The Dead Yard (3 page)

"Cuchulainn, love. It’s pronounced KuckKulann, not Cushcoolain," I said with a smug grin.
Samantha ignored me and soldiered on.

"It’s a tiny group, almost a cell really, but, we believe, extraordinarily dangerous. And well
off. Neither we nor the FBI have any agents at all with the Sons of Cuchulainn. None. We are
desperately short of manpower. And for reasons I’ll explain in a moment, time is of the essence.
We have agents within the IRA, the INLA, the UVF. But we urgently need an agent, someone to go to
America to join or spy on the Sons of Cuchulainn, to gather evidence and help in their
prosecution, if of course they are doing anything illegal."

"I have an ominous feeling that I see where this is going. That someone, that poor bastard—let
me guess who you have in mind."

"Michael, your folder only appeared on my desk the day before yesterday. It was handed to me
by someone in the Foreign Office. But I have to say I was jolly impressed."

I wasn’t really listening now. Whatever financial package they were going to offer wasn’t
worth the risk. An IRA cell. They had to be kidding. Samantha continued as I stared up her skirt
and contemplated her oddly seductive voice.

"Yes, Michael, your handlers speak very highly of you and you were in the British army, which
is good and although, um, unfortunately you were asked to leave Her Majesty’s employ rather
prematurely, you completed a reconnaissance course and received some special operations
training."

"I failed that recon course, and the special ops course ended with me in the brig for
assaulting a civilian," I said blithely.

Samantha was not to be put off.

"That’s neither here nor there. The fact is you were in the army, which is good, and you were
also a low-level gangster in Belfast, which is even better. And you worked for the Irish mob in
America, which is best of all. You could be an ideal person to infiltrate the Sons of Cuchulainn
for us. Dan Connolly of the FBI says that you’re one of the best that he’s ever seen. Proficient,
merciless, bold, surprisingly disciplined."

"You talked to Dan, huh? Nice of him to sell me down the river."

"No, no, Dan was very complimentary…. Michael, I have to tell you, I’m going out on something
of a limb here. Dropping everything, flying to Spain, talking to you. But now that I’ve met you I
honestly think you could be the one to do this job for us. To infiltrate this cell and gather
information and help put them away before they ruin everything. If they manage to do a bombing
campaign in America, the Protestant terrorists will have to respond, the IRA will have to reply
to that, and oh my goodness the whole cease-fire and all our hard work will be jolly well up the
spout."

"How jolly sad," I said, irritated enough to take the piss.

"And naturally if you did do this for us, we would convince the Spanish government to drop all
charges against you," Samantha said with a satisfied wee grin. She sat back in her chair, crossed
her legs, blocking the crotch shot.

I also smiled. Who the hell did they think they were dealing with? Did they think I was some
eejit Paddy just off the bloody boat?

"Why don’t the FBI infiltrate this group of yours? It’s their country," I asked for starters
before moving on to the main course.

"The FBI won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole," Samantha said, her eyes narrowing.

"Why?"

"Our plan is to insert an agent as soon as possible.
Before
the Sons of Cuchulainn
begin their campaign, which we strongly believe will commence once the cease-fire announcement
comes. In other words, we have to have an agent in their ranks in the next couple of weeks. The
FBI feels that an attempt to hurriedly insert an agent in this manner and in this climate would
be too rushed and too dangerous," Samantha said calmly.

"The FBI, in other words, thinks it might be a bit of a suicide mission," I said, my smile
broadening.

"Er, yes," she muttered, embarrassed.

"And just to be clear, if the operation weren’t dumb enough already, of all the people in the
world, you want me—a man who has a contract on his head from the Irish mob in New York—to attempt
to infiltrate an IRA splinter group," I said and laughed at her.

"Mr. Forsythe, I don’t think—"

"Don’t Mr. Forsythe me, Samantha; thanks for thinking of me, thanks for taking the trouble to
fly out, but I think I’ve heard just about enough. Run along now. I’ll do my time quietly in
Seville. I’ve been in a lot worse places than that. Nice to have met ya," I said.

I leaned back on the cot and put my hands behind my head. I closed my eyes. Let them sweat for
a bit. Let me think.

Samantha considered the situation.

"Perhaps I have oversold the problems. All we want you to do is gather evidence that would
lead to a prosecution. The fact that you are from Belfast but have experience in America, the
fact that you’ve been in the British army, the fact that you come highly recommended by the FBI.
All this is to your advantage."

"I think, Samantha dear," I said with sarcasm, "you’re barking up the wrong tree, love. As
I’ve patiently explained, I’m already wanted by the Irish community in America. Seamus Duffy has
a million-dollar bounty on my head."

"I am perfectly aware of that, Michael. But you must understand that the Sons of Cuchulainn
are a separate entity from the Boston Irish mob. The mob dislikes and distrusts anyone whose
motives are political rather than fiduciary. They have very little time for fanatics. And the
Boston mob itself is a rival to the New York organization and they maintain few links. There will
be at least two layers of separation between you and your former associates. You’ll be quite
insulated from Seamus Duffy and his agents in New York. And in any case, from what Dan Connolly
tells me, Duffy is more than occupied with his own internal problems rather than looking to
settle old scores. You’re yesterday’s news, Michael. It’s been five years. No one remembers you.
That’s not to say that you won’t be taking any risks. No, we must be clear from the get-go. Oh,
good God, no. This will be extraordinarily risky indeed. Even if they never found out that your
real name is Michael Forsythe, they would kill you at the drop of a hat if they discovered that
you were linked to Her Majesty’s government in even the remotest way."

She paused, ran her hand through that peachy auburn hair. No rings on any finger. Not married,
not engaged.

"Did you hear what I said, Michael?"

"I heard. You’re doing your case no good. What you’re basically saying is I’d have to be mad
to take this job, because I could get killed in half a dozen ways," I said, leaning back on the
cot again and resting my arms over my eyes.

"Well, I’m not one for odds, but yes, I’d say that even a competently trained professional
agent with years of experience would have a rather higher than average chance of being
compromised in a time-imperative operation such as this one," Samantha said.

I yawned in the face of her candor.

"And compromised means killed," I said.

"I’m terribly sorry but I have to be frank. I feel it’s only fair that you appreciate the
risks. Of course I do not think you will be killed or compromised in any way. It’s very unlikely
that McCaghan would bring you into the inner circle. We just need tidbits of information,
anything that will help prevent a potential bombing campaign. And yes, ordinarily, I’d do
something dramatic, I’d leave the cell, give you a day or two to think it over, maybe get the
Spanish to rough you up, hector you a bit, but as I’ve said time is a factor here. An ideal
opportunity for an insertion has presented itself. If my plan is going to work at all you
absolutely have to be in Revere tomorrow."

"Revere Beach, Boston? You must be joking, honey. If I go near a Paddy neighborhood like that,
I’ll be killed."

She shook her head and gave me a brilliant smile.

"No, you won’t. I wouldn’t send you if I thought that. The Sons of Cuchulainn are beyond the
pale in Irish American republican circles and after the IRA hit tomorrow, they’re going to be
even more beyond the pale. They’ll be pariahs."

"IRA hit?"

"Michael, please don’t worry about your former problems. We’ll dye your hair black, give you
dark green contact lenses, something like that; that’s not my field exactly, but we’ll gussy you
up so that your own mother wouldn’t recognize you."

"Sure."

"You’ll only have to be in Boston for one day. Then we’ll fly you to an FBI field office in a
secure location. And then in a week or so your formal assignment will begin. The most difficult
part of an operation is the entry. Believe me, I’ve done dozens. And what we have going tomorrow
is a perfect entry for you. It’s an opportunity not to be missed. Instead of months of
preparation, we can get you buckets of credibility in a single night. Indeed, if we pull this
off, I’d say the risks of being compromised are considerably reduced."

"What exactly do you want me to do in Revere?"

"You’re going to save a girl’s life," Samantha said with a cough.

"What?"

"The IRA is going to try to kill her father, and you’re going to save her," she said, looking
at the floor.

"That sounds bloody risky to start with."

"Not really. Look, Michael, we need you. We had one other person in mind but…" her voice
trailed off.

"Let me guess. He’s turned you down," I said.

"Well, yes. That’s why this whole Spanish angle has been particularly fortuitous for us. You
know, not everyone agrees with me, I’m taking a bit of a risk flying here to see you. There are
some within the department who don’t agree with the idea of recruiting outsiders. Especially a
potential loose cannon such as yourself."

I was fed up with her now and I’d thought about it enough.

"While I really appreciate the faith you have in me, Samantha, thanks but no thanks. Now I
think I’ve been pretty polite with you; if you would do me a favor and tell your pal in the
Foreign Office that I still haven’t seen a lawyer and could they please arrange for me to see one
ASAP I’d be much obliged."

She looked disappointed.

"A lawyer?"

"Aye. I want to plead and get this shit over with."

Samantha frowned, undid her ponytail, and let the hair hang down her back. She started doing
her hair up again, glancing at me with what could almost be described as pity.

"Michael, obviously I haven’t made the entire situation transparent. You’re caught between a
rock and a hard place. The Spanish government will see to it that you go to jail. And what’s
more, when your time is up, the Spaniards will extradite you to Mexico, where I believe you are a
fugitive from justice."

That was her trump card. The one she’d been saving.

I sat up on the bed. Horrified.

I’d been arrested in Mexico on a charge of drug smuggling but I’d escaped from the remand
prison before I’d come to trial. I could be looking at twenty years there for the drugs, plus God
knows how much for bloody jailbreaking.

Cold fear ran down my back. I’d been so cavalier with Samantha because I knew the Spanish
angle was bullshit. Who gets ten years for being a football hooligan? Even if I got convicted
they’d sentence me to three or four and I’d do two at the most. Probably less.
The Sun
and the
Daily Mirror
would quickly be filled with horror stories about all the poor
Brits and their mistreatment in Spanish jails. Even the worst offenders would never serve close
to ten years. And me, a side player with zero physical evidence to back up the police case, I’d
be out in easy time and probably well on my way to winning damages at the European Court of Human
Rights.

But Mexico, that was another matter completely.

I was in a world of shit if I went back there.

"The FBI won’t let you send me to Mexico. We have a deal. I’m a protected witness," I said,
trying to keep the tension out of my voice.

Samantha read from the file in front of her and shook her head.

"You have been given exemption from the crimes you committed in the United States. You
certainly could not have been given exemption for criminal acts committed in a third country.
Last night I called up my counterpart in the Mexican intelligence service. He would be more than
happy to have you back in Mexican custody and the Spanish government would be delighted to
extradite you. They have excellent relations with Mexico, as you can imagine."

I stared at her.

Any residual lust evaporated, replaced pound for pound with enmity. There was no way I was
going back to Mexico. The place where Scotchy, Andy, and Fergal all had died in horrible
circumstances. The thought of returning to that prison at all was like an ice dagger in the
heart. You know what they do to gringos in Mexican prisons? Let your imagination do the work and
then add a little on top because I’d already goddamn escaped.

But I didn’t want to work for her. Suddenly I felt trapped. Panicked. My mind sprinting
through scenarios. Not Boston but not bloody Mexico, either.

Aye. Maybe there was another way.

What was it that Goosey had said? We could live out in the wilds of Tenerife forever. Fish,
eat fruit, maybe escape by boat.

I formulated a tiny, desperate, pathetic plan.

Move fast.

Last thing anyone would be expecting.

Up, run at her, kick her off the chair, grab it, smash it down on that ponytailed skull.
Jeremy hears the commotion, comes rushing in, let him have it with the goddamn chair too. Grab
his piece, cock it, point it at the guard, put the gun in my pocket, but keep it on him, and get
the guard to march me right out of the prison, telling everyone that I was being transferred or
released. Walk right out, casual as you please. Take his money, steal a car, go back up into the
volcano country. Wait out the search.

In von Humboldt’s book I read that the indigenous people kept going a guerrilla war against
the Spanish for over a hundred years. Easy, up there on the mountain fastness. Hunt out a cave,
lay low until the heat cooled down, come back into town, find some drunken German tourist, mug
him, steal a passport, money, plane ticket, Tenerife to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to New York. Get
back to safety in the good old USA.