At 10:47 A.M., the hovercraft Brianna would begin its slow waddle across the concrete apron the seventy-five feet to the river Mersey.
At 10:48 A.M., she would be in the water.
At 10:53 A.M., she would be beyond the breakwaters of the Irish Sea, heading for Dublin.
Parnell showed them a drawing of the actual launching apron.
“And we,” said Faolin. “How do we board her?” He said it to jog Parnell, for he had gone over the plan a thousand times in his head.
Parnell said, “Donovan, of course, is already aboard with the crew during these preliminaries. You, Faolin, will have this uniform and be part of the crowd-control contingent — here, to the right of the platform. Now, the press is here, between you and the platform. When the dignitaries start to go aboard, the press will move this way — here, on the side of the platform — and follow them with their cameras and whatnot right aboard ship. We have issued credentials to nineteen Dublin journalists and twenty-four from London and six from Liverpool. Nineteen of that total will ride in the ship to Dublin.”
Parnell smiled.
Faolin said, “Yes. And then what? Continue.”
Parnell let the smile fade. “Well, you accompany the press aboard, in uniform. Tatty here goes aboard with the first-class crowd as a passenger, and Donovan makes a rendezvous with the pair of you aboard ship.”
“What about security for the politicians?”
“To me knowledge,” said Parnell, “there’s three special CID men detached from Scotland Yard to guard the P.M. The Taoiseach will doubtless have a couple of Irish coppers. But there’s good news about Lord Slough.”
“Indeed.”
“No special men for him. But the crowd’ll be laced with men in civilian clothes of course. They’re looking for someone to take another shot at his Lordship, not to take over the Brianna.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure. We got a cable this mornin’ before I was off duty. From CID Special Branch in Scotland Yard. To the superintendent it was. Of course, I had a look. They’ve requested a detachment from us for duty Tuesday afternoon.”
“Where?”
Parnell grinned. “In bleedin’ Glasgow is where. Fer the Celtics — Rangers match-up.”
“I don’t understand,” said Faolin. He got up from his chair again and began to pace.
“CID wants the specials to help guard Lord Slough when he appears at the game Tuesday. Mix in the crowd. It seems they got a tip from Dublin that our lot intends to assassinate his Lordship during the game. Lads’ll be happy to see the match.”
“Indeed,” said Faolin.
Tatty laughed. “Ah, God, the coppers are outsmartin’ themselves.” Parnell laughed with him.
“And no special bunch sent down here Wednesday for the Brianna launch?”
Parnell managed to stop laughing. “No, that’s the best part of it. They’re convinced the Boys intend t’take him out in Glasgow. And there’s no changing an official mind once it’s made up.”
“So we let her be launched down the spit of the Mersey inter the Irish Sea,” said Tatty. “And then we come up and announce ourselves.”
Finally, Faolin smiled. It would be the moment. “To Lord Slough and t’the journalists.”
Parnell said, “Now, make no mistake. I’m sure they’ll have a guard on Slough—”
“It don’t matter,” said Faolin. “Once we get control of the pilot house, we have the ship, same as the bloody Arabs when they grab a plane. We’ll have our own weapons. And we’ll have the transmitter t’set off the jelly in the hold.”
As though it were a signal, Parnell rose and went into the second room of the flat. When he came back, he carried two black weapons — two M11 “grease guns” of the type used in Vietnam by American forces. They were small and deadly and capable of incredible rates of fire.
He held one in each beefy hand.
Faolin took one of the weapons and lined his eye along the sight. Then he hefted it and spun around in the room, as though spraying the apartment with deadly fire. “Give these t’the lads in Belfast and we’d see a war.”
Parnell nodded. “But they’re dear, very dear.”
Tatty said, “But not too dear.” He held the gun, hefted it, and suddenly looked young; his wiry body came alive. “Ah, t’have been there when me Old One was makin’ the Black and Tans dance.”
“Aye,” said Parnell, in a faraway voice.
But Faolin did not speak; he lowered the weapon and let the muzzle sweep the room; he saw the bodies fall, saw the blood.
“We’ll give them a message from Belfast then? Eh, Faolin,” said Tatty.
And then the ship would be blown up — just that moment of heat and light and then it would be gone.
“Eh, Faolin?”
Death, sweet death. To them all.
He stood in the middle of the room and did not speak but saw his future and welcomed it.
Elizabeth left the hotel shortly after nine on Monday morning after a miserable “English” breakfast of hard rolls and black tea. The graciousness had gone out of the hotel as she remembered it; like others in the city, the hotelkeepers had been hit hard by the recessions of the middle 1970s and had cut back on amenities that guests had long expected.
Elizabeth noticed it but didn’t care terribly; she retrieved her passport, but when she demanded partial repayment on her advance, they wouldn’t give it to her. She left the hotel frustrated and angry.
Gloomy London Monday. The rain had ceased, but it was cold and damp and windy.
A block from the hotel, she ducked into a clothing store. With little hesitation, she selected a black sweater and dark slacks and a raincoat. She asked to try the garments on.
In a dirty, dim-lit fitting room in the back of the shop, she pulled the new clothes on and bundled up the others in the oversize raincoat. She reappeared, better dressed; the shopkeeper, an old woman with ratty gray hair, looked surprised.
“Yer gonna wear them, dearie?”
In answer, Elizabeth removed a fistful of pound notes from her purse and paid.
“Put these in a bag,” she said, indicating the bundles. If the woman thought to say anything, Elizabeth’s cold voice stopped her. She was a queer one, the old woman thought; the whole area is full of them now, queer ones like her.
Elizabeth left the shop and walked quickly to Paddington Station, where she dumped the bundle of old clothes in a trash bin near the station entrance. She felt better now; she had torn a sheet in the hotel and bandaged the wound on her arm. The arm did not hurt as much this morning, and did not appear to be infected.
In a way, she felt freer than she had yesterday afternoon, after she realized Devereaux betrayed her. It was better like this, clean, to get away from them all, not to trust another for your safety.
Going into the buffet in the station, she ordered tea laced with milk. She sat down at a table with a copy of the Guardian.
The story was on page two, not conspicuous, under the Home News section. About a woman named Nettie Perce found murdered on the Dover train. Police were currently seeking a brown-haired female with an American accent for help in their inquiries.
The cup shook in her hand; the sense of freedom vanished.
Someone had spotted her. The conductor? Or the man with the newspaper who had really warned her by the look on his face when the woman rose to attack her?
She had to get out of London this morning. North, away from Dover.
Suddenly, she put the tea down and stared through the window of the buffet. There was the same man — from the platform at Victoria Station. The same bulky figure in the same old, soiled raincoat.
Elizabeth grabbed her purse and fled out the door, onto the concourse, without looking back. Rushing into Eastbourne Street, she hailed a cab.