Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Apologies for the late update, but Christmas and New Year involved a lot of travel and whatnot, Thanks again!
Chapter Twelve: Dublin
Delegates arrived in a rapid succession of glittering black motorcades. The great and the good stepping of their vehicles to be greeted by a bank of journalists, news crews and flashing cameras that had congregated at the gates of the Castle. Ruth watched over them from the safety of a third floor window that overlooked the front lawns. Representatives from Sinn Fein, the DUP, the SDLP, the Alliance Party and the British Government all following the other as they made their way into the talks. All the main party leaders, their elected MPs and a flock of Stormont MLAs rapidly populated the grandiose halls and galleries of the Castle as soon as they made it passed the sound-bite ravenous press. All the while, Ruth still had no idea whether the First Minister was even dead or alive after that morning's bomb scare; Harry was still at Stormont dealing with his mysterious asset and no one had been able to reach Nathan's mobile, meaning he too could be dead for all they knew. Inwardly, she swore a lot. Outwardly, she put up more front than Blackpool promenade and swept down the stairwell to greet the Home Secretary.
Although that morning's early dip in the lake was still fresh in Ruth's mind, all other crises had driven it from her consciousness. She could see William Towers; could look him in the eye long enough to catch his attention and flash what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Before she could reach Towers, however, she was circumvented by the harassed looking Deputy First Minister; a haggard looking Sinn Fein MP who had spent most of his youth on the run from the Government he now served; only to them make a pompous show of refusing to take his seat in Westminster while, in the background, still making use of its offices and funding. To his credit, his intrusion into her orbit made him somewhat self-conscious as he straightened his tie and flushed deeply.
"I apologise for the interruption, but I want you to know that I have been fully informed of what's happening. Have you been able to reach Kyle? What am I to tell the PM if Kyle doesn't arrive?"
He spoke so quietly that Ruth had to lean to one side to pick up what he was saying. She looked at him quizzically, trying to see if there was a glimmer of murderous hope in his watery grey eyes, now lined and sagging with age and stress. Strangely, there was nothing but a hang-dog look of utter defeat. He looked like a man who had sold out his principles after being crushed by the weight of the inevitable. Ruth had to remind herself of one small grain of truth: the simple fact that this man and McCracken were even willing to work together was, in itself, a minor miracle. If they could do it, so could she.
"We're currently in the process of trying to make contact," she replied, still looking over at Towers. "There is no cause for alarm at this present time, Deputy First Minister, and you will be informed as soon as we hear anything. Until that time, we carry on as normal."
While she had been talking, Towers had made his way over to them. He shook hands with the Deputy First Minister – an act that not so long ago had commanded the attention of the worlds media – before discreetly drawing Ruth to one side.
"Never mind him, where the bloody hell has Harry got to?" asked Towers, as soon as they were free of ex-IRA men.
"He's at Stormont speaking to the PSNI and an asset," she explained, closing them into a closet. "One of our agents is missing in action and another..."
She trailed off, thinking of exactly how to explain the situation with the First Minister.
"We got a bomb warning early this morning," she continued on a different track. "A hit on the First Minister. We're still waiting for news."
Her mobile phone was tucked down the front of her dress while she marshalled the arriving delegates into the main conference room. She couldn't afford to be out of contact for a minute, regardless of what else was happening. Meanwhile, Towers' expression had transformed into one of stony resignation.
"Oh God, nothing is ever simple with you people, is it?" he sighed heavily.
Deciding that the question was probably rhetorical, Ruth decided it was best not to answer it. Instead, she painted on her best smile and reeled off the briefing she had agreed upon with Ros.
"Honestly, it's under control Home Secretary. We've sent a rescue team to the last known location of the Home Secretary already, but chances are they have already moved on. I'm sure we'll hear soon. In the meantime, Harry is tracking down the organisation that did this. In the meantime, we carry on as normal."
"Good God, if the First Minister is dead there will be hell to pay!" Towers blustered, chest puffed out indignantly.
It was in moments like these that Ruth always remembered just how insignificant the lives of their agents were. She doubted whether Towers even knew about Nathan or the man driving the car, less still whether he really cared. They were out of sight and out of mind, expected to risk their lives so this rabble could carry on threatening each others in safety and security. Her smile faded, just as her phone rang.
"Excuse me," she said, turning her back on the Home Secretary to subtly extract the device from her bra. One of the perils of forgetting one's handbag. Frowning at the unrecognised number, she jabbed the answer button. "Hello?"
"Hello Ruth? It's Nathan. We're in Dublin with the Toaiseach!"
Suddenly, it was as though the sun had broken through the stormy clouds and everything was once more right with the world. With a deep sigh of relief, she turned back to Towers to relay the good news. While Towers steadied himself against the wall, Ruth checked her watch. It was only eleven thirty AM – they weren't even that late.
"How did you manage that?" she asked, impressed.
The pause at the opposite end of the line suggested that the solution to their bombed out car had been unconventional.
"Don't worry about that now," she hurriedly added. "Just get the First Minister through his public engagements and get them all back here as quick as you can."
Nathan didn't even have to worry about that. Once the First Minister had been dropped off on the corner of Kildare Street, close to the Irish Parliament buildings, he had taken their stolen Ford Escort (complete with body in the boot) straight to the Taoiseach's personal Garda team for due process. Meanwhile, a more fitting mode of transport had been hastily summoned to convey the First Minister through the gates of Parliament building itself for the benefit of waiting journalists.
From a distance, Nathan watched as the soundly Protestant Loyalist First Minister shook hands with the soundly Catholic Irish Taoiseach with a profound sense of relief. The two men then vanished into the Taoiseach's private residence for an even more private meeting, leaving Nathan free to roam the streets of Dublin in search of a clean phone to contact Ruth. The call ended as he leaned against the barrier of O'Connell Bridge, close to the equally famous O'Connell Street. Beneath his feet, the river Liffey flowed through the city, towards the mouth of the Irish Sea, passing the Guinness Factory as it went. He was almost disappointed that the river's waters were not black, as so often claimed.
With over an hour to kill before the return journey to Belfast, Nathan found himself curious about the bustling capital city he now found himself in. It looked beautiful in the winter sun. Even what little he had seen on his way in had been packed with cultural reference points that resonated deep in his psyche. They had passed Trinity College and the splendid town house once occupied by James Joyce; while Oscar Wilde's drab, red brick former residence proved surprisingly dull. Not far from where he walked, the GPO building once seized by the IRA during the war of independence was located, still pock-marked by ancient British bullets. Sculptures, water features and art installations dotted the main streets and swarms of tourists crowded every corner café. There was a vibrancy and buzz about Dublin that even London sorely lacked.
Ollie would love it, he thought to himself.
A thought that brought him to a sudden standstill in the middle of the street. Suddenly confronted by both an idea and a window of free time in which to enact it, he ducked down a near side street, away from the noise of the city to make another phone call. While the phone he was connecting to rang, he checked his watch and hoped that the office's inhabitants had not decided on an early lunch.
"Missing Persons department. How can I help?"
Nathan breathed a sigh of relief. "Natasha, is that you? It's Nathan Jones here."
The girl on the other end gasped. "Nathan! Claire's been ringing and ringing you. Where the hell are you?"
"Not with Ollie, if that's what you're thinking," he replied.
"Well where is he? We're going nuts here and this really isn't like him; he's not been in all week and not so much as a phone call-"
"I don't know where he is and I'm stuck in Dublin for a business meeting," he cut over her. "So I need Claire's help, can you put me through?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line, silence broken only by the crackle of the bad line before Natasha on reception agreed. A muffled click later and the line rang again. Seconds later another, older woman answered. He could visualise Claire McGarry sat in her shabby office, complete with over-stuffed, circa 1970 filing cabinet whose drawers physically could not close. Battered computer, coated in multi-coloured post-its, like a scaled beast, bearing messages from anything between ten minutes to five years ago.
Following her barked command for an immediate explanation, Nathan hurriedly disgorged all he knew about second in command's unexplained absence. What little that was.
"Shit Nathan!" Claire eventually replied. "This is not the kind of irony I appreciate. What on earth have you gotten mixed up in now?"
"Nothing! I promise!" he could feel the disbelief from across the Irish Sea. "But look, I just remembered something, wasn't he looking into the whereabouts of some kid from Northern Ireland?"
"It rings a bell," she said.
In the background, he could hear her tapping at her keyboard. While he waited, he started panicking about whether there was enough credit on the phone for this international call that stretched out interminable as Claire seemed to check every record on their database.
"No," she finally said, dejectedly. "Sorry, Nate, nothing and no one from Northern Ireland. But Ollie was looking at someone who vanished in Northern Ireland. Englishman. Seventeen. Last seen in North Belfast, Crumlin Road army barracks in January 1976. But that was three months ago now. It's a cold case. Very cold."
Nathan's hopes faded quicker than the thirty euro credit on the phone.
"It's probably nothing. But what was his name?"
"Andrew Gillen. Seventeen years old and a new recruit in the British Army. Last seen in Belfast's Crumlin Road army barracks on January 6th, 1976. He was reported missing three days later by Military Intelligence Officer, Paul Kendall."
"Paul Kendall? Are you sure?"
Suddenly breathless, Nathan pushed himself away from the wall he was leaning against as though about to pounce on the scrawny cat that crossed his path.
"That's what it says here," she replied. "The only oddity is that Kendall himself was reported missing not long after."
"Yes. Yes, I know. Thanks for your help Claire; see you soon."
Before he could end the call, she cut in again. "Nathan, keep us informed won't you? We're all really worried about Ollie at the moment and I get the sneaking feeling there's more to this than you're letting on."
Nathan drew a deep, steadying breath. "I don't know, Claire and that's the truth of it."
"Tasha said you're in Dublin just now?"
"Yeah, I'll be in Ireland for the whole week."
"Well, stay in touch. I need to know what's happening. Call round the house when you get back, okay? I'll feed you."
Nathan raised a pained smile. "Thanks, Claire. Will do. Take this number and call me back, if you dig anything up yourself."
The call ended, leaving Nathan once more alone in the side street and struggling to contain a frantic need to get back to Belfast as soon as possible. An urge frustrated further by the fact that, by the time he found his way back to Kildare Street, the First Minister was still having his photograph taken besides the graves of dead IRA men.
Harry slipped back into Hillsborough through he back door, by passing the sculleries and kitchens and completely avoiding the swarms of politicians. On the back stairs, he could hear the buzz of their voices emanating from the conference room on the ground floor. But only the team, listening in above, would be able to pick out what they were actually saying, or gage how much progress was really being made. He would be briefed on it later.
Meanwhile, he emerged on to the third floor landing. Through double doors, he opened on to a long and narrow corridor lined with a blue carpet, worn at the edges with age. Lined with closed and locked doors the length of both sides, he ignored them all and headed towards the far end. There was no noise at all here, except for Tariq who was undercover pretending to be a room attendant; the master key hanging from a metal loop on his belt. He was fixing bugs in the rooms soon to be occupied by Loyalist and Unionist politicians. If they wanted to pick up chatter about their affiliated paramilitaries, this would be the best way to do it. Besides, they had the Republicans covered the day before and the loyalists had been getting away with it for far too long.
"Are they done?" asked Harry, nodding to the room Tariq emerged from.
"Just about. How long have I got left?"
"They could be up any minute, so get a move on. Where are Ros and Lucas?"
Ideally, they would have been out there helping him. But Beth's abduction had thrown them all into disarray and they still had the talks to deal with. Tariq gestured to a room further down the corridor.
"Through those doors, there's a cleaner's store room to the left, opposite room 52. They're in there."
Harry left the techie to get on with his job. Disconcerted that a guest room was so close to where they were setting up surveillance equipment unnerved him. So first, he checked that room. The door opened to a squat and cramped room with two single beds, bolted to the floorboards. The mattresses had been dragged on to the floor and pushed up against each other. It was more like a prison cell than a hotel room.
"Not exactly Claridges, is it?"
"Ros!"
She emerged from the equally cramped store room opposite the guest room. Nose wrinkled, she sidestepped him to enter and ducked down to drag a laptop case out from under the bare bed frame.
"Good God, are they making you sleep in here?" he asked, taking a second look round.
He would rather it was her and Lucas than anyone else.
"You know me, Harry, never one to complain," she replied, breezily. "Anyway, Nathan's on his way back with the First Minister and he says he needs to see you. Urgently."
After what happened with Beth, Harry had been inwardly bracing himself for more bad news. So the fact that Nathan was coming back at all was siezed upon immediately as a sign that something, somewhere, was finally going right. Retrieving the files from inside his jacket, he dropped them on top of the laptop case that Ros had just dragged out from under the bed. She looked from them to him and back again.
"The leadership of the UDA," he said, allowing a faint smile to play across his face. "Sean Mallon has no idea who they are, but that doesn't come as a big surprise. But we at least have a name. Andrew Gillan."
Still kneeling by the bed frame, Ros cautiously lifted the file and flipped open the cover. Her expression shadowed by a frown, she glanced up at him again.
"There isn't even a photo," she remarked. "How can we be sure it's not just an empty legend?"
"For now, we can't," he admitted. "So, when you and Lucas go undercover with these people that's something I'll need you to find out."
Unable to do any more with the information at that time, Ros slid the file into her bedside drawer for safe keeping.
"When can we start, Harry? Lucas is tearing his hair out here and I'm not doing much better myself."
From years of bitter experience with these people, Harry knew he could not afford to go charging in. Every last detail needed planning; then back-up plans to boot. It was something they needed to discuss as a team.
"I'll call a meeting as soon as Nathan gets back," he assured her. "We do this properly, or we'll lose Beth permanently."
Thanks again for reading, reviews would be welcome.