Stephen Leather - The Bombmaker

'That's great, Liam. Job well done. Now I'd like you back here as soon as possible. The plane's waiting for you.'

'I was thinking it might be an idea if I return via Scotland. I could pop in on Micky Geraghty.'

'Do you know him?'

Denham stubbed his cigarette out on the underside of the desk. 'Never met him. I know it's not exactly on the way, but until McCormack gets back to me, I'm not going to be much use.'

Patsy was silent for a few seconds, thinking it over. 'You're right, it makes sense. You go ahead and see if you can find Geraghty. I'll speak to our transport people, ascertain where we can get you flown into, and I'll have you met there.'

'I'm a big boy, Patsy. I don't need minders.'

'It'll save time, Liam. Just think of them as drivers.'

'Aye. Okay.'

'You be careful, you hear. And Liam?'

'Yes?'

'You're not supposed to smoke in the secure communications booth. It screws up the electronics.'

Denham was still chuckling as he left the room.

– «»-«»-«»Martin's hand was trembling as he picked up the phone. He took a deep breath and put it to his ear as Carter and Fanning encouraged him with nods and urgent smiles. The counter on the digital tape recorder had already started to click off the seconds. 'Yes?' he said, his throat so dry that he could barely get the word out. Carter picked up a lightweight headset and put in on so that she could listen in on the conversation.

'Mart?' It was a man's voice. An Irish accent. 'Mart, is that you?'

It was Padraig. The strength went from Martin's legs and he sat down. He put the receiver down on the table and looked at the two MI5 agents, then shook his head.

'Shit,' said Fanning. He picked up a glass of water and drank, then walked away to look out of the window, cursing under his breath.

Martin stared down at the handset. Padraig was still speaking but Martin couldn't make out what he was saying. He put the phone to his ear. 'Jesus, Mart, say something.'

'Hiya, Padraig. Sorry. I dropped the phone.'

'Are you at home, Mart? I've been trying your mobile but it's off.'

'I haven't had time to charge it,' Martin lied. Patsy had told him to leave the mobile phone switched off so that the kidnappers couldn't use it. They'd used the home phone the first time and Patsy wanted them to use it again.

'I was calling to leave a message. I thought you were still in England.' There was a second or two of silence as Martin's partner gathered his thoughts. 'What the hell's going on, Mart? Where are you?'

Carter shook her head firmly.

'I can't tell you, Mart. I'm sorry.'

'You're still in England, yeah?'

Another shake of the head from Carter.

'I can't tell you that either, Padraig.'

'But Katie and Andy are okay, yeah?'

Martin sighed. He hated being evasive, and he hated lying, but Carter was standing over him, one hand up to her headset. 'It's complicated, Padraig.'

'Mart, I had a visit from the Garda today. Two detectives. A guy called FitzGerald and his partner.'

'Power?'

'Yeah. Power, that was it. Right Laurel and Hardy, they were. They seemed mightily pissed off at something but I had trouble following what they wanted.'

'What do you mean?'

'It was the weirdest thing, Mart. I thought they were going to give me grief for driving you up to Belfast, but they didn't even mention it. I tell you, I was worried they were going to ask to look at my car because I've still not got the window replaced and there's glass all over the seat. They said that you were going to be away from the office for a while, and that I wasn't to worry. They said if anyone asked I was to say that you were at home, off sick. And they said I wasn't to try to get in touch with you.'

'And I can see that you took their advice, Padraig.'

Padraig chuckled. 'Yeah, fucking cops. What are you going to do, eh?'

Martin laughed along with his partner.

'Seriously, Mart. What's going on?'

'I can't tell you, Padraig.'

'They're the cops that hauled you into Pearse Street, aren't they?'

'Yeah. But they've been warned off.'

'Warned off? By who?'

Carter shook her head fiercely and wagged her finger in front of Martin's face. He glared at her and put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'He's my best friend,' he said, a hard edge in his voice. 'I trust him more than anyone.'

'You're risking your daughter's life, Mr Hayes.'

'Don't you fucking patronise me,' Martin hissed. 'I've known Padraig for almost thirty years. I've known you for five minutes. I'm damn sure I know which of you I trust.'

Carter's cheeks flushed and she straightened up. Fanning looked over at them, sipping his water. He flashed her a sympathetic look but she turned away, embarrassed that he'd heard Martin's outburst.

Martin swivelled his chair around so that his back was to them. He took his hand away from the mouthpiece. 'Padraig, the gardai have been told to lay off. It's being handled in London now.'

'That's where you are, yeah?'

'That's right. Any calls to the house are being transferred here. But no one must know, right? If the kidnappers call, they've got to think I'm still in Dublin.'

'Mum's the word, Mart.'

'Anyone asks, do as the gardai said. Just say I'm at home sick and you don't know when I'll be back.'

'Can I do anything to help?'

'No, mate, but thanks for offering.'

'If you need anything, I'm here, yeah?'

Martin thanked his partner and hung up. Carter was standing at the window, looking out at the river. As Fanning went over to the tape recorder, Martin went and stood next to her. 'I'm sorry,' he said.

Carter shrugged. 'It doesn't matter.'

'I didn't mean to snap. It's been a shitty few days.'

'I understand, Martin. But we are trying to help. We're on your side.'

Martin nodded. He felt genuinely bad about lashing out at her. 'Padraig won't do anything to rock the boat,' he said. 'He loves Andy and Katie almost as much as I do.'

She forced a smile. 'I'm sure he won't let you down.' She gestured at the spilt coffee. 'I'll get that cleaned up,' she said.

– «»-«»-«»Lydia McCracken sat on the wooden bench and looked around the garden square. She was wearing a pale blue suit and was carrying a small handbag which she held in her lap. An old woman was feeding pigeons hunks of bread from a Hovis wrapper and muttering to them. Or to herself -McCracken was too far away to hear clearly. The old woman looked homeless, with a thick wool coat tied around the waist with a length of rope, and black Wellington boots with the tops turned over. She had greasy grey hair and blotchy skin, and she kept wiping her nose with the back of her hand. McCracken shuddered and looked away. Several dozen office workers were strolling around the square, getting a breath of fresh air before heading back to their VDUs and keyboards. Three men in their twenties walked by, laughing. Neat suits, polished shoes and starched shirts – only the ties offered any variety. Nothing to distinguish them from the hundreds of thousands of office workers who poured into the City every day. And nothing to distinguish them from the hundreds who'd die when the four-thousand-pound fertiliser bomb went off just a half a mile away from where she was sitting.

McCracken had helped plant bombs before, though she'd never been involved in the building of one. She'd been assigned to the IRA's England Department, but always in a support role, establishing identities and safe houses, arranging transport and, on one occasion, making a coded call to the authorities. She'd always believed in what she was doing – that the only way to drive the British out of Ireland was by force – and she'd felt betrayed by the so-called peace process and the ceasefire that followed. Her younger brother had been killed in a gun battle with SAS troopers in the early eighties, and two cousins were shot by British paratroopers when they tried to drive through an army roadblock close to the border. She wanted revenge against the British for the suffering they'd brought to her country and to her family, and Egan had offered her a way to get that revenge. He'd offered her a lot of money, but that wasn't why she jumped at the chance of working with him. A bomb in the City would derail the peace process, of that she had no doubt. There'd be a backlash, politically and militarily, and it would make the whole world sit up and take notice. But more than that, it would be retribution. Retribution for her dead brother and murdered cousins, and for the hundreds of other Catholics maimed and murdered over the years. The IRA hierarchy might have been able to put that all behind them, but McCracken couldn't and wouldn't.