Connolly looked at him again. Then nodded. “Yes,” he said, “she is.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Miller got the news on the satellite link from Bessbrook, the box of tricks that compressed into a single suitcase. Venner had set it up outside the kitchen window. The message, en clair, had been relayed from the SAS at Hereford. An SBS source had picked up rumours of a Provo attempt on one of the Task Force ships, Invincible or Hermes. The details were far from clear, and now the blinds were coming down in Whitehall, a total black-out.
Miller studied the message, remembering what Connolly had told him about the dead woman’s husband. Buddy, he’d said. An ex-diver. Some kind of hostage deal. Some kind of lever on the man. He shuddered, sitting down at the kitchen table. If the rumours were true, then it was devastating. A hit like that – totally unexpected, brand new angle – was exactly what the Nineteenth was supposed to be about. And if the thing went back to Scullen, if he’d used the diver, Buddy, then it was even worse.
Miller shook his head, thinking of Mairead. The SBS message had mentioned a Special Branch involvement. Bloke called Ingle. Mairead had mentioned Ingle, too. Connolly’s friend, she’d said. The man he had to phone up, to meet. Miller fingered Venner’s piece of paper. If there had been an operation, and if it had Scullen’s name on it, and if Special Branch had got there first …
He paused, looking down at his own hands. Somewhere, he knew, there was always a deal. He had the cards to play. He had Connolly. He had the dead woman. In an hour or so, he’d have her husband, Buddy, the diver. Somehow, there was a way out of it all. Justice done. Reputations preserved. The battle rejoined. He folded the SBS message and glanced at his watch. Mentally, he’d given Scullen twelve more hours. After that, if he didn’t appear, they’d have to go home.
Scullen arrived at Buncrana an hour after sunset.
He’d driven north in response to a message from the Chief, a new driver at the wheel, a local boy. McParland’s death had shocked him. He’d begun to depend on the man. They’d never talked much. He knew nothing of his family or his background. But that had never mattered because McParland had always been there, ever watchful, with his poise and his balance and those quick, deft movements of his hands. He radiated a sense of invincibility. He seemed immune from accidents or mistakes, life’s nastier surprises. He’d made Scullen feel totally safe. And now he was dead, lured into a trap of Scullen’s own making, falling victim to the man from Nineteenth whom he had – in the end – so badly underestimated.
The new driver eased the Mercedes into Buncrana, following Scullen’s directions to the timberyard. The Chief’s car, a big solid Ford with armour-plating, was already parked across the road, his own man still at the wheel. Scullen’s driver parked the Mercedes beside it. Scullen got out, nodding a greeting to the Chief’s bodyguard. The man barely acknowledged him. He had a sour, watchful expression. Scullen turned on his heel. His stock amongst the Chief’s men was low, and he knew it. He buttoned his coat against the chill night air, and walked across the forecourt, towards the tiny step-in entrance in the big folding doors. The place smelled of sawdust. He switched on a light, making for the stairs. Above him, in his own office, he could hear the low murmur of voices. He hesitated, wondering who else might have driven over. The Chief’s message had been blunt. “Eight o’clock,” he’d said. “Be there.”
Scullen climbed the stairs and opened the door to the office. The air inside was thick with cigarette smoke. He paused in the doorway, frowning. Smoking in the office was strictly off-limits. Everyone knew it. Even the Chief. Scullen looked around. The Chief was sitting on a chair by the filing cabinet. Two of the drawers were open and there was a pile of papers on the floor beside him. Scullen blinked. There was another figure in the room, sitting behind his desk. He was wearing an old combat jacket over a check shirt. His hair was cut short, en brosse, and he needed a shave. Scullen stared at him.
“O’Mahoney,” he said quietly.
The man behind the desk looked up. There was a pile of crushed cigarette butts in the saucer at his elbow. He, too, was deep in a litter of documents.
Scullen closed the door behind him and unbuttoned his coat. Neither man had heard him on the stairs. They looked briefly uncomfortable. There was an exchange of glances. Then the Chief got up.
“You’re early,” he said.
Scullen didn’t look at his watch.
“No,” he said, “it’s eight o’clock.”
There was a brief silence. Scullen looked pointedly at his desk. O’Mahoney didn’t move. The Chief fetched another chair from the far corner of the office. Scullen recognized it, an old bentwood chair the lads used for teabreaks downstairs. The Chief put it carefully in front of the desk.
“Please,” he said, “sit down.”
Scullen looked at the chair. There were smears of Swarfega on the back. He shook his head.
“No, thank you,” he said.
The Chief looked at him for a moment, recognizing that Scullen was going to be difficult. For a moment, Scullen saw something familiar in his face, the ghost of a smile from the old days, then the line of the mouth hardened again, and his voice became brisker. “We’ve hired a machine,” he said. “We thought we’d not want to miss it.”
“Miss what?”
“The job you’ve been promising. The big one.”
The Chief nodded at the floor behind Scullen. Scullen glanced round. There was a television set on the floor. Beside it was a small flat box, metal, with controls on the front. Cables connected it to the television. Another cable plugged it into a power socket on the wall.
“It’s a video recorder,” the Chief said. “You may have seen them.”
Scullen nodded. His technicians in Dundalk had been gutting them for months, removing the electronic timers, wiring them into the new generation of delayed action bombs.
“I know,” he said.
“We thought we’d like to keep the pictures,” the Chief smiled, “for the scrap book.”
He glanced across at O’Mahoney. O’Mahoney picked up a remote control unit, fingering a button and aiming it at the set. A light flashed as the videotape engaged. There was a whirring noise. Then the roar of a crowd and the blare of a ship’s siren. Scullen gazed down at the set as a picture bloomed and steadied on the big 24″ screen. They’ve gone to a lot of trouble, he thought. They’re making the most of it.
A ship appeared, a big aircraft carrier. It looked enormous. There were men at attention along the deck. There were helicopters. Jet fighters. And thousands of people with Union Jacks lining the harbour walls as the big ships glided past. Scullen knew already that the Fleet had left intact. He knew that the operation had failed. But this was the first time he’d seen the raw evidence, the sheer size of the event, the spectacle it made, the sense of history in the making. Watching it, hearing the crowd, and the awed tones of the commentator, he knew that he’d been right to trust the diplomat, to believe him, to lay his counters on this single square, to hope that the girl and his new recruit would deliver what he’d always known was possible. The fact that they hadn’t, the fact that the two ships were now somewhere in the South-West Approaches, outward bound, was a matter of some regret, but operations failed more often than they succeeded. Failure was a fact of life in the movement, always had been. It was something you accepted. Failure made success all the sweeter. No. What was important about these pictures, this operation, was the concept. The concept, he now knew, had been exactly right, the boldest stroke, a piece of vintage Scullen. He watched the broadcast a moment longer, the older of the two carriers sliding out through the harbour narrows, then turned back into the room, knowing in his heart that the dialogue was over, that there was no longer any room for discussions about concepts. The thing had failed. He’d built it up for them, given them the appetite for something truly special, and there it was, yet another Brit triumph, a media victory snatched from the jaws of military humiliation.
O’Mahoney fingered the r
emote control box again. The picture flickered and died. There was a silence. Scullen was looking at the Chief. He heard the scrape of a match, O’Mahoney reaching for yet another cigarette, taunting him, his own office, his own rules.
‘Well?” the Chief said. “Hardly Mullaghmore, was it?”
Scullen shook his head, remembering the morning they’d killed Mountbatten, four kilos of Semtex and a remote detonation that had actually worked.
“No,” he said, “it wasn’t.”
“So why? Tell me why? What happened?”
Scullen looked at him. “I don’t know,” he said, “I’ve yet to find out.”
The Chief nodded and said nothing for a moment. Then he bent to the video player and retrieved the cassette. He held it in his hand, then tossed it to O’Mahoney. O’Mahoney fumbled it. It crashed to the floor. There was another silence.
“We believed you,” the Chief said at last. “We had people on stand-by. It was a bit of a disappointment.”
“No,” Scullen shook his head, “it didn’t work. That’s all. It’s not a disaster. It’s not even a disappointment. It was worth a crack. You’d not deny that, I hope?”
He raised an eyebrow, the schoolmaster again, the dry tones of the Leitrim classroom he’d dominated for more than a decade. O’Mahoney whistled softly and shook his head, a gesture of disbelief, of derision, and Scullen knew at once how the conversation would have gone between them, up here in this office, waiting for him to arrive. He’s shot, O’Mahoney would have said. He’s yesterday’s man. The day before yesterday’s man. A relic. You should transfer him to the Bord Failte. The guy belongs in a museum. Operationally, he’s a liability. He sets you up and lets you down and if you survive the mainland for more than a month or two, it’s a fucking miracle. Scullen was still looking at the Chief. He had no intention of making it easier for him. Not now. Not then. Not ever.
“Well?” Scullen said. “What have you come here to tell me?”
The Chief held his gaze for a moment or two, then indicated the door. “Let’s talk downstairs,” he said, “eh, Padraig?”
Scullen shook his head. “No. Say what you have to say,” he smiled thinly. “Now.”
The Chief looked at him a moment longer, his face hardening again. Then he shrugged. “There’s been a lot of debate—” he began.
“You mean trouble.”
“I mean—”
O’Mahoney looked up. “He means trouble,” he said. “Big fucking trouble. Because of you.”
He stared at the Chief. “Tell him, for Chrissake. Tell him what you told me. Tell him what everyone knows. The mainland’s a shambles. No one cares any more. You put it all on the line, and he lets you down. And then all this …” He nodded at the television and kicked the cassette. Scullen heard it skidding across the lino, hitting the skirting board with a crash. ‘Biggest non-event since fucking Sunningdale. What’s going on, for God’s sake? Who’s in charge? Who did the job? Who fucked it up? Guy Fawkes?” O’Mahoney shook his head. “Jesus,” he said, “sweet Jesus.”
There was a long silence. The Chief, embarrassed, fingered the neck of his sweater. Scullen didn’t take his eyes off him. The Chief glanced up. “Problems,” he said quietly, “as you can see.”
Scullen began to button his coat. He knew now where the meeting would end, the decision that had already been taken. It was self-evident. It was sitting behind his desk, reaching for yet another cigarette. The Chief was looking at him again, and Scullen wondered how hard the man had fought for him, how long he’d been able to buffer him from the rest of the movement. Scullen extended a hand. The Chief took it, quicker than was strictly necessary.
“You’d be better off in Kerry,” he said. ‘That new place of yours. It comes to all of us in time.”
“It does?”
Scullen eyed him for a moment, unforgiving, then turned on his heel and left.
Outside, in the street, his car was still there but the driver had disappeared. There was a long white envelope on his seat. The envelope had Scullen’s name on it. He opened it. Inside was a cheque for thirty thousand pounds, drawn on the Bank of Ireland. Scullen recognized the account. It was the account used exclusively by the England Department, for operational expenses. The cheques were drawn up and signed by the Quartermaster, countersigned by the Officer Commanding. It had been that way for the last two years. Scullen knew, because his had been the counter-signature. Now, he peered at the cheque. The first signature was still the Quartermaster’s. The second signature belonged to O’Mahoney.
Thompson and Connolly drove Buddy into the mountains. Buddy sat in the back of the car, saying nothing. When they got to the S-bend in the road where the Capri had been, the burned-out car had disappeared. Connolly looked out, curious, as they motored slowly past, but he didn’t ask Thompson what had happened, and Thompson didn’t volunteer the information. Police, Connolly thought vaguely. Or the Irish Army. Or some tinker up from the coast with his eye on the scrap, and a stomach for headless bodies.
They arrived at the farmhouse half an hour later. Thompson turned the car round and killed the engine. Getting out, standing in the windy darkness, Connolly looked up the mountain, trying to guess where Miller had posted his men.
They went inside, Buddy between them. Miller was in the kitchen. There was a half-finished bowl of soup at his elbow and a steaming mug of tea. He was bent over a foolscap pad, writing. There was a mustard-coloured file beside the pad, bulging with papers. Stencilled on the outside was the single word. Reaper.
Miller glanced up, hearing the footsteps in the hall. Thompson appeared first, standing aside. “Buddy,” he said.
Miller smiled and extended a hand. Buddy shook it. “Who are you?” he said.
Connolly leaned forward a moment in the doorway, interested in the answer. Maybe it was best to be blunt. Maybe that was the language these men understood. Miller glanced down at the report, turning it over, face down on the table.
“Colonel Miller,” he said, looking up again, “Nineteenth Intelligence, British Army.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking for a man called Scullen.”
“Who?”
“Scullen.”
There was a silence. Buddy was looking at him. His face was quite impassive. “Is he Irish? This Scullen?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a picture?”
Miller faltered a moment, aware that control of the conversation had passed away from him. “Yes,” he said at last.
“You want to show me?”
Miller looked at him for a moment longer. Then his hand strayed to the file. He opened it. He found the photo and passed it across. Buddy studied it, recognizing the long, pale face, remembering the meeting in the cottage, the man’s hands, the briefing he’d offered on the two big ships. The cat, he thought. The cat knew him. He looked up.
“Where’s my wife?” he said.
Miller hesitated a moment, still curious about the photo.
“She’s in the next room,” he said.
“Where’s that?”
There was a silence. Buddy looked at Miller, unflinching. Then Miller glanced at Thompson and nodded. Thompson touched Buddy lightly on the elbow.
“This way, sir,” he said.
Thompson left the room. Buddy followed. He still had the photo in his hand. Connolly glanced at Miller. Miller shook his head, a barely perceptible movement. Outside, Connolly could hear Thompson opening the door to Jude’s bedroom. Then he was back again, stepping into the kitchen. He looked across at Miller. “Leave him to it?”
Miller nodded. “Christ, yes,” he said.
Buddy shut the door behind him. The room smelled of disinfectant. He put the photo carefully down on a chair and took three short steps to the bedside. The room was still in darkness. He didn’t switch on the light. The bed was high against the window. The window was open at the top, and he could hear the wind in the trees. Clouds raced across a full moon. The light from the mo
on came and went, spilling onto the bed.
Buddy looked down. A body was shrouded by a single sheet. Buddy reached out and drew the hem of the sheet down, a single movement. Jude looked up at him. Her eyes were open. Her hair splayed out over the pillow, blacker than ever in the moonlight. There was a small hole on the left of her face. Buddy looked at her for a long time. Then he bent to the pillow and kissed her forehead. The flesh was cold and slightly waxy. There was an odd smell. He reached up and ran his fingers through her hair. Her hair felt strangely fresh, as if someone had recently shampooed it. He bent to her again, his big hands cupping her face. He kissed her on the lips. He drew the sheet up. She was very dead.
The door opened behind him, and Buddy stepped away from the bed. It was Connolly, the boy he’d met at the hotel, the English voice on the phone. He stood by the door. Light spilled in from the hall. Buddy looked at him for a moment.
“Shut the door,” he said.
Connolly shut the door. Buddy was still looking at him.
“Were you here,” he said, “when she died?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“She was shot.”
“I know.” He paused. “Were you here before that? Days? Weeks?”
“Days. Several days. Yes.”
“How was she?”
“Very sick.”
“In pain?”
“No. She had no pain. She knew she was dying. She said she was glad …”
Connolly broke off, not wanting to go too far, to make it worse for the man. He peered at his face in the half-darkness.
“She asked me to tell you something …” he began.
“What?”
“She said she loved you. She said she wanted you to know that.”
Connolly saw the head tilt, an acknowledgement, some small consolation.
“And?”
“She said she wanted you to bury her.”
“Where?”
“This side, she said. Not America.”
“Here?”
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