Danny Callaghan knew about the bad old days in the North, when the IRA sometimes forced civilians, by holding their families hostage, to drive bomb-laden cars to their targets. And then used remote controls to explode the bombs, complete with drivers. That way, the witness disappeared along with the bomb.
As soon as he parked, Callaghan climbed out of the van, locked the door and walked away. He held himself back from running. It would cause disastrous complications if he attracted the wrong kind of attention. When he knew he was safe, out on the main road, he turned and looked back at the van. He had a momentary flash of what the scene would look like with the whole side of the Venetian House caved in, smoke rising from the car park strewn with rubble. He turned and hurried away.
*
The remote control was small, rectangular, made of dark blue plastic. It had a short black aerial at the top, and two switches on the side. One switch was white, the other red. A thick rubber band held the switches in place.
Karl Prowse watched Danny Callaghan cross the road and hail a taxi. There’d be a time for dealing with that smart bastard.
‘He’s a loose end,’ he’d told Lar Mackendrick.
‘He’s a dog on a leash,’ Lar said. ‘Any time he thinks he’s got the freedom to bark we jerk the leash. We keep him alive until we’re sure we don’t need him.’
‘And then?’
‘He’s all yours.’
Karl eased the rubber band back from the two switches and slid it off. When he threw the white switch the bomb would be armed. He let a thumb graze the red switch, caressing it with the softest of touches. He made a puffing sound – phuuuw!
He put the remote on the passenger seat.
Won’t be long now.
Chapter 41
Still nothing.
Novak listened to the ringing tone until the automated voice invited him to leave a message. He rang off, dropped the mobile on the shelf beside the cash register and poured himself another mug of coffee.
‘You okay?’
Jane was leaving for a Christmas shopping trip in town. Novak said, ‘Danny’s being a pain in the arse. That’s half a dozen calls this morning. He never answers.’
‘Maybe he needs some space.’
‘Maybe he ought to just say that.’
‘He’ll be okay.’
Jane was wearing a light green jacket over a peasant skirt. Novak said, ‘Spring is here already?’
‘It’s that kind of day. Mind you, it’ll probably piss down.’
‘You look great.’
She smiled. ‘Compliments? What’s seldom’s wonderful.’
‘Don’t spend too much.’
Jane had most of the Christmas presents bought. ‘As usual, you’re the problem.’
Novak sighed. ‘What do you get the man who has everything?’
When she had gone he picked up the phone and tried Danny Callaghan one more time.
Please, stop.
You’d think Novak would have got the message by now.
Danny Callaghan put the phone back on the bedside table, let the ringtone play on. Too many times this morning he’d checked the screen and seen Novak’s name. He’d have turned off the phone long ago if Lar Mackendrick hadn’t told him to await instructions.
Lying on the bed, the radio playing softly in the background.
‘I have to deal with this myself,’ he’d told Novak.
Easy to say.
The ringtone stopped.
There were two ways of dealing with this. Do nothing. Lie here on his bed and let the clock tick away until an artificially calm newsreader interrupts the radio programme to report that emergency services are responding to a major incident in Dublin.
The other option was unthinkable.
‘Your ex will get preferential treatment. First on the list.’
Sickened as he was by the image of carnage at the Venetian House, the thought of Hannah at the mercy of Mackendrick’s people filled him with a rage that drove out everything else.
Call the police.
The cops would handle the van, the bomb, they’d go after Mackendrick.
‘There’s a whole army of people I can tap into.’
Horror for strangers versus horror for someone he loved.
When it came, the radio news jingle seemed interminable. The first item was about something in the Middle East.
Nothing.
Lar Mackendrick read the text and nodded.
2 arrived for certain – connolly + blount
The job needed someone with the balls to throw the switches, so Karl Prowse was the natural choice. Once Frank Tucker entered the pub, and Karl reported that he’d identified at least another three certainties going in, it would be boom time.
Once, twice, three times. A fist thumping.
Danny Callaghan was coming out of the bathroom when the banging started on the door of his flat.
‘Danny, open up.’
Callaghan stood just inside the door, his gaze fixed on a scuff mark on the dark blue carpet.
Another three thumps.
‘Novak, please.’
‘I’m not going away.’
Callaghan unlocked the door and turned back into the flat. Novak came in, shut the door behind him.
‘I’m not going away until I know what’s going on.’
Callaghan tried to say something but his mouth was dry. He swallowed and tried again. ‘I know you mean well, but you’re best staying out of this.’
‘Frank Tucker? Is that it?’
‘No.’
‘What, then?’
Danny’s gaze fixed on the kitchen counter. On the radio someone was talking about gardening.
‘Please. Let it be.’
‘It’s not woman trouble. I know the signs and this has nothing to do with Hannah.’
Callaghan shook his head.
‘Danny, if this—’
Callaghan raised a hand, palm towards Novak. ‘Something’s going to happen – I can’t – it doesn’t – Jesus – Novak.’
Novak’s voice was a whisper. ‘There are things that no one should try to handle alone.’
Callaghan raised his head and made eye contact. ‘It has everything to do with Hannah.’
It took just a couple of minutes to give Novak the outline. ‘Mackendrick said he’ll give a warning so they could clear the place, but he knew that’s what I wanted to hear. It’s bullshit.’
Novak took Danny Callaghan by the elbow and leaned into his face. ‘It’s not a choice – you can’t just let it happen. You have to call the police.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘You have to.’
‘It’d be like cutting her throat.’
‘Warn her, tell her to get the hell away from Dublin until this is over.’
‘They’ll kill Leon – or one of her friends, they know where her sister works, where her brother lives. And when it’s over it won’t be over – they said they’ll kill Hannah sooner or later, no matter how long it takes.’
‘Call her – tell her to get away from here, get her family away – you can’t sit here and wait for Christ knows how many people to be blown apart.’
‘Frank Tucker and his thugs – who gives a shit?’
‘And whoever else walks into that pub—’
‘It’s – the way Mackendrick has it worked – it’s supposed to take out the room where Tucker and his people—’
‘Jesus, Danny, don’t kid yourself – these days, the whole world boasts about their smart bombs, and when the dust settles it always turns out the bombs were as dumb as ever they were and there’s innocent blood all over the place.’
‘He said—’
‘You said it yourself – he said what you wanted to hear. Barmen, waitresses, customers—’ Novak’s voice was soft now, his face inches from Callaghan’s. ‘It’s not like you don’t know what’s the right thing to do.’
Callaghan said, ‘I can’t.’
‘I’ll do it. An anonymous c
all.’
Callaghan hesitated.
Novak said, ‘Get her out of town, make her as safe as possible – but we have to stop this thing.’
After a moment, Callaghan nodded.
As Novak made the call, Danny Callaghan was tapping out Hannah’s number.
Chapter 42
Hannah O’Connor was at lunch in the Ely restaurant in the financial centre. When she saw Callaghan’s name come up on her mobile she excused herself and moved away from the table. He spoke quickly in short sentences.
‘Jesus Christ —’
One of her three lunch guests, the purchasing officer for a chain of pharmacies that had a lot of printing needs, was looking towards her now, while the other two were still chattering. The cellar restaurant, once a wine store, was a series of rectangular bays, each with several tables, all stone surfaces and echoes. Hannah’s ‘Jesus Christ’ had carried far enough to alarm the pharmacy guy. She gave him a reassuring nod and moved out into the corridor that ran past the bays.
‘Where are you?’
‘What have you got me into?’
‘I need to know, where are you?’
‘In a restaurant.’
‘Where?’
‘What have you got me into?’
‘Leave, right now – don’t go back to your office, just get out of Dublin.’
‘I can’t just—’
‘This is serious. These are very dangerous men, they kill people and very soon they’ll know I haven’t done what they said. Please, Hannah, you need to get out. Go to the airport, or get a train – anywhere outside Dublin. Call Leon, Lisa, Matthew – and his family – tell them to take a flight somewhere, check into a hotel – whatever, as long as they drop out of sight.’
‘Jesus, Danny – it’s one thing to fuck up your own life, but, Jesus Christ—’
‘Hannah—’
‘I treated you—’
‘Don’t call the police – they’ll know, and it’ll make things—’
‘I treated you like you’re still even half the man I married, but that was a mistake. You fucked up then and you’re fucked up now, and you’ll always fuck up. I did my best for you—’
Hannah’s words echoed down the stone corridor and at several of the bays people were standing, staring at her. As she walked quickly towards the exit she cut Danny off. By the time she climbed to street level and left the restaurant she’d talked to Lisa and convinced her she wasn’t exaggerating the danger. ‘Do it now, immediately, and ring me when you’re settled somewhere. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.’ Outside the restaurant, she made similar calls to Matthew and then to Alex.
Hannah was on the riverfront, looking left and right for a taxi, before she realised she hadn’t yet called Leon.
‘How did Hannah—’ Novak said.
Callaghan shook his head.
‘It was the right thing to do.’
‘I know.’
‘The police took the call seriously – they’re on their way to the Venetian House. I mentioned Frank Tucker as the target – that got their ears pricked.’
Callaghan nodded.
Halfway through the call to Hannah he’d felt something snap – it was almost a physical sensation, somewhere in the distance between them – and he’d felt an ache and he’d felt something like relief. He hadn’t the time or the focus to wonder why. No thought could survive the atmosphere of dread enveloping him. Fear for Hannah and her family, fear for himself.
‘We’d better get out of here,’ Novak said. ‘Pretty soon, Mackendrick’s going to want to ask you some questions.’
When he heard the siren, Karl Prowse slid down in his seat. The police car overshot the entrance to the Venetian House, did an instant U-turn and fishtailed into the car park. The second police car made the turn first time and when the cops came out of the cars at speed Karl reached for the remote.
Shit.
This is going tits-up.
Only three of Frank Tucker’s people inside – no sign of Frank himself yet.
Two policemen went into the pub in a hurry, the other two stood watching the white Ford transit.
A battered Renault Clio came from the other direction, tyres squealing as it skewed sideways and stopped in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. Two of the three plain-clothes cops who came out of the car were carrying Uzis, the third held a very big automatic pistol down by his side. They were all wearing protection vests.
They ran towards the pub.
Karl’s thumb found the white switch.
Has to be Callaghan.
He clicked the white switch, arming the bomb.
Bastard.
The ERU guy with the handgun waved at the two uniforms and made a sweeping gesture towards the main road. The two, looking more relieved with each yard they put between themselves and the white van, hurried out to warn off traffic.
Karl put the remote down and reached for the clean mobile.
‘Lar?’
‘What did I tell you about names?’
‘The police are here.’
‘Where?’
‘The target – some of them have guns – shit—’
‘They spot you?’
‘It had to be Callaghan, that piece of shit—’
‘Did they spot you?’
‘Too busy. There’s just three of Tucker’s team inside – do I blow it now?’
‘What about Frank?’
‘Shit! They’re out, they’re gone!’
‘Who?’
At the far end of the Venetian House, close to the boundary wall of the pub, both wings of a service door opened and people scurried down the ramp.
‘What’s happening?’
Barmen and waitresses in uniform, one of the cops, customers, among them one man that Karl Prowse recognised – Cillian Connolly. Bastard ought to have been tucked in under a bridge on the Royal Canal by now, with a couple of bullets in him.
‘They got out, the cops got them out.’
‘Get rid of the remote – permanently. And don’t accidentally blow the van. Kill any cops and they’ll tear the city apart looking for us. Just get out of there. Let me know when you’re clear. And no fucking names on the phone, okay?’
No panic.
The list of Frank Tucker’s people was crumpled in Lar Mackendrick’s closed fist. He dropped it on the kitchen table, got himself a glass of water and took a long drink. Then he sat at the table and smoothed out the paper.
Eight dead.
All Frank Tucker knew so far was that Fiachra O’Dwyer was dead and someone had planted a bomb outside the Venetian House. It would take maybe an hour or two of phone calls not answered and appointments not kept before the penny dropped. Then he’d send people around to check on those of his men who hadn’t responded.
When Tucker was trying to work out what was happening he’d no doubt put Lar Mackendrick’s name on the list of possibles, but it wouldn’t be too near the top. He saw Mackendrick as a beaten docket. He’d be looking elsewhere.
We’re not done yet.
Who fucked this up?
‘It had to be Callaghan!’
Karl was jumping to conclusions, but he was almost certainly right. It had to be Callaghan. Lar picked up his mobile.
‘What happened?’
‘What do you mean?’ Danny Callaghan said.
Mackendrick’s voice was harsh. ‘What happened?’
‘I did what you said.’
‘If you made a call and played good citizen the last thing you’ll hear is your ex-missus screaming.’
‘I did what you told me.’
‘Where are you?’
Callaghan was sitting at a table in the Food Hall in Abbey Street, with a half-finished mug of coffee in front of him.
‘I’m at home.’
‘Stay there. I’ll ring you back soon.’
Chapter 43
The television weather woman was promising that the unseasonable mild weather would continue for at least anothe
r day. Before that, the lunchtime news had nothing that Frank Tucker didn’t know, along with a lot of unhelpful speculation. The television cameras had got to the Venetian House just in time to see an army Land Rover arrive, the bomb-disposal people preparing to do their job. The newsreader said only that the police had no comment on possible motives for the bombing attempt.
‘Three possibilities,’ Frank Tucker said. He and three of his associates were gathered in his house in Cullybawn. The external doors were steel-lined and the expanding security screens had been drawn across the windows and locked. There were armed protectors upstairs, in the rooms front and back. In a utility room, a man was monitoring the CCTV screens that covered every approach.
‘One, it’s some snotty little tosser making his move, maybe the Clondalkin mob. Could be, but it’s a bit stylish for them. Two, there’s always the Eastern Europeans, but I’m in touch there, and they’d rather deal than mix it up. So it’s probably number three – the IRA, or one of the spin-offs.’
Cillian Connolly said, ‘What about Tommy Farr, Lar Mackendrick – they’ve got to have a hair up their arses?’
‘They’re boxed in. They don’t have the assets, they don’t have the balls, and I’d have heard from their people if they’d been setting anything up.’ Tucker shook his head. ‘There’s Republican head-bangers who’ve been itching for a long time to find a reason to exist.’
‘So, what do we do?’
‘We take our time, let the cops beat the bushes and we’ll keep an eye on what comes running out.’
The building contractor tapped his calculator, paused and looked across the desk at his supplier. ‘That’s reasonable – when can you deliver?’
‘Five working days, tops – probably less.’
‘What kind of guarantee can—’
Somewhere down below, there were raised voices and the sound of running.
They were in the top tier of the two-tier prefab that served as the builder’s site office. He stood up and was on his way to the window to see what was causing the racket when the door opened and a uniformed policeman stuck his head in. The policeman turned and called, ‘He’s up here.’
The builder sighed and turned to his supplier. ‘Happy days are here again.’
Dark Times in the City Page 23
