Charlie

by Finn Óg

  “Hurry up,” I told him.

  “He is going to Belfast.”

  So, I went too.

  **

  I had prepared for a showdown outside some exclusive London Gentleman’s club. I imagined I’d be denied entry, that I would have to wait outside for the Brit to emerge, full of brandy and bravado. But Belfast isn’t London.

  The Belgian was able to tell me where the Brit was booked to stay, and where the taxi would deliver him the following day. I debated taking him at his hotel, but opted instead to use the hacked information to my advantage. I decided to wait, in the hope that his visit would lead me to others in the Circle.

  Google got me there. To 4 Royal Avenue. The Ulster Reform Club. I had never heard of it, but I had passed the building a thousand times. Its website boasted partner establishments all over the world, but predominantly in London. Many were ex-military or naval organisations. The promotional images for the Reform Club gushed forth plush high-backed chairs, deep leather sofas, ornate casino tables and dark, stained timber floors. There was even a snooker and billiards room. Then I began to wonder what the Brit was up to, coming to Belfast. Posh as it was, someone like him couldn’t compare the Reform Club to his own, old-boy establishment. It wasn’t until I saw who he was meeting, that I realised. The Brit was looking for me.

  *****

  I stood in my suit, in my sweat, in astonishment, as my old Major walked down Royal Avenue. He stood out like a sore thumb, straight back, garish green tie, matching pocket-handkerchief. He looked every inch the English officer, parading down the street like he owned it, in his hand-stitched shoes. I had but a few moments to make a decision. In haste, I calculated what was happening.

  The Brit was evidently digging around in my back catalogue. He had found the Major, who had nothing but loathing for me. There had been many successful operations in which he’d got the glory, and I’d got the scars, which had made him more bitter than grateful. The lines were more blurred between officers and ratings in the SBS. Sure, rank mattered, but less so than in the army, or the Marines.

  Not to the Major though. He despised the fact that I’d had more of a relationship with my team than with the brass, like him. He hated the fact that I wouldn’t tell him why I had gone AWOL after Gaza. It was he who had busted me back to the Marines after Jerusalem. He’d insisted that I was not to be trusted in Special Forces. Seeing him in Belfast summoned an anger in me, and I decided to take his place in the posh seats.

  The options were few. I’d done what I could to conceal my identity. I’d acquired a beard in the preceding week, and I’d grabbed a hat before I left for town. It wasn’t much, and to take a man out in broad daylight in a city centre is no straightforward proposition. Unlike most UK or Irish cities, Belfast people are less inclined to take a wide berth. If there is a scrap on the street, you can bet that strangers will back the underdog and wade in with the boots. Plus, the police are armed. Besides all that, brass or not, he was a Major in the Special Forces, and he knew how to handle himself.

  I glanced down the alleyway between Primark and Tescos, right beside the Reform Club. There was a pub down there, but the laneway was busy. I knew what was at the end though, so I tried to suppress my temper and go for smarts.

  Recognition scudded across his face like sunshine from under a cloud. He was nearly at the door of the club as I approached, my face open and smiling, my hand extended. He was confused. That suggested that he had indeed been invited to discuss me, and so my appearance was particularly alarming.

  I had to play this with complete confidence. “Thanks for coming Major,” I said. “Sorry for all the cloak and dagger, necessary I’m afraid.”

  The Major stared at me. “What the bloody hell is going on, Ireland?” he said. At least his hostility was consistent.

  “It’s sensitive, Major. Our mutual friend has had to change the venue. Press, I’m afraid,” I said. “Reporters, inside. Coincidental. They’re there for another event. Nonetheless, not ideal.”

  “What?” he struggled.

  “Look Sir, our peer friend was not able to discuss this on the telephone, so I suggested he mention me as a bit of a ruse, as it were, to persuade you to pop over from London. We had no way of knowing there would be another event inside, so he has asked me to fetch you, Sir, and to take you to an alternative venue.”

  He stared at me, bewildered. I began to wonder whether I was going to have to revert to choking the bastard. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” the Major blurted.

  “All I can do is explain to you what’s going on, Sir. The gentleman from the Lords, who I now provide security for, was due to meet you here. He got in touch with you, in the hope of engaging you to provide a service for him. Because of the phone tapping situation, he needed to say that it was in relation to an innocuous matter, and I suggested that because of our past,” I gestured between us, “he should tell you that it concerned me. Two birds as it were. Belfast, and a colleague whom you dismissed, Sir.”

  The Major grunted in disapproval.

  “If you would follow me Sir, the gentleman would like to talk to you at a different location, because of the media presence at this one.”

  He regarded me with deep suspicion, but I didn’t want to give him any more thinking time, so I turned on my heel and began walking. In his bafflement, he followed. Not a word was spoken. I was the servant, he the master. He remained at my heel as I turned down the wide entry, past the pub, and led him to the door of a church. There was a cold but decent-sized porch, dark and tiled. I stepped into the gloom and stood aside, waiting for his steps to fall in beside mine. He stood, looking at the Marian devotion, and decided he’d had enough. Peace process or no peace process, a Catholic Church in Belfast was no place for a British Naval Officer. The Major fumbled in his pocket for a mobile phone, and I struck him then, full force, in the Adam’s apple.

  It would take at least three minutes, probably more. This was a man with diver’s lungs, fit as a trout. His arms flung me aside, and we battled for thirty seconds in that tiny porch, tight, close blows, aiming for the soft bits as we had been trained to do. Amateurs fight hard, knuckles on skulls, busted hands and eye sockets. Professionals fight dirty, gouging eyes, ripping bollocks, disabling quickly, cutting off air, vision, sound, touch.

  The major didn’t stand a chance. His airway was blocked and the energy only hastened his suffocation. I caught him as his knees gave way, gripping his shoulder and hugging him in tight. There were half a dozen people scattered throughout the vacuous, beautiful Church, as I manoeuvred him through the door. None of the worshippers looked around as I placed him at one of the rearmost pews, on his knees, head forward in prayer. No one disturbs the devout. He could be there for hours before anyone thought to check. I liberated his phone and wallet to further delay any identification, and left to meet his lunch date.

  *****

  He was lurking behind the floppy pages of the Daily Telegraph. A waist-coated waiter had showed me to his seat. All I had required was his name, with title, naturally. When the Brit saw me, his jaw dropped with the broad pages of the paper, but he did his best to gain composure.

  “M’lud,” I said, sitting in the armchair opposite, and drawing it in close. “The Major regrets that he will not be able to join you for luncheon,” I said, overly sarcastic, on reflection. But I had just killed a man, and everything becomes a little dramatic in such circumstances. The Brit stared at me. I drew out my new phone, stroked it to life, and fired up a video the twin had placed on its memory. Then I leaned in, so that he could hear it, and turned the screen towards him.

  It was natural that he should pitch forward, conspiratorially, afraid of being overheard. I tapped the little arrow to begin the entertainment.

  “Look you little Belgian bastard,” it began. He watched himself on a split screen for less than two seconds, before he closed his eyes, and fell back into his chair. His head tilted back, and his neck arched to the ceiling. His eyes re-opened, and he st
ared at the beams above him.

  “They’re all there,” I said, wagging the phone at him. “We’ve even got my meeting with the professor in New York. The Keeper is gone, but you probably know that by now.”

  His flinched, for the first time. That was evidently news to him. I waited. Eventually he spoke, softly. “People like you will never understand, that there are times when things like this are required, in order to bring about a better outcome for everyone.” His delivery was slow, almost sad.

  “Is this where you tell me that your rape and abuse are justified for the greater good?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m not an abuser. I never was. I simply pulled the strings, you see.”

  His tone was pompous, as if he were explaining a complicated principle to a dunce. I listened. There was much I still didn’t know.

  “That way we can get people to move in the correct direction, towards peace perhaps, or persuade influential figures to do the right thing. You see, the public doesn’t always vote for what is good for them. They are emotional, they are volatile, they give in to their urges, their angers, their fears. You know all about that, don’t you Sam? You know what it is to give in to violence, to allow your impulses to take over.”

  I ignored the goading. “So, your Circle of abuse is the fault of the general public, for voting for the wrong people?” My tone was incredulous.

  He sighed, as if I were more to be pitied than scolded. “I was responsible for delivering certain things, certain outcomes. I had to achieve my targets, just like anyone else. In my line, things were left to me to determine. How I achieved those ends was left largely up to me.”

  “And your target was?”

  “To make important people compliant, of course. If you compromise somebody, in a salacious way, then you have that chap at your mercy. This is not a new concept Sam, it was always thus.”

  “So ‘the Heir’ was skinned, and raped, and imprisoned, to what end?”

  “Well, peace in Ireland was achieved many ways Sam, and every element contributed. There was your lot of course, the military and what have you. There was influence, from America and elsewhere. But there was also a certain amount of manipulation, in order to get the politicians to do what was required, to change their minds, their positions on certain matters. Politicians in Northern Ireland are particularly belligerent, as you know, so we required what the Americans might call ‘leverage,’ pressure, persuasion. The truth is that the Heir was being abused long before we ever came across the Visitors, and their ghastly little circle.”

  Visitors. Visiting. The Professor’s computer password suddenly made sense.

  I shook my head. “But you led the Visitors,” I said, “that’s clear from all of the recordings.”

  “Ultimately, perhaps, but not the abuse. I rather insinuated control, which is removed from participation. It took quite some time, Sam, years as a matter of fact, but I assure you, the results were really very pleasing.”

  The riddles irritated me. “So, you came across the abuse group, and somehow joined it, and then became the boss, in order to blackmail its members to bring about peace?”

  “As part of the effort,” he shrugged, as if he were proud but humble to have done his bit.

  “That means you allowed the rape and abuse to continue, when you could have stopped it,” I said.

  “You’re not appreciating the complexity of this Sam, really. This was just one string to very broad bow. You have rather got in the way. You’ve served your country well, but you’re an oily rag. You’ll never understand those who serve in more intelligent ways.”

  “I don’t think the Guardian newspaper, or the New York Times will understand it either, when they receive these videos,” I said.

  “No doubt they’re ready to go, from your friend’s twin sister, or that money-grabbing little foreigner,” he said. “But it is of little consequence now.”

  And with that, he reached forward and popped a pill into his glass of white wine. Panic seized me, as I anticipated the arrival of others to pin me back and force it down my throat. He read me like a book.

  “Oh no Sam, this is not for you. I’m aware that I’ve made a few faux pas, as it were. Allowing myself to be recorded was a touch of naivety from an old dog in a new world. I often wonder why we go to such lengths to gain access to encrypted media, when in fact, a twelve-year-old can work out how to record it, as if setting a tape for the Antiques Roadshow.”

  “Who do you work for?” I asked.

  “Nobody. Anymore. But there are always loose ends when one has dabbled in the things I’ve been involved in. Few are quite as convoluted as this. Nonetheless, I had hoped to tidy up and end my retirement in the Lords. You’ve become a spoke in the works.”

  “How do you manage? To carry on, when you know there are children being raped like that?”

  “Bit rich, is it not Sam? You carry on with your extra-judicial existence. How many people have you dispatched in the past year?”

  I didn’t really want to start counting, to be honest.

  “Of course, you’re quite right. The shame for me,” he shook his head, “too much. Much too much.” He drank back the golden fluid. “Rather unpleasant drop, that,” he looked at his glass, “to finish with, which is a shame.”

  I looked into his eyes for a hint of what was to come. “I don’t expect compassion from a brute like you,” he said, “but if there were any means by which I could be kept out of the picture, it would rather serve you well.”

  I almost laughed at him.

  “I intend to stop these “Visitors,” this ring, this Circle,” I told him.

  “Yes, I quite follow. If you are prepared to do that without going to the newspapers, I shall agree to help you. But it will require a gentleman’s agreement, and time is tight.”

  I snorted at him. “Are you for real?”

  “Quite real, as you put it, Sam. Now, if you deal with these people without exposing this whole saga, I shall entrust to you the job I had intended to pass to your former boss, the Major.”

  “What?”

  “I shall give you the information you will require to close down the Circle. Of course, I had intended that the Major see to you as well, but that plan has rather gone awry.”

  I stared at him, utterly incredulous. “You wanted the major to kill me, and then the members of the Circle?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “You see, the Major is not entirely squeaky clean either, and as you have proven so difficult to contain, I rather imagined it would take someone with similar skills to yours, but perhaps better breeding and intelligence, to snuff you out.”

  “And this is supposed to persuade me to protect you?”

  “Not me, Sam, I am done for. As I say, time is tight. In fact, you have just moments to make your mind up. Agree to deal with these people quietly, and live with your child in blissful abandon upon the ocean wave.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or forever look over your shoulder. You see Sam, you’re not the only one with contingencies.”

  I shook my head in utter bewilderment. He pressed on. “I need an answer, now.”

  “Ok,” I said. He nodded, and took out his own phone, selected a contact, and spoke.

  “You can stand down, no further action is necessary on the continent, understood?”

  I couldn’t hear the answer, but I could hear that there was someone on the other end of the call. Then the Brit reached around his back. I tensed to pounce. He was astonishingly calm.

  “It’s ok, Sam,” he said in his consistently condescending tone, “it’s merely a gift.” He handed me a folder of light cardboard, as if it had been taken from an old filing cabinet. The tab on the top was handwritten. “VISITORS,” it said.

  Within minutes, the Brit was shaking, whatever he’d swallowed was making its mark. “They’ll all go quietly, just like me, if you manage it correctly.”

  His final words, before the induced stroke erupted inside his head.

  *****


  I lifted his wine glass and dropped it into the cardboard folder. He looked as if he was asleep. I imagined such a state was not uncommon in clubs like that, so I walked gently out, noting the absence of CCTV cameras. With my hat on my head, I took some comfort from the fact that anyone inquiring after his lunch companion would consult the guest list, and then search for someone else. A Major in the Royal Navy no less, who was in fact dead in a nearby Church. All of that would pose quite a conundrum for any investigator, but by the time they worked it all out, if ever, I would be well offshore.

  I didn’t open the file until I got back to the boat. Inside were the images and profiles of a dozen people. Taped to a piece of paper was a tiny computer memory drive, smaller than an SD card. Beside it was a scrawl.

  “All sorts of compromising behaviour there, enough to achieve the goal.” A note from some sort of establishment-sponsored manipulator, to my former Major. Now my responsibility.

  There was an A4 sheet with twelve photos. I gave it a glance. At least two were influential figures in Irish politics, back-roomers, the powerful ones. They were the type who had the clout to manipulate big decisions. I presumed the Brit had used his leverage to employ them to do his bidding. I’d heard enough about the brutality involved to give the rest of the file a miss, for now. I already knew what I would do with the information, but that could wait.

  Notions of sending the videos to the press vanished. I felt, for the first time, that Isla and I had an opportunity. I feared becoming drawn in, of having our privacy compromised, of disrupting the peace I needed to build around her.

  I peeled out of my suit, and layered up for a long haul. The windlass ground the anchor aboard, the donkey fired and the impeller hove water in to cool the engine. I set the autohelm and skipped on deck to unleash the sails. Then I sat at the navigation table and pulled out the almanac for information on the tides heading south. Biscay, Lisbon, Gibraltar, Valencia I reckoned. If I didn’t stop, and with good breeze, I might make it in eight days.