“And you told her what?”
“That I’d traced Bailey from New York. Found him in Maryland and he led me to their house.”
“Anything else?”
The FBI agent was persistent, and Joker knew that his first instinct had been right, it was the IRA activists that they were interested in, not him. If he played his cards right, he might be able to extract himself from his present predicament. But handling the FBI men would be every bit as dangerous and demanding as dealing with Mary Hennessy. The chain was digging into the small of his back. “She wanted to know if I knew what she was doing.”
“And do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Did she believe you?”
“Eventually.”
“So why didn’t she kill you?”
“She tried. Or rather, she sent down that other girl to finish me off. Do you know who she is?”
Howard shook his head. “And identification is going to be difficult after what you did to her face,” said the FBI agent.
Joker had the feeling that Howard wasn’t being totally honest, and that he did know who the girl was.
“Why were you following Hennessy and Bailey?” Howard asked.
Joker had expected the question, but it wasn’t until Howard asked it that he decided how to reply. He’d realised that there was no way he could expect any help from the Colonel or from his old Regiment, they would presumably deny all knowledge of his involvement in any official operation. Joker opened his gown and indicated the old scar on his stomach. “She did this to me in Ireland three years ago.” At the door, Clutesi whistled softly through clenched teeth. Howard stood up for a closer look. “I was a sergeant in the SAS.” When Howard didn’t react, Joker added: “The equivalent of your Special Forces.”
Howard raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard of the SAS,” he said. “I’m waiting for you to get to the point.”
“I was part of an undercover operation in the Border Country. Our cover was blown, she killed the guy I was with, and she started on me. An Army patrol found us and she escaped, but before she left she ripped open my guts. She said she wanted me to die slowly, so that I could think about her as I bled to death. Her timing was lousy and the Army got me to a hospital in time.”
Howard nodded and Clutesi took notes. “Three years ago, you say?” said Howard. “Why now? Why did you come after her now?”
“Another SAS officer was killed near Washington some weeks ago,” said Joker. “He’d been tortured. And it was Hennessy’s signature.”
Howard was tapping the envelope against his legs again and Joker knew it wouldn’t be long before the FBI agent showed him the contents. “You said you traced Bailey to Maryland. You followed him here from New York?”
Joker shook his head. “I was told that he was down here.”
“So you were told about the house while you were in New York?”
“No. I heard that Bailey had been meeting with a guy who owns an aviation company here.”
“What was his name?”
“Patrick Farrell. His company is Farrell Aviation.”
“So what happened? You staked out the airfield?”
“That’s right.”
“And you saw Bailey there? And followed him to the house?”
Joker nodded. “You’ve got it.”
Howard frowned and rubbed his chin. “So, this MI5 agent, where does he come into the picture? He was working with you?”
Joker snorted. “Hardly. The first time I saw him was when he came at me in the house with a gun.”
“So he was following you? Without you knowing?” There was a look of surprise on his face.
“I guess so.”
Howard rubbed his chin again, giving Joker the impression that he didn’t believe him. “Did you see anyone else at the house?”
“Two Americans. They caught me in the car. And another guy, looked like he was from the Middle East.”
Howard and Clutesi looked at each other, the amazement evident in their faces. Howard stood up and opened the envelope. He took out a stack of glossy colour photographs and began handing them to Joker one at a time. “Do you recognise these people?” he asked.
The first photograph was of Hennessy, an old one, before she’d dyed her hair. Joker held it up. “Mary Hennessy. You know she’s blonde now?” Howard nodded. “She looks as if she’s lost weight, too,” Joker added. The next photograph was of the Middle Eastern type with the receding hairline and thick moustache. Joker took a quick look at the back, hoping that there would be some sort of caption there. There wasn’t. “Yeah, this guy was there.”
“Did it look as if he was in charge?”
Joker shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, noncommittally. He went through the rest of the photographs. Bailey was there, and so were the two Americans. There was also a picture of the girl Joker had killed in the basement. “Yeah,” he said. “They were all in the house.”
Howard took the photographs back and put them into the envelope. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone?” Howard asked.
“I was the one being tortured,” said Joker, “they weren’t exactly letting me in on their plans, you know?”
Howard and Clutesi looked at each other and Joker had the feeling that it was because they weren’t sure what to do next, not because they were playing some sort of psychological game. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Joker asked eventually.
Howard looked across at Clutesi and slipped the manila envelope into his jacket pocket. “I’ve a phone call to make. We’ll talk again later.” The two FBI agents left the room, and a minute or so later the uniformed cop returned, carrying a styrofoam cup of coffee.
Matthew Bailey kept his left hand on the control wheel as he set his radio transmitter to the Bay Bridge Unicom frequency, 123.0 MHz. He called the airfield up as he levelled the Centurion off at two thousand feet over the Chesapeake Bay and asked them for a runway advisory. Through his headset he heard a young woman tell him that runway 29 was in use and that the winds were coming from the west at about six knots. There was no other traffic in the pattern and he took the plane down to one thousand feet, flew parallel to the runway and then made two gentle left turns before touching down.
The airfield was slightly larger than the one where Farrell Aviation was based, and it had a hard runway which was at right angles to the water. Bailey taxied over to two petrol pumps by the side of a white-painted wooden hut where a teenager in blue overalls topped off his wing tanks. “Can I tie down over there?” Bailey asked.
“How long are you staying?” said the teenager, hanging up the fuel hose.
“Should be leaving tomorrow,” said Bailey. “Maybe tonight.” He was wearing dark glasses and his Orioles baseball cap hid his red hair.
The teenager pointed to a group of small planes. “Over there’ll be just fine,” he said.
“Great, thanks,” said Bailey. He went over to the hut and paid a girl for his fuel and for the tie-down fee, then started up the Centurion and taxied it over to the parking area. After he’d secured the plane he used a public phone to call for a taxi. He wanted to get back to the motel as quickly as possible. He’d always known that Mary felt the same about him as he did about her. The previous night had been fantastic, the best sex he’d ever had. She had a terrific body, and he’d loved the way she’d gasped and moaned as he mounted her. God, there was so much he wanted to do with her. He wanted to make love to her in every possible way, to do things with her that he’d only read about before. Once the hit was over and done with, he’d ask Mary to go away with him. She was older than him, sure, but that wasn’t a problem. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman, and more. And he’d prove to her how good he was, in bed and out of it. They’d be a great team. The best. He found himself growing hard and he paced up and down impatiently.
Cole Howard stood in the corridor outside Joker’s room in the Shock-trauma unit, tapping the antenna of his mobile phone against his cheek. “You liaise with the anti-terrorist people in the UK, what do you make of him, Don?” asked Howard. A nurse pushed open the door behind them and wheeled a television set inside.