‘Which won’t work in practice,’ Findlay pointed out. Rawlings agreed, but kept a judicial silence.
Powers removed his spectacles. ‘Perhaps not. But the point is, it’s been agreed. By your party, the Ulster Unionists, the Catholic SDLP and seconded by both governments.’
‘But it’s trivia,’ Findlay repeated.
‘These are building blocks,’ Powers countered. ‘Keep building and before you know it, we’ll have a complete wall. Let’s first agree what we can, rather than what we can’t.’ He took a deep and weary breath. ‘But if you want to look at one architect’s plan of a finished house…? Let me tell you, I had private meetings in London last week with the Prime Minister and Opposition leader, as well as several academics. I received broad agreement in principle. I have since been to Dublin. In fact, I have only just got back from there…’
Findlay’s exasperation finally broke. ‘Why Dublin, for heaven’s sake? It’s a foreign country. You might just as well talk to Japan or India!’
Powers’ voice was deep with dramatic gravitas. ‘Clause One, Mr Findlay, “To live with and recognise present practicalities.’
Bloody smart arse! Findlay fumed inwardly, but could not contain his indignation. ‘And just what gives you the right, Senator-Abraham-Patrick-Know-It-All-Powers-the-Third to come here and meddle in another sovereign state’s internal affairs? What qualification do you have for that? Tell me that, will you?’
For a long moment the two men glared in mutual hostility, rutting stags with antlers locked. Then Powers relaxed back into his armchair. Quietly he said: ‘Because I am one of forty million Americans who are descended from Irish families dispossessed by British indifference and landlordism after the Potato Famine of 1845. One of the million families who fled to America in order to survive certain death by hunger. Is that qualification enough?’
There was a faint, sardonic smile on Findlay’s face. ‘Then there’s no doubt where your sympathies lie.’
You’ve made your point, Rawlings thought. None of us like meddlers in our affairs. But at least Abe Powers was making progress, even if it was inch by inch. To prevent the antipathy from growing, he said: ‘Then you’d better tell us, Senator, just what is your proposal that so charmed London and Dublin.’
Powers signalled his appreciation with a brief smile. ‘In general terms, it is this. The introduction of Voting Registration, whereby all subjects of Northern Ireland will be required to register as either Irish or British citizens. They retain all rights, including voting in local council elections. But those who register as Irish will only be able to vote for a parliamentary member of the Dail in Dublin. Only those registering as British will be able to vote for an MP at Westminster. Of course, it would mean acts in Parliament and the Dail to end dual nationality and Irish rights to vote in the UK.’
Rawlings frowned. ‘And exactly what do you see as the benefit of this to us Protestant Unionists?’
Powers turned his palms upward. ‘For you it is a permanent safeguard against the inevitable day when there is a Catholic majority in the Province — one of your greatest fears. And, if mainstream Irish political parties are encouraged north to win the Catholic-British vote, then Sinn Fein will be fatally undermined.’
‘And the Anglo-Irish Agreement?’ Findlay asked.
‘It would go. Redundant, you see.’ Powers looked smug.
‘No, Senator, it would be a Trojan horse. For a start every Catholic in County Londonderry, Fermanagh and Tyrone would be voting for a member of the Dail — it would be untenable. Just how long before the Six Counties were reduced to the Three?’
Powers said: ‘I’ll remind’you of the Secret Protocol. Dublin is to renounce all claims on the Province. It will not be an issue.’
Findlay shook his head. ‘Regardless of Dublin’s promises, the issue would not go away under your proposals.’
Something had been bothering Rawlings for a while now. ‘Tell me, Senator, there’s more to this Secret Protocol than you’ve told us, isn’t there? It doesn’t make sense, Dublin doing all the giving. I mean, what’s in it for them?’
Powers pursed his lips in long and careful consideration of what he should say. ‘I will tell you this in private, but I shall deny it if ever I am challenged in public’ The faces of the two Protestant politicians were impassive masks, only the intense look in their eyes signified their interest in how Powers had pulled it off. ‘As you know, Eire is virtually a bankrupt state. On the face of it, the worst thing that could happen would be for its dream of a United Ireland to come true — with Ulster’s unemployment added to its own. So, in return for dropping Articles Two and Three and cooperating with mutual selective internment, the British Government has pledged full support to Irish demands on the Regional Support Fund, the Social Fund and the Common Agricultural Policy through the European Community.’ Powers smiled. ‘Do I have to spell it out? Money will flood in. For once, Ireland will not need to raise taxes and, for once, the current Irish Government will not lose its next election.’
Rawlings and Findlay looked at each other; they’d been friends long enough to know what the other was thinking. Their expressions of stunned surprise said it all. Powers had the major players already sewn up. It was up to the rest of the ragtag politicians to grab whatever they could.
At that point the conversation was interrupted by a heavy knock at the door.
Clearly irritated at the intrusion, Abe Powers called for the bodyguard to enter. ‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Sorry to disturb you, Senator ‘
‘Yes?’
‘I’m afraid there’s been a bomb threat.’
Major Tom Harrison had just turned in for the night at British Army Headquarters, Lisburn in Northern Ireland, when the call came through from the watchkeeper.
It was the Europa again. Considered to be a symbol of successful commerce and business in Belfast, the hotel had been a regular target of the Provisional IRA over the years. Probably, Harrison reflected, the most bombed building in the world.
A sixty-minute warning given in a phone call made to Ulster Television. That had been just five minutes earlier.
As Senior Ammunition Technical Officer in day-to-day command of 321 Explosive Ordnance Disposal Squadron, he would not normally expect to be called out to a routine task. The section leader — a captain, warrant officer or sergeant — would be more than experienced and competent to deal with every usual eventuality. But being an hotel this was a high-priority threat due to the possibility of considerable loss of human life. And, secondly, the warning message had been codesigned AID AN.
Several weeks earlier, after discussions with his colonel, the Chief ATO, or ‘Top Cat’, as he was still nicknamed from the days of insecure radio when that was the most senior ATO’s call sign — it was decided that the SATO would put in a discreet appearance whenever the name AIDAN was associated with a threat. So far they had lost one ATO and had two injured since this apparently new bomber had come on the scene. It was the worst casualty record since the early seventies before new techniques had been perfected. And that was not to mention the write-off of two Wheelbarrow robots.
Harrison replaced the receiver of the bedside telephone and switched on the light. No amount of travel posters affixed to the bare painted walls, or homely ornaments and books could disguise the fact that his mess quarters were no more than a cell in an open prison for well-behaved inmates. Still, it was infinitely preferable to ‘Cardboard City’, the flimsy-walled annexe in which most junior officers had to endure many a disturbed night; it was said that if just one man broke wind the entire block woke up.