Renegades

by Hutson, Shaun;

  ‘Not officially,’ he mimicked. ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Was it the IRA or not?’

  ‘They were IRA men who did the shooting but they were acting unofficially. Against Sinn Fein orders.’ He looked down at his hand and what remained of the finger tips.

  ‘Tell me more,’ said Doyle.

  ‘You were right in what you said; Sinn Fein were all for this peace settlement in the six counties. They even gave orders that hostilities were to stop until the politicians had had their say. The men who did the shooting at Stormont didn’t want that. They wanted the war to go on. No peace settlement. They wanted to carry on fighting. They wanted the money, too.’

  ‘What money?’ asked Doyle sharply, his attention now fully focused, his curiosity aroused.

  ‘The group that did the shooting were privately funded. Someone paid them a huge amount of money to carry out that shooting at Stormont.’

  Doyle stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘And you; where do you figure in all this?’ he asked. ‘Was it the same man who ordered the shooting that told you to call the meeting tonight?’

  Sheehan nodded slowly.

  ‘We were supposed to start bombing civilian targets, cause as much disruption as possible, create anti-Irish feeling again and stop the peace initiative going through,’ he confessed.

  ‘How much were the gunmen paid to do the shooting?’ Doyle wanted to know.

  ‘I heard about a million, maybe more.’

  ‘Jesus,’ muttered Doyle. ‘Who paid them?’

  ‘That I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you want to lose your other hand?’ the counter-terrorist hissed. ‘Who paid them?’

  ‘I swear to God I don’t know.’

  ‘How many gunmen were involved in the shooting?’

  ‘I don’t know that, either. All I know is there are five or six men working in the squad.’

  ‘Who’s in charge of them?’

  ‘His name’s Maguire. James Maguire. That’s all I know. I swear.’

  ‘I need to know who paid him the million quid and why,’ said Doyle.

  ‘I told you, I don’t know,’ Sheehan insisted.

  Doyle took a step back.

  ‘Bullshit,’ he said, aiming the gun at the Irishman. ‘Who paid them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then you’re no use to me any snore,’ the counter-terrorist said, drawing a bead on Sheehan. The sight was over his forehead.

  ‘I’ve told you all I know,’ Sheehan shouted frantically, his eyes bulging in the sockets. ‘You can’t kill me.’

  Doyle smiled.

  ‘Wrong,’ he said quietly, and thumbed back the hammer.

  It was then that Sheehan fainted.

  ‘And you have no doubt that he was telling the truth?’

  Jeffrey Donaldson’s words seemed to echo around the small room inside the police station. He chewed on the stem of a pipe as he spoke, the fumes from the bowl mingling with air already heavy with cigarette smoke. It looked as though someone had draped the air with a shroud.

  Doyle took a sip of his coffee, wincing when he found it was cold.

  ‘He didn’t know anything else,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t know who hired Maguire and his men.’

  ‘Who the hell would want to do that?’ said Austin.

  ‘Who could afford to do it?’ Gamer asked.

  ‘Another terrorist organisation? Someone with a vested interest in seeing that there is no peace settlement in Ireland,’ Donaldson suggested. ‘Maybe even another country.’

  ‘Like Libya or Iran?’ Doyle mused.

  ‘Or someone bigger,’ Donaldson said, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Austin said.

  ‘Most IRA weapons and funds come from outside sources,’ Donaldson told him. ‘The Middle East, America, Russia. Some IRA men are even sent to the Middle East to learn their trade. What we have to find out’ – he looked at Doyle – ‘is who paid the money and why.’ He got to his feet. ‘I want you at my office tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, Doyle. We’ll go over this again there.’

  The younger man nodded and ground out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray.

  ‘What about me?’ Austin asked. ‘I have a right to know what’s going on. What you decide to do.’

  ‘This is out of your hands now, Austin,’ Donaldson told him. ‘It’s beyond the Flying Squad. You haven’t the resources or the capabilities to deal with this situation. We’ll take over from here.’ And then he was gone.

  Doyle also got to his feet and headed for the door.

  ‘It might interest you to know that Sheehan is in hospital,’ said Austin. ‘You could have killed him.’

  ‘I wish I had,’ the counter-terrorist said flatly as he paused in the doorway. ‘Maybe next time I will.’ Then he too was gone.

  Séance

  There were five of them seated around the table, their faces cast in deep shadow.

  The only light in the great hall came from the hundreds of candles arranged in various patterns on the floor. The entire room was filled by sickly yellow light and the acrid smell of a thousand burning wicks. Smoke rose in small ethereal plumes every once in a while when a gust of wind extinguished a candle. Each time it was rapidly re-lit by one of the three men who looked on.

  The quintet seated at the table remained where they were, heads bowed, fingertips touching gently.

  In the centre of the table, framed by yet more candles, lay the body of a child.

  The boy was naked. Unconscious.

  The drug had taken a very short time to work on him and now, exposed to their prying eyes, he lay spread-eagled in their midst.

  One of the men kept looking at the boy but a word from one of his companions forced him from his pleasure and he closed his eyes once more.

  Outside the wind was whipping around the building, screaming at the windows and snuffing out more candles. Again they were re-lit.

  The man who had been staring at the unconscious child heard movement to his right but did not look up. He knew what was happening. Knew that one of his companions had risen and was now standing, arms outstretched in a gesture designed to encompass all those who sat at the table.

  The man standing began to speak but his words were not always easy to understand. Not because of any speech impediment but because of their nature.

  Strange, apparently meaningless phrases spilled from his lips. The others heard the words but did not understand.

  It began to get colder in the room.

  In the centre of the table the child stirred for a moment, perhaps momentarily roused by the chill, but after a short moan he drifted into oblivion again.

  The cold intensified.

  It was as if every ounce of warmth was being sucked not only from the room but from the men who sat at the table. They began to shiver, not least the one who sat at the head of the massive oak table. He raised his head to see that his companion was still speaking but his words now seemed to have changed from a series of phrases into a chant.

  The chant grew louder.

  The cold grew more palpable.

  A breeze seemed to sweep through the room and many of the candles were blown out, their yellow lights snuffed as surely as if invisible fingers had nipped the wicks.

  As the men who looked on made to re-light them the individual who was chanting held up a hand to stop them. They sank back into the shadows, grateful to hide in the gloom.

  The chanting stopped.

  There was a low rumbling sound which seemed to come not from one particular source but from all around the table.

  All around the hall.

  It was as if the entire place and all its occupants were about to be engulfed by an earthquake.

  A candlestick fell to the ground, clattering noisily on the stone floor. It was followed by another.

  And another.

  As each fell so their candles went out and the darkness in the room deepened.

  So did the c
old.

  The man at the head of the table, squinting through the gloom, saw something.

  At the far end of the hall, even through the tenebrous darkness, he could discern a shape. Somehow blacker than the night itself, it was as if a portion of the umbra had taken on tangible form and detached itself from the remainder of the shadows.

  That shape was now moving towards the table.

  The man narrowed his eyes, both to see through the gloom and also to try and pick out exactly what the shape was.

  He swallowed hard as he realized that the one they had sought was among them.

  Nineteen

  Bright shafts of sunlight thrust their way through the windows of the Mayfair office. Motes of dust caught in the golden shafts as if magnetized.

  The sunlight was shining onto Jeffrey Donaldson’s polished desk top. He was sitting back in his swivel chair, puffing contentedly on his pipe. Smoke rose in small clouds, dissipating high above him, swirling around the huge crystal chandelier which hung from the centre of the ceiling.

  The chair made little noise as he moved back and forth in it. In fact the entire room seemed unnaturally silent; even the footfalls of the other man in the room were muffled by the thick pile of the carpet.

  Tom Westley wandered back across the office and set down a crystal tumbler close to Donaldson, who glanced up from the file he was reading and inspected the contents of the glass.

  ‘It’s a bit early for this, isn’t it, Tom?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘If you don’t want it I’ll drink it,’ Westley said, sipping his own Scotch.

  He was a year or two older than Donaldson, and much more powerfully built; a broad, muscular man with a tanned face and large hands that not only dwarfed the glass but threatened to crush it if he squeezed too hard. He stood at the window, looking out over the paved area beneath. There was a patio and a small pond which boasted a fountain. Sunlight glinted on the surface of the pool, the warmth of the water coaxing movement from the fish which populated it.

  Westley took another sip of his drink, then wandered back across the room and added a squirt of soda.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Donaldson asked.

  ‘I don’t like this situation, Jeff. This business with the IRA,’ he said, turning to face his companion. ‘I read Doyle’s report too.’ He shook his head. ‘This ... antagonism between himself and the IRA seems to go beyond the job. He treats the fighting as if it’s something personal between him and the Provisionals.’

  Westley drained the contents of his glass and poured himself another.

  This time he didn’t bother with the soda.

  Donaldson eyed his companion guardedly for a moment, watching as he downed half of the fiery liquid in one gulp. He had always disapproved of his companion’s sometimes excessive drinking habits but, as they never interfered with his work, he thought it churlish to make an issue of it. When his twenty-year old daughter had been killed in a car accident two years earlier Westley had hit the bottle hard; even now, when he felt too much stress he was a little too easily tempted to reach for the Scotch.

  Donaldson smiled thinly.

  ‘Doyle’s passion for his work might be to our advantage,’ he said.

  Westley grunted.

  ‘If you ask me, the bastard is insane,’ he said. ‘Since he was injured he’s changed. His attitudes, his methods, everything.’

  ‘He was always a little over-zealous,’ Donaldson said, reaching for his own drink and taking a sip. ‘Even before the accident.’

  ‘Well, he’s much more than that now. I think he’s dangerous to others as well as himself. Some of the other agents think he has divided loyalties.’

  Donaldson raised one eyebrow quizzically.

  ‘I mean, with his family being Irish,’ Westley continued.

  ‘His family are dead. He has no one. That might account for his state of mind.’

  ‘Does it account for his death-wish, too?’ asked Westley cryptically.

  The two men looked at each other for a moment. Then Donaldson leant forward and flicked a switch on the console on his desk.

  ‘Send Mr Doyle in, please,’ he said and sat back.

  Westley held his companion’s gaze a moment longer, then poured himself another drink.

  There was a knock on the door and Doyle entered. Greetings and handshakes were exchanged and Doyle sat down opposite Donaldson. He also accepted the drink Westley offered him, cradling the fine crystal glass in his hand as he sat there, waiting for the older man to take up his position on the other side of the desk. It was as if Westley felt he needed that distance between himself and Doyle.

  ‘We’ll keep this as brief as possible, Doyle,’ said Donaldson, flipping open another file. He glanced at it, then turned it towards the younger man. On top of a pile of papers was a photograph. The man in the picture was in his mid-twenties, strong-featured, his face framed by a mop of curly hair. There was a sparkle in his eyes which looked like defiance.

  ‘James Maguire, the man responsible for the shootings at Stormont,’ said Donaldson. ‘That’s the man we want. Him and as many of the men operating with him as possible.’

  Doyle glanced at the photo and nodded almost imperceptibly. Then he looked at his superiors.

  ‘He’ll never let himself be taken alive,’ he said.

  ‘We know that,’ snapped Westley. ‘But you could at least try.’

  Doyle shrugged.

  ‘I’m telling you, he won’t let himself be taken, and if that’s the way he wants it ...’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.

  ‘You’ll be working with another agent,’ Donaldson told him.

  ‘No way,’ Doyle said. ‘I work alone. I don’t need anyone else getting in the way.’

  ‘This isn’t a bloody western, Doyle,’ Westley reminded him, ‘or some bad American cop show. All this maverick crap doesn’t wash here. You’re working with another agent.’

  ‘Then find some other prat to do the job,’ snapped Doyle, getting to his feet.

  ‘Wait,’ Westley said.

  ‘Who is the other agent?’ Doyle demanded.

  ‘Willis,’ Donaldson told him.

  A thin smile flickered on Doyle’s lips.

  ‘Why Willis?’

  ‘Because no one else will work with you,’ Westley said. ‘And quite frankly I don’t blame them.’

  Again Donaldson flicked the switch on his console.

  ‘Tell Willis to come in,’ he said.

  Doyle turned as the door opened, the smile hovering once more on his lips.

  ‘You know Doyle, don’t you?’ Donaldson said as the other agent approached the desk.

  Georgina Willis nodded.

  Twenty

  The four of them sat in the office while Donaldson ran over the briefing. Doyle seemed uninterested, his attention fixed more firmly on his companion.

  Georgina Willis was three or four years younger than Doyle. She had a thin face which tapered off into a neatly pointed chin. Blonde hair flooded onto and beyond her shoulders, and every so often she would run a hand through it, occasionally glancing at Doyle. When she did, he looked deeply into her green eyes, noting how clear and alert they were. She was dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, and as she sat listening to Donaldson she curled the lace of one trainer around her index finger. She was pretty and Doyle couldn’t help but wonder how the hell she had ever come to be in this line of work. Maybe he’d take the time to find out, he promised himself.

  Maybe.

  Donaldson finally finished speaking and looked at the two agents as if expecting some response from them.

  They merely looked at each other. Then Doyle glanced at his watch.

  ‘If the lecture is over, I think I’ve heard enough,’ he said.

  ‘Take the files on Maguire. Study them,’ said Westley. ‘Find out all there is to know about him.’

  ‘He’s the enemy,’ Doyle said flatly. ‘What more do we need to know?’ He got to his feet.

  Georgina picked up
one of the manilla files and followed Doyle towards the door.

  ‘You’ll leave for Belfast on separate planes tomorrow morning,’ Donaldson told them. ‘Once you get there, you’re on your own. How you find Maguire, that’s your problem. There’s nothing more we can do for you.’

  ‘Nice to know we’ve got your support,’ Doyle said acidly and walked out. Georgina followed him, closing the door behind her.

  Westley waited a moment then slammed his fist down on the desk top.

  ‘Insubordinate bastard,’ he said. He wandered across the room to another door in the oak-panelled wall. He opened it and two men stepped into the office. Both were dressed casually, both in their mid-thirties. One was smoking a cigarette he’d rolled himself. Peter Todd took the cigarette from his mouth and removed some tobacco from the tip of his tongue.

  George Rivers glanced down at the file on the polished desk top, catching sight of the pictures of Maguire.

  ‘Nasty piece of work, isn’t he?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘You heard what was said in here?’ Westley asked.

  Both men nodded.

  ‘You will follow Doyle and Willis until they’ve tracked down Maguire and his renegades,’ Westley said. ‘Then you will kill Doyle and Willis. Clear?’

  The two men nodded.

  Twenty-One

  There were relatively few people in the pub. It was still too early for the office lunchtime trade, and for that Doyle was thankful. He didn’t like crowds, didn’t like people crowding him. He picked up the drinks from the bar and made his way across to the table where Georgina Willis sat. She thanked him, then watched as he wandered across to the juke-box, fed in some change and punched in his selections. He returned to the table and sat down just as the first swelling roar of guitars began to blast from the speakers. One or two other drinkers looked up irritably.

  Georgina glanced at him as he sipped his drink, studying the hard lines of his face, her eyes finally alighting on the deep scar which marked the left side of his features. Doyle scratched at it unconsciously and took another swallow from his glass. He’d asked her if she wanted a drink when they’d left the office but he didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation, she thought, sipping at her own drink and running one index finger around the rim of the glass.