“Which you probably opened?”
“I am a careful man, Daniel, and you have much to prove. Allah protect you.”
The
Kantara
proved to be a rust bucket, with a crew of ten reasonably villainous Arab seamen who showed a certain amusement when he boarded. The captain was named Omar, and he smiled a lot.
“Ah, the moneyman.” He nodded at Daniel’s bag. “A little large for my safe, but we can squeeze it in.” They were standing at the bridge rail.
“That’s not necessary,” Daniel told him. “Presumably, there’s a key for the cabin door?”
“Certainly, you will find it on the inside.”
The crew, grouped below, seemed to find the whole thing funny, muttering amongst themselves and laughing. One of them, a Somali in a soiled white T-shirt and jeans, said, “A chicken for the plucking, this one. What will they send next?”
Daniel didn’t react. He understood exactly what the man had said and the implied threat. A legacy of his time at the training camp was reasonable Arabic, but, as his chief instructor had always said, it was sensible to keep quiet about it, prepared for trouble armed with information an enemy didn’t know you had.
On the first day at sea, lying on the bunk in his cabin with the bag in a locked cupboard underneath, he listened to the drunken voices of the crew, who were squatting under deck lights in the stern. It was obvious that, as far as they were concerned, he was never going to reach his destination. He reached under his pillow, took out a Browning pistol, pushed it into the waistband at the back of his linen slacks, and went out.
The ship’s bosun, Hussein, had the wheel, and Omar was in the stern, having a drink and laughing with the men. Daniel slid down the short ladder, hands on the rails, and they all were suddenly aware of him.
The Somali spoke before anyone else. “So here he is, the boy trying to do a man’s job.”
Daniel produced the Browning and shot him between the eyes, knocking him against the rail, the skull fragmenting. The shock was complete, and the crew cowered, not knowing what to expect. The
Kantara
itself started to veer to port, and Daniel swung around to find that Hussein had left the wheelhouse and was raising an AK-47 rifle. He shot him twice, and Hussein bounced against the front of the wheelhouse, the rifle flying from his hands. He fell across the bridge rail and tumbled to the deck.
Daniel turned to Omar, and said in Arabic, “I’m sure you like a neat and tidy ship, so I suggest the crew dispose of these two over the side and wash the deck down, and that you get up that ladder and behind the wheel. We appear to be going round in circles, and that won’t do, because my destination is Northern Ireland.”
Eight days later,
they drifted in to the County Down coast, fishing nets draping the deck as per Liam’s instructions in the letter that Malik had given Daniel. In the early darkness, two trawlers came alongside and tied up, Liam leading the way, the man with him joining with the crew of the
Kantara
to transfer the cargo.
Liam embraced Daniel and followed him to his cabin, where the bag was passed over. “What the hell’s been going on? This radio message to Malik? ‘Two men lost overboard but proceeding’?”
“I had trouble with the crew, but I made my point early.”
“You mean the two over the side had a bullet in them?”
“I do. Anyway, I don’t feel disposed to the return passage.”
“That’s fine, we can send you back by air. I don’t know what happened here, Daniel, but Malik is straight as a die.”
“Then he should take more care about who he hires in future. Can I stay, Liam? Is there anything active I can do?”
“Not in Ireland. We invented the term ‘informer,’ and, sooner or later, most things surface. If what you did at the Bagley Ironworks that night ever came out, there are those on the other side who’d hunt you down if it was the last thing they ever did. In any case, the army is bringing in the SAS more and more, and we’re feeling the effects, good men being killed or ending up in Maze Prison.”
“You’ve trained me to be a soldier, remember that.”
“Yes, and a hard man you can be, we know, but you’ve a top brain in that skull, especially in the ways of business, finance, and the like. You can serve us in other ways. There are people like us all over the world with aspirations in their own country. I want you to go into partnership with Hamid Malik. He’s got a genuine business, and one that makes money, but with something else underneath, as you know. You’re too valuable to be a foot soldier.”
“And what will Malik think about the idea?”
“I think you’ll find he’ll discover it impossible to resist.”
They walked out on deck, Liam carrying the bag, and found one trawler sailing away, the other still alongside. Someone shouted, “Are you coming or not, Liam? We’re loaded.”
“We’re on our way.” Liam crossed to the other deck, and Daniel glanced at Omar, standing at the bridge rail. “Look for me in Algiers, you bastard, and behave yourself.”
As Liam had said,
Hamid Malik agreed to the idea at once, and Daniel proved his worth very quickly, reorganizing the administrative side of the shipping business, introducing modern methods, technology, and computers. It meant a growth in the company’s legitimate side that Malik had never anticipated. There were plenty of old-fashioned freighters available—rust buckets, perhaps, but improved at small cost—and they were perfect for the trade that Daniel expanded, working every port in the Mediterranean.
Underneath, with much assistance from Libyan sources, they supplied more arms to the PIRA, to ETA in Spain, and, on one memorable occasion, dealt with a contract brokered by Liam for a weapons expert to go to South America on behalf of the Colombian terrorist organization, FARC.
Daniel had gone himself, invoking Liam’s wrath. He had ended up on the run in deep jungle, engaged in one firefight after another with pursuing Colombian special forces, and finally managed to escape across the Peruvian border.
Back in Algiers,
it was business as usual, the rise of Islam inexorable. Pushed by their contacts in Libya, the firm had to concentrate on supplying the demands of people like the PLO and Fatah, and Ireland was less and less important. Besides, the SAS special forces of the British Army had affected the PIRA so much that seventy to eighty percent of the latter’s planned operations had to be aborted.
The First Gulf War came and went in 1991, and, in February of that year, an attempt to fire rockets on Downing Street from a parked van narrowly failed. Daniel read about it, then phoned Liam on the same old number. It was an hour before he called back.
Daniel said, “The Downing Street business. Is it one of yours? It looks like a typical PIRA hit.” Over the years, their calls had been sparing.
“Absolutely not. We’ve no bloody idea whose it is. How’re things at your end?”
“How do you think? The death business has been booming in the Middle East, haven’t you noticed?”
“I’ve been thinking we might have to consider taking the fight to the British mainland again. The SAS are bleeding us dry. We may have to try something else.”
“Such as?”
“Hitting at the British economy. I’ve got sleepers in London, Daniel, people who have ordinary jobs, ordinary lives, who just wait.”
“For what?”
“To be needed. Over the years, many of them have attained a reasonable level of expertise in weaponry and the handling of explosives, by spending what we call a holiday at one of our training camps in the remote part of the west of Ireland.”
“And you have lists?”
“I have indeed. The thing is, if there was ever a special job, when we needed to call some of them to action, would you be interested in being their controller?”
Daniel answered without hesitation. “Of course. When would it be?”
“Perhaps never. I just wanted to know what you thought. Have they got those newfangled mobile phones in Algiers yet?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“Well, we’ve got them here, and they’ll change your life. Stay well. I’ll be in touch.”
But it was November 1995 when he heard from Liam again. “A long time since you called,” Daniel told him.
“I’ve been banged up in Maze Prison for four years, missed out on the City of London bombing, but they gave me a compassionate early release. Lung cancer.”
“Dammit, Liam, you should have told me. What are you up to?”
“The usual thing, organizing trouble for the enemy. We’re going ahead with the idea we talked about before, a campaign in London next year that will shock the world. There’s a courier package on its way to you.”
“It was just delivered. I haven’t had a chance to open it.”
“Years ago, I organized my sleepers in cells of seven. There’s one in particular, a woman and six men. I last activated them four years ago. Twelve small explosions rocked the West End of London for a two-week period. They got away with it, and I closed them down. The effect was incredible. People were walking on tiptoe for months. They all live in the Kilburn area of London. The package gives you their names and last-known addresses. I want you to go to London, speak to the woman in charge, and activate the cell. At this stage, I can’t give them details of what they are required to do.”
“Just hold themselves ready?”
“That’s right. The whole purpose of the cell system is to maintain absolute security. I share no information about my sleepers with anyone on the Army Council, even the chief of staff.”
“How do I persuade this woman I am from the right people?”
“She knows my name. What you say is: ‘Liam Coogan sends you his blessing and says hold yourself ready.’”
“And that’s all?”
“Tell her that when the time comes to strike, the word will be:
‘The day of reckoning is here.’ I’ll call you and you will pass it on.” He had a fit of coughing. “Jesus, I should give up the smoking. Do this for me, son.”
“Of course I will, Liam.”
“Take care.”
Daniel thought about it for a while, then phoned the airport and booked a flight, trying to open the package with one hand as he did so.
It was Saturday,
and Caitlin Daly was in the kitchen at the presbytery, enjoying a cup of tea with her mother, when the phone rang. She answered, and the voice with the slightest touch of a Yorkshire accent said, “Caitlin Daly?”
“Yes, who am I speaking to?”
“Liam Coogan sends you his blessing and says hold yourself ready.”
The shock was immense, and she put a hand on the table to steady herself. “Who are you?”
“Just call me Daniel. I’m Liam’s cousin.”
“You don’t sound Irish.”
“My mother was from Crossmaglen. I’m sitting in a rear pew in the Church of the Holy Name. It’s very peaceful, and not a soul here. Can I see you? My time is limited. I have a plane to catch to Algiers.”
“Five minutes.” She put down the phone, and her mother said, “Who was that, dear?”
“Business,” Caitlin told her. “I’ve just got to go round to the hospital.” She reached for her coat and put it on. “I shan’t be long.”
Reading the notes
on Caitlin Daly, her tragic experience as a child in Derry, her life till now in her mid-thirties, Daniel had expected to find her interesting, but he hadn’t been prepared for her beauty. It left him momentarily speechless. But not Daly.
“What’s going on?” she demanded.
Recovering his wits, he said, “I’m only here as a mouthpiece for Liam. I’m to tell you that you must consider your cell activated. There will be a campaign in London next year that will shock the world, though at this stage he can’t give you details of what you are required to do.”
“And how will we know?”
“When the time comes to strike, the word will be: ‘The day of reckoning is here.’ He will tell me, and I will pass on the order to you. Those are his instructions.”
“So we wait?”
“That’s what he told me, and this list for you, the members of your cell. Do the names of these six men still make sense?”
“Oh, yes, they are all members of the Hope of Mary circle at the refuge here at the hospice.”
“Some sort of a club?”
“Much more than that. The sound basis for all our lives. I will call them together tonight and inform them of the situation.”
He stood up. “You’re a remarkable young woman, Caitlin.”
“And you are a remarkable young man, Daniel.”
He left her then and went out, the door banging, and she stood there, leaning on the back of the pew, shaking with emotion. The vestry door opened, and Monsignor Murphy came out. “Oh, it’s you, Caitlin. I thought I heard voices. Who was it?”
“A stranger from a far-off land, Monsignor, who wandered in by chance. He’s gone now. I sent him on his way.” She took his arm. “Let’s go to the presbytery and join Mother for a cup of tea.”
That evening,
having called the other members of the cell in turn, she met them in the chapel at Hope of Mary. Barry, Flynn, Pool, Costello, Cochran, and Murray joined her, and, filled with excitement and awe, they recited their own special prayer together at roughly the same time that Daniel Holley arrived in Algiers, although it would be many years before he discovered that meeting had taken place.
Two months later,
Liam Coogan died of a sudden heart attack. Daniel was in Hazar at the time, brokering an arms deal for the Bedu Army in that region. Malik reached him on his mobile, but protocol was a delicate matter with Arab rulers, and it was a week before Daniel could get down to the port by Land Rover and find a plane to fly out. There was no possible way he could have got to Crossmaglen to attend the funeral, and there would have been great danger for him anyway. The funerals of Provo leaders like Liam were always very public affairs and attracted a great deal of media attention.