The vicar, p.1
The Vicar, page 1
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Praise for A. J. Chambers
“This is a spy thriller that will thrill you—and when you close your eyes you’ll see the inevitable movie.”
—David Fisher, New York Times bestselling author of The War Magician
“Top-class gut-punch credibility. Chambers has a skill of delivering chilling reality through compelling fiction.”
—Humphrey Hawksley, BBC correspondent and bestselling author of the Dragon Strike and Rake Ozenna series
“A. J. Chambers vaults into the ranks of classic espionage authors like John le Carré, Frederick Forsyth, and Daniel Silva . . . It’s rare to discover a great new writer, and we want him sticking around for a long time to come.”
—Jerome Preisler, New York Times bestselling author
“Right out of the gate, A. J. Chambers’s The Vicar is a smashing galloping debut . . . bringing us back to those longed-for days of Ian Fleming and Alistair MacLean. If you’re going to pick up The Vicar, make sure you’ve cleared your decks.”
—Steven Hartov, New York Times bestselling author of The Last of the Seven
“A British espionage thriller reminiscent of Patriot Games, Chambers’s debut spins a Transatlantic hunt that keeps you guessing until the last action-packed pages.”
—Matthew Betley, Marine and author of the Logan West series and The Neighborhood
“Fans of Le Carré, Ludlum, and Forsyth will go crazy mad for The Vicar. And that is not an overpromise . . . Le Carré’s iconic character, George Smiley, would surely want to raise a pint or two in admiration of Nolan’s work.”
—Myles Knapp, author of Revenge School
Books by A. J. Chambers
standalone novels
The Vicar
The Vicar
A Novel of Espionage
A. J. Chambers
Copyright © 2023 by A. J. Chambers
E-book published in 2023by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Luis Alejandro Cruz Castillo
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Trade e-book ISBN 979-8-200-91812-6
Library e-book ISBN 979-8-200-91811-9
Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
This book is dedicated to
my family. Without your love and support this book may never have been written.
And
the late great John le Carré, whose works continue to be an inspiration.
Special thanks to
my agent Doug Grad and my editor Patrick LoBrutto. Your friendship and encouragement kept me on the right track even when the words were difficult to find.
Author’s Note
Martin McGuinness died of amyloidosis on March 21, 2017, at the age of sixty-six. As a former leader of the Provisional Irish Republican Army (PIRA, or IRA as it was more commonly known) and an Irish Republican Sinn Féin politician, McGuinness was known as someone you didn’t cross lightly, ever. It surprised many that he was one of the main architects of the Belfast Agreement, better known as the Good Friday Agreement, in 1998.
Perhaps McGuinness had come to the realization that the armed struggle against the British government was futile, as Great Britain would never relinquish control of the six counties of Northern Ireland. Or maybe he was just tired of all the death. Whatever his reason, the peace, for the most part, has held. He later served in various positions within the Northern Ireland Assembly, culminating in his appointment as deputy First Minister of Northern Ireland.
With his death and the threat of a no-deal Brexit and all the disruption that this has caused, there is a real concern within the intelligence community that the New Irish Republican Army (NIRA) may expand its terror campaign and try to take advantage of the situation.
According to the British government, her security services, and the United States government, none of the following events ever happened.
The names and places described have been changed to maintain their anonymity.
“Oh! What a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive.”
Sir Walter Scott
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
belfast, 1989
To ask for a black and tan was tantamount to suicide in this Catholic establishment, so Terrance Patrick Nolan, or Terry to his mates, took another deep swallow of his room-temperature pint of half-and-half and continued to observe the man he’d been sent by MI5 to remove from the living almost eleven months earlier.
Cigarette smoke hung in the air like a smog of 1950s London. Not that it bothered Terry; he was adding to the haze in Barry’s Pub with his own chain smoking.
It still amazed him that his cover as a freelance photojournalist had held up for as long as it had. For him there were no fancy James Bond gadgets, no Walther PPK to produce and save the day. Aside from the Browning Hi-Power carefully taped under the wardrobe in his boarding house room. Hell, he was even using his real name.
Two years ago, after he was recruited to MI5 from 14 Intelligence Company (commonly known as The Det in the British Army), the powers that be had insisted he build a cover based on his real background. Their reasoning was that not only did he have excellent lineage but it would also be hard to screw up during idle conversation or, God forbid, interrogation. The only thing that had been scrubbed from his background was any mention of him being in the British Army. So he had morphed into Terry Nolan, a photojournalist who let it be known that he had some sympathy for the Irish struggle to kick the British out of the six counties of Northern Ireland.
Raised by Irish Catholic parents on a council estate in south Manchester barely two miles from Manchester International Airport, Terry had grown up listening to the old rebel songs from the glory days of the IRA. It came as no shock when he learned at the age of six that his grandfather had fought with the IRA in the Easter Rebellion of 1916. What was slightly confusing was that his father had served with distinction as a senior NCO pilot in the Royal Air Force during and after World War II. Around the age of eleven, he’d asked his dad why he still listened to rebel music. His father had sat him down and given him a history lesson. He explained that he was very proud of his father’s fight to free his country and how he’d sided with the lawful government of Ireland during the Irish Civil War of 1922. Terry’s father had also expressed his disgust with what the IRA was doing in the north. At that moment, Terry decided he would become a soldier.
So here he sat, back against the wall in the far corner of the busy pub, watching Kieran Martin, whose Bristol pub bombing had resulted in the deaths of thirty-eight people, twenty-four of whom were teenagers returning home from a school outing. The outrage felt by the rest of the nation had reverberated throughout the halls of power. There had even been some calls for the prime minister’s resignation. Of course, that wasn’t in the cards—no one in Maggie’s Conservative Party had the balls to call for a vote of no confidence—but it had cost the secretary of state for Northern Ireland his job. The prime minister had vowed to bring the perpetrators to justice and, ove r many months of interrogations, threats and, in some cases, payoffs, they had gotten a name. The problem was then finding the perpetrator, Kieran Martin, who had gone to ground. And that was where Terry had come in.
Now, two streets off the Falls Road, in this second-rate bar that smelled of slightly rancid beer and sweat and where the likes of Martin were considered heroes, Terry had finally found the bastard. He doubted the man had paid for a drink in the twenty months since the attack. Terry would make sure that the glass of whiskey Martin had just finished with a flourish would be one of his last.
After seeing his quarry enter an hour earlier, Terry had made an excuse to the others at his table and headed for the bathroom. What they didn’t see was the phone call he made to another MI5 operative, who was acting as his cutout under the guise of a “lady friend,” asking when she was going to join him for their mythical date. She, of course, had feigned a headache and immediately passed on his location to others tasked with carrying out Martin’s removal. Terry would have dearly liked to have been responsible for the man’s demise himself, but his boss had been worried about mission success and his operative getting his ass out alive. If all went as planned, Martin’s death would be attributed to the Ulster Volunteer Force. Hell, it wasn’t as if the bastard hadn’t killed a few Protestants in his day, so Terry was sure they were going to be happy to take the credit.
He returned to his table complaining about how the girl he had met at the library while researching his book, a good Catholic girl of course, had stood him up. There were a few joking comments about him not getting his end away by the lads at the table, and he was quickly dispatched to buy a round of whiskeys to help soothe their collective sorrows at his loss. Approaching the bar, he just couldn’t resist the temptation and eased his way through the crowd until he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Kieran Martin. He raised his voice over the hubbub, laying on his best thick Manchester accent, and ordered five doubles of Jameson.
He couldn’t help but smile slightly as Martin’s head spun in his direction at the sound of his voice.
“What the fuck might an Englishman be doing in these parts?” he hissed.
“Why, what’s it to you, mister?” replied Terry.
“I’ll tell you what’s it to me, you British bastard, right before I blow the back of your fucking head off. Now answer the fucking question.”
Terry looked down as he felt the pistol jammed under his ribcage. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. “I’m sorry, Mr. Martin, no disrespect intended, it’s just I thought all those questions were done with. My name is Terry Nolan. I’m over here writing a book on the Troubles from the Catholic perspective.” He held out his hand, which was totally ignored.
“So, Mr. Writer, what brings you into my bar? You have some sort of death wish?”
The gun remained firmly in place.
“Just out with some friends, Mr. Martin.” He noticed a quiet had settled over the bar and raised his voice a little. “Also, Mr. Martin, my grandfather was in the 1916 IRA uprising while yours was shitting himself hiding in some pub and, if that doesn’t count, maybe you’d like to take it up with my friend over there, Ciaran Sullivan.” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb and leaned a little closer and whispered, “I believe her father is an area commander, which makes him your fucking boss.”
Martin looked over at the young lady who had turned to face them, and Terry saw the slight flicker of fear in his eyes.
“Now if you’d care to take your fucking gun from out of my ribs I’ll be paying for my drinks.”
It vanished as quickly as it appeared. “My apologies, Mr. Nolan. A man in my position can’t be too careful. I hope you understand.”
“No problem, mate.” He was about to pay for the drinks when a twenty-pound note appeared on the bar.
“Please, let me get those for you. It would be my pleasure to buy a round for the grandson of a man who fought for the cause.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Martin. That’s very much appreciated.” He gathered up the drinks and headed back to the table. He wanted to burst out laughing but figured a large grin to his friends would suffice.
“Is everything okay, Terry?” asked Ciaran, touching the back of his hand.
“It is now,” he replied and smiled at the irony. I just got bought a drink by a dead man. He raised his glass and looked over at Martin, who was still looking in his direction. “Slάinte.”
2
boston harbor, present day: april 2018
Terry awoke with a jolt, as was his way, and immediately reached for the glass of vodka that sat by his bed. After he took a healthy swallow, the next urgent task was to fire up a Marlboro Red, which he lit with his ancient Zippo bearing the insignia of his British Army regiment. It was the one relic from his past that he was loath to relinquish. His masters would have been furious if they had known he had brought it with him across the pond, but he was of an age now that he was more inclined to tell them to shove their displeasure up their combined asses than to bow to their whims.
Christ, it was hot, especially for the beginning of April. After taking another gulp of vodka, he wiped his face and chest with the damp bar towel that was hanging off the side of his bed. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was two forty-five in the morning. He sighed and lay back listening to the gentle slap of the waves against the hull of his 2005 thirty-eight-foot Catalina sloop. If only the goddamn AC unit wouldn’t keep fucking up, it would be perfect.
After the Irish gig, he had floated in and out of various departments and undercover operations in and out of Ireland until this job had come along. It wasn’t that it was a bad job, or even dangerous—it was just so fucking boring. His cover was that of a political reporter for the Guardian back in the UK. This had been his ongoing cover even when he was home, as it allowed him a great deal of access to people he was “looking into” without raising eyebrows. Hell, he was so good at it now that he even filed actual stories instead of relying on others back at headquarters to do it for him. His current assignment by MI5 was to run half a dozen agents and paid informers in Boston and New York. These individuals were working closely with former IRA and Sinn Féin members supplying drugs and other items, such as small amounts of weapons and explosives, to their colleagues in the New Irish Republican Army back in Northern Ireland. He also had one agent, an American of Irish descent, he had cultivated years earlier in the UK. These people were known as his “Parishioners” and he, as his position was commonly referred to, their “Vicar.”
It constantly amused him how people thought the IRA had suddenly held up their hands after the Good Friday Agreement and ran home to their mothers. These guys were hard-core and responsible for most, if not all, of the drugs that came into the north and south of Ireland. They also controlled a great deal of the prostitution, or at least took a cut from the pimps getting their hands dirty. And then there was the protection racket. It was like they’d become the Irish Mafia. I guess even supposed ex-terrorists have to make a living.
