It was late, probably too late to get a flight out of Dublin that night. Besides, there was an outside chance that FitzGerald had men at the airport watching for him. He'd be safer flying through Belfast.
He took a briefcase from his study and emptied out the papers it contained. He put in an unopened flight kit he'd been given on a business trip he and Padraig had made to Copenhagen a few months earlier, together with two clean shirts, underwear and socks. He put his mobile phone in his suit pocket. It was a GSM model and would work in the UK. He closed the briefcase. What else? Money. He'd need money. He had Visa cards that he could use to withdraw cash from money machines in the UK, but he also had some Irish money in his desk drawer. He took the money out and put the notes into his wallet.
He put his briefcase by the back door and then went out into the hallway and looked at the answering machine. What if Andy called again? Or if the kidnappers tried to get in touch? He recorded a fresh message, asking callers to telephone his mobile number, then checked it. He could hear the tension in his voice, the sound of a man about to go over the edge. He took a deep breath and recorded a second version. This time he sounded more relaxed.
In a cupboard under the hall were several electrical timers that he and Andy used to set lights to go on and off while they were on holiday. He went upstairs and fitted one to the plug of a lamp on the dressing table, timed to go off later that night. Then he drew the curtains and went downstairs. He fitted timers to lamps in the sitting room and the kitchen, overlapping the on and off times.
He took a last look around the house. Now what? Both cars were parked in the drive at the front. He'd have to go through the back garden and over the wall, maybe catch a taxi. He shook his head. No, a taxi driver might remember him. But he couldn't walk to the station. In fact, catching a train wasn't a good idea, either.
He went back into the kitchen and finished his coffee, then washed his mug. As he put it on the draining board, he realised what he'd have to do. He called Padraig on his mobile.
'Padraig. It's me, Martin.'
'What's up, Mart?'
'I need a favour. Big time.'
'Sure.'
'Can you pick me up on Morehampton Road? Opposite Bloomfield Hospital?' Martin went into the hallway and locked and bolted the front door, still talking on the mobile phone.
'No sweat. What's up? Car broken down, yeah?'
'Something like that. I'll explain when I see you. About ten minutes, okay?'
Martin thanked his partner and cut the connection. He looked down at Dermott, who was sitting with his head on one side, clearly wondering what was going on. 'What the hell am I going to do with you?' he said, and the dog woofed softly. He didn't want to leave Dermott locked in the house because he didn't know when he'd be back. But if he left the Labrador in the garden, he might bark and attract the attention of the watching garda. He decided he'd leave him inside.
Martin walked through to the kitchen, picked up his briefcase and let himself out of the back door. He locked it and slipped the key into his pocket. The sun was just about to dip below the horizon, smearing the grey sky with an orange glow. He jogged to the end of the garden and clambered over the brick wall that bordered a narrow path leading to the local golf course. He headed down the path, skirted the golf course and then walked through a carpark to the main road. Only then did he start to relax.
– «»-«»-«»Egan slid the Browning Hi-Power out of its brown leather shoulder holster and checked that the safety was off. He had followed the taxi from the Pearse Street Garda station, but he'd abandoned the tail as soon he realised that a Garda patrol car was also following Hayes. Hayes had been released, but it was clear that the police still suspected him and were planning to keep him under observation. When Egan had driven past the Hayes' house, the patrol car had been parked in the road outside. He had stopped his Ford Scorpio in a road that led to a housing estate bordering a golf course, well away from any streetlights.
In his left ear was a small earphone connected to a receiver that allowed him to listen in to the five bugs planted in the house. He'd missed the first few seconds of the conversation that Hayes had had with his partner, but he'd picked up the rest via the device in the hall. Hayes was going to run, and Egan had only minutes in which to stop him. There was no time for a suicide note, no time to coerce Hayes into using the knotted rope.
He leaned over and took a street map out of the glove compartment and flicked through it. He found the page where Bloomfield Hospital was, and traced a gloved finger from Morehampton Road to the house. Assuming he left through the back garden, Hayes would have to walk close to the golf course. He put the map back in the glove compartment, along with the receiver and earpiece, then got out of the car and walked towards the golf course, putting the collar of his leather jacket up against the wind.
There seemed to be no one around, so Egan jogged, his breath feathering in the evening air. The lights were on in the clubhouse and several golfers were still out on the course, though there were only minutes to go before the sun went down. He reached the golf club's carpark and stopped jogging, not wanting to draw attention to himself.
There was a path running around the edge of the course, and beyond it a line of three bunkers. To Egan's left was a clump of trees, to the right were the fringes of an up-market housing estate. Egan kept his face turned away from the carpark, and waited until he was past before taking out his handgun and screwing in a bulbous silencer.
He reached the path and headed towards the trees. There were voices off to his right, two men arguing over a missed shot. Egan kept the Browning pressed against his stomach inside his jacket, his finger inside the trigger guard. He scanned the path ahead of him. In the distance was Hayes, walking towards him, his head down, a coat flapping behind him. Egan took a quick look over his shoulder. There was no one behind him and the voices of the two arguing golfers had already faded into the distance. Egan picked up the pace. The silencer was efficient, but even so the farther away he was from the clubhouse, the better. An owl hooted above his head but he barely registered the sound; all his senses were totally focused on the man walking towards him.
Egan could feel sweat dribbling down his back. He was breathing shallowly, his chest barely moving, the gun tight against his stomach. Hayes had his head down as he walked, and there was something in his right hand, something that he was swinging back and forth. He was about fifty feet away. Midway between them was a broad-trunked beech tree, perfect cover for what Egan was about to do. Egan moved over to the right-hand side of the path so that Hayes would have to pass on the side closest to the tree. One shot to the side of the head, maybe a second to the heart if he had time. He'd drag the body behind the tree and then head back to the car. By the time the body was discovered, Egan would be in London. Thirty feet. Egan began to pull the gun out, his finger already tightening on the trigger.
Hayes stopped. He peered out across the golf course as if looking for someone. Then suddenly he whistled, a piercing shriek that stopped Egan in his tracks. A dog ran across the grass. It was a German Shepherd. It wasn't Hayes, Egan realised. He'd come within seconds of shooting the wrong man. It was just a guy out walking his dog. The object in his right hand was a dog lead.
Egan started walking again. The man was bending down, patting his dog, as Egan went by. There was no one else on the path, and Egan could see all the way up to the wall at the end of the Hayes' garden. Somehow Egan had missed him. He turned and went back the way he'd come, walking quickly, his head turned to the side as he went by the man with the German Shepherd.
– «»-«»-«»Martin looked at his watch and slowed down. He didn't want to have to hang around outside the hospital, just in case the Garda car was only making periodic visits to his house. He had no need to worry. Padraig arrived just as he was walking by the hospital's stone gateposts.
Padraig flashed the headlights of his BMW and Martin waved. He looked around as the car pulled up. A man in a leather jacket and jean
s was walking along the pavement, his shoulders hunched against the cold. The passenger window slid down. 'Where's your car, Mart? I'll have a look at it.'
Martin heard rapid footsteps and turned to see who it was. The man in the leather jacket was running towards the car. As he ran he pulled his hand from under his jacket. Something glinted in the BMW's headlights. Something metallic. Martin pulled open the passenger door and climbed into the car. 'Drive!' he shouted.
Padraig sat stunned, his mouth open in surprise.
'Padraig! For fuck's sake, drive!'
The passenger window shattered, spraying Martin with cubes of glass. Martin ducked and held his briefcase over his face as Padraig put the car in gear and stamped on the accelerator. The seat seemed to punch Martin in the small of his back as they roared away from the kerb. A second bullet thudded into the door, and then Martin caught a glimpse of the man in the leather jacket standing with his feet apart, the gun held in both hands, arms outstretched, his face totally relaxed.
Padraig looked anxiously in his mirror as they drove away. 'Christ, who was that?' he said, his voice shaking.
Martin twisted around in his seat. The man in the leather jacket was walking away from the hospital, his head down and his hands in his jacket pockets.
'I don't know,' said Martin.
'You don't know? What do you mean, you don't know?' Padraig already had the car in fourth gear and they were doing almost eighty.
'Slow down, Padraig. You'll kill us.'
Padraig frowned, and then began to laugh. Despite his pounding heart and shaking hands, Martin laughed too, but it was an ugly, disjointed sound, and both men were soon silent again.
Padraig slowed slowed to just under the speed limit. 'What the fuck's going on, Mart?'
'I don't know. I really don't know.'
'Where do you want to go?' asked Padraig.
'North. Belfast.'
Padraig frowned. 'What?'
Martin pointed down the road. 'Belfast. I've got to get out of Ireland, and the police have probably got Dublin airport covered.'
'The police? The police are after you?'
Martin didn't say anything. He picked pieces of glass from his jacket and dropped them on to the floor of the car. Padraig drove, flashing Martin anxious looks as he headed north. Martin kept checking his mirror, wanting to reassure himself that no one was following him.
'Martin, what the hell's going on?' asked Padraig again eventually.
Martin hugged the briefcase to his chest. 'I can't tell you, Padraig. I really can't. I'm going to London for a few days. My mobile is going to be on, so if it's an emergency you'll be able to get me on that.'
'An emergency? What the hell do you call what just happened?'
Martin nodded. He tensed as he saw a police car in his mirror, but it streaked by them.
'The guy who shot at you. He wasn't a cop,' said Padraig.
'No,' said Martin.
'So who was he? For God's sake, Martin, I could have been killed back there. You owe me an explanation.'
Martin sighed. His partner was right. He'd put Padraig's life on the line – he had a right to know why.
'Katie's been kidnapped. They took her last week. The kidnappers wanted Andy to go to London. Now the cops have found out that Andy and Katie are missing and they think I've got something to do with it. I figure London's the best place for me. If Andy's left any sort of message for me, it'll be there. I know it sounds crazy, but that's the situation.'
'And who was the guy with the gun?'
'I don't know. One of the kidnappers maybe. They must have seen the Garda take me away. Or maybe they saw the car outside the house.' Martin put his head in his hands. 'If they think I'm co-operating with the cops, they're going to kill Katie. Oh, God.'
He explained about being taken to Pearse Street, and the patrol car parked outside his house.
'Jesus, Mart.' Padraig pushed down the accelerator and the BMW powered to ninety miles per hour. 'What are you going to do? You have to go to the police. You have to.'
'No. Not yet. I need time to think. Just take care of the company and don't tell the cops anything.'
'Mart, you can't just run away like this.'
'I can't stay in Dublin,' said Martin. He gestured at the smashed window. 'There's no saying he won't try again, whoever he was.'
Padraig looked anxiously in his rear-view mirror, but he was driving so fast there was no way anyone could be following them.
'So you go to London. What then?'
'I don't know,' said Martin flatly. 'I really don't know.'
– «»-«»-«»Egan walked back to his Ford Scorpio and climbed in. With hindsight, shooting at Martin Hayes had been a mistake. He'd missed him by inches but it had still been a mistake. Egan started the car and drove off, checking to see if anyone was watching him. No one was. And no one had seen him firing at the BMW. Egan knew he'd been lucky and he hated himself for depending on luck. Anyone could have driven by while he had the gun out; anyone could have seen him shooting at the car. He should have let Hayes go and followed at a distance, choosing his moment with more care. Now Hayes would be spooked, and Egan could only hope that he wouldn't be spooked enough to go to the police and tell them everything. So long as he was running scared, he wasn't a threat.
Hayes was running, but he had nowhere to run to. He clearly wasn't co-operating with the police, and there was no one else he could turn to. He'd probably lie low with his partner, the guy driving the BMW. Egan had intercepted the letter that his wife had left for him at the hotel, so that was a dead end. And there were only three days left before the bomb would be ready. Even if Hayes told the police that his daughter had been kidnapped and that his wife had disappeared in London, there was nothing they could do to prevent the bomb going off. Egan smiled to himself as he drove. Shooting at Hayes had been a mistake, but not a fatal one.
– «»-«»-«»The sky outside was beginning to darken, so Green-eyes switched on the banks of fluorescent lights in the main office area. She had to walk practically the full length of the office, almost a hundred and fifty feet, to get to all the switches. Andy put on a pair of oven gloves and began taking trays out of one of the ovens. The Wrestler was unclipping the lids of a dozen large Tupperware containers, and Andy carefully tipped fertiliser into them, scooping out the last few pounds with a wooden spoon. She put the metal tray on a pile of other used trays, then went over to the stack of fertiliser bags. She dragged one of the bags across to the table, then used one of the empty Tupperware containers as a scoop to refill the trays. They were down to the last ten sacks. By morning all the fertiliser would have been through the ovens and they'd be ready for the next step.
Green-eyes finished switching on the lights and then headed towards the meeting room. Andy watched her go as she levelled the fertiliser with her hands into a layer two inches thick. Any deeper and the fertiliser wouldn't dry all the way through to the bottom. She filled four trays and slotted them into the oven.
The Runner was checking the temperature of one of the other ovens. He looked across at her and loosened the bottom of his ski mask. 'This mask is a bitch,' he said. He reached up and grabbed the top of it. 'How about if I take it off, here and now.' He pulled at it gently and it moved up half an inch. 'How about that? Would you like to see what I look like?'
'No!' said Andy quickly.
'Why not?'
'You know why not.'
The Wrestler was standing over by the pile of sacks of fertiliser, watching them. Andy stared in horror as the Runner pulled the mask up another inch.
'Don't!' said Andy, holding out her hands, fingers splayed.
'Why not?'
'Because if I see your face…'
The Runner nodded and gave his mask another tug. Andy could see most of his neck, almost up to his chin. 'That's right,' he said. He laughed, a high-pitched whinny like that of a nervous horse.
Green-eyes came out of the meeting room, a mug of coffee in one hand. The two men
stopped laughing as soon as they saw her. The Runner let go of his ski mask and bent down to check the thermometer again, and the Wrestler picked up a sack of fertiliser.
'Andrea, do you want anything?' Green-eyes asked.
'No, I'm okay.' What she really wanted was to be alone in the office so that she could continue working on the briefcase. She'd got up to the mid-three-hundreds before nipping back across the corridor to the meeting room. Another twenty minutes at most and she'd have one of the locks open. She still hadn't decided what she'd do if and when she got her hands on the mobile phone, but at least she was doing something.
– «»-«»-«»The girl was stunning, just short of six feet tall in her high heels, with glossy black hair that reached to just above her hips. She wore a skin-tight cheongsam, scarlet with a gold dragon entwined around it, its head breathing fire across her ample breasts. She said she was nineteen years old and that her name was May. Deng waved at the seat next to him and asked her to sit with him.
She bent forward and swiped a plastic card through a reader in the centre of the table. Customers in the nightclub were billed by the minute for the company of the hostesses. A bottle of champagne arrived. Deng hadn't asked for the champagne, but he knew the score. Girls like May didn't come cheap. She spoke Mandarin with a Hong Kong accent. Cantonese was her first language, but with an ever-growing number of mainland Chinese businessmen and financiers visiting the former British colony, Mandarin was a necessity in her line of work.
She sat with a delicate hand on his thigh, her red-painted fingernails gently scratching the material of his Armani suit as she made small talk. Her skin was like porcelain, smooth and unblemished, and she smelt of flowers. After fifteen minutes of banal chatter she asked if a friend of hers could join them. Deng readily agreed. Her friend was just as tall as May, with longer hair and larger breasts. She wore a bright yellow evening dress cut low at the front to emphasise her cleavage. Her name was Summer, and she spoke better Mandarin than May, and almost perfect English. She swiped her card through the reader and a second bottle of champagne arrived.
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