Tested by Fire

by David Costa

  Reece made his way to the top of Grosvenor Street just off the square. Corrigan’s was one of his favourite restaurants in London, one he’d used many times. He’d first used it the year he’d recruited Mary McAuley.

  She’d travelled to London on a shopping and theatre weekend bus trip from Belfast. It gave Reece his opportunity to carry out a long debriefing of information. It also gave him the opportunity to work on her agent tradecraft; the kind she’d need to stay alive. Realistically, to make sure they would both stay alive. He’d taken her to Corrigan’s on her second night when she was supposed to go to the theatre.

  Mary had turned up with her flowing black hair combed to fall loosely on her shoulders and down her back. She wore a fifties style floral dress. Her brown eyes and dark olive skin gave off a Latin complexion. Reece had forgotten how beautiful she was. He’d tried to be the ultimate professional, but he knew from that night his feelings for Agent Mike would never be the same again. He briefed her on how to contact him using her code name and agent number, BC15, and helped her memorise the special agent phone number. Never to write down anything connecting them both.

  Mary took everything on-board quickly, understanding everything Reece explained to her, she was a good listener. Reece had known from the start that she was a smart woman. The more they met and talked, the more he knew the path she’d chosen had been decided after much thought and heart-searching.

  The dinner in Corrigans had gone on for some time with two bottles of Chablis, a favourite of his, and one Mary seemed to enjoy as well. She’d given him a sense of what the Republican movements were thinking at that time. What they were discussing and planning with regard to the terrorist campaign and their political movement led by Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness. The peace talks had been going on in the background with the British Government.

  Eventually, the talk of violence and destruction drained from the conversation and she began to open up and speak about her personal life. Her marriage was disintegrating. The drunken abuse from Brendan meant she’d reached the point where she could take it no longer. She wanted to leave but had no money, nowhere to live, and no one she could talk to with any trust. She was opening up to Reece in her own way, a cry for help, without coming straight out and saying so. She was a proud woman. Reece reassured her as best he could. He told her he would always be there for her and he would help her, one step at a time, to leave Brendan and find a new life just for her.

  Throughout the night, Reece had to keep reminding himself to be professional. Getting personally involved would be dangerous. But he couldn’t help himself. There was something about this woman that broke down his barriers. Her beauty, her vulnerability, her intelligence. All combined to overwhelm his senses. He found himself holding her hand across the table, looking into her dark eyes, and smiling when she smiled. Reece had been through bad relationships, marriage, and divorce, so he could understand her pain although his pain had been psychological. He could see the tears welling in her eyes.

  He felt that night that he’d said what she’d hoped to hear. When he walked her to the taxi rank, she was quiet. As they parted, she squeezed his hand and, leaning close to him, she kissed him on his cheek. As she turned towards her taxi, she looked back over her shoulder and said, with a smile, that she’d enjoyed the evening and she’d call him soon.

  Reece had told her in the restaurant that if she ever needed to talk to him on a matter that would take time to discuss and if she could make it, Corrigans would be the place to meet. Otherwise, the laneways, lay-bys, and secure safe houses in Northern Ireland would have to do.

  Now, as one o’clock approached, he watched her get out of a taxi further down the street and casually check around. Deciding she was clear, she walked up the street towards him and into Corrigans fifty yards away.

  Chapter Eleven

  Reece spoke into his mike again. ‘Control, target arrived safely and moving to rendezvous, will be in touch.’

  ‘Roger, Alpha One, understood, standing by.’ The voice sounded loud in his ear, but he knew that only he would have heard it.

  Reece walked the fifty yards to Corrigans, entering at one o’clock on the dot.

  The restaurant was busy, but he was able to spot Mary seated near the window, facing the door and before the maître d’ could ask him if he needed a table, Reece said, ‘I’m OK thanks, my friend’s already here.’

  Mary smiled as he sat down. ‘I’ve always wanted to come back here ever since my theatre weekend when you wined and dined me.’ Reece loved her smile. It seemed to light up the whole world. Her eyes sparkled, her smile meant she cared when she asked, ‘How are you, Joseph?’

  ‘I’m well.’ Before he could say anything more, the waiter hovered at the table.

  ‘Good afternoon, my name is John, and I’ll be your waiter today.’ After presenting them with menus, they both ordered the soup of the day and the wild Atlantic salmon in a dill, garlic, and parsley sauce.

  ‘How about some wine, Mary? The one we had the last time?’

  ‘That would be wonderful.’

  ‘We’ll have a bottle of Chablis and can you bring some ice water as well please?’

  ‘A very good choice, sir.’ The waiter nodded his head and walked back towards the bar at the rear of the restaurant.

  ‘Now,’ said Reece. ‘Where were we? I’ve always liked this place. Maybe it’s the Irish name that reminds me of home, or maybe it’s that the bar reminds me of Robinsons bar opposite the Europa in Belfast. Or, maybe, it’s just that it brings back good memories all around.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Maybe that’s why I like it too. I sat here yesterday eating alone but somehow it still felt like you were here.’

  ‘I didn’t get your message until late yesterday. But, I’m here now; we can talk while we eat.’

  Reece noticed that Mary had put in the effort. She’d dressed well for lunch. She wore a navy-blue trouser suit with a white linen blouse and a dark blue scarf hanging loosely around her neck; a simple set of pearl earrings and matching necklace. Light red lipstick with a dusting of brown eyeshadow enhanced her eyes and olive skin. He was sure a few of the customers and staff had noticed her when she’d come into the restaurant. The waiter brought the wine letting Mary sample a taste before pouring for both and leaving the bottle with the bucket of ice on the table.

  Reece tasted the wine. Memories of the last time he’d been here with her. He’d thought that now he’d left Special Branch all those days were behind him, yet here she was again as if there had been no ceasefire, no Peace Process, and the dangers had returned. Despite the wine, his mouth felt dry and he was sure that throbbing pain in his shoulder was stronger than yesterday.

  ‘So, Mary, your message was pretty specific. Democracy is in danger. What’s up?’

  She smiled. ‘What, no small talk? Didn’t you miss me? How have you been, Mary?’

  ‘Of course, I missed you. I always hoped you were well, and we’d meet again but not under these circumstances. When you hadn’t been in touch, I thought you’d left all this behind you. I heard a rumour you’d divorced Brendan.’

  ‘Yes. When he went inside for that armed robbery, I was able to push it through. I sold up and moved back to Belfast. I live there now on the Lisburn Road.’

  Reece knew it was because of the information provided by Mike that he’d been able to set up the operation in Newry that caught Brendan McAuley coming out of the town Post Office with a balaclava on his head and a gun and a bag of money in his hand. Reece had promised Mike that they wouldn’t shoot Brendan unless he gave them no option; he didn’t. When he walked out of the Post Office it seemed to him, his luck had run out when a police patrol had been passing at the same time. The operation had been set up to allow the young getaway driver to escape. This would reinforce the feeling that the appearance of a passing police patrol was just bad luck. As Brendan had carried out the robbery on his own accord, more fool him. There was no inquiry by the PIRA internal investigation
team; commonly known as the Nutting Squad. Brendan was given a beating when he was on remand for doing the job without permission and losing a perfectly good pistol.

  John, the waiter came again, and took their food order then, leaving with a slight bow, returned to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry I was unable to keep in touch. I’ve missed our chats, but I’ve left the force a while now,’ Reece said.

  ‘But you still work in the game?’

  ‘Yes, but for a bigger company with a bigger remit.’

  ‘That’s good because you’re going to need that bigger company with the bigger remit,’ she said with a smile that didn’t show her teeth.

  ‘Is it anything to do with Sean Costello?’

  ‘Yes, and this time he’s mixing business with the Islamic crowd.’

  Reece didn’t expect that. Republicans and Islamic Jihad usually kept away from each other, both ideologies went about their own terrorism from different points of view.

  ‘In what way?’ asked Reece.

  ‘Well, to bring you up to date I must go back some time in my story. What I’m going to tell you, some of which you may already know, starts in Iran and Lebanon some years ago. When Sean Costello joined the Provisional IRA, it was quickly noticed how good a shot he was and how ruthless he could be. At that time, the movement was very closely associated with other terrorist groups such as Black September, Basque Separatists, and the German Baader-Meinhof gang. The top players in these organisations were sent to Arab training camps throughout the Middle East, sponsored by the likes of Gaddafi and Iran. It was at these camps the best the terror groups had to offer went to finishing school; polishing their skills and making them deadly killers. This is where Costello learnt to be an even more efficient killer with all kinds of weapons and explosives. Being that kind of boiling pot for the many terrorist groups of that time, it was inevitable that friendships would be forged across the boundaries of the different ideologies. Friendships that bring me here today. I have to tell you now, one of those forged friendships will be visiting this country soon with a deadly intent.’

  Reece hesitated before he took another sip of the cold Chablis.

  ‘I presume Costello is one side of this deadly friendship. Most of what you’ve already said, especially where Costello is concerned indicates he is. I know only too well his particular skills.’ As Reece spoke, he instinctively felt his right shoulder with his left hand, squeezing the muscle gently.

  ‘Correct, and this is where the other half comes in. Have you ever heard the name Sharon Lyndsey?’

  Reece had not only heard of her; he’d been given her file by Jim Broad when he first joined the Department. The White Widow.

  Reece had been surprised to see that she’d been born in the town of Banbridge in Northern Ireland in 1983. Reece had been living in the same town at that time while working in the Newry Special Branch office.

  The file had told him that Lyndsey’s father had been a British soldier and during her early years, she’d moved to England with the family where she’d grown up and converted to Islam. She’d married one of the London July Seven suicide bombers, Germaine Lindsay, and earned the White Widow moniker. She’d claimed not to have known anything about the bomb attacks, or her husband’s involvement with extreme Islamic Jihad, and the police had accepted this.

  The file went on to say that she’d taken her young family to South Africa and then to Kenya where she became an important cog in the ranks of Al Shabab and al-Qaeda. She was involved in organising the Islamic attacks in the region. She also appeared to be deeply involved in the financing of the terrorist campaigns.

  Mary sipped her wine while watching Reece for his reaction.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of her, and from what I’ve heard she’s a nasty piece of work. What’s all this about?’

  ‘As I said, it’s a bit of a long story. Somewhere along the line, she and Costello crossed paths, most likely in one of the training camps they both attended, God knows, but they met. Now they’re working together to attack this country, a spectacular as you might call it.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ asked Reece.

  ‘One week ago, I met up with Kevin O’Hagan in Belfast. To say he was angry is an understatement. He told me that working with the Brits and Unionists was always going to be difficult without idiots like the Real IRA and Sean Costello sticking their oar in. He said there was talk that Costello was planning a big job on the British mainland and he would be working with the Islamic Jihad under the control of Sharon Lyndsey. All he knew was that it was going to happen soon and would involve them killing someone of high importance.’

  ‘How does O’Hagan know this?’

  ‘He’s been speaking to some guy who used to be PIRA but has now moved over to the Real IRA. This guy doesn’t mind attacking Brits but not if it means getting into bed with Islamic nut cases. His words, not mine. The guy went with Costello to an old PIRA weapons hide near the border in South Armagh. There they removed a sniper rifle, ammo and some Semtex. Then he went with Costello to the hills near Forkhill and he did lookout while Costello zeroed-in the rifle with a few rounds. All Costello would say was that he would be away the first week of October and that he was working with some old friends from the Middle East. The guy also claimed Costello said something about the White Widow and a high-grade Brit target but nothing clearer than that. He didn’t even think it was sanctioned by the Real IRA headquarters but rather Costello operating as a rogue warrior.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll be able to find out any more information?’

  ‘Maybe, if I meet with O’Hagan again. But I don’t think he knows much more.’

  ‘Well, see what you can do but don’t take any unnecessary risks.’

  ‘I’ll try but no promises.’

  Reece poured them both some more wine. ‘It’s the twenty-fourth September so we don’t have much time before whatever Costello is up to happens. I’ll give you a secure access mobile phone number, so you can get me at any time. Where are you staying?’

  ‘I got a good deal at the IBIS beside Wembley Stadium. I’m going to be here two more nights then back to Belfast.’

  ‘Wembley, that’s a bit far out?’

  ‘Best I could do at short notice. Anyway, there’s a straight run into the city centre from the station just opposite the hotel.’

  ‘If you ever need to get over in the future, I can pick up the expenses and get you a hotel nearer the city centre. Talking about expenses.’ Reece took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

  ‘There’s five thousand in there.’

  She started to protest as she always did when Reece gave her money. She wanted to think that what she was doing was saving innocent lives and not being a traitor to the cause, her country, or her people. Reece held up his hands and explained as he always did.

  ‘Look, it’s for expenses. Plane tickets and hotels don’t come cheap. When you’re on my time, I pay, not you.’

  The fact that he always made it seem that the money came from him personally and not a shadowy organisation seemed to satisfy her sense of morals. She smiled and put the envelope in her handbag.

  ‘If you need more for emergencies, let me know.’

  Reece thought back to a male agent he used to run in Newry PIRA who had the complete opposite view when it came to be being paid for his information. He would always tell Reece the same sentence in Gaelic which he would then translate. ‘Talk’s cheap but drink costs money.’

  Agents became agents for many reasons. Some were caught doing bad things and the offer to become an agent, source, informer, whatever you wanted to call it, outweighed many years in jail; their own get out of jail free card.

  Reece preferred agent or source. When he’d attended the Agents Handling Course with MI5 in London, he remembered the instructors teaching the reasons someone became an agent. They did it for two main reasons, the first being money. The money to pay the agent could increase depending on the quality and
the frequency of the information they provided. If the agent’s motivation was money at the start, they would work hard to bring in the kind of information that brought the biggest financial reward. The problem with the agent motivated by money was they could end up taking too many risks and expose themselves to questions from within their own organisation. Being too nosey and asking too many questions could lead to being set up by their own people who would then give them disinformation. They would then sit back to see what the reaction of the security forces would be thus exposing the agent’s double cross. The agent would then, after torture end up in a ditch with a bullet in the head. The second problem with the agent motivated by money was that they would start to invent the information just to get more money. A good handler would soon spot this as the agent never seemed to realise there were many other sources reporting in at the same time and when all the information was pulled together like a giant jigsaw, the false information provided by the greedy agent would stand out like a sore thumb.

  If an agent was good or bad, if they could produce good or bad intelligence depended, to a large extent, on how good the handler was. The term to babysit was used because, that’s what a good agent handler became: a good babysitter. When an agent is first recruited, how long the agent produces good intelligence and how long they stayed alive depends on the understanding built up between the handler and the agent. The handler looked after the agent as a babysitter would a child. Teaching them to walk before they can run, what to say, dangers to look for, even down to how to spend money. Many agents were lost because they couldn’t handle the fact that all of a sudden, they had a large flow of unaccounted cash to spend. A good handler taught the agent well at every aspect of the game as they arose. The handler also needed to study the agent. Know their personal background and habits through and through. What makes them tick? Do they have a drink or drug problem? Are they a gambler? Do they have problems at home? And most important: do they really listen? Can they do this without bringing suspicion on themselves by their actions or what they say? But above all, can they be trusted?