Guy Fawkes Day

by K J Griffin

  Goss gulped his drink silently, staring at Scotty intently. His eyes were doing the agreeing.

  ‘Aye. But our friend’s not finished yet. He’s got more pay-offs to make, Sergeant. There are seven other friends, plus the Chief to worry about. So with all of them taking even money, our friend gets out his calculator and works out that each friend puts just over twenty grand in his pocket. Now would you be interested in making any friends like that, Sergeant Goss?’

  Goss took another large slug of siddiqi and coke. The firewater was as powerful and as vile as anything he had ever tasted. He thought of Easterby and the pathetic four grand a month pro rata the Colonel had agreed to pay him for his spying. Fuck Easterby! He’d take the easy money while it was there. Besides, the Colonel still owed Sergeant Goss a big pay out for services rendered in days gone by. And if Easterby had a slippery memory, then Goss reckoned he was entitled to help himself.

  ‘I’m in lads,’ he roared, slamming his glass down on the counter. ‘But I want forty for myself.’

  Even the CNN newsreader seemed to fall silent. Those who had not pulled back from the bar did so now. Scotty also put his glass down, wiping his drinking hand on the back of his trousers.

  ‘You’re a greedy bastard,’ he hissed, pale blue eyes fixed on Goss.

  ‘Take it or leave it,’ Goss replied, voice even, chest puffed out. Then, in an explosion of fury,

  ‘But just you fuckers remember who’s Chief around here. I take the rap if your games get found out, so I take the biggest cut. Has anybody got a problem with that, like?’

  He hammered his right fist onto the counter and stared at each man in turn. Last of all his eyes rested on Scotty. They eyeballed each other steadily while CNN flashed up as succession of hotel ads, but the punch Goss was waiting for never came. Scotty had lost his momentum, and with it, his chance.

  ‘OK then, Sergeant,’ Scotty conceded eventually, “have it your own way. Flight comes on Sunday morning. But if you’re playing Mr Big Chief, you can arrange payments and delivery.’

  ‘Deal,’ grunted Goss, leaning an elbow back on the counter.

  ‘Barman!’ he shouted, ‘drinks all round on me.’

  Goss sipped in contentment while the atmosphere slowly changed from confrontation to collaboration. Goss reckoned he was going to like Ramliyya after all. The lads had got a bloody first-rate scam going, and they had just found the leader they hadn’t realized they needed up till now. But this was only the beginning. Once he’d learnt the tricks, like, he would tell the boys nice and casual about his real mission in Ramliyya—Easterby’s little witch-hunt. And when this spineless lot of shits understood that Sergeant Goss could put the finger on any one of them whenever he liked—might even have to find a scapegoat to keep Easterby happy—then everything would be running nice and feudal how he liked it, with Phil Goss the Lord of the Manor and a platoon of docile serfs. And like a good lord, he would work the peasants’ cut of the spoils progressively lower, till they were begging him to take almost all the hundred and eighty thousand on every shipment. Fuck Easterby, fuck BDS, and fuck the bloody ragheads! He’d soon show the lot of them who the real Sultan of Ramliyya was!

  Chapter 15: Guardian Offices, London Docklands: 18 October

  Chapman put the phone down feeling cautiously optimistic. All around him the newsroom was in its usual afternoon mayhem. Archives had just rung off; they had put something together on Aidan Hennessy.

  He had been too busy over the last three days to do any more than place a call to Sakura Bank. And that call only confirmed what he expected to hear: Sakura had no Yamaguchi on its UK staff, nor would any of Sakura’s employees be involved with the launch of Ramliyya’s British-based investment bank.

  More worrying than this discovery was Sophie’s inexplicable coolness. Every time he had called her since Wednesday, she had been distant, vague and crotchety. Yes, Sophie had admitted, she would be staying on at Al-Ajnabi’s mansion. No, she had not seen her host recently; she hadn’t slept at Folly Bridge since Darren had left her on the sofa on Wednesday. That part had particularly stung, for guessed he knew what that meant. And now, for no reason he could understand, Sophie seemed to hold him responsible for whatever was rankling her so badly!

  Wincing to think of Sophie snuggled up again in Marcus’s bed, Chapman left his desk and nose-dived to the basement. He had decided not to tell anyone at the paper about his special interest in Al-Ajnabi—not that there were scores of fellow hacks scrapping for leads on Ramliyya or its special envoy. Press interest in the Ramli contracts had died down very quickly, as it usually did with good or financial news. By now, further announcements from the Ramli Embassy were making only small snippets among the home and business news.

  When the Ramli Embassy had first announced its British investment proposals, the Independent had published a small feature article on Ramliyya. But as the Ramli government craved secrecy rather than exposure, it had been tacitly understood by Britain’s media barons that sotto voce or silence was perhaps the best way to keep the Ramli cash flowing in. Nobody wanted to scare away those daft Arabs and their pots of gold. Picture editors who had been asking each other earlier in the week for shots of the, ‘Raghead wot’s come over ’ere to splash around all the dosh,’ were now saying, ‘Al-Who? Who wants to know, anyway?’

  The research assistant handed Chapman a modest sheaf of photocopies and Guardian back issues, most of which dated back to the late 1970’s. Hennessy’s name had been highlighted on the photocopies; Chapman had to sift through them several times to arrange them in chronological order.

  The first papers confirmed his suspicions: Hennessy was certainly IRA, or ex-IRA, just as Sophie had hinted over lunch in Little Clarendon Street. He pored over the papers carefully, looking for clues that might lead him to Al-Ajnabi.

  Wow! The journalist’s hand froze as he turned the last page. It was a photocopy of a Guardian front page. ‘Army Massacres Twelve in West Belfast,” ran the headline, sprawled over the top of a gruesome photograph showing bodies lying in a rain-swept street. It was the Falls Road Massacre.

  Hennessy’s name appeared highlighted in a parallel column, adjacent to the main story that covered the massacre. Chapman pushed his glasses against the bridge of his nose and hunched over the article:

  Falls Road Gunmen Arrested after Firefight

  In a dramatic sequel to the massacre of twelve civilians on the Falls Road, two suspected IRA gunmen were cornered and later arrested yesterday evening, following a firefight with security forces.

  Soldiers of the Parachute Regiment spotted two men among a crowd of civilians fleeing the gunfire on the Falls Road. The paratroopers chased the pair along the Springfield Road, before cornering them in a house in the Ballymurphy area.

  A firefight broke out between paratroopers and gunmen, forcing residents to keep undercover while reinforcements from the RUC sealed off the area. Shooting continued for forty minutes until the two gunmen ran out of ammunition and gave themselves up to army and police.

  The two men were later identified as Brian O’Shea, aged 42, and Aidan Hennessy, aged 22. They have been charged with murder and possession of firearms.

  Second Lieutenant Max Clayton, the officer in charge of the platoon that captured the men, said that he believed the gunmen were responsible for the fatal wounding of a paratrooper, Private Wayne Mitchell, earlier on the Falls Road. This incident is understood to have provoked the return army gunfire that resulted in the tragic civilian massacre.

  Chapman was delighted. Sophie had been right to suspect Hennessy, even if this confirmation didn’t help explain why the Ramli special envoy would be harbouring a known terrorist in his private house.

  Sifting through the documents, Chapman continued to chart the progress of Al-Ajnabi’s guest through the British judicial and penal systems. In the October after the Falls Road massacre, Hennessy was sentenced to eighteen years for attempted murder and possession of firearms. O’Shea got life for the murder of Private
Mitchell. Both men served their time in the notorious H-Block of Long Kesh.

  The name of Second Lieutenant Max Clayton reappeared several times in connection with Hennessy’s trial. But the most curious piece was an article entitled, ‘IRA Prisoners Allege Army Brutality.’

  Again from the Guardian, the item concerned a litany of alleged brutalities by British army soldiers against Republican prisoners. Hennessy’s name was highlighted for him in yellow marker. Chapman read on with interest:

  More recently, the CO and two NCOs of D Company, The Parachute Regiment, already under investigation for their roles in the Falls Road Massacre of April last year, are facing an internal army enquiry into allegations of torture.

  The claims were made by two Republican prisoners, Brian O’Shea and Aidan Hennessy. The pair allege that they were subjected to assaults and degrading treatment at the hands of army interrogators, while being held at the Lisburn army barracks in North Belfast under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. The Commanding Officer, Major Douglas Easterby, denied the allegations and stated that the internal army investigation would clear him and his men of any wrong-doing.

  And so it obviously did! Well, well, well, Mr. Easterby Senior—I never knew you were mixed up in the Falls Road Massacre, Chapman muttered aloud to himself. And allegations of torture as well!

  Not that the incidents seemed to have done Easterby’s army career much harm. On the contrary, he been promoted to Colonel in not long after the Falls Road massacre, before retiring from the Army to embark on a civilian career that had taken him to the peak of British Defence Systems.

  After his imprisonment, there were only a few mentions of Hennessy. His name appeared in connection with renewed H-Block ‘dirty protests’ and hunger strikes, but thereafter the information petered out. That was it.

  Chapman pushed the papers to the side of the desk and ruffled his curly hair. What had the former IRA man been doing since his release? Were the authorities looking for him again? There were a few calls to make from his desk upstairs.

  Chapman took the stairs, giving him time for private thought before the rush of the newsroom. The details of Hennessy’s arrest and conviction were simple enough—nothing curious there. In fact, apart from the dubious pleasure of finding Marcus’s dad’s name in less-salubrious surroundings than the New Year’s honours list, everything so far was tame; nothing that would explain why Prince Al-Ajnabi should wish to entertain on old Republican lag in his house, or might have common cause with such a guest.

  No, he was missing something vital. There was a relevance to Hennessy’s story that he was not seeing yet. And Chapman could not shake off the impression that Al-Ajnabi had deliberately set him up for this, had wanted him to check out Hennessy through Sophie. If this were true, he had to see things through Al-Ajnabi’s eyes.

  Why had the Ramli given Sophie Hennessy’s real name but had used an alias to cover “Yamaguchi”? Come to think of it, didn’t Sophie say that she had not been given the names of any of the other guests at Al-Ajnabi’s party? That was obviously Al-Ajnabi’s intention. Sophie had met Hennessy twice. He was someone she was supposed to remember. The others were meant to remain anonymous.

  Maybe I’m reading too much into this, Chapman thought as he fetched a coffee from the machine and joked with a few colleagues en route to his desk. But back in his seat, he decided to give it one last try and called a number at the Home Office. Eventually he was put through to the same woman, Mary, who had helped him before. She took down Hennessy’s name and promised to call back soon.

  Stories of the turmoil in the Asian stock markets had absorbed his full attention when the phone rang back more than an hour later.

  ‘You did say Aidan Hennessy?’ Mary asked dubiously.

  ‘That’s right. Arrested after the Falls Road massacre. Convicted in October of the same year. Served eighteen years in Long Kesh.’

  ‘Yes, that’s him. What did you want to know about Mr Hennessy?’

  “I wanted to find out if Hennessy is still wanted? Do you know if anyone is looking for him now?”

  Mary stifled a little giggle. ‘No, I shouldn’t think so—he’s dead! Died in a road accident near Ballymena eighteen months ago.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  She was.

  Stammering with surprise, Chapman was about to put the phone down. But suddenly, one last question sprang to mind.

  ‘Hang on a minute, Mary. Do you have a description of Hennessy in your records?’

  ‘Description? Yes. Hang on a second while I bring it up on screen. Here we go: Height six foot one; dark hair; brown eyes; prominent nose—do you want more?’

  ‘No thanks Mary, that’s fine.’

  Chapman recovered his composure enough to give Mary some ear-massaging, then rang off. He stared blankly at the busy computer terminal on his desk while he collected his thoughts. There could be no doubt that the ‘Hennessy’ Sophie had met was not the man who had served eighteen years in Long Kesh. But Chapman was pleased that he had been right about one thing: Al-Ajnabi had wanted him to check out the Hennessy story, and the Ramli’s invisible hand had been guiding his efforts so far. The question was, why?

  * * * *

  Edgware Road, London: 5:30 p.m.

  Paul Driscoll took a look around the small pub behind Edgware Road Station before perching on a stool by the counter. He was not a regular at the Carpenter’s Arms but he was a regular in the vicinity. In fact, he had chosen the pub precisely because he had never been there before. Probably, when he had exhausted all the watering holes within a quarter mile radius of his next destination, he would have to start revisiting those he had already tried. But being a meticulous man, the MP for Barnet would draw up a schedule for this eventuality so that his eminently forgettable face would continue to remain forgotten.

  Once inside the chosen pub, however, the order of ritual was sacrosanct: pint of strong lager, please. Outside to smoke a cigarette. Gulp quickly to the bottom of the glass. Large gin and tonic, plenty of ice, please. Second cigarette outside. Wee-wee time. One for the road, please. Last cautionary wee-wee in case of getting urge to leak when pecker more pleasurably employed. Down dregs in glass. Insipid, forgettable smile to barmaid or barman. Off for fun!

  Back in the street, Driscoll would habitually check his wallet, making sure that none of the crisp twenty-pound notes had disappeared. Money was the big problem with his weekly (now often twice-or thrice-weekly) treat. At one hundred and fifty pounds a time, Driscoll was starting to feel the financial strain. So, in a desperate attempt to find alternative funding for his habit, he had taken to preceding the brothel sprees with a visit to the bookmaker’s—more recently, even a casino. But the result had only been to add a vice and aggravate a debt.

  Rounding the last corner into Star Street always sent a titillation of pleasure down Driscoll’s spine. Despite the evening chill, he could already feel the Latin American girl’s breasts sliding over his abdomen. Turning off the street into number 58, he telegraphed his arrival with the ring of his footsteps down the metal steps. A push on the buzzer was only out of politeness.

  Footsteps in the hallway. On came the outside light. Sound of double locks turning in the door.

  ‘Allo, Mr Steve, come right in. She’ll be wiv you in a minute, dear.’

  Driscoll followed the dumpy middle-aged woman into a gaudy sitting room of soft-cream sofas and suggestive pink cushions.

  ‘Will yer ’ave yer usual?’ she squawked.

  Driscoll nodded, clearing his throat, which was tense with pent up excitement. The woman slipped on a blue movie in place of the soap opera and clip-clopped into the kitchen to pour his drink.

  ‘There you go, dear. It’s lookin ever so wintry outside, innit?’

  ‘Terrible, Miss Melanie,’ he agreed, just as he used to speak to his junior school teacher.

  ‘Never mind. Juliana will soon ’ave yer nice and warm, pet,’ she beamed.

  Driscoll heard the door open and anoth
er man’s footsteps in the hallway. Miss Melanie scurried into the corridor to let the satisfied client out.

  The bedroom door opened in front of Driscoll.

  ‘Ello Mister Steev,’ the Latin American girl smiled, lingering on each syllable long enough to hear him pant. ‘I’ve missed you.’ And with a purr in her voice she ran a long red finger nail down the length of his tie.

  Driscoll gulped down the last of his vodka, anxious to soften the raging libido that threatened to soil his one hundred and fifty quid investment with premature enthusiasm.

  Miss Melanie returned to the sitting room in time to watch Driscoll follow Judy into the bedroom. She felt a glow of satisfaction. But it wasn’t just the pleasure of seeing a regular becoming so very much more so. Gawd no! There were plenty more grey raincoats like ’im trippin’ over each other to see what young Juliana could flash their way.

  No, this was quite different. A dark ’n ’andsome stranger had turned up on the doorstep last week, ’is pockets lined wiv notes—enough for a lady to retire on, it was. And the dark gentleman ’ad a most unusual request, but for fifteen grand cash, ’e was welcome to ask whatever ’e bloody well felt like.

  When she was sure she had heard Judy taking Mr Steve’s money and telling him to undress, Miss Melanie tiptoed back across the sitting room and opened the door to the spare room.

  ‘All right, sir,’ she whispered. ‘E’s all yours!’

  Hasan moved quickly and quietly to the kitchen. The camera was ready and the keyhole gave him a commanding view of the low-lying double bed. He had to wait at least five minutes while Driscoll lay face-down with Judy massaging his skinny white back. But when she got him to turn, Hasan set the camera rolling. Unlike the MP, it never lied.

  * * *

  Westminster Underground Station: 6:OO p.m.

  The passageway led off the side tunnel. Behind him, Neil Smedley could still hear the other lads drilling in the main tunnel. In front, the passage narrowed, veered to the left and rose. The canvas bag was cutting through his coveralls into his shoulder. Droplets of sweat clustered cold on his forehead. No stranger to the dark and damp, Smedley scanned the side of the passage for the padlocked grille. He smelt the damp iron before the beam of his headlamp revealed its shape. The feel was familiar; he had severed it only the week before, using a blowtorch to cut it where the four metal joints were riveted to the stonework. The grille came away smooth and heavy in his miner’s hands and he rested it against the passage wall, taking care not to echo its removal to distant ears.