The Purple Contract

by Robin Flett

  The street outside was still quiet and undisturbed: this wasn't the sort of neighbourhood where residents would throw open their doors and windows at an unexpected noise. Not that much of the brief fight would have been audible outside anyway. Hollis closed the lockup door behind him, shrugged into his waxed jacket and walked calmly back the way he had come. The car was where had left it and no-one paid any attention to the familiar sound of a vehicle driving off.

  Only a gray cat saw the Range Rover turn at the corner and disappear. She stared, unblinking, for a few seconds before unhurriedly crossing the road and turning down her usual path, keeping to the shadows under the thin elderly privit hedge. She stepped primly out of her way to avoid the pools of orange under each of the large sodium streetlights. It was hard work keeping the kittens fed, they became more active, more independent with each passing day. The rat hadn't lasted long and she had eaten only one mouthful, leaving the rest for her family. However, there were plenty more––food was never going to be a problem. It just needed fetching, but then she had all the time in the world.

  And it was such a nice night for hunting.

  11

  14 – 20 July, 2013

  The white Renault van bumped uncomfortably along the uneven road between the hedgerows, the driver cursing while he avoided the worst of the potholes. The two younger men beside him on the bench seat each held an automatic pistol in his lap, their eyes moving back and forth across the passing countryside. Outside, the drizzle had passed leaving patches of blue sky amid the almost featureless gray. There was no talk, only the occasional muttering of the driver and the snorting of the engine marked their passing. Ahead, the first glimpse of sea appeared between the trees.

  By the time the road had petered out into a dirt track the trees had given way to low scrub which itself thinned out and merged with the short beach of coarse sand and shell. It was more than a little breezy here on the south-east corner of Ireland between Wexford and Waterford. This low-lying arable landscape contained little to slow the westerly wind. Today it was coming overland straight in from the Atlantic on the edge of yet another weather front, powered by the swirling area of low pressure tracking almost due north up the Irish coast.

  'Where in hell are they?' The driver hastily closed his door again to keep out the over-abundance of fresh air. Instead, he sighted through the windows in the rear doors of the van, carefully reversing the vehicle as far towards the sea as he could safely go. No point in making extra work for themselves.

  Twenty minutes later the driver got out to take a leak. When he had finished he stood in the lee of the van, looking out to sea for a time. One of these days he was leaving the tension and danger of Belfast's housing estates and the sectarian pressure everyone still lived under. Politics might change––always would change, but not people. Somewhere like this would suit him fine. Not a soul for miles: just the job.

  'They'll be here, don't you worry yourself, Brian.' The younger man grinned at him as he climbed back into the van. 'You gave them the directions yourself, did you not?'

  'Aye, that's right'.

  'Well then. If they keep us waiting much longer we can always give them sore heads to show our displeasure!'

  Fucking kids. All they could think of; kicking the shit out of some poor bugger just to show what hard men they were. Both of these pratts had their fingerprints and faces on record for petty larceny and violence. Still in their twenties and they were known. Marked men. They weren't going to last a year in the Movement and everybody knew it except themselves. The best either of them could hope for was a prison sentence. More than likely they would catch a bullet. Just cannon fodder really, and it served them right. He pulled a newspaper from the door pocket alongside him, opening it over the steering wheel.

  The other two looked at each other, disconcerted. Shouldn't they be mounting a guard or something? This was an active service unit after all, so why was this clown treating it all so casually? They were both hyped up to snapping point, excited to the edge of hyperventilation. They genuinely expected to be jumped by the security services at any moment, seeing SAS men under every rock and bush.

  The driver knew better. The new campaign hadn’t kicked off yet, a few petty skirmishes that hadn’t done more that raise a few ripples in the pond of Whitehall complacency. There was little to fear from the security services at this point. Later now …

  He had done this sort of thing many times before. Jesus, he had been doing this sort of stuff while these two were still pissing in their diapers! Was it any wonder the Movement had partly fallen apart, losing respect? Mind you, when bygone leaders turned their backs and preferred Stormont to the Struggle, what chance did you have really?

  Brian grunted to himself and tried to concentrate on his reading. Beside him the other two got back to their perennial discussion about exaggerated sexual exploits in the nightclubs of Belfast.

  The gaping white and blue-painted doors towered above him. The Range Rover banged and rattled across the ridged steel loading ramp out of the brightly lit interior of the car ferry. In front of Hollis was a rusty Vauxhall estate, which seemed to be filled with children and dogs. He followed it cautiously back on to dry land. It took only a few minutes to pass through the ferry terminal on to the streets of Larne in Northern Ireland. The crossing from Stranraer had been uneventful, if a little chilly. Hollis liked to be out on deck. He enjoyed sailing of any sort and was quite happy to watch the empty seascape and feel the wind in his face. But the chill had finally forced him below to drink terrible coffee and watch the passing waves through the scratched double glazing of the lounge.

  Leaving Larne on the A36, he turned the car south onto the A8, shortly to pass around the outskirts of the city of Belfast. Emerging again into the beautiful green Irish countryside, he settled down for the run south on the A1 through Lisburne and Newry. Eventually entering the Irish Republic, where the road became the N1.

  Staying on this route, Hollis ran down the coast to Dublin, where he had arranged a hotel room for the night. By the time he parked the car and presented himself at the reception desk, dusk was gathering. Through the windows he saw the first bright stars appearing among the scattered clouds. First thing tomorrow he would continue south into the hills and valleys of Kilkenny. But meantime he wanted a juicy steak with all the trimmings …

  The short, old fashioned hull was reacting badly to the Atlantic swell. As a result the motion was quite unpredictable and uncomfortable. Klaus Ditmar gripped the wheel with both hands, leaning into the roll and using the rudder to keep the sea slapping on the port bow. Old she might be, but the designer had known a thing nor two about how to deal with confused water like this. The red hull shouldered the waves aside easily, producing in the process an odd, uneven roll. Klaus, who was more accustomed to modern angular glassfibre designs, was reluctantly impressed.

  The three of them had arrived in Britain two days previously, via the channel tunnel rail link, and had driven straight across the south of England and into Wales. The elderly Bedford van they had stolen in Germany specially for the trip started giving trouble within the hour. Probably because it was heavily loaded with anonymous packing cases and boxes, all of them bearing innocuous labels attributing them to a well-known manufacturer of roof tiles. The customs documents were forged of course, and had cost more than a few Euros. But they were stamped and passed without comment and the van waved through impatiently. One of the many convenient benefits of open European commercial markets.

  By the time the cantankerous Bedford had coughed and spluttered its way into south west Wales, they had decided to dump it and find something better for the remainder of their business in the UK. Stealing cars was Uwe's particular speciality, there would be no trouble. But the old van took them far enough.

  In the village of Newgale, on the wide expanse of St Bride's Bay, they had no difficulty in renting a small boat for a few days. The owner even offered them a safe place to park the van while they were out 'fishing'.
That was very satisfactory: there was no choice but to leave a piece of kit in it which they would need later.

  Ditmar was pleased to see the Saltee Islands pass uneventfully to port. The passage had been slower than expected, partly due to the sea state. Shortly afterwards Forlorn Point loomed to starboard and the cross seas eased considerably in the lee of the land. Much better.

  It wasn't long before Uwe's greenish face appeared from the tiny cabin below. Klaus grinned at him and got a scowl in return.

  'Fuck you!' Uwe pushed past him and went out onto the deck, leaning back against the bulkhead and taking deep breaths.

  Klaus struggled against laughter. Uwe could be seasick in a duck-pond. He pushed the throttle forward, hoping to make up some time. They were at least an hour late for the rendezvous. The engine note increased and the boat ploughed deeper into the water, throwing more spray on board and bringing a muttered curse from Uwe out on the deck. Klaus looked at the sky and tried to judge how much daylight was left. It was going to be a close thing.

  The three Irishmen were getting concerned. The very last thing they needed was to have to use lights out here in the middle of nowhere. Might as well sell tickets and call it a party. If these bloody Germans didn't appear soon it was going to be a bust, and quite a few folk in Londonderry and Belfast would get very pissed off: a large amount of money had already disappeared into Luxembourg. Not to mention the reaction of these two damned kids, who were about ready to swing from the bloody trees––

  'What's that?'

  'Eh?' Brian came out of his reverie and followed the pointing arm, squinting in the growing dusk.

  'There.' A smudge, indistinct in the twilight, had appeared round the headland. As they watched the bow wave fell away, the boat slowing suddenly. Two figures stood one either side of the foredeck, watching for obstacles in this unfamiliar place. A raised arm indicated they had spotted the van. A white van, precisely what they had been told to expect.

  'Get the torches,’ ordered Brian. The three Irishmen ran onto the beach, right down to the water's edge. The growling mutter of the boat's engine cut off suddenly, leaving an almost deafening silence. They could clearly hear the waves slapping against the boat's hull as it glided towards the beach.

  'Sand! It's just sand, bring her right in!' Brian called carefully, deliberately keeping his voice down. Sound could carry a surprisingly long way, especially over water.

  A voice answered but the words were unclear. They had got the message though, because the boat was slewing, using up the last of its impetus and coming in at an angle. Then the Irishmen had to mind their feet as the hull scrunched into the sand almost broadside, sending a surge of cold seawater flooding up the beach. Brian grinned to himself when he heard one of the youngsters f 'ing and blinding. Too slow, my son, too slow!

  Typically, Uwe Wrasse was first ashore. Leaping off the bow clear of the waterline. Helga watched in silence with a hand on the automatic pistol inside her jacket. She had no reason to expect trouble here, but still––

  'Klaus!' Brian waved in greeting. 'Good to see ye, man. We were gettin' worried a while there.'

  Klaus Ditmar followed Uwe onto the coarse sand. The two men shook hands. 'The weather was not what we expected, very rough all the way across. It slowed us down a great deal.'

  'Aye, these forecasters get their money pretty easily, sure enough. We'd better get to work, Klaus. The light's bad enough as it is.'

  'Yes, I think you are right.' Klaus looked about him. They had picked a good place, give them that. As he had been promised, it had been no bother at all to find this secluded bay. Just another example of how it paid to deal with professionals. He would be sure to remember this place for future use. A convenient back door, as it were.

  It was fully dark before they were finished, but the sky remained clear and the moonlight, supplemented with torches, was sufficient to get the job done. Albeit with some cursing and the occasional scuffle as a box was dropped into the sand. Finally they gathered in a group beside the now heavily loaded white Renault. Six indistinct figures in the gloom.

  'Bloody good job, Klaus,' said Brian. 'Thanks a lot, the boys will put this lot to good use.'

  'Always good to do business with you, my friend.'

  'Are you heading home now?'

  'No, we could do with some relaxation. It's been a busy time for us. Much running around this last few months,' he grinned in the darkness. 'We have passports with us, not our own names of course, so we will officially enter Ireland tomorrow like good citizens and have a few days holiday in your beautiful country.'

  'That's great. We'll be in touch again in due course, take care now.'

  The three Germans watched the van bumping it's way back along between the potholes. 'Assholes!' observed Helga Wrasse, referring mainly to the two youngsters, who had been determinedly chatting her up for the last hour. One of them had even developed an obvious hard-on for God's sake. She shook her head.

  'All right, let's get moving.' Klaus herded them back towards the water's edge. 'The tide has turned, we need to be out of here.'

  'Where to?' Uwe was having visions of spending the night being thrown around the cabin again.

  'We'll anchor here in the bay, where it's sheltered. That way you can have a good night's sleep. eh?' Klaus laughed.

  'Thank Christ for that!' replied Uwe with feeling.

  'The city of Wexford is not far from here. Tomorrow we can motor round there and go ashore.' Klaus boosted Helga up over the gunwale. 'If the Customs people want to have a look around then that's fine––there is nothing for them to see now!'

  The sleepy town of New Ross is an inland port perched on the banks of the River Barrow. Hollis considered it an unattractive place with its steep, narrow streets and old fashioned buildings. In fact it is one of the oldest towns anywhere in County Wexford.

  Hollis passed through without stopping and left, as he had entered, on the N25. Just across the border into County Kilkenny he turned off the main road in a north-westerly direction on an unremarkable road, without even a signpost, and drove towards the looming hills, catching occasional glimpses of the river Nore twisting its way to merge with the Barrow near New Ross.

  The very image of peaceful rural existence. Hollis had been here several times before to visit the man he habitually referred to simply as the Armourer. The man lived alone in a small steading in the foothills below the hulking mass of Mount Brandon. His house practically surrounded by a small group of outbuildings containing his workshops and a small forge built by a previous owner of the property.

  Hollis stopped in the village beside a public telephone box. From memory he dialled a number and spoke briefly. Despite the fact that he was expected it was still wise to announce his imminent arrival.

  Hopefully this time he would have the bloody dogs locked up.

  The only access was an unassuming leafy lane stretching for close to a kilometre, itself an offshoot of an unmade, bumpy track. Eventually it opened out into a cobbled courtyard that dated from the 18th century, when the lane had been the only road and a wayside inn had stood here. It was, Hollis had to admit, precisely the sort of place he would have chosen himself.

  The Range Rover's diesel engine had barely rumbled into silence when a burly, almost bald man emerged from what appeared to be a barn and waved cheerfully. Hollis climbed down and the two energetically shook hands. Judging by the noise, the three Dobermans were in another of the outbuildings. Hollis liked dogs well enough, but those three animals hated everyone but their master.

  'Good to see you again!' The bald man boomed. He had a deeply resonant voice, enhanced by the faint echo from the stone walls around them. Names were never mentioned here, there was no need. The Armourer's clients were all personal friends and he wasn't interested in working for strangers nowadays anyway. Those days were long past.

  'It's been a while,' agreed Hollis, gripping the other man's arm with both hands. His friend looked little different, although it had been thr
ee years since last they met. Inevitably, that had been under similar circumstances. Just the eyes seemed a little more tired, more lined in the corners. Getting old, thought Hollis, we’re all getting old.

  The Armourer was Irish by birth. Although he had spent so many years in other parts of the world that his voice held only the most subtle traces of his homeland. Despite the years of association, Hollis knew little of the man's background. Questions would have been impolite, and the answers would contain only as much truth as he chose to tell. As far as Hollis knew, he had never served in the armed forces of any country––at least not officially. There had been an episode in Angola, where he had been involved in the Mad Mike Hoare debacle. And some sort of long-term entanglement in the Far East. But precisely where his training and unparalleled skill with weapons had come from, Hollis had no idea––and cared little anyway.

  The dogs had finally realized their territory wasn't really being invaded and had shut up. The two men walked across the smooth cobblestones and went inside the house. It was beautifully kitted out in the old fashioned country style. Pine and Ash everywhere. The massive beams crossing the lounge ceiling were hollow, and just for decoration. But they looked solid, and very real. The kitchen was the same. No chipboard and tacky plastic here either. Solid oak doors and trim and with all the appliances and general kitchen equipment built in to the units and work surfaces. It was an impressive job. And all the more so because Hollis was aware it had been done by the Armourer's own hands. Making things was his lasting passion in life. In wood, metal or anything else, it didn't matter. As long as he could use his hands, and create something from nothing, he was happy.

  And that of course was why Hollis was here in the Irish countryside.

  With fresh coffee brewing they settled on leather-covered stools on opposite sides of the breakfast bar and set the world to rights while the percolator burbled and popped behind them. With two mugs of coffee steaming in front of them, Hollis pulled his home-made diagram from his inside pocket and spread it out between them.