Bandit Country

by Andrew Turpin

  She looked at Johnson and Jayne. “I wish we’d had longer to speak. Good luck with your inquiries. Please keep me updated.”

  They exited the driveway and walked back up the hill toward the car.

  “So. The 14th Company connection,” Johnson said. “The big, obvious common linkage.”

  “Yes, maybe,” Jayne said. “A lot of army people spent time in the 14th. But you’re absolutely right. We need to look into it further.”

  They rounded the corner, Johnson clicked the door remote to open the car, and they both got in. Johnson was about to put the ignition key into the socket when his phone pinged again to remind him of the previous unread message. He took the phone out of his trouser pocket and read it.

  Johnson stared at the phone and said nothing for several seconds.

  “Magnetico Alert: Driver’s Side Front. Danger. Do Not Enter Vehicle,” the message read.

  “Everything all right?” Jayne asked.

  “No, sonofabitch,” Johnson said. “Don’t move.”

  “What?”

  “I said don’t move.”

  Wednesday, January 9, 2013

  Crossmaglen

  By early evening, Duggan had finished working his way through his list of meetings and conversations.

  He had contrived a lunchtime pie at the café in Crossmaglen with Kieran O’Driscoll on the pretext of a discussion about arranging the funding transfer to McKinney for the new Barrett.

  As they left the café he had casually dropped into the conversation that a pipe bomb hit was planned for the following Wednesday against a Protestant policeman at his home in the Culmore area of Londonderry. He was telling O’Driscoll, he said, because there might be an operational need for the brigade to provide backup if the volunteer involved needed quick transport across the border after the hit.

  During the afternoon Duggan dropped in for a cup of tea with Danny McCormick to chat about drawing up a fresh inventory of the weaponry and ammunition the brigade currently held and to discuss what new equipment might be needed once additional finances were in place following the shipment due imminently from McKinney.

  Duggan also wanted to know where they would store the new Barrett once it arrived. He was keen, he said, to try and keep it north of the border if possible and ideally in a fresh, previously unused location.

  As he left McCormick, Duggan mentioned that a pipe bomb hit was planned for Wednesday in two weeks time, the twenty-third, first thing in the morning, against a Prod copper at his home in Irvinestown, Enniskillen.

  “I might need you to go and fetch the fireworks from the Dundalk cache,” Duggan told him. “I’ll let you know.”

  On his way back home, Duggan called in to see Pete Field. Just a catch-up, he said, as they hadn’t had a proper chat for a while. Pete poured him a bottled beer, and they sat in his living room and spent more time talking about a couple of new players acquired by Crossmaglen Rangers than about the brigade.

  As Duggan stood to leave, he mentioned a planned pipe bomb attack on a policeman’s house in the Ballymacash estate in Lisburn, scheduled for the following Wednesday evening. The volunteer who would carry out the attack was expected to head through Forkhill and across the border afterward, Duggan said. He was letting him know for information only.

  Field nodded. Duggan thought, as he left, that the farmer was the least likely of the brigade members to be the tout. He wasn’t financially driven and he wasn’t a political thinker but rather someone who was involved because he loved the camaraderie, the trenches spirit, and the action of the brigade.

  The cheese was well and truly planted in the trap now. All Duggan needed to do was keep his ear close to the ground for the sound of rats underground.

  In fact, only the details he had given McCormick were factual; he would indeed need explosives to be retrieved from the Dundalk cache, and the hit on the officer in Irvinestown was a go. All the other purported operations he had mentioned to Dennehy, O’Driscoll, and Field were entirely fictional. He decided not to include Liam McGarahan in this particular exercise; if it turned out he needed to investigate him, that could wait until another day.

  So, if the Irvinestown operation ended up going wrong or if word got back to him of police and army technical experts running in the direction of Londonderry, Poleglass or Lisburn, Duggan would know the reason why.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wednesday, January 9, 2013

  Belfast

  “There’s a magnetic device detector fitted to this car,” Johnson said. “I’ve had a warning text. It says something’s been attached underneath, below the driver’s seat. It says do not get into the car.”

  “What?” Jayne asked.

  “Just stay still a second. Let’s think this through,” Johnson said. He wiped his forehead on his jacket sleeve. “I unlocked the car door with the remote. Nothing happened.”

  He paused. “Then we both opened the doors, got in, nothing happened.”

  “No. So it’s not the remote,” Jayne said. “Just don’t put the key in the ignition.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to. And I haven’t touched any of the pedals, either.”

  Johnson realized he was clenching the car key so tightly in his right hand that his knuckles were showing white.

  “Right,” said Jayne. “So if we now open the car doors again and get out, we should be okay?”

  Johnson looked at her. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pressed. “Wait, wait, wait. I don’t friggin’ know, Jayne. I could call Donovan, but he’s not going to be any help.”

  Then Johnson’s phone rang. He jumped, turned it over and looked at the screen. The caller ID showed Magnetico.

  “Answer it,” Jayne said.

  Johnson tapped the green button and flicked on the loudspeaker so Jayne could hear. “Hello, Joe Johnson here—”

  But it turned out to be a computer, not a person, on the line. “This is an automated message from Magnetico Services. Warning, a magnetic device has been detected attached to your vehicle. Location is driver’s side front. Repeat. Location is driver’s side front. Do not enter vehicle. Repeat. Do not enter vehicle.” The call ended.

  “Shit, I say we just open the doors and get out. We can’t just sit here—could be a timed bomb,” Johnson said.

  “Agreed. Let’s do it—slowly.”

  Johnson pulled the door handle. There was a slight click as the door mechanism disengaged. He cautiously opened the car door until there was just enough room to squeeze out.

  Nothing happened.

  He turned to Jayne and nodded. She did likewise on the passenger side.

  Johnson eased himself carefully out of the seat, turning sideways so he could plant both feet on the ground at the side, then slowly stood up, closed the door, and moved away from the car. Jayne mirrored his movements on the other side.

  They both walked along the road until they were about two hundred yards away from the Toyota.

  “Thank God for that,” Jayne said. “Now what?”

  “I’m going to call Donovan,” Johnson said.

  He rang and quickly explained what had happened. Donovan was in Berlin but wasted no time coming up with a plan.

  “Joe, if we call the police first, they’ll get army technical people in straightaway, and all hell will break loose,” Donovan said. “The street will be full of army vans, there could be a controlled explosion, residents evacuated, you name it. It’ll take hours. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m sending one of my ex-army bomb disposal mates around to have a quick look underneath. He does private work for me as needed. If it’s a bomb, it’ll almost certainly be a tilt fuse device—that’s what they use. It’ll only detonate if the car moves. So he’ll tell us straightaway what it is. If it looks anything remotely like a bomb, then yes, we have to get the army guys in to deal with it. So be it. But it could be a false alarm or even something else. I’m trying to stay below the radar. I don’t want you, me, my car on the evening TV news unnecessarily.
Got it?”

  Johnson hesitated. “You’re joking? Doesn’t sound like the safest approach, Michael. There are houses nearby, people walking past.”

  “It’ll be fine. You stay well away from the car and wait there.” He took the location details from Johnson and hung up.

  Johnson relayed the conversation to Jayne, who threw up her hands. “Bloody hell, he sounds like a total maverick, that guy.” She turned around and looked at a bus stop forty yards away. “We’ll go and sit at the bus stop. If it goes up, we’ll deny all knowledge. Not our car, nothing to do with us.”

  While they were waiting, a text message arrived. It was from Moira, who had been in touch with her mother’s old friend down in Forkhill, Ronnie Quinn. He would be around the next morning. If Johnson could pick her up at around ten in the morning and drive, she’d take some time off from her studies and go with him. She thought he’d be a useful contact, a man who was on her side.

  Yes, that would be a good step forward, Johnson replied. He didn’t mention the car issue that was currently unfolding.

  After twenty minutes, a large, unshaven man in an unmarked black Land Rover rolled up next to the bus stop. He jumped out, nodded unsmilingly, and introduced himself as Zach. “Michael sent me down to have a look at his car. That’s it there, I guess? He said the alert was saying driver’s side underneath?”

  Johnson nodded. “Yeah, that’s what the alert I had said.” He showed Zach the message from Magnetico.

  “But you’re not just going to stick your head under the car, are you?” Jayne asked.

  “This is everyday life around here, lady,” Zach said. “Nothing’s changed. Personally, I’ve only found a couple of actual viable devices in, oh, I’d say the past two years. A few false alarms. But you read the paper, watch the TV news, and every week the army guys, the technical people, are removing bombs, doing controlled explosions. Often it’s policemen; the dissidents target them but others, too.”

  From his Land Rover, Zach took a mirror on an extendable pole and an eighteen-inch blue electronic device with a nozzle at one end.

  “Portable explosives detector, very reliable,” Zach said. “Does a vacuum vapor test, and I can do a swipe and a particulates check with it as well, if needed. I check my own car every day with this gear, and I serve VIP guests who are in the province, like some of Michael’s investor mates. You two just stay here and wait.”

  He put on a pair of cotton gloves and walked slowly to the Toyota.

  Johnson and Jayne watched from near the bus shelter as Zach eased the mirror under the car on the driver’s side and scrutinized the reflection, moving it slightly to one side, then the other. Then he appeared to press a button on the blue device, bent down, and worked it under the car.

  After a short while, Zach lay down on the tarmac and put his head under the car.

  “This is ridiculous. I can’t look at this,” Jayne said.

  But then Zach stood up and began walking back toward them, his phone in his hand.

  “It’s a magnetic tracker device, not a bomb,” he said, as he showed Johnson a photograph he had taken of the device on his phone. It was a small black box that was fastened to the underside of the car. “Someone put it on the chassis. Do you know who might have put it there?”

  “No, not exactly,” Johnson said, “But I’ve got a reasonable idea.”

  “I didn’t remove it because a short, odd movement like that might alert whoever put it there. But if you want, you can just pull it off and do whatever you want with it. It’s perfectly safe to do that.” He wished Johnson and Jayne good luck and left.

  Johnson called Donovan to let him know what had happened.

  Donovan was stunned into silence for a few seconds. “Shit, that’s unbelievable. They didn’t waste any time. Somebody must have somehow clocked my car when you drove it down to Forkhill. But I don’t know how. I told you, don’t underestimate those guys. The south Armagh mob was always as organized as the army ever was, if not better. Still seems to be the case.”

  “Yes. But it now means I can’t take the Toyota back down that way, can I?” Johnson said. “I’m going to have to rent a car, although I’d like to keep the use of your wife’s as well, for the time being.”

  Donovan paused. “I’m just thinking, if you want to give whoever put it there the real runaround, you can put the tracker under a bus or a taxi. Let them follow that around Belfast. Or even better, one of those Romanian haulage lorries. Otherwise, take out the battery and bin it.”

  Johnson looked thoughtful. “Hmm. Although it might come in handy if I keep it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I can deploy it more usefully,” Johnson said. “As a decoy.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thursday, January 10, 2013

  Belfast

  Johnson parked the black Ford Focus at the end of Moira’s road and walked with Jayne up to her house. He was looking forward to seeing her again.

  He had earlier driven Donovan’s wife’s Toyota to the huge CastleCourt shopping center in central Belfast and had left it on the second floor of the main multistory parking lot—complete with the magnetic tracking device.

  Then they had taken a taxi to the offices of a small, local Ulster car rental company, where the Focus seemed the most anonymous and unobtrusive vehicle available.

  Johnson rang the doorbell at Moira’s house twice, but there was no reply.

  “She’s probably in the shower or something,” Jayne said.

  “She knew we were coming at ten.” Her purple Corsa was parked outside, half on the sidewalk, half on the road. He rang again. But there was still no reply.

  Johnson pressed down on the front door handle; the door swung open. “Good security,” he said. “She should be more careful around here.”

  He led the way into the small hallway. “Hi, Moira?” he called. “Joe here. Anyone at home?”

  There was no reply. He called again. Silence.

  “She’s got two housemates, apparently,” Johnson said. “I never met them. They’re not around either. Maybe she’s walked down to the shop or something. Let’s look in the kitchen.”

  The kitchen was again in an untidy state. The sink was filled with dirty cereal bowls and teacups. There was a half-eaten slice of toast and jam on a plate, together with a very brown banana skin. It was the remains of several hastily eaten breakfasts.

  “Think I’ll give her a call, find out what she’s doing.” Johnson said.

  He rang her number and clamped the phone to his ear.

  “It’s ringing upstairs,” Jayne said immediately, pointing her index finger at the ceiling. “Her phone’s up there.”

  Johnson removed his phone from his ear, and sure enough, the faint sound of a ringing phone could be heard from above.

  He cancelled the call. The ringing upstairs stopped and he looked at Jayne. “I’ll go up,” he said.

  Johnson slowly climbed the stairs to the landing and then headed for the bedroom he recognized from helping the injured Moira the previous Saturday night. The door was slightly ajar.

  He knocked. There was no reply.

  Johnson pushed the door open slowly.

  He recoiled at what he saw. Moira’s body lay on the bed, her head twisted away from Johnson, and the pillow and sheets were stained crimson from blood that oozed from a large, ragged bullet exit wound at the back of her skull.

  “Shit,” Johnson said. He felt his legs buckle momentarily, and he leaned back against the wall.

  Moira’s arms and legs were spread-eagle, her jeans unbuttoned at the top as if she had been getting dressed. She wore a green T-shirt, which was saturated with blood, and a blue sweatshirt lay neatly folded at the bottom of the bed on the duvet.

  The wallpaper behind her bed was sprayed with blood over a wide area, and there was a gash in the plasterwork, probably where the bullet had hit after exiting the back of her head, Johnson assumed.

  “Jayne, get up here quick,” Johnson called. �
��The bastards have shot her.”

  Jayne ran up the stairs and into the room behind him. “Bloody hell. Is that the stepfather who’s—”

  “It’s got to be, him or his cronies. And it’s only a short time ago; the blood’s still oozing, hardly started to congeal.”

  He clasped his hands behind his head and took a couple of breaths. “That’s obviously the price you pay for opening your mouth around here. This is my fault—if I hadn’t tracked her down and started nosing around, it probably wouldn’t have happened. Her stepfather warned her off talking to me.”

  “It’s appalling. What a bastard. We’d better call an ambulance, although it’s obviously far too late,” Jayne said.

  “What do we say?”

  Jayne turned on her heel in clear frustration. “Don’t know. It’s going to sound callous, but I really don’t think we want to get caught up in a murder investigation here. That’d be hugely complicated, trying to explain what we’re doing and why we were here. Police would probably stop us doing anything more. We’d be finished.” Jayne’s face had gone pale behind the remnants of her tan.

  Johnson said nothing. He stared at Moira’s body, unable to take his eyes off her, this girl he had spent just a few hours with but had felt a great deal of empathy for and could not help feeling attracted to, despite himself.

  Eventually, he shook his head. “We’ve got to tell them, though. We can’t just leave her like this for her housemates to find.”

  Jayne hesitated. “I agree. But let’s get out of here, then call anonymously. Say we were passing and heard gunshots.”

  Johnson looked around the room. He walked to her dressing table. There was a yellow sticky note there. On it was scribbled the name Ronnie Quinn, together with an address in Forkhill.