'Have you heard of a Sagger?'
'I've heard of a shagger. I've met a lot of them…'
'They were big in the Egypt and Israel war in seventy-three.'
'What is it?'
'It's a guided missile, an anti-tank missile. It'll go a mile and a half. If it hits dead-on, it'll go through 400 mil plate.'
The tanned man watched the playwright lose his battle to keep his composure.
'Jesus, Mary and Holy Saint Joseph. Is it here?'
'It was in, as of eleven o'clock last night.'
'Same stunt?' the playwright whispered.
'Same route, different boat. I told you they're serious about this. It's a whole new approach. You've missed out on the global picture here. They're peeved with the Americans sending in stuff to Afghanistan. There's Central America. We're all part of the big picture. It's not just a local squabble.'
'So it could be released a mile and a half from target?' the playwright asked.
'It's proven accurate to that. It needs two men, one to sight and control as it's in flight, the other to set up behind. It's wire-guided. Not for space cadets. It's reliable. It works.'
The playwright frowned. He wondered yet again what this Yank, or whatever he was, had as a stake in this. The rumour was that the Yank was actually Irish, even born here. Another part of the mythology which had gathered around his arrival was that he was a tycoon businessman. That was too much to hope for, that image of Ireland's emigrant sons renewing the struggle. In any event, the council had put their suspicions aside and allowed this newcomer some rope. So far, to their astonishment, he had delivered. Although they had no way of checking, few could doubt that indeed he had enough links to set up the deliveries right from the Soviet Union. Still, no one could fathom his motives enough to allay their suspicions. He hadn't approached any of the movement in the States. A search on him had turned up things that the leadership had kept to themselves, causing the rumours to fly around even more. Some suspected a plant, but again they were discredited when the guns went into use in the North.
As the playwright tried to digest this news, the tanned man observed with some scorn. Resentful, befuddled. This remnant of a green peasant Ireland was out of his depth.
The playwright and his like didn't want a rational solution to the mess, because they wouldn't be the kings of the pygmies any more afterwards. He had no commitment to unloading the mess, the national inferiority complex, the energy deflected into 'politics,' the bitterness. Like any neurotic, the playwright didn't see how he was clinging to the neurosis itself.
'And will you be wanting those couriers still…?' the playwright asked.
'You sound like you want to tell me there's some hitch,' the tanned man said.
'It's not a hitch.'
'Well, what's the big deal then?'
'There's no big deal. I hope you've got a car lined up yourself for this. I don't have anything in the garage right now. Seeing as you don't like Mercedes and all that.'
'Get your guys to boost something a lot less conspicuous next time, that's all I said. You ditched it like I said, right?'
'Almost.'
'What does that mean?'
'Some of the boys are down from Belfast and I had to give them a car. The only one in the garage was the Merc, so I gave it to them for today and tomorrow. What's the point of torching a perfectly good car?' the playwright answered.
'Look. You know the cars are for this operation.' The tanned man's voice began to rise.
'I know, I know. Don't be getting yourself-'
'Shut up for a minute. I say what goes here. Just because I say dump that car, that doesn't mean it's yours and you can loan the god-damn thing out. Get it back off those hoods straightaway. Tell them to boost their own transport if they have to. I want this operation watertight. Get it back and burn it, OK?'
The playwright held his palms up in mock surrender.
'Anyway. I have the guy I need for this one. Good cover and a car thrown in as well, all legal. I want you to use the gas-the petrol tank for the package.'
The playwright finished his drink and got up to leave.
'Better get the car to me soon. Can't do much at the garage until they have the exact dimensions. It's a very precise thing. The cars are not as big over here,' the playwright said.
The tanned man turned aside the veiled jibe and merely nodded his head. You must be kidding, he thought. Whip off the gas tank and secure the thing inside another one. No doubt this loser favoured putting it on his shoulder and running across the fields. Or taking chances on the roads even when they didn't know which roads the Brits were likely to crater from one day to the next. The British Army had infra-red and thermal surveillance as well as roving patrols out in the fields at night.
When the playwright left, the tanned man took up the newspaper again. Much to the chagrin of the barman, he ordered a coffee. Gerry was twenty years in the trade and still couldn't get used to serving up tea and cake in a public house.
As the lunch time crowd began coming in, Gerry noticed the well-dressed fella get his coat and leave. The man crossed Duke Street and entered the shopping arcade. He went to a phone booth, deposited the money and dialled.
'I'm calling about the matter we discussed on the weekend. It's ready to go.'
'Have you got a day on it yet?'
'No. But I'll know by tomorrow evening probably. It'll be your fellow doing it again.'
The other person paused.
'Is there a problem with that?'
'Not really. We might need to let some things blow over.'
'Like?'
'That business about the student. My fellow balked a bit. It scared him a lot.'
'Is that it?'
'We have an irritation which prevents things from, shall we say, healing over. The dick who's looking into it. Not what you'd call a sleuth, but I have a bad feeling about him. Deceptive kind. Behind the scenes.'
'Did you spin oil? the drug thing?'
'Yes. I think it's working.'
'Well, we can't wait forever.'
'No. I'm thinking that we should maybe nudge more things on him, set him going on the trail.'
'That's your affair. Just make it work. We have to work this thing to show we can deliver. Then we can relax.'
While the tanned man left the arcade, the person he had called sat wondering what to do about Minogue.
For his part, the playwright was not a happy man. He sat in a taxi which had been caught in a traffic jam in College Green. A bloody bomb scare, wasn't that funny? The playwright did not like the man he had met in the Bailey. He didn't like him one bit. He was a snotty, smart, pushy, well-to-do Yank. Telling him who he could give out one of the cars to. What was this well-connected Yank going to get out of this anyway? What would the Russians get out of it? Surely they knew that Irish people wouldn't accept their way even if they did help to win in the Six Counties. Although it was tougher and tougher to get in the stuff from the States, at least it didn't alienate the rank and file. What if the Yank was an undercover, a set-up?
It had come hard to the playwright to be told by the leadership to give this man all assistance. It might even be that this new thing could change everything. The taxi inched around College Green, under the portals of the Bank of Ireland and the haughty Trinity College. He smiled grimly at the sight: god-damn it to hell, he decided, if that institution can claim to have any say in the business of Irish liberation. He knew then what he would do. The preparations would go ahead, but the weapon would find a different route to the North. We'll test out this fancy scheme, he thought. Well and good if they make it through, then he'll have been wrong and he'll admit it. No one
