The Killer II

  THE KILLER II:

  The American Connection

  Jack Elgos

  YELLOWBAY BOOKS

  Published by YellowBay Books Ltd 2012

  www.yellowbay.co.uk

  Copyright © Jack Elgos 2012

  The right of Jack Elgos to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers:

  YellowBay Books Ltd

  ISBN 9781908530509

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Emily Heaton

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  Teaser

  He carried out his usual security measures and, when he was confident that everything was safe, he went to examine the contents of the boot. Turner had assured him that he would be well provisioned, but his eyes widened in amazement at what he saw. ‘Fuck me, there’s a bloody arsenal in here,’ he muttered as he carried out a quick stock-check. A Colt .45 automatic; a snub nosed .38 revolver; a short stock AK 47; two fragmentation grenades; a very large and evil looking bayonet and, last but not least, an Armalite AR-18. ‘A fuckin’ Widowmaker,’ he exclaimed as he noted each weapon strapped neatly into individual foam containers and a collection of multiple clips and associated boxes of ammo to complete the arms stash. ‘Jesus Christ all-fucking-mighty, what’s Turner thinking? I’m gonna start World War fucking Three?’

  Contents

  1981: Northern Ireland

  1. 1982: The Flight

  2. Earlier in England

  3. America

  4. The Druids

  5. How D’You Like Your Eggs?

  6. The Quality Check

  7. The Killing Ground

  8. The Bronx

  9. Jimmy Mal

  10. The Airport

  11. The Debrief

  12. The Republic of Ireland

  13. An Old Friend

  14. The Morning After

  15. Cork: The Pub and Meeting the M...M…Man

  16. The Cooling off Period

  17. A Cold Day In Scotland

  18. Back In The Game

  19. 1983: Spain

  20. Oh, Nobody Likes Them You Know

  21. The Hunters, the Rabbit and the Sister

  22. The Valley and the Wolves

  23. Dreams of a Spanish Girl - Interrupted

  Other Books by Jack Elgos

  1981: Northern Ireland

  The ruthless enforcer, sniper and torturer, Darren McCann, was dead. Also known as The Butcher of Belfast, or Butch to his closest friends, McCann had been shot and killed during a daring escape from the infamous jail - H.M.P.: Maze, Northern Ireland. His brothers-in-arms of the Provisional I.R.A., many of them still incarcerated in The H-Blocks, mourned his passing. Butch would be missed by the Provos.

  1

  1982: The Flight

  The sleek new Jaguar saloon came gliding to a halt in the V.I.P. parking area of Heathrow Airport. A man dressed in a smart grey business suit tossed the car keys to an attendant then, briefcase in hand and overnight bag on his shoulder, he swiftly made his way towards the departures lounge. His fashionably long ponytail blew behind him in the cool, gentle breeze.

  Once inside the lounge he ignored the complimentary food and drinks on offer. Instead, he cautiously scanned the face of every single person in the room. There was no obvious danger and he began to relax a little. He lit a cigarette and took a seat to wait for his flight, but his surveillance continued as he smoked.

  The suit felt strange to him, but he silently thanked a certain English gentleman for insisting that he wear it. His usual attire would have looked out of place among his opulent fellow passengers. Well, apart from the one who was just entering the room dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, though his heavy-set companion also wore a suit. ‘I guess fame means you can dress how you like,’ the man considered as he watched Mick Jagger take his seat in the lounge. ‘But it’s not fame that I need. Maybe you can’t get no satisfaction Mick, but I fuckin’ well can.’ A small grin crossed his face as he stubbed out his cigarette.

  A round of applause broke into his thoughts and he looked up to see that the flight crew had entered the Concorde lounge. An announcement was made on the public address system. Apparently the captain and crew would be available to answer any questions the passengers may have about the flight. Impressive. He sat quietly and listened as one of the crew explained to a middle-aged lady that the aeroplane would, indeed, be flying at Mach 2 or, to put it another way, 1,350 miles per hour. The woman listened intently, but was clearly confused by the astounding speeds. In an attempt to put things into perspective for her the crewman continued by explaining, ‘That, madam, is as fast as a rifle bullet.’ Then he glanced round the room to see if there were further questions and noticed the man with the ponytail, but he was shaking his head. He had nothing to ask. He already knew quite a lot about rifles and their bullets.

  Just five minutes before the scheduled departure he heard the gate agent as she made her understated announcement: ‘British Airways Flight One, Concorde Service to New York’s J. F. Kennedy Airport, is now available for boarding.’ Taking a deep drag he extinguished his latest cigarette and began following Mick and the other passengers through the jet-way. As he boarded the plane he stopped mid stride and flinched a little as he noticed just how narrow the cabin really was. The memory of a hellish trip sealed inside oil drums returned to him with a vengeance. He swallowed hard, desperately trying to cast those images from his mind and to ignore the brief bout of claustrophobia that had overcome him. He continued down the aisle to arrive at his seat - 17A. There he took a quick glance out of the tiny window and shuddered before concentrating on his breathing to calm himself.

  The leather seats were comfortable and stylish, the armrests shaped in the British Airways' Concorde logo. ‘Fancy plane,’ he whispered as he leaned back into the seat and fastened his belt, his feelings of anxiety slowly lessening. He listened as the captain began his announcement, explaining that he would be turning on the reheats to get the fuel-laden craft up to takeoff speed. This, he continued, would make for a very noisy ride, especially for those in the rear, but the reheats would be turned off as they passed the airport’s perimeter and flew over the surrounding residential areas. And that was that. They were off.

  About twenty minutes later the captain again came on the P.A. to announce that the craft was now over Bristol, on the west coast of England, and it would soon be time to go supersonic. He explained to the passengers that they would feel two clicks and, sure enough, the clicks were felt and the aeroplane thrust forward, continuing its climb.

  This was all very educational, the man had to admit, but soon the detailed explanation began to wash over him. The reheats, the clicks, the plane’s position, Mach 1, Mach 2: the truth was he wasn’t really that interested in any of it. All he wanted was to get to America, do his job and then leave as quickly as possible. He ignored the rest of the captain’s speech, closed his eyes and blocked it from his thoughts, preferring instead to study the mental images that were running through his mind like a scene from a movie. He was just getting to the part where, his job done, he was leaving America and boarding another flight home when a girl’s voice interrupted him. />
  ‘A glass of champagne sir?’ the stewardess asked sweetly.

  ‘Oh erm, champagne? No thank you darlin’, but I don’t suppose you have Jameson’s do you?’

  ‘One moment sir, I’ll check.’

  ‘I’m sorry sir, we appear to be out. However, we do have Bushmills. Would that be all right?’ she enquired just a few seconds later.

  ‘Bushmills? No it fuckin’ won’t be all right,’ he thought, recoiling at the very idea, but he managed to keep a neutral expression as he told her, ‘No thanks my darlin'. But on second thoughts I really fancy a vodka. Do you have vodka?’

  ‘Yes, of course sir - Smirnoff?’

  ‘That’ll do nicely.’ He returned her smile.

  He took the glass and settled down, deep into his seat. As he sipped the potent liquid he sighed contentedly before reminding himself that he’d better keep it to just one drink. He wasn’t being given the first class treatment for the Hell of it. ‘We need you to arrive fresh, old boy,’ he had been told. ‘You’ll need to be in and out quickly and we don’t want jet-lag slowing you down.’

  ‘I’ve changed sides, changed loyalties, changed targets,’ he thought for the umpteenth time. Everything was different now, even the travel. ‘Especially the fuckin’ travel,’ he told himself, ‘and it’s a damn sight better. Aye, Darren me lad, it’s all different now.’

  The mental slip caused him to bolt upright in his seat. ‘Liam,’ he admonished himself quickly. ‘My name’s Liam O’Neil.’ Jesus, three months of intensive training and he could still forget. Turner would have a fit.

  Darren McCann, “The Butcher of Belfast”, isn’t dead: he’s very much alive. Liam O’Neil is a paid assassin working for the British government and only a handful of people in the intelligence community are aware that Darren McCann and Liam O’Neil are one and the same. Anthony Turner is one of those men. He captured him, turned him and recruited him. Now he was sending him on his first mission and Liam couldn’t let him down.

  ‘Liam O’Neil,’ he repeated under his breath as Concorde continued its journey to New York. ‘Liam O’ Fuckin’ Neil.’

  2

  Earlier in England

  In the few short months since his release from the H-Blocks Christmas had come and gone unnoticed and he entered a new year with a new life and new masters. His intense hatred of the British, borne of four years’ belief that they had killed his Mam, dissipated once he learned the truth and his anger was now directed towards the real culprits, his previous comrades in the I.R.A. Yet the change of sides wasn’t an easy thing. Revenge for his Ma had been the driving force, the reason he had joined the Provos in the first place, but he had developed a genuine sympathy with ‘the cause’ and the betrayal of that did not sit well with him. The Brits pushed him for intelligence and he provided it, but only in part. ‘I was just an enforcer,’ he told them truthfully. ‘I didn’t get into the politics of it all. There’s a lot of stuff I just don’t know.’

  He wasn’t going to give them anything that could hurt his old mates, such as Thomas Malone. What had that guy ever done? Fought against the Brits? Jesus, it was a war, that’s what he was supposed to do. He supported the cause, he hated the Brits and he had every right to as far as Liam could see.

  Then there was Willy in Crossmaglen. Sure, he was a boss and he knew Turner and Co. would have loved to hear more about him, but he pleaded ignorance. ‘I’ve met him,’ he acknowledged, guessing that they might know that anyway, ‘but I can’t tell you much. He’s high up in the political wing. He doesn’t have anything to do with the action as far as I know.’ And that was a blatant lie, but no way was he going to give up the man who had got him out of Ireland to safety when one of his sniper kills had gone a little too well.

  Such vagueness might have been challenged if that had been all he’d given them, but there were other questions on which he was much more forthcoming. ‘Committees,’ they insisted. ‘We’re pretty clear on how they’re structured, but we need to know the main players?’

  ‘I can help you there.’

  ‘I wish you would, dear boy,’ said Turner pressing the question, his voice soft in stark contrast to the officious and more bombastic tones of the other two suits present.

  ‘There are several, but the Committee Belfast is an important one. Four members,’ he offered, keeping his voice as level as he could. He saw the pity in Turner’s eyes at that point, for it was he who had first revealed that this was the group responsible for the kill order for his Mam. ‘I thought you’d already know who they are. Surely Jonny told you.’ His voice broke a little as he spoke of the man who had butchered her before running to the Brits and turning informant.

  ‘Jonny told us all he could,’ Turner assured him. ‘He said his orders came to him via an intermediary and that he never met the top men. Considering the pressure he was under, I doubt very much that he lied.’

  Liam had a feeling he was right. Jonny had just been a foot soldier carrying out orders. He had been one himself, but that fucking stupid tag he’d earned, ‘Butcher of Belfast’, had opened a lot of doors for him. Mostly he wished they’d stayed closed because, in all honesty, he’d rather not know half the people he’d met. ‘Sean Hogan and Martin McMurphy are a couple of ‘em. Seen McMurphy once at a rally. Don’t think I’ve ever seen Hogan. I know Larry – Mad Dog – O’Brien, though, and I never liked him. Not right in the head,’ he hissed as he gave name to the man he thought most likely to be the instigator of his Mam’s death. He was an evil bastard but, to be fair, there were others who matched him. ‘Peter Moore,’ he continued. ‘He’d kill his own mother if he thought it would further the cause.’ And that had been the end of that conversation.

  ***

  As Liam reclined in the comfortable Concorde seat a wry smile crossed his lips as he remembered his ‘de-brief’ and how his control had broken when speaking of Peter Moore. Mothers and death were a serious trigger point and Turner, who had witnessed Liam’s temper at close quarters, had done the only thing he could do. He went to make tea.

  Liam thought of his initial meeting and hatred of Turner, but recently he had to admit he was actually beginning to like the man. He seemed to be a decent, honest and genuine sort who, despite his awfully English public school accent, delivered everything he promised. Liam had learned that if Turner said something it was right, it was detailed and it was accurate - the man appeared to be infallible. He was also persuasive.

  ***

  Within days of the prison break Turner informed him that his first job would be in America and that the target was one Ryan McKee of NORAID. Later a second name was added, James Malcolm Brennan, known to all as Jimmy Mal. Liam knew of the organisation but was confused. ‘They’re not R.A. boys though.’

  ‘The R.A.?’ questioned Turner. ‘I assume you are referring to the Provisional I.R.A. old chap. Anyhow, no, they are not Irish. As a matter of fact they are both citizens of the United States.’

  ‘Mr. Turner, I agreed to work with you to eliminate the Provos, the people who murdered me Mammy. Not some poor sods over in America,’ he snapped.

  ‘Liam my boy,’ sighed Turner as he sat gently shaking his head, ‘these two poor sods, as you call them, are high up in a large organisation. Their sole purpose is to raise finance for the Provisionals. They send money, weapons and explosives directly to the Provisional I.R.A.’

  ‘Maybe they do, but they didn’t kill me Ma - did they?’

  ‘Not personally, no, they didn’t. However, without the support of this organisation the P.I.R.A. would have a difficult, if not impossible, time functioning. They would have no weapons and they would have no money to buy their arms. The fact is they may simply cease to exist. Do you understand that my boy?’

  Liam frowned a little as he considered this. ‘So, what you’re saying is - What exactly are you saying? Are you telling me that without these people sending stuff over to Ireland me Ma would still be alive? Is that right?’

  ‘There is no certainty that
your mother would still be alive at all Liam. I am saying that if, and I do wish to clarify this, if they didn’t finance the P.I.R.A. it is quite possible that she would be alive. My rationale being that without weapons and finance there would have been no one in a position to kill her.’

  ‘So, your thinking is, by stopping the flow of money, you’ll stop the Provos in their tracks. Is that it Mr. Turner? And, following your logic, if they had been stopped before, Ma might never have gotten killed eh?’

  ‘Succinctly put, Liam old bean. Succinctly put.’ The bemused look on Liam’s face had prompted him to clarify. ‘I mean, yes Liam. Yes, that is correct,’ he confirmed.

  ‘I know what succinctly means,’ Liam assured him, ‘but this isn’t the first time I’ve had this conversation.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Oh no. Another man once used exactly the same argument to persuade me that without the British government there would have been no U.V.F. to order the Shankill Butchers to kill me Ma.’

  ‘Oh goodness. Oh dear me. I am so terribly sorry Liam.’

  ‘Goodness has nothing to do with any of this, Mr. Turner.’

  ‘No, no, you’re right of course, but oh, dear boy, to think someone on the other side could use that line to brainwash you.’

  ‘Who’s brainwashing who exactly?’ Liam snapped back at him. ‘Who’s right and who’s wrong? I’m fucked if I know anymore. Look, all that matters to me is that I get the people who killed Ma. If you say they are financed from America, then I believe you. Actually it makes a lot of sense. I’m just saying that it goes both ways. Even if the Brits weren’t responsible for Ma, they’ve been responsible for many other deaths. Collins was fuckin’ right about that.’