Shadow Dancer

by Tom Bradby

  Jenkins smirked. ‘Under the circumstances, I don’t think we need worry about that unduly.’

  ‘Well, perhaps not. If we don’t know for certain that it is him – and I must say the idea of this lunch going ahead makes me bloody nervous – then who else?’

  Jenkins looked down at the sheet in front of him. ‘Take your pick. Cabinet ministers, former prime ministers – current prime minister, come to that. Dignitaries, former military figures who’ve served in Northern Ireland. The list is very long, naturally.’

  Grant looked directly at Jenkins. ‘The PM?’

  ‘Nothing today. Tomorrow only Prime Minister’s Questions in the House.’ Jenkins half smiled. ‘We’ve asked already. He won’t cancel. Especially since the subject he’s likely to want to address will be the current propaganda jamboree being enjoyed in America by one Gerry Adams.’ Jenkins leaned forward again, his expression deadly serious. ‘The position really is this: we have to assume Prince Charles is the target and take maximum security measures tomorrow – if he still insists on going ahead with this ridiculous lunch. We’re working on the Palace to try and knock some sense into him. We’ll take appropriate measures with the PM also. But in my view, the principle hope lies in picking up these people between now and whenever they are planning to go ahead. We’ve had intensive discussions with the police and with the Army. We’ve circulated the photographs. We have surveillance teams in place already. We have taps on all relevant phones, including the McVeigh family home in Belfast. The only thing we have going for us is that they don’t know that we know. We had better just hope we get lucky.’

  At the end of the table, Grant scanned the faces of those around him, but nobody spoke; one or two simply nodded their heads silently. He had to go and see the director-general, the cabinet secretary – and others – and he dismissed them briskly. Except Ryan. He was left standing in the middle of the room whilst the others filed out.

  Ryan was reminded of school again. The feeling was different. He was penitent. Grant spoke quietly, almost gently, and Ryan thought he sounded very tired. ‘What went wrong, David?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Don’t call me, sir.’

  Ryan smiled briefly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘The RUC say you may have got too close to it. Jenkins says you’re incompetent.’

  ‘I was committed to our agent.’

  Grant put on his glasses and looked down at the papers on his table, an act of dismissal that Ryan had already learned to recognize. He threw a last comment as Ryan reached the door. ‘I hope it pays off, or we’ll all be finished. Sleep by that phone – and pray it rings.’

  Ryan went back to the incident room and sat on the desk. He looked down onto the Thames, the river itself just visible in the darkness, and wondered where the hell she was and what she was doing. He felt a curious sense of loneliness.

  The room was quiet, the others long since gone to the flats designed specially for this kind of emergency.

  The building was new and Ryan had never been here before. His desk had been moved over from Gower Street two weeks earlier. Their new premises and offices were a vast improvement, though he had barely taken in the change.

  He wondered now if this was his fault and if it could have been averted. Shadow Dancer was his agent – his – and he wondered if he’d fucked it up.

  He wondered if she was lost to him.

  At the back of his mind he could not eradicate the faces of Hopkins, Long, Brian Allen and even Grant. He knew they were all blaming him and knew there might only be a few hours left.

  He looked at the phone and prayed it would ring.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  COLETTE SLEPT FITFULLY AND, WHEN SHE WOKE, GERRY WAS STANDING by the window, already fully dressed. She felt full of sleep and thought it must be late. She got up, went to the bathroom and shut the door behind her.

  She brushed her teeth first, then showered. For the first time in weeks, even months, she put on a little make-up. As she looked in the mirror, she could see she was pretty, but did not consider it a blessing. She’d spent her life fighting the superficial judgements of those who were impressed by her beauty and she thought it a burden to be overcome rather than a gift to be treasured.

  But as she looked at her reflection, she felt, at least, the certainty of where she was going. She had made up her mind now and there was no turning back.

  When she emerged, Gerry was sitting on the corner of the bed with the phone to his ear. His knuckles were white and she could tell something was wrong. A terrible premonition crept over her. She sat down quietly on the other side of the bed, twisting her body to face him. He put down the receiver. ‘I phoned Ma,’ he said.

  She looked at him inquisitively.

  ‘Paddy’s dead.’

  Time stopped.

  She looked down and scrunched her eyes painfully shut.

  It was as if she’d waited her whole life for this – the pessimist in her always imagining the worst.

  Her mind was swimming. A brief glimmer of hope, a notion it couldn’t be true, that it was too enormous to be true, was drowned out in the panic of total certainty.

  She pressed her hands into the centre of her eyes and pushed until the pain was intense.

  She wanted to remain in the darkness.

  She became conscious of the silence in the room.

  She heard herself ask why and looked up to see the harshness in Gerry’s face. ‘Because he was a tout.’

  For a brief moment, she had the strength to view him with utter contempt. Whether responding to the look on her face or not, he went on, his voice still sour, ‘They suspected him and we devised a simple test – a stupid test – just some arms coming into the city. Only he knew about it. Only he and I and Internal. The police were out searching in force. He must have tipped them off …’

  Colette couldn’t control herself. She ran to the toilet bowl and retched violently, her body shaking and her legs weak. She sank to her knees.

  Eventually, she became aware of Gerry standing behind her. He spoke quietly. ‘I’m sorry, Colette,’ he said. ‘It’s hard for all of us.’

  No it’s not, she wanted to say. Not for you, you bastard, and not for me because … She felt another sudden wave of nausea.

  It should have been me, she thought.

  She turned back to him, still kneeling. ‘Don’t you care at all?’

  ‘Of course I care. Of course I do. But we can’t survive if we allow touts to live. He knew the penalties better than anyone.’

  ‘He’s our brother.’

  Gerry was silent for a few seconds. ‘He was our brother,’ he said casually. ‘He’s nothing if he’s a tout.’

  She looked at him, caught between desolation and hatred.

  ‘He was a tout, Colette. Do you understand what I’m saying?

  Do you understand what that means? That means every hardship we’ve endured, every man or woman we’ve lost, every sacrifice we’ve made and every year we’ve spent in prison was for nothing. He knew all of that, he watched all of that, and every step of the way, every day, he was betraying us. He was betraying us when Davey died. He was betraying us when you went to prison.’

  Colette pushed the hair out of her eyes. ‘He’s still our brother,’ she said quietly.

  ‘No, not after all that. Not after he’s betrayed everything we’ve ever done. Everything we’ve ever stood for. What about the Loyalist attack on Ma? Maybe that was him too?’

  ‘He’s not a tout.’

  ‘It’s too late for that now.’

  She sobbed uncontrollably. ‘It wasn’t him,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t him.’

  ‘It was him, Colette. The truth is I’ve suspected him for some time – since the attack on Henderson, or maybe even before that. I didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want to admit it to myself. When the truth is like that, you don’t want to believe it. You’d do anything not to believe it.’

  He moved towards the door. ‘We�
��ve got to go,’ he said, but she had her eyes closed again and was sinking into the depths of despair. She felt his hand on her shoulder, gently at first. His grip tightened for a few seconds and then he thrust his hand underneath her arm and tried to pull her to her feet. ‘Come on, Colette,’ he said.

  She tried to pull away, but suddenly he gripped her violently, pulled her back towards him, and slapped her hard across the face.

  ‘We’ve got a job to do,’ he said, ‘and we’ll do it whether our brother was a traitor or not.’

  Her face stung and she put her hand to her cheek to relieve the pain. She felt the tears in her eyes again and this time, as he grabbed her, she did not protest.

  He almost dragged her along the corridor and into the lift. There was nobody else in it and she caught sight of her reflection briefly in the brass corner fittings. She looked a wreck.

  In the lobby below she tucked herself in behind Gerry as he approached the front desk and asked for the bill. She waited, looking at the floor, unable to think clearly.

  ‘Are you all right, madam?’ she heard someone ask.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Gerry said.

  ‘Are you all right, madam?’ the woman asked again, her voice tougher this time.

  Colette looked up to see a plump, blonde woman leaning on the counter and looking at her with an anxious expression on her face.

  Colette tried to smile and felt a brief flicker of pleasure as she imagined Gerry’s discomfort. ‘I’m … I’m all right,’ she said slowly. The woman reluctantly turned her eyes away from her and went to the computer printer to rip off the bill. Nobody spoke again and Colette kept her eyes on the floor.

  As they emerged from the hotel a few moments later, Colette felt Gerry’s hand on her arm again and she moved forward with him.

  They passed the pink Dunkin’ Donuts shop and the smell wafted past her.

  They stopped by Boots and waited to cross the first part of the road. She was on the right of Gerry and she noticed, to her right, a man dressed in a grey suit leaning against a pillar. He had his head half turned away from them and was talking into a mobile phone. She wondered if he was part of a surveillance team.

  The pedestrian light went green and they crossed and waited on the island for the next section. There was a family to the right of her now, with American accents and skullcaps – the boys, anyway. She looked up slightly and saw a man in a pinstriped suit looking at her. He was middle-aged and a little overweight, and she wondered for a brief second if he was watching them, but he looked at her for too long and she felt a moment of hurt as she realized it was for the usual reasons.

  As they were waiting, one of the old red buses passed them with a giant picture of a baby on the side. A beautiful baby.

  The light went green and they crossed. She recalled the day Pa had brought back a model of one of those old buses on a trip from London. She remembered the excitement – they didn’t often get presents – and her disappointment when she realized it was for Paddy and Gerry, not her. She remembered Paddy and Gerry arguing over ownership and Gerry winning, as always.

  As they passed the Eros statue, Gerry still had his hand under her arm and he led her towards a big building with ‘Lillywhites’ written in big green letters on the outside.

  Inside, she saw quickly that it was a sports store, and Gerry told her to start looking as though she wanted to buy something. Mechanically, she pulled out and carefully examined the shirts around her and, even here, even now, she couldn’t help feeling the quality of the material and thinking how happy little Mark would be to be brought back a present.

  She lost track of time completely in the store. They seemed to look round for ages, going up and then down several floors, but eventually Gerry led them back out into the street. It was bright now and, as they stepped out onto the pavement, she caught sight of the top of the Houses of Parliament in the distance and felt her stomach tightening. There was a tall pillar before it, on top of which was the figure of a man who looked to be standing with the careless arrogance you’d expect from a British imperialist. It looked like a shorter version of Nelson’s column.

  They walked a few paces and she felt a momentary sense of pleasure as she caught sight of a blue Bank of Ireland sign. Her bank. She realized, with a start, that she hadn’t thought about the new account – their money – for, well, weeks. So much money. Enough to change everything.

  They crossed the road at the bottom and gently walked down the steps by the statue, passing a group of tourists talking in Japanese and looking at their map.

  They crossed the Mall and entered St James’s Park. The trees were bare at this time of year and she felt the desolation of winter. An elderly man wearing a strange cap with feathers in it approached them, puffing a cigarette. She wondered again as he passed if they were being watched.

  They crossed another road, this time walking towards a security barrier and, despite herself, Colette felt another sharp twinge of nerves. She looked at Gerry’s impassive face and even now she couldn’t help a sneeking admiration for his courage. They passed the checkpoint and entered a huge gravel courtyard with a long, almost impossibly elegant white building ahead of them.

  She remembered passing here all those years ago, wandering – sightseeing – after one of the surveillance missions.

  A soldier appeared from under the archway, looking absurd in his high black boots, white jodhpurs and dark-blue tunic. A ridiculous tourist attraction, except…

  She shivered inwardly and felt suddenly more oppressed than ever, as if a fatalistic cloud was hovering over her. As they turned onto Whitehall, they passed another soldier, this time on horseback, and for a second she found herself looking into the beast’s eyes as it bent to nuzzle the hand of a tourist. They were trusting eyes.

  She shut her own eyes again and wanted to be enveloped by the darkness.

  Ryan stood up to make, once again, the short journey to the coffee machine.

  The room was buzzing around him, but there had been no real developments overnight. The atmosphere was tense and tempers were running short. There had been nothing new to discuss at the early meeting. Everyone was waiting.

  A few minutes after he’d returned with his coffee, news came from GCHQ that a phone call had been made to the McVeigh home in Belfast, and traced to the Regency Crest hotel, off Piccadilly Circus.

  Ryan didn’t pause to wonder whether he should stay by the phone. He picked up his jacket and ran.

  It was a bright day in London and, as always at this time, the streets were crowded with people still making their way to work. Ryan sprinted the first few hundred yards, but his legs and lungs began to tire and he slowed to a fast jog, his knees absorbing the full impact of his footfall through the thin soles of his penny loafers. It was not warm, but by the time he reached Piccadilly Circus he was sweating.

  He ran into the lobby of the hotel and saw the look on the face of the detective standing with his back to the counter. He was wearing a fawn-coloured raincoat and Ryan recognized him from one of the many anti-terrorism conferences he’d attended, though he couldn’t remember his name. The man didn’t wait for introductions. He simply smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Gone. Gone, I’m afraid. Checked out ten minutes ago. Could be anywhere by now.’

  By the time Ryan left, they’d gone over the room with a fine-tooth comb and found nothing. They were fanning out to search the streets around, but Ryan thought it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  He crossed the road and stopped by the Eros statue in the centre of Piccadilly. It was quite sunny now and a couple of latin-looking girls were lying by the fountain, as if exhausted. He looked at them for a few moments and then glanced up at the signs towering above him: McDonald’s, Foster’s, Coke, Samsung, Carlsberg. He turned and strolled slowly – there seemed no need to rush – down towards Pall Mall and St James’s Park. He looked carefully about him, scrutinizing faces, knowing there was no chance of seeing them.

  He passed th
e Bank of Ireland and was reminded, with a jolt, of the account they’d promised to set up there. It hadn’t been done yet, of course. Probably never would be now.

  He wondered if she deserved the money – if she’d ever deserved it – and felt the same sense of nagging doubt and failure that had been plaguing him ever since the news had broken, or even longer. Where, he asked himself, did the truth stop and the lies begin? Did the truth begin? He wondered if she’d ever really told the truth about anything.

  He crossed Pall Mall and walked past the statue of Frederick, Duke of York, younger brother of George III; he knew, since he’d once bothered to stop and look at the inscription. He skirted St James’s Park and made for the great square off Horseguards, leaving the Northern Ireland Office to the left of him. As he walked under the arch and onto Whitehall, he noticed the soldiers in all their finery and felt the bile in his stomach.

  If she was going to die, then maybe that was justice. Could anyone say she didn’t deserve it?

  By the time he reached Parliament Square that thought had sunk in. He suddenly felt sick.

  They were upstairs drinking coffee in Grandma Lee’s. The café was beside Westminster tube station and right opposite the Palace of Westminster. Gerry was nervous, more nervous than Colette had ever known him. He’d seen the heavy security presence from the window – he could hardly have failed to since the whole place was now crawling with policemen – and he’d cursed Paddy under his breath. He thought the whole operation might be compromised.

  She’d never seen the man who’d been waiting for them before, though Gerry said he was from Belfast. He looked like he’d assimilated into English society, because he wore a smart suit and spoke with an English accent. He was clean-shaven and well groomed and he and Gerry spoke to each other in whispers, though there was no-one there to hear them. Gerry was still agitated. ‘What’s with all the security?’ he asked.

  The man was even more jumpy than Gerry and his eyebrows kept twitching. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I think we should abort.’