The English Spy (9 page)

T
ECHNICALLY
,
THE OPERATION
upon which Gabriel and Christopher Keller embarked the following day was a joint undertaking between the Office and MI6. The British role was so black, however, that only Graham Seymour knew of it. Therefore, it was the Office that saw to the travel arrangements, and the Office that rented the Škoda sedan that was waiting in the long-term parking lot at Dublin Airport. Gabriel searched the undercarriage before climbing behind the wheel. Keller slid into the passenger seat and, frowning, closed the door.

“Couldn’t they have got something better than a Škoda?”

“It’s one of Ireland’s most popular cars, which means it won’t stand out.”

“What about guns?”

“Open the glove box.”

Keller did. Inside was a Beretta 9mm, fully loaded, along with a spare magazine and a suppressor.

“Only one?”

“We’re not going to war, Christopher.”

“That’s what you think.”

Keller closed the glove box, Gabriel inserted the key into the ignition. The engine hesitated, coughed, and then finally turned over.

“Still think they should have rented a Škoda?” asked Keller.

Gabriel slipped the car into gear. “Where do we start?”

“Ballyfermot.”

“Bally where?”

Keller pointed to the exit sign and said, “Bally that way.”

The Republic of Ireland was once a land with almost no violent crime. Until the late 1960s Ireland’s national police force, the Garda Síochána, numbered just seven thousand officers, and in Dublin there were only seven squad cars. Most crime was of the petty variety: burglaries, pickpocketing, the occasional strong-armed robbery. And when there was violence involved, it was usually fueled by passion, alcohol, or a combination of the two.

That changed with the outbreak of the Troubles across the border in Northern Ireland. Desperate for money and arms to fight the British Army, the Provisional IRA began robbing banks in the south. The low-level thieves from the impoverished slums and housing estates of Dublin learned from the Provos’ tactics and began carrying out daring armed heists of their own. The Gardaí, understaffed and outmatched, were quickly overwhelmed by the twin threat of the IRA and the local crime lords. By 1970 Ireland was tranquil no more. It was a gangland where criminals and revolutionaries operated with impunity.

In 1979 two unlikely events far from Ireland’s shores sped the country’s descent into lawlessness and social chaos. The first was the Iranian revolution. The second was the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Both resulted in a flood of cheap heroin onto the streets of Western European cities. The drug poured into the slums of south Dublin in 1980. A year later it ravaged the ghettos of the north side. Lives were broken, families were shattered, and crime rates soared as desperate addicts tried to feed their habits. Entire communities became dystopian wastelands where junkies shot up openly in the streets and dealers were kings.

The economic miracle of the 1990s transformed Ireland from one of Europe’s poorest countries into one of its richest, but with prosperity came an even greater appetite for narcotics, especially cocaine and Ecstasy. The old crime bosses gave way to a new breed of kingpins who waged bloody wars over turf and market share. Where once Irish mobsters used sawed-off shotguns to enforce their will, the new gangland warriors armed themselves with AK-47s and other heavy weaponry. Bullet-riddled bodies began to appear on the streets of the housing estates. According to a Garda estimate in 2012, twenty-five violent drug gangs now plied their deadly trade in Ireland. Several had established lucrative ties to foreign organized crime groups, including remnants of the Real IRA.

“I thought they were against drugs,” said Gabriel.

“That might be true up there,” said Keller, pointing toward the north, “but down here in the Republic it’s a different story. For all intents and purposes, the Real IRA is just another drug gang. Sometimes they deal drugs directly. Sometimes they run protection rackets. Mainly, they extort money from the dealers.”

“What does Liam Walsh do?”

“A little of everything.”

Rain blurred the headlamps of the evening rush hour traffic. It was lighter than Gabriel had expected. He supposed it was the economy. Ireland’s had fallen farther and faster than most. Even the drug dealers were hurting.

“Walsh has republicanism in his veins,” Keller was saying. “His father was IRA, and so were his uncles and brothers. He went with the Real IRA after the great schism, and when the war effectively ended he came down to Dublin to make his fortune in the drug business.”

“What’s his connection to Quinn?”

“Omagh.” Keller pointed to the right and said, “There’s your turn.”

Gabriel guided the car into Kennelsfort Road. It was lined on both sides by terraces of small two-story houses. Not quite the Irish miracle, but not a slum, either.

“Is this Ballyfermot?”

“Palmerstown.”

“Which way?”

With a wave of his hand, Keller instructed Gabriel to continue straight. They skirted an industrial park of low gray warehouses, and suddenly they were on Ballyfermot Road. After a moment they came upon a parade of sad little shops: a discount department store, a discount linen store, a discount optician, a chip shop. Across the street was a Tesco supermarket, and next to the supermarket was a betting parlor. Sheltering in the entrance were four men in black leather coats. Liam Walsh was the smallest of the lot. He was smoking a cigarette; they were all smoking cigarettes. Gabriel turned into the Tesco car park and eased into an empty space. It had a clear view of the betting parlor.

“Maybe you should leave the engine running,” said Keller.

“Why?”

“It might not start again.”

Gabriel killed the engine and doused the headlamps. Rain beat heavily against the windscreen. After a few seconds Liam Walsh vanished in a blurry kaleidoscope of light. Then Gabriel flicked the wipers and Walsh reappeared. A long black Mercedes sedan had pulled up outside the betting parlor. It was the only Mercedes on the street, probably the only one in the neighborhood. Walsh was talking to the driver through the open window.

“He looks like a real pillar of the community,” said Gabriel quietly.

“That’s how he likes to portray himself.”

“So why is he standing outside a betting parlor?”

“He wants the other gangs to know that he’s watching his turf. A rival tried to kill him on that very spot last year. If you look closely, you can see the bullet holes in the wall.”

The Mercedes moved off. Liam Walsh returned to the shelter of the entrance.

“Who are those nice-looking fellows with him?”

“The two on the left are his bodyguards. The other one is his second-in-command.”

“Real IRA?”

“To the core.”

“Armed?”

“Most definitely.”

“So what do we do?”

“We wait for him to make a move.”

“Here?”

Keller shook his head. “If they see us sitting in a parked car, they’ll assume we’re Garda or members of a rival gang. And if they assume that, we’re dead.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t sit here.”

Keller nodded toward the chip shop on the other side of the road and climbed out. Gabriel followed after him. They stood side by side along the edge of the road, hands thrust into their pockets, heads bowed against the windblown rain, waiting for an opening in the traffic.

“They’re watching us,” said Keller.

“You noticed that, too?”

“Hard not to.”

“Does Walsh know your face?”

“He does now.”

The traffic broke; they crossed the road and headed toward the entrance of the chip shop. “It might be better if you don’t speak,” said Keller. “This isn’t the sort of neighborhood that gets a lot of visitors from exotic lands.”

“I speak perfect English.”

“That’s the problem.”

Keller opened the door and went inside first. It was a narrow room with a cracked linoleum floor and peeling walls. The air was thick with grease, starch, and the faint smell of wet wool. There was a pretty young girl behind the counter and an empty table against the window. Gabriel sat with his back to the road while Keller went over to the counter and ordered in the accent of someone from south Dublin.

“Very impressive,” murmured Gabriel when Keller joined him. “For a minute there I thought you were about to break into ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.’”

“As far as that pretty young lass is concerned, I’m as Irish as she is.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel doubtfully. “And I’m Oscar Wilde.”

“You don’t think I can pass for an Irishman?”

“Maybe one who’s been on a very long vacation in the sun.”

“That’s my story.”

“Where have you been?”

“Majorca,” replied Keller. “The Irish love Majorca, especially Irish mobsters.”

Gabriel glanced around the interior of the café. “I wonder why.”

The girl walked over to the table and deposited a plate of chips and two Styrofoam cups of milky tea. As she was leaving, the door opened and two pale men in their mid-twenties hurried in out of the weather. A woman in a damp coat and downtown shoes entered a moment later. The two men took a table near Keller and Gabriel and began speaking in a dialect that Gabriel found almost impenetrable. The woman sat at the back of the shop. She had only tea to drink and was reading a worn paperback book.

“What’s going on outside?” asked Gabriel.

“Four men standing in front of a betting parlor. One man looking like he’s had enough of the rain.”

“Where does he live?”

“Not far,” answered Keller. “He likes to live among the people.”

Gabriel drank some of the tea and made a face. Keller pushed the plate of chips across the table. “Eat some.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I want to live long enough to see my children born.”

“Good idea.” Keller smiled, then added, “Men of your age really should be careful about what they eat.”

“Watch yourself.”

“How old are you, exactly?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Problems with memory loss?”

Gabriel drank some of the tea. Keller nibbled at the chips.

“They’re not as good as the fries in the south of France,” he said.

“Did you get a receipt?”

“Why would I need a receipt?”

“I hear the bookkeepers at MI6 are very picky.”

“Let’s not get carried away about MI6 just yet. I haven’t made any decisions.”

“Sometimes our best decisions are made for us.”

“You sound like the don.” Keller ate another chip. “Is it true about MI6 bookkeepers?”

“I was just making conversation.”

“Are yours tough?”

“The worst.”

“But not with you.”

“Not so much.”

“So why didn’t they get you something better than a Škoda?”

“The Škoda is fine.”

“I hope he’ll fit in the trunk.”

“We’ll slam the lid on him a few times if we have to.”

“What about the safe house?”

“I’m sure it’s lovely, Christopher.”

Keller didn’t appear convinced. He picked up another chip, thought better of it, and dropped it onto the plate.

“What’s going on behind me?” he asked.

“Two lads speaking no known language. One woman reading.”

“What’s she reading?”

“I believe it’s John Banville.”

Keller nodded thoughtfully, his eyes on Ballyfermot Road.

“What do you see?” asked Gabriel.

“One man standing outside a betting parlor. Three men getting into a car.”

“What kind of car?”

“Black Mercedes.”

“Better than a Škoda.”

“Much.”

“So what do we do?”

“We leave the fries and take the tea.”

“When?”

Keller rose to his feet.

T
HEY DROPPED THE
S
TYROFOAM
cups into a rubbish bin in the Tesco parking lot and climbed into the Škoda. This time, Keller drove; it was his turf. He eased into Ballyfermot Road and worked his way through the traffic until there were two cars separating them from the Mercedes. He drove calmly, one hand balanced atop the steering wheel, the other resting on the automatic shift. His eyes were straight ahead. Gabriel had commandeered the side-view mirror and was watching the traffic behind them.

“Well?” asked Keller.

“You’re very good, Christopher. You’re going to make a fine MI6 officer.”

“I was asking whether we’re being followed.”

“We’re not.”

Keller removed his hand from the shift and used it to extract a
cigarette from his coat pocket. Gabriel tapped the black-and-yellow notice on the visor and said, “This is a no-smoking car.”

Keller lit the cigarette. Gabriel lowered his window a few inches to vent the smoke.

“They’re stopping,” he said.

“I can see that.”

The Mercedes turned into an angled parking space outside a newsagent. For a few seconds no one got out. Then Liam Walsh stepped from the rear passenger-side door and entered the shop. Keller drove about fifty meters farther along the road and parked outside a takeaway pizza parlor. He killed the lights but left the engine running.

“I suppose he needed to pick up a few things on his way home.”

“Like what?”

“A
Herald
,” suggested Keller.

“No one reads newspapers anymore, Christopher. Haven’t you heard?”

Keller glanced toward the pizza parlor. “Maybe you should go inside and get us a couple of slices.”

“How do I order without speaking?”

“You’ll think of something.”

“What kind of pizza do you like?”

“Go,” said Keller.

Gabriel climbed out and entered the shop. There were three people in the queue in front of him. He stood there waiting as the smell of warm cheese and yeast washed over him. Then he heard a brief burst of a car horn and, turning, saw the black Mercedes speeding off along Ballyfermot Road. He went back outside and lowered himself into the passenger seat. Keller reversed out of the space, slipped the car into drive, and accelerated slowly.

“Did he buy anything?” asked Gabriel.

“Couple of papers and a pack of Winstons.”

“How did he look when he came out?”

“Like he really didn’t need newspapers or cigarettes.”

“I assume the Garda watches him on a regular basis?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Which means he’s used to being followed from time to time by men in unmarked sedans.”

“One would think.”

“He’s turning,” said Gabriel.

“I can see that.”

The car had turned into a bleak, unlit street of small terraced houses. No traffic, no shops, no place where two outsiders might conceal themselves. Keller pulled to the curb and doused the headlamps. A hundred meters farther down the street, the Mercedes nosed into a drive. The lights of the car went dark. Four doors opened, four men climbed out.

“Chez Walsh?” asked Gabriel.

Keller nodded.

“Married?”

“Not anymore.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Could be.”

“What about a dog?”

“You have a problem with dogs?”

Gabriel didn’t answer. Instead, he watched the four men approach the house and disappear through the front door.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“I suppose we could spend the next several days waiting for a better opportunity.”

“Or?”

“We take him now.”

“There are four of them and two of us.”

“One,” said Keller. “You’re not coming.”

“Why not?”

“Because the future chief of the Office can’t get mixed up in something like this. Besides,” Keller added, patting the bulge beneath his jacket, “we only have one gun.”

“Four against one,” said Gabriel after a moment. “Not very good odds.”

“Actually, given my history, I like my chances.”

“How do you intend to play it?”

“The same way we used to play it in Northern Ireland,” answered Keller. “Big boys’ games, big boys’ rules.”

Keller climbed out without another word and soundlessly closed the door. Gabriel swung a leg over the center console and slid behind the wheel. He flicked the wipers and glimpsed Keller walking along the street, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders tilted into the wind. He checked his BlackBerry. It was 8:27 p.m. in Dublin, 10:27 p.m. in Jerusalem. He thought of his beautiful young wife sitting alone in their apartment in Narkiss Street, and of his two unborn children resting comfortably in her womb. And here he was on a desolate street in south Dublin, a sentinel on yet another night watch, waiting for a friend to settle an old score. The rain hammered against the windscreen, the bleak street became a watery dreamscape. Gabriel flicked the wipers a second time and saw Keller pass through a sphere of yellow sodium light. And when he flicked the wipers a third time, Keller was gone.

The house was located at 48 Rossmore Road. It had a gray pebble-dash exterior, with a white-framed window on the ground floor and two more on the second. The narrow drive had space enough for a
single car. Next to the drive was a gated walkway, and next to the walkway was a patch of grass bordered by a low hedgerow. It was respectable in every way, save for the man who lived there.

Like all the houses at that end of the street, Number 48 had a garden in back, beyond which spread the sporting fields of a Catholic school for boys. The entrance to the school was around the corner on Le Fanu Road. The main gate was open; there seemed to be a gathering of the parent body in the assembly hall. Keller passed through the gate unnoticed and struck out across a blacktop lined for games of every sort. And suddenly he was back at the dreary school in Surrey where his parents had banished him at the age of ten. He was the boy of whom much was expected—a good family, an excellent student, a natural leader. The older boys never touched him because they feared him. The headmaster once let him off without a beating because secretly the headmaster feared him, too.

At the edge of the blacktop was a row of dripping trees. Keller passed beneath their bare limbs and set out across the darkened sporting fields. Along their northern edge rose a wall, approximately two meters in height, covered in vines. Beyond it were the rear gardens of the houses lining Rossmore Road. Keller went to the farthest corner of the field and paced off fifty-seven steps precisely. Then, silently, he scaled the wall and dropped toward the ground on the other side. By the time his shoes struck the damp earth, he had drawn the silenced Beretta and leveled it toward the back door of the house. Lights burned within; shadows moved against the drawn curtains. Keller held the gun tightly in his hands, watching, listening. Big boys’ games, he thought. Big boys’ rules.

At ten minutes past nine o’clock, Gabriel’s BlackBerry vibrated softly. He raised it to his ear, listened, and then killed the connection. The
rain had given way to a listless mist; Rossmore Road was empty of traffic and pedestrians. He drove to the house at Number 48, parked in the street, and switched off the engine. Again his BlackBerry vibrated, but this time he did not answer. Instead, he pulled on a pair of flesh-colored rubber gloves, climbed out, and opened the modest-sized trunk. Inside was a suitcase that had been left by the courier from Dublin Station. Gabriel removed it and carried it up the garden walk. The front door yielded to his touch; he stepped inside and closed it quietly behind him. Keller stood in the entrance hall, the Beretta in his hand. The air smelled of cordite and, faintly, of blood. It was a smell that was all too familiar to Gabriel. He walked past Keller without a word and entered the sitting room. A cloud of smoke hung on the air. Three men, each with a neat bullet hole in the center of his forehead, a fourth with a smashed nose and a jaw that looked as if it had been dislodged with a sledgehammer. Gabriel reached down and searched the neck for a pulse. Then, after finding one, he unzipped the suitcase and went to work.

The suitcase contained three rolls of heavy-duty duct tape, a dozen disposable flex cuffs, a nylon bag capable of holding a man six feet in height, a black hood, a blue-and-white tracksuit, espadrilles, two changes of undergarments, a first aid kit, earplugs, vials of sedative, syringes, rubbing alcohol, and a copy of the Koran. The Office referred to the contents of the suitcase as a mobile detainee pack. Among veteran field agents, however, it was known as a terrorist travel kit.

After determining that Walsh was in no danger of expiration, Gabriel mummified him in duct tape. He didn’t bother with the plastic flex cuffs; in matters of art and physical restraint, he was a traditionalist
by nature. As he was applying the last swaths of tape to Walsh’s mouth and eyes, the Irishman began to regain consciousness. Gabriel quieted him with a dose of the sedative. Then, with Keller’s help, he placed Walsh in the duffel bag and pulled the zipper closed.

The house had no garage, which meant they had no choice but to take Walsh out the front door, in plain view of the neighbors. Gabriel found the key to the Mercedes on the body of one of the dead men. He moved the car into the street and backed the Škoda into the drive. Keller carried Walsh outside alone and deposited him in the open trunk. Then he climbed into the passenger seat and allowed Gabriel to drive. It was for the best. In Gabriel’s experience, it was unwise to allow a man who had just killed three people to operate a motor vehicle.

“Did you turn out the lights?”

Keller nodded.

“What about the doors?”

“They’re locked.”

Keller removed the suppressor and the magazine from the Beretta and placed all three in the glove box. Gabriel turned into the street and started back toward Ballyfermot Road.

“How many rounds did you fire?” he asked.

“Three,” answered Keller.

“How long before the Garda finds those bodies?”

“It’s not the Garda we should be worried about.”

Keller flicked his cigarette into the darkness. Gabriel saw sparks explode in his rearview mirror.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Like I never left.”

“That’s the problem with revenge, Christopher. It never makes you feel better.”

“That’s true,” said Keller, lighting another cigarette. “And I’m just getting started.”