Benjamin Grant felt the hard wooden chair viciously bite into the small of his back. Grant was unused to violence. It terrified him to the point of paralysis, and so he offered no resistance as his arms were pulled backwards and his wrists handcuffed together. A painful restriction on his movement, joining the blinding hood and the gag that had already robbed him of his main senses.
Not that sight was necessary. Grant could picture the events that had brought him here without it. Wherever ‘here’ was.
He had been walking home at the end of a long day of study. His attention elsewhere, there had been no warning before he was grabbed by several pairs of hands. No time had been given for Grant to think through the safest reaction.
Opening his mouth to scream had been a mistake, as it allowed a coarse fabric to be forced past his teeth and onto his tongue. The rag did its job. It prevented Grant from uttering a sound, and had been instantly followed by a near-black hood forced over his head. Next, before he had even noticed his lost vision, he had been dragged a short distance and thrown into the rear of a large vehicle.
The journey that followed was as traumatic as its start. Grant’s attempts to call out had been stifled by the rag that inched down his throat. So his only way to communicate was to kick out and punch at the surrounding seats, which had led to injury as he blindly struck at metal with his fists. Soon he had learned his lesson and ended his struggle.
All of this was both terrifying and painful, but it had been the silence that affected Grant the most. Unable to beg for his life. Unable to seek an explanation. That had been bad enough. But it had been made so much worse by the fact that his kidnappers were just as silent. Not a single word had been uttered. No questions asked. It had left Grant with nothing but his own fears. Fears that had grown as the journey ended and the silence continued until, finally, he had convinced himself that tonight would be his last.
The conclusion Grant had reached was the logical one. If his kidnappers had no questions for him then their only goal must be his death.
Grant felt a rope being bound around his chest, tying him to the chair. Next he felt a strong, callused hand make its way underneath his hood. The hand fumbled for an instant before tearing the gag from his mouth. The rag behind it was then ripped out, making him choke as it left his throat.
Grant caught a fleeting glimpse of a damp concrete floor before the hood fell back into place. He ignored it. This was his chance to make some noise. To scream. Grant tried to take it, but he could not. Strong hands grabbed his skull an instant before his first shout. Grant could do nothing to resist as those hands tilted his head backwards.
At the same moment a second person lifted the front of the hood to the level of his mouth and brought a cup of tepid water to his lips. The content was rancid but Grant drank greedily. A coarse gag on the tongue for thirty minutes makes any liquid palatable.
‘What, what do you want?’
Grant was spluttering, still suffering the effects of the gag.
‘We want to know who paid you to get at Eamon McGale.’
The answer was simple but firm. And it made Grant’s blood run cold.
The speaker was a man who knew how to get what he wanted. Grant’s current position told him that. But the speaker was also asking a question that Grant could not answer.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Grant protested weakly. ‘I don’t even know what that means. I’ve never “got at” Professor McGale, I just studied under him.’
‘That’s bollocks, son.’ It was the same voice. ‘Someone paid you to get at the man. To mess with his head. You’re gonna tell me who that was. Either that, or things are going to get painful.’
‘Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Professor McGale was a friend. I’d never mess with his head, not for anything. Please!’
Grant doubted his pleas would have any effect, but when they were followed by silence he began to hope that he had underestimated his powers of persuasion. That hope was extinguished the instant it began, by a crushing blow to the temple that sent his chair backwards and slammed his head into the concrete floor.
Blood flowed freely from a cut to the back of Grant’s skull. He was dazed. Confused. The same hands that had struck the blow set Grant upright once again, lifting the chair with him.
Once back in place the interrogation continued.
‘I’m warning you, Benjamin.’ That voice again. ‘Every time you lie you’ll get that. Each time worse than the last. So there’s two ways this ends, son. You tell me the truth and you walk out on your own legs. A bit battered, but you’re walking. Keep this shit up, though, and I’ll break your legs and throw you off the docks. Your choice.’
Grant hesitated. His head was fuzzy, which made it hard to make a rational decision in an irrational situation. These people knew he had been involved. There was no doubt about that. They also knew he had been working for someone. They just did not know who that someone was.
Denials would get him nowhere. Grant could see that. He also did not doubt that the threats made were serious. But none of this made his choice any easier.
‘Alright. Alright.’
The feeling of blood trickling down the back of Grant’s neck distracted him.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Just what I said. I want to know who paid you to screw about with McGale. To get him out of the restaurant on the night his family died. And to convince him that Neil Matthewson was behind the True IRA.’
Grant was silent. How do they know so much? He knew now that he was in the most dangerous position of his life. If he did not answer then he might die. But if he did answer then he would die.
‘You don’t understand what you’re dealing with.’ Grant was too desperate to be anything now but honest. ‘If I tell you what I know, I’m dead. I know these people. I know they’ll kill me. I don’t know you. I don’t know you’re not bluffing.’
Michael and Liam exchanged looks. No words. With just a subtle nod, indicating that they had reached agreement.
Liam stepped forward and took hold of Grant’s hood. He pulled it from Grant’s head, exposing the room and its occupants to his eyes.
Grant looked from figure to figure. At first he could make out only indistinct forms as his eyes focused after the darkness. Gradually his pupils contracted. His surroundings became clear. A large and dirty garage.
More important were the figures around him. As Grant’s gaze moved from face to face there was one set of features he immediately recognised.
The sight made Grant’s eyes fill with tears. Any hope he had that the speaker had made empty threats was now gone.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’
‘Not quite.’ Liam’s voice was pitiless. ‘But now you know who you’re dealing with. You know I’ll kill you as sure as whoever you’re working for will. Only difference, son, is that I’m the one who has you tied up. I can kill you where you sit. So now. Tell me the truth and you can go, and if you’re lucky you can disappear before anyone else gets to you.’
Grant had lost. There could be no bluffing. There could be no lying. He had grown up on streets where Liam Casey was king. A king who struck fear into braver men than Grant.
‘I was told to get Professor McGale out of the restaurant that night.’ Grant spoke slowly. ‘I was told what time and what to say. But I didn’t know what was going to happen. I swear I didn’t!’
‘I couldn’t give a shit what you knew. I want to know who paid you.’
Grant looked at the floor. Did not respond right away as he weighed up his choices. Which killer he wanted gunning for his life. But right now only one of them had him tied to a chair.
‘It was Robert Mullen.’
The hush that followed the name spoke volumes. Every man but Michael shifted their bodyweight awkwardly. An identical silent reaction that said more than words.
‘Robert Mullen? You’re sure?’
Liam’s tone betrayed a hope that Grant would answer ‘no’.
‘I’m sure. I dealt with the man himself. Mullen told me where to go, what to say. The exact time, down to the minute that I was to say it.’
Michael stepped close to his brother, out of Grant’s earshot. He spoke quietly.
‘Who the hell’s Robert Mullen?’
‘Later.’ Liam turned back to Grant. ‘Mullen had you convince McGale there was a conspiracy behind the attacks, did he?’
‘Yes.’ Grant had crossed the line, offering everything he knew. ‘After the bombing I realised what I was involved in. I panicked. I told Mullen I was going to hand myself in. He told me what would happen to my family if I did. And what would happen to them if I didn’t do more. He wanted me to use my relationship with Professor McGale to pass on information. Little by little. To get him thinking that the terrorist attacks weren’t normal. That they were a cover for something bigger.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ Liam seemed to struggle with what he was being told. ‘Mullen did all this? Robert Mullen?’
‘Yes, Mullen. He wanted me to convince the professor that the terrorist groups – both sides – were being funded by the same person. Someone with an ulterior motive. It wasn’t hard. Mullen would tell me when an attack was coming. He’d give me details on the targets and anything else I needed to know. I’d pass it on to Professor McGale after the fact, telling him that I got it from a source. After a few months I had him convinced I was right. That the whole thing was a massive conspiracy. So that in the end he wanted to meet my source.’
‘Which was Mullen’s plan all along.’ Michael’s mind now raced ahead. ‘Mullen must be the “RM” in McGale’s diary.’
‘When I took him to meet Mullen, I saw Mullen playing a role. He wasn’t himself. Not even close. He came across as a conflicted patriot, dedicated to a cause but unhappy with how it was being pursued. Bloody convincing, too. I almost forgot what a vicious psycho he is during those meetings. Almost.’
‘And the meetings? What happened?’
‘They would just sit and discuss things, and from the first meeting onwards they were in regular contact. Mullen was careful. He took his time to convince the professor. To indoctrinate him. Basically, he played him until the professor was truly convinced of what Mullen was selling him.’
‘And what was he selling him, exactly?’ Michael knew the answers to most of his questions but some blanks remained. ‘That Neil Matthewson was involved in terrorism? Why?’
‘Oh, it was much more than that. Mullen wasn’t just saying that Matthewson was involved in terrorism. No. He made Professor McGale think that Matthewson was behind it. That he was the cause of all of it. He convinced him that Matthewson was bankrolling both sides. Over time Mullen persuaded the professor that the new terrorism had nothing whatsoever to do with politics or with patriotism. That it was all just driven by one man – by Matthewson – and that it could be stopped by the death of that same man. Mullen wanted the professor to think that killing Matthewson was the only way to stop the attackers. And, once the professor was convinced, Mullen showed him how to do it.’
A silence fell when Grant finished speaking. Each man there tried to process what they had just heard. Many questions arose. Some demanded answers more than others.
‘Why the hell did Mullen want Matthewson dead?’ Liam beat Michael to the punch.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Grant. ‘I don’t know the point behind any of it. Mullen just told me it was political. That they were doing something that would go down in history.’
‘But why McGale?’ Michael asked. ‘The time and the trouble you went to with the man. To fake a terrorist attack that kills his family and then manipulate him while he’s grieving. To turn a good man into a killer? Why didn’t Mullen just have someone else kill Matthewson? A professional?’
‘Because it wouldn’t have had the same effect, would it? If Mullen was going for a big political impact, what better way than to use a well-respected academic whose career to that point had always been so anti-terror? So anti-violence? A man whose life’s work was peaceful negotiation? If a man like that resorts to violence, what hope is there for anyone else? McGale was chosen because of the message he offered. He was chosen because of who he was.’
‘That choice cost McGale and his family their lives,’ Liam’s voice bristled with anger. ‘Did you ever think of that before you turned Judas on a man who trusted you?’
‘I told you, Mr Casey. I had no idea there was going to be a bomb. I had no idea the professor was going to be manipulated into what happened in London. I was just doing as I was told. I had no idea of the consequences.’
‘And why did Mullen choose you?’ Michael’s voice carried the same distaste as Liam’s. ‘Were you just the cheapest?’
‘I didn’t receive a penny.’
Grant’s words were tinged with fear. The atmosphere in the lock-up was turning against him. The words now came out fast as he tried to explain himself.
‘I had to do it the first time. At that point I owed Mullen. He’d helped me out and I owed him, and he said that this was how I could pay him back. And it didn’t seem so bad, just a message to get him out of the restaurant. I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. And then after that I had no choice. Mullen said he’d kill my family if I didn’t help, if I went to the police or tried to warn the professor. I didn’t have a choice.’
Liam nodded his head. Grant’s reaction was convincing.
The anger in Liam’s voice was subsiding when he spoke again.
‘Enough, Benjamin. I believe you. Which means you get to live. We’re going to take you home. When we do, you need to pack your things and leave. Straight away. Leave Belfast. Leave everyone behind and just go. Do not speak to Mullen. Don’t tell him that you’ve met me. Don’t tell him a word. You got that?’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Tears streamed down Grant’s face. His answers had kept him alive. ‘Thank you, Liam. Thank you.’
Paddy O’Neil reached behind the chair and removed Grant’s handcuffs. Next he unbound the rope that tied Grant to the chair.
He helped Grant to his feet and apologised about the cut to the back of his head, assuring him it was ‘just a scratch’. The other three men were already walking towards the door.
They came to a halt when Michael stopped and turned back to face Grant. Something had just occurred to him. Something important.
‘You said all you had to do was pass McGale details about the terrorist attacks. That Mullen would give you them before and you’d pass them to McGale afterwards.’
‘Yeah. That’s what happened.’
‘But I don’t understand. How could Mullen know about the attacks beforehand? How could he know details of what a terrorist was going to do before they did it?’
‘I’m sorry, I thought I’d made that part clear.’
Grant seemed so keen to ensure his own safety that he would now answer any question. He continued.
‘Not everything Mullen had me tell the professor was a lie. The terrorist attacks weren’t real. They aren’t real. There is another agenda behind them. But it’s Robert Mullen’s agenda. Mullen knew about the attacks beforehand because he planned them. He was the terror.’