Алистер Маклин - Floodgate

‘The point is well taken,’ Wieringa said. ‘Well, Mr Riordan?’

‘There’s no point in swearing that I’ll tell the truth, because any liar would say the same.’ Riordan had again risen to his menacing height, he seemed to find talking easier that way. ‘I have talked about the ninety-nine point nine per cent of good and decent people in that war-torn country who are utterly dominated by the point one per cent of those maniacal killers. Our sole objective is to eliminate this point one per cent and enable the people of Ulster to resolve their own future in an atmosphere of calm and peace and quiet and hope.’

‘Elimination?’ Wieringa said cautiously. ‘What precisely do you mean by that?’

‘We will exterminate the evil bastards on both sides. We will excise the cancer. Is that blunt enough for you?’ Riordan sat down.

‘It sounds like a high purpose,’ van Effen said. He made no attempt to disguise the contemptuous disbelief in his voice. ‘Noble and humane. Let them resolve their own future. Hardly ties in, does it, with your earlier statement that Northern Ireland will never be governed by representatives of the two communities? Has it not occurred to you that if the most conceivably rabid IRA leader were sitting in that chair he would talk exactly as you are talking now, in order to achieve the same end as you are seeking – to get the British out of Northern Ireland at all costs. What assurance do we have that you are not, in fact, that rabid IRA leader?’

‘You have none.’ This time Riordan had not risen from his chair and his voice was remarkably calm. ‘I can do no more. If you cannot see that I detest the IRA and all its manifestations, you must be blind. I am so appalled at the suggestion that I cannot easily find words to counter it.’

There was another and even longer silence, then Wieringa said: ‘I believe one calls this an impasse.’

‘Impasse, as you say,’ Riordan said. He was still seated, the time for rhetoric had apparently passed. ‘But surely there are certain salient factors that should resolve the impasse. Oostlijk–Flevoland, for instance. Leeuwarden. The Noordoost polder. Wieringermeer, Putten, Petten, Schouwen, Walcheren and others. And I did mention that we have the Royal Palace mined?’

‘The Palace?’ Wieringa said. He didn’t seem particularly overcome.

‘Tonight’s little demonstration was just that. A little demonstration. Just to prove how pathetically easy it is to circumvent your alleged security precautions.’

‘Save your breath, Riordan.’ Wieringa’s voice was curt. No ‘Mr’ this time. ‘The time for threats is past. Only moral considerations remain.’

‘Fifty-fifty,’ van Effen said.

Wieringa looked at him for some moments, then nodded.

‘My way of thinking, too. Thank you, Lieutenant. It is difficult to decide to drown one’s country on the basis of a gamble.’ He looked at Riordan. ‘I am empowered to make decisions. I will call the British ambassador. He will call the Foreign Office in London. We shall make a radio announcement – worded in a suitably cautious fashion, you understand. Those three things I can promise. The outcome of the negotiations, of course, are not for me to predict or influence. That is understood?’

‘That is understood. Thank you, Minister.’ There was no hint of triumph, not even satisfaction, in Riordan’s voice. He stood. ‘Your integrity is a byeword throughout Europe. I am content. Good-night, gentlemen.’

No one wished him goodnight in return.

After the departure of Riordan and his associates there was silence in the room until Wieringa had put through his telephone call. When he had replaced the receiver, he sipped delicately from his brandy glass, smiled and said: ‘Comments, gentlemen?’ He was a remarkably calm man.

‘It’s outrageous, disgraceful and dastardly,’ Dessens said, loudly and predictably. Now that the need for action and decision-making was over, he was all fire and fury. ‘The good name, the honour of the Netherlands lies in the dust.’

‘Better, perhaps, than that its citizens should lie under the flood-waters,’ Wieringa said. ‘Colonel?’

‘You had to consider the balance of probabilities,’ de Graaf said. ‘Your decision, sir, was not only the correct one: it was the inevitable one.’

‘Thank you, Colonel. Lieutenant?’

‘What can I usefully add, sir?’

‘Quite frankly, I don’t know. But, according to the Colonel – and it is, I must say, a most handsome admission on his part – you are closer to those villains than anyone else in Amsterdam.’ He smiled. ‘I do not, of course, use the word “closer” in a pejorative sense.’

‘Thank you, sir. I’d hoped not.’

‘You’re not really very forthcoming, are you, Lieutenant?’

‘A certain uncharacteristic diffidence, sir. I may be the senior detective-lieutenant in the city, but I’m pretty junior in this exalted company. What do you want me to be forthcoming about, sir?’

Wieringa regarded the roof and said, almost inconsequentially: ‘I had to make a pretty important decision there.’ He dropped his gaze and looked at van Effen. ‘Did you believe Riordan?’

Van Effen picked up his glass and considered it without drinking from it. He was obviously marshalling his thoughts. Then he said: ‘Four points, Minister. There are two things I believe about Riordan, one point I’m not sure whether to believe or disbelieve and a fourth where I definitely disbelieve.’

‘Ah! Hence your cryptic remark “fifty-fifty”?’

‘I suppose. First, I believe he is definitely not IRA.’

‘You do, Lieutenant? In that case, am I not entitled to ask why you pushed him?’

‘Confirmation. But I was sure before. That speech of his – that impassioned and violent denunciation of the IRA and all its methods. You’d have to be an exceptional actor to get that amount of hatred into your voice: but you’d have to be an impossibly good one to have a pulse beat like a trip-hammer in your throat.’

‘I missed that,’ Wieringa said. He looked at de Graaf and Dessens. ‘Either of you gentlemen –’ He broke off at their mute headshakes.

‘Secondly,’ continued van Effen, ‘I believe that Riordan is not the leader, the driving force, the man in charge. Why do I believe that? I can’t give a shred of evidence, of proof. But he’s too fiery, too unbalanced, too unpredictable to be a general.’

‘You wouldn’t fight under him, van Effen?’ Wieringa was half-smiling, half curious.

‘No, sir. There’s someone else. I’m certain it’s not Agnelli. I would take long odds it’s not O’Brien – he’s got sergeant-major written all over him. I’m not saying it’s Samuelson. He’s an enigma, a mystery. But his presence is totally unexplained and when any presence is as inexplicable as that then a very big explanation would seem to be called for.

‘Where I’m uncertain whether to believe his story or not, is about Northern Ireland. Riordan said his only aim was to eliminate the monsters. His voice did carry what might have been regarded as the authentic ring of sincerity and, as I’ve said, I don’t believe he’s all that good an actor.’ Van Effen sighed briefly, shook his head and sipped his brandy. ‘I know this is all rather confusing, gentlemen. Let me put it this way. I believe that he believes what he says, but I don’t believe that what he believes is necessarily true. It’s one of the reasons why I’m convinced he’s not the king-pin. Two things. He was caught outright in a flat contradiction yet appeared to be unaware that any such contradiction existed. Then he seems to be unaware that there could be three sets of fanatics around – the extremist Protestants, the extremist Catholics and the Mediators. That’s them. The Mediators could be the most irresponsibly dangerous of all. To achieve the final solution, the Mediators are prepared to drown a million. One could imagine what the final solution would be like in Ulster. No. Let me rephrase that. I can’t imagine that.’