‘The Paddy Factor,’ interrupted Miles, wishing to appear knowledgeable and immediately regretting it. Six looked toward the others, who were not smiling any longer.
‘One of your smart London phrases,’ hissed Six, the door to his prejudices open at last. ‘You lot sit at your desks all day smirking at newspaper reports of another soldier killed, another part-timer crippled, and you can laugh as loudly as you like because it’s all happening a million miles away from your bowler hats and tea trolleys, but here, well, we see things through different eyes.’
Go on, thought Miles, spew it all up.
‘Over here everything changes. There’s no Paddy Factor because there are no Paddies anymore. Everyone’s grown up now. They don’t learn their trade in the haylofts and the barns. They’ve all been to college, to university. They’ve got brains, they’re open-eyed, they know the score. If you go along on this trip expecting to meet Paddies, then let me assure you that you’re in for a bit of a surprise.’
Behind the speech, Miles could hear a cry of frustration against Whitehall’s cumulative neglect of the ‘troubles.’ Finally, almost in a whisper, his breath coming fast and hot from his lungs, Six said, ‘Just to put you in the picture, that’s all,’ and fell silent as he gulped at his tea. The silence was more unnerving still, and Miles felt as though he had been cajoled onto a roller coaster, only to find himself wanting to get off as the machine reached the top of its climb.
Too late to get off now, he thought, his hands clutching at the table rim. Far too late.
The car flew over the rise in the road and headed downhill even faster. Miles felt his stomach surge, and craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the speedometer. Seventy. The country was a darkening blur outside his window, and he began to feel a claustrophobia that had not assailed him since his youth. The day had become a sort of recurring nightmare. Here he was again, sandwiched in the back of a car. In the front sat Six and his equally deadly ally, One. And somewhere behind, the remaining members of the team were following in a transit van marked MURPHY’S MEAT & POULTRY.
The car had the body of a Cortina, but what lurked beneath the bonnet was something else entirely. From the moment the engine had been brought to life, Miles had been aware of an extraordinary power, two-point-six liters or more of it. The thing accelerated like a rocket, sending its passengers back in their seats. The roller-coaster effect was complete.
There was little conversation during the drive. For one thing, the engine was too noisy, the whole interior of the car seeming to vibrate, and for another, no one seemed in the mood for speaking. Miles could feel his back cloying with sweat, his hair prickling. Yes, this was a foreign country, everything out of kilter, just as Chesterton had said. So, as though he really were on a roller coaster, Miles gritted his teeth and sat back, determination replacing the fear in his stomach, his eyes narrowed so that he would have to take in only very little of what was happening and what was about to happen.
Although he could not be said to be an expert on the scale and geography of Northern Ireland, it did seem to him that they had traveled a good long way south. Of course, there might have been several twistings and turnings toward east and west. They could be anywhere. All the same, their destination was supposed to be due south of Belfast, and now that he thought about it, ‘south of Belfast’ had come with ominous vagueness from Six’s mouth. How far south exactly? He had heard of border raids, but only rumors. Of course mistakes had been made by patrols in the past. But this was different, wasn’t it?
‘Nearly there,’ roared Six. He rolled down his window and waved with his hand, signaling this information to the van. One of the slices of bread sandwiching Miles slipped the pistol out of his jacket and gave it a quick check.
‘Browning,’ he explained, weighing the gun in his palm and smiling. Why did they all smile? Miles remembered that monkeys smiled when afraid, but there was no fear in these men. They were about to enjoy themselves. They had been built with this operation in mind, and now they were about to be made very happy indeed. Yes, these were knowing smiles, and Miles, despite his every effort, could not make himself smile back.
It was as cold as a tomb, a deep freeze, a mortuary: as cold as all the images of stasis and lifelessness that were conjured in Miles Flint’s head. It was dark, too, but his fevered mind hadn’t got round to cataloging similes for darkness yet. The six men walked slightly ahead of him, though they glanced back often to make sure that he was still with them and had not glided off into the night.
The factory was a small, self-contained unit within a cluster of about a dozen, the site itself seeming new, doubtless part of some regeneration program for the economy. There was a light on in the small office. Six had explained the layout to them in enormous detail. A front door led directly into the office. There was a larger warehouse entrance, but it would be locked at night. Entrance to the factory could be gained only through the office. If they made a run for it, they would run into the factory, a small hangar of a place, equipped with two fire exits. Three would cover one of these exits, Four the other. They branched off now, at the entrance to the site, and made their way around to the back of the buildings. Only one of the factory units was lit.
‘That’s our baby,’ said Six, breathing good deep breaths. He looked ready to swim the channel. Then he drew out his pistol, some huge, anonymous, nonregulation model. It glinted metal-blue in the faint light from the office window. He didn’t look like a swimmer anymore. He looked ready to club some seals.
‘Let’s go, gentlemen,’ he whispered.
They did not rush the door, not until they were one step away from it. Six knocked once, and opened the door with split- second force. One was right behind him, gun trained, and the two RUC men stepped in afterward, leaving Miles to walk through the door last, last and unarmed, as though he were in charge. Three men stood behind a desk, gawping at him. Their hands were above their heads, and on the table lay some plans. To Miles they looked like the blueprints of some piece of circuitry.
‘We’d better have those,’ snarled Six, and one of the rather timid-looking RUC men lifted the plans and began to roll them up.
‘Who the hell are you?’ shouted one of the men behind the desk. Miles recognized him as the more handsome of the two men in the photographs. He was wearing the clothes in his description, but his tie hung loosely around his neck. He looked every inch the harassed businessman, with orders to be dispatched and deadlines to meet.
‘Never mind that,’ said Six in an even more Irish accent than he had used with Miles and the others. He pointed toward the third man with his finger, his gun hand steadily trained upon the handsome businessman. ‘Who the hell are you?’
This third man was somewhat older than the others. He looked ready to expire at any moment. Innocence was written on his face in pale, trembling letters.
‘I’m Macdonald,’ he managed to say at last. ‘Dicky Macdonald. I ordered some circuit boards. I just... I mean, this hasn’t got anything to do with me, whatever it is. Jesus, I’ve a wife and kids. Have the lads not been paying their protection money, is that it? I’ve not—’
‘Mr. Macdonald,’ said Six, ‘will you please go outside. Two, look after Mr. Macdonald. Get him into his car and get him away from here.’