They managed to avoid the occupying Russian forces and get themselves black, free from surveillance, for a planned meeting in the Afghan city of Jalalabad with a top-level source Johnson had recruited, an Afghan mujahideen commander.
Unfortunately, after the meeting, when Johnson and Vic were away down the street, the agent was captured by the KGB and whisked off to an unknown but probably predictable fate. Then a gunman opened fire on Johnson and Vic as they made their way back to their car. Johnson was hit in the ear—the closest of close shaves—as he pushed Vic into the safety of a doorway. The incident left him with a small nick in the top of his ear, a scar for life.
They then ended up in a firefight with the gunman in a nearby derelict building, during which Johnson shot the man dead, triggering a diplomatic row. Worst of all, Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence found out and furiously accused the CIA of going behind its back to recruit its own agents in Afghanistan, rather than sticking to the joint agreement to work through the ISI.
Johnson never got to the bottom of how the meeting with the Afghan commander had been compromised, but he suspected a leak from the US embassy in Islamabad. Maybe even from Watson.
Anyway, it was a black mark in Johnson’s file. It devalued his reputation at CIA headquarters at Langley and, when combined with his affair with Jayne, resulted in him being recalled and fired in September 1990.
Johnson shook his head free of the thoughts that gripped him. Why was he now dwelling on yet another negative point in his otherwise successful career? It was a bad habit he seemed unable to lose. And the deeper the trough he was in, the worse this tendency became. It fed on itself.
He lifted his head and gazed across the main area of the den to the recess on the other side, where the dartboard was.
Then, suddenly, out of the stillness and darkness of the bunker, he detected a noise from an unseen source, around the corner at the far end of the room, out of Johnson’s line of sight. It was a faint scraping sound, like a fingernail on a sheet of sandpaper, but in the stillness and silence of the bunker, its sound was magnified and made Johnson jump.
Was it a rat?
The noise came again, louder and more prolonged this time. After several seconds, a now wired Johnson recognized exactly what it was: the hatch door at the other end of the den was opening. The one that led to the diesel tanks and the emergency escape.
Somebody was coming in. And it wasn’t Dennehy or McGarahan.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Crossmaglen
Duggan glanced at his watch then sipped his pint of Guinness. He drummed his fingers on the bar at the Cross Square Hotel and swore quietly to himself.
He was there to meet his quartermaster, McCormick, for a quick drink and some dinner and to discuss storage arrangements for the newly arrived Barrett M82.
But McCormick was already half an hour late and every time Duggan called him, his call went straight to voice mail. Normally McCormick was the most punctual of people, so this was a little disconcerting.
Duggan tried to focus on the Gaelic football highlights program on the wide-screen television on the wall facing him. But he was struggling to concentrate. There were suddenly too many decisions to make, and Duggan, usually quick to weigh the best course of action in most circumstances, was feeling a little overwhelmed.
The G8 meeting in Belfast was due to get underway in two days, and there was a lot to sort out. The equipment he needed was now in place, including the rifle, but Duggan would prefer to have at least a couple more sessions with it to ensure he was fully comfortable with the setup.
Generally, the Barrett was spot-on, but there was a little side-to-side trigger movement that he wanted to tighten up. That would mean dismantling the trigger mechanism. The trigger pull weight also felt a little heavier than he was used to, so he was planning to shorten the firing spring a little to achieve a crisper release.
It shouldn’t be a problem. He would make the adjustments when he got home and then do another set of tests in the morning.
The Transporter van and Grizzly quad bike that Arthur Higgins had adapted were safely stashed in the storage garage off Falls Road up in Belfast, but Duggan wanted to spend a couple of hours ensuring that the shooting platform in the false roof of the van was set up exactly as he wanted.
And then he now had the headache of deciding what to do with Johnson—a headache he could have done without.
Disposing of him would be time-consuming, not least in ensuring all tracks were covered. It required considerable thought and planning. And time was a commodity he was short of. It was easier just to leave him where he was until the G8 was over and he had time to resolve the problem properly and thoroughly.
Duggan’s phone rang. It was McCormick.
“Dessie, sorry, buddy, I’m not going to make it tonight. Had a bit of a run-in with the wife, and it’s blowing all hot and cold here. Problem is my daughter needs fetching from over Armagh way, and my missus is refusing to do it.”
Duggan drummed his fingers harder on the bar top. “For feck’s sake, Danny, get a grip. When your wife starts grabbing you by the balls and pushing you around like one of those radio-controlled cars, you’re in trouble. You’re a letdown. I’ve been standing here nursing a pint for the past forty minutes waiting for you.”
“Sorry again, boss. I owe you one. Can I come over to your place tomorrow morning instead?”
“Too right you owe me one. Okay, tomorrow at ten.”
“Thanks, and I’ll see you tomorrow then,” McCormick said.
Duggan ended the call and looked around the bar. There were a couple of other people he knew in there but nobody he wanted to sit and have dinner with. Neither did he feel like sitting by himself. He hated doing that.
Years ago, before the Good Friday agreement and the republican movement was generally unified, he would have had any number of the old guard, the Provisionals, coming up to him, keen to share a pint and a chat.
These days many of the old guard in south Armagh still lived somewhat in fear of the Provisional leadership such as Thomas “Slab” Murphy. And accordingly, they kept their distance from dissidents such as Duggan and his guys and maintained their slight air of disapproval. Not that it bothered Duggan. He’d always gone his own way, in any case.
Duggan sighed. He decided to go home and eat one of the microwave meals he had stored in his freezer. He sank the remains of his Guinness in one gulp and strode out of the bar.
Thirty seconds later, Duggan was in his Volkswagen, en route home, an hour and a half earlier than he had planned.
Part Four
Chapter Thirty-Four
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Forkhill
Johnson smelled them before he saw them.
The sickly odor of cow shit spread rapidly across the bunker and into the recess where he was lying. There was the faint sound of footsteps squeaking slightly on the concrete floor of the bunker.
He remained absolutely silent, his head up as far as he could lift it given his wrist restraints, watching and listening.
Who the hell is it?
Then a few seconds later, Jayne’s head appeared around the side of the wall and immediately jerked back in surprise. She uttered an involuntary, “Oh.”
Johnson immediately fell back flat onto the mattress in relief. “Thank you, God. Good work. Can you cut these cords? Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Jayne stepped forward, followed by O'Neill. Both of them were wearing headlamps that were turned off, and their trousers dripped a liquid, brown slurry, with a stench that made Johnson retch.
She removed a small Swiss army knife from her pocket, opened the knife blade, and crawled onto the mattress.
“Sorry it took me a while,” she said. “We saw what was going on from the video feed earlier. The cameras are dead now.”
Jayne sliced through Johnson’s bindings. “We’ve not got long,” she said. “Duggan has gone to Crossmaglen, meeting someone for
dinner or something, but I’ve no idea when he’s back.”
“How do you know?” Johnson said.
“Dennehy.”
Johnson stood up but realized that his feet and lower limbs felt dead. “Circulation’s gone,” he said. “My feet are numb.” He shook his legs until they began to tingle and gradually the feeling came back.
“Have you two got any backup?” he asked.
“Yes, Ronnie Quinn,” Jayne said. “He’s outside.”
Johnson paused for a fraction of a second in surprise. He could ask the questions later. “Gun?”
“Yep.” She patted her hip, where the gun was stuffed into her belt, beneath her jacket.
“Okay, let’s move,” Johnson said. “I’ve done this trip before. O'Neill, you lead the way, Jayne can go second, I’ll bring up the rear. What time is it?”
O'Neill looked at his watch. “Eight-thirty.”
“Just one thing, quickly,” Johnson said. He pointed to the sheet of paper pinned on the wall next to the dartboard. “What do you make of that?”
O'Neill looked irritated as he glanced at the piece of paper. “We can’t waste time with this. I’ve no idea what it’s about.” He peered more closely, then shook his head.
Johnson turned to Jayne. “Can you snap a photo of this sheet with your phone, Jayne? I’ve just got a feeling it might mean something.”
Jayne removed her phone from her pocket and took a quick picture.
O'Neill was already walking over to the hatch door at the rear of the bunker. “Come on, let’s go.” He dropped to his knees at the tunnel entrance, clicked on his headlamp, and began to crawl in, followed by Jayne.
Johnson followed, pulling the hatch door shut behind him, just as he had done on his previous visit. There was little doubt in his mind that his two minders would return to the bunker very soon. Even though Dennehy was working with O'Neill, it was extremely unlikely he was going to do anything or behave in a way that would give himself away to his colleague McGarahan. So assistance from that quarter was unlikely.
They quickly reached the first diesel tank storage room and filed past the giant green tank through to the next tunnel.
“It’s like a bloody fuel factory down here,” Jayne said. There was an electronic humming noise coming from a square box in the corner of the room, which had two-inch pipes entering and leaving it, and the sound of diesel dripping into the tank was clearly audible. The smell of fuel was overpowering.
When they had passed through the second diesel tank room, the going got tougher. The heavy rain of the previous few hours had left the floor of the third and final tunnel section even more waterlogged and boggy than on Johnson’s first visit. As the trio crawled through, the filthy mix of water, cattle urine, and dung reached up to their thighs, saturating their trousers, shoes, and socks.
At least when they reached the shaft that led up underneath the cattle trough, O'Neill and Jayne had already removed the heavy metal manhole cover, so all three of them were able to climb out and lie flat in the mud. The rain had started hammering down again, and Johnson jumped at the sudden sound of a clap of thunder, which seemed to come from almost overhead.
Johnson, exiting last, pulled the manhole cover back into place. Thankfully the cattle were gathered in the far corner of the field, not around the water trough.
“Ronnie’s over in the corner of the field. We’ll check we’re clear, then run, low as we can, over to him next to those bushes,” Jayne said.
The three of them crawled into the open and knelt there for a few seconds. “Okay, let’s go,” Johnson murmured. They ran at a crouch across the field, O'Neill in the lead, until they reached the black shadows cast by a group of sprawling evergreen bushes.
Ronnie was waiting. He nodded silently with a thin-lipped smile of recognition at Johnson.
As they arrived they caught the high-pitched whine of a fast-moving car in low gear heading up the lane on the other side of the farmyard, the glare from its headlights strafing the leafless trees like a black and white nightclub strobe. Its brakes screeched, and the car headlights appeared in the gap at the right-hand side of the farmhouse, where the driveway led into the farmyard. They now pointed like searchlights, straight into the field toward them, picking out the rain that continued to pour down.
On the far corner of the left side of the farmhouse, a powerful outside light suddenly came on. Now Johnson could see another car, which looked like a gray Audi, left of the house.
The headlights of the first car went off and a man jumped out, shouted something inaudible, and started running toward the house before disappearing from sight behind it.
O'Neill tapped Ronnie on the shoulder. “Give me that remote control,” he said.
Ronnie looked at him. “What for? I don’t think we should—”
“Just give it here,” O'Neill interrupted.
Ronnie shrugged, reached into his jacket pocket, and handed over what Johnson recognized, from the branding on the front, to be a radio-controlled remote trigger device. Surely he’s not going to?
“What the hell are you doing?” Johnson asked.
“Jayne wired up that gray Audi over there,” O’Neill said. “That’s Duggan who’s just climbed out of the other car. He must know you’ve escaped. That’s why he’s driven in fast like that. We need a distraction.”
“Hang on a minute,” Johnson said, “that sounds like a bad idea. We don’t need to do that, we can—”
Jayne interrupted. “No, don’t trigger it now, Brendan. We don’t need to.”
“Just leave it to me,” O’Neill said.
A few seconds later, a running figure emerged at the left side of the house, next to the gray Audi, yanked the door open, and jumped into the driver’s seat. The car’s engine roared.
“That’s Duggan,” O’Neill said.
Before Johnson could reach him, O’Neill punched three of the buttons on the front of the trigger device.
A fraction of a second later, an ear-ripping blast tore into the night sky, echoing up the hillside, as a ball of orange engulfed the Audi. A mushroom of fire rose above the spot where the car had been, and a column of rapidly rising smoke followed.
“Got the bastard. Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here,” O'Neill said. He turned and led the way up the sloping field toward the ridge at the top.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Forkhill
It was after eleven o’clock by the time Johnson, Jayne, O’Neill, and Ronnie arrived back at Ronnie’s house. They were soaked from the rainstorm that had continued as they trekked back to O’Neill’s car.
They had to take another circuitous route, via several villages south of the border, to get themselves safely back to Ronnie’s house in Forkhill.
By that stage Johnson was struggling to contain himself, although he said nothing. What was Brendan thinking of?
Ronnie invited them in, despite Johnson’s concerns that the older man was compromising himself and potentially risking a dissident republican reprisal beating if others in the south Armagh brigade found out about his role.
“Screw ’em,” Ronnie said. “You come in, clean yourselves up. I’ll make you a bit of food.”
“As long as it’s not beans on toast, that’d be great,” Johnson said. “But I’m worried we’re putting you at risk. We can’t stay long.”
“Nah,” Ronnie said. “They don’t suspect me, anyway. I’m not in the game. They wouldn’t look twice in my direction. They think I used to be one of Duggan’s mates and I’m harmless.”
Johnson asked Ronnie to put the regional television news on to see if the blast at the farm had been registered, but there was nothing. Johnson wasn’t surprised. The farm was some distance from the nearest neighbors, and the heavy rain and thunder claps would doubtless have muffled the sound of the explosion. There would be few casual passersby along such a remote country lane to witness the damage. And the dissident Irishmen would hardly be reporting the blast to the police, no matte
r how serious the damage.
Johnson knew that Duggan could never have survived the explosion at the farmhouse.
One thing was certain: Johnson was pleased his finger hadn’t been the one on the detonator. That could eventually lead to serious trouble for O’Neill, Johnson guessed, from any one or all of several different sources—primarily MI5 and the police. Not to mention the media.
And right now, Johnson’s view was that O’Neill deserved all he would get. He had blown any chance there was of hauling Duggan into court. To set up an explosion as a potential distraction was one thing. But to trigger it when it was going to blow someone to pieces, even a terrorist, was quite another.
That wasn’t Johnson’s way of operating.
He turned to Brendan. “I can’t thank Jayne and you enough for getting me out of that shithole. But I don’t get why you blew him up?”
O’Neill looked him straight in the eye. “You don’t know these people—I do,” he said, his voice level. “If I hadn’t done that, we’d probably be swinging upside down in Duggan’s barn on a meat hook by now, with jump leads attached to our balls. That’s where you’d be, if I hadn’t got you out of there.”
Johnson shook his head. “What you did isn’t the answer,” he said.
O’Neill leaned forward. His eyes were a little red around the edges, his skin almost gray. “Why don’t you just be thankful you’re out of there. It’s easy for you, coming in from outside. You can walk out anytime you like. For us, we’re stuck here with kids in schools, families, roots that have been put down. We’re dealing with a helluva stressful situation, issues that go back decades, and it’s bloody complicated.”
Johnson felt like starting an argument but refocused on the immediate practicalities. He needed to get himself and Jayne back to Belfast. Then he needed to rent another car and report the previous one stolen—which he had decided was the best course of action—buy another phone, and obtain a new SIM card.
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