Woman of State

by Simon Berthon

  ‘And the last,’ she interrupted, waving him away.

  He withdrew the case, took out a cigarette for himself and lit it. ‘There was also a further factor,’ Brooks resumed. ‘David was enjoying himself. If I’d tried to order him to leave, he would have ignored me. You were the greater siren.’

  ‘Not just me,’ she said. ‘He seemed to be interested in his studies. Even a bit obsessed at times.’

  ‘Yes, though I was never entirely sure I believed that,’ he replied, ‘particularly as he complained that I was not allowing him to undertake further intelligence forays against the Gang of Four. He could never know that I was getting everything I needed from Martin.’ Brooks sipped his drink, puffed from his cigarette and collected his thoughts. ‘But it was worth keeping Wallis in place for any endgame.’

  ‘You mean the disappearances of your so-called Gang of Four,’ said Anne-Marie.’

  ‘So you say,’ replied Brooks.

  ‘It gets worse and worse.’

  ‘The simple fact,’ continued Brooks, ‘was that Black, O’Donnell and Kennedy above all were obstacles in the way of peace. Threats to the security and stability of the state.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter – you were embarking on state murder.’

  ‘That will remain for ever unproved. All we know is that two of those men disappeared.’

  An understanding was dawning on Anne-Marie. For the moment, she kept it to herself, allowing Brooks to continue.

  ‘By spring 1994 there was only Joseph Kennedy left and Martin McCartney to be extricated. But there was a difficulty. DCI Carne saw it but he was looking through the wrong end of the lens. Rather than Martin insisting on being joined to Joseph’s hip because he suspected him of being the mole, it was Joseph who was chaining himself to Martin. After Black and O’Donnell’s disappearances, his suspicions of Martin resurfaced. Somehow we had to rescue Martin while also eliminating Joseph as a threat. So, yes, on that night at the Black Brimmer, we did indeed have two agents working for us. David Wallis concealed in the hedgerow, watching out and giving us the signal to move, and Martin McCartney.

  ‘As arranged, Martin managed to break off to cross the road to relieve himself in the hedgerow. When he began zipping up his trousers, Wallis – he was a remarkable operator to be able to lie so close without being observed – transmitted the signal. However, Martin then delayed for fifteen seconds before moving out slowly. At the precise moment he reached the middle of the road, the SUV stopped by him, bundled him inside, giving the appearance of an abduction, and made off.’

  ‘What about David?’ she asked. ‘Why did the SUV not stop to pick him up when he was by the road trying to stop it? That must have been the plan he’d been given?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Brooks. ‘Tragically, that was the element that went wrong. By then Kennedy and his friends had started firing. It was too dangerous to stop. The SUV had to accelerate away. There was every reason to assume that Wallis was too good an operator to get caught and would manage his escape to a safe hiding place.’

  ‘But he didn’t, did he?’

  ‘No. Unfortunately, the SUV appears to have clipped his leg, slowing him down. His captors were able to make ground towards him and further slow him by firing at his legs. This accounts for the mark on his femur.’ He paused. ‘And that’s it. Everything. As to what transpired later, it rather seems you know more than we do.’

  His performance over, Brooks subsided into his armchair. There was a prolonged silence, his words stifling the room.

  ‘It’s plausible,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ Brooks said it as if she had committed some sort of social faux-pas.

  ‘I said congratulations. It’s clever.’

  ‘What do you mean, Maire?’ asked Martin. ‘It all happened like Jimmy says. Not that I’m proud of it, running away like that. But it’s the way it was.’

  ‘It’s all right, Martin,’ said Anne-Marie, ‘they’d never have told you this part of it.’

  ‘You’re speaking in riddles, Maire,’ said Brooks.

  ‘The car bumping into David, failing to stop for him. It doesn’t ring true. A few minutes ago, while you were spinning your story, I realized why you were lying.’

  ‘Spinning? I’m afraid you’re losing me totally now,’ said Brooks.

  ‘Oh, I doubt that. I suspect Joseph Kennedy eventually realized it too. He must have seen close up what happened but didn’t immediately understand its meaning or importance. He simply assumed Wallis’s capture was an accident of war, something that went wrong. But as he constantly revisited it, the truth finally hit him. What happened to David that night was not something that went wrong, but something that went right.’

  CHAPTER 34

  She expected Brooks to interrupt or object. Instead he stayed silent, his eyes betraying a war weariness.

  ‘Joseph worked it out,’ she continued ‘The only explanation that made sense of the SUV’s course and speed was that British intelligence made a deliberate decision to feed one of its agents to the enemy. They did it in the certain knowledge that this would lead to his death. Chief Inspector Carne got it the wrong way round. It wasn’t Joseph Kennedy who was thrown to the IRA wolves, but David Wallis.’

  Brooks took the handkerchief from his breast pocket, unfolded it, wiped his lips, refolded the handkerchief and restored it to the pocket. ‘Why in a million years would we do a thing like that to a brave young man like David?’

  ‘Because he had the proof, didn’t he?’ Brooks stayed silent. ‘He was part of the assassination squad, or whatever you care to call it, wasn’t he?’ she continued. Again there was no reply. ‘As you yourself were, too, no doubt.’

  ‘I admired him,’ said Brooks softly. ‘Perhaps like you, I even loved him. Differently, of course, but just as sincerely, I hope. He was a magnetic, and magnificent, young man.’

  ‘Yes, why is it we so often end up destroying those we love? You feared that you were losing him. His conscience was making him go soft. Turning him into a maverick agent. One who might expose the whole, dirty operation and ruin you in the process. Perhaps he even wanted revenge on you personally for what you had done to him.’

  Brooks, for once, looked bereft, quivering. Theatrically, he affected to wipe a tear from his eye. ‘At every point, I gave him the opportunities to do what he wanted. What he wanted,’ he repeated, ‘not I.’

  ‘But he turned out to be not just magnetic but a good man,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘A better man than you ever understood. That was your problem.’

  ‘No, the problem was you.’

  ‘Me!’

  ‘Yes, he made the ultimate mistake. The boy fell in love. And with the wrong sort of person. In the battle between duty and love, man’s enemy since the dawn of history, he allowed himself to go soft.’

  Brooks stubbed out his cigarette, rose heavily from his chair, walked over to a filing cabinet, knelt to open it and drew out a file. Still with his back to them, he stood erect, straightened his tie, stroked his moustache, and turned round to hand her a sheet of paper, its edges tinged by the pale brown of age.

  ‘It’s the transcript of his final recording. He made it two days before he was captured. I kept it back from the file. You will understand why. I offer it to you, and you only, as an explanation.’

  21 April 1994

  Jimmy says this is the last one. Will it be? Once you enter the cesspit, there’s always one more stinking piece of dung to be rid of. So, Jimmy, this is from me to you.

  You say my conscience can be clean because of our agreement that her brother is to be taken alive. You say you still win because his capture will mean their failure. Even that by living he is seen to have lost – so win–win for you. Do I believe you? Am I sure his life will be spared? Or are you just playing another of your games? Once I believed in a simple world. Right was right, wrong was wrong. It didn’t matter how right was achieved. As long as it was.

  Now softness has penetrated
me. I know what it feels like. It’s the chill Irish damp from their misty hills. Did you understand when you invented your operation what the consequences might be? Or did you think my heart was so hardened that it could no longer feel? Perhaps you thought she was just some slut. Nothing more than an inanimate tool. There to be exploited. Yet you must have seen her. You described her to me. Not very nicely as I remember. So you knew she is lovely. And that she’s breakable. There can be no victory. If you allow the brother to live, he becomes the convenient hate figure. The so-called peacemakers can unite to condemn him. The cynicism of the calculators.

  Perhaps then it is better that he should die. Better that you and I carry the guilt of our actions. Better she can be left to grieve. I will do what you call my ‘duty’ this one last time. Then I will retire. Perhaps I’ll become a country lawyer with a loving wife and respectful children. My God, the sickness of the joke makes me want to retch. When we meet again, it will be in hell. The Devil willing.

  She read it once, then again and, finally, a third time. He stretched out his hand, she hesitated.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I must have it back.’

  ‘Yes, of course. It does you no favours.’

  ‘No, Maire, it does him no favours. It shows he was going rogue.’

  She returned it. ‘If he’d told me, I could have stopped him.’

  ‘No,’ said Brooks sharply. ‘He would have finished the job. Whatever the inner torture – whatever mad thing he might have done had he survived – he could not duck out. It would have been cowardice.’

  ‘It would have been bravery.’

  ‘The sighting of doom does not stop a soldier marching towards it.’

  ‘And you knew that because you had organized his doom.’

  ‘What would you have done? Imagine you were the Minister then, in charge of safeguarding your country. What comes first? The peaceful future of your nation? Or one man’s life? When he first joined the army, David knew the deal. He assumed he would die on a distant battlefield. Instead he died out of uniform nearer home. But he was still serving the same state.’

  ‘The state that killed him.’

  ‘That is your supposition.’

  Brooks stood up to make a show of addressing her formally. ‘Let us stick with the facts. Black and O’Donnell disappeared, there is no proof they are dead, let alone murdered. Joseph Kennedy was branded an informer by his own side, drummed out of his country by them, and finally died a lonely death from cancer. David Wallis was an unfortunate casualty of an otherwise successful operation. Martin McCartney was extricated from danger and is owed a debt of gratitude by the British, and Irish, people.’ He paused to peer down at her like a bishop dispensing a blessing. ‘And Martin’s sister, now Anne-Marie Gallagher, became a successful lawyer and has a glittering political career in front of her.’ Brooks smiled at the brother and sister in front of him.

  She did not return it. ‘You can get away with the past, but not the present. Joseph Kennedy was murdered. I am the witness who can prove it.’

  ‘Let me tell you something about Joseph Kennedy,’ said Brooks, steel in his voice. ‘Joseph Kennedy was a dangerous man, a fanatic. You don’t think he and his lot have given up, do you? Why did he make contact with you?’

  ‘Because he wanted the truth to come out.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Brooks almost shouted, ‘he wanted to get his claws into you. Just like 1991. To pump you up, activate you. He’d done it once, he could do it again. That was what his so-called truth was all about. Just another way of damaging the nation he hated. And you would be his instrument. He’d have probably ended up giving you a gun to shoot the Prime Minister.’

  ‘You’re being absurd.’

  ‘No, Maire. Don’t you get it? Joseph Kennedy was killed to protect you, for God’s sake.’ He hesitated, the gambler deciding whether or not to go all in. ‘Let me tell you something else. Ever since that night, you’ve been under constant MI5 surveillance. Your whole life has been lived under a microscope.’

  ‘You’re trying to frighten me.’

  ‘And the reason is Joseph Kennedy. Who would be the one person he’d try to contact if he ever saw an opportunity to make trouble? Maire McCartney, of course. You were the potential pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. How he must have celebrated when he saw you infiltrating, to use his words, the British state.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘And in return that British state has protected you, nurtured you, established you as Anne-Marie Gallagher, a brilliant woman of humble origin and impeccable background, not a blemish on her record.’

  ‘Are you threatening me now, Jimmy?’ She made it sound like a gentle enquiry after his health.

  ‘I would never threaten you. I just want to look after you. And you to look after yourself.’

  They had both shot their bolts, there was nothing left to say. Martin broke the silence. ‘What are you going to do, Maire?’

  ‘One thing I’d like to do is see you again, Martin.’

  ‘I can’t, Maire,’ he replied softly.

  ‘Where are you living? What are you doing?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that either.’ He forced a smile and hugged her. ‘It was the choice I made. I always knew when it was all over, if I made it through alive, I could never be me again. That’s the sacrifice. Friends, comrades, family, you give them all up.’

  ‘Are you happy?’

  ‘I’m happy to see you succeed.’

  They stood up and she went over and hugged him hard, then pulled away, held his face between her two hands and kissed his forehead. She nodded cursorily at Brooks. He took the hint and left the room.

  ‘What do you want of me, Martin?’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s your destiny, not mine,’ he said. ‘Remember what I once said. It never goes away. What you’re born to. It’s always there.’

  She broke away and headed for the door. Brooks was waiting for her in the hallway.

  ‘Don’t go just yet. Come for a walk in the garden.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Is this another of your tricks, Jimmy?’

  ‘No. I have a proposition. Given what you seem determined to do, you owe it to David and yourself to allow me to lay it before you.’

  Half an hour later, after a walk around the flowerbeds and among the gravestones of Old Witham Church, Anne-Marie and Brooks reappeared in the driveway. Carne and Hinds were sitting on the bonnet of her ministerial car.

  ‘I’ll go back with him, Keith, sorry to keep you,’ she said and walked towards Carne’s car.

  ‘Early start tomorrow, Minister, 7 a.m. I’ll be there,’ Hinds said to her retreating back. She did not look round.

  They drove down the lane, through the town and onto the main road in silence. A few miles out Carne pulled into a lay-by.

  ‘Did it work OK?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so,’ she replied. ‘I switched it on in the toilet.’ She unbuckled her trouser belt. ‘Look away.’ She slid down the top of her trousers, removed the belt and the pouch strapped to her crotch and handed it over to him. He took a small silver recorder from inside, wound it back and played a few sentences from the conversation. Then she told him, uncensored, everything of the conversations in the house.

  ‘I should have thought of Martin,’ said Carne. ‘Too fixated on Joseph.’

  ‘How could you have?’ She examined his profile, flickering from the shafts of evening sun breaking through the roadside trees. ‘I never gave you the evidence you needed. Not all of it, anyway.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That terrible thing I did was too much.’

  ‘Yes.’ He said it dully, conveying no meaning. She had reached the end. The something she had withheld for so long was not a mere embarrassment or awkwardness: it was truly dreadful. A shame that must have blighted her adult life – but one she had been strong enough to cope with. Battered further by the later misfortunes for which she was blameless, she must have forced her
self to banish self-pity and forge an underlying ruthlessness. She was a complexity that he had never before come near to experiencing.

  She knew he was thinking of how, even once and in different times, she could commit such an act. ‘I didn’t believe they were going to kill him. Joseph promised me.’ She was almost pleading.

  ‘It always comes back to Joseph,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, that’s just what Martin said. I felt disgust at what I’d done. Not guilt so much, more a recurring nausea. And, you being a policeman, I’ve sometimes wanted to bury myself.’ She breathed deeply. ‘I would understand if you can no longer be my friend.’

  Hearing her words, that instinct he had come to feel so forcefully reared up at him. He must not lose her friendship; he must not lose her. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said at last.

  ‘We can say that about everything, can’t we?’

  ‘Except the murder of Joseph.’

  ‘Yes, the circle closes with Joseph.’

  She wanted to stroke his cheek with her hand but realized it was too much. He seemed to concentrate with a new ferocity on the road ahead.

  ‘What now?’ she asked.

  ‘Go back, I guess.’ He sounded rueful. ‘All avenues closed except the road leading to home.’

  ‘You could return to London.’

  ‘And rejoin the Met? I can’t.’ He hesitated.

  ‘Why not?’ She frowned.

  ‘Not now.’ He sounded almost brusque. ‘Anyway, you could come home, too. Do the reverse escape.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing the place again. But a day or two’s enough. Then I’d be going mad.’

  He was silent for a few seconds. ‘I’ll take you up on the day or two,’ he said softly. ‘Be your guide.’

  His eye was caught by flashing in his rear mirror. ‘Hold on.’

  A grey SUV was on his tail, headlights flashing on and off. Instinctively he knew it was the car that had turned into Witham Lane a few hours earlier with the covert backups. He accelerated. It speeded up with him. He slowed, and it followed again. To make sure, he put his foot down. They were on a short roller-coaster of road cutting through Savernake Forest, which evened out into a series of sharp bends. Sixty, seventy, eighty miles an hour, the SUV kept pace. He was thankful she was at his side, as they must know. For once, she was his protection. He slowed, the SUV still tucked in behind him. Finally he pulled over onto the verge and stopped. The SUV accelerated, lowering black blinds over its nearside windows as it passed them.