The English Spy Page 7

  “How many?”

  “Two,” answered Keller. “Then I got my hands on one of their guns and shot two more.”

  “What happened to Quinn?”

  “Quinn wisely fled the field of battle. Quinn lived to fight another day.”

  The following morning the British Army announced that four members of the South Armagh Brigade had been killed in a raid on a remote IRA safe house. The official account made no mention of a kidnapped undercover SAS officer named Christopher Keller. Nor did it mention a laundry service on the Falls Road secretly owned by British intelligence. Keller was flown back to the mainland for treatment; the laundry was quietly closed. It was a major blow to British efforts in Northern Ireland.

  “And Elizabeth?” asked Gabriel.

  “They found her body two days later. Her head had been shaved. Her throat was slit.”

  “Who did it?”

  “I heard it was Quinn,” said Keller. “Apparently, he insisted on doing it himself.”

  Upon his release from the hospital, Keller returned to SAS headquarters at Hereford for rest and recovery. He took long, punishing hikes on the Brecon Beacons and trained new recruits in the art of silent killing, but it was clear to his superiors that his experiences in Belfast had changed him. Then, in August 1990, Saddam Hussein invaded Iraq. Keller rejoined his old Sabre squadron and was deployed to the Middle East. And on the evening of January 28, 1991, while searching for Scud missile launchers in Iraq’s western desert, his unit came under attack by Coalition aircraft in a tragic case of friendly fire. Only Keller survived. Enraged, he walked off the battlefield and, disguised as an Arab, slipped across the border into Syria. From there, he hiked westward across Turkey, Greece, and Italy, until he finally washed ashore in Corsica, where he fell into the waiting arms of Don Anton Orsati.

  “Did you ever look for him?”

  “Quinn?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “The don forbade it.”

  “But that didn’t stop you, did it?”

  “Let’s just say I followed his career closely. I knew he went with the Real IRA after the Good Friday peace accords, and I knew he was the one who planted that bomb in the middle of Omagh.”

  “And when he fled Ireland?”

  “I made polite inquiries as to his whereabouts. Impolite inquiries, too.”

  “Any of them bear fruit?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “But you never tried to kill him?”

  “No,” said Keller, shaking his head. “The don forbade it.”

  “But now you’ve got your chance.”

  “With the blessing of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.” Keller gave a brief smile. “Rather ironic, don’t you think?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Quinn drove me out of the game, and now he’s pulling me back in.” Keller looked at Gabriel seriously for a moment. “Are you sure you want to be involved in this?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because it’s personal,” replied Keller. “And when it’s personal, it tends to get messy.”

  “I do personal all the time.”

  “Messy, too.” The shadows had reclaimed the terrace. The wind made ripples upon the surface of Keller’s blue swimming pool. “And if I do this?” he asked. “What then?”

  “Graham will give you a new British identity. A job, too.” Gabriel paused, then added, “If you’re interested.”

  “A job doing what?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  Keller frowned. “What would you do if you were me?”

  “I’d take the deal.”

  “And give up all this?”

  “It isn’t real, Christopher.”

  Beyond the rim of the valley a church bell tolled one o’clock.

  “What am I going to say to the don?” asked Keller.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s personal,” replied Gabriel. “And when it’s personal, it tends to get messy.”

  There was a ferry leaving for Nice at six that evening. Gabriel boarded at half past five, drank a coffee in the café, and stepped onto the observation deck to wait for Keller. By 5:45 he had not arrived. Five additional minutes passed with no sign of him. Then Gabriel glimpsed a battered Renault turning into the car park and a moment later saw Keller trotting up the ramp with an overnight bag hanging from one powerful shoulder. They stood side by side at the railing and watched the lights of Ajaccio receding into the gloom. The gentle evening wind smelled of macchia, the dense undergrowth of scrub oak, rosemary, and lavender that covered much of the island. Keller drew the air deeply into his lungs before lighting a cigarette. The breeze carried his first exhalation of smoke across Gabriel’s face.

  “Must you?”

  Keller said nothing.

  “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”

  “And let you go after Quinn alone?”

  “You don’t think I can handle him?”

  “Did I say that?”

  Keller smoked in silence for a moment.

  “How did the don take it?”

  “He recited many Corsican proverbs about the ingratitude of children. And then he agreed to let me go.”

  The lights of the island were growing dimmer; the wind smelled only of the sea. Keller reached into his coat pocket, removed a Corsican talisman, and held it out to Gabriel.

  “A gift from the signadora.”

  “We don’t believe in such things.”

  “I’d take it if I were you. The old woman implied it could get nasty.”

  “How nasty?”

  Keller made no reply. Gabriel accepted the talisman and hung it around his neck. One by one the lights of the island went dark. And then it was gone.

  12

  DUBLIN

  TECHNICALLY, THE OPERATION upon which Gabriel and Christopher Keller embarked the following day was a joint undertaking between the Office and MI6. The British role was so black, however, that only Graham Seymour knew of it. Therefore, it was the Office that saw to the travel arrangements, and the Office that rented the Škoda sedan that was waiting in the long-term parking lot at Dublin Airport. Gabriel searched the undercarriage before climbing behind the wheel. Keller slid into the passenger seat and, frowning, closed the door.

  “Couldn’t they have got something better than a Škoda?”

  “It’s one of Ireland’s most popular cars, which means it won’t stand out.”

  “What about guns?”

  “Open the glove box.”

  Keller did. Inside was a Beretta 9mm, fully loaded, along with a spare magazine and a suppressor.

  “Only one?”

  “We’re not going to war, Christopher.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  Keller closed the glove box, Gabriel inserted the key into the ignition. The engine hesitated, coughed, and then finally turned over.

  “Still think they should have rented a Škoda?” asked Keller.

  Gabriel slipped the car into gear. “Where do we start?”

  “Ballyfermot.”

  “Bally where?”

  Keller pointed to the exit sign and said, “Bally that way.”

  The Republic of Ireland was once a land with almost no violent crime. Until the late 1960s Ireland’s national police force, the Garda Síochána, numbered just seven thousand officers, and in Dublin there were only seven squad cars. Most crime was of the petty variety: burglaries, pickpocketing, the occasional strong-armed robbery. And when there was violence involved, it was usually fueled by passion, alcohol, or a combination of the two.

  That changed with the outbreak of the Troubles across the border in Northern Ireland. Desperate for money and arms to fight the British Army, the Provisional IRA began robbing banks in the south. The low-level thieves from the impoverished slums and housing estates of Dublin learned from the Provos’ tactics and began carrying out daring armed heists of th
eir own. The Gardaí, understaffed and outmatched, were quickly overwhelmed by the twin threat of the IRA and the local crime lords. By 1970 Ireland was tranquil no more. It was a gangland where criminals and revolutionaries operated with impunity.

  In 1979 two unlikely events far from Ireland’s shores sped the country’s descent into lawlessness and social chaos. The first was the Iranian revolution. The second was the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Both resulted in a flood of cheap heroin onto the streets of Western European cities. The drug poured into the slums of south Dublin in 1980. A year later it ravaged the ghettos of the north side. Lives were broken, families were shattered, and crime rates soared as desperate addicts tried to feed their habits. Entire communities became dystopian wastelands where junkies shot up openly in the streets and dealers were kings.

  The economic miracle of the 1990s transformed Ireland from one of Europe’s poorest countries into one of its richest, but with prosperity came an even greater appetite for narcotics, especially cocaine and Ecstasy. The old crime bosses gave way to a new breed of kingpins who waged bloody wars over turf and market share. Where once Irish mobsters used sawed-off shotguns to enforce their will, the new gangland warriors armed themselves with AK-47s and other heavy weaponry. Bullet-riddled bodies began to appear on the streets of the housing estates. According to a Garda estimate in 2012, twenty-five violent drug gangs now plied their deadly trade in Ireland. Several had established lucrative ties to foreign organized crime groups, including remnants of the Real IRA.

  “I thought they were against drugs,” said Gabriel.

  “That might be true up there,” said Keller, pointing toward the north, “but down here in the Republic it’s a different story. For all intents and purposes, the Real IRA is just another drug gang. Sometimes they deal drugs directly. Sometimes they run protection rackets. Mainly, they extort money from the dealers.”

  “What does Liam Walsh do?”

  “A little of everything.”

  Rain blurred the headlamps of the evening rush hour traffic. It was lighter than Gabriel had expected. He supposed it was the economy. Ireland’s had fallen farther and faster than most. Even the drug dealers were hurting.

  “Walsh has republicanism in his veins,” Keller was saying. “His father was IRA, and so were his uncles and brothers. He went with the Real IRA after the great schism, and when the war effectively ended he came down to Dublin to make his fortune in the drug business.”

  “What’s his connection to Quinn?”

  “Omagh.” Keller pointed to the right and said, “There’s your turn.”

  Gabriel guided the car into Kennelsfort Road. It was lined on both sides by terraces of small two-story houses. Not quite the Irish miracle, but not a slum, either.

  “Is this Ballyfermot?”

  “Palmerstown.”

  “Which way?”

  With a wave of his hand, Keller instructed Gabriel to continue straight. They skirted an industrial park of low gray warehouses, and suddenly they were on Ballyfermot Road. After a moment they came upon a parade of sad little shops: a discount department store, a discount linen store, a discount optician, a chip shop. Across the street was a Tesco supermarket, and next to the supermarket was a betting parlor. Sheltering in the entrance were four men in black leather coats. Liam Walsh was the smallest of the lot. He was smoking a cigarette; they were all smoking cigarettes. Gabriel turned into the Tesco car park and eased into an empty space. It had a clear view of the betting parlor.

  “Maybe you should leave the engine running,” said Keller.

  “Why?”

  “It might not start again.”

  Gabriel killed the engine and doused the headlamps. Rain beat heavily against the windscreen. After a few seconds Liam Walsh vanished in a blurry kaleidoscope of light. Then Gabriel flicked the wipers and Walsh reappeared. A long black Mercedes sedan had pulled up outside the betting parlor. It was the only Mercedes on the street, probably the only one in the neighborhood. Walsh was talking to the driver through the open window.

  “He looks like a real pillar of the community,” said Gabriel quietly.

  “That’s how he likes to portray himself.”

  “So why is he standing outside a betting parlor?”

  “He wants the other gangs to know that he’s watching his turf. A rival tried to kill him on that very spot last year. If you look closely, you can see the bullet holes in the wall.”

  The Mercedes moved off. Liam Walsh returned to the shelter of the entrance.

  “Who are those nice-looking fellows with him?”

  “The two on the left are his bodyguards. The other one is his second-in-command.”

  “Real IRA?”

  “To the core.”

  “Armed?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We wait for him to make a move.”

  “Here?”

  Keller shook his head. “If they see us sitting in a parked car, they’ll assume we’re Garda or members of a rival gang. And if they assume that, we’re dead.”

  “Then maybe we shouldn’t sit here.”

  Keller nodded toward the chip shop on the other side of the road and climbed out. Gabriel followed after him. They stood side by side along the edge of the road, hands thrust into their pockets, heads bowed against the windblown rain, waiting for an opening in the traffic.

  “They’re watching us,” said Keller.

  “You noticed that, too?”

  “Hard not to.”

  “Does Walsh know your face?”

  “He does now.”

  The traffic broke; they crossed the road and headed toward the entrance of the chip shop. “It might be better if you don’t speak,” said Keller. “This isn’t the sort of neighborhood that gets a lot of visitors from exotic lands.”

  “I speak perfect English.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  Keller opened the door and went inside first. It was a narrow room with a cracked linoleum floor and peeling walls. The air was thick with grease, starch, and the faint smell of wet wool. There was a pretty young girl behind the counter and an empty table against the window. Gabriel sat with his back to the road while Keller went over to the counter and ordered in the accent of someone from south Dublin.

  “Very impressive,” murmured Gabriel when Keller joined him. “For a minute there I thought you were about to break into ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.’”

  “As far as that pretty young lass is concerned, I’m as Irish as she is.”

  “Yes,” said Gabriel doubtfully. “And I’m Oscar Wilde.”

  “You don’t think I can pass for an Irishman?”

  “Maybe one who’s been on a very long vacation in the sun.”

  “That’s my story.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Majorca,” replied Keller. “The Irish love Majorca, especially Irish mobsters.”

  Gabriel glanced around the interior of the café. “I wonder why.”

  The girl walked over to the table and deposited a plate of chips and two Styrofoam cups of milky tea. As she was leaving, the door opened and two pale men in their mid-twenties hurried in out of the weather. A woman in a damp coat and downtown shoes entered a moment later. The two men took a table near Keller and Gabriel and began speaking in a dialect that Gabriel found almost impenetrable. The woman sat at the back of the shop. She had only tea to drink and was reading a worn paperback book.

  “What’s going on outside?” asked Gabriel.

  “Four men standing in front of a betting parlor. One man looking like he’s had enough of the rain.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Not far,” answered Keller. “He likes to live among the people.”

  Gabriel drank some of the tea and made a face. Keller pushed the plate of chips across the table. “Eat some.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I want to live long enough to see my ch
ildren born.”

  “Good idea.” Keller smiled, then added, “Men of your age really should be careful about what they eat.”

  “Watch yourself.”

  “How old are you, exactly?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Problems with memory loss?”

  Gabriel drank some of the tea. Keller nibbled at the chips.

  “They’re not as good as the fries in the south of France,” he said.

  “Did you get a receipt?”

  “Why would I need a receipt?”

  “I hear the bookkeepers at MI6 are very picky.”

  “Let’s not get carried away about MI6 just yet. I haven’t made any decisions.”

  “Sometimes our best decisions are made for us.”

  “You sound like the don.” Keller ate another chip. “Is it true about MI6 bookkeepers?”

  “I was just making conversation.”

  “Are yours tough?”

  “The worst.”

  “But not with you.”

  “Not so much.”

  “So why didn’t they get you something better than a Škoda?”

  “The Škoda is fine.”

  “I hope he’ll fit in the trunk.”

  “We’ll slam the lid on him a few times if we have to.”

  “What about the safe house?”

  “I’m sure it’s lovely, Christopher.”

  Keller didn’t appear convinced. He picked up another chip, thought better of it, and dropped it onto the plate.

  “What’s going on behind me?” he asked.

  “Two lads speaking no known language. One woman reading.”

  “What’s she reading?”

  “I believe it’s John Banville.”

  Keller nodded thoughtfully, his eyes on Ballyfermot Road.

  “What do you see?” asked Gabriel.

  “One man standing outside a betting parlor. Three men getting into a car.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Black Mercedes.”

  “Better than a Škoda.”

  “Much.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We leave the fries and take the tea.”

  “When?”

  Keller rose to his feet.