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Chapter Five: In the Club
The house was as quiet as a crypt by the time Harry returned home. Cold, almost unnaturally so to the point of giving it an air of abandonment. Ruth's favourite mug was upturned on the draining board in the kitchen, a newspaper left open on the counter. Inside the oven were the cold cinders of his Sunday dinner, as signified by the terse note attached to the door of the fridge by a Magaluf fridge magnet. Who did they know that had been to Magaluf? He made a mental note to have them neutralised as he flipped the plate of cinders into the bin. From there, he made his way into the living room, where the drinks cabinet held the promise of a whiskey and finally sat down by the gas fire.
Scarlet lay sleeping on the sofa; Ruth's cat curled up on the upholstered seat of a dining room chair. Neither animal noticed his arrival and both slept on untroubled by his dishevelled state. Ever since leaving Will by the embankment, he had been going over and over the issues they had discussed. It was a post-mortem that was intruded upon by some small part of his psyche asking a pertinent question: what was he more afraid of? Reliving the horrors of that day or being forced to face up to his own mistakes and cowardice?
If he did tell all, would it tear open the wound again? Or would it be the catharsis he desperately sought and craved? Perhaps you had to tear open the wound in order for it to heal properly, as well as for forever. Like Henry VIII's suppurating legs, the ulcer of Northern Ireland just kept on coming back for more, pushing him that little bit closer to the edge. Jane had surprised him. Had she sent Will to him knowing the effect it would have? Was that her final act of revenge? One last kick in the teeth to see him on his way.
Harry had been so lost in his own musings, the whiskey sat forgotten on the arm of his chair. The time was nearing half-one in the morning and exhaustion was pulling his mood down even lower. Unable to bear the resounding isolation any longer, he downed the whiskey in one and set off up the stairs. In the bedroom, Ruth was unsurprisingly asleep. He paused to check on her for only a brief moment before undressing. Despite his best efforts to crawl in beside her as discreetly as possible, she still rolled over and murmured softly as the mattress dipped.
"It's only me," he whispered back.
Her eyelids flickered open. "Where have you been?" she asked, voice hoarse. "I was worried sick."
"I'm sorry."
"We'll talk tomorrow," she promised, before turning her back on him.
Still half sitting up he watched her for a long moment, waiting to see if she would turn to face him again. But she didn't. Nor did she fall asleep again, he could just see her open eyes looking out into the darkness. In the hope that she would give some sign of noticing his need, he remained where he was, but she seemed determined to keep up the pretence of not having noticed.
Regnum Defende. Show no weakness. Mottoes he had followed his whole life; but where had those empty words got him now? He felt it all being cast to the wind in that one small moment.
"Hold me," he said.
Finally, she looked back at him. Confusion clouded her expression, as though he were speaking a foreign language. "What?"
"Hold me," he repeated, feeling almost ashamed. "I just want you to."
It destroyed him and Jane. History was repeating itself before his very eyes and his new mission was to stop it. Regnum Defende.
"For God's sake, Ruth. I need you now," he admitted.
Slowly, cautiously, she sat up and reached out towards him. But it was like she was petting a lion and she didn't know whether he'd curl up and purr, or tear her arm off. He met her halfway, leaning into her outstretched arms, resting his head beneath her chin.
"You need to sleep," she whispered in his ear. Despite her caution, she tightened her hold on him. But after a moment, she eased him downwards, holding him as he slipped into an uneasy slumber.
"Harry … Harry, wake up!"
Rough hands shook him from his deep sleep. He heaved his body over, flipping himself face down in the bank of pillows in an effort to throw the intruder off. But Bill was having none of it and immediately rolled him onto his back again. His vision was suddenly assaulted by a flare of bright light as the bedside lamp was switched on; a second assault was launched by a rush of cold air as the foot of the eiderdown was flipped up and the same rough hands as before gripped his ankles. Before Harry could formulate even the coarsest of responses, he was dragged bodily down the mattress. In a futile effort to fight back, he gripped the bedsheet, only succeeding in pulling it off with him.
"Jesus, Harry, I'd have an easier time waking the dead," Bill said, breathless from his exertions.
Harry was tipped off the foot of his bed, landing on the thinly carpeted floor with a muffled thump.
"Fuck off, Bill!" he groaned, waving the first hand he could disentangle from the nest of sheets he'd become cocooned in. That same free hand groped for the pillow he had dragged down with him, ready to try and get back to sleep. Whatever time it was, it wasn't any fit time to be conscious.
Bill had second guessed what was about to happen and snatched it clean away. "Harry, no. I need you to phone in a bomb scare."
Harry responded with a grimace. "You do it!" But then the request resounded in his head. The words 'bomb scare' and their meaning suddenly registered in his somnambulant mind and jerked him fully back into consciousness. "What?!" he snapped, trying to sit upright. "Where's the damn bomb?"
"It's right here," replied Bill, grinning almost demonically.
Harry watched in horror as Bill reached for a shoebox he had left on his bedside table. He nudged off the lid and tilted the box towards Harry's face, but he still had to get up to see it properly.
"Bill! What are you playing at?" he gasped, wide eyed as he looked from bomb to Bill and back again.
"Keep your hair on, Harry. It's a dud," he explained. "Look, the timer's counting down to a detonator on a great wad of window putty. We just need it to look real enough to the casual observer in case it really does get found."
Harry's heartrate slowly returned to its regular pace as he poked at the putty, leaving a perfect imprint of the pad of his index finger. He stepped clear of the tangle of bedsheets at his feet and cautiously took the device finding it reassuringly heavy.
"I still don't see where you're going with this," he said, looking back up at Bill.
The demonic smile was back in place. "I'm planting this outside the Felon's Club. You phone in the bomb scare and then meet me there. The whole area, including anyone left inside the Club itself will be evacuated, bomb disposal move in and give us perfect cover to get inside the Club and plant the bugs we need. We can't rely on Brendan alone to do this."
Harry frowned. "Don't you think we should plan this out first?"
"What's there to plan?" he countered. "Just give me an hour to get there, plant this thing and the Soldiers and the bomb disposal team will give us all the time we need. Once we're done, we'll tell them where it is and they can zap it to make it look real."
That was almost enough for Harry. There was just one more thing he needed clarified. "So, bomb disposal already know what we're doing? I don't want to be stuck inside the Felon's Club while they're detonating the place, controlled explosion or no."
"Of course they know," Bill was quick to assure him. "I've been working on this all night, while you've been sojourning through the land of the dead."
Harry drew a deep breath, steeling himself for the early start. "Sounds like the sort of thing we should have done from the start. But here, what code word am I giving and who I am saying is responsible? Not even the IRA would shit on their own doorstep."
"Ring the Samaritans; tell them you're UVF and give the code word 'Dragonfly'," replied Bill. "We need to make this look as real as possible."
With that, he took back his home made, fake bomb and made for the door. But he paused in the doorway, looking back at Harry with a look of utmost concern on his face. "You do realise you're naked, don't you?"
Harry sighed heavily. "What did you expect? Top hat and tails?"
"And nothing less, Harry. We're Officer Class, remember," he replied, by way of parting shot.
It was approaching dawn by the time Harry made it to the Falls Road, in West Belfast. Approaching from the North of the city, he had been held up at three different army checkpoints and had to swerve through narrow republican streets to avoid the IRA barricades, before finally making it onto the main Falls thoroughfare. It was a long, wide road stretching several miles, cutting through the outskirts of the city centre; lined with several heavily populated side streets. The Felon's Club was perilously close to the Royal Victoria Hospital, which they could not morally afford to have falling within the exclusion zone of their pretend device. Other streets, as well as the main road itself, had already been efficiently evacuated, with families ushered into the Clonard Monastery, nearby. Harry parked the car just beyond the RUC cordons at the foot of the Springfield Road and ducked under the tape after showing his ID to the policeman in charge. By now, army Saracens had formed a blockade across the Falls Road; Policemen formed up and ducked behind riot shields in case they came under attack. Close to the Hospital, the Divis Flats rose starkly against the pre-dawn gloom. Already deserted and awaiting demolition, they were the most likely source of any IRA counter-attack. But as Harry squinted through the poor light, he could just see the Land Rovers and military vehicles forming up around the old apartment blocks, already getting into a defensive position. Meanwhile, bomb disposal were unpacking their equipment, playing along with their charade. As always, no one spoke. Tension thickened the atmosphere as Harry pulled an army uniform on over his civvies, giving himself the appearance of a soldier on the off chance he was spotted by a hostile passer-by.
Ten minutes later, he was making his way up the Falls, flanked by heavily armed soldiers with their weapons at the ready. The Felon's Club was nearby, in darkness but with the tricolour and starry plough flags visible from the outside. A whitewashed, three storey building, it was accessible only by a caged side door and a steel shuttered staff entrance round the back. Harry paused outside, looking for Bill. The fake device was left by the caged door, a door that could only be opened by staff inside the pub.
"The only way in is the windows."
Bill startled Harry, almost causing him to jump out of his skin. "Stop creeping up on me!" he scolded.
Bill let out a high whistle. "Yes, Ma'am!"
He stepped around Harry, leaving him on the pavement. He stooped to the ground, picking something up. A few seconds later, glass smashed and the front window of the Felon's Club sprinkled all over the paving stones.
"We'll have to tell everyone it was put out by the controlled explosion," he said, over his shoulder. "Now, are you coming in or not? And bring that bag with you."
Harry wasn't about to miss this for the world. He lifted the bag with their devices in and cleared the distance between them in one bound. Quickly, he followed bill in through the broken window, carefully avoiding the jagged glass still stuck in the frame. There was an upholstered bench lining the wall, providing a soft landing for them as they dropped down the other side. Tables had wooden chairs stacked on top of them where the cleaners had mopped the floor before locking up for the night.
"Bill, the floor," said Harry, stopping his friend from stepping down off the wall bench. "A controlled explosion won't explain dirty footprints all over their lovely, tiled floor."
"Right enough," replied Bill.
Both perched on the narrow seat, they removed their dirty boots and socks, even rolling the cuffs of their trousers up to avoid leaving any form of trial through the building. Barefoot, they padded silently across the floor of the barroom, the cold tiles making Harry shiver. The only source of light was from lamps behind the optics, just enough for them to make out the interior of the IRA's watering hole of choice. The sight of a cut-out newspaper article about the murder of nine British Army soldiers, pinned to a notice board, made Harry's mouth run dry. Beside it was a mock score sheet: 'British Army: Nil. IRA: 9'
"Bastards," Harry murmured under his breath.
"Don't let it get to you," Bill gently chided him.
"I don't know how you can be so calm, sometimes," Harry retorted, passing the offending notice board. "They're fucking disgusting."
They reached a stairwell behind the bar, leading to the second floor. From a landing window into the bar, they could see it was only a pool room. Giving it up, they moved on to the third floor, marked enticingly as "Private: Staff Only." Bill picked the lock with a device withdrawn from his back pocket, one quick turn and the lock clicked open. Inside, they a large function room with a long wooden table down the middle. Matching chairs were lined either side of it; an empty glass jug and several tumblers all situated in the middle. Used ashtrays were dotted at intervals on either side, but had not been cleaned.
"Not even the cleaning staff are allowed in here," Bill noted. "It's much dirtier than downstairs."
Harry glanced to the edge of the room, where there was another locked door. "There's the office," he said, giving it a nod.
All along the dark, wood panelled walls, were black and white photographic portraits of Republican leaders: Michael Collins, Eamon De Valera, Patrick Pearse and James Connolly among them. The Irish tricolour, immaculately pressed, was tacked to the far left wall, alongside a Starry Plough more normally associated with the INLA. Overhead, mock chandeliers reminiscent of down trodden night clubs in Blackpool, hung from the high ceiling.
"We'll tap this phone first, I think," said Bill.
At first, Harry hadn't noticed it. But there was a large, black phone at the far end of the table. If this was where the IRA Army Council were holding their meetings, it would have to be done.
"We should call Gower Street first," Harry said. "We may need help from our developer."
"He won't be there at this hour," replied Bill. "I think we may just have to wing it ourselves."
Unwilling to risk it, Harry went with his gut feeling and called the office. He found himself redirected to the home of Malcolm Wynne-Jones, who answered the call sounding half asleep, but not in the least bit annoyed. He relayed instructions Harry had a feeling he kept only in his head, committed to memory. First, the office phone after Bill picked the locks, then other devices planted discreetly about the room. They found one Brendan had already planted and activated, but Harry knew more wouldn't hurt. Despite the ruse to get them inside the club, they had to work fast and efficiently, giving them an hour to two hours at most.
"Bill, we can't afford the risk of have them redial the last number," said Harry, as he hung up the phone. "Give me another number to call, throw them off the scent."
"1194," he replied, from inside the office. "It's the Australian speaking clock. Leave the phone off the hook, too."
Harry smirked as he dialled the number, then placed the receiver carefully so that it wasn't quite back in place. It would look like the explosion knocked it and, with luck, whoever came in would replace the receiver properly without even noticing the call they had made. By the time they were done, there were even listening devices slipped into the wall cavities, as well as behind the portraits and under a loose floorboard. Every inch of the office and function room was covered; every pin drop and soft-footed mouse would resound down to them, listening from the top of the Divis Flats.
"Happy days," said Bill, casting an admiring glance around the room before they left.
"Indeed," Harry agreed.
They returned to Harry's car, parked close to Springfield Road. As he reached in his pockets for the keys, Harry turned back the way they came. A minute ticked by, just as the muffled crump of the controlled detonation rang through the empty, echoing streets of West Belfast.
Will hesitated before entering Thames House. Could people just walk in off the streets? He went to turn around again, to rejoin the flock of lunchtime office working flocking through the streets of Milbank, but succeeded only in running headlong into Catherine just as she was entering. Colliding off each other, Will hastily threw out both arms to catch her fall. She steadied herself by lurching forward against his chest.
"I'm such a klutz, I am so sorry," he stammered, rushed.
The silver slide that was clipping the front of her hair out of her face had come loose, snagged on the button of his breast pocket. Now, she hand long strands of blonde hair falling in her eyes. He almost reached out to brush them aside in an attempt to compensate for ploughing into her, before having second thoughts about the forwardness of it.
"Oh, it's okay," she quickly replied, her alarm giving way to amusement. "I wasn't looking where I was going either."
"You're here to see your Dad, I take it?" he asked, even though it was blindingly obvious.
She righted the shoulder strap of her bag, another casualty in the collision. "Yeah, and I was kind of hoping to bump into you actually."
Intrigued, he forgot his earlier caution about walking straight into Thames House and held the door open for her. "Really? Is there something I can help you with?"
As she ducked under his door holding arm, she flashed him an apologetic look. "Yes, I rather think there is. You know I lured Dad into a trap by getting him to meet me yesterday, without telling him about you. Well, I thought I'd even it out by crashing your meeting with Dad and not telling him I'm coming. I'll make myself scarce when it gets personal, naturally. But if you don't mind, I'd like to see him before you two disappear together."
Will laughed. "Fair's fair!" he replied, following her into the reception. Despite the lightness of her tone, he detect a note of genuine worry unpinning her intentions. "I'll report to reception now and you can go hide behind one of those pillars. Pity you didn't bring a big cake to jump out of, or something. Marilyn Monroe style."
"Hey, maybe next time!" she replied, grinning.
Once inside, he reported to reception as Harry had requested of him the day before. While he waited, he joined Catherine in loitering uncomfortably by the main entrance. It was growing increasingly warm outside, so at least they were both grateful for the cool interior of MI5's HQ. Meanwhile, Catherine was looking at him curiously.
"Why were you running away?" she asked, brow furrowing. "You're not scared of my Dad, are you?"
"No, not at all," he replied. "I was just scared of walking through the wrong door and being wrestled to the ground by a bunch of Spy Goons before being bundled off to Guantanamo Bay, or something."
Catherine lurched forwards as she stifled her laughter. "Don't say that too loudly, you might just give them ideas," she said, regaining her composure. "Seriously, though. You're okay to come in here. Just don't try and go through those doors, over there."
She pointed across the wide reception area, to a set of wooden double doors. It looked like the entrance to a janitor's store cupboard.
"On the other side of those doors is The Grid," she added, her tone hushed. "That's where all the spy stuff goes on. That's where you'll be measured up for your new orange jumpsuit, should you try your luck."
The doors opened while they were watching them. Harry Pearce, looking completely different in a sharp, tailored suit and neatly trimmed hair, stepped out into reception. He spotted Will immediately, but he beamed from ear to ear as his gaze fell on his daughter. They hugged briefly and kissed each other on both cheeks, before Harry pulled away and shook Will's hand.
"Nice to see you again, Will," Harry greeted him. Then, he turned to Catherine. "And a wonderful surprise to see you, Cate."
Will was about to step away, allowing them some father and daughter time. But before he could retreat, Harry's hand gripped his elbow, tugging him back. "This won't take long," he said. "Catherine, wait here and I'll be back in five minutes. Will, follow me."
Sir Harry led Will back out onto the street, where the workers on lunch release were only just beginning to thin out. Over the road was where they had their confrontation, the previous night. A memory Will tried to push out of his mind as he followed the Spook down the road, round the side of the building and into an empty side street near the roundabout. A large set of bins lined the rear wall of Thames House, rusty iron gates formed a barrier between the alley and the car park. But it was there Harry and Will came to a halt, the older man risking his Saville Row suit by leaning against the rough concrete perimeter wall. For a long time, an uncomfortably long time, Harry weighed him up.
"So this meeting tomorrow: are you still intent on going?" asked Harry.
Will took a moment to assess what answer Harry wanted him to give. But the older man's expression was unreadable. In the end, it did not matter. Will was not about to change his mind to please anyone.
"Yes," he replied, firmly.
Sir Harry looked him dead in the eye. If Will wasn't so resolute, the look would have made him nervous.
"Very well then," replied Harry. "I'll see you there at ten."
His breath caught in his throat. "You mean it?" he asked, startled. "The truth? The whole truth?"
"And nothing but the truth," Harry replied, completing the old adage.
Will smiled, despite his best efforts not to. "Thank you," he replied, feeling lame. "I appreciate it."
"I know," Harry replied. "There's just one more thing. I want you to be certain."
"I am. I've been ready for years, Sir Harry."
Harry nodded, looking more resigned than relieved. "Then be at the Guildhall for ten. We can talk there. I don't know who the intermediary is, but I know she's a genocide survivor from Rwanda. At least nothing will shock her."
Will couldn't resist an abashed chuckle at the dark humour in the other man. "Well, that's something."
"My wife, Ruth, will be joining me there, too. But she will be listening in from the relative's room, rather than in with us. Is there anyone accompanying you?"
Will hadn't thought to ask whether he could bring someone along for support. But, he did not want to burden Harry with a feeling of being obliged to find someone.
"No," he shook his head. "I decided it would be for the best if only I heard it."
Harry shrugged. "Fair enough. Well, I'll see you there."
Will nodded as Harry brushed past him, heading back towards the entrance of Thames House. But he remained where he was, gathering his thoughts and catching his breath. Finally, he had the end in his sights.
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