The Angel Tapes (25 page)

And so Carol continued eastward along the canal path, under the weeping willows, past strolling mothers and unemployed young men, once spitting in the face of a leery-eyed wino who'd the effrontery to proposition her.

The Devil resided in every drunk, just as he resided in Blade Macken, the most murderous drunk of all. The Devil was all around you and had to be fought at every turn.

Carol was on the side of the angels.

Thirty

Blade had a full complement in the incident room that Monday morning. He'd stopped counting, on reaching one hundred twenty, and that didn't include Duffy and almost thirty members of the CIA. Pride of place had been given to the men of the Emergency Response Unit; Blade detected a restlessness among them, a restlessness he recognized from his soldier's tours of duty. Macken and some of the other detectives had already completed the paperwork required for the issuing of firearms. Gareth Smyth's team had no need to do the same; these were men who
slept
with their weapons.

One of Redfern's operatives shifted his position, causing a ray of sunlight to slant along the front of his double-breasted suit, betraying a slight bulge under the left shoulder. No forms-in-triplicate to fill out there, Blade thought. Did Duffy know? Blade was almost certain this constituted a grave breach of security at the Square.

But he dismissed it; it was none of his business. Blade had more pressing matters on his mind.

“What's the story from Clonmacnoise Road?” he asked an officer.

“We've had it under surveillance since eight this morning, sir. A squad car and two plainclothesmen.”

“Any sign of the suspect?”

“No, sir. No visual show. But she's there all right. Our man round the back reported lights on and a radio playing.”

“Fair enough,” Blade said.

He turned to a large-scale map of Crumlin that showed an area of two square miles, stretching from the Grand Canal down to Terenure. Somebody had drawn two concentric red circles; they radiated from a point slightly north of the circular green enclosed by Clonmacnoise Road.

“Detective Inspector Smyth of the ERU recommends that we evacuate every house within this radius,” Blade said, indicating the outer red circle. “I'm inclined to agree; we don't know how much explosive Pluto has stashed there. There may be none at all. Then again, there could be enough to wipe out the whole housing estate. We simply don't know.”

“Do you realize what you're asking?” Duffy said. “You're talking about upwards of two hundred families. Are you proposing that we carry out the operation in broad daylight? It's madness. She'd be on to us like a flash.”

“I've thought of that, sir, but I don't think we should postpone this till this evening. Pluto tends to move around, as we know. At the moment we have her where we want her, and if we don't move now we might lose her.”

Duffy considered this. He went to the map.

“What about a partial evacuation?” he said. “Say, two or three houses on each side. Could we do that without attracting attention?”

“It's extremely risky, sir, in my opinion. I'd hate to take responsibility if anything were to go wrong.”

“Leave the responsibility to me, Superintendent. We run a far greater risk of detection if we try to get everybody out at once. It can't be done without us calling attention to ourselves. Not in broad daylight.”

“I agree,” Blade said. “But I have to say that I don't like it one little bit.”

“That's settled then.”

“Fair enough. We're going to need covering fire from the ERU. Gareth…?”

The chief of the armed unit joined them at the map.

“Right. We can mount sharpshooters on the other side of the square,” he said, “
here, here
and
here,
and in the rear of the houses at the back. On Leighlin Road. It'll be easy enough to evacuate the occupants: They can slip out the front.”

“Grand,” said Blade. “It only remains to us to find a way of getting the people out of those adjoining houses without showing our hand. It'll have to be plainclothesmen of course.”

Orla Sweetman held up a hand.

“What if we were to try the same thing as we did in O'Connell Street, sir? Let on we're the gas company.”

“What, you mean go round checking the meters? No, we're going to need more than that, Sweetman.”

“No, sir. I meant Mr. Duffy's idea.” The assistant commissioner looked interested. “We can tell them we suspect there may be a minor gas leak somewhere in the street. That way, we can ask them to leave their houses without alarming them too much.”

“Hmm. I wonder if—”

“Well now,
I
think it's a marvellous idea, Macken,” Duffy said. “The detective sergeant's hit the nail on the head. Look at it this way: Half of Dublin's worried about gas leaks since the explosion. They know Bord Gáis are checking all the mains in the city, thanks to that, ahem, TV interview last Friday. If we were to send a van round there today it wouldn't look at all suspicious. We could get the people out in dribs and drabs—and quietly, too. All we need do is say it's a routine check.”

“Fair enough,” Blade said. “I'll go along with that.” He pointed. “I want Detectives Dunphy and McArdle to handle it, okay?” The two men nodded. “Yes, Paddy?”

“What happens, sir,” asked Sergeant Paddy Flynn, “when they knock on Pluto's door?”

“They won't. The local Guards say the place looks deserted. The front garden's overgrown with weeds. You'd never think anyone lived there, so our boys can skip the house without raising suspicion.”

He turned to the map again. “Dunphy and McArdle'll cover the road, starting from
here,
opposite Pluto's house. They'll work their way round, just pretending to inspect the fittings, nothing more. But once they come to the six houses on either side of Pluto's, they explain about the suspected leak.” He turned to Dunphy and McArdle. “On no account are you to alarm them—but you know that without me telling you.”

The two men nodded as one.

“Ask the people to leave so you can get down to business. Oh, and tell them that they mustn't take anything with them, otherwise Pluto'll be on to us. Try to get them to leave their houses at separate times: say, at half-hour intervals, and in ones and twos—no more. Get the kids out first. We don't want it looking like an exodus.” Blade pointed to the map. “And tell them to walk or drive in the direction of Bangor Road, north and south. That way, there's a chance they won't be spotted from Pluto's house.” He looked at his watch. “With any luck we should be able to have everything in place by lunchtime.”

Gareth Smyth called for Macken's attention.

“What do we do if we see her leaving, sir? If we have a clear sight on the target?”

“I wish you wouldn't put it that way. She's not a target yet. Nor will she be unless we've good reason to believe she's carrying a weapon or weapons, and is attempting to use them.”

“But what if she's carrying a radio-transmitting device, sir? If we show our hand she might use it to detonate a bomb.”

“I know, I know. But can you imagine the stink if we were to gun down an unarmed woman in cold blood? We're in enough trouble as it is. Remember what happened with the Brits in Gibraltar? No, leave her to me. I've a feeling she wants to talk—why else would she keep phoning me? If I can get her alone I might be able to talk her out of whatever it is she's planning next.”

Smyth looked decidedly unconvinced.

*   *   *

The editor of the
Sunday Courier
held a tabloid newspaper between thumb and forefinger as though it was something offensive he'd found while cleaning the bathroom.

“And where were you, Elaine,” he asked sourly, “while this was going on?”

Elaine de Rossa didn't have to look at the picture that took up a third of the front page, or read the huge headline that exposed what the paper called
COVER-UP NUMBER TWO
. She'd seen it. And it hurt.

“Duffy, Macken, a ‘high-ranking army officer' and a member of the CIA,” Brian Cusack said, “looking like they were caught coming out of a brothel.”

Cusack turned the front page to him, still holding the paper as though it might bite at any moment.

“Listen to this: ‘We believe that no police force has the right to withhold information if that means putting lives at risk.' ‘We are determined to bring you the facts.' ‘Come clean, Commish!'”

Cusack let the paper drop into his wastebasket in disgust.

“
We
should be running that story, Elaine. Why aren't we? What happened to your direct line to Blade Macken? Eh?”

Elaine looked sheepish. “It's still intact. But he can't be reached, Brian; I don't know how many messages I've left for him. He doesn't return my calls.”

“Get him to, Elaine. You're a bright girl; use any means, fair or foul. We've missed this week's edition, fuck it, but if you can get Macken to come across with the full story, then we might still beat everyone else to it.”

“Right. Can we offer him money for an exclusive?”

Cusack's look was withering. “Don't be stupid, Elaine. Do you want all of us—Blade, you, and myself—put behind bars? That's called police bribery, you know. No, Elaine, you can offer him anything you like—anything at all—as long as it's not money. As I said, you're a bright girl. You'll think of something.”

Thirty-one

Carol reached Leeson Street Bridge in time to share the market in alms from the lunchtime suits and ties. On, on down to the corner of Baggot Street and Fitzwilliam Square: That was the spot she liked most. It wasn't taken either. Somebody was falling down on the job.

Carol found a convenient milkshake container in a garbage can, poured out the residue, and wiped the inside clean with the hem of her dress. Then she took up a station against the wall, beaker on the sidewalk beside her. Diagonally across, on the far side of the intersection, young business people sat sweating in the sun at tables in front of Larry Murphy's pub, convincing themselves that this was the chic thing to do. Carol pitied them, she genuinely did.

A twenty-pence coin dropped into her cup. She looked up to see the back of an elderly woman disappearing hurriedly. God is good. She laughed aloud; this was the best part of the masquerade.

“Spare a few pence for a bit o' food for the child?” she inquired of a fat suit. Blank face. Then another and another and yet another. Carol was enjoying herself; she was the Invisible Woman.

Two nuns in rimless spectacles passed by. One hesitated, said something to her companion, returned to where Carol squatted, and deposited a handful of change in the milkshake beaker.

“God bless ya, sisther.”

The nun's eyes became opaque. Her holy duty to the poor was done. One didn't speak to invisible people.

It was a good lunch hour. By two o'clock the beaker rattled pleasantly with coins, both copper and nickel. It was time to go. Carol got up, paused to ease the cramp in her legs, and made her way to the far side of the street. A little boy in rags reigned there. Carol sidled up to him.

“Howya,” she said.

His eyes were those of a middle-aged man. “Fuck off, y'oul' wagon!” he snarled.

“Had any luck today?”

“Would ya ever fuck off, y'oul' cunt, or I'll bleedin' burst ya!”

Carol smiled. Without another word she put her beaker on the ground next to the boy's own. He looked, looked again. Carol was already turning the corner into Lower Fitzwilliam Street.

“Hey! T'anks; t'anks very much! I'm sorry for callin' ya an oul' cunt.”

An elderly gentleman looked startled. Carol grinned.

She passed the Archbishop Ryan Park and crossed the road, down past Holles Street maternity hospital. Another intersection later and she entered the darker side of Dublin's inner city.

The Voice …

She is in the place where nightmares begin; she is gazing at the frightful faces of the people in the street; she is close to where the fuckers in Harcourt Square wished her to go—her and her mammy and daddy; she is remembering places past; she is remembering opportunities lost forever, big chances dashed, education wasted, things that should have been and were not, brilliance sacrificed for the … She is …

The towers of tenements seemed to absorb the sunlight. In another climate the washing hanging from balconies might have lent life and color to this depressing place; here it had the opposite effect. Parked cars stood amid a frozen river of broken glass, the thousands of shards sparkling like crystal. Every night was
Kristalnacht
here for the car thieves and joyriders whose playground it was. Carol Merrigan saw some of them now: groups of youths in baggy jeans and expensive trainers, killing time until the sun went down and their victims ventured along these streets.

*   *   *

Carol reached the river a half-hour later. She sat down in the shadow of a warehouse, looked across at the Custom House and the green, glass towers of the Financial Services Centre. From farther down the docks came the deep note of a ship's horn. She allowed the cooling breeze from the northwest to blow for a time on her face, then stood up and crossed the cobbled street.

The door was unlocked, as always, but you had to know how to open it. Carol didn't mind the stench of urine on the stairs, or the presence of the heroin addict who lay fast asleep on the landing. This was her new home. Here she was more anonymous than in Crumlin. Here she would lure the great Blade Macken. Nine years of planning had led to this.

She hoped that her preparations would meet with Blade's satisfaction.

Thirty-two

“Where is he now?” Blade asked quietly.