The Angel Tapes (7 page)

But Dublin harbored darker places. There were narrow streets of tall Victorian and Georgian buildings, some more alleys than streets. There were areas of massive blocks of tenements with names like Sheriff Street, Sean MacDermott Street, Fatima Mansions. They'd never been pretty; they were far from pretty now. You didn't want to visit these places unless you really
had
to. Here the hard-core crime of Dublin walked, fought, shot up, and—of late, in numbers that grew at a frightening rate—died.

A vehicle could not traverse the city center without its entire journey being followed by a relay of cameras, each of whose ambit knitted almost seamlessly with those of its companions. One day soon, the technician had assured the police officers in his colorful way, “a pair of flies couldn't shag each other on a wall without us knowing about it.”

And recording the venial act.

But the recordings were erased after fourteen days. If Sweetman had thought to discover, in some dusty archive, video evidence of the man who called himself Angel planting a high-explosive device, she had to admit defeat now.

She looked ruefully at the moving, black-and-white images and thought: He's there; Angel's there. His image is still there,
somewhere
among all those swirling magnetized particles that make up the videotapes. It's there, but it's scrambled beyond retrievability—in much the same way as Angel's true voice.

Sweetman knew a dead end when she saw one.

*   *   *

There was a table on a landing halfway up the stairs of the coffee shop, and a sign on the wall above it that read
BRENDAN KENNELLY'S CORNER
. Brendan Kennelly the poet. (Who knew what stunning verses had been conceived at this table, over espresso and sweet pastries?) Blade found his son waiting there punctually at two o'clock. The shop was self-service, so he left Peter seated and returned shortly with two cups of coffee and a plate of doughnuts.

“Jesus, Blade, you can't smoke in here!”

“Oh. Sorry. I forgot.”

Blade returned the pack of Hamlets to his pocket. He dumped three spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee and stirred it slowly. He was very tired and wished he wasn't. It was trivial, he knew, but he never liked to appear this way in Peter's company: Their meetings were fewer, far fewer, than Blade would have liked.

His son wolfed down a doughnut with a voraciousness that startled him. Christ, wasn't Joan
feeding
them these days? Peter and eighteen-year-old Sandra. Anne, Blade's eldest, had flown the nest some years before. She was happily married in London, expecting her second child, and saw her father as often as she could—which was more, Blade thought, than could be said of Sandra.

But Peter's hasty eating was simply a mask for his excitement. He brushed sugar granules from his lips and, with the same hand, reached into a plastic bag and hauled out a small, black fake-leather case. He opened it and passed something across the table.

“A plug?”

“Ehh, it's actually a socket.”

“Yeah yeah, I know it's a socket.” Blade had to suppress his irritation.

But it
was
a socket: a twin-power socket. The object he held in his hand was about eight inches long and three wide. It was made of tough, white plastic and had a double set of rectangular apertures that would accept three-pinned plugs. The manufacturer's logo—an MK within an oval—was embossed below each of the earth slots. It was the most ordinary thing in the world—or in Ireland and Britain, at any rate. You saw those outlets in every home, in every room.

You saw them, yet your conscious mind rarely
registered
them.

Blade knew without his son's saying so that the device he was holding was no ordinary power socket. He didn't need to read the small sticker affixed to it; it advertised the services of Centurion Security. He opened it up with the little screwdriver that Peter had handed him.

The outlet had the regular fittings. It also contained a tiny, cube-shaped black object with a narrow extension like the antenna of an insect. A microphone.

“It works, too. I tried it in my room.”

“The socket?”

“Yeah. But I haven't a clue how to get the mike working. That's why I wanted to see you.” Peter reached for another doughnut.

Blade screwed the cover back on the power outlet and laid it on the table.

“It's a microwave radio transmitter,” he said. “You'll need a receiver tuned to the same wavelength. I don't know how far the range is, but I'd say at a guess it's roughly a hundred yards. And, of course, you'll need a tape deck connected up to the receiver if you want to do any recording.”

Peter wiped his lips again.

“He's got all that stuff. But I don't know if I can swipe it without him missing it.”

Blade took a nip of his coffee, now lukewarm.

“If he does miss it, he'll guess who took it. No, I think it's too risky, Peter, I really do. You don't know what you're up against. The man's made his living from acting the sneak. Christ, it'd be like trying to lift a pickpocket's wallet.”

“Yeah, well, I'll see. But I'll be careful.”

Blade cleared his throat. “Supposing you
do
manage it. Just what are you going to record?”

“Ah, Blade, we've been over this a million times! I'm going to put it in Joan's room.”

Blade wished that the coffee shop had air-conditioning. He didn't blush easily; now he felt his face redden with embarrassment.

“No, Peter,” he said quietly. “No, I don't want you doing that.”

“Ah, cop
on,
Blade, will you? It's the only way. It's the only room in the house where they're ever in private together.” He looked his father straight in the eye. “Look, I'm nineteen years of age. I know what people get up to in bedrooms. Don't be such a bloody prude.”

“Don't you talk to me like that!”

“Sorry. I was out of order. Sorry.”

“And I'm not a bloody prude. It's just … It's just that, well, I love your mother … still. Very much. Jesus, Peter, the idea of recording things she says in
bed…
” He was unable to finish the sentence.

Something happened then between Blade and his son: a thing so novel that Blade, recalling it later that day, was deeply moved. All at once the roles of parent and offspring were reversed. Peter touched his hand lightly and spoke to him as a father would.

“It's the only way, Blade.
You
know it and
I
know it. If we're ever going to prove that Joan and the cockroach are living together as man and wife, then we'll have to record them in bed. It's where people talk about things—things they wouldn't talk about anywhere else. And I'm speaking from experience.”

Blade looked quickly down into his now-cold coffee.

“I love you … Dad. Look, I have eyes in my head; I can see how the maintenance money is bleeding you dry. Jesus, I haven't seen you in a new shirt in years! It's
Roche
who should be keeping Joan, not you. And you can take it from me he's got plenty. I've had a look at his bank statements. Joan wouldn't miss that money from you.”

“Ah, don't I know it,” Blade said with bitterness.

At that moment his phone throbbed. It was one of the investigation team, calling from Harcourt Square. He thought he'd a lead but didn't sound optimistic. Blade told the officer he was on his way. He stood up.

“You should be getting back, too, Peter. Didn't you say they'd be in about five?”

“Thereabouts.”

He picked the tab off the tray and put it in his wallet. It wasn't much, but he could declare it as expenses. It made him feel cheap, and he knew his son was right. The sooner they could prove that Jim Roche was cohabiting with his wife, the sooner Blade could afford to live a decent life again.

He squeezed Peter's shoulder.

“Just be careful,” he said. “The man's a snake.”

“Right.”

“And
don't
call me on my mobile again, okay?”

“Promise.”

A promise, Blade knew, that Peter would never keep.

Seven

There was no weekend leave. The investigation was far, far too important and Blade's team had fewer than ten days to track down the bomber.

“If you don't mind me saying so, sir,” one of the assembled detectives grumbled, “you're asking us to do the impossible. How can you expect us to do something—and not
appear
to be doing anything?”

Blade saw Lawrence Redfern, against a wall, arms folded, nod his head. The observer. Just let him open his fucking mouth … Nevertheless, Blade had been assured that the other agency men were “behaving themselves”; some of his detectives had gone so far as to praise the efficiency of the Americans. But a conference like this one was strictly a garda affair and protocol didn't tolerate outside interference.

“D'you think I like it, Liam?” Macken replied to the question. “But that's the way we have to work this. The media are driving the assistant commissioner spare. They're sure it's a bomb but they can't stick their necks out—yet. They've nothing but speculation to go on, and we have to keep it that way.”

Blade paused to let his words sink in. Then he lowered his voice slightly.

“But that's not the key issue. What's really important is that we mustn't let the bomber himself find out what we're up to. We've no idea how much the bastard knows about us already. For all we know, he may have eyes and ears everywhere.”

“What do you mean, sir? Accomplices?”

“It could be. It could also be that he's managed to tap a few phone lines here in the Square—impossible though that might sound.”

“Christ almighty.”

“In which case, I want you all to be extra careful—more careful than you've ever been up till now—about messages or instructions given over the phone. Work out new codes between you.”

A hand was raised. “But what about our Tap Alerts, sir? Surely they'd—”

“We can't trust them anymore, Detective Sergeant,” Blade cut in. “They've worked grand up till now, but we don't know what we're up against. Maybe the bomber's using something completely new—something undetectable. I wouldn't put it past him.”

Redfern coughed loudly and pointedly, drawing all eyes to him.

“Umm, permission to speak, Superintendent.…”

Blade looked at Duffy; Duffy nodded slowly.

“Go ahead, Mr. Redfern,” Blade said.

“Thank you. Fact is, I've ordered a number of scramblers from headquarters. They ought to be here by morning.” He addressed the room. “Hook one up to a phone and you can talk in complete privacy.”

“How many are we talking about?” Duffy asked.

“Fifty.”

“Very good,” the assistant commissioner said. “My thanks, Mr. Redfern.”

Blade grunted. “But work out new codes, all the same,” he told his people. “I'm putting you in charge of that, Liam.”

“Fair enough, sir.” The detective made a note on his pad. “What'll we be calling our man?”

More than one hundred pairs of eyebrows were raised as Blade Macken, instead of replying verbally, tore a sheet from his notebook and wrote down something. He folded the paper in two and passed it to the nearest detective. It went from hand to hand.

The ticking of the wall clock was the loudest sound in the incident room in Harcourt Square. All knew that a precedent had been set. The Square was perhaps Dublin's most secure building, always had been. A visitor was screened to the point where the maiden name of his
grand
mother was no longer a family affair. And the incident rooms were more secure than any other part of the building. Here Guards and Special Branch officers could talk freely.

Until now.

*   *   *

“Pluto?”
Sweetman said a half hour later, as they strolled in the open air of nearby St. Stephen's Green. If the public park wasn't secure from buggers, then they were in serious trouble. “Mickey Mouse's dog?”

“No, not that Pluto.” Macken caught himself scanning the other strollers in the park. Angel was getting to him.

“Oh, the planet then.”

Blade stopped on the little bridge that spanned the pond. He took a clear plastic container from his pocket and pulled apart a cheese sandwich left over from a hasty office snack. He tossed the pieces in the water and watched with interest as a score of ducks converged on them.

“No, not the planet either. You mustn't have been paying attention to your Greek lessons, Sweetman.”

“We didn't
have
any Greek in County Galway.
Some
of us couldn't afford to be sent to boarding school.”

“Hmm. Well, Pluto was the Greek god of the underworld.”

She turned to face him, smiling.

“Now that's very clever, Blade. Angel, devil, crime, underworld.”

Macken dropped the sandwich container in a trash can.

“And under
ground,
” he said. “That's where this particular angel reigns supreme.”

Sweetman squinted into the sun, now hanging low above the trees to the west.

“Tell me honestly, Blade,” she said. “What are our chances? I mean
really.
”

“Slim.” He lit a cigar.

“Hopeless, would you say?”

“Ah no, I didn't say that. It's never hopeless, Sweetman. He may be calling himself Angel, but we're not dealing with some sort of superhuman being. He's fallible, like the rest of us—with the exception of course of himself in the Vatican.”

“Only when he's speaking
ex cathedra.
”

“Which is Latin for speaking out of your arse. I bet they didn't teach you that in County Galway either.”