Bandit Country

by Andrew Turpin

  Duggan nodded. “He’s right. Normalization’s out the window now.”

  They all knew that their unwritten objective was to prevent the establishment of normal policing operations in Northern Ireland, which would put the province on a similar footing to the rest of the UK. The biggest step by the British government to that goal had been removing the army from the streets in 2007, when the ugly, symbolic army watchtowers had been torn down.

  “That’s three you’ve done in the past few months, Dessie,” McGarahan said. “I don’t see the rationale behind all of them, but okay, I’d suggest taking a breather now until the dust settles.”

  “I’d disagree,” O'Driscoll said. “Better to keep up momentum, actually. But if we’re going to keep it up, we’ll need more funds—a lot more. And soon. Dessie, you’ll need to speak to Patrick over in Boston about that.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got to speak to him,” Duggan said. “I need another M82 as a backup now that we’re down to just one. I’m not happy with the one I’ve got—it’s a very old piece of kit.”

  The biggest issue he had was that occasionally the bolt wasn’t chambering the next round properly; it wasn’t going into battery and engaging the lock ready to fire again. He couldn’t afford for that to happen when he was on a big job.

  “If I had a new one,” Duggan said, “it’d also mean that Martin here could use the old one. We could get him trained up, make us a lot more effective.” He glanced at Dennehy. “Besides, it’s too much of a risk having just one gun in the locker. That okay, Kieran? It’s gonna cost a few bob.”

  The other Barrett M82 rifle the brigade owned had been discovered by police in a cache in woodland near Armagh City during a raid a year earlier, along with a batch of other weapons. To replace it with another in good condition would probably cost US$6,000 to $7,000.

  The finance director grimaced. “Yeah, okay, but like I said, we need more cash coming in if we’re going to spend that amount.”

  McCormick laughed. “You’re full of shit, Kieran. How many millions have you got stashed away?”

  O'Driscoll ignored the jibe.

  “What we need, if we’re gonna keep momentum up, is a real ‘spectacular,’ in my view,” Duggan said. “And it needs to be us, this group, who does it, not one of the other brigades, and definitely not one of the other republican groups.”

  “You wouldn’t count the chief constable as a ‘spectacular,’ then?” McCormick asked. “You had the chance. You had the secretary of bloody state in your crosshairs. Why didn’t you take him out? You’re the Dentist after all . . . aren’t you?”

  After a few seconds Duggan said, “I’m thinking higher up the food chain than him.”

  He leaned over the side of his armchair and picked up the previous day’s copy of the Belfast Telegraph and threw it down on the coffee table in the center of the room.

  “There, take a look at that,” Duggan said.

  The front-page headline, in large bold capitals, read, “Police Crank Up Security for G8.”

  Below it, the story referred to a major security initiative by the Police Service of Northern Ireland ahead of the annual meeting of leaders from the eight main industrialized countries.

  For the first time, the story continued, the G8 meeting was being held in Northern Ireland, at a hotel resort complex near Enniskillen. In an editorial, the paper said the choice of Northern Ireland was “a move intended to signal to the world that Northern Ireland was now demonstrably a safe place for tourists to visit and businesses to invest in.”

  “You’ve got no chance there,” McGarahan said. “There’ll be a ring of steel around that resort. And after this chief constable thing, they’ll probably cancel the whole thing now, anyway.”

  Duggan picked up the newspaper and turned to page 3, where the front-page story continued. He picked up a pen and circled a paragraph about halfway down. “They definitely won’t cancel. That’d be seen as bowing to terrorists now, wouldn’t it? There, read that.”

  He passed the paper across to O'Driscoll, who read out loud, “US President Barack Obama and UK Prime Minister David Cameron are expected to carry out a community visit, possibly to a factory, library or school, during the two-day G8 summit meeting.”

  O'Driscoll lowered the newspaper and stared at Duggan, as did McCormick and McGarahan.

  “You’re joking, Dessie, aren’t you?” McGarahan said.

  Duggan shook his head.

  Chapter Four

  Thursday, January 3, 2013

  Belfast

  A group of men were gathered next to an enormous mural of Bobby Sands painted on a wall on the corner of Falls Road and Sevastopol Road in Belfast.

  Donovan braked to a halt a short distance away, giving Johnson a clear view of the full-color mural, two stories high, across the road from Falls Road Library. It showed a portrait of Sands, who was just twenty-seven when he died after his hunger strike in the Maze.

  Donovan ignored the men.

  “This is the block. You’re on the third floor,” Donovan said, pointing up at a newish block of flats. “My tenant shifted out last month, and I’m waiting to get another, so you’re lucky. More privacy than a hotel, hopefully. All furnished. Should do you while you’re here. No charge of course.”

  Johnson nodded. The block stood in contrast to some of the older, grubbier terraced properties they had driven past farther west along Falls Road, the main road that runs through West Belfast. It had been the scene of some of the fiercest fighting between British troops and republican forces during the Troubles.

  Johnson got out of the car and removed his small suitcase from the trunk.

  As he did, the group of men standing next to the Sands mural, which Johnson now realized was painted on Sinn Féin’s office building, burst into song, delivered in a raucous, high-speed, staccato style.

  Craigavon sent the Specials out,

  To shoot the people down,

  He thought the IRA were dead,

  In dear old Belfast town,

  But he got a rude awakening,

  With cannon and grenade,

  When he met the first Battalion,

  Of the Belfast Brigade.

  After they had finished singing, they all burst out laughing and two of them high-fived each other. “Chopper down. C’mon guys, time for another beer,” yelled one of them. They’d clearly had a few drinks already, and their performance seemed well rehearsed and coordinated—hardly the first time they’d sung the song that afternoon.

  “Locals seem to be happy at events down in Crossmaglen,” Donovan said. “It’s one in the eye for Sinn Féin’s peace strategy. That’s why they’re singing outside their offices.”

  “What was the song?” Johnson asked.

  “It’s called ‘Belfast Brigade.’ An old rebel song. Follow me. Could be a bit of noise tonight around here after what’s happened.”

  A TV news crew was unloading camera and sound gear from a car just outside the Sinn Féin offices. One of the crew walked over to the group of men and appeared to be trying to persuade them to repeat the song on camera.

  Donovan strode toward the block of flats, unlocked the front security door, and went in, Johnson close behind him. They headed up the stairs.

  “We need to have a chat,” Donovan said as they reached the apartment door. He opened it, held the handle as Johnson walked through, and then closed the door behind him.

  The two-bedroom apartment was fully furnished, modern, and clean. Johnson leaned against a black granite countertop in the open-plan kitchen area, folded his arms, and looked around. One of the bedrooms had an en suite bathroom, and there was another bathroom off the hallway. Outside the living room was a small balcony.

  “Nice place. I’ll be fine here,” Johnson said.

  “Good. Listen, after what you’ve seen today, you’ll have some idea why I’d really like you to get stuck into this job,” Donovan said. “These bloody dissident Republicans. You’ve had a flavor of it—not planned by me, I
have to say, in case you were wondering.”

  Johnson looked at Donovan and pursed his lips. “So you think an American investigator like me can make headway coming cold into a place like this when the police, intelligence networks, the army can’t? Come on, Michael. Get real. My specialty’s investigating stuff where none of those kinds of organizations are interested, or it was too long ago, where they can’t be bothered any more. Historical stuff. What I’ve seen today is real-time crime. The police’ll be on it, probably MI5 too, from what I know of British intelligence. Everyone’ll be all over it like a red rash.”

  Donovan shook his head. “Ha! I wish. That’s the problem. They’ll try, but they won’t get anywhere. I don’t think so. The communities around here, especially south Armagh, are still as watertight as a duck’s backside, mostly. People are still running scared of passing on information to officialdom. When it comes to police, they hear nothing, see nothing, know nothing, say nothing. There’s still that stigma about being a tout. It’s still dangerous, they think, and probably they’re not wrong.”

  He tugged at his chin. “In the meantime, my business goes bust. What d’you think tomorrow’s headlines are gonna look like to my investors in Frankfurt, Hong Kong, Singapore? They’ll laugh. I’m wasting my time. Until a year or so ago, they were all optimistic, thinking things were on the upturn around here, that the Republicans had all gone quiet. Now it’s all going pear-shaped again with all the shootings that have happened.”

  “So why don’t the police come and talk to members of the old intelligence community like you, or anyone else who might be able to help?” Johnson asked.

  “They try, up to a point, but there’s too many old rivalries, too much bad blood.”

  Johnson was feeling a little confused. “Or why don’t you do your own investigation, given you know the issues and the territory so well? You’re ex-army intelligence. It’s right up your alley, isn’t it? Or why not get a local guy to do it?”

  Donovan shook his head. “I’m too busy with this business. I’m working eighteen-hour days as it is. I need a pro to do it. Besides, too many people know who I am, know my background, and would never talk to me, not if it were an IRA issue. Same goes for all the decent local investigators, the good ones anyway. Most of ’em have army or police backgrounds. It scares people.”

  That must undoubtedly be true, Johnson thought.

  “Okay, so what d’you want me to do?” Johnson asked. “I’m scheduled to fly out of here Saturday evening, so I’ve got two more days. You’re going to have to persuade me by then.”

  “Dig up the gang who did today’s job down in Crossmaglen, for starters,” Donovan said, his voice rising a little. “I’m assuming that whoever shot the chief constable was probably the same guy who did the prison officer and the security company guy in recent months, the ones I mentioned to you. There’ll quite likely be a group of ’em, probably all hard-liners, old IRA stock, who can’t let go of the past.”

  “So actually,” he continued, “you’ll probably find there is a historical link to all this. It might be your bag after all. It’s probably a cleanskin, a guy who’s not been convicted of anything before. There’s still a few of ’em around. I’m speculating a bit, but that’s what I think.”

  Johnson scratched his ear. “Why d’you think it was the same guy who did the other jobs?”

  “It’s got all the same hallmarks. There’s not that many militarily active dissidents—probably a few hundred. And out of them, a sniper who can operate successfully from very long range and has the equipment to do it? A rare breed. Probably no more than one or two of ’em at most.”

  “And you don’t have any names?” Johnson asked.

  Donovan shook his head. “Not really. Although that said, following today’s shooting something rang a bell at the back of my mind. Remember, I worked in army intelligence in the ’80s and ’90s, so I picked stuff up. The name I recall was a guy called Dessie Duggan. He was the son of another legendary IRA sniper, Alfie Duggan, who ended up in Long Kesh—they never pinned him for his sniper killings but for something else—might have been smuggling or something. Anyway, he escaped.”

  “What, the father you mean?”

  “Yeah—the father, Alfie, escaped from Long Kesh in ’83. The Maze mass prison escape. Legendary. Thirty or so prisoners got out. He and one of his big IRA buddies were on the run for over a year. They nearly recaptured him a couple of times—he took risks and resumed his sniper operations. There was one job during that period, near Belfast, where he was apparently planning to take out an army patrol. He never completed the job—got wind of soldiers closing in on him and got away a few minutes before they arrived. His buddy was never caught; he disappeared off the face of the earth. But finally Alfie got shot.”

  “Shot? By whom?”

  “Nobody’s sure. Word was that some loyalist gang got him. It was vague.”

  “And the son?”

  “He’s still out there,” Donovan said. “He’s never been caught or nailed for anything. They never got anything on him. A slippery fish, as they say.”

  “Where does he live?” Johnson asked. “Do you know where he came from in Ulster? Background? Family roots and so on?”

  “I don’t know exactly where he lives—never had a reason to find out previously—but I think in south Armagh. One thing I do know is that when he was a kid his family lived in a street not far from here. I’ve forgotten the name of it. Just off Falls Road though, farther west. I went down there when I was in intelligence, trying to find someone who’d talk, a sympathetic neighbor. Never got anywhere. Wall of silence.”

  “You can’t remember the address or the street?” Johnson asked. “The number?”

  “Not off the top of my head. I might have it in a notebook at home. I’ve still got my old files. I’ll check.” Donovan looked at his watch. “I need to go. I’ve got a business meeting down in the city center in half an hour. And I doubt I’m going to see you much tomorrow—I’m driving down to Dublin for more meetings with investors and bankers. Might possibly be back in the evening in time for dinner, but I’m not sure. Sorry.”

  Johnson shrugged. It was fine, he said. He’d maybe check out the city center and visit the old neighbor, if Donovan could get the details.

  “Okay,” Donovan said. “You get yourself sorted out here. There’s a shop around the corner if you need food, or there’s plenty of restaurants. Don’t walk too far tonight, though. Could get lively. And whatever you do, if you see any fights, scuffles, just walk the other way. Don’t get involved. I’ll be in touch later.”

  With that, Donovan was gone.

  Johnson opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside. He sat on a hardwood patio chair, looked out across Falls Road, and pulled out his pack of Marlboros.

  It was almost dark now. A different group of young men walked along the opposite pavement, also singing what sounded like a rebel song. They turned into the doorway of a pub on the corner.

  Johnson lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

  Two police vans roared along the road, their lights flashing but sirens turned off.

  The Catholics and the Protestants. The Republicans and the loyalists. Johnson shivered in the cold January air. He was suddenly feeling jaded.

  He thought back to the Roll of Honor sign he had seen in Crossmaglen and wondered who Máire Drumm was. He took out his phone and found an article that described how Drumm, a Sinn Féin vice president and republican martyr, had been shot dead in her hospital bed in the ’70s by Protestant unionist paramilitaries—one of hundreds of killings carried out by groups such as the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) and the Ulster Defence Association. It seemed that each side had been as bad as the other.

  Johnson wondered what it was about sectarian and religious differences that generated the most bitter and violent of conflicts. His feeling was that often the differences were simply an excuse for a small minority of war-minded people to do what they’d always wanted to do. He ha
d seen it in many parts of the world. In the end it boiled down to power—who controlled it and who prospered from it.

  Should he get involved here? Johnson remained skeptical.

  His phone rang. It was Donovan, who had just arrived in the Belfast city center. He had remembered where the Duggan family used to live, he said.

  Johnson stubbed out his cigarette and moved back indoors. He grabbed his notebook from his pocket and wrote down the address.

  Then, after ending the call, he checked the location on the maps app on his phone. The road, Cavendish Street, was no more than half a mile away, right in the republican heartland, just off Falls Road. A short walk from where he was staying.

  Maybe he would go and take a look. The neighbors might remember something.

  Thursday, January 3, 2013

  Belfast

  “Why the hell didn’t we get a sniff of this? Not a sniff. Nothing.” Phil Beattie threw his pen against the wall of his office and stood up. “We’re gonna be absolutely strung up over this, you realize that. A damned laughingstock. That’s the third sniper victim in the past few months, and the biggest, and we’ve not had a whisper of any of them.”

  “Tell me about it,” O’Neill said.

  Beattie walked over to the window of MI5’s modernistic office building inside the Palace Barracks army complex at Holywood, just northeast of Belfast.

  O’Neill remained in his seat as Beattie, head of the agent-handling team, turned and stared at him.

  O’Neill had driven back to his office from O’Toole’s snooker club, taking one of his random surveillance avoidance routes, as soon as he’d heard about the shooting of the chief constable. While driving, he had listened to nonstop coverage of the incident on the radio.