Walls Came Tumbling Down

The puzzle was based around Irish knotwork. The threads wove in and around themselves, spiralling and twisting into an intricate pattern. It felt inevitable that the whole thing would eventually result in a complicated tangle, but the trick was to keep all of the strands separate. Once Near had worked that out, and completed a couple of sequences to ensure that he was correct, then he lost interest in it and put it down. But it was still interesting to meditate upon it, while the man droned on.

Near had been listening, with punctilious attention, throughout, but he was also musing upon the nature of politics and sovereignty. It was a reality that he had seen the world over, to a greater or lesser extent, in democracies and dictatorships; republics and monarchies; it didn't even have to be a nation state. Wherever a group of people congregated with a desire or need for leadership, the old truth was there. That was that whoever appeared to be the leader never was; there would always be a constant, unheeded in the background, who stayed regardless of who was voted in and who was deposed. These were the real leaders - the civil servants, ambassadors, the wheelers and dealers - who shaped their nation's affairs in private, leaving the politicians free to distract everyone with being politicians. Or maybe he was just becoming cynical.

Anthony Rester was listening too, as he operated a digital facial recognition programme, scanning the faces of those in the background of photographs. His top lip was curled, as if he had swallowed a wasp. Near peered over the top of the knotwork puzzle. "Mr Rester does not like our caller." His microphone was muted.

Rester concentrated on the screen. "I have no opinion either way."

"What is your gut instinct?" Near asked. It was a newly perennial question. He was mildly fascinated by the concept of a 'gut instinct', so asked about it on every case.

"He sounds like a typical politician."

"Is that a gut instinct or an opinion, Mr Rester?"

His chief officer considered it. "I suppose it is more of an opinion."

Near frowned, lifting his head away from the knotwork, in order to stare intently at the man. "Then you have an opinion." He watched Rester nod, then carry on with his work. Near waited a few moments, then blinked. "Please be sure to tell me when you have a gut instinct."

"Will do, sir."

The tenor of the speaker's voice informed Near that a pause was coming up. He hurried to the microphone and was ready, with his finger on the button, when it came just two short sentences later. Near depressed it and languidly inserted his verbal response. "It is only natural for me to want to hear all that you have to say, before a decision is made. Why would anybody express interest or disinterest with only part of the information? That would be a foolish reaction." It worked. The man went on talking, as Near knew that he would, unhurried and hypnotic, convinced, or, at least, convincing, in all that he said. Near was free to release his button to mute the microphone again; and to wander around the room.

Rester sat back in his chair, his focus on the screen lessening steeply. He spoke with a slight smile. "I think that he likes the sound of his own voice." He clicked his mouse and 34 screens changed, each with their own different image of the same individual. "Those are the only exact matches. There were 151 that were too indistinct to tell. Earliest is thirty-one years ago."

Near barely glanced up, but he had seen them. He sat sidewards on a computer chair and let his leg dangle. He leaned on the backrest and twirled his hair around his finger. He had neither prop nor toy, though his gaze remained fixed on the knotwork puzzle, still on the floor, beside his microphone. From the corner of his vision, Near noticed Rester watching him. "You may go on your break, Mr Rester."

"Thank you, but I don't need a break at the moment." They both listened to the man for a short while. "You are looking tired, Near."

"Yes." Near agreed. "I am tired." But he didn't do anything about it, but sit there, twirling his hair, while his dangling leg caused the computer chair to rock, 0.234ths of an inch, backwards and forwards on the tiles. "Later, I will sleep."

The voice they were listening to belonged to a man who identified himself as Michael (which he pronounced Mee-hoyl) O'Neill. He said that he was calling from the Taoiseach's Department and that he was authorised to speak on behalf of the Taoiseach. Rester had searched, but no-one of that name was officially listed amongst the governing body of the Republic of Ireland. A wider sweep uncovered a gentleman called Michael O'Neill, who had been an undersecretary in 1994. That person had a photograph and the face upon it matched all of these other faces. The Taoiseach changed with each new election. The political spectrum, in charge of the Dáil Éireann, flowed upon the will of the people's vote. But Michael O'Neill stayed. His knowledge, authority and confidence in the things he offered might have surprised the electorate. He never had to check anything nor promise to consult a superior. There were O'Neills in every government, so it seemed to Near, only their names and accents changed. They could make good on their promises and threats; gamble a whole country's economy; take their nation into war; and make anything disappear, all with a flick of their hand. Near wished that he still felt surprised by it all.

"Does the Taoiseach know that you are calling?" Near had asked, early on.

"If necessary," was the enigmatic response. Near wondered if the Taoiseach even knew that this man existed. The Taoiseach was only the head of state and was therefore far too temporary to know anything.

Ireland knew. At least at the level where it really mattered, Ireland knew. They knew about the first L, the fake L and the current L. The unreported, classified details of the Kira case had been laid out bare. The Watari system, the MayDay line, the financial stakes and the administration were all relayed back to him, in a soft Irish brogue. Beyond Birthday had been touched upon; as had the first three generations. The fourth were listed by pseudonym; their wars, their fallen, their bitter rivalries. O'Neill spoke of it all. He had asked rhetorical questions about the fifth, phrased in such a way as to demonstrate his knowledge of them too. He knew the address of Wammy's House and what it looked like; he described their classrooms, as if he had been in one. He took care to elaborate upon how the children came to be there, expressing in minute detail the irregularities and illegalities under international law. Yet it was all said without judgement and with an almost grudging tone of respect. He read the Resolution aloud.

First came the stick. It was encased in honey tones, not as Ireland's opinion, not as censure, but an observation. There were those who, while very grateful for L's assistance under the dark days of Kira, were disgruntled now. L was such an asset, such an ally, but he had no loyalties! His power and influence were unparalleled on the international scene, but where were the checks and balances? His wealth could move the market in unpredictable, unnatural ways; his private army could stir up tension, where sleeping dogs had always been best left to lie; his intelligence network made the most transparent organisations feel uneasy. There were some, though, of course, not Ireland, he understood, who felt that L's very impartiality was a threat. When neither war nor sanctions, trade nor treaties could ensure his special friendship, then there would be times when a nation's interests might not run parallel to L's own. This was the real world, after all, where what was good for a population's prosperity might not be great for its conscience. But we muddle along, as best we can, as individuals, departments and as states.

Second was the aside. The jokingly delivered, off the record piece of gossip. While Ireland, built on the courage and ideals of saints and heroes, would never dream of doing this, it wasn't like they weren't without opportunity. Certain powers, world leaders, emerging economies, which could do such wonderful things for the fortunes of the Irish, had been fishing for information to discredit L. It was a good job - O'Neill's laughter sounded genuine here - that they never found out about kidnapped children; deadly, teenage civil wars; the involvement of the Mafia; the house in Winchester, England.

Finally, then, the carrot. So many islands, large and small, around the encasing coastline of Ireland. Pick one. Build your orphanage there, where the children cannot easily storm off in the middle of the night. It is correct, is it not, that so many of the problems were inherited. Not L's fault, but the sins of the founding fathers visited upon their unsuspecting sons. He could start again! With the knowledge and experience to tinker with the formula; with the intelligence, this time, to get it right. A fresh new generation, utterly divorced from all who had gone before. A successor groomed solely by himself. Money, discretion, resources, no object; privacy guaranteed. Passports and the paraphernalia of false identity there for the asking. Irish airports open for special immigrants, fast tracked through customs. No questions asked. Let the first batch stew; they were already well on the road to implosion. If L was honest, was it not true that they had brought him nothing but trouble? That his contribution to their own well-being had been constantly overlooked, undermined, even challenged? That his stresses in life could all be resolved by cutting loose, moving away, taking this opportunity with a country that knew, and who cared, and who wanted to help.

Near had stood and stretched to scrutinise the photograph patched through by O'Neill. A sample island, not necessarily the one, but an idea of what might be. And another. And another. Near had dropped back down from the balls of his feet then, standing to watch the team in his half-destroyed London HQ finally take down the murdered remains of Neuron. He would join the other body bags there. Near paused briefly to watch Linda point a finger, right into Mello's face; she looked so angry. But Linda had had so little sleep. It had been Near who woke her, with a call, at 4.14am to say that Luigi was in the laboratory breathing fumes, set up so precisely to look like an accident. Near stepped beneath the sole monitor with a vehicle registration recognition programme running, searching Britain's traffic flow cameras for a match. He had first identified Salvo, Century and the little baby, at a service station near Birmingham, in the English Midlands. Century had been bending forward, with his hands on his knees, huffing and puffing. The little one had been crying, loudly and constantly. Salvo seemed so sad. Near had used CCTV to follow them to their car. He had tracked it now for two long hours. They were nearly there, to comfort Chrissie. He had no visual on Deontic, sitting alone, with her peer-imposed duty, in a Welsh chalet. Fenian and Kiana's cottage was still dark and empty, isolated in the Irish bog.

"Mr Rester," Near pointed to one of the pictures of an Irish island, "is that a puffin, do you think?"

Rester maximised the photograph on his own computer screen and zoomed in on the dot on the crag. After a few seconds, he shook his head. "Impossible to say, sir. It's very small. Would you like me to work on the image to find out?"

"No. But thank you very much for looking." Near padded over to the microphone and plopped down beside it. O'Neill was describing the benefits of the latest island on the screen. "Mr O'Neill, I am very sorry to interrupt you, but I do have two questions for you."

"I would be very happy to answer those questions for you, L."

Near picked at the knotwork puzzle, absently, "Thank you. Mr O'Neill, forgive me, but there are things which are hard to understand. All that is being offered is very attractive. A 21st century institution, with special provision to meet the bespoke needs, is particularly attractive. You have highlighted the advantage of starting again, with new children and new ideas. It is something that any world-class detective would be foolish to reject." His finger and thumb had pecked repeatedly at a single spot, two thirds of the way into the puzzle. It was almost down to the last strand of thread. "But I find it strange that this is offered to me, when Mr O'Neill has his very own L successor with demonstrable loyalty to the Irish nation."

O'Neill laughed, silkily, "I see what you're saying there and trust me, it was considered. Strongly considered, in fact. But I'm sure that you will agree that it is better to have the original on-board, than the one, Irish though he may be, who failed to challenge him to the title. We don't need two Ls in the world."

The thread had snapped. Near pulled it, slowly and consistently. "I understand. Ireland wishes to trade with L." It was fascinating how far around the thread had to travel, before it came close to its starting point again; the second spiral was taking a very different course. "It is only natural for Ireland to wish that L shared its interests and did not investigate too closely anything which tested its conscience." Near smiled. "An international L might challenge and defeat the rival, Irish L. This would be humiliating for Ireland, especially as L would not feel so inclined to assist in cases that benefit Ireland in the future. But an international L who is Ireland's friend, that would be better. This L might feel a responsibility to protect Ireland from her enemies, because his heirs are there or," The thread passed the starting point again, "because this L was raised in Ireland."

"Naturally my country would be grateful for any assistance," O'Neill chuckled, "but the offer comes without strings. We wouldn't wish L to compromise his ideals nor his impartiality."

Near frowned, because that was a lie. The irritation sounded in his tone. "What benefit is this to Ireland?"

"Consider it a measure of our esteem for your work. Reparation for the end of Kira's terrorism; and for the education of one of our young men."

"Ok!" Near replied, brightly, before pressing on. "Ireland wishes to forego justice for one of its citizens; and to pass over the opportunity for national gain by giving information, detrimental to L, to L's detractors. Ireland wishes instead to present L with a gift of land, resources and assistance. A gift implies no payment. O'Neill speaks for Ireland in stating that no payment is necessary. Am I correct?" Near was amazed. It had taken until the penultimate spiral, before the knotwork puzzle had finally fallen in on itself. It had held almost to the last.

O'Neill confirmed, "Yes, you've understood it correctly. No-one else need ever know."

Near straightened the puzzle's frame and began to see if he could reconstruct it. "You are wrong. Liam Tighe would know."

"I am sure that individuals could be removed from the equation."

"Mr O'Neill has seen the evidence. He knows that Liam Tighe is extremely intelligent and a great asset to any nation's brainpower." Near found that the framework stabilised quite quickly, on just the third passage of the spiral thread. "And very good at search and rescue."

"Nevertheless..."

"Working to boost understanding of Ireland's geological heritage, adding to her scientific wealth and potentially boosting her economy with international research grants, toes dipped into the conservation funds and tourism." Near slowly wrapped the thread around the pegs.

O'Neill oozed sincerity. "Nevertheless, if certain individuals are an obstacle to your receipt of our gifts, then that individual may cease to become a factor."

Near raised his head to stare at the island and the puffin. Then he watched three men with mops cleaning up the blood in London. On one of the feeds from Wammy's House, Near found Matt. "Mr O'Neill, maybe you have not given Liam Tighe due consideration. It is easy sometimes to miss the skills of one of our own. It might be that you overlooked certain aspects. Under-estimated him."

For all of its repetition, the response was not yet wooden. "I can assure you, L, that Liam Tighe needs no consideration at all. Please, put him out of your mind, as the problem will be eradicated."

Near looked again at the island, with his finger in his hair, twisting and knotting. He said, sternly, "I am sure that Mr O'Neill understands that this is personal. It would not be a good idea to leave something so personal as a loose end for somebody else to tie up." Near returned his attention to the knotwork puzzle, picking up the dropped thread again. "Mr O'Neill should send Liam Tighe to me. It would be better for..."

"Sure, not a problem." O'Neill spoke airily. "He can be flown anywhere in the world tonight. Just give me a destination."

Near muted his microphone. "Mr Rester, would you mind making these arrangements? It would be better if he was brought here."

"Yes, sir." Rester consulted his flight schedules.

Near had finished the puzzle. The thread was still split, but it had returned along the spiral path back to the very start. He depressed the microphone button to speak. "You will be able to speak with someone about the flight destination in a minute. Mr O'Neill, this was an illuminating conversation. It is possible that you are fated, in involving L in Ireland's affairs." He gave a little smile. "The island with the puffin is very pleasing to the eye. As a token of my faith, it is possible that a gift may be delivered, which would benefit Ireland a great deal."

O'Neill had a smile in his voice, "Of course any positive influence, a word here and there, would be gratefully received, but L needs to be assured that Ireland demands nothing from him, but our continued friendship."

"It would make me happy to arrange this gift." Near caught himself about to yawn. "I am going now. Goodbye." He waited for no ending pleasantries, but signalled to Rester to take over. Then Near stood and walked the length of the room. He leaned against the doorway at the other end and waited, with one finger tapping against his leg. It took eight minutes and 39 seconds for Rester to finish his conversation and to end the call. "I am going to my bedroom. Please wake me if there are problems with this transfer of Fenian from Ireland to me."

"I will do, sir. The flight will be the same one that brings Morien Williams."

"That would be efficient." Near approved. "Goodnight, Mr Rester."

"Goodnight, Sir."