The Angel Tapes (34 page)

She would have been pretty, were it not for the lines etched deep in her face. They were the antithesis of laugh lines; years of insane hatred had put them there. Her eyes no longer resembled those in Rob McGrath's simulacrum. They were wild—the eyes of a mad, feral beast.

But if Blade had surprised Carol Merrigan, then she quickly turned the tables. She reached into a fold of her shawl and when her hand reappeared, it held a small but deadly accurate handgun.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Macken looked death in the face. And Carol frightened him more than Paddy Price had done. He sensed that a woman with eyes as wild as hers was totally unpredictable. He could be dead within seconds.

“You bastard!” she said. “You unscrupulous
fuck.
” The gun was pointed unwaveringly at his forehead.

“Carol … you be careful with that thing now.”

She laughed—and it was a laugh that caused the follicles all over his body to attempt to grow a protective coat of fur.

“Ah no, I'm not going to shoot you, Blade. Not yet. Sure I'd be an eejit to do that. I
need
you, Blade.”

His look was inquiring.

“I need your strength,” She told him. “Your brawn. Heh heh heh.”

He didn't like her laugh; he hadn't liked it when it had been cloaked by electronically generated magic. Reality did nothing to improve it.

Then Carol came nearer—and both she and Blade stiffened as a thin, high-pitched whine emanated from the folds of her shawl. She closed the distance and the whining increased. Carol's left hand sped to her breast; Blade saw it fumble. The whining stopped.

Then she laughed again.

“You fucking amateurs!” She raised her voice. “Yes, Duffy, you! You and the rest of them—whoever's listening. Do you hear me, Duffy? You're an
amateur.
You're out of your fucking league. This is Angel you're dealing with.”

She stepped two paces back and pointed the gun once more at Macken's skull. “Take it off, Blade. The wire. Take it off.”

He'd known from the start that it was a mistake. And yes, it had been Duffy's idea; Duffy, backed up by some of the others. Stupid. Blade had guessed that Carol, of all people, wouldn't be taken in by such a primitive ruse as a concealed microphone. Any hopes he'd cherished of winning her confidence were fading now.

“Do it slowly, Blade,” she said. Holding the gun aimed in his direction, she looked around quickly. The street was deserted; the cider-swilling youths were gone. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Blade began to unzip his trousers.

“Oh, that's
good,
Blade. Full marks, Mr. Duffy. Did they think I wouldn't search your crotch, Blade? Me, a woman? Or was it your pet psychologist? Was it her idea?”

Blade said nothing. He carefully removed the little microphone and its wiring from the place of concealment and let them fall to the ground.

“Anything else I should know about, Blade? Or is that bulge in your trousers all your own?”

“That's all. And you're right: it wasn't my idea. It's not my style.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I know. I know your style, Blade. Believe me, I know it only too well.” She gestured with the gun. “Get in the car.”

He obeyed, and Carol Merrigan slid into the passenger seat. The morning sun caught the weapon, a chromium-plated Beretta, lethal at this range. He wondered where she'd got it.

“Where are we going?”

“Just shut the fuck up and drive, Blade. We're going to have a little chat. We're going to talk about, you might say, old times.”

Forty

Mr. Sachs had had the embassy radio room evacuated. Nobody had protested; Sachs was Redfern's man and it was understood that you didn't get on the wrong side of Redfern. Now Sachs and Roe had the little windowless room to themselves. Roe had a direct link with Langley, Virginia; Sachs maintained radio contact with the six embassy cars that conveyed the other dark-suited men to the center of Dublin.

“We have a bird,” Roe said.

“Good.”

“Fifty-three, twenty, thirty-seven-point-five north; zero six, fourteen, thirty-six-point-one east,” Roe said, tilting up one half of his headphones.

“I copy,” Sachs answered.

He punched in the coordinates on his keyboard and was almost instantly rewarded with a full-color map of a section of Dublin city. A red light pulsed brightly on a narrow street. Sachs spoke into a microphone attached to his own headset.

Unseen from the earth, a satellite with the designation of KH-12 followed an orbit high in the ionosphere. The youngest generation of the Key Hole family of space spies, it carried an impressive panoply of sophisticated equipment. It had multi-spectral and infrared sensors, and radar that could penetrate clouds. The technician from Dublin Corporation had boasted that his surveillance cameras could pick up two flies “shagging each other on a wall.” He'd have been astounded by the reconnaissance capabilities of this silver bird.

At that moment, its sensors were utilizing their fluoroscopic menus. Superman-like, they peeked clean through the thick metal of Blade's car trunk, through the hides of two big travel cases—and registered the presence of certain invisible chemicals with which $25 million in used bills had been treated.

The onboard navigation facility continuously updated the location of these chemicals, via the Navstar Global Positioning System. Encrypted, this information was relayed almost simultaneously to the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency, with which Mr. Roe had an open connection.

At separate locations in the heart of the city of Dublin, the drivers of six cars responded to the electronic directive.

*   *   *

“Turn left at Pearse Street,” Carol Merrigan ordered. Presently they were passing Macken Street. Macken Street! Then Charlotte Quay. The still water reflected the massive bulk of Boland's Mills, the building occupied in Easter Week, 1916, by militiamen under the command of a young schoolteacher named Eamon de Valera. Luxury apartments overlooked the harbor on their left. A breeze sped over the water, splintering the sunlight.

Carol was adjusting the rearview mirror, angling it toward her. She did it with the hand that held the gun; the other was concealed within her shawl. She nodded, satisfied; she saw no signs of pursuit.

“Keep going,” she said, as they passed over the canal and alongside the little mission church.

I was right, Blade thought: We're heading for the East Link; she's planning on making her getaway by air after all.

But he was mistaken; Carol was having him make a diversion. After a bewildering series of turns, they'd recrossed the canal and were heading back toward the city center. She peered every few seconds in the mirror.

“There was no need for the bombs,” Blade said. “No need at all.”

She laughed. “Yes there was, Blade. I got you here, didn't I?”

He looked at her strangely. “For fuck's sake, Carol. You killed six innocent people—just to talk to
me?
”

“Would you have talked to me otherwise?”

“Yes.”

“You know what you did, Blade Macken? You know what you did? You murdered my parents, that's what you did.” Her voice had risen, out of control.

“I'd nothing to do with it,” he said. “Your father was the closest thing I ever had to a real friend. You know that. You must remember that.”

“Oh, I remember, Blade. And that's what makes it all so fucking painful. My father trusted you and you betrayed him. Turn right here.”

“I didn't. It wasn't like that at all.”

“Liar! You made him go into that bank in Donnybrook. You didn't want to go yourself, 'cause you were out of your mind with drink.”

“That's not true. That's not the way it happened.”

“Oh, so Charlie Nolan is a liar then?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“And I suppose he lied about the burglary as well? When they killed my father?”

Jesus Christ. What had Nolan been doing? Blade was beginning to regret helping the man. To hell with it. No more Robin fucking Hood.

“You were up to your neck in it, Macken. Admit it.”

Blade knew better than to argue. This was not a rational person.

“Look on the backseat,” he said. “The paper.”

She glanced back, saw the folded copy of the
Irish Independent.
“Don't try anything.”

“I won't. Bottom half of page one.”

Carol reached back and took the newspaper. She leaned against the car door, holding the gun on Blade, and read the headline above the news item, halfway down the front page.

T
WO
M
EN
H
ELD FOR
1989 D
OUBLE
S
LAYING

“I got them, Carol. The men who killed your father. I
got
them.”

She scanned the lines. Blade glanced at her and saw her wince. She held the paper up and shook it contemptuously.

“How do I know this is genuine? Eh? How do I know you didn't have this printed up, like the ones they do in the novelty shops, with your own name? ‘Blade Macken for President!' ‘Macken Declares War on Saddam Hussein!' Do you take me for a fool?!”

“For fuck's sake, Carol. It's the real thing. If you don't believe me, ring the bloody paper. Here, use my phone.”

He saw her lips curl in a menacing smile.

“Ah, that's what you want, isn't it? That's part of the plan, too. Have me ring them up, after you've filled them all in on your little scheme. Well, I won't play along, Blade.” She tossed the paper back in the rear of the car and leveled the gun again. “What other dirty little tricks have you got up your sleeve? I
warned
you.…”

“Jesus, I nearly got myself killed arresting those two. Fuck it. I'm on your side.”

“Sure.”

“Will you listen to me? Gerry—your da—was a good friend of mine. I was—”

“Don't even mention his name! I don't want to hear it coming from your dirty mouth.” Her voice had risen to a screech, making him afraid. “You're a liar, Macken. Your whole life has been one, dirty great lie. You lied then and you're lying now. Nine years. Nine fucking years. Ah, how very convenient that the great Blade Macken manages to solve a murder at this very time. What took you so long, Blade, eh? Nine years?”

“It just happened that way, Carol. It seems hard to believe, I know, but it was coincidence. Things just worked out that way. Believe me.”

“I'd rot in hell before I believed you! Coincidence my arse. You knew all along, didn't you? You knew who did it. I heard. Mammy told me.”

He glanced at her sharply. He didn't know what was real and what was delusion as far as Carol Merrigan was concerned. Did she know herself? Dr. Earley thought not.

“You were covering up, Blade. Why? What did my father ever do to you? No, don't tell me. I don't want to hear any more lies. Turn left here.”

They were back where they'd started, almost. Sir John Rogerson's Quay.

“Stop here. The red door.”

Blade obeyed. He cut the engine.

The building looked derelict. It was wedged between a tall house with bricked-up windows and what had once been the Catholic Seamen's Institute. A faded sign, almost indecipherable, read
LUNCHEONS AND TEAS
. It might have been a cafeteria at one time.

There were two single-story warehouses on the quayside opposite, and beyond the far bank of the Liffey, the top floors of Jurys Hotel were visible. Blade saw the offices of the British and Irish Steam Packet Company and, farther west, those of the Custom House Dock Development Authority. And, farther still, the Custom House itself. From the third or fourth floor of Angel's lair it would be plainly visible. He'd guessed correctly: She'd had him in her sights until he'd crossed the river.

“Nice little setup you've got yourself,” he said. “Very neat.”

She ignored the compliment. “Out of the car. Do it slowly, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

“There's still time to change your mind, Carol,” he said. “Nobody'll convict you if I plead in your defense. We'll tell them the whole story. You won't have to go to prison; you can do time in an institution. It'll be—”

“Bastard!” she screamed. “So I'm cracked now, am I? Fuck you, Blade Macken; nobody's putting
me
in a looney bin!”

“I didn't mean it that way, Carol.”

“Like hell you didn't! Now get out of the car and open the boot.”

Blade was very conscious of the pressure of his .22 against the base of his spine. Was this the time to reach for it? He could do it easily, have Carol covered before she could discharge her own weapon. Or before she could activate whatever it was she held in her left hand, hidden in the folds of her shawl.

But what if the device she was holding was the equivalent of a hand grenade with the firing pin removed, as used by the suicide bombers of Lebanon? What then? What if her hand held down a lever of some kind that, if released, would send a signal to an underground bomb somewhere in the city? Perhaps only a few hundred yards away. Or was the insane bitch a human bomb herself? If he made a wrong move would the pair of them go up like a powder keg? The Kevlar vest felt sodden against his chest.

And there was something else he'd forgotten. An old soldier like him should have thought of it, but he was out of practice with firearms. Had he checked the safety on the gun? No. There was no point in going for a gun that couldn't be brought into instant play. Shite.

He opened the trunk. The sight of the two suitcases brought a smile to the woman's face. The presence of vast wealth close at hand affects the sane and the crazed in like manner. Carol licked her lips.

“Put them to the left of the red door.”