Good lad, Minogue thought, at least you're covering for your pals and that's no bad thing. Not the end of the world.
"Could you arrange to have it done, if you please? And have that Garda Doherty call me as soon as he has anything?"
"Yes, sir."
Currelly and Minogue strolled over to their own car.
"Is this a big deal, Matt?" Currelly asked.
"Ah you know, I'm just pulling on bits of things really."
"Terrible bloody mesS that thing yesterday. Out in Blackrock."
Both men got into Minogue's car.
"And tell me, Matt, how have you been since that other business?"
"Could be worse, Jack, could be worse," Minogue heard himself reply.
The traffic on Friday in Dublin had staggered an already shaky system. Soon they became enmeshed. The sun came out and Currelly rolled down his window. On the path beside him, a well-dressed couple walked by speaking French loudly over the noise of the cars. Minogue knew there wouldn't be any prints worth a damn in the car and he was still being bobbed around on a string. He'd call Trinity to see if anything had shown up in lost and found.
The Irish Times headlines lay across Allen's desk, barely held in by the width of the newspaper itself. The picture of a Garda in uniform stood next to a picture of a car on its side, leaning against a Mercedes. He was sure of his decision now. Surprisingly, Allen had slept well. He had not dreamed. He felt light now. The sun threw light in the window, over his notes and against the bookcases. It was as good a time as any.
Allen was certain that he could persuade her. He returned to his notes and began trying to memorise the outline. Allen gathered his notes. He couldn't concentrate. He removed mementoes from a drawer-a pen won in grammar school, a medal of his father's. He looked around the room. There was little or nothing personal in it. A few plants-they could stay-a radio alarm clock, a poster of an old phrenology diagram. The books had been expensive but they could be allowed no weight now.
Allen fingered through the files in his desk. Anyone could take his place, marking tests, going to conferences, meeting with colleagues. Committees, proposals, luncheons. Student counselling, research, administration. Evaluation, theses, recommendations. Evisceration. Yes, that too. His friends? Allen's reserve and self sufficiency had allowed him distance. He sat at his desk and began writing a list of what he had to do: 'Bank, letter, solicitor.' He'd go whether she agreed or not. He went through his office again, selecting and discarding.
The committee met in a carpeted room in Dublin Castle. Army intelligence arrived in civvies. The only uniforms present were those of two district superintendents from Dublin. Almost half of the eleven men present were from Special Branch. A civil servant who looked more like a priest, and knew it and cultivated it, sat at the table also.
"The basics are these," a Special Branch detective was explaining.
"We have a man in custody, one James Duffy, native of Newry. He has no record of criminal activities with the RUC. The most he has done in his life is thrown stones during riots, live on the dole and, the RUC suspect, drive other people's cars without their permission. He is on a list of theirs as under suspicion for involvement in IRA activities. Admits to driving the car yesterday. Claims not to have known the other two. Not even their names. You know the routine. Admits to being a 'volunteer.' He says he was here on a kind of holiday. We think he's small fry and that he will be no loss to them. That's probably why he was sent down here. Expendable."
"What does he know, Sergeant?" army intelligence asked bluntly.
"Yes, he picked up the car-incidentally the plates were fakes-in the vicinity of a lane behind Lower Baggot Street. We found the garage that probably hid the car and fixed the plates. So, to answer your question, he knows bugger-all. He's more or less a stooge. He says the two were bored so they wanted to crack a bank in south county Dublin."
"How did he get his instructions?" the army man persisted.
"Over the phone. As for the garage. We got in yesterday evening. It was decided by the boys on the spot. As it turns out, nothing would have been gained by setting up a surveillance. They had flown the "coop."
"They?" said the civil servant.
"Whoever. The owner rented it out, paid in advance. He says the man who rented it was, what was his word, 'civilised.' Well-to-do. Youngish and fit-looking." The detective flicked to a page: "… 'well groomed'… 'obviously a businessman'… The man told him it was for preparing antique cars for restorations. The name doesn't mean anything and the address is rubbish. The man was'refined.'"
"In other words, nobody."
"Has the owner been through the books?" one of the superintendents asked, more to get a word in than to advance the understanding of the meeting.
"Yes, sir. Nothing." The detective sat down. The man next to him stood and put his hands in his pockets. He had no notes to brief him.
"A man who used one of the sheds up the lane identified the Mercedes straight away. He couldn't be sure about another car he saw there earlier in the week though. He settled on a Japanese car and that's as good as we'll get. The thing which may be of concern is that one of them was getting some substantial attention. Some alteration or repair job."
"What's the significance, Inspector?" queried the superintendent.
"Well, we believe the car or cars are being prepared for some operation. If this old man is right, a car has been modified most likely. We're working on the worst interpretation here."
"With respect, Inspector, I have to explain to the Minister why you are considering this. Seems tenuous to me," the civil servant said. The inspector, who had twenty years on the bureaucrat he was silently eying all the while, continued.
"Fair enough. We discount legitimate purposes. We don't think that this outfit went to the trouble of getting a place just to switch plates on a stolen car. A babe in arms could do that blind drunk on a wet night. We think there's some kind of a shift on but to be quite honest," he paused and looked directly over to the man from army intelligence, "we don't really know more than the next man."
He didn't have to spell it out. Sources in the British Special Branch and anti-terrorist squads had been unusually communicative lately. This was the case with the Brits only when they were grumbling. They grumbled because there was little they could do about it from their side, and they grumbled because the RUC's grumbles weren't listened to as keenly in the South. Ergo there was something going on in the South they wanted to stop but couldn't do it themselves. The increase in shootings and the sophistication of the weapons and techniques involved had them stymied. Their usual sources knew nothing about how the weapons were getting in. They had stepped up the border patrols and they had undertaken aerial surveillance with helicopters. The inspector let the silence sink in with its eloquence. Then he reminded them.
"There are signs that there's a new twist to the arms supply. You all know that our department feels the political pressure very quickly. We're pulling out all the stops. This business yesterday has turned up the heat even more."
"Will you outline the courses we can follow, gentlemen?" the civil servant asked.
"We're at a disadvantage. Our sources have either dried up or they don't know anything. There seem to be new men in the game. Whoever this'refined businessman' is, we don't know. We should acknowledge that. We think that there's a connection between yesterday and our current problems. A slip. The human factor, if you like. No organisation is completely watertight. I'm suggesting that every available man be on a surveillance roster for each and every so-called republican on our books. The two murderers have to go to ground somewhere. I want taps on phones… I have a list here and it's as short as I can make it."