The Angel Tapes (9 page)

“The gang? The bank robbers?”

“Yeah. It was sort of a freak thing really. One of the cashiers had set off the silent alarm the minute he saw the gang come in and the Guards were onto it right away. They wanted backup because they'd got another call at the same time from a fella who said he'd seen the gang going in and they were armed. But somebody on the switchboard in Harcourt Square got the message mixed up. She put the Branch onto it, because she thought it was meant for them. So poor old Gerry arrived at the place thinking that the local gardaí were there already. The trouble was, they weren't.”

Joan looked puzzled. “Wouldn't he have seen a squad car if they were?”

“He did; that's just it. It was right outside. But it wasn't from Donnybrook. The gang were using a fake squad car. Looked just like the real McCoy—from a distance.”

“
They
had guts.”

Roche nodded. “Blade was parked right behind it, so he should have spotted the scam straight away. Only he didn't, fuck him, because he was half-asleep. When he brought Gerry to the hospital, the staff said he'd a breath on him like a brewery.”

“I see.…”

“So Gerry'd walked in, flashing his ID, just as the gang were on their way out.” Roche swirled his brandy again. “They were only kids—sixteen or seventeen. They must have been as surprised as he was. The gun probably went off by accident. He was lucky: a quarter of an inch to the left and he was a dead man.”

“That's not what it said in the papers.”

“No. But that's the way it happened, according to Nolan, and he was right in the thick of it. I thought you gave them things up last week?”

Joan looked at her cigarette, then crushed it out, half-smoked.

“Now don't be at me again,” she said, but she was smiling.

Roche was not. “I'd have kicked the fucker out of the force if it was up to me. Instead, Duffy gives him Merrigan's job—well, half of it anyway.
I
don't know,” he said helplessly. “I don't know what Duffy sees in him, I really don't.”

“I think you're biased, Jim. You just don't want to admit that Blade is the best they have. Always was.”

“Yeah, well, he's done okay for himself, fair dues. But Jesus, poor old Gerry. They should have given him the full pension; no one deserved it more. Bloody bureaucrats! The wife killed herself—did you know that? This was before they murdered Gerry.”

“Yes. Blade told me. The poor woman.”

“She couldn't handle it. They'd had to sell the house to pay the nursing costs, and take the daughter out of the Tech. She was a bright kid, too. It was a bloody shame, so it was.”

He clapped his hands on his knees and stood up.

“But let's not talk about it anymore. It depresses me. I've something to show you.”

Roche left the room and returned with his briefcase, opened it, and pulled out a number of glossy brochures. He laid them in rows on the table. Such neatness, Joan Macken mused; she'd never known a man more obsessed with neatness and order; there was definitely something unhealthy about it. Each brochure lay absolutely parallel to its neighbor, all at exact right angles to the sides of the table. They advertised the attractions of faraway—and expensive—vacation destinations: Bermuda, the Bahamas, Acapulco, Rio, Hawaii.…

“Are you out of your mind, Jim? Sure we're just back from Kenya!”

He smiled. “Not a holiday, pet. I'm deciding on our retirement home, and I want you to help me.”

*   *   *

Linda Doyle of forensics called Blade at his apartment a little before nine-thirty in the evening.

“It's jelly.”

“Sorry?”

“Gelignite, Superintendent. We didn't have many samples to go on: less than four grams from under the street and about the same amount we recovered from three of the bodies.”

Blade winced.

“So what does it tell us?”

“It tells us that the bomber isn't a pro, for a start. Nobody uses jelly anymore—”

“I wish you'd stop calling it that.”

There was a long sigh at the other end of the line.

“Okay, gelignite. Nobody uses it for military purposes. Semtex is your only man if you want to do real damage.”

“You're talking to an old soldier, Linda; I know all about it. Still, he didn't do too badly with the gelignite.…”

“No, but he had to use
masses
of it. And it's far more dangerous to handle than Semtex. Tricky stuff, gelignite.”

“I know, I know. So where does that leave us?”

“You're the detective. I'm only giving you my findings.”

Blade tried hard to keep the irritation out of his voice. He was exhausted, had been ready for bed when Doyle called.

“All right. Would we be able to trace where it came from?”

“Sorry. We'd need a better sample. This stuff's got all sorts of impurities mixed in with it.”

“Right. I follow you.”

“But it's very likely homegrown, Superintendent. You'd be mad to try and bring in large quantities of it, as much as the bomber needed. Unless you dumped it off the coast and picked it up later. Like they did with the heroin last week.”

Blade was thoughtful. Physically tired though he was, his mind was still functioning as sharply as ever.

“Look, Linda, is gelignite standard? I mean, are there different types, or is it all made the same way?”

“Well, there are different grades of course, but gelignite is gelignite. It's composed of—”

“Let me just get a pen. Sorry, yes, go on.”

“Okay. Gelignite is a modification of gelatin dynamite. In its semisolid state it's a jelly composed of about sixty-five percent nitroglycerin, varying proportions of nitrate of potash, collodion cotton—”

“Never heard of it.”

“It's nitrated cellulose mixed with alcohol and ether. They use it to coat photographic film with. Anyhow, there's collodion cotton and wood pulp.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

“So if I wanted to, I could make it myself, could I? Boil up a potful of the stuff in the kitchen alongside the spuds?”

“If you'd enough nitro, yeah. That's the hardest ingredient to come by—but I'm sure you know that.”

“You've been a big help, Linda. I appreciate it.”

“All part of the job, Superintendent.”

*   *   *

She'd arrived by bicycle. She wore her long, auburn hair loose, a sleeveless T-shirt and shorts, and she turned many heads in Phoenix Park as she rode by. It was close to nine in the evening on Saturday, July 4, when she passed Garda Headquarters and made a left turn.

The Furry Glen is near the park's southern extremity. For centuries, even before a wall had been built around the park, its leafy nooks and hideaways had been favored meeting places for courting couples. Jim Roche liked it; it suited him. It suited him because nobody in his circle of acquaintances would expect to find his car here; the people in his circle did their extramural trysting in luxury hotels.

She called him Daddy. He detested it but couldn't persuade her to drop the habit. It was a continual reminder—almost a taunt—that she was indeed young enough to be his daughter. But when he saw her approaching along the winding path, and the way the sunlight danced through the trees and dappled her long, suntanned legs, he wouldn't have cared if she'd called him Lucifer.

He opened the passenger door for her, but she shook her head with a smile and slid in the back of the big Mercedes. They always did this; it was their little game.

Even before he could climb in back himself, she'd crossed her arms at the waist and yanked her T-shirt off with one smooth movement. She wore no brassiere—didn't have to: her breasts were tiny. But they were deliciously formed and Roche could take them one by one in his mouth, whole and entire, a thing that drove her to lofty heights of ecstasy. Today she wore no underwear at all. She kicked off her sneakers and was completely nude before he'd removed his tie.

“Lie down, will you,” he growled. “Somebody'll see you. Jesus, it's broad daylight.”

“So what? You're ashamed of me, Daddy; that's what it is. You think my tits are too small.”

He hated it when she teased him like this and she knew it. Yet there was a part of him that delighted in her exhibitionism. It was she who'd chosen this spot and they kept returning to it. It wasn't the most secluded of places, not by a long shot. A car drove slowly by and Roche saw the driver's head swivel.

“I
adore
your tits,” he said—and proved it to her in the manner she loved.

Later she lay, slick with sweat, on top of him, caressing his paunch with an index finger. The first time she'd seen him unclothed, he'd been ashamed of the beer gut, had attempted to hide it by walking tall. He thought her ideal would have been the taut belly of youth, but no: she genuinely liked his body; it was part of the “Daddy” package.

Her fingers moved down lower and he felt the first creepings of another erection. So soon. It was the heat, he was sure of that. It was suffocatingly hot in the car; he'd kept all the windows shut so as to profit from the concealing condensation.

“What
do
you see in Joan?” she asked suddenly.

Roche went limp at once.

“Ah now, let's not talk about Joan, all right?”

“I want to, Daddy. Whose boobs do you prefer, hers or mine?”

“Ah, Christ, don't start
that
again.”

“Does she do the job better?”

“Puhl-ease!”

“A girl likes to know these things. Does she or doesn't she?”

“No. Yiz are both different, that's all I'm going to say.”

“A woman is supposed to be in her prime—sexually, I mean—when she's in her forties. That means she fucks better than I do.”

“You know I don't like you calling it that.”

“Does Joan?”

“God almighty, will you drop it!”

“Okay, Daddy. Just tell me one thing. Does she ever talk about Blade when you're by yourselves?”

“No, and I don't blame her. The less said about that gobshite the better, as far as I'm concerned.”

“But she
must
talk about him. It's not natural for her not to talk about him, so it isn't.”

“Amn't I only just after telling you she doesn't? Now, for Christ's sake leave it be, will you?”

“Okay, Daddy.”

But the damage had already been done: Roche's second hard-on refused to materialize that evening.

Ten

“Dogs,” Blade said. “We'll use dogs.”

The investigation was no respecter of the sabbath; all but two of Macken's team were present in the incident room on the third day of Angel. Redfern occupied his mute station in the wings; the other Americans rubbed shoulders with Blade's people. A camaraderie had grown between them. Duffy approved; Macken did not. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but was certain that the CIA had their own agenda. He didn't trust Redfern an inch.

“Dogs. To do what exactly, sir?” inquired a white-haired detective. Blade didn't like the man's tone.

“We'll use them to sniff out the gelignite,” he said slowly. “They do it all the time in the airport and down the docks.”

“Yes sir, I know that. But they go after cargoes and things. They know where to look. You're not suggesting we send a pack of hounds traipsing around every street in Dublin?”

Give me
strength,
O Lord. Blade went to the big two-inch-scale map of the city. He took a fluorescent yellow highlighter, reached up to the top of the chart, and began to trace a route with the marker. It ended in Merrion Square, at the entrance to Leinster House, the seat of government.

“This,” he said, “is the most likely route the president'll take from the airport. Am I right, Mr. Redfern?”

May as well throw the doggie a bone every so often; keep him happy and out of your hair.

The American shrugged. “I can't comment on that at the present time. That information remains classified right up until the day before the visit, when we get our orders.”

“I see.” Blade returned to the map and pointed. “So let's
assume
this is the route. We start here, right the way down from Collins Avenue. It's unlikely Pluto's planted anything that far north, but let's do it anyway. Now, that's somewhere in the region of four miles of street, and I haven't a clue how many manholes and culverts there are. But sniffer dogs work fast, so we should be able to cover it in a day, maybe a day and a half. Then we can start on the alternative routes. Yes, Sweetman?”

“How many dogs are we talking about, sir?”

“I don't know. I haven't thought it out yet. Ten, maybe more—if we have that many. Somebody make a note to phone the kennels and find out.”

“I'll requisition a few more of the brutes if needs be,” Duffy said. “This thing is important enough. Top, top priority. If a couple of more kilos of heroin slip through while we're busy, then so be it.” He sighed deeply. “Half the bloody stuff gets through anyway, dogs or no dogs. It makes me weep. Which reminds me…” He turned to a detective. “What's the story on Thursday's haul, Bill?”

The man reddened. “It's ehh, still missing, sir. We're working on it. Store Street think it might be—”

“Four million quid's worth,” Duffy snarled. “Honest to God, how can that much smack disappear into thin air? You get onto Store Street and tell them to pull their finger out.”

“Sir, if we could—”

“Sorry, Macken,” Duffy said. “Go on.”

Blade sighed. “So we can get the dogs. Grand. What I wanted to—”

“Just a second though, Macken.”

“Sir…?” Here we go again.

“Aren't we forgetting something? Didn't we agree at the beginning that we weren't going to show our hand? How does that square with your proposal?”