by Jack Elgos
‘Thanks darlin’, he grinned at her as he took the keys. The car moved a few yards forward to the chopper to deal with whatever business was necessary there and he walked across to the Granada.
He carried out his usual security measures and, when he was confident that everything was safe, he went to examine the contents of the boot. Turner had assured him that he would be well provisioned, but his eyes widened in amazement at what he saw. ‘Fuck me, there’s a bloody arsenal in here,’ he muttered as he carried out a quick stock-check. A Colt .45 automatic; a snub nosed .38 revolver; a short stock AK 47; two fragmentation grenades; a very large and evil looking bayonet and, last but not least, an Armalite AR-18. ‘A fuckin’ Widowmaker,’ he exclaimed as he noted each weapon strapped neatly into individual foam containers and a collection of multiple clips and associated boxes of ammo to complete the arms stash. ‘Jesus Christ all-fucking-mighty, what’s Turner thinking? I’m gonna start World War fucking Three?’
He took the .38, checked its ammo and pocketed it. The .45 auto, two spare clips and one of the grenades went into the glove box where he also found a torch. Handy. He then loaded the AK, placing it along with several mags in the passenger foot-well. The Widowmaker, clips, ammo and bayonet he left where they were. ‘Hopefully I won’t be needing any of those fuckers,’ he thought as he slammed the boot closed. He climbed into the driver’s seat and, after uttering a final ‘Jesus Christ,’ drove from the park and out onto the main road. He checked the clock on the dash. It was just gone 10pm and he would be in position in less than five minutes.
The Hotel, the Targets
and the Drunkard
Liam sat on the bench with his back to the river Suir. He had a good view of the hotel and he watched with envy as couples and families ate their meals in the brightly-lit dining room. They looked warm and comfortable in there and he pulled down his cap and pulled up the collar of his coat to keep out the cold March night. He wished he could have stayed in the car, but there wasn’t a park close enough for his surveillance, so the bench it had to be.
There was no sign of his target yet, but he hadn’t expected one. Mad Dog was hardly likely to take a window seat and put himself on display. Turner’s intelligence had this as friendly territory for the cause and Larry O’Brien’s face was not well known outside of his own community, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have taken safety precautions. The dossier had detailed a side room as the likely meeting place, but a blueprint of the hotel showed that the only way back to the hotel accommodation was through the main restaurant area. So Liam fought the cold, waited and watched.
This was taking an interminably long time. As 11pm came and went, he wasn’t too worried, but as midnight approached and all the regular clientele had left the restaurant he started to become as concerned as he was cold. A waiter moved into view to clear the last table and the dining room lights dimmed. Bollocks. With less light he couldn’t be sure to identify the target and he was considering moving closer when a group of men could be briefly seen walking through the restaurant and past the window. He counted seven, at least three of whom had that unmistakable bodyguard bearing.
Finally.
He couldn’t see clearly enough to identify faces, but it had to be them and he hoped they were going straight to their rooms. Two of the men emerged from the hotel and walked away down the street, leaving five inside. He checked his watch in the glow of a street lamp and saw that he had only half an hour for the next stage of the plan. He waited for ten more minutes and then walked across to the hotel and into reception as he prayed that Turner’s information would continue to hold good and that a certain man with a facial scar had suffered an unfortunate stomach complaint earlier in the day.
A girl was alone at the desk and Liam thought she looked quite pleasant. From Turner’s information that she “wasn’t too bright” Liam had expected a gormless expression. As he walked towards her he could see through to the bar area which seemed deserted. Thank Christ. ‘Can I help you?’ the receptionist asked politely.
‘I was supposed to be at a meeting here tonight, but I didn’t make it. Can I leave a note for one of your guests please?
‘Certainly sir,’ she said, passing over a pad and pen before cautiously looking over her shoulder. Lowering her voice she added, ‘I hope you have a good excuse. That Mr. Murphy was most displeased when you didn’t show.’
‘Ah, yes, Murphy,’ Liam offered, feigning familiarity with the name, ‘he does have a bad temper.’
‘I didn’t like him at all,’ the girl continued confidentially. ‘Patrick Murphy my eye. As if I don’t know a false name when I see it. Er, not that it’s any of my business,’ she added hurriedly.
‘Don’t mind me, darlin’,’ he smiled at her. ‘I’m just the hired help. Anyway I’ll be leaving the message for Leonard O’Barry, if that’s OK.’
‘Of course, of course, sir.’ She took the note quickly and scolded herself. She wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone from that meeting. They were not officially here and she had been unhappy earlier in the evening when that horrible Murphy had spoken to her in a very off-hand manner and demanded that if a man with a scar on his cheek turned up, he should be shown through immediately. She wouldn’t like to be in this man’s shoes, she thought as she placed the note in pigeonhole twenty-nine.
‘Thank you,’ Liam said politely and walked back out into the night.
It was freezing, but at least he could go back to his car now for the rest of the wait. He was only just within schedule and the dossier showed the staff change in fifteen minutes. He figured an extra quarter of an hour beyond that to be on the safe side. He couldn’t let the girl who had seen him up close also see him head to the rooms. So far the timing had proved tight but everything else seemed to be just as Turner had predicted. A guy missing from the meeting, particularly one with a scar, had given him the excuse to find out Larry O’Brien’s room number.
‘How can you be sure one of them will have a scar?’ Liam had asked.
‘Dear boy,’ Turner had replied wearily. ‘How many people do you know in your old circles who don’t have scars of some description?’
It was a good point, Liam had to admit, and Turner had assured him that, of the three men due to attend the meeting from the local area, two of them would be described as men with scars. ‘We plan to inconvenience one of them with a laxative,’ he had explained. ‘Then you go in when it’s too late for the meeting and it will just be assumed that you are the missing man with the scar.’
‘Why don’t you just have him killed?’
‘Mr. O’Neil, really, we can’t just go killing people off willy nilly now can we? Our targets are carefully selected. They have to be high enough up the chain to matter but not so high up in political circles that their deaths would cause an outcry in government. The man with the scar is simply a Waterford local who helped to facilitate a meeting. It would be quite unseemly to take him out, as I’m sure you can appreciate.’
No, in all honesty, Liam couldn’t appreciate that at all. All these little niceties were completely beyond his comprehension and he knew he would never get his head round it. Still, it was nothing to do with him, and “inconveniencing” unsuspecting men with laxatives was not his business. What was his business, though, was ascertaining the whereabouts of one Larry-Mad Dog-O’Brien and the last page of the dossier had given the cover name Leonard O’Barry. ‘How can you be so sure he’ll use that name?’ Liam had asked.
‘Oh, the intelligence is very good there,’ Turner had assured him. ‘Plus it makes perfect sense.’
‘It does?’
‘Oh, but of course. People go to the trouble of assuming false names, but they usually stick with their own initials.’
‘Does that mean your real initials are A.T. then?’ Liam had wanted to know.
‘M.T.’
‘What?’
‘Mr. Turner to you lad.’
Liam considered the whole initials thing while he waited in the car and it prompted the obvio
us question. Who, then, was Patrick Murphy? One equally obvious answer suggested itself – Peter Moore, but there had been no mention of his presence in the file. Had Turner missed something? If so, should he do anything about it? He would dearly love to. Peter Moore was at the top of the Committee Belfast and if anyone was ultimately responsible for his mother’s death, then it had to be him. He felt his anger building and made a deliberate effort to control his breathing. First Mad Dog as per orders, he decided, and then he would consider what to do next. He checked his watch. Twelve forty-five. Time to move.
The young man who had recently started his shift on reception looked up at the sight of the man who wobbled through the door, hiccupping loudly as he made his way to the stairs of the east wing. ‘Ah the Guinness takes its toll on another tourist,’ he thought as he returned his attention to his newspaper. Nothing to concern him there. He only had to report anyone taking the other staircase.
At the top of the first flight, and out of sight of the receptionist, the wobbling ceased and Liam made his way purposefully along the first floor corridor to the service doors. He felt in his pocket for the key that Turner had supplied and tried it in the lock. The door opened without protest. He climbed four more flights of stairs before reaching the connecting corridor shown on the blueprints, made his way along it and then descended down the regular stairs of the west wing to arrive at the second landing. He peeked round the corner and saw just one man standing guard about half way down the corridor, his back firmly pressed against the wall. Just one. That was good. The drunk returned as he tottered in the man’s direction.
‘Hey you, yer on the wrong floor pal,’ the guard said quietly as he approached him, though he didn’t move. Liam gave him an unfocused, confused glance and then continued to totter right up to him. ‘Hey I’ve told you, arsewipe, get lost,’ came the hissed order.
‘Fuck you,’ Liam offered in his best drunken slur as he stumbled backwards.
The guard lunged towards him and Liam reacted immediately, moving to his rear, grabbing the guard round the neck and silencing him with one swift slice from The Killer. The man gurgled briefly and then slipped to the floor. Liam arranged him in what he hoped looked like a drunken slump and then scanned the room numbers until he found 29. He knocked gently. When there was no reply he tried again, a little louder this time.
‘Yeah, who is it?’ a sleepy voice eventually asked quietly from the other side of the door.
‘We have a problem out here, sir,’ said Liam in a hushed tone to disguise his voice. It was a useful piece of advice that Turner had given him. All whispers sound much the same, so his quarry should believe that it was the guard at the door. Then, deciding on an all or nothing gamble he added, ‘Mr. Moore needs to see you urgently.’
As the door opened a crack Liam knew he had guessed correctly about the other man’s presence and he hurled his weight at the door, flinging it open and throwing a very confused Mad Dog on his back. In one movement he was in the room, the door was closed behind him and he was on top of the prone man delivering a knock out punch to the face. He worked quickly, removing the rope from round his waist to tie his captive down and securing a gag at his mouth. He returned to the door and pressed his ear against it, but there was no sound from the corridor. Then he waited for the man to come round. It was taking longer than he’d anticipated, and Liam glanced anxiously at the illuminated dial on the bedside table. Shit, he really didn’t have much time if he wanted to get them both. Turner’s schedule hadn’t allowed for that.
Larry slowly opened his eyes and tried to focus in the dark room. Within seconds he realised that he was restrained in a sitting position, his arms tied behind his back and his legs tightly bound in front. When he found he couldn’t speak either, the pressure of a blade at his neck was no great surprise, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying. ‘I’m going to pull that gag down in a second,’ came a low, unidentifiable voice from just behind his head, ‘and I’ll want you to answer some questions. But you will do it quietly, understand?’ He nodded quickly and felt the gag loosen as the pressure from the blade increased.
‘What room’s Peter Moore in?’
‘What the fu..’
‘Shush, quietly remember.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Larry hissed.
‘Sure you do, Mad Dog. Everyone knows Larry O’Brien and Peter Moore go way back.’
‘What? No you’re wrong. I’m Leonard, Leonard O’Barry. I don’t know who…’
‘You are Larry - Mad Dog - O’Brien and that false name is fooling no one. You even had to keep it as an Obie, didn’t you? Besides, I know you man and you know me.’
‘I don’t. Who the fu…’ The gag was tightened at his mouth again and the knife moved from his throat as he felt the man stand up behind him and then saw his shadow walk across the room. When the light flicked on he blinked at the glare and then stared in amazement.
‘Know me now, Mad Dog?’ Liam was rewarded by a wide-eyed, incredulous look of recognition as his captive attempted to speak. ‘You gonna keep that voice down if I let you talk?’
The bound man nodded quickly and Liam pocketed his knife, taking out the .38 in its place. The Killer would return quickly enough, but for now he wanted to look this man in the eyes and the gun made more sense for that. He loosened the gag.
‘Butch? Is that really you Butch?’ O’Brien stammered. ‘It can’t be. You’re dead.’
‘You must be seeing ghosts then.’
‘No Butch, I was told you’d been shot. We all thought you’d been shot. Fuck, Willy Nolan even held a wake.’
‘You had a body?’ Liam was a little surprised at that.
‘No, the prison wouldn’t release it so we… Oh fuck.’
Liam watched as the cogs turned in the man’s brain. If he wasn’t dead and the prison had been complicit in the subterfuge it could mean only one thing. ‘That’s right, got it now haven’t you Mad Dog?’
‘Who sent you?’ the question was an angry whisper.
‘That really doesn’t matter. I know everything. I know you’re one of the bastards who signed the order to have my Mammy killed and I’m here for her.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about son,’ Larry tried in placatory manner.
‘Don’t call me son, you patronising bastard,’ Liam spat at him. ‘And don’t think you can deny it. I talked to Jonny. He told me everything.’
He saw a change in O’Brien’s expression then at the mention of the man who had actually carried out the hit. ‘Collateral damage,’ came the reply, the tone now defiant and arrogant. ‘Nothing to be done.’
Liam felt the rage build inside him, but he didn’t have time for that. He pocketed the gun and slowly pulled out The Killer a second time. He crouched down to the man, who struggled against his bonds but had no chance of escape, and moved the knife slowly in front of his face, the word matador clearly visible, then took the blade to within an inch of his eye. He was rewarded by a tremor of the man’s cheeks. Anyone faced by the vicious blade experienced a fear far deeper than any gun could produce. It was that deep, primal, visceral fear, instilled in man throughout the ages. That basic fear of the wild, savage, untameable, sharp toothed beast. That fear that couldn’t be denied and would eventually turn to terror. The trouble was that Liam didn’t really have time for eventually just now and this was a particularly hard bastard he had in front of him. You didn’t earn a moniker like Mad Dog for nothing and he narrowed his eyes as he considered how best to make this man talk - and quickly.
‘I had to sign it,’ Larry suddenly blurted out.
Liam froze for a second in surprise, but then quickly pressed his advantage. ‘Go on.’
‘I never understood it, Butch, honest I didn’t,’ Larry went on, his voice cracking more with every word. ‘I never knew why you were so special. Jesus, I had young lads banging on my door wanting to join up. We turned away more than we took. But you, they really wanted you.’
&n
bsp; ‘Why me? What was so fuckin’ special about me that you had to kill me Mam?’ Liam hissed through clenched teeth. He wanted to scream his anger at this man, but he couldn’t afford the noise.
‘I told you, Butch, I don’t know. I swear I don’t know. It was Peter. He issued the order. I had to sign it. I had no choice.’
Liam figured that much was probably true. ‘So, where is he? Where is Peter Moore?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I can’t Butch, you know I can’t. It’s more than my life’s worth.’
‘And how much is that exactly?’ Liam spat into the face in front of him. ‘You know, I do believe that Moore issued the order. That doesn’t surprise me in the least, but you had no choice you say? Everyone’s got a choice, man. Everyone. But you didn’t give me Mam a choice, did you? That order had her beaten before she died, you sadistic bastard. You ordered her kneecapped and her ankles broken, didn’t you? You signed that fuckin’ order. You knew what would happen.’
O’Brien said nothing. From the wild look in his eyes his fear had finally turned to terror and he was paralysed by it. Liam secured the gag tightly again. ‘Like this, was it?’ he growled as he crouched and brought the heavy butt of his knife down on the man’s ankle, the unmistakeable sound of breaking bones quickly accompanied by a low groan from the man’s throat. ‘Or like this?’ he suggested as he rose to his full height and slammed his boot on the man’s knee. ‘Now where the fuck is Moore?’
His captive flopped before him, unmoving and silent. Shite, the pathetic turd had passed out. ‘Some fuckin’ hard man you are,’ Liam cursed as he dragged the man to an upright position and started slapping his face. ‘Wake up you bastard,’ he hissed. ‘You’re not getting off that lightly.’ Gradually the man’s eyes flickered as he came round to immediate agony. His scream was stifled by the obstruction in his mouth and Liam waited until it died in his throat and then bent his head close and loosened the gag just a fraction. ‘Which room?’ he hissed.