Алистер Маклин: Dead Halt

“Me and my big mouth.” She shrugged. “It’s not as if I’ve got much else to do for the next couple of hours.”

“We’ll make a Giants fan out of you yet.”

“I can hardly wait,” she replied, pulling a face.

“What do you think, C.W.?” Graham’s smile faded when he saw the consternation etched on Whitlock’s face. “C.W.?”

Whitlock snapped out of his reverie and grinned ruefully at Graham. “Sorry, Mike, I was far away. What was that you said?”

“It doesn’t matter. Are you OK?”

“Sure,” Whitlock replied. But he knew he hadn’t fooled either of them. He exhaled deeply and sat back in his chair. “When I spoke to the Colonel earlier on the phone I told him that I wanted to be transferred back into the field. I’m just not cut out for management. He was great about it. He said we could finalize the details once I got back to New York. But I haven’t told Carmen yet. She’s going to throw a fit when she finds out.”

“Don’t judge her too quickly, C.W.”

“Come on, Sabrina, you know how she feels about all this. She wanted me out of the field because she feared for my safety. It got to a point where she threatened to leave because she couldn’t bear the anxiety every time I went off on another assignment. Why else do you think I took a management job? It was the one chance to save the marriage. And it’s worked. So far.” Whitlock indicated Graham beside him. “Mike and I discussed this over the weekend. And he was right. It was a short-term solution. I can’t be unhappy at work and happy at home. Sooner or later something would have to give. And I could feel the tension rising these last few days. The three of you were in the thick of the action while I was stuck by the phone writing God knows how many reports to fax through to the UN. I’m not cut out to be a desk jockey. I can’t live the lie anymore. But how am I going to convince Carmen?”

“Tell her what you’ve just told us,” Graham said. “From what you’ve told me about her I’m pretty sure she’ll understand the dilemma you’ve been in since you left the field. The main thing is you’ve tried management but you just couldn’t hack it. And you did it for her. What else can she ask of you? That you grin and bear it for the sake of your marriage? That’s no formula to save a marriage. You’ve got to be honest with her, C.W. It’s the only way.

“I know what you’re going through,” Graham continued. “Carrie and I went through exactly the same thing. She also wanted me out of the field when I was with Delta. And every time she raised the subject, I would refuse to talk about it. There wasn’t anything to talk about as far as I was concerned. It was my life. My decision. And I was damned if I was going to push a pen for the rest of my days. Well, it finally got to the point where we had to confront our feelings. And we did. No holds barred. And I’ll tell you something, we learned more about each other that day than we had in the previous four years of marriage. It sure cleared the air. And it also saved our marriage, I’ve no doubt of that.”

“Thanks,” Whitlock said at length. “I feel better for having talked this through.”

“I’ll bill you,” Graham said with a smile.

Sabrina suddenly noticed Marsh standing in the entrance of the cafeteria. “Don’t look now, but we’ve got company.”

Marsh greeted them then pulled up a chair and sat down. “You should have given me a bell at the Yard, I’d have brought you over here myself.”

“I think we’ve caused enough trouble as it is,” Whitlock replied. “We thought it best if we just slipped out quietly and went back to the States.”

“I’m glad I caught you anyway. I just wanted to thank you for what you did for me.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Whitlock said. “Eastman was the one who cleared your name.”

“What’s the latest on the son-of-a-bitch?” Graham asked.

“He’s still being held at Brixton Remand but it’s my guess he’ll walk, especially in light of Scoby’s drug activities.”

“Any more news on Brady?” Whitlock asked.

Marsh shook his head. “Nothing’s been seen of him since he left the hotel.”

“So it’s conceivable that the IRA could already have killed him and dumped his body in a ditch somewhere?” Graham said.

“It’s possible, yes. But I think Keith’s seriously underestimated Brady’s support inside the Army Council. Sure, this whole operation’s damaged the IRA’s standing abroad and it’s going to take a lot of hard talking by the Army Council to reassure their supporters, especially those over in America, but it’s far from being the mortal blow the Press are maintaining in the papers this morning. The IRA will bounce back from it. They always do. And I believe there’s even a chance that Brady might come out of this unscathed.

“But if he is killed then I’d be more inclined to think that the order would have come from dissatisfied members within the Army Council rather than from the body as a whole. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

The flight was announced over the public address system. They shook hands with Marsh then picked up their overnight bags and made for the boarding gate. Marsh waited until they had disappeared from view then headed back across the foyer to the main doors. His work wasn’t over yet …

Seamus Finnegan had been the landlord of the Castle Tavern in Carrickfergus for over twenty-five years. He was a staunch Republican who listed prominent Sinn Fein councillors and senior members of the IRA amongst his close friends. Although the premises were used regularly for Republican meetings and for harboring wanted men from the authorities, he had never been convicted of anything more serious than a speeding offense. Such was the frustration amongst the local RUC that they now regularly raided the pub, claiming to have received an anonymous tip-off that there was a fugitive on the premises. And they invariably chose Saturday nights when the pub was full. The previous night had been no exception. And, as on all the other occasions, they had gone away empty-handed.

Sunday mornings were always quiet. The regulars would converge on the pub after lunch for their customary pint and a game of dominoes. Finnegan glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. It would be another half hour before the first of the regulars began to arrive. There were only four customers in the pub, all seated at the bar watching a recorded game of football on the television. Their glasses were full. His wife had called down five minutes earlier to tell him that his lunch was ready. He decided to go upstairs and fetch it before it went cold. As he turned away from the television screen the door opened and a figure entered the room, his head bowed against the driving rain which had been lashing Carrickfergus since the early hours of the morning. He closed the door behind him and looked up slowly at Finnegan.

“Dear mother of God,” Finnegan muttered in disbelief.

Kevin Brady turned down the lapels of his leather jacket and crossed to the far end of the counter, out of earshot of the other customers. “Good to see you, Seamus,” he announced in his deadpan voice.

Finnegan pumped Brady’s hand vigorously. “And you, lad. How are you?”

“Bearing up,” Brady replied, running his fingers through his matted hair.

“The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since that American senator was assassinated in Dugaill yesterday afternoon. The Army Council were asking after you. I suppose they assumed that as you grew up in this neighborhood, you’d probably come back here sooner or later. You want to talk to them, lad. Put their minds at ease.”

“I will,” Brady replied.

“Why not come upstairs? There’s a hot meal on the table. You look like you could use it.”