Corrigan turned to Minogue.
"Smart enough not to touch the phone back at the house."
Minogue managed a smile. Corrigan had the face of a man whose horse had unexpectedly gained ground toward the end of the race. His eyes glittered.
"Well, he'll find us when we want him to, the little shite," Corrigan whispered with a weak smile starting below his nostrils.
"— Talking into the phone… looking around," said the Kerry accent.
Dunne piloted the car around a curve in the road. Minogue saw the Shopping Centre ahead.
"— Get clear for to take up any slack, Car Two," Corrigan barked.
"— Will do, Control. Just need a minute to…"
"Pull over here," Corrigan muttered. "Yeah, here. I'm not entirely sure I like the look of this."
The warning torie in Corrigan's voice registered on Minogue. He, too, began straining to see across the junction ahead. A double-decker bus slowed to a stop in the traffic-lane next to the car.
"Fuck sakes, get us out of this!" Corrigan hissed.
Minogue returned the gaze of schoolchildren looking down from the bus. They were laughing. Minogue felt like a zoo animal. The bus edged by the three policemen. Dunne was sweating heavily, turning the wheel uselessly. Corrigan sat paralysed, concentrating on the voice from the radio.
"— Reading something. He's opened it up. Some book…"
Dunne began swearing now, quiet, sincere, rural obscenities.
"— He's off. He's turning around. Over."
"— Who's on him?" Corrigan said into the mike.
"— Repeat, Chestnut One," Corrigan's shout erupted through Minogue's trance, "who's clear on pursuit?"
Corrigan sprang forward in the seat, his cheek jammed against the head-rest. Dunne licked the in-sides of his lips and flicked glances at the wing mirror. The bus stopped finally beside them. They were blocked. It was perfect timing for Moore, Minogue realised.
"— Chestnut Two to Control. We're jammed-"
"— He's gone. Gone up Taney Road," cawed the Kerry accent.
Corrigan's mouth hung open. For a moment he became completely still. Then he hammered the seat-back with the edge of his fist. He leaped from the seat and began waving his photocard at motorists to clear a way. Dunne began edging the car into a space being cleared ahead. The lights changed. Dunne had the car moving as Corrigan fell heavily back into the seat, grasping at the doorhandle.
"— Chestnut One to Control. Signal's converging, there's some fade…"
Other cars turned up Taney Road ahead of them. Moore had plenty of padding if he wanted to lose them. Dunne bullied the car across the junction. From the far side of the junction, Minogue caught a glimpse of the other radio-car, a blue Nissan, with full headlamps on, stuck half-way up on the curb. Tires howled somewhere.
Corrigan was livid. He tried to smother his breathing, but it came out of his nostrils in harsh, wheezy whistles. Dunne leaned over the wheel as if to spur the car on through the unengineered limits of second gear. Then Corrigan took a deep breath and let it out of his mouth, all the while glaring at Minogue.
"I might have guessed we shouldn't have been diddling around with a small unit for this. That kind of stunt he just pulled doesn't happen by accident, Matt. He's a pro. Here we are, flopping around. If we don't spot him ahead of the junction up ahead, what do you call it?"
"Goatstown."
"Right. He can go any of three ways he likes. And we'll be sitting there, holding our mickeys."
Corrigan's anger faded into a bitter inflexion. The car lurched back over the white line, greeted by a horn behind. Minogue was flung onto an elbow in the back seat. The car dived and rose as Dunne stamped at the brake, then clutched into second and pulled out to pass. Minogue fell back against the seat. He decided to stay put.
"— Control to Chestnuts One and Two. Give me a situation in order."
There was no hesitation this time.
"— We're through onto Taney Road," the Kerry accent replied reluctantly.
"Meaning ye're well behind us, ye morons," Corrigan hissed off-air.
"— In sight of Chestnut One, sir. Coming through the junction now. Two over."
"— Well we're ahead of ye both on Taney," Corrigan spat into the mike. "So get a move-on for the love of…"
Both radio-cars confirmed.
"— What's the signal look like? Over."
"— Intermittent… fading in spots."
Corrigan rolled his eyes.
"— Same with Two."
Corrigan thumbed savagely to transmit.
"— Central this is Control for Operation Melody. I want in on the South Dublin frequency. Confirm you'll link me. Over."
"— Confirming your request, Inspector," came the cautious reply. "But you'll have to wait a minute or two, sir. There's a lag now that we're trying to sort out the new equipment…"
"Maybe a squad-car'll pick him up, sir," said Dunne.
"Squad-car my Aunt Fanny's fat agricultural arse," Corrigan retorted. "Moore will go to ground for a while at least. But at least we can keep him away from the embassy, if he has ideas in that line."
Minogue believed that the snap was meant for him, not Dunne. Neither Minogue nor Dunne dared to speak. They listened while Corrigan directed one of the radio-cars toward the British Embassy on Merrion Road. Still waiting for the link, Corrigan swore with impatience and glared out the back window at the grille of a labouring lorry. Somewhere in the line of traffic struggling behind the lorry was the other radio-car.
" Dum spiro, spero," Minogue soothed. Neither man asked for an explanation.
Minogue wanted to lie down, empty his head. He'd mucked it up. He had second prints of Combs' stuff, but they might never get to the accessory, Ball's accomplice-his boss. Moore had turned out not to be a pin-striped dope after all. And now, Pat Corrigan unravelling there in the front seat, too, giving himself a heart attack. He had read Moore wrong. The same Moore could be laughing up his sleeve now.
Minogue yawned long, the tears gathering at the outer edges of his eyelids. He opened his eyes into a bleary world and listened while Corrigan issued instructions brusquely into the car radio for the uniformed Gardai on the network. Corrigan dissembled fluently to the Gardai in the squad-cars, telling what he knew would be attentive policemen that it was a Special Branch matter and that the driver was to be detained on the spot.
Then Corrigan's face appeared between the seats as he looked down at Minogue. The soft grey eyes stared, eyelashes sweeping twice, and he looked back over the dash.
"Nice work, Pat," Minogue risked.
"In case you didn't overhear me, I'm going to grab this Moore any way I can. That's my way and that's the way we should have attacked this bloody operation in the first place."
"But we had to be sure the photos were worth something, Pat. Now we know; we have the bit between our teeth, don't we?" Minogue said, as sincerely as he could.
Dunne worked at seizing the gearbox again. Corrigan gave Minogue a searching look. Minogue saw Corrigan's fretful tongue run around inside his lips, upper and lower in turn. He now felt reasonably sure that Pat had very good dentures indeed.
Moore stepped out of the car and drew in the heavy, languid sea air. He had parked next to a lorry, which concealed his Mini from the coast road, a good couple of hundred yards back up the lane from the railway station. Bootstown? No, Booterstown. He found the public phone attached to the stone wall which made up the back of the station-house. So far Moore had seen nobody moving around the building. Mid-day, slack.
Moore dialled and waited. He heard the switchboard clicks before the phone began ringing.
"Yes?"
Had Kenyon given him the right number?
"Mr Murray please."
"Hold, please."
They didn't even ask, Moore reflected.
"Please phone at the alternate number."
Irritated by the security, Moore struggled to remember the six digits. He took out a fifty-penny piece, all the change he had left, and dialled again. He heard two rings before the receiver was lifted abruptly.
"Murray here."
"I'm calling about some material I've located."
There was a long pause before Murray spoke.
"Mr Moore? You can be specific on this line," he heard Murray say slowly. "The line is continuously encoded, incoming and outgoing."
Moore hesitated, distracted by the hissy quiet from Murray's end.
"I have some extremely sensitive material here," Moore said. Still silence from Murray's end. Moore felt that obscure agitation again. It had lain buried beneath the tension which had gripped him when he had first spotted the blue car. Even now, confident that he had lost any pursuit car, the burrowing doubt gnawed at him again. Stupid, he thought, the damn place had him on edge: looks like Britain, but completely alien.
"Are you still there?" Murray said.
"What?" asked Moore.
"You had a look at the material, did you?" Murray said again.
"Yes, yes. But look, I don't want to go into detail here now-" he began.
"I told you, the line's clean," Murray broke in angrily. Moore held his breath again, feeling the pounding begin at the base of his skull. Tell Murray?
"Are you still there, Moore? How did you locate the material?"
"Self-addressed envelope," Moore managed to say. "Thirty-five mil negatives, black-and-white, and photographic prints. The numbers match, but I can't read the negatives…"
"Prints of what?"
"Seems like the original was handwritten notes. Twenty-eight pages, I estimate."
"And you read the prints?"
"Yes. But — "
"Anything or anybody local in jeopardy?" Murray cut in.
Moore hesitated. He'd have to tell Murray about the pursuit.
"There are allegations about an embassy man."
"Who?"
"Mervyn Ball, the one who was assass-"
"Only party identified?"
"There's mention of another person, somebody working with Ball. Unnamed."
"Have you made contact with your firm about this yet?" Murray asked.
"No. That's partly why I'm calling you. I'm in a phone-booth here in the south suburbs… I think I had some company."
"Had? Repeat that," Murray said.
"At least one car. There may have been more on foot." r
"The local law?"
"Something special, I think," said Moore. "Plain clothes."
"But you shook them for certain?"
Moore thought again of Minogue's grave clown's face.
"I'm pretty sure. But I don't like my chances for too long. I'm still out in the open here. There's no way I'm going back to the hotel-"
"Don't even consider it, no," Murray interrupted.
"There was a tail on me yesterday," Moore added. "They were fishing, general observation. They might even put out an All Points to pick me up… I mean, if they knew I had this material…"
Then Moore heard the savage undertone which Murray didn't try to suppress.
"What do you mean, 'if they knew'? Have you been set up, Moore?"
Moore recalled a moment in Minogue's office when he had looked up from his briefcase to find Minogue staring under his eyebrows at him.
"I'd be out of commission by now, if I had."
"We need an RDV," Murray said after several seconds' silence.
"You don't think I could-" Moore began.
"Listen for a moment, Moore. You've had your instructions on this. We need that material. Forget your guesswork here. Your job is to get out of the area and to clear anything you have with me."
"But I haven't even had a chance to let my superiors know… In a matter this serious-"
"Don't put a foot wrong now. Don't let these people make you jittery. You can't stay out in the open and you know that. We're all on the same side here, remember. I can get your material out, understood? Now, where are you, and how long can you maintain that position securely?"
"There's a suburban train station. Bootstown-no, wait, Booterstown. South suburbs, on the coast."
"Booterstown?"
"Yes. There's a carpark next to some wasteland, right by the sea. It's down off the main road. You can't see me from the road."
"Wait a minute while I locate…"
Moore heard pages turning at Murray's end.
"Okay. I have you. You're out the coast road, Merrion Road. You're quite close."
"I'm not going to take the chance of getting on a main road again."
"I'm well aware of contingencies," Murray snapped. "Can you hold there for ten, fifteen minutes? Pass the material to me there. It'll be in London by five this evening."
Moore hesitated.
"I'll have a dip. car," Murray continued. "The law won't touch me even if they have a nose for me."
Moore knew that he couldn't hold onto the envelope and expect to get on the plane with it. He felt a mounting anger at Murray's tone, his insinuations, his rudeness. No wonder Kenyon had been curt on the subject of Murray taking charge. He wondered about trying to place a call to Kenyon, direct.
"I can get to you inside fifteen minutes," Murray was saying. "Then you're on your way, clean. Understood?"
He had shaken off the coppers too: the need to do something right away with the dossier had receded. Murray had to see the material anyway. He might as well wait for him here.
"O.K.," said Moore finally.
"Fine. Think about afterwards, after I have this material. Head back into the city. Go about your business as if everything's just so."
"I'll be bumping into the law one way or the other. There's this copper, I don't quite know what to make of him, Minogue-"
"The worst they can do to you is pick you up and ask you a few questions. They may give you the once-over on some pretext but, just remember, they can't press you on anything. If they get stroppy, I can let them know here. You're covered all ways, just remember that. These are bluffers here, these coppers. Amateurs. Take my word for it."
Moore thought again of how easily he had jettisoned the surveillance. Textbook simple-with the help of a chaotic and crowded road system.
"All right," said Moore in a flat tone.
"A carpark, you say?"
"A yellow Mini Metro. You'll have to drive right around to the far end of the carpark to see me. Just find a red lorry, I'm tucked in next to it."
Moore hung up. A train drummed and squealed into the station. He walked back to the car and got in. Two schoolgirls in uniform walked out of the station carrying heavy sports bags. Moore let down the window and checked his watch. The smells of low tide swept in from the strand, displacing some of the stench of stale cigar smoke from the Mini's interior.
Another train rattled into Booterstown station. More schoolchildren came out and walked up toward the coast road. Moore checked his watch. Murray would be here within minutes.
He wondered if he should move out from behind the lorry so that Murray could spot him quicker. He abruptly realised that this made no sense. He must be getting rattled. If Murray could spot him easier, so could the law. He felt claustrophobic next to the lorry. If it fell over…? Spooked: no, of course it couldn't move. Moore listened to the hum of traffic from the coast road some two hundred yards beyond where he sat. He looked down at the envelope again, wanting to open it and read more.
A witch-hunt, he thought, and Kenyon hadn't hinted one iota about what Ball had been running right here in Dublin. Did that mean that Kenyon was in on the scheme? Was Kenyon part and parcel of a joint assassination squad worked by his own Service and MI6? The boss that Combs alluded to?
Moore visualised a debriefing with Kenyon. A wry smile from the otherwise dry Kenyon, a caution about need-to-know. A well-rehearsed homily on the duties of field-officers, with a few bromides about the Defence of the Realm… But Combs' plainly sincere disgust at the Costello killing, that he was sure Ball had actually taken part in the killing personally. Surely…
Moore's thoughts drifted astray, the unease still hovering, as he watched two schoolchildren dragging their school-bags along the footpath from the station entrance. One of the boys had been crying recently. His knee was grazed. The other idly swung his bag to and fro, resigned to the slow progress of his mate, as if the older boy was wise to the ways of bullies, that his mate would live to see another day. Combs' exclamation marks after his mention of Costello's death: "pure and simple sadism!!!" Would he, Moore, be expected to sit quietly through the debriefing while the contents of Combs' material was passed over? Maybe Kenyon would simply take off the gloves and tell him that it was none of his business what the intelligence services had to do in a war with terrorists. Still Moore's doubts lingered. There must have been Army involvement in the snatch to get Costello across the border. And Kenyon knew all this, he had to.
"— Chestnut Two to Control. We have a navy blue Rover at the gates. Over."
Corrigan's eyes bulged. He snatched the mike from his lap. They had separated from the first radio-car, which was trolling vainly in the suburbs south of them. The radio signal from Moore's Mini had disappeared nearly ten minutes ago. There had been no sightings from the regular patrols of Garda squad-cars yet.
Minogue had opened the window to evade the sour, penetrating smell of Dunne's sweat.
"— Repeat, Chestnut Two. Control over."
Dunne's foot lightened on the accelerator. Minogue rolled up the window to hear the transmission. They were driving down through Seafield toward the coast road.
"— Navy blue Rover with embassy plates coming through check-point."
"— How many on board?"
"— Just one, sir. Male, forties, suit…"
"— Who is he?" Corrigan asked, his eyes out of focus.
"— We don't know, sir. No. Doesn't match our photo-file for current staff…"
Dunne turned to share a wink of excitement with Minogue. Minogue felt the surprise tingle in his fingertips. A good smoke would be just the ticket now, he thought.
"— He's through the gates now. Gone right, heading south toward Blackrock."
"— Copy here. Stand by, Two," said Corrigan.
Corrigan seemed to be staring at the back of Dunne's head. Then he turned abruptly to Minogue.
"Damn and blast it, I'm going to go the whole hog," he whispered. Before Minogue could say anything, Corrigan was talking into the mike.
"— Yes, Two? Take it up and locate for us. Chestnut One, make your way to coast road to take up slack. Copy."
Dispatch intervened before the reply from the radio-cars.
"— Central to Operation Melody Control."
"— Yes," said Corrigan resignedly. "Standing by."
"— Er, sir… Standing orders posted prohibit your request… Can refer you to, em, requisite officer. If you have his telephone number already…"
Corrigan seemed to smile, but when Minogue looked closely it was a sneer which remained.
"— Override the directive for this. Chestnut Two, proceed. I don't want him so much as dreaming you're on his tail, do you hear?"
The radio-car managed to beat dispatch to the button. Minogue believed he could read a smile in the detective's voice who replied.
"— Copy, Control. Chestnut Two on track. South on coast road."
"— Central to Operation Melody Control."
"— Go ahead, Delaney."
"— Sir, are you receiving clear? Repeat: directive to avoid any surveillance of embassy staff; to be accompanied only if requested for security details."
"— We copy here. I'm still overriding it, Delaney. I'll fill in the card for it. I copy your notification. Out."
There was an unsettling silence from the radio. Minogue caught Corrigan's eyes. Corrigan's sneer was gone now. He eyeballed Minogue steadily for a moment.
"You best keep your tongue in your head, Matt Minogue. I'm not in the humour of any guff." spacebarthing
Murray hadn't expected heavy traffic. Stuck far back in a row by lazily-timed traffic-lights, he studied the map again. There were no short-cuts. The train station was well out of the way of the main road-if the scale was accurate, that is. He swallowed again, his throat dry. Would he ever have started this with Ball if he had known that he, Murray, might be here today, on his way to meet a man he'd probably have to kill?
Murray missed second gear, grinding it before he wrenched the stick into the gate proper. Stupid academic question. Hindsight… but could he even try to get this Moore onside, have him come in? Moore seemed so damned reluctant to hand over the photos without having okayed it with Kenyon. Loyal: due procedure. Christ, the man was trained as a barrister; he'd want chapter and verse. Unlike Murray, this man had never seen Belfast at street level, every building concealing a potential bomb, a sniper, an ambush. No, Murray realised with a hollow ache in his stomach, he couldn't hope to turn Moore in a matter of ten minutes' persuading. Couldn't hope to motivate a man with no real stake in a campaign against terrorists.
Murray passed a large hotel before he saw the overgrown marshland which lay between the road and the matte silver sand which the tide of Dublin Bay had exposed. A salt marsh, a bird sanctuary, he glimpsed from a passing sign. Just over the low parapet which formed the boundary of the marsh, Murray saw the roofs of parked cars. Among them was a red lorry. The building further down could only be the railway station.
He tucked his elbow into his side and felt the prickly heat of panic start in his armpit. The dull, solid weight of the automatic tugged at his jacket pocket. A train emerged from the station, city-bound, moving slowly against the greys and purples of the bay.
"— Chestnut One to Control. Over."
Corrigan acknowledged.
"— We're getting a signal, sir. It's steady enough, on the outer edge of the range. It shows to the city side of us."
"— Where are you, One?"
"— Coming through Blackrock, Control. Five minutes and we'll be on you-"
The other tracking car broke in before Corrigan could reply.
"— Car Two to Control. We're reading a very spotty signal, too, sir. Just this minute."
"— Wait a minute, wait a minute," Corrigan's voice began to rise. He turned to Minogue.
"Now we're talking. Moore's out there somewhere close to us. Between Blackrock and town."
"And that embassy car is headed out from town, too," said Dunne. He stroked one of his mammoth, gristly ears. Minogue's mind lost traction. Dunne piloted the car through an amber light. His brain fogged, Minogue's eyes indolently took in details of the roads they were passing. They were within a mile of the coast road. Corrigan pinched his lip.
"— Passing Merrion Gates. Signal clear. Two, over."
"This is Trimelston, sir," said Dunne. "He'll be gone by us when we hit the coast road."
Dunne's anxious glance brought Corrigan to.
"Get out onto the coast road anyhow, would you," he said.
"— Wait, wait. He's turning into Booterstown station. Chestnut Two, over."
Corrigan sat up in his seat and barked into the mike.
"— Copy that, One?"
"— Copy, Control. Signal is stationary, sir. It looks to be within a mile of us. The Punch Bowl, say… or the train station."
Dunne accelerated by two cars. The three policemen were now in sight of the coast road. They were a mile to the city side of Booterstown.
"Decoy?" Dunne tried.
"Me bollocks," said Corrigan, wide-eyed with anticipation now. "Moore is close by. The smart money says they have something arranged at the station. Damn and damn again."
"They're trained, Pat," Minogue said quietly. Dunne's eyes flickered to Minogue's in the mirror.
"It'd be a lovely set-up they'd have if they use the train," Minogue added. "We'd not get to them at all and they know it. We should pull the plug on them fast. Get the patrols on it."
Corrigan snorted. He licked his lips before talking into the mike.
"— Central, this is Control for Operation Melody. Delaney, are you still on here?"
"— Yes, sir."
"— Delaney, I need a lot of stuff now, the whole shooting gallery. Are you listening to me?"
"— Sir…"
"— All Dublin Garda frequencies, all right? If you have to wait for air, get South Dublin first. I need Gardai at all suburban rail stations. All stations, from Bray to Howth. For immediate apprehension and detention of male passenger or passengers, possibly two, repeat, two males. Individually or together. Every station, do you follow?"
"— I copy."
"— First possible suspect, male, aged mid-thirties. English, name Moore, Edward Moore. I'll give you a description now in a minute. Second suspect, probably English, driving a navy blue Rover. It's a diplomatic plate."
"— Two Englishmen, sir?"
"— Yep. Two. Either or both suspects will be carrying envelope containing photographic material. Immediate detention subject to my arrival. Sit them in the car and don't let anyone near 'em."
"— Dip? Or consular staff, sir?" Delaney asked cautiously.
The three policemen knew that Delaney wanted it on the tape.
"— Immediate detention. Gardai can cite descriptions of two suspects wanted in a bank robbery on south side. I'll settle it when I get there. Over."
"Be creative for the love of Jases, Delaney," Corrigan muttered with his thumb off. Dunne laughed aloud.
"— Read you, Melody control. Descriptions please. Over."
"— Here's one. Both may be travelling together for one stop and no more. Hold."
Corrigan turned to Minogue. The grey eyes were bigger now. Minogue saw the sweat gathering under Corrigan's thinning hair.
"Give them something to ID Moore, Matt."
Minogue took the mike. The radio cawed before he thumbed to transmit.
"— He's going down the station road… Slowing… seems to want to park. It's tight for us to just follow him right down, Control…"
Corrigan responded immediately.
"— One of you out with a brief-case and a handset. Go down on foot and be ready to get on a train after them. We're coming up to Booterstown ourselves. Give us a minute. Car One is about three minutes back. Hold position, observe and wait for me. And don't forget that Moore character is probably stuck in there somewhere in the carpark. Over."
"— Copy."
Corrigan thrust the mike back to Minogue.
"— This is Central, standing by for description from Melody Control. Over."
"— Here I am. Melody Control, that is," said Minogue. He didn't know where to begin.
"— Moore's close on six feet. Well-dressed… very well-dressed. Suit, dark. Driving a hired Mini, yellow… Moore is thirty-five or six, I'd say. Pasty-faced. Sort of distinguished, you might say. Doesn't have much of a sense of humour. Pronounced accent… Let me see, what else…"