Blood From A Shadow (2012)

by Gerard Cappa

  Swansea snorted a short guffaw as he tore the sandwich from the packaging. My own bread was stale, the ham pale and damp, the cheese plastic. I sipped the coffee, my hands with a tremor as I lifted the cup, but I stopped that as soon as I noticed. Swansea noticed too, and nodded when he saw I had control of my shakes.

  “So, will the embassy guy ask who abducted me, stuck a gun in my face and was going to kill me?” I said.

  “Well, your boys probably know better than me. They’re all experts these days, aren’t they? Sure, I’m just a policeman, what do I know?” he said.

  “You see the wounds on my head, right? Any chance of a doctor taking a look at me?” I said.

  “I don’t think we will disturb the doctor just yet. Once you do that, all sorts of paperwork has to be completed. I don’t think your embassy friend would want that, do you? The other thing is, of course, you put a few boys in the Royal Hospital, the worse for wear. Don’t think he’ll want your name linked up with that business.”

  This was the best way to keep the crime stats down that I ever heard of, zero tolerance, Belfast-style. I surrendered to the sandwich and spat out the mouthful that wouldn’t be chewed into the plastic bag.

  “You’re telling me you aren’t speaking to any of the dozens of witnesses who must have seen me abducted, twice, in a busy urban area?”

  “I can assure you, and I’m in this force nearly thirty years, there won’t be one witness up there who saw anything the way you saw it. Do you not want your sandwich?”

  “No thanks, but I’ll have a Mars, if that’s ok.”

  He flicked the chocolate over to me, took back my sandwich and started to finish it himself.

  “A wee bird told me you’re going to see an old friend of mine. Sarah McCooey, McErlane by her married name,” he said.

  Fuck. How did he know that? He read my face and didn’t hide his delight at the effect he had created.

  “Give Sarah my regards. Tell her Robert Swansea was asking about her. I wasn’t very popular down there one time, but all that’s over now, we have the Peace Process, we’re all moving on now like you Americans ordered,” he said.

  He was having lot of fun breaking my balls.

  “Sure, I’ll tell her,” I said. “She had two brothers murdered by your cops, right? Is that how you know her?”

  Swansea blinked, nostrils flared, jaw tightened. Didn’t like being jerked around, liked being the one doing the jerking.

  “Murder is a strong word, especially since the IRA kept telling us it was a war, when they were shooting unarmed men and women in the back,” he said.

  He wasn’t the jovial, devil-may-care Irish cop of the silver screen now.

  “I heard those two guys were unarmed,” I said. “On their way to a family wedding. Hundred shots fired, weapons planted on them.”

  I could see the true Swansea concentrating, thinking ahead, how would he play this? In the old days he would have called a couple of guys to hold me and beat the shit out of me. You know a man when you are eye to eye and they have the force behind them. When you can smell their breath and you know you are on your own. The moment passed and Swansea played it safe.

  “See, that’s the thing that concerns me,” he said. “The IRA called their ceasefire over fifteen years ago, surrendered, some of us might say. We let them out of prison, let them into Government, forgot all their evil. But they won’t forget, they demand an international inquiry because we shot those two fuckers before they murdered anybody else. Now we’re the bad guys and the IRA were poor defenceless victims, isn’t that right?”

  I could see this was leading somewhere.

  “And you think that’s something to do with me, because I’m visiting Mrs McErlane, right?” I said.

  “Did you see the papers today?” he said. “The ‘American Friends of Justice’ are arriving here next week, and that’s what they will be crying about, no doubt. Am I supposed to believe that’s a coincidence, you’re just going down there for a wee holiday? Well, we’ve just saved your arse today, haven’t we? Will your friends say anything about that, about the nasty police saving your neck?”

  Pain was surging through my head again, but I laughed. Nervous relief, I suppose. When I was a kid, I was always getting into trouble for laughing at the wrong time. Swansea didn’t like being laughed at, and that could be dangerous, but the guy was talking out his ass, and that meant I was safe.

  “I don’t know anything about an inquiry,” I said. “But if you shoot unarmed men and then plant guns on them, you can’t be surprised that questions are asked. Even here, even twenty years later. But hey, I guess it’s not my business, right?”

  “I didn’t see anybody plant guns,” he said. “Even if they did, there were plenty of times those two fuckers were carrying. Like any one of the eight times they murdered police officers, including the twenty-eight year old girl shot to death taking her child to school. I don’t hear you Americans calling for an inquiry into that!”

  So Swansea was there. This old guy in front of me had ambushed Ferdy’s uncles, planted weapons on them. He must have been about 35 then, loads of experience. Hadn’t done his career any harm, still here, senior rank, plenty to lose. Not his position or pension, but the righteous certainty that he was justified, it was justice, to decide who lived and who died. I understood that. He would shit himself if he only knew some of the things the nephew of those two fuckers had done. The American Friends of Justice would shit themselves if they knew what all of us had done.

  “Ok Mr Swansea, I’ll pass your regards to Mrs McErlane. And to the official of the United States Government, when he gets here. You’ve got me all wrong, but you don’t want to hear that, right?”

  “You can tell Sarah McCooey to go fuck herself, and her inquiry. That goes for your Embassy man too, he shouldn’t be allowed to cross the border, just like that, but there you go, that’s the Peace Process for you. You fucking Americans have more say in this country now than we do. I met Bill Clinton when he was here, you know, Hillary too. And I’ll tell you this. I don’t know your real name, Maknazpy, but I know what you are. I’ve seen boys like you come and go for the last 25 years. All experts on this country, aren’t you? Well, you’re not the first one I’ve had to pull out of the shite. Just fucking watch yourself, this isn’t like one of your American TV cop shows, I mightn’t be there to pull you out next time!”

  Swansea was on his feet, tempted to punch me, but moved towards the door. He stopped at the doorway and threw the second Mars to me. I didn’t try to catch it and it bounced off the wall behind me.

  “Just one thing before you go”, I said, “As Columbo would say, two of those guys in blue boiler suits and black balaclavas were wearing the same boots as your uniformed cops that found me. Think that’s some sort of clue?” I said.

  “Fuck off, Yank! You can get those in any Army Surplus shop! Now, if you’re stupid enough to stay in this country, keep out of the way. Inquiry or no inquiry, your terrorist friends won’t get the better of me. Have a nice day, y’all!”

  * * *

  Swansea slammed the door on his way out, the bang bounced off the bare walls and shook my aching skull. Then silence, deep and absolute in this soundproof box. The sort that most normal people can’t tolerate for long. They need constant noise and movement to confirm they are still alive, distract them from hints of the alternative. I inspected the bare walls again, could imagine the confessions extracted or volunteered in this space.

  I had trained myself to enjoy silence and stillness. Gallogly thought I was festering in a Hoboken dump, Rose thought I was avoiding my responsibilities. Maybe they were right, but I was comfortable now, waiting for the Embassy guy to show. No nerves, no fear. Just the calm acceptance that I would do whatever I needed to get back home. When I did, maybe things could be different, more normal.

  I was waiting for about two hours before the door clanged open again and a tall, slim man, mid forties, appeared at the other side of the table. He wore an
expensive tailored suit, well groomed and tanned. He had the perfect teeth absent from Irishmen of his age. He was the Embassy guy.

  “I’m Lutterall, representing the Government of the United States.”

  No handshake, no greeting. He set his briefcase on the table and took out two envelopes, the smaller one had my name on the front. He took some pages out and started to read. I could see the pages were dense with small print, and had handwritten notes added in thick, red ink. Lutterall read on, ignoring me.

  “Thanks for coming so quickly, Mr Lutterall,” I said. “I don’t really know what happened here today. I guess I’m just an American in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Lutterall looked up at me, then carried on reading.

  “I don’t know if they have told you anything, but there is a cop here who has the crazy idea that I’m some sort of American civil rights campaigner,” I said. “I don’t know what he’s talking about, I was kidnapped by terrorists, he’s way out of line.”

  Lutterall didn’t look up again, just kept reading until he had finished, glanced back over a couple of details and nodded in satisfaction that he had covered it all.

  “Swansea is a good man, a good cop,” Lutterall said. “We trust him. We have had him over in the States a couple of times, as far as I know. Definitely once in Washington, I was at that conference.”

  “Sounds paranoid to me,” I said. “I get kidnapped and he’s only worried about an inquiry into something he did thirty years ago.”

  Lutterall took some sort of electronic scanner out of his briefcase and casually pointed it at the walls, ceiling and floor. He stood up and walked around the table, reading the scanner as he went. Then he scanned me, back and front.

  “The room’s clean,” he said.

  “I’ve got nothing to hide anyway, Swansea is a mad bastard, I don’t care who hears me saying it,” I said.

  “He’s an ok guy. The civil rights goofballs are on his tail, he’s not imagining it,” Lutterall said. “Not everything that happened here in the past was by the book. He got results, ok, but now he’s vulnerable. His bosses weren’t worried 30 years ago, but now there is no cover, it’s every man for himself. But if I were you, I’d be on my guard with him. He might look like just an old guy now, but I hear he was quite an operator one time, a real pistol.”

  Lutterall slipped the scanner back into his case and took out a packet of American Spirit Menthol cigarettes. From the inside pocket of his jacket he took out a polished silver lighter, with “Berlin 1989” engraved above a broken wall. He was older than I thought. He lit a cigarette without offering me one. I looked around the room for a smoke alarm, Lutterall didn’t.

  “Like I said, Swansea is a good man. We know him. All we know about you is what it says in this file,” he said.

  “Maknazpy, Cornelius. Sergeant, 69th Infantry

  Enlisted March 2002

  Combat Infantryman’s Badge, Iraq, November 2004

  Silver Star, Iraq, June 2005

  Captured by an al-Zarqawi group July 2005, along with Private Ferdia McErlane and translator, Turkish national. Maknazpy and McErlane rescued in operation by 75th Rangers, supported by CIA. Translator executed, beheaded, witnessed by Maknazpy and McErlane. Translator assumed asset of MIT, Turkish Intelligence. Another known agent of Turkish Military Intelligence, Mehmet Kaffa, part of rescue team.

  Assigned to 27th Infantry Brigade Combat Team duty in Afghanistan 2008, Task Force Phoenix.

  Diagnosed with severe Combat Stress Operational Reaction March 2009, under care of Combat Stress Practitioner Lt Colonel Florencita Conroy.

  Medical Discharge November 2010.”

  Lutterall sat forward and looked at me, asserting his authority, forcing me to say something. I said nothing but mirrored his stance, my elbows placed on the table, hands joined, fingers interlocked, forefingers supporting my chin. We sat like that, staring at each other, for sixty seconds, that’s a long time. He dismissed me with a grunt and ripped open the larger envelope, then tipped the contents onto the table.

  Some British money, my cellphone, my driver’s licence and the credit card.

  He resumed his posturing. I sat back in my chair. He was the man. I was a loser. He savored his victory for twenty seconds, then took the credit card between the forefinger of each hand and rotated it slowly, making sure I saw my name in bold gold s on the front, my signature on the back.

  “We don’t know so much about you, Maknazpy, but we know you used this card at Belfast International Airport at 10.15 this morning, local time. At 11.10 you used it to register at the Fitzwilliam Hotel, Belfast.” He said this as if it was an accusation.

  “So? What’s the problem? Something wrong with the card?” I said. “More to the point, how the fuck did you get that stuff?”

  “On the contrary, Sergeant, we know with absolute certainty there’s nothing wrong with the card, or rather, the bank account it is linked to. It’s one of ours, so as soon as you used it, it flashed up on a screen in London.”

  He flipped the card down on the table in front of me.

  “By 3pm London had it traced to Archer Duffin. Now, that motherfucker Duffin is strictly Stateside, he doesn’t get to fuck about on this side of the Atlantic, not without our say so, not on his pay grade, understand?”

  I only understood that I was being screwed.

  “So, the question for you, Sergeant Maknazpy, is what the fuck has Duffin sent you here for, and don’t try that bullshit about Swansea’s inquiry, that’s not Duffin’s sphere of interest.”

  I had been trained in interrogation techniques, mostly by my Combat Stress Practitioner, Florencita Conroy, after Mehmet Kaffa had led the Rangers to that dirty little hole al-Zarqawi had us in. The trick is to let your interrogator think you are releasing information that you have so far tried to hide. Lutterall had given me information. Like, Duffin was CIA. Like, I was in the middle of an Agency turf war. Like, I was an asshole. I had no information to hide, but Lutterall wouldn’t believe that.

  “I’ll be honest with you, sir, I don’t know anything about Mr Duffin,” I said. “I met him once with a friend of mine, they asked me to visit Mrs McErlane, because I had served with her son. Here I am, that’s it.”

  “Bullshit! You need access to fifty grand of our money to pay your respects?” he said.

  Fifty grand, not ten? More information.

  “I’m just staying a couple of days. I’ll probably spend $500, tops.”

  Lutterall had his own cellphone out and was tip-tapping a message, as if I wasn’t there. The message pinged off but I still wasn’t there. Lutterall was one of the anointed, you only exist in his presence if he says so, and he can switch you off and on as easily as his silver lighter. He played with his cellphone until a reply came back.

  “Going home, huh? How come that card has booked you on a flight to Istanbul, Turkey, next week?” he said.

  Fuck you, Gallogly. Eddie the barman had better hide when I come looking for you.

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Know what intrigues me most, Sergeant? Duffin has access to his own bank accounts Stateside. He could easily have set you up with one of those and we would never have been any the wiser. He made it way too easy for us,” he said. “A loser like you, with Combat Stress Reaction? He must be joking, right?”

  Yeah, maybe it was all a big joke. I knew that I had a choice when it came to dealing with my stress. I could opt to hide away like a monk in a frosted cell. Or I could attack. The idea was starting to spike in my head that all these fuckers wanted to kill the first option. That would be the biggest joke of all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Swansea pulled up outside the Fitzwilliam Hotel.

  “Here we are, safe and sound. I hear that’s a nice hotel. CIA got an account in there?” he said.

  “Thanks for the lift, it’s been a real pleasure meeting you,” I said, getting out the front passenger door.

  “Ach now, no need for hard feelings, we’re all
just doing our jobs, aren’t we? But I’d watch out for that Lutterall, son, I’ve heard about him. He takes no prisoners,” he said.

  “Like you said earlier, he can go fuck himself,” I said through the passenger window.

  Swansea smiled but said nothing. I went through the revolving doors of the hotel, he idled the BMW outside long enough to be satisfied I wasn’t going to revolve out again. When the doorman became curious and stepped outside to see if he was a guest, Swansea bumped the horn and drove off.

  The receptionist smiled a friendly “Good night” as I went to the escalator, she showed no reaction to my bruised and bloody face. I took a shower, turned the heat to unbearable, and washed that day away. I stretched out on the cold, crisp sheets and held my sweatshirt to my face, breathing in the faint scent of Rose’s apartment.

  Too many things had happened today, too many faces and voices, kicks and punches, guns and bats. I blanked them all out by thinking of her, choosing my clothes, washing them, packing them. Those little, normal everyday things were what mattered most, what I missed, had rejected. Somehow, I should get all that back.

  Lutterall told me I was flying home the next day. A car would pick me up at 8am. I said I would sleep on it. I didn’t sleep at all, but tossed and turned all night, re-running every conversation with Duffin and Gallogy. How did they think they would get me to Turkey, and what the fuck for?

  I went for breakfast at 7am, a brassy bruised eye and a purple swollen lip my only visible damage. The red head from the bar was serving breakfast, taking all the work hours it needed to fund her travels.

  “How are you today? Did you sleep well?” she asked. Her eyes said she wanted to know what trouble I had walked into.

  “Fine,” I said. “You’re still here then, haven’t gone to New York yet?”

  A fresh, bright giggle fluttered to me.

  “No, but I met a friend after work last night who lives in Australia. I’m going to go there after Christmas, to Sydney, he said I’d easily get a job.”

  “You certainly get around, don’t you?” I said.

  “Sure, I may as well, you’re only young once they tell me. Didn’t Camus say ‘Men die and they are not happy’,” she said, before greeting an old man who was hovering at the doorway.