The Long shot mc-1

by Stephen Leather

  “RUC?”

  “Royal Ulster Constabulary,” explained Clutesi. “The Northern Ireland police. They’ve got a hell of a good intelligence network. And MI5 is the British Intelligence Service, they keep their own files on Irish terrorists. We’ve set up a system for information-sharing. I can run all the names through their files.”

  “Pictures, too?” asked Howard, pulling his own computer terminal closer and switching on the VDU.

  “Sure,” said Clutesi. “It’ll take time, though. Our computers aren’t linked yet, we have to do it through messengers. The MI5 files might take a bit longer than the RUC. They seem to be dragging their feet lately. Politics, you know?”

  “I understand,” said Howard, who wasn’t sure that he did.

  “Do you know much about the IRA?” Clutesi asked.

  “Not much,” admitted Howard. “Just what I read in the newspapers.”

  Clutesi laughed. “Yeah, well we both know how reliable they are, right? I’ll send you a couple of recent background papers the CIA put together. I think you’ll find them useful. And I’ve a briefing paper our director, Hank O’Donnell, wrote for internal consumption last year.”

  Howard thanked Clutesi and told him he’d be in New York the following day. He spent the time before his AA meeting reading the files on Matthew Bailey and Mary Hennessy. Bailey was twenty-six years old and had been what the IRA call ‘an active volunteer’ since he was nineteen. The RUC had three warrants out for his arrest for a series of murders in Northern Ireland. He was involved in the ambush of two police officers who were gunned down with a Kalashnikov assault rifle, though there was some doubt as to exactly who pulled the trigger. He was also seen in an East Belfast police station shortly before a bomb exploded in the reception area, killing an RUC officer and injuring six members of the public. Another RUC officer was killed in a car-bombing and equipment similar to that used in the device was found at an apartment where Bailey was known to have visited. The evidence against Bailey seemed to Howard to be conclusive, but even more damning was the testimony of a highly placed IRA activist who turned police informer in 1993 and who had already been responsible for the trial and imprisonment of more than a dozen terrorists.

  The file included a note from the RUC that Bailey had left Northern Ireland for the South, followed by reports that he had flown to the United States. An FBI anti-terrorist unit working on the West Coast had almost trapped Bailey in a sting operation to sell him a ground-to-air missile, but he had disappeared only hours before he was due to take delivery. The Counter-Terrorism (Europe) unit had reported seeing Bailey in New York at the end of the previous year, mainly entering several Manhattan bars known to be centres of IRA fund-raising. The last sighting had been in November. Since then, nothing.

  Mary Hennessy was forty-nine years old and a widow, according to her file. Her husband had been killed in a shoot-out three years previously when his car was ambushed by what was believed to have been a Protestant hit squad. Liam Hennessy had been a leading Belfast lawyer but had also acted as a senior adviser to Sinn Fein, the political wing of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. The men responsible for the attack were never caught, and the file detailed a speech Mary Hennessy had made at the funeral in which she accused the British Government of conducting a political assassination. She believed that it was the SAS who murdered her husband as part of a British plan to obliterate the IRA as a viable terrorist organisation.

  In the file was a separate FBI research paper which went into the alleged shoot-to-kill operation in some detail, though its resolution was inconclusive. What was known for sure was that some two dozen top IRA activists had died within a four-week period which followed the downing of a 737 airliner en route from London to Rome. The IRA had never officially claimed responsibility for the bombing of the jet, but the device was known to have been planted by a female bomb-maker who was killed when the SAS stormed the London flat which she and other IRA members were using as a base. Following the death of the woman, Maggie MacDermott, and her colleagues, a six-month bombing campaign came to a sudden halt, leaving the British authorities in no doubt that the IRA cell had been responsible. Several days after the downing of the jet, in which more than one hundred people died, two IRA terrorists were shot dead in a pub in Dublin by masked gunmen who were believed to be members of the Ulster Defence Volunteers, a Protestant para-military group. More assassinations followed and it seemed as if there was a tricolour-draped coffin being lowered into the ground every day. Several top-ranking IRA chiefs died in suspicious road accidents, running off cliffs at high speed or smashing in to trees on perfectly clear roads, and there were half a dozen supposed suicides, varying from a bathroom electrocution to self-inflicted shotgun wounds. Within four weeks the IRA was totally demoralised. Many of its members fled from Northern Ireland to the South or to the United States.

  British newspapers ran screaming headlines about a shoot-to-kill operation being sponsored or encouraged by the government, but generally the press and the public seemed to think that whatever was happening was a just retribution for the terror the IRA had wreaked in the United Kingdom. That there was indeed a shoot-to-kill policy was vehemently denied by the Prime Minister and the Army, and no evidence was ever produced to prove beyond a doubt that the killings were government-sanctioned. However, one of the FBI’s analysts had run several statistical tests on the sudden deaths and determined that the odds of the twenty-four assassinations, suicides and road accidents occurring within a four-week period were of the order of six billion to one. There was no doubt that the killings were premeditated and the work of one group, but whether it was the SAS, MI5, the Army, or Protestant extremists, was still a mystery and one that was never likely to be solved. Whoever was responsible, the end result was the temporary destruction of the IRA as a terrorist threat. Most of those killed were the leaders and the planners, and without them the IRA was a headless snake, thrashing around waiting to die.

  For a time it was Mary Hennessy who had tried to pull the organisation together, beginning with her anti-British speech at her husband’s funeral. She called in vain for a public inquiry into the IRA deaths but her appeals were ignored and a year after burying Liam Hennessy she went underground, becoming a fully-fledged terrorist for the first time in her life. She organised a bombing campaign in Belfast which resulted in the destruction of an RUC station and an Army barracks. When Northern Ireland became too dangerous for her she moved over the border. From the South she made frequent forays back into Northern Ireland, her attacks always aimed at the British forces or the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Her fight was not religious in any way, it was political and aimed at those she blamed for the death of her husband. According to the FBI file she was responsible for the death of three undercover SAS officers who had been caught operating in the border country. Her torture of the men had been especially brutal and she’d been branded by the tabloid press as ‘The Black Widow’. It appeared as if she had become mentally unbalanced after the death of her husband, and she was described in one RUC report as borderline psychotic. Mary Hennessy had never come close to being captured, and the last report in the file said that she was living close to Dublin, staying with various IRA sympathisers and still trying to rebuild the terrorist organisation.

  Appended to the file was a comprehensive list of all the IRA’s terrorist attacks over the previous twenty years. Howard was familiar with many of the atrocities: car bombs, sniper attacks, fire bombs, torture. No-one seemed to be beyond the range of the terrorists. They’d come close to killing Margaret Thatcher at a Conservative Party Conference by blowing up the hotel she was staying at, and during the run-up to the Gulf War they’d managed to launch home-made mortars against Number Ten Downing Street while Prime Minister John Major was meeting with his War Cabinet. Judges, Army officers, politicians, all had been assassinated by IRA hit squads, and for every terrorist captured and imprisoned, another dozen were waiting to take their place.

  Howard looked at
his watch and realised it was time to leave. He drove quickly through the afternoon traffic and reached the office where the meeting was to be held shortly before two o’clock. The office belonged to a leading lawyer whom Howard had met on several occasions. There were more than a dozen people there, most of them men and most, like Howard, wearing business suits. A taxi driver served coffee as they took their places in the chairs which had been brought into the plush office. The lawyer allowed the large office to be used for AA meetings once a month, but Howard had seen him at other venues: basketball courts, scruffy basements in run-down buildings, back rooms in public libraries.

  The group sat and listened to one of the members, an out-of-town fertiliser salesman called Gordon, tell his life story. It was depressingly familiar: a good job, steady income, a wife and child, more stress than he could cope with, and a descent into the bottle. Gordon told the group he hadn’t had a drink for six months, and he was warmly applauded.

  Howard was next to speak and he took his place in front of the two ranks of chairs. The first time he’d attended an AA meeting he’d been more than a little cynical, he’d considered the public breast-beating to be little more than mental masturbation, that the speakers were just taking pleasure from publicly reopening old wounds. He had trouble too in dealing with the religious aspects of the meetings and the reliance on God, until a long-term AA member had suggested that he think of God as a Group of Drunks, and from that point on he’d become a convert. Now, after almost four years of regular attendance, Howard knew how valuable the meetings were in the battle against the bottle, and that telling others about his setbacks and successes strengthened his own resolve.

  He put his coffee cup on the desk and clasped his hands behind his back. “My name’s Cole, and I’m an alcoholic,” he said. “Hi, Cole,” the group chanted. “It’s been almost four years since I had a drink,” he continued. The group applauded and there were several cries of “Well done”. Howard waited until the clapping died down. “I didn’t know I had a drinking problem, I guess no-one in the office had the courage to tell me. But I was making mistakes, both at work and at home. There were arguments with my co-workers and fights with my wife. Everything came to a head when I crashed our car. Well, it was my wife’s car, really, but I was driving. We both had our seat belts on, or I’m sure we’d have died. I hit a truck, we went off the road, and the next thing I knew, I was in hospital. My father-in-law found out, and he personally booked me into a clinic to dry out.”

  The group nodded encouragingly. He knew that some of those present, including the lawyer, had heard his story several times, but they still expressed support. “I’m grateful to my father-in-law, but recently I’ve found myself resenting the influence he has on my life. On all aspects of my life. At the time I had a drinking problem he went to my employer and made sure that I kept my job, and I’m grateful to him for that, but now he interferes at home, he tries to influence my children, he seems to be coming between me and my wife. That puts me under a lot of stress, and that makes me want to drink again. I know that I have to learn to stop resenting him, but it’s difficult. I know that he cares about his daughter very much, and that he wants what’s best for her. God, there are times when I want a drink so bad. It’s worse now than it’s ever been. I know that it would be easy to give in, to pick up the bottle and start drinking again, but I know that would be the biggest mistake I could make. Alcoholism is a disease, and it’s a disease for which there’s no cure. I’ll be an alcoholic for the rest of my life, but that doesn’t mean I have to drink. I can fight it, but it’s one day at a time. I just have to accept that some days will be harder than others.” The group applauded again, and Howard returned to his seat, feeling revitalised and with the urge for alcohol in a temporary retreat.

  Todd Otterman sat in reception, tapping the file against his knee. The hotel foyer was busy, with several members of a dental convention queuing up to check out. Bellboys scurried back and forth, running suitcases outside, while girls in black and white uniforms processed the guests as quickly as possible, their smiles starting to wear thin.

  Otterman had never met Gilbert Feinstein but he recognised the type as soon as he stepped out of the lift. Hair too long and untidy to be fashionable, a slight stoop, and eyes that continually sought the floor. According to the file Feinstein was twenty-four years old and had been working in the hotel kitchens for the past year. He had dropped out of high school and had a succession of minimum wage jobs, interspersed with short prison sentences for drug possession. It was after his second spell in prison that he’d written the letter to the President, spelling out in no uncertain terms what he wanted to do to him and his family. The letter had been one of the more graphic received at the White House, and the details of what Feinstein had planned for the First Lady’s cat had raised a few smiles among the Secret Service agents.

  Feinstein went over to the reception desk and spoke to one of the girls. She pointed to where Otterman was sitting and Feinstein’s shoulders slumped as if he knew what was coming. He walked over and stood before the Secret Service agent. “You wanted to see me?” he said, his voice unsteady.

  Otterman flicked open his ID and showed it to Feinstein. “You know what it’s about, Mr Feinstein?”

  Feinstein nodded. “Did you have to come here, to my work?” he said, his voice a monotone. “You could lose me my job.”

  Otterman motioned to the seat next to his. “Sit down, Mr Feinstein. You’ve been through this before so let’s make it as painless as possible, shall we?” Feinstein sat down and began to bite his nails. “So, how do you feel about the President these days?” Otterman’s tone was conversational, almost friendly.

  “He’s doing a wonderful job,” sneered Feinstein. “Economy’s looking good, foreign policy’s never been better, everything’s just hunky-dory.”

  “Had any more thoughts about what you’d like to do to his family?”

  Feinstein sighed. “Look, I wrote that letter two years ago. I’d taken a couple of tablets, I was as high as a kite, I don’t even remember mailing it.”

  “I understand that, but unfortunately it stays on file.”

  “But I didn’t mean it! I was just a kid, a crazy kid.”

  One of the girls at reception looked over. “Try not to raise your voice, Mr Feinstein,” said Otterman quietly.

  “You’re persecuting me!” Feinstein hissed.

  “Mr Feinstein, we’ve never met before today.”

  “Not you personally. I mean the White House, the Secret Service. You won’t leave me alone.”

  “Once you threaten the President of the United States, your name goes on file and it stays there. What do you think? You think we should just ignore someone when they threaten the President? Have you forgotten what you wrote? I’ve got a copy here if you want to refresh your memory.”

  “No, I remember,” said Feinstein. “What is it you want?”

  “You probably know that the President is coming to Baltimore next week.”

  “Yeah, I read that in the Sun.”

  “So we think it would be a good idea if you left the city for a while. Your parents live in Chicago, right?” Feinstein nodded and continued to chew his fingernails. “We’d like you to visit Chicago for a few days. From Monday to Thursday.”

  “Not again,” said Feinstein, “you’re not running me out of town again?”

  “It’s not just you, it’s everybody on the watch list, so don’t take it personally. You leave town on Monday, and you check in with our office in Chicago.” He handed Feinstein a card. “This agent is expecting to see you on Monday evening, and you’ll check with him twice a day until Thursday morning. Then you can come back.”

  Feinstein looked as if he was about to burst into tears. “I don’t believe this, I don’t believe you can screw with my life like this. This is America.”

  “It’s precisely because it’s America that we can screw with your life,” said Otterman.

  “I made one mistake, an
d I have to pay for it forever.”

  “No, you’ve made lots of mistakes, but you made one big one, and that’s what you’re paying for,” said Otterman. “You know the procedure; if we don’t hear from you in Chicago we’ll come looking for you here. And you don’t want that, do you?”

  “I’ll lose my job, I don’t have any vacation days coming,” Feinstein whined.

  “Tell them you’re sick, tell them anything. Just get out of the city.”

  Tears welled up in Feinstein’s eyes. “When will it be over? When will you leave me alone?”

  Otterman shrugged. “You’re only on our watch list, it’s not as if you’re one of our quarterlies. If you behave and don’t write any more silly letters, you could be off the watch list in three years or so.”

  Feinstein shook his head and wiped his eyes. “It’s not fair,” he sobbed.

  “Son,” said Otterman, standing up and straightening the creases of his black suit pants, “life isn’t fair.” He walked out of the hotel, leaving Feinstein alone with his tears. Otterman had two more visits to make before midday.

  The chambermaid knocked nervously on the door. “Mr O’Brien?” she called. There was no answer so she knocked louder. She knew that Damien O’Brien tended to arrive back at the hotel in the early hours of the morning and stayed in bed late, and she knew better than to barge in unannounced. On one occasion she’d used her pass key and walked in to find him sprawled naked on the bed, an empty bottle of whisky in his hand, fast asleep and snoring like a freight train. It wasn’t an experience she cared to repeat.