The Bombmaker

The Bombmaker Page 20

by Stephen Leather

  'She moved to Dublin. Started a new life.'

  Martin shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. 'They let her? They let her walk away from the IRA?'

  'They understood why she wanted to leave. She was a woman, and children had died. What else could they do, Mr Hayes? They're not animals, despite what you might read in the papers. What choice did they have?'

  'So they never found out that she was working for you?'

  Denham toyed with his cigarette lighter. He looked across at the 'NO SMOKING' sign as if checking that it was still there. 'No. She cut all ties with us.'

  'And Trevor? Who was Trevor?'

  'Trevor was her code-name.'

  There was another burst of laughter from the neighbouring table, then the uniformed policemen stood up and filed out of the canteen.

  'This is unbelievable,' said Martin.

  'I'm afraid it's all too real,' said Patsy.

  Martin held his mug in both hands and stared at the remains of his tea. The milk had curdled slightly and oily white bubbles floated on the surface. 'That's what this has all been about, isn't it? Her bomb-making skills?'

  Patsy reached out and gently touched Martin's wrist. 'That's why we're here, Mr Hayes. The fact that your daughter's kidnappers wanted her to fly to London suggests that…'

  '… they want her to build them a bomb. Here.'

  Patsy nodded. 'Exactly.'

  'Can she do it?'

  'Oh yes,' said Denham. 'She can. There's absolutely no doubt about that.'

  – «»-«»-«»Andy wiped the perspiration from the back of her neck with a cloth. Her shirt was damp with sweat and stray locks of her hair were matted to her face. Green-eyes was at the table next to her, scraping hot fertiliser into a Tupperware container. 'Nearly done,' she said.

  'A couple of hours, I reckon,' said Andy. She nodded towards the offices. 'Okay if I get a sandwich? I'm starving.'

  'Can't you wait? Best to get this stage finished, then we'll take a break.'

  Andy tried to hide her disappointment. She wanted another go at the briefcase locks. 'I could do with a coffee. I'm flagging.'

  Green-eyes sealed the lid on the container and straightened up. She looked across at the Runner and the Wrestler, who were both bent over their woks. Despite the air-conditioning being full on, the air was full of alcohol fumes and the stench of the fertiliser. 'I guess the boys can hold the fort,' she said. 'Okay, let's take a break.'

  Andy forced a smile. 'I'll get one for you.'

  Green-eyes looked suspiciously at Andy. 'Are you up to something, Andrea?'

  Andy shrugged carelessly. 'I don't know what you mean.'

  'You're not deliberately dragging your feet, are you? Trying to slow us down?'

  'I just want a coffee, that's all. If it's too much trouble, forget it.'

  Green-eyes looked at Andy for a few seconds, her lips pressed tightly together. It was an eerie feeling, being scrutinised by someone in a ski mask, and Andy forced herself to smile as naturally as possible. Eventually Green-eyes nodded. 'Come on.'

  Andy followed her down the corridor and into the office. Green-eyes poured two mugs of coffee and they sat down at the long table. Green-eyes clicked sweetener into her mug. 'You always drink your coffee without sugar?' she asked Andy.

  'Since I was at university,' said Andy.

  'Worried about your weight?'

  Andy sipped her coffee. 'Not really. I gave up salt, too. And cigarettes.'

  'Some sort of penance?'

  'Maybe. I don't know.' She put her mug down. 'Why are you doing this?'

  Green-eyes didn't answer. She stirred her coffee and stared at the ripples on its surface.

  'People are going to die if this thing goes off. A lot of people.'

  'You're a fine one to talk,' said Green-eyes. 'I could ask you the same question. You made bombs for the Provos.'

  'But not like this.'

  'Your bombs killed people, Andrea. Is it the numbers that worry you? Is killing a hundred worse than killing four?'

  'That was an accident. The children were in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

  'There were others, though, Andrea. Soldiers. Bomb disposal guys. Police. What you did hasn't stopped you from living a normal life. So why are you concerned about this bomb?'

  'You're going to kill innocent people, that's why. The war's over. It's finished.'

  Green-eyes sneered at Andy and tossed the teaspoon on to the table-top. 'Did the Brits murder any of your family, Andrea? How many funerals have you been to, eh?'

  Andy said nothing. The woman's eyes were burning with hatred, and flecks of spittle peppered across the table.

  'Well, how many?'

  'None,' said Andy quietly.

  'Well, I have. I buried my brother and two cousins. The SAS murdered my brother and British paratroopers shot my cousins. My family's been drenched in blood, and you think I should just forgive and forget because the weaklings at the top want to sit in an Irish Parliament?'

  'Revenge?' said Andy. 'Is that what this is about? Revenge?'

  'You think there's something wrong with revenge? You think politics is a better motive? That it's okay to kill for power but not okay to kill because they murdered my brother? I don't give a fuck about a united Ireland. I don't give a fuck whether or not Protestants and Catholics live together in peace and harmony. I want revenge, pure and simple.'

  'For God's sake, you're going to kill hundreds of people, hundreds of innocent people. Jesus Christ, woman, that's not going to bring your brother back.'

  'I don't want him back. I want the people here to know what it's like to suffer. Anyway, I don't know why you're so concerned. You've made bombs before. You've killed people. I'm just doing what you should have done ten years ago.'

  Andy shook her head. 'That was different.' Part of her wanted to tell Green-eyes that she'd never been a terrorist, that all the time she'd been part of the active service unit she'd also been a Special Branch informer. But she had no way of knowing how Green-eyes would react to the news. She was in enough danger already.

  'Different? Why? Because what we're doing now is on a bigger scale?'

  'Because at least then there was a political dimension. It was a means to an end. The war's over. Can't you see that?'

  Green-eyes stood up. 'Come on. We've got work to do.'

  Andy gestured at her mug. 'I haven't finished.'

  Green-eyes picked up the mug and poured the contents on to the floor. 'Yes you have.'

  – «»-«»-«»Martin stared down at the table, his mind in turmoil. None of what he'd been told made any sense to him. It had been hard enough to cope with the kidnapping of his daughter and the disappearance of his wife, but being told that his wife was an IRA bombmaker turned Special Branch informant was more than he could cope with.

  'Mr Hayes?' It was the woman. Patsy. Her first name. That was all he knew about her.

  'You're going to have to give me time to get my head around this,' he said.

  'We don't have time, Mr Hayes. We have to act now. And we need your co-operation.'

  Martin frowned. 'Co-operation?'

  Patsy had a notebook in front of her, and she was holding a slim gold pen. It looked expensive. Everything about the woman seemed expensive. 'Who the hell are you?' Martin asked her. 'You're no policewoman.'

  'No, you're right. I'm not. All you need to know at the moment is that Chief Inspector Denham and I are the only hope you've got of seeing your daughter and wife again. Now, who else knows what's happened to your family?'

  Martin glared at the woman, then slowly nodded. She was right. It wasn't her he was angry at, it was the situation he was in, and it wasn't a situation of her making. 'The Gardai. In Dublin. Inspector James FitzGerald. And a sergeant. Power, his name was, I think.'

  Patsy wrote the names down in her notebook.

  'Two uniformed gardai called at the house. They're the ones who took me to the Garda station.'

  'Do you know their names?'
/>   Martin shook his head. 'The secretary at Katie's school got in touch with them. Mrs O'Mara, her name is. She's disappeared. That's what the police say, anyway.'

  'Disappeared?'

  'They said she hadn't turned up for work and there was no sign of her at her house. That's why they came to see me in the first place. She'd telephoned me to see why Katie wasn't at school, and I guess she'd spoken to the headmistress.'

  Patsy looked across at Denham and raised an eyebrow. Denham nodded. Martin had the feeling that each knew what the other was thinking.

  Patsy looked back at Martin. 'Anyone else?'

  'I told my partner what had happened. Padraig. Padraig Martin.'

  Patsy wrote down the names. 'So your first name's Martin, and so's his surname?'

  'Yeah. That's how we became friends at school.' He shrugged. 'It's a long story. We ended up as business partners. We called the firm Martin and Martin. Sort of a joke.'

  'What exactly did you tell your partner?' asked Denham.

  Martin massaged his temples as he tried to remember the conversation he'd had with Padraig while he was driving him up to Belfast. 'I think I pretty much told him everything. I told him that Katie had been kidnapped. And that the kidnappers told Andy to go to London.'

  'That's just wonderful,' said Denham under his breath. Patsy gave him a cold look and he held up his palms apologetically.

  'I had to tell him something,' said Martin. 'He's my partner. He was nearly killed.'

  'Killed? What do you mean, killed?' asked Patsy.

  Martin realised he hadn't told them about the man with the gun, the man who'd shot at the BMW outside the hospital. He quickly explained what had happened.

  'This man, what did he look like?' asked Patsy.

  'I didn't see his face, not really,' said Martin. 'He was average height. Medium build. He was wearing a leather jacket. Black or brown. And jeans, maybe.' He shook his head. 'It all happened really quickly. He shot twice, I think. Hit the window and the door. I didn't hear the shots, just the window going and then a thud against the door. I had my head down most of the time.'

  'What colour hair did he have?' asked Denham.

  Martin shrugged. He didn't know.

  'Moustache? Facial hair? A scar? Anything that made him stick out?'

  Martin shook his head. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'It was dark, and I just wanted to get away.'

  Patsy and Denham exchanged looks of frustration but said nothing.

  'That's okay, Mr Hayes,' said Patsy.

  'What do you think they'll do to Katie?' asked Martin. 'The guy who shot at me was presumably one of the kidnappers – he must know I've spoken to the Dublin police. What if they…' He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

  'I don't think they'll do anything to hurt your daughter,' said Patsy. 'Not so long as they need your wife's cooperation. Katie is the leverage they need to get your wife to do what they want.'

  'God, I hope you're right.'

  Patsy smiled reassuringly at Martin. 'We know what we're doing, Mr Hayes. Trust us. Or at least, have faith in us.'

  Martin closed his eyes and nodded. 'It doesn't look as if I've any alternative.'

  Denham toyed with his packet of cigarettes. He tapped one side against the table. Then turned it through ninety degrees and tapped it again. Turn. Tap. Turn. Tap. 'The note that the kidnappers left,' he said. 'Do you still have it?'

  'No. Andy took it with her.' He reached into his trouser pocket and took out the sheet of paper he'd found behind the hotel painting. 'This is the note she left for me in the Strand Palace.' He gave it to Denham, who read it and passed it over to Patsy.

  'The phone conversation you told me about,' said Patsy. 'When your wife told you about this. Where were you?'

  'At home. In Dublin.'

  'And she called on the land line? Or your mobile?'

  'The land line.'

  'And she only made one call?'

  Martin nodded.

  'When she called you, did it sound like she was using a call-box?'

  Martin shrugged. 'It sounded like a regular phone. I think there was somebody listening, checking that she didn't say the wrong thing.'

  'But could you hear any traffic? People walking by? Any sounds that might suggest she was outside? Or in a public place?'

  Martin rubbed his face with both hands. 'I don't remember any,' he said.

  'Did you get any sense that she was calling from a land line? Or a mobile?'

  Martin shook his head. 'I'm sorry.'

  Patsy smiled reassuringly, the smile of a parent consoling a child who'd just come second. 'You're doing just fine, Mr Hayes. Now, can you run through everything your wife said to you when she called.'

  'She was only on the line for a few seconds. She made me promise not to go to the police. And she said they didn't want money. That they wouldn't hurt Katie so long as I didn't go to the police. Then she said that after it was all over, we'd go back to Venice. I didn't know what she meant – it was only when I saw the picture that I realised what she was trying to say. And that was it.'

  'You're sure?'

  'Yes, damn it, I'm sure.'

  Patsy looked across at Denham. He raised an eyebrow. Martin had no idea what the gesture meant.

  'Did I do something wrong?'

  Patsy put down her gold pen. 'No, you didn't, Mr Hayes. But they might have done. We're going to need your help. If she calls again.'

  'You think she might?'

  'It was obviously your wife who initiated the call,' said Patsy. 'It was unstructured. Unrehearsed. And the only information imparted was that which your wife wanted to give you. It wasn't a message from the kidnappers. If she managed to get them to allow her one phone call, she might be able to persuade them to let her make another. And the closer she gets to completion, the more leverage she'll have.'

  'But if she calls, I won't be there.' Martin stood up. 'God, I've got to get back.'

  Patsy gestured for him to sit down. 'We can handle that from here.' She looked across at Denham. 'I'll get the number transferred to Thames House.'

  'You can do that?' asked Martin.

  Patsy nodded. 'It's not a problem.'

  'Where's this Thames House?'

  'It's an office. Near Whitehall. We can use it as a base.'

  'And if they call, they'll think I'm still in the house?'

  'That's the idea.'

  Martin scratched his chin. 'The machine's on. The answering machine. I left a message saying that anyone who calls should try me on my mobile.'

  'You still have the mobile?'

  Martin shook his head. 'It was in my hotel room. In my case. I don't know if your goons brought it with me.'

  Patsy looked pained. 'I'll get it for you. But it's best she doesn't call the mobile. I'll get the answering machine turned off.' She looked at her watch. 'No time like the present.' She stood up. 'I'll make a couple of calls.'

  Martin fished his house keys out and slid them across the table.

  Patsy smiled and shook her head. 'The people I'll be using won't be needing keys, Mr Hayes.'

  – «»-«»-«»Andy stole glances at Green-eyes as she packed Tupperware containers into a black rubbish bag. It was hard to judge her age because she'd never seen her without her ski mask, but she guessed the woman was in her early thirties, probably about the same age as herself. They were pretty much the same height and build, and seemed to have the same taste in clothes. Under different circumstances it was perfectly possible that they could have been friends.

  The conversation they'd had in the office had disturbed Andy. She hadn't realised before that Green-eyes was driven by revenge, that her motives were personal rather than political. Andy had been clinging to the hope that the bomb she was helping to build wasn't intended to be used, but after speaking to Green-eyes she was certain that the woman intended to detonate the device once it was finished.

  She was equally certain that Green-eyes wasn't the prime mover in the building of the bomb. She
was working for someone else, someone who was funding the operation and organising it from a distance. But who? Whoever had recruited Green-eyes must have known how fanatical she was, and how determined she'd be to see the bomb explode. That presumably meant that whoever was backing her also wanted to see the bomb go off. Andy had meant what she'd said about the war being over. The IRA was set to achieve virtually all its aims without compromising its stance on decommissioning; they had nothing to gain by restarting the conflict. Andy doubted that Green-eyes would allow herself to be used by a Protestant terrorist organisation, so who did that leave? Terrorists from outside the United Kingdom? Arabs maybe? The Serbs? Iraq? Iran? Syria? Libya? Someone with the resources to pay for the equipment, the office rental, the manpower. Someone who knew about Andy's past.

  Andy fastened the metal tie around the top of the black plastic bag and carried it over to the pile of other bags containing treated fertiliser. She threw it on top. The ammonium nitrate was totally inert at this stage. Even when it was mixed with the rest of the ingredients, it could still be handled in total safety. It was a powerful explosive, about half the strength of commercial dynamite, but it required a very heavy charge to detonate it. That was what Andy was clinging to, her last hope that the bomb wouldn't go off. Without the necessary detonator, the pressure wave wouldn't be powerful enough to detonate all the explosive. It might explode, but only partially, with the energy from the initial detonation scattering the fertiliser mixture. The building would be damaged, but not destroyed. There'd be flying glass and debris but it would be nothing in comparison to a successful detonation. So far Green-eyes hadn't mentioned a detonator, and Andy was praying that the woman didn't fully appreciate how critical it was to have the right type.

  Green-eyes turned around and rubbed her knuckles into the small of her back. 'Is that the lot?' she asked Andy.

  'That's it,' said Andy.

  The Wrestler and the Runner were standing by the water-cooler, large, damp patches of sweat under the armpits of their overalls. It was in the high eighties, even with the thermostat set to its lowest level and the fans full on. As Andy watched, the Wrestler took off his shoulder holster and draped it on top of the cooler.

 

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