Lies of Silence

by Moore, Brian;

  “I’m the hotel manager,” he said. “Tell me, were any of the bomb squad hurt?”

  The soldier stared at him for a moment as if weighing up whether to answer, then said, “No, sir. Sorry, you can’t come any closer.”

  “Thanks.” He nodded to the soldier and went out of the carpark. He looked at his watch. The university graduation ceremonies would be ending any time now. The graduates, their families and friends, would be coming here for lunch, drinks and celebrations. For most of them the first hint of anything wrong would be the sign RESTAURANT CLOSED: BOMB DAMAGE. It would not stop them. Ignoring trouble was an Ulster tradition. Another wee bomb, as the local joke had it. By next week the whole incident would be forgotten.

  “Michael?”

  Coming toward him as he went up to the hotel’s main entrance was Rory Burke, his assistant manager. “Where the hell were you?” Rory said. “The big boss was on the phone from London, looking for you. He wants you to ring him right away. Are we open or not?”

  “How bad is the damage?”

  “Just what you saw back there. The kitchen’s OK and, as far as we know, there’s no structural damage elsewhere. Of course, the rooms on the floor above the restaurant—that whole corridor has been shut off.”

  “Who put up that sign about the sandwiches?”

  “Collis. We don’t want to lose the bar business, do we? It’s a big day, after all.”

  “OK,” he said. “Let’s carry on. Business as usual. I’ll check it with London, of course.”

  “How did they get the bomb in?” Rory asked. “Does anybody know?”

  “No idea.”

  “One of the police told Maggie it was probably a Semtex bomb, what they call a lunch-box bomb. I suppose anybody could have brought it in.”

  “I suppose,” he said. “Look, I’m going up to my office now to ring London. Would you give Maggie these keys to her car? Tell her it’s OK to leave it where I parked it.”

  He went ahead of Rory, going in at the front entrance but avoiding the reception area and using the service stairs to reach his office on the mezzanine. When he went into his office, he locked the door behind him. He dialed her number.

  “Features,” a girl’s voice said.

  “Is Andrea there?”

  “No, she just stepped away from her desk for a moment. Who will I say is calling?”

  “Michael Dillon.”

  “Just a minute.”

  He waited. Then her voice. “Are you all right? There was nobody hurt, was there?”

  “No. It’s all right.”

  “God, what a day for you. You weren’t there when it happened?”

  “Yes, I was. I want to tell you about that.”

  “I rang you half an hour ago,” she said. “They couldn’t find you. So I thought: He didn’t come in. He’s at home, telling Moira about us.”

  Suddenly, he realized that, of course, she knew nothing.

  “Listen,” he said. “Could we see each other later today? This afternoon, maybe?”

  There was a moment of silence. “Did you tell her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I spoke to Somerville this morning,” she said. “And he rang London and everyone’s delighted, etcetera. Michael, you haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

  “Of course not. But something happened last night. I can’t talk about it over the phone. Listen, can you meet me here this afternoon about three? And don’t worry, I love you.”

  Suddenly, the voice of one of the hotel operators cut in. “Mr. Dillon, I have London on the line. Mr. Keogh’s office. They said it’s urgent.”

  Had the operator heard him say, I love you?

  “See you at three, then,” Andrea said. She hung up.

  An Englishwoman’s voice said, “Is that Mr. Dillon? Will you hold, please, for Mr. Keogh?”

  “Yes.”

  With the Americans, the telephone had its protocols. The lesser person must always wait. Waiting, he thought of Keogh’s office in Berkeley Square, the large conference rooms, the omnipresent computers, the waiting messengers, the fax machines, and, in Keogh’s private office, two secretaries with calls on hold. It was a world of long-distance time zones, legal contracts, mergers, press conferences, grand openings, official receptions, double-parked limousines and, at its center, Keogh, his tie loosened, phone cradled between shoulder and chin, calling back to his bosses in Los Angeles and New York, relaying reports on their hotels in London, Athens, Rome, Cannes, the smaller hotels in such places as Birmingham, Heraklion, Marseilles, and, this morning, Belfast, a recent minor acquisition which had not yet fully proven its worth.

  “Michael,” said a familiar American voice, “Dan Keogh. I hear you had a little action this morning?”

  “Yes. We have some serious damage to the restaurant and one of the banqueting rooms. But we’re staying open. Is that all right? It’s a big week—university graduations—and I don’t want to lose the business.”

  “Good thinking,” Keogh said. It was, Dillon knew, his favorite phrase. “Reminds me of those old war movies,” Keogh said. “Carrying on through the blitz. Listen, the reason I’m calling is, I’m sending Dwayne Harrison over to talk to you about clearing things up. He should be with you sometime this afternoon. As far as the press is concerned, let’s keep a low profile on the damage, OK? Any other problems?”

  “Yes, well, if you have a minute, I have a personal problem. It’s to do with what happened today.”

  “Can you talk to Dwayne? Can he handle it?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Good deal. You talk to Dwayne. I’m kind of tied up here at the moment. OK? Have a good day, Mike.”

  Dismissed from Keogh’s busy, money-breathing world, Dillon stood looking out at the mountain which reared up like a stage backdrop behind the city. Long ago, in school, daydreaming, he would look out of the classroom window and imagine himself in some airplane being lifted over that gray pig’s back of mountain to places far from here, to London, New York, Paris, great cities he had seen in films and in photographs, cities far away from the dull constrictions of home. Outside now, in the mezzanine bar, familiar Ulster voices were raised in a wave of chat and jokes. It was as though he were still in that long-ago classroom, still daydreaming, still trapped.

  His phone rang again. It could be Andrea. He picked it up.

  “Mr. Dillon, I have your father on line two.”

  “Tell him I’m very busy. I’ll call him later.”

  The last person he wanted to speak to was his father. And he was busy. If Dwayne Harrison was arriving that afternoon he would expect damage reports, a contingency plan and all the rest of it. Again, the phone began to ring but this time he ignored it and went out of his office. People were coming up from the lobby, the graduation crowd mostly, but also a group of heating salesmen who had just finished a morning sales conference in the Dalriada Room. He moved downstairs to reception. Voices called to him: Was it the IRA, did anyone know? Was it the Army who blew the bomb up? When would he be able to open the restaurant again? The questions were, he knew, a way of expressing sympathy for him, a form of reassurance. No one had been hurt: there had been no atrocious deaths of people or animals. Just another bomb. Just an ordinary day, after all.

  At reception, Rory Burke and Maggie were surrounded by anxious faces, groups whose graduation luncheons had been canceled, guests whose rooms were in the damaged part of the hotel. There were also reporters, a photographer, a television crew. He joined Rory, answering questions, reassuring people, arranging to set up a cold buffet in the Craigavon Room. One of the waiters brought him hot coffee and toast which he ate while on the telephone to McAnally, a contractor who had done the repair work in that earlier bombing. As the crowd swelled in the lobby and in the hotel’s two bars, the noise, the questions, the chits to be signed, discussions with catering, the myriad details of the day, kept him from thinking of anything else. From time to time he would look at his watch and estimate how long it wou
ld be until Andrea came, but he did not think beyond that moment. He did not dare.

  At about two o’clock with the bars still packed, the buffet food in the Craigavon Room ran out. As he went down the corridor to apologize to the long line of people who were still queuing up to be fed, a bellboy told him that Mr. Harrison from London was waiting for him at the front desk.

  Dillon checked his watch. He had not expected Harrison so early. “Bring him up to my office, will you? I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Slowly, he went back up the stairs to his office. He had met Harrison before, two years ago, at a meeting of Alliance managers in London. Harrison was a Texan who had had his own accounting and business consulting firm before being brought in by Alliance to evaluate the performance and potential of the chain’s assets. He was also known as the face you met when a hotel had to be closed or a manager fired.

  When Dillon went into his office, Harrison was standing, a tall distant figure in a light tan suit, looking out the window at an Army helicopter which was poised stationary, over the nearby Catholic ghetto. He did not seem to hear Dillon come in. He stood, his hands clasped behind his back, rocking gently on his heels as he stared up at the sky.

  “Hello, Dwayne,” Dillon said, speaking loudly over the helicopter noise.

  Hesitantly, as though not sure his name had been called, Harrison looked over his shoulder at Dillon, then turned to greet him, throwing up his hands as if surprised. His pale chubby face, lips forever open in a half-smile, reminded Dillon of the face of a porcelain Victorian doll. “Hey! How’s it goin’, man?” Dwayne said.

  “I’ve had better days, as you can see.”

  “True thing. Still, I guess this goes with the territory. Any idea why they picked us?”

  “Yes. I want to talk to you about that.”

  “OK, but let’s look at the damage first. I’ve got to make the five o’clock shuttle back to London. I have a heavy meeting set up with some Italians tonight and it’s too late to reschedule it.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Dillon said. They took the lift down to the basement floor and at once Harrison went to work, taking notes on the damage, interviewing Collis on the catering problems, asking shrewd questions, taking down the name of the contractor Dillon was planning to hire for the repairs.

  All the time Dillon’s watch was inching closer to three, then passing three, and it was almost three-thirty when Sally, one of the reception clerks, came up to him. “Excuse me, Mr. Dillon, but there’s a Miss Baxter waiting for you in the lounge.”

  Harrison, behind him, asked, “Urgent, Mike?”

  “Sort of. If you can give me five minutes?”

  “OK.” Harrison smiled his china-doll smile. “I’ve got a couple of calls to make. See you back here.”

  Almost hidden away behind the main reception lounge was a small room, a leftover from former times when it had been a writing room where guests caught up on their correspondence. Now, it contained a television set, some ugly black imitation-leather sofas and a soft-drink dispensing machine. As the bars and the main lounge also had television sets, it was the least used as well as the shabbiest room in the hotel. The television set was on, but the sound had been muted. As he went in he saw, peripherally, four contestants in a game show, sitting at false desks holding numbers above their heads. At once, Andrea, hidden from his view just inside the half-open door, came up to him and hugged him. She wore a T-shirt, jeans, running shoes and a military surplus combat jacket, all of it making her look about nineteen.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “What are you sorry about?”

  “I sounded mad at you on the phone, didn’t I?”

  “No, no. Look, I have to tell you about all that.”

  She waited.

  “We can’t go to my office, damn it,” he said. “I have to talk to you here.” He led her to one of the ugly sofas and sat down beside her. “Listen. Last night, Moira and I had a visit from the IRA. The police have told me to say nothing about it to anyone. You’ll see why, when I explain. I was the one who brought the bomb in here this morning.”

  Beside Andrea, on the silent television set, a game show contestant held up a live mallard duck. A second contestant held up a duck decoy. From force of habit Dillon looked from time to time at the screen as he began, hurried, anxious, rushing his telling, telescoping the events of last night and this morning. She listened, her head nodding, saying small incoherent things to show her shock and sympathy. But, when he came to the part where he went into the back room of the shop where the phone was, she turned to him suddenly and caught his arm, as though to prevent him from going on. “You didn’t phone?” she said, in a shocked voice.

  “I had to. If I didn’t phone I’d be an accomplice to those bastards. I’d be responsible for all those people being killed.”

  “But what about Moira?”

  “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he said. “The IRA left our house before I telephoned. She’s OK.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Andrea said. “Have you spoken to her?”

  “Yes, I went home at once. But the police were there, we couldn’t really talk. The police want us to leave the country, both of us.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He did not answer because at that moment Rory Burke came into the room. “Excuse me, Michael, his nibs is asking for you. I think he’s getting a bit edgy.”

  He stood up at once, saying to Andrea, “Look, I have to go now. I’ve got this man from our head office in London and he’s got to catch the five o’clock shuttle. Could you come back around five?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll see.”

  Rory said, “You’ll be along then, will you, Michael?”

  “Yes. Coming.”

  When Rory had gone out he held her and kissed her.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “It will be all right,” he said desperately. “It will be all right. Five o’clock, OK?”

  “I’m not sure about five. We’re on the air at six. I’ll try.”

  “Anyway, I’ll talk to you.”

  “Go on, now, go on,” she said. And, when he was halfway through the doorway, she called, “Michael? Take care.”

  Dwayne Harrison, his long legs crossed, his hands gripping his right kneecap, sat in one of Dillon’s office chairs, perfectly immobile, listening. When Dillon had finished telling his story Harrison got up and walked to the window. “Well,” he said, in his slow Texan voice. “This is a first, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I mean this is some story, isn’t it? It’s the first time we’ve had to consider moving staff because hit men are after them. So, the cops want you to leave town?”

  “Yes. They can’t assign policemen to protect us. They seem to think that if we move to England we’ll be a lot safer. As a matter of fact, I was planning to ask for a transfer soon. For personal reasons.”

  Harrison threw his head back, laughed and slapped his thigh. “Well, this is a personal reason, isn’t it? But England’s just next door. Would you be safe there?”

  “I don’t know if I’m going to be safe anywhere. But, safer than here, yes.”

  “Mike, you’ve done a great job here. You know this territory better than anybody else. Who in hell are we going to get to replace you?”

  “Rory Burke is bright.”

  “He doesn’t have your background,” Harrison said.

  There was a silence and then Dillon said, “What if I speak to Dan Keogh myself? What do you think? I was going to, in any case.”

  Harrison stood up. “I’ll speak to Dan,” he said. “Look, this has been rough for you, we appreciate that. It’s up to Dan, of course, but God damn it, if you hadn’t made that phone call, we’d have had a real massacre on our hands. The way I see it, we owe you one. So, I’ll speak to Dan and we’ll get back to you tomorrow. Meantime, I don’t have to tell you—take care. Now. Can you get them to hustle me up a cab? I might just make the four-thirty shut
tle if I’m lucky.”

  When they went down, Jack, the doorman on duty, was waiting for them at reception. He saluted. He had been told who Harrison was. “Your taxi’s here, sir.” He held up a large umbrella. “I’m afraid it’s a wee bit on the damp side out there.” He led them to the revolving doors, swinging the doors to let Harrison go in first. As Harrison entered the revolving doors a man was coming in from outside. When Dillon followed Harrison into the doors, the man, passing in the opposite direction, turned and stared at Dillon, as though he recognized him.

  Outside, on the front steps, Jack opened the umbrella and guided Harrison to his waiting taxi. “Call you tomorrow,” Harrison said as he eased his long body into the cab. Dillon waved and the taxi drove down toward the security gates which had been opened to let it exit.

  At that moment, someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Are you Mr. Dillon?” said a male voice with a broad Belfast accent.

  “Yes, what can I do for you?”

  Facing him was the man who had seemed to recognize him a moment ago in the revolving doors. He was about forty with a broad white face, made larger by his domed, balding forehead. In the lapel of his shabby dark suit was a small enamel replica of a flag. The flag showed the Red Hand of Ulster in the center, against a background of red-and-white stripes with the crisscross pattern of the Union Jack. In his left hand he carried a dog-eared black leather-bound book.