Across from the car hire desks there was a small arcade of shops. Annie went to the counter selling rainwear and bought herself a big green anorak with a stiff turn-up collar. There was also a display of local knitwear and she found a flat tweed cap, the smallest size they had, putting it on and checking herself in the mirror. It wasn’t a perfect fit but with the anorak it changed her silhouette completely and if she was unlucky enough to hit trouble, it might well buy her the couple of seconds she knew would count.
Outside the airport building, standing on the wet pavement, Annie waited until she’d spotted the Golf before hurrying out to the car park. She was wearing the anorak now, with the collar up and the tweed cap pulled low over her eyes. The car was, as promised, brand new. She experimented with the lights for a moment or two and then threaded her way onto the exit road, one eye on the rear view mirror. She drove round the one-way system twice, still checking for cars behind. Convinced she wasn’t being followed, she finally took the road that left the airport, slowing for a wave-through from the armed RUC men at the security checkpoint.
It had stopped raining by now and the last of a cold, steel-grey dusk was settling on the line of hills to the west. On the motorway, traffic was still pouring out of the city, a flood of on-coming headlights, and Annie began to relax. If everything went according to plan, if Bobby McCrudden really had a name for Sabbathman, then she was hours away from giving her career a major lift. Events, for once, had put her at the very centre of a major national story and her bosses in Gower Street couldn’t fail to take notice. Quite what shape her reward would take, she didn’t know but the currency that really mattered in MI5 was battle honours, and just now they were extremely hard to come by. Sabbathman’s was a scalp worth having. Even Alan Kingdom would admit that. The thought of him warmed her, and she slipped into the fast lane and took the Golf up to 95 mph as the lights of the city appeared ahead.
Minutes later, at the Grosvenor Road roundabout, Annie left the motorway. She drove up Victoria Street, past the Europa Hotel. A mile and a half further on, near the University, she made a series of left turns. The safe house lay in one of the avenues that ran down towards the river. She’d used it often, sometimes for converted terrorists in transit out of the province, sometimes to brief agents coming in. Once, at the start of their relationship, she’d even taken Kingdom there, making love in one of the bedrooms on the third floor. Kingdom had known it was a safe house from the start, recognising the wallpaper in the sitting room from a head and shoulders photo he’d seen in an RUC file. It was one of the first things she’d noticed about him, how perceptive he was, and how suspicious, searching the bedroom afterwards for hidden cameras.
Now, she parked the Golf three doors down from the safe house and walked back. The properties on either side of the safe house had been bought by an agency working on instructions from the Northern Ireland Office, and both had been converted into student lets. The safe house itself had a speaker phone by the front door with three buttons against three names. The device in fact acted as a security lock and Annie remembered the sequence without difficulty, three pushes on the middle button, one on the top, then two on the bottom. The door opened and she stepped inside, recognising at once the smell of the place, an unforgettable mixture of old fat, boiled sprouts, and the powerful disinfectant favoured by the woman who did the cleaning.
The house appeared to be empty. In a wardrobe in a bedroom upstairs, where Cousins had promised, she found a blue holdall. Inside, wrapped in a copy of the Belfast Telegraph, was a hand-gun, a Browning automatic, the sort she’d trained on and carried routinely throughout her tour in the province. Annie glanced at the paper. It carried yesterday’s date, Friday 1 October, and she wondered for a moment whether Cousins himself had been here. Executives of his eminence rarely bothered themselves with the spadework but Cousins – as she’d begun to realise – was a law unto himself.
Annie picked up the gun again, checking the mechanism, working the action backwards and forwards. Then she loaded three clips with shells from the box of ammunition. Tandragee was about forty minutes out of Belfast, to the west. Cousins had arranged the meet for nine o’clock. McCrudden would wait for thirty minutes, no more. If she wasn’t there by half-past nine, he’d leave. Annie slipped a full clip into the butt of the Browning and levelled the gun at a water colour of Lough Neagh on the wall. It was a beautifully balanced weapon, solid but not too heavy. Just holding it gave her instant confidence.
Annie put the automatic back in the holdall and took out the radio, entering the frequency Stanton had given her at the airport. Then she glanced at her watch. Nearly half-past eight. Already running late.
Outside, the street was empty, one or two parked cars, no other signs of life. Annie walked to the Golf and got in, stowing the holdall on the passenger seat beside her. At the end of the street, she turned right, making her way back to the main road. The traffic was much lighter now and once she’d rejoined the motorway, she took the Golf up to 80 mph. On the radio, she’d found a local programme called Classic Trax, an hour of music devoted to the seventies, and she eased her seat back, tapping out the rhythms with her fingertips, singing along to Chris Rea and Van Morrison. She smiled, thinking again of Kingdom. His kind of music. His kind of lyrics.
She was nearly at Lisburn when she realised she was being followed. The headlights in the rear-view mirror had slowly closed on her. Now they felt no more than a yard or so behind, the full beams dazzling her. She sank a little lower in the seat, going through the usual checks. She accelerated, way past the hundred mark, then she slowed again, down to sixty, fifty, but nothing made any difference. There was no attempt to overtake, no pulling back, just the harsh white glare in the rear-view mirror, and the miles unwinding to the end of the motorway. She was past her exit by now, way past, but that didn’t matter. Bobby McCrudden could wait. Everything could wait. All that mattered now was putting darkness between her and the car behind.
She debated what to do, feeling her pulse at last beginning to steady. The Browning lay beside her, on top of the holdall. She reached for it, making sure it was still there, then she felt inside the holdall, pulling out the radio. The on/off switch was on the side of the set. She turned the radio on and held it close to her mouth.
‘Greenglass One,’ she said, using the call sign Stanton had given her at the airport. ‘Does any one read me? Over?’
She listened for a moment, hearing no acknowledgements, wondering who else might be tuned in. Active operational channels were monitored constantly. She tried again, same message, the set tight to her mouth.
‘Greenglass One, Greenglass One. Repeat. Emergency. Who reads me?’
Again, silence. She glanced down. Where a tiny red light normally confirmed working power, there was nothing. Only darkness. She switched quickly to receive, scanning through the channels, hearing nothing. The batteries were dead. There was no power. Annie closed her eyes a moment, cursing herself for not checking earlier, back in the safe house. She’d been too hasty. She’d put time before prudence, the cardinal sin, and now here she was, deaf and dumb, the speedo showing 89 mph and the headlights behind still rock-solid in the rear-view mirror. Provos, she thought, had to be. The hard-faced ultras from Cousins’ scenario, the guys who wanted to strangle the peace talks at birth, the guys who’d do anything, take any life, to keep the province in a state of war. Somehow, they’d picked her up. Somewhere, they’d been waiting. Maybe at the safe house. Maybe somewhere else in the city. Either way, it was academic. All she had now was a full tank of petrol and 27 rounds of 9mm snubnose. The rest, unless she was very careful, would be all too predictable. She peered ahead. The rain had started again, flurries hitting the windscreen, greasing the surface of the road. That was good. That narrowed the odds a little. Head to head, she thought grimly. Who dares wins.
A big blue motorway sign flashed past, indicating the next exit. ‘Armagh/Coalisland,’ it said, ‘1 mile.’ She took the Golf up to 110 mph, waiting for the
line of green dots that would signal the beginning of the slip road. When they appeared, she left it as late as she dared and then swung left, feeling the back of the car starting to slide, correcting the skid with a flick of the wheel, then dropping two gears as the roundabout came up to meet her. The roundabout, mercifully, was empty. Behind, in the mirror, she could see the other car making a U-turn in the carriageway. Overshoot, she thought. At least three hundred yards in hand.
The country road to Armagh was unlit and she drove very fast into the wet darkness, trying to anticipate each corner, using the engine and the gearbox to glue the wheels to the road. Twice, she nearly came unstuck. The second time, a sharp left-hand bend took her by surprise and left her broadside in the wet, the wheels spinning, the engine screaming, the speedo still registering 73 mph. Behind her now there was nothing but darkness. Then a village appeared, a handful of houses and an empty-looking pub, and she slowed, looking for a telephone box. When she couldn’t find one, she reversed quickly, backing the Golf into a narrow lane beside the pub. Before she left the car, she stuffed the Browning into the side pocket of the anorak. When she ran, she felt it banging against her hip.
The pub was deserted apart from an old man in the corner nodding over a pint of stout. A woman appeared behind the bar. Annie asked her about a pay phone and the woman indicated a door marked ‘Toilets’. Outside the Ladies, she said, there was a phone. Would she be after any change? Annie nodded, taking no chances, swopping a pound for a handful of coins.
Out in the narrow passage, she found the phone. She began to dial the emergency number at Lisburn but then she stopped, spooling backwards in her mind, counting the number of turns she’d made, remembering the speed she’d maintained, and the distance she must have put between herself and the car behind. There was no way they’d find her. Phoning the emergency number was a surrender to panic. Soon enough there’d be time to report in. Just now, she needed a different kind of conversation.
She dialled her own number, the flat in Kew, just in case. When it didn’t answer, she began dialling again, Kingdom’s number this time, the little terrace house in Leytonstone where he lived with his father. Odds on, she’d find him there. Just the sound of his voice would be enough.
The number rang and rang and she was about to hang up when there was finally an answer, not Kingdom at all but an old voice, inquisitive, querulous, high-pitched.
‘Alan?’ she said. ‘Is Alan there?’
‘Who?’
‘Alan? Alan Kingdom?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘My name’s Annie. He knows me. Is he there?’
Outside, faraway, she heard a car changing gear, the kind of urgent, violent gear change you make when you’re going too fast into a corner. The voice was back again, lost, bewildered.
‘Who do you want?’
‘Alan? Your son? Only–’
The car was much closer now, just up the road, the tyres squealing in the wet.
‘Who?’
‘Alan. Alan Kingdom. Your son. Please–’
She shut her eyes as the car roared past. Then she heard the screech of brakes and the howl of the transmission as the driver reversed at speed. They’ve seen the Golf, she thought. They’ve seen it and they’re coming back.
‘He’s asleep,’ said the voice in her ear. ‘Fast asleep.’
Annie heard a door slam. Then footsteps. She had the gun out now, levelled at the door. She should have phoned the emergency number. She knew it. She shouldn’t have bothered with Kingdom. That was breaking the first rule. That was greed. And weakness. And stupidity. That was asking for it. She bent to the phone.
The voice was fainter now, as if losing interest. ‘A friend, are you? Only–’
Annie dropped the phone, crouching low, waiting for the door to open. She could hear voices raised next door, someone knocking over a chair, someone cursing, then the door splintered around the handle and two men burst in. They looked like figures from a nightmare, anoraks, jeans, ski-masks. They both had hand-guns and she took the biggest first, the one on the left, the closest one, point blank range, aiming for the base of his throat. She squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. She tried again. Another click.
The men were on her now, hauling her upright. She looked the smaller one in the eyes. His eyes were yellow. She could smell the whiskey on him. He hit her twice under the rib cage, big clumsy blows that drove the breath from her body. She heard the Browning clatter to the ground then skid across the lino as someone kicked it against the skirting board.
She was on her knees now, gasping with pain, and when she opened her eyes she saw the feet in front of her, the high-laced boots, the leather toecaps glistening with fresh mud, everything happening in slow motion. She caught the first kick on the side of her chest, turning her body side-on, trying to protect her face. Then something burst inside her head, a bright blinding light, and she felt a gloved hand on her mouth, muffling her screams. She was on her feet again, supported on either side, her chin on her chest, and before they dragged her away she saw the telephone, still dangling on the end of the cord, and she heard the voice, as bewildered as ever.
‘Alan?’ it was saying. ‘You want Alan?’
Outside, she felt the rain on her face and she turned her head back towards the pub, trying to force another scream past the hand that gagged her mouth. The effort exhausted her but when the hand tightened she lashed out with her feet, making solid contact with the man behind. He began to curse her in the wet darkness, forcing her arm up her back until she knew her shoulder was on the point of dislocation. Her upper body had become suffused with pain, an almost liquid thing, swamping every other feeling. She heard a car door open. Then, abruptly, her feet left the ground and she was thrown head-first onto the rear seat. Someone clambered in beside her, sitting on her back, a terrible weight that drove the breath from her body. The engine started, the car accelerating hard, and before the darkness came she had time to marvel at the workings of her own brain, how detached it was, and how perceptive. Some kind of Ford, she thought. Not the VW at all.
When she came to, the car was travelling at speed. The weight on her back had gone but when she tried to move her hands, nothing happened. She tried again, pulling hard, realising that her wrists had been bound together beneath her body with some kind of tape. She got her head down, exploring it with her tongue, aware for the first time of her broken teeth. Her lips were swollen, the blood already beginning to scab, and the steady thump-thump in her head began to quicken as she strained again at the tape.
The car lurched into a bend and she peered up, trying to make sense of the shapes around her. She had the back seat to herself but she could smell the sharp, acrid tang of hand-rolled tobacco and when the car hit a bump in the road, making her gasp with pain, a face appeared in the gap between the two front seats, a featureless oval of white against the frieze of blurring trees beyond the windscreen.
‘You OK?’
She recognised the accent, the harsh Belfast vowels.
The face was still looking at her. ‘You’se want a cigarette?’
Without waiting for an answer, a gloved hand reached back, the tip of the roll-up glowing in the darkness. She shook her head, turning her face away, and then she heard another voice, the driver this time, something she didn’t pick up. Then the car braked suddenly, the wheels locking, and when she looked again the face had disappeared.
One of the front doors opened. She heard another car, the VW this time, definitely. It pulled up alongside. The driver in the front was yelling now, telling someone else to hurry up. There were footsteps close by and she felt movement on the springs as someone rummaged in the boot behind her head. Then the rear door beside her opened and she smelled petrol, recognised the slosh of it in a can, and for a moment she closed her eyes, expecting the worst. They’re going to pour it all over me, she thought. And then light a match.
The footsteps again, and the cough of an engine as the VW started. It pulled away and A
nnie heard the crunch of gravel beneath the tyres. The door beside her head was still open. The petrol smell had gone. She lifted her head, swamped with relief, listening hard as the VW bumped away, aware now of another sound. Water, she thought. A stream, or maybe even a river.
The two men in the front were talking, their voices very low, the conversation masked by music from the radio. From time to time, one of them laughed. They seemed relaxed, off-guard. When she began to move, first one leg, then the other, they didn’t look round.
Annie closed her eyes, trying to slow her pulse, knowing that she had to get it right. In situations like these, they only gave you one chance, you only made one mistake. Screw this up, and there’d be no more open doors.
She tensed herself, both legs sliding off the narrow bench seat, both feet finding a purchase amongst the litter on the floor. Oblivious to the pain, she began to ease out of the car and as she did so she heard a whoosh in the darkness nearby, and saw a blossom of livid yellow silhouetting the trees across the road. The driver was laughing again, the man beside him too, both leaning across, gazing out at the burning shell of the VW, two kids on bonfire night, and for a moment, wriggling out onto the wet tarmac, Annie thought they hadn’t seen her. Then she heard one of the men shouting, a car door opening, and the heavy thud of footsteps racing after her.
She scrambled into the trees across the road, searching blindly for a path. The river was closer than she’d thought, wide and sluggish, the flames dancing on the water. She ran as fast as she could, her hands still taped in front of her body, fighting to keep her balance. She followed the river, knowing that the men behind her were gaining with every step. She could hear them now, the rasp of their breaths, a muttered curse as one of them missed his footing in the wet bracken.
Up ahead, away from the burning car, the river was cloaked in darkness. Annie hesitated a moment, knowing it was her only chance, then she picked her way between the rocks and plunged in. The smack of the cold water took her breath away. The gravel beneath her feet softened into mud, then disappeared completely. She kicked hard with her legs, trying to stay afloat, then turned onto her back, still kicking. The first rock missed her head by inches. She half-saw it arching towards her in the darkness, closing her eyes as the water spouted beside her ear. Another came. Then she felt a terrifying pain in her knee, as abrupt as a gunshot wound, and she rolled her body over, trying to ease the agony. Face down in the water, she tried to raise her head, tried to breathe, her injured leg useless. For a moment or two she could taste the night air. Then her mouth began to fill with water and she held her breath as long as she could before giving up, aware of the darkness enveloping her, the icy kiss of the water in her lungs.
Sabbathman Page 24
