what’s the reason for all this? If you’d wanted to shoot me, you would have,’ he said to Kenny.
‘You’re absolutely right. I’d love to have taken care of that, but I’m under orders. There are those who would like to have words with you. Information’s the name of the game. Our bombmakers would appreciate the chance to squeeze you dry. So let’s get going. You first.’
‘If you say so.’
Roper opened the door and stood for a moment at the top of those dark stairs. He found the rail with his left hand and started down. There was only one thing to do and he’d only get one chance, so halfway down he slipped deliberately in the shadows, cursing and gripping the rail, reaching for the Colt in the ankle holder. In the ensuing scramble, he dropped it in his raincoat pocket.
‘Watch it, for Christ’s sake,’ Kenny ordered.
‘It’s not my fault. The place is a death trap.’ Roper hauled himself up and continued.
Kenny laughed. ‘Did you hear that, Jean?’ he said to his sister behind him. ‘The man’s a bloody comic.’
Roper went out, his right hand in his pocket, and started over the bridge. Halfway across, he paused and turned. ‘There’s just one thing you should know, you Fenian bastard.’
Kenny stood facing him, holding the Beretta against his right thigh. ‘And what would that be, bomb man?’ he asked amicably.
‘You made a mistake. You should have killed me when you had the chance.’
His hand swung up, he shot Kenny between the eyes twice, the hollow-point cartridges fragmenting the back of his skull. Kenny spun round and half fell across the iron rail of the bridge. Jean screamed, Roper leaned down, caught the body by one ankle and heaved it over into the fast-moving canal.
‘There you go,’ Roper said. ‘Are you satisfied now, Jean?’
She started to back away. ‘Ah, sweet Jesus and Mother Mary. What have I done?’
‘You’ll be asking yourself that till your dying day,’ Roper told her.
She seemed to suddenly pull herself together. ‘You’re not going to kill me?’ she whispered.
He didn’t say a word, turned and walked away across the bridge, and behind him she started to sob bitterly, the sound echoing across the waters of the canal that had swept her brother into the River Lagan and out to sea.
He walked all the way back through mean rain-washed streets, the sound of shooting in the distance, walking carefully on pavements scattered with broken glass, passing bombed-out buildings boarded up. All of a sudden, it had all caught up with him, too many long and weary years, too much killing, too much death.
He made it to Byron Street without getting stopped once, which was something of a surprise, and ended up back in the bar. It was empty, the corporal behind the counter fussing around, stacking bottles.
‘Just in time, sir, I’m closing in fifteen minutes. What can I get you?’
‘A large Scotch, that’ll do it.’
He sat in the corner, his raincoat open, thinking of the nice girl who’d sold him out and the man he’d killed, and it didn’t worry him like it should have. The corporal had the radio on, some late-night show, and someone was singing a Cole Porter number, ‘They Can’t Take That Away From Me’, filled with heartbreaking and melancholic nostalgia, and Giles Roper knew that whatever happened, he was through with Belfast beyond any argument. First he had to return the Colt .25 to Sergeant Clark and report the loss of a Browning Hi-Power, but not now, not tonight. He needed sleep. He needed peace, and he said goodnight to the corporal and went to bed.
From his emergency kit he took a pill that knocked him out, slept deeply and came to life again at seven. He lay there for a while, thinking about things, and went and had a hot shower. He had a tea-maker in his room and made a cup and stood in his robe thinking of the events of the previous night, moving to the window and looking out.
The rain was worse than ever, absolutely pouring, and the women coming in for the day shift down below crowded through the entrance, many of them with umbrellas. He started to turn away and paused, to look down there again, for a brief moment convinced that he’d seen Jean Murray, but he was mistaken, had to be. The last place she’d show her face, Byron Street. On the other hand, it would be a long time before he forgot the sight of her standing under the lamp after he’d killed her brother.
He had the day shift starting at nine and was just about to get dressed in camouflage overalls when he had a phone call from the orderly room. ‘Message from Major Sanderson, sir. He wants you to join him as soon as possible at the Grand Hotel. General Marple flew in from London last night. Special ways-and-means conference.’
‘I’ll see to it.’
He groaned. Marple from London, which meant full uniform. He dressed quickly, taking it from the dry cleaning bag, grateful it hadn’t been worn. It looked rather good when he checked himself in the mirror, and the ribbons for Ireland and the Military Cross set things off nicely. He adjusted his cap, nodded to himself, took a military trench coat from the wardrobe and went out.
He had his own vehicle on allocation, a Ford pick-up painted khaki green. It was parked in the officers’ sector in the corner of the old schoolyard. Vehicles there were never locked in case of emergencies, and the gate sentries were deemed security enough. He opened the driver’s seat, tossed his trench coat into the rear, and got behind the wheel.
He reached the gate and slowed as the sentry stepped out, raising the bar. ‘You know Jean Murray, don’t you, Fletcher? I thought I saw her earlier.’
‘You did, Captain, but she wasn’t around for long and left again. In fact, I think that’s her over there in the church doorway.’
Roper was aware of a sudden chill, drove out slowly towards the other side of the road, and saw her standing there, soaked to the skin, hair plastered to her skull. She was like a corpse walking.
The moment she saw him, she started down the steps. He pulled up at the kerb and lowered his window. ‘What are you doing here, Jean?’
‘I wanted to give you a present.’ She produced a black plastic control unit about nine inches long. ‘The Howler, Captain. Kenny did finish it, but this isn’t your present. That’s under the passenger seat and, remember, the Howler has two faces. It can switch on as well as switch off.’
She laughed, and it was like no laugh Giles Roper had ever heard in his life, and as he scrabbled under the seat, pulling out the white plastic shopping bag he found there, the world became an infinity of white blinding light, no pain, not at that moment, simply enormous energy as the explosion took him into the eye of the storm.
So, Jean Murray died, killed instantly, just another bomber, a statistic of those terrible years, and the Howler, the Holy Grail, the ultimate answer to the bomb, died with her. Her final act of mad revenge started Giles Roper on a road that encompassed dozens of operations, a time of incredible pain and suffering, and yet it was also a journey of self-discovery and real achievement, as he became one of the most significant figures in the world of cyberspace.
He never disclosed what took place on that last night in Belfast. To the authorities, Jean Murray had just been another bomber, and over the
