First Strike (19 page)

O’Brien paid for his drink, walked to the end of the block

and entered the Internet café on the corner. It was the middle of the morning and the place was almost deserted. O’Brien sat at a screen with his back to the room, his shoulders hunched over the keyboard. He selected a search engine and typed the words “Ulster Volunteer Force in America.” in the dialogue box. He spent the next twenty minutes sifting through page after page of garbage before he found what he wanted, the contact details of the UVF chapter in Morgan County, West Virginia. Next he tried “Appalachian Stone Quarries” and followed a number of false trails before he found a full history of the Oriskany sandstone deposits in a place called Warm Springs Ridge at the heart of Morgan County. It was difficult to compare both sets of data without printing out complete pages but with patience, pen and paper, he got the match he was looking for.

O’Brien could not risk renting a car. He had a couple of false passports in his luggage with matching driving licenses and credit cards but McGuire would know the identities Declan customarily used. He hadn’t planned on making the trip and the FBI would be doing routine searches anywhere his usual aliases might crop up. So he took a cab out to the airport and paid cash for a no-frills ticketless flight to Atlanta, Georgia. On arrival he bought a hamburger and a diet Coke at a fast-food counter and paid cash for an onward flight to Charleston, West Virginia. He had half an hour to kill before take-off so he went to a pay phone and dialled his mother’s number.

“Ma?”

“Declan? Is that you darlin’?”

“Sure it is, Ma. How are you?”

“Fine, son. We’re all fine.”

She wanted to ask him what was going on. The papers were full of the arrests in Colombia. It was the biggest news in Dublin since the cease-fire. But she knew better than to mention things like that on the phone.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“I thought I heard a click on the line.”

“I heard it too…”

She lowered her voice to a whisper. She wanted to tell him about the wretched English woman who had come to the house and upset Liam, but she knew there wasn’t time.

“Will you tell Liam I called?”

“I will. But don’t forget to call him on his birthday.”

“Did I ever miss?”

“No, son; you never have. You’re a good boy, Declan.”

Declan hung up the phone and looked at his watch.

“Sorry lads. You’ll need a bit longer than that I’m thinkin’.”

At Charleston O’Brien took the Greyhound and headed north on Interstate 79. His destination was the small run down community of Warm Springs Ridge in Morgan County where high grade Oriskany sandstone had been quarried since before the Civil War and still supplied the local glass making industry. The first thing he noticed on entering the place was the ubiquitous grime. A blanket of fine grey particles covered every available surface, dispersed equally over the poor and less poor sections of town by the impartial westerly breeze. The dust came from the nearby stone quarries that gave the desolate place its miserable living.

O’Brien got off the bus at the north end of Main Street late in the afternoon, carrying a small overnight bag. He was the only passenger to alight at this particular stop. He dropped his bag on the pavement, looked up and down the deserted street and lit a cigarette, flicking the match into the gutter. He’d been travelling for the best part of a day. His joints were aching and his mouth was dry. He was wearing jeans and a loose fitting denim shirt that concealed a sheathed Bowie knife, strapped to his left forearm with brown packing tape.

There were twenty or so shops on Main Street, half of them empty, half announcing huge discounts on goods nobody would buy. The only living thing he saw was a scraggy cat, foraging in a pile of garbage. Canned music was coming from a dingy bar. O’Brien crossed the street to The Red Hand, pushed open the door and walked up to the counter. Inside the place was cool and dark. Sealed windows kept the dust at bay. A malfunctioning air-conditioning unit hummed above the door, surplus coolant dripping onto the unscrubbed wooden floor. White supremacist memorabilia decorated every wall. The red and white Cross of Saint George, prominent above the bar, proclaimed O’Brien was in enemy territory. His stomach tightened. He dropped his bag on the floor and ordered a large Bushmills and a soda water on the side. The stocky overweight barman took a good look at O’Brien and noted the broad Londonderry accent, but said nothing. O’Brien took his drink and his bag to a corner table he could watch the bar and the door from without moving his head. He was the only customer in the place. As he sat sipping his whiskey he felt a distinct tremor under his feet. It lasted only about five seconds but the whole building shook perceptibly. The ceiling light swung to and fro above his head. The glasses on the bar made a merry jangling sound. O’Brien glanced up at the barman but didn’t move his head.“

Boss Murphy’s blasting a new face today,” the barman shrugged.  Happens all the time.”

O’Brien nodded, put his glass to his lips and took a little sip.

The barman looked at the stranger, at his big uncalloused hands. There was no dust on his clothes, skin or hair. His shoes were shiny.

“You from around here?”

O’Brien shook his head and raised his glass, like he was making a toast.

“I’m from across the water.”

“Thought so.”

The barman glanced at O’Brien’s overnight bag.

“Travellin’ kinda light, aren’t ya?”

He returned to his chores and continued to talk with his back to O’Brien.

“The men’ll be here soon. They clock off about now.”

He was silent for a while, intent on O’Brien’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Then he said,

“There’s no work in these parts if that’s what you’re lookin’ for. Half the fellas is laid off.”

“I’m not lookin’ for work.” O’Brien flexed his hands.

The barman grunted.

“Is it Boss Murphy you’ve come to see?”

“Could be.” O’Brien emptied his glass, walked over to the bar and ordered another. “Will you join me?”

“Later.”

The barman put some of Declan’s change in a jar by the till.

Declan said,

“Is there somewhere I can put up for the night?”

“There’s Mrs Ahern on George Street, does room and board. Cooks a nice breakfast too, so they say.”

“George Street?”

“Number 32. Turn left at the bottom of Main and first right. Say Eddie sent yer, from the bar.”

“I’m grateful to you, Eddie.” Declan picked up his bag. “And would you tell Boss Murphy I was askin’ for ‘im.”

“I’ll do that.” Eddie went back to his chores. “What name did you say?”

“I didn’t.” O’Brien paused at the door. “Just say I came across the water.”

***

O’Brien walked down Main Street, turned right into George Street and found Mrs Ahern’s a little way along on the left hand side. Number 32 was a detached timber frame house painted white but covered with the pervasive grey dust that blanketed the town. The front yard was littered with dust-encrusted toys. A stack of fresh dog shit lent a little colour to the lawn. O’Brien stood on the porch and rang the bell. He sensed a slight movement in the net curtains in the bay window. Then the door opened and a grey woman in a grey dress stood looking up at him.

“Eddie at the bar said you might be havin’ a room, mum.”

The woman looked him up and down and smiled at the Londonderry accent.

“And how long would ya be wantin’ to stay, lad?”

She was hoping for a long let. She hadn’t had a good long let since the quarries went short time.

“Just the one night, mum. I’ll be on me way in the mornin’.”

“Will you be wantin’ a meal?”

She frowned. She wasn’t prepared for a gentleman’s supper. She’d have to go to the shop.

“Just breakfast, mum, I’ll not bother ya for supper. I have to meet a man.”

The woman asked him for twelve dollars, including the fried breakfast. O’Brien gave her fifteen, carried his bag to the upstairs room, took off his shoes, closed the curtains and lay on the bed. But he didn’t sleep. The packing tape around his left forearm was pulling at his skin. He heard the creak on the stairs, unsheathed the Bowie knife and went to stand behind the door. It didn’t open. Mrs Ahern tapped and said,

“There’s a man in the yard askin’ for yer. Didn’t say a name. Big fella.”

She knew who the big fella was but she knew better than to say a name.

“That’ll be Mr Murphy,” O’Brien replied through the door. “Tell him I’ll be right down.”

He winced as he stripped off the packing tape and replaced it with new. He checked in the long mirror, making sure the hilt didn’t show below his shirt cuff and went down to the yard.

Boss Murphy was a big red-faced man, a head and a half taller than O’Brien, with broad shoulders, narrow hips and a solid drinking man’s belly. He wore camouflage fatigues, dark glasses and military cap. His calf-high boots were steel capped. An array of hand-tools hung suspended from a belt around his waist. He was chewing gum. He looked O’Brien up and down and smiled at the little man.

“You was askin’ for Boss Murphy?”

He spat the gum out on the ground between them.

“That your truck?”

O’Brien gestured with his head, his thumbs resting in the belt loops of his jeans. The big Protestant peered over the top of his shades and nodded.

“Let’s take a ride,” said O’Brien as he headed for the truck and climbed up into the cab.

The open bed of the Chevy Silverado was a jumble of wires, cables, tools and detonator parts, the trappings of Boss Murphy’s dangerous trade. Half a dozen sticks of dynamite were mixed up casually with the rest.

Boss Murphy took off his tool belt and got behind the wheel.

“Where to, little fella?”

“Somewhere we can talk. And not so much of the little fella.”

“My place?”

Murphy turned the key in the ignition.

“Your place is fine.”

In minutes they had left the dingy town behind and the passing foliage progressively assumed its natural colour.

Murphy said,

“Eddie at the bar was tellin’ me you came across the water?”

Boss Murphy looked down at the small man seated beside him and noted the bulge in his shirtsleeve and the large, uncalloused killing hands, lying passive in his lap.

“I’m from Londonderry,” O’Brien replied, careful to use the full Protestant name, not the shorter, Catholic version. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

Ten miles out of town Murphy turned into the driveway of a small, single storey clapboard house with a neat well-tended garden.

“I live alone since me mam died,” Murphy explained as he unlocked the door, went in and turned on a light. He led the way into the den that overlooked the yard at the back of the house.

“Eddie says you’re partial to a drop of Bushmills.”

He opened a cabinet, poured a couple of drinks and sat in a large comfortable armchair, motioning O’Brien to do the same. He took a good long look at O’Brien before he spoke again.

“OK, little man, so tell me what it is you’re here for Mr…?”

“O’Brien. Declan O’Brien.” He flexed his fingers and undid the button of his left shirtsleeve.

“You might have heard of me?”

“No; don’t think so.”

Murphy raised an eyebrow in mock astonishment.

Should I have?”

“‘Twas me bombed the chippy in the Shanklin Road, Saturday October 23, 1993. My first big job. Ten Protestants died that night. I blew South Quay in the Docklands, Friday 9 February 1996. Two Brits dead. Scores injured. Millions of pounds worth of damage. On Monday 7 October in the same year ‘twas me did the Thiepval Barracks job.”

Murphy made a sudden move to get out of his seat, he kept a hunting rifle in a steel gun cabinet by the door, but he decided against it. He wanted to hear what else the repulsive little Papist had to say before he killed him, find out why the fuck he was here.

“Then I laid low for a while,” O’Brien continued. “I’d become a bit of a celebrity you see; and so valuable the Army Council didn’t want to over-expose my talents. Birmingham and Manchester were my last big achievements before they pensioned me off.”

O’Brien wasn’t boasting, just recounting the facts the way they were, so Murphy would know who he was. It was important to gain respect, so the bastard Protestant would take him seriously.

“Takin’ a bit of a risk, aren’t yer?” said Murphy. “We’re all Loyalists here.”

There was nothing in his tone to indicate his feelings but the horror and revulsion he felt for the little man were real.

“You’ll be lucky to get out of here alive, Mr O’Brien. All I have to do is pick up that phone and there’ll be a dozen of the boys here in no time. Not that I’ll need ‘em, you Papist piece of shit.”

“Hear me out, Murph,” said O’Brien quietly. “Then do what you have to do. If you can make it across the room, that is.”

He rolled up his shirtsleeve and placed the Bowie knife on the armrest of his chair where Murphy could see it.

“I’ve come about the Peace Process.”

O’Brien wasn’t smiling.

“The Peace Process!” Murphy roared. “The Peace Process? Don’t make me laugh. That bunch of garbage isn’t worth the toilet paper it’s written on. You bastards are still in business. What about the three got caught in Bogotá with pants around their ankles? Ornithologists? Ornithologists my ass.”

“There were four of us in Colombia,” O’Brien explained patiently, not boasting. “You’re lookin’ at the one that got away.”

Murphy made a move for the gun cabinet where the hunting rifle was. O’Brien grabbed the knife and held it to the big man’s throat, the point of it nicking his Protestant skin.

“Listen to me, Murphy. Don’t you see? Halting the Peace Process is what we’re both about. What we’re all about.”

Boss Murphy slumped back in his seat, one hand on his throat, his eyes fixed on the knife.

“Of course the IRA’s still active,” O’Brien resumed. “Of course we are. It’s the politicals who sold us out.”

“Go on. I’m listening”

Boss Murphy’s eyes moved from the knife to the gun cabinet and back again.