Authors: Andy McNab
Remote Control (25 page)
By the end of a quarter of an hour I could begin to make out the shape of the cars as well as their headlights. It was time. There was no need to wake Kelly; the more she slept, the easier my life would be. I checked I had the key card and moved up to the roof.
Rain danced on the metal roof of the lift housing. I pulled myself up and lay there, getting soaked front and back as I pressed the play button on the camera. I checked that I still had the correct site picture and that the lens hadn’t misted up. It had. I honked at myself because I should have put on another plastic bag to stop the moisture getting in overnight. I started to wipe the moisture off with my cuff and suddenly had the feeling that I was between two worlds. Behind me roared the early morning traffic, yet in front, towards the river, I could just about hear birds giving it their early morning song. I was almost enjoying it. The moment was soon shattered when the first aircraft of the day took off and disappeared into low cloud.
Lens dry, I rechecked the camera position, made sure it was recording and closed the bin liners.
It was now nearly six a.m. I went back to the room and my chair by the window, coffee in hand. I smiled as I watched a couple come out of the room next door, hand in hand. Something about them didn’t quite match up. I made a bet with myself that they’d leave in separate cars.
For the hundredth time, my mind drifted to the telephone call I’d had with Kev. Pat had said that, if it was PIRA, there could be a connection with drugs, Gibraltar and the Americans. My hard drive went into freewheel, because something about the Gibraltar job had always puzzled me.
1987 had been PIRA’s annus horribilis, and, as Det operators in the province, Euan and I had done our fair share to fuck them over. At the beginning of the year they’d made a promise to their faithful of ‘tangible success in the war of national liberation’, but it hadn’t taken long for that to turn to rat shit. In February PIRA fielded twenty-seven Sinn Féin candidates in the Irish general election, but they only managed to scrape about one thousand votes each. Few people in the South gave a toss about reunification with Northern Ireland; they were far more concerned with other issues, like unemployment and the crippling level of taxation. It showed how out of touch PIRA were and how successful the Anglo-Irish accord was proving. Ordinary people really did believe that London and Dublin could work together to bring about a long-term solution to the troubles.
PIRA couldn’t take that lying down and must have decided they needed a morale-booster. Their knee-jerk reaction was the murder, on Saturday, 25 April, of Lord Justice Maurice Gibson, one of the province’s most senior judges. Euan and I saw, at first-hand, the celebrations in some of PIRA’s illegal drinking dens that weekend. We even had a few drinks ourselves as we hung around. The players loved what had happened. Not only had they got rid of one of their worst enemies, but recriminations were flying left, right and centre between London and Dublin. The Anglo-Irish accord, which had done so much to undermine PIRA’s power base, was itself now in question.
However, barely had the hangovers gone away, when PIRA had another disaster. Two weeks later, at Loughall in County Armagh, blokes from the Regiment ambushed PIRA’s East Tyrone Brigade while they were attempting to bomb a police station. From a force of 1,000 hardcore players in 1980, PIRA’s strength had already dwindled to less than two hundred and fifty, of which maybe fifty were members of active service units. Our successes had further cut this to forty, which meant that the operation at Loughall wiped out one fifth of PIRA’s hardliners at a stroke. It was the IRA’s biggest loss in a single action since 1921. If this carried on, all of PIRA would soon be riding around in the same taxi.
The massive defeat of Loughall was followed soon afterwards by a disastrous showing by Gerry Adams in the British general election. Sinn Féin’s vote plummeted, with the Catholic vote switching to the moderate SDLP. Then, on 31 October, during Sinn Féin’s annual conference in Dublin, French customs seized a small freighter called the
Eksund
off the coast of Brittany. On board was an early Christmas present to PIRA from Colonel Gaddafi – hundreds of AK47s, tons of Semtex, several ground-to-air missiles and so much ammunition it was a miracle that the ship stayed afloat.
Eksund
off the coast of Brittany. On board was an early Christmas present to PIRA from Colonel Gaddafi – hundreds of AK47s, tons of Semtex, several ground-to-air missiles and so much ammunition it was a miracle that the ship stayed afloat.
The humiliation was complete. No wonder Gerry Adams and PIRA wanted revenge, and some sort of publicity coup to show people like Gaddafi and those Irish-Americans who contributed to Noraid that they hadn’t completely lost their grip.
On 8 November, Remembrance Day, they planted a 30-pound bomb, with a timer device, at the town memorial in Enniskillen in County Fermanagh. Eleven civilians were killed in the explosion and more than sixty were seriously injured. Outrage at the atrocity was instant and worldwide. In Dublin, thousands lined up to sign a book of condolence. In Moscow, not a place well known for its community care, the Tass news agency denounced what it called ‘barbaric murders’. But, worst of all for PIRA, even the Irish-Americans appeared to have had enough. PIRA had fucked up big-time. They’d thought the bombing would be hailed as a victory in their struggle against an occupying power, but all it had done was to show them up for what they really were. It might be one thing to kill ‘legitimate’ targets, like judges, policemen and members of the security forces, but murdering innocent civilians while they were honouring their dead at a Remembrance Day service?
That was why Gibraltar had been such a puzzle to me. I could see why Adams and co would be desperate to show their diminishing group of sympathizers that they were still in business, but why risk a repeat of the international backlash they’d suffered after Enniskillen? If they bombed Gibraltar, it wouldn’t be only British civilians who might end up killed. At that time of the year, hundreds of foreign tourists pack the squares and streets of the colony, many from the cruise liners that regularly dock in the harbour. And many of those, PIRA would have known full well, are American. I’d never been able to see a method in their madness.
It suddenly hit me that maybe I’d been looking down the wrong end of the telescope. PIRA were terrorists, but their presence here in Washington proved that they were also businessmen. There was no sectarian divide when it came to money, just normal competition and greed. I knew that they got together with Protestant paramilitaries on a regular basis, to talk about their drug, prostitution and extortion rackets, even to discuss demarcation lines for different taxi firms and sites for gaming machines back in the province. They had the infrastructure, the knowledge and the weapons to be major players in the world of crime. With co-operation from other terror organizations throughout the world, the possibilities were endless. If so, this was serious shit.
Down in the car park the couple were having a long, lingering embrace. What was going on there was serious shit, too. Then one final kiss and, yep, separate cars.
I wasn’t expecting a phone call from Pat until midday and there were still about three hours to wait for the tape to finish recording, so there wasn’t much to do apart from watch invaders from Mars and talking shoes who lived in dustbins. I felt uneasy. I needed to do something.
I shook Kelly. She moaned and pulled the covers back over her. I spoke gently in her ear. ‘I’m going downstairs to buy some stuff, OK?’
I got a very weak ‘Yes.’ She couldn’t have cared less. I was beginning to realize she wasn’t a morning person.
I used the emergency stairs again and crossed under the highway to the 7-Eleven. Inside, it looked like Fort Knox. There was a grating in the wall with a cubby hole behind, and a Korean face glowering out and then turning back to watch a portable TV. The shop was too hot and it stank of cigarettes and overbrewed coffee. Every inch of wall space was plastered with signs informing the local villains, ‘Cash Register Holds Only $50, Everything Else Deposited’.
I didn’t really need to buy anything; we had more stuff in the room than we could shake a stick at, certainly more biscuits than Mr Oreo. But I wanted some time to myself, away from Kelly. I found it tiring just being around her. There was always something that needed doing, checking or washing, and, in any time that was left over, I seemed to be nagging her to hurry up and get dressed.
At the magazine rack another friendly sign said, ‘No Spitting Or Reading The Merchandise’. I picked up a
Washington Post
and a handful of magazines, some for me and some for Kelly, I didn’t even bother looking at what they were, and went and put my money through the small hole in the grille. The Korean looked disappointed he hadn’t been forced to use the machete I was sure he had under the till.
Washington Post
and a handful of magazines, some for me and some for Kelly, I didn’t even bother looking at what they were, and went and put my money through the small hole in the grille. The Korean looked disappointed he hadn’t been forced to use the machete I was sure he had under the till.
I strolled into reception to collect breakfast. The room was full. There was a TV mounted on a wall bracket above the food and drink collection point. As I started to load up three paper plates, I could hear the anchorman talking about George Mitchell and his part in the Irish peace process. I listened to a couple of sound bites from Sinn Féin and the British government, both pouring scorn on the other side’s statements, both claiming that they were the ones who truly wanted peace.
A woman’s voice interrupted my thoughts. She was presenting the local news and, as I poured an orange juice for Kelly, I could feel my skin tingle all over. She was talking about the Browns.
I didn’t dare turn round. One of the barbecue pictures could be appearing on screen at any moment.
The woman told viewers that police had not come up with any new leads, but that the investigation of the kidnapping of seven-year-old Kelly had moved forward with a computer image of the man seen leaving with her. She gave my height, build and hair colour.
There wasn’t room to pour any more coffee or juice, and the tray was overflowing with food. But I didn’t dare move. I felt as if every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on me. I put a bagel into the toaster and waited, drinking coffee, not looking up or round. I felt I was in a cocoon of silence, apart from the voice of the newsreader. I prayed for her to turn to a new subject. The bagel popped up.
Shit!
I put some spread on it. I knew people were looking at me; they must be.
Shit!
I put some spread on it. I knew people were looking at me; they must be.
I’d run out of things to do. I took a deep breath, picked up my tray and turned round. The noise of the room came back. No-one was looking. They were too busy eating, talking and reading the papers.
Kelly was still asleep. Good. I put her food on the side and started to munch my Cheerios. I switched on the TV, muted it and flicked through the other channels, looking for local news. There was nothing more about the situation in Hunting Bear Path.
I attacked the newspaper. We were famous – well, sort of. A small piece on page five. No pictures. A police spokesman was reported as saying that they were reluctant to come up with any theories until they had more concrete evidence, but, yes, the murders were being treated as drug-related. Luther and co would be pleased about that. Other than that, there were no new leads. I wasn’t the only one in the dark.
I had to try to cut all the conjecture from my mind because it was getting far too confusing. As the policeman said, without information it was pointless spending time and effort trying to think of different scenarios. I determined to focus all my effort into: one, protecting Kelly and myself; two, keeping the video on target to discover if there was a connection between PIRA and Kev’s death; three, getting some money from Pat, so that I could arrange my return to the UK and, four, getting hold of Euan for help in dealing with Simmonds – or, if I had nothing for him, to help me negotiate with him.
I looked over at Kelly. She was on her back, with her arms out in a star shape, dreaming she was Katherine, the pink one. I felt sorry for her. She hadn’t a clue what had happened to her family. Some poor bastard was going to have to tell her one day, and, after that, someone would have to look after her. I just hoped it was someone nice; maybe her grandparents, wherever they might be.
At least she was alive. Those boys must be flapping now. They’d have to assume that Kelly had given me their descriptions and that she’d overheard what all the shouting was about. They must be desperate to get their hands on us.
I started to wonder how I could get more information out of her, but gave up on that one. I was no psychologist; if anything, I was a candidate for seeing one.
I picked up a bike mag and, by the end, had changed loyalties from Ducati to BMW. Then I read in a fishing magazine how wonderful Lake Tahoe was for men with long wellington boots, and was lost in a whole new world of hook sizes and rod materials, when all of a sudden there was a knock on the door.
No time to think. I pulled the Sig, checked chamber and looked at Kelly. I thought, We both might be dead soon.
I put my hand over her mouth and gave her a shake. She woke up scared. I put my fingers to my mouth. It wasn’t in a nice manner; it was saying, Shut the fuck up. Don’t say a fucking thing.
I called out, ‘One minute, one minute!’ I went through and turned on the shower, came back out, then went up to the door sounding disorganized. ‘Hello, who is it?’
A pause. ‘Housekeeping.’
I looked through the spyhole and saw a woman, black, in her fifties; she had a cleaner’s uniform on and a trolley behind her.
I couldn’t see anything else, but then, if she had the police or Luther’s boys either side of her, they weren’t going to be showing their faces.
I looked at her and tried to interpret from her eyes what was going on. They would soon tell me if there were ten policemen around the corner bristling with body armour and firepower.
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