‘Micky Geraghty’s girl?’
‘Yeah. She’s going to try to track down The Chinaman. Micky was going to do it but he’s got a broken leg, though from what Sean tells me she’s every bit as good. We’ll give her a go. While she’s trying I’ll have to stay here otherwise The Chinaman will just disappear, but if it doesn’t work then we’ll go back to Belfast and we’ll handle it in the city. OK?’
‘It’s your call, Liam,’ said Kavanagh.
‘You mean it’s me he’s after,’ said Hennessy. He smiled ruefully. ‘And you’re right, of course. Look, there’s nothing we can do here. I’m going back to bed and I suggest you do the same. I doubt if he’s going to do anything else tonight and there’s nothing we can do in the dark.’
‘I’ll wait here until the men’ve finished,’ said Kavanagh. Hennessy began walking back to the farmhouse. Kavanagh called after him and Liam turned round. ‘I’m sorry about all this,’ said Kavanagh.
‘Not your fault, Jim,’ said Hennessy. ‘And I didn’t mean to imply that it was. I’m just a bit tense, that’s all. This Chinaman is getting under my skin. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
He went into the kitchen and switched the light on. He poured himself a double whiskey and carried it upstairs to his bedroom. He hung his dressing-gown on the back of the bedroom door and placed the tumbler of whiskey on his bedside table. Jackie lay on the floor at the side of the bed. Hennessy was disappointed that she hadn’t welcomed him back with her normal tail-wagging and frantic licks. She was probably sulking because he’d kept her in the room. ‘Come on, Jackie,’ he said softly, and patted the bed. Mary didn’t allow the dog into the bedroom, least of all on the bed, but when she was away Hennessy reckoned that he should be allowed to give Jackie a treat. He patted the bed again and clicked his tongue, but still she ignored him. He went over to her and knelt down. ‘Come on, Jackie, old girl,’ he said, and stroked her neck. There was no reaction and Hennessy began to panic. He stood up and switched on the bedroom light and immediately saw that there was blood pooling around the dog’s neck. ‘Oh God, no,’ he groaned. He bent down to pick up the dog but as he did he realised that he was not alone in the room. In the gap between the large oak wardrobe and the wall he saw a pair of legs in baggy camouflage trousers and he looked up sharply.
‘You!’ he said.
Nguyen stepped forward out of the shadows. In his left hand he carried a gun which he pointed at the head of the kneeling man. In his right he held two wires between his fingers and around his neck was hanging what appeared to be a length of grey tubing. He’d used a length of insulation tape to suspend the tube so that it lay against his stomach. Various nails and screws had been stuck to the tube with more tape. To Hennessy it appeared that Nguyen had undergone a complete transformation. It wasn’t just the outfit, though the camouflage and the gun gave him a military appearance that was a far cry from the down-trodden Oriental who had turned up at his office, it was more a question of bearing, the way he carried himself. There was a new air of confidence about the man and for the first time Hennessy felt afraid. He looked down at Jackie and ran his hand along her fur.
‘You didn’t have to kill my dog,’ he said, shaking his head sadly.
‘He was barking.’
‘She. Not he. And you didn’t have to kill her.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Nguyen. He walked behind Hennessy and bolted the bedroom door. ‘Please sit in the chair.’ He pointed with the gun at a pink armchair in a corner away from the window. The curtains were closed but Nguyen didn’t want shadows to be seen by the men in the courtyard below. Hennessy stood up and slowly lowered himself into the chair. From where he was sitting he could see Jackie’s head, her eyes nothing more than milky orbs, her tongue hanging grotesquely from the side of her mouth.
‘Can I cover her?’ he asked Nguyen. Nguyen took the dressing-gown from the hook on the back of the door and draped it over the dog’s body.
‘What is it you want?’ asked Hennessy. He felt naked sitting in the chair wearing only his pyjamas.
‘You must talk quietly,’ said Nguyen. He nodded down at the tube on his chest and held up the hand which was holding the wires. ‘This is a bomb, the same type I used to destroy the car. If anyone comes into this room all I do is put the wires together. Then we all die.’ He held up the gun. ‘And I have this. If we talk quietly nobody will hear us. Do you understand.’
‘Yes,’ sighed Hennessy. ‘I understand. But what do you want to talk about?’
‘The names. I want the names.’
‘I cannot help you.’
‘You know that I am serious. You have seen what I can do.’
‘Yes.’ Hennessy looked down at the dead dog. ‘Yes, I know now what you can do.’
‘So you know that I can kill you? That I will kill you?’
‘Killing me will make no difference, no difference at all. You see, I have absolutely no idea who is behind the London bombings.’
Nguyen looked confused. ‘They are in the IRA?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I do not understand.’
Hennessy sighed because deep down he didn’t understand either. ‘I’ll try to explain,’ he said. ‘They’re saying that they are in the IRA, but I don’t know who they are. Nobody in the official IRA knows who they are. You must believe me, we don’t want to kill innocent citizens. I’m doing everything I can to find out who’s responsible.’
Nguyen walked from the wardrobe to the end of the bed and sat down, facing Hennessy. Hennessy could see light glistening on the sweat that covered the man’s hands. The wires that would set off the lethal package were less than two inches apart. Nguyen saw him looking at the wires and smiled. ‘Do not worry,’ he said. ‘It will only explode if I want it to explode.’
‘Killing me won’t get your family back,’ said Hennessy quietly.
‘I do not want to kill you, Mr Hennessy. But I cannot allow the men to be unpunished.’
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ sighed Hennessy.
‘The explosives the men use. Do they make their own?’
Hennessy shook his head. ‘They’ve been using our explosives. We have it stored in several places in Britain. It looks as if they’ve been stealing it.’
‘Semtex?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which sort? Semtex-H?’
‘Yes.’
‘It would be,’ said Nguyen. ‘Everything moves in circles.’
‘You know about Semtex?’
Nguyen smiled tightly. ‘I know about Semtex-H,’ he said. ‘Hexagen is added, that is where the H comes from. Very stable explosive, but very powerful, more powerful than TNT.’
Hennessy’s mouth dropped open. ‘How come you know so much about Semtex-H?’
‘I use many times in Vietnam.’
‘In Vietnam?’
‘You do not know your history, Mr Hennessy. Semtex-H was made for the Vietnamese during the war. It is our explosive. They made it for us, the Chax.’
‘Czechs, you mean. It was made in Czechoslovakia.’
‘Yes. The Czechs. They made it. Before, when the French were in Vietnam, then we used a French plastic explosive. When the French left we asked the Czechs to make same style for us. They made Semtex-H. Very good for making bombs and for traps. Many Americans were killed by Semtex-H. Now the IRA uses it to kill my family. That is, how do you say, ionic.’
‘Ironic,’ said Hennessy. ‘The word is ironic.’
‘Yes, it is ironic. Vietnamese explosive kills Vietnamese family.’
‘I am sorry about what happened to your family. But it is not my fault.’
Nguyen pointed the gun at Hennessy’s throat. ‘You will tell me who killed my family. You will tell me or you will die. And when you are dead I will go and ask someone else. I will find out eventually.’ He said the words in a cold, flat voice and Hennessy knew that he meant it. The gun was cocked and ready to fire and he saw Nguyen’s finger tighten on the trigger. Hennessy held up his hands as if
trying to ward off the bullet.
‘No!’ he said.
‘Then tell me,’ hissed Nguyen.
‘I don’t know,’ said Hennessy.
‘Then die,’ said Nguyen.
Hennessy turned his head away, his eyes tightly shut. ‘I don’t know but I’m trying to find out,’ he said, his voice shaking with fear.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve set a trap for them. If it works I’ll know who they are.’
‘When will you know?’
Hennessy stopped flinching from the gun, sensing that Nguyen was taking him seriously. Perhaps he had a chance after all. ‘When the next bomb goes off.’
‘What is your plan?’
‘When they claim responsibility for the bomb they give a codeword that tells the police that they are with the IRA. I have changed the codeword and the one that they use will tell me who has been helping them.’
‘And then what?’
‘We’ll give their names to the police. And they will end it.’
Nguyen thought about what Hennessy had told him, but the gun never wavered. Eventually he nodded to himself as if he had come to a decision.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will give you three days. In three days I will come back. But if you do not have the names by then, I will kill you.’
‘But what if they haven’t set off a bomb by then?’ protested Hennessy.
‘That is your problem,’ said Nguyen.
‘That’s not fair!’ protested Hennessy.
‘Fair? Nothing that has happened so far has been fair, Mr Hennessy.’ Nguyen stood up and backed to the door. He reached for the light switch and plunged the room into darkness.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Hennessy asked quietly.
‘You killed my family.’
‘There’s something else. Something you’re not telling me.’
Nguyen moved silently to the window and pulled back one of the curtains. There were only two men in the courtyard below. One was carrying two fire extinguishers, the other was rolling up a hosepipe. He heard the back door of the farmhouse slam shut. The two men in the courtyard walked over to the cottage and Nguyen let the curtain swing back into place.
‘I mean, I’ve lost relatives in the Troubles, my own brother-in-law was killed not so long ago. Almost everyone I know has had someone they know killed or maimed, but I’ve never met anyone who has taken it so . . . so personally . . . as you have.’
‘Perhaps if you did take it personally, the war in Ireland would not have dragged on for so long.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What are you fighting for?’
‘To get the British out of Ireland. To be allowed to live our own lives without prejudice or persecution.’
‘So why do your people not take up arms against the British and drive them from the country?’
‘Many do.’
‘But not enough. Not enough people care. Not enough take it personally. The Vietnamese fought the French until they left the country. And the Communists fought the Americans and the army of the South until the Americans left. They won because the desire to be one country was stronger than anything else. It seems to me that you will never force the British to leave Ireland. Not enough people care. You play at war.’
‘And you? Why are you doing this?’
Nguyen ignored him. He put his ear to the door and listened. He heard nothing. He turned to Hennessy. ‘I will go now. Do not shout, I still have the bomb and I will kill anyone who comes after me. I will be back in three days.’ He slipped the bolt back and opened the door, looked left and right down the corridor before easing himself out of the bedroom, keeping close to the wall. He went silently to the bathroom and put the gun in the rucksack and disconnected the wires before he stepped on to the toilet and climbed out of the window. He held the drainpipe and shinned down, taking care not to scrape his feet against the wall. When he reached the ground he pressed himself against the wall and checked out his surroundings. There was a lingering smell of burnt wood and scorched metal in the courtyard but there was no sound. He crept between the cars, keeping low, and made his way to the stables. Inside he heard the horses snorting and he wondered if they could sense that he was there. He heard footsteps by the cottage so he moved in the opposite direction and left the courtyard between the stables and the far end of the farmhouse.
Hennessy sat in the bedroom, slumped forward with his head in his hands. Part of him wanted to sound the alarm immediately but he knew that The Chinaman had meant what he’d said. He would use the gun and if that failed he would set off the bomb killing God knows how many. He gave him five minutes then switched on the light and went down to get Kavanagh who was stretched out on a sofa in the lounge. By the time Kavanagh had gone out to warn the men on guard duty Nguyen was long gone, slithering through the grass as silently as a snake.
O’Reilly caught the 10.33 a.m. train from Waterloo station and found himself a seat towards the front in a carriage full of men in morning suits and women in long dresses and expensive hats. Two of the couples in his compartment were obviously travelling together and one of the men had produced a bottle of champagne and four glasses and made a big show of opening it. Champagne sprayed out and as the man held it to one side it splashed over O’Reilly’s aluminium camera case.
‘Sorry old man,’ said the racegoer.
‘No problem,’ said O’Reilly. He looked out of the window as the train pulled out of the station. Ascot was forty minutes away so he settled back in his seat and let his mind drift. In the inside pocket of his blazer was a badge to get him into the Members’ Enclosure, which he’d bought from a ticket agency a week earlier. He’d wanted to get in on Ladies Day but hadn’t been able to get a ticket for Thursday and had settled for Tuesday instead. Tuesday or Thursday, it didn’t really matter, because a successful bombing at Royal Ascot would be news around the world.
The camera case at his feet was the sort professionals used to carry their equipment, about two-feet long, a foot wide and eighteen-inches deep, with a thick nylon carrying strap. The Bombmaker had stripped out the lining of the case and fitted slabs of Semtex, ten pounds in all, around the sides and the bottom. There were two detonators, each connected to a single timer made from a small electronic travel alarm. The alarm had been set for 2 p.m. and the bomb was armed. O’Reilly was tense but not over-anxious. He’d carried live bombs before and he had complete faith in The Bombmaker. The lining had been replaced over the explosive with alterations made where necessary, and it now contained two camera bodies, a selection of lenses, a light meter and boxes of film. Around his neck was a Nikon with a telephoto lens and a pair of binoculars in a leather case. Attached to the binoculars were a dozen or so badges from earlier race meetings and that, and the trilby hat, marked O’Reilly out as a regular racegoer and not just a social butterfly hoping for a glimpse of a famous face at Royal Ascot.
The train arrived at Ascot station at 11.15 a.m. and O’Reilly joined the crowds flocking to the racecourse. There were plenty of police around but most of them were wearing yellow reflective jackets and were directing traffic with bored faces and aching arms. O’Reilly stood with a group waiting to cross the road. A middle-aged man in a morning suit saw a gap in the traffic and started to cross but a young constable in the middle of the road shouted at him to get back. ‘Bollocks,’ muttered the man in the morning suit. He looked to be twice as old as the constable, a roughly hewn face and shoulders that strained at his jacket.
The policeman motioned at the traffic to keep moving and walked over to the man. ‘Have you got a problem?’ he asked, jutting his head forward, his cheeks reddening. He had a thin moustache and the manner of an adolescent with something to prove.
‘I think I’m old enough to cross the road on my own,’ said the man with barely restrained anger. He looked like a man more than capable of looking after himself in a fight and O’Reilly knew he’d be able to handle the copper with one hand.
‘T
hat’s not what I asked you. I want to know what you said.’ He was glaring at the man, his teeth clenched together and a vein was pulsing on the side of his forehead. O’Reilly wondered what his problem was because his reaction was out of all proportion to what the man had said.
‘Nothing,’ said the man through tight lips. ‘I didn’t say anything.’
The policeman stared hard at the man for several seconds and then nodded slowly as if satisfied. ‘Good,’ he said, then walked back into the road and continued directing traffic. The racegoer got a few sympathetic glances from pedestrians around him and he shook his head, exasperated. The Great British Bobby, thought O’Reilly. An angry young man with authority he couldn’t handle. It was something he’d grown up with in Ireland, where the Protestant police and the teenage British soldiers would exercise the power of their uniform just for the hell of it, just to feel good. He was used to being stopped on the street and given a hard time from RUC officers who didn’t say ‘sir’ and didn’t bother to keep their contempt out of their voices, and even as a schoolboy he’d been thrown against walls and roughly searched by gum-chewing soldiers in camouflage jackets. The abuse of authority was nothing new to O’Reilly, and it was with no small feeling of satisfaction that he now saw it spilling over to Britain.
Eventually the policeman held up his hand to stop the traffic and allowed them to cross. He seemed to be glaring at them all, as if blaming them for having to stand in the road.
Despite the strong police presence – there seemed to be hundreds organising the flow of coaches and cars into the carparks around the racecourse – O’Reilly saw no sniffer dogs at the entrance. There were two policemen there but they seemed to be more concerned about eyeing up two pretty blondes in white, figure-hugging dresses and floppy hats. The girls were twins, barely in their twenties, tanned and draped in gold. One of the policemen smiled and touched his helmet in salute. The girls smiled and giggled, and one of them looked back over her shoulder as they walked towards the grandstand.
A steward in a bowler hat squinted at O’Reilly’s badge and waved him through the gate and then another steward who looked about seventy years old asked if he’d mind opening up his case. The police stood watching the twins, their long, lithe legs moving with the grace of thoroughbred racehorses.
The Chinaman Page 25