Seventy Times Seven (9 page)

‘Well bless my hole. If it isn’t the man himself! What happened to you? You look like I feel . . . and I feel like shite.’

Danny’s thin-lipped smile made his face hurt.

E.I. held a finger to his lips – ‘Shh’ – then gestured Danny to take a seat opposite him at his large oak desk.

O’Leary’s study had an elevated view out over the fields of his extensive farm. On the horizon a large, green Massey Ferguson tractor was pulling a tanker behind it, spreading slurry.

Danny moved awkwardly to the edge of the desk, but stayed standing. He was still in a lot of pain.

E.I. scribbled a note on a piece of scrap paper and pushed it across the worn leather surface of the desk. Danny adjusted his glasses and picked up the note.
‘Were you followed?
’

He shrugged and raised his eyebrows as if to say ‘Who knows?’

E.I. pulled the scrap of paper back with his big farmer hands and scribbled again.

‘Tape on, then follow me.’

Danny nodded: it had been a long time since he’d visited the old farmhouse, but he still remembered the routine.

E.I. raised his large bulk from the fragile, oak-framed chair and turned to a tape machine sitting on the bookshelves behind. He flicked the ‘on’ button and listened for a moment as the opening strains of Wagner’s
Lohengrin
eased through the speakers. The tape had been mixed amateurishly with E.I.’s gruff, Capstan-Full-Strength voice, reading aloud a randomly chosen passage about striking dustbin men from the previous day’s
Irish Times
. The overall effect was a strange, uneasy marriage of sounds.

With a nod of the head E.I. gestured to Danny to help him lift the rug Danny was standing on. Danny slid the rug to one side with his foot then E.I. pulled open a trapdoor in the floor. They both made their way down a set of rough wooden steps to a narrow tunnel just wide enough for E.I.’s large frame, but not quite tall enough for either of them to stand upright. The tunnel was lit by a string of worker lamps threaded along one side of the timber-framed structure that lined the walls and ceiling, and stretched for some fifty feet along its entire length.

E.I. closed the trapdoor behind him and dropped down the last few steps until he was standing behind Danny.

‘That’ll keep the bastards guessing, eh? C’mon, let’s get a beer.’

As the men made their way along the tunnel E.I. continued, ‘Sometimes I read the
Beano
or the
Dandy
instead of the
Times
, depends on my mood. There’s a van full of microphones pointing at the house parked in the field across the back there. I’m sure they know it’s a tape, but who gives a fuck eh? I can’t have a shit without some bugger recording the event. But I’m getting fed up with it, I tell ye. I’m negotiating to buy the land they’re parked on from the old bastard that owns it; then I’m going to sue the Brits for trespass. Made him a fair offer for it, that he turned down, so I told him he has to give it to me for nothing now, or I’ll kill his family.’ E.I. let loose a thick, coarse laugh. ‘Sent a couple of the lads over to the old bugger’s house to tell him to his face. You would have thought someone was standing behind him giving him a round of applause, the noise the bastard’s sphincter was making.’

At the end of the underground passage, another set of steps led up to a trapdoor that opened out into a large barn. The barn was lined with rectangular bales of hay three deep and stacked from the floor all the way up to its corrugated roof, some thirty feet above. In one corner sat a full-size snooker table with a game in progress. Six onlookers sat on benches, drinking and waiting their turn to play. One of the men looked familiar to Danny, but he couldn’t remember his name. Danny nodded over, but for some reason the guy didn’t look too happy to see him and turned away.

A couple of E.I.’s armed bodyguards were seated at a large rectangular drawing table drinking beer and reading the sports section of the newspaper. The drawing table was set in the middle of the cavernous hall of hay next to a fridge full of alcohol, and was surrounded by a few old sofas and armchairs. The low-level lighting and the sound of
Diamond Dogs
blasting from the large speakers hanging precariously from the metal rafters above gave the place the feeling of a seedy nightclub on the brink of financial ruin. At the far end there was a mountain of stolen goods, everything from televisions and computers to bicycles and curling tongs, all stacked in neat rows.

E.I. caught Danny’s gaze. ‘Need a new telly?’ he asked. ‘After we’ve had our wee chat you can do a bit of shopping.’ His bloated, pugnacious face tried to smile, but it looked more like a scowl. ‘Don’t look so worried, Danny, we’ll do you a discount.’

He grabbed a beer from the fridge.

‘Welcome to the republican remedial club, shelter to the needy, the greedy and the criminally insane,’ he continued. ‘This is what you’re missing out on when you’re sitting there in your ivory tower pretending you work alone. These are your comrades-in-arms.’

Danny thought he detected a little warning note in E.I.’s voice, but he didn’t care: he knew he was regarded as an outsider and he was happy to keep it that way.

Despite its size, the lack of doors and windows made the barn feel claustrophobic. Danny looked for an exit but it seemed the only way in and out was back through the tunnel.

‘Is there somewhere more private we can go?’ he asked.

‘Relax, our lad,’ said E.I., putting his arm round Danny’s shoulder and causing him to wince. ‘We’re all on the same side. These people are your friends. Grab yourself a beer an let’s have a wee chat.’

Danny helped himself to a can of Coke from the fridge, then lowered himself slowly onto the sofa next to E.I. ‘Has Órlaith been in touch?’

‘Sure, she called here first thing this morning asking if we knew what the hell was going on. I told her we didn’t know a bloody thing.’

 ‘Did she say where she was?’

 ‘She’s at yer ma’s. Says she’s not going back to her house, “till you stop doin whatever it is you’re doin”,’ answered E.I. ‘She sounded in a bad way, Danny. Told us what had happened last night. Bastards, eh? D’you know who they were?’

‘SAS without a doubt,’ answered Danny.

‘D’you think they’re on to you?’

‘No. I’ve got a close-surveillance team on my hole. Caught one of them in church the other day with a microphone up his sleeve on a fishing trip: putting pressure on me, hoping I’ll do something stupid – which I duly did, of course. I pulled a gun on him. I think they were letting me know it wasn’t a smart thing to do. I need to lay low for a bit.’

‘E4A?’ asked E.I.

‘I think so,’ replied Danny.

‘What are they up to?’ asked E.I. ‘E4A are police, not army. D’you think they’re getting the SAS to do their dirty work for them these days?’

‘Possibly,’ replied Danny. ‘Since that list went missing they’re expecting me to get busy . . . could be that as well.’

‘How did you suss him out?’

‘He forgot to cross himself.’

‘Aye, it’s always the silly things that fuck you up, am I right‚ Danny?’

E.I. was sly: he liked to unsettle people by making them think he knew more than he was letting on. His small, dark eyes were difficult to read and reminded Danny of a shark. Let your guard down for a second and he’d bite. But Danny was ready for him.

‘I don’t do silly things,’ he said‚ adding ‘generally.’

‘What were you doing in church?’ asked E.I.

It crossed his mind that Órlaith might have mentioned to E.I. about the meeting with Lep McFarlane, but Danny was fairly sure she hadn’t. Either way he wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up. ‘Confessing my sins,’ was all that he said. ‘Priest said if you ever fancy going, he’d get the
Guinness Book of Records
there to time it.’

E.I. only ever laughed at his own jokes, but he did give Danny a smile. ‘“Pure as the driven snow”, our lad. “Pure as the driven snow”.’

He banged his hand on the arm of the sofa, signalling the end of the small talk.

‘I have a wee proposition for you, Danny, that could suit all parties involved: get you out of Northern Ireland for a while, away from the Snoops, the SAS, and give me an enormous amount of satisfaction.’ E.I. was staring at him now. ‘Before I start: did you happen to get a look at the list?’

Danny shook his head.

‘You sure?’ pressed E.I.

‘I never even touched it. Eamon dropped round to my place for a beer after the operation, but as far as I’m aware he’d already passed it on to Quig. Why?’

‘Are you sure?’

Danny wondered why E.I. was asking. ‘Positive,’ he replied.

‘Did Eamon look at it, or Quig, d’you think?’

‘Possibly, I’ve no idea,’ said Danny, pushing his glasses further up on his nose. ‘I never spoke to Quig. They might have had a look to check it was the right thing, but that’s about it, I really don’t know. Is there a problem?’

E.I. deflected him with another question.

‘How’s yer ma, Danny? You looking after her all right?’

Danny wasn’t interested in talking about his mother: he wanted to find out why E.I. had asked to see him, then get the hell out of there.

‘She’s fine.’

‘I know how she feels about us, Danny, but you tell her the door here is always open if she needs anything.’

‘I will.’

E.I. lowered his voice. ‘I tell you, and I’ve never said this to anyone, but I have nightmares about what happened to your Sean. The explosion was the size of a fuckin mountain in my rear-view mirror; I can still feel the heat on the back of my neck. I’ve had people swear they saw it light up the sky as far away as Dublin. There’s no consolation in it, but your Sean wouldn’t have felt a thing.’ E.I.’s monotone voice betrayed no emotion as he spoke. ‘If we’d detonated that bomb where we’d intended: not only would it have taken out the Prime Minister, but half of Belfast as well . . . Aye, your Sean wasn’t a soldier, he was an army, our lad. A terrible loss.’

E.I. paused and took a drink of beer before continuing. ‘Anyway, the reason I bring it up is, we’ve had a few sightings of Lep McFarlane cutting around his old haunts. Would you believe the fuckin cheek of the dirty little tout: daring to show his face in Newry again?’

Danny wasn’t sure if he was being paranoid or just over-sensitive, but once again it looked like E.I. was watching him for a reaction.

‘Anyway I thought you’d want to know Danny . . . He’s a kill-on-sight job.’

‘Is that what you wanted to see me about?’ asked Danny.

E.I. looked like he was expecting more of a reaction from Danny: his eyes narrowed, but Danny was giving nothing away. ‘It was one of the things, the support act if you like, but here’s the main event,’ said E.I. ‘While we’re on the subject of treacherous little bastards who deserve to die, there’s something I want to ask you. I know you like to set your own agenda‚ Danny, but how d’you fancy a wee trip to the States courtesy of the Irish Republican Army?’

Danny looked at him and shrugged. ‘Work or pleasure?’

‘Depends how you look at it, our lad,’ replied E.I. with a crooked grin. He leant towards Danny and whispered under his breath, ‘Would giving the Thevshi an OBE be regarded as work or pleasure?’

‘One Behind the Ear’: Jam a gun behind some poor fucker’s ear and pull the trigger. It was a traitor’s death, an informer’s fate . . . an OBE.

Danny let the question settle before answering.

‘Have you found him?’

E.I. nodded. ‘We have his name: the one they gave him when they changed his identity, that is, the address they relocated him to and would you believe it . . . a bloody telephone number. I don’t have to tell you‚ Danny‚ what it would mean to the republican movement to have the bastard’s head on a spike. You’d be a hero, I tell ye.’ E.I. had something else to say that he didn’t want anyone else to hear. He leant forward again. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Danny. It’s not a question of who has the biggest army, or the best weapons or the just cause: information is the key. We’ve been infiltrated up to our bloody necks: if we lose this war that’ll be the reason. They have all the information. You don’t know who to trust these days. We have to make an example of the Thevshi to show any other fucker thinking of grassing on us that – no matter how long it takes – we’ll find them, and execute them without mercy. It’s essential to our survival. And all those bastards who have informed on us in the past are now shitting themselves in case they’re on that list. I know you’re not an active member, Danny, but I’m sure even you can see what a coup it would be for us.’

E.I. suddenly sat back and smiled. ‘And if all that’s not enough, the job’s worth a quite a few doubloons too. Shooting that dirty piece of shit in the head could be worth nearly twenty grand . . . enough to retire on.’

E.I. was staring at Danny again with the same intensity as before: scrutinising him, no doubt about it.

Danny fixed his eyes on the floor. ‘So “The Ghost” really does exist?’

‘He sure does,’ replied E.I. ‘Hopefully not for too much longer. But as you know, nothing is ever straightforward on this tiny island of ours. We have one small problem. We were a bit too eager to kill the cunt: so we asked a favour of a friend out in Alabama – guy called Hernando De Garza. He’s a big player: into arms, drugs, vice, you name it. Won’t touch anything that doesn’t carry a hefty jail sentence: likes risk. He goes and employs a couple of local tradesmen, who – of course – fuck it up. Missed their target. Stupid fuckers tried to hit the Thevshi in a bar. The guy lives on his own in the middle of nowhere and these eejits try and take him out in a crowded bar. Can you believe that?’

‘So he knows we’re on to him?’ interjected Danny.

E.I. nodded again. ‘Aye, course he does. If you were up for it we’d want to get you out there as soon as possible. We want it done right, Danny, and we want it done right now. You’re the man for the job. What d’you say?’

Danny didn’t have to think. ‘I’ve a few things to sort out beforehand, but I’m ready to go anytime you like,’ he replied.

‘Grand, Danny, that’s just grand. We’ve got a tug-of-war team flying out to Boston the day after next. It’s a bit of a pain in the arse cause you’ll have to make your way cross-country from there, but at least you’ll have some craic on the plane. They’re a good bunch of lads, and it’s a half-decent cover story. Owen O’Brien’s going, d’you know him?’