The Tick Tock Man

11

Memories of Seven Dials flashed through Casey’s mind. When she spoke, a slight quake had entered her voice. ‘Is k that it, Tom, the Trocadero?’

He shook his head, eyes narrowing as he calmly appraised the direction and volume of the sound. ‘No, too far away for that. A smallish device. Just a few pounds, I’d say.’

‘You can tell?’ This man really was amazing, she thought.

‘I’ve heard enough of them in my time.’

Then there was another, similar sound. But, although much farther away this time, its deep bass resonance was profoundly more chilling and ominous.

Harrison called for the bill. ‘Casey, I need to find out what’s going on.’

As he spoke there were two more explosions, almost simultaneous. One was much closer, causing the windows of the bistro to shake and the coffee cups to rattle on their table.

‘Jeez!’ Casey gasped, instinctively reaching for his hand as though his mere presence could in some way protect her.

‘It’s okay,’ he reassured and, as she released her grip, she realised that her nails had been digging deep into his flesh. ‘Do you want to wait here until I get back?’

She managed to regain some composure and forced a smile. ‘C’mon, Tom, what d’you take me for? Am I an intrepid reporter or what?’ A nervous half-laugh followed. ‘Besides, I’d feel safer with you.’

Harrison settled the bill and they stepped out into the street, walking the short distance to the junction with Haymarket. It was a bizarre and nightmarish scene. The wide roadway had been sealed off by police at the north end by Piccadilly, cutting off the one-way traffic flow and leaving the normally learning thoroughfare uncannily empty of traffic. A cacophony of car horns filled the air like angry birdsong as the surrounding streets became clogged with anxious and bewildered motorists.

Beyond the taped cordon, Harrison could see that two Explosives Section Range-Rovers had established an ICP. Flickering neon advertisements continued mindlessly on, the dark buildings bathed in the revolving sweeps of purple light from the emergency vehicles.

As they approached the cordon Harrison flashed his security pass at the young constable. ‘And the lady’s with me. Who’s in charge here?’

‘The Senior Expo, sir. Over there.’

Al Pritchard was standing by the open door of the leading Range-Rover, talking into the radio mike. Perspiration glittered on his balding crown and his*eyes were dark-rimmed with fatigue. He caught sight of Harrison and lifted a hand in weary acknowledgment.

He continued talking for a few more moments before signing off. ‘You a bloody clairvoyant, Tom? You’re right in the thick of it.’

‘Just happened to be passing, Al. So what’s going on?’

‘You tell me. Les Appleyard’s in the Trocadero — a half-hour warning. Then fifteen minutes in, a device went off without warning at Oxford Circus, apparently concealed in a lamppost. Just after that there were three others — again, all in lampposts. On Piccadilly near Hyde Park Corner, at Leicester Square, then Cambridge Circus. All small but they caused some injury and damage — and total chaos!’

Harrison knew exactly what he meant. In the very heart of London, it was an area surrounded by a maze of streets. Thousands of people would be running in all directions from the smaller devices only to come up against crowds of pedestrians being evacuated from the original threat at the Trocadero.

Casey listened, horrified. It sounded as though the whole of central London had been surrounded with explosive devices. ‘It’s just like Seven Dials, but on a massive scale,’ she murmured aloud to herself.

Pritchard noticed her for the first time. ‘Who’s the lady, Tom?’

‘Casey Mullins from the Standard,’ Harrison replied, expecting to feel the full power of Pritchard’s wrath.

Only when the man said in a reasonable tone, ‘Sorry, Tom, no press tonight, please,’ he remembered that Trenchard had told the Senior Expo that she was being cultivated for public relations purposes.

But Harrison had been struck by Casey’s words. Just like Seven Dials. ‘Al, have all the manhole covers around here been checked?’

Pritchard clearly took the question as a challenge to his competence. ‘Of course. And wastebins, postboxes, the works. There’s no way I’m going to allow the police to let us walk into another Seven Dials.’ Haymarket, the only traffic-free route out of the area, was now filling with hundreds of walkers evacuated from all around the West End. ‘Look, Tom, by all means stay with us. But first take the lady away, there’s a good chap. You’ll probably find traffic’s still moving in The Mall. Put her in a taxi and send her home.’

At that point Les Appleyard appeared from the Trocadero centre, carrying his bomb helmet under one arm and trailing a disrupter from his other hand. He crossed the eerily deserted street and approached the cordon. ‘You’re going to love this, Al. The bomb was an elaborate phoney. Fully working TPU with a trembler, but the Semtex was dummy material.’

‘Christ!’ Pritchard spat. ‘They’re just playing silly buggers with us.’

Appleyard sniffed heavily and wiped the film of sweat from his forehead as he viewed the tide of anxious humanity filling the Haymarket. ‘They’re trying to terrorise the city, Al, it’s as simple as that.’

‘And they’re bloody well succeeding,’ Pritchard growled. Then he noticed Harrison again, which did nothing to improve his humour. ‘Are you still here?’

Harrison raised a hand in mock surrender. ‘Okay, Al, we’re leaving.’ Casey clutched at his arm. ‘I can’t, Tom, not down there.’

‘Haymarket, whyever not? That’s the way everyone’s going.’

‘No, Tom,’ she said adamantly. ‘It’s just like Seven Dials. The street Candy and I took was the only one left to take and that’s where the car bomb was that killed Jock.’ She was close to tears. ‘I just can’t go.’

Pritchard watched her outburst with a curious expression on his face, as though he’d just swallowed something unpleasant. He said: ‘We’re off to have a look at those other devices. When you’re ready, Tom, phone the office to find out where we are.’

Harrison steered the reluctant Casey back through the cordon as the engines of the Range-Rovers were gunned into life. He began to realise the hidden emotional scars that Seven Dials had left in her mind and his heart went out to her.

‘I’m sorry, I was being silly,’ Casey said as they began to be jostled along by the fast-moving welter of evacuees. ‘Guess we can’t spend the whole night sitting on the pavement…’

But conversation had become impossible. A party of Japanese tourists had engulfed them, jabbering excitedly as they attempted to keep up with their guide. The group collided with a collection of French students carrying rucksacks, emerging from Panton Street. Refugees from a Leicester Square cinema premiere were caught up in the swelling crowd, men looking incongruously exotic in tuxedos and black ties, glamorous escorts clinging to their arms. Momentarily Harrison thought he recognised a film star, but then the famous face disappeared amid a bobbing sea of heads which had now filled the entire width of Haymarket.

Up ahead, the crush of humanity was parting like a river around a lone and stationary police car which pointed into the crowd, its blue lights pulsing energetically. The driver and his colleague were struggling to open the doors against the flow. A helmeted constable was shouting at them from the pavement beside a parked car.

The momentum of the tide was becoming stronger, the pressure pushing in from all sides, threatening to sweep Harrison and Casey from their feet. They moved all the faster to avoid being overtaken by the weight of people behind them. Harrison saw one of the Japanese women crushed against a traffic bollard in the middle of the street. There was nothing he could do for her as she disappeared beneath thousands of running feet.

Casey clutched his arm tighter, terrified that she’d be torn from him. She gasped for breath, aware that the oxygen was being squeezed from the night air, becoming hotter by the second. Claustrophobic and starting to panic. Feeling faint and certain she would have fallen had it not been for Harrison at her side.

She suddenly became aware of stifled screams as people sank and drowned in the relentless ebb, and twice she stumbled on something soft under foot. A child, a woman? It was impossible to tell as they were carried inexorably on.

‘BOMB!’ yelled the constable on the pavement.

The two policemen, who had now managed to extricate themselves from their patrol car, looked at each other and then at the surrounding crowd. The ashen faces of the officers said it all. There was no way they could halt the overwhelming scrum of people bearing down on them.

Harrison managed to fight his way sideways, dragging Casey with him, until he was able to reach the wing of the patrol car. He clung to it like a man escaping the force of wild rapids.

‘Get away, sir!’ shouted the nearest policeman.

‘I’m with the Explosives Section,’ Harrison yelled back. ‘What’s the problem?’

The policeman’s jaw dropped with incredulity. ‘You are, sir?’

‘Yes, dammit, what’s the problem?’

As relief replaced his astonishment, the officer said: ‘My mate reckons he’s found a bomb in this parked car. Looks to me like he could be right.’

Harrison worked his way between the two vehicles and peered into the window of the parked Renault. In the footwell, half hidden by the seat was a small plywood box. Thin twin-core cable could be glimpsed at the edge of the rear carpet, disappearing towards the boot.

He turned to the police driver. ‘Have you got a toolbox in the car?’

‘Er-yes, of course.’

‘Let me have it. I suggest you call up reinforcements to get this area cleared and get a Section team down here pronto.’ The driver nodded, reaching for the boot and the toolbox.

While waiting for backup manpower, the three policemen faced an impossible task, but they wasted no time in doing their best. With the radio messages sent, the driver proceeded to inch the car forward into the crowd, the doors wide open with an officer on each side to form a slow-moving wedge. If they could reach the first intersection with Charles II Street, they would stand a chance of diverting the endless procession of evacuees to safety.

‘PLEASE STAND STILL!’ the driver begged over the loudspeaker. ‘PLEASE STAND STILL AND LET US PASS!’

If they could halt the flow, then they stood a chance of reversing it. But, of course, it was hopeless because of the pressure of new arrivals pushing in from the very streets up which the police now wanted them to return. Still people were streaming past the car bomb. ‘

Harrison turned to Casey. ‘Get away from here as quickly as you can. Go home and I’ll be in touch later.’

She shook her head. ‘I want to help.’

His anger suddenly flared. ‘For God’s sake, Casey, this thing could blow up at any moment. There’s nothing you can do. I’m sorry, I don’t have time to argue!’

Then he forced himself to turn away, stooping to open the toolbox and examine its contents for anything of use. Mostly spanners of different sizes. Hopeless! He continued rummaging. A torch — handy. What else? Thank God for that, a pair of wire-snippers. And a roll of insulating tape. What he really needed was a specialist spring-loaded centrepunch for such a delicate operation. And what did he have available? A sodding great wheel brace!

He straightened his back and looked along Haymarket towards Piccadilly. The patrol car had reached the intersection and was having some success in diverting the tide of evacuees. Now he focused his attention on the Renault, blotting out his awareness of the steady trickle of pedestrians still passing just a few feet away.

Cars and derelicts, he thought suddenly. It was years now since he’d personally had to deal with either. And he had believed he would never have to again. Inside this vehicle, anything could be waiting for him. This was AIDAN. Nothing might be what it seemed. Or it could all be an elaborate hoax.

Casey’s words seemed to be echoing around his skull. Just like Seven Dials. A car, just like this, had faced Jock Murray less than two weeks ago. Now it was his turn.

He shone the torch into the dim interior, playing the beam across the roof until he found the courtesy light. Yes, there it was. The opaque plastic cover and the bulb removed, a thin wire trailing down towards the TPU. Any attempt to open the doors and, instead of lighting the interior, the current would pass through to fire the main charge prematurely.

Silently he cursed Al Pritchard for not keeping a Wheelbarrow always to hand. How he wished to God he had his Belfast wizards Heathcote and Corporal Clarke with him now. They’d be in and out in two minutes flat, crack open the boot and in with the Candle cluster charge. All over and let’s go home.

Sweat gathered around his collar. He moved the torch beam towards the dashboard, looking for what had killed Jock Murray. And there it was. An innocuous black plastic module, a flex trailing to the cigar lighter. The same setup that had killed Jock the moment his hand went in through the broken window.

Some thoughtful bastard had taped over the telltale red glow of the tiny LED bulb. Was that how Jock had come to miss it? The tape also obscured the maker’s name which may have offered a clue as to what activated it.

If it was passive infrared, detecting body heat, he might get away with it. But if it was ultrasonic then he wasn’t at all sure. The mere change of air pressure when opening the door would be sufficient to trigger it.

He drew back, stripped off his jacket, then edged around to the front of the car. Placing one foot on the fender, he gingerly levered himself up onto the bonnet, feeling the suspension sinking under his weight.

He stiffened, shutting his eyes for a second, but still seeing the image of the mercury tilt switch behind his closed lids.

The shock-absorbers had steadied now and he breathed again. Twisting into a sitting position, he ripped out a length of insulating tape, cut it with his pocket knife and stuck it across the windscreen. Two minutes later the glass was crisscrossed with the stuff. He had absolutely no way of knowing if the movement of a falling segment could trigger the alarm sensor, or how great a change in air pressure would do the same job. Trying to cover both possibilities, he spread his jacket over the windscreen before picking up the wheel brace.

Finally he looked back up the street, praying for a sign that Al Pritchard had returned. That the awful decision had been taken from him. All he could see was the police car, still at the junction with Charles II Street and now having staunched the flow of pedestrians. But he was aware that he must act quickly while the street was clear. At any moment more people could break through the cordon in panic and find themselves walking straight towards the car bomb.

Weighing the brace in his hand, he lifted it and struck once, hard, just above the dash, his eyes closing in reflex as he did so. Nothing happened, the screen chipped but intact. He tried again, applying more force. The glass gave with a mushy crackling sound, frosting instantly.

Slowly, very slowly, he pulled away his jacket from the whitened screen and began to breathe again. It had all held together. Inside, hopefully, the air pressure had remained constant.

He reached forward and, with extreme care, began picking away at the trillions of clustered white diamonds. Just a small hole, that was all he wanted. Above the dash, behind the alarm module. Small enough not to cause a dramatic shift in pressure, big enough to insert the nose of the wire-cutters.

Blood was beginning to trickle from his unprotected fingers and it was seeming to take for ever as, in his mind’s eye, he could visualise the face of the Memo Park timer as it edged towards zero…

Then he was through, a tiny aperture cleared behind the alarm. But now he must be exceedingly careful. Normally cutting the power supply could be expected to activate the relay and cause the current to flow through the alarm circuit. He squinted through the hole until he was able to identify the actual alarm leads. Inch by inch, he edged in the clippers until he found purchase on the flex. Snip, so simple. And nothing happened. Then he was safe to move onto the lead that fed to the power supply from the cigarette lighter.

Another snip. He’d done it, hardly believing his own good fortune. Luck was certainly a lady tonight. At least so far.

Quickly he swivelled round on his buttocks, lifted his feet and kicked in the windscreen, the glass caving into the interior in great flexible chunks. He followed through, squeezing in over the dash until his feet landed on the front passenger seat. Turning awkwardly, he bent down to the TPU. The small plywood box was half hidden and there was a strong natural impulse to pull it clearly into view. But it could be fitted with a tilt switch, a trembler or even a pressure plate for all he knew. Instead he climbed over into the rear section wriggling between the bulky headrests.

Landing upside down in an ungainly heap, he struggled to right himself, his heart freezing each time he felt the suspension dip.

It was hot work, the car seeming airless and his legs cramping up on him as he crouched on the floor in the narrow gap behind the front seats. At last he traced the flex from the TPU that led through to the explosives in the boot. One careful halfway cut, insulating the end; then a second finally to separate the bomb from its timing and power unit.

And it was done.

His shirt was now sodden with perspiration, his face dripping and his eyes stinging with salt. He reached, exhausted, for the courtesy light and stripped away the boobytrap flex before throwing open the rear door. Feeling near collapse he just lay in the confined space, gulping down great draughts of cool night air, his eyes closed in a very private moment of ecstatic relief.

‘Well, if it isn’t our intrepid tick tock man,’ Appleyard said.

Harrison opened his eyes. His friend was standing, grinning, Al Pritchard behind him.

‘And just what the hell are you doing?’ the Senior Expo thundered.

‘Lending a hand,’ Harrison replied, struggling out from his squashed position. He could see now that more police reinforcements had arrived to control the crowds.

‘And how would it have looked if you’d blown yourself up, Tom?’ Pritchard’s voice was quavering with suppressed anger. ‘You’re not on our payroll, you’ve got no equipment, you’re just a bloody adviser.’ He indicated the curious faces of a few passersby who were now coming past, just as Harrison had feared. ‘How many of these people would you have killed if you’d set the damn thing off?’

Harrison brushed himself down and picked up his jacket from the bonnet, too tired to argue. ‘I made the best decision I could at the time, Al. Sorry if that upsets your sensibilities.’

‘I want you off the Section.’

It had been a long day and frankly he was past caring. ‘Then put in an official request, Al, it’s your prerogative. We’ll only know whether or not my decision was right when you examine the TPU. I haven’t touched it in case our friend AID AN attached something nasty. And I’d use a barrow to open that boot if I were you.’

‘Thank you for that treasured advice,’ Pritchard replied stiffly.

As Harrison moved away, Les Appleyard climbed into the car for a better look at the TPU.

Casey appeared with one of the police officers from the patrol car; they were both laughing, the Haymarket now fully cordoned off, the street clear of civilians.

She rushed towards Tom and threw her arms around his neck. Her cheeks were warm and damp with tears of relief, but she was too overcome to find the words she wanted.

‘One lady returned safe and sound, sir,’ the policeman said. ‘Tried to make her go, but she insisted on helping. Thought we ought to make her a special constable.’ He plonked his hat on her head.

She laughed, finding her voice. ‘That’s Americans for you, policemen of the new world order.’

Harrison didn’t want to spoil her moment of glory, but there was still a risk until the boot of the Renault had been opened and cleared. ‘Time to go home, Sheriff Mullins, let’s get you a cab.’

As they began to walk, Appleyard called from the Renault. “Thought you’d like to know, Tom, there were three minutes left on the timer.’

Al Pritchard glowered.

They eventually found a street where traffic was moving and hailed a taxi.

She gave the driver her address in Fulham before explaining: ‘It’s my new bachelor-girl pad. It’s not much, a small flat, but it’s home. I’m on an end with only one attachment.’ She paused, aware she’d put it badly. ‘Does that make me sound disabled?’

He laughed, already surprised at how easy he found it to relax in her company. ‘Not disabled, just plain uncomfortable. I think you just mean your flat’s in a semi.’

‘Well, if it sounds uncomfortable, that’s because it is. We only moved in yesterday. Still living out of boxes which all ended up in the wrong rooms. It was all such a rush really. I didn’t have to leave the old place so quickly, but after Seven Dials I just didn’t want to have anything more to do with my ex. You see, Randall could have picked up Candy before all those bombs went off. But he was just too busy. Busy, busy, busy.’ She placed her hand on his arm. ‘Why don’t you come in for coffee? I might even be able to find the biscuits. We can have a Welcome-To-My-New-Home party.’

Somehow he couldn’t face the idea of returning to Don Trenchard’s flat and being quizzed on how the day with Casey had gone. If he left it until later, his friend would be asleep. ‘I’d like that. But I’m not sure you can have a party with coffee and biscuits. Sort of contradiction in terms.’

‘Not even if I wear my feather boa?’

In the event Casey found a bottle of cooking sherry to follow the coffee and biscuits. There was no music because all the cassettes and CDs were in Candy’s bedroom and Candy was asleep. So they sat talking on the sofa, surrounded by tea chests and suitcases spilling open with Casey’s clothes after her hunt for something suitable to wear that morning.

Two hours slipped by before either of them noticed as they exchanged life histories and light-hearted banter. There was something about her that lifted his spirits, just as it had at their first meeting and on the drive back from the funeral. Something that drew out his own dry and sometimes black military humour. When had he last laughed like that with Pippa? Perhaps he never had.

No further mention of the bombing campaign was made, he noticed, and he wondered if she was deliberately keeping off the subject. Perhaps she recognised his need to unwind and forget the tensions of the job.

He found himself watching her closely, transfixed by the expressive blue-green eyes as she delivered her quick oneline jokes that tripped off her tongue without a moment’s thought. She had a wide, happy mouth with cute rabbity teeth, as she herself described them, a slightly turned-up nose and elfin chin. He liked her freckles and the wavy pale copper hair which she brushed absently with her hands or twirled between her fingers as she talked. Apart from mascara, she didn’t wear make-up. Her clothes were smart and looked good, but they were unfussy and she wore no jewellery.

Unlike Pippa, Casey Mullins appeared to have little obvious vanity. And he knew for certain his wife would never have risked her life helping the police just a few yards from an unexploded bomb. But then why was he comparing her with Pippa? What was the point? His marriage was over in all but name. But then, he wondered as they talked, perhaps that was the point. It was time to look to the future.

‘Oh, my God, is that the time?’ Casey stared at her watch in disbelief. ‘Gone two o’clock and I’m on the early shift.’

Harrison stood up. ‘I am sorry, it was thoughtless of me, I didn’t realise it was that late. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in ages.’

She looked up at him curiously, an uncertain smile on her lips. ‘Hell, you know, like they say, time flies when you’re having fun.’

He picked up his jacket from the sofa. ‘Thanks for the party.’

‘You’re very English, Tom.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Very polite, very English.’ She unfolded her long legs from underneath her and climbed to her feet. ‘I mean it’s not every man who takes a girl out for a romantic candlelit supper and ends up dismantling a bomb in the middle of the West End. That’s some special kind of man. A quiet hero. I feel safe with you. There’s no way you’re going to jump on a girl and ravish her.’

His laugh was slightly uneasy, wondering if he detected a note of disappointment in her voice. ‘We bomb men like to play a waiting game,’ he joked, adding mischievously. ‘As you know, we call it soak time.’

Her eyes were twinkling. ‘Very appropriate.’

He indicated the phone. ‘May I call a taxi? I can wait for it outside.’

‘Sure.’ She was very close now, watching as he punched in the numbers. ‘You don’t have to go.’

His eyes met hers, wide and misty with expectancy, and he felt her hand on his wrist. Slowly he lowered the receiver, aware of the discordant female voice on the other end, and dropped it onto the cradle.

The smell of her filled his head and her face filled his vision until he could see every pore in her skin, every freckle, and the whiteness of her teeth as he lowered his mouth onto hers. Her tongue was still sweet from the sherry, her breathing warm against his cheek as her nostrils flared and her arms went round his neck.

The kiss was long, hard and passionate. So long that he began to think he was drowning, aware only that he didn’t want the moment to end, never wanted to come back to the surface.

When at last she pulled away, gasping for air and laughing as they found themselves back together on the sofa, she said: ‘I think perhaps I got you wrong, Tom Harrison.’ The smile faded on her lips and she looked closely into his eyes as though trying to fathom something she didn’t quite understand. ‘I mean it, I’d like you to stay. And I don’t mean on the sofa.’

Yet it was to begin on the sofa, because the flame was lit and was burning fiercely. He could not remember ever wanting a woman the way he wanted Casey now. A woman who could combine intelligence, wit and desire in such a heady cocktail. Who now closed her eyes, trembling slightly, absorbing every minute sensation as he undid each button down the front of her summer dress.

A small gasp escaped her lips as she became aware of the cooling air on her skin and then the warmth of his mouth as it trailed across her right breast into the scented valley. Her lips parted, her eyes still tight shut, imagining the deft strong hands as they found the front fastener of her brassiere. Those hands that, just hours before, had dismantled a bomb on a London street. Now those hands were slowly, surely dismantling her. She wondered if she would explode and the very thought sent a warm, moist sensation fizzling and bubbling between her legs.

They made love on the floor with just a dustsheet and a cushion on the bare boards. Their intimacy came with unexpected ease, the very spontaneity of their actions intoxicating as they urged each other on in hoarse whispers between snatched gasps of breath. He was stirred by her candour, her determination to satisfy both their needs with inventive and lustful lovemaking that had her acting out the whore with unabashed relish, moaning with pleasure as he invaded her. She arched her back against the floor, the skin of her belly drum-tight and her ribs high as her arms reached above her head in abandon. Her hair splashed onto the cushion as her head twisted from side to side, her breasts trembled under the unrelenting rhythm. Then she was gasping, begging for release from the exquisite torture as she hovered on the brink.

Her mouth opened in a silent cry, her lips forming around the unspoken words. Fuck me, fuck me. Yes, yes.

Never had he found such a hushed plea so erotic, an aphrodisiac that so spurred him on. Plunging deeper and without let-up, on and on until he saw the perspiration start to glisten between her breasts, gathering droplets forming like a tiny dew pond, the dampness trickling down across her abdomen to where their bodies touched. ‘The wet slap of flesh against flesh, animal and exciting. Then the small fist tightening in his groin, the involuntary contraction of his balls and the sudden blessed relief. His own gut-wrenching cry mingling with hers, Casey’s knees coming up high around his sides, squeezing into his flanks as she was carried on the wave.

Her knees dropped, her legs open and languid, his head against her breasts, the tension ebbing away like a turning tide, her hand running gently over his hair.

She said softly, slowly: ‘Thank you for dialling my number, Tom. I must go to sleep now because I think it’s just possible I’m in love. And being in love makes me very tired.’

He moved to one side, feeling himself slide gently, reluctantly from her body. Her face immobile, tranquil as though already asleep except for the gentle smile of satisfaction on her lips. Looking down at her, he couldn’t find the words he wanted. It was like no time he had ever had with Pippa, but it sounded like a betrayal to say so. And he was afraid that it would have sounded crass to mention it. Instead he said, quietly: ‘Sweet dreams.’

It would have been a magical end to a trying day had Casey’s telephone not begun to ring. She stirred and sat up, pulling a dustsheet around her shoulders as she reached to answer it.

‘Hello, Casey Mullins.’ Her eyes widened, taken aback as she listened before turning to him. ‘It’s your friend Don. He wants to speak to you.’

Harrison’s own surprise had turned to irritation even before he took the receiver. ‘Don? Why the hell are you phoning at this time — and where the hell did you get the number?’

Trenchard’s voice was brisk. ‘Don’t ask, Tom. I just guessed you might still be with her. I heard what happened in the Haymarket…’

‘That can wait till we meet,’ Harrison snapped.

‘Did you see the newsflash on the television?’

Casey’s set sat in the corner, not yet plugged in since the move. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Then you don’t know?’

‘What, for Christ’s sake?’ Irritation turning to anger.

‘That car you cleared. It blew up at the police station compound. They reckon there was a separate bomb built into a false exhaust pipe. Two coppers died and seven were injured.’

Harrison stared at the blank wall. Cars and derelicts. The old nightmare was coming back to haunt him.

The Home Secretary wore the benign expression of the schoolroom swot. The goody-goody teacher’s pet who i made head prefect before going on to Oxford and being called to the Bar. No doubt he’d have made judge if naked ambition for power hadn’t side-tracked him into politics. Despite the horn-rimmed spectacles, he retained a youthful face that belied his years. His carefully cultivated reputation was one of fairness and approachability.

Nevertheless, Harrison felt less than comfortable standing before the minister’s vast desk in the elegant, old office of state with its smell of beeswax and leather. He might have been more at ease if Al Pritchard and Jim Maitland of the AntiTerrorist Branch had not been standing at his side.

And it didn’t help that he’d had an argumentative meeting with Pippa at her father’s house the night before. It had ended with young Archie in tears. Harrison realised in retrospect that he shouldn’t have gone. Suddenly he didn’t feel he could trust his own judgment any more. At least professionally, he hoped he still knew what he was doing.

It was two days now since the bomb in Haymarket and twenty four hours since Casey Mullins’s latest article had appeared in the Evening Standard to reassure Londoners that the bomb-disposal experts were beating the terrorists. How many readers believed her didn’t really matter as Don Trenchard had pointed out. What was important was that the AIDAN active service unit believed it, and on that question only time would tell.

‘Please take a seat, gentlemen,’ the Home Secretary invited. His tone was humble, almost apologetic. ‘You will appreciate that this is a very trying period and I thank you all for finding the time to put together proposals when I have no doubt that you are at full stretch.’ He looked directly at the Senior Explosives Officer. ‘Mr Pritchard in particular I thank for allowing our colleague Major Harrison to examine the modus operandi of his Section. However much I assure you to the contrary, I expect such action will inevitably be seen as a lack of confidence by Her Majesty’s Government. That, however, I promise you, is not the case. But events in the last few days vindicate our decision to bring in a little recent Northern Ireland experience to the capital. I’m sure you’d agree?’

Al Pritchard’s face was grimly impassive. He could barely bring himself to nod his acknowledgment, let alone force out the required response between clenched teeth.

‘Yes, Minister.’

‘I’m glad you see it our way.’ He leaned forward, elbows on the desk and his chin cupped in his hands. A deliberately informal gesture to put them at their ease. ‘So, Major Harrison, if we were to give you carte blanche, so to speak, what steps would you take to protect this fair city?’

Harrison cleared his throat and glanced at the notes on his lap. ‘First, Minister, what I have to say is in no way critical of the Section or the way that it’s been run.’ That wasn’t strictly true, but he wasn’t looking to make a lifelong enemy of Pritchard. ‘Secondly, I am fully aware of the political importance of not having London appear to have become as fraught as Belfast or Londonderry. After all, that is the reason the Section has maintained a low profile, although that has necessarily meant increasing the risk factor to its personnel in some instances. This approach has worked well, mostly, until now. But it has resulted in underfunding, which is again understandable given the demands for resources in other areas of policing. It has also resulted in a decline in expertise on the technical front.’

He was aware of the rasp of indignation under Pritchard’s breath.

The Home Secretary raised his famous quizzical eyebrow. ‘That’s very blunt of you, Major. How do you mean?’

‘As I’m sure you know, sir, in Northern Ireland we use the robot Wheelbarrow for most jobs. Three types actually. The standard Mark 13, a new small version called Buckeye for high-rises or confined spaces and the big Attack Barrow specifically designed to tackle car bombs. With sufficient warning, in the city centres we can usually deal with any device in between two and three minutes of arriving on scene. The method’s efficient and it’s saved a lot of lives and property.’

The minister turned to Pritchard. ‘I understand you, too, have these robots?’ v ‘Yes, sir, the standard versions and not the very latest mark. But we do have call on army backup from 621 Squadron at Northolt.’

Harrison said: ‘The point is that Northolt is thirty minutes’ travel time to central London. And the Section’s robots are kept in reserve and are rarely taken on a task. That inevitably means that the Expos become rusty as operators and the machines themselves fall into disrepair. Again funding plays a part. In normal times, this might not present a serious problem, but these are not normal times. Particularly in view of the renewed use of car bombs here on the mainland. And I’m given to understand that a long terrorist campaign is anticipated.’

The Home Secretary nodded his agreement. ‘So what would you recommend? That the Explosives Section deploys its robots more frequently?’

‘No, sir, it’s too late for that. It would take months of practice for the Expos to reach what I would consider acceptable levels of efficiency and we don’t have the time. My recommendation is that we bring out three top teams from the Province with their equipment, including the big Attack Barrows. Under less pressing circumstances I’d suggest we reinforce from 11 EOD here on the mainland — they have operators with recent Ulster experience. But complete teams from 321 have a wealth of special kit and are bang up to date. These should be stationed with the Section for the duration of the emergency to operate alongside Mr Pritchard’s officers. I’ve taken the liberty of checking with my Chief ATO, Colonel LloydWilliams, and he concurs with my assessment.’

‘Wouldn’t that leave the Province itself vulnerable?’ the minister asked.

Harrison shook his head. ‘For the moment, the AIDAN team doesn’t appear capable or inclined to operate in two places at once, which suggests they are a fairly small, independent unit. So, while they are on the mainland, that should be our main concern. We can draw on our other UK teams as replacements and step up SpecialtoTheatre training. Meanwhile London would have the cream of our operators to combat the worst of the threats.’

The Home Secretary sighed deeply. ‘The army on the streets of London, Major, it won’t look good on the television news. There’ll be a loss of confidence abroad and it will hit the tourist trade.’

‘With respect, sir, I understand tourism has already suffered badly, and a limited army presence can’t be worse than terrorists exploding bombs successfully.’

‘I’m not sure the Prime Minister and my colleagues will altogether agree with you. It’ll refocus attention on the whole Northern Ireland problem at a time when we’re anxious to keep it out of the limelight.’

‘It’s your decision, sir, but I think the bombings are already doing that.’

The minister gave one of his enigmatic little smiles before turning to Pritchard. ‘And what is the Section’s view?’

‘Such a move plays into the terrorists’ hands in my opinion. It isn’t the first time the Provos have tried to get us to overreact. We’re coping well enough.’

‘But are we, Mr Pritchard? You forget I get full reports on these bombings and it seems that you’ve had a fair degree of luck with the flyover bombs and Major Harrison’s timely intervention in the Haymarket two nights ago.’

Pritchard wrinkled his nose. ‘It’s still the army on the London streets, Minister.’

Harrison said: ‘We can spray our trucks white and wear civilian clothes — it needn’t be obvious to the casual observer.’

The Home Secretary nodded thoughtfully, obviously recognising the advantages of the suggestion, before he addressed Maitland. ‘Chief Superintendent, you’ve been listening patiently. Your Section has one view and Major Harrison another, what do you think?’

Maitland was ever the diplomat. He said: ‘I think, Minister, that London remains in acute peril and as yet we are not close to detecting this particular active service unit. Until we are, it might be expedient to take up Major Harrison’s proposals, at least for a trial period, then review it as necessary. It is no less an extraordinary measure than those my commander wishes to take.’ ‘And they are?’

‘To recall half of all previously serving Branch officers from the regions and deploy a massive covert force on the streets of central London as we did in the seventies. That, combined with vehicle spot checks with armed backup on all major routes into the capital.’

The minister frowned. ‘To be honest, I think that more likely to alarm the public than army bomb-disposal teams on the streets. And, anyway, wouldn’t such checkpoints be more cosmetic than effective?’

Maitland disagreed. ‘You might be surprised, Minister, to know how few main arterial routes there really are into London. These can be monitored with relatively little manpower and checkpoints can be very effective if not publicly announced. We can also target the types of vehicles the terrorists are likely to be using for the transport of materials or for use as mobile bombs. In particular unmarked vans or trucks and stolen vehicles in general. Also, it has to be remembered that the amounts of home-made explosive required to be effective are quite enormous and an overloaded suspension is a big giveaway. That means we are putting the terrorists under great pressure. It might sound like hunting for a needle in a haystack, but we know the IRA will be coming into London regularly and we only need one lucky break. And that doesn’t even have to mean an immediate arrest — a well-placed roadblock can be sufficient to persuade the terrorists to abandon a vehicle bomb and that’s enough. There’s little chance they’d return to a vehicle because the explosive’s effective shelf life is little more than two weeks in total.’

To the Home Secretary it all made a horribly necessary kind of sense. ‘I’ll be having a meeting with the Prime Minister and the inner Cabinet tonight. If I get a general sanction then it’ll get passed down officially through COBRA.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Thank you so much, gentlemen, for sharing your thoughts.’

Brief handshakes followed as the Home Secretary led them to the door. ‘Would you mind waiting one moment, Major?’

Harrison turned, catching the scowl on Pritchard’s face. His eyes said it all. Traitor, I told you so.

The door closed leaving the SATO alone with the minister. ‘First, Major, I should like to thank you for your brave and selfless act the other night.’

For one perverse moment before he realised what the Home Secretary meant, the vision of Casey Mullins naked on the dustsheet in her new flat flashed into his mind. Of course, Haymarket. ‘It was just good fortune I was there.’

Again the familiar raised eyebrow. ‘In your position, I think I’d have considered it most unfortunate. Sitting on top of a bomb wouldn’t be my idea of fun.’

‘It’s my job, sir.’

The minister looked at him closely. ‘What is it with you people? The adrenalin fix, the challenge?’

Harrison felt uncomfortable under such scrutiny; he’d asked himself those questions a million times and still did not know the answer. It was a job he both loved and hated. One thing was certain, the longer you were in it the more profound your fear became. Felix. The deft cat with nine lives, and as you approached the next surprise package you had to wonder just how many you’d already used up?

The Home Secretary appeared to recognise suddenly that it had been an impudent question to ask. A sympathetic smile jerked at one corner of his mouth. ‘Thank you anyway, Major.’ He hesitated for a moment, as though uncertain how to proceed. ‘The other reason I wanted a word was this business about the article in the Evening Standard. Suggesting that the bombers are clever, but not clever enough. That you’re on top of the situation because, as I told Mr Pritchard, I know that is not the case. A bit provocative, don’t you think? Might it not persuade the terrorists to try for even more treacherous devices?’

Harrison said: ‘I think that was the idea.’

The minister looked puzzled. ‘You think} It was you who briefed the journalist, I believe.’

‘Yes, on orders issued through MI5 and, I assumed, COBRA itself.’

‘I see.’ The calm eyes blinked behind the spectacles. ‘Well, in fact, COBRA isn’t always briefed on the minutiae of the antiterrorist tactics used by the security agencies. My concern is that the more advanced technology the bombers use, then the more difficult it will be to counter the threat.’

It was difficult ground for Harrison to defend; he wasn’t at all sure that he supported MI5’s ploy. ‘I believe the idea is to make the bombers get too clever for their own good.’

That eyebrow again. ‘Own goals, is that it?’

‘That’s what’s hoped. The policy has been used with some success in the past and it might give the police the leads they need to round up the AID AN gang.’

The Home Secretary understood. ‘But a dangerous gamble, don’t you think? Whether or not it pays off, the bombs could become even more dangerous than they already are, isn’t that so?’

‘It’s certainly possible.’

‘So that was one of the reasons behind your recommendation for army help from Belfast.’ There was no need for Harrison to answer; the Home Secretary fully understood the risk involved.

Pat McGirl left the basement flat safe house in Slough and walked the half-mile to the lock-up garage where the stolen duplicate Sierra was kept.

Satisfied that he hadn’t been followed, he drove towards the rented house near the Henley-on-Thames farm. After a circuitous route, he pulled in at a roadside telephone kiosk and rang to warn of his arrival in an hour’s time. Five minutes later he passed the house, driving slowly round the surrounding streets looking for anything out of place. Only then did he park in a lay-by from where he could observe the driveway.

During the following forty minutes he could detect nothing that suggested the house was under surveillance. Starting the engine, he drove back down the high-hedged residential road and turned into the gravel forecourt. By the time he reached the integral garage, the up-and-over door was already rising, allowing him to drive straight in. As he emerged from the car, the door was already lowering again, shutting out the daylight.

Clodagh Dougan stood silhouetted in the doorway to the kitchen. He noted her long black hair and the slender outline of her body, accentuated by the black denims and black turtleneck sweater. Then he saw the gun.

‘You can put that away, Clodie. Don’t want you shooting yourself in the foot.’

Her voice was quiet and assured. ‘Don’t patronise me, McGirl.’

He ignored her, brushing his way past into the kitchen, grinning into her face as he went. ‘Where’s the old man?’

Clodagh flipped on the safety and tucked the automatic in the waistband of her trousers. ‘My father’s asleep. He’s had an exhausting time.’

McGirl regarded her closely. She was a handsome woman, he thought, slim but firm-bodied, and assertive. There was a challenge in the tone of her voice. Demanding respect for Hughie Dougan and daring him not to give it. She gave no indication of the fear usually found in those who worked under him and which he came to expect. Perversely he found himself smiling at her stand of defiance against his authority.

‘I’d like a wee word with your da.’ He felt oddly obliged to add: ‘It is rather important.’

She held his gaze for a long moment, her dark eyes seeming to burn into his. It was as though she wanted to be sure he knew the score, accepted that no one pushed her or her father around. He knew Donny Fitzpatrick had been impressed by her and now he knew why. This was the woman who had avenged the man who she believed had betrayed her father. The woman who had calmly sat on the back seat of a car in County Sligo and opened her legs to that man. Who had brought down the hammer on his head as he had been lapping between her thighs. McGirl felt a twitch of life in his loins.

Clodagh said: ‘I’ll make some tea and wake him. He’ll be parched.’

I’ll do what you ask, but on my terms; he understood what she was telling him. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a cup myself.’

She glanced at him as she picked up the kettle and for a second he thought her expression had softened. That there might have been a hint of a smile on those lips.

He glanced round the kitchen as she prepared the china pot, the cups and saucers. The cupboard over the worktop was open, filled with half-a-dozen packets of essential groceries, nothing more. A few vegetables in the rack and, he guessed, a few cuts of meat in the fridge. There was no air of permanence; it was the larder of someone on a week’s self-catering holiday.

Then he noticed the wheelchair in the corner. That had been Hughie’s idea. To be a blind cripple pushed around in a wheelchair by his devoted daughter. Deliberately to draw attention and sympathy from neighbours and local shopkeepers, knowing full well that the sight of invalids made people feel uncomfortable and unlikely to ask too many questions. And if they did, there was a simple explanation: she and her father had returned to their original homeland having once emigrated to America. The old man had an incurable wasting disease and wanted to be on his own turf when he died, as he knew he soon would. That was why they just rented a house. A year, that was the most the doctors gave him.

People were embarrassed to ask more, and no one ever spoke to people in wheelchairs; it was as though they didn’t exist. And if any local buck fancied his chances with the daughter, he would know better than to waste his time because clearly the old man could never be left alone.

McGirl had to admit they made the most unlikely pair of terrorists. He said: ‘Anything unusual this week?’

She knew what he meant. ‘A double-glazing salesman on Monday. I got his name and later phoned his company. He checked out.’ She stirred the pot. ‘Then a window-cleaner touting for business. He left a card and just a number. An answering machine so I can’t be sure, but he seemed like the real thing.’

McGirl sympathised. ‘Doesn’t do much for the blood pressure.’

‘And the local Methodist minister. I hadn’t anticipated that. He was a real pain, the creepy do-gooder. Wanted to make sure the Social Services were giving us proper help. Offered to sit with Da if I wanted to go out of an evening. But the way he looked at me, I think he had something else in mind.’

I bet, McGirl thought. ‘What did you say?’

‘The truth, that we were staunch Catholics.’

McGirl chuckled.

The door opened. It was Hugh Dougan, his hair awry and his collarless shirt open at the throat. ‘I heard voices.’

‘It’s Pat,’ Clodagh replied. ‘And there’s a brew on.’

Five minutes later they were seated round the table, drinking tea and eating sweet biscuits. McGirl asked how the bomb production operation was going. Dougan answered that it was going grand, all the TPUs and other devices for the next phase of the campaign were almost complete and would be collected by the unit’s other members the following night and delivered to the nearby farm. There, two new van bombs would be fitted using the massive quantities of fertiliser and icing sugar that had now been refined. Other free-standing devices would also be assembled.

‘About the new phase,’ McGirl said, coming to the main purpose of his visit. ‘I’ve heard from the Chief of Staff. He wants us to consider a change of tactics.’

Dougan blinked slowly. ‘But it’s all been agreed, planned for…’

McGirl took the newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it, spreading the pages across the table. ‘Have you read this?’

Dougan took his half-moon reading glasses from his pocket. ‘What’s this?’

‘Last night’s Evening Standard. Quoting that bastard SATO they’ve brought over from Belfast. Reckons they’ve got us sorted. Says these new devices are tricky, but they’ve got the upper hand.’

Dougan wiped the sleep from his eyes. ‘That’s bollocks.’

McGirl pulled a tight smile. ‘He quotes the flyover bombs. Says they diffused three of them.’

‘You don’t believe that?’ Clodagh demanded. ‘Before, they claimed three were hoaxes.’

‘How do I know what to believe, sweetheart? All I know is that, except for some restrictions at Chiswick, the rush-hour traffic still pours over them each morning…’

Dougan shrugged and sipped at his tea. ‘So, you can’t win them all. There was nothing wrong with Seven Dials and you know the chaos we caused in the West End. And the secondary on the Haymarket car.’

‘We can’t be complacent, Hughie. They’ve got the SATO over here now, maybe he’s starting to make a difference. That’s what the Chief of Staff thinks.’

The bomb maker slowly replaced his cup on its saucer; Clodagh watching him closely, keeping silent. ‘This,’ he said, tapping a forefinger on the newspaper, ‘is crap. They’re winding us up, trying to reassure the public. The bomb-disposal teams have got a bit lucky, that’s all.’

McGirl helped himself to another biscuit. ‘Then perhaps it’s time they got a bit unlucky.’ His teeth snapped into the digestive.

Clodagh could see her father’s eyes narrowing, recognised the pulsing vein of anger in his temple. Gently she placed her hand on his wrist. ‘Da, I think perhaps Pat has a point. There’s the propaganda element to all this. They’ve said publicly that they’ve got us beat. We have to prove them wrong.’

Dougan sat back in his chair and sniffed heavily, saying nothing.

‘Can you do it?’ McGirl pressed.

‘Of course he can,’ Clodagh replied testily.

The bomb maker pursed his lips. ‘It’ll need some thought. I’ll need some time.’

‘How long?’ ‘A week.’

McGirl looked at Clodagh Dougan and smiled; her lips twitched momentarily before she averted her eyes from his. ‘You’ve got it.’

Don Trenchard pulled over to the side of the road that ran parallel to the stony beach. It was bleak and windswept, just the distant figure of a man throwing driftwood for his mongrel dog at the water’s edge.

Dull scudding cloud merged with the grey racing current of the North Channel, the horizon indistinguishable between the two. Only the ghostly outline of the Belfast-to-Douglas ferry, floating somewhere between sky and sea, gave any perspective to the distance.

In the passenger seat John Nash looked away from the beach to the neat pebbledashed bungalows with their trimmed hedges and wind-stunted cypresses, eucalyptus and acers. The heartland of respectable Protestant Ulster. Cultureless seaside suburbia with its net curtains, a healthy fear of God and an Orange Lodge hall in a community that had scarcely been touched by over twenty years of violence.

Trenchard wound down his window, allowing the salty air to gust in. ‘Christ, John, a man could die of boredom here.’

Nash smiled, turning up the narrow collar of his leather bomber jacket. ‘I can think of worse ways to die.’

‘But not in a worse place.’

The MI5 man looked at the car clock. ‘Will he show?’

‘He’ll show. They’ll be watching us now, checking that no one is following. Another ten minutes, I’d guess.’

In fact it was nearer fifteen. On the beach the man with the dog had walked away before the pale blue Datsun approached from the opposite direction. It parked facing them, leaving a gap of some twenty-five metres. Two men, two blank faces indiscernible behind the gleam of the windscreen glass.

Nash drew the 9mm Browning from beneath his seat, held it low between his legs, and began to check the magazine.

‘You won’t need that,’ Trenchard said tetchily. ‘I’ll go and speak to them. You come when I call.’

He opened the door, climbed out and slammed it shut. It was bracing, hardly summer weather. The wind buffeted him, tousling the tight gold curls of his head, dragging at his trousers.

The driver of the Datsun ran down his window.

‘Hello, Spike,’ Trenchard said. The muscular young man, who wore a denim jacket over his T-shirt, merely nodded and leaned back so that the Englishman could see his passenger. ‘Hello, Billy.’

William Frederick Baker was huge, with the body of a heavyweight wrestler who had gone to seed. The rosebud mouth was too pink and too feminine for the flat bruiser’s face with its broken nose. ‘It’s been a long time, Mr Smith. I was starting to think you’d deserted us.’ ‘

Trenchard ignored the jibe, but knew what he meant. In recent years the relationship between the Protestant paramilitaries and the security agencies had cooled, the RUC making its presence felt in the hard-line Loyalist ghettos, old favours forgotten on orders from Whitehall. The Anglo-Irish Agreement had started the rot and it had been downhill ever since.

‘Fancy a stroll, Billy? I’ve someone I’d like you to meet.’

Spike gave his master an inquiring look, but the big man just shook his head dismissively and began struggling to extract his bulk from the confines of the seat.

The generously cut material of his fawn suit flapped around him as he made his way to the pavement, the wind snatching away his breath. Trenchard beckoned to Nash, then stepping down onto the shingle began walking slowly along at Baker’s side.

As the MI5 man caught up with them, Trenchard said: ‘Billy, I’d like you to meet my boss, Mr Jones. Mr Jones, this is King Billy. Billy Baker.’

They stopped walking and the two strangers shook hands, each taking stock of the other. Baker’s huge grip was strong and prolonged as the lashless powder-blue eyes seemed to bore into Nash’s with the disturbing power of a hypnotist. He said: ‘Mr Smith and Mr Jones. Not a comic double act, I trust?’

A joke, but there was no humour in it. Just letting them know that he knew the names didn’t mean a thing. And that he was in no mood to be messed about.

Nash said: ‘We need your help, Mr Baker.’

King Billy began to walk on slowly, one ponderous step after another. ‘Then things must be bad.’

‘They are,’ Trenchard confirmed.

‘The bombings on the mainland, I suppose? It would take that to bring you people scurrying out of the woodwork.’

‘That’s a bit unfair,’ Nash said.

Billy Baker’s rosebud smile deepened. ‘You think so? Was a time when Mr Smith here would phone me and say there’s a dead Provo in a field shot by our boys. Be a good lad and claim responsibility, will you? There’s a drink in it for your trouble.’

Nash glanced at Trenchard, his disapproval plain.

Trenchard said: ‘Things have changed, Billy. More rules, more regulations.’

‘Tell me about it,’ King Billy returned icily. ‘Now you treat us like we’re fucken taigs, or worse. And what have we done to deserve it? We’ve been called more British than the British and this is our punishment. I think the British Government has forgotten the difference between right and wrong. I’m not in the business of doing favours any more. If you want favours, go visit the Mountview social club on Enfield and ask for Mad Dog. See if he’s feeling any more obliging than me.’

‘We have, and he isn’t.’

Nash said: ‘You haven’t even asked what we want.’

Billy Baker shuffled to a halt and spared him a contemptuous glance. ‘Everyone knows what you want. I know. Mad Dog knows, the fucken IRA knows — the whole of bloody Ulster knows. You want the AID AN bombers.’

Nash saw no point in prolonging the conversation. ‘That’s right.’

‘Then go to your mate Gerry Adams in Andersonstown and ask him. I’m sure he’ll oblige.’

‘Be reasonable,’ Trenchard said.

King Billy pulled an innocent po-face. ‘You mean dear old Gerry’s not saying? My-my, well, you certainly find out who your real friends are when you’re knee-deep in shite, don’t you?’

‘We need to know, Billy/ Nash pressed.

The big man stared out at the leaden murk of sky and sea. Suddenly the rush of the waves on the shingle sounded very loud. ‘There’ll be a price to pay.’

‘Name it,’ Nash said.

‘Representation at the Abe Powers’ talks.’

‘Not possible, Billy. All paramilitaries are excluded.’

‘And no internment for my people.’

‘It’s not in my power to offer,’ Nash replied. ‘That’s between London and Dublin.’

‘But you’ll draw up the internment lists when the time comes? They’ll only know who to go for when you tell them.’

Trenchard knew he had a point. ‘Go on.’

‘Take out Mad Dog and his gang. The whole lot. If you need it, I’ll supply the membership list. A few names that’ll surprise you.’

Nash sensed King Billy hadn’t finished. ‘And?’

‘Am I currently in the frame for any misdemeanor?’

The MI5 man glanced at Trenchard who shook his head.

‘Then I want a seat — or an appointee — at the Powers’ talks.’

‘You’re a paramilitary leader,’ Nash hissed.

The rosebud smile stretched like elastic into a long, thin grin. ‘I deny that. I just run a drinking club — can’t be held responsible for what the members do. Like the internment lists, politicians are obliged to believe what you tell them. If I can identify the AID AN members, then I expect my name to be removed from any of your paramilitary membership lists.’ ‘

Trenchard sighed. ‘It’s not possible, Billy.’

Nash stepped up beside Billy Baker and stared out to sea at his side. ‘A seat at the talks, it means that much to you?’

The big man turned, his short white hair tugged by the offshore breeze. ‘It’s my friggin’ country too, Mr Jones.’

‘Can you deliver?’

‘Try me.’

‘Deliver, Billy, and you get your seat.’