Vagabond (65 page)

What am I supposed to do? He’s a tout, inherently dishonest, untrustworthy. Shouldn’t be permitted airs and graces, and if he’s above himself then a tax inspector may pay a visit. (A judge in chambers to place a gagging order.) I’ll not be blackmailed. Should be cut off and left to swim, or to sink.

Statement of Sebastian James, Security Service officer, Palace Barracks, NI

Acting on London instructions I visited the hide behind the Riordan farm on that Saturday evening. I was in place when a taxi dropped Malachy Riordan at the end of the farm lane. I have no psychiatric training but he looked to me a devastated and insecure man. He came home and was greeted by his family, who were back from the double funeral of the bomb casualties. He sat outside his door, with his dog, through the evening and late into the night. I stayed (had PSNI back-up) and when the dawn came he was out again. Strange: he seemed to know that someone was watching, but did nothing. He looked up often enough, as if searching for me, and I was ready to bug out fast if he came. He didn’t. Every other time I’ve seen him he was a character of presence, importance and authority, but that’s gone, like a snake’s shed skin.

Two women came. I identified them as Attracta Donnelly, widow of a prominent PIRA fighter, KIA 1991, and Siobhan Nugent, also a widow but her husband was murdered as an informer in the same year: now close friends. I could not hear the words used but the body language showed he was under fierce criticism and could not rebut it. This is the mountain of the legendary Shane Bearnagh, the ‘rapparee’ or guerrilla fighter of centuries ago, and these are fiercely independent and resourceful opponents. Whatever happened, Riordan was a man destroyed and seemed to ride their punches, verbal, like a fighter waiting for the towel to come into the ring. Extraordinary. What happened when he was away is outside my remit.

Subsequent intelligence indicates Malachy Riordan is a spent force, ignored and humiliated. Something else that first day. From my POV, and with my binoculars, I could see a deserted barn, 1500 yards due east of the Riordan farm. In my work area there is an old stager, a former major in a Fusiliers unit. He runs the CHIS, Antelope. He met that morning, I had decent eyeball, with Brendan (Brennie) Murphy: local strategist and motivator. I assume Antelope and Murphy are one and the same. They should not meet again in that location. Anyway, Riordan is now – my opinion – history, a busted flush. I do not expect him to survive.

Concerning lines 6 to 1 from bottom: should be redacted. I understand that Riordan was a secondary target, but the result stands up well in comparison to the main objective. A dangerous man removed from a combat zone. He obviously murdered Frances McKinney, but I fancy that an additional confrontation took place at Milovice before he shot Daniel Curnow: I cannot speculate, except that Curnow damaged him irreparably. Interesting. Riordan is walking dead. He seems to know and fear it.

A silly young man, Sebastian James, imagining himself clever. A vacancy might arise, with swift expedition, for the teaching of intelligence-gathering to local forces – Baghdad or Kabul?

Statement of Hector Mackay, consul, FCO, Calais

I was at the funeral, as HMG representative, of Daniel Curnow, UK citizen but resident in Caen, France. The interment was in the British military cemetery at 49 rue de Fumes, Dunkirk. The Commonwealth War Graves commission, under pressure from a nameless London-based agency, had agreed to find a grave site within the confines, at the extreme north-east corner near the canal. It will carry his name, and the logo ‘Vagabond’. It was a small occasion, a padre from a base in Germany, a Mr Dusty Miller, who claimed to be a life-long friend, a blonde woman, who declined to identify herself to me – she asked the gravedigger to place a picture in the gap between the coffin and the earth but I did not see what it showed – and two French females from the house in Caen where Mr Curnow had lived. Also, a representative of a battlefield-tour company. There were medals on the coffin, quite a few. It was short and no refreshments were served afterwards. We all went our various ways.

Poor that the Service, amid such enthusiastic self-congratulation, was not present: a stain on its reputation. I wish I had known him, not that it would have been easy. He would have been a man I respected. He did his duty, but few thought it necessary to offer gratitude. A different world, thankfully not mine. Yes, I would have liked to know him, and walk with him on those beaches.

I’ll not take lecturing from Carter. An old man doing an Icarus imitation. Wax can get burned and it’s a long way down. We did well and behaved with discretion. I’m aware of necessary etiquette.

Conclusion of Carter, Henry

In brief: a successful operation but insufficient regard paid to the costs it would incur. Some might feel shame for that; others might not.

We will not indulge in Stalinist or Cuban self-flagellation. At the end of the day, among all the cock-ups and cut-backs, we did something that was professionally satisfying. A down-side with Vagabond but not nearly outweighing the good. Remember Matthew’s damn omelette.

He closed it. Tomorrow was another day, and a cabal of northern Islamists was due to have its front doors stoved in during the hour before dawn. It was unlikely that he would ever find time to read the full version, but his chief of staff, a young man with prospects, would annotate and put in place his margin notes. The PA was at the door, holding his coat, hat and gloves, and told him the car was waiting.

It was a cold afternoon and that bitter wind was coming down the coast off the Dutch and Belgian shores, seeming to sweep the dunes. Wide sands had been left by a retreating tide and Dusty, by now, was capable of imagining the long lines of patient men who had waited there, hoping for a lift out. The guide had the tourists and they were on a concrete slipway, but Dusty was left to himself and could imagine. God, he missed Desperate. The sand was in his face, his shoes and his hair. There were runners on the beach, down by the water line, and a couple of heavy-tonnage bulk carriers far out, on the way south from Rotterdam. He missed him so much that his soul ached.

The whistle came. The clouds were low, scudded, and there might be a frost or at least some sleet. Always, at this time of year, with the full force of winter beckoning, the guide had to marshal the visitors and keep up the time discipline. They wouldn’t wish to be at the cemetery when the dark made it impossible to read the names, units and ages. He caught the movement back towards the minibus and scurried to be there before them. The most important moment of his week was Monday evening when the visitors were at Dunkirk to learn of the evacuation and see the place. Most were crushed by it. The cemetery always upset them too. It upset Dusty.

The second most important moment was the Sunday night when he’d drive up from Caen and buy some flowers at a petrol station. He could lean over the wall of the graveyard, which was locked, and drop them on the one plot that was aside from the others.

On the Monday he could go there, stand at the right end, close to where Desperate’s feet would be. So calm in that place. The girl had left Honfleur, and the tour-company people never laid a posy. Only Dusty came.

He had a clear idea of what Desperate would have said, that first evening after he was put in there and the place was shut up for the night. ‘Sorry if I’ve disturbed you, boys. Thanks for finding space for an old ’un. I’m Vagabond, no fixed abode – well, not till now. Anyway, better late than never.’

He went to the minibus, leaving the greyness of the sea behind him. He would drive to the cemetery, and the guide would keep the visitors on the move. They’d be the last out before the clang of the gate. It was always difficult, saying farewell to an old friend. He turned his back on the sea, and the sand, and drove. He could never get the face of his friend out of his mind, but didn’t want to. He’d say it to himself often enough, silent but with his lips moving: ‘You know why they brought you back, why they did it? Because they knew of no one better to get than the call-sign Vagabond. Never was anyone better.’

About The Author

Gerald Seymour spent fifteen years as an international television news reporter with ITN, covering Vietnam and the Middle East, and specialising in the subject of terrorism across the world. Seymour was on the streets of Londonderry on the afternoon of Bloody Sunday, and was a witness to the massacre of Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics.

Gerald Seymour exploded onto the literary scene with the massive bestseller HARRY’S GAME. He has been a full-time writer since 1975, and six of his novels have been filmed for television in the UK and US. THE CORPORAL’S
Wife
is his thirtieth novel.

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and published by Hodder & Stoughton

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