'But can't you see we may have some edge out of this? The Irish are very embarrassed about security now that an attache has been murdered. They'll be more tractable in the conference because of it, James.'
'Stinks,' Kenyon retorted.
'Tell me,' Robertson tried to divert, 'what should we make of this Costello business?'
Kenyon slumped further into the chair. He paused before answering his Director. Robertson waited, balancing his pen delicately in the palm of his left hand.
When Kenyon spoke, his voice had softened.
'It doesn't make sense to me. I just did a brief check on this. Costello's down as a part of a feud in the INLA. There was a run of killings then, all part of the same squabble. Some wanted to go more political and others wanted more military targets. Costello's death sparked off other revenge killings. He was shot to bits and had his throat slit. A real horror show, right down to the message daubed on the car window in Costello's blood. Something in Gaelic about him being a traitor.'
'Good riddance, hmm?'
'No tears shed here.'
Kenyon yawned. He remembered reading that a yawn was a sign of repressed anger. He had been up since three.
'So they used Costello's name as an excuse?' Robertson probed. 'A martyr, sort of?'
'The INLA? You can't take anything they say at face value. They might have suspected Ball was an intelligence officer. I'm sure the Irish Special Branch had Ball as a probable operative, just by powers of deduction from our staff numbers. There could have been a leak from their police. You just can't believe anything the INLA put out. They could have said that Ball was the oppressor of the Irish people for the last eight centuries.'
'Their myth-making is that, shall I say, hyperbolic?'
Kenyon shrugged.
'You should read some of the interrogation transcripts I got from Defence intelligence when they picked up some of them in Belfast last year. They have a looney logic to them. Costello would be alive today if the British had never come to Ireland eight hundred years ago. Ball is British. We think he's an intelligence officer. Therefore, Ball led to Costello's murder. Something like that. Anything goes with them.'
'Refresh me a tad on the INLA, would you?' Robertson asked.
'They're mostly ex-IRA and a few with overlapping memberships and loyalties.'
'Kenyon began wearily. 'Some INLA operations have had the direct support of the Proves. The Provos used to use them, supplied them and sheltered them but denied any link. They're what the Ulster Freedom Fighters or the Red Hand is to the Loyalist mob, the UDA. They're also nutters. Grown up under the gun.'
'Something like the PLO-Black September exercises?'
'Yes. But they have their family squabbles, too. The INLA are very bad news indeed. That Costello killing had all the marks of an INLA job. They like to 'make examples.' They think the Provo leadership is too soft and they won't listen to them. We've put over twenty of them through the Diplock courts in Northern Ireland. All except three or four were for murder. They had a campaign going against prison warders and police. They're worried about the INLA in Dublin, too, I expect, and not just because of this thing last night alone. Three of their police were killed by the INLA, if I remember. Scores of bank jobs and a few punishment killings in the South, too. Then there was that feud started off by the Costello thing…'
'So the mention of Costello is misleading?'
'Ask Murray. He handles the breakdown for the Foreign Sec and the Home Office, too.'
'Urn. Let's not keep coming back to Murray, James.'
'I was just stating facts,' Kenyon muttered. 'Murray was the analyst. He'd know more than I would.'
'All right, I see that. Don't forget, though, Murray has his way for the time being. The edict is that whatever we're doing in Dublin has to come through Murray for the moment. Murray has taken direct control of all intelligence work out of the embassy right now. We simply have to be sensitive to the negotiations.'
'It's a security alert,'' said Kenyon.
'It's a security alert,' Robertson continued, ignoring the sarcasm. 'We're to keep out of his way and anything we are running there is his business, as of this morning. That's the directive. He can tell us to shut down and get out if he thinks the work is at risk, James. Tiptoe, softly softly.'
'Murray hasn't actually told us to get Moore out of there, has he?'
'Not yet he hasn't,' Robertson replied with an effort. 'We can continue until such time as he thinks we're a potential balls-up. I outlined the operation because the PMO asked me to. That's how Murray knows about Moore snooping around for us in Dublin. I may not like it-you evidently don't like it-but if we can sign a border security deal or get better extradition for IRA men and that saves the life of one of our lads there…?'
Kenyon breathed out heavily.
'Hugh, you make me feel like a shit. But don't ask me to approve of Murray. Look at the mess he's gotten us into already.'
'He may be a double-dehydrated shit, James, but we have to swallow our puke for the moment.'
The image repelled Kenyon. He shivered.
'Any yield from Moore, and he has to at least show it to Murray in Dublin; that's the net effect right now. Murray may have to evaluate it on the spot and do whatever he needs to do security-wise then and there. I want you to tell Moore to stand by for an order to get to hell out of Dublin if that's what Murray thinks is necessary. And if he does find anything, he has to set up an RDV with Murray and show him any material he has.'
Kenyon let out a long breath.
'Will do, Hugh,' he said softly.
'Now, what's the risk to Moore at the moment?' Robertson asked.
'I don't see how they could connect Moore to Combs. All Moore has to do is to do his job and keep his eyes open.'
Robertson nodded.
'He'll know what is happening,' Kenyon added. 'If he thinks there's a mark on him, we'll pull him out immediately. He can walk in the door of the embassy as a last resort. We have no reason to worry about him right now. Moore is actually doing quite well…'
The atmosphere in Robertson's office felt less strained now. The silence between the two men floated on a vague hum of traffic outside.
'Can I quote you on that, James?' Robertson tried to bring some relief to his subordinate. Kenyon picked up on a less agreeable interpretation. He left Robertson's office with the question trailing him, driven home by Robertson's parting remark, one which was far less ambiguous.
'Be sure to call me on any contact with Moore, James. Just so as we stay in touch on this.' spacebarthing
Corrigan was a robust Garda Inspector in his mid-forties. What could have been a belly on him was on his chest instead. Minogue noticed that Corrigan had had his hair styled. When Minogue last worked with him, Corrigan had been a sergeant in the Special Branch. In the five intervening years, he seemed to have gotten younger. Perhaps it was the confidence which rank brought him. He had all his own teeth or else very good dentures, Minogue observed. Probably the latter, Minogue guessed as he walked away from the cashier, seeing as Corrigan had a broken nose from his favourite sport, hurling. As he drew closer to Corrigan's table, Minogue noticed the eyes again. For a tough nut-and he was Wyatt Earp when he had been stationed at the border-Corrigan had clear, soft grey woman's eyes. Minogue would have liked to tag the word vulpine on those eyes, but he could detect no signs of concupiscence in him. As though to compensate for the gentle eyes, Corrigan's eyebrows were bushy prominences.
Corrigan tested the seams on a classy-looking light sports jacket when he reached out to shake Minogue's hand. Minogue, no willow himself, saw his cup of coffee shake in his other hand while Corrigan pumped vigorously.
'How's the man?' Corrigan smiled. The lines out from his eyes drew the eyebrows down more.
'Pulling the divil by the tail, Pat. And how's yourself and all belonging to you?'
'Great.'
Minogue dug a lump of dried brown sugar out of the bowl and plopped it into his cup.
'And how do you like your new premises, the Puzzle Palace?' Minogue inquired, referring to the Special
