‘Chrysaor’ was the codename for the Head of Intelligence and Anti-Terrorism, back in London: Frank’s boss.
Frank had looked up ‘Chrysaor’ in the dictionary once: turned out it was a creature from Greek mythology. He wondered who the hell had the time to come up with these names, and couldn’t be bothered trying to pronounce it, so called him ‘Neil’ instead. ‘Sa Runlifu’ was Frank’s version of ‘In Case Of Emergency’. It stood for ‘Sound Alarm, Run Like Fuck’.
He picked the telephone receiver up and paused for a second . . . If this wasn’t an occasion to sound the alarm, what was?
Frank punched in the number.
There was no answer.
He looked at his coffee mug and thought about taking a sip. The kind of day he was having, he knew – guaranteed – as soon as he lifted the coffee to his lips the person at the other end would pick up.
Frank drew the chipped mug across the desk, leant forward and sniffed: he loved the smell of fresh coffee. He picked the cup up and held it to his lips.
‘Chief Inspector Thompson.’
The well-educated English accent betrayed no hint of surprise at receiving the call, but there was definitely a little irritation in the tone. ‘Everything all right, Frank? I assume not, otherwise why the phone call? What seems to be the problem?’
Frank took another pull on the cigarette and tried not to boil over.
‘I made the breakfast news this morning, Neil. The press are all over the story of the break-in like flies that have just discovered shit comes from a cow’s arse . . . I’m the cow’s arse. They – like me – want to know how the Provos were able to stroll into my “high security” offices like they had their own set of keys and make off with a list containing the names, addresses and fucking dick sizes of every informer we’ve ever used throughout the entire course of the conflict. And why the list included three of my own men who were working undercover until one of them was shot in the neck outside his house just a few hours ago. Also‚ how did the press get to know about this so bloody quickly? That’s a bit of a problem too – I’ve just had a phone call from MI5 telling me to lay off anything but a cursory investigation, which is fine by me, but I’m the one left looking like I’ve got my dick in my hands, and a member of the IRA stroking my balls. So in answer to your question, Neil, yes, I do have a problem. I have several problems: one of the biggest being I have no idea what the fuck is going on.’
‘I’m not really in a position to talk right now, Frank: meeting at Downing Street in five minutes. Why don’t I call you back later this afternoon and I’ll talk you through it.’
Frank could hear voices in the background: Chrysaor wasn’t alone, but Frank didn’t care, he needed answers now.
‘I can’t wait till this afternoon, Neil,’ cut in Frank. ‘The bodies are already starting to pile up. How about I ask the questions and you try your best?’
Without waiting for a reply he launched straight in. It was a standard Special Branch line of attack. Keep your subject on the tilt. Don’t give them time to think.
‘Did we know the list was going to go missing?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Possibly? For Chrissake Neil, c’mon, we either did or we didn’t.’
‘Is this line secure?’ asked Chrysaor.
‘Possibly,’ replied Frank. ‘Although the way things are going round here I can’t bloody guarantee it.’
‘We did know.’
It was the answer Frank least wanted to hear, but he didn’t have time to let its implications sink in. ‘Our entire intelligence-gathering operation is well and truly fucked now, Neil. We’ll never be able to recruit another source again. If they know that we handed the IRA the list on a golden platter it’s all over. The informers on this programme are supposed to be under our protection.’
‘Not any more,’ replied Chrysaor. ‘The political situation has improved substantially over there: we’re not under as much pressure as we once were, we needed to make some cutbacks. The resettlement programme to which you are alluding – with all that entails – is bloody expensive; we had to find a way of winding it down.’
Frank interrupted. ‘We’ve just signed their death warrants, Neil, you know that.’
‘If they can be found,’ replied Chrysaor. ‘I don’t imagine many sources will be hanging around to find out what fate awaits them . . . that’s why we fed the press a few titbits this early on in the game. Publicise the theft of the list to give the buggers on it a chance to make their escape. It’s the least we could do for them, but let’s not get too sentimental, Frank. It’s a little bit of housekeeping that needed to be done. What better way than to let those who created the mess in the first place tidy it up themselves? I admit that it’s rather a crude method of saving money, and I did argue that we would be throwing away a lot of very useful and productive people, but there was no way of simply handing over the names of informers that were no longer of any use. It would have been too obvious what we were trying to do. Unfortunately it was an all-or-nothing play. I’m sorry you weren’t told, Frank. That wasn’t down to me, but it’s done now.’
‘The Thevshi’s file is missing,’ said Frank.
There was silence at the other end of the line.
‘Did you hear me?’ said Frank.
Chrysaor didn’t sound too concerned. ‘That’s unfortunate. I would have thought his file might have been kept separate from all the others . . . in a safe, possibly.’
‘This whole fucking building’s a safe, Neil. If I’d known you were giving away the combination I’d have changed the bloody locks.’
‘Yes, well. Nothing I can do about it, Frank, I’m afraid he’s on his own now. And if anyone is well placed to get themselves out of the shit‚ it’s him.’
Frank’s secretary Sheena poked her head round the door and mouthed to Frank, ‘I’ll come back.’
Frank shook his head and waved her in.
‘Got to go, Frank. I’ll call you later. There’s only a handful of us know anything about the Thevshi, and even less who he really is. Chances are the Provos won’t know what the hell to make of it. I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure he can handle himself.’
Chrysaor hung up.
Frank lowered the phone from his ear and turned.
‘Sorry to interrupt, sir,’ said Sheena.
‘I was finished anyway. What’s up?’
‘Been a few sightings of Lep McFarlane cutting around his old haunts. Just thought you’d want to know.’
Frank looked surprised. ‘Lep McFarlane! Really? I thought that little weasel was dead.’
Chapter 7
Tuscaloosa, Maundy Thursday, late
Marie was standing at the main entrance of her two-storey Sixties apartment building using her foot to jam open the door. The small lobby behind her was in darkness and the concierge had clocked off for the night.
The cop standing on the step below was trying to act casual: hands on hips like he owned the place, still wearing his sunglasses even though it was dark.
Marie had hoped that Sheriff Bill Clay would drop her at the main gate, but he’d insisted on parking up and walking her all the way to her door.
She was staring at him with a vacant expression, not really paying attention any more. The guy sounded like he was reading from a book – like he was just out of cop academy. Wouldn’t matter if he was telling you your grandmother had been hacked to death by a psycho or you’d just won the lotto, it’d all come out the same. He didn’t listen either: liked the sound of his own voice too much, which she found odd as it only had one goddamn tone.
No matter how many times she’d corrected him, he still called her ‘Mary’ instead of ‘Marie’, so she decided to call him ‘Ball’ instead of ‘Bill’. So far he hadn’t noticed.
Marie was looking forward to a bath; she was tired and wanted to wash away the smell of institutions from her clothes. Must be the floor-polish they used or something, but the smell in the cop station reminded her of school.
Local County probably had a contract with a cleaning firm that did all the municipal buildings, which would account for them all smelling the same.
She figured it was a good contract to have, then caught herself: Ball Clay was so dull he’d made her think about cleaning products?
Marie hadn’t eaten anything since lunchtime and her stomach was beginning to hurt. If she didn’t eat every couple of hours her blood sugar dropped and she got ratty.
The interview process had taken nearly eight hours and it was now well after eleven in the evening. At the station they’d offered to get her a burger brought in from across the street, but who the hell ate that shit any more? Cops, obviously, thought Marie.
They’d seemed genuinely disappointed when she turned it down. Even tried to persuade her that the burgers were the best in Tuscaloosa.
‘The guy uses real beef.’
‘As opposed to what?’ she’d wanted to ask, but that would have meant getting involved in another conversation, so she’d kept her mouth shut.
Sheriff Ball Clay was still talking.
‘Do you know any other tunes?’ Marie heard herself say.
At least it stopped him.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m sorry my mind was elsewhere‚ which is really where I want to be too.’
‘You sure you don’t want me to see you up to your apartment, ma’am?’
‘No really! Please! I’ll be fine.’
‘Sure, well if there’s anything we can get for you, you just let me know.’
‘Do you do deliveries?’
He looked up at her with no expression on his big dumb face.
Marie sighed, ‘Do you do humour?’
‘Excuse me, ma’am?’
Marie was finished with trying to be nice. ‘Is this going to take much longer‚ Ball? We’ve been standing here so long my legs need waxing to get rid of the new growth.’
‘No ma’am, I’m nearly through. Here’s my card. Got all the numbers you’ll ever need on it.’ He handed a card to her that had his photograph on the front looking like he had someone’s finger stuck up his ass. ‘Just call the mobile, get straight to me. The whole force is carrying them these days. Makes you wonder how we managed before. We’re gonna sit right over there, in that there vehicle for the rest of the evening, make sure you’re okay.’
Just as Ball turned to point at the patrol car parked in one of the bays, someone came up behind him. The guy had to duck to avoid getting an elbow in his face.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Ball.
‘Sure,’ said the guy, flicking the cop a look.
Marie recognised the guy, but couldn’t remember his name; one of her neighbours from the floor below.
She smiled half-heartedly.
‘Hi.’
The guy nodded to her and mumbled back at her. ‘Hi.’
The guy didn’t really look at Marie as he squeezed past her – through into the lobby. The brown takeaway bag he was carrying smelled good: something Asian, Indian food maybe?
There was just no stopping this cop. ‘One of our Trauma team will be in to talk to you first thing in the morning. They’ll take you through this whole situation; explain what happens if you need to go to court, make sure you’re familiar with the procedure, and there’s a couple of FBI agents driving down from Birmingham might want a word too, so don’t book any holidays just yet.’ He grinned like the finger had been taken out his ass . . . and something bigger put in its place. As he backed away he made a clicking sound with his tongue that made Marie want to reach out and strangle him.
It wasn’t just the tiredness that was making her feel this way: it was the lack of food.
‘You sleep safe, ma’am, you under the protection of the Tuscaloosa Sheriff’s Department now.’
‘Great,’ she replied and made the same clicking sound right back at him. ‘I was worried I’d have to take a sedative, but now I know you guys are looking out for me I’m sure I’ll be fine . . . If I do have trouble sleeping I’ll just run through everything you’ve just been saying: that should knock me out for a couple of days.’
Bill Clay smiled at her like she’d said ‘Thank you.’
‘You welcome, ma’am.’
Marie made sure the building’s main door was securely locked then turned and walked wearily through the lobby. She thought about checking her mailbox, but she didn’t even have the energy to do that.
The lingering smell of Indian food was making her mouth water. First thing she’d do was order some to be delivered, then mix herself a large whiskey sour and hope that the alcohol might blind her mind’s eye enough to stop the flashbacks.
Every time she closed her eyes she could see the creepy guy in the shades flying through the air with his chest ripped open. The ringing in her ears seemed to grow louder with each replay. And the bitch of it all was that her mind kept playing the scene back in slow motion.
She would run a bath and change into some fresh clothes and get drunk.
Marie was still wearing the sweatshirt from work that said ‘McHales’ on the front: she’d only just noticed it was speckled with tiny spots of blood. Who the blood belonged to was a question for another time. Her hair looked like shit too.
She pushed through the double doors into the main stairwell and climbed to the first landing, then stopped for a moment. It was the first time she’d been on her own all day.
She wished there was someone waiting for her in the apartment, someone she could offload to, tell everything she’d been through, how it had made her feel, how scared she’d been, then cuddle up and fall asleep, wrapped up safe.
Marie stood there in the dark empty stairwell with her head bowed and let a tear run down her face. She’d never seen violence like that before: for real, up close. The memory of it made her shudder.
It was much more brutal, much more savage than she could ever have imagined. And yet, at the same time there was something so matter-of-fact, so ordinary about it. That’s what had taken her by surprise and left her feeling sick to the stomach. Alive one minute, dead the next.
She’d seen footage once of a Viet Cong prisoner being shot in the head – watched in disgust as blood spurted from the hole in the guy’s skull while he sank slowly to the ground: his eyes still focused.
She had the same sense of repulsion now, but a hundred times worse.
The tears were falling freely.
*
Marie wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing like that, when she was startled by a sudden noise echoing along the lobby.
Someone was pulling at the main door.
From the din they were making it was obvious they were eager to get in, but didn’t have a key.
Marie tried to stay calm, but the day’s events had left her feeling edgy and vulnerable.
They were rattling the door, kicking it, trying to force it open: the sound amplified and distorted by the marble floor and solid concrete walls.
She flipped the light switch on the landing, but there was no bulb so she had to clamber up two flights of stairs in darkness: her heart pumping like it was going to burst out of her chest and grab her by the throat.
When she reached the third floor she pushed her shoulder against the heavy inner door.
It opened on to a long, covered balcony overlooking a large inner courtyard that served all of the apartments. There was a lit pool and flat grassy lawn with uplighters illuminating some of the bigger plants.
Marie tried the light switch there too, but it wasn’t working either.
She stopped.
There was a movement in the shadows halfway along the balcony.
Marie could make out the tall figure of a man standing outside her apartment door . . . standing there like he was waiting for her. It was difficult to tell – the light was so bad – but it looked like the guy from downstairs who had pushed past her at the main door a few minutes ago.
She wanted to turn and run, but whoever had been trying to get into the building
had obviously succeeded and the sound of footsteps could be heard echoing noisily up the stairwell behind her.
Her only option was to move forward: meet the guy head-on and ask him what the hell he was doing standing outside her front door.
She wished she could remember his name.
As she drew near he started speaking.
‘What kept you?’ he asked.
Marie stared at him for a moment.
‘I was having a little “me time” in the lobby,’ she replied. ‘And I couldn’t find the off button for the sheriff.’
The guy held up the brown paper bag.
‘You hungry?’
His voice was familiar, but somehow didn’t match the face.
‘Is it Indian?’ asked Marie.
‘Thai.’
It was only then that Marie realised.
‘Do you know how to mix a whiskey sour?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Do you know how to pour a beer?’
Marie started to get the keys out of her bag.
‘You’ve had a shave. Makes you look . . .’ She paused for a second and smiled. ‘Older.’
Chapter 8
Newry‚ early hours of Maundy Thursday
Four intruders.
Danny knew they were coming long before he felt the cold, hard barrel of a Browning L9A1 pressed firmly into his cheek.
He’d been expecting a response. Holding a gun to the head of an E4A operative in the church – even if he’d had no intention of pulling the trigger – wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done. It was bound to provoke a reaction.
Seeing Lep McFarlane again had thrown him; made him drop his guard and act like an idiot. He’d lost control and that wasn’t good.
Not only would there be a reprisal, but it opened him up to the possibility of charges: ‘possession of a firearm’, ‘threatening a member of Her Majesty’s security forces’, any other shit they wanted to throw in the mix. But Danny knew that’s not how it worked in the real world: he was fairly certain the security forces – particularly the covert ones – preferred hand-to-hand in the street, rather than face-to-face in a law court. Prosecuting him would take too long, with no guarantee of a conviction, and the E4A operative – the guy in the church – wouldn’t want to make an appearance in court. Not only would it be an admission that they were conducting close-surveillance operations, but the officer’s cover would be blown, and that was not an option. Far better to send in a team: deliver an unofficial response in person and let him know the security forces weren’t to be messed with.
Seventy Times Seven Page 5