Seventy Times Seven

by John Gordon Sinclair

  Danny looked at him and shrugged. ‘Work or pleasure?’

  ‘Depends how you look at it, our lad,’ replied E.I. with a crooked grin. He leant towards Danny and whispered under his breath, ‘Would giving the Thevshi an OBE be regarded as work or pleasure?’

  ‘One Behind the Ear’: Jam a gun behind some poor fucker’s ear and pull the trigger. It was a traitor’s death, an informer’s fate . . . an OBE.

  Danny let the question settle before answering.

  ‘Have you found him?’

  E.I. nodded. ‘We have his name: the one they gave him when they changed his identity, that is, the address they relocated him to and would you believe it . . . a bloody telephone number. I don’t have to tell you‚ Danny‚ what it would mean to the republican movement to have the bastard’s head on a spike. You’d be a hero, I tell ye.’ E.I. had something else to say that he didn’t want anyone else to hear. He leant forward again. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Danny. It’s not a question of who has the biggest army, or the best weapons or the just cause: information is the key. We’ve been infiltrated up to our bloody necks: if we lose this war that’ll be the reason. They have all the information. You don’t know who to trust these days. We have to make an example of the Thevshi to show any other fucker thinking of grassing on us that – no matter how long it takes – we’ll find them, and execute them without mercy. It’s essential to our survival. And all those bastards who have informed on us in the past are now shitting themselves in case they’re on that list. I know you’re not an active member, Danny, but I’m sure even you can see what a coup it would be for us.’

  E.I. suddenly sat back and smiled. ‘And if all that’s not enough, the job’s worth a quite a few doubloons too. Shooting that dirty piece of shit in the head could be worth nearly twenty grand . . . enough to retire on.’

  E.I. was staring at Danny again with the same intensity as before: scrutinising him, no doubt about it.

  Danny fixed his eyes on the floor. ‘So “The Ghost” really does exist?’

  ‘He sure does,’ replied E.I. ‘Hopefully not for too much longer. But as you know, nothing is ever straightforward on this tiny island of ours. We have one small problem. We were a bit too eager to kill the cunt: so we asked a favour of a friend out in Alabama – guy called Hernando De Garza. He’s a big player: into arms, drugs, vice, you name it. Won’t touch anything that doesn’t carry a hefty jail sentence: likes risk. He goes and employs a couple of local tradesmen, who – of course – fuck it up. Missed their target. Stupid fuckers tried to hit the Thevshi in a bar. The guy lives on his own in the middle of nowhere and these eejits try and take him out in a crowded bar. Can you believe that?’

  ‘So he knows we’re on to him?’ interjected Danny.

  E.I. nodded again. ‘Aye, course he does. If you were up for it we’d want to get you out there as soon as possible. We want it done right, Danny, and we want it done right now. You’re the man for the job. What d’you say?’

  Danny didn’t have to think. ‘I’ve a few things to sort out beforehand, but I’m ready to go anytime you like,’ he replied.

  ‘Grand, Danny, that’s just grand. We’ve got a tug-of-war team flying out to Boston the day after next. It’s a bit of a pain in the arse cause you’ll have to make your way cross-country from there, but at least you’ll have some craic on the plane. They’re a good bunch of lads, and it’s a half-decent cover story. Owen O’Brien’s going, d’you know him?’

  ‘I know who he is,’ replied Danny. He realised then that the man he thought looked familiar a few minutes earlier was O’Brien.

  Owen O’Brien used to hang around with Sean at school, but no one liked him: too argumentative. Too eager with his fists if he didn’t get what he wanted or you looked at him the wrong way. He’d fought his way through the ranks of the Republican Army to become head of their internal security, responsible for interrogating suspected informers and disciplining the younger members of the organisation if they stepped out of line. If you were up before O’Brien it was already too late. Very few survived the ordeal. In many ways O’Brien and Danny did similar jobs, but Danny regarded himself as a professional and O’Brien as nothing more than a gangster.

  ‘Nasty fucker,’ continued E.I. ‘Don’t go near him if he has a drink in him. It was O’Brien poured a kettle of boiling water over that young lad O’Patrick’s girlfriend. Sure enough it made the boy talk, but the girl was scarred for life and O’Patrick ended up dead anyway – but what was I saying? Oh aye. Looks like we’ve qualified for the tug-of-war world championships in Oshkosh, can you believe that? We’ll get things set up for you: sort you out with some cash and a passport and so on. Whatever you need‚ just let us know.’

  ‘Any chance of getting hold of a MSG90?’

  ‘You going to take the Thevshi out long-distance?’ asked E.I.

  Danny didn’t answer.

  ‘I’ll get it for you‚ no bother,’ continued E.I. ‘The guy I was talking about earlier – Hernando De Garza – he’ll sort you out. We owe him for the hit on the Thevshi, and even though he fucked it up we’re gonna pay him. The guy can get his hands on all sorts of US military hardware, so we need to keep him sweet. I’d like you to take him some cash, maybe place an order if you don’t mind. De Garza reckons he can get his hands on a couple of Stingers the CIA are sending to the Mujahideen in Afghanistan. You wouldn’t have to bring anything back, just check it’s legit, give him the deposit and leave the rest to us. Would you be okay with that?’

  ‘No problem,’ replied Danny.

  ‘But, in terms of your own personal weaponry, you can have whatever you like, Danny, as long as you bring home the Thevshi’s scalp.’

  ‘Were the Thevshi’s details on the list then?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Page one,’ replied E.I.

  ‘Unbelievable! So where’s he been hiding?’

  ‘The beginning, middle and end of nowhere: ever heard of Tuscaloosa, Alabama?’ asked E.I.

  Even though he had, Danny shook his head.

  Danny was sure he knew the answer to the next question, but he asked it anyway. ‘What’s he call himself?’

  ‘Finn O’Hanlon,’ replied E.I.

  Danny didn’t know why he decided not to tell E.I. that it was the second time in as many days that he had heard of Tuscaloosa, and the second time he’d heard of Finn O’Hanlon. Danny wasn’t sure either why he didn’t mention the meeting with Lep McFarlane.

  He just had a feeling.

  ‘You want a lift home‚ Danny?’

  The meeting was over.

  Danny eased himself painfully up from the sofa. ‘I’m fine E.I. I’ve got a car.’

  ‘I’m surprised you can bloody walk, never mind drive a car. You sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Fine. Really. One last thing‚ E.I. Does Bap still work at the DVLA?

  ‘That bollock has never done a day’s work in his life, but that’s who pays his wages.’

  ‘Could he check out a number plate for me?’

  ‘Sure, if the vehicle’s in Northern Ireland he’ll find it for you. Fire away.’

  ‘KIB 1024.’

  Chapter 15

  UTV studios, Belfast‚ Maundy Thursday‚ evening

  ‘That greasy, back-stabbing little bollock doing the interview was getting my blood up,’ said Frank. ‘When he asked if the break-in was “down to the Special Branch’s incompetence or the IRA’s cunning” I seriously considered knocking him out. Cheeky bastard. If only he knew the bloody truth!’

  Detective Inspector Holden, Detective Sergeant Warren and Frank Thompson were walking past the large sweeping reception desk in the lobby of UTV – the local television station – heading for the exit. Frank had just recorded an interview for the evening news and was in a sombre mood.

  ‘How did that come across?’

  ‘Better than the six o’clock the other night: not so much on the back foot. Are we really launching an official inquiry?’

  ‘Are we fuck,’ replie
d Frank.

  The three men pushed through the revolving door and headed out across the car park. The rain had eased but the cold April wind buffeted and blustered around them as they walked towards their car.

  Frank pulled his heavy black woollen coat tight.

  ‘Got a call from Sheena, Chief,’ said DI Holden. ‘Lep McFarlane’s body’s been found on the Omeath Road with a bullet in the back of the head. At least they think it’s him . . . there’s not much left of his face: difficult to make a positive ID.’

  ‘Christ, he didn’t last long, did he?’ replied Frank. ‘Poor bugger’s only been back in town for a few days.’

  ‘That’s not the best bit, sir. You’ll never guess who was the last person to see McFarlane alive – spotted leaving St Patrick’s in Newry just a few minutes after McFarlane – on Tuesday morning.’

  ‘If I’ll never guess,’ replied Frank, ‘just bloody tell me.’

  ‘Have a go.’

  Frank was in no mood for playing guessing games. ‘The Pope,’ he replied flatly.

  ‘Too holy: we’re talking the other end of the spectrum here,’ continued Holden. ‘Closer to the gates of Hades than St Peter’s; guess again.’ Holden raised his eyebrows, pausing a moment to give the imminent revelation more drama. ‘Danny McGuire.’

  Frank’s mood picked up a little. ‘Danny McGuire: you sure?’

  ‘Couldn’t be more so,’ replied DI Holden.

  ‘Any witnesses willing to back that up?’ asked Frank.

  ‘Better than that, Chief,’ replied John, grinning. ‘We’ve had an E4A close-surveillance team running an op on McGuire from a few weeks before the list was stolen: more a stroke of luck on our part than forward planning, but it could prove to be very useful. If anyone’s going to get busy round about now it’ll be him. They’ve got snaps of him leaving the church.’

  ‘Let’s get a hold of those as soon as possible,’ said Frank.

  ‘Should be arriving back at HQ any minute,’ replied DI Holden. ‘A couple of the E4A team are heading over for a debrief. I told Sheena to send them straight up.’

  Frank nodded. ‘Good. We don’t want to screw this up because we’re not communicating within our own departments.’

  The men had reached the dark-blue unmarked police car. Warren extended a thin telescopic pole with a mirror on the end and made a cursory check under the vehicle for explosives, then held the rear door open. Holden and Frank shuffled in, then Warren made his way round to the driver’s door and climbed in as well.

  ‘Turn the heater up full, David, would you, it’s like a bloody fridge in here – I’ve got a couple of hairy ice-cubes where my balls should be,’ said Frank, shuddering as if he had to illustrate the point further. ‘Danny McGuire, eh?’ Frank kept it flat. ‘And the two men were definitely meeting each other, they didn’t just happen to be attending the same prayer group?’

  ‘They were the only two in the church apart from the priest, Father Anthony,’ said David Warren. ‘We’ve already had a chat with him, but he’s one of them, so he’s not confirming anything one way or the other. Apparently he turned a shaky shade of green when he heard that McFarlane was dead,’ continued DI Holden. ‘Danny McGuire got a call from McFarlane the night before asking for the meet. E4A have a tap on his phone. They’re transcribing the conversation.’

  ‘I wonder what brought McFarlane back to Northern Ireland after all this time; I haven’t heard of the little fucker for a good few years,’ said Frank. ‘In fact, I thought he was already dead.’

  ‘Who knows,’ replied Holden. ‘The last intelligence we had on him, he was trying to kill the Prime Minister with a car bomb, then he vanished off the radar. But that was quite a while ago. I bet he’s wishing he’d stayed put, eh?’

  ‘A murder victim, executed like a tout, and a top hit man together in the same church just hours before his killing. It doesn’t get much better than that,’ said Holden.

  ‘Why would McGuire want McFarlane dead?’ asked Warren.

  DI Holden leant forward. ‘McFarlane is an informer. Not only that, but McFarlane was supposed to be the driver the night Danny McGuire’s brother ended up getting blown to pieces.’

  ‘I wasn’t around when all that shit was going on,’ said Warren, looking back at Holden in his rear-view mirror.

  ‘Yeah. Sean McGuire drove straight into an ambush the SAS had set up,’ replied Holden. ‘Two hundred rounds fired at a car full of Semtex. Car, Semtex, Sean McGuire, kaboom! Shame, eh?’ he added unsympathetically. ‘But Lep McFarlane was supposed to be in the car as well. The SAS claimed they had nothing to do with it, but how many times have we heard that?’

  Frank Thompson wasn’t one for letting his enthusiasm show. He’d had plenty of near-misses over the years so knew not to get carried away. However, this scenario seemed to play out surprisingly well. ‘Let’s not get too excited just yet,’ he said. ‘It’s not like Danny McGuire to be this sloppy. There’s no way he would allow himself to be seen with a target just hours before he was going to shoot the bugger in the back of the head.’

  Frank was beginning to warm up. ‘Get a forensic team down to St Patrick’s and give the place a thorough going-over.’

  ‘Sheena sorted that this morning, Chief,’ said DI Holden, interrupting. ‘They should be there right now.’

  ‘Great,’ continued Frank. ‘Get them to look over McFarlane’s clothing specifically for traces of McGuire. I want as much concrete evidence as possible.’

  ‘Why don’t we have McGuire picked up right now, let a few of his comrades know we’re questioning him . . . maybe let slip that he’s being “very co-operative”,’ said DI Holden. ‘Start tipping the bastard off balance.’

  Frank gave Holden a look: it was a bad idea.

  ‘Nobody in the IRA would believe for one minute that he was co-operating with us. And my inclination is to do the opposite: back off, wait to see what his next move is. If he knows we’re watching he’ll do nothing at all.’

  ‘Might be too late, Chief,’ said Holden. ‘Al Ballantine was caught with his pants down in the church. McGuire confronted him: pulled a weapon on him.’

  ‘Ballantine pulled a weapon on McGuire?’ asked Frank.

  ‘No, McGuire pulled a weapon on Al.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ exclaimed Frank. ‘So McGuire knows for sure there’s a team on him.’

  Frank caught DS Warren and Holden exchanging a glance.

  ‘If there’s more you better tell me.’

  ‘Four men entered McGuire’s sister-in-law’s house the other night in the early hours of last night and drove off with him in a van; E4A were parked across the street, they confirmed it was an SAS unit. I get the impression the four guys weren’t dropping round for a cup of tea, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What the fuck are the SAS doing there? Who in God’s name sanctioned that?’

  ‘Cosmo Cullen’s leading the E4A operation: he’s ex-army,’ replied Holden. ‘He called in a favour to put the frighteners on McGuire.’

  Frank banged his fist against the side of the car door in frustration. ‘For fuck’s sake! When we get back I want Cullen and Ballantine in my office as soon as possible. Those stupid bastards may well have blown our best chance yet of chopping McGuire off at the knees.’

  DS Warren started to say, ‘But if he killed McFarlane—?’

  Frank interrupted him. ‘And if he didn’t, what then?’

  ‘He threatened Ballantine with a gun.’

  ‘Prove it,’ replied Frank. ‘One of your witnesses is already dead and the other is a goddamn priest who’s a card-carrying member.’ Frank cleared a small circle of condensation from the rear passenger window.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  He stared out at the fresh downpour of rain.

  ‘Don’t anyone say another word, okay. I need to think.’

  Chapter 16

  The outskirts of Newry, early hours of Good Friday

  Corporal Tony Lynch sat up in bed and pulled his 9 mm Beretta
from the holster hanging on the bedpost next to his head: it was an instinctive reaction. He wasn’t sure if the dull sounds he’d heard were part of his dream, or just the wind tugging at the gaps in the rotten window frames, making them rattle – but something had woken him up.

  His eyes took time to adjust to the smothering darkness. Even then he could only make out a thin slither of moonlight pushing between the drab curtains hanging above his bed. It was impossible to pick out any other detail in the small bedroom.

  He sat quietly for a few moments filtering through the familiar creaks and groans of the derelict farm cottage, listening for any sound – however small – that didn’t belong. Every house had its own way of talking: a language of cracking floorboards and creaking doors with which Tony liked to familiarise himself as quickly as possible whenever he arrived somewhere new.

  The cottage sat at the end of a long dirt track close to the border with the South. If Tony and his team were compromised they could easily slip across to the relative safety of the Republic of Ireland. The cottage was also far enough away from the nearest village for the team’s comings and goings – they hoped – to go unnoticed.

  Tony listened intently for a few more minutes before concluding that tonight – aside from the usual groans and moans – the house had nothing new to say.

  He pressed the ‘glow’ button on his Suunto wristwatch: another ten minutes before he’d have to get out of bed. It would be his turn to sleep in the van tonight, so he was happy to savour every last minute inside the warm comfort of his sleeping bag.

  Rainwater poured noisily from the broken gutter outside the bedroom window into a large puddle that had formed on the saturated ground below.