‘I can’t exactly ask them what their bottom line is. I’ve been specifically instructed not to negotiate.’
‘No. Quite,’ said Dewey. ‘But we need to sort out our positioning, and handling. What’s your informed view? With your talking truth unto power bollocks? You must know more than we mere mortals. As you know, we’re taking major risks here.’
‘Well,’ said Richard, ‘they’re serious. But jittery. They could pull out at any time. At this stage they’ll want to know we’re serious too.’ He paused. ‘If they’re not convinced we are, and that all we’re doing is stalling while the hawks prepare for battle, they may go public. It’d cause them problems internally, but they could judge it’d be more difficult for us.’
‘How so?’
‘With all the statements about not talking to terrorists.’
‘Well,’ said Sir John, ‘we’re not talking to terrorists. You are.’
‘Right,’ said Richard.
This, more or less, was it, apart from Sir John’s dark mutterings that Richard and his like had spent so much time with these Fenian bastards that they’d practically joined the cause.
Richard made his excuses and said he needed to be on his way if he was to catch his flight. A flunkey was summoned from the anteroom of the cavernous office to escort him off the premises.
Richard missed the shuttle he’d intended to take so was playing catch-up as soon as he arrived in Belfast. He was met at the airport by Mick, the detail commander, and taken quickly to the car. None of their colleagues knew they were in the province, so this was a further layer of risk, to be added to the steaming pile that had already accumulated. If George Donnelly or one of his similarly volatile fellow officers were to find out what was going on, the consequences would be unpredictable. But he surely suspected something along these lines, if not Richard’s personal involvement. Perhaps it might only be their friendship – if that’s how you could describe their strange, tense relationship – that went down the pisser.
While he drove, Mick ran through the arrangements for the meeting. Normally they would have gone to Mick’s hotel and his team would have taken Richard through the drills, the route in, the opt-outs and duress signals and finally the exit options, planned and emergency. These were all pretty standard, primarily consisting of Richard curling up and making himself as invisible as possible while Mick and team created a firestorm to enable them to usher him to safety. That at least was the theory. Neither Mick nor Richard wanted to see it tested.
The venue was in County Tyrone and its safety was vouchsafed by Dermot Quinn, the diminutive Dublin professor and middleman in this transaction. He preferred to think of himself as the facilitator of the Channel. It was the home, so Richard had learned, of a successful Catholic businessman with substantial interests in the South but with a reputation to protect in the North. And the logic went that the other side was as keen on confidentiality as Richard’s, so would themselves bend over backwards on security.
The door of what was a quite beautifully maintained Georgian house opened and Dermot Quinn smiled, as if Richard were a dinner guest. But nervously. They stepped inside. The hallway’s proportions were grand and an impressive curved staircase with polished mahogany finials swept away to the first floor.
‘Will you be coming on through then, Richard?’ said Quinn as he opened the door to the room where the meeting would take place.
A tall, slight figure rose from the seat where he had been drinking a cup of tea.
‘Mr Richard. How the devil are you?’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Mr Geraghty. And you?’
‘Never better. And remember, it’s Joe. How goes it in the world of the securocrats?’
‘Fair to middling. And on your side?’
‘Well. You know. It’s a struggle to make progress. Especially with the headwinds your people are putting up. But I suppose we both have our crosses to bear.’
Richard did not respond.
‘Shall we talk turkey, then?’ Joe Geraghty gestured towards the table.
‘I wish we could,’ murmured Richard.
‘Tea?’ said Dermot Quinn.
‘Yes please,’ said Richard.
They took out their papers and sat on opposite sides of the table, Dermot Quinn at the end like an umpire.
‘We need to be getting all this crap away,’ said Geraghty.
‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said Richard. ‘But this seems to be where we are.’
‘What I need to know, Mr Richard –’
‘Richard’ll do fine.’
‘What I need to know, Richard, is whether your people mean business.’
‘They very much seem to, but you’d have to ask them.’
‘I’d like to. But I can’t, given that we’re tangled up in the preliminaries. I’m asking myself whether this is worth the candle. Whether it’s not some kind of delaying tactic on your side.’
‘Delaying what exactly? Your campaign seems to be running at full pelt.’
He ignored Richard. ‘Listen. What I really need to know is what your side is prepared to offer.’
‘In return for what?’
‘Ha. Good question. But I think the first move has to come from you.’
‘Perhaps the best way to find out is to state some kind of position. Make a proposition. Then perhaps we can cut some of these “preliminaries”, you can start talking to the people who matter, and I can get back to my day job.’
‘And I can get back to mine,’ Geraghty said with a glint in his eye.
Richard remained expressionless.
‘You must know what your government wants out of this. And what they’re prepared to offer. Just help us over the starting line here.’
‘No.’
‘No? And why the devil not? Is this whole thing going to turn to shit just because one petty spook is standing on ceremony?’
‘I share your frustration. There are more important things at stake than deciding whether the pencils on the desk should be HB or 2B. But I’m the wrong person to be taking this forward. I am the pencil man. I’m the monkey, not the organ grinder.’
He shook his head. ‘I wonder what was going through their heads when they picked you, Mr Richard.’
‘I’ll take back your dissatisfaction to them. It may be time for someone else to step in. But …’
‘Yes?’
‘Whoever it is, you’ll have to prove to them that you want to talk, not just posture.’
‘Thank you for that.’
‘You’re welcome. Just a piece of friendly advice.’
‘Friendly.’ He laughed.
‘Exactly.’
‘You don’t need to be offering me the benefit of your friendly advice, Mr Richard. You want to be watching your step.’ He paused. ‘In terms of your career I mean, of course. Just a piece of friendly advice.’
‘Of course.’
‘Are we done?’
‘I’d say so,’ said Richard.
Par for the course, thought Richard as he climbed into the car. Had they advanced two steps? Or taken a pace back? He knew for certain that within a couple of weeks or so he would be sitting opposite Joe Geraghty in if not the same house, then a very similar one, having an almost identical conversation, with all its rehearsed fractiousness. This was the way of it, but maybe progress was being made after all.
‘I quite like the man, Kenny,’ said Joe Geraghty when he was back in the car. ‘Better than that milksop we had to deal with before. Aye, I quite like him.’
‘Sounds like there’s a big “but” there,’ said Kenny.
Joe sighed and said, ‘That there is. He’ll not be the type we can cut the deal with. He has no authority. And not crafty enough. Not mean enough. Not like the other bastard, jumped-up prick though he was. Probably not the appetite either. We’ll need to be dealing with his shyster bosses.’
They drove into the city.
‘Will you get in touch with Francis for me, Kenny? We need an hour or two sometime soon.’
‘We need to keep the heat up on these bastards. Keep the pot boiling. Francis needs to get a move on.’
‘His big job.’
‘Aye. This political stuff. It’s all very well. But when you get down to it all the Brits understand is force. They need to see the realities. Timing is everything.’
13
He’d dictate the terms. Immunity from prosecution was the start, but just the start. Your man’d moan, for sure. But eventually he’d have to give in. Francis O’Neill was a big fish. Your man couldn’t not say yes, whatever sour expression he put on.
Then he’d build on it. New identity, new location. English-speaking of course. Florida maybe, always fancied Australia. Fancy house, flash car, big salary. Would he take Bridget? Not even a question. She could claim ignorance when Joe came calling. With conviction. He never told her anything. So why would he share plans to jump ship? And if he did, why would she still be there? She’d cope. Eventually.
It was all in his head, what he would tell him, and how. First off, this job. Then, gobbet by gobbet, in exchange for further concessions and rewards, he would unveil his whole life for them. A kind of striptease. There he would be eventually, spatchcocked under the floodlights. Friends and comrades sold, the struggle betrayed, the hierarchy shattered. Last of all he’d give up Joe, who would be destroyed, and the fear Francis felt in his presence would dissolve into nothingness.
He’d find some way of sneaking out of the no doubt squalid flat and making the call. The rule was that once formed the unit stayed together the whole time, 24/7. You went out in twos, preferably threes, but never alone. He himself had always reinforced it as ASU commander and this time round would be no different. It made sense. The team was at its most vulnerable to a single leak as it neared the attack and its members were most emotionally fragile. He’d have to pull rank somehow, claiming the need for an emergency call back home, possibly citing twitchiness that they might be being followed. He’d find some opportunity or pretext: this bunch of wasters were beyond the pale and awestruck in his presence in a way that in other circumstances would be gratifying.
That bastard he’d met out there. That’s who it’d have to be. He still had his phone number in his head. Remembered it from that room at the police station. Mercer, or whatever his name really was. He was all right. He could deal with him. Not exactly the gullible type, but he seemed principled. Rigid. And that was helpful. He’d stick to his side of the bargain even if Francis didn’t. Just needed to watch the small print of what this Richard said.
It was all very well to daydream about these things while waiting in the car, young Antony sitting next to him in the passenger seat. Fine to imagine a parallel life where shortly he might find himself in the land of milk and honey. The price of becoming a Judas for an hour was that he would then be one for the rest of his life, his soul mortgaged to the English crown in a Faustian pact. To make this reverie become real was a quite different thing from indulging it while they sat there. It was not remotely possible. The envisioning of it made him shudder. And besides, as everything else crumbled around him, he still believed. The cause gave him meaning and despite what others did, what Liam, his own brother, had done, he would not betray it. He would not betray his people. It would go against the grain of his whole life, the instinct of every sinew.
Peter and Karl were taking too long. Karl had been sent because of his English accent; Peter told to stay dumb but to nudge Karl should he stray off message. Francis was not anxious yet. But.
He turned to his left and Antony sat comfortable and complacent in his own world, dull eyes looking through the windscreen and a faint, idiotic smile on his lips. He lacked awareness altogether, the ability Francis possessed to hover and scan even when doing something else. That kind of subliminal alertness was mainly instinctual but could be learned through experience. Antony was a child and it was only to be expected. That was half the problem. This lot. Christ, Francis would be glad when Jonjo was with them.
He nudged Antony.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Been a long time,’ said Francis.
Antony’s head began to swivel, his eyes darting.
‘Easy,’ said Francis. ‘Nice and easy. Stay in control.’
‘What do you think it is? Should we be away?’
‘Sure we’ll give them another couple of minutes. Then we’ll start worrying. Just be alive. And don’t be turning your head all the time. What do you think all these mirrors are for?’
Francis wound down the window and adjusted the driver’s mirror so that it offered a better view of the junction behind them. Not that it would be of much use if it came to it. The Brits knew how to do these things. You had to give that to them. He and Antony wouldn’t see them; they’d be bleeding into the gutter before they had time to react. But young Antony wasn’t to know and it was good that he should be on his toes.
They continued to wait. Francis turned up the police scanner. Nothing. He switched his mind to what would be necessary if he and Antony had to drive off. Nowhere to stay, no assurance about Peter and Karl’s resistance to interrogation. No assurance about anything at all. It would be abort and wet-nurse a panicking Antony back to Ireland.
The shop door opened and Peter and Karl strode out. Karl was smiling; Peter was not. Karl opened the rear door on the passenger side while Peter walked around the front of the vehicle.
‘Fecking eejit,’ he muttered through Francis’s window as he flung his door open and climbed in.
Francis started the engine and, thinking how John Boy would have done it, eased the car out into the traffic.
‘Well, gents, we have somewhere to live,’ said Karl with a smile.
Peter looked studiously out of the side window.
‘What took you so long?’ asked Francis quietly.
‘Eh?’
‘I said, what took you so long?’
‘Wasn’t that long, was it? Geezer was talking about living in Calcutta. I went there a few years back, when I dropped out. Quite a character, he was.’
‘I thought we said in and out as quick as possible.’
‘Just making conversation. So’s he wouldn’t suspect anything.’
‘He’s letting out this flat, cash in hand. It’s suspicious full stop. All you’ve done is give him a face and a story to remember.’
‘And fucking mine too,’ said Peter.
‘You worry too much, mate,’ said Karl. ‘Stay cool. Anyway, here she is.’ He waved the key in front of him.
‘Where is it?’
‘Dooley Street. Just turn left at the next traffic lights, right at the mini-roundabout and left at the next junction.’
‘Left at the roundabout and right at the junction,’ corrected Peter.
‘Right. Same difference,’ said Karl.
They drove the mile or so to the flat in silence and when they emerged from the car Francis put out his hand for the key, which Karl handed him with a smile.
‘Youse two out here,’ said Francis to Karl and Antony. ‘And act casual.’
He looked at Peter and together they walked to the back of the building, a run-down row of shops. Three of the five were closed and barricaded with metal shutters. The alleyway behind the row of shops was litter-strewn. Tall weeds grew in the gaps in its cracked concrete surface. A large metal bin stank of decaying flesh. It must belong to the fried chicken shop below the flat they had rented.
Francis looked again at Peter, who nodded. They walked back to the front of the building and approached the battered door of the flat, next to the chicken shop’s toughened glass door. Francis knocked while Peter looked round casually, scanning. They expected no answer. Francis looked through the letter box, then inserted the thin, worn key into the lock and unlocked the door slowly with a click. He pushed and met resistance. A pile of junk mail had accumulated advertising pizzas, sofa superstores and DIY mega-outlets. He kicked it aside and stood at the foot of the stairs considering the
shit-brown patterned carpet and breathing in the faint fatty stench of long-forgotten fast-food meals and the stale must of uninhabited neglect.
He beckoned Peter, who went past him quickly up the stairs. Francis followed. They checked each room in turn, opening cupboards and looking under furniture. It was standard drill, though verging on the ridiculous. If they were gone, they were gone already. They moved swiftly and were out on the street again within five minutes, gesturing to the other two to get moving. Peter, Karl and Antony took the bags from the car boot and Francis parked the car near the mouth of the alleyway, away from the main street and the front door.
When he returned to the door he found Karl outside.
‘What you doing?’ he said.
‘Calm down,’ replied Karl. ‘Just having a look. So this is Birmingham. Same shithole as everywhere else.’
‘Inside,’ said Francis, and something in his tone shifted Karl.
They gathered in the kitchen.
‘Put the kettle on, Antony,’ said Francis.
Peter glared at Karl across the room. Finally he could not hold back. ‘You arsehole,’ he said.
‘Hold up,’ said Karl. ‘Keep your hair on. I know what I’m doing. I was in the army, remember. I’ve done all the training.’
Peter strode across the room and seized Karl by the front of his shirt. Antony and Francis separated the two men.
‘Back off, Peter,’ said Francis. ‘It’s difficult, I know, all these changes. But back off.’
‘But this –’
‘Peter. Quiet. You’re not helping.’
‘Yeah. Back off, man,’ said Karl.
Francis sighed slowly, then in one movement turned and pinned Karl to the wall, his right hand cupping his chin and gripping his jaw brutally. He squeezed, hard.
‘You do what I say. Precisely that, nothing more or less. You’ll know from training that your ASU leader is your commander. You do everything he says, without question, without hesitation, without deviation. Is that right?’
‘Yes, Francis.’
Francis could see the terror in his eyes. ‘I know because I wrote the book. Now, stop treating this like some weekend adventure holiday. That way you get yourself killed, for real, and possibly us too. Understand?’
A Traitor in the Family Page 17
