got up, crossed the office to the sideboard and the decanter that stood there. He poured out two whiskies into Waterford-crystal tumblers and offered one to Blair.
‘Bushmills – the Irish. Bloody good stuff.’
They drank. Whelan looked out of his office window, past the ranks of Landrovers and Saxon armoured personnel carriers, over to where the perimeter wall rose high with netting and razor-wire; it was supposed to intercept RPG 7 missiles or Mark 12 mortars, the Provos’ current flavour of the month.
‘We are skating on thin ice here, Martin,’ Whelan said.
‘Yes, sir, I know. But my men are dying.’
‘Yes. But MI5, they’re tighter with their operatives than E4 is with its information. They may not want to let us play with this man.’
‘Cordwain thinks it may be possible to bypass MI5, sir.’
Whelan spun round. ‘Does he now? And how would we do that?’
‘This man, he has a personal reason for wanting to see the Border Fox brought in. One of my young subalterns was a relative of his.’
‘Ah yes, I remember. That was tragic, Martin, tragic. So it’s revenge this man wants. That may not make him totally reliable.’
‘Cordwain seems to think he is, sir, and Boyd, his 2IC, is willing to provide back-up.’
Whelan set down his glass and leaned over the desk until his face was close to Blair’s.
‘You seem to have thought this out with unusual thoroughness, Colonel.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I am not used to being given fully-fledged covert operational plans by my battalion commanders. Is that clear, Colonel?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
Whelan straightened.
‘It may be we will be able to keep this under an army hat. I would certainly prefer it that way – and you say that Special Branch can give us nothing. But we must be even more discreet than usual – and I am not talking about the Paddies, Colonel. I will speak to Cordwain. I will give him the necessary authorization…’ As Blair brightened, Whelan frowned thunderously and cut him off.
‘But mark me, Martin, this conversation never took place. This man of Cordwain’s will be disowned by every security agency in the Province if he so much as sniffs of controversy. And Cordwain’s back-up will be on their own also. If the press – or God help us the Minister – ever find out about this we’ll be crucified.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Be sure that you do, Martin.’ The General tossed off the last of his Bushmills with practised ease. Now you’ll have to go, I’m afraid. I have a bloody cocktail party to go to. I have to rub noses with the Unionists and win some hearts and minds.’
Belfast
The Crown Bar, opposite the much-bombed Europa Hotel, was quiet. It was two o’clock on a weekday afternoon and there seemed to be only a handful of men in there, seated in the walled-off snugs and nursing Guinness or whiskey, leafing through the Belfast Telegraph.
One of those men was Captain John Early of the SAS. He was a squat, powerful figure of medium height who appeared shorter because of the breadth of his shoulders. He could have – and frequently did – pass for a brickie on his lunch hour or whiling away the days of unemployment. His hands were blunt and calloused, the arms powerfully muscled. His face was square, the close-cropped hair sprinkled with premature grey at the temples and a badly broken nose making him look slightly thuggish. But the blue eyes were intelligent, belying the brutality of the face. Despite the haircut, he did not look like a soldier, certainly not a holder of the Queen’s Commission. And when he quietly asked the barman for another pint his accent bore the stamp of north-east Ulster.
There was no trace left of the clean-cut young officer who had joined the Queen’s Regiment back in 1977, or even of the breezy subaltern who had agonized through SAS selection eight years previously. Turnover of officers among the SAS was much swifter than that of troopers; they rarely served more than five or six years with a Sabre Squadron. Early had come over with Ulster Troop in 1984 and gone undercover two years later. He was an ‘independent’, operating now under the aegis of MI5, but he never forgot where he had come from. If he died here, his name would be inscribed on the Clock Tower in Hereford, where all the dead of the SAS left their names.
Early sipped his whiskey patiently. He was waiting for a friend.
James Cordwain came through the door. Early recognized him instantly, though he hadn’t seen him in years. The hair was longer of course – all the SAS seemed to believe that long hair was obligatory when serving in Northern Ireland. But he still had the aristocratic bearing, the finely chiselled jaw and flashing eyes. He looked every inch an officer. Early sighed, ordered another drink and took it into a snug.
It was ten minutes before Cordwain joined him, smiling.
‘You’re not an easy man to get hold of, John.’
‘The name is Dominic, Dominic McAteer,’ Early told him sharply. Cordwain winced.
‘Why did we have to meet anyway? A phone call could have done it.’
Cordwain shook his head, regaining his self-assurance quickly. ‘I had to talk to you in person.’
‘Talk then.’
Cordwain looked at him, slightly offended. They had been good friends once, in the Falklands. Early seemed aged, irritable beyond his years. It was undercover work that did it, Cordwain decided.
‘I have a Q car down the street. We can talk in there,’ he said. A Q car was the army’s name for an unmarked vehicle.
‘Are you mad? Every dicker in the city knows a Q car when he sees one. We’re safe enough here. I know the barman. He thinks I’m just another unemployed navvy and you’re in here about a job.’
‘Which, in a way, I am.’
‘So tell me about it.’
Cordwain tried hard not to look smug. ‘It’s on.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as you can relocate. We have an opening down in Cross. Construction.’
‘Not on a fucking army base, I trust.’
Cordwain grinned. ‘Not likely. No, a local firm, Lavery’s, has been given a contract – new bungalows.’
Early’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s a front, is it?’
‘Yes and no. The contract is real enough, but our people are the ones behind it, buried three layers deep. Get yourself settled in, and then we’ll start working on a channel of communication.’
