," he muttered. "The trouble is you have drivers who think they know bloody short-cuts and fancy moves. They're the ones that jam up the shagging place when a street is closed with a bomb-scare. Fuckin' ujits, pardon me language."
The driver switched off the engine. Exactly, the playwright thought. The war is being fought by Irishmen and women here in Ireland. For their own homes and families, their own country. Ordinary people like this taxi-driver, born and bred here. Living here, enduring, persevering. And the Yank, or whatever he was…? The playwright didn't need to deliberate any longer. He caught sight of the tired face of the driver as he turned in the seat to share his exasperation. Right, he thought, certain now about the Yank: our Ireland, not his.
Minogue had that stupid feeling again. Anytime he was on the phone for more than a minute or so, he felt stupid. He became bored talking into it, no matter how important it was supposed to be or how well known to him the person on the other end. Minogue's attention wandered all the more because he knew he was getting a long and polite no with many hints and reasons.
He liked the man on the other end, Denny Byrne from the Drug Squad. For a Wicklowman he was a good old stick.
"The chances are very much against it, Matt. The crates and things do be open, you see, to air the goods. There does be a lot of loose stuff in them, compared to other things, you see. It used to be popular enough a number of years ago, I don't mind telling you, but we copped op. I shouldn't say it was us who copped on. It was others, like fellas unloading and finding burst bags of things. I remember even a fellow out in Fairview who ran a shop phoning up and telling me he had 'drugs' in a box of bananas. 'Go way outa that,' I says to him, thinking like bananas is the word for him. God, do you know he was right. So I says to him, 'How did you cop onto the fact that these were bags of heroin, then?' You know what he says? 'Why wouldn't I know they were drugs? Sure don't I see it on shows on the telly?'"
Minogue smiled.
"So, a slim chance."
"Yep. That's about it. I'm not saying we're sniffing around the port of Dublin every day. But I don't mind people thinking we are. We go through people, people we know about or hear about. We can't afford to go the random route alone, do you see."
That was that, Minogue thought. Walsh as an unwitting accomplice in a deal, then he stumbled on something? Wild guessology. Still, Minogue had had the direction from two people independently, and they were not the sort to be romancing. Loftus for all his prissy speechifying about law and order was not a fool, nor was Allen. Allen. What was it about Allen? Was it that he was so organised, so controlled?
Minogue decided that it was time to dose himself with a large white coffee in Bewley's. He stepped out onto the greasy cobblestones and felt the drops of rain pat against his coat. The air freshened him. He wondered if he was being played elaborately by somebody or somebodies. Even Mick Roche, the Students' Union president, had turned in a fine performance, one might think. As Minogue shouldered into Bewley's on Grafton Street he wondered: and Agnes?
After his second cup of coffee, Minogue had decided to return to Agnes McGuire. She wasn't popping up again and again in his mind for no good reason. There was something she hadn't said, he was sure of that. Maybe it'd turn out that what she'd say would not help him. Maybe she'd cry out her loss and break down, shed the stoicism and sadness and show her anger. It must be there, he thought, she's only human.
Minogue's timing worked. Agnes had returned from the funeral some minutes before he climbed the stairs and knocked. She didn't seem surprised to see him. She let him in.
"Agnes, I've held off asking you certain questions. God knows, I've never had much sense of timing so I'd like to try them now. It'll speed things up a lot. Or it will close off some distracting angles anyway."
"I think you want to ask me if there was a Someone Else. Isn't that the way it goes?"
"That's about the size of it, Agnes. Can you help me? You see, this thing has hallmarks of what might be called a crime of passion. It's an avenue I have to explore sometime."
Minogue saw reluctance in her. She examined her fingers before she spoke.
"It's a funny thing, I suppose," she began, "but when you least expect it you have something you never expected to have. Would it surprise you to know that I didn't have a boyfriend until I started college here? You'd think the opposite, wouldn't you, that the local thing would win out and that you'd go out with someone from your own background…? Well, my father was assassinated when I was sixteen. You can imagine what that made of our lives."
Minogue watched her eyelashes as signs and when they stopped flickering, she continued.
"Well, I came here and, you know, I liked it. I didn't think I would. I felt that people in the South were not very sincere, if you know what I mean. This thing about violence. They didn't have to go through the results of their thinking. They just don't understand. It's not like 1916. I suppose you could say I was cynical." Son-e-col, Minogue heard.
"At first when Jarlath started following me around, I was annoyed. He was such a puppy. Embarrassing."
She smiled. Minogue was attentive at the same time as he was lost in thought. His mind raced on from her words, from her accent.
"Odd how things work out. Feeling sorry for him, I mean. The politicos used to teale him a lot here. You know how it is, the students who have a lot of ideas about society, have read a lot. Can you imagine how surprised I was when I heard myself defending and explaining Jarlath to Mick Roche? You know him?"
"The president of the Students' Union."
"Yes. Well, I was sort of going out with Mick. Or at least that's what he thought. I think he felt sorry for me, did Mick. Maybe even more than Jarlath. He knew my background. I felt I had to thank him somehow for feeling sorry for me. God. You know, I found out that people with any brains here in the South seem to be just hypnotized by the North. All Mick's talk is organised around it. There's a lot of fellas here in the South feel like that too, but all the most of them want is a bit of excitement or something like that. Mick is different. I think he felt guilty or something. Ashamed… How did I get to talking about this? Sounds like a soap opera."
Minogue smiled in return this time.
"… Anyway. I felt I was some kind of specimen. A ghost to haunt them here. But Jarlath didn't try to mine me for info like the others. Not head-over-heels or anything like that. He was very naive. Very. And, you know, I didn't mind that. He wasn't putting on like he knew or understood everything. Oh sure, he probably was opinionated, but he could feel things. That was the difference; he had a stomach. I felt bad for him when they laughed at him. His ideas used to get him into trouble."
"Dr Allen mentioned that Jarlath had a stake in something which wasn't in favour, academically at least," Minogue said.
Agnes' eyebrows arched.
"Something about a psychological model of Irish character that we could use to solve some of our, em, problems," Minogue offered.
Agnes turned to look at the window. Her hands were clasped together. Her head dipped as if to concentrate on her twining hands. Her hair fell to conceal her cheeks. Minogue waited. He saw a tear drop onto her arm. For no reason his sluggish mind could settle on in that room, he felt appalled. He shouldn't be doing this. This could be Iseult by chance of birth or geography. Without raising her head, Agnes picked a paper hanky from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. Then she tossed her hair back. Minogue saw the film still on her eyes.
"It's all right," she said. "Just some things. Some people would say he was just thick or that he was a part of a class who helped cause the stuff up North so he'd never admit to the'reality' of the situation. He hadn't been to the North once in his life. So there he was trying to build a big theory up for… for I don't know what. His family took care of him all his life. I mean what did he know about poverty or civil rights? Really?"
Agnes looked inquiringly at Minogue and then continued:
"The thing was-and I don't care what anyone else says-he was trying. I suppose it'd look sort of clumsy to an older person. When I think of it. Cooking Italian food and trying out wines. The Student Prince." Agnes' teeth showed in her smile this time. Then she frowned and looked straight at Minogue.
"Maybe I was the only one who noticed he was changing. I'll bet his parents didn't notice. I met them today for the first time. And the last time probably. I shouldn't say it maybe… but I felt I had seen them before. They didn't seem like strangers."
Minogue was thinking about Mick Roche. Could hardly call him jilted though. He had been circumspect, not the opinionated termagant Minogue had expected in a student leader. Perhaps give him credit for being able to conceal his feelings. Still, Roche had recognised the changes in Jarlath.
"Agnes, did Jarlath experiment with drugs at all?"
Minogue looked closely at her to try and gauge the risk. He had said it out of context, watching. Would she switch to anger? Minogue waited, seeing the frown on her face, not knowing if he had asked at the right time.
"Are you joking?"
Minogue didn't reply.
"Like I said this morning: No."
After a pause of returning his gaze, Agnes spoke slowly.
"Maybe I had better save you some embarrassment, Sergeant. You talk about drugs. Well Jarlath didn't so much as experiment with sex. He was all for cuddles and going to the pictures and walking me home. As for trying to stay the night… and it isn't even that I wanted things that way at all. But you know fellas, trying to prove things to themselves. Jarlath got pissed out of his brain after three pints. I mean, nothing doing. Can you believe that?"
"Yes," Minogue said simply. He turned away from the intensity of her gaze. She had decided in his favour by the slightest of margins. She still retained the challenging candour in her voice as if daring him to push his luck into rudeness. "Yes." Minogue needed to believe as much about Iseult and Daithi, that they weren't part of the touted libertine rubbish which the magazines fed to the middle-aged on their stale weekends.
Minogue heard a little ping in the back of his head. It came from remembering Allen's reluctance in telling him about Jar-lath's interests. Had Jarlath kept it to himself, this business about the effects of drugs? Wouldn't Agnes know? It just wasn't likely that he'd keep it to himself. Minogue found that Agnes was still looking directly at him, awaiting the signs of another challenge. No, he decided, he couldn't ask her now.