The Tick Tock Man

10

Harrison spent the remainder of the afternoon drafting his thoughts on the course the AID AN campaign might take and his recommended plans to counter it. The more he wrote, the more it resembled a battle campaign for the streets of Belfast. As Pritchard had warned him, it was exactly what PIRA wanted. But what else could he do? The government needed answers and he’d been chosen to provide them.

It was seven thirty when he left the Section office, so absorbed in his work that he completely forgot about the supper party he was due to go to that night until he was heading home in the taxi. Pippa would be furious; she had their host, a wealthy industrialist who lived at Albany in Piccadilly, firmly in her sights as a prospective client.

But, as the cab arrived at the end of their street in Pimlico, he realised that his late return would be the least of their troubles that night.

‘Looks like the ratpack’s onto something,’ the driver observed. ‘Not your house, is it?’

Harrison peered through the glass partition with a sinking sensation in his stomach. He could see the cluster of journalists and photographers by the railings, the terraced Victorian town house floodlit by a television news team.

‘Drive on,’ he ordered.

Paying off the cab at the far end of the street, he entered an alleyway between the end-of-terrace house and the antique shop on the corner. It led behind the back-garden walls of the houses, the gates long ago nailed up for reasons of security. With the aid of a dustbin, he scaled the wall. In the process he ripped his trousers on the broken bottle-glass embedded in the concrete capping before he dropped down into a dense bed of hydrangeas.

Cursing, he fought free of the shrub and made his way up the path and across the crazy-paved patio. The French doors were open and Pippa, dressed in blue satin finery, was standing by the fireplace which was filled with a display of dried flowers.

She turned sharply. ‘Christ, Tom, you gave me a fright!’ She took in his dishevelled state. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’

‘I thought I’d avoid that lot outside the front door.’ He looked down at his torn and flapping trouser leg. ‘Maybe it wasn’t such a bright idea. Sorry I’m late, I got held up.’

‘Never mind about that,’ she snapped, her cheeks pink with anger. ‘Why have we got the press camped on our pavement? They’ve been there for half-an-hour. What the hell happened at that press conference this morning? Have you read the Standard? Surely you didn’t give them our address?’

‘Don’t be stupid. It’s you who is listed in the telephone book. I expect they’ve been telephoning all the Harrisons in London since the paper came out.’

‘No one phoned here, Tom, and I wouldn’t say you lived here — I’m not that daft.’

There came an embarrassed cough from the corner. For the first time Harrison noticed his father-in-law sitting on the sofa in tuxedo and black tie. His collar was loose and he had a brandy glass in his hand. A nervous smile played on the broad, veined face. ‘Ah, Pippa, my dear, that could have been my fault, Someone phoned about an hour ago while you were upstairs getting changed. Asked to talk to Tom, so I said he’d be here any minute.’

‘They didn’t leave a name?’ Pippa asked.

Brigadier Mervin Maddox looked suitably sheepish and ran a hand over his neatly raked silver hair. ‘ ‘Fraid not. Can see why now.’

Her face softened. ‘You weren’t to know, Dad.’ She turned to Harrison. ‘It’s all down to that damn Mullins woman. I didn’t trust her the moment I set eyes on her. Anyway, it’s too late now. I’m going to pack a bag.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Harrison asked. ‘I didn’t know we were staying over after supper.’

She stared at him in amazement. ‘What supper, Tom? Apart from being an hour late, your American friend has blown that right out of the water — and my contract with it, I expect. We can hardly go with that lot trailing after us. And we can’t stay here with half of Fleet Street outside — certainly not in the middle of this IRA blitz. It’s an open invitation.’ She paused to draw breath, just. ‘We’re going to have to stay with Dad while we put the house on the market.’

Harrison blinked. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Pippa.’

Her eyes were afire with anger. ‘That’s what this means, Tom. If the press know where we live then those Irish bastards can find out. You can go swanning back to Belfast, but it’s me who’ll get the letter bomb or my car blown up. I don’t trust those thickos to work out whether you’re actually here or not. I’m not sure they’d even care. So why don’t you just stop arguing and pack an overnight bag.’ She spun on her heel and marched from the room.

It was suddenly very quiet as the two men remained in an awkward silence, listening to her high heels resounding angrily on the stairs. The noise of the mantelpiece clock seemed intrusively loud.

Harrison said: ‘I need a drink.’

The brigadier studied him carefully from the sofa as the whisky was poured. ‘You know she’s having an affair, don’t you?’

Harrison looked at Pippa’s father sharply, not sure he’d heard the words correctly.

,‘It’s true, Tom. She’s having an affair with Jonathan Beazley, our managing director ‘

‘I know who Beazley is,’ Harrison snapped.

Maddox appeared to be mesmerised by his brandy, swilling it slowly around the glass. ‘It’s been goin’ on about three months now. Don’t approve, of course. Beazley was in my regiment once, you know, a subaltern. Long time ago, though. But you can’t blame Pippa, not with you away all the time, not knowing when you’re going to get yourself blown up. Terrific strain on a marriage. A big city can be a lonely place, you know.’

Obviously not lonely enough, Harrison thought silently and savagely. He didn’t doubt her father’s words; the brigadier may have been warning him in order to save the marriage, but somehow Harrison doubted it. He suspected the old bastard was subtly, smugly gloating.

The brigadier was saying: ‘Can’t blame Jonathan either really, although it’s damn bad form. His marriage has been on the rocks for years.’ Then, as though it explained everything:

“‘And Pippa is a damn handsome woman, even if I say so myself.’

That’s rich. Pippa not to blame. Beazley not to blame. Obviously there was only one person left to carry the can. Him.

Harrison swallowed his drink in one gulp, the harsh burning at the back of his throat helping to revive him. He felt exhausted and drained, his mind fully occupied with the AID AN campaign. This in addition he could do without.

Before he was able to marshal his thoughts or come back with some suitably cutting reply, the telephone rang. He snatched up the receiver.

‘Harrison household? Bill Rivers of the Mirror here. Wonder if I could speak to the major?’

The receiver crashed down. Harrison turned as Pippa struggled on the stairs, her cases thudding against the banisters.

‘Don’t say I told you,’ Maddox breathed anxiously, as he raised himself from the sofa. ‘She’d never forgive me.’

As Harrison stepped into the hall, Pippa looked him directly in the eyes. He could see only anger and fear in her expression, nothing else. Certainly not what he was hoping to see. ‘Dad’s going to take me now, Tom. I take it you’ll follow over?’

Harrison shook his head. ‘I’m not staying with him.’

For a moment anxiety clouded her eyes and she glanced over his shoulder as her father walked towards the hall. ‘What has he been saying?’

Wearily Harrison shook his head. ‘Only what you should have told me yourself. About you and Beazley.’

‘Oh.’ She was visibly shaken, stopped dead in her tracks.

‘“Oh”? Is that the best you can do? Is that “Oh, I’m sorry, it was just one of those things, but now it’s finished, please forgive me?” Or “Oh, God, I’ve been caught with my knickers round my ankles?’”

Anger flashed in her eyes. ‘There’s no need to be bloody vulgar, Tom.’ Attack always had been Pippa’s method of defence.

‘Adultery’s a pretty vulgar business,’ he snapped back, ‘as you must be all too aware.’

Now she was looking flustered. ‘This really isn’t the time or place, not with the press outside…’

‘Sod the press, Pippa! This is our lives we’re talking about. Ours and Archie’s. What do you want me to do, make an appointment to discuss it?’

She saw her opening and went for it. ‘Why not? That seems to be how we’ve been running our marriage for the past year or more. Everything deferred until you’re home on leave. How the hell d’you think it feels being a pan-time wife? Sometimes I think a prostitute knows her clients better than I know you.’

‘Now who’s being vulgar?’

‘I mean it, Tom. You’ve become like a stranger to me, and to Archie.’

That bit hurt. ‘And what about Beazley? He’s certainly no stranger, is he?’

Suddenly she seemed to calm down. With a look of resignation on her face, she said: ‘You’re right, it did just happen. Jonathan and I were working hard on a series of presentations to new clients. Late nights at the office and then a few drinks after. We got to know each other better. We found we had a lot in common.’

‘Like both being married.’

She ignored the jibe. ‘We liked the same things, spoke the same language. He can be very funny, you know.’

‘I hadn’t noticed.’ ‘

‘And like me, he is very unhappy.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He’s going to divorce Vanessa.’

Harrison’s laugh was bitter. ‘And don’t tell me, you want a divorce too?’

Pippa took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’

Of course he had half anticipated her reply, yet still didn’t really expect it. Not like that. Its effect was shocking, leaving his mind in a spin, unable to grasp the full implication of her words — that his life and marriage had just crashed around him.

She was saying ‘…I was going to tell you, obviously. When Jonathan and I had sorted everything out.’

‘So you already knew?’ ‘ ‘What?’

‘When we made love the other night. You already knew.’

Her features hardened. ‘When we screwed, Tom, not made love. I don’t think we’ve made love for years.’

‘But you knew?’ Insistent.

There was a momentary flicker of warmth in her eyes. ‘You’re a very hard man to hate, Tom. And you can still stir something in me. But the love has gone.’

He felt sick, a nauseous churning deep within him. Not so much anger as an aching emptiness. A stunning sense of sadness and loss.

The brigadier gave an embarrassed cough. Harrison turned towards the living-room door. ‘It’s all right. It’s safe for you to come out now.’

Pippa said: ‘You can still come with us tonight, Tom.’

‘I don’t think so.’

She gave him the look she reserved for Archie when he was behaving at his most childishly obtuse. ‘What will you do then?’

‘I don’t know. Hotel room or something.’

She’d put on her favourite Hermes headscarf to which she now added designer sunglasses to complete her disguise. ‘Call me at the office tomorrow, tell me where you are.’ Her lips brushed against his cheek. He thought how cold they felt.

The front door swung open to a bewildering array of popping flashguns and a babble of excited voices. ‘Mrs Harrison! Mrs Harrison, look this way please!’ ‘When will your husband be home?’ ‘Mrs Harrison, what does it feel like to be married to a bomb-disposal man?’ ‘Aren’t you afraid of being a target of the IRA, Mrs Harrison?’ ‘Mrs Harrison…?’

She was swallowed up in the melee, huddling close to her father as he struggled towards his parked BMW. As Harrison began to ease the door closed, the figure in trench coat and fedora hat slipped easily round behind the crowd and up the steps.

Don Trenchard grinned. ‘Under siege, eh? Looks like you could do with some moral support.’

The door slammed, shutting out the noisy hubbub on the pavement. ‘You can say that again. I’ve got that rabble outside and Pippa’s off to stay with her father.’

‘Not you?’

Harrison hesitated for a moment. ‘Hell, Don, you may as well know. Pippa’s just walked out on me.’

His friend frowned. ‘Serious?’

‘She wants a divorce and I think she means it.’

‘Oh, shit, really? I am sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I think it’s been on the cards for a long time.’

Trenchard considered for a moment. ‘Look, Tom, why don’t you stay at my place. Haven’t seen it, have you? A bijou two-bedroom job in Knightsbridge. I’ll lend you a shoulder to cry on.’

Harrison was relieved to find he still had at least one friend left. ‘I’d appreciate that.’

‘I’m sure you won’t cramp my style. We’ll have a ball.’ Trenchard gave him a friendly slap on the back. ‘And we can start with a nice bit of nosh at a little Italian bistro I know. Lovely waitress and great pasta. We can chat over a couple of things.’

Harrison realised that there had to have been a reason for the unexpected visit. ‘Like what?’

Trenchard removed his fedora and ran a hand through his hair, loosening the crinkled waves. ‘Look, I appreciate this isn’t really the best time…It’s about what you said at the meeting this morning. About the more complex a bomb, the more dangerous it is to the person who plants it.’

‘So?’ He wasn’t really concentrating, his mind on Pippa and Archie.

‘It got my boss, John Nash, thinking. He asked me to come and talk to you. He thinks that maybe it’s something we could encourage.’

‘We can hardly phone up PIRA and suggest it.’

Trenchard jerked his thumb towards the front door. ‘No, but indirectly that lot can. They’re baying for a story.’

‘I wouldn’t trust them. I’m in enough trouble with the press.’

‘Not any more.’ He tapped his nose with his finger. ‘I’ve been pouring oil over troubled water. Before I left I phoned Al Pritchard, the Home Office and the rest and told them — confidentially — that it’s all been part of our ploy. It wasn’t when it happened, of course, but it is now.’

‘What ploy?’

‘To cultivate that Mullins woman.’

Harrison almost choked. ‘Forget it!’

‘It’s been sanctioned by she who can do no wrong — Clarissa Royston-Jones herself, queen of the Security Service.’

‘Look, Don, get this straight. If it involves Casey Mullins, then I am not interested.’

Eddie Mercs said: ‘Wherever Casey Mullins goes, the others follow.’

She turned from the collection of morning newspapers spread across the desk of her work station and peered at him over the top of her reading specs. ‘Don’t wind me up, Eddie, I’m a black dan of the fifth belt or something equally lethal. Don’t mess with my emotions.’

‘He’s right, though,’ the photographer Hal Hoskins added, sipping at a plastic mug of coffee. ‘I was down at his place last night. All the hacks reckon you’re on the inside track, especially after that funeral story. Green with envy, they are.’ He looked down at the large front-page picture of Philippa Harrison putting up a hand to shield herself from the prying cameras. ‘Had to make do with a shot of his wife — looks like a bit of a dragon there — sort of faded film starlet.’

‘You didn’t see Major Harrison then?’ she asked, removing her spectacles.

Hoskins wrinkled his nose. ‘Nah, but a couple of blokes did a runner out of a side-alley later on. Odds are one of them was him.’

‘Oh dear. I don’t think he’ll be very pleased about all this. I never thought the other papers might track him down in his home.’

‘The qualities are all right,’ Mercs sniffed. ‘It’s the pops who’ve been going overboard on the doorstepping.’

‘But our own headline,’ she protested. ‘Where did that expression Tick Tock Man come from? Half the tabloids have copied it.’

‘Reg in subs,’ Mercs said. ‘It was his brainwave.’

‘I think that’s rather good,’ Hoskins observed, biting noisily into an apple. ‘Sort of tick-tock, bang. Clever that. And catchy.’

‘I’m sure Major Harrison won’t like that,’ Casey said, shaking her head. ‘Makes him sound like a clockwork soldier.’

‘Not your problem, sweetheart,’ Mercs said. ‘Serves the government right for trying to manipulate the media. All this baloney about on top of the situation and everything being under control when any fool can see they’re running shit-scared.’

‘Don’t want to panic Joe Public, I suppose,’ Hoskins remarked absently.

Mercs gave a snort of derision. ‘Panic is nature’s answer to danger, airhead. You see a bomb sitting there ticking… you panic and run. Panic is what saves lives.’

The telephone trilled and Casey picked it up. ‘Mullins speaking, features.’

‘Miss Mullins?’ The voice was deep, the tone crisp. ‘Harrison here.’

She felt the blood flood into her cheeks. ‘Oh… It’s lovely to hear from you, Tom — er — Major…?’

‘Tom will be fine,’ he said, but there was no mistaking the hard edge to his voice. *

‘Look, Tom, if it’s about what I wrote yesterday?’

‘Forget it, that was yesterday. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. I wondered if you might be free for lunch. It’ll be a good opportunity to put this current PIRA campaign into perspective.’

‘Let me check my diary, Tom.’ She placed her hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Mercs. ‘It’s my Tick Tock Man. He wants me to go to lunch. What shall I do?’

Mercs smirked. ‘Are you hungry?’

She poked out her tongue, but she knew he was right. ‘Hello, Tom, yes I can make that. And who is it you want me to meet?’

‘You’ll see.’ He gave her the address. ‘See you at one o’clock.’

Senator Abe Powers knew it was a gamble. But it was a risk he was willing to take, bringing the three of them together at this stage. Ian Findlay, adviser to Paisley’s hard-line Democratic Unionists, would be the most intransigent, the least willing to compromise. But persuade him, and the milder-mannered Peter Rawlings of the Ulster Unionists would be sure to follow.

However, the big question was, could there ever be any common ground between these two staunch Protestants and little Fern Kelly of the Catholic SDLP?

Liverpool had been chosen as neutral ground. Certainly Powers had lost his appetite for venues across the water after the bomb attack at the Europa Hotel. And he had selected the Adelphi simply because he liked the faded opulence of the old railway hotel. Or was it really, he wondered, because the building seemed symbolic of the long slow death of a once great trading nation? Another fallen empire of which Ireland had been both its first and last long-suffering colony?

He turned away from the panoramic view of the city’s rooftops as his American bodyguard opened the door of the suite to admit the diminutive Fern Kelly.

A bluestocking, he decided immediately. A bluestocking in blue stockings to be precise. At least they were feminine and sheer, blending elegantly with the smooth grey wool suit and ribbon bowed navy blouse. As businesslike as the simple bob cut of sleek black hair.

The hand was tiny, white and cool in his ownj he could feel her delicate bones in his palm, reminding him of an injured sparrow he had once held as a boy.

‘Take a seat, m’dear,’ he invited and instantly regretted his choice of words. Because, although she graciously accepted his offer, he did not miss the flicker of irritation in the beautiful dark eyes behind the unflattering round student’s glasses.

No more sexist endearments, he told himself, and seriously considered whether to address her formally as Ms Kelly. But the problem was resolved with the arrival of Ian Findlay and Peter Rawlings — the senator decided on Christian name terms for all.

After serving coffee, he said: ‘A short while ago I received an initial reaction from you two gentlemen regarding my proposal for Voting Registration as a way out of the Northern Ireland impasse…’

‘It’ll just prolong the agony,’ Findlay interrupted defiantly.

Powers raised his hand. ‘Please, Ian. Let us hear Fern’s view.’

To the American’s surprise she smiled at the volatile Orangeman as she placed a slim lady’s briefcase demurely on her knees. ‘It may surprise you to know, Senator, that I agree with Ian and Peter.’ She flipped open the lid of her case and extracted her notes. ‘To recap, you suggest that voters in the Six Counties register either as Irish or British citizens and thereby decide to vote for Dail or Westminster MPs. A sort of make-your-mind-up time. To my mind, any Catholic registering as Irish will be effectively disenfranchised unless they uproot and move to Eire.’

‘Irish voters would retain all their existing rights,’ Powers countered, ‘including local council elections, arguably the most important issues to affect the individual…’

.‘But excluding such minor matters as welfare and taxation,’ Fern Kelly retorted. ‘In effect, Catholics in Ulster could happily vote for tax cuts — or increases — in another country. One in which they have never lived. And most of us, myself included, already travel on an Irish passport.’

‘That wouldn’t have to change.’

She shook her head. ‘Then the whole concept is another well-meaning fudge.’

‘And a dangerous one,’ Findlay interjected.

‘I agree. It is divisive. Far from the intention of creating a bond of Irish unity and giving Ulster Catholics legal status, it is a recipe for civil war. Not exactly what we need at the moment.’

Abe Powers was stunned. How could this bright young middle-class Catholic girl be so dismissive of his carefully crafted idea? A former political student at Queen’s, a skilful journalist and rising star in the SDLP — how could she reject this monumental leap in forward thinking, this radical suggestion already accepted in embryo form by London and Dublin as a way forward?

Stubbornly he said: ‘We achieved an accord — I admit, a fragile one — between Israel and the PLO. If that can be done between sworn enemies, then surely we can make some concessions…?’

‘Britain is not an occupying power, Senator,’ Findlay snapped. ‘And there is no comparison. If British policy was in any way parallel to the Israelis’, then all IRA suspects would have been imprisoned without trial or dumped on the mountains of Donegal. Houses of IRA sympathisers would have been blown up and Dublin bombed for giving refuge to its supporters.’

Peter Rawlings agreed. ‘That’s not to mention forming a security buffer zone for several miles into Eire.’

‘Do I need to go on?’ Findlay asked. ‘Remember this, Israel has always had backing from the United States. But when confronting the IRA, Britain has always been opposed by you Americans. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Washington’s pressure after the First World War when the twenty-six counties seceded from Britain, there would probably be no Irish Republic today.’

Abe Powers was angry. ‘Don’t expect me to apologise for that, Ian!’ He watched his carefully built house of cards flutter to the ground.

It was Fern Kelly’s small voice which broke the bitter silence that followed. ‘If you’ll forgive me for saying, Senator, no amount of tinkering with fine words in agreements and treaties or fudging parts of the constitution will bring an end to the violence, because you are trying to reconcile the irreconcilable. Believe me, my party tried to find common ground with Sinn Fein last year and it ended in disaster. The simple truth is only the IRA can decide on peace and what they want no one in this room is in the position to deliver, any more than Dublin or London can. They want the border torn down and that’s something the majority of Protestants won’t tolerate — as well as thousands of Catholics who also have no wish to become part of Eire.’

‘Maybe the IRA merely want historical justice,’ Powers goaded.

Findlay’s laugh was brittle. ‘I’ve yet to hear any IRA or Sinn Fein argument that doesn’t go back to 1921 or beyond. They’re living in cloud-cuckoo-land. And, Senator, to quote your own guidelines for these talks, what was it…?’

Fern Kelly helped him. ‘Put the past behind us, live with and recognise present practicalities and resolve our differences in the interests of our children’s future.’

‘Your sentiment is right there, Senator,’ Rawlings agreed. ‘We need something that will unite our people in the north, not divide us.’

‘But excluding the IRA,’ Powers echoed, as though the very words themselves were a betrayal of Irish history that he’d been taught at his grandmother’s knee. ‘I don’t think it will work without them, whatever you say. Unfortunately that is the one basis on which Downing Street allowed these talks.’

Fern Kelly said quietly: ‘I wonder if there isn’t only one way to unite a divided country like Ulster.’

Powers looked at her, thinking of the old English joke about towing it into the Atlantic and sinking it. ‘And that is?’

‘It’s something I’ve thought about a lot recently. Not an entirely new idea, but maybe the time has never been so right to give it a chance. A fresh start. Give a divided people an incentive to work together. An independent Northern Ireland under the protection of the United Kingdom.’

Rawlings raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean like the Isle of Man?’

She nodded. ‘An autonomous Crown possession, totally self governing apart from defence against foreign aggression. Our own laws, taxes, offshore status to pull in big investment…’

Findlay was dubious. ‘How does this square with your party’s aim of constitutional ties with Dublin?’

‘It doesn’t, but we each have to give something to find a solution. Your people would have to accept some form of power-sharing.’

Suddenly Abe Powers experienced a surge of excitement. Had they stumbled on a real possibility here? ‘Would the IRA go for that?’

‘No,’ Fern Kelly replied, ‘but under your Secret Protocol the ringleaders will be interned for the first three years. With a new constitution up and running, they’d stand no chance of restarting the fight. Only people without hope resort to guns.’

Powers was still puzzled by one thing. ‘But, Fern, you’ve always believed in a United Ireland — like my own ancestors.’

She smiled gently. ‘Do you know, Senator, if Ulster was truly independent and free of any claim by Dublin, I think you would soon see the people of north and south more united in spirit than you would ever have believed possible.’

Two hours later Casey paid off her cab outside Boodles. She experienced a small thrill of trepidation about entering the hallowed portals of the venerable club. It wasn’t long ago, Mercs had told her, that women had not been allowed to visit. Was she wearing too much make-up? Was the bright floral summer dress really appropriate, even with the borrowed black cardigan to tone down the overall effect? She really wished she’d gone home and changed into her business suit with the padded shoulders that Mercs said made her look like a fullback for the Chicago Cowboys. If Harrison thought she was wrongly dressed, he gave no sign as he waited for her in the lofty marble-floored lobby. He was wearing a slightly unfashionable charcoal suit and, she noted, the same tie he’d worn at the funeral. Felix the cat and the orange hand of Ulster.

As he greeted her, she was aware of the intensity of the expression in his dark eyes.

‘I can’t wait to meet the mystery man,’ she said.

If Harrison was harbouring any anger towards her, he hid it well. He was relaxed and smiling easily. ‘No real mystery, Casey,’ he assured as he led her towards a quiet corner table in the fusty, panelled dining room with its starched table linen and heavy silver.

There were two men at the table. Immediately she recognised one as he sprang attentively to his feet. Don Trenchard was as dapperly dressed as the first time she’d met him at Dukes Hotel, a fawn cotton suit and striped shirt, the regimental tie fastened at the collar with a plain gold pin.

‘Don you met the other day/ Harrison said.

Trenchard had a tan and the mischievous grin of a boy that made him seem younger than Harrison. His handshake was enthusiastic and playful, his ready smile alluring. She caught a whiff of cologne. ‘A delight to meet you again, Miss Mullins. Let me introduce Sir George Pepperell.’

The old man rose unsteadily from his seat. His bald crown was surrounded by a halo of white and wispy hair. Small bristles had escaped the razor on his bloodhound jowls which carried the broken veins of someone who suffered from high blood pressure. But it was the thick and greying eyebrows that dominated his face and emphasised the watery eyes. They fixed on her with a stare of disturbingly candid interest.

‘Miss Mullins,’ he acknowledged, reaching across the table. His voice was deep and smooth, containing both graciousness and natural authority. ‘It’s a pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you.’

She laughed uneasily. ‘None of it true, I expect.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it is.’ As he resumed his seat, she noticed that the voluminous trousers of his pinstripe suit were hiked almost to his chest by Paisley-pattern braces. A gravy-stained matching tie hung low and wide, reminding her of a baby’s bib. ‘You seem to have made quite a mark for yourself in recent days.’

‘Not a black mark, I hope?’

He smiled slowly and broadly, his teeth slightly yellowed by cigar smoke. ‘Is that a Texan accent I detect?’

She realised he had overlooked her question. ‘I’m a California girl,’ she said brightly. ‘They grow us big there too.’

One of the shaggy eyebrows lifted slightly and she wondered if he was amused or offended by her impertinence. His gentle smile, however, remained. ‘But you are married to an Englishman?’

Damn, that was awkward, hardly the way she wanted to start this conversation. ‘Well, just. To be honest we’re not too close nowadays. Mostly we speak to each other through our lawyers.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

She decided she wanted to know exactly who she was lunching with. ‘I’m sorry. Sir George — is that what I call an English knight?’ He smiled meekly and nodded. ‘But you rather have the advantage over me. I really don’t know why I’ve been asked here.’

Trenchard was leaning sideways in his chair, his arm draped carelessly over its back. ‘Sir George used to describe himself as “something in the ministry”. Very enigmatic’

Casey heard the alarm bells ringing. ‘Any particular ministry?’

Sir George waved a wrinkled white hand, its back flecked with liver spots. ‘Doesn’t matter, dear lady. I’m long retired now. Besides which, we’re not here to discuss me.’

‘Then why are we here?’ Her tone was a little sharper than she’d intended.

‘Just for a chat. I like to get to know ladies and gentlemen of the press. I’ve read your work with great interest. Tell me, are you fully recovered from your traumatic experience at Seven Dials?’

‘I guess so. But I’m still getting nightmares. I’ll have to give up cheese at bedtime.’

‘And your daughter? Candy, isn’t it? What a delightful name. Is she showing any ill effects?’

‘She’s a bit withdrawn still.’

‘And she wants to be a dancer?’

God, what doesn’t this man know? she thought. ‘Today yes. A year ago she wanted to be a doctor, then an interior designer. I should have stopped her then, I could do with some decorating advice on my new place…’

And they settled into light-hearted banter, questions and interest from Sir George and quick-fire answers from Casey, who was anxious to please and impress. She wasn’t sure why, it just seemed to be the wisest thing to do. The old man became visibly more relaxed. He caught onto her jokes and began to laugh quite a lot. When he raised his hand, a waiter materialised instantly at his side, order book at the ready. Sir George’s recommendation of the melon with Parma ham didn’t invite detractors, though no one took up his suggestion of poached fish. The other choices were plain, traditional and well-cooked although with a certain lack of imagination.

Casey noticed that Harrison was saying nothing and Trenchard very little. Occasionally the two friends would exchange glances; Trenchard would give a small grin, and then they would resume listening as Sir George continued his skilful and gentle interrogation.

The two bottles of Nuits-Saint-Georges were rich and plummy, leaving Casey feeling quite lightheaded by the time they had finished the dessert.

Over coffee Sir George Pepperell said: ‘Of course, with freedom of the press must go a sense of responsibility, wouldn’t you agree?’

That seemed reasonable to Casey; with her head gently spinning, most things would have seemed reasonable. ‘Yes, I think so. I like to think I feel a responsibility to my readers.’

‘I had more in mind the government, any government of the day.’

She tried to concentrate on what he was saying. ‘I’m not sure about that.’ ‘

Sir George paddled his spoon in his coffee cup. ‘Let’s take an imaginary situation where a journalist — as often happens — wants to investigate events in Northern Ireland. Say, the work of the intelligence services or, perhaps, that one-time alleged shoot-to kill policy — the RUC and army accused by certain parties of trying to force terrorists into fatal ambush situations rather than detain them and convict on prima facie evidence. He finds himself probing delicate matters and would, of course, receive only the most superficial cooperation from our public affairs people in Army HQ, Belfast.’ He looked at her directly, the humour having vanished from his eyes. ‘Is it right then that he should talk to the only ones who will answer his questions? Inevitably these are people with aft axe to grind or grudges to bear. Does he then ‘ cobble together a story with only half the facts available and present it as the truth? And thereby put at risk agents in place whose only task is to destroy terrorism?’

‘You mean name names?’

‘Not necessarily, no. But to reveal organisational structures, the way in which things work — all information that can serve the enemy.’

Casey puffed out her cheeks. ‘Well, if a journalist doesn’t get cooperation from the authorities, then I suppose he doesn’t have much choice, does he? I mean he does have a job to do.’

Sir George’s eyebrows met in a forbidding line as he frowned. ‘But that’s not very responsible, is it?’ He waved his hand towards Harrison and Trenchard. ‘It could put chaps like these at risk. ATOs like Tom, for instance. Surely the journalist could just go on to another story, could he not? Something a little less controversial.’ For a brief second she relived Seven Dials, remembered the shock of the blast. She felt suddenly awkward and momentarily tongue-tied, but she had no doubt about her view on the matter. ‘Sir George, a journalist has a job to do. I believe that freedom of the press is more important than — than almost anything. Governments might say something is secret just because they know it’s wrong, immoral or downright illegal. It’s amazing what some governments consider secret. Without the press as a check and a balance, governments can drift into fascism and dictatorship. I’m sure Hitler, Mussolini and Stalin had very strong views about responsible reporting, don’t you? Soldiers on the ground can find themselves acting illegally and it’s no defence to say that they are just obeying orders.’

A smile drifted briefly across Harrison’s face as he listened to her spirited defence of the media.

But Sir George’s face had reddened. Casey noticed and added quickly, almost apologetically, ‘But this is all very hypothetical.’

‘No, Miss Mullins, it happens all the time.’ It was noticeable that he had dropped the use of her first name. ‘Every day so-called investigative writers, authors and TV reporters probe and dig, probe and dig with scant regard to the damage they do. It also happened with your own report yesterday, did it not? You attended a press conference at which the elected people’s government gave its considered and responsible view of the current terrorist situation — which you chose to ignore.’

Casey felt a sudden rush of anger and indignation. ‘Because it was a pack of lies.’

Sir George ignored her statement. ‘Instead you made up your own version of events using privileged information gained under false pretences. Not even an unattributable briefing.’

‘Are you telling me what I printed was untrue?’

His eyes were bleak and washed of colour. ‘I am saying it was irresponsible and certainly not in the national interest. And, like the journalist in my hypothetical case, when you received no official confirmation of the sending of a parcel bomb to a certain American senator, you proceeded to write a version that read as though it actually had happened.’

Casey turned to Harrison. He gave the appearance of being unconcerned, as though none of it had anything to do with him. When their eyes met briefly she could read nothing into their expression. She turned back to Sir George. ‘I happened to be there at the time. I know a parcel bomb was thought to have been sent. If I’d been given a straight answer to my question — like it was a false alarm — then it wouldn’t even have been mentioned in the article.’

Again Sir George appeared not to have heard. ‘And for the life of me I cannot see what possessed you to name Major Harrison here.’

Casey shook her head, exasperated. ‘It’s hardly a state secret. Any Belfast journalist or competent defence correspondent can find that out.’

Sir George removed his napkin from his waistband and dabbed the coffee stains from the corners of his mouth. ‘You realise that it sets the major and his family up as targets for the IRA? They will have to go into hiding and probably move house.’

That was something she did feel bad about and threw a ‘ sympathetic glance in Harrison’s direction as she said: ‘I know, I think it’s awful, but we didn’t indicate Tom’s address. I’m not responsible for the excesses of the tabloids.’

‘Ah, that word again. Responsible. It strikes me, Miss Mullins, that you do not consider yourself responsible for any of this fiasco. I am sure your editor would not take quite such an ambivalent view if I mention the problems that your reporting has caused when we meet tonight.’

The words were like an electric shock. ‘You know him?’

The gentle smile had returned to his lips; he knew he’d got through. ‘I know everyone, Casey. Your editor and I frequently bump into each other on the London social circuit. He even mentioned you to me recently, said what promise you had. His only regret was that you hadn’t taken up British citizenship. You see, he is aware that, as a divorcee here on an American passport, you are liable to deportation if you break the law. Unlikely, of course, but it’s so easy in your type of work to step over that thin line between what is legal and what is not. And England does have so many little arcane laws dating back to Tudor times. Never been taken off the Statute Book. I’m sure we all break the letter of the law every day without even knowing.’

Casey felt her stomach contract, too shocked to speak. It could hardly have been a more blatant threat.

She became aware that Sir George was still talking. ‘…Now that we understand each other, I’m sure we can establish a good working relationship. But remember what I said about responsibility. If you feel the need to do any probing or what-have-you, give me a ring and I’ll give you all the help you need, steer you in the right direction. Don here will give you my direct line.’ He leaned back in his chair, satisfied that he’d done an excellent demolition job. ‘Just to make the point-much to my own personal amazement — Tom here has agreed to give you a personal but nonattributable briefing on the current situation. Proper channels, young lady, that’s the thing to remember.’

With that he rose a little unsteadily to his feet. As he did so a waiter appeared at his side as though by magic, the old man’s black Melton coat and walking cane in his hands.

‘It was a lovely lunch, Casey, and you’ve been charming company. I like a lively discussion.’ His handshake was dry and cool. ‘Don’t forget, call me any time.’

She watched as, supported by the waiter, the old man walked shakily towards the door. Then she fell back into her seat, feeling shell-shocked and drained. ‘Wow!’ she breathed, ‘I think I’ve just blown my damehood.’

‘Nonsense,’ Trenchard laughed, ‘he liked you.’

‘Then I’d hate to be someone he doesn’t.’

She made her excuses then and left for the ladies’ room.

‘Worked a treat,’ Trenchard said. ‘Sir George is a master at this sort of thing.’

‘Poor girl was terrified at the end,’ Harrison observed. ‘Did you see the look in her eyes?’

‘You’re going soft, old son. She’ll be like melted butter now, so it’s all down to you.’ He passed Sir George Pepperell’s card across the table. ‘Give her that, I’ll make myself scarce now. Tell me how it went when you get back to my flat tonight.’

Don Trenchard had just disappeared through the door when Casey returned, looking a little more composed.

‘lust what is Sir George, Tom? I mean, does he really have that sort of clout?’

‘According to Don he’s connected with the Defence Advisory Committee. Strictly speaking, that’s Ministry of Defence, but in fact it can be used to cover most things not deemed to be in the national interest. By all accounts he’s not a man to cross.’

The waiter came with more coffee. ‘So you hadn’t really forgiven me for yesterday? Or for gatecrashing the funeral?’

He looked abashed. ‘Look, I’ve just been following instructions. I didn’t know it was going to be like this, I’m sorry. So let’s put all that behind us and start with a clean slate.’

‘What did you have in mind exactly?’

‘Are you free for the rest of the afternoon?’

She hesitated. ‘I can be, if I can make a couple of telephone calls.’

He grinned. ‘So, in the words of a certain nameless tabloid, let me take you into the mysterious world of the tick tock man.’

A Defence Ministry car was waiting outside Boodles when they left. The chauffeur unhurriedly negotiated his way through the traffic to Oxford Street, then north up Gloucester Place before picking up the Marylebone Road and the M40 westwards out of London. The traffic was light as they sped along the motorway, finally turning off at Junction 6 and making their way across country towards Oxford.

The entrance to Vauxhall Barracks, headquarters of 11 EOD Regiment RLC, was through a pair of unmarked security gates. She was mildly surprised to find that they were checked in by an armed soldier in helmet and full combat gear. The signal board on the guardhouse explained why. State of Alert: Bikini Amber.

‘You’re very privileged, Casey. Few journalists are given permission to come here.’

A short drive through tree-studded lawns brought them to the car park and the boxy redbrick headquarters building. From then on, the afternoon floated by in a bewildering haze, her mind filled with facts and statistics that she attempted to scribble in her notebook, an entire Pandora’s box revealed to her. There were reconstructions, photographs and diagrams of every type of home-made bomb ever used: car bombs, culvert bombs, milk churn bombs, beer-keg bombs, coffee-jar grenades, incendiaries and letter bombs. Memo Park timers from parking meters, electronic circuits, antihandling devices, they were all there and Harrison patiently explained the uses of each and the individual problems they presented to the ATO whose job it was to defuse them.

One particular weapon fascinated her with its clever incorporation of everyday household objects. The PRIG, in army jargon, Projected Recoilless Improvised Grenade, was a type of shoulder launched bazooka capable of knocking out a lightly armoured vehicle with a warhead that mostly comprised a dog-food can filled with explosive. A plastic lampholder acted as the arming switch, and resistance for the backblast in the launcher tube was provided by two packets of digestive biscuits wrapped in kitchen Jcloths.

But it was the heavyweights that truly amazed her. The spigot mortars and the ‘barrack-busters’. They truly defied the misleading description of ‘home-made’. Amateur only in their ingenious improvisation, these were the business, precision-built and lethal. And there were plenty of wall-mounted photographs to bear witness to their awesome power. Entire town centres destroyed in Ulster, gutted and flattened, and craters in roads so massive they looked as though they’d been created by small meteors.

Harrison said quietly: ‘You must realise that this is why Sir George was so hard on you. His fear is that this scale of damage could start happening here on the mainland.’

Next she was shown the UK operations room with large-scale wall maps that showed the locations of the ten army disposal teams and their fourteen backup units which were on short-term standby.

‘We cover the whole country except London,’ he explained. ‘Even then we’re available if requested.’

Outside she was taken to a large garage where some of the teams’ white Transits were housed. Welcoming the diversion of a pretty redheaded American visitor, nothing was too much trouble for the WO2 and his crew. The men happily demonstrated their skills with the robotic Wheelbarrow and other equipment.

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘A bombsuit, miss,’ the WO2 replied. ‘Like to try it on?’

She looked at Harrison, her eyes dancing with mischief. ‘I can’t, can I? I’m hardly dressed for it.’

‘Go on, miss,’ one of the corporals urged and earned a disapproving scowl from his commander.

‘Turn around then, and no peeking!’ she laughed.

And when they turned back the floral dress had been tucked up inside the legs of her knickers like a schoolgirl in a playground. ‘I haven’t done this since I was seven.’

There was no shortage of willing hands to strap her into the heavy suit, her long tanned limbs swallowed up by the enormous ‘leggings and the armoured jacket, then finally sealed with the claustrophobic helmet.

She and Harrison were still laughing about it as the chauffeured car sped back towards London in the early evening.

‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciated that, Tom.’

‘A pleasure, you made the men’s day.’

‘I wanna be a bomb man.’

‘You can’t.’

‘Oh, all right then.’ She glanced out the window at the lush Oxfordshire countryside passing in a blur. ‘All this makes me feel awful. You know — what Sir George was saying about you having to move house. Is that really true?’

‘Yes, but it was going to happen anyway.’

‘Really?’

He nodded. ‘My wife and I are separating.’ The words were out almost before he realised. Since Pippa’s father had told him about her affair, he’d had little time to consider his own reaction. He’d been too tired, too busy. But then perhaps he didn’t really need to think about it. The writing had been large on the wall for a long time, he just hadn’t wanted to see it. It wasn’t Pippa’s adultery; he’d been no saint himself. They had just grown apart, it was as simple as that.

His only real regret was the anguish that their separation might cause his son. But then Archie was a tough little character.

‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ Casey said.

‘Thanks, but it just stopped working out, that’s all.’

‘It must be catching. And it’s not much fun. I hate sitting in every evening eating TV suppers.’

‘What about your daughter, Candy?’

‘The same house but a different planet. You know, all Walkmans or pop videos.’ She looked at him and smiled. ‘You won’t be going home, not with the press waiting for you?’

‘They’ll have given up, I expect. Gone on to someone else. Anyway, I’ve moved in with Don.’

‘You like him?’

‘We’ve known each other a long time. He’s a good mate.’

‘Good-looking.’

‘An eye for the ladies.’

‘I noticed.’

On impulse, he said: ‘About that TV supper.’

‘Yes?’

‘How about giving it a miss tonight.’

‘The thing is, Casey, although what you wrote about me being called in from Belfast wasn’t incorrect, it was only half the story.’

They were seated in a quiet Italian restaurant off Haymarket.

‘What do you mean?’

Harrison said: ‘The statement issued at the conference was also correct in so far as it went. I’ve been given permission to give you the full story — but it must be unattributable. I’m getting far too much publicity for a humble bomb man.’

She was curious. ‘Why now and why me?’

He toyed with his wine glass. ‘Now, because this is a very serious bombing campaign which shows no signs of letting up and the public should know that the Provisional aren’t having it all their own way.’ He held her gaze with steady brown eyes. ‘And you, because I think you can be trusted.’

She wasn’t sure she believed that. ‘I thought I was in the doghouse, especially with you.’

‘I overreacted after the funeral. I was still angry after Jock’s death and I thought you were like the rest of the gutter press. On reflection, I realise why you didn’t advertise what you did for a living. Besides, I’ve since read the articles you’ve written. They were very compassionate, very touching. And, according to Sir George, you’ve virtually become accepted as Fleet Street’s expert on this new campaign.’ He raised his hands, palms out. ‘So we thought it wouldn’t hurt for you to understand more about what we do — hence the visit to our HQ.’

‘And now?’

From outside came the plaintive wail of a police-car siren carrying eerily on the night air.

‘You should know that the terrorists haven’t been quite as successful as people think. We’re receiving some excellent preemptive intelligence at the moment. That gives us a good idea of when and how the bombers, are going to strike, if not exactly where. That means that 11 EOD on the mainland, as well as the various police Explosives Sections, are ready and waiting on instant standby. So when PIRA gives its usual warning, lately down to thirty minutes, which is hopelessly inadequate for evacuating an area, the bomb-disposal teams are in there like a shot. Device defused, panic over.’ He hesitated as though deciding how much more he should say. ‘You remember the van bomb at the Chiswick flyover and the three hoaxes the other day? Well those hoaxes were in fact the real thing.’

‘Why wasn’t that admitted at the press conference?’

‘To keep the enemy guessing, unsettle them and get them wondering what game we’re playing. As you know, the Security Service, or MI5, is in overall charge of antiterrorist activity. They have their own agenda of psychological warfare.’

‘Is that the sort of thing that Don Trenchard does?’

Harrison was astounded at her perception; she’d only met him twice. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘I could just imagine him, that’s all. He’s so smooth.’

‘Well, what Don does for a living is a mystery to everyone, including himself half the time. Always has been. But the point is that the IRA has been adopting a new combination of tricky antihandling devices. Difficult for us, but not quite difficult enough. Because the truth is we’re right on top of them.’

‘Are you quite happy for me to publish that?’ She shook her head in amazement. ‘I mean after that lecture I got from Sir George this afternoon. Is it really something you’d want the bombers to know?’

‘It doesn’t matter. When an ATO or one of London’s Expos is tasked to a device he can never be sure what he is going to find. And over the years, each one of us has come across every variation imaginable. You can never double-guess a bomber. You can never take anything for granted. All I’m telling you is, at this stage of this particular campaign, we’ve mastered AIDAN’s antihandling techniques and we’re getting them defused well within the warning times…’ His voice trailed off.

‘What is it?’ she asked, turning round in her seat to see what he was looking at.

The waiter had been standing on the pavement by the open door, his outline intermittently edged in blue light from a police car in Haymarket. Now he had been joined by the restaurant owner and one of the chefs; they were talking to a passerby.

‘Something’s going on,’ Harrison observed. They had both become aware of the sinister background howl of sirens above the low rumble of the city’s traffic.

The chef turned back towards his kitchen, dessert orders to attend to. His expression was glum as he wiped his hands on his apron.

Casey called him as he passed. ‘Excuse me, do you know what’s happening?’

He shook his head sadly. ‘There is a bomb warning fifteen minutes ago. The Trocadero centre in Piccadilly.’ The Italian looked gloomily around the empty bistro. ‘Look, tonight only you and one other couple. Another bomb alert. I do not think you will be coming back tomorrow, eh? Even for my famous castagnaccio?

They all heard it then. A distant low thud. There was no mistaking the sound. The chef raised his eyes to the heavens and crossed himself.