Recovering Commando Box Set

by Finn Óg

  Then his phone lit up by itself – an alert. He would have ignored it but for one word that stood out: Ballycastle.

  What?

  He tapped the banner, which launched a news app in Italian. He could make out four more words.

  Esplosione. Irlanda del Nord.

  Sam’s heart stopped.

  His gaze fell to the writhing hateful bastard beneath him.

  He paused, motionless. All breathing space evaporated. Things needed to happen fast. Sam couldn’t afford to leave DNA – he hadn’t actually laid a hand on Delaney and now he couldn’t. There was no time. Then the Tetris blocks arranged themselves and removed the bumps. He took ten paces.

  13

  “Rain,” he explained. “Got soaked.” Sam wasn’t given to explanations but he had to persuade the official to let him on the plane, sodden as his passport was.

  The chaos of Marco Polo Airport might work in his favour. Had he been entering Italy, there would have been trouble. Because he was leaving, he represented the departure of a potential problem. Sam accepted the proffered moist booklet and turned, half expecting to be called back.

  The phone buzzed in his pocket as he hunted for a shop to buy a mobile charger, but he was in serious danger of missing the gate closure. His stride became a run as he heard his name over the tannoy. There was no choice. He had to get home.

  “What about the snapper?” Libby said absently.

  The opso turned to her. “We’ll get his images later – like we agreed. A break-in.”

  “I think we should tidy-up sooner. That photographer’s got a different story now.”

  The opso stared at her for a moment. “Fuck, Libby, I want my team out of there.”

  “So do I, but I don’t want them on some batch of before-and-after images.”

  The image feeds back to the DET were down. The recordings had been deliberately stopped, and the analysts were in the process of preparing everything for disposal should the police, at some later stage, come looking for evidence. Nothing would be worse than an accusation that a security team had been watching a bomb vehicle for days yet had done nothing.

  The opso was blind. He lifted his radio. “We need to deal with the photographer. See to it that the camera is disabled and the contents removed.”

  “Copied. I can deal.” Car two.

  The opso didn’t respond. Libby closed her eyes.

  “Is there any chance I could borrow your phone?”

  The broad woman turned to look at Sam. She was barely able to manoeuvre in the tight seat. He was wedged between her at the aisle and another woman at the window. They appeared unamused at having a pungent, slightly damp wide-shouldered bloke deposited between them. The woman stared for a second and then looked back at Facebook, choosing to ignore him.

  Sam’s anger hit the bell. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. My phone has died and my kid, at home, is in trouble. Now, can I borrow it – please? I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

  The woman concentrated on keeping her head forward, staring at the screen, determined to ignore him. Sam couldn’t believe it. His arms began a familiar tremor, his chest and upper back swelled, and his brain battled to keep him in check. They hadn’t even taken off yet and getting removed from the plane before it was airborne would defeat all purpose.

  “Will you just look up the bomb in Ballycastle for me?” he tried instead. “See if anyone’s injured?”

  The woman’s eyes widened in alarm and she reached up to press the buzzer for the attendant. As she did so the plane began to move forward and Sam could see the hostesses moving to the front.

  “Cabin crew, seats for take-off,” the captain announced.

  Keep your counsel, Sam told himself. Deal with it when we’re in the air.

  The woman put her phone away as if it were plated in platinum, and Sam pushed back hard into his chair, his limbs humming with the desire to move; his body constrained and confined to a tube for the next few hours while his daughter …

  He drove his mind away from what could have happened. He thought instead of what he was leaving behind him in Venice. He prayed. Over and over. He pleaded for forgiveness, yet felt no remorse. Was this his just deserts?

  He wondered what the authorities would make of the burning boat slowly sinking not far from the airport dock. It had been scrappy, his extraction, but he didn’t care. Nothing was important any more other than getting home to Isla. He willed the plane to take-off. Get me to Ireland, he prayed. Please let me get to Ireland before they add it up and turn this yoke back. Arrest me in Ireland if you’re going to arrest me at all.

  And finally the nose lifted, with the woman still pressing her buzzer again and again. They were up and Sam was relieved, and he was terrified.

  The operative performed a slow circle around the town and came back to rest one hundred metres from the harbour. He could hear the sirens encroaching on the outskirts – he had little time. One last scan of the facia boards of houses and buildings to locate CCTV and private cameras, one more tick along the doors to register who has smart visualised doorbells and then he was out of the vehicle striding at pace towards the harbour’s edge.

  All the time he kept the snapper in sight while scanning left and right for witnesses or observers. But the wounded were too distracted to pay any attention.

  The photographer had his eye to the viewfinder, oblivious to what was going on behind him. It suggested he had always been portrait rather than press – a change from the hardened snappers the operative was familiar with who were alert to everything.

  A tap on the shoulder nearly sprang him out of his shirt. He’d been out of his depth as it was, unsure of the decency of recording shredded survivors with their underwear exposed. The operative said nothing but put out his hand, gesturing with four wagging fingers to hand over the kit.

  The snapper looked at him, unable to decide what to do. The operative made the gesture again and the photographer acceded – looping the strap from around his neck and giving the stranger his work tools. The operative deftly tilted the body, slid the card cover, extracted the camera’s memory and tossed the unit itself into the sea.

  “What the f—” the snapper began.

  The operative had been practising his Northern Ireland accent, even though he was from Luton. “Have a bit of respect,” he said.

  The snapper just stared. Then his hands fell to his sides in resignation – like he agreed with the operative, who turned and made his way back to the car, and then back to north DET.

  “Yes, madam?” The flight attendant was irritated to be summoned so soon after take-off.

  “Can I speak to you alone?” said Sam’s neighbour.

  He couldn’t place her accent.

  “No, madam, the captain has not yet switched off the seat-belt sign.”

  “This man,” she gestured at Sam, still insistent on not looking at him, “tried to take my phone from me.”

  The attendant turned to Sam, querying eyes, slightly shocked.

  “I did not,” he said, somewhat surprised. “I asked if I could borrow her phone. I have an emergency at home and my phone is flat.”

  “Is not possible to use telephone on the aircraft,” said the Italian attendant.

  “Would it be possible to charge this for me, please?” Sam attempted to make good out of bad. “It really is the most serious emergency.”

  “Can I move seats?” asked the rude woman.

  “No,” snapped the attendant. She had seen something in Sam’s eyes. “There is no vacancy.”

  She held out her hand to Sam, who placed the handset into it. She then reached to extinguish the call light on the panel above the lady’s head and withdrew.

  Sam sat back, still twitching, but knowing he had done all he could for the moment. Then he got another shock as the passenger on the other side leaned across him and spoke to the rude woman.

  “You’re some oul’ wagon,” she said, pure West Cork. “Sure, the man only wanted to borrow y
our phone. May you get help when ye need it.” She leaned back.

  The rude woman closed her eyes with utter determination, and Sam didn’t know what to say. His ally filled the vacuum.

  “I’d give ye me own phone if I had one but I hate the bloody t’ings,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he muttered. “Appreciate it.”

  “No bother,” she said. “‘Tis the last time I go on holiday with that one,” she nodded her head sideways.

  Sinead hit the radio, then the steering wheel and swore at the traffic on Dublin’s North Wall Quay. Stationary, she waited for the clock on the dash to click to the hour, and then cursed the Angelus because it set the news back by a minute, and then decided to use the holy reflection to place her request with the Almighty.

  “Please, God, let Isla be alive. Please, God, let her be safe and well. Please, Jesus Christ, let that child not have been anywhere near that bloody bomb. Sorry, Lord, for swearing.”

  She hit the dial button again as the bells tolled, but Sam’s phone went straight to answering machine – as it had the thirty times since she’d first heard the headlines. Then the chimes gave way to the sig tune and a man began to speak.

  “It’s believed at least ten people have been injured in an explosion in Northern Ireland. Although the cause of the blast is unclear, there is a heavy police presence in the County Antrim town of Ballycastle. Here’s Grainne Whelan of our northern staff.”

  Sinead began to creep along, fixated on the bumper in front.

  “Early reports, as yet unconfirmed, suggest the explosion occurred in or near a car close to the harbour in the seaside town, at around nine thirty this morning. Multiple ambulances from Causeway Hospital in Coleraine, as well as Antrim Area Hospital and now Belfast, have been despatched. Eyewitnesses contacted by RTÉ say that a number of people have been injured, some seriously. Although the cause of the explosion is, as yet, unconfirmed, the possible involvement of dissident republicans will be one initial line of inquiry. The threat level remains at severe in Northern Ireland, and a number of dissident groups continue to plan and launch attacks aimed mainly at members of the security forces.”

  Sinead inched forward, willing the left turn towards the tolls, the Port Tunnel, and the road north.

  “All staff involved in this operation, whether on the ground or in the ops room, will be granted exceptional leave for one week.”

  “What?” Libby looked at the opso, who ignored her as he addressed his team, arranged around him in plastic chairs.

  “This op did not happen. We were not there.”

  Libby was stunned, yet somehow not surprised. Her head rotated gently, her gaze unable to rest on anything or anyone.

  “All recordings shall be expunged, all imagery removed and destroyed. The techs will ensure that all on-board cameras are either wiped or disabled. All inventory must reflect a BAU status for the last five days – routine ops, no locations. See to it that the external cameras show us leaving, re-log the correct vehicles and assign them to alternative duties. I don’t want some smart-arse lawyer or barrister tearing our logbooks to pieces in court. Understood?”

  There was a murmur of agreement around the room.

  “Questions?”

  “How soon do you want us off base?” one of the spanners spoke up. “There’s a fair bit of work in getting plates reassigned and hardware off the bikes and vehicles, and the van will need dealt with too.”

  “Make it shiny. Absolutely everything must be cleansed beyond finding or get them destroyed. The logs must be meticulous. You know the score – we’ve done it before. No cop – no matter how senior or how good – can come in here and find any discrepancy. Then you go on leave – not before.”

  “Surely the cops won’t get access?” Libby asked.

  “Don’t bet on anything,” said the opso, his seasoning as a leader beginning to show. “We take nothing for granted. Nothing. Ok, get to it.”

  The chairs scraped back and the wiping work began.

  Sam was on his feet as soon as the light went off, and he took the opportunity to stand on a bloated toe as he made his way up the aisle.

  “Sorry to hassle you, but did you get a chance to charge that phone for me?”

  The attendant had seen him coming and presented him with the iPhone. He pressed the button and nodded as the screen came to life.

  “You have no idea how grateful I am,” he said to her.

  She smiled as he banged in the six numbers and hit Sal’s number. He stood into the alcove by the still-closed cabin door and heard the tone go straight to answering machine. His hands fell to his side and he hit his head back off the plastic divide. The unit vibrated constantly but it took a moment for him to realise that messages were coming through, and with trepidation he began to swipe and scroll.

  Sinead. Missed calls. Twenty-nine of them. He tapped.

  “Excuse me, sir, we need to access the walkway and open the door.”

  Sam shuffled aside waiting for the connection.

  “Where are ye?” she sounded frantic.

  “Just landed in Dublin.”

  “Oh, right,” she replied, suddenly unsure. “Have ye heard any, ehm, news today, like?”

  “I know there was a bomb in Ballycastle, that’s all I know. What’s going on, Sinead?”

  “I don’t know much, I’ve been trying to call the number...”

  “Are there injuries?” He was talking firmly, not in the mood for soft soap.

  “Some.”

  “How many?”

  “Ten … at least.”

  Sam shook the fear from his mind to allow the practical to kick in. “And where are you?”

  “On the way. GPS says I’ll be at Ballycastle in forty minutes. How are you going to—”

  “I’ll hire a car or get a taxi – I don’t know yet. I’m still on the plane. I can’t get through to Molly’s mam.”

  “Neither can I. Look, just cos Sal isn’t answering doesn’t mean—”

  “Yes, it does,” Sam said.

  There was no other reason a woman in good order wouldn’t answer her phone.

  “I was thinking, maybe they jam the signal, you know, if a bomb goes off.”

  “She’s a doctor, Sinead, and she’s a parent. She’ll know the importance of getting a message to me. Even if the signal’s blocked, she’d have found a way if she was able.”

  There was silence on the other end. There was no answer that would help.

  “Call me the minute you arrive. Please.”

  “I will.”

  The techs and spanners couldn’t even call in reinforcements. The fewer people who knew what was going on, the better. So they worked an assembly line, rolling under the van, the vehicles, inspecting them from their pits and raising the bikes on the lifts. Once taken apart, the covert kit was handed to the tech who made sure the logbook was amended for each and every item. This was then signed off and the device was cleared. Of course, for some of the equipment a transfer of data from the unit to a computer was required, so – rather than increase the audit trail – such items were put on a shelf for disposal. At the end of the afternoon they would be crushed and incinerated and all record of their existence removed. That part was relatively easy – all the techs had kit squirrelled away, unaccounted for, unlisted and unknown. They knew how to do what needed to be done – no questions, no hesitation.

  “I’m here.”

  “What do you see?”

  “I don’t want to say, Sam.”

  “Say, Sinead. Just tell me exactly what you see. Don’t hold back.”

  The taxi driver beside him didn’t know what was going on but the fare would be massive. Half of it had been paid in cash, there was an agreed hundred euro by the gearstick for speeding fines, and he’d been shown another three hundred he would receive as a bonus so long as he didn’t let the car go under one hundred and forty kilometres an hour in the south and ninety miles per hour in the north.

  “There’s mess everywhere.
Like, the walls of some buildings are pretty badly damaged, the windows are all smashed. I can’t get very close, there’s police tape and cops everywhere. No ambulances. They must have all gone.”

  “Is there blood?”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Yes, Sam, there’s blood.”

  “Where?”

  “Outside what was a coffee shop.”

  Sam closed his eyes and tried to remember the last voicemail he’d received from Isla. He was sure there had been a coffee grinder sound in the background.

  “Describe the restaurant.”

  Sinead was unnerved by his cold delivery, his commands.

  “It’s … it’s a whole mess, Sam,” her voice cracked and shook. “There’s glass inside and outside, the tables are mangled. There’s bandages – oh, Sam, there are bandages and big plasters everywhere. Sam, I don’t want to be telling you this – I don’t know where they are. They might not even have been anywhere near here.” She began to cry.

  Sam’s focus wilted a little. He wanted the information – he needed the information, but he couldn’t ask her for any more. “Sinead, listen to me, please, listen to me carefully.”

  He could hear her sobbing had muffled as if she’d moved the phone away from her ear.