by Thomas Waugh
“You are becoming more addicted to shopping than I am,” Victoria half-joked the other month. As usual his wife was right. To save himself resembling a well-dressed packhorse, Porter arranged for his purchases to be posted to him.
The club was far from busy, with many of its members away for the holidays. When Porter strolled out onto the terrace, however, he still met someone he knew.
Sir David Peston had been compared, unfairly or not, to Lord Adonis, for his campaigning zeal to re-join the European Union. No personal attack was too spurious, no fact too fictional, no newspaper column too partisan for the Liberal Democrat MP. Physically Peston was no Adonis. Indeed, he looked more like Cyril Smith. Porter quite literally pressed the flesh when he shook his hand. His thick, pink lips were rimmed with red wine. Light reflected off his domed forehead and “Re-join, Rejuvenate” enamel badge. Porter was introduced to Tarquin Thorpe, Peston’s lunch guest, who worked as an adviser to aid development officers. His advice was always to spend the budget, lest they try and slash it the following year. Porter did not ask, but Peston proceeded to tell his fellow club member what he was up to:
“I have just been asked to join the Fair State think tank. They are even deigning to name an essay prize after me,” Peston remarked, placing a palm on his breast, whilst declining to mention that he would only take the position if they named the prize after him. “Gordon and Tony are fighting once more, over me. They would like me to give a speech for their foundations. But they insist that if I attend one, I cannot attend the other. I feel like a young girl, with two date offers for the prom… Did you see me on the BBC? The teaching unions rallied around me immediately… I am still fighting the good fight. We must enlighten the electorate, or ignore it… My flock is growing, as you may have noticed. I now have more fans or followers or what not than Hilary Benn, I am told… I am just a messenger though. The message is more important that just one man… Did you see my piece in The Observer? I did it for gratis, or for the cause, of course - but I made the editor pay for it over lunch.”
Porter nodded politely, or wearily. He noted how Peston often used religious language in his conversation, as if he were a frustrated vicar. His “flock” referred to his followers on Twitter. He called people who disagreed with him “heretics”. A federal Europe was also still “the promised land”. Lord Adonis was his “John the Baptist”. Porter had a few other choice names for the cretinous peer. Porter dared not disclose his sin to Peston, that he had sided with the “the unbelievers” and voted to leave the EU too.
Porter experienced his own religious moment, as he prayed for Marshal to arrive and save him. Thankfully, his prayers were answered. Perhaps he was not such a sinner after all, Porter fancied.
Traffic hummed beneath them, along the Victoria Embankment. The terrace was bathed in sunshine. The two men greeted one another warmly. Marshal was dressed smartly.
“It’s good to see you, James,” Porter remarked, his voice as polished as his shoes. He was going to add that Marshal looked well, but he feared it might be interpreted as sarcasm. The burgeoning bags under his eyes betrayed how his friend had been put through the ringer. Or he was putting himself through the ringer. Marshal could also be suffering withdrawal symptoms from Grace. She was good for him. Grace helped the soldier combat boredom and other inner demons. But, in combating Mullen, Marshal would need to unleash the devil in him, Porter mused.
“How are Victoria and the children?”
“Expensive, but worth it, as usual. My daughter has a new boyfriend. His name is Gideon – and that may be the least weird thing about him, I worry. I am tempted to have Mariner run a background check on him, just in case he has a criminal record or, worse, is a member of Momentum. I am pleased to say that my son is beginning to appreciate the pleasures of a good single malt. He also appreciates the need to conceal his new habits from his mother. I just need to teach him about Edmund Burke – and some misogynistic jokes – and he will be a man. Victoria is going through a phase of inviting our neighbours around to lunch and dinner. Her plan has worked. To escape further social engagements, I have booked us a holiday.”
After having a couple of drinks on the terrace they retreated to the dining area. Porter shifted a little uncomfortably in his chair when he first sat down. When he glanced up, he found himself facing a large portrait of Paddy Ashdown looking down on him. Porter thought how he was not the only member of the public that the enlightened Liberal Democrat looked down upon. Claiming that the sun was in his eyes, Porter moved chairs – and was relieved to find himself staring at Lord Rosebery.
Porter ordered a bottle of Pomerol and some food. Marshal proceeded to talk about Foster, the murder, and his dealings with Martin Coulson. His features occasionally became taut, when he mentioned his friend or Mullen, but his tone remained remarkably even. Emotionless. He was a soldier, debriefing an officer. The fixer listened intently, infrequently interrupting Marshal to ask a question or clarify a point. At one point, Porter realised that he was steepling his fingers, like Sherlock Holmes.
“These files will hopefully make your task easier. But, even if they do make things easier, the job will still be incredibly difficult,” Porter warned, as he handed Marshal the USB stick. “To get to Mullen, you will need to take Duggan off the board first, else he will come for you afterwards… Mullen has considerable resources to bear. With just one phone call he can mobilise a couple of dozen foot-soldiers. His security team are paramilitaries. They just dress themselves in suits rather than balaclavas nowadays, albeit not particularly well-tailored suits if the surveillance images are anything to go by.”
“It will be difficult for Mullen to speak on the phone, if I blow half his head off,” Porter drily countered. “I also know about Duggan. If seven grams of lead solves any problem, I’ll need fourteen.”
12.
Marshal claimed he needed to meet a friend, so as to cut short the lunch meeting. Not only was he eager to return home and examine the contents of Mariner’s files, but he wanted to avoid the subject of Grace. For once the two men did not request the dessert menu or order a brandy or three. Porter was in no mood to be cornered by Peston and one of his tribe, so he paid the bill with his customary fifty-pound tip, left with his guest, and walked towards Whitehall to flag down a taxi. The sky had grown overcast. The air smelled of diesel and damp. Yammering tourists - dressed in all manner of garish garments and carrying selfie-sticks and other paraphernalia - stood in stark contrast to the sombre-suited government employees shuffling from one pointless meeting to the next.
“Let me know how much I owe you for the files – and how you would like me to pay you. I am grateful for your help, Oliver.”
“You can owe me a comparable favour, rather than any money. Just make sure you stay alive long enough to pay me back - and promise me something. That if you have any doubts about what you are doing, or if you feel you are unable to complete your mission, you will walk away. Remember that your friend was willing to walk away. There will not be any dishonour in doing the same. We are in Whitehall. Downing St is across the way. This is the home of broken promises. Also, Victoria would kill me if you broke Grace’s heart.”
“I am not intending to break either Grace’s heart or my word,” Marshal said, with more conviction than was perhaps warranted.
“If you need anything else, just let me know. Mullen is a problem that I do not help mind coming out of retirement to fix.”
“Thanks, hopefully I’ll be fine,” Marshal replied, as he thought that he could purchase all he would need. He also possessed the contents of Foster’s black holdall.
The two friends soon after hailed down cabs and drove off in opposite directions.
Marshal made a pot of coffee when he got home. Whilst he was doing so, he poured the contents of half a bottle of whisky he had down the sink. He wanted a clear head and to be free of temptation. As much as he had drunk as a soldier when he could, he never went out on patrol half-cut or hungover. He checked his ph
one for any messages from Grace. Nothing. A different kind of ache afflicted his innards. He needed to pour a different kind of temptation down the sink.
Work would save him. Marshal lit a cigarette, downed half a cup of coffee, opened his laptop, and inserted the USB stick. He had already read a wealth of articles on the internet about his target, as well as his self-serving autobiography, but Mariner’s files would tell Marshal what Mullen did not want people to know about his past. Politicians were fond of re-writing the past. The brief of his memoir, Green Peace, seemed to be to laud and exonerate its subject, whilst denigrating Gerry Adams. The files would allow Marshal to pull back the wizard’s curtain. The intelligence was extensive, going back decades. They also covered the recent surveillance operation and investigation into the murder suspect.
The Mullen clan might have been considered republican royalty. The history of the cause ran through the family, like words running through a stick of rock. John Mullen was always heir apparent to be a Brigade Commander – or rise even higher. Intelligence reports recorded that Mullen had taken part in punishment beatings, extortion and robberies as a teenager. Mullen was a gangster as much as a terrorist. It was not long before he also took part in “floats” where, along with a few other armed volunteers, Mullens would ride around the streets of Belfast in the hope of encountering and firing upon a British Army patrol. During his time in the Belfast Brigade Mullen was a participant in torture sessions, executions and bombings. One of his signature torture techniques was to use a razor to remove a victim’s skin and flesh, so they could glimpse their own shin bone. His pipe and nail bombs killed soldiers and civilians alike. Nothing could quite be proven for certain, however, then or now.
Mullen’s reputation, authority and responsibilities grew within the Provisional IRA, both on the political and military front. He wrote various pieces of propaganda, condemning the faction within their ranks which advocated Marxism – and Ireland becoming a socialist state. “The IRA should not endeavour to be the ANC. I have no intention of spilling my blood to free myself from British imperialism, to then live under the yoke of the Soviet Empire. I am a Catholic, not a comrade.”
Some of the intelligence could have been classified as hearsay. The author of Green Peace was a far from disinterested commentator. Mullen claimed to have a hand in designing the logo of the Provisional IRA, in the form of a phoenix rising from the ashes. He argued that he was instrumental in securing funds and arms from the Libyans when the IRA negotiated with Colonel Gaddafi. Similarly, it was his decision for the IRA to adopt the Armalite rifle as its weapon of choice, to improve the firepower of their soldiers and become a force to be reckoned with.
What was tellingly absent from the “tell-all” autobiography, as opposed to being covered by the intelligence files, was Mullen’s involvement in rooting out informers in the organisation. Not all loyalists could have been described as such during the Troubles. The British, through bribery or other forms of coercion, compelled a surprising number of volunteers to betray the cause. The punishment for informing was a single bullet to the head. The files alleged that Mullen was responsible for pulling the trigger on over a dozen of those bullets, until he charged Duggan with finding and punishing touts on the Divis housing estate, and elsewhere.
Duggan embraced his new duties, arguably displaying too much zeal. The thug was judge, jury and executioner in some instances. The killings were not always sanctioned by the Army Council or Brigade Commanders. Duggan abducted combatants and non-combatants alike. Before firing the ritual bullet to the head, Mullen’s lieutenant would interrogate/torture his victims. Chip fat was poured over the head of suspected touts. Genitals were burned or cut off with butcher knives or garden shears. Eyes were gouged out and stuffed into mouths. Kneecaps were drilled into. One intelligence report speculated that Mullen used his position – and Duggan – as a tool to remove rivals and enemies within the Provisional IRA. As well as battling with other paramilitary organisations, there was endless in-fighting between factions within the command structure. For some, the bombings were too frequent or not frequent enough. Victory could only come via militaristic – or political – progress. Gerry Adams and the Northern Command had too much, or not enough, power. There were too many, or too few, attacks on the mainland. Marshal read one aside in a report about the various nicknames and codenames they gave to the opposing, squabbling groups.
The Big and Little Enders. The Capulets and Montagues. Liverpool and Everton.
As well as reporting on a rise of people being disappeared, Marshal also scrutinised a file which speculated on Duggan being behind an increase in sniping in Belfast, after he returned from his training in Libya. A couple of Mullen’s rivals were assassinated. One killing involved a member of the Belfast Brigade, Tommy Byrne, being assassinated outside an office that Mullen occupied in the city centre. The shooter had positioned himself on the roof opposite the offices. Byrne was due to have a meeting with Mullen. In theory, it was an ambush rather than an assassination. Duggan had cut down his target with just one shot. It was a shot that most snipers would be proud of. Marshal mused that if ever he entered into Duggan’s sights, it wouldn’t be for long.
Marshal read on. The self-proclaimed “man of peace” still ordered punishment beatings during the Good Friday talks. It was difficult to tell how much the likes of Adams, McGuiness and envoys in the British government excluded Mullen from the high-level discussions, or how much he initially stood apart, lest the wind changed and he was considered a traitor to the cause. Although it was debatable how much credit could be given to Mullen for the Good Friday Agreement, he certainly profited from it. He won a seat in parliament, through dubious campaign methods. The soldier re-branded himself as a statesman. Speaking tours ensued in the US. He popped up as a regular commentator on various news outlets. Intelligence reports cited how Mullen still remained close to the Real IRA. The US speaking tour served as a front for Mullen to fund raise, although after 9-11 the well ran dry in relation to donors electing to finance terrorism. America’s sudden but understandable reluctance to put money into the coffers of those who utilised violence and terror was one of the principal reasons why the IRA sued for peace. The sinews of war are infinite money, Marshal thought, quoting Cicero.
John Mullen was adept at covering his tracks. He regularly used burner or encrypted phones. Criminal and terrorist activities were carried out by proxies, like Duggan. He could always claim plausible deniability. His money was laundered by the same accounting company which serviced Russian oligarchs. There was neither a paper nor blood trail to his misdeeds. The authorities could never quite find enough evidence, or witnesses willing to testify against Mullen. The politician secured elements of diplomatic status for himself and key personnel too, which meant that even if charges could be brought against Mullen, he may still be immune from prosecution. Although Coulson was able to deploy watchers to surveil his suspect, the powers that be refused to allow his team to bug the politician’s home and office. The Special Branch officer was fighting with one arm behind his back.
Marshal read the surveillance reports intently, although the operation yielded little valuable intelligence to help build a case against their target. But Marshal was not looking to build a case and operate within the law. It seemed that Mullen did not just deceive his constituents on a regular basis. Not only did he lead a second life, in relation to his ties to the Real IRA, but few knew about his mistress, one Josephine Quinn. It was unlikely that the love nest Mullen had set up for the ex-escort possessed bullet-proof windows. The surveillance report also revealed that Mullen rarely travelled unaccompanied. Duggan stuck to him like a barnacle. He upped the security detail after the murder, as a precautionary measure. Mullen’s driver also carried a gun. His apartment building and offices contained CCTV. Planting an IED was out of the question, for fear of injuring others. The politician, due to various commitments, amorous or otherwise, did not appear to have a rigid schedule from week to week. It would be diffi
cult, but not impossible, to plan something in advance, Marshal surmised.
As well as files on Mullen and Duggan, Marshal took particular note of the material on Fergal Nolan. Coulson had not questioned the auxiliary member of Mullen’s security team, although Duggan had provided the policeman with alibis for his colleagues. Their statements unsurprisingly corroborated one another’s. Coulson noted that Nolan had travelled to Cuba a couple of days after the crime. Nolan had flown back to London, via Belfast, in the past week, however.
Marshal took in a few photos of the thirty-year-old suspect. He looked like a young Paul Gascoigne – but dour, with short ginger-hair and a torso covered in tattoos of IRA and Celtic FC emblems. Most of the photographs consisted of Nolan dressed in an array of tracksuits, topped off with a baseball cap, talking to fellow persons of interest to the RUC. It seemed that Nolan spent half his time in the gym, and half his time in various pubs. His build was compact, muscular. Cauliflower ears betrayed how Nolan had followed in the footsteps of his cousin, in more ways than one, and boxed.