Present Danger

31

Paddy O’Brien was pulling him a second pint of stout. Normally Dermot would have contented himself with a single glass, since there might have been more work to be done that evening. But now it wasn’t clear there was any work to do at all, whatever the hour. He’d been by the office of Fraternal Holdings twice in the last three days, but there was no sign of Piggott, and no instructions left for Dermot either. He’d caught sight of Terry Malone, but when he’d asked where the boss was, Malone had shrugged and said he had no idea, though Dermot didn’t believe him. There was something going on, he was sure of that, but whatever it was he, Dermot, wasn’t part of it. At least there was no sign of that bloody Frenchman, Milrow or whatever his name was. Dermot hoped his letter had had its intended effect.

He looked around him at the half-dozen regulars in the pub, chatting quietly or reading the papers, and wondered if this was going to be his new office. He hoped not, but for the time being he had to sit tight, and if only to pass the hours a second pint had seemed advisable.

He’d had the first sip when ‘Danny Boy’ suddenly blared out from his trouser pocket. Paddy O’Brien looked startled, then chuckled as he realised the source of the sound. Dermot extracted his mobile and answered with a voice he hoped sounded stone cold sober.

‘O’Reilly,’ he announced carefully.

‘Dermot, it’s Piggott here. Where are you?’

O’Reilly looked around him guiltily – it seemed best not to say. ‘I’m just off home, boss. I’ll be there in five minutes.’

‘No rush. But I’ll need you about half past six. All right?’

‘Of course,’ said Dermot, breathing an inward sigh of relief. He could enjoy this glass then and be fine by six o’clock – he just had to make sure to call a halt at two pints. ‘Shall I come to the office then?’

‘No. I’ll pick you up. Be at the memorial park on Falls Road.’

‘Okay,’ said Dermot, puzzled. It seemed a strange place and time to meet, but clearly something was up. He wondered if it had to do with his letter, though he couldn’t see how Piggott could suspect that he had sent it. And he sounded friendly enough.

‘Right then,’ said Piggott, and Dermot waited for him to ring off. But Piggott added, his voice uncharacteristically soft, ‘And Dermot, we’ll need to talk about your new responsibilities. I know you were a bit upset by the change, but you shouldn’t be. I’ve got great faith in your abilities, my friend, and important things for you to do. See you at six-thirty.’ He rang off.

Dermot sat staring at the pint of stout, watching as the creamy head of foam settled, bubble by bubble, in his glass. He felt a growing satisfaction as he reviewed the phone call. Whatever Piggott had made of the letter, he clearly didn’t think O’Reilly had sent it. He had work for Dermot to do, which was good news on two counts: Dermot would get paid, and as things played out (he thought briefly about the MI5 man he’d met in Bangor) he would have a ringside seat.

‘Pint all right?’ asked Paddy O’Brien, pointing to Dermot’s full glass with concern.

‘It’s fine, Paddy. Just fine.’ He pulled a fiver from his pocket. ‘Why don’t you have one on me?’

He had never liked the Remembrance Garden on the Falls Road. It was neat and well-tended – when flowers passed their best they were quickly removed and replaced with fresh ones – and he accepted that it was the right thing to do, honouring the dead of his cause by listing their names and regiments on large stone memorial plaques. But it was a gloomy little enclave, particularly in the early dark of a winter’s evening, and it depressed him now as he sat on one of its low brick walls waiting for Piggott. The place had a sort of finality that suggested that the war was over and the glorious struggle past. Even the Republican flag hung limply, protected from the wind by the adjoining buildings.

A man came in off the street, bulky in a duffel coat, walking without hesitation straight towards Dermot. As he approached Dermot saw it was Terry Malone. ‘Ready?’ he said.

Dermot nodded and stood up; he had expected Piggott himself.

‘I thought the boss—’

‘He’s waiting in the car,’ said Malone, and turning round walked towards the street.

Piggott was in the back seat and motioned Dermot to join him. To Dermot’s surprise, when Malone started the engine, he did a 180-degree turn and headed towards the outskirts of Belfast.

‘We’re not going to the office then?’ Dermot ventured tentatively.

Piggott said, ‘No. I need your help at the house. Something’s come up.’

They drove in silence, punctuated by the frequent calls Piggott made on his mobile phone. He spoke elliptically, giving terse orders, and Dermot gathered he was going on a trip somewhere. But he knew better than to ask.

Once out of Belfast they made good time, and in less than an hour they were through the gate, passing the National Trust gatehouse where the lights were on, and driving up the private lane. Instead of stopping on the gravel at the front of the house Malone drove into the low brick garage in the yard behind. When they’d all got out, Piggott carefully closed the double garage door. He doesn’t want the car to be seen, thought Dermot. Why?

The mystery deepened when instead of all going downstairs to the private office, Piggott left them in the big sitting room on the ground floor and went downstairs by himself.

Dermot sat down in one of the soft chintz armchairs, and looked around at the plush curtains and antique furniture. He felt ill at ease, like a messenger treated by mistake as a guest. Malone had stayed standing near the door, as if he were guarding someone. Then it occurred to Dermot that Malone might be guarding him, and his nervousness increased.

Footsteps sounded from the back of the house, and Piggott reappeared, followed by another man. It was Milraud, and Dermot looked away.

‘Here’s my friend Antoine. Are you surprised to see him?’ asked Piggott.

Dermot’s heart begin to race. Stay calm, boyo, he told himself, but it was easier said than done, and he felt anxiety move through his limbs in waves. ‘We’ve never met,’ he said at last, and looked directly at the man. ‘But I heard you were around.’

‘Really,’ said Piggott coldly. ‘You know, I had a letter in the post a few days ago and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out who’d sent it. It was warning me about Antoine here – said he might not be my friend after all. The odd thing was that the letter wasn’t signed. I found that a bit cowardly. If someone has something to say, why not say it? I don’t like poison pen letters. What do you think, Dermot?’

‘I don’t know anything about that, boss,’ said Dermot, trying to look respectful and baffled at the same time.

‘Fortunately, Antoine here and I go way back – we’ve done business together for over ten years, and in as many countries. If he was going to betray me, he would have done it long ago. God knows we’ve each had the chance. But even so, after a letter like that you can’t help but feel a tiny bit of doubt.’

Piggott looked at the Frenchman, who was sitting calmly in a wing chair in the corner, and for a moment Dermot’s hopes rose. But then Piggott turned his grey eyes back onto Dermot, and his icy gaze extinguished this brief flicker of optimism.

There was a noise from the back of the house, then more footsteps. The Spaniard, Gonzales, loomed in the doorway, and Dermot’s agitation increased dramatically. He’d been set up, he could see that now. Piggott’s cordial call had been a ruse to bring him down here. But how had Piggott discovered he’d sent the letter? He couldn’t have any proof that it was him. There couldn’t have been a leak from British intelligence, not that he’d put it past them to hang him out to dry if it suited their purposes. But he’d never told that MI5 man his name. Dermot was building a case in his head for his own survival, and persuading himself that he might after all see Belfast again. Then he saw the Spaniard nod quickly at Piggott.

‘He’s out then?’ Piggott asked.

‘Like a baby,’ said Gonzales.

‘Let’s keep him that way,’ said Piggott. He turned to Dermot, and said, ‘We’ve had a visitor staying. Name of Simon Willis. Ring any bells?’

Dermot shook his head. Too fast, he told himself; he should have looked like he was thinking about it.

But Piggott didn’t seem to notice, saying, ‘Not very talkative at first, but it’s remarkable what modern pharmaceuticals can do.’

While Dermot digested this, Piggott went on, ‘He wasn’t meant to be here – some signals got crossed – but he’s already been useful. While I was figuring out what to do with him, we had a little chat. Funnily enough, your name came up in our conversation.’

Dermot tried not to show fear; he told himself again that MI5 didn’t know his name. ‘Why was that?’ he managed to ask.

‘Because I brought it up.’ Piggott watched his reactions, then added, ‘Along with a lot of others. I was trying to understand why this Willis guy had made an approach to Antoine just after someone had tried to stitch him up. Not a coincidence, I think you’ll agree. So someone in the organisation must have talked to Willis.’

‘I don’t know the man, I’m telling you.’ In spite of himself, his voice was rising in panic.

Piggott nodded, but it was not reassuring. ‘It’s only fair to say he didn’t seem to react to your name – or anyone else’s for that matter.’

Thank God, thought Dermot. Piggott added, ‘Then we tried showing him some photographs. And I have to say, yours was the only one he reacted to. What do you make of that?’

Jolted, Dermot exclaimed, ‘For the love of God, Mr Piggott, I don’t know the man you’re talking about, and I don’t know anyone from MI5. You say someone’s been trying to stitch up Milraud here. Well, it looks as though someone has stitched me up, good and proper.’

There was silence in the room. Dermot sensed Piggott was considering his appeal. After all, what evidence did he really have to go on? A drugged member of British intelligence nodding at a photograph? You couldn’t kill a man for that. Could you?

Piggott suddenly said, ‘How did you know Antoine was in Belfast?’

‘The boys were talking about it.’

‘I see,’ said Piggott neutrally, and he sat down in another of the chintz chairs, directly across from Dermot. ‘Loose talk risks lives, they used to say. I would have thought you knew the truth of that expression.’

‘I do, boss. It wasn’t me who was doing the talking.’ He felt his mouth drying, and he wanted to wet his lips with his tongue, only that would betray his nerves. It seemed important to look calm.

‘I suppose it was “the boys” then. Which one in particular?’ asked Piggott. He dipped his chin a notch, and Malone moved into the room.

‘I think it was Sean McCarthy,’ said Dermot carefully, picking the first name he could think of.

‘You sure?’

He paused. He had nothing against young Sean: he was feckless, but then so were all these young kids Piggott had brought in. It didn’t seem right to land McCarthy in it, but what else could he do? With luck, Sean would get away with a good kicking, he told himself.

He nodded emphatically. ‘That’s right, Mr Piggott. I remember it clear as a bell. It was the day before yesterday – I saw him at Paddy O’Brien’s saloon. Why, he even bought me a drink – that’s rare enough not to forget.’ He tried to smile at his weak joke.

Piggott seemed to understand; you could tell the man’s mind was churning over the news of who had been talking. He said, ‘I tell you what, Dermot. Why don’t you go with these two—’ and he jabbed a long finger at Malone and Gonzales ‘—and walk down to the cove. There are some cases on the speedboat that need unloading. Put them on the pier, and Antoine and I will bring the cars down in a little while so you can load them up. I’ve got some calls to make first.’ And with a wave of his hand, he dismissed them.

Outside it was dark. In the cold, fresh air, Dermot breathed an enormous sigh of relief. He felt a little bad about Sean McCarthy, but his regret was dwarfed by his exhilaration at getting away with it himself.

‘This way,’ said Malone, and they crossed the small square of lawn that slanted downwards towards the beach. A line of low lights marked the narrow path to the cove. It led through a small copse of trees – alder, a few birches, some scrubby young oak that had managed to survive exposure to so much harsh salt air. Dermot found himself sandwiched between his companions. They were halfway through the copse when he saw the low mound at the edge of a tiny clearing on one side of the path. The earth had been freshly turned, piled not much more than twelve inches high, yellow from the sand in the soil. Malone just ahead of him stopped, and Dermot almost bumped into him.

‘What’s that?’ Dermot asked, pointing to the low mound.

Malone turned around to face him, and his head was so close that Dermot could feel his breath when he spoke. ‘You said back there that you’d been speaking to Sean McCarthy the day before yesterday. But you couldn’t have been.’

‘Perhaps I got that wrong,’ he said, as weakness began to flow through his limbs. He sensed that behind him Gonzales had taken a step back.

‘You did, Dermot. And it wasn’t a wise mistake to make.’

Behind him Gonzales gave a harsh laugh. ‘Cheer up, señor. Soon you can talk to Sean McCarthy for as long as you like.’ Dermot looked again at the mound, and realised it was a grave.

His eyes turned to Malone beseechingly, but Malone wouldn’t catch his eye.

There was a metallic noise behind him; Dermot knew it was Gonzales clearing the chamber of an automatic.

Malone said, ‘Sorry, Dermot.’