"What happened in February 1996 to the FRU people, Bledsoe and Wheen, you know. They were killed on the orders of Padraig Byrne that was pretty much common knowledge. What you won't have heard is that the man who actually whacked those nails through their heads was to our certain knowledge -Joseph Meehan." Alex winced.
"You had proof of that?"
"Everyone knew. Apparently there were at least a dozen people there when it happened. Word is they were blooding all the young guys.
"And Meehan was completely beyond your reach by this time?"
"Yes, completely beyond our reach. There was only one thing we could do and we did it. We fed him into the jaws of PIRA's paranoia. We sent a story to the Sunday Times purporting to have been written by a former undercover soldier from 14th Intelligence's Belfast Detachment. In the article, among a lot of other stuff, the supposed soldier mentioned that for several years MI-5 had been running a senior IRA mole and went on to describe three or four intelligence breakthroughs that the mole had made possible. The stories were true and in each case the information in question was known to Meehan.
"We then immediately went through the motions of attempting to place an injunction on the Sunday Times, but at the same time made sure that the attempt wasn't successful. A few days later we dropped the word in the Falls that Joe Meehan was playing both sides and one of his mainland bank statements arrived at the Sinn Fein office. We pay our people pretty decently and the best part of three and a half K was going into his account every month.
"After that we never heard another word either from him or about him. He just vanished. We had a tout chat to Tina Milazzo but she hadn't seen him for months. Not since he "got weird", as she put it. Our assumption until a couple of weeks ago was that he'd been executed some time in the spring of 1996.
Interrogated, probably, and then shot."
"Until Barry Fenn's murder," said Alex quietly.
"Exactly. At which point we realised that he was alive."
"You were are certain that it's Meehan, then?"
"It has to be him," said Widdowes.
"He knew Fenn and Gidley, he used a hammer and nail, he used entry and exit methods that only a man with highly speciali sed training would use.
"So what exactly do you want me to do?" asked Alex, although he was already certain of the answer.
Widdowes looked at Angela Fenwick and after a brief pause it was Fenwick who spoke.
"There were four of us on the Watchman team," she said tautly.
"And Fenn and Gidley are already dead."
Alex nodded. Despite her professional control he could hear the fear in her voice.
"Basically," she said, 'we need you to kill Joseph Meehan before he kills us."
ELEVEN.
"So give me one good reason why you can't take the whole thing to the police, let them catch the guy and have him stand trial for murder," said Alex.
He and Dawn were sitting in the cafeteria at Thames House. Beyond the armour-plated ground floor window, the river moved brownly and sluggishly seawards. At the end of the counter steam rose from the electric urns as the staff prepared for the four o'clock tea rush. Like everywhere else in the building, the room was stiflingly overheated.
"Too many people would be compromised," answered Dawn, in the tones of one dealing with a child.
"Surely you can see that?"
"I can see that your Service would come out of the whole thing looking bad, yes. The press would crucify them."
"And your Service too," said Dawn patiently.
"We made the Watchman a spy, but your lot made him a killer and it's the killer we're after now. We're in this together, like it or not. If my people go down, your people go down too."
"It'll come out sooner or later. These things always do."
"Not necessarily. No one's seen or heard of this man Meehan for years. We find him, you chop him finito, end of story. He's certainly not going to be missed."
"You think you'll find him?" asked Alex quietly.
The grey eyes hardened a fraction.
"Don't you think we will?"
"If he doesn't want you to find him, he'll go to ground somewhere."
She raised an ironic eyebrow.
"Somewhere that only you Special Forces boys can follow, right?"
Alex shrugged.
"I might be able to help you with the way that he thinks. Give you an idea of the sort of place he'd look for."
She sighed.
"Look, we have the Service's best psych team dealing with the way that this man thinks and our best investigators looking for him. Any suggestions would, I'm sure, be very helpful, but we do, in fact, have the matter well in hand. What we'd really like you to do is wait and, when the moment comes, move in and eliminate him."
"Is that really all you think we're good for?"
"On this occasion, I'm afraid that it's all we need you to do."
They sat in uncomfortable silence. Outside on the river, a succession of interlinked barges moved upstream against the current. She had no real idea, thought Alex, what she was asking him to do. What it was like to look another human being in the eye and then kill him. How, in those moments, a few seconds could stretch into infinity.
It's all we need you to do.
A belated flicker of concern crossed her face. She frowned. She seemed to be aware of the direction his thoughts were taking.
"It's not up to me," she said.
"I'm just here as a go-between."
He nodded. It was as close to an apology as he was ever likely to get.
"So when did you join the Service?"
he asked.
"Six years ago." She forced a smile.
"I answered the same advert as David Shayler, as it happens."
"What did it say?
"Spies wanted"?"
"It said: "Godot Isn't Coming"."
"Who the hell's Godot?"
"A character in a Samuel Beckett play called Waiting for Godot. The other characters wait for him."
"And he doesn't come?"
"No."
"Sounds unmissable. So you knew this was an MI-5 advert?"
"No. But I knew it had been placed by an organisation with a bit of.. . sophistication to it."
"Right," said Alex.
"Because of this Godot stuff' "Exactly."
"We watch a fair amount of Samuel Beckett's stuff up in Hereford. Are you glad you answered that advert?"
"Yes."
"And are you free this afternoon?"
She looked at him suspiciously.
"No. Why?"
"When I've looked through the photographs and the pathology reports, I'd like to go back to Gidley's place. There are a couple of things I need to check."
"I thought we'd established that you were leaving that side of things to us."
"Dawn, I need to see what Meehan's exact movements were the night before last. If I'm going up against him, I have to know how he operates."
"I very much doubt there'll be anything to see.
"That depends on what you're looking for. Trust me, I'm not going to be wasting your time."
She regarded him expressionlessly for a moment and nodded.
"OK, then, but like I said, I'm tied up this afternoon. It'll have to be tomorrow morning."
"I guess that'll have to do. Tell me something off the top of your head."
"What?"
"Why is Joseph Meehan murdering the MI-5 officers who ran him?"
"I heard you ask Angela Fenwick the same question.
She said she didn't know."
"I heard her say it. But what do you think?"
"I think he went native, like George said." She shrugged.
"Why do any terrorists do what they do? It's an armed struggle. We're the enemy.