by Roger Pearce
‘I thought I was, until you told me all this.’
‘Anomalies,’ said Kerr, swatting away an invisible fly. ‘Anyway, how are you two getting along?’
Justin looked across in surprise. ‘Sorry?’
‘Well, do you like each other?’ said Kerr, studying him keenly. ‘You know, is she friendly, or do you have to make all the running?’
Somewhere in the street a car alarm sounded and Justin craned his neck, inquisitive, suspicious, always the street cop. ‘You’ve been there, boss,’ he said. ‘You know what it’s like.’
Kerr kept his smile switched on. ‘Compatible, you two? For a long term infiltration?’
Justin’s shoulders lifted again.
Kerr pushed the chair back and crossed his legs. ‘And how about things at home?’
For the first time, Justin managed a laugh. ‘The welfare tick in the box.’
‘I was going to drop by and say hi to Louise, if that’s okay? It’s been six months.’
Justin nodded.
‘Anything I need to know?’
‘Lou’s fine. We’re good, thanks.’
Kerr paused, giving Justin the opportunity to open up. Downstairs, a door slammed. They heard a woman’s voice calling, then the welcoming yap of a dog. ‘You know you can come off at any time, don’t you?’
Justin looked surprised. ‘Do you want me to?’
Kerr shook his head. He slid Costello’s file into his secure briefcase with his yellow notepad and turned the key. ‘I believe no-one in the country can work this target better.’
They stood and faced each other. ‘You leave first,’ said Kerr, holding out his hand. As his operative made for the door Kerr was suddenly back in Washington, listening to Rich Malone’s secret warning of another attack in London. ‘Have you ever come across the word “Corona”?’
Justin turned, pulling on his beanie. ‘As what?’
‘A target. It may have come up in the call to Bogota.’
‘I’ll listen out.’
‘And be sure to call me. For anything.’
Chapter Forty-Three
Wednesday, 19 October, 15.54, Piazza di Spagna, Rome
Luggage free, Kerr cleared the body scanner at Luton Airport to find the Departures Lounge smelling of breakfast, though a herd of stags was already downing pints of lager at the circular bar. With his flight to Rome delayed for at least an hour by ‘passenger action’, he felt a fleeting urge to join them. Instead, he walked closer to the gate to purchase an egg and bacon baguette with scalding black coffee. He found a seat overlooking the runway and caught Robyn’s voicemail twice before trying Gabi.
‘But you are coming, Dad, aren’t you?’
‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Taking a shower. We’re really looking forward to seeing you.’
‘Me, too, but I have to come back to London tonight.’
A pause. ‘Don’t think Mum’s going to like that.’
Most of the travellers were reading the Daily Mail and Daily Mirror, but Kerr found an abandoned Guardian stripped of its sports pages on top of a trash bin. He skimmed the news, speed-dialling Melanie Fleming. ‘How’s it going?
‘All good. On a plot in Barking.’
‘Jack behaving himself?’
‘Insufferable.’
Kerr smiled. ‘I take it he’s in the passenger seat?’
‘Dreaming about his Suzuki.’
‘Say hi. And I need a private word about you know who.’
‘Today?’
‘Asap. I’m on a flight.’
Sipping his coffee while he waited for Melanie to call back, Kerr spoke with Alan Fargo for his morning update. Melanie rang as he was finishing the Guardian analysis on the previous week’s attacks (‘Feel Safe Under the Snooper’s Charter? Clueless Yard Fumbles in the Dark While the Bombers Roam Free’).
‘I saw Jay yesterday.’
‘How is he?’ This time Melanie was obviously on foot, her voice raised above the traffic noise.
‘He’s got himself very close to Gina C.’
‘Very good.’
‘But not in the way I want. Can you call his girlfriend to fix a meet?’
‘Sure,’ said Melanie. ‘Did he mention that she’s pregnant?’
‘No. Just that everything’s wonderful.’
‘Which isn’t what Louise told me. What are you going to do?’
‘I’ve tasked him to Echo Chip the target. If we get technical coverage, I’m going to pull him off.’
‘That drastic? After all his effort?’
‘Some of his responses worried me, Mel.’
‘Defensive, you mean? Covering up?’
‘All that.’
‘Telling lies? Arsy? In denial?’ A pair of emergency vehicles howled by, but Kerr picked up the sarcasm of the woman who had already endured the perilous front line of undercover work.
‘Loss of objectivity.’
Melanie made a noise in her throat, a harsh laugh or cough, smothered by the sirens’ wail. ‘Doesn’t that go with the job?’ she shouted.
The stags had disappeared, bound for Rome, long before Kerr reached the gate and boarded his flight. He was in the back row, with the two adjacent seats unoccupied, and Justin Hine’s name flashed onto his silenced BlackBerry as the aircraft began to push back. He leant forward and murmured into the phone. ‘Can it wait?’
‘Urgent, boss.’ Justin sounded breathless and anxious. ‘I just met the guy who called me yesterday. The one I told you about?’
A middle-aged woman across the aisle was staring at him. ‘Make it quick.’
‘They want me to fly to the place where we had the meeting last week. There’s an airfield nearby.’
‘Fly as in “pilot”?’
‘It’s to collect a package.’
Kerr leaned low towards the window, a finger in his free ear, as the cabin crew pointed out the exits. ‘Has your friend told you what for?’
‘I’m guessing it may be connected to the merchandise you told me about? The last leg in the transaction?’
‘Brilliant.’
‘What do I tell him?’
The flight attendant was approaching on the final seatbelt check; she looked even younger than Gabi. ‘Let’s speak again later.’
‘The man wants to know now.’
‘When’s the pick-up?’
‘Forty-eight hours. Maybe sooner.’
Kerr concealed his phone for a moment as the attendant came alongside. ‘Can you do it?’
‘Of course I can bloody do it,’ said Justin, sounding irritated again.
‘I mean, does your licence cover it?’
‘Boss, is it a yes or no?’
Suddenly the flight attendant was leaning into him. She sounded annoyed, too. ‘You have to switch that off now.’
‘Tell him yes. Nice work,’ said Kerr, then cut the call.
It was after three in Rome by the time Kerr changed his return ticket at Fiumicino airport for a late evening departure and found a taxi. It took another forty-five minutes to crawl into the city centre and walk the narrow cobbled streets behind Piazza di Spagna, searching for the wine bar Gabi had recommended. He came across the intimate Vinoteca Reggio, dark, woody and tourist free, just beyond an ancient tenement choked by dense ivy that dangled across the street to the opposite wall. Adjusting his eyes to the gloom, he spotted Gabi and Robyn sitting at stools deep inside the tiny bar, laughing over gelato amarena with bottles of Peroni. They must have seen the shadow in the doorway, for both turned to him at the same time, Gabi going to him with a shriek of delight (‘Dad, you made it!’), Robyn waiting to copy her daughter’s hug and three kisses of welcome. Both wore tight jeans and cork wedge heels, Gabi in a white rollneck sweater, Robyn in a silk blouse and the same cream, tailored jacket she had worn outside the pub in Hammersmith. Robyn gave him a look as Gabi turned to order a bottle of Orvieto and joshed him about his rubbish time management. As they chatted over him, Kerr remembered his brunch with Gabi in Victoria nine days earl
ier, where she had pleaded with him to visit Rome so they could be a ‘proper family,’ even for a few hours. Now, with the two women in his life perched each side of him, vivacious and chic in their bright red lipstick, Gucci sunshades pushed back, he felt a surge of happiness.
Gabi wanted to talk about Hammersmith but Kerr kept the focus on her career, the orchestra’s Russian tour and life in London. ‘This is exactly what he did at brunch last week,’ she complained to Robyn after the third attempt. ‘Diversionary tactics. I’m not too young to hear about this stuff, you know.’
‘Drop it, Gabi,’ she said, pouring more wine. ‘We almost got ourselves blown up.’
‘Come off it, Mother. You’ve been banging on about your flipping near-death experience ever since I got here.’ She held up her glass. ‘I’m perfectly capable of handling it.’
Kerr began to say something, then caught Robyn’s warning glare. Later. Not in front of our child.
Thwarted, Gabi bounced the conversation back to Kerr and his relationship with Nancy Sergeyev, starting with her separation from Karl. She made it sound like retaliation.
‘Living together?’ said Robyn, after a couple of minutes. ‘So “good friends” doesn’t really cover it, right?’ She leant forward until she found Kerr’s eyes, signalling the gaps in the tale he had floated past her at Hammersmith. ‘And how does Nancy feel about you seeing me again? After your latest brush with the Grim Reaper?’
‘Not moved in, exactly,’ said Kerr, awkwardly. ‘We can cover this later.’
‘I think she’s a bit jealous of you, actually, Mum,’ said Gabi, poking Kerr in the ribs.
‘Me? The wicked witch from Glasgow? Don’t be insane,’ said Robyn. ‘And when you get to meet this Nancy, tell her she’s welcome to him.’
Gabi’s phone rang as she was about to order another bottle. ‘Sorry, guys, Angelo’s early.’ She made a face and slid from the stool, downing her wine. ‘Catch up with you in the restaurant.’
Kerr looked quizzical as Gabi scampered into the street.
‘String player on the tour. A poet, too. If you believe a word she says.’ Robyn wriggled on the stool and straightened her back. ‘Right. What do you want to know?’
‘Here?’ Kerr checked for the barman, just visible in the back room through the rack of bottles. ‘You sure?’
‘Isn’t that why you came? To interrogate me?’
‘Okay.’ Kerr drank some more wine. ‘This is how I see it. Belfast was a specific project for Spirito e l’Anima, right? I get that. But you never really explained it.’
‘Because we were busy getting pissed, remember?’
‘So what happened over there?’
Robyn eased down from the stool and rapidly waggled her legs to adjust her jeans. It was a slinky move he remembered from over two decades ago, when they had shuffled into their clothes after sex in the back of his van. She caught him watching and gave a little smile, as if she, too, was casting her mind back. ‘Let’s walk,’ she said, smoothing her jacket.
They strolled to the Piazza heading for the Scalinata di Trinita dei Monti, Rome’s famous Spanish Steps, the widest staircase in Europe. The air was warmer than forecast, and Kerr slung his jacket over his shoulder as they weaved through the knots of visitors.
‘Let’s suppose you’re right about Hammersmith. You were the target, not me,’ said Kerr as they began to climb. ‘They took a massive risk snatching your bag.’
‘My laptop. And stop talking about “they.” This is the Real IRA, John. They followed me and put that bomb under my car.’
‘And I’m waiting for you to tell me why?’
She gave a harsh laugh. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like across the water? For people trapped in those estates around Belfast? The despair and deprivation, even now?’ Kerr began to speak but Robyn ignored him. ‘You should try it. Take a look beneath the hype about prosperity and paradise. Christ, you spy on everybody else.’ Robyn spoke slowly and deliberately as they climbed, using the steps to punctuate each phrase. ‘Belfast has more so-called peace walls now than during the worst of the Troubles. Did you know that?’
‘Everyone does.’
‘I don’t think so. Belfast is a city of apartheid, John, and noone want to know. Human rights for people living in ghettos? Forget it. Do you really understand the sheer bloody hatred that still divides them?’
‘The scandal of sectarianism, yeah,’ said Kerr.
‘Which everyone shrugs off, just like you are, now. And the real outrage is the refusal to go public. So that was the mission they gave me. Research, record and expose the truth.’
‘For instance?’
‘How about the actual cost of the long-term unemployment and lost opportunities for Catholics? The scale of the grinding poverty and inequality? Well, it’s far worse than anyone is prepared to admit. Belfast hides more sleeping dogs than Battersea.’ She laughed again. ‘But why should we be surprised when the media is so fucking tongue-tied?’
‘So we’re back to “the press as instruments of government” pitch?’
‘Don’t mock it, John. The peace process is a sham, propped up by a conspiracy of subjectivity, selectivity and silence, take your pick. Even the bloggers have fallen into line. So much for the precious Fifth Estate.’
Breathless, they turned and sat on the steps, with the Trinita dei Monti church towering at their backs. Robyn flipped down her shades to face the lowering sun and they sat in silence for a few moments, gazing down into the Piazza as tourists advanced towards them.
Kerr glanced at her. ‘Did you come across a company called Tintack? They make documentaries. Strongly pro-republican?’
Robyn shook her head. ‘But there are dozens of outfits like that. And you know what I think of reporters.’
‘So you spoke out against discrimination. Important, fundamental social stuff.’ Kerr waited for an overweight couple with backpacks to wheeze past. ‘But where’s the lethal part?’
‘You what?’
‘Come on, Robyn. What did you uncover that made the dissidents want to kill you?’
‘Look, I drove this project straight down the line,’ she said, sharply. ‘I’ve supported Irish republicanism all my political life. You know that. A Glaswegian Catholic, what else? But when I work for Spirito I’m strictly lapsed. Neutral. Every interview audio-recorded and streamed to the laptop. From Loyalists, too. They didn’t like it.’
‘They?’
‘No-one, from either side.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Nothing’s changed. The paramilitary hierarchies are still in place at both extremes. After Brexit, Brussels threatens to turn off the magic money tap early at the slightest hint of violence, so Stormont doesn’t want to hear this stuff, either. John, you won’t believe how much hostility I faced over there. This is the Mafia breaking bread with the Freemasons. I’m telling you, a lot of people were warning me off.’
‘So why didn’t you mention this when I called?’
‘I already told Finch’s officers, you know, when Dumb and Dumber came out here to take my statement?’ She stared at him. ‘Jesus, don’t you people speak to each other?’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘The Real IRA sent those two kids to get me. What else? Then last week they call me to say Hammersmith was first in the series of dissident attacks. How lucky am I?’
‘Which is nonsense.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Different explosive.’ Suddenly Kerr’s BlackBerry was buzzing. ‘I’ll explain later,’ he said, twisting upright from the step as Justin’s name lit up the screen.
Robyn patted his backside. ‘Send Nancy my love.’
Kerr took a couple of steps sideways and dropped his voice again. ‘How’s it going?’
‘I just took a call from Gina,’ said Justin, abruptly. ‘The package is a person. A male.’ He sounded as stressed as before.
‘Know who?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Everyt
hing’s tight but Gina must have organised this when we were over there.’
‘And never mentioned it.’
‘She had to be sure about me, like I told you,’ said Justin, his voice quavery. ‘I’ll have three up on the flight back, so it’ll be a Cessna 172.’
‘Okay, let’s speak tomorrow.’
‘I’ll probably have to fly out of Clacton,’ he said, his voice floating down the line in a whisper. ‘There’ll be masses of paperwork, boss.’
‘I’ll handle it.’
‘And back-up.’
‘We’ll cover you on the other side.’ Kerr could tell that Justin was calling from some temporary refuge close to his targets. ‘You sound worried.’
‘I’m in a rush. They’ll be wondering.’
‘Sure you’re up for this?’
‘Gotta go,’ he said, then the line went dead.
Chapter Forty-Four
Wednesday, 19 October, 15.57 GMT, Harwich Ferry Port
The young driver’s work name was Maxine. She was German with near perfect English, but hoped to complete her mission without speaking a word. Tired from the long drive to the Hook of Holland, she needed to catch up on lost sleep during the ferry crossing to Harwich, building energy for the return as a foot passenger with a different passport. Her vehicle was an old, high mileage horsebox mounted on a Renault chassis, registered in Paris. With its dark grey bodywork, stylish silver logo of a horse at full stretch and, inside, racks for saddles and bridles over clumps of straw, the vehicle was unremarkable. Only in England would its true purpose be realised.
In black sleeveless puffer jacket over a fawn roll neck sweater, woollen hat and jeans with knee length boots, its driver, too, passed unnoticed. Maxine planned to sleep in the horsebox but was spotted by a deckhand, pillow and rolled blanket under her arm, and ordered upstairs to the commotion of the passenger lounges.
As soon as they reached open sea she realised that her exclusion from the car deck, with its fug of oil, diesel and rubber, had been fortunate. Squalls rising to force eight had turned the ship into a rollercoaster, pitching and wallowing over the roiling North Sea as passengers searched the windows for a fix on the horizon. Avoiding a knot of drinkers toughing it out in the bar, Maxine zipped her jacket and followed a couple of smokers into the storm, sucking lungfuls of air as she peeled aft to face down the churning waters. She thought she had found shelter in the lee of a machine room until the wind howled around the bulkhead to snatch at her, pitiless as the blast from her comrade’s bombs. Back inside, she dodged slicks of vomit to play a couple of fruit machines, then found refuge in the cinema, dozing in the back row while James Bond saved the world.
