Blood From A Shadow (2012)

by Gerard Cappa

  * * *

  I knew Artie had arrived when the souped up laughter cackled up to my room. They didn’t come for me straight away, probably squaring it with themselves first, but then Walker and Joannes came up, helped me down the stairs. Walker heaved me into the room, Joannes didn’t join us.

  Artie sat where Didar’s head had been, I got the urge again to punch him, he struggled up to greet me, handshakes and a grave expression. He didn’t know how this had all happened. I didn’t say much, let Walker relate my story, and Ferdy’s story, as far as I had told him.

  “Now, let’s cut the crap, Artie,” Walker said. “What is it you think you’re trying to achieve here?”

  Artie didn’t like Walker’s tone, pouted a little, inspected his own impeccably polished shoes. I noticed the whiskey flask bulge but could only catch the Acqua di Parma.

  “You’re in no position to know what is crap anymore, George, everything passes you by in this little island you have created for yourself,” Artie said. “So don’t play the old CIA card with me, you ran away long ago.”

  I could see Walker had the urge to punch him as well.

  “Ok, Artie,” Walker said. “This is how I see it. You played a minor role in the Irish Peace Process, fair enough. From that you have schmoozed your way around New York and Rome, somehow become a player, a minor player, orbiting the peace moves with the Taliban. But that wasn’t enough, so you recruit proxies, like Con here and the McErlane guy, to act out your fantasies. Then when people get hurt, or beat to death, like the young woman we carried out of here, you don’t know how it happened. That’s about it, isn’t it, Monsignor?”

  “No, it fucking isn’t, Reverend!” Artie barked at him. “We were asked to help in creating the environment for useful talks. The moderate Muslim clerics recognise us as leaders of Christianity, so just because you couldn’t cut it as a Catholic priest and had to make do with the Episcopalians, don’t bad mouth us, alright?”

  It looked like these two dog collared old guys might lay into each other, I couldn’t call who would win.

  “You’re being used, Arthur!” Walker said. “I was in the Agency long enough to know the signs, godammit! You feed somebody just the right amount of intelligence, just the very minimum required. They don’t see the whole picture, they don’t see half of it. Just enough for you to control them, accomplish what you wanted. From what Con has told me, you have a fractured picture of what is going on here, and you need to realise that now, before you do anymore damage.”

  Artie was on his feet now, seemed to be caught between winning the argument and hearing the ex-CIA man out. His curiosity won over his ego, this time.

  “The story you were fed seems plausible, on the face of it,” Walker said. “Al Qaeda offshoots in Africa using European underworld networks to strike at the United States? Sure, why not? Great! But Con saw Brit and Israeli military in there. Our guys put McErlane in. You think they’re all involved to trap an al Qaeda crew Stateside? I would say it is possible, but the Israeli thing blows that out of the water. What was it McErlane told you, Con?”

  “He said Iran would be firing nuclear warheads like fucking Chinese crackers unless we did something about it soon,” I said. “He said the Administration, whoever won the election, needed help. The best minds in America are behind it, the Israelis are ready, they just can’t create regime change on their own, they need us to come in heavy. There would have to be a 9/11 scenario, but that’s seen as collateral damage. He said I would be proud of him, Artie, after December 13th.”

  Artie felt for the flask in his pocket, but didn’t pull it out. The three of us looked at each other, I hoped one of them would have the right answer, know what to do.

  “Maybe I’m a dinosaur, and I’m not speaking as a Minister of the Church right now,” Walker said. “But I can’t believe the best intelligence agencies in the world got it all wrong when we saw weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. We were just too slow to catch them, that’s all. Our guys knew they had a potent biological warfare capability, but they shipped it to Iran before we got there. Looks like history is repeating itself. The Iranian leadership are determined to be a nuclear power, that is a given, but my money would be on them already having chemical and biological weapons. Would they hit us with it if they could? In my former life, I wouldn’t have hesitated to say yes. Today, I thank the Lord that it’s not my call. But I’m pretty sure some of our intelligence and future scenario planning guys have made the ‘regime change’ analysis McErlane told you about. What they are prepared to do about it is anybody’s guess.”

  “So what you’re saying, Con,” Artie said, “is that Ferdia is part of this thing, he isn’t on the inside to sabotage it? God above, if that is true, I wish he was dead, God forgive me for saying it.”

  “Just how long do you intend to keep that Jameson’s Whiskey in your pocket, Artie?” Walker said.

  Artie needed a bigger whiskey flask, three good glasses each, and it was finished. Joannes peeped in to ask if we would like tea or coffee, but withdrew, he didn’t understand or approve of this alcohol ritual that was part of Walker’s cultural baggage. Walker pulled on his jacket and went out, was back in minutes with a bottle of Yeni Raki. He pulled our glasses and added iced water to the raki. It was an aniseed liquor, and the perfume brought me back immediately to Didar’s bolt hole in Tarlabasai. I knocked it straight back, somehow wanted to forget and savor the memory of that brief interlude at the same time.

  We ran the whole thing in circles for a while. Walker asked Artie how he had become involved in the first place. Artie said he was well thought of in New York and Washington circles, despite what Walker might think. Washington needed to cultivate Turkey as a key ally in the Middle East, work with them to create contacts, enable back-channel negotiations with the various factions. Artie was based in Rome by this time, started to groom contacts in Turkey. When Ferdy and I were rescued by Kaffa in Iraq, Artie met Conroy, because she was treating Ferdy for trauma, and through her met Kaffa. Things sort of came full circle, because Kaffa was doing a lot of the leg work for the Turkish administration. Artie recalled that he had first met Duffin through Conroy as well, realised Conroy was more than a Combat Stress Practitioner by this time. Duffin needed someone to go undercover to sabotage the drug route, Ferdy more or less fell into the role, he was already a mercenary by now, was dabbling with Turkish Mafya guys, had landed in a bit of trouble. Artie was able to negotiate on Ferdy’s behalf, the trouble would be forgotten, Ferdy would be rehabilitated, have prospects.

  “Arthur, I can tell you now that none of those ‘meetings’ happened by accident or coincidence,” Walker said. “Who is this Duffin? How does he fit in?”

  “Well, as far as I know, he is US Drugs Enforcement Agency,” Artie said. “He came back to me a few months ago, said Ferdia had gone rogue, and then been killed by gangsters. He needed someone to pick up the trail, someone who could convince the Mafya and al Qaeda that he was Ferdia’s replacement from the same dissident Irish Republican group. Nobody knows Ferdia like Con, so it was agreed to send him.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Artie”, I said. “How come, with all that intelligence, that none of you knew what was really happening? Not you, or Conroy, or Kaffa, or Duffin? None of you were even telling the others what you thought was the truth. And if this is such a big deal, they won’t let Ferdy live to tell the tale. Maybe Reverend Walker is right Artie, you should stick to your prayers and leave the James Bond stuff to somebody else, huh?”

  Walker had a prayer service to lead, needed to get ready, wash away the alcohol, but wanted to know about Duffin.

  “He is in the US right now,” Artie said. “Contacted me to say Kaffa was murdered, but he didn’t mention Florencita Conroy, said that you had disappeared, Con. I was to contact him immediately if you tried to reach me, find out where you were and contact him. I don’t know if I believe him at all now, his whole story looks lame, maybe he isn’t even DEA, I don’t know.”

  “What do
you think, George?” I said.

  “If Duffin is controlling your friend McErlane, I don’t see what Duffin would gain by sending you in after him, Cornelius,” Walker said. “Even if you didn’t find McErlane, you were always going to raise hell once you got here, that’s the last thing they would want. So, either Duffin had actually lost control of McErlane, and wanted you to stir things up, or you were being set up to take the rap. We must assume Inspector Kaffa’s murder and Ms Conroy’s disappearance are linked to the whole thing, perhaps you were selected to take the heat for that, leaving McErlane to go about his business.”

  “Ferdia McErlane would never set Con up, isn’t that right, Con?” Artie said.

  “He doesn’t need to know about it,” Walker said. “And I tend to agree with Con there, I wouldn’t expect McErlane to live to an old age either. In fact, you are probably vulnerable, too, Artie. Whoever ‘they’ are, they can’t be sure what you know, what Con or McErlane have managed to tell you. Still, your soul is prepared, isn’t it, Arthur? That wouldn’t worry you, of course.”

  “Piss off to your heathen prayer service, Walker!” Artie said.

  * * *

  Walker and Artie helped me back up to my bed, Walker went off to his service. Artie sat at the end of the bed, too close to my swollen ankle, bumped against it as he made himself comfortable.

  “You know they used us to get Swansea, Artie,” I said. “Sarah waved me off, knowing he was about to get his head blown off. Then Ferdy fucking did it, right in front of me. Makes you think, doesn’t it? Like, what’s it all about? People you think you can trust with your life, you don’t know what’s in their head, what they’re prepared to do.”

  “You can trust in Our Lord Jesus Christ, Con, that’s all you need,” Artie said. “But, yes, I’m shocked to find out my own family exploited me like that, that hurts at a personal level. Well, never mind, my answer is to pray for them, that’s how I protect my faith in human nature, I pray to the Lord for forgiveness.”

  “Can you pray for forgiveness if someone is already dead, Artie?” he thought I was mocking him, but I wasn’t.

  “You can always pray, Con, no matter how dark the hour or how far from God you think you are. He is always closer than you know, just pray and He will hear you,” he said.

  Nobody had ever heard me so far, but maybe I wasn’t shouting loud enough. These holy guys, like Artie and Joannes and Walker, had it made, they didn’t have to worry about anything. They were guaranteed any appeal would always be referred to a higher court authority. Everything would come good in the end, they just needed to wait long enough. Even the uneducated slum dwellers like Punka and Didar’s mother knew the rules, the spirits had their backs, they just had to want it enough. I told Artie about my dream, how it was getting worse, now ended with my son and father killing me every time. Was that some sort of prayer from my subconscious?

  “I wouldn’t be qualified to advise on that, Con,” Artie said. “That’s one for Florencita Conroy, whenever we see her again. Although, you know, sometimes I think all that psychological tinkering can ignite the sort of problems you have had, no offense now, but did working with Conroy ever really do you any good? No, I thought not. You know, when this is all over, I’ll take you to Lough Derg in County Donegal. Three days and nights of prayer, everybody walking the sharp stones in their bare feet, your soul will be refreshed then. But tell me this, Con, do you ever remember your father telling you stories about the Civil War, could that be where this all comes from?”

  “I don’t remember anything about him, I mean, I can’t tell the difference now between real memories and the crap all the old guys used to tell me about him. He’s only real when he is in my dreams, they are my memories,” I said.

  He squirmed around on the bed, bumped my ankle again, pulled out a notebook from his hip pocket. He flicked through it, I knew one of his stories was coming, wasn’t in the mood for a sermon.

  “I did a bit of reading around the American Civil War after our visit to Corcoran’s monument that time,” he said. “I remembered reading about a collection in the Armagh Museum, correspondence donated by a family from Mullyleggan, letters and diaries stretching way back.”

  Artie scanned his notes, then edged further along the bed to rest his back against the wall.

  “I looked it up online last week. There was an old lady in this family who used to get letters from America, you know, from local people who emigrated after the famine. They sent the letters to her because their own families maybe couldn’t read or write so well. She would get the letters from America and read them to the other families at home, you see. Well, there was a batch of letters from the Civil War period, somebody was sending home news of the war. Now, there was a local boy who was a real pain in the ass for the Brits, they were after him for something, so he had to go on the run, get out quick, you know how that is. Well, he was about 23 years old, this boy, and had two younger brothers, one was 20 and the other was only 16. The Brits started making life hard for the two brothers left behind, so in the end, they had to up sticks and join the oldest fella in New York. So, the writer is sending word to the mother of the boys, telling her the two young ones arrived and the older fella promises to look after the youngest. That’s grand. But when the war starts, of course, the two older boys end up in the Irish Brigade, right through the Peninsula Campaign, survived Antietam, the whole lot. By the time Fredericksburg comes along, the young one had somehow joined up too, though he should never have been there.”

  My father had never told me this story, I was sure of it, but as Artie droned on, the sights and sounds and smells of my dream started to mist around the fringes of my mind. I didn’t need the to tell me what happened, I had been there, through my dreams, but it was real, I knew it was real. And I knew how Artie’s story would end. The three brothers line up for the impossible assault on Marye’s Heights, Confederate units four deep behind their defensive wall, the Union Commanders order the men to advance to their death.

  “The oldest boy survived, Con, but the two younger ones died that day. The saddest thing is the way the survivor asks the writer to beg forgiveness from his mother at home. He said it was all his fault, the younger boys only left home because of him, were killed because of him. He had that survivor’s guilt, you know, but there was nobody like Conroy to give him therapy, you were on your own in those days,” Artie said.

  You are always on your own, that’s what I had learnt, even when family and friends and hangers-on are slapping your back and telling you how wonderful you are, when the crunch comes, you are on your own, with your dreams and memories, on your own.

  “Now, the interesting thing about all this, Con, why I’m telling you, is that the oldest son changed his name when he fled to America, he didn’t want the Brits to track him down, you see? The woman in Brooklyn sends another letter a few years later. She says the oldest son came back to Brooklyn for a few weeks, then disappeared. None of the Irish ever saw him again, nobody knew what happened to him, he just vanished. Do you know what their name was, Con? No? The family were called McAnespie, but he changed his name to Maknazpy, told everybody he was Polish. Did your father never tell you that story?”

  “No, I was always on my own,” I said.

  “McAnespie, that’s from the Irish language, Con, means the Son of the Bishop. So, that’s it, Con, you’re not the ‘Irish Pole’, after all. Your dreams come from somewhere, but are they prayers? Maybe they are, but only God above knows that,” he said.

  “You know what date Fredericksburg was, Artie, right?” I said.

  “Yes, December 13, 1862,” he said.

  Artie was pleased with himself, but his tale didn’t help me much. I might run it past Conroy, if I ever saw her again, she would construct something out of it. Or Didar’s mother, I was pretty sure she could divine something significant in that history lesson, explain my bad spirits. Didar could have told me all about myself, I knew that now, but I had choked that life, another “if only” f
or me. Right now, I wished that all three of Mrs McAnespie’s sons had been gifted glorious deaths at Fredericksburg. Then my ghosts wouldn’t have spoiled all those people, everybody that had ever loved me, that didn’t deserve my kiss of death. But it wasn’t too late, not if I could find the backbone to break the cycle. Whatever was planned for December 13, I could stop it, and if it meant stopping my ghost world for ever, so be it. I was tired now, it was time to set the bad spirits free, that would be best for Rose and young Con and everyone.

  “Thanks Artie,” I said. “I think you’ve given me the answer to my prayers.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  It was getting late and Walker hadn’t come back. Artie mostly sat with me, but was up and down to the kitchen or bathroom when one bodily function or another rang his bell. He was down there when Walker got home, I hobbled to the top of the stairs to listen in, could only hear the echo of Artie’s bombast. Joannes joined in, then a door closing cut me off. They were in there for a good 30 minutes before I heard Artie and Walker coming up the stairs. They had their professional faces on when they came in to me, I couldn’t read their mood. Walker spoke.

  “Con, we managed to contact Didar’s friends, they were at the funeral,” he said. “Punka was released by the police, apparently no-one in Aksaray saw anything. He came to me after the funeral, wants to see you. I told him I didn’t know where you are, but I know he didn’t believe me.”

  The guy wanted the money I owed him, fine, I would square him up later, somehow.

  “The police were there too,” Walker said. “Colleagues of Inspector Kaffa, they didn’t believe me either, and that creates a problem right now.”

  Yeah, I could see that. Walker and Joannes and the Chemical Engineer, three clergy in the American church, indulged by the secular authorities, tolerated by the Muslim population. They couldn’t be dragged into my scandal, I couldn’t stain the reputation they had worked so hard to establish. They would do all they could, were sorry they couldn’t do more. I appreciated Walker’s honesty.