The Tick Tock Man

14

Don Trenchard left early in the morning to check over the security arrangements. He drove down the M3 motorway until, just past Basingstoke, he veered off on the fast A303 dual carriageway before picking up the old Roman road, the A343, which plunged through the rolling hills of Salisbury Plain to the ancient cathedral city itself.

Trafalgar House was on the southern outskirts. In its own parkland, the magnificent stately home stood on high ground overlooking the finger streams of the Avon where they formed part of the picturesque and famous water meadows.

The location had been chosen for a number of reasons. The building was empty and up’for sale, plans to develop it into an hotel and conference centre having failed to materialise. Therefore the owner was more than pleased to agree a short-term lease to the government’s Property Services Agency. Their experts swept in with lorry loads of furniture, antiques, oil paintings and objets d’art to fill the public rooms and bedrooms, as well as conference tables and chairs, while British Telecom installed the necessary secure communications equipment.

Another attraction of Trafalgar House as venue for the Abe Powers talks was its isolation. To the west it was flanked by the Avon, the few footbridges that spanned it being easy to seal off. Running parallel to the river in the east was a single winding country lane which served only to provide access to the estate itself and a few isolated farms. Closing the road would cause inconvenience only to a few locals who used it as a shortcut between the villages of Downton and Alderbury on the edge of the city.

And so the barriers had gone up, blocked by heavy-duty earth-moving equipment and manned by half-a-dozen burly public-works labourers. Local farmers and their workers were issued with special passes and were mildly surprised that Polaroid photographs were taken of them and heat-sealed into the small plastic ID cards. New EC rules, they were told, and everyone knew that Brussels bureaucracy knew no bounds. For effect, one or two sections of the lane were actually excavated, forming security pinch-points surrounded by discreetly armed labourers and more heavy plant. Only the local poachers were aware of the increased number of game wardens prowling the estate with walkie-talkies and shotguns. No one was aware of the covert observation posts in the surrounding fields manned by members of the SAS in plain clothes.

Trenchard came down the A337, turned off by The Bull at Downton, crossed the river and almost missed the northward turning. When he’d cleared the houses he came across the second Road Closed sign. The grim-faced workman in orange overalls checked his ID and waved to the driver of the mechanical digger to reverse up and let him pass.

Idyllic countryside, Trenchard thought, as he drove along the lane, taking the switchbacks carefully until he reached the second checkpoint and continued climbing towards the gatehouse at Standlynch where he swung into the estate.

The SAS major in charge of security met him at the steps to the house. He was wearing a tweed jacket and twill trousers.

‘Any problems, Larry?’

The soldier shook his head. ‘Sweet as a nut, Don. And I’ll tell you something, I’ve served my time in Ulster over the past fifteen years and I’ve never known anything like it. The delegates in there are falling over themselves to accommodate each other. This idea of an independent Northern Ireland has really caught their imagination.’

Trenchard raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

The other man laughed. ‘There was a real sticking point this morning when the principle of some kind of equal power-sharing in the new Stormont parliament came up. The air was electric, I can tell you. Well, the Catholic SDLP guy stood up and suggested his formula for the number of seats. Then Ian Paisley took to his feet with his idea — which offered morel He got a standing ovation.’

‘That’s crazy.’

‘Maybe not. With Dublin and London out of the picture, all parties are shifting position, having to change their manifestoes.

Basically the SDLP is swinging to the left and the Unionists to the right. As Paisley told me privately, it felt like the burden of being British had been lifted from his shoulders. He feels nothing but bitterness at what he sees as Britain’s gradual betrayal over the years.’

‘There’s just one problem,’ Trenchard said.

‘What’s that?’

‘The Provos aren’t part of this and they can’t be wished away. They’re the ones who say whether or not the war is over.’

The soldier smiled. ‘Tough shit. I’ve never seen such optimism — those bastards are well out of it.’

Trenchard said: ‘Unfortunately or otherwise, Larry, Ulster is not like the Isle of Man. It remains rather attached to Ireland, whether anyone likes it or not.’

He turned then and entered the building, leaving the SAS major to ponder his words. Again he showed his pass to the armed policeman on the oak doors that led to the main debating chamber. There was a large circular table at which the delegates sat: he recognised the party advisers who had been responsible for kick starting the agreement: Fern Kelly, Peter Rawlings, Ian Findlay and the others. They were now joined by the more familiar faces of Ulster MPs and their counterparts from Westminster and Dublin.

Only Abe Powers was standing, dominating the proceedings with his impressive bulk, stripped to workmanlike shirtsleeves and braces, a floral tie loose at his throat and a lock of silvered hair curling over his forehead.

‘Before we break for lunch and you return again to your individual working parties,’ he announced, ‘I thought you’d like to know the progress we’ve achieved in the past two days.

‘Firstly, we now have constitutional experts here from both the United Nations and the European Community to discuss the legal implications of independence for Ulster and in exactly which form this might best be achieved. That independence has already been guaranteed by both Ireland and Britain, and both have offered a defence treaty in terms of protection against external threat.

‘A date of six months hence from the final document signing has been agreed for independence, prior to which certain security measures — agreed elsewhere — will be put into effect…’

Trenchard, watching from the door, understood exactly to what the American referred. The secret protocol. For the first time ever, there would be selective internment of known terrorists on both sides of the border. They would be held for three years by which time, it was believed, their support would have withered and died. A prosperous new country with everything to look forward to would have no time for the men of violence. So ran the theory.

‘A newly structured police force will be in train,’ Powers continued, ‘with the aim of creating a fully representative Catholic-Protestant law-enforcement agency within five years.

‘There is to be a new Right to March Act enshrining the right of the people to hold both an Orange Day and a St Patrick’s Day march — but only on specified days and in an agreed public place. Mini practice parades, which create most resentment, will not be allowed and traditional rituals that cause sectarian offence, such as effigy burning, will be actively discouraged by political leaders. A new Independent Ulster Day, a public holiday, will be fixed at a date somewhere between the 17th March and the 12th July and will be supported by public funds.

‘Discussions are in progress with the Roman Catholic Church with a view to further integrating the education system and adopting a less didactic religious bias which will be acceptable to both sides of the sectarian divide.’

Don’t hold your breath, Trenchard thought to himself, and backed towards the doors.

‘Two non-political forums are to be set up between Dublin and Belfast, one on Tourism and Culture and another on Trade and Economic Cooperation…’

He closed the doors behind him, Abe Powers’ litany of agreement gently muffled as he waited until the delegates broke up for a finger buffet and glasses of inferior wine.

A world of their own, he thought. There they all were, carried along on a wave of blind enthusiasm and hope for a new beginning, while the people who really counted were out there somewhere planning their next strike.

While AIDAN was determined to bomb its way to the conference table — or destroy the talks completely — Abe Powers’ dreams and those of the politicians would remain just that. Dreams.

Over lunch he made a point of talking briefly to Senator Powers and the other leading politicians present. Satisfied that there were no complaints on any aspect of security, he returned to his car and began the drive back to London.

He arrived in the capital just after rush hour, the worst of the commuter traffic travelling in the opposite direction.

When he arrived at the mortuary, only the duty officer was present to answer his questions about the victims of the apparent own goal in Lambeth.

‘It’s early days, Mr Trenchard. Humpty Dumpty had nothing on these jokers. Both were partially vaporised and we’ve a lot of bone fragments to piece together.’

‘But you have some initial findings?’

The man gave a dry smile. ‘I can tell you one was female, about five-four in height and light build. The other was male, possibly five-nine with some curvature to the spine which suggests he was in his late fifties or early sixties. Beyond that, it’s pure speculation.’

‘So no positive identification?’

‘Well, normally the IRA get around to telling the world who their intrepid and heroic bombers were. Otherwise, it’ll be a question of matching dental records — once we can reassemble all the bits. Not too difficult if the people concerned have served time.’

‘How long is that likely to take?’

‘Guessing, four to six weeks. Maybe less, maybe more.’

‘And nothing else to go on?’

‘A few personal effects.’ He produced two polythene bags from a row of locked steel drawers. ‘One pearl stud earring and an eternity ring from the woman. And this from the man’s hand.’

Trenchard held the little bag up to the overhead light. A plain gold wedding band. And a Celtic Birds ring.

Eddie Mercs looked up from Casey’s VDU. ‘Is this true?’ ‘Verbatim.’, ‘I mean it’s not a case of you not letting the facts get in the way of a good story?’

‘I don’t write fairy tales, Eddie.’

‘You know it’s dynamite, don’t you? I just hope you’re not doing this because you’ve fallen out of bed with lover boy?’

She smiled ever so sweetly. ‘I’m not that sort of girl.’

‘And it wasn’t unattributable?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Eddie, no. He just told me. Period.’

Mercs grunted. ‘Well, it’s certainly got to be a breach of confidence.’

‘That’s my problem. The thing is, do you think they’ll run with it?’

‘Probably — provided the editor doesn’t mind kissing his knighthood goodbye. Besides, the whole thing’s going to break in the next few days.’

‘What whole thing?’

‘The link between the AID AN campaign and those secret talks. You remember, Senator Abe Powers? There’s been a leak from his home town, probably from one of his political staff there. It could be Powers’ opening gambit to run for Vice President. A small item in the local newspaper hinting at an imminent breakthrough on the Irish question. It’s been on the wires and I’m not going to be the only one who’s picked up on it. I’ve been onto the Northern Ireland Office and they’re still denying everything-but, unofficially, my contact says there couldbe an announcement next week.’

‘So, what are you going to do?’

The, I’m packing my shillelagh and my mouth organ and heading acrus the wutah,’ he replied, trailing into a dreadful Irish accent.

‘To Belfast?’

‘Belfast, Deny, Dublin — whatever it takes. Gerard Keefe owes me and it’s time to call in the debt.’

‘Let me come with you.’

Mercs was taken aback. ‘You? Why on earth would you want to go there? There’s no story in it for you.’

She slid her arm around his shoulder. ‘I’m curious, that’s all, Eddie. There’s been so much talk about Northern Ireland lately and I know nothing about the place.’

He grunted, aware that his resistance was token. ‘You don’t want to know either.’

‘But I do, Eddie. I’ll be no trouble, promise. I’m due some leave — is it a deal?’

Casey had no doubt that it would be and, despite his apparent reluctance, neither did Mercs. Indeed he’d be lying to himself if he said the prospect of her company didn’t delight him. A willowy American redhead on his arm — it could do his credibility no harm at all. Privately he recognised that the prospect of luring her into his bed was remote, but he didn’t dwell on the down side; with some things it was better to live in eternal hope.

The article revealing a Security Service plot to manipulate the press into persuading the IRA bombers to complicate their bombs sufficiently to blow themselves up was raised at the morning news conference. It was referred to the lawyers who were afraid that as only the Standard had carried the story the newspaper might find itself open to a suit for contributory damages from Les Appleyard and his wife.

When the story finally appeared in the midday Late Prices edition, all direct reference to Major Tom Harrison as the source was removed, as were all references to the fact that Appleyard might have been injured as a direct or indirect result of MI5’s wheeze and the Standard’s own article. To avoid anyone else making the obvious connection after her previous articles, Casey Mullins’s by-line was removed and replaced by an anonymous ‘Staff Reporters’ credit before it made the front-page headlines.

It fooled nobody.

Tom Harrison caught the full broadside of Al Pritchard’s fury the moment he stepped into the Section’s office after lunch.

‘Of all the bloody irresponsible things to say!’ the Sexpo fumed. ‘Apart from anything else, how the hell are Les and Doreen going to feel with all this stuff over the papers?’

Al Pritchard wasn’t the only one. John Nash was waiting by his side, his face tight with scarcely suppressed anger. However, he was a little more diplomatic. ‘We need to talk, Major.’ The use of his rank sounded ominous. ‘I believe your office is free.’

Harrison led the way. As soon as the door closed behind them, Nash said tersely: ‘I hope you’ve got a bloody good explanation.’ He slapped down the latest edition of the Standard.

The SATO picked it up, dry-mouthed, and scanned down the column.

‘Well?’ Nash asked impatiently.

Harrison looked up. ‘Well, what? It’s true, isn’t it?’

“That’s hardly the bloody point, Tom! You had no business telling the Mullins woman that.’

‘You were the one who wanted to win over the press. To take her into my confidence.’

Veins swelled in Nash’s temples. ‘Don’t get funny with me. Haven’t you ever heard of the Official Secrets Act, or did they just neglect to ask you to sign it when you joined the army?’

‘I don’t remember you saying anything about Official Secrets when you coerced me into this, John. And I don’t remember you specifically telling me what not to mention.’

Nash scowled and thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets. ‘And, Tom, when I suggested you got into bed with her, I didn’t mean literally, so stop playing silly buggers. The last thing I expected was this sort of pillow talk.’

‘I can do without your cheap comments.’

A slow, bitter smile crossed Nash’s face. ‘Well, if my comments are cheap, Tom, yours are going to turn out to be bloody expensive. The brown stuff has already hit the fan — it’s not only over my office but all over the Yard and the MOD — the Northern Ireland Office and Downing Street, too, are only a matter of time. You’re going to regret this bitterly.’

Harrison turned slowly, his words precise and well chosen. ‘The only thing I regret, Nash, is that I allowed Don to talk me into this in the first place. If I’d trusted my instincts, Les might still have his legs.’

‘Is this what it’s all about?’

‘I saw Les yesterday. Not a pretty sight.’

For a moment Nash was unsure, his footing lost. ‘C’mon, Tom, for God’s sake, you’re a soldier and this is war.’

Harrison’s eyes fixed on his. ‘Don’t talk to me about soldiering and war. All you know is cloak-and-dagger stuff.’

‘So you’re blaming me for Les’s accident?’

A hesitation. ‘No, ultimately I blame PIRA. But you and I played our parts, didn’t we? All too damn well.’

Nash looked momentarily chastened. He was beginning to perspire and fiddled nervously with the knot of his tie, letting air get to his collar. At length he said: ‘Well, Tom, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think you’ll be playing a part for much longer. The AntiTerrorist Branch is acceding to Pritchard’s renewed request that you be taken off the Section.’

‘Maybe I need a touch of clean Belfast air. At least there I’ve got some idea who the enemy is.’

He knew he’d gone too far then when he saw the expression in Nash’s eyes. ‘You won’t be returning to Belfast. I’ve already spoken to CATO. The colonel isn’t too pleased with you. You’ve got leave due — you’re to take it while it’s decided what to do with you. Frankly, Major Harrison, I think your career has come to a premature end.’

Harrison leaned across the desk, his fists planted firmly on the leather top, his jaw jutting defiance. ‘And frankly, my dear, after all this I don’t think I give a damn.’

But he did. He knew the moment Nash stalked to the door and slammed it closed making the glass rattle. Even through his anger with the terrorists, with Nash and with himself, he knew he cared. His job wasn’t just a job, it was a vocation. It hadn’t started like that, but that was what it had become. It had been the same with all of them. Jock Murray, Les Appleyard and Tom Harrison, the three musketeers. And now there was only him left. If he were to be kicked out of the Service now, then the terrorists had won.

He needed to know exactly where he stood. Picking up the telephone, he dialled direct through to CATO in Lisburn. ‘It’s Tom here, Colonel.’

‘Ah, you didn’t waste much time, old son.’

Harrison closed his eyes in relief. The lilting sing-song accent was as friendly as ever. An ally if ever one was needed. ‘Sorry, I seem to have blown things this end. I was a bit cut up after seeing Les Appleyard yesterday and spoke out of turn to a journalist friend. It was a stupid thing to have done.’

There was a brief, considered silence. ‘I thought there had to be a reason for it, Tom. That’s somewhat reassuring. But bad news travels fast. The front page of the Standard has been faxed. I would be surprised if the Sinn Fein office hasn’t even been sent one. However, I’m afraid your reasons won’t cut much ice with the powers that be. They’d want your head on a pole if it wasn’t that they’d prefer to hush the whole thing up as soon as possible. Afraid it might be seen as the government trying to influence these nonexistent talks that aren’t going on.’ On an open line, this was telling anyone who wanted to listen what he really thought of the Establishment’s treatment of his Senior ATO.

Harrison said: ‘Am I reading the tea leaves right, sir? My career’s finished?’

There was a slight pause. ‘You’ve powerful friends at court, Tom. Me for one and Don Trenchard for another are planning to have a word in the GOC’s ear. Your future is safe. But the* Northern Ireland Office won’t want you back here, Tom. After that revelation, they say you’re a liability, a natural target for the little people. And they could well be right. I’m sorry, you’ll be sorely missed.’

Harrison knew exactly what the colonel meant. His job was safe, but his career was finished. The sentence was implicit: no return to Ulster meant he could never become CATO. Exiled for ever in the purgatory of some arms dump in one of Britain’s shrinking overseas outposts making inventories of war stock and blowing up unstable old ammunition.

There could hardly even be a lucrative future as a civilian in the Section. Not now.

And his private life was. similarly bleak. Not only had his marriage finally broken down, but he’d also managed to destroy the first real love to enter his life in years. Allowed himself to put duty before honour. Unlucky was starting to look like bloody carelessness.

As he replaced the receiver, with Colonel LloydWilliams confirming he would be relieved in London the next day by a major who was flying in from Germany, Harrison almost felt sorry for himself. Only the thought of Les Appleyard’s plight kept him from self-pity and reminded him to make a call to the Cambridge.

His friend was still on a ventilator, Wallace told him, but his condition was stable.

He hung up and looked around the empty office. Two weeks’ enforced leave lay before him. He was tempted to pack a tent and a backpack and take to the hills. Maybe South Wales or the Yorkshire Dales. Pippa might be persuaded to agree to Archie going with him. That would be good; oddly enough, since his split with Pippa, he and his son had been getting on especially well together. Harrison had managed to snatch the odd afternoon off to take Archie fishing, to the cinema or, if time was tight, just for a McDonald’s. Thankfully Pippa had always been at work when he called. Yes, he decided, a camping trip would be fun.

And Casey?

Just the thought brought a smile to his face. He remembered her interest when he told her he liked to hike in remote places. ‘I’d like that,’ she’d said. ‘I used to be a Girl Scout. And I like to think I can still switch from satin to denim. Next time you go just give me time to pack my rucksack and rollers.’

The telephone trilled on his desk, jolting him from his memories, and he snatched it up irritably.

‘Tom?’

Was this mental telepathy? ‘Casey.’

Her words came out in a gush: ‘Tom, I’m so sorry. I’ve been a right cow. I was so angry with you I didn’t realise what I was doing — God, I suppose you have seen it?’

‘The front page. Yes.’

‘They won’t know it came from you.’

‘They know.’

‘I’ll deny it. Protection of a journalist’s sources and all that.’

Despite himself, he found that he was smiling. It must just have been the pleasure of hearing her voice again. ‘Don’t bother, Casey, it’s all over. They know.’

‘Will it affect your career?’

‘What career? I’ve been suspended.’

There was a low whistle of surprise at the other end. ‘God, Tom, I really didn’t mean that to happen. When I got home at lunch time I told Candy what I’d done. She thought I was mad. She reminded me of that time in the Haymarket when you defused that bomb. She made me realise, Tom… You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’

Momentarily he could hardly speak, an abrupt emotional charge swelling in his larynx. Hearing her voice was like a balm, his future — or lack of it — suddenly seeming of total insignificance.

‘Tom? Are you there?’

‘Let’s meet tonight.’

‘Oh, Tom, I’d love to.’

‘But?’

‘I’m taking a late shuttle to Belfast.’ She added, lying, ‘On assignment.’

She didn’t add that it was her intention to find out the identity of the AID AN bombers who were terrorising London.

The ten-wheeled, seven-ton dumper truck seemed to fill even the huge secure barn. Its gargantuan steel-ribbed cargo body obscured the overhead fluorescent tubes and cast giant shadows onto the concrete floor. The air of unreality was heightened by the drumming of soft summer rain on the corrugated-tin roof; the four of them and the monster bomb, hidden in the velvet darkness of the warm night, cocooned in light from prying eyes. At the country pub only two hundred metres down the road, the couples and their children out for an evening meal and the locals at the bar had no idea that three thousand pounds of fertiliser mix was being primed.

Leo Muldoon and Liam Doran from Tyrone had been loading the sacks. Now they sat, tired and sweating on empty oil drums drinking lemonade from cans.

McGirl stood back, a dog-end smouldering between his fingers, watching as Clodagh Dougan worked on the wiring connections between the tractor unit and the dumper trailer. His eyes narrowed, fixed on her denim-clad rump as she backed out of the confined space. Her sweater had ridden slightly and he glimpsed the smooth arch of her spine.

She was some woman, he decided, so unlike any other he had ever known. Not just her physical strength — he had immediately been aware of her firm, athletic build — but it was her inner strength seemingly fuelled by some personal hatred that intrigued and excited him. So unlike his common-law wife with whom he lived in Donegal, a waifish, pale-faced girl with the dark eyes of a frightened rabbit. Finola had perpetrated acts of terrorism, too, but almost reluctantly and certainly fearfully.

Not so Clodagh Dougan. She was a woman driven, possessed.

Even after the shock of her father’s death, when she arrived back at the farmhouse with Muldoon, her tears had already dried and he had not seen them again since. It was as though the tragedy had spurred her on and she had urged him to drop the plans that Hugh had laid for a campaign of smaller explosions and go for a big one. Urged him? The thought brought an invisible smile to McGirl’s lips. Urged was hardly the word. Clodagh Dougan had demanded. To hear her speak to him, you would have hardly thought he was Pat McGirl, seasoned commander of the Northern Brigade.

He had been irked by her manner but also beguiled by the passion of her plea and that strange expression in her eyes. Within hours he was in contact with Donny Fitzpatrick, supporting her request to go for an altogether more significant target. A day later, after an extraordinary meeting of the inner caucus of the Army Council, they had received the coded signal to go ahead.

And this was it. Three thousand pounds of it. Almost one and a half tons.

No, McGirl decided, Clodagh Dougan was an enigma. And by Christ he wanted her… He thought again of the folded newspaper in his pocket and wondered how she would react. The prospect intrigued him. He would have to choose his moment.

She dropped down from the tractor unit, landing solidly on her feet and brushed down her rumpled sweater. Almost immediately she saw the curl of smoke and the cigarette butt burning between his fingers. He saw the look of disbelief flash in her eyes as she walked straight across to where he stood.

Her voice was low and angry. ‘Christ, what is this with you, McGirl? Some sort of macho thing? Put it out.’

He reacted with deliberate languor, taunting her, before dropping the stub to the concrete and crushing it underfoot. ‘What’s the matter, Clodie, nerves playing you up?’

She looked closely into his eyes. ‘I can do without the schoolboy bravado. Save it for when you want to show off to your mates back home.’

He raised his hands in surrender, his patronising grin deepening into a mocking smile.

Clodagh ignored him and turned away, calling out to Muldoon and Liam Doran: ‘It’s all set, so don’t touch anything. We leave in one hour. Nine o’clock.’

The men nodded grimly and watched as she left the barn for the car.

‘Some woman,’ Doran murmured.

Muldoon grinned cheerfully. ‘You’d better believe it, Liam. That one has icewater running in her veins, so she does.’

‘Still, wouldn’t mind giving it one,’ Doran admitted ruefully.

‘You?’ McGirl said. ‘She’d eat you for breakfast and I doubt she’d bother to spit out the bones. Now get your mind back on the job. Check over the bikes.’

‘We’ve checked them.’

‘Then check them again.’ McGirl turned and followed Clodagh into the churned mud of the yard, shutting the big doors on the awesome juggernaut bomb.’

She was waiting impatiently at the wheel as he climbed into the passenger seat. Without a word she let out the clutch and began the brief journey back to the rented house. An antagonistic silence hung between them.

When they arrived, she went upstairs to her room and left McGirl alone to make himself a pot of tea and watch the television. There was an old comedy he’d seen a dozen times before; a banal game show. He wasn’t in the mood and turned it off. From the stairs he heard the clank of metal and soft grunts of exertion coming from Clodagh’s room.

On impulse he poured a cup for her and took it up., Her door was ajar. He could see her standing before a full length mirror, staring at her own image in denim jeans and an unfussy black brassiere, legs planted firmly apart as she jerked on the dumbbells, each in turn, her biceps swelling hard to meet the challenge.

So that was why she looked so good. He’d assumed the demand for a set of weights at the house had been for Hughie Dougan to continue the fitness regime he’d followed in the Kesh. He’d been wrong. Judging by the sinuous muscles in her back and shoulders, he guessed she weighed maybe two stone more than she looked.

‘Had your eyeful, McGirl?’ She’d seen him in the mirror.

He nudged the door open with his knee. ‘Couldn’t knock, hands full. Thought you’d like some tea.’

Her expression softened momentarily; she made no attempt to cover herself, he noticed, and he tried to avoid looking at her breasts.

‘Thanks.’ She took one of the cups.

‘Couldn’t help noticing…‘he ventured warily ‘…you look good. ‘Keep yourself in shape.’

‘I try.’

‘Look good enough to be in that stupid TV show. You know, Gladiators. I like strong-looking women.’

She regarded him coolly over the lip of the cup as she drank. ‘Is that your clumsy attempt at a pass?’

He felt his anger flare. Why was she always trying to belittle him? And why, although he hid it well, did he always feel like an awkward, tongue-tied adolescent in her presence?

‘It was meant to be a compliment.’

‘Don’t bother.’

McGirl put down his tea on the dressing table. ‘What is it with you? Is it just me, or do you hate all men?’

Her eyes hardened. ‘Something like that.’

He was frustrated, hunting for the right words. ‘I–I mean, you’re an attractive woman, you must be nearly thirty… But no husband, no boyfriend…’

‘Know all about me, do you?’

‘The security section checks everyone. There’s no man in your life, never has been.’

Was that a pitying smile on her face? ‘It’s what all men think, isn’t it? Spinsters and widow women. Christ, she must be frustrated, begging for it. Either that or she must be a dyke.’

McGirl’s cheeks coloured; somehow that prospect hadn’t crossed his mind at all.

‘Well, I’ll tell you, Pat — ‘ The artificial intimacy of using his first name had the opposite effect, distancing the two of them. ‘- if I’m lonely and frustrated, I do exactly what you do. I jack off, all right?’

She might just as well have smacked him full-square in the face. He blustered: ‘No, Clodie, I didn’t mean that, I wouldn’t…’

‘Well, now you know.’ Her patronising tone now had an edge of anger. ‘And for your information, I did have a boyfriend once.’

But he was hardly listening. ‘God, Clodie, is it such a sin for a man to fancy you?’

His words jolted her. Maybe it was because she had allowed no man to get close to her, that she hadn’t heard such words for so long. For a second she felt wrong-footed, embarrassed at the way she’d treated him. ‘I’m sorry. You hit a raw spot, that’s all. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time.’

He smiled uneasily, fished in his pocket for his cigarettes. Women usually fell at his feet; he wasn’t used to this. He tried to regain control of the situation. ‘Want to tell me about it?’

‘Not really.’

He laid his neck on the block. ‘I’d like to know.’ And waited for her to cut it off.

To his surprise she didn’t. Instead she sat on the edge of the bed, nursing the hot cup in her hands. It was the first time he’d seen her look remotely vulnerable. She didn’t look at him but at her own reflection in the mirror when she spoke, her voice low and distant. ‘There was a serious love in my life once, around ten

— nearly eleven years ago. I was studying at the Poly and I didn’t have much time for boys. My father had been away in the Kesh since I was ten and all I thought of was working with him when he came out. Together we’d be the deadliest bombing team ever

— to pay the Brit bastards for what they’d done to Ireland. What they’d done to Da, taken him away from me. We’d always been so close until the soldiers came and the troubles began again. It had started as a silly dream, but by the time Da was due out after nine years, that dream had become reality. I had exercise books full of ideas and designs for TPUs and booby traps hidden in my locker — you wouldn’t believe it. And all my girlfriends could do at the time was drool over film stars and pop singers.’

But seeing her, listening to her talk, McGirl could believe it. Could visualise the life of the strange introverted daughter of a bomber, desperate to avenge the years of happiness they’d stolen from her and her father. He didn’t interrupt, just sipped at his tea in silence.

‘I’d told Da about it, but of course he never realised how serious I was. Parents don’t, I suppose. Then, maybe a year before he was due out, I met this guy in the canteen at the Poly. Chris Walsh, he said his name was. He seemed a lot older than me at the time. Twenty-five, he said, but I’m sure it was more. A mature student, wanted to be an architect. His parents had emigrated to England from Armagh when he was young and he’d been brought up in London. He had hardly a trace of an Ulster accent. He’d been well-educated and got A-Levels, but hadn’t been interested in university then, or so he said. He’d joined the British Army as an officer cadet, but then became disillusioned and left and spent years bumming around the world, working his passage or staying with families of rich friends. He moved in those sorts of circles. Then he began to realise he wasn’t getting anywhere or going anywhere. He decided then to go back to university and get a degree; it was easier for a mature student to get a place in Belfast.

‘He was very charming, very worldly-wise. Quite persistent in getting to know me, wouldn’t take no for an answer. I guess I was pretty flattered by his attentions really. He was far older than most boys I knew; we could talk about anything. We ended up living together in his digs for three months. For the first time ever I felt I could trust someone enough to tell him about my secret plans I’d only ever told Da. Chris laughed at me, told me I was crazy we ended up talking about Irish history and arguing endlessly about the rights and wrongs of what the English had done. At one point he almost had me convinced I was wrong. For the first time thoughts of wedding bells and prams came to the fore. Then Da was released from the Kesh; he and Chris actually met once, seemed to get on all right. Then Da did his runner across the border.

‘He managed to keep in touch with me, but I never told anyone, not even Chris. But then we found out later that Jimmy Coyle knew what Da was planning to do and blabbed to the RUC when they took him in for routine questioning.’

There was no emotion in her voice as she mentioned the man she had killed as he attempted to make love to her. Fitzpatrick had related the story to McGirl. It had all the makings of Provo folklore, had earned her the nickname of’Praying Mantis’ behind her back. But more in awe than with any lack of respect for her action.

‘At the time I didn’t see the connection, but soon after Chris started asking questions about my father. Where was he, what was he doing? I remember, I was actually touched by his interest, his concern.’ She shook her head at the memory. ‘So bloody stupid! But then I suppose I was still very young. Just nineteen.’

It was intensely quiet in the bedroom, the lapse in Clodagh’s story forming an awkward silence. McGirl’s voice was hoarse. ‘So you told him?’

She inhaled slowly, deeply, and shut her eyes. ‘I told him. I thought not much at the time, but obviously it was enough. My father was caught at the border a few days later. And after a week or so, Chris just upped and disappeared. I came back to his digs one night to find him and all his things gone. Only later, much later, I realised he must have been a British spy. Trying to infiltrate any up-and-coming Pro vies on the campus. He appeared to have fingered two other male students, too, but they were already connected with the movement.’

‘What happened to you?’ McGirl asked.

One corner of her lips curled in a sardonic half-smile. ‘Nothing. For a while RUC and army patrols made a nuisance at our home with their census checks and once I was taken in for interrogation. But they had nothing on me; I hadn’t done anything. They had Da back behind bars and that was enough. They probably didn’t put too much credence in Chris Walsh’s reports.’

‘And Walsh, what happened to him?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘And he’s the reason you hate the Brits so much?’

‘How many reasons do I need?’

Was this the moment, he wondered? He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the folded newspaper. ‘Here’s another one.’

‘What?’

‘Read it. Today’s Evening Standard.’

Slowly she spread the tabloid across her lap, taking in the headlines, her head bowed slightly to read the text. She said nothing as she scanned down the column, her mouth moving in a silent curse. A small vein throbbed at her temple.

McGirl said: ‘They set us up, Clodie. It’s all there.’

She looked across at him and he could see the shock and anger in her eyes.

‘They as good as executed your da. But it could just as easily have been you.’

Her voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘And I fell for it.’

‘We all fell for it. The English up to their old tricks again. They’re the most devious bastards on God’s earth, so they are.’ He played his ace. ‘But this time we know the individual responsible.’

‘Who?’

‘You can read it between the lines. It’s the current SATO in the Six Counties. The man they brought over to London when they started running scared. Major Tom Harrison.’

‘I remember the name, he was the one who gave the interview.’

He nodded. ‘The man who set us up. And there’s another reason for you to remember that name. Something you probably don’t know. It was discovered by the security section when they reopened your father’s file when you approached us through Killy Tierney. The man whose evidence actually got the conviction was the ATO who defused a boobytrapped device your da set. The man wasn’t identified at the trial, but we placed the name. At the time he was just Captain Tom Harrison.’

Her eyes widened, not quite sure that she believed what she was hearing. ‘The same man?’

He nodded. ‘Small world.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked, but was sure she knew the answer. It was clear in his eyes which occasionally lingered on her body when he thought she wasn’t looking. Irritated with herself, she stood suddenly and, picking up her sweater from the bed, slipped it over her head.

McGirl was saying: ‘It occurred to me we could do something about it.’

‘Like what? We’d never be able to get anywhere near him.’

Slowly, tantalisingly, he said: ‘Would you be interested if I said I think I know a way?’

She had picked up the automatic pistol from the bedside table and was checking the magazine. One eyebrow arched as she looked directly at him. ‘Interested in what exactly?’

‘Interested in doing something about it,’ he said.

Interested in letting me get inside your knickers, he thought. Then realised suddenly that she knew he was deliberately trying to get close to her, draw her into a conspiracy. He could see the knowing, disdainful look in her eyes.

She said: ‘You know damn well I’m interested if I can get even with the bastard. What do you know about him?’

‘Enough. And he’d be a legitimate target.’

She slipped the pistol into her waistband, pulled a short leather jacket over her shoulders. ‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow. Right now we’ve got work to do.’

He nodded his agreement, quietly satisfied at his progress.

‘Just one thing, McGirl. You’re married, right?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘With a child?’

He didn’t answer; there was no need. She’d made her point.

The matter wasn’t raised again before they drove back to the barn. Muldoon and Doran were waiting, the two motorcycles checked and loaded aboard the red Transit, the sides liveried with cheap plastic signs for a genuine motorcycle retailer in London. They all pored over the map for one last time, confirming the routes and synchronising watches.

Clodagh and McGirl opened the barn doors then and watched the van go. The next thirty minutes dragged by, then they climbed up into the high cab of the dumper truck. As the enormous engine thundered into life, the entire building trembled.

This would be a night London would never forget.