The Chinaman (33 page)

Nguyen smiled tightly. ‘I know about Semtex-H,' he said. ‘Hexagen is added, that is where the H comes from. Very stable explosive, but very powerful, more powerful than TNT.'

Hennessy's mouth dropped open. ‘How come you know so much about Semtex-H?'

‘I use many times in Vietnam.'

‘In Vietnam?'

‘You do not know your history, Mr Hennessy. Semtex-H was made for the Vietnamese during the war. It is our explosive. They made it for us, the Chax.'

‘Czechs, you mean. It was made in Czechoslovakia.'

‘Yes. The Czechs. They made it. Before, when the French were in Vietnam, then we used a French plastic explosive. When the French left we asked the Czechs to make same style for us. They made Semtex-H. Very good for making bombs and for traps. Many Americans were killed by Semtex-H. Now the IRA uses it to kill my family. That is, how do you say, ionic.'

‘Ironic,' said Hennessy. ‘The word is ironic.'

‘Yes, it is ironic. Vietnamese explosive kills Vietnamese family.'

‘I am sorry about what happened to your family. But it is not my fault.'

Nguyen pointed the gun at Hennessy's throat. ‘You will tell me who killed my family. You will tell me or you will die. And when you are dead I will go and ask someone else. I will find out eventually.' He said the words in a cold, flat voice and Hennessy knew that he meant it. The gun was cocked and ready to fire and he saw Nguyen's finger tighten on the trigger. Hennessy held up his hands as if trying to ward off the bullet.

‘No!' he said.

‘Then tell me,' hissed Nguyen.

‘I don't know,' said Hennessy.

‘Then die,' said Nguyen.

Hennessy turned his head away, his eyes tightly shut. ‘I don't know but I'm trying to find out,' he said, his voice shaking with fear.

‘What do you mean?'

‘I've set a trap for them. If it works I'll know who they are.'

‘When will you know?'

Hennessy stopped flinching from the gun, sensing that Nguyen was taking him seriously. Perhaps he had a chance after all. ‘When the next bomb goes off.'

‘What is your plan?'

‘When they claim responsibility for the bomb they give a codeword that tells the police that they are with the IRA. I have changed the codeword and the one that they use will tell me who has been helping them.'

‘And then what?'

‘We'll give their names to the police. And they will end it.'

Nguyen thought about what Hennessy had told him, but the gun never wavered. Eventually he nodded to himself as if he had come to a decision.

‘Very well,' he said. ‘I will give you three days. In three days I will come back. But if you do not have the names by then, I will kill you.'

‘But what if they haven't set off a bomb by then?' protested Hennessy.

‘That is your problem,' said Nguyen.

‘That's not fair!' protested Hennessy.

‘Fair? Nothing that has happened so far has been fair, Mr Hennessy.' Nguyen stood up and backed to the door. He reached for the light switch and plunged the room into darkness.

‘Why are you doing this?' Hennessy asked quietly.

‘You killed my family.'

‘There's something else. Something you're not telling me.'

Nguyen moved silently to the window and pulled back one of the curtains. There were only two men in the courtyard below. One was carrying two fire extinguishers, the other was rolling up a hosepipe. He heard the back door of the farmhouse slam shut. The two men in the courtyard walked over to the cottage and Nguyen let the curtain swing back into place.

‘I mean, I've lost relatives in the Troubles, my own brother-in-law was killed not so long ago. Almost everyone I know has had someone they know killed or maimed, but I've never met anyone who has taken it so . . . so personally . . . as you have.'

‘Perhaps if you did take it personally, the war in Ireland would not have dragged on for so long.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘What are you fighting for?'

‘To get the British out of Ireland. To be allowed to live our own lives without prejudice or persecution.'

‘So why do your people not take up arms against the British and drive them from the country?'

‘Many do.'

‘But not enough. Not enough people care. Not enough take it personally. The Vietnamese fought the French until they left the country. And the Communists fought the Americans and the army of the South until the Americans left. They won because the desire to be one country was stronger than anything else. It seems to me that you will never force the British to leave Ireland. Not enough people care. You play at war.'

‘And you? Why are you doing this?'

Nguyen ignored him. He put his ear to the door and listened. He heard nothing. He turned to Hennessy. ‘I will go now. Do not shout, I still have the bomb and I will kill anyone who comes after me. I will be back in three days.' He slipped the bolt back and opened the door, looked left and right down the corridor before easing himself out of the bedroom, keeping close to the wall. He went silently to the bathroom and put the gun in the rucksack and disconnected the wires before he stepped on to the toilet and climbed out of the window. He held the drainpipe and shinned down, taking care not to scrape his feet against the wall. When he reached the ground he pressed himself against the wall and checked out his surroundings. There was a lingering smell of burnt wood and scorched metal in the courtyard but there was no sound. He crept between the cars, keeping low, and made his way to the stables. Inside he heard the horses snorting and he wondered if they could sense that he was there. He heard footsteps by the cottage so he moved in the opposite direction and left the courtyard between the stables and the far end of the farmhouse.

Hennessy sat in the bedroom, slumped forward with his head in his hands. Part of him wanted to sound the alarm immediately but he knew that The Chinaman had meant what he'd said. He would use the gun and if that failed he would set off the bomb killing God knows how many. He gave him five minutes then switched on the light and went down to get Kavanagh who was stretched out on a sofa in the lounge. By the time Kavanagh had gone out to warn the men on guard duty Nguyen was long gone, slithering through the grass as silently as a snake.

O'Reilly caught the 10.33 a.m. train from Waterloo station and found himself a seat towards the front in a carriage full of men in morning suits and women in long dresses and expensive hats. Two of the couples in his compartment were obviously travelling together and one of the men had produced a bottle of champagne and four glasses and made a big show of opening it. Champagne sprayed out and as the man held it to one side it splashed over O'Reilly's aluminium camera case.

‘Sorry old man,' said the racegoer.

‘No problem,' said O'Reilly. He looked out of the window as the train pulled out of the station. Ascot was forty minutes away so he settled back in his seat and let his mind drift. In the inside pocket of his blazer was a badge to get him into the Members' Enclosure, which he'd bought from a ticket agency a week earlier. He'd wanted to get in on Ladies Day but hadn't been able to get a ticket for Thursday and had settled for Tuesday instead. Tuesday or Thursday, it didn't really matter, because a successful bombing at Royal Ascot would be news around the world.

The camera case at his feet was the sort professionals used to carry their equipment, about two-feet long, a foot wide and eighteen-inches deep, with a thick nylon carrying strap. The Bombmaker had stripped out the lining of the case and fitted slabs of Semtex, ten pounds in all, around the sides and the bottom. There were two detonators, each connected to a single timer made from a small electronic travel alarm. The alarm had been set for 2 p.m. and the bomb was armed. O'Reilly was tense but not over-anxious. He'd carried live bombs before and he had complete faith in The Bombmaker. The lining had been replaced over the explosive with alterations made where necessary, and it now contained two camera bodies, a selection of lenses, a light meter and boxes of film. Around his neck was a Nikon with a telephoto lens and a pair of binoculars in a leather case. Attached to the binoculars were a dozen or so badges from earlier race meetings and that, and the trilby hat, marked O'Reilly out as a regular racegoer and not just a social butterfly hoping for a glimpse of a famous face at Royal Ascot.

The train arrived at Ascot station at 11.15 a.m. and O'Reilly joined the crowds flocking to the racecourse. There were plenty of police around but most of them were wearing yellow reflective jackets and were directing traffic with bored faces and aching arms. O'Reilly stood with a group waiting to cross the road. A middle-aged man in a morning suit saw a gap in the traffic and started to cross but a young constable in the middle of the road shouted at him to get back. ‘Bollocks,' muttered the man in the morning suit. He looked to be twice as old as the constable, a roughly hewn face and shoulders that strained at his jacket.

The policeman motioned at the traffic to keep moving and walked over to the man. ‘Have you got a problem?' he asked, jutting his head forward, his cheeks reddening. He had a thin moustache and the manner of an adolescent with something to prove.

‘I think I'm old enough to cross the road on my own,' said the man with barely restrained anger. He looked like a man more than capable of looking after himself in a fight and O'Reilly knew he'd be able to handle the copper with one hand.

‘That's not what I asked you. I want to know what you said.' He was glaring at the man, his teeth clenched together and a vein was pulsing on the side of his forehead. O'Reilly wondered what his problem was because his reaction was out of all proportion to what the man had said.

‘Nothing,' said the man through tight lips. ‘I didn't say anything.'

The policeman stared hard at the man for several seconds and then nodded slowly as if satisfied. ‘Good,' he said, then walked back into the road and continued directing traffic. The racegoer got a few sympathetic glances from pedestrians around him and he shook his head, exasperated. The Great British Bobby, thought O'Reilly. An angry young man with authority he couldn't handle. It was something he'd grown up with in Ireland, where the Protestant police and the teenage British soldiers would exercise the power of their uniform just for the hell of it, just to feel good. He was used to being stopped on the street and given a hard time from RUC officers who didn't say ‘sir' and didn't bother to keep their contempt out of their voices, and even as a schoolboy he'd been thrown against walls and roughly searched by gum-chewing soldiers in camouflage jackets. The abuse of authority was nothing new to O'Reilly, and it was with no small feeling of satisfaction that he now saw it spilling over to Britain.

Eventually the policeman held up his hand to stop the traffic and allowed them to cross. He seemed to be glaring at them all, as if blaming them for having to stand in the road.

Despite the strong police presence – there seemed to be hundreds organising the flow of coaches and cars into the carparks around the racecourse – O'Reilly saw no sniffer dogs at the entrance. There were two policemen there but they seemed to be more concerned about eyeing up two pretty blondes in white, figure-hugging dresses and floppy hats. The girls were twins, barely in their twenties, tanned and draped in gold. One of the policemen smiled and touched his helmet in salute. The girls smiled and giggled, and one of them looked back over her shoulder as they walked towards the grandstand.

A steward in a bowler hat squinted at O'Reilly's badge and waved him through the gate and then another steward who looked about seventy years old asked if he'd mind opening up his case. The police stood watching the twins, their long, lithe legs moving with the grace of thoroughbred racehorses.

‘Security, you understand,' said the old man apologetically.

A couple of middle-aged women in tweed suits were looking into handbags but the checks were nothing more than a cursory glance. O'Reilly wondered what the hell they expected to find – a black ball with ‘BOMB' written on it and a burning fuse maybe. The steward in front of O'Reilly rubbed his moustache and smiled and O'Reilly smiled back and put the case on the grass and clicked it open. The old man peered inside.

‘Nice equipment,' he said approvingly. He looked up at O'Reilly with watery eyes. ‘I do a bit of photography myself.'

‘It's a great hobby,' said O'Reilly. He took out one of the camera bodies and showed it to the old man. ‘I always use Nikon,' he said. ‘What about you?'

The man looked pleased about being asked his opinion. ‘Canon,' he said. He handed the Nikon back to O'Reilly. ‘Enjoy yourself today,' he said.

‘Got any tips?' asked O'Reilly. He stashed the camera body away, and as an afterthought took the other Nikon from around his neck and put that away, too. He grunted as he picked up the case and slung its strap over his shoulder.

‘You could do worse than back Eddery in the third,' said the steward. Pity, thought O'Reilly, who wasn't planning to be around for the third race. In fact if everything went the way Fisher had planned it, there wouldn't be a third race.

He bought a race card and walked for a while among the crowds, listening to the plummy voices and girlish giggles. The idle rich at play, he thought. Who else could afford to walk around in thousands of pounds' worth of high fashion and jewellery in the middle of the week? Champagne corks were popping everywhere, and everyone he looked at had the glint of gold on their wrist or around their neck. Some of the women were simply stunning, like the coltish blonde twins he'd seen at the gate, but in the main they were overdressed, overweight and wore too much make-up. They stood in groups, eyeing up the competition, reading the price tags on their outfits every bit as easily as they identified the brand names. They looked fearful, thought O'Reilly. Fearful of what they might lose.