‘Look, Eddie, I’ve prepared a list of people you might like to speak to. Mostly they’re on the political fringes. They might not know much about the talks, but at least they’re willing to speak for a price. Those who do know, aren’t saying.’
‘You’re a gem,’ Mercs said, accepting the sheets torn from a note pad and handing over a wad of sterling notes in return.
‘Those people are expecting to hear from you.’
‘And the bombers?’ Casey asked.
Mercs became irritable. ‘Let’s drop that one, eh?’
‘No, it’s all right,’ Keefe said. Casey wondered if he was afraid of having his reputation as the Ulster guru undermined. ‘Look, I’ve got access to the very top of all the paramilitaries. They all trust or distrust me equally, depending on which way you look at it. But no one on the Republican side is going to give anything away about the AIDAN active service unit. Not a hint, not a whisper. I can pick up the phone and speak to Gerry Adams of Sinn Fein and sometimes even Martin McGuinness will talk to me. But they’ve become figureheads in the Republican move’ ment, too well-known. This business runs deeper. The people you’d want are operational; those at the top wouldn’t even know the details, wouldn’t want to.’
‘So how could I find out the identity of the AIDAN bombers?’
‘Casey!’ Mercs said, his face reddening with embarrassment. ‘You just don’t ask questions like that.’
‘I just have.’ She smiled one of her sweetest smiles. ‘I’m an American.’
Keefe chuckled. ‘Eddie’s right. You’re likely to be one dead American if you’re not careful.’
‘I’m serious, Eddie. Those people have killed an innocent child my daughter’s age and maimed her mother who is a friend of mine. And they killed one bomb-disposal man and injured another I’d got to know. I’d like to be able to name them in print.’
‘Still want your Pulitzer,’ Mercs muttered despairingly.
Keefe smiled patiently. ‘Look, Casey, sometimes a whisper goes out that so and so was responsible for some killing, or is on the gallop in England. Someone blabbing in Dublin or speculating in the Kesh. Nothing is ever confirmed, and even that happens rarely now. Security is much tighter. Other sources can be Army Headquarters in Lisburn or the RUC at Knock, but they need a reason for telling you and you* never know what it is. Let’s say at best their information is likely to be unreliable.’
‘And there’s no one else?’ It sounded like a dead end.
‘Well, if there’s something you want to know about the Provies that they or the authorities can’t or won’t tell you, the best people to ask are their sworn enemies. One of the illegal Protestant gangs, the UFF, the UVF or the Red Hand Commandos.’
‘Could I speak to them?’
‘They might not want to speak to you. If anything they distrust journos more than the Provies. Feel the media’s never given them a fair show. You should be warned, they’re a dangerous bunch. If the Provies don’t like what you print, they’re likely to shrug it off, try to win you over another day. If you upset the Prods, they might just shoot you.’
Casey felt the clammy fingers of apprehension crawl up her spine. ‘I’d still like to give it a try. Do you know someone?’
Keefe stared at the windscreen for a moment. ‘There is a face. At least he might let you pose the question, even if he won’t give you an answer.’
‘Who’s he with?’
‘That would be telling.’ Keefe took the mobile telephone from his pocket and punched in a number. After a long wait he said:
‘Billy? — Gerard here. How’s it going? Good. Listen, I’ve a couple of friends with me. Journos over from London. One’s a very pretty American lass with gorgeous legs. Digging the dirt on the other side. I was wondering if you’d be willing…?’
Mercs leaned over towards the back seat. ‘This is not a good idea. Let’s drop it, eh?’
‘No, Eddie.’ She touched his arm. ‘But I don’t expect you to come along if you don’t want to.’
‘God knows what trouble you’ll get into if I don’t.’ He shook his head unhappily. ‘And who was it promised she’d be no trouble? I should have guessed.’
Keefe said: ‘That’s settled.’ He put away his mobile. ‘You’ve got an audience with King Billy. It was the gorgeous legs that sold him.’
Casey laughed. ‘Wasn’t that just the slightest bit sexist. When he finds out the truth, maybe it’ll be you who gets shot.’
Keefe turned back, making an obvious point of looking at her knees. ‘Oh, I don’t think King Billy will be disappointed, Casey, I really don’t.’
The heart of big Billy Baker’s kingdom was a nameless drinking club in the Ardoyne, not far from the Peace Line. It was just a short drive in Keefe’s ageing Toyota saloon. A dark street, the bulbs in the lampposts shattered so that no light was cast on the black-painted frontage. No one, Keefe pointed out, wanted to illuminate targets entering or leaving the premises.
Hardly had he applied the handbrake than the steel-reinforced door with its fisheye spyhole swung open. There was no light from the hallway and through the condensation of the car window, Casey was aware only of vague, fast-moving shapes as they were surrounded. All four doors were opened almost simultaneously, causing her to gasp with apprehension.
There was a slight quaver in Keefe’s voice. ‘Hello, Spike.’
‘Mr Keefe.’ The accent hard, the tone neutral. ‘I’ve told you before not to park outside.’
‘Not parking, Spike, just dropping off. Two visitors for King Billy. He’s expecting them.’
Casey was aware of the tension ebbing as she struggled to extract her long legs from the car and stand on the pavement. There were four of them. Sharp-featured young men, each one powerfully built and with his hair close-cropped.
Spike was the most muscular, pectorals and beergut straining against the rain-damp T-shirt. He also sported the shortest hair, razored to a dark bloom on his bullet head. His small fierce blue eyes looked her up and down, then switched warily to Eddie Mercs as the reporter stumbled awkwardly from the front passenger seat.
‘Follow me,’ Spike ordered.
She had expected Keefe to stay, not drive off into the night. Looking across the pavement, she could see that Mercs, too, shared her fear. Another of the young men placed his hand on her elbow, ushering her forward, following Spike’s swaggering gait as he melted into the darkness of the hallway. She heard the front door crash shut, the heavy-duty bolts sliding home.
Abruptly the blackout curtain was jerked aside and the light hurt her eyes. As her vision adjusted to the brightness, she became aware of the thumping beat from a jukebox.
The faces of the people seated at the small round tables turned in unison. Laughter and conversation died away. There were strangers in their midst.
Mostly young men, Casey noticed, just a few old-timers in flat caps propping up the bar. A Union flag was draped above the optics and a mural of a mounted William of Orange, bearing the legend No Surrender, covered the entire far wall. It was a spartan and unwelcoming place, with bare floorboards and smelling of ale and stale cigarette smoke.
She felt quite relieved to see that two teenage girls had been dancing around their handbags in front of the jukebox. A semblance of normality. The murmur of conversation began again.
Her relief, however, was short-lived as Spike passed behind the bar and through another steel-plated door. Was this King Billy’s fortress keep, she wondered, the bar acting as his moat if assassins breached the outer defences?
The stairs creaked underfoot as they climbed; a single bulb without a shade threw ragged shadows on the peeling wallpaper.