by Dan Mahoney
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
Kevin and McKenna left together and waited on the corner, down the block from the funeral home. McKenna had many questions, but Kevin didn’t appear to be in a talkative mood. Rather than risk rebuff, McKenna kept his silence and spent an uncomfortable fifteen minutes with Kevin before his transport arrived.
It was a black British-made taxi, the type seen on the streets of London. There were two men inside, the driver in front and a passenger in the rear who swung the door open as the taxi stopped.
“Give my regards to Martin,” Kevin said as McKenna climbed into the rear seat of the cab. The driver took off before McKenna could reply.
One look around the interior of the cab disturbed McKenna. The young man sitting next to him in the backseat looked like a skinny Indiana Jones, complete with the brown leather jacket, the wide-brimmed hat, and the revolver in his hand. The only thing missing was the whip. He seemed indifferent to McKenna’s presence and barely gave him a glance. His total attention was on the RUC transmissions coming over the police scanner on his lap.
Then there was the driver, another problem. McKenna put him at sixteen years old—certainly not one of the experienced IRA hard men he had been expecting. He was whistling a tune McKenna had never heard before, keeping beat with his own music by drumming the steering wheel as he drove. In under a minute McKenna was absolutely certain that he loathed the song, whatever it was.
Complicating matters were the wires hanging from the steering column and the screwdriver jammed into the ignition. Further eroding McKenna’s faith in the two was the fact that although there were two supposed fare-paying passengers in the taxi, the driver hadn’t thought to turn on the meter. It was a mistake that would arouse the curiosity of any competent cop they might pass.
Then a police transmission caused Indy some consternation. “Where’s their Post Forty-two?” he asked the driver with anxiety in his voice.
“You got me,” the driver answered, unconcerned.
“Then don’t you think you should check the list?”
“Why?”
“Because the peelers are setting up a checkpoint there, that’s why.” To emphasize his point, Indy rapped the driver on the back of his head with his gun barrel.
The driver muttered some protest under his breath and rubbed the back of his head. But he got the point and pulled the cab to the curb. He put on the overhead light, took a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and opened it. Then he unsettled McKenna even more when he reached into his pocket and put on his glasses to read the list. “It says here that Post Forty-two is on Finaghy Road at the Motorway underpass.”
“Aren’t we on Finaghy Road?”
“So we are.”
“And isn’t the Motorway just a wee bit ahead?”
“It’s not far, that’s for sure.”
“So, my young genius, don’t you think we should be trying Kennedy Way instead?” Indy asked.
“Kennedy Way, you say? Sure, I might be able to do that,” the driver answered amicably, removing his glasses and replacing them in his pocket. He made a U-turn and resumed his whistling and drumming, apparently without a care in the world.
Now, isn’t this just wonderful? McKenna asked himself. Here we are, the Three Stooges, driving around Belfast, maybe lost, certainly armed, and in a stolen cab with a teenage driver who might be blind. I wonder what Ray would say to that? Better yet, I wonder how I could explain this to my new pal, Sgt. Roger Forsythe? Hanging out with these two clowns, I might be meeting him at the station long before midnight. Time to take charge.
“Why are we running around Belfast in a stolen cab?” McKenna asked.
For the first time, Indy looked at McKenna. “You talking to me?” he asked menacingly.
“Yeah, Robert De Niro. I’m talking to you.”
“Because we were told to pick you up.”
“Did some moron tell you two jerks to pick me up in a stolen cab?”
McKenna got the response he expected. Indy leveled the pistol at his chest. “You know, Yank, you should mind your manners.”
“Oh, really? Terribly sorry,” McKenna said sarcastically. “Were you told to shoot me if you felt like it or if I got out of line?”
McKenna got another response he expected, a moment of confusion before Indy regained his bravado. “Maybe. You wouldn’t be the first, you know.”
“Do you know who I am?” McKenna asked.
“Yeah. You’re the Yank who was standing with Kevin. That’s all we need to know.”
“That’s all you need to know?” McKenna asked derisively. “Nobody thinks enough of you to even tell you who you’re picking up?”
More confusion. “Okay, Yank. Who the hell are you?” Indy asked, tapping McKenna’s chest with the pistol.
“I’m the secretary general of the United Nations, but you can just call me General.”
What passed across Indy’s face was the exact mixture of astonishment, doubt, and bewilderment McKenna had planned. He took advantage of it and acted quickly, poking Indy’s eyes with his right hand while grabbing the cylinder of the revolver so it couldn’t be fired with his left. Another quick, sharp punch, this time to the Adam’s apple, was all it took. Indy was temporarily blind, out of breath, and the revolver was McKenna’s.
Indy tried grabbing McKenna, but wasn’t strong enough. McKenna easily pushed him back, then tapped him on the forehead with the revolver. “Be quiet, be still, and you’ll be all right. Understand, Sonny?” McKenna said.
Despite his condition, Indy understood. He was gasping for breath, rubbing his eyes with one hand and his throat with the other, but he did manage to nod his assent.
Then McKenna noticed that the youngster in front was fumbling for something under the seat while he drove. McKenna rapped him on the back of the head with the pistol and said, “Junior, when you finally find whatever it is you’re looking for, please pass it back to me.”
“Okay, General. I’m your man, so I am. No trouble coming from me this night.” It took the driver a few more seconds to find his Astra automatic under his seat, but then he dutifully passed it back to McKenna.
“Now stop the car,” McKenna ordered.
The driver pulled over to the curb.
There was a car parked in front of them, fifty feet ahead. “Read me the plate number off that car in front of us,” McKenna ordered.
The driver looked ahead and squinted. Then he leaned over the steering wheel and placed his face to the windshield. “I can see a zero, a nine, and maybe a five.”
“Okay, what I can see is that we could use some new rules. Put on your glasses, turn on the meter, and never whistle again for the rest of your life. Got it?”
“Sure, General.”
The driver did as he was told, then sat waiting.
“Now drive us to wherever we’re supposed to be going. If we run into a checkpoint, just stop the car.”
“And then what?”
“You can try running on foot or you can surrender, I don’t care which.”
“We could crash the checkpoint,” the driver suggested. “We’ve done it before, lots of times.”
“But not this time. If you try it, we won’t be pals and then I’ll have to hurt you. Now go, and drive safely.”
The driver signaled, then pulled slowly from the curb.
McKenna returned his attention to his unhappy fellow passenger. Indy’s breathing was becoming more regular, but he was still rubbing his eyes.
“Can you see, yet?” McKenna asked.
Indy put his hands down and tried to focus on McKenna. “Not good I can’t.”
“Small price to pay for pointing guns at people. Now, what were we talking about before our disagreement?”
Indy looked at him blankly, still trying to focus.
“Oh, yeah. I remember now,” McKenna said. “You were just about to tell me why you two knuckleheads picked me up in a stolen car.”
“Because we don’
t have a proper car of our own.”
“Couldn’t you have borrowed a car?”
“Nobody would ever lend the likes of us their motor.”
“I see that you’ve discovered a certain truth in life. Neither a borrower nor a lender be. Could be a source of real friction in a good friendship, don’t you agree?”
It was yet another confusing moment for Indy. “Huh? Sorry, General. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Never mind,” McKenna said, then he held the two guns in front of Indy’s face. “Tell me, what were you going to do with these?”
“Blast some peelers, if we had to.”
“Really? Haven’t you noticed how heavily armed and well trained your local police and their military friends are these days?”
“They don’t scare us they don’t. We’ve been in scrapes before with the Prods.”
“Then you’ve been lucky.”
While Indy watched, McKenna unloaded both guns. The six-shot Smith & Wesson .38 revolver only had four rounds in it and the 9mm Astra, with a magazine capacity of eight rounds, was loaded only with three. “You two knuckleheads been doing a little target practice?” McKenna asked.
Indy didn’t answer and McKenna knew that Indy was wondering if he stood a chance with him now that the guns were unloaded. “I know what you’re thinking, Sonny, and you don’t stand a chance,” McKenna warned. “For you, it will be all pain and no gain, so don’t make me spank you. Answer the question.”
Indy decided to believe. “We find things to shoot at, things that need killing. We’re patriots we are. Patriots and soldiers.”
Maybe that’s what they really think they are, McKenna reflected. They’re young enough, probably brave enough, certainly stupid enough, and Lord knows they’ve got enough unreasoning hatred in them. Prime candidates to be young, dead soldiers, briefly praised and quickly forgotten while their politicians jockey for leverage and make their deals.
“You don’t mind if I do you a favor and maybe save your lives, do you?”
“Suit yourself,” Indy said, shrugging his shoulders.
McKenna opened his window and threw the guns out. After another few blocks, he threw the ammo out, followed by the scanner.
“That did nothing to save my life,” Indy said defiantly. “We’ll get more and keep on fighting.”
“Too bad, but look at it this way. I just shaved ten years off your sentence if we get stopped by the RUC,” McKenna said. He felt no compulsion to add that he had also saved himself a few of the hours he would need to explain away the professionally embarrassing circumstances under which he was traveling.
As it turned out, there were no further checkpoints along their route. The driver got on the motorway, and after five minutes of driving south at the speed limit they were well out of town. He signaled for a turn into a rest area, pulled in, and stopped next to a phone booth. The lights designed to illuminate the phone booth were broken and the rest area was deserted.
“Now what?” McKenna asked.
“You’re to get out and wait here,” Indy said.
“Wait here for what?”
“Nobody told us.”
“All right. Thanks for the ride.”
“General. A favor, if you don’t mind,” Indy said as McKenna opened the door.
“Don’t mention our little disagreements to anyone?” McKenna guessed.
“We’d surely appreciate that, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay, but only if I can trust you to do one thing.”
“Anything,” Indy said hopefully.
McKenna took a ten-pound note from his pocket and offered it to Indy. “As soon as you get close to town, drop this cab off and call another taxi to take you wherever you’re going. I don’t want to be reading about you two tomorrow.”
Indy looked at the bill, shocked at the offer. He hesitated, then took it.
McKenna was almost certain that he was throwing money away until Indy said, “It won’t cost that much. Shouldn’t cost more than a fiver for a taxi.”
“Then save the change until the next time you need a taxi.”
“That’s a deal. Thanks, General.”
McKenna got out and watched the taxi take off and get back on the motorway. It was dark, with the only light coming from the headlights of passing cars on the motorway, one hundred yards from where McKenna stood. He stayed next to the phone booth, figuring he was being watched and halfway expecting a call. After ten minutes of waiting, he tried the phone. It too was broken, no dial tone. As he hung up, an old commercial van pulled into the rest area and stopped just past the entrance, illuminating McKenna in the headlights.
McKenna didn’t like it. While he expected to be picked up and brought to Martin McGuinn, he knew sectarian kidnappings were common in Northern Ireland and he felt uncomfortable standing there, in the middle of nowhere, alone, unarmed, and under inspection by the unknown occupants of the van. Dressed in his suit, he didn’t know whether he looked Catholic or Protestant. If they weren’t McGuinn’s men, he was prepared to be either.
Then the van pulled forward and stopped next to him. As it passed, McKenna got a bare glimpse of the two men in the front seat. He didn’t like the look of them. In contrast with his first escorts, they were in their thirties and looked like hard-bitten, legitimate tough guys. The side door opened and a female voice ordered, “Get in.”
McKenna strained to see the source of the voice, but it was too dark inside. All he could see was her outline, sitting alone on a bench seat set against the side wall of the van. “First tell me my name,” McKenna said.
“Why? You nervous?” she asked.
“No, just a little absentminded sometimes.”
“I see. Then maybe you’ve forgotten that you’re Detective Brian McKenna. We’re here to take you to see Martin McGuinn.”
“Thanks. Now I remember,” McKenna said, then climbed in and sat next to her. In the darkness, he still couldn’t see much more of her. Her age and facial features remained a mystery, but she was thin, dressed in slacks and a jacket, and had long hair tucked under a man’s cap. The man in the passenger’s seat had turned around and was inspecting him. All McKenna could see was the man’s outline. He couldn’t see a weapon, but felt that he was covered.
The woman took her cap off and her hair flowed down, reaching past her waist. She gave it to McKenna and said, “Please empty your pockets into the hat, then take off your shoes.”
McKenna did as he was told, removing his shoes, then placing his wallet, his shield, his keys, and his money into the hat. She rummaged briefly through his things, picked up his shoes, then passed them and the cap to the man in the passenger seat. Then she stood up and began expertly frisking him as he sat there, starting at his shoulders, feeling everywhere, and missing nothing. “Please stand up,” she ordered.
McKenna stood and placed his hands on the wall of the van. She completed her search, then sat down without a word. McKenna resumed his seat next to her and watched the passenger go through his wallet while the driver shone a flashlight on it, then gave McKenna’s shoes a good inspection. Satisfied, he passed everything back to the woman and she handed it back to McKenna.
The driver took off and they started heading south on the motorway. After McKenna had replaced his things in his pockets and put his shoes back on, he handed the cap back to the woman. It had ear flaps inside and she pulled them down, then placed the cap securely on his head so the flaps covered his eyes. “Sorry about this,” she said pleasantly.
“Think nothing of it. I understand.”
“So, tell me. How’s Inspector Rollins doing?”
“Fine. You know him?”
“No, but he’d know me.”
“Just you?”
“No, I don’t doubt that he’d know all of us.”
“Is that why you didn’t pick me up at the funeral home? Belfast a little hot for you?”
“No reason to go there unless we have to,” she conceded.
; Not knowing where he was going with his eyes covered didn’t bother McKenna in the least. He had expected that, and knowing that Rollins or the RUC would recognize his new companions made him feel good, not bad. He had graduated from the expendable IRA street urchins into the hands of the professionals. “Tough business you’re in,” he commented.
“It’s not too bad if you survive long enough to learn what you’re doing. Anyway, it sure beats my day job.”
“And what might that be?”
“Detective McKenna, we’ve just met,” she protested. “You shouldn’t be so nosy, asking all these questions.”
“You’re absolutely right. Sorry.”
The next fifteen minutes passed in silence. McKenna felt the van slow down and turn off the motorway, then make a series of turns so that by the time they finally stopped, he had no idea what direction they were facing. He heard the passenger door open and felt the shift in the van as the passenger got out. Then the van pulled forward slowly and McKenna could tell by the sound of the engine echoing against walls that they were inside a garage or tunnel. The driver shut the engine off, then the side door of the van was opened. “Leave the cap on and stand up,” the woman ordered.
As soon as McKenna stood, the woman took his arm. “Ready?” she asked.
“Let’s go.”
She guided him, holding his arm as he stepped out of the van. They walked a few steps, then climbed a short flight of stairs. She opened a door, then guided him inside and let go of his arm. He heard the door close behind him.
“You can take your hat off and sit down, Detective McKenna. I’m Martin McGuinn,” a male voice in front of him said.
It took McKenna a moment to focus after he removed the hat. He was in a spotless, modern residential kitchen brightly lit by fluorescent lights. Seated at the breakfast table in front of him was a stocky, pleasant-looking man in his fifties. He was wearing a beige tweed suit and a brown tie that gave him the appearance of the perfect country gentleman. McKenna could see that McGuinn had once been one of those recognizable redheaded Catholics Ryer had described, but no longer. His hair was thinning and graying with only red highlights left.
They were alone in the room. McKenna looked around the kitchen for a reference point, but found none. There were no notes on the refrigerator, no cute sign announcing whose kitchen it was, and the blinds on the window next to the breakfast table were drawn closed.