The Dublin Hit

by J E Higgins

  Nawati smiled, “You think I will seize this as a chance for revenge?”

  O’knomo smiled back.

  “In truth,” Nawati adjusted the collar of his crisp, white shirt. “I, more than anyone here, may have the hardest time carrying out this assignment.”

  O’knomo was perplexed. He had come to know Nawati as a patriot of the anti-Apartheid cause ─ a professional, someone who could get a hard job done. That the young MK soldier would struggle in their hunt for the Angel of Death had not occurred to him.

  Nawati continued, “I’m here to provide insight into her thinking, right? And I can because I carried out the same type of missions she did. I hunted and I killed. In the end, the only difference between us is we were on opposite sides. It’s hard for me to look at her and not see someone driven by the same things that drove me.”

  He turned to the ghostly looking photograph pinned on the board. “I read her file, just like everyone else. She was born in Rhodesia. She came to this country with her uncle, who was a soldier in the Selous Scouts after her family had been killed by the ZANU in a raid.

  A few parallels don’t make you the same, O’knomo interjected.

  In the early eighties, the South African government was hiring as many Rhodesian police, soldiers, and intelligence operators as they could to build their own operational program to combat the growing insurgency.”

  “You studied her file thoroughly, I see,” O’knomo interjected.

  Nawati dismissed the comment. “The Civil Cooperation Bureau (CCB) recruited her. It was the early 80s. The South African government was hiring as many Rhodesian police, soldiers and intelligence operators as they could to build their own operation program to combat the growing anti-Apartheid insurgency. The CCB was searching for young whites of British lineage ── mostly young Rhodesian immigrants ─ who could integrate into English society.

  O’knomo was well aware of the history. Many anti-Apartheid nationalist groups were trying to build connections to the European left and help monitor the English-speaking whites in South Africa. Sauwa Catcher would have been in her late teens when she was sucked into the war. O’knomo could fill in Nawati’s line of thinking, but let Nawati speak without interruption.

  “Her uncle was part of their developing Special Forces units.” Nawati was still focused on the photo, running through the file in his mind. It helped him to put things in order, to run through each step of a journey that could easily have been his own. “She was identified early as having a remarkable aptitude in areas coinciding with spy work. She was recruited into a special unit ─ an extension of the CCB region six office ─ dealing with domestic security issues. Her role was monitoring whites suspected of working with the South African Communist Party.”

  “The CCB discovered her talent for more intense covert work when she engineered the assassination of Jeremy Rivers, leader of a leftist political group in Cape Town. She arranged a fire in the basement that burned with wool and plastic emitting a toxic gas that poisoned the radicals and came off looking like an accident.”

  O’knomo sunk down into his seat, surprised by Nawati’s sympathetic understanding and lack of hatred.

  He had already studied the biography himself and was well acquainted with the story being recited to him.

  Nawati released himself from the hypnotic eyes in the photo and looked at his superior. “I’m sorry, but I can see what drove her to this because I see the same path in my own history. You brought me in so I could help get you into the mind of a professional killer. It also means that I can empathize with her as well.”

  The older MK soldier’s expression was a mix of indecision and mistrust. Nawati squared his shoulders. “I’m in this. I will work to bring her in and give you what you need to the best of my abilities. But I won’t deny that I see myself when I look at her. There are not many of us who can perform this work. Had circumstances been different, it could just as easily be my picture on that board, with a team being organized to hunt me down. I can’t lose sight of that.”

  O’knomo took in a deep breath. “We all have demons we will need to overcome. For the whites in our unit, it will be chasing down a former member of their own security service. For you, our target is an agent you share an intimate connection with.” He rose to his feet and stretched. “As to your concern, it didn’t end differently. She’s the fugitive, not you. In the end, our mission amounts to only one thing. We bring her in.”

  9

  Sauwa found it hard to get comfortable in the hard, wood chair in the small deli. Breakfast was mildly palatable, and the owner acted like he was doing her a favor he tending to her, but the deli offered a line of sight to the Sherrfield Café across the street. Her target, Marston Donovan, was known to frequent the Sherrfield, so it was the best place to begin her surveillance and plan her attack.

  The notes taken at the farm had provided his home address in some suburb on Dublin’s north side. But the neighborhood proved to be a strategic nightmare, a maze of narrow and twisting streets that would have made following him, even with a trained team, difficult. Longstanding neighbors knew everyone around and noticed her presence immediately when she jogged through Donovan’s cozy lane. It didn’t matter. A trained intelligence detective who lived within the murky world of covert information collection would be on guard for strangers around his home.

  Sauwa navigated the picturesque world of Phoenix Park twice as she practiced with the small motorbike Banker had procured for her. Then she rode leisurely past the headquarters of the Irish Garda. Large and well-guarded, it presented too much danger to hang about too long. Monitoring Donovan from his office would not be possible.

  The Sherrfield Café presented the best location for her purposes. Settled on a busy street of small shops and eateries, it was a trendy place for tourists and out-of-towners. People of all types mingled here, making it easier for her to blend in and stay inconspicuous.

  From the deli, she enjoyed her second cup of raspberry tea and a small breakfast. H.G Wells’ Island of Dr. Moreau gave her an excuse to linger. She occasionally glanced out the window and scouted the cars pulling up to the curb, scanning for the makes and license numbers ─ her employer, the UVF, had given her a list ─ of the vehicles Donovan used when working. She had to commend the UVF’s intelligence network for its thoroughness and accuracy of its information.

  For the last twenty minutes cars had accumulated outside the window. The Sherrfield was soon a buzz with an assorted group of people, who congregated briefly and then moved quickly into the coffee shop. Their diversity ranged from casually dressed conservative types to the rougher looking radicals to obvious underworld heavies. They made friendly overtures to one another. Sauwa assumed they were the detectives starting to arrive.

  Chewing slowly on a piece of sausage, she observed each car. Finally, a polished blue Nissan arrived and wedged its way into a narrow spot near the café entrance. The car door flew open and out stepped a man matching the picture of Marston Donovan.

  He was heavy-set with a slight bulge protruding from under his buttoned-up, grey sports jacket. His features were groomed and manicured ─ professional. As he exited the vehicle, he scanned the street, then shut the door before starting toward the coffee shop.

  These actions confirmed her suspicion she was dealing with a professional. He was cognizant of his surroundings and anticipated being under surveillance. He would not be an easy target. If she tried to follow him to study his patterns by herself, he would spot her in a few hours or a day at best. He was competent, and would likely be working with a team of equally competent operatives, and he was used to dealing with groups of suspicious of strangers. If they noticed her, she would be in grave danger.

  Donovan disappeared inside the Sherrfield. Sauwa switched between the pages of her book and kept a visual of the cafe and Donovan’s car. She sipped her tea slowly and swallowed the last of her breakfast. The old couple who managed the deli was busy with the influx of customers. They left
Sauwa alone to watch her target and, most likely, forgot her.

  A half an hour later, Donovan emerged from the coffee shop. Her target took his time returning to his car, stopping multiple times to converse with others, laughing and backing-slapping. None of these trained policemen ─ including Donovan ─ even glanced at the strangers who wandered past their group. The detectives appeared preoccupied with last-minute conversations as they edged their way to their cars.

  Sauwa would have to observe this ritual a few more times to establish their routine, but she saw a possible niche she could work with. Donovan not only seemed to let his guard down here, he was also in a perfect strategic location. There was a constant gathering of people crowding the sidewalk, which limited the targets mobility. A row of cars served as a wall that funneled everyone tightly together and provided good camouflage for her to get up close and just as easily disappear.

  With a satisfied smile on his face, Donovan swaggered to his car then climbed in. He pulled out onto the street and drove away. The other detectives gradually dispersed. None of them seemed to feel they were in the slightest danger here.

  Sauwa gulped down the last drops of her tea. She carefully looked around the deli to see if anyone was paying any attention to her. The patrons were all consumed with their own affairs, gossiping and studying the deli’s menu. The deli proprietors were buried in a line of customers five deep. Confident she was a ghost, she quietly slipped out the front door.

  The following day, she was pulling into the parking lot of an apartment complex in Dublin’s more upscale south side. The lot was nearly deserted with most of the apartment dwellers off to their jobs. Banker had told her to meet him at this place to continue the discussion about the finances. Dressed in a clean pair of stone washed jeans, white T-shirt, and sweat jacket, Sauwa tried to mimic the appearance of one of the young professionals emerging in the growing Irish economy. She would look, to anyone watching, like a new tenant.

  The complex was a cubicle fortress made up of four concrete structures surrounding an inner court. Before entering, Sauwa flipped her hood up over her head to mask herself in case of any security cameras.

  Following the instructions, she made her way to the third floor of complex B and found room number 317. It was an enclosed hallway with good lighting. She had expected cameras to be posted at each end of the hallway. There were none. Keeping the hood pulled over her head, she knocked on the door. The door was cautiously opened. Banker stood in the doorway, his face expressionless as he beckoned her inside. Ever cautious, she looked past him to check for any signs she was walking into an ambush.

  “Don’t worry. There’s no one here but me. I conduct only my most private business here, so I’m the only one who knows about this place, and I want to keep it that way.”

  Satisfied it was not a trap, she quickly crossed over the threshold. The door shut behind her as soon as she entered.

  Banker reached out gently to guide her by the shoulders ─ his natural habit with women ─ but thought better of it. Instead, he directed her into a living room area. The curtains were drawn, leaving a lamp the only real light in the room. The place was sparsely furnished with only enough furniture to convince someone, at first sight, the place was actually lived in.

  Banker motioned her to remain where she was, then disappeared into a bedroom. She tensed. After a few seconds later, he returned with a small knapsack.

  “Here it is,” he said. He walked over to her and placed the bag on the coffee table. “This is the payment you are to receive upon completion of the job. Whatever it is.”

  Sauwa studied the bag and looked at him. He nodded giving her the okay to check the contents. Reaching for the knapsack, she unzipped it to find it stuffed with British pounds wrapped in tight, neat bundles.

  “I guess they figured if the denomination was too large, you’d have trouble spending it unnoticed; too small and you’d be packing around a lot of money while trying to escape,” Banker remarked.

  “No, it’s alright,” Sauwa replied. She pulled a few arbitrary bundles out and placed them on the table. In the world of criminality, gangsters often used counterfeit money to pay off people they assumed they would never see after a job was complete. She looked the money over until she was satisfied it was genuine.

  Banker leaned up against the wall while observing her.

  “How is the money to be paid, since you don’t even know what my job is?” she asked.

  Banker smiled despite her unnerving gaze. “I asked that myself. I’m to get a call from your go-between telling me to make the payment. Whoever is pulling the strings on this is watching you from a distance.”

  Sauwa cocked her head. She put the money back.

  “Aren’t you gonna count it?”

  “What would be the point? That was your responsibility. If it’s not all there, you’re the only one around to hold accountable.”

  Banker didn’t blink. It could only mean he was confident the money was accounted for, or he intended to kill her when the job was done. She assumed he had been thorough. Simon’s people had picked their man well. Banker retrieved the bag, took it back into the bedroom, then returned.

  “And you trust this place?” she asked.

  “It should be safe enough,” he said, daring to take a seat. “When I need to conduct business affairs off the grid, I use this place. Actually, only you know about it.”

  “Why do I get the privilege?”

  Banker leaned forward in his chair. “Because you were right. It wasn’t just your paranoia. Whatever you’re here for is obviously a pretty big deal. The club is no place to be conducting your sort of business. I thought of this place, and since you’ll be gone permanently from the country after the job is done, I figured there was no danger in you knowing about it.”

  Sauwa nodded, “You picked an upscale location. I’m surprised.”

  “Really,” Banker smirked.

  Sauwa continued, “Most gangster types tend to fancy the seedy stuff─the backroom pool halls, seedy hotels people bring hookers to or to do junk─as if we’re in some fifties crime noir flick.”

  “Ya,” he chuckled. “No one really thinks about a place like this. The tenants all keep to themselves. They see people move in and out. You have fewer busybodies trying to know everyone. Plus, the police frequent these places a lot less.”

  Sauwa was impressed. Banker was more intelligent than many she had dealt with in the underworld. He was mindful and strategic in the way he approached his business. He was an ally she would need in the coming days. “Well, I’ve seen enough.” She started toward the door. “I’ll call you tonight at our appointed time. I’ll need some things for the job.”

  “All right, just let me know,” Banker resisted the urge to ask how much longer she intended to be around. He reminded himself the more he knew, the more he made himself a liability. And one thing he had come to understand about the young woman he was dealing with, she was dangerous.

  10

  Jeffery Talamadge ─ a member of MI-5’s finest ─ tried to make heads or tails out of the paperwork wedged between his fingers. It was a request from the boys at Scotland Yard for any information regarding the activities of South African intelligence operating within the United Kingdom.

  The packet in hand was half an inch thick and inquired about the actions of the Civil Cooperation Bureau (CCB).

  A devoted archivist, Talamadge was tucked deep in the bowels of Thames House, the headquarters of the secretive MI-5. He had delivered a thorough report based on the volumes the elite counter-intelligence agency had on the African business within their borders. Reviewing the condensed version of the report, Talamadge searched for details pertaining to a specific unit that had somehow eluded his agency. Scotland Yard’s request culminated in one primary issue: a group known as the Dark Chamber and the operatives who had belonged to it.

  In the months following the fall of the Apartheid regime, evidence had steadily trickled in regarding crimes committed
on British soil by both the South African government and the nationalist groups combating it. The identities of numerous operatives working within Britain surfaced. MI-5 already maintained a good handle on the activities of the key players. However, some of the deeper cover operatives and their operations were just now coming to light. Many had been detained by the authorities and eventually deported back to their homeland. Yet the police still sought some of the most egregious offenders.

  It had rather vexed the British intelligence community that South Africa had chosen to reveal information openly to the police. Irritation flowed within the halls of the building at Millbank SW 1 Westminster. They would have preferred their counterparts to have gone through them and handled the matter more discretely. Instead, the boys at Scotland Yard responded in typical fashion by getting court orders and issuing arrest warrants, making information requests about a political group they had never heard of before. MI-5 found itself in a rather embarrassing position.

  Talamadge, a ten-year veteran of the secret service, had guarded the kingdom and had spent most of his career working against African intelligence agencies and the groups they targeted. When this debacle arose, he found himself suddenly holding the title of coordinating officer with the understanding that he was somehow supposed to manage the whole affair.

  MI-5 department leaders met to get ahead of the situation and ensure the agency had a grasp of the void of information they were dealing with now. Talamadge’s superiors tasked him with reviewing archival documents and the most recent intelligence reports. He checked first to see if perhaps this mysterious unit had been mentioned somewhere before and had just been overlooked by overworked analysts. Next, he reached out to Scotland Yard and the South Africans to piece together the bigger picture.