Once In, Never Out

by Dan Mahoney

  “Don’t bother trying to figure it out,” McGuinn said. “It belongs to a friend of a friend. I’ve never been here before, and I’ll probably never be here again.”

  McKenna sat across from McGuinn and stared at him, waiting for the IRA spokesman to begin. But McGuinn didn’t, so McKenna kept his silence, measuring the man as he returned his inquisitive stare.

  “Sorry about the melodrama in the way we brought you here,” McGuinn said at last.

  “Think nothing of it, but I don’t see how you can be much of an effective spokesman if you have to be hiding out all the time.”

  “Not all the time. I can give an unannounced press conference from time to time. The Brits wouldn’t bother me and the RUC would have to leave me alone for the moment. As far as the Brits are concerned, publicly at least, Gerry Adams and I have been rehabilitated. They need us.”

  “Then who are you worried about? The paramilitaries?”

  “Of course. They’d love to get a line on us. That’s why we’re like Yasser Arafat, never sleep in the same place two nights in a row.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation to you, you don’t have to worry about me. I don’t think it’s in either of our interests to publicize my visit and answer questions about you from anyone.”

  “Not even Inspector Rollins?”

  “Not unless I think you’ve brought me here to feed me a pack of lies. But that’s not why I’m here, is it?”

  “No, I won’t be telling you any lies,” McGuinn said, then changed the subject. “Tell me, how do you like Belfast so far?”

  “It could be wonderful, but from what I’ve seen so far, I’d say you don’t have to worry about me coming here on vacation.”

  “You don’t understand the reasons behind what’s going on here?”

  “I understand your position and I understand the loyalists’ position, but I can’t see the reasons why you’re killing each other over religion. It’s senseless and barbaric, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Surely you understand that it’s more than just religion,” McGuinn said.

  “Religion is what started it. You’re going to tell me that it’s evolved into a power struggle and a civil rights struggle, but it seems to me that the hatred here is based on religion, on the way different branches of Christianity worship the same God. It’s just as senseless as the way the Shiite and Sunni Muslims have been slaughtering each other for centuries.”

  “And it’s been going on here just about as long. Maybe too long,” McGuinn said, surprising McKenna. He wondered if McGuinn was just posturing for his benefit or was he talking from the heart? McKenna couldn’t tell, so he sat and waited for McGuinn to continue.

  “Let’s concede for a moment that everybody’s wrong. The Brits, the Prods, and us,” McGuinn suggested. “If you had to choose, which side would you say is the least guilty?”

  “I don’t know enough about it, but I don’t have to choose. I’m an American, remember?”

  “But you’re still Irish, aren’t you?”

  Here we go again, McKenna thought. “Yeah, I’m Irish and I’m Catholic, but so are most of the people in the South. From what I hear, lots of them don’t think much of your act up here. They’re not impartial, but they’re not throwing bombs at anybody.”

  McGuinn sat back in his chair, staring at his hands on the table in front of him. “I had hoped for better from you,” he said softly, more to himself than to McKenna.

  “Then I guess I’m sorry, but that’s the way I see it,” McKenna said. “If it makes you feel any better, I think the Catholics should get a better deal up here.”

  “Thank you, it does,” McGuinn said, smiling. “Maybe I will be able to talk some sense into you after all.”

  “About the Iceland bombing.”

  “Yes, the Iceland bombing.”

  “Then before you start, let’s get a few things straight. I’m not working on a bombing. I’m working on a sex murder, trying to catch a maniac who tortured and murdered a friend of a friend. The bombing is incidental, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Do you have a name for this maniac?”

  “I know who he is, but I see no reason to tell you yet.”

  “You mean, first I’d have to convince you that the IRA didn’t do it?”

  “That would be a start, but there’s more. You’d have to agree to help me catch this man and I’d have to believe you would.”

  “Now why would I do that?” McGuinn asked.

  “Because if you don’t, I’m gonna keep him publicly connected to the IRA. That’s gonna give you more horrible publicity than you’d like, both here and in the U.S. Before I’m done with you, nobody in America with any kind of conscience would do a thing to help you and your people.”

  McKenna expected some kind of a reaction from McGuinn, but got none, leading him to believe that he had just said exactly what McGuinn had expected to hear. Then he gave McKenna a condescending smile. “Keep in mind that we never claimed responsibility for that blast, and we’re not shy. If it’s ours, we claim it, even if there’s unexpected damage and it brings us bad press.”

  “Even if it kills people you didn’t want to kill?”

  “Yes, even then. We publicly apologize to the victim’s family and accept whatever criticism we get from our people. Yet we never claimed the Iceland bombing, even before anyone knew about Meaghan Maher. As I understand it, her body wasn’t discovered until hours after the blast and you didn’t publicly connect her death to the bomber until yesterday. So why wouldn’t we have claimed it right away if it was ours? You have to admit, it was a pretty spectacular job. Maybe one we’d be proud of.”

  McKenna thought that McGuinn was citing good points, all points he himself had considered before. But McGuinn had to be pressed. “It was an IRA man who did it,” McKenna stated.

  “Maybe I’ll concede that, but it wasn’t an IRA operation,” McGuinn countered.

  “This isn’t the first sex murder he’s done, and Meaghan Maher wasn’t the first Irish girl he’s tortured and killed for fun before a bombing.”

  That got a reaction. McGuinn sat up straight in his chair and stared at McKenna, not defiantly, but with a very worried look on his face. “How many others?”

  “One other Irish Catholic girl, but he’s killed other girls all over the world before a bombing. Counting Meaghan Maher, there’s a total of five that we know of. The IRA claimed responsibility for three of those bombings, so this monster is one of yours.”

  “Care to tell me which bombings you’re talking about?”

  “Not yet. I’m not accusing you of anything in your new role as the nonviolent IRA spokesman, but I’ve got a feeling you might have some intimate knowledge of some of those jobs. If I told you which bombings I’m talking about, I’d probably also be telling you who I’m looking for. Maybe then we wouldn’t have much more to talk about.”

  “Why’s that? You think we’d kill him?”

  “Good possibility. Sooner or later, his identity and his other crimes are gonna be released to the press, along with his connection to you folks.”

  “So you’re thinking that we’d hang his tortured body someplace where everyone could see it?”

  “I would, if I were you. It’s the only way to distance yourself from those extra filthy things he’s done while he was doing your dirty work.”

  “Would that be so bad?” McGuinn asked.

  “Personally, it wouldn’t bother me at all,” McKenna admitted. “But that’s not the way it’s gonna be. I’m a cop, remember?”

  “So you insist on finding this man, if you can, and arresting him.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Don’t you think that would be rather inconvenient for us? If he’s been involved in as many of our operations as you say he’s been, he must know a lot.”

  “You mean that we’d put him under pressure and he’d give you all up to try and save himself?”

  “You have to admit that it’s conceivable,” McGuinn
said. “Especially if he found out we helped you in any way.”

  “Then you’ll have to trust me. I’m after him and no one else. If I get him, he’ll be tried in Iceland for three murders. We’ve got enough to convict him there.”

  “And what about the Brits? I’m sure they’ll want to talk to him.”

  “Sure they will, but they’ll have a long time to wait. They get him after he’s finished serving his three life sentences in Iceland.”

  “Did Rollins agree to this?”

  “Yeah, he did. I put him under some pressure, but he did. But there’s something else you should know about the deal I made with him. I’m in charge of getting him now, but that all changes in two months.”

  “Then what? The Brits are in charge?”

  “Yep, and he’ll be tried in England. I think that would be bad for you,” McKenna said, knowing he was understating his case. Watching McGuinn, he knew the man was mulling over exactly how much trouble the bomber could cause the IRA. Mulrooney would certainly be convicted of many bombings in that British court, and his extracurricular murders would be very embarrassing to the IRA. Then Mulrooney would be offered a deal to sing. “Maybe he’ll sing and maybe he won’t,” McKenna added, icing the cake. “But the Brits will milk his activities for all it’s worth, if you give them a chance. It’ll be quite a show, with the whole world press there at the trial.”

  “Does Rollins know everything you know?”

  “Yes, but it’s like I told you. I’m in charge for the next two months. After that, it’s Rollins’s show.”

  McKenna watched McGuinn as the man struggled with the two possible outcomes if Mulrooney was ever caught. Neither was good for the IRA, but one was worse than the other. But McGuinn still wasn’t ready to commit. “Could you tell me if you’ve connected this man to the Derry bomb in 1996?”

  “Derry?” McKenna asked.

  “Londonderry is what the Prods call the town.”

  “Yeah, that was him. He tortured and murdered a Protestant girl in Newry before he planted the bomb.”

  “That one wasn’t ours,” McGuinn insisted, apparently pleased with the information. “That was the Irish Army Continuity Council.”

  “The Brits think it is yours. They think this Irish Army Continuity Council was a cover you used because there was a truce on at the time.”

  “You know the particulars of that one?”

  “Sure. Six-hundred pounds of explosives placed in a car parked outside police headquarters. Someone tipped the Brits off, so it didn’t do all the damage intended.”

  “That someone was us,” McGuinn stated. “We called it in as soon as we found out about it. We would’ve prevented the whole thing if we could have.”

  “You’re gonna have to explain that to me,” McKenna insisted.

  “I’m willing to concede that everyone in this Irish Army Continuity Council was once in the IRA, but they’re not now and we have no control over them. We’re trying to exercise some, but it’s a messy business.”

  “You know who they are?”

  “We know who some are and we’ve been dealing with them on a case-by-case basis. Those we haven’t been able to locate are no longer in the movement.”

  Now how do I ask him what that means without asking him if he’s been ordering the murders of his dissidents? McKenna wondered. I want to keep it polite, but if I’m to believe him if he agrees to help, I have to know how serious this IRA split is. Let’s try understatement. “Are you being very hard on them?”

  It wasn’t necessary. McGuinn was prepared to be frank. “You mean, are we killing them?” he asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “Not unless we have to. It’s hard for us to get very angry with them since they’re doing the same things we were doing not long ago.”

  “You mean, things you might even be doing again,” McKenna added.

  “Maybe, but I hope not. Until Smythe-Douglass was killed, political events were moving along at an acceptable pace and we haven’t done a bombing in months,” McGuinn said. “We’ve been trying to tone down the violence and create a climate that would make serious negotiations possible.”

  “And now?”

  “We’re at a standstill. Now nobody’s talking to us.”

  A thought hit McKenna that made one thing clear, but raised many other questions. “Smythe-Douglass wasn’t in Dublin last year just to talk about an immigration problem, was he?”

  “No, that was just a cover for his trip. He was there for a meeting arranged by the Taoiseach.”

  “What’s the Taoiseach?”

  “James Reynolds. Taoiseach is the official Gaelic title for the prime minister of the Irish Republic.”

  “I see. Besides Reynolds and Smythe-Douglass, who else was at that meeting?”

  “Gerry Adams, meself, and two Protestant leaders whose lives wouldn’t be worth a shilling if the word got out that they met with us.”

  “Any progress?”

  “Only a little, but it was a start. At least we were all at the same table talking to each other. That was Gerry’s goal, to just get the process started. Smythe-Douglass’s murder came at the worst possible time for him.”

  “Then why didn’t the IRA deny the bombing right after it happened?”

  “Because we had to be sure it wasn’t us, and that took some time. Gerry’s in charge now, but he’s in a tenuous position. Not everybody still in the movement thinks it’s time to talk peace, and very few of them knew of our contacts with Smythe-Douglass. To tell you the truth, our men in the streets hate the Brits and most of them thought it was wonderful when somebody blew up Smythe-Douglass.”

  “Somebody, but not the IRA?”

  “I can tell you that as an absolute fact. It wasn’t us. That bombing was the most counterproductive move to our efforts imaginable.”

  “I believe you,” McKenna stated.

  “Then you’ll publicly distance us from the bombing?” McGuinn asked.

  “No, I’ll keep you publicly connected in every way I can until I get your help.”

  “You’re not being fair,” McGuinn protested.

  “I know.”

  McKenna had expected an angry protest to his statement, but that wasn’t what he got. Instead, McGuinn just threw his hands in the air, got up, and silently paced the small kitchen.

  McKenna watched him pace, realizing that McGuinn had successfully completed the transition from terrorist to politician. McGuinn didn’t like it, but he had become accustomed to being leveraged in his new role. Then McGuinn sat down and looked expectantly at McKenna, as if there had been no break in the conversation.

  “We’re ready to talk again?” McKenna asked.

  “Yes. Who’s the bomber?”

  “Let’s make sure we’ve got it straight. He’s not to be killed, he’s to be arrested. That means that you’re gonna give me all the help you can in finding him and that he’s not gonna wind up in one of your safe places like Libya or Cuba.”

  “You’ve got my hand on it,” McGuinn said, stretching his hand across the table.

  McKenna shook it, formally sealing the deal. “Michael Mulrooney.”

  “Ah, so it is Mulrooney,” McGuinn said. “I was afraid of that.”

  “You suspected it was him?”

  “When I heard what a professional job that Iceland bombing was, his was the first name that popped into my mind. We wanted to talk to him straight away and we looked everywhere for him, so we did.”

  “So he’s not in Belfast?”

  “I can state as an absolute fact that he’s nowhere in the North,” McGuinn said, sadly but with conviction. “But even if he were, you’d have nothing to worry about. We couldn’t take any sort of extreme action against him.”

  “Why not, if he’s doing unauthorized bombings and ruining your plans.”

  “Because his brother was one of our famous martyrs, one of the Maze Prison hunger strikers. If we killed Mulrooney, it would tear our movement apart.”

 
; “Do you know him?”

  “Of course I know him.”

  “Did you know him before he went to America?”

  “Known him since he was a wee lad. Knew his brother, too,” McGuinn said. “Patrick Mulrooney. Now there was a fine patriot for you.”

  “How about Michael Mulrooney? Would you say he was a fine patriot?”

  “Years ago I would have, but not now. He came back from America a madman. Every one of us noticed the change in him.”

  “Was it that he hates women?”

  “Women? My God, that’s just part of it. He returned here hating everybody. Women, gays, Prods, cops, blacks, and Brits. Hates them all.”

  “Couldn’t you see he was crazy?”

  “Crazy, yes, but not unstable.”

  “What’s the difference?” McKenna asked.

  “Crazy people can’t function. Mulrooney handled every job we gave him with precision. He’s fearless and the best at what he does.”

  “You said he hates cops?”

  “Now here’s an interesting thing for you. He certainly hates the RUC, and he doesn’t care much for the New York City Police Department. But he loves the cops there. I think he still identifies with them.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because when he’s had a few, he loves to reminisce. Tells stories about his time in your department that would bust your gut. Leads us all to believe that you New York cops have a lot of fun.”

  “Sometimes it’s a fun job,” McKenna acknowledged reluctantly. He had a few stories of his own, but wanted to stay on track. “Is alcohol a problem for him?”

  “Not Michael Mulrooney. He takes a drink every now and then, but he’s the most controlled man you’ll ever meet. Got a wee touch of the blarney in him and can make you laugh all night, but he’s always thinking and always in control.”

  Everything McGuinn is saying jibes with Vernon’s and Hunt’s analysis of Mulrooney, McKenna thought. But he still likes New York cops? How can I use that interesting piece of information?