A breeze searched his jacket. Motive, he thought: why is this old man dead? Simple bloody question, no answer. He thought again of the drawings in Combs' house. Tully church, the pagan symbols on warm, smooth stones…
Quick's limp had soured his face into that of a malignant dwarf. The Bronc was hatless, also wore a beard and smelled like a damp ashtray. He seemed mild, almost co-operative, as he stepped out in his socks onto the flagstones by the door. Evenings, and perhaps mornings too, had left him with an overhanging belly which his vest could not get under. There'd be no competition among the policemen as to who could sit beside The Bronc.
'Yous have nothing on me. Not a fuckin' sausage!' the Bronc hissed.
Minogue watched them trek down the path. Shag was the last of the brothers into the Garda cars. His eyes were darting about, but he remained silent.
'That was easy enough,' Keating murmured.
'They were flattered by so much attention, I'm thinking,' said Minogue. 'Here, I'm off to town directly we get back to the station. Is someone going to go over the place for rope here?'
Keating concealed his surprise.
'Em… Driscoll and another fella will do it while these three divine persons are down in the station.'
'Phone me in the unlikely event that…' Minogue didn't finish the sentence. 'And can you be in by four along with the others? We'll go over what we have.' spacebarthing
Alistair Murray wrote the cable message in longhand, authorized it himself and had it delivered by hand to the Communications Section. Ball would be waiting for official word that MI5 had inherited Combs. Information was to follow in due course, Murray had written in officialese, as to what dispositions and assistance Foreign Office staff could make for Mr Kenyon should the Security Service request same.
Murray omitted the second letter of his initials in the 'reply to' box. The omission was a signal to Ball to telephone him at a public telephone booth in Knights-bridge at one o'clock this afternoon. He settled back in his chair and stifled a yawn. Maybe he should have let Combs off the hook sooner, he reflected. But getting him out of Dublin would not have been risk-free either. A cantankerous Combs would have nourished his resentment and had it flower sooner or later, at a time when he, Murray, would have less control. Kenyon and the Security Service would nose about until he had exhausted his irritation and assured himself and the Service that Combs could be boxed and buried permanently. Combs, whether he had liked it or not, had earned his keep. Under the circumstances… Murray's thoughts slid away.
His memory drew him back yet again to the drizzly expanse of aerodrome tarmac, the blanket of grey clouds low over the small groups in uniform huddled under umbrellas. He remembered the savage ironies; here he was, standing in the rain at an RAF base where England's finest hours had been played out in the war, with fliers limping back to base in that spring of 1940. Heroes' return… and so many never returning; England's best.
A clear enemy then, ranting dictators and masses of goose-stepping fanatics. England had never been more united. Who was the enemy now? he remembered wondering as he had looked out through the rain at the regimental honour guard, the drizzle beading and dripping from their brims while they waited for the coffins to emerge from the plane. No Members of Parliament to welcome back these soldiers, to stand vigil and honour their dead. No Ministers or their Secretaries. No Kenyons either. Just the faint hum from the motorway in the distance, the families standing in puddles, the uniforms. Small sprays of lilies standing out against the greys. No, no hero's return, no medals pinned, no wife's embrace. He had watched from the car as Ball had walked behind his brother's coffin, hatless and pale. Who was the enemy now?
Murray had waited for several weeks before contacting Ball. He had to wait for it to sink in with Mervyn Ball as it had sunk in with himself three years before. He waited for Ball to understand that his brother's funeral marked the end of it. There would be no public outrage, no questions in the Commons. Just another British officer's death sinking into history-not even history, mere numbers. And all for what? The sniper still crept over the rooftops of West Belfast, claiming more victims, the bombers still thumbed the buttons. A holding operation, governments too wary and timid to ask the army to do better than watch as parts of soldiers were shovelled into plastic bags amid the rubble.
Months later, Ball at a Foreign Office reception, glass in hand, weighing Murray up as the party went on around them: Yes, Mervyn, we have something in common. Your brother was in the Royal Greenjackets, I think _
While Minogue negotiated his way into the centre of Dublin, Kenyon was walking back to his office in Cadogan Gardens! Kenyon was finding it difficult to order things in his mind. Several times during his walk he resolved to wait until he reached his office before trying to run over the facts again.
He was dimly aware of a threat lurking somewhere. It was contiguous with, but also hidden by his own anger and alarm. Back in his office, Kenyon listed plusses and minuses on a sheet of paper. Then he sat back in the chair and waited for the issues to announce themselves.
The first thing Hugh Robertson, the Director of his section, would ask him would be if he was being as objective as he could be. No, maybe he'd ask if Kenyon wasn't overly sensitive in the atmosphere of publicity around the Service's operations. As for the objectivity question, Kenyon had to point out that there was too big a gap between what Murray was saying and what he himself was beginning to conclude about Arthur Combs. The Combs that Kenyon had read was still a younger man, rebellious and steely. Evaluation, objective evaluation, Kenyon echoed as he sat back in his chair.
He unlocked his desk and removed a sheet from the top drawer. The sheet contained a list of names. Seven of the fifteen people whose names he had gleaned from Combs' file in the Registry were dead. Of the remaining eight only two were British. One of those two lived in Spain. None of these people was under seventy. As far as Kenyon knew, none on the list had any connections with security or intelligence organisations. Combs had been fluent in German, of course. Probably bits of Greek and Spanish, definitely French. So? Kenyon almost said aloud.
Another possibility was local to where he had lived, near Dublin. Unlikely, he whispered aloud. Combs had resisted going there in the first place. Garrulous people, 'the world's best grudge-keepers' had been quoted directly from an interview with Combs. Funny, but macabre now.
Kenyon buzzed Bowers and sent him out for two cheese croissants. Then he stood by the window, not needing the paper or lists to command the issues now. Just before Bowers' return, Kenyon was brooding about the perennial injustice of other people's chickens coming home to roost with him. Injustice indeed: Combs would have known about that. Kenyon swore aloud at the impossible logistics he'd have to outline if he was going to go through with this operation.
All at once Kenyon realised that if he was already thinking details, it meant that he had made a decision. He had assented to a plan, but he hadn't quite admitted it to himself yet. He'd stick with that decision. This insight provided a moment of relief, but when Bowers knocked, Kenyon was again worrying about an important detail he might have missed. Christ, there had to be someone significant in Combs' life. His family was gone years ago; there had to be someone he'd trust.
'Sir.'
Bowers pushed the door open. Kenyon turned and glanced at the doctorate in political science who was five months into working for the greater good of the United Kingdom. Bowers' glasses reminded Kenyon of Carl Jung. Sex, anyone? No thanks. Bowers/Jung might reply, I must go for a bracing walk in the Alps.
'Good. Still hot? Would you phone the Director's secretary, Gillian, and set up a meeting with him. ASAP. Tell her I can go meet him if he's out, all right?' spacebarthing
Murray taxied to Knightsbridge. The telephone booth next to Mappins was empty. He stepped in and checked for a diartone. Hearing one, he looked at his watch. Two minutes to one. A woman struggling with shopping bags stopped outside the booth and opened her purse for change. Murray stuck his head out the door.
'The phone's broken, I'm afraid. I'm just trying to get my money back out of the stupid thing.'
The shopper blinked at the well-groomed man leaning out of the door. She shrugged resignedly and took up her bags again. The phone rang a minute early.
'All right,' Murray began. 'Five has launched an investigation.'
'I understand,' said Ball slowly. Murray heard traffic from some Dublin street.
'Hold on a minute,' Ball muttered. 'I have to plug more money in already…'
Murray listened impatiently as the coins rang into the telephone.
