'I told my partner what had happened. Padraig. Padraig Martin.'
Patsy wrote down the names. 'So your first name's Martin,
and so's his surname?'
'Yeah. That's how we became friends at school.' He shrugged. 'It's a long story. We ended up as business partners.
We called the firm Martin and Martin. Sort of a joke.'
'What exactly did you tell your partner?' asked Denham.
Martin massaged his temples as he tried to remember the conversation he'd had with Padraig while he was driving him up to Belfast. 'I think I pretty much told him everything. I told him that Katie had been kidnapped. And that the kidnappers told Andy to go to London.'
'That's just wonderful,' said Denham under his breath. Patsy gave him a cold look and he held up his palms apologetically.
'I had to tell him something,' said Martin. 'He's my partner.
He was nearly killed.'
'Killed? What do you mean, killed?' asked Patsy.
Martin realised he hadn't told them about the man with the gun, the man who'd shot at the BMW outside the hospital. He quickly explained what had happened.
'This man, what did he look like?' asked Patsy.
'I didn't see his face, not really,' said Martin. 'He was average height. Medium build. He was wearing a leather jacket. Black or brown. And jeans, maybe.' He shook his head. 'It all happened really quickly. He shot twice, I think. Hit the window and the door. I didn't hear the shots, just the window going and then a thud against the door. I had my head down most of the time.'
'What colour hair did he have?' asked Denham.
Martin shrugged. He didn't know.
'Moustache? Facial hair? A scar? Anything that made him stick out?'
Martin shook his head. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'It was dark, and I just wanted to get away.'
Patsy and Denham exchanged looks of frustration but said nothing.
'That's okay, Mr Hayes,' said Patsy.
'What do you think they'll do to Katie?' asked Martin. 'The guy who shot at me was presumably one of the kidnappers -- he must know I've spoken to the Dublin police. What if they He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.
'I don't think they'll do anything to hurt your daughter,' said Patsy. 'Not so long as they need your wife's co-operation. Katie is the leverage they need to get your wife to do what they want.'
'God, I hope you're right.'
Patsy smiled reassuringly at Martin. 'We know what we're doing, Mr Hayes. Trust us. Or at least, have faith in us.'
Martin closed his eyes and nodded. 'It doesn't look as if I've any alternative.'
Denham toyed with his packet of cigarettes. He tapped one side against the table. Then turned it through ninety degrees and tapped it again. Turn. Tap. Turn. Tap. 'The note that the kidnappers left,' he said. 'Do you still have it?'
'No. Andy took it with her.' He reached into his trouser pocket and took out the sheet of paper he'd found behind the hotel painting. 'This is the note she left for me in the Strand Palace.' He gave it to Denham, who read it and passed it over to Patsy.
'The phone conversation you told me about,' said Patsy.
'When your wife told you about this. Where were you?'
'At home. In Dublin.'
'And she called on the land line? Or your mobile?'
'The land line.'
'And she only made one call?'
Martin nodded.
'When she called you, did it sound like she was using a call box?'
Martin shrugged. 'It sounded like a regular phone. I think there was somebody listening, checking that she didn't say the wrong thing.'
'But could you hear any traffic? People walking by? Any sounds that might suggest she was outside? Or in a public place?'
Martin rubbed his face with both hands. 'I don't remember any,' he said.
'Did you get any sense that she was calling from a land line?
Or a mobile?'
Martin shook his head. 'I'm sorry.'
Patsy smiled reassuringly, the smile of a parent consoling a child who'd just come second. 'You're doing just fine, Mr Hayes. Now, can you run through everything your wife said to you when she called.'
'She was only on the line for a few seconds. She made me promise not to go to the police. And she said they didn't want money. That they wouldn't hurt Katie so long as I didn't go to the police. Then she said that after it was all over, we'd go back to Venice. I didn't know what she meant -- it was only when I saw the picture that I realised what she was trying to say. And that was it.'
'You're sure?'
'Yes, damn it, I'm sure.'
Patsy looked across at Denham. He raised an eyebrow.
Martin had no idea what the gesture meant.
'Did I do something wrong?'
Patsy put down her gold pen. 'No, you didn't, Mr Hayes.
But they might have done. We're going to need your help. If she calls again.'
'You think she might?'
'It was obviously your wife who initiated the call,' said Patsy.
'It was unstructured. Unrehearsed. And the only information imparted was that which your wife wanted to give you. It wasn't a message from the kidnappers. If she managed to get them to allow her one phone call, she might be able to persuade them to let her make another. And the closer she gets to completion, the more leverage she'll have.'
'But if she calls, I won't be there.' Martin stood up. 'God,
I've got to get back.'
Patsy gestured for him to sit down. 'We can handle that from here.' She looked across at Denham. 'I'll get the number transferred to Thames House.'
'You can do that?' asked Martin.
Patsy nodded. 'It's not a problem.'
'Where's this Thames House?'
'It's an office. Near Whitehall. We can use it as a base.'
'And if they call, they'll think I'm still in the house?'
'That's the idea.'
Martin scratched his chin. 'The machine's on. The answering machine. I left a message saying that anyone who calls should try me on my mobile.'
'You still have the mobile?'
Martin shook his head. 'It was in my hotel room. In my case.
I don't know if your goons brought it with me.'
Patsy looked pained. 'I'll get it for you. But it's best she doesn't call the mobile. I'll get the answering machine turned off.' She looked at her watch. 'No time like the present.' She stood up. 'I'll make a couple of calls.'
Martin fished his house keys out and slid them across the table.
Patsy smiled and shook her head. 'The people I'll be using won't be needing keys, Mr Hayes.'
Andy stole glances at Green-eyes as she packed Tupperware containers into a black rubbish bag. It was hard to judge her age because she'd never seen her without her ski mask, but she guessed the woman was in her early thirties, probably about the same age as herself. They were pretty much the same height and build, and seemed to have the same taste in clothes. Under different circumstances it was perfectly possible that they could have been friends.
The conversation they'd had in the office had disturbed Andy. She hadn't realised before that Green-eyes was driven by revenge, that her motives were personal rather than political.
Andy had been clinging to the hope that the bomb she was helping to build wasn't intended to be used, but after speaking to Green-eyes she was certain that the woman intended to detonate the device once it was finished.
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 IPvA 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 offhis 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 staffs 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,