by Matt Johnson
‘What, you mean he used to be a sniper or something?’
Yildrim laughed. ‘No, not a sniper. Finlay and his friends were once SAS soldiers.’
‘Special Air Service?’ Costello’s voice climbed several octaves; he couldn’t disguise his alarm. The very mention of the three letters rang alarm bells.
‘Yes, from many years ago.’
Costello sat silently for a moment while the gravity of the Iranian’s words sunk in. Many years previously, more than he cared to recall, a high-level meeting had been called amongst the Provisional leadership in Ulster. There had only been one topic: the response to the SAS deployment in the Province. He remembered the heated debate about how to meet the threat. Angry and belligerent voices wanted to engage the soldiers head-on, to attack them and drive them out. The more considered members warned of the risks that posed, of the dangers of taking on such a skilled and determined enemy who were prepared to meet fire with fire. Some IRA members had been soldiers, they knew what the SAS was capable of and they warned against singling the regiment out for attack. ‘Kill one and the others won’t rest until they find you’ was the warning Costello could still remember being screamed across the meeting room by a grey-haired ex-trooper. That advice had won the day, and for very good reason.
And now, Costello had been duped into ignoring it.
‘You’ve had us attacking SAS soldiers?’ he said. ‘Jesus … I don’t believe it. Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘Would it have made a difference?’
‘You’re damn right it would.’ Costello felt his anger rising. What Yildrim had said meant that the final killing would no longer be the child’s play he had expected.
‘You would have asked for more money?’ said Yildrim.
‘You just don’t get it, do you? It’s not about the money. You don’t go singling out retired SAS soldiers without there being blowback. They look after their own; we’ll be marked men. Dominic won’t even be safe in prison.’
‘You consider them to be that dangerous?’
‘Too bloody right.’
Costello tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He could already feel his heart rate climbing as panicked thoughts about where he could hide and who he could trust raced through his mind.
‘You’ve as good as killed us yourself,’ he spat out. ‘We’re going to heaven now, and no doubt sooner that we’d planned for. They won’t rest until they find us.’
‘By us, I presume you include me?’ said Yildrim.
‘Of course. You can’t run from these guys.’
‘They are not supermen, Declan. They bleed like any other.’
‘You can kill the man but not the message. Back in the old country, we always knew that you took on the SAS at your peril.’
‘You forget, I can go back from where I came.’
‘To Pakistan, you mean? I told you when we first met that I knew you. You were one of Zubair’s men.’
The more time that Costello had spent with Yildrim, the more he had remembered about him. It had been many years, but the way the Iranian liked to talk in riddles had stuck with Costello. They had first met in the early 1980s, at a training camp in Peshawar in the northern province of Pakistan. Costello had been sent by the IRA to learn about guerrilla tactics and explosives at the same time as his senior commanders were negotiating to buy weapons. The young Yildrim had been another student at the camp. He was part of a group being taught by a one-eyed veteran of the Afghan-Russian war, a man called Abu Zubair.
Costello remembered that, as a young man, the Iranian had been very quiet and studious. Subject to some bullying by the other Muslims, he was forever being teased him about his inability to quote the Qur’an during religious studies. His response had been to tell stories to the others describing how he planned to become a significant man in the organisation. He had confused them by talking in hints and riddles, even then never expressing himself clearly, always hinting that he had a past.
Then, after about two months of training, he had been transferred with others to fight with the Northern Alliance against the occupying Russian forces in Afghanistan. Costello hadn’t seen him again; not until this job.
And now he had brought the threat of imminent death to both of them.
‘Yes. And I told you I remember you, too,’ said Yildrim, his voice flat and calm. ‘It was 1981. We did not see many Westerners in the camps.’
‘You went to Afghan, I was told.’
‘You were told right. Afghanistan for many years. Then back to Iran, then Kenya and Somalia. I have seen many places.’
‘So what’s the deal with the SAS? Why them and why now?’
‘Why them is my business. Why now is because it was only recently that I was given the opportunity.’
More riddles, thought Costello, shaking his head.
Yildrim opened the car door, slipped the Uzi back into the bag and silently departed into the adjacent field.
Costello watched him go. For a moment, it had crossed his mind to kill Yildrim there and then. If, as the Iranian claimed, the money transfer was going to go through regardless of what happened the next day, he could avoid the risk, pocket the cash and then disappear. But he didn’t trust the Iranian, didn’t trust him to fulfil the promise. The man was no fool. He had kept back the fact that the targets were former SAS soldiers because he knew Costello would have turned down the job. No doubt he had his reasons, just he would have reasons for keeping quiet on what was driving the mission. But one thing was certain: Costello could not assume the payment would be made without first taking care of the final policeman.
And as to the Iranian’s motive, that was none of his business. What did trouble the Irishman was the challenge they both now faced. They would be taking on men who were alert to the danger. Cops, yes, but these were a special breed of cop. They knew how to fight, and they knew how to kill. And they were waiting.
Chapter 87
Costello had been waiting for more than two hours.
The street was deserted. Cars were parked neatly outside all but a few of the houses. One of those was number 9, the house where the cop lived. The house where, in the front garden, Costello now waited. Shadows from the street lights concealed his presence from prying eyes.
Costello checked his watch. It was getting late. There had been no word from Yildrim. By now, he would either be waiting for the Finlay family or he would have finished the job. That was fine, for him. Here, on a cold September evening, operating alone for the first time in many years, the Irishman felt scared.
Costello thought back to the last time he had experienced a similar sensation. He remembered it well. It was the first time he had been called upon to plant a bomb. His hands had trembled so much as he primed the device that he had been forced to stop, walk away and return a few minutes later once he had composed himself. He cursed himself; he had overcome fear then, he would now.
To keep warm, he shuffled from foot to foot, ever aware of the need to stay alert. There was one light on in the target house but no movement. He had watched carefully from the concealment of the van, decided that the light was on a timer and then made his way to the ambush position. Now in place, he prepared things in his mind
This wasn’t going to be like the last shooting. On that occasion, Dominic had been there to help and they had been able to use the Kalashnikov. They were also unaware of how dangerous their target could have been. This time he had prepared more thoroughly.
With all available equipment either used up or seized by the police, the only weapon he had left was the Browning. It was more than enough, provided he maintained the element of surprise. In the darkness, he found himself fiddling nervously with the safety catch. The magazine was full, but he still felt the need to make sure and then, half an hour later, to check again.
Yes, he accepted, he was scared. But he now had a plan. That would overcome the fear.
Eventually, the cop would come home. According to Yildrim, he would be driving a re
d Audi. Regardless of where he parked, be it directly outside the house or further up the street, he would end up on the front drive ready to open the front door. Most people were right handed. Likely as not, the cop would use his gun hand to hold his house keys and, as he reached to open the door, that was when Costello would strike. Even if the cop was armed, he would have no time to go for his weapon.
It was a method that Costello had used before. It had never failed and there was no good reason for it to do so this time. Only one thing might let him down. He found himself uttering a silent prayer that he wouldn’t suffer a misfire. To cater for that unlikely possibility, he had diverted via a nearby area of woodland to test fire the Browning. It was sound, and the ammunition was new. Yet still the doubts remained.
At a little before eleven, the red Audi belonging to the target turned into the quiet cul-de-sac. Costello crouched and waited for the driver to pull up and park. As he listened, he heard it cruise past and stop further along the street. He raised himself enough to see that it was the right car, but that it had pulled up outside another house. The engine was still running. Costello counted the houses. The Audi was outside number nineteen. He cursed. If the Iranian had given him the wrong house number, the distance to the target was too great to maintain surprise.
Then, as he waited, it looked like his luck had changed. The car was just sitting there. The cop was in his seat, not moving. There was another chance. But he would have to be quick.
Moving quietly and slowly through the bushes, Costello edged out onto the pavement. His breathing became shallow and fast. He reached for and felt the reassuring steel of the Browning. The metal felt cold. It was time.
He was now close to the car. Close enough. He could see the back of the cop’s head in the driver’s seat. The man moved slightly. Costello paused. Had he been spotted? He couldn’t take the chance. He leapt forward, the Browning ready in his hand. Now, he couldn’t miss. He raised the pistol and aimed.
Chapter 88
The Audi leapt forward, the engine roaring into life. The cop had seen him. Costello’s first round smashed the rear window. Twice more he fired, as the car gained speed. The Browning kicked, the spent cartridge cases spinning skywards and away to his right. Both bullets passed through the shattered rear window of the car. With his vision of the cop obscured, Costello aimed at where he knew he had to be sitting. The driver seat would offer no protection.
The Audi swerved violently to the left as the cop lost control. A front wheel clipped the kerb, spinning the car around. It tipped sideward, the forward momentum rolling it onto its side. Engine roaring and wheels spinning, the car flipped onto its roof as the windscreen smashed and the doors flew open. The air was filled with the screaming sounds of tearing metal as shrubs were ripped from the earth and the front wall of a garden shattered with the impact. The noise only ceased when the car came to rest.
Costello ran over. The front garden of the house was wrecked, the car now had the appearance of a stranded and upturned beetle. The engine was still running, the rear wheels spinning uselessly as petrol poured from the filler cap. Broken bricks and mortar littered the grass.
Partially concealed by the wreck, the cop lay on a narrow path near the front door of the house. He was on his back staring up at the sky but, in the cool night air, it was clear that he was still breathing. It was time to finish him off, Costello decided, the coup de grace. Two headshots would do it, before all the neighbours appeared to see what was happening.
He moved quickly, careful to avoid falling on the debris from the smashed garden wall and pot plants that now surrounded the upturned car. The air smelled of burning engine oil.
He stood over the recumbent, vulnerable figure. Desperate to escape, the injured cop had crawled clear of the wreck. Costello allowed himself a moment of respect. The man’s arm was badly broken. It must have made any form of movement agonising. Although there no sign of a bullet wound, the amount of blood that trailed from the car to where the man now lay suggested he wasn’t much longer for the mortal world. This man was tough, Costello thought. He raised the Browning to fire.
‘Enjoy heaven … this one’s for Seamus,’ he said quietly.
Declan Costello had never actually been shot before.
He’d come close, on more occasions than he cared to recall. The closest had been when an army patrol had returned fire during a sniping job and splinters of wood had pierced his shoulder. He had often wondered what it felt like.
A force hit him – as if he’d been kicked in the groin by a horse. The Browning flew from his grip and onto the grass. For a moment, there was no pain, just a feeling of confusion. And then his brain caught up and he realised exactly what had happened. With understanding came the pain, a searing agony that blotted out all thought. As his legs collapsed from under him, Costello caught a momentary sight of the cause of his demise. The cop had a gun.
Costello knew he was badly hurt. Even through his agony, he knew that the situation he now faced had changed – from kill and escape, to kill to survive. Only one of them was going to live.
He tried to move. Nothing happened. His legs wouldn’t function. For a moment, he wondered if they were still attached to his body. Reaching down, he squeezed his thigh. There was no pain and no feeling … and no movement. His spinal cord was gone.
Costello turned his head to where the cop still lay on his back. The man’s eyes were open. He needed to find a weapon before the cop could react. Turning away, he flailed his arms around in a frantic attempt to locate the Browning.
‘Looking for something?’ came a voice.
It was the cop. He could move.
A sweaty, snarling face appeared inches above him. The smell of blood hit Costello’s nostrils. The barrel of a pistol was pushed hard into the underside of his nose. The fight was lost.
‘Kill me.’ Costello spat the words.
The cop shifted his weight and moved away, as if he were straining to use his good arm to reach for something. Something in his pocket. Costello braced himself for the shot. He knew he wouldn’t feel it. Death would be instant. He remembered his childhood, the green fields … the games of football in the street. He remembered George Best and his dreams of playing for Manchester United. In a very short time he knew he would learn the answer to a question that every person asked but none could ever share, as there was only one way to find out. Was there another life, a second chance to put things right?
But the shot didn’t come.
The cop was back, kneeling down and holding a small dagger in front of his eyes. The blade caught in the light. It was as if the cop was holding it in such a way that Costello might recognise and understand the cause of his demise. A final moment of torment.
‘This is for Skinner,’ the cop said.
As the blade was pressed down, Costello puzzled for a moment who Skinner was. Then the point touched his eyeball and all thoughts were replaced by pain.
He screamed. ‘No, no … for the love of God, no.’
‘Then talk now Declan … and I’ll let you live,’ the cop snarled. ‘Who told you where to find me?’
Costello hesitated. The cop knew his name. How? he wondered.
The cop pressed the point of the knife into his eyelid.
‘If I tell you that, I’m as good as dead anyhow,’ he answered.
Again the cop growled, this time jabbing the blade into his cheek. Costello felt a trickle of blood start to flow where the skin was pierced.
‘Tell me … or this goes through your eye,’ said the cop.
‘OK, OK … it was an Arab. His name is Yildrim. Iranian, I think. I didn’t know you were SAS, I swear it. He only told me today. We thought you were just ordinary coppers.’
‘Where did he get his information from?’
‘Someone in the Security Service, he never told me who.’
‘A name … Give me a name.’
‘I … I don’t know, he’s dead anyhow.’
‘What do you mean he’
s dead?’
Before Costello could answer, two men appeared from the house. They seemed uncertain about what to do, whether to interfere or to go for help. But before he could call out to them, the cop placed a bloody hand across his mouth.
‘Get an ambulance. Now!’ the cop shouted.
As soon as the men departed, the cop leaned forward, put his weight on Costello’s chest and repeated the question. ‘What do you mean, he’s dead?’
‘This morning … a bomb.’ Costello groaned as a wave of pain hit him again. There was a taste of blood in his mouth now.
‘What was his name?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I promise you.’
‘How many more of you are there?’
‘Just me … and Yildrim.’
‘Are you sure?’ The cop pressed the blade into his cheek again.
‘Yes … yes. I promise you,’ Costello answered quickly. ‘There was only ever three of us. We were hired by Yildrim, I promise you, he never told us you were SAS.’
‘Where do I find this Yildrim, Declan?’
‘He contacts me when he wants me. That’s all I know.’ Costello strained to move his upper body. The cop was weakening, he could sense it. The man’s voice was becoming slower and his grip was lessening as the blood that he was losing started to have an effect. There was still a chance.
‘Why’s he doing this?’ the cop demanded, his voice now slow and deliberate.
‘He only said it was a score to settle, he didn’t say what.’ Costello tried to move an arm, find some leverage, create a chance to overpower his opponent.
The cop paused for a moment, appearing to sense what Costello was attempting. Then, once more, he leant his body weight onto Costello, pinning his arms to his sides.
The chance was gone.
‘Keep talking, Paddy,’ he said. ‘The longer you talk the better the chance that the police will get here before I kill you.’
Costello stared into the cop’s eyes. He no longer had the strength to resist but, at the same time, he no longer wanted to die. From the waist down, his body was numb. He could feel his breathing becoming laboured. He was fading, he knew it. Mercy was his only possibility of survival. ‘There’s nothing more,’ he said. ‘Just let me go … please.’
