Dead Halt

Chapter Fourteen

The young constable flagged down the Mazda as it neared the RUC roadblock on the outskirts of Dugaill. “Morning,” he said politely, crouching down beside the open driver’s window. “I’m afraid this road won’t be opened again until early this afternoon. Where are you headed?”

“The church,” came the friendly reply. “My name’s Sabrina Carver. I’m with the senator’s security team.”

“Do you have any identification on you?”

She unclipped a laminated identity card from the pocket of her white blouse and handed it to him. He checked the seal. It was authentic. He returned it to her then consulted the clipboard in his hand. “I thought you were flying in with the senator?”

“That was the idea. But with so much at stake, I was sent on ahead to liaise with Inspector Eastman. My partners will be flying in with the senator later this morning. It was thought I’d be more use on the ground than up there with them. Any idea where I might find Inspector Eastman?”

The constable shrugged. “I don’t, I’m sorry. It’s best if you ask someone when you get to the church. The turn-off to the church is about a hundred yards further down the road. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

The constable signaled to his colleague and the boom gate was raised. She put the car into gear and drove through.

The constable grinned at his colleague. “She can protect me any time she wants.”

“She’s some looker, isn’t she?”

The constable nodded in agreement then turned his attention to the next car as it approached the boom gate.

She was stopped again on the slip road, but after showing her card was allowed to continue. She parked close to the cemetery. It was crawling with armed RUC officers. She got out of the car but instead of going into the cemetery she made her way across to the church. When she opened the front door she was immediately challenged by a uniformed police sergeant.

“I’m Sabrina Carver,” she told him, indicating the ID card clipped to her blouse. “I’m part of the senator’s security team. I’ve been sent ahead to take charge of the security here in the church.”

“Inspector Eastman didn’t say anything about it,” the sergeant replied.

“That’s because he doesn’t know I’m here. The decision to send me here ahead of the others was only taken earlier this morning. How many men do you have here in the church?”

“Two.”

“Only two of you?” she shot back.

“If you’ve got a problem with that then I suggest you take it up with the Inspector,” came the gruff reply. “He gives the orders around here, not me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said with a placating smile. “I’m just surprised that there isn’t a stronger security presence in here.”

“It’s not necessary. The church was searched thoroughly last night and then again this morning. Then it was sealed off. The doors are all guarded from the outside. Nobody’s going to get in here without being seen.”

“Where’s the second man?”

“Paul Reilly’s up in the belfry. It’s got a great view overlooking the cemetery. So if a sniper was going to use the belfry they would first have to get past the police cordon outside the church and then past the two of us in here. No chance. We’ve got the situation well under control here, Miss–”

“Carver,” she replied. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Is the senator due to arrive on time?” the policeman asked.

“As far as I know. The helicopter should already be on its way from Belfast by now. ETA is about ten minutes.”

“You might as well have come with them, miss. I’m just surprised you didn’t check with Inspector Eastman before you came here. It would have saved you a wasted journey.”

“Hardly wasted,” she replied then chopped him hard on the side of the neck. She grabbed him as he fell and lowered him silently to the floor. Then, after locking the front door, she took a small metal case from her pocket and opened it. Inside was a hypodermic needle and a vial of sodium pentothal. She drew half of the sodium pentothal into the syringe and injected it into the unconscious man. He’d be out for the next few hours.

She pocketed the case again and made for the belfry.

Paul Reilly took the pack of cigarettes from his tunic pocket and lit the last one. He crumpled the empty packet in his hand and was about to toss it over the side of the catwalk when he remembered where he was. He wasn’t particularly religious but some things were still sacrosanct. He stuffed it into his pocket then took a long drag on the cigarette.

The small belfry was dominated by a heavy bell which hung from the center of the hammer-beam roof. Each of the four walls in the tower contained a narrow, elongated window. None was glazed. He stood by the window which overlooked the cemetery, a Heckler & Koch machine-pistol slung over his shoulder. He’d been there since early morning. Well, not much longer to wait now …

He looked around when he heard the spiral staircase creaking behind him. He called out his colleague’s name. No reply. He unslung the Heckler & Koch machine-pistol and moved cautiously along the catwalk to the top of the staircase. It was impossible to see past the first few stairs from where he was standing. He gripped the railing and peered down, hoping to get a better look. It was no better. All he could see was the sheer, hundred-foot drop to the tiled floor below. He shuddered then stepped away from the railing. The creaking had stopped. It was probably the wind. Or his imagination. Pull yourself together, he chided himself, and moved back to the window.

“Morning.”

He swung around, the machine-pistol at the ready.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you would have heard me coming up the stairs. I made enough noise to wake the dead.”

“Who are you?” Reilly demanded.

“Sabrina Carver. I’m part of the senator’s security team. I do have ID on me. It’s here under my jacket.”

Reilly kept the Heckler & Koch trained on her. “Show me.”

She removed the disc and held it out toward him. He moved forward for a closer look. The Heckler & Koch was finally lowered.

“I’m glad we cleared that up,” she said with a smile.

“I’m just doing my job, Miss Carver. What are you doing up here?”

“I’m checking on the security arrangements before the senator arrives. Your colleague downstairs assures me you’ve both got the situation under control in here.”

“Sure we do,” Reilly replied confidently. “Especially from up here. You can see for miles in all directions. Come, I’ll show you.”

As he turned away from her she chopped him hard on the back of the neck. He crumpled to the catwalk. She removed the hypodermic needle from the metal case and injected the remaining sodium pentothal into his arm.

Then, taking a switchblade from her pocket, she crouched down and eased the blade between two floorboards. One of them was loose and she was able to prize it open. Underneath was an L96 sniper rifle wrapped inside a protective layer of plastic sheeting. She removed the plastic sheet then snapped the ten-round magazine into place and moved to the window. Reilly had been right. She could see for miles in all directions. But she was only interested in the cemetery. She looked at her watch. The helicopter was due to land in the next few minutes.

She peeled off the honey-blonde wig she had been wearing, then put on Reilly’s tunic and peaked cap. If anyone did see her from the ground they would assume it was him.

Fiona Gallagher smiled to herself. All she had to do now was wait …

“I’ve left an envelope in the safe in our room back at the hotel. If anything should happen to me in Dugaill today, it’s imperative that you give it to Whitlock as soon as possible. Promise me you’ll do that, Melissa. You must promise me.”

Melissa Scoby had promised her husband that she would comply with his wishes. And that had been an end to it. He had refused to discuss it any further. He had then spent the rest of the flight from London to Belfast staring absently out of the window, lost in a world of his own. He had hardly spoken to her. He had hardly spoken to anyone. She had even tried to touch his hand to reassure him that she was there if he needed her but he had quickly pulled his hand away. It had been cold. And trembling. It wasn’t the Jack Scoby she knew. It was almost as if he had resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t leave Dugaill alive …

“That’s the church down there.”

“Sorry?” she said, startled by the voice behind her. “The church is down there,” Whitlock repeated, pointing it out through the side window.

She nodded then cast a sidelong glance at her husband. He was staring ahead of him, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. If he had noticed her, he didn’t show it.

The helicopter slowly descended toward the clearing at the edge of the cemetery. Graham and Sabrina were the first out of their seats as the wheels touched down on the ground. A group of armed policemen had already formed a cordon around the helicopter by the time Graham had opened the cabin door. He pushed the steps out from the cabin and they were anchored firmly on the ground by one of the policemen. Sabrina was the first to disembark and ran, doubled-over, to where Eastman was standing clear of the rotors.

“Has everything gone according to plan?” Eastman asked her.

“So far,” she replied then jabbed her thumb in the direction of the helicopter. “A word of warning. Scoby seems a bit preoccupied today.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Not that I know of,” she replied, then looked around as Graham hurried over to them. “I was just telling Keith that Scoby’s got out of the wrong side of bed this morning.”

“Judging by those bags under his eyes, I doubt he even got into bed last night.” Graham turned to Eastman. “How’s the security operation going?”

“A gnat couldn’t get within a hundred yards of this place without the proper security clearance.”

“I hope you’re right,” Graham replied softly.

“The senator’s agreed to the revised schedule,” Sabrina told Eastman. “He’ll lay a wreath at his grandparents’ grave then head straight over to the Town Hall for lunch with the mayor.”

“So the priest won’t be saying a few words at the grave?” Eastman asked.

“No,” she replied.

“Does he know that?”

“We thought we’d let you tell him.” Graham gestured behind him. “Come on, Scoby’s about to disembark.”

They crossed to the helicopter and stood on either side of the steps as first Melissa Scoby, then her husband, alighted from the cabin. Whitlock brought up the rear. The Scobys were introduced to the elderly parish priest who was hovering at the foot of the steps.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the priest said, shaking Scoby’s hand. “I’m only sorry your visit to our country has had to be conducted under such a tight security blanket. Tell me, senator, is this your first visit to Ireland?”

“Yes, it is,” Melissa Scoby said when it became evident that her husband wasn’t going to answer. “And from what we’ve seen of it so far, it’s certainly a beautiful country.”

“That it is,” the priest agreed.

Whitlock put a hand lightly on the priest’s arm. “Father, could we proceed to the cemetery?”

“Of course. If you’ll follow me.”

Eastman fell in line beside Whitlock as he followed the Scobys into the cemetery. “Where’s Tillman? Didn’t he fly over with you?”

“No, he decided to stay behind in London.” Whitlock looked across at the photographers who were massed behind a police cordon at the edge of the cemetery. “It is supposed to be a personal visit, after ail.”

The priest stopped beside the double grave of Kieran and Estelle Scoby. Jack Scoby removed his sunglasses and stood over the grave, his head bowed as he read the epitaph which had been carved into the headstone more than a hundred years earlier.

Graham and Sabrina exchanged anxious glances. Scoby was the perfect target. Stationary and exposed. She caught Whitlock’s eye. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead then looked across at the thick woodland a couple of hundred yards beyond the cemetery. He knew there were over forty policemen combing the area. But what if Fiona Gallagher had still managed to evade them, assuming she was even in there? Eastman followed Whitlock’s gaze for several seconds then looked toward the church. His eyes finally settled on the belfry and the window which looked out over the cemetery. It all seemed so peaceful …

The heat was stifling in the belfry. Fiona wiped her forearm across her face then reached underneath the tunic and pulled her damp blouse away from her back. But within seconds it was clinging uncomfortably to her skin again. She had monitored Scoby’s progress from the time he had left the helicopter but it was only when he stopped in front of the grave that she reached for the rifle which was propped against the wall beside her. She wound the strap tightly around her arm then kneeled down on one knee and pressed the butt firmly against her shoulder. She lined up the top of Scoby’s bowed head in the cross hairs and, after making a minor adjustment to the Schmidt & Bender telescopic sight, she slowly curled her finger around the trigger. She knew she had only one shot. She had to make it count …

Scoby stood silently in front of the headstone for over a minute before he finally looked up at the RUC officer standing on his right. The policeman handed him the flowers he’d brought with him from London. He placed them across the grave then stood up and caught Melissa’s eye. He smiled gently at her then reached out and took her hand.

The soft-nosed bullet hit him above the right eye and exploded through the back of his head. His flailing arm caught Whitlock painfully on the side of the face as he was knocked off his feet as if hit by a hammering punch to the jaw. He landed heavily on the ground, his arms outstretched, the blood streaming down the side of his face. Melissa Scoby screamed in horror then fell to her knees beside her husband and cradled his bloodied head in her lap. Whitlock yelled at the nearest RUC officer to get the paramedics whose vehicle had been parked discreetly out of view of the cemetery.

Eastman, Graham and Sabrina exchanged glances then started running toward the church. The shot had to have come from there. A dozen armed policemen had already surrounded the building by the time they got there.

“The sniper’s in the belfry,” a senior officer told them breathlessly. “But the doors are locked and the keys are with the sergeant inside the church.”

“I got a spare front door key from the priest last night,” Eastman said, taking it from his pocket. “You take the back, Sabrina. Take some men with you and break the door down if necessary.”

Sabrina quickly picked out half a dozen men and disappeared around the side of the church. Eastman unlocked the front door and eased it open. Graham pushed past him and went inside, Beretta drawn. Calling to the remaining policemen to cover the door and windows, Eastman hurried after Graham who had already reached the foot of the stairs.

“Hey, wait up,” Eastman hissed, grabbing Graham’s arm. “I know these stairs better than you. Let me lead the way.”

Graham pulled his arm from Eastman’s grip and reluctantly let him go first. Eastman unholstered his Browning then began to climb the stairs. Graham winced every time Eastman stepped on a creaky floorboard. So much for him knowing the stairs! Gallagher would certainly know they were coming.

Eastman suddenly held up his hand and whispered to Graham that they would be visible from the belfry as of the next turn in the staircase. Graham watched as Eastman pivoted around sharply, training the Browning on the top of the stairs. He held up his hand again to halt Graham. Eastman negotiated the last few stairs by himself.

“Mike, up here,” he called out anxiously over his shoulder. “Hurry.”

Graham hurried up onto the catwalk and immediately swung his Beretta on Fiona. In that instant Eastman pressed the Browning into Graham’s back and quickly disarmed him. He pushed the Beretta into his belt.

“What the hell’s going on?” Graham demanded, looking from Eastman to Fiona.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” Fiona said, watching Graham’s face closely.

“Should I?” Graham replied hesitantly.

“You saw me talking to Keith outside the pub in Soho the day you arrived in London. What we didn’t know was whether you’d seen my face. If you had you’d have been the one person still capable of blowing this whole operation. We couldn’t afford to take that chance.” She levelled the sniper rifle at Graham’s chest.

“It’s a simple scenario, Mike. You reached the belfry first and Fiona shot you before I managed to overpower her.” Eastman stepped away from Graham. “Kill him.”

Fiona’s finger curled around the trigger.

“Drop the gun!” Sabrina yelled from beneath the belfry, a Heckler & Koch machine-pistol trained on Fiona.

“Take her out,” Fiona snarled at Eastman without taking her eyes off Graham.

“I can’t see her from here,” Eastman snapped back, peering over the railing. “Dammit, I can’t see her.”

“Fiona, drop the rifle,” Sabrina ordered. “Now!”

Fiona suddenly swung the rifle downward. Sabrina fired. The bullet took Fiona high in the shoulder, knocking the rifle from her hands. Clutching her shoulder in agony, Fiona stumbled back against the railing which gave way under her weight and she screamed in terror as she lost her footing and fell from the catwalk. She caught the side of her head on the bell as she fell and her body hit the floor with a sickening crunch of breaking bones.

Graham brought his elbow up sharply into Eastman’s midriff and the Browning clattered onto the catwalk. As he stumbled backward Eastman pulled the Beretta from his belt but Graham managed to grab his wrist as he pulled the trigger. The bullet fired harmlessly into the roof. Graham delivered two hammering blows to Eastman’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The Beretta slipped from Eastman’s fingers when he dropped to his knees, coughing and spluttering as he struggled to catch his breath. Graham quickly retrieved both weapons and when the first two uniformed policemen appeared on the catwalk they found him standing over Eastman, who was on his knees, his hands clutched tightly over his stomach.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Graham demanded as the two policemen hovered hesitantly at the top of the stairs. “Get him out of here.”

Moments later Whitlock arrived breathlessly with a senior RUC officer. “OK, Mike, let the police take it from here. Sabrina’s told us what happened.”

Graham reluctantly handed Eastman’s Browning to the RUC officer then followed Whitlock back down the stairs. He crossed to where Sabrina and a paramedic were crouched over Fiona Gallagher. “Is she dead?” he asked.

Sabrina nodded then unclipped the laminated identity disc from the front of Fiona’s blouse and held it up. “This is obviously how she got in.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Graham replied bitterly. “Not now. Eastman must have got it for her. Christ, the bastard was in charge of the whole operation. No wonder she was always slipping through our hands with such ease.”

“We’ll leave you to tidy up in here,” Whitlock said to the paramedic. “Mike, Sabrina, let’s go.”

“Scoby’s dead, isn’t he?” Graham asked once they were outside.

Whitlock nodded grimly. “The bullet blew away the back of his head. It looks like she used a dumdum bullet. He didn’t stand a chance.”

“How’s Melissa Scoby?” Graham asked.

“She’s been sedated and taken to a local hospital.” Whitlock watched as Eastman was led from the church to a waiting police car. “I’ll get on to Commander Palmer as soon as possible. Hopefully he’ll let us have first crack at Eastman when he’s returned to the mainland.”

“We really screwed this one up, C.W.,” Graham said.

“It looks like Fabio got out just in time,” Sabrina added. “At least he’s got a future to look forward to back in Italy.”

“I hear the pay’s good for military advisers in the Gulf,” Graham said. “I always thought my Delta years would come in handy again some day.”

“We’re not beaten yet,” Whitlock reminded him. “I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m damned if I’m going to give our critics at the UN the satisfaction of seeing UNACO on its knees. And that means we’ve still got a lot of work to do if we’re going to pull this round in our favor. Are you with me?”

Graham patted Whitlock on the shoulder. “We’re with you, buddy. Come on, let’s go.”

It was five-thirty in the morning when the telephone woke Kolchinsky. It was Whitlock. Five minutes later Kolchinsky replaced the receiver then reached for the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. He lit one, took his first drag of the day, and began coughing violently. Donning his dressing gown and slippers he went into the lounge. He had to tell the Secretary-General about Scoby before one of his aides either heard it on the radio or saw it on the six o’clock news. He sat down in his favorite armchair and dialed the number of the Secretary-General’s scrambled line at his home in Rhode Island. It was answered by an aide who patched the call through to the Secretary-General’s bedroom, but Kolchinsky’s worst fears were realized: the Secretary-General had been up since five and had already heard of the shooting on the radio. Repeating all he knew, Kolchinsky promised to keep him posted on any new developments, then replaced the receiver and used the remote control to switch on the television set in the corner of the room.

He lit another cigarette as the news began but it smouldered untouched in the ashtray for the duration of the lead story: the assassination of Senator Jack Scoby at a church in Ireland. Impatiently he switched off the set, stubbed out the remains of the cigarette, then sat back in the chair and ran his hand over his thinning hair. Nothing had gone right since he had taken over from Philpott. It had been an endless catalog of catastrophic errors. And now UNACO had just handed their critics the ammunition they needed to destroy them. He knew the Secretary-General would stand by UNACO. But how long could he hold out against the inevitable tide of condemnation that was sure to break once the news of Scoby’s death spread through the United Nations? It was imperative that Kolchinsky try and minimize the damage to the organization. The Secretary-General needed a scapegoat to appease their opponents.

He knew now who that would have to be. He would tender his resignation to the Secretary-General when he met with him later that morning.

Tillman had originally been scheduled to travel with the Scobys to Ireland but had pulled out earlier that morning, citing a backlog of paperwork as his reason for staying at the hotel. The real reason for his change of heart, however, had nothing to do with work. He knew that even with the added security which had been drafted in to protect Scoby in Dugaill, the threat to Scoby’s life was still very real. And if anything were to happen to Scoby, he would have to move fast to save his own skin …

Scoby was the linchpin in the deal with the Colombians and the Mafia. Without him, the deal became worthless. That meant both parties would have to move quickly to distance themselves by removing all incriminating evidence which could possibly link them to Scoby. And Tillman would be top of their list. He had spent the last couple of days pondering the different options open to him if Scoby were assassinated. And when it came down to it, there were only really two options open to him. Agree to turn State’s Evidence in return for a place on the Witness Protection Program. But there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t spend time in prison before he was allocated a new identity under the program. And if that happened, he knew he’d never get out alive. Or he could use the five hundred thousand dollars he’d received as “sweeteners” from the Colombians and the Mafia to start a new life in some distant corner of the world. It would be his only chance if worse came to worst …

And it had. After Palmer had called he’d immediately put his emergency plan into action. He’d hurriedly packed his suitcase then checked out of the hotel and taken a taxi to Heathrow where he’d used his diplomatic status to secure a seat on the next flight back to New York. He knew the anti-terrorist officers on duty at the hotel would tell their superiors that he’d gone. But he wasn’t worried about them. He was worried about Jorge Cabrera and Martin Navarro. It would only be a matter of time before they found out that he had returned to the States, but hopefully by then he’d have already collected the money and fled the country. Hopefully …

As was his custom every morning, Martin Navarro woke at six then spent half an hour working out in his mini-gymnasium before swimming a dozen lengths of his indoor pool.

A bodyguard handed him his towelling robe as he climbed out of the pool. He slipped it on as he walked through to the patio which overlooked the spacious gardens of his double-story mansion in Rhode Island. A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a copy of the New York Times lay on the table in the center of the patio. He sat down and opened the paper.

“Excuse me, sir,” the butler said, appearing in the doorway behind him. “Mr. Varese’s in the lounge. He asked if he could have a word with you. He seems rather agitated.”

“Tony’s here at this time of the morning?” Navarro said with a frown. He folded the paper over again and tossed it back onto the table. “Show him in.”

The butler bowed and left. He returned moments later with Varese and ushered him into the patio. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Varese? Coffee? Orange juice?”

Varese shook his head.

Navarro dismissed the butler then looked up at Varese. “Well?”

“You haven’t heard, have you?” Varese said, pacing the floor anxiously.

“I don’t know unless you tell me what it is you’re talking about,” Navarro shot back.

“Scoby’s dead. It’s the lead story on every news bulletin. I know you only watch the news on your way to work. That’s why I came straight round when I heard about it.”

“Tell me what you know,” Navarro said, clasping his hands behind his head as he listened to Varese. “Well, at least the damage is minimal. Nobody else in the family knew about the deal we made with Scoby. And I intend to keep it that way.”

“What about Tillman?”

“I’d say that all depends on him. If he goes for a deal with the DA, he’s probably already under police protection. That’s going to make a hit that much more difficult. But if he tries to make a run for it, then we can find him. What’s the name of the hotel he’s staying at in London?”

“The Grosvenor House.”

Navarro pulled the telephone toward him, lifted the receiver, and asked the operator for the number of the hotel. He dialed the number in London, spoke briefly to the switchboard operator, then replaced the receiver. “He checked out of the hotel an hour ago.”

“He’s obviously panicked.”

Navarro allowed himself the luxury of a smile. “Good. And it’s my guess that he’s already on his way back here to pick up the money. It won’t take me long to find out which flight he’s on and when he’s due to touch down in New York. I want you to tail him from the airport.”

“When do you want me to make the hit?”

“When he’s led you to the money, of course. And no mistakes, Tony, or we’ll both be answerable to the family.”

“No mistakes,” Varese replied as he left the room.

Navarro sat impassively for some time as the anger slowly began to build up inside him. He’d told Brady to deal with the situation. And he’d blown it. And now with Scoby dead, his chance of pulling off a major coup against the Colombians had gone. It was back to square one again. He’d warned Brady what would happen if he failed him. Well, it was payback time. He’d see to that.

“Come,” Maurice Palmer called in response to the sharp rap on the door.

The door opened and Whitlock entered the room. “Is it a bad time?”

“It’s been a bad time ever since you called me from Ireland,” Palmer replied despondently. “Come in, C.W. Sit down.”

Whitlock closed the door behind him and sat down. “We got in to Heathrow an hour ago. I told Mike and Sabrina to wait for me downstairs.”

“The Commissioner’s agreed to let you question Keith first. Initially he wanted Special Branch in on it as well but I managed to talk him out of it. You’ve got an hour before Special Branch take over. I’ve given specific orders that none of my men are to go near Keith until we know whether any of them were in collusion with him as well. We can’t rule that out at present. And find out about John Marsh. If he is innocent, I want him back on the case as quickly as possible.”

“Sure, if Eastman agrees to talk to us.”

“He’ll talk,” Palmer replied confidently. “I spoke to him briefly after he was brought over here from the airport. He said then he was prepared to answer any questions. He actually seemed quite chirpy under the circumstances.”

“I’m not surprised he’s chirpy. Scoby’s dead. The IRA have achieved what they set out to do. And you can bet they’ll see to it that he’ll be looked after on the inside. They’ve beaten us, haven’t they?”

Palmer took a cigarette from the packet in front of him and lit it. “I want a transcript of the interrogation on my desk as soon as possible after you’re through so that I can brief the Commissioner.”

“I’ll see that you get one,” Whitlock replied as he got to his feet and left the office.

Eastman was ushered into the interview room by two Special Branch officers. How many times had he grilled villains in this very room? The irony wasn’t lost on him. He was led to the table in the middle of the room and told to sit down. On the table was a portable tape recorder and two microphones. He sat down and clasped his manacled hands in his lap. The two policemen remained in the room until Whitlock arrived.

“Tell them to take these cuffs off me,” Eastman said without looking around.

Whitlock stared at the back of Eastman’s head then nodded his consent. One of the policemen removed the handcuffs and gave them to Whitlock. Eastman was still massaging his chafed wrists when Graham and Sabrina entered the room and the two policemen withdrew, closing the door behind them.

Whitlock sat opposite Eastman and Graham and Sabrina took their places on either side of him. Eastman looked up slowly at them. His right eye was almost closed and a dark, discolored bruise had spread across the surrounding skin.

“I’m impressed,” Graham said, eyeing the bruise with evident satisfaction. “I never realized you encouraged that kind of initiative amongst your men.”

“Unfortunately the same can’t be said for UNACO, can it?” Eastman replied coldly, holding Graham’s stare. “You’ve all been blundering about in the dark like a bunch of headless chickens. It certainly made our task that much easier.”

Whitlock grabbed Graham’s arm as he was about to jump to his feet. “Let it go, Mike.” He turned back to Eastman. “You know the procedure. The questioning begins when I switch on the tape recorder.”

“Be my guest,” Eastman replied.

Whitlock positioned a microphone in front of Eastman then switched on the machine. “How long have you been working for the IRA?”

Eastman sat back in the chair. “There you go again, blundering about in the dark.”

“Then perhaps you’d care to enlighten us?” Whitlock said.

“I have never worked for the IRA.”

“Then let me rephrase the question,” Whitlock said. “How long has the IRA been paying you to pass information on to them?”

“I have never worked for, passed any information on to, or ever received any money from, the IRA. This whole operation was set up to discredit the IRA, not assist them.”

“So who exactly was behind this operation?” Whitlock asked.

“There were three of us. Patrick Gorman, Fiona Gallagher and myself.”

“Gorman, the undercover cop who was murdered in Belfast last year?” Sabrina asked.

“The same. The plan has always been to discredit the IRA. At the time we didn’t have a particular target in mind. Pat was murdered before we could finalize the details. That meant Fiona and I had to rethink our strategy. We decided to put the operation on ice until we found the right target. And when Scoby announced that he was coming over to the UK we knew we’d found it.”

“Gallagher’s still the mystery figure in this case,” Whitlock said. “Commander Palmer claims she’d never been a member of the anti-terrorist squad and yet she obviously worked closely with the two of you, both senior officers in the unit. Where exactly did she fit into all this?”

“Palmer’s right. She’d been a Provo since Mullen recruited her at Bristol University. But after a few years she became disillusioned with the movement. That’s when Pat turned her. When I first met her I suggested she take up with Farrell because he was then the blue-eyed boy of the movement. She reeled him in perfectly. He was absolutely besotted with her. And all the time she was with him she was passing info back to us. Then Pat was killed. She took it badly. Not that she ever showed it in front of Farrell or any of his cronies. She was every inch the professional. The best.”

“Did Marsh know about her?” Whitlock asked.

“Only Pat and I knew about her. It was vital for her own protection.”

“So where does Marsh come into it?” Graham asked.

“John?” Eastman managed a faint smile. “John was what you Americans would call a patsy.”

“So you set him up?” Whitlock said.

“It wasn’t very difficult. Fiona managed to get Brady’s thumb print on a tenner when she last saw him. And I got the combination to John’s safe when I went over to his house a couple of weeks ago on the pretext of borrowing one of his disks. Not the one that was used to trap him, mind. That would have been too obvious. I planted the evidence a couple of days before he was arrested.”

“You knew he’d be arrested?” Sabrina said.

“I knew we were going to be investigated. That was obvious. So I had to make sure John took the fall.”

“Let’s turn now to McGuire,” Whitlock said. “How did he find out about the plot to assassinate Senator Scoby?”

“He overheard Fiona talking to me on the phone. But he obviously thought she was talking to someone in the IRA because she also mentioned that Farrell was returning to the UK after meeting with a cell in Germany. He then tipped you off that Farrell was due back in the UK and you, in turn, told Palmer. But that suited us perfectly: if Farrell hadn’t been put behind bars when he was, we’d have had to kill him. It was absolutely essential for our plan to have any chance of succeeding, that Fiona be put in temporary charge of the cell so that Mullen and Kerrigan would think that she was taking her orders directly from the Army Council.”

“Did the IRA sanction McGuire’s murder?” Whitlock asked.

“Yes. When Fiona realized that McGuire had overheard her and was planning to meet with Swain she told the Army Council that McGuire was a tout. They gave her instructions to kill him. And by doing that she could then introduce the second part of the plan: to assassinate Scoby, without raising any suspicion amongst either the members of her cell, who would automatically have assumed that it was another IRA directive, or amongst the Army Council, who would still think she was tidying up the McGuire affair.”

“And you had Grogan silenced because he could have led us to McGuire?” Sabrina deduced.

“At the time we didn’t know how much Grogan knew for the simple reason we didn’t know where he was. That’s why I had Mike get the information from Roche. The car was bugged so when he told me the address, Fiona was able to get there before us. I removed the bug before I brought the car back here.”

“And presumably it was you who also made the hoax bomb call to the airport?” Whitlock said.

Eastman nodded. “I had to give her time to get to McGuire first and take him out. It was touch and go for a while because of the weather. But Mullen did an unbelievable job to get them to the chalet just ahead of us. It was certainly a close call.”

“Why did she kill Lynch?” Whitlock asked.

“Two reasons. Lynch and Kerrigan had hatched a plan to tell the Army Council that she wasn’t capable of running the cell in Farrell’s absence. If she’d been relieved of her command, that would have ruined everything. Secondly, Lynch was one of the senior Provos in Europe. Kill him and you damage the network. Which it’s done by all accounts.”

“Why did she kill Kerrigan and Mullen?” Whitlock asked.

“Kerrigan was becoming increasingly rebellious. It came to a head at the chalet where they were hiding out after the hit on McGuire. He pulled a gun on her and she shot him. She killed Mullen for the simple reason that she didn’t need him after the botched attempt on the Merry Dancer. She needed to operate alone at the church. And with both of them dead, there would be no witnesses to contradict her in court.”

Whitlock nodded to himself. “I get it now. You intended to arrest her after she’d killed Mike, then when she appeared in court she’d have claimed that she shot Scoby on the orders of the IRA. That would have caused an international outcry and the IRA would have been discredited publicly. That alone would have seriously damaged their image abroad.”

“It’s already damaged their image abroad,” Eastman corrected him. “They’re sure to regroup and rebuild again from within but you can still bet that heads are going to roll. And the first head to roll will be Brady’s. And that will be a major coup in itself.”

“How can you be so sure?” Sabrina asked.

“Because Brady was Fiona’s superior. And the IRA are going to need a scapegoat if they’re going to win back their supporters. He knew that when he came up with that idea to edit the tape for public release. It was the one ace he still had up his sleeve. But Whitlock outwitted him. Probably the only person who ever has.

“You must understand that when we originally devised this plan, we had Brady very much in mind. He’s been responsible for the deaths, either directly or indirectly, of more British soldiers in Ireland than any other Chief-of-Staff in the history of the organization. And this was one way of getting him. Discredit him in the eyes of his superiors. Let them deal with him.”

“She’d have got life if she’d ever stood trial,” Sabrina said. “Didn’t that bother her?”

“She’d have got several life sentences,” Eastman corrected her. “But that doesn’t mean she’d have spent long in jail. There was a contingency plan to spring her after a few weeks. She’d have left the country and started a new life somewhere out of the reach of the IRA.”

“And I suppose it doesn’t bother you that three of our colleagues and an innocent American senator were murdered as a result of your vigilante operation?” Graham snapped.

“Scoby’s death was an essential part of the operation. I make no excuses for that. But your colleagues–” Eastman trailed off and shook his head. “That wasn’t part of the operation. Fiona specifically gave orders to hit only McGuire but Kerrigan overstepped the mark. There was nothing she could do about it. I know she was just as gutted about their deaths as I was. As we were when Mullen shot that chopper down over the Thames.”

“You sound just like the IRA now,” Graham shot back. “When they kill someone by mistake they always make some lame apology to the family. It doesn’t wash, Eastman. It just doesn’t wash.”

“I don’t expect you to believe me,” Eastman replied softly. “But it’s true.”

“Who put up the money for the operation?” Sabrina asked.

“The IRA. Unwittingly, of course. As a senior officer, Farrell had access to the funds. It wasn’t difficult for Fiona to skim money off over the last year and attribute it to Farrell. Always small amounts. But it all added up in the end. She bought the weapons and equipment herself and used a couple of ex-pats to help her put it in place. She paid them well and swore them to silence. Who were they to argue, especially as they thought they were in on an IRA operation?”

Whitlock stared at the microphone in front of him, his brow creased in thought. He finally looked up at Eastman. “So had we been questioning Fiona Gallagher now instead of you, none of this would have come out, would it? She’d have stuck to the story about it being an IRA operation. So why have you changed the script?”

“Fiona was a Provo. There’s no question of that. Her background would have added credibility in a courtroom. And she’d have made a very convincing witness. After all, she pulled the trigger in Dugaill. She killed Scoby. What have I done? I planned the hit with her and Pat. It doesn’t have the same punch, does it?”

“That still doesn’t answer the question,” Sabrina said.

“I think it does,” Graham replied. “By coming clean he’s putting the authorities in a major dilemma. Do they keep to the story that’s been splashed across the front page of every newspaper this morning that the IRA were responsible for Scoby’s death, or do they put him on trial and admit that the whole thing was really planned by a couple of maverick Scotland Yard detectives out to discredit the IRA? Imagine the public outcry. They’ll be screaming about unlawful vigilantes within the British police. It would do irreparable harm to Scotland Yard’s image. But more importantly, it would completely exonerate the IRA of any blame. And their support would be sure to increase. How am I doing, Eastman?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Eastman replied.

“That’s pretty ingenious,” Whitlock said after a moment’s thought.

“There’s one thing that I still don’t understand,” Sabrina said, breaking the sudden silence. “Why didn’t Gallagher kill me after they’d taken out Grogan?”

Eastman leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his clenched fists. “I told you, our plan was to discredit the IRA; it was never our intention to kill those working against them. Fiona seemed to admire you for what you’d managed to achieve with UNACO. I guess you could say that she saw in you a mirror image of what she would have liked to be, had things turned out differently for her. But that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t have killed you had you threatened either her or the success of the operation. It’s all irrelevant now though, isn’t it?”

Whitlock switched off the tape recorder. He recalled the two Special Branch detectives and Eastman was handcuffed again and escorted from the room. He then ejected the two cassettes from the machine. “I’m going to get this transcribed for Sergei as soon as possible. I’ll fax the text through to him as soon as it’s finished. In the meantime I’ll take this one over to Commander Palmer.”

“Do you think Eastman will ever stand trial?” Sabrina asked Whitlock as he crossed to the door.

“What do you think?” Whitlock replied contemptuously before leaving the room.

Sabrina turned back to Graham. “Gallagher took us down to the wire, didn’t she? She anticipated our every move and countered them with moves of her own. And she so nearly outfoxed us at the finish. Eastman was right. She could have been me.”

“She was good. Granted. But she was never in your league. If she was, she’d still be alive, wouldn’t she?”

“Flatterer,” Sabrina said with a grin.

“I’m just stating the obvious, that’s all,” Graham replied matter-of-factly.

“Thanks, Mike,” she said with a resigned sigh as she left the room.

Graham frowned. She knew he wasn’t into flattery or any of that kind of ingratiating nonsense. Surely honesty was a compliment in itself? He shrugged to himself then went after her.

Melissa Scoby woke to find herself in a hospital bed. It was obviously a private ward. She had been undressed and was now wearing a white nightgown. She tried to sit up but the effects of the sedative administered to her in Dugaill made her feel giddy and light-headed. She lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

Then it all came flooding back to her. The shot. The blood. Jack being knocked off his feet. Falling. Falling …

The tears came quickly but she made no attempt to wipe them away. They streamed down the side of her face and onto the pillow. She had known Jack was dead even before Whitlock had gently helped her to her feet. She had struggled fiercely with him, wanting to stay with her husband. Then the paramedics had arrived. They had gone over to where her husband lay sprawled on the ground, the grass around his head already soaked in blood. So much blood. It had stained her jacket. Her blouse. Her skirt. She remembered wiping her hand across her face. Her palm was streaked with blood. She had screamed and her legs had gone from underneath her. Someone had caught her. Whitlock? She didn’t know. Then one of the paramedics had appeared beside her. She didn’t want a sedative. No sedative. She had tried to tell him. But her throat was dry. She couldn’t speak. Then she had felt the needle prick her skin. She had initially fought against the drowsiness. But within seconds it had taken effect and she had felt herself going.

She struggled again to sit up. She took a tissue from the box on the bedside table and wiped her eyes. Still the tears came. Tears of disbelief. Tears of sorrow. Tears of loss. Tears of guilt …

She knew their marriage had been far from perfect but, despite that, she had never been unfaithful to her husband. Her flirtations had been harmless enough, just an attempt to attract his attention. But he’d never noticed, he had been too busy with his career. It had always come first. And it had ultimately cost him his life. Suddenly all those dreams were gone. The Presidency. The White House. Everything he’d ever wanted. Everything she’d ever wanted …

“Mrs. Scoby?” A nurse stood in the doorway. She smiled gently. “How are you feeling?”

“Numb,” came the reply.

“Yes, I can understand that,” the nurse replied, entering the room.

“Can you?” Melissa Scoby bit her lip as she fought back the tears. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the Armagh County Hospital. It’s the nearest hospital to Dugaill. The American embassy is sending someone over to take you back to London. They should be here within the next hour.”

Melissa Scoby dabbed her eyes with the tissue. “Please, just leave me alone.”

“Would you like anything to drink. Tea? Coffee?”

“No.”

The nurse left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Melissa Scoby propped the two pillows against the headboard then leaned her head against them and closed her eyes. She suddenly saw her husband’s face in her mind. It was so clear. So real. Then she remembered what he had said to her at the airport before they set out for Belfast. I’ve left an envelope in the safe in our room back at the hotel. If anything should happen to me in Dugaill today, it’s imperative that you give it to Whitlock as soon as possible. Promise me you’ll do that, Melissa. You must promise me.

She had promised him. She sat up abruptly in bed and lifted the telephone off the bedside table and placed it in her lap. She picked up the receiver, dialed the switchboard, and asked the operator to ring the Grosvenor House Hotel in London.