Blood From A Shadow (2012)

by Gerard Cappa

  Archer Duffin. Florencita Conroy.

  The driver pushed me forward, his right hand on my left shoulder, I spun, pulled his right wrist forward, dragged his right shoulder sideways, swept his ankle with my left instep. The slap of his fall echoed, I fell to a half squat and punched through his solar plexus. I took the keys from his pocket, he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

  Artie disapproved, shook his head, then prayed some more to the blue carpet. Duffin and Conroy stood up. The driver dragged himself into a pew, I didn’t have to tell him to stay there. Conroy stared at the floor in front of me. Duffin assumed his officer’s posturing so I could properly defer to him.

  I skipped forward and kicked him in the gut. Air exploded out of him, both ends, making me laugh. He had a Beretta in his waistband, at his back, ready to draw with his right hand. He was too slow.

  “You told me our work together would be confidential, Flo, but you told Artie here all about it,” I said.

  Conroy was alarmed, looked at Artie, then back at me.

  “I’ve got friends at Fordham University,” Artie said. “They told me you were researching the Irish Brigade. Lt Colonel Conroy did not break any confidences.”

  Duffin wheezed on his hands and knees to the pew, half sat on it, doubled over, fighting for breath.

  “So, what brings you here, Flo,” I said. “I thought you said we shouldn’t see each other again? Think I need some more of your therapy?”

  Conroy held her hands out, waist height, palms open. She was afraid of what I might do next. She had written enough reports on me, knew how my mind worked, knew I hadn’t forgiven her.

  “I thought you said you didn’t care anymore, Con?” Artie said. “You’re acting as if something matters, big time. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t care what happens to me next, Artie”, I said, “that means I don’t care what I do next either, there are no consequences for me, nothing that matters.”

  Artie sighed, sat down beside Duffin. Did I tell him everything last night?

  “Well, should we all just walk away now, wait for whatever it is that’s going to happen, or are you going to hear what Mr Duffin has to say?” Artie said.

  “Ok, Duffin, why did you bring me into all this?” I said.

  “You bastard, Maknazpy, I should nail your ass right here, you fucking dumb prick!” Duffin gasped.

  I laughed in his face, juggled the Beretta from hand to hand. Artie clicked his tongue in rebuke, offered Duffin his whiskey flask. Duffin took a couple of sips, coughed, straightened himself in the pew, smoothed his shirt down.

  “You’re here because of McErlane,” Duffin said. “That should be obvious, even to a bum like you. If you had known him half as well as you thought you did, you would have known he was working for us. We sent him out there as a ‘private security contractor’, you fucking imbecile! He was a good operator, too, but something went wrong, we lost him. You’re going out there to pick up the pieces, finish the job.”

  “Yeah, like I walk into Iraq and say, “Howdy folks, I’m an American and you better tell me what you bad boys did to my friend or I’ll kick your ass!” Fuck, Duffin, you’re the one needs therapy,” I said.

  “Not Iraq, Con, Istanbul, Turkey,” Artie said. “That’s where Ferdia was killed.”

  What the fuck! I sat down, looked at each of them in turn, waited for somebody to explain.

  “It was easier to say it was Iraq,” Duffin said. “Too many questions if we admitted it was Istanbul, would make it too difficult to get back in there now. There was no body, anyway, it didn’t really matter to anybody where it was, did it?”

  “Alright, so it was Turkey,” I said. “What am I supposed to do about it? This sounds a lot like the last pile of shit you gave me, Duffin, the first time we met!”

  “Yeah, well, you would have been able to find out what we needed to know in Ireland,” Duffin said. “The Swansea thing fucked that up, shit happens, you know?”

  I looked at Conroy.

  “What about you, Florencita, you haven’t said anything yet,” I said. “What are you doing here? I’m not in the army anymore, remember, you fucked me out, said I wasn’t fit for duty, wasn’t fit for you. Why are you here?”

  Conroy spoke quietly, the way I remembered.

  “I’m not with the army anymore, either, but I’ve been asked to assess whether you are fit for this duty,” she said. “We did a lot of good work together, Con, you’ve come a long way, I know that more than anyone. I’m still on your side, but the assignment can’t be jeopardised. You need to be protected too, you are a complex character, you’ve still got issues, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Whatever, Conroy,” Duffin sneered. “But hear this, Maknazpy, this is important. You still have a duty to serve the United States, don’t let your own petty grudges obscure that fact.”

  The driver sat up in his pew, vomited on the blue carpet. We all looked at Artie. “He’s my man in the Swiss Guard, it’s ok, he doesn’t speak any English,” Artie said.

  “What do you expect me to do, Duffin?” I said.

  Duffin set forward, rubbed his stomach, sat back, breathed hard.

  “Istanbul is the main trade route for all the shit that comes out of Asia into Europe,” Duffin said. “Over 90% of the global production of heroin comes out of Afghanistan, 6,000 tons of opium a year, war or no war. Through Iran, into Turkey, then from Istanbul to anywhere you want it. We planted McErlane in there to fuck things up, that’s what he was good at. Most of the profits go to the criminal gangs, they’ve always been there, always will be. But we know big money is going back to terrorists, the Taliban and Al Qaeda have expensive operations to run.”

  “I don’t get it, how could McErlane infiltrate any of that?” I said.

  Artie rubbed the mouthpiece of his whiskey flask and savoured a mouthful, moved back over to the spot on the blue carpet.

  “Most of the heroin trafficked through Turkey ends up in Europe,” Duffin said. “But there’s a new route to take terrorist controlled heroin into the United States. We can’t allow that. With no offence to Monsignor Arthur here, McErlane’s family have been involved in smuggling arms from the United States to Ireland since the 1970’s. Some bright spark put together a scheme to connect the two routes to get heroin into the US, heroin from Turkey to western Europe, then use the old Irish Republican networks to take it into the US from Ireland. Some dickhead takes a hit before rolling the night clubs in Manhattan, that pays for a bag of ammo back in Helmand Province.”

  “You knew about this, Artie, didn’t you?” I said.

  Artie shook his head, slowly.

  “No, but I should have, Con, I should have,” Artie said. “But I haven’t been at home much, I’ve been in New York and Rome for most of my career. I had my own ambitions, I suppose I avoided the hard questions.”

  “So what did happen to McErlane? Why was there no body?” I said.

  “He got his throat opened,” Duffin said. “But we’re pretty sure they don’t know anything about us, Kaffa says it was just a falling out among thieves. That’s the most likely thing. We think he forgot what he was there for, got too greedy, started living the life. Kaffa found the body, but he had to dispose of it without any fuss. If it came back to us it would be awkward. Your friend liked the criminal life too much. That happens. Sorry Arthur.”

  Artie listened, clicked his beads.

  I checked the Beretta, flicked the safety off, on, off, on, off, on, hitting Artie’s bead rhythm. It was loaded.

  “If I don’t put my neck in this noose, I suppose I’m taking the rap for Swansea, isn’t that the idea?” I said. “I already told Artie I don’t give a fuck anymore, I don’t care if I get nailed for Swansea.”

  Duffin sneered his dirty grin. “You don’t care you never see your wife and son again?” he said. “You don’t mind you phone her apartment from an Irish jail once a month and Jack Gallogly answers? That’s up to you, Maknazpy, but we don’t have time to play games h
ere, are you in or not?”

  I let Duffin finish. But before I could crack him, Artie stepped in between us. Still pretty agile for an old man, definitely some of Ferdy still lived on in him.

  “Hold on, Cornelius, hold on,” Artie said. “He’s right, don’t let your personal grudges cloud your judgement, this calls for a cool head. Let’s think this through carefully, ok?”

  Conroy rested a reassuring hand on my neck, I pushed her away. Duffin leered under Artie’s elbow, he didn’t know how close he was to getting his smirking teeth kicked in.

  Ok, I followed Duffin through a side door out to an enclosed courtyard. He was leaning against a small domed building, some sort of crypt.

  “That’s something, isn’t it?” Duffin said. “The Tempietto, built in 1500 for the King and Queen of Spain. Just nothing like it in the United States, except in Vegas, maybe.”

  Duffin blew smoke through the columns and up to the ceiling. I shrugged.

  “Well, Sergeant Maknazpy, you don’t like me very much, do you?” he said. “That’s fine. I was pretty neutral about you, until you sneaked that kick on me. And you wouldn’t have caught me twenty years ago, boy, but that’s fine. Forget it. There’s a job to be done here, for the United States, not for Archer Duffin. Get it over with, maybe I’ll kick you in the balls some day, huh? What do you say, Sergeant?”

  The courtyard was like the hotel garden, looked like nothing had changed since 1500. A place for holy men to meditate, for princes to plot.

  “I don’t like being taken for a ride, Duffin, that’s all,” I said. “You and Gallogly smoked me with that shit about the McErlanes. Now you expect me to walk into this, where my survival depends on you?”

  “Oh, that’s it, you think I have manipulated you and that hurts your feelings, right? Here’s news for you, Maknazpy, you and your kind are manipulated by people like me since before you are born, your zip code doesn’t warrant your indignation. But listen, it’s no big deal, that’s what keeps America safe. It’s just how things work. You think I don’t have superiors too, I’m never humiliated? We all have our place, that keeps us all free,” Duffin said.

  I could see the Range Rover through the iron gate, felt the keys in my pocket. Looked like the gate was padlocked.

  The cigarette helped Duffin to get his breathing back to normal.

  “Listen, pal, when I was young we were trained for a war against Communist Russia,” Duffin said. “It was going to happen, and we were ready. Well, the Reds fell apart, but America’s still here, still free. You think any other system in the world would allow the transfer of power between a George Bush junior and an Obama without a civil war? And the reason our system works is that ordinary Americans like you and I do our duty, regardless of background, simple as that. So, Sergeant Maknazpy, are you ready to give something back to the United States and do your duty as a good American?”

  Duffin was wrong. I already understood how America worked, recognised the cement of duty, the mortar of service. I knew where I was supposed to slot in, and I really didn’t need any lectures on patriotism from him. I didn’t even resent his Ivy League privilege and patronage. I just didn’t like him because he was such a smarmy fucker, that’s all.

  “What did Conroy tell you about me?” I said. “Does she think I am fit for service, mentally?”

  “Forget Conroy, boy! Fuck it, if any of us were mentally fit, there would be no service, the interfering bitch!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Paolo waved as I slipped in the hotel’s side entrance, but no wine today, I went straight to the public phone in the reception area. I had let Duffin think he had hooked me, so I didn’t see any need to firewall my call to Rose. 8am in New York, she should still be at home.

  Five rings, then a male voice.

  “Yeah?”

  Not Gallogly, but my son with a new testosterone charged voice since I went AWOL a year ago.

  “Con, is that you? This is Dad, I nearly didn’t recognise your voice, son, you sound so grown up.”

  No answer for a couple of seconds.

  “Mom’s not here right now, she’s gone to work.”

  “That’s ok, I’ll call her later. But it’s good to hear your voice again, son, you don’t know how much I’ve missed you! How is everything?”

  “Yeah, Mom will be home after 6pm, I’ll tell her you called.”

  I panicked, he was going to put the phone down.

  “Don’t go yet, son, don’t go, I need to talk to you,” I said, but I didn’t know what I needed to talk about, or how to say it.

  “Yeah?”

  Shit, I should have had this worked out before lifting the phone, but I stumbled on. “It’s just I’m sorry how things have worked out recently. I think about you all the time, you know that, don’t you?”

  “You think about yourself, Dad, that’s why you walked out on us.”

  My throat tightened, voice strangulated.

  “I didn’t walk out on you, son, I’m still here. I just needed to get my head right, things were complicated. I saw things, did things, things that mess your head up, you know? They said I was a hero, but nobody knows the shit it takes to be a hero, son, it isn’t normal for any human being, takes time to work it all out. But listen, I’m better now, I know I can get better. Things will be just like they used to be.”

  “No they won’t, Dad, it’s too late now. Forget it.”

  That hit me worse than the grenade that blew me half to hell. He heard the pain in my voice but he had no mercy.

  “We just don’t need you anymore, Dad, we’re fine. But I’ll tell Mom you called anyway,” he said.

  “Con, you can’t just give up on me. I’ve been sick for a couple of years, but what about all the years before that, doesn’t any of that count?”

  “I remember, Dad. I used to think you were God, now you’re just pathetic. Yeah, you say you need us now, but that will wear off, it always does. Then you will disappear again. It makes no difference to me, either way, but it’s not good for Mom. What more can I tell you?” he paused, then, “Jack said you whacked a cop over in Ireland, what the fuck was that about, Dad?”

  That bastard Gallogly. I would kill him when I got home.

  “Oh, Jack said that, did he? That sounds very cosy, what’s Gallogly doing there anyway? Maybe that’s why you don’t need me anymore?”

  He used to fear my temper, now he just sniggered at the toxic mix of anger, pain and jealousy I couldn’t hide.

  “Jack’s a cool guy, Dad. He gets me some work, says I can go work for him when I finish school. A full time job with him, like Mom,” he said.

  Another sledgehammer.

  “Forget it, Con, a son of mine will never work for Jack Gallogly! You hear me? Never! And when did your Mom start working for that scumbag?”

  “Yeah, well, whatever, Dad. I’ve got to go right now, I’ll tell Mom you called, ok?”

  The little shit hung up on me.

  I was on my own when I was his age, my hero father had disappeared, my mother was still around, kind of, but she was only a ghost by then. Still, I always guessed things would work out fine for me, somehow. The McErlanes filled the gap and I didn’t worry about anyone, or anything. Well, nothing worked out. Twenty years later and here I was, a pathetic embarrassment to my own son.

  Ok, you ungrateful little prick, I’m coming home, and I’ll whip your ass into shape like you’ll never believe. Work for Jack fucking Gallogly? I don’t think so, son! You won’t be making the same mistakes I did. You’ll be going to school and getting yourself out of that place, if I have to break your ass to do it! Then take off and never speak to me again, fine, but I’ll see to it that you do something with your life.

  If I needed to play Duffin’s game to get there, that would be fine too, I could do that. And we would see how cool Gallogly was when my boot was on his fucking thick Irish neck. And Rose? What about her? I didn’t know, maybe I had lost her, maybe it was too late. But young Con, no, I knew what it was like
when your father didn’t care enough to stick around. That was one thing I could change, I wouldn’t mess up again.

  * * *

  Ok, then, I would do this thing. I still didn’t trust Duffin, or any of them, but knowledge was power, the further I was embedded into this, the harder it would be for them to sacrifice me to the Police Service of Northern Ireland. Unless I was dead like Ferdy, of course, that was always a possibility. But it wouldn’t be easy to kill me, so good luck to Duffin or anybody else that wanted to take that one on.

  I took a table in the hotel restaurant behind the silent piano, no meal thanks, just ask Paolo to select a bottle of wine for me, put it on my room tab. The restaurant was kind of dark and narrow, but the lights shone upwards, highlighting the gold painted ceiling, like a miniature Sistine Chapel. Like Artie said, who knows which great men had admired this ceiling, planning the triumphs that gifted them history’s greatness. Columbus, surely, before he launched into his unknown. Others too, maybe even greater, but humbled by the whims of history, then forgotten, so they never existed.

  Anyway, this was a good place to think, away from Duffin and Artie and Conroy and Swansea’s ghost. I needed a plan. Get into Turkey. Give Duffin what he wanted. Screw a guarantee that the Swansea thing would pass me by. Get home, put my son on the right path. Take care of Gallogly. See what Rose wanted to do. Should be simple, as long as I stayed alive. Whoever had bumped off Ferdia McErlane was sure to be alerted when I arrived on the scene, so Duffin and Kaffa had better have a good storyline out there, because I was walking into this thing blind.

  And no matter what way I looked at it, or how much expensive Chianti I ladled to Artie’s bill, or how many intricate details I admired on the ceiling, that big problem wasn’t going to go away. I was walking in blind, with no real plan of action, no back up, no idea of the enemy I was to engage. That wasn’t how we did things in the army. We always had a plan before we engaged. The problem was that all plans only held good until our first contact with the enemy, then we had to adapt, survive on our wits, outsmart, outgun anybody in our way. Ok, after a bottle of wine, that was my new plan, I would just make myself a bigger problem for the enemy than they were to me. In their face, it’s the American way and it had always worked for me so far. And fuck Conroy’s therapy, all that “repressed anger” could come out to play, let’s see if the enemy cope with it better than I did.