fall is dangerous.' Martin was surprised at how easily the lies were coming.
'Well, I hope she gets better soon,' said Mrs O'Mara.
'We all do,' agreed Martin.
When he put the receiver down, his hand was shaking.
'You're crazy,' said Andy. 'Why would you think . . .'
Green-eyes silenced her by holding up a gloved hand. Then she wagged her finger at Andy, side to side, like a parent warning a child not to misbehave. 'You're wasting your time, Andrea.
We know everything. We know who you are and we know what you are. We're not asking you to do something you haven't done a hundred times before.'
Andy slumped back in her chair and stared at the masked woman. It felt as if all the blood had drained from her head. She tried to speak but no words would come.
Green-eyes bent down and pulled a briefcase out from under the table. She placed it on top, her eyes never leaving Andy's face as she clicked open the two locks. Click-clack, like the sound of a bullet being chambered. She opened the case, took out a large manila envelope, and tossed it casually in front of Andy.
'What's this?' asked Andy.
Green-eyes nodded at the envelope. Andy opened it and took out a dozen or so sheets of paper. They were photocopies of newspaper cuttings. Andy flicked through them. They were a mixture of Irish and English newspapers -- tabloids and broadsheets.
Andy scanned the headlines. BELFAST STORE DESTROYED.
BOMB ON MAIN LINE, TRAINS DELAYED.
BOMB DISPOSAL EXPERT KILLED. FIRE IN DEPARTMENT STORE, IRA BLAMED. TWO SOLDIERS DIE IN BOMB BLAST.
'Great reviews, huh?' said the lanky man. He chuckled and looked across at Green-eyes. Even through the ski mask he could see the warning look she threw at him and his laughter 52 THE BOMBMAKER dried up. Green-eyes waited until he was silent and fidgeting with his gloves before turning back to Andy.
Andy stared at the photocopied cuttings. 'If you know everything, then you know why I can't do what you want.'
Green-eyes reached into her briefcase again and took out a piece of newspaper. She unfolded it. It was the front page of the Belfast Telegraph, ripped along one edge as if it had been torn in a hurry. There were four black-and-white photographs of small boys in school uniforms, smiling at the camera. Just heads and shoulders, the type that might have been stored in a school's files.
The headline was brutal in its simplicity. IRA BOMB KILLS FOUR SCHOOLBOYS.
Andy turned her head away.
'Squeamish?' said Green-eyes. 'I wouldn't have thought of you as the squeamish type.' She put the page down in front of Andy. 'Read it, Andrea.'
Andy shook her head. 1 don't have to.' She knew every word, almost by heart, and the four young faces were burnt into her memory, seared there for all time. Four boys. Three aged ten, one just weeks away from his tenth birthday. His mother had already paid for the bicycle he was getting as his main present. Four boys killed, another one in intensive care who would later lose a leg and the sight of one eye. For weeks his life had hung in the balance, and Andy had followed his recovery in the paper and on the television. She'd never understood why she'd prayed so hard for the boy to live. Four dead. Five dead.
There was no difference morally, not really. But Andy had seen the crying mother on television, condemning the IRA and anyone who helped them and appealing for information. Four dead. One maimed. Innocents. And Andy was to blame. She'd carry the guilt with her to the grave.
Green-eyes pushed the page towards her. 'We're not asking you to do something you haven't already done, Andrea.'
Andy closed her eyes and shook her head. 'That was a mistake. A terrible mistake.'
'Casualties of war, the IRA High Command called it. But they never apologised, did they? Even though they were all 53 STEPHEN LEATHER good Catholic children. Two of them were altar boys, weren't they?'
Andy put her hands over her face and slumped forward so that her elbows were resting on the table. 'Is
'Well, I hope she gets better soon,' said Mrs O'Mara.
'We all do,' agreed Martin.
When he put the receiver down, his hand was shaking.
'You're crazy,' said Andy. 'Why would you think . . .'
Green-eyes silenced her by holding up a gloved hand. Then she wagged her finger at Andy, side to side, like a parent warning a child not to misbehave. 'You're wasting your time, Andrea.
We know everything. We know who you are and we know what you are. We're not asking you to do something you haven't done a hundred times before.'
Andy slumped back in her chair and stared at the masked woman. It felt as if all the blood had drained from her head. She tried to speak but no words would come.
Green-eyes bent down and pulled a briefcase out from under the table. She placed it on top, her eyes never leaving Andy's face as she clicked open the two locks. Click-clack, like the sound of a bullet being chambered. She opened the case, took out a large manila envelope, and tossed it casually in front of Andy.
'What's this?' asked Andy.
Green-eyes nodded at the envelope. Andy opened it and took out a dozen or so sheets of paper. They were photocopies of newspaper cuttings. Andy flicked through them. They were a mixture of Irish and English newspapers -- tabloids and broadsheets.
Andy scanned the headlines. BELFAST STORE DESTROYED.
BOMB ON MAIN LINE, TRAINS DELAYED.
BOMB DISPOSAL EXPERT KILLED. FIRE IN DEPARTMENT STORE, IRA BLAMED. TWO SOLDIERS DIE IN BOMB BLAST.
'Great reviews, huh?' said the lanky man. He chuckled and looked across at Green-eyes. Even through the ski mask he could see the warning look she threw at him and his laughter 52 THE BOMBMAKER dried up. Green-eyes waited until he was silent and fidgeting with his gloves before turning back to Andy.
Andy stared at the photocopied cuttings. 'If you know everything, then you know why I can't do what you want.'
Green-eyes reached into her briefcase again and took out a piece of newspaper. She unfolded it. It was the front page of the Belfast Telegraph, ripped along one edge as if it had been torn in a hurry. There were four black-and-white photographs of small boys in school uniforms, smiling at the camera. Just heads and shoulders, the type that might have been stored in a school's files.
The headline was brutal in its simplicity. IRA BOMB KILLS FOUR SCHOOLBOYS.
Andy turned her head away.
'Squeamish?' said Green-eyes. 'I wouldn't have thought of you as the squeamish type.' She put the page down in front of Andy. 'Read it, Andrea.'
Andy shook her head. 1 don't have to.' She knew every word, almost by heart, and the four young faces were burnt into her memory, seared there for all time. Four boys. Three aged ten, one just weeks away from his tenth birthday. His mother had already paid for the bicycle he was getting as his main present. Four boys killed, another one in intensive care who would later lose a leg and the sight of one eye. For weeks his life had hung in the balance, and Andy had followed his recovery in the paper and on the television. She'd never understood why she'd prayed so hard for the boy to live. Four dead. Five dead.
There was no difference morally, not really. But Andy had seen the crying mother on television, condemning the IRA and anyone who helped them and appealing for information. Four dead. One maimed. Innocents. And Andy was to blame. She'd carry the guilt with her to the grave.
Green-eyes pushed the page towards her. 'We're not asking you to do something you haven't already done, Andrea.'
Andy closed her eyes and shook her head. 'That was a mistake. A terrible mistake.'
'Casualties of war, the IRA High Command called it. But they never apologised, did they? Even though they were all 53 STEPHEN LEATHER good Catholic children. Two of them were altar boys, weren't they?'
Andy put her hands over her face and slumped forward so that her elbows were resting on the table. 'Is
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