The Killer II Read online

  ‘Yes sir, we can all have days like those.’

  Liam seriously doubted that anyone could have had a day remotely like his, but he just nodded and offered another ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well then, we’ll leave it at that, shall we?’ said the young officer. ‘O’Reilly’s the name by the way. Don’t suppose I could trouble you for a smoke, could I?’

  Liam grinned at him and held out his packet. The officer took a cigarette, accepted a light and walked off with a pleasant, ‘You have a good day now.’

  Several fags later Liam’s flight was called. He was soon on the large aircraft, settling back in his seat. It wasn’t Concorde and it wasn’t first class, but it was taking him away from here. Actually there were many things he’d liked about America but now he just wanted to be back on his own turf. That was Tommy’s phrase and he thought about the lad again as the plane lifted off, taking him out of Dodge.

  11

  The Debrief

  Liam had tried to sleep during the flight, but it just wasn’t happening. He blamed it on an uncomfortable seat, but knew it was more likely the adrenalin. He had not encountered any problems leaving New York and the newspaper article made him confident that no one was looking for him, but he wouldn’t feel truly safe until he was away from airports altogether.

  His arrival passed without incident. There wasn’t even a full passport check and he was soon walking to the V.I.P. parking where he had left his car. He approached the Jaguar slowly, eyeing it with caution. He walked round, checking the exterior for any signs of tampering - fingerprints, scratches or dirty marks on the bodywork. He saw nothing to alarm him. He glanced through the window and saw what he’d hoped to see. ‘Beezer, still there,’ he smiled at the two small pieces of cigarette ash sitting, just as he’d left them, on each of the front seats. ‘Looking good so far.’

  He opened the car, stretched one arm in, pulled the bonnet release and quickly retreated a few paces. Silence. A check of the engine bay showed everything as it should be. Leaving the driver’s door wide open he leaned in again and turned the ignition key. The powerful Jaguar sprang instantly to life with a healthy growl from its exhaust and sat gently ticking over. He took a breath. It was the final stages of the check that always made him the most nervous. He poked his leg in and briefly touched the brake pedal. Nothing. Next he put the car into drive – still nothing, and reverse didn’t produce anything untoward either. No hint of any suspicious sound, smell or feeling. For his last check he turned on the radio and Marc Almond was bemoaning his Tainted Love.

  Liam exhaled a long, relieved breath and finally got into the vehicle. He had seen the effects of car bombs many times back in Belfast. The memories of the remains of people, who’d simply jumped into a car and driven off, were imprinted in his mind forever. They made his blood run cold. He hated bombs. ‘Coward’s tool,’ he shuddered.

  He was soon heading for the M1, his eyes scanning the rear view mirror as much as the road ahead, and he saw nothing of concern. On the motorway he headed north and put his foot down. The Jaguar responded instantly. Turner had been right about this car, it was really nice to drive. In no time at all the speedometer registered one hundred and twenty miles per hour and everything in his mirror grew smaller. Once he was sure that nothing was following him he reduced his speed to a steady seventy.

  ‘No need to go looking for problems,’ he thought. ‘Still, I’ll take a speeding ticket over a bleedin’ bullet in the head any day of the week.’

  Liam eventually left the busy motorway at junction twenty-eight where he took the Alfreton Road. ‘A long, round-about way maybe, but it’s easy to spot a tail here,’ he said to himself as he headed in the, not too general, direction of the old manor house that was his new home. He stopped sharply several times and noted everything that passed him. Twice he changed direction. Performing unexpected U-turns had produced much horn blowing, shouting and cursing but, happily, no gunshots.

  He’d learned one of the most valuable lessons of his life one day, not too long ago, in Spain. Never ever drive tired. Well, that was the first rule broken then. Always be aware of absolutely everything on the road, both in front and behind. His failure to do that had almost cost him his life, and he’d vowed he would never make that mistake again. Tired he may be, but he was absolutely sure that no one was following and no one was waiting in ambush.

  Around an hour later he pulled the Jaguar up his long driveway and stopped about halfway, putting the car in reverse just in case. Nothing moved. Back into drive he edged slowly forward to the front of the house and everything was still quiet. He jumped from the car and was through the door in an instant, punching in his alarm code. He went straight to his drawing room and sat at the antique desk to study his bank of security monitors. There was nothing out of the ordinary and he knew that no one had been in or out of the house since he’d left. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. All this security procedure was mentally and physically exhausting. He needed sleep, but there was just one more thing he had to do first and he picked up the phone. His call was answered on the second ring with that familiar, old-fashioned greeting. ‘Hullo,’ said the voice.

  ‘Hello Mr. Turner, it’s me.’

  ‘Ah, Liam my boy, nice to hear your voice. Is everything all right?’ Anthony Turner enquired.

  ‘Aye, well I’m back home safe anyhow. I had a few problems with the job, though. Do you need my report straightaway?’

  ‘It can all wait until tomorrow, old boy. I assume you need some sleep first.’

  ‘Aye, that’d be grand. What time tomorrow?’

  ‘Would noon suit you?

  ‘Yes, that would be fine. See you then.’

  ‘Ah, just one thing before you go, Liam my boy.’

  ‘What’s that Mr. Turner?’

  ‘If you will insist on driving like Sterling Moss, will you please wear your seat belt? The M1 is a public motorway you know. It is not Brands Hatch and you are not a racing driver. Driving on Her Majesty’s Highway at one hundred and twenty miles per hour is considered to be way too fast.’

  ‘Are you still there?’ he prompted when there was no reply.

  ‘Aye, Mr. Turner, I’m here. I’ll bear all that in mind.’

  ‘Good, now go and get some sleep.’

  ‘Fuck,’ thought Liam as the call ended. ‘How the Hell does he know? All that twisting and turning, all that fuckin’ driving and he still had tabs on me. There was no one behind me. I know there was no one behind me. Shite, I need a drink.’ A rifle through his cabinet produced less than half a bottle of Jameson’s. ‘Wonder if he knows I’m almost out of whiskey?’ he considered before downing a large shot and heading off to bed. It was still the middle of the afternoon, but he’d left his body clock somewhere over the Atlantic.

  Exhaustion brought a long sleep, far longer than he’d become used to recently, and he was up and feeling fresh early the next morning. Several weapons had been stripped and rebuilt, blindfolded, and he was just examining the Walther PPK when he noticed a movement on his monitors. The clock showed noon on the dot as the silver Mercedes saloon car pulled smoothly up the drive. A minute later the two men were together in the drawing room.

  ‘Coffee?’ Liam offered.

  The older man shuddered in his seat as he wrinkled his nose. ‘Perish the thought old chum, but I assume you do have an adequate supply of tea, do you not?’

  ‘Aye, that I have sir, that I have,’ laughed Liam.

  The tea was produced and Anthony Turner leaned back in the deeply padded chair and puffed away on his pipe, waiting patiently.

  ‘It didn’t go too well,’ Liam finally began.

  ‘You got one but not the other, is that right dear boy?’

  ‘Mr. Turner, for Christ’s sake. You send me over there with hardly any information because you can’t get reliable intelligence and yet you know the outcome already.’

  ‘Less blaspheming if you don’t mind, Liam.’

  ‘Oh, for f… Sorry, but honestly,
something doesn’t feel right here.’

  ‘We have eyes over there, dear boy, eyes and they can read a newspaper report as well as anyone else. That’s simple feedback. It is not intelligence. Until you tell me the details, then I don’t know exactly what happened.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Liam conceded and began his story. The only detail he left out was the involvement of a young lad called Tommy. Anthony Turner sat quietly puffing on his pipe and didn’t interrupt once. Liam concluded with, ‘I messed up twice, Mr. Turner, twice and I have no excuse.’

  ‘No excuse is necessary, Liam,’ Turner assured him. ‘You managed to remove one man who has been causing us great concern and I’m sure Mr. Brennan will be lying low for a while. As for those awful motorcycle-riding fellows, well I think we can safely say they will be out of business soon now that we know who they are. I take it they are the actual suppliers and not just the middle-men?’

  At a nod from Liam, Turner continued, ‘Well then, absolutely no excuses necessary. You did a fine job and you lived to tell the tale. To be honest, there were a few in my department who didn’t think you would, but I thought there was a good chance we would see you again.’

  ‘Thanks, I think,’ gulped Liam.

  ‘That schoolteacher fellow, though. Was he OK?’

  ‘He was breathing when I left. Can’t guarantee that he didn’t have a heart attack later.’

  ‘Oh, let’s hope not. Poor chap.’

  Liam decided not to comment on the fact that Turner seemed more concerned about the man who wasn’t Jimmy Mal than he was about his own operative and just listened quietly as his handler continued. ‘So, I’ll take all this information away with me now and I want you to have a good rest for the next few days. We like our men to have a month off between jobs if possible, but it looks like we’re going to need you again quite a bit sooner than that. Is that all right with you?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Good, well, I’ll be back on Thursday then, around nine.’ He stood to leave and Liam walked him to the door.

  Their goodbyes had been said and Turner was at his car before he turned back suddenly. ‘Almost forgot, old boy,’ he said as he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a bottle of Jameson’s. ‘You’ll be needing this. You’re nearly out, you know.’

  Liam said nothing, not even thanks. He just held out his hand and took the bottle. The man was amazing.

  ***

  Thursday morning arrived and so did Turner, right on time as always. Liam made tea and Turner lit his pipe. ‘Rested up are we?’ he enquired

  ‘I feel grand,’ Liam assured him.

  ‘Good. Well take a deep breath my boy. Your next job might surprise you.’

  Turner pushed a brown envelope across the desk and Liam frowned as he took it. Very little surprised him any more, so he was intrigued. He opened it slowly and pulled out a sheaf of documents and then stared at the photo attached to the first page. Surprised? He was shocked beyond belief. ‘The fucker,’ he said quietly, but Turner caught it.

  ‘Mr. O’Neil, please.’

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered Liam. ‘Bugger?’ he tried.

  ‘I find that acceptable.’

  ‘Thank fuck. Oh shite. I mean – sorry but... Look Mr. Turner,’ he continued quickly to forestall any further complaints, ‘what the f… what on earth did you expect me to say? This is Larry – Mad Dog – O’Brien for Christ’s sake. This is one of the bastards who ordered me Mammy’s death. He’s my next target? Really? You told me it could be years before I’d get a chance at him.’

  ‘A certain set of circumstances have given us an earlier opportunity. Yes, Liam, he is your next target.’

  ‘Well then I’m sorry for my language, Mr. Turner, but he is a fuckin’ dead man and that’s all there is to it.’

  Turner said nothing. He was on a loser today and he knew it. He closed his ears to all the bad language that followed until eventually his protégé got over his first feelings of elation and they were finally able to discuss the matter more calmly. ‘When can I leave?’ he asked Turner.

  ‘Liam, my boy, please do not be in such a hurry. The timing is of the utmost importance here so if you would kindly read the full dossier in front of you rather than just staring at the photo, I would be much obliged.’

  ‘What can it say in here that I don’t already know? I gave you half the information on him to start with. I know where to find him in Belfast, everything.’

  ‘And there, Liam, is the very point. You know, there are several people who have spent quite some time gathering that information and I have spent many hours compiling it. It is rather impolite of you to ignore my hard work if I might say so. Read the file and consider one thing. Would we really be sending you back to Belfast? You might be Liam O’Neil to me, but you’re still the Butcher over there – and you’re dead.’

  ‘Ah, you do have a point there,’ Liam agreed.

  ‘Not only that, old bean, but we couldn’t do anything to him in the north anyway. Not even by, shall we say, more legitimate means. The British government can’t very well be seen to be sending British soldiers into a friendly foreign country with the sole purpose of eliminating one of their own nationals, now can they? It would look very bad in the newspapers and would upset people at their breakfast. Besides, the Irish government may be more than a little ticked off too.’

  ‘So it has to be me and it isn’t to be in Belfast, then?’ Liam asked.

  ‘Mr. O’Neil, read the bloody file,’ Turner said in exasperation and the profanity from his lips, mild though it was, finally did the trick.

  For the next hour Liam studied the papers in front of him. In a few days’ time Larry O’Brien would be attending a conference in Waterford. It was all to be very secret and Liam was surprised that it would happen at all. O’Brien never left the north. ‘You sure about this?’ he asked at one point. Turner just looked at him. ‘Okay, okay, I know. I’ll read the file,’ Liam added hurriedly.

  Eventually he had the background and the two men began talking tactics and plans. A few sandwiches and cups of tea saw them through the day until they decided they had everything covered and Turner rose to leave as the evening drew in. ‘Don’t you have any more whiskey for me, sir?’ Liam asked at the door.

  ‘Now now, lad, you bought yourself quite a stock at that little off-licence yesterday, didn’t you?’

  ‘Holy Christ, Mr. Turner, is there anything you don’t know?’

  ‘Only how to stop you blaspheming and cursing so much.’

  ‘I’ll try harder,’ Liam promised as they arrived at the door, ‘and Mr. Turner, thank you for this. I won’t let you down.’

  As the door closed and Liam O’Neil disappeared from his view, Turner walked sadly to his car. Ah, the eagerness of youth. It was one of the things he relied on, and, with this particular young man, the passion, the hatred and the desperate need for vengeance. But oh, how the whole thing sickened him. He really was starting to feel too old for all of this. One good thing was that Liam had proved himself in America, a few slips aside, and was now being sent over to Ireland. That meant the close monitoring was coming to an end and he, too, could make the trip back home. He had been in England too long and he was anxious to return to his little antique shop in Dublin and pick up his cover as the quiet, sad English gentleman to whom no one paid much attention.

  12

  The Republic of Ireland

  Liam had spent the last three days reading and re-reading the detailed dossier. Turner’s work was meticulous. He was to be in and out of Ireland in the space of just a few hours and his departure time had arrived. As he was climbing aboard the private civilian helicopter he paused for a moment and glanced over his shoulder. The older man waved to him once and then drove away in his Mercedes. Liam took his seat and buckled himself in.

  ‘Off back to Ireland then are you Paddy?’ the man sitting opposite asked, and Liam took an instant dislike to him. There was no uniform, but he was so obviously a British soldier and Liam
had never really come to terms with the fact that they were now on the same side.

  ‘It’s Mr. O’Neil to you,’ he snapped, and that was the end of the conversation. For the rest of the short flight the soldier turned his heavily scarred face to the window and stared into the night while Liam fingered his own, solitary scar, and went over his mission plan in his head. He was really looking forward to this one. Turner wanted a bloody affair, something that looked like the work of a maniac and not a government assassin. ‘Maniac I can do for you, Mad Dog,’ he thought with relish.

  Eventually the helicopter landed in a small, private airfield. Waterford Aero Club, the sign announced. Liam waited for the rotors to die down a little and then began to climb out but a hand grabbed him by the shoulder, yanking him backwards. ‘Hey, Mr. O-fucking-Neil,’ the soldier snarled. ‘This flight leaves at 2am sharp and if you’re not here by then you can fucking swim back.’

  ‘You don’t like me much do you mate?’ Liam suggested as he pulled himself free of the man’s grasp and jumped to the ground, reaching into his pocket as he did so. ‘The feeling’s mutual. Here, catch.’

  The soldier reacted instinctively with his right hand and looked at what he had caught. ‘An AK round, what about it?’ he asked, inspecting the bullet as he rolled it between his fingers.

  ‘If you’re not here waiting for me, the next one’ll be coming a lot fuckin’ faster,’ snapped Liam with an unblinking stare.

  The soldier looked from the Irishman to the bullet and back again, but said nothing. Liam turned and, as the rotors finally died to nothing, he thought he caught the words ‘Orders are orders,’ as he walked away.

  A car slowly approached him and drew to a halt. ‘Mr. O’Neil?’ smiled a pretty face as the rear window slid down.

  ‘Aye, that it is.’

  ‘Here are your car keys sir. It’s that blue Ford Granada right at the far end of the park.’