Adrian McKinty - The Dead Yard

“Honey, if time is a factor, you better be a bit less oblique,” I said, leaning back on the cot and noting that from this angle I could see right up to her panties, which were white cotton and soaked with sweat.

“I do apologize. Of course you’re right. Let me explain, Michael. Jeremy and I work for MI6, British Intelligence overseas, which, in case you don’t know, is the equivalent of the CIA and a-”

“I know who you are,” I interrupted.

“Good. Well, I am in charge of a section within MI6 called SUU-the Special Ulster Unit. MI5 deals with Irish terrorism in the United Kingdom, but SUU looks at Irish terrorism in Europe and the Americas. We report directly to the home secretary. We largely bypass the MI6 bureaucracy. We have had many successes. Well, several successes…”

“Ok. Where am I supposed to come in?” I asked.

“For the last six months or so, Her Majesty’s government has been in not-so-secret negotiations with the IRA to resume their cease-fire agreement. The election of Mr. Blair has changed little except for speeding things up. The negotiations have been going well. The IRA’s Army Council is becoming convinced that this is the right thing to do at the right time. The Clinton administration has been helpful. Things are moving quickly now and the IRA seems to be on the verge of announcing a complete cessation of hostilities and a resumption of the cease-fire.”

“I read the papers,” I said.

“Well, yes, it hasn’t exactly been the best-kept secret in the world. And we’re jolly well hoping that it’s going to come off. The problem is that the IRA’s Army Council is worried about causing a split in the IRA. IRA splinter groups are not uncommon. The council wants to eliminate the hard-line elements before they announce a cease-fire. We believe this announcement is going to come by the end of the month, perhaps even in the next few days. In Northern Ireland and in the Republic of Ireland, the British and Irish governments will turn a blind eye to a purge of IRA extremists. This is not the case in America. As you may be aware, the IRA has several well-organized cells in the United States. Most will abide by the Army Council’s decision. Disband, disarm, sleep. But one, we know, will not. The IRA would like to wipe out the extremist SOC, Sons of Cuchulainn. The FBI and the American government will not permit such a purge to take place. They would rather go the legal route of evidence gathering and prosecution.”

“Cuchulainn, love. It’s pronounced KuckKulann, not Cush-coolain,” I said with a smug grin. Samantha ignored me and soldiered on.

“It’s a tiny group, almost a cell really, but, we believe, extraordinarily dangerous. And well off. Neither we nor the FBI have any agents at all with the Sons of Cuchulainn. None. We are desperately short of manpower. And for reasons I’ll explain in a moment, time is of the essence. We have agents within the IRA, the INLA, the UVF. But we urgently need an agent, someone to go to America to join or spy on the Sons of Cuchulainn, to gather evidence and help in their prosecution, if of course they are doing anything illegal.”

“I have an ominous feeling that I see where this is going. That someone, that poor bastard-let me guess who you have in mind.”

“Michael, your folder only appeared on my desk the day before yesterday. It was handed to me by someone in the Foreign Office. But I have to say I was jolly impressed.”

I wasn’t really listening now. Whatever financial package they were going to offer wasn’t worth the risk. An IRA cell.

They had to be kidding. Samantha continued as I stared up her skirt and contemplated her oddly seductive voice.

“Yes, Michael, your handlers speak very highly of you and you were in the British army, which is good and although, um, unfortunately you were asked to leave Her Majesty’s employ rather prematurely, you completed a reconnaissance course and received some special operations training.”

“I failed that recon course, and the special ops course ended with me in the brig for assaulting a civilian,” I said blithely.

Samantha was not to be put off.

“That’s neither here nor there. The fact is you were in the army, which is good, and you were also a low-level gangster in Belfast, which is even better. And you worked for the Irish mob in America, which is best of all. You could be an ideal person to infiltrate the Sons of Cuchulainn for us. Dan Connolly of the FBI says that you’re one of the best that he’s ever seen. Proficient, merciless, bold, surprisingly disciplined.”

“You talked to Dan, huh? Nice of him to sell me down the river.”

“No, no, Dan was very complimentary… Michael, I have to tell you, I’m going out on something of a limb here. Dropping everything, flying to Spain, talking to you. But now that I’ve met you I honestly think you could be the one to do this job for us. To infiltrate this cell and gather information and help put them away before they ruin everything. If they manage to do a bombing campaign in America, the Protestant terrorists will have to respond, the IRA will have to reply to that, and oh my goodness the whole cease-fire and all our hard work will be jolly well up the spout.”

“How jolly sad,” I said, irritated enough to take the piss.

“And naturally if you did do this for us, we would convince the Spanish government to drop all charges against you,”

Samantha said with a satisfied wee grin. She sat back in her chair, crossed her legs, blocking the crotch shot.

I also smiled. Who the hell did they think they were dealing with? Did they think I was some eejit Paddy just off the bloody boat?

“Why don’t the FBI infiltrate this group of yours? It’s their country,” I asked for starters before moving on to the main course.

“The FBI won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole,” Samantha said, her eyes narrowing.

“Why?”

“Our plan is to insert an agent as soon as possible. Before the Sons of Cuchulainn begin their campaign, which we strongly believe will commence once the cease-fire announcement comes. In other words, we have to have an agent in their ranks in the next couple of weeks. The FBI feels that an attempt to hurriedly insert an agent in this manner and in this climate would be too rushed and too dangerous,” Samantha said calmly.

“The FBI, in other words, thinks it might be a bit of a suicide mission,” I said, my smile broadening.

“Er, yes,” she muttered, embarrassed.

“And just to be clear, if the operation weren’t dumb enough already, of all the people in the world, you want me- a man who has a contract on his head from the Irish mob in New York-to attempt to infiltrate an IRA splinter group,” I said and laughed at her.

“Mr. Forsythe, I don’t think-”

“Don’t Mr. Forsythe me, Samantha; thanks for thinking of me, thanks for taking the trouble to fly out, but I think I’ve heard just about enough. Run along now. I’ll do my time quietly in Seville. I’ve been in a lot worse places than that. Nice to have met ya,” I said.

I leaned back on the cot and put my hands behind my head. I closed my eyes. Let them sweat for a bit. Let me think.

Samantha considered the situation.

“Perhaps I have oversold the problems. All we want you to do is gather evidence that would lead to a prosecution. The fact that you are from Belfast but have experience in America, the fact that you’ve been in the British army, the fact that you come highly recommended by the FBI. All this is to your advantage.”

“I think, Samantha dear,” I said with sarcasm, “you’re barking up the wrong tree, love. As I’ve patiently explained, I’m already wanted by the Irish community in America. Seamus Duffy has a million-dollar bounty on my head.”