Camps nodded. Venner leaned forward. “I’m not with you,” he said, “who are we after? This bloke? Connolly? Or someone else?”
Miller looked up from the map. “Both,” he said.
“So who’s the other one?”
“Scullen.”
Venner nodded.
“And what do we do? When we find them?”
Miller paused. “Depends,” he said. “Either we bring them back. Or— ” he shrugged. “Depends …”
Miller turned back to the map and ran quickly back through the operational details. They’d leave at first light. They’d motor south. They’d rendezvous at a small town called Cahersiveen. They’d recce after dark. And then they’d go in. He looked up.
“Dublin,” he said, “all over again.”
Thompson frowned. “Yeah,” he said. “Except we won’t fuck up.”
Miller looked at him. “You’re right,” he said quietly, “we won’t.”
Camps was still studying the map. “What are we taking,” he said, “in the way of precautions?”
Miller looked at him for a moment or two. It had been a long day.
“Everything,” he said. “I want an Armalite each. A couple of pairs of night glasses. We’ll need the Brownings. Plenty of spare clips. We’ll take stun grenades, usual issue, and the sat link as well. Oh …” he smiled, “and some plastic.”
Camps nodded, ever patient, misunderstood.
“I meant cover stories,” he said, “fall backs.”
Miller nodded, still smiling at him. “I know you did,” he said. “We all have a point to make.”
Buddy woke up with the eight o’clock news on his alarm radio. His head was splitting and he had trouble remembering which day it was. The BBC pips came to an end, and the lady in Broadcasting House helped him out. Sunday 4th April, she said. And the crisis in the South Atlantic deepens.
Buddy lay there for the duration of the bulletin. The Argentinians were consolidating their hold on the Falkland Islands. Major Gary Noote and his luckless Marine garrison would shortly be repatriated. Delirious crowds were flooding into Buenos Aires. The UN Security Council was in emergency session. The Prime Minister has pledged a restoration of British rule. The Naval Dockyard in Portsmouth was working round the clock to prepare the Task Force for sea.
Buddy turned over, shutting his mind to it all, reassembling bits and pieces of the previous evening, thinking again of Jude. The job done, he’d fly to Dublin. There’d be chaos in Portsmouth, a massive manhunt nationwide, but the IRA would be claiming responsibility and the first sweeps would be targeting Irish suspects. Naturally the security people would assume that the attack itself – the diving, the knowledge of underwater explosives – was a specialist job, but the support would have come from normal terrorist sources, and that’s where they’d be looking first. In this respect, Buddy had to admit that the plan was clever. To date, he’d left no trail because there was no trail to leave. Only later, if they recovered enough evidence from the explosion itself, would the net begin to close, and by that time he and Jude would be three thousand miles away, spending his earnings on a miracle.
Buddy smiled at the irony, wondering yet again whether the operation would really work. The last three months, he knew, had robbed him of his sense of perspective. The shock of Jude’s accident, of the sheer scale of her loss, had slightly unhinged him. His life had acquired the dimensions of a tunnel. At the very end of it, thousands of miles away, was a tiny disc of light, and his sole job, his sole duty, was to somehow make it through the dark. That he’d do it, that he’d get them both there, he’d never doubted. But the risks were enormous, and the final bill the accident had presented – to cripple a capital ship, at a time like this – had become utterly surreal.
In his saner moments, lying in bed on a Sunday morning, remembering the pubs he’d drunk in the previous evening, he found it hard to believe. But circumstances had given him no choice. He had to do it. And doing it, he had to think of it simply as a sequence of tasks, entirely logical, entirely under his control. Put this way, it was a far simpler proposition than hundreds of other jobs he’d done. He had the gear. He had the know-how. The depths were child’s play. The thing was a doddle. There’d be lots of drama. Lots of headlines. But no one would die, and afterwards, with luck, his woman would re-occupy a little of the body that those same circumstances had taken away from her. The end, in short, justified the means. Nothing else mattered.
Buddy reached out and switched off the radio, knowing in his heart that this rationale of his was nonsense. What he was doing was wrong. He knew it, and it hurt him, but it still didn’t matter. Life had confronted him with a choice – his country or his wife – and he’d gone for Jude. Or what was left of her.
He gazed up at the ceiling, wondering vaguely what would happen afterwards, after Boston, once they were back again, here, in this cottage. By now, the chances of detection might be high. They might have linked the gear to Harry. The old boy might have blown the whistle. They might have traced the booking on the yacht, searched it, found evidence of explosives, arrested the girl, investigated her background, drawn the obvious conclusions. They might be waiting here, at the cottage, ready for their return, Buddy Little and his lovely wife Jude, the well-known walking miracle. They might greet him at the door, arrest him, interrogate him, squeeze the truth from him, present him with the evidence, tell him it was all over. There’d be a trial, more headlines, and countless years in some prison cell or other. Buddy thought about it, getting out of bed, and as he did so he realized that he didn’t care. For the last three months, he’d been in a cell of his own making anyway. Coming to terms with the real thing would be the merest formality.
Below him, downstairs, he heard a knock at the front door. He frowned, and reached for his dressing-gown. He made his way downstairs. In the living room, the curtains were still drawn tight. He walked through to the hall, hearing more knocks. On the mat inside the door was his one weekly extravagance, a copy of the Sunday Telegraph. “Fleet Assembles for Falklands Action”, went the headline, “Navy Prepares for War”.
Buddy looked at it briefly, recognizing the familiar lines of HMS Invincible, then opened the front door. A man in his early forties stood in the sunshine. He had a round, cheerful face. His hair was receding. He was wearing a blazer with an open-necked white shirt. He was carrying a large holdall. There was a smile on his face. Inwardly, Buddy groaned.
“Gus,” he said.
The other man stepped into the house, uninvited. He put his holdall on the carpet by the stairs.
“Nice,” he said, looking round, taking stock. “Very nice.”
Buddy closed the front door, remembering the letter he’d never answered, the threat that Gus might one day hop on a plane, and fly down from the oil fields, and stay over for a day or two. He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment, waiting for the sudden gust of nausea to pass. When he opened his eyes again, Gus was inches away. He looked concerned. Of all the roles he played, older brother was his favourite.
“Mate,” he said, “you look terrible.”
Buddy muttered something about a night out and retreated to the kitchen. He put the kettle on and checked the fridge for fresh milk, wondering where to start. Gus saved him the trouble.
“OK, then,” he said, “where is she?”
Buddy reached for the teapot. “Who?” he said hopelessly.
“Jude. The little woman. My favourite girl.”
Buddy gave him a look and told him to sit down. It took him several minutes to explain. By the time he’d finished, Gus was close to tears.
“Fuck me,” he kept saying, “fuck me.”
Buddy poured out tea for them both, wondering whether a shot or two of whisky might help their separate problems. He went into the lounge. It took him several more minutes to discover where Eva had hidden the booze. He returned to the kitchen with a litre of Johnny Walker and two glasses. Gus was sitting where he’d left him, ancho
red to the kitchen stool, white faced, shaking his head.
“So where is she?” he asked.
Buddy poured two large shots of Scotch. He gave one to Gus.
“Nursing home,” he said briefly.
“Where?”
“Miles away.”
Buddy waved the bottle vaguely towards the west, amused for a second or two by the small truth of his answer. Gus gazed into his glass.
“When can we go and see her?” he said.
“We can’t.”
He looked up. “Why not?”
Buddy paused, cupping the glass in his hand, wondering where the conversation might end.
“Visiting hours,” he said. “They’re very strict. Have to be.”
Gus nodded, gazing around the kitchen, thinking about it.
“So how come you got shit-faced last night?” he said at last.
Buddy looked at him. Gus was an intensely practical man. He had the most logical mind he’d ever encountered. It made him a fine diver, and a good bloke to have around when things got tough. It also, now, made him dangerous. Buddy swirled the Scotch around his glass, saying nothing, then downed it in a single gulp. Time to play the widower, he thought, time to bid for sympathy. He put the empty glass on the dresser.
“You wonder why I get pissed?” he said, feeling the warmth spreading upwards from his belly.
Gus frowned. “Must be terrible,” he said.
“It is. It’s fucking awful.”
“I meant for her.”
“Yeah.” Buddy glanced up at him. “That’s what I meant, too.”
They had breakfast. Buddy stirred hot milk into porridge oats and fed slices of brown wholemeal into the toaster while Gus circled him with more questions. How, exactly, had it happened? Where was the break in her neck? What did the doctors have to say? What was life like in this nursing home of hers? And why, in God’s name, hadn’t Buddy had the sense to write and tell him? The last question Buddy had anticipated.
“I wanted to spare you,” he said, “I thought it best you didn’t know.”
Gus looked hurt. “I’m a mate of yours,” he said, “I was best man, for fuck’s sake.”
“Yeah,” Buddy nodded, “you’d have been bloody upset.”
“Too right.”
“So what’s the point?” Buddy spooned a small mountain of porridge into a bowl and passed it to Gus. “Why wreck someone else’s day?”
Gus looked at him, not saying anything, reaching for the sugar bowl. Always had a sweet tooth, Buddy thought, watching him tip the bowl over the porridge and shake it gently. Gus glanced up.
“Must get lonely,” he said, “Just you. On your tod.”
“It does.”
“You miss her?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t blame you.” He paused and sniffed. “I would, too.”
Buddy nodded, saying nothing. Gus began to eat the porridge, blowing on each spoonful, ever cautious. “So what are you doing,” he said, “to make ends meet?”
Buddy deflected the question as best he could. He’d had another Scotch, and he felt much better.
“This and that,” he said, “bits and pieces.”
“Local stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“So you can be with her?”
“Yeah.”
Gus nodded, approving, the older brother again. He swallowed another mouthful of porridge.
“You need money?” he said at last. “You want a cheque?”
Buddy smiled, remembering Pascale. Maybe Gus was right, he thought. Maybe I should have written, touched him up for the odd loan. Fifty grand. Repayable whenever. He glanced across at Gus, shaking his head.
“It’s OK,” he said, “I manage.”
“No need to go short. You know that.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
There was a silence. Buddy poked at the porridge with his spoon. Gus looked up again, with his slow grin.
“Listen,” he said. “You need a lift. Real night out. I got paid off yesterday. Six weeks’ work. Serious money. We’ll really go to town.”
Buddy tried the porridge. It was scalding hot.
“Sounds great,” he said, fanning his open mouth, “only I can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“No.” He paused. “I’m on a job at the moment. It’s tidal. We’re working nights.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
There was a brief silence. Then Gus was back. Another idea.
“I’ll give you a hand,” he said. “We’ll see it off together.”
Buddy shook his head. “It’s a sewage outfall,” he said, “you’d hate it.”
“Really?”
Gus looked at him, alarmed.
“Yeah,” Buddy nodded, remembering how fastidious Gus could be, how obsessed by bugs and hygiene. “Turds everywhere,” he said. “Huge brown fuckers.”
There was the sound of a car engine. Buddy glanced out of the window. A small VW was bumping down the track. He shut his eyes a moment. The last thing he wanted was Eva in here. He turned back to Gus.
“Listen,” he said, “you must be busy. Marge. The kids.”
Gus shook his head. “They’re in Wales,” he said, “that’s why I thought I might stay a couple of nights. Keep you company.”
Buddy looked at him a moment, knowing it was hopeless. Gus was here for the weekend, come what may. He turned to the sink, abandoning his bowl of half-eaten porridge. Eva was walking briskly up the garden path. He’d given her a key. She’d be inside in seconds. Gus was eyeing the teapot. He drank the stuff by the gallon.
“Where is this job?” he said idly.
Buddy hesitated a moment, not wanting to be contradicted by Eva.
“Down on the Hamble,” he said, “Warsash way.”
“Oh,” Gus nodded, “handy.”
Buddy heard the door open, footsteps up the hall. Then Eva was standing there, in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing her oilskin again, and she was carrying an empty wicker basket. She was looking at Buddy. She couldn’t see Gus.
“Hi,” she said, a smile in her voice, “I made a sponge cake last night. I thought we might take it with us. It’s in the larder. Up on the back shelf.”
Buddy looked at her for a moment. “Wonderful,” he said, “I love sponge cake.”
Ingle found the GPO intercept the same morning, Sunday. The list had been forwarded from Paddington Green, one of a dozen or so, and he only bothered to read it because the newspaper shop on the way to the Special Branch offices off Royal Avenue had run out of copies of the News of the World.
Now, half past ten, he lifted the phone and dialled the number of his other office in Paddington Green. The number answered at once, the new boy, Kee.
“It’s me,” Ingle said briefly, “I want you to do us a favour.”
Ingle explained what he wanted, quoting the reference number of the intercept, and Kee went away to find another copy of the master list, and confirm the date. The Post Office intercepts centre at Mount Pleasant was authorized to open and photograph all mail en route to certain addresses. These addresses, known as the “A” list, covered seven sheets of foolscap paper and included a number of addresses in Dublin. Every two days, a list of intercepts was circulated to a smallish circle of subscribers on the Intelligence and Counter-Terrorist circuit. Only on application would the relevant photocopies be forwarded, a recent economy measure that would, the Treasury said, save tens of thousands of pounds.
Kee came back. Ingle could tell by his voice that the boy was frowning.
“It’s a while back,” he said, “23rd January.”
Ingle scribbled the date, then paused, his pencil in midair.
“They keep these things for ever?” he said. “I can’t remember.”
“No. Only for three months.”
“OK.” He paused again. “Get over there and get hold of it. You’ll need a chit.”
“Sure.”
Ingle looked at his watch. There w
as a British Midlands flight, Saturdays only, at noon. With luck, he’d just make it.
“Listen …” he said, returning to the phone, “stay in the office when you get back. I’ll be over.”
Kee, a dedicated Spurs fan, grunted. He was planning on yet another afternoon at White Hart Lane. There was a postponed Cup match against Everton. He began to suggest an alternative but Ingle ignored him, gazing at the name he’d underlined on his copy of the intercepts list.
“Scullen,” he said down the phone, “that’s the bugger we want.”
Scullen arrived at the farmhouse half an hour before noon. He’d driven up from the coast with McParland. McParland sat outside in the Mercedes, while the older man shook the rain from his coat and shut the front door carefully behind him.
Connolly met him in the hall. He’d been up half the night with Jude. She had a high temperature and she’d been sick several times. After daybreak, Connolly had moved his chair to the window, half expecting Mairead to turn up with a van. But nothing had happened, and when Scullen’s nurse had finally appeared – nine o’clock – he’d looked down at Jude, and yawned, and said it was probably indigestion.
Now, Connolly followed Scullen up the hall.
“She’s ill,” he said briefly, “she needs help.”
Scullen folded his coat over the banister. Underneath the coat he was wearing a dark suit, and Connolly sensed at once that he’d been to church. Scullen smoothed his hair.
“What kind of help?” he said.
“Proper help. Medical help. She needs a doctor.”
Scullen looked puzzled.
“But I thought you’d telephoned already?” he said. “Last night?”
Connolly blinked. “I did,” he said, “you’re right.”
“Then surely help will come?”
“I …” Connolly shrugged, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
Scullen nodded, and Connolly wondered how on earth he’d found out about the phone call. Then he remembered the open door along the hall in the cottage down the road, the kids’ faces, the listening ears. They’re all in it, he thought. The whole valley. The whole peninsula. All Kerry belongs to Scullen. He looked at the man. Scullen, to his surprise, seemed unmoved.
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