by Ted Tayler
Back at the house, their colleague was being woken up by two irate Garda officers who had been called to the scene of a murder. They weren’t happy to find a car blocking the entrance. An officer called the fire brigade while Brendan moved his car.
By the time the officers reached the room where the fake doctor’s body lay, the two agents had slowed their run; their escape was complete. They had time to stop for a breather. Fintan’s phone rang. It was Brendan.
“I’m driving towards Kimmage. Where do you want me to collect you? What the hell’s happening? You were only three minutes. The Garda in Terenure received the call fifteen minutes ago, informing them of a murder.”
“Someone beat us to it. The guy was dead when we arrived. Pick us up outside the supermarket in five minutes.”
Phoenix and Fintan arrived just as Brendan pulled up to the kerb. They jumped in and he reversed out of the parking space.
“Where to now?” he asked.
“Somewhere we can relax and think,” said Phoenix calmly. “Fintan, when you walked past the body, did anything catch your eye?”
“Apart from the blood, the large holes in both his skull and his butt cheeks; and the smell you mean? No, nothing springs to mind.”
Brendan drove them back to the city, and they returned to the internet café. Fintan wanted immediate access to his technical toys if he needed them.
“I retrieved this note from Krishnan’s left hand,” said Phoenix, “his right hand was splayed open; his left closed. Whoever killed the doctor knew we were coming. They timed the call to the police for us to get caught. We were lucky. If I had closed the doors behind me when I came inside, we might not have heard the sirens until the Garda arrived at the end of the track.”
“The note was addressed to us?” asked Fintan. “You mean someone has been watching us ever since we first arrived here in Talbot Street?”
“It’s more worrying than that. You were right when you said Krishnan pissed off a villain, and that’s who carried out that brutal killing. We need to find out who ordered the killing. See whether he’s connected to one of the doctors’ victims. This note was a personal message for me.”
Phoenix spread the blood-spattered piece of paper on the desk in front of them. He and Fintan read the typewritten message in silence.
‘This one was personal. Should have kept your nose out of my business.
Don’t know who you are, but I know Hackney was your handiwork.
G was a comrade.
Have fun with the Garda. H.’
“Shit. I see what you mean, Phoenix,” said Fintan, “what this guy knows about Olympus will make them uncomfortable. He thought we would find this and get caught with the body. These London references are direct actions you carried out I take it?”
“Recent too,” nodded Phoenix. “A month ago, Rusty Scott and I took two gang leaders off the streets, plus members of their crew. ‘G’ refers to Gavin McTierney, a nasty piece of work. Perhaps there’s an Irish connection?”
“It’s not unusual for London gangs to have family back in the Republic; we didn’t all leave for Britain or America. It’s possible this ‘H’ has links to the underworld here, and he put out a contract on Krishnan. The woman involved must have meant something to him, whoever he is.”
“What concerns me is we pride ourselves on carrying out our missions without raising suspicions from the authorities,” said Phoenix. “Somehow, this guy spotted us in London and knew we planned to come to Ireland. I didn’t know myself until only a few hours before I left Larcombe. This Krishnan job was in no way related to the drug dealers we targeted in Hackney and Tower Hamlets. Either someone has been tailing us every minute since I killed McTierney, or someone talked.”
“Who knew you were flying over to find Krishnan?” asked Brendan.
“Apart from Athena, only Les Biggar, the crazy helicopter pilot who dropped me off at Shanganagh Park.”
“They must have got to him,” said Fintan. “It’s unlikely they got onto you fast enough to have followed you back to Larcombe from the boroughs.”
“We diverted via Brentwood for another clean-up job anyway, so no doubt you’re right. No, this guy must have access to a high level of intelligence-gathering capability. He’s done similar searches to those Olympus carry out daily. He’s tracked our vehicle movements; found our HQ and had us watched from somewhere outside the perimeter. Early Saturday morning, as our car left for Cardiff, Athena and I were followed. Then they took the registration of the chopper in Wales and found its flight plan. Les Biggar must have received a visit from their contacts over here almost as soon as he landed. We should get over to the airport; to see if he’s OK. He’s my lift home.”
“Any idea who ‘H’ might be, Phoenix?” asked Fintan, as they walked to the car.
“Not a clue.”
Thirty minutes later they arrived at the airport in Collinstown. Phoenix stayed in the car. Fintan and Brendan went to see if they could find out where Les Biggar parked his helicopter; and if he was somewhere in the surrounding buildings.
Ten minutes later they returned.
“Call Larcombe,” said Fintan, “tell them you’ll need transport to get you home.”
“An engineer found Les Biggar this morning,” said Brendan. “He’d taken a severe beating and was taken to the nearest hospital. Your pilot’s in a critical condition.”
The drive back to the city was a sombre one. Phoenix had to think. Was he stranded? He had the passport he’d used to get in and out of Ibiza after Erebus had been murdered; it should stand the scrutiny border control give to Brits returning to home soil. This time there was just one small problem. His method of arrival with Biggles meant no record existed of him having ever landed in the Republic. Could he risk it? How vigilant would the Irish authorities be?
Fintan spoke first.
“Look, Brendan can stay close by the hospital. I’ll let the others know they can return to their home base. We’ll not need their services today. Brendan will get updates on Biggar’s progress and keep an eye open for trouble. When whoever’s behind this killing discovers we avoided the Garda, they might come back to finish the job. People that vicious don’t leave loose ends. They’ll want to stop your pilot giving you any clues who questioned him.”
“That sounds good,” said Phoenix, “as for myself, I’ve been wondering how I’ll get home. I can’t go into detail, but if I can avoid leaving Ireland by an official route, then that would be best. Any ideas?”
“Once we’ve dropped Brendan off, we’ll head back to my place in Wexford. I’ve got people I can call who owe me a favour. It will cost Olympus a tidy sum, but you’re the man. You’re needed at Larcombe. The sooner Olympus track who was behind Krishnan’s murder, and why, the better.”
“Terrific,” said Phoenix, “yeah, you’re right. This is gang-related. Killing the doctor might have been personal. But I trod on someone’s toes when I picked Gavin McTierney out of the hundreds of small-time hoods I could have targeted. The poor devil who got run over by a transit van driven by McTierney tugged at my heartstrings. That will teach me to let my emotions get in the way of business.”
They approached the entrance to the accident and emergency hospital. Brendan tapped Phoenix on the shoulder, as Fintan pulled into the side of the road.
“Safe home, my friend. Next time you drop in to see us, I hope we’ll have time for a Guinness or three, yes?”
“OK, Brendan, be seeing you.”
Fintan joined the busy line of Saturday afternoon traffic and made his way to the M50.
“We’ll be in Wexford in two hours, even with this traffic,” he said, “what do you make of that note, Phoenix?”
“I’ve read it a dozen times, Fintan. There aren’t that many clues.”
“He’s better educated than most villains. A lot couldn’t write a complete sentence; let alone go to the trouble of breaking the note into paragraphs. He’s not a young man either, because if he was young and thick, he’d h
ave littered the message with text speak. So, my dear Watson, our man is middle-aged, intelligent, and in the past, has been linked with a paramilitary organisation.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” said Phoenix, “that’s an impressive profile. Do you wish to check the text message I sent Giles while you found out what happened to Les Biggar, back at the airport?”
Fintan had slowed as the lane he was in became congested. He glanced at the screen on the Phoenix’s mobile phone.
“Ah, you were one step ahead of me, Phoenix,” he laughed, as the traffic ahead began to move again. “The ice-house agents are looking for links between McTierney and the IRA. They’ll search for accomplices within the London gang structure who may have served with him. It was his use of the term ‘comrade’ that sparked your interest. Just as it did mine. That’s most likely how they could act with such speed this morning. These guys have a long reach, don’t they?”
“Olympus is aware of the growth of the super gang. It’s among our major concerns. This ‘H’ could be one of the big movers seeking to establish a greater national network of organised crime, rather than thousands of small gangs controlling their postcode areas.”
“A worthy opponent then?” said Fintan.
They arrived in Wexford just before five o’clock in the evening. Fintan’s single-storey building reminded Phoenix of the crofter’s cottages he had seen pictures of in books as a kid. It was clear he lived a simple life. He imagined dozens of other Olympus agents did the same. Less clutter to be removed by your colleagues if you didn’t make it home from a mission.
“Make yourself at home, Phoenix,” said his host. “You’ll find glasses in the cabinet, and a bottle of Jameson’s that might suit you. It’s a long time since that breakfast, shall I cook us something?”
“You cook as well?” said Phoenix.
“We Irish enjoy simple food, my friend, and strong liquor. So, while we wait for the microwave to heat us something with which to line our stomachs, I’ll make those phone calls.”
With food inside them and a full glass, the two colleagues settled in for the evening. Fintan waited for replies from his calls to his contacts. Phoenix waited for Larcombe to come up with answers on who they faced.
“I kept a weather eye open, as we travelled south, Phoenix. Force of habit. Nobody followed us. We’re safe here, at least for tonight. I’ll check in with Brendan later.”
Phoenix was eager to be getting on with things. He hated sitting around, waiting.
A phone rang; it was Fintan’s.
“Brendan, what’s the latest?”
Fintan listened to his colleague’s report.
“Cheers, Brendan; find yourself a place to rest your weary head. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“How’s Biggar?” asked Phoenix, when Fintan ended the call.
“He’s holding his own. There have been no visitors, nor any suspicious characters hanging around the hospital.”
“What’s your plan for getting me away from here?” asked Phoenix.
“Originally, I imagined you jumping on the ferry at Rosslare, and sailing to Fishguard. Larcombe could have sent a car to fetch you and delivered you home in three and a half hours. The last ferry leaves at nine. You would have been home before breakfast. If that choice is off the cards, I can get you on a boat from Kilmore Quay. The skipper will take you roughly halfway; I’m just waiting for confirmation that someone I know from Tenby can transfer you to their vessel and set you ashore near St Brides.”
“I know that part of the country,” said Phoenix “the roads are lousy; it will take longer to get to the M4 than drive the rest of the trip home.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, Phoenix. If you’ve finished your drink, we’ll get moving; we have a thirty-minute drive to the Quay. Your deep-sea fishing boat skipper will cast off at ten o’clock. Not the best time to set off; but this kind of voyage needs to be under cover of darkness.”
Minutes later the two colleagues sat in the car heading for Kilmore Quay. Phoenix rang Larcombe Manor and talked to Athena. He asked her to sort out transport. A car would be ready to collect him as soon as he set foot on dry land whenever that might be. Athena wished him ‘bon voyage’ and to get home safe.
As Fintan pulled up on the quayside, his phone rang.
“Where are you now? Good; when you reach your destination, contact Padraig with the coordinates. How are the seas tonight? Fine, how do you propose to transfer your cargo from Padraig’s craft? Billy Pugh? Isn’t that risky, at night? Yeah, I’ll tell him. Cheers, for now, Gareth.”
“Do I want to know what that was about?” asked Phoenix.
“Gareth has left Tenby and is heading out into St George’s Channel. It’s not flat calm out there tonight, and the winds are strengthening. It will be several hours before the two boats meet. Any transfer of people between boats is risky. At night, it’s bordering on stupidity. Gareth’s isn’t the most modern craft around, and a Billy Pugh basket is what they have available. Despite the risks of being seen, Gareth wants to wait until dawn, to get you transferred. It will be another two to three hours in broad daylight until you reach St Brides. That may be an unacceptable risk. Maybe Padraig can persuade him to find another method. I’ll talk to him in a minute or two.”
Fintan led Phoenix along the Quay to a fishing boat at the far end. The skipper appeared from the hatchway.
“Padraig; how are you doing?” cried Fintan, wrapping the old man in a bear hug.
“Did you bring the money, Fintan?” Padraig replied.
“Is it just you and your Dermot on board?” asked Fintan, handing over an envelope.
“Aye,” replied Padraig, checking all the money was there. “Is this your man?”
Phoenix stepped forward and extended a hand.
“Thanks for the lift,” he said.
The old skipper shook his hand. Phoenix turned to Fintan.
“Well, it’s goodbye then, Fintan. Good working with you. I’m sure we’ll meet up again sometime. Maybe, if you come to Larcombe, I can return the hospitality.”
“You’re welcome, Phoenix. Good to meet the man with such a fine reputation. We’ll keep in touch with Les Biggar; tell you how he’s progressing. When he feels up to talking, I’ll find out what I can about who put him in the hospital. Safe journey.”
With a wave, Fintan was gone. Phoenix watched his car’s rear lights disappear into the distance.
“Get yourself below and fast,” barked Padraig. “I don’t want anyone to see you coming on board.”
Phoenix hurried below decks. He nearly collided with Dermot. Twice the size of his father, he looked around thirty. Dermot grunted a greeting and climbed up on deck. A few minutes later they set out to sea.
Phoenix could count the number of hours he had spent on a boat in the open water on the fingers of one hand. As the hours ticked by, he wondered what Sir William Hunt would make of him. The man who had been a second father to him had served his country in the Royal Navy for decades. His protégé could do nothing but throw up, and curl in a ball praying the nightmare would soon end.
Phoenix had to rely on the seamanship of Padraig and Gareth. They were being paid well to deliver him safely to dry land; but how easy would it be for two tiny boats to miss one another in a barren landscape of these vast grey seas? Thinking of the water sent him to the side of the boat yet again. Dermot watched him impassively.
“Almost halfway,” shouted Padraig.
Phoenix groaned.
“Lights on the starboard bow,” Dermot shouted.
The larger Welsh craft closed on Padraig’s fishing boat; Phoenix heard voices. There were three people on board the new arrival. Their accents were similar, but he could differentiate the voices. Two older men, and a woman. He wondered how he would cope with the transfer when it came.
Padraig steered his boat with great care to the leeward side of the larger vessel. Getting in close enough to get his passenger on board would need every bit of the skill he had learned from
fifty years at sea. There were few clouds now, and the moon was bright. Both he and Gareth had what lights they possessed to illuminate their dangerous dance.
The two boats drew closer; the sea decided to toy with them. It wasn’t going to be as easy as that. Padraig and Gareth tried again. In the relative calm of the shelter provided by the bigger boat, Padraig tried once more. Phoenix stood on deck, with his bag, strapped to his back. A contraption was lowered over the side of the Welsh boat. Phoenix swallowed hard. What the hell was that?
“Grab onto the ropes and hang on,” shouted a male voice. Phoenix made a grab, caught hold, and a strong arm swung him up off the deck and onto the transfer basket. He and his companion were hoisted up, and they were soon on board. He looked back to Padraig’s boat. It was already a fair distance away. He shouted his thanks, but he didn’t think they heard him, as his voice was whipped away by the wind. Dermot and Padraig headed home; Their work was done.
Phoenix was shown below by the man on the transfer basket. As he reached the bottom step the woman whose voice he had heard earlier greeted him.
“Welcome aboard,” she said, “can I make you a hot drink? I’m Bronwen, by the way.”
Phoenix asked for a coffee, then wondered how long he would keep it in his stomach.
“Gareth’s at the wheel and my husband Mervyn fetched you on board. We’ll get you back to St Brides in three hours. Are you hungry?”
“No thanks,” replied Phoenix.
Bronwen went off to get the coffee. Phoenix checked his watch. Two o’clock. If he got ashore before six, they would still enjoy the cover of darkness. He settled down to endure the next leg of his homeward trip.
There was a lack of conversation over the next three hours. Phoenix had heard few words from Padraig and Dermot between leaving Kilmore and climbing aboard Gareth’s boat. These three were just as tight-lipped. Smuggling someone out of one country, and into another was business, not a social event. Risky business at that. He wondered how much Fintan had agreed to pay them.
