Unholy Ground imm-2

by John Brady

  Moore visualised a debriefing with Kenyon. A wry smile from the otherwise dry Kenyon, a caution about need-to-know. A well-rehearsed homily on the duties of field-officers, with a few bromides about the Defence of the Realm… But Combs' plainly sincere disgust at the Costello killing, that he was sure Ball had actually taken part in the killing personally. Surely…

  Moore's thoughts drifted astray, the unease still hovering, as he watched two schoolchildren dragging their school-bags along the footpath from the station entrance. One of the boys had been crying recently. His knee was grazed. The other idly swung his bag to and fro, resigned to the slow progress of his mate, as if the older boy was wise to the ways of bullies, that his mate would live to see another day. Combs' exclamation marks after his mention of Costello's death: "pure and simple sadism!!!" Would he, Moore, be expected to sit quietly through the debriefing while the contents of Combs' material was passed over? Maybe Kenyon would simply take off the gloves and tell him that it was none of his business what the intelligence services had to do in a war with terrorists. Still Moore's doubts lingered. There must have been Army involvement in the snatch to get Costello across the border. And Kenyon knew all this, he had to.

  "— Chestnut Two to Control. We have a navy blue Rover at the gates. Over."

  Corrigan's eyes bulged. He snatched the mike from his lap. They had separated from the first radio-car, which was trolling vainly in the suburbs south of them. The radio signal from Moore's Mini had disappeared nearly ten minutes ago. There had been no sightings from the regular patrols of Garda squad-cars yet.

  Minogue had opened the window to evade the sour, penetrating smell of Dunne's sweat.

  "— Repeat, Chestnut Two. Control over."

  Dunne's foot lightened on the accelerator. Minogue rolled up the window to hear the transmission. They were driving down through Seafield toward the coast road.

  "— Navy blue Rover with embassy plates coming through check-point."

  "— How many on board?"

  "— Just one, sir. Male, forties, suit…"

  "— Who is he?" Corrigan asked, his eyes out of focus.

  "— We don't know, sir. No. Doesn't match our photo-file for current staff…"

  Dunne turned to share a wink of excitement with Minogue. Minogue felt the surprise tingle in his fingertips. A good smoke would be just the ticket now, he thought.

  "— He's through the gates now. Gone right, heading south toward Blackrock."

  "— Copy here. Stand by, Two," said Corrigan.

  Corrigan seemed to be staring at the back of Dunne's head. Then he turned abruptly to Minogue.

  "Damn and blast it, I'm going to go the whole hog," he whispered. Before Minogue could say anything, Corrigan was talking into the mike.

  "— Yes, Two? Take it up and locate for us. Chestnut One, make your way to coast road to take up slack. Copy."

  Dispatch intervened before the reply from the radio-cars.

  "— Central to Operation Melody Control."

  "— Yes," said Corrigan resignedly. "Standing by."

  "— Er, sir… Standing orders posted prohibit your request… Can refer you to, em, requisite officer. If you have his telephone number already…"

  Corrigan seemed to smile, but when Minogue looked closely it was a sneer which remained.

  "— Override the directive for this. Chestnut Two, proceed. I don't want him so much as dreaming you're on his tail, do you hear?"

  The radio-car managed to beat dispatch to the button. Minogue believed he could read a smile in the detective's voice who replied.

  "— Copy, Control. Chestnut Two on track. South on coast road."

  "— Central to Operation Melody Control."

  "— Go ahead, Delaney."

  "— Sir, are you receiving clear? Repeat: directive to avoid any surveillance of embassy staff; to be accompanied only if requested for security details."

  "— We copy here. I'm still overriding it, Delaney. I'll fill in the card for it. I copy your notification. Out."

  There was an unsettling silence from the radio. Minogue caught Corrigan's eyes. Corrigan's sneer was gone now. He eyeballed Minogue steadily for a moment.

  "You best keep your tongue in your head, Matt Minogue. I'm not in the humour of any guff." spacebarthing

  Murray hadn't expected heavy traffic. Stuck far back in a row by lazily-timed traffic-lights, he studied the map again. There were no short-cuts. The train station was well out of the way of the main road-if the scale was accurate, that is. He swallowed again, his throat dry. Would he ever have started this with Ball if he had known that he, Murray, might be here today, on his way to meet a man he'd probably have to kill?

  Murray missed second gear, grinding it before he wrenched the stick into the gate proper. Stupid academic question. Hindsight… but could he even try to get this Moore onside, have him come in? Moore seemed so damned reluctant to hand over the photos without having okayed it with Kenyon. Loyal: due procedure. Christ, the man was trained as a barrister; he'd want chapter and verse. Unlike Murray, this man had never seen Belfast at street level, every building concealing a potential bomb, a sniper, an ambush. No, Murray realised with a hollow ache in his stomach, he couldn't hope to turn Moore in a matter of ten minutes' persuading. Couldn't hope to motivate a man with no real stake in a campaign against terrorists.

  Murray passed a large hotel before he saw the overgrown marshland which lay between the road and the matte silver sand which the tide of Dublin Bay had exposed. A salt marsh, a bird sanctuary, he glimpsed from a passing sign. Just over the low parapet which formed the boundary of the marsh, Murray saw the roofs of parked cars. Among them was a red lorry. The building further down could only be the railway station.

  He tucked his elbow into his side and felt the prickly heat of panic start in his armpit. The dull, solid weight of the automatic tugged at his jacket pocket. A train emerged from the station, city-bound, moving slowly against the greys and purples of the bay.

  "— Chestnut One to Control. Over."

  Corrigan acknowledged.

  "— We're getting a signal, sir. It's steady enough, on the outer edge of the range. It shows to the city side of us."

  "— Where are you, One?"

  "— Coming through Blackrock, Control. Five minutes and we'll be on you-"

  The other tracking car broke in before Corrigan could reply.

  "— Car Two to Control. We're reading a very spotty signal, too, sir. Just this minute."

  "— Wait a minute, wait a minute," Corrigan's voice began to rise. He turned to Minogue.

  "Now we're talking. Moore's out there somewhere close to us. Between Blackrock and town."

  "And that embassy car is headed out from town, too," said Dunne. He stroked one of his mammoth, gristly ears. Minogue's mind lost traction. Dunne piloted the car through an amber light. His brain fogged, Minogue's eyes indolently took in details of the roads they were passing. They were within a mile of the coast road. Corrigan pinched his lip.

  "— Passing Merrion Gates. Signal clear. Two, over."

  "This is Trimelston, sir," said Dunne. "He'll be gone by us when we hit the coast road."

  Dunne's anxious glance brought Corrigan to.

  "Get out onto the coast road anyhow, would you," he said.

  "— Wait, wait. He's turning into Booterstown station. Chestnut Two, over."

  Corrigan sat up in his seat and barked into the mike.

  "— Copy that, One?"

  "— Copy, Control. Signal is stationary, sir. It looks to be within a mile of us. The Punch Bowl, say… or the train station."

  Dunne accelerated by two cars. The three policemen were now in sight of the coast road. They were a mile to the city side of Booterstown.

  "Decoy?" Dunne tried.

  "Me bollocks," said Corrigan, wide-eyed with anticipation now. "Moore is close by. The smart money says they have something arranged at the station. Damn and damn again."

  "They're trained, Pat," Minogue said
quietly. Dunne's eyes flickered to Minogue's in the mirror.

  "It'd be a lovely set-up they'd have if they use the train," Minogue added. "We'd not get to them at all and they know it. We should pull the plug on them fast. Get the patrols on it."

  Corrigan snorted. He licked his lips before talking into the mike.

  "— Central, this is Control for Operation Melody. Delaney, are you still on here?"

  "— Yes, sir."

  "— Delaney, I need a lot of stuff now, the whole shooting gallery. Are you listening to me?"

  "— Sir…"

  "— All Dublin Garda frequencies, all right? If you have to wait for air, get South Dublin first. I need Gardai at all suburban rail stations. All stations, from Bray to Howth. For immediate apprehension and detention of male passenger or passengers, possibly two, repeat, two males. Individually or together. Every station, do you follow?"

  "— I copy."

  "— First possible suspect, male, aged mid-thirties. English, name Moore, Edward Moore. I'll give you a description now in a minute. Second suspect, probably English, driving a navy blue Rover. It's a diplomatic plate."

  "— Two Englishmen, sir?"

  "— Yep. Two. Either or both suspects will be carrying envelope containing photographic material. Immediate detention subject to my arrival. Sit them in the car and don't let anyone near 'em."

  "— Dip? Or consular staff, sir?" Delaney asked cautiously.

  The three policemen knew that Delaney wanted it on the tape.

  "— Immediate detention. Gardai can cite descriptions of two suspects wanted in a bank robbery on south side. I'll settle it when I get there. Over."

  "Be creative for the love of Jases, Delaney," Corrigan muttered with his thumb off. Dunne laughed aloud.

  "— Read you, Melody control. Descriptions please. Over."

  "— Here's one. Both may be travelling together for one stop and no more. Hold."

  Corrigan turned to Minogue. The grey eyes were bigger now. Minogue saw the sweat gathering under Corrigan's thinning hair.

  "Give them something to ID Moore, Matt."

  Minogue took the mike. The radio cawed before he thumbed to transmit.

  "— He's going down the station road… Slowing… seems to want to park. It's tight for us to just follow him right down, Control…"

  Corrigan responded immediately.

  "— One of you out with a brief-case and a handset. Go down on foot and be ready to get on a train after them. We're coming up to Booterstown ourselves. Give us a minute. Car One is about three minutes back. Hold position, observe and wait for me. And don't forget that Moore character is probably stuck in there somewhere in the carpark. Over."

  "— Copy."

  Corrigan thrust the mike back to Minogue.

  "— This is Central, standing by for description from Melody Control. Over."

  "— Here I am. Melody Control, that is," said Minogue. He didn't know where to begin.

  "— Moore's close on six feet. Well-dressed… very well-dressed. Suit, dark. Driving a hired Mini, yellow… Moore is thirty-five or six, I'd say. Pasty-faced. Sort of distinguished, you might say. Doesn't have much of a sense of humour. Pronounced accent… Let me see, what else…"

  CHAPTER 15

  Murray let the Rover freewheel down the gentle incline toward the station. Save for two schoolchildren already stepping onto the footpath, the station seemed to be deserted. One boy's face was streaked from crying, his school-bag dragging along the path. Murray saw the panels of the red lorry over the rows of parked cars. Coke, the ubiquitous banner of American civilization standing out against the pastels of sea and sky. Moore was to the sea-side of the lorry.

  Murray braked and turned the Rover into the carpark. As he turned, he noticed a car turn in off the coast road behind him. A bolt of alarm ran down his back. He stopped just inside the carpark and waited. The car pulled into the curb. A casually-dressed man stepped out from the passenger side. He carried a soft-sided briefcase and a newspaper. He smiled at the driver, seemed to crack a joke, and strode on toward the station. Murray watched the car in his mirror as it turned back onto the coast road.

  Murray waited until he saw the passenger pass the entrance to the carpark. Then he reversed the Rover to the end of a cluster of cars. Out of sight of the station now, he could get to the lorry, walk to Moore's car from behind. Murray's fingers slipped as he leaned across to unlock the passenger door. His hands were moist and they trembled. He placed the keys under the front seat and wiped his hands with his handkerchief. He couldn't keep his hands steady. He took the silencer out of his pocket and matched it to the muzzle of the automatic. Sure he had a purchase on the thread then, he rolled the silencer with his palm. The cylinder fell off and landed between the seats. Murray swore. He reached down and tried again. He tightened it this time, using the handkerchief for grip-Murray stepped out of the car. He felt he was entering a different world. Small polka dots sailed down in his vision and burst. He held the door from slamming and braced his knees to banish the feeling of feebleness in his legs. Have to do it, his mind was shouting furiously. He felt vulnerable as he started walking. He stared intently at cars, expecting some to be occupied but none were. The grilles of the cars seemed to be animate presences, vague threats as if they'd spring into motion. The lorry was about ten cars down from where Murray had parked. The pistol scratched his thigh, the five inches of silencer jammed under his belt to secure the gun. Murray looked down at his fly tt) see if the outline of the silencer was visible as he walked. He approached the car next to the red lorry and paused. He looked around. Nobody.

  Christ, he thought, Moore is in too deep: he'd never come over. Not a chance. If only he could have ten minutes, though, he could… Useless, couldn't think like that now: he must commit himself to action. Murray stopped again by the back of the lorry and edged out to take a look down toward the station.

  Over the car roofs he could see the white roof of the Ford, still by the station entrance. A puff of smoke escaped from the driver's window. He heard fragments of pop music. The newspaper flapped, page turned. It dawned on him that he'd have to kill Moore right in his car.

  Murray thumbed the safety off and walked around the back of the lorry. Make it quick, in and out. He felt the ice-pack grip him tighter around the chest and hold. Moore spotted the movement in the mirror right away. Murray saw the head turn to look through the back window. He heard a car engine from the carpark behind. Too late now to back around the damned lorry to check, he knew. Murray kept walking instead and grasped the passenger door handle of the Mini. Locked. Moore's face appeared in the window as he leaned across the passenger seat to unlock the door. Murray tried hard to smile but his face felt set, frozen. Moore's puzzled gaze searched Murray's face.

  "Hello, Moore," Murray managed to say in a choked voice. Moore blinked. His eyes darted down from Murray's face as his fingers closed on the golf-tee stalk for the lock. Murray saw the manila envelope on the seat below him, half-covered by the stretching Moore. He tried the door again, but too soon: Moore's fingers had slipped. Moore suddenly froze, his fingers tight on the lock now. Murray wondered what he was staring at.

  Murray looked down. A wrenching tremor seized at his heart when he saw that the grip of the automatic had slipped sideways in his belt. Moore had seen it. Both men stayed perfectly stiff for several seconds.

  Murray broke the spell first. He grasped the automatic, drawing it cleanly from under his belt. Moore was turning the ignition key. Murray yanked at the doorhandle in one last try. The Mini's engine came to life, the roar of the small engine's revs rattling the tappets. Murray let off a shot as the Mini lurched forward. The glass whitened in the rear passenger window, but the Mini was still squealing away, engine screaming. Murray crouched and fired through the back window. The Mini turned sharply but still accelerated, shedding pellets of glass. Murray stood, uncertain. He thought about his own car and turned to run around the rear of the lorry. Rounding the lorry, Murray heard the sq
ueal of tires, the crash of metal and glass.

  "Mother of the Divine Jesus!" Corrigan shouted.

  The yellow Mini rocketed out from behind a lorry. The driver of the Mini almost lost control as he swerved. Minogue believed that he saw two wheels of the Mini lift off the ground.

  "Box him!" Corrigan roared.

  Dunne shouted too and swung the car back toward the road. The Mini did not brake. The impact threw Minogue against the front seat and then dumped him across the back seat on the rebound. Dizzy, he heard Corrigan kicking at his door. Dunne was out first. Corrigan lay back on Dunne's seat then, gave a shout and landed a tremendous flat-footed kick on his door. It flew open and Corrigan was up and scrambling to get out. Minogue saw that Corrigan's forehead had been cut. Corrigan's hand was clutching for his pistol as he levered himself out of the door.

  Minogue stepped unsteadily out of the car. A man was running up from the station. One of us, Minogue thought indolently. He rubbed his eyes. His head was still buzzing. Corrigan was pulling on the door of the yellow Mini. Minogue couldn't see anyone in the car. Dunne saw the gunman first.

  "Gun!" Dunne screamed.

  Corrigan looked over the roof of the Mini. Minogue looked down at the running man. He was zig-zagging around the cars, banging their panels with his arms and hand as he charged through. As he ran he was tugging at a pistol under his arm. The pistol out, he began shouting, the gun jabbing the air with each piston stab of his arm.

  The gunman hesitated. A gorgeous brown suit, Minogue observed dreamily from somewhere behind the enormous, numbing nose. Incongruous, silly. A gun? Minogue looked to the slip-on shoes. A hundred quid, easy. Minogue's nose was pulsing slowly now. It felt like a slowly inflating balloon. The elegant gunman darted a look toward cars then, thumping panels heavily to slow himself as he ducked. Who was doing all that shouting now? Dunne, yes. Shouting at me, Minogue realised. Guns? Kathleen'll be livid with me…