‘Yes, So you see, Finn is to be left alone, at least for a few months, until this furore dies down.’
‘Politics,’ Early said, disgusted beyond measure. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’
‘It may also be why I’m still here,’ Cordwain said blackly. ‘I’m being held in case they need to sacrifice me to grease the political wheels.’
Early stared into his empty glass.
‘I’m going back in, James.’
‘What?’
‘I’m going back down there. I don’t care if I serve twenty years, but I’m going to find Finn and the Fox and I’m going to kill them both.’
‘You’re in no condition to do anything.’
‘Give me a few days, and I’ll be out of here. Nobody knows what the hell to do with me. I’ll slip through the official net, no problem.’
‘John, don’t be a fool.’
‘Finn is hanging around the Cross somewhere. I’ll need a Q car, and a weapon, of course. My Walther is behind the toilet in Lavery’s bar.’
‘You really think you can find him?’
‘You forget that I lived in that community for a while. I’ve heard names mentioned. Finn will be in a safe house, the house of a sympathizer, and I know most of the candidates for his landlord. It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out which of those locations he’s staying at.’
‘You’re a dead man if you go anywhere near Cross, John. They know who you are, for God’s sake.’
Early smiled his hideous smile.
‘But not who you are.’
Chapter 19
The car, an ageing Ford Escort, was parked in Slieve Gullion forest, nine kilometres east of Crossmaglen and a mere two north of the border. The two men inside it were dressed in sturdy hiking boots, cotton trousers and civilian waterproof jackets over thick shirts. One was studying a map, the other was looking intently at a piece of paper.
The evening was drawing in, and the woods around them were silent. They had driven off the Glendesha Road and bumped the car up through meandering forestry tracks for what seemed like miles, before finally parking the vehicle in the shadow of the pines and spruces of the plantation. The tracks had been wiped away, and all over the bonnet and roof of the car were laid old grey blankets, overlaid with a tangle of branches and foliage. The blankets cut out shine and disguised shape, the branches adding to the effect. The men in the car did not want a passing army helicopter to notice anything odd in the wood; they were only three kilometres from Forkhill Security Forces base, on the other side of Croslieve Mountain.
‘There’s quite a few names on this list,’ Cordwain said doubtfully. ‘You believe we can check them all out?’
Early shrugged. ‘If we have to. But I’m hoping that I may be able to pick up info of one sort or another along the way – tonight especially.’
‘And I see that Lavery’s bar is down here. John, you can’t seriously believe that Finn would go back there?’
‘Why not? The place has been raided since Moybane, and found to be clean. He might think it’s the last place we’d look – under our very noses. And besides, the twats in the search team weren’t told to look for my Walther. It might still be where I left it – I want it back.’
‘Christ,’ Cordwain said. ‘I must be out of my fucking mind.’
‘Or out of options. We’re both finished with the Regiment, James. You want to go out with a bang as much as I do.’
‘But not with a court martial.’
‘You’ve done nothing wrong. Nobody said you could no longer sign out weapons or a Q car. They’re all too busy ignoring you to worry about what you might be up to.’ Early laughed sourly.
Cordwain tucked away Early’s list.
‘First one tonight, then – Brian McMullan, Oliver Plunkett Park; less than two miles away. What’s the route in?’
The pair of them pored over the map, agreeing on a route to the objective. They had driven past it earlier in the day; the last house in a row of semis in a small, isolated estate. There was a stream running along the front of the houses within a deep, overgrown ditch – that was their approach route.
Cordwain had signed out two Browning pistols and a pair of Heckler & Koch MP5Ks: sub-machine-guns small enough to be hung unobtrusively below one armpit. The Brownings they simply carried in the pockets of their waterproofs. They each had also a small day-sack with odds and ends of food, waterbottles, red-light torches and a small radio that could pick up army and police frequencies; they had no wish to run into a foot patrol.
Once it was fully dark they set off on foot across the fields and streams, and along the back roads, of South Armagh. Their presence was unsuspected by both the locals and the Green Army; Cordwain had logged in a false route and false timings with Operations. According to them he was up in Belfast, preparing his Freds for his imminent departure. It was another reason they could not afford to be stopped by a VCP.
Swiftly and silently, the two SAS men made their way to their objective, the last two hundred metres of the route being in the stream that fronted the house and its neighbours. They were soaked and scratched, and surprised skipping water-rats in the dark, but no observer could have marked their passing.
Early stopped. The gurgle of the knee-deep stream covered what noise they were making and the brambles concealed them as effectively as a curtain. A good position with regard to concealment, but crap for defence.
‘We’re here,’ he whispered to Cordwain.
They leaned into the vegetation-choked bank and slipped out their surveillance gear. A pair of Night Vision Goggles, a small but powerful pair of infrared binos, and the Nikon.
Early stared through the NVGs intently. Nothing doing. Everyone was in bed, as they should be. No dogs, either, which was a bonus.
‘All clear,’ he whispered to Cordwain, and after the other officer had given him the thumbs up, he slithered off.
Brian McMullan, Sinn Fein activist, interned 1972, in 1974 jailed for seven years for possession of arms. Now a middle-aged family man with three daughters. He had worked at the same site as Early, or Dominic McAteer as he had been, and he had been drinking buddies with Eugene Finn and Dermot McLaughlin, the quartermaster. He topped Early’s list of candidates for owners of safe houses. McMullan had kept his nose clean for eight years and was considered a dead letter by the Security Forces.
He was not especially bright, and had been merely an IRA foot-soldier, but he was revered as such by many of the young men of the area. They did not know perhaps how polite he was to the Security Forces when they stopped his car or patrolled through his back garden. His house had not been searched since the late seventies; it was a fairly safe bet for Finn.
Early crossed the road in a rush, the Heckler & Koch slapping the side of his ribs as he made it into the impenetrable shadow of a ditch on the far side. He twisted the dial on the NVGs until they were pouring out an invisible beam of infrared light and the night was clear as noon. Then he moved round to the back of the McMullan house.
No alarms, nothing. They were trusting people, these country folk, when they weren’t murdering soldiers.
He plucked a handful of grass from the hedge at the back and wiped his boots with it meticulously. Then he pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and moved up to the house.
He flicked out his lock-pick and began fiddling at the back door, looking round constantly. Thank God there was no moon.
There was a click. He inched back the last of the tumblers in the lock, felt them snick into place, and smiled. An SAS corporal had taught him how to do that years ago.
A small creak as he opened the door. He was in the kitchen. He paused, noting windows, doors, locks, and then unholstered the Heckler & Koch. It was already cocked. He held the stubby weapon in one hand and began checking the downstairs rooms one by one.
Empty. He began moving up the stairs step by step, the little SMG held out in front of him, the goggles covering the whole top of his face, making him look like a bug-eyed creature fro
m another planet.
He would have preferred to move through the house without the NVGs and the weapon; then if he was discovered he might be mistaken for a common burglar. But if he did run into Finn, he wanted to be sure of his man.
He paused at the top of the stairs, turning things over in his head. He could hear quiet snoring from one bedroom. Four doors, two for the kids, one for the parents, one bathroom. He looked at the ceiling. No roof space, it seemed; no entry that he could see, anyway.
He checked, room by room.
Two little girls lying curled up in the same bed, teddies on their pillows. One girl alone, an adolescent with one forearm thrown above her head. And good old Brian and the missus. It was she who was snoring.
Early paused, checking the floor for snags, then he padded into the room. He would leave a trail of drips behind him from the stream but he hoped they would be dry by morning.
He thought for a second, staring down at the sleeping couple. Cordwain was right. The checking-off of his list was too vague. He needed concrete intelligence as to Finn’s whereabouts. Perhaps the plan needed to be altered a little.
He bent down beside the bed and placed one gloved hand over McMullan’s mouth at the same time as he gently touched the man’s temple with the cold muzzle of the SMG.
The eyes opened, then widened. Early felt the man’s mouth move under his hand and clamped down tighter. He pushed the weapon’s muzzle into the corner of Mullan’s eye and then spoke in a whisper, putting on the harsh, guttural accent of the Belfast ghetto.
‘Not a word, Brian. Not a fucking sound. All right?’
McMullan nodded, terrified, and Early withdrew his hand but kept the gun pointed at his head.
‘Don’t you be worrying. The boys just want a wee word. Downstairs. Now.’
He backed away and McMullan clambered out of bed. His wife hitched up an octave higher in her snoring, turned over and then was still again. Poor bastard, Early found himself thinking, sleeping next to her every night.
He made McMullan precede him down the stairs, with the MP5K touching his back all the way. They both entered the kitchen at the bottom and Early stopped him from switching on the light, then gestured to a chair. The man huddled there in his pyjamas, shivering, obviously terrified.
‘Don’t worry, Brian,’ Early said soothingly. ‘You haven’t done a thing. You don’t know me, but I’m not from this part of the world. I’m with the boys up in the city.’ He lowered the gun and stretched out a hand. ‘We know you’ve done your bit for the cause in your time, so we do.’
McMullan shook the gloved hand gingerly. ‘What do you want then?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘I’m here to warn you, so I am. We’ve word that the Brits are for searching this house tomorrow night, or maybe the night after. They’re looking for Eugene, so they are; the bastards are turning over every stone in Armagh looking for him.’
‘But he’s not here,’ McMullan protested.
‘Ach, we know that, but we like to be sure of these things, you know, and we thought you’d like a wee warning, so you could get the kids out of the way and the china packed and suchlike.’
‘Well … aye. Thanks, that’s good of you. But what’s a Belfast Volunteer doing down here?’
‘Trying to get Eugene Finn the hell out of here and up to the city again in one piece. You know he was up there before, after Drumboy; well now – I can talk to you about these things, Brian, seeing as you’re an ex-Volunteer yourself – now the Army Council have decided it’s far too fucking risky for him to stay in Armagh. They have a place ready for him up in the city again. I have to get the bugger out of here in one piece.’
Early paused, waiting. He did not want to have to come out and ask McMullan where Finn was, but he would if he had to.
‘What’s that you’re wearing on your head?’
‘Night Vision Goggles. Good, aren’t they? Like something out of Star Wars, so they are. We got them from America. Now Brian, about Eugene.’
‘He’s fucking mad,’ Brian said, shaking his head. ‘He’s a fucking lunatic. You’re going to have a hell of a time getting him out of there. Right under their bloody noses. I tell ye, I think he’s been too smart for his own good this time.’
‘Have you seen him since that Moybane thing, then?’
‘Seen him? I was out drinking with him last night.’
Early was startled into silence.
‘All he can think about is revenge. It’s a good job you boys are here to get him out to the city. He needs to get out of Armagh, like you said. And poor old Brendan Lavery – he’s at his wits’ end. He’s not what you’d call a hard-core activist, you know. It’s his sister. Now there’s a marvellous woman.’
Early held up a hand. ‘Brian, I must be on me way, or the boys’ll be getting nervous. I hope those bastards don’t make too big a mess of the house, and I’m sorry if I scared you there.
McMullan waved a hand. ‘That’s all right, so it is. Just you keep up the struggle, and say hello to Eugene for me.’
‘Oh, I will,’ said Early, and he slipped out the back door, into the moonless night.
‘The cheeky bastard,’ Cordwain said, shaking his head. He took a slug from the hip-flask and passed it to Early.
‘Yes. Obviously, he’s intent on staying – and on stirring up more mischief. So there he is, sitting maybe three hundred metres from Cross Security Forces base, drinking with the locals.’
‘Balls of brass,’ Cordwain said, then looked apologetically at Early.
They were back in the car, muddy and wet from their two trips across the fields. On the way back they had had to shelter in a ditch for a quarter of an hour while an army Gazelle with a searchlight ranged back and forth across the countryside like a wolf on the prowl. The forest had been as dark as pitch when they returned, and even Early had had some difficulty in locating the vehicle once again.
‘We can’t just go tearing into Lavery’s bar with guns blazing,’ Cordwain said. ‘And what about McMullan? You told him his house would be raided within the next day or two. When that doesn’t happen, he’s going to start getting suspicious. I know he’s not the smartest bloke in the world, but even he will have enough sense to warn Finn there’s something in the air.’
‘Never worry about it,’ Early said imperturbably. ‘McMullan’s house will be raided all right – you’ll see. Now it’s time to get a bit of kip. The first stag is yours, James. Wake me up in a couple of hours.’
He reclined the passenger seat of the car, fished out a lightweight sleeping bag, and was soon asleep with his mouth open, his newly capped teeth gleaming slightly in the dark.
Cordwain cursed silently, then got out of the car and stood listening to the night noises. He looked at his watch. It was two-thirty. Another two hours until dawn.
He was uneasy. Though he had been known as a bit of a cowboy in his time, he had never gone so far off the rails before. Admittedly, the Moybane incursion had been a large black mark, but he knew that to all the lower and middle-ranking members of the SAS it had been a success. It was the upper echelons who were about to ruin him for it. He felt very bitter.
Early obviously did not care one jot for the consequences of his actions. He was as set on revenge as that bastard Eugene Finn was. The two were more similar than either of them might like to think; a couple of loose cannons.
So what was he doing here? He found it hard to answer his own question. Seeking some kind of justice perhaps, no matter how rough it might be. Or perhaps he was just getting even, like Early. Too many people had died to let the thing unravel now, just because some pen-pushers in Whitehall or Dublin said so. No, he was here to finish the job properly, to tie up the loose ends. And deep down he believed that if he and Early came up with the goods – if they could somehow take out both Finn and the Fox – then despite officialdom, they might somehow escape the heavy hand of disciplinary action. The waters in Northern Ireland were murky at the best of times, but at the moment they were damned-
near opaque. It would be easy for the Regiment, or indeed the CLF to shield himself and Early one way or another.
But there was the rub: they had to come up with the goods. Finn they could manage, perhaps, but Cordwain still could see no clear way of nailing the Fox. He thought that Early might be concocting a way though, and he was not sure if he liked it.
They moved out just before sunrise, easing the car out of the forest and on to the deserted roads. They stopped at an isolated phone box at Early’s insistence, and he made a long call without putting any money into the slot. When he got back into the car he was grinning broadly.
‘Who was that, your mum?’ Cordwain asked him as they moved off again.
‘Better than that, my old son,’ said Early. ‘That was the Confidential Telephone. I’ve just been telling it that Finn is staying in the McMullan house – anonymously, of course. If the Greenjackets don’t raid it in the next day or two then I’m an Irishman.’ He laughed.
‘So you’ve gained us time,’ Cordwain said, refusing to share his high spirits. ‘What now? Do we go after Finn?’
‘Not just yet. I want to have a look at the place and do some thinking.’
‘What are you going to do – walk in there and have a pint?’
‘No, James, I’m not. You are.’
Lavery’s bar was quiet as Cordwain walked in. A couple of old men were sitting in the corners reading the Irish Times and sipping pints of porter. Brendan Lavery was behind the bar, bottling up. He looked thinner, Cordwain thought, and tired. All the excitement must be getting to him.
‘What can I do you for?’ the care-worn landlord asked Cordwain, straightening with a grimace.
‘Pint of Guinness, thanks. That’s a fair day, so it is.’
Lavery looked out the sunlit windows as the black beer came trickling into a pint glass. ‘Aye, it’s not bad.’ He was regarding Cordwain closely, and the SAS officer wondered if he could remember him from his last, brief visit to the pub. He hoped not, though it shouldn’t make much difference if he did.
Soldier U: Bandit Country Page 15
