Carlos nodded. “So you think it’s a personal vendetta?”
“I think there’s a strong possibility,” she answered.
“I think we should m-m-move,” stammered Bailey. “Now.”
“I think you’re over-reacting,” said Mary. “Let me have another few hours with him. I should know everything when I’ve finished.”
“But if he’s not alone, we c-c-could have the SAS swarming all over the house by then,” said Bailey. His stutter had returned, Mary noticed.
“Matthew, if the SAS were here, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” she said. He nodded, but Mary could see that he wasn’t convinced. “Look, first things first. He saw you out at the airfield, so I think we should move the plane. Could you fly it over to Bay Bridge airfield?”
“Now? Sure, no p-p-problem,” replied Bailey. He was clearly still worried.
“It’s going to be all right,” Mary said reassuringly. “It’ll all be over soon. We’ll be in Florida and then Cuba and we’ll have done something they’ll talk about in Ireland for ever more. We’ll be heroes, you and I.”
Bailey sighed and ran a hand through his red hair. “I’m f-f-frightened that it’s all going to f-f-fall apart,” he admitted.
Mary narrowed her eyes. It wasn’t the operation that was in danger of falling apart, she realised. It was him.
“He’s just one man,” she said. “And soon he won’t even be much of a man.” She reached up behind her hair and set it loose, shaking it from side to side. She’d undone the top three buttons of her shirt because of the stifling heat down in the basement and she could feel Bailey’s eyes on her breasts. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said. “Then I’ll get back to work on Cramer.”
She went out of the kitchen, and was halfway up the stairs when she realised that Carlos had followed her into the hall. He obviously had something on his mind. “What is it?” she asked.
“This Armstrong woman. Are you sure we can trust her?”
Mary sat down on the stairs and looked down at Carlos. “Her father was Irish,” she said.
“But she’s an FBI agent,” said Carlos. “How do we know she’s not setting you up?”
Mary smiled. “In the first place, there’s no need. It’s not as if the FBI need to gather evidence against either of us, is it?” She brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face and eased it behind her ear.
“But why are you so willing to trust her?” pressed Carlos.
“Her father was in the IRA,” she said quietly.
Carlos was stunned. “Oh come on,” he said. “Are you telling me that the FBI recruited a woman whose father was a terrorist? Even the Americans aren’t that stupid.”
“Colm O’Malley was her natural father. Her mother was American and they divorced when Kelly was only a few years old. The woman moved back to the States and remarried. As far as the FBI are concerned, Kelly Armstrong is the original all-American girl.”
“And this O’Malley, this Colm O’Malley, what happened to him?”
Mary studied Carlos thoughtfully. “He was killed,” she said quietly. Carlos said nothing, waiting for her to continue. Mary took a deep breath, as if preparing herself. “Colm was a good friend of my husband’s and a member of the IRA High Command. His brother, Fergus, still lives in Phoenix. He has a business there and he’s a fund-raiser for NORAID. The O’Malleys were good people, and committed to the Cause.” She fell silent as her mind was flooded with images from the past. “Colm was a victim of the British Government’s shoot-to-kill policy,” she continued. “The police blamed Protestant extremists, but it was an SAS operation.”
“The same operation that ended in the death of your husband?”
Mary nodded. Her eyes were damp. “And others,” she said.
“How much does she know about what we plan to do?”
“Most of it. She’s going to talk to her office in Phoenix and then get herself transferred to the main investigation in Washington.”
“And you’re sure she doesn’t know of my involvement?”
“I didn’t tell her, and she didn’t mention it.”
“But you said the FBI know that Lovell and Schoelen are involved?”
Mary nodded. “They’ve identified them from computer-enhanced photographs.”
“Then it’s only a matter of time before they identify me.”
“That’s probably true, Ilich,” Mary admitted.
“Does the FBI know that you’re involved?”
“According to Kelly, the last time she spoke to her boss they’d identified only the Americans. That could have changed by now, of course. If the photographs are as good as she says and if they run them through Interpol. .” She left the sentence unfinished.
“And despite that, despite the fact they’re on to us, and despite the nature of the target, she still wants to help?”
“She hates the British, Carlos. Hates them with a vengeance.” Her eyes blazed. “She hates them as much as I do.” She turned her back on him and went upstairs. The door to Schoelen’s room was closed. She knocked and pushed it open. The sniper was sitting on the edge of his bed, polishing the barrel of his rifle.
“Hiya, Mary. What’s up?” he said.
Mary closed the door behind her and leant against it. Schoelen saw from the look on her face that something was wrong. He put down the weapon, frowning. “You phoned home,” she said flatly. “You put the whole operation at risk because of a bloody dog.”
Schoelen was stunned. “How. .”
“It doesn’t matter how I know, I just know,” she said quietly. “You’re a lucky man, Schoelen. If we had more time I’d kill you now, myself. But we don’t, so I need you. But you put one foot wrong again and it’s all over. I’ll put a bullet in your skull myself. Do I make myself clear?”
Schoelen closed his mouth and nodded slowly. His eyes were on the trickle of blood on her shirt.
Mary smiled. “Good.”
“Does Carlos. .”
“No,” interrupted Mary. “He doesn’t. And if I were you I’d pray that he doesn’t find out.”
She left the room, leaving Schoelen holding his head in his hands.
Ed Mulholland’s television producer friend had agreed to run the story on Mary Hennessy and Matthew Bailey at the end of the regular programme. He had also agreed to issue a separate 1-800 number so that calls would be routed directly to the FBI’s temporary office in the White House. Mulholland called a meeting of the FBI agents after lunch, and they sat and listened as the anti-terrorist chief briefed them on how they were to handle the calls. He leant against his desk, his legs crossed at the ankles and his large forearms folded as if he was hugging his barrel chest. Helen sat to one side, taking notes and occasionally looking at him like an adoring wife.
“The programme starts at eight o’clock, and our segment will be broadcast at eight-fifty,” he said. “Their photographs will be on screen, and the announcer will say that we’re looking for them in connection with a drug-smuggling ring in Florida. The reason we’re saying Florida is because we have no evidence that they’ve actually been there, which means any calls from that part of the country can be ignored, at least at this stage. Millions of people will be watching, and most of them are really keen to get involved, some of them too keen. We’ll get malicious hoax calls, we’ll get well-meaning citizens who have just made a mistake, and we’ll have the crazies who’ll say they’ve seen Elvis if they think it’ll get them on prime-time television. For every genuine sighting we’ll have a hundred red herrings.”
Cole Howard looked around the room, which was crammed with desks and filing cabinets. Two dozen FBI agents had been assigned from the main Washington office to work with the New York team, and the air-conditioning was finding it difficult to cope. Helen had arranged for several free-standing fans to be brought in and most of the agents tried to stand where they could feel some sort of breeze. Don Clutesi was standing next to Howard, sweat trickling down his face. He grinned at Howard and made a wafting motion with his hand. “Hot,” he mouthed, and Howard nodded in sympathy. The one person missing was Kelly Armstrong. Howard had suggested that she compile a list of alternative targets; the IRA involvement opened up the possibility of British targets and Howard had shown her the list of visiting VIPs which he’d obtained from the State Department, including British Members of Parliament and chief executives of leading UK companies. Two names which had immediately set alarm bells ringing were the British Prime Minister, who was visiting the East Coast, and the Prince of Wales, who was due in New York in the summer. Howard had asked Kelly to speak to the Secret Service and the State Department to come up with a more comprehensive list of potential targets and venues which could then be cross-checked with Andy Kim’s computer simulation. Kelly had been surprisingly enthusiastic about the task and had been out of the office all afternoon. Howard was pleased at her absence. He had high hopes for the television broadcast, and wanted Kelly as far away as possible. He hadn’t even told her what Mulholland had planned, and took a sly pleasure in having manoeuvred her away from the action.