Coming to the realisation he’d been complicit in the death of his wife, albeit unknowingly, would weigh heavily on Sam for the rest of his days. Which no amount of loyalty to the Republican cause would ever change.
Eamonn felt no such compunction. Though feeling sorry for Sam, he worried more about his own situation. He remained in just as much danger as Marnie. As was, perhaps, Sam. But right now, it was every man for himself. Someone was shutting down the operation. The heat suddenly too intense. And he, Eamonn, knew far too much.
A term came to mind he’d not heard uttered in a long time, but it took him back to a farmhouse outside Donegal.
‘Are you familiar with the term blowback, boyo?’
The words Stuart Clancy uttered that day rang in Eamonn’s ears just as if the smarmy bastard was sitting across from him, right there at the kitchen table, sipping on a cup of Sam’s coffee.
I need to be on my way, Sam. I’ve some matters to attend to. You look after yourself, alright?
Eamonn patted the broken man on the back and dropped a slip of paper on the kitchen counter. Before reaching the front door, he paused a moment then looked back over his shoulder.
Sam, I’ve left you my mobile number, if you need to talk.
Sam shook his head in acknowledgement.
Aye, Eamonn. You’re a good man, yourself. Let me walk you to the door.
On the front stoop, Eamonn shook Sam’s hand and gave the old soldier a heartfelt nod of the head; finding the right words beyond him.
The master of operational planning needed to on his way back to Dublin; he’d a new task to solve. The hour-long drive would give him much needed time to think.
He started the Opel, turned off the radio to help his concentration, then pointed the car in the direction of the motorway. His mind already working through his next steps, and step one was to trust no one. Combat rules committed to memory during the Troubles hastily dusted off and put back into service. There’d be no smuggling of arms over the border required of him this time, no Unionist patrols to avoid. But the threat remained all the same.
A few seconds later, farther down the road, a blue Ford sedan pulled out from behind a parked car and headed in the same direction.
***
When do we take him?
The driver the blue Ford sedan asked the question of his former Corporal. His eyes remained glued to the Opel Astra 100 metres ahead on the M50.
Just keep your distance. We’ll take him back at his home after dark. We just keep eyes on him until then.
James Hanrahan, former Corporal with the British Army, current field consultant with Howarth Investigations, relaxed in the passenger seat. Hanrahan did not cut an imposing sight at just under 170 centimetres and slight of build, which is why he enlisted Frank Treloar as back up. He glanced over at the hulk of a man shoehorned in behind the steering column; his T-shirt stretched to capacity trying to restrain his shoulders and biceps, the ham steaks he called hands set at ten and two on the wheel.
As far as assignments went, this one was shaping up to be a piece of cake. Granted, the two men weren’t required to do wet work very often, but Hanrahan imagined taking out a middle-aged Mick would be easy money.
I don’t understand why we didn’t take him out last night.
Hanrahan suppressed a sigh of frustration; he’d explained this to Treloar on more than one occasion throughout the cold night spent huddled in the car outside the house in Bray. But Hanrahan had plenty of patience for the big man. Treloar earning that right by saving his partner’s life on more than one occasion.
We only have orders to take down Mahoney. No point in making our life more difficult involving potential witnesses. Understand, big fella?
You’re the boss.
***
The drive along the motorway begun to soothe Eamonn’s frayed nerves, helping him to focus and commence forming a course of action. Marnie Coogan spoke out of place and she paid the price with her life, that left only Eamonn and possibly Sam as loose ends. Eamonn assumed the message sent with Marnie’s death, would also effectively neutralise Sam. And other than himself, only two men were at risk if the operation blew up in everyone’s faces. Father Moynihan in Rome and Stuart Clancy.
Eamonn just couldn’t envision a Vatican banker, across the Continent, assembling a team of assassins. Too clumsy. Overkill. And short of Interpol mounting a raid on the Vatican’s coffers, an independent state no less, the good Father still enjoyed multiple layers of plausible deniability.
That left Stuart Clancy. Tact was never his strong suit. Clancy would be the man to bring a howitzer to a knife fight. And the killing of Marnie Coogan reeked of his involvement.
Passing by the Leopardstown Racecourse, where only the grandstand was visible behind the high stone wall, Eamonn wondered what odds the bookmakers would give him on making it out of this predicament. What he needed was something to improve his chances. Leverage. He cracked a wry smile to his image in the rear-view mirror for he knew exactly how it could be applied. Clancy, for all his bluff and bluster was not infallible and he, Eamonn Mahoney, knew precisely how to press home the advantage. Now all he needed was to buy some time.
The ringing of his mobile phone from the front passenger seat brought his attention back to the present.
Aye?
Eamonn, it is me, Sam.
Yes, Sam. What is it?
Eamonn changed lanes to pass a white minivan then pulled back over to the slow lane.
I thought you should know, after you left another car headed past my house in the same direction. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but I think I saw it in the parking lot at the cemetery yesterday. You know, old habits…
Surviving the Troubles of the ’80s meant a keen ability to recognise surveillance. Not doing so, landed you in a British prison, or worse. While Eamonn worked mainly behind the scenes planning operations and performed a brief spot of gun running across the border, Sam spent his years on the frontlines. He’d likely avoided more British patrols and Unionist spies than Eamonn could ever hope to imagine.
What am I looking for, Sam?
Blue Ford Sedan. Two men. I didn’t get a license plate.
Eamonn searched the traffic in his rear-view mirror. He spotted a blue Ford behind the white minivan he’d just passed, about 100 metres back.
I see the bastards. You did good, Sam.
Eamonn, be safe.
Aye.
Eamonn broke the connection and maintained a steady speed.
Shite!
He’d run out of time. Eamonn quickly ran through his options. It didn’t take long; he didn’t have many. He could make a run for it and hope to lose his tail, but he didn’t think his old Opel up to the task. He could try to lose them on foot in the city centre, but he needed his car, and with two of them they could easily split up and keep both he and the car under surveillance. And with no weapon against two trained professionals, well, he didn’t like his chances if he spooked them unnecessarily.
His only form of protection, an old Taurus PT92 pistol, sat in the top drawer of his bedside table. The pistol, an IRA relic from the ’90s he’d kept rather than turn over to the British. It lay cleaned, oiled and ready for use; however, it meant leading his pursuers to his home. If he were them, he’d wait for darkness and make it look like a robbery gone awry. Why be more transparent than necessary?
Eamonn maintained a steady speed; still 30 minutes from home and the temporary safety it afforded. He gazed skyward to the grey ceiling above and which blanketed the hills. Having held off for most of the day, the rain appeared to be losing its patience. He faced a nervous three-hour wait for darkness; then he would either spring a trap of his choosing or die trying.
***
One thing the two men in the blue Ford sedan hadn’t counted on were the lively festivities the night before Good Friday at Kavanagh’s Pub. In three days, a parade through the city streets culminating in a ceremony at Dublin’s General Post Office would offici
ally commemorate the 100th anniversary of the Easter Rising. Tonight, the revellers were getting a head start on proceedings by celebrating just a stone’s throw from the graves of two of the architects, Michael Collins and Eamon de Valera. For the two Englishmen sitting in a cramped sedan across the square from Mahoney’s house, it was an added indignity.
Close to midnight the last of the drunk Irish punters staggered away from the darkened Kavanagh’s, and a few moments later Mahoney’s front room went dark. Both men made final checks on their weapons and went over the plan in detail one more time. They would wait another 30 minutes, giving the Irishman time to fall asleep, before they began their approach.
The soft tap on the side window took them both by surprise.
For fuck’s sake! If one more drunken Mick asks me for a light…
***
Eamonn peered through a small gap in the curtains of his upstairs window with amusement as the overflow crowd at Kavanagh’s kept the two men in the Ford under wraps. He surmised they wouldn’t make a move until the streets were quiet, and he hoped not until they assumed him asleep. Eamonn rubbed his face to retain his focus, having spent hours watching the car on the other side of the square. He stood, stretched his legs and back muscles, then glanced once again at the Taurus. The PT92 loomed large on the quilt at the end of his bed. He’d never used the weapon, but he’d not hesitate tonight. Eamonn kept repeating the thought over and over, hoping through repetition the courage required to do so would follow.
While repeating the mantra, he also watched and waited for the streets to clear. Ten minutes after the last of Kavanagh’s patrons staggered off home, he crept downstairs and set the timer on the light in his front room for five minutes. With the pistol secured in the back of his pants, he made his way out the back door and through the gate into the lane beyond.
Shielded by two large rubbish skips, he checked in both directions. Seeing no movement in the shadows, he kept to the darkest recesses and worked his way along the lane. He thought, if he’d have planned this operation, he’d have placed a lookout in the lane. He breathed a sigh of relief knowing the two men in the Ford weren’t as thorough.
At the end of the lane, a two-metre-high stone wall separated the homes from Glasnevin Cemetery. Fortunately, parked against the wall was a delivery van. Checking first to see he remained hidden, he used the van’s bonnet as a lever to propel himself over the wall.
Intermittent showers had begun soon after he returned home and as he landed in a soft clump of grass cuttings and plant compost, it again began to rain. A low-lying fog hovered over the maintenance equipment lying about the yard like a shroud. The ancient watchtower to his left which long ago guarded against grave robbers was swallowed up in the mist and darkness. He made his way to the right, picking his way carefully through the accumulated rubble, towards the arched gateway serving as one of the entrances to Glasnevin Cemetery.
Eamonn leant against the cold stone of the gatepost and checked his watch; less than four minutes had elapsed since he slipped through his back door. The soft rain beaded on his jacket and ran under his collar and down his neck. He flexed his fingers sheathed in thin latex gloves to maintain a measure of warmth and waited. From his vantage point, he could see both the soft glow of light illuminating his front room and the rear of the Ford 30 metres ahead. In the darkness, he couldn’t see if the two men were still sitting inside the cabin. If not, he’d need another plan.
A plan he’d yet to formulate.
The timer expired a moment later and plunged his home into darkness. Time to move; he prayed his legs obeyed the command. Crouching as low as he could, using other parked cars as a blind, he made his way to the back of the vehicle, then quickly to the passenger side window.
***
No, I don’t have a…
The former army Corporal wound down his window half way and turned towards the man standing beside the vehicle.
The first bullet caught him above the left ear, the second in his left eye. He was dead before tipping to his right onto the burly former Private frantically trying to wipe Hanrahan’s blood from his face whilst reaching for his gun.
Two additional shots to the head extinguished the life of Frank Treloar, his blood and skull fragments coating the inside of the driver’s side window.
***
Eamonn ducked low beside the vehicle waiting to see if the noise woke any of his neighbours. He took in large gulps of air trying to control his breathing and thought his heart would burst from his chest at any moment. As his breathing slowed and the ringing in his ears dissipated, he half rose from his crouched position and peered around the square for signs of movement. He hoped the shots would be mistaken for a few last fireworks which the night’s earlier festivities produced in abundance. The square remained dark and silent, his luck was holding.
Easing open the passenger side door, he quickly extinguished the interior light. He left the dead men’s firearms in place to let the Gardaí puzzle over, then searched for clues to their identity. Nothing in their pockets. Professionals. In the glove compartment, he found a yellow legal-sized envelope, he folded it in half and slipped it into his jacket’s inner pocket.
With nothing further to be gained, Eamonn crouched low and took off across the verge and down the lane bordering the stone wall of the cemetery. The need to conceal his presence from the two men over; however, a sprinkling of lights begun to appear in several homes. Speed was now an imperative. At the intersection of the lane leading to his home’s back fence, and shielded from prying eyes, he paused to catch his breath. Leaning against a brick wall, he suppressed the urge to throw up. His legs felt like slabs of marble, the adrenaline coursing through his body moments earlier, quickly ebbing away. He’d never killed a man before, and as the scene replayed over and over in his mind, he hoped to never have to again. With an almighty heave, he threw the gun as far as he could over the cemetery fence. With any luck, it would be lost forever in the rubble and debris of the maintenance yard. Even still, the gun was untraceable, and he’d wiped it clean of any prints before he’d left the house. The gloves he wore, he’d burn in his fireplace.
Safely back home, Eamonn tossed his jacket, shirt and pants in the washer and started the machine’s wash cycle. He stared into the bathroom mirror before scrubbing away a few traces of blood from his face and neck, dried himself and made his way to the kitchen. He poured a large whiskey, and as he gulped it down the first sirens broke the night’s silence.
Eamonn climbed the stairs and fell wearily onto the bed. He smoothed the creases from the envelope he’d lifted from the dead men and emptied the contents. It contained a photo of himself, taken some time in the past year, and with his address scrawled on the back. A smaller envelope within contained two British passports, a small stack of euros and two British Airway’s tickets. The photos of two dead men stared blankly from the passports. The names meant nothing, but matched those on the round-trip tickets for tomorrow evening’s flight from London Heathrow to Melbourne via Hong Kong.
What this meant, he couldn’t be sure. He needed time to think. He’d eliminated one threat, but couldn’t be sure there wouldn’t be more in the coming days. He leant back against the headboard, closed his eyes, and as the room began to rotate around his bed he tried in vain to piece together the discordant parts.
Why was Clancy so spooked? Then four gunshots jagged through his mind’s eye. Why British passports, a ruse? Blood, hair, skin and bone exploded before his eyes in a kaleidoscopic spray. Where and how did Australia fit in? Father William Moynihan made the sign of the cross above an open grave, the name on the headstone read Mahoney.
Eamonn fell into a troubled sleep minutes before the revolving blue lights from the Gardaí vehicles illuminated his room.
Melbourne, Australia
Sunday, March 27
The Queen Victoria Market, a fixture in Melbourne since the late 1870s, sprawled across 17 acres just north of the central business district.
I
paced back and forth in front of the iconic façade, at the corner of Elizabeth and Victoria Streets, waiting for Judy. She’d mentioned once she enjoyed strolling through the rows and rows of stalls. I hadn’t been here in years, and really had no desire to be here, but thought it a good choice to entice her to spend some together.
We’d struck a somewhat uneasy truce after my pressuring her into stealing the patient’s records. Our conversations at the hospice, when we’d crossed paths, perfunctory. She’d not asked why I needed the patient’s information and I’d not shared anything of Dayne’s discoveries. Nor did I mention her stealing medication. For the time being, our duelling swords of Damocles remained in suspended animation over both our heads.
A tram glided smoothly to a stop, and I smiled as Judy jumped nimbly from the top step to the kerb. She’d dressed casually in jeans and a white V-necked T-shirt, a thin yellow scarf hung loosely around her neck. A large purple handbag slung over one shoulder matched her low-heeled shoes, and a jacket lay folded over her left arm. I waved to get her attention. She noticed, smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
Have you been waiting long?
No, just 15 minutes or so. What’s with the huge handbag? You planning on wreaking havoc in the clothing aisles?
Oh, no. I needed to bring my work clothes. They called to see if I could work an extra shift this afternoon. I guess one of the other girls wanted to spend Easter Sunday with her family. No skin off my nose. I still have a few hours though to spend here.
So where to first?
Turn A Blind Eye Page 23