Reaper

by Hurley, Graham

“Yes?”

  “Watch Red Route One, eastbound.”

  The line went dead, and the shift leader pushed his chair back from the desk. In the corner, there was a bank of telex machines. Red Route One, eastbound, was the designation of the machine on the left. The shift leader got up and walked across to the machine. It was spilling out more intercepts, the green light winking on the status panel. He watched for a moment, recognizing the coding groups, the tell-tale chatter of individual Argentinian warships, very definitely at sea. The stuff went on and on, pages of it. He lifted a telephone and pushed three buttons. The line went straight through to a desk in the Cabinet Office. There, he knew, was a duplicate of Red Route One.

  “GCHQ,” he said briefly. “Are you seeing what we’re seeing?”

  Buddy Little sat in the back of the grey Mercedes, watching the ambulance bump away through the trees, back down the track they’d taken, back towards the road. Inside was Jude. The last he’d seen of her before they’d closed the doors had been a faint tip of her head. It was a way she had of saying goodbye.

  Now, the ambulance gone, he turned back into the car. Joe, with the leather jacket, was leaning on the front passenger seat. He was still holding the gun. The gun was pointing at Buddy’s throat. Buddy looked at him.

  “If she comes to any harm …”

  Joe was eating an apple. He nodded, registering the unspoken threat, but made no comment.

  They waited in the Mercedes for perhaps five minutes. No one said a word. Then the driver started the engine, and they took the track back to the road. They turned left, heading west again, and Buddy sat in the back, watching very carefully, looking for landmarks, registering every curve of the road, every fold of the landscape. After a while, he looked at Joe again. He’d finished with the apple and was winding down the front window. The window open, he threw the apple core out. Buddy watched it bouncing into the ditch. Whatever else was happening, they sure as fuck weren’t going to a hospital. Not now. Not without Jude.

  “She needs special nursing,” he said, “you know that?”

  Joe said nothing. He had a brown paper bag. The bag was full of apples. He offered the bag to Buddy. Buddy just looked at it.

  “Special nursing,” he said again, “you understand English?”

  Joe nodded. “Sure,” he said.

  “So where’s she gone? Who’ll look after her?”

  “I dunno.”

  Buddy looked at him a moment, wondering whether to press the point, deciding against it. The thing had been too well organized, too elaborate, not to have an explanation. Quite who these people were was beyond him, but soon – no doubt – he’d find out. He settled back into the seat, and nodded at the brown bag.

  “OK,” he said. “Sort me out a ripe one.”

  Half an hour later, they reached the outskirts of a village. The sign beside the church read “Kiltyclogher”. They drove down the main street and stopped outside a small terraced house, slate roof, two tiny windows at the front and an old wooden door in between. There was another car parked outside.

  Joe motioned Buddy out of the Mercedes. “We’re going inside,” he said. “It’s best if you talk to the man yourself.”

  He put the gun away, and opened the passenger door. Buddy got out of the back and stood beside the car for a moment. Down the street there was a crossroads and a tall grey statue. There was a bunch of dead flowers at the foot of the statue, and a dog, sprawled across the pavement, asleep. There were curls of smoke from a long terrace of houses, but no other signs of life. The place was utterly silent, like a page from a pre-war picture book.

  Joe knocked twice on the front door. The door opened. Buddy stepped inside. There was a small parlour, with a wooden floor, and a table, and a couple of armchairs. There was a cat on one of the armchairs, and a man in a dark suit in the other. The man got up and extended a hand.

  “Mr Little,” he said, “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Buddy ignored the proffered hand. “Who are you?” he said.

  The man in the suit ignored the question, shooing the cat off the other armchair and inviting Buddy to sit down. Buddy shook his head, and asked the question again. The man in the suit looked at him for a moment. He had a long pale face. His hair was parted on one side.

  “You’re hungry?” he said. “A little lunch, perhaps?”

  “I’ve eaten.”

  “You’ll take some tea? Coffee?”

  Buddy glanced round. Joe was by the door. His gun was out again, and another man had appeared from the kitchen. He, too, was armed. Buddy shrugged and sat down in the armchair.

  “Tea,” he said briefly, “two sugars.”

  The man in the dark suit sat down in the chair opposite. He had the manner of a schoolmaster, stern, fastidious, slightly removed. Long, thin fingers plucked at the creases of his trousers.

  “You’ve come a long way,” he said, “I won’t waste your time.”

  For the next ten minutes or so, Buddy listened while the man in the armchair outlined what he had in mind. Buddy listened to him, making no comment, expressing neither surprise, nor disbelief, nor even disapproval. At the end of it, the explanation over, the request on the table, Buddy laughed, striking a new note in the conversation. Derision.

  “You’re mad,” he said, “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not possible.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The gear you’d need. The explosives. The preparation. Security. Everything.” He shook his head. “No …” he said again, “it’s a fantasy.”

  There was a long silence. The cat stalked the length of the room and wound itself around the other man’s legs. The cat knows him, thought Buddy. He’s been here before. The man in the armchair picked at a thread of cotton on his trousers. The fingers again, long, thin, bony, just like the rest of him.

  He looked up. “Supposing,” he said, “you had to do it.”

  Buddy frowned. “I’m not with you,” he said.

  “Supposing …” the other man shrugged, “you had no choice?”

  “But I do have a choice. You’re giving me a choice. You’re saying here it is, here’s the job, here’s what we want you to do. Now I’m saying it can’t be done. I’m saying it’s impossible. If you think different, you do it. But I tell you now. You’d be off your trolley to even try.” He paused. “That’s leaving out the rest of it, of course.”

  The other man looked up. “Rest of it?” he said mildly.

  “Yeah.” Buddy nodded. “I’m not just talking technique. Details. Small print.” He paused again. “It’s my country, for Christ sake. I’m British. I won’t do it.” He shook his head. “No way.”

  The other man nodded, but said nothing. The cat was in his lap now. Buddy could hear it purring. Buddy watched it a moment. Then he looked up again.

  “Who’s talking about a war anyway?” he said. “Who are we supposed to be fighting?”

  “Argentina.”

  “Oh?” Buddy frowned. “Something I missed?”

  “It’s a prediction,” the other man said, “not a fact.”

  “Who says?”

  The other man looked at the cat, not answering the question. Buddy’s tea arrived, a big brown mug. He took it from the man who’d been standing in the kitchen door. The gun was still in his other hand, an automatic of some kind. The man had blue letters tattooed on his knuckles. Buddy could read an “L” and an “O”. The man returned to the kitchen. Buddy sipped at the tea.

  “My wife,” he began, “what’s happened to her?”

  “She’s in good hands.”

  “Where?”

  The other man looked up. “You’ll see your wife again,” he said carefully, “when you’ve finished the job.”

  There was a long silence. The cat had stopped purring. Buddy was looking hard at the mug of tea in his lap, measuring the distance between himself and the man in the dark suit, remembering where the others were, computing the ang
les in the room, the scope he had for serious violence. Seldom in his life had he ever been roused. On one of the three occasions it had happened, another man had died. It hadn’t been entirely Buddy’s doing, but afterwards he’d realized what a simple, logical process killing can be. The snuffing of a candle. The flick of a switch. Now, he looked up. Part of the trick was to keep your head. And the odds, he knew, were against him. He looked at the man in the armchair.

  “If you hurt my wife,” he said softly, “I’ll kill you.”

  “Your wife will come to no harm,” he repeated, “as long as you get the job done.”

  “I’ve told you. That’s impossible.”

  The man in the suit turned his head and looked out of the window beside the fireplace. Miles away, there were hills. Further still, the hard grey shapes of a mountain range.

  “Pity,” he said at last.

  Buddy stared at him, recognizing the threat, quite explicit.

  “You wouldn’t,” he said.

  The man in the suit looked round at him. “We might,” he said. “And that’s a risk you wouldn’t want to take.” He paused and bent to a briefcase beside the chair. He opened the briefcase and took out a file. “Let’s be clear what we mean,” he said. “If you do the job, you’ll get your wife back. We’ll fly you to Boston. You’ll meet her there.” Buddy looked up, surprised. He’d forgotten about Pascale.

  “Boston?” he said.

  The other man nodded. “That’s right,” he said, “I understood you’d already been told.” He looked up. “We pay for the operation. The expenses. The travel. Everything.” He gestured at the file. “We’re not ungenerous.”

  Buddy frowned. “But where’s Jude?” he said. “Where’s my wife?”

  “She’s in good hands. We have access to doctors. I understand she has a spinal lesion. She isn’t the first in the world.” He smiled thinly. “Even the Irish break their necks.”

  “So you’d look after her?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Where?”

  The other man looked at him, saying nothing. Then he closed the file.

  “You have the right background,” he said, “the right training. Perhaps even the right access. Your only problem is motivation.” He paused, consulting the file again, and Buddy caught a glimpse of the article he’d planted in the local paper. The other man was studying it. “She’s a handsome woman,” he said, “takes a fine photograph.” He looked up. “Get the job done for us, she could be back on that horse. Say no, turn us down …” He shrugged, closing the file.

  Buddy gazed at him for a long time, recognizing the trap they’d so cleverly baited. Provisional IRA, he thought, the lunatics in the black balaclavas, the monsters savaged by the tabloid press, so very different in the flesh.

  “But what do you think you’ll achieve,” he said, “supposing it all happens? Supposing it can be done?”

  The other man shrugged again. “It’s a step,” he said, “in the long march.”

  “But you think you’ll get us out that way? You think we’ll just leave and pack up?”

  “Yes,” he nodded, “in the end I think you will.”

  Buddy shook his head very slowly, a gesture he reserved for life’s dafter moments.

  “You’re mad,” he said, “you’re fucking barmy. North and south, you’re stuck with it. You’ll never change it. It’s there for ever.”

  For the first time, the other man smiled. One hand crept across to the file again, gave it the softest of taps.

  “You have your problems,” he said quietly, “we have ours.”

  Buddy said nothing for a full minute, staring into the middle distance, feeling his options closing around him. This strange cold figure in the dark suit wanted him to blow up one of the Navy’s warships. Live. In Portsmouth Harbour. On prime-time television. Twelve years in the service told him that was wrong. Twenty years underwater told him it was probably impossible. But Jude’s life hung on his decision. So what the fuck was he supposed to do? He stirred in the armchair. He put the mug carefully on the carpet. Then he looked up.

  “You want a decision,” he said.

  It was a statement, not a question. The other man nodded.

  “We do,” he said.

  Buddy looked at him, assessing him, wondering whether the impossible might, after all, respond to careful planning and a kilo or two of high explosive. The cat stretched and yawned. Buddy studied it for a moment.

  “OK,” he said finally. “When?”

  Miller got the call he’d been anticipating, on his private number, an hour after midnight. He was in bed, book on his pillow, wondering whether to start another chapter or not. This time of night, Montgomery’s memoirs were better than Nembutal.

  He lifted the phone. A voice on the other end asked him whether the line was secure. He said it was.

  “OK,” the voice said, “we’ve got a problem.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “You.”

  “What is it?”

  “Qualitech.”

  “Really?”

  Miller closed the book and reached for a tiny pad he always kept by the telephone. “What’s the problem?” he said, non-committal as ever.

  “There’s word it wasn’t as simple as it sounds.”

  Miller smiled. “I’m sure,” he said, “but what’s that got to do with me?”

  “Word is, the bomb was a Brit plant. Someone wanted leverage. Someone put the bomb there, or had the bomb put there, then took the credit when the bomb was found.”

  Miller nodded. “Neat,” he said, “almost plausible.”

  There was a pause. Miller had still not been able to place the voice. His private phone number had a strictly limited circulation, two dozen or so people, some of them MI5, some of them MI6, some of them Special Branch or RUC. The voice came back. It was a flat, South London voice. With a hint of amusement.

  “There’s a source in Belfast,” he said, “boy named Connolly. Special Branch are running him. He seems to know a great deal.”

  Miller scribbled the name on his notepad and looked at it. Connolly, he thought. The boyfriend of Charlie’s source. He bent to the phone.

  “Anything else?” he said. “While you’re on?”

  The voice hesitated a moment. “Yes,” he said, “the suits are taking it to the top.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” He paused. “Whoever you’ve upset, you’ve done a wonderful job.”

  “I see.” Miller gazed at the phone. “So what’s your angle?” he said at last. “Why the favour?”

  The voice laughed, a long chuckle, real humour. “They’re wankers,” he said. “All of them. That’s why.”

  The phone went dead and Miller stared at it a moment longer, uncertain what his brain was trying to tell him. Then he had it. The bloke was pissed. Had to be.

  Next morning, half past seven, Miller got Charlie out of bed. The boy opened the door to his room and stepped out onto the landing, his toes curling on the cold concrete.

  “What’s the matter?” he said. “What is it?”

  Miller stepped past him, into the room. “Shut the door,” he said.

  Charlie shut the door. Miller glanced round the room. The place was a tip, ashtrays overflowing, records everywhere, Charlie’s dirty washing spilling out of a black laundry sack. Miller stood by the bed. Charlie plugged in the electric kettle.

  “There’s a bloke called Connolly,” he began, “you’ve mentioned him.”

  Charlie nodded. “Mairead’s fella.”

  “How much do we know about him?”

  Charlie hesitated, spooning instant coffee into two mugs. “He was Leeson’s pal,” he said, “turned up with him in Dublin.”

  “I know that. What’s he at now?”

  Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “She won’t tell me.”

  “How hard have you tried?”

  “Very.”

  Miller looke
d at him for a moment, then walked to the door. “Try harder,” he said. “And sort your bloody self out.”

  Mairead took the call at half past nine. Connolly had been away early, swallowing a round of toast and two cups of tea before heading for the door. He’d muttered something about an early lecture, and she’d kissed him in the hall, knowing that Tuesdays he never lectured until the afternoon.

  “Be careful,” she said, “all those students.”

  Now, the kids away at school, Bronagh tucked up with a cold and a drawing book, Mairead answered the phone. She thought for a moment that it might be Connolly. Her smile faded when she recognized the soft Irish brogue.

  “Charlie,” she said flatly.

  “Me,” he agreed.

  “What do you want?”

  “We have to meet.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I said we— ”

  “I can’t. Bronagh’s not well.”

  “Then I’ll come and see you.”

  Mairead gazed at the phone. Under any other circumstances she might have laughed, the absurdity of the proposition. Instead, she got angry.

  “You won’t,” she said, “not now. Not ever. Anyway,” she shrugged, “there’s nothing to say.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true.”

  There was a long pause. In the living room, Mairead could hear Bronagh singing to herself in front of the fire, under the eiderdown, the child’s voice huskier than usual. Charlie, she thought, here, in her own street, her own house. She shivered at the image, hearing his voice again on the phone. The tone of his voice had changed. It was harsher, more impatient. In ten brief seconds, he’d reverted to type. Bossy Catholic male. Laying down the law.

  “Listen to me,” he said, “you’ve got twenty-four hours to talk to that man of yours. I’ll pick you up tomorrow. Usual place. I’ll be there at one. And again at two. We’ll have all afternoon. I’ll look forward to it.”

  “I won’t be there,” she said automatically. “There’s nothing to say.”

  “Talk to your man,” Charlie said again, “ask him about a place called Qualitech. Ask him tonight. Ask him what he knows, and how he knows it. I want names, Mairead, and places I can find people. I want to know who he’s been seeing, who’s been talking to him.” He paused. “What was the place I mentioned now?”