The Dublin Hit

by J E Higgins

  The house was big. It towered over the other structures providing a clear view of the entire facility. The coop was just enough behind the house to keep her from being seen. As an added benefit, the windows at the back of the house were small and would offer limited viewing capability. Peering out from the other corner of the coop, she checked the open windows of the house, for any signs of human activity.

  She saw nothing.

  The meeting seemed safe enough. Sauwa removed her pack and strode out into the open. Her hand remained firmly on the grip of her gun. If anything happened, Simon would be the first one dead.

  It took the fat man a few minutes to notice her. He was in the middle of a rant. When he finally did notice her, his face went red. Pointing an index finger in an accusatory gesture, he growled. “What is this all about? This isn’t a bloody game!”

  Sauwa looked past him at the barn. She waited to see if anyone was coming out. No one did. She moved to the side as Simon closed the distance between them. He didn’t seem to notice she’s placed him between her and any possible sniper that might be in the house. Her recce of the ground surrounding the farm assured her no sniper was lurking about the outskirts. “If I thought that, I wouldn’t have taken the precautions.”

  The fat man stopped and glared at her. For a moment neither said anything as the staring match continued. Then, clearing his throat, Simon said, “We’re hiring you for a job. I don’t like this fucking about.”

  “I have no reason to trust you. In my line of work ─ that you love to remind me about ─ betrayal is all too common, especially among those who see me as expendable,” Sauwa replied calmly. “So, can we get to business?”

  With a sigh of irritation, Simon waved his head toward the barn. That Simon had not been at all concerned about being between her and the house windows made her more confident a sniper was not hiding there. But Sauwa kept a grip on her pistol as they neared the darkened structure. She studied Simon for any expressions and behaviors that might indicate a threat. Now, the concern was what was inside the barn.

  Allowing Simon to go first, she followed directly behind him. Her eyes shifted from side to side, watching for any signs of danger. Her mind raced through the various scenarios that could play out, and how she’d respond. The barn was not as dark as expected. Just inside, she quickly caught sight of a man and stopped short, ready to draw her weapon. It was Rowan.

  He was standing awkwardly, looking nervous, until he saw her. “Thank God, you’re here.” He bound toward her as if she were a guardian angel. Her arrival may just have saved his life. Rowan walked past them out of the barn and turned to face the fat man who was still looking quite annoyed.

  “She’s here, just like I said she’d be,” Rowan said pleadingly. “Now, do ya have any further need of me?” He edged toward his car.

  Simon shook his head. “Your part is done. The rest ain’t for your ears.”

  Rowan said nothing more. Nor did he acknowledge Sauwa as he made for the Land Rover.

  Simon beckoned Sauwa to come further inside the barn. Now confident the meeting wasn’t a setup, she released the grip on her weapon and moved toward him. The barn reeked with odors of animal dung and livestock feed ─ odors she was very familiar with. From Simon’s distorted facial expressions, she assumed the rural life was not part of his world. Sunrays from the overhead openings offered the only illumination. The dusty interior looked almost heavenly.

  In the middle of the barn was an old work table. It was bare, aside from a leather briefcase that sat on top of it.

  Simon moved to pick up the briefcase. “Right, down to business.” He set the case flat, twisted a few knobs on the combination lock and opened it. He spread a collection of pictures and documents evenly across the table. “If you’re wondering why no one else is here, it’s because this operation is highly sensitive. Therefore, we must maintain the strictest secrecy.”

  Sauwa inched over to the table to view the documents. She wasn’t sure what Simon was showing her. Among the papers was a large, black and white photograph of a man. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, portly and wearing a white linen suit, open-collared shirt and sunglasses. He could have been some rich guy out on a walk.

  “This is Marston Donovan,” Simon explained. “He’s your target.”

  Sauwa picked up the photo and studied it carefully.

  “He’s a detective with the Republic of Ireland’s Garda Siochana. He’s in the Crime and Security branch operating as part of the Crime Special Surveillance Unit.”

  “You want me to take out a cop?” Sauwa was stunned.

  “He’s a cop whose job is to monitor and collect intelligence on major threats to the country. That’s his official job. His other business is passing information regarding Loyalist paramilitary personnel and our contacts over to the IRA.

  Over the last two years, several of our people have been assassinated and many of our safe houses in the Republic attacked by IRA Action Service Units. In addition, people we work with to obtain weapons have also been targeted. About a month ago, our contact in the Royal Ulster Constabulary informed us Donovan has been providing all this information. He’s proven to be a huge thorn in our side.

  Which brings us to you. Because this man is a high-level, intelligence cop, the Ulster Volunteer Force ─ the UVF ─ can’t carry out this mission ourselves. We are also in the middle of peace negotiations, which complicates things further. But the information he gives to our enemies is crippling us. We need him taken out, and it can’t be traced back to us.”

  Sauwa returned her attention to the photo. “So, you need a freelancer. I agree. But given the UVF’s informal alliance with South African intelligence, won’t my doing this still lead back to you?”

  The fat man didn’t respond. He only looked at her.

  Nodding her head, Sauwa realized what was going on. “Ah, an intelligence cop who got too close to a South African war criminal and was killed for it. That’s how you want it to look if I get discovered.”

  “You understand perfectly.” Simon’s lips curled into a sinister smile. “As I said, we can’t afford repercussions on this sort of thing, especially not now.” He took up a collection of papers and handed them over to her. “This is his biography, what we know of him on a professional level.”

  Sauwa took the papers and began perusing them.

  Simon went on, “He’s well respected within his organization.”

  Sauwa caught sight of the list of the man’s awards and commendations. It was extensive. “Not the sort of man I would think would be on the take.”

  “Oh, he’s not. Believe me.” Simon rubbed his chin as he shook his head. “He’s a committed adherent to the cause of Catholic freedom in Northern Ireland. While our cop is not overtly political, his younger sister has been a longtime activist working for the Catholic civil rights movement here. That’s how we found out about him. A conversation between the sister and a known commander in the Provisional Irish Republican Army was being monitored by the RUC ─ Royal Ulster Constabulary. In it, she asked the commander to set up a meeting between him and her brother to discuss a new system of communication and intelligence priorities. Since then we have been paying attention. He’s not a crooked cop. He makes no money on the gold he gives them personally. But, what he gives is gold, and we have to stop it.” He handed her another collection of papers. “This is what we have on his activities working with the Provos.”

  She glossed over the new set of documents. It was a detailed chronology of recorded conversations mentioning his name by known IRA operatives, as well as sightings of him in public establishments along the border known to be frequented by IRA members. The chronology contained a list of attacks carried out against UVF locations and persons where the information, presumably, had been supplied by Marston Donovan. The list was extensive and, even with her limited knowledge of the Loyalist organization, detrimental to their operations in the Republic and along the border.

  Sauwa understood w
hy the policeman’s assassination was such a priority for the UVF.

  Donovan’s commendable service record within the Irish Garda and his position as an intelligence officer with their most sensitive unit, the risks would be huge. Assassinating a respected police officer and an officer of the Garda was going to make another powerful enemy for her. But, with the information she had just been made privy to, she was in no position to decline the job.

  “If I do this, I have to make it look like an accident.” Sauwa switched her attention from between one document packet to another. “Anything else, and I’ve got an immediate manhunt to contend with.”

  “That will suffice,” Simon said, disinterestedly. “As long as he dies.”

  Sauwa ignored him. “The next question to hash out is my means of escape. It will be dangerous for me to stay in Ireland after this, I’m a liability to you as long as I’m here.”

  “Before this meeting ends, you’ll be given a name and number of a person we work with to obtain weapons in Dublin. After today, you’ll work exclusively through him. All he knows is we have dealings with a criminal firm back in London. This group has reached out for our assistance to do a job, and we’re merely acting as a go-between to ensure their hitter ─ that’s you ─ has resources to carry out the job. He’ll know nothing of your target. He’ll think you’re a contractor working for another syndicate.”

  “That can work. Will you have any control over the arrangements this man makes for me to escape?”

  “When you’ve made the hit, he has several contacts who deal in arms trafficking and have connections overseas. He’ll arrange through them to smuggle you out of the country. We’ll have no control or even any knowledge of how he arranges it.”

  “Good,” she placed the documents on the table and retrieved the picture of Donovan. “The further from you I am, the better.”

  “Less of a liability,” Simon said.

  Sauwa took out a small notebook from her pocket and jotted down a strange assortment of symbols. “If Donovan’s death is accepted as an accident, then killing me becomes imperative to ensure the truth never comes out. If he dies by an obvious assassination, it’s in your best interest for me to escape so that it takes the attention away from you. Then you’d just arrange for me to be killed overseas. The less connection that exists between us after this meeting lessens your exposure, and your control over my escape. In the end, you wouldn’t risk yourself by trying to kill me with resources and people that can be traced back to you and inevitably brings to light your involvement. The very thing you need to avoid.”

  “That’s what our thinking was on the matter,” Simon replied, as he watched Sauwa review the papers and make notes. “What are you doing?”

  “Using a code,” she replied. “I’ll need to have notes to review since I imagine you aren’t going to let me leave with any of this information, and I don’t have time to memorize all of this. This way, if my book gets seized, they won’t be able to decipher what’s written. It protects both of us.”

  The fat man was incredulous. “That information was hard to get and could be compromising if seized.”

  “Then be thankful that it is written in code. Most policemen would simply disregard it as an adolescent’s doodling.” Sauwa didn’t bother to raise her head and look the man in the eye as she worked. “If you would like this job to be successful, allow me my notes.”

  Simon stood silently as she read the papers and made her scratches. When she finished with the documents, he collected them with a meticulous eye to ensure all was accounted for, and she held onto nothing. He next produced a thick white envelope that he dropped onto the table. “This is your expense money ─ ten thousand pounds, Irish. This should be enough to meet any basic needs moving about. This amount will not be subtracted from the hundred thousand pounds that will be paid upon completion of your mission.”

  Sauwa took the envelope and looked inside at the thick stack of money. “How will the money be paid? I’m assuming your contact will be the paymaster.”

  “He will,” Simon replied. “He will be given the money by our people and told not to give it to you until the job is done. At your first meeting, he is to show it to you, so you know the money exists.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “So, when done, I’m going to be stuck carrying around a hundred thousand pounds while trying to escape the country?

  “Yes,” Simon replied. “We are low key about this, remember. Besides, you’re not going to leave the country going through customs anyway. At some level, this is a moot point.

  “What stops me from just robbing him?”

  “The fact that you’ll lose your escape route,” the fat man replied nonchalantly. “Without the assassination, you can look forward to being stuck on an island with the UVF combing for you along with the Irish and British security services, to whom we would be inclined to leak your whereabouts.”

  “I figured as much,” Sauwa replied, as she tucked the envelope into her back pocket. “What stops him from taking the money and leaving me stranded?”

  Simon chuckled. “We are very careful about who we entrust with these types of affairs. We tend toward those in the criminal world with a better view of the horizon to see past the immediate temptation. The man we have as your contact has been in business successfully for many years because he thinks ahead and sees the big picture. He knows you’re a professional killer and is cognizant of what you’ll do to him if he fails to deliver your payment on demand. He was told you were a killer, hand-picked by a big London syndicate, and a dangerous person to cross.”

  Simon handed over a folded piece of paper. “Here is the contact information for your man. Call him from a pay phone the moment you hit Dublin. He will handle your logistical support for this mission.”

  Sauwa took the paper from him and read the name, Banker; a location, the Rory Club; and a phone number.

  “Understand, Lassie,” Simon warned. “The name Banker is his code name only for you. You call and ask to speak to Banker. When the person who answers tells you there’s no one by that name, you reply by saying your name is Bridget, but that you go by the nickname Swan. Your contact will be looking for someone calling those names. You leave your name and the number at the phone booth and wait for him to call you back with instructions.”

  “And if he doesn’t call back?” Sauwa asked, a little concerned.

  The fat man glanced at her, perplexed.

  “It’s been my experience that things can go wrong very easily, especially when dealing with underworld figures. They often get nicked at the most unexpected times.”

  “He’ll be there,” Simon shrugged and collected his things. He turned to look at the paper clutched in her hands. He didn’t have to say anything. She jotted down the information into coded scribbles in her notebook and promptly handed back the paper. With a cheap lighter, he burned the information into a small charred pile.

  She didn’t like the situation. However, Simon was right. There wasn’t much room for convenience in this affair. She was going to have to get used to the idea that this whole operation was being done through questionable, backroom dealings that she would just have to work around.

  Simon started out of the barn. As he left, he explained that the farmhouse was empty. The owners had taken a few days to go on an outing. She, therefore, could spend the night and take whatever food was in the house for provisions. He further explained that the nearest town was only five miles away once she hit the main road. She pointed out that she had no viable identification except a driver’s license from one of her covers back in London. He told her she was known to be resourceful and could lift someone’s identification in town once she got there.

  He stepped out of the barn leaving her to reflect on all that had happened.

  6

  Dark clouds of black smoke grew thick as the fires outside became roaring monsters that danced angrily. Sauwa’s family huddled tightly in a corner as wailing and high pitched screams ─ a horr
ifying noise ─ cut into the night. They remained silent, the sound of death surrounding them.

  Little Rena buried her head in the folds of Sauwa’s thin, white T-shirt. Portia ─ her other sister, eight years old and terrified ─ gripped Sauwa’s shoulder, the screams growing closer. Their mother’s arms encompassed all three of her daughters.

  Looking up, Sauwa saw the large, brawny figure of her brother, Colin. He knelt on one knee, his rifle, a long automatic piece of some sort, clutched tightly in his bear-like hands. Next to him, in similar postures, were two other brothers, the twins, Regan and Martin. They held their stances, eyeing the windows and doors waiting for the inevitable moment. The blood-curdling screams outside were gradually giving way to the deep, loud groans and mutterings of men approaching. Among the orchestra of terror, the swish of machetes could be heard being wielded through the air, slicing into human flesh.

  Portia’s grip tightened, just as Sauwa’s arms tightened around her youngest sister, Rena. Her only thoughts were of her father and oldest brother, Lucian. At the start of the violence, they had grabbed their weapons and, along with several other men from the settlement, dashed out to meet the threat.

  Earlier, the rest of the family had heard shooting from a distance and assumed it was their father and Lucian fighting off the guerrillas. Then the shooting stopped, only to have it replaced by the sounds of screams of the villagers down at the foot of the hill. They were being slaughtered by the guerrillas. The villagers weren’t of Shona origin and had no connections to the Zimbabwe African National Union (ZANU), nor did they give them support. The ZANU was one of the main guerrilla armies fighting the rule of the Rhodesian government.