Hannah’s words echoed down the stone corridor and at several of the bays people were standing, staring at her. As she walked quickly towards the exit she cut Danny off. By the time she climbed to street
level and left the restaurant she’d talked to Lisa and convinced her she wasn’t exaggerating the danger. ‘Do it now, immediately, and ring me when you’re settled somewhere. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.’ Outside the restaurant, she made similar calls to Matthew and then to Alex.
Hannah was on the riverfront, looking left and right for a taxi, before she realised she hadn’t yet called Leon.
‘How did Hannah—’ Novak said.
Callaghan shook his head.
‘It was the right thing to do.’
‘I know.’
‘The police took the call seriously – they’re on their way to the Venetian House. I mentioned Frank Tucker as the target – that got their ears pricked.’
Callaghan nodded.
Halfway through the call to Hannah he’d felt something snap – it was almost a physical sensation, somewhere in the distance between them – and he’d felt an ache and he’d felt something like relief. He hadn’t the time or the focus to wonder why. No thought could survive the atmosphere of dread enveloping him. Fear for Hannah and her family, fear for himself.
‘We’d better get out of here,’ Novak said. ‘Pretty soon, Mackendrick’s going to want to ask you some questions.’
When he heard the siren, Karl Prowse slid down in his seat. The police car overshot the entrance to the Venetian House, did an instant U-turn and fishtailed into the car park. The second police car made the turn first time and when the cops came out of the cars at speed Karl reached for the remote.
Shit
.
This is going tits-up
.
Only three of Frank Tucker’s people inside – no sign of Frank himself yet.
Two policemen went into the pub in a hurry, the other two stood watching the white Ford transit.
A battered Renault Clio came from the other direction, tyres squealing as it skewed sideways and stopped in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. Two of the three plain-clothes cops who came out of the car were carrying Uzis, the third held a very big automatic pistol down by his side. They were all wearing protection vests.
They ran towards the pub.
Karl’s thumb found the white switch.
Has to be Callaghan
.
He clicked the white switch, arming the bomb.
Bastard
.
The ERU guy with the handgun waved at the two uniforms and made a sweeping gesture towards the main road. The two, looking more relieved with each yard they put between themselves and the white van, hurried out to warn off traffic.
Karl put the remote down and reached for the clean mobile.
‘Lar?’
‘What did I tell you about names?’
‘The police are here.’
‘Where?’
‘The target – some of them have guns –
shit
—’
‘They spot you?’
‘It had to be Callaghan, that piece of shit—’
‘Did they spot you?’
‘Too busy. There’s just three of Tucker’s team inside – do I blow it now?’
‘What about Frank?’
‘
Shit!
They’re out, they’re gone!’
‘Who?’
At the far end of the Venetian House, close to the boundary wall of the pub, both wings of a service door opened and people scurried down the ramp.
‘What’s happening?’
Barmen and waitresses in uniform, one of the cops, customers, among them one man that Karl Prowse recognised – Cillian Connolly. Bastard ought to have been tucked in under a bridge on the Royal Canal by now, with a couple of bullets in him.
‘They got out, the cops got them out.’
‘Get rid of the remote – permanently. And don’t accidentally blow the van. Kill any cops and they’ll tear the city apart looking for us. Just get out of there. Let me know when you’re clear. And no fucking names on the phone, okay?’
No panic
.
The list of Frank Tucker’s people was crumpled in Lar Mackendrick’s closed fist. He dropped it on the kitchen table, got himself a glass of water and took a long drink. Then he sat at the table and smoothed out the paper.
Eight dead
.
All Frank Tucker knew so far was that Fiachra O’Dwyer was dead and someone had planted a bomb outside the Venetian House. It would take maybe an hour or two of phone calls not answered and appointments not kept before the penny dropped. Then he’d send people around to check on those of his men who hadn’t responded.
When Tucker was trying to work out what was happening he’d no doubt put Lar Mackendrick’s name on the list of possibles, but it wouldn’t be too near the top. He saw Mackendrick as a beaten docket. He’d be looking elsewhere.
We’re not done yet
.
Who fucked this up?
‘
It had to be Callaghan!
’
Karl was jumping to conclusions, but he was almost certainly right. It had to be Callaghan. Lar picked up his mobile.
‘What happened?’
‘What do you mean?’ Danny Callaghan said.
Mackendrick’s voice was harsh. ‘
What happened?
’
‘I did what you said.’
‘If you made a call and played good citizen the last thing you’ll hear is your ex-missus screaming.’
‘I did what you told me.’
‘Where are you?’
Callaghan was sitting at a table in the Food Hall in Abbey Street, with a half-finished mug of coffee in front of him.
‘I’m at home.’
‘Stay there. I’ll ring you back soon.’
The television weather woman was promising that the unseasonable mild weather would continue for at least another day. Before that, the lunchtime news had nothing that Frank Tucker didn’t know, along with a lot of unhelpful speculation. The television cameras had got to the Venetian House just in time to see an army Land Rover arrive, the bomb-disposal people preparing to do their job. The newsreader said only that the police had no comment on possible motives for the bombing attempt.
‘Three possibilities,’ Frank Tucker said. He and three of his associates were gathered in his house in Cullybawn. The external doors were steel-lined and the expanding security screens had been drawn across the windows and locked. There were armed protectors upstairs, in the rooms front and back. In a utility room, a
man was monitoring the CCTV screens that covered every approach.
‘One, it’s some snotty little tosser making his move, maybe the Clondalkin mob. Could be, but it’s a bit stylish for them. Two, there’s always the Eastern Europeans, but I’m in touch there, and they’d rather deal than mix it up. So it’s probably number three – the IRA, or one of the spin-offs.’
Cillian Connolly said, ‘What about Tommy Farr, Lar Mackendrick – they’ve got to have a hair up their arses?’
‘They’re boxed in. They don’t have the assets, they don’t have the balls, and I’d have heard from their people if they’d been setting anything up.’ Tucker shook his head. ‘There’s Republican head-bangers who’ve been itching for a long time to find a reason to exist.’
‘So, what do we do?’
‘We take our time, let the cops beat the bushes and we’ll keep an eye on what comes running out.’
The building contractor tapped his calculator, paused and looked across the desk at his supplier. ‘That’s reasonable – when can you deliver?’
‘Five working days, tops – probably less.’
‘What kind of guarantee can—’
Somewhere down below, there were raised voices and the sound of running.
They were in the top tier of the two-tier prefab that served as the builder’s site office. He stood up and was on his way to the window to see what was causing the racket when the door opened and a uniformed policeman stuck his head in. The policeman turned and called, ‘He’s up here.’
The builder sighed and turned to his supplier. ‘Happy days are here again.’
‘What’s—’
‘Send me the paperwork and we’ve got a deal.’
There were now two cops standing in the doorway. The builder recognised the one in plain clothes. ‘How’s she cuttin’, Henry?’
‘A few questions, Ruairi.’
‘No problem.’
The builder leaned towards the supplier and said, ‘Not to worry – back in the old days the Special Branch did this three or four times a week. Either they’re just keeping their hand in or someone’s been naughty and they’re rounding up the usual suspects. Show them your driving licence and they’ll let you walk away.’
He turned to the plain-clothes garda. ‘What might I have done now?’
‘We’re knocking on a lot of doors this afternoon – asking people if they’ve got any class of a grudge against Frank Tucker.’
The builder shook his head. ‘It’s a long time, Henry, since I was under the delusion that I had any role to play in sorting out this country’s woes.’
‘All the same, you won’t mind if we check on your comings and goings?’
Stella Roeper hadn’t seen her husband in three days but she was damned if she’d tell the police that.
‘I’m not my husband’s keeper. Look around the house, and if you find him tell him I’ll be in the front room with my feet up.’
She was long past the fervour of the old days when Republicans greeted police raids and search warrants with defiance or contempt. Long ago the joke was that anyone with connections to Sinn Fein and the IRA had a sure way to get some free gardening done. Just make a phone call to another Republican and whisper that you had some hot material buried in the garden and you could be sure the phone tappers would throw the alarm switch
and the uniformed grafters would be along in jig time to dig up your garden.
In truth, it was no joke. They might dig up the garden on occasion, but mostly they’d tear up the floorboards and ransack the living room. The contents of the attic might be dumped onto the landing and every last paperback stripped from the bookshelves and tossed in a heap. It came with the territory, and sometimes they could wreck the house and still miss the gun or two in the false back behind the wardrobe.
Since the end of the Troubles the police had scaled down their anti-terror operations, but Stella Roeper’s house remained a regular port of call, given Declan’s contempt for the peace and love brigade.
‘It’s about carrying the torch on, for a new generation,’ he said. ‘Sooner or later the real thing will start again, as long as the Brits lay claim to a single acre of this island.’
Back in the old days, Declan would disappear without a word, for a night or a week – once he was gone for twenty-three days – and Stella didn’t ask any questions. Best not to ask about what you didn’t need to know.
There hadn’t been anything like that for almost four years.
‘A neighbour tells me that Declan hasn’t been around for a couple of days. That right, Stella?’
‘If she knows that much, go back and ask the nosy bitch where he might be.’
‘Declan’s a bit long in the tooth for playing soldiers, wouldn’t you say, love?’
She looked past him, as though he’d ceased to exist.
‘Well, when he comes back, would you tell him we’d be honoured if he’d give us a call?’
The only reply he got was a look of stone-faced resentment.
Stella Roeper was happy that she’d kept the worry off her face.
*
When they rang the bell and the smart bastard didn’t answer, Karl Prowse and Robbie Nugent tried knocking the door in. Robbie hurt his shoulder, Karl kicked the lock several times but it didn’t budge. Eventually, Robbie stayed at the door of Callaghan’s apartment, just in case, while Karl went down to the car and got a small crowbar. It took him two minutes of prying and grunting to get the door open and thirty seconds to scope the flat and ring Lar.
‘Long gone.’
Lar said, ‘Plan B.’
The movie was halfway over. Danny Callaghan was in Cinema 6 of Cineworld, in Parnell Street. The movie had something to do with the CIA, but beyond that he hadn’t bothered to follow it.
Before seeking refuge in the cinema he’d booked a room in the North Star Hotel, near the train station. All going well, he’d be on his way to Belfast first thing next morning, finding somewhere to hide until he figured out the best move. He half expected Hannah to ring, seeking more information, but nothing happened. No word from Novak, no further calls from Lar Mackendrick. The phone was in silent mode, and he held on to it, hand in his pocket, in case he missed the vibration.
He was coming down to street level on the escalator, having abandoned the movie, when he felt the phone shudder.
‘Where are you?’ Lar Mackendrick said. ‘You were supposed to stay at home.’
‘I’ve just dropped out to get some milk.’
‘Liar.’
‘Look – what’s the—’
‘I want you to come and meet me.
Now
.’
‘Look, whatever you think was—’