Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

“You’re living in a fantasy world, C.W. Do you honestly think you can be happy at home when you’re so unhappy at work? You can only bottle up your frustration for so long before you reach breaking point. By then you’ll have come to resent Carmen so much for having put you in that situation in the first place. And she’ll resent you for not having confided in her. But by then it’ll be too late. Your marriage will be over.”

Whitlock got to his feet, his eyes blazing. “I don’t need a lecture on marriage, especially not from you.”

“Then get your act together and tell Carmen how you feel,” Graham retorted. “You owe it to her just as much as you do to yourself.”

Whitlock’s hands balled into fists at his sides. Graham had never seen Whitlock so angry. He knew it was an anger that stemmed from frustration. But he still believed he was right to tell Whitlock how he felt.

“You let me worry about the state of my marriage,” Whitlock said finally as he strode angrily to the door. “There’s a meeting in my room at six-thirty tonight. Tell Sabrina. And Eastman.”

“Sure,” Graham replied gruffly.

Fiona Gallagher was wearing a pair of baggy patched jeans, a loose-fitting sweatshirt and her favorite black trilby to hide her cropped blonde hair when she entered St. Pancras Station. She wore no make-up and carried a battered rucksack over her left shoulder. It was imperative that she be as inconspicuous as possible and, dressed as she was, she knew she would be taken for just another student waiting for a train. She went to Casey Jones, ordered a coffee, then retreated to a corner table to wait for Mullen. She looked at her watch. Three twenty-two. The rendezvous was for three-thirty. And, knowing him, he would be late. Five, perhaps ten minutes. Never more. Just enough to irritate someone as punctual as she was. She opened the copy of the Guardian she’d bought earlier. She despised it for its quasi-socialist views but it was a favorite with the students and that meant it would add credibility to her cover. She laid it out on the table and began reading the lead story.

They had vacated the chalet early that morning, using the skis which had been left for them in the helicopter. She had been skiing since her teens whereas Mullen had only started in his twenties. It showed. They had taken a taxi from Les Paccots to an underground car park in Lausanne where a car had been left for them. The keys were taped to the underside of the front bumper. Mullen had driven them to Cointrin Airport in Geneva where they had caught a mid-morning flight back to London. They traveled separately on the plane, having previously agreed to meet up again at St. Pancras that afternoon …

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

She looked up, startled by the voice. Then a grin spread across her face. “I never thought I’d live to see the day that Hugh Mullen actually arrived early for a meeting.”

Mullen chuckled and placed his coffee and cheeseburger on the table. He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, torn at the knees, an Irish rugby jersey and a red bandana tied around his forehead.

“I like the duds,” she said, appraising Mullen’s clothes.

“Thanks,” Mullen replied, sitting down. “You did say formal wear, didn’t you?”

She smiled, picked up his cheeseburger, and took a generous bite before handing it back to him.

“Are you sure you can spare this?” Mullen said, holding up his half-eaten burger. “Sean always said you had a big mouth. This proves it.” He added milk and sugar to his coffee then took a sip before sitting back, his elbows resting on the back of the bench. “I’m sure looking forward to going back home. I’ll need a week just to catch up on my beauty sleep.”

“We’re not going home,” she said, her face suddenly becoming serious.

“Oh God, no. What’s turned up now?”

Fiona took a manila envelope from the rucksack and placed it on the table. “I went to the usual drop this morning. There was an envelope for me. Inside was the key to the locker Sean always uses at Victoria Station. This was in the locker.”

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that it contains a couple of tickets for the next ferry out of Liverpool.”

“No such luck.” She removed a driver’s license from the envelope and gave it to Mullen. “Your name’s Daniel McKenna. I’m Marie Russell. We’re both from Belfast. We’ve come down to London in your Toyota van for the weekend.”

Mullen studied the license then slipped it into his pocket. She took a sheet of paper from the envelope and handed it to him. He put on his glasses. It was a typewritten directive signed by two members of the Army Council. He recognized one of the signatures: Kevin Brady. His eyes narrowed in disbelief as he read through it.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he said softly after handing the paper back to her.

“On the contrary. I think it makes perfect sense. Are you going to eat that cheeseburger?”

Mullen shook his head. “How can you think of food at a time like this?”

“Because I’m hungry.” She looked around. “Come on, we can talk in the van. I left it in a car park not far from here.”

Mullen picked up his plastic coffee cup and led the way to the door as Fiona hurried after him, scoffing down the remainder of the cheeseburger. They walked to the car park in silence. She unlocked the passenger door and climbed in.

“That was an order to assassinate Senator Jack Scoby,” Mullen said after he had got in behind the wheel and placed the cup on the dashboard. “We both know that the IRA never target foreign diplomats. And you say it makes sense to you. Well, would you like to share your reasoning with me? Because I’m damned if I can see any sense in it.”

“You just said, the IRA never target foreign diplomats,” Fiona repeated. “And that’s the beauty of it. Who will the authorities blame when Scoby is assassinated?”

“Come on, Fiona, it won’t take the authorities long to put two and two together, especially as Scoby’s been shouting his mouth off about the IRA during his recent election campaign,” Mullen retorted.

“The authorities may well suspect the IRA but there won’t be any evidence linking us with the murder. And if they do accuse us in the Press you can be sure the Army Council will put out an immediate disclaimer, distancing the Revolutionary Army from any involvement. And they are also sure to contact senior Noraid members in the US to assure them that the IRA had no part in Scoby’s murder. That way our support won’t be harmed over there.”

“But why target him? Shouting his mouth off about Noraid is one thing but he knows he can’t shutdown our operation over there. It would be unconstitutional. We have the right, as a political organization, to collect funds from our supporters in America.”

“The Army Council obviously think differently,” Fiona replied with a shrug. “And they make the policies. We’re only here to carry out those policies to the best of our ability.”

“I still don’t like it,” Mullen said.

“This has obviously been worked out well in advance. And as it said in the directive, it was originally Sean’s operation. I think it’s a great honor that they’ve asked us to carry it out in Sean’s absence. And I know we can do it. But I’d understand if you wanted to back out.”

“You’d do it by yourself?”

“If I had to,” she replied somberly. “But I’d still prefer to work with a partner. Especially one I can trust.”

“You know I’ll be there,” Mullen replied. “What have I got to lose apart from my life?”

“Ever the optimist,” she said with a smile. “But we’re not going to die. We’ll hit Scoby and be back in Ireland before the weekend’s out. And the Army Council are going to be waiting to welcome us back with open arms. Who knows, there may even be a promotion in it for us.”