He went back. The officer was waiting for him. The police sergeant pointed to the Renault. The officer came up to Dillon and asked in brisk British tones, “Your car? Did you see them place the bomb?”
He shook his head. “No, but they said it’s in the trunk.”
“This is the ATO,” the police sergeant said. “He’s in charge now.”
The officer ignored this. He asked what time the car had been parked in the car-park, then told Dillon, “All right, clear out.” He turned to the police. “You too. Is everybody out of those rooms?” He pointed to the banqueting room windows, and then, not waiting for his question to be answered, he walked away, going toward the Land Rovers which, Dillon saw, were filled with special equipment.
“All right, let’s get out of here,” the police sergeant said to Dillon. He, the three other policemen and Dillon all began to run toward the exit to the car-park. Running, Dillon looked back at the scene he was leaving: the soldiers moving cautiously toward the Renault, the Land Rovers parked in the middle of the car-park, the officer supervising the unloading of some device.
At the front of the hotel, the last evacuees were being hurried toward the street. Dillon saw Collis, the banquet manager, standing in the front doorway, shouting to two waiters to hurry up. Maggie Donlon, who had been at reception, was half carrying an old woman who was still in her nightdress.
He ran up to Maggie. “Are they all out?”
“I believe so, yes.”
He turned back, panicky again, waving to Collis to hurry up. Collis nodded and came to join him. “Is everybody out?” he said to Collis.
“All my lot are out,” Collis said. “I hear it’s a real fuckin’ bomb this time.”
“It is that,” he said.
The security hut was deserted; the gates lay open. As they went toward the Malone Road he could see what seemed like hundreds of people crowding the pavements, staring up at the hotel. Overhead, the surveillance helicopter still clattered out its deafening noise. Fire engines, their sirens dying as they arrived, moved up to the entrance, scattering the watching crowds. A police armored car, the last car to leave the hotel, came careening down the driveway and stopped close to Dillon. A policeman jumped out of the car and ran over to the sergeant. Dillon heard their radios crackling, heard the sergeant say, “No, Pottinger’s out. We had him out ten minutes ago.”
He went to the sergeant, gripping his arm. “Is that your headquarters you’re phoning? Will you ask about my wife? What about my wife?”
“What about your wife?” the sergeant said, puzzled. “Where is she?”
“The IRA are holding her in our house.”
“Wait.” The sergeant turned and walked a few paces away as if he did not want Dillon to hear what he was saying. Dillon saw him speak into the receiver.
Suddenly, the ground shook; an intense vibration preceded all sound. Then with a rumbling roar like a wall collapsing the car-park behind the hotel sent up a great cloud of dust and debris. All around Dillon people ducked down as though cowering from the lash of a great whip. In the seconds after the explosion a quiet filled the street, a quiet which ended with voices, as strange at first as the twittering of birds. “The bomb—it’s a bomb, oh, my God, was anybody, is anybody still in there?”
Maggie Donlon’s pale face appeared in front of him, her hand gripping his wrist. “Are the soldiers still in there.”
“Yes.” He turned to the police sergeant who stood holding his radio against his chest as if to protect it. “What happened.”
“Maybe they blew it up,” the sergeant said. “Or it blew itself up, more likely. It’s OK. Those fellas know their job.” He seemed irritated at being interrupted. Again, he turned away, tuning his radio which was giving off static. He listened, raising his hand, warning Dillon to be quiet.
All around people babbled on in the alarmed excited tones of survivors. “We weren’t out five minutes,” someone was saying. “Five more minutes and we’d all have been dead.”
Other voices called out, worried. “Did you see Helen? Is Helen with you?”
“It’s the IRA.”
“It was a bomb.”
“Was anybody up in the rooms?”
“No, she’s here. I saw her a minute ago.”
“It blew up in the back somewhere. It was at the back of the hotel.”
The sergeant, switching off his radio, beckoned to Dillon, drawing him away from Maggie Donlon and the other spectators. As Dillon followed the sergeant’s flak-jacketed back, a sick ball of fear and certainty filled his stomach. She’s dead. The sergeant pushed his way through a knot of waiting people and stood by the hood of his armored vehicle. When Dillon joined him he put his hand on Dillon’s shoulder and said in a low, confidential tone, “I have a message for you. No, no, it’s not about your wife. But I’m to advise you to tell nobody about your part in this—about your car—and the bomb—not a word, do you understand? It’s for your own protection.”
“But what about my wife, is she all right?”
“They’re dealing with that. I’m sorry I’ve no definite news for you yet.”
“Why not?” Dillon asked wildly, but did not wait for an answer. He turned and pushed his way through to the place where Maggie Donlon was still standing. “Maggie, do you have your car with you? Where is it parked?”
“Down on Wellesley Avenue. The usual place. Do you want to borrow it? It’s a wee yellow Fiat.”
“Give me the keys. It’s an emergency.”
She stared at him as she took the keys from her purse. “Are you all right, Michael? What’s up?”
He shook his head, unable to speak. He took the keys and, pushing his way past the gawking spectators, ran out into the road, in among the cars which cruised slowly past the hotel, their occupants staring at the fire engines, the cloud of dust, the crowds. Running like a thief in the middle of the road amid hooting horns, he reached Wellesley Avenue and Maggie’s car. When he drove the car out onto University Road, he rejoined the stalled traffic which was now moving in a slow stream toward the university grounds. He sat, gripping the wheel, his heart beating a loud panic as he inched forward toward the main gates and the graduation ceremonies.
They’re dealing with that, the sergeant said. Dealing with what? Moving Moira’s body out of the house? Or are they surrounding the house, waiting to go in and find out what happened?
Once past the university he was able to speed up, driving back along the same route he had taken to come here this morning. He drove erratically. He saw Kev’s masked face, heard his high angry voice, saw the gloved hand pointing the revolver. Kev didn’t kill her. I killed her. I killed her when I picked up the phone, I killed her to save those French tourists, I killed her to save Pottinger and those bigots in the Emerald Room.
He drove around Carlisle Circus and on to the Antrim Road. Ahead of him, a traffic light went red. He drove through it. He almost hit a man who stepped off the pavement as he ran the light. Car horns sounded on either side of him as he overtook traffic, weaving in and out, the road in front of him unreal, half noticed, as, vivid and startling, he saw Moira on her wedding day, holding him in an embrace in the caterer’s tent, whispering, “Till death do us part; do you believe that?”
Yes, he said, yes, of course he did.
And then she said, in a phrase that warned him that Moira Keenan, now his wife, was a stranger he did not know, “I believe it too. I know I won’t make old bones. I don’t want to get old and ugly and nobody will look at me anymore. I’m going to die young when men still want me. While I have the power.”
And what had he said to that, some joke, he supposed? He did not remember. But now, driving back, expecting to find her dead, he wondered if it was the most poignant thing she had ever told him about her life.
Three streets from Winchester Avenue, he began to look for roadblocks, police, crowds. But it was like any other morning on the Antrim Road. People were out, strolling, shopping, bringing small children to the park, as
though they were residents of a city thousands of miles away from bombs and guns. For most of them, these IRA events were what they saw on television, items on a daily disaster list of airline crashes, hostage crises in the Middle East, guerrilla wars, highjackings. Even now, walking on the Antrim Road, none of them would ever think that masked men with guns and bombs might have been in their midst this morning.
Winchester Avenue was next left. Sick with tension he put on his turn signal. As he drove into the avenue, two armed policemen standing on the corner looked him over. They did not stop him. Ahead, halfway up the avenue, he saw an armored police car parked outside his house. At the very top of the avenue a second police car waited at the intersection. When he saw that he had been allowed through, he guessed that the IRA were no longer in the house. The police are in the house now, with Moira. Dead?
He parked his car near the armored police car. As he got out he saw that there was an ordinary car parked just ahead of the police car. A man in civilian clothes was sitting in the driver’s seat. A doctor? The man did not look at him as he passed by. When he unlatched the front gate and went up the path, the front door opened as though he was expected. A policeman in flak jacket stood at the opened door. “I’m Michael Dillon,” Dillon said.
The policeman nodded and beckoned him in. “Just don’t touch anything, will you, sir?” the policeman said. “There’ll be a team here shortly to go over the place.”
He followed the policeman’s pointing finger and went into the front sitting room. As he did, a man rose to greet him, a neat-looking man in his forties, wearing a white shirt, red wool tie, and a blue business suit. Behind him, sitting on the sofa, was Moira.
“Oh, God,” Dillon said, and went to her, embracing her, felt her skin warm against his cheek. Suddenly, he gasped as though he would begin to weep. He hugged her tight, then realized that she had not put her arms around him, had not returned his kiss. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“She’s OK,” a voice behind him said. “We sent word back to the hotel to tell you, but you were gone already. By the way, I’m Detective Inspector Randall. Harry Randall. Your wife’s had a great shock, of course. But, all’s well that ends well. I gather there were no casualties back at the hotel?”
“I don’t know,” he said. He looked at Moira. “Are you all right?” he asked again.
She nodded, not looking at him.
“What happened?”
She did not answer. The Inspector said, “What time did you leave here, Mr. Dillon?”
“A quarter to eight.”
“Aye, well, they took off at about eight-twenty. They left Mrs. Dillon in this room. They told her if she moved or did anything, you would be killed. So she was still here, waiting, when we came in at eight forty-five.”
He stared at the Inspector. “Then they left here before they knew I’d phoned?”
The Inspector nodded. He opened a small loose-leaf notebook, riffling its pages. Looking at him, Dillon was reminded of a bank manager considering a loan. “Yes, that’s right. You didn’t ring up until eight thirty-six. While we’re at it, it would be a help if we try to get the picture clear. Your wife has told me, more or less, what happened here last night. Now, if you could tell me exactly what happened to you after you left here this morning?”
Moira looked at him suddenly, waiting.
And so, anxious, on trial, he sat beside her on the sofa and told again of his drive through the city with the white Ford following him. He told of his arrival at the hotel, of seeing Pottinger in the parking lot and realizing that this was an assassination attempt. Turning to Moira, he told her how he had walked past the dining room windows and watched the innocent French tourists eating inside. They listened in silence, she and the Inspector. They had become his judges. He told about the suspicious delivery boy and the girl in the yellow muffler. He told how, suddenly, in the little shop, he had phoned the police. “I thought of those people,” he said to Moira. “And, of course, all the time I was thinking about you.”
She looked at him. “Were you?”
“And then what?” the Inspector said, as though to stifle her question.
“Then, on the phone, the police told me to go back to the hotel and give the alarm at once. And about ten minutes after that, the bomb went off. I don’t know if the Army blew it up, or what.”
“The Army didn’t blow it up,” the Inspector said. “I’d assume it was set to go off at eight-fifty and it went off as planned.”
Dillon turned to Moira. “Then, I got a car and came here.”
There was a silence which the Inspector hurried to fill. “And you’ve told nobody about your part in this, Mr. Dillon?”
“No, the police said not to.”
“Why?” Moira asked.
“It’s for your own protection,” the Inspector said. “If the IRA was trying to kill Dr. Pottinger they won’t want it known that they made a mess of it. They’ll probably let people think it was a hotel bombing and that they were the ones who gave the warning to evacuate. So, it’s better that you say nothing. I mean, if the media got hold of this story you’d get a lot of publicity and people would know you stood up to the IRA. That would put you at greater risk.”
“But we’re at risk now,” Moira said. “Aren’t we?”
“That’s right. There’s no telling what they’ll do. I think, under the circumstances, you know your options.”
“What options?” Moira said. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we can’t advise you, of course. But, in the past, there’ve been a few people in your situation, people who didn’t do what they told them to do. Those people moved away. They left Ireland. Mind you, I’m not saying that anything is going to happen to you or Mr. Dillon. What I’m saying is, we can’t really protect you. We can’t guarantee your safety.”
While the Inspector had been speaking, a police van had drawn up on the opposite side of the avenue. A few people had come out of their houses and now watched, curious, as policemen carrying boxes of some equipment came into the Dillons’ front hall. The Inspector turned away from them, listening to the commotion in the hall. “Is there anywhere you could go—just for a few hours? Our team is going to go over the house now. They won’t make a mess, but they’ll be here for a while.”
“They all wore gloves,” Moira said, suddenly getting up and pulling the window curtains against the faces which stared at them from across the street. “You won’t find anything.”
The Inspector also rose. “Gloves aren’t complete protection,” he said, smiling in his deferential manner. He turned to Dillon. “I suppose you didn’t, at anytime, see any of their faces?”
“Yes, I did,” Dillon said. He saw Moira look at him, surprised.
“When was that?” the Inspector said.
“One of them, the one called Kev, pulled up his mask. He had his back to me, but I saw his face in the mirror. He was scratching his cheek. He had bad acne.”
“Does he know you saw him?”
“No.”
“That could be very useful, then,” the Inspector said. “But I think it would be wise if neither of you mention this to anyone else. Except members of the police, of course. Now, I suppose you’ll want to get back to the hotel, Mr. Dillon. Mrs. Dillon, can we give you a lift somewhere? I have my car and driver outside.”
“You could go to Peg Wilton’s,” Dillon said to her. “I have to get back—I have Maggie’s car.”
“I want to go to my mother’s,” Moira said, speaking not to him, but to the Inspector. “She lives in Lurgan.”
“That’s all right, we’ll run you down there,” the Inspector said. “If you want to take some things for the night, we’ll make sure that everything’s locked up here when we finish.”
“I don’t need to take anything,” Moira said. “I’ll just get my coat.” She turned to Dillon. “Will you come down to Mama’s later on? I want to talk to you.”
“Yes, of course,” he said. He went to kiss her, but she
walked out of the room. The Inspector watched her go, then turned to Dillon and asked quietly, “You did see his face, did you.”
“Yes.”
“You could identify him, then?”
He nodded. “Tell me,” he asked the Inspector. “These people you were talking about, where did they go? The ends of the earth?”
The Inspector smiled. “As a matter of fact, one man did go to Australia. But the other two cases I know of, the people just moved to England.”
“And they’re all right?”
“So far, yes,” the Inspector said.
FOUR
A notice, hand-lettered on a sheet of white paper, had been thumbtacked below the main hotel entrance:
RESTAURANT CLOSED
BOMB DAMAGE
BAR OPEN SANDWICHES
As he drove Maggie’s car back through the security gates, he asked Billy if the Army bomb squad was still there.
“There’s still soldiers here,” Billy said. “But the bomb squad pulled out once the bomb went off. Bad luck about your car, eh, sir?”
“What about my car?”
“The wall collapsed on all them cars that was parked in the staff area. You’ll see when you go in.”
He drove on. There was an Army barrier across the entrance to the car-park. He got out and went in on foot.
At first sight it seemed that the whole back part of the hotel had been destroyed, but as he walked across the car-park he saw that the damage was confined to the Emerald Room and the main dining room adjoining it. The Emerald Room was a rubbled shambles, its outer wall completely collapsed, tables and chairs buried under falling brickwork, the ceiling hanging down like the broken wing of some huge prehistoric bird. The main dining room was similarly destroyed. Where the outer wall had collapsed, his car and three others were completely invisible under rubble and bricks. From the almost total destruction of the cars it would, he realized, be difficult to tell in which one the bomb had been planted. As he walked closer to the wreckage, he saw a British Army armored vehicle parked at the far end of the car-park and now a soldier with a rifle came up to him, waving him off.
Lies of Silence Page 8
