The Angel Tapes (10 page)

“As I said, sir, I still have to work on the details. It only occurred to me last night.”

He saw Lawrence Redfern making notes.

“And it's a good plan, Macken,” Duffy said. “Don't get me wrong. Full marks. But think about it for a second. We're not going to be entirely inconspicuous with a herd of Alsatians leaping in and out of manholes from here to Drumcondra.”

Duffy was right, and Blade—though he hated to admit it to himself—knew that he hadn't taken into account what was in effect his own strategy. He could think of no response.

“Might I say something, sir?” It was Sweetman again.

“Fire away, Detective Sergeant.”

“Well, sir, they're forever digging up the roads.” Heads were nodded in resigned agreement. “Couldn't we just set up a
MAJOR ROADWORKS
sign—and a tent—at both ends of the route? Then we send the dogs down and keep on moving the roadworks as we progress.”

She blushed slightly as she became aware of scores of eyes upon her. Redfern made another note.

“Pluto can't be in two places at the same time,” Sweetman went on, “and, even if he's driving the route, he won't pay any attention to the roadworks and the tent. He won't suspect anything—not unless we happen to be in the very place where he's planted a bomb.”

“But that's only two dogs, Detective Sergeant,” Blade said. “It'll take a
week.
”

“No, sir, it won't. I've worked with sniffer dogs before and they're very quick. They can get in and out of a culvert in no time: five minutes at the most. And at the same time we're using the other dogs on the other routes from the airport to Leinster House. We could have the job done in two days.”

“She's right, Macken,” Duffy said. He beamed at Sweetman. “You're talking about a half-a-dozen traffic cones, plastic tape, and a tent. Put them in a Corporation van, together with the dog and its handler, and you can move very quickly from manhole to manhole. Maybe Sergeant Sweetman's two days is a bit optimistic, but if we work around the clock, I don't see how it's going to take longer than three days at the outside.”

Blade took a tissue from his pocket and mopped his brow.

“Fair enough,” he said. “We'll do it. Yes, Brendan…?”

It was the white-haired detective again. “I don't mean to play the devil's advocate, sir,” he said, “but we're not looking for drugs. We're looking for gelignite. What makes you think the dogs'll be able to sniff it out?”

Sweetman came to Macken's rescue.

“They can. I've worked with them, as I said. You can train them to sniff out almost anything. All they need is a whiff of a sample and they're off.”

“Grand,” the detective conceded. “But I think Sergeant Sweetman and yourself have overlooked an important point. If the bomb in O'Connell Street is anything to go by, then Pluto won't have buried the others in culverts. They'd be easily spotted for a start; those things are used all the time by the Corporation and the gas company.”

“You're right,” Blade said, “and I haven't overlooked it. I'm not for a moment suggesting that this is going to achieve results. But it might—and we've precious little to go on otherwise.”

Somebody at the back had stuck up a hand. He was a big, athletic type. Blade knew him as the chief of the Emergency Response Unit, the elite squad that was expert in the use of firearms and antiterrorist tactics.

“Have we thought of metal detectors, sir? The gelignite won't show up but the detonators might.”

Blade shook his head.

“It won't work. Have you any idea how much metal is buried under the streets of Dublin? They use plastic pipes now for water and such, and concrete, but you'll pick up anything from a Victorian farthing to a Viking helmet if you try using a metal detector. You'd have more luck finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. And what do you do if metal does show up? Start tearing up the street? You might as well send in an excavator and a bulldozer to clear every square inch of asphalt between here and the airport.”

“What about our friends from the CIA?” Duffy said, casting a quick look at Redfern. “Can they help? They must have sophisticated equipment for this kind of thing. Or their army people; maybe we should contact the Pentagon.”

Blade made a note. Redfern was scribbling furiously; it gave Blade a good feeling, knowing that protocol gagged the bastard as effectively as a dog muzzle.

“We'll certainly follow it up, sir,” he said. “But let's not overestimate their capabilities. Ask yourself this: Why do even the Americans still have to clear a minefield with some guy crawling on his belly with a long stick in his hand? If there was a better way, they'd have found it by now.”

Macken: one, Yanks: zero.

Duffy was somber. “Do we have
any
thing else, Macken? Good God, we're almost three days into the investigation and we've feck all to show for it!”

“Don't I know it, sir,” Blade admitted grudgingly. “We have the tape and everybody's working on it—from the Park, to Washington, to Interpol. But so far nothing. Now we have a little bit of old gelignite that could have come from anywhere, maybe from somebody's garden shed; we don't know. And it's probably more than five years old—untraceable now.”

“Hopeless, hopeless.”

“I don't think so, sir. The first plan stands. I still believe that the bomber will show his hand soon. He
has
to. The suspense must be killing him: he's wondering what we're doing—if we have any leads on him. He'll want to know. It's my guess that we'll be hearing from him again very, very soon.”

Eleven

She was even lovelier than Blade remembered: groomed to perfection, expensive clothes and accessories. Her legs were bare and suntanned.

He was glad she'd agreed to meet him in the bar on Purcell Street, his favorite. It was plain and honest, right down to the bare flagstoned floor. But, most important, it was affordable.

“You look great,” he told her.

In reply she kissed him lightly on the cheek. He'd no idea what her perfume was called but suspected that a bottle would set him back a full week's salary.

“What are you drinking?”

To his great surprise she asked for a glass of stout. He wondered if Elaine de Rossa was slumming. Perhaps not; perhaps she was doing as the Romans did in Rome.

“Did you get home all right?” she asked. “I was a bit worried about you.”

Shit. He hoped she wouldn't start on about Thursday night. Blade could remember parts of it now but most remained a blank. He used the excuse of getting up to order drinks, to call a halt to Elaine's line of inquiry.

The bar was already full, although it was only a little after eight. There was the usual Sunday-night crowd and Blade nodded to familiar faces. Old Sandy O'Rourke was tuning his fiddle at the far end of the counter. There were two full pints in front of him and Blade knew from experience that the tuning could take several hours yet: Sandy was a perfectionist; he usually got it right—by his lights—somewhere around eleven o'clock, when the cry came: “Time, ladies and gents now, please!”

The barkeep glanced up from pulling a Guinness.

“Blade! How's she cutting? Nice bit of frock you have there. Where did you pick
her
up?”

“Never you mind, Joe, never you mind. Give 's a pint and a glass, would you.”

Joe's three young assistants sped from one end of the long counter to the other, taking orders, pulling pints, squirting shorts, and handling money with a speed that always astounded Blade. You wouldn't, he reflected, see this in any other country. They were probably earning half his bloody salary, too, among the three of them.

“Desperate altogether about Friday,” Joe said.

“The pits.”

“I hear there's thirty people still in hospital. And they're the
lucky
ones. They reckon the little toddler'll be blind for life.”

“It's fucking awful.”

The barkeeper slowly poured more stout into the glasses. A customer, a stranger with a broad, country accent, shouted for service.

“I'll be right with you!” Joe called back. “Jayziz, they don't give you a bleeding minute, Blade. Fucking boggers.”

He leaned across the counter. “What's this I hear about a bomb?”

“Give 's five Hamlet as well, while you're at it. Who said anything about a bomb?”

“Fuck's sake, Blade, don't be acting the gom with
me.
Was it or wasn't it? Yeah, yeah, I'll be right with you!” The customer from the provinces was deciding whether to move to more accommodating licensed premises.

“It wasn't a bomb, Joe,” Macken said softly.

“Ah, who are you codding, Blade? A gas main! Sure if I heard it from Mother Teresa's holy lips, I'd make her say three decades of the rosary for telling lies. If you think I'd be stupid enough to believe a story like that, then you might as well dream here as in bed.”

He topped off Macken's order with a practiced flourish of froth and tossed a pack of Hamlets on the counter.

“I hear they put
you
on it.”

“News travels fast.”

The barman winked. “Listen, if I hear anything, I'll let you know.”

“Thanks, Joe. Now you better serve that Kerryman before he wrecks the shagging place.”

Blade returned with the drinks. Elaine was leafing through a tabloid newspaper that a customer had left behind.

“Gosh, you took your time.”

“Just saying hello.”

“Well, cheers.” Elaine sipped her stout and wiped her lips with a brilliant white handkerchief. Blade saw no lipstick smear left on the fabric. He'd thought her makeup flawless; now he realized she wasn't wearing any; she'd no need to.

“Listen,” she said, “there's something I've been wanting to ask you. Did you mean that: what you said on Thursday night?”

Fuck. He'd hoped she wouldn't start on about that night. He prayed it wasn't anything embarrassing.

“Er, what's that, Elaine?” Blade tried to sound as casual as he could. He took a long swig of stout.

“Oh, you know: about your being a Special Branch man. It's not true is it? You were just trying to impress me?”

Macken breathed a sigh of relief; Elaine interpreted it as a Guinness drinker's sigh of pleasure on sampling the first pint of the evening.

“No, no. It's true.”

“Golly! Is it dangerous?”

“It can be.”

Her eyes were shining; Blade relaxed.

“You're not on the Drug Squad, are you?”

“No. Serious crime: murder and stuff.”

“Gosh.” She took another nip of Guinness. Blade nodded to a newcomer of his acquaintance and lit a Hamlet. “Is that how you got those scars?” she asked then.

“Scars?”

“The ones you showed me.”

Blade almost choked on a mouthful of cigar smoke. He went red in the face, his eyes began to water, and he had to swallow a third of his drink before his throat returned to normal.

Had he heard her correctly? His scars. Jesus, had they
done the job
on Thursday night? He studied his companion. Had he actually been to bed with this beautiful creature? And he didn't remember a thing.

The waste, the bloody waste! He cursed himself, cursed his drinking, swore to cut down—or maybe cut it out altogether. This was what came of overdoing it. She'd probably been like a demon in the sack, too. And he couldn't remember a blessed thing.

He decided to feel his way.

“Er, I wasn't much use to you, was I, Elaine? I mean … er, on Thursday night. The drink.…”

Her eyes opened wide and he saw her hand go to her breast.

“You must be joking. You were fantastic!” She slipped a hand onto his thigh and whispered in his ear. “I
told
you that night that I'd never come before. At least, not that way—and never with a man. You were brilliant.” She squeezed his knee.

He didn't know what to say. He was flattered—over the moon, in fact—that this young woman could say such things about him. But Christ and his blessed mother in a handcart, she could have told him he'd screwed her till dawn and he'd no way of knowing if it was the truth. He was definitely going to give up the booze.

But not right this minute. Blade went to the bar again for more stout. When he returned, Elaine was nowhere to be seen. But she reappeared five minutes later from the direction of the restroom. He saw Joe sizing her up.

“There were two girls in the ladies talking about Friday,” Elaine said. “One of them knew somebody who's still in the Mater. On life support.”

“It's terrible.”

“They're saying it wasn't a gas leak. They're saying it was a bomb.”

“Who is?”

“Everybody. It was in the paper again today.”

“Oh? Which paper's that?”

“The
News of the World.
”

“That's not a paper, Elaine. Jesus, I wouldn't have thought you'd be caught dead reading a rag like that.”

“I don't. I only saw the headline when I went to get my own paper.” She was peeved and Blade could have kicked himself.

She reached for her drink.

“Is it true, though? Was it a bomb and is someone covering up?”

“No one's covering anything up, Elaine. And even if they were, I wouldn't be allowed to talk about it.”

She cast him a strange look; he couldn't read it.

“I saw something odd, too, today. In D'Olier Street.”

“Mmm?”

“Yeah. There was this Alsatian with some Corporation men. If you ask me they were sending him down a manhole. Isn't that funny? On a Sunday.”

“Probably sniffing for a gas leak.”

“I've never seen
that
before. Don't they use detectors for that?”