It was a large, well-appointed room with two doors opening off, presumably to the bathroom and the bedroom where the suspect parcel had been left. The television was on and a large man in fawn slacks and a lemon cashmere sweater was slumped in an armchair watching it. He seemed unaware of the arrival of the two men.
‘Did the package come by post?’ Harrison asked the minder.
‘No, sir, by motorcycle courier. I answered the door, of course, and signed for it. It’s one of those large padded Jiffy bags and feels like there’s a book inside. I checked the docket and it was sent by a bloke calling himself J. Smith.’ He gave a sheepish smile. ‘The senator said he wasn’t expecting anything and couldn’t think of anyone of that name — apart from the former Labour Party leader. And I didn’t like those waxy stains on the package. So I phoned the courier’s office. Apparently this Mr Smith walked straight in off the street andhe had an Irish accent. He gave an address which I’m having checked out… I hope I’m not wasting your time.’
Trenchard raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope you are, Sergeant.’
The big American in the armchair suddenly became aware of their conversation and levered himself to his feet. He had a broad, determined-looking face and thick silver hair with that glamorous tint of purple favoured by middle-aged stars in American soap operas. Harrison suspected that the colour was as artificial as the sun-lamp tan.
‘Who is this guy?’ he demanded of his minder. His manner was impatient and superior, the words spoken as though Harrison wasn’t actually there himself.
‘He’s from bomb disposal, sir.’
A grunt. ‘He’s taken his time. I thought you Brits were supposed to be experts. Just as well it’s not the real thing.’
Harrison said: ‘What makes you think that, Senator?’
The man spared him a sideways glance. ‘Because no one knows I’m here, for a start.’
‘This Mr Smith does.’
He didn’t like that, clearly he wasn’t used to smart backchat from those he considered his inferiors. ‘And anyway, who the hell’s gonna want to blow me up?’
Your minder for a start, Harrison thought. But he said: ‘PIRA perhaps. The Provisional IRA.’
The cold grey eyes stared. ‘If you’d done your homework, you’d know I’m renowned as a sympathiser of the Republican cause. But then I guess paranoia about the IRA’s pretty endemic over here.’ He added dismissively: ‘Why don’t you just get on with your work and let me relax before my car arrives for the heliport.’
As the American returned to his chair, Harrison spoke to Trenchard. ‘As this package has been handled by the courier and the senator’s minder, it should be stable enough for me to carry outside.’ He lifted a coil of Cordtex explosive cable from the toolbag. ‘I’ll lean it against a wall and use a strip of this as a cutting charge. You won’t want the bits spread all over. So if you can clear me a route down, get all the guests out of the lobby and cordon off the street…’
Trenchard looked incredulous. ‘This isn’t Belfast, Tom. I’ve told you, this needs to be handled discreetly. You’ve got an Xray machine, so why not do it in situ? My people would rather you cut it open and save any evidence in preference to blowing the thing up.’
Harrison was irritated at his friend’s willingness to compromise safety. ‘I told you earlier. There’s a risk of damage and fire if it goes wrong.’
‘We’ve already agreed to compensate the hotel.’
‘And the surgeon’s bill for sewing my hands back on?’
Trenchard grinned.“You don’t mean that, Tom. Look, you’ve got the X-ray, so take a dekko and if you don’t think you can handle it, we’ll do it your way. That fair?’
Reluctantly persuaded by the compromise, Harrison donned his flak jacket and helmet, picked up the toolbag and the Inspector, and headed for the bedroom. He felt mildly irritated, aware that the Explosives Section would have had no problem in complying with Trenchard’s wishes, whereas his was the army’s way.
Don’t sit on top of a bomb when you can open it up at a distance. He knew whose philosophy he shared.
Once inside the room it was like shutting off the outside world. It was uncannily still and quiet, just the muted sound of London traffic beyond the window and the soft burble of the television set from the next room. Crumpled sheets lay on the bed, waiting for the chambermaid to be allowed in to do her work.
The package had been left on the dressing table. Harrison approached and drew the curtains closed at the window behind it. He didn’t want glass showering the street below if there was an accident. He then went down on his haunches to examine the package. Senator Powers’ name and the hotel had been written directly onto the brown paper in felt-tip pen, the end of the padded envelope stapled. When he moved his head slightly, he could detect the sheen of the wax or grease stains on the surface. Probably marks from someone’s fingers.
Satisfied, he placed a film cassette under the envelope, then picked up the Inspector X-ray machine by the handle and took an overhead shot. Transferring the plate to the small processing unit which resembled a single-sheet desk-top photocopier, he waited impatiently for the minute to elapse until the positive image picture was ejected.
He knew exactly what he was looking for and there it was. A fat hardback book, possibly some type of dictionary, a recess having been cut into the pages with a craft knife. The thin wafer of plastic explosive was difficult to distinguish, showing up as a grey film. Its presence was better indicated by the positioning of the detonator cap and the short twist of wires that led from it to the two slim 1.5-volt batteries positioned underneath.
He searched for the expected spring-loaded microswitch, the small metal arm of which would be held closed by the front cover of the book — nothing. Then, it must be — Yes, there it was. Two strips of foil paper, one adhered to the inside front cover of the book, the other glued to the first page. Between them, just standing proud, was a piece of cardboard. It looked like an official invitation with smoothly rounded corners.
In his mind’s eye he could visualise Senator Abe Powers tearing open the envelope, glancing at the book, puzzled, then seeing the invitation card protruding. Intrigued, the American would have pulled it out and the two separated strips of foil would have touched. The circuit would have completed instantly.
He double-checked the X-ray print of the wiring until he was satisfied that he could account for every intended function. Rummaging in the toolbag, he selected a scalpel with a pristine razor blade, then lowered his visor before returning to the package. Concentrating hard, and aware of the steady thud of his heart, he made the first incision. That was always the worst. Rapidly he cut away an entire end of the envelope. Then, clasping the book firmly closed between the fingers of his left hand, he slid it completely clear.
The next part was easy, but irrational fear made it the hardest. Leaving the invitation card in place, he flipped open the front cover of the book. Nothing, of course, happened. There in front of him on the inside of the cover was one strip of foil with its attached wire. He clipped it, breaking the contact and rendering it safe.
He removed the card, placing it to one side, then snipped the wire attached to the foil on the first page, just to be doubly sure before removing the detonator from the explosive.
Only then did he become aware that he had been holding his breath for several seconds. Now he relaxed sufficiently to allow himself a small, smug grin of satisfaction.
Idly he picked up the invitation card. It was black-edged and properly printed in a copperplate typeface. It invited Senator Abe Powers III to attend a funeral. His. And there was a signature in blue ink. AIDAN.