But Duffy was a fighter, too.
“I’ve stood behind Blade before,” he said, “and I’m standing behind him now. You may think what you like of him, but I can assure you there’s no better man on the force.”
“Then why are we still no further than we were a week ago?” Redfern asked.
“Because we’re up against something we’ve never had to contend with before.” Duffy swiveled round to face Redfern. “You know that as well as I do. How’s your own investigation coming along, eh? You people have half the intelligence services in America working on those tapes. What have ye come up with?”
Redfern stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Nothing so far, I agree. Which is why I’m recommending that we drop that line of inquiry and concentrate our resources right here. But I want somebody else to head up the investigation from your side, Commissioner. Macken’s out, as far as I’m concerned. He hasn’t even reached first base.”
“Whatever that’s supposed to mean,” Duffy said dryly.
Seaborg saw the tension rising again and came between them.
“What about Superintendent Nolan, Commissioner?” he said. “Perhaps he could do better. We’ve less than three days, for crying out loud.”
“The ambassador has a point,” Redfern said. “Seems to me that Nolan is handling this better than Macken—and he’s not even on the case. At least he produced a suspect.”
“Which led Macken on a wild-goose chase, thereby slowing up the investigation,” Duffy countered.
Seaborg ran his fingers through his hair. He laid his palms on the desk, seeming to tower over Duffy.
“At least he’s doing something,” he said, “even if it failed to get results. From what I hear from Mr. Redfern, Macken has done little except come up with a harebrained plan involving sniffer dogs—”
“When he hasn’t been painting the town red at night,” Redfern sneered. “I say we go with Nolan.”
“Or you assign them both to the case,” said Seaborg.
Duffy sighed. “You don’t know what you’re asking, gentlemen. That’s the one course that isn’t open to me. You might as well string two tomcats across a clothesline by their tails and let them fight it out.”
“I’m not saying you should give them equal authority,” the ambassador said. “Not at all. Put Nolan in charge, but let’s not forget that Macken has a direct line to the bomber. Break that now and we might lose contact for keeps. So what I’m suggesting is that Macken’s involvement ought to be confined to receiving and passing on phone messages. No more.”
“My God, he’ll love that,” Duffy said. He stood up wearily. “All right, Nolan it is—alone. Now I suppose I’ll have to break the news to Blade.”
Seaborg came from behind the desk and offered Duffy his hand.
“It’s for the best, Commissioner. I like Macken; he’s a good guy. But I have to agree with Mr. Redfern. It’s proved too much for him. We need fresh blood now. We’re running out of time.”
Duffy wanted to say something. Couldn’t. He nodded gravely to the ambassador and left the room.
“Well? Happy now?” Seaborg said.
“No, Colonel, I’m not happy. And I’m sure not gloating either, if that’s what you think. If you want the truth, I’m worried as hell. Sir, you’ve got to use your influence; get the White House to call off the visit. This situation is out of control.”
Seaborg sat down. He picked up the jeep-shaped paperweight and balanced it on his palm.
“And on what pretext ought we to call it off, Mr. Redfern? Because there’s been a gas leak in the city of Dublin? The president would be laughed right out of office.”
Redfern was silent—if not for long.
“But that’s it, Colonel! You’ve hit the nail on the head. A leak.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Don’t you see, sir? Duffy has done his damnedest to try to keep the lid on this. What if we were to leak the real story to the press? Tell them the truth: that there’s been a bomb threat on the president’s life.”
Seaborg laughed bitterly. He shook his head.
“Spoken, Mr. Redfern, like a true field agent, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Redfern looked hurt. Seaborg’s tone grew milder.
“You don’t know what it’s like to sit at this desk, Larry. You must think that what goes on behind closed doors here is all about who does or who doesn’t get invited to cocktail parties in the ambassador’s residence.”
“No, sir, I certainly don’t. I—”
“Let me finish now. What you’re suggesting is that we blow the cover on a story that a foreign administration has been desperately trying to maintain for more than a week. Now, aside from creating an international incident should the leak be traced to this office, you’d most likely be exposing the president to even more danger than he’s in right now.”
Seaborg replaced the paperweight on his desk and began to roll the miniature vehicle back and forth.
“You’re right,” he went on; “there’s still time for the White House to change its mind. The president can contract a bug, visit with his dying aunt, anything. He won’t lose any credibility if he cancels now. Because there’s no clear and present danger. And I wish to God he could cancel.”
“Amen to that.”
“But Larry, you know as well as I do that Duffy’s story won’t hold forever. Too many people know about the bomb—here and back home. It’s only a matter of time before the press gets its hands on it. The White House knows this. More important, the president’s political advisers know it. Everything is politics, Larry. You, me, Mr. Jones there: we’re all part of the great political game. It’s the World Series—except this one never stops. Did you catch the news Monday?”
He didn’t wait for a reply but went to a cabinet and opened a pair of doors to reveal a television set. He took a videocassette from a rack and inserted it in the player.
CNN had the best coverage. The hollering match that was characteristic of the British House of Commons in session had gone on for more than three hours, as the prime minister tried to appeal to both benches for reason and restraint. He’d been shouted down. The most vociferous voices had belonged to his own party. Everything from the War of Independence to the Normandy Landings had been cited as evidence of a deeply rooted mistrust that lay beneath the veneer of friendly Anglo-American relations. The resident of the Oval Office had been branded a traitor, a coward—even a warmonger. The prime minister had been urged to seek an apology.
“Piss and wind, Larry,” Seaborg said. “That’s politics. Put one of those red-faced gentlemen in a combat zone and he’d soil his underpants.”
He switched off the set. “But that’s not the issue here. These people control the president as much as the voters in Libby, Montana, control him; make no mistake about it.”
“Is he going to apologize?” Redfern asked softly.
“Probably. But not today, and certainly not according to Noah Webster’s definition of the word ‘apologize.’ Diplomacy doesn’t run off half-cocked; it takes its blessed time.”
Seaborg sat down.
“You understand now?” he said. “The president’s shot himself in the foot. He’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. If he cancels the visit now and the truth comes out later, he’s damned. If he doesn’t cancel and the truth leaks out before Tuesday next—or, God forbid, if there’s another bomb—then he’s damned again. And he knows it.”
“So he has to come, either way.”
“That’s right. Only an act of God can stop him now.”
Twenty-two
When it appears that the whole world is against you; when everything you set your hand to works out wrong; when your best-laid plans go awry; when life seems bleak and indifferent, then there’s always one person you can still turn to.
Mother.
Blade Macken was on the Wexford road, heading for County Wicklow on Saturday, the ninth day of Angel. The hum of the car engine soothed h
im; his CD player tinkled softly with the piano music of Phil Coulter and the cooling drafts of the air-conditioning on his face were in sharp contrast to the sweltering heat outside.
The bare, rugged limestone cone of the Great Sugar Loaf reared up ahead when he’d passed the southern boundary of County Dublin and entered the locality known affectionately as the Garden of Ireland.
He drove through places whose names matched their loveliness: Kilmacanogue, Glen of the Downs, Ashford. But the beauty of the countryside was lost on him; his thoughts were elsewhere. On dark angels of death, murdered children, child molesters, impending assassination. Only when he bore left at the village of Rathnew did Blade think long and hard on Katharine Macken.
He’d returned her calls at last. To his surprise, his mother had sounded bright and coherent, in contrast to the messages she’d left on his answering machine. What was she now? Seventy-three. But she’d sounded like a girl of twelve. That had cheered Blade considerably, even though an inner voice had reminded him that a regression to childhood speech and mannerism was a symptom of the dementia that was ravaging his mother’s mind.
He stopped at Madden’s newsdealer’s shop in Wicklow town and bought a pack of Hamlets and a box of Katharine’s favorite chocolates.
She lived on the damn things: “What d’you mean, they’ll ‘rot your teeth’? I haven’t got any teeth of my own left to rot.” He always laughed to himself when he thought of her saying that.
Soon Blade was ascending a steep road south of the town. He looked in his rearview mirror and was gladdened by the sight of the harbor and the sea beyond, a panorama that presented almost the entire eastern coast as far as the peninsula of Howth. He never tired of the beauty of this vista.
On the CD player Phil Coulter began the intro to his masterpiece: “The Town I Loved So Well.” When the chords of the first verse came, Blade loudly sang the lyrics in his bad baritone, confident that the closed windows of the car would spare the ears and sensibilities of anybody within earshot. But there was no one; as he negotiated the winding, hedgerow-lined road that led to Katharine’s home, he passed only a solitary sheepdog.
The house was big: a three-story Victorian building with stables adjacent, set back from the road and approached by a climbing driveway. There was only one car out front: the small, battered Fiat belonging to Katharine’s nurse. She had the hall door opened before Blade had cut his engine. He’d an enormous amount of respect for the woman; looking after his mother was a heavy task.
“How’s she been keeping?”
“Ah, you know yourself, Blade, without me telling you. She has her good days and her bad days. But she was thrilled to bits when she heard you were coming down. Sure she’s little else in her life these days, the creature.” The nurse frowned a bit. “You really ought to try to drop by more often. You know how she dotes on you.”
“I know,” he said, as he looked about the hall that was filled with memories of the best of times and the worst of times. It was also filled with the smell of mustiness and decay and he wondered when the decorators had been in last. But who, Blade asked himself, was going to pay them? Louise and Barbara? You must be joking. Blade’s older sisters hadn’t seen their mother in years. The ferry from Wales took only ninety minutes now, but neither of the bitches ever bothered her arse to make the trip; Katharine was Blade’s responsibility as far as they were concerned. He could never figure families.
“I know,” he said again. “But I’ve been up to my eyes the past few weeks. Has she been eating at all?”
The nurse eyed the box of candy.
“Sure you’re worse to keep bringing her those things,” she admonished. “Ah, she’s the same as always, I suppose. I can get her to eat the odd bit of meat for me, but she wouldn’t touch a vegetable if you paid her.” She paused at the double doors leading to the living room. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her, Blade. I’m sick trying.”
He nodded, and went in.
Katharine Macken had made herself up for his coming. A mistake. She probably thought that the blue eye shadow, thick mascara, and bright pink lipstick made her look like a movie star. They didn’t; Blade saw an old, painted crone, a travesty of the beautiful woman his mother had once been. But he pressed her hand and kissed her warmly on both cheeks as though she were his queen.
* * *
They drove to the lighthouse.
She enjoyed it so much when Blade brought her here. There are actually three lights: the oldest is a tall, massive, eight-sided structure, built toward the end of the eighteenth century. It fell into disuse when a newer tower was erected a hundred years later. That, too, is shut. Now Wicklow Head is guarded by an automatic light set halfway down the cliff face. Katharine linked Blade’s arm as they descended the gently winding path.
They stood together at the low wall overlooking the old keeper’s house and gazed out across the Irish Sea. A little distance out in the blue water, a small brown head appeared. A seal. Katharine grew excited.
“How adorable! One doesn’t see quite so many of them as one used to.” She turned to him. “Remember that time we saw a pair of them just off Killiney strand?” She sighed. “A long time ago now. You wanted to take a photograph, Blade, but they vanished before you could go and fetch the Brownie.”
“Er, that was Dad, Katharine. Blade senior.”
“Of course it wasn’t, silly! I recall the incident as though it were yesterday. We’d gone down for the day with that dreadful American and his girlfriend. What was his name? Slater, that was it. P. J. Slater. Whatever became of him?”
“It wasn’t me, Katharine.”
She shook her head in irritation.
“I do wish you’d stop contradicting me. Next you’ll be telling me I’m senile.”
He’d persuaded her before they left the house that the garish makeup had been “too common” so she’d cleaned most of it off. She looked quite pretty now with a silk scarf tied around her head. He squeezed her hand.
“And that frightful Catacombs crowd!” she said after a time. “I was ever so glad when you stopped going to that place, Blade. It was nothing but a common drinking den; the constables ought to have shut it down. I simply can’t imagine what you saw in those people. Boozers and ne’er-do-wells, every last one of ’em.”
Blade said nothing. His father’s ghost continued to haunt him. But he was relishing the afternoon, happy to be at his mother’s side in this lovely, secluded place, where no dark angels ventured. He tried to put the investigation from his mind. To hell with Duffy, to hell with Nolan.
“And as for that Brendan Behan! How the young Salkeld girl could have thrown herself at a person such as he, I shall never understand.”
“He was a bit of a character right enough.”
“That’s putting it mildly. When I think of what he got up to! I couldn’t believe my ears that time when you told me that he’d had people eating human flesh for a bet.” She shuddered. “You didn’t make it up, did you? It really happened?”
“So Dad said, yes.”
Some seconds went by. He heard her sniffling and when he looked, there were tears in her eyes. He put an arm around her shoulders.
“Oh I’m hopeless, Blade,” she sobbed. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. The doctor keeps reassuring me that it’s not so, but I think my mind is going. Is it, Blade? Tell me truthfully. Is it?”
Blade pressed her against him. There was a lump in his throat.
* * *
He drove her back to the house, along the little private road, past the green pastureland dotted whitely with sheep.
The nurse’s car was gone when he pulled up. He helped her inside, the old house echoing to their footsteps and her walking stick. There was a fire burning in the living-room hearth.
“Would you straighten that picture, Blade?” his mother said, undoing her headscarf. “That woman has absolutely no eye to speak of. Hopeless.”
He went to the fireplace and lifted the heavy frame that housed
the oil painting. The artist had clearly been much influenced by Rosetti: the winged being, dressed in a flowing, white garment, had features and hair that glowed with an impossible beauty, and an almost pornographic sensuality. Its flat chest seemed at odds with the exaggerated femininity of the eyes and lips.
Something tugged at a corner of Blade’s mind—something too intangible to be pinned down.
He straightened the picture and returned to help his mother to her favorite chair by the window.
His cellular phone rang the moment Katharine was seated. She looked around in confusion and showed surprise when her son drew the instrument from his pocket and put it to his ear.
“Macken.…”
“BLADE, THE VERY MAN! WARM FOR THE TIME OF YEAR, ISN’T IT? WE COULD DO WITH A DROP OF RAIN. WOULD YOU AGREE?”
Saint Christopher on a bike! Blade pressed the RECORD button on the back of the handset.
“I suppose so,” he said softly.
“YOU CAN’T TALK, BLADE, IS THAT IT?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Blade indicated to Katharine in sign language that he was going to take the call elsewhere. She frowned, yet still knew enough to appreciate that police business sometimes took priority over aged mothers. Blade went into the kitchen.
“All right,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
“AH FOR FUCK’S SAKE, BLADE, SURE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR ME. WHAT’S THE STORY ON MY TWENTY-FIVE MILLION DOLLARS?”
“It’s coming.”
“YOU’RE SURE NOW?”
“Yeah, I think the Yanks have it sorted out. They’ve offered to pay the full whack themselves.”
“YOU ‘THINK’ THEY HAVE IT SORTED OUT? WELL, THAT ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH, BLADE; IT REALLY ISN’T. IT’S—”
“Look … no. I didn’t mean it like that. They’re doing it. Believe me. You’ll have your money on time.”
“I FUCKING WELL BETTER. YOU KNOW WHAT TODAY’S DATE IS, BLADE, DON’T YOU?”
“The eleventh.”
“THAT’S RIGHT. SO YOU JUST MAKE SURE THAT SEABORG AND THE OTHERS KNOW IT AS WELL. I HATE TO BE KEPT WAITING. DON’T YOU HATE THAT, TOO, BLADE, SOMEBODY KEEPING YOU WAITING? IT DRIVES ME SPARE.”
The Angel Tapes Page 14