Des shook his head. “That’s not logical. At least one of the computers in the LAN has to be accessible; otherwise all of Miskimmon’s work would disappear.” He pulled up a stool. “Look, think it through. Miskimmon’s been smug in interviews, Marc told me so. That means he’s certain we can’t access the computers that we took from the house. The three that he knows about.”
Ash nodded him on.
“He wouldn’t have posted his work on the Cloud, in case it was discovered. He wouldn’t rely on a CD or a USB, in case they corrupted, so it’s got to be on some sort of a computer. A computer that he has to be able to use to wake up the others safely, which means he can’t have firewalls on it like the rest. It must be something he can access safely without frying it. This device. Origin. Unless you think there’s a fifth computer somewhere?”
Ash’s eyes widened. “Maybe there is.” Then he shook his head. “No, no. This is it. He tried too hard to hide it. It must be.”
Des nodded. “Well OK, then. Carry that thought through. If this is the key computer he’s not going to firewall it so much that it can’t even be turned on, so we’re safe to go that far at least.” He rummaged in a cupboard, producing a power lead. “It’ll need charged after being in that cage for so long, but we can run it from the mains with this.”
He slid in the jack and a light appeared instantly on the computer’s side. After another minute he gestured to the on switch.
“Do the honours then.”
But Ash was rooted to the spot. After a moment’s last chance Des pressed the switch himself, eliciting a loud “NOOOO” from the analyst.
Too late. The screen lit up and started running through the welcome sequence as the two scientists gazed at it transfixed. Des held his breath, praying that Ronan Miskimmon had done what he thought he might have, and as the sequence ended and documents began populating the black screen he let out a cheer. He was right. Miskimmon hadn’t even password protected it!
Ash couldn’t believe his eyes. “He…”
Des grinned. “I thought he’d do that. Arrogant bastard. He thought we’d never find it.”
“Have you seen-”
“Once before. A few years ago. Not as clever as Miskimmon and working in banking instead of killing people, but he thought he’d hidden his computer so well that he was flameproof. Didn’t bother with a password, encryption, nothing.”
Ash made a face. “He could have encrypted the individual documents.”
“And if he has we’ll crack them. The point is, you can show a court that this laptop has the IP address the Canadian hacks came from, and you can use a wake-up programme from it to start the other two.” He glanced at his watch. “Now. I’m going home and so are you. You look wrecked and this will still be here in the morning.” He brushed off the analyst’s objections and shut down the laptop again. “We’ll do it all tomorrow morning. Deal?”
Suddenly Ash felt exhausted from the stress of the previous few days so he gave up arguing. He watched as Des switched off the laboratory lights one by one, leaving only the light from their treasure blinking as it charged.
Chapter Seventeen
The Pit. May Street. 10.15 p.m.
Kyle had a plan. Arrive at the club, smoke two cigs in the car for courage, then join the early week clubbers in the darkness and blend in, preferably propping up the bar somewhere that he could spot Goga as soon as he appeared. It might have worked apart from two things: he was twenty years too old to be there, and he had a suit and haircut that made him stand out like a sore thumb. It was a particular pity that he’d failed to check the club’s calendar; if he had done he’d have seen that Monday was always Punk tribute night.
Once through the door it was too late, although at least he now understood the bouncers’ amused smiles. He made the best of it and hid in a booth, positioning himself where he could see both the front and bar doors. As he scrutinised each face in the small club a man was scrutinising his. He slipped into the bar’s back room and interrupted his boss in the middle of a discussion, whispering something in his ear. Abaz Goga nodded.
“Keep him in sight until I say so. I waiting for someone.”
He turned back to his companion as his lackey returned to his surveillance. Too late. When the acolyte emerged to look for Kyle, the policeman was nowhere to be found. He knew that he’d been spotted and had used the man’s disappearance to hide in the gents and think through his plan. All he needed was to stay in the club long enough to find Goga. He’d watch until he did something illegal, then he would make the arrest and impress his new boss.
Unfortunately theory isn’t reality and policing the streets is very different to policing a desk; any cop used to the real world would have told Kyle that his plan was likely to get him killed. OK, the Intelligence cases he’d managed had been high value smuggling rings and terrorists, but the closest he’d ever got to real live villains was positioning his agents on the ground and then watching their capture or kill on a satellite screen. Street policing carried risks he was ill equipped for, both in mind-set and in fact. He wasn’t even wearing his gun.
But there was no reality check happening in Kyle Spence’s head; all he was concerned about was making his arrest. It didn’t seem to occur to him that off-screen criminals might fight back.
****
10.20 p.m.
In the club’s carpark Craig and Liam were in the Audi waiting for Magnus O’Shea to arrive. Craig nodded to his deputy. “Get the mike, Liam. I want to hear everything they say.”
Liam lifted the directional mike and put on the earphones, immediately wincing and yanking them off. “Bloody Hell! That noise is shocking.”
Craig rolled his eyes. “You’re pointing it at the club. Point it at the back room instead. Roller told you that’s where Goga holds his meetings.
After a few more abortive attempts, Liam finally located the room, where the only noise was a man with a heavy European accent talking to someone else.
“Set it to record and then we wait.”
They didn’t have to wait for long. At ten-thirty Magnus O’Shea’s estate car pulled up.
Liam gave a jaded shrug. “You were right. Another cop on the take. Still, at least it’s not one of ours.”
Craig answered without breaking his gaze. “We don’t have any proof yet.”
Liam snorted sceptically. “We have his bank accounts and as soon as Annette dropped the info he headed here. What more do you want?”
“Him in conversation with Goga, passing on Annette’s information and preferably negotiating a price. Then we can nail him.”
He could feel Liam’s impatience to kick down doors, but he was more focused on the crooked cop. As they watched, Magnus O’Shea scanned three-sixty around him then he exited his car and walked briskly towards the club’s rear door.
“He’s been here before, boss.”
Craig nodded and signalled to put the mike on speaker. He needed to hear every word the Garda said before they could make a move.
Inside the club Kyle had emerged from his hiding place in the bathroom. He scanned the dancefloor for the acolyte and when he didn’t see him or anyone resembling the Intelligence photo of Goga, he decided that if the mountain wouldn’t come to him he’d go to it and started walking towards the bar door. If he’d thought about it he would have realised just what a bad idea it was; entering your quarry’s territory alone and unarmed without even evidence of a crime to arrest him on.
****
Five minutes of listening hadn’t disappointed Craig and Liam. As soon as O’Shea had entered The Pit’s back room he’d started talking, his tone saying that he was furious.
“What’s wrong with your bloody phone? I’ve been calling you for over an hour! You need to get out of here.”
The reply came in an accent they guessed was Abaz Goga’s. “What you doing here, boss?”
Boss? Craig’s jaw dropped. They’d thought O’Shea was just a cop on the take but it looked like they’d stumbled o
n more than that. If he was the gang’s boss it explained why they’d setup Andy to deter them; they’d been far closer to solving the case than they’d realised.
The detective parked his surprise, listening intently as Goga went on.
“I waiting to do deal. Big punter from Germany.”
O’Shea answered angrily. “There is no deal! It’s a setup. The cops are planning to catch you in the act. I tried to warn you but your phone’s broken.”
Goga pulled out his phone. “No signal.”
Suddenly O’Shea realised what was happening and checked his own. “Both our lines-”
What happened next shocked them all.
****
Kyle had waited until the follower was at the other end of the dark club before slipping through the bar door into an almost equally dark back room. In the time it took for his eyes to adjust he realised there were two men already in there, one of whom he recognised from an Intelligence report. The recognition wasn’t reciprocated but Abaz Goga instinctively sensed a threat. He moved at high speed, pinning Kyle face down on the floor.
“Who are you?”
O’Shea didn’t need to ask.
“He’s a cop, you moron. It’s written all over his cheap suit.” He pulled out Kyle’s warrant card and then twisted his arm hard, making the D.I. yell. “Who’s watching us? Where are the others?”
Outside the club Craig and Liam were staring at each other in shock. “Kyle?”
Craig added what they were both thinking. “What’s that bloody idiot doing in there?”
Liam shook his head despairingly. “He’s only gone and done a Lone Ranger.” He banged his fist hard on the dashboard. “The stupid, irresponsible-”
Craig cut him off. “We can call him names later. Right now we need to stop him getting killed.” As Liam set the mike down, still recording, they heard the unmistakeable sound of a pistol’s slide. Craig was out of the car first and in thirty seconds both men were by the club’s rear door, still listening through their ear pieces to what was happening inside.
Magnus O’Shea pulled up a chair as Goga pointed his gun at Kyle, still prostrate on the ground.
“How many men are outside?”
Kyle stared up at him blankly. “There’s no-one. Only me.”
As far as he knew it was true and his veracity showed in his voice. Goga stepped forward.
“Let me shoot him, boss. We make the deal at eleven then we go.”
O’Shea’s reply said what he thought of his man’s intelligence. “There is no deal, you stupid prick. Whoever turns up now will be a cop.” He grabbed Goga’s gun and waved it close to Kyle’s face. After a moment’s more threat he nodded. “He’s definitely alone.”
The Garda glanced around for a clock. Ten-forty. They still had twenty minutes before the fake buy. He stood up decisively and threw Goga his keys. “Bring my car to the door while I get rid of him. We’ll dump his body on the way south.”
As the Albanian headed for the carpark door and threw it open, Liam and Craig pushed in. Liam clamped a hand over the gangster’s mouth and an arm across his throat, squeezing hard enough to knock him out. As he dragged him to the Audi and radioed for backup, Craig was moving towards the interior door with his Glock in his hand. Once there he yanked out his ear piece and pressed his ear against the wood. He could hear Kyle pleading for his life, the effort and direction of his voice saying that he was lying on the floor.
“Please. You don’t need to do this. If you kill a cop they’ll never stop hunting you. Just leave me here and go.” Kyle twisted his neck to look up at the clock. “You’ve still got time. You could be halfway to the border before our boys arrive.”
O’Shea smiled coldly. “You heard too much. My guess is that if your boss knows anything he just thinks I’m on the take, and that’s the way it has to stay. If he ever found out I was running the show, my life would go down the tubes.”
Craig knew O’Shea was about to take his shot. He also knew that there was no time to kick down the door. He prayed that he was right about the two men’s positions and held his Glock at chest height, unloading two shots straight through the wood. A hard kick and he was in the room, gun still extended, to find two bodies lying in a heap on the floor. He stopped in his tracks, his mouth dry.
Just then Liam entered, kicking O’Shea’s gun away and saying something that Craig couldn’t hear, still deafened by the shots.
The D.C.I. repeated himself louder. “Would you get up off that bloody floor, Spence! You can sleep when you get home.”
A disjointed wriggling movement threw Magnus O’Shea’s body to one side and Kyle Spence crawled out slowly on all fours, the only blood on him from the dead cop. Liam stared disdainfully at O’Shea’s body and then hunkered down to take a closer look. There, in the Garda’s chest and arm, were two holes still seeping blood. Craig’s positioning had been spot on.
Liam gawped at the wounds and then at his boss. “How the hell did you manage that?”
Craig didn’t answer so Liam gestured at his still raised Glock.
“Better holster that, in case someone else gets shot.” He glanced back at O’Shea and then at the splintered door, shaking his head. “Forensics will have fun with this one. You must have hit him in the chest and spun him round, then the second shot caught him on the arm.” He furrowed his brow, thinking. “Or maybe it was arm first then chest.”
Craig finally found his voice. “It doesn’t matter. It did the trick.”
Liam narrowed his eyes. “You’re not going to go all soulful about killing this one, are you? You know, the way you did with old Pitt.”
It made Craig smile. “No. This one deserved everything that he got.”
He turned to see Kyle frantically stripping off layers until he’d reached the only one not stained with blood, a T-shirt that he’d been wearing under his shirt.
“Forensics will want those, Inspector. And when you’re feeling better we need to have a serious talk. I want to know what the hell you thought you were playing at.”
When the cars had arrived bearing the C.S.I.s and pathologist, who just happened to be Mike, Annette’s other half, the three detectives exited to the carpark where Abaz Goga was being loaded into a high-walled van. Liam leaned against the Audi’s bonnet.
“Not a bad haul. A dirty cop and a gangster.”
Craig shook his head. “Far more than a dirty cop. Goga called him boss, remember?”
Liam jerked upright. “You mean O’Shea was the head of the gang poaching Rey’s turf!”
“It would make sense. Goga was a cell leader, so the only man he would have called boss was the one running the whole thing. O’Shea must have decided crime paid a better pension than the Gardaí.” He pulled open the Audi’s door. “We’ll have to join the dots of course, but I’d be surprised if all of our killings don’t trace back to him.”
Liam climbed into the passenger side. “So Fox and McAllister were part of The Rock too? Minus the tattoos.” He snorted. “Probably didn’t fit their middle-class images.”
Craig nodded. “It seems there’s more than just the Belfast branch to that particular empire, but that can wait till tomorrow. We all deserve a good night’s rest.” He turned to see Kyle in the back seat looking subdued and still wearing the onesie forensics had given him when they’d taken his clothes. “Let’s get him home first. If we’re very lucky maybe he’ll have some drink in the house.”
The embarrassed spook cheered up instantly, recognising the comment for the olive branch that it was. He was still going to get a bollocking but not the huge one that he deserved, and he realised suddenly that he liked the camaraderie of being a street cop. Maybe his secondment wouldn’t be so bad after all.
As the men prepared to leave they missed the green saloon waiting outside the carpark’s gate. Michael Hanratty smiled to himself. On Tommy Hill’s tip off he’d come to confront the Albanian but when he’d seen his old foe O’Shea arrive he’d decided to observe instead.
> He’d been the bane of Magnus O’Shea’s life since they’d both been young. Him a prize scammer and O’Shea a new Dublin cop, the Garda had arrested him more times than he could count but never made anything stick. The more it had happened the more O’Shea had hated him; he’d have hated him as well if he’d been struggling by on a copper’s salary and had to watch criminals living in wealth. He whistled as he thought of the ambitious policeman he’d known as a youth. Back then O’Shea had been so self-righteous and moral he’d walked like he’d had a snooker cue up his ass.
Now what? Had he been working with the PSNI to arrest the Albanian? The two men watching from the Audi couldn’t have been anything but cops. No, it didn’t sound right. Last he’d heard O’Shea had been put out to pasture in the sticks, and if he was working with the northern police then why wouldn’t he have joined them as soon as he’d driven up?
So he’d watched and waited as the scenario had played out. The PSNI with their directional mike, sprinting suddenly towards the club’s rear entrance at something that they’d heard. A foreign looking man being dragged out and cuffed, then two shots followed by a C.S.I. team and a large corpse had emerged in a body bag. Three men had climbed back into the Audi instead of two, one of them in a white forensic suit and none of them Magnus O’Shea. It didn’t take a genius to work out that O’Shea was the body in the bag; the once righteous Garda had been playing for the dark side and had met a nasty end.
As Craig’s Audi drove past him Hanratty averted his face, starting his own engine a moment later and heading for the M1 south. He would confirm the facts through Xavier Rey but he had a hunch that the days of his men being killed were over and business as usual could resume. For how long was anyone’s guess; O’Shea’s death would create a vacancy that some ambitious young hound would soon fill.
Chapter Eighteen
The Tribes Page 36