Dead Halt

Chapter Twelve

The rain pummeled the Mercedes as it hurtled along a deserted road in County Armagh. Inside were three men. The driver, Hagen, and McAuley, who sat beside him, had both served time for their part in an IRA bombing campaign on the British mainland in the early eighties. McAuley was armed. The third man, who was seated in the back of the car, was in his late thirties with thinning brown hair and a pale, cadaverous face. Kevin Brady was the Chief-of-Staff of the IRA’s military wing, the Army Council. He was a cold, dispassionate man who had an unnerving habit of speaking in an unvarying monotone. Quick to reward initiative and even quicker to punish failure, he had been known to order the execution of entire families simply by a nod of his head or a snap of his fingers if he thought it would prove a point. The majority of those on the Army Council were prepared to overlook his faults because of his tactical successes in the field, but there were a small number who were fiercely opposed to his brutal methods, especially those relating to internal discipline, and who felt that the only way to displace him would be to have him killed …

The Mercedes turned off the main road and sped through an open gate onto a dirt road. An armed Provo, his face hidden under a black balaclava, ghosted out from behind a bush and closed the gate behind the car. They continued along the dirt road for another three hundred yards until they reached a farmhouse. Hagen brought the car to a halt. Two masked Provos stood outside, both armed with ArmaLite rifles. Jumping out of the car, McAuley opened the back door for Brady while one of the armed Provos knocked on the farmhouse door. Brady was ushered inside and led to a room at the end of the corridor. His escort rapped twice on the door then gestured for Brady to enter.

The three men sitting behind a table at the far end of the room were all senior members of the Army Council: Pat Taylor, an Enniskillen businessman and a former Army Council Chief-of-Staff; Michael Kelly, once a leading Sinn Fein councillor; and Kieran O’Connell, the former editor of the official IRA newspaper, An Phoblacht.

Taylor pointed to the wooden chair in the middle of the room. “Sit down.”

Brady crossed to the chair and sat down.

“You know why you’ve been called here, don’t you?” Taylor said as he tamped a wad of tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

“Yes.”

“Did you issue a directive to Fiona Gallagher to assassinate Senator Jack Scoby?” O’Connell asked.

Brady’s lifeless eyes locked onto O’Connell’s face. “No.”

“Then who issued the directive?” O’Connell demanded.

“You tell me,” Brady replied in his deadpan voice. “Now you listen to me–”

“Kieran,” Taylor cut in quickly. “We aren’t going to get anywhere by squabbling amongst ourselves like this.” He looked across at Brady. “An order like that would have had to come from the Chief-of-Staff or one of his senior officers.”

“I didn’t give the order and neither did any of my senior officers,” Brady told him.

Kelly got to his feet and crossed to the window. “There’s been a rumor going around these last few weeks that Dominic Lynch intended to come back from Switzerland to try and oust you, not only as Chief-of-Staff, but also from the Army Council as well.”

“I’ve also heard that rumor,” Brady replied.

Kelly looked around at Brady. “Lynch and Farrell were close friends, weren’t they?”

“And you think they planned this to discredit me?” Brady sat forward and stared at the wooden floor. His face remained expressionless. “It’s possible. But then who killed Lynch?”

“Gallagher, probably,” Kelly said after a thoughtful pause. “That way it would leave the door open for Farrell to challenge you instead. She kills Kerrigan and Mullen because they know too much and all the time the finger’s pointing at you because he’d already given the order to silence McGuire.”

“That’s pure fantasy and you know it,” O’Connell said, coming to Farrell’s defense. “Sean and Dom were inseparable. It’s inconceivable that Sean would allow Fiona to murder his best friend. I just don’t buy it.”

Taylor’s worst fears were being realized. It was fast becoming a conflict of personalities. O’Connell, the moderate who would certainly have backed Lynch had he returned to challenge Brady; and Kelly, the hard-liner who was Brady’s most vociferous supporter in the Army Council. He had to steer the issue back on course. “Who gave the order is irrelevant right now. What we have to do is stop Gallagher before she does manage to take Scoby out.”

“Can you find her?” Kelly asked Brady.

“I don’t think he should be in on this,” O’Connell said before Brady could answer. “What if he really is the mastermind behind this whole conspiracy? He’d be able to make sure she was always one step ahead of us.”

“You’re out of line, Kieran,” Kelly snapped. “What proof do you have to substantiate these allegations?”

“That’s enough,” Taylor cut in, glaring at both men. “We’ve got enough problems as it is without you two bickering like this.” He turned back to Brady. “I want her stopped. And if you can’t do it, we’ll find someone who can. Do I make myself understood?”

“Perfectly.” Brady stood up. “And I can employ any methods I see fit to find her?”

“Yes,” Taylor replied bluntly. “But just make sure you bring her in alive.”

“That may not be possible–”

“Alive,” Taylor interceded sharply. “She’s our one chance of getting to the bottom of this.”

Brady left the room without another word. Moments later they heard the Mercedes drive off.

“You don’t honestly think he’ll bring her in alive, do you?” O’Connell said contemptuously, breaking the lingering silence. “He’ll put a bullet in her the first opportunity he gets. It’s the only way he’ll be sure of silencing her.”

“You’re sailing close to the wind, Kieran,” Kelly said, levelling a finger at him. “You’ve been on Kevin’s back ever since this story broke this afternoon.”

“That’s because I believe he’s behind it. We both know that Fiona’s not a maverick and that she wouldn’t touch something like this unless the authorization had come from the very top. And that means Brady.” O’Connell turned to Taylor. “I think it was a mistake to send Brady after her, Pat.”

“We’ll see, Kieran,” Taylor replied thoughtfully. “We’ll see.”

Brady had spent much of his adult life either in jail or on the run. He had spent seven years at Belfast’s Long Kesh prison, more popularly known as “The Maze,” for his part in the murder of an off-duty policeman in the late seventies. It was while he was there that he had first met Sammy Kane. They had become good friends and Brady now regarded Kane as the one man in the Revolutionary Army he could trust implicitly. He had rewarded that trust by appointing Kane as his Adjutant-General, his second-in-charge in the Army Council.

Kane was three years Brady’s junior with a burly physique and cropped blond hair. He was Brady’s conscience and had, on more than one occasion, talked Brady out of a course of action which he felt could have been detrimental not only to his future as Chief-of-Staff, but also to the Cause in general. Kane claimed to be the only person who really understood him. Well, most of the time …

Kane had already been at the safe house on the outskirts of Keady for over an hour when the Mercedes pulled up outside. As Hagen drove off, McAuley and Brady entered the house. McAuley disappeared into the kitchen while Brady went through to the lounge and closed the door behind him.

“How did it go?” Kane asked.

“I’ve been told to find Gallagher.”

“And?”

“I’ve got to bring her in alive.” Brady took off his overcoat and draped it over the back of the sofa. “I’ll take a drop of whiskey if there’s any. I’m frozen.”

Kane took a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from the sideboard. He poured out two generous measures and handed one of the glasses to Brady. “There was a phone call for you while you were out. Martin Navarro, calling from New York.”

“Navarro? What did he want?”

“He didn’t say, only that you were to call him back as soon as you got in.”

Brady dialed out on a secure line then sat down on the arm of the sofa. When the call was answered he asked for Navarro, taking a sip of whiskey as he waited for Navarro to come to the phone.

“Brady?” Navarro snapped down the line.

“Speaking,” came the toneless reply. “What do you want?”

“I want to know what the hell’s going on over there. Why is there an IRA contract out on Jack Scoby?”

“Why are you suddenly so interested in Scoby’s welfare?”

“That doesn’t concern you,” Navarro shot back indignantly. “Just get the contract lifted.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” Navarro snarled.

“I can’t because I never authorized it.”

“Then who did?”

“We don’t know that,” Brady replied.

“So what you’re saying is that you’ve got a renegade cell running around trying to kill Scoby?”

“It would seem so.”

“And what do you intend to do about it?” Navarro yelled.

“We’re looking into it. Now, if that’s all–”

“No it’s not all,” Navarro cut in angrily. “You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously, Brady. Well, let me put it to you another way. We know of at least ten of your operatives who are currently in hiding over here in the United States. Some of your top field operatives, I believe. As of this morning, contracts have been put out on all of them. We also have them under twenty-four-hour surveillance. So if anything should happen to Scoby, all ten would be hit simultaneously. But that would only be the beginning. All future arms shipments from the United States, bound for Ireland, would be frozen. Then your Noraid offices around the country would be mysteriously fire-bombed. Then your Noraid employees would be targeted, their families threatened, their property vandalized. I could go on indefinitely. But I think you get the picture, don’t you?”

“I get the picture. Scoby must be worth a lot of money to you if you’re prepared to go to these lengths to protect him.”

“More than you could ever imagine. Call me if there’re any further developments.”

The line went dead. Brady replaced the receiver then drank the remainder of the whiskey.

“Why are the Mafia suddenly so interested in Scoby?” Kane asked.

“Why indeed?” Brady replied thoughtfully. “He’s obviously worth a considerable amount of money to them.”

“And if Gallagher takes him out, they lose it all?”

“So do we.”

Kane frowned but didn’t push for an explanation. He knew Brady would tell him what he needed to know. In his own time. “So how do we go about trying to find her?”

“We don’t,” Brady replied.

Kane frowned. “What do you mean?”

“When you’re drowning, you’ll grab hold of any lifeline if there’s a chance it’ll save you.” Brady picked up the receiver then looked around at Kane.

“Close the door behind you on your way out, Sammy.”

Kane knew better than to argue. He left the room, closing the door behind him.

Palmer opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, lit one then sat back in his chair and stared at the two telephones on his desk. One red. One white. The white phone was his outside line which had remained virtually silent for most of the day. He had drafted in three senior officers to deal with the deluge of Press inquiries he knew would follow the attempt on Scoby’s life earlier that afternoon. Scotland Yard’s switchboard had indeed been besieged by reporters desperate to get a story for the next edition. But he had given the officers strict instructions to stonewall all inquiries. He would give a press conference later in the afternoon.

The red phone was his scrambler line. He had rarely been off it in the last two hours. He had already spoken to Kolchinsky on two separate occasions. The first call had been outwardly cordial, but tense. Neither of them was prepared to shoulder the blame for what had happened. The second call, an hour later, had been franker and more constructive. By then they’d both been briefed in greater detail by their respective operatives and were able to reflect more clearly on the situation. They had decided that they would stand together. After all, it had been a joint operation from the start. A responsibility shared …

The Police Commissioner had rung demanding that the results of a full inquiry were to be on his desk no later than Monday morning. Palmer had been quick to assure him that a detailed investigation into the incident was already under way.

Palmer rubbed his eyes wearily and reached for the cigarette smouldering in the ashtray. The white phone rang. He groaned then reached over and picked up the receiver.

It was one of the officers he’d assigned to fend off the Press. “I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but I’ve got someone on the other line who claims to be Kevin Brady. He insists on speaking to you.”

“What?” Palmer said in amazement. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, sir. Only that he wouldn’t speak to anyone other than you.”

“Have you put a trace on the call?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Put him through.” Palmer waited until he heard the connection then immediately transferred the call to his scrambled line. He picked up the red receiver. “Commander Palmer speaking.”

“This is Brady,” came the impassive reply. “I assume we’re speaking on a secure line?”

“Of course,” Palmer replied, a suspicion still lingering in his mind that the caller may yet turn out to be some ingenious Press reporter out to get an exclusive for his paper. He knew only too well the lengths they would go to in order to scoop their rivals.

“I’m sure you’ve already put a trace on this call so I’ll get straight to the point. We want to find Fiona Gallagher as much as you do.”

“So your Press officer said in his statement to the media,” Palmer replied contemptuously. “But frankly I don’t buy it for one minute.”

“If you want to talk about it further I’ll be in Warrenpoint tonight. It’s a town close to the border with Southern Ireland. The Stills Hotel. Eight o’clock. Ask at the desk for Pat Gorman. Come alone. And unarmed. And don’t waste your time by sending in any of your strong-arm boys because I won’t be there until I know the area’s been declared safe. The ball’s in your court, Palmer.”

Palmer slowly replaced the receiver. Moments later the telephone rang again. The call had been traced to Keady in County Armagh, but there hadn’t been time to pinpoint its exact location.

Palmer stubbed out the cigarette then lit another one. There was no doubt in his mind now that he had been speaking to Kevin Brady. Michael Nelson had been one of the anti-terrorist squad’s top undercover operatives in Belfast in the late eighties. He had disappeared suddenly and a week later his body had been found in an alley in west Belfast. He had been tortured then shot in the back of the head. His murder had never been solved. Nelson was his undercover name. It had never been revealed to the Press that his real name was Patrick Gorman …

He dialed the Grosvenor House Hotel and asked the switchboard operator to put him through to Whitlock’s room. It was urgent.

Half an hour later, Whitlock was sitting in Palmer’s office.

“It could be a trap,” Whitlock said when Palmer had finished telling him about Brady’s call.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Palmer replied. “But what if he’s on the level? What if he’s genuinely as much in the dark about this as we are? More importantly, what if he knows something that could lead us to her?”

“And what if you’re wrong?”

“I know I’m an IRA target. It goes with the job. But I’ve got a feeling about this. It goes against everything I’ve learnt in this business, but I think he’s on the level.”

“Was there anything in his voice to suggest that?”

Palmer managed a rare smile. “You obviously don’t know Kevin Brady. He never shows any emotion, either on his face or in his voice. It’s uncanny. You’ll see.”

“I’ll see?” Whitlock retorted suspiciously.

“I’d like you to fly to Warrenpoint with me later this afternoon. I know you’re supposed to be attending the banquet at Winfield House tonight but I’m sure your operatives can cover for you. If, as I believe, Fiona Gallagher is the last remaining member of this cell still alive, then it’s hardly likely that she will try anything at the ambassador’s house tonight. No, it’s my bet that she’ll try and take the senator out at the church tomorrow.” Palmer tapped the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray. “Of course the decision’s entirely up to you whether you accompany me or not.”

“It’s a long shot but I guess right now we should be grabbing at anything that comes our way. OK, I’ll make the necessary excuses to the senator and the American ambassador. Are we taking a backup team in with us?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, do you?”

“We could take Keith Eastman.”

“He’s flying out to Dugaill tonight. I want the area around the church secured by the time the senator’s helicopter arrives tomorrow morning. We can’t afford any more slip-ups.”

“What time will we leave for Warrenpoint?”

“I can have a light plane ready for take-off in an hour. Do you need to go back to the hotel for anything?”

“No, I can arrange things with Mike over the phone.”

“Help yourself,” Palmer said, pushing the white telephone toward Whitlock. “I’ll have a word with Keith. Then I’ll have to clear it with the Commissioner. I’m not quite sure how he’s going to react to the idea of us holding a clandestine meeting with Britain’s most wanted criminal, but right now I don’t see that we’ve got much choice.”

Sabrina knocked on the door of Paluzzi’s private ward. He immediately folded over the copy of the London Evening Standard he had been reading and beckoned her into the room.

“How are you feeling?” she asked as she pulled up a chair and sat down.

“My ribs still hurt like hell but at least the headache’s gone. That was driving me mad.” Paluzzi eyed the magazines in her hand. “Are they for me?”

She handed them to him. “I picked them up on the way over here. I know how boring it can get stuck in a hospital bed.”

“These are great. Thanks.” He put them on the bedside table. “You were laid up in hospital a few years ago, weren’t you?”

“Don’t remind me,” she replied, pulling a face. “I spent four months at the American Hospital of Paris.”

“What happened exactly?”

“I was involved in an accident at Le Mans.” She nodded when she saw the surprise on his face. “I was very rebellious in those days. I’d do anything to spite my parents. So when they told me not to enter the race I naturally went and did the exact opposite. I lost control of the car and ended up in hospital. I got off lightly. A punctured lung and multiple fractures. The car was a complete write-off. But it was just the sort of jolt I needed to bring me to my senses. I decided it was time to grow up and do something constructive with my life. So I joined the Feds–” She trailed off with a sheepish grin. “I haven’t been here two minutes and I’m already boring you to death with my life history.”

“Hardly boring,” Paluzzi replied.

“Well, enough of me. I hear congratulations are in order. Mike told me you’re going back to Italy to head the NOCS. We’ll be sorry to lose you.”

“I’m sorry to be going. But it’s for the best in the long term.”

“Have you told Claudine yet?”

“I phoned her earlier this afternoon. She’s thrilled to be going back home again.”

“What did she say when you told her you were in hospital?”

“You know what–”

“Women are like?” Sabrina finished with a smile. “There’s a maternal instinct in all of us. Mike’s on at me about it all the time.”

“I guess it’s just a woman’s way of showing that she cares,” Paluzzi said, watching her closely for any reaction.

“I guess,” she replied with a quick shrug. “Is Claudine coming over?”

“Yes. And she’s bringing Dario with her. The flight’s due in at Heathrow around eleven tonight. So I’ll probably get to see them in the morning.”

“I bet you’re really looking forward to seeing them again.”

“Of course. Especially little Dario. He’s changed my life. Kids, they’re really fantastic.”

“I know,” she replied with a smile.

“Have you ever thought about having kids of your own one day?”

“My parents keep hinting that I should find a husband and settle down. I know my mother would kill for a grandchild. But it would mean leaving UNACO, especially if 1 did decide to have kids. And I’m not ready for that. I sometimes wonder if I’m ever going to be ready for it. They say you’ll know when the right person comes along. Well, he hasn’t shown yet.”

“Hasn’t he?” Paluzzi said, casting a questioning look in her direction.

“Mike?” She shook her head. “He’s great as a friend. But that’s as far as it goes.”

“As far as who’s concerned?”

“As far as we’re both concerned. And even if I did want to take it further, which I don’t, I know he wouldn’t be interested. There will only ever be one woman for Mike. And that’s Carrie. He was absolutely crazy about her.” She glanced at her watch. “Well, if you’ve quite finished playing matchmaker, I’d better be getting back to the hotel. I’ve still got to get ready for this do tonight.”

“I wish I was going with you guys.”

“I don’t know why. These embassy functions are always a major yawn. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

“I’d still rather be there than stuck in this damn bed,” he said.

“Hey, you’ve got Claudine and Dario here from tomorrow. I’m sure you can survive one night by yourself. Read those mags I brought for you.”

“I hope I’ll see you and Mike before you head back to the US on Monday.”

“You can count on it,” she told him. “We’ll drop by after we get back from Ireland tomorrow night. Promise. OK, I’ve got to go.”

“Thanks for coming round,” Paluzzi said.

“Sure,” she replied as she crossed to the door.

“I still say you two would make a good couple,” he called out after her.

“And I still say you’re wrong. See you tomorrow.”

He smiled to himself. He had been intrigued to know whether Sabrina’s feelings for Graham went deeper than just friendship. Now he had his answer. Well, he thought he did …