‘Parked cars.’
‘No.’
‘Lay-bys.’
‘One.’
‘Civilians.’
‘Not a touch.’
It sounded doable, possible. Certainly not off-the-scale absurd, which he realised now he’d been hoping for. Because how could he refuse a clean, high-impact job like this? He was enjoying his lighting work at the moment. That and the plastering and driving, and trying to learn his Spanish for a half-hour each night. Puedo, puedes, puede, podemos. Secret operations gave a buzz and as a result they wore you away. With languages he’d keep his options open. Widen out the places he could live and work if things got worse. Spain. France. He’d have enough money in a few years to get out of here. By then he would have done his bit to save the place, he’d be able to pay someone to look after his mother, maybe take Bobby with him, clumsy deaf Bobby, get him out of St Shitpit. And at the same time the idea of the ferry job was swelling in his mind now, taking on detail and colour, and there was an ugly excitement to it all — a challenge to be met.
‘What would you need, Danny? What doings to make it happen?’
Dawson had moved closer, the pearly buttons of his shirt giving off a gleam. Ancient Jones’s TV was blaring facts about sharks.
‘I’d want a caravan.’
‘Caravan?’
‘As though a family is having a weekend away.’
‘Good,’ Dawson said. His features had settled into a look of grudging respect. ‘And what would you need, in that caravan? Three trucks to take out, remember.’
‘One thousand five hundred of mix. Home-made. Get one of your more competent Red Light lot to make it.’
‘Good. Clear. Now the detonators.’
‘If I do the job, which I’m not saying I will —’
‘You’re briefed. It’s agreed.’
‘If it’s something I can do justice to —’
‘Listen to yourself! You sound like a bloody pub singer down the Shankill! Five years ago —’
‘Six.’
‘— you were an innocent babe. I like innocence. I pay a premium for it.’
‘I’ll bring my own detonators. I’ve had it with the quality of detonators being produced. You risk everything and then the operation whimpers into nothing. It’s stupid there isn’t a standard agreed testing procedure, in advance. It’s not rocket science.’
‘And I’m not the Pope,’ Dawson whispered, crouching to stub out his cigarette. ‘When you’re appointed Chief Explosives Officer, you can issue these decrees, can’t you?’
A hot pause. ‘Patrick’ll be in place for years.’
‘Unless he goes out with a bang.’
‘I want in on it,’ Dan said.
‘You what?’
‘The job that Patrick’s doing.’
Why? Why had he said it? Why had he offered himself up? He didn’t know himself well enough to say. Career progression? Pursuit of a thrill? Misguided loyalty to Patrick? Wanting to be at Patrick’s side if risks were to be taken? Patrick who’d also lost friends on Bloody Sunday. Patrick who’d trained in Libya and knew all there was to know. Patrick who said one night as they sculpted Semtex in the warehouse that he and Dan were joint captains of a submarine. You put a periscope up, you see an enemy warship, you know your job is to sink that ship. Focus on the target. Remember it’s a target. Planting a bomb or pressing a button below deck. Same thing. Identical. In wars people die every day.
Dawson looked at him with dire eyes and said, ‘Pushy. Where did your modesty go, my little choirboy?’ Then he sighed, chewed his thin bottom lip, glanced at the gate. ‘It’s a seaside jobbie. You know Patrick’s been involved with some mainland thinking, yes?’ He was barely audible now; Dan leaned in. ‘Beach towns, cities. Stoking a few fires.’
‘You were right. I’m not interested. After La Mon you’re mad to go that route. Tourists, restaurants, hotels. What about the Council directive? That stuff’s a PR disaster.’
‘I knew a woman in PR once. She was nice despite it.’
‘You’re away in the head to be thinking along these lines.’
‘This particular plan, it changes everything. It’s the end of everything, Dan. After this job, give it ten years, there’ll be peace.’
Dan laughed.
‘You have things to learn,’ Dawson said. Dan was surprised to see he’d hurt him. ‘A stiffing is all about timing. Get it wrong and you’re out on your ear.’
‘Who’s getting stiffed, then?’
‘An assassination of a political figure. It works, but only when they’re already at a low, you know? That’s why the Kennedy thing made him into a dead god. He’d never been at a low enough ebb. When a leader’s shown their cruel side, and there’s a significant pool of haters within the moderates, and said leader has already made herself into a monster, even within half of her own country … Watching soldiers starve. Being brutal to the poor. Ignoring the north and the west …’
‘You can’t seriously be talking about this.’
‘I’m always seriously talking. Haven’t I told you before? Greatest tragedy of my life is people think I’m joking.’ He bent down to remove a bit of soil from his shoe. ‘The conference. The hotel the Cabinet will be staying in.’
‘The whole?’ Dan said. ‘Come on, the whole Cabinet?’
Dawson smiled. ‘If you want more, you’ll have to come in for a meeting. The warehouse tomorrow.’
‘The losses.’
‘Legitimate targets. One or two staff, perhaps, but if they’re hosting our targets they’re legitimate too.’
‘Staff are collateral damage, at best. Don’t kid yourself.’
‘You’ll be surprised how contagious kidding yourself is. Every one of them is part of the political elite.’
‘Maids, cleaners?’
‘Serving the elite, then. The point is, Dan, you change, with one blast —’
‘Timed in the night, to limit losses?’
‘You change everything.’ Dawson sighed and looked around him, lowered his voice even further. ‘Whitelaw’s Deputy PM. He, in the first instance, assumes power. We’ll need to talk about this in the warehouse.’ He glanced again at the fence.
He couldn’t really be suggesting this. He couldn’t really be serious. ‘If he lives, you mean. And she … because we’re talking about her, aren’t we? She might not, you know.’
‘No, she might be a vegetable instead.’
‘And Whitelaw.’
‘Whitelaw’s weak. Voices on the line suggest he won’t be in the hotel on the night, anyway. So he takes power. And it doesn’t take him long to see, with his experience of us to date, that he needs to put in process a free Ireland.’
‘Alternatively —’
‘Alternatively? Alternatively this conversation is coming to an end. But alternatively he hands over to Tebbit. That would be trouble. But, much more likely, Heseltine. Heseltine’s always hated Thatcher. Urged more moderation upon her, behind the scenes. He knows she made a bad play with Bobby Sands. Most of the Cabinet are looking for a way out. You don’t let a man martyr himself in front of the camera. With Heseltine as PM it’s the same end result.’
‘Which is?’
‘We get our country back.’
Bobby Sands on hunger strike, waist all withered, the awful embroidery of his ribcage.
‘It’s not my place, Dawson, but it’s huge. I mean, as a statement. Think about it before you —’
‘You’re right,’ Dawson said. ‘It’s not your place.’
‘But come on, what if —’
‘If we don’t eliminate them all? We say that was never the intention. We wanted to show the mainland’s not secure. It’s almost more effective. A symbol’s a symbol. A lot of thought by bigger brains than yours has gone into all this, and I have somewhere I need to be. This isn’t going to fail, Dan.’