In fact, the arrest of the CIA assassin in no way lessened the anxiety felt at that moment by Chief Inspector Cashel.
For fifteen minutes, he had stood — his back to the platform — restlessly surveying the crowd of spectators and the roped-off section reserved for first-class passengers waiting to board the hovercraft. But the face he sought was not there in the crowd; the black, glittering eyes he dreamed about disappeared in daylight.
The roofs of the low buildings around the apron were filled with policemen walking back and forth. Cashel saw policemen in every doorway. More than a thousand police from Liverpool, from surrounding cities, and from as far away as Manchester and Birmingham had been called in during the previous twelve hours as protection for the distinguished panel on the platform. Everything that could be done had been done. An attempt to persuade the Prime Minister to cancel his appearance failed when that gentleman made a ringing speech about not living in fear of death and not letting terrorists dictate the terms of his life.
Fortunately, they had caught the assassin. Everything had worked out precisely — as Devereaux had informed them it would.
Why this anxiety then on Cashel’s part?
Because there was no Faolin in the plot, no Faolin anywhere. Had they miscalculated, then? Did Faolin and his crowd intend to kill Lord Slough in Ireland, back at Clare House? Was Faolin merely scouting the territory on the Saturday Cashel saw him at Deirdre Monahan’s funeral?
So it appeared now. So everyone in the British security branch believed. Devereaux — the American agent — had contacted British Intelligence and convinced them that Slough’s life was not in danger and that the assassination attempt was not aimed at him but at the Prime Minister of Britain.
Devereaux was proved right by the arrest of the assassin earlier. Cashel was wrong — doubly wrong if one counted the fiasco in Glasgow. It was an embarrassment to all — six of the undercover policemen in the crowd at the Glasgow football match had been injured in random fights that broke out from time to time during the game. Two others were missing, and since they were both native Glaswegians, it was presumed they had decided to abandon police work for the perils of becoming professional Scottish football fans.
Cashel was aware that the music had ceased, and he could hear now the clipped tones of Lord Slough vainly trying to be heard over the faulty public-address system.
First-class passengers — again, Cashel surveyed them as he had done a dozen times before. Ordinary people, every one. No face stared back at him as it had at the funeral in Clare; no glittering eye caught his.
Cashel shivered. He would not feel safe until they were all in the ship, until it was launched. Then it would be over until they reached Eire.
Faolin had spotted Cashel immediately. There was a moment of panic and Faolin had considered dashing towards the platform and killing as many of them as he could before he was himself killed. Then he remembered the transmitter in his shirt pocket and he relaxed. Even if they took him, he would have time to destroy the ship and all aboard it.
He had walked past Cashel, back to the crowd and his police post. The police uniform he wore fit perfectly as Parnell had said it would. Beneath his tunic coat, he felt the comfortable coldness of the M11 tied to his belt.
Then Cashel had stopped him. He froze, looked down.
“Pardon, Constable. Would ye be havin’ a match?”
“I’m sorry,” Faolin muttered. “Don’t smoke.” Though frightened, he had the presence of mind to change his accent to a rough approximation of Liverpudlian sing-song.
“Ah, thank ye, anyway,” said Cashel, who had turned away without really looking at him. They had only glanced at each other for a moment, but Faolin realized Cashel had not seen him but, rather, had seen the uniform. Because he did not expect Faolin to wear police dress, he had not seen the man he was looking for.
He is a fool, Faolin thought.
He waited through the ceremony impatiently, glancing now and then at the platform. Lord Slough was speaking, with Brianna standing beside him, watching him.
Easy now, Faolin boyo. He knew Tatty would soothe him that way and calm his nerves. It wasn’t fear; Faolin wasn’t afraid. It was anxiety of the kind he once felt as a child on the night before Christmas, filled with expectation that something great was about to happen.
When the time came, the ship would explode into a million pieces. It was merciful, really. The dead would not even be aware of the moment of death. Eternity would be as unexpected as sunlight in the rain.
Faolin smiled to himself. Mercy. He wondered what would come after? War? Would the Irish finally be forced to throw off the last vestiges of British dominion? Chaos? Yes, chaos, the enemy of Britain. Would they be aware of what had happened?
“Hey now, copper, how about movin’ aside so’s we can see what the bleedin’ hell is goin’ on?”
It was a moment before he realized the voice in the crowd was directed at him.
“I got me orders, mate.”
“Ah,” said the man with the cloth cap. “Give us a break.”
So Faolin, merciful and smiling, moved aside so they could see better. Faolin glanced at the platform: Lord Slough was introducing the Prime Minister of Britain.
It was his last speech. Faolin had terrible knowledge of all that was to come. It must be the way God feels, he decided.
The Prime Minister of Great Britain spoke for six minutes and then sat down to a smattering of applause. He had spoken not so much for the ragtag crowd on the apron but for The Nine O’Clock News and The World Tonight. The secretary to the Taoiseach had carefully timed the Prime Minister’s speech, to be sure that the leader of the Republic of Eire would speak just as long.
Lord Slough gestured to the Taoiseach, and he arose to a smattering of applause as well — after all, Liverpool had plenty of Irish living in it.
The Taoiseach began.
Denisov, standing in the rear of the section cordoned off for first-class passengers, felt nervously in his pocket for the small gun. It was cold in his grasp. He told himself again he would not permit such a situation in the future; he was getting too old for the tension. In the future, his masters would have to speak more openly with him about the mission.
He still held Elizabeth’s arm with his other hand.
Elizabeth had seen no one in the crowd, and Denisov — whom she still thought was Mr. Dennis of British Intelligence — seemed disappointed and on edge. But he had whispered, “It’s all right. It will be all right.” He soothed her as though she were a child.
In a curious way, she trusted Mr. Dennis.
Denisov rehearsed what must be done. It must be done, he knew; but it sickened him. He would take the pistol from the pocket and press it closely to Elizabeth’s breast just as the shots began from the assassins. Her left breast. It would only take a moment and the little sound of the pistol — muffled by her coat and his bulk pressed against her — would be lost in the general panic of the moment. She would die instantly; he promised her that. There might be a moment of surprise but not of pain. And then Denisov would cry out, create more panic, and press the pistol in her dead hand.
That morning, he had removed the pistol from his pocket while still in the hotel room and doubled a pillow on the bed and fired twice into it. When the police found the pistol in her hand, there would be three shots fired from it, one into her own body. She would be seen as part of the assassination team, though they would not find the other two bullets.