The Angel Tapes

by David M. Kiely

  Then she laughed again.

  “You fucking amateurs!” She raised her voice. “Yes, Duffy, you! You and the rest of them—whoever’s listening. Do you hear me, Duffy? You’re an amateur. You’re out of your fucking league. This is Angel you’re dealing with.”

  She stepped two paces back and pointed the gun once more at Macken’s skull. “Take it off, Blade. The wire. Take it off.”

  He’d known from the start that it was a mistake. And yes, it had been Duffy’s idea; Duffy, backed up by some of the others. Stupid. Blade had guessed that Carol, of all people, wouldn’t be taken in by such a primitive ruse as a concealed microphone. Any hopes he’d cherished of winning her confidence were fading now.

  “Do it slowly, Blade,” she said. Holding the gun aimed in his direction, she looked around quickly. The street was deserted; the cider-swilling youths were gone. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Blade began to unzip his trousers.

  “Oh, that’s good, Blade. Full marks, Mr. Duffy. Did they think I wouldn’t search your crotch, Blade? Me, a woman? Or was it your pet psychologist? Was it her idea?”

  Blade said nothing. He carefully removed the little microphone and its wiring from the place of concealment and let them fall to the ground.

  “Anything else I should know about, Blade? Or is that bulge in your trousers all your own?”

  “That’s all. And you’re right: it wasn’t my idea. It’s not my style.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I know. I know your style, Blade. Believe me, I know it only too well.” She gestured with the gun. “Get in the car.”

  He obeyed, and Carol Merrigan slid into the passenger seat. The morning sun caught the weapon, a chromium-plated Beretta, lethal at this range. He wondered where she’d got it.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just shut the fuck up and drive, Blade. We’re going to have a little chat. We’re going to talk about, you might say, old times.”

  Forty

  Mr. Sachs had had the embassy radio room evacuated. Nobody had protested; Sachs was Redfern’s man and it was understood that you didn’t get on the wrong side of Redfern. Now Sachs and Roe had the little windowless room to themselves. Roe had a direct link with Langley, Virginia; Sachs maintained radio contact with the six embassy cars that conveyed the other dark-suited men to the center of Dublin.

  “We have a bird,” Roe said.

  “Good.”

  “Fifty-three, twenty, thirty-seven-point-five north; zero six, fourteen, thirty-six-point-one east,” Roe said, tilting up one half of his headphones.

  “I copy,” Sachs answered.

  He punched in the coordinates on his keyboard and was almost instantly rewarded with a full-color map of a section of Dublin city. A red light pulsed brightly on a narrow street. Sachs spoke into a microphone attached to his own headset.

  Unseen from the earth, a satellite with the designation of KH-12 followed an orbit high in the ionosphere. The youngest generation of the Key Hole family of space spies, it carried an impressive panoply of sophisticated equipment. It had multi-spectral and infrared sensors, and radar that could penetrate clouds. The technician from Dublin Corporation had boasted that his surveillance cameras could pick up two flies “shagging each other on a wall.” He’d have been astounded by the reconnaissance capabilities of this silver bird.

  At that moment, its sensors were utilizing their fluoroscopic menus. Superman-like, they peeked clean through the thick metal of Blade’s car trunk, through the hides of two big travel cases—and registered the presence of certain invisible chemicals with which $25 million in used bills had been treated.

  The onboard navigation facility continuously updated the location of these chemicals, via the Navstar Global Positioning System. Encrypted, this information was relayed almost simultaneously to the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency, with which Mr. Roe had an open connection.

  At separate locations in the heart of the city of Dublin, the drivers of six cars responded to the electronic directive.

  * * *

  “Turn left at Pearse Street,” Carol Merrigan ordered. Presently they were passing Macken Street. Macken Street! Then Charlotte Quay. The still water reflected the massive bulk of Boland’s Mills, the building occupied in Easter Week, 1916, by militiamen under the command of a young schoolteacher named Eamon de Valera. Luxury apartments overlooked the harbor on their left. A breeze sped over the water, splintering the sunlight.

  Carol was adjusting the rearview mirror, angling it toward her. She did it with the hand that held the gun; the other was concealed within her shawl. She nodded, satisfied; she saw no signs of pursuit.

  “Keep going,” she said, as they passed over the canal and alongside the little mission church.

  I was right, Blade thought: We’re heading for the East Link; she’s planning on making her getaway by air after all.

  But he was mistaken; Carol was having him make a diversion. After a bewildering series of turns, they’d recrossed the canal and were heading back toward the city center. She peered every few seconds in the mirror.

  “There was no need for the bombs,” Blade said. “No need at all.”

  She laughed. “Yes there was, Blade. I got you here, didn’t I?”

  He looked at her strangely. “For fuck’s sake, Carol. You killed six innocent people—just to talk to me?”

  “Would you have talked to me otherwise?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know what you did, Blade Macken? You know what you did? You murdered my parents, that’s what you did.” Her voice had risen, out of control.

  “I’d nothing to do with it,” he said. “Your father was the closest thing I ever had to a real friend. You know that. You must remember that.”

  “Oh, I remember, Blade. And that’s what makes it all so fucking painful. My father trusted you and you betrayed him. Turn right here.”

  “I didn’t. It wasn’t like that at all.”

  “Liar! You made him go into that bank in Donnybrook. You didn’t want to go yourself, ’cause you were out of your mind with drink.”

  “That’s not true. That’s not the way it happened.”

  “Oh, so Charlie Nolan is a liar then?”

  “Among other things, yes.”

  “And I suppose he lied about the burglary as well? When they killed my father?”

  Jesus Christ. What had Nolan been doing? Blade was beginning to regret helping the man. To hell with it. No more Robin fucking Hood.

  “You were up to your neck in it, Macken. Admit it.”

  Blade knew better than to argue. This was not a rational person.

  “Look on the backseat,” he said. “The paper.”

  She glanced back, saw the folded copy of the Irish Independent. “Don’t try anything.”

  “I won’t. Bottom half of page one.”

  Carol reached back and took the newspaper. She leaned against the car door, holding the gun on Blade, and read the headline above the news item, halfway down the front page.

  TWO MEN HELD FOR 1989 DOUBLE SLAYING

  “I got them, Carol. The men who killed your father. I got them.”

  She scanned the lines. Blade glanced at her and saw her wince. She held the paper up and shook it contemptuously.

  “How do I know this is genuine? Eh? How do I know you didn’t have this printed up, like the ones they do in the novelty shops, with your own name? ‘Blade Macken for President!’ ‘Macken Declares War on Saddam Hussein!’ Do you take me for a fool?!”

  “For fuck’s sake, Carol. It’s the real thing. If you don’t believe me, ring the bloody paper. Here, use my phone.”

  He saw her lips curl in a menacing smile.

  “Ah, that’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s part of the plan, too. Have me ring them up, after you’ve filled them all in on your little scheme. Well, I won’t play along, Blade.” She tossed the paper back in the rear of the car and leveled the gun again. “What other dirty little
tricks have you got up your sleeve? I warned you.…”

  “Jesus, I nearly got myself killed arresting those two. Fuck it. I’m on your side.”

  “Sure.”

  “Will you listen to me? Gerry—your da—was a good friend of mine. I was—”

  “Don’t even mention his name! I don’t want to hear it coming from your dirty mouth.” Her voice had risen to a screech, making him afraid. “You’re a liar, Macken. Your whole life has been one, dirty great lie. You lied then and you’re lying now. Nine years. Nine fucking years. Ah, how very convenient that the great Blade Macken manages to solve a murder at this very time. What took you so long, Blade, eh? Nine years?”

  “It just happened that way, Carol. It seems hard to believe, I know, but it was coincidence. Things just worked out that way. Believe me.”

  “I’d rot in hell before I believed you! Coincidence my arse. You knew all along, didn’t you? You knew who did it. I heard. Mammy told me.”

  He glanced at her sharply. He didn’t know what was real and what was delusion as far as Carol Merrigan was concerned. Did she know herself? Dr. Earley thought not.

  “You were covering up, Blade. Why? What did my father ever do to you? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear any more lies. Turn left here.”

  They were back where they’d started, almost. Sir John Rogerson’s Quay.

  “Stop here. The red door.”

  Blade obeyed. He cut the engine.

  The building looked derelict. It was wedged between a tall house with bricked-up windows and what had once been the Catholic Seamen’s Institute. A faded sign, almost indecipherable, read LUNCHEONS AND TEAS. It might have been a cafeteria at one time.

  There were two single-story warehouses on the quayside opposite, and beyond the far bank of the Liffey, the top floors of Jurys Hotel were visible. Blade saw the offices of the British and Irish Steam Packet Company and, farther west, those of the Custom House Dock Development Authority. And, farther still, the Custom House itself. From the third or fourth floor of Angel’s lair it would be plainly visible. He’d guessed correctly: She’d had him in her sights until he’d crossed the river.

  “Nice little setup you’ve got yourself,” he said. “Very neat.”

  She ignored the compliment. “Out of the car. Do it slowly, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “There’s still time to change your mind, Carol,” he said. “Nobody’ll convict you if I plead in your defense. We’ll tell them the whole story. You won’t have to go to prison; you can do time in an institution. It’ll be—”

  “Bastard!” she screamed. “So I’m cracked now, am I? Fuck you, Blade Macken; nobody’s putting me in a looney bin!”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Carol.”

  “Like hell you didn’t! Now get out of the car and open the boot.”

  Blade was very conscious of the pressure of his .22 against the base of his spine. Was this the time to reach for it? He could do it easily, have Carol covered before she could discharge her own weapon. Or before she could activate whatever it was she held in her left hand, hidden in the folds of her shawl.

  But what if the device she was holding was the equivalent of a hand grenade with the firing pin removed, as used by the suicide bombers of Lebanon? What then? What if her hand held down a lever of some kind that, if released, would send a signal to an underground bomb somewhere in the city? Perhaps only a few hundred yards away. Or was the insane bitch a human bomb herself? If he made a wrong move would the pair of them go up like a powder keg? The Kevlar vest felt sodden against his chest.

  And there was something else he’d forgotten. An old soldier like him should have thought of it, but he was out of practice with firearms. Had he checked the safety on the gun? No. There was no point in going for a gun that couldn’t be brought into instant play. Shite.

  He opened the trunk. The sight of the two suitcases brought a smile to the woman’s face. The presence of vast wealth close at hand affects the sane and the crazed in like manner. Carol licked her lips.

  “Put them to the left of the red door.”

  He obeyed. Then she kicked the door at a certain point and it flew inward, giving Blade a view of a dark and filthy interior.

  “In there, just inside the door, there’s a car cover. Bring it out.”

  He had to admit that she’d thought of everything, right down to the cover. When he’d unfolded it on the sidewalk he saw it was just the right size for his car: not too big, not too small. Perfect. Once covered by the plastic, his car would be invisible; no one would know he was in the building. It wouldn’t survive a night in this part of town but, Blade thought, he might not survive either.

  “Hurry up, Blade,” she said. “Get that thing on. And be sure to do the cords up tight.”

  He’d let her go as far as he was intending to. Once inside that building he’d be at her mercy. Once the suitcases were where Carol wanted them Blade was expendable. He saw no reason why she’d spare his life now.

  It took Blade no more than a minute to cover the car in its waterproof coat and pull taut the nylon cords that would make it windproof. The final knot had to be tied. It meant that Blade had to crouch down under the rear bumper. He did so, causing his right hand to be momentarily hidden from Carol.

  Yes, safety off. He brought the gun out into view.

  “Drop it!” he shouted. “Drop the gun. Now!”

  “Bastard!” Her face was ugly with hate.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Let it drop, Carol.”

  Had it been the movies, Blade considered afterward, then they might have engaged in a stand off. He’d have persuaded her that the game was up, that it was senseless to keep the gun trained on him. Blade would have reasoned with her, showed her “the error of her ways.” Then she’d have lowered her shooting arm and done one of two things: either meekly allowed him to take the gun from her limp grasp, or let it fall on the cobbled roadway with a clatter.

  But this wasn’t Hollywood; this was real life.

  Carol shot him.

  Forty-one

  The impact of the bullet was like a kick in the chest by a mule. Blade, still crouched at the rear of the car, was knocked off balance and sent sprawling backward. He felt as though his heart had stopped. The roar of the gun seemed to come one or two seconds later. There was no pain yet where the bullet had struck, only a numbness that was spreading rapidly. There was an ache in his head where it had hit the stones. He couldn’t breathe. From his supine position he saw her move into his field of vision and point the Beretta again, this time at his head.

  “Don’t, Carol. Please.”

  Car engines suddenly whined. Tires screeched, as six big vehicles, driven at speed, came to a standstill, blocking the street. Blade and Carol turned their heads as one.

  “Back off!” Lawrence Redfern barked.

  Two-dozen men had emerged from the cars; they held high-caliber handguns, each trained on the woman in the shawl.

  “Back off, Carol!” Redfern shouted again. “Put the gun down.”

  Instead, she ducked behind Blade’s camouflaged car.

  “You fuckers!” she screamed. “I’ll blow us all sky-high if you come any nearer. Don’t make me.”

  Blade was struggling to his feet. The numbness had gone; fire shot through his chest. He nearly fainted from the agony.

  “Hold your fire, Redfern,” he managed to blurt out. “For Jesus’ sake don’t shoot her. She means it.”

  Carol was moving slowly toward the red, open door, left hand still inside the shawl.

  “Devils!” she bawled. “To hell with you all. To hell with your fucking president.”

  The slug took her full in the left shoulder, spun her around, and sent her tottering through the doorway. Something pink fell on the sidewalk and bounced twice. Blade looked aghast to where the shot had come from and saw a heavily built man holding a gun in both hands, smoke issuing from the barrel. The sound of the shot echoed back from the warehouses, then more
faintly from the wharf on the other side of the river. Hands were helping Macken to his feet.

  “You okay?” It was Redfern.

  “‘No’ is the simple answer to that. How did you find us?”

  “Magic. You’re white as a sheet. Nothing broken?”

  “Don’t think so. Where is she?”

  “Ran into the house. We’re going in after her.”

  “Has she still got the gun?”

  “Yes.” To an associate he said: “Good work, Mr. Coburn. A nice clean shot.”

  “Ahm, I was aiming for the heart, Mr. Redfern. She moved.”

  They operated like army men. They split up: six went swiftly to check any rear or side exits; four went to redirect traffic; the rest took up positions on both sides of the red door. At a signal from Redfern, two men ran inside at a crouch. Gunfire sounded and Blade heard curses. The two came out almost as quickly as they’d gone in. One was holding his arm and swearing loudly.

  “Bitch got me in the arm,” he said unnecessarily.

  Blade had to think for a moment about what he’d have done in a situation like this. Hailed Carol through a bullhorn, ordering her to give herself up? Radioed for reinforcements?

  Redfern was more pragmatic. He jabbed a finger at two of his men and pointed to the doorway. The two sprang into position, legs apart, weapons aimed high. Two Colt-Magnums thundered in rapid fire. Then the men pulled back and allowed their comrades to run through. Blade heard heavy feet pounding up the stairs and voices raised. Then he was inside, too.

  The banister moved dangerously when he placed a hand on it. He’d no weapon; it lay where he’d dropped it on the street. But Redfern’s men had enough firepower. Blade’s aching chest slowed him down and he was panting when he reached the first landing. He found two CIA men stationed there.

  “Where is she?” he gasped.

  “Next floor.”

  He clambered up the second flight of stairs. Incongruously, a naked light bulb burned on the third floor. Carol—or some other squatter—had evidently found an illicit power source; Blade didn’t think that the derelict building was still supplied by the electric company. The yellow light illuminated the faces of Redfern and six of his men, deployed on either side of a paneled door. The walls had once been painted a light green; now their color was indefinable. Redfern saw Macken.