The Angel Tapes (21 page)

There was a knock on the door and a uniformed garda put his head in.

“Excuse me, but there's a Mr. Redfern to see Superintendent Macken.”

“He'll have to be told as well, Blade,” Duffy said. “Don't forget the Yanks are coming up with the money, so we owe them something. And I'd rather he heard it from you.”

*   *   *

“Well, I'll be damned.” Lawrence Redfern echoed the assistant commissioner's words, almost causing Macken to wonder whether Duffy and he had been in secret communication. “A woman. I'll be damned.”

Blade could afford to be generous. He wasn't gloating; his bonhomie had increased in the past few minutes.

“Your lads in the States would probably have cracked it sooner or later, Redfern,” he said. “It was just a piece of luck really. A question of being in the right place at the right time.”

As they strolled across the broad, tarmacked parking lot of the Garda Depot, they watched the sun setting redly over the trees of Phoenix Park.

Redfern was silent for a minute, then stopped walking.

“Look, I don't know how to put this but … Well, I guess I misjudged you, Macken.” He squinted into the sun. “Could be I'm a poor judge of people. I don't know. But you sure as hell surprised me.” He turned to Blade. “Look, what I want to say is … is…”

“What you want to say, Redfern, is you're sorry.”

The American nodded slowly at the asphalt.

“Well, there you are,” Blade told him. “I've said it for you and saved you the embarrassment. All right? And apology accepted. You're not such a bad skin after all, apart from a few
minor
character defects.”

“Thanks … I think.”

He stuck out his hand. Blade shook it; then he clapped Redfern on the back and they strolled on.

“Now that we've got that sorted out,” Blade said presently, “would you mind telling me what you're doing about the money? She's pest—God, I can't get used to thinking of her as a woman!”

“I know what you mean … Blade.”

“Anyway. She's pestering me the whole time about it. I can't stall her forever.”

“It's in Washington.”

“Really? All of it?”

“Every last dime. They'll be flying it in tomorrow. In two planes. Safer.”

Blade kicked a pebble with the toe of his shoe.

“Twenty-five million dollars! Someone's going to be out of pocket in a big way if she pulls it off.”

Redfern shook his head and smiled.

“She'll never spend it. She can't. We can trace it.”

“Used notes?” Macken stopped walking. “Jesus, Redfern! You're not thinking of marking them with invisible ink? She'd spot that immediately. She'd know about these things. She
must.
”

Redfern smiled again. “Not this, she wouldn't. This is one scam she wouldn't know about.
I
didn't know about it until yesterday. We've got the best lab boys in the whole damn world at Langley.”

“Tell all.” Blade stuck a Hamlet between his lips.

But Redfern had no opportunity of disclosing the CIA secret that night and Blade was forced to return the cigar to the pack unlit. Because at that moment they heard a shout, and turned to see Sweetman running across the parking lot. She was out of breath when she reached them, and in high excitement.

“Blade,” she gasped, “the bitch is after letting off another bomb!”

Twenty-five

She'd seemed omnipotent a week before. She'd had the Special Branch—the cream of Ireland's police force—groping in the dark. She'd thumbed her nose at the Central Intelligence Agency of the mighty United States of America.

Now she was making mistakes.

“It didn't go off, Blade,” Captain Tom Fitzpatrick told him. “The detonators did, but the device itself didn't. It must have been the dampness down there, or maybe the explosives were contaminated; we won't know until we dig it up and run tests.”

This time, a cluster of utility vans painted in the livery of Telecom Éireann surrounded an area of roadway that was cordoned off with yellow-and-black plastic tape. The “hard hats” were at work again, dressed now in an overall of a different color. They'd set up arc lights that bathed the site in a brilliance to rival a midday sun. Blade had to admire the speed with which Fitzpatrick had responded.

There was no uniformed garda presence—the commissioner had insisted on that—and now Duffy walked next to Macken, Sweetman, and Redfern, wearing his off-duty clothing. The assistant commissioner looked strangely vulnerable without the trappings of his rank.

Traffic moved slowly in a single line past the sealed-off section of Drumcondra Road, the road that led to the airport. The arc lights showed faces staring out of cars; but it was an incurious staring, without suspicion.

“Who reported it?” Blade asked, going over to inspect the damage. It was slight: hardly more than a crack in the asphalt—nothing unusual for a Dublin street.

“One of the local guards,” Sweetman said. “It was a stroke of luck really. He just happened to be passing when he heard what sounded like a gunshot or a backfire. But it was still bright, and he saw smoke coming out of the road. That's what alerted him. It didn't smell like gas, he said; more like explosives.”

“I shouldn't, by rights,” Fitzpatrick said, “have you people within a mile of the thing.” He looked grimly at the slow-moving traffic. “If we were going by the book, we'd have sealed off and evacuated most of the road. There could be any amount of explosive down there.”

“What's the next step?”

“The next step, Blade, is that we
very
carefully tear up that piece of road. We could be at it till morning. After that, we'll freeze what we find, split it up, and have every expert in the country go over it with a fine-tooth comb.”

“We'll get a sample, too, I hope?” Redfern said.

“CIA,” Macken told Fitzpatrick in a half-whisper. “Major Lawrence Redfern.”

Fitzpatrick almost saluted, but checked himself in time.

“Of course you will, Major. I'll see that the Guards get enough to split with you. Jesus, your president must be a brave man … I mean: not calling off the tour, when he knows what's going on.” A pause. “He does, doesn't he?”

“We keep the White House well-informed, Captain. He knows. But he's the best.”

Blade wondered if Redfern had served during the Nixon administration. No, he'd have been just a kid then—yet Blade was convinced that Redfern's blind loyalty would have elicited a similar accolade if Tricky Dicky were still in office.

Americans.

Macken's cellular phone rang. A shiver crossed his face; some sixth sense told him who the caller might be. He was not mistaken.

“
BLADE, ME OLD FLOWER. HOW GOES THE BATTLE
?”

Sweetman guessed, from her superior's expression, the identity of the caller and motioned to the others to remain silent. Blade pressed the
RECORD
button.

“Angel.”

“
THE SAME. I MADE A HAIMES OF THAT ONE, DIDN'T I? AH, WELL, IT WAS ONLY MEANT AS A WARNING, ANYWAY. NO HARM DONE. YOU CAN'T TRUST THESE ARMY SURPLUS STORES, CAN YOU
?” The jackhammer laugh. “
BUT, BLADE, IT WAS TO TELL YOU I MEAN BUSINESS. I DON'T WANT YOU FUCKERS GETTING COMPLACENT. D'YOU FOLLOW ME
?”

“I follow you.”

Redfern was whispering something to Fitzpatrick.

“
THAT'S GOOD. I WOULDN'T WANT YIZ TO THINK I'M PICKING ME NOSE. I'M WATCHING YIZ
.”

“For fuck's sake, Angel—we
got
the message the first time. There's no need for this.”

“
AH, BUT THERE IS
.” Another grossly distorted laugh. “
I HAVE TO KEEP YOOZE ON YOUR TOES. THERE'S PLENTY MORE BOMBS DOWN THERE, BLADE: JUST WAITING FOR A TEENY-WEENY TWIST OF MY FINGER
.”

“I get you. But there's no call for this at all. You've made your point, Angel. You'll have your money. It's all been taken care of; I can tell you that for a fact.”

“
AH NOW, I'M GLAD TO HEAR IT. YOU DIDN'T SOUND TOO SURE EARLIER. HAVE THE YANKS COUGHED UP? ABOUT FUCKING TIME
!”

“They have it. All of it. They're flying it in tomorrow.”

“
AND IT'S THE WAY I WANT IT? USED NOTES
?”

“Yes. Unmarked, untraceable. You have my word. It's the goods.”

“
YOU'RE SURE NOW, BLADE? YOU WOULDN'T BE HAVING ME ON NOW? IF YOU ARE, I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL
—”

“It'll be there. Don't worry about it. Don't get your knickers in a twist.”

There was a long silence.

Oh, fuck. Blade could have bitten his tongue.

It had been an innocuous remark. It was an expression he was accustomed to using in the course of a working day—with both male and female colleagues. Now he realized that the woman at the other end of the line might have construed it as an indication that Blade was aware of her gender. Jesus. He sought for words that might repair the damage.

“Are you still there?”

“
I'M HERE
.”

“You'll have your money, Angel. God almighty, a man could live in the lap of luxury with that kind of bread. What are you planning on doing with it anyway? Buying yourself a harem?”

“
AH, NOW, THAT WOULD BE TELLING YOU, WOULDN'T IT, BLADE
?”

The line went dead. Blade walked slowly back to Sweetman and the others. He was just about to say something to Duffy when a flashgun flared.

*   *   *

Linda Doyle was waiting at the back entrance to Garda HQ in Phoenix Park when the army vehicle drew up and Fitzpatrick alighted. The night was not cold but she shivered. The spinning blue light on the roof of the truck cast her features by turns into shadow and glare.

The soldier threw open the rear door and ducked inside the vehicle. He reemerged carrying a large, metal box. A man wearing corporal's stripes followed him. Fitzpatrick moved slowly, stepping out of the van like a skater testing the ice after the first freeze of winter.

“Can I give you a hand?” Doyle asked.

“No, just point me in the right direction.”

She led the way through a maze of corridors, all illuminated by fluorescent lamps. Uniformed police officers stood aside and allowed Doyle and her strange retinue to pass.

The Forensics Lab is actually a number of laboratories. There was no personnel at this hour, apart from a young man with a white coat and a bad case of acne. He pushed open a door that led to a room dominated by a metal table above which blazed an operating-room lamp unit. Fitzpatrick laid the metal box on the table, relieved to be rid of the burden.

“Can we stay and watch?” he asked.

“Sure. You'll be taking some of it with you anyway, won't you?”

Linda Doyle undid the clasps on the box and tilted back the lid. Carefully, very carefully, she removed the top layer of Styrofoam chips. She looked at Fitzpatrick in amusement.

“What's this? A piece of your front garden?”

The object that lay exposed was a shapeless lump of dirt about a foot long. Part of it was blackened and glazed like anthracite. There was a burned-off wire visible.

“Clever, isn't it?” Fitzpatrick remarked. “She must have mixed soil together with some sort of glue and then wrapped it around the jelly. Once it hardened, you'd never know what it was. A workman could step over it and not be any the wiser—not when it looks just the same as any dirt you'd find under the street. Fair dues to her.”

Doyle touched the crystallized area, ran a finger over the exposed wire.

“And this is where the detonator was attached?”

“Yeah. That's all that's left of it. That must have been a big enough bang in itself.”

Doyle said no more but very slowly removed more of the polystyrene chips until the base of the clay lump was visible. Then she slid her hands under it, lifted it out, and laid it on the table. She angled the operating lamp for a better view.

“Are you going to freeze it?” the corporal asked.

“What do
you
think? I'm just wondering if we should try to remove some of the dirt first. Might be just as well.”

Fitzpatrick shook his head.

“It's very securely bonded, whatever it was she used. I'd freeze the whole shebang if I were you. There's a good chance the glue will go brittle and fall off of its own accord.”

“You're right,” Doyle said.

She gave a sign to her assistant. The young man donned a pair of enormous gloves, went to a container, and lifted the lid with both hands. A cloud of vapor rose.

“Liquid oxygen?” Fitzpatrick asked.

“Yes. Nitrogen would shatter it into a million pieces in seconds. We want it cold, but not
that
cold.”

Doyle motioned again to her assistant. He placed a circular, meshed-metal dish on the table. It bore an uncanny resemblance to a deep-fry basket. Doyle donned gloves, lifted the the camouflaged explosive, and set it gingerly in the dish. Her assistant carried it to the smoking container and lowered it gently in. A sizzle rose before he replaced the lid.

“Jayziz, just like in the chipper,” said the corporal. “Only you won't find
me
eating anything out of that pan.”

Doyle was looking at her wristwatch. “We'll give it twenty seconds, I think. That ought to do it.”

She went to a rack on the wall and returned with a hacksaw.

“High tech,” said Fitzpatrick with a smile. “That's what I like to see.”

“Speed is the very last thing we want, Captain. A powersaw would generate a critical amount of heat. Ready when you are, Michael.”

Her assistant retrieved the now-smoking lump and laid it on the table. Doyle brushed it lightly with a gloved hand. As Fitzpatrick had predicted, a coating of crystallized earth fell away. The two soldiers watched with great interest.