The Angel Tapes Read online

  Yet this old soldier had made the transition well, Blade saw; whoever he was talking with on the phone could not fail to be reassured by the ambassador’s gentle and persuasive manner. Death threats? Not here, not here, he heard him say. No, the whole thing had been blown out of all proportion.

  Ambassador Seaborg gestured toward the three chairs in front of his desk and Macken and Sweetman sat down. There was a paperweight in the shape of an army jeep on the desk—a parting gift to one “Col. E. William Seaborg”; a sawed-off and highly polished 30-mm shell casing held a dozen unused and meticulously sharpened pencils.

  The ambassador smiled warmly in their direction as he finished the conversation and hung up. Then he came from behind the desk and shook hands.

  “Thank you both for coming. Mr. Redfern will be joining us shortly. Coffee? Tea?”

  They declined. Then the ambassador surprised them both: he became another person. Gone was the suaveness of Seaborg’s telephone manner; it was as though a weight had fallen abruptly from his shoulders; he seemed to pull himself up to his full height—and that height was considerable.

  “I won’t bullshit either of you,” he said. “I prefer to leave that to the politicians. We’ve made inquiries about you, Detective Superintendent, and it gives me confidence to know that a man of your background is handling the investigation.”

  Macken raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Our Mr. Redfern’s work. It’s his job to find out these things. You know he’s with the agency, don’t you?”

  “I guessed as much.”

  “Ever been involved with terrorists, Blade?… I may call you Blade?”

  “You may indeed. And yes and no.”

  Seaborg laughed loudly; it took Macken and Sweetman aback.

  “You know, I’ve served in this country for close to five years and I still don’t speak the goddamn language. What does ‘yes and no’ mean?”

  “Well, sir,” Blade said, “I need hardly tell you”—he nodded in the direction of Seaborg’s combat photographs—“that terrorism is a relative term; one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.”

  “True.”

  “So, to answer your question: yes, I’ve come into contact with terrorists: mainly the Hizbollah, Hamas, and the PLO in Lebanon. And no, as far as they themselves were concerned, they weren’t terrorists; to them, the Israelis were the terrorists. But we were the UN, so we didn’t take sides.”

  Seaborg seemed satisfied with this reply. He sat down at his desk and opened a manila folder. Blade saw that it contained sheets of computer printout.

  “‘Sandhurst Royal Military Academy,’” the ambassador read out loud. “‘Third battalion of the Royal Tank Regiment.’ Forgive me for asking, but isn’t that a tad unusual for an Irishman?”

  “The pay was better in the British Army.”

  Seaborg didn’t know if Macken was serious.

  “Well, you certainly had a distinguished career,” he said, flipping through the dossier. “Germany, southern Lebanon, Cyprus. Decorated six times. Then in, let’s see … 1981, it’s all over. You resigned your commission. Why in hell did you do that?”

  “Mind if I smoke?” Blade asked. He didn’t wait for a reply but took a pack of Hamlets from his breast pocket, stripped one of its clear foil wrapping, and lit it.

  Seaborg frowned. He stood up, went to a cabinet and returned with a cut-glass ashtray. It looked as though it had never before seen real service.

  “I put somebody into hospital,” Blade said. “He raped a woman—a girl, a tourist. I thought he deserved what I gave him. The army disagreed.”

  “Could be because the man you hospitalized was your commanding officer,” the ambassador said. He grinned wryly. “I can understand them being a bit pissed about a thing like that. You were damn lucky they didn’t press charges.”

  He went pointedly to the air-conditioning, turned it up a notch, and sat down again.

  “Anyway, Blade,” he continued, shutting the folder, “I don’t give a damn, either way. I’ve just been talking with the White House—tenth time today, incidentally, and it’s still only eleven in the morning over there. They want a full-scale operation. Army, police, every available man. They figure that the more manpower we throw at this, the sooner we get our bomber.”

  Macken glanced at Sweetman; her expression told him that she’d read this the same way. Without having heard the tape recording of Angel’s demands, Seaborg had dropped the plural and was referring to the bomber as a single entity.

  “But that,” Seaborg continued, “is not the way I’d go about it, if I were running things.”

  The door opened and a fair-haired man in his late thirties entered. There’d been no knock. His appearance fitted uncannily well with the voice Blade had heard that morning in Duffy’s office; he knew before introductions were made that the newcomer was Lawrence Redfern.

  Like stags in the rutting season, Macken and he embarked on the ritual of sizing each other up. This, Blade thought, is a man you would not want as an enemy. Redfern looked with disgust at the cigar, then eased himself into the vacant chair with the fluidity of movement of a beast of prey.

  At that moment Blade’s mind played back an image he’d seen earlier, an image he’d not consciously registered: a picture on the wall. It showed a somewhat younger Seaborg standing, against a backdrop of desert, in the company of an army officer wearing the bars of a major. That officer was Lawrence Redfern.

  Redfern placed a boxed audiocassette on the desk.

  “You might as well know,” he told Macken and Sweetman, “that we’re abreast of developments in this affair. We know about this guy Angel; we know what he wants, and”—he paused—“we’re damned if he’s going to get it.”

  “May I ask where you got that tape?” Blade said.

  “You may. Commissioner Duffy had it sent over by courier. I assumed you knew that.”

  Redfern’s tone suggested that Macken was very much a fool if he’d not known.

  “Well, I didn’t.” Blade was irritated. “He didn’t say anything about it to me.”

  “Gentlemen!” Seaborg raised a hand. “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot here. I apologize, Blade; I thought you knew. Mr. Duffy promised us full cooperation, and that included letting us have the same information you’re working on. He ought to have told you, I agree, but it’s not my place to criticize. Now, can we press on?”

  Blade shrugged.

  “As I was about to say before Mr. Redfern joined us,” the ambassador continued, “I believe that the best way of handling this is to maintain as low a profile as possible.” He stood up. “Do nothing—or at least behave as though you’re doing nothing. Lull the enemy into a false sense of security. That’s how battles are won. Make him think you’re powerless. Then he has to bring the fight to you. If he sees that you’re making no move toward him, then he’ll feel obliged to make one toward you.”

  “And he’ll make the wrong move,” Redfern said.

  “Exactly. Blade?”

  Macken leaned across the desk and squashed his cigar out in the ashtray. It continued to smolder slightly and Redfern waved a hand under his nose. Blade smiled to himself, then sat back in his chair. He linked his fingers, started to stroke his chin with both thumbs. He half closed his eyes and began speaking in a soft voice.

  “I was in command of a Saracen unit in Cyprus, patrolling the Green Line, as they call it, between north and south. The animosity between those two peoples—the Greek Cypriots and the Turkish Cypriots—had to be seen to be believed. You saw the North and South Vietnamese in action, Colonel, so you’ll understand.”

  Seaborg nodded. If he thought it unusual to be addressed by his military rank then he gave no sign.

  “One night,” Blade went on, “a group of Turks raided a village in my sector, killed two men, broke into the church, and made off with a number of icons and gold objects—worth a lot of money, but the desecration was worse. So the headman called a meeting and the
men discussed what to do about it. Most of the younger ones wanted to cross over to the north and raid the first Turkish village they came to. Maybe plunder the mosque, too, if they could. An eye for an eye.”

  He paused, then said: “But the headman disagreed; he’d a better idea. ‘Let’s pretend,’ says he, ‘that nothing has happened. Let’s make these jackals believe that they can have their way with our village unchallenged.’

  “But every night he posted armed men in concealed positions at the approaches to the village; they were well hidden. Sure enough, ten days later the same band of Turks returned, suspecting nothing. They were massacred—all of them. We found the corpses the next morning on the road. They were riddled with bullets and so mutilated with knives and machetes that their own mothers wouldn’t have recognized them.”

  Blade stopped and nodded slowly. Plainly, the tale was finished.

  “So what’s the point you’re making, Macken?” Redfern asked.

  “The point is: I agree with the colonel. We keep a low profile. We call off the hounds. We tell this Angel character that we’re having a whip-round for the money.”

  “But in the meantime,” Seaborg said, “we’re laying in wait for him.”

  Blade nodded. “Our police psychologist, Dr. Earley, is putting together a picture of this man. I trust her judgment when she says we’re dealing with a huge ego. The swine wants to see us running around like blue-arsed flies. He’d like nothing better than seeing half the Guards in the country searching high and low for him. But if he thinks we’re doing nothing, he’ll be frustrated. We won’t be playing the game.”

  “I’m with you,” Seaborg said.

  Redfern grunted.

  “Think of him,” Blade said, “as a hermit crab. He’s in there, in his shell, and it’s like a fortress; he’s thoroughly protected. He wants to see the little blue fishes swimming past him, and he can stretch out his pincers and grab one of them every now and then and give it a good shake, just for the sheer divilment of it. But if the fish refuse to play and don’t come looking for him, then he’ll be forced to show more and more of himself. Until he’s out so far that there’s no going back. And then we have the bastard.”

  Five

  “I thought,” Sweetman said, “it went grand, considering. What did you make of Redfern?”

  “Oh, he’s not the worst. A bit tight-arsed, but what did you expect? They probably issue their people with special underpants. Did you notice something funny though? There wasn’t a mention of the CIA. I think Seaborg referred to ‘the agency’ at one stage, but that was the extent of it. Like he was talking about an estate agency. God, they’re secretive so-and-sos.”

  “I thought Seaborg was very up-front.”

  “No, I mean Redfern’s mob. Seaborg’s a good man. The Yanks are lucky to have him here.”

  It was approaching six o’clock. The air was cooler now in the shade of the limes that line the avenue outside the embassy. On the other side of the intersection, commuting Dublin was making its tortuous way back to the southern suburbs. Starlings chattered in the trees.

  Sweetman removed the parking ticket from her windshield and tossed it in among the others in the glove compartment. She opened the door on Blade’s side. Then she saw he had his cellular phone in his hand and was extending the antenna.

  “I want to have a word with Duffy before he leaves,” he told her. “I didn’t like the way he handled that tape business. Fuck him; he might have told me first and not have me making an eejit of myself in front of Redfern.”

  But Duffy was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. Blade harangued the operator at Garda Command and Control, to no avail. Fuming, he broke the connection.

  No sooner had he done so than the phone rang.

  “Yes?” he said gruffly.

  “HELLO, BLADE! TELL ME, DID IT GO ALL RIGHT WITH THE AMERICANS?”

  Macken blanched. Sweetman must have guessed the identity of the caller because her silent lips framed the single word: “Angel?” He nodded.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “AH NOW, BLADE,” the deep, electronic voice mocked, “THAT WOULD BE TELLING YOU, WOULDN’T IT?”

  Macken’s mind raced, covering all the possibilities he could think of.

  His home number: that was in the book. For his mother’s benefit; she was continually mislaying her diary, where she kept the numbers of friends and family. But his cellular phone number: who knew that, apart from the garda switchboard operators? Sweetman, Nolan, a handful of the senior members of the force. No friends or relatives, other than his son Peter, whom Blade had warned against using the number without good reason. It was strictly for business use.

  “I HOPE DETECTIVE SERGEANT SWEETMAN IS GOING TO PAY THAT PARKING FINE.”

  It took Macken several seconds to register the fact that his caller was referring to an action performed by Sweetman just minutes before. Christ, Blade thought, he’s here. He looked around him in panic.

  “I DON’T KNOW HOW YOU FEEL ABOUT IT, BLADE, BUT I THINK IT’S A FUCKING DISGRACE THAT ORDINARY PEOPLE LIKE MYSELF SHOULD HAVE TO PAY OUR PARKING FINES AND THE GUARDS CAN DO AS THEY DAMN WELL PLEASE. I MEAN, WHO’S PAYING YOUR BLOODY SALARIES, ANSWER ME THAT? I’LL TELL YOU WHO: WE ARE, THE POOR TAXPAYERS; THE POOR, UNFORTUNATE NINE-TO-FIVERS. THE WAGE SLAVES. DO YOU THINK THAT’S RIGHT? DO YOU?”

  Keep him talking, Blade thought. Say anything—any old shite.

  “Sweetman pays her taxes, too.”

  His assistant looked at him in bemusement. Blade wished there was some way she could listen in, make notes. He rummaged in a pocket for his notebook and pencil, clamped the phone between jaw and shoulder.

  “WOULD THAT BY ANY CHANCE BE YOUR GROCERY LIST YOU’RE MAKING, BLADE?”

  Jesus, he sees every bleeding thing!

  “Where are you?”

  He scribbled a note and passed it to Sweetman. Her eyes opened wide in astonishment.

  “I’M RIGHT HERE, BLADE. YOU CAN’T SEE ME, BUT I CAN SEE YOU.”

  The flux of cars, buses, and cyclists from three northerly and easterly points still converged on the busy intersection, though the rush-hour traffic was beginning to thin out. White-and blue-collar workers were making their way home. Men with briefcases and women in office dress waited on the traffic island for the lights to change; the daring jaywalked, or took shortcuts across the parched grass and flowers on the island. Most of the available parking spaces were still occupied; the bistro across the way at the junction of Clyde Road and the main thoroughfare was opening its doors to the first of its evening customers.

  Blade looked about wildly; it was futile to think he could spot his caller.

  “I COULD BE ANYWHERE, EH, BLADE? MAYBE IN THAT FLAT ABOVE THE FLORIST’S.…”

  He was forced to look in that direction.

  “OR DO YOU SEE THAT PARKED VAN … THE RED ONE WITH THE BLACKED-OUT BACK WINDOWS? MAYBE I’M IN THERE. WHO’S TO SAY?”

  “Stop playing games, you fucking bastard!”

  “LANGUAGE, LANGUAGE! AND WHO’S PLAYING GAMES? YE’RE THE ONES DOING THE SUCKING UP TO THE AMERICANS, NOT ME. WHAT DID SEABORG SAY? CAN HE LAY HIS HANDS ON THE TWENTY-FIVE MILLION? IF NOT, THEN HE CAN ALWAYS ASK THE RUSSIANS.”

  “The Russians?”

  “AH, YES. DID YOU KNOW THAT MOST OF THE DOLLAR BILLS IN CIRCULATION OUTSIDE OF AMERICA ARE IN RUSSIA? IT’S TRUE. THEY’VE BEEN HOARDING THEM FOR YEARS. SO IF YOU WANT TO BUY ANYTHING DECENT IN RUSSIA THEN YOU HAVE TO PAY IN DOLLARS. MAKES YOU THINK, DOESN’T IT?”

  Blade was silent. His sharp hearing had picked up something: a car horn had sounded behind Angel’s words. It was no ordinary horn, but one that played six or seven notes: a snatch of the theme from the old war movie, The Bridge on the River Kwai—a tune called “Colonel Bogey.” Like Angel’s voice, the notes were greatly distorted, yet Blade had heard the same klaxon “in reality,” undistorted. He heard it again now, close by, as a bright-red Mazda sports car turned onto Elgin Road. He checked the directi
on from which the vehicle had come, searching for some clue. But the intersection was thronged with people; it was a Friday evening in high summer; not everybody was in a hurry to go home just yet.

  Sweetman was out of the car, too, scanning the buildings on all sides for anything that might give the bomber away: a face at a window, the reflection of sunlight on binoculars, anything.

  “GIVE UP, MACKEN! ADMIT YOU’RE BEATEN. I COULD BE ANYBODY; I COULD BE ANYWHERE. D’YOU SEE THAT LAD AT THE RAILINGS OF ROLY’S BISTRO: THE ONE SELLING T-SHIRTS? WITH THE WALKMAN? HE’S SINGING ALONG TO THE MUSIC. OR IS HE? IS THAT REALLY A WALKMAN, OR IS IT A RADIO TRANSMITTER? YOU DON’T KNOW, DO YOU? FOR ALL YOU KNOW IT COULD BE ME.”

  Blade looked.

  “OR THAT TAXI WAITING AT THE CORNER. HOW MANY AERIALS ARE THERE ON THE ROOF? TWO? THREE? THAT COULD BE ME AS WELL.”

  There was a pause.

  “I’M TELLING YOU, BLADE, I MIGHT BE ANYBODY. I’M COMPLETELY INVISIBLE. LOOK: MAYBE I’M THAT LITTLE OLD GRANNY GOO-GOOING TO HER GRANDCHILD IN THE PRAM. YOU NEVER KNOW, BLADE.”

  The jackhammer laugh sounded again.

  It was too much for Blade. He knew that he shouldn’t have, that it was perhaps the most stupid thing he could have done in the circumstances, that perhaps in doing so he was putting more lives in danger. But he couldn’t help it; he’d suppressed the symptoms of his hangover long enough to get through the working day. And what a working day it had been!

  Blade lost it. He let go his self-control.

  “Fuck you,” he said, and broke the connection.

  Six

  Peter Macken loathed Jim Roche. You can hate or despise or have contempt for a man, a woman—or even a child. But loathing is a word that you reserve for creepy, crawling things. When a man is loathed, then he must have done something pretty rotten to deserve it.

  Yet most people who knew Jim Roche thought him the most genial of men. Blade Macken and he had been practically friends at one time, drinking buddies. They weren’t quite enemies now, but Roche’s relationship with Blade’s wife, Joan, had soured matters. Blade resented Roche. He found it hard to continue liking the man who was sleeping with his wife, even though Blade and Joan had been estranged for close to nine years.