by John Brady
He saw the motorcycle at the last minute. It was a big Japanese bike. Its petrol tank dully reflected the Saab's tail-lights as it drew alongside. The two helmeted riders looked like giant ants, Martians, something out of science fiction. Ball stopped thinking. For that endless second before the passenger pulled the trigger, Ball knew. The hand clasped over the clip to steady the pistol, the extended stock jammed into his hip, the passenger crouched for the recoil. Ball tried in vain to find eyes behind the tinted glass on the full-face helmets.
The first shots caught Ball in the neck and chest. His foot was jerked off the accelerator and he was beaten into the passenger seat by their impact. He was dead before the Saab wavered slowly over to the far side of the road and dug into a parked van. The car spun as it bounced and rolled over, scattering glass and chrome trim along the pavement. Engine off now, it lay on its side in the middle of the road.
The Kawasaki dipped suddenly on its front forks and skidded to a stop. The driver held his legs out to steady the bike as he turned it and cruised slowly by the wreck. The passenger stood on the footrests and fired into the car's interior until the clip was empty. The driver revved the engine, crunched first gear as he found it, and leaned over the handlebars as he opened the throttle.
"Who did you say again?" Minogue spoke through scrambled eggs. He was still tired after a night of dreams, most of which he had forgotten. He had tottered down the stairs still thinking of the dream about horses. Horses galloping, horses tearing away from tethers, horses rearing.
"Urr whurr the urr gurr murr durr?" Iseult said.
"Who was it?"
"Senility all right," Iseult said brightly. "Regression to cave-man talk."
Minogue had inhaled a piece of egg. He began coughing uncontrollably. He stood up and edged over to the sink, coughing and spluttering.
"Ah, go on, do you really think I'm that funny?" Iseult said.
"The fella in the embassy," Minogue wheezed out before another spasm of coughing erupted.
"Ugh. You talk like one of those dirty old men in raincoats," said lesult.
Kathleen slapped her husband sharply between the shoulder blades.
"Are you trying to finish me off entirely, for the love of God?" he wheezed. "That's a very agricultural belt you landed on me."
"Whisht, would you and you'd hear the news."
Kathleen rested her arms on Minogue's shoulders while he leaned over the sink, listening.
"Very touching," Iseult commented. "At your age. Give her a squeeze, Da."
"I know him," Minogue croaked, wiping his eyes.
"You know who, lovey?" asked Kathleen.
"That man, Ball He's a Second Secretary at the British Embassy."
He felt Kathleen withdraw a little. Any mention of "British" or "embassy" brought her back recollections of her nights in the chair by her husband's hospital bed.
"And what's more, I was due to talk to him, I think."
They listened to the announcer's bland, mid-Atlantic tones.
"A telephone call to the Irish Times claimed responsibility on behalf of the Irish National Liberation Army. The statement said that the INLA had received information that Mr Ball was in charge of intelligence gathering on its members in the South and that he was responsible for the murder of Mr Tommy Costello, a well-know republican and member of the INLA, abducted in County Monaghan two years ago… Mr Costello is thought to have been the victim of a power struggle within the ranks of the INLA as to the movement's campaign of violence in Northern Ireland…"
"Madmen, the whole lot of them," Kathleen whispered.
"… The INLA statement also pronounced what it termed a sentence of death on Mr Ball and any other person co-operating with him. A spokesman for the British Embassy refused comment on the incident or on the allegations."
Minogue sat back at the table. Kathleen remained by the sink, her arms folded in front of her.
"What does this have to do with you, Matt? You said that you weren't involved in this racket any more. And I recall telling Jimmy Kilmartin that I didn't want my hus-"
"Now look it, Kathleen," Minogue began.
"Now look it, yourself."
"Don't be arguing in front of the children, you two," Iseult broke in. "I'm very impressionable and sensitive. You don't know the harm you could be doing."
Kathleen turned to her daughter. Iseult fled the kitchen.
"I don't want you getting involved with this stuff, do you hear me. You know what I'm talking about. Gun-play and those thugs. You've paid your dues and done more than anyone else in that line. How far are you from retirement now? There's your family to think of."
"And me long-suffering wife. If there's any chance of-"
"There'd better not be." spacebarthing
Keating was sitting on Eilis' desk and offering her gentle taunts when Minogue arrived. Minogue phoned the Special Branch and asked for Pat Corrigan. While he waited for someone to answer, he watched Eilis blow smoke up into Keating's face. It did not budge him off her desk.
"Don't be getting your knickers in a knot now, Detective Keating," she murmured.
Corrigan was not in his office, but he could be reached by cellular. Minogue redialled. Corrigan answered with a cough.
"Matt Minogue? The man himself. Where are you?"
"I'm in a space rocket and I'm hovering over your nice new shiny car with your shiny telephone, Pat."
"You nearly had me looking out the window for you. What's with you?"
"Think of me as Jim Kilmartin but without the rank. I'm working on a very odd case here in the Squad. I might need something solid to break open the damn investigation."
"You're always in the thick of things, Matt. Much in demand, hah?"
"Not as busy as yourself this morning, I'll wager," Minogue probed.
"Aha. You heard," Corrigan replied grimly. "Very bad work done on this poor fella. We warn them about socialising on their own, you know. It's not in my basket this morning, though, thanks be to God. There's a dozen security-types in from London already, hush-hush. We're supposed to treat them like royalty and give them free rein. Did it come to your Squad yet?"
"A letter from Justice on Jimmy's desk this morning to tell us to wait until we're wanted. The English lads want it all to themselves on account of it being an embassy thing."
"You're as well off to be told to wait by the door with this. They'll use the Technical Bureau for evidence gathering, I hear…?"
"That's all they want from us, yes. But Pat, I need to talk about this poor Ball fella."
Corrigan didn't reply.
"I'm working on a case where an Englishman was murdered. Ball's telephone number was on a little list he had in his house. They tell me that Ball's job was to look after UK nationals living here. Tell them when their pensions go up and remind them about free coal allowances, that class of thing. All very polite and above-board, thanks very much."
"But?"
"Well, I'd have had to be talking to poor Ball sooner or later in connection with this case, you see. It seems more important now, if you follow my meaning."
Corrigan caught the emphasis. His voice took on the ancestral tone of his peasant forefathers bargaining over the price which no one wanted to mention aloud.
"Oh yes. Oh yes. But this is a very delicate matter. There's going to be skin and hair flying over this effort… This person was English, you say?"
"An elderly man. We're making rather heavy weather of it so far, do you see."
"Aha."
Minogue sensed Corrigan's interest. He felt his own impatience growing.
"Well," Minogue said finally. "If we can't be talking too much over this yoke, we had better meet."
"All right so," Corrigan said slowly. Minogue had the impression that Corrigan was distracted, writing something while he talked.
"Off the premises, if it's all the same to you, Pat. Bewley's Cafe in Westmoreland Street, the self-serve nearest Fleet Street. Is a quarter after ten good?"
&nb
sp; Corrigan grunted.
"Same as ever, Matt. Fair enough."
CHAPTER 10
"Do sit down, James. Please."
Kenyon caught the sarcasm, but he didn't care now.
"Really, I insist. I'm not at all prepared for a fit from you."
"What the hell is Murray doing, running this operation?"
"Murray is not running the operation, James. He's part of a group gone to Dublin to sort this mess out. The offer of a chair still holds," Robertson added ominously.
"For Christ's sake, Hugh. His embassy man is shot to bits last night and Murray is already half-way across the Irish Sea by now-"
Robertson looked at his watch.
"Landed by now, I'd say, James."
"Landed in bloody Dublin after leaving us here tied up in knots. While he decides what has to be done and when. I can't believe it. And I'm being told that Murray isn't running the show?"
"James. Sit down, would you? I can't talk to a moving target. Let me go through it again. Murray is not running anything. We've just been asked to hold our investigation under advice from Murray. The immediate stuff has to be done first. The coppers in Dublin are being very damned co-operative. Murray has to be there if anything of Ball's work leaks out. That's all. Murray went through the Deputy Under Sec in the Foreign Office. He chairs the liaison meetings between the Foreign Office and MI6. Murray got territorial, that's all. 'Ball was ours, Combs was ours, let's fix this ourselves.' He convinced Chapman and they got to the Foreign Secretary. The Foreign Sec knows damn well that Murray is MI6. He took it up with the PMO and her ladyship issued her edict on it. She doesn't want a ripple. We're to freeze what we're doing and keep out of the way while Murray and company seal the business as best they can."
"Seal? Band-aid solutions. It's becoming unstuck every minute, that's pretty plain to me."
Kenyon sat down, still shaking his head.
"But can't you see we may have some edge out of this? The Irish are very embarrassed about security now that an attache has been murdered. They'll be more tractable in the conference because of it, James."
"Stinks," Kenyon retorted.
"Tell me," Robertson tried to divert, "what should we make of this Costello business?"
Kenyon slumped further into the chair. He paused before answering his Director. Robertson waited, balancing his pen delicately in the palm of his left hand.
When Kenyon spoke, his voice had softened.
"It doesn't make sense to me. I just did a brief check on this. Costello's down as a part of a feud in the INLA. There was a run of killings then, all part of the same squabble. Some wanted to go more political and others wanted more military targets. Costello's death sparked off other revenge killings. He was shot to bits and had his throat slit. A real horror show, right down to the message daubed on the car window in Costello's blood. Something in Gaelic about him being a traitor."
"Good riddance, hmm?"
"No tears shed here."
Kenyon yawned. He remembered reading that a yawn was a sign of repressed anger. He had been up since three.
"So they used Costello's name as an excuse?" Robertson probed. "A martyr, sort of?"
"The INLA? You can't take anything they say at face value. They might have suspected Ball was an intelligence officer. I'm sure the Irish Special Branch had Ball as a probable operative, just by powers of deduction from our staff numbers. There could have been a leak from their police. You just can't believe anything the INLA put out. They could have said that Ball was the oppressor of the Irish people for the last eight centuries."
"Their myth-making is that, shall I say, hyperbolic?"
Kenyon shrugged.
"You should read some of the interrogation transcripts I got from Defence intelligence when they picked up some of them in Belfast last year. They have a looney logic to them. Costello would be alive today if the British had never come to Ireland eight hundred years ago. Ball is British. We think he's an intelligence officer. Therefore, Ball led to Costello's murder. Something like that. Anything goes with them."
"Refresh me a tad on the INLA, would you?" Robertson asked.
"They're mostly ex-IRA and a few with overlapping memberships and loyalties."
"Kenyon began wearily. "Some INLA operations have had the direct support of the Proves. The Provos used to use them, supplied them and sheltered them but denied any link. They're what the Ulster Freedom Fighters or the Red Hand is to the Loyalist mob, the UDA. They're also nutters. Grown up under the gun."
"Something like the PLO-Black September exercises?"
"Yes. But they have their family squabbles, too. The INLA are very bad news indeed. That Costello killing had all the marks of an INLA job. They like to 'make examples.' They think the Provo leadership is too soft and they won't listen to them. We've put over twenty of them through the Diplock courts in Northern Ireland. All except three or four were for murder. They had a campaign going against prison warders and police. They're worried about the INLA in Dublin, too, I expect, and not just because of this thing last night alone. Three of their police were killed by the INLA, if I remember. Scores of bank jobs and a few punishment killings in the South, too. Then there was that feud started off by the Costello thing…"
"So the mention of Costello is misleading?"
"Ask Murray. He handles the breakdown for the Foreign Sec and the Home Office, too."
"Urn. Let's not keep coming back to Murray, James."
"I was just stating facts," Kenyon muttered. "Murray was the analyst. He'd know more than I would."
"All right, I see that. Don't forget, though, Murray has his way for the time being. The edict is that whatever we're doing in Dublin has to come through Murray for the moment. Murray has taken direct control of all intelligence work out of the embassy right now. We simply have to be sensitive to the negotiations."
"It's a security alert,'" said Kenyon.
"It's a security alert," Robertson continued, ignoring the sarcasm. "We're to keep out of his way and anything we are running there is his business, as of this morning. That's the directive. He can tell us to shut down and get out if he thinks the work is at risk, James. Tiptoe, softly softly."
"Murray hasn't actually told us to get Moore out of there, has he?"
"Not yet he hasn't," Robertson replied with an effort. "We can continue until such time as he thinks we're a potential balls-up. I outlined the operation because the PMO asked me to. That's how Murray knows about Moore snooping around for us in Dublin. I may not like it-you evidently don't like it-but if we can sign a border security deal or get better extradition for IRA men and that saves the life of one of our lads there…?"
Kenyon breathed out heavily.
"Hugh, you make me feel like a shit. But don't ask me to approve of Murray. Look at the mess he's gotten us into already."
"He may be a double-dehydrated shit, James, but we have to swallow our puke for the moment."
The image repelled Kenyon. He shivered.
"Any yield from Moore, and he has to at least show it to Murray in Dublin; that's the net effect right now. Murray may have to evaluate it on the spot and do whatever he needs to do security-wise then and there. I want you to tell Moore to stand by for an order to get to hell out of Dublin if that's what Murray thinks is necessary. And if he does find anything, he has to set up an RDV with Murray and show him any material he has."
Kenyon let out a long breath.
"Will do, Hugh," he said softly.
"Now, what's the risk to Moore at the moment?" Robertson asked.
"I don't see how they could connect Moore to Combs. All Moore has to do is to do his job and keep his eyes open."
Robertson nodded.
"He'll know what is happening," Kenyon added. "If he thinks there's a mark on him, we'll pull him out immediately. He can walk in the door of the embassy as a last resort. We have no reason to worry about him right now. Moore is actually doing quite well…"
The atmosphere in Robertson's of
fice felt less strained now. The silence between the two men floated on a vague hum of traffic outside.
"Can I quote you on that, James?" Robertson tried to bring some relief to his subordinate. Kenyon picked up on a less agreeable interpretation. He left Robertson's office with the question trailing him, driven home by Robertson's parting remark, one which was far less ambiguous.
"Be sure to call me on any contact with Moore, James. Just so as we stay in touch on this." spacebarthing
Corrigan was a robust Garda Inspector in his mid-forties. What could have been a belly on him was on his chest instead. Minogue noticed that Corrigan had had his hair styled. When Minogue last worked with him, Corrigan had been a sergeant in the Special Branch. In the five intervening years, he seemed to have gotten younger. Perhaps it was the confidence which rank brought him. He had all his own teeth or else very good dentures, Minogue observed. Probably the latter, Minogue guessed as he walked away from the cashier, seeing as Corrigan had a broken nose from his favourite sport, hurling. As he drew closer to Corrigan's table, Minogue noticed the eyes again. For a tough nut-and he was Wyatt Earp when he had been stationed at the border-Corrigan had clear, soft grey woman's eyes. Minogue would have liked to tag the word vulpine on those eyes, but he could detect no signs of concupiscence in him. As though to compensate for the gentle eyes, Corrigan's eyebrows were bushy prominences.
Corrigan tested the seams on a classy-looking light sports jacket when he reached out to shake Minogue's hand. Minogue, no willow himself, saw his cup of coffee shake in his other hand while Corrigan pumped vigorously.
"How's the man?" Corrigan smiled. The lines out from his eyes drew the eyebrows down more.
