The Dublin Hit

by J E Higgins

  Being proactive, Youngest proposed dispersing copies of the photos to police along with all possible exits out of the country. He emphasized ports and harbors as well as the boating docks. He figured their suspect wouldn’t risk trying to corner herself by boarding a plane. She had somehow slipped into the Republic totally undetected, which meant a private boat crossing the Irish Sea, or entering through the unprotected border of Northern Ireland. Ravenhoof promised to contact South Africa hoping to obtain better pictures.

  “The question we have to answer is who’s been protecting her? She’s been in this country for at least two or more weeks and has managed to stay well off our grid even though she’s never operated here. That doesn’t happen without resources and assistance from someone.” Youngest asked.

  “The UVF must be protecting her,” suggested Hilter Dagden. “We should check with the intelligence boys and shake some trees.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Youngest replied.

  “Just a minute,” Ravenhoof stopped him. “That may not be the avenue we wish to pursue,” he cautioned. “Our analysis presumes that a disconnected intermediary may have been brought in for this.”

  “What do you mean?” Youngest asked. “If you and the British are right and this is a UVF orchestrated operation, logic suggests they would want to play this close to the vest and ensure the mission’s success. Why would they risk using some disconnected outsider?”

  “Because he is disconnected,” Ravenhoof replied, capturing the room by surprise. “I know we’re dealing with terrorist organizations. They generally don’t trust their political business outside of their own circles. I have extensive experience dealing with these types. History would point to the idea that we should be looking at the Loyalist network here in the Republic to find answers. But, this job is different. They didn’t use their own people for this. They used an outsider ─ a contractor to assassinate your comrade. They either didn’t trust their network, or they wanted to make sure they were well distanced from the killing. In either case, it would only make sense they reached out to a third party to provide the necessary support.”

  “Politically, it makes sense,” Talamadge interjected. “For several months now, peace negotiations have been underway in the north. A killing of this magnitude would only complicate things. Not to mention that the full weight of your organization would be brought down in reprisal. No, it wouldn’t be enough to bring in an outsider for this job. They would have to be completely disconnected.”

  “You’re right,” Dagden admitted. “Having Sauwa Catcher caught in a Loyalist’s safe house or being helped by a Loyalist agent could only lead right back to their door.”

  Youngest sat rubbing his chin as he digested the information. He hated the bizarre universe of espionage. For him, the world of smoke and mirrors turned everything upside down. He was a brilliant detective who enjoyed the hunt offered in a criminal investigation; the logic of following the evidence before him. Spies and intrigue, of which everything seemed poised to mislead only served to irritate him. He felt he was immersed in some conspiracy theory. They were all in a room working on a theory to an unsolved murder trying to guess and second guess the strategy and mindset of some group.

  “So, then what?” Youngest asked. “We look for someone the UVF would trust with this business and not have it get leaked back to the IRA who, I might add, is very well connected to this city’s underworld.”

  The room was silent as minds began to grind. The detectives and intelligence officers were desperately trying to figure out their next move. While no one said it out loud, it was understood that they were racing against time. Their killer was not going to linger in the country and would soon try to escape.

  Finally, Youngest seized the phone and dialed. The voice at the other end sounded like it belonged to a rather energetic young man. “Crime and & Security, Detective Reardon speaking.”

  “Detective Reardon. I’m Detective Sergeant Ryan Youngest...” Youngest was quickly cut off.

  “Aren’t you the one investigating the murder of Detective Donovan?”

  “Well, yes, I am…” Youngest attempted to reply.

  “Donovan was well respected and liked. He didn’t deserve to get it the way he did. We all are hoping you catch the piece of shit responsible. You should know if there’s anything we can do to help, we’re all here.”

  “That’s why I’m calling,” Youngest said. “I need to speak with someone in your Crime Special Surveillance Unit. I would like to get some information about the underworld in Dublin that’s connected with the case…” He was again cut off.

  “I can put you in touch with exactly the guys you need to speak to. Detectives Ian Galligan and Harry Curly know the crime figures in this town like they were family. Let me patch you through to them,” Reardon said energetically. Youngest barely had time to thank the young man before the phone began ringing.

  Youngest looked around the room at the assortment of confused faces wondering about the strange conversation.

  “Detective Sergeant Curly,” the voice answered.

  “This is Detective Sergeant Youngest with Homicide.”

  “Yes?” Curly asked.

  “I’m investigating the murder of Detective Marston Donovan, and I was wondering if you could perhaps assist me?”

  “Anyway I can, of course,” Curly replied.

  “We’re working on the theory that the killer may have been a hired professional. Someone from outside the country brought in to do the job. If that is the case, they would need support and protection from someone local. Who would come to mind that could offer such services?”

  The phone on the other end was silent except for some light breathing. It went on for several minutes. The homicide detective was about to say something when Curly spoke up. “This is a big city, and there are a lot of folks in the business of providing such services to anyone who has the money and connections to pay for it.”

  Youngest hesitated for a moment. He didn’t want to divulge too much information and open the door for rumors to start circulating; he didn’t want another problem to emerge. When a respected policeman is killed, it isn’t uncommon for their comrades to seek revenge. Giving away a potential suspect to a victim’s former colleagues opened up the possibility of reprisals. Curly pressed for more information, and Youngest could see no other way.

  “This person would be inclined to do business with the UVF and would be someone they would trust to aid in this type of job.” The homicide detective looked up to see a disapproving look from Dagden.

  “Really?” Curly responded in an almost sinister way. Youngest cringed slightly. “That narrows the field. Not many do business with Loyalist paras. It could lead to serious punishment from the IRA lads if they found out. I can think of a couple boys they could reach out to if they wanted to keep their distance and needed something done.” Curly gave Youngest four names along with a brief personal assessment of each one.

  Youngest thanked him. “No, Detective Youngest, thank you very much.” It was the same sinister tone that made Youngest cringe before he hung up.

  “Are you sure that was a good idea?” Dagden asked.

  Youngest looked at all the faces and said nothing. His deep frown and slight shaking of his head said quite enough. Jotting down the names and addresses of the people Detective Sergeant Curly had given him, Youngest stood up. “We have only four names to check; unfortunately, we don’t know how much time we have; we need to make quick assessments.”

  “We can probably make this faster,” Ravenhoof spoke up. “We have one thing going for us ─ the IRA.”

  All attention was now turned to the South African. Ravenhoof, his understanding of radical groups and police instincts kicking in, continued. “Remember, the IRA is looking for this guy, too. We have five of their men dead at a warehouse. We presume this was a hit team sent to kill Ms. Catcher. My guess is they are already onto whoever is helping her. With six of their people dead, whoever that person i
s, is now living under a death sentence and trying to get out of town quickly. We just need to see who on this list has suddenly become hard to reach.”

  “You’re right,” Dagden agreed. “We’re not interested in anyone who’s doing business as usual. We need the guy who’s trying to close up shop.”

  When Ravenhoof was prepared to give his report to South Africa, he hadn’t been entirely confident of the investigation. Though a great deal of evidence alluded to the idea, he still wasn’t sure it led to Sauwa Catcher. It was only in the minutes before he was set to leave for the embassy in Dublin that a report came in from the warehouse solidifying he was on the right track. He was now positive they were on Sauwa Catcher’s trail.

  Through the embassy, Ravenhoof made contact with O’knomo. Ireland wasn’t a high priority for South Africa, which meant it was complicated getting time on the communication system. His boss had been waiting nervously for an update. When the Afrikaner apprised him of the details of the warehouse killing, O’knomo also became convinced it had to be her.

  The request from Ravenhoof to find better photos of their fugitive was accepted with some difficulty. Both men knew, without saying it, that time was of the essence. They were asking for something that would take days to find ─ assuming any family she had would be at all cooperative. Regardless, O’knomo conceded this was their best chance of catching Ms. Catcher at a time when they had the full resources of the Irish police to assist them. Any sign of sincere cooperation would go a very long way to cement the relationship.

  Seamus Nally didn’t relish the phone call he was going to have to make. It was already a tense enough situation, because one of the IRA’s best intelligence assets was now lying on a slab. More, the men sent to adjudicate the matter were now lying right next to him. This did not help the image of the Dublin unit, who were looking hopelessly useless in the eyes of the higher command up north.

  Stepping into a remote phone booth on the north side of the city, Nally dropped several coins into the coin slot and dialed a number to someplace in County Cork. “Rittery’s Bar and Grill, Mickey speaking.” A voice heavily flavored with an accent indigenous to the county of Cork answered.

  “I’m looking for Ivan. He’s an old boy of the country. I’d like to speak with him,” the old man spoke as if looking for an old friend.

  “Ivan’s out,” the voice replied. “He’s fixin’ the pipes at home, he is. I’m holding the place.”

  “Oh, I just thought I’d check up on an old chum,” the old man remained pleasant. “Just tell him Paddy thought he’d give’m a hand.”

  “Hold on,” the voice commanded. The phone went dead, leaving Seamus listening to his own breath in the receiver. To anyone snooping, it sounded like old friends trying to keep in touch. In actuality, it was a code that was used to initiate a meeting. It was difficult to make phone calls over the border. Most of the places used for business by the IRA north of the border were quite well known and usually monitored by either British Intelligence or the Royal Ulster Constabulary. When communicating from the Republic to the UK, an elaborate network of remote houses and establishments were used to mask the network in the south. A call made to a place in the farmlands of Cork would be relayed to another remote establishment in a county near the border. A messenger would be dispatched to make physical contact just over the border. It sounded complicated, but after decades of using this operation, it was actually quite fluid and sophisticated.

  A few minutes later, a voice, distinctly different from the one who answered came on. “What’s your update?”

  Seamus struggled for a moment. “We’ve had a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?” the voice asked in a commanding tone.

  “Our attempts to find the killer of our loyal comrade…well, it ended with more deaths; more of our people.”

  “And the killer?” the voice was now growling.

  Seamus sighed deeply as he prepared to answer the question. “The only casualties were ours.”

  For several minutes there was silence. Then the voice spoke up. “How did this happen?”

  Seamus found it hard to speak. This only served to anger the man on the other end further. “I asked, how did this bloody thing happen?”

  “We’re not sure yet,” Seamus answered weakly. “What we have understood so far is they were ambushed by professionals. My people were dealing with totally different operators than normal.” He knew the answers he was giving made him sound weak and incapable. He couldn’t find a better way to explain himself; he didn’t have all the facts yet. They probably wouldn’t have helped if he did.

  “This is fucking bullshit!” the voice growled over the phone. “Someone kills an important man to the cause and makes mincemeat of your people. What the hell is going on over there? Is there a fuckin’ new force in town challenging us? Are the Loyalists trying to set up in your city? Are you in over your head? Are your men so pathetic they can’t do more than fuck up junkies and low-lives?”

  Seamus didn’t know what to say; apparently, he didn’t need to say anything. The voice on the other end didn’t seem interested in answers to any of his questions. He just continued speaking. “I’ll send word across the way. I can tell you already what the answer will be.”

  Seamus didn’t bother responding. There was no point. His superior had apparently made the decision and was only interested in giving orders. “We have a place in the farmlands where we have the right men for this job. Assume they’ll be leavin’ tonight. When they get there, they will find you. Make yourself entirely at their disposal.”

  “Understood,” Seamus replied, trying not to sound nervous.

  The voice continued, “In the meantime, press your police sources for all available information, so our people know who they’re up against. I’m sure you can accomplish that much, at least.”

  “Yes sir,” replied Seamus. He could feel the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead.

  “Do you have any pertinent information that can assist us in finding this team of assassins? From what you’ve told me, I’m sure there has to be more than one.” The voice wasn’t even trying to mask his contempt for his Dublin subordinate.

  Ah, well yes,” Seamus struggled to try and redeem himself. “My operative, reported he was looking into Rudy Sheehan, club owner and a known trafficker in the black market. He was being looked at as someone who might be working with this hit team.”

  “Good. At least, you aren’t completely worthless,” the voice growled bitterly before hanging up.

  20

  Sauwa awoke to the sound of the shower running across the way. Banker had chosen to stay the night after realizing he had nowhere else to go. She stretched lightly before reaching for her jeans. Though she should have had a stomach full of butterflies with all the concerns that plagued her, Sauwa was feeling somewhat serene.

  Perhaps it was the temporary lull in the frenzy she had endured over the last few days. She had been continuously looking over her shoulder for the ever-growing list of enemies pursuing her. She was able to enjoy a slight break. Banker’s apartment was a secret he guarded closely ─ one he kept even from his closest associates. It was not in a part of town that lent itself to the local criminal elements who would inform on him.

  Sauwa stepped outside the bedroom. The shower was still going. She could hear Banker thumping about as he washed. It was good to know he was still there. She was sure her talk with him the previous night had sunk in. He was aware of the need not to neglect her at a time when he was likely to be caught up in his own affairs and trying to prepare for his own escape from the country. Banker was now a desperate man and, in her experience, desperate men often made dangerous mistakes.

  Either way, Banker’s usefulness was coming to an end. While she was confident he hadn’t sold her out to the IRA, she was sure they had found her through him. Now that he was a fugitive himself, his resources were going to quickly dissipate. It was good that she was leaving tonight ─ any longer would
be too hazardous.

  Banker stepped out of the bathroom in a pair of sweats and rubbing a towel across his head. He saw his Sauwa working in the kitchen. Between the refrigerator and the cupboards, she had been able to find enough to make something of a breakfast.

  “You’re still here?” were the first words out of his mouth.

  “We needed to talk and finalize our plans,” she replied. Her eyes were darting about as she continued to explore his kitchen. “Besides, with everything going on, this is the safest place to be at the moment. I’m in no hurry to be out on the streets with everyone chasing me.”

  “That’s reasonable,” Banker slunk into a nearby armchair. It was obvious the events of the last several hours had drained him. “I’m in no hurry either. I am a fucking target, too. Both the London firm that sent you or IRA, if they know I helped you, will probably consider me a liability.”

  Sauwa continued making breakfast. “I’m sorry that you were forced into the middle of this. Right now, the focus should be on preparing for the next step. What we previously planned is no longer viable with all the added complications. The ship that’s supposed to take me out of here is not due to leave until 2200hrs tonight. Has anything changed that has altered that plan?”

  “No,” Banker shook his head. “Everything is still good with your arrangements.”

  Sauwa was hesitant. “With the IRA creeping around your organization, is there a chance they may have discovered anything about it?”