No Comebacks

by Frederick Forsyth

  There is a new section of dual carriageway north of Gorey, between that ancient market town and Arklow. Halfway along it, on the northbound lane, is a lay-by, and this was the spot Murphy had chosen for his ambush. The moment the column of traffic blocked behind the artic entered the dual carriageway section, the other car drivers joyfully sped past the lorry and Murphy had it all to himself. He wound down his window and said 'Now' to Brendan.

  The Granada moved smoothly up beside the cab of the truck, and held station. Clarke looked down to see the police car beside him and a sergeant waving out of the passenger seat. He wound down his window.

  'You're losing a rear tyre,' roared Murphy above the wind. 'Pull in to the lay-by.'

  Clarke looked ahead, saw the big P on a notice by the roadside indicating a lay-by, nodded and began to slow. The police car moved ahead, swerved into the lay-by at the appointed spot and stopped. The juggernaut followed and drew up behind the Granada. Clarke climbed down.

  'It's down here at the back,' said Murphy. 'Follow me.'

  Clarke obediently followed him round the nose of his own truck and down its green and white length to the rear. He could see no flat tyre, but he hardly had a chance to look. The bushes parted and Brady and Keogh came bounding out in overalls and balaclavas. A gloved hand went over Clarke's mouth, a strong arm round his chest and another pair of arms round his legs. Like a sack he was swept off his feet and disappeared into the bushes.

  Within a minute he had been divested of his company overalls with the Tara logo on the breast pocket, his wrists, mouth and eyes were sticky-taped and, shielded from the gaze of passing motorists by the bulk of his own lorry, he was bundled into the rear seat of the 'police' car. Here a gruff voice told him to lie on the floor and keep still. He did.

  Two minutes later Keogh emerged from the bushes in the Tara overalls and joined Murphy by the door of the cab where the gang leader was examining the driving licence of the unfortunate Clarke.

  'It's all in order,' Murphy said. 'Your name's Liam Clarke, and this load of documents must be in order. Did they not pass it all at Rosslare not two hours back?'

  Keogh, who had been a truck driver before he served time as a guest of the Republic in Mountjoy, grunted and climbed into the truck. He surveyed the controls.

  'No problem,' he said, and replaced the sheaf of papers above the sun visor.

  'See you at the farm in an hour,' said Murphy.

  He watched the hijacked juggernaut pull out of the lay-by and rejoin the northward stream on the Dublin road.

  Murphy went back to the police car. Brady was in the back with his feet on the recumbent and blindfolded Clarke. He had lost his overalls and balaclava and was in a tweed jacket. Clarke might have seen Murphy's face, but only for a few seconds, and then with a police cap on top of it. He would not see the faces of the other three. That way, if he ever accused Murphy, the other three would give Murphy an unbreakable alibi.

  Murphy glanced up and down the road. It was empty for the moment. He looked at Brendan and nodded. Both men tore the Garda signs from the doors, screwed them up and tossed them in the back. Another glance. A car sped by unheeding. Murphy yanked the illuminated sign off the roof and threw it to Brady. A further glance. Again, no traffic. Both uniform jackets came off and went to Brady in the back. The windbreakers went back on. When the Granada pulled out of the lay-by it was just another saloon car with three civilians visible in it.

  They passed the juggernaut just north of Arklow. Murphy, driving again, gave a discreet toot of the horn. Keogh raised one hand as the Granada passed, thumb upward in the OK sign.

  Murphy kept driving north as far as Kilmacanogue then pulled up the lane known as Rocky Valley towards Calary Bog. Not much happens up there, but he had located a deserted farm high on the moor which had the advantage of a great barn inside it, large enough to take the juggernaut unseen for a few hours. That was all that would be needed. The farm was reached by a muddy track and screened by a clump of conifers.

  They arrived just before dusk, fifty minutes before the juggernaut and two hours before the rendezvous with the men from the North and their four vans.

  Murphy reckoned he could be justifiably proud of the deal he had clinched. It would have been no easy task to dispose of those 9000 bottles of brandy in the South. They were bonded, each case and bottle numbered and sooner or later bound to be spotted. But up in Ulster, the war-torn North, it was different. The place was rife with shebeens, illegal drinking clubs that were unlicensed and outside the law anyway.

  The shebeens were strictly segregated, Protestant and Catholic, with control of them firmly in the hands of the underworld, which itself had long been taken over by all those fine patriots they had up there. Murphy knew as well as any man that a fair proportion of the sectarian killings performed for the glory of Ireland had more to do with protection racketeering than patriotism.

  So he had done his deal with one of the more powerful heroes, a main supplier to a whole string of shebeens into which the brandy could be filtered with no questions asked. The man, with his drivers, was due to meet him at the farm, unload the brandy into four vans, pay cash on the spot and have the stuff into the North by dawn through the maze of country lanes crossing the border between the lakes along the Fermanagh—Monaghan line.

  He told Brendan and Brady to carry the hapless driver into the farm where Clarke was thrown on a pile of sacks in the corner of the derelict kitchen. The three hijackers settled down to wait. At seven the green and white juggernaut grunted up the track in the near darkness, lights out, and the three ran outside. By muffled flashlights they heaved open the old barn doors; Keogh ran the truck inside and the doors were closed. Keogh climbed down.

  'I reckon I've earned my cut,' he said, 'and a drink.'

  'You've done well,' said Murphy. 'You'll not need to drive the truck again. It'll be unloaded by midnight and I'll drive it myself to a point ten miles away and abandon it. What will you drink?'

  'How about a nip of brandy?' suggested Brady, and they all laughed. It was a good joke.

  'I'll not break a case for a few cups,' said Murphy, 'and I'm a whiskey man myself. Will this do?'

  He produced a flask from his pocket and they all agreed it would do nicely. At a quarter to eight it was completely dark and Murphy went to the end of the track with a flashlight to guide the men from the North. He had given them precise instructions, but they could still miss the track. At ten past eight he came back, guiding a convoy of four panel vans. When they stopped in the yard a big man in a camel overcoat descended from the passenger seat of the first. He carried an attach6 case but no visible sense of humour.

  'Murphy?' he said. Murphy nodded. 'Have you got the stuff?'

  'Fresh off the boat from France,' said Murphy. 'It's in the truck still, in the barn.'

  'If you've broken the truck open I'll want to examine every case,' threatened the man. Murphy swallowed. He was glad he had resisted the temptation to look at his loot.

  'The French customs seals are intact,' he said. 'You can examine them yourself.'

  The man from the North grunted and nodded to his acolytes who began to haul open the barn doors. Their torches shone on the twin locks that kept the rear doors closed upon the cargo, the customs seals still covering the locks unbroken. The Ulsterman grunted again and nodded his satisfaction. One of his men took a jemmy and approached the locks. The man from the North jerked his head.

  'Let's go inside,' he said. Murphy led the way, torch in hand, into what had been the sitting room of the old farm. The Northerner unclipped his attach^ case, laid it on the table and opened the lid. Rows of bundles of sterling notes greeted Murphy's gaze. He had never seen so much money.

  'Nine thousand bottles at four pounds each,' he said. 'Now that would make thirty-six thousand pounds, would it not?'

  'Thirty-five,' grunted the Northerner. 'I like round numbers.'

  Murphy did not argue. He got the impression from this man that it would not be wise. Anyway
, he was satisfied. With £3000 for each of his men and his outlay recouped, he would be well over £20,000 clear. 'Agreed,' he said.

  One of the other Northerners appeared at the broken window. He spoke to his boss.

  'You'd better come and have a look,' was all he said.

  Then he was gone. The big man snapped the case closed, gripped the handle and stalked outside. The four Ulstermen, along with Keogh, Brady and Brendan, were grouped round the open doors of the truck in the barn. Six torches illuminated the interior. Instead of neatly stacked columns of cases bearing the world-renowned name of the brandy producer, they were looking at something else.

  There were rows of piled plastic sacks, each bearing the name of a famous manufacturer of flower-garden aids, and beneath the name the words 'Rose Fertilizer'. The man from the North stared at the cargo without change of expression.

  'What the hell's this?' he grated.

  Murphy had to pull his lower jaw back from somewhere near his throat. 'I don't know,' he croaked. 'I swear I don't know.'

  He was telling the truth. His information had been impeccable — and costly. He had got the right ship, the right transporter. He knew there was only one such truck on that afternoon's arrival of the St Patrick.

  'Where's the driver?' snarled the big man.

  'Inside,' said Murphy.

  'Let's go,' said the big man. Murphy led the way. The unfortunate Liam Clarke was still trussed like a chicken upon his sacks.

  'What the hell's this cargo of yours?' the big man asked without ceremony.

  Clarke mumbled furiously behind his gag. The big man nodded to one of his accomplices who stepped forward and tore the medical plaster unceremoniously from Clarke's mouth. The driver still had another band across his eyes.

  'I said what the hell's this cargo of yours,' the big man repeated. Clarke swallowed.

  'Rose fertilizer,' he said. 'Sure, it's in the cargo manifest.'

  The big man flashed his torch over the sheaf of papers he had taken from Murphy. He stopped at the cargo manifest and thrust it under Murphy's nose.

  'Did you not look at this, you fool?' he asked.

  Murphy took out his growing panic on the driver. 'Why didn't you tell me this?' he demanded.

  Sheer outrage gave Clarke boldness in the face of his unseen persecutors. 'Because I had a fecking gag over my mouth, that's why,' he shouted back.

  'That's true, Murphy,' said Brendan, who was rather literal.

  'Shut up,' said Murphy, who was becoming desperate. He leaned closer to Clarke. 'Is there not any brandy underneath it?' he asked.

  Clarke's face gave away his utter ignorance. 'Brandy?' he echoed. 'Why should there be any brandy? They don't make brandy in Belgium.'

  'Belgium?' howled Murphy. 'You drove into Le Havre from Cognac in France.'

  'I've never been to Cognac in my life,' yelled Clarke. 'I was driving a cargo of rose fertilizer. It's made of peat moss and dessicated cow manure. We export it from Ireland to Belgium. I took this cargo over last week. They opened it in Antwerp, examined it, said it was substandard and they wouldn't accept it. My bosses in Dublin told me to bring it back. It cost me three days in Antwerp sorting out the paperwork. Sure, it's all there in the papers.'

  The man from the North had been running his torch over the documents he held. They confirmed Clarke's story. He threw them to the floor with a grunt of disgust.

  'Come with me,' he said to Murphy and led the way outside. Murphy followed, protesting his innocence.

  In the darkness of the yard the big man cut short Murphy's protestations. He dropped his attach^ case, turned, gripped Murphy by the front of his windcheater, lifted him off his feet and slammed him into the barn door.

  'Listen to me, you little Catholic bastard,' said the big man.

  Murphy had wondered which side of the Ulster racketeers he had been dealing with. Now he knew.

  'You,' said the big man in a whisper that froze Murphy's blood, 'have hijacked a load of bullshit — literally. You have also wasted a lot of my time and my men's time and my money...'

  'I swear to you.. .'croaked Murphy, who was having trouble with his air supply, 'on my mother's grave ... it must be on the next ship, arriving at two p.m. tomorrow. I can start again...'

  'Not for me,' whispered the big man, ‘cos the deal's off. And one last thing; if you ever try and pull a stroke like this on me again I '11 have two of my lads come down here and redistribute your kneecaps. Do you understand me?'

  Sweet Jesus, thought Murphy, they're animals these Northerners. The British are welcome to them. He knew it was more than his life was worth to voice the thought. He nodded. Five minutes later the man from the North and his four empty trucks were gone.

  In the farmhouse by the light of a torch Murphy and his disconsolate gang finished the flask of whiskey.

  'What do we do now?' asked Brady.

  'Well,' said Murphy, 'we clear up the evidence. We have gained nothing but we have lost nothing, except me.'

  'What about our three thousand quid?' asked Keogh.

  Murphy thought. He did not want another round of threats from his own people after the scare the Ulsterman had thrown into him.

  'Lads, it will have to be fifteen hundred apiece,' he said. 'And you'll have to wait a while until I make it. I cleaned myself out setting up this stroke.'

  They appeared mollified if not happy.

  'Brendan, you, Brady and Keogh should clear up here. Every scrap of evidence, every footprint and tyre track in the mud, wipe it out. When you're done, take his car and drop the driver somewhere south of here by the roadside in his stockings. With tape on his mouth, eyes and wrists, he'll be a while getting the alarm up. Then turn north and drive home.

  'I'll stick by my word to you, Keogh. I'll take the truck and abandon it way up in the hills towards Kippure. I'll walk back down and maybe get a lift on the main road back to Dublin. Agreed?'

  They agreed. They had no choice. The men from the North had done a good job of smashing the locks on the rear of the artic's trailer, so the gang hunted round for wooden pegs to secure the two hasps. Then they closed the doors on its disappointing cargo and pegged them shut.

  With Murphy at the wheel the juggernaut growled back down the track from the farm and turned left towards the Djouce Forest and the hills of Wicklow.

  It was just after 9.30 and Murphy was past the forest on the Roundwood road when he met the tractor. One would think farmers would not be out on tractors with one faulty headlight, the other smeared with mud, and ten tons of straw bales on a trailer at that hour. But this one was.

  Murphy was bombing along between two stone walls when he discerned the looming mass of the tractor and trailer coming the other way. He hit the brakes rather sharply.

  One thing about articulated vehicles is that although they can manoeuvre round corners that a rigid-frame lorry of similar length could not get near, they are the very devil when it comes to braking. If the cab section which does the towing and the trailer section which carries the cargo are not almost in line, they tend to jackknife. The heavy trailer tries to overtake the cab section, shoving it sideways into a skid as it does so. This is what happened to Murphy.

  It was the stone walls, so common in those Wicklow hills, that stopped him rolling clean over. The farmer gunned his tractor clean through a handy farm gate, leaving the straw bales on the trailer to take any impact. Murphy's cab section began to slither as the trailer caught up with it. The load of fertilizer pushed him, brakes locked in panic, into the side of the bales, which fell happily all over his cab, almost burying it. The rear of the trailer behind him slammed into a stone wall and was thrown back onto the road, where it then hit the opposite stone wall as well.

  When the screech of metal on stone stopped, the farm trailer was still upright, but had been moved ten feet, shearing its coupling to the tractor. The shock had thrown the farmer off his seat and into a pile of silage. He was having a noisy personal conversation with his creator. Murphy was sitting
in the dim half-light of a cab covered in bales of straw.

  The shock of hitting the stone walls had sheared the pegs holding the rear of the artic shut and both doors had flown open. Part of the rose fertilizer cargo was strewn on the road behind the truck. Murphy opened his cab door and fought his way through the bales of straw to the road. He had but one instinct, to get as far away from there as possible as fast as he could. The farmer would never recognize him in the darkness. Even as he climbed down, he recalled he had not had time to wipe the interior of the cab of all his fingerprints.

  The farmer had squelched his way out of the silage and was standing on the road beside Murphy's cab reeking of an odour that will never really catch on with the aftershave industry. It was evident he wished for a few moments of Murphy's time. Murphy thought fast. He would appease the farmer and offer to help him reload his trailer. At the first opportunity he would wipe his prints off the inside of the cab, and at the second vanish into the darkness.

  It was at this moment that the police patrol car arrived. It is a strange thing about police cars; when you need one they are like strawberries in Greenland. Scrape a few inches of paint off someone else's body work and they come out of the gratings. This one had escorted a minister from Dublin to his country home near Annamoe and was returning to the capital. When Murphy saw the headlights he thought it was just another motorist; as the lights doused he saw it was the real thing. It had a Garda sign on the roof, and this one did light up.

  The sergeant and the constable walked slowly past the immobilized tractor-trailer and surveyed the tumbled bales. Murphy realized there was nothing for it but to bluff the whole thing out. In the darkness he could still get away with it.

  'Yours?' asked the sergeant, nodding at the artic.

  'Yes,' said Murphy.

  'A long way from the main roads,' said the sergeant.

  'Aye, and late too,' said Murphy. 'The ferry was late at Rosslare this afternoon and I wanted to deliver this lot and get home to my wee bed.'