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Five minutes and fourteen seconds …
He knew his compatriots, soldiers in the same cause, would be just as nervous as he was. The waiting was always the worst part, out of your control, no longer anything you could do.
Four minutes and eleven seconds …
Worse than a football match when you’re one–nil up but you know the other side are stronger and well capable of scoring in injury time. He recalled his area commander’s instructions: when the alarm goes off, be sure you’re among the first on deck, and the first in the lifeboats, because by this time tomorrow, they’ll be searching for anyone under the age of thirty-five with an Irish accent, so keep your mouths shut, boys.
Three minutes and forty seconds … thirty-nine …
He stared at the cabin door and imagined the worst that could possibly happen. The bomb wouldn’t go off, the door would burst open and a dozen police thugs, possibly more, would come charging in, batons flailing in every direction, not caring how many times they hit you. But all he could hear was the rhythmical pounding of the engine as the Buckingham continued its sedate passage across the Atlantic on its way to New York. A city it would never reach.
Two minutes and thirty-four seconds … thirty-three …
He began to imagine what it would be like once he was back on the Falls Road. Young lads in short trousers would look up in awe as he passed them on the street, their only ambition to be like him when they grew up. The hero who had blown up the Buckingham only a few weeks after it had been named by the Queen Mother. No mention of innocent lives lost; there are no innocent lives when you believe in a cause. In fact, he’d never meet any of the passengers in the cabins on the upper decks. He would read all about them in tomorrow’s papers, and if he’d done his job properly there would be no mention of his name.
One minute and twenty-two seconds … twenty-one …
What could possibly go wrong now? Would the device, constructed in an upstairs bedroom on the Dungannon estate, let him down at the last minute? Was he about to suffer the silence of failure?
Sixty seconds …
He began to whisper each number.
“Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six…”
Had the drunken man slumped in the chair in the lounge been waiting for him all the time? Were they now on the way to his cabin?
“Forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven, forty-six…”
Had the lilies been replaced, thrown out, taken away? Perhaps Mrs. Clifton was allergic to pollen?
“Thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-seven, thirty-six…”
Had they unlocked Lord Glenarthur’s room and found the open trunk?
“Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six…”
Were they already searching the ship for the man who’d slipped out of the toilet in the first-class lounge?
“Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen…”
Had they … he clung to the edge of the bunk, closed his eyes and began counting out loud.
“Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…”
He stopped counting and opened his eyes. Nothing. Just the eerie silence that always follows failure. He bowed his head and prayed to a God he did not believe in, and immediately there followed an explosion of such ferocity that he was thrown against the cabin wall like a leaf in a storm. He staggered to his feet and smiled when he heard the screaming. He could only wonder how many passengers on the upper deck could possibly have survived.
