Unholy Ground imm-2

by John Brady

"Pulling the divil by the tail, Pat. And how's yourself and all belonging to you?"

  "Great."

  Minogue dug a lump of dried brown sugar out of the bowl and plopped it into his cup.

  "And how do you like your new premises, the Puzzle Palace?" Minogue inquired, referring to the Special Branch's move from Dublin Castle to Harcourt Square.

  "It's like Phoenix, Arizona, or someplace."

  Minogue laughed aloud and let the pleasantries settle while he stirred his coffee.

  "Well, thanks for coming over, Pat. I hope you're not discomfitted. Do you know about this Combs man?"

  "Murdered? Over the weekend?" Corrigan asked.

  "That's the one. The well is dry on this so far, you see. But the name Ball-your business-his telephone number was on a little list that Combs had by his phone at home."

  Corrigan nodded noncommittally. Both men made use of their cups and spoons now, each pretending to be absorbed in his coffee.

  "The thought crossed my mind, Pat, that-"

  "That your business might be connected with mine?"

  "You're very quick off the mark. What do you think?"

  Corrigan paused and breathed out heavily before he sat up, elbowing onto the table.

  "Let's be practical now. I checked your Mr Combs after you phoned me. There's nothing in our files. He's not connected with the British Embassy so far as I know."

  "Well, Pat, I asked myself if it was enough for Mr Combs to be English for the IRA or their likes to kill him. Only a passing thought, really. They wouldn't kill him the way it was done anyway, though. Maybe I shouldn't be asking you."

  "Go ahead, you can if you like. The crowd that killed Ball last night, they meant business. There was at least three of them. More, I'll bet. Someone tagged him at that eating house or pub he was at and they let him drive his moth home. Very chivalrous. The fella on the motorbike used a sub-machine gun on Ball. Typical of the action men in the INLA out for the kill."

  "Have you got anyone picked up for it yet?"

  "We picked up two INLA fellas in Castle-knock, see if we can shake anything out of them up in the Bridewell," Corrigan went on. "But they were gangsters from the North, we're almost certain. There were four or five jobs like this one done in the North since last September. We think they have a unit that specialises in this stuff only. We had one strong name from the Brits, but he's at home in bed in Derry this morning."

  "What about them telling the papers that Ball was some class of intelligence man?" Minogue asked.

  Corrigan scratched the back of his ear.

  "Ah, they'd have to say something like that. You know yourself, Matt. Make it sound like they had a reason."

  Minogue spoke to Corrigan without looking at him.

  "Is it all classified, Pat?"

  Corrigan made an effort to smile.

  "Sure isn't everything classified these days?"

  Corrigan hadn't been quite able to carry it off.

  "Did the INLA work something out about Ball and intelligence work here?"

  Minogue watched Corrigan work harder at appearing relaxed.

  "Sure isn't that what I'm telling you? They'd make up any kind of a yarn or excuse for a bit of gun-play. You know, make hay out of it for their outfit."

  Corrigan leaned further over the table to confide.

  "Now you know and I know that there's still an unspoken agreement for there to be no stunts like this here in the South. I can say this in confidence to a fellow member of the Gardai. Now you know more about the INLA anyway, more than would others, so what I'm saying will be no big news to yourself. What has me and my higher-ups jittery about this is that the rules aren't sticking…"

  Minogue nodded.

  "Yes, Pat. But the INLA are out of their minds at the best of times," Minogue said gently. "Since when did they care a damn what the public thinks? Didn't they break away from the Provos because they thought the Provos cared too much for what the man in the street thought?"

  Minogue looked into Corrigan's eyes as he spoke. The friendliness "was quite gone now, as though a window had been closed behind them.

  "True for you. But like I was saying, that's what we're wondering about. If this is a whole new way of operating on their part. A new campaign. New rules."

  Corrigan sat back in his chair, disengaging himself. He drained his cup and replaced it carefully on the saucer. Then he winked at Minogue. He sat upright. Minogue watched Corrigan labour again to look jovial when he whispered.

  "British intelligence at work in Ireland, I ask you," Corrigan said. "That'd make a change, wouldn't it? They never applied any in the country before."

  Minogue agreed with the thrust of the conceit, but he could only manage a smile.

  "Who needs any fecking spies lurking around here, Matt? Go into any pub in Dublin and you'll know everything that's going on. The country's a bloody sieve. Here, look now. Tell me a bit about the case you're on."

  Minogue knew that Corrigan was trying to get something for nothing. It took him but three minutes to give Corrigan the gist of his investigation. He did not embellish any detail.

  "And you're looking for a handle?"

  Minogue nodded. He felt a barrier, an invisible line running down the table between them. He knew that Pat Corrigan was preoccupied by the assassination of Ball. Minogue did not dislike Corrigan. Minogue also knew enough of the workings of the Special Branch to understand that Corrigan had to be circumspect. He looked around the cafe. Bewley's was one of his cathedrals. He recalled the phrase that^he had heard on the news: "had received information." And what did that mean? Given the choice of the two most likely alternatives, Minogue guessed that someone had tipped off the INLA. They didn't maintain a network of touts, and even if they did, they'd never have gotten a man-or a woman-close enough to Ball to know for sure what he was about.

  Corrigan had regained his agreeable expression. He laid a hand on the saucer and slid it to the centre of the marble table-top.

  "You never know, Matt. I tell you what, though. We'll stay in touch, so we will."

  Corrigan's car was next to the door to Bewley's. Corrigan smiled briefly at Minogue, then he stretched his arms over his head and groaned.

  "That's what you get for being up all night. They called me and me going up the stairs to bed. The perils of being indispensable. Ah sure the holidays are coming up," Corrigan continued, grasping the doorhandle. He seemed anxious to restore something which had ebbed from the conversation. Holiday, Minogue thought. Hegel's Holiday, the glass of water upright and poised over the umbrella.

  "Pat."

  Corrigan turned from the open door, the grimly benign smile still holding firm under the grey eyes. Almost like a cat, the eyes, Minogue thought.

  "You know how it is with me, Pat. A bit of a crank, I suppose," Minogue began.

  Corrigan tried to maintain the smile.

  "Do you remember that business with the Ambassador?"

  "Could I ever forget it, Matt. You've had it rough."

  "To be sure. There were droves of people thought I was owed something after that. Jimmy Kilmartin included. That's why he took me under his wing, I'd say. God knows why really. I was glad to be able to pick meself up out of the bed afterwards. Even drink a pint or two and wake up safe in bed in the morning."

  Corrigan snorted, but held the flinty smile. He waited.

  "Plenty of people telling me that I could call in a favour any time," Minogue added in a vacant tone. "As I say, I don't know what for. I mean, I was just there by coincidence really. But you don't want to be disabusing people of their notions. Do you know what I'm saying, like?"

  "I think I do," Corrigan replied bleakly.

  "You were one of those people, you see, Pat. Said to call in my chips with you any time I needed."

  Corrigan looked up and down Fleet Street. Minogue scrutinised his face until Corrigan met his gaze again. A double-decker bus, its full diesel roar at the curb opposite, drowned out Corrigan's voice.

  "Fir
e away," Corrigan murmured. Minogue didn't need to hear the words after he noted the expression.

  "What about Ball, Pat?"

  "Well, what about him?"

  "Was he really doing intelligence work here?"

  Corrigan was watching each passer-by's face until they passed beyond Minogue. Then he'd shift his scrutiny to a new face so he'd not collide with Minogue's limpid stare.

  "Yes, he was. We think. I just hope to God it wasn't a leak from one of ours that cost Ball his life."

  Corrigan gathered cheeks full of air and then released them slowly. He looked suddenly resigned, gentle.

  "Are you going back to John's Road?" he asked.

  Minogue replied that he was.

  "Hop in and we'll go that way with you."

  Corrigan's driver was a detective, Dunne. He had a head shaped like an egg, pointy end up, upon which the divinity that shaped rural Irish people's ends had pasted elephantine ears. He stopped the car next to Kingsbridge Station. It was five minutes' walk to Minogue's office from here.

  Corrigan was jittery. Minogue did not know what to do. Corrigan had explained to him that Ball had merely been the devil they knew. Why raise a fuss when they knew Ball was a tricks man, only to have him transferred and the Gardai track a new man in the job? Someone had to do it… No, they had no way of knowing whether Ball had been in touch with Combs recently. When the guileless Minogue asked why, Corrigan had slapped his knee lightly in an unconvincing gesture of mirth.

  "Man dear," Corrigan began, as though explaining venial sin to a child, "sure don't they have the best electronic detection and security in the business? Bar none, the Yanks included. Listen in on their phones, is it? Sure we bought most of our bells and whistles off the British firms. You can be damn sure that they wouldn't be sending the equipment to us if they thought we could be using the stuff on their embassy here without them knowing about it?"

  "Uh," Minogue grunted.

  "I'm not saying we don't do any of it, but they have a cast-iron system. They have bigger fish than us to worry about."

  "How much work did Ball actually do, Pat?"

  Corrigan made no reply but looked vacantly up at the sky as if to sight gamebirds for his rifle. Minogue noticed the slice of jug-eared driver's face in the mirror. He was studying Minogue.

  "All right, Pat. One more thing though."

  Corrigan leaned his head against the glass of the car door, looking down his nose at Minogue. He had a genuine, rueful smile now, as though he knew a cat was out of the bag.

  "Plough ahead."

  "Did that Costello fella ever spend time here in Dublin? When he was on the run from the North, I mean."

  Corrigan's frown returned instantly.

  "I don't remember exactly, Matt."

  "Can you find out-quicker than myself, I mean-if Costello spent time in south County Dublin?"

  Corrigan's panther eyes widened momentarily before narrowing.

  "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

  "I suppose I am. Whatever that is."

  "Like Costello is somehow linked with your fella? But sure Costello was done in years ago. His own crowd popped him, did a terrible job on him. He was a bad egg anyway, was Costello."

  Corrigan bit his lower lip for several seconds, gazing out at the grey stone walls of the train station. Minogue looked to the mirror again. The driver was pretending to be deaf. Minogue yanked at the doorhandle and pushed at the door with his knee.

  "Look it, Matt," Corrigan said.

  Minogue was taken aback at the tone of solicitude he heard in Corrigan's voice now. He sounded more puzzled than dismissive.

  "On the off chance, on the wildest off chance, I'll poke through the files. Maybe not today, but I'll get around to it. Will that do you?"

  CHAPTER 11

  As soon as he saw the light on the phone, Kenyon knew it would be Moore. It was eleven o'clock. The ache had found its way up his neck to the back of his head. His head pulsed as he reached for the receiver. He paused to squeeze his eyes. The light on the phone flashed again. Kenyon imagined an anonymous listener at Government Communications HQ sitting up, adjusting his headphones. Would they do that to him? He knew that GCHQ could monitor every phone line in the Irish Republic, even the new uplinks to the satellite. It wouldn't be Robertson who'd patch a tap on him for this. It was more likely a casual feature of C's bullish grip on the Service.

  "Glover here," said into the phone. His palm was moist.

  "Mr Glover? Edward Moore from Dublin. Returning your call."

  The bugger sounded almost friendly, Kenyon thought.

  "Yes, Edward," Kenyon said. How did a senior partner in a law firm talk to one of the staff?

  "I wondered if perhaps you were trying to get in touch with me," Moore said with unmistakable irony.

  "Yes. We heard about that incident there. It's all over the papers here. Not affecting your work, I trust." He was remembering Moore's remote manner.

  "Not yet, Mr Glover."

  Moore wasn't having any of it, evidently.

  "How do things look on the ground?"

  "I have no reliable way of knowing," replied Moore, the edge of irony still keen. "My appointments still stand. I'll be following up on them. I wondered if perhaps there was something in the works that I mightn't be aware of here."

  Kenyon's headache had found its way precipitously to his forehead.

  "There's been a change of plans here that you'll need to know about and follow. If you locate the material we discussed, I mean."

  Kenyon looked down at his notepad, the doodles which he was drawing heavily and repetitively. He had begun by writing INLA and a question mark. He had tried to obliterate the letters with scribbles. The rest was a jumble of triangles and sharp edges.

  "Because of the situation here?" asked Moore airily.

  Kenyon squirmed in the chair.

  "Partially, yes. You must be ready to pull out at a moment's notice. We haven't been asked to close down your visit yet, but it may be so decided."

  Moore seemed to be considering Kenyon's choice of the passive form.

  "And if you do find anything, you must arrange to show the material to somebody in Dublin before you come back here.'"

  Moore said nothing.

  "A Mr Murray. He has an interest in what we are working on, you'll remember from our discussion. It may have a bearing on recent events in Dublin. Murray is already in Dublin to take charge of the situation there."

  "He's doing some work for our firm?" asked Moore.

  Kenyon wanted to let loose with his anger.

  "He's in one of our partner offices," Kenyon replied with effort. "But he has priority at the moment. It's rather important, I'm afraid."

  Kenyon wondered if Moore could read the leaden tone.

  "Mr Murray then," said Moore slowly, as though puzzled. "And I have his number?"

  "Yes, the one I gave you. Remember, you may be called back at any time if it is decided the situation warrants it."

  "All right," said Moore neutrally.

  Kenyon swore as he dropped the receiver back on the cradle. He made to pound his palm on the desk but held off just as his hand came to within an inch of the desk.

  The hotel restaurant was full of Americans, busloads of them. They all wore name-tags with the name of the tour operator framed on each badge. Moore was surprised to find that he was less readily scornful of them here in Dublin than mildly interested in them. What passed for a maitre d' had sat Moore next to a couple of dinosaurs from Minnesota. He had winked at Moore as he drew out the chairs for the pair. Very busy sir, he had said. When the waitress lay down a huge mixed grill in front of him, the maitre d' had murmured that the Yanks would soon be poking around the graveyards in Ballydehob looking for their ancestors.

  Moore returned to the Guardian and wondered if anyone not born on this island could feel at ease with the blend of casuistry and friendliness. He had until mid-day. He couldn't move on the Combs' house without first seeing t
his Minogue. He had reserved a hire car yesterday. It was parked by the hotel and Moore had the key in his pocket. He fended off the gregarious and nasal Minnesotans by studying his route to Minogue's office, designated on the map by a black box near to where train lines converged at a railway station. The waitress called it Kingsbridge, the old name for this rail terminus from the west of Ireland.

  When he had seen the headlines about Ball, Moore's first thought was Ball might not be the only one on their list. In a detached but deliberate way, Moore had spent several minutes considering whether he was in immediate danger himself. He had then dismissed the idea. No one could know him here, unless it was Kenyon who had leaked it.

  Moore bought the Irish newspaper and, his breakfast now strangely heavy in his stomach, returned to his room. INLA not IRA. Had Kenyon put him into Dublin knowing that something like this was likely? Moore stood and looked out the window of his room. He was three floors up. There was one sliding window with a jam to block an attempt to slide it back more than six inches. Below his room were trees and shrubs, railings marking the boundaries of houses and offices which adjoined the hotel grounds. He heard a vague hum from the floor beneath him. A vacuum cleaner, he guessed. He looked at the door into the hallway. It was locked, but he had not used the safety chain.

  As he left, Moore abruptly realised how wary he had become when the lift doors opened at his floor. Without thinking, Moore jumped to the side. There was no one else in the lift. He changed an Irish fiver to coin for the public telephone. Moore had felt acutely vulnerable at the automatic plate-glass door as it whirred open in front of him. The handle of his briefcase felt slippery in his palm. Tiny and exact pieces of information assaulted him: a drop of water in his ear from the shower, the nails on his brief-case hand slightly longer than he liked. For a split second he imagined the heavy sheets of glass shattering with a blast, slicing, spinning. Taking a limb away, spotting the walls with his blood fifty feet from the door. A dim reflection of himself was carried away to nowhere by the sliding door.

  He headed to the carpark and started his car, a claustrophobic Mini Metro, whose last client had smoked cigars. He opened all the windows and drove out onto Leeson Street. He did not feel reassured when he saw a Garda squad car parked by the hotel entrance to the street. The car was empty. Clumps of aged Americans were getting onto their tour busses. Someone laughed loudly. Moore turned. The ancient Minnesotans waved at him from a gaggle of garishly-dressed fellow Americans. They looked like lizards to Moore, cartoons. Stopped by a traffic light, Moore's thoughts turned again to Kenyon. It had to be connected to the assassination of Ball. Murray must be Secret Service, too; with Kenyon and the rest of Five along as passengers. Combs though… where could it fit? The lights changed.