The Dead Yard Read online

  “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.”

  “I am perfectly aware of that, Michael. But you must understand that the Sons of Cuchulainn are a separate entity from the Boston Irish mob. The mob dislikes and distrusts anyone whose motives are political rather than fiduciary. They have very little time for fanatics. And the Boston mob itself is a rival to the New York organization and they maintain few links.

  There will be at least two layers of separation between you and your former associates. You’ll be quite insulated from Seamus Duffy and his agents in New York. And in any case, from what Dan Connolly tells me, Duffy is more than occupied with his own internal problems rather than looking to settle old scores.

  You’re yesterday’s news, Michael. It’s been five years. No one remembers you. That’s not to say that you won’t be taking any risks. No, we must be clear from the get-go. Oh, good God, no.

  This will be extraordinarily risky indeed. Even if they never found out that your real name is Michael Forsythe, they would kill you at the drop of a hat if they discovered that you were linked to Her Majesty’s government in even the remotest way.”

  She paused, ran her hand through that peachy auburn hair.

  No rings on any finger. Not married, not engaged.

  “Did you hear what I said, Michael?”

  “I heard. You’re doing your case no good. What you’re basically saying is I’d have to be mad to take this job, because I could get killed in half a dozen ways,” I said, leaning back on the cot again and resting my arms over my eyes.

  “Well, I’m not one for odds, but yes, I’d say that even a competently trained professional agent with years of experience would have a rather higher than average chance of being compromised in a time-imperative operation such as this one,” Samantha said.

  I yawned in the face of her candor.

  “And compromised means killed,” I said.

  “I’m terribly sorry but I have to be frank. I feel it’s only fair that you appreciate the risks. Of course I do not think you will be killed or compromised in any way. It’s very unlikely that McCaghan would bring you into the inner circle. We just need tidbits of information, anything that will help prevent a potential bombing campaign. And yes, ordinarily, I’d do something dramatic, I’d leave the cell, give you a day or two to think it over, maybe get the Spanish to rough you up, hector you a bit, but as I’ve said time is a factor here. An ideal opportunity for an insertion has presented itself. If my plan is going to work at all you absolutely have to be in Revere tomorrow.”

  “Revere Beach, Boston? You must be joking, honey. If I go near a Paddy neighborhood like that, I’ll be killed.”

  She shook her head and gave me a brilliant smile.

  “No, you won’t. I wouldn’t send you if I thought that. The Sons of Cuchulainn are beyond the pale in Irish American republican circles and after the IRA hit tomorrow, they’re going to be even more beyond the pale. They’ll be pariahs.”

  “IRA hit?”

  “Michael, please don’t worry about your former problems.

  We’ll dye your hair black, give you dark green contact lenses, something like that; that’s not my field exactly, but we’ll gussy you up so that your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ll only have to be in Boston for one day. Then we’ll fly you to an FBI field office in a secure location. And then in a week or so your formal assignment will begin. The most difficult part of an operation is the entry. Believe me, I’ve done dozens. And what we have going tomorrow is a perfect entry for you. It’s an opportunity not to be missed. Instead of months of preparation, we can get you buckets of credibility in a single night. Indeed, if we pull this off, I’d say the risks of being compromised are considerably reduced.”

  “What exactly do you want me to do in Revere?”

  “You’re going to save a girl’s life,” Samantha said with a cough.

  “What?”

  “The IRA is going to try to kill her father, and you’re going to save her,” she said, looking at the floor.

  “That sounds bloody risky to start with.”

  “Not really. Look, Michael, we need you. We had one other person in mind but . . .” her voice trailed off.

  “Let me guess. He’s turned y
ou down,” I said.

  “Well, yes. That’s why this whole Spanish angle has been particularly fortuitous for us. You know, not everyone agrees with me, I’m taking a bit of a risk flying here to see you. There are some within the department who don’t agree with the idea of recruiting outsiders. Especially a potential loose cannon such as yourself.”

  I was fed up with her now and I’d thought about it enough.

  “While I really appreciate the faith you have in me, Samantha, thanks but no thanks. Now I think I’ve been pretty polite with you; if you would do me a favor and tell your pal in the Foreign Office that I still haven’t seen a lawyer and could they please arrange for me to see one ASAP I’d be much obliged.”

  She looked disappointed.

  “A lawyer?”

  “Aye. I want to plead and get this shit over with.”

  Samantha frowned, undid her ponytail, and let the hair hang down her back. She started doing her hair up again, glancing at me with what could almost be described as pity.

  “Michael, obviously I haven’t made the entire situation transparent. You’re caught between a rock and a hard place. The Spanish government will see to it that you go to jail. And what’s more, when your time is up, the Spaniards will extradite you to Mexico, where I believe you are a fugitive from justice.”

  That was her trump card. The one she’d been saving.

  I sat up on the bed. Horrified.

  I’d been arrested in Mexico on a charge of drug smuggling but I’d escaped from the remand prison before I’d come to trial. I could be looking at twenty years there for the drugs, plus God knows how much for bloody jailbreaking.

  Cold fear ran down my back. I’d been so cavalier with Samantha because I knew the Spanish angle was bullshit. Who gets ten years for being a football hooligan? Even if I got convicted they’d sentence me to three or four and I’d do two at the most. Probably less. The Sun and the Daily Mirror would quickly be filled with horror stories about all the poor Brits and their mistreatment in Spanish jails. Even the worst offenders would never serve close to ten years. And me, a side player with zero physical evidence to back up the police case, I’d be out in easy time and probably well on my way to winning damages at the European Court of Human Rights.

  But Mexico, that was another matter completely.

  I was in a world of shit if I went back there.

  “The FBI won’t let you send me to Mexico. We have a deal. I’m a protected witness,” I said, trying to keep the tension out of my voice.

  Samantha read from the file in front of her and shook her head.

  “You have been given exemption from the crimes you committed in the United States. You certainly could not have been given exemption for criminal acts committed in a third country. Last night I called up my counterpart in the Mexican intelligence service. He would be more than happy to have you back in Mexican custody and the Spanish government would be delighted to extradite you. They have excellent relations with Mexico, as you can imagine.”

  I stared at her.

  Any residual lust evaporated, replaced pound for pound with enmity. There was no way I was going back to Mexico. The place where Scotchy, Andy, and Fergal all had died in horrible circumstances. The thought of returning to that prison at all was like an ice dagger in the heart. You know what they do to gringos in Mexican prisons? Let your imagination do the work and then add a little on top because I’d already goddamn escaped.

  But I didn’t want to work for her. Suddenly I felt trapped. Panicked. My mind sprinting through scenarios. Not Boston but not bloody Mexico, either.

  Aye. Maybe there was another way.

  What was it that Goosey had said? We could live out in the wilds of Tenerife forever. Fish, eat fruit, maybe escape by boat.

  I formulated a tiny, desperate, pathetic plan.

  Move fast.

  Last thing anyone would be expecting.

  Up, run at her, kick her off the chair, grab it, smash it down on that ponytailed skull. Jeremy hears the commotion, comes rushing in, let him have it with the goddamn chair too. Grab his piece, cock it, point it at the guard, put the gun in my pocket, but keep it on him, and get the guard to march me right out of the prison, telling everyone that I was being transferred or released. Walk right out, casual as you please. Take his money, steal a car, go back up into the volcano country. Wait out the search.

  In von Humboldt’s book I read that the indigenous people kept going a guerrilla war against the Spanish for over a hundred years. Easy, up there on the mountain fastness. Hunt out a cave, lay low until the heat cooled down, come back into town, find some drunken German tourist, mug him, steal a passport, money, plane ticket, Tenerife to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to New York. Get back to safety in the good old USA.

  Not a great plan.

  Not even a good one.

  But this bitch wasn’t going to threaten me.

  “Since you put it that way, I suppose I have no choice,” I said, readying myself.

  “Oh, I am pleased. I’m sorry about the coercive aspect of all this, it’s just beastly that Her Majesty’s gov. has to be in the blackmail business, but there it is. Indeed, it couldn’t have worked out better. Jeremy was right, what made you come to Tenerife in the first place, don’t you know it’s notorious for riots and disturbances? Vulgar, awful place,” she said with an amused expression.

  “I was reading Alexander von Humboldt and Charles Darwin and they paint it in a different light,” I replied and offered her a conciliatory hand and a big broad smile of acceptance.

  “Well, bad for you, but good for us, old boy, Sword of Damocles, Scylla and Charybdis, call it what you will,” she said and gave me her hand too.

  I grabbed it and pulled her violently off the chair, she screamed, dropping her pen, folder, and water bottle. I threw her to the ground, kicked her to one side, and grabbed the chair. I lifted it over my head and positioned it to bring it down on her spine.

  A terrible pain in my right foot—which was not the one I’d left behind in a jungle village in the Yucatán. A searing explosion of nerve endings and when I looked down I saw a penknife sticking out of my Converse sneaker.

  Jesus.

  Before I could react, she’d kicked me behind the right knee and I fell to the cell floor, banging my head on the edge of the metal bed.

  I groaned. Jeremy opened the door and looked in.

  “Good heavens, what on earth is happening? Need any help, Samantha?” he asked.

  Samantha picked up the dropped file, righted the chair, and sat down. She moved herself away from me so I couldn’t pull the penknife out and threaten her with it.

  “I’m fine, darling, but young Michael is going to need medical assistance,” she said softly.

  Jeremy called for the guard, produced his gun, and pointed it at me.

  I pulled myself back up onto the cot.

  I breathed deep, swore inwardly, pulled out the knife, and sent it clattering to the floor.

  “What I’ll need,” I began between clenched teeth, “is a letter from the Spanish government stating that all charges have been dropped. So you won’t be able to hold that over me indefinitely.”

  Samantha smiled.

  “I’ll get our lawyers working on it immediately,” she said.

  “And I’ll want a document from the Spanish, British, and United States attorneys general that I will not in the future be extradited to Mexico under any circumstances,” I said.

  “I will get working on that, too,” Samantha said. “Is there anything else?”

  “Aye, a guy called Goosey who was picked up with me, him out as well,” I gasped.

  “I’ll also see to that.”

  “I have your word?”

  “You have my word,” she assured me.

  “Fine, in that case. I’ll do it.”

  “Good,” Samantha said and snapped my folder shut.

  Within an hour, I was stitched, sutured, shaved, and sitting on a taxiing RAF Hercules transport plane that
would be taking me to Lisbon. From Lisbon, the direct flight to Boston Logan.

  Samantha sat beside me, organizing her briefing notes.

  The big Hercules taxied down the runway. A military aircraft, tiny slit windows and you sat facing backwards.

  Samantha passed me earplugs. I put them in. Looked out.

  The harsh volcanic mountain, the outline of banana plantations, the aerodrome. The propellers turned, the transport accelerated, lift developed over its wings, and we took off into the setting sun.

  The blue water. The other Canary Islands. Africa.

  We flew west over Tenerife, and through the safety glass and smoke I could see what the hooligans had wrought on Playa de las Americas and what the concrete-loving developers at the Spanish Ministry of Tourism had done to the rest of the island. Humboldt for one would have been displeased. Samantha saw my grimace, patted my knee. Her big pouty red lips formed into a sympathetic smile.

  “Don’t worry, darling. It’s going to be all right,” she soothed and, of course, as is typical when someone in authority tells you that, nothing could have been further from the goddamn truth.

  2: AN ASSASSINATION IN REVERE

  The lough was dead and across the water I could hear jets land on the baking runways of Logan airport. The day dwindling to an end in heat and the ugly noise of massive tunneling machines in the vast scar of Boston’s Big Dig.

  Kids playing stickball. Old ladies in deck chairs on the sidewalk. Families heading back from the beach. It was August on Boston’s North Shore. The temperature was hitting ninety degrees outside. Even the elderly mafiosi with thin blood and poor circulation had shed their jackets for a stroll along the sidewalk of Revere Beach.

  I threw away my unsmoked cigarette, walked into the bar.

  An Italian neighborhood but an Irish pub: the Rebel Heart. Tough one, too. Posters of old IRA men. Bobby Sands, Gerry Adams. An Phoblacht propaganda sheets. Guinness merchandise. The usual slogans: “Brits Out,” “Thatcher Is a War Criminal,” “Give Ireland Back to the Irish.”