The Tick Tock Man

7

Harrison said: ‘Did I hear you ask if I could come along. Midge?’

The Yorkshireman looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid I got a dusty reply, Tom. The boss is having apoplexy at the moment and says your presence in England is due to an official Home Office request. Therefore, according to protocol, you should report first to Chief Super Jim Maitland. He’ll bring you down to us and you’ll be allocated a desk.’

‘For God’s sake, Midge!’ Harrison retorted with a rare display of anger, ‘that’s hardly the right attitude.’

Midgely shrugged. ‘I know that, but it’s the one Al Pritchard’s got. He’s a prickly bugger at the best of times. And this is not the best of times, as you can gather.’

‘But you can give me a lift in the car, can’t you? At least I can report in and be on-scene…’

The Yorkshireman was shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid he was quite specific, Tom. You’re British Army, not police, and until you’ve reported in you’re on your own.’

Harrison drew a deep breath. He just could not believe what he was hearing. But then it had been a long time since he had served with Al Pritchard. He’d forgotten what the man could be like. There was no doubting the man’s personal courage — as testified by the MBE and QGM — but other people’s sensibilities had never been high on his list of priorities. He ran a tight ship and you did things his way or not at all. Already he was sending out the warning signals loud and clear: he resented the request for outside help and considered it an affront to his leadership of the Explosives Section. At that moment Brenda Murray appeared at the kitchen door with Pippa. ‘There’s a policeman at the front door, Midge, asking for you. A car to London, he says. Is something wrong?’

‘A spot of bother, I’m afraid. We’ve been called back to London.’ He didn’t elaborate. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

As he and Appleyard moved into the hallway, Harrison turned to his wife. ‘I’ve got to go too and I’ll need the car.’

‘Can’t you go with them?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s a formality thing.’

‘That’s ridiculous, Tom. How are Archie and I going to get back home tonight?’

Before he could respond, Casey interrupted: ‘Look, I ought to be going back now. My car’s in the village and you’re welcome to a lift.’

Pippa grinned triumphantly. ‘There you are, that’s solved then.’

She drove her husband and Casey back past the church to where the Porsche was parked. There was no sign of Eddie Mercs or Hal Hoskins; Casey assumed they’d made their own way back to the city.

Harrison found himself distracted by the American’s long tanned legs as she hiked her black dress up to her thighs for freedom of movement before engaging first gear. It had been an unconscious action and he found it beguiling how seemingly oblivious this woman was of the power of her own sexuality, apparently unaware of his admiring glances. He also realised for the first time how tall she was. She drove with skill and confidence, unafraid to use the car’s unbridled acceleration, changing through the gears with a deft economy of movement, her overtaking fast and decisive. There was no sense that she was intimidated by the presence of a male stranger as passenger, or that she was trying to impress; he had the distinct feeling that this was how she always drove. Had he been driven this hard at this speed with most male colleagues he knew, he’d have been holding his breath. With Casey Mullins at the wheel, he felt in surprisingly safe hands.

‘I wasn’t expecting a Porsche,’ he ventured as they raced along the country road towards the A3.

She smiled. ‘I guess I’m what’s known as a fast woman. But come back next week and it’ll be a Number 9 bus.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘My divorce settlement. He gets the car — unless I prang it.’ Another half-laugh, half-giggle. ‘That’s a thought, it might almost be worth it. Just to see the look on his face.’

‘Not while I’m on board, thank you.’

‘I would have thought you thrived on danger.’

‘Sorry to disappoint. I’m a natural coward, which is how I’ve survived in this game. I like the odds heavily stacked in my favour.’

Again she laughed and he found himself watching her with an amused half-smile on his face. He felt remarkably relaxed and good-humoured in her company. Yet he hardly knew her. He recalled then what she had said at the church. How she and her daughter had almost fallen victim to the Seven Dials bomb. The thought made him both angry and genuinely relieved that she’d escaped injury.

He said: ‘I think Brenda was very pleased you came. It was a lot of trouble to go to and a very nice gesture.’ That made Casey feel awkward. She had been directed to go and had welcomed the opportunity to show her gratitude to the man who had died, but it had not been the other way round. ‘It was nothing,’ she replied more curtly than she had intended.

‘Do you work in London?’

Oh, God, here it comes. She winced inwardly as she imagined his reaction to the revelation that she was a journalist. ‘Yep,’ she said, adding quickly, ‘in publishing.’

He nodded. ‘Is that books or magazines?’

‘Look, Tom, would you mind getting that road atlas from the glove box, I don’t want to get us lost…’

She successfully deflected his line of questioning and for the next ten minutes they concentrated on finding their way to the A3 carriageway which swept towards the suburban sprawl of south London.

By that time she had decided that attack was the best form of defence and began asking a welter of questions about his work and his private life. He was, she learned, the same age as herself, thirty-six. In fact he was one month younger and a different star sign; he was Capricorn while she was Sagittarius.

‘I might be older,’ she said as they thundered along the Kingston bypass, ‘but I bet you weigh more.’

Things military were an almost total mystery to her, but she learned that Harrison was the son of a Hampshire doctor and had excelled at mathematics and chemistry at school before going on to Sussex University. After graduating and with a job lined up with the ICI chemical giant, he had been persuaded by a friend to take a six-month working holiday with a safari adventure company in Kenya run by the boy’s uncle. It had been exciting and fun, living most of the time in the bush, close to African wildlife and meeting people from many different walks of life. After that, the prospect of life as a laboratory technician lost its appeal. On the very last safari, he met Philippa Maddox and her father. Harrison recounted that, strange as it seemed now, the then retiring brigadier had inspired him with his anecdotes of army life. On his return to England, Harrison had abandoned his future life as a chemist in favour of a commission in the army. Given his qualifications, the Royal Army Ordnance Corps appeared to be the perfect choice. Plenty of opportunities to travel while inspecting ammunition-storage depots wherever Britain still retained a base. And none of the risks run by the poor bloody infantry in dangerous places like Northern Ireland.

Casey was as surprised as he had been at the time to learn that he was directed to take a psychometric test to assess his suitability for bomb-disposal work. Not unexpectedly, it appeared that there were few, if any, volunteers for the work.

From the School of Ordnance he had proceeded to the ATO or Ammunition Technical Officer course, comprising six months at the all-services Royal Military College of Science at Shrivenham, followed by six months at the Army School of Ammunition near Kineton in Warwickshire, which culminated with the Intermediate IEDD course. IEDD sounded deceptively innocuous. Improvised Explosive Device Disposal. The terrorist bomb.

During his first two-year posting as a section commander he met Jock Murray and Les Appleyard who were to become his closest friends. He had known Al Pritchard too, but the man had never really been one of their circle. Harrison had gone on in 1983 to serve with them on his first four-month tour in Northern Ireland as an ‘operator’. More jargon — hardly a befitting term for what the general public called the bomb-disposal man, the quiet hero of hundreds of television news and press reports from the savage terrorist war in Ulster.

Casey was curious. ‘And are there any special qualities needed to become — what is it, SATO?’

He laughed, catching her mood. ‘They say to qualify you must have a wife, two point five children, drive a Volvo estate and have a dog.’

‘But you’ve just got Archie and drive a Cavalier.’

‘Ah, but until last year I had a dog. A failed bomb dog.’

‘Failed?’

‘He was a great sniffer-out of explosives. Problem was he was a retriever. Rather an unfortunate trait for a bomb dog really. He was dishonourably discharged after bringing back a live device to Top Cat himself.’

They were now crawling through the Wandsworth traffic south of the Thames. Casey had switched on the radio and the local news was warning of considerable holdups on the western approaches to the city due to bomb alerts.

Harrison noticed the car phone. ‘Okay if I make a call?’

‘Why not, my ex will be paying the bill.’

He took a notebook from his jacket pocket. ‘You’re a hard woman, Casey.’

She giggled. ‘You’d better believe it, bomb man.’

After dialling he got a feeble line through to the Explosives Section in Lambeth Road? A terse Yorkshire voice answered.

‘Midge, it’s Tom here, I’ve just hit London. I wondered what gives?’

There was a grunt at the other end. ‘We do. We’re giving like knicker elastic at full stretch. We’re coping, but just. Even got one Expo being helicoptered in from his camping holiday in Wales.’ He took a deep breath. ‘At least nothing’s gone off yet.’

‘Well, if there’s anything I can do?’

‘Thanks, but I don’t think…’ There was a hesitation. ‘Well, there is something. The chief will probably shoot me for it, but

I’ve got to hold the fort here. There’s a suspect letter bomb been delivered to some visiting American senator at his hotel in London. It’s low priority, but I can’t see us getting around to it for hours. Ought not to leave it, though. Would you mind?’

‘ ‘Course not.’

‘It’s been received by Senator Abe Powers the Third. Got to be a Yank with a name like that really. He’s at Dukes Hotel in St James’s Place. Expensive, but discreet, if you know it?’

He didn’t, but Casey did. She didn’t mention her reason for being there had been to interview a visiting Booker author. ‘Did you say Abe Powers?’ she asked.

‘D’you know him?’

‘He ran into me at the airport last Christmas — literally. A staunch Democratic who’s a leading light in the Irish lobby. In bed with the Kennedy clan — but then who isn’t nowadays? When the President was first inaugurated there was a lot of speculation that Abe Powers would be sent to Belfast to bang heads together and sort out the troubles. But then your Prime Minister had a meeting with the President and I guess real politics took over and the idea was quietly shelved.’

Harrison thought aloud. ‘But it could be someone’s motive for a letter bomb.’

She almost recounted how the senator had brusquely rejected her request for an interview. Instead she decided to keep her mouth firmly shut and concentrate on her driving.

They arrived at the hotel off St James’s at two thirty.

To Harrison’s surprise there was not a policeman in sight. Only the anxious manager waited for him at the head of the steps, together with an elegant, familiar figure with a brown felt fedora and a Crombie coat worn over his shoulders like a cloak.

‘Don! What are you doing here?’

Trenchard laughed. ‘Yes, we really must stop meeting like this. I know, I was surprised when the Expos said you’d be coming. Sort of exchange thing, is it?’

Harrison nodded, taking in his friend’s usual sartorial dash: the Tommy Nutter suit and gold pin at the knot of the regimental tie. ‘So as I was here, I offered to lend a hand. And you?’

‘I was called in when they found the suspect package.’

‘And where is it now?’

‘Still in the American gent’s suite — in the bedroom.’ He appeared very relaxed about the whole business.

Harrison noticed that hotel guests were milling in the lobby. ‘The place should have been evacuated, Don.’

“That’s what I said,’ the manager interjected.

Trenchard ignored him. ‘It’s small, Tom. ‘Can’t contain more than a few ounces.’

‘There’s always the risk of fire,’ Harrison began.

‘I know, Tom, and the hotel staff are ready to act. But I talked it over with the manager and we decided a lot of fuss and unnecessary panic wouldn’t be good for the hotel’s reputation.’ Harrison had the distinct impression that Trenchard had done all the persuading. ‘By the way, a police car delivered some kit for you a few minutes before you arrived.’

Harrison said: ‘Then I’ll take a look.’

Casey tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Tom ‘

As he turned, Trenchard noticed her for the first time. ‘A new woman in your life, Tom?’

Harrison felt his cheeks colour, yet he wasn’t quite sure why. He stumbled over his words. ‘A friend of mine. She’s just given me a lift back from Jock Murray’s funeral.’

Trenchard’s smile turned down. ‘Poor Jock.’

‘Casey Mullins,’ Harrison introduced. ‘And an old pal of mine from way back, Don Trenchard.’

‘Casey Mullins,’ Trenchard repeated. He said it slowly and thoughtfully, extending thŤ vowels smoothly as though savouring a particularly fine vintage claret. His friend hadn’t changed, Harrison thought. The full head of crinkly hair still gold blond and the same winsome smile that had charmed so many girls into his bed. Once that had almost included Pippa — almost but not quite. Now the cobalt-blue eyes fixed Casey’s as he took her hand and pressed it briefly to his lips. ‘Enchanted to meet you, Miss Mullins.’

An uncertain expression showed on her face and a nervous tic flickered at the corner of her mouth. She withdrew her hand rather quickly. ‘I’m so glad you’ve already eaten, Mr Trenchard.’

Trenchard’s smile faded as Harrison tried to suppress his laugh.

Casey turned to him. ‘Look, Tom, I really must fly. I have to be back at my office. Perhaps I can give you a ring?’

Again he felt the blood flush his cheeks; he put it down to Trenchard’s appraising eyes and his knowing smirk.

‘Of course,’ Harrison said, and jotted down the number of the Explosives Section on a spare page of his notepad before tearing it out. ‘I might be busy while I’m here, but leave a message.’

‘Ciao,’ she said, then caught him by surprise with a kiss on the cheek before she strode towards the door. The hotel manager looked on, bemused. Somehow he hadn’t imagined that the arrival of a bomb-disposal expert would be quite like this. At the door Casey turned. ‘And, Tom, please take care.’ Then she was gone.

Don Trenchard said nothing more until they were climbing the stairs, carrying between them the kit sent over by Midgely. ‘ ‘Course, Tom, you know why she was in such a rush?’

‘Casey? No, she didn’t say.’

‘It’ll be to file her story for the West End Final edition.’

‘What?’ He didn’t understand what Trenchard was on about.

‘Wake up, Tom. She’s a journalist on the London Evening Standard.’

Harrison stopped dead in his tracks; he felt as though he had been struck a physical blow. ‘You’re joking!’

‘It’s no joke.’

‘She said she and her daughter had been caught up in the Seven Dials bombing. And she told me she was in publishing…’ His voice trailed off as he realised what he was saying.

‘Not exactly a lie, was it? And she was at the bombing which she wrote about in the Standard. Presumably that didn’t reach Northern Ireland?’

Harrison shook his head.

‘Did you discuss anything about this current bombing campaign with her?’

He hardly registered the question, still shocked at how easily he’d been conned. How he had even helped her through the police cordon at the funeral. ‘No, I don’t think so, I’m not sure. To be honest there’s not too much to tell.’

‘Presumably she knows all about this suspect package?’

‘Of course, I phoned the Section from her car. And she knows about Senator Powers.’

Trenchard gave one of his disarming half-smiles. ‘Bound to, I suppose, being an American.’ He continued walking. ‘Never mind, it can’t be helped. I just wanted to keep the lid on, that’s all. The same reason I didn’t want to evacuate the hotel.’

‘What the hell’s going on, Don? Are you still with 14 Int?’

Trenchard was evasive, but with his usual charm. ‘Not really. I’m transferred to the Security Service with a sort of open liaison remit with 14 Int.’

It was a garbled answer that suggested to Harrison that Don Trenchard might not be exactly answerable to either in a strictly official capacity. That could be useful if anyone started asking awkward questions; it made things simpler to deny if someone like Trenchard could just conveniently disappear in the gap between the two organisations. Or perhaps he just meant he was paid by both; he’d always had expensive tastes.

‘And what about this senator?’

Trenchard shrugged. ‘Just a private visit, Tom.’

Bullshit, Harrison thought. ‘So why are you involved?’

‘MI5 — counter-terrorism and all that. Senator Powers has connections with the US administration, Tom. A personal friend of the President. Can’t have anything untoward happening to him.’

Harrison drew to a halt outside the door to Powers’ suite. ‘Look Don, I’m just about to go in there with a possible IED. If it goes wrong I could lose my hands and my face. You owe it to me to tell me if there’s anything else I should know.’

Trenchard lifted his arms, his palms turned up in a gesture of innocence. ‘Nothing I can think of, Tom.’ He pointed to the portable Inspector X-ray machine and toolbag in the SATO’s hands. ‘Besides, you’ve got your box of magic tricks. You’ll be all right.’

Without waiting further Trenchard rapped on the door. There was a brief wait while someone peered through the tiny fisheye security lens before opening the door.

The minder from Special Branch was a slim but powerfully built man in his late thirties. He had alert mistrusting eyes, a bushy but neatly trimmed moustache and wore a well-made suit of inconspicuous charcoal-grey material. As he allowed them in, he resheathed his revolver in its rear waistband holster.

It was a large, well-appointed room with two doors opening off, presumably to the bathroom and the bedroom where the suspect parcel had been left. The television was on and a large man in fawn slacks and a lemon cashmere sweater was slumped in an armchair watching it. He seemed unaware of the arrival of the two men.

‘Did the package come by post?’ Harrison asked the minder.

‘No, sir, by motorcycle courier. I answered the door, of course, and signed for it. It’s one of those large padded Jiffy bags and feels like there’s a book inside. I checked the docket and it was sent by a bloke calling himself J. Smith.’ He gave a sheepish smile. ‘The senator said he wasn’t expecting anything and couldn’t think of anyone of that name — apart from the former Labour Party leader. And I didn’t like those waxy stains on the package. So I phoned the courier’s office. Apparently this Mr Smith walked straight in off the street andhe had an Irish accent. He gave an address which I’m having checked out… I hope I’m not wasting your time.’

Trenchard raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope you are, Sergeant.’

The big American in the armchair suddenly became aware of their conversation and levered himself to his feet. He had a broad, determined-looking face and thick silver hair with that glamorous tint of purple favoured by middle-aged stars in American soap operas. Harrison suspected that the colour was as artificial as the sun-lamp tan.

‘Who is this guy?’ he demanded of his minder. His manner was impatient and superior, the words spoken as though Harrison wasn’t actually there himself.

‘He’s from bomb disposal, sir.’

A grunt. ‘He’s taken his time. I thought you Brits were supposed to be experts. Just as well it’s not the real thing.’

Harrison said: ‘What makes you think that, Senator?’

The man spared him a sideways glance. ‘Because no one knows I’m here, for a start.’

‘This Mr Smith does.’

He didn’t like that, clearly he wasn’t used to smart backchat from those he considered his inferiors. ‘And anyway, who the hell’s gonna want to blow me up?’

Your minder for a start, Harrison thought. But he said: ‘PIRA perhaps. The Provisional IRA.’

The cold grey eyes stared. ‘If you’d done your homework, you’d know I’m renowned as a sympathiser of the Republican cause. But then I guess paranoia about the IRA’s pretty endemic over here.’ He added dismissively: ‘Why don’t you just get on with your work and let me relax before my car arrives for the heliport.’

As the American returned to his chair, Harrison spoke to Trenchard. ‘As this package has been handled by the courier and the senator’s minder, it should be stable enough for me to carry outside.’ He lifted a coil of Cordtex explosive cable from the toolbag. ‘I’ll lean it against a wall and use a strip of this as a cutting charge. You won’t want the bits spread all over. So if you can clear me a route down, get all the guests out of the lobby and cordon off the street…’

Trenchard looked incredulous. ‘This isn’t Belfast, Tom. I’ve told you, this needs to be handled discreetly. You’ve got an Xray machine, so why not do it in situ? My people would rather you cut it open and save any evidence in preference to blowing the thing up.’

Harrison was irritated at his friend’s willingness to compromise safety. ‘I told you earlier. There’s a risk of damage and fire if it goes wrong.’

‘We’ve already agreed to compensate the hotel.’

‘And the surgeon’s bill for sewing my hands back on?’

Trenchard grinned.“You don’t mean that, Tom. Look, you’ve got the X-ray, so take a dekko and if you don’t think you can handle it, we’ll do it your way. That fair?’

Reluctantly persuaded by the compromise, Harrison donned his flak jacket and helmet, picked up the toolbag and the Inspector, and headed for the bedroom. He felt mildly irritated, aware that the Explosives Section would have had no problem in complying with Trenchard’s wishes, whereas his was the army’s way.

Don’t sit on top of a bomb when you can open it up at a distance. He knew whose philosophy he shared.

Once inside the room it was like shutting off the outside world. It was uncannily still and quiet, just the muted sound of London traffic beyond the window and the soft burble of the television set from the next room. Crumpled sheets lay on the bed, waiting for the chambermaid to be allowed in to do her work.

The package had been left on the dressing table. Harrison approached and drew the curtains closed at the window behind it. He didn’t want glass showering the street below if there was an accident. He then went down on his haunches to examine the package. Senator Powers’ name and the hotel had been written directly onto the brown paper in felt-tip pen, the end of the padded envelope stapled. When he moved his head slightly, he could detect the sheen of the wax or grease stains on the surface. Probably marks from someone’s fingers.

Satisfied, he placed a film cassette under the envelope, then picked up the Inspector X-ray machine by the handle and took an overhead shot. Transferring the plate to the small processing unit which resembled a single-sheet desk-top photocopier, he waited impatiently for the minute to elapse until the positive image picture was ejected.

He knew exactly what he was looking for and there it was. A fat hardback book, possibly some type of dictionary, a recess having been cut into the pages with a craft knife. The thin wafer of plastic explosive was difficult to distinguish, showing up as a grey film. Its presence was better indicated by the positioning of the detonator cap and the short twist of wires that led from it to the two slim 1.5-volt batteries positioned underneath.

He searched for the expected spring-loaded microswitch, the small metal arm of which would be held closed by the front cover of the book — nothing. Then, it must be — Yes, there it was. Two strips of foil paper, one adhered to the inside front cover of the book, the other glued to the first page. Between them, just standing proud, was a piece of cardboard. It looked like an official invitation with smoothly rounded corners.

In his mind’s eye he could visualise Senator Abe Powers tearing open the envelope, glancing at the book, puzzled, then seeing the invitation card protruding. Intrigued, the American would have pulled it out and the two separated strips of foil would have touched. The circuit would have completed instantly.

He double-checked the X-ray print of the wiring until he was satisfied that he could account for every intended function. Rummaging in the toolbag, he selected a scalpel with a pristine razor blade, then lowered his visor before returning to the package. Concentrating hard, and aware of the steady thud of his heart, he made the first incision. That was always the worst. Rapidly he cut away an entire end of the envelope. Then, clasping the book firmly closed between the fingers of his left hand, he slid it completely clear.

The next part was easy, but irrational fear made it the hardest. Leaving the invitation card in place, he flipped open the front cover of the book. Nothing, of course, happened. There in front of him on the inside of the cover was one strip of foil with its attached wire. He clipped it, breaking the contact and rendering it safe.

He removed the card, placing it to one side, then snipped the wire attached to the foil on the first page, just to be doubly sure before removing the detonator from the explosive.

Only then did he become aware that he had been holding his breath for several seconds. Now he relaxed sufficiently to allow himself a small, smug grin of satisfaction.

Idly he picked up the invitation card. It was black-edged and properly printed in a copperplate typeface. It invited Senator Abe Powers III to attend a funeral. His. And there was a signature in blue ink. AIDAN.

Harrison froze, dropping the card as though the thing itself was capable of inflicting injury, and glared down at the book on the dressing table.

AIDAN. If it was AIDAN, then he couldn’t take anything for granted. Nothing was as it seemed.

Suddenly he made his decision. Picking up the X-ray machine, he took a second, cross-section, shot from the side and waited anxiously for the processor to deliver up its verdict.

The seconds dragged by. Then, grudgingly, the print was ejected. And there it was. Another component beneath the small explosive slab and the batteries. It had been missed when viewed solely from the top. He cursed himself for almost being tempted to take short cuts, for making assumptions. Familiarity bred complacency and complacency with IEDs could eventually have only one consequence. Sometimes, he thought perversely, it was better not to have experience in this game, better to be suspicious of absolutely everything.

He stared hard at the print, then took another X-ray from a different angle. Neither picture was clear, something obstructing the camera’s view of the small component beneath the explosive. Some sort of container, maybe five-and-a-half by three inches. Half-an-inch deep. A cigar tin?

Although he was confident that no wires connected it to the slab of explosive, it clearly had to have some purpose. And he didn’t intend lifting out the Semtex to find out what it was.

A microswitch or pressure plate perhaps? Triggered when the weight of the explosive was lifted? He returned to the X-rays, but could detect no clue. Now he really was annoyed with himself for agreeing to Trenchard’s request. If he’d dealt with it in the street, using a simple cutting charge, it would all have been over by now. As it was, with the device half dismantled, it was dangerous even to touch it.

After considering for a moment, he hunted in the toolbag for a hook-and-line, rigging the small pulley to the overhead central light. Then, keeping finger pressure on the explosive in the book, he attached one end of the line to the stiff clayish substance using a drawing pin.

He retreated to the door and picked up the other end of the line. A deep breath. One, two, three… He gave a quick tug on the line. The slab of Semtex was whipped into the air. Instantaneously there was a short, sharp crack and a flash as the book disintegrated on the dressing table. The mirror glass shattered and burning pages fluttered unhurriedly down to the carpet. In the middle of the room the Semtex swayed harmlessly to and fro from the overhead lampshade.

Quickly he stepped forward and stamped on the smouldering paper before kneeling to examine the pieces. A wafer layer of lead solder had been glued to the cigar box lid to defeat the Xray machine. Assuming the device to have been rendered safe, any bomb-disposal expert could be expected to lift the explosive and expose… he picked up the shattered remnants of a photoelectric cell. As soon as light fell on the mechanism, the little device would have been ignited. Probably just a charge of a few grams, but sufficient to have taken off his fingers.

Heads the bomber won and killed Senator Abe Powers, or tails he injured the expert sent to defuse it. And either way AIDAN’s jokey little invitation would be found afterwards on the floor.

Quite ingenious, Harrison had to admit, a perfectly contained little minibomb.

There was a movement behind him and he turned to see three anxious faces in the doorway.

‘It’s all over,’ he assured, and picked up the invitation card from the dressing table before crossing to the American senator.

‘What’s this?’ Powers asked, ashen-faced.

‘An invitation from your friends in the Provisional IRA,’ Harrison replied. ‘Maybe they don’t like you quite as much as you thought.’