by John Brady
He looked for bloodthirsty corroboration to O'Reilly.
"And like I said to Mr O'Reilly, I want the embassy and their bosses back in London to take note of your promotion, that we have nothing to be ashamed about. We held our end up here, so we did."
O'Reilly nodded once at that. Minogue almost gave up then. He didn't care to know how much of an edge the dossier had given anyone at the security conference.
"Definitely," O'Reilly added. "Not alone that, but your good work allowed the Taoiseach to send a strongly worded statement to the British Prime Minister."
"But what could he say to her, Mr O'Reilly?"
"I can disclose that he said he fully expected her to ensure that the embassy in Dublin was not to be used as a base for any covert operations of any description in this country."
In this country… the phrase echoed for several moments.
"In the Combs' case, one of theirs went astray-"
"One of ours," Minogue said. "Combs lived here. This was his home. People liked him. Did ye look at his drawings? Then tell me he was 'one of theirs.'"
"Ah now, Matt," the Commissioner interceded. "It's just phraseology. In a manner of speaking, like. Let's say that this wasn't Combs' home turf."
"But Tim Costello was one of ours?" Minogue had said then.
Kilmartin roused Minogue from his brooding when he began laughing at some recollection.
"Didn't the pair of them persuade you how much you had done for the greater good of the country, Matt? I heard the phrase uttered in this very room."
Minogue didn't answer.
"Here, we should have something to be celebrating your lad's exams. Cheer up, man."
"He's not certain until the results come out, Jimmy. He just said that he did great because the questions he had studied had come up."
"Sure that's life itself, isn't it, Matt? You answer the questions that come up, not the blather that the philosophers do be cooking up in their heads and all the rest of it. Iijits… Grandstanding a bit, aren't you, Matt? Wearing your morals on your sleeve. Take the bloody promotion and don't be so damned upright."
Minogue was astonished. Jimmy Kilmartin being so pointed? Quite without warning, Minogue began to laugh himself. The sourness which had occupied his thoughts began to ease. Kilmartin was eying him with cautious amusement.
"You might have something there," Minogue allowed. "Bumptious. Still, the nerve of you to be talking to me like that. What's come over you?"
"Well, for one thing I don't have to get a twist in me gut every time I see you and think to myself that Matt Minogue should have my rank. You're over-moral, man dear. You'd be surprised how clear things get and you lying here on your back all day. All the things you should have done, could have said. You know yourself, I suppose. They'll never admit to having Costello bumped off. Poor Combs either-Grimes, I mean."
"But couldn't we have demanded Murray? He committed crimes in our jurisdiction. Even the chance to question him. He was on the plane and in a London hospital before tea-time."
Kilmartin snorted dismissively.
"'Diplomat' my arse. I agree with you. In the abstract, of course. It was all part of a trade. You know that. They were on the blower very rapid after news of the escapade hit London. They say he's still on the critical list, Murray-"
"He was shot through the lung and that was the worst of it," Minogue protested. "Moore was the worse off with being shot in the back, but did you hear him complaining? They just want us to forget we ever had a chance to talk to Murray."
"All right, Matt. But don't be a gobshite. The deal is done. Go home and tell your wife that she's married to a man who routinely scares the wits out of his superiors."
Hugh Robertson was smoking one of his rare cigarettes in the restaurant. Kenyon watched the ceremony vacantly. Robertson searching as though he had forgotten which pocket held the cigarette case. Drawing one out, tapping both ends of the plain cigarette on the tablecloth. Searching for minute pieces of the dark tobacco before brushing them off the table. He offered Kenyon one, then lit his own and inhaled. The cigarette smelled of Turkish tobacco. Kenyon guessed they were hand-rolled in a specialty shop in the City.
"Yes, I told him that in my view Moore did excellent work. Everything according to instructions and more besides. We hadn't counted on Murray running amok, I reminded him. 'Moore displayed initiative and should be commended for that,' I said. I didn't tell him that I have three years to retirement and that he could…"
Kenyon was still drifting in the trough of relief after what Robertson had told him during the dinner.
"… fuck off with himself, don't you know."
Robertson smiled and batted his eyes. He looked about the restaurant before turning to the wine again.
"As if we are to be held to account for Six making a royal balls-up. 'Let them get together with the Foreign Office to put the egg back together,' I told him. Not in so many words, of course. After all, they loaned the problem to us. Never wanted it in the first place, did we?"
Kenyon tried to smile in return. He couldn't manage the sultry, silent-movie smile which Robertson seemed to produce effortlessly.
"I told him that James Kenyon had read Combs accurately, had evaluated the problem accurately and had moved at the first opportunity to try and pull the damn thing out of the fire. You can imagine that he was recording it all, because I was called in as a speech-writer for him to report to Maggie with. I can see him parrotting it all. 'Well ma'am, Mr Kenyon read the Combs business accurately and moved at the…'"
Kenyon was moved to express some gratitude, but he feared he'd be maudlin.
"Thank you, Hugh. You don't know what it means to-"
"Don't be overpowered, James. I told him the truth. He can gild the lily if he wants to later. I also mentioned, by way of a polite reminder, that when he needs a lamb for the ritual slaughter, we'll be going for Murray's neck."
"When do we get our hands on Murray?"
"Christ, don't ask, James," said Robertson languidly. "Six claims that he can't be interviewed yet… Means they're doing it right now, probably, before they pitch him over to us…"
"You see, James," Robertson eased himself against the chair better to expound, "C is a man whose disposition leads him inevitably to find villains. Villains and heroes. For a man in his position it's an extraordinarily simplistic way to see the world. But it has its advantages from my point of view here with this. Moore is a hero. Moore nearly lost his life in the service of national security, um? He'll be fine in a matter of months, but he'll need to watch his kidneys for the rest of his life, poor chap. We're giving him the option of a good disability out or a switch to other work. Once I explained to the old man that Moore is a hero, he copped on. All this consultation… I far preferred the old days, didn't you? Scandals and moles aside, of course. Consult the old man after an op. Drop an ambiguous memo, and let him go back to his greenhouse or Sanskrit."
Kenyon smiled tightly.
"But our present Duce was parachuted in to clean house. He's not, er, you know…"
"One of us," Kenyon completed the hackneyed Service joke.
"Just so, James," Robertson went on archly. "There's really no need for him to be running about preparing lengthy defences for the business in Dublin. He'll find out for himself. Qui s'excuse, s'accuse. Not our problem at all, at all. Even a layman can see that. What we had was a circus: Murray and Ball and their vendetta, running an alcoholic tout, one Mr Combs, through the embassy. A dicey enough proposal in Ireland even without Combs being a bloody Trojan horse. Where it would have stopped with Ball's rough-and-tumble tactics, I don't know. There's a case to be made for sending in proper tricks boys to do for what's-his-face and his ilk right on their home turf in the Republic. We could aerate more like… what's his…?"
"Costello."
"Yes. Naturally, Mad Murray has to prevaricate when it crossed your desk… and we're supposed to be the good fairy and fix up everything, good as new?"
"I wish
C held that — "
"Ah, but I told him this, James. That part he can stomach, because he's mainly concerned for his own arse. PMO called him in the morning after, into committee, and the PM was doing her Sphinx bit at the end of the table. Not happy at all. 'Looked like the first tank must have looked to the first soldier who saw it coming over the trenches at him,' C said to me. La belle dame stuck the prod in deep apparently. Told them what it meant for border security negotiations. Didn't divulge to anyone what they had to give away to even keep the Irish at the damn table and still get Murray and Moore and that garbled dossier here… Didn't tell them what it did for her re-election plans if she didn't score a nice coup here either, mind you."
Robertson poured more wine. He snorted before sipping.
"Shopkeeper's daughter she may be, but she's twice the man of any around that table. There's only so much the Irish can mine with the papers, of course. If they ask too much for sitting on it we can retaliate in some other arena. If they went public or leaked it, they'd suffer in the long run. Their opposition parties and the lunatic fringe there could do a slash and burn on them, too, I expect. Scream bloody murder about the government giving into perfidious Albion again. Bloody-minded people there. What would they do if they didn't have us to complain about?"
Kenyon didn't fend off Robertson's roving bottle this time. He felt the wine working now. Robertson blinked several times. His eyes were soft and glassy from the wine. The waiter brought coffee. Kenyon alone drank some. Robertson drained his glass.
"Canny bastard, that copper, though," Robertson murmured. "Having the copy and baiting poor Moore…"
"Moore was on the plane two hours after the shooting. He didn't get to talk to the copper again," Kenyon said.
"Too bad he opened his mouth to the Irish security on the scene at all. The bit about the copper, Minogue, saving his bacon. I don't like to hear that sort of remark. Before our mob got out from the embassy and threw a blanket on the stuff."
"Shock, maybe," Kenyon answered. "Human after all. Murray was ready to kill him, he says."
"Oh-oh, James. I thought we could have a dinner and get half-sloshed without you going moral on me," Robertson chided.
Kenyon didn't mind the riposte. He believed that Robertson drew the remarks from him, a proxy conscience for himself.
"I would have felt the same way as Moore," said Kenyon.
Robertson fixed him with an indulgent and skeptical eye. Kenyon felt he could match Hugh Robertson's jaundiced eye this time.
"And I think you would have too, Hugh."
Robertson made no reply.
CHAPTER 17
A traffic accident near Milltown put idle-time upon Minogue. He switched off the engine and leafed through the postcards. RTE was playing Ravel. In honour of the weather, Minogue surmised. He had the tail end of a hangover from the party for promotions. He let down the window. The drops flicked onto his face.
He leafed through the postcards again. Minogue had bought the last three copies of the Magritte postcard which his daughter had discovered in the bookshop. He had bargained for an envelope for each. As usual, when he was faced by pen and paper, Minogue could think of nothing sensible to write. Nothing mawkish, though, that was for certain. He caught a motorist staring at him and remembered that his face was still that of a Halloween caller. Minogue then hastily wrote on Daithi's card. He stuffed the card into the envelope before he decided to change his mind about what he had written. Beside the card he inserted five crisp ten-pound notes and the business card for the travel agent in Abbey Street, the one that would give him a special deal. It'd probably be to the States, if he knew his son at all.
He was still examining the puffy-white clouds of the Magritte postcards when the horns started behind. He turned the ignition, but the engine didn't catch for several seconds. The road ahead was clearing.
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