Laughter – Part 9

“You’re nicked, Paddy!”

He imagined those abrasive London words – of the ill-educated against the unlucky. But they were also the words of a magician that spelled out his future in big fat letters. Picked up by the boss himself at the ferry, he was feted for having got things sorted things out so well. He even permitted himself a smile, not only doing a grand job, but also for making himself rich in the process.

He’d been in England only three weeks, keeping his head down working on sites, as well as on his cover. In effect, he had only one job: infiltration. He’d been sent by divisional HQ to see at first hand what was being done with the funds – not the day-to-day stuff of takeaway receipts and cab journeys, but the really big cheques that would account for spectacular acts of terror. And he’d been trusted with this job for two reasons: he had pedigree –both his father and grandfather had been provos, his father had even done time– and he was relatively young and inexperienced, which meant he would never have been considered a risk. It also meant he would do the job merely because they’d asked him, and not just because he believed in the cause. He was obviously a bright lad who wanted to get on within the organisation. He shown interest even in the daily, ultra-secretive business of the I.R.A. He’d said all the right things with the correct invective and had even volunteered to do some of the dirty tasks, those distasteful tasks that many others may have second thought about, with women or teenagers, and set to it with an ultra-steely determination that made some wonder if he was not a little warped. His reply was the well-rehearsed line that desperate times call for desperate measures, an argument that at various times he probably believed.

The cell had been successful in only one way – it had eluded the watchful eyes of the authorities. Other than that, it had achieved precious little. Several lock-ups had been rented for cash more than a year prior to his arrival, and one or two modest bedrooms in seaside guesthouses had been booked for the August bank holiday weekend, the planned date of the attack, but the truck and nitrate explosives, the detonators, Semtex and the necessary hardware were all unaccounted for.

In the third day of their acquaintance he’d gained their trust enough to drink with them, Mick and Julian, and noted their habits, interests and contacts. They clearly weren’t short of a bob or two, one using a shabby Merc, the other a Mustang. Their covers, if they’d even taken them seriously, were as subtle as a clown at a children’s party. But they didn’t seem to care. These fellas were up to something all right, but it wasn’t explosive chaos and political mayhem. They’d gone feral, and were now dealers in Class A drugs. Julian enjoyed knocking heads, sometimes more, Mick made the connections and dealt with the finances.

“Take it!” Mick eventually said to him at the end of the night. “Do the fookin’ job. We’re out. Out for sure.”

They didn’t let on just how long they’d known he’d been sent to spy on them, but they seemed so sure of themselves on their South East London patches that they could ignore their original instructions, even the true cause, and were happy instead to turn the funds into personal gain.

“Ah, we’ll pay it back, all of it, sure – no worries there. Besides, we’re doin’ well – we like it here. Think we're gonna go back to days of diggin’ ditches and workin’ the fookin’ roads?”

These were not the words of a committed terrorist, but of a lax criminal, one without the intelligence to realise exactly what he had got himself into by playing with funds. But Mick and Julian were not just dealers. They had become importers: nothing major yet, but they’d found a route, made connections, and had begun distributing through friends and friends of friends. Even he, however, could see that if one of their contacts went down, the rest would likely squeal and either one of them would be picked up in a drug bust before the delete contacts button could be pressed from their ever-ringing Nokias. They were, therefore, not only dishonourable to the cause, but because of their dalliances on the wrong side of the law were now wild liabilities. And organisations such as his had always eagerly and ruthlessly sought opportunities to shed their liabilities.

They’d been surprisingly open with him, perhaps because of his credentials, but maybe more so because of his perceived youth and congeniality. It was only another day or so before he was made privy to the Spanish connections, shown how they’d imported under cover using small sailing craft, and how in return it was possible to legitimately divert the ‘exports’ from Ireland back to Spain thereby dodging customs altogether – a perfect loop that needed only a regular supply of cash to keep the wheels turning. It was only afterwards that he realised the real reason they had allowed him in was to turn him and use him. And if he did not turn, then they would most likely have had to kill him. He was latterly wooed, therefore, with promises of future riches and expansion, of foreign trips and of girls on the make who would do anything for a photo shoot and a chance at the big time, the sort of fantasy empire building that has been the downfall of so many. Their biggest fault lay in their over-confidence. The deal was surely flawless: who could refuse? All three drank to success that evening. But they hadn’t reasoned on his steely determination, or in his appreciation for the odd desperate measure.

Taking matters into his hands, he spirited their Nokias, and hurriedly made an anonymous call from the phone box by the gents. Outside, the pub appeared instantly awash with blue lights, body armour and the sort of panicked shouting that comes from too much training – a scene from a cheesy film. They may have thought they were ‘out for sure’, but would likely remain inside for ten years or more, not that he cared. And as ‘men of violence’ amidst others of their kind, they would be unlikely informers, either about him or even their little business.

Returning to Belfast that night, he put in a request for a ‘holiday’ to Spain. It turned out to be permanent.

–

 “I hope you don’t mind. They let me in.”

The two children stared with mouths open – quite a picture, he thought to himself.

“I thought it was best to wait here – didn't want to miss you.”

Floria tugged on Miguel’s sleeve in an attempt to pull him out of the doorway.

“Don’t just stand there, come on in! I have some things I’d like to say to you.”