Stephen Leather - The Bombmaker

'No one obvious. There's a limit to what I can find out, though. Some of the ASUs are still active – they're underground and impossible to check on. Not without questions being asked, questions that I'd find bloody difficult to answer.'

'Are you telling me you've got ASUs in the UK, still active?'

'And I suppose you've pulled all your agents out, have you?'

'I don't have agents any more, Thomas. I'm retired.'

'Special Branch, then. MI5. SAS. 14th Int. They're all still on the ground, North and South, so why would you expect the England Department to stand down?'

'And there's no way of accounting for them?'

'Not without going through the Army Council, no. But I can tell you that there's no way the England Department is involved in any sort of spectacular. I give you my word on that.'

'Not even in a freelance capacity?'

'That wouldn't be a possibility. Not in a million years. Did you talk to Micky Geraghty?'

This time it was Denham who hesitated. McCormack picked up on it immediately.

'What's wrong?'

'He's dead, Thomas. Murdered. Someone tortured him, presumably to get information on Andrea Sheridan.'

'Shit,' said McCormack quietly. 'He was a good 'un.'

Denham said nothing. Geraghty had been an IRA volunteer, a sniper with a good number of kills to his credit. While he took no pleasure in the man's death, he wasn't about to grieve for him.

'Who's going to be handling the arrangements?' McCormack asked.

Denham explained that they'd had to leave the body where they'd found it, in the basement of the farmhouse. 'There isn't going to be a funeral, at least not until we've got this sorted out,' he said.

'Do me a favour,' said McCormack. 'Call me when it's over. I'll take care of it.'

Denham promised that he would. The IRA would probably give Geraghty a full military funeral, a tricolour draped over the coffin and men in ski masks firing a volley of shots into the air. It would be a celebration of the man's career with the terrorist organisation, but Denham knew it would be churlish not to agree to McCormack's request. He stabbed the remains of his cigarette into a metal ashtray next to the phone, and immediately felt the craving to light up another one. He decided to call his wife instead.

– «»-«»-«»The door to Jason Hetherington's office was ajar, but Patsy still knocked before entering. He was sitting behind his desk, reading a file, an antique pair of pince-nez glasses perched on the end of his nose. The glasses were an affectation, as was the ever-present white rose in his buttonhole, grown in his own Sussex garden. He looked up as Patsy walked in and gave her a broad smile. He was wearing a dark blue Savile Row suit with the faintest of pin-stripes, a crisp white shirt and a Garrick Club tie. 'Patsy, my dear, thanks for dropping by.' Hetherington was Deputy Director-General (Operational), second only to MI5's Director-General. He was responsible for all the agency's operational activities, from counter-subversion and counter-espionage to intelligence-gathering, and had been Patsy's mentor for the past ten years. It was his decision to send her to Belfast to head up the Irish Counter-Terrorism section, with the promise that in the near future she'd be brought back to Thames House as his number two. 'Any news?'

'It's definitely London,' she said, dropping into one of the chairs opposite Hetherington's desk.

Hetherington took off his spectacles and placed them carefully on top of the file he'd been studying. 'Ah, that's not good.'

Patsy smiled at the understatement. 'A van they've been using has been in and out of the City.'

'And your recommended course of action?'

'We look for the van, obviously. We'll liaise with the local police, but we won't be telling them why we want the van. And we're looking for Quinn.'

'The blagger?' The slang sounded strange in Hetherington's upper-crust accent. It was another affectation of his, as if he were keen to show that despite his Eton and Oxford background he was still one of the boys.

'Again, we'll use the local police, but without saying why he's wanted. They're being told not to approach him if he's spotted.'

'Do we have any other names in the frame?'

'Just Mark Quinn. We're assuming that the device is being constructed somewhere in the City, so we're working through all new leases taken on within the past six months, cross-referencing with company records and VAT data, looking for companies with no track record. We'll follow up with visits.'

Hetherington shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'That could take for ever.'

'It's an outside chance considering the possible timeframe, but long shots sometimes pay off.'

'And the telephone surveillance is in place?'

'GCHQ are on-line and BT and Telecom Eireann are cooperating fully.'

'Another long shot?'

Patsy looked pained. Hetherington wasn't being critical -he was one of the most supportive bosses Patsy had ever worked for- but she was all too well aware of how little they had to go on. Two long shots and a needle in a haystack.

'She's called her husband once,' said Patsy. 'We believe she'll try again.'

'The attempt on his life worries me, Patsy. I don't see any logic in it.'

'The house was bugged,' said Patsy. 'We discovered one on the phone when our people went in to switch off the answering machine. We swept it from top to bottom and found others.'

'So even without visual surveillance, they'd know that the police were involved.'

Patsy nodded. 'They'd know that he'd been taken into the Garda station. I suppose they were moving to limit the damage.'

Hetherington nodded. 'Very well. But doesn't that make it more likely that they won't let her telephone her husband? Knowing that he's fled the house?'

'They might assume that all she'll get is the machine.'

Hethrington grimaced, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.

'I know, shots don't come any longer. But if they think he's not at home, it'll reassure her to leave a message for him, at no risk to the kidnappers.' Hetherington still didn't look convinced, and Patsy didn't blame him. She spoke quickly, not giving him the chance to interrupt. 'A stronger possibility is that she'll be able to get to a phone of her own accord. Call her husband without them knowing. Having said that, I do feel it's more likely that it's her daughter she'll try to make contact with. And the kidnappers have no reason not to allow her to speak to her daughter.'

'Unless she's already dead.' Hetherington toyed with his wedding ring and leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed as he considered their options. They sat in silence for a while. 'Possible targets?' he said eventually.

'If it's political, it could be anything from the Stock Exchange to the Bank of England. Mansion House. Another go at the Baltic Exchange. If it's a high profile they want, they could be targeting the NatWest Tower or Lloyd's of London.'

'So can we at least increase security there?'

'I'm reluctant to inform the local police, Jason. At the moment, possibly fifty people know of this threat, and almost all of them work for us. If we bring in the Met and the City of London police, we're talking about hundreds of people. Thousands.'

Hetherington steepled his fingers under his chin. 'They could search a lot faster.'

'Except the act of searching might well precipitate events. Plus, there'd be leakage. All it takes is one copper warning his wife to stay out of the City for a while. She mentions it to a friend, the friend gets on to the press, and we're splashed all over the front page of the Sun.'

'A D-notice would put paid to that.'

'Word would still get around. I'd rather keep it in-house for as long as possible. But I take your point about increasing security at the more obvious targets. Most buildings employ their own security. I can have a quiet word.'