The Negotiator

Hell Ship

We sailed that night, the captain appointed me as cook.‘Our cook was one of those who left’ he told me ‘you can’t be any worse than that useless bastard.’

As it happened I learned a bit about cooking stuff on a survival course, so I would be OK. The main danger aboard was the guy who had showed me around the hold. He was the radio operator as well as a deckhand and he made no secret of his dislike for me.

My first challenge would be to disable the radio. I didn’t want Anwar calling them to tell them he’d caught Abdul and that I was a spy. If Abdul was picked up before he got out I couldn’t expect him to stand up to torture. I didn’t sleep that first night.

In the morning I took stock of the galley, it was filthy, and I set too cleaning it, scraping the grease of many voyages from the cooker and scrubbed the floor.

Eggs were plentiful, so everyone got a heap of scrambled eggs on buttered toast with toast to follow and strong coffee. Judging by the satisfied grunts, I was a better chef than my predecessor. I cleared the galley then went on deck, the radio aerial was slung between the masts fore and aft. A co-axial cable ran from the radio shack behind the wheelhouse upwards. It could easily be cut but that would cause problems. Suspicion would automatically fall on me, the new boy.

I examined it more closely when I got the opportunity. The co-axial lead ran from the radio into a junction box before going up the mast. That night I waited until the crew were sleeping, there was only one man in the wheelhouse and he was watching forward. I took a kitchen knife and a small jug of water from the seawater tap. Crouching down I unscrewed the junction box cover a little at the top and filled it with the sea water. I just hoped it would work. I got my answer at noon the next day.

The guy who hated me, I called him Popeye in my mind because he stared with one eye a-squint, went into the radio shack and sent a stream of rapid Morse. As I watched surreptitiously through the window, he listened for while then sent some more. He then tapped the speaker above the radio, plugged in headphones and fiddled with the dials. After another attempt, he reported to the captain. I went into the galley and busied myself peeling potatoes, my head focussed on my work, hell, I even managed to whistle a tune.

The captain obviously saw it as a minor problem, he still had a hand-held VHF set for local communications, but this was switched off. I could understand that, with his cargo, he’d want to keep as quiet as possible.

After listening to Popeye ranting and pointing in my direction, he dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

So far so good. After lunch, I went to the wheelhouse to talk to the captain. He was cautious at first until I told him I’d once done a Day Skipper’s course and was interested in learning more about navigation. He showed me the charts, our course and told me it would be another four days at least to our destination.

I looked concerned ‘Aren’t you worried about the Irish authorities searching us once we’ve docked’ I asked, nervously, ‘I don’t want to do prison time.’

He laughed ‘Relax Jack Murphy, you’re a better cook than a crook, stick to what you know. Do you think I’m stupid?’

His rancid breath filled my nostrils, but I managed not to recoil. I adopted a puzzled expression. ‘No captain, you’re not stupid.’ I continued to look puzzled ‘I’m a businessman, a negotiator, I’ve never been involved with anything like this before.’

He gave me a patronising look ‘Murphy, you are one dumb s**t, we stop just outside Irish territorial waters, all the contraband will be transferred to two Irish fishing boats. They will unload in some quiet cove and we’ll sail on to Dublin free and clear. We will let you go there unless you want to sign on as cook?’ He grinned ‘but I don’t think you’d like that.’

‘No, captain, to be frank, I wouldn’t, that radio guy of yours really doesn’t like me, I’m afraid of him.’

‘You’re right to be afraid Murphy, he’s on the run, he’s been convicted of r**e and murder in Greece. Stay clear of him and do nothing to annoy him, he hates you.'

‘Why?’

‘He hates all Americans, God knows why.’

Next day I was going to the heads when Popeye stepped out in front of me. He was drunk. ‘American bastard' he said, his accent heavy 'I kill.'

He swung at me, I sidestepped, and he went past almost falling over. I didn't want a fight. I could easily have dropped him, but I figured my best chances of survival was to play meek and mild and cook the best I could whilst keeping my head down.

He turned around and drew a flick knife 'I kill, bastard' he snarled and came at me. I backed away telling him I wanted no trouble.

A shout came from the bridge followed by a clattering of feet. Papadopoulos came rushing to my rescue. He held out his hand and barked an order. Popeye tried to push past him to get to me and the captain dropped him with a crushing blow to the belly. He picked up the fallen knife and threw it overboard. He then picked Popeye up and leant him against the rail. He punched him twice more in the guts and let him flop. He shouted to a crewman who got the deck hose and blasted my drunken tormentor with it before carrying him off.

'You'll get no more trouble from that bastard' Papadopoulos said 'I told him he'll get no wages for this trip if I have more trouble.'

I was shocked at the Captains bravery 'You might have been stabbed yourself, captain' I said, genuinely impressed.

'No chance' he laughed, 'none of those thick bastards can navigate. Also, no one gets paid without my say-so. Drunk or sober they know if I'm killed they will all be in deep shit.’

Popeye disappeared for a full day nursing his head in his bunk.

Just less than a day out from our destination, Popeye came to the galley in the early hours where I slept in a hammock. He woke me up, a knife at my throat. He pointed to my watch holding out his hand, sneering. ‘Give.'

I didn’t have to act scared because I was. I handed him my watch then spread my hands in an open gesture as if to say I don’t want trouble. He spat in my face, said something in Greek, then left laughing.

The ship was getting more dangerous by the day. I believed the crew only tolerated me because I cooked good food, once we reached our destination I would be expendable. I had to think of a way to disable the whole crew simultaneously, a tall order. I couldn’t take them all on in a fight. I had less than twenty hours once I’d made breakfast.

Looking around for something for lunch, I came upon a possible solution. At the back of food store was a large packet of dried Kidney beans. I hadn't noticed them before now they looked like my salvation. I took out about a quarter of them and placed them in a mortar. I ground them up as finely as I could. I’d read about them in a book on survival. Unless they’re boiled vigorously for at least twelve minutes they are highly toxic. I’d give them a very special Chilly Con Carne tonight.

All went well with the cooking. I made the chilly in the normal way and opened the galley windows to let the smell drift as far as possible, I loaded it with the garlic that they all seemed to love. I wanted these guys salivating. Just before I served up I put my own on a plate. I always ate in the galley away from the crew as Popeye insisted.

I mixed the powdered kidney beans with a little warm water and stirred it into the chilli and served it. Everyone except Popeye ate theirs. He tasted it, looked at me and sneered. ‘Sheet’ he said curling his lip and went to the porthole and scraped it into the sea. Turning, he looked at me with contempt ‘sheet’ he said again, threw his plate on the table and left. I returned to the galley and ate my food, I would need all my strength later.

For a while, nothing happened then one guy threw up and went below then the captain went down with severe stomach cramps. I locked myself in the heads and pretended to be ill. All were soon down, groaning with pain, unfit to do me any harm. That left Popeye, and he was nowhere to be seen. I went to the bridge, checked the course, and locked the wheel off, landfall was about two to three hours away as far as I could reckon.

It was dark now and the absence of Popeye worried me. The rest of the crew were seriously ill and in no condition to resist me. Uncooked Kidney beans are lethal. As little as one bean per man would be enough to cause serious stomach trouble, I had allowed five beans per man. Well, bugger 'em. If they chose to smuggle arms for a bastard like Gadaffi they deserved all they got.

l sneaked to the stern where a door led down to the crew's quarters I needed to check on them. I opened the door and peeked in. It was damn near the last thing I ever did.

I heard him grunt as he swung. I ducked and spun, the knife scraped through my hair and stuck in the door post. I chopped upwards at his balls, but he was like a cat. He read my intention and leapt backwards, my hand brushed his trousers harmlessly. I jumped up and sidestepped but I had very little room, the rail was to my right, a winch to my left and behind me, the crew quarters blocked any escape. I was trapped.

He paused and laughed, a sound between a snake hiss and a hyena. Popeye was enjoying himself.

‘Now you die American bastard’ he started swaying left and right. In the dim light from the open cabin door, I could see the gleaming blade. I recognised it at once, it was my favourite cooking knife, one foot long and razor sharp. He was in no hurry, relishing his moment. I had to wind him up, make him angry enough to make a mistake.

‘So, you speak some English you murdering, r****t scum’ I said mustering all the contempt I could ‘how old was she? Eleven? Twelve?

He screamed and lunged. I swayed aside in the nick of time and managed to get a glancing blow into the side of his head, but it was not enough.

He stepped back two paces, beckoning me to approach. ‘Come, American bastard, I make quick for you.’ I’d been taught about knife fighting in training and the best advice was don’t fight, run. Great in theory, but I had nowhere to run to. The odds were all with him.

I had to avoid his every thrust, he had only to get lucky once.

‘Nice try arsehole,’ I told him ‘I’m going to take that knife off you and chop your dirty r****t’s d**k off.’ I could hear little choking noises coming from deep in his throat, he was really wound up now. I stepped back in front of the cabin door, in silhouette to him. I had a plan now, but it was hellish risky, a split second too early or too late and I’d be dead, but it was all I had.

‘What are you waiting for shithead, would you like to suck my c**k first?’ as I said it, I grabbed my genitals, gesturing towards him. He screamed his hatred and lunged again, lightning fast. I threw myself at his feet curling into a ball as I did so.

It took him by surprise as his legs stopped dead on hitting me and he catapulted over me and down the companionway steps into the crew quarters. He landed with a thud, eight feet below and lay there moaning. I launched myself down the steps aiming my feet at his kidneys. He cried out and writhed in agony as my feet struck home. I saw the knife three feet away to his front. I dived for it and whirled, the advantage was with me now and I was no mood for mercy.

I stood over him, he’d rolled on his back. He raised one hand defensively, his face reflecting his horror ‘Please, no’ he said, then I thrust twice in quick succession stabbing deep through both his biceps. He screamed as his arms flopped uselessly at his side. I picked him up in a fireman’s lift and carried him back up the companionway.

At the top, I laid him down and cut his fly from belt to crotch. He looked on in helpless horror as I slowly sawed his c**k off and stuck it into his screaming mouth. As I threw him over the rail I couldn’t resist one last jibe ‘You should have eaten the chilli, Popeye.’ Too late I realised the bastard had still been wearing my watch, s**t!

I checked on the rest of the crew two were dead and the other two were on their way. The captain was in his cabin propped against his bed. He pointed to a drawer ‘please Jack’ I opened the drawer to find an ancient Webley pistol, officers issue of the first world war. If I’d known that was there my job would have been much easier.

As he wretched and swayed, sat in a pile of his own filth he looked on the edge of death. He was the best of this crew of amoral gun runners. Maybe I felt a little sorry for the bugger. I shot him in the head and ended his misery. Now I had another task.

I went to the stern where an ancient clinker built lifeboat hung from davits. I lowered it half way to the water then went to the hatch cover. The hold was covered in heavy planks with a stout tarpaulin stretched over them and lashed down. A few slashes with the knife and the ropes parted. I slid the tarp off and tackled the planks.

Lifting the heavy baulks of timber was a two man job, I remembered an emergency crowbar and axe fastened to the wall in the bridge. I ran there now desperately worried about time. I got the crowbar under the edge of one of the timbers and managed to raise it, but the bloody thing slipped back with a thud. Twice more I tried before I managed to get a grip and with a desperate effort dragged it towards me, so the other end fell into the hold. In spite of the cool evening, I was sweating profusely now. Two planks were enough for me to be able to reach the ladder and climb down.

In the dim hold light, I used the axe I used to smash packing boxes of Semtex. It took another five minutes searching to find timers and detonators. My hands were shaking as I stuck the axe into my belt and assembled the device but at last, I placed it in the explosives. How long to give it? I reckoned I had about half an hour, so not much time to destroy the ship and effect my escape. I needed to be a long way from the ship when it went up.

I ran to the bridge to check my position. I couldn’t see the leading lights that marked the course into a small harbour yet, but the lighthouse on a rocky islet off the starboard bow was flashing clearly, seven short flashes followed by a three-second long flash. It was what I’d seen on the chart which told me it was visible for ten miles.

The instructions were clear: When the lighthouse was at 42 degrees off the starboard side and two leading lights aligned one behind the other on my port side and the wreck buoy was spotted on the bow, I’d be in position.

I raced for the engine room and slowed to four knots. Back on the bridge, I checked the ship’s chronometer.

Papadopoulos had marked the chart meticulously, the bearings to the markers, and the course to steer was clearly marked. The old Decca depth gauge was still not showing a depth, so the water was still very deep here. Could I open the seacocks? Would it sink in time? Probably not. The timings were pencilled in the chart margin.

It was the dark of the moon and as black as ink. The sea state was calm and the onshore wind light, which was a real blessing as I would be alone in the lifeboat. I didn’t want to be fighting steep seas.

The transfer was to be at three a.m. at slack water. It made sense to do it in that vital hour when the tide was neither going in or out. It would make the transfer much easier. I checked the wheelhouse chronometer again. It was going to be bloody close run.

I switched off the navigation lights and crept in closer and closer. I could see all the markers now, the leading lights were slowly coming into line. Would there be a light signal? or some coded voice challenge? I’d no idea. I just hoped the trawlers were alongside when the ship went up. Twelve minutes to slack water I reckoned I was too close and reduced speed again until I barely had steerage way. I switched on the handheld VHF there was a pencilled note on the charts edge Ch73. I tuned to the channel as the sound of powerful marine diesel engines were heard starting from the shore. Time to be gone.

I ran to the engine room and reduced the speed to zero. She would slowly lose way then stop. I ran for the stern and lowered the lifeboat into the water.

Tying the hatch ropes to the stern rail, I climbed down into the boat. It had a central engine and six large oars; I used a pair to row out to sea keeping myself between the ship and the trawlers. I didn’t know how good their radar was.

Two minutes after slack water an Irish voice came on the radio ‘Sirius B, Sirius B, Sirius B, radio check Over.’ He didn't give his own call sign which made sense. I didn’t answer thinking of what best to do. The trawler’s engines sounded a lot closer now as I rowed for dear life. If they didn’t get a reply they might stand off and be left intact, I wanted the buggers blown to hell. ‘Sirius B, Sirius B, Sirius B, is all in order, over?’

I affected what I hoped was an accent similar to the Greeks I’d spent the last few days with. ‘Dees eez Sirius B, Sirius, B. I haff small technical problem in engine room, please come aboard, over.’

‘Roger that Sirius B, alongside in three minutes, Over.’

‘OK, I too busy now, please come.’ As it was pitch dark the absence of people on deck might not be noticed. I rowed now with all my might, I desperately need more distance from the ship. I daren’t use the engine for fear of being heard.

The trawler engines were thrumming loudly now as they closed with the ship. Then their engines slowed, before cutting altogether. I heard a shout coming faintly over the water. It galvanised me to even greater effort. I strove on the oars until my arms felt like they were being ripped from my shoulders. The treatment Anwar’s thugs had given me was still taking a toll as I struggled to put more distance between me and the freighter.

Then the whole sky lit up with a sun-brilliant flash. A second later the shock wave hit me, knocking me into the bottom of the boat and winding me, then came a great roaring noise. No need for caution now, I scrambled to my knees and started the engine and opened it up, turning the bows one hundred and eighty degrees to point to where half the Sirius B was ablaze and sinking fast. I knew what must come next and come it did.

The huge wave caused by the blast lifted my bows skyward until I thought I would tip over backwards, then I was plunging down the back of the wave. The bows dug in and water flooded in soaking my feet, the following waves were violent but smaller. Then she righted herself quickly and the danger passed.

In the blaze of light from burning fuel oil, I saw that Sirius B had gone down. The bows of a fishing boat were sticking up vertically, the sea foaming as air gushed up all around her. The second boat was lying on her side, she too, was spilling air. Two bodies were floating face down, there was no sign of survivors. I had been lucky, but my next set of problems were only just beginning.

I left the light of burning fuel oil on my port side and motored at a steady pace angling up the coast. I needed distance between me and the wreck site.

After an hour I cut the engine and listened. I heard the waves rolling and rumbling, sucking on a shingle beach. I turned toward the land as a faint light began to show in the eastern sky. I thanked my lucky stars, there were a lot of cliffs and rocky patches along the shore that would have made landing hazardous if not impossible.

I slowed the engine as I saw the white foam of breaking waves, the roar of the surf now drowning out the engine noise. Then she beached and I jumped out. I took the axe from my belt and stove in a strake just above the waterline at the bow then I turned her to face out to sea. I waded in, the water was icy cold as it washed my thighs and shocked my system. Leaning into the boat I opened the throttle. The boat took off, slowly filling as she threw up a bow wave. She’d make a few hundred yards before filling and going down. I didn’t want a lifeboat found on the beach instigating a vigorous search for survivors.

I walked inshore, the land was barren bog with no paths that I could see. I stumbled and tumbled, my shoes sodden, my legs freezing. The rest of me was none too warm either. I crouched down and searched the landward horizon One small patch looked darker than the rest, so I headed there. I was shivering violently now. It would be ironic if I had escaped all the hazards so far only to die of exposure on an Irish heath.

The shape turned out to be an old roofless cottage, empty since the days of the potato famine. At least it would hide me for now. Inside, I stripped my wet clothes off and rubbed my body as vigorously as I could with my jacket to restore my circulation.

When the sun came up the day gradually warmed. I spread my suit in the Sun. The ten thousand dollars was soaked, and I spread it on the cottage floor, twenty, five hundred dollar bills. I looked out cautiously from the frameless window of my new home. I might have been on the moon for all I saw, just moorland stretching to the horizon. They had chosen a very remote place for unloading the arms. I reckoned I was at least four miles down the coast from where the Sirius B went down, taking the fishing boats with her. Did anyone see or hear the explosion? Probably. When would the fishing boats be reported overdue and an air search started? So many dangers to be overcome and I was too dog tired to think straight.

Sitting naked on the sunny side of the cottage, I nodded off for a little while despite my hunger and thirst. I awoke to the sound of helicopter engines far away down the coast. I took stock of my situation. Anwar would soon be aware of the destruction of the arms shipment. Would he care? He’d been paid, hadn’t he? However, he was not a man who would take kindly to being deceived. His ego would demand vengeance. He would guess I’d done it, therefore I was probably still alive. That he was in contact with O’Rourke’s gang I knew, but would they still deal with him after he killed their boss? Probably, if the money was right. I judged that O’Rourke had not been the type of leader who inspired loyalty.

The gift of arms from Libya was a one-off, the Provo’s still needed their Boston supplier. Finding that supplier and closing them down was a job still to be done. This had been my prime mission until I got side tracked to Libya. Would it be possible to meet with Patricia again? Definitely not, unless she came North. All these questions and more kept me occupied as the sun crept higher and the day grew warmer. I sat up straight, crossed my legs in the lotus position and meditated for forty minutes. I felt better for it, my mind cleared of its doubts and fears and I focussed on getting back North.

One thing was certain, I had to get North to report to Harriet, she would have no idea I’d sailed with the arms, just the info from my Derna phone call. I needed debriefing on my Libyan escapade as a priority.

I looked at the remnants of my Maltese suit. I’d been wearing the trousers and an old singlet to perform my galley work, they were splashed with grease and badly crumpled. My shirt and jacket looked little better. I looked like a tramp, so a tramp I would be; most people tend to steer clear of tramps. So, with a bit of luck, I’d get back to Harriet, but great care would be needed. If I had to speak, both my English and American accents would betray me. Another thing was that I hadn’t eaten or had a drink for hours. Well bollocks I told myself, it takes six weeks to starve to death and this was bog country so there would be water about so stop whingeing.

I waited until dusk, I figured if anyone took notice of me then I’d act like a raving tramp, I certainly looked the part with five days growth of stubble, long tousled hair and my filthy clothes. I could make vague noises if addressed and point to my mouth and ears.

As the last rays of the sun began to fade I left my refuge and walked down what had been the cottage track. It was broken and overgrown, so I had to pick my way carefully, a broken ankle now could prove fatal.

There was an old drainage ditch beside the track with water in the bottom. I lay down and drank, it tasted a bit brackish but was better than I expected. The path led to a single track road after a mile or so. The road went roughly north so I walked on as the darkness grew, the lane twisted and turned but continued in the general direction I needed to go. Eventually, it came out on a minor road but with no signs.

Cloud now obscured the sky; the stars were invisible. It started to rain, a miserable cold drizzle that soaked me to the skin.

Turning in what I thought was the right direction, I walked as swiftly as I could, but it was obvious I’d need transport if I was to get anywhere. My feet were now blistered from the rubbing of my sodden shoes. I cursed myself for not stripping off before sending the lifeboat to its doom. After two hours the minor road joined a main road with a fair amount of traffic. Now I couldn’t help but be seen. Then I saw an old whiskey bottle lying at the roadside. I picked it up and started to weave slightly, holding the bottle on the traffic side of the road. Any good Samaritan tempted to offer me a lift would now, surely, be put off. I couldn’t afford to risk thumbing a lift.

Traffic streamed by. A couple of drivers honked me and flashed their headlights as they passed, announcing their annoyance at a drunk weaving along on an unlit road. I ignored them. After an hour my feet hurt so bad I had to stop and take my shoes and socks off. I stuffed them in my jacket pockets and walked on barefoot. Small stones now hurt the soles of my feet, but I could ignore it. At least my raw blistered heels were no longer being rubbed bloody and raw.

After another hour staggering along I was looking for somewhere to get my head down for a while when I saw my salvation.

It came in the form of an open backed lorry parked in a layby, it’s driver asleep. The sign on the tailgate announced it belonged to Thomas Kearny and son of Derry. I climbed over the back and found it to be full of the sort of crates that they packed machinery in. I squeezed in between a couple of them out of sight of the rearview mirror and lay down. Despite my discomfort, I was exhausted enough to sleep.

I awoke sometime later when the lorry moved off. I was shivering with cold from my wet clothes and thirst again troubled me but at least it had stopped raining. Then I nodded on and off as the lullaby of tires on tarmac sent me in and out of the arms of Morpheus. After a while sheer exhaustion claimed me. I awoke to the sound of voices. They were jovial and friendly ‘All right Michael, on your way, your holding up the traffic, love to Maria.’ The driver replied with some witticism I couldn’t hear, and we jolted off, laughter fading behind us. I gingerly raised my head until I could see over the tailgate. It was a border post. Ye gods, I was back in the north.

The lorry gained speed and I fell again into a fitful doze as it sped along the highway, ever North.

We stopped at a truck stop and the driver got out. I sneaked from behind my crates and sat at the tailgate. Raising my head to look around, there was no one parked behind. I climbed out and my bare feet hit the sharp gritty ground.

‘Who the f**k are you?’ an aggressive voice said. I whirled round to see a red-faced man in a boiler suit who had been working, unseen, under the lorry next to mine. I had to think fast. I pulled the whiskey bottle out of my pocket, smiled and offered it to him. ‘It’s empty you stupid bastard’ he said angrily ‘and there’s nothing to steal around here anyway yer drunken bugger’ he kicked my leg hard ‘who the f**k are you, pal, eh?’ he gripped my lapel and thrust me up against the side of the lorry. He started slapping my face. 'What the f**k was you doing in there?'

I could have dropped him with a single blow, but that would never have done. I tried to retreat, pointing at my mouth and ears, making pathetic whining noises. He raised his fist and I cowered trying to look terrified.

A woman's voice cried out 'What on earth do you think you're doing?' Two Nuns had pulled up unheard and one was marching across the car park 'Can you not see he's just a poor, harmless loon? Let him be.'

The man scowled at the nuns but let me go ‘on yer way, yer dumb bastard.’ he growled.

The nun closed with him berating him for being unchristian. He was spluttering and muttering apologetically. I tottered away as quickly as I could. I've never had reason to be grateful for religion before, but it sure helped me out of a spot then.

I suppose it had been too much to ask to make it unseen all the way. Further up the road, I put my shoes on again. They hurt like hell, but I didn’t want to attract more attention than necessary and certainly not pity. Offers of cups of tea from kind, well-meaning souls like those nuns could lead to problems.

I found a phone box at last. I rang the operator but what accent to use? My Irish accent was far from perfect but, if I kept it brief I might pull it off. I asked for reverse charge call to the switchboard. They accepted without question.

Harriet asked me the clearance question to prove I was not acting under duress, then burst out ‘where the hell have you been, Jack? Good god man, we thought you dead.’ There was no hiding the immense relief in her voice, ‘where are you?’

I read the location of the phone box. ‘We’ll pick you up asap’ she said, in the meantime try to keep out of trouble.’ She hung up.

Across the road from the phone box was a bus shelter. I went and sat in it holding the whiskey bottle and muttering under my breath. People will do almost anything to avoid a mumbling tramp. They stood outside the shelter, casting disgusted glances at me from time to time, relieved when their bus came.

About an hour and forty-five minutes later a car pulled up and the window went down. Jonno’s amused face beamed out at me. ‘Come on yer scruffy bleeder’ came his cheerful cockney voice ‘I hope you don’t smell as bad as you look.’

I sat in the briefing room with a mug of steaming coffee and a huge bacon and egg sandwich in my fist. Harriet waited until I made the sandwich vanish, which didn’t take long then she smiled, genuinely pleased to see me again. It was great to see her smile, to know she was pleased to see me gave me sensations of delight.

‘We thought you were a goner Jack’ she said ‘a headless torso was washed up on a beach in Eire yesterday, it had been pretty badly chopped up going through a ship’s propeller. It’s one remaining arm was wearing an Omega Sea Master watch, the serial number proved it was yours.’

She started the recorder and I told her everything that had happened as concisely as I could. She still had a lot of questions I could tell, but she sent me off to have a shower and a long sleep. That’s something Frank would never have done. I was beginning to like Harriet a lot, I got a kind of warm buzz when I was around her.

We still had no idea how American arms were getting to the Provo’s from the USA. If it was O’Rourke’s mob, and current intelligence thought it was, he had been bloody clever. Now he was dead would the shipments dry up or continue? Again, the current thinking was that they would continue. His gang were still in business and there was a lot of profit in arms.

The next thing I had to consider was would it be safe to go back to the USA to try and discover how the shipments were being made? Harriet said no, it was far too risky.

O’Rourke had kept the Provos in the dark as much as possible about his Libyan connections. He wouldn’t risk them going directly to Libya and doing a deal of their own, cutting him out. OK, they’d known that Gadaffi had supplied this last shipment, but they had no idea who to contact there.

O’Rourke would have made it sound like his patriotic duty to arrange it or maybe he had a friend on the take in the Provos, I would not have put it past Hanrahan. Either way, it was considered too dangerous for me to return to either America or Eire to further the investigation. That decision stuck in my craw, I was sure the Hanrahan’s could throw a lot more light on the situation. If I could get Patricia to talk, we may well be able to clear up the mystery and cut off a vital terrorist arms supply. But that was easier said than done.

Harriet wouldn’t hear of my further involvement. ‘You’ve done a brilliant job Jack’ she told me, ‘and you are far too valuable to use on such an operation. The risks factors are extremely high, and we simply do not have enough insight into who knows what. You could be walking to your death.’ She closed her file with a decisive stroke that told me she’d made her decision and that it was final. Frank would have sent me in a heartbeat.

Nineteen seventy-six rolled on. Harold Wilson had resigned in the March and James Callahan was the new Prime Minister. It was rumoured he hadn’t the same abilities as Wilson. I wasn’t too up on politics, but it seemed to me that the only solution had to be a political one. No one was winning, and the poor bloody British soldier was, as usual, being asked to stand in the middle with one hand tied behind his back with regulations and sort it all out.

The rules of engagement were very strict and a desire not to get into trouble made some less experienced soldiers hesitate when they should have been shooting, leading to unnecessary injuries and deaths. Most politicians were clueless when it came to combat. Our lads were dying on the streets, fighting a war with no recognisable enemy. In mainland UK, bombs were going off as the IRA sought to impose its will by the bullet and the bomb.

In Armagh five Catholic men had been murdered and shortly afterwards ten protestant mill workers were forced out of a minibus, lined up and shot and so the senseless slaughter continued unchecked. It seemed like every bugger and his dog had a gun and was itching to use it.

The Intelligence Corps and we in 14th Company did all we could, but we sometimes felt we were pissing against the wind. Not that we got despondent, though, we had victories, too. Jonno got a line on some Provos who had acquired a stinger shoulder mounted Anti-Aircraft missile.

How the hell he pulled that off I could only wonder. The intelligence was that the Provos planned to bring down a Chinook troop-carrying helicopter. They were sighting up on a small chopper in South Armagh as a rehearsal when the SAS ambushed them. Unfortunately, the SAS lads in their enthusiasm killed both members of the team and their lookout, so we didn’t get to interrogate them.