The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3

by B. Hesse Pflingger

I checked in at the Duke’s Dalliance the night after I returned from LA. “The girl, Saoirse, said to inform this man, Jack, that he might be attending a meetin’ at 7 the evenin’ of Friday next,” the bartender confided. “Said he’d be familiar with the venue.”

  Came the end of Friday work day, I exited the plant through the Catholic gate and went into the Duke’s Dalliance for an ale and a bite. Come 6:55 I walked around the block, made sure no one was tailing me, then went behind the row of shops, ducked up the passageway, slipped into the alcove and rapped on the door. “It’s open,” came a voice from within. I lifted the door. The light was on. Not being pursued, I forsook the loading ramp and started down the stairs.

  “For security’s sake you’d best be boltin’ the door behind you,” Saoirse advised me. I turned and did so, then made my way into the basement room where she awaited. But not the same Saoirse I’d seen before. She’d cleaned up entirely. This one was wearing a sweater and mini-skirt. She’d had her curly dark hair done. “Black Irish,” they are called. Some say they descend from the Spanish sailors who washed up on Irish shores after the Armada debacle in 1588 (ever notice the similarity between Irish step dancing and Spanish flamenco?).

  “So, when be the others arrivin’?” I asked. “When does the meetin’ commence?”

  “Ah, well, I may have been a little inaccurate on the time,” she sighed as she moved up close. “The others won’t be arrivin’ for an hour or more. I thought we might have a little meetin’ of our own, should you be so inclined.” She gazed up at me with an inviting smile on her lips and a determined look in her eye. Those men’s clothes she’d worn before disguised a trim little figure. Her legs were shapely indeed. I noticed that someone had tidied the bed.

  She reached up and pulled the cord on the overhead bulb, darkening the room. She put her arms around me and drew me down to her so I could feel her breasts all perfume and her heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes…

  3 | The Line

  Saoirse had cleaned up, she explained, because she was now driving the delivery truck for the bakery that supplied the lunchrooms at the factory. The idea was to get the people at the factory used to seeing her there with the truck while she cased the joint. Why that? I wondered. Mental Note: Stay out of sight when the bakery truck is on premises.

  “So it wasn’t just for me you gussied up?” I asked.

  “Ah, sorry, Jack. But the idea did strike me that you might be appreciatin’ the change.”

  “That I did, indeed I did.” And truly, I did.

  The others in the group trailed in a little after eight. Their safe house was the rear of the basement below an ironmongery—hardware store, we’d call it. Kelly and Seamus emerged from a doorway that opened on a stairway down from the shop. Clancy and Casey knocked on the outer door, and Saoirse unbolted it and let them in. The group seem to have accepted me as Jack McCool, so I went with the charade. “I requested this meetin’,” I said, “to make certain all is in order. I was not given all the plans and details from those in America, and I want to go over ‘em with you now. I talked to the Russian, but I’m not sure as I’m trustin’ him entirely. I want to know, has he intimated changin’ any of the plan?”

  “No, it’s the same as original,” Casey said.

  “And that is…? I’ll be needin’ to check your details against his. You can’t be too careful with them Russians.”

  “We load the Semtex from the farmhouse into the van and from there take to the lot behind the bakery buildin’. We put it into the bread truck, the detonators all set and ready. Then on the next mornin’, Saoirse watches for when Mrs. T arrives to the factory, and when she does Saoirse goes in to the factory for the bread delivery as customary.”

  “Mrs. T…?”

  “Margaret fookin’ Thatcher, the Prime fookin’ Minister of the U fookin’ K. And then Saoirse leaves the truck parked there after settin’ the timer with minutes enough for her to slip away to the gate.”

  The old blowing up the Prime Minister ploy, eh…? “All right, then the Russian did tell me truly. And we’re transferin’ the Semtex on…”

  “Friday fortnight, same as previously arranged. Mrs. T is the next day arriving, Saturday mornin’, our sources tell us.”

  “The Semtex will be stashed at the farm afore that,” Clancy added. “‘Twill be awaitin’ us in the barn. The Russian’s reliable, I think.”

  “Aye,” I nodded. “When it comes to Semtex, you can always count on the Russian. What else has he said or done? What’s going on here of which I’ve not been informed?”

  Casey thought about it. “He informed us of Mrs. T’s visit. He arranged the explosive and suggested how we might bring the attack about. And when the money’s handed over, he’ll have the ship land the goods. That’s about it.”

  Money? Ship? Goods? From Grotesqcu? “You’ve the money in hand, then?” I asked.

  “With respect, Jack,” Seamus said, “we was of the impression that your arrival might have to do with that. We’re given to understand that $32,000 was collected in Boston, and would be sent to us for payment. You see, our forces is havin’ to replenish, as just a month ago the RUC seized a major cache of arms and explosives near Bainbridge (“A ton and a half of gelignite,” Kelly put in) and another cache at Glencree. The Russian advanced us 100 kgs of Semtex for this operation, and upon payment he’ll arrange a delivery of guns, explosive, grenades, rockets, the lot. He’s rearmin’ other groups as well.”

  “You’re short of firepower, then?”

  “We desperate need more,” Casey said. “Here, take a look.” He led me to the arms cupboard and popped the door open. Besides the AK-47 they handed me the other night there were two well-used Armalites, a pair of automatic pistols, a collection of extra clips and several boxes of ammo. “He’ll provide us new Kalashnikovs, some RPGs, more Semtex, if we’re lucky a burp gun or two. Better armed we can recruit more to our group and expand our activities. Money won’t be so hard then, because we’ll be equipped to rob banks.”

  Just your typical hardworking KGB gunrunner, doing well by doing good. “As to the money,” I said, “one must be careful in such matters. When last I checked, it was in the works. Tell me, lads, I hear so little over in America of doings here, what has your group been accomplishin’ these past few years?”

  “We ain’t been idle,” Seamus piped up. “After Maggie T. murdered Bobby Sands, petrol bombs was fallin’ from our hands like raindrops in a springtime storm. He was from Twinbrook, Bobby was—a local boy. We showed our loyalty, bank on that. Quite pelted the DeLorean factory, we did.”

  “Burnt two buildings,” Casey added proudly. “Right down to the ground. Left ‘em piles of ashes, we did.”

  Kelly wasn’t to be outdone. “We’ve took care of a few snitches. Some turncoat boys will never walk right again. A couple of the women, their bodies have yet to be found.”

  “A bit of exaggeration there, Kelly,” put in Saoirse.

  “Well, we give ‘em a right good hidin’, anyway, a warnin’ to others.”

  “Don’t forget the Crocus Street ambush in March,” Saoirse said. “We helped another unit, carried ammo for their machine gun, a right M-60 heavy one, you know. Got three soldiers, they did. But the Brits got Grogan.”

  “Aye, remember the Saracen we hit with a petrol bomb?” enthused Clancy. “ We mix paint in with the petrol, sticks to things better,” he explained.

  They had no end of tales of murder, mayhem and destruction, some of them possibly true. And I’d figured them for Deadheads? This outfit was no magic circle of Flower Children, more like our Weathermen, except without Ivy League degrees. “Enough, enough,” I said. “You’ve done your duty, it’s clear. You’ve made the Republic proud. And now you’ll be blowing up Mrs. Thatcher?”

  “It’s all she deserves,” declared Saoirse. “The bloody murderess!”

  “
And how, precisely, did she accomplish that?” I asked. “Over in the States we get such scanty reports.”

  “She refused to meet any of the strikers demands,” declared Clancy, “Not a single one! Ten died on strike in all, protestin’ against bein’ treated as common criminals. Political prisoners, they were, fightin’ for only what’s right and just, a moral crusade. Sixty-six days Bobby Sands held out, God rest his sainted soul. Margaret Thatcher flat refused to talk with ‘em. She denied ‘em the very staff of life. A heartless she-devil she is, a murderous bitch with the blood of ten of our heroic lads on her hands.” The others clamored agreement.

  “Well, and then she surely deserves what’s comin’ to her,” I agreed. It wouldn’t be a bombing, if I had anything to say about it.

  Next Monday at the factory I asked Mr. Cohan in security about Bobby Sands. “He was jailed with a bunch of the Provo lads, caught with evidence that they’d been in a firefight with the RUC following the bombing of the Balmoral Furniture Company, sentenced to 14 years,” said Mr. Cohan. “While in jail he was elected to our Parliament. The lads didn’t like the treatment they was getting’ in the Maze, so they went on a hunger strike. The government wouldn’t give in, neither would the lads. After two months, Bobby Sands died. In all ten of the lads died before they called their strike off, that were four months after it commenced.”

  “What did Margaret Thatcher have to do with it?”

  “The Catholics claim it were her fault because she wouldn’t meet the strikers’ demands. Of course the majority of the government backed her.”

  “Couldn’t the strikers have eaten any time they wanted to?”

  “That’s how the Protestants see it. However, the Catholics were glad for to have a genuine martyr. They went on a rampage, shootings and petrol bombs in abundance. Riots continued though the strike. The government sent in 600 more troops to quell the mobs, but there’s no quellin’ the Republicans when their blood runs hot. To this day the British patrol the streets of Belfast with Saracen armored lorries, though things has since quieted down.”

  “What is your take on this, if I may ask, Mr. Cohan?”

  “I have no take on it. My job is to secure the plant, and I’ve not fallen short of my duty.”

  “Speaking of security, is there anything to a rumor I heard that the Prime Minister will be paying us a visit soon?”

  Mr. Cohan looked surprised. “Such a rumor should not be circulatin’. There’s been no broadcastin’ of it here at the plant, nor outside it either.” Which I took to mean that the answer was “yes.”

  Factory production had already come to a halt, and the number of workers in the plant dwindled by the day. Those still on the job were engaged in cleanup and preparation for complete shutdown, in the event that DeLorean’s final push came to naught. But then hope revived. The local paper reported that in the course of his stream of public pronouncements, New York journalists had asked him about rumors that he was holding discussions with a Hong Kong investors’ group. DeLorean would neither confirm nor deny the rumor, but he confidently assured the reporters that something big was going to happen soon, and that they would be the first to know when it did.This report raised local hopes, though not convictions.

  “Will you be joining us for another game come Saturday, Mr. Fonko?” Riley McBrian asked as he joined my table in the canteen.

  “I’d be honored to, if your team will have me.”

  “Definitely. Your defense play was sound. You’ll be an asset, surely. Do you remember a girl name of Roisin? (I nodded yes) She was askin’ whether there was any particular reason why you’d not called her.”

  “For starters, she never gave me her telephone number.”

  “Ah, the very thing she was suspectin’. She asked me to pass this along to you.” The slip of paper he handed me had a telephone number on it.

  “I will certainly ring her up,” I said.

  “Hearin’ from you will add to her happiness,” he assured me. “Say, have you glimpsed the new bakery girl makin’ the daily deliveries? A fine thing, she is. I’m thinkin’ maybe I’ll venture a chat-up with that one.”

  Having no duties around the DeLorean factory except familiarizing myself with the Belfast area and smoking out imaginary saboteurs, I decided to take a road trip for a look at the counties to the south, the Republic of Ireland. Maybe I could glean a better idea of what the Troubles were all about, avoiding the danger of asking too many questions of the wrong people around Belfast. The wet and gloomy weather had given way to a spate of clear days. Day dawned ever later with the passing weeks, the sun hanging lower in the sky, but Wednesday opened up crisp and bright. Dublin being only a hundred or so miles to the south, I could do a day trip easily enough. I gassed up the Mini and set out after an early breakfast.

  My American passport got me across the border and through the road check I encountered with no trouble. The roads were okay, car traffic was not heavy. I had to share one country lane with a flock of sheep making a crossing, and that took some patience. I followed a meandering route, wandering on and off the main roads. The land showcased its fabled green, lush in the sunlight. I passed plots enclosed by stone walls and hedgerows; grain fields shaved to crew-cut height by harvesters; flocks of sheep, small herds of cows, occasional pigs; rolling hills covered with bracken; small orchards and patches of forest. An old stone ruin topped a rise every now and then. The highway grazed the coast, affording distant ocean glimpses. Of the farmsteads I saw, a few looked genuinely prosperous but many others qualified as dilapidated. Generally the Irish Republic seemed more bucolic and less developed than its near northern neighbor. Also a little more charming, I’d say.

  As noon neared, hunger awakened. Dublin was not far now. It seemed simplest to stop at a village pub and chow down there. Then I could drive into Dublin and explore at my leisure without having immediately to locate lunch. Several pubs sat along the road. I picked one at random, parked beside it and went in. It was your stereotypical traditional Irish village pub—dimly lit, the interior soot-blackened by peat smoke, heavy beams overhanging the room; the walls festooned with banners, yellowed notices and handbills, faded photos of long-gone but still remembered athletic teams; and the mirror-backed bar fronted by a battery of gleaming taps poised for action. None of the hip frippery you’d find in American attempts at imitation.

  I’d arrived a little before the lunch hour, so the place was not yet crowded—boisterous and hearty would be along later. I had the landlord draw a schooner of Harp ale and carried it to a table by the wall. I noticed at the adjoining table an old fellow eyeing me with interest. What hair remained on his wrinkled brow was white, matching the stubble covering his jaws. Rumpled clothing, a nose reddened by something other than the sun, boots that could use new boots. “What would you recommend for lunch?” I asked him.

  “The shepherd’s pie is as good as anyone makes it,” he said. He regarded me for a moment. “Ye be a stranger in these parts, then?” he asked in a friendly manner.

  “American, just passing through,” I replied.

  “Aye, them Yanks is okay,” he allowed. “Saw our side through the war, that they did. And you are called…?”

  “Jake is what they call me.”

  “Jake,” he mused. “Jacob. A good Biblical name. John, them in the village calls me,” he said, “but that’s not all they calls me.” He paused for a moment. “Take a look at that door over there, the front door. What d’ye see.”

  I looked. “I see a good stout door,” I said.

  “I fashioned that door,” he said. “I joined thick oak planks to fit the span of the portal. I shaped ‘em into an admirable door, carved decoration into it with a sure and artistic hand, and finished it to a foin luster. Then I hung it to perfection. It swings free and true on the finest hinges in the land, and the Divil himself couldn’t bust through the lock. And if you was to go to any pub in this village you’
d find the same door, because I made every door in every pub in the village. So you’d think them in the village might be callin’ me ‘John the Carpenter’. “

  “Indeed they might,” I agreed.

  “Indeed they might…but they don’t.” He drained a hefty swig of stout, wiped his lips on the back of his hand and continued. “Take a good gander at that line of taps on the bar,” he advised. I looked closely. “What d’ye see?”

  “I see a set of excellent beer taps,” I ventured.

  “That ye do,” he said with pride. “I installed them taps. I gathered the finest piping and valves that money could buy. I fitted them together so the ale and stout flow fast and true, with nary a leak in all of their history. You’ll not find better taps in all the land, and if you examine the taps in every pub in the village you’ll find they’re the same, because I installed ‘em all. So you might think that them in the village would be callin’ me ‘John the Plumber’.”

  “So you’d think,” I agreed.

  “But they don’t,” he said with a sigh. He signaled the landlord for a round, including a glass for me. “D’ye see them barrels o’ whiskey behind the bar?” John continued.

  Neatly lined up behind the bar was a row of barrels. “Yes, it’s a collection of fine whiskey barrels,” I said.

  “I made each and every o’ them barrels,” he said proudly. “I took the best oak staves and shaped ‘em to fit as tight as a banker’s arsehole. I fired the walls to a perfection of charcoal and I banded them together with steel hoops of the most tremendous strength. No landlord has ever lost a drop of exquisitely aged whiskey from any one of my barrels, and it’s the same in every pub in the village, because I made the barrels in every pub. So it wouldn’t be untoward of ‘em in the village to call me ‘John the Cooper’ , , , but they don’t call me that either.”

  John emptied his glass with a several gulp swallow, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then lamented wistfully, “ But yer fook just one lousy goat…”