Bandit Country

by Andrew Turpin

  O’Neill felt a thin film of sweat appear on his brow. He wiped it with his shirtsleeve.

  Immediately, the unknown man pointed his gun straight at Johnson’s chest, and Duggan stood with his hands on his hips, staring at Johnson, while GRANITE did likewise.

  Duggan glanced at both of his colleagues, then nodded toward Johnson and said, “Get this bastard tied up again. I need to go. I’ll call you later.”

  With that, the camera at one end of the den showed Duggan as he opened the hatch door, which squealed loudly as the bottom of it scraped across the floor, and disappeared through it.

  The man with the gun indicated with a nod of the head to Johnson that he should move. O’Neill watched as Johnson walked to one side of the den and vanished into the blackness of a side area, GRANITE close behind him. Presumably, the dissidents were keeping Johnson in a kind of anteroom or side area inside the den not covered by the cameras Johnson had put in place.

  By now O’Neill’s initial shock at what he was seeing had given way to a rising anger, which he felt in the shape of tension across his shoulders, increasing blood pressure pressing on his temples, and a blinkered, relentless focus on whatever had triggered the emotion.

  “Bloody GRANITE,” he said. “Why the hell hasn’t he told me about this? Asshole.”

  “GRANITE?” Jayne asked.

  “Dennehy,” O’Neill said. “My bloody agent in there. Not the one with the gun, the other guy.”

  News of Johnson’s incarceration was exactly the sort of thing O’Neill was paying GRANITE for. Yet, despite the warnings given to him, he made no phone call, sent no text, no email.

  This was the last thing O’Neill needed. He had enough on his plate without trying to work out a way to exfiltrate Johnson from a certain death trap.

  Jayne leaned back in her chair and tugged at her chin. “Do you think he meant what he said? About the pigs, I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  There was undoubtedly little time to play with. O’Neill had heard of cases where the IRA had disposed of victims’ bodies by feeding them to pigs before, but had never worked on a case where it had been proven.

  “We’ve got a dilemma,” O’Neill said, almost thinking aloud.

  Jayne looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

  “I mean, do we send in the police to pull Johnson out and arrest Duggan?” he said. “There’s obviously enough evidence just from this video footage to nail him on kidnap and unlawful imprisonment. But—”

  “But you want more, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Terrorism charges, then. Is that what you’re after?”

  O’Neill nodded. He needed to catch Duggan in the act of plotting and carrying out an act of terrorism. He wasn’t going to share with Jayne his dilemma: whether he should take yet another risk now—in the same way he had with the sliver of intelligence he had obtained prior to the death of Chief Constable Eric Simonson—or report what he knew to the authorities immediately.

  But Jayne saved him the trouble. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “And my view is, if they had an urgent reason to kill Joe quickly, they’d have done it by now. So as he’s still alive, we should go and pull him out. We’ll be quicker and nimbler than the cops. They’d be all over it like a swarm of wasps. It’d be a complete mess, and Joe would probably get gunned down in the cross fire. I work a different way.”

  She studied him from below lowered brows, as if assessing his capabilities, he thought.

  “Are you up for that?” she added. “But we haven’t got any time to play with.”

  It wasn’t an ideal scenario, O’Neill thought. The concept of trying to mount an exfiltration operation to get Johnson out of a bunker guarded by a bunch of dissidents wasn’t his number one option. But it was probably the only one he had right now. Jayne was right about them having no time. And she seemed to be an extremely capable pair of hands.

  O’Neill nodded at her. “Yes, I agree. I’ve got to go into the office this morning, but let’s get things moving this afternoon. I need to speak to GRANITE urgently.”

  Then he glanced at the monitor screen and swore again as GRANITE walked back into the frame. The stupid bloody tout’s going to pay for this.

  Friday, January 25, 2013

  Belfast

  In the space of just two weeks, Arthur Higgins had wielded his magic welder’s wand and, as Duggan had expected, had delivered to order.

  Arthur was one of a group of craftsmen, engineers, mechanics, financial types, and managers the Real IRA could call on for a wide variety of services when required.

  True, the roster of helpers wasn’t as long as in the heyday of the Provisional IRA in the ’70s and ’80s, but it continued to provide whatever skills might be required for a particular project.

  Anyone looking at Duggan’s white VW Transporter van from the outside would not notice anything different from similar models scuttling around Belfast delivering bread to corner shops or car parts to repair garages.

  But inside, it looked quite different. There was now a false ceiling, comprising a solid sheet of steel supported by three cross-struts, that stretched three-quarters of the way from the rear of the van to the front. This false ceiling was approximately three feet lower than the real ceiling, leaving a cavity big enough to accommodate a person. The thin but rigid steel sheeting was more than strong enough to support the heaviest of individuals.

  Just behind the dividing panel that separated the driver’s cab from the cargo area, two footholds had been welded to the dividing panel. This allowed someone easy access to climb into the ceiling cavity, the rear part of which had been turned into a sniping platform using a combination of foam cushions and wooden supports.

  A small door in the dividing panel gave access to the rear cargo area from the driver’s cab.

  Most critically, a hinged flap, approximately eight inches square, had been installed in the outer skin of the van body, above the rear doors, and was accessible from the ceiling cavity. It could be opened from inside the van and used as a kind of rudimentary gun port for a sniper lying on the false ceiling.

  Duggan gave a nod of approval, although he knew he would have to fiddle around with the platform and customize it to his own requirements because Arthur didn’t have a clue about that kind of thing.

  He slid the Transporter into first gear and drove slowly out of Arthur’s unit on the industrial park, turned right, and followed the road out onto Falls Road.

  Behind him in the cargo area of the van was his Yamaha Grizzly four wheel drive quad bike. Arthur had created a lightweight aluminum platform, three feet long and two feet wide, from tubing and sheet metal, which was clipped to the existing black metal rack on the Grizzly, mounted behind the driver’s seat. The aluminum platform could also be detached and rested on the ground or other flat surface.

  Either way, the device would form a usable platform for a sniper’s rifle—not perfect, but good enough to provide a solid base.

  The Grizzly was secured by ratchet tension straps secured to four anchor points Arthur had welded to the van’s floor.

  The silence emanating from the rear of the van told him that the anchor points were doing their job well: the Grizzly was being held firmly in place. Arthur had also, as requested, provided two metal ramps that could be anchored to the rear of the van, allowing the Grizzly to be driven in and out of it.

  All in all, Duggan was very happy with the work that had been done, for which he had recompensed Arthur with used bills out of brigade funds.

  The other items in the rear of the van were the ghillie suit and two vinyl sheets—one much larger than the other—that Duggan had collected from Francis Conaghy’s unit in the industrial park.

  Francis had used the high-definition aerial drone photographs and his own expertise to devise a suit that not only fitted perfectly but, in Duggan’s opinion, would mesh almost seamlessly with the heather and grasslands on Black Mountain. If necessary, he could cut some additional v
egetation and weave it into the green netting to which the artificial grasses were stitched. But he thought it would probably be unnecessary.

  Francis had also produced a small ghillie that Duggan could drape over his rifle barrel to disguise it.

  Now, though, Duggan had another task to complete: a meeting with Fergus Kane, his mole at the Police Service of Northern Ireland. Duggan certainly didn’t want Kane to know about the work done to the Transporter, or even that it existed. So he negotiated his way down Falls Road, past the giant Milltown Cemetery on the right and the Belfast City Cemetery on the left, and cut a left up Whiterock Road to a large storage garage he rented, where he had left his blue VW Passat.

  Above the garage was a one-bedroom studio flat Duggan sometimes used as a crash pad when he was in Belfast. It was comfortable and well equipped and a far better option than a hotel. He had bought the flat and garage two years earlier for what had seemed a bargain price following a plunge in the Belfast property market in the years following the global financial crisis of 2008.

  Having swapped vehicles, Duggan drove west out of the city up to Black Mountain, where he and Dennehy had previously met Kane almost three weeks earlier. He spent an hour walking along the footpaths near the television tower, gazing down at the city below, weighing up the terrain, calculating angles, and working out possible timings. Using his Vectronix Terrapin range finder, he double-checked the measurements he had made on his last visit. At intervals, he tapped a few notes into his cell phone.

  That done, Duggan drove back down the hill to the Lámh Dhearg Gaelic football club parking lot, just off Upper Springfield Road, with Black Mountain and Divis now behind him. There he pulled in next to the main gates and waited, the green expanse of the sports field stretching away in front of him behind the low-slung white clubhouse.

  The location was well off the beaten track, and they were unlikely to be seen there.

  Ten minutes later, a black Ford Fiesta came up the hill, slowed as it reached the gates, and turned in. Kane parked next to Duggan’s car, climbed out, crouched, and quickly slid his small frame into the Volkswagen’s passenger seat.

  Duggan glanced sideways at Kane and didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “So, you got what I asked for last time?” He didn’t bother to reiterate the shopping list of details he’d requested relating to the Obama and Cameron community visit.

  Kane glanced around him and over his shoulder before pulling a piece of folded paper from his pocket. He unfolded the sheet, smoothed it, and held it out between the two front seats. “This is it,” he said, pointing to a series of timings written with neat, small handwriting in blue ink. “I’m not saying this is set in stone—you know what these high-level political visits are like—but I think this is going to be more or less how it’s going to run, provided there’s no rain on the day.”

  Kane’s eyes flickered between Duggan and the sheet of paper, his right hand twitching in his lap, his left knee moving continuously from side to side.

  Duggan leaned over and scrutinized the sheet. “Ten minutes for the football? Is that definite? It’s not likely to be squeezed down?”

  Kane shrugged. “I think not. They’re keen to do it. There’ll be television cameras in there, a battery of press photographers.”

  Duggan peered at a list that Kane had written down of key personnel who were expected to be at the event to chaperone the international leaders. All the major Northern Ireland political leaders were there: Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness from Sinn Féin, Gerry Robinson, the first minister and leader of the Democratic Unionist Party, Alasdair McDonnell, leader of the Social Democratic and Labour Party. The list went on.

  Duggan’s finger traced down the list. At the bottom it came to rest next to three names under a neatly underlined heading: Senior Police.

  “Campbell,” Duggan said softly, his finger moving fractionally back and forward against the first of the three names.

  “Yes, you know he’s been acting chief constable. He’s going to be confirmed in the job tomorrow,” Kane said. “So it’ll be all sorted before the G8. He’s my new boss.”

  Duggan scratched his chin. “So he’ll definitely be at the school too, I assume. Will he be watching the football along with the rest of them, Obama and so on?”

  “Yeah, Campbell’s a big football fan,” Kane said. “He’s bound to be there. A big Linfield supporter.” He was referring to one of Belfast’s best-known teams, a Protestant club, whose home ground was Windsor Park, where the Northern Ireland national team was also based.

  A thin smile flickered across Duggan’s face.

  Friday, January 25, 2013

  Belfast

  By eleven o’clock, O'Neill was sitting at the back of a meeting room on the first floor of the Holywood headquarters building listening to a senior MI5 officer from London droning on about the importance of watching out for other threats apart from dissident Republicans during the G8 summit meeting.

  In principle, he agreed with the sentiment. It was true that groups such as Al-Qaeda presented a very different threat than the dissidents and would come from a different angle if they did try to make a move. It would certainly be a bigger, more sophisticated attack, if it happened, so it was indeed crucial not to become too blinkered and parochial, here in Northern Ireland, as the speaker argued.

  But in practice, O’Neill knew with absolute certainty that the threat wasn’t going to come from far afield. It would be local.

  His mind was far from the material under discussion, but he robotically took a few notes and sipped his cup of tea, which was getting cold.

  He knew that, more than ever, he was walking a tightrope. There were suspicions in some quarters, including from Jeff Riordan, who headed the MI5 office in Northern Ireland, about the way he had operated and continued to operate following the chief constable’s death. This was despite the united front that, thankfully, his immediate boss, Phil Beattie, was still presenting.

  But O'Neill knew that if he were caught compounding his earlier error over the chief constable and were thought to be yet again withholding vital information about dissident activity—this time the kidnap and imprisonment of an American citizen—it would spell the end of his career.

  True, in the case of MI5, it might not have the same fatal consequences as if he were caught by the dissidents, but losing his job would feel like a death of sorts.

  It now felt like a matter of principle. He needed to nail Duggan—but in a way that would lead to his prosecution for the worst of his crimes, so he got what he deserved. He needed to have him caught in the act, about to attempt murder in a major act of terrorism—something that would see him go to prison for a very, very long time.

  It simply wouldn’t do to have him in court on a lesser charge such as kidnap or false imprisonment, for which he might be released on parole after a relatively short time. The risks attached to that would be too great—for personal reasons that O’Neill had always kept very private.

  Before his thoughts could wander any further, O'Neill almost spilled his tea into his lap as his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was an incoming text message.

  He took the device from his pocket and examined the screen.

  Then he sat up and swore under his breath.

  “MAYBE TITANIC,” read the message, all in capitals.

  It meant GRANITE’s cover was possibly blown.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Friday, January 25, 2013

  South Armagh

  After spending three hours driving a circular surveillance detection route around various quarters of Ulster—through an industrial park in Ballymena, a housing estate in Derry, the back streets of Omagh, and a succession of country lanes in south Armagh—Jayne was confident there was nobody, neither dissident Republicans nor MI5 officers, tailing them.

  Following O'Neill’s instructions, she arrived at their destination. It was the same farm lane, he explained, where he had met GRANITE three weeks previously, right in the depths of
the south Armagh countryside, near the point where a narrow country road crossed the border with the Republic, hidden away behind a wood.

  The meeting had taken on a new urgency following the message O'Neill had received that morning from GRANITE, which he showed to Jayne when she picked him up from the Tesco supermarket near his home.

  Jayne edged her Toyota Corolla up the lane, pulled off the track onto a piece of rough ground next to a long-abandoned farm tractor, and turned off the engine. Now all they had to do was wait.

  O'Neill seemed just as worried about a surveillance operation by his MI5 colleagues as he was one by the Real IRA.

  Jayne held off from asking why for as long as she could, hoping that he would volunteer the information. But eventually she felt she had to ask the question. It was obvious some internal issue was bothering him, and if there were a risk that could compromise what they were trying to do, she needed him to tell her.

  “Is there something I should know about—why you’re worried about the office tailing you?” she asked.

  His hesitation told her all she needed to know. She wasn’t going to get the full truth.

  “It sounds as though GRANITE’s already in trouble,” he said. “I just need to do everything possible not to compromise him further. You know the rules of running an agent.”

  “You mean, there are people in MI5 who might be happy to see him sacrificed as long as they get their information?” she asked. If so, it would be a familiar story of tension between an agent handler and those further up the internal management chain who wanted to bolster their CVs. She herself had experienced similar situations within the SIS.

  “Yes. He’s in position to tell us if there’s an operation planned on any of these G8 leaders,” O'Neill said. “And that might be from Obama and Cameron downward.”

  After a few minutes Jayne saw a navy blue Astra crawling up the lane toward them.

  “That’s him,” O’Neill said.