Recovering Commando Box Set

by Finn Óg

  A nurse looked at me with suspicion. I was still damp in places from the paddle, but at least the blood had washed away. I was salty, for sure, and must have looked pretty haggard. The nurse may have put it down to a long flight; I didn’t really care, until I saw Isla and my mum. My daughter’s little feet were brown, save from the straps of some beach shoes she must have been given. A blanket lay on the floor, and her little legs were curled up towards her chest, as her head lay across her Granny’s lap. My mum was dozing upright in a chair, not really asleep, but not awake either. Two feet away, Dad was propped up on pillows upon the ramp of a bed, a tube out of his nose, packing around his chest, a drip in his arm and a ventilator billowing away at his side. His heart was being monitored; it looked steady to my untrained eye.

  The room was private, and even had its own shower and toilet. Mum and Isla were dressed for the beach; the police had evidently retrieved their bag. I put one hand on Dad’s shoulder, and took his enormous paw in mine. He stirred, and his crusty eyes cracked open. When he saw me, he smiled, and then closed his eyes in peace for longer than was comfortable.

  Then he opened them again. His chest heaved with effort. “Ok pal,” was all he managed, the plastic mask steaming up as he spoke.

  “Hi Dad.”

  There was no point in asking how he was doing. I could see it all. He was alive, and with the exception of infection, he ought to be ok.

  “She’s been so good,” my mum spoke from behind me. “Isla held his hand all night.”

  I turned to look at her, as her eyes welled up.

  “What does the doctor say?” I nodded towards Dad.

  “Punctured lung,” she said. “There was cardiac arrest last night, which was terrifying, but they got him back in the ambulance and he’s been stable since.”

  The guilt was enormous, but mum didn’t have time for recrimination. Everyone, including me, was ok, and that was good enough for her. “I’m not going to ask what this is all about,” she said. “But is it over?”

  I walked over and scooped up my daughter, and hugged her in tight. She stirred awake.

  “Almost,” I said. “Almost.”

  24

  Westminster is stunning, even to those with little regard for what happens inside. I’d been there before countless times, on the type of duty I detested. Perhaps that’s why I had no time for the people who occupied the green and red benches inside. Perhaps it was because of my pals, led by such fools, who had died in the dirt and the dust of distant lands.

  Of course, there had to be good among the bad, but I was searching for the latter. I had run through the scenarios time and again; the recce, the surveillance, the approach, the ending. In the event, none of it proved necessary.

  I picked him up as he emerged from the Palace, no doubt having signed in for the day to claim his cash. Peers could take a daily allowance, money for nothing, if they so chose; the Brit couldn’t have spent more than an hour inside. He certainly couldn’t have taken his seat in the Lords’ chamber. Then he hopped in a private car, some up-market taxi, and took off. So I got on the phone. “Where’s he going?”

  “Lemme see,” said the Belgian, who I now had over a barrel. He had a vested interest in me ending the Circle, and a deep fear of its members finding out that he had talked. Between him and the bolshie twin, I had some pretty high-tech support. I listened to him type, as he scuttled around the Brit’s diary, held on some server inside the building I was staring at. “Is good news,” he said.

  “Hurry up,” I told him.

  “He is going to Belfast.”

  So, I went too.

  I had prepared for a showdown outside some exclusive London Gentleman’s club. I imagined I’d be denied entry, that I would have to wait outside for the Brit to emerge, full of brandy and bravado. But Belfast isn’t London.

  The Belgian was able to tell me where the Brit was booked to stay, and where the taxi would deliver him the following day. I debated taking him at his hotel, but opted instead to use the hacked information to my advantage. I decided to wait, in the hope that his visit would lead me to others in the Circle.

  Google got me there. To 4 Royal Avenue. The Ulster Reform Club. I had never heard of it, but I had passed the building a thousand times. Its website boasted partner establishments all over the world, but predominantly in London. Many were ex-military or naval organisations. The promotional images for the Reform Club gushed forth plush high-backed chairs, deep leather sofas, ornate casino tables and dark, stained timber floors. There was even a snooker and billiards room. Then I began to wonder what the Brit was up to, coming to Belfast. Posh as it was, someone like him couldn’t compare the Reform Club to his own, old-boy establishment. It wasn’t until I saw who he was meeting, that I realised. The Brit was looking for me.

  I stood in my suit, in my sweat, in astonishment, as my old Major walked down Royal Avenue. He stood out like a sore thumb, straight back, garish green tie, matching pocket-handkerchief. He looked every inch the English officer, parading down the street like he owned it, in his hand-stitched shoes. I had but a few moments to make a decision. In haste, I calculated what was happening.

  The Brit was evidently digging around in my back catalogue. He had found the Major, who had nothing but loathing for me. There had been many successful operations in which he’d got the glory, and I’d got the scars, which had made him more bitter than grateful. The lines were more blurred between officers and ratings in the SBS. Sure, rank mattered, but less so than in the army, or the Marines.

  Not to the Major though. He despised the fact that I’d had more of a relationship with my team than with the brass, like him. He hated the fact that I wouldn’t tell him why I had gone AWOL after Gaza. It was he who had busted me back to the Marines after Jerusalem. He’d insisted that I was not to be trusted in Special Forces. Seeing him in Belfast summoned an anger in me, and I decided to take his place in the posh seats.

  The options were few. I’d done what I could to conceal my identity. I’d acquired a beard in the preceding week, and I’d grabbed a hat before I left for town. It wasn’t much, and to take a man out in broad daylight in a city centre is no straightforward proposition. Unlike most UK or Irish cities, Belfast people are less inclined to take a wide berth. If there is a scrap on the street, you can bet that strangers will back the underdog and wade in with the boots. Plus, the police are armed. Besides all that, brass or not, he was a Major in the Special Forces, and he knew how to handle himself.

  I glanced down the alleyway between Primark and Tescos, right beside the Reform Club. There was a pub down there, but the laneway was busy. I knew what was at the end though, so I tried to suppress my temper and go for smarts.

  Recognition scudded across his face like sunshine from under a cloud. He was nearly at the door of the club as I approached, my face open and smiling, my hand extended. He was confused. That suggested that he had indeed been invited to discuss me, and so my appearance was particularly alarming.

  I extended my hand. I had to play this with complete confidence. “Thanks for coming Major,” I said. “Sorry for all the cloak and dagger, necessary I’m afraid.”

  The Major stared at me. “What the bloody hell is going on, Ireland?” he said. At least his hostility was consistent.

  “It’s sensitive, Major. Our mutual friend has had to change the venue. Press, I’m afraid,” I said. “Reporters, inside. Coincidental. They’re there for another event. Nonetheless, not ideal.”

  “What?” he struggled.

  “Look Sir, our peer friend was not able to discuss this on the telephone, so I suggested he mention me as a bit of a ruse, as it were, to persuade you to pop over from London. We had no way of knowing there would be another event inside, so he has asked me to fetch you, Sir, and to take you to an alternative venue.”

  He stared at me, bewildered. I began to wonder whether I was going to have to revert to choking the bastard. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” the Major blurted.

&nbs
p; “All I can do is explain to you what’s going on, Sir. The gentleman from the Lords, who I now provide security for, was due to meet you here. He got in touch with you, in the hope of engaging you to provide a service for him. Because of the phone tapping situation, he needed to say that it was in relation to an innocuous matter, and I suggested that because of our past,” I gestured between us, “he should tell you that it concerned me. Two birds as it were. Belfast, and a colleague whom you dismissed, Sir.”

  The Major grunted in disapproval.

  “If you would follow me Sir, the gentleman would like to talk to you at a different location, because of the media presence at this one.”

  He regarded me with deep suspicion, but I didn’t want to give him any more thinking time, so I turned on my heel and began walking. In his bafflement, he followed. Not a word was spoken. I was the servant, he the master. He remained at my heel as I turned down the wide entry, past the pub, and led him to the door of a church. There was a cold but decent-sized porch, dark and tiled. I stepped into the gloom and stood aside, waiting for his steps to fall in beside mine. He stood, looking at the Marian devotion, and decided he’d had enough. Peace process or no peace process, a Catholic Church in Belfast was no place for a British Naval Officer. The Major fumbled in his pocket for a mobile phone, and I struck him then, full force, in the Adam’s apple.

  It would take at least three minutes, probably more. This was a man with diver’s lungs, fit as a trout. His arms flung me aside, and we battled for thirty seconds in that tiny porch, tight, close blows, aiming for the soft bits as we had been trained to do. Amateurs fight hard, knuckles on skulls, busted hands and eye sockets. Professionals fight dirty, gouging eyes, ripping bollocks, disabling quickly, cutting off air, vision, sound, touch.

  The major didn’t stand a chance. His airway was blocked and the energy only hastened his suffocation. I caught him as his knees gave way, gripping his shoulder and hugging him in tight. There were half a dozen silent people scattered throughout the beautiful Church, as I manoeuvred him through the door. None of the worshippers looked around as I placed him at one of the rearmost pews, on his knees, head forward in prayer. No one disturbs the devout. He could be there for hours before anyone thought to check. I liberated his phone and wallet to further delay any identification, and left to meet his lunch date.

  He was lurking behind the floppy pages of the Daily Telegraph. A waist-coated waiter had showed me to his seat. All I had required was his name, with title, naturally. When the Brit saw me, his jaw dropped with the broad pages of the paper, but he did his best to gain composure.

  “M’lud,” I said, sitting in the armchair opposite, and drawing it in close. “The Major regrets that he will not be able to join you for luncheon,” I said, overly sarcastic, on reflection. But I had just killed a man, and everything becomes a little dramatic in such circumstances. The Brit stared at me. I drew out my new phone, stroked it to life, and fired up a video the twin had placed on its memory. Then I leaned in, so that he could hear it, and turned the screen towards him.

  It was natural that he should pitch forward, conspiratorially, afraid of being overheard. I tapped the little arrow to begin the entertainment.

  “Look you little Belgian bastard,” it began. He watched himself on a split screen for less than two seconds, before he closed his eyes, and fell back into his chair. His head tilted back, and his neck arched to the ceiling. His eyes re-opened, and he stared at the beams above him.

  “They’re all there,” I said, wagging the phone at him. “We’ve even got my meeting with the professor in New York. The keeper is gone, but you probably know that by now.”

  His flinched, for the first time. That was evidently news to him. I waited. Eventually he spoke, softly. “People like you will never understand, that there are times when things like this are required, in order to bring about a better outcome for everyone.” His delivery was slow, almost sad.

  “Is this where you tell me that your rape and abuse are justified for the greater good?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m not an abuser. I never was. I simply pulled the strings, you see.”

  His tone was pompous, as if he were explaining a complicated principle to a dunce. I listened. There was much I still didn’t know.

  “That way we can get people to move in the correct direction, towards peace perhaps, or persuade influential figures to do the right thing. You see, the public doesn’t always vote for what is good for them. They are emotional, they are volatile, they give in to their urges, their angers, their fears. You know all about that, don’t you Sam? You know what it is to give in to violence, to allow your impulses to take over.”

  I ignored the goading. “So, your Circle of abuse is the fault of the general public, for voting for the wrong people?” My tone was incredulous.

  He sighed, as if I were more to be pitied than scolded. “I was responsible for delivering certain things, certain outcomes. I had to achieve my targets, just like anyone else. In my line, things were left to me to determine. How I achieved those ends was left largely up to me.”

  “And your target was?”

  “To make important people compliant, of course. If you compromise somebody, in a salacious way, then you have that chap at your mercy. This is not a new concept Sam, it was always thus.”

  “So ‘the heir’ was skinned, and raped, and imprisoned, to what end?”

  “Well, peace in Ireland was achieved many ways Sam, and every element contributed. There was your lot of course, the military and what have you. There was influence, from America and elsewhere. But there was also a certain amount of manipulation, in order to get the politicians to do what was required, to change their minds, their positions on certain matters. Politicians in Northern Ireland are particularly belligerent, as you know, so we required what the Americans might call ‘leverage,’ pressure, persuasion. The truth is that the Heir was being abused long before we ever came across the Visitors, and their ghastly little circle.”

  Visitors. Visiting. The Professor’s computer password suddenly made sense.

  I shook my head. “But you led the Visitors,” I said, “that’s clear from all of the recordings.”

  “Ultimately, perhaps, but not the abuse. I rather insinuated control, which is removed from participation. It took quite some time, Sam, years as a matter of fact, but I assure you, the results were really very pleasing.”

  The riddles irritated me. “So, you came across the abuse group, and somehow joined it, and then became the boss, in order to blackmail its members to bring about peace?”

  “As part of the effort,” he shrugged, as if he were proud but humble to have done his bit.

  “That means you allowed the rape and abuse to continue, when you could have stopped it,” I said.

  “You’re not appreciating the complexity of this Sam, really. This was just one string to very broad bow. You have rather got in the way. You’ve served your country well, but you’re an oily rag. You’ll never understand those who serve in more intelligent ways.”

  “I don’t think the Guardian newspaper, or the New York Times will understand it either, when they receive these videos,” I said.

  “No doubt they’re ready to go, from your friend’s twin sister, or that money-grabbing little foreigner,” he said. “But it is of little consequence now.”

  And with that, he reached forward and popped a pill into his glass of white wine. Panic seized me, as I anticipated the arrival of others to pin me back and force it down my throat. He read me like a book.

  “Oh no Sam, this is not for you. I’m aware that I’ve made a few faux pas, as it were. Allowing myself to be recorded was a touch of naivety from an old dog in a new world. I often wonder why we go to such lengths to gain access to encrypted media, when in fact, a twelve-year-old can work out how to record it, as if setting a tape for the Antiques Roadshow.”

  “Who do you work for?” I asked.

  “Nobody. Anymore. But there are always loose ends w
hen one has dabbled in the things I’ve been involved in. Few are quite as convoluted as this. Nonetheless, I had hoped to tidy up and end my retirement in the Lords. You’ve become a spoke in the works.”

  “How do you manage? To carry on, when you know there are children being raped like that?”

  “Bit rich, is it not Sam? You carry on with your extra-judicial existence. How many people have you dispatched in the past year?”

  I didn’t really want to start counting.

  “Of course, you’re quite right. The shame for me,” he shook his head, “too much. Much too much.” He drank back the golden fluid. “Rather unpleasant drop, that,” he looked at his glass, “to finish with, which is a shame.”

  I looked into his eyes for a hint of what was to come. “I don’t expect compassion from a brute like you,” he said, “but if there were any means by which I could be kept out of the picture, it would rather serve you well.”

  I almost laughed at him.

  “I intend to stop these “Visitors,” this ring, this Circle,” I told him.

  “Yes, I quite follow. If you are prepared to do that without going to the newspapers, I shall agree to help you. But it will require a gentleman’s agreement, and time is tight.”

  I snorted at him. “Are you for real?”

  “Quite real, as you put it, Sam. Now, if you deal with these people without exposing this whole saga, I shall entrust to you the job I had intended to pass to your former boss, the Major.”

  “What?”

  “I shall give you the information you will require to close down the Circle. Of course, I had intended that the Major see to you as well, but that plan has rather gone awry.”