'Will you tell me?'
Avedissian told Kathleen O'Neill of the past three years.
'So happiness is not a prominent feature in either of our
lives,’ said Kathleen when he had finished.
Avedissian smiled and refilled their glasses. ‘To the
future,’ he said, holding up his glass.
'To the future,’ replied Kathleen.
They had finished their meal and were drinking coffee
when Bryant came into the room with some papers in his
hand. 'Dr and Mrs George Farmer,’ he announced. 'Going
on holiday to the States with their son David.’
'But who . . .?'
'David is the son of one of our people. You will meet him
at the airport. He will fly out with you and enter the States
on your passport then someone will take him from you and bring him back across the Atlantic. But, to all intents and
purposes, Dr and Mrs Farmer will have entered the States with their son David. No one will be surprised when they
leave with him.’
'Only it will be a different boy,’ said Kathleen.
Bryant nodded and said, 'Is there anything you would
like before I say good-night?'
Avedissian, who had always replied no to this question before, said, 'Yes, yes there is. I'd like a bottle of Gordon's
gin, a supply of Schweppes' tonic and one . . .’ He paused
to look at Kathleen who nodded. 'No, two crystal glasses.’
'I'll see what I can do,’ said Bryant. 'Anything else?'
Kathleen shook her head. Avedissian said that there
wasn't.
'How did you find out that the boy was in the United
States?' Kathleen asked Bryant.
Bryant touched the side of his nose and said, 'Need to know . . . remember?' He left the room.
Five minutes later one of the staff entered with a tray
carrying all that Avedissian had requested. Kathleen
accepted her drink and said, 'What shall we drink to this
time?'
'Let's just drink,’ said Avedissian.
In an hotel suite, less than five miles from where Avedissian
and Kathleen sat with their drinks, Finbarr Kell raised a
tumbler to his lips and took an angry gulp. 'Where is he, damn it?' he hissed, looking at his watch for the third time
in as many minutes.
'He should be here by now,’ said Nelligan unhelpfully. It
only annoyed Kell more.
'I know he should be here by now!' he snapped. 'The plane landed two hours ago.’
Kell was approaching his irritable worst and it was at
times like this that his disability rankled most. He wanted to
pace up and down and vent his frustration through physical
action, but instead, he had to wait in nail-biting inertia,
trapped inside a legless torso.
The response to his insert in
The Times
had been a direc
tive to send an agent to Amsterdam to receive further in
structions and, to this end, he had activated a man with no
previous record or history of sympathy with the Republican
movement. He had activated the Tally Man.
To the world at large Malcolm Innes was a respectably
dull accountant in his late thirties whose thinning hair and
anonymous features had made him ideal for the purpose.
Malcolm Innes was the man who lived up the street from
everyone. Malcolm Innes was also the man who had left his
brief-case in
a
public place on three separate occasions with
devastating consequences. Malcolm Innes was the invisible
man who, in the past, had come up behind five known
traitors in the crowd and left them with an ice pick in the kidneys. Malcolm Innes was the Tally Man.
To Kell, at the moment, Innes was a link in a chain that was
currently under strain for he was more than an hour late. His
plans had allowed for a margin of ninety minutes at the most, for the Americans were due at eleven and he had to digest the
information that Innes was bringing before they arrived.
As Kell could have predicted, the Americans had gagged on
hearing the sum involved. They always preferred to deal in
small sums at intervals rather than entrust control of large
sums to the organisation itself, a constant bone of contention
but one the
IRA
could do little about. If the Americans, who
had insisted on crossing the Atlantic to discuss the present
operation before making any commitment, arrived to find
Kell without the facts at his fingertips it would give them the
excuse they would be looking for to pull out. He would look
like a bungling amateur and the Americans would take the
first plane back. Kell threw back his glass and handed the
empty to Nelligan. 'More,' he said.
As Nelligan refilled the glass a knock came at the door. Kell
held up his hand and they both waited. A further three taps
followed by another pause then two more.
‘
Thank Christ,’ said Kell and Nelligan opened the door to
admit Malcolm Innes.
Innes entered the room clutching his brief-case and
wearing a harassed expression. He took off his glasses to
wipe some drops of rain from them.
'Something's wrong?' said Kell anxiously.
Innes shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'I just got stopped at Customs. I've never been stopped before but tonight of all nights I get the full treatment. They even took the lining out
of my case.'
'They didn't have a reason to, did they?' asked Kell
suspiciously. 'If I thought for one moment . . .'
'No, no,' Innes assured him. 'Unless you call ten cigars and a bottle of
Advocaat
a reason.'
Kell relaxed visibly. 'Bols,’ he said.
'It's the absolute truth, Mr Kell
...
Oh I see,' said Innes,
unprepared for Kell's joke and sudden change of mood.
Kell checked his watch and said, 'We've got thirty min
utes. Start talking.'
Nelligan handed Innes a drink and the man took a hasty
gulp to wash down two indigestion tablets before starting to
speak. 'I got into Schiphol on time and heard myself being
paged on the public address system. I was directed by tele
phone to a particular taxi on the rank outside and the driver took me to a rendezvous about five miles from the airport.
After about ten minutes
They were waiting to see if you were followed,' inter
rupted Kell.
'. . . a green Mercedes drew up alongside and a transceiver
was passed in through the window of the cab. We conducted the conversation by phone.'
'Did you see who was in the Mercedes?' asked Kell.
'No, it had tinted windows.'
'But they could see you?'
'Yes.'
Kell smiled distantly and thought for a moment in silence
before asking Innes to go on.
‘
They want the ransom paid by credit transfer.'
'How?'
'An account is to be opened at this bank,' Innes handed
Kell a slip of paper, 'and the money paid into it.'
'An account in whose name?' asked Kell.
'It doesn't matter but a confirmation password has to be
agreed with the bank so that a check can be made that the
money has been deposited.'
‘
Then what?'
'A second password has to be agreed with the bank for the
transfer of the money. When we have the child we give
them the password and the money can be transferred into
whatever account they please.'
'What's to stop us grabbing the brat and not giving them
the password?' grinned Nelligan.
'I feel sure they have considered that possibility,
’ said Innes coldly. They didn't strike me
as being amateurs.'
‘
But then neither am I,’ said Kell with a smile.
Innes continued, 'You are to have a man in Chicago
within three days. He is to check in to Room 303 at the
Stamford Hotel. It's been reserved.’
'Then what?'
'He will be contacted and taken to see the boy. The
exchange is to take place within twenty-four hours after
that.’
'Where?'
They will decide that.’
'Of course,’ said Kell softly as if something was amusing
him.
They are calling the shots,’ said Innes.
'Of course they are,’ said Kell with an even broader smile.
His eyes, magnified by the strong lenses of his glasses,
blinked with the mesmerising regularity of a lizard as he
considered what he had heard.
‘
There will, of course, be the problem of getting the boy
out of the country after the hand-over,’ said Innes.
Kell looked at him as if he were some kind of mental
defective then said, 'Well, I'm sure our American friends
can help there, don't you think?'
'If you say so, Mr Kell.’
At eleven precisely the coded knock came to the door again and three men were admitted to the room. There were handshakes all round and the three introduced themselves as Shelby, Bogroless and Roker. Kell, still holding a tumbler of whisky, offered the Americans a drink. Shelby,
their leader, a short dark man wearing
a
grey suit and a yellow
silk shirt that threatened to burst under the strain of his
stomach, nodded to Kell's glass and said, I’ll have a drop of
Irish, too.'
His assumption had been wrong. Kell turned to Nelligan and asked him to ring down for a bottle of Jamieson's. He
raised his glass slightly in the direction of the American and
said, 'Scotch.'
The American made a joke about Kell's taste in whisky and Kell pretended to share in the amusement for he was sizing up
his guests. The request for Irish whiskey had been noted and
the man classified by Kell as a Yankee Paddy, Kell's own
derogatory term for Americans drawn to the romanticism of
the idea of Old Ireland.
But it didn't matter what they were, only the money
mattered. It was just a question of how best to deal with them. As the conversation continued it became clear that one of the
others, Bogroless, fell into the same mould as Shelby. The
third man, Roker, was not so easy to assess. He was not a Y.P.
He was too quiet, too withdrawn, a bit like Innes really, a bit
like an accountant. Chances were that's what he was. Kell
decided that he was the one with the brains.
Shelby said, 'Commander, you have requested our
co-operation in securing a great deal of money, an enormous
sum of money in fact.'
'A free Ireland doesn't come cheap,' said Kell.
'You really believe that that is what it could mean?' asked
Shelby.
Kell, adopting the rhetoric of the patriot, started selling the
plan to the Americans. The longer he spoke the more he could
see that he was convincing Shelby and Bogroless of the
feasibility of the operation but he was worried about Roker.
Roker had sat throughout with a complete lack of expression
save for a cold, hard gaze that had never left Kell for a
moment.
'Frankly, Commander, the sum of money involved is too
large. Don't you have some other way of financing it?'
asked Shelby.