Home Front

by Thomas Waugh

  There was still time to fold. But the gambler would raise - go all in. Marshal was around ten minutes away from his end point. Or endgame. He would walk through some backstreets. The route was longer, but the CCTV cameras were fewer. He went over a few things in his mind again, recalling the various escape routes. He rehearsed his lines if, somehow, he was apprehended by the police. He remembered the smoke grenades in his bag, to be used should he need a distraction to cover his retreat. He recalled the locations where he could potentially drop the bag. He had handled the contents whilst wearing latex gloves and made sure that no hair follicles had accidentally fallen into the bag. His inner eye pored over the images of Duggan’s security personnel, as if viewing a book of mugshots. Watchers could be lining his route. The question, which might soon be answered, was would they recognise him?

  People yammered into their phones, or hypnotically stared at the screens. Couriers and takeaway delivery drivers still zipped by him. Cars clogged up the arteries of the road. London still throbbed and thrummed, but there were few tourists or schoolchildren in the area. The streets were relatively quiet. The exodus of office workers was still an hour or so away.

  His forehead itched, but Marshal resisted the temptation to remove his cap. His palms perspired. His heart pounded, in harmony with his footsteps on the dark grey pavement. The skies grew more funereal. Sepulchral. He felt naked, exposed, without his gun in his hand. Helmand could be considered safer, compared to the potential kill zone he was advancing into. Into the valley of death. Marshal could not quite decide if he was quoting Tennyson or scripture. He could not quite decide if he should picture Grace, his grandfather, Foster or Mullen before he turned into the relevant street – like a condemned man trying to decide on his last meal.

  At least it will soon be over, one way or another.

  The breeze swirled a little, but would not factor into the shot, Sean Duggan judged. The round had been chambered. He rubbed his stubbled cheek against the sniper rifle, like a cat affectionately rubbing against its master, and flexed the hand containing his trigger finger. The weapon had never misfired, jammed or let him down. People let you down. Never a well-maintained rifle. The stock of the sniper rifle, replete with suppressor, was nestled in his shoulder. The violent zealot licked his lips. His heart pounded in anticipation of the shot. The kill. The adrenaline rush rivalled any bout of lust or a drug high. He checked his watch, again.

  Soon.

  “Just don’t fucking miss,” Mullen had ordered that morning, wagging a finger in the air.

  “I didn’t miss with Byrne. I won’t miss this bastard either. He’s so fucking full of himself, he’s got such a big head, that the target will loom large,” Duggan replied, whilst carefully cleaning the rifle’s sight.

  Mullen nodded and smiled a little, recalling the death of Byrne. Duggan had called him after the shot. Mullen immediately looked out of his office window and down at the corpse. Blood, brain, flesh and bone decorated the pavement, as Duggan’s bullet had torn half his head off. Blood began to ooze out of the well-attired cadaver too, like oil leaking from a sump. Passers-by understandably fled, whilst screaming. He remembered one witness shout, “God, no!” God, yes, Mullen had thought in return, eminently satisfied. An opponent had been removed from the game. It had been a good day. Hopefully, today would be too, the Irishman mused.

  The enforcer wore a grey tracksuit, to blend in with the colour of the roof on the opposite building to their office block. The ledge on the roof was wide and he could lay down. The roof was also slightly higher than surrounding structures. The vantage point looked down slightly on his building. He would be firing down on his target at a pronounced, but far from impossible angle. A pair of Canon All Weather binoculars sat next to the sniper. He could just about make out who was coming and going from the foyer of the building with the naked eye, but he would use the binoculars to spot any prospective target approaching. His phone also lay in reach too. Mullen had instructed the sniper to call him as soon as he had taken the shot. Or not. Similarly, his man inside the foyer had been briefed to call Duggan should someone approach the reception and collect the briefcase. The blackmailer could well have a team of associates. More than one target could enter the foyer too. Duggan knew from first-hand experience that criminals should not altogether be trusted.

  The sniper increasingly believed that he was dealing with a lone wolf, though. He had pored over various intelligence files the evening before. He was doubtful that his target could be a rogue paramilitary - Catholic or Protestant - who had a grievance against his paymaster, but he nevertheless did his due diligence. Duggan also examined photographs of John Foster’s associates in the army, who were willing and able to act against them – including the ex-Paratrooper he drank with on the day of his abduction. His nephew had taken a picture of the Brit on his phone. If the former soldier somehow proved to be their lone wolf, the hunter would soon become prey.

  A few silhouettes flitted past the frosted glass, but Mullen had given strict instructions for no one to enter and disturb him. His staff would be worried about their jobs. They should be, he thought.

  There was a scenario where the blackmailer successfully took the money, avoided Duggan’s crosshairs and disappeared, never to be heard of again, as he promised. There was also a scenario where the blackmailer’s courier was taken out by his sniper. The violent act might give the blackmailer pause. He needed to realise that he was dealing with a big beast in the jungle. Mullen had already instructed his Head of Security to reach out to certain contacts, to obtain intelligence on their enemy. Once they had a name, they could look to secure justice. It had taken over three decades for Mullen to carry out his revenge against the guilty party who had murdered his son. Hopefully, vengeance would come sooner, in relation to his current opponent.

  Mullen swivelled back and forth in his chair with metronomic regularity. He tapped his finger on his mouse, as if he were sending a telegram in the Old West.

  Duggan was in position.

  Soon.

  His screen flashed, alerting the politician to a new email. It had been forwarded on by Caitlin. He did not care now whether she wore a trouser suit or not. The message informed him of another cancellation for a speaking engagement. He had been booked in to speak to a congregation in Dublin. Even the Catholic Church now judged him as being toxic.

  A few blue pills, in a tiny plastic packet, sat on the desk. They prompted Mullen to click on another window on the screen, displaying an array of high-end escorts. It was time to shop for a new mistress, for tonight or longer. He needed a distraction, release, from various problems. The girl would need to be discrete. Under forty. His preference was for someone Irish, or at least not British. His mouth hung open as he devoured the glamorous images. Drool might well have run down his chin at any moment. Mullen felt a slight pang when he scrolled down and noticed “Satin”, a Polish escort who resembled Josephine. He was tempted to call his former lover once more. If he could just talk to Josephine, even for five minutes. The statesman believed he was sufficiently charming or intimidating to cause a change of heart in the woman. He missed her. He would even be willing to offer his mistress more money to be with him.

  A burner phone lay next to the Viagra. Duggan could call at any moment. Mullen had watched the video of Foster’s torture and execution again, the previous evening. As compromising as the video was, it might not be completely damning. The former terrorist could, just about, claim plausible deniability. Nolan had not mentioned his involvement during the gruesome clip. His alibi would still count for something. Nolan was, most likely, dead. Without a witness for the prosecution to link the statesman to the murder, the case would flounder. It was a gamble - to take out the blackmailer at the risk of the video being released - but one worth taking. Again, the authorities would consider him the prime suspect, but there would be no concrete evidence to charge him for the man’s murder. His reputation would be in tatters, but Mullen currently had little to lose on that fron
t. With his political career over, he reasoned that he would be freer to return to certain criminal and terrorist activities. His ruin could be the making of him. If his wife met with an accident, Mullen would have the funds to rebuild too, sooner rather than later.

  Marshal wiped his palm on his trousers, in anticipation of pulling out his gun. Ready for anything. Even now, it was not too late to turn back. Although he did not regret writing any suicide note - before looking to complete his suicide mission - Marshal did feel a wave of remorse in not writing a letter to Grace. But what’s done is done. Marshal quickened his pace even more. He refused to walk with leaden footsteps, like a condemned man approaching the gallows. His heart thumped, as if each beat were powerful enough to hammer a nail into a coffin. Porter had, at one point, called him “mad”, after pursuing his course of action and revealing his plan. Marshal replied, with a half-smile:

  “I am but mad north-north-west.”

  Nothing is good or bad but thinking makes it so.

  His heart felt as black and hard as the asphalt beneath his feet.

  Mullen wiped his sweaty palm, before picking up the phone and answering it.

  “I got the bastard. I recognised him. He served with Foster. I took him out before he could even get to the offices. Do yourself a favour and look out the window, to your right. I have to go now,” the sniper said, a little breathlessly, before his boss could even offer him a word of thanks. Mullen could forgive his lieutenant for wanting to quickly abscond and leave the building opposite through the rear entrance.

  Mullen puffed out his cheeks and thanked God - or congratulated himself on the success of his bold plan. The “Big Man” could still be judged as such. The Irishman looked like a happy Brendan Gleeson, his face flush with joy and booze. Mullen wondered whether there would be a crowd forming around the body, or if people would be fleeing. No doubt the police would question him, in relation to the assassination, but the politician would bat any questions away like flies. A wave of relief and triumph ran through him. It felt something akin to a religious experience. A Holy Spirit.

  He took a sip of Bushmills, slapped the desk, and got to his feet. Mullen flipped the catches on the large windows, weighed down by the thick glass. The sun was coming out. The grey clouds were dissipating, like butter melting in a pan. It was going to be a glorious afternoon.

  21.

  Mullen lifted the window up, thrust his head out and looked to the right. For a moment he felt confused. And then he felt nothing. The bullet smashed through the bridge of his nose and exploded through the back of his skull, as if he were being punched squarely in the face by a god.

  Marshal didn’t hesitate and he didn’t miss. He had gambled on Duggan being posted on the building opposite, similar to the hit on Tom Byrne. The gamble paid off. He was dressed in a balaclava when he surprised Duggan on the roof, whose focus was on the street below. Marshal wore latex gloves, as he gripped the Glock.

  Duggan spat out a curse in Gaelic. Marshal didn’t know what he was saying, he just sensed that it wasn’t particularly flattering. The enforcer complied, when Marshal instructed him to remove the weapon, replete with suppressor, from his shoulder holster and toss it towards him. Up close, Marshal fancied that Duggan resembled a ginger, humourless Desperate Dan. He noticed a tattoo of a Celtic cross on his neck. The ink was the same colour as the burst blood vessels on his nose and cheeks. Duggan was torn between two thoughts/expressions. He looked like he wanted to kill the man in front of him - but not be killed by him too. He was more defeated than defiant though. Even cocaine would have failed to lift his mood. If the shooter had not fired already, though, there was a chance he could still live.

  “I am not here for you, I’m here for Mullen. He was the one who ultimately pulled the trigger on Foster,” Marshal said, his voice as hard as titanium. “If I was intending to kill you, I would not be wearing a balaclava.” It was another beautiful lie, which Duggan saw the logic of. Perhaps because he wanted to believe it so much. “Follow my instructions and you will get to walk away from this. But I will pull the trigger on you, if you fail to comply - or if you bore me.”

  If Duggan got the blackmailer’s joke at the end, it did not prompt him laugh. The enforcer squinted in the sunlight and glanced up at his enemy. The Brit bastard. Duggan looked into his eyes and recognised a fellow killer. He wasn’t bluffing. Even the most ardent zealot will be gripped by pragmatism and rationality when someone is holding a gun to their head. Self-preservation would be sovereign over his loyalty to his friend. The two men had been through a lot together over the years, but that did not mean that they had to die together.

  “Why the fuck are you doing this?” Duggan asked, his voice rough with resentment - as if he were gargling bile.

  “I wanted bad things to happen to bad people. Now call your boss and read out what’s on this piece of paper,” Marshal replied, whilst retrieving the note from his pocket and handing it to Duggan.

  The Head of Security made the call. Simmering and cowed at the same time. His eyes flitted back and forth between the paper and the Glock, hovering a yard away from his face.

  “I got the bastard. I recognised him…”

  As soon as Duggan ended the call, Marshal picked up his opponent’s weapon and, without a word being said, spat out a round into the enforcer’s temple from just a few inches away. Death preserved the look of astoundment on his expression. The was a flicker of emotion from the shooter, for the duration of the report of the gun, but then it was over. Foster would have nodded his head in approval, his friend imagined. Marshal felt like he was finally atoning for his sins. He did not even the need the round chambered in his own gun. Using Duggan’s pistol would add more weight to the narrative of a murder suicide, he reasoned.

  Marshal quickly lay down, checked the rifle was ready to fire, and moved the crosshairs into position. The butt of the weapon slotted into his shoulder, like a dovetail joint. The window opened. Mullen’s head appeared, as bulbous as a melon, through the sight. The shooter could even make out the liver spots on his forehead. Marshal took a breath, squeezed the trigger, and breathed out. The sudden recoil took him back to Helmand. But only for a second.

  Caitlin heard a strange, disturbing sound come from Mullen’s office. The secretary had been given strict orders not to disturb her boss, however, and was unable to see anything through the frosted glass.

  Marshal descended the deserted stairway briskly, removing the balaclava and latex gloves. He reversed his jacket and donned a different baseball cap, which he retrieved from his bag. The sun had come out. It was going to be a glorious afternoon.

  22. Epilogue.

  Marshal was tempted to pack a bag and leave the country for a month, the day after the killings. He was confident that his plan had worked, but he still understandably imagined that he could receive a knock on the door at any moment. Man plans, God laughs. He reasoned, though, that he might draw suspicion to himself by leaving the country, where an absence of suspicion currently existed.

  Thankfully, there was no knock at the door. And if guilt or grief still knocked on his door at night, then they did so less vigorously. Marshal was content. He had kept his word. Kept his honour.

  The news reported that Sean Duggan, for reasons yet unknown, had assassinated his employer, John Mullen. He then turned his gun on himself. The violent killings were billed as the news story of the year, for a week.

  Marshal was determined to carry on as normal. He had a drink and watched some football at The Tap-In with Paul. The following evening, he had a curry with Chef, Mike and Yohann. They even played some poker. Marshal didn’t bluff - and he didn’t win. Things were returning to normal. Was his “normal” life one with or without Grace, however?

  When questioned about events, Mary Mullen, clasping a set of rosary beads, diplomatically commented that her husband was now in a better place. Privately, the churchgoer was unsure whether even God could forgive the depraved murderer and adulterer for his sins. Mary called h
er accountant first upon hearing the tragic news, and then she called the local funeral directors to make the requisite arrangements. She chose the cheapest casket. She was also mindful of keeping the service small and not allowing the television cameras in, because her husband would have wanted the opposite.

  Teresa Mullen took centre stage for the media after her father’s dramatic murder. She was angry (although some of the anger was confected) and demanded justice. “My father had his faults, but he did not deserve to die... He was a fine Irishman, who believed in peace and a united Ireland.” She wanted to find out the truth, if her father’s death was linked to a conspiracy or cover-up. She hinted that her father was a victim of “the British establishment”, but could not be any clearer, or vaguer, when questioned about her assertions. Teresa Mullen was willing to do anything to get justice for her father, including charging a fee for every interview and press conference she took part in. Allan Boyle first offered his sympathies, on behalf of Sinn Fein, before offering Teresa Mullen the opportunity to run for her father’s seat in the forthcoming by-election. She looked good on camera and a number of focus-groups responded positively to her “authenticity”. “She is like the Irish Liz Truss or Esther McVey,” one focus group member argued. Although “Mullen” was not altogether a name the public could trust, it did have name recognition, which carried nearly equal currency for the party hierarchy (albeit some of the female members of the Sinn Fein seemed less keen on the telegenic woman’s candidacy).