Seventy Times Seven (13 page)

‘There must be something big goin down, half the British army’s turned up to see us off,’ whispered Owen O’Brien under his breath.

‘And the other half are outside on the checkpoints. I thought I was going to miss the flight, I tell ye,’ replied Tony-O as he used his feet to shuffle a half-empty holdall a few steps further along the marble floor of the terminal building. ‘I’ve never been stopped and searched so many times in my life.’

‘Something must have happened, this place is usually deserted,’ continued Owen.

‘Did you not hear?’ replied Tony-O. ‘Four soldiers shot up near Aghmakane.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ scowled Owen, raising his eyebrows. ‘I hope it doesn’t mean our flights are delayed.’

‘That’s if we even get on the flights,’ said Tony-O. ‘I got lifted here once before and they kept me in a holding cell until the flight left. About a minute after it had gone they released me: no charge. They knew fine well what they were doing. So don’t be thinking about giving these bastards any lip, just keep your mouths shut and let’s get on the plane. It’s not worth it.’

Danny reached up involuntarily and pulled his peaked cap a little further over his eyes.

Tony-O was still talking. ‘I called E.I. and asked him what the story was, but he swore he knew nothing about it except that it happened yesterday morning. He thinks they were SAS though, not your common or garden squaddie. It’s a bastard: if we’d known all this shite would be going on we could have travelled another time.’

Crazy-Pete joined in, his breath reeking of alcohol. ‘As long as we get through in time for a couple of pints, cause there is no way I’m getting on a plane without getting pished first.’

‘What you on about, Pete? You’re pished already. Just make sure you take it handy when they’re checking our tickets, we don’t want any trouble,’ said Tony-O, firing off a warning in Crazy-Pete’s direction.

‘No intention of causing any trouble,’ replied Crazy-Pete. ‘I’m just saying I could do with a pint.’

The men fell silent as two soldiers walked past with Thompson sub-machine guns clamped across their chests.

‘Whoever thought of calling something at an airport “terminal”? I mean that’s just wrong,’ said Owen O’Brien.

Danny was standing in line for check-in feeling very conspicuous alongside eleven members of the Newry tug-of-war team. His face was still a mess. Angela had attempted to cover the bruising on his face‚ but there was nothing she could do to mask the swelling round his left eye.

They’d woken up in Danny’s flat and had breakfast together before Angela headed off to work. They’d made love into the early hours of the morning then slept soundly until Danny’s alarm went off at 7 a.m.

The love-making had been tender and passionate, and real. There was an ease and honesty between them that neither of them had ever experienced before: a strange sense that they’d known each other for ever.

When Angela left for work she had tears in her eyes.

As he waited in line, Danny wished he could go to her now. He wanted to turn round and walk away.

The check-in area was teeming with members of the security forces. Danny had already identified two undercover Special Branch officers mingling with the crowds of passengers.

A sharp pain in his right hand made Danny wince. He was trying to keep his hands hidden inside his jacket pockets, but it was a painful process: they were covered in cuts, and his knuckles were badly swollen.

RUC officers with flak jackets and sub-machine guns were striding up and down the queues picking people at random, checking their passports and travel documents. Soldiers stood sentry at all the exits and entrances scanning the faces of passers-by.

Danny was uneasy. He hadn’t been expecting such a large security presence. He was travelling with a false passport supplied by E.I. O’Leary, which normally wouldn’t bother him, but there had been no time to check it over properly and today wasn’t the day to test the forger’s workmanship.

Danny looked out of place amongst the other team members. He wasn’t small, but in comparison to them he was the shortest by at least six inches. Not one of them weighed less than two hundred and fifty pounds, most of the weight being carried in their barrel-shaped bellies. They were all ex-wrestlers or heavyweight boxers, and from the number of broken noses and scarred faces it didn’t look like many of them had ever won a fight.

The words ‘
NEWRY TUG-OF-WAR
’92’ were emblazoned in arching gold lettering across the front of the black baseball cap he was wearing. The outline of two men pulling at either end of a rope was embroidered on the back of his matching black bomber-jacket with the additional wording ‘
WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS OSHKOSH
’92’ written underneath.

Danny would have preferred to travel alone: even now he was still thinking about making his own way over to the States. A boat to the west of Scotland, drive to Newcastle on the east coast of England and catch a ferry to Holland: from there he could fly anywhere in the world. It would take longer, but there was little or no threat of being lifted. The problem was time: if he was to have any chance of finding O’Hanlon, Danny had to get to the States as quickly as possible.

‘If they ask, don’t say you’re a “puller”, you better say you’re the coach.’

Danny turned to find Owen O’Brien standing next to him.

‘What?’ asked Danny in response.

‘You’d better say you’re our coach, cause you don’t look like you could tug a snotter out of your nose.’

Those of the team in earshot started laughing. Danny tried to smile, but two RUC officers had turned round and were heading towards them.

‘Passports, papers and tickets, please.’

Danny handed his documents to one of the officers and put his hands back inside his pocket.

‘Would you mind keeping your hands where I can see them?’ said the officer, making it sound like a command rather then a question.

‘Feeling the cold a bit there, officer,’ replied Danny impassively.

‘I don’t care if you’re feeling your dick, get your hands out of your pockets where I can see them,’ replied the officer, giving Danny the stare now.

Danny did what he was told. The officer had clocked the swelling and bruising on his face and Danny could see him glancing down at his knuckles.

‘Where you travelling to?’

‘Oshkosh,’ replied Danny.

The officer looked up from Danny’s passport like he’d misheard.

‘Where?’

‘Oshkosh: somewhere in the USA, but don’t ask me for directions, you know what I mean?’

The officer cut in before Danny had finished: ‘Take off your hat and your glasses.’ He was looking at the passport again.

Normally Danny would have given the officer some of it back, but he couldn’t afford to get involved in any trouble so, once again, he did what he was told.

Out of the corner of his eye Danny could see Crazy-Pete scowling and flexing his shoulders. He grunted something inaudible at the RUC officer.

‘This your passport?’ continued the officer.

‘Yes,’ replied Danny.

‘Any other ID, Mr Leonard?’

‘No.’ Danny kept his gaze steady.

The officer was examining the passport more closely, like he’d noticed something out of place. He flicked through a few pages before getting to Danny’s photograph at the back.

‘This supposed to be you?’

Danny shrugged his shoulders: it might not have been the best photograph ever taken, it looked more like his brother Sean, but it was definitely him.

‘It is me, yeah,’ he replied.

‘What happened to the side of your face?’

Crazy-Pete answered for him. ‘He got fed up answering stupid questions and battered the shite out of the wanker doing the asking. Why don’t you ask him a few more and he’ll show you?’

Tony-O tried to jam himself between the officer and Crazy-Pete. ‘That’s enough now, Peter.’ But it was too late: the switch had flicked and Crazy-Pete was on. He stuck his face right in front of the RUC officers and let out a loud, ripping belch. ‘Excuse me.’

The officer didn’t flinch. ‘Get your big ugly face out of my way or I’ll have you for breach of the peace.’

The other officer who had been quietly standing by stepped in.

‘Move back there, big fella, and let’s see your passport and tickets.’

‘Youse don’t look like you work for the airline,’ replied Crazy-Pete‚ squaring up to both officers. ‘Let’s see your ID cards and I might show you mine. Otherwise you’re getting fuck-all unless you’ve got a warrant.’

The group had started to attract the attention of other officers who were now making their way towards them. Tony-O tried to intervene again. ‘For Christ’s sake Peter shut up and show the cunt your passport.’

‘Right, that’s enough of the language, pal.’ The first officer handed Danny his papers and pushed Tony-O back, away from the rest of the group. ‘Just step to the side and keep your big mouth shut, you.’

Tony-O turned to Danny and winked. Danny wasn’t sure, but it looked like Tony-O was signalling for him to move up the line, closer to the check-in desk: it was a subtle flick of the head, but Danny caught it straight away. He slipped round the back of Crazy-Pete and was quickly swallowed up by the rest of the team. Owen O’Brien appeared over his shoulder and said under his breath, ‘Here we go.’

 Crazy-Pete tried to move up the line of passengers as well, but the two RUC officers were blocking his way.

‘Get your passport and travel documents out now or you’re not flying anywhere today, do you hear me?’ said the first officer, grabbing Crazy-Pete by the arm.

‘Take your dirty Proddy hands off me or you’ll have to learn to type using your toes,’ said Crazy-Pete, wrenching his arm free from the officer’s grip.

‘Here, slow down Peter, for God’s sake,’ said Tony-O, still trying to stop the situation getting out of hand. ‘Show the man what he wants to see and let’s be on our way. Sorry, officer, he’s had a few too many. We’re on our way to represent Northern Ireland in the Tug-of-War World Championships and we don’t want any trouble, we really don’t. Need every man we’ve got, you know what I’m saying – even the pished ones. We were having a wee celebration. The pair of us had a few too many lagers when we heard about those four SAS lads that never made it for breakfast yesterday.’

Danny had reached the check-in desk. He could see Crazy-Pete and Tony-O in the middle of the terminal surrounded by RUC officers and at least two or three soldiers. As he handed over his tickets to the girl behind the desk he heard Crazy-Pete let out a roar.

Danny turned to look over his shoulder just as one of the RUC officers went reeling backwards, blood pouring from his nose. Suddenly the tall, corrugated roof of the terminal building was echoing with the dull, sickening thud of flesh on flesh. Screams and shouts bounced off the grey brick walls as the remaining officers weighed in to restrain Tony-O and Crazy-Pete.

The girl at the check-in desk tore off a section of Danny’s ticket and handed back his passport and boarding pass. ‘There you go, Mr Leonard, that’s you all checked in.’ She looked past Danny to where the fight was now well under way. ‘Friends of yours?’

‘Never met them before in my life,’ replied Danny. ‘You any good at tug-of-war? Looks like we’re going to be a few men short.’

The girl raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that what you call “men”?’

Danny tried the telephone number again. He let it ring for over a minute before hanging up and putting the scrap of paper that E.I. had given him back in his pocket.

He dialled another number.

‘Hello, 752416, can I help you?’

‘Angela?’

‘No, she’s just left for work, son. Can I take a message?’

‘It’s all right, I’ll try her again later, thanks.’

Danny was about to hang up.

‘Who will I say called?’ asked her mother.

If Mrs Fitzpatrick knew it was Danny she wouldn’t be too pleased.

‘If you could just tell her that the Legend called.’

‘No worries, son.’

The phone went dead.

Danny looked around the departure lounge and made his way over to a quiet table in the corner with a view overlooking the runway.

‘Sure I can’t get you a pint of something, big fella?’

Danny looked round as Owen O’Brien placed two pints of Guinness on the table and sat down beside him.

‘No thanks, I don’t drink and fly.’

Owen raised his eyebrows, but made no further comment. ‘D’you have a pen and a piece of paper handy?’

‘What for?’ asked Danny.

‘I’m going to give you the number of the hotel the boys and me are staying at in Oshkosh. E.I. doesn’t want you phoning him from the States, for obvious reasons, so you can contact me when you’ve done what you have to do. All you have to do is let me know “It’s sorted” and I’ll tell E.I. when I get back. Does that make sense?’

Danny nodded.

He was sure E.I. would have discussed the reasons for his trip with O’Brien, but nevertheless the conversation unsettled Danny.

‘Terrible news about Eamon Ò Ruairc, eh. Did you hear?’

‘Hear what?’ asked Danny.

‘It was just on the telly there,’ continued Owen. ‘Shot dead on his front doorstep. Tragic, eh? Says on the news he had three kids under five. Is that not bloody awful?’

Eamon was one of the two volunteers involved in the operation to steal the list from the headquarters of Special Branch – the other being a schoolfriend of Danny’s called Quig McGuigan. Danny had seen Eamon briefly on the night of the break-in, but hadn’t heard from Quig in a while.

‘When did it happen?’

‘Yesterday morning,’ replied Owen, picking up his Guinness and taking a sip. ‘I just heard it on the news when I was at the bar there. Two in two days: where’s it going to end?’

‘Two?’

‘Aye sure, Lep McFarlane too.’

‘Lep McFarlane?’ Danny tried not to sound surprised.

‘They found his body up the Omeath Road with an OBE.’

That was the reason Danny had been unable to contact him the night before. The poor bastard was lying in a ditch with a bullet in the back of his head.