by Roger Pearce
‘What’s your answer?’
‘You’ve heard the reports, same as me. Every fucker’s denying it here and across the water.’
‘Tommy, I’m being friendly. The politics of this are incredibly sensitive.’
‘For London, yeah. I bet they are. For the British fucking government.’
‘And?’
‘The Real IRA has never put its weapons beyond use.’ Molloy tapped Bannerman’s knee. ‘You can tell them this. The day we resume hostilities against England no-one will have any doubt.’
Bannerman glanced at the girl, as if Molloy was already a lost cause, but she stared back, unblinking. ‘I’m simply asking, did that happen on Monday and I missed something?’
‘And if we did?’
Bannerman steepled his fingers, a tutor marking down his dullest student. ‘There would be serious repercussions, naturally.’
Molloy gave a loose, phlegmy laugh, then coughed loudly. ‘Your English soldiers coming back for another fight, you mean. Is that what they sent you to tell me?’ He looked at the woman, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘You really want another bloody nose like last time? What a joke.’
‘It’s more than that, Tommy. It’s Brexit. How many millions does the European Union dump into Northern Ireland? No idea? It’s about one forty, give or take. But Europe’s bleeding hearts will soon be scuttling back to Brussels, taking their moolah with them. So it comes down to this. If you’ve been up to your old tricks, power-sharing will collapse. That’s a stone bonker, believe me. And if the protestants walk from Stormont, Westminster is not going to pick up the tab.’
‘And that’s supposed to scare me?’
The spook observed Molloy for a moment, searching in vain for similarities with his uncle. In his long career Bannerman had encountered many psychopaths around the world, and this slab-faced bully boy who had shot, bludgeoned and terrorised his way to the top of the dung heap was no different from the rest. Released from the stifling anxiety beneath the hood, Bannerman felt a sudden rush of temper. ‘No. Of course. Men like you don’t do “scared,” do they?’ He uncrossed his legs and lurched forward so violently that one of the springs gave way. The words came in a flood, a storm drain channelling a declaration of war. ‘You have a lot of soldiers on the run, Tommy. OTRs. Twenty? Thirty? If it turns out these attacks are down to you, we will take active steps against them. That’s a sacred promise. In secret, anywhere in the world, until the end of time. No more amnesties, no more secret deals with bombers and murderers. Understood? No more get-out-of-jail-free cards. Let the bastards rot.’ Suddenly the woman’s chair crashed back as she turned and left the room without a word. Bannerman clocked her bag on the floor and lasered back on Molloy.
‘You’ll never be able to…’
‘Shut up. I haven’t finished. And guess what? The drugs trade in Belfast suddenly becomes the number one police priority. Overnight.’ Penny’s voice was inside his head, but the drip, drip of her words of caution had evaporated with his fear. ‘Heavy jail penalties for traffickers, keeping our brightest youngsters safe from criminals like you. How does that sound? And if you’re still into the red diesel scams, forget it.’
Molloy’s head swayed from side to side, the eyes locked on Bannerman’s.
‘That’s the message, Tommy. It’s what my masters are telling me to say.’
‘Their English lickspittle.’ He glanced at the handkerchief flopping from Bannerman’s sleeve. ‘They send a man like you to intimidate me?’
‘Dress it up how you like. I’ve been around a long time. A success story. Ask your uncle Sean.’ Outside he heard a car draw up, then the squeak of the front gate. ‘And if I’m right, how long till they knock you off? What’s your sell-by, Tommy? A week? Thirty-six hours? How soon do you get your bullet in the head?’ Bannerman sat back in the chair again. ‘Fuck you, man. I’ll soon be reading about you and thinking back to our friendly chat.’
He eyed Molloy’s boots, waiting for the onslaught, but instead the door was flung open and taxi girl reappeared, followed by a second woman in tight jeans and a green, coarse-knit patterned sweater with an uneven oval neck. She was older, mid-thirties, but he could tell by their complexion and build that they were sisters. ‘Leave us,’ she said to Molloy, though he was already surrendering his chair. It was a command, spoken with more muscle than anything Molloy had inflicted, and Bannerman realised for the second time how wrong London had been.
She sat down and faced him, hands folded in her lap.
‘I’m David.’
‘Don’t bother.’ She shook her head. ‘But I know why you’re here. What has Tommy been telling you?’
‘It’s what he hasn’t said that troubles me.’
‘Well you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘An attack in London is more effective than twenty bombs over here, right? Isn’t that what you used to say in the good old days? A strike at the heart of Empire, and all that?’
‘We’re not responsible for your bombs,’ she said, shortly.
‘That doesn’t quite cover it. Sounds like politician speak. Who are you?’
‘You come here from London making threats but offer nothing in return.’
‘Not so.’
‘Another English betrayal.’
Bannerman showed her the face he kept in reserve for moments of unexpected stress. He hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about, which left bluff, a lie or concession. ‘So what do I tell them?’
Abruptly the woman stood up, followed by her sister. ‘Dublin promised us a lot more than your threats and menaces.’ She turned by the door and regarded him with disdain. ‘You don’t understand what I’m saying, do you? The bastards sent you here without telling you.’
Bannerman could hear movement in the narrow hallway. ‘What do I tell them?’
‘A fancy carrier pigeon is no use to me.’
Chapter Twelve
Wednesday, 12 October, 14.47, Concetta’s Coffee, Covent Garden
When Dodge was not out on the ground looking after his agents he worked in a narrow rectangular room just along the corridor from John Kerr. It extended eight paces from the door to a double window overlooking St James’s Park, though Dodge rarely hung around long enough to enjoy the view. Kerr and Bill Ritchie valued every shred of human intelligence (HUMINT) as potential gold dust, so Dodge had installed three tall gunmetal security cabinets along the side wall, and also acquired (by means unknown) a steel office door with a digital lock as elaborate as Alan Fargo’s in Room 1830. The place was really a fortified store, protecting the files of every Special Branch agent over half a century, from the revolutionary left to al-Qaeda, and was so cramped that Dodge had to shuffle crabwise to reach his desk by the window. When unlocked, the cabinet doors swung open within an inch of the opposite wall, concealing any occupant from the corridor.
The two women and two men in his source unit team were based in the same open plan office that housed the Fishbowl. Hot-desking in a space at the opposite end from Kerr, squatters among the teams monitoring Syrian returnees, jihadi websites and London mosques, they still found themselves in his line of sight. Dodge regarded the cultivation of agents as an art, needing the finesse of a rose grower working miracles with blighted soil. He had survived in Ireland through meticulous attention to tradecraft, but imposed only two rules on his troops: they had to work any agent recruitment in pairs, woman with man, and store every disc, video, audio or scribbled note in one of his precious safes.
Today, apart from his diversions to the Fishbowl and 1830, Dodge had spent the entire morning on the phone, listening to the Irish friends and security experts he had worked alongside for so many years. With the landline red hot and the mobile on permanent charge, the intel about London’s worst terrorist attack since 7/7 was consistent: the outrage was not the work of the IRA. That was the message he had been hammering into John Kerr since ten o’clock.
The final call came through as he was returning along the c
orridor with a paper cup of coffee from the main office. The accent was English and the words stopped him in his tracks. It was the voice of a man, sure of himself.
‘I want to speak to Dodge.’
‘Who is this?’ No-one outside the Yard knew his nick-name.
‘I have information about the bombs in Victoria.’
Phone clamped to his ear, Dodge reached his office and jabbed the lock. ‘Okay,’ he said, turning to ease open the heavy door with his backside. ‘How did you get this number?’
‘From Frankie.’ The voice was soft, with a stress on the last word. Dodge was shuffling past the third and final safe as the name hit him. He froze, as if someone had reached inside his rib cage and seized his heart. The coffee slipped from his hand and spattered his suit, but Dodge scarcely noticed as he crashed the final step to his desk.
‘How do you mean?’ He collapsed into the revolving chair, almost tipping onto the floor. ‘What are you saying?’ Bunched over the desk he rammed the mobile against his right ear, clenching the other hand against his forehead.
‘We need to meet.’
One of the women on Dodge’s team appeared in the doorway, craning round to see him. ‘Spare a minute?’
Dodge covered the mouthpiece. ‘Not now.’ He could feel himself beginning to hyperventilate. ‘Close the door.’
The officer lingered for a moment, concerned, curious. She looked about to step into the room and say something, so Dodge waved her away and waited for the door to swing shut.
‘Where?’
‘Covent Garden. There’s a café by the museum called Concetta’s. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.’
‘Too tight.’
‘I’ll wait for you.’
‘Who am I looking for?’
‘I’ll find you.’
Dodge sat for a moment staring across the park, waiting for the hammering in his chest to subside. Then he snatched his mobile and headed out, skidding on the spilt coffee. He left alone and told no-one where he was going, breaking his own cardinal rule. The first lift was full, the second slow to arrive, and the revolving door on the ground floor seemed even more sluggish than usual. Emerging into Back Hall he clocked Alan Fargo with his late lunch in a brown paper bag and a new can of Red Bull. Fargo had evidently spotted Dodge, too, and was waiting beside the Book of Remembrance, fiddling with the dressing on his neck.
‘Can’t stop,’ growled Dodge, hurrying past as Fargo started to say something. Sensing Fargo’s eyes on him, Dodge paused to glance over his shoulder as he reached the exit. From here the two lesions on Fargo’s cheek seemed to coalesce into a single red weal, bright as a traffic light. It made Dodge turn away, shamed by his friend’s look of bewilderment.
He took the tube for the two stops from St James’s Park to Embankment, lighting up the moment he hit fresh air. The shaded side of Villiers Street was still slick from the morning’s showers and he almost slipped again on the flagstones. He tapped out another cigarette as soon as he turned off the Strand into Maiden Lane, checking his watch outside the Maple Leaf pub, on the perimeter of Covent Garden: just after half two. He had time. He shouldered his way to the bar through a bunch of Canadians watching ice hockey with bottles of Moosehead lager and ordered a shot of Jamesons, then another. When he turned to leave the visitors took their eyes off the screen to make way for him, instinctively wary of the sweating, agitated Brit. Back on the street he circled the elegant neoclassical buildings of the old market, struggling to calm himself as he squeezed through a crescent of spectators in front of St Paul’s church, all eyes fixed on a dreadlocked juggler balancing on a ladder.
He spotted Concetta’s the moment he turned the corner, between Accessorize and the Lower Courtyard, a stone’s throw from the London Transport Museum at the opposite end of the square. It looked tiny, like an old-fashioned village shop, with a dwarf brick wall beneath latticed windows to the left of a blackened oak door. Dodge needed another whiskey, but it was the smell of fresh coffee that hit him as he went inside, dipping his head and almost tripping down a small step. The right wall was lined with green banquettes, tables and pastoral scenes of Tuscany, opposite a high wooden bar serving tea, coffee, pastries and brightly coloured cup-cakes. About a dozen middle-aged customers occupied the tables in pairs or small groups, casually dressed and buzzing with conversation. Purse in hand, a woman in a pink waterproof turned from the bar to check something with her husband, who held up two fingers in a T.
At the far end he saw a red-brick arch leading to a separate space, a sunken, dimly lit area filled by a communal oak table with an eclectic assortment of chairs in front of two soft leather sofas. Alongside the left wall, just past the toilets, was a laptop-friendly wooden ledge with high bar stools. Dodge’s cold caller was looking straight at him, alone on the farthest stool in the corner, and Dodge almost stumbled again as he negotiated the steps inside the arch.
He was in his late thirties, wearing jeans, sneakers and a light blue shirt, cuffs neatly folded over, with a sleeveless yellow pullover. The man who had galvanized the bombers and called in their attack to Gemma looked completely different, clean-shaven with dark, gelled hair combed back, the nails scrubbed and hands moisturised, all traces of the workshop eradicated. He stayed seated when Dodge reached him. ‘That wasn’t hard, was it?’ he said, taking a sip of espresso. The voice was different, too: softer, educated, northern English. A blue Tommy Hilfiger man bag dangled from his stool.
There was only one other person in this area, an old timer with tobacco fingers and straggly, tea-stained beard clutching a giant mug and squinting at the Independent. Dodge would have preferred to stand but the caller had already pulled up the adjacent stool and waited for him to heave his bulk onto the seat. It took Dodge three attempts and he caught the other man’s smirk as his shoes scrabbled for a hold on the footrest. The cold call, and now this: for the second time in thirty minutes Dodge had surrendered control, and it sickened him.
‘What do you want?’ said Dodge, still shifting to get comfortable. He had finished up with his back to the café, the position of greatest vulnerability.
‘To work for you. Like one?’ He raised his cup, then leaned in, sniffed and studied Dodge’s eyes. ‘Or another proper drink?’
Dodge looked away to the bare wall, hiding himself. ‘I don’t even know who you are.’
‘I’m offering you information about the thing at Victoria,’ he said quietly, with a glance at the old man.
‘It doesn’t work like that.’
‘So why did you come?’
Dodge leaned in close. ‘You know why I’m fucking here.’
Frankie. The name hung between them, floating like a feather. The other man laid his hands on the ledge, quite still. There were no rings, bracelets or wrist watch, and a down of golden hairs covered his forearms.
‘I don’t even know who you are,’ said Dodge, eventually.
‘Bobby Roscoe. No-one ever calls me Robert. You won’t find me in any of your magic boxes. And I already ditched the phone.’
They faced each other again. There was a sudden roar from the street, then just the interior hum again, as if someone had slammed the noise box shut: evidently Dreadlocks had done something spectacular with his ladder. ‘So how do I reach you?’ said Dodge.
‘Like now, I’ll find you. We’ll go for a whiskey next time.’ He held out his palms. ‘Want to know what I’ve got?’
Dodge nodded.
‘Basically, you’re on the wrong track,’ said Bobby quietly. ‘This is about bashing the banks, not uniting Ireland.’
‘And?’ Dodge regarded him carefully, trying to read the other man’s petrol grey eyes but coming up with a blank. ‘Who put them down?’
‘If I knew that I’d be naming my price, wouldn’t I? Next stop, Rio. I’ll get more.’
Dodge shook his head. ‘I haven’t got the space for this shit.’ He shifted on his stool, longing to get away, rooted to the spot.
‘Do your guys have anythin
g better?’ The smirk again. ‘Didn’t think so.’
‘And what if you’re just another fucking time waster?’
‘Arrest me.’ Bobby gave a harsh laugh. ‘But that’s never going to be on the cards, is it? Both of us know that.’ He checked his watch, drained his coffee and slipped from the stool. ‘Time to go. You want proof this is the real deal, Mr Dodge? Check the news day after tomorrow. Then you’ll see how genuine I am.’
‘Not yet.’ Dodge swung round and grabbed Bobby’s arm, sensing the old man eyes on them. ‘How did you get my mobile? I have to know.’ He meant it as a demand but the words came out plaintively, dripping away with his self-respect.
‘Frankie, you mean?’ Roscoe slipped the bag over his shoulder. ‘Ah, that’s for another day.’
The rebuff was Dodge’s ultimate humiliation. It was not supposed to be like this, the handler manipulated by the untried asset, the rule book flipped like a pancake, and he felt a surge of panic. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’
‘Friday,’ said Roscoe, gently resting a hand on Dodge’s shoulder. ‘I’m telling you, I’m the best you’ll ever get.’
Chapter Thirteen
Wednesday, 12 October, 15.03, Short Strand, Belfast
When the two sisters abandoned him, Mark Bannerman was alone in the cramped front room for no more than three minutes. Leaning forward in the armchair, senses on high alert, he heard the front door open and close three times, then voices drifting from the hallway into the kitchen, two or three men and a woman. The kettle was boiling and someone cursed as a piece of crockery smashed on the floor. The voices were muted yet angry, with the woman’s the most insistent, but he could not catch the words over the kettle. As it clicked off, Bannerman concluded they must be discussing him, and not in a good way.
Then the door was flung open and the younger sister, taxi girl, reappeared with her bag safely over her shoulder. She shifted the two dining chairs aside and moved in close.