“You just said, the IRA never target foreign diplomats,” Fiona repeated. “And that’s the beauty of it. Who will the authorities blame when Scoby is assassinated?”
“Come on, Fiona, it won’t take the authorities long to put two and two together, especially as Scoby’s been shouting his mouth off about the IRA during his recent election campaign,” Mullen retorted.
“The authorities may well suspect the IRA but there won’t be any evidence linking us with the murder. And if they do accuse us in the Press you can be sure the Army Council will put out an immediate disclaimer, distancing the Revolutionary Army from any involvement. And they are also sure to contact senior Noraid members in the US to assure them that the IRA had no part in Scoby’s murder. That way our support won’t be harmed over there.”
“But why target him? Shouting his mouth off about Noraid is one thing but he knows he can’t shutdown our operation over there. It would be unconstitutional. We have the right, as a political organization, to collect funds from our supporters in America.”
“The Army Council obviously think differently,” Fiona replied with a shrug. “And they make the policies. We’re only here to carry out those policies to the best of our ability.”
“I still don’t like it,” Mullen said.
“This has obviously been worked out well in advance. And as it said in the directive, it was originally Sean’s operation. I think it’s a great honor that they’ve asked us to carry it out in Sean’s absence. And I know we can do it. But I’d understand if you wanted to back out.”
“You’d do it by yourself?”
“If I had to,” she replied somberly. “But I’d still prefer to work with a partner. Especially one I can trust.”
“You know I’ll be there,” Mullen replied. “What have I got to lose apart from my life?”
“Ever the optimist,” she said with a smile. “But we’re not going to die. We’ll hit Scoby and be back in Ireland before the weekend’s out. And the Army Council are going to be waiting to welcome us back with open arms. Who knows, there may even be a promotion in it for us.”
“You know what happened the last time I led a cell,” Mullen replied glumly. “No, they won’t risk it. And anyway, I don’t want that kind of responsibility again. But if you get a promotion, I hope there will be a place for me in your cell.”
“My first recruit,” she replied.
He looked into the back of the van. A tarpaulin was spread over the floor. He knew from the appendix attached to the directive that underneath the tarpaulin were two Czech Skorpion machine-pistols and two Colt .45 revolvers. He was about to lift the edge of the tarpaulin when Fiona grabbed his arm and indicated the wing mirror on her side of the van with a nod of her head. He checked in his wing mirror and a wave of fear surged through his body. Two policemen were approaching the van on foot. She dug the keys out of her pocket and handed them to Mullen. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and wound down the window as one of the policemen approached the driver’s door.
“Afternoon, officer,” Mullen said with a friendly smile.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the policeman replied. “Is this your vehicle?”
“I’m afraid it is,” Mullen replied sheepishly. “It may not be much to look at, but it gets us around.”
“May I see your driver’s license please, sir?”
Mullen took the license from his pocket and handed it to the policeman. The policeman studied it then looked up at Mullen. “Could you give me the registration number of your vehicle please, sir?”
Mullen, who had already memorized it at the station, repeated it for the policeman.
The policeman checked the plates then held up the driver’s license. “Would you excuse me a minute, sir?”
“There’s nothing wrong is there, officer?” Mullen asked anxiously.
“It’s just a routine check, sir.” The policeman unclipped his radio and turned away from the van as he spoke into it.
The second policeman rapped on the passenger window. Fiona wound it down. “Would you mind opening the back, sir?”
Mullen took the keys out of the ignition and climbed from the van. He walked around to the back and unlocked the doors.
“Is there anything under the tarpaulin, sir?”
“Nothing, officer,” Fiona called out from the passenger seat.
Mullen swallowed anxiously. What the hell was she doing? She knew what was underneath the tarpaulin. He noticed the jack on the floor by the door. He would have to use it. But why was Fiona acting so cool? It unnerved him. His fingers touched the jack as the policeman lifted the tarpaulin. Mullen had to check his surprise. There was nothing there. Satisfied, the policeman dropped the tarpaulin and told Mullen he could close the doors again.
Moments later the first policeman handed the driver’s license back to Mullen. “Sorry to have troubled you, sir.”
Mullen waited until the two policemen had disappeared from view before turning to Fiona. “I think you owe me an explanation. I was about to cosh that pig back there. Why didn’t you tell me that you’d already taken the weapons out of the van?”
“I was interested to see how you’d react under pressure.”
“Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” he snapped angrily.
“You did well,” she replied. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Where to?” Mullen asked after they had got back into the van. “The safe house?”
“No, the Thames. Scoby’s due to take a cruise on the river tomorrow afternoon. I want to take a closer look at the route the boat will be taking.”
“Come,” Palmer barked in response to the knock on the door.
Eastman opened the door. “Afternoon, sir. You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, come in, Keith,” Palmer replied. “So you got my message all right? I hate those infernal answering machines.”
“Frances always makes a point of switching it on when she gets home from the library. Most of the calls are for her anyway. But then that’s what you get for being the secretary of the local amateur dramatics society.”
“How is your wife?”
“She’s fine, thank you, sir. Not that I’ve seen much of her these last few weeks. They’re putting on one of those Russian tragedies later this month. That seems to be keeping her busy.”
“I spoke to Whitlock earlier this afternoon. A good man to have on our side. He’s holding a briefing at the hotel before Scoby gets there. Have you been told about it?”
“Graham left a message for me on the answering machine.”
“I was hoping to be there as well but I’ve been summoned upstairs for a meeting with the Commissioner. God knows what time that will finish. I’ve already made my apologies to Whitlock but I wanted to see you before you went over there anyway.” Palmer helped himself to a cigarette from the pack on his desk and lit it. “Earlier this afternoon two officers were on a routine patrol in the St. Pancras area when they spotted what they regarded as a suspicious vehicle near Euston Station. It was an old red Toyota van. There were two occupants: a man and a woman. The man’s license was in the name of Daniel McKenna. The license and the plates checked out to an address in Belfast and the officers had to let them go. But both officers were suspicious and when they got back to the station they told their superior about the incident. He had them go through all known Irish villains on the computer and both positively identified Mullen as Daniel McKenna.”
“So it’s safe to assume that the woman must have been Fiona Gallagher?”
“It would have to be, wouldn’t it?” Palmer replied. “We’ve since checked on the real Daniel McKenna. His van’s been parked in his garage in Belfast for the last two days. So Mullen and Gallagher must be using false plates. They’re certainly canny, I’ll give them that.”