'Good point, and one that brings us to the question of where. Tim's right – the target could be an American institution here in the UK. Or it could be any one of a hundred targets. Downing Street. The City. The Houses of Parliament. It doesn't even have to be in London. It could, quite literally, be anywhere. So, how do we narrow down the location?' She tapped the photograph of the van. 'First, we chase down this vehicle. Parking tickets. Police reports. CCTVs. Has it been to Ireland? Been involved in any accidents? It's four years old, so who used to own it?' She pointed to three women sitting at the far end of the table. 'Lisa, Anna, Julia, that's your priority. You know Peter Elfman?' All three nodded. 'He's checking up on the landscaping company. Liaise with him.'
Patsy nodded at the oldest man in the room, David Bingham. He was in his mid-forties but his hair had gone prematurely grey while at university and his skin was weathered and peppered with broken veins from years pursuing his love of dinghy sailing. He had worked in Dublin for eighteen months prior to the 1994 IRA ceasefire, and had only just returned to Thames House after a two-year posting to MI5's Belfast office, where he'd been Patsy's number two. He was hard-working and totally trustworthy, and more than once she'd been grateful for his safe pair of hands. He also did the best impersonation of Gerry Adams that she'd ever heard.
'David, if and when we locate the men in the van, we're going to want to know where they've been. I'd like you and Jonathan to handle that. Keep on top of the technical boys.' David nodded at her and then flashed a smile across at Jonathan Clare. Clare was ten years younger than Bingham, but they'd worked together briefly in Belfast. 'I'd also like the two of you to liaise with Chief Inspector Denham when he gets back from Northern Ireland. If he does manage to obtain a list of IRA members who knew about Trevor's role as a bombmaker, other than those names we already have, it has to be our first priority. Any resources you need, you only have to ask.'
There was a stack of folders on a table against the window, and at Patsy's signal Lisa Davies and Anna Wallace began distributing them. 'The folders contain full briefing notes and copies of the photographs. They're not to leave this room. There's to be no contact with the police, at any level, without prior clearance from me. No phone calls to pals in Special Branch or Anti-Terrorism. I don't want to see this on the front page of the Daily Mail, okay?'
Nodding heads responded.
'Good. That's the state of play. This room is our operations centre. If I'm not here I'll be in Jason Hetherington's office down the corridor. Tim, would you come with me? You too, Barbara.'
Fanning opened the door for her and walked with her to Hetherington's office. Behind them followed Barbara Carter, a twenty-six-year-old psychology graduate who Patsy knew was originally from Dublin. Patsy closed the office door behind them and waved them over to the two armchairs in front of her desk. 'I've got something special for the two of you,' she said, sitting down. 'Martin Hayes is going to need his hand held through this, and I'm not going to be able to be with him all the time. Until this is resolved I want one of you to be with him at all times, and ideally I'd like you both there for as much of the time as is humanly possible. No going home, no popping into the gym. If one of you wants to use the loo, the other sticks with Hayes. When he sleeps, one of you stays in the room with him. Every minute of every hour of every day.'
The two agents nodded. They were both single and had no regular partners, so Patsy knew it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience for them. In fact, they made a good-looking couple. He was tall with a runner's build and a crop of thick, blond hair. Carter was a few inches shorter with high cheekbones and long chestnut hair that she normally had tied back in a ponytail. They were both stylish dressers – he favoured dark Boss double-breasted suits and she generally wore well-fitting suits in pastel shades, usually cut just above the knee. There was clearly no attraction between the two of them, however. No sideways looks, no cute smiles when they thought no one was watching. Patsy had a keen eye for intra-office relationships and there was no sign of one developing, which was one of the reasons she'd given them the job of baby-sitting Martin Hayes.
She could see from the look on Fanning's face that he wasn't happy about the assignment as he slowly folded his arms across his chest. He was keen to be part of the team chasing the bombmaker and obviously regarded looking after the husband as being sidelined. If Carter was disappointed, she hid it well, smiling amiably with her Mont Blanc pen poised over a small leather-bound notebook that Patsy thought might have a Chanel logo on the front.
'There's something I didn't mention at the briefing, and I want it to remain between us, for the time being at least.'
Patsy had to resist the urge to smile as she saw Fanning's reaction. His whole body language changed. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward expectantly, eager to hear what she had to say.
'They allowed her to phone her husband. On Sunday.'
Fanning and Carter both raised their eyebrows in surprise.
'Little was said, just that she was okay. And that there was something she had to do for them. She was obviously being closely monitored during the call, but our feeling is that if she managed to convince them to allow her to make one call, she should be able to do it again the closer she gets to completion.'
'Hell of an error,' said Fanning. 'Considering our technical capabilities.'
'Most of which isn't public knowledge,' said Patsy. 'Besides, the husband had been told not to contact the police. That if he did, his daughter would be killed. I think that under the circumstances they'd be justified in thinking that a tap would be unlikely in the extreme. Whatever, they allowed the call, and if they allowed one, they might allow another. Or, a more likely scenario in my opinion, she'll find a way of getting to a phone without them knowing. Either way, we've arranged with British Telecom and Telecom Eireann to have all calls to the Hayes house to be routed to an office here.' She nodded at the door to an adjoining room. 'In there, in fact. So far as the caller's concerned, they'll be through to the house. We'll be running a trace, but I doubt they'll be on long enough. Still, nothing ventured…'
'There is the possibility that she'll ask to speak to her daughter, of course,' said Carter.
Patsy nodded. 'That's where it gets complicated,' she said. 'We'll be monitoring all England-Ireland phone traffic, looking for key words. But that's going to be done through GCHQ. I've already been in touch with our liaison officer at Cheltenham. But even if we do locate the daughter, she's not our prime concern. Though Mr Hayes must absolutely not be aware of that. Are we clear?'
Fanning and Carter nodded. Patsy put her hands flat on the desk blotter and pushed herself up. 'Right,' she said, 'let's get to it.'
– «»-«»-«»They said barely half a dozen words during the drive from the airport. They were both tall, wearing Barbour jackets over suits, and Denham figured that their combined ages just about equalled his own sixty-five years. Denham sat in the back of the Rover and stared at the back of their heads. They were both balding. The driver had a bare patch the size of a fifty-pence piece! the other hadn't done so well in the genetics lottery and had a bald spot as big as a saucer. Denham wondered if it was stress-related. In his early days with the RUC he'd had a thick crop of black hair that required a handful of gel to keep it in place; it was only when he'd transferred to Special Branch that he'd started to lose it.
They'd been waiting for him on the tarmac, the rear door of the Rover already open for him as he walked off the RAF Hercules transporter and down the metal stairway. He hadn't asked where they were going. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the man he was going to see.
They drove north towards Antrim, and Denham felt a touch of sadness as they passed within five miles of his own house. Under any normal circumstances he'd have asked the men to make a quick detour, but the mission he was on was too important. His wife would have to wait.
He lit another cigarette, his third since he'd got into the Rover. When he'd lit the first one the driver had coughed poin
tedly, but Denham had ignored him. He looked around the back of the car for an ashtray but there wasn't one, so he was reduced to flicking his ash out of a gap in the window, though more often than not the slipstream blew it back into the car.
They joined the M22 and headed west with the vast expanse of Lough Neagh to their left, until the motorway merged into the A6. Just past Castledawson they turned right and started driving along smaller country roads. The driver was good, Denham had to admit. He drove quickly but safely, and wasn't averse to switching lanes and driving on the wrong side of the road if it meant he had a better view of what lay ahead. He was constantly checking the mirrors, but Denham doubted that anyone would have been able to keep up with them. The speedometer rarely fell below seventy as they sped between the fields.
The car eventually came to a halt by a stone bridge. The driver turned around to look at Denham and nodded, just once. 'You boys stay with the car,' Denham said. He climbed out of the Rover, dropped the remains of his cigarette on to the damp grass and trod it into the soil. The sun was a hand's width from the horizon and reddening, and Denham buttoned up his raincoat. He walked down towards the fast-flowing stream, holding his arms out for balance as his Hush Puppies skidded and slipped along the muddy gravel path.
The man standing in the stream must have heard Denham coming, but he didn't turn his head. He flicked the rod in his hand and a fly whisked through the air and plopped almost silently on to a quiet stretch of water close to the far bank.
'You always did have a hell of a smooth cast, Mr McCormack,' said Denham. Only then did Thomas McCormack turn to acknowledge his presence.
'I'm told you're no mean fisherman yourself, Chief Inspector Denham.'
McCormack turned his back on Denham and wound in his line. He was wearing bright green waders, a quilted waistcoat over a thick green pullover, and on his head was a shapeless tweed hat that could have been a close cousin to the one Denham was wearing.
'It's Mr Denham now. Retired almost ten years now.'
'Oh, I know that, Chief Inspector.'
'Same as you know I'm a fisherman?'
McCormack flicked his rod again and sent the fly high into the air, nodding with satisfaction as it dropped on to the same stretch of water as before. 'We knew about the little stream you used to favour, up by Ballymena. Lovely spot, with the beech trees right up to the water's edge.' He turned to look at Denham as he wound in his line. 'Could have got you any time, Chief Inspector. Before or after your retirement.' He grinned mischievously. 'But that's all water under the bridge now, isn't it?'
Denham tapped a cigarette out and lit it.
'Still on eighty a day?' asked McCormack.
'Down to twenty,' said Denham.
'The wife?'
'Yes, the wife,' sighed Denham.
'Where would we be without them, huh?'
'Indeed.' Denham tilted his head back and blew smoke up into the darkening sky.
'So, would this be a social call, Chief Inspector?'
'I'm afraid not.'
'You won't mind if I carry on casting, will you? There's a beautiful trout, five pounds if it's an ounce, lurking under those leaves over there.'
'You go for it, Mr McCormack.' There was a tree trunk on its side a few steps away from Denham and he went over and sat on it. McCormack made three more casts, and each time the fly dropped into the same part of the stream.
'What do you think? Too big?'
'Maybe something brighter?' suggested Denham. 'The light's going.'
'Aye, you could be right,' said McCormack. He wound in the line and replaced his fly with a slightly bigger one that had a splash of yellow in its tail.
'Andrea Sheridan,' said Denham. 'Remember her?'
McCormack's eyes narrowed. He looked at Denham for several seconds without speaking. 'That's a name from the past, right enough. Retired, like yourself.'
Denham nodded and took a long pull on his cigarette. Thomas McCormack was an old adversary, and peace process or no peace process, he was a man to be handled with care. With his horn-rimmed spectacles and grey hair, he looked like an elderly schoolmaster, but for many years he'd been a hardline member of the IRA's Army Executive.
'Maybe. Maybe not.'
'No doubt about it, Chief Inspector. She retired about the same time you did.' McCormack's head tilted to the side like that of an inquisitive bird. He looked as if he was going to say something, but instead he turned his back on Denham again and flicked the new fly out over the water. It fell short by more than four feet and he tutted to himself.
'We think that there's a chance she's active again.'
'Impossible,' said McCormack.
'Perhaps against her will.'
McCormack wound in his line and cast again. Just as the fly plopped on to the water, a big speckled trout seemed to leap from the depths, its mouth agape. It engulfed the fly and disappeared back under the surface. McCormack hauled in the fish and carefully extracted the fly before holding it up to show Denham. 'Six pounds, I'll bet,' he said.
'Hell of a catch,' agreed Denham.
McCormack bent down and lowered the trout into the stream. He let the fish swim free and then straightened up. He waded over to the bank. Denham stood up and offered him his hand and helped him climb out of the water. McCormack nodded his thanks and the two men sat together on the tree trunk. McCormack took a small pewter flask from his waistcoat pocket and offered it to Denham. Denham shook his head and gestured at the cigarette in his hand. 'One vice is enough,' he said.
McCormack chuckled as he unscrewed the top of his flask and took a swig. He smacked his lips appreciatively. 'What do you mean, against her will?' he asked.
'She has a child. A daughter. Katie. The child's been kidnapped. No ransom, but the kidnappers told Andrea to fly to London. Now she's disappeared.'
McCormack took another swig from his flask, then replaced its top and put it back in his waistcoat pocket.
'And you're suggesting what, Chief Inspector?'
'I'm not suggesting anything. I'm looking for guidance.'
McCormack wound in his line and began to disassemble his rod.
'I figure that your people wouldn't need to kidnap the little girl to get the mother to do what you wanted. Presumably you've always known where she was.'
'As have you, it seems.'
Denham blew smoke towards the setting sun. 'So, I'm ruling out an official operation. An official IRA operation.'
'I'm glad to hear that,' said McCormack, slipping the sections of his rod into a canvas bag.
'I was thinking perhaps a splinter group?'
'Very doubtful,' said McCormack. 'Gerry and Martin wouldn't stand for it.'
'Real IRA? Continuity?'
'Spent forces,' said McCormack, tying up the bag.
'Anyone new? The Dundalk boys getting restless?'
'Not that I've heard. It's all about the ballot box these days.' McCormack propped the bag against the tree trunk and stretched out his legs. 'It's not Republican, Chief Inspector. You should be looking at the other side of the fence.'
'Maybe. But how would they know about her?'
McCormack looked across at Denham, his eyes narrowing. 'I might be asking you the same question.'
Denham stared into the distance.
'Jesus Christ,' said McCormack, his voice little more than a whisper. 'She was working for you.'
It wasn't a question, and Denham knew there was no point in denying it. He'd known that the moment he asked McCormack about Andrea Sheridan he'd be showing his hand. And that if he expected to get McCormack's help, he'd have to tell him everything.
'For how long?' asked McCormack.
'From day one. Pretty much.'
McCormack shook his head slowly. 'My God. She must have iced water for blood.' He pushed his spectacles higher up his nose. 'Every bomb, every one she made, you knew about it?'
Denham shrugged but didn't say anything.
'But the people that died? The soldiers? The bomb disposa
l…' His voice tailed off as realisation dawned. 'You faked it. You faked them all. You cunning old fox…' He took out his hip flask and took a long drink from it, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Except for the kids. Something went wrong. The kids died, and she walked away. And you. You got the push.'
'Somebody had to carry the can. And she was my agent.'
McCormack put the top back on his flask. 'Funny old world, huh? You think you know someone… You think you can trust someone…'
The bottom of the sun was touching the horizon. Denham turned up the collar of his raincoat. 'It's history, Thomas. Ancient history.' It was the first time he'd ever called McCormack by his first name.
'Aye. Maybe you're right.'
'But about the matter in hand. You realise what'll happen if it goes off? Her fingerprints will be all over it. Her signature.'
'Which is presumably why they're using her. You don't have to paint a picture for me, Liam. We've as much to lose as you do if they succeed.'
'So you'll help?'
'I don't see that I've any choice.' He smiled thinly. 'It's a turn-up for the books, isn't it?'
Denham flicked the end of his cigarette into the stream. 'Aye. It's an ever-changing world, right enough. So, who knew about her? Apart from the two of us.'
– «»-«»-«»Martin paced up and down, staring at the floor. It was six paces from one side of the office to the other. Six paces. Turn. Six paces. Turn. He had his arms crossed and the tips of his fingers were digging into his sides, hard enough to hurt, except that Martin was beyond feeling any physical discomfort.
'Mr Hayes, please. Try to relax.' Martin looked up, his mind a million miles away. He frowned at Carter, his eyes blank.
'Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?'
Martin blinked several times like a hypnotist's subject coming out of a trance. 'What? Sorry?'
'A drink? Do you want tea or something?'
'Coffee, maybe. Yes. Coffee. Thanks.' He started pacing again.
Carter and Fanning exchanged worried looks. Carter shrugged, not sure what to say or do to put Martin at ease. She stood up, and raised an enquiring eyebrow at Fanning. He shook his head. He rarely touched tea or coffee. On the table in front of them, next to two telephones and a digital tape recorder, were two bottles of water and two glasses. It was all they'd touched since starting their vigil with Martin. It had been four hours and neither of the phones had rung.
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