Martin put his hand up to his forehead, frowning. 'I don't get what you're saying. Mrs O'Mara isn't at home so you think something's happened to Katie? That makes no sense. No sense at all.'
'That's right,' said the garda. 'It's a mystery. And mysteries annoy the hell out of me. But nothing you've said so far has reassured me that your daughter is safe and sound.'
'What?' Martin didn't have to feign his reaction. 'That's fucking ridiculous!'
The younger garda stepped forward as if he was expecting Martin to attack his colleague. Martin realised he'd bunched his hands into fists and he forced himself to relax.
'Look, my wife and daughter are out of town, that's all.
They'll be back any day now.'
The older garda nodded slowly. He reached into the inside IOI STEPHEN LEATHER pocket of his waterproof jacket and took out a business card.
'My name's O'Brien,' he said. 'Sergeant O'Brien. Next time your wife phones, would you get her to call me? Just so's we know that she's okay.'
Martin reached for the card, but the garda didn't let go of it.
'Sure. I will,' said Martin.
The two men stood for a few seconds, both holding the card.
'Don't forget now,' said O'Brien. He let the card slip through his fingers, then stepped back from the doorstep.
The two gardai walked down the path, away from the house.
The younger garda twisted his head and said something into his radio and there was a burst of static.
Martin closed the door and leaned against it, his heart pounding like a jackhammer.
Egan frowned as he listened to the tape. The two gardai turning up was an unexpected development, and it meant he was going to have to revise his plans. Martin Hayes had handled it better than Egan had expected, but one of the gardai, the one who'd introduced himself as O'Brien, had been persistent in his questioning,
especially about the train that Hayes claimed his wife had taken up to Belfast. By the end of the conversation he seemed to have accepted what Hayes had said, but Egan doubted that the gardai had been deceived. They'd go away and make further enquiries, but eventually they'd be back.
Egan was surprised that they'd made the connection between the O'Mara woman and the Hayes girl. Mrs O'Mara was safely buried in a wood some twenty miles south of Dublin -- it was sheer bad luck that the secretary had expressed her concerns about Katie's absence to the school's headmistress.
He swivelled his chair around and hit the print button on his computer keyboard. The laser printer whirred and Egan picked up the letter and read it through carefully before signing it. He fed it into the fax machine on the desk and dialled the number of his bank in Zurich. The letter contained instructions to transfer one million dollars to another of his accounts, this one in the Cayman Islands. From there he'd move it to the Dutch Antilles.
He'd only had the Zurich account for six months, and once his work for the men from Beijing was finished he'd close it. The fax machine swallowed the sheet of paper and Egan flicked the top off a bottle of Budweiser. He went over to the window and looked out over the city as the fax machine whirred behind him.
The serviced apartment he was renting was little more than a hotel suite, and just as anonymous. Anonymity was something that Egan worked hard at. In public he never expressed emotion,
never lost his temper. His passage through life was as smooth and unhindered as that of a razor slitting flesh. Any obstruction and he simply slid around it; any confrontation was to be avoided at all cost.
Egan had the ability to enter a room and leave without anyone remembering him. He had friends who took pride in being able to get the best table in restaurants or walk to the front of a nightclub queue, but Egan hated the idea that a maitre'd or a bouncer would know who he was. He dressed casually but conservatively, wore no jewellery other than a battered Rolex on a leather strap that had once belonged to a friend of his, a Navy SEAL who'd died in Kuwait, and drove the sort of cars favoured by sales reps. Ostentation was for film stars, musicians or high-profile businessmen who wanted to see their faces in the tabloids. Egan was a professional terrorist, and the only people he wanted to acknowledge him were the people who paid his wages.
He took a swig from the bottle of Budweiser. Behind him,
the fax finished transmitting and ejected the letter. One million dollars. The equivalent of twelve years' salary in his last job. Egan had worked for the Defence Intelligence Agency in a black operations department that spent most of its time attempting to destabilise anti-American governments in South America.
Blackmail, bribery, assassination -- it had been the best possible training for his present career. Egan had left after five years, spent six months travelling the world establishing fake identities and opening a daisy-chain of bank accounts, then set up on his own.
Freelance. It had been the best move he'd ever made. A militant Islamic group funded by Osama Bin Laden had paid him a total of three million dollars for his work with Muslim terrorists in Kenya and Tanzania, and he'd been paid half a million dollars for his past in a series of bomb attacks by white supremacists in America, including the bombing of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City. Three months as an adviser with the Palestinian Liberation Organisation had netted him two million dollars, and his work for the men from Beijing would earn him a further seven million, minus expenses.
By the end of the year his account in the Dutch Antilles would contain more than twelve million dollars. The money itself was of little practical concern to Egan. He lived modestly,
owned no property or cars, and virtually all his outgoings were work-related. Money was simply a way of keeping score. The more he had, the better he was doing.
He put down his beer and went over to the fax machine. He used a cheap plastic lighter to set fire to the letter, then dropped it into a metal wastepaper bin at the side of the desk.
He looked at his Rolex. Everything was on schedule,
everything was going to plan. The DIA had taught Egan well.
All he had to do now was to work out the best way of killing Martin Hayes.
Andy lay on her side, her head resting on a rolled-up pullover.
There had been no sound from outside for more than hour,
though a strip of light still seeped in under the office door. Her stomach growled, but she steadfastly refused to ask her captors for food. She'd gone to the bathroom, remembering to shout for permission first, and had come back with a paper cup of water.
She rolled over and stared at the door. It wasn't locked;
nor was the metal door that led outside. All she had to do was walk out of the office, down the corridor, across the factory area and out of the main door. There was nothing stopping her, nothing physical anyway. What was the expression? Iron bars do not a prison make. Andy didn't know if it came from a poem or one of Shakespeare's plays, but it described her situation perfectly. She was powerless, totally, utterly powerless,
because the moment she walked out the kidnappers would vanish and Katie, her dear, darling Katie, would be dead. If she did run away, and if she did go to the police, what could she tell them? What did she know about her captors or what they were doing?
She knew that one of them, the one built like a wrestler, was called Don. And she knew that the woman had a name that started with 'McC. Or 'McK'. The woman had an accent that suggested she was Irish but had spent a lot of time in Scotland.
Or vice versa. That was it. The sum total of her knowledge. She knew that they wanted to build a big bomb, a huge bomb, but she didn't know where they planned to use it or why. If she did walk out and her captors had disappeared by the time she got back with the police, then there was no way that they would ever be able to track them down. Green-eyes, the Wrestler and the Runner always wore their ski masks and gloves -- she was totally incapable of identifying them.
And even if she could get outside and get to the police, and if they managed to get back in time to arrest her captors, then what? They hadn't tied her up, they hadn't put a gun to her head. They'd used the threat of what might happen to Katie, but how on earth could she prove that? They were putting together the ingredients for a bomb, but Andy knew from experience that until the ingredients were actually combined, all the evidence was circumstantial. And if she did bring in the police,
what incentive was there for Green-eyes and her companions to confess? If they admitted it, they'd face long prison sentences for kidnapping and terrorism. Their best option was to say nothing and to get rid of the evidence. And that meant she'd never see Katie again. No, there was no way she could walk away. No way could she rely on the police. If there was a way out of the nightmare she was trapped in, it was up to her to find it. Up to her and Martin.
She closed her eyes tight and tried to imagine herself in her husband's arms. She wished with all her heart that she was back with him, back in her house in Dublin, safe and warm, with Katie asleep in the next room. It was no good. The unyielding floor beneath her was a constant reminder of where she was, and what lay ahead.
Canning was stirring a pan of scrambled eggs when McEvoy banged open the kitchen door and stood in the doorway,
scratching his stomach. 'What are ya cooking?' he asked.
'Eggs.'
'Eggs again? I fucking hate eggs.'
'They're not for you. They're for Katie.'
McEvoy walked across the fake marble linoleum to the cooker and stood behind Canning, so close that Canning could smell the man's stale breath. 'What's this with Katie? You'll be calling her Miss Hayes next. It's best to keep your distance,
Mick. Don't let it get personal, yeah? Call her the kid. The girl. The bitch. Call her anything, but don't call her by her name. If the shit hits the fan, we might have to do her, and it's going to be a hell of a lot harder to do it if you've forged a relationship with her. Get it?'
'Got it.' Canning spooned the scrambled eggs on to a paper plate, then put the plate and a plastic fork on a tray. 'You've done this before, haven't you?'
'Not with a kid, no. But I've held guys before.'
'For ransom, like?'
'No. Not for ransom.'
'For what, then?'
McEvoy made himself a cup of instant coffee and spooned in three sugars. 'What is this, Twenty Questions!'
'Just want to know where I stand, that's all. Background.'
McEvoy folded his arms across his chest and leant against the fridge. 'Background it is you want, huh? Background? I used to work for a unit attached to the Civil Administration Team,
how's that for background?'
Canning raised his eyebrows in surprise. He'd known that McEvoy was active in the IRA, but the Civil Administration Team was the organisation's internal security unit, composed of only the most trusted, and vicious, activists. When the IRA needed prisoners or traitors interrogated or tortured, it was the Civil Administration Team that was called in. And most of the men and women they interrogated ended up dead.
McEvoy saw the look of surprise. 'Yeah, the best of the best,
the hardest of the hard.'
'Shit.'
'Yeah. If there was anyone they thought was bad, we'd go in and get them, hold them until we were sure we weren't being watched, then the heavy mob would move in. To do the business. They were hard bastards, Mick. You wouldn't want to meet them on a dark night. On any fucking night. You knew that if they were on the case, someone was gonna end up dead.
That's what I mean about not getting involved. You don't use their names, you don't say please and thank you, you don't ask them how they are. Okay, you might smile and keep them chatting until you get them into the safe house, but then you tie them up and throw a blanket over their heads. You don't talk to them and you don't look at them. You treat them like meat because that's all they are. Meat. Dead meat.'
'And are you saying that's what Katie is? Dead meat?'
'She might be. She might not be.' He sipped his coffee. 'But why take the risk? Maybe her mother's going to do what Egan wants, maybe everything's going to go exactly the way Egan's planned, but if worst comes to worst, we've got to be prepared to do what's necessary.' He looked across at Canning with narrowed eyes. 'What we're being paid for.' He nodded at the tray. 'Her eggs are getting cold.'
Lydia McCracken thanked the two shop assistants and gave them each five pounds. The two teenagers had trundled two tumble-driers and four electric ovens out of the discount warehouse and loaded them into the back of the blue Peugeot van,
and they were both panting and sweating. They thanked her and walked away, grinning at the unexpected tip. Mark Quinn loaded four large coffee grinders and four electric woks into the van and slammed the door shut.
McCracken got into the passenger seat and told Quinn to drive back to the industrial estate. As he drove, she checked a computer print-out that she had attached to a metal clipboard.
Most of the items on the list had now been purchased, and all the chemicals had already been delivered to the office in Cathay Tower. They were ready to go on to the next stage.
It took an hour to get back to the factory unit that they were using as their base. It was on a large industrial estate on the outskirts of Milton Keynes, less than half a mile from the Mi. McCracken had leased the unit almost a year earlier in the name of a metal tubing manufacturing company. There was a parking area at the rear of the unit, with spaces for more than two dozen vehicles. The blue Transit van in the landscaping company livery was there, along with the two courier vans, a grey Volvo and a black VW Passat. There was also a 250CC Yamaha motorcycle with a black back-box, and a small scooter. All the vehicles had genuine paperwork and were taxed, insured and MoT'd.
Quinn parked the Peugeot next to one of the courier vans.
'Don and I'll take the Transit to the airport,' said McCracken.
'Leave the stuff in the van for now.'
They got out of the van and went inside the factory. O'Keefe was sitting at the table, playing Patience.
'She okay?' asked McCracken.
'Not a peep,' said O'Keefe, flicking the pack of cards with his thumbnail. His gun was hanging in its holster on the back of his chair. McCracken's gun was where she'd left it, on top of her holdall.
She looked at her wristwatch. 'Right, we're going to drop the Hayes woman at Shepherds Bush at two. Mark, you'd better head off now. Careful how you park the bike.'
'No sweat,' said Quinn. He went over to a large canvas duffel bag and pulled out a black crash helmet, a leather motorcycle jacket and a pair of padded leather gloves. 'Catch you later,' he said, heading for the door.
'Mark, hold on,' said McCracken. She went over to him,
brushing her dyed blond hair behind her ears. 'Remember, keep your distance. No eye contact, right? Just check she gets there,
and that she doesn't talk to anyone or use the phone.'
Quinn looked pained, as if he resented being given such specific instructions. 'I'm not stupid,' he said. He pulled the crash helmet over his head and flipped down the visor.
McCracken wanted to emphasise how important it was that Hayes didn't spot Quinn following her, but she could see that he wasn't receptive to any advice. He was young and headstrong,
and McCracken was starting to wonder if it had been a mistake recruiting him. Not that it was her mistake. Egan had put the team together.
She took her ski mask off the table and put it on. O'Keefe put his on, too. Outside they heard Quinn start up the motorcycle and drive away.
McCracken slipped on her leather gloves and went through to the office section, where she called out Andy's name. Andy opened the door. She'd changed into a pair of black jeans and a white shirt.
'Have you got a suit?' asked McCracken. 'Something suitable for an office?'
Andy looked down at her jeans. 'No. I've got these and what I was wearing when you brought me here.'
'What are you? A size ten?'
'On a good day.'
'You can wear one of mine. We're about the same size.'
McCracken waved at Andy to follow her, and the two women went through to the factory area. McCracken sat down at the table next to O'Keefe. She nodded at the third chair and Andy sat down.
'We're moving out of here,' said McCracken. Her briefcase was on the floor next to her chair, and she swung it on to the table and clicked open the locks. She took out an A-Z London street directory and passed it over to Andy. 'Page forty-two,' she said. 'I've marked the building. It's called Cathay Tower. The address is on a card at the front.'
Andy flicked to the front of the book and found a three-byfourinch piece of white card. On it was written 'ORVICE WILLIAMS BROKING INTERNATIONAL LIMITED' and an address.
'It's on the ninth floor,' said McCracken.
'I don't understand ..." protested Andy, but McCracken held up a gloved hand to silence her.
'You don't have to understand,' she said. 'You just have to do as you're told.' She took a laminated identification badge from the briefcase and handed it to Andy. 'This'll get you into the building. You go there and wait for us. We'll be there first thing tomorrow morning.'
Andy looked at the badge. It had a small metal clip so that it could be attached to clothing. The name of the broking firm was on the badge. So was another name, Sally Higgs, a scrawled signature and Andy's photograph, the Polaroid picture that had been taken on her arrival at the factory unit.
McCracken stood up. 'On your way to the tower, you don't speak to anyone, you don't phone anyone. You will be watched, Andrea. Every step of the way. If you try to communicate with anyone, anyone at all, we'll simply disappear and you'll never hear from us again. Or your daughter.'
Andy stared at the badge.
'You understand?'
'Yes,' mumbled Andy. She looked around the factory area as if trying to get her bearings. 'How do I get there?'
'I'll explain that later. But first there's something I want to show you.' She stood up, and Andy followed her across to the computer.
McCracken clicked on the mouse and a view of the Cathay Tower office filled the screen. Andy stared at it, not understanding.
'This is the office we'll be using,' explained McCracken. She clicked on the mouse again. Another view of the office appeared.
'We can see every bit of the office from here,' she said.
'So when you get there, just make yourself comfortable and wait for us. You'll be there on your own tonight, but we'll be watching you.'
Andy nodded, but said nothing.
'You're doing fine, Andrea,' said McCracken. 'Just keep on doing as we ask and this will all be over soon and you'll be back with your family.'
'I want to call my husband.'
'I can't let you do that, Andrea.'
Andy lowered her voice. 'If you don't, Martin'll go to the police, I know he will.'
'He won't. He'll be too worried about what'll happen to you and Katie.'
'No, you don't know him. He'll want to do something.
He'll want to react, and by not communicating with him, you're not giving him any choice. There's only one thing he can do.
He'll go to the police.'
Green-eyes studied Andy without replying.
'It's been almost five days since you took Katie. He hasn't heard from me since Wednesday night, so . . .'
Green-eyes stiffened. 'You spoke to him on Wednesday night? You called him from the hotel?'
'You didn't say I wasn't to,' said Andy. 'It was the only call I made. You just said I wasn't to call the police. He needed to know that I was okay. And he needs to know that I'm still okay.
Because if he doesn't . . .' She left the sentence hanging.
'He's not going to do anything that might endanger you and your daughter,' said Green-eyes.
'If he doesn't hear from me, or from Katie, he's going to think that there's nothing to lose by going to the police. Five days is a long time when you're waiting for news. He's a builder,
he works with his hands, he's used to doing things, don't you understand? He'll feel that he has to do something. And if you don't let me talk to him, I think he'll go to the police. He'll want to do something, anything, and by not communicating with him you've taken away all his options.'
'I can't trust you, Andrea. Look at that business with the letter at the hotel.'
'I'm sorry. That was stupid. Look, you know I want to talk to him because I miss him -- you can understand that, can't you?
I want to talk to my husband. But I know what will happen if he does go to the police and you find out. I don't want that to happen. I don't know why you're doing this and I don't want to know. I just don't want anything to happen to my daughter.
And if Martin knows that I'm okay, and that Katie's okay, then he'll be more likely to wait and see how it works out.'
'Let me think about it,' said Green-eyes.
'You've got a mobile phone, haven't you? A cellular?'
Green-eyes didn't react.
'So let me use that. It's not in your name, is it? I mean, I'm assuming that . . .'
Andy wanted to say more but she didn't want to risk antagonising Green-eyes. Green-eyes hadn't known that Andy had phoned Martin from London. That meant the phone in Dublin wasn't tapped. There had to be a way that she could make use of that knowledge. Green-eyes looked across at her and Andy forced herself to smile.
Green-eyes went over to a table and picked up her mobile phone. 'What's the number?'
Andy gave her the number and Green-eyes tapped it in. She listened to check that it was ringing, then handed it to Andrea.
'Any tricks, any at all, and it'll be Katie who'll suffer. And I want you to ask him if he's gone to the police.'
'Okay. Okay.' Andy couldn't believe that Green-eyes was letting her use the phone. Part of her was convinced that she was going to snatch the handset away at the last moment.
Martin answered and Andy's heart pounded. 'Martin? It's me.'
'Oh, sweet Jesus, thank God. How are you? Where are you?'
'Martin, did you go to the police?'
'Where are you? Are you okay? Andy, what's happening?'
'Martin, listen to me. Did you go to the police?'
'No. No I didn't.'
Andy put her hand over the receiver. 'It's okay. He hasn't spoken to the police.' Green-eyes nodded and motioned for Andy to continue with the call.
Martin panicked. 'Andy, Andy, don't go. Talk to me, don't go . .'
'It's okay,' said Andy. 'I'm here. But you have to listen to me,
love. I'm okay, and they say that Katie's okay. I'm fine, too.
They're not hurting me. Look, Martin, there's something they want me to do for them. It's not going to take long, then they say they'll let me come home. Katie, too.'
'I've got the money ready,' said Martin. 'Almost four hundred thousand pounds. Tell them I've got the money.'
'They don't want money, Martin. Listen to me, love. They don't want the money. They just want me to . . .'
Green-eyes stepped forward and tried to take the phone from Andy. Andy took a step back, trying to keep the phone away from her. 'No details,' Green-eyes hissed.
'Okay, okay,' said Andy. 'Sorry. I'm sorry.' She held the phone to her face again. 'Martin, they don't want money. That's all I can tell you. But they've assured me that so long as you don't go to the police, they won't hurt me or Katie. You have to promise me that you won't go to the police.'