Jig (63 page)

It was grief.

It was a look Frank Pagan had seen on his face, when reflections in mirrors threw back the countenance of a stranger undergoing an impossible trauma, an experience beyond the language of loss. It was an alien voice whispering in your brain over and over and over
Roxanne is gone, gone, gone
.

Dawson's daughters
, Pagan thought.

It struck Pagan then with the force of a hammer.

Somebody had ambushed that schoolbus which must have had the Dawson girls on board otherwise why would Kevin Dawson be there looking so utterly grief-stricken?

Somebody.

Dear God. He felt his stomach turn over.

Somebody
, he thought again. It was violence as pointless and as brutal as that done to the church in White Plains. And what he heard suddenly was Ivor McInnes's voice saying
If it's the IRA, it's not going to stop with some church. Once those fellows get the taste of blood, they don't know when to stop
.

Pagan had a raw sensation in his heart.

There is going to be a telephone call. A man will speak in an Irish accent. He'll say that the bus was attacked by members of the Irish Republican Army.

And Jig, who was still looking at Pagan, still waiting for an answer to the question he'd asked minutes before, was going to be blamed for this new monstrosity. It had all the texture of the completely inevitable. Jig would be blamed, then crucified.

Pagan thumped his foot down hard on the gas-pedal. Had Ivor McInnes known about this outrage? If he'd known, as Frank Pagan felt he did, about an IRA presence in the USA, had he also known that
this
was going to happen?

A small nerve began to work in Pagan's cheek as he thought of McInnes, that smug, bloody man with his poisonous hatreds. And something moved through Pagan's brain, an anger he hadn't felt in years, a turmoil of rage, a searing emotion that he couldn't bring entirely under control. He knew this much – he knew he was looking forward to tearing that mask away from Ivor's face and getting down to the truth of things. It would be a slippery descent, because in McInnes's world truth was never something you ascended to, it was a quality concealed in deep places, dank places, down at the fetid bottom of the man's heart.

‘I asked you a question,' Jig said. ‘What the hell do you think
happened
back there?'

‘I can only guess,' Pagan said.

‘Let me hear it anyway.'

Frank Pagan told him.

Harrison, New York

Seamus Houlihan called the FBI from a phone booth at a shopping plaza at twenty minutes past five. The man he spoke with attempted unsuccessfully to keep Houlihan talking. But Houlihan delivered his terse message without hesitation, then hung up. He looked across the plaza to the place where the yellow Ryder truck was parked. It was strange, Houlihan thought, not to see John Waddell's face staring out through the windshield. Waddy had deserved to die, it was as simple as that. Like Fitzjohn, he'd been weak when strength was needed.

Houlihan entertained no regrets at the act. There was hardly anything in his life he regretted. Since Waddell had been his friend, though, he felt it was his duty to give the man a decent burial. That was the very least he could do. He had, after all, his own sense of honour.

He paused, staring into the window of a Carvel ice-cream shop. He went inside, ordered a single scoop of vanilla. He had to repeat this order three times because the eedjit girl behind the counter didn't understand his accent. He came out, licking the ice-cream, which was too soft for his taste. By the time he reached the Ryder truck the ice-cream was already melting, running down the sleeve of his jacket. He tossed the cone away in disgust.

He gazed a moment at the discarded confection. It created a bright white puddle on the concrete. He thought of McInnes's instructions to discard all weapons at the time of getting rid of the truck. They were to be cleaned thoroughly of all fingerprints and then dumped in some isolated place, after which Houlihan and the others were to return to Canada, and from there back to Ireland. The part Houlihan didn't like was throwing the weapons away, especially his own handgun, a Colt Mark V he'd become attached to. What did McInnes know anyway? The man wasn't out here doing the fucking dirty work, was he? He wasn't getting his hands grubby. He'd probably never even fired a gun in his whole bloody life, so how could he understand the personal relationship you could develop with a weapon? Besides, what would happen if the weapons were dumped and
then
a bad situation cropped up? You'd be totally naked, wouldn't you!

Houlihan made up his mind to disobey McInnes. It made him feel good. It gave him a pleasing sense of his own authority. He'd keep the guns,
all
the guns, until he was good and ready to toss them. And he wouldn't tell McInnes about this decision when he telephoned him next time. He looked at his watch. He had thirty minutes to kill before he was due to call The Reverend again.

He reached up and opened the door of the cab and slid in behind the wheel.

‘What's next?' Rorke asked.

‘Another phone call, then a good night's sleep,' was how Seamus Houlihan answered.

24

New York City

In his room at the Essex House Ivor McInnes stared at the TV.

A man named Lawrence W. Childes was speaking from the small coloured screen. The President's Press Officer, he was a solemn figure whose gatherings with the press were reminiscent of a convention of undertakers. He told the assembled journalists that the Government had learned of the presence of the Irish assassin Jig in the United States. That Jig, working either alone or with a group of fellow IRA terrorists, had been responsible for the bombing of the Memorial Church in White Plains. That Irish terrorism, so long contained within the borders of the United Kingdom, had come to the U.S.A. He spoke of an extensive ongoing investigation being conducted by the FBI in association with a variety of local law enforcement agencies. He was convinced that Jig would soon be apprehended and brought to justice.

After the introductory remarks, Childes was besieged by questions. Hands were upraised, papers clutched and shaken, cameras thrust forward, as journalists vied for attention: Lawrence W. Childes accepted a question from a fat woman with an Irish name. She represented a wire service. She wanted to know why the Irish were operating within the continental United States, a question Childes hummed at but couldn't answer.

McInnes had been packing his suitcase on the bed. He stopped, moving a little closer to the TV. The fat woman was still pursuing her line of inquiry despite the protests of other journalists who, like hopeful adolescent suitors, had claims of their own to press for Childes' attention.

I have no information, Ms McClanahan
.

All of a sudden Irish terrorists start operations inside our borders and you don't know why? What exactly is this Administration hiding, Mr. Childes?

McInnes smiled. He folded a shirt, put it inside the suitcase. He knew that this press conference was going absolutely nowhere, no matter how shrill were the hyenas of the media in their full-blooded curiosity. He rolled a necktie, placed it neatly beside the shirt. The radio clock on the bedside table said it was 6:39. Since Houlihan had already called, McInnes knew the big man had succeeded in the afternoon's endeavour and had made his call to the FBI on schedule. Which meant that either Lawrence W. Childes wasn't being entirely open with the press or else the information about the school bus hadn't reached him yet. Maybe it had been decided, at levels above and beyond Childes, that an attack on school-kids wasn't something the American public was geared as yet to hear. What difference did it make? McInnes asked himself. Sooner or later news of the latest outrage would reach them, because a thing like that couldn't be contained forever.

McInnes adjusted the volume control.

A man with a florid face, a boozer's face, was asking if there were any important political figures in the congregation of Memorial Church at the time of the bombing.

So far as we can tell, the answer is negative
, Childes replied.

Then what we're talking about is plain random violence and destruction?

It would appear that way
.

McInnes placed a pair of pants on top of the shirt. Then he picked up the folder that contained the notes he'd made on the history of Ulster workers in the construction of the railroad and put it inside a side-pocket of the suitcase. He went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face, and when he returned the press conference was still in progress.

Graf, Detroit Free Press. Is there any evidence to suggest that the IRA plans future attacks?

We have no such evidence at this time, Mr. Graf
.

But why would they come into this country just to blow up one church and then leave again?

As I said, we have no evidence to support the view that the IRA plans further terrorist activities
.

McInnes sat on the edge of the bed. He saw Lawrence W. Childes move away from the podium, and he gathered that the press conference had come to an abrupt end. There was one of those uncertain moments when the cameraman loses his focus and the camera swings wildly, shooting a ceiling, an empty doorway, the faces of flustered journalists – but then Childes was back behind the podium again, holding a sheet of paper in one hand. He was calling for quiet and the picture was steady now.

McInnes leaned towards the TV.

Lawrence W. Childes said that he had just learned of a new development. He cleared his throat and read.

At approximately two fifty this afternoon a school bus was attacked outside New Rockford, Connecticut, by gunmen who claim to be members of the Irish Republican Army
.

On board this bus were the nieces of The President of the United States. The President has no statement to make at this time
.

There was a long silence. Then the questions, held in check a moment by the fragile sea-wall of concern and decency and outright shock, came bursting forward. Were the Dawson girls injured? How many were on board the bus? What was the number of casualties? Was this the same group that had destroyed the church in White Plains? Was this the work of Jig? Lawrence Childes, face drained and voice shaking, clasped his hands and said that he had no information to add to what he'd already said. Tracked by reporters, who now showed all the demeanour of crazed ladies at a hat sale, he moved away from the podium. Security officers blocked the newsmen as Lawrence Childes vanished down a hallway without looking back.

McInnes turned the TV off.

There. It was out now. It was common knowledge.

And McInnes experienced a feeling that was jubilation suffused with relief. The road had been mapped and travelled and was behind him now. He had won. He zipped up his suitcase, then turned the small key in its lock. He tossed the key in the air and snapped it up in his hand as it fell back down. He uttered a small whoop of exhilaration.

It was out now and all America knew it. The Irish Republican Army had blown up a church and then attacked a schoolbus. The IRA had sunk to a level that defied description. Already, McInnes was anticipating the next day's headlines and editorials, the anger and dismay that would yield to the call for blood, for violent responses to violent men, an eye for an eye. He could hear the knives being released from their sheaths and sharpened. Revenge, when it came, would be devastating.

He didn't hear the knock on his door at first. Even when he became conscious of it, it barely registered. An intrusion from another world. He turned. Whatever it was, whoever, he could handle it. He could handle anything now. There was nothing that was beyond his capabilities.

He opened the door. Somehow he wasn't altogether astonished to see Frank Pagan. The presence of a second man, somebody McInnes had never seen before, did surprise him, but he quickly took it in his stride. He was in a place where even Frank Pagan couldn't harm him.

‘Why, Frank,' he said. ‘And you've brought a friend. How very nice.'

Pagan's face was dark. His forehead was broken into deep ridges and his jaw was set at a belligerent angle. His large hands were clenched and they hung at his sides, as if restraining them required effort. The other man had drawn a gun. Curiously, though, he didn't aim it directly at McInnes. Instead, he seemed to point into the space between Pagan and McInnes as if he wanted to cover both men. McInnes stepped back.

‘Talk to me,' Pagan said. ‘Start at the beginning and talk to me.'

‘We've talked already,' McInnes replied. He glanced at his suitcase.

‘Packed, are we? Ready to leave?' Pagan asked.

‘Quite ready.' McInnes looked briefly at the gun in the young man's hand. ‘There's nothing left for me to do here.'

‘Wrong, Ivor. You've got unfinished business.'

McInnes shook his head. ‘Tell your friend to put his gun away, Frank.'

‘I can't tell him anything like that,' Pagan said. He widened his eyes and smiled. ‘Bad manners on my part. I forgot to introduce you. Ivor McInnes meet Jig.'

McInnes felt a pulse throb at the back of his throat. He looked into the young man's eyes, which were harder even than Pagan's, and had an odd sideways quality, a shiftiness. McInnes wondered how this state of affairs added up. Pagan and Jig. Now there was a combination that God and Scotland Yard and the FBI hadn't exactly intended. How had it come about that Frank Pagan and Jig were together? How had this pair managed to find one another, and who was the quarry, who the hunter now? It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Not at all.

‘Jig isn't pleased, Ivor,' Pagan said. ‘He isn't pleased at all. Which goes for me too.'

McInnes saw a narrowing of Jig's eyes. It was hardly perceptible, but it was as obvious as a neon to McInnes.