Soldier U: Bandit Country

by Peter Corrigan

  ‘Nothing concrete – not yet. But it was probably him who masterminded the Drumboy operation. I want to talk to him. Now get me that fucking helicopter.’

  The younger officer hesitated, then shrugged, and sent word to the helipad that a chopper was wanted: ‘priority two, one passenger’.

  It was a small, dragonfly-like gazelle that transported Boyd from the fortress of Bessbrook over the undulating, moonlit hills of Armagh. Ulster Troop was based in Bessbrook because of the fact that it was the best heliport along the border; the SAS needed the mobility it could provide, even though the Security Forces’ base in Cross was adequate for most other purposes.

  So Finn had come back south. It would be interesting to talk to him, this IRA hotshot. In a way, he and Boyd had already met, over gun barrels. It seemed though that he had survived Drumboy unscathed. A resourceful enemy indeed. The second IRA platoon that had caught them napping that night on the hill – that had been Finn’s men, the South Armagh bunch. Intelligence now believed that the South Armagh Brigade had not suffered as badly as they had initially thought. Its members had been spirited away to Belfast. Did this mean that they were beginning to filter back south to their old stamping grounds?

  Boyd would get no information out of Finn, he knew that; the man was too canny. And he had nothing to hold him on. Finn’s wife, when questioned at her door by chatting British soldiers as to her husband’s whereabouts, had merely said that he was away visiting relatives. Nothing to go on, then. But Boyd could at least make this a highly unpleasant evening for the bastard.

  The gazelle landed in a field fifty yards from the VCP on the Blaney road. Boyd leapt out. He had no weapon except for the Browning High Power, for form’s sake in a webbing holster at his waist instead of in the armpit or on the thigh. He wore a Kevlar helmet and ordinary combats; there was nothing to suggest that he was SAS.

  The helicopter took off again. Boyd would stay out and return to Bessbrook with the VCP members themselves. He sauntered over to the road where an old Ford Cortina was sitting to one side and an RUC constable was waving down cars with a red torch.

  The corporal in command met him as he gained the road.

  ‘Evening, boss.’ The Greenjackets were almost as informal that way as the SAS. ‘We’ve got him out of the car and given him the once-over; we were just going to start and search the vehicle.’

  Boyd nodded. ‘Go ahead. And Corporal …’

  The man turned.

  ‘To search it properly, you’ll have to take out the seats and things – everything that’s remotely movable. You get my meaning?’

  The man grinned. ‘Sure thing, boss.’

  Boyd joined a small group of men in front of the Cortina. There was a soldier there, gripping his SA-80 as though he longed to use it, an RUC constable with his Heckler & Koch MP5K dangling across his armoured chest and his notebook out, and a lean, dark man in civvies who was smoking a cigarette and directing hate-filled glances at them both.

  Boyd strode up. ‘Evening, Eugene. Nice night for a drive, don’t you think?’

  Finn looked at him over the glowing tip of his cigarette, and blew out smoke silently.

  ‘Well, constable?’ Boyd asked the policeman. The RUC man was young, probably single, as all the police on the border were. He wore an army-style sweater under dark-green Gore-tex waterproofs, and his trousers were bloused into a pair of combat boots. In addition to the Heckler & Koch he carried a Ruger revolver in a holster at his waist. Apart from the green peaked cap with its harp badge, he looked like a soldier.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ the constable said cheerfully. Boyd’s plummy accent had immediately marked him out as an officer.

  ‘The gentleman here has come from Omagh, where he has been visiting relatives. Name, Eugene Finn, address 23 Conway Crescent, Dundalk Road, Crossmaglen. His driving licence seems to be in order, but unfortunately this is not his vehicle …’

  ‘I told you, it’s me cousin’s,’ Finn snarled suddenly.

  ‘… and we are checking the ownership now.’

  ‘Thanks, constable. I’ll take it from here.’

  The policeman nodded and moved away. Finn’s eyes darted from Boyd’s face to the car that the Greenjacket soldiers were now assiduously taking apart.

  ‘You bastards,’ Finn growled as both front seats were taken out and placed in the ditch.

  ‘Now now, sir,’ Boyd said with a smile. ‘We’re just doing our job.’

  Finn stared at him closely, then flicked the half-finished cigarette at him so it bounced off Boyd’s chest. The SAS officer stiffened.

  ‘That’s for your job. Now how long do you think your military sense of humour will keep me here at the side of the road, when me kids are waiting for me at home?’

  ‘Maybe you should spend more time with your kids, Eugene, instead of tramping all over the countryside at all hours of the day and night.’

  It was Finn’s turn to pause. He regarded Boyd with keener interest.

  ‘What regiment are you with, public schoolboy?’

  ‘Greenjackets, like the rest of them.’

  ‘Is that a fact? You don’t carry a rifle. Too heavy for you, is it?’

  Boyd felt that he was losing the initiative.

  ‘How are your friends in Belfast, Eugene? Coming along nicely, are they? Poor lads. A punishment shooting is an awful thing.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Brit.’

  ‘Sure you do, Eugene. Pity we managed to pick up that M60, off the field of battle, you might say. I bet those things don’t grow on trees, eh?’

  Finn did not reply, but lit another cigarette and blew the smoke into Boyd’s face.

  ‘Nasty habit that, Eugene. It’ll kill you in the end.’

  ‘Life’s a lot more unhealthy for you lot, down here, than it is for me. Maybe Armagh should have a government health warning. “Patrolling here can be bad for your health.” How many have you boys lost here in the last eighteen months? It’s no wonder you’re taking out your frustration on innocent men like me.’

  The Greenjackets, eavesdropping on what Finn was saying, went at their work with added savagery. The steering wheel landed in the grass. Finn watched it dispassionately.

  ‘You’ll have to put it all back together again, you know.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or I might have to complain.’

  ‘Who to – the police?’

  Finn laughed. ‘No – to the Border Fox. Him and his comrades. They’re the only real authority in this part of the world. Time you understood that, soldier.’

  The corporal joined them.

  ‘Car’s clean as a whistle, boss, and we did him before you arrived. Nothing. Omagh confirms that the car belongs to one Jimmy Finn. His story checks out.’

  Boyd nodded. ‘All right, Corporal. I suppose we had better let Mr Finn be on his way. Pack up the VCP and call in the heli.

  ‘OK, boss.’ The Greenjacket strolled off.

  ‘Going back to hide in your wee base, are you?’ Finn sneered. ‘I bet it’s the only place you feel safe in this part of the world, Brit.’

  Boyd smiled, and took Finn’s arm in a grip of iron, pulling him closer.

  ‘Listen, Eugene. You can take it from me, not from Parliament, or Whitehall or Lisburn: when we catch this Fox of yours – and we will – he’s never going to see the inside of a court. He’s going to get the same justice he’s been meting out to us for the past eighteen months. That’s a promise. And if we catch you stepping out of line, Finn, I swear to Christ, you’ll get the same.’

  Finn glared at him for a moment and then said: ‘You’re SAS, aren’t you, schoolboy? You were on the hill that night.’

  Boyd smiled again, but said nothing.

  ‘Heli’s on its way, boss,’ the corporal said.

  ‘Very good, Corporal. We’ll leave Mr Finn here to his DIY. Have a pleasant evening, sir.’ And he touched the brim of his helmet to Finn mockingly. The IRA man stood beside the wreckage of his c
ar and said nothing, but Boyd could feel his eyes on his back all the way across the field where the other soldiers and the policeman were waiting, kneeling in the hedge. It made his skin crawl, as though the cross-hairs of a sight were resting on the back of his neck.

  There was a roar, and the helicopter, a troop-carrying Puma, landed, flattening the grass. Boyd was last in the stick, and as he clambered on board he could see Finn still standing motionless in the road, watching them, the glow of his cigarette like a tiny window into hell.

  Chapter 15

  Haymaker rubbed his eyes tiredly and peered once more through the powerful magnifying lens of the Nikon. Nothing doing. He stared at the tiny luminous hands of his watch. It was 2330 hours on a Wednesday night, and Lavery’s bar was as quiet as a grave. From his position he could see the inside corner of the L-shaped building, covering both the bar itself – though not well, since the windows were frosted glass and the curtains were half drawn – and the private accommodation above and behind it. Gorbals had teased them all, in whispers, with the sight he said he had seen the previous morning. The Lavery woman in the noddy, tits out and ready for inspection. Haymaker thought privately it was a tall tale, designed to make them all look harder. If so, it had worked.

  Wilkie was on the radio, his hand on the signals log. He was yawning. God, Haymaker hated OP duty. Lying in wait somewhere, waiting to do the business like they had in Tyrone – that was one thing. But this tedious logging of everyday occurrences was quite another. And if something did happen – if the shit actually hit the fan – then all they would do was inform Cross. And then they would just sit back and watch, like spectators at a football match. So much for the glamorous side of the SAS. He glued his eye to the camera again.

  There he was: the undercover bloke, Early. Looked like a bit of a hard character. He was making himself tea in the kitchen. And there was the Lavery woman. Bit of all right, she was; nice hair. Oh, here we go, Haymaker thought, and he squeezed off a few shots of Early kissing her. Lucky bastard.

  They went upstairs together, and Haymaker sighed. Wilkie looked at him questioningly and Haymaker made an unmistakable gesture. Wilkie scowled. Being in the SAS was like being a fucking monk sometimes.

  Haymaker tensed. There were two cars coming into the square from his right. They were driving slowly, one an old, beaten-up Cortina, the other a Lada. He snapped them quickly, noting their number-plates in the log. One seemed familiar, and he flipped quickly through the P-file. It had been updated that evening. The Cortina – Finn had been driving it on the Blaney road less than two hours before.

  Haymaker gave the thumbs down to Wilkie, who nodded. The big trooper squinted down his camera lens as though it were the sight on a weapon – which he often wished it was – and clicked off exposure after exposure. Five men in the two vehicles, all of them getting out at once. He recognised Finn right way: he was the tall, leery bastard smoking the cigarette. Others he found harder to place, but he had their mugs on film, no problem. It looked as though the South Armagh boys were back in town. He entered it all down in the log. They were heading towards Lavery’s bar, for a late-night pint or a confab. Or to get Early maybe? Haymaker cursed softly, then showed the log to Wilkie and stabbed a finger at the last entry. Wilkie nodded and began sending the message back to Cordwain in Cross. Haymaker debated waking Gorbals and Raymond, but decided against it. Could be it was all a false alarm, and the other pair badly needed their sleep. No, he’d let them get a little more gonk. The shit hadn’t hit the fan yet.

  Maggie moaned under him as Early pushed into her. He felt her nails claw his back and her thighs grip his waist. Her face was a pale oval in the darkened room, the hair a shadowed tangle around it.

  Then he froze. There were footsteps coming up the stair, several sets of them.

  ‘Dominic, don’t stop. What’s wrong?’ Maggie whispered.

  He rolled off her. ‘Somebody’s coming.’

  ‘Oh, never worry about Brendan. He doesn’t mind now …’

  ‘No, not him.’

  They were on the landing. Early heard the door of his room being opened, and a voice he recognized.

  Finn.

  His Walther was behind the cistern, where he always put it when he slept with Maggie. He cursed himself now for his incompetence.

  ‘Get dressed,’ he told the naked girl, pulling on his trousers. She stared at him, her eyes shining in the dark.

  ‘It’s Eugene. What’s he doing here?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know. Get dressed.’

  She pulled on a dressing-gown hurriedly, just as the door to her room was knocked. Early’s eyes met hers, and in that moment he knew that the game was up. She could see his fear.

  Without taking her eyes off him, she called out: ‘Who is it? I’m in bed.’

  Early continued to stare at her, talking with his eyes.

  ‘It’s Eugene, Maggie. Sorry to bother you. Would Dominic be in there at all?’

  She hesitated, her eyes never leaving his face. Then she laughed, bitterly, and said:

  ‘He’s here, Eugene. Come on in.’

  The door opened, letting in a glare of light. At least three men stood in the doorway.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Maggie,’ Finn said. He was a shadow, silhouetted by the light behind him. ‘We just want a wee word with Dominic here.’

  Early straightened. ‘Mind if I finish dressing?’

  ‘Oh, go ahead, Dominic. We’ve all the time in the world.’

  Then Finn turned to one of the men behind him. ‘Rory, go and get the car started.’

  ‘Going somewhere, are you?’ Early asked, lacing up his shoes with trembling hands.

  ‘Oh aye, Dominic. We’re all going for a wee ride. You go back to bed, Maggie.’

  ‘I’d like to come along,’ she said.

  ‘No, you’ll stay here. It’s just Dominic we want.’

  Early stood up. ‘I’m ready if you are, Eugene. Bit late for a drive though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t you worry – we’re not going far. Come on.’

  Early paused in his way out of the room to look at Maggie. Her head was bowed, and she did not say goodbye.

  ‘All right, all right,’ Early said soothingly as he was shoved along the landing. Brendan stood at the head of the stairs, white-faced.

  “What are you going to do to him, Eugene?’

  ‘Nothing, Brendan. Just you shut up the pub as usual after we’re gone.’

  Early was hustled downstairs, and then out the door. It was cold outside, and under his shirtsleeves his flesh went into goose-pimples. He could still smell the fragrance of Maggie’s hair on his skin.

  ‘In you get, Dominic. Mind your head.’

  He was pushed into a car, and then shoved down on the floor of the back seat. Finn got in after him and rested his feet on his chest. The IRA man produced a pistol and put it against Early’s forehead.

  ‘Now don’t you make a sound, Dominic. I’d hate to mess up the floor of me cousin’s car, so I would.’

  He nodded at the driver, and they moved off. Early shut his eyes, knowing he was a dead man.

  Gorbals woke at once to find Haymaker shaking him.

  ‘What? What is it, you big cunt?’

  ‘The undercover bloke, Early. They’ve taken him.’

  The little Glaswegian was immediately alert. ‘You’ve radioed Cross?’

  ‘Yes. They’re going to try and intercept them. Two cars, five players. I saw one pistol. If you ask me, our man’s fucked.’

  Gorbals inched out of his sleeping bag. Even now, they were aware of the need for silence. Their conversation had been in whispers.

  ‘What road did they take?’

  ‘The Monog. They’re headed for the border, no doubt about it.’

  ‘Fuck. I hope the QRF catches them before they reach it.’

  ‘Shall we start packing up? Early knows there’s an OP in Cross. If they work on him, they’ll find out.’

  Gorbals nodded. ‘Don�
�t pack up the surveillance kit, but get all the rest of the shit put away, ready for immediate evac. And comm Cross for instructions. We’ll stay here as long as we can.’

  In silence, two of the SAS troopers began packing up their gear and the rubbish they had accumulated over the past few days, while one remained monitoring the radio and the other peered out into the empty streets of Crossmaglen.

  After a while the car’s motion changed from smooth, fast travel to a slow bump and lurch. With his head down near the floor, Early could feel the vibrations of undergrowth clawing along the underside of the vehicle. Once, when a wheel hit a pothole, his head flew up to jar painfully with the muzzle of Finn’s pistol, making the IRA man grin.

  They stopped at last and cold air rushed in as the car doors were opened. Early felt vaguely sick from the ride on the floor. He was jerked out by two of his captors and stood, dizzy, trying to collect himself.

  They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. He was standing in tyre-churned mud. The night was still dark though there were stars overhead. Suddenly there was a tiny glow of light, and he could make out the humped shape of a derelict house some yards in front of him. Someone had lit a candle inside.

  ‘Let’s go, Dominic,’ someone said, and he felt the barrel of a pistol in his back. He recognized the voice: it was Jim Mullan.

  ‘I hadn’t figured you out for this sort of caper, Jim,’ he said casually over his shoulder.

  ‘You hadn’t figured out a lot of things. You’re in the shite now, Dominic, if that’s your name at all. I hope you’re good at singing.’

  Early said nothing, but let himself be bundled inside the derelict house. There was a small pool of candlelight there, and several men; and a chair, and rope.

  He felt a moment of stark, incapacitating terror, and froze. Mullan pushed him forward again. He shook himself.

  ‘All right, Jim, all right.’

  He was going to be tortured. His mind began working furiously The OP would have seen him being spirited away, so the QRF would have been sent out by now. Probably Cordwain had put the rest of Ulster Troop on alert too. Had they managed to follow him? These men seemed remarkably at ease considering half the border security forces were hot on their tail.