Seamus Finnegan had been the landlord of the Castle Tavern in Carrickfergus for over twenty-five years. He was a staunch Republican who listed prominent Sinn Fein councillors and senior members of the IRA amongst his close friends. Although the premises were used regularly for Republican meetings and for harboring wanted men from the authorities, he had never been convicted of anything more serious than a speeding offense. Such was the frustration amongst the local RUC that they now regularly raided the pub, claiming to have received an anonymous tip-off that there was a fugitive on the premises. And they invariably chose Saturday nights when the pub was full. The previous night had been no exception. And, as on all the other occasions, they had gone away empty-handed.
Sunday mornings were always quiet. The regulars would converge on the pub after lunch for their customary pint and a game of dominoes. Finnegan glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. It would be another half hour before the first of the regulars began to arrive. There were only four customers in the pub, all seated at the bar watching a recorded game of football on the television. Their glasses were full. His wife had called down five minutes earlier to tell him that his lunch was ready. He decided to go upstairs and fetch it before it went cold. As he turned away from the television screen the door opened and a figure entered the room, his head bowed against the driving rain which had been lashing Carrickfergus since the early hours of the morning. He closed the door behind him and looked up slowly at Finnegan.
“Dear mother of God,” Finnegan muttered in disbelief.
Kevin Brady turned down the lapels of his leather jacket and crossed to the far end of the counter, out of earshot of the other customers. “Good to see you, Seamus,” he announced in his deadpan voice.
Finnegan pumped Brady’s hand vigorously. “And you, lad. How are you?”
“Bearing up,” Brady replied, running his fingers through his matted hair.
“The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since that American senator was assassinated in Dugaill yesterday afternoon. The Army Council were asking after you. I suppose they assumed that as you grew up in this neighborhood, you’d probably come back here sooner or later. You want to talk to them, lad. Put their minds at ease.”
“I will,” Brady replied.
“Why not come upstairs? There’s a hot meal on the table. You look like you could use it.”
“No, but thanks anyway. I’ll settle for a pint of Guinness and a cheese roll. I need to get my thoughts together before I call the Army Council.”
Finnegan poured a pint of draft Guinness and placed it on the counter. “There’s been talk around these parts that you were involved in that shooting yesterday. It’s not true, is it, lad?”
“No.”
“That’s what I said.” Finnegan took a cheese roll from a basket at the back of the bar and handed it to Brady. “I still can’t believe that Fiona pulled the trigger. I can’t remember the number of times she came in here with Sean for a few drinks and a game of pool. I honestly thought she was one of us.”
“We all did.”
“Are you sure you won’t eat something hot, lad? I can bring you down a plate.”
Brady shook his head then crossed to a corner table and sat down. He had always prided himself before on his ability to operate single-handedly but he had never felt so isolated and alone as he had in the last twenty-four hours. Not only was Kane in custody but his plan to publicly discredit the authorities had backfired badly on him. They now had the tapes. But that was nothing compared to the death of Jack Scoby. As a cell leader, Fiona was theoretically under his command. And every Sunday newspaper had fingered him as the mastermind behind the assassination. He knew the authorities wouldn’t stop searching until they had found him. It would be the only way they could hope to stem the international outcry. But what worried him more was the reaction of the Army Council. Would they stand by him or would they use him as a scapegoat to appease their supporters abroad? He knew he had strong support in the Army Council but would it be enough to save him? He couldn’t keep running. He had to face the truth sooner or later …
He looked up when the door opened and instantly recognized the tall, gangly figure of Kieran O’Connell, his fiercest critic on the Army Council. O’Connell brushed his windswept hair away from his face as he crossed the room to where Brady was sitting. His eyes were cold and malicious.
“Have you come to take me back to face the wrath of the Army Council?” Brady asked, holding O’Connell’s penetrating stare.
“The Army Council have voted overwhelmingly to stand by you until an internal investigation has been carried out. And now I’m facing expulsion from the Council because of my friendship with Fiona. There’s nothing left for me anymore.”
Brady had always loathed O’Connell for his wishy-washy liberal views. How many times had O’Connell’s veto wiped out one of his meticulously planned operations to hit at the very heart of the British forces? The Army Council were obviously going to take a tougher stance in the future. And Brady knew he was the man to spearhead that campaign. Revenge was sweet.
O’Connell suddenly stepped back and pulled a Browning Mk1 from his overcoat pocket. Brady kicked back the chair, looking wildly around him for a means of escape. O’Connell fired. The bullet took Brady in the stomach, punching him back against the wall. Brady clutched his stomach and stared in horror as the blood seeped through his fingers. He looked up slowly at O’Connell but as he tried to open his mouth to speak, three more bullets were pumped into him. The blood trickled from the corners of Brady’s mouth and the disbelief was still mirrored in his eyes when he fell forward onto the table, toppling it sideways, as his body crashed to the floor.
Finnegan, who had been alerted by the sound of the first shot, had grabbed his revolver from the bedroom and bounded downstairs, but by the time he burst through the door behind the counter Brady was already dead. He was momentarily taken aback by the sight of O’Connell. Another regular. Another friend.
“Put down the gun, Kieran,” he ordered, levelling the revolver at O’Connell.
O’Connell looked around slowly at Finnegan. There was no recognition in his eyes. Then, almost as if in slow motion, O’Connell pushed the barrel against the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Chapter Sixteen
It was nine o’clock on Monday morning when Whitlock pulled up behind the white Ford which was parked a block away from West Side Electronics. As he climbed out of the car the Ford’s passenger door swung open and a man got out. Thirty-eight-year-old Frank Grecco had been one of the Drug Enforcement Agency’s top UCs, undercover cops, in New York for over twelve years before his cover was blown by an overzealous journalist out for a scoop. He had to be withdrawn from the field for his own protection and after a successful stint as the Assistant Division Chief in Los Angeles he returned to New York as its youngest ever Division Chief.
Whitlock locked the driver’s door and smiled as Grecco approached him. He had worked with Grecco on a number of joint DEA-UNACO operations over the years and it was hard to believe that it was the same man he had come to regard as one of the best UCs he’d ever encountered outside UNACO. Gone was the shoulder-length hair, the stubble and the dirty jeans. Now Grecco sported a short back and sides, a neatly trimmed black moustache and an expensive Armani double-breasted suit.
“Hey, goombah, long time no see,” Grecco said with a wide grin as he pumped Whitlock’s hand. “How you doing?”
It was the same old Frank Grecco. No frills, no graces. And that was why his return to New York two months earlier had been greeted so enthusiastically by his former colleagues.