Andy woke up as the fluorescent lights flickered into life. She squinted over at the door to the office. The Wrestler stood there with a brown paper bag in one hand and a paper cup in the other. He put them down on the floor in the centre of the room. 'Breakfast,' he said. He'd taken off his shoulder holster.
Andy sat up and rubbed her eyes. 'Thank you,' she said.
'She wants you outside in fifteen minutes.'
'Okay.'
The Wrestler went out and closed the door behind him. Andy climbed out of the sleeping bag that Green-eyes had given her the previous evening. There was no pillow – she'd had to rest her head on a rolled-up pullover, and now she had a crick in her neck. She picked up the brown paper bag and opened it. There was a croissant inside, and a bran muffin. She sat with her back against the wall and ate them both in between sips of hot coffee. She was surprised at how hungry she was, but then realised that she hadn't eaten for almost thirty-six hours.
When Green-eyes had given her the sleeping bag, she'd shown Andy where the bathroom was, at the end of the corridor farthest from the factory area. All it contained was a washbasin and toilet, but it was better than nothing, and Green-eyes had told her she could use it whenever she wanted. There was one stipulation. Andy had to shout that she wanted to leave the office, to give her captors time to put on their ski masks if they weren't already wearing them.
Andy got her washbag out of her suitcase and banged on the office door. 'I want to go to the bathroom!' she shouted.
'Okay!' shouted Green-eyes, off in the distance. Andy opened the door and went along to the bathroom, had as good a wash as was possible in a sink, and brushed her teeth.
Green-eyes was waiting for her in the factory area, still wearing the blue overalls and ski mask. The Runner was loading the bags of ammonium nitrate into the back of the blue Transit van.
'Sleep well?' asked Green-eyes.
'Do you care?' said Andy.
'If it makes you feel any better, I slept on the floor too,' said Green-eyes. She nodded over at the far corner of the factory space. There were three rolled-up sleeping bags there, along with a couple of holdalls. The woman's pistol was on a small plastic table, along with the Wrestler's gun and holster.
'It doesn't,' said Andy.
'We'll be moving tomorrow anyway,' said Green-eyes.
'Where to?'
'You'll find out soon enough, Andrea.' Green-eyes pointed at the plastic chair on Andy's side of the table. 'Sit down.'
Andy did as she was told.
The Runner started loading the conifers into the back of the van, and then packed in the boxes of smaller plants.
'I want you to go through the list again,' Green-eyes said to Andy. 'Everything we'll need for a four-thousand-pound fertiliser bomb.'
'Don't you trust me?'
The green eyes stared at Andy through the holes in the ski mask.
Andy leaned forward. 'Or are you testing me, is that it? To check that I'm consistent?'
'Maybe I just want to make sure that you didn't forget anything,' said the woman. 'Deliberately or otherwise.'
'When can I see Katie?'
'You can't. She's still in Ireland.'
'Let me talk to her.'
'I can't do that.'
'I have to know that she's okay.'
'You have my word.'
Andy snorted. 'Why the hell should I believe anything you tell me?'
'If you ever want to see Katie again, you've no choice,' said the woman.
Andy glared at her. 'At least give me some sign that she's okay. A phone call. Anything.'
'A photograph in front of today's paper?' said Green-eyes, her voice loaded with sarcasm.
'Look, what you're asking me to do is complicated. Really complicated. And I'm going to find it impossible to concentrate if I'm worrying whether or not my daughter is alive. Doesn't that make sense to you?'
Green-eyes tilted her head to one side as she looked at Andy. 'Maybe you're right at that,' she said. 'I'll see what I can do. Now, let's go through the list.'
The Runner finished loading the Transit van. 'Oy, Don!' he yelled. Green-eyes stiffened. Andy pretended not to notice. 'Ammonium nitrate fertiliser,' she said. 'Ratio 34-0-0.'
The Wrestler came out of one of the offices and headed over to the metal door. He began to pull on the chain to open it and the Runner climbed into the driver's seat of the van.
'Aluminium powder. Pyro grade 400 mesh.' Andy fought to keep her voice steady. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes and smiled at the woman in the ski mask. 'Sawdust. Soap powder. Diesel oil.'
The van engine kicked into life. Green-eyes began to write on her pad. Andy forced herself to breathe. Had she managed to convince Green-eyes that she hadn't heard the Runner's slip? That she didn't know that the man built like a wrestler was called Don?
Andy kept talking. 'Three thousand two hundred pounds of fertiliser, six hundred pounds of aluminium powder.' Green-eyes pounds of sawdust and thirty pounds of soap powder.' Green-eyes continued to write as the Runner edged the van out of the factory. Andy stared at the pen as Green-eyes wrote. Did she know that Andy had heard the name? Was she pretending not to attach any significance to the slip so that Andy would think she was in the clear? Andy was trying to bluff Green-eyes; maybe Green-eyes was attempting a double bluff. One thing Andy knew for sure – if Green-eyes thought she'd caught the name, she was as good as dead. She continued to recite the list of components of the bomb, all the time staring at Green-eyes.
To her left, the metal door rattled down. She heard the Wrestler climb into the van and slam the door, then it drove away.
The woman looked up, her pen poised. Andy stared at her green eyes, wishing with all her heart that she could look inside the woman's mind and see for herself whether she was safe or whether her life had just been rendered forfeit by the mistake the Runner had made. Her mouth had gone suddenly dry, and when she swallowed she almost gagged.
– «»-«»-«»O'Keefe stuffed his ski mask into the glove compartment. 'I should fucking blow your brains out here and now,' he said.
Quinn looked across at him, his mouth open in surprise. 'What?'
O'Keefe pointed a finger at Quinn's face, just inches from the man's nose. 'You're a fucking amateur. A fucking piece of shit amateur.'
'Don, what the hell's got up your arse?' Quinn sounded genuinely confused. He braked and brought the van to a halt at the roadside.
'You used my name, you ignorant, stupid shit.'
Quinn gripped the steering wheel with both hands. 'What the fuck are you talking about?'
O'Keefe jerked his thumb back at the industrial estate behind them. 'Back there. You called me Don.'
'I fucking did not.'
'I'm not imagining it, Quinn. I'm not plucking this out of the fucking ether. I was in the bog, you were loading the van. What did you shout?'
Quinn ran a hand through his thick red hair. 'I don't know. But I know I wouldn't use your name. I'm not stupid.'
O'Keefe seized Quinn by the throat, his big, square hand gripping either side of the younger man's neck like a vice. Quinn's eyes widened and his gloved hands clawed ineffectually at O'Keefe's iron-hard fingers. His lips moved silently, white spittle dribbling down his chin. O'Keefe's other hand grabbed Quinn's hair and he yanked the man's head back so that he was staring fearfully up at the roof of the van. 'Not stupid!' O'Keefe screamed. 'Not fucking stupid! I'll give you not fucking stupid!' He tightened his grip on Quinn's throat, threatening to crush his windpipe. 'Now, think back, you little shit. Think back to what you said.'
Quinn's hands fastened around O'Keefe's wrist, but he was powerless against the bigger man's grip.
'Are you thinking?'
Quinn tried to nod but could barely move his head. O'Keefe let go of Quinn's throat and the younger man gasped for breath.
'I'm sorry. For fuck's sake, I'm sorry.'
O'Keefe let Quinn's hair slip through his fingers. 'It's coming back to you now, is it?'
Quinn nodded.
O'Keefe folded his arms and settled back in the passenger seat. 'You've got to be on your toes every second of every minute. You can't let your guard down once, because if you do it can be the death of you. This isn't a game. We get caught and they'll throw away the key.'
Quinn put the van into gear and pulled away from the kerb. His hands were shaking on the steering wheel.
They drove to London, and cut across the city towards the financial district. Quinn brought the van to a halt and nodded at the line of half a dozen cars waiting to drive into the City of London. A uniformed policeman waved through the car at the front while his colleague went to speak to the driver of the second.
'Bloody joke, isn't it?' said Quinn. 'Ring of steel, my arse. What the fuck do they expect to find, huh?'
They're not the ones to worry about,' said O'Keefe. He jerked his chin to the side. 'It's the eye in the sky that does the damage.'
Quinn twisted around in his seat and looked in the direction that O'Keefe had indicated. High up on the office building was a wall-mounted camera pointing at the checkpoint. 'Video, yeah?' he said.
'Not just a video,' said O'Keefe. 'The camera picks out the registration number and runs it through the police computer. It's all done automatically – takes seven seconds to get a read-out on the vehicle. If it's stolen or used by anyone on the Special Branch watch list, there'd be more armed police around us than fleas on a dog.'
They edged towards the front of the queue of cars. O'Keefe reached under his seat and pulled out a metal clipboard. The uniformed policeman walked up to the window and O'Keefe wound down the window.
'Morning, sir,' said the policeman. 'Can you tell me where you're going?'
O'Keefe showed him the clipboard. There was an order form clipped to it with the landscape gardening company's letterhead on the top. 'Cathay Tower,' he said. 'We're doing a rooftop garden. Trees, bushes, the works.'
The policeman stepped back and waved them on, his eyes already on the next vehicle.
'Have a good one,' said O'Keefe as Quinn accelerated away. It was the third time they'd been into the City in the van that week, and as anticipated there hadn't been any problems. It was registered and insured in the name of the landscaping company, taxed and MoT'd and totally legitimate. Quinn's driving licence was clean, though the name and address weren't his.
The main entrance to Cathay Tower was in Queen Anne Street, close to Bank Tube station, but the entrance to the carpark was at the rear, down a narrow side street. O'Keefe showed his pass to the elderly security guard. Like the van's paperwork, it was genuine. The office had been rented some three months earlier, and included in the lease were three parking spaces. They were on the second level of the subterranean carpark, and Quinn drove down and parked.
The service lift was some fifty feet away, so O'Keefe went over to press the button while Quinn opened the rear doors of the van and began unloading the sacks of fertiliser on to the trolley they'd brought with them. Each bag weighed fifty kilos, and Quinn could get six on the trolley. As he put the last one on, the lift arrived and O'Keefe held the door open while Quinn trundled the trolley over.
They went up to the ninth floor. The lift doors opened on to a corridor which led to the main reception area where the passenger lifts were. A door led off the reception area to the lavatories; a corridor led to the main open-plan office area which ran the full length of the building. The entire floor was rented in the name of an overseas stockbroking firm, paid for through a Cayman Islands bank account.
O'Keefe walked into the main office area, which had previously been a dealing room for a major American bank, and went inside. Quinn followed with the trolley. White vertical blinds covered the ceiling-to-floor windows. The NatWest Tower was almost directly opposite. It would be all too easy for one of the thousands of office workers to look in and see what they were doing. The blinds would have to remain closed all the time they were there.
There were already eighteen sacks of fertiliser piled up in one corner. The two men unloaded the trolley, adding the sacks to the pile. O'Keefe waved at a smoke detector in the middle of the ceiling. A red light blinked in the centre of the white plastic disc.
'You think she's watching?' asked Quinn.
'Wouldn't put it past her,' said O'Keefe.
Quinn nodded at the sacks of fertiliser. 'Weird, isn't it?' he said, wiping his hands on his overalls. 'Gardeners all over the country spread this over their lawns, and we're gonna blow a building to kingdom come with it.'
The two men walked over to the window.
'What's weird about that?' asked O'Keefe. 'Give us another cigarette, will you?'
'McCracken said we weren't to smoke here.'
'Fuck McCracken.' He gestured at the smoke detector. 'Anyway, this is a blind spot.'
'You sure?'
'I fitted the thing myself. I'm sure.'
Quinn shrugged and tossed the pack of Silk Cut over to O'Keefe.
O'Keefe took a cigarette, lit it, and tossed the pack back.
Quinn lit a cigarette for himself, and looked over at the sacks of fertiliser. 'I just meant it's weird that like this it's dead safe, right? Regular fertiliser. But add other stuff to it and… you know… bang!'
'Bang?' O'Keefe pushed the blinds to one side and peered across at the NatWest Tower. Thousands of men and women going about their business. Worrying about careers, office politics, their home life. Worrying about a million things, but totally oblivious to the one thing that was going to change their lives for ever. A four-thousand-pound bomb only a few hundred metres away.
'Yeah, bang. Ka-boom!'
O'Keefe let the blinds fall back into place and turned to look at Quinn. 'You think a four-thousand-pound bomb's going to go bang? Or ka-boom? You ever heard a bomb go off? A big one?'
Quinn shook his head.
'Well, I can tell you from the horse's mouth, bang doesn't come into it. Bang's what you get when you burst a balloon. Or fire a gun. Bombs don't go bang. Not big ones.'
'What sort of noise do bombs make, then?'
O'Keefe narrowed his eyes as he took a long pull on his cigarette. He exhaled a tight plume of smoke. 'Are you taking the piss?' he said.
– «»-«»-«»The Mercedes swept up the driveway and parked in front of the two-storey house. Two men in dark suits walked up to the car, nodded when they saw who was inside, then walked back to their post by the front door. Deng sat where he was until his bodyguard had climbed out of the car and opened the door for him. He stood for a moment to admire the view of Hong Kong harbour far below him. Some of the most expensive real estate in the world towered over the narrow strip of water between the island and the mainland of Kowloon. Deng turned back to the house. It had once been the home of one of the richest taipans in Hong Kong, a man whose family had made their fortune running opium into China and who had left the day before the colony was handed back to its rightful masters, vowing never to return. Now it was the property of the People's Liberation Army.
Deng climbed the stairs to the verandah and walked across it and into the house, his Bally shoes squeaking across the polished oak floors. The general was in the taipan's study, the walls still bedecked with the books he'd left behind, bought by the yard and never read. A wooden-bladed fan spun silently above the general's head as he stared out of a picture window that gave him an unobstructed view of Kowloon. In Cantonese, Kowloon was Nine Dragons, signifying the hills that surrounded the peninsula. In fact there were only eight hills – the ninth dragon represented a warlord who'd visited the area hundreds of years earlier. 'What is this place called?' he'd asked.
'Nine dragons,' he was told.
The warlord counted the hills. 'But there are only eight,' he said.
'Until you arrived, sire,' he was told. 'Now there are nine dragons.'
Flattery could be a dangerous thing, Deng knew. It was flattery that had got him into his present predicament. He'd believed everything he'd been told, and now he stood to lose millions of dollars. And more. His life was on the line. His life and the life of his family.
Behind the general's wheelchair stood a Chinese nurse in a starched white uniform, her hair hanging down to the middle of her back like a black veil. Deng walked to stand in front of the general. The old man was pressing an oxygen mask up against his face with one hand. He waved his free hand, indicating that Deng should sit down on a leather winged chair at the side of the window.
The general wheezed heavily, and the nurse stepped forward and adjusted the valve on the oxygen cylinder. The old man gulped several times, and then his breathing steadied. 'I have to go to London soon,' he croaked. 'My doctor
'I understand,' said Deng.
'The air here. It's not good at this time of year.'
Deng nodded. 'It would not be a good idea for you to be in London when…' He left the sentence unfinished.
The general looked at him with watery eyes. 'How long?'
'A week. Seven days.'
'And the money?'
Deng pushed his spectacles up his nose. 'We would anticipate receiving payment a month after the… incident.'
The general began to cough, then he cleared his throat noisily. He took the plastic mask away from his face, leaned to the side and spat noisily into a brass tureen at the side of his chair. Greenish phlegm dribbled down his trembling chin and the nurse rushed forward to dab it with a tissue. Deng averted his eyes, embarrassed by the man's infirmity.
'Will he wait?' wheezed the general eventually.
'I assume so,' said Deng. 'It is the only chance he has of getting his money back. It is the only chance any of us has.'
Deng heard footsteps behind him. A man in a dark suit, not one of the guards at the front of the house, walked across the study and emptied a sack in front of the general. Deng grimaced as a dead dog flopped out on to the floor. A spaniel, the fur on its chest matted with blood. 'My daughter's dog,' said the general.
'A warning,' said Deng.
'My daughter's dog,' repeated the old man. He gestured with his chin at the dead animal, and the bodyguard picked it up by one of its back legs and put it back in the sack. 'He is an evil man, that Michael Wong.'
Deng nodded.
'We should never have done business with him,' said the general. He began to cough again and his chest shuddered. The nurse bent over him but the general waved her away impatiently.
Deng didn't react to the criticism. It had been his idea to bring in Wong as an investor, but what was done was done. It was too late for regrets – the only way out of their predicament was to get Wong's money back. And for that they needed Egan, the American. Only he could save their lives. Their lives and the lives of their families. If they failed, Michael Wong's vengeance would carry far and wide. The general's daughter's dog was just a sign of how far the ripples would spread.
– «»-«»-«»McCracken's mobile rang. It was Egan. 'Everything okay?' he asked.
McCracken walked to the far end of the factory area, away from where Andrea was sitting. 'No problems,' she said.
'I'm five minutes away. Make sure she's out of the way, will you?' The line went dead. Like all of Egan's phone calls it was short, to the point, and unidentifiable. He never used names and always spoke in the vaguest terms possible.
McCracken went back over to Andrea. 'Right, you can stay in the office until the boys get back,' she said. 'Take a coffee with you if you want. And there's doughnuts over there.'
'I'm not hungry.'
'Suit yourself.'
Andrea stood up. 'Why are you doing this?'
McCracken said nothing. She pointed to the offices. 'Keep the door closed until I come and get you.'
Andrea did as she was told. McCracken took off her ski mask and rubbed her face. She made herself a cup of coffee, and as she sipped it she heard Egan's car pull up outside. He let himself in and nodded at her. 'Where is she?'
McCracken jerked a thumb at the offices. 'We've got her well trained,' she said. 'You want a coffee?'
Egan shook his head. He was wearing a black leather jacket over a grey crew-neck pullover and blue jeans and carrying his mobile phone in one hand and his car keys in the other. He looked like a used-car salesman on his day off, a short, well-built man with receding fair hair, cut short, almost army-style. McCracken studied him as he walked over to the table and picked up her notepad. One word came to mind when she thought of the man who was paying her wages. Bland. Pale blue eyes, fair hair, medium height, a squarish face with an average nose, no distinguishing features. If she closed her eyes, she could barely picture his face. Egan studied the list, nodding thoughtfully.
'It's okay?' McCracken asked, going over to join him.
'It's fine. Perfect.'
McCracken pulled off the rubber band that she used to hold her hair back when she had the ski mask on and shook it free. 'If you know what the ingredients are, why do we need her?' she asked.
Egan tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. 'Need to know, Lydia, love. How are Quinn and O'Keefe getting on?' Egan's accent was mid-Atlantic. At times it sounded West Coast American, but generally his voice was as unremarkable as his physical appearance.
McCracken tilted her head to the side. 'O'Keefe's fine. Very professional. But Quinn…'
Egan put down the notepad and narrowed his eyes. 'What?'
McCracken winced under his gaze. She didn't want to badmouth Quinn, but he was the weakest member of the team and she wasn't sure how reliable he'd be under pressure. 'He's a bit… unfocused. Considering what we're expected to do. The next phase and all.'
'It's not too late to replace him, Lydia.' His pale blue eyes watched to see how she'd react.
McCracken knew what he meant by replaced. 'I don't know,' she said.
Egan walked up close to her and looked into her eyes. It's got to be your call,' he said. 'Your responsibility. I can't be here all the time.'
'I know. It's just I haven't worked with guys like him before.'
'He's not a terrorist. He's a career criminal. They have different motivations. Different behavioural patterns.'
'He's undisciplined.'
'That's a function of his background, Lydia. You were trained by the best, mentally and physically. So far as the Provisional IRA are concerned, it's just as important that their volunteers are politically educated as it is that you can fire a gun or place a bomb. Quinn's all action and reaction. A couple of years back he was involved in a bank robbery. Sawn-off shotguns, stun guns, a team of six. They were unlucky and a passing armed response vehicle piled in. Quinn was the only one to get away. Shot two cops. Drove off in their car, cool as a cucumber. Plus he's good with vehicles.' He smiled reassuringly. 'What I'm saying is that if anything does go wrong, Quinn's a good man to have in your corner. But as I said, it's your call. Has to be.'
McCracken nodded. 'He'll be okay. Besides, we're going to need everyone to do the mixing.' She gestured at the notepad. 'According to what the Hayes woman says, there's a hell of a lot of work involved.'
'She's co-operating fully?'
'Carrot and stick,' said McCracken. 'She thinks she's going to see her daughter if she helps us. And that we'll kill her if she doesn't. She keeps asking if she can call her husband. What do you think?'
'Only if it's the only way you can get her to co-operate. The husband hasn't gone to the cops, so the phones are clean. But if you do allow it, keep it short and watch what she says.' Egan jangled his keys. 'Right. I'll leave you to it. I've got to get back to Ireland.' He reached into his jacket pocket and took out an envelope. He handed it to McCracken. 'Be careful with her,' he said, nodding at the offices. 'She's not to be trusted, not for a minute.'
– «»-«»-«»Katie crept up the stairs and put her ear to the door. She couldn't hear anything. 'Hello!' she shouted. 'I have to use the bathroom!' There was no answer. 'It's an emergency!' she shouted at the top of her voice. Still no answer. Katie tried the door handle. It twisted but the door wouldn't move. She didn't think it was locked because if it was locked then the handle wouldn't move. That meant it was only the bolts that kept her in. Katie pushed and pulled the handle, wondering if it would be possible to shake the bolts loose, but the door hardly moved.
Katie kicked the door, but that didn't seem to move it much – it just hurt her foot. She ran her fingers around the edge of the door. There was a gap between it and the frame where the hinges were, and she pressed her eye to it. If she moved her head to the side she could just see the kitchen door at the end of the hallway. If she pushed her head to the other side all she could see was the wall opposite.
She went back down the stairs, sat on the bed and held Garfield in her arms. Cats were always getting out of places, but they were small and could squeeze through tiny holes. There were no holes that Katie could squeeze through. She sat and frowned, her chin resting on Garfield's head. She had to find another way out.
– «»-«»-«»Andy was sitting on the office floor when she heard her name being called. She got to her feet and walked through to the factory area where Green-eyes was standing at the rear of the blue Transit van, still dressed in the overalls and ski mask she'd had on the previous day. There were smaller vans parked next to the Transit. One was grey and one was black, but they both had the name of the same courier firm stencilled on the side.
'Some stuff here I want you to check out,' said Green-eyes.
Andy walked over to the Transit. The green tarpaulin that had covered the bags of fertiliser was lying on the floor. There was no sign of the bags. The Wrestler was over at the table, drinking from a bottle of water. The Runner climbed down from the driver's seat of the van and went to open the rear doors.
The back of the van was filled with dozens of cans of denatured alcohol, batches of twelve wrapped in clear plastic. Andy didn't recognise the brand name but each can was labelled 'Pure Denatured Alcohol' and carried a series of warnings that the contents were flammable, that the vapour could irritate eyes and that the contents were poisonous if swallowed.
'It's what we need?' asked Green-eyes.
'It's fine,' said Andy, checking the labels.
'The aluminium powder's in the box.'
Andy clambered over the stack of cans and pulled open the lid of a large cardboard box. Inside were cans of aluminium powder. She pulled out one of the cans and read the label. Pyro grade 400 mesh.
'We could only get two hundred pounds,' said the Runner. 'We've fixed to pick up another four hundred pounds from a supplier in Essex.'
Andy put the can back into the cardboard box and climbed out of the van, wiping her hands on her jeans.
The Wrestler put his bottle of water down and straightened his ski mask as if it were troubling him. 'It's okay?' he called over to Green-eyes.
Green-eyes waved him over. 'Yeah. Get this delivered and then pick up the electrical stuff.' She turned to Andy. 'Go back to the office, Andrea.'
Andy did as she was told. Behind her, the Runner and the Wrestler took the goods out of the Transit and began loading them into the back of the two smaller vans. She sat on the floor and waited as the metal shutters were raised and the vans drove out of the factory. The shutters rattled down again and a few minutes later Green-eyes opened the door to the office.
'I'm going to make coffee. Do you want some?'
'What I want is to talk to my husband. And my daughter.'
'Maybe tomorrow.'
'Why tomorrow?'
'Who's calling the shots here, Andrea? Me or you?'
Andy glared at the masked woman. 'I just want to know that she's okay. How could you do this? Don't you have children?'
'No, I don't. But I do have people that I love, and people that love me, and I know that I'd do anything to make sure that they didn't come to harm.'
'How would you feel if someone kidnapped somebody you loved? How would you feel if someone said they'd be killed if you didn't do what they wanted?'
'I'd feel the same as you do,' said the woman. 'I'd feel angry and bitter and fearful. But the difference between us is that I wouldn't do anything to jeopardise the lives of those that depended on me.'
Andy's brow furrowed. 'What do you mean?'
The woman reached into the pocket of her overalls and brought out an envelope. She threw it at Andy and it fell on to the floor in front of her. Andy stared at it with wide eyes. It was the letter she'd left at the Strand Palace Hotel. The letter addressed to her husband.
'That was very, very stupid, Andrea,' said the woman, her voice a low growl. 'What did you think? That we wouldn't be checking on you?'
Andy closed her eyes and banged the back of her head against the wall.
'Everything's been planned, down to the last detail. And if you do as you're told, you and your family will be back together in a few days.' She pointed an accusing finger at the envelope on the floor. 'But tricks like that could screw it up for all of us. So don't whine to me about your daughter being in danger. If anyone's putting Katie's life on the line, it's you.' Green-eyes turned on her heels and slammed the door behind her.
– «»-«»-«»Mick Canning drew back the two bolts and opened the door to the basement. Katie was sitting on the bed, and she looked up at him as he walked down the stairs carrying the video camera.
'Hello, Katie,' he said.
'Hi,' she replied.
'Are you hungry?' he asked.
Katie shook her head. 'Not really.'
'It's almost teatime,' he said. 'Do you want fish fingers?'
Katie nodded. 'Okay,' she said, her voice trembling as if she were close to tears.
Canning put the video camera on the table. He waved Katie to come over. She sat down on one of the wooden chairs. 'I want to take some pictures of you,' he said. He nodded at the video camera. 'With this.'
'Why?'
'So that I can send the tape to your mum and dad. So that they know that you're okay.'
'Why don't you let me telephone them? I know my number, it's Dublin six seven nine…'
Canning smiled beneath his ski mask. 'I know what your telephone number is, but it's better if we do it with the video camera.'
'Why?'
'Because then they can see you as well as hear you.' He picked it up and pointed it at her. 'Now, I want you to say something like, Hello, this is Katie. I'm fine. They're taking very good care of me. You can wave, too, if you want. But this is really important, Katie. I want you to say that it's Friday, okay? Can you do that?'
Katie nodded hesitantly.
'Okay, so when I press this button, the one my finger's on, then the red light here comes on and you start talking. Okay?'
'Okay,' said Katie.
'Right. Three, two, one…' He pressed the record button and nodded at her.
'Hello, Mummy,' she said. 'Hello, Dad. Are you there?'
Canning made a circling motion with his finger, encouraging her to talk.
'I'm fine. There's a nice man taking care of me. He's giving me fish fingers and beefburgers and comics to read. But he won't let me come and see you.'
Canning mouthed the word 'Friday'.
'Oh yes, I nearly forgot. It's Friday today. Mummy, please come and get me. I want to go home.'
Canning pressed the button to stop the recording, then reached over and ruffled her hair. 'Good girl,' he said. He took the tape out of the recorder. 'You did that really well.' He took a second cassette out of his pocket and slotted it into the recorder. 'Now, we're going to try it again. Say what you said before, but this time I want you to say that it's Saturday, okay?'
Katie frowned. 'Why?'
'Because when your mum and dad get the tape, it might be Saturday.'
'What day is it today?'
'That doesn't matter, Katie.'
Katie lapsed into silence and nibbled on her lower lip.
'What's the matter?' asked Canning.
'I don't want to,' she said.
Canning stared at her for several seconds, then he switched off the video camera. 'Okay, maybe we'll try again later. I'll go and get your fish fingers.'
'I'm not hungry,' she said. 'Not really.'
– «»-«»-«»Andy picked up the envelope and opened it. It was the piece of paper that had been slid under the door of her room in the Strand Palace Hotel. Along the bottom she'd scrawled 'Martin, this is where they want me to go. I love you. Don't let anything happen to Katie'. Now he'd never get the message. She ran her hands through her hair. She had to talk to Martin. She had to let him know that she was all right.
Her eyes were tired and gritty from crying and her throat was painfully dry, but the discomfort was nothing compared with the ache in her heart. Andy had seen news reports of the bomb that Republican terrorists had detonated in Omagh in Northern Ireland in the summer of 1998. Twenty-eight people killed, two hundred injured. The aftermath of the massacre had been captured by a tourist with a video camera and she and Martin had watched horrified as shocked and bleeding survivors had staggered along streets littered with broken glass and twisted metal. Nine of the dead were children. Andy had cried when she'd seen the pictures, cried on Martin's shoulder as he'd held her.
She screwed up the letter. Four thousand pounds was a massive bomb. Bigger than any that had ever exploded in England or Ireland. The bomb that had done a billion pounds' worth of damage to London's Docklands in 1996 was a thousand-pound mixture of fertiliser and Semtex. The bomb in Omagh had been smaller, just five hundred pounds of home-made explosives packed into a car. That bomb had devastated the centre of the market town. The damage that a bomb eight times bigger would do defied Andy's imagination. Four thousand pounds. It could kill hundreds of people. It could bring down a skyscraper.
She hated Green-eyes for the way she was making her choose. The life of her daughter, or the lives of strangers. Andy would kill to protect Katie, of that she had no doubt. And if she was ever put in the position where she had to give up her own life for the life of her daughter, she'd do it willingly. Nothing was more important, no sacrifice to great, to safeguard the life of her only child. But killing and maiming innocent strangers. That was something else. It was a diabolical choice to have to make. A choice no one should ever be faced with.
– «»-«»-«»Canning put the video camera down in front of McEvoy, who was cleaning their two Makarov 9mm pistols and working his way through a bottle of Bushmills. His.38 Smith amp; Wesson was on the floor next to the coffee table. 'Okay?' he asked.
Canning put a single videocassette tape on the table and McEvoy scowled. 'Where's the rest?' he snapped.
'Just did the one,' said Canning. He went over to the fridge and pulled a box of fish fingers and a bag of oven chips out of the icebox.
'We were told to do seven,' said McEvoy, holding the barrel of one of the pistols to his face and squinting down it. 'One's no fucking good to anybody, is it?'
'I'll do them later.'
'You'd better. Egan wants them in London tomorrow.'
Canning switched on the oven and spread a layer of chips on a metal tray. 'The kid's a bit wary, that's all.'
'Wary? What do you mean, wary? Give her a slap and tell her to do as she's told. We're the fucking kidnappers, she's the fucking kidnappee, Mick. We tell her what to do, not the other way around, right?'
Canning put the chips in the oven and closed the door. He took off his ski mask and rubbed his face. The woollen mask always made his skin itch. 'She's a seven-year-old kid, George. She's scared shitless. She needs careful handling.'
McEvoy put the gun down and took another swig from the bottle of Bushmills. 'I'll give her careful handling,' he said.
'It'll be okay. I'll take care of it.'
McEvoy scowled at him. 'You'd better. Or you can explain to Egan why you're letting a kid run rings around you.'
– «»-«»-«»Mark Quinn lit a cigarette and offered the pack to O'Keefe. O'Keefe took one and grunted his thanks. They walked out of the lift towards where they'd parked the two vans.
Quinn leaned against the van he'd been driving and pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket. 'Sawdust, diesel oil and soap. Containers and black bags.'
'You've got the sawdust sorted, have you?' asked O'Keefe.
'Yeah. And I'll pick up the diesel from a garage on the way. Can you get the rest of the stuff?'
'Sure.' O'Keefe climbed into his van and wound down the window. 'You okay for cash?'
Quinn opened his wallet and flicked through a wad of fifty-pound notes. He nodded at O'Keefe.
'Right, see you back at the factory.' O'Keefe drove off. Quinn studied the list in his notebook. Most of the ingredients were innocuous enough and wouldn't arouse the interest of the police officers who manned the checkpoints on the roads that led into the financial district. The ones that might cause suspicion, such as the aluminium powder, the alcohol and the diesel oil, could be smuggled through in the back of the courier vans. The vans bore the registration numbers of vehicles used by a genuine courier company that did a lot of business in the City.
Egan had planned everything down to the last detail. The office had been leased months before it was needed, and the vehicles had all been in place before Quinn had arrived in London. Other than McCracken and O'Keefe, Quinn didn't know who was involved in the operation, but they were obviously all professionals. He took a long pull on his cigarette and inhaled deeply. He wondered what they had to gain from building a bomb in the City of London. When he'd first agreed to the job, Quinn had asked Egan for an explanation, but Egan had told him that the reasons weren't important, that he wasn't being paid to ask questions.
Quinn took a final drag on his cigarette and dropped it on to the ground. He stamped on it, then got into the van, switched on the ignition and drove slowly out of the carpark. He turned on the radio and pushed the tuning buttons until he found a station playing heavy metal. He nodded his head back and forth in time with the beat as he drove through the City, choosing a road out that he hadn't used for a couple of days, just to be on the safe side. He was waved through the checkpoint by a bored uniformed policeman who didn't even give him a second look.
– «»-«»-«»Canning knocked on the basement door and slipped back the bolts. Katie was lying on her camp bed, curled up around her Garfield toy.
'I feel sick,' she said.
'You're just upset,' he said. 'You're worried, that's all. It's going to be okay. Just a few more days.'
'No, I feel really sick. Hot.'
Canning put his hand on her forehead. She was indeed hot and her skin was clammy with sweat.
'Sit up. Let me have a look at you.'
Katie did as he asked and looked at him with sad eyes as he felt her neck.
'Open your mouth.'
She opened her mouth wide and closed her eyes. He told her to turn her head so that the light shone into her mouth. The sides of her throat were bright red, but there were no white patches which would have indicated serious infection.
Katie opened her eyes. 'Are you going to take me to the hospital?' she said.
Canning smiled. 'You've just got a bit of flu, that's all. You've had flu before, haven't you?'
Katie nodded.
'Okay. I'll go and get you some medicine. But don't worry, you're going to be all right.' Katie saw the video camera that Canning had put on the bed and began shaking her head.
'You've got to do it for me, Katie.'
'I don't want to.'
'I'm not asking you to do anything dangerous. It's not going to hurt you.'
'But it's not Saturday. I'll be telling a lie.'
'But it might be Saturday when they get the message. If you say it's Friday and they get the message on Saturday, they might be worried. You can understand that, can't you?'
Katie nodded. 'I guess.'
'I mean, suppose we put the tape in the post. It might take two days before your mum gets it. You don't want your mum to worry, do you?'
Katie rubbed her nose with the palm of her hand. 'No.'
'So let's record a message that'll make her happy, then I'll go and get your medicine. Okay?'
'Okay. I guess.'
Canning put the camera up to his face, pressed the 'record' button and nodded.
'Mummy. Dad. This is Katie. Your daughter.' She hesitated.
Canning mouthed the words 'I'm fine' and nodded encouragingly.
'I'm fine,' said Katie. 'But I've got flu, I think. My head hurts and my throat's sore. The nice man is going to give me some medicine to make it better so I should be okay soon.'
Canning mouthed 'Saturday'.
'He said to say it's Saturday and that I'm okay. Mummy, I want to come home…'
She started crying and Canning switched off the video camera. He gave her a hug but her little body was racked with sobs.
'I want to go home,' she said.
'I know you do,' said Canning.
She curled up on the bed with her back to him and he went upstairs and into the kitchen. McEvoy was watching the news on a portable television set.
'How's the little princess?' he snarled.
'She's got the flu. I'll go and get her some Night Nurse or something.'
'Did she do the tape?'
'Yeah. Saturday.'
'Egan wants a week's worth. He's not going to be happy with two days.'
'The kid's sick,' said Canning.
'She's going to be a hell of a lot sicker if this thing doesn't pan out,' said McEvoy. 'Sick as in dead.'
– «»-«»-«»Lydia McCracken was sitting in front of her computer when she heard the van pull up outside. On the screen was a closed-circuit television image of the reception area of the office on the ninth floor of Cathay Tower. She pressed one of the function keys and a different view appeared. The sacks of fertiliser. There were six hidden cameras in the office – three in smoke detectors, two hidden behind mirrors, and one in an air-conditioning unit. She checked all six viewpoints, satisfying herself that the office was secure. She switched off the computer as the outside door opened. It was Quinn.
'Everything okay?' she asked.
'Sure. I've got the diesel and the sawdust. Don's picking up the rest of the stuff. You want me to get the woman out? Get her to check it?'
'No need. Diesel and sawdust's straightforward enough.'
She looked at her watch. It was after seven, so there wasn't enough time to get the electrical equipment. It would have to wait until tomorrow. 'Leave the stuff in the vans. Best we use them rather than the Transit.'
'You hungry?' asked Quinn. 'I'm starving. I'll go out and get a takeaway, yeah?'
'Might as well,' said McCracken. 'But nothing close by, okay? Drive into Milton Keynes. And don't use the vans, take the Volvo or the VW.' She nodded over at the offices. And ask her what she wants. She hasn't eaten since breakfast.'
Quinn pulled his ski mask on and tucked it into his shirt collar. He went over to the office where they were keeping the woman. Andy was sitting with her back against the wall, her suitcase by her side.
'Room service,' he said.
Andy looked up at him, confused.
'I'm going out for food. Do you want something?'
She put a hand on her stomach and nodded her head. 'Yes. Please.'
'Any requests? Indian? Chinese? Burger King? I'm driving into town.'
'Anything.'
'You'll have to give me a clue,' said Quinn, closing the office door behind him. He tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers and stood with his legs apart, his groin thrust slightly forward. 'I don't know what you like.'
'A sandwich. Anything.'
Quinn pulled a face. 'I'm not sure if I can get sandwiches. Fast food, yeah?'
Andy pushed her hair away from her face. 'A burger'll be fine, then.'
'Cheeseburger?'
'Okay.'
'Anything to drink?'
'Coffee'll be fine. Thanks.'
Quinn nodded. He looked her up and down. She had long legs, and a good, firm bust. Nice hair, too. Soft and blond. She looked good for a thirty-four-year-old. That was what O'Keefe had said, but Quinn didn't believe him. She couldn't possibly be a whole ten years older than he was. Nice mouth. Full lips and really white teeth, the sort of teeth that the models in toothpaste adverts had.
'I want to talk to my daughter,' she said.
'I bet you do,' said Quinn.
'And my husband. I want him to know that I'm all right.'
Quinn shrugged. 'It's not up to me. You'll have to ask McK…' He caught himself before the name slipped out. She wasn't going to catch him out as easily as that. 'You'll have to ask her outside.'
'You know her, right? Can't you persuade her? I just want to phone my husband. And talk to my daughter. That's not too much to ask, is it? I'm co-operating. I'm doing everything you ask.'
Quinn stared down at her for several seconds. His chest had gone tight and it was difficult to breathe. 'What's it worth?' he said eventually.
Andy frowned up at him. 'What?'
'You know. What's it worth?' He jutted his neck forward. 'I do something for you, you do something for me. Yeah?'
Andy drew her knees up against her chest. 'I just want to talk to my daughter, that's all. And my husband. I want to know that they're all right.'
'Great. I can probably persuade her to let you use the phone. But you're gonna have to do something for me.' He licked his upper lip as he watched the rise and fall of her breasts. 'Just one blowjob,' said Quinn. He took a step closer to her. 'No one'll know.' He jerked his head towards the door. 'She won't know. Your husband won't know. It'll be our secret.'
Andy looked up at him for several seconds, then she slowly got to her knees, her eyes never leaving his face. Quinn put his hands down to his zipper but Andy shook her head. 'Let me,' she said, her voice a seductive whisper.
The breath caught in Quinn's throat and he closed his eyes, his legs trembling with anticipation.
The pain hit him like a hot poker in his groin and he gasped. Her right hand had grabbed his scrotum and squeezed like a vice. He opened his eyes, but before he could react her left hand had squeezed him around the throat and she had pushed him back against the wall. He tried to move to the side but she gripped him harder, crushing his testicles so hard that he could feel her fingernails digging through the denim of his jeans. His eyes watered and he tried to yell at her but her grip on his throat was as tight as her hold on his genitals.
Her face was only inches away from his. 'You don't scare me,' she hissed. 'You might have my daughter, but you don't scare me, do you understand?'
Quinn tried to nod but he couldn't move his head. A tear trickled down his cheek underneath his ski mask.
'If you come near me again, I'll hurt you like you've never been hurt before. I'll crush your balls or I'll poke my fingers in your eyes or I'll scratch your face so deep that the scars will never heal, do you understand me?'
Quinn nodded.
Andy stared into his eyes, then she released her grip on him and stood back, her hands up defensively. She glared at him, her cheeks flushed.
'You fucking bitch!' spat Quinn, rubbing his neck. 'Too good for me, is that it? You'll do it and more for me before I've fucking finished with you.'
Andy didn't say anything. She stood facing him with her hands up, fingers curled. Quinn stepped sideways, groping for the door handle, then he pulled the door open and slammed it behind him.
He went back to the factory area where McCracken was checking her mobile phone.
'She's not hungry,' he said, taking off his ski mask.
McCracken put her phone back in her briefcase and locked it. 'Don't fuck with her, Quinn. Okay?'
'What do you mean?'
'You know what I mean. We need her – the more she cooperates with us the sooner we'll be finished and the sooner you'll get your money.'
'Yeah, I know.'
'So don't fuck with her. Don't even talk to her.'
'You said ask her what she…'
'Yeah, well, that was my mistake. Keep away from her.'
She looked as if she wanted to say more, but she turned away when they heard O'keefe arrive in his van.
'So, what do you want to eat?' Quinn asked. 'It's on me.'
'Whatever,' said McCracken. 'I've lost my appetite.' She went out to meet O'Keefe, leaving Quinn staring sullenly after her.
– «»-«»-«»Martin Hayes left the office early. He hadn't been able to get any work done so he'd told Padraig that he wasn't feeling well. He was in the house by four o'clock. He let Dermott out into the garden, and was making himself a cup of instant coffee when the doorbell rang. The noise startled him and he spilled boiling water over the counter top. He cursed and went to see who was at the front door. There were two uniformed officers of the Garda Siochana, the Irish police, standing on the doorstep, one grey and in his late forties, the other younger and taller. They were both wearing waterproof jackets, flecked with rain.
'Mr Hayes?' asked the older one. 'Mr Martin Hayes?'
'Yes?' said Martin. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Two unsmiling policemen could only mean bad news. He held on to the door handle for support, gripping it tightly.
'Is your wife at home?'
Martin narrowed his eyes, confused. The question was totally unexpected. He'd assumed that they were there to tell him that Katie or Andy had been found. And found meant dead, because if they were okay then they'd be on the doorstep with the policemen. 'What?'
'Mrs Hayes. Mrs Andrea Hayes. Is she at home?'
'No,' said Martin, hesitantly.
'What about your daughter?'
'My daughter?'
'Katie. You only have the one child, don't you?'
'Yes,' said Martin.
'Can we see her, please?'
Martin shook his head. 'I'm sorry. What?'
'Your daughter. We'd like to see her.'
'She's not here.'
'Where is she?'
'What's this about?' asked Martin. He looked from one garda to the other. They both looked back at him like undertakers weighing up a corpse.
'Could you tell us where your wife and daughter are, Mr Hayes?'
Martin realised that he was gripping the door handle so tightly that he was losing the feeling in his hand.
'They're out.'
'Out where?'
'Look, could you tell me what this is about? Is something wrong? Has something happened?'
'That's what we're trying to find out, Mr Hayes.'
Martin could feel his legs start to shake. The more he tried to stop them shaking, the worse it got, and he was sure that the two gardai could see the effect their presence was having on him.
'My wife's out. With Katie. They'll be back tomorrow. They've gone up to Belfast.'
The older garda raised an eyebrow and waited for Martin to continue. Martin could feel his lips slide across his teeth as he widened his smile. His legs were starting to tremble again.
'To see her aunt. Her aunt's sick and Andy wanted to go and make sure that there was food in the house, stuff like that.'
'And she took your daughter with her?' said the older garda.
Martin nodded. 'I've been really busy at work. I couldn't guarantee that I'd be able to pick Katie up from school. We decided that it'd be better if she went with Andy. It's only going to be for a few days.'
'Andy?'
'My wife. Andrea. I call her Andy.'
'And you didn't think of informing the school?'
Martin suddenly realised what the visit was about. The woman in the headmistress's office, Mrs O'Mara, must have called them. He shrugged. 'She's only seven. We didn't think she'd be hurt by a few days off school.'
'I've got kids myself,' said the older garda. 'Boy of fifteen, girl of twelve. A few years back I took them to Galway, caravan holiday. I love caravans, me. Love the freedom. Thing is, I asked the school if they could be allowed to take their holidays a week early. I was having trouble getting time off. It was like pulling teeth. They wouldn't have it.'
Martin nodded. The garda was smiling ingratiatingly, trying to put him at ease. There was no warmth in the man's smile and his cold eyes continued to stare at Martin.
'So maybe that's why you didn't tell the school, eh?' the garda continued. 'Maybe you thought they wouldn't let her go?'
Martin shrugged. 'I didn't really think about it. It was my wife's idea, really. It was all short notice, you know. Her aunt called and Andy went the same day.'
The older garda nodded. 'How did she go?'
'What?'
'How did your wife go up to Belfast?'
Martin's mind whirled. Why was he asking that? The reason hit him like a blow to the stomach. There were two cars parked in the driveway. Martin's Range Rover and Andy's Renault Clio. So the gardai knew that Andy hadn't driven up to Belfast.
'She took the train. I mean, they took the train. Andy and Katie.'
'Which train?'
'The Belfast train,' said Martin.
The garda smiled as if there had been a simple misunderstanding. 'The time,' he said. 'What time did the train leave?'
Martin had no idea how often trains went from Dublin to Belfast. 'Morning. Tennish. On Wednesday.'
'Wednesday?'
Martin nodded.
About ten?'
'That's right.'
The two gardai exchanged looks but Martin couldn't tell what they were thinking.
'And your wife's aunt. What was her name?'
'Bessie.'
'Bessie. Where exactly does she live?'
'I'm not sure of the address, exactly. But it's north Belfast.' Martin figured the best thing to do was to keep his answers as vague as possible. Specifics could be checked.
'And how was your wife going to get from the station to her aunt's house?'
'Taxi, I guess.'
'And why didn't she drive up to Belfast?'
Martin shrugged but didn't answer.
'Has she phoned? Your wife?'
Martin rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. It was unlikely in the extreme that Andy would have gone away and not telephoned him. But if he said yes, could they check? He was sure that the phone company could provide a list of numbers called from the house, but were they also able to tell who had phoned in? He had no choice, he had to lie. They wouldn't believe that his wife and daughter would have gone away for five nights and not phoned. 'Several times,' he said. 'In fact, she called last night.'
The younger garda took out a small green notebook and a pen. 'Could you give us the number, please, sir?'
'The number?'
'Your Aunt Bessie's telephone number?' said the older garda.
'She's not my aunt. She's Andy's aunt.'
'And the number?'
'I don't think she's on the phone.'
'But you said she phoned to ask your wife to go up and take care of her.'
'She must have used a phone box.'
'But you said she was ill. Needed looking after.'
Martin could feel himself being painted into a corner. The older garda didn't look particularly bright – he had a wide chin and a flattish nose and he spoke slowly, as if he had trouble putting his thoughts together, but it was clear that he wasn't missing anything.
'I'm not sure if it was her that phoned. Andy took the call. It could have been someone else, phoning for her.'
The older garda nodded thoughtfully. 'And when are you expecting your wife back?'
'I'm not sure.'
'She didn't say when she called last night?'
'No. No, she didn't. Look, what's this about? Has something happened?'
The older garda looked at Martin for several seconds before answering. 'We're not sure, Mr Hayes. In fact, it's all a bit of a mystery, really. You know a Mrs O'Mara?'
'She's a secretary at my daughter's school. She phoned yesterday, she wanted to know why Katie wasn't at school.'
'Well, now she's missing, too.'
'My daughter isn't missing,' said Martin, and the older garda held up his hand as if trying to calm him down. Martin found the gesture patronising in the extreme, but he bit his tongue.
'There's no need to get upset, Mr Hayes. You know what I mean. Mrs O'Mara had mentioned to the headmistress that she was concerned about your daughter. Now Mrs O'Mara hasn't turned up for work. We've been around to her house and she's not there.'
Martin put his hand up to his forehead, frowning. 'I don't get what you're saying. Mrs O'Mara isn't at home so you think something's happened to Katie? That makes no sense. No sense at all.'
'That's right,' said the garda. 'It's a mystery. And mysteries annoy the hell out of me. But nothing you've said so far has reassured me that your daughter is safe and sound.'
'What?' Martin didn't have to feign his reaction. 'That's fucking ridiculous!'
The younger garda stepped forward as if he was expecting Martin to attack his colleague. Martin realised he'd bunched his hands into fists and he forced himself to relax.
'Look, my wife and daughter are out of town, that's all. They'll be back any day now.'
The older garda nodded slowly. He reached into the inside pocket of his waterproof jacket and took out a business card. 'My name's O'Brien,' he said. 'Sergeant O'Brien. Next time your wife phones, would you get her to call me? Just so's we know that she's okay.'
Martin reached for the card, but the garda didn't let go of it. 'Sure. I will,' said Martin.
The two men stood for a few seconds, both holding the card.
'Don't forget now,' said O'Brien. He let the card slip through his fingers, then stepped back from the doorstep. The two gardai walked down the path, away from the house. The younger garda twisted his head and said something into his radio and there was a burst of static.
Martin closed the door and leaned against it, his heart pounding like a jackhammer.
– «»-«»-«»Egan frowned as he listened to the tape. The two gardai turning up was an unexpected development, and it meant he was going to have to revise his plans. Martin Hayes had handled it better than Egan had expected, but one of the gardai, the one who'd introduced himself as O'Brien, had been persistent in his questioning, especially about the train that Hayes claimed his wife had taken up to Belfast. By the end of the conversation he seemed to have accepted what Hayes had said, but Egan doubted that the gardai had been deceived. They'd go away and make further enquiries, but eventually they'd be back.
Egan was surprised that they'd made the connection between the O'Mara woman and the Hayes girl. Mrs O'Mara was safely buried in a wood some twenty miles south of Dublin – it was sheer bad luck that the secretary had expressed her concerns about Katie's absence to the school's headmistress.
He swivelled his chair around and hit the print button on his computer keyboard. The laser printer whirred and Egan picked up the letter and read it through carefully before signing it. He fed it into the fax machine on the desk and dialled the number of his bank in Zurich. The letter contained instructions to transfer one million dollars to another of his accounts, this one in the Cayman Islands. From there he'd move it to the Dutch Antilles. He'd only had the Zurich account for six months, and once his work for the men from Beijing was finished he'd close it. The fax machine swallowed the sheet of paper and Egan flicked the top off a bottle of Budweiser. He went over to the window and looked out over the city as the fax machine whirred behind him. The serviced apartment he was renting was little more than a hotel suite, and just as anonymous. Anonymity was something that Egan worked hard at. In public he never expressed emotion, never lost his temper. His passage through life was as smooth and unhindered as that of a razor slitting flesh. Any obstruction and he simply slid around it; any confrontation was to be avoided at all cost.
Egan had the ability to enter a room and leave without anyone remembering him. He had friends who took pride in being able to get the best table in restaurants or walk to the front of a nightclub queue, but Egan hated the idea that a maitre'd or a bouncer would know who he was. He dressed casually but conservatively, wore no jewellery other than a battered Rolex on a leather strap that had once belonged to a friend of his, a Navy SEAL who'd died in Kuwait, and drove the sort of cars favoured by sales reps. Ostentation was for film stars, musicians or high-profile businessmen who wanted to see their faces in the tabloids. Egan was a professional terrorist, and the only people he wanted to acknowledge him were the people who paid his wages.
He took a swig from the bottle of Budweiser. Behind him, the fax finished transmitting and ejected the letter. One million dollars. The equivalent of twelve years' salary in his last job. Egan had worked for the Defence Intelligence Agency in a black operations department that spent most of its time attempting to destabilise anti-American governments in South America. Blackmail, bribery, assassination – it had been the best possible training for his present career. Egan had left after five years, spent six months travelling the world establishing fake identities and opening a daisy-chain of bank accounts, then set up on his own. Freelance. It had been the best move he'd ever made. A militant Islamic group funded by Osama Bin Laden had paid him a total of three million dollars for his work with Muslim terrorists in Kenya and Tanzania, and he'd been paid half a million dollars for his past in a series of bomb attacks by white supremacists in America, including the bombing of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City. Three months as an adviser with the Palestinian Liberation Organisation had netted him two million dollars, and his work for the men from Beijing would earn him a further seven million, minus expenses.
By the end of the year his account in the Dutch Antilles would contain more than twelve million dollars. The money itself was of little practical concern to Egan. He lived modestly, owned no property or cars, and virtually all his outgoings were work-related. Money was simply a way of keeping score. The more he had, the better he was doing.
He put down his beer and went over to the fax machine. He used a cheap plastic lighter to set fire to the letter, then dropped it into a metal wastepaper bin at the side of the desk.
He looked at his Rolex. Everything was on schedule, everything was going to plan. The DIA had taught Egan well. All he had to do now was to work out the best way of killing Martin Hayes.
– «»-«»-«»Andy lay on her side, her head resting on a rolled-up pullover. There had been no sound from outside for more than hour, though a strip of light still seeped in under the office door. Her stomach growled, but she steadfastly refused to ask her captors for food. She'd gone to the bathroom, remembering to shout for permission first, and had come back with a paper cup of water.
She rolled over and stared at the door. It wasn't locked; nor was the metal door that led outside. All she had to do was walk out of the office, down the corridor, across the factory area and out of the main door. There was nothing stopping her, nothing physical anyway. What was the expression? Iron bars do not a prison make. Andy didn't know if it came from a poem or one of Shakespeare's plays, but it described her situation perfectly. She was powerless, totally, utterly powerless, because the moment she walked out the kidnappers would vanish and Katie, her dear, darling Katie, would be dead. If she did run away, and if she did go to the police, what could she tell them? What did she know about her captors or what they were doing?
She knew that one of them, the one built like a wrestler, was called Don. And she knew that the woman had a name that started with 'McC. Or 'McK'. The woman had an accent that suggested she was Irish but had spent a lot of time in Scotland. Or vice versa. That was it. The sum total of her knowledge. She knew that they wanted to build a big bomb, a huge bomb, but she didn't know where they planned to use it or why. If she did walk out and her captors had disappeared by the time she got back with the police, then there was no way that they would ever be able to track them down. Green-eyes, the Wrestler and the Runner always wore their ski masks and gloves – she was totally incapable of identifying them.
And even if she could get outside and get to the police, and if they managed to get back in time to arrest her captors, then what? They hadn't tied her up, they hadn't put a gun to her head. They'd used the threat of what might happen to Katie, but how on earth could she prove that? They were putting together the ingredients for a bomb, but Andy knew from experience that until the ingredients were actually combined, all the evidence was circumstantial. And if she did bring in the police, what incentive was there for Green-eyes and her companions to confess? If they admitted it, they'd face long prison sentences for kidnapping and terrorism. Their best option was to say nothing and to get rid of the evidence. And that meant she'd never see Katie again. No, there was no way she could walk away. No way could she rely on the police. If there was a way out of the nightmare she was trapped in, it was up to her to find it. Up to her and Martin.
She closed her eyes tight and tried to imagine herself in her husband's arms. She wished with all her heart that she was back with him, back in her house in Dublin, safe and warm, with Katie asleep in the next room. It was no good. The unyielding floor beneath her was a constant reminder of where she was, and what lay ahead.