‘I can do without your cheap comments.’
A slow, bitter smile crossed Nash’s face. ‘Well, if my comments are cheap, Tom, yours are going to turn out to be bloody expensive. The brown stuff has already hit the fan — it’s not only over my office but all over the Yard and the MOD — the Northern Ireland Office and Downing Street, too, are only a matter of time. You’re going to regret this bitterly.’
Harrison turned slowly, his words precise and well chosen. ‘The only thing I regret, Nash, is that I allowed Don to talk me into this in the first place. If I’d trusted my instincts, Les might still have his legs.’
‘Is this what it’s all about?’
‘I saw Les yesterday. Not a pretty sight.’
For a moment Nash was unsure, his footing lost. ‘C’mon, Tom, for God’s sake, you’re a soldier and this is war.’
Harrison’s eyes fixed on his. ‘Don’t talk to me about soldiering and war. All you know is cloak-and-dagger stuff.’
‘So you’re blaming me for Les’s accident?’
A hesitation. ‘No, ultimately I blame PIRA. But you and I played our parts, didn’t we? All too damn well.’
Nash looked momentarily chastened. He was beginning to perspire and fiddled nervously with the knot of his tie, letting air get to his collar. At length he said: ‘Well, Tom, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think you’ll be playing a part for much longer. The AntiTerrorist Branch is acceding to Pritchard’s renewed request that you be taken off the Section.’
‘Maybe I need a touch of clean Belfast air. At least there I’ve got some idea who the enemy is.’
He knew he’d gone too far then when he saw the expression in Nash’s eyes. ‘You won’t be returning to Belfast. I’ve already spoken to CATO. The colonel isn’t too pleased with you. You’ve got leave due — you’re to take it while it’s decided what to do with you. Frankly, Major Harrison, I think your career has come to a premature end.’
Harrison leaned across the desk, his fists planted firmly on the leather top, his jaw jutting defiance. ‘And frankly, my dear, after all this I don’t think I give a damn.’
But he did. He knew the moment Nash stalked to the door and slammed it closed making the glass rattle. Even through his anger with the terrorists, with Nash and with himself, he knew he cared. His job wasn’t just a job, it was a vocation. It hadn’t started like that, but that was what it had become. It had been the same with all of them. Jock Murray, Les Appleyard and Tom Harrison, the three musketeers. And now there was only him left. If he were to be kicked out of the Service now, then the terrorists had won.
He needed to know exactly where he stood. Picking up the telephone, he dialled direct through to CATO in Lisburn. ‘It’s Tom here, Colonel.’
‘Ah, you didn’t waste much time, old son.’
Harrison closed his eyes in relief. The lilting sing-song accent was as friendly as ever. An ally if ever one was needed. ‘Sorry, I seem to have blown things this end. I was a bit cut up after seeing Les Appleyard yesterday and spoke out of turn to a journalist friend. It was a stupid thing to have done.’
There was a brief, considered silence. ‘I thought there had to be a reason for it, Tom. That’s somewhat reassuring. But bad news travels fast. The front page of the Standard has been faxed. I would be surprised if the Sinn Fein office hasn’t even been sent one. However, I’m afraid your reasons won’t cut much ice with the powers that be. They’d want your head on a pole if it wasn’t that they’d prefer to hush the whole thing up as soon as possible. Afraid it might be seen as the government trying to influence these nonexistent talks that aren’t going on.’ On an open line, this was telling anyone who wanted to listen what he really thought of the Establishment’s treatment of his Senior ATO.
Harrison said: ‘Am I reading the tea leaves right, sir? My career’s finished?’
There was a slight pause. ‘You’ve powerful friends at court, Tom. Me for one and Don Trenchard for another are planning to have a word in the GOC’s ear. Your future is safe. But the* Northern Ireland Office won’t want you back here, Tom. After that revelation, they say you’re a liability, a natural target for the little people. And they could well be right. I’m sorry, you’ll be sorely missed.’
Harrison knew exactly what the colonel meant. His job was safe, but his career was finished. The sentence was implicit: no return to Ulster meant he could never become CATO. Exiled for ever in the purgatory of some arms dump in one of Britain’s shrinking overseas outposts making inventories of war stock and blowing up unstable old ammunition.
There could hardly even be a lucrative future as a civilian in the Section. Not now.
And his private life was. similarly bleak. Not only had his marriage finally broken down, but he’d also managed to destroy the first real love to enter his life in years. Allowed himself to put duty before honour. Unlucky was starting to look like bloody carelessness.
As he replaced the receiver, with Colonel LloydWilliams confirming he would be relieved in London the next day by a major who was flying in from Germany, Harrison almost felt sorry for himself. Only the thought of Les Appleyard’s plight kept him from self-pity and reminded him to make a call to the Cambridge.
His friend was still on a ventilator, Wallace told him, but his condition was stable.
He hung up and looked around the empty office. Two weeks’ enforced leave lay before him. He was tempted to pack a tent and a backpack and take to the hills. Maybe South Wales or the Yorkshire Dales. Pippa might be persuaded to agree to Archie going with him. That would be good; oddly enough, since his split with Pippa, he and his son had been getting on especially well together. Harrison had managed to snatch the odd afternoon off to take Archie fishing, to the cinema or, if time was tight, just for a McDonald’s. Thankfully Pippa had always been at work when he called. Yes, he decided, a camping trip would be fun.
And Casey?
Just the thought brought a smile to his face. He remembered her interest when he told her he liked to hike in remote places. ‘I’d like that,’ she’d said. ‘I used to be a Girl Scout. And I like to think I can still switch from satin to denim. Next time you go just give me time to pack my rucksack and rollers.’
The telephone trilled on his desk, jolting him from his memories, and he snatched it up irritably.
‘Tom?’
Was this mental telepathy? ‘Casey.’
Her words came out in a gush: ‘Tom, I’m so sorry. I’ve been a right cow. I was so angry with you I didn’t realise what I was doing — God, I suppose you have seen it?’
‘The front page. Yes.’
‘They won’t know it came from you.’
‘They know.’
‘I’ll deny it. Protection of a journalist’s sources and all that.’
Despite himself, he found that he was smiling. It must just have been the pleasure of hearing her voice again. ‘Don’t bother, Casey, it’s all over. They know.’
‘Will it affect your career?’
‘What career? I’ve been suspended.’
There was a low whistle of surprise at the other end. ‘God, Tom, I really didn’t mean that to happen. When I got home at lunch time I told Candy what I’d done. She thought I was mad. She reminded me of that time in the Haymarket when you defused that bomb. She made me realise, Tom… You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’
Momentarily he could hardly speak, an abrupt emotional charge swelling in his larynx. Hearing her voice was like a balm, his future — or lack of it — suddenly seeming of total insignificance.
‘Tom? Are you there?’
‘Let’s meet tonight.’
‘Oh, Tom, I’d love to.’
‘But?’
‘I’m taking a late shuttle to Belfast.’ She added, lying, ‘On assignment.’