in the business. Young, beautiful

and deadly, she was the

favourite of her Irish republican

masters. Then it all went wrong.

Five children were killed, when

disruption was all that was

intended: It all became too

much, and she turned away

from her trade ...

Now, a new Andrea Hayes lives

a safe suburban life, with her

loving husband and young

daughter. Safe in the knowledge

that her past is another country.

But then her daughter is ,

kidnapped by persons unknown

and the past has come knocking.

As Andrea gets blackmailed into

returning to her craft and

building a bomb that dwarfs

any planted by the IRA, a

faceless mastermind is working

behind the scenes to pull off one

of the most daring scams in

world history ...

Also by Stephen Leather

THE CHINAMAN

PAY OFF

THE FIREMAN

HUNGRY GHOST

THE VETS

THE LONG SHOT

THE BIRTHDAY GIRL

THE DOUBLE TAP

THE SOLITARY MAN

THE TUNNEL RATS

THE

BOMBMAKER

Stephen Leather

Hodder & Stoughton

It wasn't an especially big bomb. Just a couple of pounds of

Semtex, a detonator, a small digital clock and a mercury tilt

switch. The man carrying it wasn't overly afraid — he knew that

the device had been tested a dozen times, with a light bulb from

a torch in place of the detonator. There was no way it could

explode prematurely. The timer was set to activate its circuit in

thirty minutes' time, and even then the device wouldn't explode

until it was moved and the mercury tilt switch was tripped. A

third circuit, separate from the first two, contained a photoelectric

cell linked to a second detonator. The Bombmaker had

explained everything to him before closing the lid of the box

and placing it in the blue holdall, the holdall that he was now

carrying as casually as if it contained nothing more threatening

than football kit.

The man looked left and right, then squeezed through a gap

in the railings and went down the embankment to the railway

tracks. He walked along the sleepers, confident that there

wouldn't be a train for at least an hour, by which time he'd

be long gone. He took a quick look at his wristwatch. Plenty of

time. Plenty of time to place the bomb at the designated

location, then to get to the phone box and make the coded

call. This wasn't a bomb designed to kill, it was meant to disrupt.

To tie up the police, the army and a bomb disposal team. That's

not to say that it wasn't a serious bomb, but the men who turned

up to deal with it would be experts. They'd X-ray it before

STEPHEN LEATHER

touching it and they'd see the circuits and then they'd blow it up

with a controlled charge. In effect, they'd be blowing up the

railway line themselves. Hours of disruption. Great publicity.

And a reminder that they had the ability and the supplies to do

harm. A nudge, that's all it was, though the man carrying the

holdall knew that it was a nudge capable of leaving a crater

twenty feet wide.

Ahead of him was the entrance to a tunnel. He walked up to

it and left the holdall a few feet inside. The fact that it was in

darkness and close to the tunnel wall would make it that much

harder to deal with. They'd need lights, and they'd know that if

it did go off the tunnel would direct the blast outwards. Plus

they'd also have to close the road that ran above the railway line.

Two birds with one stone.

He went back along the tracks and climbed up the embankment,

then walked along the road. A blue Fiat pulled up

alongside him and he climbed in. 'Okay?' said the driver, a

cigarette sticking out of the side of his mouth.

The man nodded but didn't say anything. The driver was a

driver, nothing more. Told where and when to pick him up and

where to take him. The man looked at his watch again.

Everything was going to plan.

Lucy Metcalfe hated it when her brother played rough. She was

a year older than Tim but he was bigger and stronger and lately

he seemed to take great pleasure in pushing her around. He was

worse when his friends were with him. They were kicking a

football, but every time Lucy got it, Tim would immediately

tackle her, charging in with his shoulder and pushing with his

elbows. 'Mine, mine,' he'd shout, before taking the ball off her.

It wasn't even as if they were trying to score goals -- they were

just passing the ball to and fro, on their way back from school.

'You're a bully!' she shouted at her ten-year-old brother as

he barged into her for the umpteenth time and dribbled the ball

away. She stood rubbing her shoulder and glaring at him

sullenly.

THE BOMBMAKER

Tim stopped and put a foot on top of the ball. 'Yeah?' he

said.

'Yeah. It's supposed to be a game.'

'Yeah? Well, I'm better than you are.'

'No, you're not better. You're bigger. And uglier. And

stupider.'

Tim's friends giggled and his cheeks reddened. He kicked

the ball at her, hard, but missed her by several feet. The ball

bounced on the kerb and skidded across a strip of grass before

disappearing through a line of rusting metal railings. 'Now look

what you've done!' Tim shouted. 'Go and get it.'

'Why should I get it? It wasn't my fault.'

'I was kicking it to you.'

Lucy shook her head and folded her arms across her chest in

the way she'd seen her mother do when she was insisting that

they go to bed early. 'You were kicking it at me, not to me,' she

said. 'You were the last to touch it. You get it.'

Tim clenched his fists and took a step towards her. Lucy

turned and ran, her school bag banging against her hip. 'Chicken!'

Tim shouted, and started making loud clucking noises. His

friends joined in. Tim waited until his sister was out of sight

before ducking through the railings and sliding down the

embankment. His friends followed him, shouting and screaming

and flapping their arms like demented crows.

The ball was at the mouth of the tunnel. Tim ran over to it

and picked it up. As he bent down, he saw something a few feet

inside the entrance. A blue holdall. 'Hey, there's something

here,' he yelled. He kicked the ball over to his friends and

walked into the tunnel. He was surprised how much colder it

was and he shivered. He turned to look at his friends as if to

reassure himself that they were still there. He suddenly felt a lot

less brave. 'Come on!' he said, and waved them over.

They ran towards him. Tim's confidence returned almost

immediately, and he grabbed at the holdall, wanting to be the

first to open it.

STEPHEN LEATHER

The man replaced the receiver and left the call-box. He slid into

the passenger seat of the blue Fiat. The driver was lighting

another cigarette, and the man pointedly wound down the

window. 'You don't mind me smoking, do ya?' asked the driver.

The man shrugged but didn't say anything. He motioned

with his ringer for the driver to move off. As the driver's hand

reached for the gear-stick, they heard a dull thudding sound off

in the distance. The two men knew immediately what the noise

was. They were both Belfast-born and bred and were no

strangers to the sound of exploding bombs.

'Jesus fucking Christ,' said the man.

The cigarette dropped from the driver's lips. He fumbled for

it as it rolled between his legs, cursing loudly.

The man stared out of the open window, a sick feeling in the

pit of his stomach. Something had gone wrong. Something had

gone very, very wrong.

THE BOMBMAKER

TEN YEARS LATER

It had been a long and uncomfortable flight and Egan rubbed his

knuckles into the small of his back as he waited for his luggage to

appear on the carousel. The men from Beijing had booked him a

first-class ticket, but Egan hadn't used it. People were noticed in

first class, and Egan had gone through most of his life without

being noticed. That was the way he wanted it. His features could

best be described as nondescript. He was in his early thirties, a

little below average height with receding hair, cropped short.

He had pale blue eyes and a squarish face with thin lips that formed an almost straight line unless he smiled. The only

distinguishing features Egan had were concealed by his dark

blue suit. There was a thick scar that ran from the base of his

neck to just above his left breast, a phosphorus burn on his right

thigh, and two old bullet wounds in his right shoulder. Anyone

who saw Egan naked would never forget the man, but most

people would have difficulty describing him an hour after

meeting him.

Egan's suitcase was as bland as he was. A grey Samsonite with

an Air France tag. He picked it up and walked through Customs.

Egan had started his journey in London but had taken the

Eurostar train to Paris and flown out of Charles de Gaulle airport.

The flight to Hong Kong had taken a little under twelve hours

and he'd spent most of the time reading A Tale of Two Cities. He

was working his way through the complete works of Charles

Dickens and hoped to have finished by the end of the year.

As he walked out into the arrivals area he saw a liveried

chauffeur holding a piece of white card with 'Mr Egan' written

on it. Egan shuddered. He knew that his employers were trying

to impress him, and that face was all-important to the Chinese,

but Egan had no wish to be impressed. He considered ignoring

the chauffeur, but decided not to in case the man had him paged.

Egan wasn't his real name, but he still didn't want it broadcast

throughout Chek Lap Kok airport. He went over to the

chauffeur and nodded.

The chauffeur touched the brim of his cap in an attempt at a

salute and reached for Egan's suitcase. Egan let him carry the

case. It contained nothing of importance - it was as much a prop

as the suit he wa» wearing, to give him the appearance of a

businessman or banker or any of the other vultures who were

flocking into Hong Kong to take advantage of the economic

crisis that was wreaking havoc in South-East Asia.

The chauffeur was in his sixties and bow-legged, and he was

breathing heavily by the time they reached the top-of-the-range

Mercedes outside the airport terminal. Egan climbed into the

plush interior and settled back for the ride to Hong Kong Island.

It was his third visit to the former British colony in six months,

and he was as impressed as always by the sheer magnitude of the

new airport and its transport system, ferrying thousands of

passengers an hour from the oudying island to Hong Kong

proper by road, rail and helicopter. It didn't have the character

or the white-knuckle approach of the old airport at Kai Tak, but

it was considerably more efficient, and if there was one thing

Egan admired, it was efficiency.

There was a copy of the Hong Kong Standard in the seat

pocket and Egan read the business section. The stock market was

continuing its downward plunge and the Hang Seng Index was

down more than thirty per cent year on year. There were

rumours that the government was considering devaluing the

Hong Kong dollar, and inflation was climbing. Egan smiled to

himself as he scanned the list of stock prices. The days of the so

called Asian miracle were long gone.

The Mercedes drew up in front of the Mandarin Hotel and a

red-liveried bell-boy carried Egan's case inside. Egan checked in,

showered and put on a clean shirt, then watched CNN until it

was time for his meeting.

The men from Beijing had booked a room large enough to

hold fifty, even though there were just four of them. It was face,

Egan knew, something the Chinese regarded as one of their

cultural strengths but which Egan knew was a major weakness.

They were already in the room when Egan arrived, sitting in a

line at one end of a long apple-wood table. There was only one

other chair, at the opposite end, and Egan sat down and studied

the men facing him. Three were in their seventies, with watery

eyes and lined parchment-like faces. The fourth was middle

aged, in his late forties, and was the only one wearing glasses. His

name was Deng, and he was a distant relative of the former

Chinese leader, the one they still called the Butcher of Tiananmen

Square. The other three had never been introduced to

Egan, but he had made enquiries and knew who they were and

how much they were worth. One was a general in the People's

Liberation Army, the other two were bankers. In the United

States they'd be well past retirement age and would be enjoying

their twilight years on the golf course, but careers were handled

differently in China.

'Good to see you again, Mr Egan,' said Deng. He spoke with

an American accent, the result of three years studying for a

master's degree at Harvard University.

Egan nodded but said nothing.

'Everything is proceeding satisfactorily?'

'It is.'

Deng's three companions stared at Egan with unblinking

eyes. The PLA general's mouth was open and Egan could hear

every breath the man took. According to Egan's file on the man,

he was suffering from emphysema and was a regular visitor to a

lung specialist in London's Harley Street.

Egan leaned forward and interlinked his thick fingers on the

table's surface. 'The teams are now in place -- we're in a position

to move to the next stage. But before we do proceed, I want to

make quite sure you realise the ramifications of what you're

asking.'

'What we're paying for,' said Deng.

Egan nodded, acknowledging the point. The four men in

front of him had already transferred half a million dollars to his

bank account in Zurich, and following today's meeting a further

one million would be paid. If everything went to plan, Egan

stood to receive a total of seven million dollars.

'Nairobi, 1998. More than two hundred dead, five and a half

thousand injured. What I'm organising -- what you're paying for

-- is bigger, much bigger, than what I did in Kenya. Timing is the

key. It can be done late at night and casualties will be minimal. It

can be done at lunch-time and they'll be digging the bodies out

for weeks.'

Deng nodded, but the other three men remained impassive.

Egan knew that at least one of the geriatrics spoke fluent

English and that the other two had a reasonable grasp of the

language.

'I have no qualms either way,' Egan continued, 'but I want

to make it clear before we go any further that if you do decide to

go ahead with a daytime event, hundreds of office workers could

die.'

Deng nodded again. He turned to his three companions and

spoke in rapid Mandarin. All three men nodded. 'We have no

problems with matters as they stand, Mr Egan. If anything, it

adds credibility to our scenario, does it not?'

'It could be taken either way,' said Egan. 'I was thinking in

terms of the degree of backlash. Africans are one thing, Europeans

are something else.'

'Nevertheless,' said Deng, 'we are of the opinion that we

should proceed as planned.'

'No problem,' said Egan. 'As soon as the next tranche is

deposited irl Zurich, we'll move on to the next stage.'

The PLA general wheezed and then leaned over to Deng

and whispered to him in Mandarin. Deng listened, pushing his

spectacles higher up his nose. When the general had finished

whispering, Deng nodded and then looked at Egan. 'Time is still

of the essence, Mr Egan. Do we have your assurance that

everything will be completed on time?'

'You do,' said Egan. He was well aware of how anxious the

men from Beijing were that his mission be completed without

delay. He knew that their lives would be forfeit if he failed.

'The money will be in your account within the hour,' said

Deng.

DAY ONE

There were two of them, stocky men wearing matching blue

track suits, black Reebok trainers and black ski masks. They

vaulted over the back wall and ran, bent double, along the grass

to the kitchen door of the house. They crouched at the door for

several seconds, then one of the men nodded and reached for the

door handle. It opened. They weren't surprised. They'd been

watching the house for two weeks and they knew the routine of

the occupants. The kitchen door was never locked until the

family's golden retriever had been allowed out just after midnight.

The

men slipped into the kitchen and gently closed the door

behind them. They stood for a while, listening. They could just

about hear the television in the sitting room. A comedy

programme. Loud studio laughter. They reached into their

track-suit tops and pulled out guns. Black automatics with

bulbous silencers. The men didn't expect to have to use them.

But they were prepared to, if necessary.

Their biggest worry was the dog. People could be threatened,

people knew the damage that guns could do, but dogs

would just growl and bark, maybe even attack to protect what

they considered to be their territory. The dog was in the sitting

room, so if they moved carefully they wouldn't be heard.

One of them eased open the door to the hallway. More

studio laughter. They moved on the balls of their feet, hardly

breathing as they crept to the stairs. The stairs would be the dangerous part. Stairs creaked. They went up two stairs at a time,

keeping close to the wall, guns at the ready.

They froze as they heard a police siren, but then relaxed as they

realised it was on the television. Somebody had changed channels.

They heard a roar. A football match, maybe. Then muffled voices.

Then studio laughter again. The men moved along the upper

hallway and knelt down at the door to the back bedroom. One of

the men was wearing a small rucksack, and he slipped it off and

placed it on the carpet. From the rucksack he pulled out a cloth and

a small glass bottle containing a colourless liquid. He unscrewed the

top and doused the cloth with the liquid, turning his head to avoid

the worst of the fumes. When the cloth was soaked, he nodded at

his companion, who opened the door and stepped inside.

They moved quickly through the darkness to the bed. A

small girl was asleep, her blond hair spread across the pillow, a

cuddly Garfield toy clutched to her chest. The man with the

cloth held it tightly against the girl's face. She stopped struggling

after a few seconds, but he kept the cloth pressed over her mouth

and nose for a full minute before releasing his grip on her.

The other man put a white envelope on a bedside table and

gathered up the little girl. The Garfield toy slipped on to the

floor. The man who'd drugged the girl picked up the cuddly

toy, hesitated for a second, and then put it and several other toys

into his rucksack. The man holding the unconscious girl made

an impatient clicking noise. Even with most of his face covered

by the ski mask, it was clear he was glaring at his companion. He

nodded at the door.

The two men moved down the stairs as silently as they'd

gone up, and two minutes later they were in a Ford Mondeo,

driving south with the little girl hidden under a tartan blanket.

The chloroform would keep her unconscious for the best part of

thirty minutes, and they didn't have far to go.

'Coffee?' asked Martin Hayes.

His wife grinned at him. 'Are you making it, or are you

asking me to get one for you?'

Martin pushed himself up off the sofa. The golden retriever

at his feet wagged its tail hopefully. 'Okay, Dermott - I'll let you

out.' He looked pointedly at his wife.

'You're all heart,' said Andrea Hayes. Martin leaned over and

planted a kiss on the top of her head, then ruffled her soft, blond

hair. 'Woof,' she said. 'I'll go and check on Katie.'

Martin went through to the kitchen and let the dog out

before switching on the electric kettle. The coffee was in the

freezer. If it had been up to Martin, he'd have made do with

instant, but Andy was fussy about her coffee. And she could tell

the difference. Martin had long ago given up trying to test her.

She didn't think his attempts to palm her off with Nescafe were

funny.

'Martin!'

'What?'

'Martin, come here.'

Martin could tell from her voice that something was wrong.

He ran down the hall and up the stairs. 'What? What?' he

shouted, a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He found Andy standing at the foot of the bed. He put his

hand on her shoulder. She was trembling. The bed was empty.

Katie had gone. He looked around the room. Nothing. He

turned around and went to the bathroom. The door was open

and he could see immediately that Katie wasn't there, but he

pulled back the shower curtain to assure himself that she

wasn't hiding there, that she wasn't playing some sort of crazy

game.

'Katie!' he called.

'She's not here. I looked everywhere.'

Martin fought to stay calm. Katie was a seven-year-old girl,

and seven-year-old girls didn't just disappear. He knelt down

and looked under the bed.

'I did that,' said Andy, her voice quivering. 'I looked there.'

'She has to be here somewhere,' said Martin. 'Maybe she's

sleepwalking.'

'She doesn't sleepwalk.'

'Maybe she's started.'

Martin straightened up. They both jumped as they heard a

noise downstairs.

'Thank God,' said Andy.

They rushed downstairs, shouting their daughter's name.

Andy went into the sitting room. A stand-up comedian was

telling a joke but she couldn't follow what he was saying, her

thoughts were too jumbled. She couldn't concentrate. Katie

wasn't there. Andy even checked behind the sofas. Nothing.

The TV laughter annoyed her and she switched the set off.

'Katie, if you're doing this on purpose, you're in big trouble,'

she shouted. Her voice echoed around the room.

The dog came scrabbling along the carpet, pink tongue

lolling from the side of his mouth.

'It was Dermott,' said Martin. 'He was scratching at the

door.'

'She's not in the garden?'

Martin shook his head.

'Oh, Jesus.' Andy put her hands up to her face, her fingers

splayed across her cheeks. 'This can't be happening.'

Martin went over to her and put his arm around her

shoulders. 'We don't know that anything's happened,' he said.

'There's got to be an explanation for this. She's fallen asleep

somewhere, that's all.'

'Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.'

Martin shook her gently. 'Come on, love. Pull yourself

together. Let's search the house from top to bottom. She'll be

somewhere. She has to be. We'd have heard her if she'd gone

out.'

'We were watching TV,' said Andy.

Martin closed his eyes and tried to quell the rising sense of

panic that kept threatening to overwhelm him. 'It's going to be

all right,' he whispered, but he could hear the doubt in his voice.

He opened his eyes again. 'You check upstairs. I'll check the

rooms downstairs.' Andy didn't move. He put his hands on her

shoulders and moved his face up close to hers. 'Okay?'

Andy nodded uncertainly. Her eyes were brimming with

tears and Martin brushed them away. 'We'll check the house

and if there's still no sign of her then we'll phone the police,

okay?'

'Police?' she repeated.

'We'll find her,' said Martin. 'Go on, up you go. Check the

bedrooms. When I've finished down here, I'll come up and

check the loft.' He knew they were clutching at straws but he

wanted to do something, anything other than picking up the

telephone and calling the police. Calling in the police meant that

their daughter was missing. Up until the moment he picked up

the phone little Katie was sleepwalking or hiding, somewhere in

the house. She wasn't lost. Or worse. Martin was prepared to

clutch at any straw within reach before he picked up the phone

and dialled 999.

He took Andy by the hand and half led, half pulled her into

the hallway. He waited until she was climbing the stairs before

he went through to the study. Nothing.

He closed the study door and went to the kitchen. He began

opening all the kitchen cupboards, knowing that it was useless

but wanting to check nevertheless.

'Martin!'

Martin's head jerked round. 'What? Have you found her?'

Even as he said the words he knew that she hadn't. He dashed

upstairs. Andy was walking down the landing, an envelope in

one hand, a sheet of paper in the other. 'What is it?' asked

Martin. 'What's happened?'

'They've take her,' gasped Andy. 'They've taken my baby.'

Her legs gave way beneath her and she fell. Her head

smacked against the banister, smearing it with blood before

she crashed to the floor and rolled on to her back, the letter still

clutched in her fist.

The man in the passenger seat of the Ford Mondeo twisted

around and lifted the corner of the tartan blanket.

'Is she still out?' asked the driver.

Katie lay on her back, snoring softly. 'Yeah. You think I

should give her more chloroform?'

13

STEPHEN LEATHER

'Nah. We're almost there.'

'Do you think they'll have read the note yet?' He draped the

blanket back over the child.

The driver looked at the digital clock on the dashboard.

'Maybe. They'll let the dog out first, then check on her.'

The passenger settled back in his seat. 'I'm not sure about

being so close to their house.'

'Makes no odds,' said the driver. 'Here, the North, over the

water -- they're not going to know where to look.'

They drove in silence for a while. The passenger spoke first.

'What if... you know? What if they don't do what they're

supposed to?'

The driver shrugged but didn't reply.

'Would you . . . you know?'

'Would I what?'

The passenger made a gun with his forefinger and thumb.

'Would you?'

'It won't come to that. The threat'11 be enough.'

'Are you sure of that?'

The driver threw him a quick look. 'Are you having second

thoughts, Mick?'

'No, but ..."

'There can't be any buts. Buts are what get people killed.

We've been told what we've got to do and we do it.'

Another silence, longer this time. Again, it was the passenger

who spoke first. 'George?'

'Aye?'

'Have you ever . . .?' He made the gun with his hand again.

'You know?'

'You know I have,' said George McEvoy.

'Nah, I mean a kid. Have you ever offed a kid?'

McEvoy shrugged. 'Man, woman, kid. A life's a life, Mick.'

Mick Canning nodded. He twisted around in his seat and

lifted the blanket again. The little girl's mouth was wide open

and a thin trickle of frothy dribble was running down her chin.

Canning reached across and used a corner of the blanket to wipe

the mess away.

'Stop fiddling with her,' said McEvoy tersely. 'You don't

want to get too attached.'

Canning frowned and did as he was told.

Andy opened her eyes and bunked. For a second or two she

thought she'd been asleep, and then the horror of it all came

rushing back and broke over her like an icy wave. Martin was

dabbing at her forehead with a damp cloth. 'Easy, love, you had

a nasty fall.' Andy tried to sit up, but as she did so her head swam

and she felt consciousness slip away again. Martin helped her lie

back on the sofa. 'Take it easy,' he said, pressing the cloth to the

bridge of her nose.

'What happened?' she asked.

'You feinted.'

Andy took several deep breaths, trying to gather her

thoughts. She'd been in Katie's bedroom. The letter. Oh my

God, the letter. She pushed Martin away and forced herself up.

'The letter,' she whispered.

'I've got it,' said Martin.

Andy held out her hand. 'Give it to me.'

Martin gave her the sheet of paper and she read it quickly,

even though she could remember it word for word.

ANDREA HAYES

WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER. SHE WILL NOT

BE HARMED IF YOU DO EXACTLY AS WE

SAY. YOU ARE TO TAKE FLIGHT EI172 TO

LONDON TOMORROW. A ROOM HAS BEEN

BOOKED IN YOUR NAME AT THE STRAND

PALACE HOTEL. WAIT THERE FOR FURTHER

INSTRUCTIONS. IF YOU CONTACT THE

POLICE YOU WILL NEVER SEE YOUR

DAUGHTER AGAIN. YOUR HUSBAND IS TO

CARRY ON HIS NORMAL ROUTINE. YOU

WILL BOTH BE WATCHED. IF WE BELIEVE

15

STEPHEN LEATHER

YOU HAVE CONTACTED THE POUCE YOUR

DAUGHTER WILL DIE.

Andy blinked away tears. 'Why?' she asked. 'Why us?'

Martin took the letter from her. It was typed, all capital

letters. It looked as if it had been done on a laser printer. The

same typeface was on the envelope. Just two words there.

ANDREA HAYES.

Martin read the letter again. 'It doesn't say how much,' he

said.

'What?'

'It doesn't say how much they want us to pay.' Martin ran his

hand through his hair, frowning. 'What sort of ransom demand

doesn't mention money?'

'Maybe they'll phone,' said Andy.

'But then why do they want you to go to London? Our

money's here, in Ireland. Everything we own is here. If they

want paying in London we'd have to fly over with the money.

This doesn't make sense.'

'Sense? Why should it make sense? They've kidnapped

Katie, they came into our house and took her, why should

anything they do make sense?' She could hear the hysteria in her

voice and she fought to stay calm.

Martin took her hands in his. 'Don't worry, love. We'll get

this sorted. We'll get Katie back. I promise.'

'You can't promise something like that, Martin.'

Martin shook his head. 'They've obviously planned this,

Andy. They've thought it all out. They knew where Katie was,

they knew where we were. They had the note ready. They've

got the hotel room booked in London. It's all been well

planned. Kidnapping is a straightforward business transaction.

That's what I'm good at, business. We give them money. They

give us Katie. That's business. There's no profit in either side

trying to screw things up. Okay?'

Andy nodded. What he was saying made sense. It was

horrible, it was frightening, but it was logical. It wasn't a pervert

who'd stolen her child, it wasn't a sex killer or a paedophile, it

was a kidnapper. It wasn't about sexual thrills or sadism, it was

about money, and she could just about cope with that. 'What do

we do?' she asked.

'We do what they say in the note. You go to London and I

guess they'll contact you there to tell you how much they want.'

'Why us, Martin? Why us? We're not rich.'

'We're not short of money, Andy. There are plenty of

scumbags out there who'd class us as wealthy. They don't take

mortgages and loans and overdrafts into account. They see a

couple of new cars and a four-bedroomed house and they think

we're rolling in it.' He stood up and went into the kitchen,

returning a short while later with two tumblers of whisky. He

gave one to her. 'Drink this,' he said.

She swallowed the whisky in two gulps. Martin sat down

and read the letter again. He sipped his own whisky thoughtfully.

'I don't understand why they haven't said how much they

want. There are things that have to be arranged. We've got to

get the money together, they've got to take the money from us.

That's all got to be sorted out, and until they tell us what their

demands are, there's nothing we can do.'

'We do have the money, don't we?' asked Andy.

Martin stroked her hair and brushed several stray strands

away from her face. 'Whatever it takes, we'll get it. I can increase

the mortgage, there's cash in the business, we've got friends. It'll

be all right.'

Andy nodded through her tears, desperately wanting to

believe him.

Egan took off his headphones and leaned back in his chair. He

stretched his arms up above his head and rolled his head from

side to side, trying to ease the tension in his neck. On the desk in

front of him were five digital tape recorders, each linked to radio

receivers, one for each of the five listening devices in the Hayes

house.

He'd planted the devices three weeks earlier while Andrea

Hayes had been out walking her dog. There was one in the

smoke detector in the upstairs hallway, one in the phone in the

master bedroom, another in the phone in the sitting room. A

fourth device was in an electric socket in the downstairs hall and

a fifth in a light fitting in the kitchen. They gave him virtually

complete coverage of the house.

Egan stood up and went through to the kitchen where he

poured himself a mug of black coffee. The studio apartment was

in a block just a half-mile away from the Hayes house and he'd

rented it for a full twelve months, even though he only expected

to be using it for another week. Once the Hayes woman was in

place, Egan planned to fly to London to oversee the final phase

of the operation. He took his mug back into the sitting room

and sat down at the desk. So far everything had gone to plan.

Martin and Andrea Hayes were reacting exactly as he'd anticipated.

George McEvoy drove the Mondeo down the rutted track that

led to the cottage. The car bucked and swayed and they slowed

to a walking pace. The single-storey building was in darkness,

and he put the headlights on full beam. 'Home sweet home,' he

muttered. 'How is she?'

Mick Canning leaned over and lifted the tartan blanket.

Katie was still fast asleep. 'Out like a light,' he said.

McEvoy drove around the back of the cottage and parked by

the side of a wooden garage. He climbed out and unlocked the

back door of the cottage and switched on a light before waving

at Canning to carry the girl in. The nearest house was a hundred

yards away and they weren't overlooked at the back.

Canning gathered up Katie, still covered with the blanket,

and took her through the kitchen to a white-painted hallway. A

wooden door warped with age opened on to a flight of concrete

steps that went down into the basement. The underground

room had been sparsely furnished with a small camp bed, two

wooden chairs and a small Formica-covered table. On the floor

was a wool rug that had originally been in front of the fireplace

in the sitting room, and in one corner was a bucket, covered

with a towel. Canning placed Katie on the bed, then turned her

so that she was lying on her side. Still asleep, Katie murmured

and put her thumb in her mouth. Canning gently took her

thumb out.

'You all right, Mick?' asked McEvoy. He was standing at the

door, looking down into the basement, an expression of barely

concealed contempt on his face.

'Yeah, no problem. Do you think we should be with her

when she wakes up? She'll be scared, she might start yelling.'

'No one'11 hear her,' said McEvoy.

Canning went up the stairs. 'Do you think we should leave

the light on?' he asked.

'For fuck's sake, this isn't a hotel,' snapped McEvoy. He

closed the door and slid the bolts across.

©

DAY TWO

Martin Hayes awoke with a start. It took him a few seconds to

realise where he was. He was in the sitting room, sprawled on

the sofa. He rubbed his face. He was exhausted. How long had

he been asleep? He looked at his watch. It was just after seven.

'Andy?' No answer.

He stood up and his knees cracked. He felt stiff and his

shoulders ached. He didn't remember coming down to the

sitting room. He'd been upstairs with Andy, lying on their bed,

propped up with pillows, hoping that the phone would ring.

Martin went upstairs. Their bedroom was empty. Martin was

still half asleep. Part of him didn't want to wake up, didn't want

to accept the reality of his situation. At least when he was asleep

he didn't have to think about Katie and what she was going

through. Martin just wanted it all to be over, for the kidnappers

to tell him how much they wanted and for them to give him

back his little girl.

Andy wasn't in the bathroom, either. The door to Katie's

room was closed, and even before Martin pushed it open he

knew that he'd find his wife sitting on their daughter's bed. She

didn't look up as he went over to her. She was clutching a pillow

to her chest and was resting her chin on top of it, her eyes closed.

Martin sat down next to her.

'They've taken Garfield,' she said.

'What?'

'Garfield. They've kidnapped Garfield, too.'

21

STEPHEN LEATHER

Andy kept her eyes closed. Tears glistened on her cheeks.

Martin looked around the room. Katie's collection of soft

toys lined the shelves on the wall that faced the end of the

bed, and others were crammed on to the windowsill. Martin

knew that Katie had given them all names, but he knew only

a few of them. Bunny. Babe. Foxy. Wilkinson the badger.

Andy was right. There was no Garfield, and Garfield was the

favourite of late -- he was the one she cuddled when she

went to sleep. There were two gaps on the windowsill, too,

but he wasn't able to remember which toys, if any, were

missing.

Martin knelt down beside the single bed and peered under it.

No Garfield.

'There's a teddy bear missing, too. The one my father got her

two Christmasses ago. And the monkey. The one we got at

Regent's Park Zoo. In April. The one with the silly grin and the

banana.' Andy's voice was flat and emotionless.

'That's a good sign, Andy,' said Martin.

She looked up at him and opened her eyes. They were as

devoid of emotion as her voice. 'A good sign?' she repeated.

He sat down on the bed and put his arm around her.

'They wouldn't have taken her toys if they were going to hurt

her,' he said. 'They want her to be happy so they took along

some toys. Trust me, it's a good sign. We'll have her back

soon.'

She nodded but her eyes were still vacant. She was in shock,

Martin realised. 'Come on downstairs, you need a cup of tea,' he said.

Andy nodded. 'I guess,' she said, but she made no move to

stand up.

Mick Canning was breaking eggs into a frying pan when Katie

started shouting and banging on the basement door. 'Help!' she

yelled. 'Let me out!'

George McEvoy looked up from his copy of the Irish Times and scowled at the door. 'Her ladyship's awake,' he said.

'I'll see to her,' said Canning, handing a spatula to McEvoy.

'You look after the eggs, yeah?'

'Don't forget your . . .'

'Balaclava, yeah, I know,' interrupted Canning. He picked

up his rucksack and went down the hall. From the pocket of his

track-suit top he pulled out a rolled-up ski mask and put it on

before unbolting the door. 'Katie, stand away from the door,' he

said.

There was a short silence. 'Who is that? I want my

mummy.'

'Your mummy's not here, Katie. I'm a friend of hers. Look,

I'm opening the door now, be careful.'

Katie was standing four steps down, staring wide-eyed up at

Canning. The basement was in darkness. Canning unfastened

the neck of the rucksack and took out the Garfield toy. 'I

brought this for you,' he said, holding it out to her.

She looked at the soft toy, then back at him. 'I want to go

home,' she said.

'You can't. Not right now.'

She glared at him and put her hands on her hips, her chin

thrust up defiantly. 'You can't tell me what to do.'

'Yes I can,' he said patiently. 'And I'm telling you that you

have to stay here for a few days.' He held out the soft toy

again.

Katie looked as if she was going to argue, then she reached

for Garfield. 'Thank you,' she said.

Canning was about to say 'You're welcome' when she

hurled the toy at his face and scrambled up the stairs,

slipping by his legs before he had the chance to stop

her. Canning cursed and tried to grab her, but she was

too quick for him. Her bare feet padded down the hallway

towards the kitchen.

Canning ran after her, cursing. He caught up with her in

three strides and grabbed her by the scruff of her nightie. He

yanked her off her feet, then scooped her up. She began to

wriggle and scream.

McEvoy opened the kitchen door with the frying pan in

his hand. Canning span around so that Katie couldn't see

McEvoy's face. 'What the fuck are you playing at?' McEvoy

shouted.

'Nothing,' said Canning. 'It's not a problem.'

'It looks like a fucking problem to me,' said McEvoy. 'Put

her in the basement and make sure she shuts up.' He slammed

the kitchen door.

Katie continued to struggle as Canning carried her down the

basement steps. 'I want my mummy!' she screamed. 'I want my

mummy and I want my dad.'

'Please, be quiet,' hissed Canning.

'I'll be quiet if you let me go,' she said.

'I can't let you go . . .' Canning began, but he'd barely got

the words out of his mouth before she began screaming again.

He dropped her down on the camp bed and put his hand over

her mouth. It smothered her screams, but Canning had a sudden

flash about what he was doing and jerked his hand away as if

he'd been burnt. Jesus Christ. He'd had his hand over a child's

mouth. He could have killed her. Smothered her. He took a step

back, his hands up as if surrendering. Katie seemed as shocked as

he was.

'What?' she said.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't mean to ... you know . . .'

'What?'

'I didn't mean to put my hand over your mouth. I wasn't

trying to ... I wasn't trying to hurt you.'

Katie swung her legs over the side of the camp bed and sat

looking at him curiously. 'Why are you wearing a mask?' she

asked.

'So you won't know who I am,' he said. 'That way,

when we send you back to your parents, you won't be able

to tell the police what I look like.' Canning crouched down

so that his head was on a level with hers. 'Look, I'm sorry if

I scared you. But you have to do as we say, okay? You

have to stay down here for a few days, then you can go

home.'

'You promise?'

Canning made the sign of the cross on his chest. 'Swear to

die.'

Andy Hayes put down the phone. 'They'll hold the ticket for

me at the airport,' she said.

Martin nodded. 'I'll drive you.'

'You can't,' she said. 'You have to carry on as normal, that's

what the letter said. You have to go to work.' She looked at her

watch.

'I think I should stay by the phone. They might call.'

Andy shook her head fiercely. 'They said you had to carry

out your normal routine. That means going to work, Martin.

We mustn't do anything that makes them think we're not cooperating.'

Martin shrugged. 'I guess so.'

Andy's face hardened. 'No, there's no I-guess-so about this. I

want you to promise me that you won't call the police.'

'Oh, come on, do you think I'd do anything that would put

Katie in danger?'

'Promise me, Martin. Promise me that you won't do anything

out of the ordinary.'

Martin took her in his arms and kissed her hair. 'I

promise.'

She hugged him tightly. 'I'll call you from London. They

didn't say that I couldn't do that.'

Martin stroked the back of her neck. 'It's going to be all

right, Andy. I promise.'

McEvoy put on his ski mask and picked up the tray. On it

was a paper plate of spaghetti hoops, a slice of bread, and a

plastic fork.

'I'll take it,' said Canning. He was sitting at the table

working on the crossword in the Irish Times. Like McEvoy

he'd changed out of his track suit and was wearing a sweatshirt

and jeans.

25

STEPHEN LEATHER

'That's all right, Mick. I'll handle it. Where are the scissors?'

Canning gestured with his chin. 'By the sink. You should

give her some milk.'

'Milk?'

'To drink. She'll need something to drink.'

McEvoy put the tray down. He picked up the scissors and

slipped them into the back pocket of his jeans.

'You haven't got kids, have you, George?' said Canning,

looking up from his crossword.

'Not that I know of,' said McEvoy. 'Your point being?'

He chuckled, went over to the fridge, opened it and took

out a carton of milk. He poured some into a plastic cup and then

put the carton back in the fridge. 'Anything else I should take

her ladyship?' he asked.

Canning ignored him and concentrated on the crossword.

McEvoy went over to the door that led to the basement

and juggled the tray as he slipped the bolts. He eased the door

open with his foot and peered down the stairs. Katie was

sitting on the camp bed, her Garfield in her lap. She looked

up and watched him walk down the stairs. He put the tray on

the bed next to her and she looked at it disdainfully. 'Spaghetti

hoops?'

'Leave it if you don't want it,' said McEvoy curtly.

'What else is there to eat?'

'Nothing. It's spaghetti hoops or nothing.'

Katie sniffed and rested her head on top of Garfield,

McEvoy took the scissors from his back pocket. Katie looked

at him fearfully.

'Please don't,' said Katie, clasping Garfield tightly.

'It won't hurt if you don't move,' said McEvoy.

Andy opened the suitcase and stared at its interior. What was

she supposed to pack? She didn't even know how long she

was going to be away. She closed the suitcase again and went

over to the wardrobe. The front was mirrored and she stared

at her reflection. Fly to London and wait, the letter said. Wait

for further instructions. Did that mean they would send her

somewhere else? Or would she collect Katie in London?

Should she pack for Katie, too? She opened the wardrobe

and ran a hand along the dresses and jackets hanging there.

Maybe she shouldn't take anything with her. If anyone saw

her leaving the house with a suitcase, they'd wonder where

she was going. What would she say? That she was going away

for a holiday? On her own? What if she met anyone she knew

at the airport?

She heard Martin climbing the stairs, a heavy footfall as if

every step was an effort. He walked up behind her and put his

hands on her shoulders. 'I don't know what to take with me,'

she said.

'Pack for a couple of days,' he said.

'Pack what?'

'Jeans. Shirts. Underwear. Hell, Andy, I don't know.'

His fingers moved around her neck and he massaged her

slowly.

'Why me, Martin? Why do they want me in London and

you here? Why haven't they told us what they want?'

She felt her husband shrug. 'Maybe Katie's already in

London. Maybe they took her over the water and that's where

they'll give her back to us.'

Andy turned to face him. 'Do you think that's it?'

'It's possible. Dublin's a small city - it'd be easier to hide her

in London. They could have taken her over on the ferry, in a

car. Hidden her in the boot or . . .' His mouth snapped shut

when he saw the look of horror on her face.

'Boot? Oh my God . . .' Tears welled up in her eyes and

Martin hugged her.

'Oh, Jesus, Andy, I don't know what I'm saying. I'm just

guessing. I don't know where she is or what they're doing.

Don't get upset. Please.' He wiped away her tears with his

thumbs, smearing them across her cheeks. 'I'll drive you to the

airport.'

Andy shook her head. 'You can't,' she said. 'You have to go

to work.'

'The airport's on the way.'

Andy reached up and held his wrists. 'We talked about this

last night. You have to do everything as normal, Martin.'

'This is different,' said Martin. 'They know you're going to

the airport -- they'll expect me to take you.'

'I don't know . . .'

'I want to,' said Martin.

Andy sat down on the bed, too tired to argue. She'd barely

slept, and it was as if she was thinking in slow motion. 'Okay,'

she said.

Martin sat next to her and put his arm around her. 'Look, I'll

drop you at the airport, then I'll go straight to the office. I'll talk

to the bank, see how much we've got on deposit.'

'I hope it's enough,' she said.

'If it isn't, we can raise more,' said Martin. 'We've got the

cash flow, we've got assets. The house alone is worth twice

the mortgage. We can raise a hundred grand on a phone

call.'

Tears began to stream down Andy's cheeks. 'Why us,

Martin?' she asked. 'Why our Katie?'

'I don't know. I really don't know.'

She put her arms around his waist and buried her face in his

neck, her body racked by silent sobs. Martin held her, feeling

more helpless than he'd ever felt in his life.

Canning walked through the arrivals area, tapping the copy of

the Irish Times against his leg. He bought a coffee, sat on a

stool and surveyed the terminal. Eager faces watched the

sliding doors that kept opening and closing, disgorging a

stream of passengers. Canning cast his eyes over the paper's

headlines. Government figures showing the Irish economy

was booming. Rumours that the American President might

make a flying visit to Dublin during his trip to Europe. A

supermodel overdosed on heroin. Canning sipped his coffee.

He flicked through the pages to the crossword. Only six clues

to finish.

A woman pulled out the stool on the other side of his table.

'Do you mind?' she asked. She was sum in a pale grey business

suit, carrying a burgundy briefcase and a mobile telephone. Her

shoulder-length hair was blond, but the dark roots suggested that

it had been dyed. There was something unnatural about her

eyes, too. They were almost too green, as if she were wearing

contact lenses.

Canning waved at the stool. 'Help yourself,' he said. He took

a small padded envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and

slipped it between the pages of the newspaper, which he then

folded and placed on the table.

The woman ripped the corner off a pack of sweetener and

poured it into her coffee. Canning slid off his stool, nodded at

the woman, and walked away. He didn't see her take the

newspaper and put it in her briefcase.

Andy couldn't bear to say goodbye to her husband. She forced a

smile and then walked away from the car. She could feel Martin

watching her but she didn't turn around. She walked through

the doors into the departure area. There was a queue of half a

dozen people ahead of her having their luggage checked. A

uniformed policeman ran some sort of detector over her suitcase.

He was in his fifties with the sunburned skin and broken veins of

a sailor. He smiled at her and waved her through. Andy

wondered what he'd been checking for. Guns? Explosives?

Drugs? The check had seemed cursory at best, as if he wasn't

expecting to find anything.

The ticket was ready for her at the Aer Lingus sales counter.

She took it over to the check-in counter and a young man in

shirtsleeves checked her in. He asked her about her case - had

she packed it herself, had it been out of her sight, did it contain

electrical items? Andy barely listened to the questions. They

seemed naive. If she hadn't packed it herself, would they open

it and go through her belongings? If it contained a bomb,

would she tell them? The security precautions seemed as

ridiculous as the middle-aged policeman with his detector.

Her daughter had been kidnapped, for God's sake. Taken from

her bed in the middle of the night, and she was being asked if

she had batteries in her luggage. She had to fight to stop herself

from screaming.

McEvoy tensed as he heard the car pull up outside. He looked at

his watch. It was too soon for Canning to have got back from the

airport. He picked up his Smith & Wesson, cocked the hammer,

and moved on tiptoe to the back door. Outside, a car door

opened and then slammed shut. Footsteps crunched along the

path, towards the cottage. McEvoy flattened himself against the

kitchen wall, the gun at the ready. The footsteps stopped.

McEvoy breathed heavily, his mouth half open, his ears straining

to hear what was going on outside. Someone knocked on the

door. Three short raps. Then silence.

'Who is it?' McEvoy called, his finger tense on the trigger.

There was no reply. 'Who's there?' he repeated. No answer.

McEvoy took the door key from his jeans pocket and slid it into

the lock. He turned it, wincing at the loud metallic click, then

pulled his hand away. Far off in the distance, a dog barked.

Then another, closer. Not police dogs, McEvoy decided. Besides,

if it was the police, and if it was a raid, they wouldn't

knock first.

He eased closer to the door, grabbed the handle, and

pulled it open. There was no one there. He slowly moved

across the threshold, the gun still raised. Whoever it was, they

weren't there any more. Why hadn't he heard them walk

away? A black Ford Scorpio was parked where the Mondeo

had been.

'Is there anybody there?' he called. The only sound was the

wind whistling through the conifers at the end of the garden.

McEvoy held the gun at his side as he walked towards the car.

The rear of the cottage wasn't overlooked, but he didn't want to

risk waving the gun around in the open. The Scorpio was a

rental, and it was locked. McEvoy looked around, the wind

tugging at his unkempt black hair. He shivered. He was wearing

only a thin denim shirt and cotton trousers and he had no shoes

on his feet.

He padded back to the cottage and locked the kitchen door.

As he went through to the sitting room, something hard was

rammed against the side of his neck. 'Surprise!'

'Fuck,' said McEvoy. 'How the hell did you get in?'

The gun was taken away from his neck. 'That's for me to

know,' said Egan, tucking the gun back into the waistband of his

jeans.

'You couldn't have got in through the back door,' said

McEvoy, flicking the safety catch of the .38 into place. 'You

were lucky I didn't blow your fucking head off.'

Egan raised a disbelieving eyebrow and McEvoy felt his

cheeks flush with embarrassment. He knew that if it had been

for real it would have been his brains and not Egan's that

were splattered across the carpet. 'Canning's at the airport?'

asked Egan. He zipped up his leather bomber jacket and

looked around the room. There was a half-empty bottle of

Bushmills on the coffee table and dirty plates left over from

the previous night's meal, a cardboard box on the floor, and a

video camera and a stack of videotapes on the sofa. Egan

picked up the camera and checked it. He was wearing black

leather gloves.

McEvoy nodded. 'Should be back in an hour or so.'

'How are you getting on with him?'

McEvoy shrugged indifferently. 'He'll do.'

'And the girl?'

'No problems.' He jerked a thumb at the basement door.

'Quiet as a lamb.'

Egan put the camera down. 'Good job, George. Couldn't

have done it better myself' He reached into the inside pocket of

his bomber jacket and took out an envelope. He handed it to

McEvoy. 'Bonus for you.'

McEvoy took the envelope and slid it unopened into his

back pocket. 'Cheers.'

'Split it with Canning if you want, but I'll leave it up to you.'

He nodded at the video camera and the cassettes. 'Get them

done as soon as you can, yeah? Then get Canning to take them

over to McCracken.'

They walked outside together. 'Make sure you torch the

cottage afterwards,' said Egan. 'Burn it to the ground. Forensic

scientists these days, all they need is one hair. The car, too.'

'And the rest of the money?' McEvoy had been paid

twenty thousand pounds in advance and had been promised

a further eighty thousand pounds, not counting the bonus in

his pocket.

Egan patted him on the back. 'It'll be in the account within

ten days,' he said. He climbed into the Scorpio and McEvoy

watched him drive away.

McEvoy went back into the cottage and locked the kitchen

door. He took out the envelope and riffled through the notes.

Five thousand pounds. New notes. McEvoy stuffed the envelope

back into his pocket. Egan was a true professional. When

he had first approached him, McEvoy had been suspicious.

Kidnapping, especially kidnapping a child, wasn't something

that could be done lightly. Egan seemed to know everything

about McEvoy, from the state of his bank account to his record

with the Provisional Irish Republican Army. He seemed to

know where all McEvoy's bodies were buried, figuratively and

literally. Some of the information Egan had could only have

come from the IRA's Army Council. Other details had obviously

been obtained from government computers. McEvoy,

however, knew next to nothing about Egan. He was an

American, that was clear from his accent, and he had a military

bearing that suggested he'd been in the armed forces, but he

remained tight-lipped about his background. He was equally

reticent about what he was up to, and would only give McEvoy

and Canning the information they needed to carry out the

kidnapping. It was for their own protection, he insisted. The

less they knew, the less they could tell the authorities in the

event of them being captured. Egan had assured MeEvoy and

Canning that the same level of secrecy applied over in England.

If anything went wrong there, the two men wouldn't be

implicated.

McEvoy went through to the sitting room and poured

himself a measure of Bushmills. He sat down and put his feet

up on the coffee table. It wasn't the first kidnapping that

McEvoy had been involved in, but this was the first time he

was doing it purely for financial reasons. It was the first time he'd

been involved with the kidnapping of a child, too. Not that the

fact that the victim was a seven-year-old girl worried McEvoy.

The victim was meat, nothing more. A means to an end. He

sipped his whiskey and brooded.

Martin's company was based on an industrial estate twenty

miles north of Dublin. The offices were in an H-shaped brick

building with a flat roof, with a storage yard for heavy equipment

behind and car parking spaces in front. When business was

slow the yard would be full of earth movers, trucks and cement

mixers, but for the past two years the company had been busier

than ever and the yard was virtually empty. He parked and

walked through reception to the management offices. His

secretary looked up from her word-processor. 'Coffee?' Jill

Gannon had been with the company for more than a decade.

She was in her fifties, with a matronly figure that defeated all

dieting and a kindly face that always seemed to be smiling.

Martin had never seen her depressed, or without a chocolate bar

on her desk.

'No thanks, Jill. And don't put any calls through for the next

half an hour or so.' He went inside his office and closed the door.

He telephoned his bank and asked for the balance of his

accounts. There was a little over ten thousand in his current

account, another thirty thousand in a deposit account. Martin

wrote the numbers down and then called a building society in

the Channel Islands. He had a further ninety thousand pounds

there, out of the reach of the Irish taxman. He arranged to have

it transferred to his current account in Dublin, though he was

told that they wouldn't be able to carry out the transfer until

they received written confirmation. Martin promised to send a

letter by courier.

His next call was to his stockbroker, Jamie O'Connor.

Jamie was an old friend - they'd been at school together and

lived less than a mile from each other. According to Jamie,

Martin's stock portfolio was worth just under a quarter of a

million pounds.

'How long would it take to turn it into cash?' Martin asked.

'Cash? You want to sell them all? Jesus, Martin, I wouldn't

recommend that. The market here might be getting a bit toppy,

but you've got a worldwide portfolio, and besides, you're taking

a long-term view, right?'

'Things change, Jamie.' The shares and bonds had been

acquired over a ten-year period and had been intended as

Martin's pension fund. It would be easier to liquidate the

portfolio than to arrange an overdraft or remortgage the house.

He could always buy more shares. The company was flourishing,

and if they went public as planned the shares he'd be placing

would be worth millions. 'Could you sell everything by close of

business today?'

'I could, sure. But I wouldn't recommend it. The Irish

shares, okay, but your Far Eastern exposure has taken a bit of a

tumble recently. I'd suggest you hang on to them. And there's a

couple of your holdings that are due to pay their annual

dividends next month -- you'd be better off keeping them until

they've gone exdividend.'

'Everything, Jamie.'

'Martin, are you okay? Has something happened?'

'Everything's fine. I just need some cash, that's all. Andy's

got her heart set on a villa in Portugal and like a fool I agreed

to buy it for her. We can afford it, what with the flotation and

all.'

'Well, it's your decision, of course. All I can do is offer my

professional advice, and I wouldn't recommend liquidating a

perfectly decent portfolio of shares to buy a villa in Portugal.'

'Advice noted, Jamie. Close of business today, right?'

There was a slight hesitation from the broker, as if he was

about to argue but then decided not to press the point. 'Consider

it done.'

'And put the money straight into my current account with

Allied Irish, will you?'

'Oh, now that's just being silly, Martin. You'll be throwing

away the interest.'

'I'm going to need it in a hurry. Do you need written

confirmation?'

'No need. All the firm's conversations are recorded. Look,

are you sure about this?'

'Dead sure, Jamie. Look, I've got another call. I'll talk to you

again soon.'

Martin put down the phone. A quarter of a million

pounds, plus the money already in the bank, gave him a total

of three hundred and eighty thousand pounds. Surely that

would be enough? He sat at his desk with his head in his

hands. What if it wasn't? What if they wanted more? What

would he do then?

'Something to drink?' asked the stewardess.

The voice jolted Andy out of her daydream. 'Sorry?'

The plastic smile was a little less friendly, as if the stewardess

resented having to ask twice. 'Would you like a drink?'

Andy shook her head. The stewardess served the elderly

couple who were sitting next to Andy and pushed her trolley

down the aisle. Andy closed her eyes. Images of Katie filled her

mind. Katie laughing at cartoons on the television, Katie smiling

in her sleep, Katie holding her arms out to be lifted up and

hugged. Andy breathed in through her nose. She could almost

imagine that she was inhaling the fragrance of her daughter's

hair, sweet and clean. She wondered how Katie was feeling.

Would she be scared? Crying for her mother? Would the men

holding her be taking good care of her? Andy pictured her

crouching tearfully in the corner of a dark room, with a

menacing figure standing over her. She shivered and opened

her eyes. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. What had Katie ever

done to deserve this? Katie, who'd never harmed anyone, never

shown anything but love to everyone around her, to strangers

even. Katie, who was forever asking her parents to give money

to the beggars in St Stephen's Green, to adopt stray cats and to

send money to each and every charitable appeal featured on

television. Katie was a little angel, and whoever was putting her

through this ordeal would burn in hell. Andy promised herself

that whatever happened she would get her revenge on the men

who'd kidnapped Katie. If it took her for ever, she'd make them

pay. She looked out of the window. Through the wispy clouds

below she could make out the English coastline. It had been six

months since she'd last been in London, a surprise weekend trip

to celebrate her birthday. Martin had arranged everything -- tickets for Cats, two nights in the Savoy and a rose on her

pillow. Her parents had looked after Katie, but Andy had

phoned every night. She'd always hated to be away from

her daughter.

The captain announced that they were starting their descent

and that they'd be landing within twenty minutes. Andy

checked her seat belt. At the rear of the plane, the woman

with dyed blond hair and unnaturally green eyes slid her

burgundy briefcase under the seat in front of her.

Martin looked up as the quick double knock was followed

almost immediately by the office door opening. It was his

partner, Padraig, his coat on and carrying his briefcase. 'Are

you up for a drink?' he asked. Padraig was red-haired with a

sprinkling of freckles across his nose, broad-shouldered from

long sessions in the gym.

'Nah, I want to get back,' said Martin.

'What about you and Andy coming around for dinner

tomorrow? Louise wants to try out her fondue set. Upmarket

cheese dip.'

'Tomorrow's not good, mate. Maybe next week. I'll check

with Andy and let you know, okay?'

Padraig gave him a thumbs-up. 'Okay, I'm off, then. I'm sure

I'll find somebody to drink with at the golf club.'

The telephone rang as Padraig closed the door. It was Jamie

O'Connor, confirming that the entire portfolio had been sold. A

total of two hundred and sixty-eight thousand pounds, which

had been wired to Martin's current account in Dublin.

Martin thanked him and put the phone down. He had the

money, but why hadn't he heard from the kidnappers? He'd

checked with Jill several times but there had been no calls that

she hadn't put through. Maybe they were going to phone him at

home. Maybe they'd already phoned Andy in London.

Martin had called directory enquiries and asked for the

telephone number of the Strand Palace Hotel. He hadn't called,

though several times he'd started to dial the number. He was

supposed to behave as normal, but did that mean that it was okay

to telephone his wife?

The intercom on his desk buzzed, startling him. It was Jill,

telling him that she was going home. He said goodnight. It was

six o'clock. What was he supposed to do now? He was normally

in the office until seven, but did the kidnappers know that the

switchboard closed when Jill went home? Would they try to

phone the office number? What would they do if they couldn't

get through?

He stood up and paced around the office. It was the not

knowing that was driving him crazy. Not knowing the time

scale, not knowing how much they wanted, not knowing how

they intended to collect the money. And worst of all, not

knowing what they had done to his dear, darling daughter.

He kicked the door to his office and then punched it, so hard

that he bruised his knuckles. He licked the bleeding flesh as tears

pricked his eyes.

Andy sat on the hotel bed, staring at the telephone. All she had

to do was to pick it up and within seconds she could be talking

to her husband. Or the police. She shook her head. What could

the police do?

She heard a whispering sound at the door and she went

over to it. There was a white envelope on the floor. She picked

it up and reached for the door handle, then hesitated. What

would happen if she opened the door and saw whoever had

delivered the envelope? What if she saw his face? She felt

helpless - she didn't know how she was supposed to react or

what she was supposed to do. All control had been taken from

her. She went back to the bed and sat down again. The

envelope had been sealed and she used a fingernail to slit it

open. Her mind was whirling. Forensic evidence, she thought.

Fingerprints. Saliva. DNA. She had to keep the envelope - the

police would be able to get information about the kidnappers

from it.

There was a single sheet of paper inside. Andy unfolded it. It

was hotel notepaper and the letter was typed. Capital letters

again. Andy read it with shaking hands.

YOUR DAUGHTER IS QUITE SAFE AND SO

LONG AS YOU FOLLOW OUR INSTRUCTIONS

SHE WILL NOT BE HARMED.

AT NINE O'CLOCK TOMORROW MORNING

YOU ARE TO CHECK OUT. TAKE ALL YOUR

THINGS WITH YOU.

TURN RIGHT OUT OF THE HOTEL AND

WALK DOWN THE STRAND. TURN RIGHT

INTO BEDFORD STREET, AND LEFT INTO

BEDFORD COURT. YOU WILL SEE A

MULTISTOREY CARPARK ON YOUR LEFT.

GO INSIDE THE CARPARK. GO UP TO THE

THIRD FLOOR. THERE YOU WILL SEE A

DARK BLUE TRANSIT VAN. ON THE SIDE OF

THE VAN IS THE NAME OF A LANDSCAPING

FIRM.

MAKE SURE NO ONE IS WATCHING YOU.

OPEN THE REAR DOOR OF THE VAN AND

GET IN. CLOSE THE DOOR BEHIND YOU.

INSIDE THE VAN YOU WILL FIND A BLACK

HOOD. PUT IT OVER YOUR HEAD AND

WAIT.

38

THE BOMBMAKER

WE DO NOT INTEND TO CAUSE YOU ANY

HARM. BUT MAKE NO MISTAKE. IF YOU

DISOBEY OR IF YOU MAKE ANY ATTEMPT

TO CONTACT THE POUCE, YOUR

DAUGHTER WILL DIE.

Andy reread the letter several times. A van? A hood? What did

these people want from her? She looked at her watch. It was six

o'clock in the evening. Fifteen hours before she was supposed to

check out. What was she supposed to do for fifteen hours? She

read the letter again. It didn't say. Why the delay? Was it because

they were watching her, checking that she wasn't being followed?

She

stood up and began pacing up and down the room. Was

she allowed to contact Martin? The letter said only that she

wasn't to talk to the police. Would they consider a phone call to

Martin a breach of the conditions? Had they tapped the phone in

Dublin? Could she risk it?

She stopped at the window and looked out on to the busy

street below. Who was doing this to her? Who had turned her

life upside down? And why?

Martin Hayes lay staring up at the ceiling. There was no way

he'd be able to sleep, but he knew he had to make the effort. It

wouldn't help anyone if he collapsed from exhaustion.

He'd got back home just after seven and had sat next to the

telephone for most of the evening, willing it to ring. It had,

once, but it was only Padraig checking that Martin had seen a

letter from one of their suppliers, raising prices by twenty per

cent and blaming the strong pound. They'd chatted for a

while, but Martin had been fairly abrupt with his partner, not

wanting to tie up the phone line. He had the 'call waiting'

facility, but he didn't want to do anything that might spook

the kidnappers.

He rolled over and curled up into a ball. His stomach ached,

but it wasn't hunger. He'd forced himself to eat a ham sandwich

39

STEPHEN LEATHER

in the office, and he'd eaten a can of soup when he got home,

though he hadn't tasted anything. What he really wanted was a

drink, but the way he felt he doubted that he'd be able to stop at

one. It would be so easy to use alcohol to take the edge off his

panic, but he knew it'd be a big mistake. He had to keep a clear

head, he had to remain totally focused on what he had to do.

The telephone rang and Martin sat bolt upright. He grabbed

for the receiver. 'Yes?'

'Martin?' It was Andy, her voice little more than a whisper.

'Hiya, love. Are you okay?'

'Can't sleep. I'm just lying here. Martin . . .'

Martin could hear the despair in her voice. 'I'm still here,

love.'

'Have they called you?'

'No. Nothing. I've spoken to the bank, and I've sold our

shares and stuff. The money's in the bank and there's no

problem in raising more. All we need now is to know how

much they want.'

'Martin . . .'

She was close to crying, and Martin wished with all his heart

that she was in the bed with him arid that he could reach over

and cuddle her.

'Martin . . . I'm not sure if this is about money.'

'What do you mean?'

'They want me to go somewhere tomorrow.'

'Where?'

'A van. I have to go to a van in a carpark around the corner. I

guess they're going to take me somewhere.' There was a long

pause, and Martin thought they'd lost the connection until he

heard her breathe. 'I'm not sure if we should even be talking,'

she said. 'Maybe they're listening.'

'If they're listening, love, they know that we haven't gone to

the police. They know that we're doing everything they've

asked. They know that there's no reason not to give Katie back

to us. Okay?'

'I suppose so,' she said, but he could tell from her tone that

she wasn't convinced.

40

THE BOMBMAKER

'It's going to be all right, love,' said Martin. 'Do you know

where they want to take you?'

'They didn't say. It was a note, like before. They haven't

called you?'

'No.'

'Martin, if it was money they wanted, they'd have called by

now, wouldn't they?'

'I don't know what they're playing at, love.'

There was another long silence. 'It couldn't be to do with

the business, could it?' she said eventually.

'In what way?'

'You haven't been doing business with anybody you

shouldn't have? Have you?'

'Jesus, Andy, what a thing to say.' Martin was stunned. It was

as if she were trying to find some way of blaming him for what

had happened. 'What would make you think that?'

'Well, why else could this be happening? Why would

anyone take Katie and then make me do this? Check into a

hotel. Get into a van. It's as if they want you on your own.

Isolated. That's why I thought maybe it wasn't about money.'

There was another pause.

'We don't have any choice, Andy. We have to do what they

say. They've obviously got something planned.'

'I know that. Look, are you sure it's not connected to the

business, Martin? You haven't crossed somebody? Do you owe

somebody money?'

'The company's never been better,' said Martin. 'Our overdraft

is well under control, orders are coming in, we've a few

problems with suppliers, but we're well ahead of where we were

this time last year.'

'I know you've always kept problems from me,' said Andy.

'The times the business was going through a rough patch, you

never let on. I knew, but you never told me. I just thought. . .'

'It's late at night and the demons are out, that's all. You're

thinking too much. I'm the same. I've been lying here imagining

all sorts of things, but that's all it is. Imagination. And if it was to

do with the business, there'd have been some lead-up to it. They

4i

STEPHEN LEATHER

wouldn't just snatch Katie. There'd be threats, there'd be other

pressures they'd apply. And Andy, love, the sort of people I do

business with wouldn't dream of hurting a child. Or a wife.

They're men and they behave like men.' There was no answer

from his wife. 'Andy, did you hear what I said?'

'Yes.' There was a tearful sniff. 'I'm sorry, Martin. I just feel

. . . alone, you know.'

'I know exactly what you mean, love. This bed has never felt

so bloody big. What's your room like there?'

'It's okay. I wish I was there with you.'

'Mutual. Times a million.'

'I just wish it was over.'

'I know,' said Martin. 'It won't be much longer, I'm sure.

They must want to get this over with as quickly as we do.'

'Oh God, I hope so.'

'Try to get some sleep, okay?'

'I'll try.' She sniffed again. 'I wonder how they're treating

Katie. She'll be so scared.'

'I'm sure they'll be taking good care of her. They won't hurt

her. Everything they're doing depends on us getting her back

safely. Try not to worry. I know that's an impossible thing to ask,

but try.'

'I'll try. I have to check out at nine. I'll try to call you later in

the day.'

Martin said goodbye and replaced the receiver. A van? What

the hell did they want her to get into a van for? Martin had been

doing his best to keep his wife's spirits up, but he knew that she

was right. This was about more than money. But what?

Egan replayed the tape of the conversation between Andrea

Hayes and her husband. He frowned as he listened, but by the

time he had played it through to the end he was smiling to

himself. Andrea had said nothing that could jeopardise the

operation. If anything, the conversation would make the Hayes

woman more compliant. Her husband had been reassuring.

Soothing, even.

42

THE BOMBMAKER

Egan had half expected the Hayes woman to call her

husband. At this stage, he wanted their full co-operation, and

that meant keeping their stress levels as low as possible. If the

notes had insisted that there be no contact, there was a chance

that one or the other might panic and call in the police. The

phone call also gave Egan an insight into how they were

thinking. They were scared for their daughter, but it was clear

that they were going to do everything that was asked of them.

They still believed that the kidnapping was money-motivated.

By the time they realised what was really going on, it would be

too late.

43

DAY THREE

Andy stood in the middle of the hotel room, looking around.

She had to do something. She had to let Martin know what was

happening. She'd wanted to say more to him on the phone the

previous night, but couldn't take the risk that someone had been

listening in. But now she was preparing to check out of the

hotel, and she realised that it might be the last opportunity she

had to get a message to her husband. She had to let him know

where she was going, because if anything went wrong it might

be the only way he could find out where Katie was. She thought

of leaving a message in the room, but even if she addressed it to

Martin the chambermaid might open it, and if she realised its

significance she'd probably pass it on to the police. And there

was a possibility that the people who had kidnapped Katie might

be preparing to search her room after she checked out. If they

found a letter, there was no saying what they might do to Katie.

Above the writing desk was a framed watercolour of a

gondola on a canal, the colours all hazy as if viewed through

a mist. Andy stared at the picture. There had to be something she

could do to let Martin know where she was going. Suddenly she

knew exactly what she had to do. She sat down at the desk and

opened the leather writing folder that was embossed with the

hotel's name. There were several sheets of writing paper, and a

.;3> ballpoint pen. She began to write furiously.

;?£ It was just after nine when she walked up to the cashier's

desk. A blonde receptionist with shocking-pink lipstick and

45

STEPHEN LEATHER

matching nail varnish took her credit card and printed o.ut a copy

of the bill. 'Anything from the mini-bar?' she asked, and Andy

shook her head. She pretended to check the print-out while she

had a quick look around to see if anyone was looking at her. An

old couple were sitting on a sofa close to the door, and half a

dozen Japanese tourists were pulling brochures off a rack. A

businessman in a dark blue suit was checking in, his briefcase at

his feet like an attentive Labrador, and a woman in a fur coat was

using one of the house phones. No one appeared to be paying

Andy any attention. She slid an envelope from inside her jacket,

put it on top of the print-out and slid them both across the

counter to the receptionist.

'Could you do me a favour?' asked Andy. 'If my husband

should pop by in the next few days, could you give this to him?'

The receptionist looked at the envelope. Andy had written

'MARTIN HAYES' in capital letters. 'I could post it, if you

like?'

Andy shook her head. 'He's not at home. He's travelling. He

had hoped to meet me here but I've got to go up to my parents'.

She nodded at the envelope. 'It's not really that important. If he

doesn't call for it, you can throw it away.'

'No problem,' said the receptionist. She gave Andy a credit

card slip to sign and put the envelope in a drawer. Andy left the

hotel. She followed the instructions she'd been given the

previous evening and carried her suitcase into the multi storey

carpark. The blue Transit van was on the third floor. There was a

sign on the side that said 'CITY LANDSCAPING', and underneath

it an 0181 telephone number. Andy put her suitcase on the

floor by the rear doors. A man in a blue suit and a red tie drove

by in a BMW. Andy wondered if she was being watched, if

someone had followed her from the hotel. She'd looked around

a couple of times but the streets were too crowded for her to

have picked anyone out.

Another car drove by, a grey Volvo hatchback. Then there

was silence. Andy reached out and turned the door handle.

She'd half expected, hoped maybe, that it would be locked, but

it turned easily and she pulled open the door and threw her

THE BOMBMAKER

suitcase in. She took a last look around the carpark and then

climbed in after the suitcase.

She sat down and scanned the metal floor of the van. There

was no sign of a hood. She took the typed letter out of her jacket

pocket and reread it. A black hood. There should be a black

hood. She got down on her hands and knees and checked the

corners, right up to the seats at the front. There was no hood.

Had she got the wrong van? No, of course not. It was blue, it

was a Transit, and it was on the third floor. And it had the name

of a landscaping firm on the side. It had to be the right van. She

crawled over to the suitcase and lifted it up. The hood was

underneath it. She felt a sudden surge of relief. So long as

everything went as planned, then she'd get her daughter back. It

was like a long line of dominoes, standing on end -- they all had

to be in the right place so that when they were pushed, they'd all

fall down. The hood was one of the dominoes, and the feet that

it was there reassured her. It was going to be all right. Katie was

safe.

She pulled the door closed behind her and locked it. The

hood was made of some sort of woollen material with a drawstring

around the open end, like a bag that might be used to hold

shoes. She held it to her nose and sniffed. It smelt like a new

cardigan. It didn't feel particularly thick, but even so she was

worried about how easy it would be to breathe through. The

kidnappers had planned everything down to the last detail, but

she doubted that they'd have put the bag over their own heads

to try it out. She slowly pulled it on, then put her hands on the

drawstring. She couldn't bring herself to tighten the bag around

the neck. After taking a few deep breaths to steady her nerves,

she sat back against the side of the van and drew her knees up to

her chest.

Time seemed to crawl by. Andy tried counting off the

seconds, then the minutes, but after a while her mind began

to wander. She started counting again, but soon lost interest. It

didn't matter whether they made her sit in the van for minutes,

hours or days, she had no alternative but to wait. She was in their

hands. She tried to think of happier times. Birthdays. Christ

47

STEPHEN LEATHER

masses. Just lying on the bed, Martin next to her, Katie curled up

between them, smiling in her sleep. Martin giving Katie horsey

rides, prowling around the sitting room on his hands and knees,

Katie lying on his back, her arms around his neck.

Andy stiffened at the sound of a key being inserted into the

driver's side door, then a double click as the door locks opened.

There was a pause, then the driver's door opened.

'Have you got the hood on?' A man's voice. Deep. Guttural,

as if he were trying to disguise it.

'Yes,' said Andy, hesitantly.

'Lie down on the floor, face down.'

Andy did as she was told, folding her arms and resting her

chin on her hands. She felt the van lurch as the man climbed in.

The passenger side door opened and another man got in. Two

clunks as the doors closed, then the engine started.

They drove out of the carpark and made a series of turns in

quick succession. Andy had no idea in which direction they

were heading. More turns. Lots of traffic, the loud hiss of air

brakes, a far-off siren. They stopped. A minute later and they

were off again. More turns, then a sudden acceleration. They

drove in a straight line for a long time, so Andy figured they

were on a motorway. They seemed to be travelling for hours,

but as she didn't know how fast they were going she had no way

of knowing how far from London they were. She wanted to go

to the toilet and cursed herself for not using the lavatory before

she left the hotel.

The hood made it difficult to breathe, but she found that by

turning her head to the side and pushing her cheek along the

floor, she could create enough space around her chin to suck in

fresher air.

Eventually she heard the sound of the indicator, and they

turned off the motorway. More turns, a curve that felt like a

right turn at a roundabout, then a series of further turns. The

driver changed down through the gears. Third. Second. First.

Then a sharp turn to the left and the tyres were crunching over a

rough surface. She jumped as the driver sounded the horn, then

there was a loud metallic rattling noise from somewhere in front

48

THE BOMBMAKER

of the van. They edged forward and the rattling noise was

repeated, this time from, behind them. A gate maybe? Andy lay

still, not daring to move. She didn't know if the men were

looking at her or not.

The van doors opened and the two men got out, and a few

seconds later they opened the rear doors. 'Out you come,' said

one. Andy didn't think it was the driver who'd spoken earlier.

She crawled towards the sound of his voice and then hands

reached for her, holding her arms and pulling her out. Her knees

banged against the ground, making her wince, and she scrambled

to her feet. The men gave her no time to regain her balance and

frogmarched her away from the van. Their footsteps echoed,

making Andy think that they might be inside a large building.

The two men holding her came to a sudden stop and they

both tightened their grip on her arms. They turned her to the

side, then forced her down. She thought they were pushing her

to the floor, but then she felt something on the back of her legs

and realised that they were making her sit on a chair. They let go

of her arms and she heard them move a few steps away from her.

She strained to hear through the hood. Two men, breathing

heavily. But she was sure there was someone else near by. It

wasn't so much that she could hear the third person, it was more

as if she could sense his presence. Andy waited, her hands in her

lap, her head down, her eyes closed, breathing steadily. She had

to stay calm.

She tilted her head as she heard one of the men move, then

she felt a tug at the hood. She blinked as the bag was ripped off

her head. A man sat in front of her, a man wearing a ski mask and

baggy blue overalls. In front of him, were a notepad and a cheap

plastic Biro. Andy already had her speech rehearsed -- she'd been

going over it in her mind all the time she'd been in the van.

'Look, please don't harm Katie. We'll give you whatever

you want. Just let her go and we'll do exactly as you say. You

have me now, my husband will give you just as much for me as

he will for Katie, so you might as well let her go.'

The man in the ski mask stared at her with unblinking green

eyes, saying nothing.

49

STEPHEN LEATHER

'He will, you know. He's already told me that he's got the

money ready, and he'll pay. However much you want. So you

might as well let Katie go. You can keep me here for as long as

you want. Okay?' Andy heard the words tumbling out of her

mouth as if they belonged to somebody else.

The green eyes stared back at her. Andy suddenly realised

that there was mascara on the lashes. It wasn't a man, it was a

woman. She heard a chuckling over her shoulder and she looked

around. A large man with a wrestler's build was laughing at her.

Like the woman, he had on a black ski mask that revealed

nothing other than his eyes and part of his mouth, and was

wearing similar blue overalls which were strained tight against

his barrel-like chest. Next to the burly man was a taller, gangly

man, also in a black ski mask and overalls. He was wearing

pristine white Nike training shoes.

'Have you finished?' asked Green-eyes.

Andy whirled around to face her. 'What?'

'Have you said all you want to say?' said the woman. A

Scottish accent, but there was a hint of Northern Irish, too. 'Are

you ready to listen?'

Andy swallowed and nodded.

'You're free to go if you want, Andrea. We're armed but

we're not going to hurt you. The guns are in case . . . well, let's

just say they're insurance. If you stay, it's going to be your

choice. But if you go, you'll never see your daughter again.'

'Katie's okay?'

'Katie's just fine. And so long as you do as we say, she'll stay

that way. If everything goes to plan, you'll be back with her and

your husband within a week or so.' Her voice was soft and

persuasive, as if she were selling life insurance and not threatening

the life of Andy's only child.

'How much do you want?' asked Katie.

Green-eyes shook her head slowly. 'Hasn't the penny

dropped yet, Andrea? Haven't you figured it out?'

Andy looked at her, not understanding. 'What is you want?

If it's not money, what do you want?'

Green-eyes put her gloved hands flat on the table, either side

5O

THE BOMBMAKER

of the notepad and pen. 'Why, Andrea, we want you to do what

you do best. We want you to build us a bomb. A very large

bomb.'

Martin sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen. He barely

noticed the spreadsheet in front of him. All he could think about

was his wife and daughter. He'd arrived at the office at eight

o'clock, thinking that Andy might telephone him before she

checked out of the hotel. She didn't. The kidnappers hadn't

called either. His phone rang and he picked it up. It was Jill, his

secretary. 'Martin, it's a Mrs O'Mara,' she said. 'She's from

Katie's school.'

'Okay, Jill, put her through.' There was a click, then the

woman was on the line. She was the headmistress's secretary,

calling to see why Katie wasn't at school.

Martin thought quickly. If he said Katie was sick, the woman

might ask for a doctor's note. An unexpected holiday wouldn't

be an acceptable excuse. Besides, it would be very unlikely that

Andy and Katie would have gone on holiday without him. 'It's

my wife's mother, Mrs O'Mara. I'm afraid she's had a bit of a fall

and my wife has had to go up to Belfast and see her. We didn't

have anyone to take care of Katie because I'm up to my eyes in

work here. We thought it best if Katie went with my wife. It'll

only be for a few days.'

He regretted the lie immediately. It was just about possible

that the school had Andy's mother's name and address on file,

and all it would take would be one phone call to prove him a

liar.

'It's very irregular, Mr Hayes,' said the woman frostily.

'I know, and I apologise for that,' said Martin. 'I should have

called you yesterday.'

'Do you know when we can expect to see Katie again?'

Martin wished that he did know. 'I would think three days.

Maybe four. If it's any longer, I'll be sure to let you know, Mrs

O'Mara.'

'And your mother-in-law, how is she?'

5i

STEPHEN LEATHER

'Poorly. She's in her seventies, so any sort of fall is

dangerous.' Martin was surprised at how easily the lies were

coming.

'Well, I hope she gets better soon,' said Mrs O'Mara.

'We all do,' agreed Martin.

When he put the receiver down, his hand was shaking.

'You're crazy,' said Andy. 'Why would you think . . .'

Green-eyes silenced her by holding up a gloved hand. Then

she wagged her finger at Andy, side to side, like a parent warning

a child not to misbehave. 'You're wasting your time, Andrea.

We know everything. We know who you are and we know

what you are. We're not asking you to do something you

haven't done a hundred times before.'

Andy slumped back in her chair and stared at the masked

woman. It felt as if all the blood had drained from her head. She

tried to speak but no words would come.

Green-eyes bent down and pulled a briefcase out from under

the table. She placed it on top, her eyes never leaving Andy's

face as she clicked open the two locks. Click-clack, like the

sound of a bullet being chambered. She opened the case, took

out a large manila envelope, and tossed it casually in front of

Andy.

'What's this?' asked Andy.

Green-eyes nodded at the envelope. Andy opened it and

took out a dozen or so sheets of paper. They were photocopies

of newspaper cuttings. Andy flicked through them. They were a

mixture of Irish and English newspapers -- tabloids and broadsheets.

Andy scanned the headlines. BELFAST STORE DESTROYED.

BOMB ON MAIN LINE, TRAINS DELAYED.

BOMB DISPOSAL EXPERT KILLED. FIRE IN DEPARTMENT

STORE, IRA BLAMED. TWO SOLDIERS DIE IN

BOMB BLAST.

'Great reviews, huh?' said the lanky man. He chuckled and

looked across at Green-eyes. Even through the ski mask he

could see the warning look she threw at him and his laughter

52

THE BOMBMAKER

dried up. Green-eyes waited until he was silent and fidgeting

with his gloves before turning back to Andy.

Andy stared at the photocopied cuttings. 'If you know

everything, then you know why I can't do what you want.'

Green-eyes reached into her briefcase again and took out a

piece of newspaper. She unfolded it. It was the front page of the Belfast Telegraph, ripped along one edge as if it had been torn in a

hurry. There were four black-and-white photographs of small

boys in school uniforms, smiling at the camera. Just heads and

shoulders, the type that might have been stored in a school's files.

The headline was brutal in its simplicity. IRA BOMB KILLS

FOUR SCHOOLBOYS.

Andy turned her head away.

'Squeamish?' said Green-eyes. 'I wouldn't have thought of

you as the squeamish type.' She put the page down in front of

Andy. 'Read it, Andrea.'

Andy shook her head. 1 don't have to.' She knew every

word, almost by heart, and the four young faces were burnt into

her memory, seared there for all time. Four boys. Three aged

ten, one just weeks away from his tenth birthday. His mother

had already paid for the bicycle he was getting as his main

present. Four boys killed, another one in intensive care who

would later lose a leg and the sight of one eye. For weeks his life

had hung in the balance, and Andy had followed his recovery in

the paper and on the television. She'd never understood why

she'd prayed so hard for the boy to live. Four dead. Five dead.

There was no difference morally, not really. But Andy had seen

the crying mother on television, condemning the IRA and

anyone who helped them and appealing for information. Four

dead. One maimed. Innocents. And Andy was to blame. She'd

carry the guilt with her to the grave.

Green-eyes pushed the page towards her. 'We're not asking

you to do something you haven't already done, Andrea.'

Andy closed her eyes and shook her head. 'That was a

mistake. A terrible mistake.'

'Casualties of war, the IRA High Command called it. But

they never apologised, did they? Even though they were all

53

STEPHEN LEATHER

good Catholic children. Two of them were altar boys, weren't

they?'

Andy put her hands over her face and slumped forward so

that her elbows were resting on the table. 'Is that what this is,

revenge for what happened ten years ago? Who are you?'

'It doesn't matter who we are. All that matters is that we have

your daughter. That's all you need to think about. We have

Katie. We have the power of life and death over her, Andrea.

But the decision as to what happens next is totally in your hands.

Do as we say and you'll soon have her back home. Refuse, and

you'll never see her again. We're not holding a gun to your

head, we're not going to torture you or hurt you, all ..."

'You don't think this is hurting?' hissed Andy.

Green-eyes tapped the newspaper page. 'I can promise you

something else, Andrea,' she said quietly. 'We won't be hurting

children this time. There won't be any mistake, no innocents

killed. A lot of thought, a lot of planning, has gone into this. We

won't be leaving a holdall in a railway tunnel for children to

find.'

Andy shook her head again. 'I can't.'

'Yes, you can,' said Green-eyes firmly. 'You can, and if you

want Katie back, you will.' She took a small padded envelope

from the briefcase and handed it to Andy.

Andy took it, frowning. It felt empty, but it had been sealed.

'Open it,' said Green-eyes.

Andy slid a nail under the flap and ripped it open. She pushed

the sides together to open the mouth of the envelope and peered

inside. 'Oh no,' she whispered. She tipped the envelope up and

shook out the contents. Blond curls. A handful. Andy could tell

from the length that they'd been cut close to the scalp. 'Not her

hair,' she said. 'She's so proud of her hair.' She looked at Green

eyes, tears trickling down her cheeks. 'How could you do that to

a little girl? How could you cut her hair?'

Green-eyes leaned forward slowly until her masked face was

only inches away from Andy. 'It could have been an ear, Andrea.

Or a finger. Think about that.' She stared at Andy for several

seconds, then visibly relaxed. She motioned at her two compa

54

THE BOMBMAKER

nions, and they stepped forward and seized Andy by the arms.

The hair and envelope tumbled from Andy's grasp.

'No!' she shouted. She pointed at the blond curls. 'Please,'

she said.

Green-eyes walked around the table, scooped up the hair

clippings and put them back in the envelope, which she then

slotted into the back pocket of Andy's jeans before the two men

hustled her away from the table. The men took her over to the

far corner of the factory where there was a cluster of offices, large

white plasterboard cubes with cheap wooden doors that looked

as if they'd been brought in as an afterthought. The men spun

Andy around so that her back was to one of the plasterboard

walls. Green-eyes appeared in front of her with a Polaroid

camera in her gloved hands.

'Smile, Andrea,' she said.

Andy stared at her in disbelief. 'Smile?'

'For the camera.'

Andy forced a thin smile and blinked as the camera flashed

and whirred. The two men hustled her away down a narrow

corridor that ran between the two lines of offices.

Egan used a Stanley knife to slit the black garbage bags along the

sides, then he pulled them open into single sheets of plastic. It

took five to line the boot of the Scorpio, and he used thick strips

of waterproof tape to seal them together. He slit open another

three bags and taped them together into a single sheet, then put

it and the tape into the boot.

Back in the apartment he checked the action of his Browning,

slotted in a clipful of cartridges and gave the silencer a

thorough cleaning.

He had taken a risk planting the listening device in Martin

Hayes's office. He'd gone in at night, having disabled the burglar

alarm system, and it had taken a full six hours from start to finish.

It had proved to be time well spent, though. If it hadn't been for

the office device, he'd never have known about Mrs O'Mara's

phone call.

55

STEPHEN LEATHER

Egan could tell from the recording that the school secretary

wasn't the sort to be deterred by Hayes's clumsy explanation of

his daughter's absence. He'd have to do something to silence the

meddlesome woman. And quickly.

It had taken just one telephone call to the school's personnel

office, pretending to be an official of the Revenue Commissioners

wanting to check her employment details, and Egan had

all the information he needed.

Katie was sitting at the Formica-covered table when she heard

the bolts slide back. She looked up apprehensively, wondering

which of her captors it was. It was the man who'd been nice to

her, the one who'd given her Garfield. He was carrying a tray.

'Are you hungry?' he asked as he carefully made his way

down the stairs.

Katie wasn't, but she said that she was. He placed the tray on

the table in front of her. It was scrambled eggs on a paper plate

and a paper cup of milk. She smiled up at him. 'Thank you,' she

said.

'I wasn't sure how you liked your eggs,' he said. 'I'm sorry if

they're too runny.'

'They're fine,' said Katie. They weren't, they looked horrible,

pale yellow and watery, but she wanted to be nice to him.

If she was nice to him then maybe he'd be nice to her. She

picked up the plastic fork and took a small bite of the eggs.

'Delicious,' she said.

The Nice Man headed for the stairs, but then turned and

looked across at her. 'Is there anything you like to eat? I'll try to

get it for you.'

'Heinz tomato soup. And fish fingers.'

'Same as my kids.'

'You've got children?'

The Nice Man went stiff, as if she'd said the wrong thing.

Then he turned around and went up the stairs without saying

anything else. Katie looked down at the eggs in disgust. They

tasted horrible.

56

THE BOMBMAKER

She wondered what the Nice Man looked like underneath

his mask. She was sure of one thing -- he'd be better-looking

than the other man, the man who'd cut her hair. He'd been

really rough with her as if he'd wanted to hurt her. He was ugly.

Really ugly. Katie hoped with all her heart that the Ugly Man

wouldn't come down the stairs again.

Andy sat on the floor with her back to the wall. The padded

envelope was in her lap. In her hands, she held the locks of

Katie's hair. There was a lot of hair. Clumps of it. Big clumps.

Someone had savaged Katie's head. There'd probably be bald

patches. Poor, poor Katie. She had always been so proud of her

hair. Every night, before she went to sleep, she would sit in front

of her dressing-table mirror, brushing her blond locks a hundred

times. She'd loved it when Andy had brushed it for her. Katie

would count the strokes, and wouldn't let Andy get away with

even one less than the hundred.

They'd left her in a disused office. Bare white walls, faded

blue carpet tiles on the floor, polystyrene tiles on the ceiling.

Two fluorescent tubes filled the office with a clinical white light.

They hadn't locked the door. There was no need. She couldn't

run because if she ran she'd never see her daughter again. She

was as trapped as if they'd chained her to the floor.

Andy lifted the hair to her face and gently sniffed it, inhaling

Katie's fragrance. She closed her eyes and imagined that her face

was up against her daughter's neck. God, had it been just thirty

six hours ago? Less than two days? Two days in which her life

had been turned upside down.

Who were they, these people? Terrorists? Why else would

they want a bomb? Could they be Irish? The only one who'd

said anything at length was the woman, and the more Andy

listened to her, the more she was sure there was an Irish accent

mixed with Scottish. But that didn't mean anything. They could

be Provisional Irish Republican Army. Or INLA. Or any of the

Republican splinter groups like Real IRA or Continuity IRA.

But then why would they need her? The IRA had their own

57

STEPHEN LEATHER

explosives experts, experts who were far more up to date than

Andy was. And if it was the IRA, why the kidnapping? She

knew most of the members of the Army Council by name, and

they knew her. They could have summoned her before them at

any time over the past decade and she would have gone. Maybe

not willingly, but she would have gone. So if not the IRA, then

who? The Protestants? The Ulster Defence Volunteers? The

Ulster Volunteer Force? The Ulster Freedom Fighters? Or

maybe one of the fringe terrorist groups, the Orange Volunteers

or the Red Hand Defenders. The Protestant groups were less

able to mount major bombing campaigns because they didn't

have the IRA's technical expertise or access to equipment. Was

that what this was all about? Did the Protestants want her to

build a bomb for them? Or was someone else behind the

kidnapping? Someone else who wanted a bomb built in England.

A very big bomb, Green-eyes had said. Andy wondered

how big. As big as the bomb the IRA had used at Canary Wharf m !995. the bomb that had caused almost a billion pounds of

damage? Is that what they wanted from her? And if it was, could

Andy do it? Could she give them a bomb in exchange for Katie?

Andy lost all track of time as she sat on the floor, holding Katie's

curls next to her cheek. Eventually the door to the office opened

and the two men walked across to where she was sitting and grabbed

an arm each. The bigger one she thought of as the Wrestler, while

the thinner man with the gleaming white Nike trainers was the

Runner. Both were still wearing the blue overalls and black ski

masks. The Wrestler had put on a black nylon shoulder holster from

which protruded the butt of a large automatic.

'Okay, okay,' said Andy. 'You don't have to be so rough.'

Her captors said nothing, though the Runner dug his gloved

fingers even deeper into her flesh. Andy pulled her arm away

and shoved the handful of hair into the pocket of her jacket. The

men pulled her through the doorway and along the corridor to

the main factory area. The woman was already sitting at the far

side of the table, her arms at rest, her gloved fingers interlinked.

She watched with unblinking green eyes as the two men pushed

Andy down on to the chair then stood behind her, arms folded.

58

THE BOMBMAKER

There was a notepad and pen in front of the woman. Next to

the pad was a pistol, the barrel of which was pointing towards

Andy. The woman picked up the pen and began to tap it on the

pad. 'So, Andrea, have you had enough time to think it over?'

'You're crazy,' said Andy. 'You're asking for the impossible.'

The green eyes seemed to harden fractionally. 'Let me be

quite clear about this, Andrea. You are not the only option. If

you don't want to co-operate, we'll use someone else.' She

paused for effect. 'But you'll never see Katie again.'

Andy said nothing. The woman sighed, then pushed back

her chair and began to stand up. 'No . . .' said Andy. The

woman sat down again. She waited for Andy to speak, the pen

poised in her gloved hand.

'Look, it's not as easy as you seem to think,' said Andy

eventually. 'It's not just a question of mixing a few chemicals.

There's specialised equipment . . .'

'We can get everything you need,' said the woman.

'But even if you were to make the explosives, you still have

to detonate the bomb. It's not like setting off a firework - you

don't just light the blue touch-paper.'

'Don't patronise me,' said the woman, coldly. 'I've set

bombs before.'

'Then why do you need me?' asked Andy quickly.

The woman tapped the pen on the notepad. She looked up

at the Wrestler. 'Take her back to . . .'

'It's okay, it's okay,' interrupted Andy. 'I'll do it.'

The woman stared at Andy for several seconds, then nodded

slowly. 'What will you need?' she asked. Her pen was poised

over the notebook.

Andy swallowed. Her mouth was unbearably dry. She didn't

want to do this but she had no other choice. If she didn't cooperate,

if she didn't tell them what they wanted to know, then

she knew without a shadow of a doubt that they'd carry out their

threat. Katie would die. She swallowed again. 'What sort of

bomb are you talking about? A letter bomb? A car bomb? What

are you planning to do with it?'

'We want a fertiliser bomb. A big one.'

59

STEPHEN LEATHER

'How big?'

Green-eyes said nothing for a few seconds. She tapped her

pen on her notepad. 'Four thousand pounds,' she said eventually.

'Four

thousand pounds? That's almost two tons. No one's

ever made a two-ton fertiliser bomb before.'

'So we'll get you into the Guinness Book of Records,' said

Green-eyes.

'How are you going to move it?' asked Andy. 'That's a

truck-load of explosive.'

'You can leave the logistics to us. All you're concerned about

is the building of the device.'

Andy shook her head. 'You could blow up a small town with

a bomb that big. I can't be responsible for something like that.'

She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. 'I can't.'

Green-eyes' lips tightened. 'If you can't, we'll get someone

else. But you know what that means.'

Andy put her hands up to her face. 'Jesus, Mary and Joseph,'

she whispered.

'Whatever,' said Green-eyes. 'The major component is

ammonium nitrate fertiliser,' she said. 'Correct?'

Andy nodded.

'We already have that,' said Green-eyes. 'Fifteen hundred

kilos. Do you work in kilos, or pounds?'

'Pounds,' said Andy. Ireland used the metric system but she'd

been born in Belfast, in the north of the country, and most of the

time she still thought in pounds and ounces, miles and gallons.

'So we have just over three thousand pounds of ammonium

nitrate fertiliser. Will that be enough?'

Andy shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. 'What?'

'Please try to focus, Andrea,' said Green-eyes. 'We don't

have all day.'

'It depends.'

'On what?'

Andy shook her head again. It was all too much for her to

take in. She put both hands up to her temples and massaged

them. 'It's complicated.'

60

THE BOMBMAKER

'I appreciate it's a complicated process, Andrea. That's why

we need you.'

Andy cupped her hands around her chin. 'Where are you

planning on building it?'

'That's none of your concern.'

'Yes it is. That's what I mean about it being complicated.

You need pure ammonium nitrate, but you can't buy it in

Northern Ireland. At least, you can buy it, but it's not pure. The

government's not stupid -- they know what the pure chemical

can be used for, so in Ireland you can only buy it mixed with

other stuff. Bonemeal, potash, the sort of stuff farmers need. The

pure stuff isn't for sale to the public, and if you order it, you'll be

checked out. So if you're building it in Northern Ireland, you've

got to buy tons of common-or-garden fertiliser and boil off the

impurities. It would take for ever to get two tons of pure

ammonium nitrate.'

'What about in the UK?'

'That's different. Is that what you're planning? A bomb here

in England?'

The woman ignored Andy's question. 'How much would

we need? Is three thousand pounds enough?'

Andy tried to concentrate. A four-thousand-pound fertiliser

bomb. The fertiliser accounted for eighty per cent of the

mixture. Eighty per cent of four thousand. Three thousand

two hundred. She nodded. 'That should be okay, give or take.'

The woman pointed at the far corner of the factory with her

pen. Andy turned her head to look. A green tarpaulin covered a

mound almost three feet tall. Next to the mound were a dozen

large conifers in black plastic pots and several boxes of smaller

plants. 'You can check it yourself later. What else?'

'Hang on,' said Andy. 'You can't just use it straight from the

sack. It's got to be prepared.'

'And how do we do that?'

'Even if it's sold as pure, there'll still be some impurities and

you've got to get rid of them first. You have to mix it with

alcohol, then strain off the liquid.'

'So how much alcohol will we need?'

61

STEPHEN LEATHER

Andy did the calculation in her head. 'Assuming you re-use it

a few times, a hundred gallons or so. The more the better. It's

got to be denatured alcohol. It's used as paint thinner or

antifreeze.'

'Where do we get it from?'

'Any biggish paint suppliers should have some.'

'What would happen if we didn't use the alcohol?'

'It might not go off.'

The woman nodded. 'What equipment will you need, to

purify the fertiliser?'

'Large containers. Plastic or glass. Stirrers. Wooden or plastic.

Then something to heat the mixture. Electric woks are good.'

'How many?'

'The more you have, the faster you can process it. Every

pound of fertiliser has to be mixed with alcohol, then heated for

three or four minutes. Say you do five pounds at a time. Three

thousand pounds could take a full two days, working around the

clock.'

'Two days?'

'It's a big job. You don't seem to understand how big a job it

is.'

'So, if we can get six woks going, it'll take eight hours?'

'That's right. But it's hard work. And you have to have

someone stirring all the time. It's a sort of stir-fry job, you

know.'

'So, four. There'll be four of us, so four woks. What else?'

'Electric coffee grinders. I'd get four of them, too.'

'Four it is.'

Andy sat back and folded her arms. 'What are you going to

do with it? The bomb?'

'That's not your concern.'

'Well, it is, sort of. There are different mixtures for different

effects.'

'Whatever's most effective. Whatever'11 give us the biggest

bang, okay?'

Andy wanted to lie, to give her wrong information or to

withhold something vital, something that would render the

62

THE BOMBMAKER

explosive inert, but she couldn't risk it. She didn't know how

much they already knew. This could be a test, and if she failed

the test it could be as dangerous as refusing to co-operate. She

nodded slowly. 'Aluminium powder,' she said. 'You'll need

about six hundred pounds.'

'Where would we get that from?' asked the woman.

'Paint suppliers again,' said Andy. 'The best sort to ask for is

pyro grade 400 mesh.' She was surprised how easily the technical

terms came to her. It had been years since she'd even thought

about the components of a fertiliser bomb. The information

belonged to another life, a life she had long ago walked away

from.

'It's easy to get?' asked Green-eyes. 'There's not a register or

anything?'

Andy shook her head. 'It's got too many uses. No one

checks. But you'd be better buying it through a front company,

something with decorator in the letterhead. And with that sort

of amount, you might be better getting it from several different

suppliers.'

'What about the alcohol?'

'It's got lots of legitimate uses, too. I'd buy it from several

sources, though.'

The woman scribbled on her pad again.

'Sawdust,' said Andy.

'Sawdust?'

'As fine as possible. Two hundred pounds. Any sawmill

will sell it to you. You can say it's for a pet shop. That's what

we used to do. And detergent. Sodium dodecyl benzenesulphonate.'

She spelled out the words slowly. 'A chemical

supplies company will sell you the pure stuff. But almost

any soap-based washing powder will do.' The information was

all still there, she realised. It always had been, and probably

always would be. A shopping list of death, imprinted somewhere

in her neural pathways.

'How much will we need?'

'Thirty pounds or so.'

'And?'

63

STEPHEN LEATHER

a

'That's it,' said Andy. 'Ammonium nitrate, aluminium

powder, sawdust and detergent. You can add diesel oil if you

want. It's not vital, but it helps.'

'How much would we need?'

'Ten gallons or so.'

'And what equipment are you going to need?'

'Desiccators.'

'Desiccators?'

'To dry out the fertiliser. It absorbs moisture, and as soon as

it's damp it's useless.'

'Are they easy to get?'

Andy shrugged. 'Depends. You might have to order one.'

'Is there anything else we could use?'

'An electric oven. And baking trays, a couple of inches deep.'

Andy did a quick calculation in her head. 'One oven will dry

about four hundred pounds a day. So it'll take you about eight

days working around the clock to do it all.'

'And if we get four ovens -- two days, is that right?'

Andy nodded.

'Okay. What else?'

'Respirators. Protective glasses. Overalls. Gloves. Plastic

gloves and oven gloves, too.' She steepled her fingers under

her chin and furrowed her brow as she thought. It had been a

long time. A long, long time, and she wasn't sure if she'd

remembered everything. She ran through the processes in her

mind. 'Thermometers. Metal ones. And a tumble-drier,' she

said. 'Two would be better.'

'This isn't an ideal home exhibition,' said the woman.

'It's for mixing the fertiliser and aluminium powder,' said

Andy. 'It's got to be well mixed. We used to pack it in

Tupperware containers then put it in a tumble-drier for half

an hour or so.'

The woman nodded. 'Innovative,' she said.

'We had to be,' said Andy. *'

'How many?'

Andy thought for a few seconds. 'Two should do it.'

'Anything else?'

64

THE BOMBMAKER

'That's all for the explosives. But the skill is in the preparation.

You can't just throw it together.'

'And once we've made it, it's not unstable?'

'You could smash a train into it and it wouldn't go off. In

fact, it's only good for a week or so. Maybe two weeks, but after

that the fertiliser will have absorbed water again and no matter

what you do to it, it won't go off. So you'll need lots of

Tupperware containers, the bigger the better. And lots of black

plastic rubbish bags. The more you wrap the stuff, the longer it'll

take the water to penetrate. And you'll need bags to pack the

finished product in. Hundreds of black bags.'

The woman made another note on her pad. Then she

looked up. 'Timer?'

'Depends on when you want it to go off. Minutes, hours,

days or weeks.'

'Hours.'

'Any small clock will do.'

'What do you prefer?'

'A battery-operated digital model.'

'Any particular brand?'

Andy shrugged. 'Whatever. Can I ask you something?'

'No. What do you pack it in? Oil drums?'

Andy shook her head. 'No. Like I said, we'll use black bags.

You have to pack it around the initiator. If it's in barrels the

initial explosion might just knock the rest of the barrels over.'

'Okay. Black bags it is. What do you need wiring-wise?'

'Bell wire. Several different colours would help. Soldering

iron. Solder. Batteries --1.5 volts. Torch bulbs and bulb-holders,

for circuit testing. Wire. As many different colours as you can

get. Look, what are you going to use this for?'

'That's not your concern.'

'Is it against people, or property? I have a right to know.'

The woman put her pen down and looked at Andy, her eyes

narrowing under the ski mask. 'We have your daughter, and

unless you do exactly as we say, she'll die. I mean that, Andrea. I

mean that as sure as I'm sitting here opposite you. The men who

are looking after her are taking good care of her, but they're just

65

STEPHEN LEATHER

as capable of putting a bullet in her pretty little head or cutting

her throat. This isn't a game, it isn't a joke. You have no rights.

You do as you're told or Katie's dead. Do you understand me?'

Andy stared at the woman. It was as if she were the only static

thing in the vicinity -- everything else was whirling and spinning

around her. She tried to speak, but before any words came she

felt her stomach heave and her mouth filled with vomit. She

twisted around from the table and threw up with loud, gagging

gasps. The Wrestler jumped to the side, away from the foul

smelling yellow flow, but it splattered over his legs.

'You stupid cow!' he yelled.

Andy fell to her knees and bent low, her head only inches

from the ground as heaving spasms racked her body. Even when

her stomach was empty she continued to heave and cough. A

glass of water appeared before her and she took it gratefully. She

swilled the water around her mouth and then spat it out before

drinking deeply. She sat back on her heels and drained the glass.

The woman in the ski mask was standing in front of her, her

hands on her hips. Andy gave the glass back to her.

She looked around as she squatted on the dusty concrete

floor. There were no windows, though there were barred

skylights high overhead. Thick metal girders ran below the

roof, and suspended from them were winches and lifting

equipment. There were thick metal bolts in the floor, as if

massive pieces of machinery had once been bolted into place.

The place had obviously been used for some form of manufacturing

in the past.

Up against one wall was a metal bench, and on it a computer.

It looked like an expensive system with a large VDU and a tower

unit containing the disk drives. A wire led from the computer to

a phone socket. A modem, Andy realised. It had a modem. The

Wrestler was using a tissue to wipe his trousers and continuing to

curse her under his breath. The Runner took Andy's arm and

helped her back on to the chair. She wiped her mouth with the

back of her hand.

Green-eyes sat down and picked up her pen again. 'Right,

are you ready to go on?' she asked.

66

THE BOMBMAKER

Andy nodded. She methodically went through everything

else they'd need while Green-eyes took notes. When she'd

finished, Green-eyes put her pen down on her notepad and

nodded at her. 'We'll get most of this stuff tomorrow morning,'

she said. 'We start work the day after that.'

Andy looked around the factory. 'Here?' she asked.

'No. We'll be moving somewhere else.'

'Can you tell me where?'

'Not right now, no. But you'll know soon enough. Let me

show you the fertiliser.'

Green-eyes stood up and walked over to the tarpaulin- covered mound. She pulled the green sheet back. Dust billowed

around her and she coughed.

Andy went over to the stack of bags and examined the labels.

She recognised the brand. It was an English firm, based just

outside Oxford. Under the brand name were the words

AMMONIUM NITRATE, and below that, in slightly smaller

type, the word FERTILISER. To the right were three numbers,

separated by hyphens: 34--0-0.

'Okay?' asked Green-eyes.

'It'll do,' said Andy. She'd half hoped that they wouldn't

have the correct type of fertiliser, but now' she realised that they

knew exactly what they were doing. Some manufacturers

coated their ammonium nitrate with calcium to stop it from

absorbing water. But the calcium coating rendered the fertiliser

useless as an explosive base. Other fertilisers were a mixture of

chemicals, perhaps containing ammonium sulphate or urea.

Only pure ammonium nitrate would explode, and that was what Green-eyes was showing her. The numbers on the bag

referred to the ratio of nitrogen, phosphorus and potash. Only

pure ammonium nitrate had the ratio 34-0-0.

There were other sacks, too, containing compost. Andy

pointed at one of the compost bags. 'What are you planning to

do with that? Compost isn't explosive.'

Green-eyes ignored her.

'Why are you doing this?' Andy asked.

'Why do you care? You've done it before.'

67

STEPHEN LEATHER

'That was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.'

'Like riding a bike,' said Green-eyes. 'As soon as you get back

in the saddle, it'll be as if you never gave it up.' She motioned to

the Runner, and he came over and took Andy by the arm,

leading her like a naughty child back to the office.

Mick Canning pushed the trolley down the aisle, scanning the

rows of canned goods. He stopped by the soups section and took

half a dozen cans of Heinz tomato soup off the shelves. He added

a few cans of baked beans and spaghetti hoops to his trolley,

sticking to the Heinz brand. He knew that children applied the

same brand awareness to their food as they did to their clothing.

Training shoes had to be Nike, Reebok or Adidas, beans had to

be Heinz, fish ringers had to be Bird's Eye, cornflakes had to be

Kellogg's. Anything else resulted in sneers and pushed-away

plates. Canning's own children weren't much older than the

Hayes girl -- his son was eight and his daughter nine. He hadn't

seen either for almost three months; they were living in Larne

with their mother. Canning and his wife had separated, and the

last letter he'd received from her solicitor made it clear that she

wanted a divorce. And the house. In exchange, she was offering

him unlimited access to the children, though she was insisting

that they live with her. Canning knew there was no point in

arguing, either with her or her solicitor. He was resigned to

becoming a part-time father, but figured that being a part-time

father was better than being no father at all.

Canning paid in cash and took the carrier bags out to the

carpark and loaded them into the boot of the Ford Mondeo. He

turned on the radio and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as

he drove. If everything went to plan, it would all be over within

two weeks. The Hayes girl would be back with her parents,

Canning would have the rest of the hundred thousand pounds

he'd been promised for the job, and he'd be able to get his soonto-be-ex-wife

and her money-grabbing solicitor off his back.

68

THE BOMBMAKER

Laura O'Mara jumped as the doorbell rang. The clock on the

mantelpiece said it was a quarter past seven, and she wasn't

expecting visitors. She put her knitting on the coffee table and

turned down the volume of the television set, then peered

through the laf e curtains. An expensive car, a black saloon, was

parked in the road outside her house. She didn't know anyone

with a black car. She went over to the door and slid the security

chain home. Since her husband had died four years earlier, she'd

always taken great care not to let strangers into the house. The

newspapers were full of stories about old women being mugged

for their life savings. Not that Laura O'Mara considered herself

old. She was fifty-nine, and her own mother was still active and

living alone, and she was in her mid-eighties. Nor did Laura

O'Mara keep her life savings in her two-up, two-down cottage.

She was too smart an investor for that. Her savings were tucked

away in tax-efficient bonds and unit trusts, and she even had

several thousand pounds in a Guernsey bank account, safe from

the prying eyes of the taxman. But she did have some valuable

porcelain, and she knew that children these days would smash up

a person's house for the thrill of it. She eased open the door,

keeping a reassuring hand on the lock.

A man in a suit smiled down at her, wire-framed spectacles

perched on the end of his nose. 'Mrs O'Mara?'

She frowned. The illicit bank account sprang to mind, and

she felt herself blush.

The man looked at a clipboard he was carrying, then smiled

again. He had even white teeth, she noticed, not a filling in his

mouth. Mrs O'Mara's own teeth betrayed a childhood of sweets

and adult years filled with smoking and coffee-drinking. She

self-consciously put her hand up to cover her mouth as she

returned his smile.

'My name's Peter Cordingly,' he said. 'I'm with Dublin City

social services.'

He had an Irish accent, but it wasn't local. It was as if he'd

spent some time away from Ireland, smoothing out the peaks

and troughs so that his accent was somehow vague and hard to

pin down. A bit like the man himself, thought Mrs O'Mara. He

69

STEPHEN LEATHER

was a pleasant enough chap, but not particularly good-looking,

with a bland, squarish face, and apart from, the glasses he didn't

have any distinguishing features.

'I understand you've expressed concerns about one of the

children at your school.' He looked at the clipboard again,

pushing the spectacles further up his nose with his index finger.

'Katie Hayes?'

'Oh, I only called her father. She was away without permission

and . . .'

The man held up a hand to silence her and leaned forward

conspiratorially. 'Mrs O'Mara, could I come in and have a word

with you about this?' He looked left and right as if he feared

being overheard. 'What I have to see is a wee bit ... confidential.'

'Oh

my,' said Mrs O'Mara. She unhooked the security chain

and pulled the door open, eager to hear what it was exactly that

Mr Hayes had done, all thoughts about the dangers of strangers

totally forgotten.

70

DAY FOUR

Andy woke up as the fluorescent lights flickered into life. She

squinted over at the door to the office. The Wrestler stood there

with a brown paper bag in one hand and a paper cup in the

other. He put them down on the floor in the centre of the room.

'Breakfast,' he said. He'd taken off his shoulder holster.

Andy sat up and rubbed her eyes. 'Thank you,' she said.

'She wants you outside in fifteen minutes.'

'Okay.'

The Wrestler went out and closed the door behind him.

Andy climbed out of the sleeping bag that Green-eyes had given

her the previous evening. There was no pillow -- she'd had to

rest her head on a rolled-up pullover, and now she had a crick in

her neck. She picked up the brown paper bag and opened it.

There was a croissant inside, and a bran muffin. She sat with her

back against the wall and ate them both in between sips of hot

coffee. She was surprised at how hungry she was, but then

realised that she hadn't eaten for almost thirty-six hours.

When Green-eyes had given her the sleeping bag, she'd

shown Andy where the bathroom was, at the end of the corridor

farthest from the factory area. All it contained was a washbasin

and toilet, but it was better than nothing, and Green-eyes had

told her she could use it whenever she wanted. There was one

stipulation. Andy had to shout that she wanted to leave the

office, to give her captors time to put on their ski masks if they

weren't already wearing them.

7i

STEPHEN LEATHER

Andy got her washbag out of her suitcase and banged on the

office door. 'I want to go to the bathroom!' she shouted.

'Okay!' shouted Green-eyes, off in the distance. Andy

opened the door and went along to the bathroom, had as good

a wash as was possible in a sink, and brushed her teeth.

Green-eyes was waiting for her in the factory area, still

wearing the blue overalls and ski mask. The Runner was loading

the bags of ammonium nitrate into the back of the blue Transit

van.

'Sleep well?' asked Green-eyes.

'Do you care?' said Andy.

'If it makes you feel any better, I slept on the floor too,' said

Green-eyes. She nodded over at the far corner of the factory

space. There were three rolled-up sleeping bags there, along

with a couple of holdalls. The woman's pistol was on a small

plastic table, along with the Wrestler's gun and holster.

'It doesn't,' said Andy.

'We'll be moving tomorrow anyway,' said Green-eyes.

'Where to?'

'You'll find out soon enough, Andrea.' Green-eyes pointed

at the plastic chair on Andy's side of the table. 'Sit down.'

Andy did as she was told.

The Runner started loading the conifers into the back of the

van, and then packed in the boxes of smaller plants.

'I want you to go through the list again,' Green-eyes said to

Andy. 'Everything we'll need for a four-thousand-pound fertiliser

bomb.'

'Don't you trust me?'

The green eyes stared at Andy through the holes in the ski

mask.

Andy leaned forward. 'Or are you testing me, is that it? To

check that I'm consistent?'

'Maybe I just want to make sure that you didn't forget

anything,' said the woman. 'Deliberately or otherwise.'

'When can I see Katie?'

'You can't. She's still in Ireland.'

'Let me talk to her.'

72

THE BOMBMAKER

'I can't do that.'

'I have to know that she's okay.'

'You have my word.'

Andy snorted. 'Why the hell should I believe anything you

tell me?'

'If you ever want to see Katie again, you've no choice,' said

the woman.

Andy glared at her. 'At least give me some sign that she's

okay. A phone call. Anything.'

'A photograph in front of today's paper?' said Green-eyes,

her voice loaded with sarcasm.

'Look, what you're asking me to do is complicated. Really

complicated. And I'm going to find it impossible to concentrate

if I'm worrying whether or not my daughter is alive. Doesn't

that make sense to you?'

Green-eyes tilted her head to one side as she looked at Andy.

'Maybe you're right at that,' she said. 'I'll see what I can do.

Now, let's go through the list.'

The Runner finished loading the Transit van. 'Oy, Don!' he

yelled. Green-eyes stiffened. Andy pretended not to notice.

'Ammonium nitrate fertiliser,' she said. 'Ratio 34--0-0.'

The Wrestler came out of one of the offices and headed over

to the metal door. He began to pull on the chain to open it and

the Runner climbed into the driver's seat of the van.

'Aluminium powder. Pyro grade 400 mesh.' Andy fought to

keep her voice steady. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her

eyes and smiled at the woman in the ski mask. 'Sawdust. Soap

powder. Diesel oil.'

The van engine kicked into life. Green-eyes began to write

on her pad. Andy forced herself to breathe. Had she managed to

convince Green-eyes that she hadn't heard the Runner's slip?

That she didn't know that the man built like a wrestler was

called Don?

Andy kept talking. 'Three thousand two hundred pounds of

fertiliser, six hundred pounds of aluminium powder.' Green

eyes pounds of sawdust and thirty pounds of soap powder.'

Green-eyes continued to write as the Runner edged the van out

73

STEPHEN LEATHER

of the factory. Andy stared at the pen as Green-eyes wrote. Did

she know that Andy had heard the name? Was she pretending

not to attach any significance to the slip so that Andy would

think she was in the clear? Andy was trying to bluff Green-eyes;

maybe Green-eyes was attempting a double bluff. One thing

Andy knew for sure -- if Green-eyes thought she'd caught the

name, she was as good as dead. She continued to recite the list of

components of the bomb, all the time staring at Green-eyes.

To her left, the metal door rattled down. She heard the

Wrestler climb into the van and slam the door, then it drove away.

The woman looked up, her pen poised. Andy stared at her

green eyes, wishing with all her heart that she could look inside

the woman's mind and see for herself whether she was safe or

whether her life had just been rendered forfeit by the mistake the

Runner had made. Her mouth had gone suddenly dry, and

when she swallowed she almost gagged.

O'Keefe stuffed his ski mask into the glove compartment. 'I

should fucking blow your brains out here and now,' he said.

Quinn looked across at him, his mouth open in surprise.

'What?'

O'Keefe pointed a finger at Quinn's face, just inches from

the man's nose. 'You're a fucking amateur. A fucking piece of

shit amateur.'

'Don, what the hell's got up your arse?' Quinn sounded

genuinely confused. He braked and brought the van to a halt at

the roadside.

'You used my name, you ignorant, stupid shit.'

Quinn gripped the steering wheel with both hands. 'What

the fuck are you talking about?'

O'Keefe jerked his thumb back at the industrial estate behind

them. 'Back there. You called me Don.'

'I fucking did not.' *

'I'm not imagining it, Quinn. I'm not plucking this out of

the fucking ether. I was in the bog, you were loading the van.

What did you shout?'

74

THE BOMBMAKER

Quinn ran a hand through his thick red hair. 'I don't know.

But I know I wouldn't use your name. I'm not stupid.'

O'Keefe seized Quinn by the throat, his big, square hand

gripping either side of the younger man's neck like a vice.

Quinn's eyes widened and his gloved hands clawed ineffectually

at O'Keefe's iron-hard fingers. His lips moved silently, white

spittle dribbling down his chin. O'Keefe's other hand grabbed

Quinn's hair and he yanked the man's head back so that he was

staring fearfully up at the roof of the van. 'Not stupid!' O'Keefe

screamed. 'Not fucking stupid! I'll give you not fucking stupid!'

He tightened his grip on Quinn's throat, threatening to crush his

windpipe. 'Now, think back, you little shit. Think back to what

you said.'

Quinn's hands fastened around O'Keefe's wrist, but he was

powerless against the bigger man's grip.

'Are you thinking?'

Quinn tried to nod but could barely move his head. O'Keefe

let go of Quinn's throat and the younger man gasped for breath.

'I'm sorry. For fuck's sake, I'm sorry.'

O'Keefe let Quinn's hair slip through his fingers. 'It's coming

back to you now, is it?'

Quinn nodded.

O'Keefe folded his arms and settled back in the passenger

seat. 'You've got to be on your toes every second of every

minute. You can't let your guard down once, because if you do

it can be the death of you. This isn't a game. We get caught and

they'll throw away the key.'

Quinn put the van into gear and pulled away from the kerb.

His hands were shaking on the steering wheel.

They drove to London, and cut across the city towards the

financial district. Quinn brought the van to a halt and nodded at

the line of half a dozen cars waiting to drive into the City of

London. A uniformed policeman waved through the car at the front while his colleague went to speak to the driver of the

second.

'Bloody joke, isn't it?' said Quinn. 'Ring of steel, my arse.

What the fuck do they expect to find, huh?'

75

STEPHEN LEATHER

'They're not the ones to worry about,' said O'Keefe. He

jerked his chin to the side. 'It's the eye in the sky that does the

damage.'

Quinn twisted around in his seat and looked in the direction

that O'Keefe had indicated. High up on the office building was a

wall-mounted camera pointing at the checkpoint. 'Video,

yeah?' he said.

'Not just a video,' said O'Keefe. 'The camera picks out the

registration number and runs it through the police computer. It's

all done automatically -- takes seven seconds to get a read-out on

the vehicle. If it's stolen or used by anyone on the Special Branch

watch list, there'd be more armed police around us than fleas on

a dog.'

They edged towards the front of the queue of cars. O'Keefe

reached under his seat and pulled out a metal clipboard. The

uniformed policeman walked up to the window and O'Keefe

wound down the window.

'Morning, sir,' said the policeman. 'Can you tell me where

you're going?'

O'Keefe showed him the clipboard. There was an order

form clipped to it with the landscape gardening company's

letterhead on the top. 'Cathay Tower,' he said. 'We're doing

a rooftop garden. Trees, bushes, the works.'

The policeman stepped back and waved them on, his eyes

already on the next vehicle.

'Have a good one,' said O'Keefe as Quinn accelerated away.

It was the third time they'd been into the City in the van that

week, and as anticipated there hadn't been any problems. It was

registered and insured in the name of the landscaping company,

taxed and MoT'd and totally legitimate. Quinn's driving licence

was clean, though the name and address weren't his.

The main entrance to Cathay Tower was in Queen Anne

Street, close to Bank Tube station, but the entrance to the

carpark was at the rear, down a narrow side street O'Keefe

showed his pass to the elderly security guard. Like the van's

paperwork, it was genuine. The office had been rented some

three months earlier, and included in the lease were three

parking spaces. They were on the second level of the subterranean

carpark, and Quinn drove down and parked.

The service lift was some fifty feet away, so O'Keefe went

over to press the button while Quinn opened the rear doors of

the van and began unloading the sacks of fertiliser on to the

trolley they'd brought with them. Each bag weighed fifty kilos, and Quinn could get six on the trolley. As he put the last one on,

the lift arrived and O'Keefe held the door open while Quinn

trundled the trolley over.

They went up to the ninth floor. The lift doors opened on to

a corridor which led to the main reception area where the

passenger lifts were. A door led off the reception area to the

lavatories; a corridor led to the main open-plan office area which

ran the full length of the building. The entire floor was rented in

the name of an overseas stockbroking firm, paid for through a

Cayman Islands bank account.

O'Keefe walked into the main office area, which had

previously been a dealing room for a major American bank,

and went inside. Quinn followed with the trolley. White

vertical bunds covered the ceiling-to-floor windows. The Nat

West Tower was almost directly opposite. It would be all too

easy for one of the thousands of office workers to look in and see

what they were doing. The blinds would have to remain closed

all the time they were there.

There were already eighteen sacks of fertiliser piled up in one

corner. The two men unloaded the trolley, adding the sacks to

the pile. O'Keefe waved at a smoke detector in the middle of the

ceiling. A red light bunked in the centre of the white plastic disc.

'You think she's watching?' asked Quinn.

'Wouldn't put it past her,' said O'Keefe.

Quinn nodded at the sacks of fertiliser. 'Weird, isn't it?' he

said, wiping his hands on his overalls. 'Gardeners all over the

country spread this over their lawns, and we're gonna blow a

building to kingdom come with it.'

The two men walked over to the window.

'What's weird about that?' asked O'Keefe. 'Give us another

cigarette, will you?'

'McCracken said we weren't to smoke here.'

'Fuck McCracken.' He gestured at the smoke detector.

'Anyway, this is a blind spot.'

'You sure?'

'I fitted the thing myself. I'm sure.'

Quinn shrugged and tossed the pack of Silk Cut over to

O'Keefe.

O'Keefe took a cigarette, lit it, and tossed the pack back.

Quinn lit a cigarette for himself, and looked over at the sacks

of fertiliser. 'I just meant it's weird that like this it's dead safe,

right? Regular fertiliser. But add other stuff to it and . . . you

know . . . bang!'

'Bang?' O'Keefe pushed the blinds to one side and peered

across at the Nat West Tower. Thousands of men and women

going about their business. Worrying about careers, office

politics, their home life. Worrying about a million things, but

totally oblivious to the one thing that was going to change their

lives for ever. A four-thousand-pound bomb only a few hundred

metres away.

'Yeah, bang. Kaboom!'

O'Keefe let the bunds fall back into place and turned to look

at Quinn. 'You think a four-thousand-pound bomb's going to

go bang? Or ka-boom? You ever heard a bomb go off? A big

one?'

Quinn shook his head.

'Well, I can tell you from the horse's mouth, bang doesn't

come into it. Bang's what you get when you burst a balloon. Or

fire a gun. Bombs don't go bang. Not big ones.'

'What sort of noise do bombs make, then?'

O'Keefe narrowed his eyes as he took a long pull on his

cigarette. He exhaled a tight plume of smoke. 'Are you taking

the piss?' he said.

The Mercedes swept up the driveway and parked in front of the

two-storey house. Two men in dark suits walked up to the car,

nodded when they saw who was inside, then walked back to

their post by the front door. Deng sat where he was until his

bodyguard had climbed out of the car and opened the door for

him. He stood for a moment to admire the view of Hong Kong

harbour far below him. Some of the most expensive real estate in

the world towered over the narrow strip of water between the

island and the mainland of Kowloon. Deng turned back to the

house. It had once been the home of one of the richest taipans in

Hong Kong, a man whose family had made their fortune

running opium into China and who had left the day before

the colony was handed back to its rightful masters, vowing never

to return. Now it was the property of the People's Liberation

Army.

Deng climbed the stairs to the verandah and walked across it

and into the house, his Bally shoes squeaking across the polished

oak floors. The general was in the taipan's study, the Avails still

bedecked with the books he'd left behind, bought by the yard

and never read. A wooden-bladed fan spun silently above the

general's head as he stared out of a picture window that gave him

an unobstructed view of Kowloon. In Cantonese, Kowloon was

Nine Dragons, signifying the hills that surrounded the peninsula.

In fact there were only eight hills -- the ninth dragon represented

a warlord who'd visited the area hundreds of years earlier. 'What

is this place called?' he'd asked.

'Nine dragons,' he was told.

The warlord counted the hills. 'But there are only eight,' he

said.

'Until you arrived, sire,' he was told. 'Now there are nine

dragons.'

Flattery could be a dangerous thing, Deng knew. It was

flattery that had got him into his present predicament. He'd

believed everything he'd been told, and now he stood to lose

millions of dollars. And more. His life was on the line. His life

and the life of his family.

Behind the general's wheelchair stood a Chinese nurse in a

starched white uniform, her hair hanging down to the middle of

her back like a black veil. Deng walked to stand in front of the

general. The old man was pressing an oxygen mask up against his

face with one hand. He waved his free hand, indicating that

Deng should sit down on a leather winged chair at the side of the

window.

The general wheezed heavily, and the nurse stepped forward

and adjusted the valve on the oxygen cylinder. The old man

gulped several times, and then his breathing steadied. 'I have to

go to London soon,' he croaked. 'My doctor . . .'

'I understand,' said Deng.

'The air here. It's not good at this time of year.'

Deng nodded. 'It would not be a good idea for you to be in

London when . . .' He left the sentence unfinished.

The general looked at him with watery eyes. 'How long?'

'A week. Seven days.'

'And the money?'

Deng pushed his spectacles up his nose. 'We would anticipate

receiving payment a month after the . . . incident.'

The general began to cough, then he cleared his throat

noisily. He took the plastic mask away from his face, leaned to

the side and spat noisily into a brass tureen at the side of his chair.

Greenish phlegm dribbled down his trembling chin and the

nurse rushed forward to dab it with a tissue. Deng averted his

eyes, embarrassed by the man's infirmity.

'Will he wait?' wheezed the general eventually.

'I assume so,' said Deng. 'It is the only chance he has of

getting his money back. It is the only chance any of us has.'

Deng heard footsteps behind him. A man in a dark suit, not

one of the guards at the front of the house, walked across the

study and emptied a sack in front of the general. Deng grimaced

as a dead dog flopped out on to the floor. A spaniel, the fur on its

chest matted with blood. 'My daughter's dog,' said the general.

'A warning,' said Deng.

'My daughter's dog,' repeated the old man. He gestured with

his chin at the dead animal, and the bodyguard picked it up by

one of its back legs and put it back in the sack. 'He is an evil man,

that Michael Wong.'

Deng nodded.

'We should never have done business with him,' said the

general. He began to cough again and his chest shuddered. The

nurse bent over him but the general waved her away impatiently.

Deng didn't react to the criticism. It had been his idea to

bring in Wong as an investor, but what was done was done. It

was too late for regrets -- the only way out of their predicament

was to get Wong's money back. And for that they needed Egan,

the American. Only he could save their lives. Their lives and the

lives of their families. If they failed, Michael Wong's vengeance

would carry far and wide. The general's daughter's dog was just a

sign of how far the ripples would spread.

McCracken's mobile rang. It was Egan. 'Everything okay?' he

asked.

McCracken walked to the far end of the factory area, away

from where Andrea was sitting. 'No problems,' she said.

'I'm five minutes away. Make sure she's out of the way, will

you?' The line went dead. Like all of Egan's phone calls it was

short, to the point, and unidentifiable. He never used names and

always spoke in the vaguest terms possible.

McCracken went back over to Andrea. 'Right, you can stay

in the office until the boys get back,' she said. 'Take a coffee with

you if you want. And there's doughnuts over there.'

'I'm not hungry.'

'Suit yourself'

Andrea stood up. 'Why are you doing this?'

McCracken said nothing. She pointed to the offices. 'Keep

the door closed until I come and get you.'

Andrea did as she was told. McCracken took off her ski mask

and rubbed her face. She made herself a cup of coffee, and as she

sipped it she heard Egan's car pull up outside. He let himself in

and nodded at her. 'Where is she?'

McCracken jerked a thumb at the offices. 'We've got her

well trained,' she said. 'You want a coffee?'

Egan shook his head. He was wearing a black leather jacket

over a grey crew-neck pullover and blue jeans and carrying his

mobile phone in one hand and his car keys in the other. He looked

like a used-car salesman on his day off, a short, well-built man with

receding fair hair, cut short, almost army-style. McCracken

studied him as he walked over to the table and picked up her

notepad. One word came to mind when she thought of the man

who was paying her wages. Bland. Pale blue eyes, fair hair,

medium height, a squarish face with an average nose, no distinguishing features. If she closed her eyes, she could barely picture his face. Egan studied the list, nodding thoughtfully.

'It's okay?' McCracken asked, going over to join him.

'It's fine. Perfect.'

McCracken pulled off the rubber band that she used to hold

her hair back when she had the ski mask on and shook it free. 'If

you know what the ingredients are, why do we need her?' she

asked.

Egan tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. 'Need to

know, Lydia, love. How are Quinn and O'Keefe getting on?'

Egan's accent was mid-Atlantic. At times it sounded West Coast

American, but generally his voice was as unremarkable as his

physical appearance.

McCracken tilted her head to the side. 'O'Keefe's fine. Very

professional. But Quinn . . .'

Egan put down the notepad and narrowed his eyes. 'What?'

McCracken winced under his gaze. She didn't want to

badmouth Quinn, but he was the weakest member of the team

and she wasn't sure how reliable he'd be under pressure. 'He's a

bit... unfocused. Considering what we're expected to do. The

next phase and all.'

'It's not too late to replace him, Lydia.' His pale blue eyes

watched to see how she'd react.

McCracken knew what he meant by replaced. 'I don't

know,' she said.

Egan walked up close to her and looked into her eyes. 'It's

got to be your call,' he said. 'Your responsibility. I can't be here

all the time.'

'I know. It's just I haven't worked with guys like him

before.'

'He's not a terrorist. He's a career criminal. They have

different motivations. Different behavioural patterns.'

'He's undisciplined.'

'That's a function of his background, Lydia. You were

trained by the best, mentally and physically. So far as the

Provisional IRA are concerned, it's just as important that their

volunteers are politically educated as it is that you can fire a gun

or place a bomb. Quinn's all action and reaction. A couple of

years back he was involved in a bank robbery. Sawn-off shotguns,

stun guns, a team of six. They were unlucky and a passing

armed response vehicle piled in. Quinn was the only one to get

away. Shot two cops. Drove off in their car, cool as a cucumber.

Plus he's good with vehicles.' He smiled reassuringly. 'What I'm

saying is that if anything does go wrong, Quinn's a good man to

have in your corner. But as I said, it's your call. Has to be.'

McCracken nodded. 'He'll be okay. Besides, we're going to

need everyone to do the mixing.' She gestured at the notepad.

'According to what the Hayes woman says, there's a hell of a lot

of work involved.'

'She's co-operating fully?'

'Carrot and stick,' said McCracken. 'She thinks she's going to

see her daughter if she helps us. And that we'll kill her if she

doesn't. She keeps asking if she can call her husband. What do

you think?'

'Only if it's the only way you can get her to co-operate. The

husband hasn't gone to the cops, so the phones are clean. But if

you do allow it, keep it short and watch what she says.' Egan

jangled his keys. 'Right. I'll leave you to it. I've got to get back

to Ireland.' He reached into his jacket pocket and took out an

envelope. He handed it to McCracken. 'Be careful with her,' he

said, nodding at the offices. 'She's not to be trusted, not for a

minute.'

Katie crept up the stairs and put her ear to the door. She couldn't

hear anything. 'Hello!' she shouted. 'I have to use the bathroom!'

There was no answer. 'It's an emergency!' she shouted at

The top of her voice. Still no answer. Katie tried the door handle.

It twisted but the door wouldn't move. She didn't think it was

locked because if it was locked then the handle wouldn't move.

That meant it was only the bolts that kept her in. Katie pushed

and pulled the handle, wondering if it would be possible to

shake the bolts loose, but the door hardly moved.

Katie kicked the door, but that didn't seem to move it much

- it just hurt her foot. She ran her fingers around the edge of the

door. There was a gap between it and the frame where the

hinges were, and she pressed her eye to it. If she moved her head

to the side she could just see the kitchen door at the end of the

hallway. If she pushed her head to the other side all she could see

was the wall opposite.

She went back down the stairs, sat on the bed and held

Garfield in her arms. Cats were always getting out of places, but

they were small and could squeeze through tiny holes. There

were no holes that Katie could squeeze through. She sat and

frowned, her chin resting on Garfield's head. She had to find

another way out.

Andy was sitting on the office floor when she heard her name

being called. She got to her feet and walked through to the

factory area where Green-eyes was standing at the rear of the

blue Transit van, still dressed in the overalls and ski mask she'd

had on the previous day. There were smaller vans parked next to

the Transit. One was grey and one was black, but they both had

the name of the same courier firm stencilled on the side.

'Some stuff here I want you to check out,' said Green-eyes.

Andy walked over to the Transit. The green tarpaulin that

had covered the bags of fertiliser was lying on the floor. There

was no sign of the bags. The Wrestler was over at the table,

drinking from a bottle of water. The Runner climbed down

from the driver's seat of the van and went to open the rear doors.

The back of the van was filled with dozens of cans of

denatured alcohol, batches of twelve wrapped in clear plastic.

Andy didn't recognise the brand name but each can was labelled

'Pure Denatured Alcohol' and carried a series of warnings that

the contents were flammable, that the vapour could irritate eyes

and that the contents were poisonous if swallowed.

'It's what we need?' asked Green-eyes.

'It's fine,' said Andy, checking the labels.

'The aluminium powder's in the box.'

Andy clambered over the stack of cans and pulled open the

lid of a large cardboard box. Inside were cans of aluminium

powder. She pulled out one of the cans and read the label. Pyro

grade 400 mesh.

'We could only get two hundred pounds,' said the Runner.

'We've fixed to pick up another four hundred pounds from a

supplier in Essex.'

Andy put the can back into the cardboard box and climbed

out of the van, wiping her hands on her jeans.

The Wrestler put his bottle of water down and straightened

his ski mask as if it were troubling him. 'It's okay?' he called over

to Green-eyes.

Green-eyes waved him over. 'Yeah. Get this delivered and

then pick up the electrical stuff.' She turned to Andy. 'Go back

to the office, Andrea.'

Andy did as she was told. Behind her, the Runner and the

Wrestler took the goods out of the Transit and began loading

them into the back of the two smaller vans. She sat on the floor

and waited as the metal shutters were raised and the vans drove

out of the factory. The shutters rattled down again and a few

minutes later Green-eyes opened the door to the office.

'I'm going to make coffee. Do you want some?'

'What I want is to talk to my husband. And my daughter.'

'Maybe tomorrow.'

'Why tomorrow?'

'Who's calling the shots here, Andrea? Me or you?'

Andy glared at the masked woman. 'I just want to know that

she's okay. How could you do this? Don't you have children?'

'No, I don't. But I do have people that I love, and people

that love me, and I know that I'd do anything to make sure that

they didn't come to harm.'

STEPHEN LEATHER

'How would you feel if someone kidnapped somebody you

loved? How would you feel if someone said they'd be killed if

you didn't do what they wanted?'

'I'd feel the same as you do,' said the woman. 'I'd feel angry

and bitter and fearful. But the difference between us is that I

wouldn't do anything to jeopardise the lives of those that

depended on me.'

Andy's brow furrowed. 'What do you mean?'

The woman reached into the pocket of her overalls and

brought out an envelope. She threw it at Andy and it fell on to

the floor in front of her. Andy stared at it with wide eyes. It was

the letter she'd left at the Strand Palace Hotel. The letter

addressed to her husband.

'That was very, very stupid, Andrea,' said the woman, her

voice a low growl. 'What did you think? That we wouldn't be

checking on you?'

Andy closed her eyes and banged the back of her head against

the wall.

'Everything's been planned, down to the last detail. And if

you do as you're told, you and your family will be back together

in a few days.' She pointed an accusing finger at the envelope on

the floor. 'But tricks like that could screw it up for all of us. So

don't whine to me about your daughter being in danger. If

anyone's putting Katie's life on the line, it's you.' Green-eyes

turned on her heels and slammed the door behind her.

Mick Canning drew back the two bolts and opened the door to

the basement. Katie was sitting on the bed, and she looked up at

him as he walked down the stairs carrying the video camera.

'Hello, Katie,' he said.

'Hi,' she replied.

'Are you hungry?' he asked.

Katie shook her head. 'Not really.'

'It's almost teatime,' he said. 'Do you want fish fingers?'

Katie nodded. 'Okay,' she said, her voice trembling as if she

were close to tears.

Canning put the video camera on the table. He waved Katie

to come over. She sat down on one of the wooden chairs. 'I

want to take some pictures of you,' he said. He nodded at the

video camera. 'With this.'

'Why?'

'So that I can send the tape to your mum and dad. So that

they know that you're okay.'

'Why don't you let me telephone them? I know my number,

it's Dublin six seven nine . . .'

Canning smiled beneath his ski mask. 'I know what your

telephone number is, but it's better if we do it with the video

camera.'

'Why?'

'Because then they can see you as well as hear you.' He

picked it up and pointed it at her. 'Now, I want you to say

something like, Hello, this is Katie. I'm fine. They're taking very

good care of me. You can wave, too, if you want. But this is

really important, Katie. I want you to say that it's Friday, okay?

Can you do that?'

Katie nodded hesitantly.

'Okay, so when I press this button, the one my ringer's on,

then the red light here comes on and you start talking. Okay?'

'Okay,' said Katie.

'Right. Three, two, one . . .' He pressed the record button

and nodded at her.

'Hello, Mummy,' she said. 'Hello, Dad. Are you there?'

Canning made a circling motion with his finger, encouraging

her to talk.

'I'm fine. There's a nice man taking care of me. He's giving

me fish fingers and beefburgers and comics to read. But he won't

let me come and see you.'

Canning mouthed the word 'Friday'.

'Oh yes, I nearly forgot. It's Friday today. Mummy, please

come and get me. I want to go home.'

Canning pressed the button to stop the recording, then

reached over and ruffled her hair. 'Good girl,' he said. He took

the tape out of the recorder. 'You did that really well.' He took a

second cassette out of his pocket and slotted it into the recorder.

'Now, we're going to try it again. Say what you said before, but

this time I want you to say that it's Saturday, okay?'

Katie frowned. 'Why?'

'Because when your mum and dad get the tape, it might be

Saturday.'

'What day is it today?'

'That doesn't matter, Katie.'

Katie lapsed into silence and nibbled on her lower lip.

'What's the matter?' asked Canning.

'I don't want to,' she said.

Canning stared at her for several seconds, then he switched

off the video camera. 'Okay, maybe we'll try again later. I'll go

and get your fish fingers.'

'I'm not hungry,' she said. 'Not really.'

Andy picked up the envelope and opened it. It was the piece of

paper that had been slid under the door of her room in the

Strand Palace Hotel. Along the bottom she'd scrawled 'Martin,

this is where they want me to go. I love you. Don't let anything

happen to Katie'. Now he'd never get the message. She ran her

hands through her hair. She had to talk to Martin. She had to let

him know that she was all right.

Her eyes were tired and gritty from crying and her throat was

painfully dry, but the discomfort was nothing compared with

the ache in her heart. Andy had seen news reports of the bomb

that Republican terrorists had detonated in Omagh in Northern

Ireland in the summer pf 1998. Twenty-eight people killed, two hundred injured. The aftermath of the massacre had been

captured by a tourist with a video camera and she and Martin

had watched horrified as shocked and bleeding survivors had

staggered along streets littered with broken glass and twisted

metal. Nine of the dead were children. Andy had cried when

she'd seen the pictures, cried on Martin's shoulder as he'd held

her.

She screwed up the letter. Four thousand pounds was a

massive bomb. Bigger than any that had ever exploded in

England or Ireland. The bomb that had done a billion pounds'

worth of damage to London's Docklands in 1996 was a thousand-pound mixture of fertiliser and Semtex. The bomb in

Omagh had been smaller, just five hundred pounds of homemade

explosives packed into a car. That bomb had devastated

the centre of the market town. The damage that a bomb eight

times bigger would do defied Andy's imagination. Four thousand

pounds. It could kill hundreds of people. It could bring

down a skyscraper.

She hated Green-eyes for the way she was making her

choose. The life of her daughter, or the lives of strangers. Andy

would kill to protect Katie, of that she had no doubt. And if she

was ever put in the position where she had to give up her own

life for the life of her daughter, she'd do it willingly. Nothing

was more important, no sacrifice to great, to safeguard the life of

her only child. But killing and maiming innocent strangers. That

was something else. It was a diabolical choice to have to make. A

choice no one should ever be faced with.

Canning put the video camera down in front of McEvoy, who

was cleaning their two Makarov 9mm pistols and working his

way through a bottle of Bushmills. His .38 Smith & Wesson was

on the floor next to the coffee table. 'Okay?' he asked.

Canning put a single videocassette tape on the table and

McEvoy scowled. 'Where's the rest?' he snapped.

'jfist did the one,' said Canning. He went over to the fridge

and pulled a box offish fingers and a bag of oven chips out of the

icebox.

'We were told to do seven,' said McEvoy, holding the barrel

of one of the pistols to his face and squinting down it. 'One's no

fucking good to anybody, is it?'

'I'll do them later.'

'You'd better. Egan wants them in London tomorrow.'

Canning switched on the oven and spread a layer of chips on

a metal tray. 'The kid's a bit wary, that's all.'

89

STEPHEN LEATHER

'Wary? What do you mean, wary? Give her a slap and tell her

to do as she's told. We're the rucking kidnappers, she's the

rucking kidnappee, Mick. We tell her what to do, not the other

way around, right?'

Canning put the chips in the oven and closed the door. He

took off his ski mask and rubbed his face. The woollen mask

always made his skin itch. 'She's a seven-year-old kid, George.

She's scared shitless. She needs careful handling.'

McEvoy put the gun down and took another swig from the

bottle of Bushmills. 'I'll give her careful handling,' he said.

'It'll be okay. I'll take care of it.'

McEvoy scowled at him. 'You'd better. Or you can explain

to Egan why you're letting a kid run rings around you.'

Mark Quinn lit a cigarette and offered the pack to O'Keefe.

O'Keefe took one and grunted his thanks. They walked out of

the lift towards where they'd parked the two vans.

Quinn leaned against the van he'd been driving and pulled a

small notebook from his jacket pocket. 'Sawdust, diesel oil and

soap. Containers and black bags.'

'You've got the sawdust sorted, have you?' asked O'Keefe.

'Yeah. And I'll pick up the diesel from a garage on the way.

Can you get the rest of the stuff?'

'Sure.' O'Keefe climbed into his van and wound down the

window. 'You okay for cash?'

Quinn opened his wallet and flicked through a wad of fifty

pound notes. He nodded at O'Keefe.

'Right, see you back at the factory.' O'Keefe drove off.

Quinn studied the list in his notebook. Most of the ingredients

were innocuous enough and wouldn't arouse the interest of the

police officers who manned the checkpoints on the roads that

led into the financial district. The ones that might cause suspicion,

such as the aluminium powder, the alcohol and the diesel

oil, could be smuggled through in the back of the courier vans.

The vans bore the registration numbers of vehicles used by a

genuine courier company that did a lot of business in the City.

Egan had planned everything down to the last detail. The

office had been leased months before it was needed, and the

vehicles had all been in place before Quinn had arrived in

London. Other than McCracken and O'Keefe, Quinn didn't

know who was involved in the operation, but they were

obviously all professionals. He took a long pull on his cigarette

and inhaled deeply. He wondered what they had to gain from

building a bomb in the City of London. When he'd first agreed

to the job, Quinn had asked Egan for an explanation, but Egan

had told him that the reasons weren't important, that he wasn't

being paid to ask questions.

Quinn took a final drag on his cigarette and dropped it on to

the ground. He stamped on it, then got into the van, switched

on the ignition and drove slowly out of the carpark. He turned

on the radio and pushed the tuning buttons until he found a

station playing heavy metal. He nodded his head back and forth

in time with the beat as he drove through the City, choosing a

road out that he hadn't used for a couple of days, just to be on

the safe side. He was waved through the checkpoint by a bored

uniformed policeman who didn't even give him a second look.

Canning knocked on the basement door and slipped back the

bolts. Katie was lying on her camp bed, curled up around her

Garfield toy.

'I feel sick,' she said.

'You're just upset,' he said. 'You're worried, that's all. It's

going to be okay. Just a few more days.'

'No, I feel really sick. Hot.'

Canning put his hand on her forehead. She was indeed hot

and her skin was clammy with sweat.

'Sit up. Let me have a look at you.'

Katie did as he asked and looked at him with sad eyes as he

felt her neck.

'Open your mouth.'

She opened her mouth wide and closed her eyes. He told her

to turn her head so that the light shone into her mouth. The

sides of her throat were bright red, but there were no white

patches which would have indicated serious infection.

Katie opened her eyes. 'Are you going to take me to the

hospital?' she said.

Canning smiled. 'You've just got a bit of flu, that's all.

You've had flu before, haven't you?'

Katie nodded.

'Okay. I'll go and get you some medicine. But don't worry,

you're going to be all right.' Katie saw the video camera that

Canning had put on the bed and began shaking her head.

'You've got to do it for me, Katie.'

'I don't want to.'

'I'm not asking you to do anything dangerous. It's not going

to hurt you.'

'But it's not Saturday. I'll be telling a lie.'

'But it might be Saturday when they get the message. If you

say it's Friday and they get the message on Saturday, they might

be worried. You can understand that, can't you?'

Katie nodded. 'I guess.'

'I mean, suppose we put the tape in the post. It might take

two days before your mum gets it. You don't want your mum to

worry, do you?'

Katie rubbed her nose with the palm of her hand. 'No.'

'So let's record a message that'll make her happy, then I'll go

and get your medicine. Okay?'

'Okay. I guess.'

Canning put the camera up to his face, pressed the 'record'

button and nodded.

'Mummy. Dad. This is Katie. Your daughter.' She hesitated.

Canning mouthed the words 'I'm fine' and nodded encouragingly.

'I'm

fine,' said Katie. 'But I've got flu, I think. My head hurts

and my throat's sore. The nice man is going to give me some

medicine to make it better so I should be okay soon.'

Canning mouthed 'Saturday'.

'He said to say it's Saturday and that I'm okay. Mummy, I

want to come home . . .'

She started crying and Canning switched off the video

camera. He gave her a hug but her little body was racked with

sobs.

'I want to go home,' she said.

'I know you do,' said Canning.

She curled up on the bed with her back to him and he went

upstairs and into the kitchen. McEvoy was watching the news

on a portable television set.

'How's the little princess?' he snarled.

'She's got the flu. I'll go and get her some Night Nurse or

something.'

'Did she do the tape?'

'Yeah. Saturday.'

'Egan wants a week's worth. He's not going to be happy

with two days.'

'The kid's sick,' said Canning.

'She's going to be a hell of a lot sicker if this thing doesn't pan

out,' said McEvoy. 'Sick as in dead.'

Lydia McCracken was sitting in front of her computer when she

heard the van pull up outside. On the screen was a closed-circuit

television image of the reception area of the office on the ninth

floor of Cathay Tower. She pressed one of the function keys and

a different view appeared. The sacks of fertiliser. There were six

hidden cameras in the office -- three in smoke detectors, two

hidden behind mirrors, and one in an air-conditioning unit. She

checked all six viewpoints, satisfying herself that the office was

secure. She switched off the computer as the outside door

opened. It was Quinn.

'Everything okay?' she asked.

'Sure. I've got the diesel and the sawdust. Don's picking up

the rest of the stuff. You want me to get the woman out? Get her

to check it?'

'No need. Diesel and sawdust's straightforward enough.'

She looked at her watch. It was after seven, so there wasn't

enough time to get the electrical equipment. It would have to

wait until tomorrow. 'Leave the stuff in the vans. Best we use

them rather than the Transit.'

'You hungry?' asked Quinn. 'I'm starving. I'll go out and get

a takeaway, yeah?'

'Might as well,' said McCracken. 'But nothing close by,

okay? Drive into Milton Keynes. And don't use the vans, take

the Volvo or the VW.1 She nodded over at the offices. 'And ask

her what she wants. She hasn't eaten since breakfast.'

Quinn pulled his ski mask on and tucked it into his shirt

collar. He went over to the office where they were keeping the

woman. Andy was sitting with her back against the wall, her

suitcase by her side.

'Room service,' he said.

Andy looked up at him, confused.

'I'm going out for food. Do you want something?'

She put a hand on her stomach and nodded her head. 'Yes.

Please.'

'Any requests? Indian? Chinese? Burger King? I'm driving

into town.'

'Anything.'

'You'll have to give me a clue,' said Quinn, closing the office

door behind him. He tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his

trousers and stood with his legs apart, his groin thrust slightly

forward. 'I don't know what you like.'

'A sandwich. Anything.'

Quinn pulled a face. 'I'm not sure if I can get sandwiches.

Fast food, yeah?'

Andy pushed her hair away from her face. 'A burger'll be

fine, then.'

'Cheeseburger?'

'Okay.'

'Anything to drink?'

'Coffee'll be fine. Thanks.'

Quinn nodded. He looked her up and down. She had long

legs, and a good, firm bust. Nice hair, too. Soft and blond. She

looked good for a thirty-four-year-old. That was what O'Keefe

had said, but Quinn didn't believe him. She couldn't possibly be

a whole ten years older than he was. Nice mouth. Full lips and

really white teeth, the sort of teeth that the models in toothpaste

adverts had.

'I want to talk to my daughter,' she said.

'I bet you do,' said Quinn.

'And my husband. I want him to know that I'm all right.'

Quinn shrugged. 'It's not up to me. You'll have to ask McK

..." He caught himself before the name slipped out. She wasn't

going to catch him out as easily as that. 'You'll have to ask her

outside.'

'You know her, right? Can't you persuade her? I just want to

phone my husband. And talk to my daughter. That's not too

much to ask, is it? I'm co-operating. I'm doing everything you

ask.'

Quinn stared down at her for several seconds. His chest had

gone tight and it was difficult to breathe. 'What's it worth?' he

said eventually.

Andy frowned up at him. 'What?'

'You know. What's it worth?' He jutted his neck forward. 'I

do something for you, you do something for me. Yeah?'

Andy drew her knees up against her chest. 'I just want to talk

to my daughter, that's all. And my husband. I want to know that

they're all right.'

'Great. I can probably persuade her to let you use the phone.

But you're gonna have to do something for me.' He licked his

upper lip as he watched the rise and fall of her breasts. 'Just one

blowjob,' said Quinn. He took a step closer to her. 'No one'11

know.' He jerked his head towards the door. 'She won't know.

Your husband won't know. It'll be our secret.'

Andy looked up at him for several seconds, then she slowly

got to her knees, her eyes never leaving his face. Quinn put his

hands down to his zipper but Andy shook her head. 'Let me,' she

said, her voice a seductive whisper.

The breath caught in Quinn's throat and he closed his eyes,

his legs trembling with anticipation.

The pain hit him like a hot poker in his groin and he gasped.

Her right hand had grabbed his scrotum and squeezed like a vice.

He opened his eyes, but before he could react her left hand had

squeezed him around the throat and she had pushed him back

against the wall. He tried to move to the side but she gripped

him harder, crushing his testicles so hard that he could feel her

fingernails digging through the denim of his jeans. His eyes

watered and he tried to yell at her but her grip on his throat was

as tight as her hold on his genitals.

Her face was only inches away from his. 'You don't scare

me,' she hissed. 'You might have my daughter, but you don't

scare me, do you understand?'

Quinn tried to nod but he couldn't move his head. A tear

trickled down his cheek underneath his ski mask.

'If you come near me again, I'll hurt you like you've never

been hurt before. I'll crush your balls or I'll poke my ringers in

your eyes or I'll scratch your face so deep that the scars will never

heal, do you understand me?'

Quinn nodded.

Andy stared into his eyes, then she released her grip on him

and stood back, her hands up defensively. She glared at him, her

cheeks flushed.

'You fucking bitch!' spat Quinn, rubbing his neck. 'Too

good for me, is that it? You'll do it and more for me before I've

fucking finished with you.'

Andy didn't say anything. She stood facing him with her

hands up, fingers curled. Quinn stepped sideways, groping for

the door handle, then he pulled the door open and slammed it

behind him.

He went back to the factory area where McCracken was

checking her mobile phone.

'She's not hungry,' he said, taking off his ski mask.

McCracken put her phone back in her briefcase and locked

it. 'Don't fuck with her, Quinn. Okay?'

'What do you mean?'

'You know what I mean. We need her -- the more she cooperates

with us the sooner we'll be finished and the sooner

you'll get your money.'

'Yeah, I know.'

96

'So don't fuck with her. Don't even talk to her.'

'You said ask her what she . . .'

'Yeah, well, that was my mistake. Keep away from her.'

She looked as if she wanted to say more, but she turned away

when they heard O'keefe arrive in his van.

'So, what do you want to eat?' Quinn asked. 'It's on me.'

'Whatever,' said McCracken. 'I've lost my appetite.' She

went out to meet O'Keefe, leaving Quinn staring sullenly after

her.

Martin Hayes left the office early. He hadn't been able to get any

work done so he'd told Padraig that he wasn't feeling well. He

was in the house by four o'clock. He let Dermott out into the

garden, and was making himself a cup of instant coffee when the

doorbell rang. The noise startled him and he spilled boiling

water over the counter top. He cursed and went to see who was

at the front door. There were two uniformed officers of the

Garda Siochana, the Irish police, standing on the doorstep, one

grey and in his late forties, the other younger and taller. They

were both wearing waterproof jackets, flecked with rain.

'Mr Hayes?' asked the older one. 'Mr Martin Hayes?'

'Yes?' said Martin. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his

stomach. Two unsmiling policemen could only mean bad news.

He held on to the door handle for support, gripping it tightly.

'Is your wife at home?'

Martin narrowed his eyes, confused. The question was

totally unexpected. He'd assumed that they were there to tell

him that Katie or Andy had been found. And found meant dead,

because if they were okay then they'd be on the doorstep with

the policemen. 'What?'

'Mrs Hayes. Mrs Andrea Hayes. Is she at home?'

'No,' said Martin, hesitantly.

'What about your daughter?'

'My daughter?'

'Katie. You only have the one child, don't you?'

'Yes,' said Martin.

'Can we see her, please?'

Martin shook his head. 'I'm sorry. What?'

'Your daughter. We'd like to see her.'

'She's not here.'

'Where is she?'

'What's this about?' asked Martin. He looked from one garda

to the other. They both looked back at him like undertakers

weighing up a corpse.

'Could you tell us where your wife and daughter are, Mr

Hayes?'

Martin realised that he was gripping the door handle so

tightly that he was losing the feeling in his hand.

'They're out.'

'Out where?'

'Look, could you tell me what this is about? Is something

wrong? Has something happened?'

'That's what we're trying to find out, Mr Hayes.'

Martin could feel his legs start to shake. The more he tried to

stop them shaking, the worse it got, and he was sure that the two

gardai could see the effect their presence was having on him.

'My wife's out. With Katie. They'll be back tomorrow.

They've gone up to Belfast.'

The older garda raised an eyebrow and waited for Martin to

continue. Martin could feel his lips slide across his teeth as he

widened his smile. His legs were starting to tremble again.

'To see her aunt. Her aunt's sick and Andy wanted to go and

make sure that there was food in the house, stuff like that.'

'And she took your daughter with her?' said the older garda.

Martin nodded. 'I've been really busy at work. I couldn't

guarantee that I'd be able to pick Katie up from school. We

decided that it'd be better if she went with Andy. It's only going

to be for a few days.'

'Andy?'

'My wife. Andrea. I call her Andy.'

'And you didn't think of informing the school?'

Martin suddenly realised what the visit was about. The

woman in the headmistress's office, Mrs O'Mara, must have

called them. He shrugged. 'She's only seven. We didn't think

she'd be hurt by a few days off school.'

'I've got kids myself,' said the older garda. 'Boy of fifteen, girl

of twelve. A few years back I took them to Galway, caravan

holiday. I love caravans, me. Love the freedom. Thing is, I asked

the school if they could be allowed to take their holidays a week

early. I was having trouble getting time off. It was like pulling

teeth. They wouldn't have it.'

Martin nodded. The garda was smiling ingratiatingly, trying

to put him at ease. There was no warmth in the man's smile and

his cold eyes continued to stare at Martin.

'So maybe that's why you didn't tell the school, eh?' the

garda continued. 'Maybe you thought they wouldn't let her go?'

Martin shrugged. 'I didn't really think about it. It was my

wife's idea, really. It was all short notice, you know. Her aunt

called and Andy went the same day.'

The older garda nodded. 'How did she go?'

'What?'

'How did your wife go up to Belfast?'

Martin's mind whirled. Why was he asking that? The reason

hit him like a blow to the stomach. There were two cars parked

in the driveway. Martin's Range Rover and Andy's Renault

Clio. So the gardai knew that Andy hadn't driven up to Belfast.

'She took the train. I mean, they took the train. Andy and

Katie.'

'Which train?'

'The Belfast train,' said Martin.

The garda smiled as if there had been a simple misunderstanding.

'The time,' he said. 'What time did the train leave?'

Martin had no idea how often trains went from Dublin to

Belfast. 'Morning. Tennish. On Wednesday.'

'Wednesday?'

Martin nodded.

'About ten?'

'That's right.'

The two gardai exchanged looks but Martin couldn't tell

what they were thinking.

'And your wife's aunt. What was her name?'

'Bessie.'

'Bessie. Where exactly does she live?'

'I'm not sure of the address, exactly. But it's north Belfast.'

Martin figured the best thing to do was to keep his answers as

vague as possible. Specifics could be checked.

'And how was your wife going to get from the station to her

aunt's house?'

'Taxi, I guess.'

'And why didn't she drive up to Belfast?'

Martin shrugged but didn't answer.

'Has she phoned? Your wife?'

Martin rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. It was

unlikely in the extreme that Andy would have gone away and

not telephoned him. But if he said yes, could they check? He

was sure that the phone company could provide a list of numbers

called from the house, but were they also able to tell who had

phoned in? He had no choice, he had to lie. They wouldn't

believe that his wife and daughter would have gone away for

five nights and not phoned. 'Several times,' he said. 'In fact, she

called last night.'

The younger garda took out a small green notebook and a

pen. 'Could you give us the number, please, sir?'

'The number?'

'Your Aunt Bessie's telephone number?' said the older garda.

'She's not my aunt. She's Andy's aunt.'

'And the number?'

'I don't think she's on the phone.'

'But you said she phoned to ask your wife to go up and take

care of her.'

'She must have used a phone box.'

'But you said she was ill. Needed looking after.'

Martin could feel himself being painted into a corner. The

older garda didn't look particularly bright -- he had a wide chin

and a flattish nose and he spoke slowly, as if he had trouble

putting his thoughts together, but it was clear that he wasn't

missing anything.

I'm not sure if it was her that phoned. Andy took the call. It

could have been someone else, phoning for her.'

The older garda nodded thoughtfully. 'And when are you

expecting your wife back?'

'I'm not sure.'

'She didn't say when she called last night?'

'No. No, she didn't. Look, what's this about? Has something

happened?'

The older garda looked at Martin for several seconds before

answering. 'We're not sure, Mr Hayes. In fact, it's all a bit of a

mystery, really. You know a Mrs O'Mara?'

'She's a secretary at my daughter's school. She phoned

yesterday, she wanted to know why Katie wasn't at school.'

'Well, now she's missing, too.'

'My daughter isn't missing,' said Martin, and the older garda

held up his hand as if trying to calm him down. Martin found the

gesture patronising in the extreme, but he bit his tongue.

'There's no need to get upset, Mr Hayes. You know what I

mean. Mrs O'Mara had mentioned to the headmistress that she

was concerned about your daughter. Now Mrs O'Mara hasn't

turned up for work. We've been around to her house and she's

not there.'

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.

DAY FIVE

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.'

'I promise,' said Martin. 'But what's happening? What do

they want?'

Andy ignored his question.

'Just wait there and we'll be back with you soon. We'll all be

together again, just like we were before. You can take us to

Venice. Like you promised. It'll be so great to go back. You and

me, and Katie. It's going to happen, Martin. Just don't do

anything to rock the boat, okay?'

Andy was rambling; the words were tumbling out and

running into each other as if she were scared that he might

interrupt.

'Okay, love. I promise. Swear to God. I won't go to the

police. Tell them, I won't go to the police.'

Green-eyes grabbed the phone and pulled it away from

Andy. 'That's enough,' she said.

'Thank you,' Andy said. 'Thanks for letting me talk to him.

He was frantic'

Green-eyes switched the phone off. She went over to the

table and put the phone in her briefcase and locked it. 'What did

you mean about Venice?'

'That's where we went on our honeymoon. He's been

promising to take Katie there for ages. She saw the honeymoon

pictures and wanted to know why she wasn't there. You know

how kids are.'

Green-eyes turned to look at Andy, scowling. 'You weren't

trying to be clever, were you, Andrea?'

'What do you mean?'

Green-eyes didn't reply. She sat down, steepled her fingers

under her chin and stared at Andy with unblinking eyes.

'He hasn't gone to the police, and now he won't,' said Andy.

'Now he knows that I'm okay.' She dropped down on to one of

the chairs. 'Are you really going to use it? The bomb?'

'Does it matter?'

'Of course it matters. Are you building it as a threat, or are

you going to set it off?'

'Would it make you feel better if I said we weren't going to

use it?'

'Of course.'

Green-eyes smiled thinly. 'Is that what you used to do in the

IRA? Build bombs and not use them?'

'Sometimes you can get the same effect by just putting a

bomb in place, if disruption's your aim. That's the purpose of

coded warnings. You want civilians out of the way and you

want to tie up the authorities. You make your point but you

don't actually kill anyone.'

'Maybe that's what we're going to do, then. Does that make

you feel better?'

'Now you're humouring me.'

'What do you expect me to do, Andrea? Do you think I'm

going to tell you what we're planning to do? Why would I do

that?'

'Have you thought this through? Have you thought through

what'11 happen if you explode a four-thousand-pound bomb in

the City of London? Whatever it is you think you're going to

achieve, the backlash will destroy you. Look at what happened

when the bomb went off in Omagh. It finished the Real IRA.

Everyone turned against them.'

Green-eyes picked up her briefcase. 'We've got work to do.

Come on.'

Martin absent-mindedly patted Dermott's chest and the dog

panted happily. 'She's okay,' Martin said, and the dog's grin

widened as if he understood and was as overjoyed as his owner,

'she's okay and Katie's okay.'

Martin felt light-headed, almost drunk. Part of him wanted

to jump around and shout with relief. Andy was alive. So was his

Katie. Over the past few days his imagination had run riot, and

he'd come close to convincing himself that his wife and daughter

were dead, that the only option he had left was to go to the

police. He thanked God that he hadn't. He'd done the right

thing by waiting. Andy was safe. And if what she'd said was true,

she and Katie would be back home soon. They'd be a family

again. His heart had almost stopped when she'd asked him if he'd

spoken to the police. He realised that the kidnappers were

monitoring the conversation, and he'd decided on the spur of

the moment that he had to he. If he'd told Andy that the police

had turned up on his doorstep the kidnappers might think that

he'd called them. Best not to mention it and hope that Sergeant

O'Brien believed his story.

Martin's sense of relief was tempered by the realisation that

he still didn't know what the kidnappers wanted. She'd made it

clear that they didn't want money. So what did they want? What

was so important that they needed Andy? It didn't make any

sense at all. Andy was a housewife. A homemaker. She took care

116

of him and she raised Katie and she did occasional freelance

work for the Irish Independent and some Dublin magazines. She

had been a journalist for a couple of years before Katie was born,

a feature writer with a growing reputation, before she'd decided

that she didn't want to miss out on Katie's childhood. Once

Katie had been old enough to go to school, she'd tried to restart

her career, but only in a half-hearted way. Her family was her

main concern, and it wasn't as if they needed the money.

So what was it that the kidnappers wanted from her? It

couldn't have been her journalistic skills. So what else did she

have that they wanted? It was a mystery, and it was driving

Martin crazy.

He stopped patting Dermott and lay back on the bed, staring

up at the ceiling. And what had Andy meant by taking her to

Venice? They'd never discussed going there. He'd never been to

Venice. Neither had she. Hell, they'd never even been to Italy.

McEvoy looked up from the portable television set. 'It's almost

noon,' he said. 'The flight's at two-thirty.'

'Yeah, I know,' said Canning.

'So we'll need the fucking tapes. All seven of them.'

'For fuck's sake, George, I'll take care of it.'

'So take care of it.'

'Look, the wee girl's sick. Her throat's swollen up like I don't

know what.'

'She's got flu, you said.'

'It looks like flu. But her throat's bad. She can barely talk.'

McEvoy looked at his wristwatch, then pushed himself up

out of his armchair. 'Let's see if I can't get the little bird to sing.'

He reached for the video camera and a stack of tapes on the table

next to where Canning was filling in the crossword in the Irish Independent.

'I'll do it,' said Canning.

McEvoy patted him on the shoulder, then gripped it tightly,

his fingers biting into Canning's flesh. 'You stay where you are,

Mick. I'd hate to tear you away from your crossword.'

McEvoy grinned wolfishly and put on his ski mask. He went

down into the basement. The girl was curled up on her bed. She

looked over her shoulder as he went up to her.

'Sit the fuck up,' he said.

'What?' she said sleepily. She rubbed her eyes.

'Sit the fuck up and do as you're told. I don't have time to

piss around.'

'I don't feel well,' said Katie.

'Yeah, me neither.' He pulled the wooden chair away from

the table and sat on it, facing the bed. 'Right, when I press this

button, I want you to tell you mum and dad that you're all right.

Tell them that you miss them, tell them anything you want.

Then I want you to say that it's Sunday.'

'But it isn't. It's Saturday.'

McEvoy grabbed her by the hair. 'I don't give a flying fuck

what day it is. I want you to say it's Sunday, okay?'

Tears sprang into Katie's eyes. 'I don't feel well.'

'You're going to feel a lot fucking worse if you don't do as

you're told,' hissed McEvoy. 'Remember how I cut your hair?

How would you like it if I cut off one of your ears? You

wouldn't like that, would you?'

Katie shook her head. 'No,' she said.

McEvoy released his grip on her hair and she rubbed her

head, glaring at him reproachingly. 'And if you don't wipe that

fucking sour look off your face, I'll smack you good and proper.'

Katie forced a smile.

'That's better,' said McEvoy. 'Right. Now let's record this

message. Then we'll do one for the rest of the days of the week.

And if you give me any more trouble, any trouble at all, I'm

going to cut off your ear, okay?'

Katie stared at him with wide eyes. She nodded slowly.

Andy lay in the back of the Transit van, the sound of the engine

muffled by the hood she'd been made to wear. Green-eyes was

in the front passenger seat and the Wrestler was driving.

Next to her on the floor was a black briefcase that Green

eyes had given her. That and the dark blue suit and raincoat

she'd been supplied with would give credence to her story that

she was an office worker having to work a weekend shift.

Green-eyes had said that the rest of Andy's belongings would be

delivered the next day.

Outside the van she heard blaring horns and motorcycle

engines, and in the distance the siren of an ambulance. They'd

turned off the motorway some twenty minutes or so earlier.

'Nearly there, Andrea,' said Green-eyes. 'Are you okay?'

'No, I'm not okay,' said Andy. 'I'm hot and uncomfortable

and I can hardly breathe.'

'Just a few minutes.'

The van braked and Andy slid along the metal floor, her

knee banging against the briefcase. The van made a series of

turns, then came to a halt.

'Now then, Andrea, listen to me carefully. I want you to sit

up with your back to us, then take off the hood. Open the doors,

close them, then walk away from the van. The Tube station is

right ahead of you. Don't look back. Just keep walking into the

station. And remember, you're going to be watched every step

of the way. Do you understand?'

'Yes.'

'Go on, then.'

Andy followed the instructions and climbed out of the back of

the van with the briefcase. She slammed the doors shut and walked

straight to the station, keeping her head down. She knew they'd

be watching her in the mirrors and didn't want to give them any

reason to suspect that she was trying to sneak a look at them.

She went over to the ticket machines and bought a single

ticket to Bank station with the change that Green-eyes had

given her, then went through the barrier and took the escalator

down to the eastbound Central Line platform.

The platform was crowded. The overhead indicator said that

the next train would be along in two minutes. She walked along

the platform, weaving in and out of the waiting passengers. She

passed a chocolate vending machine and a public telephone. The

phone was of the kind that took pre-paid phone cards and not

cash, but even if she had a card there was no way she could risk

making a call. There were almost a hundred people on the

eastbound platform and any of them could have been tailing her.

She walked by the phone and stood at the edge of the platform,

staring down at the rails. A mouse scuttled along the sleepers,

seeking the sanctuary of the tunnel.

Andy looked back along the platform. A businessman in a

pin-stripe suit was looking at her. He smiled but she ignored

him. A tall man in his twenties walked by nodding his head in

time with the music he was playing through a Sony Walkman.

He was wearing a denim jacket with a Harley Davidson emblem

on the back, and had the volume up so high that other

passengers were giving him dirty looks. A woman in a sheepskin

jacket looked up from the copy of the Evening Standard she was

reading and glared at the guy in the denim jacket. Could she be

Green-eyes? wondered Andy. Had she got out of the van as

soon as Andy had gone into the station? She had no way of

knowing. The only means she had of identifying her was from

her eyes, and she was too far away to see what colour they were.

A teenager in a black leather motorcycle jacket was leaning

against the vending machine, picking his teeth with a match. He

looked away. Could he be one of them? She'd heard a motorcycle

drive away from the factory about half an hour before

Green-eyes had given her the suit and told her to get into the

back of the Transit. She looked away, then stole another quick

glance at him. He seemed shorter than the Runner, and he was

certainly thinner than the Wrestler, but there could be other

members of the gang that she hadn't seen.

A breeze on her left cheek signalled the imminent arrival of the

eastbound train, and Andy took a step back from the platform.

The train pulled into the station and Andy stepped into a carriage.

There were several empty seats but she was too tense to sit down.

She held on to one of the overhead bars and braced herself as the

doors closed and the train roared off into the tunnel. She looked

around. The man in the motorcycle jacket was sitting at the far end

of the carriage, picking his nose. Was he the one? Andy looked

away, not wanting to establish eye contact with him.

The journey to Bank station seemed interminable. People

got off. People got on. The man in the leather jacket stayed put,

his arms folded across his chest.

Eventually Andy reached her destination. As she rode up the

escalator to the surface, she looked over her shoulder. There was

no sign of the man in the leather jacket.

After she'd passed through the ticket barrier, she took the A--Z street directory out of her raincoat pocket and used it to

find her way to Cathay Tower.

There was a grey-haired security man with a drinker's nose

sitting at a reception desk. He barely glanced at Andy's name

badge. She walked past him to the lifts.

From the entrance to a building on the opposite side of the

street, Quinn watched Andy go into Cathay Tower. He

switched off his Walkman and pulled his headphones down

around his neck. From the inside pocket of his denim jacket

he took out a mobile phone and tapped out McCracken's

number. She answered on the fifth ring. 'She's home and dry,'

he said.

'Okay. Get back to the bike and head up to the factory,' she

said. 'Keep an eye on the computer until we get back.'

She cut the connection. Quinn put the phone back into his

pocket and put the headphones back on, then headed back to

Bank station. He'd parked his motorcycle in a multistorey

carpark in Shepherds Bush, his helmet and leather jacket locked

in the back-box.

Canning looked up as McEvoy came out of the basement and

bolted the door. 'Easy peasy,' said McEvoy, tossing the videocassettes

on to the kitchen table. 'I've always had a way with kids

and small animals.'

Canning gathered up the cassettes and put them into a plastic

carrier bag together with the two he'd recorded.

'Is she okay?'

McEvoy reached for a bottle of Bushmills and poured

himself a glassful. 'She's fine and dandy, Mick, my boy. Don't

121

you worry your pretty little head about her.' He looked at his

wristwatch. 'You'd best be going.'

Canning looked across at the bolted door. He didn't like the

idea ofleaving McEvoy alone with the little girl, but didn't see that

he had any choice. McCracken had said that he was to deliver the

tapes, and he doubted that he'd be able to persuade McEvoy to go

in his place. He put the carrier bag into his holdall and got his

British Midland ticket from a drawer in the sitting room. When he

got back to the kitchen, McEvoy was draining his glass. He held up

the bottle. 'Get some more whiskey, will you?'

Canning nodded and went outside to the Mondeo. He

drove to the airport, parked the car in a short-term carpark, and

checked in an hour before his flight to Heathrow.

McCracken was waiting for him in the buffet on the arrivals

floor of Terminal One, sitting at a table with a cup of coffee in

front of her. Canning bought himself a coffee and a sandwich

and sat at a neighbouring table with his back to her.

'Everything okay?' McCracken asked, her voice little more

than a whisper.

'Everything's fine,' said Canning, not looking around. He

took the carrier bag from his holdall. A middle-aged couple with

three unruly children sat at a nearby table. Two of the children

started arguing about where they were going to sit on the plane,

and the mother slapped the bigger of the two. Canning flinched.

He'd never hit either of his own children - never had, never

would. He put the carrier bag down on the floor and gently

pushed it back under his seat.

He heard McCracken bend down and pull the carrier bag

between her legs, then heard her open and close her briefcase. A

few minutes later she stood up and walked away, her high heels

clicking on the tiled floor. Canning stayed where he was,

finishing his coffee. He listened to the three children squabbling

and arguing and wished that he was with his own kids. His soontobe

ex-wife he could live without, but his children were the

most important things in his life.

McCracken opened the door to the Transit and slid into the

passenger seat, placing her briefcase on her lap. O'Keefe started

the van and edged away from, the terminal, squeezing in front of

an Avis coach. McCracken wound down the window.

They drove in silence for a while, the slipstream tugging at

McCracken's dyed blond hair. She took a pair of sunglasses from

the glove compartment and put them on. O'Keefe broke the

silence first. 'What are we going to do with the Hayes woman?'

he asked.

'What do you mean?'

'When it's over.'

McCracken tapped her red-painted fingernails on her briefcase

but didn't reply.

'She did hear, didn't she?'

McCracken turned to look at him. 'I'm not sure. If she did,

she hid it well.'

'She must have heard. She knows my name.'

'Maybe.'

'Maybe? That twat Quinn yelled it across the factory, right

enough. She must have heard.'

McCracken screwed up her face as if she had a sour taste in

her mouth. 'She might have heard, but that's not to say that she

realised the significance.'

'Significance my arse,' hissed O'Keefe. 'He used my name.

She heard it. If she tells the cops, I'm fucked. How long do you

think it'd take to track me down?'

'All she heard - all she might have heard - was Don. Maybe

she'll think you're a Mafia boss.'

'This isn't fucking funny, McCracken. This is my life we're

talking about. I'll put a bullet in her myself rather than go down

for this.'

McCracken turned away and stared out of the windscreen.

'She's got to be dealt with, McCracken. If I go down, we all

go down. There's going to be no Marquis of Queensberry rules

after this -- it'll be a rubber-lined room with a drain in the floor,

and they'll beat the fuck out of me until they get what they

want.'

'No one's going down,' said McCracken quietly.

'So when it's over, she's dead.' O'Keefe banged on the horn

as a minibus cut him up. He accelerated and overtook the

minibus, flashing the driver a dirty look.

McCracken opened her briefcase and took out the carrier

bag. She counted the tapes. Seven.

Mick Canning parked the Mondeo by the wooden garage and

let himself in through the back door. McEvoy was watching the

portable television in the sitting room, his feet propped up on a

low coffee table. The Smith & Wesson was in his lap, and he had

a glass of Bushmills resting on his stomach.

Canning asked McEvoy if he wanted a coffee but McEvoy

just lifted his whiskey glass and shook his head, his eyes never

leaving the television screen.

'How's the girl?' asked Canning.

'No idea,' said McEvoy. 'How was McCracken?'

'She was there. I gave her the stuff and got the next plane

back.' *

'She say there were any problems?'

'Didn't say a word. Just took the tapes and left.'

McEvoy pulled a face. 'Must be going okay, then. I guess if it

wasn't, she'd have told us to off the kid.' He grinned at Canning.

'Only messing with you, Mick.'

Canning nodded at the gun. 'You expecting trouble,

George?'

'You can never have your gun too close,' said McEvoy.

'Didn't they teach you that in the INLA?' He noticed that

Canning was holding a white plastic carrier bag. 'What's in the

bag?'

'Comics. For Katie. Picked them up at the airport.'

McEvoy shook his head in disgust. 'You'll spoil the little

brat.' .

Canning held the bag to his chest as if he feared that McEvoy

would try to take it away from him. 'The happier she is, the

easier she'll be to handle.'

'Bribe her, you mean? Is that how you control your own

kids?' He took a swig of his whiskey. 'Never got anything from

my da, other than a clip around the ear when he'd had too much

of the amber fluid.'

'Yeah, well, that probably accounts for your well-balanced

personality and your easy-going nature,' said Canning.

'Never did me any harm,' said McEvoy.

'You an only child?' asked Canning.

'Nah. One of eight. Seven sisters. That's probably why me da

used to knock me around. He'd never lift a finger against a

woman.'

Canning leaned against the door. 'What about you, George?'

McEvoy balanced his glass on his stomach and stretched his

arms above his head as he yawned. 'What do you mean?' he

growled.

Canning gestured with his thumb at the door to the basement.

'Suppose McCracken had said that the mother wasn't cooperating.

Suppose she said that we had to, you know . . .' He

pointed with his first and second fingers, forming his hand into

the shape of a gun and cocking his thumb. 'Would you?'

'Like a shot,' said McEvoy. He laughed at the unintentional

pun. 'Like a fucking shot.' His belly rippled as he laughed and

the glass tumbled to the floor. 'Fuck. Now look at what you've

made me do,' he said. He sat up, retrieved the glass and poured

himself a refill.

Canning headed towards the basement door.

'Where the fuck are you going?' said McEvoy.

'I'm going to give her the magazines.'

'She'll be asleep. Leave it until tomorrow.'

Canning stopped in the hallway. McEvoy was right -- it was

almost eleven o'clock. He'd give them to her tomorrow.

'Are you gonna cook?' asked McEvoy, lounging back in his

chair and sipping his fresh glass of whiskey. He grinned when he

saw the look of annoyance on Canning's face. He put down his

whiskey and held up his hands in mock surrender. 'Okay, okay,

I'll cook if you want. But you know it'll taste like shit.'

Canning walked back to the kitchen. McEvoy had only cooked once since they'd moved into the cottage, and it had been a disaster. Sausages fried to a crisp, mashed potatoes with half the peel still on them, and lukewarm peas. It had taken the best part of an hour to clean the frying pan afterwards. 'What do you feel like?' he asked.

'I feel like going out and getting my end away,' said McEvoy, kicking off his shoes. 'That's what I fucking feel like.' He took another swig from his glass. 'But I'll settle for beans on toast.'

Mark Quinn clicked on the mouse and the picture on the VDU changed to a view of the bathroom. He leaned back in his chair

and watched as the Hayes woman brushed her teeth. She held

her blond hair in a ponytail as she spat into the sink and rinsed

her mouth.

Her hair looked genuinely blond, soft and golden, not at all

like McCracken's dyed hair which was dark brown, almost

black, at the roots. She came out of the bathroom and Quinn

clicked the mouse again. He found her in the giant trading

room, walking across to one of the half-dozen desks that were

still in place. There was a telephone on the desk and she reached

out a hand to it.

'Naughty, naughty,' said Quinn. 'You've been told not to

use the phone.'

The woman looked around furtively, squinting up at the

ceiling.

'You'll never find it,' said Quinn. 'It's too well hidden.'

The woman looked at the phone again, her hand only inches

away from it. Quinn grinned, wondering how she was going to

resolve her dilemma. She'd been told not to use the phone, but

she obviously wanted to talk to her husband.

There was a squeal of brakes outside and Quinn stiffened. A

door opened and then slammed shut. Quinn relaxed. It was the

Transit van. On the monitor, the Hayes woman was still frozen,

hand outstretched. The second van door open and closed and

Quinn heard McCracken say something to O'Keefe.

The side door opened and McCracken and O'Keefe came

in. McCracken called across the factory floor, 'What's she

doing?'

'Struggling with her conscience,' said Quinn.

McCracken walked up behind Quinn and looked at the

monitor. On the screen, Andrea turned away from the phone

and wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

'No balls,' said Quinn.

'Well, that's the thing about women, Mark,' said McCracken.

'As I'm sure you'll learn one day.'

Quinn scowled at her. 'It would have been easier just to tell

her that all the phones have been disconnected,' he said.

McCracken had already walked off to the offices and didn't

hear him. 'Bitch,' he added, under his breath.

Egan had thought long and hard about what to do with Martin

Hayes. Not that he had any doubts that Hayes had to die - that

had been a foregone conclusion once the Garda Siochana had

turned up on his doorstep. What concerned Egan was the

method; he wanted to cause as few ripples as possible, and

his first thought had been to kill Hayes the same way he'd

disposed of the headmistress' secretary -- talk his way into the

house, hold a gun to his head, make him stand on the plastic

sheeting, then put a bullet in his skull. It was relatively mess-free

- the body could be wrapped up in the sheet of plastic, placed in

the plastic-lined boot of the car, and then buried in some out-oftheway place. The big drawback was that if Hayes disappeared,

the police would start looking for him. And they'd start

searching for his wife and daughter. They might turn to the

media, and the last thing Egan wanted was to have Andrea

Hayes's face splashed across the evening news.

The police would need a body, but if they knew it was

murder they'd start a full-scale investigation, and that meant

more publicity. They'd be looking for a killer, someone who

had a reason for wanting Hayes dead, and that would start them

looking into his background, and eventually that would lead

them, to his wife's past. Egan would have to give them a body,

but in such a way that there wouldn't be a murder investigation,

and that meant that Martin Hayes would have to kill himself.

On the passenger seat of the Scorpio was a length of rope,

already knotted, in a white plastic carrier bag. Under his jacket,

snug in its leather shoulder holster, was the Browning. There'd

be no need to use the gun, no need even to threaten violence

against Hayes. Egan would give the man a simple choice: Hayes

could write a farewell note saying that he couldn't live without

his wife and daughter, and then hang himself with the rope. If he

refused, Egan would simply tell Hayes that he was going to kill

him anyway, make it look like suicide, and then he would

torture and kill his wife and child. Egan knew without a shadow

of a doubt that Hayes would do anything if he thought it would

save the lives of his wife and child. Even if it meant taking his

own life.

Egan guided the Scorpio down a tree-lined road, his gloved

hands light on the steering wheel. Ahead of him was Martin's

redbrick house, its slated roof glistening wetly from a recent

shower of rain. Egan checked his rear-view mirror. There was a

police car behind him. No blue light, no siren, just two

uniformed officers going about their duties, not suspecting that

a few yards in front of them was a man with a gun who would

shortly be forcing another human being to take his own life.

Egan smiled to himself as he drove. It was going to be so easy,

but then the best plans always were.

Martin Hayes was lying on the sofa watching the late-night news

when the doorbell rang. Dermott started barking and ran into

the hall. Martin shouted at the dog to be quiet and went to open

the door. It was the two gardai who'd called the previous day.

The older one, O'Brien, tapped the peak of his cap with a

gloved hand. 'Evening, Mr Hayes.'

'What's wrong?' asked Martin.

O'Brien smiled without warmth. 'Why should anything be

wrong, Mr Hayes?'

It's ten o'clock at night and there are two officers of the

Garda Siochana on my doorstep. I don't suppose you're here to

sell me tickets to your Christmas ball.'

O'Brien chuckled, but his younger colleague stared at Hayes

with hard, unsmiling eyes. Martin wondered if they'd rehearsed

the 'good cop, bad cop' routine before pressing his doorbell,

O'Brien playing the relaxed, matey garda you could trust, the

younger one staring with barely concealed hostility, hoping to

put Martin off balance.

He looked over O'Brien's shoulder, wondering if the kidnappers

were watching the house, and if they were, what they'd

make of a second visit by uniformed gardai within twenty-four

hours. He knew there was no point in worrying -- if the house

was under surveillance, then the damage had already been done.

'Could we come in, Mr Hayes?' asked O'Brien.

Martin held the door open for them and sighed in resignation.

O'Brien smiled and nodded as he walked by. 'It's a

miserable night out,' he said.

Martin didn't reply. He closed the door and followed them

into the sitting room. The gardai didn't sit down and Martin

didn't ask them to. All three men stood in the middle of the

room. O'Brien took off his cap. 'We were wondering if Mrs

Hayes was back,' he said.

'No,' said Martin. 'Not yet.'

'But yesterday you said that she'd be back today, right?'

'That's what she said.'

'And she hasn't phoned?' he asked.

'Not since you were last here,' said Martin. The younger

garda was looking around the room.

O'Brien pulled a face. 'Pity,' he said. 'We were hoping to

have a word with her.'

'As soon as she calls, I'll have her phone you,' said Martin.

'I'm as keen as you are to put your minds at rest.'

'The thing is,' said O'Brien, 'we've spoken to your wife's

Aunt Bessie.'

Martin caught his breath. He forced himself to smile.

'Really?'

'Took us a while to track her down, what with the limited

information you had. Aunt Bessie. North Belfast. But we had a

word with the local police and they were very co-operative.' He

scratched his chin. 'Very co-operative,' he repeated.

Martin felt his hands begin to shake and folded his arms

across his chest defensively. 'And?' he said.

'Oh, I think you know what the "and" is, Mr Hayes.'

Martin stared at O'Brien in silence. There was nothing he

could say. If O'Brien really had spoken to the woman, then he'd

already been caught in a he.

'Where is your wife, Mr Hayes?' O'Brien asked.

'Belfast.'

O'Brien shook his head slowly, but he was still smiling

avuncularly, as if the worst he was going to do was cut off

Martin's allowance.

The younger garda looked at the door to the hall. 'Do you

have a bathroom I can use?'

Martin knew that the garda wanted to look around the

house, and while he didn't like the idea of him prowling around,

he couldn't refuse without appearing to have something to hide.

'Go ahead,' he said. 'Upstairs. Second on the right.'

O'Brien tapped his cap against his leg. 'Did you and your

wife have an argument, maybe?'

Martin swallowed. If he said he'd had a fight with Andy,

then maybe they'd be more willing to accept that she'd left

without warning. And if she was angry with him, that would

explain why she'd taken Katie. He'd have to admit to lying,

but it was an understandable he. O'Brien was offering him a

way out, but that didn't make any sense, not after all the

questions. It was a trap, it had to be. Martin licked his lips. His

mouth was painfully dry. All he had to do was admit to an

argument and the pressure would be off him. He was just

about to speak when he realised where the garda was leading

him. Andy's car was in the drive. If she'd stormed off after a

fight, she wouldn't have walked away, she'd have taken the

car. The garda knew that, and he was hoping to catch Martin

out in another lie. A he that could imply he'd done something

to harm his family. He looked O'Brien in the eye. 'No,' he

said firmly. 'There was no argument.'

The garda nodded. 'All husbands and wives argue,' he said.

'I'm not disputing that,' said Martin. 'But Andy and I didn't

have a fight on Wednesday.'

'Sarge!' called the younger garda from upstairs. 'There's

something here you should look at.'

O'Brien sighed and smiled at Martin. 'Ah, the enthusiasm of

youth,' he said. 'Why don't you come with me, Mr Hayes. Let's

see what's got the boy all fired up.'

Martin and O'Brien went through into the hallway. The

younger garda was standing at the top of the stairs, staring at the

banister.

'What is it, Eamonn?' asked O'Brien.

'Have a look at this, Sarge.'

O'Brien climbed the stairs. He peered at the section of

banister that his colleague was pointing at. It was the spot where

Andy had fainted, Martin realised. Where she'd fainted and hit

her head. 'It looks like blood,' said the younger garda.

O'Brien straightened up. 'I think you'd better come down to

Pearse Street with us, Mr Hayes.'

They drove into the city centre in silence. Martin sat in the

back of the patrol car, with O'Brien in the front passenger seat.

They pulled up in front of the grey stone Garda station and

O'Brien took Martin in. They walked through a reception area

where a uniformed garda buzzed them through into a corridor.

O'Brien led Martin to the far end of the corridor and showed

him into a small room, barely three paces square. Martin turned

to ask O'Brien how long he was going to be kept at the station,

but before he could say anything the garda had closed the door.

There was a table which had been screwed to the concrete

floor, and four plastic chairs, two each side. The walls were

painted a mustard yellow which glistened under the fluorescent

lights. Martin sat with his back to the door. The table was up

against the wall to his right, and above it, on a thin chipboard

shelf, was a black tape recorder with two cassette decks. Martin

rested his elbows on the table and cupped his eyes with the palms

of his hands. He had no idea what he could do or say to get

himself out of his predicament.

He tried to get his thoughts straight. The gardai obviously

thought that Andy and Katie were missing. And they suspected

that he had something to do with their disappearance, suspicions

heightened by the discovery of the blood on the banister. They

hadn't asked Martin for an explanation of the bloodstain, but he

was sure that they'd test it and establish that it was Andy's. Then

what? They'd assume that he'd hurt her, and the only way he'd

be able to convince them otherwise would be to tell them about

Katie's kidnapping.

Egan settled back in the black Ford Scorpio and listened to the

engine click as it cooled. He patted his left armpit and felt the

reassuring hardness of his Browning Hi-Power pistol. The

length of rope was under the front seat. Ahead of him he could

see the grey granite frontage of Pearse Street police station. The

two gardai had driven around to the back of the building and

presumably taken Hayes inside through the rear entrance. From

where he sat, Egan could see the front entrance and the way in

to the carpark.

He had been just about to stop in front of Martin Hayes's

house when a sixth sense had told him to keep on driving. He'd

checked in his rear-view mirror and grinned to himself as the police car had pulled up at the Kerb. Egan had driven on a few

hundred yards past the house and waited. He'd seen the two

gardai speak to Hayes on his doorstep, go inside, and then the

three of them walk to the car several minutes later. Hayes looked

pale, and he kept putting his hand up to his forehead as if trying

to stave off a headache.

The two gardai were coldly efficient. One opened the back

door for Hayes and got in next to him; the other, the younger

one, waited until Hayes was in the back before climbing into the

driving seat. The body language was enough to tell Egan that

Hayes wasn't going willingly.

Egan doubted that Hayes would tell the police anything.

Nothing he'd done so far suggested that he'd cave in under

questioning. He'd stick to his story that his wife and daughter

were out of town visiting a sick relative. But the police were

suspicious, and they wouldn't be satisfied until they found out

where his wife and daughter were. The more they probed, the

more likely they were to discover what had happened.

They'd probably keep him in for a few hours, then release

him. They'd have to let him go because they had nothing in the

way of evidence against him. And once Hayes was back at home,

Egan would pay him a visit. With the rope.

Apart from the arrival of the gardai, Egan was pleased with

the way things were going. Following her phone call to her

husband, the Hayes woman had been working hard on the

bomb, and it looked as if it would be ready within three or four

days. Well on schedule. Egan was looking forward to seeing the

effects the massive bomb would have on the City of London.

And to reaping the benefits. Seven million dollars.

Once the bomb had been detonated and the money had

been transferred from Zurich to the Dutch Antilles, Egan would

be able to start work on his next commission. He'd already been

approached by a fanatical Muslim group in the Lebanon who

wanted to blow up an El-Al flight. The Israeli airline was

recognised as one of the safest in the world and had never been

the victim of a successful terrorist attack. Egan was about to

change all that. For a fee of two million dollars. But first things

first. He had to take care of Martin Hayes.

The door behind Martin opened but he didn't turn around. He

sat where he was, his hands together on the table, fingers

interlinked. Two men came into the room and sat opposite

him. Not the gardai who'd brought him to the station - these

were men in suits. Detectives. The man who sat directly

opposite was in his late thirties, a thickset man with a comb

over and a sandy moustache. He looked at Martin over the top

of spectacles with thick black frames, the sort Michael Caine

used to wear in sixties spy films. He was wearing a grey suit with

stains on the lapels and a brightly coloured Bugs Bunny tie.

'How are you doing, Mr Hayes?' he said jovially. 'My name is

Detective Inspector James FitzGerald. My colleague here is

Detective Sergeant John Power.'

The other man nodded. He was younger, in his late twenties

maybe, and considerably better dressed. He had on an expensive

blue pin-stripe suit, a crisp white shirt and a tie with a crest on it,

and gold cufflinks peeped out from his sleeves. He had a sharp,

almost pointed nose, and inquisitive eyes that watched Martin's

every move.

'Am I under arrest?' Martin asked.

'No, you're not,' said FitzGerald. He took off his spectacles

and wiped them with the end of his tie. He looked up and saw

Martin staring at the cartoon rabbit. 'Birthday present from my

son, so I figured I had to wear it, you know? The wife bought it,

obviously. My boy's only eight. I think she just enjoys embarrassing

me.'

Martin said nothing. FitzGerald finished cleaning his lenses

and put his spectacles back on, pushing them up his nose with his

forefinger.

'So,' he said. 'Tell me about your wife, Mr Hayes.'

'What do you mean?'

'Does she embarrass you? Does she sometimes get on your

nerves?'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'Your wife is missing, Mr Hayes. So is your daughter.'

'And you're saying I did something to them, is that it?' He

jerked a thumb at the tape recorder. 'Shouldn't this be switched

on? Shouldn't you be recording this?'

FitzGerald exhaled slowly through pursed lips. 'All we're

doing at the moment is having a wee chat, Mr Hayes. If you

want to make it official, we can do that. But then I'd have to

caution you and then a whole process would start that once

started can be difficult to stop. So if it's all right with you, I'd like

to keep this low-key just at the moment.'

Martin nodded slowly. 'Okay.'

'So, where is Mrs Hayes?'

'She told me that she was going to Belfast. To see her aunt.

Her Aunt Bessie. But I've just been told by your Sergeant

O'Brien that she's not with Bessie.'

'But you told the school that she'd gone to see her mother.

Your mother-in-law.'

Martin shook his head. 'No. She must have misheard. It's her

aunt. That's what Andy told me. But now I don't know what to

think.'

'And you told the gardai that you don't have this Aunt

Bessie's telephone number or address.'

'That's right.'

'So you can see why we're a little concerned, Mr Hayes.

What with there being blood in the upstairs hallway and all.'

'Andy tripped. She tripped and banged her head.'

'Recently?'

'Last week.'

'Did she go to hospital?'

'There was no need. It was a small knock, that's all.'

'The thing of it is, Mr Hayes, we'd like to reassure ourselves

that your wife isn't in any trouble,' said FitzGerald.

'I wish I could help,' said Hayes. 'Look, last time I spoke to

my wife, she said she'd be back soon. As soon as she calls again,

I'll have her telephone you. How's that?'

'Where did she call from?' asked Power. It was the first time

he'd spoken since walking into the interview room.

'Belfast. Well, I assumed Belfast. Now I'm just plain confused.'

FitzGerald

leaned forward. 'Are you sure there isn't something

you want to tell us, Mr Hayes? Something you want to get

off your chest?'

Martin folded his arms and sat back in his chair. 'This is a

complete waste of time. My time and yours. When Andy turns

up you're going to look pretty stupid.'

'I'm quite happy to look stupid if it means we find your wife

and daughter, Mr Hayes,' said FitzGerald.

'It's not a question of finding them,' said Martin. 'They're

not lost.'

FitzGerald and Power exchanged looks. Power shook his

head. Martin had the feeling that they'd run out of questions.

'Can I go now?' he asked.

FitzGerald grimaced. 'To be honest, we'd rather you stayed

here for a while yet, Mr Hayes. We're continuing with our

enquiries, and it'd be a big help to us if you were here to answer

any questions that might arise.'

'Enquiries? What sort of enquiries?'

'We're checking the blood on the banister, obviously. We'd

like a Scene of Crime Officer to call round. With your

permission, of course.'

'I've already explained about the blood. My wife tripped.'

'We'd still like to check. And have the SOCO take a look at

the rest of the house. And the garden.'

'The garden?' Martin's jaw dropped. 'What the hell are you

suggesting? That I've buried my wife and daughter in the

garden?'

FitzGerald put his hands up. 'We're not suggesting anything,

Mr Hayes. We're just working our way through a standard set of

procedures, that's all.'

Martin shook his head. 'No, that's not all. You're suggesting

I murdered my family.'

'Please, don't get upset,' said FitzGerald, in a soft, low voice

that a parent might use to try to calm a petulant child. 'If

everything happened as you've told us, you've nothing to worry

about.'

Martin glared at the two detectives. He wanted to lash out,

verbally and physically, but he knew that such a show of raw

emotion would only be counterproductive. The only way he

was going to walk out of Pearse Street was if he co-operated. Or

at least, appeared to co-operate. He forced himself to smile.

'Okay,' he said. 'Do whatever you have to do.'

Power held out his hand. 'Can we borrow your keys?'

'Sure,' said Martin. He handed then over. 'Be careful of

Dermott, will you?'

'Dermott?'

'Our dog. He might run off.'

'We'll be careful,' said Power.

'And what happens to me while your people are checking

the house?'

FitzGerald and Power stood up. 'This room's free, so you're

welcome to wait here,' said FitzGerald. 'I'll send a garda in with

coffee. Maybe a sandwich.'

The two detectives left. They closed the door but Martin

didn't hear a lock turning or a bolt being pushed across. He put

his head in his hands, wondering what he should do, whether he

should tell them what had really happened to Andy and Katie or

continue to lie to them.

DAY SIX

Canning switched on the light and unbolted the door to the

basement. Katie was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes, when he

put the tray down on the table. 'Scrambled eggs and beans,' he

said. 'Come and eat it before it gets cold.'

'What time is it?' she asked.

'Eight o'clock.'

'And it's Sunday today, isn't it?' Her voice sounded stuffy as

if her nose was blocked.

'That's right.' He had three comics under one arm and he

waved them at the little girl. 'I got these for you. Come and eat

your eggs.'

Katie slid out of bed and padded across to the table. She

picked up a glass of orange juice and drank half of it in one gulp.

'How's your throat?'

Katie shrugged and took another gulp of orange juice. 'It

hurts a little bit.'

'Let me have a look,' said Canning. Katie tilted her head

back and opened her mouth. Canning peered down her throat.

It was still red, and when he gently touched the sides of her neck

she winced.

Canning sat down at the table. He removed the glove from

his right hand and touched her forehead. She still had a

temperature.

'You didn't bring any clothes with me.' She pointed at her

nightdress. 'This is smelly.'

Canning smiled. 'It's not smelly.' He put his glove back on,

then took a pack of Day Nurse from his pocket, popped out a

tablet and put it on the table. 'Eat your eggs and then swallow

this,' he said.

Katie started to eat and Canning put his elbows on the table

as he watched her.

'Mummy says that's bad manners,' she said.

Canning raised his eyebrows. 'What is?'

'Putting your elbows on the table while people are eating.'

Canning sat up straight. Katie put a forkful of egg in her

mouth and chewed thoughtfully, then put down her plastic fork

and leaned over her paper plate. 'If you let me go, I won't say

anything. I promise.' She smiled. 'You won't get into trouble.'

She waited to see what he'd say, smiling and nodding. Canning

smiled behind his ski mask. Even aged seven, children, especially

girls, could be so damn manipulative. His own daughter was the

same. He could imagine Katie twisting her father around her

little finger. Daddy, buy me this. Daddy, do this for me. Daddy,

lift me up, carry me, love me.

Katie made the sign of the cross on her chest. 'Cross my heart

and swear to die,' she said solemnly.

Canning shook his head. 'I can't let you go, Katie. Not yet.

I'm sorry.'

Andy lay on a sofa in the reception area, a big, sprawling sofa

with huge cushions that seemed to fold around her like clouds.

It had been just over four days since Katie had been kidnapped,

and during those four days Andy's life had been turned upside

down. Her daughter had been taken from her, she'd been

forced to fly to London, she'd been kidnapped herself by three

masked terrorists and told that she was to build a massive bomb

in the City of London. Now here she was, sleeping on a sofa

nine storeys up in an office block, under surveillance from

hidden cameras, awaiting the arrival of the components of

a bomb that, if successfully detonated, could lay waste to

several city blocks. As she drifted in and out of sleep, it felt

as if it was all happening to someone else, as if it was a weird,

surreal dream.

She half heard the lift doors open and close, but she didn't sit

up until the doors to the outside corridor were flung open. It

was the Wrestler, pushing a boxed spin-drier on a trolley. He

was wearing dark blue overalls with the name of a kitchen

fitting firm emblazoned on the back in fiery red letters. 'Rise and

shine,' he said. He wheeled the box by her sofa and into the

office. He was followed by the Runner, who was also wearing

overalls and pushing another loaded trolley. Even through the

ski mask he was wearing, Andy could see that he was leering at

her.

Green-eyes came in last, carrying several assorted boxes. Like

the men, she was wearing overalls and training shoes. There

wasn't a gun in sight, but that didn't mean anything because it

wasn't the threat of being shot that was keeping Andy in the

office.

'In here,' Green-eyes said to Andy, and Andy followed her

through to the main office area. The Wrestler was maneuvering

the spin-drier off its trolley next to the wall farthest from

the windows. Green-eyes put the boxes she was carrying down

on the floor and pointed at the spin-drier. 'Andrea, you start

taking them out of their boxes while we bring the rest of the

stuff up.'

Andy tried opening the box with her bare hands but the

cardboard was too tough. The Wrestler gave her a small penknife,

and she hacked away at the box with it while her three

captors went back outside.

It took them more than an hour to carry in all the equipment,

and another half an hour until all the boxes were opened.

The Wrestler had several extension cords, and he plugged in the

spin-driers, ovens, electric woks and coffee grinders and checked

that they were all functioning.

The Runner brought in a filter coffee-maker and took it

along to the suite of offices at one end of the open-plan area, and

a few minutes later he returned with mugs of steaming coffee.

Green-eyes showed Andy her clipboard. On it was a computer

print-out listing all the chemicals and equipment she had

purchased. 'Am I missing anything?' she asked.

Andy scanned the list and shook her head. 'I don't think so.'

'I don't think so isn't good enough, Andrea. Check it

carefully. Am I missing anything?'

Andy ran her finger down the list. Everything seemed to be

there. Except for one thing. 'Detonators,' she said. 'You haven't

got detonators.'

'That's in hand,' said Green-eyes. 'For the next couple of

days, your only concern is the explosive, okay?'

Andy handed back the clipboard. 'In that case, it's all here.'

Green-eyes put the clipboard down on top of one of the

spin-driers. 'Come this way,' she said, and she led Andy to a suite

of offices, each with a floor-to-ceiling glass panel next to the

door so that the interiors were visible from the corridor. One of

the offices had been used as a meeting room and contained a

long cherry-wood table with a dozen high-backed leather chairs

around it. In one corner of the room was a large-screen Sony

television and a video recorder. 'Sit down, Andrea,' said Green

eyes.

Andy did as she was told. The blinds were drawn, but the

slats were a white opaque material and enough light seeped in to

make the overhead fluorescent lights unnecessary. The coffee

machine had been put on a sideboard along with several cartons

of long-life milk, a bag of sugar and a box of Jaffa Cakes.

Green-eyes unlocked her burgundy briefcase and took out a

small cassette tape. She slotted it into a larger cassette and fed it

into the video recorder. 'You wanted to know that Katie's safe,'

she said.

Andy leaned forward with anticipation. Green-eyes pressed

the 'play' button. There were a few seconds of static, then Katie

was there, smiling at the camera.

'Mummy, Dad, this is Katie. Your daughter,' said Katie. She

sounded far away, as if she were at the end of a long, long tunnel.

There was a short pause as if she were gathering her thoughts,

then she continued. 'I'm fine. But I've got flu, I think.' She put

her hand up to her throat, and Andy copied the gesture. 'My

head hurts and my throat's sore. The nice man is going to give

me some medicine to make it better so I should be okay soon.'

Katie paused and looked past the lens. Andy had the feeling

that someone was prompting her to continue.

'He said to say it's Saturday and that I'm. okay. Mummy, I

want to come home ..." The recording ended abruptly and

Andy knew it was because her daughter had burst into tears.

Green-eyes clicked the video recorder off. 'She's safe, Andrea,

and she'll stay that way so long as you do as we ask.'

'She's sick. I have to go to her,' said Andy.

'Don't be ridiculous!' snapped Green-eyes. She ejected the

cassette and put it back in the briefcase. 'She's got flu,' she said.

'Kids get flu. She'll be fine.'

'She needs me.'

'What she needs is for you to do what you have to do. Then

you can get back to Dublin and be with her. We're taking good

care of her, Andrea. I promise you.'

'I want to talk to her.'

'That's not possible. Not now. Maybe later on in the week.

We'll see how you get on.' She stood up. 'First things first. I

need you to show the lads what to do. Step by step.'

She took her mobile phone out of her overall pocket and put

it in the briefcase, then took out her pistol and flicked the

combination locks closed.

Andy followed Green-eyes into the corridor. Green-eyes

put the briefcase in the office opposite the meeting room, then

took Andy back" into the open-plan office area. The Wrestler

and the Runner had lined up the four ovens next to each other

and were unpacking dozens of clear plastic Tupperware containers.

The Wrestler was wearing his shoulder holster and gun

again. 'Can we open the windows?' Andy asked. 'It's going to

get hot in here.'

Green-eyes looked over at the Wrestler and he shook his

head. 'They're sealed,' he said. 'Double-glazed and sealed.'

'Is there a thermostat? If there is, set it to the lowest level.'

The Wrestler pointed to a thermostat on one of the walls and

the Runner went to turn it down. Andy looked around the

huge office area. 'Right, we're going to need a line of desks here.

Close to the ovens.'

The four of them carried half a dozen desks over and lined

them up. Green-eyes, the Wrestler and the Runner waited

expectantly as Andy gathered her thoughts. Then, like an officer

mustering her troops, she explained what they had to do.

Mick Canning dropped the carrier bags on to the back seat of the

Ford Mondeo and drove away from the shopping centre. It had

been a long time since he'd bought clothes for a child and he'd

found the experience somewhat daunting. He knew Katie's size,

but he had no idea what she liked. Jeans, skirts, dresses -- Canning had been overwhelmed by the choice on offer. He'd

settled on a pair of blue Wrangler jeans, three different shirts in

assorted colours, and two pairs of white socks. He'd decided

against buying her any shoes because she wasn't going to be

leaving the house, and anyway he wasn't sure of her size, but

he'd found a pair of Garfield slippers that he figured would make

her smile.

He thought of his own daughter as he drove back' to the

cottage. Mary was two years older than Katie. Mary's eyes were

the same shade of green, though her hair was auburn, thick and

curly, the same as her mother's. It had been almost three months

since he'd last seen Mary. And his son, Luke. They were both

with their mother in Larne, presumably being poisoned with

stories about what a cruel, selfish bastard their father was.

Canning looked at his watch, wondering what his children

were doing.

He drove past a telephone box and pulled the car over. He

sat for a few minutes, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

Egan had been insistent that once the operation was under way

there had to be no contact with family or friends. No letters. No

phone calls. An ambulance went by, its blue light flashing but its

siren off. Canning couldn't see what harm one phone call could

do. His wife and children were hundreds of miles away, and they

had no idea where he was. He climbed out of the Mondeo and

walked back to the phone box, sorting through his pockets for

change. It was starting to drizzle, and he jogged the final few

yards. He had to pause and recollect his wife's number. It had

been more than six weeks since he'd spoken to her, and that had

ended in an argument over money. He slotted in half a dozen

coins and tapped out the number, then closed his eyes as it began

to ring, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

'Hello?' It was her. Canning thanked God it wasn't her

mother.

'Maggie? It's Mick.'

'I know who it is.' Her voice was cold. Impersonal.

'How are you doing?'

'What do you want, Mick?' If anything her voice was even

colder.

'I just wanted to call and see if the kids are all right.'

'They're fine.'

He waited for her to say something else, but the silence

stretched on and on. It was as if she was challenging him to speak

first.

'Can I have a word with them?'

'What about?'

'Just to say hello, you know. Come on now, Maggie, it's

been weeks since I've spoken to them.'

'Well, whose fault is that?'

Canning took a deep breath. He didn't want to fight with his

wife, but it seemed that every conversation he had with her

ended in an argument. 'I just want a word. That's all.'

'Mary's in the bath. Luke's out.'

'Out where?'

'What business is it of yours, Michael Canning? You call

once in a blue moon and you expect the whole world to be at

your beck and call, is that it?'

'No, it's not that. Could you just tell them that I called to say

hello? Give them my love.'

'Anything else?'

Canning could tell from her tone that she had no intention

of passing on any message. 'No. I guess not.' The line went

dead. Canning replaced the receiver and walked slowly back to his car.

Andy wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. Sweat was

pouring offher, and she could feel beads of it trickling down the

small of her back. She'd changed out of the suit that Green-eyes

had given her and was wearing a blue checked shirt and loose

fitting denim jeans, but it was still uncomfortably hot in the

office. She went over and looked at the thermostat. It was set to

the minimum, but the temperature read-out showed that it was

in the mid-nineties.

Green-eyes was at the water-cooler, helping herself to a

cupful of water. Andy joined her. 'The air-conditioning isn't

coping,' she said. 'We're going to need dehumidifiers.'

'It's not too bad,' said Green-eyes. She'd unzipped the

overalls almost down to her waist, and Andy could see her

white bra underneath. Sweat was dripping down her neck, and

Andy figured the ski mask must have been annoyingly uncomfortable.

The woman's neck was reddening and bathed in

sweat.

Andy poured herself a paper cup of water and sipped it. All

four ovens were working, their doors ajar. In each of the ovens

were metal baking trays full of the ammonium nitrate fertiliser,

four trays per oven. Other trays were lined up on the desks,

waiting to be filled. The Wrestler was on his knees in front of

one of the ovens, testing the temperature with a metal thermometer.

The Runner was taking trays out of the middle oven and

tipping the heated fertiliser into Tupperware containers, which

he was then sealing in black rubbish bags. At the far end of the

office was a pile of black bags that had already been filled with

fertiliser.

The doors of the ovens had to be left ajar so that the water

could escape, and the temperature had to be constantly monitored

because the fertiliser would liquefy at 170 degrees Fahrenheit.

It would actually explode at 400 degrees, but it would start to bubble and smoke long before it reached that temperature. Andy had told the two men to make sure it didn't get above 150 degrees.

She drained her paper cup and tossed it into a basket at the base

of the cooler, then rolled up her shirtsleeves. 'I want to show you

something,' she said. She took Green-eyes over to the window

and pulled back the vertical blinds to show her the window. It was

blurry from condensation, and water was pooling at the bottom of

the pane. Andy ran her finger down the glass and showed Green

eyes how wet it was. 'This is after four hours,' she said. 'It's going to

get a lot worse. It's getting too humid.'

'So?'

Andy nodded at the electric ovens. 'So the point of this is to

dry out the fertiliser. But if the atmosphere's this moist, the

ammonium nitrate is going to soak the water right back up.

Even when it's in the containers and bags. You've got to get the

water out of the air. The best way would be to open the

windows, but they're sealed. So the only thing you can do is to

bring in dehumidifiers.'

Green-eyes put her hands on her hips. 'It'll have to be

tomorrow,' she said.

'Whatever,' said Andy. 'And another thing. We're going to

need fans, because when we start to use the alcohol, we're going

to have to keep the air moving. If we don't . . . it'll explode.

You won't even need a detonator. The fumes will be explosive

enough.'

Mick Canning knocked on the basement door before slipping

back the two bolts. 'What the fuck are you knocking for?'

McEvoy shouted from the sitting room. 'This isn't a fucking

hotel.'

Canning ignored him and went down the stairs. Katie was

sitting at the table, reading one of the comics he'd given her.

'Hiya, kiddo,' he said.

She put her chin on her hands and pouted. 'I want to go

home.'

'I know you do.'

'When can I go?'

'I don't know. Not long.'

'How long's not long?'

'I don't know.'

'You can't keep me here for ever,' she said.

'We don't intend to.'

She looked up at him. 'Are you going to kill me?' she asked.

The matter-of-fact way she asked the question took Canning's

breath away. He sat down next to her. 'Of course not. We

don't hurt little girls. You have to believe me, we're not going to

hurt you. I promise.'

'Cross your heart?'

Canning made the sign of the cross on his chest. 'Cross my

heart,' he said. 'Look, we've already sent the videotapes to your

mummy so that she knows you're all right. And we've told her

that you'll be home soon.' He crossed himself again. 'Swear to

die.'

Katie smiled and nodded. 'Okay,' she said. 'I believe you.'

Canning showed her the carrier bags. 'I got you some

clothes. And Garfield slippers.' He pushed the carrier bags

towards her and she pulled out the clothes and looked at them.

'Are you hungry?'

'A bit.'

'I'll go and get you something. Beefburgers? With chips?'

Katie nodded. 'Can I use the bathroom first?'

'Of course you can.'

He held out his hand. Katie hesitated for a couple of seconds,

then took it. Her hand felt tiny in his as he helped her up the

stairs.

James FitzGerald knocked on the door to the Chief Inspector's

office and pushed it open as his boss gruffly told him to come in.

Garda Chief Inspector Eamonn Hogan looked up from a stack

of files that he'd been working his way through, fountain pen in

hand. 'Morning, Jim, how's it going?' Hogan had turned fifty

the previous week, though he looked almost a decade older,

virtually bald with thick jowls that lay in folds against his shirt

collar. There was a bag full of golf clubs leaning against one wall.

Hogan rarely worked on Sundays, but they'd had two successful

murder investigations completed during the previous week and

the paperwork had mounted up. Like FitzGerald he wore

spectacles, though his had wire frames. Hogan grinned at

FitzGerald's Bugs Bunny tie. 'You know, in some parts of

the country you could be arrested for wearing that.'

'It was a present,' said FitzGerald. He leaned against the door

jamb. 'It's about this guy Martin Hayes.'

'The missing wife? Is he still in custody?'

'Helping us with our enquiries,' said FitzGerald. 'We put

him in one of the cells overnight, but he's here of his own

volition.'

'What's your take on it, Jim?'

FitzGerald shrugged and ran a hand through his thinning

sandy hair, as if to reassure himself that it was still in place. 'He's

hiding something, there's no doubt about that. But he's not a

wife-killer. We've given the house and garden a going-over, and

there's nothing to suggest foul play. We've spoken to neighbours

and relatives and there've been no arguments. No rows.

Just your average suburban family.'

Hogan sat back in his chair and put his pen down on top of his

stack of files. 'You kno w as well as I do Jim, your average suburban

family pretty much accounts for half of our murder cases. All that

suppressed anger. Crying babies. Kitchens full of knives.'

'Their daughter's seven, hardly a baby,' said FitzGerald,

humouring his boss. 'No money problems, so far as we can

see. And when we accuse him of doing something to his wife

and child, he gets upset. Really upset. If it's an act, it's a bloody

good one.'

'So she's left him. She's walked out on him.'

'So why doesn't he just say that? The thing of it is, there was

blood on the banister upstairs, so there's something going on.

But there are no signs of a struggle, and she's taken some clothes

with her.'

'So she went away, took the daughter with her?'

'That's the way it looks.'

'Without telling him?' Hogan pulled a face as if he had a sour

taste in his mouth. 'Bit unlikely, don't you think? No note?'

'He says not.'

'And you've checked with her relatives?'

'Sure. With her mother and an aunt. The aunt that Hayes

said she'd gone to stay with. She's not with either of them. I've

had both addresses checked by the RUC

Hogan took off his spectacles and polished them with a large

blue handkerchief. 'So what's your feeling, Jim?'

'I don't think he's done anything to her. Or the daughter.

He's not the type. Things like that don't happen out of the blue,

and there's no history. Plus, if he had done anything, he

wouldn't have left; the blood on the banister. One thing he's

not is stupid. No, he's not done away with them. But I think he

knows where she's gone.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Because if he didn't, he'd have been on to us, right? Wife

and kid vanished. He'd have called us, for sure.'

'Unless he really believed that she'd gone to stay with the

aunt.'

FitzGerald shook his head. 'He didn't have a phone number,

she didn't take the car, he didn't know what train she was on.

No, she didn't go to Belfast. She went somewhere else, and I

think he knows where.'

'So why won't he tell you where she is?' Hogan put his

spectacles back on.

'Maybe he's embarrassed. Maybe she went off with someone

he knows.'

'He's lying to the police to save himself from embarrassment?'

Hogan pulled another face, screwing up his nose and

wrinkling his eyes.

'Yeah, I know. It doesn't make much sense to me, either.

But I figure that if he knows she's alive and well, he knows he's

not going to be convicted of hurting her. He probably figures

that if he just keeps on denying that he knows what's happened

to her, eventually we'll just go away.' FitzGerald shrugged.

'Hell, maybe he figures she'll come back.' He scratched his chin.

'The O'Mara woman is a strange one, too. There's no sign of

her. Spoken to her relatives -- they haven't seen her. She hasn't

withdrawn any money recently, didn't buy a ticket anywhere,

car's still parked in front of her house. She's just disappeared into

thin air.'

'But the only connection is that she worked at the school,

right?'

'Well, it's a bit more than that. She spoke to Hayes the day

she disappeared. Or the day before. Frankly, we're not quite sure

when she went. She was last seen driving away from the school

at five o'clock in the evening. The school rang us the following

lunch-time when she didn't turn up at work.'

Hogan removed his wire-framed spectacles, took a small

yellow cloth from his desk drawer and began polishing them

again. 'You're not suggesting Hayes has had anything to do with

her disappearance, are you?'

FitzGerald shrugged. 'I honestly don't know. There's no

evidence he ever met her.'

'So it could just be a coincidence.' Hogan sighed and put his

glasses back on. 'God, I hate coincidences,' he said. 'Bane of our

lives, coincidences.'

'And another thing,' said FitzGerald. 'He's not asked for a

solicitor. Keeps asking if we've finished and wants to go home,

but he's not asked to call a solicitor. If he'd done something, he'd

know that his best bet would be to be legally represented.'

'Unless he thinks he's smarter than we are.'

FitzGerald shook his head. 'No, he's not playing mind games

with us. I think he knows he hasn't done anything wrong and

that we're going to have to let him go eventually.'

Hogan put the yellow cloth back in his drawer and picked up

his fountain pen. 'So you're going to treat it as a domestic?'

'I think so. Until I can prove otherwise. I thought John and I

would have another go at him after lunch, and if he doesn't

budge we'll let him go later this afternoon.'

'What about keeping an eye on him?'

'Yeah, are you okay with that? Overtime considerations and

all.'

Hogan grinned. 'Ah, so you don't want to sit outside his

house yourself, is that it?'

FitzGerald smiled ruefully. A night in a car wasn't his idea of

a good time. He put his hands up in mock surrender.

'Go ahead, Jim. But have a word with uniforms first. See if

they've got a couple of men spare. Just for a day or two,

mind.'

Andy twisted the metal tie around the black rubbish bag, then

eased it into a second bag and sealed that as well. Even sealed

inside two plastic bags, the fertiliser in the Tupperware containers

would absorb moisture from the air to the extent that it

would be uselessly damp within two weeks. She had explained

the chemistry to Green-eyes, but Green-eyes had said that it

wouldn't be a problem. That meant that whatever Green-eyes

was planning, it would be over within a fortnight.

Sweat was beading on Andy's forehead and she wiped it with

a towel. Early that morning, Green-eyes had sent the Wrestler

and the Runner to buy dehumidifiers and electric fans, and

they'd gone some way to lowering the humidity, but it was still

in the mid-eighties in the open-plan office. It was somewhat

cooler in the smaller individual offices and meetings room, so

they all took frequent breaks to cool down.

They'd spent most of the day processing the fertiliser through the ovens and then sealing it in the Tupperware

containers and black bags, but by midnight the offices had

become so humid and hot that Andy had told Green-eyes it

was pointless continuing. They'd have to let the air-conditioning

recover. Green-eyes had given Andy a sleeping bag and told

her to sleep in one of the offices and not to open the door until

morning. Andy figured it was so they could take off their ski

masks. The discomfort of wearing them for twelve hours while

they worked the ovens must have been almost unbearable.

Now that the dehumidifiers had been brought in, they'd be

able to work throughout the night, but it was still uncomfortably

hot.

'I'm going to take a break,' Andy said to Green-eyes, who

was checking the thermometer in one of the ovens.

'Are you hungry?' Green-eyes asked. 'There are some

sandwiches in the coffee room.'

Andy went along to the meeting room. There was a Marks

and Spencer carrier bag next to the coffee machine, containing a

dozen packs of sandwiches. Chicken salad, sausage and mustard,

bacon, lettuce and tomato, cheese and pickle, smoked salmon.

And there was an assortment of canned drinks. Andy popped

open a Diet Coke and drank, and then took a smoked salmon

sandwich and sat down at the long table.

She looked through the glass panel by the door at the office

opposite. Green-eyes had a camp bed there, and it was where

she kept her clothes. It was also where she'd left the briefcase.

The mobile phone was in the briefcase, but the case had

combination locks. Each lock had three dials. Zero to nine

hundred and ninety-nine. If it took two seconds to try each

combination, she could do all one thousand in just over half an

hour. An hour to do both locks. Maximum. In all probability it

would take a lot less than an hour. But what then? She'd have

access to the phone, but who would she call? The police? She

was no further on than when she was being held on the

industrial estate. Sure, she knew where the bomb was, and

the police would be able to arrest her three captors, but what

would happen to Katie? Could she be sure that Green-eyes

would confess all and tell the police where Katie was being held?

Andy chewed slowly, barely tasting the sandwich. First

things first. The briefcase was in the office on the other side

of the corridor. She put down her half-eaten sandwich and went

to the door, easing it open carefully. She could hear her three

captors working in the main office area. There was no way they

could see her unless they were standing in the corridor itself.

Andy took a deep breath, then tiptoed across the corridor

and opened the door to the second office, her heart in her

mouth. The briefcase was on a teak desk. She set the first

combination to zero, zero, zero. She tried the lock. It wouldn't

move. She flicked the end dial. Zero, zero, one. Still locked. She

looked at her watch. She'd try for five minutes, then she'd have

to get back to the main office.

The door to the interview room opened and Martin Hayes

looked up. It was the inspector. FitzGerald. 'Now what?' said

Martin. 'Back to the cell?'

FitzGerald shook his head. 'You can go, Mr Hayes. I think

we've taken up enough of your time.'

Martin ran his hand over the stubble across his chin. He'd

been in the Pearse Street station for almost eighteen hours and

hadn't been given the chance to shave or clean his teeth, though

he'd managed to wash his face in a sink in the men's room. He

felt dirty and his shirt was sticking to his back. 'You're letting me

go?'

'It's not a question of letting you go, Mr Hayes. You're not

under arrest. You've just been helping us with our enquiries.

You've been free to leave at any time.'

Martin stood up. 'So you believe me?'

'Let's just say we've no evidence that you've had anything to

do with the disappearance of your wife and daughter,' said

FitzGerald, holding the door open wide. 'But we might want

another word with you again soon. So don't leave town, as they

say.'

'They've not disappeared,' said Martin, but he knew that the

detective wasn't interested in his denials.

He walked away from the grey stone Garda station and

caught a taxi near Trinity College. They'd let him go, but it was

as clear as day that FitzGerald didn't believe him, and Martin

didn't blame him. He had never been a good liar, and authority

figures always made him nervous, even when he hadn't done

anything wrong.

He stared out of the taxi with unseeing eyes, wondering

what he should do next. They'd presumably taken him out of

the house so that they could check the bloodstain on the

banister, and they'd probably searched through the house, too.

He'd already admitted that it was Andy's blood, so hopefully it

wouldn't be an issue any more. But they'd keep digging, and if

they were to speak to his financial advisers, they'd discover that

he'd been liquidating his assets and transferring money into his

current account. What would they make of that? Martin

wondered. They'd assume that he was about to withdraw the

money. That he'd killed his wife and daughter and was about to

disappear himself.

If nothing else, he'd be hauled into Pearse Street again for

more questioning, and the more often that happened the more

likely it was that Katie's kidnappers would discover that he was

in contact with the police.

The taxi dropped him outside his house and he went inside,

where he was practically bowled over by Dermott. He went

straight to his answering machine. There were no messages. He

let the dog out into the back garden, then made himself a cup of

instant coffee and took it upstairs. Dermott came running up the

stairs after him, tail wagging like a metronome.

Martin went into Katie's bedroom and sat down on the bed.

Dermott dropped down and rolled over on to his back, begging

for his stomach to be rubbed. Martin patted the dog and sipped

his coffee. He leaned over to put his cup on Katie's bedside table,

and froze. There was a car outside his house. A Garda patrol car.

Not exactly outside - they'd parked about a hundred feet away

from the driveway, but they had a clear view of the house.

Martin cursed under his breath. He hadn't put the light on so he

didn't think they'd be able to see inside, but he slowly backed

away from the window and went downstairs.

He paced around the kitchen, clenching and unclenching his

fists. They were giving him no choice. He'd have to leave

Dublin. If the kidnappers saw the Garda car, they'd think they

were there because he'd called them in. Even worse, there was a

good chance that the detectives would haul him in again for

more questioning. They surely suspected him -- why else the

overt surveillance?

It was late, probably too late to get a flight out of Dublin that

night. Besides, there was an outside chance that FitzGerald had

men at the airport watching for him. He'd be safer flying

through Belfast.

He took a briefcase from his study and emptied out the

papers it contained. He put in an unopened flight kit he'd been

given on a business trip he and Padraig had made to Copenhagen

a few months earlier, together with two clean shirts, underwear

and socks. He put his mobile phone in his suit pocket. It was a

GSM model and would work in the UK. He closed the

briefcase. What else? Money. He'd need money. He had Visa

cards that he could use to withdraw cash from money machines

in the UK, but he also had some Irish money in his desk drawer.

He took the money out and put the notes into his wallet.

He put his briefcase by the back door and then went out into

the hallway and looked at the answering machine. What if Andy

called again? Or if the kidnappers tried to get in touch? He

recorded a fresh message, asking callers to telephone his mobile

number, then checked it. He could hear the tension in his voice,

the sound of a man about to go over the edge. He took a deep

breath and recorded a second version. This time he sounded

more relaxed.

In a cupboard under the hall were several electrical timers

that he and Andy used to set lights to go on and off while they

were on holiday. He went upstairs and fitted one to the plug of a

lamp on the dressing table, timed to go off later that night. Then

he drew the curtains and went downstairs. He fitted timers to

lamps in the sitting room and the kitchen, overlapping the on

and off times.

He took a last look around the house. Now what? Both cars

were parked in the drive at the front. He'd have to go through

the back garden and over the wall, maybe catch a taxi. He shook

his head. No, a taxi driver might remember him. But he couldn't

walk to the station. In fact, catching a train wasn't a good idea,

either.

He went back into the kitchen and finished his coffee, then

washed his mug. As he put it on the draining board, he realised

what he'd have to do. He called Padraig on his mobile.

'Padraig. It's me, Martin.'

'What's up, Mart?'

'I need a favour. Big time.'

'Sure.'

'Can you pick me up on Morehampton Road? Opposite

Bloomfield Hospital?' Martin went into the hallway and locked

and bolted the front door, still talking on the mobile phone.

'No sweat. What's up? Car broken down, yeah?'

'Something like that. I'll explain when I see you. About ten

minutes, okay?'

Martin thanked his partner and cut the connection. He

looked down at Dermott, who was sitting with his head on

one side, clearly wondering what was going on. 'What the hell

am I going to do with you?' he said, and the dog woofed softly.

He didn't want to leave Dermott locked in the house because he

didn't know when he'd be back. But if he left the Labrador in

the garden, he might bark and attract the attention of the

watching garda. He decided he'd leave him inside.

Martin walked through to the kitchen, picked up his briefcase

and let himself out of the back door. He locked it and

slipped the key into his pocket. The sun was just about to dip

below the horizon, smearing the grey sky with an orange glow.

He jogged to the end of the garden and clambered over the

brick wall that bordered a narrow path leading to the local golf

course. He headed down the path, skirted the golf course and

then walked through a carpark to the main road. Only then did

he start to relax.

Egan slid the Browning Hi-Power out of its brown leather

shoulder holster and checked that the safety was off. He had

followed the taxi from the Pearse Street Garda station, but he'd

abandoned the tail as soon he realised that a Garda patrol car was

also following Hayes. Hayes had been released, but it was clear

that the police still suspected him and were planning to keep him

under observation. When Egan had driven past the Hayes'

house, the patrol car had been parked in the road outside.

He had stopped his Ford Scorpio in a road that led to a housing

estate bordering a golf course, well away from any streetlights.

In his left ear was a small earphone connected to a receiver

that allowed him to listen in to the five bugs planted in the

house. He'd missed the first few seconds of the conversation that

Hayes had had with his partner, but he'd picked up the rest via

the device in the hall. Hayes was going to run, and Egan had

only minutes in which to stop him. There was no time for a

suicide note, no time to coerce Hayes into using the knotted

rope.

He leaned over and took a street map out of the glove

compartment and flicked through it. He found the page where

Bloomfield Hospital was, and traced a gloved finger from

Morehampton Road to the house. Assuming he left through

the back garden, Hayes would have to walk close to the golf

course. He put the map back in the glove compartment, along

with the receiver and earpiece, then got out of the car and

walked towards the golf course, putting the collar of his leather

jacket up against the wind.

There seemed to be no one around, so Egan jogged, his

breath feathering in the evening air. The lights were on in the

clubhouse and several golfers were still out on the course,

though there were only minutes to go before the sun went

down. He reached the golf club's carpark and stopped jogging,

not wanting to draw attention to himself

There was a path running around the edge of the course, and

beyond it a line of three bunkers. To Egan's left was a clump of

trees, to the right were the fringes of an up-market housing

estate. Egan kept his face turned away from the carpark, and

waited until he was past before taking out his handgun and

screwing in a bulbous silencer.

He reached the path and headed towards the trees. There

were voices off to his right, two men arguing over a missed shot.

Egan kept the Browning pressed against his stomach inside his

jacket, his finger inside the trigger guard. He scanned the path

ahead of him. In the distance was Hayes, walking towards him,

his head down, a coat flapping behind him. Egan took a quick

look over his shoulder. There was no one behind him and the

voices of the two arguing golfers had already faded into the

distance. Egan picked up the pace. The silencer was efficient, but

even so the farther away he was from the clubhouse, the better.

An owl hooted above his head but he barely registered the

sound; all his senses were totally focused on the man walking

towards him.

Egan could feel sweat dribbling down his back. He was

breathing shallowly, his chest barely moving, the gun tight

against his stomach. Hayes had his head down as he walked,

and there was something in his right hand, something that he

was swinging back and forth. He was about fifty feet away.

Midway between them was a broad-trunked beech tree, perfect

cover for what Egan was about to do. Egan moved over to the

right-hand side of the path so that Hayes would have to pass on

the side closest to the tree. One shot to the side of the head,

maybe a second to the heart if he had time. He'd drag the body

behind the tree and then head back to the car. By the time the

body was discovered, Egan would be in London. Thirty feet.

Egan began to pull the gun out, his finger already tightening on

the trigger.

Hayes stopped. He peered out across the golf course as if

looking for someone. Then suddenly he whistled, a piercing

shriek that stopped Egan in his tracks. A dog ran across the grass.

It was a German Shepherd. It wasn't Hayes, Egan realised. He'd

come within seconds of shooting the wrong man. It was just a

guy out walking his dog. The object in his right hand was a dog

lead.

Egan started walking again. The man was bending down,

patting his dog, as Egan went by. There was no one else on the

path, and Egan could see all the way up to the wall at the end of

the Hayes' garden. Somehow Egan had missed him. He turned

and went back the way he'd come, walking quickly, his head

turned to the side as he went by the man with the German

Shepherd.

Martin looked at his watch and slowed down. He didn't want to

have to hang around outside the hospital, just in case the Garda

car was only making periodic visits to his house. He had no need

to worry. Padraig arrived just as he was walking by the hospital's

stone gateposts.

Padraig flashed the headlights of his BMW and Martin

waved. He looked around as the car pulled up. A man in a

leather jacket and jeans was walking along the pavement, his

shoulders hunched against the cold. The passenger window slid

down. 'Where's your car, Mart? I'll have a look at it.'

Martin heard rapid footsteps and turned to see who it was.

The man in the leather jacket was running towards the car. As he

ran he pulled his hand from under his jacket. Something glinted

in the BMW's headlights. Something metallic. Martin pulled

open the passenger door and climbed into the car. 'Drive!' he

shouted.

Padraig sat stunned, his mouth open in surprise.

'Padraig! For fuck's sake, drive!'

The passenger window shattered, spraying Martin with

cubes of glass. Martin ducked and held his briefcase over his

face as Padraig put the car in gear and stamped on the accelerator.

The seat seemed to punch Martin in the small of his back

as they roared away from the kerb. A second bullet thudded into

the door, and then Martin caught a glimpse of the man in the

leather jacket standing with his feet apart, the gun held in both

hands, arms outstretched, his face totally relaxed.

Padraig looked anxiously in his mirror as they drove away.

'Christ, who was that?' he said, his voice shaking.

Martin twisted around in his seat. The man in the leather

jacket was walking away from the hospital, his head down and

his hands in his jacket pockets.

'I don't know,' said Martin.

'You don't know? What do you mean, you don't know?'

Padraig already had the car in fourth gear and they were doing

almost eighty.

'Slow down, Padraig. You'll kill us.'

Padraig frowned, and then began to laugh. Despite his pounding heart and shaking hands, Martin laughed too, but it was an ugly, disjointed sound, and both men were soon silent again.

Padraig slowed slowed to just under the speed limit. 'What

the fuck's going on, Mart?'

'I don't know. I really don't know.'

'Where do you want to go?' asked Padraig.

'North. Belfast.'

Padraig frowned. 'What?'

Martin pointed down the road. 'Belfast. I've got to get out of

Ireland, and the police have probably got Dublin airport covered.'

'The police? The police are after you?'

Martin didn't say anything. He picked pieces of glass from his

jacket and dropped them on to the floor of the car. Padraig

drove, flashing Martin anxious looks as he headed north. Martin

kept checking his mirror, wanting to reassure himself that no

one was following him.

'Martin, what the hell's going on?' asked Padraig again

eventually.

Martin hugged the briefcase to his chest. 'I can't tell you,

Padraig. I really can't. I'm going to London for a few days. My

mobile is going to be on, so if it's an emergency you'll be able to

get me on that.'

'An emergency? What the hell do you call what just

happened?'

Martin nodded. He tensed as he saw a police car in his

mirror, but it streaked by them.

'The guy who shot at you. He wasn't a cop,' said Padraig.

'No,' said Martin.

'So who was he? For God's sake, Martin, I could have been

killed back there. You owe me an explanation.'

Martin sighed. His partner was right. He'd put Padraig's life

on the line -- he had a right to know why.

'Katie's been kidnapped. They took her last week. The

kidnappers wanted Andy to go to London. Now the cops have

found out that Andy and Katie are missing and they think I've

got something to do with it. I figure London's the best place for

me. If Andy's left any sort of message for me, it'll be there. I

know it sounds cra2y, but that's the situation.'

'And who was the guy with the gun?'

'I don't know. One of the kidnappers maybe. They must

have seen the Garda take me away. Or maybe they saw the car

outside the house.' Martin put his head in his hands. 'If they

think I'm co-operating with the cops, they're going to kill Katie.

Oh, God.'

He explained about being taken to Pearse Street, and the

patrol car parked outside his house.

'Jesus, Mart.' Padraig pushed down the accelerator and the

BMW powered to ninety miles per hour. 'What are you going

to do? You have to go to the police. You have to.'

'No. Not yet. I need time to think. Just take care of the

company and don't tell the cops anything.'

'Mart, you can't just run away like this.'

'I can't stay in Dublin,' said Martin. He gestured at the

smashed window. 'There's no saying he won't try again, whoever

he was.'

Padraig looked anxiously in his rear-view mirror, but he was

driving so fast there was no way anyone could be following

them.

'So you go to London. What then?'

'I don't know,' said Martin flatly. 'I really don't know.'

Egan walked back to his Ford Scorpio and climbed in. With

hindsight, shooting at Martin Hayes had been a mistake. He'd

missed him by inches but it had still been a mistake. Egan started

the car and drove off, checking to see if anyone was watching

him. No one was. And no one had seen him firing at the BMW.

Egan knew he'd been lucky and he hated himself for depending

on luck. Anyone could have driven by while he had the gun out;

anyone could have seen him shooting at the car. He should have

let Hayes go and followed at a distance, choosing his moment

with more care. Now Hayes would be spooked, and Egan could

only hope that he wouldn't be spooked enough to go to the

police and tell them everything. So long as he was running

scared, he wasn't a threat.

Hayes was running, but he had nowhere to run to. He

clearly wasn't co-operating with the police, and there was no

one else he could turn to. He'd probably he low with his partner,

the guy driving the BMW. Egan had intercepted the letter that

his wife had left for him at the hotel, so that was a dead end. And

there were only three days left before the bomb would be ready.

Even if Hayes told the police that his daughter had been

kidnapped and that his wife had disappeared in London, there

was nothing they could do to prevent the bomb going off. Egan

smiled to himself as he drove. Shooting at Hayes had been a

mistake, but not a fatal one.

The sky outside was beginning to darken, so Green-eyes

switched on the banks of fluorescent lights in the main office

area. She had to walk practically the full length of the office,

almost a hundred and fifty feet, to get to all the switches. Andy

put on a pair of oven gloves and began taking trays out of one of

the ovens. The Wrestler was unclipping the lids of a dozen large

Tupperware containers, and Andy carefully tipped fertiliser into

them, scooping out the last few pounds with a wooden spoon.

She put the metal tray on a pile of other used trays, then went

over to the stack of fertiliser bags. She dragged one of the bags

across to the table, then used one of the empty Tupperware

containers as a scoop to refill the trays. They were down to the

last ten sacks. By morning all the fertiliser would have been

through the ovens and they'd be ready for the next step.

Green-eyes finished switching on the lights and then headed

towards the meeting room. Andy watched her go as she levelled

the fertiliser with her hands into a layer two inches thick. Any

deeper and the fertiliser wouldn't dry all the way through to the

bottom. She filled four trays and slotted them into the oven.

The Runner was checking the temperature of one of the

other ovens. He looked across at her and loosened the bottom of

his ski mask. 'This mask is a bitch,' he said. He reached up and

grabbed the top of it. 'How about if I take it off, here and now.'

He pulled at it gently and it moved up half an inch. 'How about

that? Would you like to see what I look like?'

'No!' said Andy quickly.

'Why not?'

'You know why not.'

The Wrestler was standing over by the pile of sacks of

fertiliser, watching them. Andy stared in horror as the Runner

pulled the mask up another inch.

'Don't!' said Andy, holding out her hands, fingers splayed.

'Why not?'

'Because if I see your face . . .'

The Runner nodded and gave his mask another tug. Andy

could see most of his neck, almost up to his chin. 'That's right,'

he said. He laughed, a high-pitched whinny like that of a

nervous horse.

Green-eyes came out of the meeting room, a mug of coffee

in one hand. The two men stopped laughing as soon as they saw

her. The Runner let go of his ski mask and bent down to check

the thermometer again, and the Wrestler picked up a sack of

fertiliser.

'Andrea, do you want anything?' Green-eyes asked.

'No, I'm okay.' What she really wanted was to be alone in

the office so that she could continue working on the briefcase.

She'd got up to the mid-three-hundreds before nipping back

across the corridor to the meeting room. Another twenty

minutes at most and she'd have one of the locks open. She

still hadn't decided what she'd do if and when she got her hands

on the mobile phone, but at least she was doing something.

The girl was stunning, just short of six feet tall in her high heels,

with glossy black hair that reached to just above her hips. She

wore a skin-tight cheongsam, scarlet with a gold dragon entwined

around it, its head breathing fire across her ample breasts.

She said she was nineteen years old and that her name was May.

Deng waved at the seat next to him and asked her to sit with

him.

She bent forward and swiped a plastic card through a reader

in the centre of the table. Customers in the nightclub were billed

by the minute for the company of the hostesses. A bottle of

champagne arrived. Deng hadn't asked for the champagne, but

he knew the score. Girls like May didn't come cheap. She spoke

Mandarin with a Hong Kong accent. Cantonese was her first

language, but with an ever-growing number of mainland

Chinese businessmen and financiers visiting the former British

colony, Mandarin was a necessity in her line of work.

She sat with a delicate hand on his thigh, her red-painted

fingernails gently scratching the material of his Armani suit as she

made small talk. Her skin was like porcelain, smooth and

unblemished, and she smelt of flowers. After fifteen minutes

of banal chatter she asked if a friend of hers could join them.

Deng readily agreed. Her friend was just as tall as May, with

longer hair and larger breasts. She wore a bright yellow evening

dress cut low at the front to emphasise her cleavage. Her name

was Summer, and she spoke better Mandarin than May, and

almost perfect English. She swiped her card through the reader

and a second bottle of champagne arrived.

After half an hour May whispered into Deng's ear that a

regular customer of hers had arrived and did he mind if she left

his table. He kissed her on the lips and told that he was more

than happy with Summer. May swiped her card through the

reader and went over to another table.

An hour later and Deng was in bed with Summer in a

Kowloon Tong love hotel. It was one of Deng's favourite places

to take girls -- every room had a different theme. There was an

Arabian Nights room, a Wild West room, a Parisian Brothel

room, and each came with a set of costumes which could be

worn if desired. Deng had been more than a dozen times and

had never been in the same fantasy twice. He and Summer were

in a room made up to look like a Swiss cottage, lined with wood,

a big cuckoo clock on one wall and a mural of an Alpine scene

framed in a mock window.

Deng lay on his back as Summer rode him, her mouth

slightly open, showing perfect white teeth, her head thrown

back so that her hair brushed against his thighs every time she

ground against him. She was good, she was very good, and Deng

had to fight to stop himself from coming too soon. His hands

moved up her soft, compliant body and he caressed her breasts.

She put her hands on top of his, squeezing him, moaning softly.

She'd told him that she wanted to be an actress, that she was

taking acting lessons and had a producer friend who'd promised

her a part in his next kung-fu film. Deng could see that she had

talent.

He could feel himself passing the point of no return and he

pounded into her, half disappointed that he hadn't managed to

last longer. He came inside her and she fell down on top of him,

kissing his neck and whispering his name. That was a nice touch,

he thought. Almost as if she cared. She squeezed him inside her,

draining every last drop from him. Deng smiled and stroked her

hair. Another nice touch. He'd be back to see Summer again, he

decided. Maybe even offer to set her up in a flat. A small one,

mind -- there was no reason to be extravagant, not when Hong

Kong was so full of pretty young girls.

Deng heard a noise at the door. The sound of a key being

turned. 'We've not finished yet,' he shouted in Cantonese. He'd

paid for two hours and he still had thirty minutes left. There was

silence, and muffled voices, then the door burst open. Summer

rolled off him and pulled the sheet around her. Deng sat up.

What little remained of his erection shrank to nothing. It was

Michael Wong. And three of his Red Poles. Triad heavies. One

of the Red Poles closed the door and stood with his back against

it. The other two men had handguns. Big ones.

Wong grinned, showing a gold tooth at the back of his

mouth. 'Good, was she?' he asked in guttural Mandarin.

Deng pushed himself back against the headboard. 'What's

this about, Michael?'

Wong walked over to Summer. She looked up at him

fearfully, forcing a smile. 'Hello, Summer,' he said, in Cantonese.

'Long time no see.'

Summer was shaking, and her smile was little more than a

baring of teeth, the smile of a frightened dog. 'Hello, Mr Wong,'

she said. She wasn't such a good actress after all, Deng realised.

Wong grinned at Deng again. 'Did she go down on you?

Great mouth, Summer has. She's got this trick of taking it all,

you know? All the way in.' He looked across at the frightened

girl. 'Don't you, Summer?'

She nodded, her eyes wide with fear. Wong beckoned for

her to come closer. She crawled over to him, letting the sheet

slip from her body. Her skin was still glossy with sweat. Wong

unzipped his fly and took his penis out. Without being asked,

Summer slipped off the bed and knelt down in front of him. He

gripped her hair tightly with one hand as he worked himself in

and out of her mouth, barely giving her a chance to breathe.

Deng turned his head away in disgust.

'Don't you look away, you piece of shit,' said Wong.

Summer was moaning softly, caressing the back of Wong's

thighs, her head moving back and forth, matching his rhythm.

Wong came quickly, holding Summer's head tightly until he

was sure that she'd swallowed, then he grunted and pushed her

away. She crawled back to the bed and wrapped the sheet

around herself. She bent almost double, as if trying to make

herself as small as possible, and scampered towards the bathroom.

Wong pulled a silenced automatic from inside his jacket and

pointed it at her. She froze. He pointed the gun at one of the

armchairs and she went over to it and sat down, wrapping her

arms tightly around her knees.

'There's no need for this, Michael,' said Deng.

'Where's my fucking money?'

'You'll have it soon.'

'That's not what I've heard.' He nodded at the frightened

girl. 'The thing I can't work out is why you're in a short-time

hotel fucking hookers when what you should be doing is getting

back my twenty million dollars.'

'It's in hand,' said Deng. 'One more week and our problems

are solved, I promise.'

'I've heard your promises before, Deng.'

167

Summer began to whimper. She begged Wong to let her go,

and he glared at her with contempt. 'Shut up, whore,' he said in

Cantonese.

Summer fell silent and pulled the sheet tighter around her

neck. Tears began to run down her cheeks.

'The triad entrusted you with twenty million dollars,' Wong

said, walking to the foot of the bed and staring down at Deng.

'Twenty million US dollars. Then you come and tell us that

we're at risk of losing that investment.'

Deng held his hands up defensively in front of his face.

'We're all in the same boat, Michael,' he said. 'The bank

invested more than a hundred million dollars of its own money.

We've investors in Singapore and Thailand. We've all . . .'

The gun kicked in Wong's hand. The only noise it made was a slight coughing sound. A bullet buried itself in the pillow by

Deng's side and a few small white feathers fluttered into the air.

'I don't care about your bank. I don't care about the other

investors. You lied to us. You took the Triad's twenty million

dollars and you fucking lied to us.' Wong looked at Deng

dispassionately, tapping the barrel of his silenced gun against his

lips. 'How can I convince you how serious I am?' he asked. He

slowly pointed the weapon at Deng's left foot. 'Perhaps if I gave

you a limp. Do you think then you'd realise how important this

is to me and my associates?'

Deng drew his foot back. Wong grinned malevolently and

pointed the gun at Deng's groin.

'Or maybe I should blow something else off? Something a

little closer to home? Do you have children?'

Deng nodded. 'Two.'

'Boys or girls?'

'Two boys.'

Wong nodded thoughtfully. 'Two sons? You are a lucky

man. It's good to see how flexible the motherland is regarding

the one family, one child policy.' He tightened his finger on the

trigger. Deng's hands went across his groin in a reflex action.

'There's no flexibility here in Hong Kong, Deng. We want our

money. All of it.'

'I told you, you'll have it. Every last penny.'

'That's good. Because if we don't, I'll kill you, your wife,

your two precious sons, and every other member of your family

I can find. That goes for you and the rest of the members of the

board. I want you to tell them that, Deng. Tell them from me.'

Deng nodded furiously. 'I will. Of course I will.'

Wong shook his head. 'But I have to do something to show

you how serious I am.'

Deng shook his head even faster, his breath coming in ragged

gasps. 'Please don't,' he whimpered.

Wong grinned scornfully. He pointed the gun at Deng's

chest, then quickly moved his gun arm in a smooth motion

around to his right and shot Summer in the face. Blood and bone

fragments splattered across the wall behind her, a smear of red

across the Alpine snow scene, and she fell backwards without a

sound, what was left of her face staring up at the ceiling.

Deng put his hands up to his mouth, horrified at what the

Triad leader had done, but relieved, too, that it had been the

prostitute who had died. It could so easily have been him.

'I'll leave the mess for you to clean up,' said Wong, putting

his gun back inside his jacket. 'I'm sure you know the right sort

of people.'

169

DAY SEVEN

Andy woke up to the sound of someone knocking on the office

door. It was Green-eyes, with a mug of coffee and a croissant.

Andy had spent the night on a leather sofa with one of her

pullovers as a pillow. She sat up and took the coffee and pastry.

'We finished the drying a few hours ago,' said Green-eyes.

'You haven't slept?'

'I'll catch a few hours once we've started on the next

stage.'

Andy put her coffee mug down and ran a hand through her

hair. 'I could do with a shower.'

'You and me both. But the washrooms are all we have. A full

washbasin is the best we can do. Sorry.' Green-eyes looked at

her wristwatch. 'Ready in ten minutes, right? The troops are

waiting.'

Green-eyes went back to the office floor. Andy drank her

coffee and ate half the croissant, then went to the washroom to

clean her teeth and wipe herself over with a damp flannel.

Green-eyes and the two men were waiting for her in the

office area. The temperature had dropped to a more bearable

high seventies now that the ovens were switched off. The four

electric woks had been taken out of their cardboard boxes and

were lined up on the desks. Andy went over and examined

them. They were Teflon-coated, with dials that controlled the

heat settings.

'Right,' said Green-eyes. 'What do we do?'

Andy picked up one of the five-gallon cans of alcohol. 'We

use this to wash the ammonium nitrate. It gets the impurities out

of it.'

She went over to the pile of black garbage bags and dragged

one of them over to the woks. 'You need a container. The

Tupperware'll do. Half fill it with the ammonium nitrate, then

pour in just enough alcohol to cover it. Stir it well for about

three minutes, then pour off the alcohol. It should go a dirty

brown. You can use it a few times. Okay?'

Green-eyes and her colleagues nodded.

'Okay, so then we have to evaporate off the alcohol. Pour

the wet ammonium nitrate into the wok and sort of stir-fry it.

You've got to keep it moving, at a low heat. The same applies as

when we were drying it in the ovens -- try to keep the

temperature around one hundred and fifty degrees. You've

got to keep watching it. If it gets to four hundred degrees, it'll

blow.' She looked around the office. 'The fumes can be fierce.

I'd suggest we spread out, and use the fans.'

'What about the respirators?' asked Green-eyes.

'No use. The respirators are for particles, not fumes. The best

thing would be to open the windows, but that's not possible, so

we'll have to make do with the fans. I warn you now, it'll give

you a headache.'

'How long do we heat it for?'

'Three or four minutes should do. It's just like when you stir

fry food -- keep it hot and keep it moving.'

Green-eyes grinned. 'You might have to give the boys a

demonstration. I don't think they're particularly at home in the

kitchen.'

She laughed, and Andy started to laugh along with her.

She stopped suddenly when she realised what she was doing.

She was laughing with the woman responsible for kidnapping

her daughter, the woman who was forcing her to build a

four-thousand-pound bomb in the City of London. Green

eyes stopped laughing too. She stood looking at Andy, as if

sensing her confusion. 'Go on, Andrea,' she said. 'What

then?'

Andy clenched and unclenched her hands, bunching them

into fists and then relaxing them. What could she be thinking of?

These weren't her friends, she shouldn't be enjoying herself, she

shouldn't be letting her guard down. How dare she laugh with

them? It was a betrayal -- she was betraying Katie and she was

betraying Martin. They both deserved better.

'What then, Andrea?' Green-eyes repeated.

'You have to grind it up into a fine powder,' said Andy, her

voice shaking. 'In the coffee grinders. A couple of minutes

should do it. Then seal it back in the Tupperware containers as

quickly as possible. Every second it's exposed to the air, it

absorbs water.'

The Wrestler held up a hand, pointing a finger at her. 'Wait

one fucking minute,' he said. 'We've already treated all three

thousand and odd pounds of it. Pound by pound. Are you saying

we have to do it again?'

'That's right. It all has to be treated. It has to be uniformly

pure, uniformly fine. If there are wet spots, or rough spots, the

detonation velocity won't be consistent.'

'It's going to take for ever,' moaned the Runner. The

Wrestler and the Runner stood looking at each other, clearly

unhappy at the prospect of the work that lay ahead.

Green-eyes went over to Andy. 'Why don't you get yourself

a coffee, Andrea. I want to have a word with the boys.'

Andrea went off to the meeting room, knowing that Green

eyes was going to give the men a talking-to. She closed the door

behind her, poured herself a mug of coffee and set it down on

the table. She looked through the glass panel at the office

opposite. She had just about plucked up the courage to open

the door and tiptoe across the corridor when she heard footsteps.

She rushed back to the table and picked up her mug of coffee

just as the door opened. It was Green-eyes. 'Right. Come on,'

she said to Andy. 'Let's get started.'

Martin Hayes telephoned the Strand Palace Hotel from a call

box at Belfast airport ten minutes before he was due to board his

flight to London and asked to speak to someone on reception. A

girl answered, and Martin explained that his wife had stayed

there the previous Wednesday night and asked if she'd left a

message for him. The girl checked and said that no, there was no

message. Martin thanked her and cut the connection. He called

Padraig's mobile and his partner answered. Martin thanked him

again for driving him up to Belfast and for waiting with him in

the airport carpark until dawn broke. He reminded his partner to

check on his dog, thanked him again, then hung up and went to

catch his flight.

He arrived at Heathrow at nine o'clock in the morning

and caught a black cab to the Strand. He figured that

whoever had answered the phone would have been at the

end of the night shift and had probably gone home. To make

absolutely sure that he didn't speak to the same person, he

went up to a young man in a black suit. Martin wasn't sure

why he was in the hotel -- he just knew that it was the only

link he had to Andy. She'd have known that too, so if she'd

left any sort of trail it had to have been at the hotel. He

leaned forward over the reception counter and smiled at the

man. 'My wife lost an earring when she was staying here last

week. Can you tell me if anything was handed in after she

checked out?'

The man tapped away on his computer and shook his head.

'Nope, nothing was handed in,' he said. 'And Housekeeping

haven't reported finding anything.'

Martin sighed. 'Damn. It was hellish expensive. Diamond.

Cost me an arm and a leg. Look, I don't suppose I could have a

quick look around, could I? Just to check?'

The man consulted his computer again. 'The room's empty.

I don't see why not.' He look around. 'I'll get someone to go up

with you.'

'That's okay, I don't want to trouble anybody.'

'Security, sir,' said the man. He waved over a teenage bellboy

in a beige uniform and handed him a key before explaining

the situation.

The bell-boy took Martin up to the fifth floor and opened

the door for him. 'An earring, huh?' he said, bending down and

looking under the bed.

'Yeah. Gold with a diamond.' Martin went into the bathroom

and looked around. If he'd been Andy, where would he

have hidden a message? The toilet cistern was boxed in and there

was no way he could see of removing the base of the bath or

shower. There was a small ventilation grille close to the ceiling

but the screws holding it in place had been painted over and

there was no sign of it having been moved.

He went back into the bedroom and put his briefcase on

the dressing table. The bell-boy was still on his hands and

knees, peering under the bed. Martin took his wallet out and

gave the teenager a twenty-pound note. 'There's no point in

me holding you up, lad,' said Martin. 'I'll have a look around

myself, yeah?'

'Are you sure, sir?' said the teenager as the note smoothly

disappeared into his pocket. 'I don't mind helping.'

'Nah, you go on down. I won't be long.'

The bell-boy left, closing the door behind him. Martin stood

in the middle of the bedroom. 'Come on, Andy,' he whispered.

'You must have left me something. You must have.'

He looked at the bed. She couldn't have left anything there -- the bedding would be changed after every guest. He went over

to the desk and checked the drawers. There was a wallet of hotel

stationery and Martin went through it piece by piece. Nothing.

He flicked through the pages of the Gideon Bible. Nothing.

Most of the drawers were empty. There was a picture above the

writing desk. A banal watercolour, probably reproduced in its

hundreds specifically to hang in hotel bedrooms. Martin reckoned

he could probably have done a better job himself. It was a

gondola with a young couple cuddling in front, a bored

gondolier in a large black hat standing at the rear. The perspective

was wrong -- the buildings at the far side of the canal

seemed to be leaning to the right, and the shadows weren't

consistent. It didn't even look like Venice. Martin's breath

caught in his throat. Venice? What had Andy said when she

phoned? Going back to Venice. A place she'd never been to. He

ran his hands around the frame. It wouldn't move. It was

screwed to the wall. There were four screws, two on the right,

two on the left.

With trembling hands, Martin searched through his pockets

for a penny. He found one, and used it to take out the screws.

He pulled the painting away from the wall and a sheet of paper

fluttered to the floor. Martin tossed the painting on to the bed

and picked up the sheet of paper. As he straightened up, he was

startled by an angry voice behind him.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

The receptionist in the black suit was standing in the doorway,

the key to the room in his hand.

'I'm sorry,' said Martin. He folded the piece of paper and

thrust it into his jacket pocket.

The receptionist looked at the picture, and at the space on

the wall where it had been hanging.

'I'll pay for the damage,' said Martin, taking out his wallet.

'You'll stay right where you are,' said the man, holding his

hands up as if warding off an attack. 'I'm calling Security.'

'There's no need for that. All I did was take the painting

down.' He pointed at the desk. 'Look, the screws are there. Hell,

man, I'll even put it back for you.'

The man went over to the phone by the bed and picked it

up. 'Don't touch anything,' he said.

Martin tossed two twenty-pound notes on to the bed,

picked up his briefcase and headed for the door.

'No you don't,' said the receptionist, grabbing for Martin's

arm.

Martin hit the man across the head with his briefcase and he

fell to the floor. He kicked the door shut, then pulled the bed

cover over the man and roughly tied him up with the phone

cord before running out of the room. He dashed down the

emergency stairs, knowing that the man wouldn't stay tied up

for long.

He reached the ground floor and burst through into the

reception area. Heads turned as he dashed over to the main

doors and out into the Strand. He kept running as hard as he

could, the briefcase banging against his leg, his chest heaving

with the effort. He didn't know whether or not he was being

pursued, but he didn't care -- he just wanted to put as much

distance between himself and the hotel as he could.

He barged through a group of tourists and sprinted down a

side road. He ran in front of a black cab and the driver slammed

on his brakes, cursing him through the side window.

Martin looked over his shoulder as he ran. There was no one

following him, and he slowed to a jog, then a walk. He was

sweating and his heart was pounding. He took deep breaths,

trying to calm himself down. He looked over his shoulder again.

Nothing. He began to relax.

He walked across the main plaza in Covent Garden, where

a clown was walking along a broom handle suspended across a

pair of stepladders. A dwarf in a clown suit was walking

around a crowd of onlookers, collecting money in a red plastic

bucket. Martin threaded his way through the crowds and went

into a large cafe. There were plenty of empty tables outside,

bordering the plaza, but Martin chose a table inside, close to

the toilets. He ordered a cappuccino from a pretty blonde

Australian waitress, then took the sheet of paper out and

carefully unfolded it. It was a piece of hotel notepaper. The

writing was Andy's.

Dear Martin

My love. If you've found this it can only mean

something's gone terribly wrong and that you've called in the

police. Dear God, my hands are shaking so much as I write

this. Please, just know that I love you, I love you with all

my heart. If it has gone wrong, you must never stop looking

for Katie.

They've told me to go to a carpark in Bedford Court and

to get into a van. A dark blue Transit van. They say it's

got the name of a landscaping company on the side. I don't

know where they're going to take me or what they plan to

do. I'll do whatever it takes to get Katie back, I promise.

Martin, if the worst has happened, if you've had to go to

the police or if I'm dead (God, it feels so strange writing

that), then there's someone I want you to call. Someone who

might be able to find out where Katie is. His name is

Detective Chief Inspector Ham Denham. He works for

Special Branch in Belfast. Tell him it's about Trevor. Tell

him what's happened. He'll help, if anyone can.

Please, my love, never, ever forget that I love you.

At the bottom of the letter was a Belfast telephone number.

Martin reread the letter several times, his mind in a whirl. A

Special Branch detective? Trevor? What in God's name was

Andy talking about?

The waitress returned with his coffee. Martin left it untouched

as he sat staring at the letter. Who was this Liam

Denham? And who was Trevor? In the ten years he'd known

Andy, she'd never mentioned either name. Special Branch?

They dealt with terrorists. They were the elite of the Northern

Ireland police. Why on earth would Andy have been involved

with them?

Martin folded the letter up and put it back in his jacket

pocket. Andy had obviously assumed that it would be found

after her death. So far as Martin knew, she was still alive, but the

fact that the police were now involved meant that she was in

danger. Her life was on the line. The kidnappers wouldn't know

that the police had been called in by Katie's school -- they'd

assume that it was Martin who'd gone to them. And if they

assumed that, what was to stop them killing Katie and Andy?

Martin had to do something, and he had to act quickly. But

what could he do? Alone, he was powerless. He had a partial

description of the van that had taken Andy away, but he had no

way of finding out who it belonged to. He couldn't speak to the

Irish police, not now that he'd run away from them. They'd

regard everything he said with suspicion. Besides, Andy wasn't

in Ireland, she was in England, and the Irish police had no

jurisdiction over the water. Martin dropped a couple of pound

coins on the table and left the cafe. He had only one option, the

option that Andy had given him.

He walked through Covent Garden, sidestepping a juggler

who was tossing flaming torches high into the air, and found a

call-box in King Street. He popped a pound coin into the slot

and tapped out the Belfast number that Andy had given him. It

was answered on the third ring. 'Yeah?' It was a man's voice.

Hard and guttural.

'I'd like to speak to Liam Denham.'

'Who's calling?'

'Is he there? It's urgent.'

'Who's calling?'

'Look, this is an emergency. I need to speak to Detective

Chief Inspector Liam Denham. This is Special Branch, isn't it?'

The line went quiet for a few seconds, then a second man

spoke, his voice softer. 'Who am I speaking to?' asked the second

man.

'That's not important,' said Martin. He looked at the digital

read-out on the phone. Half his money had already gone. He

slotted in a fifty-pence coin. 'Just tell Liam Denham that I have

to speak with him.'

'I'm afraid that's not possible,' said the man. 'How did you

get this number?'

Martin slammed his hand against the wall of the call-box.

Not possible? What did he mean, not possible? 'Look, is this

Special Branch or not?'

'Where did you get this number from?' the man repeated.

Martin wanted to shout at the man, but he clamped his

jaws together and fought to stay calm. Denham could help,

Andy had said. He was the only lifeline that Martin had, and

he had to hang on to it. 'My wife gave me the number,' said

Martin slowly. 'My wife gave me the number and said that I

was to ask for Chief Inspector Liam Denham. Now is he there

or not?'

'And you wife's name would be what?'

'Andy. Andrea. Andrea Hayes.'

Martin heard a clicking sound and realised that the man was

typing on a computer keyboard.

'I'm not familiar with that name,' said the man.

'I don't give a shit whether you're familiar with her name or

not. She told me to ask Denham for help. That's what I'm

doing. Get him on the line, now.'

'You're Mr Hayes, is that right?'

'Yes, damn you.'

'What's your wife's maiden name?'

'What?'

'Her maiden name. Before she married you.'

'Sheridan.'

More typing on the keyboard. 'No. I'm not familiar with

that name either.'

Martin wanted to scream. His wife and daughter were

missing, maybe they were dead already, and the voice on the

end of the line was being as cold and impersonal as a telephone

answering machine. It was like speaking to a robot. The phone

read-out showed that he had only thirty pence left. 'Look, you

have to help me,' Martin pleaded. 'You have to put Denham on

the line.'

'I've already said that I can't do that.'

'What the hell is wrong with you? My wife said that I was to

call this number and to ask for Denham. To tell him that it was

about some guy called Trevor. Shit, I don't know . . . what

more can I do?'

Martin heard the clickety-click of the keyboard. Then a

sudden intake of breath. 'Mr Hayes?'

'Yes. I'm here.'

'Where are you railing from?'

'London. Covent Garden. I'm in a call-box, and I'm running

out of money.'

'Give me the number.'

Martin gave the man the number of the call-box. The man

repeated it back to him. 'Mr Hayes, please stay by the phone.

Someone will call you back shortly.'

Martin was midway through thanking the man''when the

line went dead. It was only then that he remembered the mobile

phone in his briefcase. He should have given that number to the

man, but it was too late now. He waited in the call-box. An

elderly man in a blue blazer and yellow cravat rapped on the

door with a walking stick. Martin pointed at the phone and

shrugged apologetically. 'I'm waiting for a call,' he mouthed.

The man glared at him. Martin turned around. He could feel the

man's eyes burning into his back. The seconds ticked by. The

man knocked on the door again. Martin tried to ignore the

noise, but he was embarrassed at having to behave so badly.

The phone rang and he grabbed the receiver. 'Denham?' he

said.

'I'm afraid Mr Denham isn't available at the moment,' said a

woman. She sounded middle-aged, certainly over thirty, and

there was the vague hint of a West Country accent.

'Where the hell is he?'

'Please try to stay calm, Mr Hayes. I'm trying to help you.

Okay?'

'Okay. I'm sorry.'

The man in the blazer walked around the call-box and

continued to glare at Martin. He had tufts of white hair

protruding from his ears and nostrils and deep wrinkles at the

edges of his eyes. He rapped on the glass and tapped his

wristwatch. Martin turned his back on him again.

'Right. Good. Now, my name is Patsy, Mr Hayes. I want you to tell me exactly what's happened to your wife.'

Martin told her about Katie's kidnapping and Andy's disappearance

in London. Patsy listened without interrupting. He

told her about the gardai coming around to his house, and how

he'd fled to London. He told them about going to the hotel, and

finding the note.

'How did you know to look behind the painting?' Patsy

asked.

Martin told her about the brief phone conversation he'd had

with Andy on Sunday night.

'Did she tell you anything else? Anything that might suggest

where she'd been taken?'

'No. She was only on the line for about twenty seconds. She

just said she was okay, and that she was doing what they asked

her.'

'She didn't say who "they" were?'

'No. No, she didn't.'

'Okay, Mr Hayes, you're doing just fine. Now, it's important

that you do exactly as I tell you.'

'What about this man Denham? Andy said I should speak to

him.'

'Chief Inspector Denham retired some time ago, Mr Hayes.

We're trying to contact him now.'

'What's all this about? Why does my wife know him?'

'There'll be time for explanations later, Mr Hayes. First, we

want you to go along to a police station in London so that

someone can talk to you face to face. I'm going to arrange for

you to be met at Paddington Green . . .'

'No way am I talking to the police,' interrupted Martin.

'They think I did something to Andy and Katie. And I hit a guy,

in the hotel.'

'You don't have to talk to them, Mr Hayes. This is far too

important to be handled by the police. But I need you to be

somewhere safe until we can meet.'

'I'm not going into a police station,' Martin insisted. The

man in the blazer appeared in front of him, his cheeks flaring red,

his upper lip curled back in a snarl. Martin stared at the man, but

barely saw him. His mind was a million miles away. He closed

his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had to think. He

had to work out what to do.

'Mr Hayes?'

'I'm still here. I'm confused.'

'I understand that. But if we're to get your wife and daughter

back, we have to stay calm. Do you understand, Mr Hayes? We

have to act professionally.'

'Who the hell are you?' hissed Martin.

'You know who we are, Mr Hayes. You called us. Now, will

you just do as I ask, go along to Paddington Green police . . .'

'No,' said Martin. 'We'll meet somewhere else.'

'Where, then?'

'I'll book into a hotel. You can come and see me there.'

'Fine. Which hotel?'

Martin tried to think of a hotel. The Savoy flashed into his

mind. He'd stayed there with Andy six months earlier. But the

Savoy wouldn't do because there was an outside chance that he

might be recognised. He wouldn't be able to use his own name

because he'd told the receptionist at the Strand Palace that he

was Andy's husband and they'd have been sure to have called in

the police by now. He remembered a hotel he'd stayed at during

a business trip to London a few years previously, a big hotel close

to the City with hundreds of rooms. A big hotel guaranteed

anonymity. 'The Tower,' he said. 'It's near the Thames. Near

Tower Bridge.'

'Okay,' said Patsy. 'Check in and stay in your room. We're

trying to track down Chief Inspector Denham now. But someone

will contact you later this afternoon. You shouldn't check in

under your own name, Mr Hayes, you realise that?'

'Of course. I'll use Sheridan. Martin Sheridan. Okay?'

'Fine. Please go to the hotel immediately, Mr Hayes.'

The line went dead. Martin replaced the receiver and left the

call-box. The man in the blazer had gone. Martin went off in

search of a cab.

Andy used a wooden spatula to scrape the hot ammonium

nitrate from the wok into a coffee grinder. She had a blinding

headache, the result of breathing in the alcohol fumes for

several hours. It was repetitive and backbreaking work, and

she was thankful that she didn't have to wear a ski mask like

Green-eyes and the two men. She put the glass cap on top of

the coffee grinder and pressed down on it. It whirred loudly,

the vibrations travelling up her arm as it reduced the fertiliser

to a fine powder.

The Wrestler was doing the same about thirty feet away,

using both his hands on the cap of the grinder. Green-eyes had

taken a break, and the Runner was by the water-cooler, his back

to Andy, splashing water on to his face, the ski mask pushed up

on his head. Andy hurriedly looked away and turned her back to

him. She didn't want to take the risk of seeing his face.

It was taking the best part of seven minutes to wash, dry and

grind a four-pound portion of fertiliser. If all four of them

worked flat out, it would take them almost twenty-four hours to

process it all. And that wasn't taking into account breaks for sleep

and food. Andy figured it would take at least two full days to get

it all done. Then there was the mixing of the other ingredients.

Say another day. Three days, then the explosive would be ready.

Did Green-eyes actually plan to use the bomb? Andy was still

clinging to the hope that she had something else in mind, that

the construction of the device was part of some political strategy

that wasn't going to end in an explosion and death. Green-eyes

still hadn't explained what she was going to use as a detonator.

The ammonium nitrate mixture was a powerful explosive, but it

needed an equally powerful detonator, components that the

IRA were able to acquire through their worldwide terrorist

connections but which weren't the sort that could easily be

purchased in England. The fact that she hadn't mentioned the

detonation system meant that perhaps, just perhaps, she had no

intention of using the bomb. It was a slim hope, but one that

Andy clung to as she sweated over the electric wok and the

coffee grinder.

The Wrestler's shoulder holster was fastened over the top of

his overalls, and Andy found her gaze constantly returning to the

butt of the pistol nesding under the man's left armpit. It was held

in place by a thin strap across the trigger which had to be

undipped before the weapon could be slid out. If she caught

him unawares, Andy could probably pull the gun out before he

realised what was happening. But what then? She could threaten

to shoot him unless he told her where Katie was being held, but

what if he refused? Could she shoot him? And what if she did

and she killed him? Then she'd never know where Katie was.

There had to be another way, but no matter how hard Andy

racked her brains, she couldn't think of one.

Liam Denham looked up from the fishing fly he was tying and

scowled in annoyance at the rattling window. He pushed up his

magnifying visor and put his tweezers down on the mahogany

desktop. The window overlooked his sprawling garden, the best

part of five acres which he and his wife had transformed from a

cow pasture into a manicured lawn, a Japanese rock garden,

several large curving rockeries, and a rose garden which produced

blooms that had twice won first prize at the local

agricultural shows. Not to mention an orchard and vegetable

garden that meant they hadn't had to visit a greengrocer's for

years.

Something flashed above the house, clattering and roaring,

then just as quickly it had gone. Denham stood up and peered

upwards. Seconds later, the helicopter appeared again and the windows shook even more violently than before. The helicopter

was a Wessex, dark green. Army colours. Denham took his

visor off and put it down next to the vice that held the brightly

coloured fly that he'd been working on. He turned around to

find his wife standing at the door to the study, her arms folded

across her chest.

'That'll be for you, then,' she said. Like Denham, she was in

her early sixties, though she looked a few years younger, with

hair that had kept its auburn lustre and skin still tanned from

their winter cruise.

'Aye. I suppose so,' said Denham. He ran a hand over his bald

patch and down to the back of his neck. He could feel the

tendons tightening already.

'Did you know they'd be coming?'

Denham tutted. 'If I knew they'd be coming, I'd have told

them to keep their infernal machine away from the roses.' He

nodded at the window. 'I'd best be seeing what they want.'

He walked out of the study, past the line of framed hunting

prints in the hallway, and through the kitchen into the back

garden. His two King Charles spaniels were standing by the

kitchen door, tails between their legs, shaking. 'It's okay, boys,

it's only a helicopter,' he said.

He kept to the crazy-paving path, every stone of which he'd

carefully laid the previous summer.

The door of the helicopter rattled to the side and a figure

climbed out in a green flying suit and a black helmet. The figure

ducked its head as it walked briskly away from the machine and

its still-turning rotors. Denham knew who it was even before

the helmet was removed. Even the bulky flight suit couldn't

hide her figure. The down-draught from the rotors tugged at her glossy black hair and she shook her head to clear it from her eyes.

'Retirement suits you, Liam,' she shouted above the roar of

the helicopter's turbines.

'Hello, Patsy,' he said. He held out his hand and she shook it.

She had a soft grip. Deceptively soft, he knew. A lot of men had

come to grief underestimating Patsy Ellis. 'Long time no see.'

'Too long, Liam.' She looked past him to the house. 'Nice

place you have here.'

The rotors kept turning. The pilot was talking into his radio

mike.

'We need you, Liam.' Her hazel eyes studied him levelly,

gauging his reaction.

Denham tugged at his lower lip but said nothing.

'It's Trevor. She's gone missing.'

'Missing?'

Patsy gestured at the helicopter with her thumb. 'We can

talk about it on the way.'

'On the way to where?'

'London.'

'Oh, come on, Patsy. I'm retired. And not by choice, either.'

'There's no one else, Liam. No one else knows her.'

'You've cleared this? With the Branch?'

'It's nothing to do with the Branch. It's my ball park now.

And I need you on my team.'

'I've got . . .'

'You've got too much time on your hands, that's what

you've got,' she said.

Denham looked around his garden. At the neatly manicured

lawn. The carefully tended rose bushes. The neat rockeries.

'Aye, Patsy. You might be right at that. Let me get my things.'

He walked back to the house. His wife was waiting for him

in the kitchen, the two spaniels at her feet, a black leather holdall

in her arms. She held it out to him. 'I've packed you two shirts.

And don't go above twenty a day while you're away.'

He reached over and gently cuffed her under the chin. She'd

nagged him down to a packet of cigarettes a day and was

determined that he'd give up by his sixty-fifth birthday. 'The

dogs need their walk,' said Denham.

'And they'll get it.' She kissed him softly on the cheek. 'Go

on with you,' she said. 'That helicopter's ripping the roses to

shreds.'

Denham took his fawn raincoat from the hook on the back

of the kitchen door and walked briskly to the helicopter. Patsy

had already climbed in and was talking to the pilot. The rotors

picked up speed as Denham hauled himself inside and sat down

next to her.

Martin went to a cash machine before checking into the Tower

Hotel, withdrawing two hundred pounds on each of his two

Visa cards. He booked in for one night, under the name of

Martin Sheridan. The receptionist, a young Chinese girl who

spoke with a perfect Essex accent, saw that he had only his

briefcase with him and asked if he had any luggage. Martin told

her he'd left it in the boot of his car. When he said that he'd be

settling his bill with cash she asked if he'd leave a deposit. The

Tower was mainly used by businessmen on expense accounts

with company credit cards, so Martin didn't blame her for being

suspicious.

He went straight up to the room to wait for the Special

Branch detectives. He called up room service and ordered a club

sandwich and a pot of coffee and then showered. The doorbell

rang as he was getting dressed. When he opened the door, four

heavily built uniformed policemen burst in. One of them

grappled Martin to the floor, face down. His hands were

wrestled behind his back and he felt handcuffs snap around

his wrist. 'What the hell's going on?' he shouted.

Hands gripped his shoulders and he was hauled to his

feet.

'I'm doing what I was told to. What the hell's this about?'

A blanket was thrown over his head and he was bundled out

of the door.

'Would somebody tell me what's going on?'

Martin was ignored. He was half carried, half dragged

through a door and down several flights of stairs in a stampede

of boots, then through another door. He could hear traffic and

realised he was outside. Within seconds he was thrown into the

back of a van. His shins banged against the floor and he yelped

but no one paid any attention to him. The van roared off.

Someone gripped Martin's arms and helped him on to a hard

bench seat. He knew it was pointless to say anything, so he just

sat where he was, covered in the blanket. She'd lied to him. The

Special Branch woman had lied to him.

The van drove for half an hour or so, then came to a halt, and

the policemen hauled Martin to his feet and into a building

which he presumed was a police station. He heard voices, and

the crackling of a two-way radio, then he was frogmarched

down a corridor and pushed into a room. Hands clutched at his

belt and he felt it being pulled away from his trousers, then his

shoes were torn off his feet one by one. The handcuffs were

roughly removed and he was pushed to the side. A metal door

slammed shut and there was the double click of a key being

turned in a lock. Martin listened, his chest heaving. He slowly

slid the sheet off his head and let it drop to the floor. He was

alone in a police cell. There was a low bed, nothing more than a

concrete podium with a thin plastic mattress on top, a toilet

bowl cemented to the floor, and, several feet above his head, a

window made of thick glass blocks.

Martin sat down on the bed. He couldn't work out what had

happened. He hadn't been arrested because they were supposed

to caution him and give him the chance to speak to his lawyer.

And he knew enough about the legal system to know that he

should have been processed before being thrown into a cell.

They hadn't asked his name, they hadn't charged him, they

hadn't taken away his wallet or even searched him. Whatever

had happened to him, it wasn't a straightforward arrest. He

settled back against the wall. He had no choice other than to

wait.

Mark Quinn was dying for a cigarette, but McCracken had

forbidden smoking in the offices. He was standing over his

electric wok, pushing the ammonium nitrate fertiliser around so

that it didn't overheat. On the table next to the wok was a metal

thermometer, and he pushed it into the mixture as he continued

to stir. His arms ached and his head was throbbing from the

fumes. The thermometer rose to one hundred and sixty and he

turned down the heat. He really wanted a cigarette now, but the

last time he'd asked McCracken for a break she'd given him a

withering look and told him to stick at it.

Sweat was pouring down his face and the ski mask was

making him itch furiously. He looked across at the pile of black

rubbish sacks containing the treated fertiliser. They'd only done

about a fifth. He looked over at O'Keefe, who was clearly as

unhappy as he was. This was going to take for ever. It was all

right for the Hayes woman, she didn't have to wear a mask, and

McCracken didn't seem to mind how many breaks she took.

She was forever going to get a coffee or a sandwich. Quinn

figured she was deliberately dragging her feet, trying to postpone

the moment when the bomb would be finished. If it had been

up to Quinn, he'd have given her a good slapping and told her to

get stuck in.

He rolled up the sleeves of his overalls and grinned at

O'Keefe. O'Keefe had a large tattoo on his left forearm, a lion

leaping over a flag of St George, and McCracken had told him to

keep it covered while the Hayes woman was around.

Quinn looked over to where she was sealing the powdered

fertiliser in a Tupperware container. Her shirt was damp with

sweat and it clung to her breasts. She'd rolled her sleeves up

above her elbows and had tied the bottom of her shirt in a loose

knot, exposing her stomach, which glistened with sweat. With

her hair tied back in a ponytail she looked more like a teenager

than a thirtysomething mother. She rubbed her forehead against

her upper arm, trying to brush a stray lock of blond hair out of

her eyes. The movement allowed Quinn to look down her

cleavage. He stopped stirring and stared at her breasts, the

fertiliser hissing in his wok.

She stopped what she was doing and slowly turned to look at

him. Their eyes locked and Quinn grinned. She stiffened, her

face an expressionless mask. Quinn stuck out his tongue and

licked his lips suggestively. The Hayes woman stared back at

him. He could feel the hatred pouring out of her eyes.

'Hey!' O'Keefe's yell startled Quinn and he flinched as if

he'd been stung.

'What?'

O'Keefe pointed at Quinn's wok with short, stabbing movements.

Quinn looked down. The fertiliser was starting to bubble

and smoke. Quinn cursed and frantically scraped it out of the

wok and on to the table.

O'Keefe was laughing, his hands on his hips. 'You soft

bastard,' he said.

McCracken looked up from her wok. 'What's going on over

there?'

'Shit-for-brains nearly let his fertiliser overheat.'

'The wok was too hot,' said Quinn. 'That's all.'

'For God's sake be careful,' said McCracken. 'The place is

full of fumes. Any sort of flame and the whole place'll go up.'

'I thought that was the fucking idea,' laughed O'Keefe. His

laughter echoed around the office, and McCracken shook her

head contemptuously. Quinn's cheeks reddened beneath his ski

mask. It was the Hayes woman's fault. He glared over at her and

made a silent promise to himself that he'd get his own back

before this was over.

Martin Hayes sat up as he heard the jingle of the custody

sergeant's key chain. He was on his feet when the door opened.

The sergeant stood aside and Martin found himself looking at a

middle-aged couple who looked as if they had just walked out of

a church service.

The man was in his sixties, balding and slightly overweight.

He was wearing a fawn raincoat over a greenish tweed suit and

was carrying a battered tweed hat in one hand.

The woman was younger, in her mid-forties, with skin so

white that she must have conscientiously avoided exposing it to

the sun. Her hair was cut short with a fringe, its blackness

emphasising the paleness of her face. She had bright, inquisitive

hazel eyes, and a smile that could have concealed the darkest

thoughts. Her right hand was outstretched. 'Mr Hayes? I'm

Patsy. We spoke on the phone.'

Martin found himself shaking hands before her words had

sunk in. He withdrew his hand and glared at her. 'You had me

thrown in here?' he said angrily. 'You lied to me.'

Her smile grew even wider and she nodded comfortingly,

like a nurse breaking bad news. 'I'm sorry about that, Mr Hayes,

but I had to be sure that you wouldn't go running off.' She had a

small gold crucifix on a chain around her neck, and she fingered

it with her left hand as she spoke. Around her wrist was a gold

Carrier watch.

'Are you with Special Branch?' he asked.

She didn't answer his question, but turned to her companion.

'This is Chief Inspector Liam Denham.'

Denham held out his hand. The first and second ringers were

stained brownish yellow with nicotine. 'Ex-Chief Inspector,' he

said, his harsh accent betraying his Belfast origins. 'Why don't

we go and get a cup of tea?'

'What the hell's going on?' asked Martin.

Denham pulled an apologetic face. 'Not here,' he said.

Martin looked down at his socks. 'They took my shoes. And

my belt.'

'I do apologise for that,' said Patsy. The custody sergeant

handed Martin his belongings. The two Special Branch officers

waited while Martin sat down on his bunk and slipped on his

shoes and belt, then they escorted him from the cell block,

through the custody reception area and up a flight of stairs to a

white-tiled canteen, where a group of uniformed officers were

drinking coffee.

'Tea?' asked Denham.

'Coffee. White. One sugar.'

'Let me get them, Liam,' said Patsy. She went over to the

counter while Martin and Denham sat at a corner table.

Denham dropped his tweed hat on to the table. There was a

small red fishing fly close to the brim. 'You don't fish, do you?'

he asked as he sat down.

'No. No, I don't. Sorry.' Martin felt suddenly ridiculous

apologising for not being an angler. 'Look, what the hell's this all

about?'

'Let's wait for Patsy, shall we?' said Denham. 'Save us going

over the same ground twice.'

Patsy came over with three mugs on a tray. She nodded at

one. 'That's yours, Mr Hayes. I put the sugar in for you.' Martin

took his mug. Patsy put the tray down and passed one of the

mugs over to Denham. He sipped his tea, then nodded his

appreciation at Patsy as she sat down.

'How long have you known your wife, Mr Hayes?' asked

Denham.

'Ten years.'

'And you met where?'

'Trinity. She was studying English literature.'

'And do you know what she did before that?'

Martin stared at the man for several seconds. Denham

returned his stare with no trace of embarrassment, waiting for

him to speak. 'No, not really,' said Martin eventually.

'What we're going to tell you is going to be something of a

surprise, I'm afraid,' said Denham. 'A revelation. Please, bear in

mind that we're here to help you.'

'We're on your side,' added Patsy.

They nodded in unison. Martin felt as if he were a child

being humoured by two adults, and he resented the way they

were treating him. He had a sudden urge to bang his hands on

the table, to scream at them to stop patronising him and to find

his wife and daughter. He forced himself to stay calm. He

couldn't afford to lose his temper, not in a canteen full of

policemen. 'Just tell me what the hell is going on,' he said.

Denham and Patsy looked at each other. There was an

almost imperceptible nod from Patsy, as if she were giving

Denham permission to go ahead. Martin wondered what role

she played in Special Branch. Denham had retired, so maybe

she'd taken over his job. Or perhaps she'd been his superior.

'Your wife, Mr Hayes, was once an IRA bombmaker.'

Martin's head swam. The walls of the canteen seemed to

bulge in and out, and for a moment he felt as if he was going to

faint. His eyelids fluttered and he tried to speak but no words

would come. A feeble 'What?' was all he could manage.

'She manufactured explosive devices for the Provisional Irish

Republican Army.'

'No,' said Martin flatly. 'You're not talking about my wife.'

'It was before she was your wife,' said Denham. 'When she

was in her early twenties. Before she met you.'

'You're telling me that my wife is a terrorist?'

'Oh no,' said Denham quickly. 'Oh no, that's not the

situation at all.'

'But you said she was an IRA bombmaker?'

'She was recruited by the IRA during her final year of

university.'

'At Trinity?'

Denham shook his head. 'Queen's University. Belfast. She

got a first in electrical engineering.'

Martin laughed out loud. 'Andy can't change a plug,' he

said.

Denham took a packet of cigarettes and a silver lighter from

the pocket of his raincoat. 'She was recruited by her boyfriend at

the time, and was trained by one of their most experienced

bombmakers. He was killed a year after she graduated.'

'The boyfriend?'

Denham smiled thinly. 'The bombmaker. Her mentor. She

took his place. But by that time, she was working for us.'

Denham put a cigarette between his lips but Patsy pointed at a

sign on the wall. NO SMOKING. Denham groaned and put

the cigarette back into the packet.

'Hang on a minute,' interrupted Martin. 'First you tell me

she's an IRA terrorist, now you're saying she works for Special

Branch?'

'Worked,' said Patsy. 'Past tense. This is all past tense, Mr

Hayes.'

'She'd never really been political,' continued Denham. 'I

think she got talked into it by the boyfriend.' Patsy flashed

Denham a warning look and he smiled at Martin. 'Ex-boyfriend,'

he said. 'They were only together for six months or so.

He probably only got close to recruit her.'

Patsy was smiling at Martin again, as if trying to let him know

that Andy's love for him wasn't in dispute.

'We'd had her under surveillance, almost from the moment

she was recruited, but she got wind of it. Smart girl, she was.

Took the wind out of our sails by approaching us. We persuaded

her to stay with them. Did a hell of a job, for nigh on three years.

Until the accident.'

'Accident?'

Denham scratched at a small wine-coloured birthmark on his neck. 'She'd let us know where her bombs were going to be

used, and what sort they were. Our bomb disposal boys always

had the edge. They knew which ones were booby-trapped, and

how. Some we'd let explode, providing there was no risk of loss

of life. We'd release stories to the media that soldiers had been

killed, or that a bomb disposal officer had died. Others we'd

pretend to stumble on. Get the army to send a patrol through

the area, maybe have a guy out walking his dog pretend to find

it. There were a million and one ways to make it look as if the

IRA had just been unlucky.'

There was a peal of laughter from the uniformed policemen

at the neighbouring table, and Denham waited for the noise to

die down before continuing.

'Your wife saved many, many lives, Mr Hayes. She deserved

a medal. She played a most dangerous game -- not a day went by

when her own life wasn't on the line.' He paused, tapping his

fingers on the packet of cigarettes. 'What happened was a

terrible, terrible accident. A small bomb, a few pounds of

Semtex. Set to go off with a timer. It had been placed on

the Belfast-to-Dublin rail line, under a bridge. There were two

booby traps -- a mercury tilt switch, and a photoelectric cell.

Nothing major - the bomb disposal boys were dealing with half

a dozen similar bombs every week. Your wife had tipped us off

that the bomb was being set, but she didn't know where on the

line it was going to be placed. We were waiting for the coded

call.'

Patsy sipped her tea, her eyes never leaving Martin's face, as if

she were assessing his reactions to what Denham was telling him.

'The call came, but before we could react to it, a group of

schoolchildren found the bomb.'

'Jesus Christ,' whispered Martin as he realised where the

story was heading.

Denham nodded. He moved his face closer to Martin's and

kept his voice barely above a whisper. 'Four boys died. One

crippled for life. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't anybody's fault. It

was just one of those things.'

'Jesus Christ,' said Martin again. He slumped back in his seat.

'Drink your tea,' said Patsy.

Martin lifted his mug to his lips, barely conscious of what he

was doing or where he was. The Andy he knew, the woman

he'd married, the woman he'd shared a bed with for almost a

decade, had nothing in common with the woman that Denham

was talking about. An IF^A bombmaker? A Special Branch

informer?

'She walked away,' said Denham. 'Told her IPvA bosses that

she'd built her last bomb. Told us the same. They tried to talk

her out of it, and so did we. But she was adamant.'

Martin remembered how Andy had always hated to see

reports of bombings on television. How she'd sat with tears

streaming down her face on the day that the bomb went off in

Omagh in Northern Ireland, killing twenty-eight people. He'd

sat on the sofa next to her, holding her but powerless to stop her

tears. At the time he thought he understood why she was so

upset. Everyone in Ireland was shocked to the core by the horror

of the bombing, but now he knew that there was another reason

for Andy's grief. She'd had to live with the deaths of four

innocents on her conscience, and knowing what a loving,

caring, sensitive person she was, he realised that the strain must

have been unbearable.

'She moved to Dublin. Started a new life.'

Martin shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. 'They let

her? They let her walk away from the IRA?'

'They understood why she wanted to leave. She was a

woman, and children had died. What else could they do, Mr

Hayes? They're not animals, despite what you might read in the

papers. What choice did they have?'

'So they never found out that she was working for you?'

Denham toyed with his cigarette lighter. He looked across at

the 'NO SMOKING' sign as if checking that it was still there.

'No. She cut all ties with us.'

'And Trevor? Who was Trevor?'

'Trevor was her code-name.'

There was another burst of laughter from the neighbouring

table, then the uniformed policemen stood up and filed out of

the canteen.

'This is unbelievable,' said Martin.

'I'm afraid it's all too real,' said Patsy.

Martin held his mug in both hands and stared at the remains

of his tea. The milk had curdled slightly and oily white bubbles

floated on the surface. 'That's what this has all been about, isn't

it? Her bomb-making skills?'

Patsy reached out and gently touched Martin's wrist. 'That's

why we're here, Mr Hayes. The fact that your daughter's

kidnappers wanted her to fly to London suggests that . . .'

'. . . they want her to build them a bomb. Here.'

Patsy nodded. 'Exactly.'

'Can she do it?'

'Oh yes,' said Denham. 'She can. There's absolutely no

doubt about that.'

Andy wiped the perspiration from the back of her neck with a

cloth. Her shirt was damp with sweat and stray locks of her hair

were matted to her face. Green-eyes was at the table next to her,

scraping hot fertiliser into a Tupperware container. 'Nearly

done,' she said.

'A couple of hours, I reckon,' said Andy. She nodded

towards the offices. 'Okay if I get a sandwich? I'm starving.'

'Can't you wait? Best to get this stage finished, then we'll

take a break.'

Andy tried to hide her disappointment. She wanted another

go at the briefcase locks. 'I could do with a coffee. I'm flagging.'

Green-eyes sealed the lid on the container and straightened

up. She looked across at the Runner and the Wrestler, who were

both bent over their woks. Despite the air-conditioning being

full on, the air was full of alcohol fumes and the stench of the

fertiliser. 'I guess the boys can hold the fort,' she said. 'Okay, let's

take a break.'

Andy forced a smile. 'I'll get one for you.'

Green-eyes looked suspiciously at Andy. 'Are you up to

something, Andrea?'

Andy shrugged carelessly. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'You're not deliberately dragging your feet, are you? Trying

to slow us down?'

'I just want a coffee, that's all. If it's too much trouble, forget

it.'

Green-eyes looked at Andy for a few seconds, her lips

pressed tightly together. It was an eerie feeling, being scrutinised

by someone in a ski mask, and Andy forced herself to

smile as naturally as possible. Eventually Green-eyes nodded.

'Come on.'

Andy followed her down the corridor and into the office.

Green-eyes poured two mugs of coffee and they sat down at the

long table. Green-eyes clicked sweetener into her mug. 'You

always drink your coffee without sugar?' she asked Andy.

'Since I was at university,' said Andy.

'Worried about your weight?'

Andy sipped her coffee. 'Not really. I gave up salt, too. And

cigarettes.'

'Some sort of penance?'

'Maybe. I don't know.' She put her mug down. 'Why are

you doing this?'

Green-eyes didn't answer. She stirred her coffee and stared at

the ripples on its surface.

'People are going to die if this thing goes off. A lot of people.'

'You're a fine one to talk,' said Green-eyes. 'I could ask you

the same question. You made bombs for the Provos.'

'But not like this.'

'Your bombs killed people, Andrea. Is it the numbers that

worry you? Is killing a hundred worse than killing four?'

'That was an accident. The children were in the wrong place

at the wrong time.'

'There were others, though, Andrea. Soldiers. Bomb disposal

guys. Police. What you did hasn't stopped you from living a

normal life. So why are you concerned about this bomb?'

'You're going to kill innocent people, that's why. The war's

over. It's finished.'

Green-eyes sneered at Andy and tossed the teaspoon on to

the table-top. 'Did the Brits murder any of your family, Andrea?

How many funerals have you been to, eh?'

Andy said nothing. The woman's eyes were burning with

hatred, and flecks of spittle peppered across the table.

'Well, how many?'

'None,' said Andy quietly.

'Well, I have. I buried my brother and two cousins. The SAS

murdered my brother and British paratroopers shot my cousins.

My family's been drenched in blood, and you think I should just

forgive and forget because the weaklings at the top want to sit in

an Irish Parliament?'

'Revenge?' said Andy. 'Is that what this is about? Revenge?'

'You think there's something wrong with revenge? You

think politics is a better motive? That it's okay to kill for power

but not okay to kill because they murdered my brother? I don't

give a fuck about a united Ireland. I don't give a fuck whether or

not Protestants and Catholics live together in peace and harmony.

I want revenge, pure and simple.'

'For God's sake, you're going to kill hundreds of people,

hundreds of innocent people. Jesus Christ, woman, that's not

going to bring your brother back.'

'I don't want him back. I want the people here to know

what it's like to suffer. Anyway, I don't know why you're so

concerned. You've made bombs before. You've killed people.

I'm just doing what you should have done ten years ago.'

Andy shook her head. 'That was different.' Part of her

wanted to tell Green-eyes that she'd never been a terrorist,

that all the time she'd been part of the active service unit she'd

also been a Special Branch informer. But she had no way of

knowing how Green-eyes would react to the news. She was in

enough danger already.

'Different? Why? Because what we're doing now is on a

bigger scale?'

'Because at least then there was a political dimension. It was a

means to an end. The war's over. Can't you see that?'

Green-eyes stood up. 'Come on. We've got work to do.'

Andy gestured at her mug. 'I haven't finished.'

Green-eyes picked up the mug and poured the contents on

to the floor. 'Yes you have.'

Martin stared down at the table, his mind in turmoil. None of

what he'd been told made any sense to him. It had been hard

enough to cope with the kidnapping of his daughter and the

disappearance of his wife, but being told that his wife was an

IRA bombmaker turned Special Branch informant was more

than he could cope with.

'Mr Hayes?' It was the woman. Patsy. Her first name. That

was all he knew about her.

'You're going to have to give me time to get my head

around this,' he said.

'We don't have time, Mr Hayes. We have to act now. And

we need your cooperation.'

Martin frowned. 'Cooperation?'

Patsy had a notebook in front of her, and she was holding a

slim gold pen. It looked expensive. Everything about the

woman seemed expensive. 'Who the hell are you?' Martin asked

her. 'You're no policewoman.'

'No, you're right. I'm not. All you need to know at the

moment is that Chief Inspector Denham and I are the only hope

you've got of seeing your daughter and wife again. Now, who

else knows what's happened to your family?'

Martin glared at the woman, then slowly nodded. She was

right. It wasn't her he was angry at, it was the situation he was in,

and it wasn't a situation of her making. 'The Gardai. In Dublin.

Inspector James FitzGerald. And a sergeant. Power, his name

was, I think.'

Patsy wrote the names down in her notebook.

'Two uniformed gardai called at the house. They're the ones

who took me to the Garda station.'

'Do you know their names?'

Martin shook his head. 'The secretary at Katie's school got in

touch with them..Mrs O'Mara, her name is. She's disappeared.

That's what the police say, anyway.'

'Disappeared?'

'They said she hadn't turned up for work and there was no

sign of her at her house. That's why they came to see me in the

first place. She'd telephoned me to see why Katie wasn't at

school, and I guess she'd spoken to the headmistress.'

Patsy looked across at Denham and raised an eyebrow.

Denham nodded. Martin had the feeling that each knew what

the other was thinking.

Patsy looked back at Martin. 'Anyone else?'

'I told my partner what had happened. Padraig. Padraig

Martin.'

Patsy wrote down the names. 'So your first name's Martin,

and so's his surname?'

'Yeah. That's how we became friends at school.' He

shrugged. 'It's a long story. We ended up as business partners.

We called the firm Martin and Martin. Sort of a joke.'

'What exactly did you tell your partner?' asked Denham.

Martin massaged his temples as he tried to remember the

conversation he'd had with Padraig while he was driving him up

to Belfast. 'I think I pretty much told him everything. I told him

that Katie had been kidnapped. And that the kidnappers told

Andy to go to London.'

'That's just wonderful,' said Denham under his breath. Patsy

gave him a cold look and he held up his palms apologetically.

'I had to tell him something,' said Martin. 'He's my partner.

He was nearly killed.'

'Killed? What do you mean, killed?' asked Patsy.

Martin realised he hadn't told them about the man with the gun, the man who'd shot at the BMW outside the hospital. He

quickly explained what had happened.

'This man, what did he look like?' asked Patsy.

'I didn't see his face, not really,' said Martin. 'He was average

height. Medium build. He was wearing a leather jacket. Black or

brown. And jeans, maybe.' He shook his head. 'It all happened

really quickly. He shot twice, I think. Hit the window and the

door. I didn't hear the shots, just the window going and then a

thud against the door. I had my head down most of the time.'

'What colour hair did he have?' asked Denham.

Martin shrugged. He didn't know.

'Moustache? Facial hair? A scar? Anything that made him

stick out?'

Martin shook his head. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'It was dark, and I

just wanted to get away.'

Patsy and Denham exchanged looks of frustration but said

nothing.

'That's okay, Mr Hayes,' said Patsy.

'What do you think they'll do to Katie?' asked Martin. 'The

guy who shot at me was presumably one of the kidnappers -- he

must know I've spoken to the Dublin police. What if they

He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

'I don't think they'll do anything to hurt your daughter,' said

Patsy. 'Not so long as they need your wife's co-operation. Katie

is the leverage they need to get your wife to do what they want.'

'God, I hope you're right.'

Patsy smiled reassuringly at Martin. 'We know what we're

doing, Mr Hayes. Trust us. Or at least, have faith in us.'

Martin closed his eyes and nodded. 'It doesn't look as if I've

any alternative.'

Denham toyed with his packet of cigarettes. He tapped one

side against the table. Then turned it through ninety degrees and

tapped it again. Turn. Tap. Turn. Tap. 'The note that the

kidnappers left,' he said. 'Do you still have it?'

'No. Andy took it with her.' He reached into his trouser

pocket and took out the sheet of paper he'd found behind the

hotel painting. 'This is the note she left for me in the Strand

Palace.' He gave it to Denham, who read it and passed it over to

Patsy.

'The phone conversation you told me about,' said Patsy.

'When your wife told you about this. Where were you?'

'At home. In Dublin.'

'And she called on the land line? Or your mobile?'

'The land line.'

'And she only made one call?'

Martin nodded.

'When she called you, did it sound like she was using a call

box?'

Martin shrugged. 'It sounded like a regular phone. I think

there was somebody listening, checking that she didn't say the

wrong thing.'

'But could you hear any traffic? People walking by? Any

sounds that might suggest she was outside? Or in a public place?'

Martin rubbed his face with both hands. 'I don't remember

any,' he said.

'Did you get any sense that she was calling from a land line?

Or a mobile?'

Martin shook his head. 'I'm sorry.'

Patsy smiled reassuringly, the smile of a parent consoling a

child who'd just come second. 'You're doing just fine, Mr

Hayes. Now, can you run through everything your wife said to

you when she called.'

'She was only on the line for a few seconds. She made me

promise not to go to the police. And she said they didn't want

money. That they wouldn't hurt Katie so long as I didn't go to

the police. Then she said that after it was all over, we'd go back

to Venice. I didn't know what she meant -- it was only when I

saw the picture that I realised what she was trying to say. And

that was it.'

'You're sure?'

'Yes, damn it, I'm sure.'

Patsy looked across at Denham. He raised an eyebrow.

Martin had no idea what the gesture meant.

'Did I do something wrong?'

Patsy put down her gold pen. 'No, you didn't, Mr Hayes.

But they might have done. We're going to need your help. If

she calls again.'

'You think she might?'

'It was obviously your wife who initiated the call,' said Patsy.

'It was unstructured. Unrehearsed. And the only information

imparted was that which your wife wanted to give you. It wasn't

a message from the kidnappers. If she managed to get them to

allow her one phone call, she might be able to persuade them to

let her make another. And the closer she gets to completion, the

more leverage she'll have.'

'But if she calls, I won't be there.' Martin stood up. 'God,

I've got to get back.'

Patsy gestured for him to sit down. 'We can handle that from

here.' She looked across at Denham. 'I'll get the number

transferred to Thames House.'

'You can do that?' asked Martin.

Patsy nodded. 'It's not a problem.'

'Where's this Thames House?'

'It's an office. Near Whitehall. We can use it as a base.'

'And if they call, they'll think I'm still in the house?'

'That's the idea.'

Martin scratched his chin. 'The machine's on. The answering

machine. I left a message saying that anyone who calls should try

me on my mobile.'

'You still have the mobile?'

Martin shook his head. 'It was in my hotel room. In my case.

I don't know if your goons brought it with me.'

Patsy looked pained. 'I'll get it for you. But it's best she

doesn't call the mobile. I'll get the answering machine turned

off.' She looked at her watch. 'No time like the present.' She

stood up. 'I'll make a couple of calls.'

Martin fished his house keys out and slid them across the

table.

Patsy smiled and shook her head. 'The people I'll be using

won't be needing keys, Mr Hayes.'

Andy stole glances at Green-eyes as she packed Tupperware

containers into a black rubbish bag. It was hard to judge her age because she'd never seen her without her ski mask, but she

guessed the woman was in her early thirties, probably about the

same age as herself. They were pretty much the same height and

build, and seemed to have the same taste in clothes. Under

different circumstances it was perfectly possible that they could

have been friends.

The conversation they'd had in the office had disturbed

Andy. She hadn't realised before that Green-eyes was driven by

revenge, that her motives were personal rather than political.

Andy had been clinging to the hope that the bomb she was

helping to build wasn't intended to be used, but after speaking to

Green-eyes she was certain that the woman intended to detonate

the device once it was finished.

She was equally certain that Green-eyes wasn't the prime

mover in the building of the bomb. She was working for

someone else, someone who was funding the operation and

organising it from a distance. But who? Whoever had recruited

Green-eyes must have known how fanatical she was, and how

determined she'd be to see the bomb explode. That presumably

meant that whoever was backing her also wanted to see the

bomb go off. Andy had meant what she'd said about the war

being over. The IPvA was set to achieve virtually all its aims

without compromising its stance on decommissioning; they had

nothing to gain by restarting the conflict. Andy doubted that

Green-eyes would allow herself to be used by a Protestant

terrorist organisation, so who did that leave? Terrorists from

outside the United Kingdom? Arabs maybe? The Serbs? Iraq?

Iran? Syria? Libya? Someone with the resources to pay for the

equipment, the office rental, the manpower. Someone who

knew about Andy's past.

Andy fastened the metal tie around the top of the black

plastic bag and carried it over to the pile of other bags containing

treated fertiliser. She threw it on top. The ammonium nitrate

was totally inert at this stage. Even when it was mixed with the

rest of the ingredients, it could still be handled in total safety. It

was a powerful explosive, about half the strength of commercial

dynamite, but it required a very heavy charge to detonate it.

That was what Andy was clinging to, her last hope that the

bomb wouldn't go off. Without the necessary detonator, the

pressure wave wouldn't be powerful enough to detonate all the

explosive. It might explode, but only partially, with the energy

from the initial detonation scattering the fertiliser mixture. The

building would be damaged, but not destroyed. There'd be

flying glass and debris but it would be nothing in comparison to

a successful detonation. So far Green-eyes hadn't mentioned a

detonator, and Andy was praying that the woman didn't fully

appreciate how critical it was to have the right type.

Green-eyes turned around and rubbed her knuckles into the

small of her back. 'Is that the lot?' she asked Andy.

'That's it,' said Andy.

The Wrestler and the Runner were standing by the water

cooler, large, damp patches of sweat under the armpits of their

overalls. It was in the high eighties, even with the thermostat set

to its lowest level and the fans full on. As Andy watched, the

Wrestler took offhis shoulder holster and draped it on top of the

cooler.

Andy went over to the line of ovens and switched them off.

'Now what?' asked Green-eyes.

Andy gestured at the cans of diesel oil. 'We mix the fertiliser

with the aluminium powder and the diesel oil. But you don't

want to do that until the last moment. Until you're ready for the

last phase.'

'Why?' asked Green-eyes suspiciously.

'It starts to break down. Gives off hydrogen as a byproduct.

It's a slow process, but the hydrogen is explosive, so you don't

want it hanging around too long.'

Green-eyes looked at her watch.

'Okay. We start mixing tomorrow.'

Egan kept the Ford Scorpio below seventy as he drove towards

London. The ferry crossing from Dun Laoghaire had been

uneventful, if a little choppy, but Egan was a seasoned sailor

and had managed a hearty meal in one of the restaurants before

they'd docked at Holyhead.

He hadn't expected any problems -- checks on travellers

between Ireland and the United Kingdom were perfunctory at

best -- but he hadn't even glimpsed a Customs officer or

policeman as he. drove off the ferry. Not that Egan would

have been worried if he had been pulled in for a random

check -- the Semtex explosive and detonators were well

hidden within a secret compartment inside the petrol tank.

The only way they could be discovered was if the tank were

dismantled, and that was unlikely in the extreme. Any smuggling,

be it drugs or arms, was generally into Ireland, not out

of it.

Egan had taken the explosive from a farmer in Dundalk who

had been put in charge of an IRA arms cache back in the early

eighties. It was part of a consignment sent from Libya, and had

been buried in a plastic dustbin swathed in black polythene. The

farmer and his wife had dug up the dustbin as Egan had stood

over them with his Browning. He'd taken only as much as he

needed -- six kilograms. And a pack of Mark 4 detonators. The

rest had gone back in the bin and into the ground, along with

the bodies of the farmer and his wife.

Liam Denham looked around the office and nodded appreciatively.

'They certainly look after you, Patsy.'

Patsy sat down in the high-backed leather chair and folded

her arms across the blotter on the rosewood desk. Her back was

to a large window with an impressive view over the river,

looking east towards Waterloo station. There were several oil

paintings on the walls, portraits of old men in wigs, resplendent

in massive gilt frames, and the carpet was a rich blue and so thick

that it threatened to engulf Denham's battered Hush Puppies.

'Don't be ridiculous, Liam. This isn't mine.'

'Even so . . .' said Denham, settling into one of two wing

backed armchairs that faced the desk. 'It's a damn sight more

impressive than my old shoe box.' Patsy gave him a severe look

and he held up his hands to placate her. 'I'm just happy that

you're doing so well. It must be satisfying to be given the

necessary resources to do the job.' He gestured at one of the

paintings. 'That there would probably have paid my staffs

overtime bill for a year.'

'Special Branch, I seem to recall, was never kept wanting,'

said Patsy. 'How's Hayes?'

'He's in the canteen with Ramsey. Good lad, Ramsey. One

of the new breed, I suppose?'

'He's not Oxbridge, if that's what you mean. But then, Liam,

neither was I. Anyway, let's keep to the business at hand, shall

we? The phone divert's in place, and if she calls again, GCHQ

will track it. I reckon it'll turn out to be a mobile, so we're not

going to be able to get an accurate fix, but it should narrow it

down for us.'

'We're assuming London?'

Patsy sighed and ran her fingers around the blotter. 'I don't

think we can, Liam. My gut feeling is yes, it'll be the capital, but

we'll both have egg on our faces if they blow up Manchester,

won't we?' Denham took his packet of cigarettes out and

showed it to Patsy. 'They're not my lungs, and it's not my

office,' she said. Denham lit up and inhaled gratefully. It had

been three hours since he'd last had a cigarette. Patsy picked up a

mobile phone and passed it over to Denham. 'It's a digital GSM,'

she said. 'But it's not secure, so . . .'

'Mum's the word?'

Patsy smiled. 'Exactly.' Denham slipped the phone into his

jacket pocket.

'Do you think the husband is up to it?' Patsy asked.

'I think so. They're going to expect him to be nervous,

anyway. All he has to do is to keep her talking.' He looked

around for an ashtray and Patsy pushed a crystal dish towards

him. He flicked ash into it, and waited for her to continue.

'Has he asked you what we're doing to find his daughter?'

'Not yet. No.'

'That's something.'

'What are you going to tell him when he does?'

'That we're doing everything we can.'

Denham blow smoke up towards the ceiling. There were

elaborate plaster carvings of fruit around the central light fitting.

The only decoration in Denham's old office had been a smoke

alarm missing a battery. 'And if he realises that we're not?'

'Liam, our first priority is to prevent them exploding whatever

device it is that Andrea Hayes is building for them. If we

make any attempt to locate the girl, they'll know we're on to

them.'

'So we do nothing to find the girl?'

'There's nothing we can do, not without showing our hand.'

Denham took a long pull on his cigarette and looked at the

ceiling again.

'We find them here first, then they'll tell us where the girl is,'

said Patsy. 'But the converse isn't true. In fact, I'd bet money that

the kidnappers in Ireland don't know the full details of what's

going on here.'

Denham nodded. She was right. But he didn't think that

Martin Hayes would see it her way. 'And what exactly is it you

want from me?' he asked. 'Why've I been brought in from the

cold?'

'Hardly the cold, Liam. You've a very nice pension, from

what I hear. Certainly more than I'll be getting when I retire.

The government has always been more than generous to its

employees in the North.'

'I was sacked, Patsy.'

'You retired.'

Denham gave her a tight smile.

'You were the only one who dealt with Trevor. You're the

only one who knows how she'll react.'

'I've not seen or spoken to her in ten years.'

'You're all we have. You and her husband. But even her

husband doesn't know her the way you do.'

Denham tapped ash into the ashtray. 'People change.'

'Of course they do. But you were with her when she was

under the most pressure. When her life was on the line. She

knew what they'd do to her if they ever found out she was

betraying them. And you were the only one she could confide

in.' She paused for a while. The only sound in the room was the

ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece, a big polished oak

monstrosity, around a tiled fireplace in which stood a vase of

dried flowers. To the side of the fireplace was a large brass scuttle

filled with chunks of wood. Denham could imagine the fire

burning cheerfully on winter days. His own office, in a fortified

concrete bunker in north Belfast, had had a single-bar electric

fire that didn't even take the edge off the winter days. 'Liam, I

have to know. Given the choice between the life of her

daughter and the hundreds of lives that could be lost if a device

went off in a mainland city -- what would she do?'

Denham shrugged. He took another long pull on his cigarette

and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. He exhaled slowly.

'You know why she walked away?'

'Because four children died.'

'Four died and one mutilated. It damn near destroyed her. It

didn't matter to her how many lives she'd saved. She came close

to killing herself. She had the tablets and everything.' He

stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. 'She didn't turn up

for a meeting we'd arranged so I broke all the rules and went

looking for her. Found her sitting on her bed with the tablets out

and a bottle of vodka.'

'I read the file. It wasn't her fault.'

'I knew that. I think she knew that, too. Deep down. But it

was children, Patsy. That's what pushed her over the edge. So

think what her own daughter means to her. She'll do anything.

Whatever it takes. She'd die for her.'

Patsy reached for the cross around her neck and stroked it as

she studied Denham with unblinking eyes. 'But we're not

talking about her giving up her life for her daughter's, are

we? Would she kill others? Would she allow others to be killed?

If it meant saving her own daughter?'

Denham stared at one of the oil paintings. A cruel face. A

pinched mouth. White cheeks with smears of rouge. Watery

eyes. 'She's an intelligent girl, is Andrea. Smart as a whip. Got a

first at Queen's, you know? Top of her year. By far. I never won

an argument with her, not in all the time I ran her. You'd never

know, not to look at her, because she was so damn pretty. The

softest blond hair you ever saw. Blue eyes that you felt you could

just dive into. And her figure. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the heads

she turned.'

'And you a married man,' said Patsy, shaking her head and

smiling. 'What's your point, Liam? That pretty girls aren't

expected to be intelligent?'

'The point is, she's going to work out what we both know

already. That if they are forcing her to build a bomb, they're not

going to want her around after it goes off. They're going to want

her dead. And if they're going to kill Andrea, they've really

nothing to lose by killing the little girl, too.'

He looked at Patsy. She looked back at him, her face giving

nothing away.

'She'll know that,' Denham continued. 'She'll know that if

she doesn't do what they want, the girl will die. And she'll know

that if she does do what they want, the girl will die.'

'Which leaves her where?'

'Looking for a third way.'

'Which is?'

Denham's mouth twisted as if he had a bad taste in his

mouth. 'She's the one with the first, Patsy.'

'But she'll be building the bomb?'

'Definitely. Because so long as she's in the process of

constructing it, they won't hurt the girl.'

'Which gives us how long?'

'Oh, come on now, Patsy. How long's a piece of string?'

'Assuming it's a big one. A spectacular?'

'A week. Give or take.'

'That's what I figured. So we've got a couple of days. Maybe

three.'

Denham nodded. He stretched his legs out and crossed them

at the ankles. His Hush Puppies had seen better days -- the suede

was stained and the laces were fraying.

'There's something else I need you to do, Liam.'

Denham nodded slowly. 'I was wondering when you'd get

around to it.'

'Somebody's going to have to ask him. And I think it'd be better coming from you.'

Denham lit another cigarette. At the height of the Troubles

he'd smoked eighty a day, and he could feel the old cravings

returning.

'There's a plane waiting. A bit rough-and-ready, I'm afraid.

And a car outside. I'll have transport arranged for you in Belfast.'

'You know where he is?'

Patsy smiled. 'Every minute of every day,' she said. 'I'm

going to address the troops.'

She walked down the office to the briefing room. Twenty

expectant faces looked up at her as she went over to where two

whiteboards were mounted on the wall. The blinds were drawn

and the overhead fluorescent lights were on. 'Right, let's get

straight to it, shall we?' she said.

Just over half the operatives in the room were female, and

almost all were under thirty, a reflection of the changing face of

the Security Service. Young, enthusiastic, and not necessarily

educated at Oxford or Cambridge. It was a change that Patsy

approved of, and had herself benefited from. Most of them were

sitting around a long light oak table, notepads in front of them.

Two of the younger men stood by the double doors, and they

closed them as she stood in front of one of the whiteboards. There were four photographs stuck to it. Three of them were of

Andrea Hayes, one was of Katie.

Patsy pointed at one of the photographs of Andrea, a head and shoulders shot that had been in an album retrieved from the

Hayes house when the answering machine had been turned off.

'Andrea Hayes. Housewife, thirty-four years old.' She tapped

the photograph next to it. Another head-and-shoulders shot,

this one a blow-up of a passport photograph taken twelve years

earlier. 'In a previous life, Andrea Sheridan. Top IRA bomb

maker and Special Branch informer. She is presently in the UK,

and active. Not by choice.' She tapped the photograph of Katie.

'Her daughter, Katie. Seven years old. Kidnapped from their

home in Dublin.'

She tapped the first photograph of Andy. 'Someone wants

her to build a bomb. Presumably a big one. At this stage, I don't

really care why. Why we can work out later. As to when, we

think the bomb's likely to be completed within the next few

days. Assuming it's a massive fertiliser bomb, which was Andrea

Sheridan's speciality, once the ingredients are mixed, their shelf

life is limited. A week at most. So we're looking at a timeframe

of between two days and ten. So, these are our priorities. We

need to know who's building the bomb, and we need to know

where the bomb is. As regards who, we have video of a vehicle

leaving a carpark in Covent Garden.'

She moved across to the second whiteboard. There were six

photographs stuck to it. One was a grainy black-and-white print

that had been blown up from a still taken from the closed-circuit

television video at the carpark in Covent Garden. She tapped it

with her marker pen. 'This van has the name of a garden

landscaping firm on the side, though you can't see it on the

video. Andrea Sheridan is in the back. We've run a check on the

registration number. The van is owned by a company in the

Midlands. It's being checked out as we speak, but I don't

recommend anyone holding their breath. This has been too

well planned for it to be as easy as that.' She pointed to the

portion of the photograph showing the van's windscreen. 'Two

occupants. Male. They're sitting well back but we can just about

make out the bottom of the passenger's face and three-quarters

of the driver's. Our technical boys are working on the video

now. We've also got all the tickets handed in that day and we're

looking for the one that corresponds to their exit time. If we get

it, we get the driver's prints.'

She folded her arms and moved away from the whiteboard.

'Whoever they are, the two men in the van aren't working

alone. So what are the possibilities? We think it unlikely it's the

IRA, or anyone else in the Republican movement. Let me

rephrase that. We think it unlikely that they're acting for the

Republican movement. If it was in any way official, there'd be

no need for the kidnapping. In fact, there'd be no need for them

to use Andrea Sheridan. Her expertise is a decade out of date.

What we believe is happening is that someone wants it to appear

that there is an IRA involvement. Now, that leads to two lines

of enquiry. First, someone within the IRA must have offered up

Andrea Sheridan. Her role as a bombmaker was known to less

than a dozen people. Only one man within RUC Special

Branch knew what her position was. Chief Inspector Liam

Denham. Ex-Chief Inspector. He's working with us on this.

Chief Inspector Denham is hoping to obtain a list of those

members of the IRA who knew of Andrea Sheridan. We have

some names already. She was recruited while still at university by

one Denis Fisher. Fisher was killed in London in 1992.'

There were five photographs underneath the surveillance

shot of the van. All head-and-shoulder pictures that had been

blown up. Patsy waved at them. 'These are the five members of

her active service unit during the time she was active.' She

tapped the photographs one by one.

'James Nolan. The late James Nolan. Scored an own goal in

Hammersmith in '93 and blew himself out of a third-floor bedsit

in a couple of dozen pieces.'

Several of the agents laughed, but they stopped when she

gave them a frosty look. 'Thomas Kennedy. Last heard of in

Kilburn, north London. Michael and Gordon, he's yours.'

Michael Jenner and Gordon Harris, who were sitting at the

far end of the table in almost identical dark blue suits, nodded in

acknowledgment.

'Eugene Walsh. Managed to win the green card lottery a

couple of years back and is now working for a diving company

in the Florida Keys. Our Miami office is looking for him.'

The fourth face was the youngest of the group, still in his

twenties. Patsy pointed at it. 'Shay Purcell. The ASU's runner.

He was barely eighteen when he was active. He's in Mountjoy

Prison in Dublin, midway through a Life sentence. Killed his

girlfriend with a bread knife so he's not regarded as political and

won't be getting early release. We'll be speaking to him there.'

She tapped the final picture. 'Brendan Tighe. Still in Belfast.

He turned informer about four years back. He's still in the IRA,

deep cover, and we know he's sound.'

She turned back to the whiteboard and with a blue marker

pen wrote the word 'TREVOR' in capital letters.

'Her code-name within Special Branch was Trevor. As of

now, that's how she's to be referred to. I don't want to hear the

names Andrea Sheridan or Andrea Hayes referred to outside this

room. Once we have the list, we'll be bringing them in, one and

all.'

She put the cap back on her marker. 'So, who is behind this if

it's not the IRA?' She held up her hand and raised her index

finger. 'One. A Protestant group wanting to implicate the IRA

in a terrorist outrage.' She counted offa second finger. 'Two. A

terrorist group within the United Kingdom. Muslims. Right

wing groups. Animal activists. You name it.' She held up a third

finger. 'Three. A terrorist group from outside the United

Kingdom. Iraq. Iran. Libya. You know the possibilities as well

as I do.' Several of the agents nodded. Patsy held up a fourth

ringer. 'Four. Some other group. Some other reason. If anyone

here has any thoughts, I'd Like to hear them.'

No one in the room had any suggestions. Patsy hadn't

expected any, not at such an early stage in the investigation.

'So, we trawl through all the intelligence we have, looking for

possibilities. Anyone who isn't where they should be. Anyone

recently arrived in this country who might be behind something

Like this. Anyone who's suddenly gone underground. Speak to

all your contacts. But tactfully. We don't want to make waves.'

One of the men by the door raised a hand. It was Tim

Fanning, a relatively recent recruit from a City stockbroking firm where he'd worked as an analyst. 'Yes, Tim?'

'What about the Americans?'

'I'll be contacting the CIA officially for details of American

terrorist activity,' said Patsy.

'I meant as possible targets,' said Fanning. 'Their embassies

have been hit worldwide.' He grinned. 'They're even blowing

up Planet Hollywood outlets these days.'

'Good point, and one that brings us to the question of where.

Tim's right -- the target could be an American institution here in

the UK. Or it could be any one of a hundred targets. Downing

Street. The City. The Houses of Parliament. It doesn't even

have to be in London. It could, quite literally, be anywhere. So,

how do we narrow down the location?' She tapped the

photograph of the van. 'First, we chase down this vehicle.

Parking tickets. Police reports. CCTVs. Has it been to Ireland?

Been involved in any accidents? It's four years old, so who used

to own it?' She pointed to three women sitting at the far end of

the table. 'Lisa, Anna, Julia, that's your priority. You know Peter

Elfinan?' All three nodded. 'He's checking up on the landscaping

company. Liaise with him.'

Patsy nodded at the oldest man in the room, David Bingham.

He was in his mid-forties but his hair had gone prematurely grey

while at university and his skin was weathered and peppered

with broken veins from years pursuing his love of dinghy sailing.

He had worked in Dublin for eighteen months prior to the 1994

IPvA ceasefire, and had only just returned to Thames House after

a two-year posting to Ml5's Belfast office, where he'd been

Patsy's number two. He was hard-working and totally trustworthy,

and more than once she'd been grateful for his safe pair

of hands. He also did the best impersonation of Gerry Adams

that she'd ever heard.

'David, if and when we locate the men in the van, we're

going to want to know where they've been. I'd like you and

Jonathan to handle that. Keep on top of the technical boys.'

David nodded at her and then flashed a smile across at Jonathan

Clare. Clare was ten years younger than Bingham, but they'd

worked together briefly in Belfast. 'I'd also like the two of you to

liaise with Chief Inspector Denham when he gets back from

Northern Ireland. If he does manage to obtain a list of IRA

members who knew about Trevor's role as a bombmaker, other

than those names we already have, it has to be our first priority.

Any resources you need, you only have to ask.'

There was a stack of folders on a table against the window,

and at Patsy's signal Lisa Davies and Anna Wallace began

distributing them. 'The folders contain full briefing notes and

copies of the photographs. They're not to leave this room.

There's to be no contact with the police, at any level, without

prior clearance from me. No phone calls to pals in Special

Branch or Anti-Terrorism. I don't want to see this on the front

page of the Daily Mail, okay?'

Nodding heads responded.

'Good. That's the state of play. This room is our operations

centre. If I'm not here I'll be in Jason Hetherington's office

down the corridor. Tim, would you come with me? You too,

Barbara.'

Fanning opened the door for her and walked with her to

Hetherington's office. Behind them followed Barbara Carter, a

twenty-six-year-old psychology graduate who Patsy knew was

originally from Dublin. Patsy closed the office door behind them

and waved them over to the two armchairs in front of her desk.

'I've got something special for the two of you,' she said, sitting down. 'Martin Hayes is going to need his hand held through

this, and I'm not going to be able to be with him all the time.

Until this is resolved I want one of you to be with him at all

times, and ideally I'd like you both there for as much of the time

as is humanly possible. No going home, no popping into the

gym. If one of you wants to use the loo, the other sticks with

Hayes. When he sleeps, one of you stays in the room with him.

Every minute of every hour of every day.'

The two agents nodded. They were both single and had no

regular partners, so Patsy knew it wouldn't be too much of an

inconvenience for them. In fact, they made a good-looking

couple. He was tall with a runner's build and a crop of thick,

blond hair. Carter was a few inches shorter with high cheekbones

and long chestnut hair that she normally had tied back in a

ponytail. They were both stylish dressers -- he favoured dark Boss

double-breasted suits and she generally wore well-fitting suits in

pastel shades, usually cut just above the knee. There was clearly

no attraction between the two of them, however. No sideways

looks, no cute smiles when they thought no one was watching.

Patsy had a keen eye for intra-office relationships and there was

no sign of one developing, which was one of the reasons she'd

given them the job of baby-sitting Martin Hayes.

She could see from the look on Farming's face that he wasn't

happy about the assignment as he slowly folded his arms across

his chest. He was keen to be part of the team chasing the

bombmaker and obviously regarded looking after the husband as

being sidelined. If Carter was disappointed, she hid it well, smiling amiably with her Mont Blanc pen poised over a small

leather-bound notebook that Patsy thought might have a

Chanel logo on the front.

'There's something I didn't mention at the briefing, and I

want it to remain between us, for the time being at least.'

Patsy had to resist the urge to smile as she saw Farming's

reaction. His whole body language changed. He uncrossed his

legs and leaned forward expectantly, eager to hear what she had

to say.

'They allowed her to phone her husband. On Sunday.'

Fanning and Carter both raised their eyebrows in surprise.

'Little was said, just that she was okay. And that there was

something she had to do for them. She was obviously being

closely monitored during the call, but our feeling is that if she

managed to convince them to allow her to make one call, she

should be able to do it again the closer she gets to completion.'

'Hell of an error,' said Fanning. 'Considering our technical

capabilities.'

'Most of which isn't public knowledge,' said Patsy. 'Besides,

the husband had been told not to contact the police. That if he

did, his daughter would be killed. I think that under the

circumstances they'd be justified in thinking that a tap would

be unlikely in the extreme. Whatever, they allowed the call, and

if they allowed one, they might allow another. Or, a more likely

scenario in my opinion, she'll find a way of getting to a phone

without them knowing. Either way, we've arranged with British

Telecom and Telecom Eireann to have all calls to the Hayes

house to be routed to an office here.' She nodded at the door to

an adjoining room. 'In there, in fact. So far as the caller's

concerned, they'll be through to the house. We'll be running

a trace, but I doubt they'll be on long enough. Still, nothing

ventured . . .'

'There is the possibility that she'll ask to speak to her

daughter, of course,' said Carter.

Patsy nodded. 'That's where it gets complicated,' she said.

'We'll be monitoring all England--Ireland phone traffic, looking

for key words. But that's going to be done through GCHQ. I've

already been in touch with our liaison officer at Cheltenham.

But even if we do locate the daughter, she's not our prime

concern. Though Mr Hayes must absolutely not be aware of

that. Are we clear?'

Fanning and Carter nodded. Patsy put her hands flat on the

desk blotter and pushed herself up. 'Right,' she said, let's get to

it.'

They said barely half a dozen words during the drive from the

airport. They were both tall, wearing Barbour jackets over suits,

and Denham figured that their combined ages just about

equalled his own sixty-five years. Denham sat in the back of

the Rover and stared at the back of their heads. They were both

balding. The driver had a bare patch the size of a fifty-pence

piece is the other hadn't done so well in the genetics lottery and

had a bald spot as big as a saucer. Denham wondered if it was

stress-related. In his early days with the RUC he'd had a thick

crop of black hair that required a handful of gel to keep it in

place; it was only when he'd transferred to Special Branch that

he'd started to lose it.

They'd been waiting for him on the tarmac, the rear door of

the Rover already open for him as he walked off the RAF

Hercules transporter and down the metal stairway. He hadn't

asked where they were going. It didn't matter. All that mattered

was the man he was going to see.

They drove north towards Antrim, and Denham felt a touch

of sadness as they passed within five miles of his own house.

Under any normal circumstances he'd have asked the men to

make a quick detour, but the mission he was on was too

important. His wife would have to wait.

He lit another cigarette, his third since he'd got into the

Rover. When he'd lit the first one the driver had coughed

pointedly, but Denham had ignored him. He looked around the

back of the car for an ashtray but there wasn't one, so he was

reduced to flicking his ash out of a gap in the window, though

more often than not the slipstream blew it back into the car.

They joined the M22 and headed west with the vast expanse

of Lough Neagh to their left, until the motorway merged into

the A6. Just past Castledawson they turned right and started

driving along smaller country roads. The driver was good,

Denham had to admit. He drove quickly but safely, and wasn't

averse to switching lanes and driving on the wrong side of the

road if it meant he had a better view of what lay ahead. He was

constantly checking the mirrors, but Denham doubted that

anyone would have been able to keep up with them. The

speedometer rarely fell below seventy as they sped between the

fields.

The car eventually came to a halt by a stone bridge. The

driver turned around to look at Denham and nodded, just once.

'You boys stay with the car,' Denham said. He climbed out of

the Rover, dropped the remains of his cigarette on to the damp

grass and trod it into the soil. The sun was a hand's width from

the horizon and reddening, and Denham buttoned up his

raincoat. He walked down towards the fast-flowing stream,

holding his arms out for balance as his Hush Puppies skidded and

slipped along the muddy gravel path.

The man standing in the stream must have heard Denham

coming, but he didn't turn his head. He flicked the rod in his

hand and a fly whisked through the air and plopped almost

silently on to a quiet stretch of water close to the far bank.

'You always did have a hell of a smooth cast, Mr McCormack,'

said Denham. Only then did Thomas McCormack turn

to acknowledge his presence.

'I'm told you're no mean fisherman yourself, Chief Inspector

Denham..'

McCormack turned his back on Denham and wound in his

line. He was wearing bright green waders, a quilted waistcoat

over a thick green pullover, and on his head was a shapeless

tweed hat that could have been a close cousin to the one

Denham was wearing.

'It's Mr Denham now. Retired almost ten years now.'

'Oh, I know that, Chief Inspector.'

'Same as you know I'm a fisherman?'

McCormack flicked his rod again and sent the fly high into

the air, nodding with satisfaction as it dropped on to the same

stretch of water as before. 'We knew about the little stream

you used to favour, up by Ballymena. Lovely spot, with the

beech trees right up to the water's edge.' He turned to look at

Denham as he wound in his line. 'Could have got you any

time, Chief Inspector. Before or after your retirement.' He

grinned mischievously. 'But that's all water under the bridge

now, isn't it?'

Denham tapped a cigarette out and lit it.

'Still on eighty a day?' asked McCormack.

'Down to twenty,' said Denham.

'The wife?'

'Yes, the wife,' sighed Denham.

'Where would we be without them, huh?'

'Indeed.' Denham tilted his head back and blew smoke up

into the darkening sky.

'So, would this be a social call, Chief Inspector?'

'I'm afraid not.' <¦

'You won't mind if I carry on casting, will you? There's a

beautiful trout, five pounds if it's an ounce, lurking under those

leaves over there.'

'You go for it, Mr McCormack.' There was a tree trunk on

its side a few steps away from Denham and he went over and sat

on it. McCormack made three more casts, and each time the fly

dropped into the same part of the stream.

'What do you think? Too big?'

'Maybe something brighter?' suggested Denham. 'The light's

going.'

'Aye, you could be right,' said McCormack. He wound in

the line and replaced his fly with a slightly bigger one that had a

splash of yellow in its tail.

'Andrea Sheridan,' said Denham. 'Remember her?'

McCormack's eyes narrowed. He looked at Denham for

several seconds without speaking. 'That's a name from the past,

right enough. Retired, like yourself'

Denham nodded and took a long pull on his cigarette.

Thomas McCormack was an old adversary, and peace process

or no peace process, he was a man to be handled with care. With

his horn-rimmed spectacles and grey hair, he looked like an

elderly schoolmaster, but for many years he'd been a hardline

member of the IRA's Army Executive.

'Maybe. Maybe not.'

'No doubt about it, Chief Inspector. She retired about the

same time you did.' McCormack's head tilted to the side like

that of an inquisitive bird. He looked as if he was going to say

something, but instead he turned his back on Denham again and

flicked the new fly out over the water. It fell short by more than

four feet and he tutted to himself.

'We think that there's a chance she's active again.'

'Impossible,' said McCormack.

'Perhaps against her will.'

McCormack wound in his line and cast again. Just as the fly

plopped on to the water, a big speckled trout seemed to leap

from the depths, its mouth agape. It engulfed the fly and

disappeared back under the surface. McCormack hauled in

the fish and carefully extracted the fly before holding it up to

show Denham. 'Six pounds, I'll bet,' he said.

'Hell of a catch,' agreed Denham.

McCormack bent down and lowered the trout into the

stream. He let the fish swim free and then straightened up. He

waded over to the bank. Denham stood up and offered him his

hand and helped him climb out of the water. McCormack

nodded his thanks and the two men sat together on the tree

trunk. McCormack took a small pewter flask from his waistcoat

pocket and offered it to Denham. Denham shook his head and

gestured at the cigarette in his hand. 'One vice is enough,' he

said.

McCormack chuckled as he unscrewed the top of his flask

and took a swig. He smacked his lips appreciatively. 'What do

you mean, against her will?' he asked.

'She has a child. A daughter. Katie. The child's been

kidnapped. No ransom, but the kidnappers told Andrea to fly

to London. Now she's disappeared.'

McCormack took another swig from his flask, then replaced

its top and put it back in his waistcoat pocket.

'And you're suggesting what, Chief Inspector?'

'I'm not suggesting anything. I'm looking for guidance.'

McCormack wound in his line and began to disassemble his

rod.

'I figure that your people wouldn't need to kidnap the little

girl to get the mother to do what you wanted. Presumably

you've always known where she was.'

'As have you, it seems.'

Denham blew smoke towards the setting sun. 'So, I'm ruling

out an official operation. An official IRA operation.'

'I'm glad to hear that,' said McCormack, slipping the sections

of his rod into a canvas bag.

'I was thinking perhaps a splinter group?'

'Very doubtful,' said McCormack. 'Gerry and Martin

wouldn't stand for it.'

'Real IRA? Continuity?'

'Spent forces,' said McCormack, tying up the bag.

'Anyone new? The Dundalk boys getting restless?'

'Not that I've heard. It's all about the ballot box these days.'

McCormack propped the bag against the tree trunk and

stretched out his legs. 'It's not Republican, Chief Inspector. You

should be looking at the other side of the fence.'

'Maybe. But how would they know about her?'

McCormack looked across at Denham, his eyes narrowing. 'I

might be asking you the same question.'

Denham stared into the distance.

'Jesus Christ,' said McCormack, his voice little more than a

whisper. 'She was working for you.'

It wasn't a question, and Denham knew there was no point

in denying it. He'd known that the moment he asked McCormack

about Andrea Sheridan he'd be showing his hand. And

that if he expected to get McCormack's help, he'd have to tell

him everything.

'For how long?' asked McCormack.

'From day one. Pretty much.'

McCormack shook his head slowly. 'My God. She must

have iced water for blood.' He pushed his spectacles higher up

his nose. 'Every bomb, every one she made, you knew about it?'

Denham shrugged but didn't say anything.

'But the people that died? The soldiers? The bomb disposal

. . .' His voice tailed off as realisation dawned. 'You faked it.

You faked them all. You cunning old fox . . .' He took out his

hip flask and took a long drink from it, then wiped his mouth

with the back of his hand. 'Except for the kids. Something went

wrong. The kids died, and she walked away. And you. You got

the push.'

'Somebody had to carry the can. And she was my agent.'

McCormack put the top back on his flask. 'Funny old world,

huh? You think you know someone . . . You think you can

trust someone . . .'

The bottom of the sun was touching the horizon. Denham

turned up the collar of his raincoat. 'It's history, Thomas.

Ancient history.' It was the first time he'd ever called McCormack

by his first name.

'Aye. Maybe you're right.'

'But about the matter in hand. You realise what'11 happen if

it goes off? Her fingerprints will be all over it. Her signature.'

'Which is presumably why they're using her. You don't have

to paint a picture for me, Liam. We've as much to lose as you do

if they succeed.'

'So you'll help?'

'I don't see that I've any choice.' He smiled thinly. 'It's a

turn-up for the books, isn't it?'

Denham flicked the end of his cigarette into the stream.

'Aye. It's an ever-changing world, right enough. So, who knew

about her? Apart from the two of us.'

Martin paced up and down, staring at the floor. It was six paces

from one side of the office to the other. Six paces. Turn. Six

paces. Turn. He had his arms crossed and the tips of his fingers

were digging into his sides, hard enough to hurt, except that

Martin was beyond feeling any physical discomfort.

'Mr Hayes, please. Try to relax.' Martin looked up, his mind

a million miles away. He frowned at Carter, his eyes blank.

'Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?'

Martin bunked several times like a hypnotist's subject coming

out of a trance. 'What? Sorry?'

'A drink? Do you want tea or something?'

'Coffee, maybe. Yes. Coffee. Thanks.' He started pacing

again.

Carter and Fanning exchanged worried looks. Carter

shrugged, not sure what to say or do to put Martin at ease.

She stood up, and raised an enquiring eyebrow at Fanning. He

shook his head. He rarely touched tea or coffee. On the table in

front of them, next to two telephones and a digital tape recorder,

were two bottles of water and two glasses. It was all they'd

touched since starting their vigil with Martin. It had been four

hours and neither of the phones had rung.

When Carter went out to get the coffee, Fanning suggested

that Martin sit down. There were two sofas in the office, large

enough to sleep on, and there was a small bathroom off to the

side, so that there was no need for Martin to leave the room.

Patsy Ellis had made it clear that Martin was to remain confined

to the office, but that hadn't been a problem -- he'd shown no

desire to leave. All he'd done was to pace up and down and from

time to time to stare at the silent phones.

The black phone was the line that had been diverted from

the Hayes home in Dublin. The white phone was a direct line to

Patsy Ellis's mobile. At least half a dozen times Martin had asked

if they were sure the phones were working. Fanning had assured

him that they were.

'I can't sit,' said Martin.

'There's nothing you can do,' said Fanning, loosening his tie

a little. 'The ball's in your wife's court. We just have to wait.'

'But what if she doesn't ring? What if they don't let her use

the phone?'

Fanning winced. He was an only child, he'd never been

married and his parents were fit and healthy - he'd never had to

deal with the death of a relative or a friend, never mind a wife or

child. He could only imagine the torment that Martin was going

through, and while he wanted to put the man's mind at rest, he

didn't want to he to him.

'Tim, what if she's dead already? What if they're both dead?

Oh, God.' Martin dropped down on to one of the sofas and sat

with his head in his hands.

Fanning stood up and went over to him. He put a tentative

hand on his shoulder. 'Everyone here's doing everything they

can, Mr Hayes. I can promise you that.'

Martin closed his eyes and shook his head. 'I don't think it's

going to be enough.' He bunched his hands into fists and banged

them down on his knees. Fanning took his hand off Martin's

shoulder and sat down next to him.

'Patsy's right,' said Fanning. 'The closer your wife is to

completing the device, the more leverage she has. She'll know

that. There'll come a point where she'll be able to put pressure

on them. She'll call.'

'But the guy that shot at me? He must have been,, one of

them, right? He'll know that I'm not at home. Why would he

let Andy call me if he knows I'm not at home?'

'We don't know,' admitted Fanning. 'Patsy said that maybe

your wife would be able to get to a phone herself, without them

knowing.'

Martin grimaced. 'That's hardly likely, is it?'

'It's a possibility. And just because you were attacked doesn't

mean they know you've left the country, does it? They've no

way of knowing where you are. For all they know, you could

have returned home.'

'So she calls, then what? I know phone traces aren't infallible.

Things go wrong.'

'You're going by what you see in the movies, Mr Hayes. It's

not like that. With a digital exchange, we can get the number

almost immediately. And a trace within seconds. Even with a

mobile. If she's in the City, we'll know to within a hundred feet

where she is.'

Martin leaned back so that his head rested on the back of the

sofa. 'And Katie? What about my daughter?'

'If we get the terrorists making the bomb, we'll find her.'

Martin wiped his hands over his face as if he were wiping

away tears, though his cheeks were dry. 'There's too many "ifs",

Tim. Too many fucking "ifs". Are the Gardai looking for her?'

'Patsy thinks it best not to call in the local police,' said

Fanning, choosing his words with care. 'We're looking, but

we're using our own people. And we're monitoring all calls to

Ireland. If they make a call to the kidnappers, we'll know. And

we'll have their location. We'll know where your daughter is

being held.'

'Oh, come on, Tim. That's not feasible. You can't possibly

monitor every single call between England and Ireland.'

Fanning sat back, wondering how much he should tell

Martin. The man was at the end of his tether and needed some

reassurance, but much of what MI5 did was classified. 'We can,

Martin. And we do. All the time.'

'Every call?'

Fanning nodded. 'It goes on every hour of every day. All

around the world.'

Martin looked at Fanning, intrigued. 'How?'

Fanning sighed. 'Can't you just accept that we can, Martin?'

The door opened and Carter came in with a mug of coffee

which she handed to Martin. He thanked her, then turned back

to Fanning. 'Well?'

Fanning looked up at Carter. 'I was telling Martin not to

worry. That we've got all bases covered.'

'He was telling me about tapping phones between England

and Ireland so you can find out where they're keeping Katie.'

Carter pulled a face. 'Tim . . .' she said.

Fanning shrugged. 'He's not exactly an enemy of the state,

Barbara.'

'I have a right to know what's going on,' said Martin quietly.

Carter held Fanning's look for a second or two, then she

nodded. 'I guess it can't do any harm,' she said.

Martin nodded eagerly. 'So, what's going on?' he asked

Fanning.

Fanning took a deep breath. 'I'll give you the idiot's guide,'

he said. 'No offence.'

Martin smiled tightly. 'None taken.'

'The system is called Echelon. Don't ask me why. It's been

around in some form or another since the seventies, but it's

really come into its own in the last few years. It's the

brainchild of the Americans, naturally, through their National

Security Agency, but it also involves us, through GCHQ, the

Government Communication Headquarters in Cheltenham,

the Australians, the Canadians and New Zealand. Not through

any altruistic information-sharing aspirations, but because the

Americans can't physically cover the world on their own.

Between the five countries, every single satellite, land line and

undersea cable transmission is monitored. Every single one,

Martin. Every phone call, fax, telex and e-mail in the world.

Nothing escapes.'

Martin shook his head in disbelief. 'There must be millions

every day. Tens of millions.'

'Billions, Martin. But Echelon can handle it. And more. It

has the capacity to monitor individual transmissions, or it can

search through all transmissions looking for a particular word, or

combination of words. It can go back through several weeks,

worth of transmissions, too. And there's more. It can even search

out voiceprints, so we can be on the lookout for a particular

individual making a call anywhere in the world. It gets flagged in

one of the five Echelon HQs and Robert's your father's

brother.'

'It sounds impossible,' said Martin. 'It's too big.'

'It's big, but computing power is now enormous compared

with what it was just twenty years ago. And it's increasing by an

order of magnitude every three years or so. You use the Internet,

right?'

'Sure. Who doesn't?'

'And you've used a search engine? Yahoo or Altavista or one

of the others, where you scan the Net looking for specific

subjects. Words or combination of words?' Martin nodded. 'So

you know how it works. If you get the search engine to look for

a word like "heroin", in a couple of seconds it might tell you

that there are some fifty thousand hits, places on the Net where

the word occurs. Now, have you ever thought what that means?

In the space of seconds, that search engine has looked at every

site it has access to and found which ones refer to heroin. And if

you want to call up a particular reference, it's on your screen in

seconds.'

'I guess so,' said Martin.

'Then consider this, Martin. The Internet is old technology.

Echelon is several generations ahead. It works at a speed you

could never hope to comprehend. We ask it to keep a lookout

for the word "Katie" or 'Mummy' and it'll flag any phone

conversation that takes place in which both words are used.

Immediately. Real-time. Within seconds we'll know which

number is being called, and from where.'

'But I thought you could block your number from showing?'

said Martin. He sipped his coffee.

Fanning smiled and shook his head. 'There's no way of

hiding from Echelon,' he said.

Martin leaned forward, cupping the mug of coffee between

his hands. The signs of stress were starting to diminish. He

seemed much more relaxed now that he understood what was

involved. 'The thing I don't get is if this system is so efficient,

why doesn't it catch more terrorists?'

Fanning grinned. 'What makes you think it doesn't? The

NSA keeps a very low profile. So does GCHQ. Neither shouts

about its results. Other agencies, ourselves included, usually end

up taking the credit.'

'But you'd be able to locate anyone. Anyone in the world.

Terrorists, drug dealers, criminals. People who've gone missing.

Lord Lucan. Anyone.'

Carter leaned against the table, her hands behind her for

support. 'Tim's telling you what's possible technically, but

generally there isn't enough manpower to go after just one

person, unless they're someone like Saddam Hussein or terrorists

like Osama Bin Laden. There's a constant watching brief for

top-ranking bad guys like that, but for run-of-the-mill criminals,

it's just not worth the effort.'

Martin opened his mouth to speak but Carter silenced him

with a wave of a neatly manicured hand, the nails the colour of

dried blood. 'I'll give you an example. Say a plane was bombed,

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.

McCracken had helped plant bombs before, though she'd

never been involved in the building of one. She'd been assigned

to the IRA's England Department, but always in a support role,

establishing identities and safe houses, arranging transport and,

on one occasion, making a coded call to the authorities. She'd

always believed in what she was doing - that the only way to

drive the British out of Ireland was by force -- and she'd felt

betrayed by the so-called peace process and the ceasefire that

followed. Her younger brother had been killed in a gun battle

with SAS troopers in the early eighties, and two cousins were

shot by British paratroopers when they tried to drive through an

army roadblock close to the border. She wanted revenge against

the British for the suffering they'd brought to her country and to

her family, and Egan had offered her a way to get that revenge.

He'd offered her a lot of money, but that wasn't why she

jumped at the chance of working with him. A bomb in the City

would derail the peace process, of that she had no doubt.

There'd be a backlash, politically and militarily, and it would

make the whole world sit up and take notice. But more than

that, it would be retribution. Retribution for her dead brother

and murdered cousins, and for the hundreds of other Catholics

maimed and murdered over the years. The IRA hierarchy might

have been able to put that all behind them, but McCracken

couldn't and wouldn't.

'Nice day,' said a man in a dark blue pin-stripe suit as he sat

down on the bench a few feet from her. He placed a black

briefcase on the ground midway between them. It was Egan. He

was holding a Marks and Spencer carrier bag and he handed it to

her. 'Sandwich?'

McCracken peered inside the bag. It contained two baguettes.

'Thank you.'

'How's everything going?'

'On schedule. Quinn's being a pain in the arse, though.

Keeps pestering Andrea. Got a hard-on for her like a baseball

bat, he has.'

'Can you handle it?'

'Sure. But he's not reliable. I know what you said about him

being useful in a crisis, but he makes her nervous, and at this

stage in the operation that's the last thing we need.'

Egan nodded thoughtfully. 'I'll sort it,' he said. He nodded

down at the briefcase. 'Take good care of that, huh?'

McCracken smiled tightly. 'I know what I'm doing.'

'I know you do.' Egan stood up and adjusted his tie. 'That's

why I hired you for this. Trial run tomorrow, okay?'

'That's the plan.'

'Bring Quinn, will you?'

McCracken picked up the briefcase and put it carefully on

her lap. 'I think that's best. I wouldn't want to leave him alone

with Andrea.'

Egan walked away. McCracken watched him go. He moved

out of the garden square, quickly blending with the other suits

and disappearing around the corner. McCracken stood up and

walked in the opposite direction. She moved the briefcase as

little as possible, all too conscious of the fact that it contained

enough Semtex explosive to blow a crater fifty feet wide. She'd

transported high explosive before, but that didn't mean she

wasn't scared. She'd known too many IRA volunteers who'd

been killed in premature explosions.

She thought about the man she knew as Egan as she walked

back to Cathay Tower. It was almost certainly not his real name

-- he was far too professional to reveal his identity to her, because

the bottom line was that she was a hired hand. The planning, the

details, the money, they all came from Egan. So had the rest of

the team. They had all been recruited by him: Quinn and

O'Keefe in London, McEvoy and Canning in Dublin, and

probably others that she didn't know about. She knew nothing

about his background, but he seemed to know everything about

her. She hadn't known the others, either, and Egan had said that

was an advantage because it would be that much harder for them

to betray each other if anything went wrong. It was the

philosophy followed by the IRA, dividing its members into

small cells which were kept isolated from each other.

When Egan had told McCracken that one of the men she

was working with was a Protestant, and a member of the UDA,

she had protested, but Egan had explained that she'd have to put

her tribal loyalties behind her, that what they were doing was far

more important than religion or politics. He'd convinced her,

and with hindsight she knew that he was right. O'Keefe was in it

for the money, as was Quinn. McCracken despised them for

that, though she'd never show them her true feelings. All that

mattered was that the bomb went off and that people died.

The Wrestler looked over Andy's shoulder at the electronic

equipment spread out on the table. 'Where did you learn about

electronics?' he asked.

Andy shrugged but didn't say anything. She using a magnifying

glass to examine the inside of a small digital alarm clock.

'Cat got your tongue?' asked the Wrestler.

Andy looked up from the magnifying glass. 'You wouldn't

want me to make a mistake with this, would you?' she said. 'If I

connect the wrong wires, we could all find ourselves splattered

over the building opposite.'

The Runner was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall,

drinking a can of Coke. 'Stuck-up bitch,' he muttered.

The Wrestler reached over and picked up a soldering iron

and held it close to his face, sniffing the end.

'That's hot,' said Andy.

'I know it's hot.' He put it back on the table. As he reached

across her the sleeve of his overalls rode up and Andy caught a

quick glimpse of a tattoo. It was the English flag. The cross of St

George, a red cross on a white background. She pretended not

to notice and concentrated on the chip at the back of the clock.

Green-eyes had gone out a couple of hours earlier. She'd told

Andy to check the timers and wiring, though there'd still been

no mention of detonators.

Andy checked the alarm. She'd set it to go off in two

minutes' time. A blue wire ran from the chip to the negative

terminal of a nine-volt battery. A red wire linked the chip to one

terminal of a white plastic bulb-holder into which was screwed a

small flashlight bulb. A third wire, also red, connected the

second terminal of the bulb-holder to the positive terminal

of the battery. She could feel the Wrestler watching her over her

shoulder, but she forced herself to ignore him. She pressed the

switch to activate the alarm. The bulb glowed brightly. Andy

cursed and sat back in her chair.

'What's wrong?' asked the Wrestler.

'Oh, nothing,' said Andy. 'It's just that if that had been

connected to the device, we'd all be in a million pieces right

now.'

The Wrestler peered at the circuit that Andy had put

together.

'The light's in place of the detonator,' said Andy. 'It shows if

the circuit's live.'

'And it is,' said the Wrestler. 'So what's the problem?' He

scratched his stomach and moved his head closer to the bulb,

frowning beneath his ski mask.

Andy pointed at the digital read-out on the clock face. 'The

problem is it's set to go off in two minutes. I must have

connected the wrong chip output.' She pulled the wires out

of the clock and picked up the magnifying glass again. Everything

looked okay. She put the clock face down on the table and

began running the prods of a circuit tester across the chip, trying

to find out where she'd gone wrong.

The Hercules landed at an airport outside Wick, in the far north- '

west corner of Scotland. There was only one man waiting for

Denham this time, standing by a battered old Volvo. He was in

his fifties with a high forehead and windblown black hair, and he

was wearing a sheepskin jacket with the collar turned up against

a bitter wind that was blowing in from the North Sea. 'Welcome

to Wick!' he shouted above the noise of the Hercules, and

240

he shook Denham's hand firmly. 'Harry McKechnie. Sorry

about the transport. The office car's in for a service so I've

got to use my own wheels.'

Denham climbed into the front passenger seat. He took out

his cigarettes as McKechnie drove away from the airfield. 'You

don't mind if I smoke, do you?' he asked.

'Not if you'll light one for me too,' said McKechnie.

Denham lit two cigarettes and gave one to McKechnie.

McKechnie inhaled gratefully, then turned up the heater.

'Nights are getting bloody cold up here,' he said. There was

no trace of a Scottish accent, despite his name.

It was a twenty-five-mile drive to Thurso, and McKechnie

spent much of his time complaining about his posting north of

the border. He was from Southampton originally, and had

joined the Security Service straight from Oxford. He told

Denham that he thought his bosses were hoping he'd take

early retirement. 'Face doesn't fit,' he said. 'New regime.

Bloody kids these days. Half of them don't even drink.' He

held up his lit cigarette. 'And they'd rather you farted than lit

up one of these.'

Denham grinned and settled back in his seat.

'Okay, to the matter in hand,' said McKechnie. 'Michael

Geraghty, Micky to his friends, lives about four miles west of

Thurso. Place called Garryowen Farm. He runs executive

training courses, Outward Bound for the middle-aged. Takes

them rock climbing, canoeing, gives them team-building exercises,

that sort of thing.'

'Keeping his nose clean?'

'By all accounts, yes.'

'And he never did time, is that right?'

'Nothing could ever be proved.'

'Bastard.'

'Yeah. His daughter helps him run it. Kerry. She's thirty

two.'

'Any IRA involvement?'

'Periphery, so far as we know.'

Denham shrugged his shoulders. He was tired and could

have done with a few hours' sleep, but there was no time. He

closed his eyes.

'Sir?' McKechnie's voice jarred him awake.

'Huh?'

McKechnie grinned across at him. 'Your cigarette, sir.'

Denham looked at his right hand. The cigarette had almost

burned down to his fingers and he realised that he must have

fallen asleep. 'Wasn't snoring, was I?' he asked. McKechnie

shook his head but didn't say anything. Denham stubbed his

cigarette butt into an ashtray that was already filled to overflowing.

The drive to Thurso took the best part of half an hour, then

McKechnie turned off the A882 and headed east. After another

ten minutes he turned on to a single-track road and slowed the

Volvo down to a walking pace. 'That's it, up ahead,' he said.

Denham was impressed by McKechnie. He appeared casual,

dishevelled even, but he was well briefed on Geraghty, and

though there was a map open on the back seat he hadn't had to

look at it.

The headlights illuminated Garryowen Farm, a two-storey

grey stone building with a steeply sloping slate roof. There were

no lights on. McKechnie stopped the car and tapped his fingers

on the steering wheel. 'Shit,' he said.

'Let's have a look around the back,' said Denham.

McKechnie drove slowly past the farmhouse. Behind it was a

large stone barn which had been converted into flats with

individual entrances, and a short row of cottages. They were

all in darkness.

The two men climbed out of the Volvo and walked

towards the rear of the farmhouse. McKechnie had left the

headlights on, and they cast giant shadows as they approached

a black-painted wooden door. Denham knocked on it several

times. McKechnie stood back to check if a light went on

upstairs, but he shook his head. Next to the door was a large

sash window. Denham put his hand against the glass and

peered inside. It was the kitchen, and there were no signs of

life. No dirty dishes in the sink, nothing on the draining

board, and a potted plant on the windowsill was wilting and

clearly hadn't been watered for days.

McKechnie bent down and examined the lock on the

kitchen door. 'Mortice,' he said.

'Part of your training, I thought,' said Denham, walking up

behind him.

'It is,' said McKechnie, straightening up. He looked around

the garden. 'But mortice locks are buggers without the right

equipment.'

'And you haven't . . .'

'Afraid not. I wasn't planning on any breaking and entering.'

Denham looked up at the top floor of the building. 'I didn't

see any alarm at the front, did you?'

'No point, this far away from the neighbours. And the

nearest cops must be in Thurso.' He went over to a tool-shed

and examined the padlock on its door. 'This is more like it,'

he said. He knelt down, took a small leather wallet from the

pocket of his sheepskin jacket and worked on the lock with

two small strips of metal. He had it open within thirty seconds

and pulled open the door. He went inside and reappeared

with a large spade. He grinned at Denham as he went over to

the sash window and inserted the end of the blade into the

gap between the window and the frame. He pushed down on

the handle of the spade with all his weight and the window

lock splintered.

'You learnt that with Five?' asked Denham wryly.

'Misspent youth,' said McKechnie, leaning the spade against

the wall and pushing the window open. 'Boarding school

mainly.' He put a foot against the spade handle and heaved

himself into the kitchen, head first. Denham was just about to

follow when McKechnie called out that the key was on the

inside of the door. A few seconds later the kitchen light flickered

on, the door opened and McKechnie waved Denham inside.

They went through to a wood-panelled hallway. There was an

untidy pile of mail in front of the letterbox.

'You check the bedrooms,' said Denham. He pushed open a

door as McKechnie went upstairs and flicked on the light. It was

a study - floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one wall; the others

were wood-panelled with several framed prints of hunting dogs.

The furniture was sturdy and worn, comfortable leather chairs

with sagging cushions and a large desk with a brass reading lamp.

Denham sat down at the desk and pulled open the top drawer. It

was filled with papers and Denham took them out. He flicked

through them. The most recent was three months ago, a letter

from a bank to Geraghty, asking him to telephone the manager

about his overdraft. There were several bank statements, three

different banks in all, and they were all in the red. Several

thousand pounds in the red.

He found a brochure advertising Geraghty's company complete

with glossy photographs of smiling executives climbing,

abseiling, canoeing and sailing. There was a photograph of a man

in his fifties, grey-haired and tough-looking with a nose that had

obviously been broken several times. It was Micky Geraghty.

Denham pulled the drawer all the way out. At the back was an

Irish passport. Inside was a photograph of a slightly younger

Geraghty. Denham riffled through the pages of the passport and

found two entry stamps for the United States, both from the

early nineties. There was a visa for Australia for the previous

year. According to the stamps on the opposite page, Geraghty

had spent three months there.

He found a diary in the second drawer of the desk, a big

leather-bound volume, with each week running across two

pages. Geraghty had used it to record the courses he ran. The last

entry was for five months earlier. Two entries before that had

been crossed out. From the looks of the diary, business hadn't

been good for a long time. Underneath the diary were several

letters from companies cancelling their courses, most of them

blaming the recession.

Denham could hear McKechnie moving around from room

to room upstairs. He pulled open the third drawer. It was full of

letters and photographs. Letters from Geraghty's daughter, and

photographs of a young woman with a man and two small

children. Denham flicked through the letters. Kerry Geraghty

had moved to Australia and was now living in Brisbane with her

husband. She was pretty, with long chestnut hair and laughing

blue eyes.

McKechnie came downstairs and Denham heard him picking

up the mail by the front door. Denham twisted around in the

chair to look at him as he walked into the study.

'I thought you said the daughter helped him run this place?'

'That's what the file says.'

'She emigrated. A couple of years back by the look of it.'

McKechnie looked pained. 'What can I say? The file's

obviously out of date. I guess the Geraghtys weren't considered

a high priority.' He dropped the letters on the desk. 'Mail's been

piling up for three months,' he said. 'No empty hangers in the

wardrobes, toothbrush is in the bathroom, and there's an empty

suitcase in the boxroom.'

Denham held up the passport. McKechnie exhaled through

pursed lips. 'What do you think?'

'I think we should give the house a good going over. Just in

case. Top to bottom. The works.' He pushed himself up out of

the chair. At the kitchen end of the hall was a door under the

stairs, and Denham tried to open it. It was locked. He turned to

look at McKechnie. 'Think your misspent youth can deal with

this?'

McKechnie grinned and knelt down by the lock. 'Piece of

cake,' he said. He went back outside and returned with the

spade, inserted it into the side of the door and pushed against the

handle with all his weight. The wood splintered and McKechnie

pulled back the door and leant the spade against the wall.

Denham wrinkled his nose. A sickly-sweet smell wafted up

from the basement below. He took a handkerchief from his

trouser pocket and held it to his face as he groped along the wall

for a light switch. He found it and flicked it on. The smell hit

McKechnie and he grunted. He went through to the kitchen,

took a towel and held it under a running tap for a few seconds

before holding it over his mouth and nose and following

Denham down into the basement.

It had a concrete floor and white plastered walls. Along the

wall opposite the stairs were shelves lined with climbing equip

ment, boating gear and camping supplies. A canoe lay upturned

on two wooden blocks, a jagged hole in its bottom. In the far

corner was a metal trunk. The two men looked at the trunk.

Denham went over to it and opened it. The smell was a hundred

times worse, and Denham turned his head away, gagging.

McKechnie joined him and looked down into the trunk.

The body had been wrapped in black garbage bags and had

been bent at the waist so that it would fit. A bare foot protruded

from one end of the bundle, black and putrescent, the yellowed

nails barely hanging on to the flesh.

'Shit,' said McKechnie, his voice muffled by the wet towel.

'Yeah,' said Denham.

McKechnie went over to the shelving, rummaged through a

pile of climbing gear and came back with a piton. He stuck the

pointed end into the plastic and ripped a jagged hole in it. He

stepped back and pressed the towel harder against his face. 'Jesus

Christ,' he said.,

Denham took a couple of steps back. The stench was

overpowering, like meat that had gone bad but much, much

worse. It had been a long time since he had been confronted by a

corpse, but the smell of rotting flesh was something he'd never

forget. He moved towards the trunk again, holding his breath.

McKechnie pushed the plastic to the side with the piton,

revealing what was left of the face. The flesh had blown up

to the size of a football, the skin bluish-green and split in places,

the eyes milky and staring. The hair was grey and spiky, the only

feature that had anything in common with the photographs he'd

seen of Micky Geraghty.

'What do you think?' asked McKechnie.

'Hard to tell,' said Denham. 'But yes, I'd say it's him.' He

motioned at the body. 'Take the rest off. Let's see what killed

him.'

McKechnie used the piton to tear away the black plastic.

The corpse was wearing a denim shirt and corduroy trousers.

No shoes or socks. There were two holes in the shirt, and the

material was stained with dried blood. McKechnie tore the

plastic away from the corpse's left hand. The little finger and

the one next to it had been chopped off. McKechnie grimaced.

'So now we know,' said Denham. He reached over and closed the trunk. 'You tidy up here, Harry. I'll phone Patsy with the bad news.'

Andy was pouring herself a cup of water from the cooler when

Green-eyes called her name from the door to the meeting room.

She took the paper cup with her. Green-eyes was wearing a

white sweat-shirt with the sleeves pulled up above her elbows,

black ski pants and the ever-present ski mask. On the long table

was a black briefcase and a Marks and Spencer carrier bag that

Green-eyes had brought with her earlier in the day, when she'd

been wearing a pale blue suit. She eyes was holding a videocassette.

'This arrived,' she said, slotting it into the video recorder

and switching on the television.

The picture flickered with static, then steadied. It was Katie.

It was a short message, barely twenty seconds long, just saying

that she was okay and that she wanted to be back home with her

mummy and dad. She looked close to tears, and Andy put her

hand up to her mouth as she watched. Katie looked much more

scared than she'd appeared in the previous video. Her lower lip

was quivering and her voice was shaking. 'It's Monday and I

want to go home,' she said. The recording ended and the screen

was filled with grey static again.

'She's terrified,' said Andy, staring at the static. 'How can you

do that to a seven-year-old girl?'

'She's fine,' said Green-eyes. 'That's all you've got to worry

about.' She pulled the black briefcase towards her and clicked

the locks open.

Andy was still staring at the blank television screen. 'I want to

speak to her.'

'You've just seen that she's okay,' said Green-eyes.

Andy turned to face her. 'She said it was Monday. Yesterday.

But how do I know it was filmed then? You could have done it

last week.'

247

'For Christ's sake, Andrea. Next time we'll have a copy of

that day's paper in the shot, okay? Now come over here.' She

turned the open briefcase so that Andy could see the contents.

There were four oblong slabs of what looked like bright yellow

marzipan, covered in thick, clear plastic. Under the plastic on

each block was a white paper label with a black border containing

the words EXPLOSIVE PLASTIC SEMTEX-H in capital

letters.

Green-eyes took the four blocks out of the briefcase. Underneath

were more blocks. Each was about nine by twelve inches,

and an inch thick. In all, the briefcase contained sixteen blocks of

Semtex.

'Where the hell did you get this from?'

'That's for me to know, Andrea.' She opened the Marks

and Spencer carrier bag and took out two bread rolls as Andy

examined the explosive. Green-eyes broke one of the rolls in

half. Inside were four silver metal tubes, each about three

inches long and the thickness of a pencil, with one end

crimped around two white wires that had been coiled together.

She laid the four tubes on the table, put the remains of

the roll in the bag and then crumbled the second one apart. It

contained four more tubes.

Andrea picked one of them up. It was a Mark 4 electrical

detonator, the type she'd used when she made bombs for the

IRA, a lifetime ago. Her hand began to shake, and she put the

detonator down on the table. Up until she'd seen the Semtex

and the detonators she'd half hoped that Green-eyes wasn't

serious about building the bomb. Without the proper detonators

and initiator, the fertiliser--aluminium mixture was practically

inert, and Andy had been clinging to the possibility that the

bomb was being built merely as a threat, in the way that she'd

often set bombs in Northern Ireland to tie up the security forces

rather than to kill and maim. The contents of the briefcase and

the bag brought it home to her that she was building a device

that was going to be used.

'They're okay?' Green-eyes asked.

Andy nodded.

'You have to build a bomb for us to use tomorrow. A small

one.'

Andy's jaw dropped. 'What?'

'Tomorrow. A small bomb. A test.'

'How small?'

'Big enough to blow up a car, say.'

'Why?'

'You don't have to worry about why, Andrea.'

'Is it to kill someone?'

Green-eyes ignored the question. She went over to the

video recorder and popped out the cassette. She held it under

Andy's nose for a few seconds, then tossed it into the wastepaper

basket.

'Tomorrow. And God help you if it doesn't work. Now get

to it.'

DAY EIGHT

Patsy Ellis was sitting at the desk looking over a computer printout

when Liam Denham walked in. 'Good morning, Liam.

Sleep well?'

Denham grunted. He'd arrived back in London in the early

hours and had spent the rest of the night on a couch in an office

on the floor above. Before catching a few hours' sleep he'd

telephoned his wife and told her not to expect him home for

several days. She'd accepted the news without complaint,

though she'd made him promise to keep his cigarette intake

to below one packet a day.

One of the three telephones on Patsy's desk rang and she

picked up the receiver. She tapped her index finger against her

lips as she listened. 'How do you spell that?' she said, picking up

a pen and making a note on a pad in front of her. She stood up

and banged down the phone. 'Briefing room,' she said. 'We've

identified the driver.'

Denham heaved himself up out of his chair and followed her

down the corridor. On the way she knocked on several doors

and shouted that she wanted everyone in the briefing room. By

the time she reached the door there were more than a dozen

men and women following in her wake, like chicks in pursuit of

a mother hen.

Patsy went over to the whiteboard on which were stuck the

photographs of the members of Andrea's active service unit.

'Right, thanks to Chief Inspector Denham we now know who

gave up Trevor. An IRA sniper, Micky Geraghty. Someone

tortured and killed him several weeks ago, presumably for

information about Trevor.'

She paused, then tapped the photograph taken from the

video of the van leaving the Co vent Garden carpark. 'Now, this

where it gets really interesting. We've identified the driver of the

van. One Mark Graham Quinn. An IC1 male, twenty fouryearold

career criminal who has so far avoided prison but has

been arrested several times on armed robbery charges. He's

always walked, usually because witnesses have a habit of retracting

confessions before he's due to appear in court. His prints

match those on one of the parking receipts at the multistorey

carpark in Covent Garden, and our technical boys have a decent

match between the video pictures and photographs on file with

the Met. Quinn's our boy. His police file will be with us within

the hour. We still don't know who the passenger is, but

computer enhancement has shown a tattoo on his left forearm.

A lion leaping over a cross of St George.'

There were murmurs of surprise from her audience, and she

waited for them to die down before continuing. She folded her

arms across her chest. 'So what we have is a career criminal

working with what we can assume is a Protestant extremist.

They've kidnapped a former IRA bombmaker.' She raised an

eyebrow. 'Quite a mix, I'd say. Lisa, any news about the

landscaping company?'

Lisa Davies shook her head. 'Peter's spoken to them and the

van isn't theirs. The details on the registration form match and

the livery is the same, but it's not their van. He's been over their

books and says that they're totally legit. He's working through a

list of former employees, but he doesn't hold out much hope. It

looks as if they've just set up an imitation. On the van itself, no

parking tickets or speeding tickets. We're still checking with the

ferry companies, and we're running separate checks with individual

police forces to see if it's been involved in any accidents.'

'Okay, keep on top of it. And everyone start putting feelers

out on Quinn. Any sniff of him and let David Bingham know

immediately. But tread carefully. And if anyone has any

thoughts on who might be sporting a lion and flag of St George

tattoo, let David and me know straight away.'

Andy soldered the copper wire to the output from the chip

in the digital alarm clock, moving her head to the side to

avoid the solder fumes. Green-eyes picked up one of the

detonators and began to untangle the two white wires that

protruded from one end. 'I thought they'd be different

colours,' she said.

Andy looked up from the clock. 'What, red and black, like in

the movies?'

'I guess so, yeah.'

Andy smiled thinly. 'Doesn't make any difference which

way it's connected into the circuit. So there's no need to have

different colours.'

'So all that stuff about "shall I cut the black wire or the red

wire" is crap?'

Andy bent over the clock again and added a touch more

solder to the joint. 'I'll use different-coloured wires in the

circuit, but that's purely for my benefit so that I don't make

any stupid mistakes. But both wires leading to the detonator are

white. Anyway, no bomb disposal man would bother cutting

the wires to the detonator. There's no point - all he'd have to do

is to pull the detonator out. Besides, they'd be too wary of

collapsing circuits.'

'Collapsing circuits? What are they?'

'It's a live circuit with some sort of a relay in it. When the

circuit is cut, the relay closes, which in turn activates another

circuit, the one containing the detonator. So cutting the wire

actually activates the bomb.' Green-eyes continued to unravel

the wires. Andy saw what she was doing and gestured with her

chin. 'Don't separate the wires,' she warned.

Green-eyes stopped what she was doing. 'What's the problem?

It's not connected.'

'Yeah, but they can go off all the same if there's any electrical

interference. You can get a spark jumping between the two

wires and it'll go off. You'd lose a hand.'

Green-eyes winced and put the detonator back down on the

table. 'It's called the Faraday effect,' said Andy, adjusting the timer

and setting the alarm. 'You want this set for five minutes, you said?'

'That's right.'

'That's not long.'

'That's what he said. Five minutes.'

Andy checked the digital read-out. Three hundred seconds.

She showed it to Green-eyes, then showed her which buttons to

press to start the timer. She set the clock on the table and they

watched it count off the seconds.

'It's the Faraday effect that's responsible for a lot of bombs

going off prematurely. Anything that sends off radio frequencies

can do it. Police radios, televisions being turned on and off, even

household equipment like fridges and stereos.' Andy realised she

was talking too quickly, but she wanted to keep Green-eyes

distracted so she wouldn't realise that she'd slipped up. There

was someone telling her what to do. Someone who'd told her to

set the timer for five minutes.

'There was a volunteer killed a while back, in Aldwych,

remember? The bomb he was carrying went off on a bus.'

Green-eyes nodded. 'I remember.'

'The papers said it was because a guy with stereo headphones

sat next to him. Turned up the sound, and bang. Blew them all

to bits. That's the Faraday effect.'

'Dangerous business,' said Green-eyes.

Andy wondered whether the woman was joking, but the ski

mask made it impossible to tell. The Wrestler and the Runner

walked into the main office area, chewing on Marks and

Spencer sandwiches and laughing.

'It's okay so long as you know what you're doing,' said

Andy. She realised that the soldering iron was still on, and she

pulled the plug out from the wall. 'This bomb, the small one. It's

just a test, right?'

'We want to make sure that the stuff will explode,' said

Green-eyes.

'What, you think I'd try to trick you? You think I'd risk my

daughter?'

'We just want to be sure, Andrea. A dry run. If you've done

your job properly, you've nothing to worry about.'

'Where are you going to set it off?'

'Why?'

'I just wondered.'

'Wondered what? If we're going to kill someone with it?'

Andy nodded.

'We're not, Andrea. Like I said, it's a dry run.' She nodded at

the circuit. The digital read-out was still ticking off the seconds.

'If someone was going to defuse this, all they'd have to do is pull

the detonator out of the explosive, is that what you said?'

'Sure. If the detonator goes off", it's a relatively small bang.

It'd blow your hand off", but not much more. It has to be in the

high explosive to set off the bomb.'

'So they're easy to defuse?'

'In theory. But they've got to get to the fuse first. So you

hide it inside the bomb. With booby traps around it. Motion

detectors, mercury tilt switches, photoelectric cells. Fake circuits.

That way, they can't look for the fuse. Not easily, anyway. Also,

they won't know if it's on a timer or if it's going to be detonated

by remote wire or radio. But an expert can always take a bomb

apart. If he has enough time.'

They watched as the digital read-out counted down to zero.

The flashlight bulb winked on. 'Bang!' whispered Green-eyes,

her eyes burning with fanaticism.

Liam Denham wandered into the briefing room. There were

two dozen agents in the room, talking into phones or tapping on

computer keyboards. He smiled to himself. It was the new face

of intelligence work, a face he doubted he'd ever have been able

to embrace even if he'd remained in the job. Intelligence

gathering had become on office job, a job done by suits, by

graduates who drank Perrier and played squash every lunchtime.

But to Denham, intelligence meant people. It meant persuading people to part with information and that involved face-to-face contact. It might mean meeting them in a pub and talking over a few drinks, it might mean getting a bit physical in a locked room, or handing over an envelope packed with cash, but whatever the means, it was all down to people.

Denham took a long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke

up to the ceiling, dangerously close to a smoke detector. One of

the agents, a man in his twenties with red-framed spectacles and

swept-back blond hair, coughed pointedly. Denham held the

cigarette behind his back and walked over to where Patsy was

sitting at a desk, deep in conversation with Lisa Davies. She

looked up, her face flushed with excitement.

'Liam. I think we've got a lead on the van they took Andrea

away in. The Transit. It's made more than half a dozen trips into

the City over the past two months. The last one three days ago.'

Lisa handed Denham a computer print-out. It was a list of

dates and times. The first date was about a week before Katie had

been kidnapped. At the top of the print-out was a description of

the van and its registration number.

'City of London police,' said Patsy in answer to Denham's

unspoken question. 'They record all vehicles entering and

leaving the centre.'

'The Bong of Steel?' That was what the press had christened

the security arrangements that effectively sealed off the financial

district from the rest of the capital.

'I think we can assume that London's the target now,' said

Patsy.

Denham handed the print-out back to Lisa. 'What next?'

he asked.

'We're going to have to inform the City of London police

and the Met. They can start looking for the van. But until we

know exactly where the bomb is, there's not much else we can

do. There're millions of square feet of office space in the City we

can hardly search it all. Not without tipping the terrorists off

that we're on to them.'

Lisa's brow furrowed into deep creases. 'Shouldn't we be

warning people, giving them the chance to stay out of the City?'

Patsy stood up, shaking her head. 'Absolutely not. There'd

be an uncontrollable panic. The City would grind to a halt.

Billions of pounds would be lost.'

'Maybe that's what they want,' mused Denham.

'What do you mean?' asked Patsy.

'Maybe that's what all this is about. Maybe it's financial and

not political.'

Patsy pulled a face. 'Extortion, you mean?'

'If it was political, there are easier places to stage a spectacular.'

'That's

assuming it is a spectacular, Liam.'

'Six trips? They must be using the van to transport equipment.

Six trips is a lot of equipment, so I think it's fair to assume

it's going to be a big one. They wouldn't go to all this trouble to

build a few letter bombs, would they?'

'That's what you think? They're building the bomb onsite?'

Denham took another drag on his cigarette, ignoring the

look of annoyance that flashed across Carter's face. She was less

than half his age, and Denham figured he'd earned the right to

smoke. 'Why else?'

'They could have been dry runs. I wouldn't want to rule

anything out at this stage.'

Denham nodded at the print-out. 'They stayed in the City

overnight once. They must have been parked up. Doubt they'd

do that if it was a rehearsal.'

Patsy considered what Denham had said and then nodded

slowly. 'So, it's a big bomb, but you think it's not political? The

IPvA bombed the Baltic Exchange and Bishopsgate. And remember

Harrods?'

Denham looked around for an ashtray. There wasn't one

within reach so he held his cigarette vertically so as not to spill

ash on to the carpet. 'That was before the increased security. I

don't know. Maybe you're right. At this stage we shouldn't be

ruling anything out.'

Patsy looked at her wristwatch. 'Hetherington's going to be

here in a few minutes. I'd better brief him.'

'One thing before you rush off,' said Denham. 'The wee girl?'

'What about her?'

'What are we doing to find her?'

Patsy looked uncomfortable, and Denham realised he'd

touched a nerve. 'There's not a lot we can do from here,'

she said.

'What about the Garda Siochana? Couldn't they be looking?'

Patsy

put a hand on Denham's arm and guided him away

from Carter's desk. She took him over to a relatively quiet

corner of the room. 'Liam, we can't be making waves over

there. If the kidnappers know we're on to them, first of all they

might kill the girl, and secondly it'll tip off the bombmakers that

we know what they're up to.'

'Maybe not,' said Denham. 'They don't know that we know

about Andrea's past. There's no reason that the Garda couldn't

be investigating a straightforward kidnapping.'

'But if the men building the bomb realise we're looking for

the girl, they'll hardly allow Andrea to telephone her. Or her

husband.'

The cigarette in Denham's hand had burnt down to the

filter. He looked around for somewhere to put it and spotted a

half-empty plastic coffee cup. He dropped the butt in the cup,

then turned back to Patsy. 'We've got to do something, Patsy.

We can't just abandon the wee girl.'

'Priorities, Liam. We neutralise the bomb. We take the

participants into custody. Then we get the girl back. It has to

be done in that order.'

Denham sighed mournfully. 'Aye, you might be right.'

'How's the husband?'

'He's bearing up. God knows how, considering what he's

going through.'

'And McCormack. Have you heard from McCormack?'

'Not yet. I'll give him a call.'

Patsy looked at her watch again. 'I've got to go, Liam. I'll talk

to you later, okay?'

Denham watched her walk away. She was right, of course.

The bomb took precedence over Katie. But knowing the

decision was a logical one didn't make it any easier to accept.

Denham had lost a child, a long, long time ago, and the pain was

something he wouldn't wish on anyone. He lit another cigarette,

then went in search of an empty office from where he could

phone McCormack.

He had written McCormack's number in the small black

notebook that he always carried with him, even after he'd left

Special Branch. It rang out for more than a minute before the

IRA man answered, and when he did he sounded out of breath.

'Ah, it's you, Liam. I might have guessed.'

'Are you okay, Thomas?'

'I was in the bath, having a soak. I'm standing here dripping

water all over the hall carpet, and if my wife catches me we'll

both be in trouble.'

'Do you want to dry off? I'll wait.'

'No need, this won't take long. It's names you're ringing for,

I suppose.' McCormack laughed softly. 'Right turn of events

this, isn't it?'

'The way of the world, Thomas. The new order. Did you

come up with anyone?'

'I've one name. George McEvoy. Do you know him?'

'I know of him. Did twelve in Long Kesh, didn't he?'

'That's him. He was with the Civil Administration Team.

Lives in Dundalk with his brother, but he hasn't been seen for a

while.'

'How long a while?'

'A month. His brother doesn't know where he is, but

George told him he'd be away for a few weeks.'

'Has he had experience in bomb-making?'

There was a long silence from McCormack, then a faint

whistling sound, as if he were exhaling through clenched teeth.

'Jesus, Chief Inspector, you're not asking for much, are you?'

'I need to know, Thomas. We think they're in London. I

think they're planning a spectacular.'

'Well, McEvoy wouldn't be the man for that. He was never

technical.'

'Never attached to the England Department?'

'Definitely not. To the best of my knowledge, he's never

even been across the water.'

'What was he doing with the CAT?'

'What do you think? He wasn't handing out brownie points,

that's for sure.'

'Punishment beatings? Kneecappings?'

'That's what CAT does.'

'Kidnappings?'

There was another pause, shorter this time. 'I see what you

mean. Yes, he could be the one who's got the little girl.'

'Do you have any idea where he might be?'

'No. I'm afraid not, Liam. He's disappeared.'

'Can you give me his address? I'll run a check on his credit

cards, just in case.'

McCormack gave Denham the address and he wrote it down

in his notebook. 'Anyone else gone missing?' he asked.

'No one obvious. There's a limit to what I can find out,

though. Some of the ASUs are still active -- they're underground

and impossible to check on. Not without questions being asked,

questions that I'd find bloody difficult to answer.'

'Are you telling me you've got ASUs in the UK, still

active?'

'And I suppose you've pulled all your agents out, have you?'

'I don't have agents any more, Thomas. I'm retired.'

'Special Branch, then. MI5. SAS. 14th Int. They're all still on

the ground, North and South, so why would you expect the

England Department to stand down?'

'And there's no way of accounting for them?'

'Not without going through the Army Council, no. But I

can tell you that there's no way the England Department is

involved in any sort of spectacular. I give you my word on that.'

'Not even in a freelance capacity?'

'That wouldn't be a possibility. Not in a million yean. Did

you talk to Micky Geraghty?'

This time it was Denham who hesitated. McCormack picked

up on it immediately.

'What's wrong?'

'He's dead, Thomas. Murdered. Someone tortured him,

presumably to get information on Andrea Sheridan.'

'Shit,' said McCormack quietly. 'He was a good 'un.'

Denham said nothing. Geraghty had been an IRA volunteer,

a sniper with a good number of kills to his credit. While he took

no pleasure in the man's death, he wasn't about to grieve for

him.

'Who's going to be handling the arrangements?' McCormack

asked.

Denham explained that they'd had to leave the body where

they'd found it, in the basement of the farmhouse. 'There isn't

going to be a funeral, at least not until we've got this sorted out,'

he said.

'Do me a favour,' said McCormack. 'Call me when it's over.

I'll take care of it.'

Denham promised that he would. The IRA would probably

give Geraghty a full military funeral, a tricolour draped over the

coffin and men in ski masks firing a volley of shots into the air. It

would be a celebration of the man's career with the terrorist

organisation, but Denham knew it would be churlish not to

agree to McCormack's request. He stabbed the remains of his

cigarette into a metal ashtray next to the phone, and immediately

felt the craving to light up another one. He decided to call

his wife instead.

The door to Jason Hetherington's office was ajar, but Patsy still

knocked before entering. He was sitting behind his desk, reading

a file, an antique pair of pince-nez glasses perched on the end of

his nose. The glasses were an affectation, as was the ever-present

white rose in his buttonhole, grown in his own Sussex garden.

He looked up as Patsy walked in and gave her a broad smile. He

was wearing a dark blue Savile Row suit with the faintest of pinstripes, a crisp white shirt and a Garrick Club tie. 'Patsy, my dear,

thanks for dropping by.' Hetherington was Deputy Director

General (Operational), second only to MIs's Director-General.

He was responsible for all the agency's operational activities,

from counter-subversion and counter-espionage to intelligence

gathering, and had been Patsy's mentor for the past ten years. It

was his decision to send her to Belfast to head up the Irish

Counter-Terrorism section, with the promise that in the near

future she'd be brought back to Thames House as his number

two. 'Any news?'

'It's definitely London,' she said, dropping into one of the

chairs opposite Hetherington's desk.

Hetherington took off his spectacles and placed them carefully

on top of the file he'd been studying. 'Ah, that's not good.'

Patsy smiled at the understatement. 'A van they've been

using has been in and out of the City.'

'And your recommended course of action?'

'We look for the van, obviously. We'll liaise with the local

police, but we won't be telling them why we want the van. And

we're looking for Quinn.'

'The blagger?' The slang sounded strange in Hetherington's

upper-crust accent. It was another affectation of his, as if he were

keen to show that despite his Eton and Oxford background he

was still one of the boys.

'Again, we'll use the local police, but without saying why

he's wanted. They're being told not to approach him if he's

spotted.'

'Do we have any other names in the frame?'

'Just Mark Quinn. We're assuming that the device is being

constructed somewhere in the City, so we're working through

all new leases taken on within the past six months, cross

referencing with company records and VAT data, looking for

companies with no track record. We'll follow up with visits.'

Hetherington shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'That could

take for ever.'

'It's an outside chance considering the possible timeframe,

but long shots sometimes pay off'

'And the telephone surveillance is in place?' <

'GCHQ are on-line and BT and Telecom Eireann are cooperating

fully.'

'Another long shot?'

262

Patsy looked pained. Hetherington wasn't being critical -- he

was one of the most supportive bosses Patsy had ever worked for -- but she was all too well aware of how little they had to go on.

Two long shots and a needle in a haystack.

'She's called her husband once,' said Patsy. 'We believe she'll

try again.'

'The attempt on his life worries me, Patsy. I don't see any

logic in it.'

'The house was bugged,' said Patsy. 'We discovered one on

the phone when our people went in to switch off the answering

machine. We swept it from top to bottom and found others.'

'So even without visual surveillance, they'd know that the

police were involved.'

Patsy nodded. 'They'd know that he'd been taken into the

Garda station. I suppose they were moving to limit the damage.'

Hetherington nodded. 'Very well. But doesn't that make it

more likely that they won't let her telephone her husband?

Knowing that he's fled the house?'

'They might assume that all she'll get is the machine.'

Hethrington grimaced, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.

'I know, shots don't come any longer. But if they think he's

not at home, it'll reassure her to leave a message for him, at no risk

to the kidnappers.' Hetherington still didn't look convinced, and

Patsy didn't blame him. She spoke quickly, not giving him the

chance to interrupt. 'A stronger possibility is that she'll be able to

get to a phone of her own accord. Call her husband without them

knowing. Having said that, I do feel it's more likely that it's her

daughter she'll try to make contact with. And the kidnappers have

no reason not to allow her to speak to her daughter.'

'Unless she's already dead.' Hetherington toyed with his

wedding ring and leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed as

he considered their options. They sat in silence for a while.

'Possible targets?' he said eventually.

'If it's political, it could be anything from the Stock Exchange

to the Bank of England. Mansion House. Another go at

the Baltic Exchange. If it's a high profile they want, they could

be targeting the NatWest Tower or Lloyd's of London.'

'So can we at least increase security there?'

'I'm reluctant to inform the local police, Jason. At the

moment, possibly fifty people know of this threat, and almost

all of them work for us. If we bring in the Met and the City of

London police, we're talking about hundreds of people. Thousands.'

Hetherington

steepled his fingers under his chin. 'They

could search a lot faster.'

'Except the act of searching might well precipitate events.

Plus, there'd be leakage. All it takes is one copper warning his

wife to stay out of the City for a while. She mentions it to a

friend, the friend gets on to the press, and we're splashed all over

the front page of the Sun.'

'A D-notice would put paid to that.'

'Word would still get around. I'd rather keep it in-house for

as long as possible. But I take your point about increasing

security at the.more obvious targets. Most buildings employ

their own security. I can have a quiet word.'

'I'd like a list,' said Hetherington. 'What about possible

American targets?'

'There are no US government buildings within the security

cordon. But there are plenty of American financial institutions.'

'Is there anything we can do there to increase security?'

Patsy nodded thoughtfully. 'I'll draw up a list,' she said.

'And we're still not issuing a formal warning to the Americans?'

'We've no reason to think that the target's American. And

they do have a tendency to overreact.'

Hetherington chuckled dryly. 'Yes, I suppose they do. But if

you get so much as an inkhng that this venture is aimed at the

Americans, I have to know tout de suite.'

Another affectation. Hetherington liked to throw the odd

French phrase into his conversations, especially when he was

under pressure.

'Are you sure that GCHQ won't inform the Americans?

Echelon being under the NSA's wing, as it were.'

'We're using our own dictionary and GCHQ's K Division is

handling the traffic. We should be able to keep the NSA at arm's

length. For a while, at least.'

'Right,' said Hetherington, leaning forward again. 'The JIC

meets tomorrow. I'm going to need a full report before last thing

tonight.'

'It'll be on your desk by five,' promised Patsy.

She knew there was no point in asking her boss to hold off

informing the Joint Intelligence Committee. The committee

met every week in the Cabinet Office, and in theory the entire

British intelligence community was answerable to it -- MI5, MI6,

GCHQ and the Defence Intelligence Service. The chairman

reported directly to the Cabinet Secretary and therefore to the

Prime Minister. The fact that GCHQ had already been asked for

assistance effectively forced Hetherington's hand. He'd have to

notify JIC of the bomb threat at the first available opportunity in

case the committee heard it first from GCHQ.

'I think it's time to call Hereford,' said Patsy. 'When we are

ready to move we're going to have to move fast. They have a

Special Projects Team on stand-by at the Regent's Park barracks,

but I was thinking of requesting another sixteen-man

troop from Counter Revolutionary Warfare Wing. We can

have them on stand-by here.'

Hetherington nodded thoughtfully. 'Agreed. What about D11?'

'I'd rather keep Met involvement to a minimum,' said Patsy.

'CRW has sniper specialists, too. And if the troopers go in, I

think they'd prefer to have their own snipers backing them up.'

'Do we inform C13?' C13 was Scotland Yard's antiterrorist

branch.

'Again, I think not. I really would prefer to keep it in-house

until the last possible moment. Once we do have a location, C13

and the Yard's Technical Support Branch could be useful, but

until then I think they'll just get in the way.'

Hetherington put his spectacles on again and peered over the

top of them. 'If anything goes wrong and the Met were kept out

of it, the Commissioner's going to do everything he can to

distance himself,' he warned. 'There could be a lot of mud flying

around, and it'll be heading in our direction. It won't be the SAS

that gets the blame. It'll be you. And me.'

'I appreciate that, Jason. But the more they're involved, the

greater the chance that something will go wrong. Horses for

courses.'

Hetherington pursed his lips and nodded slowly. 'Very well,'

he said. 'I'll try to get JIC approval for that. Spread the

responsibility, as it were.'

He picked up the file he'd been reading and Patsy stood up.

As she reached the door, Hetherington called her name and she

turned expectantly. 'I don't want to be a nag,' he said, 'but has

someone been smoking in here?'

'A visitor,' she said. 'Sorry.'

'Be so good as to ask them to keep it outside, would you? It's

hard enough trying to give up without having temptation waved

under my nose.' He pushed his spectacles further up his nose and

smiled apologetically.

Andy made sure that her industrial respirator was snug against

her face, then slid her plastic goggles down over her eyes. Green

eyes did the same, but as she was placing it over her ski mask she

had trouble fitting the respirator. 'Why do we need these?' She

asked.

'The aluminium,' said Andy. 'You've got to keep it out of

your eyes and lungs.' They were standing next to a line of three

desks, on which were containers of the dried ammonium nitrate,

aluminium powder, soap powder, sawdust and cans of diesel oil.

Andy showed Green-eyes how to measure out the correct

amounts of the different ingredients into a large Tupperware

container, leaving about a third empty.

'What's the point of the aluminium powder? I mean, I can

see that the oil helps it to burn, but what's the aluminium for?'

Andy explained as she mixed the ingredients with a wooden

stirrer. 'That's not what the oil's for. The oil's to help the

aluminium to stick to the ammonium nitrate. The better it's

mixed, the more sensitive it is to the booster charge. It's the

aluminium that makes it such a good explosive. When it oxidises

in the initial explosion, it gives off huge amounts of heat.

Aluminium burns like crazy. Remember those pictures of the

aluminium ships that went up in the Falklands?'

Green-eyes nodded.

'That heat helps lengthen the detonation pulse, makes it

much more powerful. You can use charcoal, but aluminium

powder's better. Magnesium's even more effective but it's not as

readily available.'

'And the sawdust and soap?'

'The soap enhances the detonation. So does the sawdust.

They lower the detonation velocity, and keep the density down.

The greater the density, the harder it is to get it to explode.'

They carried their Tupperware containers over to the

tumble-driers and put one container in each drier.

'Ten minutes on the lowest setting should do it,' said Andy.

'It's just a way of mixing it efficiently.'

'How long will it take to do all four thousand pounds?'

Andy did a quick calculation in her head. Each load was

about fifteen pounds, so with two driers they'd be able to mix

just under two hundred pounds an hour.

'About twenty-four hours,' she said. 'But we can mix some

by hand, too. It's just that the tumble-driers are more efficient.'

Green-eyes went over to a desk where Andy had been

building the wiring circuit. 'This is ready?' she asked.

'I've tested it a dozen times with bulbs,' said Andy. 'I won't

put the detonators in until the last minute.'

'Detonators? Plural?'

'It's always safer to use more than one. Sometimes they fail.

In Belfast they used three. The last thing they wanted was for an

unexploded device to fall into the hands of the army. Our

signature would be all over it.'

'What do you mean, signature?'

'The style. The technique. Even the explosive mixture, the

ratio of ingredients and the way they've been mixed. Every

bombmaker has his or her own way of putting a device together,

as distinctive as a fingerprint, or a signature.'

Andy looked across at Green-eyes, trying to gauge the

woman's reaction. The ski mask made it impossible. Did she

know about a bombmaker's signature? Did the person she was

working for? There was no way of knowing without asking

directly, and Andy didn't expect to be given a truthful answer. If

they were forcing her to build the bomb so that it looked as if it

were the work of the IRA, then they'd hardly be likely to admit

it to her. Because the only way the deception would work was if

Andy wasn't alive to contradict the evidence. If they truly

wanted to make it look as if the IRA had carried out a major

bomb outrage in the City of London, Andy would have to die.

Green-eyes straightened up. 'Show me again how we set the

clock,' she said.

Andy went through the procedure, using flashlight bulbs

where the detonators would be. The lights winked on as the

tumble-driers finished their cycle.

Half an hour later they had fifty pounds of the explosive

mixture in Tupperware containers on the desk in front of them.

Green-eyes reached for a box of medical gloves and put on a

pair. 'Did you wear gloves when you prepared the explosive?'

she asked.

Andy shook her head. 'No. You need the sensitivity when

you're doing the electrical work, and you have to be able to

squeeze the explosive into the form you want it. It'd be like

trying to make pastry with gloves on.'

Green-eyes nodded and put the box to one side. Earlier in

the day she had gone out to buy a Samsonite hard-shell suitcase,

and she lifted it on to another desk and opened it.

Andy pulled the lid off one of the containers. The mixture

was the consistency of bread dough, grey in colour, and it still

smelled strongly of fertiliser. She poured the mixture into the

suitcase, using a wooden spatula to scrape it out of the corners of

the container. She poured in two batches of the mixture, almost

twenty pounds in all.

'You're going to take this away now?' Andy asked. 'Because

if you're not, we should hold off until you're ready. You want to

have it live for as little time as possible before detonation.'

Green-eyes looked at her wristwatch. 'As soon as it's ready,

we're off.'

Andy nodded. 'Okay. But remember what I said about the

Faraday effect. Stay away from electrical equipment. Radios.

Mobile phones. Anything that gives off electrical radiation.' She

gestured at the line of ovens and the two tumble-driers. 'We

should unplug those before we make the circuit live. And I

meant what I said about mobile phones. Have you ever held one

near a radio? You can hear the buzz they give off every so often.

It's the phone keeping in touch with the nearest transmitter.

That buzz, under the right circumstances, can set the detonator

off. Same with two-way radios.'

'But it's safe, right?'

Andy grimaced. 'It's a bomb. When all's said and done, it's a

bomb.' She patted the suitcase. 'When this goes off, it'll kill

anyone within a three-hundred-foot range. It could blow the

front off a building. So safe isn't really an appropriate description,

is it?'

Green-eyes took a step back, as if she had realised the

destructive power of the device for the first time.

Andy smiled despite herself. 'You'd have to get a darn sight

farther away than that,' she said. 'Besides, if it did go off and you

were this close, you wouldn't feel a thing.' She wasn't sure if

mobile phones would have any effect on the circuit - they'd

been few and far between in Northern Ireland when she was

building bombs for the IRA. But she wanted to make sure that

Green-eyes left the phone in the briefcase and didn't take it with

her when she went out.

When she'd emptied two of the containers into the suitcase,

she flattened the mixture with her hands, then hollowed out a

space about a foot square. The Semtex was on another desk, and

Andy carried over one of the blocks and carefully unwrapped it.

Green-eyes watched over her shoulder as she put it in the space

she'd made in the fertiliser/aluminium mixture. She pressed it

down with the flat of her hands, then lifted up the electric circuit

and placed it on to the Semtex. She pushed the two Mark 4

detonators into the Semtex at an angle so that they were almost

completely buried, just half an inch sticking out. She pressed the

batteries slightly, so that they were stuck in the Semtex, then

carefully moved the digital clock and the wires leading to it,

resting them in the lid of the suitcase. She opened the remaining

two Tupperware containers and scraped the rest of the fertiliser/

aluminium mixture into the case. Again she used her hands to

press the mixture down, kneading it to force out any trapped air.

She put two empty garbage bags on top of the mixture, then laid

the clock on top of them. She put another half-dozen empty

bags on top of the clock to protect it when the lid was closed.

'That's it,' she said. 'All you have to do is set the clock.'

'It's live?'

'It's live but it won't go off until the timer's set.'

Green-eyes nodded slowly, staring at the suitcase. Andy

closed the lid and snapped the catches shut.

'Keep it this way up. If you try to carry it by the handle,

everything'll move inside.'

'It's going to look strange, carrying it like that, isn't it?'

Andy shrugged. 'That's not really my problem, is it? It has to

be that way if you're going to carry it in the boot of a car.'

Green-eyes took off her gloves. 'Right, I'm going to get

changed. As soon as we've taken the case out of here, you start

preparing the rest of the stuff. We'll need it for tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow? You're going to do it tomorrow?'

'Just get the mixture ready,' said Green-eyes, walking towards

the ofEces. 'All of it.'

Andy* watched her go. Tomorrow? Twenty-four hours? She

shivered. She had to do something to stop them. But what?

What could she do that would prevent them blowing up the

building, without endangering Katie?

A few minutes later, Green-eyes came out of the office.

She'd changed out of her overalls and into a blue suit with a

short skirt and high heels. It made the ski mask she was wearing

all the more sinister. The Runner was with her. He'd also taken

his overalls off and was wearing a denim jacket and jeans. Green

eyes showed him the suitcase. 'Make sure you don't tilt it,' she

said.

He lifted it off the table, then put it down. 'No problem,' he

said.

Green-eyes looked at her watch again. She nodded at the

Wrestler. 'We'll be back this evening. Keep an eye on her.'

'Will do,' said the Wrestler, putting on a pair of gloves. He

strapped his shoulder holster over his overalls, took out his gun

and checked the action, ejecting the clip and slotting it back in.

Green-eyes nodded at the Runner. He lifted the suitcase

with a grunt and headed towards the reception area. Green-eyes

followed him.

'How much are they paying you to do this?' Andy asked the

Wrestler.

He sneered at her from beneath his ski mask. 'More than

enough,' he said. He slotted his gun back into its holster.

'For killing people?'

'There are plenty of people in the world,' he said, measuring

aluminium powder into a Tupperware container. 'It can stand to

lose a few.'

'You don't mean that,' she said.

'I read something once,' he said. 'It was on some charity

handout. It said that every day something like forty thousand

children die from hunger or preventable illnesses. That's children.

Children who never harmed anyone. Hell, they don't get to live long enough to hurt anybody. Forty thousand a day,

almost fifteen million a year.'

'That doesn't make any sense at all,' she said.

'Oh, it does, it's just that you don't understand.'

'You're doing this to help starving children?'

'No, I'm doing it for a quarter of a million pounds. But the

world being as sick as it is, don't expect me to give a fuck if a few

people get killed. Now get on with what you're doing. You talk

too much.'

Jason Hetherington walked into the main briefing room, followed

by a man in his twenties with short blond hair that looked

as if it hadn't seen a comb for a while. The man had inquisitive

eyes that flicked from side to side as he entered the room, taking

everything in. He was wearing a brown leather jacket over a pale

green sweatshirt, blue Wrangler jeans and Nike training shoes,

and looked like a small-time drug dealer on the make.

'Ah, there she is,' murmured Hetherington as he spotted

Patsy Ellis crouched over a computer terminal. 'Patsy, someone

here I'd like you to meet.'

Patsy looked up from the computer and frowned at the new

arrival. He looked totally out of place in the roomful of

enthusiastic young agents, even more so because he was standing

next to Hetherington and his Savile Row suit, made-to-measure

starched shirt and club tie. It wasn't just the man's attire that

made him stand out -- his posture was so relaxed as to be

bordering on insolence.

'Captain Payne,' said Hetherington. 'Special Projects Team.

He and his men have just arrived from Hereford.'

Payne stuck out his hand. 'Stuart,' he said.

Patsy shook. He had a firm, dry grip, though he didn't try to

impress by crushing her fingers. He smiled openly, and Patsy

couldn't help but noticing that four of his top front teeth seemed

to be capped -- they were slightly whiter than the rest of his

teeth. 'Patsy Ellis,' she said. 'Glad to have you on board, Stuart.'

'His team are in the gymnasium,' said Hetherington, adjusting

his cuffs. 'Unpacking their equipment.'

'We weren't sure what to bring so we've got everything but

the kitchen sink,' said Payne. He had a Geordie accent which

he'd obviously made an attempt to tone down over the years.

'And I'm afraid we're still none the wiser,' said Patsy.

Hetherington motioned with his hand that they should go

back to his office, and they walked along the corridor together.

'We're reasonably certain that they're in the City,' said Patsy.

'We've identified one as a career criminal, an armed robber.'

Payne frowned and scratched the back of his head. 'I thought

this was an IRA operation.'

'The bombmaker's IRA. But she's working under coercion.'

Hetherington opened the door to his office and ushered the

two of them in. 'Her child's been kidnapped,' he said, taking his

place behind the desk. 'They're threatening to kill the child

unless she co-operates. We're assuming she's building a bomb

for them. A big bomb. We're pursuing several lines of enquiry

and, not to be too melodramatic, the clock is ticking. As soon as

anything breaks, we'll have to move quickly.'

Payne nodded thoughtfully. 'So the bomb is already in the

City? It's not in some sort of vehicle?'

'We don't know,' said Patsy. 'They've been using a van, but

we think they've been using it to transport equipment. If I were

to make a guess, I'd say they were assembling it in a building. But

we're not in the guessing business. We're not ruling anything

out at this stage.'

'Okay. So basically we'll have to play it by ear? No rehearsals?'

'I'm

afraid not,' said Patsy.

Payne smiled broadly and winked. 'That's what we do best,'

he said.

McCracken and Quinn picked up Egan at a service station on

the Mi outside Luton. He climbed into the back of the Volvo.

'Everything okay?' he asked.

McCracken nodded. 'We're on schedule,' she said. 'Tomorrow

afternoon.'

'Excellent,' said Egan. He settled back in the seat as Quinn

drove back on to the motorway and accelerated towards Milton

Keynes.

On Egan's instructions, they kept to just below seventy miles

an hour, but it still took them less than half an hour to drive to

the industrial estate. Egan got out and unlocked the main door,

and Quinn drove the Volvo into the factory and parked next to

the Transit van. McCracken climbed out while Quinn pulled

the lever to unlock the boot.

After he'd closed the metal door, Egan opened the boot and

looked down at the suitcase. It always amazed him how something

so innocuous could do so much damage. Five cubic feet of

chemicals at most, a few pence worth of electrical components,

and yet it had the capacity to completely destroy the building

they were in. Bigger bombs didn't look any more threatening.

The bomb that destroyed the Federal Building in Oklahoma,

killing hundreds of US government officials, would have fitted

comfortably into the back of the Transit. The one that had

devastated the centre of Nairobi wasn't much bigger. Egan put

on a pair of medical gloves.

McCracken opened the back of the Transit while Egan

carefully lifted the suitcase out of the boot. He carried it over to

the van and slid it along the metal floor. Quinn came up behind

him. 'Shall I put the Volvo outside?' he asked.

Egan shook his head. 'Get the petrol and douse the offices,

yeah?'

Quinn went over to a stack of red petrol cans and picked

up two of them. McCracken watched as Egan opened the

suitcase. He eased aside the plastic bags to expose the digital

clock. 'Why the gloves?' she asked. 'It's all going to go up in

flames anyway.'

Egan looked over his shoulder. 'They can get partial prints

off anything these days, Lydia.'

'Even after an explosion?'

'Sure. Off the smallest fragment. DNA, too. A few skin cells

or a piece of hair. That's why the authorities spend such a long

time collecting all the residue after an explosion. They'll be all

over the place once it goes off. The only prints I want them to

find are the woman's.' He checked his Rolex and compared it to

the digital read-out on the bomb's timer. Exact to the second.

'Right, show me what to do,' he said.

McCracken talked him through the setting of the alarm,

then he pressed the button to activate it.

'Okay,' he said. 'Five minutes.' He could feel his heart

pounding and he smiled to himself. Nothing had changed,

not really. The bomb was the same as when he had lifted it

out of the boot of the Volvo. Individually, the components were

exactly as they had been all day. But his body recognised what

his mind was trying to ignore. By pressing the alarm button he'd

irrevocably changed the nature of the beast. Now it was live.

Now it had the power of life and death. He shut the suitcase lid

and closed the rear door of the van.

'Better get the Volvo out before the fumes get any worse,' he

said. He pulled the chain to open the door for her. McCracken

got into the car and reversed it out through the doorway.

Over by the offices, Quinn threw down the two petrol cans

and went over to the stack for two more. The smell of petrol

wafted over from the offices. 'All of it, Mark!' Egan called. 'We

want the whole place to go up.'

He went over to help Quinn, and together they doused the

offices with petrol, then McCracken poured more of the fuel

along the sides of the factory. Egan looked at his watch again. A

little over four minutes. Plenty of time, though he could feel the

adrenaline pumping through his system. The fright, fight and

flight response. But Egan was well used to suppressing his body's

automatic reactions, and he calmly closed the rear doors of the

Transit.

He walked over to where Quinn was slopping petrol around

the corridor between the plasterboard offices. 'Nearly done,' said

Quinn. Egan took his automatic out of his jacket pocket and

slammed the butt against the back of Quinn's head. The man fell

without a sound, and Egan deftly caught the petrol can before it

hit the ground. He hefted the unconscious man over his

shoulder and carried him and the half-empty can of petrol over

to the Transit. He put Quinn in the driver's seat, then poured

the rest of the petrol over him before looking at his Rolex again.

Two minutes. Time to go.

He walked quickly across the factory area, pulled the chain

down to close the metal shutter, then left by the pedestrian

doorway, closing the door behind him.

McCracken was gunning the engine of the Volvo. 'You're

cutting it close,' she said.

'Ninety seconds,' he said, pulling open the passenger door

and climbing in. 'Anyway, we want to see if it goes up.'

She looked at him expectantly. 'Where's Mark?'

'Mark's not coming with us,' said Egan, taking off his gloves.

'What?'

Egan pointed ahead. 'Lydia, I think if we're going to discuss

this, we should be doing it while we're on the move. Don't you?'

McCracken looked back at the factory unit as if reluctant to

leave.

'Eighty seconds,' said Egan.

McCracken put the Volvo in gear and drove off. Egan

looked around casually, checking to see if they were being

observed, but the industrial estate's pavements were deserted. It

wasn't a place where people walked around. Almost all the men

and women who worked on the estate drove in. McCracken

drove quickly out of the estate and on to the main road to

Milton Keynes. The road curved back along the estate, giving

them a clear view of the factory units.

'What happened back there?' said McCracken, her eyes

flicking between the traffic and the industrial estate on her right.

'You said it yourself, Lydia. He was unreliable. It's almost

over -- we don't need to be carrying a liability. For the next stage

we need Andrea's total concentration. What we don't need is

her looking over her shoulder at Quinn every other minute.' He

looked at his watch. 'Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.'

There was a flash of light from the skylights at the top of the

factory unit, followed almost immediately by a shower of debris

erupting from the roof and the metal shutter being blown out of

the side of the building. A second later there was a dull crump

that they felt as much as heard.

Egan looked at his watch and frowned. 'Five seconds early.'

He looked across at the burning building. It was already well

ablaze and little remained of the roof.

The traffic was slowing around them as drivers craned their

necks to get a better look at the inferno. People were pouring

out of adjacent factory units and running away from the blaze.

Thick plumes of black smoke were spiralling upwards. By the

time the emergency services arrived, there'd be nothing left.

'And that was just fifty pounds?' asked McCracken, slowing

to avoid a coach ahead of them that was barely travelling at

walking pace. All the passengers had moved over to the right

hand side of the vehicle and were peering through the windows.

'Pretty impressive, huh? Andrea knows her stuff.' Egan

looked across at her and smiled thinly. 'You're thinking of

the damage that a four-thousand-pound bomb will do, aren't

you?'

McCracken shrugged. She accelerated past the coach and

switched over to the left-hand lane, where the traffic was

moving faster.

'It's gonna be awesome, Lydia. Absolutely awesome.'

Martin reached out for the black phone, but pulled his hand

back when Fanning gave a small shake of his head. 'I keep

wanting to check that they're working,' said Martin.

'They're fine.' Fanning ran a hand through his thick blond

hair. He tapped the digital tape recorder. 'This monitors the

signal constantly. Any problems with the line and it'd show a red

light. Relax.'

'Relax?' Martin stood up and paced around the office. Carter

and Denham watched him from the sofa. 'What if she doesn't

call? What if they don't let her use the phone?'

'There are other lines of enquiry, Martin,' said Carter.

'We're doing everything we can.'

Martin continued pacing. 'What if it's not enough? What if

they kill her? What if we never find Katie?' He stopped and

glared at the telephones as if he could force them to ring by

effort of will.

Carter pushed herself up out of the sofa and went over to

Martin. She was a couple of inches shorter than he was and had

to tilt her chin up to maintain eye contact. 'Martin, you have to

take it easy. Worrying isn't going to solve anything. When she

calls, the kidnappers are going to be listening in. If they suspect

you're with someone, they'll cut the connection immediately.

You have to stay calm.'

The door opened and they all turned to look at Patsy Ellis.

'There's been an explosion,' she said.

'Is Andy all right?' asked Martin. He took a couple of steps

towards Patsy. 'Is she? Is she okay?'

'We're not exactly sure what happened, Martin,' said Patsy.

'It wasn't here. It was in Milton Keynes.'

Martin bent over as if he'd been punched in the stomach. He

struggled to speak but couldn't find any words. Milton Keynes?

What the hell did that have to do with Andy?

'Sit down, Martin,' said Patsy. Carter took his arm and eased

him down on to a chair.

'Are we talking about an own goal here?' asked Denham.

'We've no idea what happened,' said Patsy. 'Other than that

there was an explosion on an industrial estate just outside Milton

Keynes. It was a device of some sort. SOCO are there now,

along with explosive officers from the anti-terrorist branch.

Early reports are that there was a vehicle inside a factory unit

and that it exploded. There was at least one person killed.'

Martin put his head in his hands and moaned. Carter patted

the back of his neck and looked across at Patsy. Patsy shrugged,

not sure what to say. She fingered the crucifix around her neck.

'Just one?' asked Denham.

'That's the information we have.'

Denham went over to Martin and sat down at the table next

to him. 'That's good news, Martin. She wouldn't be on her

own, not with the bomb.'

Martin lifted his head. Denham could see the hope in his

eyes. 'Do you think?'

'I'm sure. If it was an accident, there would have been more

killed.' He scratched the birthmark on his neck. 'And there's no

reason for her to be in Milton Keynes. It's a wasteland. No

terrorist is going to waste a bomb on Milton Keynes.'

Martin took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Denham

looked over at Patsy and grimaced. He hoped he wasn't being

too optimistic.

Andy took the Tupperware container out of the tumble-drier

and placed it on the floor. She put in a new container, set the

timer, then stood up and stretched. The Wrestler was mixing a

fresh batch, measuring out the aluminium powder with a plastic

cup. They'd done almost a quarter of the mixing, and had a line

of black garbage bags, each containing about thirty pounds of

explosive. The neck of each bag was tied with a metal fastener.

Andy went over to him. 'I'm going to take a break,' she said,

her voice muffled by the respirator. 'I need something to drink.'

The Wrestler nodded. 'Bring me back a Coke, yeah?'

Andy went along to the office where Green-eyes had stockpiled

the food and drink. She took a chicken salad roll out of the

Marks and Spencer carrier bag and opened a bottle of iced tea. She

listened at the door before easing it open, then padded across the

corridor and into the office opposite. The briefcase was where

she'd left it. Andy picked it up and carried it back into the meeting

room. She put it on the table and started flicking through the

combinations. She'd reached the high seven hundreds.

O'Keefe jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He whirled

around, his right hand reaching for his holstered gun, but

instantly relaxed when he saw it was McCracken. She'd put

her ski mask on, but he could still see that she was grinning at his

reaction. He pulled his respirator down. 'Didn't hear you,' he

said, pointing at his ear. 'The tumble-driers.'

'That's okay,' said McCracken. 'Where's Andrea?'

O'Keefe gestured with his thumb at the private offices.

'Getting a drink.' He looked over McCracken's shoulder.

'Where's Quinn?'

'Quinn's not with us any more.'

'What? He's buggered off?'

'Not exactly.' She frowned at the line of black bags. 'Is that

all?'

'Come on, it's hard bloody work, this. There's only the two

driers. I'm doing as much as I can by hand, but it's taking for

ever.' He grinned. 'The IRA used to use cement mixers for this

bit, you know? We should have tried to bring a cement mixer

in, huh?'

'Yeah, sure. We've got to get this done by tomorrow or

Egan's going to be on the warpath.'

'It'll be done. We could do with Quinn, though.'

'Quinn's dead.'

O'Keefe's jaw dropped. 'Dead? What the hell happened?'

'He went up with the van.'

O'Keefe put down his wooden spatula. 'McCracken, what

the fuck happened?'

McCracken explained what Egan had done. And why.

O'Keefe listened in silence, then rubbed his throat. 'He's a hard

bastard, is Egan. You trust him?'

'He's come through with everything he promised. A third of

our money in advance, this place, the Semtex.'

'Yeah, but he didn't say anything about blowing Quinn

away, did he? What if he decides to get rid of the two of us the

same way?'

'Quinn was a mistake.'

'Aye. But he was Egan's mistake. Remember that. Egan

hired us all.'

'I'll be sure to tell him that,' said McCracken with a cold

smile.

'You know what I mean, Lydia,' said O'Keefe. 'What do we

really know about Egan, or what his agenda is?'

'He's a pro, and he pays. That's all we need to know.'

'Aye, that's as maybe. But watch your back, eh?'

'Maybe you could watch it for me, Don. And I'll watch

yours.'

O'Keefe smirked. 'If it's all the same to you, I'll take care of

my own back,' he said.

One of the tumble-driers reached the end of its cycle and

O'Keefe went over to it. 'I'll get Andrea,' said McCracken.

'With Quinn out of the way, she's going to have to pull her

ringer out.'

Andy clicked the end tumbler of the combination lock and

pushed the button. The lock clicked open. Eight-six-four. She

stared at the lock, not quite believing that she'd done it. She

swallowed and looked up at the door. She'd been in the office

for almost ten minutes and wasn't sure how long she could stay

without the Wrestler wondering what she was doing.

She set the second combination dial to zero-zero-zero and

began working her way through the combinations. After several

futile attempts, she had a sudden thought. She had a briefcase of

her own, though she rarely used it. The combination was Katie's

birthday. Nine-one-seven. The seventeenth of September.

Andy had set both locks to the same number. She wondered

if Green-eyes had done the same. She set the second dial to

eight-six-four, said a silent prayer, and pushed the button with

her thumb. It clicked open. Her heart pounded. Would the

mobile phone be inside? And if it was, who would she call?

Just as she was about to open the briefcase, she heard

footsteps outside. High heels, crunching softly along the carpet

tiles.

Andy fumbled with the catches and snapped them shut. She

slipped the briefcase under the table and stood up, wiping her

sweaty palms on the legs of her jeans. The door was flung open.

It was Green-eyes. 'What the hell's going on?' she asked angrily.

'What do you mean?' replied Andy, trying to sound as

innocent as possible. She forced herself not to look down.

'I mean I want you out there working, not in here skiving.'

Andy picked up the chicken salad roll and waved it in front

of Green-eyes. 'I've got to eat, haven't I?'

Green-eyes jerked her thumb at the door. 'You can eat out

there.'

Andy stayed where she was. She looked at the video

recorder, and then back at the woman. 'I've had a thought,'

she said. 'About the timer.'

'That's another thing. That bomb went off early. Five

seconds early. How could that happen?'

Andy pulled at her lower lip. 'The chip, I guess.' She went

over to the video recorder and tapped the front where a digital

clock was glowing blue. 'I was thinking, the timer in this might

be a better bet. The electronics are easier to deal with. It'll be

easier to set, too.'

'Have you used one before?'

'Sure.'

Green-eyes nodded thoughtfully. 'Okay. Whatever.'

'Andy unplugged the video recorder from the mains supply

and then disconnected it from the television. Green-eyes held

the door open for her as she carried it out.

Green-eyes looked around the room, shrugged, and followed

her down the corridor.

282

DAY NINE

Martin looked up as Denham walked in. There were dark

patches under his eyes and his hair was greasy and unkempt.

He'd rolled his shirtsleeves up and loosened his collar. 'Any

news?' he asked.

Denham shook his head. He looked at Carter and Fanning.

They looked as tired as Martin. 'Why don't you get a bite to eat,

or catch some sleep? I'll stay until you get back.'

'One of us has to be here all the time,' said Fanning.

'So toss for it,' said Denham. He smiled sympathetically at

Martin. 'You should try to sleep, too.'

Denham sat down opposite him. 'The bomb in Milton

Keynes. It was the van. The van we were looking for. The

SOCO boys found part of the registration plate.'

Martin ran his hands through his hair. 'God. What if it was

Andy?'

'I don't think it was,' said Denham.

A look of hope flashed across Martin's face. 'Why? Why do

you think that?'

'She was too professional to make a mistake,' said Denham.

'She was very methodical. Cold as ice. It couldn't have gone off

accidentally.'

'Maybe they wanted to kill her. Maybe they blew her up?'

Carter left: the room. Denham lit a cigarette and blew smoke

at the ceiling. 'If they wanted to kill her, they wouldn't use a

bomb, and they wouldn't do it in Milton Keynes. We're pretty

283

sure that it was a deliberate explosion. A test, maybe. Or a way of

getting rid of the van and any other evidence.'

'But there was a body.'

'It could have been anyone, Martin. They wouldn't have

gone to all this trouble just for a small bomb in Milton Keynes.

Whatever they're up to it has to be much bigger than that.'

Denham saw Martin staring at the packet of cigarettes and he

offered him one. 'I don't smoke,' said Martin.

'Good for you,' said Denham.

'I gave up. Fifteen years ago.'

'I wish I had the willpower,' said Denham.

Martin continued to stare at the packet. 'Fuck it,' he said,

reaching for a cigarette. Denham lit it for him. Martin inhaled

and coughed, then took another drag. 'Fifteen years,' he said

quietly. 'You married, Liam?'

Denham nodded. 'Almost thirty years. Thirty years next

year.'

'What's the anniversary? Platinum? Sapphire?'

'Something like that.' Denham grinned and tapped ash into

an ashtray. 'Bound to be expensive.'

'Children?'

Denham's jaw tightened. 'A daughter.' He took another

long drag on his cigarette, held the smoke deep in his lungs for

several seconds, then exhaled between clenched teeth. 'She

died.'

'I'm sorry.'

Denham shrugged. 'It was a long time ago. Leukaemia.'

'Oh, God. I'm really sorry.'

'Yeah, she was twelve. She'd been sick for two years -- in and

out of the bloody hospital we were. Chemotherapy. Radiation.

Seems like most of the memories I have of her she was wearing a

baseball cap.' He blew smoke at the floor.

'Children shouldn't die before their parents,' said Martin

quietly. 'That's not how it should be.'

Denham nodded, staring at the floor. Fanning stood up

uneasily and went over to the window. Denham looked up and

locked eyes with Martin.

'If anything happens to Katie . . .' Martin said.

'We'll find her,' Denham assured him.

Martin's eyes were as hard and unyielding as plate glass as he

stared at Denham. 'You have to find them both, Liam. You have

to get them both back. I'll die without them. If they die, I'll die

too.'

Denham reached over and gripped Martin's wrist. 'It won't

come to that,' he said.

Martin pulled his arm away, embarrassed by the contact. He

looked as if he wanted to say more, but he just shook his head

and put a hand up to his face, massaging the bridge of his nose

and blinking away tears.

Carter reappeared with a tray containing two plates of salad

and two bottles of water. Denham gestured at the food with his

cigarette. 'Not on a diet are we, Barbara?'

She smiled without warmth and put the tray on a coffee table

close to the sofa. Denham stood up. 'I'll take this outside,' he

said, nodding at the cigarette. Martin looked at the burning

cigarette in his own hand, took a final drag and then stabbed it

into the ashtray. Carter's smile was fractionally warmer. She sat

on the sofa and began to peck at her salad with a fork.

Denham flashed an encouraging smile at Martin, but he was

staring at the carpet. Denham took the lift down to the ground

floor and walked out of Thames House, putting on his tweed hat

and pulling it down hard as he headed towards the river. He

turned up the collar of his jacket against the cold wind that was

whipping in from the east. Out of habit he checked over his

shoulder several times, but he wasn't being followed. He walked

past several call-boxes and chose one down a side street, pulling

out a handful of change and dropping two one-pound coins into

the slot before dialling the number in Dublin. He smiled with

satisfaction as the number rang out. Denham took pride in his

memory, which was as close to photographic as it was possible to

get, especially where names and numbers where concerned. It

had been more than a decade since he'd phoned Eamonn

Hogan, yet he'd instantly been able to retrieve the number

from wherever it was in his brain that it had been filed away. He

smiled as he remembered how his wife had always teased him

because his recall of names and numbers was virtually infallible

but he could never remember where he'd left his car keys or the

television remote control.

Hogan didn't answer the phone himself, but an efficient

secretary with a clipped Cork accent took Denham's name,

asked him to hold, and then put him through almost immediately.

'Liam, you old rascal, how's retirement?' asked Hogan.

'Not as quiet as I'd hoped,' said Denham. 'Still Chief

Inspector, then?'

'Aye. Too many black marks on my record to climb the

slippery pole,' said Hogan. 'But I know where enough bodies are

buried for them not to get rid of me. We've reached a nice wee

impasse, so I'll give it five more years and then I'll be able to spend

all my time on the golf course. What about you? Still fishing?'

'When I can. Look, Eamonn, I just wanted a word in your

ear. Can you talk?'

'Sure.'

'George McEvoy. Remember him?'

'Unfortunately, yes. Right nasty bastard. Did the dirty for the

IRA's Civil Administration Team, right?'

'That's him. Can you do me a favour -- see if he's on your

patch at all?'

'Why would you think he'd be in Dublin, Liam?'

Denham wasn't sure how much he could tell Hogan. They'd

worked together on several occasions when Denham had been

serving with Special Branch in Belfast, but they weren't friends,

they had no real history together.

'It's difficult to explain, Eamonn, without me dropping

myself in it. And you, too.'

Hogan chuckled. 'I don't think there's much you could say

that would blacken my reputation any more than it already is,'

he said. 'Where are you? Belfast?'

'London.' *

'So what's with the query about McEvoy? Doing a little

private detective work on the side, are we? Sweetening the

pension?'

'I doubt that I'm going to get paid for this,' said Denham. He

fed another pound coin into the slot, and followed it with two

fifty-pence pieces. 'The thing is, I think McEvoy might be

involved in something in your neck of the woods.'

There was a pause lasting several seconds. 'This wouldn't be

about the Katie Hayes girl, would it?'

Denham cursed silently.

'Well, Liam? Would it?'

'I can see why you're a detective, Eamonn. Putting two and

two together and getting five.'

'It's not that big a leap of intuition,' said Hogan. 'Two of my

boys were pulled off a case a day or two back. Little girl went

missing with her mother. They pulled in the father and sweated

him overnight but couldn't pin anything on them. They were

coming to the view that it was a domestic and the wife had gone off. They let him go with a view to keeping an eye on him.

Then he vanished. My boys had made a few enquiries with his

bank and his accountant and it seems he'd been liquidating all his

investments. Before they could take it any further, I got a call

from the Taoiseach's office. I was told to lay off the Hayes case.

No explanation, no please or thank you, just that the matter was

being pursued at a higher level. So, was I right? Do two and two

make five? Or is it six? Or is your call from London a total

coincidence?'

Denham smiled despite himself. Hogan was a cunning old

sod. 'You know I can't tell you, Eamonn. But you're following

orders, aren't you?'

'Oh, yes, I'm being a good boy. Wouldn't want to do

anything to jeopardise my pension.'

Denham slotted in a few more coins.

'I'd like to tell you more, but I honestly can't. Maybe

when it's over we can chat about it over a few glasses of malt,

but at the moment things are too frantic. But I would be

grateful if you'd keep an eye out for McEvoy. Or any of his

associates.'

'And if he does turn up?'

'Then I'd appreciate an unofficial call.' He gave Hogan the

number of the mobile phone that Patsy had given him. 'That's a

mobile and it's not secure,' he warned.

'They never are these days,' said Hogan. 'Okay, I'll put him

on our watch list. I'll think of some excuse.'

'Anyone else appeared in Dublin you wouldn't expect?'

'Not that I know of, but now you've raised it I'll put out

some feelers. Now you be careful, Liam. You're getting too old

for cloak and dagger.'

Denham snorted back a laugh and hung up. As he left the

call-box, he lit another cigarette. It was the last in his packet and

the packet had been the second of the day. His wife wouldn't be

best pleased if she found it. He put his hands in his pockets and

went off in search of a newsagent.

Katie sat at the table, flicking through one of the comic books

that the Nice Man had brought her. She had no idea what time

it was or what day it was, but she was hungry, so she guessed it

was almost lunch-time. She looked around the room. She had to

find a way out. She had to escape. But how? There was only one

way out of the basement and that was up the stairs and through

the door. The last time she'd tried to run away she'd headed for

the kitchen and that had been a mistake because the Ugly Man

was there. She should have run the other way, to the front door.

If she could get to the front door, then she could run away and

shout for help. Someone would hear her. A policeman, maybe.

She looked up at the single light bulb hanging from the

ceiling. If she tried to hide, they'd see her right away. They

always switched the light on when they came down the stairs, no

matter which of them it was. She needed to be able to hide in

the dark and then run up the stairs before they saw her. She

rolled up the comic and swished it through the air. If she could

hit the light bulb, it would go out. But she was only little, she

couldn't reach. She didn't think even her dad would be able to

reach it.

She climbed on to the table and swung the comic at the bulb,

but it was still too high. She frowned up at it. If she did break the

bulb, it would be dark. There were no windows in the basement.

She tutted, annoyed at herself for always thinking negatively.

She had to get out, she had to get back to her mummy

and dad, and if that meant being in the dark for an hour or so, it

was a small price to pay.

She knelt down on the table and picked up the wooden chair

she'd been sitting on. She hauled it up on to the table, set it

down in the middle, and climbed up on it. It wobbled a bit, but

not much. She swung the rolled-up comic and hit the bulb. It

swung craziry back and forth, but it didn't go out. Katie waited

until it had stopped swinging before lashing out again. This time

the light winked out, though the glass didn't break.

She stood on the chair in darkness, suddenly afraid. She knelt

down, almost lost her balance, and then clambered to the floor.

It felt colder, as if the light had been keeping the basement

warm, but she knew that was only her imagination. She groped

around until she found her Garfield toy, then crawled to the

bottom of the stairs, where she curled herself up into a tight ball

and waited.

Andy looked up from the wires that she was soldering and wiped

her forehead with her sleeve. She blew on the silvery lumps of

still-hot solder, then tugged gently at the wire to check that it

was firmly fixed to the digital timer's circuit board. She had to

force herself to concentrate on what she was doing. Her mind

kept wandering to the briefcase and to what would happen if

Green-eyes discovered it.

The Wrestler was stacking the last of the black bags in the

centre of the main office area. There was up to thirty pounds of

the fertiliser/aluminium mixture in each bag, a total of one

hundred and thirty bags in all.

Green-eyes watched as Andy added a drop more solder to

the join, then blew on it again. 'This sort of timer's reliable, is it?'

she asked.

Andy nodded. 'The big advantage is that it can be set up

weeks in advance. The IRA used it to bring down the Grand

Hotel in Brighton. Remember, when they almost got

Thatcher?'

'I remember. But we won't be needing weeks.'

'How long?' asked Andy.

'Let's get it set up first, then we'll worry about the time.'

Green-eyes straightened up and looked at her watch. It was

the third occasion she'd looked at her watch in the past ten

minutes, and Andy had the feeling that she was waiting for

somebody.

Andy soldered one of the wires leading from the digital timer

to a nine-volt battery. She'd already soldered another wire to the

battery terminal, and she'd connected that temporarily to a bulb

holder into which was screwed a small bulb. Three other wires

also ran from the timer to three other bulb-holders, which were

also connected to batteries. Andy was using red wires from the

timer to the batteries, blue wires from the batteries to the bulb

holders, and brown wires from the bulb-holders back to the

timer. She fiddled with the timer and all four bulbs lit up.

'Excellent,' said Green-eyes.

'Do you want me to show you how to set the timer?' asked

Andy.

'No need,' said Green-eyes. 'You'll be setting it, not me.'

'And you want me to finish it now?'

Green-eyes nodded.

The briefcase full of Semtex slabs was on another table. Andy

went over to it and unwrapped the blocks one by one, putting the

plastic wrappers to the side. She began to work the blocks together

like a pastry chef, squeezing out the air and forming the high

explosive into one malleable roll. It was hard work, and her hands

were soon aching. She flattened it out into a rough oblong, then

picked it up and put it back in the briefcase, pressing it firmly into

all the corners. It filled the case to a depth of almost three inches. It

was, Andy knew, capable of producing a shock wave so devastating

that it would virtually vaporise everything within a hundred

feet. Beyond that, shrapnel would kill anything up to five hundred

feet away. But the purpose of the Semtex wasn't to produce lethal

shrapnel -- it was to act as an initiator to set off the four thousand

pounds of fertiliser explosive. If the Semtex was destructive on it

own, combined with the home-made explosive it would be a

hundred times more devastating.

Once she was satisfied with the Semtex, she carried the case

over to the table where the electrical circuit was. She put it

down and turned to Green-eyes. 'You're sure you want me to

assemble it now?'

'Bit late for second thoughts, Andrea,' said Green-eyes.

'It's not that. But if you want me to put the detonators in the

circuit, we should unplug all the electrical equipment. The big

stuff, anyway. The ovens and the tumble-driers.'

Green-eyes nodded. She went over and pulled the plugs out

of the wall as Andy methodically removed the bulb-holders.

The four silver cylinders lay in a row by Andy's right hand, their

white wires neatly coiled together.

'What about the timer?' asked Green-eyes. 'Won't you have

to plug it into the mains?'

'What?'

'The clock? The video recorder needs a mains supply.

Doesn't the clock?'

Andy shook her head as she began wiring the detonators into

the circuit in the places where the bulb-holders had been. 'No.

The voltage is stepped down to about twelve volts. I'm running

it off batteries.'

Green-eyes studied the circuit that Andy was assembling.

'And you're going to use all four detonators?'

'That's what you wanted.' She uncoiled the wires from the

last of the detonators and wired it into the circuit.

'But that's how many we need, right?'

Andy nodded. 'One would do the job.'

'But the more the merrier, you said.'

'They weren't my actual words,' said Andy. 'But you want

more than one in case there's a failure. And the more you have,

the stronger the original detonation pulse.'

'A bigger bang,' said Green-eyes, with evident satisfaction.

Andy looked up from what she was doing. 'Have you ever

seen what a bomb does? The effect it has?'

Green-eyes gave Andy a withering look. 'Of course.'

'So you should know it's not a laughing matter. It's not

funny. People get hurt. Legs get blown off. Children die.'

Green-eyes slammed a hand down on the table, rattling all

the electrical components. 'I know what a fucking bomb does!'

she shouted. 'And so do you!'

Andy realised she'd pushed the woman too far and she

averted her eyes, not wanting to antagonise her any more.

Green-eyes grabbed a handful of Andy's hair and twisted it

savagely. 'You're the one who's blown up children, you bitch!'

she yelled.

The Wrestler stood watching them, his hands on his hips.

'I'm sorry,' said Andy, trying to push her away.

'Sorry? Sorry for what? For blowing up children? For killing

soldiers? What the fuck are you sorry for?' Green-eyes slapped

her across the face. Andy stared back at her, not flinching.

Green-eyes drew back her hand to hit Andy again, but before

she could slap her there was a loud knock at the reception door

and Green-eyes tensed. She lowered her hand and looked at her

wristwatch. 'Go to the office, now,' she hissed. 'Close the door

and don't open it until I come and get you.'

Liam Denham was walking towards the office where Martin was

being kept when he heard Patsy Ellis calling him. He went back

along the corridor and found her sitting behind a desk in one of

the offices.

'Your boss thrown you out on your ear, has he?' he joked as

he removed his hat and unbuttoned his raincoat, but Patsy didn't

return his smile.

'Come in and close the door, will you, Liam,' she said. Her>

voice was as flat and emotionless as her face, which Denham

took as a bad sign. He closed the door and sat down on a

chrome-and-leather chair facing her. The office was much

smaller than Hetherington's down the corridor, with modern

furniture and two paintings that appeared to be little more than

dribbles of colour on pale blue canvases. The desk Patsy was

sitting behind was glass and chrome, and Denham could see her

legs through the transparent top. The only thing common to

both offices was the computer terminal. Denham raised an

eyebrow expectantly and waited for her to speak. 'What the

hell did you think you were playing at?' she asked.

Denham raised both eyebrows and gave her a look of

innocent bewilderment, but he knew that his goose was well

and truly cooked. 'What do you mean?' he asked.

Patsy sneered at him contemptuously. 'You're too old to

play the innocent with me, Liam,' she said, looking at him with

cold contempt. 'K Division were on the hot line before you'd

even hung up. What the hell did you think you were doing?'

'I thought I was helping,' he said.

'You were going behind my back. You were jeopardising an

ongoing investigation. You've put hundreds of lives at risk, and

if your pal Eamonn Hogan makes waves in Dublin you might

well be responsible for the death of a seven-year-old girl.'

Denham reached inside his coat and took out his cigarettes

and lighter, but she halted him with a stony look. 'No, not this

time, Liam. I don't want you smoking around me. In fact, if it

wasn't for your insight into Andrea Hayes, I wouldn't want you

in this building.'

Denham put his cigarettes and lighter away. 'In my own

defence, I would say that I didn't mention the kidnapping. I just

asked him to keep an eye out for McEvoy.'

Patsy's fingers tapped on the keyboard, then she hit the

'enter' key with a flourish. Denham felt his cheeks redden as

they listened to the conversation he'd had with Hogan, replayed

through the computer's small but effective loudspeakers. Patsy

made him listen to the entire exchange before tapping on the

keyboard again. 'You even told him you were working for

Five,' she said.

'Strictly speaking, Patsy, and I don't want to be pedantic, but

if you listen carefully to what I actually said, I never talked about

Five or the kidnapping.'

'Hogan said it. You didn't disagree.'

'For goodness' sake, what was I supposed to do? Lie to him?'

293

'What you were supposed to do was to concentrate on the

job in hand, not phone your contacts in Dublin. If I wanted the

Garda Siochana to be looking for the Hayes girl, I'd have made

an approach through official channels.'

'And the only official action so far seems to have been to

warn them off the investigation.'

Patsy narrowed her eyes. 'What are you getting at?'

Denham sighed. He hadn't wanted to pick a fight with Patsy

Ellis, but he could feel himself being forced into a corner, and

he'd never relished the role of human punchbag. 'I'm starting to

feel that in the rush to apprehend the bombers, the little girl is

being forgotten. That's all.'

'You're retired, Liam. You're here at my request. You're not

here to direct the enquiry and you're certainly not here to

criticise my performance.'

'I wasn't being critical, Patsy. That I wasn't. I was trying to

help and I'm sorry if you think my attempt was misguided.'

'Misguided isn't the word that springs to mind,' said Patsy. 'I

was considering reckless. Irresponsible, maybe.'

'I've apologised once, Patsy. I don't see what more I can do.'

'What's annoying me, Liam, is that you don't seem to

appreciate the damage that your friend Hogan might do.'

'He'll be careful.'

'He's got more black marks on his record than I've had

ladders in my tights, Liam. He's sailed so close to the wind that

he's lucky to have a job, never mind a Chief Inspector's rank. If

he was in the Met he'd have been out on his ear years ago.'

Denham wanted to defend Hogan, but he knew that to do

so would only antagonise Patsy even more. He sat with his head

down, holding his tweed hat with both hands and fingering the

fly in the brim. 'You haven't got children, have you, Patsy?'

Patsy looked at him coldly. 'No, Liam, and at forty-three I

doubt that I ever will. But I don't see what my lack of maternal

instincts has to do with your irresponsible behaviour.'

'Somewhere in Ireland there's a little girl, scared out of her

wits, a little girl who doesn't know why she's been taken away

from her family, who doesn't know that she's a pawn in a bigger

game. And down the corridor there's a father who's going out of

his mind with worry. He doesn't know if he's ever going to see

his daughter again. Hell, he doesn't even know if she's dead

already, lying in a ditch somewhere with a plastic bag over her

head or a bullet in her heart. When all this over, however it

works out, Martin Hayes is going to want to know what we did

to try to save his little girl. And just now, from where I'm sitting,

it looks as if we're not doing a goddamned thing.' He raised his

head and looked her squarely in the eyes. She stared back at him.

'I know there are hundreds of lives at stake, here in London.

Hundreds of lives and millions of pounds. I know you have to

consider the big picture. But I know what it's like to lose a child,

Patsy. It's not something you're going to want on your conscience.'

Patsy continued to stare at Denham for several seconds.

'We're not going to agree on this, Liam,' she said eventually.

'I'm sorry.' She stood up. 'I'd rather you didn't leave the

building again, until this is over.'

'So I'm under house arrest, is that it?'

'No. I just want you here if she does call.' She opened the

door for him and he hauled himself out of the uncomfortable

chrome-and-leather chair which had clearly been designed to be

admired and not used. He massaged the small of his back with

the knuckles of his left hand as he left the office.

'I suppose there is one good thing to have come out of your

little escapade,' she said. 'We know that the GCHQ monitoring

works. Your call was flagged immediately Hogan said "Katie".'

Denham nodded but didn't say anything. Patsy closed the

door behind him as he walked down the corridor, reaching for

his packet of cigarettes.

Andy put her ear to the door and screwed up her face as she tried

to hear what was going on outside. Her cheek was still smarting

from when Green-eyes had slapped her. She hadn't expected

her to react so violently. She wondered if it was guilt, if the

woman was finally realising the horror of what they were doing.

Bombs in the abstract could be fascinating, exciting even, but at

the end of the day they were inhumane weapons of destruction

that brought nothing but sadness and grief in their wake.

She heard a man's voice, but through the door it was little

more than a faint rumble, and she couldn't even tell if it was the

Wrestler or the Runner. The Runner hadn't returned with

Green-eyes from the dry run - maybe this was him coming back

now.

She looked down at the burgundy briefcase. If she was going

to do anything, she had to do it now. The bomb was ready. All

that was left to do was set the timer and put it in the middle of

the bags of explosive. Green-eyes was more than capable of

doing that on her own. Andy had reached the stage where she

was dispensable, which meant that they'd either release her or

kill her.

She knelt down and pulled the briefcase from under the

table. The combination locks were as she'd left them, both set to

eight-six-four. She flicked the catches and pulled open the lid.

The mobile phone was there. But so was something else,

something that took her breath away. Five videocassettes, small

ones that had been taken from a video camera.

Egan walked over to the pile of black garbage bags. 'All done?'

'All four thousand pounds of it,' said O'Keefe, pulling offhis

ski mask and rubbing his face. 'We should have asked for more

money.'

'You're being well paid,' said Egan, lifting one of the bags to

gauge its weight.

'What's going to happen to Quinn's share, now that he's . . .

retired?'

'Retired?' laughed Egan. He was wearing a black leather

jacket over a grey crew-neck pullover and black Levi jeans. He

ran his eyes over the bags, counting quickly. When he was

satisfied that the full complement was there, he turned to

O'Keefe. 'Okay, Don. You and Lydia can split the money I

was going to give to Quinn. Happy now?'

O'Keefe grinned and rubbed his gloved hands together.

'Suits me,' he said.

McCracken took off her ski mask and went over to the

Semtex-filled briefcase. Egan joined her, and they looked down

at the electric circuit that lay on top of the explosive. Egan cast

his eyes over the tangle of wires. 'So everything's ready?' he said.

'All she has to do is push the detonators into the Semtex and

set the timer. We don't actually need her for that.'

'No. She has to do it all.'

'So that her signature's on it?'

Egan looked across at her, frowning. 'Who told you about

signatures?'

McCracken gestured with her chin to the office where she'd

sent Andrea. 'She did.'

Egan's frown deepened. 'Not getting too close, are you?'

'Don't be stupid,' snapped McCracken. 'We were talking,

that's all.'

Egan smiled amicably. 'Anyway, you're right. It's her signature

that matters. It has to look like an IRA bomb, and even

the slightest deviation will tip off the investigators. How's she

been?'

'She's doing as she's told. What about her daughter?'

'Her daughter's fine. For the moment.'

O'Keefe came over and looked down at the Semtex. 'What

happens to her? Afterwards?'

'The daughter?'

O'Keefe nodded.

'We'll let her go. This isn't about killing children.'

'And her?' O'Keefe nodded at the offices.

'Ah,' said Egan. 'That's a whole different ball-game. She has

to go up with the bomb. It's not going to work if she's around to

tell her story afterwards.'

'And us?' asked O'Keefe, watching Egan's face for any

reaction. 'What about having us around afterwards?'

Egan grinned and put a hand on O'Keefe's shoulder. His

leather jacket swung open and O'Keefe saw the butt of a gun in

a shoulder holster. Unlike his own black nylon holster, Egan's

was glossy brown leather that glistened under the overhead fluorescent lights.

'Don, you're as much a part of this as I am. You're hardly

likely to go spilling your guts to the cops, are you? Plus, you

don't exactly have an IRA pedigree, do you? I'm paying you to

do a job, and providing you behave like a professional, I'll treat

you like one. Might even have more work for you after this.' He

patted O'Keefe gently on the cheek, then pulled a black ski

mask from his jacket pocket. 'Right, final stretch. Let's get on

with it.'

Andy rocked back on her heels, staring at the five small

videocassettes in horror. She picked one up. There was a

handwritten label stuck to one side. Friday. She picked up a

second cassette. Wednesday. On the first cassette that Green

eyes had shown her, Katie had said it was Saturday. On the

second cassette she'd been shown, Katie had said it was Monday.

The five cassettes in the briefcase were for the rest of the days of

the week. They weren't being sent over from Ireland. They'd all

been done at the same time. Andy felt suddenly sick at the

realisation of what that meant. There was no proof that her

daughter was still alive. Worse, the kidnappers had probably

killed her after filming the seven cassettes. She put the cassettes

back in the briefcase with trembling hands and picked up the

cellular phone.

If Katie was dead, if she was really dead, then she had nothing

to lose by calling the police. She switched on the phone and its

display glowed green. It was a Vodafone digital phone, a Nokia,

the same model that Martin used. She began to tap out the

emergency services number, but stopped on the second '9'.

What if Katie was all right, what if she was panicking for

nothing? What if they'd made the tapes on the same day just

to make life easier for themselves?

Andy cancelled the call. She stood up, tapping the phone

against her leg. They weren't going to let her live after the bomb

was ready, she was sure of that. They wanted her fingerprints all

over the device so that it looked as if it was the work of the

Provisionals. The deception wouldn't work if Andy was around

afterwards, so they'd have to kill her. She closed her eyes and

took a deep breath. If they were going to kill her, what chance

was there that they'd allow Katie to live? She opened her eyes

and started to tap out '999' again. This time she stopped on the

third '9'. What if she was wrong? If she called the police and

Katie was still alive, what then? Green-eyes had made it clear

that the kidnappers in Ireland were under orders to kill Katie if

the London team were apprehended. Would the police be able

to force Green-eyes to tell them where Katie was? She cancelled

the call. It was a risk she couldn't take. The police's first concern

would be the thousands of office workers in the City. They'd

evacuate all the buildings in the area, there'd be sirens and

roadblocks, and then they'd try to negotiate. Katie would be low

down their list of priorities.

If she couldn't call the police, who then? Who could

possibly help her? On the note she'd left behind the picture in

her hotel room she'd told Martin to call her Special Branch

handler, but he was in Northern Ireland. She wanted Liam

Denham to explain to Martin who she really was, and why

Katie had been taken from them. Martin deserved an explanation,

and that was why she wanted her husband to talk to

the policeman -- it wasn't because she thought there was

anything Denham could do to help her. Besides, even if

she called Denham, what could he do? He'd probably call

Special Branch in London but they were police, too. She

needed experts, professionals. What she needed was the SAS,

but she couldn't very well call up directory enquiries and ask

for their number. She frowned. Maybe she could. Maybe she

could call them and explain to someone what had happened.

The SAS wouldn't bother with sirens and roadblocks - they'd

storm the office and that would be the end of it. Except, of

course, everyone would probably die. That was how the SAS

worked. They went in with guns blazing, and their prime

concern would be to stop the bomb going off, and the best

way of doing that would be to kill everyone in the vicinity.

And if Green-eyes and her companions were killed, who'd be

able to tell them where Katie was being held?

Andy glared at the phone in her hand as if it were

responsible for her predicament. She was in an impossible

position. If she did nothing, she would almost certainly be

killed. But if she called for help, her daughter would die. It

wasn't a decision that anyone should be forced to make, and it

wasn't a decision that Andy could make on her own. She

tapped out the number of Martin's mobile, but it was switched

off. She tapped out her home number. She had to speak to

Martin. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer as the

number rang out.

All four people in the room froze as the black phone warbled.

Carter grabbed for one headset, Denham picked up the other.

Fanning sat down and scrutinised the tape recorder. Martin

stood motionless, staring at the ringing phone. Denham motioned

for him to pick up the receiver.

Martin took a deep breath and snatched it up. 'Yes?'

'Martin, thank God you're there.'

Martin felt as if he'd been punched in the solar plexus. His

whole chest went numb and he couldn't breathe. He tried to

speak but no words would come.

'Martin, can you hear me?'

He swallowed, though his throat was painfully dry. 'I'm

here, love.'

'Martin, I don't know what to do. You've got to help me. I

can't face this alone. I ..." Her words ended in sobs.

Denham frowned and scribbled a note on a sheet of paper.

He held it in front of Martin's face. 'ASK HER IF ANYONE'S

LISTENING.' Carter took off her headset. 'I'll get Patsy,' she

mouthed, and dashed out of the room.

'Andy, love, it's okay. It's okay.' <

'It's not okay. They're making me build a bomb, a huge

bomb. Hundreds of people are going to die, Martin. But if I do

anything to try to stop them, they're going to kill Katie.'

300

'I know. I know.'

'You know? What do you mean? You can't possibly . . .'

'Andy, is anyone there with you?' Martin interrupted. 'Can

anyone hear you?'

'I'm in an office, on my own, but I don't know for how

much longer.'

Denham took off his headset and reached for the phone. For

a second Martin tried to keep hold of the receiver, but Denham

flashed him a stern look and Martin relinquished it.

'Andrea. This is Liam.'

'Liam? Liam Denham? What are you doing there?' The

confusion was obvious in her voice.

'We don't have time for that, Andrea. Where are you?'

'Are you in the house, Liam? Are you in Dublin?'

'I'm in London, Andrea. So's Martin. Where's the bomb,

Andrea? Where've you built the bomb?'

There was a long silence.

'Andrea, are you there?'

'Oh, sweet Jesus,' said Andy.

'It's all right. We can help you, Andrea.'

'You know what's happened? You know about Katie?'

'Yes. Martin's told us everything. Where are you, Andrea?

Where are you calling from?' He scribbled on the paper as he

spoke. 'ARE WE TRACING THIS?' He caught Farming's eye

and tapped the paper with his ringer. Fanning read the note and

gave Denham a thumbs-up and an emphatic nod.

'Please, Liam, don't do anything that'll put Katie at risk.

Promise me. Swear to me, Liam, swear to me now.'

The door opened and Patsy rushed in, followed by Carter.

She picked up the headset that Denham had been using and

hurriedly put it on, then stood next to Denham, her head tilted

slightly to one side as she listened.

'I'll do what I can, Andrea.'

'If Katie dies, I'll . . .' She didn't finish the sentence.

'I know, Andrea. We'll be careful, we won't do anything

that'll put her at risk, I promise.'

Patsy's face hardened and Denham turned away from her.

He knew what she was thinking. He was making promises that

she wouldn't be able to keep.

'I'll hold you to that, Liam. We both know what happened

last time . . .'

'It was a terrible mistake, Andrea. A mistake.'

'Children died,' said Andy.

Patsy touched Denham lightly on the shoulder. He looked at

her and she made a circling motion with her finger, telling him

to hurry up.

'Andrea, where are you?'

There was a slight hesitation, then Andy cleared her throat.

'Cathay Tower. It's in Queen Anne Street, close to Bank Tube

station. We're on the ninth floor.'

Patsy wrote down the address and nodded at Denham.

'Good girl,' said Denham. 'The bomb, Andrea. How big is

it?'

There was another hesitation, then another clearing of her

throat. 'Four thousand pounds.'

Patsy's mouth opened in surprise.

'What type is it?' Denham asked.

'Ammonium nitrate, aluminium powder, sawdust and diesel.'

'Initiator?'

'They've got Semtex, Liam. Semtex and Mark 4 detonators.'

'And what stage are you at?'

Andy didn't reply.

'Andrea? How close to completion are you?'

'It's ready, Liam. All I have to do is set the timer.'

Patsy ripped off the headset and dashed across the office to

the door, the piece of paper in her hand. She rushed out, leaving

the door open.

'Liam, promise me you won't do anything until Katie's safe.'

'We'll do what we can,' said Denham, not wanting to lie to

her.

'Liam, I want you to promise.'

Denham could hear Patsy shouting instructions down the

corridor.

302

'Now listen to me, Andrea. If we're going to locate Katie,

you're going to have to get them to let you telephone her, do

you understand? If you can get her on the phone, we can trace it.

No matter where she is, we can trace it. Just make sure that you

use her name. You have to say "Katie", do you understand?'

'I'll try,' said Andy. 'But please, you have to promise me,

don't let them storm the building, not until Katie's safe.'

Denham closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He didn't want

to lie, but he knew that the bomb was the priority, and that the

life of a seven-year-old girl would come a poor second.

Patsy rushed into the briefing room, waving the sheet of paper.

There were more than a dozen people there, either working on

computer terminals or phoning. 'Right, everybody, stop whatever

you're doing and listen. We have a location.'

Phones were slammed down and all the agents watched her

as she wrote the address on the whiteboard. 'Cathay Tower,

Queen Anne Street. Ninth floor. Lisa, get me a large-scale map

of the area, now.'

Lisa Qavies got up from her computer and dashed out of the

room.

'Anna, I need an architect's plan of Cathay Tower. Every

floor. And I need to know the tenants on each floor.'

Anna Wallace picked up the phone and dialled a number.

'Our information is that a four-thousand-pound fertiliser

bomb has been constructed on the ninth floor. David, I need to

know what effect a bomb of that size will have if it goes off.

Radius of damage, direction of blast -- talk to our technical boys

and any contacts you've got in RAOC in Lisburn.' David

Bingham nodded and picked up his phone.

'Right, everyone else, I want you to split into four groups.

We need observation points around the building and we need

them fast. Eyes and ears, full thermal imaging, the works.

Jonathan, find a base that I and the SAS officer in charge can

use. I want everyone to gather in the gymnasium in five

minutes.'

Jonathan Clare nodded, then half raised his hand. She

encouraged him to speak with a raised eyebrow. 'Evacuation?'

he said.

'No, not at this stage. If we start pulling hundreds of people

out of the area, it's going to attract attention. We don't want

them spooked. So mum's the word until I say otherwise. Am I

clear on that? Another thing. We don't know what effect the

bomb's going to have. If we fill the streets with people, an

evacuation could kill more than it saves, if the worst comes to

the worst.'

The agents in the room nodded. 'Right, let's get to it,' Patsy

said. She looked at her watch. It was just after eleven o'clock in

the morning. The City would be at its busiest.

Andy cupped her hand around the bottom of the mobile phone.

'Liam,' she hissed. 'You mustn't let them do anything until

Katie's safe. They'll kill her.'

'I'll do what I can, Andrea,' said Denham. 'But the best

chance we've got of finding her is if you can persuade them to let

you speak to her. Do you think you can do that?'

Andy walked over to the television. The remote control for

the video recorder was on top of the TV set, and she picked it up

with her free hand. She stroked it against her cheek, a faraway

look in her eyes. 'I think so,' she said.

'Good girl,' said Denham. 'Now, who else is there, Andrea?

How many of them are there?'

'Three. Two men, one woman. They keep their faces

covered all the time they're around me. One of them's called

Don. He's got a tattoo on his left forearm. A cross of St George.

And I think the woman's name started with "McC". Or

"McK".'

'Irish?'

'God, Liam, I don't know. Her brother was killed by the

SAS, so she's got Irish family, I'm sure, but the more I hear her

speak, the more I think she's Scottish.' She tucked the video

remote control into the back pocket of her jeans.

'Have they said why they're doing it?'

'No.'

'Do you get the feeling it's political?'

Before Andy could answer, she heard a noise behind her.

Two figures wearing ski masks were standing at the open door.

One was Green-eyes. The other man was a newcomer, short

and stocky, wearing a black leather jacket and black jeans. Andy

took a step back, her mouth working soundlessly. The man

walked quickly towards her. His hand went inside his jacket and

pulled out a gun.

Andy took another step back. She held the cellular phone in

front of her in a futile attempt to keep him away, but he swept

her arm away with his left hand and brought the gun crashing

down against her temple. She barely felt any pain. Her vision

blurred and then everything went black.

Liam Denham frowned as he looked at the phone. 'What's

wrong?' asked Martin. 'Let me speak to her.'

Denham replaced the receiver. 'She's gone.'

'Gone? Just like that? Didn't she ask to speak to me?'

Denham continued to stare at the phone, a look of concern

on his face. 'Maybe she was interrupted. I don't know.'

'Did you hear anything?'

Denham shrugged. 'It just went dead.' He lit a cigarette and

inhaled deeply.

'Now what's going to happen?' asked Martin.

Carter took off her headset and put it down next to the tape

recorder. Fanning popped the cassette out of the recorder and

slotted in a fresh one.

'We'll put the building under surveillance, I suppose,' said

Denham. 'It's out of my hands, though, Martin. It's Patsy's game

from here on in. Patsy and the SAS.'

'The SAS?'

'They'll have to go in. There's a time element, Martin. We

can't allow the bomb to go off.'

'But Katie . . .'

'Katie's one little girl. We're going to do what we can, but a

four-thousand-pound bomb could destroy the centre of the city.

Hundreds could die. Thousands.'

Martin's lip curled back in a snarl and he pointed an accusing

ringer at Denham. 'If anything happens to Katie, I'm going to

hold you responsible.'

Denham looked pained. 'Martin, this is nothing to do with

me. I'm retired. I'm . . .'

'You're the one who got her into this. If it wasn't for you

using her as an informer, none of this would have happened. She

wouldn't ha^j^uilt bombs for the IRA, the kids wouldn't have

died, and Katie wouldn't have been kidnapped and had a

fucking gun pointed at her head.'

Denham looked away, embarrassed by Martin's outburst.

Embarrassed and guilty, because deep down he knew that the

man was right.

The office door opened. It was Patsy Ellis. She sensed the

tension immediately and motioned with her head for Carter and

Fanning to leave. On the way out, Fanning handed the cassette

tape to her.

'What's going on?' She asked Denham. He nodded at Martin

but said nothing. Patsy turned to face Martin. 'Well?'

'He said you're going to send in the SAS,' said Martin.

'That's a possibility, Martin. I'm not going to stand here and

he to you.'

'But we don't know where Katie is. If the SAS go in, we

might never find her.'

'Martin, our best hope is for the SAS to get in there and

secure the building so that the explosive officers can disable the

bomb. Then we can get them to tell us where they're holding

Katie.'

'And what if all the kidnappers are killed? What then?'

'That won't happen. The SAS are experts at this sort of

thing.' <

'The SAS will do what they have to do to neutralise the

threat. If the people with Andy are armed, they'll be shot. I

know what the SAS have done in Ireland. They kill people.

They don't shoot guns out of people's hands, they shoot to kill.

Look what they did in Gibraltar. Remember that?'

Patsy nodded. 'I remember.' An SAS team had shot and

killed arj IRA active service unit in Gibraltar. The terrorists were

planning to explode a car bomb but they were some distance

from it and unarmed when the SAS moved in. They were all

shot dead. She put up a hand, trying to calm Martin, but he

brushed her away. 'This is a different situation, Martin,' she said.

'No it's not!' Martin shouted. 'It's the same. It's exactly the

same, only this time the bomb's ten times the size so they've

even more of an incentive to shoot to kill.'

Denham walked away and stood by the window with his

back to the two of them. He blew a plume of smoke through

tight lips.

'No one's going to shoot to kill,' said Patsy. 'We're going to

monitor the situation, see what they're doing, see exactly where

they are.'

'Then they'll go in?'

'Maybe. Maybe not. We'll cross that bridge when we come

to it. It could be that they'll simply set the bomb and leave, in

which case we could move in without a shot being fired.'

Martin put both his hands up to his face and rubbed the palms

into his eyes. He sat down at the table and sighed mournfully.

Patsy put a hand on his shoulder. 'We're going to do

everything we can to get your daughter back, Martin.'

'I should never have called you. I should just have let Andy

do what they wanted.'

'And then what?'

Martin looked up. 'What do you mean?'

'Do you think they'd just let her walk away afterwards? You

seriously believe they'd let her go?'

'That was the deal.'

Patsy looked at him with barely concealed contempt. 'You

don't make deals with terrorists, Martin.'

Denham snorted softly behind her, but Patsy ignored him.

'They'll get her to do what they want, then when she's no

more use to them . . .'

'You don't know that.'

'I know how terrorists operate.' She looked at her Carder

wristwatch. 'Anyway, we're wasting time arguing about this.

We have to go.'

'Go where?'

'We're setting up an observation base close to the target

building.' She turned to Denham. 'Liam, you'd better come

with us.'

Martin stood up. 'I'm coming too.'

Patsy shook her head firmly. 'No. You'd be in the way.

You'll have to stay here. I'll have Tim Fanning stay with you.'

'I don't need a fucking baby-sitter, and I'm not staying here.

If you're going to send in the SAS, I want to be there when you

do it.'

'Absolutely not,' said Patsy. 'Liam, let's go.'

She made to walk by Martin, but he grabbed her by the

upper arm, his fingers digging into the flesh. 'I have the right to

be there,' he hissed. 'It's my wife's life on the line here. My wife

and my daughter.'

'You're hurting me, Mr Hayes.'

Martin let go of her. 'I'm sorry,' he said.

Patsy rubbed her arm as she looked regretfully at Martin. 'It's

okay. I do understand how you feel, honestly I do.'

'Then let me come with you. I won't get in the way, I just

want to be there.' He gestured around the office. 'I can't sit here,

not knowing what's going on.'

Denham walked over to join them. He stubbed out his

cigarette in a crystal ashtray on the table that was already

overflowing with butts. 'I'll stick with him, Patsy,' he said.

'And we might need an insight into the way she thinks, the way

she'll react. It's been ten years since I worked with her. Martin

here could be a help to us.'

Patsy looked at the two men, then nodded curtly. Denham

and Martin followed her out of the office. Martin patted

Denham on the back, unable to find the words to thank him.

They walked quickly along the corridor and down two

flights of stairs to the gymnasium. It was a long room with high

ceilings and views of the river along one side. Treadmills,

stairmasters and exercise machines had been moved to the side

to give the SAS troopers space to spread out their gear. There

were fifteen of them, all dressed in bomber jackets of various

colours, jeans and training shoes. Several of the men had opened

long, thin metal cases, revealing rifles with telescopic sights

attached.

Captain Payne was bent over a map with two of his men. He

looked up as Patsy came over with Denham and Martin close

behind. Patsy introduced Denham and Martin and they both

shook hands with the SAS captain. Payne tapped the map.

'Cathay Tower,' he said.

'That's right,' said Patsy. 'Ninth floor.'

'Evacuation?'

'I don't see we have the time,' said Patsy.

'We're going to need the tenth floor. Minimum.'

Patsy nodded. 'I'll send my people in to clear the offices on

the tenth. Will your men be going in?'

Payne shook his head. 'The troop at Regent's Park is already

on its way. I'm to liaise with you and we'll use my men for

surveillance and long-range sniping.'

Jonathan Clare walked across the gym towards them. Patsy

turned her head and he gave her a thumbs-up. 'We have an

observation point,' he said. 'Solicitor's office. Hetherington

knows him, apparently. The office is being cleared now.

Hetherington's gone straight over there.'

More agents were filing into the gym, forming a group in

front of a wall lined with climbing bars. 'Is it okay if I address

your men along with my people?' Patsy asked the SAS officer,

not wanting to cut across his line of command.

'Go ahead,' he said with a grin.

Patsy strode into the middle of the gym. The forty or so

people gathered there fell silent.

'Okay, we're going to have to move quickly, so this is the

one and only group briefing we're going to have. From here on

we're going to be thinking on our feet, so the one thing we all

have to keep at the forefront of our minds is that we're dealing

with a four-thousand-pound fertiliser bomb. Bigger than any

bomb ever used by the IRA in Britain. Bigger than any noncommercial bomb used by any terrorist group anywhere in the

world. Captain Payne and I will be based in an office overlooking

the tower. Jonathan has the address and numbers. We'll have radios, but no one uses a radio in the vicinity of the building.'

She looked over at the SAS captain. 'Captain Payne, that

goes for your men, too. Any radio transmission could set off the bomb.'

Payne gave her a curt nod.

David Bingham slipped into the gym, a notepad in his hand.

'An SAS troop will be moving into the floor above where

the bomb is located. Gordon, your team and Lisa's are to clear

that floor. Subtly. It mustn't look like an evacuation. Lifts two

thirds full, a mixed group in each lift. Men and women chivalry

goes out of the window on this. No hanging around

outside, but no coaches, either. Everyone out moves well away

from the scene. You'll be working with SAS troopers, armed

and in plainclothes.' Gordon Harris and Lisa Davies nodded.

Patsy looked across at Payne again. 'We can lend your men

suits.'

Payne grinned and several of his troopers laughed out loud.

'Think of it as camouflage gear,' he said to them, and they

laughed again.

'We'll have snipers covering the area, and we're going to

want long-distance surveillance mikes and thermal imaging

equipment, with all feeds sent to our surveillance HQ. Jonathan,

can you take charge of that? Get as many of our technical people

on board as you need. Right, let's get to it.'

Patsy went over to Captain Payne as her agents rushed out of

the gymnasium. 'Do you want to come with us, Stuart?'

Payne nodded. 'Do I need a suit?' he asked with a sly grin.

Egan grabbed Andy by the hair and dragged her out of the office

and along the corridor. McCracken followed him, holding the

310

THE BOMBMAKER

cellular phone which Andy had dropped. 'Find out who the

fuck she was calling!' Egan shouted. He hauled her into the main

office area, where O'Keefe was watching openmouthed.

McCracken called up last number dialled and peered at it.

'Ireland,' she said. 'Dublin. She was calling her husband.'

Egan pulled Andy to the middle of the office and then let go

of her hair. She flopped on to her side, snoring softly as if she

were in a deep sleep. Egan drew back his foot and kicked her

hard in the stomach. There was no reaction.

'What's happening?' asked O'Keefe.

'The bitch was on the phone,' said Egan. He turned to

McCracken. 'Did she call anyone else?'

McCracken checked the mobile and shook her head. 'No.

Just her husband.'

'Small mercies,' said Egan. 'What the hell was she doing with

a phone anyway?'

'I don't know. It was in the briefcase. Locked.'

'Oh, that's all right, then,' said Egan, his voice loaded with

sarcasm. 'I told you to watch her. I told you not to trust her.'

'I wasn't the only one here,' said McCracken. She flashed

O'Keefe an angry look and he turned away, not wanting to be

drawn into an argument.

'You were in charge, Lydia.' He knelt down by Andy's side

and began slapping her face, trying to bring her round.

David Bingham almost had to jog to keep up with Patsy as she

walked through the reception area of Thames House. Directly

behind her was the SAS captain and two of his troopers carrying

kit-bags, and bringing up the rear were Denham and Martin.

'There've only been three that come anywhere close to a

four-thousand-pound device,' panted Bingham. 'The Baltic

Exchange, Bishopsgate, and Canary Wharf. The Baltic Exchange

bomb caused a third of a billion pounds of damage,

Bishopsgate half a billion, and Canary Wharf a billion. The

Canary Wharf bomb was one thousand pounds. All were

detonated outside, so there was shrapnel damage over a wide

area. If the bomb is detonated inside a building, it's confined to a

smaller area but the damage will be greater. The building could

come down. Depending on the direction of the blast, the

building could fall vertically, which is what professional demolition

firms try to do, or it could topple.'

They walked out of the building. Lined up in front of

Thames House were a dozen large saloons, each with a driver.

Patsy pointed to a black Rover. 'Liam, you and Martin take this

one. Wait for Barbara and Tim -- they'll be right down. Barbara

knows where we'll be.'

Denham nodded, and he and Martin climbed into the

Rover. Patsy, Bingham, the SAS captain and one of the troopers

got into another Rover. The second trooper went over to

Denham's Rover.

Patsy took the front seat. Bingham sat in the middle of the

rear seat between the captain and the trooper and continued his

briefing as the car accelerated eastwards, towards the financial

district.

'Initial damage will be the blast and ancillary shrapnel created

in the explosion. The extent of that is going to depend on what's

in the bomb and what's in the office. Wood, metal, glass - it'll all

get thrown through the air at hundreds of miles an hour. Every

building within half a mile could be affected. Then there's the

damage caused by the destruction of the building itself. The

people I spoke to said it will probably be damaged beyond

repair. The roads around would be wrecked, and we've got the

Central Line running underground fairly close. If the Underground

is damaged, God alone knows how much it would cost

to repair. Then we've got damage to basic services -- water and

sewage pipes, gas supplies, electricity, telecoms. The cost is

incalculable. Billions. Plus the loss of business to the City. If

a bomb that size goes off, the City will effectively close down.'

Patsy fingered her crucifix as she stared straight ahead.

'Casualties?' she said.

'The building is twenty-four storeys high. If we estimate a

hundred and fifty people working on each floor, that's three and

a half thousand or so. And if the building comes down, that's not

a survivable scenario. Add to that anyone walking around the

vicinity, anyone standing next to a window within half a mile of

the bomb. Commuters on the Underground. Thousands dead.

As many again injured.'

He paused for breath. He was sweating profusely, and he

loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt.

'Of course, if it goes off at night, there'll be far fewer

casualties, but we're still talking about property damage on a

scale we haven't seen since the Second World War.'

Patsy twisted around in her seat to look at Bingham. 'As soon

as we've arrived, you contact the Met's Explosives Office and

liaise with them. We'll need a team of explosives officers ready

to go in as soon as the area's secured.'

'Do I tell them why?'

'No. That'll have to be done at a higher level. Just put them

on alert and refer any queries to Jason Hetherington's office.'

Patsy turned back and took her mobile phone from her bag.

She tapped out Hetherington's number.

Egan stood up and sighed in exasperation. Andy lay unconscious

at his feet, breathing heavily. Her blond hair was matted with

blood where he'd hit her with his gun.

'Why don't we just shoot her now?' said McCracken. 'The

bomb's ready. We could set the timers and she'll go up with it.'

She was holding her gun at her side, her finger inside the trigger

guard.

Egan nodded at the pistol. 'Be careful with that, Lydia. Let's

not be hasty, yeah?' He looked at his watch. Andy had been

unconscious for more than fifteen minutes. 'I want to know

what she said to her husband. She might have told him to call the

cops.'

'All the more reason to kill her now,' said O'Keefe.

Egan studied him with unblinking pale blue eyes. 'Who died

and left you in charge, Don?'

O'Keefe stared back at Egan, unfazed. 'Security's been

breached. We don't know who she spoke to or what she said.

For all we know her husband could be on the phone to the

police right now. We have to go.'

Egan shook his head. 'She made one call. To her husband in

Dublin. We've still got her daughter - she's not going to

endanger the kid.'

'She saw the videos,' said McCracken. 'Maybe she thinks her

daughter's dead.'

'So let's find out,' said Egan. He went over to the water

cooler and pulled out the reservoir. He up-ended it, splashing

water over his jeans, and carried it over to where Andy lay. He

slowly poured the contents over her until she began to recover

consciousness, coughing and spluttering and putting her hands

up to try to ward off the torrent of water.

Patsy climbed out of the car and looked up at the office block.

'Tenth floor,' said Bingham. 'Donovan, Scott and Associates.'

The black Rover containing Denham and Martin pulled up

behind them. The SAS captain and his two troopers carried their

kit-bags into the office foyer, and they all rode up in the elevator

together.

Two MI5 agents were in reception, and one of them took

them through to a large office where Hetherington was watching

a team of half a dozen of the agency's surveillance experts

unpack their equipment as he talked into a mobile phone.

The office was huge, about four times the size of Hetherington's

own, wood-panelled with a massive oak desk at one

end, two four-seater chesterfield sofas and an oak table with

eight chairs around it. There were more than a dozen small

watercolours on the walls, with small brass plates below them

identifying the artist and subject, as if the occupant of the office

feared that visitors wouldn't appreciate the value of the artwork.

The blinds were drawn and the lights were on.

Bingham took out his mobile phone. 'I'll call the Met boys,'

he said, heading back to the corridor.

The SAS captain and his two troopers dropped their kit-bags

on one of the chesterfields and went over to the window. Patsy

joined them, and they pushed the slats apart. Hetherington came

up behind them, putting his phone away. He pointed to a glass

and steel tower directly in front of then. The base of the building

was obscured by a row of granite buildings, but they could see

from the fourth floor upwards.

'The blinds are drawn. White vertical ones. See them?'

'Got it,' said Patsy.

'We've got people to the north and east,' said Hetherington.

'I'd like to put snipers on the roof here,' said Captain Payne.

'Can we have access?'

'It's being arranged,' said Hetherington. 'There's a roof

garden up there but it's rarely used. I'll get someone to show

you. Our people are installing long-range eavesdroppers as we

speak. Patsy, a word.'

Two of the surveillance technicians were unpacking thermal

imaging equipment from metal cases. Payne went over to watch

as they attached the devices to tripods. They resembled huge

pairs of binoculars with soda siphon cartridges attached to the

top. They were similar to the devices that the SAS used,

combining ambient-light image intensifiers and thermal imaging.

They were capable of picking up heat sources through

concrete, effectively allowing the viewer to look through walls.

Hetherington took Patsy over to the far corner of the office

where there was a bronze statue of a turbaned warrior holding a

spear that almost reached Hetherington's shoulder. 'The PM's

been made aware of the situation,' he said. He fiddled with the

tip of the spear as he spoke. 'He's in Bonn, but wants regular

updates.'

Two technicians came in with more cases which they put on

top of the table. They began unpacking laptop computers.

Another technician snapped open a case and took out a satellite

phone.

'One thing the PM's clear on -- he wants the immediate area

evacuated.'

Patsy opened her mouth to speak but Hetherington silenced

her with a wave of a finger.

'There's to be no argument. He's taking the view that if we

315

STEPHEN LEATHER

know there's a bomb in that building, it would be political

suicide to allow civilians to remain in the area.'

Patsy nodded. If the PM had made a decision, there was no

point in arguing.

'It will have to be low-key, of course,' said Hetherington.

'The last thing we want is for us to have people streaming out of

neighbouring buildings.'

'So the Met's been informed already?'

'The Director-General's spoken to the Commissioner. He's

unhappy about not being told earlier, but any political infighting

is going to have to wait until later.'

'Good. I've requested a team of their explosives officers to be

on standby.'

'That's already in hand. Now, the evacuation. What's the

position regarding the building itself?'

'We're clearing the tenth floor and the counter revolutionary

team is moving in. Once they're in position, we can use our

people to clear the rest of the floors. But Jason, it's going to have

to be done carefully.'

'Agreed. Carefully, but quickly. Let's use the lifts and the

stairways.'

'I'll have the lifts fixed so that they don't stop at the ninth.'

She fingered her crucifix. 'If we're emptying the building, we're

going to have to stop anyone entering or leaving the ninth

floor.'

'Ah,' said Hetherington. He patted the blade of the spear. 'I

see what you mean. I'll get Captain Payne to assign men to the

ninth-floor stairwell. How long do you think it'll take to

evacuate the building?'

'Stairs and lifts?' She did a quick calculation in her head. 'An

hour, maybe. I'd recommend we take everyone down into the

carpark and out through there.'

'Agreed. Now, regarding the evacuation of the surrounding

buildings. The Commissioner wants to set up roadblocks to stop

anyone entering the area.'

Patsy pulled a face. 'Jason, if they see what's going on . . .'

'The blinds are closed - they can't see out. We'll tell

3i6

THE BOMBMAKER

everyone there's a gas leak. We'll have gas company people all

over the place. We'll put a warning on radio and television.'

'That won't fool them,' said Patsy.

'No, but it's better than nothing. We have to evacuate, Patsy.

The PM won't stand for anything less.'

Four more technicians rushed in carrying monitors, followed

by a fifth man who was unrolling a cable. There were now more

than two dozen people in the office, hard at work.

'And what about the people on the ninth floor?' asked Patsy.

'We evacuate, we contain the area, we assess the situation,

and if at all possible ... we negotiate.'

Andy scuttled backwards, away from the man who'd been

pouring water over her. She was soaked, and the side of her

head ached from where he'd hit her. She had no idea how long

she'd been unconscious, but with every movement of her head

she felt as if she was going to pass out again.

'Who did you talk to, Andrea?' said the man. He had an

American accent.

Andy put a hand up to the side of her head. When she took it

away it was sticky with blood.

The man pulled a silencer out of his jacket pocket and

screwed it into the barrel of his gun, watching her all the time.

'Who did you talk to?' he repeated.

Andy looked across at Green-eyes. She was also holding a

gun and aiming it at Andy's chest. She looked back at the man.

There was no point in lying because they'd have been able to call

up the last number dialled on the mobile. 'My husband,' she

said. ,

The man finished attaching the silencer. He leaned against

one of the desks, the gun resting against his thigh.

'I wanted to know if he'd heard from Katie.'

The man's face was hidden by the ski mask, but Andy could

see his eyes harden. 'Why would he have heard from Katie?' he

asked.

'I don't know. I thought maybe the kidnappers might have

317

STEPHEN LEATHER

called him. I saw the videos. I thought. . .' Her voice tailed off.

She began to shiver, the effects of being doused with cold water

coupled with the terror of her situation. It wasn't the fact that he

was pointing a gun at her that scared Andy. It was the fact that

he'd screwed on a silencer.

The man looked across at Green-eyes. 'The videos were in

the briefcase,' Green-eyes explained.

The man nodded and looked at Andy again. 'And you

thought your daughter was already dead.' He tilted his head to

one side as he looked at her. 'She isn't, Andrea. She's still very

much alive. The videos were to put your mind at ease, that's

all.'

'If Katie's alive, there'd be no point in you making the

videos. You could just have let me talk to her.'

The man stared at her with unblinking eyes. 'A fair point,' he

said. 'But we didn't know what was going to happen in Dublin.

If anything had gone wrong, we wanted to guarantee your cooperation.'

'Wrong?

What do you mean, wrong?'

'Say the police had found her. Look at it from our point of

view, Andrea. If something had gone wrong and we didn't have

Katie, you'd hardly be likely to help us, would you? The videos

were insurance against anything going wrong.'

Andy wrapped her arms around herself, still shivering uncontrollably.

'I don't believe you,' she said.

He gestured with his gun. 'I don't care if you believe me or

not,' he said. 'The rules have changed. You're going to set the

timer, right now.'

Andy shook her head.

The man levelled the gun at her left foot. 'I'll shoot your foot

first. Then your knee. Then your thigh. Then your stomach.

You'll do it eventually, Andrea, so why not save yourself the

pain?'

'You're going to kill me anyway,' Andy said flatly.

'Dead is dead, that's true. But there are degrees of pain.' His

finger tightened on the trigger. 'I know about pain, Andrea.'

Andy turned her head and closed her eyes, waiting for the

3i8

THE BOMBMAKER

bang, waiting for the bullet to tear into her flesh and smash

through the bone.

Martin tapped the technician on the shoulder. The man took his

face away from the eyepiece. 'Can I have a look?' asked Martin.

'That's my wife over there.'

The technician stood to the side so that Martin could look

through the binoculars. It was like looking at a negative film.

The background was dark and he could make out vague dark

green shapes. Desks. Chairs. Pillars. And four light green figures

that flickered as they moved. 'What am I looking at?' he asked.

'Thermal images,' said the man. He was in his forties with a

small moustache and thinning brown hair. 'It picks up heat.

Body heat, electrical heat, any heat sources.'

Martin put his eyes back to the binoculars. 'So I'm looking

right through the blinds? I'm looking right into the building?'

'That's right. These things can look through brick walls.'

Martin could see four figures. There was no way of telling

which was male and which was female, no way of knowing

which was his wife. One of the figures appeared to be sitting on

the floor. Another was pointing at the seated figure. Was one of

them Andy?

Anna Wallace came into the room, holding three cardboard

tubes. 'I've got the floor plans,' she said to Patsy. 'All of them.'

She removed a plastic cap from one end of one of the tubes

and shook out half a dozen architect's plans. 'This is the ninth,'

she said, pulling out one of the drawings and laying it on the desk.

Captain Payne walked over and joined Patsy and Anna. He

scratched his chin as he scrutinised the plan of the office. 'What

do you think?' asked Patsy.

Payne tapped the area of the lift: lobby, then ran his finger

along to the reception area. 'This is a problem,' he said. 'Access

here is through the main doors, but there's this left turn here to

the reception. Then another turn to the open-plan area, which is

where the tangos and the bomb are. It's going to take at least

four seconds to take out the door and get into the main area.

3i9

STEPHEN LEATHER

That's way too long.' He ran his finger across the plans to the

windows on the far side of the building. 'We're going to have to

go in through the windows. Here. And here.' He frowned and

made a clicking noise with his tongue. 'The blinds are going to

be a problem.'

'Why?' asked Patsy.

'We can't just go through the windows because our guys will

get tangled up in the blinds. We're going to have blow them in.

Shaped charges. And with a four-thousand-pound amfo bomb

in there, that's going to be a tad . . . interesting.'

'We have visuals from Team A!' shouted one of the technicians.

There was a bank of eight monitors on the table. On

two of them were thermal views similar to the one that Martin

had seen through the binoculars.

Captain Payne tapped out a number on his mobile phone.

'Yeah, Crosbie? We have four tangos. Repeat, four tangos.'

Martin looked at Denham and frowned. 'Tangos?' he

mouthed.

'Targets,' whispered Denham. 'Tango means target.'

The picture on one of the monitors began to swing from side

to side. Martin could make out more desks, a mound of

something in the middle of the office area, but no more green,

glowing figures.

'So far we have only four,' Payne said into his phone. 'Call

me when you're in position.'

Payne clipped his phone to the belt of his jeans, then took off

his leather jacket and hung it over the back of one of the chairs.

He was wearing a black nylon shoulder holster; in it was a large

handgun.

'Team B's on-line,' said another technician. Two more

monitors flickered into life. Martin could see the same four

green figures, but from a different view.

'What are we going to do about sound?' Payne asked Patsy.

'We've got laser mikes up on the roof,' she said. 'Shouldn't

be long.'

'Do you want our team to try through the ceiling?' asked

Payne. 'We could push fibre optics through.'

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THE BOMBMAKER

Patsy shook her head. 'Let's see how we get on with the

lasers.'

Payne nodded and went over to the thermal image binoculars.

One set was being connected up to a monitor.

Patsy peered at the monitors on the table. She pointed at a

dark green mound in the centre of the office. Hetherington took

his pince-nez spectacles out of the top pocket of his pinstriped

suit and perched them on the end of his nose. 'That's it,' she said.

'A four-thousand-pound fertiliser bomb. Enough to blow the

whole building to kingdom come.'

Captain Paul Crosbie dumped his kit-bag on the desk and

surveyed the huge trading floor. All around him were hundreds

of computers, their flickering screens full of financial information.

Telephones were ringing out, but apart from Crosbie and

his men, the floor was deserted.

'Right, get geared up,' he shouted. 'Full O group in five.' He

picked up a phone and tapped out a number. 'Stew? Yeah, it's

Crosbie. We're in. I'll have Chuckit call you for the thermal

imaging feed.' Crosbie read out the telephone number of the

phone he was using and hung up.

'Chuckit!'

Brian 'Chuckit' Wilson, a tall, thin Scotsman with a shock of

red hair, was opening up a laptop computer. 'Yes, boss?'

'Call Stuart Payne and arrange the feed for the thermal

images.' He gave Chuckit a piece of paper with Payne's number

on it.

Crosbie surveyed the troop. Including Chuckit there were

fifteen men, but Chuckit would be tied up with the communication

links. Normal operating procedure was for the troop to

operate in four four-man teams, but on this occasion Crosbie

had already decided to split the men into two groups.

The troopers were emptying out their holdalls and kit-bags

and laying their equipment out on the floor. Black Nomex fire

retardant suits, GPV 25 body armour, National Plastics AC 100

composite helmets, black flame-retardant gloves, respirators,

321

STEPHEN LEATHER

ankle-high boots and abseiling harnesses. One of the troopers, a

burly Cornishman called Coop, was unpacking lengths of wood

from a bag and leaning them against a desk.

Weapons were being assembled with practised ease and laid

out next to piles of ammunition. Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine-guns,

Remington 870 pump-action grenades, Browning

Hi-Power pistols and Haley and Weller E180 stun grenades.

It was enough fire-power to fight, and win, a small war.

The man grabbed Andy by the shirt collar and dragged her across

the floor. 'Set the timer, Andrea,' he shouted. 'Finish the bomb

or I'll blow your knee-cap off.'

He kicked her in the side and she grunted. She used the table

leg to pull herself up and stared down at the open briefcase. The

silver detonators lay on the Semtex, and around them the cluster

of different-coloured wires. The timer was glowing, the digits all

reading zero. Next to the timer were the batteries that she'd used

to power the timer, and the four batteries she'd connected to the

detonators.

'Do it,' said the man. He aimed the silenced gun at her left

knee.

Andy sat down. She brushed her hair away from her eyes,

then picked up an elastic band and used it to tie her hair back

into a ponytail. One by one, she pushed the detonators into the

Semtex.

She checked all the connections, then looked up at the man

with the gun. She sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her

hand. 'How long?' she asked. 'What do you want me to set it for?'

'One hour,' said the man. 'Sixty minutes.'

The receptionist looked up from a glossy magazine as Gordon

Harris and Lisa Davies pushed open the double glass doors. 'Can

I help you?' she asked in a nasal South London whine. She

brushed a lock of dyed blond hair away from her eyes with a

scarlet-varnished nail.

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THE BOMBMAKER

'Who's in charge?' asked Harris.

'You mean the office manager?' asked the receptionist, deep

creases cleaving across her forehead as if Harris had set her an

especially difficult mathematical problem to solve.

'Managing director. Whoever the top guy is.'

'She's a woman, actually,' said the receptionist. 'Miss Daley.'

Lisa grinned across at Harris but he ignored her.

'Could you tell her a Mr Harris would like to see her . . .'

'Oh, she'll be far too busy to see you,' interrupted the

receptionist.

Harris held up a hand to silence her. 'Tell her it's regarding

business security and if she's not in reception in thirty seconds

we'll be coming in to get her.' Harris flashed her a cold smile and

nodded at the telephone in front of her.

The receptionist dialled a four-digit extension number with

another scarlet-painted nail.

Harris looked at his watch as the receptionist spoke to Miss

Daley's secretary. It was taking up to eight minutes to clear each floor.

The receptionist put the phone down. 'She's coming out.'

'I'm so thrilled to hear that,' said Harris.

Harris and Lisa waited over by two overstuffed black leather

sofas. 'You do have a way of winning friends and influencing

people, don't you?' chided Lisa.

'We don't have time for niceties,' said Harris. He nodded in

the receptionist's direction. 'If it was up to me, I'd let her go up

with the building.'

The doors to the main office area hissed open electronically

and a tall woman in a dark business suit strode out. Unlike the

receptionist she had natural blond hair, tied up at the back, and

she was model-pretty with high cheekbones and deep blue eyes.

Her cheeks were slightly flushed and she was clearly angry at the

interruption, but Harris spoke quickly and earnestly, in a low

whisper so that the receptionist couldn't overhear him.

When he'd finished explaining the situation, she asked if she

could call her head office, but Harris shook his head. 'No

outgoing calls,' he said firmly. 'Not to your head office, friends

323

STEPHEN LEATHER

or relatives. Everyone must leave without saying a word to

anyone outside the building.'

'For how long?' she asked.

'We don't know.'

'But this is a dealing room,' she said. 'We trade in millions

every minute. You can't shut us down.'

'I'm afraid we can, Miss Daley,' said Lisa.

'But at least you can allow us to move to our emergency

dealing room, can't you?'

'Where is that?' asked Harris.

'On the Isle of Dogs.'

'I don't see that that's a problem,' said Harris.

'But I'll have to get permission from head office,' said Miss

Daley.

Harris shook his head.

'This is outrageous,' said Miss Daley.

Harris moved his face so that it was only inches from her face.

She stared back at him unflinchingly. 'What's outrageous, Miss

Daley, is that we are having this conversation, when we could all

end up dying here. We have only minutes to evacuate the entire

building. It's not a drill, it's not a game, we're not doing this

because we've nothing better to do. Now, you either do as

you're told or I'll have you arrested and thrown into a vomit

stained cell somewhere while we get someone else to clear your

floor. Are we clear?'

'Crystal,' said Miss Daley quietly. 'But, Mr Harris, I'd like

you to be aware that I'll be making an official complaint as soon

as possible detailing your behaviour and attitude. Now, what do

you need?'

'I need groups of ten to be brought into reception. How

many staff do you have on this floor?'

'One hundred and twenty. Do we bring the women

first?'

'No. A mix of men and women. But it mustn't look as if

they're carrying all their belongings. Briefcases are okay, but this

mustn't look like an evacuation. I don't want you to make a

general announcement -- you're to quietly approach individuals.

3M

THE BOMBMAKER

Send them into reception in batches of ten. And make it clear,

no phone calls to the outside.'

Miss Daley nodded. She turned and walked back into the

dealing room. Harris turned to Lisa. 'Why don't people just do

as they're told?' he asked.

'You could try saying please,' said Lisa.

'Please? You heard her -- she was more concerned about

money than about what might happen to the building. It's like

those sad bitches who insist on going back into a burning

building to rescue their handbags.'

Lisa smiled thinly at him. 'If I didn't know better, Gordon,

I'd suggest it was your wrong time of the month.'

Before Harris could reply the electronic doors hissed open

and the first group of ten office workers began filing through

into the reception area. A male MI5 agent already had one of the

lift doors open and Harris shepherded them towards it, explaining

that they were to go down to the carpark in the basement of

the tower block and exit from there.

Patsy took her phone away from her mouth. 'Six floors clear so

far,' she said to Hetherington.

Hetherington nodded his approval. He was watching the

bank of monitors. There were now eight screens showing

the thermal images. There were still only four figures,

glowing green in the shadowy background. One of the

figures was bent at the waist, obviously sitting, while the

three other figures stood around it. Captain Payne stood

behind Hetherington, his eyes flicking from screen to screen.

Hetherington tapped the image of the seated figure on one

of the screens. 'If I was a gambling man, I'd say that was

Tango Four.'

Payne nodded. 'She's working on the timer.'

'Tango Four?' said Martin.

Hetherington turned, surprised at the interruption. He

hadn't realised that Martin was there.

'Your wife,' said Hetherington.

325

STEPHEN LEATHER

'My wife has a name, Mr Hetherington,' said Martin. 'I'd be

happier if you used it.'

'The tango designation makes identification easier,' said

Captain Payne. 'We don't have time to memorise names.'

'My understanding is that tango means target,' said Martin.

'My wife is not a target. She's a victim. I don't want anyone

referring to her as a target. She has a name. Andrea. Andrea

Hayes.'

'You're quite right, Mr Hayes,' said Hetherington. 'Iapologise.'

Before he could say anything else, one of the technicians

shouted over at them. 'We have sound.'

The technician tapped the keys on his laptop and then started

flicking switches on a console. There were small loudspeakers on

either side of the bank of monitors. There was a hissing sound,

then voices. The technician's ringers played across the keyboard

again. The voices became clearer.

'How are you getting this?' asked Martin.

Patsy leaned across and put her mouth close to Martin's ear.

'Lasers,' she whispered. 'We bounce lasers off the windows to

pick up the vibrations caused by sounds inside the building.'

The volume was increased, and suddenly Martin realised that

it was Andy's voice he was listening to.

'. . . going to do? You can't go through with this.'

She sounded close to tears.

'Set it, Andrea.' A man's voice. An American accent. 'Sixty

minutes.'

Patsy looked across at Hetherington. 'Sixty minutes,' she

mouthed.

'Do it, Andrea. Do it or I'll put a bullet in your knee.'

Hetherington walked away from the monitors, pulling his

mobile phone out of his jacket.

'We're going to have to move fast,' said Payne. 'An hour's no

time at all.'

'We have to talk to the PM first,' said Patsy. <

'What's happening?' asked Martin, looking over at his

shoulder at Hetherington, who was whispering into his phone,

a look of urgency etched into his features. 'What's going on?' He

326

THE BOMBMAKER

was ignored. He stared at the bank of monitors as he realised for

the first time what he was looking at. The man with the

American accent was pointing a gun at his wife, and if she

didn't do as she was told, he was going to shoot her.

Andy sat back and closed her eyes. 'It's done,' she said. The

digital display showed 01.00.

'Take it over to the bags,' said the man in the ski mask,

gesturing with his handgun.

Andy stood up and lifted the briefcase. The man moved

away from her as she carried it over to the pile of black garbage

bags. She placed it on top of the pile and turned to face the man.

The Wrestler and Green-eyes were standing by the line of

ovens, watching.

'You know better than that, Andrea,' said the man. 'It has to

be in the centre. Surrounded by the explosive.'

'It'll work on top.'

'I know it will. But we'll get a bigger bang if the explosive is

piled around it.'

'There's four thousand pounds of explosive here. How big a

bang do you want?'

'I want to bring the house down, Andrea. Stack the bags

around the briefcase. And keep them tight together. We

wouldn't the bags to be blown out without detonating, would

we? Or was that what you were trying to do?'

'And then what? Then you kill me, right?'

The man said nothing, but Green-eyes took a step forward

and pointed at Andy. 'That's right, you bitch!' she shouted. 'It

goes up and you with it!'

'So I've got nothing to lose, have I?' said Andy quietly. She

reached behind her with her right hand and brought out the

video recorder's remote control. She slowly raised it in the air so

that they could all see it, her thumb moving over the on-off

button. 'If I press this, the bomb goes off.'

327

STEPHEN LEATHER

Captain Payne turned to Patsy. 'What is it? What the hell's she

holding?' On the monitors, the green figure that was Andy had

one arm held up high as if pointing at the ceiling.

Martin gripped Denham's arm so tightly that the older man

winced. 'What's she doing, Liam? What's happening?'

'I don't know, Martin,' said Denham, peering at the monitors.

'Liam,'

said Patsy. 'Could she have rigged the bomb?'

'It's possible. But how? What has she got there?'

Captain Payne turned to Hetherington, pushing up the

sleeves of his sweat-shirt. 'If she means what she says, we have

to go in now,' he said.

'Let's see what she's up to,' said Hetherington.

'We have less than an hour, whatever happens,' said Payne. 'I

recommend that we go in now.'

Captain Crosbie adjusted his body armour. 'Right, orders

group,' he said, and the fifteen troopers gathered for the pre

action briefing. To an outsider the men might have appeared

over-relaxed as they listened to their commanding officer.

Several were sitting on desks, swinging their legs. Coop was

sprawled in a chair, chewing gum noisily. The laid-back attitude

was deceptive, Crosbie knew. The troopers were trained to a

standard few men could ever hope to achieve and would do

everything asked of them. They were used to being addressed as

professionals and had earned the right to be treated as such.

'Two teams of seven,' said Crosbie. 'If we get the green light,

we go in on two sides, simultaneously. Three stages. One.

Lower the shaped charges. Two men on each frame. No messing

-- we only get one chance at it. Down and blow them. Stage

two. Flash-bangs. Sandy and Coop take care of them. Throw in,

minimum delay, then drop to avoid the flash. Everyone else goes

in immediately afterwards. Four troopers are coming in through

the front door, but they're not moving until they hear the flash

bangs.' He gestured at Chuckit, who was sitting in front of his

laptop and talking on the phone. 'Hopefully we'll be getting

328

THE BOMBMAKER

real-time thermal images of the floor below, but we can't bank

on getting them before we go in. What we do know is that we

have four targets. Tango One and Tango Two are male. Tango

Three and Tango Four are female. Tango Four is the bomb

maker, but according to Intel she's working under duress.

Having said that, all are to be regarded as hostile. We don't

have time to separate the wheat from the chaff. Tangos One,

Two and Three are armed. Handguns.'

Several of the troopers were cradling their Heckler &

Kochs. Crosbie held up his own weapon, a Heckler & Koch

MP5SD, the silenced model of the MP5. 'Down below us is a

four-thousand-pound fertiliser bomb, and our first priority is

to secure it. We're not sure what it looks like, but keep all fire

well away from it. I'm told it's relatively stable, but no one

really seems to know what effect a nine-millimetre bullet

travelling at four hundred metres a second is going to have on

it. I'd rather not find out, so pick your targets. Who's got

MP5SDS?'

Half a dozen of the troopers raised their hands. Crosbie

named the two teams, dividing the men with silenced weapons

so that there were three in each team.

'MP5SDS lead the way,' he said. The silenced weapons had a

much lower muzzle velocity, which Crosbie hoped would

minimise the chance of a premature explosion if a stray bullet should hit the explosive. 'Coop, how are you getting on with

the shaped charges?'

'One done. I'll have the other ready in ten minutes.'

Crosbie nodded. The framed charges were made of light

wood which Coop had nailed into rectangles the size of the

windows they intended to blow out. Around the edges of the

frames was PE4 plastic explosive connected up with a continuous

ring of Cordtex detonation cord, and at the top was a

primer and a detonator. The charges would be detonated by

wire, and if Coop had done his calculations correctly they would

blow in the windows and the blinds, but with minimum damage

to the interior of the office. It was a delicate balance. Too little

and the blinds might still be in the way when the troopers went

329

STEPHEN LEATHER

through the window; too much and the fertiliser bomb could be

accidentally detonated.

Andy held the remote control to the side, aiming it at the

briefcase, as Green-eyes and the Wrestler moved to stand behind

the man in the ski mask. 'I didn't just wire up the timer,' she said,

her voice cracking under the tension. 'I wired up the remote,

too.'

'Could she do that?' Green-eyes asked the man in the ski

mask.

'You'd better believe it!' Andy shouted.

'What do you want, Andrea?' asked the man in the ski mask.

'What do you mean, what does she want?' shouted Green

eyes. 'It doesn't matter what she wants. We've got guns. We'll

fucking well shoot her!'

The man said nothing. His eyes continued to bore into Andy's as if he were trying to see into her mind. She stared back,

refusing to look away, refusing even to blink.

'You can't shoot me,' said Andy. 'Because no matter how

good a shot you are, no matter where you shoot me, I'm still

going to be able to press the button. Even if you kill me stone

dead, my hand is still going to go into spasm. The bomb'll go off.

You'll all die.'

Green-eyes glared at the man. 'Is that possible?'

The man kept staring at Andy. 'If she's wired it that way, yes.

The thing of it is, has she?'

Andy swallowed. 'There's only one way to find out,' she

said, her voice shaking. 'I'll press the button and we'll all die.'

She raised her hand above her head.

'No!' shouted Green-eyes. 'Don't!' She lowered her gun,

but the man in the ski mask kept his levelled at Andy's chest.

Captain Payne looked over at Patsy. 'I recommend we go in

now. If she presses that button, everyone dies.'

Patsy bit her lower lip as she stared at the thermal images on

33O

THE BOMBMAKER

the bank of monitors. 'Are you sure you can take them out

without the bomb going off?' she asked.

Payne looked pained. 'I can't promise. But I can tell you that

in hostage rescue rehearsals we get the hostage out alive ninety

six per cent of the time. So long as the woman doesn't panic and

accidentally set it off, we should be okay. We'll drop down on

two sides. Shaped charges to take out the windows, flash-bangs

to disorientate them, then the troopers swing in. Four of my

men will take out the main door. It should be over in seconds.'

Patsy exhaled through pursed lips. She looked at Hetherington

and raised an eyebrow. He nodded, pulled out his mobile

phone and tapped out a number. Neither of them had the

ultimate authority to approve the storming of the building. Only

one man could do that. Hetherington walked to the far end of

the office and began talking urgently into the phone. Patsy

fingered her crucifix.

Martin turned to Denham. 'They can't go in now,' he said.

'They can, if that's what they decide is the best option,' said

Denham.

'But what about Katie?'

'Katie's pretty low down their list of priorities right now,'

said Denham. 'I'm sorry, Martin.'

Martin looked around the office frantically, as if searching for

someone he could appeal to. No one was looking at him.

Hetherington was still whispering into his mobile phone; Patsy,

Barbara Carter and Tim Fanning were watching the bank of

thermal image monitors; the SAS captain and two of his troopers

were at the window, peering out at Cathay Tower between the

slats of the blinds. Haifa dozen technicians were gathered around

laptop computers, their hands playing over the keyboards.

'Patsy, you have to hold off,' urged Martin. 'See what they

do. If he lets her talk to Katie, we can find out where she is.'

'It's not my decision any more,' she said, avoiding his gaze.

Captain Payne had his mobile phone to his face. 'Stand by,

stand by,' he said.

'What if Andy accidentally presses the button?' asked Martin.

'What if she panics? Flash-bangs are like grenades, aren't they?'

33i

STEPHEN LEATHER

Patsy didn't reply. Martin looked at Denham. 'They're going

to shoot her as well, aren't they? That's the only way to stop her

pressing the button, isn't it?'

Denham averted his eyes. Martin held his arms out and

waved them like a chick trying to fly for the first time. 'For

God's sake, will somebody talk to me!' he shouted.

Patsy motioned with her chin at Fanning. 'Tim, take Mr

Hayes outside, will you.'

Martin put his hands up in surrender. 'Okay, okay,' he said

quietly. 'I'll be quiet.' He walked over to the window and stood

next to the SAS captain.

Fanning looked at Patsy for guidance and she gave him a

small shrug.

Hetherington clicked his mobile phone off and walked over

to Patsy. 'The PM says to go in,' he said.

The SAS captain looked over his shoulder. 'That's a green

light?' he asked Hetherington.

'Affirmative,' said Hetherington. 'And may God help us all.'

He turned to Patsy. 'I think we should all move out of the room.

Just to be on the safe side. Flying glass and such.'

Captain Payne put his phone to his mouth. Martin moved

quickly, pushing the phone away with his left hand and grabbing

for the man's gun with his right. He gripped the butt of the

weapon and pulled it from its nylon holster. It came out

smoothly, and before he realised it he was pointing the gun

at Payne's head. Martin had never fired a gun in his life, but he

knew enough to realise that there was a safety catch and he

fumbled it into the off position with his thumb as he took a step

backwards.

'Don't be stupid,' said Payne, holding his hands up, fingers

splayed.

'Martin, for God's sake, what are you doing?' shouted

Denham.

Martin kept the gun pointed at the captain's head. 'Tell your

men to keep their hands where they are,' he warned. 'If either of

them makes a move towards their weapons, I'll shoot you.'

'You're not going to shoot anyone,' said the captain.

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THE BOMBMAKER

'Martin, come on, calm down,' said Patsy soothingly.

Martin stepped to the side so that he could see everyone in

the room, though he kept the gun levelled at the captain.

Hetherington watched in amazement, his mouth open wide,

his phone at his side. The two troopers were looking at their

officer, waiting to see how he'd react.

'Martin, I know you're under a lot of strain at the moment,'

said Patsy. 'But this isn't helping anyone.' She took a step closer

to him.

'Stay where you are!' Martin shouted. 'If you come any

closer, I'll shoot him.'

'That wouldn't be very smart, Martin,' she said.

Martin ignored her. 'Tim, push that desk against the door.

Do anything else, anything at all, and I'll shoot him.'

The two troopers were moving away from the captain, one

going to the left, one to the right. Martin waved the gun at

Payne. 'Tell them to stay where they are,' he hissed. 'I'll try to

shoot you in the leg, but I've never fired a gun before so I might

hit you somewhere fatal.'

'That'd be murder,' said the SAS captain. 'Cold-blooded

murder. Are you up to that, Martin? Are you up to shooting an

unarmed man?'

'You've just been discussing killing my wife,' said Martin.

His arms were beginning to tremble and he fought to keep them

steady. 'You don't seem to have any problems with that.'

Fanning finished pushing the desk up against the door.

'Sit on the desk, Tim. On your hands.' Fanning did as he was

told. Martin looked at the SAS officer, and waggled the gun at

him. 'If anyone tries to come in through that door, they're going

to have to come through Tim,' he said.

'I gathered that,' said Payne.

'Now, tell your men to take their guns out of their holsters.

Tell them to use their thumbs and one finger. Then I want them

to eject the thing that holds the bullets.'

'The clip?'

'The clip. Drop the clip on the floor, then the gun. Then

they're to kick the guns across the floor to me.'

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'You can tell them yourself,' said Payne.

'They're soldiers, and you're their officer,' said Martin. 'And

if they don't do what you say, you're the one who's going to get

the bullet.'

The captain nodded at his men. They slowly followed

Martin's instructions. He kicked the guns under the desk, out

of reach.

'Martin, have you thought this through?' said Patsy. 'Have

you thought what's going to happen when this is over? You'll be

in court for this. You'll go to prison.'

'Maybe,' said Martin. 'But you haven't given me any choice,

have you? If the SAS go in, my wife and daughter are going to

be killed. If that happens, I don't think I care much either way

what happens to me.' He gestured with the gun. 'I might even

end up using this on myself'

'Now you're being stupid,' she said.

'We'll see.' He moved to the side so that he could see the

thermal image screens. 'Turn up the sound, will you?'

Patsy turned up the volume. Everyone turned to look at the

monitors.

Andy held the remote control above her head, her thumb

resting on the on-off button. 'I will do it,' she said. 'You're

going to kill me anyway, so I've nothing to lose.'

'Yes you have,' said the man in the ski mask. 'There's

Katie.'

'Katie's dead already.'

The man lowered his gun. 'No. She's not.'

Andy shook her head, blinking away the tears that were

stinging her eyes. 'I don't believe you.'

The man stretched out a hand as if he were trying to calm a

barking dog. 'She is, Andrea. I promise you. She's fine. The men

she's with were told to look after her.'

Andy sniffed. Her arm was starting to ache and she wanted to

change hands, but she didn't want to give the man in the ski

mask an opportunity to shoot her.

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The Wrestler cursed and Green-eyes turned to look at him.

'I'm going,' he said. 'You don't need me any more.'

'No,' said the man in the ski mask. 'We all stay until it's

finished.'

'Fuck you,' said the Wrestler. 'You've got your bomb. I'm

sure as hell not going to be here when it goes off. Just make sure

you transfer my money into the bank. If you don't, I'll come

looking for you, Egan.' He turned and walked towards the door,

muttering darkly to himself.

Patsy looked at Denham. 'You hear that? "Egan", he said.' She

turned to Carter. 'Barbara, get on to records. Anything we have

on a man called Egan. Aliases, everything. Notify GCHQ, too.

And get them to liaise with the NSA. Search for any calls

mentioning Egan. Then contact the FBI, cross-check with

them.' Carter nodded and picked up the phone.

'Wait!' said Martin.

'Martin, she's only going to make a phone call. We have to

know who this Egan is.'

Martin hesitated, then nodded. Carter dialled a number and

began to whisper urgently into the mouthpiece, a look of fierce

concentration on her face.

There was a coughing sound from the loudspeaker. On the

two screens, one of the flickering green figures slumped to the

floor. 'They've shot someone!' said Captain Payne.

'Who?' shouted Martin. 'Who's been shot?'

'I don't know,' said the captain, striding towards the monitors.

'For

God's sake, is it Andy?' He kept the gun aimed at

Payne's back.

Martin stared in horror at the monitor closest to him. One of

the green figures was standing over the figure on the floor,

pointing down. There was a coughing sound again. The sound

of a silenced gun.

'It's not her,' said Payne. 'He's shot the man. Shot him

twice.' The SAS captain slammed a fist into the palm of his other

335

STEPHEN LEATHER

hand. 'Now,' he said. 'We have to move now. They're all

distracted - we'll be in there before they know it.'

'No,' said Martin. 'We wait until they've made the call.

Then we'll know where Katie is.'

'They're not going to let her speak to your daughter,' said

Payne. One of the SAS troopers, the one on the captain's left,

moved slightly so that he was at the edge of Martin's vision.

'Stay where you are!' shouted Martin.

'They're going to trick her, Martin,' said the captain. 'It's a

distraction - she'll be so focused on the phone. He's killed one of

his own people - he's not going to think twice about killing

your wife. Think, man. They're not going to let her live, not

after this.'

'No!' shouted Martin.

'You've got to let us go in, now.'

'He's right, Martin,' said Patsy. 'The SAS are professionals they

train for situations like this.'

'We can do it, Martin,' said the captain, his voice soft and

persuasive.

Martin put a hand up to his forehead. 'You're confusing me,'

he mumbled.

The SAS trooper lunged towards Martin, his hands outstretched,

going for the gun in Martin's hand. Martin turned, his

mouth open in surprise, but too slowly to get his gun around.

Denham was quicker - he threw his tweed hat at the trooper's

face and stuck out his foot, tripping the man up. The trooper

tried to regain his balance, his arms flailing in front of him, but he

pitched forward on to his knees. Martin jumped back, covering

the man with his gun, both hands on the butt, his finger tight on

the trigger.

Everyone froze. Martin's eyes were wide and staring and he

was breathing heavily. His arms were shaking, and he had to force himself to relax the pressure on the trigger. 'Easy, Martin,'

said Patsy. 'Take it easy.'

Captain Payne moved away from Martin, his hands up in

surrender. 'It's okay. We're all cool, Martin. No one's going to

hurt you.'

336

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'Sorry,' said Denham, picking up his hat. 'I must have

slipped.'

The SAS trooper glared up at him, then got to his feet.

'Damn you, Liam,' hissed Patsy.

Denham smiled in a cold imitation of an apology. 'What are

you going to do to me, Patsy? Have me sacked?' He nodded at

the green screens. 'Let the girl have her chance. She deserves it.'

'Thanks, Liam,' said Martin, covering Payne with the gun.

'Don't thank me,' said Denham. 'We're both up to our

necks in shit now.'

The office went silent as everyone strained to hear what was being said over in Cathay Tower.

Andy stared in horror at the pool of blood that was slowly

spreading around the Wrestler's head in a gruesome parody of a

halo. The man in the ski mask had shot him twice. Once in the

back as he walked away, once in the side of the head as he lay

twitching on the floor, face down. After the second shot the

Wrestler had stopped moving.

Andy tried to speak, but no words would come.

Green-eyes was also stunned. The two women looked at

each other, then at the man in the ski mask. 'Why?' asked

Green-eyes.

'First rule of this business, always obey orders. Second rule,

never use names. He broke both.'

Green-eyes glared at the man. She raised her gun so that it

was aiming at his chest. 'How do I know you won't kill me?

When it's all over. How do I know you don't want me to go up

with the bomb?'

The man pointed his gun at her, smiling 'Would you prefer

that? How about we have a quick draw here and now. First one

to pull the trigger wins. Are you up for that?' He straightened his

arm and aimed at the centre of her face. Green-eyes flinched and

the man laughed sharply. 'Look at you. You don't have the balls

to shoot me, and you know it. Pull yourself together. Can't you

take a joke?'

337

STEPHEN LEATHER

Green-eyes gestured at the body on the floor with her gun.

'That's not funny. That's not even close to funny.'

'He was walking out on us. I paid you all for your unswerving

loyalty. To carry out your tasks without question. Without

disobedience.' He levelled the gun at Andy once more. 'Anyway,

we're wasting time.'

In her terror at witnessing the killing, Andy had forgotten the

remote control in her hand. She waved it in front of her face, her

thumb poised over the on-off button. 'If you shoot me, I'll still

have time to press this. Then we all die.'

'I understand that, Andrea. But I know you don't want to

die. No one does. Who'll look after Katie if you're not around?

Who'll grow old with your husband?' He took a step closer to

her.

'No!' she screamed. 'I mean it! I will! I'll do it!'

The man took a step back. 'Okay, take it easy,' he said, his

tone conciliatory but firm. 'What is it you want?'

'I want to go home to my family.'

'You can do that. We can all walk out of here.' He looked at

his watch. The bomb had been active for almost ten minutes.

'We walk out of here and once the bomb has gone off, you can

leave.'

'And my daughter?'

'We've no interest in hurting children, Andrea. We just want

this building blown up.'

'Why?'

The man shook his head. 'You don't need to know.'

'Once the bomb goes off, you're going to kill me anyway. I

know you are.'

The man shook his head. 'No, we're not. I swear it.'

Andy's mouth was so dry that she could barely speak. She

rubbed her mouth with the back of her left hand. 'You want it

to look like an IRA bomb. If I go up with it, that's what

everyone will think, that the IRA used me to build it. If I'm

alive, your deception isn't going to work.'

Green-eyes and the man looked at each other. Andy knew

that she was right. That had been their plan, right from the start.

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'So maybe it's better if we all die,' she said. 'Together.' She

pointed the remote control at the man as if it were a gun and she

was about to fire.

'Wait!' he said. For the first time there was a hint of

uncertainty in his voice, as if he finally believed that she might

do it.

'I want to know why,' said Andy. 'I want to know why

you've done all this. Kidnapped Katie. Forced me to build the

bomb for you. Is it because you want to blame the IRA? You

want to derail the peace process?'

The man in the ski mask snorted dismissively. 'You think

we'd go to all this trouble over politics?' He laughed sharply. 'I

tell you, the IRA would have been a hell of a lot more effective

if they'd hired me.'

'So why, then? If it's not politics, why?'

The man stared fixedly at Andy, then nodded slowly, as if

he'd come to a decision. 'It's about money, Andrea. Dollars.

Millions of dollars. Hundreds of millions of dollars.'

Andy frowned, not understanding.

The man waved his gun around the office. 'Look around

you. What do you see, Andrea?'

Andy said nothing, not sure what he was getting at.

'Prime City office space? The sort of office you could rent to

a bank or a broking firm? An appreciating asset?' He shook his

head. 'Appearances can be deceptive. It's worthless, Andrea. The

whole building's fucked.' He gestured at the floor with his gun.

'The steel's corroding. It was built on the cheap and now the

whole structure's almost ready to come down.'

Andy put a hand to her head. She was confused and finding it

hard to breathe, as if something had been tightly wound around

her chest.

'The people I work for bought the building last year.

They're Chinese -- they thought they were getting a good deal

and they paid in cash. A lot of it was dirty money. Corruption.

Drugs. Triad money. Just over two hundred and fifty million

pounds. Four hundred million dollars. The vendors were Russians,

but the Chinese didn't know that because the deal was

339

STEPHEN LEATHER

handled by a German middleman. As soon as they handed over

the money, the German disappeared. So did the Russians.'

'I don't understand,' said Andy. 'You're confusing me.'

'Try and focus, Andrea. They were conned. The Chinese

were taken for a quarter of a billion pounds. What they thought

was a solid-gold investment turned into a millstone around their

necks, if you'll excuse the mixed metaphors.'

'Didn't they get it surveyed?'

'Oh, yes. By a partner in a big City firm. He's disappeared,

too.'

'So what's that got to do with all this?'

The man shook his head impatiently. 'The building has to

come down, Andrea. It has to be rebuilt, which will cost almost

as much as they've already spent. And since the meltdown in

Asia, they don't have the money. But if it should be destroyed in

a terrorist bombing, then the government becomes the insurer

of last resort. They get paid in full.'

Andy stood transfixed, the remote control in her outstretched

hand. 'That's what this is all about? You took my

daughter. You kidnapped me. You're going to kill God knows

how many people . . . just for money?'

The man laughed harshly. 'For a lot of money, Andrea. A

hell of a lot of money.' He nodded at Green-eyes. 'That's not

why she's doing it, of course. She wants revenge. But she's

getting paid, too. So, if you do push that button, if you do set the

bomb off, you'll be doing us all a favour. The Chinese'11 get their

money back, she'll get her revenge on the country that killed her

brother, and I'll be paid in full.'

'Except you'll be dead, of course.'

'What if I were to offer you money, Andrea? What if I were

to give you half a million dollars? What's that in your money?

More than three hundred thousand pounds? I'll give you three

hundred thousand pounds to put down that remote control and

walk out of here.'

Green-eyes turned angrily to the man in the ski mask.

'What? You can't be serious.'

'It's none of your business.'

34O

THE BOMBMAKER

'It's totally my business.' said Green-eyes.

'You work for me. If I want to hire Andrea, that's up to

me.'

Green-eyes walked over to the window and stood staring

out over the City, her arms folded across her chest.

'Haifa million dollars, Andrea.'

'No.'

'How much, then? How much to buy your cooperation?'

'I want my daughter back. And I want to go home.'

The man stared at her in silence. He clicked his fingers at

Green-eyes and she looked over her shoulder at him. He clicked

his fingers again. 'Give me the phone,' he said. Green-eyes

handed over the mobile and he used his thumb to tap out a

number. 'I'm calling your daughter,' he said.

Andy narrowed her eyes, suspecting that he was trying to trick her. She held the remote control above her head again.

The phone started to ring and the man put it to his face,

keeping the gun pointed at Andy's chest.

Patsy and Hetherington looked at each other in astonishment.

'Do you believe that?' asked Hetherington. 'That's what this is

all about? An insurance job?'

'There's no reason for him to lie,' said Patsy. 'He doesn't

know we're listening in.'

'It's hard to credit. That they'd be prepared to kill so many

people for money.'

Patsy shrugged. 'I've heard of shipowners scuttling ships with

their crews on board to get insurance. This is just on a bigger

scale, I suppose.'

'I didn't follow what he said,' said Martin. 'They're blowing

the building up for money?'

'They want to make it look like a terrorist incident,' said

Patsy. 'If the building was uninhabitable because of structural

faults, the owners would have to bear the cost. As they've

recently acquired it, they probably haven't got insurance. But if

it's damaged in a terrorist bomb, then ultimately the government

34i

STEPHEN LEATHER

will pay. If what he says is true, the Chinese investors would get

their money back in full.'

'So now it's over. We know what he's up to. He can't get

away with it. All you have to do is to tell them that and they'll

give up. They have to.'

'It's not as simple as that,' said Patsy. 'They've got a fourthousand-pound-bomb

over there.'

'But don't you see,' pleaded Martin. 'If you tell them we

know what they're up to, they have to give up.'

Over the loudspeaker, they heard the man call out to Andy.

'They're on the line,' he said.

'I want to talk to her,' said Andy. Her voice sounded

strained, as if she was close to tears.

'We should go in now,' said Captain Payne.

'No!' said Martin. 'Wait until she speaks to Katie.' He looked

at Patsy. 'They'll be monitoring the call, right?'

Patsy nodded. Martin kept the gun aimed at the captain, but

turned to look at the thermal image monitors. As he did,

something hit him in the small of the back, pushing him

forward. As he fell, Patsy grabbed the gun and twisted it out

of his hand. She shuffled sideways, keeping the weapon away

from Martin as he struggled to regain his balance. Payne swiftly

moved over to her and took the gun from her.

It was Tim Fanning who'd hit Martin, creeping up behind

him while his attention was focused on the monitors. Fanning

grabbed him around the neck and wrestled him to the ground.

The two men rolled over on the floor. Fanning was younger and

stronger and within seconds he was on top, his knees pinning

down Martin's arms.

Captain Payne grabbed his phone. 'Stand by, stand by,' he

shouted. 'Move in on my word.'

'No!' Martin bellowed.

Patsy looked at Hetherington, and he pursed his lips and

nodded. Patsy opened her mouth to give the SAS captain the

go-ahead, but before she could speak Denham stepped forward.

'Patsy, they're using the mobile. We can trace the call within

a minute. We can find out where Katie is.'

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Patsy glared at him, then turned to Payne again.

'One minute, Patsy,' said Denham. 'You can give her one

minute, can't you?'

'Please,' begged Martin from the ground.

Patsy looked down at Martin. He was straining to get up but

Fanning was too strong. Blood vessels were standing out on

Martin's temples and there were flecks of saliva on his lips. He

looked like a wild animal in fear of its life.

'Please,' he said again.

Patsy gritted her teeth. 'Damn you,' she said. 'Damn you

both.' She held up her hand to Payne, gesturing for him to wait.

'Tim, call the telecom people, right away. Trace that call.'

Fanning climbed off Martin and rushed over to a phone.

Martin got slowly to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back

of his hand.

The captain pressed his lips together tightly, impatient to get

the operation under way. He put the phone to his face again.

'Stand by, stand by,' he said.

Everyone in the room stared at the bank of monitors.

The man in the ski mask kept the gun aimed at Andy's chest as

he listened to the phone. 'Yeah, it's me,' he said. 'Hold the line,

yeah?'

'Let me speak to Katie,' said Andy.

'Then what?' asked the man, holding the phone by his side.

'Then you let her go. Then we walk out of here.'

The man shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

Andy waved the remote control. 'You don't have a choice,'

she said. 'If I press this, we all die.'

'You don't want to die, Andrea.'

'Neither do you.'

'Who'll look after little Katie? Who'll watch her grow?'

'My husband. At least she'll know that I did what I could to

save her. I won't have died for nothing.'

The man smiled thinly, then slowly raised the phone. Andy

stepped forward, thinking that he was about to hand it to her.

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STEPHEN LEATHER

He didn't. He put the phone to his mouth. 'Listen to me,' he

said into it, speaking loudly so that his voice echoed around the

office. 'Listen to me carefully. If the line goes dead, if I get cut off

for any reason, kill the girl and get the hell out of there. Do you

understand? If the line goes dead, you kill the girl.' He listened,

nodded, then held the phone down by his side again. He sneered

at Andy. 'Right,' he said flatly. 'Go ahead and press it. If we die,

she dies.'

Lisa Davies pressed the button to keep the lift doors open as the

ten office workers piled out. Two MI5 agents guided them

through the carpark like collies marshalling a small flock of

sheep. One of the agents, a thirtysomething man in a dark suit

and highly polished shoes, whispered that the office workers

weren't to run, and that they were to turn right as soon as they

left the carpark exit. Other agents would be there to advise them

where to go next.

Lisa stabbed the button to close the doors and watched the

floor indicator rise slowly through the numbers. The four floors

above the bomb were already clear. So were six of the floors

below. She looked at her wristwatch. The seconds were ticking

away. The lift reached the ninth floor, the floor where the bomb

was. A four-thousand-pound fertiliser bomb. Lisa shuddered.

She wondered if she'd feel anything if the bomb went off.

Would the shock wave kill her instantly, or would it blow her

into the air in a hail of shattered steel and glass? She stared at the

floor indicator, willing it to change. Ten. Eleven. What would

happen if the bomb exploded while she was on one of the

higher floors? Would the building collapse in a shower of debris,

crushing the life out of her? Would she die instantly, or would

the life slowly drain from her as rescuers searched in vain

through the thousands of tons of rubble?

Lisa shook her head, trying to dispel the tormenting images.

There was no point in worrying about what might happen. She

had her orders, and she'd follow them. She'd been told to

evacuate the building, to get everybody out, and that's what she

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THE BOMBMAKER

would do. The floor indicator reached fourteen and the lift

juddered to a halt. The doors rumbled open. Gordon Harris was

there with the next ten office workers. They were mainly

women; Lisa saw just two men standing at the back. She ushered

them all inside with urgent whispers. 'Come on, come on.'

'What's happening?' asked one of the women, grey-haired

with a pair of spectacles dangling around her neck from a thin

silver chain. 'Is there a fire?'

'No, there's no fire,' said Lisa. 'But we have to get you all out

as quickly as possible.'

'But what's happening?' repeated the woman, her voice

trembling. She dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

'That's the lot,' said Harris. 'I'll head up to the fifteenth.'

Lisa pressed the button to close the doors. The grey-haired

woman burst into tears. Lisa looked at her watch again, even

though she was aware it was a futile gesture. She didn't know

how much time they had, and she realised that it was probably

best that she didn't know.

Patsy tapped her foot impatiently. It seemed to be taking a

lifetime for the telecom experts to trace the call. Martin looked

hopefully across at her and she gave a small shake of her head.

The SAS captain walked over to her. 'We have to move in,'

he said. 'The clock's still ticking, remember? I make it fifteen

minutes so far.'

She looked at him icily. 'I'm hardly likely to forget,' she said.

'Just a few more minutes,' Martin pleaded.

'We don't have a few more minutes,' said the captain. 'We

have to get in there so that the explosives officers can get to work

on the bomb. If we leave it much longer, even if we go in we

won't be able to prevent the bomb going off.'

Martin pointed at the monitors. 'Don't you understand what's

going on there?' he thundered. 'If you go in and that phone gets

cut off, they'll kill Katie. We have to know where she is.'

'And if that bomb goes off, hundreds of people are going to

die!' shouted the captain. 'Including my men.'

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STEPHEN LEATHER

The two men stood just feet apart, glaring at each other.

'Easy, gentlemen,' said Hetherington, quietly but firmly.

'We're not fighting each other here. The enemy's over there.

Let's not forget that.' He raised an eyebrow at Patsy. She shook

her head. 'It's a mobile,' she said. 'Southern Ireland. That's all

they know so far.'

Hetherington went over to Martin and put a hand on his

shoulder. Martin could see in the man's eyes what he was going

to say, so he spoke first. 'No!'

'If you're going to hate anyone for this, Mr Hayes, you have

to hate me. It's my decision.' He turned to the captain. 'Send in

your men, Captain.'

Payne took two steps over to the phone he'd been using and

picked up the receiver. 'Can you hear me? It's a green light. Go,

go, go'

Patsy slammed down the phone. 'We've got a location!' she

shouted.

'So it's your call, Andrea,' said the man. 'Press the button and

everyone dies. Including your daughter.'

'Let me speak to her.'

'It's too late for that.'

Andy held the remote control in front of her, her hand

shaking uncontrollably. He'd beaten her. There was nothing she

could do. Whatever she did, she'd lose. And she could see from

the look of triumph in the man's eyes that he knew it, too.

'It's over, Andrea.'

He pointed the gun at her head and took a step towards her.

Andy took a step back. She looked around in panic. There was

nowhere to run.

'Give me the remote control, Andrea. You know you're not

going to press it.'

Green-eyes aimed at Andy's head, her finger tightening on

the trigger. 'Let's shoot her!' She shouted. 'Let's just fucking well

shoot her.'

The man in the ski mask ignored the outburst. He kept his

346

THE BOMBMAKER

eyes totally focused on Andy, his arm outstretched towards her.

'Give it to me, Andrea. It's over.'

Captain Crosbie dropped the phone and adjusted his respirator.

He raised his arm, his fist clenched. 'Go! Go! Go!' he shouted.

His men had split into two teams and had removed windows

from the north and west sides of the building in preparation for

the assault. On his command, each team dropped a shaped

charge down on ropes, while Sandy and Coop pulled pins out of

the top of stun grenades, holding the triggers in place as they

stood on the window ledges, abseiling ropes around their waists.

One trooper on each team was holding the trigger to detonate

the shaped charge, and they nodded to each other and pressed

their triggers at the same time. There were two loud explosions

from below, and immediately Sandy and Coop dropped down,

stun grenades at the ready.

As they disappeared over the edge, the rest of the troopers

took their places, Heckler & Kochs at the ready.

The window to Andy's left exploded in a shower of glass. A

fraction of a second later, the window behind her also erupted

inwards, spraying her back with glass. Two metal cylinders

bounced off the floor, the size and shape of cans of beer. Time

seemed to stop for Andy. Everyone seemed to have frozen to the

spot. The man in the ski mask's mouth was wide open. Green

eyes had her hands up in front of her face to shield herself from

the flying glass, the gun forgotten in her right hand.

Andy had no idea "what had happened. She wondered if the

bomb had gone off, if she was already dead and it had happened

so fast she didn't know it. She tried to move but her limbs were

locked in place. She couldn't move. She wasn't conscious of

breathing or of her heart beating.

The man in the ski mask started to react, swinging his gun

around, bringing it to bear on the window closest to him, his

mouth open as if he were about to scream.

*

* 347

STEPHEN LEATHER

The two cylinders exploded at exactly the same time. There

was a flash of light, so bright that Andy was instantly blinded,

then her world exploded.

Martin jumped at the sound of the explosions. 'What the hell

was that?' he shouted.

'Flash-bangs,' said the SAS captain. 'Stun grenades.' He

moved closer to the monitors, pushing Martin out of the way.

On the eight screens, three green figures were staggering

around the office. One of them twitched and fell. Over the

loudspeaker came the muffled rat-tat-tat of rapid fire from a

silenced Heckler & Koch. More green figures were flowing into

the office, moving quickly and purposefully.

'Who's that? Who's been shot?'

'I don't know,' said Payne. 'We've no radio contact.'

Martin peered over the captain's shoulder. 'Is it Andy?'

'I don't know,' said Payne sharply. Two single muffled shots

barked from the loudspeaker. The sound of a silenced handgun.

Green-eyes was in spasm on the floor, though she was obviously

dead. The right-hand side of her head was missing, exposing

white skull and pink brain matter, and there were four blossoming

red patches on the front of her overalls. Her gun, unfired, lay

close to her twitching right hand. Andy stood transfixed, unable

to comprehend what was going on around her, her ears still

ringing from the stun grenades. To her left, two men dressed in

black overalls and with black submachine-guns strapped to their

chests were swinging in through one of the broken windows.

They had respirators and dark goggles on and black webbing

belts around their waists. The man in the ski mask was facing the

other way, both hands on his pistol. He'd fired twice at three

more SAS troopers who had come swinging in through another

window in the wake of the grenades. He'd hit one in the chest

with one of his shots, but the bullet had made a dull thudding

noise as it had smashed into the soldier's body armour. The

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THE BOMBMAKER

troopers were bringing their submachine-guns to bear on the

man, but he threw himself to the side, rolling behind a desk.

There was a crashing sound from reception and the stamping

of boots. Andy held her hands up in surrender, the remote

control still clasped in her right hand. 'Don't shoot!' she

screamed. Her voice sounded far away, as if it belonged to

someone else.

The man in the ski mask rolled again and came up in a half

crouch, taking aim at Andy's chest. With his free hand he ripped

off his ski mask. He had, Andy realised, a very ordinary face,

devoid of distinguishing features. There was no expression of

anger on it, nor fear. His features were totally blank as he

pointed the gun at Andy's chest and tightened his finger on the

trigger.

Andy sprang to her right and fell against one of the ovens.

The two men who'd just piled in through the window to her

left were unclipping themselves from their ropes. One of them

swung his submachine-gun towards her. She wanted to scream

that she wasn't a threat, that the man was about to kill her, but

the only sound she could make was a low growl.

The man's silenced gun coughed and a bullet zipped by her

head as she fell to the ground and scrambled away on all fours.

The remote control dropped from her hand as another bullet

thwacked into the ovens behind her. Four more soldiers came

hurtling down the corridor from reception, guns at the ready,

their boots beating a rapid tattoo on the floor.

She stood up, and one of the SAS troopers fired his submachine-gun.

His aim was off and bullets raked the ceiling

above her head, shattering the tiles. Chunks of polystyrene

cascaded around her like a heavy fall of snow. The man with

the handgun fired at the troopers and hit one in the respirator.

The trooper slumped to the floor, blood pouring from around

his face mask.

Andy dropped to the floor and rolled over, broken glass

cutting into her flesh. She slammed into something soft and

yielding and found herself face to face with the Wrestler, his eyes

wide and staring, blood congealing between his teeth.

349

STEPHEN LEATHER

Andy groped for his gun. Her trembling hand made contact

with the handle of the weapon, but when she pulled it wouldn't

come free of the holster. She remembered the strap around the

hammer of the gun and felt around with her thumb. There was a

rat-tat-tat of silenced gunfire followed by two distinct shots, and

she heard a body crash to the floor. She looked up. The man was

only feet away from her. His face split into a malevolent grin and

he fired at her, point blank. Andy twisted to the side, throwing

out her hands for balance, and felt the bullet sear along her

outstretched arm and into her shoulder. She screamed in pain

and fell backwards.

The SAS troopers were shouting staccato commands at each

other, but she couldn't make out what they were saying. There

was another burst of automatic fire and the sound of bullets

hitting metal.

As Andy hit the ground she saw the man fire at an SAS

trooper and hit him in the neck. The trooper twisted around as

blood sprayed from the wound.

Andy rolled, pain lancing through her injured shoulder,

came up on all fours and crawled under one of the tables.

Ahead of her was Green-eyes, blood pooling around her chest,

her head twisted grotesquely to one side. Andy saw her gun and

grabbed for it as another burst of bullets sprayed along the ceiling

above her, ripping out tiles in a shower of polystyrene.

The handle of the gun was wet with blood, and Andy seized

it with both hands, rolling over until she was on her back. The

man was bent low, the gun turned almost upside down so that

the handle was pointing up at the ceiling. Andy squeezed the

trigger, praying that the safety catch wasn't on. Her ears roared as

the gun fired, again and again as her finger tensed instinctively

on the trigger. Blood spurted from the man's chest and Andy

kept firing. The man staggered backwards. He tried to straighten

up but his body began to twitch as if electrocuted. As the room

began to spin around Andy, she became dimly aware of the

sound of multiple gunshots coming from all around her. The

upper half of the man's body turned scarlet and the phone

shattered as bullets raked across what was left of his chest, then

35O

THE BOMBMAKER

his face disappeared in a shower of red and white and he pitched

sideways.

The last thing Andy saw was three troopers with goggles and

respirators staring impassively down at her like giant insects

considering their next meal.

The loudspeaker was suddenly silent. Then there was a man's

voice. A gruff Scottish accent. 'Area secured!'

'They're in,' said the captain, relieved.

'Thank God for that,' said Hetherington.

'Andy. What about Andy?' Martin peered at the monitor

closest to him. There were three figures sprawled on the ground.

Around them moved a dozen or so flickering green shapes.

Captain Payne put his phone to his ear and listened, nodding

and grunting. He turned to Patsy. 'Tango One and Tango Three

are dead, Tango Two is dying. Tango Four is wounded but will

survive. You can send in the explosive officers now.'

Martin's mind whirled. Tango Four was alive, the others

dead or dying. But which was Andy?

Patsy came up behind him and squeezed his shoulder. 'It's

okay,' she said. 'Andrea's alive. Your wife's okay.'

McEvoy took the mobile phone away from his ear. 'Shit,' he

said.

'What happened?' asked Canning.

'Gunfire. Then the line went dead.'

Canning glowered. 'Gunfire? Are you sure?'

McEvoy looked contemptuously at his partner. 'I've heard

guns before, Mick.'

Canning ran his hands through his unkempt hair. 'Maybe

he'll call back.'

'I don't think so.' McEvoy put the phone down on the

coffee table. 'I think it's over.'

Canning paced up and down. 'Shit. Shit. Shit. What the fuck

are we going to do?'

35i

STEPHEN LEATHER

McEvoy looked at the .38 Smith & Wesson which was

hanging in a nylon shoulder holster on the back of the sofa.

Egan's instructions had been crystal clear. If the connection was

cut, kill the girl. But Egan was probably dead. 'We go,' he said

quietly. 'We pack up and go.' He picked up the holster and

fastened it across his chest.

'You clear the cottage, I'll check the girl's okay.'

'I'll do it,' said Canning. 'She's still scared of you.'

McEvoy sighed. 'You're a sad bastard, Canning. Okay, you

sort the girl out, I'll put the gear in the car.'

Canning went into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and

took out three cans of Coke and a bottle of Ballygowan water.

His woollen ski mask was on the kitchen table and he pulled it

on. He picked up the drinks, went over to the door leading to

the basement and pulled back the bolts. He groped for the light

switch and found it, but when he flicked the switch the light

didn't come on. He cursed under his breath and moved slowly

down the stairs, softly railing Katie's name.

He reached the bottom and peered into the gloom. 'Katie.

Come here. Stop messing about.' He could just about make out

the bed in the light from the open door at the top of the stairs,

and he headed towards it. He heard a scuffling sound behind him

and turned to see the little girl scampering up the stairs.

Canning dropped the cans and the bottle. The glass smashed

and water splashed over his feet as he rushed after her. 'George,

she's coming your way!' he shouted. He took the stairs two at a

time and hurtled into the hallway. McEvoy was standing there,

his arms outstretched. The girl was frantically trying to pull the

front door open. She hadn't noticed that it was bolted. The bolt

was high up, way out of her reach. She turned and tried to run to

the kitchen, but McEvoy was too quick for her. She skidded to a

halt and turned, but her face fell when she saw Canning. He

strode over to her and picked her up around the waist. She

kicked him and beat him around the head with her little fists.

'Stop it, damn you!' Canning shouted as he carried her back

down the hallway to the basement door.

He took the stairs slowly, allowing his eyes to get used to the

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THE BOMBMAKER

gloom. Katie carried on kicking him, but she was tiring and the

blows didn't hurt. His shoes crunched over the broken glass and

he dropped her on to the camp bed. She lay there sobbing, her

knees drawn up against her chest. 'Jesus, girl, no one's going to

hurt you. We're going.' He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and

glared down at her.

He heard McEvoy come down the stairs behind him. He

turned to look at him. McEvoy's face was set hard and he had

the .38 in his hand. 'What are you doing with that?' asked

Canning.

McEvoy pulled back the hammer with his thumb. 'She's

seen my face, Mick.'

'We'll be well gone by the time the cops get here. She's a

seven-year-old kid -- she's not going to be able to tell them

anything.'

'It doesn't matter,' said McEvoy, pointing the gun at the

girl.

Canning stepped in front of the gun so that the barrel was

levelled at his stomach. 'George, listen to me. If you kill her in

cold blood, they'll never stop looking for us. We'll be branded as

child-killers. If they catch us, they'll throw away the fucking

key.'

'I'm not happy about this, but she saw my face. You

shouldn't have let her get away from you.'

'So it's my fault, is it?'

'I just call it the way I see it,' said McEvoy. He moved to the

side, trying to get a clear shot at the girl.

'You've wanted to off her from the fucking start,' said

Canning. 'No way are you going to do this.' He grabbed the

gun in McEvoy's hand, forcing his thumb between the hammer

and the chamber.

'What the fuck are you playing at?' McEvoy shouted. 'Egan

said do her. We've got to do her.'

'No,' hissed Canning. 'It's over.'

'She's seen me.'

'She's a fucking kid, George.'

McEvoy tried to pull the gun away from him, but Canning

353

STEPHEN LEATHER

held firm, keeping the barrel pointed down towards the floor.

Katie was sitting up on the camp bed, watching them nervously.

'It's all right for you, you've got your fucking mask on. She's

going to tell the cops everything. And you've just told her my

name.'

Canning seized McEvoy by the throat and pushed him back

against the wall. He put his masked face right up against

McEvoy's ear. 'Walk away, George.'

McEvoy glared at him. 'They're going to be coming for us,

Mick. I heard what happened. Gunfire. Hecklers, Mick. The

fucking Sass. Egan's dead. They're all dead - the Sass don't take

prisoners. If we don't kill the girl, she'll identify us and the Sass'll

be after us.'

'There's a big difference between kidnapping and killing If

we leave the girl alive . . .'

'What? They'll forget all about us? Yeah, and maybe we can

go and live with Elvis.'

'We've got enough time to run. They'll look for us, sure, but

they'll be a hell of a lot more determined if we've killed her. It'll

be no stone unturned if we're child-killers, George. You wanna

be a child-killer, George? You want that on your conscience?'

McEvoy nodded slowly. 'Okay,' he said.

'We lock her in the basement, then we piss off back to

Belfast,' said Canning. 'We can make a call on the way.'

'Okay,' said McEvoy.

Canning slowly released his grip on McEvoy's throat. 'Let's

get our stuff together,' he said.

McEvoy drove his knee into Canning's groin and hammered

the butt of the handgun against the side of his head. Canning

staggered back, bent double. McEvoy hit him again with the

gun, slamming it against the back of his neck. Canning fell to the

floor, stunned.

'It's all right for you, you piece of shit,' McEvoy hissed. 'She

hasn't seen your fucking face.' He turned and pointed the gun at

Katie. She rolled off the camp bed and ran to the bottom of the

stairs, but McEvoy moved to intercept her. 'Stand still!' he

shouted.

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Katie skidded to a halt. 'Please don't,' she said, her voice

quivering with fear.

McEvoy aimed at her face and his finger tightened on the

trigger. Canning lurched to his feet, roared and threw himself at

McEvoy's gun arm. He kicked the man's legs from underneath

him and McEvoy hit the floor, hard. The gun went off but the

bullet went wide and buried itself in the ceiling. Canning

dropped down on top of McEvoy, fumbling for the gun. He

seized McEvoy's wrist with both hands and twisted, but he

couldn't loosen the man's grip.

McEvoy bellowed like a bull in pain. He tore at Canning's

woollen ski mask with his left hand and ripped it off Canning's

head. Canning locked eyes with him. McEvoy grinned. 'Now

she's seen us both, what are you going to do?' McEvoy hissed.

Canning said nothing. He grunted, twisting the Smith &

Wesson around, towards McEvoy's chest. Behind them, Katie

edged along the basement wall to the stairs, her arms outstretched

like those of a tightrope walker fighting to keep her balance.

McEvoy threw Canning's ski mask away and clawed at his

face, hooking his nails into the man's eyes. Canning yelped and

thrashed his head from side to side, continuing to hold on to the

gun. He forced the barrel towards McEvoy's chin. The gun

went off again, the bullet grazing Canning's cheek and slamming

into the wall, where it sheared off a hand-sized piece of plaster.

Canning's ears were buzzing and he could feel blood dribbling

down his cheek.

McEvoy stopped scratching at Canning's face and used both

hands to struggle for the gun. He pushed Canning with his knee

and the two men rolled across the floor and banged into the

table. McEvoy got on top and used all his weight to force the

barrel down towards Canning's neck. Spittle peppered Canning's

face. McEvoy was breathing heavily and his eyes were

wide and staring, all his efforts concentrated on the gun.

Canning twisted to the side, and as McEvoy lost his balance

Canning pushed the gun into the man's chest. He managed to get

his own finger inside the trigger guard and the gun went off twice.

McEvoy stiffened, then blood seeped between his teeth and he

355

STEPHEN LEATHER »

rolled on to his back. Canning lay gasping for breath. He pushed

himself up off the floor, still holding the .38, and looked around

the basement. Katie had gone. He heard footsteps running along

the floor above his head and rushed up the stairs. He found Katie in

the kitchen, trying to pull open the back door.

'It's locked,' he said.

She stopped fumbling with the handle and slowly turned to

look at him. Her lower lip was trembling. 'There's blood on

your jumper,' she said. 'And on your face.'

Canning put his hand up to the bullet wound on his cheek. It

was smarting and still dripping blood. The blood on his pullover

wasn't his. It was McEvoy's. He grabbed Katie by the shirt collar

and led her back down into the basement. She didn't struggle or

protest, and when he told her to sit on the bed she did as she was

told.

Canning flipped out the cylinder of the .38. Two shots left.

More than enough. He clicked the cylinder back into place. He

pulled back the hammer. 'Close your eyes, Katie,' he said.

'I won't tell anyone,' she said. 'I promise.'

'Yes you will.'

She shook her head firmly. 'I won't. You can run away. I

won't tell the police what you look like. I won't tell them what

you did to him.'

'They'll find out anyway.'

'You could bury him outside.'

'The police will find me, Katie. They'll find me and then

you'll identify me.'

'I won't. I promise. Please don't kill me.'

Canning pulled one of the wooden chairs closer to the bed

and sat down on it, facing the girl. 'Katie, you don't know what

the world's like. You're just a kid.'

'I know that adults aren't supposed to hurt children,' she said

sullenly.

'I don't have any choice,' he said. <

'It's not fair,' whispered Katie.

Canning smiled despite the enormity of what he was going

to have to do. 'Life isn't fair,' he said. 'When you get older you'll

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THE BOMBMAKER

. . .' He left the sentence unfinished. She wasn't going to get any

older. Her life was going to end here and now. In the basement.

Katie pointed at the door. 'You could lock me in and go

away,' she said. 'When the police find me, I'll tell them you

didn't hurt me.'

'It won't work like that,' said Canning. 'They'll keep

looking for me until they find me. What we've done is so

bad they'll never stop looking. If you hadn't seen my face, it

wouldn't matter, but you know what I look like. And the police

will make you tell them.'

'They won't. I . . .'

Canning held up his hand and she stopped talking, waiting to

see what he had to say. 'Let me tell you what would happen,

Katie. They'll catch up with me eventually. Maybe in a week. A

month. A year. But they'll get me eventually. They'll send

policemen to talk to your mum and dad, and they'll all take you

to the police station. They'll be really nice to you and tell you

what a brave girl you are. They'll probably give you a Coke or a

7-Up or something, then one of them will sit down and talk to

you. Probably a policewoman. Young. She'll talk to you like a

big sister. She'll tell you that they've caught me but that you've

got to identify me. She'll tell you not to worry, that they'll put

me in prison for a long, long time, and that I'll never be able to

hurt you or any other little girl again. Then the nice policewoman

will take you to room and she'll show you a window.

She'll tell you that there's a line of men on the other side, that

you can see them but they can't see you, and she'll tell you to

look carefully at all their faces and to tell her which one I am.'

'I won't tell them,' said Katie.

'You're seven years old,' said Canning coldly. 'You won't be

able to stand up to them. You'll look along the line of men and

you'll see me and you'll point me out. Close your eyes, Katie.'

Katie did as she was told. 'I won't tell,' she said. 'I promise.'

She kept her eyes firmly closed and made the sign of the cross

over her heart. 'Cross my heart and swear to die.'

357

STEPHEN LEATHER

Two green-overaUed paramedics were wheeling a trolley

through a police cordon as Patsy, Martin and Denham walked

up. Martin ran over to the trolley. It was Andy. She was paler

than he'd ever seen her, her hair tied back in a ponytail, dark

patches under her eyes. She reached out with her hand and he

interlinked his fingers with hers. A large dressing had been taped

to her left shoulder and there were two dressings on her arm

which had been placed in an inflatable splint. Blood was seeping

through the dressings and she winced in pain as she tried to sit

up. 'Katie . . .' she said.

'Lie down, miss,' said one of the paramedics, a stocky

thirtysomething woman with short permed hair. 'We have to

get you to hospital.'

Andy gripped Martin's hand, her nails digging into his flesh.

'I'm not going anywhere until I know that Katie's safe.'

'She's losing blood,' the paramedic said to Martin.

'I'm okay,' said Andy. She gritted her teeth as a wave of pain

washed over her.

'Andy, you have to go to hospital,' said Martin. 'I'll come

with you.'

'But Katie . . .'

Denham appeared at Martin's shoulder. 'Our people are on

their way to Katie now,' he said.

'Liam?' said Andy. Her eyelids fluttered. She was obviously

close to passing out.

'Yes, Andrea. It's me. You did well. We'll take it from here.'

'I want to stay here until I know what's happened to Katie.'

Patsy took her mobile phone from her jacket and pressed it

into Andy's hand. 'As soon as we know where she is, we'll call

you,' she said.

Denham nodded at the paramedics and they wheeled her

towards the ambulance. Martin went with them.

'Do you think she's still alive?' asked Patsy as they watched

the paramedics lift Andy into the vehicle. Martin climbed in, the

doors were slammed shut, and a few seconds later the ambulance

drove away, sirens wailing.

'God, I hope so,' said Denham.

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A uniformed policeman examined Patsy's credentials and

waved her through the cordon. Denham shrugged. 'I'm with

her,' he said.

'That's fine, sir,' said the constable. 'I could tell you were in

the job.'

Denham smiled to himself as he followed Patsy into the lift.

Retired for ten years and he still looked like a policeman. He

wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not.

They rode up to the ninth floor in silence. The doors opened

and two more uniformed constables stepped aside to allow them

into the office. Half a dozen Scene of Crime Officers in white

overalls were moving around like silent ghosts, fingerprinting

and collecting fibre samples with pieces of tape, all their evidence

going into labelled plastic bags.

Two SAS troopers stood by the window, their automatic

weapons clasped to their chests. One was smoking a cigarette,

the other was laughing. There was broken glass everywhere, and

Patsy and Denham crunched over it as they walked to the pile of

black garbage bags in the middle of the main office area. Two

Metropolitan Police explosives officers were crouched over the

bags, gingerly moving them apart. Both men were wearing olive

overalls, and Patsy was surprised that neither of them was

wearing protective armour. In Belfast, the EXPOs never went

anywhere near an explosive device without full body armour

and protective helmets. She realised that it was probably because

the bomb was so big that if it did go off, no amount of protection

would help.

'Everything okay?' she asked.

One of the EXPOs looked up and grinned at her. 'Safe as

houses,' he said. He was barely out of his twenties, with a shock

of red hair and acne scars across his cheeks. 'SEXPO's got the

detonator. You could drop this lot out of the window and it

wouldn't go off.'

'SEXPO?'

'Senior Explosives Officer.' The redhead nodded over at an

older man in overalls who was standing by one of the desks.

'Our boss. Dave Hoyle.'

359

STEPHEN LEATHER

Patsy and Denham went over to Hoyle. He was peering at a

digital display through a magnifying glass, examining the wires

that protruded from the back of it. There was a tangle of wire

next to the digital display and four small cylinders, the size of

Parker pen refills. Patsy had seen detonators before, in Belfast.

She introduced herself and Denham, but Hoyle just grunted.

He was a big, bear-like man with thick fingers that dwarfed the

delicate electronics he was examining.

'It was live?' asked Ellis.

'Oh, yes. Timer was set. Twenty minutes left on the clock

before we got to it.'

'No problems?'

'Simple circuit. Nice work. A woman, they said?'

'That's right.'

'They always do neat work, women. Tidy. Precise. Just look

at the soldering.'

He handed the magnifying glass to Patsy, and she used it to

examine the wiring. She had no idea what she was looking at

and she gave it back to Hoyle none the wiser.

'No booby traps?' asked Denham.

'No, it was a simple enough circuit,' said Hoyle. 'No

photoelectrics, no tremblers, no collapsing circuits. EXPO

friendly, it was.'

'What about the remote control?' asked Ellis.

'The what?' Deep frowns creased Hoyle's forehead.

'The infrared remote control. She had it rigged so that if she

pressed it, it would go off.'

Hoyle's frown deepened. 'No way,' he said. 'Timer, batteries,

detonators. There was nothing else in the circuit. Pressing

the remote control wouldn't have done a blind thing.'

'Are you sure?'

Hoyle looked offended. Patsy began to laugh, and Hoyle

stared at her in surprise. She shook her head, still laughing. 'She

was bluffing,' she said to Denham. 'She was bloody well

bluffing.'

Denham's mobile phone warbled and he took it out and put

it to his head. Patsy stopped laughing as Denham listened, then

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THE BOMBMAKER

frowned. 'Yes, Eamonn.' Patsy watched Denham's face, wondering

if it was good news or bad.

Denham put his hand over the bottom of the phone.

'They've found Katie.' A smile spread across his face. 'She's

okay. They locked her in a basement. She's scared but she's

okay.'

Patsy grinned. She took a quick step forward and hugged

Denham, burying her face in his chest and squeezing him so hard

that he gasped.

Denham hugged her back, then pulled away. 'I have to call

Andy,' he said, then he smiled. He held out the phone to Patsy.

'Why don't you do it?'

36i

THREE MONTHS LATER

The wrought-iron gates swung open and the Mercedes nudged

slowly into the compound. Deng didn't recognise the man

standing guard by the gate, but that wasn't significant. The firm

that supplied him with bodyguards changed the personnel on a

regular basis. The only constants were his driver and the man

who was sitting in the front passenger seat. Like the rest of the

guards assigned to protect Deng, they were armed. Ever since

the debacle in London, he'd had three men in the house

protecting his wife and sons, and there were always at least

two others with him.

He climbed out of the Mercedes and went into his house.

The maid wasn't there to take his cashmere coat from him, so he

hung it up himself and went through to the sitting room.

His two sons, the elder aged twelve, the other just eighteen

months younger, were sitting together on the sofa, an expensive

white leather model that Deng had had flown in from Milan. He

glared at the boys. 'Didn't we tell you not to sit on the sofa in

your school clothes?' he said. 'Why haven't you changed?'

The boys said nothing. The younger one was close to tears.

'What's wrong with you? And where's your mother?'

'She's with me,' said a voice behind him.

Deng froze. He turned slowly. Michael Wong was standing

at the door to the kitchen, Deng's wife at his side. Her eyes

looked at Deng fearfully, then over at her sons. She gave them

an encouraging smile and made a small waving motion with a

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STEPHEN LEATHER

neatly manicured hand, trying to reassure them that everything

was going to be all right now that their father was home. Deng

took a deep breath. It wasn't going to be all right: Michael

Wong had come for his revenge.

Wong pushed Deng's wife into the room and she tottered

forward on her high heels, then ran to Deng and grabbed him

around the waist and buried her face in his chest. Two big men

in cheap suits and red-and-black-striped ties followed Wong

into the sitting room. As the door swung back, Deng could see

three bloodstained bodies on the kitchen floor. His bodyguards.

And against the fridge, sitting up but with her head slumped

against her chest, the maid. Her throat cut wide open.

The two men who came out of the kitchen were Red Poles,

Triad heavies, but they weren't the two men who'd been in the

love hotel when Wong had murdered the nightclub hostess.

These two were shorter and heavier and had the rough skin and

bad haircuts of mainlanders. One of them was holding a silenced

automatic. The other had a roll of insulation tape in his hand.

Deng looked at them over the head of his sobbing wife. 'I'll pay

you ten times what he's paying you,' he said to them.

They laughed at him.

'Twenty times,' said Deng. 'I'll get you new identities, new

passports. Hong Kong passports. I can do it. Plus twenty times

what he's paying you.'

They laughed even louder, and Wong laughed along with

them. The front door opened and the bodyguard who'd been in

the Mercedes walked into the sitting room. The Red Pole with

the silenced gun shot the bodyguard twice in the chest and he

dropped to the floor without a sound. The driver never came

into the house. When he wasn't working, he stayed in a small

flat above the garage, too far away to hear what was going on in

the main building.

The two Red Poles went over to Deng. The one with the

gun pulled his wife away, grabbing her by the hair and

throwing her over to Wong. The other heavy pushed Deng

in the chest and he staggered backwards. The heavy seized him

by the lapel and spun him down into a chair, and then quickly

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wound the insulation tape around his legs and arms, tying him

fast.

'I thought I'd run through the programme I've planned,' said

Wong. 'Just so you know what's coming.' He ran a hand down

Deng's wife's breasts and between her legs. She squirmed in his

grasp but he tightened his grip around her throat. She was

looking at Deng with pleading eyes, but he knew there was

nothing he could do. Nothing he could say, either, to her, or to

Wong. There were no words with which to apologise to her for

the horrors that lay ahead, nothing he could say to Wong to

make him change his mind. The only option was acceptance.

'I'm going to fuck your wife,' continued Wong. 'Not because

it'll give me pleasure, you understand. She has the face of a pig,

and her body's not much better. I can see why you're always

screwing hookers whenever you go to Hong Kong.'

Deng's wife moaned in despair and Wong twisted her head

around so that he could look into her tear-filled eyes. 'Oh, poor

baby,' he said. 'Didn't you know? Didn't you guess? Young

girls. Pretty girls. He takes them to a love hotel in Kowloon

Kong. He's probably thinking about them on the rare occasions

he screws you.' He grinned at Deng and released his grip on the

woman and kicked her over to two of the Red Poles. They

grabbed her, an arm each, supporting her because the strength

had gone from her legs and she could barely stand. 'Then my

men will fuck her. In any way they choose.' Deng's wife began

to sob uncontrollably. The two boys were staring at their

mother in horror.

Wong gestured at the large man standing at the door to the

kitchen. He was big and broad-shouldered, with close-cut hair

and a round, line-free face. He had thick lips which he kept

licking with a square-shaped tongue. 'Cheung here, he likes

boys. It's all I can do to keep him out of prison.'

Cheung laughed throatily.

'He really likes your sons,' said Wong. 'So he's going to play

with your boys for a while. Then he's going to kill them.'

Cheung opened his jacket and pulled out a curved knife. He

ran his finger along the edge of the blade, still chuckling.

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STEPHEN LEATHER

Deng kept his eyes fixed on Wong, his face impassive. There

was no point in showing any emotion. That was what Wong

wanted. A reaction. Appeals for mercy. He wanted to see Deng

on his hands and knees, begging for his life and the life of his

family. Deng knew that any such appeals would be ignored, so

he kept his teeth clamped together and waited for the end.

Deng's elder son started to cry, and the younger boy put his

arm around him and tried to comfort him. Deng was suddenly

immensely proud of the young boy, not yet a teenager but

already behaving more like a man than he could ever have

imagined.

Wong held out his hand and one of the Red Poles gave him

a baseball bat. Wong swung it by his side, the end brushing

against the carpet that Deng's wife had had specially woven in

Bangkok, to a design of her own. She was so proud of the carpet,

it was the first thing she pointed out to visitors to their home.

Wong took a couple of steps towards Deng, then smacked

the bat hard against his left knee. The knee-cap cracked like dry

wood and his leg felt as if it had been thrust into a fire. Deng bit

down on his lower lip, fighting not to scream as tears stung his

eyes. For a few seconds he thought he was going to pass out, but

then the pain subsided a fraction and his mind cleared.

'Then, Deng, you thieving bastard, I'm going to beat your

wife to a pulp with this bat. Every bone in her body. From her

toes up. Then, when her brains are all over the carpet, I'm going

to do the same to you.'

Wong grinned, waiting for a reaction, but Deng said nothing.

Then Wong slapped his forehead theatrically. 'But how

stupid of me,' he said, taking a mobile phone from his jacket

pocket. 'There's someone who wants to talk to you first.' He

tapped out a number and listened until it was answered. 'Yeah?

You can start now,' he said. He held it against Deng's ear. 'Your

brother,' said Wong. 'And his family.'

The screaming was terrible, more than Deng could bear, and

he tried to twist his head away, but Wong kept the phone

pressed to his ear. There were three gunshots in quick succession.

Then another two. Then two more. Then silence. Wong

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took the phone away from Deng's head. 'Your brother. His

wife. Their daughter.' He put the phone away, then made his

hand into a gun and pointed it at his own head, mimicking the

hammer with his thumb. He grinned. 'They raped your sisterinlaw,

and your niece. While your brother watched.'

Deng's left leg had gone numb from the knee down. Totally

numb. He couldn't feel his toes, or move them. Wong slapped

the baseball bat into the palm of his hand. 'Right,' he said,

nodding at the Red Poles. 'Let's get started.'

One of the Red Poles began ripping the shirt off Deng's

wife, while another unzipped his trousers. Deng's sons began to

scream at the men to leave their mother alone. Cheung stepped

forward and slapped the elder boy across the face, hard, and

blood streamed from his nose. Deng looked away. There was no

point in watching. He closed his eyes and tried to blot out the

screams and cries of pain. His wife called out his name, but he

kept his eyes firmly shut. There was nothing he could do to stop

what was happening. All that lay ahead over the next few

minutes, hours maybe, was acceptance. Then death.

367

SIX MONTHS LATER

The doorbell rang and Martin Hayes put down his copy of the Irish Times and went to answer it. It was Saturday morning and

he wasn't expecting visitors. It was James FitzGerald, the Garda

detective inspector. Behind him stood Sergeant John Power. It

had been raining all morning and both policemen were wearing

dark blue raincoats.

'Mr Hayes,' said FitzGerald, nodding. 'Sorry to bother you.'

'What's happened?' Martin asked.

'It's about Katie,' said FitzGerald. Before he could continue,

Andy appeared at her husband's shoulder.

'What's wrong?' she said.

'It's about Katie,' said Martin.

'We think we've got one of the men who kidnapped her,'

said FitzGerald.

Andy reached out to hold her husband's hand. 'You're sure?'

she asked.

'Well, he's denying it, but his fingerprints match some

prints we found in the cottage.' He gestured at the car parked

at the end of the drive. 'We'd like Katie to come to the

station with us, to see if she can identify him. If that's okay

with you.'

'She won't have to face him, will she?' asked Andy.

FitzGerald shook his head. 'She'll be able to see him, but he

won't be able to see her.'

'I'll go and get her,' said Martin. He went down the hall and

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through to the kitchen, where Katie was kneeling on a stool and

stirring a bowl of cake mixture with a wooden spoon.

She grinned up at him and held out the spoon, which was

dripping with chocolate. 'Do you want some?' she asked.

'I'll wait until it's cooked,' he said. 'Katie, the police think

they've found the man. The man who kept you in the basement.'

Katie

put down the spoon and wiped a stray lock of blond

hair away from her eyes with her forearm. 'Are they sure? Are

they sure it's him?'

'They want you to look at him. To check they've got the

right person.'

Katie frowned. 'I don't want to, Dad.'

Martin ruffled her hair. 'It'll be okay. I promise.'

He helped her climb down from the stool and held her hand

as they walked to the front door, where Andy was already

putting on her coat. 'I'll lock up,' she said.

She went through to the kitchen while Martin and Andy got

their coats. FitzGerald smiled at the little girl. 'How are you,

Katie?'

'I'm fine, thank you,' she said, buttoning up her coat.

'Thank you for helping us,' he said.

Andy came back into the hall. 'Right,' she said. 'Let's go.'

Power drove the blue Orion, with Martin and Andy sitting

either side of Katie in the back. FitzGerald kept twisting

around in the front passenger seat and smiling reassuringly at

Katie.

Power dropped them at the front of Pearse Street Garda

station and FitzGerald took them inside. Martin grimaced as

they followed FitzGerald down the corridor past the interview

room where he'd been grilled by the detectives the last time he'd

been in the Garda station. He put his hand on Katie's shoulder

and gave her a small squeeze, as much to reassure himself as to

comfort her.

FitzGerald showed them into a room. Martin was relieved

that it wasn't the room where he'd been held before. It was

slightly larger, with no recording equipment. FitzGerald asked

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THE BOMBMAKER

them to wait, and they sat down while he went back down the

corridor, returning a few minutes later with a young uniformed

policewoman. She introduced herself by her first name. Teresa.

She was in her mid-twenties, blonde with a pretty smile. She

knelt down by Katie's side and asked her if she wanted a drink.

Katie shook her head.

'What about a Coke?' asked Teresa.

'Okay,' said Katie. Teresa asked FitzGerald to get the little

girl a Coke, then pulled a chair up close to her and sat down.

'Do you know why you're here, Katie?' she asked.

Katie looked down at the floor and nodded.

'Good. Now, I don't want you to worry. Everything's going

to be all right. We think we've got the man who took you away

from your mummy and daddy, but we have to be sure. Do you

understand that?'

Katie nodded again. She began swinging her legs backwards

and forwards.

'What we want you to do is to look at some men and see

if you can recognise the one who took you away from your

mummy and daddy. There'll be eight men. We want you to

look at them, all eight of them, and then tell us which one is

the man who took you. Do you think you can do that for

us?'

Katie scowled. 'I don't want to.'

Teresa leaned forward and put her face close to Katie's.

'Why, Katie?'

'I just don't want to.'

'There's no need to be scared, Katie. The man can't hurt

you. Look at me, Katie.'

Katie slowly raised her eyes and looked at the policewoman.

'Let me tell you how it works,' said Teresa. 'There'll be a line

of men, and they'll be on the other side of a window. You look

through the window at them, but they can't see you. It's a

special glass. You can see through it, but they can't. They just see

themselves.'

'Like a mirror?'

'That's right. Just like a mirror.' FitzGerald reappeared with a

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STEPHEN LEATHER

can of Coke and a plastic beaker. He put them down on the

table and Teresa poured some of the soft drink and handed it to

Katie. 'So they won't even know you're there. Each of the men

will be holding a number. All you have to do is to look at all the

men very carefully. Look at them twice. Then tell me which

number the man you recognise is holding. You can do that,

can't you?'

'I guess so,' said Katie quietly. She took a sip of her Coke.

'If you can tell us which one it is, we can make sure he'll go

to prison for a long, long time. He won't be able to do anything

to you again, Katie. You'll be safe with your mummy and

daddy. You do understand, don't you?'

Katie nodded.

'If we don't put this man in prison, he might do something to

hurt another little girl. You wouldn't want him to hurt anyone

else, would you?'

Katie put down her plastic cup. She looked at the policewoman

for several seconds. 'No,' she said eventually. 'No, I

wouldn't.'

'Good,' said Teresa. 'That's good, Katie. Okay, shall we go

and have a look at these men?'

Katie nodded solemnly.

Teresa looked at Martin and Andy and they nodded too.

'Right,' said FitzGerald. 'It's this way.'

'You can both come,' Teresa said to Martin and Andy.

'Katie'11 probably be more secure if you're with her.'

Andy took Katie's hand and they followed FitzGerald out of

the interview room and along the corridor. Martin walked with

Teresa. 'How's she been, since the kidnapping?' the policewoman

asked.

'Fine,' said Martin. 'She saw a child psychologist for a few

weeks afterwards, but there didn't appear to be any problems.'

'Perhaps

she didn't realise the danger she was in.'

Martin shook his head. 'No, it wasn't that. She knew exactly

what was happening. She just coped with it all, far better than

we thought she would.'

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FitzGerald held open a door and they all trooped in. It was a

long, narrow room with a curtain running virtually the whole

length of one side. FitzGerald motioned for Martin and Andy to

stand with him. Teresa held out her hand to Katie and Katie

took it. 'Right, Katie, let me explain what's going to happen.

My friend over there' -- she nodded at FitzGerald -- 'is going to

pull the curtain back, and you'll see the men sitting down on the

other side of the window. Look at them carefully, look at every

one of them at least twice, and then tell me the number of the

man you recognise. There's no need to worry. They can't see

you. Okay?'

'Okay,' said Katie.

'Are you ready?'

'I guess so.'

'Good girl. You're being very brave, Katie. I'm very proud

of you. We all are.'

Katie looked over at her parents, and they nodded as if to

encourage her. Teresa signalled to FitzGerald to draw the curtain

back. He dimmed the lights first, then pulled on a cord. There

was a ripping noise and the curtain parted in the middle.

There were eight men, all in their forties, sitting on

wooden chairs and staring ahead blankly. They were all

holding pieces of cardboard on which was printed a number,

from one to eight.

'Take your time, Katie,' said Teresa.

Katie stared at the men. She walked slowly down the

length of the room, gazing at their faces. The Nice Man was

number five. He was wearing a black pullover and brown

corduroy trousers and his hair was all messy, the way her dad's

was when he'd just got out of bed. Katie walked back along

the window.

'There's no rush, Katie,' said Teresa. 'Take all the time you

need.'

Katie shrugged. 'He's not there.'

Teresa knelt down in front of Katie and put her hands on her

shoulders. 'There's no need to be scared, Katie. He can't hurt

you any more.'

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STEPHEN LEATHER

Katie looked straight at the policewoman. She took a deep

breath. 'He's not there.'

Teresa frowned. 'Are you sure?'

Katie nodded solemnly and made the sign of the cross over

her heart. 'Cross my heart and swear to die.'

374