by Tom Bradby
Now O’Hanlon was shaking his head. ‘Well, we’re going to have to part company on that one. I think you’ve got a lot to tell. The only question is how long I’m going to have to sit here until you tell it.’ He suddenly seemed to lose patience and got up to go, waving his hand airily at Paddy. ‘Do him.’
As he closed the door behind him, Paddy looked at Chico and felt real fear coursing through his system for the first time. He realized with a sickening shudder that he faced a slow, painful death; his ordeal likely to be lengthened by his innocence. Chico advanced towards him, grinning inanely. He saw the fat man from east Tyrone stand up and disappear through a side door which he hadn’t noticed until now. He heard the sound of a bath running and shivered again.
They dragged him into the bath and bent him over the edge, the enamel rim cold against his skin.
The water was even colder and, for a few moments, he enjoyed the sensation of being clean. Then his body told him he wanted to breathe. He tried to hold on and wait, but the pressure grew until he was desperate and fighting for breath. His lungs and his mind felt like they were bursting and he pushed backwards with all his strength. But they held him. His lungs felt like they were going to explode when, suddenly, they pulled him up by his sodden hair.
They let him take three or perhaps four gulps of air and then he was plunged forward again, his lungs weaker this time and the pain more intense. He fought, his horror and desperation increasing, and they pulled him out only seconds before his lungs gave in and took in the water. He didn’t feel he could last much longer.
But he did. He didn’t know how long it went on, but it seemed like for ever. They must have put him under twenty or thirty times – at least it felt like that – and by the time he got back to the chair he wanted to cry.
Chico sat down on the double bed and Paddy closed his eyes to try and blot out the reality that surrounded him. When he opened them again, Chico was on his knees in front of him, smiling inanely. Paddy struggled, but they’d tied his hands to the back of the chair and he found he couldn’t move. He pushed himself sideways and hit the floor, the impact noiseless because of the thick, magenta carpet. They picked him up again and Chico took hold of his testicles. He fondled them gently and looked up. ‘A perfect pair.’
Paddy looked down at him. He was horrified. Chico was grinning. ‘Be a shame to ruin them.’
He squeezed and Paddy felt a searing pain shoot up through his body. He screamed, more out of shock than anything else, and the man from east Tyrone took a step forward and punched him across the side of his face.
Chico eased his grip and began fondling them again, the gesture oddly soothing after the pain. He was still grinning. ‘You mustn’t scream here, Paddy. No point in it, because there’s no-one to hear you and nobody to help you.’
He squeezed and Paddy screamed again. He didn’t think he’d ever felt such pain and, as Chico loosened his grip, he felt the words dribbling out of his mouth involuntarily. He wanted it to stop. He thought he’d do anything to make it stop. ‘Christ, stop it,’ he said. ‘Please stop it.’
He felt pathetic, humiliated, and Chico was still grinning at him. ‘Just think about it, Paddy. This could go on for weeks and weeks. A little gentle pain every day.’
He was saved by O’Hanlon, who put his head briefly round the door. ‘Car coming. Keep him quiet.’
The silence seemed blessed. Chico was still grinning and cracking his knuckles slowly, but for a few moments at least he didn’t feel threatened. The windows were behind him and he’d noticed when he was being pulled from the bathroom that the curtains were drawn, but he could hear the wind. He thought it was a horrible day outside. If it was still day.
He heard the front door open and the faint sound of voices in urgent conversation. It lasted ten or fifteen minutes and then a door slammed and the car started up again. O’Hanlon came back to the room. He waved Chico away and sat down on the bed opposite Paddy. He looked puzzled. ‘Curious. Most curious.’
Paddy stared at him blankly.
‘Your brother has disappeared.’
Paddy didn’t answer. He tried to keep his face expressionless.
‘Hard to believe that both of you were touts.’
He felt his anger return. ‘Don’t be a prick.’
O’Hanlon got up and swung the back of his hand across his face. ‘Mind your manners.’
Paddy’s face stung, but his anger remained. ‘For Christ’s sake. Neither of us is a bloody tout. I don’t know what the hell you’re on about.’
‘Then where’s your brother, eh? What was he doing at Dublin airport on his way out of the country with nobody knowing where he’s going?’
‘None of your bloody business.’
O’Hanlon struck him again, harder. ‘It is my business, I’m afraid. It is very much my business. He’s leaving the country because he’s a tout. You’re both a filthy pair of touting rats.’
‘He’s on business.’
‘Well, nobody knows about it.’
‘He’s no more a tout than I am.’
‘That’s not to say much. If he’s not running away, then what is he doing?’
Paddy was becoming exasperated. He knew he was locked into this madness and he couldn’t see a way out. He knew he was going to die here because of the paranoid rantings of a lunatic he detested more than anyone else he’d ever met. ‘I told you, he’s on business.’
‘What business, Paddy? Touting business? Well, you’d know all about that.’
Paddy tried to summon his strength. ‘He’ll make you pay for this, O’Hanlon. Believe me, he will…’
Colette stood up too quickly and she felt Gerry tugging at her side. As she sat down again, he whispered, ‘Steady,’ in her ear.
Everyone else was on their feet now, though the plane had not yet come to a halt. The overhead lockers were being opened. A coat fell on her head and a man bent down to apologize. She smiled at him, mechanically.
The plane stopped and, a few minutes later, people began to shuffle down towards the exit. Gerry nudged her and she got to her feet. She waited for a gap in the line and then stepped out and reached up for their bags.
They walked towards the exit. The stewardesses smiled and said goodbye and she nodded at them without speaking.
They were in the terminal now and there was a curious excitement mixed in with her fear. But as they approached the control zone, fear dominated.
There was a queue and they waited.
She felt a tightness in her chest again.
She was there. She fumbled in her bag and produced the small red passport. It was a false name and false identity, but she knew she looked pretty in the photograph. She smiled at the man, but didn’t speak.
He didn’t smile back. He looked down at the passport and then up again. He looked down once more and then put it back on the counter for her. His eyes turned to Gerry. She walked slowly, waiting for Gerry and trying to resist the temptation to run.
She sensed Gerry on her shoulder and heard him whisper, ‘Bingo.’
They walked down to the tube. They had to wait only a few minutes and then a train arrived and they got in. They waited for a few more minutes and then Gerry nodded and they got out and walked down the platform to the other end of the train, Gerry looking over his shoulder as they did so. Colette got in and Gerry waited on the platform. Just as the doors began to shut, he jumped in and came to sit next to her.
They sat in silence and Colette looked at all the adverts for theatres and books and films. There was so much happening here.
Gerry nudged her as the tube was pulling in to Piccadilly Circus and she picked up her bag and followed him into the throng. It was already dark outside, the bright lights of Piccadilly beaming their message out over the crowds below. She followed Gerry past the statue of Eros and a group of Japanese tourists posing for the inevitable holiday snapshots. They waited to cross the road and then walked up to the Regency Crest hotel. They checked in as Mr and Mrs Peter Jen
nings, occupying a twin bedroom at £59 a night. Colette did the talking. Her English accent was more convincing.
The Regency Crest was not particularly luxurious, its long, anonymous corridors giving way to small, newly painted, but still shabby rooms. Colette put her bag on the floor, lay on the bed and closed her eyes. She fell asleep and, when she woke, Gerry was standing over her and suggesting they go and get something to eat. She nodded weakly and they walked down to the Pizzaland at the top of Lower Regent Street. They ordered and Gerry looked around him carefully before leaning forward to speak to her. The room was empty, but she had to strain to make out what he was saying.
He told her he had been preparing, for many months, a plan to assassinate the British prime minister as he spoke at Prime Minister’s Questions in the House of Commons. He said they would enter the press section of the House using forged passes, emerge at the key moment, shoot and then escape via the terrace that ran alongside the Thames. A small rubber inflatable would be waiting.
He told her he had sent one of his best people over six months before to prepare and plan.
Colette felt sick.
She excused herself politely and disappeared into the ladies’ loo. She shut one of the cubicles and sat on the seat with her head between her legs.
She thought he must be mad.
She went back to the table and asked him to go over the plan again in detail. He was still vague – deliberately so, she thought – and told her simply to trust him. After a while, conversation petered out and she stirred her cappuccino in silence. As she sucked the froth off her teaspoon she considered the man who sat opposite her and found it hard to believe she’d spent so much of her life trying to impress him and win his respect. At this moment, she thought she hated him.
She tried one more time to get through to him, as if subconsciously willing him to give her a reason to change her mind. ‘What’ll the leadership think if tomorrow works?’ she asked.
‘It will work.’
She stirred the remains of her coffee and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I know, I know, but I mean, what will they think?’
Gerry readjusted his spectacles and looked at her intently. ‘I have some support. I’m not alone.’
‘But what will they do?’
‘They’ll do nothing. Their so-called peace process will be over and they’ll have to get on and fight.’
Colette tried to sound encouraging. ‘But they’ll do nothing to you – I mean to us?’
‘They won’t touch us. They wouldn’t dare.’
Colette fell silent. When her second cappuccino arrived, she tried again. ‘When will it end, Gerry? I mean, how much longer do you think it will take?’
She noticed the muscle along his jaw twitching. ‘Like I said before, it will end when it ends. It will end when we’ve won. It will end when we’ve got the Brits out – when we’ve broken their will to stay – however long it takes, whether it be five, fifty or five hundred years.’
Gerry stopped abruptly. He had raised his voice slightly and said more than he should, and he looked round to check they had not been overheard. He got up and indicated to Colette that she should follow. They paid at the front counter and returned to their room.
After Gerry had turned off the lights, she lay awake long into the night, thinking. She didn’t think she was going to be able to sleep. She was just considering getting up when she heard Gerry sniff and realized he’d also been lying awake. He said only, ‘I hope Paddy’s all right.’
She realized she had hardly thought about Paddy.
When they picked up the hood again, Paddy knew he was finished. Perhaps, if he’d had time, he would have been brave at the end, but the whole thing had been such a shock and such a surprise – such an outrage, because he knew he was innocent – that he hadn’t had time to gather himself.
When he could think of anything but the pain, he thought they must have been ordered to beat a confession out of him – any confession – because they seemed to have consciously abandoned all restraint. He hadn’t seen O’Hanlon again.
The confession made no sense. He just agreed with whatever they put to him.
They taped it, as evidence.
He wanted to fight as they dragged him to the van, but he found himself pleading. They threw him into the back and he hit his head against the metal seat strut. It began to bleed, the blood running into his eyes. In the dark, in his blindness and fear, he began to cry like a baby. ‘Please, God, please. Please. Please …’ He didn’t know which one of them sat next to him and he didn’t care. ‘Please. I’m no tout. I hate touts more than anyone.’
There was no answer. His existence was pain, darkness and despair. He called out, but nobody answered him. In his last hour of life, he was to be denied even the comfort of another human voice. He shivered violently and curled his body into a ball, as if consciously trying to return to the safety of the womb. He begged, ‘Christ, please. God, please. Ask Gerry – ask anyone – I’m no tout. Please, please, please …’
He heard nothing, saw nothing. He felt dizzy, his head dazed by the beatings and by the journey. It seemed to go on for ever, but he didn’t stop pleading. There was no reason to it, no logic. He knew what was going to happen, but he’d lost his dignity and courage. He’d never imagined it would be like this, never imagined it would come so slowly and so inevitably. He’d never imagined that he would understand and recognize the march of death, never believed he would stare death in the face and not have any power to prevent it. He cried all the way. Cried like a baby. Cried for anyone or anything to help him. He cried as if what he was doing would make a difference, as if it would unlock some long-hidden sense of humanity and compassion in the hearts of his tormentors.
The van stopped and they pulled him by his feet onto the tarmac, the impact blowing the wind out of his lungs. They pulled off his trainers and his socks and he knew the moment was closer than ever. He struggled briefly and then cried again. ‘Oh God. Oh Christ. Please. No. Please no, please …’
They yanked him to his feet and he felt the mud squelching between his toes. He felt helpless, but he couldn’t and wouldn’t give up, and he kept pleading, his cries ever more pathetic and desperate.
They took him – walked him – for a mile or more, and by the end his feet were bleeding, though he certainly didn’t notice the pain. He felt curiously light-headed, the pain deadened by his desperation.
They forced him to kneel and he cried harder than ever. He pleaded, still babbling incoherently and calling for his mother. He felt the barrel of the pistol at the back of his head, but he didn’t hear the shot.
The men walked away, laughing.
There was a small huddle outside Grant’s office and they all fell silent as Ryan approached.
He didn’t care. He told himself he just did not care. He was embarrassed, angry even, but he didn’t care enough to let it worry him. The others were career men and he looked at them with contempt. He set himself apart.
Grant was businesslike, in that detached way of his, his manner vague but his mind sharp. There was not enough room for all of them, so some stood, including Ryan.
Grant twisted his half-moon glasses round in his hand and gestured at him. ‘Let’s just go through this again, shall we? What is the explanation? What do we know?’
Jenkins answered before Ryan could open his mouth. ‘We know we have a rogue agent. We know there has been a breakdown in supervision.’
Grant cut in, his voice icy. ‘I’m not interested in blame at this juncture, Jenkins. I want to go over what we know.’
Ryan made as if to speak and then thought better of it. Jenkins picked up. ‘We know from the RUC’ – he mouthed the letters as if they were contagious – ‘that an IRA hit team, including our woman, is on its way to London – or is already in London. We know there are two of them, but there could be many more. We know that they are due to attack within the next two or three days – or, at least, we think we know that. And that is about all we
do know. We believe the target may be a royal, possibly Prince Charles.’
Jenkins paused for effect. Ryan thought he was enjoying this and his dislike of him escalated another notch. ‘One thing we do know: they’re travelling via Paris. We alerted Jefferson at the embassy there as soon as we heard, and he in turn has organized our French colleagues. They have saturated both airports and all the channel ports. They’re being very thorough.’
Grant cut in again. ‘They have pictures?’
‘Yes, as do our people. We’ve launched a massive operation and have all points of entry fully covered. If they’re not in already, they’ve very little chance of getting in.’
Grant twiddled his glasses again, asking Jenkins a question to which he already knew the answer. ‘Do we know how many are involved in total – who is providing the back-up?’
‘We do not.’ Jenkins pushed the top sheet of paper to one side and opened up a computer printout. ‘Targets. Well, we can’t be absolutely sure, but it seems this is actually going to take place in London – that is the intelligence we have from the RUC, for what it’s worth. As you know, the Queen is away, in New Zealand, and there is only one significant royal engagement tomorrow.’ Jenkins paused again and looked up before delivering his ace. ‘Prince Charles is due to lunch with Thabo Mbeki at South Africa House.’
Grant grunted volubly. He looked round the table. ‘Any suggestions, gentlemen?’
Silence. One of the analysts at the other end of the table looked round to see if anyone else was going to answer before saying what was on all their minds. ‘He’ll cancel, surely?’
Jenkins was curt. ‘We’ve asked. He won’t.’
The analyst tried to expand, but Jenkins waved his hand airily. ‘He won’t entertain it. We’ve been through that already. We’ll just have to tell the police to beef up their security.’
Grant sucked one arm of his glasses. ‘That’s not easy either. Hard to have the whole place awash with security without people asking awkward questions. Not to mention the difficulties of protecting the source for our friends in the RUC …’