Maguire fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a key which he fitted into the padlock, turning it and snapping it loose. The chain fell away and he pushed the door, which opened with relative ease apart from a squeal of protest which came from hinges that hadn’t tasted oil for many years.
A stench of neglect and damp swept out into the early morning air, making Flynn cough as he inhaled the dank odour.
Billy Dolan turned the van and reversed it up to the door of the mausoleum, then climbed out and threw the back doors open. Maguire pulled the torch from his belt and entered the ancient edifice, closely followed by Flynn. It was as black as pitch inside, the beams of the torches scarcely cutting through the tenebrous gloom. Ahead of them was a short flight of steps, slippery with mould. The walls were also stained green, and in several places the stone had been breached, allowing rain through to further erode the construction. As Maguire moved towards the steps, Flynn shone his torch around the inside of the small tomb. There were at least five coffins, each one lying on a ledge protruding from the wall. Flynn half-expected to see rats sitting up on the coffin lids but there were none. There were only one or two dusty cobwebs on the boxes, too. He seemed almost disappointed.
‘Damien, come down here.’
Maguire’s voice, lancing through the darkness, startled Flynn, but he regained his composure and scuttled towards the short flight of steps, using his torch as a guide. Careful not to slip on the mould he made his way down to where Maguire was standing.
He was leaning against one of half-a-dozen crates, each one about six feet by three. The wood was new; Flynn could smell its tangy odour even through the mustiness of the tomb. A crowbar lay on top of one of the boxes and Maguire used it to prise the first one open. Inside there was a layer of straw. The IRA man pulled some of the straw away and dug his hand in, smiling as he raised his find like some kind of prize.
‘Jesus,’ murmured Flynn, shining his torch on his companion and the Sterling-Armalite rifle which he held.
There were more in the box.
Flynn put down his torch so that the beam was pointing at one of the other crates and used the crowbar to open the large container. Inside there was more straw. More weapons. He lifted the Armalite out of its packing and pressed it to his shoulder, squinting down the sight.
‘Billy,’ Maguire called, ‘let’s get these loaded up and get out of here.’
Flynn squeezed the trigger and heard a dull thud. He frowned.
‘Wait a minute, Jim,’ he said, lowering the rifle. ‘Hold that torch over here.’
Maguire shone the beam in the direction of the weapon, watching as Flynn skilfully and quickly removed the top portion of the rifle and peered at it.
‘What’s wrong?’ Maguire wanted to know.
Flynn didn’t answer. He put down the partly-disassembled weapon and reached for another, cocking it and squeezing the trigger.
He heard that same dull thud.
He reached for another and another.
His reaction was the same every time.
‘Fucking bastard,’ he snarled, hurling the gun to one side. He looked at Maguire, his face contorted with anger. ‘There’s no firing pins in these guns. They’re bloody useless.’
Maguire was about to say something when Dolan’s voice cut through the blackness.
‘You’d better get up here quick,’ called the younger man. ‘We’ve got company.’
Sixty-Four
The car carrying the two Garda officers moved slowly up the gravel path towards the stationary blue van.
About twenty yards away it stopped and both men stepped out. One remained beside the car. The first, a tall, broad-shouldered man with greying hair, began walking purposefully towards the van.
Billy Dolan took a step backwards, his hands dangling at his side, the 9mm Bernadelli tight against his left side.
Not yet.
From inside the mausoleum Maguire could see the uniformed officer. He eased the Browning Hi-Power from its holster and gently worked the slide, chambering a round.
Officer Gary Farrow slowed his pace slightly when he came to the end of the gravel pathway. The big man fixed Dolan in his gaze, taking in details of his features, trying to see if there was anyone with him. He noticed the door to the mausoleum was open. Farrow also glanced at the number-plate of the van.
Behind him, at the waiting car, Officer Christopher Page was also taking a note of the number. He moved away from the car, peering around the cemetery as his companion drew closer to the van.
‘Can I ask what you’re doing, sir?’ Farrow enquired, his voice even.
Dolan smiled.
‘I was looking for the priest,’ he said gaily.
‘I don’t think you’ll find him in there,’ Farrow answered, nodding in the direction of the tomb. ‘Could I have your name, please?’
From inside the vault Maguire raised the pistol and steadied himself, watching as Farrow drew closer to the van.
‘What about the other one?’ whispered Flynn, spotting Page standing by the car further down the pathway.
‘Your name, sir, and I’d like to see your driver’s licence, too,’ Farrow said, moving closer to Dolan.
Maguire prepared to fire.
‘Fuck you,’ Dolan said, and plunged a hand inside his jacket, gripping the Bernadelli.
He fired twice as he pulled it free.
The first shot sliced through empty air, the second struck a gravestone, blasting a chunk of it away.
Farrow threw himself to the ground, rolling onto the gravel, trying to find cover.
‘Shit,’ Maguire said, emerging from the tomb like a vengeful resurrected corpse. He gripped the Browning tightly and squeezed off three rounds, two of which hit the Garda car. A wing mirror was tom off; another bullet holed the windscreen. Page ducked down behind the open door, scrambling to pull his own gun free.
Farrow was still rolling, trying to get to his feet, to find some cover.
Dolan fired another four rounds from the Bernadelli, the savage recoil slamming the weapon back against the heel of his hand until it felt numb. The stench of cordite filled the air.
Farrow was hit in the back, the bullet macerating one kidney, travelling upwards to shatter and bounce off a rib before lodging below one lung. He grunted in pain and felt the strength draining from him along with so much of his blood. He crawled towards a headstone as more bullets struck the ground around him, sending up geysers of earth and gravel.
Another shot struck him in the side of the face, pierced both cheeks and pulverized three of his back teeth, carrying portions of enamel away through the gaping exit wound. Blood filled his mouth, but he kept crawling.
‘Kill him, for fuck’s sake,’ Flynn said, leaping into the back of the van, watching as Maguire fired a full magazine towards the car.
Bullets struck the body work, the windscreen, the tyres.
Two hit Officer Page.
One tore through his left calf, ripping away most of the muscle there, snapping his shin. As he sprawled on the ground another bullet struck him in the face, just above the chin. His bottom jaw seemed to disintegrate, portions of bone and shattered teeth falling to the ground, propelled by the gushing blood which erupted from the wound. He lay still until a third shot caught him in the chest and sent him rolling over onto his back, his sternum destroyed. Blood flooded over his lips, bubbling as he exhaled. He felt incredible pressure on his rib cage, as if someone had put heavy weights on it. When he tried to breathe the pain prevented all but the smallest of gasps. He felt unconsciousness beginning to creep over him.
The fourth bullet which hit him tore off most of the left side of his head.
‘Start the fucking van,’ shouted Maguire, pushing Billy towards the vehicle.
He himself hunched low to the ground and scuttled towards the headstone where Farrow was sheltering.
There was a loud retort and Maguire actually heard the bullet sing past his ear, no more than two or three feet away. Far
row fired again, his hand remarkably steady as he pumped the trigger of the .38.
Maguire hurled himself down, rolled over and, using a marble cross as support, squeezed the trigger again. The slide shot backwards to signal that the Browning was empty and Maguire dug in his jacket pocket for a fresh magazine which he slammed into the pistol butt. He wrenched back the slide and fired again.
Farrow was hit in the shoulder, the bullet shattering his collar bone. The impact flung him backwards, the revolver flying from his hand.
As he lay on his back staring at the sky he heard footsteps coming closer to him and saw Maguire looking down at him, the barrel of the Browning yawning massively.
Maguire smiled and shot Farrow in the temple.
Billy Dolan guided the van back onto the gravel path, pushing open the passenger side door for his companion to get in. As Maguire clambered into the van, he put his foot down. Gravel was sent spinning into the air as the wheels skidded on the surface, finally gaining purchase. The van sped off past the Garda car and the body of Officer Page towards the gates of the cemetery.
Dolan swung it left onto the road.
‘What about the rifles?’ he said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
‘They were no fucking good,’ Flynn said from the back.
Dolan glanced across at Maguire as if for verification.
The older man didn’t speak. He merely continued thumbing 9mm shells into an empty magazine, his features set, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw throbbing angrily.
‘What are we going to do about the rifles?’ Dolan persisted.
‘I’ll take care of it,’ said Maguire quietly. ‘Just drive.’
Sixty-Five
Doyle tapped impatiently on the wheel as he drove, eyes on the horse-drawn cart which blocked the road ahead of him. He thought about hitting the Datsun’s horn – anything to clear the bloody cart out of the way – but decided against it. He wound down his window, one arm draped over the edge. The sun was warm against his skin and the countryside smelt fresh and clean after the light shower which had fallen just half an hour earlier.
Georgie looked across at him and caught the impatience in his expression. She smiled thinly. Doyle glanced at her and noticed her grinning.
‘What’s so funny?’ he wanted to know.
‘You,’ she told him. ‘You’re so impatient. Life’s slower out here, Doyle. This isn’t London, you know.’
‘If it was any slower it’d be fucking comatose,’ he said, shaking his head, relieved to see that the horse and cart were turning off to the right into a field. Doyle put his foot down and accelerated past.
A sign announced that Dublin was just under twenty miles away.
‘So where do we find this Mr David Callahan?’ asked Doyle. ‘If he’s leasing cars to the IRA I think we ought to talk to him.’
‘He lives on a private estate in County Cork,’ Georgie announced, consulting the notes she had scribbled on a pad. ‘He’s lived there for the past two years. Used to live in London. Married. No kids. He employs about six staff.’
Doyle chewed his bottom lip contemplatively.
‘You know there’s something familiar about that name,’ he said. ‘Has he got any form?’
‘If he has he was never convicted. He’s got no criminal record of any description, as far as I could find out.’
‘So what are the IRA doing driving around in his car?’ Doyle mused.
‘There’s no reason why Callahan should be mixed up with them. The car could have been stolen; this David Callahan may even be a completely different person. Maguire and his men probably just used a false name when they bought it.’
‘Coincidence, though, isn’t it? There can’t be that many David Callahan’s living in the Republic who own a blue Sierra.’ He smiled. ‘Or used to, until you shot it to pieces.’
‘Just doing my job.’ She chuckled.
Doyle reached across and fumbled with the dials of the radio, flicking from station to station. He found a Gaelic speaking station, a pop channel, then some news.
‘... early this-morning. One officer was killed in the gun battle.’
Doyle turned up the volume.
‘...There were no witnesses to the shooting and the bodies were only discovered by a visitor to the cemetery, which has now been closed off by the Garda pending investigation into the shootings.’
Georgie looked across at Doyle, who was listening intently.
‘The wounded officer, whose name has not been released, was taken to hospital in Mullingar where his condition is said to be critical.’
‘Where’s Mullingar?’ Doyle said, flicking off the radio.
Georgie hesitated a moment, then reached for the map which lay on the parcel shelf. She ran her finger over it, searching for the location.
‘About six miles west of where we are now,’ she told him. ‘Doyle, you don’t even know if these shootings are anything to do with Maguire ...’ Her words were cur short as Doyle quickly checked his rear-view mirror then pulled hard on the wheel, swinging the Datsun around in a U-turn.
‘Two Garda officers shot,’ he said. ‘It’s worth checking out. Especially if one of them is still alive.’
‘How the hell are you going to get to him?’ Georgie asked. ‘By the sound of it, the poor devil is almost dead anyway. What can he tell you?’
‘He can tell me who shot him,’ said Doyle flatly.
Georgie shook her head.
‘I thought we were supposed to be going after Callahan,’ she said.
‘We are.’
‘I’m telling you, Doyle, you’ll never get near the guy who was shot,’ she repeated.
‘I know. I might not be able to.’ He glanced across at her. ‘But you can.’
Sixty-Six
The flight had been smooth enough, but David Callahan had been glad to touch down all the same.
Their car had been waiting at Shannon airport and they had climbed in gratefully, relaxing in the plush seats of the Mercedes as they were driven home.
The drive took less than two hours. Laura smiled as the car finally came to a halt outside the house. She and Callahan got out, their luggage was brought into the house and the car was put in the double garage. It was as if they’d never been away, thought Laura, as she made her way up the stairs. The thought of a bath made her smile.
Callahan joined her upstairs carrying two drinks.
They kissed as they waited for the bath to fill, the sound of running water filling the bathroom.
‘Do you think the window will be safe?’ Laura asked, slipping out of her clothes and walking naked from the bathroom to the bedroom, where she sat in front of the dressing table and began combing her hair, finally putting it up into a bun.
‘Sure it will,’ Callahan said. ‘It’s only got to be taken from the church. It’ll be picked up. I don’t see why there should be any problems.’
‘Do you trust that woman?’
‘Why shouldn’t I? She’s got more to lose than us if anything happens to the window. Don’t forget, she was the one who covered up a murder.’
Callahan pulled his shirt off and stepped out of his trousers. He stood naked for a moment, then pulled on a bathrobe.
‘What you said about Channing’s killer coming after us,’ Laura said quietly. ‘Do you think it is possible?’
Callahan could only shrug.
There was a knock on the bedroom door.
Laura called out, ‘Come in,’ and they both looked up to see one of the maids standing there. She smiled at them, told them she was glad they were back, asked briefly about their trip.
‘Did anything exciting happen while we were gone, Trisha?’ asked Laura, smiling, heading towards the bathroom to turn off the taps.
‘There were some phone calls,’ the maid said, brushing her long blonde hair from her face. ‘I made a note of them.’ She handed Callahan a pad which he scrutinised, nodding as he looked at the names.
‘Thanks, Trisha,’ he said.<
br />
‘Someone else called,’ she said. ‘But he wouldn’t give his name. He called four or five times while you were gone. He wanted to know where you were, but when he wouldn’t give his name I didn’t tell him.’
‘You did the right thing,’ Callahan assured her. ‘What did he say? Did you recognise the voice?’
She shook her head.
‘When I wouldn’t fell him where you were he got a bit abusive. Mary answered the phone to him a couple of times and he was the same to her,’ Trisha told him.
‘When did he last call?’ Callahan’s face darkened.
‘A couple of hours before you got back. He still wouldn’t leave his name.’
Callahan swallowed hard as the maid continued.
‘All he said was that he had something to discuss with you and that he’d be seeing you very soon. Then he hung up. If he calls again, do you want to speak to him?’ she enquired.
Callahan didn’t answer.
‘Mr Callahan, I said if ...’
He cut her short.
‘I heard you. No. If he calls again tell him I’m not back yet.’
She nodded and left.
Callahan took a sip of his drink, rolling the crystal tumbler between his hands.
‘Be seeing you very soon.’
He would be ready.
Sixty-Seven
Doyle replaced the receiver, pushed open the door of the phone box and walked unhurriedly back towards the waiting car.
‘This will never work,’ said Georgie as he slid back behind the steering wheel.
‘Oh ye of little faith,’ he said, no[ taking his eyes from the hospital entrance.
There were two Garda cars parked outside the main doors, uniformed men in both.
The building itself was small, a four-storey concrete and glass affair which looked as if it could do with some modernisation. An ambulance was parked close to the other vehicles. It was empty, as far as the two counter-terrorists could see.
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