The Chinaman (40 page)

Fisher grinned. ‘I'm impressed,' he said. ‘And it'll get through the X-ray machines?'

‘Even the new models. The only drawback is that there's no room for a barometric device. We can't use altitude to detonate it, so we have to be sure of the timing.'

Fisher nodded. ‘I don't see that being a problem, so long as we stick to a scheduled flight. What about the mule?'

‘I've narrowed it down to two. A journalist and a cameraman who works for Thames TV. What about you?'

‘There's a girl, an investment banker, who says she'll be going to Paris next week. She always flies British Airways, she says. I think we take the first one to confirm a flight, agreed?'

‘Fine by me,' said The Bombmaker.

Woody worked flat out to finish the school-holidays feature because he hadn't been told yet whether or not he was working the Saturday shift and the news desk weren't at all happy about his three-hour lunch with Annie. He was determined to keep in their good books, at least until they'd drawn up the weekend rota, but he was suffering. He was all too well aware that he hadn't become a journalist twenty years earlier to end up writing crap like that, but, as usual, he needed the money. He'd cashed two cheques at separate pubs and promised that he'd have enough money in his account to cover them by the end of the following week. He'd been fighting to keep his head above water financially for the last two years but he was getting nowhere. He needed a staff job, but Woody was a realist, his age and his track record were against him. What he needed was a big one, an exclusive story that he could sell for big money and which would restore his tarnished reputation. Yeah, he thought, dream on. Number forty-eight. Take them to the zoo. And feed them to the lions, he typed, and then just as quickly deleted it. It'd be just his luck for something like that to get into the paper.

He finished the feature and as he sent it into the news desk queue the phone on his desk rang. It was Pat Quigley, calling from Belfast.

‘Hiya, Woody. I wasn't sure if I'd catch you in, this early in the week, but I remember you didn't like being bothered at home.'

Woody leant back in his swivel chair and put his feet on the desk. ‘No need for sarcasm, mate. You caught me at a bad time. Anyway, how's it going?'

‘Not so bad, Woody. I'm calling about the Hennessy thing.'

‘Yeah?' said Woody, suddenly interested but trying to conceal it.

‘His driver's in hospital. Somebody bombed his car. I'm told by a really good source that it happened on his farm. I started making a few enquiries and it seems that two more of his men are in hospital here in Belfast. One's been stabbed, the other has some sort of strange wounds in his foot. It's bloody curious, Woody, especially after the attack on Hennessy's office. Do you have any idea what's going on?'

‘Sounds bloody mysterious to me, Pat. Are you sure it's not the Protestants?'

‘Doubtful. There hasn't been much aggro between the guys at the top, not for a while. I suppose it could be starting up again, but it doesn't feel right. There haven't been any other attacks, either on the IRA or the UDA. It looks like a one-off.'

‘I don't know what to say, Pat. I don't see how I can help.'

‘You said you'd have a look for the name of the reader who was asking about Hennessy.'

‘He wasn't asking about Hennessy. He just wanted to write to a few Sinn Fein officials. I really don't think he's your man.'

‘OK, fine, but can you at least dig out his name for me?'

‘I tried, but I can't find it in any of my notebooks. I did look, Pat, honest. It's just one of those things, you know?'

‘OK, Woody. Fair enough. I thought I'd check.' Woody could tell he wasn't convinced, but there was nothing he could do. Like Woody he was a freelance and dependent upon the paper's goodwill, he couldn't afford to offend anyone, even another freelance, especially a freelance who was doing regular shifts at head office. Quigley rang off.

When Woody went over to the news desk, Simpson was leaning back in his chair, his immaculate shoes on the desk.

‘Good piece, Woody, a classic!' he shouted, giving Woody the thumbs up.

Woody gave him a mock bow from the waist and pulled his forelock before approaching the desk. ‘About that story idea I had,' Woody said.

‘Pull up a pew,' said Simpson and kicked over a chair.

Woody sat down. ‘Remember that guy who came to the office trying to offer a reward over the Knightsbridge bombing?'

Simpson screwed up his face like a baby about to cry. ‘The Chinaman?' he said.

‘Yeah, The Chinaman. Only I've found out he's Vietnamese, not Chinese. His wife and daughter were killed in the bombing and he wanted to get the men responsible.'

‘Thousands of pounds in a carrier bag, right?'

‘Right. He rang back a while later, said he wanted to talk to the IRA direct. He wanted names of people high up in the organisation.'

‘And you gave them to him?'

‘Right. Not the IRA, because you know what they'd do to him, but I gave him a few names of the top Sinn Fein people. Now someone is running some sort of vendetta against one of the men, Liam Hennessy. His office has been bombed, his car has been hit and three of his men are in hospital. And the man that came to see me has disappeared.'

‘Disappeared?'

‘He used to own a Chinese take-away in Clapham. He's sold up and vanished.'

‘And you think he's in Belfast?'

Woody nodded. ‘If he was crazy enough to offer a reward, he might just be crazy enough to take matters into his own hands.'

‘But you said Hennessy's office was bombed. You think this Chinaman has got hold of bombs?'

Woody leant forward, his eyes sparkling. ‘That's the kicker. He's a Vietcong assassin! The bastard can kill with his bare hands, he can make bombs, booby traps, the works.'

‘Woody, someone's been pulling your chain!'

Woody explained about the Home Office file and Nguyen's life story. When he'd finished, Simpson picked up a ballpoint pen and began chewing the end. ‘So what are you suggesting, Woody?'

‘Let me go to Belfast and sniff around.'

‘Expensive,' said Simpson.

‘If the paper'll pay for my flight and cover my expenses, I'll take the fee as lineage. No story, no payment.' Simpson agreed. ‘But if I get a splash, I want serious money. You'll have the best exclusive this year.'

‘If you're right.'

‘If I'm right. Is it a deal?' he asked.

‘I've got a better idea, a better deal.'

‘What?' said Woody, warily.

Simpson reached for a letter on his desk and handed it to Woody.

‘We've been invited to a conference in Rome. A security conference. All the top guys are going to be there, including David Tucker, the head of Scotland Yard's Anti-Terrorist Branch and a couple of MPs. Some of Europe's top terrorist experts are going to be speaking. It's supposed to be about computerised intelligence systems, but we've been tipped off that they're going to announce a new international database to help in the hunt for terrorists worldwide.'

‘Government tip?' asked Woody.

Simpson grinned. ‘Who else? We might show a fair bit of tits and bums but politically we're right behind the Government, and we've got several million readers. The Government wants a big show from this conference, so a few select newspapers have been invited along. They're offering to fly us out on a chartered flight with some of the speakers, all we have to do is cover expenses.'

‘And report the Government line.'

‘Don't bite the hand that feeds you, Woody,' replied Simpson.

‘Perish the thought,' said Woody. He waved the letter. ‘You want me to go to this? You know the flight is tonight?'

‘Yeah I know. We were sitting on it but in view of what happened at Ascot, we'd be crazy to turn it down. I was thinking about sending Williams but he's gone down with the flu. You'll get a bloody good story out of the conference, and you're sure to pick up some juicy stuff behind the scenes. And while you're there you can pick their brains about what's going on in Belfast. I'd be amazed if they hadn't heard something.'

Woody nodded his head thoughtfully. It made good sense. ‘And what about me going to Belfast?'

‘Fly straight there from Rome when the conference is over. We'll fix up the ticket for you. Can you fly direct?'

‘I dunno, I'll find out. So it's a deal?'

‘It's a deal, Woody. Just one thing.'

‘What's that?'

‘Keep off the sauce.'

‘You know me,' said Woody, heading back to his desk.

‘Yeah,' muttered Simpson. ‘Too true I do.'

Woody went back to his desk just in time to answer his phone. It was Maggie. ‘Hello, Woody. Do you fancy a drink some time tomorrow?' she asked.

‘I can't, I'm afraid. I'm off to Rome tonight. You must be psychic, I've only just been told.'

‘What time are you going?'

He looked at the letter. ‘Eight thirty, so I'll have to get to the airport about seven, I suppose. And then I'm going to Belfast.'

‘Belfast?' she said. Woody explained briefly about the conversation he'd had with Pat Quigley.

‘Wow, so you're going after The Chinaman? Hey, if you need any help while you're over there, you should call my cousin, he's a freelance journalist there. God, it's quite a coincidence, he was in London a couple of weeks ago.'

‘In Belfast? What's his name?'

‘Eamonn McCormick, do you know him?'

‘No, but it'd be useful to meet up with him. I'll need some help while I'm there. I should even be able to put some money his way, too.' It would be best to keep out of Pat Quigley's way when he arrived in Belfast so another contact would be useful.

‘Great. He left some stuff with me. You could give it to him when you see him. He's a really nice guy, you'll like him. Look, I tell you what, why don't I pop round and give it to you tonight, before you leave?'

‘Lunch would be better.' Woody looked at his watch. It was 11.30 a.m.

‘I can't, I'm tied up. Why don't I come round to your house? Give me the address.'

Woody gave her the address of his bedsit in Fulham.

‘What time did you say the flight was again?'

‘Eight thirty. It's a special Government charter, high security and all that. I mustn't be late. I'll have to leave the flat by five thirty, just to be on the safe side.'

‘That's OK, I'll come round about four thirty, maybe five.'

‘Aren't you working?' he asked.

‘I'm supposed to be visiting clients so it's no problem. I might have to sell you an insurance policy, though.'

‘With my lifestyle, I don't think I could afford the premiums.' He laughed and they said their goodbyes. Woody smiled as he replaced the receiver. Maggie was great fun and he was looking forward to seeing her again, even though it was likely to be a fleeting visit. He had yet to get beyond the kiss-on-the-cheek stage, but he lived in hope.

Morrison stood by a window in one of the front-facing bedrooms looking down the track that led to the road. It was just before noon. He saw McGrath's Volvo estate with four men in it and he ran to the door. ‘He's coming,' he shouted downstairs and then rushed back to his vantage point.

Two of Hennessy's men walked towards the car and flagged it down, checking the occupants. Morrison saw the rear window being wound down and then the glint of sunlight off McGrath's glasses. He felt his heartbeat increase and his mouth went dry and he recognised the signs of his body preparing itself for violence. It had been four years since Morrison had killed a man, and then it had been in the heat of a fire-fight at the border near Crossmaglen, but the deaths he was responsible for caused him not one night's lost sleep and he was quite prepared to kill again. He had made the mental switch many years earlier, suppressed the values he'd been taught by the priests and by his teachers at school in favour of the creed of the political terrorist, that violence was justified in the quest for self-determination. When Morrison finally met his maker he would do so with a clear conscience and an untarnished soul, he was sure of that. The death of McGrath, if Hennessy ordered it, would be an added bonus and would go some way to quenching the jealous fire that burned through his mind. As he watched the Volvo bounce down the track and slow to crawl around the filled-in hole that marked the scene of the earlier bombing, images of McGrath and Mary filled his mind again, the two of them naked, enjoying each other, her arching her back and calling out his name.

‘Are you OK?' asked a voice behind him, and he turned to see Murphy standing by the door, a large automatic in his hand.

‘I'm fine,' he said. Morrison was no longer sure how to react to Murphy. They had never been especially close. They were about the same age yet Morrison had gone much further in the organisation, taking a great deal of responsibility at an early age, while Murphy had remained as little more than a bodyguard. Morrison often felt that Murphy begrudged Morrison the access he had to Hennessy and to the other top IRA officials, but now he had something on which to pin his envy. He would never forgive Morrison's betrayal of his employer, and Morrison would forever have to watch his back when the man was around.

Murphy looked at Morrison for a second or two with cold eyes and then nodded, just once. ‘Liam says he wants us downstairs, in the lounge,' he said.