Present Danger

23

He was suspicious of the letter from the start. Block capitals on the envelope – SEAMUS PIGGOTT – and the office address, then at the bottom: PRIVATE. His secretary had obeyed the instruction, and placed it unopened with the rest of the morning’s post in his in-tray.

He slit the envelope cautiously. Letter bombs were bulkier than this, but it paid to be careful. A man with his background had many enemies, and he knew they were out there, just waiting for him to drop his guard and give them the opportunity to have a go. The Feds and their British stooges would love to be able to stick something on him, and there were others, people here in Northern Ireland, who resented the success of the Fraternity’s activities. It was inevitable that a clever and determined man like him aroused the envy and resentment of weaker specimens.

There was no bomb inside the envelope, just a folded piece of A4 paper. He extracted it slowly and carefully, holding the corner with his fingertips and flicking it open with the point of a pencil. He was startled by the bizarre appearance of the message, and surprised by what it said.

Watch your back. Well, he’d spent thirty years doing that. Yes, he took risks, but only necessary ones; he had never been impetuous, and every step he took was carefully calculated beforehand. He cast his mind back with satisfaction to the boy Aidan, sitting trembling and terrified in his office in County Down. Before Malone had brought the boy in, he had already decided to have two of his fingers broken. That was the appropriate punishment for blabbing and complaining. Not three (that would have been excessive), but not just one either – that wouldn’t have been enough. He was a fine judge of these things, he thought with pleasure.

He looked down again with disdain at the paper and its cutout letters. He didn’t need some anonymous coward to instruct him to take care.

But the real thrust of the message – its warning about Milraud – was more puzzling. He didn’t believe for a moment that Milraud was talking to British Intelligence. He and the Frenchman went back a long way. He knew something of Milraud’s background; he knew what his previous profession had been and why he’d changed it. It was inconceivable that Milraud would betray him to MI5.

Still, never take anything for granted. He’d learned that long ago. Enduring loyalty was a contradiction in terms. Any allegiance was vulnerable; everyone could be seduced by something: money, women, power, fear or an ideology. There were many people in this little island whose lives were governed by ideology – be it Irish Republicanism or so-called Loyalism to the British crown. But of all people, Milraud was the least likely to have become attached to a political cause. He was far too cool-headed a businessman for that.

Piggott himself was happy to pay lip service to the ideology of Irish Republicanism. His credentials as a long-standing IRA supporter had helped to establish him in the Belfast underworld almost overnight. But his only true ideology nowadays, the only thing he really cared about, was revenge. He’d made the money he had once craved, growing up poor in South Boston. Women had never mattered to him at all – it seemed inexplicable why so many men met their downfall chasing a skirt. And as for power, it was enough that people feared him; the people working for him did what he said, and everyone else gave him a wide berth.

So he had only one desire now: the burning urge, fuelled by anger, to get even with the people who had hurt him. To injure them as they’d injured him. That was what was driving him on.

He turned his attention back to the letter. Watch your back. He certainly would, as he always did. He picked up his mobile and thumbed the auto-dial.

After three rings a reedy, youthful voice answered. ‘Hello,’ it said shakily.

He knew Danny Ryan was terrified of him. Good – he was going to keep it that way. ‘Danny, listen carefully. I’ve got a job for you.’

‘Yes, Mr P,’ he said, like a junior mobster speaking to el capo.

‘Here’s what I want you to do,’ said Piggott with deceptive mildness. Then he added in a voice of steel, ‘And this time you’d better not screw it up.’