“You sure you don’t want to take the reins around here?” she said, half-jokingly.
“Once was enough,” Mullen replied, holding up his hands defensively.
“I didn’t know you were ever in charge of a cell,” Fiona said in surprise.
“Not a cell as such. The Army Council put me in charge of a three-man team several years ago. Our target was a retired RUC officer in Newry. I led them straight into an SAS ambush. I was the only survivor.”
“You’ve never mentioned that before.”
“Would you? It’s not exactly something I’m proud of.”
The door opened again and Kerrigan looked in. “Will someone come out here a moment? I need to take a leak.”
Mullen pulled the balaclava back over his face and walked to the door.
The beeper on Fiona’s belt suddenly activated and she quickly switched it off. They both looked around at her. “It’s the ‘Fortune Teller’. I’d better ring him straight away.”
“The ‘Fortune Teller’?” Kerrigan said suspiciously.
“The Army Council’s contact in the anti-terrorist squad.”
“The same guy who saved our arses this morning?” Kerrigan asked.
“The same.”
“The ‘Fortune Teller’?” Kerrigan muttered, chuckling to himself. “It’s an appropriate codename. Do you know who he is?”
“You must be joking. His identity’s known only to the senior members of the Army Council.” She crossed to the telephone and dialed a number. It was answered after the first ring. “This is ‘Rebel Woman’.”
“And this is ‘Fortune Teller’,” came the reply. “McGuire’s been spotted in Switzerland. Have you got a pen there to write down the address?”
“Right here,” she said, picking up the pen which lay beside the telephone. She wrote down the address on the notepad, tore off the top sheet, and slipped it into her pocket. “What sort of head start do we have?”
“How long do you need?”
“A couple of hours would be great,” she replied, more out of hope than anything else.
“You got it,” came the confident reply.
“How are you going to manage that?”
“You let me worry about that. Now, about your flight. There are two flights to Switzerland in the next few hours. Both are from Heathrow. One’s a Swissair flight, direct to Zurich. We’re already booked on that one. It leaves at two o’clock this afternoon. It’s the quicker flight. The other is a BA flight to Rome, stopping at Paris and Zurich. It leaves at midday. Take that one. I know it doesn’t give you much time but there are still seats available.”
“Got it,” she said, scribbling furiously on the pad again.
There was a sudden pause. “Someone’s coming. Call me when you get back.”
“Will do,” she assured him.
The line went dead. She replaced the receiver then gestured to the door. “Keep an eye on those two. I need to make some calls.”
“Excuse me,” Doris Matthews said, addressing herself to Fiona. “My husband needs another one of his pills.”
Fiona nodded to Mullen who retrieved the bottle from the mantelpiece and tipped a single pill into his palm. He picked up the glass of water off the sideboard and crossed to the old man’s chair. Herbert Matthews glared at Mullen but, unlike the last time, he made no attempt to turn his head away when Mullen pushed the pill between his lips. Matthews took a sip of water to wash down the pill then looked away sharply, his eyes riveted on an imaginary spot on the wall. Doris Matthews could see the anger in his eyes. It was certainly an anger she shared. Their home had been invaded. Their privacy abused. Their lives would never be the same again …
She looked across at the three masked figures talking in whispers by the door. The big one frightened her. Psychopathic was the word that came to mind. She was sure he could be extremely dangerous if provoked. The smaller one seemed more relaxed, more at ease with the situation. She had immediately associated them with the IRA when she first heard the two men’s voices. She knew she could be wrong. But she certainly knew her accents after thirty years as a drama teacher in London. The big one had a strong Irish accent. Guttural. Although the smaller man had less of an accent it was still noticeable in the way he stressed certain words. But it was the woman who really fascinated her. She had no discernible accent at all. Hers was a calm, soothing voice. But also authoritative when the need arose. She felt strangely at ease when the woman was in the room. It was as if she knew nothing would happen to either her or her husband as long as the woman was there …
Fiona broke away from the others and crouched beside Herbert Matthews.
“We’ll need to borrow your car, Mr. Matthews.”
“How do you know my name?” he demanded.
“It’s the name on the envelope on the hall table,” she replied matter-of-factly.
“We don’t have a car,” he said brusquely.
“Please don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Matthews,” she said in a soft, menacing tone. “It’s a blue Rover Montego, and it’s parked in the garage at the back of the house. Where are the keys?”
“You can go to hell,” Matthews retorted.
Fiona indicated Kerrigan behind her. “If I let him hit you, he’d probably kill you. Is your car worth that?”
“The keys are hanging on the rack by the back door,” Doris Matthews interceded quickly, the tears welling up in her eyes. “Just take the car and leave us alone. Please, just go away.”
“Bring the car round to the front of the house,” Fiona said to Mullen. She glanced at Kerrigan. “Get the stuff out of the other car and put it in the Rover.”
“What about them?” Kerrigan asked suspiciously.
“Out!” Fiona snapped.
Mullen grabbed Kerrigan’s arm and led him from the room.
“A word of warning,” Fiona said to the couple. “Don’t try to struggle against the ropes after we’ve gone. They’ve been tied in such a way that the more you struggle, the tighter they’ll become. It could get very uncomfortable. I’ll see to it that you’ll both be freed within the hour.” She moved to the door then turned back to them. “I’m sorry this had to happen. I really am.”
Doris Matthews stared at the door after Fiona had gone. There was no doubt in her mind that Fiona had meant what she said. They would be free within the hour. But more astonishingly, the apology had been sincere. It had been in her voice. And Doris Matthews knew voices …
They knew something was wrong the moment they saw the row of police cars parked outside the main terminal at Heathrow Airport.
“Park there until we find out what’s going on,” Eastman said to Marsh, indicating the space between two panda cars.
Marsh reversed into the space. Challenged by an armed policeman, he held out his ID card. “What’s going on?” he asked, switching off the engine.
“Bomb scare, sir,” the policeman replied.
“In the terminal?” Marsh continued.
“No, sir. One of the planes, I believe. I don’t know which one though.”
“I think I can guess,” Graham said from the backseat.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Eastman replied as he got out of the car. “Are the ATs here yet?”
“The ATs, sir?” the policeman said with a frown.
“The ATOs.” Eastman trailed off when he spotted a figure in army fatigues emerging from the terminal. “It’s OK, I’ve just seen one.” He hurried after the man. “Chippy? Chippy Woodward?”
The man turned around and a wide grin spread across his face. “Keith, good to see you.”
“I’m not sure yet whether I can say the same about you,” Eastman replied. “Which plane is it?”
“A Swissair Airbus. It was due out in forty minutes. We’ve got it parked on one of the outer runways just in case the bastard does blow. But we haven’t found anything up to now.”