The Angel Tapes (18 page)

Roche was lying where he'd left him; he would not be going anywhere tonight. Macken walked slowly to the door and opened it. He turned.

“It's not over, Cock,” he said. “There's something about you I've never trusted. It wasn't because of Joan, either, and it wasn't because of Sandra. No, it's something else, Roche—I
smell
it, I know I'm close to it—and I'm going to find it before long.”

He'd almost shut the door behind him when he opened it wide again.

“And listen, Cock,” he hissed. “You lay another hand on my daughter and your balls won't be sore anymore. Because you won't
have
any fucking balls. Do you follow me?”

Jim Roche could only nod his acquiescence.

Twenty-one

Charlie Nolan breezed through the incident room in Harcourt Square, clutching a sheaf of papers. None of the detectives hunched in front of their terminals paid him more interest than normal. It was close to midnight; the Angel investigation was ticking over with the minimum number of officers manning the nerve center.

Nolan found three vacant work stations side by side in a corner of the big room and sat down at the middle one. There was no sign of Paddy Flynn; he'd made a quick check on that.

He was nervous, very. He disguised the trembling in his fingers by shuffling the papers on one side of the keyboard, pretending to rearrange them in a different order. A telephone rang and Nolan was startled. But he recovered quickly and applied himself to the work in hand.

The previous user of the terminal had left a window open that read ARCHIVE 1992. Nolan shut it. He saw a list of folders, each bearing a date from 1980 to the present. Nolan opened that for 1989. He chose a month at random and began to type nonsense at the place where the cursor blinked on the screen. Presently he looked up and called out to the detective sitting nearest him.

“How's this you spell ‘sapphire,' John?”

“Ehh, with two pees and a haitch, I think. Is it the Delahunt business, sir? The jewels?”

“Yeah. Pain in the arse, so it is.”

“Nothing compared to
this,
” the detective sighed, and returned to his own work.

Charlie Nolan had always approached computers with a mistrust bordering on awe. He was a man used to the traditional methods of police investigation, and was still convinced that legwork and steady, honest-to-goodness procedure were, in his own words, “your only man” in the solving of a case. In his heart he knew that officers like himself were becoming dinosaurs in the face of the technology embraced with great enthusiasm by younger members of the force. And so he'd made more effort than most men of his generation to keep pace with each new technological development at Harcourt Square. He'd even bought a secondhand PC to practice on at home.

As a result of his keyboard skills, it didn't take him long to locate the files that Flynn had brought up for his attention.

But he didn't delete them—as a lesser man would have, he thought smugly. No, Charlie Nolan
overwrote
each file with a line that he was particularly proud of.

It read: ACCESS DENIED: PASSWORD PLEASE?

There was no password, of course, because there were no more incriminating files. Nolan's nightmare had been banished forever.

*   *   *

The morning of Saturday, July 11, saw a slight change in the Dublin weather. It remained hot, but the humidity was lessened by a mild northwesterly breeze that rustled the leaves of the limes outside the American embassy.

Inside, in Seaborg's office, change of another kind was the subject of a heated discussion. The ambassador was on his feet, as was Lawrence Redfern. Seaborg's driver, Thomas Jones, sat to one side, filing his immaculate fingernails. Assistant Commissioner Duffy occupied one of the chairs facing the mahogany desk. His, he felt, was the “hot” seat.

“I think Mr. Redfern's right,” Seaborg said. “Macken will have to go. He's been on the case now for more than a week and he's come up with nothing. I wouldn't say this, Mr. Duffy, if circumstances were different. But there's too much riding on it. I hope you understand.”

Duffy felt powerless. Redfern he could cope with; the man was just a minion, not very much different from one of his own subordinates. But Seaborg had closed ranks with Redfern, and the assistant commissioner knew he was no match for the combined pressure of two such strong-willed individuals. It was the little, almost invisible, signs that passed between them that told Duffy he was dealing with men who'd fought battles together, had acted as a single unit to crush all opposition.

But Duffy was a fighter, too.

“I've stood behind Blade before,” he said, “and I'm standing behind him now. You may think what you like of him, but I can assure you there's no better man on the force.”

“Then why are we still no further than we were a week ago?” Redfern asked.

“Because we're up against something we've never had to contend with before.” Duffy swiveled round to face Redfern. “You know that as well as I do. How's your own investigation coming along, eh? You people have half the intelligence services in America working on those tapes. What have
ye
come up with?”

Redfern stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Nothing so far, I agree. Which is why I'm recommending that we drop that line of inquiry and concentrate our resources right here. But I want somebody else to head up the investigation from your side, Commissioner. Macken's out, as far as I'm concerned. He hasn't even reached first base.”

“Whatever that's supposed to mean,” Duffy said dryly.

Seaborg saw the tension rising again and came between them.

“What about Superintendent Nolan, Commissioner?” he said. “Perhaps he could do better. We've less than three days, for crying out loud.”

“The ambassador has a point,” Redfern said. “Seems to me that Nolan is handling this better than Macken—and he's not even on the case. At least he produced a suspect.”

“Which led Macken on a wild-goose chase, thereby slowing up the investigation,” Duffy countered.

Seaborg ran his fingers through his hair. He laid his palms on the desk, seeming to tower over Duffy.

“At least he's doing something,” he said, “even if it failed to get results. From what I hear from Mr. Redfern, Macken has done little except come up with a harebrained plan involving sniffer dogs—”

“When he hasn't been painting the town red at night,” Redfern sneered. “I say we go with Nolan.”

“Or you assign them both to the case,” said Seaborg.

Duffy sighed. “You don't know what you're asking, gentlemen. That's the one course that
isn't
open to me. You might as well string two tomcats across a clothesline by their tails and let them fight it out.”

“I'm not saying you should give them equal authority,” the ambassador said. “Not at all. Put Nolan in charge, but let's not forget that Macken has a direct line to the bomber. Break that now and we might lose contact for keeps. So what I'm suggesting is that Macken's involvement ought to be confined to receiving and passing on phone messages. No more.”

“My God, he'll love
that,
” Duffy said. He stood up wearily. “All right, Nolan it is—alone. Now I suppose I'll have to break the news to Blade.”

Seaborg came from behind the desk and offered Duffy his hand.

“It's for the best, Commissioner. I like Macken; he's a good guy. But I have to agree with Mr. Redfern. It's proved too much for him. We need fresh blood now. We're running out of time.”

Duffy wanted to say something. Couldn't. He nodded gravely to the ambassador and left the room.

“Well? Happy now?” Seaborg said.

“No, Colonel, I'm not happy. And I'm sure not gloating either, if that's what you think. If you want the truth, I'm worried as hell. Sir, you've got to use your influence; get the White House to call off the visit. This situation is out of control.”

Seaborg sat down. He picked up the jeep-shaped paperweight and balanced it on his palm.

“And on what pretext ought we to call it off, Mr. Redfern? Because there's been a gas leak in the city of Dublin? The president would be laughed right out of office.”

Redfern was silent—if not for long.

“But that's it, Colonel! You've hit the nail on the head. A leak.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Don't you see, sir? Duffy has done his damnedest to try to keep the lid on this. What if we were to leak the real story to the press? Tell them the truth: that there's been a bomb threat on the president's life.”

Seaborg laughed bitterly. He shook his head.

“Spoken, Mr. Redfern, like a true field agent, if you don't mind my saying so.”

Redfern looked hurt. Seaborg's tone grew milder.

“You don't know what it's like to sit at this desk, Larry. You must think that what goes on behind closed doors here is all about who does or who doesn't get invited to cocktail parties in the ambassador's residence.”

“No, sir, I certainly don't. I—”

“Let me finish now. What you're suggesting is that we blow the cover on a story that a foreign administration has been desperately trying to maintain for more than a week. Now, aside from creating an international incident should the leak be traced to this office, you'd most likely be exposing the president to even
more
danger than he's in right now.”

Seaborg replaced the paperweight on his desk and began to roll the miniature vehicle back and forth.

“You're right,” he went on; “there's still time for the White House to change its mind. The president can contract a bug, visit with his dying aunt, anything. He won't lose any credibility if he cancels now. Because there's no clear and present danger. And I wish to God he
could
cancel.”

“Amen to that.”

“But Larry, you know as well as I do that Duffy's story won't hold forever. Too many people know about the bomb—here and back home. It's only a matter of time before the press gets its hands on it. The White House knows this. More important, the president's political advisers know it. Everything is politics, Larry. You, me, Mr. Jones there: we're all part of the great political game. It's the World Series—except this one never stops. Did you catch the news Monday?”

He didn't wait for a reply but went to a cabinet and opened a pair of doors to reveal a television set. He took a videocassette from a rack and inserted it in the player.

CNN had the best coverage. The hollering match that was characteristic of the British House of Commons in session had gone on for more than three hours, as the prime minister tried to appeal to both benches for reason and restraint. He'd been shouted down. The most vociferous voices had belonged to his own party. Everything from the War of Independence to the Normandy Landings had been cited as evidence of a deeply rooted mistrust that lay beneath the veneer of friendly Anglo-American relations. The resident of the Oval Office had been branded a traitor, a coward—even a warmonger. The prime minister had been urged to seek an apology.

“Piss and wind, Larry,” Seaborg said. “That's politics. Put one of those red-faced gentlemen in a combat zone and he'd soil his underpants.”

He switched off the set. “But that's not the issue here. These people control the president as much as the voters in Libby, Montana, control him; make no mistake about it.”

“Is he going to apologize?” Redfern asked softly.

“Probably. But not today, and certainly not according to Noah Webster's definition of the word ‘apologize.' Diplomacy doesn't run off half-cocked; it takes its blessed time.”

Seaborg sat down.

“You understand now?” he said. “The president's shot himself in the foot. He's damned if he does and damned if he doesn't. If he cancels the visit now and the truth comes out later, he's damned. If he doesn't cancel and the truth leaks out before Tuesday next—or, God forbid, if there's another bomb—then he's damned again. And he knows it.”

“So he has to come, either way.”

“That's right. Only an act of God can stop him now.”

Twenty-two

When it appears that the whole world is against you; when everything you set your hand to works out wrong; when your best-laid plans go awry; when life seems bleak and indifferent, then there's always one person you can still turn to.

Mother.

Blade Macken was on the Wexford road, heading for County Wicklow on Saturday, the ninth day of Angel. The hum of the car engine soothed him; his CD player tinkled softly with the piano music of Phil Coulter and the cooling drafts of the air-conditioning on his face were in sharp contrast to the sweltering heat outside.

The bare, rugged limestone cone of the Great Sugar Loaf reared up ahead when he'd passed the southern boundary of County Dublin and entered the locality known affectionately as the Garden of Ireland.

He drove through places whose names matched their loveliness: Kilmacanogue, Glen of the Downs, Ashford. But the beauty of the countryside was lost on him; his thoughts were elsewhere. On dark angels of death, murdered children, child molesters, impending assassination. Only when he bore left at the village of Rathnew did Blade think long and hard on Katharine Macken.

He'd returned her calls at last. To his surprise, his mother had sounded bright and coherent, in contrast to the messages she'd left on his answering machine. What was she now? Seventy-three. But she'd sounded like a girl of twelve. That had cheered Blade considerably, even though an inner voice had reminded him that a regression to childhood speech and mannerism was a symptom of the dementia that was ravaging his mother's mind.

He stopped at Madden's newsdealer's shop in Wicklow town and bought a pack of Hamlets and a box of Katharine's favorite chocolates.