The Angel Tapes Page 2

  A camera crew from RTÉ television was filming from a helicopter that made crisscross passes above the rooftops. Newspaper reporters jostled for position behind the tape, battling for the attention of every patrolman who came within shouting distance. The air crackled with two-way radio broadcasts; garda squad cars with flashing lights came and went in quick succession, as if following choreographed instructions.

  Yet it wasn’t the police vehicles that drew Blade’s attention, but five small trucks belonging to Bord Gáis, the gas utility company. They formed a semicircle around the bomb site, effectively blocking the onlookers’ view of the activity. An inner cordon of red-and-white plastic traffic cones marked the lip of the crater; they were stenciled with the curious words DUB GAS. A dozen men in hard hats and Bord Gáis overalls were assessing the destruction; some communicated by walkie-talkie; others made notes on clipboards. To the bystander, all this might have appeared perfectly normal: the explosion had, for all intents and purposes, been caused by a leaking gas main. But Blade had recognized two of the men in hard hats. He’d last seen them near Tyre in Lebanon, wearing the blue beret of the United Nations. They were soldiers.

  “Macken,” a voice behind him called out, “where the Jayziz have you been? We’ve only been trying to reach you for over an hour, y’know.”

  Blade rounded on the man with whom he shared both the running of the department and an intense, mutual dislike.

  “Asleep. What’s it to you, Nolan, where I’ve been? And who’s this ‘we’ when they’re at home?”

  Detective Superintendent Charles Nolan was unfazed.

  “Duffy, the DC, everybody. Jayziz, Macken, you look like shit, y’know. What’s the—”

  But Blade and Orla Sweetman were already moving away toward a knot of men in business suits and a gray-haired police officer with braid on his uniform. Assistant Commissioner Duffy acknowledged them with a nod.

  “Glad you could make it, Macken,” he said without a trace of sarcasm. “Look, I’m putting you in charge of this investigation. By rights we should have Nolan on it, too, but it’s—”

  “Now hold on a minute, sir!” Nolan was not a happy man. “This is very high-handed altogether. I mean, who was doing all the donkey work this morning while Macken here was catching up on his bleeding beauty sleep? And it’s me day off as well, y’know.”

  “I know, Charlie,” Duffy said. “And I appreciate it, believe me. But you have your hands full with that Delahunt business. If you must know, I’ve had her bloody husband breathing down my neck again. He’s out to make trouble, Charlie, and he can do it, too. To the both of us.”

  Nolan, sullen, looked up quickly.

  “Leave this to Blade, Charlie. I’m relying on you to sort out what exactly went wrong in Delahunt’s house. God, you’d think it was our fault, the way he carried on about his bloody alarms. Get your friend Roche in, if you want; but let’s have some results soon or there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Nolan nodded, cowed; he mumbled something and left.

  Duffy looked relieved and turned to Macken. “I believe you know Captain Fitzpatrick.”

  A tall man wearing gas-utility overalls extended a hand.

  “How are you, Blade?”

  “Never better, Tom,” Macken lied. “I thought you were still in the Middle East.”

  “They pulled us out. Not before time either. I got transferred to the Engineering Corps in May.”

  Blade gestured toward the hard hats. “Are those your lads?”

  “They are. But you’d never think it now, would you?”

  “Tell them not to work too hard, or they’ll blow their cover.”

  Captain Fitzpatrick smiled briefly, then was serious once more. He turned to the uniformed Guard.

  “Perhaps the commissioner can explain the situation better than me.”

  “We actually know very little at this stage, Blade,” Duffy said. “As you can see, we’re attempting to keep the lid on things for the time being. I had the press office put out a statement a little while ago, blaming it on a gas leak.”

  “So I heard. But will the press fall for that one, sir?”

  “I hope so, I hope so. But I don’t see why they shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened. I’ve known half a block of flats to be wrecked by some absentminded housewife with a lighted match. Gas is volatile stuff.”

  “I hope you’re right, sir. Has anybody claimed responsibility for the bomb?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Who do we think it is? The UVF? The UFF?”

  The assistant commissioner shook his head grimly.

  “It could be loyalist paramilitaries—and we’re not ruling that out. It’s just that this isn’t the way they usually work.” He pushed his peaked cap a fraction higher. “To be honest, it’s not the way anybody usually works; that’s the devilish part of it.”

  “I don’t follow you, sir,” Blade said.

  “No. How could you? The fact of the matter is, Macken, it wasn’t a car bomb.”

  Blade looked blank.

  “Somebody,” Duffy said, “planted a bomb under the surface of the street.”

  “How in Christ’s name did they manage that?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, Blade,” Fitzpatrick said. “But there’s no doubt that it was a subterranean explosion. I’m telling you, if it’d been a surface blast, then half of these buildings would have been demolished. We’re talking about a very big bomb here. I’d say it was about six or seven pounds of Semtex. Have a look at this.”

  He led the way to the pit in the road and Blade peered over the rim. The bomb had gouged out a hole at least fifteen feet deep. There was pulverized stone, shattered ancient bricks, lengths of fused metal, bent and twisted utility pipes. He took Fitzpatrick’s point; had the bomb exploded above ground, the destruction would have been enormous. Seven pounds of Semtex could have taken out an entire city block.

  Macken rubbed his chin. “Okay,” he said, “let’s say you’re right and that somebody managed to plant a bomb down there. When could they have done that? They’d have had to break the street open.” He looked about him at the broad thoroughfare: the traffic, the hundreds of Dubliners on foot, whose numbers, at this time of year, are swelled by a million tourists. “We’re talking about the main street of Dublin!”

  “If it wasn’t broken open already,” Sweetman said.

  Duffy threw her a sharp look. “That’s exactly the theory we’re working on, Miss … er…?”

  “Sweetman, sir. Detective Sergeant Sweetman of the Special Detective Unit.”

  “Sweetman … Sweetman. Weren’t you in Mapping at one stage?”

  “I got promoted, sir. I’m assisting Superintendent Macken now, sir.”

  “I see. Well done, well done.” He turned to Blade. “We thought at first they might’ve planted it in a culvert—like they did in 1971—but there wasn’t any culvert there to begin with. We checked.”

  “So you’re saying the bomb was planted when roadworks were being carried out?” Blade asked.

  Fitzpatrick nodded.

  “Now you know as well as I do that you can’t dig a hole in O’Connell Street any old time you feel like it; there are all sorts of procedures to go through. You have to get permission from Dublin Corporation for a start. So we reckon the bombers may have slipped the device under the street the last time somebody carried out repairs.”

  “And when would that have been?”

  “You won’t believe this, Blade.” Captain Fitzpatrick looked sheepish.

  “Well?”

  The soldier licked his lips. “Your people have checked and double-checked. They’ve spoken to everybody: the electricity board, the gas company, the phone company, Road Maintenance—everybody.”

  “And…?”

  “Telecom Éireann were the last to go near it, Blade. Five years ago, almost to the day.”

  Two

  “If it’s not the perfect crime,” Blade
declared, “then it comes pretty close. If it’d been a car bomb, we might have some chance of tracing who planted it. You know as well as I do that it’s pretty hard to cover your tracks these days when you’re handling high explosives.”

  He paused and sipped water from a tumbler; the thirst was getting to him.

  “But this thing,” he continued, “was planned so far in advance that the trail must be ice-cold by now. The bomber, or bombers—and I prefer to think of it as the work of a group; I can’t see how one man could have carried it off—the bombers don’t know who the victim is going to be. I mean, five years ago they could’ve had no idea. They plant a massive device under a section of roadway that’ll be used by a visiting statesman eleven days from now—”

  “Just a minute, Detective Superintendent,” Duffy said. “Aren’t we jumping to conclusions here? There’s no evidence so far that the two are connected.”

  Blade leaned against the wall of the conference hall on the fourth floor of Block One at Harcourt Square, and shoved his fists deep in his trouser pockets. He hated when Duffy did this. Blade was fond of the assistant commissioner—he wouldn’t be heading up the Special Detective Unit if it hadn’t been for Duffy—but the man could not delegate responsibility. He put you in charge of an investigation, yet shoved his oar in at every turn; he couldn’t let go. This was the fourth time he’d interrupted in as many minutes.

  Blade sighed and looked around the big room. They’d called in every available Special Branch officer. Top priority; there were at least one hundred twenty people present.

  “No sir, there’s no evidence whatsoever,” Macken said wearily but patiently. “But I think we should assume that they are connected.”

  “Hmm. If that’s the case, then we’ll have to tell the Americans what we know.”

  Blade smiled thinly. “If they don’t already know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With all due respect, sir,”—he saw Sweetman look up and grin—“that business about the gas main might fool the ordinary joe in the street, but I can’t see the White House falling for it. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that they know as much—if not more—about it than we do. Christ, the CIA are probably using one of their spy satellites right now to eavesdrop on this very conference.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m serious, sir. I bet you anything the CIA will have every operative in the country swarming over O’Connell Street by now.”

  “The CIA? In Ireland?”

  “Jesus, sir, you make us sound like the arsehole of nowhere. I’m bloody sure the CIA are here—ever since they found out about the Libyans and the IRA. Colonel Gadhafi and his crowd are still public enemy number one as far as the CIA are concerned, so I’d imagine any friends of theirs are very closely monitored. Besides, they’ll be arriving in droves in time for the fourteenth.”

  Just then a telephone rang. It was answered by a young officer in uniform. She signaled for Duffy’s attention.

  “Sir, there’s a Lawrence Redfern calling from the American embassy. He refuses to speak to anybody except the assistant commissioner.”

  Macken looked at Duffy, spread his palms wide, and shrugged in a gesture that spoke more loudly than words.

  “Have it transferred to my office,” Duffy told the young woman. “Macken, you come with me. I suppose you’d better come, too, Sweetman.”

  And Blade adjourned the conference.

  * * *

  Duffy had put the phone in hands-free mode for the benefit of the others. The voice that came from the speaker was distorted and uneven and Macken guessed that the caller was using a similar facility.

  “Good afternoon, Commissioner. My name is Redfern.” The American sounded confident and assured, a man used to both giving and taking orders.

  “Yes, Mr. Redfern. What can I do for you?”

  “I have the ambassador here with me, sir. He expresses his deepest concern regarding this morning’s attack.”

  “And which attack might that be, Mr. Redfern?”

  “The bomb, sir.”

  Duffy looked sharply at Blade.

  “Bomb, Mr. Redfern?”

  “Please, Commissioner, let’s not beat around the bush here. The ambassador has already alerted the president and I can assure you that the White House is taking the matter extremely seriously.”

  “I see. Kindly put the ambassador on, Mr. Redfern.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The American’s voice was replaced by an older one: slow, with measured, New England vowels.

  “Commissioner, may I apologize first for Mr. Redfern’s overzealousness. The only justification is that we are all very much on edge here, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. The president is worried; I am worried.”

  “I understand, Your Excellency.”

  “Call me Seaborg. I’ve already spoken with the minister for foreign affairs. He recommended that I contact you directly. Now, was it the IRA?”

  “I very much doubt it, Mr. Seaborg. It was more likely a loyalist attack.”

  “And I understand that nobody has claimed responsibility so far?”

  Blade used a vibrating index finger to execute a wide parabola above his head, while cupping the other hand behind his ear. The mime was of a spy satellite. Duffy glared.

  “Not as yet,” he told the ambassador. “I take it your people will be canceling the state visit?”

  “We’re working on it, Mr. Duffy. I’m unable to give you a yes or no answer at this time. On the one hand, Washington considers it imperative that the visit goes ahead. The president cannot be seen to be swayed by terrorist intimidation at this time.”

  “Of course not, no,” Duffy said. He’d followed closely the events that had taken place in the Middle East in recent weeks and was well aware of the tough stance that the U.S. president had adopted toward the warring factions. This was no time for showing the white flag to terrorists—not in Dublin, not at the very start of his six-nations tour.

  “On the other hand,” the ambassador added, “it would be foolhardy to expose the president to clear and present danger.”

  “Quite so, Mr. Seaborg.”

  “I’m glad we understand each other, sir. Now, I’d like to propose the following. Because time is of the essence, I feel that we should be working together as closely as possible on this. There must be no more bombs, Mr. Duffy! Whoever is behind this has got to be stopped. That’s why I want to place Mr. Redfern and his associates at your disposal. It’s our belief that a team effort here will greatly enhance our chances of apprehending these people before they can strike again.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Seaborg. In fact, I have my chief investigator, Detective Superintendent Macken, here at this very moment, and he shares my opinion.”

  Blade opened his mouth to speak, but Duffy stilled him with an impatient gesture.

  “Good, good,” the ambassador said. “Might I suggest a meeting sometime today between your team and ours? Four o’clock, perhaps, here at the embassy?”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  “Wonderful. Thank you, Commissioner.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Seaborg.” He hung up.

  Duffy prided himself on his good manners; he never smoked in company without first deferring to any nonsmokers present. But now he was seething. Ignoring Sweetman, he lit a cigarette and flung the lighter on his desk.

  “Bloody Americans,” he said darkly. “I might have known they’d want to interfere. But don’t you take any shagging nonsense from them, Blade, you hear me? They’ve no business at all sticking their noses in. I won’t have it! If there’s the slightest interference, you’re to refer them back to me. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s foreign affairs,” Duffy went on. “They’re as thick as thieves with the embassy crowd. That’s where our taxes go, Blade: on fucking champagne parties and junkets for that lot of wasters. Sorry about the language, Sweetman.”

  He drew
sharply on his cigarette and blew the smoke at the ceiling.

  “They have me over a fucking barrel, Blade,” he fumed, the words of apology blithely forgotten. “I have it from all sides.” He stabbed a finger. “Don’t you ever think of going for this job, you hear me? You don’t know what you’d be letting yourself in for. I’m telling you, it’d put bloody years on you.”

  The phone rang again. Duffy stabbed the hands-free button. It was one of the garda telephone operators.

  “Sir, I have somebody on line six who claims he’s the bomber.”

  Duffy sighed. “That’s number twenty-seven so far, Mary. Put him through to someone at SDU and stop wasting my time, there’s a good girl.”

  Macken saw Sweetman cringe.

  “Emm, I think you ought to take this one, sir,” the operator said.

  “What!”

  “Emm, it’s a bit hard to explain, sir. It’s kind of … kind of like—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, girl! Put it through to me, then.”

  There was a loud click. Blade felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as an unearthly voice issued from the phone. It was a deep, bass rumble—so deep that the small speaker vibrated with every syllable. The voice was almost devoid of inflection. It sounded, Blade decided, not unlike those early computer-generated voices—or even that of Darth Vader. Blade was convinced that it was a recording. But when the assistant commissioner asked his first question, the caller identified himself without hesitation.