moved out into the rain, then turned, holding a handkerchief to his face. ‘Bitch! I’ll get you for this.’
‘No you won’t.’ Her accent was unmistakably Ulster Irish. ‘You’ll find the nearest casualty department as fast as you can, get yourself stitched up and put the whole thing down to experience.’
She watched him go, closed the knife, slipping it back in the top of the stocking, then she turned and continued down towards the Thames, moving along the waterfront, finally pausing at an old warehouse. There was a small Judas gate in the main entrance. She opened it and went in.
It was a place of shadows, but at the far end there was a glass office with a light in it. It was reached by a flight of wooden stairs. As she moved towards it, a young, dark-skinned man moved out of the darkness, a Browning Hi-Power in one hand.
‘And who might you be?’ she asked.
The door of the office was opened and a small man with dark tousled hair wearing a reefer jacket appeared. ‘Is that you, Norah?’
‘And who else?’ she replied. ‘Who’s your friend?’
‘Ali Halabi, meet Norah Bell. Come away up.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the Arab said.
She ignored him and went up the stairs; he followed, noting with approval the way her skirt tightened over her hips.
When she went into the office the man in the reefer coat put his hands on her shoulders. ‘God help me, but you look good enough to eat,’ and he kissed her lightly on the lips.
‘Save the blarney.’ She put her umbrella on the desk, opened her handbag and took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Anything in a skirt, Michael Ahern. I’ve known you too long.’
She put a cigarette in her mouth and the Arab hurriedly took out a lighter and lit it for her. He turned to Ahern. ‘The lady is part of your organization?’
‘Well, I’m not with the bloody IRA,’ she said. ‘We’re Prods, mister, if you know what that means.’
‘Norah and I were in the Ulster Volunteer Force together and then the Red Hand of Ulster,’ Ahern said. ‘Until we had to move on.’
Norah laughed harshly. ‘Until they threw us out. A bunch of old women, that lot. We were killing too many Catholics for their liking.’
‘I see,’ Ali Halabi said. ‘Is it Catholics who are your target or the IRA?’
‘The same difference,’ she said. ‘I’m from Belfast, Mr Halabi. My father was an Army Sergeant, killed in the Falklands War. My mother, my kid sister, my old grandad, all the family I had in the world, were killed in a street bomb planted by the IRA back in eighty-six. You might say I’ve been taking my revenge ever since.’
‘But we are open to offers,’ Ahern said amiably. ‘Any revolutionary organization needs money.’
The Judas gate banged below. Ali took the gun from his pocket and Ahern moved to the door. ‘Is that you, Billy?’
‘As ever was.’
‘Would that be Billy Quigley?’ Norah asked.
‘Who else?’ Ahern turned to Ali. ‘Another one the Red Hand threw out. Billy and I did some time together in the Maze prison.’
Quigley was a small, wiry man in an old raincoat. He had faded blond hair and a careworn face that was old beyond his years.
‘Jesus, is that you, Norah?’
‘Hello, Billy.’
‘You got my message?’ Ahern said.
‘Yes, I drop in to the William of Orange in Kilburn most nights.’
Ahern said to Ali, ‘Kilburn is what you might call the Irish quarter of London. Plenty of good Irish pubs there, Catholic and Protestant. This, by the way, is Ali Halabi from Iran.’
‘So what’s it all about?’ Quigley demanded.
‘This.’ Ahern held up the Evening Standard with the headline about the American President. ‘Ali here represents a group of fundamentalists in Iran called the Army of God. They, shall we say, deeply deplore Arafat’s deal with Israel over the new status of Palestine. They are even more unhappy with the American President presiding over that meeting at the White House and giving it his blessing.’
‘So?’ Quigley said.
‘They’d like me to blow him up for them while he’s in London, me having a certain reputation in that field.’
‘For five million pounds,’ Ali Halabi said. ‘Don’t let us forget that.’
‘Half of which is already on deposit in Geneva.’ Ahern smiled. ‘By God, Billy, couldn’t we give the IRA a run for their money with a million pounds to spend on arms?’
Quigley’s face was pale. ‘The American President? You wouldn’t dare, not even you.’
Norah laughed that distinctive harsh laugh. ‘Oh, yes he would.’
Ahern turned to her. ‘Are you with me, girl?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘And you, Billy?’ Quigley licked dry lips and hesitated. Ahern put a hand on his shoulder. ‘In or out, Billy?’
Quigley smiled suddenly. ‘Why not. A man can only die once. How do we do it?’
‘Come down below and I’ll show you.’
Ahern led the way down the steps and switched on a light at the bottom. There was a vehicle parked in a corner covered by a dust sheet which he pulled away, revealing a grey British Telecom van.
‘Where in the hell did you get that?’ Quigley demanded.
‘Someone knocked it off for me months ago. I was going to leave it outside one of those Catholic pubs in Kilburn with five hundred pounds of Semtex inside and blow the hell out of some Sinn Fein bastards, but I decided to hang on to it until something really important turned up.’ Ahern smiled cheerfully. ‘And now it has.’
‘But how do you intend to pull it off?’ Ali demanded.
‘Hundreds of these things all over London. They can park anywhere without being interfered with because they usually have a manhole cover up while the engineers do what they have to do.’
‘So?’ Quigley said.
‘Don’t ask me how, but I have access through sources to the President’s schedule. Tomorrow he leaves the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square at ten o’clock in the morning to go to Number Ten Downing Street. They take the Park Lane route, turning into Constitution Hill beside Green Park.’
‘Can you be sure of that?’ Norah asked.
‘They always do, love, believe me.’ He turned to Quigley and Ali. ‘You two, dressed in Telecom overalls which are inside the van, will park halfway along Constitution Hill. There’s a huge beech tree. You can’t miss it. As I say, you park, lift the manhole cover, put up your signs and so on. You’ll be there at nine-thirty. At nine-forty-five you walk away through Green Park to Piccadilly. There are some men’s toilets. You can get rid of your overalls there.’
‘And then what?’ Ali demanded.
‘I’ll be in a car, waiting with Norah for the golden moment. As the President’s cavalcade reaches the Telecom van I’ll detonate by remote control.’ He smiled. ‘It’ll work, I promise you. We’ll probably kill everyone in the cavalcade.’
There was silence; a kind of awe on Quigley’s face and Norah was excited, face pale. ‘You bastard,’ she said.
‘You think it will work?’
‘Oh, yes.’
He