Keys to the Kingdom (12 page)

‘I see you’re makin’ the acquaintance of my family.’

He hadn’t heard Mary Gallagher entering the room and when he turned she was placing a tin tray containing a teapot, cups, saucers, milk, sugar and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table.

‘I’m sorry.’ He was aware that it was the second time he had used the expression. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude.’

She left the tray on the table and joined him at the sideboard. ‘And I thought that you journalists made an art out of intrudin’ in other people’s lives.’ She cast her eye quickly over the photographs. ‘At least you didn’t pocket any of them which is more than can be said for others of your kind. She picked up a family portrait. That there is James, my father.’ Her finger paused on the rotund figure of James Gallagher. ‘He died back in seventy-three. The poor wee man.’

Worley watched as the finger rested lovingly on the image of her departed father.

‘That’s me.’ The finger moved to the attractive girl that Worley had earlier admired. She sighed audibly. A wistful sigh for something that was lost. ‘That’s Paddy.’ The finger moved on to Patrick Gallagher. ‘Smart as a button he was and broke the heart of every girl west of the Falls.’ The finger paused for a second before moving to the next. ‘That’s my brother Sean. A lovely boy who took great care of our mother before he entered the priesthood. And that wee babbie beside him is Susan. ‘She’s away to Canada.’ She turned and walked to the coffee table. ‘We’d best have some tea before it gets too cold.’

She carefully poured two cups of tea. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she inquired.

‘Neither, thanks.’ Worley sat in one of the stuffed armchairs.

‘I bet that’s how you keep so trim,’ she said putting the teacup on the edge of the table nearest him.

‘Biscuit.’ She held out the plate and he took one. Then she placed her own cup on the opposite end of the table and eased herself slowly into the other armchair. She smiled to hide a grimace.

Worley realised that he was in the company of a very sick woman. ‘Like I said, Miss Gallagher,’ Worley sipped his tea. ‘I don’t want to take up much of your time but I’m looking into your brother’s background. He caused quite a stir back in the eighties.’

‘If you’d come here fifteen years ago to talk about Paddy, I would have kicked your arse all the way back to England. But the poor boy is in the ground now and there’s nobody to harm him.’

Worley watched her closely as he sipped his tea and was aware that she was watching him watching her. He was beginning to believe that there was a lot more to Mary Gallagher than met the eye.

‘I always knew that Paddy would end up famous for something.’ She cradled the teacup in her bony hands.  ‘He was always first in his class at school. Took his A-levels at seventeen and got three A’s at the higher level. Sharp as a new pin was Paddy. He was away to do medicine at Queens and topped his class in his first year.’ She bent down slowly and removed a well-thumbed photo album from the shelf beneath the coffee table. She opened a page and showed it to Worley. ‘That’s Paddy in his football gear.’

Worley leaned forward to look at the picture of the young Gallagher in typical sporting pose.

‘He was the star of both the college Gaelic football and soccer teams. Folk said that Manchester United were interested in takin’ him on. He could have been another Georgie Best. Paddy was brilliant at whatever he put his hand to.  He used to tell me that when he finished his studies he wanted to go and work in Africa.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘Help them black fellahs. But I always had it in my mind that he would have ended up doin’ something powerful important if he’d have continued his education. Instead of helpin’ the black boys he ended up in a hole in some bloody foreign country.’

‘You’re sure that he’s dead?’ Worley asked putting his cup back on its saucer. He looked up quickly to catch her reaction.

‘Faith, I’m as sure that poor Paddy is dead as I am that you’re sittin’ across this table from me.’ She looked directly into his eyes.

Worley tried to read her. The performance was pure mother mo croi and bloody damned impressive.

‘Paddy was a wonderful boy.’ She raised the cradled cup to her lips and sucked noisily at the tea. ‘Everything was goin’ fine until his girlfriend was hacked to pieces by them Protestant butchers. Her own father didn’t have the nerve to go and identify her poor battered body. Paddy went along and did it for him. To spare her parents, ye know. They told us afterwards that she was a terrible sight. All chopped up and bruised. Even the police said that the murderers were animals. Them workin’ at the mortuary told us that Paddy never flinched. He did what had to be done and then bent over and kissed her poor battered lips.’ Her eyes stared directly ahead. ‘And she was such a beauty that one. She turned every head in West Belfast but that didn’t save her. Paddy joined the IRA the day after the funeral. He was one of the boys that finally put an end to them butcherin’ bastards. Ye know, Mr Rosen, when Paddy came home and told us that he had executed the men who murdered his girlfriend, I got down on my knees and thanked God for havin’ sent me such a wonderful brother. I’m only glad that her lovin’ father lasted long enough to see his daughter’s murder avenged. The poor man died after of a broken heart. That was the end of Paddy’s university career and his hopes of becomin’ a doctor. The ‘Troubles’ cost Paddy everything he’d worked so hard for.’

Worley sipped his tea. He was tempted to explore the bond he had with Gallagher. He had the feeling that she would have understood his quest to avenge the death of his brother. But would she have thought him as wonderful a brother as she thought Patrick Gallagher. Perhaps she would.

‘Did you have much contact with him after he left Ireland?’ he asked.

‘Faith and I didn’t, Mr Rosen,’ she began to pile the cups and saucers onto the tray. ‘Paddy never bothered to come back here. It was far too dangerous for him and I wouldn’t have a hair on his head hurt. I think he felt safe with them Arabs.’ She looked at him as she lifted the cups. ‘You’re sweatin’ Mister Rosen. Have ye picked up a bit of a cold?’

Worley took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. ‘Yes, it looks like it.’

She picked up the tray. ‘I have some Aspirin in the kitchen.’

He waved his hand. ‘Thanks very much but I’ll be okay.’ He’d wasted his time. He’d come to the Gallaghers for confirmation that he was on the right track. What a bloody fool he’d been. It was clear that Mary Gallagher idolised her brother. She played like he was dead but there was no shrine in the front room. Patrick Gallagher was, and probably always would be, the centre of the Gallagher family. Yet he was accorded exactly the same attention as the other children. Worley knew he was grasping at straws. He stood up. ‘I’ll be on my way,’ he said as he moved past her to the door. ‘I have a full day of interviews with people who knew your brother.’ He held out his hand and she took it. He noticed a little reluctance. ‘Thank you very much. I feel that I understand him much better now.’ He stood in the small hallway and she walked slowly from the front room carrying the tray with the cups and saucers. ‘Don’t worry I’ll see myself out,’ he said.

‘Don’t you be mean to our Paddy in yer book, you hear now,’ she watched him open the front door.

‘I won’t,’ he said as he left.

Mary Gallagher stood in the hallway for several moments and looked at the stout wooden door installed to keep the murderin’ Prods away. She had been trying to work out that boy since the minute he entered her house. He might have been SAS, MI5, MI6, Special Branch or Jesus only knew what. They’d all been through her life during the past thirty years. And everyone of them was after the same thing -Paddy. Why the hell couldn’t they leave her brother alone? He’d suffered enough. This one had looked different. And he was sick. Maybe even as sick as she was. But his was a different kind of sickness. That boy had better take care, she thought. He was too bloody well dressed to be SASman or Military Intelligence. She entered the living room and went to the sideboard with the family pictures. She opened the second drawer down and pressed a button at the side of the drawer. A secret panel opened and she took out a handful of postcards. She looked at the pictures of sunsets and seascapes. Each postcard bore the same message. ‘Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here’ and all were signed ‘Jenny’. These were Paddy’s way of letting her know that he was still alive. She sat down in the chair she had recently vacated and drank the remains of her tea. The bastards were on Paddy’s trail again and she wondered why. As far as they were concerned, he was dead and buried in Afghanistan. Paddy must be up to something if they’d stooped to sending someone around to snoop. Somehow he had appeared on their radar again. They thought they were so bloody clever. She would never betray her brother or the cause they both fought for. She would wait until Paddy contacted her and she would tell him about ‘Mr Rosen’s’ visit.

She spat in Worley’s cup, turned and padded slowly back towards the kitchen.

CHAPTER 17

Antwerp

Gallagher eased the Mercedes station wagon around the corner at the point where the blue and white sign announced ‘Haven’.  An arrow pointed to the right along the straight road that led to the dock area of Antwerp. He hated inactivity when he was on an operation and the two days waiting for the call from de Wolfe’s man had left him feeling jumpy. He glanced in the driving mirror at the canvas sports bag on the rear seat. De Wolfe and his kind would be prepared to cut more than one throat for its contents. He had a wide experience of arms dealers from City gents in bowler hats to bearded zealots in the markets of Peshawar. They all had one thing in common. They would sell their own mothers if there were a profit in it. The Mercedes threw up a cloud of light grey dust as he passed a cement loading station. A tingle of excitement passed through him. He never felt more alive than when his life was on the line. It was the ultimate carnival ride. All his senses were fully alert. There would be no ‘Gotcha’ headlines in the tabloid press if the Belgian police jumped out and apprehended him. But that didn’t mean that half the Secret Services in Europe and the Mossad wouldn’t be rubbing their hands at the prospect of seeing him behind bars. He smiled at the thought of what the Brits would do to him if they ever got him inside. Waterboarding would certainly be on the menu and then a very nasty accident. He could provide the answers to lots of unanswered questions. But that wasn’t going to happen. His ‘friends’ would never let it happen. There were far too many secrets locked up in his old head. Secrets that it was in everybody’s interest should stay exactly where they were. It was because of those secrets that he had been allowed to slip away quietly to his life of ease in Belize. He was permitted to become another enigma, a mystery that would never be solved. It was the most convenient solution for all concerned. He reached under his jacket and removed the Browning Hi-Power he had bought from the Moroccan gun dealer earlier in the day. His distrust of De Wolfe and his uncertainty about Michel allied to a canvas bag full of cash indicated that some level of weaponry was called for. There was a full clip in the automatic and there were two further clips in his jacket pocket. He laid the gun on the seat beside him while he scanned the names on the warehouses as the Mercedes moved smoothly along the rutted roadway. After two kilometres he saw the ‘de Witte’ sign directly in front of him. He pulled into the side of the road and cut the car lights. It would be the height of stupidity to turn up at the warehouse like a chicken waiting to be plucked. The Hi-Power might improve his odds but if De Wolfe and Michel were intending to roll him they would have firepower of their own. It was his attention to detail that had kept him alive thus far and it wasn’t the time to change the habits of a lifetime. It would harm nobody if he took a little look at the meeting place without anyone being the wiser. If it were kosher, no harm would be done. If there were trouble ahead, it would be useful to know in advance. He slipped out of the driver’s seat and stepped into the semi-darkness of the street. Both sides of the road were lined with office buildings and warehouses. He moved close to the buildings and covered the ground between the car and the ‘de Witte’ warehouse quickly. A battered dark transit van was parked in front of the large double doors of the warehouse. So far so good, that was the kind of vehicle he would have expected. He stayed in the shadows and moved quietly towards the building. His ears strained to hear sounds inside the building while his eyes scanned the area for any telltale signs of an ambush. He reached the warehouse and skirted the building. There were only two entrances. The large double doors at the front and a normal sized door at the rear. The building was constructed of cladding from roof to floor without a single window breaking the monotony of the grey metal. If he were to go in, it would have to be through the back door. He tried the door handle but it was solid. He bent and looked at the lock. It was a conventional mortise lock. That shouldn’t pose a problem. Gallagher had picked up many skills during his years on the run. His education could not have been termed conventional by any means. He removed a small leather pouch from his pocket and extracted a small pick from it. After a few seconds of manipulation, the lock clicked open. The door swung smoothly on its hinges and he slipped silently into the large warehouse. The place was cavernous and packed from floor to ceiling with boxes stacked on palettes. Above his head a line of fluorescent strips cast beams of thin white light into the body of the huge building. There was no sound but Gallagher detected the faint aroma of cigar smoke mixed with the musty warehouse smell. He moved quietly around the edge of the boxes making sure to keep in the shadows. Suddenly a spurt of language that he recognised as Flemish came from the other side of the warehouse. It was immediately answered by a voice almost ten metres away from where he stood before a third angry voice, he recognised as that of Michel, cut the conversation short. Flemish wasn’t one of Gallagher’s languages so he had no idea what had been said. But he knew that there were at least three of them. It was a sting. Fucking bastards. Anger welled up inside him. Hadn’t the bastards been satisfied that he was willing to pay well over the odds for the Semtex? Why couldn’t they have taken their profit and gone home smiling? Maybe they didn’t intend to roll him. Maybe the extra men were simply Michel’s insurance. Yeah, maybe. The main question was whether they had brought the Semtex with them. His operation hinged on the Semtex and if they had gypped him on that then he was up shit creek. He retraced his steps to the back door of the warehouse and slipped out quietly. His pulse raced as he made his way back to the car. This was supposed to be a straightforward business deal. He hadn’t heard De Wolfe at the warehouse. Something smelled. He didn’t know what it was but he was going to find out. If there was a God in Heaven and if he liked him, then there would be three hundred kilos of Semtex somewhere in the vicinity of the warehouse. If not, he was fucked. He sat into the car and turned on the ignition.

Michel Vonk was getting anxious. He was always nervous when an operation was about to go down but this time the butterflies in his stomach were doing somersaults. Deep down he knew that there was nothing to worry about. There were three of them against one Irishman. His two companions had Heckler and Koch MP5s and he had a Glock 17. The poor bastard wouldn’t have a chance and was probably smart enough to recognise it. If the guy had any sense, he would just give up. That’s what happened nine times out of ten. Why the hell did Vonk get the feeling that this was going to be the tenth? He glanced at his watch. His mark was ten minutes late. Maybe the bastard was having trouble finding the warehouse. Vonk suddenly wanted to take a piss. He walked to the corner of the warehouse and relieved himself against the metal cladding. He heard the noise of a car pulling into the parking lot outside as he was closing his fly. He checked his Glock and slipped it into his pocket. It was almost showtime.

Gallagher slid open the large front door and stepped through the gap. He stared into the body of the warehouse. If Michel’s two friends hadn’t moved, one was to his right and the other to his left. He heard a noise to his right and Michel appeared from the corner of the building.

‘You found it,’ Vonk said.

‘Yes,’ Gallagher smiled warmly. As far as Michel knew, he was walking into a trap. And he wanted him to keep thinking that. His ears were tuned to every sound in the warehouse and his eyes constantly scanned the stacked pallets. He could feel the Browning nestling against the small of his back. ‘Where’s de Wolfe?’

Vonk moved towards the Irishman. He wondered whether the bastard was carrying. A vision of the scene with the skinhead in Het Roode Leeuw flashed through his mind. It didn’t matter. Once he caught sight of the MP5, he’d realise that he’d been had. All Vonk needed was to see the money for the collar to be legitimate. ‘You brought the money?’ Vonk looked beyond the smile and into the Irishman’s cold eyes. They were totally expressionless. This character is bloodless, Vonk thought. He remembered Gesken’s warning and was already regretting the fact that he hadn’t taken his superior’s advice and brought more men along. A chill passed down his spine. Relax, he told himself. It’s going to go down like clockwork. As soon as they had this guy locked up, he was going to get totally pissed. His neck muscles were so tense and he could feel each individual sinew. He forced a half-smile that he hoped the Irishman found convincing.

‘I’ve got it in crisp new large denomination notes,’ Gallagher held up the canvas bag. His eyes never moved from Michel. He had already decided that de Wolfe’s man was going to be the first to go when the shit hit the fan. ‘Now show me the stuff and let’s get it over with.’

‘First the money,’ Vonk said making an effort to keep his voice steady.

Gallagher sighed inwardly. It was a fuck up. There was no Semtex. If there had been, they would have shown it to him before they busted him. He’d come to Antwerp for nothing and somebody was going to pay a heavy price for screwing with him. That old bastard de Wolfe really hadn’t recognised him otherwise he would never have tried to take him like this. He opened the bag and displayed the money. ‘Three hundred thousand Euros’ he held the bag aloft in his left hand and watched Michel’s gaze follow the movement. ‘Okay, you’ve seen the money. Where’s my merchandise?’

The sight of the money was all that Michel was waiting for. The bust was going to be a good one. He pulled the Glock from his pocket and pointed it at Gallagher. ‘Maurice, Piet,’ he shouted.

The two Gendarmes came from their positions on either side of the warehouse.

‘You’re busted,’ Michel said smiling.

Gallagher watched the three men. It was going to be difficult but it would all be down to his reflexes and timing. The one thing in his favour was that they were not expecting him to make a fight of it.

‘I presume there’s no Semtex,’ he said concentrating his gaze on Michel.

‘You presume right.’

Gallagher started to laugh and nonchalantly dropped the canvas bag from his left hand. It hit the concrete spilling packets of fresh five hundred Euro bills over the floor.

The three policemen watched the money spill. There was nothing like money to grab a man’s attention. It was the diversion that Gallagher needed. The Browning appeared like magic in his hand and he fired immediately. Michel felt a searing pain in his chest and although he tried to lift his gun his legs buckled under him and he collapsed on the floor. Gallagher’s second shot hit the man to his right in the face and he pitched backwards the MP5 flying upwards in a graceful arch. Before it hit the ground Gallagher had swivelled and fired at the man on his left. The Gendarme was pulling the trigger when Gallagher’s bullet caught him directly in the heart killing him instantly. The MP5 bucked in his hand as he hit the floor sending a spray of bullets into the roof of the warehouse.

‘Fucking amateurs,’ Gallagher said walking forward. The fools had been so confident. He stood over Michel who was still breathing.

‘Police?’ Gallagher said looking into the injured man’s eyes. He needed to know whether they wanted him because of who he was or whether he had simply stumbled into a sting operation.

‘Fuck you,’ Michel said.

‘Wrong answer,’ Gallagher said and fired a shot into the policeman’s knee.

Michel’s face contorted in pain. ‘Federal Police,’ he hissed when he could control himself.

‘Why?’ Gallagher kept the gun pointed at Michel.

‘We targeted de Wolfe,’ Michel said through his teeth. He knew that responding was his only chance of staying alive. He could hear no sound from his colleagues so he had to assume that they were either unconscious or dead. ‘I made you for a player.’

‘Who am I?’ Gallagher stared into Michel’s eyes.

‘Don’t know,’ Michel said submissively.

Gallagher read the truth in his eyes. He sighed and pulled the trigger putting a bullet through Michel’s head. He bent and quickly searched the body. The CGSU ID Card was in the dead man’s jeans pocket.

Gallagher did a quick reconnaissance of the warehouse on the outside chance that the Semtex did exist. There was only one small piece of business that needed to be taken care of.

It was two o’clock in the morning when Henri called time on the three customers still seated in Het Roode Leeuw. Rolf de Wolfe finished his glass of Duvel and looked anxiously towards the door. He had expected a visit from Michel during the evening and the fact that he hadn’t shown up had left de Wolfe feeling decidedly apprehensive. Henri whipped the empty fluted glass from the table and de Wolfe’s final excuse for not leaving disappeared. He pushed himself up from the table and walked slowly towards the door. Fear was something that he thought he had put behind him a long time ago but he felt the hairs rise on his neck as he opened the glass door. He glanced quickly outside. The street was empty and dark. The Falcon Plein was not the safest street in Antwerp but de Wolfe had no fear of its normal denizens. Lights shone from only two houses on the darkened street. It was three hundred metres to his house and since he was forced to leave the Leeuw he was anxious to be inside his own home. He took a deep breath and went outside. As soon as his feet hit the pavement, they began to scuttle rapidly in the direction of his house. After he had covered a hundred and fifty metres, he began to breath a little easier. He started to laugh at his own fear. He had fought as a mercenary half way round the world and should have been killed more than half a dozen times. But he had always survived. He cursed himself silently for his irrational fear. His pace slackened and he began to feel more relaxed. He was 50 metres from his house and his heart was pounding with relief. At the door, de Wolfe pulled at his pocket to release the keys to his house. He slipped the key into the lock and turned it quickly. He glanced over his shoulder as the lock clicked and the door swung open. De Wolfe let out a huge sigh of relief as he entered the marble hallway and the door swung shut behind him. A lifetime of living on the edge and he had turned into a quivering jelly. He threw off his coat in disgust and switched on the lights.