by Finn Óg
“So long as it looks consensual, I don’t see what you can do about it,” Sinead said.
“Well, how will I know that if the camera’s off?”
“That’s what you’re being paid the big bucks for, Sam. Use your judgement.”
“I’m not a bodyguard, especially not for posh totty. I can tag them, no problem – I’ve stuck a lump in her handbag – but I can’t be in and out of designer boutiques. I’d look like I was there to rob the place.”
“You look just fine, Sam,” Sinead said, and they had one of those quiet moments where he almost returned the compliment but couldn’t quite manage it.
“Anyway, will you ask him?”
“If you can watch his daughter shagging an Italian? I’d say the answer will be no.”
“Expenses. Will you tell him this is gonna cost a bit more? And can he send me an advance through you? This whole thing could get out of hand and I want to make sure Isla’s lunch money is coming out ok.”
“Is it really that tight?”
“Well, I haven’t worked in a while. Nothing that paid me anyway.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get it sorted. He won’t care, so long as his kid is ok.”
“Thanks, Sinead.”
“And Sam?”
“Yes?”
“Seriously, jiggy?” She laughed.
“Feck away off.”
10
“Standby, standby.”
The ops officer looked up in amazement as one of the key figures on his watch list walked across the screen. Hagan. He drew up the file on his tablet: known as the manager, a people person, a fixer, sharp dresser. The opso looked up at the sports jacket and thought he caught the glint of a cufflink at the man’s wrist.
“You’ll never guess who just showed up on scene,” said the former SAS trooper who was tracking the new arrival.
“Paul Hagan,” said the opso.
“Affirmative.”
The opso was stunned. The chief of staff of the highest-risk dissident republican group operating in Northern Ireland within metres of a live operation. Hagan vanished into a doorway. “They must be running short on foot soldiers.”
“Affirmative.”
“What’s his status?”
“Licking an ice cream.”
“Serious?”
“Affirmative. Mint chocolate chip.”
There was a small shake of excitement through the ops room as those gathered wondered if a serious hitter was about to compromise himself. They all knew the dissies were light on bodies but it would be a significant sign of weakness if Hagan were to drive the vehicle.
Libby arrived breathless. “Just as well we removed the clamp.”
“It was a good call, Libby.” The opso pressed the transmitter. “Can you get images to us?”
The screens flickered and from a concealed camera in the trooper’s car the manager could clearly be seen sucking on a cone.
“Bizarre,” said the opso.
Libby leaned across to talk into the mic. “How long’s he been on location?”
“Only caught him heading into Mauds,” said the trooper. “Didn’t see him arrive but it can’t be long. Less than ten minutes anyway.”
“Has he looked at the vehicle?”
“Mauds is close to it, twenty-five metres. Can’t say if he’s had a proper look yet. Not since I got eyes on anyway.”
Libby and the opso looked at each other pensively. Surprises were exciting – but they were also dangerous.
The beach was littered with huts that spoilt Sam’s view of the heiress and her pals, which didn’t matter because he could hear them. How they managed to witter on endlessly about celebrity, fashion, make-up and films astonished him.
The girls had hired one of the thousands of huts lining the seaward-facing side of Venice. It brought a welcome fresh Adriatic breeze rather than the moderately pungent waft from the canal network on the lagoon side.
Sam had found a way through the rear of a neighbouring hut where he sat on beach furniture and allowed the women to numb his brain. At least on the beach they were containable, and he’d grown to like the island of Lido.
The women had snapped and posted as much as they’d talked and bitched. He heard the faux shutter of their phones make incessant captures and imagined them pouting and plunging to give lift in their bikinis while sucking in from their cheeks – no such thing as a double chin on Instagram. Then they read the comments – mostly from “such a bitch” as far as Sam could make out. When there were compliments the commentator was needy; when the commentator was less than generous they were sworn up and down Venice.
Not once did they swim, which suited Sam just fine stretched out on a lounger in the warmth, his charge within feet of him and no idea he was there.
“We need to seize that camera,” Libby said.
The manager hadn’t spotted the snapper, yet Libby and the operations officer could see him clearly on the trooper’s covert car cam relayed fifty miles in real time and technicolor.
“What’s he photographing? Is he following Hagan?”
The opso got on the radio. “Where did the photographer come from?”
“He’s been here for a while,” said the trooper. “He seems to be doing some sort of shoot for the harbour or ferry or something. He’s a commercial and portrait sort – it’s written on the side of his van.”
“Get the name,” said Libby.
“What’s the problem?” asked the opso.
“There’s more than likely a suspect vehicle in his shots, and now there’s a leading dissident with an ice cream a few feet away from said vehicle. That’s the problem.”
The operations officer understood what she was saying. It created a trail, and the snapper could well have accidental shots of one of their own team.
“How do you want the camera taken? Not best to leave it and get it later?”
“Probably,” Libby conceded. “Maybe just get the address and we’ll steal his kit and camera cards overnight.”
“Ok,” said the opso and relayed the message to his two ops on the ground.
They stared at the screen for a while watching the manager finish his cone, look around the harbour and stroll away. A message came through the radio network.
“I don’t think he knows which vehicle it is,” said the trooper.
“Really?” said the opso.
“He hasn’t once looked at it – or any other car for that matter. It’s as if he doesn’t know it’s there.”
The opso looked to Libby. “Could that be the case?”
“S’pose it’s possible.”
“Where’s he headed?”
“Up the hill,” came the trooper. “I could follow on foot. Suggest you send a car too.”
The opso was torn. He didn’t want to deploy both sets of eyes away from the suspect vehicle. He also didn’t want his op stranded if the manager hopped into a waiting car. “Negative. Follow in vehicle. Keep second eyes on the Ford.”
“Received.”
Libby and the opso watched the trooper’s car move gently out of its space and turn up the hill. They could just make out the manager about a hundred yards ahead. The trooper pulled in and let him proceed up the straight road.
“He’s going to the safe house,” Libby said.
“Looks like it.”
“Why would someone as senior as him compromise himself like that? Surely they’d have sent someone else?”
The opso just shook his head in bewilderment.
“They must be confident they’re clear of surveillance,” Libby reasoned aloud.
“He’s stopping,” said the trooper.
They looked up. Sure enough, the manager had turned and appeared to be about to stretch his legs on the way back down the hill.
“What is going on?” Libby whispered. “What are you up to, Hagan?”
Sam was drinking too much coffee; he could feel it in his heart, which was working much too hard for the energy he was expending. Bu
t to secure a seat in a public place purchases had to be made, and he had long since learned that espresso was the best option. Water meant he was laden with a groaning bladder, and that made a mess of the three Fs: fleet of foot, prepared for flight and able to fight – three requirements in Sam’s line of work. Boxing on a full bladder was never advisable.
The witless women tottered around endlessly as if they were on day release. They’d taxied a walkable distance from the Excelsior Hotel – where they’d been star-spotting, to the ferry terminal where they’d travelled with the unwashed to the main island of San Marco. It was a pleasant place for Sam to operate – absolutely wedged static with tourists. He’d watched as skulled out protestors on gondolas blew whistles and waved flags at an enormous cruise ship. They appeared to be telling it to go home but he couldn’t be sure whether they were environmentalists or whether they had simply had enough of the city’s tourism.
Eventually the women came to rest in a huddle of excitement beside a shopfront on a side street. It was no ordinary shop – they appeared to be on the cusp of being branded. Sam plonked his arse down at a small table close by and ordered as the women made their selections from the window menu. One appeared to dare the other, and he again thought of their arrested development, their childlike carry-on.
Sam debated for a moment. How would he feel if in years to come Isla came home with a tattoo? He rather liked the heiress’s father. The old boy had suffered, he could see that. Sam brought out his phone and dialled.
“Hi.”
“What about a tattoo?”
“No, thanks, don’t like them,” Sinead said.
“She’s about to get a tattoo.”
“Ha ha! And I suppose you think she shouldn’t. You’re such a prude, Sam.”
He shook off the jibe, knowing it was accurate.
“Well, should she? Her da’s paying me to look after her. If it was me—”
“Yeah, well, what can you do about it?”
“I’d say I could stop it alright if it was a good enough idea.”
“It’s not.”
“So what do I say when she comes home with a dolphin on her chest?”
“Ooh, is that what she’s going for?”
“I can see a man stencilling it on with a pen as we speak.”
“Her father would probably say, ‘Why the hell did you get that done?’.”
“And what would he say to me?”
“Why the hell did you let her get that done?”
“That’s kinda my question.”
“Well, how do you stop it without her knowing you’re there?”
“So, I am to stop it?”
“I dunno. Maybe. Your call.”
“In the years I’ve known you this is the least helpful you’ve ever been.”
She laughed. “Nothing’s easy when it comes to women.”
“Don’t tell me,” he said, “ask me. I’ll talk to you later. I’ve a wee job to do.”
“Fuddy-duddy.”
Sam passed by the parlour window to see one of the friends being stencilled with exactly the same design as the heiress. No imagination at all, he thought.
Time was short. He squeezed down a bin-jammed alley into a lane that ran along the back of the terrace. It was just about wide enough for his shoulders and it stank. He realised that the buildings had been designed as houses and converted later, so he was forced to flip out his phone and, against his better judgement, allow Google to identify his location. He soothed his conscience thinking it didn’t really matter – the phone was an expensive burner notched down to expenses and therefore not traceable to him. Still, it grated.
From the satellite image he could tell when he was at the back of the tattoo parlour. Quickly he found what he was looking for – a manhole cover in the cobbles half concealed by a bin. He wondered what the hell he was doing. If he failed, Sinead would know about it when she saw Flipper staring at her from the heiress’s cleavage. He didn’t really fancy that.
So with a busted broom shaft he levered an electric conduit up and out of the manhole. He used the edge of the opening to bounce the shortened stick under his weight and was exceptionally pleased to feel an eventual give in the cable, as if ends had parted. He decided he could do no more, threw the shaft away, replaced the cover and dragged a bin over the top. He could hear a commotion behind, so he slipped through to the right and out onto a new street, conscious that his hands were filthy with fish waste. In due course he doubled back on himself to resume the seat he had vacated ten minutes earlier, peeling a few napkins out of a small metal dispenser. The waiter emerged with his hands held apologetically aloft.
“Another espresso?” Sam suggested.
“Sorry, we have problem,” said the waiter. “Is problem with barista machine and …” He opened and closed his hand above his head, struggling for the right word.
“The lights?”
Light, light, yes. Sorry, we must close.”
“Ok,” said Sam. “No worries.”
He peeled off ten euros while watching the women emerge from the parlour, their heads shaking, trying to cover their felt-tipped chests. He composed a text: No tattoos today. He hit send. The phone buzzed back immediately and he smiled as he read: Grumpy old fart.
“IC1 female approaching.”
“Who is she?” Libby asked.
“Dunno,” said the opso.
“Not a happy bunny,” remarked the trooper.
The trooper edged his car closer and Libby got a proper view of the woman marching across the street to join the manager. Her face was indeed like a slapped arse.
“That’s the owner of the safe house, where the kid is staying.”
“This is all a bit odd, Libby.”
“I know,” she muttered distractedly.
They watched the manager attempt to walk the woman into a stroll in the gentle sun, but the woman was having none of it. She had clearly come out looking for a row. Libby and the opso watched as the manager gestured for her to keep the volume down, his palms flat towards the ground, basketball style, as he looked furtively around.
The operations manager asked the trooper, “Can you get sound?”
They watched the screens as the car moved again, the cameras realigned and the engine was killed. Although scratchy, they could just make out what was being said.
“Not tomorrow, not the next day, not next week. You tell that man that that little gobshite is to be out of my house today,” she shouted.
The manager spoke clearly and calmly trying to placate the woman. “It will only be a few more days now. I understand, honestly I do, it’s never easy having a stranger in the house, and he’s a young fella and he’s out of his comfort zone, so as a gesture for your trouble we’ll double the allowance.”
“You don’t seem to hear what I’m telling you. You forget I was in Armagh and on the drip before you were even out of nappies. Now that sack of sticks is to be gone by this evenin’. Y’understand?”
The opso looked at the spook.
“Armagh?” Libby said.
“The women’s jail. She looks about the right age.”
“So she’s the connection – not her son?”
“I don’t know. You haven’t told us anything about this part of the set-up,” the opso said exasperated.
Libby realised she would be best to share a little. “The safe house, it seems, is just up that road. There’s a couple in their late sixties living there with their son – who did two stretches for PIRA. They took in a kid by agreement with a person of interest. We think the kid is going to transport the car.”
“So you thought that because the couple’s son did time for the IRA they’d used his place for the safe house, but you didn’t check out his parents?”
“I guess we didn’t,” Libby conceded, confused by the oversight.
“What’s the son’s name?”
“Liam Walsh. He looks pretty small-time, to be honest.”
The opso nodded to one of th
e analysts who banged the name into the database.
“Four years for possession, then life for murder.”
“We checked – he was more of an accessory. He handled the weapon afterwards but went down for the lot.”
“Anything about his mother in there?”
“Nothing showing,” said the analyst.
Libby sighed a little. “Father?”
“Nope.”
“Model her face,” the opso barked, now frustrated.
The analyst took a profile grab from the image being relayed by the trooper and they waited as his computer churned away.
“This isn’t a choice, Deirdre,” they heard the manager’s voice harden. “You know how this thing works. You do your bit, we reimburse you what we can.”
“Deirdre,” the opso barked at the analysts. “Check known republicans in their sixties and seventies called Deirdre.”
“I’ve done my bloody bit, more than,” the older woman growled.
“This is getting serious.” The manager tried to change tack, tried to lay down the law. “You know the score now.”
“Are you seriously threatening me?” she hissed, seething. “I’ll show you how serious this is, you little prick.”
With that she marched off across the road, up the hill and into the house. The manager looked livid as he turned down the hill. Doing so he looked directly at the camera, his clenched jaw falling open as anger gave way to panic. His pace quickened and he began to trot down the pavement.
“He’s clocked me,” said the trooper, but everyone at base had seen it already.
The opso sighed and closed his eyes.
“Deirdre Rushe,” said an excited analyst. “Face match confirmed. Six life sentences in 1973. Part of a bombing campaign at military bases in England.”
There was silence in the room for a few moments.
“How did we miss that?” the opso snapped.
“Maybe we didn’t,” Libby muttered quietly. “Maybe we just weren’t told.”
The opso looked at Libby and could see she was heaving back anger. Perhaps she was going native, he thought. Such comments with implicit criticism of her own branch of the operation were not common.
