Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” Navarro snarled.

“I can’t because I never authorized it.”

“Then who did?”

“We don’t know that,” Brady replied.

“So what you’re saying is that you’ve got a renegade cell running around trying to kill Scoby?”

“It would seem so.”

“And what do you intend to do about it?” Navarro yelled.

“We’re looking into it. Now, if that’s all–”

“No it’s not all,” Navarro cut in angrily. “You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously, Brady. Well, let me put it to you another way. We know of at least ten of your operatives who are currently in hiding over here in the United States. Some of your top field operatives, I believe. As of this morning, contracts have been put out on all of them. We also have them under twenty-four-hour surveillance. So if anything should happen to Scoby, all ten would be hit simultaneously. But that would only be the beginning. All future arms shipments from the United States, bound for Ireland, would be frozen. Then your Noraid offices around the country would be mysteriously fire-bombed. Then your Noraid employees would be targeted, their families threatened, their property vandalized. I could go on indefinitely. But I think you get the picture, don’t you?”

“I get the picture. Scoby must be worth a lot of money to you if you’re prepared to go to these lengths to protect him.”

“More than you could ever imagine. Call me if there’re any further developments.”

The line went dead. Brady replaced the receiver then drank the remainder of the whiskey.

“Why are the Mafia suddenly so interested in Scoby?” Kane asked.

“Why indeed?” Brady replied thoughtfully. “He’s obviously worth a considerable amount of money to them.”

“And if Gallagher takes him out, they lose it all?”

“So do we.”

Kane frowned but didn’t push for an explanation. He knew Brady would tell him what he needed to know. In his own time. “So how do we go about trying to find her?”

“We don’t,” Brady replied.

Kane frowned. “What do you mean?”

“When you’re drowning, you’ll grab hold of any lifeline if there’s a chance it’ll save you.” Brady picked up the receiver then looked around at Kane.

“Close the door behind you on your way out, Sammy.”

Kane knew better than to argue. He left the room, closing the door behind him.

Palmer opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, lit one then sat back in his chair and stared at the two telephones on his desk. One red. One white. The white phone was his outside line which had remained virtually silent for most of the day. He had drafted in three senior officers to deal with the deluge of Press inquiries he knew would follow the attempt on Scoby’s life earlier that afternoon. Scotland Yard’s switchboard had indeed been besieged by reporters desperate to get a story for the next edition. But he had given the officers strict instructions to stonewall all inquiries. He would give a press conference later in the afternoon.

The red phone was his scrambler line. He had rarely been off it in the last two hours. He had already spoken to Kolchinsky on two separate occasions. The first call had been outwardly cordial, but tense. Neither of them was prepared to shoulder the blame for what had happened. The second call, an hour later, had been franker and more constructive. By then they’d both been briefed in greater detail by their respective operatives and were able to reflect more clearly on the situation. They had decided that they would stand together. After all, it had been a joint operation from the start. A responsibility shared …

The Police Commissioner had rung demanding that the results of a full inquiry were to be on his desk no later than Monday morning. Palmer had been quick to assure him that a detailed investigation into the incident was already under way.

Palmer rubbed his eyes wearily and reached for the cigarette smouldering in the ashtray. The white phone rang. He groaned then reached over and picked up the receiver.

It was one of the officers he’d assigned to fend off the Press. “I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but I’ve got someone on the other line who claims to be Kevin Brady. He insists on speaking to you.”

“What?” Palmer said in amazement. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, sir. Only that he wouldn’t speak to anyone other than you.”

“Have you put a trace on the call?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Put him through.” Palmer waited until he heard the connection then immediately transferred the call to his scrambled line. He picked up the red receiver. “Commander Palmer speaking.”

“This is Brady,” came the impassive reply. “I assume we’re speaking on a secure line?”

“Of course,” Palmer replied, a suspicion still lingering in his mind that the caller may yet turn out to be some ingenious Press reporter out to get an exclusive for his paper. He knew only too well the lengths they would go to in order to scoop their rivals.

“I’m sure you’ve already put a trace on this call so I’ll get straight to the point. We want to find Fiona Gallagher as much as you do.”

“So your Press officer said in his statement to the media,” Palmer replied contemptuously. “But frankly I don’t buy it for one minute.”

“If you want to talk about it further I’ll be in Warrenpoint tonight. It’s a town close to the border with Southern Ireland. The Stills Hotel. Eight o’clock. Ask at the desk for Pat Gorman. Come alone. And unarmed. And don’t waste your time by sending in any of your strong-arm boys because I won’t be there until I know the area’s been declared safe. The ball’s in your court, Palmer.”

Palmer slowly replaced the receiver. Moments later the telephone rang again. The call had been traced to Keady in County Armagh, but there hadn’t been time to pinpoint its exact location.

Palmer stubbed out the cigarette then lit another one. There was no doubt in his mind now that he had been speaking to Kevin Brady. Michael Nelson had been one of the anti-terrorist squad’s top undercover operatives in Belfast in the late eighties. He had disappeared suddenly and a week later his body had been found in an alley in west Belfast. He had been tortured then shot in the back of the head. His murder had never been solved. Nelson was his undercover name. It had never been revealed to the Press that his real name was Patrick Gorman …

He dialed the Grosvenor House Hotel and asked the switchboard operator to put him through to Whitlock’s room. It was urgent.

Half an hour later, Whitlock was sitting in Palmer’s office.

“It could be a trap,” Whitlock said when Palmer had finished telling him about Brady’s call.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Palmer replied. “But what if he’s on the level? What if he’s genuinely as much in the dark about this as we are? More importantly, what if he knows something that could lead us to her?”

“And what if you’re wrong?”

“I know I’m an IRA target. It goes with the job. But I’ve got a feeling about this. It goes against everything I’ve learnt in this business, but I think he’s on the level.”

“Was there anything in his voice to suggest that?”

Palmer managed a rare smile. “You obviously don’t know Kevin Brady. He never shows any emotion, either on his face or in his voice. It’s uncanny. You’ll see.”

“I’ll see?” Whitlock retorted suspiciously.

“I’d like you to fly to Warrenpoint with me later this afternoon. I know you’re supposed to be attending the banquet at Winfield House tonight but I’m sure your operatives can cover for you. If, as I believe, Fiona Gallagher is the last remaining member of this cell still alive, then it’s hardly likely that she will try anything at the ambassador’s house tonight. No, it’s my bet that she’ll try and take the senator out at the church tomorrow.” Palmer tapped the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray. “Of course the decision’s entirely up to you whether you accompany me or not.”