Bandit Country

by Andrew Turpin

  “He said he had a job on today, that’s all. That’s why it was urgent,” Higgins said. He folded his arms and chewed at the inside of his cheek.

  “Did he say what?” Jayne asked.

  “Nope. I wasn’t really in a position to ask too many questions.”

  “Why?” Jayne asked.

  “Because the bastard was pointing a bloody gun straight at me at the time.”

  Jayne looked at Johnson and raised her eyebrows, then glanced back at Higgins. “And you don’t know any more than that about what he’s intending to do? No hints?”

  Higgins shook his head. “No. None at all.”

  “So what color was the quad bike?”

  “A dark green color,” Higgins said.

  It didn’t make any sense at all to Johnson. If Duggan was going to make a quiet, stealthy attempt to assassinate one or both of the main leaders of the western world or Conor Campbell, then using a noisy quad bike as his means of transport surely wasn’t the way to go about it. Where the hell was he going to use a quad bike in the city? And for what? A platform?

  He checked his watch. The G8 school visit was due to begin in forty-five minutes.

  Chapter Forty

  Monday, January 28, 2013

  Belfast

  As soon as Johnson and Jayne left Higgins, Johnson sent a text message to Campbell to update him. But instead of a reply, he got a call two minutes later from Arnside, the assistant chief constable.

  Arnside wasted no time with pleasantries beyond explaining that, as Johnson had assumed, Campbell was now fully occupied dealing with the Obama and Cameron visit.

  Johnson gave Arnside a quick verbal account of the conversation with Higgins and details of the dark green quad bike with the custom-built platform on the back. “The big question now is why Duggan needs a quad,” Johnson said.

  “Yes, agreed. I assume he needs it for access to somewhere. Hold the line.” Johnson heard Arnside barking orders, presumably into a police radio, first to what sounded like helicopter control, then to the armed response unit.

  Arnside came back on the line. “I’m at Falls Park on a chopper, but I want you to go to the school, as I’ll be traveling there soon. By the time you get to the school we’ll have decided on a plan. You’ll find heavy security, but I’m instructing them to let you pass. Have you got passports with you?”

  “Yes, we have.”

  “Okay. Just show them at the checkpoints,” Arnside said. “Get there as quickly as you can, and call me if you pick up any more information.” He asked Johnson to confirm his car registration plate, gave him his secure cell phone number, and then hung up.

  Johnson and Jayne got back into the Mazda and set off. It was clear to Johnson, once he got back on Falls Road and within a couple of miles of the Whiteside school and city center, that the security operation underway in Belfast was of battlefield dimensions. The place was now crawling with police vehicles, motorcycle cops, armed officers at makeshift checkpoints, and dogs with their handlers.

  Johnson went through a police checkpoint but then pulled onto the side of the road next to a small supermarket on Falls Road, just a few hundred yards before the next checkpoint, which he could see ahead.

  To him, Arnside’s instructions sounded intuitively wrong.

  “What are you doing?” Jayne asked. She sounded exasperated.

  “This doesn’t feel right,” Johnson said. “There seems little point in us going to the school when Duggan’s likely to strike from farther away.”

  What had Moira told him, when they were sipping whiskey on her sofa. The conversation seemed like months ago now.

  His friends called him the Dentist because they said he was so accurate, he could take out a tooth from a mile away.

  “Maybe. But where, though?” Jayne said. “Police seem to have all the bases covered. He wouldn’t get near the place with that van of his, surely?”

  Johnson shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t.” He leaned back against the driver’s seat headrest. “At least, you wouldn’t have thought so. But he’s done it before, obviously. That’s why they’ve never caught him. A clever bastard.”

  He scratched his chin and glanced at Jayne. “Come on, think. Now’s the time for some brain work. What are his options?”

  “Well, if he’s a sniper, he needs a line of sight to his target. I’m thinking high-rise tower blocks, apartments, offices.”

  “Agreed. But why does he need the quad bike? That’s the issue. Unless it’s for escape purposes, to get down narrow alleys or something,” Johnson said. “Anyway, let’s drive on and see if we can spot any buildings within range that he could operate from.”

  He continued through four more police checkpoints, each time producing his and Jayne’s passports and giving Arnside’s name as a reference, until he got onto Springfield Road, within half a mile of the school. He pulled onto the side of the road again.

  Johnson shook his head. “There’s nothing. I don’t see any obvious building where he could operate and stand a hope of escaping. The taller blocks of flats are too far into the city.” He got out of the car and walked a few yards down the road, took out his phone, and used his maps app to calculate the distance to the taller buildings near the city center.

  Jayne also got out and leaned back against the car door, her arms folded.

  Two marked police BMW X5s roared past at high speed, sirens blaring, up Springfield Road toward the school. Behind them, three police motorcycle police followed at a slightly less frantic pace. To the east of the city, a large helicopter took off and headed toward them. As it drew nearer, Johnson recognized it as a Chinook.

  “I’m guessing that’s a mile to the city,” Jayne said. “I think one of those tower blocks would have to be the favorite. That was where the snipers on both sides sometimes operated from when I was based here.”

  “No, it’s a mile and a half,” Johnson said, peering at his phone screen. “I just don’t see it working. And it still doesn’t explain the quad bike.”

  He turned around and glanced up at the hill overlooking Belfast, Black Mountain, which stood behind him.

  Jayne saw him looking up. “No, that’s even farther away. There’s no way,” she said.

  But Johnson wasn’t thinking about the distance. Rather, the image of Black Mountain from this angle reminded him instantly of what he had seen lying next to the Leon Uris novel on the kitchen countertop in Duggan’s kitchen during his first solo visit to the house. It was a large-scale Ordnance Survey map of Black Mountain. The photograph on the map’s cover had been almost identical to the view he was now looking at.

  “Sonofabitch, it’s the mountain. That explains the quad bike,” Johnson said softly. He turned to Jayne. “I remember now. I saw a detailed map of the damn mountain in Duggan’s kitchen. Where else would he get a clear line of fire from around here? There’s nothing. It’s the only option. Yes, it looks a hell of distance, but how far is it actually?”

  Johnson went back to the maps app on his phone and tapped away for several seconds. “I think that ridge up there is probably a mile from the school. Less than it looks. And the key thing is the height. It gives him an angle, a line of sight.”

  “True. But none of the other shootings have been that far, and surely the police would have the mountain covered,” Jayne said. “The helicopters would be watching it.”

  “You would expect so. But I’m going to call Arnside and ask.”

  Johnson dialed the number for Arnside, leaving his phone on loudspeaker so Jayne, standing next to him, could hear. He briefed Arnside quickly on his thoughts and the map he remembered seeing.

  Arnside sounded confident. “We’ve covered the mountain, had choppers flying over it regularly and patrols up there. It’s a very long distance, and more to the point, it’s very open and exposed. If anyone tried anything up there, the choppers would see him. There’s no cover, not even any trees; it’s all grass and moorland. I’m certain he would want to get nearer and have more cove
r. It’s a damn long shot from up there.”

  “I see your point, Mr. Arnside,” Johnson said, “but the kind of terrain you’ve described might explain exactly why he needs a quad bike. Can you do another security sweep of the mountain, just to be sure? There’s nothing to lose, is there? All we’re looking for is a white van and a quad.”

  There was a pause. Then Arnside sounded suddenly decisive. “Why not? You’re right, there’s nothing to lose. Let’s do the sweep. Turn around and come back to Falls Park right now. You can come on board my chopper—you might have something to add to the party. Where are you?”

  Johnson gave a brief description of their location.

  “Falls Park is only three or four minutes from there,” Arnside snapped. “Quick as you can. I’ll call you back in a minute. I need to prime the crew.”

  Johnson and Jayne climbed into the car. He knew exactly where Falls Park was, as they had passed by it on several occasions. He started the engine, did a U-turn, and accelerated with a squeal of tires back in the direction they had come from.

  Johnson was speeding along Falls Road when Arnside called back. Jayne picked up Johnson’s phone and accepted the call, putting the device on speaker so Johnson could hear and talk.

  “The crew’s preparing for takeoff, so you need to move,” Arnside said. “There’s space for only one, so I can’t get your colleague on with you. Can she drive the car back to the school?”

  Jayne leaned toward Johnson’s phone and spoke. “It’s Jayne Robinson here. Yes, that’s fine, can do.”

  “Good. Get moving. I’ll see you at the park. You can’t miss us. I’ll tell our guys at the gate to let you through.” He ended the call.

  Jayne’s phone beeped. She read the message.

  “That was from Noreen,” she said. “She’s got hold of that old contact at Nottinghamshire police. Apparently they’ve found a file in a vault there she thinks is the one we need. But get this—they can’t release it without the authority of the Northern Ireland chief constable.”

  She slapped her hand against the car seat. “What a joke. He’s never going to give consent. Not when it could mean signing his own downfall. We’ve got no chance.”

  Johnson sighed. “We’ll have to sort that out later.” He turned sharp right toward the park. Time was running out.

  He wasn’t looking forward to getting into a helicopter. The last time he’d been anywhere near a Police Service of Northern Ireland helicopter, he’d seen it shot down and the chief constable shot dead. Duggan’s work.

  Monday, January 28, 2013

  Belfast

  Duggan parked the Grizzly about thirty yards south of the gravel path in the middle of a stretch of heather and grass. This was going to be the risky part: getting safely into position without being spotted from the air.

  He glanced up at the police helicopters that were still hovering in a formation of three a couple of miles away, where Falls Road wound its way toward the city center. Another helicopter hovered nearer to them, about a mile away, above Whitefield Integrated Primary School, where the president of the United States was expected soon.

  But none of the aircraft seemed interested in what he was doing on Black Mountain. As he watched, one of the trio over the city center peeled away and descended, landing in or near Falls Park, Duggan guessed. That helped—one less pair of eyes in the sky to watch him.

  Duggan removed the long black case containing his Barrett and ammunition from the rack at the back of the Grizzly, together with two other bags. One of them contained the two vinyl sheets, the other the ghillie suit.

  He unclipped the aluminum sniper platform and pulled on the ghillie suit, which—to his surprise—fitted him perfectly.

  A few minutes later Duggan was in position about twenty-five yards away from the Grizzly.

  Observers from the air would be unlikely to give the Grizzly a second glance, unless they came very close to it. It was covered with a vinyl sheet imprinted with a high-definition photograph of the heather and grasses that Duggan had taken using his drone on top of Black Mountain. From above the Grizzly would appear to be simply a mound of earth covered in vegetation.

  Duggan placed his portable sniper’s platform on the heather and covered it with the smaller vinyl sheet, which bore a similar imprint to the larger one.

  The ghillie suit made him look like a walking, talking bush made of heather and blended perfectly into the terrain. Even a trained eye would have struggled to spot him once he was horizontal.

  He lay flat next to the platform with his Barrett—draped with the small ghillie—resting on it.

  Over the years Duggan had found that it was the small touches, the attention to detail, that had kept him free and undetected in the various operations he had carried out. The ghillie for the rifle barrel and the high-powered twenty-seven magnification Schmidt & Bender scope mounted on top of it were important. In nature, there are no straight lines, and the human eye is naturally drawn to man-made items with defined edges such as rifles and platforms. By disguising the barrel, Duggan was maximizing his chances of going undiscovered.

  He glanced over his shoulder. There, fifty yards away, O'Driscoll, wearing the yellow Belfast Landscaping jacket, was pretending to be busy with his shovel. Next to him stood the company quad bike with its storage box of equipment. Any police helicopter that had surveyed the mountain over recent days would not notice anything different about the man going about his low-key path maintenance work. He was part of the scenery. Indeed, the eye would be drawn to him and away from anyone else nearby—which was Duggan’s intention.

  Ideally, Duggan would have liked O'Driscoll to act as spotter for him, working with a high-powered spotting scope to check the target and whether he had hit it or not. But to do that in such an open position was extremely risky and significantly raised the likelihood of being seen. Instead he would have to rely on his own eyes and judgment.

  Duggan unfolded the inverted V-shaped rifle bipod and adjusted it until the height of the barrel felt comfortable and correctly positioned, with sufficient pressure on it to avoid the rifle hopping around when he fired. That would be particularly important with no spotter—he would need to ensure the rifle stayed as stable as possible immediately after firing so he could continue to get a clear enough view through the scope to know whether he had hit or missed.

  He set the sixteen-inch variable power scope to its highest magnification of twenty-seven times, placed his right eye a few inches back from the powerful scope, and rotated the eyepiece until the playing field of the Whiterock school far below him came into sharp, close focus. Now that he could see every detail of his target area, he moved the reticle until the crosshairs were in the center of the football goalposts.

  Duggan had already zeroed the rifle following his previous visit to the mountain, setting up the scope for a distance of 1,610 yards. That was the distance his Vectronix range finder had shown from his firing position to the school, allowing for the downhill angle.

  Now he needed to fine-tune his settings to allow for wind speed and direction. He took his Kestrel 4500 meter from his pocket. The size of a phone handset with a miniturbine set into the top to measure wind speed, it would calculate all the ballistics settings he would need, based on the details he had already inputted for his gun, including the scope, the reticle, and the .50-caliber BMG rounds he was using.

  To Duggan’s relief, there was only a slight wind, even on the top of Black Mountain. The Kestrel confirmed this, showing a breeze of two miles per hour traveling right to left as he faced his target. Duggan expected that, down at the school, the breeze would be even less.

  He adjusted his scope, turning the windage turret on the side of the device to shift his aim slightly to the right, to take into account the wind conditions.

  As he did so, Duggan’s thoughts drifted back to the twist of fate that had brought the stolen laptop with the pale blue cover into his possession, thanks to a simple house burglary at Will Doyle’s house, carried
out by a junior brigade volunteer a year earlier.

  The volunteer had later found on the laptop a copy of Doyle’s journal from his time in the British army in 1984 and had immediately realized the link to Dessie Duggan.

  When the youngster had arrived on Duggan’s doorstep, carrying the laptop and its incriminating contents, Duggan suddenly had found himself, after years of searching, with all he needed to identify the killers of his father, Alfie.

  Duggan had expected a long battle to identify all six. But he had given the same volunteer the task of obtaining that detail, and within days, the young man had wormed his way into the British army’s human resources archives via yet another volunteer in the department and had come up with a roster of men in the unit operating in south Armagh at that time. After that, matching names between the roster and Doyle’s journal had been easy. Of the six soldiers, five were now dead. And the sixth was about to meet a similar fate.

  Duggan’s only regret was that he had had to remove the risk that the brigade volunteer might tell other people what he had found on the laptop. He therefore killed the young house burglar and fed his body to the pigs at Davy’s farm.

  Duggan shook his head, as if to switch his train of thought, then relaxed and concentrated once again on the view through the scope.

  Now all he had to do was wait for his target to arrive.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Monday, January 28, 2013

  Belfast

  One second, the twin engines of the Eurocopter EC145 were idling. The next, a high-pitched whine penetrated the earphones Johnson had just put on. The aircraft bellowed and clattered, and a couple of seconds after he had fastened his safety belt, it took off, leaving his stomach behind on the ground.

  The Police Service of Northern Ireland chopper was the same model Duggan had shot down in Crossmaglen. Johnson clutched the side of his seat on the left side of the helicopter and glanced at the pilot and copilot up front, sitting straight-backed in front of the cockpit display, which was shrouded by a black hood.