Deadly Intent

by Iain Cameron

  One of the officers reached down and snatched the passport he held in his hand. Flicking through the pages he stopped at one and nodded to his mate. They both leaned over, grabbed an arm each, and hauled the man to his feet.

  ‘I must protest–’

  ‘Listen pal, if you don’t shut up and come with us, we’ll handcuff you. And let me tell you, there’s plenty of people here with camera phones. You’ll be the toast of social media before we reach the interview room.’

  He glanced around the departure lounge for perhaps the first time, and visibly shrank when he saw all the faces turned towards him, including kids standing or lying over the back of seats, hanging on to every word. He turned to the burly officers and nodded. They walked out, a man who had a key part in trying to start a civil war in Ireland walking quietly between them.

  ‘That’s what happens when you don’t pay your child maintenance,’ the guy beside Matt said to his wife.

  ‘Nah, it’s way more serious than that,’ Matt said. ‘He’s ten days late renewing his Road Tax.’

  **

  On arrival at Dublin Airport, Matt walked into a secure area where a couple of security guys with severe expressions on their faces returned his Glock. Their sour looks and lack of response to Matt’s pleasantries suggested they were annoyed about something, perhaps it was the thought of an armed HSA agent running around their beautiful country.

  He picked up his hire car and drove away from the airport perimeter. A short while later, he joined the M50 ring road. Traffic was heavy and reminiscent of back home and the M25. From the ring road he headed for the M4 going west. If the previous road felt no different from those in England, this one was designed to ease him down to the slow heartbeat of local life, with its clear lanes and long straights. It was motorway most of the way, no doubt because Galway was such a tourist magnet for anglers, walkers, and holidaymakers. For a man well used to sitting idle for long periods on roads around London, this made a welcome change, and for the first time in many weeks he relaxed behind the wheel.

  Many of the signposts he passed: Kildare, Athlone, Kilconnell, rang bells in his memory, from songs his mother would sing, her stories about the ‘old country’ and because he kept up with Irish news on the web. He didn’t recognise anything he saw because he was too young to remember, not because it had changed, for outside the larger villages and towns the acres of fields, trees and grass looked as though they hadn’t altered much in centuries.

  He drove into Galway town at two-fifteen. He parked the car and wandered around for a spell, updating his vision of Ireland, filled with his mother’s stories of horse-drawn wagons, children wearing rags with no shoes on their feet, and colourful tinker’s caravans occupying every available stretch of green. Perhaps it was a bit of her early Alzheimer’s kicking in, as he suspected those memories belonged to an earlier age, perhaps handed down from Matt’s grandmother.

  He avoided looking into any well-known high street eateries, preferring to go somewhere local, and settled for McSwiggan’s Bar and Restaurant on Eyre Street. He selected the barbecued chicken, but didn’t wash it down with beer as he was tempted to do. The next stage of his journey would take him on roads that would not be as wide and straight as those he’d just driven on, so a clear head was a prerequisite.

  When he left Galway and it didn’t take long before he realised he’d been right about the roads, as this one soon shrunk down to a single carriageway. It wasn’t all bad as his slower speed gave him a chance to look at the countryside. He took time to observe any communities he passed: the stoic houses looking out over endless fields, the village centres surviving on what he didn’t know, and churches popping up in the least expected places.

  The county of Galway faced the Atlantic, almost as far west as any point in the UK or Ireland. As a consequence, it rained at lot, evidenced by the lush grass and the numerous loughs he passed. People who visited here often said it reminded them of Scotland. He hadn’t been to Scotland enough times to form a judgement, but any Scottish television programmes he’d seen could easily have been filmed in the surrounding countryside.

  He arrived in Cleggan, his ultimate destination, with mixed feelings. He drove through the village and turned down the road towards the jetty, the place where his mother and father did much of their courting. In the life of this small village, here was the central hub, the movements of boats in and out of the jetty an integral part of the day-time entertainment. At night, this honour passed to one of the pubs, either the one overlooking the jetty, or the one he saw on the road on the way in.

  He drove away from the jetty and, using childhood memories, ‘grandfather’s farm is about half a mile outside the village on the right,’ he headed in that direction. He drove past an area that seemed to fit the bill, turned and drove past it once again, just to be sure. Convinced it was the right place, he turned up a single-track road and came to a halt at the top of the rise. ‘Hillview Bed and Breakfast’ the sign read, with an arrow pointing over to the right. He turned up a narrow track towards the B&B.

  He parked in a siding and got out of the car. The B&B was a trim, modern, white-painted house. It stood on the site of his grandfather’s farm but looked nothing like the faded photographs Matt remembered of a dull, ramshackle building with dilapidated barns to one side and straggly cows standing around in churned-up mud. Matt turned to look at the fields on the other side of the track, once part of the farm, and enjoyed fine views over to the village.

  ‘Good afternoon to you. Are you looking for a place to stay?’

  Matt turned to see a stocky man walking towards him, drying his hands on a towel.

  ‘No, just having a look.’

  ‘You’re welcome to come in and take a look round, if you like.’

  ‘No, thanks. The reason I came here was because my grandfather used to have a farm in the place where your house now stands. I just thought I’d come and have a look.’

  ‘The farm’s all gone now, as you can see, I’m afraid. Your grandfather, was his name Michael Flynn, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, it was. My father took over the farm when my grandpa’ died, but he didn’t make much of a go of it.’

  ‘Make a go of it, you say,’ he guffawed. ‘In my opinion, he made a fucking arse of it. Your father knew bugger-all about farming.’

  ‘You from around here?’

  ‘Sure I am. I went to school with your father.’

  ‘Get away.’

  ‘What, you think I’m too young?’

  Matt laughed. ‘Nice one.’

  ‘I’m Will McGuire,’ he said offering his hand.

  ‘Matt Flynn.’

  ‘How is Gerry? I haven’t seen him in years. He never comes back here to see us, you know.’

  ‘He died. About seven years ago.’

  ‘Eh? I’m shocked to hear that, so I am. God rest his soul.’ He paused for a few moments. ‘Now, let me see, that would put him, at what, forty-five, I think he was a year younger than me?’

  Matt nodded. ‘Aye.’

  ‘That’s too young to die. Way too young.’

  ‘Willie where the hell are you?’

  ‘That’s the wife. People say couples working together is the dog’s bollocks. Is it heck. It just means she’s got you by the bollocks, 24/7. Listen, I better go. It was good meeting you, Matt. If you’re around this evening, a few of us go down to Joyce’s bar on a Thursday. Come down and meet a few of the old faces and have yourself a bit of craic.’

  ‘I might just do that.’

  Matt took one last look at the fields surrounding the B&B, and the land on the other side of the single-track road, all his grandfather’s property at one time. To be fair to his father, it wasn’t an easy place to make a living. The area wasn’t as warm as the south of England, the soil was rocky and lacking nutrients and, in common with the rest of the west coast of Ireland, battered by Atlantic gales in winter and spring, giving a short growing season. Of course, if the money was available, the smart thi
ng to do was to bulldoze the lot and build a B&B.

  Chapter 17

  The following morning, Matt left Cleggan and retraced his route along local roads before turning north towards Castlebar. The fishing boat with guns in the hold where the catch was supposed to be, was due to dock in Westport at midnight. The Garda, the police force in the Irish Republic, were providing the manpower for this operation and had sensibly decided not to meet in the town. They didn’t want to risk being seen by members of the gunrunning gang who might be hanging around, waiting for the arrival of the boat.

  Matt had arranged to meet up with Rosie an hour before the briefing. When he reached Castlebar, he seated himself in a coffee shop in Market Street, pulled out his phone and texted her the address. She arrived fifteen minutes later and, after a warm greeting, he walked to the counter and came back with Rosie’s coffee.

  ‘How was the journey?’ he asked.

  ‘I told you I was flying into Knock?’

  He nodded as he sipped his coffee, number three of the morning, enough to dissipate a mild hangover. The locals at Cleggan were all big whiskey drinkers but tended to take it easy on a Thursday night, saving their money for a big blow-out at the weekend. Nevertheless, they still drank plenty in welcoming their new guest.

  ‘When we came into land, I was looking around but I couldn’t see the airport. We seemed to be flying into the middle of nowhere. Without warning, the runway suddenly appeared amongst all the heather and bracken. It’s the weirdest journey I’ve ever made, I can tell you. How was last night?’

  Matt drained his coffee. ‘I think I’ll have another, you want one?’

  ‘It was that sort of night, was it? I’ll have the same again.’

  ‘You want something to eat? I don’t know if the Garda will provide anything at the briefing.’

  ‘Mmmm, yeah okay. I’ll have a scone and jam if they have one.’

  ‘I think they do. Coming up.’

  Matt brought the coffees and food back to the table and sat down.

  ‘I take it yesterday didn’t go as planned?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You don’t seem full of the joys of spring at meeting your long-lost relatives; or perhaps it went very well and you’ve downed too many glasses of Bushmills or Jameson’s.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were up on your Irish whiskies.’

  ‘It used to be my drink of choice, but it’s all Sauvignon Blanc these days. So, c’mon, how did it go?’

  ‘It was a very good night, I’m just suffering a bit for it now, though. There aren’t many relatives left, to tell you the truth, but I think I met every one of them last night.’

  ‘There you go; just what you need, an instant family.’

  ‘The problem is, Dad’s regarded by the guys who used to work for him on the farm, and his former classmates, as a great guy. They’re all surprised to hear I thought different.’

  ‘I suppose no one wants to speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘Whatever the reason, that part of the evening left me confused.’

  ‘In time it should all make sense. Did you make any promises to keep in touch? I expect even though the village is in the back of beyond, they have Wi-Fi and you can talk to your new cousins or whoever you met last night, on social media.’

  ‘One of the younger ones, the son of a cousin, is keen to move to England and join the Met. He asked if he could come and stay with me if he gets an interview.’

  ‘I hope you weren’t your reluctant self. I know what you’re like about people coming to visit.’

  ‘No bloody wonder with the kind of work we do. Think of how bad I would feel if a villain showed up and held him hostage. Not to mention if he found my gun and started playing with it.’

  ‘Quit stalling, Flynn. Did you tell him he could stay?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Good for you. It’s too much to hope that this new social side is permanent, but at least make it more prevalent.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’

  Rosie’s phone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ she said.

  ‘Hi, how are you,’ she said breezily into the phone.

  It couldn’t be her partner, Andrew; she was more curt to him than she was to Matt. While she listened and added the odd, ‘I see,’ and ‘okay’, he focused on the food in front of him and the view of Castlebar through the large pane of glass beside him.

  It looked a prosperous sort of place, with plenty of shops open and loads of people about. It helped being summer when businesses dependent on tourism made their money. Judging by the number of English-registered cars he saw in the car park and on the streets, there were many tourists about. He was no social commentator, but common sense told him that with an ageing population in the West, many retired people with money to spend would come to places like this. Not for them Universal Studios in Orlando or whale-watching in Alaska, but something more sedate like a walk in the hills, a friendly chat with a shopkeeper, and a long, liquid lunch.

  Rosie said goodbye, a big smile on her face, before returning the phone to the depths of her carry-all handbag.

  ‘That was Jack. DI Jack Hillman,’ she said, reaching for her coffee cup and taking a sip.

  ‘He texts me and calls you. I’m hurt.’

  ‘Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Matt.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘They’ve picked up the other guy whose dabs they found on the weapons cache.’

  ‘I figured the man they arrested at Heathrow was the salesman type, maybe financier at a pinch. What did this other guy bring to the party?’

  ‘Weapons expertise. His father was in the IRA and, as a young man, he used to clean and maintain the weapons.’

  ‘Did he come quietly?’

  ‘He didn’t have much choice. They kicked in the door at four in the morning and caught him naked in bed with the woman from the house next door. She gets lonely apparently, as her husband is away working on a North Sea oil rig.’

  **

  In a police briefing about a major arms shipment, no doubt the biggest excitement to hit this quiet community in ten years, the local plod might have been tempted to invite everyone in the station into the room. This would make any form of rational discussion impossible, and increase the risk of a leak. Taking a sensible approach, Inspector Declan Mooney included only three of his most senior officers. The others involved would be briefed in a separate meeting.

  In front of them, Mooney had spread a large map of the area. A sizeable chunk of the county faced the Atlantic, giving any skipper hundreds of places where he could berth on the mainland, in addition to the coves and harbours located in dozens of small islands. Not every town or village could accommodate a sizeable fishing boat, but there was nothing to stop the boat mooring offshore and ferrying the contraband to land using a rigid inflatable.

  ‘It’s a large area of coastline to police,’ Mooney said, reading Matt’s expression.

  ‘It is,’ Matt agreed.

  ‘The intel we have is concrete,’ Rosie said. ‘The boat will berth in Westport.’

  ‘Not the one in Connecticut, I trust,’ Mooney said smirking and casting a glance at his colleagues. Clearly, it was a source of mirth among the locals to laugh at tourists who wanted to know the time of the next train to New York.

  ‘Just remember,’ Rosie said, her tone terse, ‘what we are dealing with here are terrorists. They might be crazy for trying to start a civil war in the north, but not so stupid they would confuse Ireland with America.’

  Nice one, Rosie, Matt thought.

  ‘Eh, quite,’ Mooney said, ‘but I do wonder why they’ve chosen to come here. It’s a tourist town. Commercial shipping hasn’t come into the place within living memory.’

  ‘Sometimes criminals think counter-intuitively–’

  ‘Or not at all,’ added Matt.

  ‘That too. I say counter-intuitively,’ Rosie said, ‘because bringing a large boat into a bigger port or marina, where th
ere could be customs, coastguards, and possibly a weather station, would bring unwanted attention. On the other hand, a quiet berth where no one is expecting them and everyone is safely tucked up in bed, makes perfect sense.’

  ‘In which case, I would imagine they’d arrive around midnight,’ Mooney said, ‘to take advantage of the high tide. I’m not a sailor myself, but I do know at low tide around Westport all you can see are mudflats.’

  ‘Where are they likely to berth?’ Matt asked.

  ‘The best place is the quay on Roman Island. It’s not really an island, but a peninsula, and there they’ll find a concrete pier and capstans to tie up. Also, it’s easy enough to drive vehicles there.’

  ‘That’s an important point,’ Matt said. ‘This stuff is heavy. They won’t want to be lugging it any distance.’

  ‘You told me on the phone, Matt, they were bringing in guns. Would you like to elaborate?’

  ‘I didn’t want to alarm you at the time, Inspector,’ Matt said, ‘but this is some pretty serious kit. They’ve got M4 assault rifles, standard issue to US military and Special Forces.’ He looked at their faces and they all nodded.

  ‘They’ve also got grenades, RPGs and sniper rifles, plus loads of ammunition to go with it.’

  ‘RPGs? Mother of Jesus, that’s a lethal bit of kit. Our Land Rovers would give us no protection whatsoever,’ one of Mooney’s colleagues said.

  ‘This is why we need to stop them. Your guys know this area better than we do. What do we need to do to catch them?’

  Chapter 18

  Matt hunkered down below the window, eased himself up, and peered out. The HSA agents and Garda officers were holed up inside an abandoned building on the quay at Roman Island in Westport, a building lying close enough to the water’s edge for them to hear the approach of any vehicles. Despite their proximity, Matt couldn’t resist looking out at regular intervals, even though he couldn’t see much; the window was grimy and didn’t face directly over the water.