“That’s because I believe he’s behind it. We both know that Fiona’s not a maverick and that she wouldn’t touch something like this unless the authorization had come from the very top. And that means Brady.” O’Connell turned to Taylor. “I think it was a mistake to send Brady after her, Pat.”
“We’ll see, Kieran,” Taylor replied thoughtfully. “We’ll see.”
Brady had spent much of his adult life either in jail or on the run. He had spent seven years at Belfast’s Long Kesh prison, more popularly known as “The Maze,” for his part in the murder of an off-duty policeman in the late seventies. It was while he was there that he had first met Sammy Kane. They had become good friends and Brady now regarded Kane as the one man in the Revolutionary Army he could trust implicitly. He had rewarded that trust by appointing Kane as his Adjutant-General, his second-in-charge in the Army Council.
Kane was three years Brady’s junior with a burly physique and cropped blond hair. He was Brady’s conscience and had, on more than one occasion, talked Brady out of a course of action which he felt could have been detrimental not only to his future as Chief-of-Staff, but also to the Cause in general. Kane claimed to be the only person who really understood him. Well, most of the time …
Kane had already been at the safe house on the outskirts of Keady for over an hour when the Mercedes pulled up outside. As Hagen drove off, McAuley and Brady entered the house. McAuley disappeared into the kitchen while Brady went through to the lounge and closed the door behind him.
“How did it go?” Kane asked.
“I’ve been told to find Gallagher.”
“And?”
“I’ve got to bring her in alive.” Brady took off his overcoat and draped it over the back of the sofa. “I’ll take a drop of whiskey if there’s any. I’m frozen.”
Kane took a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from the sideboard. He poured out two generous measures and handed one of the glasses to Brady. “There was a phone call for you while you were out. Martin Navarro, calling from New York.”
“Navarro? What did he want?”
“He didn’t say, only that you were to call him back as soon as you got in.”
Brady dialed out on a secure line then sat down on the arm of the sofa. When the call was answered he asked for Navarro, taking a sip of whiskey as he waited for Navarro to come to the phone.
“Brady?” Navarro snapped down the line.
“Speaking,” came the toneless reply. “What do you want?”
“I want to know what the hell’s going on over there. Why is there an IRA contract out on Jack Scoby?”
“Why are you suddenly so interested in Scoby’s welfare?”
“That doesn’t concern you,” Navarro shot back indignantly. “Just get the contract lifted.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?” Navarro snarled.
“I can’t because I never authorized it.”
“Then who did?”
“We don’t know that,” Brady replied.
“So what you’re saying is that you’ve got a renegade cell running around trying to kill Scoby?”
“It would seem so.”
“And what do you intend to do about it?” Navarro yelled.
“We’re looking into it. Now, if that’s all–”
“No it’s not all,” Navarro cut in angrily. “You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously, Brady. Well, let me put it to you another way. We know of at least ten of your operatives who are currently in hiding over here in the United States. Some of your top field operatives, I believe. As of this morning, contracts have been put out on all of them. We also have them under twenty-four-hour surveillance. So if anything should happen to Scoby, all ten would be hit simultaneously. But that would only be the beginning. All future arms shipments from the United States, bound for Ireland, would be frozen. Then your Noraid offices around the country would be mysteriously fire-bombed. Then your Noraid employees would be targeted, their families threatened, their property vandalized. I could go on indefinitely. But I think you get the picture, don’t you?”
“I get the picture. Scoby must be worth a lot of money to you if you’re prepared to go to these lengths to protect him.”
“More than you could ever imagine. Call me if there’re any further developments.”
The line went dead. Brady replaced the receiver then drank the remainder of the whiskey.
“Why are the Mafia suddenly so interested in Scoby?” Kane asked.
“Why indeed?” Brady replied thoughtfully. “He’s obviously worth a considerable amount of money to them.”
“And if Gallagher takes him out, they lose it all?”
“So do we.”
Kane frowned but didn’t push for an explanation. He knew Brady would tell him what he needed to know. In his own time. “So how do we go about trying to find her?”
“We don’t,” Brady replied.
Kane frowned. “What do you mean?”
“When you’re drowning, you’ll grab hold of any lifeline if there’s a chance it’ll save you.” Brady picked up the receiver then looked around at Kane.
“Close the door behind you on your way out, Sammy.”
Kane knew better than to argue. He left the room, closing the door behind him.
Palmer opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, lit one then sat back in his chair and stared at the two telephones on his desk. One red. One white. The white phone was his outside line which had remained virtually silent for most of the day. He had drafted in three senior officers to deal with the deluge of Press inquiries he knew would follow the attempt on Scoby’s life earlier that afternoon. Scotland Yard’s switchboard had indeed been besieged by reporters desperate to get a story for the next edition. But he had given the officers strict instructions to stonewall all inquiries. He would give a press conference later in the afternoon.
The red phone was his scrambler line. He had rarely been off it in the last two hours. He had already spoken to Kolchinsky on two separate occasions. The first call had been outwardly cordial, but tense. Neither of them was prepared to shoulder the blame for what had happened. The second call, an hour later, had been franker and more constructive. By then they’d both been briefed in greater detail by their respective operatives and were able to reflect more clearly on the situation. They had decided that they would stand together. After all, it had been a joint operation from the start. A responsibility shared …
The Police Commissioner had rung demanding that the results of a full inquiry were to be on his desk no later than Monday morning. Palmer had been quick to assure him that a detailed investigation into the incident was already under way.
Palmer rubbed his eyes wearily and reached for the cigarette smouldering in the ashtray. The white phone rang. He groaned then reached over and picked up the receiver.
It was one of the officers he’d assigned to fend off the Press. “I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but I’ve got someone on the other line who claims to be Kevin Brady. He insists on speaking to you.”
“What?” Palmer said in amazement. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, sir. Only that he wouldn’t speak to anyone other than you.”
“Have you put a trace on the call?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Put him through.” Palmer waited until he heard the connection then immediately transferred the call to his scrambled line. He picked up the red receiver. “Commander Palmer speaking.”
“This is Brady,” came the impassive reply. “I assume we’re speaking on a secure line?”
“Of course,” Palmer replied, a suspicion still lingering in his mind that the caller may yet turn out to be some ingenious Press reporter out to get an exclusive for his paper. He knew only too well the lengths they would go to in order to scoop their rivals.