by Roger Pearce
‘Any chance of a cuppa?’ he asked, smelling coffee on her breath. Deadpan eyes like stones, she produced the hood from the bag, sending him another throb of alarm. Bannerman stared up at her, his face creased in disappointment. ‘Surely not?’
She jabbed the cloth in his face until he took it from her. ‘You have to wear it.’
When he was blind again he felt the girl’s fingers close tightly around his wrist as she led him back through the house. The kitchen had acquired more odours since his stumbling entrance, tobacco, stale alcohol and live sweat, and he bumped against a hard body as he neared the door. He braced for a shove or strike from the people he could sense in his way, but the only sound was his own amplified breathing and the rattle of crockery as he glanced off a drawer.
He remembered to shorten his steps over the lumpy threshold until cool air draped around his throat, relieving the fetid heat beneath the hood. Brambles tugged at his trousers again as the taxi choked to life, and he heard the front gate scrape over concrete, as if one of the newcomers had pushed it too far. Then the girl was dipping him inside the taxi, the button on her denim sleeve trapped between her palm and his pate, and he almost toppled over as they accelerated away.
The return journey was much shorter, no longer than four or five minutes by Bannerman’s estimation to the moment the engine cut out. He had no idea what to expect: a bullet, a blow or some kind of message. He waited for the girl to free him of the hood, then did it himself, blinking through the tinted glass to get his bearings. He found they had stopped in another cul-de-sac, similar to the first, and guessed the taxi had hugged friendly territory all the way. ‘So what happens now?’
‘Not up to me.’
Bannerman swept a hand through his hair. ‘Do we get to repeat the pleasure?’
The girl was searching in the door for the batteries and shrugged as she dumped them on the seat. ‘Like I said.’ Then the phones tipped from her bag.
‘I wasn’t trying to be difficult back there, you know,’ said Bannerman. He could tell she was waiting for him to fumble with the batteries, so scooped the phone wreckage into his jacket. ‘Can we stay in touch, at least?’
She pointed past his right ear. ‘Up there to the Strand, turn left for the bridge.’
He looked at her, then the driver’s massive back. On cue, the engine spluttered to life. ‘Is that it?’
‘There may be something else tonight. I don’t know. But not in the Europa.’ She handed him a business card. ‘Check into this hotel on your way. There’s a reservation for you in the name of David Alton.’
Bannerman glanced at the card and slipped it into his jacket. ‘Fair enough.’
‘If we speak again, it’s with you alone. No-one else. And we know you like playing the big shot, don’t you? No denying it. If you breathe a word to London everything’s off.’ She leaned across to shove the door open and waited until he was standing in the roadside, then slid across and grabbed the handle. ‘And get them to buy you a decent phone,’ she said just before the taxi drove off in a smog of diesel, reminding him to press the Calendar app again.
•••
Wednesday, 12 October, 15.37, Europa Hotel, Belfast
It was just over a mile to the Europa, but Bannerman decided to walk, sucking in fresh air from the river as he crossed Albert Bridge without a backward glance. The sun had turned the Lagan blue since the drive three hours earlier and he paused for a few moments at the centre to collect his thoughts, reflecting how much the city had changed. In front of him the Black Mountains, once the backdrop to a desolate waterside, now overlooked expensive riverside apartments with glass and steel balconies. He dived into the Central Railway Station, also refurbished since his last visit, and perched on a metal bench to fire up the Samsung. There was a text from Penny – ‘pse call’ – and another from Rico in Nairobi: ‘told ur man daniel stays til u bak.’
Bannerman allowed himself a smile. Rico’s bosses, perhaps even the man himself, had evidently told Ronnie and whoever he had brought from London that any interrogation of their NIS prisoner would be denied until Bannerman’s return. This was two fingers to Vauxhall Cross, a breakout of Kenyan autonomy that would have gone down extremely badly with Giles Lovett.
He found the Donegall, the hotel on taxi girl’s card, in less than ten minutes. It was part of a red-brick Victorian terrace in May Street, east of Donegall Square, a stroll past St George’s Market. Incongruously sited between an optician’s and a breast clinic, the hotel had been remodelled in the minimalist style: the mirrored Reception was dark brown, not much larger than a domestic living room, with double glass doors leading to a modest breakfast space at the rear. The exhausted looking receptionist, severe behind a stainless steel desk in an overwashed white blouse, offered a tight smile but only fleeting eye contact, and checked him into Room 406 on the top floor without asking for a credit card.
Back at the Europa he was too late for lunch in the lobby bar, so ordered a large Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic with a dish of olives in his room. He kicked off his shoes, slumped onto the sofa and speed-dialled Penny on her encrypted mobile. ‘All fine,’ he said, as soon as she picked up. ‘And they disclaim it. Are you in the office?’
‘What’s the language?’
‘Our Tommy says if his foot soldiers do anything our side of the water we’ll know about it. Paraphrasing, obviously. Haven’t listened to the playback yet.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Not as charming as we thought. But they didn’t give him time to show his softer side.’
‘Who?’
‘A woman barged in, trampled all over Tommy and completely blindsided me.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone definitely not in the bios you made me read.’ Bannerman popped a couple of olives and took a slug of gin. ‘I’ll write it up later but we’re looking for two sisters. They’re absolutely running the show over here, Pen. Got to be a record somewhere.’
‘I’ll go back to the skirts.’ This was an old MI5 nickname veterans like Penny and Bannerman still resorted to at times of displeasure.
‘Anyway, she said the IRA were not responsible for Victoria.’
‘Did you press her?’
‘Nothing doing.’ He could hear the glug of water being poured and wondered where Penny’s desk was these days. ‘So I think they’re both a no, but not as unequivocal as I’d have liked. Sorry.’
‘It’s alright. I wanted you to tread carefully. How did they treat you?’
‘I’ve known worse.’
‘The truth, Mark.’
The lie came more easily. ‘Kid gloves all round. Tell you about it later.’
‘So how soon do we hook up with them again?’
‘Penny, you’re kidding me,’ said Bannerman, idly twirling his Donegall key card. ‘These people don’t want a relationship of any kind. It’s not like before.’
‘But they denied Victoria. They wouldn’t do that without a quid pro quo.’
‘What do you mean?’ Bannerman was thinking back to his interrogation in the house.
‘A trade-off for not spilling innocent blood. Come on, you know them better than anyone.’
Bannerman grunted, deep in thought, suspicious.
‘You can get the seventeen-forty if you hurry.’ Penny’s voice faded for a second and he imagined her swinging round to check the time. ‘I’ll pick you up.’
‘It’s okay. I’ll get some dinner here and catch the first flight tomorrow.’ He took another drink. ‘Penny, what kind of trade-off?’
‘A concession, of course, like they always do. Something political and completely over the top.’
‘Is there any kind of secret deal being worked between HMG and Dublin? Promises for the future?’
There was a pause in London, which might have been cover for a lie or space to think. ‘No,’ she said, cautiously. ‘Means nothing.’
‘Because the woman implied there was. She claimed Dublin promised them a lot more than my “
threats and menaces”.’
‘Charming.’
‘Exact words, and I didn’t have a clue, obviously. Embarrassing. I mean, is MI5 holding out on us?’
‘I’m sorry, Mark.’
‘It’s unprofessional. I got dragged back from Nairobi at their request, right? They’re the people who wanted this. Is there some agent thing they haven’t told us about? What the fuck’s going on?’
‘I’ll get Giles to speak with Toby. Ping me the recording and we’ll go through it tomorrow.’
Bannerman rang off, finished the olives and pressed playback, listening intently. The quality was poor, with some of the words inaudible, but the gist was plain enough. He particularly wanted to hear what the sisters had said when they left the room, but there was nothing except a low hubbub, as if taxi girl had been alone or left the bag somewhere in the house.
Bannerman needed a long, hot shower to purge himself of the day’s filth, but decided to wait until he reached the Donegall. Instead, he drained his glass and wandered through the suite, collecting his belongings. Picking apart every phrase, Bannerman realised his meeting with Tommy Molloy and the two women could never be spun as a success. Threat had toppled civilised dialogue, reducing him to a crude ultimatum.
These days the spook was thinking about his legacy, and Marathon Runner had a much finer ring than English lickspittle. In Nairobi, Goldman Sachs and ExxonMobil were beginning to show interest: the oil giant had let it be known they respected Bannerman and would actively pursue him when the time came. He stood for what they admired as the ‘entrepreneurial wing’ of SIS, the type to get the job done, a world apart from the consular and army re-treads crowding the vol-au-vent-prosecco circuit.
When he was ready, he unlocked his phone. Should it ever escape from Vauxhall Cross, fancy carrier pigeon was unlikely to fly very high in the macho worlds of oil and finance. He pressed the Calculator app to delete the recording, grabbed his holdall and headed for the lift, hungry to redeem himself before the day was done.
Chapter Fourteen
Wednesday, 12 October, 17.03, Donegall Hotel, Belfast
Taxi girl’s name was Siobhan Cody. She was thirty-two years old but looked and acted in her late twenties, except when she was on a mission for the army. Colleen, her sister, was six years older, with clean hands but a much meaner face, nature’s payback for keeping the likes of Tommy Molloy in check. The sisters were known for their assistance to impoverished Catholics, not dissent against the British élite, and their photographs featured in the local press rather than MI5 headquarters. So deep was their cover that they were eulogised, not spied upon.
The taxi driver was Declan ‘Tanker’ Quigley, a mountainous lorry driver and red diesel smuggler with a mashed face, tent peg teeth and photofit eyes who also worked within the community. Under the direction of Siobhan and Colleen, Tanker enforced discipline through an escalating regime of beatings, kneecappings, disfigurement, torture, stabbings and shootings. Tanker had more blood on his hands than the surgeons who repaired his victims, according to Tommy Molloy.
Tanker was also responsible for the acquisition or disposal of transport, often at very short notice. Within the past two hours he had taken possession of a five year old Honda Interceptor VFR800 motorcycle stolen in Liverpool by a car ringer from County Antrim. He was riding it now across the Albert Bridge, heading for the Donegall with Siobhan Cody on the pillion. They wore the same clothes as before, though Tanker had zipped a black bomber jacket over his T-shirt.
About fifteen metres short of the hotel he swung through a pair of lopsided metal gates into the potholed yard of Taxi Dermot, a dilapidated Portakabin with peeling green paint and the door wedged open. They parked behind a long axle Mercedes Sprinter van positioned to conceal the motorcycle from the road, placed their helmets beside the front wheel and walked away with a side-glance at the owner, whose eyes stayed fixed on the bookings screen.
Cody received the call on the stroke of five, as they were approaching the rear of the hotel from Little May Street. ‘System black’ was the message, confirmation that the hotel’s CCTV was down. Thirty seconds later they entered an unlocked rear door into the breakfast room and swung right for the goods lift, pulling on clear rubber gloves as the ill-treated doors clanked shut. Cody had ditched the baseball cap and used a paddle brush on her hair.
The fourth floor corridor was deserted and Tanker stood out of sight as Cody knocked on Room 406. She made it sound tentative, pressing her ear against the wood until she heard sounds of movement inside, then taking a step back. Sensing Bannerman’s eye at the peephole she waggled her fingers in a flirty wave, the girl across the bar. She expected a voice telling her to go away, or a door tightly chained, but the old man surprised her with his openness. Wet hair slicked back, feet bare, he wore the hotel’s towelling bathrobe and a broad smile, as if she were bringing room service or sex. ‘Almost caught me in the shower.’ He looked pink, sounded tipsy and acted like he was already taking her surrender. ‘Knew we hadn’t seen the last of each other.’ Pepper and salt chest hair curled beneath the shawl collar and a shred of green was trapped in his teeth.
‘Did you tell anyone?’ she demanded, holding back.
‘Just you and me,’ he said, making a show of inviting Cody inside. He was still smiling as she flitted past him and Tanker’s boot connected with the closing door, scoring a double hit against his face and toes, catapulting him backwards. He would have collapsed but for Cody, who used the momentum to drag him further into the room.
Tanker loomed over Bannerman before he could react, grabbing the robe with both hands and throwing him onto the bed like a parcel as he howled in pain. His nose looked broken, streaming blood onto the white duvet, and his toes had evidently been trapped hard beneath the door: they dangled from the side of the bed, stripped of skin, with one of the large nails hanging by a thread. Head and lungs lifted as he drew breath to yell at them, so Cody grabbed a handful of hair and jabbed him hard with her fist. She heard his front teeth shatter, then blood from his burst upper lip flooded his jaw as he fell back, defeated.
Neither of his attackers needed to look around, for they had worked here before. The king bed was to the left of the door, beyond a frosted glass hanging space holding Bannerman’s jacket and trousers. A curved steel and glass bureau with sunken lighting was built into the opposite wall and the window alcove neatly housed a dark leather easy chair with round occasional table. The carpet pattern meandered in swirls of blue and brown, and muted abstract prints hung from the eggshell walls. A small TV angled from the corner high above the bureau, an afterthought. Cody clocked Bannerman’s unpacked holdall and his Samsung phone on the bureau beside a tumbler, a pair of empty miniatures and an open can of tonic.
In a single practised move they spun him round to the left side of the bed, with Tanker kneeling on the mattress beside him. Bannerman was clutching his nose and trying to say something but Tanker had already produced a roll of black masking tape from his jacket. He tossed it to Cody and held Bannerman’s head still while she tore a strip and sealed his bloody mouth. She leaned over until their faces were almost touching, relishing the fear and despair in his eyes, the realisation that he had been deceived. ‘Sending you back was a mistake, right? It’s the vanity that’s going to kill you.’ She liked watching him try to speak, a blister of tape rising and falling. ‘You really think you can come here making London’s threats for them?’ Bannerman began to struggle, trying to sit up, so Tanker slapped his face and raised a warning finger.
Cody bent over again. ‘I’m going to ask you, like we did back at the house, and this is the only thing that will save your life. Do your masters in London and Dublin agree? Will they make good on their vow?’
She waited for him to shake his head, then glanced at Tanker. The headboard and bedside tables were made of brushed steel with matching lamps, complementing the style of the bureau. Coming round the foot of the bed, Tanker rolled Bannerman onto his left side, shifted the lamp and
stretched his right forearm onto the table. The weapon was weighing down his jacket pocket. It was an old-fashioned police truncheon, still attached to its flaking leather strap but with lead in the business end. While Cody gripped Bannerman’s wrist he brought the club down hard on his knuckles, immediately following with a smash onto his fingers, a process Tanker called the ‘double tap.’ Bannerman’s shriek penetrated the gag, expanding the blister into a bubble, then sucking the tape back inside his mouth.
Tanker tossed the club onto the bed, took hold of Bannerman’s hand and crushed the shattered bones together. The bathrobe had come apart in the struggle leaving Bannerman exposed, limbs shuddering and quaking, his torso convulsed in agony. Tanker maintained his grip until Cody motioned for him to pause. ‘Well?’ she said, when Bannerman was flat on his back again. Bannerman had begun frantically shaking his head, so she held his forehead still, peeled back the tape and looked into his eyes, coolly regarding his terror. Face smeared bright red, Bannerman’s nostrils flared in the desperate effort to suck air through the stream of blood and the words came in a fractured gasp. ‘Don’t know…swear…haven’t got a clue what…what talking about.’ She re-sealed the tape, rolled him on his side again and held his left hand against the table as Tanker repeated the attack, then calmly replaced the club in his jacket. Cody stood watching him in silence for almost a minute. ‘This is what we mean by enforcing the deal,’ she said finally, as his body began to subside.
Tanker checked his watch and spoke for the first time. ‘Cameras back on in ten.’ He produced a flick knife with a black metal handle and steel band, his other weapon of choice, spinning it expertly in his palm. ‘Do you want me to, or are we going to fuck about here all night?’
Cody’s answer was to grab Bannerman’s left arm and start to pull him, but Tanker brushed her aside, wrapped his arms around Bannerman’s thighs and whipped him from the bed. His head made contact with the bureau before he hit the floor, and he lay prone, his strength ebbing away, the robe soaking up blood from his hands and face like a giant blotter.