Blazer: Return of the Troubles: A Cop Thriller

by G. C. Harmon

  I awoke with a start. My brain had exhausted itself thinking about the situation, and I realized I had finally drifted off to sleep. Now I looked around at the small quarters, and the cracks of light showing around the edges of the blackout curtains. I didn’t dare open them. I looked at my watch. Eight a.m. I threw off my blanket and rolled out of bed, dropping immediately to my knees. I began to pray desperately, ignoring for the moment nature’s call for breakfast and a bathroom. I buried my head in supplication to God and begged the Lord to tell me what to do.

  After a while, nature’s call did get the better of me and I snuck off to a bathroom, but I returned immediately to my prayers, still seeking penance and an answer to my dilemma. I stayed there much of the day, praying and crying, waiting for an answer. Something deep inside kept telling me that God favored those who took action, but the fear inside me kept me there, on my knees, hidden away…

  I suddenly looked up, glanced around the room. I felt like I had again fallen sleep. I frantically looked at my watch. It was twelve-thirty. The cell would have met hours ago and would have gone over the plan. They would have questioned where their new star killer was. They might even have sent someone like Cullen to look for me. Cullen didn’t really know of my recent time spent here at the church, let alone the back room where I’d been given sanctuary. At this point, Seamus and Riley would be extremely angry. Were they angry enough to decide to carry out the attack one gun short?

  One thought kept running through my mind, something Father Flanagan had told me days ago. God sometimes uses man as his instrument here.

  Did I have the courage to face the IRA cell and talk with them, convince them this was not the way? Could I at the very least convince Cullen not to destroy his own soul with this path? Could I possibly stop the attack?

  Even as I started to question this new courage, I bolted from the room.

  The day was overcast, but the light still blinded me for a moment. The winter chill bit through my coat. It had rained earlier, leaving the streets damp. I headed for the river and started running.

  I made a decision mid-flight. It might not serve my purpose to run along the river, making the British at the checkpoints suspicious, nor attracting the attention of hidden attackers until I was ready. In the moment, it seemed strange to use those words, if I would be ready to face the cell. I found my way to Hill Street which ran alongside the river and headed for where O’Sullivan had said the attack would take place, Needham Bridge.

  I slowed as I approached the turn that would take me to the bridge, and I moved up against the building at the corner. I peered casually and discreetly around the corner.

  It seemed to be business as usual at the bridge. The Brits had set up their checkpoint for anyone crossing the bridge from one county to the other so that it spanned the entire intersection. I didn’t see anything suspicious. The soldiers went about their duty, checking cars and people through. I saw no one loitering nearby as if waiting for their cue to strike. I certainly didn’t recognize anyone milling about on the street. I slowly edged out into the open and walked the half block toward the intersection. It was nearly one o’clock.

  Gunfire suddenly rang out. But it was not here at the Neadham Bridge. The shots were distant. I froze on the sidewalk. Before me, the British soldiers became animated. Several ran out into the street, gesturing farther upriver. The gunshots continued, single shots, joined by automatic fire, the Brits returning volley after volley at their attackers. The soldiers at Neadham Bridge got themselves organized, and several climbed into the back of a five ton truck. They started up the block, the large diesel engine roaring as they raced to the scene.

  In a flash, I realized what must have happened. When I didn’t show, the cell was one gun short. But the fact that I had disappeared would surely have made O’Sullivan suspicious. He likely believed that I had betrayed them and reported them to the Brits or the RUCs. Rather than take a chance on the soldiers being ready and turning the ambush back on the attackers, he had simply changed the location of the attack. They had apparently attacked a checkpoint that would make a bigger statement to the seat of the city’s and county’s power: City Hall.

  All around me, the sparse foot traffic on the roads became more animated. People began running, some going toward the gunfire to investigate, and some running away, not wanting to get caught in any kind of crossfire. I joined the crowds trying to approach the battle. I made my way into the open near the checkpoint, casually watching the remaining British soldiers, lest they recognize me from any previous encounter. They seemed more interested in the distant battle. I joined the throng of people hurrying that way. Once beyond the check point, I started to run.

  The gunfire got louder and louder. I could see the truck ahead, chugging away as it bore down on the attack at City Hall. I knew I’d never catch up to it, and I knew I shouldn’t try. I knew that, by now, I was too late to stop the attack, and too late to save Cullen.

  As I got closer, I could make out some of the details of what was happening. The Brits at the crossing were shooting southward. I then saw the front end of a vehicle, an old Mercedes. I could just make out two men in the front seat of the car, and the passenger was crouched behind his open door, shooting at the soldiers on the Armagh Down Bridge that connected the two counties. I heard another rifle, and I hugged the building to my right to try and see. I spotted another shooter crouched at the concrete railing beside the river.

  Two rifles wielded by soldiers in the back of the truck suddenly opened up, spraying the area. I found cover in the recessed doorway of a vacant building. I saw the shooter by the river go down. I also spotted two other bodies in the street near that shooter, killed before my arrival.

  The car’s engine roared and the driver moved the shifter. The shooter next to him scrambled back inside. The tires screeched on pavement as the Mercedes lurched backward, attempting escape.

  There was a Pop! and a Whoosh!, and my whole body tightened with fear, knowing what was coming. The Brits at the checkpoint had fired a rocket launcher. I watched in horror as the rocket streaked across the bridge, homing in on the Mercedes. It punched through the windshield, and the blast gutted the car and the people inside. Flame and smoke launched the roof of the car into the air. It came straight back down, crashing and settling onto a bed of flames that consumed the car.

  I was in shock now, too frightened to cry and mourn my friends’ sudden deaths. In that one moment, I knew there was nothing left for me here. I would be a target for bailing on the attack and leaving the rest of the cell vulnerable. They would believe I betrayed the cell. I could no longer stay in Ireland.

  While the British soldiers were distracted by the burning car and checking the dead attackers, I turned and walked away.

  I walked slowly, at first to not call attention to himself. But as I made my way into the city and away from the river, my slow walk seemed to reflect my feelings of aimlessness and solitude. I intended to return to the church, but there was no real hurry anymore. The tears came, clouding my vision to where I really had no idea where I was going and didn’t care. Gradually, the tears subsided.

  When I reached the church, it started to rain, further darkening my mood. I entered the cloisters, already soaked to the bone and beginning to shiver. The heavy wooden door slammed and echoed throughout the cathedral. I stood inside the transept, just outside the Quire, dripping onto the stone walkway. My chest heaved as I glanced around the cathedral, not knowing what to do next.

  Father Flanagan appeared before me, as if out of nowhere, a look of shock and concern on his face.

  I looked up at him, pleading. “What we talked about before…I must leave Ireland. Will you help me?”

  Flanagan’s face took on a look of desperate concern. He gave a quick nod.

  The next several days were a whirlwind for me. I had a final conversation—on the phone—with my mum. I couldn’t tell her what had really happened, though I knew I would never see her again. I was able to get the nam
e of her distant cousin, who worked for the US State Department. After a few days, Father Flanagan got me onto a boat that took me across the waters to Scotland. There, I stayed at a small church, the guest of the bishop there. I stayed there for several weeks as the State Department prepared to allow my emigration to the United States. The Priest lined up a seminary slot for me in San Francisco. At first, State Department people wanted me to give up some names of people involved in the attack, but I would only say that they were all dead, so it didn’t really matter. Because of that, they didn’t press the issue. I heard from Father Flanagan one last time just before I left for San Francisco. He told me that the Newry city council was considering moving its governing body out of the City Hall there to another nearby town. They didn’t specifically say this was because of the IRA attack, but that was the belief. By the end of winter, I was on another boat bound for the USA, San Francisco, to enter the seminary and begin my life of service to this church. It is my hope that this statement will demonstrate the truth in my heart that I love the gospel and wish only to serve. I leave my past behind and move forward only to serve God.

  5

  Steve flipped over the last page of the lengthy statement that Father Fitzhugh had submitted to the church hierarchy. His mind conjured up images of the incidents described. He could only imagine what the town of Newry looked like forty years ago, especially with bombed out buildings spotting the landscape as part of the campaign of violence between the Irish Republican Army, the Ulster government and the British interlopers. As a warrior himself, he could imagine the violence that Fitzhugh had seen in those days and the horrors that must have scarred him. He had a better understanding of that past, but the statement brought up other important questions. Foremost was, if most of the players from his IRA cell were dead, who from that era was now trying to kill him? Who was he hiding from?

  Steve checked the time. It was nearly five o’clock. Amazingly, reading this statement had taken most of the afternoon. He pushed back from his desk, and everyone looked up from their laptops. Some of them also noticed the time, and they all seemed to take this as a cue that it was time for a break.

  “So,” Steve addressed the room, “What have we learned?”

  “Jeez, you weren’t kidding, Sarge,” Dave began. “This is a confusing conflict. Hard to keep all the players straight.”

  “In all fairness,” Brian said, “He did mention there would be a quiz later.”

  Dave rolled his eyes at the joke. “You’ve got the religious aspect of everything, the Catholics want to break free, the protestants are the loyalists, you’ve got factions within factions…”

  “I can even see a parallel with the Mafia,” A.J. said. “These are guys that plot in secret to kill and can still go to mass on Sunday and face the priest. Hell, half the time, the priest is in on the plots.”

  “That theme seems prevalent in this guy’s statement.” Steve took a moment to run down for them a summary of the priest’s statement. “Considering all this,” he concluded, “there seems to be one major problem. Everyone associated with that incident, and every possible suspect we might have…appears to be dead.”

  “So it seems,” Scot said, “that the only answers we’re likely to get will be from the priest himself.”

  Steve nodded. “I need one volunteer. We’re going to go check out this Irish pub.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Scot said.

  “OK. The rest of you, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  In the shadow of Coit Tower, one block from the northern section of the Embarcadero, nestled in among a cluster of small seafood restaurants, a convenience store and a souvenir shop, Steve located Paddy’s Irish Pub. This block of Greenwich Street was lined with five-story buildings of brown brick, with businesses on the ground floor and office space or apartments in the floors above. A yellow sign above the door depicted a penguin with a flipper wrapped around a mug of beer. Steve shook his head at the unlikely logo, which was similar to the one on the card. He glanced down the street where he’d left his vehicle. It was nearly lost in the thickening fog. With a glance at Scot, they approached the door, where a handful of patrons had stepped out for a cigarette, under the watchful eye of a bearded bouncer. The bouncer gave them a wary look, which told Steve he’d made them as cops. Steve tried not to return the look as he and Scot entered.

  Inside, the light was even dimmer than the outside evening. Blazer paused to scan the interior. Things were moderately loud, but there were only a handful of patrons. Three men sat at the bar, where a bartender with a thick build was continuously shoving mugs at them. He saw one man sitting alone in a corner booth but couldn’t get a good look at him in the dim light. In a corner to his left, a group of five men were shouting and laughing over a game of darts. As the room got a look at the two newcomers, the merriment at the dart board went quiet. Steve also got a look at a smaller group of three in another booth near the dart game. An older man there fixed him with a dagger stare. He appeared solidly built, but with gray hair, receded back along his scalp.

  Steve approached the bartender. He got a better look at the man. He had curly blond hair that he kept greased down to his scalp. The half-smile on his lips, a reaction to a wisecrack by one of his customers, faded when he saw the two obvious cops approach.

  “How’s it going?” Steve kept his greeting casual. “Police, Sergeant Blazer. I wonder if you can help me.”

  “I doubt I can, officer,” the bartender said with noticeable Irish brogue. He tried to sound more apologetic than uncooperative.

  Steve skipped past this. He held up his cell phone, on which he had called up a photograph of Ryan Fitzhugh. “Have you seen this person? Has he been in your bar? Especially recently?”

  Reluctantly, the bartender glanced down, giving the phone a cursory look. “Sorry, I can’t say I’ve seen him.”

  Steve fixed his gaze on the man, his patience and politeness wearing thin. “Do me a favor. Take a closer look. The man is missing and may be in danger. He’s a local priest, and he was in possession of one of your business cards.”

  Still hesitant, the bartender leaned down and glanced at the phone. Then he said, “Look, Sarge, I’d like to help you. I see a lot of faces in this place.”

  Steve glanced around the room, again taking in the small handful of customers. “Are we having a particularly busy night?”

  In the back of his mind, he noted that the older gent had sidled up to the dart players and engaged them in whispered conversation.

  “How about you, sir?” Steve asked a patron seated nearby. He held up his phone as the drunken patron turned his way. “Have you seen this man here recently?”

  From the corner of his eye, Steve saw the bartender make a clucking noise and give the patron an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “Hey!” he said forcefully, “You want to let the man speak for himself?”

  Steve suddenly felt something breeze past his head. With a dull thud, a dart sailed through the group and stuck into the wood of a shelf behind the bar. The bartender turned to look at the dart that had sailed over his shoulder. Steve turned quickly to check where it had come from.

  The five young men from the dart game had approached. Steve got a quick moment to examine them. They were all in their twenties, with burly muscled bodies. Each had a shaved head, and two of them wore sports jerseys, though not from any team or sport he recognized.

  “Sorry there, constable,” one of them said, with an accent somewhere between Irish brogue and cockney British. “Looks like me aim was a wee bit off.”

  “Yeah, like ninety degrees,” Scot muttered. Like Steve, he’d noted that the men had spread out, cutting off their escape from next to the bar.

  Steve tried civility, knowing it wouldn’t last. “No problem, friend. I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for a missing person. He’s a local priest. I wonder if you’ve seen him in here before?”

  “Sounds like the start of a bad joke,” another young man piped up with a chuc
kle. “A priest walks into a bar, and never walks out.”

  Steve couldn’t help but wince inside at what the man said. Were they looking for a dead priest? He skipped past it for now and raised his phone with the picture. “Have you seen this man?”

  The skinhead barely glanced at the photo. “Who is he? Does he play football?” This drew a laugh from his buddies. “What’s a priest doing, coming to a bar?”

  “I’m hoping to ask him when we catch up.”

  “So typical,” one of the drunk patrons at the bar said. “Always the Catholics bein’ harassed by the police.”

  “Sir, I assure you it’s nothing like that.”

  “Son, this is why most of us left Ireland.”

  This seemed to confirm Steve’s theory behind the existence of this bar. It seemed to be a place for many Irish ex-patriots to find some solitude. Was it also a gathering place for those affiliated with the IRA? Here in the US?

  The expression on the first hooligan’s face had turned from jovial to deadly serious. “My Da fled Belfast because the RUCs thought he was a sympathizer. I was two when he took me into the night to run. He left me mum behind, and she was murdered.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss—”

  “Don’t patronize me, copper!”

  “Nothing so low, sir,” Steve said, one last attempt at civility. “I can see I’ve come at a bad time. I think my partner and I will take our leave—”

  Steve took one step to his left as if trying to leave, but the lead skinhead shoved him back. The hooligan pushed him back into the bar as if to hold him there. Steve stepped back, reached across and grabbed the hand on his upper arm. He twisted the arm, drawing the skinhead to turn and bend forward. Steve stepped forward into a throw, and the skinhead barreled headfirst into one of his buddies. They tumbled back, knocking over a table.