‘Is this seat taken?’ He was in his twenties and wearing a denim jacket. His hair was short and his chin unshaven.
She moved her bag and shook her head nervously.
He sat, placed his cigarettes and plastic lighter on the bar, then beckoned for a half of Guinness. As he waited to be served, he moved his cigarette pack and lit one of its contents. It took a moment before she noticed the little square of paper. Just three lines were written in poorly constructed capitals.
WHEN I LEAVE,
FOLLOW IN A FEW MINUTES.
TURN RIGHT OUTSIDE.
The cigarette pack covered the note again and the man exhaled into the barman’s scowling face as the Guinness was served.
Five long hard swallows was all it took and the glass was empty. The man levered himself from the stool and sauntered back out towards the street.
Her heart pounding, Casey drained her drink and glanced at her watch. Almost nine.
Dammit, Eddie, where are you?
She waited two more minutes, then reluctantly collected her bag and followed the stranger’s footsteps. Outside, the pavement was almost deserted; there was no sign of the young man. She began walking towards the next junction with Queen Street.
He was waiting round the corner, a car at the kerb with its engine running. First peering back along Howard Street to the Washington, to be sure no one had followed her, he said: ‘Get in the back.’
Now I am committed, she thought. No going back.
The exhaust burbled softly and the car sped away into the night.
As it did so, the hired Fiesta pulled up outside the Washington and Harrison crossed the pavement quickly. He pushed open the doors into the noisy chatter and smoke, edging his way through the crowd, looking around anxiously for some sign of her.
‘You’re too late, old lad.’
He turned, taken aback. ‘Don.’
‘I thought you were going to talk to her, Tom.’
‘That’s why I’m here. She’s been out all day -1 couldn’t reach her by phone.’
‘That’s a pity. She’s just left with one of King Billy’s lads.’
Harrison noticed for the first time that Trenchard wasn’t dressed in his usual flamboyant style. Just dark jeans and jacket and a black polo neck. ‘And you just let her go?’
‘Let’s talk outside.’
Trenchard led the way. Once beyond the door, Harrison rounded on him. ‘What were you thinking of, Don? Why didn’t you stop her?’
‘Because the soppy tart has just wandered into a security operation.’ His boyish grin was meant to reassure. ‘I didn’t know she was going to come here. I’ve had her under surveillance, but I didn’t know what she was doing until five minutes ago when she got into one of King Billy’s cars — which just happens to be one of the vehicles in the operation that’s going down.’
Christ! ‘What sort of operation?’
‘Don’t know, Tom. It’s all whispers over here, as I’m sure you’re aware.’
‘Is she in danger?’
Trenchard shrugged. ‘There’s always a risk, but my boys are fully briefed about her. The last thing anyone wants is a dead journalist on our hands, least of all an American one.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Look, let’s get back to my car. We’ll monitor everything from there.’
‘I could bloody kill you, Don.’
Again the boyish grin. ‘Don’t worry. Casey will be all right.’
Even as he spoke, the saloon carrying Casey was stopping outside a neat Edwardian house off the Donegall Road in the south of the city. When she and the stranger crossed the pavement to the front door, they broke the magnetic field of the sensor secreted in the headlamp of the empty car which had been parked outside the neighbouring house that morning. The miniature ultralow-level light camera automatically clicked twice, adding two more identifiable profiles to the roll of film that had been recording the day’s visitors to the house.
The front door was opened by Spike. He glanced quickly up and down the road before closing it behind them. Without a word he led the way down a dark passage to the dining room where the heavy curtains had been drawn. A ‘Jesus Saves Sinners’ embroidery hung over the empty open fireplace. She noticed he made no attempt to conceal the heavy automatic pistol stuffed into the waistband of his trousers.
‘This is my aunt’s house,’ he said suddenly. ‘The ol’ biddy’s in the front parlour watching telly and sucking sherbet lemons. Doesn’t know what year it is, let alone what day.’
‘She doesn’t mind you using her house?’
Spike gave a mean chuckle. ‘I doubt she even realises.’ He pointed to a pair of black tracksuit trousers, a man’s navy sweater, and a dark jacket on the table. ‘I want you to change into those. And can you pin your hair up?’
She was bewildered. ‘Yes.’
‘Don’t want anyone to be able to identify you.’
He left her then to strip and change into the unfamiliar clothes. The trousers were elasticated and fitted well enough; the sweater and jacket were enormous and smelled of stale smoke and beer. She had just pinned back her hair when the door opened again.
Spike handed her the chequered cloth cap. ‘It’s time to go.’
To her surprise he led the’ way through the kitchen to the back door. As they walked briskly down the rear garden path, she glimpsed the unkempt shrubs on either side, the long grass going to seed. A gate in the back fence opened onto a narrow alleyway. Another car waited with several men inside. There was no courtesy light inside and it was impossible for her to recognise the faces of the men she was squashed between in the back seat. They were young, though, she was sure of that, the testosterone musk and the smell of lager quite unmistakable.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked as they drove off.
‘You’ll see,’ Spike replied. ‘Let’s just say we’re doing a wee favour for Her Majesty.’
‘Favour?’
‘Oh, it’s a favour, so it is. No doubt about it. King Billy always liked to oblige the Crown. AH different now, of course. It all went sour after the Anglo-Irish Agreement in ‘85, and Dublin’s boot boys — sorry, I’ll be referring to the RUC — started treating us no different than the murderin’ Provos. Area saturation, special support units and informers. And we’ve heard the politicians from Westminster sniggering at us behind our backs. Loud and crass, that’s what they think we are. Our Unionist politicians are snubbed now by the Northern Ireland Officer here — the English arse-lickers from Whitehall prefer to consult with ministers from Dublin rather than the elected representatives of the people. They don’t like us because we stand four-square and say exactly what we mean. Unemployment, housing, education, the money is all spent on the sayso of the Republic now and it’s all directed at the Catholic community. You’re a journalist, you can ask questions. You’ll see if I’m not right.’
‘You sound angry.’
As soon as she said it, she thought how she was stupidly stating the obvious, but Spike didn’t seem to mind. He just gave a harsh, humourless laugh. ‘Oh, I’m angry, all right. We’re all angry. We’ve become strangers in our own land.’
‘Beleaguered.’
‘That’s a good word, lady. Yes, that’s what we are. But make no mistake, we’ll not be giving in. Recruits are flooding to the Protestant paramilitaries and we’ve arms coming in from South Africa and eastern Europe. Some of our people are learning from the Provos. We’re making bombs too now, and we’ll be taking them to Dublin.’
The mention of bombs made her blanch and she thought of Harrison, wished he was with her now.
‘And Westminster still doesn’t see the writing on the wall,’ Spike was saying. ‘But when they hear King Billy’s Lambeg drum again, they’ll know we’re on the march. The Balkans — Bosnia and that lot — you’ll have seen nothing yet.’