Liz Carlyle - 05 - Present Danger (17 page)

Liz had been in a number of senior FBI agents’ offices both in America and in London and she recognised the style. It was a very different feel from the set up in the CIA station, in another part of this massive embassy building, where the suspicious and distinctly unwelcoming Andy Bokus presided as head of station. Liz had recently encountered him in the course of another case and had got the impression that female MI5 officers were not his favourite form of life.

This office and its occupant had a much warmer feel. Behind the wooden desk crossed flags were draped and on the walls hung framed photographs of Sulkey with the director of the FBI, Sulkey shaking hands with a former president of the United States, and several of Sulkey sitting with a group of equally enormous men, obviously a basketball team.

‘I used to play ball,’ said Sulkey, seeing Liz eyeing the photographs, ‘until I got my injury.’

Liz smiled sympathetically but thinking it more polite not to pursue the question of the injury, she broached the reason for her visit: Seamus Piggott, once known as James Purnell.

‘Your colleague Miss Peggy Kinsolving told me on the phone that Purnell is now in Northern Ireland and causing you guys some concern. I’ve only been in London for a few months and I’m afraid I haven’t got round to visiting Belfast yet. It seemed to me that with the peace process having removed the worst of the violence, it wasn’t one of my priorities. But if James Purnell is causing trouble over there then maybe I was wrong.’

‘Well,’ said Liz, ‘we’re not entirely sure what he’s up to yet. On the face of it he’s running a perfectly legitimate business, but we’ve had some information from a source recently that Purnell is leading a breakaway group of ex-IRA people who are out to kill police and intelligence officers in Northern Ireland. Our files show that you were the special agent in charge of the investigation in Boston, and when I heard that you were here, it seemed a good opportunity to pick up some background on him – and to ask if you think that our source’s information sounds likely to be true.’

Wrapping his long fingers around his coffee cup, Sulkey stared down thoughtfully at the dregs and said quietly, ‘Nothing he’d do would surprise me. Let me tell you a bit about him.’

At first, there was little in what he said that Liz hadn’t already read in Peggy’s memo – the super-bright young Irish-American, specialising in academic subjects that ultimately made him an expert in missile technology. It was an expertise that for a long time was employed in the service of the US government.

‘I gather you first came across him through investigating his brother,’ Liz interjected, trying to move things on.

‘That’s right. And they couldn’t have been more different.’ Sulkey gave a wry smile. ‘They say America is a melting pot, but sometimes people don’t melt. As my colleague Tommy Birmingham likes to say, part of the Irish community in America has never really left Ireland. They call South Boston ‘Southey’. It’s New England’s Dublin. If you go into some of the bars there – and with your accent I wouldn’t advise it – you’d think the Easter Uprising of 1916 was still being fought.

‘Edwin Purnell was James’s younger brother by eight years. Their parents died when Edwin was still quite young and James looked after him. Edwin was an okay student but he dropped out of college and got in with the hard core of the Boston-Irish crowd. Only his brother’s financial support kept his head above water and after a series of dead-end jobs he ended up working for James when James formed his own company.’

‘Were they brought up to support the IRA?’

‘Not really – that’s the funny thing. Neither of their parents was political but the local Irish culture was political all right, and that’s where Edwin seemed to pick it up. He grew more and more pro-IRA as the years went by.’

‘But James was a bit of a firebrand too, I gather,’ said Liz, recalling the file’s account of his anti-Vietnam War activism.

‘He was, when he was young,’ said Sulkey, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and stretching out his long legs, ‘but not especially about Ireland. He only got drawn in when Edwin was asked to help smuggle arms for the IRA. By then James’s company was heavily into developing missiles – hand-held, surface-to-air. It was a legitimate business – but it was also just what the IRA was looking for in those days. I don’t think James got involved out of nationalist conviction, so much as for the money and trying to keep his brother from getting caught. If James was the genius, Edwin was the dumbo. James clearly felt the need to look after him.’

‘But they got caught.’

‘They did, but not because of anything James did – or Edwin for that matter. Somebody in Northern Ireland talked to you guys in MI5. There was enough detail in the information that we knew what was going to be smuggled out – RPGs and SAM missiles – and where it was going from: Gloucester, a fishing town thirty miles north of Boston. We didn’t know the exact timing, but we staked out the harbour and two months later we caught them red-handed.’

‘But not James?’

‘Nope,’ he shook his head emphatically. ‘He was the obvious source of the stuff, but we couldn’t get evidence that would hold up in court. And in those days, long before 9/11, some of the judges were pretty sympathetic to that kind of activity. If you ask me, he would have taken the fall for his brother if he’d had to – he was that devoted to him – but it was too late: we had Edwin dead to rights. From James’s point of view, there was no point going to prison if it wasn’t going to keep his brother out.’

Liz said, ‘And then Edwin didn’t come out.’

‘That’s right.’ He pursed his lips, musing. ‘It was a freak thing. A kidney infection that was mistreated – I don’t know about standards of medical care in Her Majesty’s prisons, but in a Federal Penitentiary you’re not usually looked after by Dr Kildare.’

‘And James?’

‘He was devastated. Well, as much as he was capable of feeling emotion. You see, this is a guy who was known as a loner, who has never married, and has no record of close relationships with anybody – male or female. Except his brother. Once his brother was gone, there was nothing to care about except avenging him.’

Liz said, ‘It makes sense in a strange kind of way.’

Sulkey nodded and gave a small smile. ‘Yeah. And whether it was in memory of his brother, or because it would give him a better chance to avenge him, James suddenly goes all Irish. He becomes Seamus, moves to Belfast, and from what you tell me, starts to act like a classic IRA hood. I’ve spoken to a lot of people about Purnell over the years and the words they’ve used to describe him were “single-minded”, “ruthless” and “cold-hearted”.’

Liz suddenly felt a chill run down her spine.

‘So if he’s decided to kill a police officer or one of us, he’s going to keep going till he succeeds,’ she said quietly. ‘Or till we catch him,’ she added, ‘and you make that sound difficult.’

Sulkey gave a grim nod. ‘Let’s just say I never succeeded.’

Liz looked up at Sulkey’s lined face. ‘Thank you, I think I understand what’s driving him much better now.’

They stood up together and as they shook hands again Liz said, ‘There’s just one more thing I was wondering about.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Didn’t Purnell also nurse a grudge against the FBI? After all, it’s you who put his brother in the prison where he died. I’d have thought he’d have tried to get his revenge on you chaps first.’

Sulkey gave a short laugh. ‘Funny you should ask. I think it’s fair to say he had a try.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He tried to kill the officer in charge of the investigation.’

‘Was that your colleague Birmingham?’

Sulkey looked at Liz. ‘No, it was me. Someone tampered with the wheels of my car – I reckon it was Purnell, not that I can prove it. Two of my tyres blew out when I was doing seventy on Interstate Ninety-five.’ He shook his head and looked down at his leg. ‘I was lucky to survive. All I got left with was this limp.’

28

It was still raining when Liz came out of the embassy into Grosvenor Square, so she hailed a passing taxi and asked for Vauxhall Bridge. Nowadays pictures of Thames House, MI5’s headquarters on Millbank, appeared on TV every time there was a terrorism story, so she never gave it as her destination. She felt it was uncomfortable if not downright insecure to link herself so closely to the intelligence world. It was a sensible precaution she liked to take.

As the taxi negotiated the morning traffic, she thought over what Daryl Sulkey had said about Piggott. It was a chilling story, and she decided to get Peggy Kinsolving to ring Judith and Dave to let them know that the threat was serious, and that the tipoff that Brown Fox had given them was likely to be true.

But when she walked into the open-plan office where Peggy had her desk there was no Peggy, just a note waiting for her.

Sorry to miss you. Got to go out. Hope Sulkey was helpful. Let me know if I can do any more. Lunch next time?

So Liz walked down the corridor to Charles Wetherby’s room, with a mounting feeling of pleasurable anticipation. In the outer office Wetherby’s secretary greeted her warmly. ‘I didn’t know you were in town.’

‘I didn’t know I was coming myself until yesterday. Is Charles in?’

‘Yes, he is. Let me just check if he’s free; I know he’d like to see you.’

She went into Charles’s office, then a moment later came out, leaving the door open. ‘Go on in.’

Liz went in eagerly but with slight apprehension, too. She hadn’t seen him since Joanne’s funeral. How would he be holding up?

‘Liz. It’s good to see you,’ said Charles, coming out from behind his desk. He looked spruce in a dark suit and cheerful red tie. There was a bounce to his step, and his face had colour in it again.

He gave her a peck on both cheeks and motioned her to sit down. ‘I didn’t know you were coming over. What brings you here?’

‘I had to see the FBI legat first thing. We’ve got an interesting case – an Irish-American who’s moved to Belfast. He’s set up a dodgy-looking business and surrounded himself with ex-IRA hardliners. At first we thought he was simply running a criminal racket but now it looks as though he’s planning some serious attacks.’

‘I hope you’re being careful over there – I heard about Jimmy Fergus getting shot. Is there a link?’

‘There could well be.’ She was about to try and move the conversation onto a more personal level when there was a tap on the door and Wetherby’s secretary poked her head in. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Charles, but DG’s just rung and asked if you could pop up to his office.’

‘But the meeting with the Home Secretary’s not for an hour,’ he complained.

‘I know, but he said he wants to go over a few things with you before it starts.’

Wetherby sighed, and looked at Liz with weary resignation. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It can’t be helped,’ she said with a brightness she didn’t feel.

‘Will you be over again soon?’

‘I’m not sure. But I’ll let you know in advance next time.’

‘Yes. Do, and then we can have lunch.’

‘How are the boys?’ she asked, as he got up to go.

‘Fine, thanks,’ he replied with a smile. And then he was off, striding down the corridor to the lifts. As she watched him go, Liz realised how much she missed talking to him. On an operational level his advice was invaluable, but what she really wanted to know was how he was feeling now that he was on his own, and in particular what he was feeling. Did he miss her?

Through the window overlooking the Thames she could see the rain had stopped, and the cloud was slowly giving way to a watery sun. On the river one of the commuter boats that took people to work in the City was trudging slowly back upstream, almost empty. As she looked at her watch she wondered why she did this to herself.

Liz and her mother had agreed to meet at Tate Britain, on the Embankment, less than ten minutes’ walk from work for Liz. She was early and she found Susan Carlyle and Edward in one of the galleries, staring at a stunning abstract by Howard Hodgkin. She watched them fondly for a moment – Edward, tall in a green tweed jacket, bending down to point something out to her mother; Susan, pretty in a camel coat with a fur collar, nodding vaguely in agreement. A tiny ripple of jealousy passed through her as she saw their warm companionship.

‘I certainly don’t know what it’s supposed to be,’ Edward was saying as Liz joined them and they all examined a crescent the colour of blood oranges painted on oatmeal canvas. ‘But despite my old codger status, I
like
it.’

‘Edward, I don’t think you’re as old as the painter is,’ said Liz.

Susan Carlyle laughed. ‘Well, I like it too, provided I don’t have to see it every day.’

They went downstairs to the restaurant in the basement, a long handsome room with original Rex Whistler murals on the walls. Liz, sitting on a banquette with her back to the wall, looked around to see if she recognised any of her colleagues; it was a popular place for entertaining foreign visitors. But she saw no familiar faces.

‘So how is Belfast, Liz?’ asked her mother, after they’d talked about a play Susan and Edward were going on to see.

‘It’s full of life these days,’ said Liz, as usual avoiding anything to do with work. She described her flat, making her mother laugh with an account of the redoubtable Mrs Ryan and her organisational skills. ‘You must come over and stay, mother. You’d be amazed how well I’m looked after.’

‘I’m sure I would. But I hope you’re being looked after at work as well.’

Ever since the previous year, when Liz had been injured and had recuperated at Bowerbridge, it was obvious that both her mother and Edward had a clear sense of what Liz’s job could involve. It was also clear that Edward knew a good deal about Northern Ireland; he’d had some kind of involvement when he was in the army, and he had strong views about the situation there.

He said, ‘There are still two very different communities over there and I don’t believe the root of the conflict has gone away.’

‘You don’t think the peace will hold?’

‘I don’t know enough to say,’ he admitted. ‘But what I do know is that given the past hatred, this is bound to be a fragile peace that needs careful nurturing. No one over here is paying much attention. We’re treating it as yesterday’s problem. While the violence stays at a lowish level, we’re assuming everything will be all right.’