A highly respected and handsomely paid solicitor with the law firm of Williams & Teacher; he had, over the past 25 years, represented a smattering of Melbourne’s best-known politicians, bankers and socialites. His specialities; wills and probate matters, title conveyance and tax law. Or more specifically, how to avoid paying as little tax, if any, on all of the above. Over the years, his expertise saved his clients millions, yet still found himself no closer to the partner position he so coveted.
On the rare occasion a partner opening became available, there was always some bright new star on the rise. Maybe next year, Garth. Hang in there, mate. You are truly appreciated, it just wasn’t the right time. These were the shallow platitudes he endured year after year. Hollow words rammed down his throat like a dirty rag to silence his voice. The metaphoric dagger left to twist in his back grinding its way just a little deeper each time. Now, at the age of 60, he was well past his prime and on a slippery slope sliding ever closer to redundancy.
Once he felt his heart rate dip under 120, he ripped open the envelope sitting on the passenger seat to find copies of the admittance forms for two new patients.
He perused the highlights:
Bill Redstone – age 87. 15 Pattinson Road. Waverly. Wife – deceased. No children. No known relatives. Dementia. Transfer from St Vincent’s Hospital – January 15.
Nancy Groves – age 85. 164 Fraser Terrace. Burnley. No known relatives. Pancreatic cancer – terminal. Transfer from St Vincent’s Hospital – January 16.
With the engine running, the cold air flowing from the vents chilled his still damp face and hands. He gazed out through the Rover’s windscreen to the brick façade of the hospice, the guttering either side of the front doors shot water out into the parking lot in torrents. Garth knew, just his being here, in this parking lot outside of the Sisters of Mercy Hospice, was yet another flashing neon sign that he, Garth O’Neal, was merely an afterthought to the partners. He’d been told: ‘Pro bono work, Garth. Great PR for the firm.’ He burned with indignation, thinking, how fucking degrading. The work was a goodwill gesture by his firm to curry favour with the political elite, but not something for the partners to sully their hands with. He knew what they were saying behind his back. ‘Let Garth handle it.’ ‘He’s good with that kind of thing.’ ‘Gives him something to do.’
Just thinking about his situation left him seething.
Bastards, all of them.
Garth adjusted the air-conditioning vents away from his face. The colour in his cheeks dimmed from fire-engine red to a dull fuchsia. From the centre console, he withdrew a small prescription bottle and unscrewed the top. He popped one of the blood pressure pills into his mouth and washed it down with a swig from the water bottle sitting in the cup holder. He stared at his reflection projected by the windscreen, the image distorted by the rivulets of water cascading down.
Hang in there, old boy. Not long now.
Dublin, Ireland
September 18, 2014
(16 Months Earlier)
At the corner of Rogers Lane and Baggot Street, just a brisk two-minute walk to the east of St Stephen’s Green, you’ll find Toners Pub. The iconic Irish bar occupying the same corner since opened by James Toner in 1818. A sign, hanging on the wood panelling inside the front doors, proclaimed its snug Voted Best in Dublin 2010. The snug – a quaint Irish tradition – was barely two metres wide, three long and enclosed on three sides by floor to ceiling walls. A solid oak door the only access point. The fourth side, with a row of head-high windows, provided a limited view out to Baggot Street. Beneath the windows, sat two small ancient church pews. For those seeking anonymity from prying eyes, it was the perfect locale.
Inside the snug, Eamonn Mahoney nervously paced the flagstone floor and checked his watch for the tenth time in the past four minutes. Clancy scheduled the meeting for 4:00 p.m. His watch read ten minutes past.
Typical bloody Clancy.
Eamonn muttered as he took three measured steps to the wall before turning and striding back to the door of the snug. Outside, dark grey clouds rolled in from the west. The threat of rain promised a fitting end to another lacklustre Dublin day. Eamonn paused to sip from his pint of Guinness, carefully placed it back on the beer mat upon the rickety table and resumed his pacing.
He wished he’d better places to be, better things to do, than glad-handing a stuck-up politician, especially at such a popular meeting place – discreet snug or not. Eamonn was accustomed to working in the shadows. Deep behind the scenes. This locale was far too conspicuous for his tastes. But times were lean for men of his ilk.
Now in his late fifties, Eamonn was short and wiry with streaks of grey throughout his thick black hair and the coldest of blue eyes. He was a planner, a schemer and a master surveillance operative, albeit sparingly, for the Real IRA. If you asked his opinion, he’d tell you the feckless politicians of Sinn Fein, together with the Catholic Church, sold the IRA down the river in the ’90s. Effectively denuding its importance and leaving the true believers as nothing more than a marginalised terrorist group. Eamonn was still one of those true believers in the cause for complete Irish independence and today’s meeting was all about, he prayed, keeping that cause alive.
Eamonn began to check his watch for the eleventh time when the door of the snug opened behind him. Then quickly shut and the latch fastened. He spun around to face the corpulent figure of Stuart Clancy. For the past ten years, Stuart had been a member of the Dáil Éireann, the lower house of the Irish government, representing the Sinn Fein party. And previously, a highly-placed member of the Provisional IRA.
Giving Stuart the once over, he was struck by how the years had taken their toll. Gone was the straight-backed, imposing, military presence he first encountered almost 10 years ago, in its place, an extra 20 kilograms packed his frame, the weight curving his shoulders with the added burden. A once thick head of hair had thinned, lost its sheen and retreated mightily from a pair of thin, grey eyebrows. His face, florid and bloated, displayed the tell-tale signs of a man who drank too much and become all too comfortable perched behind a desk. Only his sparkling green eyes revealed the familiar fire of old. Clancy’s shirt buttons strained beneath his suit jacket. He loosened his tie and the top button of his collar with his right hand as he hung his coat in the corner with his left.
Argh ’tis a pleasure to see you, boyo. Let me get a good look at you. You haven’t changed a bit. How long has it been now?
Clancy shook Eamonn’s hand and slapped him on the shoulder before collapsing onto one of the time-worn pew’s leather cushions.
Must be close to ten years, Stuart. You look well.
Clancy patted his stomach and smiled.
Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Eamonn. I look like shite, and you know it. This is what 18 years of being a politician will do to you. Running the country is thirsty work and builds up quite an appetite.
He laughed heartily, while Eamonn smiled and concluded becoming a pompous ass must also be part of the package.
So, tell me why we’re meeting here at one of the most famous pubs in Dublin? Don’t you think we should be a little more inconspicuous?
Eamonn, Eamonn, relax. Everyone knows me, correct?
I expect so.
Eamonn halted his pacing, stared up at the wood-panelled ceiling and blew out a stream of air waiting for Clancy to continue. Clancy nonchalantly picked a loose threat from his trousers.
My being here is nothing out of the ordinary. I’m just out visiting with my constituents. Of which you just happen to be one with whom I’m having a quick private chat. You’ll leave when we’re done, and I’ll stay and mix with the lads. In ten minutes, no one will remember you ever existed. Would you have me slink into a pub known to be frequented by your crowd? And if I’m recognised there, what then? Trust me, boyo, this is for the best.
And trust him he did. A lot could be said about the integrity of Stuart Clancy, the politician, but as a loyalist to the Republican cause, few were his
measure.
Eamonn first worked for Clancy back in 2006. Clancy entered politics eight years earlier and, in conjunction with his Sinn Fein brothers across the border in Northern Ireland, disavowed all ties with the Provisional IRA. That was the public, Stuart Clancy. From the Good Friday peace accords in 1998 to the final disarming of the IRA in 2005, Clancy played the consummate politician role to perfection. Supporting Sinn Fein’s leader, Gerry Adams, by denouncing violence and calling for calm. Clancy helped to sooth a fractured nation; albeit, though, one still not having reclaimed the North from the British. A struggle now fought in the halls of the Dáil and the British parliament, rather than as a guerrilla war on the streets of Belfast and London. The new weapons of political savvy and back-room deals replacing the guns and bombs of old.
However, Eamonn knew of a different Clancy.
In January 2006, Eamonn, a loyal member of the Real IRA – an offshoot of the banned Provisional IRA – was summoned to meet with Clancy. He could still clearly recall the meeting, even the exact conversation, with a younger, leaner, Clancy.
It took place on a farm outside of Donegal.
***
The 250-kilometre drive to the Stag’s Head pub in Donegal from Dublin took nearly four hours. He could have taken a faster route but wanted to avoid crossing the border into Northern Ireland. Although British military checkpoints ceased to exist almost 12 months previous, Eamonn still considered it enemy territory and took no chances.
He found the pub on Main Street without any problem, then settled in at the bar and waited for his contact to arrive. Halfway through his third pint of Guinness, he began wondering if the contact would show when a young lass with fiery red hair tied back in a ponytail sidled up next to him at the bar. She ordered a pint of Harp from the bartender, tossed a few coins in his direction, then turned to face Eamonn.
So, what might your name be then?
It took all of 20 minutes for Eamonn to contemplate ditching the meeting and taking off with the redhead named Moira when he finally twigged that she was the contact. They left the bar arm in arm making their way to Moira’s car. Their destination; a farm house 10-kilometres north of town. For anyone paying attention, an out-of-towner just struck it rich with one of the local lasses.
Once in the car, Moira was all business, no more small talk, a Clannad CD playing softly on the car stereo the only sound. The occasional hawthorn tree dotted the countryside, windswept and gnarled by the harsh North Atlantic winds. Lulled by the soft mystical tunes, he watched the verdant, yet barren, fields roll by endlessly. The stark setting, Eamonn mused, succinctly illustrating why his people made music more suitable for crying than singing.
They traversed the country lanes aimlessly for the better part of 30 minutes before Moira abruptly turned left through a set of ancient stone gate posts. They bumped along for a further kilometre, winding left then right, before the rocky path ended at the steps of an old farm house. Moira pointed Eamonn in the direction of a barn 50 metres away, then disappeared inside the farmhouse.
The old wooden structure, with a corrugated tin roof, stood close to the tree line bordering the western edge of the property. If Eamonn had to guess, he would’ve thought it last received a splash of paint while de Valera was alive. In the diffused light of the barn Eamonn could faintly make out three cows feeding on a bale of hay, a gaggle of hens pecked seed from the ground at his feet. And in the far corner, standing at attention, three men.
Eamonn Mahoney.
A statement, not a question.
Yes, sir.
You come highly recommended.
Thank you, sir. I try my best for the cause.
We have a small job for you that I believe will put your talents to best use.
Eamonn was a tactical expert. Although slightly built and ill at ease with physical confrontation, he still had his uses. His speciality? Researching and planning operations down to the minutest of details.
The man in the middle, the tallest of the three, stepped forward and handed him a buff legal-sized envelope.
Do you know who I am?
Eamonn held his breath to steel his nerves. He surmised, who wouldn’t?
Stuart Clancy, a legend in the IRA, but if you believed the rumours, abandoned the cause when he entered politics.
Yes, sir.
So, what are you thinking?
How best to answer, ruminated Eamonn. He was led to believe this was a job to do with the cause. Was he being set up? If so, then it was already too late. He swallowed and took several deep breaths to both buy some time and to bring his breathing under control. He decided honesty the best policy. His priest would be proud. He hoped the faint praise wouldn’t be delivered posthumously.
I understood that I was here to do a job for the cause. If not, I’ll be on my way.
Clancy let out a booming laugh.
Be on your way, boyo? Shall I call you a taxi? Spot you the fare? I don’t think so.
The smile disappeared in an instant.
Open the envelope.
Eamonn slid a fingernail under the flap of the envelope and withdrew a photo.
So, you know who I am. Do you also know who that fine fellow is?
The face staring back at Eamonn instantly recognisable. Middle-aged, balding, with wire-rimmed glasses framing a gentle face. It could’ve been a photo of any village’s local priest. But you’d need to have been living under a rock for the past 20 years, especially in this small corner of the world, to not recognise the face of Denis Donaldson.
Donaldson, an IRA volunteer since the 1960s, later became a senior member of their political wing, Sinn Fein. In the 1990s, as Gerry Adam’s right-hand man, he ran Sinn Fein’s soliciting of political and financial support in New York.
And, as just recently discovered, for the past 20 years had been a spy for MI5, British Intelligence.
I see by your reaction you recognise the traitor, Donaldson. And by letting you see my face you know how serious this is, and the consequences if you should fail.
Clancy’s brush strokes were more those of a slap-dash house painter than a French impressionist, but the resulting picture was still crystal clear. Clancy’s role in the cause was as strong as ever; an assignment was being presented to Eamonn and failure was not an option.
We know Donaldson is hiding up here in the north… somewhere. Maybe over the border. Maybe not. Exactly where is for you to find out for us, then you will devise a plan to ensure he can be quietly eliminated.
Why me? Don’t you have operatives up here capable of doing the job for you?
Clancy paused, hands behind his back, then turned and took a few paces towards the cows still feeding at the back of the barn.
Are you familiar with the term blowback, boyo?
Turning to face Eamonn, Clancy’s green eyes sparkled as if on fire. Searching for the slightest hint of fear, the most minuscule sign that Eamonn doubted his own abilities. Eamonn held his gaze, then answered.
Aye, sir. Unintended consequences of an action which could compromise another party.
Close enough.
Clancy broke eye-contact and continued his pacing. The hens at his feet rudely interrupted from their own search mission.
We can’t afford any blowback on this one. We can’t run the risk of someone known to be a sympathiser by the locals caught nosing around. You’re from Dublin, no one knows you up here. Hell, no one knows you in Dublin. Have I made myself clear, boyo?
Eamonn was already putting together in his mind the brief outline of a plan as Moira drove him back to his car in Donegal.
Because of the press coverage his story received Donaldson was too well known to hide out in plain view, at least in a town of any consequence. Therefore, Eamonn surmised, he’d be tucked away somewhere very isolated. Isolation meant he’d need assistance with even the most basic of necessities. Who would he trust? Who’d be willing to take on the responsibility for a man abandoned? Eamonn intuited, only family would be able to answer
Donaldson’s last prayer.
An internet search of Donaldson’s extended family and property holdings uncovered nothing until, by chance, Eamonn hit on a lead. A newspaper article written long ago about Donaldson and his family spoke of a vague family connection to a small village north of Glenties where the extended family once vacationed.
It took Eamonn a further three weeks to pinpoint a small farmhouse eight-kilometres outside of Glenties and then positively identify Donaldson. The hideout was more a shack than a farmhouse, with no running water or electricity. In fact, as it was so isolated, planning the remainder of the operation proved to be a breeze. He passed on the intelligence he’d gathered, along with the plan he’d devised, to Clancy’s people and waited for their response. A week later he got his reply.
The operation was scheduled for the 19th of March but abruptly aborted at the last moment. Just as the team were performing their final scouting of the shack, Donaldson received an unexpected visitor. And, as it turned out, not just any visitor but a member of the press. Donaldson’s days of hiding were over. The ensuing discussions back in Dublin to determine all potential risks stretched on interminably.
A further 16 days elapsed before additional intel convinced Clancy the reporter’s appearance had no links whatsoever to Eamonn’s surveillance, and thereby, Clancy’s involvement. On the 4th of April, the threat of blowback averted, the traitor Donaldson was summarily executed. In the subsequent investigation by the Gardaí; no solid proof of IRA involvement surfaced. And Eamonn made his mark.
Turn A Blind Eye Page 5