The English Spy Read online

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You were there, Liam,” Keller repeated. “And you were in contact with him after the movement went to shit. He came down here to Dublin. You looked after him until it got too hot.”

  “It’s not true. None of it’s true.”

  “He’s back in circulation, Liam. Tell me where I can find him.”

  Walsh said nothing for a moment. “And if I tell you?” he asked finally.

  “You’ll spend some time in captivity, a long time, but you’ll live.”

  “Bullshit,” spat Walsh.

  “We’re not interested in you, Liam,” answered Keller calmly. “Only him. Tell us where we can find him, and we’ll let you live. Play dumb, and I’m going to kill you. And it won’t be with a nice neat bullet to the head. It’ll hurt, Liam. It’ll hurt badly.”

  That afternoon a storm laid siege to the length and breadth of Connemara. Gabriel sat by the fire reading from a volume of Fitzgerald while Keller drove the windblown countryside looking for unusual Garda activity. Liam Walsh remained in isolation in the cellar, bound, gagged, blinded, deafened. He was given no liquid or food. By that evening he was so weakened by hunger and dehydration that Keller almost had to carry him to the toilet.

  “How long?” asked Gabriel over dinner.

  “We’re close,” said Keller.

  “That’s what you said earlier.”

  Keller was silent.

  “Is there anything we can do to hurry things along? I’d like to be out of here before the Garda come knocking on the door.”

  “Or the Real IRA,” added Keller.

  “Well?”

  “He’s immune to pain at this point.”

  “What about water?”

  “Water’s always good.”

  “Does he know?”

  “He knows.”

  “Do you need help?”

  “No,” said Keller, rising. “It’s personal.”

  When Keller was gone, Gabriel went onto the terrace and stood in the ball-bearing rain. Five minutes was all it took. Even a hard man like Liam Walsh couldn’t stand the water for long.

  15

  THAMES HOUSE, LONDON

  EACH FRIDAY EVENING, usually at six o’clock but sometimes a bit later if London or the wider world were in crisis, Graham Seymour had drinks with Amanda Wallace, the director-general of MI5. It was, without doubt, his least favorite appointment of the week. Wallace was Seymour’s former boss. They had entered MI5 the same year and had risen through the ranks along parallel tracks, Seymour in the counterterrorism department, Wallace in counterespionage. In the end it was Amanda who had won the race to the DG’s suite. But now, quite unexpectedly and in the twilight of his career, Seymour had been handed the biggest prize of all. Amanda hated him for it, for he was now London’s most powerful spy. Quietly, she worked to undermine him at every turn.

  Like Seymour, Amanda Wallace had espionage in her DNA. Her mother had toiled in the file rooms of MI5’s Registry during the war, and upon graduation from Cambridge, Amanda had considered no career other than intelligence. Their common lineage should have made them allies. Instead, Amanda had instantly cast Seymour in the role of rival. He was the handsome scoundrel to whom success came too easily, and she was the awkward, rather shy girl who would run him off his feet. They had known each other thirty years and together had reached the twin peaks of British intelligence, and yet the basic dynamics of their relationship had never changed.

  On the previous Friday, Amanda had come to Vauxhall Cross, which meant that under the rules of their relationship it was Seymour’s turn to travel. He saw it as no imposition; he always liked going back to Thames House. His official Jaguar was cleared into the underground car park at 5:55 p.m., and two minutes later Amanda’s elevator deposited him on the uppermost floor. The main corridor was as quiet as a night ward. Seymour supposed the senior staff were mixing with the troops at one of the building’s two private bars. As always, he stopped to have a look inside his old office. Miles Kent, his successor as deputy, was staring blankly into his computer terminal. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week.

  “How is she?” asked Seymour warily.

  “Fit to be tied. But you’d better hurry,” Kent added. “Mustn’t keep the queen bee waiting.”

  Seymour continued along the corridor to the DG’s suite. A member of Amanda’s all-male staff greeted him in the anteroom and showed him immediately into her large office. She was standing contemplatively in a window overlooking the Houses of Parliament. Turning, she consulted her wristwatch. Amanda valued punctuality above all other attributes.

  “Graham,” she said evenly, as though she were reading his name from one of the dense briefing books her staff always prepared before an important meeting. Then she gave an efficient smile. It looked as though she had taught herself the gesture by practicing in front of a mirror. “So good of you to come.”

  A drinks tray had been left on Amanda’s long, gleaming conference table. She prepared a gin and tonic for Seymour and for herself a bone-dry martini with olives and cocktail onions. She prided herself on her ability to hold her liquor, a skill that, in her opinion, was obligatory for a spy. It was one of her few endearing qualities.

  “Cheers,” said Seymour, raising his glass a fraction of an inch, but again Amanda only smiled. The BBC played silently on a large flat-panel television. A senior officer of the Garda Síochána was standing outside a small house in Ballyfermot where three men, all members of a Real IRA drug gang, had been found dead.

  “Rather nasty,” said Amanda.

  “A turf war, apparently,” murmured Seymour over the rim of his glass.

  “Our friends in the Garda have their doubts about that.”

  “What have they got?”

  “Nothing, actually, which is why they’re concerned. The phones usually light up with chatter after a big gangland assassination, but not this time. And then,” she added, “there’s the manner in which they were killed. Usually, these mobsters hose down the entire room with automatic-weapons fire. But whoever did this was very precise. Three shots, three dead bodies. The Garda are convinced they’re dealing with professionals.”

  “Do they have any idea where Liam Walsh is?”

  “They’re operating under the assumption he’s somewhere in the Republic, but they haven’t a clue where.” She looked at Seymour and raised an eyebrow. “He’s not strapped to a chair in some MI6 safe house, is he, Graham?”

  “No such luck.”

  Seymour looked at the television. The BBC had moved on to the next story. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster was in Washington for a meeting with the American president. It had not gone as well as he had hoped. Britain was not terribly in vogue in Washington at the moment, at least not at the White House.

  “Your friend,” said Amanda coolly.

  “The American president?”

  “Jonathan.”

  “Yours, too,” replied Seymour.

  “My relationship with the prime minister is cordial,” said Amanda deliberately, “but it’s nothing like yours. You and Jonathan are thick as thieves.”

  It was clear Amanda wanted to say more about Seymour’s unique bond with the prime minister. Instead, she freshened his drink while sharing a piece of naughty gossip about the wife of a certain ambassador from an oil-rich Arab emirate. Seymour reciprocated with a report he’d received about a man with a British accent who was shopping for shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles at an arms bazaar in Libya. After that, with the ice having been broken, they fell into an easy conversation of the sort that only two senior spymasters could have. They shared, they divulged, they advised, and on two occasions they actually laughed. Indeed, for a few minutes it seemed their rivalry did not exist. They talked about the situation in Iraq and Syria, they talked about China, they talked about the global economy and its impact on security, and they talked about the American president, whom they blamed for many of the world’s problems.
Eventually, they talked about the Russians. These days, they always did.

  “Their cyberwarriors,” said Amanda, “are blasting away at our financial institutions with everything they’ve got in their nasty little toolbox. They’re also targeting our government systems and the computer networks of our biggest defense contractors.”

  “Are they after something specific?”

  “Actually,” she replied, “they don’t seem to be looking for much of anything. They’re just trying to inflict as much damage as possible. There’s a recklessness we’ve never seen before.”

  “Any change in their posture here in London?”

  “D4 has noticed a distinct increase in activity at the London rezidentura. We’re not sure what it means, but it’s clear they’re involved in something big.”

  “Bigger than planting a Russian illegal in the prime minister’s bed?”

  Amanda raised an eyebrow and traced an olive around the rim of her glass. The face of the princess appeared on the television. Her family had announced the creation of a fund to support causes she held dear. Jonathan Lancaster had been allowed to make the first donation.

  “Hear anything new?” asked Amanda.

  “About the princess?”

  She nodded.

  “Nothing. You?”

  She set down her drink and considered Seymour for a moment in silence. Finally, she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me it was Eamon Quinn?”

  She tapped her nail on the arm of the chair while she awaited a response, never a good sign. Seymour decided he had no choice but to tell her the truth, or at least a version of it.

  “I didn’t tell you,” he said at last, “because I didn’t want to involve you.”

  “Because you don’t trust me?”

  “Because I don’t want you to be tainted in any way.”

  “Why would I be tainted? After all, Graham, you were the head of counterterrorism at the time of the Omagh bombing, not me.”

  “Which is why you became the DG of the Security Service.” He paused, then added, “And not me.”

  A strained silence fell between them. Seymour longed to leave but could not. The matter had to have some resolution.

  “Was Quinn acting on behalf of the Real IRA,” asked Amanda finally, “or someone else?”

  “We should have an answer to that in a few hours.”

  “As soon as Liam Walsh breaks?”

  Seymour offered no reply.

  “Is it an authorized MI6 operation?”

  “Off the books.”

  “Your specialty,” said Amanda caustically. “I suppose you’re working with the Israelis. After all, they wanted to take Quinn out of circulation a long time ago.”

  “And we should have taken them up on the offer.”

  “How much does Jonathan know?”

  “Nothing.”

  She swore softly, something she rarely did. “I’m going to give you a great deal of latitude on this,” she said finally. “Not for your sake, mind you, but for the sake of the Security Service. But I expect advance warning if your operation spills onto British soil. And if anything goes boom, I’ll make certain it’s your neck on the block, not mine.” She smiled. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding.”

  “I would have expected nothing else.”

  “Very well, then.” She looked at her watch. “I’m afraid I’ve got to run, Graham. Next week at your place?”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” Seymour rose and extended his hand. “Always a pleasure, Amanda.”

  16

  CLIFDEN, COUNTY GALWAY

  THEY BROUGHT HIM UPSTAIRS from the cellar and, with his eyes still blinded by duct tape, allowed him to shower for the first time. Then they dressed him in the blue-and-white tracksuit and gave him a few bites of food and some sweet milky tea to drink. It did little for his appearance. With his swollen face, pale skin, and emaciated frame, he looked like a corpse risen from the mortuary slab.

  The meal complete, Keller repeated his admonition. The Irishman would be treated well so long as he answered Keller’s questions truthfully and in a normal speaking voice. If he lied, evaded, shouted, or made any foolish attempt to escape, he would be returned to the cellar and the conditions of his confinement would be far less pleasant than before. Gabriel did not speak but Walsh, with his auditory senses heightened by blindness and fear, was clearly aware of his presence. Gabriel preferred it that way. He did not want to leave Walsh with the mistaken impression that he was under the control of a single man, even if that man happened to be one of the deadliest in the world.

  Keller had no formal training in the techniques of interrogation, but like all good interrogators he established in Walsh the habit of answering questions truthfully and without hesitation or evasion. They were simple questions at first, questions with answers that were easily verifiable. Date of birth. Place of birth. Names of his parents and siblings. The schools he had attended. His recruitment by the Irish Republican Army. Walsh stated that he was born in Ballybay, County Monaghan, on October 16, 1972. The place of his birth was significant in that it was two miles from Northern Ireland, in the tense Border Region. His birthday was significant, too; he shared it with Michael Collins, the Irish revolutionary leader. He attended Catholic schools until he was eighteen, when he joined the IRA. His recruiter made no attempt to glamorize the life Walsh had chosen. He would be poorly paid and would live on the knife’s edge of danger. In all likelihood he would spend several years in prison. The chances were good he would die violently.

  “And the recruiter’s name?” asked Keller in his Ulsterman’s accent.

  “I’m not allowed to say.”

  “You are now.”

  “It was Seamus McNeil,” Walsh said after a moment’s hesitation. “He was—”

  “A member of the South Armagh Brigade,” Keller cut in. “He was killed in an ambush by British soldiers and buried with IRA honors, may he rest in peace.”

  “Actually,” said Walsh, “he died during a shoot-out with the SAS.”

  “Only cowboys and gangsters do shoot-outs,” replied Keller. “But you were about to tell me about your training.”

  Which Walsh did. He was sent to a remote camp in the Republic for small-arms training and lessons in the manufacture and delivery of bombs. He was told to quit drinking and to avoid socializing with non-IRA members. Finally, six months after his recruitment, he was assigned to an elite IRA active service unit. Its membership included a master bomb maker and operational planner named Eamon Quinn. Quinn was several years older than Walsh and already a legend. In the 1980s he had been sent to a desert camp in Libya for training. But in the end, said Walsh, it was Quinn, not the Libyans, who had done most of the instructing. In fact, Quinn was the one who gave the Libyans the design for the bomb that brought down Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland.

  “Bullshit,” said Keller.

  “Whatever you say,” replied Walsh.

  “Who else was at the camp with him?”

  “It was PLO, mainly, and a couple of lads from one of the splinter organizations.”

  “Which one?”

  “I believe it was the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.”

  “You know your Palestinian terror groups.”

  “We have a great deal in common with the Palestinians.”

  “How so?”

  “We’re both occupied by racist colonial powers.”

  Keller looked at Gabriel, who was gazing impassively at his hands. Walsh, still blindfolded, seemed to sense the tension in the room. Outside, the wind prowled at the doors and windows of the cottage, as if searching for a point of entry.

  “Where am I?” asked Walsh.

  “Hell,” replied Keller.

  “What do I have to do to get out?”

  “Keep talking.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “The details of your first operation.”

  “It was 1993.”

  “What month?”
>
  “April.”

  “Ulster or mainland?”

  “Mainland.”

  “What city?”

  “The only city that matters.”

  “London?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bishopsgate?”

  Walsh nodded. Bishopsgate . . .

  The truck, a Ford Iveco tipper, vanished from Newcastle-under-Lyme, Staffordshire, in March. They took it to a rented warehouse and painted it dark blue. Then Quinn fitted it with the bomb, a one-ton ammonium nitrate/fuel oil device that he assembled in South Armagh and smuggled into England. On the morning of April 24, Walsh drove the truck to London and parked it outside 99 Bishopsgate, an office tower occupied solely by HSBC. The blast shattered more than five hundred tons of glass, collapsed a church, and killed a news photographer. The British government responded by surrounding London’s financial district in a security cordon known as the “ring of steel.” Undeterred, the IRA returned to London in February 1996 with another truck bomb designed and assembled by Eamon Quinn. This time, the target was Canary Wharf in the Docklands. The blast was so powerful it shook windows five miles away. The prime ministers of Britain and Ireland quickly announced the resumption of peace talks. Eighteen months later, in July 1997, the IRA accepted a cease-fire. “It was,” said Liam Walsh, “a fucking disaster.”

  “And when the IRA fractured later that autumn,” said Keller, “you went with McKevitt and Bernadette Sands?”

  “No,” replied Walsh. “I went with Eamon Quinn.”

  From the outset, Walsh continued, the Real IRA was riddled with informers reporting to MI5 and Crime and Security, a shadowy division of the Garda Síochána that operated out of unmarked offices in the Phoenix Park section of Dublin. Even so, the group managed to carry out a string of bombings, including a devastating attack on Banbridge on August 1, 1998. The bomb weighed five hundred pounds and was concealed inside a red Vauxhall Cavalier. The coded telephone warnings were imprecise—no location, no time of detonation. As a result, thirty-three people were seriously injured, including two officers of the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Pieces of the Vauxhall were found six hundred yards away. It was, said Walsh, a preview of coming attractions.