The Dublin Hit

by J E Higgins

  David O’knomo ruminated over the report delivered from Ravenhoof after his meeting with MI-5. The conclusion from the British assumed Sauwa Catcher had been given protection from some paramilitary group in Northern Ireland certainly limited the field. The next question was to predict where she would be hiding. Over the last few days, Dr. Eugene Walderhyn had immersed himself in the study of the Northern Irish conflict known as the Troubles. As if a machine or a hungry beast, he devoured the information obtained discussing the conflict and everything the British offered as intelligence on the biggest Loyalist paramilitaries. He poured over NIS’s own documents regarding the past relations these Loyalist groups had with South African intelligence.

  O’knomo had been in awe of the way the academic devoted himself to his studies. What was more intriguing were the results Walderhyn delivered. Both the British and Ravenhoof had been of the opinion that their quarry was hiding out somewhere in Belfast or some other city in Northern Ireland where the Protestant radicals had a stronghold. After reviewing the vast sums of information, the academic had a different analysis. “She’s somewhere in the Republic,” Walderhyn stated with the utmost conviction.

  This statement took O’knomo by complete surprise. Sensing his superior needed a better explanation, the academic continued with his report. “As I see it, only two paramilitaries have the resources and organization to both hide and secretly move someone out of the country: one is the Ulster Volunteer Force, the other is the Ulster Defense Association. Of the two, the UVF, as it more commonly called, has a better relationship with South Africa. Reviewing a contemporary history of this group, I’ve found that it operates extensively throughout the United Kingdom and carries out significant campaigns across the Republic of Ireland.

  “Now, two things stick out: one, the UVF is aware of the danger in protecting someone like Ms. Catcher and would not want to keep her in Northern Ireland where the British government has extensive intelligence resources; and two, something I’m seeing captured my attention. I have read quite a few reports discussing a succession of attacks on suspected UVF personnel and safe houses in the Republic by the rival Irish Republican Army. That the IRA would have such good intelligence could only mean they have sources or a source somewhere in the intelligence world. Presumably, Irish intelligence, if I had to place money on it.”

  “At this moment, a peace negotiation is in the process of being brokered. If the UVF did know who was feeding the IRA intelligence, they would be hard-pressed to carry out any operation at this time; especially, if it would mean working with their own resources and risking exposure. Attacking someone in Irish intelligence directly would certainly have terrible repercussions. The full force of Irish law enforcement and intelligence would be after them. Assuming this possibility, a good strategy to eliminate the IRA’s source and protect themselves would be to reach out to a third party. A party that could give their organization distance in what would be a highly controversial matter.”

  “You think the UVF is hiring Sauwa Catcher?” O’knomo’s eyes widened at the revelation.

  Walderhyn removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I am making a prediction that Sauwa Catcher is in the Republic of Ireland, not Northern Ireland. And in the next few days, we should be hearing about the mysterious killing of someone connected to intelligence. Furthermore, the killing will be done in a manner that matches the methods known to be used by our little princess.”

  Detective Sergeant Ryan Youngest stood over the ghost white corpse of what used to be Intelligence officer, Detective Sergeant Marston Donovan. His eyes gazed at the naked body laid out on a stainless-steel tray table. His attention was entirely focused on the words of the medical examiner as he explained the findings of the autopsy. The body looked as if it was a slab of meat being readied for the evening’s feast. It was enough to make anyone want to be a vegetarian. The killing of Detective Donovan had created a massive uproar within the Garda, and the examiner’s office obligingly gave priority to the case. The autopsy had been conducted and completed within hours of the killing.

  The medical examiner, a frail, skeletal figure of a man, stood against an identical table as he spoke. “The good detective died from a punctured liver.” The examiner’s voice was rough and gravelly. “The object entered into the body through here.” He lifted the body slightly to show an inch wide incision into the liver. Afterwards, the object, being a device made of glass, continued to carve through the soft tissue as the detective squirmed and twisted about in pain.”

  “Glass, you say?” Detective Sergeant Youngest inquired.

  “I pulled fragments of glass from the liver and a few other organs,” the examiner explained. “It appears to be ordinary window glass that could have been obtained anywhere. It was a solid object that, as near as I can tell, had been forged into a knife-like weapon. It seemed to have had sharp, jagged edges on both sides, which explains the fast insertion into the body. What was really interesting was the strong traces of oleander. The killer must have smeared the blade with the stuff ─ probably to ensure he died.”

  Youngest shook his head in amazement. “Oleander? That’s not usual, is it? I mean for a gang-style killing, they generally don’t take the added step of lacing their blades with poison?”

  “Not something I’ve seen much of in my years,” replied the examiner. “What really is surprising is that it wasn’t just poison, but oleander in particular. This plant can be purchased at nearly any nursery and has highly toxic properties. A perfect tool for a professional killer: highly lethal, easy to obtain without raising a lot of attention and very hard to trace.”

  The detective sergeant leaned over the cadaver. “The weapon ─ were you able to draw any fingerprints from it?”

  “There was no handle.” The examiner’s eyes cocked slightly as if he were on the trail of some great mystery. “Looking at the base of the injury, I found large traces of what turned out to be airplane glue. It looks like the killer constructed an easily disposable weapon with a grip designed to be broken off after impact. All of the material used could be obtained anywhere making it completely dispensable. We have virtually nothing that could narrow down the investigation.”

  “So, whoever our killer is, he is a highly skilled and seasoned professional carrying out an assassination to look like an everyday underworld slaying.” Youngest rubbed his thumbs under his chin as he pondered the matter.

  “That would be my guess,” the examiner agreed.

  “Detective Sergeant?” A voice was suddenly interjected into the conversation. Officer Hilter Dagden, a lean figure of a man in his early-thirties, marched into the examiner's station. He joined Youngest. “Sir, I’ve talked to the witnesses standing next to the deceased when the incident occurred.”

  Youngest was slightly amused at the younger man’s determination to be so proper and professional. “Go on, what were your findings?”

  “Well, sir,” Dagden began. “The killer struck with lightning precision. I mean, there must have been fifteen to twenty veteran intelligence detectives standing around, and no one could tell me much of anything. It was as if a ghost did this and disappeared.”

  “Not a ghost,” Youngest sighed as he turned to face his subordinate. “A killer who bides his time and plans methodically.” He had long believed it was foolish for the detectives of Ireland’s most elite police intelligence units to gather in the same public place at relatively the same time. But, it was in such an upscale section of the city and frequented primarily by tourists and wealthy shoppers. The police were sure it was a place they could meet safely. To the mind of the veteran detective, it was only a matter of time before something like this was destined to happen. “This was certainly a planned killing and done by a professional.”

  Exiting the examiner’s office, the two detectives started down the hall. Dagden was scratching his head. “This case is high profile alright. Before I came down here to meet you, I stopped by the office. People are inquiring all the way up the chain of
command, including the Superintendent, about this investigation.” Dagden tried to mask his emotions. He was vacillating between nervous anxiety at the thought of getting so much attention from the highest levels of power and excitement at being part of such an important investigation.

  The veteran detective could understand his subordinate’s mixed feelings. Dagden came from County Cork, where he had begun his career. His first seven years in the Garda was spent working in a small town station in the farmlands. Despite having years of seeing his own share of crimes and emergencies, he felt his big-city colleagues looked down on him as if he came from a mud hut. This had caused Dagden to feel the need to compensate; the need to always try and speak in formal police vocabulary to prove he was every bit the caliber of a policeman as of those in the big city.

  “We’ll navigate as we have to,” Youngest said. “I won’t let them slow up the investigation. We’ll have to find an alternative place to work, so they don’t keep harassing us with demands for the latest information. More high-profile investigations are blown because investigators spend more time in briefings than working the case.”

  Dagden nodded in agreement. He respected the senior detective ─ a man he had come to view as the epitome of an investigator. “Sir, what do you think so far?”

  Youngest’s eyes remained focused as they walked. “It’s too early to assume anything. From what I see, someone recruited a skilled professional to target and kill Donovan. We need to be looking into what Donovan was doing to see who would target him.”

  “By professional, you mean this was no ordinary underworld killing?” the younger detective inquired.

  Youngest’s eyes remained focused straight ahead. “We have a veteran policeman of the Crime Special Surveillance Unit. A man who collected intelligence on the biggest threats to the country. He lives in a world full of dangerous people. By all accounts, Donovan would not be an easy target. Our assassin took him completely by surprise and used a means of killing him that’s nearly impossible to trace and then simply disappeared. No, the one we’re looking for is very capable and has killed professional operators like Donovan before.”

  “It sounds like it will be an adventure.” Dagden tightened his lips with a slight sense of dread. He did not relish the idea of chasing phantoms at a time when the power brokers of the force were watching him closely.

  Cork Regan fancied himself a veteran soldier of the IRA, even if the totality of his combat service amounted solely to administering punishment to those who ran afoul of the organization. The Lucky Seamus Pub rested in a working-class neighborhood on the north side of Dublin. Apart from being a favorite watering hole for the working-class crowd, the Dublin brigade of the IRA used it as their headquarters.

  Regan entered the establishment. He was sure he was going to be given another job ─ some local hood who had defied the command’s edicts. Strolling through the door, the barkeep immediately waved him to the far end of the counter. The pub was nearly deserted. There were only a few pockets of retirees scattered about enjoying their daily pint. Aside from the low murmurs of conversation, a soft version of ‘Oh Danny Boy’ playing over the audio system was the only other sound breaking the silence. Casually, Regan made his way down the lengthy bar. He stopped beside an elderly fellow in his mid-sixties taking up a stool in the corner. The man was armed with a tall mug of Blond ale and an Aging Room brand Meduro Toro cigar. The man’s attentions were fixed entirely on the newspaper resting on the table in front of him. Sliding onto the stool next to the man, Regan folded his hands and waited to be acknowledged.

  “I’ve got a bit of a job for you,” the older man began; his attention remaining focused on the newspaper.

  “That’s the usual story,” Regan sniffed, indifferently. “Who am I setting straight? And is this just punishing the lad, or am I sending a message to everyone?”

  For the first time since the conversation started, the older man looked up and faced the bear-like figure next to him. “This is a different type of job.”

  Regan’s eyes cocked slightly. “I’m listening.”

  “We’ve suffered a serious setback.” The older man stated in a stern businesslike manner. “You’ve heard about the recent killing of that Garda detective?”

  “I heard something about some copper biting it yesterday,” Regan replied.

  “That copper was working for us,” the older man stated. “He was helping us dismantle the Loyalist network here in the Republic.”

  “Oh shit!” the bigger man was astonished.

  “Bad enough he was a loyal man to the cause, but his death has crippled an essential operation we’ve had going on.” The older man continued, “I’m sending you and your crew to look into this matter. This order is coming from the highest level. We need to retaliate to show that the IRA can and will protect their assets. Find out who carried out the killing and eliminate them. A message must be sent.”

  Regan contained himself, though inside he was feeling the pride of being assigned a task with such a serious mission. This was not the usual mindless beating delivered to some local drug dealer or a professional informant getting his jaw smashed for talking to the police. This was a real operation that needed to be carried out. “Who am I tracking then?”

  The older man took a drag off his cigar and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke into the atmosphere. “Our people in the north have it on good authority that a rogue commander in the UVF might have orchestrated this. If so, we think the killing wasn’t carried out using local resources. Instead, if it was a commander acting on his own, he must have reached out to a freelancer to do it. We think the UVF is working through contacts they have here in Dublin’s criminal circles to augment the operation. This is very much your territory, and I told my superiors that you could handle this.”

  “And, I will sir,” Regan replied confidently. “I know some folks who have done business with the Loyalists. I can shake some trees.”

  “Shake gently,” the older man cautioned. “This is a high-profile killing of a decorated police hero. The Garda is putting a lot of resources into finding the killer themselves. Don’t draw attention to yourself and get caught in their crosshairs.”

  Regan shrugged his shoulders and waved his hands in a subordinate manner that indicated he understood. The older man returned to his paper. “We don’t need an interrogation. Find and eliminate the problem on sight are your orders.”

  “Will do,” the bigger man replied, as he rose from his stool.

  14

  Sauwa cautiously progressed across the street toward the Oriental grocery store. The cold chill in the air brushed across her exposed neck with an icy touch. Turning up the collar of her flannel, she tried in vain to cover up. Inside the store, she was hit by a gust of warm air that came as a much-needed relief. However, it came with the added price of a powerful aroma that burned her nostrils. The icky smells common with foreign foods, spices and herbs of the eastern world were strong, and she needed some time to adjust.

  Walking to the checkout counter, she saw a heavy-set, middle-aged Asian woman. “Ma’am?” She spoke quietly as she approached.

  The woman turned from her black and white television featuring some Chinese soap opera. “What do you need?” Her English was lightly accented, while her manner was cold and snobby.

  “I’m looking for Victor,” Sauwa replied. “I was sent by a mutual acquaintance, James Clark.”

  The older woman viewed the young lady across the counter carefully. “Wait right here,” she said sternly, as she rose from her seat and marched into the backroom. A few minutes later, a tall, beanpole of a man emerged. He looked ragged, wearing a long, scraggly beard, with soiled skin from working with God knows what and a highly stained collared shirt.

  “I’m Victor.” His voice was heavily accented in Russian. Though his features made him look like he came from one of the Central Asian countries that made up what used to be the Soviet Union. “You know Mr. Clark, James Clark?”

  “Yes,
he’s a dark-haired man of medium build, in the business of providing markets for special products and services.” Sauwa was, of course, describing Banker, who was either James Clark or used the name as another alias when dealing with certain people.

  “If I called him at his place, he would know you?” Victor asked as he reached for the phone.

  “He’s on personal business right now. He should be at the Rory Club in about an hour.” Sauwa remained stoic as she stared at the tall man. Her eyes darted to the phone as he made his call.

  “I believe you,” Victor said, satisfied the young woman was genuine. “You are then in need of my services?”

  “I might be. But first, I want to talk to you about it,” she replied.

  The man smiled, revealing a row of nicotine-stained teeth. “I like you already. Come.” He waved her to follow him into the back room. Sauwa came right up behind him just as he was about to go through the entryway. She figured if he was leading her into a trap, being right up against him would leave an assailant little ability to strike without hitting Victor. Pressed against her stomach, she held a long knife tightly in hand, ready to stab anyone coming at her from either direction or from the tall man himself. It was unlikely she would be accosted from both sides in such a narrow passageway that would offer little room to maneuver.

  They walked through the doorway into a room that functioned as a supply room, office, and living quarters. To Sauwa’s relief, aside from the middle-aged woman, the room was deserted. The woman, seeing the two enter, returned to her post at the checkout counter, leaving Sauwa and Victor alone.