Free The Chinaman by Stephen Leather Page A

sense of humour. He remembered how much he’d enjoyed being with her, though for the life of him he couldn’t recall what they’d talked about, other than the fact that she’d told him a couple of fairly risqué jokes. Would she appreciate the one about the nuns and the soap? Probably not.
    â€˜Of course I remember, how are you?’ He tried to recall the name of her partner. Todd? Rob? Ross? It bobbed away on the outer fringes of his memory, just out of reach. Most of that evening was a blank, though he vaguely remembered putting away the best part of a bottle of a very civilised malt whisky. Had he kissed her? He couldn’t remember. There was something else as well, something sad, very, very sad. Woody’s eyes glanced at the photographs in the Sun and it all flooded back as if a dam had burst. It had been the day of the big bombing in Knightsbridge. He’d locked away the sickening images of that day, the pictures that had been too horrific to use in the paper, the twisted bodies, the severed limbs, the blood, the Retriever with its jaws clamped on its gory prize. He didn’t want to think about that day, but Maggie had been part of it and recalling her brought everything back into focus. He breathed deeply, trying to clear his head.
    â€˜I’m fine, too. Isn’t it a lovely day?’
    â€˜Is it? We’ve no way of knowing, here. All the blinds are down so that we can use the terminals.’ That’s what management claimed, but Woody reckoned it was just to stop them looking out of the windows and daydreaming.
    â€˜Well, take it from me, the sun is shining and the birds are singing. I was wondering if you fancied going out for a drink again one day this week.’
    â€˜Sure, that’d be great. What about tomorrow night?’
    She agreed, and they arranged to meet at the same pub.
    â€˜Woody, are you OK?’ she asked. ‘You sound a bit distant.’
    â€˜Yeah, somebody walked over my grave, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.’
    When she’d gone Woody put his head in his hands and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t block out the images of death and destruction. He needed a drink. Badly.
    The function room had been booked in the name of the Belfast Overseas Investors Club but the dozen men sitting at the long mahogany table had little interest in investment. The man standing at the head of the table in a green tweed jacket and black woollen trousers could have passed as a mildly eccentric provincial stockbroker with his greying hair and slightly flushed cheeks. He was in his fifties and looked like a rugby player gone to seed, which is exactly what Liam Hennessy was. But after playing for his country he’d gone on to become a political adviser to Sinn Fein. Married with two children, Liam Hennessy was one of the most powerful men in the Republican movement.
    The eleven listening to him were all high-ranking Provisional IRA officials and they had all been called to the hotel in Belfast at short notice. On the table in front of them were jugs of iced water and upturned glasses, but none had been touched. Each man also had a notepad in a red leather folder and a ballpoint pen.
    Hennessy stood with his arms folded across his chest and spoke in a soft Irish brogue. He first thanked them for coming, though a summons from Liam Hennessy was not something that any of them could ignore. The group met regularly, always in different venues and under different names so that the security forces wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop, usually to discuss financing or strategy or matters of discipline, but today’s gathering was special. They had all seen the television reports of the south London police-station bombing and the pictures of ambulancemen and firemen hauling the rubble away with their bare hands, and they had heard that the IRA had claimed responsibility.
    To Hennessy’s left was a large flat-screen