Seventy Times Seven (29 page)

‘What’s his name‚ Frank?’ asked Sean.

‘Whose?’

Sean didn’t reply. He stood in the doorway in silence, waiting for Frank to answer the question.

‘It’s irrelevant now, anyway,’ said Frank eventually. ‘The British government, for reasons best known to themselves, decided to “release” the details of all the informers working for us into your organisation’s hands. Whoever has the list has the answers. Why don’t you go and ask them?’

‘I’ve narrowed it down to one of six people that could be the Thevshi,’ said Sean. ‘There were only six people in our “organisation” – seven if you include myself – with access to the information about the plot to bomb the Prime Minister. It has to be one of them. That day you asked me about it in Castlereagh, there was no way you could have known unless one of the six had told you. That’s the only mistake I think the Thevshi made. He came to you too early; before anyone else in the IRA had any idea what we were planning. I just need a name, then I’ll be on my way.’

‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said Frank, ‘the name is in the public domain now anyway. It’s not worth me getting shot for. The problem is I can’t pass on that information in person: goes against my training. Why don’t you say the names out loud and I’ll nod when you get to the winner.’ Frank took another drink of wine. ‘That way I won’t have broken the Official Secrets Act, and I can go to bed with a clear conscience.’

It crossed Sean’s mind that Frank Thompson might be stalling for time, but he decided to play along.

‘Either one of the two Rogers brothers?’ asked Sean.

Frank didn’t move.

‘Eamon Ò Ruairc?’

‘Shot dead outside his house a few weeks ago . . .  keep going.’

‘Tim O’Neil?’

There was still no response from Frank Thompson, but Sean wasn’t surprised: he’d been fairly certain it wasn’t any of them.

That left just two names.

Over the years of Sean’s self-imposed exile he had picked over various scenarios and incidents in his mind that all six of the men had been involved in. He’d run through each one time and again: examining every small detail, or coincidence, reaction or turn of phrase that had struck him at the time as odd or out of place. He was looking for a link or common denominator that would identify the informer that had become known as the Thevshi: ‘The Ghost’.

He always came to the same conclusion: there were only six possibilities, and of that six there were only two that Sean had suspected all along.

‘Owen O’Brien?’

The hint of a smile flashed across Frank’s face. ‘O’Brien is a murdering psychopath with a brain the size of a walnut, his mind doesn’t retain information long enough to be able to pass it on to a third party. He would be useless as an informer. If you called him stupid you’d be gracing him with an intelligence he doesn’t possess.’

There was only one other person it could be, but it didn’t make sense.

‘E. I. O’Leary?’

‘You’ve had eight years to mull it over, Sean, and you’ve missed out number eight: the most obvious . . .’ Frank took his time refilling his glass. ‘All that time! I’m surprised you haven’t worked it out. That day you went walkabout in Castlereagh, the Thevshi was in the room next to you. He was convinced you’d seen him. Wanted us to kill you there and then . . . just shows you, eh? He couldn’t believe his luck when you got yourself blown up, none of us could. We should have known you’d faked the whole thing. We even had the SAS telling us they had nothing to do with it, but we didn’t believe them. Well done, you had us all fooled. Incidentally, the Prime Minister was in the building that day as well. If you’d had your wits about you, you could have had a crack at her too.’

The telephone sitting on the counter top next to the sink started to ring. Frank looked over at Sean. ‘That’s my office calling to check I’m all right. They’ll be wondering why I haven’t rung in yet,’ he said. Then, by way of an explanation, ‘It’s to cover eventualities such as this. What should I tell them? If I don’t answer they’ll send a couple of officers round to check I’m all right.’

‘Tell them there’s a dead man in your kitchen eating your dinner, but he’s just about to leave.’

Sean watched as Frank made his way over to the phone.

‘Hello Sheena . . . yes, sorry about that! There’s a ghost in my kitchen, but he assures me he’s just about to leave . . . bugger took a bite out of my cheese and toast . . . I’m fine. No, really I am fine. Sorry I didn’t check in, something came up. Yes, see you in the morning . . . wait! Before you go‚ you don’t happen to have Lep McFarlane’s file handy, do you? Would you mind, I just want to check the approximate time of death and which side of his head they put the bullet in. No, take your time, I’ll hold.’ Frank watched the expression on Sean’s face change as the implication of what he was saying slowly sank in.

Frank covered the mouthpiece on the phone with his left hand. ‘If you want your life back, Sean . . . gather up your family and get the fuck out of Northern Ireland. The Thevshi is dead . . . someone beat you to it.’ Frank turned and glanced out of the kitchen window into the darkness and waited for Sheena to come back on the line. ‘Thank you‚ Sheena, that’s great. Don’t worry, I’ll bring the report back in the morning. Goodnight.’

When he turned round again, Sean McGuire was gone.

Frank stood for several minutes without moving, giving Sean enough time to make his getaway, then picked up the phone and punched in a number. The phone rang for several minutes before it was answered.

‘He’s back,’ he said quietly into the mouthpiece. There was no response from the other end of the line.

‘I’ve put him off your trail for the time being, but it won’t take him long to figure out what’s going on,’ continued Frank in a sombre tone. ‘This is a courtesy call for old times’ sake, but from now on you’re on your own: that’s official. You’ll have no further contact with us or from us, do you understand? Any monies that are owed will be sent to the usual address. I hope you live long enough to enjoy it.’

Frank replaced the handset and stood in silence for several minutes staring at the wall.

The following morning Frank Thompson cast a bleary eye over the uniform he was wearing. The Secretary of State for Northern Ireland was visiting the province later that day and Frank was due to brief him on – amongst other things – the rising number of deaths related to the names on the ‘tout rout list’. It wasn’t only the informers that were being systematically hunted down and murdered. Frank had finally been given access to the names of those suspected of carrying out the break-in at his offices in Castlereagh when the list was stolen. He was under strict instructions not to make any arrests: which, as circumstance would have it, was purely academic now. In the last week all the men involved in the burglary had been murdered, including the security guard.

There was a clear-up operation going on and Frank was certain he knew who was behind it. The Thevshi was protecting himself: destroying anything or anyone that might compromise his identity.

As he headed for the kitchen door Frank glanced over at the debris from the night before sitting on the table. Two empty bottles of wine and a whisky glass with an inch of Laguvulin still in it reminded Frank of why he was feeling so rough.

Outside the day was clear and bright, and the sun was starting to make an impression on the early-morning mist. He thought of his wife back in London getting the kids ready for school and reminded himself to phone her to apologise for being drunk when he’d called at one in the morning to tell her he loved her. That in itself wasn’t worth the apology: he meant every word of what he’d said – it was the fact that he kept repeating it. A drunk’s rationale: the more you repeated it, the more it was true.

‘Bugger me, it’s not raining!’ exclaimed Frank to himself as he pushed his car key into the passenger-side door. Sheena’s brown folder lay unread on the seat with his Beretta – in full view – sitting on top.

‘Sloppy, Thompson . . . sloppy!’ he muttered.

Suddenly, a shock of adrenalin swamped his system.

It was too late to turn and run: too late to do anything. Without thinking he’d twisted the key in the lock. The circuit was complete.

With his arms hanging limply by his side Frank raised his eyes to the heavens and thought of his wife and children.

‘Fuck you‚ Thevshi,’ he said.

Despite weighing nearly one and a half tonnes the black Saab lifted six or seven feet off the ground and lurched forward towards the cottage like a toy car being thrown at a wall.

A bright orange fireball rose high into the air and for a brief moment obscured the sun.

It took Sean nearly three hours to drive from Frank Thompson’s house in Greyabbey to the border with the Irish Republic. The traffic was light, but he’d taken a detour to pick a few things up on the way: cash and ammunition from Danny’s post-office box, and a passenger arriving off the ferry at Larne.

Just as he was approaching a large army checkpoint that blocked both carriageways of the main Dublin Road near Jonesborough, he turned off and started heading along Lower Newton Road. As he drove deeper into the countryside, the roads narrowed until eventually they were barely wider than the car. The Carewamean Road twisted and turned as it cut through the large patchwork of fields and overhanging hedgerows. Sean had to concentrate. It was a long time since he had made his way to the farmhouse in Carrickbroad, and even though he’d nearly always made the journey in the dark, the once familiar landmarks now had eight years of growth on them: nothing was quite as he remembered it. One wrong turn could have him driving around the Armagh countryside for the rest of the night.

Eventually he came to a T-junction he recognised and made a left turn. Sean switched off the car’s headlights and drove for another half a mile or so in complete darkness until he came to a small iron gate. Beyond it was a footpath that led through a large ploughed field to the back of E. I. O’Leary’s farm buildings. It was just after 10 p.m. and there were several lights on in the imposing main farmhouse. To the left, some fifty metres away from the main house, were several large barns, one of them clad in corrugated metal sheets. Sean knew this was where E. I. O’Leary hid his contraband and had his illegal drinking den. The back end of the barn was just metres away from the official border with the Republic of Ireland and had a network of tunnels burrowed under the large barbed-wire fence that separated the two countries. The tunnels were once used for smuggling, but now mainly as an escape route.

The moment Sean stepped out of the car, the intervening eight years seemed to vanish. It could have been a month, a week, or even an hour since he’d been here last. The farmhouse looked exactly the same; nothing had changed.

Sean felt the chill, damp air seeping through the light cotton jacket he was wearing. Marie had bought it for him in Tuscaloosa to replace the blood-stained leather jacket with the hole left by Vincent Lee Croll’s bullet. If everything had gone according to plan, Marie would be sitting down with Kneller and Evelyn signing an affidavit proclaiming her innocence, and that would be the end of it for her.

Tuscaloosa already felt like another lifetime. But Sean was aware that this was not the first time Marie had been on his mind since he’d returned home. He thought of the night in the motel, when he’d almost slept with her. He’d registered the confusion on her face when he’d pulled away – then frozen her out. He’d played the look over and over again in his mind and it didn’t make him feel good. But it had been obvious even then that he would need to go back to Northern Ireland, and – at some point – face Órlaith. The circumstances around his disappearance and the reason for leaving he could just about explain, but there was no way he could stand in front of Órlaith and tell her he was in love with another woman.

Sean wished he could have explained the situation to Marie before leaving: filled in the blanks for her. But the less she knew the safer she would be. The only thing he’d left her in no doubt about was the fact that he would return. No matter what happened in the next few days, his life in Ireland was over.

The sound of dogs barking and the distant clank of chains as they strained against their tethers brought Sean’s attention back to the present. They may well have caught his scent as they sniffed at the cold easterly breeze whistling between the farm buildings.

Sean climbed over the tubular-metal gate and made his way across the muddy field. He didn’t feel any need to disguise his approach. As well as the dogs and regular armed patrols, O’Leary had a sophisticated security system in place. He would have been able to track Sean’s car from as far back as the main road. O’Leary would already know someone was coming.

When he was just a few yards from the back door of the main farmhouse, Sean heard a familiar metallic click and a voice from somewhere in the surrounding darkness.

‘Keep your hands where I can see them and state your business, mister. If you know what damage a double-barrelled shotgun can do then you won’t want to be making any sudden movements.’

The dogs tied to a fence post on the other side of the yard were growling menacingly, their muzzles curled up at the edge, baring their sharp teeth.

‘I’m here to see O’Leary,’ he replied calmly.

‘Is that right! And do you have an appointment, or d’you think you can just wander in off the street any time you like?’

‘Tell him Sean McGuire’s here.’

There was a moment’s silence before the man with the shotgun spoke again.

‘Put your hands up against the wall there, Sean, spread your fingertips and spread your legs . . . you know the routine.’

Sean did what he was told and stood spread-eagled against the white roughcast wall while he was searched for weapons.

Minutes later he was led into a low room with dark oak beams running in parallel strips along the length of its ceiling. E. I. O’Leary was standing with his back to a large blazing fire: his arms wide open like he was expecting the two of them to embrace. Before he’d even said a word Sean could tell E.I. had a drink in him.

‘Well, if I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes I’d never have believed it,’ said O’Leary. ‘Easter’s been and gone, big fella. The resurrection thing is old news. The Son of God beat you to it. What do I call you? Is it Sean, or Lazarus . . . or Finn O’Hanlon?’ E.I. continued. ‘Please tell me it’s not the Thevshi . . . Though to be honest with you Sean, everything is so fucked up these days, nothing would surprise me. Can I get you a drink?’ E.I. moved over to a large, ornate Georgian drinks cabinet that looked out of place in the rustic farmhouse. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey. ‘A wee Bushmills to warm you up? It’s Black Label.’

‘I can’t stay,’ replied Sean. ‘Got a few things I need to sort out, but thanks anyway.’

‘Your ma must be delighted. She took your “passing” bad. Wouldn’t let us anywhere near your funeral, so I’ve no idea if you got a good send-off. I tell you Sean, if I looked as good as you after eight years buried, I’d think about giving the death thing a go. But here, if you’re in such a hurry let’s not fuck about. What are you doing sneaking round a man’s back yard in the dark? Are you looking to get yourself killed for real? What do you want?’

‘Whose idea was it to take the wee one and the Fitzpatrick girl?’

E.I. turned and gave Sean the stare.

‘Watch your tone, big fella.’

Sean heard the threat in E.I.’s voice, but he didn’t care. He kept O’Leary fixed in his gaze.

E.I. grinned. ‘Come on, let’s not get off on the wrong foot. The kidnappings were certainly not my idea, if that’s what you’re suggesting,’ he continued, ‘although in the light of recent events I’m beginning to think it wasn’t such a bad move. Your Danny is causing us a major fucking headache. I got a call in the middle of the night to say that a business associate of ours, Hernando De Garza, has been hit: long-range sniper shot, one bullet, nearly ripped his head from his body. Now whose modus operandi does that sound like to you? God only knows what the implications are for us if it turns out Danny was the triggerman. He’s got the SAS after his arse too. They seem to think your brother whacked four of their comrades, and if all that isn’t bad enough, he’s still cutting about with $200,000 of
our
money that he was supposed to hand over to De Garza. Not to mention the money we paid him – in advance – to show
you
the door marked “exit”. So, let’s just say, the IRA would like to have a word in his ear too. For what it’s worth, I think taking the wee one was a mistake: overstepped the mark. But you know what Owen O’Brien’s like when he gets that look in his eyes‚ there’s no stopping the stupid big fucker. By all accounts he went after yer ma and Órlaith too, but they’ve done a runner. Smart!’

‘Where are the girls?’ asked Sean.

‘Where’s our $200,000?’

Sean wanted to grab the whiskey bottle from E.I.’s hand and smack it over his head, but for the moment he simply turned and headed for the door.

‘Here’s the deal,’ said E.I. as Sean reached for the door handle. ‘I’ve known you and your family for a long time. Whatever happened to you eight years ago we can set aside for the moment. Right now I don’t give a shit why you disappeared. One day, maybe, we’ll sit down, crack open a bottle and you can tell me the whole story, but for now let’s just say it’s good to have you back. As far as De Garza goes, I know Danny will have his own version of events and I’m willing to sit down and listen: take him at his word. I know he’s as straight as they come. Money is not what drives your brother. He may not be a member, but he’s a believer, I know that. You guarantee the $200,000’s safe return and I’ll give you my word no harm will come to the wee one, or to Danny.’

Sean stood by the door with his back to E.I.

‘Unfortunately,’ continued O’Leary, ‘I can’t give you the same assurances as far as the Fitzpatrick girl is concerned. I’m still not sure what went wrong, but the word on the street is she had a pretty rough first interview with O’Brien. Shame really! Turns out I knew her father: he was a good republican man. Anyway, what d’you say, have we got a deal?’

Sean looked back at E.I. with no expression on his face and said, ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ as he headed out the door.

Sean wiped his feet along the grass verge to get rid of the mud from his shoes, then climbed back into the car and pulled the door closed.

The Thevshi had haunted Sean for almost a decade now. The question over his identity had eaten away at his subconscious ever since he’d left Ireland in forfeit of any chance of a normal life. But Frank Thompson was right: it was now irrelevant. He was certain Thompson was trying to throw him off the scent by implying that Lep was ‘The Ghost’, but Lep had been inactive for as long as Sean had – over eight years – and never had access at a high enough level for him to pass on any useful information to the security forces.

That left the same two names as before: Owen O’Brien and E. I. O’Leary.

Sean turned the key in the ignition and waited a few moments for the warm air to start flowing through from the engine. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out two Heckler & Koch P7s, dropped the clips out of both handles and checked they were loaded. He laid one on the seat beside him and put the other back in the glove compartment, then reached over and pulled a long black coat off the back seat. Underneath the coat lay an AR15 semi-automatic assault rifle and on the floor, just in front, a plastic shopping bag with five thirty-round STANAG magazines. He slid one of the magazines home until it clicked and locked in place, then wound down the window. All he had to do now was wait for his brother.

The passenger he’d picked up from the ferry port at Larne was his brother Danny‚ who had lain under a coat on the back seat – hidden from view for the rest of the journey to O’Leary's.

When they’d arrived at the farm Danny had waited for Sean to cross the field before slipping out of the car‚ unseen.

Sean checked his watch. Another two minutes and he’d open fire at the farmhouse.

E. I. O’Leary stood staring into the fire. He had a lot on his mind.

Over the years he had come to put more and more trust in Owen O’Brien, but now there were serious doubts creeping in; maybe there was more to him than met the eye. It was O’Brien who had first come to him with the revelation that Finn O’Hanlon was the Thevshi. He claimed to have picked up a scent coming out of Dundalk. Lep McFarlane had been overheard shouting his mouth off in the Emerald Bar that he was about to make a comeback and clear his name. He was drunk. By the time O’Brien arrived at the pub, McFarlane had disappeared, but not before telling anyone who’d listen about his contact with Finn O’Hanlon. O’Brien must have seized the opportunity to pass him off as the Thevshi‚ but sending Danny McGuire over to kill him had screwed up the plan. No one – not even Danny himself – could have guessed at O’Hanlon’s real identity.

The more E.I. thought it through, the more the story fell into place. Owen O’Brien had organised the break-in at Castlereagh: the whole operation had been under his command. He had kept the list of informers that Special Branch had ‘supplied’ to them close to his chest. Anyone associated with the break-in – or who had seen the contents of the list – had been murdered. Maybe O’Brien’s name was on the list as well and that was why he didn’t want anyone else to see it?

It would explain why he was so diligent in his role as head of internal security for the IRA. If a tout was becoming a problem for the Special Branch they could pass the details on to O’Brien and have the problem eliminated. In the event that O’Brien was spotted talking to the security forces he could haul the accuser in for questioning, charge them with being an informer and execute them without raising any suspicions: it was always his word against theirs. A reciprocal arrangement that worked well for both parties!

E. I. O’Leary had come to a decision. Whether O’Brien was the Thevshi or not didn’t matter now: he was out of control and had to die. Danny McGuire – because of his actions in Tuscaloosa – had become too much of a liability, and he too had to die. In order to prevent any reprisals Sean McGuire would also get the bullet.

He would make it clear – to whoever was dumb enough to ask – that Sean McGuire
was
the Thevshi, and that way avoid any embarrassing questions regarding the length of time O’Brien was able to carry on informing without raising suspicions. It would also save having to make reparations to the families of those who had been wrongfully accused and murdered by O’Brien. The Thevshi would be dead. De Garza’s associates would be satisfied that the IRA had acted swiftly to eliminate De Garza’s assassin and a valuable link to the supply of arms would hopefully remain intact. It was a good plan.