Box-cutter grabbed as big a handful of my hair as he could, pulled back hard and ground the muzzle of his weapon deep into my neck. I could still make out Lynn's face at the very edge of my vision.
She bent down beside me and treated me to a waft of her lemony perfume. The tips of her perfectly manicured nails brushed my face. Her other hand pressed a pistol into mine.
'There is a single round in the magazine. You will load the round, point it at his forehead, count to ten and then pull the trigger.'
She gobbed off in Russian and the weapon came away from my neck. Box-cutter was clearly used to doing as he was told. Lynn was also released and we were left on our knees facing each other.
She lifted my chin. 'Liam Duff told me how my father died. He saw his body when it was brought up on deck. Blown almost in half by detonator cord.'
She stood and started filming once more.
'Kill me, Nick. Just promise me you won't tell her . . .'
I finally saw where he was going with this. Actions weren't going to get us out of this, he was telling me. But words might.
I jerked up my head. 'It didn't stop with Lynn, you know. It went higher.'
Did I detect a momentary hesitation?
'Right to the top. There was a source – a PIRA source. Someone senior in the leadership. It wasn't just the Bahiti . . . he gave us Loughgall, the Eksund, the whole organization . . .'
I heard a strangulated sound coming from Lynn. 'Nick, no, no . . .'
Mairead lowered the camcorder. Her brow furrowed, but only for a split second. She wasn't hooking into this as fast as I'd hoped.
'Kill us and you'll be looking over your shoulder forever. Release us and I'll tell you. In fact, I'll do better than that. You can film my confession. I'll do the whole thing on camera. Not that dinky little thing – a proper, grown-up camera in Dom's TV studio. I'll give you chapter and verse on the Eksund, the Bahiti, Loughgall, Enniskillen. And I'll name the source. But I want to see all four of them alive. Let them go and I'll tell you. I'll tell everyone. The name of your traitor will be broadcast across the world, and the British government will be seriously compromised.'
She still wasn't convinced.
'Think about it, Mary. The leadership knew they had to go the political route. But they also knew that people like your dad, the diehard Republicans, wouldn't see it that way. They'd see it as surrender. So they had to be dealt with before the leadership could become respectable and have their pictures taken kissing babies.'
I was getting to her. Her face said it all.
'I know – shit, isn't it? But get us to Dublin, release the others and I'll tell you everything you need to know.'
Lynn choked with rage. He was good at this. 'You bastard, Stone!'
For a second, our eyes locked. He knew, I knew. We understood each other. For the first and last time.
With a roar, he grabbed my hand and pulled the semiautomatic from my fingers.
For a moment, everybody froze. Mairead stood there, silhouetted against the light, still filming.
Lynn pointed the pistol at her and pulled the trigger.
There was silence. It wasn't made ready; the round was still in the mag.
Then the loud bang I'd been expecting finally came, and blood and brain tissue spattered my face. A red flower bloomed on his right temple and he fell forward across the steps.
Box-cutter shoved his pistol back into his jeans and turned away.
PART TEN
112
My head throbbed. I tried to lift my eyelids but they seemed determined to stay glued together. I was dry and thirsty, but my mouth felt too furred up to let anything through again.
I thought I could hear diesel engines, big ones, but for all I knew they could be inside my head.
I took as deep a breath as I could manage and forced my eyes open.
My vision blurred and my head spun. It was like having a lifetime's supply of hangovers in one hit.
At least I was aware how bad I felt; I took that as a good sign.
And wherever I was, it was hotter than hell.
I remembered the first injection, and a couple of the others I'd been given since to keep me under. Rapid heartbeat, dry mouth, vision beginning to go hazy . . . It all happened so quickly it had to be a scopolamine and morphine cocktail. The mix depresses the central nervous system. I'd treated a few targets to it, but never thought I'd be getting the good news myself.
Attempting to get my head into real-life mode, I checked inside my jacket. They'd had everything away: the Richardson passport and the card and the money. It wasn't worth worrying about; worrying wouldn't bring them back.
My eyes were starting to focus but my fingers were numb. I looked around me, flexing both hands as the pins-and-needles kicked in and they slowly came back to life. I was sitting on a sheet of steel. Some kind of bunk. There was no bedding, only the bunk fixed to the wall, and a slim wardrobe just big enough to hang a jacket in. Next to it was a tiny stainless-steel sink.
The bunk lurched and my head rolled onto my right shoulder.
I wasn't travelling first class. The whole cabin was layered with grime.
There was no porthole. I was probably below sea level and near the engines.
Where's Lynn?
Oh yeah, I remembered.
I rubbed away at days of stubble on my grease-coated skin. My eyes were gummed up and my mouth tasted stale and acidic.
I turned my head towards a steel door, painted to look like wood panelling. The stench of diesel was overpowering.
I dragged myself to my feet and stumbled to the not-so-stainless-steel sink. My knees buckled and I had to grip the rim to stop myself collapsing.
I pushed down on the tap. Water dribbled out. I bent down and sucked in a mouthful.
I staggered to the door.
The handle wouldn't budge. I'd known it wouldn't, but I had to try anyway.
I went back to the sink. I unbuttoned my jeans, tucked in the sweatshirt, pulled up my socks. If I could sort myself physically, maybe I could sort myself mentally.
I was definitely on a boat, and it was moving. On its way to Ireland? Maybe she'd bought the idea of me appearing on TV.
I stooped and sucked again at the trickle of water.
The image of Lynn sprawled across Layla's steps forced its way into my mind. His dad would have been proud of him, giving up his life for something that he believed in. I felt admiration and anger, in equal measure. Nobody was ever going to know what he'd done, and this time next year nobody was even going to care. Nobody apart from me. If I got out of this shit alive.
The door rattled.
Somebody was working the handle.