Starting with the letter ‘A’, by the time that his fellow officers had been able to locate and apprehend him, Patrick had methodically worked his way through to the letter ‘H’ of the ‘NATs’ record cards. A certain Clooney Hanna, resident of Kilkenny town, must have been extremely grateful that the Garda had stopped Patrick, when they had – for he would almost certainly have been next on the cards. Surprisingly, Patrick had been extremely rational and perfectly calm, when his colleagues had arrested him, later that day. During that one day, Patrick had shot fourteen known members of the IRA. Three shots each – triple tap in the gut. He had wanted them all to at least experience some of the excruciating agony that Cassie had gone through, before he had ended her suffering. He had even ensured that he had placed each well aimed shot at some distance from the other – to heighten and protract the sensation of agonising pain, that each must suffer. Patrick had only the eight rounds of ammunition left, when he had been stopped. ‘Only got enough ammo for two and a half more of the bastards, anyways – so, I suppose that the rest will have to wait for another day, now!’ he is reputed to have told those colleagues, who had arrested him. Of the fourteen that Patrick had shot that day; five were found to be dead at the scene, or found to be dead on arrival at the local hospital; three had died on the operating table; a further four had died later, of complications or septicaemia; and the surviving two had to spend the rest of their shortened lives taking their food through a tube in their guts and defecating into plastic bags.
‘A result’ as Patrick would say.
The whole event had presented both the Irish Government and the Garda with a scandal of sufficient magnitude to bring down the Government, along with claiming the heads of several senior Garda officers. It was not the resulting massacre, in itself, which had caused the controversy – after all, a young Garda officer lost control and had gone after those who he had believed responsible for his wife’s horrific death. No, it had been the infiltration of the Nationalist IRA into the Garda that had been the potential devastating scandal. A scandal, which had threatened to bring down the Irish Government – that is, if Patrick were ever to be brought to court and all the evidence made public. With this in mind, in very high places, the decision had been taken to have Patrick sectioned, under the Mental Health Act, and placed in a secure psychiatric hospital – indefinitely. And there Patrick would have languished, sedated and medicated…a drug induced imbecile, for the rest of his life – if it had not been for Ralph’s intervention. It’s not known what strings Ralph had to pull, or what favours he had to call in, but he did. Patrick was a raw malleable resource, a resource that could be moulded and formed into whatever asset was required – an asset that would become infinitely useful to Section 9.
CHAPTER THREE
Patrick and I had become immediate close friends. Which had been quite remarkable, in a way – as in those early days I deliberately set out not to make friends.
In my line of work, one never knew how long a friendship would last, or if a friendship would compromise or lead to a possible conflict of ‘professional’ interests. Even today, I do not make friends easily, or readily. And, at the time, I only had one other close friend – Anne, my wife. During the week, Patrick had stayed with me at the London House and, on the weekends, he would come up and join Anne and myself at the Manor. Anne had taken to Patrick straight away. So had Selwyn, our large German Shepherd Dog. Selwyn would be so pleased to see Patrick, that he would charge straight over to him, coming to an immediate halt and sitting at his feet, before urinating all over his shoes in a fit of uncontrollable excitement. To save ruining every pair of shoes that he owned, through Selwyn’s uncontainable bursts of spontaneous urination; before getting to the Manor, Patrick would put on a pair of old boots especially for being greeting by the over excited dog: ‘Me pair of old Irish piss puppies’, he had called them.
With regards to Section 9, the first few initial weeks had been given over to intensive and extensive training, with continual assessments and reviews. Patrick and I had been methodically and systematically coached and tutored in all manner of skills – the dark arts of espionage and all that good spy stuff. How to intercept, obtain, deliver, transmit, communicate and receive information. How to provide in-depth analysis on the information gathered, and how to develop action and contingency plans. How to provide assessments on the political intentions and military capabilities of selected foreign countries. How to prepare and execute technical surveillance operations. How to infiltrate organisations. How to gain entry into protected buildings and domestic dwellings. How to operate and provide elements of counter terrorism and counter-espionage – the list had gone on and on. How to provide close protection, and, for a selected few of us, how to commit acts of sabotage and assassination…but that did come later on in our training after we had received psychiatric evaluation – especially Patrick.
Our training in ‘gratuitous violence’ had started with some big butch military type, instructing half a dozen of us in the noble art of unarmed combat. That had been his first mistake, far too much instruction by rote and regimented routine – and not enough by encouraging individual improvisation. Right from the start, he and I did not hit it off. However, being a well disciplined professional, I had accepted that his role was that of teacher and mine was that of reluctant student.
Sounds vainly pious of me – but I had done this sort of thing before.
All that I had to do was to keep my head down and my nose clean – but he would not let me even do that. Instead, he had insisted that I had been his fall guy, literally using me as a ‘volunteer’, on whom he had demonstrated his unarmed techniques. It had been a good job that I had known how to break fall and take hard body blows – otherwise one of us might have gotten hurt! Unfortunately, my apparent resilience, and my ability to absorb everything that he had thrown at me, had aggravated him even more. The harder he had tried – the harder I had bounced back, seemingly unhurt and unruffled. He had been getting very annoyed – his face flushed with both exertion and anger.
“Attack me with this,” he had screamed at me, throwing a sheathed combat knife at my feet.
Fair enough. I had bent slightly with my knees, keeping my eyes continually on the seething instructor, and had taken a hold of the knife in my right hand. “How exactly would you like me to attack you?” I had asked.
“JUST TAKE THE SHEATH OF THE BLOODY THING AND ATTACK ME!”
“Are you sure?” I knew what his intentions had been. I would attack him with a naked blade and he would use that as an excuse to put me down, hard – and that had been his second and final mistake.
“JUST FUCKING ATTACK ME!”
“Okidoki – coming ready or not,” I had whispered under my breath, discarding the knife sheath – dropping it on to the floor.
With the combat knife in my right hand, pointing forward, as if to thrust with it, I had stepped forward on the left foot; at the same time bringing my left hand up to seemingly support my right hand. It was then that I had switched the knife between them, moving the weapon to my left hand. Slipping forward on my left foot, I had thrust the heel of my right hand towards the instructor’s chest. He had been waiting, all prepared and ready to put my attacking right arm into a lock that would have probably snapped both my arm and wrist. But that technique would have only worked if the combat knife had still been in my right hand – and it wasn’t. With my right hand formed for a palm heel strike, the geometry of my arm had been completely wrong for him to try and put into a lock – it had just pushed through his flaying arms, hitting him firmly in the upper part of his chest. And, as he belatedly tried to grab hold of my right arm with both hands, my right knee had come up hard and fast into the soft sacks of his scrotum. The blade of the knife, held in my left hand, had been pressed firmly against his throat. Even before his knees had stared to buckle, I had placed my right foot down behind his left leg and, pushing with my right hand, toppled him backwards, down on to the padded mats of the
gym. With the combat knife still placed hard against his throat, I had put my right knee firmly into the middle of his chest, pushing down with all of my weight, making any struggle futile.
“Please – don’t,” the pathetic gasping instructor had desperately pleaded. With the sharp blade of the knife, tight against his vulnerable neck, he didn’t dare to move or struggle. “Please – don’t,” he had repeated.
“Next time – I will kill you,” I had said, not a trace of emotion in my voice, looking straight down into his twitching bulging eyes. It had been a statement of fact – not a threat!
The slow methodical echoing hand clap had not come from any of the other students, but from somewhere behind them. Like the parting of waves, my colleges had all shuffled back to one side, exposing the solitary figure standing in the doorway of the gymnasium. Sir Peter N…had not been exactly standing as such, more leaning up against the right hand wooden surround of the doorway. In silhouette, his slender tall frame looking very much like a matchstick man from out of one of L S Lowry’s paintings. A long, tipped cigarette had hung idly from his thin lips, as his equally thin and talon like hands had been brought together in a slow rhythmic clap.
Removing the cigarette from his lips, he had straightened himself upright. “Martin, can you spare me a minute – or two,” he had commanded, his voice screechy, but crystal clear.
Shit!
Obediently, I had followed him back to his office, expecting at least to be chewed out – if not being kicked out, altogether. However, I was to be proven wrong.
“Now, that was all a bit irresponsible,” he had said, beckoning me to take a seat if front of the large grand mahogany desk, which he had sat down behind.
“Yes, sorry, Sir Peter,” I had started to apologise, as I had sat down in front of him.
“What – Oh, not you, Martin,” Sir Peter had said, suddenly, so detached, he had obviously been thinking of other things. “No – not you at all. But it was very irresponsible of someone to let you loose with that imbecile of an instructor. Ralph was right – you are very good. And we could make use of that.”
“But, Sir Peter – as you know, I’ve specifically requested not to be given an active service role,” I had quickly reminded him; I knew full well what an active service role would have entailed…I could not betray Anne’s innocent trust in me by taking up killing again – that is why I had requested a desk job with Section 9, in the first place.
“Oh no – Martin. We fully appreciate that you don’t want active service – and your reasons behind that decision,” Sir Peter had been quick to reply. “Ralph has fully explained your situation to me. Pity – but we do respect your decision on that point. No – however, there is something else that you might help us with.”
I had felt an immediate sense of relief that I was not being pressurised to go ‘active’. “How might I help?” I had volunteered.
Sir Peter N…had taken out a gold packet of Benson & Hedges cigarettes, offering me one, which I had taken. I had provided him a light with my brass Zippo, he having to lean forward to take it. It had given me a closer opportunity to study the man. His balding plate, with wispy grey hair on either side, the harsh Roman nose, the thin lips and long neck; all served to give him the human characterisation of a bald headed vulture. This characterisation, on reflection, had ideally suited his reputed reputation for smooth ruthlessness.
“It’s Patrick,” he had finally said.
“Oh.”
“Yes, we would like you to use your previous experience, and substantial skills, to teach Patrick how to kill,” Sir Peter had come straight out with it.
“I think that he already knows how to do that, Sir Peter,” I had commented, after all, Patrick’s killing spree had been common knowledge to most of us at Section 9.
“Yes, he may have killed. He may even be a natural born killer,” Sir Peter N…had replied promptly and then, after some thought had added, “But, I want a trained killer…I want someone who can control their emotions – I want someone like you.”
I had gone to interrupt him, but Sir Peter had put his hand up to quieten me.
“I would like someone like you, Martin. But, as I can’t have you, I would like you to train someone to be like you. I would like you to train Patrick – please.”
And what could I say to that?
CHAPTER FOUR
Patrick had been an eager student. Keen to learn, and equally keen to train and practice – his enthusiasm had been endless.
Under the ever watchful eye of Sergeant Major Bill P…, Section 9’s armourer, we had used the armoury and range situated in the basement of the Embankment Office, for small arms training. For larger calibre weapons, the FN SLR rifles and ArmaLite carbines; the Sterling and Uzi sub machine guns; we had used the military ranges and ‘German’ villages on Salisbury plain. We also had refreshers in sabotage and unarmed combat techniques with the SAS. And, for endurance, we had gone out to Woodbury Common and Dartmoor with units of Royal Marine ‘Four Two’ Commando. At the end of three months intensive training and instruction, while Patrick was not another me, he was significantly more than just a natural born killer – he was a fully trained, natural born killer!
I had initially been assigned to the Canadian and Commonwealth Desk, at Section 9, as an analyst. However, because the Far East had been a hot bed of political uncertainty, with the ongoing conflict in Vietnam overlapping into Cambodia and Laos, Patrick and I had jointly shared the Australasian ‘Brief’, closely coordinating the activities of the Secret Intelligence Services of Australia and New Zealand, with that of our own. In truth, I think that the Section had not wanted to put Patrick out on active service too soon; I think that they had needed to ensure that his mental condition had been fully stable before doing that – and that is exactly what Patrick had thought, too. Between us, we had done some pretty good work on the Australasian Brief and, after eighteen months, they had obviously considered that Patrick had been ‘well’ enough to be entrusted with an assignment.
The summer of ‘71 had seen a marked increase in ‘hard’ drugs, mainly heroin, being imported into the United Kingdom, from Amsterdam. The concern had not been so much for the drugs, themselves, although they were considered to be serious enough. The concern had been that the Provisional IRA had been actively involved, progressively muscling in on the European dealers, with a combination of intimidation and murder. Back in those days, drugs had represented big money to the players; but there had not been the same levels of violence involved, that we see today. The Provisional IRA had both the firepower and the will to use it. Drugs had represented a moneymaking cash crop to them, a potential source of funding for their activities, and they had no intention on passing up on that. They had not tried to take over the market completely – just sufficient to generate a lucrative income for their organisation. Often, they would be satisfied with exploiting the contacts, suppliers and transport networks, of the establish Amsterdam dealers – who had been left with little choice in the matter but to cooperate with their new ‘partners’, and pay whatever levy was demanded of them.
Patrick’s assignment had not been to try an infiltrate this ‘Provo’ group, far too risky for that; but to observe, analyse and report back. Posing as an itinerant worker, from Ireland, on an intended ‘walk about’ round Europe, Patrick had blended into the café society of Amsterdam – the ’brown’ bars; where drugs were readily and easily obtained. Cannabis and soft drugs, such as amphetamines, were sold openly over the counter – heroin by recommendation to an address or street corner. Sharing accommodation on a cramped canal houseboat with other Brits, Patrick had found labouring work in a bottling factory, during the day. This had left the evenings and nights free for him to visit the bars and clubs of Amsterdam. Gradually, over a period of weeks and months, Patrick had become an accepted and regular patron of the brown bars throughout Amsterdam, easily recognised by his typical casual scruffy appearance, black unkempt hair and wild black beard, habitually br
oken by a big broad grin. Each evening, he had spent almost all of his entire day’s wages, from the bottling plant, on cannabis; consuming ever increasing amounts of the ‘weed’, very often falling asleep slouched over where ever it was that he had succumbed to the effects of the substance – or at least that’s the appearance that he had wanted to give. In reality, Patrick, despite his drugged ‘spaced-out’ appearance, had been very much ‘compos mentis’ and clear headed – patiently watching, listening, and waiting. And, over a period of a few months, Patrick’s patience had paid off; he had been able to establish the full extent and involvement that the Provisional IRA had in the Amsterdam heroin trade. Surprisingly, while their involvement had been financially extensive, their physical presence in Amsterdam had been very small – no more than an active unit of four Provisional IRA members, at the most. On receipt of Patrick’s report into the extent of the IRA involvement in the Amsterdam drug trade, the order that had been subsequently issued from Section 9 had been concise and succinct.
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 2
