'Insulation. You need more between you and the ground than you do on top.'
It was so dark here I could hardly see his face, even though real life continued not more than 100 metres away. Traffic ground its way along the street and people ran for buses.
The wind had picked up and we arranged the clothes as best we could to provide some sort of mattress. I kept my arms tight against my sides and pulled up my collar to conserve as much warmth as I could. If I had to move my head I'd turn my whole body. I didn't want the slightest breath of wind down my neck.
Lynn started shivering. He hadn't spent half his life being cold, wet and hungry like I had.
I gave him a nudge. 'Duff – was he really a source?'
'Yes.' Lynn sat up. 'We turned him in the early eighties. He was arrested by the French coming back from a Hezbollah training camp with a false passport. Duff was an idealist, but he was also a realist. He was staring down the barrel of a very long prison sentence. We could spring him. All he had to do was accept a golden handshake and give us the occasional little bit of information. Nothing major. Nothing life-threatening. Just gossip, really.'
Once he had taken that first step, there would have been no way back. The handlers would have started off slow, but the die was cast. He would have taken money from the British government. They'd have made it impossible for him to get out without a PIRA bullet in his head.
'Early eighties? So he was working for you at the time of the Tripoli job? I thought I'd never had so much int on a job – now I know why.'
'He'd got a bit stroppy by then, so we upped the ante. We said we'd kill his younger brother. Well, someone like you would.'
After that, Lynn said, Liam Duff became quite an asset. He had the ear of hard-bitten players who wouldn't have trusted their own grannies but seemed to take a shine to him.
'Why break cover after all this time? Missed you after your retirement, did he?'
Lynn wasn't going to bite. 'When I left the service, he was still in prison for his part in the Bahiti but was released early as part of the Good Friday Agreement. From what I've heard, the peace process unhinged him. He never forgave Isham and the others for what he saw as selling out. A bit ironic, considering what he'd been up to all those years and the fact it got him early release.'
'Who killed him?'
'That's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.' He half shivered, half shrugged. 'Until you turned up, I'd have said the answer was obvious. Now I'm not so sure. PIRA insist it wasn't them, and we're supposed to believe them these days. There are plenty who think British security forces are still trying to undermine the peace accord . . .'
49
I lay in my pile of discarded clothes; they smelled like stale margarine. What a dickhead Duff was. Why expose yourself if you don't have to? Money and vanity are more dangerous than a box-cutter. Maybe he'd thought he had immunity in the aftermath of the Good Friday Agreement. Even a couple of years ago, he would have been found in a plastic bag on the Armagh border, leaking badly.
'You know anything more about how he was killed?'
'He got some close attention from an electric drill, and then he was shot.'
PIRA got the Black and Deckers out for at least fifty people it claimed were informers during the Troubles. Duff's disclosure came after they'd formally declared that they were abandoning violence. But maybe in his case they'd been prepared to make an exception.
Northern Ireland might be on the brink of a new era of peace, but someone had clearly decided that Duff wasn't going to live to see it. If he'd left Ireland he might still be alive: plenty of informers and double agents had been spirited away to start new lives abroad. By staying in Ireland, Duff had signed his own death warrant. He'd been living in a remote area of western Ireland, in a run-down cottage with no electricity or running water. But even in Donegal there is nowhere that anyone can completely hide themselves away, as I had very quickly found out.
I nodded. 'Plenty of people have that MO.'
'I really did think it might have been you. That maybe you still worked for the Firm – or perhaps had a few scores to settle of your own . . .'
He had a point. 'This PIRA traitor Duff was on about – the one who gave up the Bahiti – you know who it was? He had to be pretty high up the food chain to know about the job.'
He didn't even blink. 'That information, Nick, is something that would get you killed.'
'You really think it could have been the Firm?'
'Duff had already revealed there was a Brit on board who killed Lesser. He would undoubtedly have exposed even more details about us. Then, of course, there is the question of a device under your car. It's not too hard to put two and two together . . .'
'You think it's the Firm tying off a few loose ends?'
'More each time I think about it.'
'But why go to such elaborate lengths to drop us two? There has to be more to this than a bit of spring cleaning.'
I rolled over and looked up at the sky. Whatever – it didn't matter right now. What did was getting out of the UK to reform, regroup and sort our shit out.
Lynn was starting to read my mind. 'Where next, Nick?'
'Not sure yet.'
He sat up and adjusted the pile of clothes to insulate his back against the bricks. 'I have a place in Italy.'
I thought for a second. 'It'll be a known location. They'll check it.'
'You aren't the only one who has a safety blanket, you know. I was about to move there myself – until you interrupted my packing.'
'It's secure? No one knows about it? You can't be found?'
'No one. Not even my children.'
50
We lay huddled for two, maybe three hours. I wasn't sure and I couldn't be arsed to expose any skin to the cold to check my watch.
The sound of adolescent voices came from over to our left, full of fucks and shits, getting louder as they approached.
There was only room for one of us right behind the bins. I motioned for Lynn to make himself scarce. He shuffled backwards, dragging his bundle with him.
The shouts and laughter came closer, until one of them stopped no more than a few feet away. 'Hold on . . .'
I looked up at him.
'Oi, mate, get a fucking job.' I was treated to a fourteen-year-old's sneer from beneath a grey hoodie. I'd have had mine up too, if I'd had one.
Four of his mates gathered round to share the entertainment. More hoodies, baggy jeans, trainers. It was obviously a big night out.
'You a mether, or what?'
They crowded round the gap between the bins.
I wasn't going to get up just yet. There wasn't any need.
'No, mate. I'm just here, that's all.'
I thought of myself at their age, doing exactly the same as they were, always in a gang. The only difference was the clothes. These lads were much better dressed.