Recovering Commando Box Set

by Finn Óg

  “Hallo, Daddy,” Isla’s little voice answered, always sounding younger on the phone.

  “Hello, wee lamb, how are you doing?”

  “Good.”

  “Whatcha doing?”

  “I’m making a cake with Sinead.”

  “Go way,” he said. “And how have you been?”

  “Good. When are you coming to get me?”

  “Well, can I talk to Sinead quickly to make arrangements?”

  “Ok.”

  The phone rattled as it was handed over.

  “Well, sailor, how are things?”

  “Not just quite what I’d want them to be. Listen, haven’t a whole lot of time but can you guys meet me in …” he looked at the clock on the bulkhead, then the list of times for high water Dover. He grabbed the tidal atlas, estimating the flow south, “ten hours in Dún Laoghaire?”

  “Everything ok, Sam?” Concern crept into her voice.

  “If you can both come, it will be. Both of you – ok, Sinead?”

  “Eh … ok,” she said.

  “Also, can you tell our friend I lost the present he sent me. If he could just make sure there’s no receipt, please, that would be great.”

  “I thought you’d want a receipt?”

  “Not for this yoke, no. He’ll understand it all.”

  “Oh-kay,” she said, as if talking to a madman.

  “Bring plenty of stuff, Sinead.”

  “What stuff?” she was saying as he hung up and readied to depart.

  27

  The superior came off the phone to Libby’s mother having gushed about how sorry he was to have lost Meadow, an incredible member of the team, in such unfortunate circumstances. A London staffer had been sent to do the door knock; his call was just a follow-up, which had the unfortunate effect of increasing the number of questions: had she really died in a car crash? No, she was knocked down by a hit-and-run driver. Was there anything they weren’t telling her? Had she died doing something important? No, the silly bitch was ignoring orders, the superior thought, taking flights of fancy – but, no, I’m deeply sorry, Meadow did indeed die in a freak accident. We will, of course, do all we can to find the driver, et cetera, et cetera. And it was in the countryside? And you have no idea what she was doing there? Yes, indeed, Mrs Meadow or whatever your name is, we haven’t a clue what she was doing as she was off duty and on her own time and what have you.

  Which then made him wonder, again, about where this had all happened. Google became his friend after the call finished and he zoomed in to reappraise the area.

  Libby had made deliberate turns; she didn’t appear to have been hunting in the dark.

  The superior lifted the phone and made a call. “Well?” he asked.

  “I’m just back from the scene.”

  “Did you see if there was a GPS in her car?”

  “Plods have the car. It’s been towed.”

  “Get me that GPS quickly. It probably has her destination in it.”

  “But—” came the suit’s voice.

  “But what?” the superior barked.

  “There’s nothing there. It’s a road to nowhere – literally. Isn’t it more likely she was on her way to a meet a CHIS?”

  “She wasn’t running any sources – she was a DET liaison. Now get me that GPS.”

  The superior noodled around Google Maps a little more, zooming and squeezing. Whatever way he looked at it the road led to a walk by the sea and a small boatyard-cum-car park. Street view gave a clear picture of the place: dilapidated, forlorn, forgotten, full of potholes and puddles, but there was a jetty thing. He lifted the phone again.

  “I’m on the way now.”

  “Where to?” the superior snapped.

  “To get the GPS.”

  “Were there any boats in the boatyard?”

  “Eh … well, yes, I think so. Yeah, old ones. Why?

  “Were there any boats floating?”

  “Eh … I don’t know. I didn’t really look. Sorry.”

  “Get down there now and see if there are any boats there.”

  “What about the GPS?”

  “Forget the bloody GPS. Just see if there are any boats there.”

  The clerk stared at her brother as he tried to compute what she’d just told him.

  “Over how?”

  “All you need to know is that it’s over.”

  “How can it be over?”

  “There are ways to do things without a computer.”

  He looked at her as if to say, Are there?

  “The person who was, kind of, blackmailing me … she’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Gone, gone, not-coming-back gone.”

  He just looked at his sister blankly.

  “It’s over, I’m telling you.”

  “So nobody’s looking at what I’m doing any more?”

  “Far as I can tell.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so.”

  She’d done her best, and her best had been brutal.

  Sam looked at two weather apps before he turned everything off. They both told him the same thing: fog.

  In normal circumstances, with modern technology, fog was nothing to worry about. He had GPS and a chart plotter that told him where he was. He had AIS, which told him where every tanker, ship, container vessel and fishing boat was – plus, it told them where he was. Even in the blind density of Irish fog vessels could move around one another without too much concern. He had a radar and he had a radio. Easy-peasy. In normal circumstances.

  But the spook’s presence at the road traffic collision galvanised Sam’s suspicion that he’d been rumbled, which meant he had to go dark – all navigational toys had to be switched off. He didn’t want anyone using the automatic identification system to follow his progress, he didn’t want his VHF radio pinpointed with any sort of radio direction finder. He was suspicious even of the ability to monitor radar sweeps. He ripped the radar reflector off the mast and threw it to the waves. Everything had to be powered down, which meant old-school navigation with no visibility and no lighthouse beams; just the log to give him the speed of the boat, the echo sounder for depth, a swinging compass and his ears fine-tuned for foghorns – across one of the busiest ports in Europe.

  Once the phone was off he regretted not sending Sinead to Howth, north of most of the shipping lanes and separation areas. But it was too late. Sinead would know where to go. The three of them had enjoyed ice cream at a kiosk on one of the most-walked piers in the world. If he could find it. In the fog.

  “Two things,” the spook said.

  The superior found himself leaning forward onto his toes. “Go on?”

  “There are no boats floating here now. The owner of the yard says he lets some bloke who lives on a yacht with his daughter berth there. Says the bloke goes off for spells but this is their main dock.”

  “A bloke with a kid doesn’t sound like who we are looking for.”

  “I saw him, actually. He was at the police tape earlier. The cop on duty confirmed he told her he lived on a boat. No boat there now, though.”

  “When did it leave?”

  “Couldn’t be more than six or seven hours ago.”

  “How far can you get in a boat in five hours?”

  “I, eh, I have no idea.”

  “What did you make of him?”

  “The yard owner?”

  “No, the man who lives on his boat.”

  “Sorry. Unwashed, half a beard. Looked like a vagrant, to be honest.”

  “Young? Old? Fit? Fat?”

  The spook closed his eyes and regretted not appraising the local bloke more closely.

  “Forty-ish, gnarly – like a fisherman, strong, for sure. Grizzled, I would say. Anxious that his girlfriend and kid hadn’t been in the smash.”

  “Name?”

  “Sam. The fella here couldn’t remember his surname.”

  “Really? Was he giving you the runaround?”

&nbs
p; “No, I think he genuinely never knew.”

  “Kid must go to school?”

  “Yeah, I’ll check.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Isla, apparently. Like the Scottish island, he said.”

  “Spelt I-s-l-a-y?” asked the superior, composing an urgent GCHQ request.

  “Don’t know, sorry. I didn’t think so. I didn’t know that was how the island was spelt.”

  “Do you not drink whisky?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Islay – it’s home to Lagavulin, Laphroaig, many others.”

  “I don’t drink at all.”

  “What about the boat? Motorboat? Big, small?”

  “That, the yard owner was able to help with. Fifty-seven-foot cutter, aluminium, beautiful, he said. Well equipped. He could sail around the world on her, apparently.”

  “What do you think?” asked the superior. “Could he be our man?”

  “I honestly thought he was a fisherman.”

  “Fishermen have a certain resilience, they’re tough.”

  “This fella had definitely spent too much time in the sun – his face was creased and cracked and probably made him look older.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  The spook closed his eyes again and thought. “Heavy jacket, waterproof, no brand. Heavy denims. He had wraparound-sunglasses tan lines. Soft climbing boots, I think.”

  “Military issue?”

  “Don’t think so – they would have registered.”

  “Anything else before I get this off for analysis?”

  “Well, this guy’s wife was killed a few years back.”

  “Oh? Killed how?”

  “She was murdered by some Lithuanian. That’s all anyone here knows.”

  Sam suddenly realised how long it had been since he’d properly used parallel rulers and dividers. He plotted his variation and deviation, magnetic and true compass bearing, his allowances for push and pull by wind and tide, and marked the spots on his course where he ought to see differences in depth. It was the only way he could possibly tell for sure where he was, given the extremity of the fog he was anticipating.

  For all he knew, it might have set in already. The darkness was like a blanket around him and he hadn’t seen a navigation light in over an hour. All he could see beyond the boat was the phosphorescence of the trail behind, his speed steady at nine knots, his anxiety through the roof. How many people were looking for him was anybody’s guess. How he would find the entrance to Dún Laoghaire Harbour was a mystery. He set about doing what most sailors do in extreme situations: he said a prayer.

  To get his request into the priority queue, the superior had to provide justification. He mulled that, unsure as to whether to commit to it: murder of a valuable asset. murders of multiple watch-list suspects following a bombing, murder of an agent.

  It didn’t read well. He was the senior man in Northern Ireland. To tell another agency, this time the listening and data-gathering station, GCHQ, that they had overseen such a series of disasters, wasn’t appealing. It was akin to hoisting a flag that said “I’ve made a balls of it”.

  He’d always hated GCHQ anyway, since he’d been overlooked for a director’s post there. His reward for that failure was to be sent to Northern Ireland – a “development opportunity” in a tough area. He’d wanted in on the fight against the Islamic extremists, instead he’d been lumbered with the old war against the Irish.

  He had no idea how many approvals his request would have to go through to come out top of the pile; how much embarrassment and sniggering his name would be subjected to in his absence. Still, if this sun-baked suspect was their man, he might save some face. It was unlikely, but time was short. He hit send.

  With the dawn came disorientation. At least when it had been dark Sam couldn’t see what he couldn’t see. Now, though, he was surrounded by a white blankness complete with bone-chilling groans from foghorns on passenger ferries and ships. The temptation was to close his eyes and hope for the best, but the moment he looked away from the compass the boat veered off course and he found it impossible to know which way he was pointing.

  He lifted the chart for the hundredth time, estimating the point at which he would reach the shipping traffic separation area, banking on the ferries using the mid-channel and acutely aware that there were small fast boats whizzing up and down, delivering pilots onto tankers to ensure their safe delivery into Dublin Port. If one of those hit him, it would be over.

  Instead of rounding Howth Head and heading straight for Dún Laoghaire Harbour, he opted to navigate between two rocks. His thinking was twofold: he’d been stupid to tell the cop that his “girlfriend” was from Dublin – it gave the authorities a likely destination if anyone was looking for him, although they wouldn’t anticipate him going rock-hopping in the fog. Secondly, ships don’t like rocks – they’re hard to manoeuvre around and most vessels avoid them like the plague. But Sam was set, variations in depth would help him decide where he was and rocks have markers. Provided he was on the correct side of them, they would orient him and provide a good bearing to the harbour.

  He aimed to keep the Burford Bank close to starboard and the Kish Lighthouse well to port, hoping to get a glimpse of a light through the murk to help him decide where he was.

  Every ten seconds he lifted the binoculars hanging from his neck, scanning and willing the north Burford marker into view. According to time and speed, he reckoned it must be less than fifty metres away from him, but he knew that a small mistake an hour previous could place him on the stones. He was about to move and check his workings again when right in front of him, less than ten feet away, the enormous yellow-and-black cardinal loomed, flashing a quick white light. It shocked him utterly, despite the fact he’d been expecting it. It was the first thing he’d seen for hours and in panic he threw the wheel, losing sight of his guide, before slowing the engine and returning to course, creeping along the edge of what he now knew to be the sandbank. He kissed into starboard until the depth began to shallow, easing in and out. The danger was to go aground – only to be revealed at right angles, high and dry, when the fog lifted.

  Gently he guided the boat along the edge of the shallow, hunting for his next confirmation, SAM 4, flashing yellow. Yet it never came, and Sam began again to doubt himself and his calculations. Where he thought it was time, he nudged the helm to starboard, still kissing the shallower water, conscious that the marker he should have seen was now likely behind him. He had one last chance for confirmation before he hit the shipping separation zone, the south cardinal marker, telling him that the rock was now to his rear.

  His mind began to play tricks in the fog. He rounded startled on a teeth-rattling burst from a gaseous horn. The ship it belonged to sounded like it was immediately behind him. He leaned over to increase speed to try and outrun the unseen menace, then forced himself to calm down. He could just as easily drive his home straight up a rock. He scanned all around him with the binoculars, veering dangerously off course in the process, his ears hunting for any indication of a thrum of an engine. None came.

  He slowed to one knot of speed, and again began to pray, and with that came the next blast of the tanker’s horn, definitely further away and to his right – meaning that the vessel had passed in front of him, which suggested he might be past the rock.

  And then came the cardinal, two triangles pointed down, it’s light still barely perceptible but he didn’t care. He just knew he had to increase speed to skip across the shipping zone as fast as he was able. He took the new course direct for the harbour entrance and threw his fate to God.

  The last thing the superior wanted or needed was the visit that had been demanded of him, yet he had no option – politically – to avoid it.

  “Chief constable, please come in. We are rather in the middle of it here, so I am grateful for you making the trip.”

  “I’d have cycled here if I thought it would help get any answers to what the hell is going on.”
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  “I’m now in a better position to brief you, chief.”

  She sat down, unbidden, and nodded.

  “Tea, coffee?”

  “Just get on with it.”

  “Sean Gillen’s death marks what we believe could be the conclusion to all this. His wife is, as I understand it, critically ill?”

  “She’s not going to make it,” confirmed the chief.

  Excellent, thought the superior. “Here is what we believe has happened.”

  “Well, you damn well ought to know what’s happening given that you deployed the Special Reconnaissance Regiment without my authorisation.”

  “I did, but for good reason, chief.”

  “Which is?”

  “Let me get to that. First, we believe there has been a monumental falling out among the dissident groupings over access to arms dumps.”

  “I know that.”

  “That has led to internal criticisms over how the Ballycastle bomb was actually detonated. We believe, in fact, that the bomb maker was misinformed about the type of detonator he was handling, the mix of fertiliser and indeed the strength of the plastic explosive.”

  “Well, you should know. I believe you were watching the bloody bomb all the way from Donegal!”

  The superior held his hands to try to calm the chief but left the accusation without reply as he continued twirling and spinning on his mop-up journey. “As you know, the Donegal bomb factory was not previously known about, and was tricky to penetrate for political reasons – being as it is, in the Irish Republic.”

  “Never stopped you before.”

  “No, well. The killings in Ballycastle, in your own police station and indeed in Greenore in County Louth are, we believe, a result of the internal dispute.”

  “They’re feuding. That’s your story?”

  “They are plainly feuding, chief. This is a fallout among thieves.”

  “You think they have the capacity to kill a man in a police station and get away? You really believe that? More importantly, do you think I should believe that?”