by Scott Hunter
‘Don’t think I’ve come alone, Sean. The gardai aren’t far behind.’
‘Right, and the whole army along with them.’
‘I’m serious. Take a look if you don’t believe me. You’ve seen Joseph’s observation tower?’ Moran indicated the rear door beyond which O’Shea’s Heath Robinson contraption was sited on a raised platform like some cast-off attraction from a downbeat travelling fair.
‘Maybe you can take a look for me, Brendan. On you go.’ Black motioned with his gun hand, easing the pressure on Aine’s neck.
Aine reacted instantly, grabbing Black’s wrist and jerking the automatic towards his head; her slim finger curled through the trigger guard, clamped over Black’s finger and pulled.
The gun went off, the bullet striking the roof somewhere above Moran’s head. He ducked instinctively but Aine wasn’t finished; in control of the automatic’s trigger, if not the direction of its bullets, she fought against Black’s stronger arm, the gun waving this way and that until, inevitably, Black gained the upper hand and heaved the pistol’s muzzle to Aine’s chest.
Moran hadn’t been idle during this frantic exchange; the shotgun was now firmly in his grip. All he needed was a clear target.
‘Go on, Brendan. Blow us to kingdom come, why don’t you?’ Black was breathing heavily, sweat clinging to his brow like drops of rain on a cracked windscreen.
The gun was over Aine’s heart. Moran had no clear shot; with an automatic, possibly, but with a shotgun? The spread would annihilate both of them. He lowered O’Shea’s weapon of choice.
‘Break it.’
Moran broke the shotgun. Two new cartridges were in place. He hadn’t been sure. At least he knew now, for all the good it was likely to do him.
‘Put it down. Carefully. On the table.’
Moran put the gun down.
‘Brendan, I’m sorry.’ Aine’s voice was a husky whisper.
‘Don’t be – just keep calm. I–’
‘No, you need to listen.’
Aine’s finger was still jammed against Black’s, against the automatic’s trigger. Something about her tone made Moran’s heart begin to pound in a slow, unsteady rhythm.
‘A story, is it, Brendan?’ Black was breathing heavily. ‘Well, let’s listen to the lady. Nothing else to do, eh?’
‘I want you to know that I’m truly, truly sorry.’ Aine’s eyes never left Moran’s. She spoke as if Black’s presence had become immaterial, as if he had been relegated to some ghostly location where he could do them no harm. Black seemed to feel this too, and it showed in the subtle change of his expression.
The Irishman sniffed. ‘Get on with it, woman.’
‘I was young,’ Aine continued. ‘Not to make an excuse, but we were all idealists in those days, weren’t we, Brendan? I followed a call, just as you did. But mine was wicked, and wrong. This man was my guide, my leader, and I want you to know that I regret my discipleship deeply.’
Moran could only listen. He felt a creeping dread at what might be coming.
‘That day, when you met her for lunch. It was such a fine day, wasn’t it? Until the clouds came, and the rain began – slowly at first, I remember, just a fine mist, then heavier and heavier till it was a downpour. But by then I was running, as fast as I could. I heard it, you see; I heard the explosion even as I ran. As I’ve heard it every day since.’
Moran shook his head. This wasn’t right, couldn’t be right. ‘No, no!’ he shouted. ‘It was Rory Dalton. It was done under his orders–’ he broke off, opened his hands beseechingly, willing her to deny it ‘–but you? What are you saying? My God, Aine, what–’
Aine’s hand was steady, her finger steely, curled and ready. ‘It wasn’t Dalton, Brendan. Although he might have taken credit for it to rile you – sure that’s the sort of thing he’d have done. Now listen to me; I can’t atone for what I did. I won’t try. But maybe this, at least, will help. Stop this terrible thing from happening. Speak to my daughter. Tell her I died for something worthwhile, at least. And tell Donal and Padraig that I love them.’
Moran held up his hands. ‘Aine. Please, you don’t have to do this, you–’
In that instant Black understood Aine’s body language, tried to twist away, but Aine held him close. ‘I’m so sorry, Brendan,’ she whispered, and squeezed down hard.
The shot threw the entwined couple against the wall. Aine slumped forward. Black staggered into a half-crouched position, his shirt bright red with Aine’s – or his own – blood; Moran couldn’t be sure. Black straightened, was trying to extricate his grip from the gun, but Aine’s lifeless finger had his right hand trapped. The shotgun was lying on the table, broken, where Moran had placed it.
Up for grabs.
Moran got there first, grabbed the stock and turned, but Black, using Aine’s body for cover, had raised the automatic again. Moran fell back, made contact with the rear door, fumbled the shotgun, dropped it as Black’s round clipped past his head. The shotgun crashed to the floor, still broken, lost a cartridge. The round rolled diagonally across the floor and came to rest against one of the table legs.
Black had managed to extricate his finger; he discarded Aine’s body like a sack of unwanted clothing, began to close the distance between them, savouring the moment.
‘Just me and you, Brendan. And that’s how it should be.’
‘You had a woman do your dirty work.’ Moran edged towards the open hearth where he could at least be sure of partial cover. ‘Too much of a coward to do it yourself, Sean. Eh? Is that what you’re like? Does it give you a feeling of power, having women under your control?’
‘I didn’t know she was going to be drivin’ your car that day, Brendan.’ Black shrugged, as if apologising for some minor offence. ‘I liked both the Hannigan girls, sure enough. What can I say? You got away with it. I never got a second chance to take you out. But now…’ Black crept forward another pace. ‘Now we’re full circle; it’s all come around again. Like I hoped it would.’
Moran stepped briskly to the fire and seized the cool end of a burning shard of timber. It wasn’t much but it was something. Splinters scored his flesh.
‘You’d hit me with your wee piece of wood, would you now, Brendan? Well I don’t think so…’
Black jinked to the left, snapped off a shot.
Moran felt it zip past his right ear, strike somewhere on the eco-house’s set of aircraft windows, blow out a pane. He retreated to the back door, pushed against it, felt the decking beneath his feet, a brisk wind blowing in from the Atlantic. How many bullets did Black have left? One at least. Two, maybe…
The decking afforded little cover, just the steel gate of O’Shea’s scissor lift. Steel was good. Moran backed away from the door, right hand outstretched, waving the burning log as if warding off some lumbering Hollywood monster.
The monster appeared in the doorway. The gun rose to Black’s eye level, steadied. This one was going to count.
This one might have your name on it, Brendan…
Moran continued his retreat, feeling behind him with his left hand, never taking his eyes off Black’s automatic. His hand found metal and he felt a slight give; the gate was unlocked.
‘Game over, Brendan.’
Moran judged his throw. He’d always been rubbish at football; rugby was more his thing. He remembered the fly-half’s job; stoop low, scoop up the ball, a lobbing spin out to centre, the feeling of elation as the centre picked it up, dodged, made his own pass.
Job done.
He had one shot at this, and it was a hard target. Not fair, but then life never was.
Moran took aim and let the brand fly; it was more a lob than a throw. The burning wood arced across the short distance and for a moment Moran’s stomach lurched; he’d missed completely. He’d pitched long. But his goddess was still on point; the brand struck the eco-house’s wall of many windows and bounced off at an angle.
The angle was good.
The glowing timber disappeared int
o the half-open ammunition box before Black had the time or wit to mock Moran’s effort.
Moran reckoned he had a precious few seconds. Not long enough, but he gave it a go. He fell back again, this time onto – and into – the scissor-lift platform, felt the steel shutter spin shut on its spring. His hand reached out to the two buttons. One was blue, the other red. Blue for go.
Blue. Please God.
Moran’s stomach protested as the lift shot up at the speed he recalled from O’Shea’s demonstration.
The explosion came a fraction of a second later, a crackling crump of exploding ammonal which sent a shockwave outwards and upwards. Moran felt the lift judder and rock, and for a moment thought the whole contraption was doomed. How high was he?
High enough…
The lift held. Once the initial blast had dissipated the violent swaying eased, settled into a gentle, horizontal, side-to-side bumping.
Moran lay on the platform and waited until the movement had eased to a point where he thought he might be able to stand and take stock. His hands grasped the platform’s flimsy walls, just steel netting stretched over thin, supporting rods. He pulled himself up and peered over the side.
The devastation below took him by surprise. The decking was matchwood, the lift’s survival presumably due to the strength of the steel base which supported it. The eco-house too was half-demolished; the glass wall lay in glittering shards among shredded woodwork and O’Shea’s personal belongings. Far off to the right he caught sight of Black’s shirt, ripped, reddened and blackened. The half-destroyed roof revealed Aine’s prone body, still lying where she had fallen.
Moran prayed and pressed the red button. If the electrics had been damaged he’d have no recourse except a risky descent; he’d have to shin down the lift’s scissor-frame, hope his strength would hold out and avoid any exposed high voltage cables on the way down.
The lift, however, obediently began a slow, if shaky, descent. Moran clung to the rail and tried to calm himself. His head was pounding and his hands shaking.
As he stepped off the platform his legs threatened to give way, but somehow they carried him automatically across the debris-strewn landscape and into the remains of O’Shea’s house.
A search of the room revealed Black’s satellite phone, secreted in an empty drawer along with a passport and some papers Moran didn’t bother looking at. There was something lying on the floor, next to Aine’s lifeless body. He bent and picked it up. Her photographs, fallen from her jeans pocket. He flicked through them; they were all of Caitlin. Here was the one she had showed him in the safe house. And another.
Wait. The background looked familiar. He studied the print. Thames House, surely? The photo had been taken on Lambeth Bridge, the unmistakeable bulk of MI5’s headquarters looming behind.
The penny dropped with an almost palpable clunk.
Moran shook his head in disbelief. How had he missed it? The answer came quickly.
Because she was damn good, Moran, you thick Irish clod. She had you fooled, and Black too.
But not her mother. Not her closest buddy…
Moran looked from the photograph to Aine’s pale face, back and forth, back and forth.
You knew, didn’t you? You ran because you didn’t want to compromise your daughter’s operation. Not because you thought Caitlin would be forced to commit an act of terror if her mother’s head was in Black’s noose…
Moran fiddled with the satellite phone. He figured out how to turn it on after a minute or so; it took a while to get through. But time was of no consequence now. What had happened, had happened.
‘Charlie? Yes, I’m all right. Listen, I’m sorry to have to tell you this…’
When he’d finished he threw the phone aside, went to the tattered sofa, sat down. Charlie had confirmed his theory: MI5 had caught a mole – an operational one at that, the most dangerous kind. So some good had come out of this after all.
Now there was no wall to hide it, he could see the sea directly ahead, the horizon a clear pencil line separating white-topped waves from grey-white sky.
And the lady was safe. The one who mattered. Moran repeated it over and over, taking the information in, rationalising everything, as he always did when … well, when things were over.
The ones who mattered.
But who mattered, really, in the end?
He got up, creaked over the boards, knelt down by Aine’s body. Took her hand. There was a lot of blood. But at least it would have been quick, no suffering.
She had tried to make amends the only way she could, and in doing so she had undoubtedly saved his life. Now he knew what had happened, all those years ago. He knew who was responsible. She’d made her last confession.
He found himself stroking her hand, trying to warm the cooling flesh. ‘It’s all right,’ he told her. ‘I forgive you.’
Tears stung his eyes, blurring his vision.
‘God help me,’ he said. ‘God help me, but I do. I really do forgive you.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
‘How was I supposed to know? Just tell me that.’
‘You couldn’t have known, Bola,’ Charlie said. ‘None of us could.’
‘I thought she had the trigger, that she was going to blow it–’
‘I’d have done the same, Bola. I wouldn’t have known either.’
‘If she’d just told me that she was trying to jam the signal–’
‘–then you wouldn’t have believed her. There was no time, Bola, no time.’
‘Tess was there. I mean, she was right there. If she hadn’t been there, then–’
Charlie nodded. ‘Yep, I know.’
Smoke was still rising from the crater outside the Craven Road entrance and a partial evacuation of the hospital was underway. The road was newly cordoned off by five squad cars, parked bumper-to-bumper across the junctions at each end. Eldon Road and London Road had been closed and hospital admissions transferred to the west entrance in Redlands Road.
A car was being waved through the cordon, a blue Lexus saloon.
The Lexus parked on the opposite pavement and a slim woman in a smart, charcoal business suit stepped out. Her hair was short, brunette, no make up. She looked up and down the road, beeped the car locked and walked towards them.
‘DI Pepper?’
‘Yes. Who wants to know?’
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Gilmore. Pleased to meet you at last.’ She extended a slim hand.
Charlie looked at it. Looked at Gilmore.
Gilmore dropped her hand.
‘You’re upset. I understand that.’
‘Upset? Upset doesn’t cover it.’
Gilmore touched her arm. ‘Can we go somewhere? Somewhere private?’
‘DC Odunsi comes with me.’ Charlie glanced at Bola. ‘If you want to, that is, DC Odunsi.’
‘You can brief me later, boss,’ Bola said, looking Gilmore up and down. ‘I’ll be with Tess.’
‘Of course.’ Gilmore nodded. ‘The gardens, then, perhaps, DI Pepper?’
Charlie nodded.
They crossed the strangely empty London Road and went into the memorial gardens. The square seemed sombre; borage weed was rampant and there were few perennials to lighten the impression of neglect. Gilmore perched herself on a bench and invited Charlie to join her on the peeling woodwork.
‘I’ll stand, thanks,’ Charlie said.
‘Very well.’ Gilmore joined her hands together. ‘The first thing is, you must realise that I wasn’t at liberty to impart any information which would be likely to compromise the operation.’
‘You could have said something. I didn’t need details. Just that there was something big going down. That’s all.’
‘I did make it very clear that we had everything covered, DI Pepper.’
Charlie said nothing. That was true, up to a point.
‘And you thought I was being obstructive, uncooperative. Isn’t that right?’ Gilmore’s tone was reasonable and measured.
<
br /> ‘If I’d known–’
‘–If you’d known, that would mean that I’d told you, which in turn would mean that sensitive information had been shared concerning a top secret operation, yes?’
Charlie fumed silently. She tore at a low-hanging branch, pulled a few leaves off.
‘You must see that it wasn’t within my remit to divulge such sensitive information.’
‘To hell with your bloody remit.’ Charlie waved her arm towards the hospital. ‘I have one of my best officers in there. She might die because of your sodding remit.’
‘I’ll thank you to keep your voice down, DI Pepper.’ Gilmore leaned forward. The senior officer’s eyes were clear, as was the translucent skin at her temples. Creaseless; no laughter lines. A career woman, as Charlie had guessed, married to the job. ‘The important things here are–’ Gilmore spread the fingers of her left hand and rapped her pinky with her right forefinger. ‘Number one. The Duchess is unharmed. Number two, we have caught a very dangerous mole, an on-the-ground operator who’d chucked in his chances with a terrorist organisation. He’d been on the highly suspect list for quite a while, and MI5 have gone to great lengths to expose him.’
‘Via Caitlin Hannigan.’ Charlie folded her arms.
‘Yes.’
‘Who was he? Is he?’ The question took Charlie by surprise. But it mattered, she realised; she wanted to know. She owed the team that much. She owed it to Tess.
‘A senior operative, sadly. One of our best. Money problems – he took a bribe.’ Gilmore reached into her pocket, produced a passport-size photograph, handed it to Charlie. ‘Keep it.’
Charlie examined the photograph. Young guy, mid-thirties. Good looking, in a rough sort of way. Nondescript, really. The type of bloke you passed every day in the shopping mall, down the pub, at the gym.
‘Caitlin put her neck on the line to catch him. We owe her a great deal.’
‘I arrested her, for God’s sake. I was going to charge her with murder.’
‘We had the situation under control. And we had faith in Ms Hannigan’s abilities. It’s not any Tom Dick or Harry who gets selected for her kind of deep cover work, I can tell you.’