Liz Carlyle - 05 - Present Danger (12 page)

‘I just thought you might want to be alone. I know you were close to Fergus.’

‘No,’ Liz corrected her. ‘I wasn’t close to him. But I was very fond of him.’ Then she realised what she was saying. ‘I
am
fond of him.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘there’s nothing we can do to help Jimmy Fergus right now, so let’s just try and stop thinking about it.’

She turned to Judith. ‘We were talking about the number plate enquiries. You’ve mentioned O’Reilly. Now what about the other car? The one with the foreign-looking bloke?’

‘We traced the car. It’s rented from Davis Hire at City Airport.’

‘When I first came here I picked up the keys to the pool car at their office.’

‘Yes. The manager’s a long-standing agent. He’s been on the RUC’s books for years and he’s given us a lot of useful stuff too,’ broke in Dave. ‘I’ll get onto him and see what he knows.’

‘Is that the car that had the blowout?’ asked Judith.

Liz nodded and Dermot O’Reilly’s words came back to her:
What he really wants to do is kill policemen – and he wants to kill one of your lot, too
. She shuddered.

Pulling herself together she said, ‘What do we know about this guy? O’Reilly said he’s French.’

‘He is. Antoine Milraud. He flew in from Paris the day before yesterday. I checked with Interpol but they’ve got nothing on him. So to cover all the bases, I rang the DCRI. You know, it’s the new French internal service. They’ve just had a reorganisation. I thought it might be difficult to find the right person to speak to so I wasn’t expecting anything—’

‘But?’

Judith pursed her lips, musing for a moment. ‘Well, I got through to a senior officer called Florian. Her reaction was a bit strange, I must say. Her English was even worse than my French, but she managed to get across that they knew Milraud, or knew of him anyway. But she wouldn’t tell me anything. When I pushed a bit she said they did have information about him, but someone would have to go and talk to them about it. I think what she was saying was that it was complicated and she wasn’t going to tell us anything until she knew why we wanted to know. Shall I ask the MI6 station in Paris to go and talk to her?’

‘Why the secrecy?’ wondered Liz aloud.

‘Do you know what that sounds like?’ said Dave. ‘It sounds as if he’s a source of theirs. That’s just how we’d respond if someone asked us about a source.’

‘This is getting really complicated,’ said Liz frowning. ‘Who’s at the MI6 Paris station, Judith? Do you know?’

‘I don’t know who the head of station is, but the deputy is Bruno Mackay.’

Dave looked at Liz.

‘Oh no. Not him.’

‘Your favourite old Harrovian, Liz,’ said Dave with a grin.
‘Speaks fluent French as well as Arabic, I’ll be bound.’

‘He may speak fluent French, but he’s the last person to put
into a delicate situation,’ responded Liz crossly. ‘I’ll go myself.’

19

Danny Ryan wished Sean would shut up.

‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ Sean was saying, again and again, in between great shuddering racks of sobs. Danny couldn’t concentrate. He was trying not to drive too fast, or do anything to call attention to the white laundry van he was driving.

More than one policeman was going to be looking for them soon enough. He needed to get off the road fast, before the call went out across the radio bands with a description of the van. The number plates were false, but that wouldn’t help them if someone on that street had noted them down. And even though no one had been around, they must have been seen, especially after the gun had been fired.

Two guns in fact – and that was the problem. He looked sideways at Sean, sitting bent over in the passenger seat. Blood was dripping on the floor and had completely soaked the leg of his jeans. He had to get him to a doctor fast, or the poor bugger was going to bleed to death.

‘Hang on,’ he urged him, ‘we’re almost there.’ But they weren’t: he didn’t dare run the risk of driving through the centre of Belfast – rush hour was just starting and he wasn’t going to sit in traffic, waiting for the PSNI to pick them up.

So he took the Knock Road south through Castlereagh, almost to the countryside, until the road swung west and brought them to the beginning of Andersonstown. Here Danny drove fast, under the A1 and into the large industrial estate built on the edge of the Catholic neighbourhood. He turned the van into a small side street running around the back of Casement Park, the ageing football stadium that the city fathers kept talking about replacing.

Suddenly he braked sharply, and Sean groaned. There was a police car parked at the front of the stadium on Andersonstown Road.

Reversing would simply call attention to the van. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. He slowed to a crawl as he neared the intersection. Would the van’s description have been circulated? Would they notice the number plates?

As they passed, he sneaked a look. The patrol car was empty. He speeded up again. Two blocks away he pulled off St Agnes’s Way, where a row of eight lock-up garages occupied one end of a small plot with a FOR SALE board stuck in the muddy grass.

‘Hang on, Sean,’ he ordered as he pulled up and the groaning started again. ‘Help’s on the way.’

Without looking around, Danny unlocked and lifted the steel shutter, then ran back to the van and drove it into the wide garage. Once he’d turned on the lights and pulled the door down again, he did his best to make Sean comfortable, lying him across both of the front seats. Blood was no longer spreading across his leg. Was that a good sign? Danny didn’t know. He’d never seen anyone shot before.

He stood by the steel door to make sure the signal was strong, and dialled a number on his mobile.

‘Hello.’ The voice was terse, emotionless.

‘Mr P, it’s Danny.’

‘Yeah.’ His voice was terse.

‘We’ve got a problem. It didn’t go according to plan.’

‘Why not?’

‘It wasn’t our fault, Mr P. We got the bastard, but he got Sean and—’

‘Where are you?’

‘At the lock-up. I’m sure we were spotted. But Sean’s bad—’

‘I told you not to go back to the lock-up.’

‘We’ve got to get Sean help, Mr P.’

‘Sean can wait. He’s cocked it up.’ There was cold fury in his voice. After a pause, he said, ‘Now listen. Wait there till I send someone over. He’ll take care of Sean. Then you get that van out of there. Drive it out, well out. Find a place, and torch it. Do you hear me? Torch it.’

‘I hear you, Mr P.’

‘Good. And don’t call me again, understood? Just sit tight, then do it.’

Twenty minutes later, there was a sharp rap on the steel door of the garage. Danny peered through the window slit and saw the Spaniard, Gonzales, in his black leather jacket, standing to one side. He reached down and slowly pulled up the shutter.

Gonzales looked at him with cold eyes. ‘
Donde
?’ he said.

‘What?’

Gonzales pushed by him and walked to the van and looked in. He nodded, satisfied.

‘He’s hurt bad,’ said Danny. ‘He needs to see a doctor right away.’

Gonzales ignored him, and went out and got into his car. Starting it, he pulled quickly into the garage, forcing Danny to jump to one side. As he got out he opened the rear passenger door, then walked over to the van.

‘We’ll have to be careful with him,’ said Danny. He peered in. Sean was slumped on his back across both seats; he was quiet now, breathing but barely conscious. The blood on his trouser leg had congealed into a black mess.

Without saying a word, Gonzales reached in and put his arms roughly under Sean’s back, propping him up.

‘Mind his leg!’ Danny shouted. ‘He’s been wounded.’

The Spaniard ignored him, pulling Sean back out of the door until only his legs remained on the seat. He lowered his arms and wrapped them round the wounded man’s waist, then with one movement he hoisted him out of the car, leaving his legs dangling on the floor. Sean screamed as the Spaniard lowered him onto the back seat of his car, where Sean fell, moaning continuously.

‘Jesus, will you take care? He’s been shot.’

Gonzales turned suddenly and stared at Danny. There was a cold menace in his look that frightened the younger man. In heavily accented English, Gonzales said, ‘You know what to do with the van. Get going.’

An hour later Danny was driving through County Armagh. This was border country, traditionally sympathetic to the IRA. He took a spur, halfway between Portadown and Armagh, that led to the old Moy Road and stopped a mile short of a farm, where he’d been taught how to fire a pistol by three veteran Provos. That one didn’t jam, he thought bitterly, wondering how Sean was getting on. If they’d been given a decent weapon, they’d have done the RUC bastard properly – he’d never have had the chance to fire himself.

He turned now onto an old cart track, half overgrown and muddy from the winter rains. It wound up a tree-lined hill, ending suddenly in a small sandy lay-by sheltered from the wind by the side of the hill; more importantly, it was sheltered from view by a small copse of young oaks.

Once it had been the site of a crofter’s cottage, but the remaining structure was crumbling and decrepit now, more like a cairn of loosely piled stones than a cottage – only a few tiles and some bare timbers hinted that it had once had a roof. Behind it the ground tilted sharply downward. Locals had used the slope as a tip, dumping old refrigerators and broken bikes, even a sofa, its stuffing billowing out through a tear in the fabric. Wedged halfway down, against the trunk of an ancient tree were the charred, skeletal remains of a burned-out car.

Danny parked the van at the top of the slope. He was anxious to get the whole business over with, and to get away before anyone came. He checked the inside before getting out, to make sure he’d left nothing important in there. His fingerprints and Sean’s would be all over it – as well as their DNA, which the forensic wizards would find, given half a chance.

But they wouldn’t have that chance. He took a full can of petrol out of the van and sloshed half of it over the floor at the back, then over the cab, making sure the vinyl seats were soaked. Standing back he struck a match from a box of Swan Vestas, and tossed it onto the driver’s seat. It went out as he threw it. Anxious now, he took a dirty handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and dangled the corner into a pool of petrol lying on the cab floor. Then, retreating a little, he lit the handkerchief and tossed it into the open window of the cab. Flames jumped up with a sudden
whoosh
, and he backed off a good twenty yards, and watched as the fire spread. Soon the whole van was ablaze.

He set off down the winding path, heading for the old Moy Road, where he’d hitch a lift into Moy itself. No fear of anyone who might pick him up in this area talking to the PSNI. From there a minicab could take him to Portadown, where he’d catch a train for Belfast and home. A long roundabout journey, but necessary if the evidence of the botched assassination was to disappear for good. Thank God he’d booked the whole day off; no one at work would be wondering where he was. His mother would be worried, but he didn’t dare ring her. Not after that rocket from Piggott. She’d known he was up to confidential business anyway.

As he reached the road there was a loud boom. The van’s petrol tank had just exploded. He gave a small, satisfied nod. That should take care of the evidence for good.

20

O’Reilly was restless. That bastard Piggott was always on his mind, and he was going to get him one way or another. But how? The meeting with the MI5 man had gone well. O’Reilly was pleased that he had stayed in control and the Englishman had got no more out of him than he’d wanted to give. But what would the Brits do with the information? Would they do anything? You couldn’t rely on the spies any more than you could on Piggott.

He needed to be sure. He wanted to tie Piggott up in knots; to worry the cold American sod; have him looking over his shoulder, not knowing who he could trust. Then he’d start to make mistakes and that would be the end of him.

But Piggott was clever. And he wouldn’t listen to anything O’Reilly said to him – especially not now that he’d as good as sacked him. He’d have to find another way to unsettle him and wipe that sneer off his Yankee face. But what way? An anonymous phone call had worked with ‘Simon Willis’ (or whatever his real name was). But Willis didn’t know his voice; he’d never spoken to him before. If he tried an anonymous call with Piggott, he might recognise the voice. And there wasn’t anyone else he trusted enough to make the call for him.

Then an idea came to him – an old-fashioned solution, the kind he liked best. No computers, nothing technical. And it should work.

His wife caught him by surprise. She was supposed to be out having her hair done, but there she was, standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘What’s going on?’ she said, pointing to the mess on the table where in half an hour she’d be wanting to give him his dinner.

‘Just give us a few minutes, will you? I’ll clear it all up, but I need to be private now. It’s work.’

‘Work?’ she asked with disbelief.

He put a warning hand up, and she knew better than to argue. She shut the kitchen door, and he could hear her go upstairs.

On the table he had a week’s worth of newspapers, some scissors, a few sheets of A4 paper, and a glue stick. He examined his handiwork so far:

You
R
Man Mil
r
aud
is a
tou
t
. Seen with
Brit
ISH

INTELLIGENCE
at r
end
e
z
vo
us
IN
L
igo
nie
L
PARK
.
W
at
ch you R
B
ack
…

Thanks to the
News of the World
and the
Irish News
, his message could hardly be more anonymous. With luck, Piggott should read it as it was intended – a warning from a Republican sympathiser that his new French ‘mate’ wasn’t what he said he was. Piggott would certainly take it seriously: it was just too likely to O’Reilly’s mind that Milraud, a foreigner, was a plant.