by James Deegan
Doubts creep in, tension mounts, plans are questioned.
But John Carr had waited on too many start lines for too many signals to be affected by any of that.
He’d stripped and cleaned the Browning early on, and then he’d done the same with the AK, and he’d spent most of the rest of the day reading and dozing, keeping his adrenalin levels and heartbeat in check.
At eight o’clock, being careful to keep away from the windows, he stood up, collected his things, and left the farmhouse.
Pat Casey’s wife had kicked him out three years earlier – his womanising having finally got too much after she caught him in the marital bed with his Stormont PA. The missus had kept the old house and Casey was living out on the western edge of the city in an executive home on a new-build estate.
Which was a win-win, for Carr.
He wanted his man alone; had he still been in west Belfast proper, where everyone lived on top of one another, and where suspicion and distrust of strangers was absorbed with mother’s milk, then getting close to him would have been much harder.
By a quarter-past eight, Carr was out in the Audi, and driving past Casey’s house.
It was in darkness, which he expected; Casey was scheduled to speak at some public meeting about education in the centre of the city.
Carr carried on past, parked in a parade of shops and walked back for another look.
Past the front, checking out the house and neighbours.
He was highly trained at the art of blending in and playing the Grey Man, and no-one paid him a mind, if they even noticed him. At just over six feet tall and weighing fifteen stones he was a big unit, but not so big as to draw attention. He was fitter and more muscular – a lot fitter and a lot more muscular – than most men of his age, but he was hiding that under a dark blue Hugo Boss jumper, a pair of jeans, and black Salomon running shoes.
Pistol tucked into the front of his jeans, hidden by the top.
Opposite Casey’s house was a cut-through to the next street. The street lamp overhead was out, saving Carr the trouble of putting it out, so he walked into the alleyway and stood in the darkness for a few moments. Ideally, he’d have liked someone watching his back, but at least he’d hear the footsteps of anyone coming.
He stood light on his feet, ready to move on if anyone came.
But no-one did, and so he waited.
And waited.
Most people lack the patience for this kind of work. They get cold, and bored, and their feet start to hurt, and every little irritation is magnified, and the reasons to jack it in grow in number, and the voices in their heads keep telling them that they’re wasting their time, and eventually they agree, and so they quit.
John Carr was not most people.
An hour went by.
Then two.
Occasionally, he had to move when people came through; he just walked the opposite way to them, purposefully, and recycled back to his observation point.
No movement at the house.
Still he waited.
99.
PAT CASEY WAS sitting on the stage at City Hall being lectured by a fat man about school meals for underprivileged children.
As a member of the Committee for Education at Stormont, this came with the territory, but he didn’t mind admitting – to himself – that nights like this made him wonder whether going down the political route had been all that good an idea.
Yes, he got a salary and a pension, and some measure of respectability – though he’d never lacked for that in much of the city. He also got to sit inside the rooms where the key decisions were being made about the future of the Province. This was almost beyond price to the men who controlled him.
But, Christ, it was boring.
And on a bleeding Sunday night, of all nights.
Still, there was that curvy wee single mum sitting on the end of the second row who had been flirting with him. She’d suggested going for a drink afterwards, so as they could discuss her young son’s special needs. Pat had reluctantly declined – Freckles’ phone call had been unsettling, and he needed to get organised – but once this business was all done and dusted, the young mum would certainly be helping him with his own special needs.
He couldn’t shake an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his gut.
Clearly, Freckles had some intelligence about John Carr.
Maybe it was that the SAS man had crossed the Irish Sea, and was going to come calling.
He’d already put the word around among a few of the bhoys that they might be needed.
But he didn’t know when, and he didn’t know where.
He felt like prey and he didn’t like that feeling at all. He was most unaccustomed to it.
He’d seen the surveillance photos of Carr, taken a few days ago in London, and he didn’t like what he’d seen. He was a fit fucker, and broad and strong-looking. And his eyes… He’d been looking straight at the camera in one of the shots, and he looked ready to tear someone’s head clean off.
What he’d look like staring at you with a gun in his hand… Casey shuddered involuntarily.
Maybe this whole fucking thing had been a bad idea?
Gerard and Sean were dead and buried, long ago.
Killing Parry and Carr wasn’t going to bring them back.
But what was done was done. He sighed to himself, and tried to look like he was engrossed in the question of the allocation of free school meals to infant school children from deprived backgrounds.
All the while thinking about his contingency plan.
100.
CARR ALMOST MISSED him.
Two girls, arm-in-arm, giggling and gossiping, came bowling down the alleyway just before ten o’clock.
As with the few other people who had disturbed him, he quickly walked toward them, head down, and stood to one side as they drew level.
Most just passed by, but these two stopped, and looked at him.
‘Sure, Robbie, what’re ye doing out the night?’ said one of the girls, flirtatiously. ‘Does your wife know?’
‘He’ll be away up the Stag,’ said the other girl, and they both cackled conspiratorially at that.
‘Sorry, girls, but you’ve the wrong man,’ said Carr, pushing past them, head down.
‘You may not be Robbie, but you’ll do for me, darlin’,’ called one of them, after him.
More cackles.
On the other side of the little gully, he carried on walking, to give the girls the chance to clear the area.
Then he circled back, crossing his fingers that Casey hadn’t arrived and gone inside his house.
With a proper surveillance operation, this wouldn’t have mattered, but he was one guy, with one set of eyeballs, and he had known from the start that it was going to take time, and would require luck and perseverance.
It was as he resumed his position just inside the alleyway that Pat Casey’s car pulled onto his drive.
101.
THE THING CASEY missed most in the new era was the perks.
Sure, he’d never quite made it to the top – the old bastard had hung on, even when he’d gone doolally.
But there were still plenty of benefits which went with being 2IC of the Belfast Brigade of the Provisional IRA.
You got a taste of every bank robbery that happened, obviously.
You got a cut of everything that came across the border, too; he’d always had the latest TV, the latest gear for the kids, he’d never been short of booze or fags.
All FOC.
Rarely paid for a pint or a gallon of petrol.
And it might seem mundane, but best of all – apart from the regular supply of willing young women – had been the fact that he’d never had to drive anywhere.
It had felt like the absolute height of luxury to know that he could get steaming pished, any night of the week, and not have to worry about getting done for D&D.
Because the peelers would have loved that, alright.
If you couldn’t get
Al Capone for murder you got him on tax.
If you couldn’t get Pat Casey for terrorism, you got him for littering, or parking tickets, or speeding, or anything.
Anything to make his life a little less comfortable.
The biggest embuggerance to the damned peace process had been in leaving behind a lot of those little treats.
He had at least to pay lip-service to democracy’s bright new dawn, and to pretend that the old sectarian hatreds had been properly put away, and that the Republican paramilitary movement was no more. But he couldn’t very well do that if he had a shaven-headed thug in a black jacket waiting outside for him everywhere he went. Everyone would have known what the craic was – even if they’d have believed he could afford a chauffeur on his Stormont wages.
So he’d got used to taking taxis – at least they were expensable, and he could always arrange one driven by one of the bhoys, current or past – or driving himself.
Well, all that was over now, and fuck what the voters thought.
After the meeting in Crock forest, the first thing he’d done was to get Paulie McMahon back on the job.
The cover story being Pat’s back was playing up – he didn’t want the Army Council asking any questions.
Paulie had been one of his closest associates for thirty or more years, and he was a great wheelman, a decent shot, and a genuine hardnut.
And it was Paulie who was at the wheel of the silver Volvo which now stopped on the drive of Pat Casey’s house.
A loaded Taurus semi-automatic 9mm in the glovebox, for which he’d take the rap in the unlikely event that they got a tug.
In the darkened alleyway opposite, Carr frowned.
Held his breath.
His hand closing around the grip of the Browning at his waistband.
He had no intention of using the pistol, unless he absolutely had to, but it would help to persuade Casey to go along with him until it was too late to turn back.
Carr watched the Irishman get out of the passenger door and move away from the vehicle.
He grinned to himself: let him get settled in for the night, and then move in.
But then Casey stopped and returned to the Volvo.
Leaned in through the window as his driver handed him a phone.
Stood back up.
In the cold night air, Carr heard Casey say, ‘No, don’t worry, I’ve just come back to get my bag. I’ll be here a minute, tops, and then I’m off to the farm. I cannat stay here, not till we know the situation.’
There was a pause while the other person spoke.
‘No, I should have taken Maguire’s advice. I don’t like the fat bastard, but he’s not stupid.’
Another pause.
‘Okay, then, right yous are. I’ll give you a bell when I get there.’
He threw the phone back into the car and hurried to his front door. The security light illuminated him as he fiddled with the lock and went inside.
Carr had two choices.
The first was to take Casey out here and now.
But the guy behind the wheel of the Volvo… he could be a government driver, or a legitimate high-end chauffeur. Carr didn’t want to harm any innocents, and no-one who saw his face was living to tell the tale.
The second choice was to follow Casey.
He acted instantly, walking out of the alley like a man heading to the offie or the pub, and headed in the direction of the parade of shops, and his car.
He couldn’t run, but it was cold enough that a brisk walk looked entirely natural.
He had to hope that he’d be quick enough to get back and tail the Volvo.
He wasn’t.
He was only gone a couple of minutes, but as he drove back round to Pat Casey’s street he saw that the driveway was empty.
He pressed on, hoping to catch him at a set of lights, or a junction, but there was no sign of the silver Volvo.
A couple of miles down the road, he pulled in to a layby, switched off the engine and closed his eyes.
I’m off to the farm.
He’d thoroughly researched his target, and Casey made a big thing of owning only one house, like the man of the people he was.
A friend’s farm?
A relative’s?
Had to be one or the other.
But where?
There were a thousand of the damned things within striking distance, plenty of them owned by Republicans.
Well, that made things harder, but not impossible.
Ultimately, if he couldn’t discover the IRA man’s whereabouts he could tail him from work.
But he was pretty sure he could find out from Conor Maguire.
I should have taken Maguire’s advice. I don’t like the fat bastard, but he’s not stupid.
What was it Kevin Murphy had said?
‘Conor Maguire… head of force PR. He’d be my guess, out of the three. Strong Republican ties.’
Not the most uncommon surname around these parts, but there was a good chance, wasn’t there?
102.
OLEG KOVALEV SIPPED a very expensive brandy, mobile to his ear.
‘Konstantin?’ he said, in Russian. ‘It’s me. Listen, boss, I’d like to delay joining you for another day or two, if that’s okay? I think our new brother may need a little assistance… No, it’s just a feeling… Sure? Thank you. The Americans will look after you. Enjoy the snow, don’t get too pissed, and I’ll be with you very soon.’
Smiling, he ended that call and dialled another number.
Waited for the guy on the other end of his phone to pick up.
Eventually, he answered.
‘Finally, Dmitri,’ said Oleg. ‘What kept you?’
‘Sorry, boss,’ said Dmitri Petrov. Sixteen years in the KGB, and now working for Oleg Kovalev and Konstantin Avilov. ‘I was on the other line.’
‘Okay. Now I have you. Where’s my man?’
‘Wait one second,’ said Petrov.
Oleg heard the sound of a keyboard being tapped.
He could visualise Dmitri sitting at the desk in his flat in the Khamovniki district of Moscow.
Coffee in hand.
Three screens permanently on.
Everything humming with efficiency.
The guy was a machine.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Petrov. ‘Here he is. Both he and the car are out to the west of Belfast, moving back in to the city centre. Now he’s stopped.’
‘Where’s he staying overnight?’
Petrov gave him a rough address.
Oleg thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘Listen, I want you to keep eyes on John 24/7. You’ll need help, so get another couple of guys in. Don’t tell them who he is, it’s just somebody we’re watching.’
‘Okay, boss.’
‘And I want you to set your system to send me updates – not grid references, street names – every fifteen minutes. His phone and his car. Night and day.’
‘Got you.’
‘Good man.’
‘And this other man you want following, boss?’
‘I’ll call you with his follow details as soon as I can.’
‘Okay.’
Oleg Kovalev ended the call and sat back in his chair, with his brandy. His window looked out onto Sloane Square, and for a few moments he watched shoppers and tourists and locals bustling to and fro outside.
‘There may be troubles ahead,’ he sang softly to himself, in English.
Knocked back the brandy. ‘I hope you not getting yourself too much into troubles, Johnny,’ he said.
But, just in case, it was time to book a flight to Belfast.
103.
CONOR MAGUIRE’S SLEEP had been fitful and plagued by nightmares for some days.
So he was snappy and irritable, at work and at home, and he’d been hitting the bottle hard to try and calm himself down.
Wife and kids getting it in the neck.
She’d tried to talk to him about whatever it was that was bothering him, but he’d brushed her
off.
Not that he hadn’t imagined the conversation with her many times.
It’s like this, love: for reasons best known to myself, I passed on the identities and addresses of two former British soldiers to the PIRA. One of the soldiers was then murdered. Then the other one, unfortunately, killed the hitman. Oh, I forgot to say – that second Brit soldier, he was a long-serving member of the SAS, so probably a bit of a handful. Now I think he might be on his way over here. What for? You know I’m not a betting man, but I should think it’s to kill Pat Casey. And maybe to kill me, too… that’s if the RA don’t torture me to death for having the nerve to suggest the whole thing in the first place.
Aye, Conor Maguire could imagine that conversation just fine, but he couldn’t actually have it.
Which was why he was sitting in his armchair at home, staring into space, some crap on the telly.
Wife in the kitchen, putting away the shopping from her weekly trip to Sainsbury’s.
Son upstairs on his PlayStation.
Daughter at the table doing her homework.
Everything normal.
On the surface.
He was trying to think his way out of this.
Coming up against dead end, after dead end, after dead end, like a rat in a maze.
The best he could hope for was that Carr didn’t know his name, and that no-one would let on.
He was in way over his head, and he knew it.
He’d been happy to work for the Cause on the inside of the police – it earned him a little respect in the right bars, and, after all, it was the Cause – but there was a reason he’d resisted the lure of the PIRA.
That was that he was nobody’s idea of a brave man, and could no more have shot someone or planted a bomb than flown in the air.
But organising fundraising events, offering moral support, providing information… that was a different matter.
It had all seemed a lot simpler a fortnight back, walking in to The Volunteer like the big I Am, with information that Freckles and the rest of them would have killed for.
He’d imagined himself as a Republican spy, doing the Lord’s work behind enemy lines; he’d never be as celebrated as the gunman, but his contribution would surely be recognised in the right circles.