Shadow Dancer

by Tom Bradby

  Linenhall Street was relatively quiet. Allen leaned forward, Ryan looked at his watch. Three minutes early. They waited just outside the back entrance to the BBC and Ryan thought the building looked like an RUC station. It had high red-brick walls and a large iron gate. The street was relatively quiet. He could see the great white dome of the city hall in the distance. It reminded him, bizarrely, of the White House in Washington.

  He knew the police surveillance teams were out there – knew the area had been cleaned – but he didn’t feel reassured.

  He noticed the quality of the cars parked on the opposite side of the street. A Mercedes, two BMWs, a Toyota. A Toyota?

  The car was shabby and blue and its engine was running. Two men sat in the front.

  Ryan’s heart missed a beat.

  Allen said ‘go’ and the driver moved ahead. They passed a shop with big Ford signs in the window and Ryan looked back at the blue Toyota. It hadn’t moved. A scout car?

  They turned right into a side street. He was looking for movement, for a slender woman with brown hair.

  Nothing. No-one.

  The driver gunned down to the end of the street and turned right again. They had to wait for thirty or forty seconds before they could get out onto the main road. Then they were back outside the BBC. The blue Toyota was still there. The two men were still in the front. They weren’t looking at him. He pushed his eyes away from them. On the opposite pavement, a couple – middle-aged – walked arm in arm. The same cars parked. The back gate of the BBC now opening. Back to the Toyota. They hadn’t moved. They still weren’t looking at him. Down the street, a slender figure, probably a woman.

  Ryan watched. He could feel the fear in his stomach.

  It wasn’t her.

  Allen said ‘go’ again. Ryan looked at the blue Toyota, then at his watch. They were exactly on time now.

  A car coming the other way, a man with a small dog, but otherwise nothing.

  Back to the beginning.

  They waited. Ryan tried to drag his eyes away from the Toyota – the men looked like they were talking. He scoured the street. He could see nothing else out of place, nothing that was unusual or suspicious.

  Back to the Toyota. Wishing the bloody thing would go away. Wondering idly if the back-up was close enough. Wondering if they’d already be dead when the Land Rovers came tearing into the street.

  Two minutes, perhaps three and they went round again, slower this time. When they got back to the end of the side street, Allen told the driver to stop. Maybe they weren’t going to be hit after all. But how could one know?

  The wait dragged now. Ryan kept looking over his shoulder, out of the back of the car. He thought that was going to be the blind spot. One minute. Two. Five. He tried to concentrate on the street. He wondered if he should hate her, but was still too frightened to think straight. He felt dazed. It seemed incredible that he’d eaten breakfast at the flat in Clapham only this morning.

  Allen was drumming his fingers on the door. Ryan very much wanted to cut them off.

  ‘We’ll give her five more minutes.’ It was an order, not a suggestion.

  Silence again. Ryan concentrated on scouring the street.

  ‘This is a bloody cock-up.’

  Ryan didn’t know what to say. ‘Perhaps she’s been held up.’

  ‘Perhaps she has, young man, perhaps she’s having tea with her granny. Perhaps she’s having tea with the bloody Pope. I really don’t care what she IS doing, what I care about is the fact she’s NOT here.’

  Ryan still didn’t know what to say. He still scoured the street.

  ‘Not showing first time. It looks bad, very bad. She could be compromised, we could be compromised. She could have turned. Silly fucking bitch.’

  Allen finally seemed to lose patience. He almost shouted ‘Drive!’ and they powered off. At the same time, he spoke into the radio and called off the nearby support units.

  Allen didn’t speak on the way back to Knock and when they got there he took Ryan to the canteen, bought him a coffee and left.

  Ryan sat there feeling relieved, disappointed and dazed. He had a headache and he could feel the stress in his back. The muscles down his spine seemed to have tightened noticeably. He thought he’d had enough of the RUC for one day and could feel himself spoiling for a fight, but when Allen returned he was shocked by the look on his face.

  ‘The boss wants to see us. Now.’

  Ryan followed him without arguing, speaking only when they had turned into the corridor outside. ‘What does he want to see us about?’ he said. He hadn’t quite eliminated the truculence from his voice, but Allen didn’t seem to notice. He stopped and leaned towards him.

  ‘It’s absolute fucking bedlam up there.’

  ‘Because of—’

  ‘No. They just lost someone big. Really big.’

  He didn’t expand and at the end of the corridor he took the stairs three at a time. Ryan had to jog to keep up.

  On the top floor there was indeed a palpable sense of crisis. The corridor seemed lighter this time and Ryan realized it was because almost all of the office doors were open. In the first doorway two men were looking at an open file, in the second a man stood with his hands in his pockets. Allen stopped. ‘How’s it looking?’ he asked.

  The man had a grey moustache and thinning hair. He looked tired. ‘Not too good. You in for him? Take my advice: don’t bloody argue. He’s carpeting anything that moves.’

  As they approached Long’s office, two men emerged wearing scruffy suits. They were ashen-faced. Something big, Ryan thought. Allen leaned round the door to the side office and smiled at the secretary. Ryan heard her say, ‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’

  They waited for a surprisingly long time, or so it seemed – perhaps only five minutes in reality. Ryan felt a trace of nerves again and this annoyed him. Whatever the problem was, it wasn’t his bloody problem.

  The secretary put her head round the door – a pretty blonde – and said they should go in.

  Inside, Ryan felt the change in atmosphere. Long didn’t bother to get up and he didn’t greet them. He gestured to the chairs and then sat with his elbows on his desk, his hands gripped tightly together and his chin resting heavily on them. The charm, the carefully cultivated impression of wisdom and authority, had gone. Ryan didn’t think he had ever seen anger expressed so clearly in somebody’s body language. He noticed his own tiredness had dropped away.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Allen answered. A no-show, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Why?’

  Ryan answered. ‘She has difficult family circumstances. I think there could be perfectly legitimate reasons why—’

  ‘And your years of experience tell you this?’ Long rubbed his face briefly in his hands and sat back. ‘That was gratuitous. I apologize.’ He still looked at Ryan. ‘However, I’m afraid I think, under the circumstances, we would like to take control of this young woman.’

  Ryan didn’t know quite what to say. ‘You already have control.’

  ‘Yes, but I think it’s just simpler—’

  ‘What circums … With respect, what circumstances are you referring to?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You said, “Under the circumstances”.’

  ‘Well, I’m concerned that her refusal to meet you today is a sign that it could be dangerous to proceed—’

  ‘I don’t mind the risk.’

  Long looked at him, Ryan thought, with what might have been contempt and might have been respect – indeed might have been anything. He was hard to read. ‘I’m sure you are prepared for the risk. I think, though, it would just be simpler—’

  ‘So you keep saying. What do you mean?’

  Long leaned forward suddenly, his face animated. ‘What I mean, Mr Ryan, is that things have just got a lot more serious around here. Do you understand me? This woman has just become a lot more important – a lot – and I want to make sure that this is handled right. Absolutely right. A
ll the way. I don’t wish to insult you – you’re very capable, I’m sure – but it would simply be easier—’

  The secretary had put her head round the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but it’s Mark for you, Mr Long.’ Long looked at Ryan. ‘One second, please.’ He picked up the phone and turned his chair around, as if that somehow gave him some privacy. ‘What’s happened? … You’ve spoken to the wife … No she wouldn’t be. I’d better speak to her—’

  Ryan wondered who it was they’d lost. He thought Mark must be Mark Jones from – southern area, was it? He couldn’t remember. He looked around the room. It was curiously old-fashioned, as though no-one had had the time or inclination to see to the decor since the start of the war. The wall was covered in plaques from different police forces all over the world – Los Angeles, New York, Taiwan – different police forces with, he supposed, radically different problems. He wondered if policemen felt part of a kind of worldwide brotherhood. At least they all shared some of the same problems, but did he have anything in common with, say, the Guatemalan secret service? I certainly hope not, he thought. He looked at Long’s back and felt the flush of anger in his cheeks. Everyone always said it made him look younger.

  Long was winding up. ‘I want you to go over this, Mark. Everything. Everything. If there was a mistake I want to know who made it and when. I don’t want a witch-hunt, but I do want to know exactly what happened – every last detail. Understood?’

  When he put down the phone, Ryan did not let him gather his thoughts. ‘Mr Long, with respect, I don’t know what has actually changed since this morn––’

  ‘Everything.’ There was real hostility in Long’s voice now.

  ‘I’m here because this woman will work with me.’

  ‘Then where in the hell was she today?’

  ‘I’ll find out.’

  ‘You won’t. I’m afraid you’re not going to get the chance. I want this sorted––’

  ‘Look, she trusts me.’

  Long looked at him. ‘Mr Ryan, if only you knew how many handlers have sat in that seat and told me the very same thing about their agents.’

  ‘I’m not speaking for any other handler.’

  ‘You’re speaking for a woman who didn’t show for her first meeting.’ Irritation had crept into Long’s voice. ‘You’re speaking for a woman who could get some perfectly good men killed. You’re speaking for a woman who has just become a lot more important and I don’t want you involved.’

  ‘She clearly trusts me and she doesn’t––’

  ‘Doesn’t what?’

  ‘She trusts me in a way she says she doesn’t trust the RUC.’

  ‘She’s said as much?’

  Ryan nodded.

  ‘Explicitly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s particularly relevant.’ Long sat back in his chair again. The room was suddenly quiet. Ryan was conscious of Allen’s eyes on him. He felt his face reddening again. Long leaned forward once more. ‘All right, Mr Ryan, we’ll keep you on board. But you understand this. We’ve been working on this peace process for years and I tell you now, whatever anyone says, that this hangs in the balance. It is going to happen – it is – but the man most likely to mess it up just happens to be your woman’s eldest brother. Do you understand what I’m saying? I want to know if Gerry McVeigh farts. Understood?’

  Whilst Allen went to get him a coffee, Ryan played with the ugly glass salt and pepper pots. The room was like any canteen anywhere, except that it had the same dated feel as Trevor Long’s office, though this time in yellow and blue, not green and brown. He opened one of the paper sugar packets and then poured the contents into his mouth. He felt tired again.

  Allen came back. ‘You take milk, don’t you?’

  Ryan nodded and watched Allen open four sugar packets and pour them into his coffee.

  ‘Well done,’ Allen said.

  ‘What in the hell was all that about?’

  ‘He wanted you off.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Obvious. Just as he said. Easier.’

  ‘Thanks for fighting for me.’

  ‘I thought you were doing quite well on your own.’

  Ryan sipped his coffee, wondering whether that was a compliment. He realized it was odd that he should have thought for a moment that Allen would fight for him, but he rather imagined that an afternoon of shared tension – if rather few shared words – should have resulted in some feelings of solidarity. But perhaps that was his inexperience showing.

  He thought Allen looked rather old all of a sudden. Was he forty?

  ‘Not a great day for the forces of law and order.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Ryan said, trying not to sound too interested.

  ‘Gingy Hughes.’

  ‘Christ. He was a tout?’

  Allen grinned. ‘Recruited by the boss himself years ago.’ A pause and another smile. ‘You want to know what happened to him? Apparently, they took him and his wife away from the children to a little house out near Carrickmore. Gingy and his wife were quite devoted to each other – that was the big weakness, the pressure point, because he was going down for quite a gaol term when old Trevor Long got his hands on him. Anyway, they took the pair of them down to this house and then they had a good go at them for a week. Tortured little Gingy in front of his missus and then tortured his missus in front of him. The poor little bastard sang his heart out into the tape – quite a lengthy confession, so they say – and then they took him out and shot him in front of his wife. They made her watch as they blew the front of his face off. And you know what’s really good? Old Gingy’s mother knew what was happening all the time – knew because they’d told her she had to look after the kids. And did she say anything? Did she fuck. Not a good old fucking Republican woman like Mrs Gingy. “All right, lads. You won’t hurt him now, will ya?” ’

  Ryan didn’t say anything for a few seconds. He looked down and took another sip of his coffee. ‘You enjoyed telling me that.’

  ‘Just letting you know the reality.’

  ‘I think I knew that already.’

  ‘Well, that’s what will happen to your woman. Our woman. Maybe you would be better off dealing with it at a distance.’

  Ryan smiled. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

  Ryan left Knock shortly after five. He asked the driver to stop off at the garage on the Malone Road and felt quite absurdly self-conscious buying some eggs and bread, as if everyone in the shop could somehow tell how he’d spent his afternoon.

  The flat was in a development called Malone Beeches – a fact he hadn’t noticed earlier – and he realized that it was actually quite respectable. There was a hallway just inside the entrance for his umbrella, should he ever wish to have one – he wondered who in the hell furnished these places – and a bedroom with a very small single bed. He clearly wasn’t expected to engage in anything as un-Servicelike as sex.

  A dose of realism at least, he thought.

  He walked into the sitting room, kicked off his Timberland shoes, lay down on the striped sofa and switched on ITN’s Early Evening News. He watched a report on Bosnia and then a lengthy piece on the discovery of Gingy Hughes’s body. The journalists had clearly been talking to the security forces because the details were starting to emerge. He thought they sounded like they were enjoying it.

  He was just about to run himself a bath when the phone rang. It was Jenkins.

  ‘David.’

  ‘Who is that?’ Ryan knew that would irritate him.

  ‘It’s Jenkins.’

  ‘Hi, how are you doing?’

  ‘I see this Hughes business is hitting the news.’

  ‘Yes. Nasty, isn’t it?’

  ‘I gather today was a disaster.’

  Ryan took a deep breath. ‘I wouldn’t say that. Just a minor hitch.’

  ‘Well, that’s not what I hear and I must say it makes us look pretty stupid.’

  ‘I think it’s early days yet.’

>   ‘I’ve said to Grant that I made my reservations known and it seems clear to me now that your briefing in London was quite inadequate.’

  Ryan sat up and put the phone on the floor. ‘I think it is too early to tell.’

  ‘Well, then what is the explanation? Why didn’t she turn up? I’m told that surveillance reports indicate she spent the whole afternoon at home.’

  ‘We’re taking steps to find out what happened. There could be any number of reasons––’

  ‘This whole thing makes us look like complete idiots.’

  ‘Look, Jenkins, I’ve told you, we’re taking steps to find out what happened. We can’t explain until we’ve had some contact with her.’

  ‘Don’t raise your voice at me.’

  ‘Well, you raised your voice at me. Look—’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any point in pursuing this conversation.’

  ‘I’m simply trying to point out that there could be a hundred explanations––’

  ‘You’re being defensive.’

  ‘I am trying to explain.’

  ‘Look, David.’ There was a conciliatory note in his voice now. ‘We’re all under a lot of pressure. We’ve got to get these things right. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, but––’

  ‘I’ve got to go. We’ve got to get it right, that’s all. Find out what went wrong and make sure she doesn’t duck out again. This woman has been sold. We’ve told people she can deliver. Please make her do so.’

  As he put down the phone, Ryan swore loudly.

  He walked round the flat, picked up the pillow from his bed and hurled it against the wall. Then he sat on the bed and told himself to calm down.

  After a few minutes he went to the kitchen and made himself scrambled eggs on toast. When he’d finished, he walked back down to the garage – a surprisingly long way – to get a packet of ten Silk Cut. The pavements were dimly lit and the traffic was thin. All the way down he could make out the big houses that lined the streets off the Malone Road and he thought to himself that there were still a lot of people here doing very nicely. All the way there and back he had a surprisingly strong fantasy running through his mind. In it, Jenkins got so annoyed with him that he threw a computer keyboard at his head. This gave Ryan the excuse he had been looking for to take Jenkins apart physically. It was not a very noble thought, but then, he knew how much he hated being bullied.