Harry's Game (35 page)

Shrewd old goat, thought Harry. Beautiful throw‐away, real after thought.

Td said I'd lend her a book," he lied gracefully.

'She'll be here when you get back. I'll need her today, and all. We're full tonight. It's the way it should be, but work all the same.'

'And money, Mrs Duncan." It was as much familiarity as was permitted.

'Your sandwiches are there on the sideboard." She wasn't drawn. 'Bovril as you like them, horrid stuff, and some coffee in the flask. I put a boiled egg in, too, and an apple.'

'Very naughty, Mrs Duncan, you'll make me into an elephant.'

She liked the banter and was still laughing with him as he walked into the hall and to the front door.

'You've got enough clothes on, then? We don't want you with a cold and that.'

'Don't you fuss, Mrs Duncan.'

The Prime Minister liked to start the day with his papers, a cup of tea and the first radio bulletin. He amused himself by making that first news the commercial one, maintaining to all those who expressed surprise that he was not locked on to the BBC, that he was a capitalist, and as head of a capitalist government he should hear the capitalist‐funded station. The radio acted as window dressing to his reading, the spoken version of canned music. He could not do without it, hated silence, but it took an almighty news story to distract his attention away from the newspapers. Like all politicians he had a consummate appetite for newsprint, able to take in, extract, cross reference or ignore the thousands of words that made up his daily diet.

Included in the pile that rested on his lap in the middle of the bed were the Western Mail and the Scotsman. He would have liked the Belfast News Letter, but the printing times and transportation problems across the Irish Sea made it impossible, so he compromised by having the previous afternoon's Telegraph sent over. He waded through the politics, diplomatic, economic, pausing fractionally longer on the gossip columns than he would have wanted 185

others to know, and through sport where he delayed no longer than it took him to turn the pages. The pace was enormous, nothing read twice unless it had major impact.

The frown began deep between the overbearing bushiness of the eyebrows. The degree of concentration extended. The mixture written on his stubbly face was of puzzlement and anger.

The Times had put it on page two, and not given it much. Eight paragraphs. No byline.

He found the same story in the Guardian, a little longer, and above it the resident staff reporter's name. The length of the copy had relatively little importance or significance to the Prime Minister. The content flabbergasted him. He read three, four times that a British agent had been identified by the Provisional IRA, and the population in the ghetto areas alerted so that they might be on their guard against him.

For Christ's sake. Five weeks since Danby was killed. Outcry and outrage over, gone with the memorial service. Whole wretched business faded, and just as well, no leak that Danby himself had asked for his detective to be taken off. And now the prospect of it all back again, supercharged, and with what drifting out? Heaven only knows. With a surge he swept the bed clothes from him and leaned across the bed. He never had been able to make a telephone call lying on his side. He slung the dressing‐gown over his shoulders and sat on the edge of the single bed he had occupied since his wife died, feet dangling, and picked up the telephone.

'Morning, Jennifer, first of the day." Always something friendly to the girls on the switchboard, worked wonders with them. "Secretary of State for Northern Ireland. Quick as you can, there's a good girl‐'

He sat for two‐and‐a‐half minutes, reading other papers but unable to turn his full attention to them till the telephone buzzed angrily in its console.

'The Secretary of State, sir. Seems he's in the air at the moment. Left Northolt about eight minutes ago. He'll be down at Aldergrove in forty‐one minutes. He's early this morning because he's going straight down to an industrial estate in Londonderry, opening something.

There's a helicopter waiting to lift him down there. That's his immediate programme.'

'Get him to phone me as soon as he reaches Aldergrove. Let them know I'd like it on a secure line.'

He considered calling Ministry of Defence or Fairbairn in Lis burn, and then dismissed it.

Protocol up the spout if he did. If they were to be dropped in a monumental ballsup then the Secretary of State should do some of the lifting, and take a bit of the weight.

Time to play things straight down the middle, the Prime Minister reflected.

186

Across London Davidson was shaving. Wet. With a brush and new blade. He had read his papers again in the daylight. He knew, since he had not been woken from his sleep by the telephone, that in Belfast Billy Downs and the girl were still at large. He could not be certain at this stage to what level of danger Harry was exposed. When he ditched his logical appraisal the only conclusion was that the situation must be slightly worse than critical. He said that out loud; the aide was in the other half of the office and would not hear him. The words rolled off his tongue, giving him that almost sexual pleasure that excitement and tension carry in their wake. He stood there in his trousers, socks and vest, with the bowl of tepid water in front of him ... all so much like the war. The Albania operation, Cyprus. But how to reconcile that when advanced base headquarters, ABHQ they used to call it, was in Covent Garden, West One, Central London?

He patted his face, reddened by the sharpness of the blade and the cool water. Putting on his shirt, he dialled Lisburn military direct. When the WRAC operator came on the line he asked for Frost. The intelligence colonel was already in his office.

'Morning, Colonel. I wanted to ring you to find the up‐to‐date situation. I fancy there'll be various meetings in the morning. People will want to know. I take it there's been no positive news or you would have called me.'

'Right, Mr Davidson." Had to be the "Mister', didn't it? Doesn't miss them. Not a chance of twisting it. "There is no news. We haven't found the girl. We did Downs's home, and the report an hour ago said he wasn't there, but had been a few hours earlier. There's an off‐chance he's in trouble. A man of his description attacked a policeman's home late yesterday and botched it up. The policeman thinks he hit him with a single revolver shot as he was escaping. There are one or two blood spots on the escape trail, but we won't get much from them for a bit till the follow‐up report is in. It doesn't seem enough to indicate a serious wound. As for your man, well, we're taking out the Andersonstown scrap merchants in about forty minutes. I've nothing else.'

'Are you putting it that there's a good chance Downs was out on this shooting last night, or not?'

'There

are

similarities,

but

it's

not

a

positive

identification.

Hair's

187

not the same as the picture, so the policeman's wife says. She was a long time with him. Face is similar. The policeman himself is not able to be very helpful as he was moving most of the time and getting his gun out and being shot at. He didn't get much of a look. We have the picture you sent us, it's with the unit now that's going to try to round your fellow up.'

'Thank you very much, Colonel.'

'That's all right, Mr Davidson. I'm sure we'll never have the opportunity again of providing a similar service to your organization.'

Davidson put the phone down.

'Stupid, pompous bugger. Bloody man, does he think we're having a picnic at this end?'

He said it with enough ferocity to wake his assistant in the armchair by the door on the other side of the partition. The younger man shrugged himself out of his sleep.

'Any news?'

'Not a bloody dicky bird that matters.'

The men on duty in the intelligence section moved quietly round the room, unwilling to attract Frost's attention. He was slumped ungracefully in his chair, his eyes half closed, half focused on the ceiling. He was a man of method and neatness, following his own individual rule book, but following it closely, and expecting others to ape him. Harry McEvoy violated the rule book. The theory, the preparation and the execution of the McEvoy operation all contravened the requirements of this sort of business. His subordinates had detected the inner anger and knew enough to keep their distance.

Frost could see the weakness in the whole affair. This lunatic fighting between departments and services. Point‐scoring at a grand level and at the expense of the man out there on the streets. He was as guilty as any. But the issue had to be settled so there would be no repetition.

That was where it was all so amateurish. The Prime Minister and the GOC ... They should have their heads knocked together. But rivalries don't come from a victory march, they don't surface when the show's going well, they're the product of long drawn‐out failure.

The chatter of the teletype machines and the noise of men shuffling round the room, doors opening, muted talk were insufficient to disturb his train of thought.

It's because we're all lashing around, stranded by the tide, looking

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not the same as the picture, so the policeman's wife says. She was a long time with him. Face is similar. The policeman himself is not able to be very helpful as he was moving most of the time and getting his gun out and being shot at. He didn't get much of a look. We have the picture you sent us, it's with the unit now that's going to try to round your fellow up.'

'Thank you very much, Colonel.'

'That's all right, Mr Davidson. I'm sure we'll never have the opportunity again of providing a similar service to your organization.'

Davidson put the phone down.

'Stupid, pompous bugger. Bloody man, does he think we're having a picnic at this end?'

He said it with enough ferocity to wake his assistant in the armchair by the door on the other side of the partition. The younger man shrugged himself out of his sleep.

'Any news?'

'Not a bloody dicky bird that matters.'

The men on duty in the intelligence section moved quietly round the room, unwilling to attract Frost's attention. He was slumped ungracefully in his chair, his eyes half closed, half focused on the ceiling. He was a man of method and neatness, following his own individual rule book, but following it closely, and expecting others to ape him. Harry McEvoy violated the rule book. The theory, the preparation and the execution of the McEvoy operation all contravened the requirements of this sort of business. His subordinates had detected the inner anger and knew enough to keep their distance.

Frost could see the weakness in the whole affair. This lunatic fighting between departments and services. Point‐scoring at a grand level and at the expense of the man out there on the streets. He was as guilty as any. But the issue had to be settled so there would be no repetition.

That was where it was all so amateurish. The Prime Minister and the GOG ... They should have their heads knocked together. But rivalries don't come from a victory march, they don't surface when the show's going well, they're the product of long drawn‐out failure.

The chatter of the teletype machines and the noise of men shuffling round the room, doors opening, muted talk were insufficient to disturb his train of thought.

It's because we're all lashing around, stranded by the tide, looking

189

for the way out when there isn't one, that a damn‐fool thing like this gets launched. And after five endless years of it, and the promise of how many more to come, the inevitability that the professionals are going to be cold‐shouldered, that the outsiders will want to have their say.

Inevitable. And the price we pay for it is having that poor devil McEvoy or whatever his real name is out there on the streets, working for God knows who.

Frost straightened up in his chair. "Get me some coffee, please. Black, and make sure there's plenty there this morning." He was tired, exhausted by it all. They all were.

The postcard was lying on the mat, colour side down, when Mary Brown responded to the flap of the letterbox in the front door.

'There's a card from Daddy, darlings," she called into the back of the house where the boys were having their breakfast.

'Not a letter, Mum?" her elder boy shouted back.

'No, just a card. You know how awful your father is about letters.'

There was a market scene on the card. Men in kaffiyehs and futahs staring blankly from the gold market that stood in the middle distance.

'Hope to see you all soon. Still very hot, and not much to do. Love you all, Harry." That was all there was on the card, written in Biro and in Harry's large hand.

Josephine Laverty was late, and hurried in a frantic mixture of a run and a walk down the Falls to the mill where she worked. She couldn't go fast as the pain still bit into her ribs. She too had heard the early radio news, half expecting in an uninvolved sort of way to hear that Harry McEvoy had been found face down, hooded and dead. It had surprised her that there was no mention of him. This morning she had wondered for a wild moment whether to go to see if he was still at Delrosa, but there was no will power and the emotion he had created was now drained from her.

Perhaps she would go to Mrs Duncan's tonight to help with the teas. Perhaps not, but that could be a later decision. There was now an irrelevance about Harry McEvoy. Forget him. The pillow eavesdropper who had a girl killed. Forget the sod.