Recovering Commando Box Set

by Finn Óg

  The back roads to the border took him away from most cameras, but his refusal to use any electronic navigation meant constant reference to old maps. The van had served its purpose and would now be returned to the father of the heiress. The hammer would end up in the Boyne River and Sam would catch the airport bus and be back at the boat by teatime.

  He imagined they’d be searching for the strange workman by now. The guard on the gate would have given his statement, they’d have tracked his entrance and exit from the station. They may even have pieced together his transformation in the subway from workman to suited lawyer-type with gym bag. He ticked off the CCTV points on the way through the city centre: into Victoria Square, his second change of look in the jacks of a Costa Coffee that had no cameras and his avoidance of tracking that eventually led to the basement car park. He’d changed again in the van, put a mask on and driven up the ramp and out. In a lay-by forty miles from Belfast he’d burned the lot in undergrowth.

  They would piece it all together – he was sure of that. It was just a question of how long it would take. So long as he got the van south of the border before they linked it to the killing, he should be ok. The wheels and plates would be changed, but beyond that there was nothing to distinguish the van from any other of its make and model. There would be nothing – no DNA, no identifiable face match or camera image, that would place him in the police station.

  But he was disappointed with himself. He had been too preoccupied with getting in and out without being spotted by the DET. It suddenly felt ill-conceived, impulsive. He had spent too much time working out how to do it instead of focusing on why he was doing it. Killing a man in front of so many cameras had left insufficient time to extract information. Sam now realised that Grim’s removal had been too emotional – too much of a venting of anger and not enough about establishing the next lead. Where had it got him? One man deservedly dead, but all he’d left with was confirmation that this ‘manager’ had run off to the Irish Republic. Not much to hang your hammer on.

  Sam decided to take a step back. Maybe some time would help, some mulling over. He settled on a period of normalisation.

  It didn't last long.

  Every keystroke is recorded. That mantra rattled around the opso’s head as he tapped on regardless. He was in intelligence gathering – it made sense that he would look at the files. Whether anyone coming behind him would join the dots was questionable. They’d need to know what he knew, and he wasn’t even sure whether he knew what he thought he knew.

  He began with outliers – pretending he was looking for things he simply had no interest in: owner of the destroyed café, owner of the bomb vehicle, hostilities within dissident ranks. Blowing some around as he went, he eventually moved on to where he had really wanted to begin: victims. He began with the dead. The adults yielded no names of interest, no paramilitary or military connections. Then the children – again, nothing. Which, for a moment, came as a surprise. The opso thought he’d been onto something. He paused for a while, staring at the screen. Then another thought occurred to him: the injured.

  It took a while to access the hospital manifests. They were reasonably well protected, and the encryption took a while to reverse. There were dozens of people, some lightly maimed, some burned, many with shrapnel wounds or glass lacerations from the windows. He hunted the adults in full knowledge that the women affected may not hint at a connection – so few women took their husband’s names any more. Three hours later he rose and paced, stiffening and cranky, still suspicious.

  He had a coffee and returned to the screen. The children had been taken to various hospitals – Belfast, Antrim and the least serious to Causeway. He scrolled though each before resting on one.

  The opso had expected it, yet was still stunned to find it.

  For the sake of completeness and muddying the waters for future investigations, he forged on immediately, searching each and every child. But he already had all the information he required and couldn’t help wearing a small smile.

  “This is getting out of hand, Libby.”

  “We were out-of-area. Belfast is not our patch,” she said.

  “It had to be you. We can’t involve other detachments.”

  The superior’s calmness was deeply unnerving.

  “I don’t know what to say to you. It’s … it’s a disaster.”

  “Yes,” he said, and allowed the silence to fester.

  “I’m sure the police are livid.”

  “They can’t be, can they? He was killed on their premises.”

  “But I’m sure they’ll be demanding footage?”

  “Of course, so what is there?”

  “Again, honestly this time – there’s nothing. We didn’t pick up anyone following him beforehand. We’re sure he had no tail – apart from us. We don’t have any anomalies. All we’ve got is one of the best ops watching a workman emerge, but she was in a small shop and couldn’t linger, and because she didn’t think anything of the workman, when the alarm went off she was extracted. At that point we shut down in case the cops picked up on our interest again.”

  “Then the police should already have all the footage they could need. I mean, this happened on their area.”

  “Yeah, I mean, I don’t know what we could provide.”

  “Ok, Libby, let the hounds chase. We have no fox in this hunt.”

  “You don’t want us to find out who killed him?”

  “Not if it means the police become aware of our extracurricular interest. We’ll go back to what we do best – prior knowledge, intelligence. Investigation is for the police.”

  The superior ended the call leaving Libby more confused than ever.

  The colours always amused him when the little bundles emerged wrecked and wrapped in coats of many colours, lunch boxes swinging, rucksacks like little bergens weighing down their knackered bones.

  He loved collecting Isla from school; the smile he received, the chat about the day behind and the evening ahead. It was the sweet spot before the drudgery of homework and the contrariness born of exhaustion immediately prior to bed.

  “Hello, huggle-bug,” he said to her, leading to minor alarm as she looked around to ensure nobody else had heard.

  Content, she broke into a cheeky grin. “Hello, Daddy-o.”

  Sam had been noting, with no great enthusiasm, how grown up she was becoming. He was pleased to see her speech and understanding of things develop and mature, but he lamented the dilution of innocence he was witnessing as questions and curiosity about the world and its workings gradually gave way to opinions. She seemed to devour current events and process them without him even managing to understand where she was gleaning the information.

  “Daddy, did you know Donald Trump is building a wall to stop Mexicans coming to America?” she began.

  “Yes, darlin’.”

  “Like, why would he want to stop them? Anyone should be allowed to go anywhere. It’s not fair.”

  “Stop saying ‘like’,” was all Sam could manage, for the person he saw in the rear-view was becoming a mirror image of someone else; full of the same ambition for humanity, trying – as he often saw it - to polish the turd.

  “Why does he not just let those Mexicans come in and get jobs?”

  “Dunno. What did you learn today?”

  “You’re not answering the question, Daddy.”

  “You’re exactly like your mam, you know.” It just came out.

  She stared at him; he stared back. Neither knew what to say for a moment.

  “I love you.”

  “Luff you,” she said.

  They drove for a while in silence. Sam was concerned that a box may have been opened that he would struggle to close. He was tired and still irritable at his lack of progress on the issue at hand. He glanced sheepishly into the mirror but on each occasion found Isla in profile, watching the world slip by, and he worried about the thoughts crashing around behind her flickering eyes.

  Beyond her head he caugh
t sight of a blue saloon – nothing fancy, but not a car he’d seen before. His anxiety rose a little as he checked again before the entrance to the boatyard. It stayed with them, so he changed his mind at the last minute and swerved out of the turn.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just testing the tyres,” he said, keeping an eye on the vehicle to their rear.

  “For what?”

  “See if they grip ok on the corners.”

  “Cos it’s a new van?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t they check that at the hire shop?”

  “It’s not hired,” he said. “It’s hire purchase.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “How do you even know what ‘hire’ is?” Her sponge-like consumption was genuinely baffling.

  She just shrugged. “What is hire purchase?”

  “The garage owns the van, but I pay it off bit by bit.”

  “Like a borrow?”

  “It’s called a loan.”

  The saloon stayed right where it was. The back window on the new van was too high for him to see the driver properly, and the vehicle stuck too close for him to make effective use of the wing mirrors.

  “What’s a loan?”

  “I’ll explain later, Isla.”

  “Trump, Mexicans, loans – you’re not telling me stuff, Daddy.”

  “What?” he gasped incredulously, but she was in a hump.

  He pulled in and the saloon was forced to pass. He looked down on it from his cab, noting the lack of personal additions – no bits on the dash or in the rear, no child seat, no stickers. Instinct curdled a mild concern but nothing more than that, and so he turned the new van and tried to shake off his suspicions. They drove silently back to the boatyard. Sam dismissed his thoughts and started gathering the bags and rubbish from the cab. He slid the side door open and leaned in to help Isla down from the pristine vehicle.

  “Who’s that?” she said over his shoulder.

  “Friend of your dad’s,” was all he heard as he froze, trying to place the Scouse voice.

  “Are you from England?” Isla asked, as Sam pushed her back into the van and slid the door in front of her. “Daddy!”

  Sam’s muscles contracted as his mind tried to catch up with his body. There was absolutely nothing to hand that could act as a weapon, so he turned and braced for impact.

  “Wow, calm now. I know what you’re capable of, fella.”

  His eyes may have crept back into his face and gravity forced features south, but Sam’s memory finally fired as he recognised a man he had spent short bursts of over-approximate time with.

  “Luke.”

  “Peter.”

  “His name’s Sam,” he heard Isla shout from inside the van.

  “I know!” The man smiled.

  “What are you doing here, Luke?” Sam spluttered.

  “Real name’s Rob.”

  “You seem to know mine,” Sam said, and they shook hands and fell into a half embrace.

  “Why are you here?” Sam was concerned and confused.

  “To help,” Rob said.

  “With what?”

  “If you’re doing what I think you’re doing, then I’m here to keep you out of trouble – and maybe give you a hand.”

  Sam struggled to conceal the horror that shot up his spine and into his neck. He was ticking through options immediately. Who had sent him? What did he know? Why now? “What do you mean?” was all he managed, trying to keep his face open and surprised.

  “You know the business – eyes and ears and all that.”

  “You’re not still on the job, are you?” Sam was still trying to make sense of the visit.

  “Certainly am, mate.”

  “Bit old for digging into ditches.”

  Rob snorted a small, ironic laugh. “Worse than that, fella. I’m the opso these days.”

  20

  “We should get out in front of this, no?” Libby was exhausted. She managed to maintain her deference but it was being sorely tested.

  “And how do you propose we do that?”

  She looked at the suede shoes on her superior’s feet. She hadn’t seen suede shoes on anyone else for twenty years. The soles were some sort of rubber, which might explain how he’d managed to creep up on her.

  “Well, we could throw a ring around the bomb team, prevent another killing.”

  “You think the bomb team is being targeted here?”

  “Well, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, while giving the impression that he knew very well.

  “Deirdre Rushe – she came out of the dust like republican woodworm, totally unexpected. She was involved. She’s dead. Then Grim – killed under our noses. Grim is a close associate of the boss, so the boss’s position is precarious, surely? And there’s the manager—”

  “Who is out of our jurisdiction, Libby.”

  “Maybe we don’t care if they get taken out?” she suggested, eyes wide open, imploring an indication of what her boss desired.

  “In that event who would we concentrate upon? Is it not better to keep certain leaders alive so that we might better monitor the foot soldiers?”

  “Is it?” Libby’s head began to shake like a forlorn puppy. The tiredness was drawing her close to admissions she would otherwise never make to a man who held her career in his clutches.

  “Yes. Structure within an illegal organisation makes our job easier. When the enemy splits or fractures, it becomes hard to control. This is all useful learning, Libby.”

  “Not if you don’t tell me what the objective is,” she stammered. “Sorry. I just … I could really do with a steer here. Please.”

  “Protect the senior figure. It is he who holds the cards. He will put in place a new team. Do what is within your reach and let go of that which is not.”

  “So ignore the manager?”

  “He is across the border in the Republic of Ireland. What can you do?”

  “I could get Laurel and Hardy to inform the Guards that there’s a man at risk in their patch?”

  “From whom – from whom is this man at risk?”

  “We don’t know, but shouldn’t we be trying to find out?”

  “I have told you before, Libby. We are in the futures business. Where events have already occurred, they are a matter for the police. Our remit is to gather intelligence that could prevent atrocities in the United Kingdom – of which the Republic of Ireland is not part.”

  “So do we involve Six?”

  “Are you really suggesting we go to MI6? What would we say? That there appears to be a person killing dissident republicans? What is new about that?”

  “Well, we think it’s linked to the Ballycastle bomb.”

  “Do we?”

  “Don’t we?”

  “We don’t know.” The superior’s hands opened wide with a shrug.

  Libby felt like she’d just had her argument tied in knots. She began to doubt herself. “So protect the boss?”

  “Clear enough as an objective, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said, as one suede shoe crossed another and the grey slacks fell into their careful creases and left her office as silently as they’d arrived.

  “I know what you’re thinking, fella.”

  “I doubt that.” Sam stared at his old colleague. He still wasn’t sure whether he was looking at a friend. If they’d been close mates, they’d have kept in touch, wouldn’t they? Then again, Sam had fought and almost died for men he no longer saw or heard from. He and the man opposite hadn’t even known one another’s real names, but they’d shared some serious experiences – some pretty awful, some pretty binding.

  “Where’d you go after the DET?”

  “Back to my old gaff,” Sam replied, still wary.

  “Back to the brotherhood?”

  “Some called it that.”

  “But not the Ruperts, eh?”

  “I wasn’t an officer back then.”

  “You b
ecame one, though, didn’t you?”

  Sam notched up the information. The opso had obviously been digging. “Wasn’t like that so much in the SBS.”

  “What, you all ate and drank together, did you?”

  “More so than your lot,” Sam said, recalling that the opso had been a para. “Airborne officers were a breed apart.”

  “That’s cos we were animals. Who would’ve drank with us? Can you see an officer drinking pints of piss?”

  “I can’t even see a marine doing that sort of nonsense.”

  The opso bristled a little, then looked away in defeat. “Was a bit pointless, all that.”

  “Different days.”

  Sam stared at the opso, shadow-boxing, allowing silence to force his visitor to explain his presence. The only sound was Isla’s Kindle rattling away to Horrible Histories.

  “You don’t need to worry, Sam. I’m not here to annoy you.”

  “No?”

  “No,” said the opso, his Scouse accent suddenly persuasive. “I’m here to catch up.”

  “You said you were here to help me.”

  “I am, Sam. I am. If you’ll let me.”

  “Help me do what?”

  “Have you anything to drink on this fine vessel?” The opso scanned around.

  “Tea?”

  “That’s not really what I was thinkin’, Sam, to be honest, fella.”

  Sam leaned forward and lifted a lid from the centre of the table. The casing kept litre bottles upright during stormy weather.

  “Ah, might have known,” the opso said, as a golden bottle was drawn out. “Gunpowder-proof, eh?”

  Sam reached round behind him and lifted two heavy tumblers over between his fingers.

  “Careful there. It’s a lubricant.”

  “Well, I’m here to talk, Sam.”

  The opso rasped on first glug, suppressing his surprise at the potency of the liquid. They sat in silence for a long while.

  “So how did you end up here?” Sam began.