Chapter 42
Belfast, Northern Ireland, 1982
The uniform figure sat ridged behind the oak desk but his tone reflected a hint of compassion. “You’re going down for at least five years,” he said. “And it wouldn’t surprise me if you drew longer. But five years?” He shifted his head slowly side to side. “They could go down hard or easy.” He motioned towards a chair with the offer. “Sit.” But the nervous prisoner remained standing to attention.
Not affected by the man’s discomfort, Colonel Oliver Reed went on. “Your brother, you’re still Rory Hanlon’s brother. He may have lost pride in the fact but he’s never let it be known. So the lads will welcome you with open arms and mouths.”
Packy Hanlon shivered. The shine of a cold sweat appeared on his face and he mumbled, “Cap’n, sure what ya gettin’ at?”
Ready to waste as much time as necessary, the officer paused to light a cigar then held the box out in offering. Packy shook his head. “A cigarette then?” He offered the unopened package of Players. Packy reached for them. The officer said, “Keep the pack.”
He waited for the fellow to light one and enjoy a deep drag before he continued. “Month after month the lads come and go. On the outside they’ve become a close-mouthed bunch. But in the lockup—why they’ve a yearning to share secrets. Rory Hanlon’s brother, he would be considered safe wouldn’t he?”
“Ya know what you askin’?” Packy Hanlon finally decided to shrink into the chair as he stammered, “Ya know what they’d do if they found me out?”
“You could have things so easy; no one would be the wiser. Rory Hanlon’s brother…Rory would see to his brother. See warders got paid off; items got sneaked through.”
“Rory, sure, he’d see me dead.”
“Perhaps, but few know that. Your brother was too ashamed to let on.
“Bastards,” he moaned. “Ya told him it was me. Bloody well laughed when ya made me face him; face the mess you made of him.”
Taking no offense, the officer’s tone was sympathetic as he reminded. “That wasn’t the British Army. In truth you would have both ended up in graves if it wasn’t for us so-called bastards. We don’t condone everything the RUC does. I’ve been told you were little better off than Rory at the time. It’s been years; he must have forgiven you by now? If not…”
“I’d be dead,” Packy finished the sentence. “Now ya want to try me again. If I’m found out, sure, it won’t be me brother deciding my future. Not likely they’ll even be askin’ him—just…” He drew a finger across his Adam’s apple.
“We’ll be careful, very careful, you and I. No go-betweens who might let something slip.”
“An’ that’ll make the screws do turns for me?”
“Trust me. It will all be taken care of from the outside. You’ll have to keep your nose clean. You can’t be treated like royalty; now that wouldn’t pay for either of us. I’d be forced to write you off in a month. I want us to maintain a long profitable relationship.”
“I’m bettin’ you do, sure, bettin’ with my life.”
“You really can’t give a guess where your brother is hold up?”
“Nope, if I’d a clue, Kelsey woulda known right off. Being born a coward ain’t easy when you’re face to face with a bastard like Kelsey with nothin’ ta tell.”
Growing bored, yet not wanting his prize to feel shoved out, the officer smiled in understanding as he agreed. “Yes. But then Inspector Kelsey does have reason.”
“‘Twas Rory changed his features,” Packy protested. “Not me.”
“A difference. But it rather colors his outlook when questioning detainees.” Rising, he started for the door; normally he would simply push a button; but now as he passed he took a moment to fondly pat the prisoner’s shoulder. “You have been inside before?”
“Never this deep.”
“You’ll get the hang of things quick enough.” The officer promised. “The younger lads, on some of them it’s a bit rough. Some cry like infants. You’d think they’d learn.” He pushed the door open.
~~~
Packy Hanlon, well into his late thirties, spun from the chair to watch the warders approaching. Terror griped his gut. I’ve done nothing! He wanted to scream. Scalding tears surfaced in his eyes. Nothing! Nothing but store a car filled with explosives that I didn’t know were in it.
~~~
After turning the key that closed the pub for the afternoon break, Jack Walsh hung it up before coming back around the bar. “You up for another?” he offered as he poured himself a pint.
“Stay with this.” David Martin nursed the thick stout then said, “Doyle gets out and heads straight for you…stupid.”
Though Walsh was nearing fifty, and his black hair showed thin grey traces of age, the rest of him did not. At five nine he was lean; with hidden springs that served him better than popping muscle. He grunted in annoyance at the much younger man. “Didn’t say Doyle came right at me. The lad did the correct thing. Called on a safe line. I took me a bit of time off and went into the doc for a checkup.”
Satisfied, Martin nodded. “So, all right, how’s old Packy doing?”
“Not good. Here’s the gist of what he told Doyle.” He repeated the officer’s deal finishing with Packy’s warning, “You be telling me brother I’m one damn coward. Not into serving hard time. Rory’s got a choice either he lays on me safe stuff so I can keep the screws off my ass, or he takes a chance I’ll not be picking up proper information.”
While Martin listened and contemplated, he doodled in the moisture that formed on the bar from his glass. He drew a circle and then a heart with a dagger through it.
~~~
Jack Walsh watched this youthful nonsense. He set high now but it had taken him years and that’s what caused the impatient rasp in his voice. “Well? What? Packy could be a problem. Prison boredom loosens many a tongue.”
Martin gave off a soft laugh. “We use him.” And to quiet Walsh’s rising arguments made apparent by his deepening frown, he explained. “We feed him stuff to keep the Army hopping. Brits are never so content as when they’re playing snoop an’ spy games. Old Packy’s going down might be a blessing.”
“Not to my likin’,” Walsh said. He was not questioning the logic it was just who was making the decision that irritated him. For a time he’d worried how Rory’s release would affect his status. Secured from that concern, young Martin being wished on him by Tom Devlin was even more demeaning. So he repeated, “Not to my likin’.”
“You certain about that Jack? I think you, yourself, saw the worth of this or you’d have ordered an execution—Rory’s brother or not.”
Somewhat appeased, Walsh admitted, “Been thinking on it. Tossed the idea around some. Dangerous business for Packy. Ain’t in me to upset Rory less I have ta. Then too, Devlin may not go for the plan.”
~~~
Less than an hour later, one, Thomas Devlin, wasted three minutes of long distance charges as he indulged in a fit of laughter. “Beautiful,” he finally hissed. “And who’s the prick approached Packy?”
“New bloke.” David Martin joined freely in Devlin’s mirth. “Colonel Oliver Reed. Seems like we’re being invaded by all these fresh faces.”
“Nothing beats fresh meat!” Devlin said. “We’ve got to keep that momma’s boy happy. Can you make the first one good?”
“Got that East German ammo just setting? Cost a few grand but it’s the wrong caliber.”
“We can be more generous than that,” Devlin said. “The payroll on the first—give it to them.”
“Lads won’t stand for that.”
“I’ll see it’s replaced before the third. Nobody will starve in two days.”
“Do I offer up a martyr or two?”
“No need. They’ll have a whole ship’s crew and the guys on the dock to torment. All innocents but it should keep them happy.”
~~~
Rory Hanlon laughed as he finished the news story in the Republican Journal newspaper David Martin had brought back from Belfast. And he said aloud to no one, “Tom Devlin sure knows how to even a score.” Not that Tom told him he’d set Packy up.
No, no one tells me anything. Just how to walk, talk, what to fuckin’ wear. Like a blooming babe they treat me. Maybe Tom ain’t on my case but his machines are and this frigging little prick that runs them. He glared over where David Martin was working with the newfangled personal computer.
“Time out is over,” Martin said as he spun away from the machine.
And Rory Hanlon flung the newspaper at him in disgust. “Two years,” he yelped. “It’s worse than prison.”
“Thirteen months,” Martin corrected. “And I’ve counted every hour. I’ve less liking for this than you. Now put the bloody earphones back on.” Changing the tape, he renewed an earlier promise to himself; I’ll not let the son of a bitch get to me. He punched in the start button on the tape player as he continued to silently complain. He damn sure could be doing this himself. Thank God, Walsh was due to relieve him. The time Hanlon spent with one of his cronies was usually wasted but it gave the young man a break. Suddenly a thought hit him and he lifted an earphone to impress upon Hanlon, “Be careful with the lamps. Tanned as you are you could still blister again.”
Then Jack Walsh was there. Martin and Hanlon watched from the window as Walsh leaped from his car and came on in a run. Flinging the door open so hard it banged against the wall, he ordered, “Pack it in lads.”
And Rory Hanlon felt a growing panic as he heard Martin voice his own assumption. “We’ve been made?”
“Rory, lad, I understand, you is traveling.” Walsh nodded to him. “Driving yah to Dublin. You’ll be meeting up with Devlin at the airport. Get your old bones moving.” Turning on Martin he ordered, “Let’s go Davy. We gotta destroy all this junk before we leave.”
“Junk.” The young man took the heat and he reddened from his neck up. “Spent a bit of bob on this junk? Why didn’t Tom call here?”
“Didn’t call me either,” Walsh admitted. “O’Donnell come by. Wants I should leave you off at his place in Bray before taking Rory into Dublin. Said we shouldn’t leave a thing can be traced. So Davy, boy, you best get to digging a hole out by the old privy. Got acid in the boot. Rory, toss them bulbs in a pillowslip; we’ll smash ‘em outside. Come on lads get the lead out.”
So within the hour they were in the small Ford headed out through the richly green countryside of Donegal, towards the more cosmopolitan area around the southern capital of Dublin.
~~~
In the airport bar he ordered a drink. The bartender smiled and asked, “On holiday?” Rory Hanlon only nodded as he took to sipping the Dewars. He still hadn’t cultivated a taste for scotch but was leery of ordering Irish whiskey.
He was grateful when the jovial character appeared to enjoy his own conversation and added little to it. Now and then when he was forced to give a reply, his voice sounded alien to his ears so he took care to limit its use. Two Gardaí glanced his way. Sweat beaded on his neck and trickled down his stiff back to his waist. The policemen smiled, nodded at Hanlon, and kept walking.
“Don’t turn white on me now.”
He spun to confront a grinning Thomas Devlin. In a husky groan Hanlon said, “Thought I bought it.”
“Beautiful,” Devlin whispered. “You sound like a bloody French Canadian.”
And Hanlon realized he had spoken without thought and the accent held. Devlin slapped his shoulder in compliment. “Let’s grab a table. We got an hour to kill before flight time.”
“Flight to where?” Hanlon questioned as he followed his friend’s path across the thick pile rug of the executive lounge. “Flight.” He groaned as he dropped into the leather chair beside Devlin. “I ain’t into flying.”
~~~
“It’s getting a bit hairy,” Devlin admitted. “Brits are helping the RUC and the Special Forces turn every rock on the island looking for you. Christ, they brought the SAS in on the hunt.”
“SAS.” Hanlon closed his eyes for a second as he reflected on his upcoming doom.
“Experienced piss and vinegar bloke. Dan Mitchell, regular ‘James Bond’ type. So we have to move you to the safest place I know.” Devlin’s laugh was nasty as he said, “London.”
“London? How? What papers?”
“Right here in my brief. Passport.” Devlin set it on the tabletop and followed with. “A driver’s license, credit cards, and birth certificate.” He continued to toss documentation at the startled Hanlon. “All quite legitimate.” He gave a quiet laugh. “I now pronounce you, Richard James Quinn, an English born citizen turned Canadian at ten.”
Hanlon flipped though his new identity attempting to quickly acquaint himself with it. Then he muttered a fresh concern. “What am I supposed to do there?”
“For starters, learn. Every inch of the city—every tree—every blade of grass. People lived there all their lives can get lost—not you. Set up a strong identity. Make it so folks in the area you live are as comfortable with you as they are with your father.”
“My father?”
“Your papa. You better start practicing that. Quinn’s a pure communist at heart. Close on eighty-five, nobody pays attention to him anymore; but you listen to him. He’s a wise old bird with a hate so deep a blade couldn’t cut it out.
“Included in your portfolio you’ll discover some letters of introduction. When you feel secure enough, pop in the date and use them. Those letters didn’t come cheap so don’t waste them. I prefer you develop your own contacts but it helps to have a key to open some doors.”
Devlin tossed a plump wallet on the table. “Your funds will be taken care of, so pay your own way; but don’t offer Quinn an extra dime or he’ll turn you in for sure.”