The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  ‘Come in, sir, Mr M is in the upstairs bar. I will show you through.’

  As the heavy door closed firmly behind us, I followed the doorman along a dimly lit corridor towards some stairs. It was hard not to be impressed at the luxury of the surroundings. Carpet that felt like thick velvet, ornate brass fittings, walnut and leather upholstered seats. The faint smell of expensive tobacco in the air only served to reinforce the feeling of wealth and comfort. If this was the old man’s club, I mused, he was certainly doing all right for himself.

  We reached the first floor, where the doorman walked through into a large bar area. To my left, I could see another unattended bar with large smoking-chairs grouped in fours around small drinks tables. As we crossed the room I noticed two ancient gentlemen look over at me from their seats at the far end. But no sooner had they glanced at me than their faces turned to each other once again. In this type of place people knew to keep themselves to themselves.

  Smoke trails rising from the far sides of high chair backs indicated the presence of at least two other occupants. Distracted by taking in all the Victorian luxury, I almost walked into the back of the doorman, who had stopped next to a chair where Nial Monaghan was sat waiting.

  He was reading the paper. It was a familiar sight. Except for the spectacles and grey temples, he looked exactly as he had when I last saw him in the officers’ mess at Hereford. Tall and well built, he was an extremely handsome man, and an elegant dresser. I remembered him telling me that his suits were hand-made for him by a Dublin-based tailor. He had lost none of his smartness and, if anything, his chiselled features had improved with age.

  He looked up. ‘It’s been a long time Finlay, give Jenkins here your order and have a seat.’

  I ordered tea and settled into the plush leather chair opposite my old boss. The leather creaked as the air squeezed out from the seams. Monaghan folded his newspaper tidily, placing it gently on the chair next to him. His movements were slow, precise.

  After a pause he spoke. ‘I suppose you are wondering why I have asked for this meeting?’

  I wasn’t in the mood for games. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff was straight out of a Frederick Forsyth novel.

  ‘Well I’m here and I’m all ears.’ My impatience was betrayed by a sharp note of sarcasm in my voice.

  Monaghan ignored my jibe and gestured around with his hands. ‘Do you like the club?’

  ‘It’s very comfortable. Not really my thing, but OK, I suppose. It must cost you an arm and a leg.’ I wondered why he was delaying.

  After a short pause, Monaghan smiled and removed his spectacles. He closed them and, with the same gentle precision with which he had folded the newspaper, placed them gently in his inside pocket. ‘Not really; membership comes with the job I do.’

  I felt those hairs on my neck rise again. ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘I am now with the Home Office, attached to MI5.’

  ‘Yes, I know. The ROSE office. We discussed it on the telephone.’

  ‘Yes, of course. So we did.’

  ‘Would this meeting have something to do with that?’ I reached forward to pour the tea that Jenkins had placed on the table beside me.

  Monaghan waited until the doorman had moved out of earshot. ‘I will come to the point. We have reason to believe that Bridges’ death wasn’t bad luck. It was an assassination.’

  ‘Who are “we”?’ I asked.

  ‘My department.’ Monaghan took a deep breath. ‘Did you hear about the break-in to the Northern Ireland Special Branch office?’

  I hadn’t. I shook my head and kept silent, my body tensed as the feeling of foreboding I had experienced after the Selfridges bombing returned.

  ‘There was a lot of speculation in the press,’ Monaghan continued, ‘– about what was stolen, who did the job, what was going to happen.’

  I had started to sweat. The room felt stuffy. I managed an answer. ‘I don’t think I’m going to like what I’m about to hear.’

  ‘I don’t know who did it but I … I mean we … we know what was stolen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Copies of ROSE files.’

  A pit formed in my stomach. ‘Copies, what do you mean copies? Those files are top secret. They’re supposed to be in Hereford aren’t they? What the fuck were copies doing in Ireland?’

  I noticed Monaghan’s hands were shaking as he continued. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, Finlay. This is as hard for me as it is for you. We only found out because one file was left behind; if that had gone we wouldn’t have even known what had been taken.’

  ‘What was on it?’

  ‘Quite a lot. Relocation details, jobs … yours included.’

  ‘Mine!’ I stood up as I shouted. The gentlemen in the corner turned again to look at me.

  ‘Sit down, Finlay.’ Monaghan’s voice was slow and deliberate, the tone almost threatening.

  I sat down and lowered my voice. ‘You’re telling me someone has stolen copies of files that tell them how to find me? You’re telling me that Bob Bridges was killed by these people and I’m on their list of targets, too?’

  ‘I’m telling you…’ He paused. ‘I’m telling you to calm down, Finlay. Because, if I’m right, I am a target as well.’

  My heart was pounding. Fear had got the better of me. This was worse than any nightmare. I had to know how great the risk was.

  ‘Calm down? For Christ’s sake. You’re telling me I might be a target for an IRA hit squad and you’re telling me to calm down?’

  ‘I’m just saying that we need to address this problem rationally.’

  I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. ‘Ok, tell me what you know. How did the files come to be in Ireland?’

  ‘That, I don’t know. It’s being looked into, I assure you. The only good news I have is that the files only contain names and jobs. There is no information to reveal your home address, place of work, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Small relief. So how did the IRA find Bomber?’

  ‘We don’t know that, either. But … well, I considered it prudent to warn you of the possibility. A lot of the others from the regiment have moved on from the employment that ROSE sorted for them, so they would be harder to find. There’s only a few, like you, who are still in the same line of work.’

  ‘So that’s the reason you came to me?’ I asked.

  Monaghan drew breath. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow and he scratched at his ear. ‘Not … entirely. The others will be told, of course. There’s no way we can avoid it. I came to you first because we will need someone to do a rather special job, something that would not have any official sanction.’

  I’d heard that expression in a previous life. No official sanction meant a ‘black op’. The kind of deniable operation that the intelligence services wanted doing but weren’t prepared to admit to.

  ‘Exactly what do you have in mind’ I asked.

  ‘You look a little sceptical, Finlay.’

  ‘Are you surprised? It’s a long time since I’ve heard anyone discuss a black op.’

  Monaghan waited, as if he expected me to object further, and when I didn’t he continued. ‘We have a man on the police Anti-Terrorist Squad investigation. He’ll inform us if and when the active service unit that took out Bridges is located. We then need to try and find how the file copies got to Ireland. The bombers are our entry into the terrorist network. I’m sure that the constraints of the law are such that we won’t be able to rely on the police to discover this for us.’

  ‘So what can I do? Get you into the cells?’ I was starting to cool down. The initial shock was wearing off. If Monaghan had a plan I needed to hear it.

  ‘No, the fact that you are now a policeman is irrelevant. I think that you would be the best man to organise an operation to detain the terrorists before the police do, and to … interrogate them. You always were one of our best planners, Finlay. And, after all, it is in your interest as much as mine to discover how much these terrorists kn
ow.’

  I sat silently, considering my options. It was too early to decide something so serious. The threat was real but I had been retired from active service for a long time. I was married with a family. These types of jobs were for younger, single men.

  ‘You want me to involve myself in the capture of some terrorists,’ I said. ‘And, by interrogation you mean torture, because you know as well as I do that IRA men don’t crack easily. Then, what would you propose, handing them over to the Anti-Terrorist Squad to be arrested? Or are you suggesting we kill them?’

  ‘You’ve got a blunt way of putting it, but yes, that’s what I want you to do.’

  ‘Sorry boss, count me out.’

  ‘You surprise me, Finlay. Way I see it you don’t have much choice.’

  ‘I have a choice. To get me they’ve got to find me.’

  ‘How long are you going to run for, Finlay?’

  I started to make my apologies and was standing to leave when Monaghan raised his hand to silence me.

  ‘Come with me, Finlay. I want to show you something.’

  We left the opulence of the club, which I now found stifling rather than luxurious, and headed south toward Piccadilly. The streets were still very busy, even at such a late hour. Office workers and shoppers had been replaced by people looking to enjoy London’s nightlife. The capital city catered for all tastes. From expensive restaurants through to seedy cafés, from cheap discos through to lavish clubs, from the peep shows of Soho to the cabaret shows of Mayfair, London had it all.

  At a street corner, Monaghan walked up some stone steps to an innocuous red door above which a small light shone. He knocked and, on recognising his face, the doorman bade us enter.

  Descending some stairs we entered a twilight world. In front of me, a huge room was laid out for gambling. There were roulette tables for the rich, blackjack tables for the card-lovers and one-armed bandits for the less affluent. I wondered what we were doing here.

  Monaghan ordered a drink and looked over the card tables. Soon he was immersed in the game.

  I watched. After a few minutes he seemed to become bored and returned to join me.

  ‘I have to get to work,’ I said. ‘Is there a particular reason for you bringing me here?’

  ‘I wanted you to see what my life has become, Finlay.’

  ‘I don’t follow?’

  ‘This is how I spend my time.’ He gestured towards the card tables with his glass. ‘You have a family. I have this. At first, I found it to be a welcome distraction. Now I wonder how I ever managed without it. You see … it’s a challenge, for the intellect, for our planning skills, and it’s all about the bluff and the unknown. All the things we learned in the military, Finlay.’

  ‘I’m not following you. What has this got to do with me?’

  ‘Here in this room is all that I have to lose if the bad guys catch up with me. I didn’t pick you because you are like me or because you are the best soldier. I picked you because you have a reason to fight. You have something to fight for.’

  ‘My family, you mean?’

  Monaghan simply smiled as he took up a place at the nearest card table.

  The dealer dropped a card face down on the table. Monaghan lifted it gently with what looked to be practised skill. It was the Queen of Hearts.

  He smiled and winked at me. ‘My lucky card,’ he said.

  I headed back up the stairs.

  The first thing I did as I left the gambling club was to call home. Jenny seemed to take an age to pick up the telephone. I felt a great sense of relief as she answered. She was OK; Becky was OK.

  ‘Did you forget anything this evening?’ Jenny asked.

  I didn’t have time for twenty questions so I teased my misdemeanour straight out of her.

  The local Scoutmaster had just been on the phone. I was supposed to be giving the cubs a talk on camping and outdoor survival. It had been arranged weeks ago and with everything else going on it had slipped my mind. I was annoyed with myself for letting them down. I enjoyed helping the cubs. I was looking forward to when Becky joined the Brownies. Kids at that age found the most simple of things fascinating and I found their young enthusiasm absorbing. They called me Uncle Bob. I called them my little soldiers. Now I’d let them down and that pissed me off.

  ‘Did you apologise for me?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. I hope you don’t mind but I told him about the Inspector killed in the Selfridges bomb having been a friend of yours. He seemed a lot more understanding after that.’

  ‘No … that’s fine … I’ve got to go.’

  Jenny paused for several seconds before answering. ‘Are you alright, Bob?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You don’t seem yourself. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ I answered too quickly. I knew it as soon as I blurted out the words. It was a sure give-away that I wasn’t being truthful.

  ‘Ok, well, if you’re sure.’ Jenny answered, quietly. ‘You know if there is something, if this old friend of yours being killed has really upset you, we can always talk, can’t we?’

  ‘Yes … I’m sorry. It probably is that. But I really do have to go, or I’ll be late for work.’

  We ended the call. I felt reassured to hear Jenny’s voice but perturbed that she had already sensed that I wasn’t myself.

  But for now, that problem would have to wait … I had to do some thinking. If Monaghan was right, we could all be in danger.

  One attack. One former colleague dead. And now Monaghan was talking assassinations. It didn’t make sense … unless he wasn’t telling me everything.

  As I made my way to Stoke Newington for the night shift, I started to wonder if my security and happiness was about to come crashing down at any moment. For all I knew, I was already being watched. On the other hand, if my home was safe, unknown to these terrorists, at least that would buy me some time. But what if Monaghan was entirely wrong? What if there was no threat? I could end up reacting in a way that was going to expose my past, seriously strain my marriage and put my cosy future at risk. All just to satisfy the paranoid fears of a former boss.

  After collecting the car, I stopped for fuel. I’d only just filled up the petrol tank when the urge to speak to Jenny hit me again. I called her straight away and told her that I loved her. It was so impulsive, not like me at all. I apologised for rushing the previous call and we chatted for a few minutes, I don’t remember what about. We were just on our goodbyes when a man started walking across the station forecourt towards my car.

  He was dressed completely in black. Leather jacket, jeans, boots. The boots were Danner, military type. I hung up the phone and put the car in gear.

  As he walked closer, there was no doubt. He was coming for me. I readied myself. First sign of danger I would drive the car at him and make my escape. I was ready. Christ, I wished I had a gun.

  The man walked up to the driver’s door. The window was open. I held the door handle. I’d hit him with the door. Unbalance him. I’d have to be on him before he had the chance to draw a weapon.

  He spoke. ‘Sorry to trouble you, bud, but you know there’s a reason why they ban people from using mobile phones in petrol stations.’

  My heart was racing as I mumbled an apology. I’d been a second away from knocking an innocent man flying and then beating him to a pulp. The man went on his way, happy that I’d been put in my place.

  I sat in my car trying to calm down, waiting for the adrenaline rush to subside. The reality of my situation was sinking in. How long was it going to be before I stopped seeing danger everywhere I looked? It was years since I had looked under my car for a bomb. Now I’d be checking under my car, in my office, everywhere I went. I’d worry that every door I opened was going to be my last. And just how the hell was I going to explain things to Jenny?

  I hoped – I prayed – that Monaghan was wrong.

  Chapter 27

  I was
running late.

  The order of service said ten-thirty. It was already twenty-five past and I still had several miles to cover. I’d cleared the traffic hold-up on the A10 and was hurtling as fast as Jenny’s 2CV would allow me, towards Cheshunt.

  Bob Bridges was a local man. He had been born in Enfield and, after leaving the services, he’d lived quite close to his parents. I didn’t know the area, so it was fingers crossed I was heading for the right church. I glanced at the scribbled note on the passenger seat.

  Saint Andrew’s, Church Lane. The big church near the council offices.

  As I turned off the A10, my watch showed ten thirty-five.

  The hearse was already parked outside the church. A Sergeant in full dress uniform was mustering the bearers.

  I had to sit patiently in the line of waiting cars while the pine coffin was gently unloaded from the hearse and onto the shoulders of the waiting policemen. The Sergeant placed a blue police-service flag and the dead Inspector’s cap on the coffin. The pallbearers then fell in behind their Sergeant and began the slow walk up the path of the church.

  At the entrance, several other policemen, not quite as late as me, waited at the gates as the coffin passed. Their faces shared a look of intense sadness as they lowered their heads in respect.

  I parked the car and made my way into the church. As I reached the main door, an arm blocked my path.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ A large, rosy-faced Constable in full uniform blocked my path.

  As I was also in uniform, I was a little surprised to be stopped.

  ‘Do you have your warrant card?’ he demanded.

  I fumbled in my back pocket. Fortunately I’d remembered to bring it and I held it up for the PC to check.

  ‘Thanks, sir. Sorry about that. There are some army blokes inside who asked for the precaution.’

  I smiled and walked slowly into the church. It was big, very big. Ahead of me I could see the pallbearers moving towards their seats. On the left, about halfway from the front, sat the military contingent. With one exception they were all in plain clothes. Even from the back there was no mistaking one of them. Six feet seven inches in his stockinged feet and with long, wavy grey hair there was no mistake. It was ‘Lofty’ Hales, the regimental Sergeant Major.