by Andy McNab
It was now nearly 6 a.m. I went back to the room and my chair by the window, coffee in hand. I smiled as I watched a couple come out of the room next door, hand in hand. Some thing about them didn't quite match up. I made a bet with my self that they'd leave in separate cars.
For the hundredth time, my mind drifted to the telephone call I'd had with Kev. Pat had said that if it was PIRA, there could be a connection with drugs, Gibraltar, and the Americans. My hard drive went into free wheel because something about the Gibraltar job had always puzzled me.
The year 1987 had been PIRA's annus horribilis, and as Detachment operators in Northern Ireland, Euan and I had done our fair share to fuck them over. At the beginning of the year they'd promised their faithful "tangible success in the war of national liberation," but it hadn't taken long for that to turn to rat shit. In February, PIRA fielded twenty-seven Sinn Fein candidates in the Irish general election, but they man aged to scrape only about a thousand votes each. Few people in the South gave a damn about reunification with Northern Ireland; they were far more concerned with other issues like unemployment and the crippling level of taxation. It showed how out of touch PIRA was, and how successful the Anglo Irish accord was proving. Ordinary people really did believe that London and Dublin could work together to bring about a long-term solution to the Troubles.
PIRA couldn't take that lying down and must have decided they needed a morale booster. Their knee-jerk reaction was the murder, on Saturday, April 25, of Lord Justice Maurice Gibson, one of the province's most senior judges. Euan and I saw firsthand the celebrations in some of PIRA's illegal drinking dens that weekend. We even had a few drinks ourselves as we hung around. The players loved what had happened.
Not only had they gotten rid of one of their worst enemies, but recriminations were flying left, right, and center between London and Dublin. The Anglo-Irish accord, which had done so much to undermine PIRA's power base, was itself now in question.
However, barely had the hangovers gone away than PIRA had another disaster. Two weeks later, at Loughall in County Armagh, guys from the Regiment ambushed PIRA's East Tyrone Brigade while they were attempting to bomb a police station. From a force of 1,000 hard-core players in 1980, PIRA's strength had dwindled to fewer than 250, of which maybe 50 were members of active service units. Our successes had further cut this to 40, which meant that the operation at Loughall had wiped out one-fifth of PIRA's hard liners at a stroke. It was their biggest loss in a single action since 1921. If this continued, all of PIRA would soon be riding around in the same taxi.
The massive defeat at Loughall was followed soon afterward by a disastrous showing by Gerry Adams in the British general election. Sinn Fein's vote plummeted, with the Catholic vote switching to the moderate SDLP. Then, on October 31, during Sinn Fein's annual conference in Dublin, French Customs seized a small freighter called the Eksund off the coast of Brittany. On board was an early Christmas present to PIRA from Colonel Gaddafi--hundreds ofAK47s, tons of Semtex, several ground-to-air missiles, and so much ammunition it was a miracle that the ship stayed afloat.
The humiliation was complete. No wonder Gerry Adams and PIRA wanted revenge and some sort of publicity coup to show people like Gaddafi and those Irish Americans who contributed to Noraid that they hadn't completely lost their grip.
On November 8, Remembrance Day, they planted a thirty-pound bomb with a timer at the town memorial in Enniskillen in County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland. Eleven civilians were killed in the explosion, and more than sixty were seriously injured. Outrage at the atrocity was instant and worldwide.
In Dublin, thousands lined up to sign a book of condolence. In Moscow, not a place well known for its compassion, the TASS news agency denounced what it called "barbaric murders." But worst of all for PIRA, even the Irish Americans appeared to have had enough. PIRA had fucked up big-time. It had thought the bombing would be hailed as a victory in its struggle against an occupying power, but all it had done was show it up for what it really was. It might be one thing to kill "legitimate" targets like judges, policemen, and members of the security forces, but murdering innocent civilians while they were honoring their dead at a Remembrance Day service?
That was why Gibraltar had been such a puzzle to me. I could see why Adams and company would be desperate to show their diminishing group of sympathizers that they were still in business, but why risk a repeat of the international backlash they'd suffered after Enniskillen? If they bombed Gibraltar, it wouldn't be only British civilians who might end up killed. At that time of the year, hundreds of foreign tourists pack the squares and streets of the colony, many from the cruise liners that regularly dock in the harbor.
And many of those, PIRA would have known full well, were American. I'd never been able to see a method to their madness.
It suddenly hit me that maybe I'd been looking down the wrong end of the telescope. PIRA were terrorists, but their presence here in Washington proved that they were also businessmen. There was no sectarian divide when it came to money, just normal competition and greed. They got together with Protestant para militaries on a regular basis to talk about their drug, prostitution, and extortion rackets, even to discuss demarcation lines for different taxi firms and sites for slot machines back home. They had the infrastructure, the knowledge, and the weapons to be major players in the world of crime. With cooperation from other terrorist organizations throughout the world, the possibilities were endless. If so, this was some serious shit.
Down in the parking lot the couple was having a long, lingering embrace. What was going on there was some serious shit, too. Then one final kiss and, yep, separate cars.
I wasn't expecting a phone call from Pat until noon and there were still about three hours to wait for the tape to finish recording, so there wasn't much to do apart from watch invaders from Mars and talking shoes who lived in wastebaskets.
I felt uneasy. I needed to do something.
I shook Kelly.
"Kelly, Kelly, wake up."
She moaned, pulling the covers back over her. I spoke gently in her ear.
"I'm going downstairs to buy some stuff, OK?"
I got a very weak yes. She couldn't have cared less. I was beginning to realize she wasn't a morning person.
I used the emergency stairs again and crossed under the highway to the 7-Eleven. Inside, it looked like Fort Knox.
There was a grating in the wall with a cubbyhole behind it and an Asian face glowering out and then turning back to watch a portable TV. The store was too hot and stank of cigarettes and over brewed coffee. Every inch of wall space was plastered with signs informing the local villains cash register
HOLDS ONLY $50----EVERYTHING ELSE DEPOSITED.
I didn't really need to buy anything; we had more stuff in the room than we could eat in a year, but I wanted some time to myself, away from Kelly. I found it tiring just being around her. There was always something that needed doing, checking, or washing, and in any time that was left over I seemed to be nagging her to hurry up and get dressed.
At the magazine rack another friendly sign said, no spitting or reading the merchandise. I picked up a Washington Post and a handful of magazines, some for me and some for Kelly--I didn't even bother looking at what they were--and went and put my money through the small hole in the grille. The man looked disappointed I hadn't forced him to use the machete I was sure he had under the till.
I strolled into the lobby to get breakfast. There were seven or eight people sitting around, eating, and watching a TV mounted on a wall bracket above the table with the food and drink. As I started to load up three paper plates on a tray, above me I could hear an anchorman talking about George Mitchell and his part in the Irish peace process. I listened to a couple of sound bites from Sinn Fein and the British government, both pouring scorn on the other side's statements, both claiming that they were the ones who truly wanted peace.
A woman's voice interrupted my thoughts. She was anchoring the local news, and as I poure
d some orange juice for Kelly I could feel my skin tingle all over. She was talking about the Browns.
I didn't dare turn around. One of the barbecue pictures could appear on screen at any moment.
The woman told viewers that police had not come up with any new leads, but the kidnapping of seven-year-old Kelly had moved forward with a computer image of the man seen leaving with her. She gave my height, build, and hair color.
There wasn't room to pour any more coffee or juice, and the tray was overflowing with food. But I didn't dare move. It felt as if every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on me. I put a bagel into the toaster and waited, drinking coffee, not looking up or around. I felt I was in a cocoon of silence, apart from the voice of the newscaster. I prayed for her to turn to a new subject. The bagel popped up. Shit. I put some spread on it. I knew people were looking at me; they had to be.
I'd run out of things to do. I took a deep breath, picked up my tray, and turned around. The noise of the room came back.
No one was looking. They were too busy eating, talking, and reading the papers.
Kelly was still asleep. Good. I put her food on the side and started to munch on my Cheerios. I switched the TV on, muted it, and flicked through the channels, looking for local news. There was nothing more about the situation on Hunting Bear Path.
I attacked the newspaper. We were famous well, sort of.
A small piece on page five. No pictures. A police spokesman was reported as saying that they were reluctant to come up with any theories until they had more concrete evidence, but yes, the murders were being treated as drug-related. Luther and his bunch would be pleased about that. Otherwise, there were no new leads. I wasn't the only one in the dark.
I had to try to cut all the conjecture from my mind because it was getting far too confusing. As the policeman said, without information it was pointless spending time and effort trying to think of different scenarios. I determined to focus all my effort into: one, protecting Kelly and myself; two, keeping the video on target to discover if there was a connection between PIRA and Kev's death; three, getting some money from Pat so I could arrange my return to the UK; and four, getting hold ofEuan for help in dealing with Simmonds, or, if I had nothing for him, to help me negotiate with him.
I looked over at Kelly. She was on her back with her arms out in a star shape, dreaming she was Katherine, the pink ranger. I felt sorry for her. She hadn't a clue what had happened to her family. Some poor bastard was going to have to tell her one day, and after that someone would have to look after her. I just hoped it was someone nice; maybe her grand parents, wherever they might be.
At least she was alive. Those boys must be sweating now.
They'd have to assume that Kelly had given me their descriptions and that she'd overheard what all the shouting was about. They had to be desperate to get their hands on us.
I started to wonder how I could get more information out of her but gave up on that one. I was no psychologist; if any thing, I was a candidate for seeing one.
I picked up a bike magazine and by the end had changed loyalties from Ducati to BMW. Then I read in a fishing magazinc how wonderful Lake Tahoe was for men with waders. I was lost in a whole new world of hook sizes and rod materials when all of a sudden there was a knock on the door.
No time to think. I pulled the Sig, checked chamber, and looked at Kelly. I thought: We both might be dead soon.
I put my hand over her mouth and gave her a shake. She woke up scared. I put my fingers to my mouth. It wasn't in a nice manner it was saying: "Shut the fuck up. Don't say a fucking thing."
I called out, "One minute, one minute!" I went through and turned the shower on, came back out, then went up to the door, sounding disorganized.
"Hello, who is it?"
A pause.
"Housekeeping."
I looked through the peephole and saw a woman, black, mid-fifties; she had a cleaning uniform on and a cart be hind her.
I couldn't see anything else, but then, if she had the police or Luther's boys on either side of her, they weren't going to be showing their faces.
I looked at her and tried to interpret what was going on from her eyes. They would soon tell me if there were ten policemen around the corner bristling with body armor and firepower.
I said, "It's OK, not today, thank you, we're sleeping."
I saw her look down and heard, "Sorry, sir, you didn't have your sign out."
"Oh, OK."
"Would you like some towels?"
"Hang on, I'm just coming out of the shower. I'll get some clothes on."
It would be natural to be wanting towels.
I put the weapon in my left hand, undid the lock, and opened the door just a fraction. The weapon was pointing through the door on the left side; if any fucker pushed her to get in, it would be the last thing he did.
I opened the door a little more, held it with my leg, and put my head in the gap. I smiled, "Ah, hiya," the gun pointing at her behind the door. I didn't put my hand out to get the towels; I didn't want someone grabbing it. I said, "I just need two big towels, that'll be fine and have you got some more shampoo?"
She gave me what I wanted. I said, "Thank you," and she smiled back. I closed the door.
Kelly was lying on the bed openmouthed, watching my every move.
I shrugged.
"Don't you just hate it when people do that?" She started laughing. So did I. "They nearly had us that time!" I said.
Her expression changed, and she slowly shook her head.
"I
know you won't ever let them get me."
It was 10:30: another twenty minutes to go before I went up and changed the tapes. I picked up the one we'd been watching the night before, slapped it back into the player, and rewound it for the next session.
This time I only had to smile at her and she jumped up and went to the door, ready to drop the latch.
"While I'm out I want you to take a shower. Will you do that?"
She shrugged.
"Whatever. I get all the good jobs."
I went upstairs to the roof.
The weather was still shitty.
There was still an hour to go before the noon call. We sat down together to watch the latest footage.
I said, "It's really important; we might see somebody we know. Then we can give the tape to Daddy and he can find out who was shouting at him. Anybody you think you might know, like Melissa's dad or the man at the grocery store, or even the men who came to see Daddy, tell me and we can have a closer look, OK?"
I started to fast-forward, stopping the tape whenever there was traffic. I logged what they looked like: male, female, black, white, Asian; and what they were wearing: black on blue, red on blue.
The game wasn't as much fun for Kelly the second time around.
"What about him?" I enthused.
"No."
"That lady?"
"No."
"You sure you've never seen this man?"
"Never!"
At last she spotted somebody she knew. I rewound the tape.
"Who is he?"
"Mr. Mooner on Fox Kids."
"OK, I'll write that down."
Another guy started to walk up the stairs. I stopped the tape and rewound. I said, "Do you know him?"
She shook her head.
I said, "Well, I know somebody who looks exactly like him. A man I used to work with who could never remember where he left things, and one day we hid his false teeth and he had to eat soup all week!" She had a little laugh; it kept her going a bit longer.
At 11:45 we were still going through the tape and logging.
I stopped at two men who were going in together.
"Do you know either of them? Because I don't. I can't think of anybody who even looks like them." I was racking my brains trying to think of another story to keep her interested.
"No, I've never seen them before."
"Oh, all right then. Just a couple more, then we'll do some th
ing else." I started to fast-forward, saw a figure coming out of the building, rewound, and played it.
She moved to the edge of the bed.
"I know that man," she said.
I pressed Freeze-frame. We were looking at a black guy in his mid-thirties.
"Who is he?"
"He came to see Daddy with the other men."
I tried to sound calm.
"What's his name? Do you know any of their names?" "Can I go home and see Mommy now? You said I could go home tomorrow and now it's tomorrow."
"We have to sort this out first, Kelly. Daddy needs to know their names. He can't remember."
I was trying to do the psychology bit but I knew more about fly-fishing now than I did about child psychology.
She shook her head.
"Daddy knew them though, didn't he?"
"Yeah. They came to see Daddy."
"Can you remember anything else about them? Were they smoking?"
"I don't remember. I don't think so."
"Did any of them have glasses?"
"I think this guy had glasses."
I looked closer at the screen. He wore thin wire frames.
"OK." were they wearing rings or anything?"
"I don't know, I didn't see."
I tried the color of the car, their shoes, their coats. Did they talk to each other using different names? Were they American?
She was starting to get upset, but I had to know.
I said, "Kelly, are you sure this man came to see Daddy the day I found you?"
Her eyes were welling up. I'd gone too far.
"Don't cry." I put my arm around her.
"It's OK. This man came with the other men, yes?"
I felt her nod.
"That's very good, because I can give this information to Daddy when I see him and that will help catch them. You see, you've helped him!"
