The tanned man turned aside the veiled jibe and merely nodded his head. You must be kidding, he thought. Whip off the gas tank and secure the thing inside another one. No doubt this loser favoured putting it on his shoulder and running across the fields. Or taking chances on the roads even when they didn't know which roads the Brits were likely to crater from one day to the next. The British Army had infra-red and thermal surveillance as well as roving patrols out in the fields at night.
When the playwright left, the tanned man took up the newspaper again. Much to the chagrin of the barman, he ordered a coffee. Gerry was twenty years in the trade and still couldn't get used to serving up tea and cake in a public house.
As the lunch time crowd began coming in, Gerry noticed the well-dressed fella get his coat and leave. The man crossed Duke Street and entered the shopping arcade. He went to a phone booth, deposited the money and dialled.
"I'm calling about the matter we discussed on the weekend. It's ready to go."
"Have you got a day on it yet?"
"No. But I'll know by tomorrow evening probably. It'll be your fellow doing it again."
The other person paused.
"Is there a problem with that?"
"Not really. We might need to let some things blow over."
"Like?"
"That business about the student. My fellow balked a bit. It scared him a lot."
"Is that it?"
"We have an irritation which prevents things from, shall we say, healing over. The dick who's looking into it. Not what you'd call a sleuth, but I have a bad feeling about him. Deceptive kind. Behind the scenes."
"Did you spin oil? the drug thing?"
"Yes. I think it's working."
"Well, we can't wait forever."
"No. I'm thinking that we should maybe nudge more things on him, set him going on the trail."
"That's your affair. Just make it work. We have to work this thing to show we can deliver. Then we can relax."
While the tanned man left the arcade, the person he had called sat wondering what to do about Minogue.
For his part, the playwright was not a happy man. He sat in a taxi which had been caught in a traffic jam in College Green. A bloody bomb scare, wasn't that funny? The playwright did not like the man he had met in the Bailey. He didn't like him one bit. He was a snotty, smart, pushy, well-to-do Yank. Telling him who he could give out one of the cars to. What was this well-connected Yank going to get out of this anyway? What would the Russians get out of it? Surely they knew that Irish people wouldn't accept their way even if they did help to win in the Six Counties. Although it was tougher and tougher to get in the stuff from the States, at least it didn't alienate the rank and file. What if the Yank was an undercover, a set-up?
It had come hard to the playwright to be told by the leadership to give this man all assistance. It might even be that this new thing could change everything. The taxi inched around College Green, under the portals of the Bank of Ireland and the haughty Trinity College. He smiled grimly at the sight: god-damn it to hell, he decided, if that institution can claim to have any say in the business of Irish liberation. He knew then what he would do. The preparations would go ahead, but the weapon would find a different route to the North. We'll test out this fancy scheme, he thought. Well and good if they make it through, then he'll have been wrong and he'll admit it. No one would blame him in the end for being so vigilant. He'd find a way to get the weapon in by his own route.
More and more as he thought about it, the playwright began to believe that this was the acid test. The Brits would have stepped up searches with the latest incidents. Any number of things could banjax this whiz kid's operation and all its glamour. A tip-off was the worst danger, of course. Tip-offs. At least such betrayals sent the command council scurrying around trying to find the traitors and made them rely again on the proven loyalty of men like himself. Tip-offs, yes. A constant worry, something that high-flying boyos with their shady deals overlooked.
The taxi-man swore long and loud.
"Everything'd be just dandy if people just knew the ropes in this city," he muttered. "The trouble is you have drivers who think they know bloody short-cuts and fancy moves. They're the ones that jam up the shagging place when a street is closed with a bomb-scare. Fuckin' ujits, pardon me language."
The driver switched off the engine. Exactly, the playwright thought. The war is being fought by Irishmen and women here in Ireland. For their own homes and families, their own country. Ordinary people like this taxi-driver, born and bred here. Living here, enduring, persevering. And the Yank, or whatever he was…? The playwright didn't need to deliberate any longer. He caught sight of the tired face of the driver as he turned in the seat to share his exasperation. Right, he thought, certain now about the Yank: our Ireland, not his.
Minogue had that stupid feeling again. Anytime he was on the phone for more than a minute or so, he felt stupid. He became bored talking into it, no matter how important it was supposed to be or how well known to him the person on the other end. Minogue's attention wandered all the more because he knew he was getting a long and polite no with many hints and reasons.
He liked the man on the other end, Denny Byrne from the Drug Squad. For a Wicklowman he was a good old stick.
"The chances are very much against it, Matt. The crates and things do be open, you see, to air the goods. There does be a lot of loose stuff in them, compared to other things, you see. It used to be popular enough a number of years ago, I don't mind telling you, but we copped op. I shouldn't say it was us who copped on. It was others, like fellas unloading and finding burst bags of things. I remember even a fellow out in Fairview who ran a shop phoning up and telling me he had 'drugs' in a box of bananas. 'Go way outa that,' I says to him, thinking like bananas is the word for him. God, do you know he was right. So I says to him, 'How did you cop onto the fact that these were bags of heroin, then?' You know what he says? 'Why wouldn't I know they were drugs? Sure don't I see it on shows on the telly?'"
Minogue smiled.
"So, a slim chance."
"Yep. That's about it. I'm not saying we're sniffing around the port of Dublin every day. But I don't mind people thinking we are. We go through people, people we know about or hear about. We can't afford to go the random route alone, do you see."
That was that, Minogue thought. Walsh as an unwitting accomplice in a deal, then he stumbled on something? Wild guessology. Still, Minogue had had the direction from two people independently, and they were not the sort to be romancing. Loftus for all his prissy speechifying about law and order was not a fool, nor was Allen. Allen. What was it about Allen? Was it that he was so organised, so controlled?
Minogue decided that it was time to dose himself with a large white coffee in Bewley's. He stepped out onto the greasy cobblestones and felt the drops of rain pat against his coat. The air freshened him. He wondered if he was being played elaborately by somebody or somebodies. Even Mick Roche, the Students' Union president, had turned in a fine performance, one might think. As Minogue shouldered into Bewley's on Grafton Street he wondered: and Agnes?
After his second cup of coffee, Minogue had decided to return to Agnes McGuire. She wasn't popping up again and again in his mind for no good reason. There was something she hadn't said, he was sure of that. Maybe it'd turn out that what she'd say would not help him. Maybe she'd cry out her loss and break down, shed the stoicism and sadness and show her anger. It must be there, he thought, she's only human.
Minogue's timing worked. Agnes had returned from the funeral some minutes before he climbed the stairs and knocked. She didn't seem surprised to see him. She let him in.