by Mike Coony
I can’t help thinking of Ingrid, and what she’ll be facing when the shite hits the fan over the money she lifted. Nevertheless, I’m kind of relieved to be shot of the bag. If I’d been caught with the money I would’ve been hard pressed to talk my way out of it.
———
Mac just handed me a plane ticket. He informs me that I’m on my way to Hong Kong via Frankfurt, as ordered by Chief of Staff Seán Mac Stíofáin. Mac didn’t exactly say it’s an order, just that the Chief wants me there…and that I’ll be put under the watchful eye of a Triad Society. We talked about a couple of back door ways to stay in touch, and then we headed to the airport in separate taxis.
The German girl I reckoned the Chief would send to meet me in Frankfurt didn’t show up, and the girl who came in her place doesn’t speak a word of English. She keeps repeating the same thing over and over: “Es gibt eine Änderung des Planes. Sie müssen den Brief lesen will ich dir geben und entscheiden, Tripolis oder Ankara. Dann muss ich dir ein Ticket und winken zum Abschied.”
I pointed her towards a café, bought her a coffee and a bagel and gestured that she should wait for me. She’s tapping alarmingly at her wrist-watch, but she seems to understand tranquilo, the Spanish word for ‘calm’ that I remember from my schoolboy days.
I went in search of a bookshop and bought an English-German dictionary so I can translate what she’s been trying to tell me. She’s been saying: There is a change of plan. You must read the letter I will give you and decide Tripoli or Ankara. Then I must give you a ticket and wave goodbye.
So whatever the new plan is, the Chief wants to be sure I get on the flight. Why else would a strange girl need to wave me goodbye? Jaysus, he doesn’t trust me…or the two options are equally shite – and I’d thought I was going to Hong Kong! Why didn’t she just give me the letter in the first place?
Finally, she produced an envelope from inside her well-filled blouse. I recognise the handwriting immediately. Then she showed me two airline tickets made out in the name I’m travelling under, matching the passport I have in my pocket. She went to order a fresh coffee for herself, and tea and a cake for me. I tore open the envelope and began to decode the Chief’s letter.
5
LIBYA, TURKEY and KURDISTAN
Once I’d gone through the decoding process, the Chief’s letter read:
A chara,
Sorry about this last-minute change of plan, but Colonel Muammar Muhammad al-Gaddafi, Brother Leader of the Libyan Arab Jamahiriya (Libyan Arab Republic to the likes of you and me), wants to ‘enable the people of Ireland to finally rise up from under the British imperial yoke.’ He’s giving us some of the automatic weaponry, surface-to-air missiles, communications equipment and explosives he got from the Brits - and the kit our American friends can’t get their hands on for us.
He wants a senior officer to go to Libya immediately, to familiarise himself with the equipment he’s donating to our cause. And Finn, naturally I thought of you. You know your way around modern weaponry and you can understand the manuals - and he’s bound to be impressed if you let slip that secret about your lineage. Of course there’s also the little matter of every policeman this side of Kabul looking for you.
But Finn, mind now, you’ll have to bite your tongue my lad. He’s a mad yoke all right, but you’ll just have to listen to him ranting and raving - and grin. Just keep grinning till your face hurts. Got it!
There is a plan B Finn me boy, it involves eating yak’s milk curd for a few weeks and sleeping with goats. Take your pick, but I know which one I’d go for. Hong Kong is on hold for a wee while, but you will be going there after you sort out one of the above. Right!
Stay in touch through Mac, we’ll be thinking about you.
Sláinte agus saol chugat!
Seán
———
After more than six weeks in the desert, I’m getting more and more factious. I lost the plot when gawking tourists started trekking the sixty-five kilometres from Tripoli to appear at the camp. I’ve had enough now that they’re treating me like an exotic attraction – a real live IRA killer to study.
I really lost my temper this morning, as everyone was half-expecting anyway. I was zeroing an American-made M16 assault rifle when I sensed someone standing behind me. I turned to see a fellah with a video camera up on his shoulder recording me. I let off a dozen rounds in the sand around his feet; he dropped the camera and I blew it to bits.
It seems that this would-be David Lean – director of three of the greatest films ever made – is related to the Colonel by marriage. It’s probably just as well that the camera fellah isn’t a blood relation, or I’d never get out alive…what with the Colonel’s penchant for killing off his guests. Luckily, I’ve just been ordered out of the country before sunset.
A ten-ton lorry brought me from the desert camp to Tripoli International Airport, where I was unceremoniously tossed out the back of the lorry. The junior officer in charge of expelling me from the country brusquely signalled me to grab my duffle bag and follow him. He escorted me to the Turkish Airlines’ desk, where he had a brief conversation in Arabic. I’ve been handed a boarding pass; my flight to Istanbul takes off in forty minutes.
Two airport security men approached and took me through Immigration and Customs. Once I made it through Customs I was met by a pleasant woman wearing a Turkish Airlines’ uniform. She smiled what looks like a genuine smile, and asked me to accompany her.
We went to small office and she gestured for me to sit. She lifted the telephone on the desk, dialled a number and gave me the handset.
“Finn b’Jaysus, is that yerself…in trouble again I hear? Fret not fellah, you’re off ta dine on goat meat and other Kurdish delights. And I don’t have ta tell ya ta steer clear of the wacky baccy, boss!”
“Mac, what the feck’s going on? How come you’re sitting at the other end of this line? They’ve seen fit to fling me outa their country, for feck all! I didn’t know till five minutes ago where the hell I’m going to.”
“Finn, let’s not go inta all that now. Himself has been busy. He’s arranged for ya ta spend a few weeks, well, maybe it’ll be months, in a lovely part of the world…scorching hot in summer, but freezing bloody cold this time of year. I’ll say no more, but you’ll be met off the flight. They’re friends…fierce friends to be sure, but they’ll keep ya out of mischief until it’s time for Hong Kong. Right….Good luck, God bless. Oh yes…I hope ya remember everything I taught ya about what ta put in a culvert, if you get my meaning…bang!”
So, that’s what they’re up to – a touch of terrorist training. If I was a suspicious sceptic, I might be thinking that the Chief – relatively safe back in Belfast – is subconsciously wishing that I’ll blow meself up as payback for pissing off the Colonel. But I know my way around an ID, having been shown the ropes by Mac when we were targeting army patrols back in Northern Ireland…and he’s the best in the game.
———
It was a short, uneventful flight aboard Turkish Airlines to Atatürk International Airport in Istanbul. I see a young woman waiting behind a rope barrier in the meet and greet area; there’s a handwritten sign resting in her folded arms – ‘MR. F. FLYNN ~ WELCOME’. She’s a stunning, raven-haired, olive-skinned young woman with deep brown eyes. As I stepped towards her she hit me with a thousand watt smile that’d make any day a great day.
“Hello Mister Flynn, Mister Finn Flynn….I’ll carry your bag, please. I am Zahrah, your escort until we reach the camp of my people,” she said, while reaching to take the duffle bag out of my hand.
“Lead on Zahrah, lead on. I’ll carry the bag meself if you don’t mind…it’s customary where I come from….And Zahrah, that’s a lovely name for a lovely woman. Does it have a meaning I’d understand?”
“If you understand a flower, then yes…because that’s what it means when translated into English.”
“Right….Got you. A charming name for a charming companion….So, Zahrah, have we far
to go?” I asked, as we approached an old school bus.
“If all goes well, and we are not interrupted on our journey by the nosey, pig-headed Gendarmerie, we should reach our first destination in thirty-one, thirty-two hours. We shall remain in this bus for the journey…so if you wish to relieve yourself before we start, the vannklosett…sorry, the water closet…I mean the toilet, is over there….Please hurry Finn Flynn, we will leave shortly.”
The journey to the Ibrahim Khalill border crossing would’ve been boring if it hadn’t been for Zahrah’s potted history of the Kurdish people. Then she explained how her great grandparents had been treated by the British. It seems that the Brits left the old Ottoman Empire in an even bigger mess than they’d left Ireland.
We got talking about religion, and Zahrah told me she’s from a Jewish family, although she no longer practises her faith. I was going to say something about being a Jew in the middle of so many Muslims, but decided best not to.
When we arrived at the border crossing we were ordered off the bus, and the men were separated from the women. I was questioned by the ‘pig-headed’ Gendarmerie, but it was nothing like the intense interrogations I’d often been through at the hands of the RUC when crossing from Northern Ireland back into my own Republic of Ireland.
We eventually piled back on the bus, but there’s no sign of Zahrah. A fierce-looking fellah in a goatskin waistcoat and Levi’s jeans sat down beside me and patted my knee.
“Welcome, welcome to Kurdistan Finn Flynn….Not far now. We’ll soon have you out of this infernal bus and sitting in a comfortable café in Erbil. That is where you will meet those who wish to learn your skills….So relax my friend, relax,” he whispered.
This fierce lad is called Afrin. I’m looking forward to meeting the rest of the local PKK – the Kurdistan Workers’ Party – who are apparently very eager to have an Irishman show them how to blow up Turks.
———
I’m enjoying meself. I give lessons during the day, and we feast on goat meat kebabs and refreshing mint yoghurt in the evenings – to the sounds of finger drums and tinkling bells. It’s cold, especially at night, but I sleep as snug as a bug under a pile of furry pelts and woven blankets.
The fellahs are learning my skills, but there’s two-way traffic on the information exchange. I’ve shown them how to construct a roadside bomb with a kilo of ammonia nitrate, a few grams of plastic explosive and a remote-controlled detonator. They’ve demonstrated how to strip and dry the needles from a yew tree and grind them finely in a marijuana grinder. This fine power can be sprinkled on an intended victim’s food, and the victim will suffer a massive heart attack once they’ve consumed even half a teaspoonful of the powder.
“Thanks fellahs….I’ll remember that in case I come across anyone I think needs a heart attack,” I said, after the lesson.
All seems okey-dokey in the mountains of Kurdistan.
———
Afrin and I were out for a relaxing stroll when we were suddenly jumped by a platoon of the infamous I Bordo Bereliler Eğitimi – the Turkish Army’s Maroon Beret special forces. They none too gently put blankets over our heads and threw us into the back of a jeep.
Ten minutes later all hell is breaking loose. I can’t see a thing from under the blanket, but I can hear plenty. I hear the snaps of single high-velocity rounds, the chatter of automatic pistols and the ear-shattering blasts of Mills Bombs.
“Come on Finn Flynn, come on!” yelled Afrin, as he dragged me by my blanket over a dead Maroon Beret and out the back of the jeep.
Feck me! They’ve gone and rescued us – the mad bastards!
We moved camp as soon as we got back, and I caught a glimpse of Zahrah piling rugs into a lorry. She spotted me, waved, and scorched me again with one of her brilliant smiles. Then she was gone.
———
It’s been two days since we moved camp, and the word’s come through that I’m going to Hong Kong in three days. I’m to keep my head down there, under the protection of a Triad Society.
I’m sorry to say goodbye to my Kurdish brothers. I think the Kurds are a great bunch of fellahs – a bit too keen on getting off their heads on the wacky baccy, but great hosts. In a way, the Kurds put me in mind of the roaming Jewish people before the establishment of Israel. They’re a scattered nation looking for a homeland, and I see nothing wrong in that.
After a world-class send-off I was driven back to the border, and then on to Diyarbakir Airport, where I boarded a Pegasus flight to Istanbul. From Atatürk International Airport it’s onward to Hong Kong.
6
HONG KONG
As I approached the meet and greet hall at Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airport the smoked-glass automatic doors slid open. I’m standing at the top of a set of steps, above a sea of Asian faces staring up at the arriving passengers.
Seán Mac Stíofáin, the Chief, said I’ll be met by someone; he forgot to tell me how I’ll recognise him or her. Whoever it is will be from a Triad Society, and I haven’t a notion what a Triad looks like.
I concentrated on the faces below, searching for anyone showing an interest in me. Anyway, that’s the excuse I gave meself for not spotting the young, effeminate Chinese man who approached from behind and tapped on my shoulder.
“Mister Flynn? Mister Finn Flynn, I think?”
Without waiting for my confirmation, he lifted my bag and gestured for me to follow him out through a door marked ‘EXIT – STAFF ONLY’.
Parked below a large and impossible to miss ‘NO PARKING’ sign is a classic Rolls Royce Phantom. The boot opened to reveal a huge luggage space, and a chauffeur stepped out of the car. He saluted, opened the rear door of the car, and lifted my heavy duffle bag into the boot as if it’s no more than a lady’s purse. After closing the rear door he slid back into the driver’s seat. From the salute to returning to his seat, everything he did seemed to be one continuous, graceful gesture.
It struck me straight away that these fellahs don’t give a shite about airport security staff, parking attendants, or presumably, the police. I’m impressed by my first impressions of Triads.
As we pull away from the terminal building and drive up the slip road my sense of elation is dashed. The journey away from the airport, through Kowloon, is depressing. The route is awash with ugly, faceless buildings with rusty air-conditioning units clinging precariously to concrete walls. Green and cream minibuses weave between streams of heavily laden pick-up trucks. Massively overloaded goods lorries are belching out black, smoky diesel fumes, and impatient horn-honking taxi cabs zigzag past gleaming limos.
Wizened old men – wearing dirty, torn singlets and trousers cut down to make shorts – are peddling ancient butchers’ bikes between the traffic. Petrified geese are poking their long necks out the wicker panniers tied to both sides of the bikes.
None of this is endearing my new home to me. Those weeks lying doggo in the wet, wintry fields and ditches of South Armagh are beginning to appeal again. As we flash past windowless structures and massive advertising hoardings held up by webs of flimsy-looking bamboo, even the towering walls of Belfast’s Crumlin Road Gaol, or Dublin’s Mountjoy Prison, are seeming more bearable.
I’ve already given Eddie – the fellah from the airport arrivals hall – the nickname ‘Limp-wristed Eddie’. He’s prattling on from his seat beside the driver, pointing out advertising hoardings and neon signs like an amateur tour bus attendant. This went on until he glanced at me in the back of the car, noticed the look of blank indifference on my face, and shut up.
The driver explained that we’re entering the cross-harbour tunnel leading to Hong Kong Island, and that’s why he’s obliged to switch on the car’s headlights. “A strict regulation, sir,” he announced. “We will be in the tunnel for no more than four minutes, sir.”
Three minutes later we surfaced from the harsh, artificial light of the tunnel. Brilliant sunshine is reflecting off the harbour and row upon row of white, freshly painted luxury yachts. According to
the sign, it’s the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club. That’s more like it, I said to meself. The sight of the sun and the beautiful boats sure helped to lift my mood.
While we were caught up in slow-moving traffic I peered out the car’s rear window. A group of nattily dressed men and women is squashed together, balancing unsteadily on a tiny traffic island. The stream of cars, vans and lorries is passing just centimetres away from them.
“They’re probably on their way to fire the Noon Day Gun,” Eddie sniggered, pointing to the group. I ignored his remark, as I’m trying to concentrate on the names of the roads.
We travelled on Gloucester Road, turned left at Tonnochy Road, crossed over the tram tracks and turned right into Hennessy Road. Then we veered left to Johnston Road and turned left into Queensway; Admiralty Garden is on our right, and the drab, red speckled marble tower of the Bank of China is on the left. Cutting up into Des Voeux Road, Statue Square is on the right, and the space-age headquarters of Hongkong & Shanghai Banking Corporation is to our left. We made a sharp right turn at the Prince’s Building on Ice House Street before stopping at a set of traffic lights at Chater Road. After one more right turn we glided smoothly to a halt outside the five-star Mandarin Oriental, Hong Kong, on Connaught Road.
I already know – from fragments of information I’ve gleaned while skimming through colour supplements in waiting rooms – I’m stopped outside one of the top ten hotels in the world. I’ve no notion if this is our final destination, but my impression of Hong Kong, from passing through the dismal area leading away from the airport, has taken a turn for the better. Even if I’m just fantasising, the thought of sleeping in a five-star hotel is a much brighter prospect than a bed in Mountjoy Prison in Dublin, or in a Swedish jail – even if the Swedes do let you entertain your partner in a special log cabin at the weekends.
