I tore open a cartridge box and lifted out the Dickson. I broke the gun and slotted two shells in the chambers and clicked it closed. I put it up to my shoulder and aimed along its length at some circling crows. It was tempting to test its accuracy, or, to be honest, just feel the recoil and smell the cordite; it had been a while since I last held such a weapon. I tracked a pigeon for a while and went bang bang at it. It seemed unmoved by my play. I placed the beautiful piece down in the boot. I filled my left jacket pocket with shotgun cartridges, my right with. 455 bullets.
I cracked open the Webley and checked each of the six chambers was filled with the heavy shells. I spun the chamber once for luck and snapped it shut. I took both weapons round to the open driver’s door. I placed the shotgun on the floor under the bench front seat. With a slight lean forward I could reach it and swing it up fast if I needed to. The revolver went into the open storage compartment under my steering wheel, its vulcanised stock reassuringly close to my right hand. I got back in the car and went off to find the OK Corral.
*
Lisnaskea was the second town in County Fermanagh after Enniskillen. Its population was about two or three thousand, mostly land workers or quarrymen hewing the grey sandstone and limestone to build houses all over the North.
I had decided on sheer brass neck being the best way of finding Planner Farm. I drove straight into Lisnaskea and along a High Street that bent suddenly 90 degrees for no obvious reason. Maybe the surveyor got drunk or perhaps they just got bored with a long straight road. In the town centre where it widened out briefly stood a market hall in good sandstone. In front of it was a tall stone cross that looked borrowed from another age. I rolled to a halt and stuck my head out the window as two old wifies staggered by, Sunday-best black coats on, Sunday hats perched on their grey heads, gloved hands clutching hymnals.
‘Excuse me, missus. Can you help me? I need some directions.’
They smiled and came over, pressing forward so they could see who and what was in the car. The guns were too low for them to spot.
‘And where is it you’re looking for, young fella?’
If I hadn’t asked the question I wouldn’t have understood her wild accent.
‘It’s a farm. It’s called Planner Farm.’
They stepped back as though I’d just exposed myself. And clearly, in their eyes, I had, in some way.
‘And who are you after exactly, did you say?’
‘Dermot Slattery.’
Their two heads turned and looked at each other knowingly.
‘And what would you be wanting to see this fella Slattery for exactly?’
‘I’m delivering this car to him. He bought it in Glasgow and asked me to bring it over to him.’
This lie seemed to satisfy them.
‘Straight ahead and out of the town. About two miles outside. On the right. You’ll see a sign.’
It was only mid morning and I would have much preferred to be doing this by moonlight. But if I thought it was an unsuitable time to be storming this castle, presumably so would the Slatterys. I was gambling on them thinking that they were already in a fortress, rural Ireland itself – and wouldn’t be expecting a cold-eyed Scotsman to arrive, guns blazing, in their midst. On the other hand, with Sam as the trap, that might be exactly what they were hoping.
I watched the cog of the milometer slowly turn round. One mile, then just after the two mark I saw a sign and a driveway up ahead. There was no guard at the wooden barred gate, or at least none I could see. I gingerly slowed down and cruised past at twenty miles an hour. No one in sight down a long straight drive. I caught a glimpse of a slate roof and a whitewashed low building. There were trees behind and to its left. Then I was past.
About a mile further on was another wood. I drove towards it and saw what I was looking for: a grassy path cutting into the trees for forestry work. I bumped the car over the rough ground until I was well hidden from the road. I drove on and pulled into a small glade. My heart was hammering. I sat back and closed my eyes and let the picture crystallise as best I could. In the Seaforths we were trained to observe targets in the blink of an eye, like taking a snap with a fast-reaction camera that we’d then process. A straight drive, about 150 yards from the road to a square horseshoe-shaped building. The arms of the horseshoe reached forward towards the drive. Sheltering between the wings was a black car. There might have been a figure standing to the right of the car, but I wasn’t sure. That was the best I could manage.
I couldn’t see the plate from the road but it looked like the big Austin from Arran. It could take four, maybe five in comfort. Let’s assume that it had brought Dermot and Gerrit, Dermot’s wife and a bodyguard or two. The boot was big enough for a trussed-up prisoner. Or a body.
I got out of the car, tucked the revolver into its pocket inside my jacket and slung the shotgun over my right arm, its barrels pointing to the ground. I hooked the water bottle over my other shoulder and began walking back to the road. Depending on what I found at the farm, I would go in now. Hard. Or if there were vigilant guards all round the building I could at least get the lie of the land and make my attack this evening. What I feared were dogs. Bloody animals. A slight noise or a whiff of a stranger and they’d be barking their heads off till teatime. Not to mention taking a lump out of my backside.
FORTY
I emerged from the wood and scampered across the road. There was little or no traffic round here but it would be stupid to be caught sauntering along this country road with a shotgun under my arm looking like a refugee from a private shoot. The wood continued on the other side of the road, the side the farm was on, and I melted into the cool arbour and started to track my way back to the farm and parallel to the road.
I soon ran out of trees. Ahead was open ground bounded by waist-high, dry stone dikes. I made sure the safety catch was on both guns and clambered over the first. I made steady but cautious progress until after a sweaty half hour I’d reached another wood. By my reckoning, these trees bordered the Planner Farm. If I was guarding the place, this would be the most likely direction I’d expect an assault to come from. So I slipped into the first line of trees and headed north to come round the back of the farmhouse, still in the treeline. The air was still and I reasoned that if there were dogs they’d hear me before they smelt me.
I kept glancing to my right. Here and there the woods thinned; they were only about a hundred yards deep. Occasionally I caught a glimpse of whitewash or grey slate. There was no sound other than the birds, and even they weren’t putting their hearts into it. It was midday and unseasonably hot. A time to doze.
I heard a thunk from the direction of the farm and saw something move at the limit of my vision. I froze and waited. Movement again. Someone had come out, slammed the door and was walking away from the house. I heard voices, and then another figure appeared heading back to the house. The door slammed behind him. Changing of the guard? I started walking again. I did a dogleg and came back at the house from its rear. I was still in good shade. I shuttled from tree to tree, and finally got on my belly and crawled. This was where the hardy tweed came into its own. All I needed was some boot polish on my face and some twigs in my helmet and I was back at the training unit we shared with the Commandos at Spean Bridge in the Highlands.
Finally I stopped and made myself comfortable. I laid my shotgun out and placed the pistol alongside it. I flipped off the safeties on both. I had a clear view of the house and the clearing in which it sat. It was single storey, with white-painted stone walls and a slate roof. There was a back door on the left and windows either side of it. All were closed. Gravel surrounded the whole house to a width of about ten feet. About twenty yards closer to me, was a square stone shed; no windows this side and a sloping corrugated roof.