by John Brady
“What? Oh yes I was just thinking that — well, I’m just totally gobsmacked here. I’m beginning to see that you might have, what I mean is, I’m beginning to think how you think. It’d be only logical from your point of view. This man, the photos — yes.”
“There’s stuff here at the airport in storage that we could take a look at?”
“No, not really. A few bits at most maybe. The real stuff is at the studio, in people’s houses even, can you believe. I know we’re headed out but I’m not sure at all how far ahead we are in putting it together. Let me phone Maria and I’ll ask.”
Minogue leaned against the wall. Malone began unwrapping a piece of gum. The smell of leather and leftover cologne was stronger now. Daly’s jacket squeaked as he used his arms. Minogue studied his shoes. Maria wasn’t there. “Shit,” said Daly, and asked for a Noel. Minogue couldn’t hear any of the other side of the conversation. He listened to Daly’s rapid-fire questions, the impatience. Maybe they all talked like this on cell phones. “Are you sure?” Daly asked the Noel again. He folded his phone and tugged at his nose.
‘“Don’t think so,’ says Noel,” he said. “They’re just putting stuff together and testing it at the studio before they’re packing it tomorrow.”
“Nothing packed and waiting that we could look at?”
Daly shrugged.
“There you have me. No. But I can find out pretty quick. How soon do you need to know?”
“Right away,” said Minogue.
“Tell you what. I’ll go straight to the studio, see if I can find out and I’ll phone you. I’ll look into it personally. How about that?”
Minogue exchanged a look with Malone.
“I’d know inside an hour maybe. Would that do you?”
“‘Call me Kevin,’” said Minogue “I like that. Kevin: howiya, Kevin.”
Malone snorted.
“Buy me a pint, Kevin,” he muttered. “Have you any sisters, Kevin.”
Malone kept his eyes on the monitor hanging from the ceiling. It was the same replay of Doherty’s goal, the header against Spain last year.
“He can always say he didn’t know,” he said. “He knows what he’s doing. The lying bastard ”
“Maybe he genuinely doesn’t know.”
“What? There’s a load of really expensive equipment out here ready to be wheeled onto a plane and he doesn’t know that?”
“Could be, Tommy. He doesn’t have to persuade us, you know.”
Malone slid up from his slouch and stretched his neck. The queues had gone from the check-ins. Minogue thought over his determination not to come to this airport for a long time in the future if he could avoid it. The phone ringing confused him. He fumbled but Malone had it. He listened to Sheehy and then handed it to Minogue.
“Fergal, me life on you. What have you?”
“I’ve a pain in my side laughing at this fella you sat me with. Paddy Mac.”
“Are you still there in the electrical room?”
“I am.”
“Is Paddy Mac doing what he’s told, but?”
“Arra God, no. He doesn’t need to be told anything. Sure he’s right into it. ‘The man from UNCLE,’ says he. James Bond — James Effin’ Bond, I should say.”
Minogue watched the arrivals list roll down the screen again. Something from Tenerife had landed. Sunburned, hungover faces would be drifting in soon.
“But has he covered all the items?”
“I think so,” Sheehy replied “He has the evening supervisor set with the story. The boxes and crates are stacked and ready. He even got a bit of dust on the them. A real pro. ”
Someone was singing in the pub. Minogue looked over. Two women were rocking from side to side, their glasses raised.
“He has it all worked out,” Sheehy went on. “The minute anyone shows he’ll be down there. He has a stack of crates and cases and God knows what else dumped in a cage opposite so’s he can be in there beavering away and keeping an eye out.”
“Any loose ends you can see, Fergal?”
Sheehy paused.
“I still think keeping an eye on the big one is a bit dodgy. The one with the stone in it. They all look the same to me, all them boxes.”
“Well Paddy Mac has me persuaded, Fergal.”
“Fair enough, but — ah, I’m not going to pretend I’m happy with it.”
“It might be a long night, Fergal. It’s gone to a twenty-four-hour facility since last year.”
“Send us over a few pints and bags of crisps why don’t you.”
Minogue eyed the two singing again. They had lapsed into giggles. What he had thought were shorts on the one with the long hair was actually a skirt.
Minogue felt the vibrations on his hand before the ringing registered with him. His fingers slipped as he drew the phone out again.
“There’s a fella here,” said Sheehy. “Just arrived. ”
Something began in Minogue’s chest. A glow, he had tried to explain it, some stirring not really excitement yet, just a relief that something was on the go. He stood up, the aches at a distance now, and turned toward the back of a kiosk.
“Go ahead now, Fergal, I’m with you. ”
“Paddy Mac took it over. He’s headed down to a loading door with one of those trolley things. ”
“Did you get a look at this fella?”
“He’s a delivery man. Street clothes. Mid-thirties. Heavyset. Longish hair, fair, clean shaven. Sounds Dublin, but he’s not saying much. Wearing fancy runners, a jean jacket over a sweatshirt, I think. He has a big van backed up at the door. Paddy Mac waltzed him over so’s I could get a dekko at him. Trouble is, I don’t know if he’s coming back or what the hell’s going to happen. ”
“We’re coming over, Fergal. ”
“Are we sticking to the plan? Let ’em out? No transmitter?”
“Unless there’s some big upset. John’s waiting outside at the end of the service road with Jesus Farrell to tag them when they hit the motorway. We’ll folley them out and go by them, pick them up in Whitehall and let John out of their mirror awhile. ”
He heard Sheehy moving about the room.
“Paddy Mac might be overplaying this,” he said. “I hear him halfway down the building, so I do, bollocksing away to this fella about flu and absenteeism and overwork. Christ. -”
“All right, Fergal. Thanks very much. ”
Malone followed the inspector out to the car. Minogue glanced up at the night sky. It was brown. He sat in and grabbed the map. Malone drove by the checkpoint and pulled in behind a parked bulldozer.
“Well,” he said. “Now, are you going to let the Iceman in on this?”
Minogue had no answer. He looked in the mirror again as a taxi passed.
“When’s the last time you did any training in pursuits?” Malone went on.
Minogue pushed the phone charger harder into the cigarette lighter.
He clicked the light-on display. Malone shifted in his seat and tugged under his arm.
“What’s he doing, for Jases’ sake?”
Minogue checked his watch. Four minutes since they’d parked. He turned to Malone.
“Give John a poke, will you. Make sure.”
Malone took the handset up off the floor.
“Tell me who we are again.”
“Mazurka. John’s Polka ”
“What’s a mazurka again?”
“It’s what we dance to in Clare when we do be in a good humor. Now call him, Tommy, for the love of God and stop throwing questions at me.”
Minogue watched a BMW brake to take the turn onto the roundabout. Skirts they called those low bits: cost a fortune, too. Murtagh must have been thinking along the same lines as Malone.
“‘We’re still solo on this,’ he wants to know,” said Malone.
Minogue gave Malone his reply in the same deadpan tone Malone had relayed Murtagh’s question to him.
“For the moment, yes.”
“He says for the momen
t yes,” said Malone.
Minogue held his thumb off the button until the first ring elapsed.
“He’s heading out,” said Sheehy. “Just left.”
“Are we sure he has it?”
“Paddy Mac went right out to the van with him, yes. He dropped off one box and took ours.”
“No mistake now, Fergal?”
“For sure he took it. The one he left’s a box just like it. Almost the same size, heavyish. That’s a sign, I’m thinking.”
“What’s in it? Did Paddy chat him up at all?”
“He didn’t push him at all,” said Sheehy. “Just like you told him.”
Malone started the engine.
“Any idea if there’s other stuff in the van there?”
“Can’t be sure at all,” came Sheehy’s reply. “He went out to the loading dock with him but your man didn’t want any extras, help loading, I mean. He didn’t give him the brush-off or anything but Paddy didn’t want to drop a hint at all.”
“Thanks, Fergal. You’ll stay put and make sure there’s no on else coming out of the woodwork for any of the stuff there?”
“This is him, I think,” said Malone.
“We have him here, Fergal. I’m going to the radio now.”
Minogue glimpsed the driver’s face as the van passed. The antenna on the roof of the van glinted and shook.
“Did you get the number?”
He counted to five. He heard Malone licking his lips.
“Are we on?” came Farrell’s voice now. Minogue tapped the dashboard. Malone pulled out.
“We are, Polka One. We’ll go by him before you take over.”
Malone slid in behind a station wagon which had come through the roundabout from the Belfast Road.
“Take bets,” he said. “I say the van heads for the studio. Plenty of places to lose something there. Switch it too, very handy. ”
Minogue kept scratching at the rubber on the antenna.
“He’s fairly shifting it now,” Malone went on.
Minogue eyed the van edging into the fast lane. Sixty, already. He’d better tell Murtagh.
“Mazurka to Polka One. ”
“Go ahead there, Mazurka. ”
“Our friend is motoring. You’d better get a start there.”
He nudged Malone.
“Pass him, Tommy. Fast as you like.”
Malone didn’t change into fifth until he was directly behind the van.
“There’s Johnny Boy,” he muttered. Minogue spotted Murtagh’s Corolla ahead of an aged Renault 4. Jesus Farrell was slouched in the passenger seat.
Minogue looked down at the speedometer. Seventy-five.
“Oh, oh,” Malone murmured. “He’s on the phone. ”
Minogue eyed the headlights receding in the passenger mirror. The van pulled out to pass Murtagh now.
“I’m going to pull in the far side of the lights, by that church, what’s the name of it… ”
Minogue let go the antenna.
“Stick with that for now, Tommy, yes.”
“Polka One to Mazurka. I’m on. Over.”
“Good enough, Polka One. You’ll see us the far side of the lights.”
Malone kept flicking glances at the mirror.
“He’s still motoring, boss. He’s damn near catching us. ”
“Take it handy, Tommy. Let him do what he wants.”
Malone didn’t touch the wipers after the first few drops hit the window. He swore instead. He finally jerked the stick as they came in sight of the traffic lights and the turnoff to Santry.
He spoke the same time as Murtagh came on the radio.
“Polka One. Is he turning? Can you see him?”
Malone geared down for the red light.
“He’s five or six back,” said Malone. “Can’t see him.”
“Stand by, Polka One.”
“I think he’s coming now,” said Malone. “Yeah. Behind this Escort. Doesn’t have his blinker on. What does that tell ya? Yep, he’s going left.”
“Can you take it, Polka One?”
“I can. Over. ”
“We’re going with the original. Look for us in a minute.”
Malone didn’t stop swearing until he had made it across the road into the turning lane. The old Vauxhall ahead hesitated.
“We’re bollocksed,” he whispered. “Look. He’s sussed us. He’s done this before, let me tell you.”
Minogue fingered the city guide to page twenty-four.
“What’s in Coolock for him,” he muttered. “Lives there, and he’s parking it for the night? Hardly.”
Malone jammed the accelerator as the light changed and came around the wrong side of the Vauxhall.
“Mazurka to Polka One. How are we doing?”
Farrell sounded harassed now
“Steady here,” he replied. “Are you with me? Over.”
“Can’t see you yet but a couple of minutes at most.”
Malone let the Opel over the white line but the cars ahead were slowing.
“We’ve hit a red light here, Polka One. Keep us posted.”
Malone slapped his knuckles on Minogue’s arm.
“Byrne grew up around here,” he said. “Home turf. But he doesn’t live here now, I can tell you. He’s up in some ranch the far side of Malahide.”
Minogue studied the red light smear on the wet roadway ahead. Malone had to brake after he’d accelerated too quickly behind a Golf.
“He’s going to dump us, boss. That’s all he wants here. We’re the gob-shites.”
“He’s speeding,” came Farrell’s voice. “Over.”
Minogue began to squeeze the base of the cell phone between his thumb and forefinger. He could phone Tynan and keep his head down when the shite hit the fan. Malone tried to pass the Fiat ahead but had to pull back in. He braked hard as the oncoming lorry’s horn sounded. He glared at Minogue.
“Call him in, boss. We’re going to lose him if we don’t.”
“Do you know Coolock and evirons well, Tommy?”
“Pretty well. Maybe. What’s the plan?”
“If the fella in the van takes a runner, you’re going to catch him for us.”
“What, behind all this traffic? In this piece of shite? He’s probably barrelling down the bloody Howth Road by now.”
Minogue thumbed the radio.
“Mazurka to Polka One. Are you still on board?”
“We are,” said Murtagh “He’s in sight, but he’s flying. I think he’s onto us.”
“Go to Code One, Polka. We need the location.”
“Confirm that, Mazurka. Over.”
“Go to Code One. Start giving us the locations.”
Minogue counted to eleven before Murtagh began. How could he be annoyed at him? Murtagh too must have been wondering about a scanner pickup, or what the hell Communications was making of the radio traffic on this band. Polkas, reels, mazurkas: the Clare dance card.
“Will I put up the lights?” asked Malone. “See if he freaks now?” Minogue shook his head.
“Just wait for now, but,” he said. He knew that Malone was eyeing him, but he didn’t look over.
“And if we lose him? What’s the plan then?”
Minogue wanted to tell his colleague to shut up.
“Boots up on the high road, Tommy. That’d be it.”
CHAPTER 29
The radio went hissy. Minogue tried tuning it manually. It made it worse.
“He’s going down…” Murtagh was saying. “Wait, I don’t know the name yet… Over?”
Minogue heard Murtagh’s car working hard in second or third gear.
“Have you gone by Barryscourt Road yet?” he asked.
“I have,” said Murtagh, but Minogue heard the uncertainty still. “He’s turned. Coolock Avenue. Over.”
“Christ on a crutch,” Malone said. “It’s a bleeding maze in there.”
“Are you on him, Polka One? Over.”
“Waiting to cross. No. More cars. Here we
go.”
Malone strained to see around the Fiat ahead.
“I can meet him if he’s doubling back, boss,” said Malone. “Kilmore Road?”
Minogue nodded.
Malone pulled hard on the wheel. The Opel’s tires slid but he slackened his grip on the wheel and the car straightened.
“He’s at the bottom of the Avenue,” said Murtagh. “Gone right. Over.”
“Gotcha, ya bollocks,” Malone murmured. He punched the horn at two teenagers meandering on bikes by the curb.
Minogue brought the flashlight and the map closer. Tranquillity Grove? What kind of a mind had come up with that one?
“I turn here at Kilmore Avenue or Close or whatever it’s called, and there we are.”
Minogue put down the map.
“Come in, Polka One.”
“Okay,” said Murtagh. “He’s slowing down… Over.”
Malone took the turn off Kilmore Road.
“Pull in, Tommy.”
“He’s parking it. I’m going to carry on by him. Over.”
“Go around the block, Polka One. Kilmore Close. And wait at the top of the road. Over.”
“Are you caught up? Over.”
“Look to your left as you go around,” said Minogue. “Is he moving at all?”
“He’s out. I’m going by him now… I can’t get a house number… Over.”
Malone shook his head.
“He’s gone home?” he muttered.
“… gone around the back of the van. I’m gone by him now. Coming around the corner… No, he’s out of the mirror. Over.”
Malone flashed the lights as Murtagh and Farrell passed.
“I’m going for a walk, Polka One. Come around and wait at the far end. Over.”
“Read you. Over.”
“You’re what?” Malone said.
Minogue already had his belt off. He buttoned the top of his coat and pulled the door handle.
“A quick walk by and we’ll see what the score is. Fair enough, Tommy?”
“The rain, boss? You’ve no hat, have you?”
Minogue dropped the walkie-talkie in Malone’s lap.
“All right, so,” he said. He opened the coat again. “I’m going to be gargled.”
Humming, loose limbed, Minogue stopped and swayed. The rain had turned to a drizzle. He fumbled in his pockets and groaned.
“Me fags,” he said. “Me fags is gone. Aw, jases.”
