‘Woody, someone’s been pulling your chain!’
Woody explained about the Home Office file and Nguyen’s life story. When he’d finished, Simpson picked up a ballpoint pen and began chewing the end. ‘So what are you suggesting, Woody?’
‘Let me go to Belfast and sniff around.’
‘Expensive,’ said Simpson.
‘If the paper’ll pay for my flight and cover my expenses, I’ll take the fee as lineage. No story, no payment.’ Simpson agreed. ‘But if I get a splash, I want serious money. You’ll have the best exclusive this year.’
‘If you’re right.’
‘If I’m right. Is it a deal?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got a better idea, a better deal.’
‘What?’ said Woody, warily.
Simpson reached for a letter on his desk and handed it to Woody.
‘We’ve been invited to a conference in Rome. A security conference. All the top guys are going to be there, including David Tucker, the head of Scotland Yard’s Anti-Terrorist Branch and a couple of MPs. Some of Europe’s top terrorist experts are going to be speaking. It’s supposed to be about computerised intelligence systems, but we’ve been tipped off that they’re going to announce a new international database to help in the hunt for terrorists worldwide.’
‘Government tip?’ asked Woody.
Simpson grinned. ‘Who else? We might show a fair bit of tits and bums but politically we’re right behind the Government, and we’ve got several million readers. The Government wants a big show from this conference, so a few select newspapers have been invited along. They’re offering to fly us out on a chartered flight with some of the speakers, all we have to do is cover expenses.’
‘And report the Government line.’
‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Woody,’ replied Simpson.
‘Perish the thought,’ said Woody. He waved the letter. ‘You want me to go to this? You know the flight is tonight?’
‘Yeah I know. We were sitting on it but in view of what happened at Ascot, we’d be crazy to turn it down. I was thinking about sending Williams but he’s gone down with the flu. You’ll get a bloody good story out of the conference, and you’re sure to pick up some juicy stuff behind the scenes. And while you’re there you can pick their brains about what’s going on in Belfast. I’d be amazed if they hadn’t heard something.’
Woody nodded his head thoughtfully. It made good sense. ‘And what about me going to Belfast?’
‘Fly straight there from Rome when the conference is over. We’ll fix up the ticket for you. Can you fly direct?’
‘I dunno, I’ll find out. So it’s a deal?’
‘It’s a deal, Woody. Just one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Keep off the sauce.’
‘You know me,’ said Woody, heading back to his desk.
‘Yeah,’ muttered Simpson. ‘Too true I do.’
Woody went back to his desk just in time to answer his phone. It was Maggie. ‘Hello, Woody. Do you fancy a drink some time tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘I can’t, I’m afraid. I’m off to Rome tonight. You must be psychic, I’ve only just been told.’
‘What time are you going?’
He looked at the letter. ‘Eight thirty, so I’ll have to get to the airport about seven, I suppose. And then I’m going to Belfast.’
‘Belfast?’ she said. Woody explained briefly about the conversation he’d had with Pat Quigley.
‘Wow, so you’re going after The Chinaman? Hey, if you need any help while you’re over there, you should call my cousin, he’s a freelance journalist there. God, it’s quite a coincidence, he was in London a couple of weeks ago.’
‘In Belfast? What’s his name?’
‘Eamonn McCormick, do you know him?’
‘No, but it’d be useful to meet up with him. I’ll need some help while I’m there. I should even be able to put some money his way, too.’ It would be best to keep out of Pat Quigley’s way when he arrived in Belfast so another contact would be useful.
‘Great. He left some stuff with me. You could give it to him when you see him. He’s a really nice guy, you’ll like him. Look, I tell you what, why don’t I pop round and give it to you tonight, before you leave?’
‘Lunch would be better.’ Woody looked at his watch. It was 11.30 a.m.
‘I can’t, I’m tied up. Why don’t I come round to your house? Give me the address.’
Woody gave her the address of his bedsit in Fulham.
‘What time did you say the flight was again?’
‘Eight thirty. It’s a special Government charter, high security and all that. I mustn’t be late. I’ll have to leave the flat by five thirty, just to be on the safe side.’
‘That’s OK, I’ll come round about four thirty, maybe five.’
‘Aren’t you working?’ he asked.
‘I’m supposed to be visiting clients so it’s no problem. I might have to sell you an insurance policy, though.’
‘With my lifestyle, I don’t think I could afford the premiums.’ He laughed and they said their goodbyes. Woody smiled as he replaced the receiver. Maggie was great fun and he was looking forward to seeing her again, even though it was likely to be a fleeting visit. He had yet to get beyond the kiss-on-the-cheek stage, but he lived in hope.
Morrison stood by a window in one of the front-facing bedrooms looking down the track that led to the road. It was just before noon. He saw McGrath’s Volvo estate with four men in it and he ran to the door. ‘He’s coming,’ he shouted downstairs and then rushed back to his vantage point.
Two of Hennessy’s men walked towards the car and flagged it down, checking the occupants. Morrison saw the rear window being wound down and then the glint of sunlight off McGrath’s glasses. He felt his heartbeat increase and his mouth went dry and he recognised the signs of his body preparing itself for violence. It had been four years since Morrison had killed a man, and then it had been in the heat of a fire-fight at the border near Crossmaglen, but the deaths he was responsible for caused him not one night’s lost sleep and he was quite prepared to kill again. He had made the mental switch many years earlier, suppressed the values he’d been taught by the priests and by his teachers at school in favour of the creed of the political terrorist, that violence was justified in the quest for self-determination. When Morrison finally met his maker he would do so with a clear conscience and an untarnished soul, he was sure of that. The death of McGrath, if Hennessy ordered it, would be an added bonus and would go some way to quenching the jealous fire that burned through his mind. As he watched the Volvo bounce down the track and slow to crawl around the filled-in hole that marked the scene of the earlier bombing, images of McGrath and Mary filled his mind again, the two of them naked, enjoying each other, her arching her back and calling out his name.
‘Are you OK?’ asked a voice behind him, and he turned to see Murphy standing by the door, a large automatic in his hand.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. Morrison was no longer sure how to react to Murphy. They had never been especially close. They were about the same age yet Morrison had gone much further in the organisation, taking a great deal of responsibility at an early age, while Murphy had remained as little more than a bodyguard. Morrison often felt that Murphy begrudged Morrison the access he had to Hennessy and to the other top IRA officials, but now he had something on which to pin his envy. He would never forgive Morrison’s betrayal of his employer, and Morrison would forever have to watch his back when the man was around.
Murphy looked at Morrison for a second or two with cold eyes and then nodded, just once. ‘Liam says he wants us downstairs, in the lounge,’ he said.
Morrison followed him down the stairs where Hennessy was waiting for them. He took them into the lounge and showed them where he wanted them to stand, just behind the door. The lights were switched on because he’d drawn the curtains so that no one could look in from the courtyard.
‘I’ll l
ead him in, you close the door behind him,’ Hennessy said. ‘He doesn’t normally carry a gun, but I want you to frisk him, and don’t be gentle with him. I want him off balance, disorientated, OK?’
The two men nodded.
‘If I say hit him, hit him. If I say shoot him in the knee, you do it. No hesitation, no argument. He must know that I am totally serious and that if he doesn’t co-operate he will be killed.’
‘And will he?’ Morrison asked.
‘Oh yes, Sean. Quite definitely. But we both know that anybody can be made to talk eventually, don’t we? Every man has his breaking point. And McGrath is used to giving pain, not receiving it. I think that the mere threat of violence will be enough, but if it isn’t he must have no doubt that I mean what I say.’
They heard the Volvo drive into the courtyard. ‘Right, I’ll bring him in,’ said Hennessy and left them. The two men avoided looking at each other and Morrison wondered if Murphy had already been told what Hennessy had planned for him, and if those plans included a bullet in the back of the neck. He shrugged off the morbid thoughts, knowing that there was no point in dwelling on them. Whatever his fate, there was nowhere he could run, Hennessy would have the full backing of the IRA High Command. Morrison was just one man. That thought brought The Chinaman to mind, one man who was taking on the organisation, and who had so far come out on top. He wondered how Kerry was getting on. There were voices in the corridor and then McGrath entered the room, closely followed by Hennessy.
‘This is hellish short notice, Liam. When will the rest be getting here?’ McGrath said as Hennessy closed the door.
Morrison stepped up behind McGrath and pressed his gun against the man’s neck.
‘Don’t make a sound, Hugh. Don’t say a word,’ said Hennessy.
Morrison moved round in front of McGrath, keeping his gun against his throat, pushing hard so that his head was forced back. Murphy went behind McGrath and kicked his legs apart and then roughly searched him, going through all his pockets and then slapping down his legs and his arms.
‘He’s clean,’ said Murphy.
‘Now listen to me, Hugh, and listen good. We’re going to walk through into the kitchen and we’ll stand at the back door. You’re going to tell your men that you’ll be staying the night and that you’ll be going up to Belfast with me tomorrow. Then you and I are going to come back here and have a wee chat. If you try to warn them, they’ll be shot. If you try to run we’ll shoot you in the legs and then we’ll bring you back here and we’ll still have a chat, except this time you’ll be in a lot of pain. Whatever you do, it’s going to end the same way. Do you get my drift?’
‘Have you lost your mind?’ hissed McGrath.
‘No,’ said Hennessy levelly. ‘I’ve lost my wife.’
‘Is that what this is about? Mary? I don’t fucking believe it. I don’t know what you’re playing at but there’ll be all hell to pay when Dublin finds out about this.’
Morrison pushed the gun hard into McGrath’s throat and made him wince.
‘Once your men have gone you can call Dublin and you can speak to whoever you want. But it should be obvious to you that I wouldn’t be doing this without their approval. And I’d better warn you, Hugh, they’ve given me carte blanche. Now, are you ready to speak to your men?’
McGrath glared at Hennessy as if about to refuse but suddenly the fight seemed to go out of him and he agreed.
Morrison slid his gun into the pocket of his bomber jacket, making sure that McGrath saw what he was doing. Hennessy opened the door and led the way. Morrison pushed McGrath ahead of him and Murphy fell in behind, his gun held behind his back. They went through the kitchen in single file and Hennessy unlatched the door. McGrath’s driver and two bodyguards were in the car, laughing at something. Beyond the car, McGrath saw two of Hennessy’s men carrying broken shotguns.
He and Hennessy walked over to the car while Morrison and Murphy remained in the doorway. The window wound down and McGrath put his hand on the roof of the car and dipped his head.
‘I’m going to stay over with Liam, and we’ll be going up to Belfast tomorrow. You lads can go back to the farm, I’ll call you when I get back.’ His voice sounded to Hennessy as if it was about to break up but his men didn’t appear to notice that there was anything amiss. They asked him if he was sure, McGrath insisted, and they started up the car and drove out of the courtyard. Morrison stepped out of the kitchen and around McGrath, shepherding him back inside. Murphy took off McGrath’s glasses and threw them on the ground. He stamped on them, grinding the pieces into the ground with his boots, then followed him down the hallway, pushing him roughly in the back.
McGrath tried to talk to Hennessy as the group moved back into the lounge but he was ignored. Morrison recognised the technique of sapping the man’s confidence to make him more susceptible to questioning. He took a wooden chair from the kitchen and placed it in front of the fire, facing Hennessy’s favourite easy chair. Morrison and Murphy shoved McGrath on to the chair and then stood behind him. He began to turn round but before he did Murphy clipped him a glancing blow with the barrel of his gun. McGrath yelped involuntarily and put his hand to the side of his head. It came away bloody.
‘Liam, what the fuck do you want?’ He squinted over at Hennessy, trying to focus. The tinted glasses weren’t just for show, McGrath was also quite short-sighted.
Hennessy ignored him and went over to the window. He untied two thick cords which were used for holding back the curtains, and he threw them over to Morrison. ‘Tie his hands behind him, and tie his legs to the chair,’ he said. Morrison did as he was told while Murphy held his gun against the back of McGrath’s head. Hennessy sat down in his armchair.
‘Is this about Mary?’ asked McGrath. ‘Is that what that line about losing your wife was about? You’re not losing her, Liam. She’ll never leave you, she made that clear right from the start.’
Anger flared inside Morrison and he stepped forward and smashed his gun across McGrath’s face. It cut deep into his cheek and blood spattered across the carpet as Morrison raised his gun again.
‘No!’ shouted Hennessy. ‘Leave him be.’
Morrison let the gun hang by his side. He was breathing heavily, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
‘We know what you’re fucking angry at, don’t we, Morrison?’ taunted McGrath. Morrison whirled around and slapped him across the face so hard that McGrath keeled over, taking the chair with him and slamming into the floor.
‘Sean!’ said Hennessy. ‘You do that again and there’ll be hell to pay. Get him up.’
Morrison pulled McGrath and the chair back upright. McGrath was dazed and he spat blood on to the floor, groaning and shaking his head.
Hennessy waited until McGrath seemed to regain his senses before speaking again. ‘This is not about Mary, Hugh. Or at least not in the way you mean. It’s about the bombings. The London bombings.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said McGrath.
‘Hit him,’ Hennessy said to Murphy, and Murphy smacked his gun across McGrath’s head.
‘This is me asking you nicely,’ said Hennessy. ‘In a while I’m going to stop asking you nicely and Sean here is going to blow one of your kneecaps off. He’s good at that, is Sean. He’s done quite a bit of kneecapping in the past, though sometimes I think he’s forgotten where his roots lie. But kneecapping is a bit like riding a bike, once you’ve got the hang of it you never lose it. And I think we both know that Sean might have personal reasons for enjoying putting a bullet or two in you. In fact, I might have trouble persuading him to keep his aim low. You get my drift, Hugh?’
‘Yes, Liam. I get your drift,’ mumbled McGrath. He seemed to have difficulty moving his lips, and there was blood trickling down his chin. Morrison realised then what a devious, cunning bastard Hennessy was. McGrath was frightened, not just because of the threat of torture, but because he was being put in the hands of the man he’d betrayed most in all the world, the one man who really wan
ted to kill him with his bare hands, to tear him apart and to eat his raw flesh. McGrath could see the bloodlust in Morrison’s eyes and it was infinitely more terrifying than Hennessy’s threats. Morrison was being used by Hennessy almost as cynically as he’d been used by Mary. He knew that, but at the same time he didn’t care. He just wanted to see McGrath in pain, and he hoped with all his heart that he’d refuse to answer Hennessy’s questions.
‘What is it you want to know?’ McGrath asked quietly.
‘You are behind the bombings?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think it’s the only way to defeat the British.’
‘There’s more to it than that. There must be.’
McGrath shook his head.
‘Where did you get the people from?’
‘A couple from Scotland, two from Southern Ireland. I got to them before they joined the organisation, told them there was more they could do for the Cause by working directly for me. I sent them to Libya for training, then sent them to London to establish cover stories, to blend into the community.’
‘Where did the money come from? You couldn’t touch IRA funds without it being noticed.’
‘I used my own money.’
‘Very noble of you. Hit him, Christy.’ The gun smashed into the back of McGrath’s head again and he moaned and sagged in the chair. Murphy seized him by the hair and pulled his head back. ‘Where did the money come from, Hugh?’ said Hennessy. ‘I’m about to stop asking nicely.’
‘Some of it from Libya,’ said McGrath. ‘But most of it came from the Iraqis. They channelled the money through Libya.’
‘You took money from the fucking Iraqis?’
‘It’s not where the money comes from that counts, it’s what we do with it. You know that.’
‘How much did they pay you?’ asked Hennessy.
‘I don’t know, it was . . .’
‘Shoot him, Sean,’ said Hennessy quietly.
‘No!’ screamed McGrath. ‘For the love of God, no. Two million. That’s what they paid. Two million pounds.’ Morrison squatted down and pressed the barrel of his gun behind McGrath’s left kneecap. ‘Get him away, for God’s sake get him away.’ He was screaming and crying and straining against the cords.
The Chinaman Page 31