Home Front

by Thomas Waugh

  16.

  The following day Mullen paid an inordinately expensive lawyer to counsel him to agree to any settlement that his wife’s lawyer proposed.

  “Whatever is on the table will be a better scenario to the dangers of contesting the settlement. You may need to give your wife half of your estate - or risk her taking it all. By all means hide what assets you can - but hide them well if you do.”

  The terrorist’s instinct was to fight, but the strategy would have to be one of appeasement and consolidation. His wife would have the choice as to whether she took the house in Ireland or sold it. The “harpy” would likely demand a large lump sum, as well as act as a weeping sore by securing a monthly maintenance sum. Divorce proceedings should not turn into court proceedings. Further dirty laundry would be aired. Mullen judged that if he could circumvent his wife’s lawyer and speak to her directly, he might be able to negotiate a more favourable settlement. His lawyer, who charged nine hundred pounds an hour (excluding VAT), understandably suggested that all correspondence should go through his office.

  A different - but equally expensive - lawyer advised the statesman not to initiate legal action against any of the media, regarding the recent allegations. The damage was already done, and the lawyer delicately explained how it was unlikely that any action or injunction would succeed, because the allegations could be substantiated.

  At the same time as Mullen was meeting with his lawyers, Duggan tried to get on the front foot. He first visited his cousin’s flat. There was a distinct lack of evidence indicating that Nolan had planned to go on the run. Duggan found his passport in a bedside table drawer and a large roll of twenty-pound notes in a Celtic FC coffee mug. His clothes, as well as other possessions, were all present and accounted for. Duggan proceeded to pop into a couple of local pubs to ask after his cousin. They mentioned that they had last scene him a couple of days ago.

  “Was everything normal with him?” Duggan asked.

  “Well, he was drunk, if you could call that normal,” one landlord replied, shrugging his shoulders whilst serving the tough-looking Irishman a pint of Guinness.

  Following his employer’s strict instruction, Duggan also visited Josephine’s apartment building before returning to the office. He pulled out a few notes from Nolan’s roll of cash and paid the concierge to grant him access to the escort’s flat. There was a distinct wealth of evidence suggesting that Josephine had absconded – and would not be returning any time soon. The question was whether she was still in the capital or not. And would his employer think good riddance - or be obsessed with locating her? The Head of Security already believed that the escort had turned his friend’s head too much. Women had always been Mullen’s weakness. The whore had proved to be more trouble than she was worth. During the Troubles, the lieutenant was on constant alert, mindful that the security services could arrange a honey trap to compromise the senior IRA figure. As a young soldier, as Duggan deemed himself, he possessed a blind faith in his commander. He believed that Mullen could be a new Michael Collins. But Duggan had watched his mentor grow old. He had served closely enough with him to observe all his foibles and failures. The staunch republican now served under Mullen because he paid his wages. If Duggan was ordered to find the escort, he would do so with little zeal. Let the bitch stay hidden.

  As the Irish enforcer sat in the back of the cab, glowering at Britain and the British out of the window, he envisioned catching up with the person behind the leak. He would put a single bullet in his head. The punishment for an informant. Duggan would be more than willing - it would be a pleasure - to torture the culprit beforehand. He licked his lips and his stony expression briefly cracked at the prospect. It was an art form, or science, to torture a man to within an inch of his life. It was like dangling a man over a precipice and then pulling him back at the last moment, only to repeat the process again and again. Duggan grunted to himself, more than once, in the back of the vehicle. He craved another Guinness, or something stronger. He sniffed and snorted, keen to scratch the itch of being violent, for violence’s sake.

  When the Head of Security returned to the office, he ran another sweep for any listening devices. Just after he did so Caitlin walked in, to pass on a message to her employer.

  “Not now,” Mullen barked, flashing his jaundiced teeth.

  The unfairly chastised secretary returned to her desk and resumed her search for a new job.

  Duggan sat down, after daring to pour himself a large Bushmills, and proceeded to update his employer. There were still more questions than answers, frustratingly.

  “It’s looking unlikely that Nolan is behind all this, or that he’s working for someone else. But let us just pretend that he has fucked us over. He would still have a copy of the video he made - and sent you on the night when we dealt with Foster. Why hasn’t he been in touch to blackmail you over the video?”

  “Maybe he realises that if he released the video, he would be incriminating himself. The footage would damage him more than me. I can deny involvement still, but he has a starring role,” Mullen posed. “But you’re probably right. It doesn’t fit that Nolan is behind all this shit. The question is, if your cousin was taken - does the bastard who took him have a copy of the video? Would they not have passed it onto the police or press by now? Or been in touch to blackmail me?”

  “We could be dealing with the scenario that Nolan deleted the video, or whoever disappeared him accidentally disposed of the phone. You might be lucky.”

  “I don’t feel that lucky at the moment. If I fell in a bed of roses at the moment, I’d come up smelling of shit. But you might be right.”

  Mullen got to his feet and moved to the window. He could see but not hear the gaggle of press outside the entrance to the building through the bulletproof glass. Should he have opened the window and stuck out his head then Mullen would have seen a couple of TV trucks decamped down the street. He peered down, his chubby features curdling with contempt, and gnawed on his nicotine-stained fingernails. The litigious terrorist has scoured the newspapers - print and online articles - hoping to find something libellous and actionable. He wanted to hurt them, silence them, sue them, if he could. But, for once, there was no fake news, as they brought up both his past and present sins. Mullen was still keen to get his own story out there. Perhaps he could reach out to Toynbee. He would probably be able to run a sympathetic, counter narrative in The Guardian. He could hint at a government conspiracy. Or the enemies of the peace process could be implicated. He could throw some red meat to his supporters and attack Boris Johnson. He just needed a journalist he could trust. He was more likely to find an honest politician.

  Vultures.

  The same people he had fed stories and leaks to were now feeding off him.

  Parasites.

  Earlier on in the day the hounded MP had barged through the throng of clicking cameras and badgering questions.

  “No comment… Fake news,” Mullen had said, whilst wishing he could tear off all the camera lenses pointing in his direction.

  The crime boss, not averse to being part of a kleptocracy, thought of the hourly rate his lawyer was charging him again and glowered through the window, as if his eyes were trying to burn a hole through the thick glass. If his sins were somehow catching up to him, the statesman was willing to sin some more if it meant avoiding his fate and defeating his enemies.

  “It’s the end of the world as we know it.

  I feel fine.”

  An eighties music shuffle played in the background as Marshal cradled a large brandy and sat on the sofa. He closed his eyes, tired from being glued to a laptop screen, and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping the gesture would fend off a headache. He smoked a cigarette, not caring if he drifted off to sleep, burned his home down and died. He thought of Grace, which seemed to both soothe and stress his soul at the same time. On more than one occasion Marshal and Grace had stayed home for the evening, listening to music they wanted to share, whilst drinking to their heart
’s content – and making love afterwards. They would pick a decade, artist or genre and create a playlist for one another. Often, they would listen to country music. Marshal would put together a selection including Hank Williams, Jimmie Rodgers and Glen Campbell. As with other things, Grace helped bring Marshal up to date, introducing him to more modern artists. They both loved Dolly Parton. They were only human. He would have given up almost anything to be with Grace now, her body warming his on the sofa. Almost anything. Marshal could not give up his promise to kill John Mullen.

  Let him sweat, Marshal thought, as he resisted the urge to contact his target and initiate the next phase of his plan. Once he ended Mullen’s life he could get back to his own. Get back with Grace. But work still needed to be done, in relation to intelligence gathering. After resting his eyes, Marshal ran another search on Mullen, to measure the damage done already. The Irishman’s wife had initiated divorce proceedings, which would help break the bank rather than her husband’s heart. The party had suspended the veteran statesman. Further inquiries would be launched. Most political careers end in failure. However, Mullen’s fall would be greater than others. Marshal watched the clip once more on the news of Mullen’s arriving at his offices that morning. The once self-confident, self-important Sinn Fein stalwart appeared riled and distressed. He looked like he needed a drink, or already had had one too many. The more misery Mullen experienced, the better. But there was still a coffin-shaped hole in Marshal’s breast. The soldier would not rest until one of them was in the ground. Every day that Mullen lived was an affront to decency. He was a black cloud in an otherwise grey sky. Every day that Mullen lived was a reminder that Marshal had failed to keep his promise.

  “Working hard to get my fill

  Everybody wants a thrill

  Payin’ anything to roll the dice

  Just one more time

  Some will win, some will lose

  Some were born to sing the blues.”

  Marshal stubbed out another cigarette, balancing it on top of the others, funeral pyre-like, in the ashtray. He heard a dog bark outside a few times. For a moment he thought it sounded like Violet, Porter’s mongrel. Marshal mused how he would have liked to have seen the ebullient dog, but not necessarily her owner. He recalled the week when he and Grace had looked after Violet when Porter and his wife had been on holiday. It struck Marshal how he could not remember a more enjoyable, contented week in his life. They had behaved like a young, married couple. He had not been as happy in the army, nor during his carefree days as a bachelor, when he had smoked to his lung’s content.

  Marshal checked his phone again for a message from Grace. Nothing. The screen was obdurately blank, like a broken TV. The dull ache swirled and swelled, like hunger pangs.

  17.

  Marshal woke. Another day. Another dolour.

  For a moment he believed that if he rolled over, he might see Grace lying beside him.

  He felt like he was no longer laughing at life. Rather, life was laughing, scornfully, at him. His tongue felt furry and fat, lying in his mouth like a lazy cat. He wanted to drink both a bottle of water and a bottle of mouthwash, after the previous night’s bout of cigarettes and alcohol.

  Thankfully, or not, Marshal still felt the itch to assassinate Mullen. Revenge still flickered in his eyes, like a flame, shortly after he woke. A dull ache still gnawed at his innards - yet the feeling nourished him at the same time. He showered and smoked and then took out his gun. He cleaned the Glock 21 once more, as if to prove his mettle - to himself and an onlooking Foster - that he was still sincere in fulfilling his vow. The paratrooper was ready for anything. Ready for action, like Hamlet after returning from his voyage to England.

  Marshal gripped the loaded pistol. He - and the weapon - were a coiled spring. Sooner or later, both would need to be unleashed. The soldier was tempted to take the weapon with him, as he reconnoitred the area of the offices in Mornington Crescent. He flirted with the prospect of accidentally bumping into Mullen and his Head of Security in a side street. Gunning them down.

  The soldier remembered the second time he had killed someone, in Helmand province. He was taking part in a routine patrol of a village, after delivering a consignment of aid. The aid workers, from DFID, with their typical “can’t do” attitude, had called their union and refused to leave the camp to deliver the supplies. They cited that the temperature was too hot to work in, but really they considered leaving the compound too dangerous. Marshal was accompanied by a young squaddie, Billy Turney, from Wolverhampton. Turney was still fresh-faced, with cherubic features - but he swore like the devil. He had followed his older brother into the army. He was hoping to make some money and learn a trade - and to buy a house in the Midlands and marry his sweetheart, Melanie. Turney was just a month into his tour, still excited and anxious in equal measure. One day he was expecting to take part in a movie-like firefight, the next he was half-paralysed with fear, expecting to be fired upon at any moment. Marshal recalled how the youth’s family used to send him regular care packages, filled with fruit flavoured vape capsules, Andy McNab paperbacks and boxes of Liquorice Allsorts. Turney was mid-swear word, talking about Gordon Brown, when the two men walked around into a side street and encountered two Afghanis. The first, wearing a kaftan, was as young and fresh-faced as Turney. Abdul. He was carrying a school satchel over his shoulder, with wires spilling out of it. In his right hand he carried an old hunting rifle. The second man, Hamid, was older, with an unkempt beard. His claw-like fingers gripped a Kalashnikov, with some Arabic script scrawled into the wooden stock. The older man was mentoring the younger on setting an IED. The encounter was happenstance. Time stood still, and for a moment the world no longer seemed to spin on its axis. But for only a moment. The older men reacted before the younger. Hamid raised his rifle, intending to cut down both infidels with a brief spray of bullets. Killing was Allah’s work - and he was a good Muslim, he believed. The veteran Taliban soldier was quick. But not quick enough. Marshal, as if realising he was taking part in a gunfight, was faster on the draw. His weapon came to life, yet he tamed its wriggling report. He didn’t hesitate, and he didn’t miss. Three small plumes of smoke exhaled out of Hamid’s chest. Abdul remained paralysed with shock. As wide-eyed as a doll. Seemingly innocent. His weapon appeared limp in his hands. Marshal could have apprehended the enemy. The adolescent could have been a source of intelligence, concerning the Taliban forces in the area. Abdul could have been reasoned with. Emancipated. Marshal only expended a solitary bullet, fired into his throat, to take out the youth. His expression was the soul of dispassion. Turney glanced at his fellow paratrooper, as if he were a stranger. Blood freckled the sandy ground.

  “I am not usually given to quoting or agreeing with Keynes, but in the long run we are all dead,” Marshal remarked, when someone asked him why he killed the young Afghan, as opposed to allow him to surrender.

  Marshal mentored the squaddie for a while. He taught him how to control his emotions, instead of letting his emotions control him. He advised him on how to best rehydrate and conserve energy in the unforgiving heat. He gave him a few books – Lee Child, Steven Saylor and Richard Foreman – to read. He taught him how to shoot. To kill. Unfortunately, Turney suffered an injury - from an IED - and returned home, shortly before his tour was due to end. The last Marshal had heard, he was trying to get together the money to set-up a small courier business in Wolverhampton.

  Marshal envisioned encountering his current enemies in a side street, from happenstance or otherwise. He would be happy for his target to suffer the same fate as the Taliban he had killed. More than happy.

  It was a fine day, far sunnier than his mood. Marshal sat in the coffeeshop across from the main entrance to Mullen’s office building, casually reading a newspaper. The news was dull or depressing, intended to polarise and provoke. Human interest stories held little interest, though. Marshal regretted not bringing a book along, though he feared being too engrossed and not focussing on the task at han
d.

  Mullen pulled up in his black Lexus, just half a dozen yards from the doorway to the building. The pugnacious-looking driver was more than just a driver. He was a former paramilitary. Armed. Dangerous. Duggan exited the vehicle first. He surveyed the street, before accompanying Mullen inside. Marshal noted how they were met with another member of their security detail in the lobby of the glass-fronted ground floor. Mullen’s offices took up the entire top floor of the converted municipal building. Attempting to storm the castle and confront his targets in the lobby, or on the upper floor, was not an option. Marshal was conscious of not wanting to put any civilians in a potential crossfire.

  An hour later Duggan left the building, on his own. He paced up and down the street, fidgeting whilst talking on the phone. Marshal noted the bulge from the gun beneath his suit jacket. Ten minutes later he was met by an ill-dressed, lank-haired teenager on a bicycle. With little ceremony Duggan handed over a few notes, in exchange for the youth giving him a bag or two of cocaine. Blink and one would have missed the transaction. Marshal rolled his eyes. He briefly wondered if Duggan’s habit was making him more paranoid than usual - and if that was a good or bad thing in relation to the task at hand. Marshal mused that Porter was right. Any plan to kill Mullen needed to factor in Duggan. He would need to get past, or go through, the brutal enforcer. Marshal also did not want to look over his shoulder after killing Mullen, lest the loyal lieutenant took it upon himself to track down his friend’s executioner, as Marshal had avenged Foster’s death.

  Duggan went back inside. Marshal checked a few news feeds and came a across a couple of reports that Mullen was planning to return to Belfast at the end of the week, “to resolve mounting personal and professional issues”. The news was a call to arms. Marshal could not afford to let his target fall out of sight. A formidable task would be made doubly difficult if he had to pursue Mullen into unfamiliar territory. His name might be flagged up to the likes of Coulson if he travelled to Belfast and the suspect in Foster’s murder was assassinated there. Mullen could even disappear altogether after settling various affairs in Belfast. The chances of locking his target into his sights would recede like the tide and he would, Cnut-like, be powerless to prevent it.