The Bombmaker

by Stephen Leather

  Andy pushed her hair away from her face. 'A burger'll be fine, then.'

  'Cheeseburger?'

  'Okay.'

  'Anything to drink?'

  'Coffee'll be fine. Thanks.'

  Quinn nodded. He looked her up and down. She had long legs, and a good, firm bust. Nice hair, too. Soft and blond. She looked good for a thirty-four-year-old. That was what O'Keefe had said, but Quinn didn't believe him. She couldn't possibly be a whole ten years older than he was. Nice mouth. Full lips and really white teeth, the sort of teeth that the models in toothpaste adverts had.

  'I want to talk to my daughter,' she said.

  'I bet you do,' said Quinn.

  'And my husband. I want him to know that I'm all right.'

  Quinn shrugged. 'It's not up to me. You'll have to ask McK…' He caught himself before the name slipped out. She wasn't going to catch him out as easily as that. 'You'll have to ask her outside.'

  'You know her, right? Can't you persuade her? I just want to phone my husband. And talk to my daughter. That's not too much to ask, is it? I'm co-operating. I'm doing everything you ask.'

  Quinn stared down at her for several seconds. His chest had gone tight and it was difficult to breathe. 'What's it worth?' he said eventually.

  Andy frowned up at him. 'What?'

  'You know. What's it worth?' He jutted his neck forward. 'I do something for you, you do something for me. Yeah?'

  Andy drew her knees up against her chest. 'I just want to talk to my daughter, that's all. And my husband. I want to know that they're all right.'

  'Great. I can probably persuade her to let you use the phone. But you're gonna have to do something for me.' He licked his upper lip as he watched the rise and fall of her breasts. 'Just one blowjob,' said Quinn. He took a step closer to her. 'No one'll know.' He jerked his head towards the door. 'She won't know. Your husband won't know. It'll be our secret.'

  Andy looked up at him for several seconds, then she slowly got to her knees, her eyes never leaving his face. Quinn put his hands down to his zipper but Andy shook her head. 'Let me,' she said, her voice a seductive whisper.

  The breath caught in Quinn's throat and he closed his eyes, his legs trembling with anticipation.

  The pain hit him like a hot poker in his groin and he gasped. Her right hand had grabbed his scrotum and squeezed like a vice. He opened his eyes, but before he could react her left hand had squeezed him around the throat and she had pushed him back against the wall. He tried to move to the side but she gripped him harder, crushing his testicles so hard that he could feel her fingernails digging through the denim of his jeans. His eyes watered and he tried to yell at her but her grip on his throat was as tight as her hold on his genitals.

  Her face was only inches away from his. 'You don't scare me,' she hissed. 'You might have my daughter, but you don't scare me, do you understand?'

  Quinn tried to nod but he couldn't move his head. A tear trickled down his cheek underneath his ski mask.

  'If you come near me again, I'll hurt you like you've never been hurt before. I'll crush your balls or I'll poke my fingers in your eyes or I'll scratch your face so deep that the scars will never heal, do you understand me?'

  Quinn nodded.

  Andy stared into his eyes, then she released her grip on him and stood back, her hands up defensively. She glared at him, her cheeks flushed.

  'You fucking bitch!' spat Quinn, rubbing his neck. 'Too good for me, is that it? You'll do it and more for me before I've fucking finished with you.'

  Andy didn't say anything. She stood facing him with her hands up, fingers curled. Quinn stepped sideways, groping for the door handle, then he pulled the door open and slammed it behind him.

  He went back to the factory area where McCracken was checking her mobile phone.

  'She's not hungry,' he said, taking off his ski mask.

  McCracken put her phone back in her briefcase and locked it. 'Don't fuck with her, Quinn. Okay?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'You know what I mean. We need her – the more she cooperates with us the sooner we'll be finished and the sooner you'll get your money.'

  'Yeah, I know.'

  'So don't fuck with her. Don't even talk to her.'

  'You said ask her what she…'

  'Yeah, well, that was my mistake. Keep away from her.'

  She looked as if she wanted to say more, but she turned away when they heard O'keefe arrive in his van.

  'So, what do you want to eat?' Quinn asked. 'It's on me.'

  'Whatever,' said McCracken. 'I've lost my appetite.' She went out to meet O'Keefe, leaving Quinn staring sullenly after her.

  – «»-«»-«»Martin Hayes left the office early. He hadn't been able to get any work done so he'd told Padraig that he wasn't feeling well. He was in the house by four o'clock. He let Dermott out into the garden, and was making himself a cup of instant coffee when the doorbell rang. The noise startled him and he spilled boiling water over the counter top. He cursed and went to see who was at the front door. There were two uniformed officers of the Garda Siochana, the Irish police, standing on the doorstep, one grey and in his late forties, the other younger and taller. They were both wearing waterproof jackets, flecked with rain.

  'Mr Hayes?' asked the older one. 'Mr Martin Hayes?'

  'Yes?' said Martin. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Two unsmiling policemen could only mean bad news. He held on to the door handle for support, gripping it tightly.

  'Is your wife at home?'

  Martin narrowed his eyes, confused. The question was totally unexpected. He'd assumed that they were there to tell him that Katie or Andy had been found. And found meant dead, because if they were okay then they'd be on the doorstep with the policemen. 'What?'

  'Mrs Hayes. Mrs Andrea Hayes. Is she at home?'

  'No,' said Martin, hesitantly.

  'What about your daughter?'

  'My daughter?'

  'Katie. You only have the one child, don't you?'

  'Yes,' said Martin.

  'Can we see her, please?'

  Martin shook his head. 'I'm sorry. What?'

  'Your daughter. We'd like to see her.'

  'She's not here.'

  'Where is she?'

  'What's this about?' asked Martin. He looked from one garda to the other. They both looked back at him like undertakers weighing up a corpse.

  'Could you tell us where your wife and daughter are, Mr Hayes?'

  Martin realised that he was gripping the door handle so tightly that he was losing the feeling in his hand.

  'They're out.'

  'Out where?'

  'Look, could you tell me what this is about? Is something wrong? Has something happened?'

  'That's what we're trying to find out, Mr Hayes.'

  Martin could feel his legs start to shake. The more he tried to stop them shaking, the worse it got, and he was sure that the two gardai could see the effect their presence was having on him.

  'My wife's out. With Katie. They'll be back tomorrow. They've gone up to Belfast.'

  The older garda raised an eyebrow and waited for Martin to continue. Martin could feel his lips slide across his teeth as he widened his smile. His legs were starting to tremble again.

  'To see her aunt. Her aunt's sick and Andy wanted to go and make sure that there was food in the house, stuff like that.'

  'And she took your daughter with her?' said the older garda.

  Martin nodded. 'I've been really busy at work. I couldn't guarantee that I'd be able to pick Katie up from school. We decided that it'd be better if she went with Andy. It's only going to be for a few days.'

  'Andy?'

  'My wife. Andrea. I call her Andy.'

  'And you didn't think of informing the school?'

  Martin suddenly realised what the visit was about. The woman in the headmistress's office, Mrs O'Mara, must have called them. He shrugged. 'She's only seven. We didn't think she'd be hurt by a few days off school.
'

  'I've got kids myself,' said the older garda. 'Boy of fifteen, girl of twelve. A few years back I took them to Galway, caravan holiday. I love caravans, me. Love the freedom. Thing is, I asked the school if they could be allowed to take their holidays a week early. I was having trouble getting time off. It was like pulling teeth. They wouldn't have it.'

  Martin nodded. The garda was smiling ingratiatingly, trying to put him at ease. There was no warmth in the man's smile and his cold eyes continued to stare at Martin.

  'So maybe that's why you didn't tell the school, eh?' the garda continued. 'Maybe you thought they wouldn't let her go?'

  Martin shrugged. 'I didn't really think about it. It was my wife's idea, really. It was all short notice, you know. Her aunt called and Andy went the same day.'

  The older garda nodded. 'How did she go?'

  'What?'

  'How did your wife go up to Belfast?'

  Martin's mind whirled. Why was he asking that? The reason hit him like a blow to the stomach. There were two cars parked in the driveway. Martin's Range Rover and Andy's Renault Clio. So the gardai knew that Andy hadn't driven up to Belfast.

  'She took the train. I mean, they took the train. Andy and Katie.'

  'Which train?'

  'The Belfast train,' said Martin.

  The garda smiled as if there had been a simple misunderstanding. 'The time,' he said. 'What time did the train leave?'

  Martin had no idea how often trains went from Dublin to Belfast. 'Morning. Tennish. On Wednesday.'

  'Wednesday?'

  Martin nodded.

  About ten?'

  'That's right.'

  The two gardai exchanged looks but Martin couldn't tell what they were thinking.

  'And your wife's aunt. What was her name?'

  'Bessie.'

  'Bessie. Where exactly does she live?'

  'I'm not sure of the address, exactly. But it's north Belfast.' Martin figured the best thing to do was to keep his answers as vague as possible. Specifics could be checked.

  'And how was your wife going to get from the station to her aunt's house?'

  'Taxi, I guess.'

  'And why didn't she drive up to Belfast?'

  Martin shrugged but didn't answer.

  'Has she phoned? Your wife?'

  Martin rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. It was unlikely in the extreme that Andy would have gone away and not telephoned him. But if he said yes, could they check? He was sure that the phone company could provide a list of numbers called from the house, but were they also able to tell who had phoned in? He had no choice, he had to lie. They wouldn't believe that his wife and daughter would have gone away for five nights and not phoned. 'Several times,' he said. 'In fact, she called last night.'

  The younger garda took out a small green notebook and a pen. 'Could you give us the number, please, sir?'

  'The number?'

  'Your Aunt Bessie's telephone number?' said the older garda.

  'She's not my aunt. She's Andy's aunt.'

  'And the number?'

  'I don't think she's on the phone.'

  'But you said she phoned to ask your wife to go up and take care of her.'

  'She must have used a phone box.'

  'But you said she was ill. Needed looking after.'

  Martin could feel himself being painted into a corner. The older garda didn't look particularly bright – he had a wide chin and a flattish nose and he spoke slowly, as if he had trouble putting his thoughts together, but it was clear that he wasn't missing anything.

  'I'm not sure if it was her that phoned. Andy took the call. It could have been someone else, phoning for her.'

  The older garda nodded thoughtfully. 'And when are you expecting your wife back?'

  'I'm not sure.'

  'She didn't say when she called last night?'

  'No. No, she didn't. Look, what's this about? Has something happened?'

  The older garda looked at Martin for several seconds before answering. 'We're not sure, Mr Hayes. In fact, it's all a bit of a mystery, really. You know a Mrs O'Mara?'

  'She's a secretary at my daughter's school. She phoned yesterday, she wanted to know why Katie wasn't at school.'

  'Well, now she's missing, too.'

  'My daughter isn't missing,' said Martin, and the older garda held up his hand as if trying to calm him down. Martin found the gesture patronising in the extreme, but he bit his tongue.

  'There's no need to get upset, Mr Hayes. You know what I mean. Mrs O'Mara had mentioned to the headmistress that she was concerned about your daughter. Now Mrs O'Mara hasn't turned up for work. We've been around to her house and she's not there.'

  Martin put his hand up to his forehead, frowning. 'I don't get what you're saying. Mrs O'Mara isn't at home so you think something's happened to Katie? That makes no sense. No sense at all.'

  'That's right,' said the garda. 'It's a mystery. And mysteries annoy the hell out of me. But nothing you've said so far has reassured me that your daughter is safe and sound.'

  'What?' Martin didn't have to feign his reaction. 'That's fucking ridiculous!'

  The younger garda stepped forward as if he was expecting Martin to attack his colleague. Martin realised he'd bunched his hands into fists and he forced himself to relax.

  'Look, my wife and daughter are out of town, that's all. They'll be back any day now.'

  The older garda nodded slowly. He reached into the inside pocket of his waterproof jacket and took out a business card. 'My name's O'Brien,' he said. 'Sergeant O'Brien. Next time your wife phones, would you get her to call me? Just so's we know that she's okay.'

  Martin reached for the card, but the garda didn't let go of it. 'Sure. I will,' said Martin.

  The two men stood for a few seconds, both holding the card.

  'Don't forget now,' said O'Brien. He let the card slip through his fingers, then stepped back from the doorstep. The two gardai walked down the path, away from the house. The younger garda twisted his head and said something into his radio and there was a burst of static.

  Martin closed the door and leaned against it, his heart pounding like a jackhammer.

  – «»-«»-«»Egan frowned as he listened to the tape. The two gardai turning up was an unexpected development, and it meant he was going to have to revise his plans. Martin Hayes had handled it better than Egan had expected, but one of the gardai, the one who'd introduced himself as O'Brien, had been persistent in his questioning, especially about the train that Hayes claimed his wife had taken up to Belfast. By the end of the conversation he seemed to have accepted what Hayes had said, but Egan doubted that the gardai had been deceived. They'd go away and make further enquiries, but eventually they'd be back.

  Egan was surprised that they'd made the connection between the O'Mara woman and the Hayes girl. Mrs O'Mara was safely buried in a wood some twenty miles south of Dublin – it was sheer bad luck that the secretary had expressed her concerns about Katie's absence to the school's headmistress.

  He swivelled his chair around and hit the print button on his computer keyboard. The laser printer whirred and Egan picked up the letter and read it through carefully before signing it. He fed it into the fax machine on the desk and dialled the number of his bank in Zurich. The letter contained instructions to transfer one million dollars to another of his accounts, this one in the Cayman Islands. From there he'd move it to the Dutch Antilles. He'd only had the Zurich account for six months, and once his work for the men from Beijing was finished he'd close it. The fax machine swallowed the sheet of paper and Egan flicked the top off a bottle of Budweiser. He went over to the window and looked out over the city as the fax machine whirred behind him. The serviced apartment he was renting was little more than a hotel suite, and just as anonymous. Anonymity was something that Egan worked hard at. In public he never expressed emotion, never lost his temper. His passage through life was as smooth and unhindered as that of a razor slitting flesh. Any obstruction and he simply slid
around it; any confrontation was to be avoided at all cost.

  Egan had the ability to enter a room and leave without anyone remembering him. He had friends who took pride in being able to get the best table in restaurants or walk to the front of a nightclub queue, but Egan hated the idea that a maitre'd or a bouncer would know who he was. He dressed casually but conservatively, wore no jewellery other than a battered Rolex on a leather strap that had once belonged to a friend of his, a Navy SEAL who'd died in Kuwait, and drove the sort of cars favoured by sales reps. Ostentation was for film stars, musicians or high-profile businessmen who wanted to see their faces in the tabloids. Egan was a professional terrorist, and the only people he wanted to acknowledge him were the people who paid his wages.

  He took a swig from the bottle of Budweiser. Behind him, the fax finished transmitting and ejected the letter. One million dollars. The equivalent of twelve years' salary in his last job. Egan had worked for the Defence Intelligence Agency in a black operations department that spent most of its time attempting to destabilise anti-American governments in South America. Blackmail, bribery, assassination – it had been the best possible training for his present career. Egan had left after five years, spent six months travelling the world establishing fake identities and opening a daisy-chain of bank accounts, then set up on his own. Freelance. It had been the best move he'd ever made. A militant Islamic group funded by Osama Bin Laden had paid him a total of three million dollars for his work with Muslim terrorists in Kenya and Tanzania, and he'd been paid half a million dollars for his past in a series of bomb attacks by white supremacists in America, including the bombing of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City. Three months as an adviser with the Palestinian Liberation Organisation had netted him two million dollars, and his work for the men from Beijing would earn him a further seven million, minus expenses.

  By the end of the year his account in the Dutch Antilles would contain more than twelve million dollars. The money itself was of little practical concern to Egan. He lived modestly, owned no property or cars, and virtually all his outgoings were work-related. Money was simply a way of keeping score. The more he had, the better he was doing.

  He put down his beer and went over to the fax machine. He used a cheap plastic lighter to set fire to the letter, then dropped it into a metal wastepaper bin at the side of the desk.