Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 3

  Less than two weeks later, one wet and miserable Friday night, a Mercedes Saloon containing four men, had turned sharply and quickly into Korte Leidsedwarsstraat. They had been in a hurry. They had just attended six o’clock Mass and had been desperate for a decent drink at a nearby Irish bar. The driver of the Mercedes had slowed slightly; there had been parked cars on one side of the road, reducing its width. From behind one of these cars, an old lady, with a white scarf tied tightly about her head, had stepped out – pushing a large black pram in front of her.

  “JESUS – FUCKING CHRIST,” the driver of the car had sworn out aloud, as he had stabbed his foot hard on to the car’s brakes. “Jesus fucking Christ – stupid fucking old cow,” he had continued ranting, pushing both hands on to the car’s horn rim as the Mercedes had skidded to a halt.

  The old lady had stopped in the middle of the road, and had turned to look at the Mercedes and its occupants, before reaching into the pram and pulling something out from it. Standing upright, the old lady had turned to face the car again – her wild black beard, broken by a big broad knowing grin.

  ‘Ear’ witnesses, for there had been no eye witnesses, had all stated that they had heard the car’s horn before hearing a strange peculiar sound, that some had described as canvass being slowly torn. There had been some discrepancy of witness accounts after that. Some had heard nothing more, others had heard a series of short ‘ripping’ noises, not as long as the first, but very similar in sound. To the Dutch police, and especially Interpol, it had seemed to have been a typical Red Army Faction, Baader-Meinhof style ambush and execution. This presumption had been further substantiated when a pram had been dragged from the nearby Leidsegracht Canal. Still inside the pram had been the weapon that had been used; a MG3 general purpose machine gun, complete with a one hundred round ammunition drum, less its contents of one hundred rounds of ammunition – ninety three of them having been subsequently retrieved later, from the bullet ridden car and its four equally bullet ridden occupants. The serial number of the gun had been ground off. Nevertheless, with the use of an etching acid, it had been possible for forensic experts to get a number from it. This had matched the serial number of a general purpose machine gun that had been ‘misplaced’, along with a number of full one hundred round ammunition drums, when elements of the Federal German Army had been on NATO manoeuvres, the previous winter. The finger had firmly pointed at the Red Army Faction, Baader-Meinhof Group – who, at no point, had denied their involvement with the killings.

  Back in Ireland, the hierarchy of the Provisional IRA had also believed that the Red Army Faction, the Baader-Meinhof Group had executed their men – but they had not been prepared to go to war over it. The German anarchists had strong affiliations with the PLO and Libya; and the Provisional IRA had needed those contacts for a ready supply of weapons and explosives. So, with discretion being the better part of valour, the Provisional IRA had taken the executive decision to give up all their interests in the Amsterdam drug trade, with immediate effect.

  ‘A result’, as Patrick would say.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  On his return back to the Embankment Offices, of Section 9, Patrick had been given the position that he had wanted since being recruited…a position on the Irish Desk. Initially, it had been as an analyst – but Patrick had been quite stoic about it. Sooner or later, he knew that he would get what he had really wanted – sooner or later the Section would make him ‘active’ and send him back to Ireland. And, in the spring of ’73, that is exactly what the Section had done. Patrick, had got his wish, he was going back to Ireland. He was going back to infiltrate the IRA.

  Anne and I had tried desperately to dissuade Patrick from going back to Ireland. Anne had known something of Patrick’s background, but not everything. But what she had known had caused her to be very concerned for our friend. I had been fully briefed on his assignment and, I too, had been extremely concerned. Because of Patrick’s violent past in Southern Ireland, I had felt that, no matter what credible cover the Section would provide him with, it was far too risky to send him back there on active service – especially to infiltrate the Provisional IRA! In my mind, there had been a very real risk. It had only been just a few years since the Kilkenny County massacre. And Patrick, despite his different appearance with long hair and beard, might still have been recognised as the maverick Garda gunman, who had shot and killed fourteen Provisional IRA members – an organisation into which he had now been expected to infiltrate.

  “Just what the fuck are you going to do if you’re recognised, when you get back over there?” I had argued with him late one night, when we had been on our own, Anne having gone to bed.

  Patrick had grinned. “I suppose I’d have to bend down…stick me head through me legs and kiss me arse goodbye,” he had laughed. “What’s the worst thing that can happen? What are they going to do if they recognise me – shoot me?”

  “Sure as hell they will – but you don’t have to do this.”

  “Ah – but I do,” he had replied.

  And that had been that. We had argued amicably late into the night and early on into the next day. But Patrick had not been for turning – and off to Ireland he had gone.

  That had been in the April, and that had been the last we had heard from our friend. Patrick had apparently gone deep undercover. There had been a total communications embargo – no contact whatsoever! To all intents and purposes, he had ceased to exit. That is, until one Friday in the December, a little over a week before Christmas.

  Why is it bad things always seem to happen on a Friday.

  It had just gone 2:00 P.M., in the afternoon, when Ralph had scurried into the office and straight up to my desk. He had appeared to be very agitated.

  “What’s up Ralph, you look a bit stressed,” I had remarked.

  Ralph had always appeared to be nervous, but that afternoon he had been decidedly ‘twitchy’.

  “Take a seat,” I had offered, pointing to the chair beside my grey utilitarian steel desk.

  He had taken up my offer and had placed his tall lanky frame into the chair, hunching his shoulders forward as he had clenched both of his hands together, nervously wringing them.

  This had been the man who had recruited me back in Vietnam! “Whatever is the matter?” I had asked.

  “Its Patrick,” he had suddenly blurted out. “He’s been compromised.”

  “How?”

  “We don’t know how, but it’s bad – very bad indeed.”

  “Is Patrick dead?”

  “No – well, not yet, anyway. We don’t know how – but his cover’s been blown and the Provo’s have taken him to one of their safe houses, south of the border,” Ralph had begun to explain. “Patrick missed his call-check, last night. We made enquiries and were told that the Provo’s had picked him up from outside a bar in Newry, late yesterday afternoon.”

  “But he’s not in Newry, now?”

  “No, Patrick’s being kept in a remote farm near Kilcurry, in the Republic, about twelve miles from Newry.”

  “So, if you know where he is – why not send in the SAS to pick him up? It’s got to be less than ten minutes flying time from the north,” I had suggested. “An SAS unit would be in and out, in less that half an hour.”

  “I’m afraid that we can’t just do that,” Ralph had been almost apologetic. “Unfortunately, an element of the SAS, in civvies, were caught by a Garda road check, on the wrong side of the border, just the other week. They were fully tooled up with Browning Hi-Powers and Uzis. Their excuse for crossing the border was that they’d made a mistake reading a map – that did not go down at all well with the Garda.”

  “No – dodgy map reading is the last excuse they should have given,” I had commented.

  “Yes, the PM thought so, too,” Ralph had replied, still appearing to be very tense. “He has given the Irish Taoiseach, Mr Cosgrave, his personal assurance that there will be no further incursions over the border, by any members of the British armed
forces – especially the SAS.”

  “So, what exactly is going to happen to Patrick?“ I had asked – I was getting concerned. “You can’t just leave him there. You know full well the type of interrogation that they’ll put him through before they kill him.”

  Ralph had looked sheepishly down at his hands, still clenched tightly together on his lap. “Sir Peter had rather hoped that you might….”

  “How long have I got? – more importantly, how long has Patrick got?”

  “If this particular unit of the Provo’s plays true to form, then they will probably have Patrick executed tonight. So, there is still time – just,” Ralph had quickly added. “They won’t do the deed, themselves. They will use the services of a local IRA executioner, from Dundalk. Now, while it’s only a short distance of about three or four miles, to the farm, at the most – we are confident that the executioner won’t travel until after he’s been to six o’clock mass,” he had paused for a moment before adding, wishfully. “He may even pop into the pub first.”

  “So, there is still time?”

  “Just,” had been the succinct reply.

  “In that case – I need to make a phone call.”

  “Oh, yes – I quite understand. I’ll go, then,” Ralph had offered.

  “No, stay there – I won’t be a minute,” I had ordered.

  My call to Anne had been very brief. I had explained the deadly predicament that Patrick had got himself into. I had also explained what had been asked of me.

  “Patrick is our friend,” she had spoken softly over the line. “You must do whatever you can to save him – but you must promise me one thing.”

  “I’ll promise you anything.”

  “I know what you have to do is going to be very dangerous, but whatever you do…come back, safe to me – promise.”

  “I promise,” I had assured her. “I love you lots – night God Bless, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You had better,” she had whispered. “Otherwise you’ll be in deep trouble. Love you lots and lots. Night God Bless – see you in the morning,” she had added.

  I could tell from the slight tremble in her voice that Anne had been quietly crying.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The London 3:05 P.M. scheduled flight, to Belfast, had been quite full. It was Friday, and most of my fellow passengers had been travelling back home, for the weekend. I had other reasons to be on that flight.

  It had been one mad chaotic rush to get to Heathrow, in time for the flight. Ralph had arranged the travel documentation and had also prepared my cover story. I was to be a Canadian, of Irish extraction, on vacation. My Canadian passport, in the name of a Michael Conner – who had died of German measles, at the age of two – had shown that I had entered through Shannon airport, at the beginning of December. There had been a documentation trail of receipts and invoices, showing a leisurely slow meandering journey, in a self-drive hire car, up through the Republic into Northern Ireland. From Belfast, Michael Conner had taken a scheduled flight to London, just for a few days, and had now been returning to Belfast, for the drive through the Irish Republic, back down to Shannon airport, for a flight to Newark, New Jersey, his entry gateway to North America. I don’t know how he had managed to arrange or procure them but, as well as the supporting documentation, Ralph had assembled an assortment of new and worn authentic American and Canadian clothes and shoes, complete with proprietary manufacture’s labels – all in my size, too! However, with my ‘tool box’ being at home, at the Manor, there was one other piece of equipment that I had needed. Sergeant Major Bill P…, Section 9’s armourer, had been the right man to see. I had explained to him exactly what I had thought I would need. And he had obligingly provided me with a hand built, pre-production model 9mm Beretta Model 92, with widened ejection port, and an eight inch long suppressor attached to its muzzle. He had even obligingly let me try the silenced Beretta out in the range, beneath the Embankment Offices. Supplied with spare magazine clips and fifty rounds of Sergeant Major Bill P…’s ‘mighty atoms’; high velocity, heavy grained, jacketed soft nosed 9mm ammunition, which would guarantee an optimum lethal combination of kinetic energy and expansion, without risk of over penetration – in layman’s terms, a ‘one shot kill’ capability – I had the very last piece of equipment that I had needed.

  By the time that I had cleared arrivals, at Belfast International Airport and had located the hire car, it had already gone 5:00 P.M. – the clock was ticking, and ticking desperately fast. For Friday night rush hour, getting out of Belfast had not been the gridlocked nightmare that I had expected. Half an hour, at the most, and I was heading for the A1 and the forty mile drive to Newry – and the border. The traffic had obviously been heavy, being a Friday evening, but it had been moving steadily and I had managed to reach outskirts of Newry by 6:30 P.M. But, due to the sheer volume of traffic, it had then taken me over half an hour to get through the busy town of Newry and across the border checkpoint, south of the town, into the Republic. It had been well after 7:00 P.M., and I still had some twelve miles to cover. Free of traffic, at last, I had raced the hire car down the narrow roads and lanes, the Ford Escort’s gearbox screaming out in loud protest at the aggressive abuse it was being subjected to – but the clock was ticking. And, well before 7:30 P.M., I had turned into the lane that had lead directly up to the farm. Switching off the car’s lights and engine – I had coasted to a stop.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The isolated farm had been situated about hundred yards from the lane, up a small narrow rutted cart track, and it was along this track that I had quietly jogged.

  Nearing the farm house, I had slowed up to gentle walk, using the opportunity to retrieve the Beretta from the small of my back and screw the suppressor on to the front of the automatic’s barrel. There had been no lights on at all in the farm house – was I too late? Noises, emanating from out of a large barn, to the right of the house, had given me some encouragement. With the Beretta held relaxed in my right hand, a round of ammunition already chambered, I had used my right thumb to move the safety to its ‘off’ position. Approaching the barn, I could distinctly hear at least three males, laughing and joking – perhaps I was too late, after all! The tall, wooden double doors of the barn had been left partially opened, outwards, light from the inside streaming out on to the track. It had been through this gap in the doors that I had entered the barn. There had been four men in the barn. The nearest of them, had been standing some twelve or fifteen feet from the doorway, his back towards me. Immediately opposite him had been a young guy, with long red hair and a bright ginger beard, in his right hand he had casually held the carrying handle of an ArmaLite rifle. To his right – my immediate left – had been a fat balding man, in his fifties, with long blond side burns and a very bad comb over. His loud paisley patterned shirt had been open down to his fat protruding belly, exposing a grey looking string vest, and a Browning Hi-Power automatic pistol, stuck down the waist band of his trousers. In his right hand, he had been waving a sickle at the fourth occupant of the barn, who had been hanging directly in front of him. The battered bloody figure of Patrick had hung from a low beam by his wrists; his partially naked body a mass of abrasions, open wounds and covered in a mixture of dirt and filth.

  “You fucking Brit bastard,” the fat man had spat out at Patrick, staggering slightly on his feet as he had waved the sickle at him.

  Ralph’s previous wishful thinking had come to pass. After Mass, the IRA executioner had obviously gone and ‘popped’ into a pub – he was drunk, very drunk!

  Stepping forward, towards Patrick, the fat man had continued with his ranting, brandishing the sickle directly at him. “You fucking Brit bastard – I’m going to cut your fucking bollocks and cock off. I’m going to carve you a cunt – you fucking Brit bastard.”

  I had moved quietly forward, my presence in the barn going completely unnoticed by everyone – everyone, that is, except Patrick, who had knowingly grinned back down at the fat man
threatening to castrate him. I had positioned myself behind the left shoulder of the man who had his back towards me, so that I had a clear field of fire on all three IRA men. I had gotten so close that I could have reached out and touched him. Then, ‘Ginger’ had suddenly noticed me. He had died without making any noise or fuss, the 9mm bullet hitting him in the centre of his forehead, just above the bridge of his nose. Even before Ginger had toppled down on to the clay floor of the barn, I had shot his colleague – the one whose back had been towards me – just behind his left ear. He too had also collapsed quietly on to the floor. Two shots – two kills. And, with the exception of the metallic chatter of the slide, ejecting the spent cartridge cases and chambering fresh rounds into the breech – very little noise.

  I hadn’t lost my touch.

  “Holy M-m-m-Mary M-m-m-Mother of God,” the fat man had stammered, his jaw dropping and his eyes widening.

  “No,” I had said, turning towards him and pointing the Beretta directly at him. “I’m nobody’s Mother.”

  “Oh, s-s-s-sweet Jesus,” he had stammered again.

  “Also wrong – I’m not him either,”

  I had walked up to him, snatching the Browning from the waistband of his trousers, placing it into the back of mine. With my left hand, I had taken the sickle that he had held in his right.

  “Oh, s-s-s-sweet Jesus.”