Underdogs

by Jack Fiske

  He handed one of the cylinders to Stephen. “If you build a dummy of this ‘K2 driver’ will there be room to fit that inside it?”

  “Easily,” Stephen agreed. “What is it?”

  “According to Archie it’s a GPS tracker. He says in his note that once it’s switched on he can tell us where it has been and when. I presume it works like the hand held units that walkers use. These seem to have a transmitter built in as well, which means that if we can build one into a box of dummy electronics and hand it over to the kidnappers, we’ll be able to find out where they go with it.”

  “I’ll get on to it now,” Stephen said. “I’ll take Marion into the office with me; I’d prefer not to leave her alone in the house while all this is going on.”

  “I think that’s sensible,” Jim agreed.

  “How did you get on this morning?” Stephen asked.

  “No sign of O’Hara anywhere, I’m afraid. I’ll go back to the hotel and wait for him while you and Marion go into the office. He’s bound to show up at some point.”

  Stephen nodded as they both returned to the living room to join Marion.

  “Marion, when did you last come in to the office?” Stephen asked.

  “Oh, I haven’t been in for a long time.”

  “Well how about coming in this afternoon. Jim is going back to the hotel to see if that man O’Hara shows up and we’ve got a box of electronics to put together.”

  “But I’ll be no help with any of that.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I could do with the company and someone reliable to pass me the tools.”

  Marion agreed somewhat reluctantly and went to get her coat.

  In the driveway Stephen put a hand on Jim’s arm as he opened the car door.

  “Same as before Jim. I’ll be expecting a regular phone call from you to let me know that you’re o.k. And don’t take any risks. Remember you’re as much a part of this family as Susan is.”

  Jim nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll call.”

  Stephen and Marion watched him drive away, before Stephen put the Range Rover into gear, pulled out of the driveway and turned in the direction of the office.

  FIVE

  Jim got back to the Moat House just after three-thirty. There was still no sign of a blue Fiat in the car park, so he left the Land Rover out of sight a short distance beyond the hotel. The knife was still in his jacket pocket, but there was no room for the gun, which was too bulky. A quick search of the car yielded an old cloth that the gun could be wrapped in, but nothing else that would adequately conceal it. Jim grunted in annoyance and then remembered the plastic bag with odds and ends for the car, which was tucked away under the passenger seat. Leaning over, he fumbled under the seat with one hand and was rewarded by a rustling sound as his hand closed on the carrier bag. He pulled it out and emptied the contents onto the floor. Ice scraper, tin of polish, touch up stick, bottle of screen wash, pair of disposable gloves. He pushed everything back under the seat, wrapped the gun in the old cloth that he kept for wiping the windows, put it in the carrier bag and held it up critically for inspection. Yes, that was suitably anonymous. No one would know what was in there and he could get at the weapon quickly if he needed to.

  He walked back to the hotel, casting an eye over the surroundings as he went. The hotel was isolated. It stood in its own grounds a good distance away from any other building, surrounded on three sides by lawns, trees and well tended flowerbeds. A young couple, who Jim presumed to be guests, were taking advantage of the good weather and strolled past him deep in conversation. The car park at the front held a few more cars than it had earlier in the day, whilst to the back of the hotel the bar was now open for business. One or two of the tables that stood outside were occupied and a young lady was going round with a tray collecting empty glasses. Jim headed towards the rear of the building and found that he could walk straight in, through open French windows, to the lounge bar that had been deserted earlier in the day. The steel grill that had protected the pumps and row of optics was now gone and two elderly gentlemen were waiting patiently for the barmaid, who was on her way back with a tray full of empties.

  Jim waited for the two to be served and then ordered a fresh orange and lemonade. The girl behind the bar smiled at him and asked if he would like it on his bill.

  “No thanks,” he replied, handing her a five pound note and getting a handful of change in return.

  A pile of newspapers lay on a table in the middle of the lounge and Jim picked up a copy of the Telegraph as he made his way back outside. Some of the tables on the patio area were occupied, but he found a seat at one near the corner of the building, where he had a good view of the entrance to the car park. Leaving his drink and paper to reserve his place, Jim walked round to the front again to make sure that O’Hara hadn’t arrived whilst he was inside. Having satisfied himself that O’Hara’s blue Fiat was still not there, he returned to his seat and settled down to wait.

  After an hour with the Daily Telegraph, Jim looked at his watch and frowned. There was still no sign of the Irishman and he decided to check in with Stephen and Marion as promised so they didn’t worry. A brief phone call would let them know that he was o.k. and that as yet, he hadn’t been able to track down O’Hara. Both of them were still at the office and it was Marion who answered Stephen’s mobile. Stephen was apparently in the middle of something, whilst Mark Brennan was putting various bits of electronics together in a mock up of the unit that had been returned to the M.O.D. Satisfied that they weren’t worried, Jim left them to it, put his phone away and picked up the paper once more.

  He had been waiting for a good hour and a half and was beginning to think that he should move to another vantage point to avoid looking suspicious, when a car turned into the car park. Jim looked up and recognised the Fiat. Picking up his plastic bag, he finished off the last inch of his second orange juice, folded his paper and walked quickly back into the bar. A glance at his watch told him it was just after five. Unfortunate timing. Anyone staying at the hotel on business would be returning from their day’s work about now. Jim would have preferred the hotel corridors to be empty if possible. Never mind, he would just have to manage.

  Leaving the paper in the bar, he walked up the rear stairs to the second floor and was relieved to find the corridor deserted. At the front of the building the stairwell was next to the lift shaft and he was faced with a choice. Would O’Hara take the lift or use the stairs? The decision was made for him by the sound of the lift coming up from below. Jim took the revolver out of its plastic bag and held it in his left hand, his jacket casually folded over his arm to conceal it. The indicator lights above the lift said it had stopped on the first floor and Jim turned back to the stairs. Opening the door to the stairwell, he listened carefully, but heard nothing. Behind him the lift started again and he turned to check if it was coming up or going down. The lights above the lift doors blinked to indicate that it was on its way up and, with no noise of anyone on the stairs, Jim closed the door behind him and waited at the top of the stair, where he could see both the lift and the corridor through the wire reinforced glass of the door. He found he was shaking slightly and his palms were sweaty from what? Nerves? Fear? Excitement? He took a couple of deep breaths and consciously relaxed his tensed muscles.

  In the corridor, the lift opened and a middle aged woman stepped out. There was still no sound on the stairs below and Jim leant forward for a better view. Behind the woman was a man carrying a suitcase and behind him, O’Hara. Damn! Why couldn’t he have stepped out of the lift alone? He’d just have to wait until he was in his room and get him to come to the door. Jim watched the couple checking the room numbers and then turn right, walking in the opposite direction to room 22. O’Hara turned left, in the direction of his own room and Jim mentally crossed his fingers as he quietly opened the stair door and stepped into the corridor behind him. To his right the couple were already opening the door to their room, whilst to his left, he had a view of O’Hara’s back
receding down the corridor. The couple’s bedroom door closed with a thud and Jim walked quickly and quietly after O’Hara.

  As O’Hara reached into his pocket for the key, the sound of footsteps behind him made him turn. Jim was only a few yards away and he pulled the gun out from under his folded jacket, levelling it at O’Hara’s stomach. If O’Hara was shocked, he hid it well. The man hardly batted an eyelid. He simply stopped in his tracks, waiting to see what Jim would do. The man even kept his hand in his pocket, as if unwilling to take out the key, in case it provoked a disproportionate reaction.

  “You’d better unlock the door and let us in,” Jim said in a voice that was steadier than he felt.

  “You’re not going to do anything hasty now, are you?” O’Hara asked in a voice that was calm and collected.

  “Not if you do as you’re told,” Jim replied. “Now open the door and leave the key in the lock.”

  O’Hara did as he was told and waited at the open door for instructions.

  “In,” Jim ordered. “Six paces forward and then wait. Don’t turn round. Don’t make any sudden moves. If you try anything, you’ll get a bullet in the leg”.

  O’Hara followed the instructions and stepped into the hotel room, stopping with his back to him in front of the small dressing table. Jim stepped into the room behind him, took the key from the lock and closed the door.

  “It’ll make a hell of a noise you know.”

  “What will?” Jim asked.

  “The sound of that gun going off in a small room like this.”

  “No it won’t,” Jim replied. “It’ll completely ruin my jacket, when I use it to muffle the sound, but you’d be lucky if you could even hear it in the next room.”

  O’Hara just grunted.

  “Can I assume you’re not going to be stupid?” Jim asked. “It would be a shame to ruin a good jacket and I expect you’d prefer not to have a hole in your leg?”

  “I’ll co-operate,” O’Hara replied. “Just don’t let the thing go off by mistake.”

  Being over cautious, Jim peered round the door into the en-suite bathroom. Nothing had been moved and the electric shaver still winked away behind the sink, asking to be unplugged.

  “Are you expecting someone else?” O’Hara asked.

  “Just being careful,” Jim replied. “Now, empty your pockets.”

  O’Hara was dressed as before in a pair of dark jeans and a sweatshirt. His trouser pockets contained very little – a set of car keys, a handkerchief, a brown leather wallet in his back pocket and a small mobile phone, which he turned off before putting everything down on the bed.

  “Take your sweatshirt off,” Jim instructed.

  “Why?” O’Hara asked.

  “Never mind why. Just do it.”

  O’Hara pulled the sweatshirt over his head and dropped it onto the bed beside his other possessions. Underneath he wore a navy polo shirt, which was tucked neatly into the top of his jeans.

  “Lift your arms and turn round.”

  O’Hara turned round slowly. “You’re not going to shoot me are you?”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t intend to unless I have to.”

  Satisfied O’Hara didn’t have a gun in a concealed holster; Jim motioned for him to drop his arms.

  “Roll up your trouser legs.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it. Up to your knees.”

  O’Hara obliged, revealing a flat knife in a slim leather sheath, held to his lower leg by two straps, one above the ankle and one just below the knee.

  “Take that off as well.”

  O’Hara went to take the knife out of its sheath.

  “No. Leave it in there. Just undo the straps.”

  O’Hara did as instructed and tossed the knife onto the bed next to his sweatshirt. Jim took a pace forward and picked it up. “You can put the sweatshirt back on if you want to. Then take a seat.” He gestured to the single armchair that stood in the corner of the room by the window.

  Once O’Hara had sat down, Jim took a seat himself on the end of the bed, a safe distance away in case O’Hara should try anything.

  “I’ll come straight to the point,” Jim said. “Where are my wife and daughter?”

  “How should I know? I’ve never met your wife and daughter. Look, what’s this all about?”

  “Do you know who I am?” Jim asked.

  “I haven’t a clue. I’m just here on business.”

  “Sure you are. All businessmen have knives strapped to their leg underneath their trousers. Let me ask you another. Do you know where I live?”

  “No, of course not. Why on earth should I know where you live?”

  “I’m going to give you one warning and only one warning.” Jim took the knife that he still held out of its sheath and tested the balance. “I’ll tell you what I know about you and then I’m going to ask you some questions. If I don’t like the answers, the next half an hour is going to be rather painful for you. Do you understand?”

  Jim looked at O’Hara for some acknowledgement and got a half nod in reply.

  “If you don’t know who I am, then why have you got a stack of photographs in your suitcase over there with pictures of me and my family?” O’Hara’s eyes followed the end of the revolver as Jim gestured towards the wardrobe. “Also, if you don’t know where I live, why were you watching my house from the woods at the bottom of my garden on Sunday morning?”

  Jim watched for any reaction on the man’s face, but didn’t get any, so he carried on.

  “I know your name is O’Hara, or at least the name on your credit card is O’Hara, as you’ll recall that we met briefly at the petrol station near my parents-in-law’s house only this morning.”

  O’Hara looked at Jim but said nothing.

  “Your turn,” Jim prompted.

  “O.k.” he replied with resignation. “You’re right. I was at your house on Sunday and I do have pictures of you in my suitcase, but I can explain.”

  “Go on then.”

  “I work for the Irish Intelligence Service. Eire that is, not the north. There’s an i.d. card in my wallet if you care to look.”

  Jim picked up the wallet from the bed and flipped it open. As well as a couple of credit cards and half a dozen bank notes, there was indeed a plastic i.d. card with O’Hara’s name and picture on it. It looked completely genuine, but then if O’Hara was with the IRA, he was sure that they could produce a fake i.d.

  “Keep going,” Jim said.

  “We’re after a London gang. They’ve blackmailed a rather prominent businessman in Dublin and we have information that their next target is either yourself or your father in law.”

  “Where are they?” Jim asked.

  “That’s the trouble. We don’t know. My brief is to keep you and Mr Reid under surveillance and wait for them to make contact.”

  “If this is all official then, why aren’t the police involved?” Jim asked. “Or the security services over here?”

  “We can’t. The matter is far too sensitive. If we involve the authorities here, they’ll need to know about the situation in Dublin and we can’t let that happen. In fact, bearing in mind that I work for a foreign government, the authorities would take a pretty dim view of what I’ve been up to already if they knew anything about it.”

  The expression on O’Hara’s face and his body language gave nothing away. What he said could be complete rubbish, or there might just be some grain of truth in it.

  “What do you know about the gang?” Jim asked.

  “Not a lot,” O’Hara replied, and then volunteered, “There are a couple of pictures in my suitcase of the two that we know of and I’ve got a file with more information down in the car.”

  O’Hara stood up purposefully. “I’ll go and get it for you.”

  “No you won’t.” Jim waved the gun at him and motioned for him to sit down again.

  He needed to check the story before he let things get too serious. What if Archie was wrong and the guy really did
work for Irish Intelligence? He wasn’t going to get Susan and Millie back by getting heavy handed if the man wasn’t one of them. The best option was to get his man to somewhere more secure and then make a few phone calls to check if the i.d. card was genuine. The stables back at the house would do. They were pretty isolated, which was a good thing. If O’Hara’s story didn’t check out and he had to resort to violence to get some answers, he couldn’t do that in O’Hara’s hotel room.

  “O.k.” Jim agreed. “We’ll go and fetch whatever you’ve got in the car.”

  O’Hara stood up and Jim threw his wallet back to him.

  “Can I have my other stuff back as well?”

  “Sure.” Jim picked up the knife and stepped away from the bed. “Help yourself. I’ll hang on to this for the time being.”

  O’Hara picked up his car keys and phone and put them back in his pocket, then turned to the door.

  “Not so fast,” Jim ordered. “I need to check out your story first. Until I’ve done that you’re one of the kidnappers. That means your welfare is not a high priority and if you try anything, I’m going to put a bullet into you. Is that understood?”

  “Understood,” O’Hara agreed. “You make it quite clear.”

  “Good. Now we’re going to leave together. I’ll walk a few paces behind, covering you with the gun under my jacket. We’re going to go out by the stairs to the front of the building. If I ask you to stop, I want you to stop immediately. Is that agreed?”

  “Yes.”

  O’Hara walked slowly into the corridor, leaving the bedroom door open behind him and stopped at Jim’s request a few paces further on. Jim closed the door behind him and pocketed the key. The two walked calmly down the corridor, Jim following five or six paces behind the Irishman, the gun levelled at his back beneath his jacket, which was draped casually over one arm. Behind them a door opened and a woman stepped into the corridor. O’Hara glanced round briefly and Jim motioned for him to keep going. The woman paused for a second, but then turned in the other direction and walked towards the back of the building. Arriving at the head of the stairs, Jim closed up behind O’Hara and pressed the barrel of the gun into the small of his back.