The Angel Tapes (28 page)

The worst was yet to come. Blade joined Gareth Smyth in the main bedroom.

It had been converted into a work area. The walls were almost totally covered with press clippings, enlarged on a photocopier. They had three themes: a bank robbery in 1985, a woman's suicide in 1987, and a double murder in 1989. What all three had in common was the name Merrigan.

Blade was familiar with the contents of the news stories. Just as well, because most of them were now illegible. An angry hand had partially obliterated them with graffiti; executed in spraypaint, marker, and crayon. The least offensive of them read:
MACKEN THE DEVIL MUST DIE
!!!

“Why do I get the impression,” Redfern said softly, “that she doesn't much like you, Blade?”

Macken had enemies—what police officer hasn't? Most were serving sentences in Mountjoy and Portlaoise, some were still at large. Yet few of those enemies, he knew, bore such a degree of animosity toward him. Such blind, uncompromising hatred. He let his eye wander over the messages on the walls, and felt his skin crawl.

Redfern was examining Angel's workbench. There were two computers, models that Blade didn't recognize; half-assembled pieces of electronics lay on the table; there were hundreds of loose components. Yet all had been sorted with painstaking attention and color coded. Assembly tools were arranged in neat rows according to size. Everything was laid out with meticulous care, fanatically.

“Most of this stuff isn't store-bought,” Redfern said. “She put it together from pieces you pick up in a Radio Shack. Take these terminals, for instance. I haven't seen this kind of hardware in ten years or more.”

He pointed to a primitive-looking device. “And I guess this is a modem of some kind. It's a goddamn dinosaur.” He shook his head. “You know what she's done here, Blade? She's created a Frankenstein's monster, all made up of junk.”

“A very effective monster, though,” Blade muttered.

“I'll give you that. That's the reason your Dr. Earley was fooled right from the beginning. She'd profiled some rich guy who could afford the very best in hardware—and the whole goddamn time we were dealing with a college kid who knew exactly what she wanted and how to assemble it. It didn't cost her a thing. Well, not much anyhow.”

Redfern powered up one of the computers, the one linked to the modem. He grunted when the desktop filled the screen.

“That's what I figured: She'd access to the Net. Any weapons information she couldn't find locally, she could obtain from all kinds of sources—anarchists, militias, left-wing revolutionary groups.” He turned to Macken. “The Pentagon and the Fibbies have been trying to shut these people down for years. What do they call the monster with a hundred heads?”

“The Hydra.”

“Right. Shut down one website and two more grow in its place. You can't stop these guys.”

Blade went to a small bookcase. It contained a mixture of hardbacks and paperbacks, photocopied books, college texts. Almost all dealt with two subjects: electronics and explosive devices. He pulled out a ring binder. Redfern looked over Macken's shoulder.

“Those are printouts of stuff she downloaded from the Net,” the American said. “She did it all from this crummy little room. Roamed the world and found what she was looking for. Jeez, it gives me the creeps.”

There was more. There were copies of the
Garda Review,
stretching back decades. Blade thumbed through them. Carol Merrigan had highlighted stories—stories dealing with promotions, with the comings and goings of members of the force. There they were, highlighted with yellow, fluorescent marker: Duffy's promotion; Macken's and Nolan's rise in the echelons of the Special Branch.

More stories, and all of them highlighted.

Gareth Smyth and his men had been making a preliminary search of the rest of the house and the backyard. He returned to the bedroom.

“There's no trace so far of any more explosives, sir.”

“How much did the guy in Meath say was gone missing?” Redfern asked Macken.

“He doesn't know; they never found out. Slattery had messed with the records in some way. Fucked everything up.”

“That's too bad. No, it's worse than too bad, Blade. We're dealing with an unknown quantity here. Maybe she used up everything she had—here, in Drumcondra and on O'Connell Street. And maybe she didn't. Could be there's twice that amount still out there. Hell and damnation.”

“I'll question Slattery again. Maybe I can jar his memory a bit.”

Blade's cellular phone throbbed just then.

“Macken.”

“
BLADE! DID I CATCH YOU AT A BAD TIME AGAIN? YOU WEREN'T HAVING A SHIT OR ANYTHING, I HOPE? I WOULDN'T WANT TO INTERFERE WITH YOUR MOVEMENTS IN ANY WAY, HEH HEH HEH
.”

Blade shut the door, put a finger to his lips, and thumbed the
RECORD
button.

“Not at all, Angel,” he said. “I was just going through some paperwork.” He saw Sweetman frown. “You know how it is.”

“
INDEED I DO, BLADE. DUFFY WAS ALWAYS A WHORE FOR THE PAPERWORK, WASN'T HE? A RIGHT BOLLIX. BUT BLADE, I'M GLAD YOU MENTIONED PAPER BECAUSE THAT'S JUST WHAT I'M RINGING YOU ABOUT
.”

“The money.”

“
YES. ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO TOMORROW, BLADE? IT SHOULD BE GREAT GAS ALTOGETHER. I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE YOU AGAIN, SO I CAN'T. I'M SURE YOU FEEL THE SAME WAY
.”

“I might if I knew who you were, Angel.” He winked at Sweetman; she relaxed. “But do I understand you want
me
to deliver the money?”

“
YES, BLADE. NO BETTER MAN. NOW THEN, LISTEN CAREFULLY, BECAUSE I'M GOING TO GIVE YOU HALF OF YOUR INSTRUCTIONS, AND I WON'T REPEAT THEM. DO YOU HAVE A PEN HANDY
?”

Blade paused. “Right here. I'm ready.”

“
GOOD. THE FIRST THING IS: YOU'RE TO COME ALONE. BY THE WAY, BLADE, DID YOU HEAR THE ONE ABOUT THE BOY WHO'S BEING HELD TO RANSOM? THE KIDNAPPER PHONES THE FATHER AND SAYS: ‘YOU'RE TO COME ALONE. LEAVE THE MONEY IN A HOLLOW TREE AT THE PAPAL CROSS IN THE PHOENIX PARK.' WELL, THE KID'S FATHER BRINGS THE MONEY ALL RIGHT BUT HE GETS HIMSELF A HERNIA CARRYING THE HOLLOW TREE
!”

“That's a good one, Angel. Ha ha.”

Insane cow.

“
ISN'T IT? BUT LET'S BE SERIOUS, BLADE. FIRST, I WANT YOU TO ARRANGE FOR THE MONEY TO BE DELIVERED TO THE VAULTS OF THE BANK OF IRELAND IN COLLEGE GREEN
.”

“All right.”

“
LEAVE IT THERE OVERNIGHT. IT SHOULD BE SAFE ENOUGH. NOW: TOMORROW MORNING AT EXACTLY HALF PAST SEVEN I WANT YOU TO PICK UP THE MONEY AT THE BANK. YOU'RE TO USE YOUR OWN CAR. HAVE YOU GOT THAT
?”

“I've got it. My own car.”

“
BUT FIRST, BLADE, I WANT YOU TO MAKE SURE THE RADIO'S TAKEN OUT OF IT. IN OTHER WORDS, THERE'S TO BE NO RADIO CONTACT BETWEEN YOU AND THE SQUARE. YOU'RE TO GO TO THE BANK ALONE, AS I SAID—NOBODY ELSE, BLADE. IF I SO MUCH AS SMELL ANYBODY FOLLOWING YOU, OR IF I THINK YOU'VE GIVEN AWAY YOUR POSITION IN ANY WAY, THEN THE CONSEQUENCES ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. AND BLADE…
?”

“Yes, Angel?”

“
I'LL MAKE BLOODY SURE THAT THE PAPERS AND EVERYBODY ELSE KNOW YOU WERE THE CAUSE OF IT. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR
?”

“Crystal.”

“
GOOD. NOW, WHEN YOU'VE PICKED UP THE MONEY, YOU'RE TO PUT IT IN THE BOOT OF YOUR CAR AND DRIVE TO THE CUSTOM HOUSE. PARK YOUR CAR EXACTLY OUTSIDE THE MAIN ENTRANCE ON THE QUAYS, AND WAIT UNTIL YOU HEAR FROM ME. IS THAT CLEAR? DO YOU WANT TO READ IT BACK TO ME
?”

Oh fuck. Think, think. “Ehh, what if I'm held up in traffic? Have you thought about that?”

“
MAKE SURE YOU AREN'T, BLADE! USE A FUCKING SIREN. JESUS, DO I HAVE TO BE YOUR MAMMY, TOO? HONEST TO GOD
!”

Bad slipup, Angel: your mammy. But it didn't matter now.

“I'll take care of everything. Is there anything else?”

“
NOT AT THE MOMENT. I'LL BE IN TOUCH
.”

Blade rewound the tape and played it. There was silence when it ended. Redfern was the first to speak.

“Seven-thirty. That's cutting it fine. The president is scheduled to arrive at the city center at nine o'clock. Where's the Custom House?”

Blade told him.

“So she wants you to meet her on the O'Connell Street side of town?”

“D'you think that has any significance?”

“Hard to say. Could be that's where she's holed up, on that side of the river.” He rubbed his chin. “I can stake out the area, have a—”

“No you bloody well won't, Redfern! That's the very last thing we want. The front of the Custom House is about the most exposed place in the city. Any movement there that's the least bit out of the ordinary and she'll be on to us. Come to think of it, that's probably the reason she chose the spot.”

Redfern looked at the murderous slogans written on the walls.

“You don't know what it is you're letting yourself in for, Blade. She'll have you right where she wants you.”

“I know. But she wants me all to herself. And that's just what she's going to get.”

Thirty-five

Most of the lunch-hour patrons had left by the time Macken and Sweetman got to the bar on Purcell Street. Joe's assistants were removing plates, glasses, and dirty ashtrays from the tables, and wiping the surfaces with damp cloths. The interior was muggy, hung with stale cigarette smoke and no-nonsense perfumes. He left Sweetman seated and went to the counter.

“Blade!” Joe called in greeting. “Bit on the early side for you. The usual?”

“Nothing thanks, Joe.” He leaned across the counter. “You told me last Sunday you'd keep your ears open, right?”

“I did. Only I haven't heard a thing.” He gestured toward a tabloid newspaper on the counter.
ANOTHER GARDA COVER-UP
? read the headline. “Did you see the
Mirror
today? I wonder what
that
was all about now.”

“I wonder, too. Listen, Joe, you know everybody. What can you tell 's about the Price brothers?”

The bartender's eyes narrowed. “Paddy and Dominic Price? They're bad news, Blade. Sell their own grandmother for the price of a pint and twenty Marlboros. What is it the fuckers have done now?”

“I can't say. Do you know where I can find them?”

“Let me make a phone call, Blade.”

Joe returned two minutes later and passed a slip of paper across. It was an address on Sheriff Street.

“Sound, Joe,” Blade said. “And give 's five Hamlet while you're at it.”

Sweetman asked no questions when they set out to walk the short distance to his car, parked nearby, opposite the grand façade of the Shelbourne Hotel. She knew that this inquiry was one that Macken wished to keep to himself for the time being. All the same, she asked herself how her superior could afford to take time off from the investigation in hand. Four American flags fluttering slightly in the light breeze that blew past the hotel reminded her how close they were to the visit of the U.S. president.

“Spare a few pence for the child?” a beggar-woman, squatting against the wall near the hotel entrance, pleaded. Sweetman barely saw her.

But Blade had taken note. He stopped walking.

“Who are the most invisible people in Dublin?” he asked. “I'll tell you who: the beggars, the tinkers, the travelers, call them what you want. Nobody looks at them; we're
ashamed
to look at them. We think: There but for the grace of God go I. They're dirty and ragged and smelly and when they say, ‘Misther, can you spare some change for a bit o' food?', we turn our heads the other way and walk on. When there's a little girl sitting on the pavement in the rain, we don't even want to look, because it might upset us.”

“I know what you mean, Blade.”

“And even if we do look, we don't see a
person.
Listen, you've been trained to remember faces, Sweetman. Would you recognize that beggar-woman if you saw her again? Just a couple of yards back—No no, don't look round.”

“You mean the one with the baby?”

“Yes. You noticed she'd a baby—what woman wouldn't? But if someone tidied her up and gave her some clean clothes, would you be able to pick her out in a lineup?”

“Uh … I don't know, Blade.”

“You probably couldn't. I know
I
couldn't.”

And Blade knew with near-certainty that he'd passed Carol Merrigan many times on the street. He'd been so close to Angel that he could have touched her. He turned to Sweetman.

“Look, can you give me a few minutes alone?” He handed her his keys. “Take the car. I want to have a stroll in the park; clear my head.”

“Sure, Blade.”

He watched her go, dark hair bouncing on her collar, then turned into the gate of St. Stephen's Green. Time to think.

*   *   *

He found Sweetman in the office in the company of Lawrence Redfern when he got back to Harcourt Square a little after three-thirty.

“Somebody's been trying to get in touch with you for ages,” his assistant said. “She rang again an hour ago. Says it's urgent.” She passed the message to Macken. He read it. The number told him it belonged to a cellular phone.

“Would you excuse me a minute?”

Blade went out into the corridor and made the call.

“It's Blade.”

“Gosh, at last. You do like to keep a girl waiting, don't you?”

“Busy times. Sorry. I got a message saying that you need to speak to me urgently.”

“I do, darling,” she replied in a voice that caused a slight distention at the front of Macken's trousers. “And it can't wait. Are you free this evening?”

“Ehh, no. Sorry, Elaine; it's really out of the question. It'll have to be some other time.”