Gerry the barman's guess about the other fellow, who was dressed half as a farmer and half as a priest, was partially correct in that the man was a playwright. The playwright had spent the best part of a half hour making sure he was not being tailed.
The tanned man disliked the playwright, not least for the maudlin viciousness of his nationalism. He regarded him as a fool whose brains were stewed by decades in fifth-rate theatricals. He did not trust the playwright, but he knew that having to work with him was a test which others were watching.
"You can see that results come quickly," he began.
"There's no gainsaying that," agreed the playwright. "So it went smoothly this time and the volunteers got away. Maximum effect, oh yes, I can see that."
"But…? You have reservations?"
The playwright observed the bubbles rising to the ice in his glass before replying.
"I'll say this much. All this firepower and technology are fine and well. You are well able to do the fancy footwork. But I've been in this thing for most of my life. I know how the lads on the ground feel. I can tell you that they're not too excited about the Russians getting in on this like they've started to."
The tanned man saw the beginnings of a faint irony in the smile on the other's face. Patronising.
"What don't they like?"
"Don't get me wrong. The movement is all for arms supplies, even from the man in the moon. As long as there's no strings attached. What do I say when they ask what we're supposed to hand over in return? Some of the lads'll think maybe it's too much of an assembly line thing. They wonder what we had to give to get this kind of support."
The tanned man looked directly at the playwright.
"Does it really matter to the active service units where the stuff comes from? It's a command council decision. I haven't traded away the place to get this stuff. And that consideration has really nothing to do with either of us, has it? I'm here to monitor things. I have to report to them at some point otherwise they won't hand over any more," he added.
"Risk," the playwright said.
"Everything has risk. It was even a risk trying to persuade the council to go along with this scheme. The drop to the trawler went off without a hitch, didn't it? The Soviet boat didn't pick up on anyone. And they're stuffed with monitoring gear. It went off perfectly. The guns were in use and even safely back across the border within a week."
"Could be the Yanks are stringing them along and waiting for a big haul so they can tip off the Brits. I read where those satellites can read the paper you have in your hand from up there," the playwright said.
Testing my patience, the tanned man thought, to see how far he can go with me, how much he can find out.
"Could be," he began. "But we're not talking of sheer numbers of weapons. The risk of detection is not as high as you might think. It's a matter of having the right weapon at the right time. Look at all the publicity about the grenade launcher. Let them think we have these things coming out our ears. They think we have any amount of nightsights. That's what works. Effectiveness, economy. There's more yet."
"Another toy?" the playwright asked.
"You don't need to know details. Just get your guys to set up a car to take something the size of a suitcase. The guidance and the sights fit into the suitcase too. It looks like a typewriter case. Light, portable; about twenty-five pounds."
"A suitcase?" The playwright had become very attentive.
"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.