‘The same thing with drug-dealers. The PIRA limit the number who are allowed to operate, either on the streets or in clubs, and they take a percentage of their profits.’
Morrison stopped, giving me a steady look. ‘Your man Farrell has his finger in every fecking pie — and if anyone else tries to get a hand in, he doesn’t hesitate to cut it off.’
SEVEN
In the morning I happened to see Pink Mike crossing the warehouse on his way back from the bog. He was looking pleased with himself, as if he’d had a monumental shit. His hair was on the mend, too — it had gone a kind of rich auburn.
‘Hey,’ I called, ‘got a minute?’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘Have you heard of a player called Declan Farrell?’
‘Christ, have I!’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘It’s like asking if I’ve heard of the Pope. He’s one of the big bastards.’
‘Really! D’you have any info about him?’
‘There’s a bloody great file that lists all his villainies. What do you want to know?’
‘Anything about him — what he looks like, where he hangs out.’
‘What’s your interest?’
‘I heard someone talking about him. He sounds a vicious sod.’
‘He is. I’ll sort you out something. Where will you be?’
‘I’m on standby, so unless something breaks I’ll be around the warehouse. I’m going to the gym now for an hour. Then I’ll be in my cabin.’
‘I’ll be over, then.’
Never had the weights seemed lighter. I suppose it was the flow of adrenalin that pepped me up, but I found myself going through the lifts with incredible ease. It was my day for back and chest. Before the injury to my arm I’d been a member of the 22 °Club, bench-pressing four big 55-lb Olympic discs on the bar — and even though that was no big deal in real weight-lifting terms, I’d only recently climbed back to it. Some days I still found it a strain, but that morning an hour flew past. Then I did twenty minutes on one of the stationary bikes, and after a shower and a dhobi session in the laundromat, I was bouncing around the cabin when Mike reappeared.
Under one arm he was carrying a rolled-up towel, out of which he produced a big brown envelope. ‘For Christ’s sake be careful,’ he said, handing it over. ‘This stuff is highly classified. It’s not supposed to leave our ops room. The most up-to-date sheet is missing, because Box have borrowed it, but everything else is there. I’ll come back for it after lunch.’
With him gone, I closed the door and pushed a wedge under the inside, silently praying that we didn’t get a call-out in the next hour. Then I opened the envelope.
The first things I saw were two photographs, mug-shots, taken with a telephoto lens but well focused — good, clear pictures. I stared at them in consternation. I’d been seeing Gary Player in my mind so clearly that I had his likeness firmly in my head — and this wasn’t him. It took me a few moments to sweep away the figment of my imagination and concentrate on reality.
In place of the scruffy, tousled, sandy-haired fellow I’d invented for myself, here was someone dark and definitely good-looking, in his thirties. Far from having thuggish, Neanderthal features, the face was rather distinguished: high forehead, thick eyebrows, dark hair well cut and neatly brushed back, and a strong, square jaw. The eyes were dark as well, and, even in those unflattering photos, lively. At some stage the nose had been broken and left with a slight flattening at the bridge, but that only added to the appeal of the face.
If the man’s appearance disconcerted me, the notes on his career and character gave me still more of a shock.
TERRORIST SUSPECT NO. 608
Name: FARRELL, Declan Ambrose
Date of Birth: 1958
Place: Fruithill Park, Andersonstown Road, Belfast.
Education: Christian Brothers’ School, Glen Road, Belfast. 8 0 levels. 3 A levels B B B. Queen’s University Belfast. 2nd Class degree, Mechanical Engineering, 1979. Rugby, trial for University XV. Wing forward.
Religion: Catholic.
Height: 6’ 2”
Build: Broad shoulders, good figure.
Appearance: Tends to dress well. Wears suits.
Weight: 210 lbs approx.
Distinguishing Features: Nose broken while boxing as boy. Flattening at bridge. Limps slightly on left foot as a result of car accident.
Politics: Fanatical nationalist.
Cover Occupations: Has sometimes posed as Consulting Engineer.
Finances: No special sources known.
Aliases: Seamus Malone. Has also used the name Fearn.
I had to read these details several times to make them sink in. No moron, this. On the contrary, he was far better educated than me, with three A levels and a university degree. Bigger, too — an inch taller, and a lot heavier. A physical sort of guy, he’d played rugger almost at university standard. A boxer as well. A big, strong fellow, and aggressive by the sound of it. Sure enough, the accompanying notes described him as ‘aggressive, assertive, likes to throw his weight about. In his youth, much given to fighting in public.’ (In the margin somebody had added in pencil, ‘Still likes a fight. The Black Barrel brawl, 1988’.) He was said to have a sadistic streak, and to favour torturing prisoners. Once, it was reputed, he had tied an enemy up and cut him to pieces with a chain-saw. At home he kept dogs, generally big ones — Rottweilers, Rhodesian Ridge-backs or Pit Bulls.
His career in terrorism was poorly charted, because he had always been too clever to be caught, or even to leave clear traces of his activity. His involvement in incidents was usually recorded as ‘suspected’ rather than ‘confirmed’. For a time he had been active around South Armagh, near the Border, and it seemed that he preferred rural operations to those in towns. But later he had concentrated on Belfast, and now, at the latest entry on the sheets, he was down as the adjutant of the PIRA’s West Belfast Brigade. Although the dossier listed several specific incidents which he was thought to have orchestrated, it did not mention the Queensfield bomb; this, I assumed, was because the incident had taken place after my last sheet had run out, and it would appear on the page which Mike had said was missing. I didn’t stop to think why Box — our name for MI5 — should have borrowed it. I just assumed they were investigating some aspect of Farrell’s career.
Alongside the heading ‘Address’, several lines had been entered and crossed out. Evidently he had moved around a good deal. The latest entry said simply, ‘Ballyconvil’. It looked as though that was where he had last been heard of. Altogether, he seemed to be in the same category as many IRA suspects: the authorities knew who he was, and where he was, but so far hadn’t been able to pin anything major on him. I remembered Chief Superintendent Morrison saying, ‘We know who the feckers are, so we do — if only we could just go and get them.’
Ballyconvil was the only name on any of the sheets that I needed to remember. I made a note of it on a slip of paper, and sat staring at the photograph until the face had burned into my mind. Yes — on more thorough inspection, the mouth was thin and cruel. The eyes could well be the same. But why in hell had a man of such intelligence chosen to become a scumbag? What had turned him into a terrorist?
My study of the dossier left me feeling personally threatened. Inadvertently, I had chosen to take on a hell of an opponent. Farrell sounded a powerful man in all senses of the word. Yet in a way all his attributes only strengthened my feeling of enmity. Before I’d known anything about him I’d hated him. Now I felt jealous of him, too. It was a useful combination.