words might.
I jerked up my head. 'It didn't stop with Lynn, you know. It went higher.'
Did I detect a momentary hesitation?
'Right to the top. There was a source – a PIRA source. Someone senior in the leadership. It wasn't just the
I heard a strangulated sound coming from Lynn. 'Nick, no,
Mairead lowered the camcorder. Her brow furrowed, but only for a split second. She wasn't hooking into this as fast as I'd hoped.
'Kill us and you'll be looking over your shoulder forever. Release us and I'll tell you. In fact, I'll do better than that. You can film my confession. I'll do the whole thing on camera. Not that dinky little thing – a proper, grown-up camera in Dom's TV studio. I'll give you chapter and verse on the
She still wasn't convinced.
'Think about it, Mary. The leadership knew they had to go the political route. But they also knew that people like your dad, the diehard Republicans, wouldn't see it that way. They'd see it as surrender. So they had to be dealt with before the leadership could become respectable and have their pictures taken kissing babies.'
I was getting to her. Her face said it all.
'I know – shit, isn't it? But get us to Dublin, release the others and I'll tell you everything you need to know.'
Lynn choked with rage. He was good at this. 'You
For a second, our eyes locked. He knew, I knew. We understood each other. For the first and last time.
With a roar, he grabbed my hand and pulled the semiautomatic from my fingers.
For a moment, everybody froze. Mairead stood there, silhouetted against the light, still filming.
Lynn pointed the pistol at her and pulled the trigger.
There was silence. It wasn't made ready; the round was still in the mag.
Then the loud bang I'd been expecting finally came, and blood and brain tissue spattered my face. A red flower bloomed on his right temple and he fell forward across the steps.
Box-cutter shoved his pistol back into his jeans and turned away.
PART TEN
112
My head throbbed. I tried to lift my eyelids but they seemed determined to stay glued together. I was dry and thirsty, but my mouth felt too furred up to let anything through again.
I thought I could hear diesel engines, big ones, but for all I knew they could be inside my head.
I took as deep a breath as I could manage and forced my eyes open.
My vision blurred and my head spun. It was like having a lifetime's supply of hangovers in one hit.
At least I was aware how bad I felt; I took that as a good sign.
And wherever I was, it was hotter than hell.
I remembered the first injection, and a couple of the others I'd been given since to keep me under. Rapid heartbeat, dry mouth, vision beginning to go hazy . . . It all happened so quickly it had to be a scopolamine and morphine cocktail. The mix depresses the central nervous system. I'd treated a few targets to it, but never thought I'd be getting the good news myself.
Attempting to get my head into real-life mode, I checked inside my jacket. They'd had everything away: the Richardson passport and the card and the money. It wasn't worth worrying about; worrying wouldn't bring them back.
My eyes were starting to focus but my fingers were numb. I looked around me, flexing both hands as the pins-and-needles kicked in and they slowly came back to life. I was sitting on a sheet of steel. Some kind of bunk. There was no bedding, only the bunk fixed to the wall, and a slim wardrobe just big enough to hang a jacket in. Next to it was a tiny stainless-steel sink.
The bunk lurched and my head rolled onto my right shoulder.
I wasn't travelling first class. The whole cabin was layered with grime.
There was no porthole. I was probably below sea level and near the engines.
