Andy woke up to the sound of someone knocking on the office door. It was Green-eyes, with a mug of coffee and a croissant. Andy had spent the night on a leather sofa with one of her pullovers as a pillow. She sat up and took the coffee and pastry.
'We finished the drying a few hours ago,' said Green-eyes.
'You haven't slept?'
'I'll catch a few hours once we've started on the next stage.'
Andy put her coffee mug down and ran a hand through her hair. 'I could do with a shower.'
'You and me both. But the washrooms are all we have. A full washbasin is the best we can do. Sorry.' Green-eyes looked at her wristwatch. 'Ready in ten minutes, right? The troops are waiting.'
Green-eyes went back to the office floor. Andy drank her coffee and ate half the croissant, then went to the washroom to clean her teeth and wipe herself over with a damp flannel.
Green-eyes and the two men were waiting for her in the office area. The temperature had dropped to a more bearable high seventies now that the ovens were switched off. The four electric woks had been taken out of their cardboard boxes and were lined up on the desks. Andy went over and examined them. They were Teflon-coated, with dials that controlled the heat settings.
'Right,' said Green-eyes. 'What do we do?'
Andy picked up one of the five-gallon cans of alcohol. 'We use this to wash the ammonium nitrate. It gets the impurities out of it.'
She went over to the pile of black garbage bags and dragged one of them over to the woks. 'You need a container. The Tupperware'll do. Half fill it with the ammonium nitrate, then pour in just enough alcohol to cover it. Stir it well for about three minutes, then pour off the alcohol. It should go a dirty brown. You can use it a few times. Okay?'
Green-eyes and her colleagues nodded.
'Okay, so then we have to evaporate off the alcohol. Pour the wet ammonium nitrate into the wok and sort of stir-fry it. You've got to keep it moving, at a low heat. The same applies as when we were drying it in the ovens – try to keep the temperature around one hundred and fifty degrees. You've got to keep watching it. If it gets to four hundred degrees, it'll blow.' She looked around the office. 'The fumes can be fierce. I'd suggest we spread out, and use the fans.'
'What about the respirators?' asked Green-eyes.
'No use. The respirators are for particles, not fumes. The best thing would be to open the windows, but that's not possible, so we'll have to make do with the fans. I warn you now, it'll give you a headache.'
'How long do we heat it for?'
'Three or four minutes should do. It's just like when you stir-fry food – keep it hot and keep it moving.'
Green-eyes grinned. 'You might have to give the boys a demonstration. I don't think they're particularly at home in the kitchen.'
She laughed, and Andy started to laugh along with her. She stopped suddenly when she realised what she was doing. She was laughing with the woman responsible for kidnapping her daughter, the woman who was forcing her to build a four-thousand-pound bomb in the City of London. Green-eyes stopped laughing too. She stood looking at Andy, as if sensing her confusion. 'Go on, Andrea,' she said. 'What then?'
Andy clenched and unclenched her hands, bunching them into fists and then relaxing them. What could she be thinking of? These weren't her friends, she shouldn't be enjoying herself, she shouldn't be letting her guard down. How dare she laugh with them? It was a betrayal – she was betraying Katie and she was betraying Martin. They both deserved better.
'What then, Andrea?' Green-eyes repeated.
'You have to grind it up into a fine powder,' said Andy, her voice shaking. 'In the coffee grinders. A couple of minutes should do it. Then seal it back in the Tupperware containers as quickly as possible. Every second it's exposed to the air, it absorbs water.'
The Wrestler held up a hand, pointing a finger at her. 'Wait one fucking minute,' he said. 'We've already treated all three thousand and odd pounds of it. Pound by pound. Are you saying we have to do it again?'
'That's right. It all has to be treated. It has to be uniformly pure, uniformly fine. If there are wet spots, or rough spots, the detonation velocity won't be consistent.'
'It's going to take for ever,' moaned the Runner. The Wrestler and the Runner stood looking at each other, clearly unhappy at the prospect of the work that lay ahead.
Green-eyes went over to Andy. 'Why don't you get yourself a coffee, Andrea. I want to have a word with the boys.'
Andrea went off to the meeting room, knowing that Green-eyes was going to give the men a talking-to. She closed the door behind her, poured herself a mug of coffee and set it down on the table. She looked through the glass panel at the office opposite. She had just about plucked up the courage to open the door and tiptoe across the corridor when she heard footsteps. She rushed back to the table and picked up her mug of coffee just as the door opened. It was Green-eyes. 'Right. Come on,' she said to Andy. 'Let's get started.'
– «»-«»-«»Martin Hayes telephoned the Strand Palace Hotel from a call-box at Belfast airport ten minutes before he was due to board his flight to London and asked to speak to someone on reception. A girl answered, and Martin explained that his wife had stayed there the previous Wednesday night and asked if she'd left a message for him. The girl checked and said that no, there was no message. Martin thanked her and cut the connection. He called Padraig's mobile and his partner answered. Martin thanked him again for driving him up to Belfast and for waiting with him in the airport carpark until dawn broke. He reminded his partner to check on his dog, thanked him again, then hung up and went to catch his flight.
He arrived at Heathrow at nine o'clock in the morning and caught a black cab to the Strand. He figured that whoever had answered the phone would have been at the end of the night shift and had probably gone home. To make absolutely sure that he didn't speak to the same person, he went up to a young man in a black suit. Martin wasn't sure why he was in the hotel – he just knew that it was the only link he had to Andy. She'd have known that too, so if she'd left any sort of trail it had to have been at the hotel. He leaned forward over the reception counter and smiled at the man. 'My wife lost an earring when she was staying here last week. Can you tell me if anything was handed in after she checked out?'
The man tapped away on his computer and shook his head. 'Nope, nothing was handed in,' he said. 'And Housekeeping haven't reported finding anything.'
Martin sighed. 'Damn. It was hellish expensive. Diamond. Cost me an arm and a leg. Look, I don't suppose I could have a quick look around, could I? Just to check?'
The man consulted his computer again. 'The room's empty. I don't see why not.' He look around. 'I'll get someone to go up with you.'
'That's okay, I don't want to trouble anybody.'
'Security, sir,' said the man. He waved over a teenage bell-boy in a beige uniform and handed him a key before explaining the situation.
The bell-boy took Martin up to the fifth floor and opened the door for him. 'An earring, huh?' he said, bending down and looking under the bed.
'Yeah. Gold with a diamond.' Martin went into the bathroom and looked around. If he'd been Andy, where would he have hidden a message? The toilet cistern was boxed in and there was no way he could see of removing the base of the bath or shower. There was a small ventilation grille close to the ceiling but the screws holding it in place had been painted over and there was no sign of it having been moved.
He went back into the bedroom and put his briefcase on the dressing table. The bell-boy was still on his hands and knees, peering under the bed. Martin took his wallet out and gave the teenager a twenty-pound note. 'There's no point in me holding you up, lad,' said Martin. 'I'll have a look around myself, yeah?'
'Are you sure, sir?' said the teenager as the note smoothly disappeared into his pocket. 'I don't mind helping.'
'Nah, you go on down. I won't be long.'
The bell-boy left, closing the door behind him. Martin stood in the middle of the bedroom. 'Come on, Andy,' he whispered. 'You must have left me something. You must have.'
He looked at the bed. She couldn't have left anything there – the bedding would be changed after every guest. He went over to the desk and checked the drawers. There was a wallet of hotel stationery and Martin went through it piece by piece. Nothing. He flicked through the pages of the Gideon Bible. Nothing. Most of the drawers were empty. There was a picture above the writing desk. A banal water-colour, probably reproduced in its hundreds specifically to hang in hotel bedrooms. Martin reckoned he could probably have done a better job himself. It was a gondola with a young couple cuddling in front, a bored gondolier in a large black hat standing at the rear. The perspective was wrong – the buildings at the far side of the canal seemed to be leaning to the right, and the shadows weren't consistent. It didn't even look like Venice. Martin's breath caught in his throat. Venice? What had Andy said when she phoned? Going back to Venice. A place she'd never been to. He ran his hands around the frame. It wouldn't move. It was screwed to the wall. There were four screws, two on the right, two on the left.
With trembling hands, Martin searched through his pockets for a penny. He found one, and used it to take out the screws. He pulled the painting away from the wall and a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor. Martin tossed the painting on to the bed and picked up the sheet of paper. As he straightened up, he was startled by an angry voice behind him.
'What the hell do you think you're doing?'
The receptionist in the black suit was standing in the doorway, the key to the room in his hand.
'I'm sorry,' said Martin. He folded the piece of paper and thrust it into his jacket pocket.
The receptionist looked at the picture, and at the space on the wall where it had been hanging.
'I'll pay for the damage,' said Martin, taking out his wallet.
'You'll stay right where you are,' said the man, holding his hands up as if warding off an attack. 'I'm calling Security.'
'There's no need for that. All I did was take the painting down.' He pointed at the desk. 'Look, the screws are there. Hell, man, I'll even put it back for you.'
The man went over to the phone by the bed and picked it up. 'Don't touch anything,' he said.
Martin tossed two twenty-pound notes on to the bed, picked up his briefcase and headed for the door.
'No you don't,' said the receptionist, grabbing for Martin's arm.
Martin hit the man across the head with his briefcase and he fell to the floor. He kicked the door shut, then pulled the bed cover over the man and roughly tied him up with the phone cord before running out of the room. He dashed down the emergency stairs, knowing that the man wouldn't stay tied up for long.
He reached the ground floor and burst through into the reception area. Heads turned as he dashed over to the main doors and out into the Strand. He kept running as hard as he could, the briefcase banging against his leg, his chest heaving with the effort. He didn't know whether or not he was being pursued, but he didn't care – he just wanted to put as much distance between himself and the hotel as he could.
He barged through a group of tourists and sprinted down a side road. He ran in front of a black cab and the driver slammed on his brakes, cursing him through the side window.
Martin looked over his shoulder as he ran. There was no one following him, and he slowed to a jog, then a walk. He was sweating and his heart was pounding. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. He looked over his shoulder again. Nothing. He began to relax.
He walked across the main plaza in Covent Garden, where a clown was walking along a broom handle suspended across a pair of stepladders. A dwarf in a clown suit was walking around a crowd of onlookers, collecting money in a red plastic bucket. Martin threaded his way through the crowds and went into a large cafe. There were plenty of empty tables outside, bordering the plaza, but Martin chose a table inside, close to the toilets. He ordered a cappuccino from a pretty blonde Australian waitress, then took the sheet of paper out and carefully unfolded it. It was a piece of hotel notepaper. The writing was Andy's.
Dear Martin My love. If you've found this it can only mean something's gone terribly wrong and that you've called in the police. Dear God, my hands are shaking so much as I write this. Please, just know that I love you, I love you with all my heart. If it has gone wrong, you must never stop looking for Katie. They've told me to go to a carpark in Bedford Court and to get into a van. A dark blue Transit van. They say it's got the name of a landscaping company on the side. I don't know where they're going to take me or what they plan to do. I'll do whatever it takes to get Katie back, I promise. Martin, if the worst has happened, if you've had to go to the police or if I'm dead (God, it feels so strange writing that), then there's someone I want you to call. Someone who might be able to find out where Katie is. His name is Detective Chief Inspector Liam Denham. He works for Special Branch in Belfast. Tell him it's about Trevor. Tell him what's happened. He'll help, if anyone can. Please, my love, never, ever forget that I love you.
At the bottom of the letter was a Belfast telephone number.
Martin reread the letter several times, his mind in a whirl. A Special Branch detective? Trevor? What in God's name was Andy talking about?
The waitress returned with his coffee. Martin left it untouched as he sat staring at the letter. Who was this Liam Denham? And who was Trevor? In the ten years he'd known Andy, she'd never mentioned either name. Special Branch? They dealt with terrorists. They were the elite of the Northern Ireland police. Why on earth would Andy have been involved with them?
Martin folded the letter up and put it back in his jacket pocket. Andy had obviously assumed that it would be found after her death. So far as Martin knew, she was still alive, but the fact that the police were now involved meant that she was in danger. Her life was on the line. The kidnappers wouldn't know that the police had been called in by Katie's school – they'd assume that it was Martin who'd gone to them. And if they assumed that, what was to stop them killing Katie and Andy? Martin had to do something, and he had to act quickly. But what could he do? Alone, he was powerless. He had a partial description of the van that had taken Andy away, but he had no way of finding out who it belonged to. He couldn't speak to the Irish police, not now that he'd run away from them. They'd regard everything he said with suspicion. Besides, Andy wasn't in Ireland, she was in England, and the Irish police had no jurisdiction over the water. Martin dropped a couple of pound coins on the table and left the cafe. He had only one option, the option that Andy had given him.
He walked through Covent Garden, sidestepping a juggler who was tossing flaming torches high into the air, and found a call-box in King Street. He popped a pound coin into the slot and tapped out the Belfast number that Andy had given him. It was answered on the third ring. 'Yeah?' It was a man's voice. Hard and guttural.
'I'd like to speak to Liam Denham.'
'Who's calling?'
'Is he there? It's urgent.'
'Who's calling?'
'Look, this is an emergency. I need to speak to Detective Chief Inspector Liam Denham. This is Special Branch, isn't it?'
The line went quiet for a few seconds, then a second man spoke, his voice softer. 'Who am I speaking to?' asked the second man.
'That's not important,' said Martin. He looked at the digital read-out on the phone. Half his money had already gone. He slotted in a fifty-pence coin. 'Just tell Liam Denham that I have to speak with him.'
'I'm afraid that's not possible,' said the man. 'How did you get this number?'
Martin slammed his hand against the wall of the call-box. Not possible? What did he mean, not possible? 'Look, is this Special Branch or not?'
'Where did you get this number from?' the man repeated.
Martin wanted to shout at the man, but he clamped his jaws together and fought to stay calm. Denham could help, Andy had said. He was the only lifeline that Martin had, and he had to hang on to it. 'My wife gave me the number,' said Martin slowly. 'My wife gave me the number and said that I was to ask for Chief Inspector Liam Denham. Now is he there or not?'
'And you wife's name would be what?'
'Andy. Andrea. Andrea Hayes.'
Martin heard a clicking sound and realised that the man was typing on a computer keyboard.
'I'm not familiar with that name,' said the man.
'I don't give a shit whether you're familiar with her name or not. She told me to ask Denham for help. That's what I'm doing. Get him on the line, now.'
'You're Mr Hayes, is that right?'
'Yes, damn you.'
'What's your wife's maiden name?'
'What?'
'Her maiden name. Before she married you.'
'Sheridan.'
More typing on the keyboard. 'No. I'm not familiar with that name either.'
Martin wanted to scream. His wife and daughter were missing, maybe they were dead already, and the voice on the end of the line was being as cold and impersonal as a telephone answering machine. It was like speaking to a robot. The phone read-out showed that he had only thirty pence left. 'Look, you have to help me,' Martin pleaded. 'You have to put Denham on the line.'
'I've already said that I can't do that.'
'What the hell is wrong with you? My wife said that I was to call this number and to ask for Denham. To tell him that it was about some guy called Trevor. Shit, I don't know… what more can I do?'
Martin heard the clickety-click of the keyboard. Then a sudden intake of breath. 'Mr Hayes?'
'Yes. I'm here.'
'Where are you calling from?'
'London. Covent Garden. I'm in a call-box, and I'm running out of money.'
'Give me the number.'
Martin gave the man the number of the call-box. The man repeated it back to him. 'Mr Hayes, please stay by the phone. Someone will call you back shortly.'
Martin was midway through thanking the man when the line went dead. It was only then that he remembered the mobile phone in his briefcase. He should have given that number to the man, but it was too late now. He waited in the call-box. An elderly man in a blue blazer and yellow cravat rapped on the door with a walking stick. Martin pointed at the phone and shrugged apologetically. 'I'm waiting for a call,' he mouthed. The man glared at him. Martin turned around. He could feel the man's eyes burning into his back. The seconds ticked by. The man knocked on the door again. Martin tried to ignore the noise, but he was embarrassed at having to behave so badly.
The phone rang and he grabbed the receiver. 'Denham?' he said.
'I'm afraid Mr Denham isn't available at the moment,' said a woman. She sounded middle-aged, certainly over thirty, and there was the vague hint of a West Country accent.
'Where the hell is he?'
'Please try to stay calm, Mr Hayes. I'm trying to help you. Okay?'
'Okay. I'm sorry.'
The man in the blazer walked around the call-box and continued to glare at Martin. He had tufts of white hair protruding from his ears and nostrils and deep wrinkles at the edges of his eyes. He rapped on the glass and tapped his wristwatch. Martin turned his back on him again.
'Right. Good. Now, my name is Patsy, Mr Hayes. I want you to tell me exactly what's happened to your wife.'
Martin told her about Katie's kidnapping and Andy's disappearance in London. Patsy listened without interrupting. He told her about the gardai coming around to his house, and how he'd fled to London. He told them about going to the hotel, and finding the note.
'How did you know to look behind the painting?' Patsy asked.
Martin told her about the brief phone conversation he'd had with Andy on Sunday night.
'Did she tell you anything else? Anything that might suggest where she'd been taken?'
'No. She was only on the line for about twenty seconds. She just said she was okay, and that she was doing what they asked her.'
'She didn't say who "they" were?'
'No. No, she didn't.'
'Okay, Mr Hayes, you're doing just fine. Now, it's important that you do exactly as I tell you.'
'What about this man Denham? Andy said I should speak to him.'
'Chief Inspector Denham retired some time ago, Mr Hayes. We're trying to contact him now.'
'What's all this about? Why does my wife know him?'
'There'll be time for explanations later, Mr Hayes. First, we want you to go along to a police station in London so that someone can talk to you face to face. I'm going to arrange for you to be met at Paddington Green…'
'No way am I talking to the police,' interrupted Martin. 'They think I did something to Andy and Katie. And I hit a guy, in the hotel.'
'You don't have to talk to them, Mr Hayes. This is far too important to be handled by the police. But I need you to be somewhere safe until we can meet.'
'I'm not going into a police station,' Martin insisted. The man in the blazer appeared in front of him, his cheeks flaring red, his upper lip curled back in a snarl. Martin stared at the man, but barely saw him. His mind was a million miles away. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had to think. He had to work out what to do.
'Mr Hayes?'
'I'm still here. I'm confused.'
'I understand that. But if we're to get your wife and daughter back, we have to stay calm. Do you understand, Mr Hayes? We have to act professionally.'
'Who the hell are you?' hissed Martin.
'You know who we are, Mr Hayes. You called us. Now, will you just do as I ask, go along to Paddington Green police…'
'No,' said Martin. 'We'll meet somewhere else.'
'Where, then?'
'I'll book into a hotel. You can come and see me there.'
'Fine. Which hotel?'
Martin tried to think of a hotel. The Savoy flashed into his mind. He'd stayed there with Andy six months earlier. But the Savoy wouldn't do because there was an outside chance that he might be recognised. He wouldn't be able to use his own name because he'd told the receptionist at the Strand Palace that he was Andy's husband and they'd have been sure to have called in the police by now. He remembered a hotel he'd stayed at during a business trip to London a few years previously, a big hotel close to the City with hundreds of rooms. A big hotel guaranteed anonymity. 'The Tower,' he said. 'It's near the Thames. Near Tower Bridge.'
'Okay,' said Patsy. 'Check in and stay in your room. We're trying to track down Chief Inspector Denham now. But someone will contact you later this afternoon. You shouldn't check in under your own name, Mr Hayes, you realise that?'
'Of course. I'll use Sheridan. Martin Sheridan. Okay?'
'Fine. Please go to the hotel immediately, Mr Hayes.'
The line went dead. Martin replaced the receiver and left the call-box. The man in the blazer had gone. Martin went off in search of a cab.
– «»-«»-«»Andy used a wooden spatula to scrape the hot ammonium nitrate from the wok into a coffee grinder. She had a blinding headache, the result of breathing in the alcohol fumes for several hours. It was repetitive and backbreaking work, and she was thankful that she didn't have to wear a ski mask like Green-eyes and the two men. She put the glass cap on top of the coffee grinder and pressed down on it. It whirred loudly, the vibrations travelling up her arm as it reduced the fertiliser to a fine powder.
The Wrestler was doing the same about thirty feet away, using both his hands on the cap of the grinder. Green-eyes had taken a break, and the Runner was by the water-cooler, his back to Andy, splashing water on to his face, the ski mask pushed up on his head. Andy hurriedly looked away and turned her back to him. She didn't want to take the risk of seeing his face.
It was taking the best part of seven minutes to wash, dry and grind a four-pound portion of fertiliser. If all four of them worked flat out, it would take them almost twenty-four hours to process it all. And that wasn't taking into account breaks for sleep and food. Andy figured it would take at least two full days to get it all done. Then there was the mixing of the other ingredients. Say another day. Three days, then the explosive would be ready.
Did Green-eyes actually plan to use the bomb? Andy was still clinging to the hope that she had something else in mind, that the construction of the device was part of some political strategy that wasn't going to end in an explosion and death. Green-eyes still hadn't explained what she was going to use as a detonator. The ammonium nitrate mixture was a powerful explosive, but it needed an equally powerful detonator, components that the IRA were able to acquire through their worldwide terrorist connections but which weren't the sort that could easily be purchased in England. The fact that she hadn't mentioned the detonation system meant that perhaps, just perhaps, she had no intention of using the bomb. It was a slim hope, but one that Andy clung to as she sweated over the electric wok and the coffee grinder.
The Wrestler's shoulder holster was fastened over the top of his overalls, and Andy found her gaze constantly returning to the butt of the pistol nestling under the man's left armpit. It was held in place by a thin strap across the trigger which had to be unclipped before the weapon could be slid out. If she caught him unawares, Andy could probably pull the gun out before he realised what was happening. But what then? She could threaten to shoot him unless he told her where Katie was being held, but what if he refused? Could she shoot him? And what if she did and she killed him? Then she'd never know where Katie was. There had to be another way, but no matter how hard Andy racked her brains, she couldn't think of one.
– «»-«»-«»Liam Denham looked up from the fishing fly he was tying and scowled in annoyance at the rattling window. He pushed up his magnifying visor and put his tweezers down on the mahogany desktop. The window overlooked his sprawling garden, the best part of five acres which he and his wife had transformed from a cow pasture into a manicured lawn, a Japanese rock garden, several large curving rockeries, and a rose garden which produced blooms that had twice won first prize at the local agricultural shows. Not to mention an orchard and vegetable garden that meant they hadn't had to visit a greengrocer's for years.
Something flashed above the house, clattering and roaring, then just as quickly it had gone. Denham stood up and peered upwards- Seconds later, the helicopter appeared again and the windows shook even more violently than before. The helicopter was a Wessex, dark green. Army colours. Denham took his visor off and put it down next to the vice that held the brightly coloured fly that he'd been working on. He turned around to find his wife standing at the door to the study, her arms folded across her chest.
'That'll be for you, then,' she said. Like Denham, she was in her early sixties, though she looked a few years younger, with hair that had kept its auburn lustre and skin still tanned from their winter cruise.
'Aye. I suppose so,' said Denham. He ran a hand over his bald patch and down to the back of his neck. He could feel the tendons tightening already.
'Did you know they'd be coming?'
Denham tutted. 'If I knew they'd be coming, I'd have told them to keep their infernal machine away from the roses.' He nodded at the window. 'I'd best be seeing what they want.'
He walked out of the study, past the line of framed hunting prints in the hallway, and through the kitchen into the back garden. His two King Charles spaniels were standing by the kitchen door, tails between their legs, shaking. 'It's okay, boys, it's only a helicopter,' he said.
He kept to the crazy-paving path, every stone of which he'd carefully laid the previous summer.
The door of the helicopter rattled to the side and a figure climbed out in a green flying suit and a black helmet. The figure ducked its head as it walked briskly away from the machine and its still-turning rotors. Denham knew who it was even before the helmet was removed. Even the bulky flight suit couldn't hide her figure. The down-draught from the rotors tugged at her glossy black hair and she shook her head to clear it from her eyes.
'Retirement suits you, Liam,' she shouted above the roar of the helicopter's turbines.
'Hello, Patsy,' he said. He held out his hand and she shook it. She had a soft grip. Deceptively soft, he knew. A lot of men had come to grief underestimating Patsy Ellis. 'Long time no see.'
'Too long, Liam.' She looked past him to the house. 'Nice place you have here.'
The rotors kept turning. The pilot was talking into his radio mike.
'We need you, Liam.' Her hazel eyes studied him levelly, gauging his reaction.
Denham tugged at his lower lip but said nothing.
'It's Trevor. She's gone missing.'
'Missing?'
Patsy gestured at the helicopter with her thumb. 'We can talk about it on the way.'
'On the way to where?'
'London.'
'Oh, come on, Patsy. I'm retired. And not by choice, either.'
'There's no one else, Liam. No one else knows her.'
'You've cleared this? With the Branch?'
'It's nothing to do with the Branch. It's my ball park now. And I need you on my team.'
'I've got…'
'You've got too much time on your hands, that's what you've got,' she said.
Denham looked around his garden. At the neatly manicured lawn. The carefully tended rose bushes. The neat rockeries. 'Aye, Patsy. You might be right at that. Let me get my things.'
He walked back to the house. His wife was waiting for him in the kitchen, the two spaniels at her feet, a black leather holdall in her arms. She held it out to him. 'I've packed you two shirts. And don't go above twenty a day while you're away.'
He reached over and gently cuffed her under the chin. She'd nagged him down to a packet of cigarettes a day and was determined that he'd give up by his sixty-fifth birthday. 'The dogs need their walk,' said Denham.
'And they'll get it.' She kissed him softly on the cheek. 'Go on with you,' she said. 'That helicopter's ripping the roses to shreds.'
Denham took his fawn raincoat from the hook on the back of the kitchen door and walked briskly to the helicopter. Patsy had already climbed in and was talking to the pilot. The rotors picked up speed as Denham hauled himself inside and sat down next to her.
– «»-«»-«»Martin went to a cash machine before checking into the Tower Hotel, withdrawing two hundred pounds on each of his two Visa cards. He booked in for one night, under the name of Martin Sheridan. The receptionist, a young Chinese girl who spoke with a perfect Essex accent, saw that he had only his briefcase with him and asked if he had any luggage. Martin told her he'd left it in the boot of his car. When he said that he'd be settling his bill with cash she asked if he'd leave a deposit. The Tower was mainly used by businessmen on expense accounts with company credit cards, so Martin didn't blame her for being suspicious.
He went straight up to the room to wait for the Special Branch detectives. He called up room service and ordered a club sandwich and a pot of coffee and then showered. The doorbell rang as he was getting dressed. When he opened the door, four heavily built uniformed policemen burst in. One of them grappled Martin to the floor, face down. His hands were wrestled behind his back and he felt handcuffs snap around his wrist. 'What the hell's going on?' he shouted.
Hands gripped his shoulders and he was hauled to his feet.
'I'm doing what I was told to. What the hell's this about?' A blanket was thrown over his head and he was bundled out of the door.
'Would somebody tell me what's going on?' Martin was ignored. He was half carried, half dragged through a door and down several flights of stairs in a stampede of boots, then through another door. He could hear traffic and realised he was outside. Within seconds he was thrown into the back of a van. His shins banged against the floor and he yelped but no one paid any attention to him. The van roared off. Someone gripped Martin's arms and helped him on to a hard bench seat. He knew it was pointless to say anything, so he just sat where he was, covered in the blanket. She'd lied to him. The Special Branch woman had lied to him.
The van drove for half an hour or so, then came to a halt, and the policemen hauled Martin to his feet and into a building which he presumed was a police station. He heard voices, and the crackling of a two-way radio, then he was frogmarched down a corridor and pushed into a room. Hands clutched at his belt and he felt it being pulled away from his trousers, then his shoes were torn off his feet one by one. The handcuffs were roughly removed and he was pushed to the side. A metal door slammed shut and there was the double click of a key being turned in a lock. Martin listened, his chest heaving. He slowly slid the sheet off his head and let it drop to the floor. He was alone in a police cell. There was a low bed, nothing more than a concrete podium with a thin plastic mattress on top, a toilet bowl cemented to the floor, and, several feet above his head, a window made of thick glass blocks.
Martin sat down on the bed. He couldn't work out what had happened. He hadn't been arrested because they were supposed to caution him and give him the chance to speak to his lawyer. And he knew enough about the legal system to know that he should have been processed before being thrown into a cell. They hadn't asked his name, they hadn't charged him, they hadn't taken away his wallet or even searched him. Whatever had happened to him, it wasn't a straightforward arrest. He settled back against the wall. He had no choice other than to wait.
– «»-«»-«»Mark Quinn was dying for a cigarette, but McCracken had forbidden smoking in the offices. He was standing over his electric wok, pushing the ammonium nitrate fertiliser around so that it didn't overheat. On the table next to the wok was a metal thermometer, and he pushed it into the mixture as he continued to stir. His arms ached and his head was throbbing from the fumes. The thermometer rose to one hundred and sixty and he turned down the heat. He really wanted a cigarette now, but the last time he'd asked McCracken for a break she'd given him a withering look and told him to stick at it.
Sweat was pouring down his face and the ski mask was making him itch furiously. He looked across at the pile of black rubbish sacks containing the treated fertiliser. They'd only done about a fifth. He looked over at O'Keefe, who was clearly as unhappy as he was. This was going to take for ever. It was all right for the Hayes woman, she didn't have to wear a mask, and McCracken didn't seem to mind how many breaks she took. She was forever going to get a coffee or a sandwich. Quinn figured she was deliberately dragging her feet, trying to postpone the moment when the bomb would be finished. If it had been up to Quinn, he'd have given her a good slapping and told her to get stuck in.
He rolled up the sleeves of his overalls and grinned at O'Keefe. O'Keefe had a large tattoo on his left forearm, a lion leaping over a flag of St George, and McCracken had told him to keep it covered while the Hayes woman was around.
Quinn looked over to where she was sealing the powdered fertiliser in a Tupperware container. Her shirt was damp with sweat and it clung to her breasts. She'd rolled her sleeves up above her elbows and had tied the bottom of her shirt in a loose knot, exposing her stomach, which glistened with sweat. With her hair tied back in a ponytail she looked more like a teenager than a thirty-something mother. She rubbed her forehead against her upper arm, trying to brush a stray lock of blond hair out of her eyes. The movement allowed Quinn to look down her cleavage. He stopped stirring and stared at her breasts, the fertiliser hissing in his wok.
She stopped what she was doing and slowly turned to look at him. Their eyes locked and Quinn grinned. She stiffened, her face an expressionless mask. Quinn stuck out his tongue and licked his lips suggestively. The Hayes woman stared back at him. He could feel the hatred pouring out of her eyes.
'Hey!' O'Keefe's yell startled Quinn and he flinched as if he'd been stung.
'What?'
O'Keefe pointed at Quinn's wok with short, stabbing movements. Quinn looked down. The fertiliser was starting to bubble and smoke. Quinn cursed and frantically scraped it out of the wok and on to the table.
O'Keefe was laughing, his hands on his hips. 'You soft bastard,' he said.
McCracken looked up from her wok. 'What's going on over there?'
'Shit-for-brains nearly let his fertiliser overheat.'
'The wok was too hot,' said Quinn. 'That's all.'
'For God's sake be careful,' said McCracken. 'The place is full of fumes. Any sort of flame and the whole place'll go up.'
'I thought that was the fucking idea,' laughed O'Keefe. His laughter echoed around the office, and McCracken shook her head contemptuously. Quinn's cheeks reddened beneath his ski mask. It was the Hayes woman's fault. He glared over at her and made a silent promise to himself that he'd get his own back before this was over.
– «»-«»-«»Martin Hayes sat up as he heard the jingle of the custody sergeant's key chain. He was on his feet when the door opened. The sergeant stood aside and Martin found himself looking at a middle-aged couple who looked as if they had just walked out of a church service.
The man was in his sixties, balding and slightly overweight. He was wearing a fawn raincoat over a greenish tweed suit and was carrying a battered tweed hat in one hand.
The woman was younger, in her mid-forties, with skin so white that she must have conscientiously avoided exposing it to the sun. Her hair was cut short with a fringe, its blackness emphasising the paleness of her face. She had bright, inquisitive hazel eyes, and a smile that could have concealed the darkest thoughts. Her right hand was outstretched. 'Mr Hayes? I'm Patsy. We spoke on the phone.'
Martin found himself shaking hands before her words had sunk in. He withdrew his hand and glared at her. 'You had me thrown in here?' he said angrily. 'You lied to me.'
Her smile grew even wider and she nodded comfortingly, like a nurse breaking bad news. 'I'm sorry about that, Mr Hayes, but I had to be sure that you wouldn't go running off.' She had a small gold crucifix on a chain around her neck, and she fingered it with her left hand as she spoke. Around her wrist was a gold Carder watch.
'Are you with Special Branch?' he asked.
She didn't answer his question, but turned to her companion. 'This is Chief Inspector Liam Denham.'
Denham held out his hand. The first and second fingers were stained brownish yellow with nicotine. 'Ex-Chief Inspector,' he said, his harsh accent betraying his Belfast origins. 'Why don't we go and get a cup of tea?'
'What the hell's going on?' asked Martin.
Denham pulled an apologetic face. 'Not here,' he said.
Martin looked down at his socks. 'They took my shoes. And my belt.'
'I do apologise for that,' said Patsy. The custody sergeant handed Martin his belongings. The two Special Branch officers waited while Martin sat down on his bunk and slipped on his shoes and belt, then they escorted him from the cell block, through the custody reception area and up a flight of stairs to a white-tiled canteen, where a group of uniformed officers were drinking coffee.
'Tea?' asked Denham.
'Coffee. White. One sugar.'
'Let me get them, Liam,' said Patsy. She went over to the counter while Martin and Denham sat at a corner table.
Denham dropped his tweed hat on to the table. There was a small red fishing fly close to the brim. 'You don't fish, do you?' he asked as he sat down.
'No. No, I don't. Sorry.' Martin felt suddenly ridiculous apologising for not being an angler. 'Look, what the hell's this all about?'
'Let's wait for Patsy, shall we?' said Denham. 'Save us going over the same ground twice.'
Patsy came over with three mugs on a tray. She nodded at one. 'That's yours, Mr Hayes. I put the sugar in for you.' Martin took his mug. Patsy put the tray down and passed one of the mugs over to Denham. He sipped his tea, then nodded his appreciation at Patsy as she sat down.
'How long have you known your wife, Mr Hayes?' asked Denham.
'Ten years.'
'And you met where?'
'Trinity. She was studying English literature.'
'And do you know what she did before that?'
Martin stared at the man for several seconds. Denham returned his stare with no trace of embarrassment, waiting for him to speak. 'No, not really,' said Martin eventually.
'What we're going to tell you is going to be something of a surprise, I'm afraid,' said Denham. 'A revelation. Please, bear in mind that we're here to help you.'
'We're on your side,' added Patsy.
They nodded in unison. Martin felt as if he were a child being humoured by two adults, and he resented the way they were treating him. He had a sudden urge to bang his hands on the table, to scream at them to stop patronising him and to find his wife and daughter. He forced himself to stay calm. He couldn't afford to lose his temper, not in a canteen full of policemen. 'Just tell me what the hell is going on,' he said.
Denham and Patsy looked at each other. There was an almost imperceptible nod from Patsy, as if she were giving Denham permission to go ahead. Martin wondered what role she played in Special Branch. Denham had retired, so maybe she'd taken over his job. Or perhaps she'd been his superior.
'Your wife, Mr Hayes, was once an IRA bombmaker.'
Martin's head swam. The walls of the canteen seemed to bulge in and out, and for a moment he felt as if he was going to faint. His eyelids fluttered and he tried to speak but no words would come. A feeble 'What?' was all he could manage.
'She manufactured explosive devices for the Provisional Irish Republican Army.'
'No,' said Martin flatly. 'You're not talking about my wife.'
'It was before she was your wife,' said Denham. 'When she was in her early twenties. Before she met you.'
'You're telling me that my wife is a terrorist?'
'Oh no,' said Denham quickly. 'Oh no, that's not the situation at all.'
'But you said she was an IRA bombmaker?'
'She was recruited by the IRA during her final year of university.'
'At Trinity?'
Denham shook his head. 'Queen's University. Belfast. She got a first in electrical engineering.'
Martin laughed out loud. 'Andy can't change a plug,' he said.
Denham took a packet of cigarettes and a silver lighter from the pocket of his raincoat. 'She was recruited by her boyfriend at the time, and was trained by one of their most experienced bombmakers. He was killed a year after she graduated.'
'The boyfriend?'
Denham smiled thinly. 'The bombmaker. Her mentor. She took his place. But by that time, she was working for us.' Denham put a cigarette between his lips but Patsy pointed at a sign on the wall. NO SMOKING. Denham groaned and put the cigarette back into the packet.
'Hang on a minute,' interrupted Martin. 'First you tell me she's an IRA terrorist, now you're saying she works for Special Branch?'
'Worked,' said Patsy. 'Past tense. This is all past tense, Mr Hayes.'
'She'd never really been political,' continued Denham. 'I think she got talked into it by the boyfriend.' Patsy flashed Denham a warning look and he smiled at Martin. 'Ex-boyfriend,' he said. 'They were only together for six months or so. He probably only got close to recruit her.'
Patsy was smiling at Martin again, as if trying to let him know that Andy's love for him wasn't in dispute.
'We'd had her under surveillance, almost from the moment she was recruited, but she got wind of it. Smart girl, she was. Took the wind out of our sails by approaching us. We persuaded her to stay with them. Did a hell of a job, for nigh on three years. Until the accident.'
'Accident?'
Denham scratched at a small wine-coloured birthmark on his neck. 'She'd let us know where her bombs were going to be used, and what sort they were. Our bomb disposal boys always had the edge. They knew which ones were booby-trapped, and how. Some we'd let explode, providing there was no risk of loss of life. We'd release stories to the media that soldiers had been killed, or that a bomb disposal officer had died. Others we'd pretend to stumble on. Get the army to send a patrol through the area, maybe have a guy out walking his dog pretend to find it. There were a million and one ways to make it look as if the IRA had just been unlucky.'
There was a peal of laughter from the uniformed policemen at the neighbouring table, and Denham waited for the noise to die down before continuing.
'Your wife saved many, many lives, Mr Hayes. She deserved a medal. She played a most dangerous game -not a day went by when her own life wasn't on the line.' He paused, tapping his fingers on the packet of cigarettes. 'What happened was a terrible, terrible accident. A small bomb, a few pounds of Semtex. Set to go off with a timer. It had been placed on the Belfast-to-Dublin rail line, under a bridge. There were two booby traps – a mercury tilt switch, and a photoelectric cell. Nothing major – the bomb disposal boys were dealing with half a dozen similar bombs every week. Your wife had tipped us off that the bomb was being set, but she didn't know where on the line it was going to be placed. We were waiting for the coded call.'
Patsy sipped her tea, her eyes never leaving Martin's face, as if she were assessing his reactions to what Denham was telling him.
'The call came, but before we could react to it, a group of schoolchildren found the bomb.'
'Jesus Christ,' whispered Martin as he realised where the story was heading.
Denham nodded. He moved his face closer to Martin's and kept his voice barely above a whisper. 'Four boys died. One crippled for life. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't anybody's fault. It was just one of those things.'
'Jesus Christ,' said Martin again. He slumped back in his seat.
'Drink your tea,' said Patsy.
Martin lifted his mug to his lips, barely conscious of what he was doing or where he was. The Andy he knew, the woman he'd married, the woman he'd shared a bed with for almost a decade, had nothing in common with the woman that Denham was talking about. An IRA bombmaker? A Special Branch informer?
'She walked away,' said Denham. 'Told her IRA bosses that she'd built her last bomb. Told us the same. They tried to talk her out of it, and so did we. But she was adamant.'
Martin remembered how Andy had always hated to see reports of bombings on television. How she'd sat with tears streaming down her face on the day that the bomb went off in Omagh in Northern Ireland, killing twenty-eight people. He'd sat on the sofa next to her, holding her but powerless to stop her tears. At the time he thought he understood why she was so upset. Everyone in Ireland was shocked to the core by the horror of the bombing, but now he knew that there was another reason for Andy's grief. She'd had to live with the deaths of four innocents on her conscience, and knowing what a loving, caring, sensitive person she was, he realised that the strain must have been unbearable.
'She moved to Dublin. Started a new life.'
Martin shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. 'They let her? They let her walk away from the IRA?'
'They understood why she wanted to leave. She was a woman, and children had died. What else could they do, Mr Hayes? They're not animals, despite what you might read in the papers. What choice did they have?'
'So they never found out that she was working for you?'
Denham toyed with his cigarette lighter. He looked across at the 'NO SMOKING' sign as if checking that it was still there. 'No. She cut all ties with us.'
'And Trevor? Who was Trevor?'
'Trevor was her code-name.'
There was another burst of laughter from the neighbouring table, then the uniformed policemen stood up and filed out of the canteen.
'This is unbelievable,' said Martin.
'I'm afraid it's all too real,' said Patsy.
Martin held his mug in both hands and stared at the remains of his tea. The milk had curdled slightly and oily white bubbles floated on the surface. 'That's what this has all been about, isn't it? Her bomb-making skills?'
Patsy reached out and gently touched Martin's wrist. 'That's why we're here, Mr Hayes. The fact that your daughter's kidnappers wanted her to fly to London suggests that…'
'… they want her to build them a bomb. Here.'
Patsy nodded. 'Exactly.'
'Can she do it?'
'Oh yes,' said Denham. 'She can. There's absolutely no doubt about that.'
– «»-«»-«»Andy wiped the perspiration from the back of her neck with a cloth. Her shirt was damp with sweat and stray locks of her hair were matted to her face. Green-eyes was at the table next to her, scraping hot fertiliser into a Tupperware container. 'Nearly done,' she said.
'A couple of hours, I reckon,' said Andy. She nodded towards the offices. 'Okay if I get a sandwich? I'm starving.'
'Can't you wait? Best to get this stage finished, then we'll take a break.'
Andy tried to hide her disappointment. She wanted another go at the briefcase locks. 'I could do with a coffee. I'm flagging.'
Green-eyes sealed the lid on the container and straightened up. She looked across at the Runner and the Wrestler, who were both bent over their woks. Despite the air-conditioning being full on, the air was full of alcohol fumes and the stench of the fertiliser. 'I guess the boys can hold the fort,' she said. 'Okay, let's take a break.'
Andy forced a smile. 'I'll get one for you.'
Green-eyes looked suspiciously at Andy. 'Are you up to something, Andrea?'
Andy shrugged carelessly. 'I don't know what you mean.'
'You're not deliberately dragging your feet, are you? Trying to slow us down?'
'I just want a coffee, that's all. If it's too much trouble, forget it.'
Green-eyes looked at Andy for a few seconds, her lips pressed tightly together. It was an eerie feeling, being scrutinised by someone in a ski mask, and Andy forced herself to smile as naturally as possible. Eventually Green-eyes nodded. 'Come on.'
Andy followed her down the corridor and into the office. Green-eyes poured two mugs of coffee and they sat down at the long table. Green-eyes clicked sweetener into her mug. 'You always drink your coffee without sugar?' she asked Andy.
'Since I was at university,' said Andy.
'Worried about your weight?'
Andy sipped her coffee. 'Not really. I gave up salt, too. And cigarettes.'
'Some sort of penance?'
'Maybe. I don't know.' She put her mug down. 'Why are you doing this?'
Green-eyes didn't answer. She stirred her coffee and stared at the ripples on its surface.
'People are going to die if this thing goes off. A lot of people.'
'You're a fine one to talk,' said Green-eyes. 'I could ask you the same question. You made bombs for the Provos.'
'But not like this.'
'Your bombs killed people, Andrea. Is it the numbers that worry you? Is killing a hundred worse than killing four?'
'That was an accident. The children were in the wrong place at the wrong time.'
'There were others, though, Andrea. Soldiers. Bomb disposal guys. Police. What you did hasn't stopped you from living a normal life. So why are you concerned about this bomb?'
'You're going to kill innocent people, that's why. The war's over. It's finished.'
Green-eyes sneered at Andy and tossed the teaspoon on to the table-top. 'Did the Brits murder any of your family, Andrea? How many funerals have you been to, eh?'
Andy said nothing. The woman's eyes were burning with hatred, and flecks of spittle peppered across the table.
'Well, how many?'
'None,' said Andy quietly.
'Well, I have. I buried my brother and two cousins. The SAS murdered my brother and British paratroopers shot my cousins. My family's been drenched in blood, and you think I should just forgive and forget because the weaklings at the top want to sit in an Irish Parliament?'
'Revenge?' said Andy. 'Is that what this is about? Revenge?'
'You think there's something wrong with revenge? You think politics is a better motive? That it's okay to kill for power but not okay to kill because they murdered my brother? I don't give a fuck about a united Ireland. I don't give a fuck whether or not Protestants and Catholics live together in peace and harmony. I want revenge, pure and simple.'
'For God's sake, you're going to kill hundreds of people, hundreds of innocent people. Jesus Christ, woman, that's not going to bring your brother back.'
'I don't want him back. I want the people here to know what it's like to suffer. Anyway, I don't know why you're so concerned. You've made bombs before. You've killed people. I'm just doing what you should have done ten years ago.'
Andy shook her head. 'That was different.' Part of her wanted to tell Green-eyes that she'd never been a terrorist, that all the time she'd been part of the active service unit she'd also been a Special Branch informer. But she had no way of knowing how Green-eyes would react to the news. She was in enough danger already.
'Different? Why? Because what we're doing now is on a bigger scale?'
'Because at least then there was a political dimension. It was a means to an end. The war's over. Can't you see that?'
Green-eyes stood up. 'Come on. We've got work to do.'
Andy gestured at her mug. 'I haven't finished.'
Green-eyes picked up the mug and poured the contents on to the floor. 'Yes you have.'
– «»-«»-«»Martin stared down at the table, his mind in turmoil. None of what he'd been told made any sense to him. It had been hard enough to cope with the kidnapping of his daughter and the disappearance of his wife, but being told that his wife was an IRA bombmaker turned Special Branch informant was more than he could cope with.
'Mr Hayes?' It was the woman. Patsy. Her first name. That was all he knew about her.
'You're going to have to give me time to get my head around this,' he said.
'We don't have time, Mr Hayes. We have to act now. And we need your co-operation.'
Martin frowned. 'Co-operation?'
Patsy had a notebook in front of her, and she was holding a slim gold pen. It looked expensive. Everything about the woman seemed expensive. 'Who the hell are you?' Martin asked her. 'You're no policewoman.'
'No, you're right. I'm not. All you need to know at the moment is that Chief Inspector Denham and I are the only hope you've got of seeing your daughter and wife again. Now, who else knows what's happened to your family?'
Martin glared at the woman, then slowly nodded. She was right. It wasn't her he was angry at, it was the situation he was in, and it wasn't a situation of her making. 'The Gardai. In Dublin. Inspector James FitzGerald. And a sergeant. Power, his name was, I think.'
Patsy wrote the names down in her notebook.
'Two uniformed gardai called at the house. They're the ones who took me to the Garda station.'
'Do you know their names?'
Martin shook his head. 'The secretary at Katie's school got in touch with them. Mrs O'Mara, her name is. She's disappeared. That's what the police say, anyway.'
'Disappeared?'
'They said she hadn't turned up for work and there was no sign of her at her house. That's why they came to see me in the first place. She'd telephoned me to see why Katie wasn't at school, and I guess she'd spoken to the headmistress.'
Patsy looked across at Denham and raised an eyebrow. Denham nodded. Martin had the feeling that each knew what the other was thinking.
Patsy looked back at Martin. 'Anyone else?'
'I told my partner what had happened. Padraig. Padraig Martin.'
Patsy wrote down the names. 'So your first name's Martin, and so's his surname?'
'Yeah. That's how we became friends at school.' He shrugged. 'It's a long story. We ended up as business partners. We called the firm Martin and Martin. Sort of a joke.'
'What exactly did you tell your partner?' asked Denham.
Martin massaged his temples as he tried to remember the conversation he'd had with Padraig while he was driving him up to Belfast. 'I think I pretty much told him everything. I told him that Katie had been kidnapped. And that the kidnappers told Andy to go to London.'
'That's just wonderful,' said Denham under his breath. Patsy gave him a cold look and he held up his palms apologetically.
'I had to tell him something,' said Martin. 'He's my partner. He was nearly killed.'
'Killed? What do you mean, killed?' asked Patsy.
Martin realised he hadn't told them about the man with the gun, the man who'd shot at the BMW outside the hospital. He quickly explained what had happened.
'This man, what did he look like?' asked Patsy.
'I didn't see his face, not really,' said Martin. 'He was average height. Medium build. He was wearing a leather jacket. Black or brown. And jeans, maybe.' He shook his head. 'It all happened really quickly. He shot twice, I think. Hit the window and the door. I didn't hear the shots, just the window going and then a thud against the door. I had my head down most of the time.'
'What colour hair did he have?' asked Denham.
Martin shrugged. He didn't know.
'Moustache? Facial hair? A scar? Anything that made him stick out?'
Martin shook his head. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'It was dark, and I just wanted to get away.'
Patsy and Denham exchanged looks of frustration but said nothing.
'That's okay, Mr Hayes,' said Patsy.
'What do you think they'll do to Katie?' asked Martin. 'The guy who shot at me was presumably one of the kidnappers – he must know I've spoken to the Dublin police. What if they…' He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.
'I don't think they'll do anything to hurt your daughter,' said Patsy. 'Not so long as they need your wife's cooperation. Katie is the leverage they need to get your wife to do what they want.'
'God, I hope you're right.'
Patsy smiled reassuringly at Martin. 'We know what we're doing, Mr Hayes. Trust us. Or at least, have faith in us.'
Martin closed his eyes and nodded. 'It doesn't look as if I've any alternative.'
Denham toyed with his packet of cigarettes. He tapped one side against the table. Then turned it through ninety degrees and tapped it again. Turn. Tap. Turn. Tap. 'The note that the kidnappers left,' he said. 'Do you still have it?'
'No. Andy took it with her.' He reached into his trouser pocket and took out the sheet of paper he'd found behind the hotel painting. 'This is the note she left for me in the Strand Palace.' He gave it to Denham, who read it and passed it over to Patsy.
'The phone conversation you told me about,' said Patsy. 'When your wife told you about this. Where were you?'
'At home. In Dublin.'
'And she called on the land line? Or your mobile?'
'The land line.'
'And she only made one call?'
Martin nodded.
'When she called you, did it sound like she was using a call-box?'
Martin shrugged. 'It sounded like a regular phone. I think there was somebody listening, checking that she didn't say the wrong thing.'
'But could you hear any traffic? People walking by? Any sounds that might suggest she was outside? Or in a public place?'
Martin rubbed his face with both hands. 'I don't remember any,' he said.
'Did you get any sense that she was calling from a land line? Or a mobile?'
Martin shook his head. 'I'm sorry.'
Patsy smiled reassuringly, the smile of a parent consoling a child who'd just come second. 'You're doing just fine, Mr Hayes. Now, can you run through everything your wife said to you when she called.'
'She was only on the line for a few seconds. She made me promise not to go to the police. And she said they didn't want money. That they wouldn't hurt Katie so long as I didn't go to the police. Then she said that after it was all over, we'd go back to Venice. I didn't know what she meant – it was only when I saw the picture that I realised what she was trying to say. And that was it.'
'You're sure?'
'Yes, damn it, I'm sure.'
Patsy looked across at Denham. He raised an eyebrow. Martin had no idea what the gesture meant.
'Did I do something wrong?'
Patsy put down her gold pen. 'No, you didn't, Mr Hayes. But they might have done. We're going to need your help. If she calls again.'
'You think she might?'
'It was obviously your wife who initiated the call,' said Patsy. 'It was unstructured. Unrehearsed. And the only information imparted was that which your wife wanted to give you. It wasn't a message from the kidnappers. If she managed to get them to allow her one phone call, she might be able to persuade them to let her make another. And the closer she gets to completion, the more leverage she'll have.'
'But if she calls, I won't be there.' Martin stood up. 'God, I've got to get back.'
Patsy gestured for him to sit down. 'We can handle that from here.' She looked across at Denham. 'I'll get the number transferred to Thames House.'
'You can do that?' asked Martin.
Patsy nodded. 'It's not a problem.'
'Where's this Thames House?'
'It's an office. Near Whitehall. We can use it as a base.'
'And if they call, they'll think I'm still in the house?'
'That's the idea.'
Martin scratched his chin. 'The machine's on. The answering machine. I left a message saying that anyone who calls should try me on my mobile.'
'You still have the mobile?'
Martin shook his head. 'It was in my hotel room. In my case. I don't know if your goons brought it with me.'
Patsy looked pained. 'I'll get it for you. But it's best she doesn't call the mobile. I'll get the answering machine turned off.' She looked at her watch. 'No time like the present.' She stood up. 'I'll make a couple of calls.'
Martin fished his house keys out and slid them across the table.
Patsy smiled and shook her head. 'The people I'll be using won't be needing keys, Mr Hayes.'
– «»-«»-«»Andy stole glances at Green-eyes as she packed Tupperware containers into a black rubbish bag. It was hard to judge her age because she'd never seen her without her ski mask, but she guessed the woman was in her early thirties, probably about the same age as herself. They were pretty much the same height and build, and seemed to have the same taste in clothes. Under different circumstances it was perfectly possible that they could have been friends.
The conversation they'd had in the office had disturbed Andy. She hadn't realised before that Green-eyes was driven by revenge, that her motives were personal rather than political. Andy had been clinging to the hope that the bomb she was helping to build wasn't intended to be used, but after speaking to Green-eyes she was certain that the woman intended to detonate the device once it was finished.
She was equally certain that Green-eyes wasn't the prime mover in the building of the bomb. She was working for someone else, someone who was funding the operation and organising it from a distance. But who? Whoever had recruited Green-eyes must have known how fanatical she was, and how determined she'd be to see the bomb explode. That presumably meant that whoever was backing her also wanted to see the bomb go off. Andy had meant what she'd said about the war being over. The IRA was set to achieve virtually all its aims without compromising its stance on decommissioning; they had nothing to gain by restarting the conflict. Andy doubted that Green-eyes would allow herself to be used by a Protestant terrorist organisation, so who did that leave? Terrorists from outside the United Kingdom? Arabs maybe? The Serbs? Iraq? Iran? Syria? Libya? Someone with the resources to pay for the equipment, the office rental, the manpower. Someone who knew about Andy's past.
Andy fastened the metal tie around the top of the black plastic bag and carried it over to the pile of other bags containing treated fertiliser. She threw it on top. The ammonium nitrate was totally inert at this stage. Even when it was mixed with the rest of the ingredients, it could still be handled in total safety. It was a powerful explosive, about half the strength of commercial dynamite, but it required a very heavy charge to detonate it. That was what Andy was clinging to, her last hope that the bomb wouldn't go off. Without the necessary detonator, the pressure wave wouldn't be powerful enough to detonate all the explosive. It might explode, but only partially, with the energy from the initial detonation scattering the fertiliser mixture. The building would be damaged, but not destroyed. There'd be flying glass and debris but it would be nothing in comparison to a successful detonation. So far Green-eyes hadn't mentioned a detonator, and Andy was praying that the woman didn't fully appreciate how critical it was to have the right type.
Green-eyes turned around and rubbed her knuckles into the small of her back. 'Is that the lot?' she asked Andy.
'That's it,' said Andy.
The Wrestler and the Runner were standing by the water-cooler, large, damp patches of sweat under the armpits of their overalls. It was in the high eighties, even with the thermostat set to its lowest level and the fans full on. As Andy watched, the Wrestler took off his shoulder holster and draped it on top of the cooler.
Andy went over to the line of ovens and switched them off.
'Now what?' asked Green-eyes.
Andy gestured at the cans of diesel oil. 'We mix the fertiliser with the aluminium powder and the diesel oil. But you don't want to do that until the last moment. Until you're ready for the last phase.'
'Why?' asked Green-eyes suspiciously.
'It starts to break down. Gives off hydrogen as a byproduct. It's a slow process, but the hydrogen is explosive, so you don't want it hanging around too long.'
Green-eyes looked at her watch.
'Okay. We start mixing tomorrow.'
– «»-«»-«»Egan kept the Ford Scorpio below seventy as he drove towards London. The ferry crossing from Dun Laoghaire had been uneventful, if a little choppy, but Egan was a seasoned sailor and had managed a hearty meal in one of the restaurants before they'd docked at Holyhead.
He hadn't expected any problems – checks on travellers between Ireland and the United Kingdom, were perfunctory at best – but he hadn't even glimpsed a Customs officer or policeman as he drove off the ferry. Not that Egan would have been worried if he had been pulled in for a random check – the Semtex explosive and detonators were well hidden within a secret compartment inside the petrol tank. The only way they could be discovered was if the tank were dismantled, and that was unlikely in the extreme. Any smuggling, be it drugs or arms, was generally into Ireland, not out of it.
Egan had taken the explosive from a farmer in Dundalk who had been put in charge of an IRA arms cache back in the early eighties. It was part of a consignment sent from Libya, and had been buried in a plastic dustbin swathed in black polythene. The farmer and his wife had dug up the dustbin as Egan had stood over them with his Browning. He'd taken only as much as he needed – six kilograms. And a pack of Mark 4 detonators. The rest had gone back in the bin and into the ground, along with the bodies of the farmer and his wife.
– «»-«»-«»Liam Denham looked around the office and nodded appreciatively. 'They certainly look after you, Patsy.'
Patsy sat down in the high-backed leather chair and folded her arms across the blotter on the rosewood desk. Her back was to a large window with an impressive view over the river, looking east towards Waterloo station. There were several oil paintings on the walls, portraits of old men in wigs, resplendent in massive gilt frames, and the carpet was a rich blue and so thick that it threatened to engulf Denham's battered Hush Puppies. 'Don't be ridiculous, Liam. This isn't mine.'
'Even so…' said Denham, settling into one of two wing-backed armchairs that faced the desk. 'It's a damn sight more impressive than my old shoe box.' Patsy gave him a severe look and he held up his hands to placate her. 'I'm just happy that you're doing so well. It must be satisfying to be given the necessary resources to do the job.' He gestured at one of the paintings. 'That there would probably have paid my staff's overtime bill for a year.'
'Special Branch, I seem to recall, was never kept wanting,' said Patsy. 'How's Hayes?'
'He's in the canteen with Ramsey. Good lad, Ramsey. One of the new breed, I suppose?'
'He's not Oxbridge, if that's what you mean. But then, Liam, neither was I. Anyway, let's keep to the business at hand, shall we? The phone divert's in place, and if she calls again, GCHQ will track it. I reckon it'll turn out to be a mobile, so we're not going to be able to get an accurate fix, but it should narrow it down for us.'
'We're assuming London?'
Patsy sighed and ran her fingers around the blotter. 'I don't think we can, Liam. My gut feeling is yes, it'll be the capital, but we'll both have egg on our faces if they blow up Manchester, won't we?' Denham took his packet of cigarettes out and showed it to Patsy. 'They're not my lungs, and it's not my office,' she said. Denham lit up and inhaled gratefully. It had been three hours since he'd last had a cigarette. Patsy picked up a mobile phone and passed it over to Denham. 'It's a digital GSM,' she said. 'But it's not secure, so…'
'Mum's the word?'
Patsy smiled. 'Exactly.' Denham slipped the phone into his jacket pocket.
'Do you think the husband is up to it?' Patsy asked.
'I think so. They're going to expect him to be nervous, anyway. All he has to do is to keep her talking.' He looked around for an ashtray and Patsy pushed a crystal dish towards him. He flicked ash into it, and waited for her to continue.
'Has he asked you what we're doing to find his daughter?'
'Not yet. No.'
'That's something.'
'What are you going to tell him when he does?'
'That we're doing everything we can.'
Denham blow smoke up towards the ceiling. There were elaborate plaster carvings of fruit around the central light fitting. The only decoration in Denham's old office had been a smoke alarm missing a battery. 'And if he realises that we're not?'
'Liam, our first priority is to prevent them exploding whatever device it is that Andrea Hayes is building for them. If we make any attempt to locate the girl, they'll know we're on to them.'
'So we do nothing to find the girl?'
'There's nothing we can do, not without showing our hand.'
Denham took a long pull on his cigarette and looked at the ceiling again.
'We find them here first, then they'll tell us where the girl is,' said Patsy. 'But the converse isn't true. In fact, I'd bet money that the kidnappers in Ireland don't know the full details of what's going on here.'
Denham nodded. She was right. But he didn't think that Martin Hayes would see it her way. 'And what exactly is it you want from me?' he asked. 'Why've I been brought in from the cold?'
'Hardly the cold, Liam. You've a very nice pension, from what I hear. Certainly more than I'll be getting when I retire. The government has always been more than generous to its employees in the North.'
'I was sacked, Patsy.'
'You retired.'
Denham gave her a tight smile.
'You were the only one who dealt with Trevor. You're the only one who knows how she'll react.'
'I've not seen or spoken to her in ten years.'
'You're all we have. You and her husband. But even her husband doesn't know her the way you do.'
Denham tapped ash into the ashtray. 'People change.'
'Of course they do. But you were with her when she was under the most pressure. When her life was on the line. She knew what they'd do to her if they ever found out she was betraying them. And you were the only one she could confide in.' She paused for a while. The only sound in the room was the ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece, a big polished oak monstrosity, around a tiled fireplace in which stood a vase of dried flowers. To the side of the fireplace was a large brass scuttle filled with chunks of wood. Denham could imagine the fire burning cheerfully on winter days. His own office, in a fortified concrete bunker in north Belfast, had had a single-bar electric fire that didn't even take the edge off the winter days. 'Liam, I have to know. Given the choice between the life of her daughter and the hundreds of lives that could be lost if a device went off in a mainland city – what would she do?'
Denham shrugged. He took another long pull on his cigarette and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. He exhaled slowly. 'You know why she walked away?'
'Because four children died.'
'Four died and one mutilated. It damn near destroyed her. It didn't matter to her how many lives she'd saved. She came close to killing herself. She had the tablets and everything.' He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. 'She didn't turn up for a meeting we'd arranged so I broke all the rules and went looking for her. Found her sitting on her bed with the tablets out and a bottle of vodka.'
'I read the file. It wasn't her fault.'
'I knew that. I think she knew that, too. Deep down. But it was children, Patsy. That's what pushed her over the edge. So think what her own daughter means to her. She'll do anything. Whatever it takes. She'd die for her.'
Patsy reached for the cross around her neck and stroked it as she studied Denham with unblinking eyes. 'But we're not talking about her giving up her life for her daughter's, are we? Would she kill others? Would she allow others to be killed? If it meant saving her own daughter?'
Denham stared at one of the oil paintings. A cruel face. A pinched mouth. White cheeks with smears of rouge. Watery eyes. 'She's an intelligent girl, is Andrea. Smart as a whip. Got a first at Queen's, you know? Top of her year. By far. I never won an argument with her, not in all the time I ran her. You'd never know, not to look at her, because she was so damn pretty. The softest blond hair you ever saw. Blue eyes that you felt you could just dive into. And her figure. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the heads she turned.'
'And you a married man,' said Patsy, shaking her head and smiling. 'What's your point, Liam? That pretty girls aren't expected to be intelligent?'
'The point is, she's going to work out what we both know already. That if they are forcing her to build a bomb, they're not going to want her around after it goes off. They're going to want her dead. And if they're going to kill Andrea, they've really nothing to lose by killing the little girl, too.'
He looked at Patsy. She looked back at him, her face giving nothing away.
'She'll know that,' Denham continued. 'She'll know that if she doesn't do what they want, the girl will die. And she'll know that if she does do what they want, the girl will die.'
'Which leaves her where?'
'Looking for a third way.'
'Which is?'
Denham's mouth twisted as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. 'She's the one with the first, Patsy.'
'But she'll be building the bomb?'
'Definitely. Because so long as she's in the process of constructing it, they won't hurt the girl.'
'Which gives us how long?'
'Oh, come on now, Patsy. How long's a piece of string?'
'Assuming it's a big one. A spectacular?'
'A week. Give or take.'
'That's what I figured. So we've got a couple of days. Maybe three.'
Denham nodded. He stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. His Hush Puppies had seen better days – the suede was stained and the laces were fraying.
'There's something else I need you to do, Liam.'
Denham nodded slowly. 'I was wondering when you'd get around to it.'
'Somebody's going to have to ask him. And I think it'd be better coming from you.'
Denham lit another cigarette. At the height of the Troubles he'd smoked eighty a day, and he could feel the old cravings returning.
'There's a plane waiting. A bit rough-and-ready, I'm afraid. And a car outside. I'll have transport arranged for you in Belfast.'
'You know where he is?'
Patsy smiled. 'Every minute of every day,' she said. 'I'm going to address the troops.'
She walked down the office to the briefing room. Twenty expectant faces looked up at her as she went over to where two whiteboards were mounted on the wall. The blinds were drawn and the overhead fluorescent lights were on. 'Right, let's get straight to it, shall we?' she said.
Just over half the operatives in the room were female, and almost all were under thirty, a reflection of the changing face of the Security Service. Young, enthusiastic, and not necessarily educated at Oxford or Cambridge. It was a change that Patsy approved of, and had herself benefited from. Most of them were sitting around a long light oak table, notepads in front of them. Two of the younger men stood by the double doors, and they closed them as she stood in front of one of the whiteboards. There were four photographs stuck to it. Three of them were of Andrea Hayes, one was of Katie.
Patsy pointed at one of the photographs of Andrea, a head-and-shoulders shot that had been in an album retrieved from the Hayes house when the answering machine had been turned off. 'Andrea Hayes. Housewife, thirty-four years old.' She tapped the photograph next to it. Another head-and-shoulders shot, this one a blow-up of a passport photograph taken twelve years earlier. 'In a previous life, Andrea Sheridan. Top IRA bombmaker and Special Branch informer. She is presently in the UK, and active. Not by choice.' She tapped the photograph of Katie. 'Her daughter, Katie. Seven years old. Kidnapped from their home in Dublin.'
She tapped the first photograph of Andy. 'Someone wants her to build a bomb. Presumably a big one. At this stage, I don't really care why. Why we can work out later. As to when, we think the bomb's likely to be completed within the next few days. Assuming it's a massive fertiliser bomb, which was Andrea Sheridan's speciality, once the ingredients are mixed, their shelf life is limited. A week at most. So we're looking at a timeframe of between two days and ten. So, these are our priorities. We need to know who's building the bomb, and we need to know where the bomb is. As regards who, we have video of a vehicle leaving a carpark in Covent Garden.'
She moved across to the second whiteboard. There were six photographs stuck to it. One was a grainy black-and-white print that had been blown up from a still taken from the closed-circuit television video at the carpark in Covent Garden. She tapped it with her marker pen. 'This van has the name of a garden landscaping firm on the side, though you can't see it on the video. Andrea Sheridan is in the back. We've run a check on the registration number. The van is owned by a company in the Midlands. It's being checked out as we speak, but I don't recommend anyone holding their breath. This has been too well planned for it to be as easy as that.' She pointed to the portion of the photograph showing the van's windscreen. 'Two occupants. Male. They're sitting well back but we can just about make out the bottom of the passenger's face and three-quarters of the driver's. Our technical boys are working on the video now. We've also got all the tickets handed in that day and we're looking for the one that corresponds to their exit time. If we get it, we get the driver's prints.'
She folded her arms and moved away from the whiteboard. 'Whoever they are, the two men in the van aren't working alone. So what are the possibilities? We think it unlikely it's the IRA, or anyone else in the Republican movement. Let me rephrase that. We think it unlikely that they're acting for the Republican movement. If it was in any way official, there'd be no need for the kidnapping. In fact, there'd be no need for them to use Andrea Sheridan. Her expertise is a decade out of date. What we believe is happening is that someone wants it to appear that there is an IRA involvement. Now, that leads to two lines of enquiry. First, someone within the IRA must have offered up Andrea Sheridan. Her role as a bombmaker was known to less than a dozen people. Only one man within RUC Special Branch knew what her position was. Chief Inspector Liam Denham. Ex-Chief Inspector. He's working with us on this. Chief Inspector Denham is hoping to obtain a list of those members of the IRA who knew of Andrea Sheridan. We have some names already. She was recruited while still at university by one Denis Fisher. Fisher was killed in London in 1992.'
There were five photographs underneath the surveillance shot of the van. All head-and-shoulder pictures that had been blown up. Patsy waved at them. 'These are the five members of her active service unit during the time she was active.' She tapped the photographs one by one.
'James Nolan. The late James Nolan. Scored an own goal in Hammersmith in '93 and blew himself out of a third-floor bedsit in a couple of dozen pieces.'
Several of the agents laughed, but they stopped when she gave them a frosty look. 'Thomas Kennedy. Last heard of in Kilburn, north London. Michael and Gordon, he's yours.' Michael Jenner and Gordon Harris, who were sitting at the far end of the table in almost identical dark blue suits, nodded in acknowledgment.
'Eugene Walsh. Managed to win the green card lottery a couple of years back and is now working for a diving company in the Florida Keys. Our Miami office is looking for him.'
The fourth face was the youngest of the group, still in his twenties. Patsy pointed at it. 'Shay Purcell. The ASU's runner. He was barely eighteen when he was active. He's in Mountjoy Prison in Dublin, midway through a life sentence. Killed his girlfriend with a bread knife so he's not regarded as political and won't be getting early release. We'll be speaking to him there.'
She tapped the final picture. 'Brendan Tighe. Still in Belfast. He turned informer about four years back. He's still in the IRA, deep cover, and we know he's sound.'
She turned back to the whiteboard and with a blue marker pen wrote the word 'TREVOR' in capital letters.
'Her code-name within Special Branch was Trevor. As of now, that's how she's to be referred to. I don't want to hear the names Andrea Sheridan or Andrea Hayes referred to outside this room. Once we have the list, we'll be bringing them in, one and all.'
She put the cap back on her marker. 'So, who is behind this if it's not the IRA?' She held up her hand and raised her index finger. 'One. A Protestant group wanting to implicate the IRA in a terrorist outrage.' She counted off a second finger. 'Two. A terrorist group within the United Kingdom. Muslims. Right-wing groups. Animal activists. You name it.' She held up a third finger. 'Three. A terrorist group from outside the United Kingdom. Iraq. Iran. Libya. You know the possibilities as well as I do.' Several of the agents nodded. Patsy held up a fourth finger. 'Four. Some other group. Some other reason. If anyone here has any thoughts, I'd like to hear them.'
No one in the room had any suggestions. Patsy hadn't expected any, not at such an early stage in the investigation. 'So, we trawl through all the intelligence we have, looking for possibilities. Anyone who isn't where they should be. Anyone recently arrived in this country who might be behind something like this. Anyone who's suddenly gone underground. Speak to all your contacts. But tactfully. We don't want to make waves.'
One of the men by the door raised a hand. It was Tim Fanning, a relatively recent recruit from a City stockbroking firm where he'd worked as an analyst. 'Yes, Tim?'
'What about the Americans?'
'I'll be contacting the CIA officially for details of American terrorist activity,' said Patsy.
'I meant as possible targets,' said Fanning. 'Their embassies have been hit worldwide.' He grinned. 'They're even blowing up Planet Hollywood outlets these days.'
'Good point, and one that brings us to the question of where. Tim's right – the target could be an American institution here in the UK. Or it could be any one of a hundred targets. Downing Street. The City. The Houses of Parliament. It doesn't even have to be in London. It could, quite literally, be anywhere. So, how do we narrow down the location?' She tapped the photograph of the van. 'First, we chase down this vehicle. Parking tickets. Police reports. CCTVs. Has it been to Ireland? Been involved in any accidents? It's four years old, so who used to own it?' She pointed to three women sitting at the far end of the table. 'Lisa, Anna, Julia, that's your priority. You know Peter Elfman?' All three nodded. 'He's checking up on the landscaping company. Liaise with him.'
Patsy nodded at the oldest man in the room, David Bingham. He was in his mid-forties but his hair had gone prematurely grey while at university and his skin was weathered and peppered with broken veins from years pursuing his love of dinghy sailing. He had worked in Dublin for eighteen months prior to the 1994 IRA ceasefire, and had only just returned to Thames House after a two-year posting to MI5's Belfast office, where he'd been Patsy's number two. He was hard-working and totally trustworthy, and more than once she'd been grateful for his safe pair of hands. He also did the best impersonation of Gerry Adams that she'd ever heard.
'David, if and when we locate the men in the van, we're going to want to know where they've been. I'd like you and Jonathan to handle that. Keep on top of the technical boys.' David nodded at her and then flashed a smile across at Jonathan Clare. Clare was ten years younger than Bingham, but they'd worked together briefly in Belfast. 'I'd also like the two of you to liaise with Chief Inspector Denham when he gets back from Northern Ireland. If he does manage to obtain a list of IRA members who knew about Trevor's role as a bombmaker, other than those names we already have, it has to be our first priority. Any resources you need, you only have to ask.'
There was a stack of folders on a table against the window, and at Patsy's signal Lisa Davies and Anna Wallace began distributing them. 'The folders contain full briefing notes and copies of the photographs. They're not to leave this room. There's to be no contact with the police, at any level, without prior clearance from me. No phone calls to pals in Special Branch or Anti-Terrorism. I don't want to see this on the front page of the Daily Mail, okay?'
Nodding heads responded.
'Good. That's the state of play. This room is our operations centre. If I'm not here I'll be in Jason Hetherington's office down the corridor. Tim, would you come with me? You too, Barbara.'
Fanning opened the door for her and walked with her to Hetherington's office. Behind them followed Barbara Carter, a twenty-six-year-old psychology graduate who Patsy knew was originally from Dublin. Patsy closed the office door behind them and waved them over to the two armchairs in front of her desk. 'I've got something special for the two of you,' she said, sitting down. 'Martin Hayes is going to need his hand held through this, and I'm not going to be able to be with him all the time. Until this is resolved I want one of you to be with him at all times, and ideally I'd like you both there for as much of the time as is humanly possible. No going home, no popping into the gym. If one of you wants to use the loo, the other sticks with Hayes. When he sleeps, one of you stays in the room with him. Every minute of every hour of every day.'
The two agents nodded. They were both single and had no regular partners, so Patsy knew it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience for them. In fact, they made a good-looking couple. He was tall with a runner's build and a crop of thick, blond hair. Carter was a few inches shorter with high cheekbones and long chestnut hair that she normally had tied back in a ponytail. They were both stylish dressers – he favoured dark Boss double-breasted suits and she generally wore well-fitting suits in pastel shades, usually cut just above the knee. There was clearly no attraction between the two of them, however. No sideways looks, no cute smiles when they thought no one was watching. Patsy had a keen eye for intra-office relationships and there was no sign of one developing, which was one of the reasons she'd given them the job of baby-sitting Martin Hayes.
She could see from the look on Fanning's face that he wasn't happy about the assignment as he slowly folded his arms across his chest. He was keen to be part of the team chasing the bombmaker and obviously regarded looking after the husband as being sidelined. If Carter was disappointed, she hid it well, smiling amiably with her Mont Blanc pen poised over a small leather-bound notebook that Patsy thought might have a Chanel logo on the front.
'There's something I didn't mention at the briefing, and I want it to remain between us, for the time being at least.'
Patsy had to resist the urge to smile as she saw Fanning's reaction. His whole body language changed. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward expectantly, eager to hear what she had to say.
'They allowed her to phone her husband. On Sunday.'
Fanning and Carter both raised their eyebrows in surprise.
'Little was said, just that she was okay. And that there was something she had to do for them. She was obviously being closely monitored during the call, but our feeling is that if she managed to convince them to allow her to make one call, she should be able to do it again the closer she gets to completion.'
'Hell of an error,' said Fanning. 'Considering our technical capabilities.'
'Most of which isn't public knowledge,' said Patsy. 'Besides, the husband had been told not to contact the police. That if he did, his daughter would be killed. I think that under the circumstances they'd be justified in thinking that a tap would be unlikely in the extreme. Whatever, they allowed the call, and if they allowed one, they might allow another. Or, a more likely scenario in my opinion, she'll find a way of getting to a phone without them knowing. Either way, we've arranged with British Telecom and Telecom Eireann to have all calls to the Hayes house to be routed to an office here.' She nodded at the door to an adjoining room. 'In there, in fact. So far as the caller's concerned, they'll be through to the house. We'll be running a trace, but I doubt they'll be on long enough. Still, nothing ventured…'
'There is the possibility that she'll ask to speak to her daughter, of course,' said Carter.
Patsy nodded. 'That's where it gets complicated,' she said. 'We'll be monitoring all England-Ireland phone traffic, looking for key words. But that's going to be done through GCHQ. I've already been in touch with our liaison officer at Cheltenham. But even if we do locate the daughter, she's not our prime concern. Though Mr Hayes must absolutely not be aware of that. Are we clear?'
Fanning and Carter nodded. Patsy put her hands flat on the desk blotter and pushed herself up. 'Right,' she said, 'let's get to it.'
– «»-«»-«»They said barely half a dozen words during the drive from the airport. They were both tall, wearing Barbour jackets over suits, and Denham figured that their combined ages just about equalled his own sixty-five years. Denham sat in the back of the Rover and stared at the back of their heads. They were both balding. The driver had a bare patch the size of a fifty-pence piece! the other hadn't done so well in the genetics lottery and had a bald spot as big as a saucer. Denham wondered if it was stress-related. In his early days with the RUC he'd had a thick crop of black hair that required a handful of gel to keep it in place; it was only when he'd transferred to Special Branch that he'd started to lose it.
They'd been waiting for him on the tarmac, the rear door of the Rover already open for him as he walked off the RAF Hercules transporter and down the metal stairway. He hadn't asked where they were going. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the man he was going to see.
They drove north towards Antrim, and Denham felt a touch of sadness as they passed within five miles of his own house. Under any normal circumstances he'd have asked the men to make a quick detour, but the mission he was on was too important. His wife would have to wait.
He lit another cigarette, his third since he'd got into the Rover. When he'd lit the first one the driver had coughed pointedly, but Denham had ignored him. He looked around the back of the car for an ashtray but there wasn't one, so he was reduced to flicking his ash out of a gap in the window, though more often than not the slipstream blew it back into the car.
They joined the M22 and headed west with the vast expanse of Lough Neagh to their left, until the motorway merged into the A6. Just past Castledawson they turned right and started driving along smaller country roads. The driver was good, Denham had to admit. He drove quickly but safely, and wasn't averse to switching lanes and driving on the wrong side of the road if it meant he had a better view of what lay ahead. He was constantly checking the mirrors, but Denham doubted that anyone would have been able to keep up with them. The speedometer rarely fell below seventy as they sped between the fields.
The car eventually came to a halt by a stone bridge. The driver turned around to look at Denham and nodded, just once. 'You boys stay with the car,' Denham said. He climbed out of the Rover, dropped the remains of his cigarette on to the damp grass and trod it into the soil. The sun was a hand's width from the horizon and reddening, and Denham buttoned up his raincoat. He walked down towards the fast-flowing stream, holding his arms out for balance as his Hush Puppies skidded and slipped along the muddy gravel path.
The man standing in the stream must have heard Denham coming, but he didn't turn his head. He flicked the rod in his hand and a fly whisked through the air and plopped almost silently on to a quiet stretch of water close to the far bank.
'You always did have a hell of a smooth cast, Mr McCormack,' said Denham. Only then did Thomas McCormack turn to acknowledge his presence.
'I'm told you're no mean fisherman yourself, Chief Inspector Denham.'
McCormack turned his back on Denham and wound in his line. He was wearing bright green waders, a quilted waistcoat over a thick green pullover, and on his head was a shapeless tweed hat that could have been a close cousin to the one Denham was wearing.
'It's Mr Denham now. Retired almost ten years now.'
'Oh, I know that, Chief Inspector.'
'Same as you know I'm a fisherman?'
McCormack flicked his rod again and sent the fly high into the air, nodding with satisfaction as it dropped on to the same stretch of water as before. 'We knew about the little stream you used to favour, up by Ballymena. Lovely spot, with the beech trees right up to the water's edge.' He turned to look at Denham as he wound in his line. 'Could have got you any time, Chief Inspector. Before or after your retirement.' He grinned mischievously. 'But that's all water under the bridge now, isn't it?'
Denham tapped a cigarette out and lit it.
'Still on eighty a day?' asked McCormack.
'Down to twenty,' said Denham.
'The wife?'
'Yes, the wife,' sighed Denham.
'Where would we be without them, huh?'
'Indeed.' Denham tilted his head back and blew smoke up into the darkening sky.
'So, would this be a social call, Chief Inspector?'
'I'm afraid not.'
'You won't mind if I carry on casting, will you? There's a beautiful trout, five pounds if it's an ounce, lurking under those leaves over there.'
'You go for it, Mr McCormack.' There was a tree trunk on its side a few steps away from Denham and he went over and sat on it. McCormack made three more casts, and each time the fly dropped into the same part of the stream.
'What do you think? Too big?'
'Maybe something brighter?' suggested Denham. 'The light's going.'
'Aye, you could be right,' said McCormack. He wound in the line and replaced his fly with a slightly bigger one that had a splash of yellow in its tail.
'Andrea Sheridan,' said Denham. 'Remember her?'
McCormack's eyes narrowed. He looked at Denham for several seconds without speaking. 'That's a name from the past, right enough. Retired, like yourself.'
Denham nodded and took a long pull on his cigarette. Thomas McCormack was an old adversary, and peace process or no peace process, he was a man to be handled with care. With his horn-rimmed spectacles and grey hair, he looked like an elderly schoolmaster, but for many years he'd been a hardline member of the IRA's Army Executive.
'Maybe. Maybe not.'
'No doubt about it, Chief Inspector. She retired about the same time you did.' McCormack's head tilted to the side like that of an inquisitive bird. He looked as if he was going to say something, but instead he turned his back on Denham again and flicked the new fly out over the water. It fell short by more than four feet and he tutted to himself.
'We think that there's a chance she's active again.'
'Impossible,' said McCormack.
'Perhaps against her will.'
McCormack wound in his line and cast again. Just as the fly plopped on to the water, a big speckled trout seemed to leap from the depths, its mouth agape. It engulfed the fly and disappeared back under the surface. McCormack hauled in the fish and carefully extracted the fly before holding it up to show Denham. 'Six pounds, I'll bet,' he said.
'Hell of a catch,' agreed Denham.
McCormack bent down and lowered the trout into the stream. He let the fish swim free and then straightened up. He waded over to the bank. Denham stood up and offered him his hand and helped him climb out of the water. McCormack nodded his thanks and the two men sat together on the tree trunk. McCormack took a small pewter flask from his waistcoat pocket and offered it to Denham. Denham shook his head and gestured at the cigarette in his hand. 'One vice is enough,' he said.
McCormack chuckled as he unscrewed the top of his flask and took a swig. He smacked his lips appreciatively. 'What do you mean, against her will?' he asked.
'She has a child. A daughter. Katie. The child's been kidnapped. No ransom, but the kidnappers told Andrea to fly to London. Now she's disappeared.'
McCormack took another swig from his flask, then replaced its top and put it back in his waistcoat pocket.
'And you're suggesting what, Chief Inspector?'
'I'm not suggesting anything. I'm looking for guidance.'
McCormack wound in his line and began to disassemble his rod.
'I figure that your people wouldn't need to kidnap the little girl to get the mother to do what you wanted. Presumably you've always known where she was.'
'As have you, it seems.'
Denham blew smoke towards the setting sun. 'So, I'm ruling out an official operation. An official IRA operation.'
'I'm glad to hear that,' said McCormack, slipping the sections of his rod into a canvas bag.
'I was thinking perhaps a splinter group?'
'Very doubtful,' said McCormack. 'Gerry and Martin wouldn't stand for it.'
'Real IRA? Continuity?'
'Spent forces,' said McCormack, tying up the bag.
'Anyone new? The Dundalk boys getting restless?'
'Not that I've heard. It's all about the ballot box these days.' McCormack propped the bag against the tree trunk and stretched out his legs. 'It's not Republican, Chief Inspector. You should be looking at the other side of the fence.'
'Maybe. But how would they know about her?'
McCormack looked across at Denham, his eyes narrowing. 'I might be asking you the same question.'
Denham stared into the distance.
'Jesus Christ,' said McCormack, his voice little more than a whisper. 'She was working for you.'
It wasn't a question, and Denham knew there was no point in denying it. He'd known that the moment he asked McCormack about Andrea Sheridan he'd be showing his hand. And that if he expected to get McCormack's help, he'd have to tell him everything.
'For how long?' asked McCormack.
'From day one. Pretty much.'
McCormack shook his head slowly. 'My God. She must have iced water for blood.' He pushed his spectacles higher up his nose. 'Every bomb, every one she made, you knew about it?'
Denham shrugged but didn't say anything.
'But the people that died? The soldiers? The bomb disposal…' His voice tailed off as realisation dawned. 'You faked it. You faked them all. You cunning old fox…' He took out his hip flask and took a long drink from it, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Except for the kids. Something went wrong. The kids died, and she walked away. And you. You got the push.'
'Somebody had to carry the can. And she was my agent.'
McCormack put the top back on his flask. 'Funny old world, huh? You think you know someone… You think you can trust someone…'
The bottom of the sun was touching the horizon. Denham turned up the collar of his raincoat. 'It's history, Thomas. Ancient history.' It was the first time he'd ever called McCormack by his first name.
'Aye. Maybe you're right.'
'But about the matter in hand. You realise what'll happen if it goes off? Her fingerprints will be all over it. Her signature.'
'Which is presumably why they're using her. You don't have to paint a picture for me, Liam. We've as much to lose as you do if they succeed.'
'So you'll help?'
'I don't see that I've any choice.' He smiled thinly. 'It's a turn-up for the books, isn't it?'
Denham flicked the end of his cigarette into the stream. 'Aye. It's an ever-changing world, right enough. So, who knew about her? Apart from the two of us.'
– «»-«»-«»Martin paced up and down, staring at the floor. It was six paces from one side of the office to the other. Six paces. Turn. Six paces. Turn. He had his arms crossed and the tips of his fingers were digging into his sides, hard enough to hurt, except that Martin was beyond feeling any physical discomfort.
'Mr Hayes, please. Try to relax.' Martin looked up, his mind a million miles away. He frowned at Carter, his eyes blank.
'Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?'
Martin blinked several times like a hypnotist's subject coming out of a trance. 'What? Sorry?'
'A drink? Do you want tea or something?'
'Coffee, maybe. Yes. Coffee. Thanks.' He started pacing again.
Carter and Fanning exchanged worried looks. Carter shrugged, not sure what to say or do to put Martin at ease. She stood up, and raised an enquiring eyebrow at Fanning. He shook his head. He rarely touched tea or coffee. On the table in front of them, next to two telephones and a digital tape recorder, were two bottles of water and two glasses. It was all they'd touched since starting their vigil with Martin. It had been four hours and neither of the phones had rung.
When Carter went out to get the coffee, Fanning suggested that Martin sit down. There were two sofas in the office, large enough to sleep on, and there was a small bathroom off to the side, so that there was no need for Martin to leave the room. Patsy Ellis had made it clear that Martin was to remain confined to the office, but that hadn't been a problem – he'd shown no desire to leave. All he'd done was to pace up and down and from time to time to stare at the silent phones.
The black phone was the line that had been diverted from the Hayes home in Dublin. The white phone was a direct line to Patsy Ellis's mobile. At least half a dozen times Martin had asked if they were sure the phones were working. Fanning had assured him that they were.
'I can't sit,' said Martin.
'There's nothing you can do,' said Fanning, loosening his tie a little. 'The ball's in your wife's court. We just have to wait.'
'But what if she doesn't ring? What if they don't let her use the phone?'
Fanning winced. He was an only child, he'd never been married and his parents were fit and healthy – he'd never had to deal with the death of a relative or a friend, never mind a wife or child. He could only imagine the torment that Martin was going through, and while he wanted to put the man's mind at rest, he didn't want to lie to him.
'Tim, what if she's dead already? What if they're both dead? Oh, God.' Martin dropped down on to one of the sofas and sat with his head in his hands.
Fanning stood up and went over to him. He put a tentative hand on his shoulder. 'Everyone here's doing everything they can, Mr Hayes. I can promise you that.'
Martin closed his eyes and shook his head. 'I don't think it's going to be enough.' He bunched his hands into fists and banged them down on his knees. Fanning took his hand off Martin's shoulder and sat down next to him.
'Patsy's right,' said Fanning. 'The closer your wife is to completing the device, the more leverage she has. She'll know that. There'll come a point where she'll be able to put pressure on them. She'll call.'
'But the guy that shot at me? He must have been one of them, right? He'll know that I'm not at home. Why would he let Andy call me if he knows I'm not at home?'
'We don't know,' admitted Fanning. 'Patsy said that maybe your wife would be able to get to a phone herself, without them knowing.'
Martin grimaced. 'That's hardly likely, is it?'
'It's a possibility. And just because you were attacked doesn't mean they know you've left the country, does it? They've no way of knowing where you are. For all they know, you could have returned home.'
'So she calls, then what? I know phone traces aren't infallible. Things go wrong.'
'You're going by what you see in the movies, Mr Hayes. It's not like that. With a digital exchange, we can get the number almost immediately. And a trace within seconds. Even with a mobile. If she's in the City, we'll know to within a hundred feet where she is.'
Martin leaned back so that his head rested on the back of the sofa. 'And Katie? What about my daughter?'
'If we get the terrorists making the bomb, we'll find her.'
Martin wiped his hands over his face as if he were wiping away tears, though his cheeks were dry. 'There's too many "ifs", Tim. Too many fucking "ifs". Are the Gardai looking for her?'
'Patsy thinks it best not to call in the local police,' said Fanning, choosing his words with care. 'We're looking, but we're using our own people. And we're monitoring all calls to Ireland. If they make a call to the kidnappers, we'll know. And we'll have their location. We'll know where your daughter is being held.'
'Oh, come on, Tim. That's not feasible. You can't possibly monitor every single call between England and Ireland.'
Fanning sat back, wondering how much he should tell Martin. The man was at the end of his tether and needed some reassurance, but much of what MI5 did was classified. 'We can, Martin. And we do. All the time.'
'Every call?'
Fanning nodded. 'It goes on every hour of every day. All around the world.'
Martin looked at Fanning, intrigued. 'How?'
Fanning sighed. 'Can't you just accept that we can, Martin?'
The door opened and Carter came in with a mug of coffee which she handed to Martin. He thanked her, then turned back to Fanning. 'Well?'
Fanning looked up at Carter. 'I was telling Martin not to worry. That we've got all bases covered.'
'He was telling me about tapping phones between England and Ireland so you can find out where they're keeping Katie.'
Carter pulled a face. 'Tim…' she said.
Fanning shrugged. 'He's not exactly an enemy of the state, Barbara.'
'I have a right to know what's going on,' said Martin quietly.
Carter held Fanning's look for a second or two, then she nodded. 'I guess it can't do any harm,' she said.
Martin nodded eagerly. 'So, what's going on?' he asked Fanning.
Fanning took a deep breath. 'I'll give you the idiot's guide,' he said. 'No offence.'
Martin smiled tightly. 'None taken.'
'The system is called Echelon. Don't ask me why. It's been around in some form or another since the seventies, but it's really come into its own in the last few years. It's the brainchild of the Americans, naturally, through their National Security Agency, but it also involves us, through GCHQ, the Government Communication Headquarters in Cheltenham, the Australians, the Canadians and New Zealand. Not through any altruistic information-sharing aspirations, but because the Americans can't physically cover the world on their own. Between the five countries, every single satellite, land line and undersea cable transmission is monitored. Every single one, Martin. Every phone call, fax, telex and e-mail in the world. Nothing escapes.'
Martin shook his head in disbelief. 'There must be millions every day. Tens of millions.'
'Billions, Martin. But Echelon can handle it. And more. It has the capacity to monitor individual transmissions, or it can search through all transmissions looking for a particular word, or combination of words. It can go back through several weeks, worth of transmissions, too. And there's more. It can even search out voiceprints, so we can be on the lookout for a particular individual making a call anywhere in the world. It gets flagged in one of the five Echelon HQs and Robert's your father's brother.'
'It sounds impossible,' said Martin, it's too big.'
'It's big, but computing power is now enormous compared with what it was just twenty years ago. And it's increasing by an order of magnitude every three years or so. You use the Internet, right?'
'Sure. Who doesn't?'
'And you've used a search engine? Yahoo or Altavista or one of the others, where you scan the Net looking for specific subjects. Words or combination of words?' Martin nodded. 'So you know how it works. If you get the search engine to look for a word like "heroin", in a couple of seconds it might tell you that there are some fifty thousand hits, places on the Net where the word occurs. Now, have you ever thought what that means? In the space of seconds, that search engine has looked at every site it has access to and found which ones refer to heroin. And if you want to call up a particular reference, it's on your screen in seconds.'
'I guess so,' said Martin.
'Then consider this, Martin. The Internet is old technology. Echelon is several generations ahead. It works at a speed you could never hope to comprehend. We ask it to keep a lookout for the word "Katie" or 'Mummy' and it'll flag any phone conversation that takes place in which both words are used. Immediately. Real-time. Within seconds we'll know which number is being called, and from where.'
'But I thought you could block your number from showing?' said Martin. He sipped his coffee.
Fanning smiled and shook his head. 'There's no way of hiding from Echelon,' he said.
Martin leaned forward, cupping the mug of coffee between his hands. The signs of stress were starting to diminish. He seemed much more relaxed now that he understood what was involved. 'The thing I don't get is if this system is so efficient, why doesn't it catch more terrorists?'
Fanning grinned. 'What makes you think it doesn't? The NSA keeps a very low profile. So does GCHQ. Neither shouts about its results. Other agencies, ourselves included, usually end up taking the credit.'
'But you'd be able to locate anyone. Anyone in the world. Terrorists, drug dealers, criminals. People who've gone missing. Lord Lucan. Anyone.'
Carter leaned against the table, her hands behind her for support. 'Tim's telling you what's possible technically, but generally there isn't enough manpower to go after just one person, unless they're someone like Saddam Hussein or terrorists like Osama Bin Laden. There's a constant watching brief for top-ranking bad guys like that, but for run-of-the-mill criminals, it's just not worth the effort.'
Martin opened his mouth to speak but Carter silenced him with a wave of a neatly manicured hand, the nails the colour of dried blood. 'I'll give you an example. Say a plane was bombed, flying over the Atlantic. We could search for every conversation in which the words plane and bomb were used. But think how often the incident would be referred to in general conversation by members of the public. Say it was just a hundred thousand, and believe me, that'd be a massive underestimate, Echelon will pick out the words, then include five seconds either side, so that analysts can listen to the snippet of conversation to decide if it's worth following up. That's a million seconds of conversation, Martin. More than two hundred and fifty hours. Every second has to be listened to and analysed. And I can guarantee that it'll all be time wasted, because terrorists would never use words like bomb or explosive over the phone. They'd use codes, because they know how the system works. It's the same with drug dealers. They're not going to say "heroin" or "cocaine" – they wouldn't even say "gear" or other commonly used slang. They'll say "the consignment arrives next week" or something equally vague. So Echelon isn't used for general trawling of domestic phone conversations – there just aren't enough people, even within the NSA, to listen to all the stuff that's recorded. Most of it stays on disk and is stored, never listened to.'
'So now you're saying it's a waste of time?' said Martin bitterly.
Carter held up her hand again. 'Absolutely not,' she said. 'Where Echelon is invaluable is in targeting specific conversations, in specific areas of the world. It's used to listen in on diplomatic transmissions, military transmissions, specific people and organisations. Or the way that we're using it. For a specific word that isn't going to be in general use. How often do you think the word Katie is going to be used in calls from England to Ireland? A dozen? A hundred? Those sorts of numbers we can deal with, Martin. We'll pick up the call within seconds, and almost immediately we'll have a location. The NSA and GCHQ have more computing power between them than any other organisation on the planet.'
'I hope you're right, Barbara,' Martin said.
'She is. We are,' said Fanning. He looked up at Carter and they shared a smile. Patsy Ellis might not approve of how much of GCHQ's work they'd revealed to Martin, but he was definitely a lot more relaxed having heard it.
All three jumped as the black telephone rang. The mug fell from Martin's hands and coffee splashed across the beige wool carpet.
– «»-«»-«»The two men in Barbour jackets drove Denham back to Belfast in silence. Denham sat in the back of the Rover, chain-smoking and staring out of the window. They took him to a nondescript office building on the outskirts of the city, and the one who'd been in the passenger seat escorted him inside. A uniformed security guard asked him for identification, but all he had on him was his driving licence. The guard noted down the details and Denham and the man with him went up in an elevator to the third floor. The man had a swipe card which he ran through a reader at the side of a glass door, and it clicked open. They walked down a white-painted corridor past a series of identical grey doors. The man opened one of the doors and nodded at Denham. 'I'll wait for you here, sir.'
Inside the windowless room was a soundproofed booth, and inside the booth was a metal desk, a plastic chair and a telephone without a dial or keypad. The walls of the room were lined with pale green foam rubber that had been moulded into an egg-box design. Denham went into the booth and closed the door behind him. He picked up the phone and almost immediately a man's voice asked him who he wished to speak to. He asked for Patsy Ellis. She was on the line within seconds.
'Liam, how did it go?'
'Better than I expected, to be honest. Things have changed since the Good Friday agreement, more than I'd ever have guessed.'
'Men like McCormack have, sure. But there are other leopards whose spots'll never change. So what did he have to say?'
'He gave me the five who were in Trevor's ASU, but he obviously knew that we had them anyway. And he was open about Denis Fisher, but Fisher's dead. The active service unit was under the control of Hugh McGrath, and that we didn't know because he dealt only with Nolan.'
'McGrath?'
'He's dead, too. At least McCormack reckons he's dead. He disappeared back in '92. McGrath was on the Army Council but his main function was to liaise with the Libyans during the eighties. McCormack was a bit sketchy on the details, but it seems that McGrath set up his own splinter group responsible for a bombing campaign in '92. Fisher was running the group.' Denham took out a packet of cigarettes and fumbled one out. 'They were all killed when the SAS stormed their flat in Wapping. McGrath disappeared just before the SAS went in.' He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
'He could just have got wind of what was happening and gone underground.'
'There's more to it than that, but McCormack's not letting on. I got the impression that it was the IRA that did for him, you know? That they found out what he was up to and took matters into their own hands.'
'But this McGrath knew about Trevor?'
'Oh, yes. Quite definitely. And another volunteer. Micky Geraghty. Have you heard of him?'
'Doesn't ring a bell.'
'Aye, probably before your time. Bit of a legend was Micky Geraghty. He was a sniper, and a bloody good one, but he lost heart when his wife died of cancer. Long and painful, and by all accounts he was a broken man afterwards. Walked away.'
'Still alive?'
'McCormack said he wasn't sure. He hasn't heard from him for a while. Geraghty went to live near Thurso, up in Scotland.'
'I'll get him checked out. What was his involvement with Trevor?'
'He never met her, but knew of her. The ASU was setting bombs in Belfast, small ones, booby-trapped so they'd be hard to deal with, and Geraghty would be somewhere up high with his rifle. The plan was to shoot the bomb-disposal guys. Trevor let us know what was happening so we had saturation coverage plus helicopters all over the place. Geraghty didn't get a chance to stick his head up. They moved him to the border and that was that. But according to McCormack, on at least one occasion he heard McGrath telling Geraghty about Fisher and Trevor. Geraghty had a daughter about the same age, name of Kerry.'
'But no one else on the Army Council knew about Trevor?'
'Not according to McCormack.'
'And the other thing? Is he willing to help?'
'He said he'd make enquiries. But that it wouldn't be easy.' Denham looked around for an ashtray but couldn't see one. He pulled a face and flicked ash on to the floor.
'Do you think he'll do it, though?'
'I think so. But without putting himself at risk. It's a hell of a thing to be asking him to do, Patsy. If word got out that he was helping us… even under the circumstances, the hardliners wouldn't think twice about making an example of him.'
'How long before he gets back to us?'
'He didn't say. Couldn't say. He'll put out feelers, ask around, but softly-softly. If he does come across anyone who's gone missing, he'll get back to me.'
'That's great, Liam. Job well done. Now I'd like you back here as soon as possible. The plane's waiting for you.'
'I was thinking it might be an idea if I return via Scotland. I could pop in on Micky Geraghty.'
'Do you know him?'
Denham stubbed his cigarette out on the underside of the desk. 'Never met him. I know it's not exactly on the way, but until McCormack gets back to me, I'm not going to be much use.'
Patsy was silent for a few seconds, thinking it over. 'You're right, it makes sense. You go ahead and see if you can find Geraghty. I'll speak to our transport people, ascertain where we can get you flown into, and I'll have you met there.'
'I'm a big boy, Patsy. I don't need minders.'
'It'll save time, Liam. Just think of them as drivers.'
'Aye. Okay.'
'You be careful, you hear. And Liam?'
'Yes?'
'You're not supposed to smoke in the secure communications booth. It screws up the electronics.'
Denham was still chuckling as he left the room.
– «»-«»-«»Martin's hand was trembling as he picked up the phone. He took a deep breath and put it to his ear as Carter and Fanning encouraged him with nods and urgent smiles. The counter on the digital tape recorder had already started to click off the seconds. 'Yes?' he said, his throat so dry that he could barely get the word out. Carter picked up a lightweight headset and put in on so that she could listen in on the conversation.
'Mart?' It was a man's voice. An Irish accent. 'Mart, is that you?'
It was Padraig. The strength went from Martin's legs and he sat down. He put the receiver down on the table and looked at the two MI5 agents, then shook his head.
'Shit,' said Fanning. He picked up a glass of water and drank, then walked away to look out of the window, cursing under his breath.
Martin stared down at the handset. Padraig was still speaking but Martin couldn't make out what he was saying. He put the phone to his ear. 'Jesus, Mart, say something.'
'Hiya, Padraig. Sorry. I dropped the phone.'
'Are you at home, Mart? I've been trying your mobile but it's off.'
'I haven't had time to charge it,' Martin lied. Patsy had told him to leave the mobile phone switched off so that the kidnappers couldn't use it. They'd used the home phone the first time and Patsy wanted them to use it again.
'I was calling to leave a message. I thought you were still in England.' There was a second or two of silence as Martin's partner gathered his thoughts. 'What the hell's going on, Mart? Where are you?'
Carter shook her head firmly.
'I can't tell you, Mart. I'm sorry.'
'You're still in England, yeah?'
Another shake of the head from Carter.
'I can't tell you that either, Padraig.'
'But Katie and Andy are okay, yeah?'
Martin sighed. He hated being evasive, and he hated lying, but Carter was standing over him, one hand up to her headset. 'It's complicated, Padraig.'
'Mart, I had a visit from the Garda today. Two detectives. A guy called FitzGerald and his partner.'
'Power?'
'Yeah. Power, that was it. Right Laurel and Hardy, they were. They seemed mightily pissed off at something but I had trouble following what they wanted.'
'What do you mean?'
'It was the weirdest thing, Mart. I thought they were going to give me grief for driving you up to Belfast, but they didn't even mention it. I tell you, I was worried they were going to ask to look at my car because I've still not got the window replaced and there's glass all over the seat. They said that you were going to be away from the office for a while, and that I wasn't to worry. They said if anyone asked I was to say that you were at home, off sick. And they said I wasn't to try to get in touch with you.'
'And I can see that you took their advice, Padraig.'
Padraig chuckled. 'Yeah, fucking cops. What are you going to do, eh?'
Martin laughed along with his partner.
'Seriously, Mart. What's going on?'
'I can't tell you, Padraig.'
'They're the cops that hauled you into Pearse Street, aren't they?'
'Yeah. But they've been warned off.'
'Warned off? By who?'
Carter shook her head fiercely and wagged her finger in front of Martin's face. He glared at her and put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'He's my best friend,' he said, a hard edge in his voice. 'I trust him more than anyone.'
'You're risking your daughter's life, Mr Hayes.'
'Don't you fucking patronise me,' Martin hissed. 'I've known Padraig for almost thirty years. I've known you for five minutes. I'm damn sure I know which of you I trust.'
Carter's cheeks flushed and she straightened up. Fanning looked over at them, sipping his water. He flashed her a sympathetic look but she turned away, embarrassed that he'd heard Martin's outburst.
Martin swivelled his chair around so that his back was to them. He took his hand away from the mouthpiece. 'Padraig, the gardai have been told to lay off. It's being handled in London now.'
'That's where you are, yeah?'
'That's right. Any calls to the house are being transferred here. But no one must know, right? If the kidnappers call, they've got to think I'm still in Dublin.'
'Mum's the word, Mart.'
'Anyone asks, do as the gardai said. Just say I'm at home sick and you don't know when I'll be back.'
'Can I do anything to help?'
'No, mate, but thanks for offering.'
'If you need anything, I'm here, yeah?'
Martin thanked his partner and hung up. Carter was standing at the window, looking out at the river. As Fanning went over to the tape recorder, Martin went and stood next to her. 'I'm sorry,' he said.
Carter shrugged. 'It doesn't matter.'
'I didn't mean to snap. It's been a shitty few days.'
'I understand, Martin. But we are trying to help. We're on your side.'
Martin nodded. He felt genuinely bad about lashing out at her. 'Padraig won't do anything to rock the boat,' he said. 'He loves Andy and Katie almost as much as I do.'
She forced a smile. 'I'm sure he won't let you down.' She gestured at the spilt coffee. 'I'll get that cleaned up,' she said.
– «»-«»-«»Lydia McCracken sat on the wooden bench and looked around the garden square. She was wearing a pale blue suit and was carrying a small handbag which she held in her lap. An old woman was feeding pigeons hunks of bread from a Hovis wrapper and muttering to them. Or to herself -McCracken was too far away to hear clearly. The old woman looked homeless, with a thick wool coat tied around the waist with a length of rope, and black Wellington boots with the tops turned over. She had greasy grey hair and blotchy skin, and she kept wiping her nose with the back of her hand. McCracken shuddered and looked away. Several dozen office workers were strolling around the square, getting a breath of fresh air before heading back to their VDUs and keyboards. Three men in their twenties walked by, laughing. Neat suits, polished shoes and starched shirts – only the ties offered any variety. Nothing to distinguish them from the hundreds of thousands of office workers who poured into the City every day. And nothing to distinguish them from the hundreds who'd die when the four-thousand-pound fertiliser bomb went off just a half a mile away from where she was sitting.
McCracken had helped plant bombs before, though she'd never been involved in the building of one. She'd been assigned to the IRA's England Department, but always in a support role, establishing identities and safe houses, arranging transport and, on one occasion, making a coded call to the authorities. She'd always believed in what she was doing – that the only way to drive the British out of Ireland was by force – and she'd felt betrayed by the so-called peace process and the ceasefire that followed. Her younger brother had been killed in a gun battle with SAS troopers in the early eighties, and two cousins were shot by British paratroopers when they tried to drive through an army roadblock close to the border. She wanted revenge against the British for the suffering they'd brought to her country and to her family, and Egan had offered her a way to get that revenge. He'd offered her a lot of money, but that wasn't why she jumped at the chance of working with him. A bomb in the City would derail the peace process, of that she had no doubt. There'd be a backlash, politically and militarily, and it would make the whole world sit up and take notice. But more than that, it would be retribution. Retribution for her dead brother and murdered cousins, and for the hundreds of other Catholics maimed and murdered over the years. The IRA hierarchy might have been able to put that all behind them, but McCracken couldn't and wouldn't.
'Nice day,' said a man in a dark blue pin-stripe suit as he sat down on the bench a few feet from her. He placed a black briefcase on the ground midway between them. It was Egan. He was holding a Marks and Spencer carrier bag and he handed it to her. 'Sandwich?'
McCracken peered inside the bag. It contained two baguettes.
'Thank you.'
'How's everything going?'
'On schedule. Quinn's being a pain in the arse, though. Keeps pestering Andrea. Got a hard-on for her like a baseball bat, he has.'
'Can you handle it?'
'Sure. But he's not reliable. I know what you said about him being useful in a crisis, but he makes her nervous, and at this stage in the operation that's the last thing we need.'
Egan nodded thoughtfully. 'I'll sort it,' he said. He nodded down at the briefcase. 'Take good care of that, huh?'
McCracken smiled tightly. 'I know what I'm doing.'
'I know you do.' Egan stood up and adjusted his tie. 'That's why I hired you for this. Trial run tomorrow, okay?'
'That's the plan.'
'Bring Quinn, will you?'
McCracken picked up the briefcase and put it carefully on her lap. 'I think that's best. I wouldn't want to leave him alone with Andrea.'
Egan walked away. McCracken watched him go. He moved out of the garden square, quickly blending with the other suits and disappearing around the corner. McCracken stood up and walked in the opposite direction. She moved the briefcase as little as possible, all too conscious of the fact that it contained enough Semtex explosive to blow a crater fifty feet wide. She'd transported high explosive before, but that didn't mean she wasn't scared. She'd known too many IRA volunteers who'd been killed in premature explosions.
She thought about the man she knew as Egan as she walked back to Cathay Tower. It was almost certainly not his real name – he was far too professional to reveal his identity to her, because the bottom line was that she was a hired hand. The planning, the details, the money, they all came from Egan. So had the rest of the team. They had all been recruited by him: Quinn and O'Keefe in London, McEvoy and Canning in Dublin, and probably others that she didn't know about. She knew nothing about his background, but he seemed to know everything about her. She hadn't known the others, either, and Egan had said that was an advantage because it would be that much harder for them to betray each other if anything went wrong. It was the philosophy followed by the IRA, dividing its members into small cells which were kept isolated from each other. When Egan had told McCracken that one of the men she was working with was a Protestant, and a member of the UDA, she had protested, but Egan had explained that she'd have to put her tribal loyalties behind her, that what they were doing was far more important than religion or politics. He'd convinced her, and with hindsight she knew that he was right. O'Keefe was in it for the money, as was Quinn. McCracken despised them for that, though she'd never show them her true feelings. All that mattered was that the bomb went off and that people died.
– «»-«»-«»The Wrestler looked over Andy's shoulder at the electronic equipment spread out on the table. 'Where did you learn about electronics?' he asked.
Andy shrugged but didn't say anything. She using a magnifying glass to examine the inside of a small digital alarm clock.
'Cat got your tongue?' asked the Wrestler.
Andy looked up from the magnifying glass. 'You wouldn't want me to make a mistake with this, would you?' she said. 'If I connect the wrong wires, we could all find ourselves splattered over the building opposite.'
The Runner was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, drinking a can of Coke. 'Stuck-up bitch,' he muttered.
The Wrestler reached over and picked up a soldering iron and held it close to his face, sniffing the end.
'That's hot,' said Andy.
'I know it's hot.' He put it back on the table. As he reached across her the sleeve of his overalls rode up and Andy caught a quick glimpse of a tattoo. It was the English flag. The cross of St George, a red cross on a white background. She pretended not to notice and concentrated on the chip at the back of the clock. Green-eyes had gone out a couple of hours earlier. She'd told Andy to check the timers and wiring, though there'd still been no mention of detonators.
Andy checked the alarm. She'd set it to go off in two minutes' time. A blue wire ran from the chip to the negative terminal of a nine-volt battery. A red wire linked the chip to one terminal of a white plastic bulb-holder into which was screwed a small flashlight bulb. A third wire, also red, connected the second terminal of the bulb-holder to the positive terminal of the battery. She could feel the Wrestler watching her over her shoulder, but she forced herself to ignore him. She pressed the switch to activate the alarm. The bulb glowed brightly. Andy cursed and sat back in her chair.
'What's wrong?' asked the Wrestler.
'Oh, nothing,' said Andy. 'It's just that if that had been connected to the device, we'd all be in a million pieces right now.'
The Wrestler peered at the circuit that Andy had put together.
'The light's in place of the detonator,' said Andy. 'It shows if the circuit's live.'
'And it is,' said the Wrestler. 'So what's the problem?' He scratched his stomach and moved his head closer to the bulb, frowning beneath his ski mask.
Andy pointed at the digital read-out on the clock face. 'The problem is it's set to go off in two minutes. I must have connected the wrong chip output.' She pulled the wires out of the clock and picked up the magnifying glass again. Everything looked okay. She put the clock face down on the table and began running the prods of a circuit tester across the chip, trying to find out where she'd gone wrong.
– «»-«»-«»The Hercules landed at an airport outside Wick, in the far north-west corner of Scotland. There was only one man waiting for Denham this time, standing by a battered old Volvo. He was in his fifties with a high forehead and windblown black hair, and he was wearing a sheepskin jacket with the collar turned up against a bitter wind that was blowing in from the North Sea. 'Welcome to Wick!' he shouted above the noise of the Hercules, and he shook Denham's hand firmly. 'Harry McKechnie. Sorry about the transport. The office car's in for a service so I've got to use my own wheels.'
Denham climbed into the front passenger seat. He took out his cigarettes as McKechnie drove away from the airfield. 'You don't mind if I smoke, do you?' he asked.
'Not if you'll light one for me too,' said McKechnie. Denham lit two cigarettes and gave one to McKechnie. McKechnie inhaled gratefully, then turned up the heater. 'Nights are getting bloody cold up here,' he said. There was no trace of a Scottish accent, despite his name.
It was a twenty-five-mile drive to Thurso, and McKechnie spent much of his time complaining about his posting north of the border. He was from Southampton originally, and had joined the Security Service straight from Oxford. He told Denham that he thought his bosses were hoping he'd take early retirement. 'Face doesn't fit,' he said. 'New regime. Bloody kids these days. Half of them don't even drink.' He held up his lit cigarette. 'And they'd rather you farted than lit up one of these.'
Denham grinned and settled back in his seat.
'Okay, to the matter in hand,' said McKechnie. 'Michael Geraghty, Micky to his friends, lives about four miles west of Thurso. Place called Garryowen Farm. He runs executive training courses, Outward Bound for the middle-aged. Takes them rock climbing, canoeing, gives them team-building exercises, that sort of thing.'
'Keeping his nose clean?'
'By all accounts, yes.'
'And he never did time, is that right?'
'Nothing could ever be proved.'
'Bastard.'
'Yeah. His daughter helps him run it. Kerry. She's thirty-two.'
'Any IRA involvement?'
'Periphery, so far as we know.'
Denham shrugged his shoulders. He was tired and could have done with a few hours' sleep, but there was no time. He closed his eyes.
'Sir?' McKechnie's voice jarred him awake.
'Huh?'
McKechnie grinned across at him. 'Your cigarette, sir.'
Denham looked at his right hand. The cigarette had almost burned down to his fingers and he realised that he must have fallen asleep. 'Wasn't snoring, was I?' he asked. McKechnie shook his head but didn't say anything. Denham stubbed his cigarette butt into an ashtray that was already filled to overflowing.
The drive to Thurso took the best part of half an hour, then McKechnie turned off the A882 and headed east. After another ten minutes he turned on to a single-track road and slowed the Volvo down to a walking pace. 'That's it, up ahead,' he said. Denham was impressed by McKechnie. He appeared casual, dishevelled even, but he was well briefed on Geraghty, and though there was a map open on the back seat he hadn't had to look at it.
The headlights illuminated Garryowen Farm, a two-storey grey stone building with a steeply sloping slate roof. There were no lights on. McKechnie stopped the car and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. 'Shit,' he said.
'Let's have a look around the back,' said Denham.
McKechnie drove slowly past the farmhouse. Behind it was a large stone barn which had been converted into flats with individual entrances, and a short row of cottages. They were all in darkness.
The two men climbed out of the Volvo and walked towards the rear of the farmhouse. McKechnie had left the headlights on, and they cast giant shadows as they approached a black-painted wooden door. Denham knocked on it several times. McKechnie stood back to check if a light went on upstairs, but he shook his head. Next to the door was a large sash window. Denham put his hand against the glass and peered inside. It was the kitchen, and there were no signs of life. No dirty dishes in the sink, nothing on the draining board, and a potted plant on the windowsill was wilting and clearly hadn't been watered for days.
McKechnie bent down and examined the lock on the kitchen door. 'Mortice,' he said.
'Part of your training, I thought,' said Denham, walking up behind him.
'It is,' said McKechnie, straightening up. He looked around the garden. 'But mortice locks are buggers without the right equipment.'
'And you haven't…'
'Afraid not. I wasn't planning on any breaking and entering.'
Denham looked up at the top floor of the building. 'I didn't see any alarm at the front, did you?'
'No point, this far away from the neighbours. And the nearest cops must be in Thurso.' He went over to a tool-shed and examined the padlock on its door. 'This is more like it,' he said. He knelt down, took a small leather wallet from the pocket of his sheepskin jacket and worked on the lock with two small strips of metal. He had it open within thirty seconds and pulled open the door. He went inside and reappeared with a large spade. He grinned at Denham as he went over to the sash window and inserted the end of the blade into the gap between the window and the frame. He pushed down on the handle of the spade with all his weight and the window lock splintered.
'You learnt that with Five?' asked Denham wryly.
'Misspent youth,' said McKechnie, leaning the spade against the wall and pushing the window open. 'Boarding school mainly.' He put a foot against the spade handle and heaved himself into the kitchen, head first. Denham was just about to follow when McKechnie called out that the key was on the inside of the door. A few seconds later the kitchen light flickered on, the door opened and McKechnie waved Denham inside. They went through to a wood-panelled hallway. There was an untidy pile of mail in front of the letterbox.
'You check the bedrooms,' said Denham. He pushed open a door as McKechnie went upstairs and flicked on the light. It was a study – floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one wall; the others were wood-panelled with several framed prints of hunting dogs. The furniture was sturdy and worn, comfortable leather chairs with sagging cushions and a large desk with a brass reading lamp. Denham sat down at the desk and pulled open the top drawer. It was filled with papers and Denham took them out. He flicked through them. The most recent was three months ago, a letter from a bank to Geraghty, asking him to telephone the manager about his overdraft. There were several bank statements, three different banks in all, and they were all in the red. Several thousand pounds in the red.
He found a brochure advertising Geraghty's company complete with glossy photographs of smiling executives climbing, abseiling, canoeing and sailing. There was a photograph of a man in his fifties, grey-haired and tough-looking with a nose that had obviously been broken several times. It was Micky Geraghty. Denham pulled the drawer all the way out. At the back was an Irish passport. Inside was a photograph of a slightly younger Geraghty. Denham riffled through the pages of the passport and found two entry stamps for the United States, both from the early nineties. There was a visa for Australia for the previous year. According to the stamps on the opposite page, Geraghty had spent three months there.
He found a diary in the second drawer of the desk, a big leather-bound volume, with each week running across two pages. Geraghty had used it to record the courses he ran. The last entry was for five months earlier. Two entries before that had been crossed out. From the looks of the diary, business hadn't been good for a long time. Underneath the diary were several letters from companies cancelling their courses, most of them blaming the recession.
Denham could hear McKechnie moving around from room to room upstairs. He pulled open the third drawer. It was full of letters and photographs. Letters from Geraghty's daughter, and photographs of a young woman with a man and two small children. Denham flicked through the letters. Kerry Geraghty had moved to Australia and was now living in Brisbane with her husband. She was pretty, with long chestnut hair and laughing blue eyes.
McKechnie came downstairs and Denham heard him picking up the mail by the front door. Denham twisted around in the chair to look at him as he walked into the study.
'I thought you said the daughter helped him run this place?'
'That's what the file says.'
'She emigrated. A couple of years back by the look of it.'
McKechnie looked pained. 'What can I say? The file's obviously out of date. I guess the Geraghtys weren't considered a high priority.' He dropped the letters on the desk. 'Mail's been piling up for three months,' he said. 'No empty hangers in the wardrobes, toothbrush is in the bathroom, and there's an empty suitcase in the boxroom.'
Denham held up the passport. McKechnie exhaled through pursed lips. 'What do you think?'
'I think we should give the house a good going over. Just in case. Top to bottom. The works.' He pushed himself up out of the chair. At the kitchen end of the hall was a door under the stairs, and Denham tried to open it. It was locked. He turned to look at McKechnie. 'Think your misspent youth can deal with this?'
McKechnie grinned and knelt down by the lock. 'Piece of cake,' he said. He went back outside and returned with the spade, inserted it into the side of the door and pushed against the handle with all his weight. The wood splintered and McKechnie pulled back the door and leant the spade against the wall.
Denham wrinkled his nose. A sickly-sweet smell wafted up from the basement below. He took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and held it to his face as he groped along the wall for a light switch. He found it and flicked it on. The smell hit McKechnie and he grunted. He went through to the kitchen, took a towel and held it under a running tap for a few seconds before holding it over his mouth and nose and following Denham down into the basement.
It had a concrete floor and white plastered walls. Along the wall opposite the stairs were shelves lined with climbing equipment, boating gear and camping supplies. A canoe lay upturned on two wooden blocks, a jagged hole in its bottom. In the far corner was a metal trunk. The two men looked at the trunk. Denham went over to it and opened it. The smell was a hundred times worse, and Denham turned his head away, gagging. McKechnie joined him and looked down into the trunk. The body had been wrapped in black garbage bags and had been bent at the waist so that it would fit. A bare foot protruded from one end of the bundle, black and putrescent, the yellowed nails barely hanging on to the flesh.
'Shit,' said McKechnie, his voice muffled by the wet towel.
'Yeah,' said Denham.
McKechnie went over to the shelving, rummaged through a pile of climbing gear and came back with a piton. He stuck the pointed end into the plastic and ripped a jagged hole in it. He stepped back and pressed the towel harder against his face. 'Jesus Christ,' he said.
Denham took a couple of steps back. The stench was overpowering, like meat that had gone bad but much, much worse. It had been a long time since he had been confronted by a corpse, but the smell of rotting flesh was something he'd never forget. He moved towards the trunk again, holding his breath. McKechnie pushed the plastic to the side with the piton, revealing what was left of the face. The flesh had blown up to the size of a football, the skin bluish-green and split in places, the eyes milky and staring. The hair was grey and spiky, the only feature that had anything in common with the photographs he'd seen of Micky Geraghty.
'What do you think?' asked McKechnie.
'Hard to tell,' said Denham. 'But yes, I'd say it's him.' He motioned at the body. 'Take the rest off. Let's see what killed him.'
McKechnie used the piton to tear away the black plastic. The corpse was wearing a denim shirt and corduroy trousers. No shoes or socks. There were two holes in the shirt, and the material was stained with dried blood. McKechnie tore the plastic away from the corpse's left hand. The little finger and the one next to it had been chopped off. McKechnie grimaced.
'So now we know,' said Denham. He reached over and closed the trunk. 'You tidy up here, Harry. I'll phone Patsy with the bad news.'
– «»-«»-«»Andy was pouring herself a cup of water from the cooler when Green-eyes called her name from the door to the meeting room. She took the paper cup with her. Green-eyes was wearing a white sweat-shirt with the sleeves pulled up above her elbows, black ski pants and the ever-present ski mask. On the long table was a black briefcase and a Marks and Spencer carrier bag that Green-eyes had brought with her earlier in the day, when she'd been wearing a pale blue suit. She was holding a videocassette. 'This arrived,' she said, slotting it into the video recorder and switching on the television.
The picture flickered with static, then steadied. It was Katie. It was a short message, barely twenty seconds long, just saying that she was okay and that she wanted to be back home with her mummy and dad. She looked close to tears, and Andy put her hand up to her mouth as she watched. Katie looked much more scared than she'd appeared in the previous video. Her lower lip was quivering and her voice was shaking. 'It's Monday and I want to go home,' she said. The recording ended and the screen was filled with grey static again.
'She's terrified,' said Andy, staring at the static. 'How can you do that to a seven-year-old girl?'
'She's fine,' said Green-eyes. 'That's all you've got to worry about.' She pulled the black briefcase towards her and clicked the locks open.
Andy was still staring at the blank television screen. 'I want to speak to her.'
'You've just seen that she's okay,' said Green-eyes.
Andy turned to face her. 'She said it was Monday. Yesterday. But how do I know it was filmed then? You could have done it last week.'
'For Christ's sake, Andrea. Next time we'll have a copy of that day's paper in the shot, okay? Now come over here.' She turned the open briefcase so that Andy could see the contents. There were four oblong slabs of what looked like bright yellow marzipan, covered in thick, clear plastic. Under the plastic on each block was a white paper label with a black border containing the words EXPLOSIVE PLASTIC SEMTEX-H in capital letters.
Green-eyes took the four blocks out of the briefcase. Underneath were more blocks. Each was about nine by twelve inches, and an inch thick. In all, the briefcase contained sixteen blocks of Semtex.
'Where the hell did you get this from?'
'That's for me to know, Andrea.' She opened the Marks and Spencer carrier bag and took out two bread rolls as Andy examined the explosive. Green-eyes broke one of the rolls in half. Inside were four silver metal tubes, each about three inches long and the thickness of a pencil, with one end crimped around two white wires that had been coiled together. She laid the four tubes on the table, put the remains of the roll in the bag and then crumbled the second one apart. It contained four more tubes.
Andrea picked one of them up. It was a Mark 4 electrical detonator, the type she'd used when she made bombs for the IRA, a lifetime ago. Her hand began to shake, and she put the detonator down on the table. Up until she'd seen the Semtex and the detonators she'd half hoped that Green-eyes wasn't serious about building the bomb. Without the proper detonators and initiator, the fertiliser-aluminium mixture was practically inert, and Andy had been clinging to the possibility that the bomb was being built merely as a threat, in the way that she'd often set bombs in Northern Ireland to tie up the security forces rather than to kill and maim. The contents of the briefcase and the bag brought it home to her that she was building a device that was going to be used.
'They're okay?' Green-eyes asked.
Andy nodded.
'You have to build a bomb for us to use tomorrow. A small one.'
Andy's jaw dropped. 'What?'
'Tomorrow. A small bomb. A test.'
'How small?'
'Big enough to blow up a car, say.'
'Why?'
'You don't have to worry about why, Andrea.'
'Is it to kill someone?'
Green-eyes ignored the question. She went over to the video recorder and popped out the cassette. She held it under Andy's nose for a few seconds, then tossed it into the wastepaper basket.
'Tomorrow. And God help you if it doesn't work. Now get to it.'