The Negotiator

Back to Boston

I was dismissed curtly and returned to my room with orders to stay away from the mess and not to discuss anything with my fellow soldiers. Jonno came to my room that night with a bottle of Bushmills. He had enough sense not to ask questions about my operational matters, although he must have been burning with curiosity. He simply poured two large ones and tumbled in some ice he’d brought. ‘I thought you might like a quiet tot mate’ he said smiling at me.

‘Cheers’ I told him and downed it in one. He poured another and I held it up for a toast ‘here’s to the end of an unglittering career.’

‘Not like you to feel sorry for yourself Jack’ he said, looking at me with deep concern in his eyes.

‘I’m not sorry for me’ I told him ‘I’m sorry for a poor bloody woman whose husband beat her to death for trying to protect me.’ He looked horrified. ‘Sorry Jonno, I can’t discuss it mate.’ He nodded, he knew the rules.

We had a couple more then he left, and I pressed my best uniform, admired my new haircut in the mirror then went to bed. I was tired, mentally and physically exhausted by recent events. The Bushmills conspired with my exhaustion to send me into a deep sleep. I went up to Headquarters early next morning to find myself being marched in to see Brigadier Alasdair McCormack, a bluff non-nonsense Scot with a not unkindly face. He was already waiting for me at his desk. I stood rigidly to attention whilst he finished signing some papers.

He looked up, staring at me long and hard then, surprisingly said ‘coffee Sergeant Major?’

‘Er ah, yes sir, please. Black no sugar’ he had taken me completely surprise, brigadiers don’t send for anyone on disciplinary matters then offer them coffee. He waved me to a seat ‘Do sit down Sergeant major’ he said amiably ‘Jack, isn’t it?’

I nodded, this was looking s**t bad. If anyone of his rank was using a mere Sergeant Major’s first name, then it had to be for a reason and that reason usually boded ill for the recipient of such grace.

We sipped our coffee in silence for a moment, the only sound the ticking of a large old French table clock sitting incongruously in the middle of his ornate desk, clearly the man loved antiques. I wiped my hand along the edge of the desk in an involuntary move, admiring its beauty for this, too, was French made around the beginning of the nineteenth century.

‘Ah, you like the desk I see, know what it is?’

‘No sir, although it looks French around the early the eighteen hundreds. A superb piece, sir.’ I wasn’t trying to flatter him, I genuinely loved furniture of this period. He sensed I was not trying to bullshit him.

‘Would you believe that this is one of the actual desks Napoleon used? Only one of them mind you, he used very many desks in his time.’ I said it looked an expensive piece and he laughed ‘It was stolen by an ancestor of mine after Waterloo. He must have reckoned he’d earned it, he probably had, too.

He then became serious ‘Look here Jack’ he said, becoming all business ‘I can understand why you wanted some time to yourself, you’ve had it rather rough lately, but the fact is we cannot have soldiers deciding what orders they will obey and which they won’t.’

I nodded ‘yes sir.’

‘This is a damned difficult situation I’ll admit. ‘Your Colonel suggests you be court martialled’ he said, frowning ‘the last thing I want is to court martial a man of your calibre whose work has had such a major impact on the enemy. There is, however, a way out for both the Army and yourself, if you’re interested?’

‘I’m all ears sir.’

He went on to explain that the Americans were getting cold feet over collaborating with us against the IRA. If it got out about the huge extent to which they were actively helping us, the current administration in Washington would be deeply embarrassed., They would lose huge swathes of the Irish American vote; something they can ill afford to do.’

‘So where does that leave me, sir?’

‘If you are prepared to go to Boston as a civilian and stop these infernal arms shipments, then all charges against you would be dropped. We can arrange to have you discharged on medical grounds as cover and give you all the help we can, which isn’t much I’m afraid. You’d be on your own and totally deniable if you got caught or killed.’ He smiled wanly ‘Not a good proposition I’ll admit, and if you told me to go to hell I would understand.’

I thought about it. This would put me back into the game, to get revenge for Patricia. Poor bloody Patricia who had loved her abuser so much she couldn’t stop herself going back to the bastard. Returning even though she knew he’d beat her for her wilfully disobeying him and thwarting his attempt to capture me.

I couldn’t go back to Eire, I was too well known there, and Hanrahan would get wind of my arrival very quickly. It was his turf and he held all the cards there.

In Boston it was a different kettle of fish altogether. Few people knew me there, I could pass as a native American or a British businessman at the drop of a hat, and those bloody arms had to have a trail somewhere. ‘I’ll think about it sir’ I said, I was not about to rush half-arsed into anything. If one thing the Army had taught me, it was not to volunteer.

He looked disappointed ‘well don’t take too long Jack, this needs to be done as a matter of urgency.’

Yeah, urgent for you pal, I thought, but it’s my arse on the line here, so I’ll take my time.

I went to the mess at HQ where the mess sergeant found me a quiet room at the back of the building. I was here to think not socialise, besides word travels fast in the military and most mess members knew I was here because I was in some sort of trouble. They’d avoid me in case it rubbed off.

After dinner, taken alone at a table so remote the mess waiters had difficulty finding me, I ate and retired to my room. I meditated for forty minutes then took a shower, poured myself a large Bushmills and climbed into bed. I fell into a dream filled sleep. I kept seeing Abdul driving me to his cousin’s house and the phone. I saw myself sneaking up his cousin’s back yard, the stacks of timber waiting to be turned into the flimsy coffins propped against the walls the wood so white it took on the colour of bleached bones. The back door with its lock so simple a child could pick it. I saw Abdul in Anwar’s clutches being tortured. My dreams were all mixed up, reflecting my fears. I awoke around five a.m. knowing what my answer would be.

The Brigadier was startled when I outlined my plan, ‘that’s hellish risky’ he told me, and it could bring the Corps into disrepute. I don’t think I could sanction that.’

‘Sorry sir, but it’s my way or no way’ I told him.

He glared at me for a long few seconds, Brigadiers are not accustomed to taking ultimatums from NCO’s.

‘You’re a damned insubordinate bugger Sergeant Major, and that’ fact’s  he paused to consider for a moment then said, ‘give me more details.’

‘If you discharge me on medical grounds they’ll not believe it for a second. Bullshit will be their first and, accurate, reaction. They’ll know I’m still working for you. If, however, you find my plan acceptable, there’s a good chance they’ll think I’m no longer a threat.’

He considered this for a moment ‘But Anwar is a vengeful man, he may well use his considerable resources to come after you still.’

‘That’s a chance I suppose, sir, but one I’ll have to take.’

A man doesn’t get to be a Brigadier without taking chances, and Brigadier McCormack was an intelligent officer who reached decisions quickly. ‘I like it’ he said, ‘as a plan it’s good. It has its risks, yes, but it gives us the best chance of success.’

A leak was made to a certain member of the press who fancied he had a secret source inside the RUC. In fact, we threw him a few genuine titbits, then used him to get our own version of stories out when it suited us tactically. This was one such occasion.

The only other person in on the plot was Harriet.

In our police station, I was called to the desk, arrested and cuffed publicly in front of the custody Sergeant and his staff. A blanket was placed over my head and I was dragged out of the front door of the police station by two large Military Policemen in uniform. I loudly protested my innocence as I was thrown unceremoniously into the back of a Military Police Landrover and driven off at speed.

It was announced in the press that a British Army intelligence officer had been arrested in Belfast on charges of conspiring with criminals to launder one million dollars. An escrow account in his name had, in the last few months, been drawn by him and the cash sent to a shady offshore bank. When arrested, the report went on, he was found to be in possession of a large number of American dollars which he could not account for. He was due to be court-martialled the following month in the meantime he was being held at a secret location to prevent contact with possible co-conspirators.

No hint of my identity was given in the press but, to those in the know, it was obvious. The accompanying photo showed me being escorted by the MP’s, my head blanketed, it made the story all the more believable. It was sent to the wire services and picked up by the National press in England. They posted lurid headlines like: “The Spy Who Came in For the Gold” I was also speculatively linked to an Irish woman whose body had been recently recovered from the Thames. Police were investigating.

Recent intelligence reports from Egypt said that Abdul and his cousin had made good their escape. Abdul had set up a small taxi company and his cousin was busier burying bodies than he’d ever been. So, the truth about the dollars I’d given to Abdul was safe. That was one less worry.

I was now temporarily out of the equation as far as Hanrahan and Anwar were concerned. They would assume I’d kept the fifty thousand dollars expenses for myself, after all, it’s what they would have done, and that it had led to my downfall. They could now stop actively searching for me, or so I hoped.

The only fly in the ointment was that US intelligence services wouldn’t go along with it. The American public largely sympathised with the IRA rebels. After all, they had a history of rebellion themselves and the nightly propaganda on TV reinforced this. The authorities saw the problem of the IRA to be a domestic British one; they had yet to suffer terrorism themselves. A lot of Irish American votes were at stake and they were a powerful lobby on Capitol Hill. There was just too much to lose for them and too little to gain. They’d helped in the past, yes, but this was getting more complicated than first envisioned. This time they washed their hands.

So, whilst I was supposedly locked away in a Jail somewhere in England, I was in an MI5 safe house planning. If the powers that be had issued me with a passport it would be a perfect one. To distance the government from involvement, I had to arrange my own, a good forgery.

‘Leave that to me’ I’d told them. A thing about spook life is that one develops a network of informants, stooges, and greedy bastards who would sell their mothers for money. I called these people my “friends in low places.” I rang one now, Patrick Gilhooley.

‘Is that yerself Paddy?’ I asked in a cheerful, mock Irish accent.

‘Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, grant us peace, ‘tis himself and no other’ came the jovial reply.

No bugger spoke like that for real, it was a sort of joke code between us that let the other know all was well.’ What can I do for you?’ he asked after the usual banter and name calling.

‘I need a passport Paddy, a visa that will get me into the states and a driving an American driving licence, too.’

‘You gonna escape from jail then? He asked.

‘Yeah mate, it’s almost arranged, but I need a passport.’

‘Is that all’ he growled ‘why don’t you ask for the fuckin’ moon, too?’

‘The thing is Paddy, I can’t get back to the holy turf for a while. Can you help me?’ He went quiet for a long while. I knew better than to interrupt his thought train.

‘Christ almighty’ he said at last ‘it will be no easy thing, and I suppose you want the fucker yesterday?’

‘Or the day before that’ I answered, ‘you’re a mind reader Paddy.’

‘Gilhooley was the biggest and best fence in Belfast, he could sell anything the bad guys cared to steal. He collected a lot of information just through doing his job. A committed Loyalist, he kept a very low profile, often proclaiming he didn’t give a s**t about politics or religion nor anything but business. Every thief used his services, Protestant and Catholic alike. The year before I’d pulled him out of the deep s**t when he was raided and certain to do a long stretch. I made sure that some evidence was made inadmissible and that some disappeared, one of the advantages of sharing a station with the RUC.

‘There’s a Jock guy in Holborn, name of McGinty, he’s the best, but he’s expensive, very expensive. I’ll give him a ring and see if I can call in a few favours. Call back in half an hour.’

I rang. ‘Be at the Old Holborn underground station at nine sharp tomorrow morning, hold up a placard with the name Gilfoyle on it, oh, and have a passport photo and hundred quid ready, the hundred is just for the courier, I owe McGinty a lot more than that.’

‘I’ll make it up to you’ I said,

‘Oh, you will, me boy, you will’ he said enthusiastically ‘just wait ‘til I see you again, you ugly bastard’ the phone went dead in my hand.

Underneath the banter Paddy was pissed off I could tell, but I really would make it up to him later, if I wasn’t dead or in jail. One had to be very careful to keep these matters balanced, these people could swear undying friendship one day and betray you the next.

An MI5 spook took my place and made the contact with the courier, they were not letting me out of their sight until departure time. I flew to Boston three days later. I was now James Salt, a businessman. I had a credit card, in my assumed name with strict orders not to take the piss with it. I had a well-travelled suitcase and a leather attaché case, also well used. I booked into a mid-range hotel and arranged to hire a car the next day.

First things first I thought, take a look at the premises of the late Mr O’Rourke’s business to refresh my memory. Harriet had done some research and found the company was now owned by one Sean Joseph O’Rourke, A nephew of the late owner.

The O’Rourke business was housed in an ordinary warehouse and office complex, nothing special except I knew there was an alarm system all over it. The system was old and far from the state of the art. I walked around the building in broad daylight.

The area was busy with people coming and going so I wouldn’t be noticed. A yard at the back was enclosed by a twelve-foot high wall and steel double gates, which were open. The back door was a huge roller shutter affair and looked sturdy enough. There was a small window with opaque glass to one side of the door at shoulder height. A possibility, I thought. The alarm system had not been replaced since my last visit, it still looked ancient. The squawk box high on the wall was sun faded with a rust streak running from one corner. Possibilities, I thought.

I made a visit to an electrical store and bought a few items. Next was a hardware store where I bought some other things. A military surplus store was last on the list where more purchases were made. I thought now I was as ready as I’d ever be. After an early dinner that night I left my hotel dressed in black jeans a lightweight close knit polo necked jumper and black trainers with a haversack on my back. I told the pleasant but inquisitive receptionist I had difficulty sleeping nights so was going for a long walk to tire myself out.

I drove to O’Rourke’s warehouse and parked the car two streets away. It was still far too early but leaving the hotel dressed for hiking at some late hour might give rise to unwanted curiosity.

There were still too many people about, so I did go walking. As I passed the front of the O’Rourke building I got the shock of my life. Hanrahan was leaving by the front door with a younger guy. They were too busy with their conversation to notice anyone else. They got into a car and drove away. It was too late to try to follow. By the time I’d gotten back to my car, they could be anywhere.

I resigned myself to accepting that Hanrahan would have to wait his turn and continued to walk, my head working overtime wondering what that bastard was up to and what the possibility of a hit might be.

Hours later, at one a.m., the district was at last deserted. I looked at the front office it was on a well-lit street with occasional passing traffic. I went around the back; the steel gates were now closed and locked as I expected. Climbing them would make too much noise. So, I went along the wall a few paces, stopping in deep shadow. I slid off my haversack and took the knotted rope and a folding grappling hook out. One throw was all it took as the grapple caught on the wall top. I tested it with my weight. It held. Climbing the wall was easy. I sat astride the top and reversed the hook, climbing down into the yard. I crossed silently to the small window and removed my crowbar from the haversack along with a few more items.

Great care was now needed. I prised the wood away near the bottom but not too far as the alarm contacts had to stay in effective magnetic range. I inserted a small steel plate on a stiff wire and ran it along the bottom of the frame until I felt the magnetic contact grip it. I could now prise the window open. The catch popped, and the window opened without damaging the woodwork. I climbed in and found myself in a lavatory.

The warehouse beyond yielded no clue as to any clandestine activity. They were racks labelled goods inward and goods outward. I moved to the offices. I remembered where O'Rourke's office was on the first floor. I kept to the wall using the edge of the stairs in case of more pressure plates. One of the stairs still squeaked a little.

Arriving at the top of the stairs the MD’s office was the same except the name on the door now read S J O’Rourke Chairman. It was locked.

My improvised lock picks were not ideal but after a few minutes, I prevailed. Stepping over the pressure plate, I made my way to the desk mindful of the other plate I’d detected next to the desk.

The drawers were unlocked and the top one contained a pistol, a box of ammunition and some office essentials like staplers, tape and paper clips. The rest contained nothing of interest. The bottom drawer was locked.

I worked on the lock and slid the drawer open. At first sight, there were just some old invoices, bills of lading and normal business stuff. Nothing pertaining to arms. Then I noticed that a lot of the invoices were from an undertaker for the shipping of bodies. Why would a company that imported and exported luxury goods deal with an undertaker? Then I remembered they were involved expatriating deceased Irish American’s who wished to be planted in the old country but whose families couldn’t afford the extortionate cost of flying them.

Bells started ringing in my head, didn’t Patricia once say she couldn’t meet me because she had funerals to arrange? I was interrupted by a noise in the corridor.

I quickly doused my torch and made my way to the door. Someone was coming up the stairs. Whoever it was wheezed and plodded slowly. I closed the door and the lock clicked. I re-crossed the room and crouched behind the desk.

A powerful torch shone through the glass panel next to the door then the door handle rattled. There was some indistinct muttering and the footsteps slowly receded back down the stairs again. That the place had a night watchman was an added complication that I didn’t need.

Because of his muttering and slow pace, I assumed he was an old man who probably slept most of the night. But where? The last thing I needed was killing or injuring some old guy. I wanted to be in and out unnoticed like I’d never been there. I crept back down the stairs sticking close to the wall, unable to use my torch. At the bottom, I saw a light in what I’d thought was a broom cupboard. When I’d passed it on my way in it had been in darkness I had to pass it again on my way out

I crept up along the wall until I was alongside the door, which was ajar. ‘Yeah, I do know the time, I’m sorry, too’ the guy was saying deferentially, ‘but Mr O’Rourke’s instructions were very clear. Any suspicion at all, call it in, an’ that’s what I’m doing sir.’ He listened for a moment then said ‘I’m only here for insurance purposes. I’m seventy-eight fer Chris’sake, not eighteen. My job ain’t tackling intruders.’

I risked a glance through the crack between the hinges and the door jamb. He had his back to me, stooped and grey he clutched the phone, his knuckles white. Old he may have been, but he’d just added the buggeration factor into my life big style, I tiptoed past the door. He was still talking. Clearly, the person he was talking to didn’t want to turn out at this hour on the strength of an old man’s suspicions.

In the lavatory, I opened the window and wrapped a long piece of string around the handle. I climbed out and pushed the window almost shut then I removed the steel bar that had been keeping the alarm circuit inactive. So far so good. Closing the window fully, I took both ends of the string and pulled which pulled the catch down re-fastening the window. Then I Let go of one end of the string and pulled again, it slipped out easily. The window was now closed and locked. Everything was cool except that someone would be coming real soon to check the building, and they would have a gun.

The climb back up the wall was easy, I took the grappling iron and stuffed it in my belt then lowered myself to the full extent of my arms and dropped. I heard a car approaching and ran for the corner as fast as I could. I’d just got around it when headlights flooded the street. I heard the vehicle pulling up at the gates. The alley I was in was long and straight with nowhere to hide so hopefully the guy would check the building before checking the area if he bothered at all. The trouble with being trained as I was, is that you assume every other bugger is, too. It can play hell with the nerves.

I got back to my room and sat calming myself for half an hour with a Bushmills then I told myself that a good night’s sleep was in order. But sleep wouldn’t come for ages. When it did finally come it was fitful. I dreamt I was back in Libya, in the same dream I’d had before, walking up through the yard at Abdul’s cousin's house. There was the same eerie silence, the stacked timber and the readymade coffins propped against the walls. I sat bolt upright.

The coffins, of course, were the answer. The authorities could check O’Rourke Inc’s exports until the cows came home. The guns were smuggled under the dead bodies in those huge American coffins. They were exported directly from the undertakers using ships that O’Rourke Inc. had chartered for their exports. The coffins would be sealed airtight because most of the corpses were at least a week old. They’d smell worse than a Dublin sewer. How bloody clever was that? Who would want to open them and be faced with a stinking cadaver? Besides, it would be akin desecrating a tomb, which wouldn’t make them popular in Catholic Eire.

I climbed out of bed and checked the time it was five thirty a.m. It would be ten thirty in Belfast. I rang Harriet and brought her up to speed.

She was gobsmacked. ‘Well done Jack, you clever man,’ she said ‘but don’t get too clever, OK? Keep a low profile. I’ll contact the American authorities and see if we can organise something.’

I knew that would take time, so I climbed back into bed and slept soundly until noon. When I went down to eat, there was a message. It said: Ring your wife. Obviously, Harriet was having her little joke.

‘The CIA won’t co-operate Jack’ she told me, bitter disappointment clearly expressed in her tone. ‘We don’t have any hard evidence, so they can’t, or won’t, obtain a search warrant. The Irish vote is big in Boston and huge on Capitol Hill. They are shitting themselves at the thought of upsetting the Irish American community. We Brits are about as popular as a snake in a lucky dip over there right now. To go opening the caskets of dearly departed Irish American folk on the say-so of some maverick British Military organisation is anathema to them.’

‘What about the other end’ I asked, ‘would the Irish Guarda help?’

She laughed sardonically ‘We’d have more chance of flying arse first around the moon, Jack’ she said. For a highly educated woman, she picked up coarse Army sayings really quickly. I almost laughed, the words sounding incongruous coming from her well-spoken lips.

I thought about it for a while ‘maybe I should find some evidence then?’ I said. ‘If I got evidence that couldn’t be ignored, they’d have to take action.’

She was silent for a moment then said, ‘Jack, for god’s sake don’t do anything that would put you in danger, please. If you c****d anything up and caused a stink, the Irish Americans would be throwing money at NORAID hand over fist. The Provo’s would have a bean feast.’

‘All I’ll do is a recce Harriet, nothing to get excited about. I’ll look up shipping leaving for Eire and have a quick look at this undertaker’s place, that’s it. All very low key.’

‘After a pause, she said, ‘OK Jack, but be very careful. In the meantime, I have a personal contact that might prove helpful. I’ll see what I can do.’

She hung up after I promised to keep her up to speed on my activities.