The Negotiator

Good Op

Two days later I got a phone call from Patrick Gilhooley the fence, he was a very troubled man. ‘You’ve got to help me Jack’ he pleaded, ‘I’m in deep shit.’

It transpired that a Sergeant in the Royal Ulster Constabulary by the name of Shaunessy had him bang to rights on some gear he’d been caught with red handed.

‘The greedy bastard wants five hundred quid a week for me to stay out of prison, Jack. I can’t afford that, it would bleed me dry.’

‘So how can I help?’ I asked him, ‘can’t you just report him to the authorities?

‘No chance. He’s a secret member of the Ulster Defence Force. You know what they’re like, if I reported him I’d be dead in twenty-four hours.’

I still couldn’t see how I could help until he said ‘There was a Catholic business man murdered the other day. The gun used is being returned to the cache tomorrow by none other than my Sergeant fuckin’ Shaunessy.’

It made sense, the RUC were not stopped and searched by their own and if the army stopped them, they let them go as soon as they flashed their warrant cards.

‘How do you know about this’ I asked him?’ I had no desire to go running around on a wild goose chase.

‘You know the business I’m in Jack, people gossip, I get to hear all sorts as you know. God, you’ve had some bloody good tips from me in the past.’

It was true, he had given me important info when there’d been little or no risk to himself. We paid him well for it, too. ‘Ok Paddy’ I said, give me the details and consider it done then we’ll be square for the passport, yeah?’

‘Yeah, fine Jack, fine.’ He sounded like a man relieved of a great burden. He didn’t know the location of the arms cache, but he knew where the officer lived and his rough time of departure. It was enough. I went to Harriet and told her. ‘I’ll take a patrol of soldiers with me’ I said. ‘We’ll do a stop and search. My feet will stand it as I won’t have to do any running about.’ To my great relief she agreed.

Up the road from the Police station where we worked, in a disused factory, a Battery of gunners of the Royal Artillery were based. I went there that afternoon and found their Battery Commander. I told him what we had in mind and he was overjoyed. ‘My lads will be up for it’ he told me eagerly, ‘come and meet them Sergeant Major.’

I was led through to the factory where I got a shock. The conditions were squalid to say the least. The men had small camp beds to sleep on with a few lockers around the walls for their kit. The walls were running with damp and the place stank of stale tobacco smoke and sweaty steam as they dried their wet kit. Only their rifles were pristine. They smiled cheerfully when told of the plan. They wanted to know who I was and fired all sorts of questions at me. ‘What do the Intelligence Corps do sir? Asked one keen young gunner.

I gave him the stock joke answer ‘Oh, just the usual spook stuff, thuggery, buggery and general skulduggery.’

The follow-up question was always the same ‘Buggery, sir?’

‘Yeah, we bugger the bad guys lives up.’ That got a moderate laugh. The phrase had been unofficially adopted as an alternative motto like the SAS who had turned theirs from “Who Dares Wins” to “Who Cares Who Wins.” I went on to brief them on the plan for the next day. They were keen as mustard. All were sworn to silence about the Op.

Next day I picked up Shaunessy as he left home and followed him. I wanted to find the cache and get the guns off the street. I got on the radio and told the patrol my route. They responded, getting in front of us without any problem. That I’d be able to follow him right to the cache wasn’t likely as we headed out into the countryside. I called the patrol and gave them the go ahead and left it to them to pick their spot. They came out of a country lane in snatch Landrovers like avenging angels with a perfectly executed zig-zag left and right roadblock. A Humber armoured personnel carrier blocked any chance of escape to the rear. Shaughnessy wound his window down unconcerned. He flashed his warrant card and sat back waiting for the vehicles to move. A Sergeant walked up and ordered him out of the car. He was surprised and started to bluster. The Sergeant pointed his rifle ‘I believe you to be carrying illegal arms, get out now, sir.’

They found the pistol under the spare wheel. It was game over. To lighten his sentence, Shaunessy gave up the location of the cache. Twenty-one weapons were taken out of circulation that day, the gunners were jubilant.

I took a couple of crates of beer around that night to have a celebratory drink with them. I noticed a bed in the corner with a soldier’s kit bag all packed and the sleeping bag rolled ‘some lucky sod off on leave then?’ I asked.

‘No sir, Gunner Watkins was killed two days ago sir, sniper got him sir, nineteen he was sir, a Geordie lad.’

Oh, me and my big mouth. Of course, I’d seen the reports along with others and they tell you just so much but an empty bed space devoid of pin-ups and the lads packed kit brings it home to you with a bang. ‘Oh yes, I managed ‘I’m sorry lads, it slipped my mind.’

They weren’t brought down by my insensitivity ‘never mind sir’ one lad quipped ‘Geordie wouldn’t want us to mope sir, he’d kick our arses and say well don’t just stand there you pack o’ tossers, get the fuckin’ beer in.’ There was a raucous cheer of approval from the rest. Christ, I was choked up but managed to hide it.

They thought the day’s operation the most fun they’d had in ages. Victories like these were hard come by in the province. This incident renewed my love and respect for the ordinary soldier.