He nodded.
“Do you have a death wish or something? Is this MI5 who’s paying you, or the police?”
She was sharp, his wife. “Five. But they’re raging angry too, because of the chief constable and because I can’t tell them everything. I’ve explained I’d be a dead man by now if they’d stopped it happening, but they’re coming under the cosh—I think they’re under pressure to explain it to the top brass.”
Dennehy sighed and put his head in his hands. He looked up at Tess from beneath a furrowed brow.
“It’s money,” he said. “But I don’t think it’s worth it anymore. It’s a mess, a real mess. Feels like the pips are squeaking.”
He heard a chair scrape on the floor upstairs. His children, Becky and Tommy, would be downstairs in a minute to get their coats on before heading to school.
Tess pressed her lips tightly together and lowered her voice. “Why don’t you pull out, just stop, and we can get out of Ulster, maybe go to the south of England, even Spain, and get our life back. You’ve done your bit.”
Dennehy gave an ironic laugh. “They won’t let me, not that easily. It’s hard for them to get people like me. I held out for a long time—you know that. Three years they were trying. And the money’s handy, too, you can’t argue, with me not working now. How would we manage otherwise?”
“You’re a fool, Martin, a fool. It’s more about how are we—and I’m talking about me and the kids—are going to manage if Duggan finds out? Tell me that.”
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Slieve Gullion
The hulking dark outline of Slieve Gullion rose up, specter-like, behind the parking lot as Duggan climbed out of his Volkswagen, his mood reflective of the dark clouds that hovered over the peak.
He strode over to the other two cars, where his brigade cohorts Danny McCormick, Liam McGarahan, and Kieran O’Driscoll were standing with Dennehy.
Duggan had spent the previous few days in a state of anxiety.
First, a week earlier, had come the call from Patrick, deep into the night Boston-time, telling him that there was a possibility the plan to smuggle in the Barrett and the remaining cigarettes in the second shipping container might have been compromised.
There had been an apparent burglary by someone posing as a night worker at the Pan-American Timber Products warehouse, and McKinney thought that the imposter had walked past him into the office just as he was drilling out one of the wooden beams to hide the gun.
McKinney was fairly certain that the gun hadn’t been spotted, but he told Duggan he was letting him know as a precaution. And he couldn’t give a good description of the night worker, who had been wearing a pair of company overalls and a cap, other than to say he was tall and had some short gray hair showing beneath the cap.
But as the days had gone on, nothing had happened, and Duggan’s stress levels eased, helped by the safe arrival in Dublin of the first shipping container from Colón, with its cargo of five million cigarettes hidden behind timber. It had gone through customs unimpeded and had been swiftly processed, the cigarettes taken to a number of distributors who moved them on to their final destinations. The cash had already started to pour in.
But then, that morning, there had been some bad news.
Duggan had heard that the carefully laid plot to take out a Protestant police constable in Irvinestown, Enniskillen, using a pipe bomb attached underneath his car, had been discovered that morning, and an army technical team had been mobilized.
Within minutes, the road outside the constable’s house had been blocked off, armored vans were everywhere, and they’d sent in a robot to defuse the device, which had then exploded. It had wrecked the car but injured nobody.
Duggan had seen it all on the TV news before leaving home.
The constable, who had remained safely in his house with his wife and two teenagers, was interviewed. He seemed shaken, but that was as far as it went.
It was the same plot about which Duggan had briefed McCormick almost two weeks earlier so arrangements could be made to retrieve the explosive and materials from the cache at Dundalk.
The rest of his brigade looked warily at him as he approached the group. He knew they would all be aware of Irvinestown by now.
“Bad news, boss,” McGarahan said. “Irvinestown, I mean.”
“Yeah, bad news,” Duggan said as he joined the group, standing deliberately between McCormick and Dennehy. “Some bloody tout leaked it.”
The visitor parking lot at Slieve Gullion Forest Park was virtually guaranteed to be empty in mid-January at any time of day. That was why Duggan had chosen the spot, more or less equidistant from their respective homes.
Duggan felt angry but confused. He knew that McCormick was the only one in the brigade who had known about the Irvinestown job; he was therefore the obvious suspect.
But on the other hand, Duggan had also been sent some video footage that morning that caused him to slam his kitchen door so hard that the catch had broken.
He decided to start with the video and took his cell phone from his pocket. “Here, look at this, all of you feckers. I had an interesting video clip sent to me only this morning by one of our volunteers who lives up in Belfast.”
The other four men gathered around him and looked over his shoulders at the screen.
Duggan tapped on his videos app and pressed play. A slightly shaky video began to play, showing a young man on a bike as he cycled down a road, then attempted to do a wheelie. Next to the bike was a dark blue Ford Mondeo station wagon and a sign that marked the entrance to Orangefield High School.
“Ignore the guy on the bike,” Duggan said. “Just focus on that car. Who do you see inside?”
Duggan glanced at Dennehy, standing next to him, whose eyes widened slightly. Duggan could see him trying to control his facial muscles.
“Looks remarkably like you, in that car, Martin, doesn’t it?” Duggan said, lowering his tone a few notes. “Sitting chatting to a blond guy in a black leather jacket. Weird.”
“When was that?” McGarahan asked.
“Last Saturday, up in Belfast,” Duggan spat.
Duggan folded his arms and looked at Dennehy.
Dennehy shook his head. “You’ve got it wrong. I was talking about some work. If I was touting, like I’ve told you before, you wouldn’t have got away with bringing down the chief constable’s chopper, would ya? You’d be staring at the inside of a Maghaberry cell by now, defending your ass against all comers, that’s what you’d be doing.”
Duggan ignored him.
“That’s two now in the space of the last week or so. First the moped volunteer up in Lurgan, he gets stopped by the police. Now this one,” Duggan said. “Okay. Just tell me who the other man in the car is.”
“It was someone I was talking to about getting electrical work,” Dennehy said, glancing at McCormick, who remained silent. “I’m without a job at the moment, remember? I need work.”
Duggan suspected he was lying. He had already instructed his volunteers in Belfast to run a check on the car license plates, which hadn’t come back yet. He wanted to give Dennehy a chance to confess, though; he enjoyed hearing confessions. And he also enjoyed watching people stew.
“Right,” Duggan said. “You won’t mind if I have some checks done on who that car belongs to and who was inside it, then.”
Dennehy shrugged. “It’s a construction company boss, Dave Biggins. I’ve known him for years. We were chatting about a new housing development he’s got a contract for. He needs electricians.”
“Okay,” Duggan said. “There’s another thing, Martin. When I got back home two Saturdays ago after the police had finished quizzing me about Moira—and what a waste of time that was—me and Liam here went into the barn. And the shaft cover down to the den was off. I think someone had been down there. Was that you?”
Dennehy shook his head. “Definitely not. Haven’t been down there in a long while.”
Duggan spat on the gr
ound. “There was somebody down there. If not you, then who? The American investigator?” He clasped his hands behind his back and walked away a few paces, visibly thinking.
The leaden skies started spitting raindrops, and the top of Slieve Gullion disappeared in a gray mist. But Duggan didn’t seem to notice.
He turned and stroked his chin. “I’ve got a little job for you, Martin. It won’t take you long. Should be an easy one for a man of your caliber.”
There was silence as Dennehy stood with his arms folded, and McCormick, McGarahan, and O’Driscoll exchanged glances with each other.
The rain was really starting to come down; it was the kind of intense rain that kept Ireland green. And it was driven by a fierce wind that had gathered strength moving across the Atlantic.
“What I want you to do,” Duggan said, “is a hit. And the guy who I want the hit done on works for MI5 in Belfast. Name of Brendan O’Neill. Perhaps we can talk about it soon.”
He scrutinized Dennehy’s face closely for a reaction. There was definitely a twitch, and did he blanch a little? Duggan was certain he did.
There was a short silence. “Right,” Dennehy said. “When do you want to talk about it?”
Duggan actually didn’t want to talk about it at all. He just wanted to see Dennehy’s reaction. He turned and headed back toward his Passat.
He stopped after a couple of strides and turned around. “I’ll let you know. It’ll be soon. Anyway, are you all coming across to the Cross Square for a beer?”
He was referring to the Cross Square Hotel in Crossmaglen, where they often gathered. It was a republican stronghold.
McGarahan and O’Driscoll nodded, but Duggan couldn’t help but notice that McCormick looked down at the ground before glancing up and also nodding.
“Yeah, I’ll come too,” Dennehy said belatedly.
Duggan turned and continued toward his car. He was determined to get to the bottom of what had happened. And he was certain that he would get to the bottom of it, because these guys had nowhere to run.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Crossmaglen
Duggan placed three pints of Guinness on the table, the third held precariously between the tips of his fingers. Then he went back to the bar to fetch the other two.
The Cross Square Hotel, a twenty-five-minute drive from Slieve Gullion, was busy for a late afternoon on a Wednesday. A group of folk singers sat in one corner, guitar cases stacked on the floor, having come in for a beer after their practice session at someone’s house.
Two old men wearing stained and threadbare gray suits sat in deep discussion near the door, and a group of girls drank wine and cider, laughing, giggling, and swapping stories about guys they knew.
Duggan, McCormick, McGarahan, Dennehy, and O’Driscoll were all at a table near a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.
There was a sports program on with a slot about the high-flying local Gaelic football team, Crossmaglen Rangers, which was playing in the semifinals of the All-Ireland Senior Club Football Championship next month.
The club’s ground was just down the road from the Cross Square, and a few supporters were among the crowd in the bar, judging by the cheers when a short interview with the club chairman had finished.
After the sports slot, the news started. The second item was about the increasing violence being perpetrated by dissident Republicans in Ulster and the possible impact on the upcoming meeting of the G8 at Enniskillen, which was due to start five days later.
Duggan blanked out the noise from the bar and focused on the TV newscaster. He hadn’t really been expecting that the shooting down of the PSNI helicopter and the killing of Eric Simonson might result in the cancellation of the G8 or a decision by some senior leaders not to attend. That would amount to bowing to terrorism. But he couldn’t be certain.
The program started with a short interview with the Northern Ireland assistant chief constable, Norman Arnside, who was confident that the event would be a success and assured that all measures had been taken to ensure there would be no terrorist activity.
Then the newscaster moved on to introduce a clip from Barack Obama’s White House press conference, in which a journalist asked if he was worried about the security situation in regard to his forthcoming Belfast visit.
Obama, who was standing in front of the usual American flag and White House logo, leaned forward at his lectern and spoke deliberately and slowly into the microphone.
“The progress made in Northern Ireland toward peace over the last fifteen years has been remarkable,” Obama said. “It underlines my belief that the clenched fists of terrorism will never win out, and that determination to wage peace is trumping it every time. Nationalism is something I understand, but terrorism is something I don’t. Change in Northern Ireland will be brought about by democratic means—so it will only happen if a majority of the people want it. The G8 meeting in Northern Ireland will underscore all of that and show that the province is a place in which the world, in which America, can safely do business. So no—I am not worried about the rise in activity.”
Another journalist piped up. “So will you cancel your visit to Belfast, Mr. President?”
“Definitely not, never,” the president said.
The newscaster finished by saying that confirmation had been received that both the UK prime minister and the US president would spend time with the new acting chief constable for Northern Ireland for discussions about the security situation. The senior policeman was also expected to accompany them to some of the planned receptions in the province, as a show of unity and as a vote of confidence by the political leadership in policing in the province.
With that the newscaster moved on to another item.
There were a few jeers in the bar.
One of the two old men called out, “Asshole Yank, what does he know about us?”
One of the men sitting among the folk singers, who was holding a guitar, turned around. “The new copper in charge knows nothing either. He won’t last in that job, like the last one, in the chopper.”
McGarahan and O’Driscoll nodded their approval.
“He’s right,” McGarahan said. “He’s got no right to be commenting on our business. We’ve all been sold down the feckin’ river by the politicians, but he wouldn’t know anything about that.”
He paused and looked at Duggan. “And what does the Dentist think?”
Duggan took a sip from his pint of Guinness. “The Dentist thinks that the G8 is gonna be a real opportunity,” he opined.
“An opportunity for what?” O’Driscoll said.
Duggan gave a thin-lipped grin but didn’t reply.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Belfast
Johnson was scrolling through the video links from Duggan’s house when he saw something that made him sit up and take notice.
Duggan was visible on the monitor, working in the kitchen on the MacBook. The picture was in black and white, but Johnson spotted something that he had briefly seen when he had opened the lid of the laptop in Duggan’s house, but it hadn’t registered with him at the time.
Then he had forgotten it in the rush to install the cameras and the chaos of his escape from the underground bunker.
He turned to Jayne. “Come and look at this,” he said, pointing to the screen. “I’m so stupid. That computer you can see Duggan using. I found it when I went in there and booted it up, but it was password protected, so I couldn’t get into it.”
“Yes, you told me. And what’s your point?”
“It’s a MacBook with a light blue cover.”
“Yeah, so what? Come on, don’t go cryptic on me.”
“Well, this might be purely coincidental,” Johnson said, “but remember when we met Beth Doyle, she said there’d been a burglary at the start of last year and that her husband’s laptop had been stolen?”
Now it clicked into place for Jayne. “A MacBook with a light blue cover. I
remember.”
Johnson nodded. “Exactly. And there’s something else. See that sticker on the corner of the keyboard?”
“A ladybird.”
“Yes. That could definitely identify it. I need to see Beth again. I’m just wondering if that might be her husband’s laptop.” He took a screenshot of the video, in which the laptop and its ladybird sticker were clearly visible.
“If it is, then how the hell would Duggan have got it?” Jayne asked.
Johnson shrugged. “No idea.”
Jayne had already arranged to catch up with Noreen and a couple of her other old contacts from MI5 that morning. She was also due to collect a rental car, a white Toyota Corolla, so that they could work independently and also have a backup vehicle, if needed. They agreed that Johnson would visit Beth alone.
As soon as Jayne left, Johnson took the M1 to Portadown and made his way back to Beth’s house.
Since their last meeting, she seemed to have done nothing about his request to see copies of her husband’s journal. He had texted her a few times and had received either noncommittal answers or none at all.
So a face-to-face meeting might be more productive, he felt.
Beth seemed a little flustered to see Johnson on the doorstep. She fiddled with her glasses and twiddled the hair around her ears in an embarrassed fashion before inviting him in.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, I did ask my son to get those scans done, but he’s been very busy. I’m not sure he was enthusiastic about handing them over. They’re all quite personal,” she said.
Personal. What does that mean? He decided not to pursue that further, just for the time being.
“I understand,” Johnson said, “but would you mind taking a look at this?” He took his laptop from his bag and showed Beth the screenshot he had taken of Duggan sitting at his desk tapping at his computer.
“Do you recognize that laptop?” Johnson asked.
She stared at the screen. “That’s my husband’s laptop. See that little round ladybird sticker on the top of the keyboard? My granddaughter put it there. That’s his, definitely. How did you get this picture?”
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