Shadow Dancer

by Tom Bradby

  Gerry thought that if anyone in here was a tout, it was probably Murray. He talked too much.

  Gerry was about to move the discussion on when there was an enormous crashing sound above them. Everyone fell silent, waiting for some kind of indication as to what was happening. And then the gunfire started.

  The glass came flying across the room, shredding the curtains in the process, as they sought the relative safety of the floor.

  Gerry crouched down next to Mulgrew. Nobody said anything. None of them were armed.

  There were two, possibly three, bursts of the gunfire, the bullets peppering the walls above them, sending small bits of plasterwork raining down on their heads. It lasted only a few seconds and then a voice filled the room. ‘Be warned, Belfast Brigade of the IRA. We’re watching you …’ The man laughed. ‘Up the UFF. Up the UFF!’

  There was one more burst of gunfire and then they heard the revving of a car engine and the screech of tyres.

  For a few seconds nobody moved, and then Gerry stood up slowly and gingerly. He ran his hand along the table top and coughed nervously. He stepped into the corridor and looked out of the front door. He couldn’t see anything.

  They could all hear the sirens in the distance.

  A few minutes later, three Land Rovers arrived at once, stopping in the middle of the street outside the gates. Gerry heard the sound of some of the metal doors slamming shut and he looked out of the window and saw two policemen standing by the entrance. He went back into the room. Everyone was sitting in stunned silence.

  ‘I’ll have to go and talk to the peelers. They’ll demand access, so you boys get out over the metal fence at the back.’

  Gerry opened the door and ambled slowly down to the gate. He recognized one of the men as a sergeant from Andersonstown police station. Gerry’s voice was laced with sarcasm. ‘Yes?’

  The man was polite. ‘We’d like to gain access, please, Mr McVeigh.’

  ‘Want to admire your handiwork?’

  ‘I’ll ask you not to make this difficult, Mr McVeigh. We’ve got a job to do.’

  ‘I’ll bet you fucking have. Unfortunately for you, your boys didn’t manage to kill anyone, though not for want of trying.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to insist on being allowed access to the scene of the crime.’

  Gerry laughed. ‘They get a free run in and a free run out. What else is the RUC for? RUC, UFF, UVF, it’s all the same thing…’

  He opened the gate and allowed them in, returning to the house and standing in sullen silence whilst they looked over the debris inside. Within a few minutes some of the local members of Sinn Féin arrived and he left them to deal with the police, pausing once in the street outside to look at the hole in the roof left by the rocket-propelled grenade. He realized that must have been what caused the first crashing sound, before the gunfire started. They’d been lucky.

  As he walked home he fought to keep his temper under control. He believed what he’d said – believed that the RUC was operating hand in glove with the Loyalist terrorists – and the implications were grim. The Loyalists had clearly known that a meeting of the IRA’s Belfast Brigade was to take place at that time and in that location. That meant that they had at least one tout – or it meant that the Brits’ surveillance was better than ever. It also meant that at least one man in the Brit services was passing information to the Loyalists. It made life even more dangerous for him, his men and their families.

  If he’d had any doubts about what he was going to do in London, they had just been dispelled.

  In the house, he ignored Christy’s hopeful and affectionate welcome and went upstairs to bed in a towering rage.

  He couldn’t sleep and lay on his back staring at the ceiling long into the night.

  This time, it was for real.

  McIlhatton was nervous, but not too nervous. After all, he reasoned, if it came to the worst, he could run like hell.

  He took the pass out of his pocket, put the chain over his head, and walked out of the tube and turned left, taking the stairs slowly.

  He walked towards the policeman at the entrance and smiled. The man bent his head to look a little closer, but didn’t try to stop him.

  He was in.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  COLETTE SAT ON THE BACK STEP. SHE’D JUST FINISHED CLEANING THE kitchen floor and had a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The radio was on and she listened to the sad, slow tune. It was John Lennon singing ‘Love’ – her era.

  Corny stuff. But it moved her.

  She got up, picked up the dishcloth and wiped around the sink. Then she went into the front room and switched on the TV to watch one of the morning chat shows. She thought she probably oughtn’t to be watching this somehow, but…

  The presenters sat next to each other and they introduced a man from the FBI, who they said was an expert on serial killers.

  They asked him what kind of people were serial killers and he told them that almost all serial killers were single white men (well, who’d have believed it, she thought) and that women rarely became serial killers, though they sometimes murdered a number of people close to them.

  Yes, she thought flippantly, I can see that has its attractions.

  They asked the man what it was that turned these men into serial killers. He replied that the problems were usually caused in early childhood. By the time they were in their early teens, he said, it was too late to save them.

  And what were the signs in early childhood, they asked.

  Well, he said. Dysfunctional families, often without a father. A male child showing signs of being very difficult – perhaps bed-wetting – and alternating between periods of introspection and moments of aggression …

  Colette switched off the television.

  She went out to the back door again and lit another cigarette. She looked at her watch and decided she was going to have to go. She stood there for a few minutes more, looking aimlessly at the red-brick wall opposite and thinking vaguely, ‘This is my life.’

  She went back inside and took her coat off the peg before beginning the long journey to the Malone Road.

  As she approached, she realized she was going to be five or ten minutes late again and began worrying about the men’s reaction. She felt a childlike desire to please them.

  Allen was sitting in the back of the Granada, Ryan in the passenger seat. She didn’t recognize the man who was driving, but as soon as she got in he pushed the automatic gear lever to drive and turned down towards the banks of the river Lagan. The Prod smiled at her. ‘We’ll just do a tour of the east of Belfast today and drop you back in the city centre. OK?’

  She nodded, like a shy child with a stranger. She bit her bottom lip gently. Allen looked at her intensely.

  ‘Thank you for the call. Made a big difference. Where did you hear it from?’

  She hesitated before answering. ‘I was worried about that.’

  ‘Paddy again?’

  She shook her head. ‘I overheard Gerry telling Paddy. I wasn’t meant to —’

  ‘It’s OK. We were careful. We’re always careful. You don’t have to worry.’

  She smiled thinly. The driver turned right onto the Ormeau Road, heading up towards the ring road at the top. The windows were tinted, preventing anyone seeing in. She watched two overweight mothers struggling home with their shopping and their children. Allen was still talking to her. ‘Do you have any other operational details?’

  She turned back to him. ‘No. I’m not really … I mean, like I said, I’m not in a unit, so I wouldn’t really know. Paddy’s unit is quite active, but everyone still thinks there must be a tout in there somewhere, so they’re not going on with most operations. You hear that Internal Security are sniffing around people …’ Her voice trailed off and, for a moment, she hesitated. Then she spoke quietly. ‘I’ll be all right, won’t I? I mean, everything’s all right, isn’t it?’

  Ryan had been listening silently, but
he turned round and put his head between the two seats. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said. His voice was firm and strong.

  She looked into his eyes, but saw only professional compassion.

  ‘I know it’s frightening, but it’s OK. We’re monitoring Internal and we know they are nowhere near you, so don’t worry. Just keep on working and trust us.’

  Colette turned away and looked out of the window again. They were on the ring road now, travelling fast, and she could see Stormont House up on the hill ahead of her. Its white walls shone brilliantly as they reflected the winter sun. She didn’t feel reassured. Allen was still looking at her. ‘Did you get any more on Gerry and Murphy?’

  She felt a tightness in her chest. She turned to the Prod and looked at him. She shook her head.

  ‘Nothing?’

  She shook her head again.

  Silence. A world passing by outside.

  ‘Why did you request this meeting?’

  ‘I was worried.’ She looked at him again and wondered if he could tell she was lying.

  Silence. They didn’t seem to know what to say suddenly.

  ‘You know nothing more – you’ve found out nothing further?’ Allen asked eventually.

  She looked at them as if they’d made an accusation. She wondered if they could sense that she was withholding something. She felt the adrenalin pumping in her veins. She was very close to blurting out everything Gerry had said, but something was stopping her.

  She shook her head and they lapsed back into silence.

  They dropped her on the top floor of the Castlecourt car park in the city centre. As she walked into the shopping mall, she felt fear creeping over her again and she looked around carefully, convinced that she was being watched. She crossed over to the other side of the mall and browsed aimlessly through the Benetton shop, keeping her head bowed low, as if in the genuine belief that this would shield her identity.

  She turned to avoid the enquiring gaze of the sales assistant and, as she came back onto the mall, she saw him. She ducked her head immediately and started to walk fast. She went down the escalator, without looking up to see if she was being followed, and hurried along the bottom mall to the front doors. She slipped past the security guards and, as she emerged onto the pedestrian precinct, she allowed herself a quick glance back. He was there. He was following.

  She turned right and had to fight the inclination to break into a run, but she heard the heavy footfall of a man running and she clenched her teeth. He put his hand on her shoulder and she stopped.

  Ryan’s face was harsh. ‘Not here,’ he said. ‘There is a coffee bar above the store behind me. You go there now, I’ll join you in five minutes.’

  She walked across the street, into the store and up the stairs, bought a milky coffee and waited, unable to think clearly. The room was empty. After a few minutes – it seemed longer – he wandered in slowly and went to buy himself a coffee. She didn’t look at him.

  He walked towards her, carrying a tray with a mug and some kind of cake on it, not looking at her. He made a show of noticing her, saying hello, like a long-lost friend, but quietly, and then asking if he could join her. She nodded, hating the charade.

  ‘If anyone sees us, I’m somebody you met years ago, all right?’

  She looked at him blankly.

  ‘Think of an explanation. That can’t be too hard, can it?’

  There was a bite to his voice and she was about to complain when he said, ‘If you’re withholding, you’ve no idea what a dangerous game that is.’

  He looked at her and she bent her head.

  ‘What is happening?’ he asked.

  Silence.

  ‘Come on, Colette. What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know if I can trust you. I don’t know if I should.’

  She heard him sigh and looked up to see the irritation in his face.

  ‘Come on, Colette,’ he said. ‘We’ve been here before.’

  ‘It’s not resolved.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Love.’

  Silence. ‘That’s a serious answer?’

  ‘It’s everything, isn’t it?’

  Silence. He was looking at her now. ‘What do you mean?’

  She put her hands over her face and pressed her middle fingers into the corner of her eyes. ‘I mean,’ she said, ‘I mean the world’s so cold.’

  He didn’t reply and she kept her head in her hands. She half expected him to put his hand on her shoulder and offer some measure of comfort and reassurance, but when he spoke, his voice was harsh.

  ‘Get a grip on yourself, Colette, for Christ’s sake. As I’ve tried to explain before, this is incredibly dangerous. There are … there are things you don’t understand …’

  ‘Are you trying to frighten me again?’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth. I’m trying to be honest, as I said I would be. If we discover that you have deliberately withheld information that could have saved lives, I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do. Other people might not take a very charitable view of it. If you’re one of us, you’ll be safe. If your loyalties begin to be questioned—’

  ‘If you’re not one of us, you’re the enemy.’

  ‘There’s no room for ambiguity.’

  ‘Not in your world.’

  ‘Not in our world.’

  She hated him. She hated him most for pretending that his world was the same as hers.

  He looked over his shoulder again, but there was nothing to see. The room was still empty. ‘I’m asking you’, he said, ‘to think about what you promised to deliver.’

  ‘You’re threatening.’

  ‘I’m warning. You’ll have to trust me.’

  ‘You’ve said that.’

  ‘That’s the reality.’

  ‘I don’t trust you.’

  She watched the frustration in his face. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Well, I strongly suggest that you think very carefully about what I’ve said.’

  He stared at the table.

  ‘They’re on to me,’ she said.

  He looked up.

  ‘They’re on to me,’ she said again. ‘Mulgrew came to me. I have to report to a house in New Barnsley the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘They’re just testing you out. They’re testing everybody––’

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’

  He leaned forward, his face tense. ‘We’ll cover it, Colette. Keep your bleeper on you and we’ll have our people close. They’re just putting everyone on their mettle, trying to flush somebody out … all right?’

  She got up and walked away.

  Ryan sat with his head on the desk. He felt Alison Berry’s hand on his shoulder. She was smiling. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  He dropped his pencil and stood up slowly. ‘Why not?’

  It was late and they were the last to leave the office. It had been quiet for a few days, for once, and everyone had taken the chance to get home early.

  Berry had a light-blue Rover 620 and she drove slowly out of Stormont, onto the ring road and out towards the M1. She hadn’t told him where they were going and he didn’t ask.

  He could smell her: a distinctive, soft, musty scent, only slightly tainted by the nicotine in her clothes and hair. Instinct told him that he wouldn’t see his flat again until the morning.

  Whether or not she was always so easy-going, tonight she certainly seemed to be in a good mood and he began to relax slightly. She asked him how long he’d been in the Service, what he’d been doing before, where he went to university and where his parents lived. He tried to turn the conversation round to her, but she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to talk about herself. He discovered she’d been in MI5 for seven years and had been at Oxford – and then they were back to talking about him.

  They turned off the M1 on the Dublin Road and then turned left into Hillsborough. Berry slowed to a snail’s pace as they drove up the hill towards the cast
le and then pulled into the entrance of the Plough Inn, opposite the castle gates.

  It was warm inside and comfortable and they took a quiet, discreet table in a raised section round to the side. A pretty, dark-haired girl brought them some menus and Berry insisted on buying the drinks.

  There was music on in the bar and Berry tapped the table with her lighter. She asked him what had happened to make him look so shell-shocked when he arrived back in the office, and he thought long and hard before answering.

  ‘Nothing really. Just the whole thing, that’s all. It’s not easy … kind of grinds you down. Nothing is ever simple. Sometimes it’s hard not to despair …’

  She smiled at him again. ‘If it’s any help, it’s what I did on my first tour here and you’re right, it’s not easy; twenty-four-hour-a-day responsibility, always wondering what’s going to happen to the poor bastards, when they’re finally going to buy it, when you’re going to be called to some dark field in the middle of the night—’

  ‘Who did you run?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘A Provo.’

  ‘Still around as far as you know?’

  ‘I hope he’s buried at the bottom of a bog by now.’ She laughed – a short, bitter laugh. ‘But no, I think he is still alive and wandering round the south somewhere. He was a little bastard. Nearly got me killed in the end …’

  ‘Did he turn back to them?’

  She laughed again. ‘The truth is that I honestly don’t know. He was such a pathological liar. Lied about everything. Absolutely everything. He turned out to be totally useless.’

  She shivered volubly and gulped her drink. ‘An unhappy time. How’s yours? The same?’

  Ryan shook his head. ‘I don’t know. She seems all right – most of the time.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’re all liars – each and every last one of them. Every handler likes to think he, or she, has found the perfect agent, who is going to deliver. It just doesn’t happen. They’re all liars.’

  He nodded. ‘Maybe.’

  Ryan stood up and went to get another drink, overruling Berry’s objections. He had a sudden and very strong desire to get drunk.

  Berry was drinking gin and, as he put the glasses down on the table, he found himself wanting to know about her tout. ‘Your man,’ he asked. ‘Was he frightened?’