Stephen Leather - The Long shot

He’d now spent more than a week working behind the bar at Filbin’s, usually with Shorty, though he’d met two other part-time barmen, both of them teenagers from Belfast and, like Joker, working without the proper visas. There had been no sign of Matthew Bailey, though Joker had seen several faces he recognised from photographs in files he’d read before his last undercover operation in Northern Ireland. Two were IRA hit-men who’d done time in the H-blocks of Long Kesh, not for murder but for armed robbery, and the third was a bombmaker, a small, shrewish man in his thirties with a Hitler moustache who chainsmoked Benson amp; Hedges cigarettes. He was calling himself Freddie Glover but Joker knew him as Gary Madden, wanted in the UK for an explosion which had killed four Army bandsmen and injured another nine.

The men were clearly at home in the bar, where they were treated almost as folk heroes — heads turned whenever they entered, smiles and nods were exchanged as they moved to their regular table and throughout the evenings free drinks would be sent over, usually the gift of one of the construction workers. Joker had asked Shorty how long the men had been in New York. Shorty had just tapped the side of his nose knowingly and winked. “Careless talk costs lives,” he’d said and Joker hadn’t pressed it.

Joker had yet to meet the owner of Filbin’s. Though Shorty had hired him and paid his wages each evening in used dollar bills, the little man clearly wasn’t the owner because Joker had seen him surreptitiously pocket money from the till on several occasions. Shorty knew everyone in the bar by name, and from conversations they’d had Joker had learned that he had been a member of the Provisional IRA since his teens, moving to the States in the early eighties. He had been one of thousands of Irish granted US citizenship in 1991 and was the only barman who was working legally in Filbin’s. Joker had wanted to raise the subject of Matthew Bailey with him, but had been loath to tip his hand so soon. Shorty had a sharp mind and a quick wit, and Joker doubted that he’d give much away, especially about active IRA members. If anything, it was Shorty who was doing the probing, asking Joker about his past and testing his views as he cleaned glasses and served drinks. Joker had little trouble sticking to his cover and after the first few days Shorty’s conversations had become less probing and more friendly.

The bar was a centre for the IRA’s fund-raising in the city, with a small room at the back frequently used to sort and count cash, and Joker had seen several men come out of the room putting their wallets in their pockets as if they’d been collecting money. In one of few revelations, Shorty had told Joker that some IRA men on the run from the UK weren’t able to work and that they drew regular wages from the organisation’s funds. The bar also acted as an unofficial employment centre for the Irish community. Representatives of several construction companies would sit at tables, drinking Guinness and reading Irish newspapers, and there would be a constant stream of visitors, mainly young men, who after a few whispered words would leave with an address scrawled on a piece of paper. The construction companies always needed workers, and they paid in cash. When Joker had made it known that he’d worked as a bricklayer he’d been offered several jobs at a much higher rate of pay than he got from the bar. He’d turned down the offers, knowing that Filbin’s was a far better source of information about the IRA than laying bricks would be.

Joker used the remote control to flick through the channels on the television set: Gilligan’s Island, I Love Lucy, Charlie’s Angels, Mr Ed. Nothing but repeats and game shows, all of them punctuated by the same mind-numbing commercials. He picked up the tumbler of whisky and balanced it on his stomach. He was still none the wiser about Bailey’s whereabouts, and sooner or later he was going to have to intensify his search. So far he’d been ultra-careful about raising the man’s name, and on the few occasions he’d mentioned it outside the bar it had got him nowhere. Joker knew that if anyone knew where Bailey was, it would be the patrons of Filbin’s, but to raise the subject risked drawing attention to himself. So far he’d been accepted by the Irish community, but that could easily change. Once, late at night, he’d overheard some of the construction workers laughing about a ‘Sass-man’ who’d once tried to infiltrate the bar, and he guessed they were talking about Pete Manyon. By the time Joker had managed to get over to clear empty glasses from their table they’d changed the subject. It had given Joker the chills. It was easy to forget that many of the jovial patrons were active members of the IRA and had been responsible for the deaths of British soldiers and innocent civilians. Joker flicked through the television channels faster and faster, trying to think of some other way of achieving his objective which wouldn’t involve him putting his life on the line. He picked up the tumbler of whisky, but as he lifted it to his lips he caught sight of himself in the mirror over the dressing table. He winced as he realised how out of condition he was. There was no concealing his thickening waistline and the unhealthy pallor of his skin.

Joker switched the television off and put the glass on the bedside table before standing in front of the mirror. He didn’t look any better vertical. He sucked in his gut and pulled his shoulders back. A bit better, but not much. With a sigh that bordered on the mournful he sat down on the threadbare carpet and linked his fingers behind his neck. With his eyes on the whisky, he began a series of hard and fast sit-ups, grunting at the unfamiliar strain on his muscles.

Frank Sullivan shared an office with four other agents in FBI headquarters at Federal Plaza in Manhattan, though it was rare for more than one of them to be there at a time. Much of their work in the Counter-Terrorism (Europe) Division involved surveillance, either sitting in the back of parked vans or in darkened rooms, watching and waiting, or meeting informers in parks or cinemas. As a result paperwork tended to pile up and Sullivan had a stack of files as long as his arm to deal with.

He poured himself a cup of black coffee from the filter machine which he and his three colleagues had bought using their own money and set it down by the pile of files in his ‘in’ tray. Most of the files contained answers to queries he’d sent to the Royal Ulster Constabulary in Belfast, and they were contained in pale blue FBI file covers. Information from MI5, the British counter-espionage service, was always kept in manila folders, ever since one of their files had ended up in Belfast by mistake. The file had contained an MI5 case officer’s criticism of an RUC undercover operation and had caused no end of embarrassment. A flurry of memos and an FBI agent being posted to a two-man office in Fairbanks, Alaska, had been the result, along with an agreement that for ever more RUC and MI5 information would be clearly marked and kept apart. About half a dozen of the files on Sullivan’s desk were from MI5.

Traffic between the FBI, MI5 and the RUC had intensified in recent years as an increasing number of IRA activists had sought sanctuary in the United States. More than a dozen top-ranking IRA officials had been killed in the UK in the previous twenty-four months, some in accidents, others shot in the course of undercover operations, several had committed suicide, a few had been murdered, their assailants unknown. Rumours were rife of a shoot-to-kill operation, questions had been asked in the House of Commons and the Sunday Times’ Insight team had published several investigative articles suggesting that the SAS had been systematically wiping out the upper echelons of the terrorist organisation prior to the 1994 ceasefire. Nothing had been proved, however.