Keys to the Kingdom (14 page)

‘Chance’ll be a fine thing,’ Gallagher said taking the glass.

‘So you don’t hold out much hope for it,’ Michael smiled animating a face the image of his cousin’s. ‘You always were a pessimistic little prick, Paddy.’ The cousins touched glasses in a silent toast.

‘Only where people were concerned, Michael.’ He sipped the whiskey. ‘And everything that I’ve witnessed in this world hasn’t caused me to change my mind.’ 

‘You’re still in the business,’ Michael said motioning him towards a seat at the table. “I thought you’d retired.”

‘On and off,’ Gallagher said. ‘More off than on. I’m on my last hurrah.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

Michael looked into his cousin’s cold blue eyes. He couldn’t remember having looked into anything as deep and impenetrable for many the long day.  They could chill you even on the warmest summer day. ‘Is it here?’

‘No way,’ Gallagher smiled. ‘I’m only here because I need you Michael. I can’t wait to get my arse out of here.’

‘I hope that’s the truth,’ Michael said. He emptied the contents of his glass into his mouth. ‘It’s finished here now, Paddy. The people won’t have it anymore. If they have this Truth and Reconciliation Commission, there’ll be an amnesty and you’ll be able to come back here and live with us again. It’ll be just like old times.’ His face beamed at the thought that the Gallagher family might one day be united again.

‘Wake up, Michael. It’ll never be just like old times. Not with what they left of Rose in Miltown Cemetery. How are they going to bring back the dead? And don’t you think for one minute that the Brits are going to let people like me walk the streets of Belfast again. I killed British soldiers. I’m a murderin’ Fenian bastard and the full weight of British justice will fall on me if they ever lay hands on me. The screws will make sure that I piss blood for the rest of my days. I hope to God that there’s going to be peace for you, Michael, because as sure as God there’ll never be peace for me.’

Michael’s eyes softened. Something had clicked in Paddy all those years ago and it had left behind an unfeeling hulk.

‘My heart leapt when I saw you in the hallway,’ Michael said. ‘I hoped that things had changed for you the way they have for us. Hate is out of fashion in the Province these days. All the people want is a job, a pint and a peaceful game of golf with their mates. And that goes for the Prods as much as it does for us.’

‘Then I’m happy for you,’ Gallagher’s eyes hardened. ‘Because in my book if you don’t hate then you’re nothing. Love thy neighbour is all very well at Mass on Sunday but what really sustains life is hate. Without hate do you think that a couple of hundred IRA volunteers could have fought the might of the British Army for twenty-five years? What do you think spurs a young Palestinian to drive a lorry load of explosives to the gate of an Israeli Army camp and press the button on the detonator? Is it a love of Palestine or an undying hate of the Israelis? And what about the rag-tag bunch of Afghan tribesmen who fought the Russian Army to a standstill and are doin’ the same to the Yanks. Could that have been accomplished without hate? I don’t think so. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll still be hating someone when I’ve been six months in my grave.’

‘Let’s get business out of the way and get you on the road,’ Michael refilled his own glass.

Gallagher put his palm over his glass when the bottle was proffered in his direction. He needed to be out of Belfast and it would be sooner rather than later.

‘What can I do for you?’ Michael asked.

‘Semtex. A hundred kilos of it.’

‘Are you out of your tree?’ Michael said through a mock laugh. ‘You’re a gas man, Paddy. I remember you when you were at the football. Anything for a laugh.’ He stared into his cousin’s face and saw that he certainly wasn’t joking. ‘That’s enough Semtex to start a small war. I’m not even sure that the Movement has that much stuff on hand.’

‘You think I’d drop myself back into this shitehole if I didn’t have to. This is no joke, Michael. If you can’t come up with a hundred kilos, I’ll take what I can get. But I want it yesterday.’ Gallagher was thinking that it should have been shipped two days ago if he was to adhere to his schedule. Fuck those bastards in Antwerp. ‘Get somebody out there this evening and dig the stuff up. I want it crated and on its way by to-morrow. I don’t care if you have to charter an aircraft. Just get it done.’ Gallagher fished around in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper and a business card. ‘That’s a numbered account in the Banque Royale de Luxembourg and the password.’ He passed the sheet of paper to his cousin. ‘There’s half a million dollars in that account. One hundred thousand is to pay for the Semtex and the rest is for the family. I want Mary taken care of.’ Michael glanced at the paper and put it carefully into his pocket. Gallagher passed the business card to Michael. ‘That’s the shipping agent who’ll handle the shipment.’

‘I might be able to help you,’ Michael said. ‘But there’s a downside. We put some stuff from Libya down in the early nineties. There’s probably enough to fill your order. On the upside no metal or tracers have been added so it’s virtually impossible to detect. On the downside, the stuff is only guaranteed for ten years. It’s been packed right well but I thought that I’d warn you.’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Gallagher said. ‘When you have things organised and I mean to-morrow mind, fax the number on this card with a copy of the bill of lading. Mark the crate ‘Aircraft machine parts’.  Things have been set up with the customs at the other side.’

Michael took the card and read the address. It was a trading company in Riyadh. He wondered what in God’s name Paddy could be up to but he was happy that he didn’t know. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said putting the card into the breast pocket of his shirt.

‘No, Michael,’ Gallagher said. ‘Trying won’t be good enough. You’ll not let me down on this one. When you and the Movement needed money during the eighties I came up with the goods. That shouldn’t be forgotten, the guts of a hundred kilos of Semtex, on its way to-morrow. Right.’

‘That’s a tall order.’

‘Just do it. I’ll never ask another thing of you.’

‘Right,’ Michael recognised the imperative in his cousin’s voice. It was bloody lucky for ‘the cause’ that Paddy had been forced away from Ireland. Only the Prods could hate with the same vehemence as Paddy. There would have been twice as many corpses around the Province if Patrick Gallagher hadn’t sought refuge with the Arabs. Somebody is Saudi Arabia was going to have a bloody hot time of it if Paddy was on their tail. He didn’t take prisoners and a hundred kilos of Semtex could blow the shit out of a hell of a lot of people.

‘You’ll not let me down.’ Gallagher held his cousin by the shoulders.

‘No,’ Michael said feeling the firm grip on his shoulders. ‘I’ll not let you down.’

‘You’ll have a cup of tea?’ Mary Gallagher called from the door of the kitchen. ‘If you’ve finished the business I want to have a word with you.’

‘I can’t stay too long,’ Gallagher said. ‘There might be somebody watching the house.’

‘You can bet on it,’ she poured them both a cup of tea. ‘I never thought to set eyes on you again.’ She looked away from his eyes and stirred sugar into her tea. ‘Ye’ve not changed. Only now you look distinguished and handsome. And not an ounce of weight on ye like others I could mention.’ She smiled and cast a glance at Michael.

‘Michael’s on his way to being a politician,’ Gallagher smiled. ‘The weight will give him a bit of gravitas.’

‘You know I’m bunched,’ Mary Gallagher’s eyes were dewy. ‘The doctors have given me weeks rather than months. I fought as long as I could but it’s almost over now.’

‘You always were a brave wee girl,’ he sipped his tea. There was only one year between him and Mary and that meant that they had grown up together. She had been the one constant in his life. His confidant when he had lived in Belfast and his principal supporter when he was on the run. He was going to miss her. But now wasn’t the time to say that. He drank his tea quickly. ‘I must be away,’ he said holding back a tear

‘There was some fellah lookin’ after ye a few days ago,’ Mary said putting her cup on its saucer and standing up.

Gallagher stood and stared into her rheumy eyes. Alarm bells were clanging in his brain. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said softly trying not to let his concern show.

‘A good-lookin’ fella he was,’ Mary Gallagher pursed her lips. ‘All fair hair and about yer own age. I’d say he’s fierce fond of lookin’ after himself. Said he was a journalist writin’ a book about terrorism in Ireland and he wanted to get your true story. He gave the name of Rosen but to my mind there wasn’t an ounce of Jew in him. I took him for the police or maybe the intelligence. He was too soft lookin’ for a SASman.’

‘You didn’t let anything slip, did ye?’ Gallagher looked at his cousin who simply stared back. He turned back to his sister. ‘Think now, Mary. You didn’t let slip that I was still alive? This could be important.’

‘Faith and I didn’t,’ she held herself erect. ‘For God’s sake I’d be the last person on earth to give them swine anything they could use agin ye. They could pull every nail from my fingers and I wouldn’t betray you. I played him for the sucker he was. Ye’ll never be betrayed by me.’

Gallagher smiled. He’d always enjoyed Mary being indignant.

‘Do you ever think what might have been if things had been different?’ she asked.

‘I gave up thinking of myself as a victim of circumstance a long time ago. We make choices and we have to live with them. I love you, Mary. I always have,’ he bent and kissed her on the forehead. His mind was racing. Who the hell had visited his sister? It could have been a coincidence but he had stopped believing in coincidence many years before. This was something new that was added to the equation. ‘I’ve got to be away. Someone on the street will be beginnin’ to wonder why the Gallaghers are so fond of a dirty old tramp.’ He held his sister’s hand as they went back to the hallway. ‘I’ve slipped a few quid to Michael for you. He’ll look after you.’

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I love you, Paddy. You’ll take care of yourself?’

‘Like always,’ Gallagher put on the greasy pullover and the brown Crombie overcoat. ‘It’s the one thing that I’m bloody good at these days.’

He tied the waist of the coat with the piece of cord and then turned to Michael. The cousins embraced.

‘I’m depending on you,’ Gallagher said softly into Michael’s ear. ‘For everything.’

‘It’s done,’ Michael replied.

Gallagher stood for a moment at the door. Soon he would be out of this stinking town but he would be leaving behind a few of the people that he truly loved. Emotions welled inside him. He opened the door, turned and smiled. ‘So long, Mary, I’ll see you soon.’

Mary Gallagher held herself erect. ‘Of course ye will. Now away with ye.’ She lifted her hand in a wave but her brother had already disappeared out of the door.

Michael held Mary’s shoulders as she moved towards the door. ‘No,’ he said gently. ‘Let him go. We don’t want to give him away.’

Mary Gallagher held herself in check for two minutes after the door closed and then she burst into tears. Michael had never seen his cousin cry, not even in her darkest days.

‘It’ll be OK, ‘ he said holding her.

She looked into his face. ‘Every day when I look into the mirror I see the Angel of Death sitting on my shoulder. Today I saw him sitting on Paddy’s shoulder. After what we’ve done I have no doubt I’ll not be havin’ a place in heaven. But I’m wonderin’ whether it’ll be me or Paddy who’ll be greetin’ the other when we pass to the other side.

CHAPTER 20

London

Worley recognised James Connally as soon as he marched out of MI5 headquarters at Curzon House. He was exactly as he had described himself on the telephone - a six foot two inch former Guards officer with a head as hairless as a billiard ball. He carried his jacket across his arm and his shirt was open at the neck. A soft leather briefcase was wedged under the arm holding his jacket.

‘Mr Connally,’ Worley said stepping forward. ‘I’m Arthur Worley, we spoke earlier on the telephone.’ Connally’s dark brown eyes were set in a narrow face that could be described neither as attractive nor unattractive. Aside from the completely bald pate it was the face that could have adorned any of the male bodies crushed into the 5:00 p.m. train from Victoria Station to suburbia. Worley searched his mind for a word aptly describing Connally but the only one he could think of was ‘neutral’.

‘That we did,’ Connally had a perfect Oxford accent. He proffered his hand and Worley took it. ‘And by the way the name is pronounced Con-NELLY. Back in the fifties in Manchester my parents thought they needed something to distinguish themselves from the Paddies who were arriving by the boatload from the ould sod. You didn’t say on the phone how you came across my name.’

Worley removed his fingers from Connally’s vice-like grip. ‘I accessed the Patrick Gallagher file last week. Your name came up.’

The nerve in Connally’s left eye jumped. ‘I dare say it did. Look, it’s hot and I’ve been defending the security of the realm for the past nine hours. Would you have any serious objection to continuing whatever business you have with me over a pint of the black stuff?’

‘That sounds like a very good idea.’ Worley liked Connally’s casual air. The relationship between MI6 and MI5 was not a particularly close one. Both services had grown out of the same group but whereas MI6 had gravitated towards the Foreign Office and had developed an elitist image, MI5 was a more homegrown organisation mainly populated by former officers of military intelligence.

Connally hailed a black taxi and both men sat inside. ‘The O’Connor Don in Marylebone,’ Connally said as he settled himself in the rear seat. ‘No objection to an Irish pub I suppose.’

‘You lead, I follow,’ Worley sat back.

‘You’re supposed to be in Riyadh, aren’t you?’ Connally said casually.

‘I see that I’m not the only one who’s been looking up files.’

‘One likes to know exactly who one is dealing with. I didn’t bother to follow up on you after you left Northern Ireland back in ‘87. I naturally assumed that you had continued your career. When you called to-day, I thought it advisable to find out what you had been up to over the past twenty years or so.’

Worley didn’t bother to try to hide the look of surprise on his face. Then he smiled. He had been stupid to think that someone with Connally’s background wouldn’t check him out before turning up at a meeting. Both men sat in silence while the taxi negotiated the narrow streets of Marylebone before depositing them before a fashionably decorated public house.

Connally paid the taxi and ushered Worley through the dark stained outer door. Stepping into the O’Connor Don was like stepping back into a more gracious age of social life. The interior was cool and dark stained wood proliferated. The early evening post-work crowd was already ensconced and the air was full of noisy chatter. At the far end of the large public bar a young man sang enthusiastically to his own guitar accompaniment. As soon as they had entered a barman nodded in their direction and Connally led the way towards an enclosed snug that was situated at the least populated end of the bar. A barman had made his way across the back of the bar and opened the door of the snug just as Connally and Worley arrived.

‘Thanks Gerry,’ Connally tossed his jacket into the corner of the snug and laid his briefcase on the table dominating the enclosed space of thirty-five square feet. ‘We’ll have two pints of the creamy black stuff.’ He turned to Worley. ‘That OK with you.’

Worley nodded and the barman disappeared. 

‘Very civilised race, the Irish,’ Connally dropped onto one of the wooden benches that lined three of the walls of the snug. ‘They not only have the greatest pubs in the world but they provide little hidey-holes like this where two gents like ourselves can have a bit of privacy. And I assume that since you called me and that we’re basically in the same business that we’ll be needing a bit of privacy.’

Worley was about to speak but Connally raised his hand. ‘Before you go into some rigmarole about who you are and why you want to talk to me I’ve got something to show you that might help us cut to the chase a little quicker.’ He flicked open the briefcase and spread a handful of black and white photographs on the table.

Worley picked up the prints and examined each one putting them in a neat stack beside this right hand. His eyes widened as he examined the prints. What he was looking at were a series of photographs of him taken almost twenty years previously during the time he had been searching for Robert’s murderer in Northern Ireland.

The barman entered and placed two pints of Guinness on the table. He departed without asking for payment.

‘I was your guardian angel,’ Connally said deliberately taking obvious pleasure in Worley’s surprise. ‘Those are just some shots I took of you around Crossmaglen and West Belfast. We’ve got rolls of them back at the office.’

Worley looked up sharply from the prints and picked up his glass. He sipped the dark creamy liquid. He’d forgotten how bitter it tasted. ‘You mean you followed me around while I was in Ulster.’

Connally smiled animating his face. The brown eyes sparkled. ‘What kind of planet have you been living on? You were, and as far as I’m aware you still are, an operative of MI6. You’re a bloody spy, man.  If the IRA had taken you, do you think it would matter to them whether your field of operations was the Middle East or Alaska? Surely you’re not stupid enough to think that we’d let you ramble around the glens looking for your poor slain brother just like that. We had you under observation every minute of the day during the time you spent in our station. You’d have to do the same if I wound up in your neck of the woods. You were a bloody liability man.’

‘You must be damn good at what you do. I had no idea I was being watched.’

Connally looked up from his glass and his eyes twinkled. ‘Modesty forbids me from commenting but let’s put it this way, if it wasn’t for me, I don’t think that you’d be sitting here today.’

‘I was that naive?’ Worley said setting the prints down on the table.

‘The French always have a word for it, don’t they.’ Connally leaned forward. ‘Your brother was a damn fool, Arthur. Otherwise he wouldn’t have got himself killed the way he did. But he had nothing on you, my friend.’ The brown eyes bored into Worley’s face. ‘What sort of blithering idiot wanders around in a war zone trying to flush out his brother’s killer? Given time we might have caught the bastards who killed your brother but we had bugger all chance with you running around muddying the tracks.’ He sipped his beer. ‘We never even found the body. Probably stuffed down some bottomless boghole. I tell you it pissed me off mightily that we never cleared that one up. We always like to take care of our own. Everybody knew that Bob was too much of a rogue operator for Northern Ireland. He was brought up on that Four Feathers drivel about the trusty Brit officer blacking up and going among the natives to find out what the blighters were up to. He forgot that one didn’t have to black up in Northern Ireland. The silly young bugger got a kick out of acting the border bandido. But that was then.’ Connally drained his glass and pushed a white button on the side of the snug. ‘This is now. What can I do for you?’

‘I saw Patrick Gallagher in Riyadh several weeks ago,’ Worley said.

The nerve in Connally’s left eye flickered again.

‘So?’ Connally said after a moment's delay.

The young barman entered and placed two fresh pints of Guinness on the table between the two men.

‘You’re not surprised?’ Worley said after the barman had left. ‘Everybody thinks that Gallagher is dead.’

Connally picked up his glass of Guinness. ‘Slainte,’ he said taking a long slug from the glass. ‘Let them. Personally, I never believed that crock of shit about Gallagher being dead,’ he put the glass back on the table. ‘So if you tell me that you saw Paddy Gallagher in Riyadh two weeks ago then I have no reason to disbelieve you. I hunted that son of a bitch for five years and never got as much as a sniff of him. He’s as slippery as a snake and as clever as the devil himself. We almost had him one time in Gurteen. Three boys from the SAS had him cornered in a glen. He got all three and crawled out of there wounded.’ Connally took another mouthful of Guinness. ‘The bastard had nine lives. When I heard he’d been murdered fighting with the Mujahedin in Afghanistan, I laughed my arse off. Nobody who’d ever come into contact with Gallagher would believe that a couple of Russian peasants could have got the upper hand on him. If Paddy’s alive and well, I hope to God that he stays in Saudi or wherever the hell he is and keeps away from my part of the world.’

Worley looked at his MI5 colleague. Connally reminded him of every Military Attaché he had served with. There was something about the man that was intrinsically solid and stable. He felt good that he wasn’t alone in thinking that Gallagher was still alive. It was a bit ridiculous that the whole intelligence community had Gallagher dead and buried while the only two doubting Thomases were sitting together in a pub in Marylebone. But assuming that he and Connally were right, that still left the question of what Gallagher might be up to.

‘You never heard about Gallagher after he disappeared from Ulster?’ Worley asked finishing his first pint of Guinness and viewing the second full glass with trepidation.

‘Rumours,’ Connally said leaning back on the wooden bench. ‘On the streets of West Belfast the man is a bloody legend. Depending on what pub you frequented, he was in the Middle East, Sri Lanka, Somalia, Afghanistan. You name a place where there was trouble and sooner or later somebody would slip the news that a Paddy Gallagher lookalike was somewhere in the vicinity. But after his so-called ‘death’, nothing. Not a sausage. Paddy vanished off the face of the earth.’ Connally finished his Guinness and eyed Worley’s full glass. ‘Are you going to look at that pint all night or are you going to drink it?’

‘One is enough for me, thank you.’

Connally smiled as he picked up Worley’s pint. These bloody MI6 and Foreign Office types were just a crowd of milksops. They wouldn’t last three months where there was any action. All Worley needed to hold down his job was the ability to look good in a three piece suit and know how to open a bottle of Champagne. The idea of this desk jockey going up against the likes of Paddy Gallagher was laughable. Paddy and his friends would have boys like Worley for breakfast just as they’d had his silly bugger of a brother.

‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’ Connally said.

‘Not at all.’

‘I can understand the rush of blood that sent you to Ulster in the first place. Your brother was missing and assumed murdered by the IRA. You were distraught and not thinking clearly. Did it ever cross your demented brain what might have happened if you had actually run across Gallagher?’

‘All I wanted was to find Robert’s body and to bring his murderer to justice.’

‘Have you ever killed a man in cold blood?’

‘No.’

‘It’s not easy and it certainly isn’t pleasant.’ Connally’s eyes had grown hard and the look in them left Worley in no doubt that Connally knew what he was talking about. ‘Killing isn’t a business for thinking individuals. Men like Gallagher are callous bastards who kill from second nature. While you’re wondering about the morality of pulling the trigger on another human being, Gallagher would cut a hole in your chest and present you with your still beating heart. Do you understand what I’m telling you? You go against Gallagher you had better be prepared to go the full distance. Men like Gallagher will never be brought to justice because he would prefer to die than let someone take him. That’s why he’s probably still out there somewhere.’

Connally’s words hit Worley like a sledgehammer. He had often wondered whether he could actually kill another living creature in cold blood. The question of whether he had the ability to kill in revenge had been left hanging in the balance. He looked up from his glass and saw that Connally was staring at him.

‘Would you take a piece of advice from somebody who’s spent more than twenty years dealing with the Paddy Gallagher’s of this world?’ Connally asked.

‘What?’

‘Leave well enough alone,’ Connally stared into Worley’s eyes. There was a haunted look in them and he wondered whether it was vengeance alone that was driving this man. ‘Whatever business you feel you still have with Gallagher. Take my advice and forget all about it. The man is poison. Both to himself and anybody who touches him. Northern Ireland is a shithouse. It’s our Vietnam but we haven’t been big enough to admit it yet. Your brother was only a statistic. Think of him as one of the many who have been sacrificed for a field of pottage. Go back to your little cocoon in Riyadh and try to convince yourself that you were mistaken that day in the bazaar or wherever you saw him. Leave him alone and maybe he’ll extend you the same courtesy. If not, you’re just going to give him the opportunity to put both brothers away.’

‘And what if I can’t leave it alone?’