Everybody laughed, of course, but it was a laughter colored by fear. They could all see that this was a potentially dangerous man, and they would gaze at the barman when they could, pleading with their eyes: make him stop.
Miles sipped his lager. Ordinarily, he would have drunk Guinness, but he did not wish to appear patronizing.
“Go on, Declan, tell them the one about . . .”
Yes, Declan needed his prompters, needed the whispered reminders from the wings.
“Remember, Declan, that time when you . . .”
In truth, several of the party could not make out one word of Declan’s stories, and their smiles were the most enthusiastic of all. Mrs. Nightingale was one of these. Her laugh was a garish parody of fun. Well, at least she’s quiet, thought Miles, thankful for the smallest of mercies.
It was not quite dawn when, a light sleeper at the best of times, Miles heard a key turn in the lock, his door open, and saw two shadowy figures enter the room. By then, he was already out of bed, keen to appear efficient. “Packed and ready to go, gentlemen,” he whispered. The men seemed satisfied. Miles was already dressed, and had only to slip on his shoes. One of the men lifted his case, then headed out of the door, checking to left and right as he did. The other man motioned for Miles to go ahead of him, and relocked the door behind them. Within ninety seconds, they were out into the chill darkness. A Ford Granada was revving up beside the pavement. Miles was ushered into the back of the car beside the first man, who held his suitcase on his lap. The second man, getting into the passenger seat, motioned for the driver to move off. Nobody had said a word, except for Miles’s smug little whispered announcement. He regretted having said anything now: silence should have been maintained. Then, in sudden panic, he thought of another potential and horrific error: how did he know who these men were? They could be anyone at all. He had not asked, had seen no identification, had not heard their accents. But the city streets outside told him to be calm. Morning was approaching, bringing with it a waking serenity. He would wait and see, that was all. He would sit back and say nothing and trust to the fates.
After all, it was time for a definite change in his luck.
“Mr. Scott?”
“If you say so,” said Miles.
“Well, that’s what your lot told us.”
“Then I suppose it’s true.”
“I’m Chesterton.” The man thrust forward his hand, his eyes still glued to the papers he held. Miles shook the hand.
“Any relation?” he asked, smiling.
“To whom, Mr. Scott?”
“Never mind, nothing really.”
Chesterton looked up at Miles suspiciously, then, seating himself at his desk, continued to read the papers. Miles examined the room. It was much like the room in which he had been interrogated by the Scottish policeman. A table, three chairs, wastepaper basket, one barred window.
“Is this a police station?” he asked.
“Sort of.” Chesterton looked up again. “The normal differences between army and police tend to blur a bit over here. It’s a lesson you’d be wise to learn, Mr. Scott. Everything here is just like reality, just like London, but distorted slightly, out of kilter. Something can look very safe, very ordinary, and then blow up in your face. A taxi driver turns into a gunman, a discotheque into a booby trap. Are you with me?”
“Yes, I see.”
“But that’s just it, you won’t see. You’ll have to learn to use your sixth sense. You’re our guest here, Mr. Scott, and we don’t like our guests to get themselves killed. It’s bad for our reputation.” He spoke like the maître d’ of some expensive hotel.
Miles nodded slowly. He was thinking of London, of how shop windows could blow out into your face, of how people hesitated before passing a parked car. He wanted to say, we’ve got bombs in London, too, mate, but thought the remark might be taken the wrong way. Besides, having made his point, Chesterton seemed happy. He folded the papers and tucked them into a drawer of the desk. Miles heard something rattle as the drawer was pulled open. A gun, he thought, lying ready for any confrontation with distorted reality. Billy Monmouth, a few years ago, had spoken with him about the troubles.
“Who wants them to stop?” he had said. “It’s the best training ground Britain’s got. NATO’s learned a lot from our experiences, medicine’s learned how to treat skin burns more efficiently, the pilgrim cousins have tested their own men in the field. It’s just one vast laboratory of human endeavor. Everybody over there treats it like a game.”
Miles did not believe that. If you read the newspaper reports, it didn’t seem much like a game. Billy’s, as always, was the comic-book version of events. He had never been to Belfast, and would never go.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Chesterton.
“Oh?”
“Yes, you’re thinking about breakfast, and rightly so. Come on.”
Breakfast. It had not occurred to Miles to feel hungry. Meekly, he followed Chesterton out of the room.
Initially, Chesterton’s mustache and bulk had caused Miles to place him in his late thirties, but now, studying him at leisure in the relaxed atmosphere of the canteen, he was obliged to subtract five or six years from that estimate. There was something in Chesterton’s face that should have deserted him in Northern Ireland but had decided to remain: a trace of youthful innocence.
It was well hidden, of course, but it was there. Was he army or Special Branch? It was hard to tell. From what Miles had seen thus far, it was true that any distinctions blurred. Even rank seemed to merge with rank, so that in the queue for breakfast, Chesterton had spoken with real friendliness to a much younger and inferior-looking man. Miles envied them their camaraderie. Here, he felt, real friendships could be forged. What was that old proverb about adversity?
“All right is it?” Chesterton jabbed his fork in the direction of Miles’s plate. “The food, I mean.”
“Oh, yes, it’s fine, just what I needed.”
Miles cut and lifted a section of bacon, and watched a nodule of fat drip back into the pale yolk of the egg.
“The operation is due to take place tonight,” said Chesterton, mopping his plate with a thin slice of white bread, “if there are no hitches. We don’t expect that there will be any, not at this stage of things.”
“I see.”
“You know the setup, of course?”
“Well . . .I have London’s side of it.”
Chesterton laughed. “Very good, Mr. Scott. Very well put. Yes, there’s often a rather wide gap between their—I suppose I should say your side of things and ours.”
“Well, while I’m here, please try to think of me as being on your side, making it our side.”
“Lined up against the mandarins of Whitehall, eh?”
“Something like that.”
“Have you heard of the initials NKIL, Mr. Scott?”
Miles pondered, tricked at first into thinking it some new terrorist organization. Then he remembered. “Not known in London,” he said.
“That’s right. If it’s not known in London, then it might as well not have happened. Intelligence here was being run down prior to this new bombing campaign. But now, well, we can hardly keep track of all the undercover squads, the nameless individuals who tiptoe in here, then tiptoe out again, heading south. Some of them we never hear from again. I don’t know whether they return directly to their bases on the mainland, or are caught by the enemy and turned or executed.”
“Have the . . .enemy turned many people in your experience?”
“Top secret,” whispered Chesterton with a wink. “I’m not allowed to know. There have been rumors. Rogue personnel bombing their own units. If you really want to know, ask Whitehall.”
“Whitehall isn’t quite as close-knit as that, I’m afraid.”
“Isn’t it? You could have fooled me. Are you going to eat that egg?”
Miles shook his head, and Chesterton pulled the plate toward him.
“Waste not want
not,” he said.
“Would you mind explaining things to me,” said Miles, “about this evening’s operation?”
“Of course. Though there will be a formal briefing later this afternoon.” Chesterton looked up from Miles’s plate. “You can stay here, you know, you don’t have to go. No one would be any the wiser back home, and it would save us from having to look after you.”
“All the same,” said Miles.
“Well, it’s entirely up to you, Mr. Scott. We’ll be heading south. I don’t suppose I should say ‘we’ really, since I’ll not be going along.”
“Oh?”
“No, but there will be a mobile support unit with you. They’re from the RUC. Probably four of them. And one or two others.”
“From E4A?”
Chesterton, impressed by Miles’s ready knowledge, raised his eyebrows. E4A was a shadowy outpost of Special Branch, formed with the specific brief of deep surveillance of Irish terrorists. Miles knew very little about the group, except that it had a reputation for thoroughness in everything it did, with the possible exception of keeping within the law. On that particular point, E4A was known to be less than circumspect, and for that reason, as well as for others, it was not often mentioned within the firm. Chesterton shrugged his shoulders.
“From Special Branch certainly,” he said. “As you see, Mr. Scott, your presence is hardly necessary on this little jaunt.”
“Nevertheless,” said Miles, “here I am.”
“Yes,” said Chesterton, pushing back Miles’s plate, “here you are. Here you are indeed.”
The room was full of smoke when Miles arrived, so he assumed that he was late.
“Ah, Mr. Scott. Welcome.” This from the only man in the room not smoking with fierce determination. They were all dressed in civvies. It appeared that no one in the building wore a uniform of any kind.
“And you are?” asked Miles casually, taking the proffered hand.
The man laughed, glancing toward his smiling colleagues.
“I’m nobody, Mr. Scott. I don’t exist. Nevertheless, here I am.”
Yes, thought Miles, here you are indeed.
“May I introduce you to the rest of the team for our little evening drive?” The man nodded toward a stocky character, his shirt open to reveal a sprouting chest, the hair as dark as a thicket. “This is One. One, meet Mr. Scott.”
“Mr. Scott.” They shook hands. One? Had Miles heard correctly? Maybe it was something Chinese, Wan or Wun. The man did not look Chinese.
“And this”—pointing now toward a much thinner man with a pale, cruel face—“is Two.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” said Miles. He had not misheard.
He was, in turn, introduced to Misters Three, Four and Five.
“I suppose,” said his host finally, “you can call me Six.”
They were all Irish, and this, after the crisp English of Chesterton, made Miles a little more nervous. He was drifting farther and farther from the safety of the raft, moving deeper into the dark waters around him. He was as isolated as he had ever been in his life.
“Let’s proceed,” said Six, while Miles tried to work out the identities of his colleagues. Two, Three, Four and Five might well be RUC men. They had the look about them of policemen not entirely used to this life of intrigue and double-dealing. They looked as if they were enjoying the novelty of it all. One was a different proposition again. Special Branch maybe. A brute of a man. Six was brutish, too, but more intelligent, and as he went on with the briefing Miles began to see the army training stamped all over him. Not quite SAS, but then what? Something shadowier still. Something unpleasant.
With the eyes of an executioner.
“A simple arrest procedure should be sufficient on this one, but we’ll be armed for safety’s sake. As you know, Circe has been keeping an eye for several months on a small electronics factory south of Belfast. How far south I’m not going to say. We now have proof positive that this factory is an IRA front, set up specifically to buy in electronic timers and other such devices from the Continent. These devices then go to make up fairly specialized little bombs, such as those being used on the mainland at this very moment.”
Seated on his hard plastic chair, Miles noticed from the corner of his eye that the others looked at him from time to time, curious perhaps. Still they smiled and puffed away at their chain-lit cigarettes.
“We shall,” continued Six, “arrest and bring into custody the ringleaders, two men who will be, so intelligence informs us, alone in the factory this evening. They will not be armed”—he looked up—“we hope. I’ve got some photographs of them here with full physical descriptions on the back.” He handed out glossy black and white blowups of two young and handsome men, taken without their knowledge. One was leaving his car, while the other was standing by a petrol pump, examining his wallet. The photographs were impressively sharp and focused, the work of a real expert.
“These were taken this morning,” said Six.
Miles stopped being impressed and felt a sense of awe in its place.
“On this sheet of paper is a breakdown of what each man is wearing today.”
Studying the details, down to shoe color and jewelry, Miles was again impressed. He was not dealing with a “half-cocked bunch of Paddies and Paddy-watchers,” as Billy had termed the operation in Northern Ireland. This was a classy show, and these men were just about the most professional thugs he had ever encountered.
“We’ve just time for a cuppa and maybe something to eat,” said Six, his voice more relaxed, “and then we’ll be off. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Mr. Scott, I’d be obliged if you would check that you have nothing on or about your person that could identify you, no wallet, spectacle case, letters or envelopes, or name tags on your underpants.”
Miles nodded as the others chuckled.
“Then,” continued Six, “you’ll be just as naked as us, should anything go wrong. From now on I think we’d better call you Seven. Is that all right with you?”
Miles nodded again.
As naked as us. But they were not naked, and he most definitely was. Although trained in the use of firearms, Miles loathed the things. They were noisy and unnecessary most of the time. But Miles wanted a gun now, just to even things up. In the canteen, he noted that the others were packing fairly heavyweight pistols. So he asked Six.
“Oh,” said Six, stirring three sugars into his mug of tea, “I shouldn’t think that would be necessary. I’m told that you’re only here as a spectator, not as a participant. If you were to be given a weapon, you would automatically become a participant, and we wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, would we?”
Hadn’t Chesterton said the same thing?
“Don’t worry,” continued Six, “I’ll put it on the record that you requested the use of a firearm and that your request was denied. Just sit back now and enjoy the ride, that’s my advice. And let’s just double-check that there’s nothing on you that would give the game away.”
“I can see why they call you covert security,” mumbled Miles, turning out his pockets like any small-time crook.
“We have to be careful,” said Six, running his eyes down Miles. Was there contempt in his look, hatred of this nuisance factor who had been embedded into an otherwise straightforward job? Well, to hell with him, thought Miles. I’m going to see this through whether I’m in the way or not. “There was a time,” said Six, as much for the others as for Miles, “when we could be sure of these things going as smoothly as a greased runner. The enemy were just cartoon cutouts toting half-baked bombs, getting themselves blown up more than anybody else. There wasn’t any problem.”
“The Paddy Factor,” interrupted Miles, wishing to appear knowledgeable and immediately regretting it. Six looked toward the others, who were not smiling any longer.
“One of your smart London phrases,” hissed Six, the door to his prejudices open at last. ?
??You lot sit at your desks all day smirking at newspaper reports of another soldier killed, another part-timer crippled, and you can laugh as loudly as you like because it’s all happening a million miles away from your bowler hats and tea trolleys, but here, well, we see things through different eyes.”
Go on, thought Miles, spew it all up.
“Over here everything changes. There’s no Paddy Factor because there are no Paddies anymore. Everyone’s grown up now. They don’t learn their trade in the haylofts and the barns. They’ve all been to college, to university. They’ve got brains, they’re open-eyed, they know the score. If you go along on this trip expecting to meet Paddies, then let me assure you that you’re in for a bit of a surprise.”
Behind the speech, Miles could hear a cry of frustration against Whitehall’s cumulative neglect of the “troubles.” Finally, almost in a whisper, his breath coming fast and hot from his lungs, Six said, “Just to put you in the picture, that’s all,” and fell silent as he gulped at his tea. The silence was more unnerving still, and Miles felt as though he had been cajoled onto a roller coaster, only to find himself wanting to get off as the machine reached the top of its climb.
Too late to get off now, he thought, his hands clutching at the table rim. Far too late.
The car flew over the rise in the road and headed downhill even faster. Miles felt his stomach surge, and craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the speedometer. Seventy. The country was a darkening blur outside his window, and he began to feel a claustrophobia that had not assailed him since his youth. The day had become a sort of recurring nightmare. Here he was again, sandwiched in the back of a car. In the front sat Six and his equally deadly ally, One. And somewhere behind, the remaining members of the team were following in a transit van marked MURPHY’S MEAT & POULTRY.
The car had the body of a Cortina, but what lurked beneath the bonnet was something else entirely. From the moment the engine had been brought to life, Miles had been aware of an extraordinary power, two-point-six liters or more of it. The thing accelerated like a rocket, sending its passengers back in their seats. The roller-coaster effect was complete.