Dead Halt

Chapter Nine

Sabrina had been discharged from hospital early that morning so that they could reach Zurich in time to catch the eleven o’clock flight back to London. She looked pale and tired, having refused the offer of sedatives the previous night, and within minutes of taking her seat on the plane she was asleep. Graham gave the stewardess strict instructions that she wasn’t to be disturbed until they reached London.

Eastman and Marsh were also exhausted. They had been up most of the night compiling their reports for Palmer and, with Scoby due to arrive that evening, both were looking forward to catching a few hours’ sleep in the comfort of their own beds once they arrived back in London …

Two members of the anti-terrorist squad were on hand to meet them at Heathrow and it quickly became apparent that sleep would have to wait. Palmer wanted to see them both urgently in his office at New Scotland Yard. Graham and Sabrina were taken in one of the cars to the Grosvenor House Hotel where Scoby would be based for the duration of his stay.

Palmer was on the telephone when Eastman and Marsh entered his office. He pointed to the two chairs in front of his desk. “I’ll call back,” he told the caller abruptly before replacing the receiver and reaching for the packet of cigarettes on his desk.

“I thought you’d given up, sir?” Eastman said in surprise as Palmer pushed a cigarette between his lips and lit it.

“I had, until last night,” Palmer retorted sharply. He took a long drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke up toward the ceiling. “It was obvious after the debacle in Switzerland last night that the IRA have a pipeline into the heart of this unit. How else could they have anticipated your every move?”

“It certainly looks that way, sir,” Eastman agreed.

“The Special Branch were brought in last night to find this mole. You were both the first to be investigated. Your offices and your homes were raided simultaneously just after midnight.” Palmer removed a computer disk from his drawer, placing it on the table in front of them. “This is yours I believe, John?”

Marsh picked it up and turned it around in his fingers. The number four was written on it in red pen. “Yes sir, it is. This is a backup copy of one of the disks in my office. I keep all backup disks in my safe at home. How did you come by it?”

“Your wife gave the Special Branch officers the combination of your personal safe. And before you say anything, she had no choice. They had search warrants.”

“What about it?” Marsh asked, holding up the disk.

“According to the index on your office computer, this disk contains the names, addresses and telephone numbers of your contacts and informers. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then tell me about ‘Rebel Woman’.”

“ ‘Rebel Woman’?” Marsh replied with a frown. “I don’t know anyone who uses that codename.”

“So how do you explain it being on this disk, but not on the disk that was taken from your office?”

“That’s impossible, sir,” Marsh replied in bewilderment. “I told you, I use my office disk to update this one. It’s an exact copy.”

Palmer removed two sheets of computer paper from the folder in front of him and put them in front of Marsh. “Printouts of the two disks. As you see, there’s an extra entry on your backup disk. ‘Rebel Woman’.”

Marsh ran his fingers through his blond hair. “It makes no sense, sir. It’s impossible–”

“So you keep saying!” Palmer cut in. “But there’s the evidence in front of you. And you’ll also see that there are two telephone numbers listed under ‘Rebel Woman’. They were checked out by Special Branch officers. The first is the number of a known IRA safe house in London. The second is a Belfast number. A flat registered in the names of Sean Farrell and Fiona Gallagher. So I’d say it was safe to assume that Fiona Gallagher is ‘Rebel Woman’?”

“Sir, this is ludicrous,” Marsh said, getting to his feet.

“Sit down!” Palmer thundered.

Marsh shot Eastman a despairing look then retook his seat.

“Then there’s the ten thousand pounds which was found in your toolshed.”

“What?” Marsh retorted in amazement. “God, what’s going on? I don’t know anything about any ten thousand pounds.”

“Two bundles, five thousand in each bundle. The top and bottom notes of each bundle were dusted for prints. We were hoping to lift a print which would link the money to the IRA. We struck the jackpot. A print was positively matched to the copy of Kevin Brady’s left thumb print on our central computer. I don’t have to tell you that Brady is the Chief-of-Staff of the Provos’ Army Council. He’s also the most wanted man in Britain. How do you explain his fingerprint being on the note?”

“I can’t explain it,” Marsh blurted out. “It’s obviously been planted there so that I would take the fall.”

“I could believe it about the money, but not the disk. How many people know the combination of your safe?”

“Only my wife and I,” Marsh replied in desperation. He dug his fingers under his collar and pulled it away from his neck. “Somebody must have found out about it, sir. It’s the only logical explanation.”

“I suggest you keep your protestations for the jury. Perhaps they might look more favorably on them. But I certainly can’t. God only knows how much damage you’ve done to this organization since you started working for the IRA. I only hope it’s been worth it all, John.”

“Sir, please listen–”

“Keith, there are two Special Branch men waiting outside,” Palmer cut in. “Ask them to come in, will you?”

Eastman hesitated.

“Must I fetch them myself?” Palmer asked angrily. Eastman reluctantly got to his feet and called the men into the room.

“John, you’re suspended as of this moment. You know your rights, you can have a lawyer present when you’re questioned by the Special Branch. And don’t forget to leave your warrant card before you go. You won’t be needing it again.”

Marsh took the card from his pocket and handed it to Eastman. The two Special Branch men flanked Marsh and led him from the room.

Eastman sat down slowly after the door had closed behind Marsh and looked across at Palmer, the disbelief etched on his face. “The evidence may look conclusive, sir, but I still believe John’s innocent. I probably know John better than anyone else at Scotland Yard. The anti-terrorist squad was his whole life. Everything else took second place.”

“Now you know why,” Palmer replied, stubbing out his cigarette and reaching for the packet again. He cursed angrily and tossed it aside. “Look at me. Chain-smoking like I’d never stopped. Don’t you think I’m just as shattered about this as you are, Keith? John was one of the most promising officers I had in the unit. I wanted him to go far. But what really sticks in my throat is the thought that the lives of the men could have been put at risk because of his treachery. Who knows how much confidential information he’s passed on to the IRA since he began working for them.”

“Putting him on some show trial can only damage the image of the anti-terrorist squad and give the IRA an enormous publicity boost into the bargain.”

Palmer lit another cigarette. “I’m well aware of the damage it’ll do to the unit as a whole. Opposition MPs will be howling for a public inquiry. They always do at times like this. But what can we do? We can hardly push him out the back door and hope none of this ever reaches the Press.”

“According to British law, a man is innocent until found guilty.” Eastman tossed Marsh’s warrant card on the desk then crossed to the door. He paused, his fingers resting lightly on the handle, and looked around at Palmer. “But that’s not how a show trial works, is it, sir? There a man’s guilty until found innocent. And that never happens, does it?”

“John will be given a fair trial,” Palmer retorted, angry at the insinuation that he could influence the outcome of the trial in any way.

“It depends on your definition of fair, sir. Wouldn’t you agree?” Eastman said, leaving the room before Palmer could muster a reply.

Graham was sitting up on the bed, a pillow propped up behind his back, watching the American wrestling on the cable channel. There was a knock at the door and he cursed irritably under his breath as he rose from the bed to answer it.

“C.W.!” he gasped in surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought you were flying over with Scoby later this afternoon.”

“Can I come in before you fire any more questions at me?” Whitlock asked.

“Sure, buddy, come on in,” Graham replied, opening the door for him. “You want a drink? There’s a bar in here. Or I can make you a coffee if you want it.”

“I know your coffee,” Whitlock replied as Graham closed the door behind him. “You could patent it as an alternative to creosote.”

“What good’s coffee if you can’t taste it?” Graham said, using the remote control to turn down the sound on the television set.

“I’ll have a tea, thanks.”

Graham pointed to a chair. “Sit down. So why aren’t you flying over with Scoby?”

Whitlock eased himself into the chair. “I’ve got a meeting with the head of the anti-terrorist squad this afternoon. Fabio’s coming over with the senator.”

“When are they due in?” Graham asked, switching on the kettle.

“Tonight. About seven.”

“Are we meeting the plane?”

Whitlock shook his head. “The anti-terrorist squad will be handling the security arrangements at the airport. I told Scoby we’d meet him here at the hotel. And anyway, a deputation from the Court of St. James’s will be on hand at the airport when he lands. Including the American ambassador. We’d only be in the way.”

“I presume you heard about Marsh?”

Whitlock nodded. “Sergei told me before I flew out this morning. Seems he got a call in the middle of the night from a very distraught Maurice Palmer. Who told you? Eastman?”

“Yeah. He’s well pissed off. He still thinks Marsh’s innocent. The evidence seems pretty conclusive to me though.” Graham held up the cup. “How strong do you want this tea?”

“Leave it to draw for a while,” Whitlock replied. “Where’s Sabrina?”

“She’s asleep. She didn’t get much sleep last night. But she did ask to be woken if anything cropped up.”

“Let her sleep,” Whitlock said.

“How’s Sergei bearing up back home?” Graham asked, helping himself to a bottle of diet Pepsi from the mini-bar.

“Fed up. He wanted to come out and coordinate Scoby’s security arrangements personally. You know how he loves to get involved in the fieldwork. But he’s stuck at the UN. Meeting after meeting. He’s hardly ever in the office these days. I know it’s getting to him.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Whitlock replied.

“You also pissed off?” Graham gave Whitlock his tea.

Whitlock took a sip and placed the cup on the table beside the chair before answering. “Sure I’m pissed off. I’m stuck behind a desk answering phone calls all day. Then at night it’s off to some embassy to listen to the boring ramblings of a bunch of foreign ambassadors with names you can’t even pronounce. And on the rare occasions when I do get out in the field, it’s as a liaison officer. It’s driving me up the wall.”

“Have you told Carmen how you feel?”

Whitlock threw up his hands in despair. “Tell her what? That I want to give up my management position and return to the field? She’d throw a fit. Then she would instigate divorce proceedings against me.”

“So you’re just going to stick it out to please her?”

Anger flashed through Whitlock’s eyes. “I saved my marriage by taking this position. Carmen and I are closer now than we’ve been for years. And I intend to keep it that way.”

“You’re living in a fantasy world, C.W. Do you honestly think you can be happy at home when you’re so unhappy at work? You can only bottle up your frustration for so long before you reach breaking point. By then you’ll have come to resent Carmen so much for having put you in that situation in the first place. And she’ll resent you for not having confided in her. But by then it’ll be too late. Your marriage will be over.”

Whitlock got to his feet, his eyes blazing. “I don’t need a lecture on marriage, especially not from you.”

“Then get your act together and tell Carmen how you feel,” Graham retorted. “You owe it to her just as much as you do to yourself.”

Whitlock’s hands balled into fists at his sides. Graham had never seen Whitlock so angry. He knew it was an anger that stemmed from frustration. But he still believed he was right to tell Whitlock how he felt.

“You let me worry about the state of my marriage,” Whitlock said finally as he strode angrily to the door. “There’s a meeting in my room at six-thirty tonight. Tell Sabrina. And Eastman.”

“Sure,” Graham replied gruffly.

Fiona Gallagher was wearing a pair of baggy patched jeans, a loose-fitting sweatshirt and her favorite black trilby to hide her cropped blonde hair when she entered St. Pancras Station. She wore no make-up and carried a battered rucksack over her left shoulder. It was imperative that she be as inconspicuous as possible and, dressed as she was, she knew she would be taken for just another student waiting for a train. She went to Casey Jones, ordered a coffee, then retreated to a corner table to wait for Mullen. She looked at her watch. Three twenty-two. The rendezvous was for three-thirty. And, knowing him, he would be late. Five, perhaps ten minutes. Never more. Just enough to irritate someone as punctual as she was. She opened the copy of the Guardian she’d bought earlier. She despised it for its quasi-socialist views but it was a favorite with the students and that meant it would add credibility to her cover. She laid it out on the table and began reading the lead story.

They had vacated the chalet early that morning, using the skis which had been left for them in the helicopter. She had been skiing since her teens whereas Mullen had only started in his twenties. It showed. They had taken a taxi from Les Paccots to an underground car park in Lausanne where a car had been left for them. The keys were taped to the underside of the front bumper. Mullen had driven them to Cointrin Airport in Geneva where they had caught a mid-morning flight back to London. They traveled separately on the plane, having previously agreed to meet up again at St. Pancras that afternoon …

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

She looked up, startled by the voice. Then a grin spread across her face. “I never thought I’d live to see the day that Hugh Mullen actually arrived early for a meeting.”

Mullen chuckled and placed his coffee and cheeseburger on the table. He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, torn at the knees, an Irish rugby jersey and a red bandana tied around his forehead.

“I like the duds,” she said, appraising Mullen’s clothes.

“Thanks,” Mullen replied, sitting down. “You did say formal wear, didn’t you?”

She smiled, picked up his cheeseburger, and took a generous bite before handing it back to him.

“Are you sure you can spare this?” Mullen said, holding up his half-eaten burger. “Sean always said you had a big mouth. This proves it.” He added milk and sugar to his coffee then took a sip before sitting back, his elbows resting on the back of the bench. “I’m sure looking forward to going back home. I’ll need a week just to catch up on my beauty sleep.”

“We’re not going home,” she said, her face suddenly becoming serious.

“Oh God, no. What’s turned up now?”

Fiona took a manila envelope from the rucksack and placed it on the table. “I went to the usual drop this morning. There was an envelope for me. Inside was the key to the locker Sean always uses at Victoria Station. This was in the locker.”

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that it contains a couple of tickets for the next ferry out of Liverpool.”

“No such luck.” She removed a driver’s license from the envelope and gave it to Mullen. “Your name’s Daniel McKenna. I’m Marie Russell. We’re both from Belfast. We’ve come down to London in your Toyota van for the weekend.”

Mullen studied the license then slipped it into his pocket. She took a sheet of paper from the envelope and handed it to him. He put on his glasses. It was a typewritten directive signed by two members of the Army Council. He recognized one of the signatures: Kevin Brady. His eyes narrowed in disbelief as he read through it.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he said softly after handing the paper back to her.

“On the contrary. I think it makes perfect sense. Are you going to eat that cheeseburger?”

Mullen shook his head. “How can you think of food at a time like this?”

“Because I’m hungry.” She looked around. “Come on, we can talk in the van. I left it in a car park not far from here.”

Mullen picked up his plastic coffee cup and led the way to the door as Fiona hurried after him, scoffing down the remainder of the cheeseburger. They walked to the car park in silence. She unlocked the passenger door and climbed in.

“That was an order to assassinate Senator Jack Scoby,” Mullen said after he had got in behind the wheel and placed the cup on the dashboard. “We both know that the IRA never target foreign diplomats. And you say it makes sense to you. Well, would you like to share your reasoning with me? Because I’m damned if I can see any sense in it.”

“You just said, the IRA never target foreign diplomats,” Fiona repeated. “And that’s the beauty of it. Who will the authorities blame when Scoby is assassinated?”

“Come on, Fiona, it won’t take the authorities long to put two and two together, especially as Scoby’s been shouting his mouth off about the IRA during his recent election campaign,” Mullen retorted.

“The authorities may well suspect the IRA but there won’t be any evidence linking us with the murder. And if they do accuse us in the Press you can be sure the Army Council will put out an immediate disclaimer, distancing the Revolutionary Army from any involvement. And they are also sure to contact senior Noraid members in the US to assure them that the IRA had no part in Scoby’s murder. That way our support won’t be harmed over there.”

“But why target him? Shouting his mouth off about Noraid is one thing but he knows he can’t shutdown our operation over there. It would be unconstitutional. We have the right, as a political organization, to collect funds from our supporters in America.”

“The Army Council obviously think differently,” Fiona replied with a shrug. “And they make the policies. We’re only here to carry out those policies to the best of our ability.”

“I still don’t like it,” Mullen said.

“This has obviously been worked out well in advance. And as it said in the directive, it was originally Sean’s operation. I think it’s a great honor that they’ve asked us to carry it out in Sean’s absence. And I know we can do it. But I’d understand if you wanted to back out.”

“You’d do it by yourself?”

“If I had to,” she replied somberly. “But I’d still prefer to work with a partner. Especially one I can trust.”

“You know I’ll be there,” Mullen replied. “What have I got to lose apart from my life?”

“Ever the optimist,” she said with a smile. “But we’re not going to die. We’ll hit Scoby and be back in Ireland before the weekend’s out. And the Army Council are going to be waiting to welcome us back with open arms. Who knows, there may even be a promotion in it for us.”

“You know what happened the last time I led a cell,” Mullen replied glumly. “No, they won’t risk it. And anyway, I don’t want that kind of responsibility again. But if you get a promotion, I hope there will be a place for me in your cell.”

“My first recruit,” she replied.

He looked into the back of the van. A tarpaulin was spread over the floor. He knew from the appendix attached to the directive that underneath the tarpaulin were two Czech Skorpion machine-pistols and two Colt .45 revolvers. He was about to lift the edge of the tarpaulin when Fiona grabbed his arm and indicated the wing mirror on her side of the van with a nod of her head. He checked in his wing mirror and a wave of fear surged through his body. Two policemen were approaching the van on foot. She dug the keys out of her pocket and handed them to Mullen. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and wound down the window as one of the policemen approached the driver’s door.

“Afternoon, officer,” Mullen said with a friendly smile.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the policeman replied. “Is this your vehicle?”

“I’m afraid it is,” Mullen replied sheepishly. “It may not be much to look at, but it gets us around.”

“May I see your driver’s license please, sir?”

Mullen took the license from his pocket and handed it to the policeman. The policeman studied it then looked up at Mullen. “Could you give me the registration number of your vehicle please, sir?”

Mullen, who had already memorized it at the station, repeated it for the policeman.

The policeman checked the plates then held up the driver’s license. “Would you excuse me a minute, sir?”

“There’s nothing wrong is there, officer?” Mullen asked anxiously.

“It’s just a routine check, sir.” The policeman unclipped his radio and turned away from the van as he spoke into it.

The second policeman rapped on the passenger window. Fiona wound it down. “Would you mind opening the back, sir?”

Mullen took the keys out of the ignition and climbed from the van. He walked around to the back and unlocked the doors.

“Is there anything under the tarpaulin, sir?”

“Nothing, officer,” Fiona called out from the passenger seat.

Mullen swallowed anxiously. What the hell was she doing? She knew what was underneath the tarpaulin. He noticed the jack on the floor by the door. He would have to use it. But why was Fiona acting so cool? It unnerved him. His fingers touched the jack as the policeman lifted the tarpaulin. Mullen had to check his surprise. There was nothing there. Satisfied, the policeman dropped the tarpaulin and told Mullen he could close the doors again.

Moments later the first policeman handed the driver’s license back to Mullen. “Sorry to have troubled you, sir.”

Mullen waited until the two policemen had disappeared from view before turning to Fiona. “I think you owe me an explanation. I was about to cosh that pig back there. Why didn’t you tell me that you’d already taken the weapons out of the van?”

“I was interested to see how you’d react under pressure.”

“Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” he snapped angrily.

“You did well,” she replied. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Where to?” Mullen asked after they had got back into the van. “The safe house?”

“No, the Thames. Scoby’s due to take a cruise on the river tomorrow afternoon. I want to take a closer look at the route the boat will be taking.”

“Come,” Palmer barked in response to the knock on the door.

Eastman opened the door. “Afternoon, sir. You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, come in, Keith,” Palmer replied. “So you got my message all right? I hate those infernal answering machines.”

“Frances always makes a point of switching it on when she gets home from the library. Most of the calls are for her anyway. But then that’s what you get for being the secretary of the local amateur dramatics society.”

“How is your wife?”

“She’s fine, thank you, sir. Not that I’ve seen much of her these last few weeks. They’re putting on one of those Russian tragedies later this month. That seems to be keeping her busy.”

“I spoke to Whitlock earlier this afternoon. A good man to have on our side. He’s holding a briefing at the hotel before Scoby gets there. Have you been told about it?”

“Graham left a message for me on the answering machine.”

“I was hoping to be there as well but I’ve been summoned upstairs for a meeting with the Commissioner. God knows what time that will finish. I’ve already made my apologies to Whitlock but I wanted to see you before you went over there anyway.” Palmer helped himself to a cigarette from the pack on his desk and lit it. “Earlier this afternoon two officers were on a routine patrol in the St. Pancras area when they spotted what they regarded as a suspicious vehicle near Euston Station. It was an old red Toyota van. There were two occupants: a man and a woman. The man’s license was in the name of Daniel McKenna. The license and the plates checked out to an address in Belfast and the officers had to let them go. But both officers were suspicious and when they got back to the station they told their superior about the incident. He had them go through all known Irish villains on the computer and both positively identified Mullen as Daniel McKenna.”

“So it’s safe to assume that the woman must have been Fiona Gallagher?”

“It would have to be, wouldn’t it?” Palmer replied. “We’ve since checked on the real Daniel McKenna. His van’s been parked in his garage in Belfast for the last two days. So Mullen and Gallagher must be using false plates. They’re certainly canny, I’ll give them that.”

“They could both have been in custody by now,” Eastman said, shaking his head angrily to himself.

“There was nothing the officers could do. They had to let them go.”

“I’m not blaming them, sir,” Eastman was quick to point out. “On the contrary. If it hadn’t been for their vigilance, we wouldn’t have known they were back in the country. What about Kerrigan though? No sign of him?”

“None at all. There were only the two of them.”

“He’s probably lying low somewhere, given how distinctive he is in public.”

“But what worries me is why they’re here in London. Surely they’d want to get back to Ireland as soon as possible? They’d be much safer over there.”

“Unless they’re planning another operation here in London?”

“That seemed the most likely explanation to me as well.”

“Scoby?” Eastman said warily.

“It can’t be ruled out, Keith,” Palmer replied. “Well, you’d better leave now if you want to get to the hotel for six. You know what London traffic’s like at this time of the afternoon.” Palmer watched Eastman cross to the door. “Oh, and Keith? Keep me informed.”

“I will, sir,” Eastman replied as he left the room.

“Can we talk?”

Whitlock nodded and gestured for Graham to enter the room.

“I thought it best if I came by before the others got here,” Graham said. “I owe you an apology for my outburst earlier this afternoon. I was out of order.”

“You spoke your mind, Mike, and that’s something I’ve always liked about you.” Whitlock closed the door. “It’s often the best way. And what you said made a lot of sense once I’d sat down and thought about it.”

“I was still out of order.”

“Apology accepted, if that will make you feel any better,” Whitlock said. “I’ll talk to Sergei and the Secretary-General when I get back to New York. See what they have to say. That’s the easy part. Then I’ll have to sit down with Carmen and tell her how I feel about the situation. I can’t say I’m really looking forward to that.”

“It’s best to clear the air.”

“Best for who though?” Whitlock replied then indicated the kettle on the dresser. “Tea?”

Graham smiled. “I think I’ll stick to creosote, thanks.”

“Coming up,” Whitlock replied, switching on the kettle.

There was a knock at the door and Whitlock answered it to admit Sabrina. Minutes later Eastman arrived and he briefed them about the incident near Euston Station that afternoon.

“So you agree with us now, do you?” Graham said, looking across at Eastman. “You think there will be an attempt on Scoby’s life after all?”

“Nothing would surprise me after the events of the last twenty-four hours,” Eastman replied.

“But where will they try and hit him?” Whitlock asked. “We’ve seen the senator’s itinerary. It’s not exactly a low-profile visit, is it?”

“He’ll be at his most vulnerable when he’s with the mayor on board the pleasure boat tomorrow afternoon,” Graham replied. “I don’t care how tight the security measures will be around the Thames, a good assassin could still take him out.”

“Agreed,” Whitlock said.

“Any chance of cordoning off the boat’s intended route tomorrow afternoon?”

“I suggested that to Senator Scoby last night,” Whitlock replied. “But he wouldn’t have any of it. He’s determined to go ahead with the itinerary as planned.”

“So is the mayor,” Eastman added. “He gave Commander Palmer the usual predictable speech about not giving in to threats of terrorism. We’re just going to have to cope as best we can.”

“And have our letters of resignation ready if the IRA do breach our security measures,” Sabrina said.

The telephone rang. Whitlock spoke briefly to the caller. “That was Fabio. They’ve just got into Heathrow. He thinks they should reach the hotel within the hour.”

Eastman finished his tea. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to the Yard. I’m due to give a briefing to my men at eight.”

“Will you be coming back here later?” Whitlock asked.

“That all depends on how long the briefing goes on for. I’ll call you later and let you know what’s happening. If not, I’ll meet Scoby in the morning. That shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”

“You can meet Scoby anytime. I was thinking more of the briefing we’ll be holding after we’ve had a chance to talk to him. But if you can’t make it, no matter. I’ll call you and brief you on the phone.”

“I’ll do my best to get back. But I can’t make any promises.”

“I understand,” Whitlock replied as he walked Eastman to the door.

“I’m starving,” Sabrina announced after Eastman had gone. “I haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast. I think I’ll grab a bite before Scoby gets here.”

“And I’ll call Sergei to let him know what’s happening,” Whitlock said. “Then I can start on the backlog of paperwork I’ve brought with me.”

“Have you eaten yet?” Sabrina asked Graham.

“I guess I could force myself to eat something,” Graham replied, following her to the door.

“Don’t do me any favors,” she replied, looking around at him.

“Get out, both of you,” Whitlock chided good-humoredly. “I’ll let you know when the senator gets here. Bon appétit.”

“It’s a pleasure finally to meet you,” Scoby announced, taking Sabrina’s hand in a gentle but firm handshake. “Mr. Whitlock told me last night that you were to be a part of my security team, but it wasn’t until I read your dossier on the plane that I realized you were George Carver’s daughter. He’s still talked about on Capitol Hill to this day. It’s a pity he was on the wrong side.”

“That all depends on whose side you’re on,” Sabrina replied.

Scoby smiled politely. “So what is your father doing now? The last I heard he’d been appointed chairman of Sellers Marketing in Miami.”

“He retired two years ago. My parents still live in Miami. In Coral Gables.”

“Ah yes, a beautiful part of the city. It must be a good fifteen years now since your father was appointed American ambassador to Britain. I was still a student at Harvard in those days.”

“Actually, it was eighteen years ago,” Sabrina corrected him.

“Really, is it that long ago? And he was here for eight years, I believe. That’s a good innings by any standards.”

“He was a good ambassador,” Sabrina replied quickly.

“I’m sure he was,” Scoby replied without much conviction. He shook Graham’s hand. “Good to have you aboard.”

“Thank you,” Graham replied, tight-lipped.

“Isn’t it strange that you should both have such prominent politicians in your family?” Scoby said. “Your father-in-law was Senator Howard Walsh. ‘Hawk’ Walsh. A fine man.”

“As Sabrina said, that all depends on whose side you’re on,” Graham replied.

“I take it you don’t share the senator’s political views?”

“I don’t share anything with Senator Walsh anymore,” Graham said bitterly. “He’s a narrow-minded, right-wing bigot who should have been dumped by the Republicans years ago.”

Scoby’s smile faltered. “Somehow, I never took you for a liberal.”

Whitlock put a hand lightly on Graham’s arm before he could reply. Tillman noticed the gesture and was quick to catch Scoby’s eye. “The Ambassador and his wife are due here for drinks in half an hour. You said you wanted to change before they arrived.”

“Ray will stay behind and sort out the security arrangements with you,” Scoby said to Whitlock. “And if you should need me for anything, you know where to find me.”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to sort out everything with Mr. Tillman. But thank you anyway,” Whitlock said.

“Where’s Fabio?” Sabrina asked after Whitlock had seen Scoby out.

“He’s making a phone call in his room,” Whitlock replied. “There was a message for him at reception when he checked in. He shouldn’t be long now.”

Paluzzi arrived a few minutes later. “I haven’t been holding up the show, have I?”

“Actually, yes,” Whitlock replied good-humoredly, “but perhaps now we can get down to business.” He removed five folders from his attaché case and handed them around, keeping one for himself. “We’re all familiar with the senator’s schedule for the weekend by now. These folders contain a more detailed timetable of his intended movements. I want the three of you to study it carefully and, together with Inspector Eastman, work out a duty roster for the weekend. Commander Palmer has already detailed a dozen men to work with us. Inspector Eastman’s briefing them now, using this same timetable. They will be answerable to him but, when he’s not there, whichever of you is on duty will automatically assume command.”

“What kind of shifts are we going to work?” Graham asked.

“That’s for you to decide,” Whitlock replied. “There will be a twenty-four-hour guard on the suite so, officially, you’ll be off-duty once the senator’s retired for the night. But one of you will be expected to be on call each night in case something should crop up. This doesn’t involve Eastman as he won’t be sleeping on the premises. Three nights, so you’ll each have one night on call. OK?”

“It is for Eastman,” Paluzzi replied, then looked across at Graham and Sabrina. “If it’s all right with you, I’d prefer to take either tomorrow or Sunday. I’m still recovering from my little excursion to Milford last night.”

“No problem,” Sabrina replied. “I’ll stay on call tonight. I think I’ve had more than enough sleep as it is today.”

Graham nodded. “OK, then I’ll take tomorrow night. Fabio, that leaves you with Sunday night.”

“Perfect,” Paluzzi said.

“There is one snag though,” Whitlock announced. “The senator goes for a run every morning. Usually around six. So whoever’s on call will have to be up bright and early to go with him.”

“I don’t have a tracksuit with me,” Paluzzi complained.

“So buy one,” Sabrina said with a shrug. “Gucci make good tracksuits. Stick it on your UNACO credit card. After all, that’s what expense accounts are for.” She winked mischievously at Whitlock. “Not so, C.W.?”

“You buy a Gucci tracksuit and it’ll come out of your wages,” Whitlock told Paluzzi bluntly. “You’ll. buy the cheapest one you can find.”

“You know, C.W., you’re sounding more like Sergei every day,” Sabrina said.

“That’s because I’ve seen our budget for the year.” Whitlock turned his attention back to the folder in his lap. “There will only be two occasions when I want you all on duty. Tomorrow afternoon when the senator’s on the pleasure boat, and Sunday when he’ll be visiting the cemetery in Ireland. Apart from that, you make your own roster. Oh, there is one other matter. As you know, the senator’s due to dine at the American ambassador’s residence tomorrow night. The embassy wasn’t too happy about the idea of either UNACO or the anti-terrorist squad being on US property. They wanted the Marines to take charge of the security operation. We finally reached a compromise. They can use their Marines provided UNACO is still in charge of the overall security operation. I’ll be there, but in my official capacity as deputy director of UNACO. And that means I won’t be able to give my full attention to the security arrangements. I want two of you to be there with me. Sabrina, you’re at ease amongst diplomats. I think you–” he trailed off when he saw the smile tug at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t tell me, you don’t have an evening gown with you.”

She shook her head innocently.

“Then hire one.”

“Hire one?” she replied in disbelief. “That’s like borrowing somebody else’s clothes.”

“You’re not buying one,” Whitlock told her firmly. “And that’s final.”

“OK, I’ll hire one,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“Mike, I want you there as well.”

Graham nodded.

Whitlock looked across at Tillman. “Is there anything you want to add?”

Tillman shook his head. “No, you seem to have covered everything. Although I would like a copy of the duty roster once your team has sorted it out.”

“Of course,” Whitlock replied.

“We can’t make out the shifts until we’ve seen Eastman,” Graham said to Whitlock.

“Forget about Eastman,” Whitlock replied. “He’ll just have to fit in with your arrangements. I want the duty roster made out tonight.”

Tillman closed the folder, stood up, and made his way to the door. “That certainly went a lot quicker than I’d anticipated. I’ll be in Senator Scoby’s suite if you should need me again tonight.”

Whitlock closed the door behind him and turned back to the others. “Well, I’ve still got a lot of paperwork to wade through before I turn in for the night. Let me have a copy of the roster once you’ve worked it out.” They headed for the door. “Oh, Mike, can I have a word before you go?”

“We’ll be in my room,” Sabrina told Graham as she left with Paluzzi.

“Don’t antagonize Scoby like that again,” Whitlock said once they were alone.

“I wasn’t out to antagonize him, C.W. He asked me about ‘Hawk’ Walsh–”

“Mike, you know very well that Scoby’s just as right-wing as Walsh,” Whitlock cut in. “And you went out of your way to try and mix it with him tonight.”

“So what was I supposed to do?” Graham retorted. “Agree with him that ‘Hawk’ Walsh’s a fine man? Forget it.”

“If you’re going to spar with politicians, the first lesson to learn is the art of diplomacy.”

“And what is the art of diplomacy?” Graham asked with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“I used to have a poster on my wall when I was a student. It said simply: Diplomacy is telling someone to go to hell in such a way that they look forward to the trip.”

Graham grinned. “I like it.”

“Then bear it in mind next time.” Whitlock opened the door. “Go on before Sabrina and Fabio bag all the best shifts.”

Mullen moved quickly to the window as a pair of headlights swept across the front of the safe house in Finsbury Park. A white Mazda estate had turned into the drive and was pulling up in front of the closed garage door. Mullen grabbed the Colt from the table behind him and switched off the light. He took up a position in the hall with the revolver trained on the front door. His finger tightened around the trigger as the footsteps drew closer. They stopped in front of the door. The bell rang three times, each with a two-second interval. It was the code he had agreed to earlier with Fiona. But if it was her, where was the red Toyota van? He moved cautiously to the door, still wary of some kind of trap.

A fist banged sharply on the door. “Hugh, open up!”

Mullen unlatched the door then stepped back, waiting. “It’s open.”

Fiona opened the door and found herself staring down the barrel of the revolver. Mullen looked behind her and, satisfied there wasn’t anyone with her, lowered the gun. She closed the door and switched on the light.

“Where’s the van?” he demanded as she brushed past him and disappeared into the lounge.

“I dumped it,” she said, looking around at Mullen who was standing hesitantly in the doorway. “So that’s what all this was about. You thought I was the cops?”

“What was I supposed to think?” he retorted, stung by the sarcasm in her voice. “Why did you dump the van?”

She held up three large padded envelopes. “These were at the dead-letter drop in Kensington Gardens. They’re from Brady. The Fortune Teller contacted him this morning to say the cops knew about the van. The Fortune Teller was due to call him again late this afternoon. Nothing. It’s possible that his cover could have been blown. There was always that chance after the information he passed on to us about McGuire being in Switzerland.”

“So it looks like we might have lost our backup. That means we’ll be going in naked tomorrow afternoon.”

“We wouldn’t have needed him tomorrow anyway,” she replied, removing a sheet of paper from the envelope. “Brady’s already worked everything out. We’ll have three chances to hit Scoby over the weekend: when he goes for his run tomorrow morning, when he’s on the pleasure boat tomorrow afternoon, and when he goes to Ireland on Sunday to visit his grandparents’ graves.” She handed him a sheet of paper. “This sets out details of the plan to hit him on the river tomorrow.”

“And if that fails?” Mullen asked, casting a cursory look over the typewritten page.

“The other plans are in here,” she replied, tapping the two envelopes in her hand. “We’re only to open these if we need them. Those are my orders.” She looked at her watch. “It’s almost ten. I’m going to have a bath, then we’ll run through the plans for tomorrow before we turn in for the night. We’ve got an early start in the morning.”

“How early?”

“He goes for his morning run around six. We still have to get hold of a getaway car beforehand so we’ll have to be out of here no later than three-thirty. The full details are there,” she said, indicating the paper in Mullen’s hand. “Read it through while I’m having my bath. Then we can go through it together. We can’t afford to make any mistakes on this one–”

Whitlock was working on one of the files he had brought with him from New York when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. He groaned then got to his feet and answered it.

Paluzzi held out a sheet of paper. “You asked for a copy of our shifts for the weekend.”

“Thanks, Fabio,” Whitlock said, taking the timetable from Paluzzi.

“Are you busy right now?”

Whitlock’s answer was to gesture to the files spread out over the bed.

“I was wondering if you could spare me five minutes?”

“Of course. Come in,” Whitlock replied. “What’s up?”

“It’s about that message that I got when I checked in earlier this evening.”

“It’s nothing serious, is it?” Whitlock asked anxiously. “Nothing’s happened to Claudine or little Dario, has it?”

“No, nothing like that,” Paluzzi replied, quick to allay Whitlock’s sudden concern. “The message was from the head of the Joint Chiefs-of-Staff in Italy. They want me to go back home and take over as the new Commander-in-Chief of the NOCS.”

“But you left because you couldn’t get on with your superiors,” Whitlock said.

“Only my immediate superior, Brigadier Michele Pesco. But he was relieved of command last night. They want me to take his place.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” Paluzzi replied despondently. “Well, not yet anyway. I told them I needed time to think it over. I’m torn on this one, C.W. Half of me wants to catch the next flight back to Rome and assume command first thing in the morning. But the other half wants to stay on here with UNACO. I know it’s something only I can decide, but I just needed to get it off my chest. That’s why I came to you. You’re the senior man around here. I just wanted to put my cards on the table so that if I did decide to take the post it wouldn’t come as a bolt out of the blue to either you or Sergei. I respect you both too much for that.”

“It sounds like you’ve made up your mind already,” Whitlock said with a smile.

“Far from it. It’s something I’ll need to discuss with Claudine when I get back to the States.”

“I know what she’ll say.”

“I know she’s never settled properly in New York, which is obviously something I’ll need to bear in mind when I’m weighing up the situation. There are other considerations but I’m still determined to make the decision myself.”

Whitlock suddenly thought of Carmen. What would she say when he announced that he wanted to go back into the field? Just how independent would his decision be when it came down to it? Knowing Carmen, she’d play a big role in the outcome. And although Paluzzi wasn’t admitting it, he knew Claudine would also play an important part in his final decision. Which meant that Paluzzi was already as good as the new Commander-in-Chief of the Italian elite anti-terrorist squad.

“I just thought I’d let you know,” Paluzzi said, breaking the sudden silence.

“I’m glad you did. And if you need to talk, you know where I am.”

Paluzzi nodded then left the room. Whitlock sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the telephone. Should he tell Kolchinsky now, or wait until he returned to New York? Kolchinsky would have enough to worry about as it was with the Secretary-General on his back every few minutes. No, he had to tell him. And if Paluzzi did leave, he knew exactly who he’d want to replace him …