‘A moment, Mr Riordan, if you would.’ The interruption came from Aaron Wieringa, the Minister of Defence, a big, florid, blue-eyed and very calm man, a man immensely respected throughout the country and one who would very likely have become premier quite some years ago if he had not been cursed with the unfortunate and crippling handicap, for a politician, of total incorruptibility. ‘One appreciates — one can hardly fail to appreciate — that you are a very angry man. We are not, I assure you, nineteenth-century ostriches and I think it would be true to say that there is not a man in this room who does not understand that your fury is totally justifiable. I would not go so far as to concur in your condemnation of Washington and Congress, but that, in the current and particular circumstances, is by the by. Your opinion, as distinct from your recital of verifiable facts, is not of immediate concern. ‘What is of immediate concern is why your wrath has seen fit to focus itself on our unfortunate country in general and the city of Amsterdam in particular. I cannot, at the moment, even begin to fathom the reason for it, although I am certain we will not be left in ignorance for long. But nothing you have said so far begins to justify your attempt to blackmail us into acting as intermediary between you and the British Government. I appreciate that you may have, and very probably do have, very powerful reasons for wanting all British troops to withdraw from Northern Ireland, but how you can possibly imagine that we have the ability to persuade Britain to accede to your preposterous demands quite passes my understanding. No conceivable reason exists why they should so accede.’
‘A totally conceivable reason exists. Human tskrian motives. tarian motives on your part and on theirs.’
‘Our respective governments would be reluctant to see the Netherlands flooded and countless thousands — maybe hundreds of thousands — drowned in those floods? Before even considering such matters, an answer to my question, please. Why us? Is it that, because of our particular geographical situation, we are peculiarly susceptible to threats of genocide?’
‘You have been chosen because Amsterdam is the linchpin in the whole lethal gun-running operation. It is the gun-running centre of Northern Europe and has been for years, just as it has been the heroin centre of Northern Europe. This knowledge is in the public domain, and the continued existence of those two evil practices can only bespeak a deep level of corruption in both government and law-enforcement levels.’ An indignant looking Mr Wieringa made to interrupt but Riordan imperiously gestured him to silence. ‘There are, it is true, other towns engaged in gun-running, notably Antwerp, but, compared to Amsterdam, Antwerp operates in a minor league.’
This time Mr Wieringa, speaking in almost a shout which was unknown for him, would not be gainsaid. ‘You mean you would find it impossible to flood Belgium.’
Riordan carried on as if he had heard nothing. ‘Not all the guns passing through Amsterdam go to Eire, of course. Some go to the RAF. Others go to — ‘
‘The RAFV’ It was, almost inevitably, Bernhard Dessens, the Justice Minister, who rarely if ever contributed anything of significance to any discussion. ‘You suggest that the British Air Force is supplied — ‘ ‘Be quiet, you idiot.’ Riordan, it seemed, could descend below the rhetorical level he usually set for himself. ‘I refer to the Red Army Faction, the inheritors of the bloody mantle of the Baader-Meinhof gangsters of the early seventies. Some go to the Sicilian-controlled Mafia-type criminal organizations that are springing up all over Western Germany. But the bulk goes to Eire.
‘Do you know what it’s like in Northern Ireland, Mr Minister?’ Nobody bothered to follow his line of vision to know that he was addressing the Minister of Defence and not the Minister of Justice. ‘Can you imagine the hellish conditions that exist there, the hideous tortures practised by both the IRA and UVF, the homicidal insanity that has ruled there for fourteen years? A country ruled by fear that is tearing it to pieces. Northern Ireland will never be governed by representatives of the two communities, Protestant and Catholic working together, because they are far too bitterly divided by religion and, to a lesser extent, race. There are one and a half million people living together in a small area, but in spite of their divisions ninety-nine point nine per cent on either side have never harmed anyone or ever wished to. That ninety-nine point nine per cent on either side are united in only one thing — in abhorring terrorism and in their desire to live only in peace. It is a desire that, as matters stand, can never be realized. Conventional politicians, with all the faults and frailties of their kind, are still those who observe the conventions. In Ulster, conventional politicians are an extinct breed. Moderation has ceased to exist. Demagogues and gunmen rule. The country is ruled by a handful of crazed murderers.’
Riordan paused for the first time, probably as much for breath as anything else, but no one seemed inclined to take advantage of the hiatus.
‘But murderers, even crazed murderers, must have their murder weapons, must they not?’ Riordan said. ‘And so the murder weapons are shipped from Amsterdam, usually, but not always, inside furniture. The weapons are sealed in containers, of course, and if the Amsterdam customs are unaware of this they must be the worst, the blindest, or the most corrupt and avaricious in Europe. Nine times out of ten, the ships unload in Dublin. How they — the containers, I mean — get past the Dublin customs I don’t profess to know but I don’t think there’s any question of collusion — if there were the customs wouldn’t have turned up a million dollars’ worth of illegally imported arms destined for the IRA four years ago. But most of the guns do get through. From Dublin the arms containers variously labelled, but popularly as household goods, are trucked to a warehouse in County Monaghan and from there to a horticultural nursery in County Louth. Don’t ask me how I know but it would be rather difficult not to know: the people thereabouts know but don’t talk. From there the weapons are taken to Northern Ireland, not smuggled over the border in the middle of the night by daredevil IRA members, but brought in during daylight hours in cars driven by women, mostly young, surrounded by laughing kids. All very innocuous.
‘It’s a long, long way from where a machine-pistol is purchased in a mid-Western state until it’s in the hands of some maniacal killer crouched in the shadows of some back street in Belfast or Londonderry. A long way. But in that long way the vital stage, the focal point, the nodal point, the venturi in the funnel, is Amsterdam. And so we have come to Amsterdam.’ Riordan sat down.
The breaking of the ensuing silence was far from immediate. There were, altogether, eight men in Dessen’s luxurious lounge. Three men had accompanied Riordan to the Minister of justice’s house — Samuelson, whom de Graaf had described to van Effen, O’Brien, who had come to the Trianon, and Agnelli, the man who George had forecast would be there. Samuelson and O’Brien probably thought there was nothing they could profitably add to what Riordan had said and Agnelli had probably yet to recover his full powers of speech. When he had entered the room and seen van Effen, appearance returned to normal, sitting there, his eyes had momentarily widened, his lips momentarily parted and a slight but noticeable amount of colour had left his checks, and not momentarily either. Almost certainly van Effen was the only person who had noticed the fleeting sea-change that had overcome Agnelli, but, then, probably, van Effen had been the only person who had been looking for it. There were also four men on the other side of the negotiating table; the two ministers, de Graaf and van Effen, and they had nothing to say either, and this for two excellent reasons: there was nothing they could immediately say that would be in any way helpful and all had to admit to themselves that Riordan had expressed his viewpoint with a certain degree of logical persuasion, however unreasonable, threatening and preposterous his accompanying demands might have been. It was Aaron Wieringa, glancing in turn at each of his three companions, who broke the silence.