The Angel Tapes (30 page)

“In the house,” Paddy Price ordered.

The door was open now and his brother made way for the unexpected guests.

“Drop the radio,” he said to Blade.

It bounced and came to rest next to an old pizza box. Dominic picked it up and studied it.

“Well, well. I believe we've been honored by a visit from the Guards, Paddy. Isn't that nice?” To Macken and Redfern he said: “Down on yer knees, boys, and hands behind the heads.”

Paddy passed the gun to his brother. Dominic pulled a rickety chair nearer and sat down facing the captives, the weapon resting in his lap. His pale blue eyes were inscrutable.

“What were yiz looking for?”

“Drugs,” Blade said. “We heard there's a crack house here.”

“Is that a fact? A shame now—we smoked the last of the crack for breakfast. The most we can offer yiz is a nice cuppa tea.”

“I'll go and stick the kettle on,” Paddy said. He grinned, and Blade noticed that the teeth on one side of his jaw were missing.

“How many of yiz are there?” Dominic asked.

“A dozen. We're combing the building.”

“I on'y saw one car, Dommo. I think there's on'y four of the cunts.”

“We've more men round in back,” Redfern said. “The place is surrounded. Best put the gun down; it'll make things easier.”

Merciful hour, Blade thought, why couldn't the Yank just keep his bloody trap shut? But the damage had been done. Dominic Price's eyes narrowed.

“Ah now, what have we here?” He moved the shotgun into an upright position, holding a finger curled around its twin triggers. “Who's your furry friend? Dick fucking Tracy?”

“Sergeant Larry Redfern of the DEA,” the American said. “That's the Drug Enforcement Administration to you.”

“I know what it is,” Dominic Price said. “But what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Special assignment,” Redfern answered evenly. “Now put the gun down and there won't be any trouble.”

Price cackled. “Jayziz, for a guy who's on his fucking knees you've got some fucking neck. Now tell me why I shouldn't just waste the pair of yiz and have done with it.”

Redfern had no time to reply because Macken's radio crackled at that moment.

“Sir, we're done on this floor. No sign of the Prices. Over.”

Shite.

Dominic was on his feet, eyes wild, gun pointed now at Macken. His brother stared at the instrument in his hand.

“What'll we do, Dommo? It's
us
the fuckers are after.”

Dominic's eyes were flickering from side to side. He placed the gun under Blade's chin.

“Talk,” he said. “Tell your mates you're still looking. No codes, just plain English, or your brains'll be decorating that wall behind you.”

Paddy Price held the radio to Blade's ear. Both men were sweating.

“Nothing here, either,” Blade said into the mouthpiece. “Try the fourth floor. Over.”

“The
fourth,
sir? Are you sure? Over.”

“Yeah, you heard me: the fourth. We're just about done on the third. Over and out.”

Paddy Price moved the radio away from Blade and nodded, satisfied. Blade's mouth was dry and his limbs were beginning to ache. He started to alternately tense and relax the muscles of his arms and thighs, keeping the circulation going. Numbness was the last thing he needed. He became aware of Redfern's breathing; it was slow, deep, and measured. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the American was now squatting on his heels.

Dominic Price had returned to his chair. “Right. You did grand, copper. Just as well, too. Now, let's have some real answers. So it's us, is it? Why?”

“Murder.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Really, Dommo.”

“And who are we supposed to have murdered?”

“Gerry Merrigan and Michael Byrne. On the first of July, 1989.”

Dominic, without taking his eyes off Macken, addressed his brother. “You hear that, Paddy? I take everything back I ever said about the Guards being a slow bunch of fucks. On'y nine years and they've already cracked the case. Fucking marvelous. Do we have an alibi for that day, Paddy? I'm sure we do.”

“Ah yes,” said his brother with a smile, “I remember distinctly. Weren't you and me making our Confirmation that very day? Or was it our Holy Communion? I do get confused between the two sometimes. Mind you, I still have the tenner Aunt Cora gave me.”

Play for time, Blade; keep the shaggers talking.

“You probably got the dates mixed up,” he said, “so I'll jog your memory. It was the little job you did for Jim Roche. In Kildare House.”

Dominic Price had stiffened. “Roche?”

“Certainly,” Blade said with a confidence he was far from possessing. “Roche was only too happy to talk about it. I suppose it's been on his conscience this past while. Maybe you can look him up when the pair of you are out of the Joy. That's if he hasn't died of old age by then.”

“Jayziz, copper,” Dominic Price said, “you've the brass balls of the fucking Devil. If you think—”

He stopped. All four men had heard a sound from outside—the unmistakable, metallic clatter of an empty beer can kicked by a careless foot. John and Joe.

The brothers' attention directed itself at the window, an action of a split second's duration. It was enough for Lawrence Redfern. Macken saw only a blur of limbs; the Americans' body uncoiled like that of a cobra, as he launched himself from the floor.

The shotgun roared deafeningly and blew a ragged hole in the ceiling, both barrels spent. It spiraled out of Dominic's grasp as Redfern took him full in the chest and the chair toppled backward. Blade was on his feet and throwing himself at Paddy Price's legs.

But Price's brother had delivered a blow to Redfern's chin, sending him reeling. Dominic was on his feet again, lashing out with his foot at Redfern's ribs. The American rolled away. Blade, meanwhile, had forced a knee into the small of Paddy's back and had twisted the man's arms behind him. He was powerless. Macken could observe Redfern in full battle frenzy.

He saw two shaved heads appear outside the window.

Redfern had regained his footing. His hands dropped loosely to his sides. He emitted a cry, leaped in the air, feet level with Dominic's belly, and kicked the man full in his beard. Dominic staggered. But he was a fighter and dodged Redfern's next attack, sidestepping as the American's kick scythed the air harmlessly in the place where Dominic's head had been.

The door opened and the two narcotics men came in. They saw the flailing arms and legs of Redfern and his antagonist. They stepped aside, out of the way.

Redfern screeched again, pivoted on one foot, sending the other in a lethal arc that glanced off Dominic's head.

Dominic slipped on some food remains and lost his balance. He pitched sideways—and blundered into Blade. Blade's grip on Paddy Price's arm loosened. Paddy took full advantage. He rolled out from under Blade. A knife appeared in his hand.

The brothers became a deadly fighting duo. Paddy Price skipped nimbly to one side and struck out at Joe while Dominic lunged at John. The knife missed its target. John was less fortunate: Blade heard bone snap as John went down, taken by Dominic's brutal kick to the side of his knee. John screamed in agony.

Blade picked up the rickety chair by the backrest and stalked Paddy Price. The knife was ineffective now. Blade used the chair legs to keep Paddy at bay, forcing him back against the wall and farther from the door. Joe prepared a flank attack.

“Come and get it, cunts!” Paddy roared. “Come on. I'll gut the pair of yiz like fucking mackerels.” But his eyes betrayed his desperation. He was cornered. Knew it.

Blade lunged with the chair. Paddy dodged and slashed out at Joe.

The knife sliced his jacket sleeve but failed to connect with flesh. Blade lunged again. This time one of the chair legs slammed into Paddy's ribs. He cursed.

Dominic Price emitted a blood-curdling yell and launched himself at Redfern again in a classic karate assault, both feet aiming for the stomach. Redfern rolled with the kick.

Blade and Joe were working as a unit. Blade thrust the chair under Paddy Price's swinging knife hand and caught him in the ribs again. Joe kicked him in the shin. Paddy faltered. Blade swung the chair like an ax. The knife flew from Paddy's hand. Joe punched him in the stomach—at the same moment Blade brought the chair down on his head. It splintered. Paddy dropped to the floor like a poleaxed steer.

His brother made for the door.

Redfern had anticipated the move. Macken saw the CIA operative turn his back. Then Redfern was a tumbling acrobat, turning once, twice, three times in a flurry of motion.

Dominic Price was over the threshold when the soles of Redfern's shoes caught him square in the back. The force of contact lifted him off his feet and sent him hurtling toward the balcony. He cried out—and disappeared with a scream over the edge.

“Christ on a trampoline,” Blade heard Joe say; “Bruce fucking Lee isn't in it!”

Redfern was looking down to where the bearded man had fallen. He shook his head slowly, then returned to the apartment.

John was on his feet again, pale and limping. “I hope the fucker isn't dead, is he?” he asked. “I was hoping to be around when they put him away for good.”

“No sign of movement down there,” Redfern told him. “I guess his neck broke his fall. Poor bastard.”

But when Blade escorted the handcuffed Paddy Price out of the building, he saw a group of children clustered around a battered, bloodied, but very much alive Dominic. The bearded one was trying to get up off the filthy mattress that had saved his life.

*   *   *

“We really need someone from the press office,” Blade said. “There's no point now passing this on to the evening papers but we can make tomorrow's dailies. We might even get it on the front page.”

“I can do better than that, Blade,” Duffy said. “I'll have the crime correspondent from the
Independent
over here right away. Get your report typed up and I'll brief him myself. I owe it to Gerry.”

Blade went to the “photograph” on the bulletin board and looked into the eyes of Carol Merrigan.

“What's she up to? Why doesn't she ring—just when I want her to ring! She's rung me at least twice a day for the past week. Fuck it. I don't know if she'll buy it, sir, I really don't. It's all so neat. She waits nine years to take revenge for her father's death, and we get the men responsible, the day before the payoff. It's all too bloody neat. I don't think she'll buy it.”

Duffy had come behind him. “Go home, Blade. Get some rest. Your nerves must be in shreds. It's half-eight now and you've an early start tomorrow. Get some rest.”

So Blade took Duffy's advice, mumbled his goodnights to the others and headed for home. When he'd reached the top of Harcourt Street, however, he suddenly remembered an appointment he'd made earlier that day.

Upper Mount Street was only minutes away, and rest was the last thing on his mind.

Thirty-seven

He'd never seen her in trousers before. But this was more than trousers: Elaine was dressed in an exquisitely tailored pantsuit, dark blue with a broad chalk stripe. She wore a white shirt and a red necktie; her hair was gathered back severely and tied high. When she opened the front door, Blade felt as though he was stepping into a Greta Garbo movie.

She kissed him on both cheeks. At least the perfume was the same. As always, it did things indefinable to him. But the circumstances were different now, he reminded himself. This was business.

“Gosh, you look as if you could use a drink.”

“I could but I don't want one, thanks. Just coffee, if it's not too much bother.”

“No bother at all. Come in.”

She appeared to own or rent the entire ground floor of the Georgian building; through an open door Blade saw a big sitting room before she ushered him into another room on the other side of the hallway.

Its bareness surprised Macken. He'd been expecting a room whose furnishings would be in keeping with the house's age; instead he found himself in something resembling an art gallery. The walls were white and hung with three gigantic canvases done in primary colors: geometric shapes that were by no means restful on the eyes. Yet you found yourself drawn to them again and again. There was no carpet on the floor, just very light, bleached and gleaming pine boards. There were three chairs—at least Blade assumed they were chairs. They were narrow and tall and black, austere in the extreme, not the sort of chair to lounge in with a six-pack and a bag of potato chips. Designer stuff; probably cost a fortune.

Minimalist music (what else, Blade mused, would it be?) seemed to fill the room. He'd trouble tracking down its source. Then he saw the buttonless Bang & Olufsen tower near the glass drinks cabinet and the almost invisible, sandwich-thin speaker boxes.

“Take a seat,” Elaine said, disappearing through a far door. “I've fresh coffee, just brewed. Turkish.”

The black chairs were actually very comfortable. They forced you to sit upright and your spine seemed to relax more the straighter you sat. The arm supports were at precisely the right height and angle. A sudden vision of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh flashed through Blade's head.

The blinds were drawn and the room's illumination came from a massive, semiglobular lamp hung above a low, black table and from a triad of concealed spots in the ceiling.

Elaine de Rossa returned with a small, steaming cup of black coffee. She was having nothing herself.

“So you're a journalist,” Blade said bluntly. “What paper?”

She told him.

“At least it's not the
News of the World.
”

Elaine made a face. “Look, I feel pretty shitty about deceiving you, Blade darling.”