‘You’re a droll fellow, Ivor,’ Pagan said.
McInnes laughed again, a big throaty sound. It was as if he had an untuned accordion lodged in his larynx. ‘As for John Waddell, well, you’ve lost me.’
‘How did you find out Jig was coming to America, Ivor?’
‘You’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘I don’t really think so,’ Pagan said. ‘Every time the Free Ulster Volunteers move, it’s because you’re sitting backstage pulling their strings.’
‘You’re on shaky ground, Frank.’
McInnes gazed at the blank TV. For a moment he considered the complicated mosaic of this whole operation, and it filled him with a dizzy sense of achievement. It had taken three years to get this far, three years planning and scheming and infiltrating and carefully sliding each delicate part into its correct place. And now, even with Pagan and his American sidekick in his hotel room, he could almost taste the triumph in everything that had been assembled. In a life filled with strife and dissension and disappointment, victory was a new flavour for him and he enjoyed it. What he also enjoyed was playing a little game with Frank Pagan, who was labouring in a blind place indeed.
‘Did you come to my hotel just to harangue me, Frank?’ he asked. ‘Did you come here to make false accusations?’
Pagan rose from the bed. ‘I’ve got a problem, Ivor. Let me see if I can explain it to you. First, I get this snippet of information about Jig. No matter how hard you deny it, I know it comes from you. The horse’s mouth. I get on a plane. Voilà. New York. Second, as coincidence would have it, I find my old pal Ivor in the same city, researching a book. I don’t put a lot of faith in coincidence, Ivor, and since I’ve had the miserable fortune actually to struggle through some of your writing in pamphlet form, I don’t put much faith in your literary talents either. Do you see where I’m going?’
McInnes shook his head. ‘You’re still barking, Frank.’
‘Something’s going on. Something’s happening.’ Pagan’s eyes, which McInnes had thought cindery before, appeared to have caught fire.
Ivor McInnes looked out at Central Park. A watery sun, the colour of sulphur, hung over bare trees. He had a sudden image of the girl in the Hotel Strasbourg, and he felt a weird little outbreak of guilt at the memory. It was one of the drawbacks of Presbyterianism, this smothering guilt that sometimes attacked you unawares.
‘Check with my publisher if you want to know about my book, Frank,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he’d tell you the book’s no sham.’
Pagan glanced at his wristwatch, then looked in the direction of the FBI man, whose silence had been faintly disturbing to McInnes. After a lifetime of speechmaking and pulpit thumping, McInnes abhorred silences.
McInnes said, ‘I hope you find your man, Frank. Jig’s a bloody menace to peaceful people everywhere. Especially to the Loyalists in Ireland. If he keeps killing, the British are going to think very carefully about the cost of maintaining a presence in the province. And what would happen to the Loyalists then?’
‘What exactly are you loyal to?’ Pagan asked. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘Queen and country of course,’ McInnes replied.
Your patriotism’s touching. But you left something out, Ivor.’
‘What?’
‘Your forgot your overriding loyalty, didn’t you? The only one in your life. To yourself. To Ivor McInnes. That’s the only true allegiance you understand.’
‘Frank, Frank,’ McInnes said, his voice filled with the weariness of a man who is tired of being vilified unjustly. ‘You’re beginning to believe all the things you read about me in the newspapers. I credited you with more sense than that, my friend. Aren’t you being just a trifle hasty in your character assassination? Besides, you forget something. Something important.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We’re on the same side. We both want to see Jig behind bars, don’t we? We both want to see an end to IRA terrorism, don’t we? You forget, Frank, that I’m an ardent supporter of the government you work for. You shouldn’t let something that bloody important slip your mind. Whether you like it or not, we’re allies.’ And here McInnes placed one of his large hands on Pagan’s shoulder and squeezed it in a confidential way.
Frank Pagan stared at McInnes. His face was hard and cold again, and there was a distance in his eyes. McInnes wondered about the reservoirs of anger inside the man. He let his hand drop to his side.
‘You overlook a major difference,’ Pagan said, his voice flat, words clipped. ‘I don’t play on bigotry and fear, McInnes. I don’t incite people to meaningless acts of violence. And I don’t use scum like the Free Ulster Volunteers to do my dirty work for me.’
McInnes, who realised he’d struck a vibrant chord here, simply shrugged. ‘I’ve been accused of bigotry before, Frank, and I daresay I’ll be accused again. I challenge you to find anything in my speeches or my writing to support that charge. You’ll find that nowhere have I ever uttered or written a single word that could justifiably be construed as bigotry. What I have done, and what I’ll continue to do’ – and here McInnes flashed his widest smile – ‘is to criticise the policies of the Roman Catholic Church, which I consider an impediment to any kind of progress. You look at any poor country, you’ll find the Catholic Church somewhere in the picture. You look at any poor country racked by a runaway birthrate and you’ll find priests and nuns holding total dominion over the peasants. The Vatican doesn’t want adherents and converts, it wants prisoners. It wants people who are scared to ask questions. It wants numbers, and it dangles the threat of excommunication over anybody who has the guts to ask straightforward questions. Take something dead simple, Frank. Take your average parish priest. What in the name of God does he know about women and marriage and raising children? Nothing! He leads a celibate life, with his head stuck up his arse. And yet he’s the man who’s supposed to give guidance to people whose marriages are falling apart or husbands who are impotent? It’s this same church that has kept the Republic of Ireland in bondage for centuries, with its censorship and its damned laws of contraception and its attitude to divorce.’
McInnes paused now. His voice, which had been kept at a constant, restrained pitch, had filled the small hotel room like air blown into a balloon. ‘It’s the same church that has been behind the troubles in Ulster. Do you think Ulster would be in its present pitiful condition if the Catholic Church weren’t there? We’re an impoverished, backward society, Frank. We should be in the vanguard of European life, but instead what do we get? Bloody handouts from British politicians. A little charity from Westminster. And you can say what you like about the FUV, Frank, but it’s people like them that keep the Catholic IRA from turning Northern Ireland into a complete bloodbath.’
Pagan shook his head. There was something just a little mesmerising about McInnes when he was in full flight. He could make even the most irrational arguments sound forcibly convincing. What you had to do when you confronted Ivor was to keep in mind that his arguments appealed only to unanalytical audiences already predisposed to his point of view. If you didn’t, you ran the risk of having your head addled. He was annoyed with himself for having allowed Ivor to launch into a speech. He was also annoyed that his own composure was slipping. ‘You make the FUV sound like a peacekeeping force. What’s your big dream, McInnes? A Nobel Peace Prize?’
McInnes was determined not to be drawn by insults. He found it remarkable how blind Frank Pagan could be. Why didn’t the man accept the fact that they were both on the same side when you got right down to it? What was so difficult about that notion?
‘My aim’s simple,’ McInnes said. ‘I’ve said it many times before and I’ll say it again. I want an end to the IRA. Can you deny you want the same thing?’
‘The problem with talking to somebody like you is the feeling I get of hammering my head against a bloody great brick wall,’ Pagan said. ‘You have a bad habit, Ivor, of twisting things around so that they’ll fit your thesis.’
/> ‘You didn’t answer my question, Frank.’
‘Okay. I don’t deny it. I want to see terrorism finished. But are you sure that’s what you really want?’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s simple. Without having the Catholics and the IRA to rant about, what would you do with your time, Ivor? Just think how bloody bored you’d be.’
McInnes smiled. ‘Bored but at peace, Frank.’
Pagan looked at his wristwatch. ‘It’s been fun talking to you and I’m sorry we have to run. In the meantime, Ivor, keep out of trouble and try to have a nice day.’
‘I always have nice days,’ McInnes said.
He watched Pagan close the door quietly. Alone, he moved to the window and saw two brightly dressed joggers pounding through Central Park. He placed the palm of his hand upon the glass, leaving a print. Pagan, of course, was mistaken. Without the IRA, the Catholics in the North would have no real protection, which meant they would migrate to the South – that medieval, Church-choked country where they belonged – leaving Ulster in the hands of Protestants. And McInnes, whose vision encompassed an Ulster free of sectarian violence, would have a major role to play in the formation of this shining new society. It was really very simple. There would be a great many things to keep him occupied in the future.
He put on his overcoat. He’d spend the afternoon in the public library, leafing through old records and documents and making sure he took notes conscientiously. It would be difficult, though. He knew his mind would keep drifting to the Memorial Presbyterian Church in White Plains.
Sunday at seven. Two days from now. The first step. He felt suddenly excited and anxious. It had been a long road, and it had been filled with deprivation for him. But now at least, he could read the signs along the way. He put his hand on the telephone but then drew it away again quickly. This urge to speak, to make contact, to utter aloud the excitement he felt – he had to let it subside. To make any kind of contact now would be to break rules. And the rules had been observed stringently ever since the beginning. Even in times of the utmost difficulty.
He stepped out into the corridor just in time to see Frank Pagan and Zuboric get into the elevator. Pagan looked briefly in his direction, raised a hand in the air, then the elevator doors slid shut behind him.
Frank Pagan was depressed in the thrift shop. Old clothing had its own peculiar smell, reminiscent of locked attics and damp chests filled with mouldering papers. It wasn’t the sleazy ambience of the store that brought him down, though. It was the encounter with McInnes. To be drawn into an argument with Ivor was like trying to do a butterfly stroke in a small bathtub. You never got anywhere.
Pagan picked out a very old black overcoat and tried it on. He turned to Artie Zuboric. ‘How do I look?’
‘Sensational,’ Zuboric said. He found an enormous Hawaiian shirt, which might have housed the entire Barnum and Bailey Circus. He examined the pattern, a nightmare of pineapples and Venus flytraps.
Pagan took off the overcoat. It wasn’t grubby enough for St. Finbar’s. He found a more likely garment on the next rack, an old raincoat with tattered epaulettes and faded stains tattooing the sleeves.
Frank Pagan tried on the raincoat. He wandered towards a cracked wall mirror at the far end of the store and stared at his own reflection. ‘The trouble with Ivor is he shapes the world to suit himself. It’s a common trait among megalomaniacs.’
Zuboric lifted a red and black checked suit from a rack and held it up. He’d seen another side of Frank Pagan in the room at the Essex House. He’d caught the distinct vibrations of the man’s capacity for anger. It was enjoyable to see the fault lines in Pagan’s surface. ‘Are you on the same side, Frank?’
Frank Pagan turned away from his reflection and looked at Zuboric, wondering if the agent was trying to goad him. ‘The Irish problem turns up some strange companions,’ he said. ‘Maybe McInnes and I have a common enemy. And maybe our goals overlap. But what McInnes loves is strife. He feeds on it. If there wasn’t any trouble, he’d go out and manufacture some.’
‘He says he’s writing a book –’
Pagan snorted. ‘McInnes spews out pamphlets that make The Protocols of the Elders of Zion seem positively charitable. If you’ve ever got a few minutes to waste and you want some insight into Ivor’s mind, I suggest you read the one entitled The Roman Catholic Conspiracy in Northern Ireland. In that priceless work he actually advocates sterilisation for the Roman Catholic women of Ulster after they’ve had two babies. So the idea of him writing a book is fucking laughable. Unless he’s found a publisher who specialises in madness. Which isn’t altogether an impossibility.’
Zuboric said, ‘So what’s he doing here then?’
Pagan shrugged. ‘I wish I knew. The only thing I know for certain is I don’t trust him. And I don’t trust the coincidence of him being here. What you have to keep remembering about Ivor is that he’s clever and he’s cunning. You might disagree with the things he says, but you don’t underestimate him. And there are thousands of people in Ulster who agree with his every word. That kind of support shouldn’t be overlooked either.’
‘You said he was involved with the Free Ulster Volunteers. He denied that. What’s the score there?’
‘We’ve had him watched and we’ve had him followed, and we’ve never been able to pin that connection on him directly. The chances are that he’s behind the FUV, but he’s very careful. If he ever makes contact with them, we don’t know about it. I’ve got sources that say he meets with FUV members secretly, but when it comes down to documented proof, I can never get my hands on any. I work on the assumption that he’s the leader, but I can’t guarantee it.’ Pagan paused a second, casting an eye round the store. ‘Ulster’s filled with secrets. And Ivor knows a whole lot of them, but he isn’t telling.’
Zuboric watched Pagan plunge into a mountain of old shoes now. There was footwear of every variety. Sandals, battered slippers, two-tone horrors, beat-up climbing boots. A sweaty odour arose from the heap. There was no way in the world he’d try on any of the shoes himself, but Pagan, who’d already removed his own casual leather jobs, was plucking a dilapidated pair of brown brogues from the heap. He sat on the floor and placed one of the shoes on his left foot. He suddenly reminded Zuboric of a kid getting dressed up for Halloween. He had this quality of enthusiasm.
‘Fine, don’t you think?’ Pagan asked.
‘Yeah. Terrific.’
‘Now I need a shirt and a pair of trousers.’ Pagan wandered off to another pile of clothing and Zuboric followed. Pagan chose an antique flannel shirt that was missing several buttons. The cuffs were frayed. Pants next, a pair of crumpled old flannels with enormous fly buttons and broken belt loops. When he had his wardrobe assembled Pagan said, ‘It’s a pity about that suntan of yours.’
Zuboric was unhappy with the notion of Pagan infiltrating St. Finbar’s. At first, Artie had wanted to dress up the way Pagan was planning to do, and position himself inside the soup kitchen dressed as one of its clientele. But this notion had disintegrated as soon as he’d tried on an old tweed coat and looked at himself in the mirror. There was absolutely no way he could pass himself off as a derelict with a complexion as healthy as his. He looked too good to carry off a charade like the one Pagan was going to play. Instead, Zuboric planned to conceal himself in Tumulty’s office while Pagan mingled with the deadbeats downstairs. There was a certain ironic symbolism in this arrangement that Zuboric enjoyed.
‘You should stay out of spas,’ Pagan said. ‘And avoid suntan lamps in future. They’re unnatural.’
‘And look as white as you? No thanks.’
‘Didn’t I tell you, Artie? The way I look is all the rage in London this winter. Everybody’s trying it.’
Pagan took his purchases to the desk where a frail old man with a face that resembled a spider’s web operated an ancient cash register.
When they were outside on the street, Pagan said, ‘It’s time to release Father Jo
e.’
Zuboric looked across the street at Pagan’s big green Cadillac. There was a tiny knot in his stomach, a vague tension. He wanted a tidy conclusion to this whole murky business. He wanted to escort Frank Pagan to Kennedy Airport and watch him step aboard a flight to London, which would thankfully be the last of the guy. But first there was the uncertainty of Jig.
They crossed the street to the car. Pagan took the key out of his pocket, and as he was about to insert it into the door of the vehicle he saw a girl come out of a delicatessen half a block away, and his heart jumped as if electricity had coursed through his body.
Roxanne.
He dropped the bag of secondhand clothes. His lungs were tight in his chest and his hands trembled.
‘Something wrong?’ Zuboric asked.
Pagan said nothing. He watched the girl move along the sidewalk, her thick black hair floating behind her. The way she walked. The way her hair flew up from her neck and shoulders. He shut his eyes a moment, and when he opened them again the girl was already turning the corner at the end of the block. Fool. Deceived by resemblances. Misled by impressions. He felt weak. He had to lean against the side of the car.
‘Frank?’ Zuboric asked.
‘It’s nothing. I thought I saw somebody I used to know. That’s all.’
Zuboric picked up the bag of clothing from the pavement and gave it to Pagan, who clutched it in an absentminded way against his chest. Pagan looked along the empty sidewalk. He had the depressing realisation that if he lived a million years, if he lived long enough to see the sun shrivel in the sky and the earth freeze and wither and the planets plunge into eternal darkness, he’d never see Roxanne again. He’d see resemblances in a hundred places, but never again the real person. It was quite a thought.
He opened the car door, his hand still trembling. He got in behind the wheel. What he needed was something desperately simple. He needed to fuck the spectre of Roxanne out of existence. It came down to that. But what were you supposed to do if that particular appetite had died? If all the women you ever saw didn’t match the memory of a dead woman? If your heart was empty?
Jig Page 24
