Dead Halt

Chapter Six

The telephone rang.

Graham turned over slowly in his bed and reached out in the darkness. His fingers touched the corner of the bedside table and he patted around its surface until he found the telephone. He lifted the receiver to his ear.

“Mike?”

“Yeah,” came the sleepy reply. “Who’s that?”

“It’s Keith Eastman. I think we’ve found Gallagher and her two cronies.”

Graham immediately sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. “Where?”

“At a boarding house in Cricklewood. I’m on my way over there now. I’ve sent a car for you. It should be at the hotel in ten minutes.”

“I’ll tell Sabrina,” Graham said, stifling a yawn. “Fine. See you in a bit.”

The line went dead. Graham picked up his watch. Two minutes past seven. He rang Sabrina’s room then scrambled out of bed and went through to the bathroom. He hated cold showers. Especially first thing in the morning. But it was the one sure way he knew to wake himself up. Fast. He stepped into the shower cubicle then gritted his teeth as he turned on the cold tap on the wall in front of him.

Eastman was waiting for Graham and Sabrina in a quiet side street in Cricklewood. “Morning,” he said with a quick smile, opening the back door of his car. “Get in, we can talk more privately in here.”

Inside the car, Eastman introduced the blond-haired man behind the wheel as his deputy, Sergeant John Marsh. He then took a Beretta from the glove compartment and handed it to Sabrina. “A replacement. You may need it this morning.”

She took the automatic from him, checked the magazine, then slipped it into the shoulder holster hidden under her fawn blouson. “Where’s the boarding house?”

“On the next block,” Eastman replied. “I thought it best if we approach it on foot.”

“How did you find them?” Graham asked.

“We don’t know it definitely is them,” Eastman corrected him, then took a copy of the Times from the dashboard and handed it to Graham.

Graham opened it. Mugshots of Kerrigan and Mullen had been displayed prominently on the front page. The headline underneath read: KILLER IRA UNIT. “Why weren’t we told that you were going public on this? Who authorized it?”

“Commander Palmer, head of the anti-terrorist squad, and your Mr. Kolchinsky,” Eastman told him.

“Sergei?” Sabrina said, taking the newspaper from Graham. “Why didn’t he say anything when I spoke to him last night?”

“They only agreed to go ahead with the story minutes before the papers went to press last night,” Eastman told them. “I was only told about it at midnight. I didn’t see any reason to ring you at the hotel. You both looked like you needed the sleep.”

“How very considerate,” Graham said sarcastically, folding up the newspaper and handing it back to Eastman. “We’re supposed to be working as a team. Remember that next time.”

“No harm’s done,” Marsh said.

“Not this time, fortunately,” Graham replied.

“Who raised the alarm?” Sabrina asked, breaking the tension.

“The manager,” Eastman said. “He had reason to go up to one of their rooms last night. He spoke to a man and a woman. And he’s certain the man was Mullen.”

“And Kerrigan?” Graham asked. “Where was he?”

“Unconscious on the floor,” Eastman replied. “She gave the manager some story about it being Kerrigan’s birthday and that he’d had too much to drink.”

“And Kerrigan’s known to be a heavy drinker,” Marsh added.

“What if they’ve already seen the papers?” Graham said.

“It’s doubtful,” Eastman told him. “I told the manager to keep all newspapers hidden until we got there. So the only other way they could have seen a paper is if someone had gone out and bought one. And none of them has been out of the hotel this morning.”

“You mean none of them has been past the reception desk,” Graham corrected him.

“Would you use the fire escape to go and buy a newspaper?” Eastman shot back.

“Depends on the circumstances,” Graham replied. “What about back-up?”

“I’ve got two men on the roof of a warehouse at the back of the boarding house. They’re both armed with sniper rifles.”

“And that’s it?” Graham said.

“We’ve got to take them by surprise. And we won’t do that if we’ve got policemen crawling all over the street. I’ve got a back-up team on standby a couple of blocks from here. I’ll bring them in once we’ve apprehended the cell. I’ve also let the local boys know what’s going on but they won’t come near the place unless we specifically ask for their help.” Eastman opened the passenger door. “Let’s go.”

The four of them got out of the car and walked the fifty yards to the front of the boarding house.

“Sabrina, you and John take the fire escape,” Eastman said. “Mike, you and I’ll go through the front. We’ll meet up outside their rooms.”

Sabrina nodded and followed Marsh around the back of the building. Eastman and Graham made their way up the narrow pathway to the front door. They went inside, closing the door silently behind them.

Eastman approached the woman behind the reception desk. “Morning, could I speak to Mr. Fields please?”

The woman nodded and disappeared into the back office. She returned moments later with the manager.

“Mr. Fields?” Eastman asked.

“Yes,” Fields replied suspiciously.

“I’m Inspector Keith Eastman. We spoke on the phone earlier about the photographs in the newspaper.”

“Do you have a warrant card?” Fields asked. Eastman held out his ID card to identify himself. Fields looked at Graham.

“He’s with me,” Eastman assured him.

Fields nodded then swallowed nervously. “I’m sure it’s them, Inspector. Especially the one called Mullen. I didn’t get a proper look at the one on the floor. Had I known they were terrorists I’d never have let them stay here.”

“You weren’t to know who they were,” Eastman said, trying to pacify him. “We’ll take it from here.”

“There won’t be any … shooting, will there?” Fields asked, glancing from Eastman to Graham.

“I hope not,” Eastman replied truthfully. “Thank you for calling us so promptly. We appreciate it.”

Fields wrung his hands nervously as he watched them cross to the stairs at the end of the corridor. Eastman waited until he reached the top of the stairs, out of sight of the reception area, then removed the Browning from his shoulder holster. He glanced at Graham then pivoted around, Browning extended, to fan the corridor. Marsh and Sabrina were already in position at the other end of the corridor and Marsh gave him a thumbs-up sign. Eastman beckoned Graham to follow him. He held up a hand when they reached the two doors.

“Sabrina and I’ll take one room,” Graham said softly. “You two take the other room.”

“Right,” Eastman agreed.

“Wait!” Sabrina hissed under her breath. “Which is her room?”

“This isn’t some vendetta–”

“Which one?” she cut across Marsh’s words. Eastman pointed to the door nearest her. “And no shooting unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Graham glanced at Marsh and they both kicked open the doors simultaneously. Sabrina was first into the room, Beretta held at arm’s length. Graham switched on the light behind her then cursed angrily and let the Beretta drop to his side. The room was empty. She drew the curtains. The window was open.

“Come on,” she said quickly. “Eastman and Marsh may have something.”

They ran back into the corridor to see the policemen emerging from the other room. Eastman shook his head to answer Sabrina’s unspoken question.

“How could they have known?” Sabrina demanded.

“Someone tipped them off, that’s how,” Graham retorted bitterly. “What other explanation can there be?”

Eastman followed Graham and Sabrina back into the room they had searched. “We can only have missed them by minutes.”

“That’s twice in less than twelve hours that we’ve missed them by minutes,” Graham said, looking around at Eastman. “I suppose you’re going to put this down to coincidence as well.”

“I’m not putting it down to anything until I’ve had a chance to study the facts,” Eastman retorted. “And unless you have some irrefutable evidence of your own pointing to one of my men being an IRA stooge then I suggest you keep your insinuations to yourself.”

“You cops are always the same,” Graham said with thinly veiled disgust. “You’ll protect your own, no matter what the cost.”

Marsh entered the room before Eastman could reply. He was holding a copy of the Guardian delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “Guy, I found this under the bed in the other room. It’s today’s.”

Graham stared at the photographs of Mullen and Kerrigan on the front page then strode angrily from the room.

“What was all that about?” Eastman asked, turning to Sabrina.

She looked down into the deserted alleyway. “You know Mike’s family was murdered by terrorists, don’t you?”

“Yes, I read about it in his file. But what’s that got to do with this investigation?”

“The FBI received a tip-off from an informer minutes after the kidnapping telling them where Carrie and Mikey were being held. The FBI officer in charge of the case didn’t follow up the tip-off for more than an hour. By then. Carrie and Mikey had been moved. Had the FBI acted quicker they might still be alive today. Their blunder turned Mike against all law enforcement agencies. He doesn’t trust any of them. The anti-terrorist squad included. That’s why you’ll find he follows his own hunches and plays by his own rules. It’s just the way he is. And nothing you can say or do will change that.”

“So I’m just supposed to say nothing when he insinuates that someone in my team is working for the IRA?”

“Mike’s hunches are rarely wrong,” she said softly.

“Well, it looks like he’s got it wrong this time, doesn’t it?” Eastman said, gesturing to the newspaper lying on the unmade bed.

“I’d keep an open mind if I were you,” Sabrina said as she left the room. She found Graham sitting at the top of the stairs. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” he replied without looking around at her. “Eastman’s being a real pain in the ass, that’s all. Christ, it’s obvious someone’s tipped them off.”

“Perhaps,” she replied noncommittally.

“Come on, Sabrina–”

“It’s one of your hunches,” she cut in quickly. “And until you can prove it you’d better stop stepping on his toes. He’s well pissed off with you right now. And understandably so.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

“Bite the bullet, Mike. UNACO’s got its back against the wall. Right now we need all the friends we can get. And that includes Eastman. He’s been assigned to this case because he’s the best. Remember that.”

“The voice of reason,” Graham said disdainfully. The sarcasm wasn’t lost on her. She smiled. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

“Sabrina?” he called out after her. “What do you think?”

“I’m keeping an open mind,” she replied as she disappeared back through the nearest doorway.

“You would,” Graham muttered, clambering to his feet and striding after her.

“Morning, C.W.,” Kolchinsky said, entering his office.

“Morning, Sergei,” Whitlock replied, getting up from behind Kolchinsky’s desk.

“I’m not staying,” Kolchinsky said, motioning Whitlock to sit down again. “I just stopped by to get the latest update from London so that I can brief the Secretary-General over breakfast.”

Whitlock handed Kolchinsky a folder. Inside was the text of Graham’s latest telephoned report. “Mike was saying you authorized the release of photographs of Kerrigan and Mullen to the Press.”

Kolchinsky nodded then sat down on one of the black leather sofas. “I got a phone call from Commander Palmer, the head of Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad, in the early hours of the morning. It was obvious he’d already made up his mind to forward the photographs to the Press. I had no objections.”

“Mike’s a bit miffed that you didn’t tell him.”

“Palmer said Eastman would tell him,” Kolchinsky replied.

“He did, this morning.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Whitlock indicated the folder in Kolchinsky’s hand. “It seems there’s a bit of a personality clash between Mike and Eastman. Mike felt that you should have let him know instead of him having to rely on Eastman.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Kolchinsky shot back. “The next time he contacts you, tell him to get his act together. And if he can’t work with Eastman, I’ll have him replaced.”

“I’ve already had a quiet word with him,” Whitlock assured him. “But I thought you should know in case Palmer mentions it in passing.”

“Thanks,” Kolchinsky said, rubbing his face wearily. “How did Fabio get on?”

“His report’s in the folder.”

Kolchinsky opened the folder and leafed through Paluzzi’s four-page report. “Brief me. I won’t have time to digest all this before I see the Secretary-General.”

Whitlock explained what had happened in Milford the previous evening.

“How did he get back?” Kolchinsky asked.

“He phoned the duty officer, requesting a car to pick him up. It’s amazing he doesn’t have double pneumonia by now.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s using the identograph in the Command Center to try and put a name to the man he saw paying off Killen last night.”

“What have you got on this Killen?”

“He’s clean. No previous record.”

“And his henchmen?”

“Randolph Woods and Thomas Natchett. Natchett’s the only one with a record. Five years for armed robbery.”

“And what about the dead man?” Kolchinsky asked.

“Billy Peterson. He’d been an inveterate gambler since his teens. He owed almost four thousand dollars to bookies in Milford and New York. He could have wiped the slate clean with the money we were going to pay him.”

“Where’s the money now?” Kolchinsky asked suspiciously.

“At the bottom of Milford harbor,” Whitlock replied.

“Wonderful,” Kolchinsky said, shaking his head slowly to himself. “It’s going to look great on our expense sheet.”

“We’ll recover the money when the car’s brought to the surface.”

The door behind Whitlock slid open and Paluzzi entered the room from the Command Center. The door slid closed again.

“Ah, just in time,” Kolchinsky said.

For a moment Whitlock thought Kolchinsky was going to raise the issue of the missing money. It would be typical of him. Whitlock knew only too well from first-hand experience how pedantic Kolchinsky could be in his approach to the field operatives’ expense accounts.

“I was just on my way out. Any luck with the identograph?” Kolchinsky asked, much to Whitlock’s relief.

Paluzzi gave Kolchinsky the computer printout he was carrying. “That’s the man I saw paying off Killen last night.”

Kolchinsky stared at the face for some time before skimming through the accompanying text. “Well, this is interesting.”

“Who is he?” Whitlock said, unable to keep the exasperation from his voice.

“Anthony Varese,” Kolchinsky said, handing the printout to Whitlock. “Martin Navarro’s right-hand man.”

“Navarro’s one of the senior lieutenants in the Germino family,” Whitlock replied, looking at the picture.

“Which ties the New York Mafia in with Billy Peterson’s murder,” Paluzzi concluded.

“It ties Varese in with his murder,” Kolchinsky corrected him. “That’s all. We don’t have enough evidence at the moment to have Navarro arrested. And he’s the one I really want, especially if it turns out that he was behind the arms shipment bound for Ireland.”

“So how do we get that evidence?” Paluzzi asked.

“We don’t,” Kolchinsky replied. “At least not for the time being. If we pulled any of them in now for questioning it could seriously damage the case. You’re supposed to be dead, remember that. If you start poking your nose around Navarro and Varese it’ll only complicate matters. I’ll detail one of the other Strike Force teams to keep tabs on them.”

“What do you want me to do?” Paluzzi asked.

“Baby-sit,” Kolchinsky replied, getting to his feet.

“Who?”

“Jack Scoby,” Kolchinsky said as he crossed to the door. “He’s officially your responsibility from now on. C.W., let me out, will you? I’m due at the Secretary-General’s office in ten minutes.”

“Sergei?” Paluzzi called out as the door slid open. “Does Scoby know about this?”

“Not yet,” Kolchinsky replied with a quick smile.

Whitlock activated the transmitter on his desk to close the door after Kolchinsky had left. “I’ll call Scoby and arrange a time for you to meet with him.”

Paluzzi stifled a yawn and grinned sheepishly at Whitlock. “Sorry, I only got to bed at four this morning.”

“I’ll arrange for you to meet him later this afternoon,” Whitlock said. “Go home and get some sleep.”

“I’ll be OK,” Paluzzi assured him. “A couple of cups of coffee–”

“Go home,” Whitlock cut in. “That’s an order. I’ll expect you back here at three o’clock. I want you sharp and alert when you meet Scoby. It’s important that you make a good impression on our new senator.”

Martin Navarro was a tall, commanding figure in his early forties with a penchant for designer suits and expensive jewelry. He sat behind a large oak desk in his office on the top floor of West Side Electronics, one of the many legitimate businesses which had been set up in New York to launder the proceeds of the multimillion-dollar drug network which had helped to make Carmine Germino one of the most powerful and respected Capos in the country. But Germino had paid a bitter personal price for his power. His eldest son had been ambushed and killed by a Hispanic gang four years earlier. Then, two years later, his youngest son had tried to seize control of the family in a bloody gun-battle in a restaurant on Rhode Island. Navarro had saved the Capo’s life and his loyalty had been rewarded with an honorary position within the family itself. And with it came the position as head of the syndicate’s ever expanding drug network. He had become, in effect, second only to Carmine Germino in the family hierarchy.

The intercom buzzed and he flicked a switch on the console. “Yes, Marsha?”

“Mr. Varese’s here to see you, sir.”

“Send him in.”

Navarro switched off the intercom, instinctively glancing at the framed photograph beside the telephone on his desk. His seven-year-old daughter, Angela. She was the spitting image of her mother. And Julia was a beautiful woman. They had been married for eleven years but his infidelities had finally become too much for her and she had walked out on him, taking Angela with her. They now lived in Florida where she had gone back to work as a croupier. She had never asked him for money and only allowed him access to Angela during the school recesses. But, despite the fact that she had enough on him to put him away for life, she had always refused to help the authorities in their attempts to bring him to justice.

“Morning.”

Navarro looked up at Varese who was standing by the door. He replaced the photograph on the desk and beckoned Varese into the room. “Well?”

“We won’t be having any more trouble from Signor Pasconi,” Varese replied.

“He seems to be doing a good job down there,” Navarro said when Varese had finished describing Killen’s handiwork. “He’s loyal and reliable. I admire those qualities in a man.”

“You pay him the sort of money that ensures loyalty and reliability.”

Navarro smiled sadly. “You can be very cynical at times, Tony.”

“It comes with the job.” Varese got to his feet and helped himself to a coffee from the percolator on the sideboard. “You want one?”

“No.” Navarro sat back and clasped his hands together. He formed a steeple with his index fingers and tapped them thoughtfully against his chin. “Now that’s out of the way, we can concentrate our attention fully on the next little problem. Or perhaps I should say our next big problem? Senator Jack Scoby.”

Varese took a sip of coffee then placed the cup on the table beside the chair. “Are you going to confront him personally?”

Navarro shook his head. “I’ll call his lackey, Tillman, and arrange to meet him before they fly out to London tomorrow morning.”

“What are you going to say to him?” Varese asked, sitting forward, his arms resting on his knees.

A knowing smile spread across Navarro’s tanned face. “Enough to worry him, but not enough to give the game away.”

“Come,” Eastman called out in response to the sharp rap on his office door.

Marsh entered the office, acknowledged Graham and Sabrina with a nod, then looked across at Eastman and shook his head. “Nothing, guy. It’s clean.”

“I asked John to select a team of his own to go over the car we used last night,” Eastman said to Graham. “And you heard the verdict. It’s clean.”

“We checked every inch of it,” Marsh assured Graham. “If there had been a device, we’d have found it.”

Graham said nothing.

“I thought you’d feel better if John was there to oversee the operation. An independent, so to speak,” Eastman said, the satisfaction of Marsh’s findings evident in his voice.

“Yeah, sure,” Graham grudgingly agreed.

There was another knock on the door. Marsh answered it, taking delivery of a folder which he handed to Eastman, who skimmed quickly through its contents.

“It’s been established from prints taken from the two rooms that Kerrigan and Mullen were definitely at the boarding house last night.”

“We already knew that,” Graham said.

“We assumed it was them, but we didn’t have the proof,” Eastman replied, lighting himself a cigarette. “And this is it. Now we know for certain that we’re dealing with Farrell’s cell.”

“Anything on Fiona Gallagher?” Sabrina asked.

Eastman sat back in his chair. “I’ve no doubt her prints are there but we’ve got no way of verifying that. As you already know from your records, we don’t have a thing on her. No photos, no fingerprints. Nothing. She’s even said to change her appearance every few months so we can’t even rely on eyewitness reports to build up a picture of her. She’s good, I’ll give her that.”

“Farrell did a good job on her,” Marsh added.

Eastman nodded. “It’s no secret that he taught her everything he knows about terrorism and counterterrorism. And when I tell you that he’s widely regarded within the IRA as one of the leading experts on those subjects you’ll get an idea of just what we’re up against.”

“She’s also got this,” Marsh said, tapping his head. “She was a top student at Bristol University. Graduated with a First. Farrell plays by the book which means he can be predictable at times. She doesn’t, and that’s what makes her that bit more dangerous.”

“So why isn’t she in charge of the unit instead of Farrell?” Graham asked.

“She may be smarter, but he’s a better leader,” Marsh replied. “And that combination’s what makes their cell so effective.”

“So the current situation could be to our advantage,” Sabrina deduced, and immediately noticed the puzzled look on Eastman’s face. “Well, they’ll be weakened without Farrell. And if she’s not a natural leader, they could run into problems. They may make mistakes but more likely there may be internal dissent, especially from Kerrigan. It’s obvious from his file that he and Farrell were very close until she came along. I may be reading between the lines, but I doubt there’s much love lost between the two of them. And now he’s having to take orders from her. I can’t see him being too thrilled about that, can you?”

Eastman glanced at Marsh and both men nodded simultaneously.

“That’s a valid point,” Eastman agreed. “But there is one drawback to it. And I think John will agree with me on this. Kerrigan’s a die-hard Provo. A stickler for the rules. Which is why he and Farrell get along so well. That means he’ll toe the line irrespective of how he feels about her being in charge of the cell in Farrell’s absence.”

“Everyone has their breaking point,” Graham said. “Including Kerrigan.”

The telephone rang.

“Excuse me,” Eastman said, answering it. His eyes narrowed as he listened attentively then, grabbing a pen from the holder on his desk, he scribbled furiously on the pad at his elbow. “No, don’t do anything, sir. We’ll be there as soon as possible.” He nodded as he listened again. “Yes, I’d appreciate it if you’d clear things with your people. We don’t want any delays when we get there. Thank you for letting me know so promptly.”

“Well?” Marsh asked excitedly after Eastman had replaced the receiver.

“That was the Swiss Police Commissioner. McGuire’s holed up with a known IRA sympathizer outside Lausanne.” Eastman tore off the sheet of paper and gave it to Marsh. “Get four seats on the first available flight to Switzerland.”

Marsh stuffed the paper into his jacket pocket and hurried from the room.

“Now all we have to do is hope the IRA don’t get to him first,” Graham replied somberly.

“Not this time,” Eastman replied confidently. “Apart from the Swiss police, only the four of us know he’s there. No, I think fortune’s finally beginning to swing our way.”

Fiona Gallagher stood at the window staring absently at the passing traffic on the A1 two hundred yards away from the house. It had been a close call back at the boarding house. Too close. But she also knew that without the advance warning they would all be in custody by now. It certainly paid to have a mole inside the anti-terrorist squad …

She had been woken in the early hours of the morning by the beeper she always carried with her. It was only ever used in an emergency. She’d immediately rung a prearranged number from the payphone in the corridor and was told that the manager had recognized Mullen and Kerrigan from the photographs released to the Press the previous evening. She’d woken Mullen and Kerrigan and they’d fled the boarding house minutes before the authorities arrived. They had driven north, away from the city center.

It was Mullen who had spotted the isolated Tudor-style house on the outskirts of Hatfield. It was set back from the road and surrounded by a grove of oak trees. It would prove a useful temporary safe house until they decided on their next move. They had donned their balaclavas once more, and Mullen had driven up to the house. They had found the owners, an elderly couple, having breakfast on the back porch. Kerrigan had brandished his Uzi menacingly at the couple before Fiona had quickly put a stop to his stupidity and told Mullen to take the couple into the lounge where he’d bound their wrists. That had been an hour ago …

The door opened behind her. She made to pull the balaclava back over her face when she saw it was Mullen. He closed the door behind him and jerked the balaclava off his head.

“Jesus, it’s hot,” he said, wiping his sleeve across his sweaty forehead.

She nodded then crossed to a chair and sat down. “How are the old couple bearing up?”

“OK,” Mullen assured her. “It turns out the old guy takes some kind of pills for his heart. He wouldn’t take them at first because I’d gone to get them for him. But the old lady gave him a bit of a ticking off and he ended up taking them like a good little boy. He hasn’t been any trouble since then.”

Fiona smiled then glanced at the door. “And Liam?”

“He’s already eaten through half the contents of the fridge,” Mullen replied with a helpless shrug. “But at least he hasn’t started on the booze.”

“Yet,” she added.

“You gave him a big fright last night,” Mullen told her. “I don’t think he’ll be drinking again in a hurry.”

She sighed deeply then got to her feet and returned to the window, her hands dug deep into the pockets of her camouflage trousers.

“What’s on your mind?” Mullen said softly behind her.

“There are family photographs on the mantelpiece in there,” she said, indicating the door leading into the adjoining room where Kerrigan was guarding the couple. “And most children keep in touch with their parents. What if one of them calls? No answer. Next minute the whole family’s up here to check on them. Then what? Invite them in for tea and scones?”

“If someone calls, get the old lady to answer it. She seems the more cooperative of the two. And she’ll be especially cooperative if Liam’s holding an Uzi to the back of the old man’s head.”

“You sure you don’t want to take the reins around here?” she said, half-jokingly.

“Once was enough,” Mullen replied, holding up his hands defensively.

“I didn’t know you were ever in charge of a cell,” Fiona said in surprise.

“Not a cell as such. The Army Council put me in charge of a three-man team several years ago. Our target was a retired RUC officer in Newry. I led them straight into an SAS ambush. I was the only survivor.”

“You’ve never mentioned that before.”

“Would you? It’s not exactly something I’m proud of.”

The door opened again and Kerrigan looked in. “Will someone come out here a moment? I need to take a leak.”

Mullen pulled the balaclava back over his face and walked to the door.

The beeper on Fiona’s belt suddenly activated and she quickly switched it off. They both looked around at her. “It’s the ‘Fortune Teller’. I’d better ring him straight away.”

“The ‘Fortune Teller’?” Kerrigan said suspiciously.

“The Army Council’s contact in the anti-terrorist squad.”

“The same guy who saved our arses this morning?” Kerrigan asked.

“The same.”

“The ‘Fortune Teller’?” Kerrigan muttered, chuckling to himself. “It’s an appropriate codename. Do you know who he is?”

“You must be joking. His identity’s known only to the senior members of the Army Council.” She crossed to the telephone and dialed a number. It was answered after the first ring. “This is ‘Rebel Woman’.”

“And this is ‘Fortune Teller’,” came the reply. “McGuire’s been spotted in Switzerland. Have you got a pen there to write down the address?”

“Right here,” she said, picking up the pen which lay beside the telephone. She wrote down the address on the notepad, tore off the top sheet, and slipped it into her pocket. “What sort of head start do we have?”

“How long do you need?”

“A couple of hours would be great,” she replied, more out of hope than anything else.

“You got it,” came the confident reply.

“How are you going to manage that?”

“You let me worry about that. Now, about your flight. There are two flights to Switzerland in the next few hours. Both are from Heathrow. One’s a Swissair flight, direct to Zurich. We’re already booked on that one. It leaves at two o’clock this afternoon. It’s the quicker flight. The other is a BA flight to Rome, stopping at Paris and Zurich. It leaves at midday. Take that one. I know it doesn’t give you much time but there are still seats available.”

“Got it,” she said, scribbling furiously on the pad again.

There was a sudden pause. “Someone’s coming. Call me when you get back.”

“Will do,” she assured him.

The line went dead. She replaced the receiver then gestured to the door. “Keep an eye on those two. I need to make some calls.”

“Excuse me,” Doris Matthews said, addressing herself to Fiona. “My husband needs another one of his pills.”

Fiona nodded to Mullen who retrieved the bottle from the mantelpiece and tipped a single pill into his palm. He picked up the glass of water off the sideboard and crossed to the old man’s chair. Herbert Matthews glared at Mullen but, unlike the last time, he made no attempt to turn his head away when Mullen pushed the pill between his lips. Matthews took a sip of water to wash down the pill then looked away sharply, his eyes riveted on an imaginary spot on the wall. Doris Matthews could see the anger in his eyes. It was certainly an anger she shared. Their home had been invaded. Their privacy abused. Their lives would never be the same again …

She looked across at the three masked figures talking in whispers by the door. The big one frightened her. Psychopathic was the word that came to mind. She was sure he could be extremely dangerous if provoked. The smaller one seemed more relaxed, more at ease with the situation. She had immediately associated them with the IRA when she first heard the two men’s voices. She knew she could be wrong. But she certainly knew her accents after thirty years as a drama teacher in London. The big one had a strong Irish accent. Guttural. Although the smaller man had less of an accent it was still noticeable in the way he stressed certain words. But it was the woman who really fascinated her. She had no discernible accent at all. Hers was a calm, soothing voice. But also authoritative when the need arose. She felt strangely at ease when the woman was in the room. It was as if she knew nothing would happen to either her or her husband as long as the woman was there …

Fiona broke away from the others and crouched beside Herbert Matthews.

“We’ll need to borrow your car, Mr. Matthews.”

“How do you know my name?” he demanded.

“It’s the name on the envelope on the hall table,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“We don’t have a car,” he said brusquely.

“Please don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Matthews,” she said in a soft, menacing tone. “It’s a blue Rover Montego, and it’s parked in the garage at the back of the house. Where are the keys?”

“You can go to hell,” Matthews retorted.

Fiona indicated Kerrigan behind her. “If I let him hit you, he’d probably kill you. Is your car worth that?”

“The keys are hanging on the rack by the back door,” Doris Matthews interceded quickly, the tears welling up in her eyes. “Just take the car and leave us alone. Please, just go away.”

“Bring the car round to the front of the house,” Fiona said to Mullen. She glanced at Kerrigan. “Get the stuff out of the other car and put it in the Rover.”

“What about them?” Kerrigan asked suspiciously.

“Out!” Fiona snapped.

Mullen grabbed Kerrigan’s arm and led him from the room.

“A word of warning,” Fiona said to the couple. “Don’t try to struggle against the ropes after we’ve gone. They’ve been tied in such a way that the more you struggle, the tighter they’ll become. It could get very uncomfortable. I’ll see to it that you’ll both be freed within the hour.” She moved to the door then turned back to them. “I’m sorry this had to happen. I really am.”

Doris Matthews stared at the door after Fiona had gone. There was no doubt in her mind that Fiona had meant what she said. They would be free within the hour. But more astonishingly, the apology had been sincere. It had been in her voice. And Doris Matthews knew voices …

They knew something was wrong the moment they saw the row of police cars parked outside the main terminal at Heathrow Airport.

“Park there until we find out what’s going on,” Eastman said to Marsh, indicating the space between two panda cars.

Marsh reversed into the space. Challenged by an armed policeman, he held out his ID card. “What’s going on?” he asked, switching off the engine.

“Bomb scare, sir,” the policeman replied.

“In the terminal?” Marsh continued.

“No, sir. One of the planes, I believe. I don’t know which one though.”

“I think I can guess,” Graham said from the backseat.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Eastman replied as he got out of the car. “Are the ATs here yet?”

“The ATs, sir?” the policeman said with a frown.

“The ATOs.” Eastman trailed off when he spotted a figure in army fatigues emerging from the terminal. “It’s OK, I’ve just seen one.” He hurried after the man. “Chippy? Chippy Woodward?”

The man turned around and a wide grin spread across his face. “Keith, good to see you.”

“I’m not sure yet whether I can say the same about you,” Eastman replied. “Which plane is it?”

“A Swissair Airbus. It was due out in forty minutes. We’ve got it parked on one of the outer runways just in case the bastard does blow. But we haven’t found anything up to now.”

“Isn’t that just bloody marvelous?” Marsh said angrily behind Eastman.

“You know Sergeant John Marsh, don’t you?” Eastman said to Woodward.

“Yes, we’ve met before,” Woodward replied, shaking Marsh’s hand.

“And this is Mike Graham and Sabrina Carver, two of our American cousins,” Eastman added, using the euphemism for the CIA. There was no point mentioning UNACO.

Woodward shook hands with them. “So what’s the problem …?” He trailed off and nodded to himself. “You were booked on that Swissair flight, weren’t you?”

Eastman nodded. “How long before you’ll be able to give the all clear?”

Woodward shrugged. “You know the drill, Keith. An hour, perhaps ninety minutes. The guy who called the airport seemed to know a bit about explosives. That’s why we’re treating this one with extra caution.”

“So it’ll be a good two hours before we can even take off,” Graham said, struggling to control his temper.

“More like two and a half,” Woodward said, glancing at his watch. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go and see how the lads are getting on. Good to see you again, Keith.”

“Likewise, Chippy,” Eastman replied.

“Are there any other flights to Switzerland in the next hour or so?” Sabrina asked after Woodward had gone.

“One flew out half an hour ago,” Marsh replied. “Ours is the next scheduled flight to Switzerland.”

“So why weren’t we booked on the earlier flight?” Graham demanded.

“Because this one was due to reach Zurich first,” Eastman told him.

“Couldn’t we charter a private plane?” Sabrina said.

“It wouldn’t get us there any quicker,” Eastman replied. “I’ll phone the Commissioner in Zurich and have him double the men watching the chalet where McGuire’s holed up. If this is an IRA tactic to make sure they get to McGuire first, then he’ll have the men on hand to apprehend them.”

“You’ve suddenly changed your tune,” Graham said with thinly veiled sarcasm.

“I’m not taking any chances, that’s all,” Eastman retorted brusquely.

“Coffee, anyone?” Sabrina asked, breaking the lingering silence.

“Sounds good to me,” Marsh responded quickly. “Guv?”

“I’ll meet you in the cafeteria. I’ve got to call Zurich first.”

Sabrina turned to Graham but he was already walking toward the terminal. She gave Marsh a helpless shrug and they went after him.

Ingrid Lynch studied the passengers as they emerged through customs at Zurich’s Kloten International Airport. She was an attractive redhead in her mid-twenties who had met her husband, Dominic, a year earlier at an IRA rally in Belfast. They had returned to Zurich together where she taught as a primary school teacher. He was now regarded as one of the IRA’s main contacts in Europe and had helped to arm several of the IRA’s active cells in both Germany and France.

“Ingrid?”

She looked around, startled by the voice behind her. It was a woman with black shoulder-length hair and tinted sunglasses. Her eyes narrowed uncertainly. Did she know her?

The woman removed the sunglasses and grinned. “Don’t you even recognize your chief bridesmaid when you see her?”

“Fiona,” Ingrid said, hugging her more out of relief than anything else. “I did not even recognize you.”

“Good,” Fiona replied. “Then neither will any of the security staff around here.”

“What have you done to your hair?”

“It’s a wig,” came the reply. “Where’s Dominic?”

“He stayed in the car. He did not want to take any chances.”

“It’s good to see he’s not become complacent,” Fiona replied, then introduced her to Mullen and Kerrigan.

“Have you got your luggage?”

“We didn’t bring much,” Fiona replied, tapping her shoulder bag. “We don’t expect to be here very long.”

They left the terminal and Ingrid led the way across the car park to where her husband had parked the Audi. Dominic Lynch, a short, stocky man in his late twenties, jumped out of the car the moment he saw the reflection of his wife in the rearview mirror. Fiona hurried toward him and they embraced warmly.

“You’re looking good, girl,” Lynch said, holding her at arm’s length. “But I preferred you as a blonde.”

“It is a wig,” Ingrid chided her husband.

“It’s very good,” Lynch replied, then turned to Mullen and pumped his hand vigorously. “It’s good to see you again, Hugh.”

“And you, Dom,” Mullen replied. “How are you settling down out here?”

“I still miss the comforts of home. Like Guinness.” Lynch smiled at Kerrigan. “And how is my old drinking partner?”

Kerrigan shook Lynch’s hand. “Good, man. And how’s marriage treating you? Have you finally settled down and become a bit more responsible?”

“Not a chance,” Lynch replied with a smile. “So how did you manage to get past security at Heathrow? I hear your faces were splashed across all the morning papers over there.”

“We took the necessary precautions,” was all Fiona would venture.

“I get it,” Lynch said with a knowing smile. “What I don’t know can’t hurt me.”

“Did you get the chopper, Dom?” Mullen asked, changing tactics.

“It’s ready and waiting for you, Hugh,” Lynch assured him.

“And what about the weapons?” Fiona asked.

“They haven’t turned up yet,” Lynch replied apologetically.

Fiona banged her fist angrily on the roof of the car. “You assured me on the phone that you’d have them by the time we got here. You know we can’t make a move without them.”

“They’ll turn up, don’t worry,” Lynch replied, trying to pacify her.

“When?” she challenged.

“When the courier arrives,” Lynch shot back defensively. “The weather’s been atrocious over here for the last twenty-four hours. He’s probably been held up somewhere.”

“That’s not my problem, is it?” she snapped.

“That’s enough, Fiona,” Kerrigan said behind her. “It’s not Dom’s fault that the weapons aren’t here yet.”

She swung around, her eyes blazing. “This doesn’t concern you, Liam. Get in the car.”

“Like hell–”

“You’ll do as you’re told unless you want to go up in front of the committee on a charge of insubordination,” she snarled, levelling a finger of warning at him. “And it wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to you, would it?”

Kerrigan glared at Fiona then cursed furiously as he climbed into the back of the car, slamming the door after him.

Lynch led Fiona away from the others. “What’s got into you treating him like that?”

“Let go of my arm, Dom,” she said softly.

Lynch released his grip on her arm. “I know Liam better than any of you. You can only push him so far before he’ll snap.”

“This is my cell, Dom, and I’ll run it as I see fit.”

“What’s really troubling you, girl? Is it Sean?”

She stared at her feet for a moment then let out a deep sigh. “I’m sorry I snapped at you just now. I guess I’m just a bit edgy, that’s all. Come on, let’s go.”

They returned to the car. Lynch shivered suddenly, as if someone had just stepped on his grave. This wasn’t the calm, rational Fiona he’d once known in Ireland. And that worried him. Had the burden of responsibility become too much for her? Much as he liked Mullen, he knew he couldn’t talk to him. He was too close to her. But Kerrigan was an old friend. Yes, he’d have a word with Kerrigan when they got back to the house. And he’d take the situation from there …