by David Holman
They both decided they had spent enough time away from their wives, and as they left the room, Swan turned on his heel to his old colleague.
‘By the way Arthur, I haven’t told you any of this - okay?’
Gable smiled, tapping his nose. ‘Mum’s the word, Alex.’ He stopped at the top of the stairs. ‘And anyway, I’ve already signed the Secrets Act, don’t forget.’
*
In the early evening outside a pub in Londonderry, Phil Munroe checked his reflection in the stained glass of the doors.
Behind them, he could hear the cheerful sound of a lively trio of violins playing a popular jig, one he had heard five years ago in a pub on the Shanklin Road in Belfast while on an exchange posting with the Parachute Regiment. He had been on an undercover operation to meet with a known informant and suddenly remembered this tune.
As he pushed the door to step inside, the trio of fiddlers greeted him to an abrupt silence, ceasing their playing to stare at him. He smiled at them and made his way towards the bar noticing other patrons had stopped their drinking and conversation to glance at who had just entered.
At this point, it suddenly reminded him of those westerns, the stranger wondering into town. Looking around, he hoped there wouldn’t be that other familiar scene to this genre, notably, the gunfight. Monroe was acknowledged by the barman and ordered himself a pint of Stout.
Taking a few sips, he then looked into the mirror behind the bar. Near the door, sat a young unshaven man in a green parka.
Monroe followed the man's stare over to another man in a brown fur jacket sitting at the end of the bar smoking a cigarette. It was a configuration he instantly recognised, a counter-surveillance team. There would be others, he thought, most probably in the other part of the room. This could only mean one thing. He had stumbled into a known watering hole of a local IRA unit. It also meant who he had come to see, might also be here.
Suddenly, hearing a female laugh, his intuition had been correct. Still under scrutiny from the watchers, the South African grabbed his beer and walked to the other side of the pub to follow the cackle, searching out the distinctive long red hair. He soon found her sitting with two men around a small table, and as he expected, she was holding her familiar tipple of Jameson Irish whiskey and Coca Cola on the rocks. ‘Hello Siobhan,’ he smiled.
The girl turned her head, half looking through her locks. ‘Jesus bloody Christ, Phil Munroe,’ said Siobhan Hennessy, in her deep County Down brogue. She stared into his eyes for a few moments, then smiled.
Monroe pulled a stool from an empty table and sat next to her as the girl introduced him to her friends.
The fiddlers started to play again, as if mutually deciding the stranger wasn’t one after all.
Hennessy introduced him. ‘Guys, this is Phil Munroe, he's a South African. He and I go way back. Munroe, this is Patrick and Niall. We all work together.’
Monroe shook hands with the two men. Then one of them looked over at another table gesturing to a big bearded man in a black leather jacket.
‘What brings you to Londonderry then?' she asked.
Munroe took a sip of his beer. ‘Actually, I was hoping to find you.’
The girl smiled. ‘Well, looks like you found me.’ She gave a nervous laugh, then looked over at her companions. As if on cue, they left to sit on another table.
Munroe watched them go, then took on a more serious tone. ‘It’s been a long time.’
She nodded. ‘Too long. Why have you come back?’
‘I need some stuff. Got a big job on back in Africa. I take it you're still in the business?’
Siobhan smiled. ‘Yeah, I'm still in the business. Drink up, Mr Munroe, you can take me for a meal, and we can talk about it.’
Munroe sunk his stout and stood up, followed by the girl.
She walked back over to her friends telling them she would see them later then grabbing her blue denim jacket, walked with Munroe to the exit.
As the door closed, the two friends were approached by the big bearded man, who sat down on the empty seat opposite them. ‘Evening lads, who was the gentleman leaving with Siobhan, then?’
Patrick responded to him. "His name's Monroe, from South Africa, Jimmy-Boy.’
Jimmy-Boy Kerrigan was the commander of the IRA' s 5th Brigade. A notorious soldier of the Cause. He nodded to the two men. ‘What’s he doing here, then?’
Patrick shook his head, informing Kerrigan he didn’t know. ‘He’s an old friend of Siobhan’s.’
The big man grinned. ‘Old friend, eh? Did he say how long he was staying here for?’
Patrick nervously shook his head. ‘No idea, Jimmy-Boy.’
Kerrigan picked up his Guinness. ‘Nice talking to you lads, if you hear anything else about him, you will let me know, won’t you? Can’t be too careful, The last thing we need is strangers poking their noses in, especially after, you know, the royal and what happened at Warrenpoint.’
The two men nodded. This wasn’t a polite request, it was more of an order. They watched as he returned to his table to talk with two other men. They were two men who Patrick and Niall knew well; they were Kerrigan’s men; they were also two men they both made sure they avoided.
Siobhan Hennessy led Munroe across the street to a small restaurant. Stepping inside, she was recognised by the waitress and shown to a table.
The waitress looked her companion up and down. ‘Who’s your friend then, Siobhan?’ The girl gave Munroe an admirable smile.
Siobhan introduced him as she had done to the men back in the pub, then the girl withdrew to fetch the menus. Handing them to them, she asked them for their drinks.
Munroe ordered two large Irish whiskeys.
‘You planning on getting me drunk, Munroe?’ Siobhan teased.
Munroe smirked. ‘Of course, I am.’
Outside the building, one of Kerrigan’s men sat in a parked Ford Escort. His boss had sent him to ‘keep on eye’ on the happy couple. Siobhan was important to the brigade, and the sudden appearance of an outsider had caused alarm bells to ring.
Okay, this man wasn’t a Brit, but there was an uneasiness, a South African should show up in Derry. What was he doing here?
The man lit a cigarette as he gazed through the window at the candlelit room. He was hungry and seeing plates of food being delivered to the tables by the pretty waitress wasn’t helping him. He wondered how long they would be.
Kerrigan had also asked him to report on where they went from here. It was going to be a long night.
5
On the morning ferry to Liverpool, Phillip Munroe sat opposite Siobhan as they ate their fried breakfast washed down with mugs of black coffee.
They had risen early at her flat above an ironmongers overlooking the River Foyle in Bridge Street and while Monroe had showered, she had made a telephone call to a contact in London requesting a meeting with an arms dealer known only as ‘the Libyan’.
The South African had admired how she had greeted the man on the phone in Arabic and had used some more at the end of her conversation.
All was now arranged. At Liverpool, they would be boarding an Inter-City train for Euston, then it would be a short tube ride to Russell Square and the Libyan would be waiting for them at the nearby President Hotel. This was the usual rendezvous for their meetings.
As they made their way to the upper deck for some fresh Irish Sea air, they were both unaware of a man in a navy snorkel jacket who had followed them up the stairs and sat down on a bench on the other side of the deck. Where he sat, gave him a perfect view of the couple as they leant over the rail with their backs to him staring down at the choppy sea and sharing a cigarette. Snorkel jacket also had back up.
A younger man in a red patterned lumber jacket stood at the other end and occasionally, would display discreet gestures to share signals of communication. They both had been given the same brief by Jimmy-Boy Kerrigan, ‘follow them and report on where they end up.’ Both had also been given wallets full of
cash to sustain the cost of pursuit. But what was more important, was they were unknown faces in a crowd, and so long as they kept a reasonable distance, would be able to maintain the required obscurity.
Lumber jacket had decided his colleague had got their targets secure and after a quick signal, went back downstairs to relieve his earlier mug of tea.
Back on the deck, Munroe looked out at the water. ‘Do you still like all this?’ He asked the girl.
Siobhan sniggered. ‘Why, Munroe, are you proposing?’
‘What?’ The South African laughed. ‘No, I was just wondering if you ever thought of giving all this up and maybe settling down, or maybe getting out, permanently?’
The girl chuckled. She turned and looked at him. ‘What, give up the Cause. You’ve got to be joking. The day I give up my country and walk away, is the day I put a bullet in my own brain.’
Munroe tutted. ‘You really are committed, aren’t you, Siobhan?’
She decided not to answer and turned again to look out at the sea. Although irritated, she suddenly started to think about what he had said. Perhaps it was time she considered looking after herself and not hiring out her services anymore, especially to a pig like Kerrigan. She had certainly made enough money, but what would she do? She was already a known face to the RUC and DET, so if she did decide to retire, she would have to change herself. She teased with her long red hair, this would have to go for a start, she thought. It was like walking around with her own flashing beacon and Kerrigan had asked enough times for her to go dark, but this was her natural colour and she didn’t want to lose who she was. A breeze suddenly shot across the open deck, causing her to shudder, and grabbing Munroe’s hand, she ushered him down the steps to go back inside.
Observing this, Kerrigan’s men gestured to one another and got up from their seats to follow. They remembered what Kerrigan had said through the open window of their Morris Marina at his farmhouse, the instructions to them specific, ‘don’t let them out of your sight!’
Inside the ferry, Munroe had purchased two coffees and carried the paper cups to a table where Siobhan was checking the time on her watch. He handed her one and smiled. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be on time for our train.’ He stared out at the sea. ‘This Arab we’re meeting with in London? Does he live there?’
Hennessy shook her head. ‘No, he’s based in Paris. All he has to do is get to Charles De Gaulle and hop on a plane.’
Munroe chuckled. ‘You certainly still have people at your beck and call, don’t you girl?’
Kerrigan’s men sat a few seats away from them, Snorkel jacket tearing up an empty cigarette packet and then stacking the pieces challengingly on top of each other, until the heap toppled over.
Lumber jacket looked out through the window at the approaching British mainland. They were nearing Liverpool; the familiar twin towers of the Liver Building and the other familiar structures along the waterfront of the River Mersey, could clearly be seen.
Forty minutes later at Hamilton Square Station, Munroe opened the carriage door for his female companion, while further back along the platform, Kerrigan’s men waited until the door had closed before making their move to also board the carriage.
On leaving the ferry, they had kept their quarry in view as the couple marched towards the station.
Then, at the station, Snorkel jacket had made a call to inform Kerrigan they were boarding a London train. Now on board, the two men sat down, relieved in knowing if these two were going all the way to the end, they could relax and enjoy the almost three-hour ride to Euston.
At Number 7 Wellesley Mews, Whitehall, Andrew Gable walked up the stairs to the SID office to find Janet Swan retrieving some documents from the filing cabinet. She turned and greeted him, offering him a cup of coffee. Gable leant on the side of his desk and lit a cigarette. He looked over at his chief’s vacant desk. ‘Alex, gone already?’
Janet passed him his coffee and sat down at her desk. ‘John wanted an early meeting this morning. How did things go with you at Honiton Police Station yesterday? Alex told me that he had already worked with the detective in charge of the investigation.’
Gable nodded. ‘That’s right, he did. Inspector Morris told me all about the Black Arrow case on the Isle of Wight. I had no idea, Alex and my Dad once found themselves up against a bunch of old Nazis.’
Janet smiled. ‘You’ll be surprised who they had to deal with before you joined us, Andrew.’
Gable finished his cigarette then walked over to the incident board. ‘Okay, so we have the body of Professor Horace Baines, a biochemist at Porton Down, thrown from the train, his briefcase found open by the guardsman. We must assume some of the documents in the case are missing, most probably highly-sensitive papers on something he worked on.’
He turned to face Janet. ‘Alex and I will need to visit Porton. Can you contact them so that we know who we need to see about Baines?’
Janet made a note on her desk pad. ‘I’ll do that and let you know later. When would you think you and Alex can get down there?’
Gable took his board marker and underlined where Swan had scribbled Porton Down. ‘I think Alex would want to make this a priority. How about tomorrow morning?’
Gable looked at the clock above the board. ‘What time is Alex due back from Thames House?’
Janet checked her diary. ‘About eleven. He wants to go through these old cases before I take them over for the Department Review next month, and anyway, you really don’t want to be near my husband today.’
Gable sensed by her tone things were not good. ‘Why is that?’
Janet let out a sigh. ‘He’s been like a bear with a sore head since coming back from Barnett’s funeral. Even when we visited your mum and dad on Saturday, he hardly said a word.
‘Alex and Howard Barnett were close friends, then?’
She shook her head. ‘Funny enough, Alex hardly mentioned him these past few years. It was all a bit out of the blue, Alex got news he’d passed away. But according to his son, his father had insisted Alex attended.’
‘That’s all a bit strange. And you say Alex seems to be in a bit of a mood?’
Janet sipped her coffee. ‘That’s an understatement, Andrew. I can’t seem to reach him. Perhaps you can?’
Gable was now worried. This didn’t sound like his chief at all. ‘When he comes back, I’ll have a word with him for you.’ He walked over to her. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll try and get to the bottom of it, whatever it is.’
6
In an office on the third floor of Thames House, Swan sat across from John Stratton discussing the Baines case.
The MI5 Officer had succeeded Swan when he had left to form SID, and for a while due to the close resemblance of their work, their relationship had been tense, but as the years progressed, they found themselves having to work more and more in collaboration, and over this time had also become good friends.
Stratton nursed a cup of tea, while pondering his thoughts. ‘Baines had Level 4 clearance at Porton, Alex, which makes him quite a VIP in my book.’
Swan agreed. Whatever the reason he was killed, it had something to do with his work, that is certain. ‘Andrew and I need to be visiting Porton in the next few days to establish what he was doing there. As he was a biochemist, I’m beginning to think it was on something which could turn out to be a bit on the nasty side. After all, we both know what really goes on at the place, the business with the anthrax spores for instance.’
Stratton nodded. ‘Indeed, but it’s all for the greater good, Alex!’
Swan rolled his eyes. Yes, John, but who’s?’
‘You may have a point there, I suppose. So, your usually good with your theories, what’s your take on all this?’
Swan paused to light a cigarette, realising it had been his third since sitting down in the chair. He was sure Stratton had noticed it too. ‘Until we can establish what Baines was working on, I don’t have an answer.’ They concluded their meeting, Swan promising to keep Stratton
informed following a visit to Porton.
On leaving Thames House, he now had to find some time to look into Butterfly. Before meeting with Stratton, he toyed with telling him about the late Howard Barnett’s letter, but then decided this was something he needed to tackle alone. At this point, he would even keep it from his associate. As he walked along Millbank, he knew the first thing to do was to contact this reporter and arrange a meeting. A Buccaneer is a big aircraft, there was no way it could just easily disappear into thin air. But the question burning into his head was not just how it disappeared, but why?
*
Inside the foyer of the President Hotel, Munroe and Hennessy sat opposite a well-dressed man of Arab descent.
Sahid Al Ramir had flown into Heathrow and got a taxi from the airport to the Savoy Hotel in The Strand. He had always enjoyed these little trips to London to conduct his business, a business which would normally result in death. He glanced across at his contact, disappointed to see she was differently dressed to their usual meetings where in place of her jeans, black leather jacket and boots, she would normally be immaculate from head to toe in a dress and heels, making him fantasise about what he could do with her if he booked a room here; even her hair was worn in a different way he was usually excited to see; instead of being tied up into an elegant bouffant, today she wore it down. It also looked as though a comb had not been through it in days. Yes, he disapproved of the way she had met him today. Then, there was this man she was sitting with, having in the past always done business with her alone. Who was he and why was she with him? Ramir decided to be cautious. This could easily be a dangerous trap laid by the British Security Services.
Hennessy had started off their meeting by introducing the South African, however the origins of this man had still not relaxed the Libyan’s curiosity. He was suddenly aware of a commotion behind him.
