'No!' she shouted. She pointed at the blond curls. Please,' she said.
Green-eyes walked around the table, scooped up the hair clippings and put them back in the envelope, which she then slotted into the back pocket of Andy's jeans before the two men hustled her away from the table. The men took her to the far corner of the factory where there was a cluster of offices, large white plasterboard cubes with cheap wooden doors that looked as if they'd been brought in as an afterthought. The men spun Andy around so that her back was to one of the plasterboard walls. Green-eyes appeared in front of her with a Polaroid camera in her gloved hands.
'Smile, Andrea,' she said.
Andy stared at her in disbelief. 'Smile?'
'For the camera.'
Andy forced a thin smile and blinked as the camera flashed and whirred. The two men hustled her away down a narrow corridor that ran between the two lines of offices.
– «»-«»-«»Egan used a Stanley knife to slit the black garbage bags along the sides, then he pulled them open into single sheets of plastic. It took five to line the boot of the Scorpio, and he used thick strips of waterproof tape to seal them together. He slit open another three bags and taped them together into a single sheet, then put it and the tape into the boot.
Back in the apartment he checked the action of his Browning, slotted in a clipful of cartridges and gave the silencer a thorough cleaning.
He had taken a risk planting the listening device in Martin Hayes's office. He'd gone in at night, having disabled the burglar alarm system, and it had taken a full six hours from start to finish. It had proved to be time well spent, though. If it hadn't been for the office device, he'd never have known about Mrs O'Mara's phone call.
Egan could tell from the recording that the school secretary wasn't the sort to be deterred by Hayes's clumsy explanation of his daughter's absence. He'd have to do something to silence the meddlesome woman. And quickly.
It had taken just one telephone call to the school's personnel office, pretending to be an official of the Revenue Commissioners wanting to check her employment details, and Egan had all the information he needed.
– «»-«»-«»Katie was sitting at the Formica-covered table when she heard the bolts slide back. She looked up apprehensively, wondering which of her captors it was. It was the man who'd been nice to her, the one who'd given her Garfield. He was carrying a tray.
'Are you hungry?' he asked as he carefully made his way down the stairs.
Katie wasn't, but she said that she was. He placed the tray on the table in front of her. It was scrambled eggs on a paper plate and a paper cup of milk. She smiled up at him. 'Thank you,' she said.
'I wasn't sure how you liked your eggs,' he said. 'I'm sorry if they're too runny.'
'They're fine,' said Katie. They weren't, they looked horrible, pale yellow and watery, but she wanted to be nice to him. If she was nice to him then maybe he'd be nice to her. She picked up the plastic fork and took a small bite of the eggs. 'Delicious,' she said.
The Nice Man headed for the stairs, but then turned and looked across at her. 'Is there anything you like to eat? I'll try to get it for you.'
'Heinz tomato soup. And fish fingers.'
'Same as my kids.'
'You've got children?'
The Nice Man went stiff, as if she'd said the wrong thing. Then he turned around and went up the stairs without saying anything else. Katie looked down at the eggs in disgust. They tasted horrible.
She wondered what the Nice Man looked like underneath his mask. She was sure of one thing – he'd be better-looking than the other man, the man who'd cut her hair. He'd been really rough with her as if he'd wanted to hurt her. He was ugly. Really ugly. Katie hoped with all her heart that the Ugly Man wouldn't come down the stairs again.
– «»-«»-«»Andy sat on the floor with her back to the wall. The padded envelope was in her lap. In her hands, she held the locks of Katie's hair. There was a lot of hair. Clumps of it. Big clumps. Someone had savaged Katie's head. There'd probably be bald patches. Poor, poor Katie. She had always been so proud of her hair. Every night, before she went to sleep, she would sit in front of her dressing-table mirror, brushing her blond locks a hundred times. She'd loved it when Andy had brushed it for her. Katie would count the strokes, and wouldn't let Andy get away with even one less than the hundred.
They'd left her in a disused office. Bare white walls, faded blue carpet tiles on the floor, polystyrene tiles on the ceiling. Two fluorescent tubes filled the office with a clinical white light. They hadn't locked the door. There was no need. She couldn't run because if she ran she'd never see her daughter again. She was as trapped as if they'd chained her to the floor.
Andy lifted the hair to her face and gently sniffed it, inhaling Katie's fragrance. She closed her eyes and imagined that her face was up against her daughter's neck. God, had it been just thirty-six hours ago? Less than two days? Two days in which her life had been turned upside down.
Who were they, these people? Terrorists? Why else would they want a bomb? Could they be Irish? The only one who'd said anything at length was the woman, and the more Andy listened to her, the more she was sure there was an Irish accent mixed with Scottish. But that didn't mean anything. They could be Provisional Irish Republican Army. Or INLA. Or any of the Republican splinter groups like Real IRA or Continuity IRA. But then why would they need her? The IRA had their own explosives experts, experts who were far more up to date than Andy was. And if it was the IRA, why the kidnapping? She knew most of the members of the Army Council by name, and they knew her. They could have summoned her before them at any time over the past decade and she would have gone. Maybe not willingly, but she would have gone. So if not the IRA, then who? The Protestants? The Ulster Defence Volunteers? The Ulster Volunteer Force? The Ulster Freedom Fighters? Or maybe one of the fringe terrorist groups, the Orange Volunteers or the Red Hand Defenders. The Protestant groups were less able to mount major bombing campaigns because they didn't have the IRA's technical expertise or access to equipment. Was that what this was all about? Did the Protestants want her to build a bomb for them? Or was someone else behind the kidnapping? Someone else who wanted a bomb built in England. A very big bomb, Green-eyes had said. Andy wondered how big. As big as the bomb the IRA had used at Canary Wharf in 1995, the bomb that had caused almost a billion pounds of damage? Is that what they wanted from her? And if it was, could Andy do it? Could she give them a bomb in exchange for Katie?
Andy lost all track of time as she sat on the floor, holding Katie's curls next to her cheek. Eventually the door to the office opened and the two men walked across to where she was sitting and grabbed an arm each. The bigger one she thought of as the Wrestler, while the thinner man with the gleaming white Nike trainers was the Runner. Both were still wearing the blue overalls and black ski masks. The Wrestler had put on a black nylon shoulder holster from which protruded the butt of a large automatic.
'Okay, okay,' said Andy. 'You don't have to be so rough.'
Her captors said nothing, though the Runner dug his gloved fingers even deeper into her flesh. Andy pulled her arm away and shoved the handful of hair into the pocket of her jacket. The men pulled her through the doorway and along the corridor to the main factory area. The woman was already sitting at the far side of the table, her arms at rest, her gloved fingers interlinked. She watched with unblinking green eyes as the two men pushed Andy down on to the chair then stood behind her, arms folded.
There was a notepad and pen in front of the woman. Next to the pad was a pistol, the barrel of which was pointing towards Andy. The woman picked up the pen and began to tap it on the pad. 'So, Andrea, have you had enough time to think it over?'
'You're crazy,' said Andy. 'You're asking for the impossible.'
The green eyes seemed to harden fractionally. 'Let me be quite clear about this, Andrea. You are not the only option. If you don't want to co-operate, we'll use someone else.' She paused for effect. 'But you'll never see Katie
again.'
Andy said nothing. The woman sighed, then pushed back her chair and began to stand up. 'No…' said Andy. The woman sat down again. She waited for Andy to speak, the pen poised in her gloved hand.
'Look, it's not as easy as you seem to think,' said Andy eventually. 'It's not just a question of mixing a few chemicals. There's specialised equipment…'
'We can get everything you need,' said the woman.
'But even if you were to make the explosives, you still have to detonate the bomb. It's not like setting off a firework – you don't just light the blue touch-paper.'
'Don't patronise me,' said the woman, coldly. 'I've set bombs before.'
'Then why do you need me?' asked Andy quickly.
The woman tapped the pen on the notepad. She looked up at the Wrestler. 'Take her back to…'
'It's okay, it's okay,' interrupted Andy. 'I'll do it.'
The woman stared at Andy for several seconds, then nodded slowly. 'What will you need?' she asked. Her pen was poised over the notebook.
Andy swallowed. Her mouth was unbearably dry. She didn't want to do this but she had no other choice. If she didn't co-operate, if she didn't tell them what they wanted to know, then she knew without a shadow of a doubt that they'd carry out their threat. Katie would die. She swallowed again. 'What sort of bomb are you talking about? A letter bomb? A car bomb? What are you planning to do with it?'
'We want a fertiliser bomb. A big one.'
'How big?'
Green-eyes said nothing for a few seconds. She tapped her pen on her notepad. 'Four thousand pounds,' she said eventually.
'Four thousand pounds? That's almost two tons. No one's ever made a two-ton fertiliser bomb before.'
'So we'll get you into the Guinness Book of Records,' said Green-eyes.
'How are you going to move it?' asked Andy. 'That's a truck-load of explosive.'
'You can leave the logistics to us. All you're concerned about is the building of the device.'
Andy shook her head. 'You could blow up a small town with a bomb that big. I can't be responsible for something like that.' She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. 'I can't.'
Green-eyes' lips tightened. 'If you can't, we'll get someone else. But you know what that means.'
Andy put her hands up to her face. 'Jesus, Mary and Joseph,' she whispered.
'Whatever,' said Green-eyes. 'The major component is ammonium nitrate fertiliser,' she said. 'Correct?'
Andy nodded.
'We already have that,' said Green-eyes. 'Fifteen hundred kilos. Do you work in kilos, or pounds?'
'Pounds,' said Andy. Ireland used the metric system but she'd been born in Belfast, in the north of the country, and most of the time she still thought in pounds and ounces, miles and gallons.
'So we have just over three thousand pounds of ammonium nitrate fertiliser. Will that be enough?'
Andy shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. 'What?'
'Please try to focus, Andrea,' said Green-eyes. 'We don't have all day.'
'It depends.'
'On what?'
Andy shook her head again. It was all too much for her to take in. She put both hands up to her temples and massaged them, it's complicated.'
'I appreciate it's a complicated process, Andrea. That's why we need you.'
Andy cupped her hands around her chin. 'Where are you planning on building it?'
'That's none of your concern.'
'Yes it is. That's what I mean about it being complicated. You need pure ammonium nitrate, but you can't buy it in Northern Ireland. At least, you can buy it, but it's not pure. The government's not stupid – they know what the pure chemical can be used for, so in Ireland you can only buy it mixed with other stuff. Bonemeal, potash, the sort of stuff farmers need. The pure stuff isn't for sale to the public, and if you order it, you'll be checked out. So if you're building it in Northern Ireland, you've got to buy tons of common-or-garden fertiliser and boil off the impurities. It would take for ever to get two tons of pure ammonium nitrate.'
'What about in the UK?'
'That's different. Is that what you're planning? A bomb here in England?'
The woman ignored Andy's question. 'How much would we need? Is three thousand pounds enough?'
Andy tried to concentrate. A four-thousand-pound fertiliser bomb. The fertiliser accounted for eighty per cent of the mixture. Eighty per cent of four thousand. Three thousand two hundred. She nodded. 'That should be okay, give or take.'
The woman pointed at the far corner of the factory with her pen. Andy turned her head to look. A green tarpaulin covered a mound almost three feet tall. Next to the mound were a dozen large conifers in black plastic pots and several boxes of smaller plants. 'You can check it yourself later. What else?'
'Hang on,' said Andy. 'You can't just use it straight from the sack. It's got to be prepared.'
'And how do we do that?'
'Even if it's sold as pure, there'll still be some impurities and you've got to get rid of them first. You have to mix it with alcohol, then strain off the liquid.'
'So how much alcohol will we need?'
Andy did the calculation in her head. 'Assuming you reuse it a few times, a hundred gallons or so. The more the better. It's got to be denatured alcohol. It's used as paint thinner or antifreeze.'
'Where do we get it from?'
'Any biggish paint suppliers should have some.'
'What would happen if we didn't use the alcohol?'
'It might not go off.'
The woman nodded. 'What equipment will you need, to purify the fertiliser?'
'Large containers. Plastic or glass. Stirrers. Wooden or plastic. Then something to heat the mixture. Electric woks are good.'
'How many?'
'The more you have, the faster you can process it. Every pound of fertiliser has to be mixed with alcohol, then heated for three or four minutes. Say you do five pounds at a time. Three thousand pounds could take a full two days, working around the clock.'
'Two days?'
'It's a big job. You don't seem to understand how big a job it is.'
'So, if we can get six woks going, it'll take eight hours?'
'That's right. But it's hard work. And you have to have someone stirring all the time. It's a sort of stir-fry job, you know.'
'So, four. There'll be four of us, so four woks. What else?'
'Electric coffee grinders. I'd get four of them, too.'
'Four it is.'
Andy sat back and folded her arms. 'What are you going to do with it? The bomb?'
'That's not your concern.'
'Well, it is, sort of. There are different mixtures for different effects.'
'Whatever's most effective. Whatever'll give us the biggest bang, okay?'
Andy wanted to lie, to give her wrong information or to withhold something vital, something that would render the explosive inert, but she couldn't risk it. She didn't know how much they already knew. This could be a test, and if she failed the test it could be as dangerous as refusing to cooperate. She nodded slowly. 'Aluminium powder,' she said. 'You'll need about six hundred pounds.'
'Where would we get that from?' asked the woman.
'Paint suppliers again,' said Andy. 'The best sort to ask for is pyro grade 400 mesh.' She was surprised how easily the technical terms came to her. It had been years since she'd even thought about the components of a fertiliser bomb. The information belonged to another life, a life she had long ago walked away from.
'It's easy to get?' asked Green-eyes. 'There's not a register or anything?'
Andy shook her head. 'It's got too many uses. No one checks. But you'd be better buying it through a front company, something with decorator in the letterhead. And with that sort of amount, you might be better getting it from several different suppliers.'
"What about the alcohol?'
'It's got lots of legitimate uses, too. I'd buy it from several sources, though.'
The woman scribbl
ed on her pad again.
'Sawdust,' said Andy.
'Sawdust?'
'As fine as possible. Two hundred pounds. Any sawmill will sell it to you. You can say it's for a pet shop. That's what we used to do. And detergent. Sodium dodecyl benzenesulphonate.' She spelled out the words slowly. 'A chemical supplies company will sell you the pure stuff. But almost any soap-based washing powder will do.' The information was all still there, she realised. It always had been, and probably always would be. A shopping list of death, imprinted somewhere in her neural pathways.
'How much will we need?'
'Thirty pounds or so.'
'And?'
'That's it,' said Andy. 'Ammonium nitrate, aluminium powder, sawdust and detergent. You can add diesel oil if you want. It's not vital, but it helps.'
'How much would we need?'
'Ten gallons or so.'
'And what equipment are you going to need?'
'Desiccators.'
'Desiccators?'
'To dry out the fertiliser. It absorbs moisture, and as soon as it's damp it's useless.'
'Are they easy to get?'
Andy shrugged. 'Depends. You might have to order one.'
'Is there anything else we could use?'
'An electric oven. And baking trays, a couple of inches deep.' Andy did a quick calculation in her head. 'One oven will dry about four hundred pounds a day. So it'll take you about eight days working around the clock to do it all.'
'And if we get four ovens – two days, is that right?'
Andy nodded.
'Okay. What else?'
'Respirators. Protective glasses. Overalls. Gloves. Plastic gloves and oven gloves, too.' She steepled her fingers under her chin and furrowed her brow as she thought. It had been a long time. A long, long time, and she wasn't sure if she'd remembered everything. She ran through the processes in her mind. 'Thermometers. Metal ones. And a tumble-drier,' she said. 'Two would be better.'
'This isn't an ideal home exhibition,' said the woman.
'It's for mixing the fertiliser and aluminium powder,' said Andy. 'It's got to be well mixed. We used to pack it in Tupperware containers then put it in a tumble-drier for half an hour or so.'
The Bombmaker Page 6
