CHAPTER ELEVEN - A PROCESS OF ELIMINATION
Jim Farlow lived in Highgate, with his elderly mother. Or at least, he used to, until he moved into temporary accommodation on the South coast. His mother wasn’t at all pleased when he left, for a number of reasons. For one thing, it was handy having Jim around the house. Since Mr Farlow died, Jim had been the main breadwinner, and had kept the old Victorian semi at the top of the hill near the shops in pretty good order.
Not that Jim was much of a DIY expert or a handyman. He was much more interested in his books, and spent most of his time in his room upstairs playing with his computer. Or whatever he did with it. Mrs F. was never sure. But he was a good boy, really, and obviously had a good job at the Bank of England, too, until he moved, judging by the size of the allowance he used to give over every week. Even now, he still managed to make regular payments into her bank, although Mrs Farlow wasn’t at all sure where they came from. She had thought it best, just to be on the safe side when Jim moved out, to go back to her old job as a dinner lady at Highgate Secondary School. Just in case. It didn’t pay much, but at least it was regular, and provided her with a bit of company, too.
As for Jim - well, he was making the best of things. Living in Sussex was certainly better than Wandsworth, where he had lodged when he first left Highgate, but he still missed his old home and his Mum. Although he was now turned twenty-eight, he had never married, nor even really felt the urge to do so, preferring his own company to other people’s generally speaking. Even though he’d left home, his Mum was still as good as gold, really, and paid him regular visits. He always sent the fare money, of course. And because Ford was an open prison, she was allowed to bring him home made cakes and buns and things, when she remembered. And he was allowed his magazines, to keep himself up-to-date, and soon would even be allowed out to the shops, under escort. But not yet. He still had four of his eight years to do, although he hoped the Parole Board would let him home a bit early, especially as they’d got the money back after he’d told them where it all was. Or nearly all of it, anyway. There were still a couple of accounts left with considerable sums in them which they didn’t know about, which would keep him comfortable in his retirement, and give him a very handy cushion when he came out if he couldn’t get another job. He knew this was a risk, but it didn’t matter. Because they had no real idea how much he’d managed to salt away before they caught up with him, they thought he’d owned up to all of it. They must have been daft.
He was reading the latest issue of PC World when one of the warders appeared at the door of his room.
“You’re wanted,” he said. “You’ve got visitors.”
Jim looked puzzled.
“Not Thursday, is it?” he asked. “My Mum’s not due down again ‘til next week, anyway.”
“This isn’t your Mum, and it ain’t Thursday, either,” replied the warder. “Don’t sit there arguing, get a bloody move on. These blokes have come down from London specially to see you, and I expect they’ve got better things to do, if they’re honest.”
They left the room - he refused to call it a ‘cell’ - and Jim automatically turned left down the corridor towards the visitors’ centre.
“This way,” said the warder, turning right.
“Visitors’ room’s this way, isn’t it?” said Jim, pointing.
“These are no ordinary visitors,” said the warder. “They’re in the room next to the Governor’s office, and that’s this way.”
Jim was even more puzzled - even a bit alarmed - as he retraced his steps, and followed the warder. He wondered, as he had a hundred times, why they were known as ‘screws’.
Eventually, they entered the Admin. Wing, a part of the open prison Jim had not previously visited. In the office next to the Governor’s was a tall, slim man in a suit and a smart tie, with a military looking moustache, and another, rather more scruffy civil servant looking bloke.
‘Moustache’ seemed vaguely familiar, somehow.
“I’ve got a job for you, Farlow,” he said.
“And who might you be, to offer me a job?” asked Jim.
“And I thought you had a good memory,” said Alistair Vaughan, introducing himself.
“Ah!” said Jim. “Yes, I remember you now. You gave evidence against me at my trial. After what you said about me at the Old Bailey, what makes you think I’m going to do anything to help you after all this time? I thought I’d seen the last of you.”
“Well, you haven’t,” said Vaughan. “And don’t blame me for the fact that you’re in here, either. You were the one hacking into computers, you were the one moving money about illegally, and you were the one who talked about it. That’s why we started recording what you were doing.”
“O.K., I know”, said Jim. “But why should I suddenly help you now? What’s in it for me if I did?”
“Freedom, that’s what,” replied Vaughan. “By the way, this is Philip Walton from the Home Office - Prison Service, actually.” Vaughan nodded towards the other man. “Show Farlow your I.D., then he’ll know we’re here officially,” ordered Vaughan.
“So now what do you want?” asked Jim for the second time.
“I want you to do legally what you were doing illegally four years ago,” replied Vaughan.
“You’re joking!”
“I’m serious.”
“And why should I? What’s all this about?”
“We know from bitter experience the sort of brain you’ve got, Farlow, and how easy you seem to find it to hack into systems with the very highest security,” replied Vaughan. “We want you to do it again, this time with our support and help. This time you'll be with us, not against us. The only difference is that you won’t be lining your own pockets, but emptying other people’s.”
“Just as a matter of interest, who would I be working for exactly?” asked Jim Farlow.
“The British Government, essentially.” replied Vaughan.
“Which is why I’m here,” chipped in Walton, suddenly seizing his chance to impress. “I represent HM Government,” he explained proudly. “Not that I know anything about what’s going on,” he added, unnecessarily, “but I am in a position to guarantee concessions in return for your full co-operation.”
“What sort of concessions?” asked Farlow.
“Play your cards right and do as you’re told, and you could be out of here in weeks rather than years.” said Vaughan.
“Tell me more,” demanded Jim Farlow.
“You’ll get a full briefing when you've agreed to co-operate, and not before,” said Vaughan. “What we want you to do should take about three weeks - bit more, bit less, who knows. You'll be working in the Bank of England, like you did once before, and as soon as you've successfully completed the job, and we’ve sorted out your paper work, you can go home, a free man.”
“With a free pardon?” asked Jim.
“Like hell,” replied Alistair Vaughan.
“What do I get paid?”
“Bugger all,” replied Vaughan. “Judging by the size of the allowance you give your Mother every month, you’ve already got more than enough stashed away somewhere, without us adding to it.”
Jim almost blushed. They weren’t so daft after all. He wondered just how much they knew, but he was impressed that they’d found out about the allowance he was paying.
“When do I start,” asked Jim.
“If that means you’ve agreed to co-operate, now.” said Vaughan. “Pack your bags Farlow, and look sharp about it. We've got better things to do than hang around for you all day.”
“I don’t need to pack, if I’m coming back here tonight,” said Farlow.
“You’re not ever coming back here,” said Vaughan. “From now on and until you've finished your little task, your home is Pentonville. Then you can go back to Highgate.”
“But Pentonville is terrible,” wailed Farlow. “I’ve heard about it from people here. Three to a cell, sometimes. I don’t want that.”
“You won’t be getting it,” Walton said. “You’ll have a cell all to yourself.”
“Solitary, you’ll be in,” added Vaughan. “Just in case you feel like talking about your day at the office, like you did once before.”
“I’m not going,” said Farlow.
“You’re going,” said Vaughan, “Whether you co-operate or not. It’s up to you how long you stay there - four weeks or four years.”
“That's not fair,” wailed Farlow. “I want a Royal Pardon.”
“Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour,” said Vaughan. “Now stuff your kit in a black sack, and let’s get going.”
Farlow’s second nasty shock of the day was that he didn’t travel to London in the car with his two visitors, but in a prison van, straight to Pentonville. He had a miserable night, too.
During the past couple of days, Clayton and Marsden had held a series of meetings with Special Branch at the NIPS HQ at Knock, and with colleagues in the SAS detachment based at Bessbrook Mill. Marsden’s Lynx helicopter had already proved its value, and he had proved himself a very able pilot as well, quickly getting to know the geography of the Province. The people they met had already received a limited briefing, and everywhere they went, they found the new secure communications links already in place. London had worked fast. The two officers had been able to agree who was going to do what and when, and in what order actions were going to be taken.
Back at Headquarters, they made their way to Clayton’s office to take stock.
“Anything happening?” asked Bill Clayton, sticking his head round the door of the Registry.
“Not that you’d notice,” replied Captain Brian Foley. “You two really seem to be stirring things up.”
“That’s what we’re paid to do,” replied Nick Marsden.
“A colleague of yours has turned up, Commander,” said Foley. “Wilson’s taken him down to the Sergeant’s Mess for a meal, but he’s got himself a billet at Aldergrove. Chief Petty Officer Sid Rudkin.”
“Sid’s a good egg,” announced Marsden. “He’ll look after the chopper and anything else we want. If you see him before we do, Brian, you might tell him it’s on the playing field and that he can take it back to Aldergrove anytime he likes. I’ll get in touch with him later.”
“Aye, aye Sir,” said Foley, cheekily. “And there was a message from Downing Street on the new hot line, to say that McFosters has gone.”
“Gone?” they chorused.
“Gone,” repeated Captain Foley. “Apparently left Belfast for Washington, and never arrived.”
“Ah!” said Clayton, nodding. “Anything else?”
“Your Minister friend, James Anchor, rang. Sergeant Wilson spoke to him, but he’s apparently off to the States soon for a long spell of leave. Not been well recently, so it seems.”
The new secure phone rang.
“It’s Downing Street again, wanting you Major,” said Foley.
“I'll take it in my office.”
The two men hurried off.
It was Sir Robin Algar.
“Things have started to happen, so I thought I should keep you up to date,” he told Clayton.
“I’ve heard about McFosters,” Bill Clayton responded.
“The Americans did a good job there,” said Algar, “although I’m not quite sure how they pulled it off. We’ve got our man working on your list of accounts - started this morning. When he’s not at the Bank, he’s in solitary in Pentonville, and when he is in the Bank, he’s got two armed guards with him, everything he does - every keystroke on the computer - is recorded, and every move he makes is monitored. He’s not allowed to talk to anyone, so we’re pretty sure nothing will leak.”
“Poor sod!” said Clayton.
“He wants a Royal Pardon, too!” said Robin Algar. “He’s been told we’ll take good care of him when he’s finished.”
“I know what you mean,” said Clayton.
“Finally, two things on the political front. President Minton is having talks with the Taoiseach, Michael O’Leary, at Camp David in a few days, and the PM is going to be there as well. The Constitutional Committee is being set up and will be convening in a week or so probably. Your man James Anchor is on it.”
“Where will they meet?”
“Oddly enough, in Honolulu,” replied Algar. “The Americans are confining them to their huge air base at Hickham, and they will be kept more or less isolated from the outside world until they’ve finished, or until the three Governments have gone public.”
“Nice touch, that,” said Clayton.
“But everything now hangs on the meeting at Camp David, as far as the politics of it all is concerned,” continued Sir Robin. “I’ll let you know how that goes when I hear.”
“More importantly,” said Clayton, “I simply must know how your man gets on at the Bank. Will you be able to let me know, or shall I liaise with Alistair?”
“Alistair will know before I do,” replied Algar.
“I’ll keep in touch with him direct, then,” said Bill Clayton. “Things are moving here, too. We are about ready to start serious business now we know McFosters has gone, and there will be a series of raids as well in the next day or so on arms caches, mostly in private homes. Cmdr. Marsden has been in touch with the Americans about the big dump down south, and we can be ready to take that out by the time of Seamus O’Hara’s next visit, which will probably be early next week. The US Navy has offered one of their latest submarine launched cruise missiles, subject to Pentagon approval, and I’ll let you know if there’s any help we need in getting that. I’ll need a chap down there to work the laser range finder, so I need to know whether the Irish authorities have been told to expect the big bang, or whether we shall be acting totally covertly.”
“Leave that to me,” said Sir Robin Algar.
Things were certainly moving fast now, and the whole military side of the operation already seemed almost un-stoppable.
Major Bill Clayton rang Alistair Vaughan at the Bank of England.
Suddenly, the news media was taking an interest in Northern Ireland again. The New York Times had sent a man across specially, the first time they’d had a correspondent based in Belfast for almost three years.
The disappearance of Martin McFosters had stirred the imagination, and had stirred the Real IRA into accusing the Unionists of having abducted him, although they had not been able to suggest why they should have done so. In Northern Ireland, details like that rarely mattered. The police had also been active, and were showing off the results of several successful raids on illegally held arms. Several IRA and Sinn Fein members had been arrested at the same time. The Police had said they had been “acting on information received”, and the nationalist population naturally believed that it was Unionists within the NI Police Service who were to blame.
Within days, two prominent Unionists were assassinated on the same night, one a leading politician, the other the Commander of the Belfast ‘Brigade’ of the Ulster Defence Force. Forensic tests showed that, in at least one case, the gun had been used before in other loyalist murders, presumably by the IRA. Almost immediately, the police were able to put on show more weapons, this time seized from two of the unionist paramilitary organisations. By now, they had taken quite a haul of guns and ammunition out of circulation, to the delight of the local population and Westminster. The Chairman of the De-Commissioning Body was forced to admit that the police had suddenly been able to put more terrorist weapons beyond further use, in a matter of days, than they had been able to in years.
Ballistic tests soon proved that the Commanders of the Londonderry and Belfast Brigades of the IRA had both been killed by weapons previously used by members of the UVF some years before. The murderers who had used them then had recently been released early from prison under the amnesty.
By now, tensions were running high, and the Army had twice been called in to support the police in containing angry confrontations along the sectarian divide. The police, with Army support, had mounted successful raids on two major arms dumps, one Nationalist and the other Unionist. There were more sectarian murders, with high-ranking casualties on both sides, although neither side really understood what was going on. Both suddenly realised that they were being quietly and efficiently disarmed, and that their leadership was being whittled away. Certainly, it was the police, with Army help, who were somehow finding arms dumps, even quite small ones, and stripping them bare. But neither side nor the public believed the police could be responsible for the seemingly systematic assassination of the top terrorists - that had to be tit-for-tat, like the bad old days.
If anything, the IRA leadership, or what there was left of it, was less worried than the Unionist Para-militaries. For a start, they had much more of everything, and had a new, very large consignment of weaponry on the way. They had also, to avoid further arrests as much as anything, organised the collection of as much as they could of the arms and ammunition being held in private houses and drinking clubs. They were understandably furious when the removal van was stopped on the border, the driver and his mate arrested, and the whole lot, carefully hidden though it was in crates, wardrobes, mattresses, fridges and other items of household furniture, taken away before it got anywhere near Cashel.
By now, Major Bill Clayton and his team, ably supported by Lieutenant Commander Nick Marsden and his SAS colleagues scattered around the Province, were working flat out. They had beds in the office, and most meals, if you could call them that were delivered from the canteen and eaten in snatches, having mostly gone cold. They had spent considerable time and effort in planning, and now needed every bit of energy to keep track of events as they unfolded. It would be only too easy now for someone to slip through the net.
“Those weapons you borrowed from the police are proving valuable, aren’t they?” commented Marsden.
“I knew they would,” replied Clayton. “That’s why I wanted them.”
“Talking of weapons, the new IRA arms consignment left Libya on schedule,” reported Marsden, “and I’ve arranged for it to be met in international waters in two days’ time.”
“Good,” said Clayton. “And what about the UVF Quartermaster, Connor Keenan and his wife? They are supposed to be leaving for their holiday in Greece tonight, and there’s no way now we can stop them.”
“All sorted”, smiled Marsden. “There happens to be a County Class Frigate on a courtesy visit in Piraeus, and she also happens to have a small SBS unit on board for training. I’ve organised quite a good little exercise for them. Keenan will disappear. How’s your chum getting on at the Bank?”
“Last I heard, making good progress, and almost ready to close a few accounts for us. The US Federal Reserve is ready to move when we say the word, so we should be able to shut down a large part of the IRA operation fairly soon. We’ll try our luck on a couple of small ones first, though, just to make sure this guy’s really on the ball and knows what he’s doing.”
“I wish I knew how he’s doing it,” said Marsden. “With my mortgage, I could do with that sort of knowledge.”
“You’ve got to be a real wizard to crack bank security encryption codes, and that’s after you’ve hacked into their computers without leaving any trace of who you are or where you are. The 4758 crypto-processor the banks use was thought to be impregnable until he came along, and they weren’t amused when he got into it. The military uses it too, as it happens. The damn thing took ten years to develop, too”
“Perhaps I’ll offer your man a job after you’ve finished with him. By the way, since you’ve insisted that I don’t go down to the fireworks in Cashel, I’ve decided to send ‘The Cat’ instead.”
Clayton suddenly looked concerned.
“Is that wise?” he asked.
“Perfectly safe, so don’t worry. Done plenty of Close Target Reconnaissance work before, and only used two of the legendry nine lives. Both those went in Iraq.”
“I know The Cat is legendry within the SAS, after what happened in Iraq. Escaping captivity with those injuries, and then making it back to our own lines took more guts than most people could have mustered, and I also know that it was rare - almost unique, - for the Regiment to keep someone on its books who is no longer fit for combat. But I’m still not sure this is a wise decision.”
“Look,” said Marsden. “Combat training within the Regiment is one thing, but now it’s high time The Cat got away from behind a desk and did something practical again. It doesn’t do SAS people much good, shoving paper around, and a CTR will make a break. I can tell you, if you don’t already know, that in spite of all the injuries inflicted during capture, The Cat is perfectly fit enough for a job like this, and well able to spend a few days in a ditch without being discovered, if that’s what’s necessary. I’ll do the briefing myself, if you’d prefer.”
“Thanks,” said Bill Clayton. “I’d rather you did. But I still don’t like the idea.”
“Good. That’s agreed then.”
Father Sean Doyle was sitting quietly in his lodgings, working on the sermon for next Sunday. His housekeeper had only just cleared the tea things, when the phone rang. It was Andy Murphy.
“Is that you, Father?” enquired Andy.
“It is indeed, Andy,” replied Fr Doyle. “How can I be helping you this fine afternoon?”
“You will have heard about Martin, Father?” asked Murphy. McFosters was one of Doyle’s more important and influential parishioners. And he’d disappeared.
“Indeed I have,” replied Doyle. “Is there any news of the man?”
“None at all, Father. It’s all very strange.”
“Let’s pray he’ll turn up unharmed,” replied Fr. Doyle. “I’m sure the good Lord will look after the man.”
“The reason I’m ringing,” went on Murphy, “is to tell you that someone seems to be looking after our funds, Father. Looking after them rather too well, if you ask me.”
Doyle sat forward.
“What is it you’re saying, Andy?” he asked.
“I’m saying that someone seems to have their hand in our till, Father.” replied Murphy, “And what with you being our Treasurer and all, I thought I’d see what you knew about it.”
“This is all news to me, Andy. Tell me what you’ve heard.”
Andy Murphy was McFosters’ Chief of Staff. What he didn't know about what was going on within Sinn Fein and the IRA wasn’t usually worth knowing. Except that they left Fr. Doyle to run the organisations’ finances, and had done for years. Having a well-loved and trusted parish priest as IRA Treasurer had always seemed a brilliant idea. Nobody would ever suspect Sean Doyle of any involvement whatsoever.
“Before he went to the airport,” reported Murphy, “Martin told me that there had been some problem with the Manhattan State Bank account, and he asked me to do a bit of probing while he was away.”
“I wonder why he didn’t ask me,” pondered Doyle. “I’ll check on it right away.”
“There’s nothing to check on,” said Murphy. “As far as I can discover, the account has been closed and the money has gone. Every last penny of it.”
“But that’s not possible. Surely to God Martin didn't empty it himself before he disappeared?”
“It would explain his disappearance, I suppose, but could he have done it without you knowing, Father?”
“Well, yes. I suppose he could. He had access to the account, as I do.”
“So you could have done it yourself?”
Doyle laughed.
“I know this is a serious problem, Andy my boy, but what would a man of the cloth like me be doing with a million quid or so? Now be reasonable. There has to be a better explanation. Martin wouldn’t do a thing like that, either, any more than you or I. Leave me to have a word with the Bank, and I’ll let you know what I can discover. And you be sure to let me know if you ever hear a word about dear brother Martin.”
Father Sean Doyle was both puzzled and worried at the end of his conversation with Murphy. He wondered what to do for the best. Contacting Bill Clayton now would not be a good idea, he was sure of that.
Connor Keenan and his wife had a love of the Greek islands. They had been before, mostly to the larger and more popular ones, but this time had gone to great lengths to find a smaller, quieter place. They had decided on Angistri, a tiny island not that far from Aegina, sparsely inhabited, but with a couple of good beaches and apparently comfortable apartments. None of the big tour operators had even heard of it, so they booked their own flight, and dealt direct with the English-speaking Greek owners of the apartment, who had arranged for them to be met on the quayside in Piraeus and ferried to the island.
Sure enough, they soon spotted a well-tanned young man wandering about with their name on a piece of cardboard held above his head. He spoke good English - indeed they discovered that he was English, but had lived in and around the Greek islands for years. He escorted them to a very sleek, fast-looking launch tied up some way from the main ferry terminal, took their bags, and helped them aboard.
“This thing’s quite fast,” he said, “so we shan’t be long getting to Angistri. Once we’re in clear water out of the harbour, we can get a move on a bit.”
He was obviously an expert seaman, and knew his way round the busy harbour like the back of his hand. Soon, they were in open water, and he opened up the throttles of the twin outboard motors, until the bows lifted high out of the water.
“Now,” he said, “come below, and start your holiday in style.”
He led them into the tiny cabin, sat them down, and opened a bottle of ice-cool champagne.
“Make yourselves at home,” he invited them. “I won’t join you, if you don’t mind - driving, and all that,” he joked. “But you’ve got half an hour or so to see that off before we get to Angistri. I’ll let you know when we are within sight of the island.”
With that, he went back up into the cockpit. That was the last they saw of him. They were looking for’ard, and didn’t see him as he slid expertly backwards over the side, or see him being equally expertly picked up by a fast moving Zodiac inflatable, which cut a huge semi-circle of white water through the blue sea as it headed back towards HMS Cornwall, anchored off Piraeus. The launch sped on, straight as a dye, out to the open sea. No-body actually saw the explosion, although plenty heard it. When the first small boat arrived at the scene, there was nothing left of the launch or its passengers, except a few pieces of floating timber, and a huge pall of smoke.
Sergeant Catherine Wilson was looking tired, thought Major Clayton. Not surprising, really, bearing in mind the hours they were all working. But somehow, she looked - well, more than tired. Almost as if she had been crying, although of course, he knew Sergeants didn’t do that.
Nevertheless, he called her into his office when Marsden and Foley were both out.
“Shut the door,” he said, “and take the weight off your feet.” He motioned her towards a chair. She frowned.
“You look more than usually tired,” he said, “and I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.” Even he thought that he sounded rather more than usually formal, and bit stuffy.
He coughed, awkwardly, and tried again.
“Probably none of my business, but if anything’s wrong and I can help, you only have to say.” He hoped that explained everything.
“I’m quite all right, really,” she said. “Kind of you to ask though, sir.”
“There’s no need to call me ‘sir’ at the moment. This is informal - private, if you like.” He felt awkward again. “It’s just that I didn’t think you looked quite yourself. A bit upset about something, perhaps.”
“I’m quite all right, really,” she said again.
“Well, I just wanted you to know,” he blustered on, “that in spite of everything that’s going on, I can quite easily arrange for you to have a spot of leave, if that helps. If your Mother’s ill, or something.”
“That’s kind of you,” said Wilson, “but I don’t need any leave. I’ll be all right in a day or so.”
“Ah!” said Bill Clayton, “so there is something bothering you then.” He tried not to sound triumphant. “You’re not ill or anything, I hope.”
“No, no. I’m really quite all right,” she replied. “It’s just - well - I may as well tell you. You’ll probably find out anyway. It’s just - well - your friend James Anchor.”
“Ah!” said Bill Clayton again. “You’ve been seeing him a bit lately, he tells me.”
“Just a few times.”
“So what’s happened?”
“Well, I thought we were getting along quite well, and he’s a nice man. I quite liked him.” Her eyes went a bit misty, and Bill could tell she was fighting back tears.
“Go on.”
“So I was a bit surprised - upset, I suppose - when he suddenly announced that he wouldn’t be seeing me again.”
“Ah!” said Bill for the third time.
“He said he was going away for a few weeks.”
“Not been well lately, I heard,” said Bill. For all his strengths, he was not a good liar. “Sick leave, isn’t it?”
“Maybe it is; maybe it isn't,” replied Catherine Wilson. “The fact i