Moore's thoughts drifted astray, the unease still hovering, as he watched two schoolchildren dragging their school-bags along the footpath from the station entrance. One of the boys had been crying recently. His knee was grazed. The other idly swung his bag to and fro, resigned to the slow progress of his mate, as if the older boy was wise to the ways of bullies, that his mate would live to see another day. Combs' exclamation marks after his mention of Costello's death: 'pure and simple sadism!!!' Would he, Moore, be expected to sit quietly through the debriefing while the contents of Combs' material was passed over? Maybe Kenyon would simply take off the gloves and tell him that it was none of his business what the intelligence services had to do in a war with terrorists. Still Moore's doubts lingered. There must have been Army involvement in the snatch to get Costello across the border. And Kenyon knew all this, he had to.
'— Chestnut Two to Control. We have a navy blue Rover at the gates. Over.'
Corrigan's eyes bulged. He snatched the mike from his lap. They had separated from the first radio-car, which was trolling vainly in the suburbs south of them. The radio signal from Moore's Mini had disappeared nearly ten minutes ago. There had been no sightings from the regular patrols of Garda squad-cars yet.
Minogue had opened the window to evade the sour, penetrating smell of Dunne's sweat.
'— Repeat, Chestnut Two. Control over.'
Dunne's foot lightened on the accelerator. Minogue rolled up the window to hear the transmission. They were driving down through Seafield toward the coast road.
'— Navy blue Rover with embassy plates coming through check-point.'
'— How many on board?'
'— Just one, sir. Male, forties, suit…'
'— Who is he?' Corrigan asked, his eyes out of focus.
'— We don't know, sir. No. Doesn't match our photo-file for current staff…'
Dunne turned to share a wink of excitement with Minogue. Minogue felt the surprise tingle in his fingertips. A good smoke would be just the ticket now, he thought.
'— He's through the gates now. Gone right, heading south toward Blackrock.'
'— Copy here. Stand by, Two,' said Corrigan.
Corrigan seemed to be staring at the back of Dunne's head. Then he turned abruptly to Minogue.
'Damn and blast it, I'm going to go the whole hog,' he whispered. Before Minogue could say anything, Corrigan was talking into the mike.
'— Yes, Two? Take it up and locate for us. Chestnut One, make your way to coast road to take up slack. Copy.'
Dispatch intervened before the reply from the radio-cars.
'— Central to Operation Melody Control.'
'— Yes,' said Corrigan resignedly. 'Standing by.'
'— Er, sir… Standing orders posted prohibit your request… Can refer you to, em, requisite officer. If you have his telephone number already…'
Corrigan seemed to smile, but when Minogue looked closely it was a sneer which remained.
'— Override the directive for this. Chestnut Two, proceed. I don't want him so much as dreaming you're on his tail, do you hear?'
The radio-car managed to beat dispatch to the button. Minogue believed he could read a smile in the detective's voice who replied.
'— Copy, Control. Chestnut Two on track. South on coast road.'
'— Central to Operation Melody Control.'
'— Go ahead, Delaney.'
'— Sir, are you receiving clear? Repeat: directive to avoid any surveillance of embassy staff; to be accompanied only if requested for security details.'
'— We copy here. I'm still overriding it, Delaney. I'll fill in the card for it. I copy your notification. Out.'
There was an unsettling silence from the radio. Minogue caught Corrigan's eyes. Corrigan's sneer was gone now. He eyeballed Minogue steadily for a moment.
'You best keep your tongue in your head, Matt Minogue. I'm not in the humour of any guff.' spacebarthing
Murray hadn't expected heavy traffic. Stuck far back in a row by lazily-timed traffic-lights, he studied the map again. There were no short-cuts. The train station was well out of the way of the main road-if the scale was accurate, that is. He swallowed again, his throat dry. Would he ever have started this with Ball if he had known that he, Murray, might be here today, on his way to meet a man he'd probably have to kill?
Murray missed second gear, grinding it before he wrenched the stick into the gate proper. Stupid academic question. Hindsight… but could he even try to get this Moore onside, have him come in? Moore seemed so damned reluctant to hand over the photos without having okayed it with Kenyon. Loyal: due procedure. Christ, the man was trained as a barrister; he'd want chapter and verse. Unlike Murray, this man had never seen Belfast at street level, every building concealing a potential bomb, a sniper, an ambush. No, Murray realised with a hollow ache in his stomach, he couldn't hope to turn Moore in a matter of ten minutes' persuading. Couldn't hope to motivate a man with no real stake in a campaign against terrorists.
Murray passed a large hotel before he saw the overgrown marshland which lay between the road and the matte silver sand which the tide of Dublin Bay had exposed. A salt marsh, a bird sanctuary, he glimpsed from a passing sign. Just over the low parapet which formed the boundary of the marsh, Murray saw the roofs of parked cars. Among them was a red lorry. The building further down could only be the railway station.
He tucked his elbow into his side and felt the prickly heat of panic start in his armpit. The dull, solid weight of the automatic tugged at his jacket pocket. A train emerged from the station, city-bound, moving slowly against the greys and purples of the bay.
'— Chestnut One to Control. Over.'
Corrigan acknowledged.
'— We're getting a signal, sir. It's steady enough, on the outer edge of the range. It shows to the city side of us.'
'— Where are you, One?'
'— Coming through Blackrock, Control. Five minutes and we'll be on you-'
The other tracking car broke in before Corrigan could reply.
'— Car Two to Control. We're reading a very spotty signal, too, sir. Just this minute.'
'— Wait a minute, wait a minute,' Corrigan's voice began to rise. He turned to Minogue.
'Now we're talking. Moore's out there somewhere close to us. Between Blackrock and town.'
'And that embassy car is headed out from town, too,' said Dunne. He stroked one of his mammoth, gristly ears. Minogue's mind lost traction. Dunne piloted the car through an amber light. His brain fogged, Minogue's eyes indolently took in details of the roads they were passing. They were within a mile of the coast road. Corrigan pinched his lip.
'— Passing Merrion Gates. Signal clear. Two, over.'
'This is Trimelston, sir,' said Dunne. 'He'll be gone by us when we hit the coast road.'
Dunne's anxious glance brought Corrigan to.
'Get out onto the coast road anyhow, would you,' he said.
'— Wait, wait. He's turning into Booterstown station. Chestnut Two, over.'
Corrigan sat up in his seat and barked into the mike.
'— Copy that, One?'
'— Copy, Control. Signal is stationary, sir. It looks to be within a mile of us. The Punch Bowl, say… or the train station.'
Dunne accelerated by two cars. The three policemen were now in sight of the coast road. They were a mile to the city side of Booterstown.
'Decoy?' Dunne tried.
'Me bollocks,' said Corrigan, wide-eyed with anticipation now. 'Moore is close by. The smart money says they have something arranged at the station. Damn and damn again.'
'They're trained, Pat,' Minogue said quietly. Dunne's eyes flickered to Minogue's in the mirror.
'It'd be a lovely set-up they'd have if they use the train,' Minogue added. 'We'd not get to them at all and they
