‘Two non-political forums are to be set up between Dublin and Belfast, one on Tourism and Culture and another on Trade and Economic Cooperation…’
He closed the doors behind him, Abe Powers’ litany of agreement gently muffled as he waited until the delegates broke up for a finger buffet and glasses of inferior wine.
A world of their own, he thought. There they all were, carried along on a wave of blind enthusiasm and hope for a new beginning, while the people who really counted were out there somewhere planning their next strike.
While AIDAN was determined to bomb its way to the conference table — or destroy the talks completely — Abe Powers’ dreams and those of the politicians would remain just that. Dreams.
Over lunch he made a point of talking briefly to Senator Powers and the other leading politicians present. Satisfied that there were no complaints on any aspect of security, he returned to his car and began the drive back to London.
He arrived in the capital just after rush hour, the worst of the commuter traffic travelling in the opposite direction.
When he arrived at the mortuary, only the duty officer was present to answer his questions about the victims of the apparent own goal in Lambeth.
‘It’s early days, Mr Trenchard. Humpty Dumpty had nothing on these jokers. Both were partially vaporised and we’ve a lot of bone fragments to piece together.’
‘But you have some initial findings?’
The man gave a dry smile. ‘I can tell you one was female, about five-four in height and light build. The other was male, possibly five-nine with some curvature to the spine which suggests he was in his late fifties or early sixties. Beyond that, it’s pure speculation.’
‘So no positive identification?’
‘Well, normally the IRA get around to telling the world who their intrepid and heroic bombers were. Otherwise, it’ll be a question of matching dental records — once we can reassemble all the bits. Not too difficult if the people concerned have served time.’
‘How long is that likely to take?’
‘Guessing, four to six weeks. Maybe less, maybe more.’
‘And nothing else to go on?’
‘A few personal effects.’ He produced two polythene bags from a row of locked steel drawers. ‘One pearl stud earring and an eternity ring from the woman. And this from the man’s hand.’
Trenchard held the little bag up to the overhead light. A plain gold wedding band. And a Celtic Birds ring.
Eddie Mercs looked up from Casey’s VDU. ‘Is this true?’ ‘Verbatim.’, ‘I mean it’s not a case of you not letting the facts get in the way of a good story?’
‘I don’t write fairy tales, Eddie.’
‘You know it’s dynamite, don’t you? I just hope you’re not doing this because you’ve fallen out of bed with lover boy?’
She smiled ever so sweetly. ‘I’m not that sort of girl.’
‘And it wasn’t unattributable?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Eddie, no. He just told me. Period.’
Mercs grunted. ‘Well, it’s certainly got to be a breach of confidence.’
‘That’s my problem. The thing is, do you think they’ll run with it?’
‘Probably — provided the editor doesn’t mind kissing his knighthood goodbye. Besides, the whole thing’s going to break in the next few days.’
‘What whole thing?’
‘The link between the AID AN campaign and those secret talks. You remember, Senator Abe Powers? There’s been a leak from his home town, probably from one of his political staff there. It could be Powers’ opening gambit to run for Vice President. A small item in the local newspaper hinting at an imminent breakthrough on the Irish question. It’s been on the wires and I’m not going to be the only one who’s picked up on it. I’ve been onto the Northern Ireland Office and they’re still denying everything-but, unofficially, my contact says there couldbe an announcement next week.’
‘So, what are you going to do?’
The, I’m packing my shillelagh and my mouth organ and heading acrus the wutah,’ he replied, trailing into a dreadful Irish accent.
‘To Belfast?’
‘Belfast, Deny, Dublin — whatever it takes. Gerard Keefe owes me and it’s time to call in the debt.’
‘Let me come with you.’
Mercs was taken aback. ‘You? Why on earth would you want to go there? There’s no story in it for you.’
She slid her arm around his shoulder. ‘I’m curious, that’s all, Eddie. There’s been so much talk about Northern Ireland lately and I know nothing about the place.’
He grunted, aware that his resistance was token. ‘You don’t want to know either.’
‘But I do, Eddie. I’ll be no trouble, promise. I’m due some leave — is it a deal?’
Casey had no doubt that it would be and, despite his apparent reluctance, neither did Mercs. Indeed he’d be lying to himself if he said the prospect of her company didn’t delight him. A willowy American redhead on his arm — it could do his credibility no harm at all. Privately he recognised that the prospect of luring her into his bed was remote, but he didn’t dwell on the down side; with some things it was better to live in eternal hope.
The article revealing a Security Service plot to manipulate the press into persuading the IRA bombers to complicate their bombs sufficiently to blow themselves up was raised at the morning news conference. It was referred to the lawyers who were afraid that as only the Standard had carried the story the newspaper might find itself open to a suit for contributory damages from Les Appleyard and his wife.
When the story finally appeared in the midday Late Prices edition, all direct reference to Major Tom Harrison as the source was removed, as were all references to the fact that Appleyard might have been injured as a direct or indirect result of MI5’s wheeze and the Standard’s own article. To avoid anyone else making the obvious connection after her previous articles, Casey Mullins’s by-line was removed and replaced by an anonymous ‘Staff Reporters’ credit before it made the front-page headlines.
It fooled nobody.
Tom Harrison caught the full broadside of Al Pritchard’s fury the moment he stepped into the Section’s office after lunch.
‘Of all the bloody irresponsible things to say!’ the Sexpo fumed. ‘Apart from anything else, how the hell are Les and Doreen going to feel with all this stuff over the papers?’
Al Pritchard wasn’t the only one. John Nash was waiting by his side, his face tight with scarcely suppressed anger. However, he was a little more diplomatic. ‘We need to talk, Major.’ The use of his rank sounded ominous. ‘I believe your office is free.’
Harrison led the way. As soon as the door closed behind them, Nash said tersely: ‘I hope you’ve got a bloody good explanation.’ He slapped down the latest edition of the Standard.
The SATO picked it up, dry-mouthed, and scanned down the column.
‘Well?’ Nash asked impatiently.
Harrison looked up. ‘Well, what? It’s true, isn’t it?’
“That’s hardly the bloody point, Tom! You had no business telling the Mullins woman that.’
‘You were the one who wanted to win over the press. To take her into my confidence.’
Veins swelled in Nash’s temples. ‘Don’t get funny with me. Haven’t you ever heard of the Official Secrets Act, or did they just neglect to ask you to sign it when you joined the army?’
‘I don’t remember you saying anything about Official Secrets when you coerced me into this, John. And I don’t remember you specifically telling me what not to mention.’
Nash scowled and thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets. ‘And, Tom, when I suggested you got into bed with her, I didn’t mean literally, so stop playing silly buggers. The last thing I expected was this sort of pillow talk.’