Stephen Leather - The Bombmaker

She was equally certain that Green-eyes wasn't the prime mover in the building of the bomb. She was working for someone else, someone who was funding the operation and organising it from a distance. But who? Whoever had recruited Green-eyes must have known how fanatical she was, and how determined she'd be to see the bomb explode. That presumably meant that whoever was backing her also wanted to see the bomb go off. Andy had meant what she'd said about the war being over. The IRA was set to achieve virtually all its aims without compromising its stance on decommissioning; they had nothing to gain by restarting the conflict. Andy doubted that Green-eyes would allow herself to be used by a Protestant terrorist organisation, so who did that leave? Terrorists from outside the United Kingdom? Arabs maybe? The Serbs? Iraq? Iran? Syria? Libya? Someone with the resources to pay for the equipment, the office rental, the manpower. Someone who knew about Andy's past.

Andy fastened the metal tie around the top of the black plastic bag and carried it over to the pile of other bags containing treated fertiliser. She threw it on top. The ammonium nitrate was totally inert at this stage. Even when it was mixed with the rest of the ingredients, it could still be handled in total safety. It was a powerful explosive, about half the strength of commercial dynamite, but it required a very heavy charge to detonate it. That was what Andy was clinging to, her last hope that the bomb wouldn't go off. Without the necessary detonator, the pressure wave wouldn't be powerful enough to detonate all the explosive. It might explode, but only partially, with the energy from the initial detonation scattering the fertiliser mixture. The building would be damaged, but not destroyed. There'd be flying glass and debris but it would be nothing in comparison to a successful detonation. So far Green-eyes hadn't mentioned a detonator, and Andy was praying that the woman didn't fully appreciate how critical it was to have the right type.

Green-eyes turned around and rubbed her knuckles into the small of her back. 'Is that the lot?' she asked Andy.

'That's it,' said Andy.

The Wrestler and the Runner were standing by the water-cooler, large, damp patches of sweat under the armpits of their overalls. It was in the high eighties, even with the thermostat set to its lowest level and the fans full on. As Andy watched, the Wrestler took off his shoulder holster and draped it on top of the cooler.

Andy went over to the line of ovens and switched them off.

'Now what?' asked Green-eyes.

Andy gestured at the cans of diesel oil. 'We mix the fertiliser with the aluminium powder and the diesel oil. But you don't want to do that until the last moment. Until you're ready for the last phase.'

'Why?' asked Green-eyes suspiciously.

'It starts to break down. Gives off hydrogen as a byproduct. It's a slow process, but the hydrogen is explosive, so you don't want it hanging around too long.'

Green-eyes looked at her watch.

'Okay. We start mixing tomorrow.'

– «»-«»-«»Egan kept the Ford Scorpio below seventy as he drove towards London. The ferry crossing from Dun Laoghaire had been uneventful, if a little choppy, but Egan was a seasoned sailor and had managed a hearty meal in one of the restaurants before they'd docked at Holyhead.

He hadn't expected any problems – checks on travellers between Ireland and the United Kingdom, were perfunctory at best – but he hadn't even glimpsed a Customs officer or policeman as he drove off the ferry. Not that Egan would have been worried if he had been pulled in for a random check – the Semtex explosive and detonators were well hidden within a secret compartment inside the petrol tank. The only way they could be discovered was if the tank were dismantled, and that was unlikely in the extreme. Any smuggling, be it drugs or arms, was generally into Ireland, not out of it.

Egan had taken the explosive from a farmer in Dundalk who had been put in charge of an IRA arms cache back in the early eighties. It was part of a consignment sent from Libya, and had been buried in a plastic dustbin swathed in black polythene. The farmer and his wife had dug up the dustbin as Egan had stood over them with his Browning. He'd taken only as much as he needed – six kilograms. And a pack of Mark 4 detonators. The rest had gone back in the bin and into the ground, along with the bodies of the farmer and his wife.

– «»-«»-«»Liam Denham looked around the office and nodded appreciatively. 'They certainly look after you, Patsy.'

Patsy sat down in the high-backed leather chair and folded her arms across the blotter on the rosewood desk. Her back was to a large window with an impressive view over the river, looking east towards Waterloo station. There were several oil paintings on the walls, portraits of old men in wigs, resplendent in massive gilt frames, and the carpet was a rich blue and so thick that it threatened to engulf Denham's battered Hush Puppies. 'Don't be ridiculous, Liam. This isn't mine.'

'Even so…' said Denham, settling into one of two wing-backed armchairs that faced the desk. 'It's a damn sight more impressive than my old shoe box.' Patsy gave him a severe look and he held up his hands to placate her. 'I'm just happy that you're doing so well. It must be satisfying to be given the necessary resources to do the job.' He gestured at one of the paintings. 'That there would probably have paid my staff's overtime bill for a year.'

'Special Branch, I seem to recall, was never kept wanting,' said Patsy. 'How's Hayes?'

'He's in the canteen with Ramsey. Good lad, Ramsey. One of the new breed, I suppose?'

'He's not Oxbridge, if that's what you mean. But then, Liam, neither was I. Anyway, let's keep to the business at hand, shall we? The phone divert's in place, and if she calls again, GCHQ will track it. I reckon it'll turn out to be a mobile, so we're not going to be able to get an accurate fix, but it should narrow it down for us.'

'We're assuming London?'

Patsy sighed and ran her fingers around the blotter. 'I don't think we can, Liam. My gut feeling is yes, it'll be the capital, but we'll both have egg on our faces if they blow up Manchester, won't we?' Denham took his packet of cigarettes out and showed it to Patsy. 'They're not my lungs, and it's not my office,' she said. Denham lit up and inhaled gratefully. It had been three hours since he'd last had a cigarette. Patsy picked up a mobile phone and passed it over to Denham. 'It's a digital GSM,' she said. 'But it's not secure, so…'

'Mum's the word?'

Patsy smiled. 'Exactly.' Denham slipped the phone into his jacket pocket.

'Do you think the husband is up to it?' Patsy asked.

'I think so. They're going to expect him to be nervous, anyway. All he has to do is to keep her talking.' He looked around for an ashtray and Patsy pushed a crystal dish towards him. He flicked ash into it, and waited for her to continue.

'Has he asked you what we're doing to find his daughter?'

'Not yet. No.'

'That's something.'

'What are you going to tell him when he does?'

'That we're doing everything we can.'

Denham blow smoke up towards the ceiling. There were elaborate plaster carvings of fruit around the central light fitting. The only decoration in Denham's old office had been a smoke alarm missing a battery. 'And if he realises that we're not?'

'Liam, our first priority is to prevent them exploding whatever device it is that Andrea Hayes is building for them. If we make any attempt to locate the girl, they'll know we're on to them.'

'So we do nothing to find the girl?'

'There's nothing we can do, not without showing our hand.'

Denham took a long pull on his cigarette and looked at the ceiling again.

'We find them here first, then they'll tell us where the girl is,' said Patsy. 'But the converse isn't true. In fact, I'd bet money that the kidnappers in Ireland don't know the full details of what's going on here.'