He caught sight of Mercs edging towards him. ‘Eddie!’
Casually dressed in a dark jacket and black open-necked shirt, his face was pale with dark worried eyes that were set closely together beneath wild eyebrows. The confusion of unruly hair made him look younger than his forty years.
‘Thought you weren’t going to make it,’ he said, rising to shake Mercs’s hand and quickly noticing Casey. ‘Didn’t know you were going to bring your girlfriend…’
‘Unfortunately, Gerry, we only work together.’
‘You’re still a lucky man. I’m charmed, eh…?’
‘Casey. Casey Mullins.’
He nodded towards the girls, indicating it was time for them to go; reluctantly they took the hint and he beckoned to the barmaid to take an order for drinks. Gerard Keefe was something of a minor, self-promoting celebrity, Casey decided, as he fixed her with a winning smile and an uncomfortably penetrating stare. ‘So what d’you think of Belfast, Casey?’
‘I haven’t seen much of it. Except for the odd Land-Rover and foot patrol I’ve seen, it seems just like England. I’m not sure I was expecting that.’
‘You’d notice the difference if you crossed into Eire. That’s real Ireland, beginning with the state of their roads and their signs, of course. Yield instead of Give Way. It’s all somehow less ordered, more relaxed.’
Thinking aloud she said: ‘And there were no checks at the airport. I think that surprised me.’
Gerard Keefe gave the drinks order to the barmaid before answering, leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘What you must never forget, Casey, is that over here nothing is what it seems. Remember that. You’ll get no trouble from the security people unless they’re interested in you and mostly they’ve their work cut out with known terrorists. There’s no hassle for businessmen―’ she indulged in a broad grin ‘―or journalists. But if they are interested in you, they’ll know your every movement. Each time you stop at a roadblock your car registration number is checked against the computer. There are informers everywhere. For the army, the Pro vies and the Proddies. Unemployment’s high, so there’re a lot of bods about with bugger all else to do. When people innocently ask you which school you went to or where you live, what they really want to know is are you a Catholic or a Prod? Can I talk to you, can you be trusted? The young woman pushing a pram might have an Armalite in there with her wee child. The door-to-door salesman might be checking on Catholic families, finding a target for a sectarian killing. Last year near the border a farmer ploughed up an entire field. An alert army patrol leader, a country boy himself, thought it was an odd time of year to do it. When they checked it, it was an elaborate ruse to disguise the laying of a half-mile command cable for a bomb under the road.’
The drinks arrived. Keefe made no attempt to produce his wallet until Mercs paid and brushed aside the Irishman’s belated offer to pay.
‘There’s always people listening,’ Keefe continued. ‘This place is a favourite haunt for the press. The Irish News office is just across the street. That’s the Catholic daily. You often get their journos in here, and you’ll find their perception of events quite different from those on the Telegraph around the corner.’
‘And who do you write for?’
‘Anyone who’ll pay me. I just alter the slant.’
Mercs said: ‘And just what slant would you put on Abe Powers’ secret talks, Gerry?’
The journalist’s eyes hardened. ‘I’m still waiting for that earlier cheque you promised.’
Mercs was unfazed. ‘Bloody accounts department.’ He patted the front of his jacket. ‘Never mind, I’ve a bundle of readies for the right answers.’
‘I’m not sure I can give them.’
‘Try, Gerry, there’s a good chap.’
Keefe glanced around him to check no one was within earshot. ‘First thing to realise, Eddie, is that this is like nothing I’ve ever known before. The Six Counties and the Free State have always been a hotbed of rumour and gossip. We all know no Irishman can keep a secret. Well, this time they have. You’ve got to ask yourself how they’ve achieved it?’
‘How?’ Mercs pressed.
‘There’s a strong rumour of a secret protocol. It was signed by Dublin and London in the early stages and formed the stick of Abe Powers’ carrot-and-stick policy. Regardless of the shape of any final agreement, Dublin has promised to hold a referendum recommending the dropping from its constitution of Article Two, which lays claim to Ulster.’
Mercs shook his head. ‘Why the hell should Dublin do that? They could have done that at any time in the past twenty years.’
‘Because in return London promises to back Eire within the European Community on its claims to Regional and Social Funds and its interests under the Common Agricultural Policy. What you’ve got to remember is that Eire is ninety-eight per cent in debt. It’s poor, inflation is rampant and its economy is in deep mire. Britain’s robust support in Brussels means that Dublin won’t have to put up taxes and will have huge amounts to invest in infrastructure. Incumbent governments in Ireland are always losing elections over the economy and rising taxes. For once, they’re virtually guaranteed to win.
‘Dublin wants that agreement like crazy, especially after they realised the Downing Street Declaration was getting them nowhere. The Protestant parties here in Ulster are also desperate to win the goodies in the protocol. For a start it virtually guarantees they’ll never be part of the Republic and secondly it totally pulls the rug out from under the Provies.
‘But the trick is that the protocol isn’t ratified until the whole package is agreed. That has ensured that no one rocks the boat because no one wants to lose what is so clearly within their grasp. It has also guaranteed everyone keeps their mouths shut until the final deal is struck for fear of blowing the whole thing.’
Mercs frowned. ‘Do you have any idea what form any final deal might take?’
‘If I did, Eddie, I’d be a rich man. But I can tell you something, I’ve got a feeling in my water about this one. Nobody’s giving details, but I’ve never known such optimism from both the Unionist and Catholic camps. They really seem to think an end’s in sight. Abe Powers seems to have satisfied three sides of the square.’
‘But is three sides enough, Gerry? From what you say, the Provos are the only ones to get nothing out of the deal.’
‘And that’s the reason for the AIDAN bombing campaign,’ Casey added pointedly.
Keefe looked startled and dropped his voice another octave. ‘A word of warning, Casey, don’t go bandying around codewords. If they get generally known, all sorts of people can have motives to cause chaos and blame others. But yes, it explains the ferocity of the latest campaign in London. The Provies want the talks abandoned or a seat at the table — and they will stop at nothing. All I know is, I’m bloody glad the bombing has shifted to England. It was getting too hot for comfort over here, I can tell you.’
‘These bombers, Gerry, are they just one gang or what?’ she asked.
Keefe’s eyes had become fixed on a lone drinker at the bar. A heftily built young man in jeans and a leather blouson was watching their table with studied nonchalance as he took sips from a straight glass of Guinness.
The journalist said: ‘Look, this isn’t the place to talk about such things. I’ve got to get home now, but I can give you a lift. We can talk on the way.’
Casey was slightly taken aback by the sudden change of tack, but remembered Mercs’s warning that the mercurial Keefe rarely held a conversation without moving location half-a-dozen times.
They trooped out into the dark wet street and followed Keefe to the nearby car park. He checked carefully beneath his vehicle before he let them in, Mercs taking the front passenger seat.