The vicar, p.4
The Vicar, page 4
“You mean Ciaran.”
“Well, I don’t mean the Queen of bloody Sheba, do I, Terry?”
“No, no, of course you don’t . . . sir.” He tried not to make the delay in adding “sir” too disrespectful. Even though he felt like telling his boss to go to hell, it just wasn’t done, and orders were orders. “What would you like to know?”
“Let us start at the beginning. When and how did you meet?”
“I’d been in-country about six weeks when I was introduced to her by a friend in a pub.”
R interrupted quickly. “Which friend?”
“Patrick Walsh.”
“And how did you know Walsh?”
“Met him and a couple of his mates playing darts.” Everything seemed to revolve around the pub in Belfast, not unlike his hometown of Manchester. “We got to talking about why I was in Belfast, and he was intrigued. Pat even offered to give me any help I might need, especially with arranging interviews I might want to do with some of the older people. It seems they might be a little hostile to being approached by a Brit.” He smiled. “To be honest, sir, he was a godsend with helping me maintain my cover story, plus he seemed to know everybody. Hell, there was this one night after I’d known him about a month when he took me to at least a dozen pubs and introduced me to all the landlords and anyone who was anyone. The general consensus was that if I was friends with Pat then I was someone they could trust.”
“Any terrorist connection that you know of?”
“I don’t think so. He didn’t seem to command that respect, that fear the locals have when those guys are around. I know he knows who most of them are—he even pointed some of them out to me as people to avoid.”
“So, he was your source for that information you passed along. I think we need to have a word with him.” R studied Nolan’s reaction intently. “Maybe he could become an informer?”
“Not a chance, sir. He wouldn’t last a week before he blew his cover. We’d find his body on some country road wired with explosives. He’s actually a nice guy. If I thought we could get him out without attracting attention, I would suggest that. As it is, if my cover was burned, he is going to be torn to shreds by IRA interrogators, and the only thing that might save him is that he knows bugger all.”
R shrugged. “Sorry, Terry, that’s not your problem anymore. Anyway, we’ve been keeping a distant eye on them, but now that you’re out, it’s time to rattle a few cages. Now, back to Ciaran Sullivan. You are saying that Walsh just took it upon himself to introduce you?”
“No, sir, she was with a couple of her girlfriends that he knew. They ca—”
Again, R interrupted. “Were they already in the pub when you arrived or did they come in later?”
This is when he started to bend the truth. Terry knew what R was getting at. He was trying to figure out if the seemingly chance meeting had been arranged. What Terry didn’t tell him was that he had seen Ciaran a few weeks earlier shopping with some friends near the city center and had been intrigued. The sky had been a dull gray, which seemed to make him notice her even more. Her hair was long, past her shoulders, and had a slight curl to it. Even though it was black, it seemed to shine in the light. But what really got to him was her laugh. When she laughed at her friend’s joke, it was as if the whole street seemed to rejoice. Unlike most of the locals, who tended to have a permanent pasty-white complexion, her skin had a light olive glow. He remembered thinking that there must have been some Spanish blood in her lineage. He had asked Patrick about her, but his friend had quickly claimed to have no knowledge of who she might be. He had known his friend was lying but, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out why. Terry found out much later that Patrick knew who her father was and of his reputation, so was just trying to protect the man he considered a friend.
“They arrived after we did, sir.”
“But you must have known who she was.”
“Actually, not until later in the evening.”
“Her father is the local Belfast commander. Surely they covered this in your briefings, for Christ’s sake.”
“Sorry to disappoint, sir, but no. Obviously I knew of her father, but they glossed over his family in the briefing. The only thing of consequence that they mentioned was that his wife had been killed back in ’81 in an attempted assassination by the UVF.”
R made a tight fist with his right hand. “I’ll be sure to have a word with our briefers about that. So, when you found out, you pursued her anyway?”
“I looked on it as a possible way to gather information and, through her group of friends, unhindered access to the social scene.” That, of course, was total shit. He pursued her because she was, in his mind, perfection, and the fact that she was into him was icing on the cake. He had “accidentally” bumped into her when she was leaving the bathroom in the pub and somehow summoned the nerve to ask her out. She had looked around nervously to make sure no one was in earshot and told him to meet her the next day at the Queen’s University library. He had found her with her nose buried in one of the Greek classics and she had followed him down one of the rows. She had wasted no time in kissing him passionately, which had thrown him for a bit of a loop. It was then she told him her father would quite literally have him shot if he found out they were dating. After the kiss she had planted on him, he really didn’t care. Their surreptitious affair had been consummated that very weekend at a small hotel in the countryside away from prying eyes.
“You kept the relationship secret?”
“Absolutely, sir. After all, I don’t have a death wish.”
“Was she of any use?”
“Not really. Her father keeps his dealings very separate from his home life.”
“Why not end it if she was a dead end?”
“It doesn’t pay to piss off the daughter of a Belfast commander, sir.”
R burst out laughing at that and Terry gladly joined in.
“You could have ended up with your balls on your chin, laddie.”
“Precisely, sir,” he replied, trying to suppress the grin that was rapidly spreading across his face.
“Well, you certainly must have left an impression.”
“How so, sir?”
“You should know that, in an attempt to protect your cover, we have you listed in the intensive-care burns unit of the Royal Victoria Hospital. The story goes that you ran into the same chaps that took out Martin, and just for shits and giggles, after shooting you, they poured a little petrol over you and struck a match. After all, we had to have a reason for your absence.”
Bloody hell, she must be frantic. “What’s that to do with Ciaran, sir?”
“It seems that after she found out where you were, she’s barely left the hospital. Although she’s not been allowed in your room, with the excuse that they have to maintain a sterile environment while keeping you in an induced coma.”
Nolan closed his eyes for a second when he realized what the cover story meant to his future. I’m sorry, my love. I’m so very sorry.
“The problem, Terry, is that we can’t really know if your cover was blown or if they just got wind of the pickup. I am personally leaning toward the second explanation because if they had found out who you were, you would have been dead weeks ago. We most probably would have found you in an alley after being beaten and then capped in the back of the head.”
He could feel the anger building, but he maintained control, barely. “Who knew I was in Belfast, sir? I’d like to have a little word with them . . . if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Not necessary or warranted, Nolan. They have already been . . .” He paused as a thin smile crossed his lips. “Interviewed.”
Terry knew what it meant if the head of the inquisitors got his claws into you, and it wouldn’t have been a pleasant experience.
“There were only about ten people who knew where you were and what you were up to. Even the PM didn’t know. She didn’t want to know.”
“Then there is a mole. I would be more than happy to help find the bastard.”
“I’m sorry, Terry but that’s not your job, it’s mine,” R replied testily. “I guess the big question is what we do with you now. I’m afraid you are going to succumb to your injuries and then we will fly back your remains. There will be a closed casket at your funeral and a cremation, of course. Can’t risk someone doing a little late-night digging and making sure it’s really you down there, can we?”
“What about my sister? She’ll have to be told that I’m not really dead.”
“After the funeral. Thing is, Terry, there needs to be a touch of realism to sell this and grief, real grief, is a great selling point. Does your sister know what you were up to?”
“God, no. She thought I had left the army when I joined Five. I told her I was planning on writing a book about the Troubles and how the Catholics had been screwed over for years by the Protestants. I informed her I was going to be living in Belfast while doing the research—she said I was out of my mind, by the way—so we are good there. It’s just the British Army stuff you need to talk to her about. I would like her and her family put in witness protection after a short while and shipped off somewhere like Canada or New Zealand. After all, we can’t risk the chance that I had been burned and not just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“We can arrange that. I will even have some of our lads set up some covert surveillance until we can make the move.”
“So what have you got planned for me?”
“Obviously, Belfast is out of the question as well as Northern Ireland in general, at least for a few years. First, I think we should send you on a nice, long leave for a couple of months. We have a place down in the Turks and Caicos Islands on Providenciales that is available. It’s bloody nice. It’s right next door to a new all-inclusive resort on Grace Bay, which you will have access to so you won’t need to lift a finger.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an overstuffed manila envelope, which he handed over.
Terry looked inside and found a new passport, birth certificate, and driver’s license in the name of Terrance Williams, as well as credit cards, a checkbook, cash, and an airline ticket. “At least I get to keep my first name, sir.”
R smiled. “Thought you might like that, son. It’s for practical reasons. We’ve found that it’s much easier not to fuck up during conversation if you keep it.”
“So, when do I leave?”
“In a couple of days. I have to head back to London tonight, so I’m afraid I won’t be around, but feel free to have the run of the house until then. One of our people will drive you to Heathrow.”
Both men stood and R shook his hand, warmly. “It has been a pleasure, Terry, and thanks for doing one hell of a job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
R started walking back into the house then stopped and looked at his agent. “This Ciaran business. I can’t emphasize this enough. If you try and make any contact with her or anyone that she knows, not only will you be putting her life and the lives of others that knew you in danger, but you will be done with us, on your own, and that includes your sister’s family. You know what that would mean, yes?”
“Yes, sir. I’d be truly fucked, sir.”
8
acela train to new york, april 2018
After spending thirty minutes observing the station to make sure he didn’t have any unexpected surprises waiting for him and that he could board the train without security checking his bag, Nolan sat in the rearmost train car and in the rearmost forward-facing seat. It was something he had done for years and now was second nature. Like a mafioso, when he went out to eat, he always chose the table at the rear of the restaurant, in a corner, near the kitchen. He wanted to know the comings and goings of the other patrons and have a quick exit from the building; no point making it easy for anyone who might want to mess up his day. Being on a train was a little different, but not by much. The easy exit wasn’t really an option but at least no one could approach him from the rear. And he would spot a frontal assault coming from half a car-length away.
He had bought the obligatory Starbucks coffee, a venti macchiato loaded with sugar for energy, as well as a bacon, gouda, and egg breakfast sandwich. He wolfed down the sandwich and drank a third of the coffee before starting the day’s urgent tasks. First he had to send out a warning flare to his other Parishioners. Given that his boat had been compromised and his attackers—presumably remnants of the IRA—knew his real name, he had to be sure his Parishioners were safe. Terry dug out one of the cell phones from his duffel and a number of SIM cards that were in small labeled Ziploc bags, one for each agent. Inserting one of the SIMs he sent the first text message.
Hi Michael, are we still heading up to Moosehead Lake this weekend for a few beers and hopefully some good fishing?
Now I have to wait fifteen minutes. If everything was okay, the reply would be, “Sorry buddy I can’t make it. I have to help the father-in-law with some stuff at his house.” If the shit had hit the fan, the reply would be, “Great, looking forward to it,” or no reply at all. In this case, after fifteen minutes, nothing, so against protocol he gave his Parishioner another ten—still nothing. “Oh shit,” he mumbled before quickly removing the SIM card and tossing it back in its Ziploc.
After three more tries with different messages to other Parishioners and still no reply, he knew they had all been burned. Goddamn it! What the hell is going on? Putting his frustration aside, he tried the others with similar results. How the fuck could they all have been burned? It’s not like we ever really met in person.
And they hadn’t, except once when he had first come over to the States. These people had been on the payroll for a very long time and been run by various Vicars, who, for security reasons, he didn’t know and didn’t want to. Terry was old school when it came to making contact. Any monies paid were sent to various overseas bank accounts. Those payments were then transferred by the Parishioners in small amounts to US banks, but not the banks that held their regular accounts. All communication was done by dead drop or brush past, which he was excellent at. All brush-past contact was carried out in locations that were packed with people, such as baseball or football games, or the subway. These passes and dead drops were arranged with various signals such as chalk marks on a lamppost or mailbox or a flyer on a notice board. Terry even placed messages in the articles he wrote if it was urgent. On rare occasions, he used the classified sections of local papers that were impossible for anyone to read without the one-time keys his Parishioners had been supplied.
He knew some Vicars used email and other online messaging applications, but he didn’t trust them. He had an inkling of what the Government Communications Headquarters in the UK was capable of, and he felt certain that the NSA was ahead of them in the game of snooping into other people’s mail.
He sat for a second and considered his next move. Obviously, he had to call headquarters and report his predicament, but he was beginning to get that what-the-fuck-happened feeling that he’d had after nearly getting blown to shit in Belfast back in the day. Please, God, don’t let this be a bloody mole. But even if there was a mole, how the hell had they found out about Shae?
Unlike his other Parishioners, Shae was completely off the books. Only two people knew about her, himself and K. R had steadily climbed the ranks and was now director general of MI5, a position that traditionally was known throughout the organization as K. And I sure as hell know K isn’t a mole.
Terry and Shae had met in 2014 completely by chance in an out-of-the-way Thai restaurant called Archa off the Highgate Road near Hampstead Heath. He had been told about the place by a reporter friend and decided to give it a try. After being shown to a table, at the rear of the restaurant per usual, he had looked up from the menu and was surprised to see a fellow member of MI5 sitting with a gorgeous blond. There was something about her that brought back memories of a better time, but also a time in his life of terrible sadness. He had thought about walking over to their table and saying hello, but they seemed very engrossed with each other’s company, so he had decided to give it a pass. Through snippets of their conversation he had gathered that the girl was American—somewhere in the Midwest was his guess—and she was wearing a ring. It didn’t seem to be a wedding ring or an engagement ring. I wonder if she’s been checked out by our masters. He was halfway through a huge bowl of the most delicious tom kha soup he had tasted in years when his fellow agent noticed him.
At first there was shock as the couple quickly spoke quietly with each other; then, surprisingly, they both rose and approached his table.
“Hello, Terry.” He was still using the name K had given him, but he’d become Terry Williams, his permanent identity now. “Not on the job, are you?”
Terry laughed. “Sorry to disappoint but no, not tonight. Just out grabbing some delicious Thai food.”
“Good, that’s good. I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine. Shae, this is Terry Williams, he’s a reporter mate from way back. Terry, this is Shae.”
Terry stood and shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Shae.” He raised her hands and took a good look at her ring. “I guess you may be a little closer than good friends.” The young lady blushed and Terry laughed again. “Don’t worry, guys, your secret’s safe with me.” He was looking in the eyes of his fellow operative when he spoke.
“Thanks, Terry, I appreciate that,” replied his compadre. “Shae, can you give me a second? I have to have a little chat with Terry for a minute.”
The girl flashed them both a smile and returned to their table. Terry sat and took another mouthful of soup before speaking.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he hissed. “A goddamn Yank, you’re fucking engaged to a Yank. Our masters will lose their goddamn minds.”
