flying over the Atlantic. We could search for every conversation in which the words plane and bomb were used. But think how often the incident would be referred to in general conversation by members of the public. Say it was just a hundred thousand,
and believe me, that'd be a massive underestimate, Echelon will pick out the words, then include five seconds either side, so that analysts can listen to the snippet of conversation to decide if it's worth following up. That's a million seconds of conversation,
Martin. More than two hundred and fifty hours. Every second has to be listened to and analysed. And I can guarantee that it'll all be time wasted, because terrorists would never use words like bomb or explosive over the phone. They'd use codes, because they know how the system works. It's the same with drug dealers. They're not going to say “heroin” or “cocaine” - they wouldn't even say “gear” or other commonly used slang.
They'll say “the consignment arrives next week” or something equally vague. So Echelon isn't used for general trawling of domestic phone conversations -- there just aren't enough people,
even within the NSA, to listen to all the stuff that's recorded.
Most of it stays on disk and is stored, never listened to.'
'So now you're saying it's a waste of time?' said Martin bitterly.
Carter held up her hand again. 'Absolutely not,' she said.
'Where Echelon is invaluable is in targeting specific conversations,
in specific areas of the world. It's used to listen in on diplomatic transmissions, military transmissions, specific people and organisations. Or the way that we're using it. For a specific word that isn't going to be in general use. How often do you think the word Katie is going to be used in calls from England to Ireland? A dozen? A hundred? Those sorts of numbers we can deal with, Martin. We'll pick up the call within seconds, and almost immediately we'll have a location. The NSA and GCHQ have more computing power between them than any other organisation on the planet.'
'I hope you're right, Barbara,' Martin said.
'She is. We are,' said Fanning. He looked up at Carter and they shared a smile. Patsy Ellis might not approve of how much of GCHQ's work they'd revealed to Martin, but he was definitely a lot more relaxed having heard it.
All three jumped as the black telephone rang. The mug fell from Martin's hands and coffee splashed across the beige wool carpet.
The two men in Barbour jackets drove Denham back to Belfast in silence. Denham sat in the back of the Rover, chain-smoking and staring out of the window. They took him to a nondescript office building on the outskirts of the city, and the one who'd been in the passenger seat escorted him inside. A uniformed security guard asked him for identification, but all he had on him was his driving licence. The guard noted down the details and Denham and the man with him went up in an elevator to the third floor. The man had a swipe card which he ran through a reader at the side of a glass door, and it clicked open. They walked down a white-painted corridor past a series of identical grey doors. The man opened one of the doors and nodded at Denham. 'I'll wait for you here, sir.'
Inside the windowless room was a soundproofed booth, and inside the booth was a metal desk, a plastic chair and a telephone without a dial or keypad. The walls of the room were lined with pale green foam rubber that had been moulded into an egg-box design. Denham went into the booth and closed the door behind him. He picked up the phone and almost immediately a man's voice asked him who he wished to speak to. He asked for Patsy Ellis. She was on the line within seconds.
'Liam, how did it go?'
'Better than I expected, to be honest. Things have changed since the Good Friday agreement, more than I'd ever have guessed.'
Then like McCormack have, sure. But there are other leopards whose spots'll never change. So what did he have to say?'
'He gave me the five who were in Trevor's ASU, but he obviously knew that we had them anyway. And he was open about Denis Fisher, but Fisher's dead. The active service unit was under the control of Hugh McGrath, and that we didn't know because he dealt only with Nolan.'
'McGrath?'
'He's dead, too. At least McCormack reckons he's dead. He disappeared back in '92. McGrath was on the Army Council but his main function was to liaise with the Libyans during the eighties. McCormack was a bit sketchy on the details, but it seems that McGrath set up his own splinter group responsible for a bombing campaign in '92. Fisher was running the group.'
Denham took out a packet of cigarettes and rumbled one out.
'They were all killed when the SAS stormed their flat in Wapping. McGrath disappeared just before the SAS went in.'
He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
'He could just have got wind of what was happening and gone underground.'
'There's more to it than that, but McCormack's not letting on. I got the impression that it was the IRA that did for him, you know? That they found out what he was up to and took matters into their own hands.'
'But this McGrath knew about Trevor?'
'Oh, yes. Quite definitely. And another volunteer. Micky Geraghty. Have you heard of him?'
'Doesn't ring a bell.'
'Aye, probably before your time. Bit of a legend was Micky Geraghty. He was a sniper, and a bloody good one, but he lost heart when his wife died of cancer. Long and painful, and by all accounts he was a broken man afterwards. Walked away.'
'Still alive?'
'McCormack said he wasn't sure. He hasn't heard from him for a while. Geraghty went to live near Thurso, up in Scotland.'
'I'll get him checked out. What was his involvement with Trevor?'
'He never met her, but knew of her. The ASU was setting bombs in Belfast, small ones, booby-trapped so they'd be hard to deal with, and Geraghty would be somewhere up high with his rifle. The plan was to shoot the bomb-disposal guys. Trevor let us know what was happening so we had saturation coverage plus helicopters all over the place. Geraghty didn't get a chance to stick his head up. They moved him to the border and that was that. But according to McCormack, on at least one occasion he heard McGrath telling Geraghty about Fisher and Trevor.
Geraghty had a daughter about the same age, name of Kerry.'
'But no one else on the Army Council knew about Trevor?'
'Not according to McCormack.'
'And the other thing? Is he willing to help?'
'He said he'd make enquiries. But that it wouldn't be easy.'
Denham looked around for an ashtray but couldn't see one. He pulled a face and flicked ash on to the floor.
'Do you think he'll do it, though?'
'I think so. But without putting himself at risk. It's a hell of a thing to be asking him to do, Patsy. If word got out that he was helping us ... even under the circumstances, the hardliners wouldn't think twice about making an example of him.'
'How long before he gets back to us?'
'He didn't say. Couldn't say. He'll put out feelers, ask around, but softly-softly. If he does come across anyone who's gone missing, he'll get back to me.'
'That's great, Liam. Job well done. Now I'd like you back here as soon as possible. The plane's waiting for you.'
'I was thinking it might be an idea if I return via Scotland. I could pop in on Micky Geraghty.'
'Do you know him?'
Denham stubbed his cigarette out on the underside of the desk. 'Never met him. I know it's not exactly on the way, but until McCormack gets back to me, I'm not going to be much use.'
Patsy was silent for a few seconds, thinking it over. 'You're right, it makes sense. You go ahead and see if you can find Geraghty. I'll speak to our transport people, ascertain where we can get you flown into, and I'll have you met there.'
'I'm a big boy, Patsy. I don't need minders.'
'It'll save time, Liam. Just think of them as drivers.'
'Aye. Okay.'
'You be careful, you hear. And Liam?'
'Yes?'
'You're not supposed to smoke in the secure communications booth. It screws up the electronics.'
Denham was still chuckling as he left the room.
Martin's hand was trembling as he picked up the phone. He took a deep breath and put it to his ear as Carter and Fanning encouraged him with nods and urgent smiles. The counter on the digital tape recorder had already started to click off the seconds. 'Yes?' he said, his throat so dry that he could barely get the word out. Carter picked up a lightweight headset and put in on so that she could listen in on the conversation.
'Mart?' It was a man's voice. An Irish accent. 'Mart, is that you?'
It was Padraig. The strength went from Martin's legs and he sat down. He put the receiver down on the table and looked at the two MI5 agents, then shook his head.
'Shit,' said Fanning. He picked up a glass of water and drank,
then walked away to look out of the window, cursing under his breath.
Martin stared down at the handset. Padraig was still speaking but Martin couldn't make out what he was saying. He put the phone to his ear. 'Jesus, Mart, say something.'
'Hiya, Padraig. Sorry. I dropped the phone.'
'Are you at home, Mart? I've been trying your mobile but it's off.'
'I haven't had time to charge it,' Martin lied. Patsy had told him to leave the mobile phone switched off so that the kidnappers couldn't use it. They'd used the home phone the first time and Patsy wanted them to use it again.
'I was calling to leave a message. I thought you were still in England.' There was a second or two of silence as Martin's partner gathered his thoughts. 'What the hell's going on, Mart?
Where are you?'
Carter shook her head firmly.
'I can't tell you, Mart. I'm sorry.'
'You're still in England, yeah?'
Another shake of the head from Carter.
'I can't tell you that either, Padraig.'
'But Katie and Andy are okay, yeah?'
Martin sighed. He hated being evasive, and he hated lying,
but Carter was standing over him, one hand up to her headset.
'It's complicated, Padraig.'
'Mart, I had a visit from the Garda today. Two detectives. A guy called FitzGerald and his partner.'
'Power?'
'Yeah. Power, that was it. Right Laurel and Hardy, they were. They seemed mightily pissed off at something but I had trouble following what they wanted.'
'What do you mean?'
'It was the weirdest thing, Mart. I thought they were going to give me grief for driving you up to Belfast, but they didn't even mention it. I tell you, I was worried they were going to ask to look at my car because I've still not got the window replaced and there's glass all over the seat. They said that you were going to be away from the office for a while, and that I wasn't to worry. They said if anyone asked I was to say that you were at home, off sick. And they said I wasn't to try to get in touch with you.'
'And I can see that you took their advice, Padraig.'
Padraig chuckled. 'Yeah, fucking cops. What are you going to do, eh?'
Martin laughed along with his partner.
'Seriously, Mart. What's going on?'
'I can't tell you, Padraig.'
'They're the cops that hauled you into Pearse Street, aren't they?'
'Yeah. But they've been warned off'
'Warned off? By who?'
Carter shook her head fiercely and wagged her finger in front of Martin's face. He glared at her and put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'He's my best friend,' he said, a hard edge in his voice. 'I trust him more than anyone.'
'You're risking your daughter's life, Mr Hayes.'
'Don't you fucking patronise me,' Martin hissed. 'I've known Padraig for almost thirty years. I've known you for five minutes. I'm damn sure I know which of you I trust.'
Carter's cheeks flushed and she straightened up. Fanning looked over at them, sipping his water. He flashed her a sympathetic look but she turned away, embarrassed that he'd heard Martin's outburst.
Martin swivelled his chair around so that his back was to them. He took his hand away from the mouthpiece. 'Padraig,
the gardai have been told to lay off. It's being handled in London now.'
'That's where you are, yeah?'
'That's right. Any calls to the house are being transferred here. But no one must know, right? If the kidnappers call,
they've got to think I'm still in Dublin.'
'Mum's the word, Mart.'
'Anyone asks, do as the gardai said. Just say I'm at home sick and you don't know when I'll be back.'
'Can I do anything to help?'
'No, mate, but thanks for offering.'
'If you need anything, I'm here, yeah?'
Martin thanked his partner and hung up. Carter was standing at the window, looking out at the river. As Fanning went over to the tape recorder, Martin went and stood next to her. 'I'm sorry,' he said.
Carter shrugged. 'It doesn't matter.'
'I didn't mean to snap. It's been a shitty few days.'
'I understand, Martin. But we are trying to help. We're on your side.'
Martin nodded. He felt genuinely bad about lashing out at her. 'Padraig won't do anything to rock the boat,' he said. 'He loves Andy and Katie almost as much as I do.'
She forced a smile. 'I'm sure he won't let you down.' She gestured at the spilt coffee. 'I'll get that cleaned up,' she said.
Lydia McCracken sat on the wooden bench and looked around the garden square. She was wearing a pale blue suit and was carrying a small handbag which she held in her lap. An old woman was feeding pigeons hunks of bread from a Hovis wrapper and muttering to them. Or to herself -- McCracken was too far away to hear clearly. The old woman looked homeless, with a thick wool coat tied around the waist with a length of rope, and black Wellington boots with the tops turned over. She had greasy grey hair and blotchy skin, and she kept wiping her nose with the back of her hand. McCracken shuddered and looked away. Several dozen office workers were strolling around the square, getting a breath of fresh air before heading back to their VDUs and keyboards. Three men in their twenties walked by, laughing. Neat suits, polished shoes and starched shirts -- only the ties offered any variety. Nothing to distinguish them from the hundreds of thousands of office workers who poured into the City every day. And nothing to distinguish them from the hundreds who'd die when the fourthousandpound fertiliser bomb went off just a half a mile away from where she was sitting.