by James Deegan
Stella stopped dragging her bin and stared at the old lady.
‘That’s interesting, Rose,’ she said. ‘What was he about, d’you think?’
‘I couldn’t rightly tell you,’ said Rose. ‘I was watching the birds on the feeder and I seen him walk by the once. Then he come back. Then he done it all over again. He had his head down, in his jacket, like, but he was looking at your place, alright. I mean, I thought he might be a burglar.’
A slight feeling of unease came over Stella – a once-familiar feeling that she’d almost forgotten.
When she’d been with John, a stranger nosing about the place would have raised alarm bells, red flags and klaxons; all British soldiers were targets, and there were no targets bigger than the SAS.
But with the worst of the Troubles finished, and her second husband being a financial adviser at a bank over in Belfast – a little dull, compared to John, to tell the truth, but far more domesticated – such concerns had long ago melted away.
‘Strange,’ she said. ‘Why would he be interested in our house?’
Thinking, It’s probably nothing. Rose is mad as a box of frogs, after all, and nosey to boot. Too much time on her hands, and...
And then it occurred to her: George.
Could it be that someone had discovered that her son was in the Parachute Regiment?
Only the SAS themselves were more hated in Republican circles, and Stella was obsessively careful about his persec – to the point where only her own parents, her husband, and Alice knew what George did.
His aunt and uncle, the neighbours, even his school friends… they all thought he’d gone travelling.
But no matter how careful you were, you could never be sure.
She put her hand to her throat, feeling a cold chill come over her.
‘Did you get a good look at him, Rose?’ she said.
‘I didn’t recognise him, that’s for sure,’ said the old lady. ‘I’d say he was about your age. Dark hair. Normal size. When he walked past the second time I come out me house and watched him walk down there.’ She nodded in to the middle distance. ‘He got in a blue car and just drove off.’
‘Don’t suppose you got the number?’ said Stella.
‘With my eyes?’ said Rose, chuckling.
‘Could you say what kind of car it was?’
‘Blue, love. That’s about it.’
Stella dragged the bin into position and fished out her car keys.
‘Well, thanks Rose. If you see him again, try and get the registration number. Or call the police.’
‘Aye, I’ll do that,’ said the old lady. ‘Anyway, I thought I’d tell yous. I’m away back in afore I catch me death.’
She turned and shuffled back inside, and Stella walked to her car.
For the first time in years, she had a quick look under it, and then she got in and set off for work.
She thought about the mystery man in the blue car all the way to the Ulster Hospital at Dundonald, where she was a ward sister in the maternity unit, and when she got there she phoned John Carr.
46.
AT ALMOST THE moment Stella called her ex-husband, a man drove Dessie Callaghan into the Asda car park in Larne in an old Renault Laguna, switched off the engine and looked at his passenger.
‘Good luck,’ said the man, putting his hand out.
‘Ah, fuck that, Kev,’ said Dessie, cheerfully. ‘I’ve got fate and the centuries on my side.’ He chuckled. ‘Not to mention, they won’t see me coming. Beidh ár lá linn!’
‘Beidh ár lá linn,’ said Kev, quietly. ‘You take care of yourself over there.’
‘Listen, I know it’s an older brother’s job to worry,’ said Dessie, ‘but you don’t need to. I won’t say it’ll be a piece of piss, but I’ll be back next week and they’ll be pouring drink down my neck in every bar from here to Bantry Bay.’
‘Australia?’
‘Cork, you dickhead.’
With that, he reached into the inside pocket of his Stone Island parka and took out a tweed cap. He pulled it on and down low over his eyes, picked up the adidas holdall in the footwell, pushed the door open, and sauntered off.
Halfway through the ten-minute walk to the ferry terminal, he put on a pair of shades and a scarf which covered the lower part of his face; it was a cold enough and bright enough morning that no-one would have thought that odd.
At the terminal he bought himself a ticket on that morning’s 10.30am sailing – for cash, not the cheapest way of doing it, but it left no electronic trail – and waited for the word to board P&O’s European Highlander.
A couple of minutes later, that announcement came over the tinny loudspeaker.
He strolled up the gangplank and made his way to the bar, where he bought himself a pint before heading out on deck.
Despite the sunshine, it was empty save for an old Catholic priest who was leaning on the guardrail.
Callaghan stood next to the Father, towering over him, and together they watched the Northern Irish coast slowly give way to the grey sea.
‘So what takes you over, son?’ said the priest, at length. ‘Is it business, is it?’
Dessie shifted on his feet, a little uneasily. He’d left the church behind many years ago, but its hold was hard to shake. He’d never quite rid himself of the feeling that Jesus, Mary and, fuck it, Joseph too were just over his shoulder, watching his every move.
‘Something like that, Father,’ said Dessie. ‘Just a bit of work I have with my cousin in Glasgow. Yourself?’
‘Visiting my sister in Edinburgh,’ said the priest. ‘She has the cancer, poor thing. She’s not long.’
‘Shit, father,’ said Dessie. ‘That’s a motherfucker.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ said the priest, with an amiable smile, ‘but I share your sentiment.’ He looked out to sea one final time, and nodded. Then he turned to Dessie. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I hope your job goes well. Now I must be away inside, it’s cold enough out here to freeze the cassocks off me.’
Dessie watched him go, and sipped his pint, and he was still standing there when the ship docked in Scotland.
At Cairnryan he boarded a bus for the ten-minute drive round Loch Ryan, to Stranraer.
When he got off the bus he walked on fifty yards to The Arches, a little tea shop where he’d been told to meet his contact.
It was warm in the tea shop, and steamy from the hot water urn, and it smelled of bacon and cakes.
He found an empty table – actually, they were all empty, bar one, at which sat two old ladies, gossiping and cackling – and ordered himself a ham-and-cheese toastie and a glass of Coke.
As he waited for those to arrive, he picked up a dog-eared copy of the local paper and started thumbing through, one eye on the door.
He checked his watch now and then, and when his toastie arrived he ate it with some impatience – he expected to be treated with respect, and that meant punctuality.
By the time the café door opened, with a tinkle, he was not in the best possible mood, but he kept it in check because he knew it was more important than usual not to draw attention to himself.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ said his contact, a middle-aged Scot in a thick Arran sweater. ‘We had a burst pipe at home this morning, of all things. I didn’t have a number for you so I couldnae call.’
The apology mollified Callaghan a little, and he held out his hand to indicate that the man should sit down.
The Scotsman made nervous small talk, while Dessie finished his toastie and his Coke, and then the man slid an envelope containing a set of keys across the table. He unfolded a hand-drawn map, and swivelled it to face Dessie.
‘Car’s what your people asked for,’ said the Scot. ‘A dark-coloured Mondeo in good nick. Just serviced, 13 plate, forty-odd thousand miles on the clock. Sound as a pound. Won’t attract any attention at all.’
Dessie nodded.
The man pointed at the map.
‘It’s parked up
down by the college,’ he said, tracing a route with his finger. ‘Out of here. First left, few hundred yards down there.’
Dessie nodded. ‘Simple enough,’ he said. ‘How do I get down south?’
‘I programmed the satnav to take you as far as Gretna,’ said the man, with a sideways look at him. ‘Left is north, right is south. I dinnae want to know any more than that.’
Dessie looked at him, contemptuously.
‘No offence,’ said the Scotsman, hastily. ‘There’s a full tank, it’s registered tae a Roger Milner at an address in Birmingham. That’s on a piece of paper in the glovebox. Genuine address, genuine name. He’s a salesman for Dulux paint, if you need to tell anyone. Nothing outstanding on the guy or the vehicle. Both clean as a whistle.’
‘How long will it take me to reach Gretna?’ said Callaghan.
‘Och, a couple of hours. It’s a hundred miles, near as damnit.’
Callaghan said nothing, just stared at the man, enjoying his growing discomfort.
Eventually, the Scot said, ‘I’ll be seeing you, then. Good luck.’
And with that, he stood up, picked up the hand-drawn map from the table, and left.
Callaghan waited for five minutes, and then did likewise.
Outside, he followed the Scotsman’s directions and soon found himself in Academy Street, where the Mondeo was parked up a stone’s throw from Dumfries and Galloway College. He leered at a passing trio of female students, and then opened the Ford’s back door, threw his bag onto the seat, and climbed into the front.
He arranged the seat and mirrors to his liking, and then turned the ignition key, started the engine, and the satnav, and set off.
He drove carefully, at two or three miles an hour either side of the speed limit, using his mirrors and indicators a lot and observing lane discipline – he didn’t want to get pulled over for anything.
As he drove east down the A75, he admired the countryside and hummed a repetitive bar from Flower of Scotland, his mind getting into gear for the challenge ahead.
47.
CARR WASN’T TROUBLED by the call from Stella – his ex-wife had always been a worrier, and he took half of what she said with a pinch of salt and discarded the rest – but it didn’t hurt to take sensible precautions.
So he’d emailed George to give him a heads-up, just in case he was over in Bangor any time soon.
Unusually, George had come back almost immediately: he wasn’t in Northern Ireland for the foreseeable future, because he was off to the States on a freefall parachute course and adventure training, and then off to Kenya for a couple of months with 3 Para on exercise, and then…
Then he was thinking about Selection.
Carr was just writing out a long and detailed explanation of why he should wait another year – a message he knew his stubborn, hard-headed son would ignore – when the door buzzer sounded.
He got up and looked at the video screen.
Oleg Kovalev.
He buzzed the Russian in, and he appeared at the internal door a moment or two later. He was limping slightly, and he grimaced as he shook Carr’s hand.
‘Thank God for Kevlar, eh, Johnny?’ he said. ‘Four, five days, but still, it hurts. Like being punched in kidneys by very big man, many times.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Carr, with a wry chuckle. He could still remember the shock and temporary sense of bewilderment from where a sniper’s Dragunov round had hit him in the chest plate and put him on his arse in Baghdad one night in 2008. ‘Just thank your lucky stars it wasn’t three inches lower.’
The Russian nodded in agreement.
‘We have a drink?’ he said.
Carr raised his eyebrows. ‘Bit early, isn’t it?’
‘Never too early.’
‘If you say so,’ said Carr. ‘What d’you fancy?’
The Russian nodded. ‘A scotch, if you have one?’ he said.
‘If I have one?’ said Carr, grinning. ‘I’ll give you something that’ll knock your Russki socks off, pal.’
He padded into his kitchen, reached into a cupboard, and took down a bottle. He poured two generous measures and added a little mineral water.
‘Try that,’ he said. ‘Chivas Regal Royal Salute. Thirty year old.’
Oleg took a sip and nodded in appreciation. ‘It’s good,’ he said. ‘I mean, is not vodka, but I can drink it.’
Carr laughed. ‘You any further on with the shooter?’ he said, walking through into the living room and sitting on one of the two sofas.
Kovalev sat down opposite him. ‘A little,’ he said. ‘I made some calls. Name is Sasha Yurchenko. Is thirty-three years old, married man, no kids, originally from Merefa, which is thirty kays from Kharkiv. Kharkiv is east Ukraine, right on border. So maybe you right about Ukrainians. He was corporal in 3rd Guards Spetsnaz Brigade, based at Tolyatti. Was involved in second Chechnya war, which was some very heavy shit. Very heavy. Left Spetznaz two years ago, went into private security. Like you.’
The Russian sipped his whisky.
‘Why did he leave the Army?’ said Carr.
‘Time was up,’ said Oleg. ‘Could have signed on for another five years, but Russian Army is not like British Army. Shit money, shit equipment, nobody cares about you.’
‘Sounds exactly like the British Army,’ said Carr.
Oleg grinned. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Anyway, he can make more money outside, have better life.’
‘Who was he working for?’
‘Officially, day job was working for Russian bank in London. Unofficially, this is big question. Sixty-four dollars.’
‘Sixty-four thousand dollars,’ said Carr. ‘Anything from his phone?’
‘Not yet. I hope soon, but is hard to crack.’
‘Have the police spoken to Sasha yet?’
‘No. He was in…’ He clicked his fingers. ‘What is word? Yes, induced. Was in induced coma for three days for brain swelling. Is awake now but eating through tube. Doctors wait for his swelling to go down. Police will talk to him tomorrow. You did proper job on him, John.’
‘We aim to please,’ said Carr. ‘I wonder what they’ll get out of him.’
‘Nothing,’ said the Russian, dismissively. ‘Back home, he will be singing like canary in one half-hour. Here, no.’ Oleg put on a weak, pleading voice. ‘Police will just ask him, “Please can you tell us who you are working for?”’ He says nothing, goes to prison, does his time.’
‘He’ll get thirty years,’ said Carr. ‘Will he do that long?’
‘Of course. He is Spetznaz. His wife will be paid, his mother will be paid, one day he will go home.’
‘How about the motorcyclist?’
‘If they know about him, so far British police don’t find him.’
‘So what do you think?’
Oleg knocked back the last of the whisky, and pulled a face. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I…’
And then his mobile rang.
He picked it up and spoke in Russian.
His face gradually broke into a smile, and eventually he was chuckling.
He ended the call and looked at Carr.
‘My friend,’ he said, ‘has opened Sasha’s phone.’
48.
THE WINTRY SUN had long set over Coventry by the time Dessie Callaghan pulled into a grubby street lined with terraces of run-down houses.
He trawled slowly down the road until he found the correct house, which was signified by the number ‘46’ daubed on the low front wall in thick white paint.
There was a space a few yards further down, so he parked up, retrieved his bag from the back, and walked to the front door.
His knock was answered by a bleached-blonde in her thirties.
‘Yes?’ she said, in a voice that was half-way between the industrial English midlands and somewhere in eastern Europe. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m here to see Walter,’ said Callaghan, using the phrase he had memorised. ‘He said he might have a dog he wanted to sell.’
She showed Callaghan to a tatty sofa in the cramped front room, and disappeared upstairs.
He sat and waited, literally twiddling his thumbs, and looking around the room. He was just wondering what kind of people would put a brown sofa and brown cushions in a room with brown wallpaper and a brown carpet, when the living room door opened and a solid, mean-looking fucker in a purple tracksuit, with pitted olive skin and a suedehead, walked in.
Dessie stood up, and they shook hands.
Christ, he had some grip.
‘Peter?’ said the man, in the same accent as that of the woman.
‘That’s right,’ said Callaghan.
‘My name is Walter,’ said the man, whose name was actually Gjergj Leka.
He looked jovial enough, but he also looked like he’d cut your throat for a pastime.
That made two of them, thought Dessie.
‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘You have something for me?’
‘Yes. I was expecting you. Follow me, please.’
They walked up the stairs, and Gjergj led him into the back bedroom.
On the bed was a Co-Op carrier bag.
Gjergj picked it up, reached in and handed over a small leather sheath with a black handle protruding from one end.
Dessie took it and withdrew the knife.
To his surprise, the blade was not shiny and silver, but matt black.
‘Kizlyar Korshun,’ said Gjergj, proudly. ‘Very strong. Used by FSB.’
Dessie nodded, never having heard of the Russian internal security service before.
He hefted it in his hand: it had a nice weight, and the double-edged blade was extremely sharp.
‘Feels good,’ he said.
Gjergj handed over a small box.
‘Glock 17,’ he said. ‘Brand new, was never fired before. Totally clean. Two magazines, seventeen bullets each. One box fifty bullets.’
‘May I?’ said Callaghan.
‘Of course.’
He took the pistol out of the box. It was cold, and solid.