The Chinaman (29 page)

‘How goes it?' asked McGrath.

‘It's going OK.'

‘You checked out my arms dumps?' McGrath had been responsible for three arms caches, all close to London, and according to the reports Hennessy had received one of them was missing two packages of Semtex.

Hennessy nodded and told McGrath what his searchers had found. Or rather, what they hadn't found.

‘I can't believe that one of mine has been touched. Do you have any idea yet who's behind this, Liam?'

‘Not yet, no.'

‘It makes a mockery of our security, right enough. I know we don't see eye to eye on the question of mainland bombing campaigns, but this looting of our supplies is something else. We have to know who we can trust, Liam. Our organisation depends on it.'

Trust and fear, thought Hennessy. In equal amounts usually, though in McGrath's case it was mainly fear. He came from a long line of Catholic landowners. His father was one of the driving forces behind the removal of many Protestant farmers from the border country. His method had been simple and brutal. He had targeted all the farms in the area where there was only one son and he had had them systematically murdered. When the parents became too old to work the farm and they were put up for sale, he made sure that there were no Protestant offers. Those farms where there were several children waiting to claim their inheritance were forced out of business by arson and poisoning campaigns and they, too, were sold to Catholic buyers. McGrath's own farm had once belonged to a Protestant family until their only son was shot through the back of the head as he sat on a tractor eating his lunch one day. The farm was put up for auction a year later and the sealed bid from McGrath's father was the highest, just as he knew it would be. Ironically, McGrath was an only son himself, with three sisters as siblings, but in his case it had been an advantage – not a death sentence.

‘I gather you're having a wee spot of bother,' said McGrath, stretching out his long legs.

‘It's nothing I can't handle,' said Hennessy.

‘An explosion in your office, your farm and car bombed, Mary whisked off to London, and now Jim Kavanagh is trawling around the farms looking for men to guard you at night. I don't doubt that you can handle it, whatever it is, but I thought I might be able to help.'

‘I'm working on it,' said Hennessy. He was worried about showing weakness in front of McGrath. He was one of the most political, and ruthless, men in the organisation, and always called in his debts. Accepting favours from Hugh McGrath was like doing a deal with the devil himself.

‘Do you want to tell me about it?' McGrath asked.

Hennessy knew there was nothing to gain by not telling McGrath, because the man's intelligence network was second to none. He'd find out everything anyway. Hennessy explained about Nguyen and how his questions had turned into threats and how his threats had become reality. McGrath listened, occasionally grunting.

‘Would it help if I seconded a few of my men?' McGrath asked once Hennessy had finished.

Hennessy shook his head. ‘No thanks, Hugh. Jim Kavanagh is getting a few of the local lads in. And I'm hoping to bring Micky Geraghty over. He should be able to track the bastard down, sure enough.'

‘Geraghty? Will he come back?'

‘I hope so. I reckon he'll stand more chance than a group of townies trampling over the fields.'

‘I hope it works out. But let me know if you need help, OK?'

‘I will, Hugh. I will.'

McGrath drank his whiskey. It seemed to Hennessy that he had something on his mind.

‘Is there something else, Hugh?'

‘I don't know, Liam. It's this whole business of bombing on the mainland. Maybe we're going about this the wrong way. Maybe now is the time we should be applying pressure, not pulling back. Now is just the time to show our strength. To show that we're serious. And to give the British public a taste of their own medicine.'

Hennessy raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Let them have roadblocks on their roads, armed troops in their towns, body searches before they go into shops. Let them feel what life is like under an oppressive regime.'

‘I don't doubt that the bombs on the mainland will result in an over-reaction from the Government, and I know that'll probably result in a backlash of public opinion, but what about the damage the bombs are doing to our image? They're killing civilians, Hugh. With no warnings. They're not legitimate targets. You know as well as I do what we say in the
Green Book
that we give to volunteers. The only civilian targets that are legitimate are the Establishment, those who have a vested interest in maintaining the present status quo in Ireland: politicians, media, judiciary, business elements and the British war machine. That's virtually a direct quote.'

McGrath shook his head. ‘There are no soft targets, no hard targets. Just targets. The Brits elected their Government, so they're responsible for it. They are all legitimate targets, every bit as legitimate as those in Ulster.'

‘And no warnings?'

‘That's what makes them so effective. You should be embracing these bombers, Liam. You should be grateful to them, for the way they're raising the profile of the Cause around the world.'

Liam looked incredulous. ‘By killing civilians?' he said. ‘What do you think that does for our reputation?'

McGrath held up his hand as if to calm an impatient child. ‘It doesn't matter. It never has. That's the big mistake everyone makes, Liam, they assume that when we kill what you call a soft target everyone turns against us. It doesn't happen. We kill a couple of tourists by mistake, we blow up a child, we shoot an old woman, it has no effect. It doesn't affect the votes we get at election time, it doesn't make a blind bit of difference to the amount of money we raise. In fact, you know as well as I do that a big bomb on the mainland, aimed at civilians or the army, often results in more money flooding in from the States, not less. It proves to them that we're serious, that we're prepared to fight for what we believe in.'

McGrath shook his head, almost sadly. ‘Liam, I can't believe we're having this conversation, I really can't. It used to be you who had the drive, the energy. It was you who put the fire into the boys. Have you forgotten? Aldershot 1972? The M62 bombing in 1974? The Guildford pub bombings the same year? The Hilton bomb in 1975? You were with us then, Liam, you were the one who was calling for an escalation of the campaign, right enough.'

‘That was then, things have changed,' said Hennessy. ‘There's a time for violence and there's a time for negotiation.' He sounded tired.

‘The Regent's Park bandstand bomb in 1982? The Brighton bombing in 1984? Have you forgotten that you were involved, that you pushed for them? What was it you said then, when Thatcher escaped? They were lucky. They'll always have to be lucky, but we only have to be lucky once. Christ, Liam, you knew what you were talking about then. And it holds true now.'

Hennessy said nothing and McGrath continued. ‘Look what the ANC achieved in South Africa, through violence, look at Israel, founded on bloodshed.'

Hennessy stood up and went over to the window. McGrath's bodyguards and driver were sitting patiently in the Volvo. One of them looked up when he saw the movement at the window.

‘You've not forgotten what we're fighting for, have you, Liam?' said McGrath quietly.

Hennessy whirled round and jabbed his finger at McGrath. ‘That's not bloody fair!' he shouted. ‘I won't have you questioning my loyalty. Not now, not ever. There's no one who's done more for the Cause than me and my family. It's not three years ago that I buried my own brother-in-law, and before that my father and two cousins. My family has shed more than its fair share of blood.' He stepped towards McGrath as if about to attack him. ‘And, I might add, my family hasn't been profiting from the border. We've given our lives in the struggle for a united Ireland, not set out to make fucking money from it. So don't you ever, ever, ask me if I've forgotten what we're fighting for!' He loomed over McGrath, his cheeks red and spittle spraying from his mouth. His fists were bunched and his shoulders quivered with tension.

McGrath looked stunned. He opened his mouth to speak but then seemed to think better of it.

‘God damn you, McGrath!' shouted Hennessy. ‘Get out of my fucking house. Now!' He stood glaring at the man sitting in front of him and then turned and stormed out of the room. He waited in the kitchen until he heard McGrath leave the house and the Volvo start up and drive down the track. Hennessy stood over the sink, gripping the edge of the draining board with his shaking hands. He felt the acidic taste of vomit in the back of his throat and he retched several times but nothing came up from his stomach. He poured himself a glass of water and was drinking it when Kavanagh came into the kitchen.

‘Are ye all right?' he asked Hennessy.

‘A wee exchange of words with Mr McGrath,' said Hennessy. ‘I lost my temper with him.' Hennessy tried to get his thinking straight. What had upset him so much? Part of it was McGrath's total unwillingness to even consider his point of view, and his almost inhuman eagerness to see innocent bystanders murdered. There was also the bitter memory of the friends and relatives who'd died, deaths that Hennessy had never really gotten over, like Mary's brother, Gerry. That was another reason for the burning anger coursing through his system, Hennessy realised. Mary.

‘Jim, did anyone speak to McGrath on the way in?'

‘Just one of the men on guard. He recognised him straightaway and let him through.'

‘No one else? Did you say anything to him?'

Kavanagh looked mystified. ‘I didn't, Liam. I'll ask the others. What's wrong? What d'ye think might've been said?'

Hennessy took another mouthful of water and swilled it round his gums before spitting it into the sink. The sour taste was still there, washing wouldn't get rid of it.

‘He knew Mary was in London,' he said quietly. ‘I want to know how he knew.'

Even with the address Hennessy had given him, Morrison had a hell of a time finding Geraghty's house. The village it was supposed to be near was just a sprinkling of stone cottages in a valley sheltered from the biting winds of the North Sea and none of the roads seemed to have names. Geraghty was supposed to be living at Garryowen Farm but there was nothing even remotely like that on the map Morrison had bought in Inverness. It was dark and there were spots of rain flecking the windshield. Morrison decided to try the local pub, a weathered stone building with leaded windows that glowed yellow like the eyes of a wild animal. He parked his hired Rover next to a collection of mud-spattered farmer's vehicles and didn't bother locking his door. Above him the pub's sign – a fox with a dead chicken in its jaws – creaked in the wind. He pushed open the gnarled oak door and more of the yellow light oozed out, bringing with it the hubbub of pub conversation, predominantly gruff, masculine voices discussing sheep prices and football. It all stopped when he stepped over the threshold. It was, Morrison realised, like the scene in a vampire film when the stranger asks for directions to Dracula's castle. At a table near a shoulder-high hearth four old men in tweeds had been playing cards, but they had all stopped and were looking at him, wondering who he was. Under the table lay a black and white sheepdog, its ears up as it sniffed in his direction. A line of four younger men standing at the bar with pints of beer in front of them turned as one to look at him and even the barmaid, blonde haired and rosy cheeked, checked him over as she pulled a pint.

Morrison smiled at no one in particular and closed the door behind him. There was a thick mat just inside the door and Morrison carefully wiped his feet on it.

The card game began again and the dog settled its head down on to its paws with a sigh. Morrison walked over to the bar and put down the map.

‘Good evening,' said the barmaid. She finished pulling the pint and handed it to an old man wearing a grubby tartan cap. ‘Here you are, Archie,' she said.

The pub was similar to those in farming communities all over Scotland and Ireland, the sort of pub where everyone knows everyone else and strangers are regarded with suspicion bordering on hostility. It was one large room, a handful of wooden tables worn smooth with age ranged against the outer wall and a bench seat either side of the fireplace which was unlit but contained a couple of roughly hewn logs on a blackened metal grate. The bar ran parallel to the wall, the full length of the room, and behind it was a door that obviously led to the landlord's private quarters. The walls of the room had once been painted white but had been stained a deep yellow by years of cigarette and pipe smoke and fumes from the fire. The floor was stone-flagged with a large, rectangular carpet of some long-faded red and blue pattern under the tables. On the gantry behind the bar was an impressive collection of malt whiskies, many bearing simple black labels with white lettering identifying the distillery that had produced them.

‘What can I be getting you?' the barmaid asked, and Morrison indicated one of the Islay malts.

He savoured the bouquet of the deep-amber liquid before sipping it.

‘Good?' asked the barmaid. She began drying glasses with a white cloth.

‘Magic,' he said. ‘Could you help me? I'm trying to find Micky Geraghty's house. Do you have any idea where it is?'

‘To be sure,' she said. She put down the cloth and reached for the map. She looked at it carefully, frowned, and then giggled. ‘I can't make head nor tail of this,' she said. She held it out to one of the men standing at the bar. ‘Here Scott, can you show me Micky Geraghty's house?'