Dermott Lynch dropped a coin in the slot and dialled Eamonn Foley’s number. The two handguns were tucked into the back of his trousers, hidden by his jacket. They pressed into the small of his back as he leaned against the side of the call box and waited for Foley to answer the phone. Everything depended on how he reacted to the sound of Lynch’s voice. If he was in on it, Foley would be surprised and Lynch doubted if he was good enough an actor to hide that.
Foley picked up the receiver. ‘Yeah?’
‘Eamonn. It’s Dermott.’
‘Hiya, Dermott. You on the piss?’
‘Yeah. I had a few pints down the Warwick.’
‘Feeling no pain?’
‘Aye, you could say that.’ Lynch couldn’t sense any tension in Foley’s voice. ‘Has anyone been asking for me?’
‘No, mate. You expecting someone?’
‘No phone calls?’
‘What’s wrong?’ Foley’s voice was suddenly serious. Lynch decided that he could trust the man. Besides, he had no other choice.
‘I’m in deep shit, Eamonn. Can you get my stuff and bring it to me?’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I don’t have time to explain. Just put everything in the suitcase and bring it to Edgware Road tube station.’
‘The tube’s not running this time of night.’
‘I know, I know. I’ll be waiting outside. And Eamonn, make sure you’re not followed.’
‘Jesus, Dermott. Who’d be following me?’
‘Just be careful. Ten minutes, okay?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Ten, Eamonn. You can make it if you leave right now. What sort of car have you got?’
‘Ford Sierra. Blue.’
‘Leave straightaway, okay?’ Lynch replaced the receiver. He waited exactly one minute and then dialled Foley’s number again. It rang out and Lynch cut the connection immediately. Foley wasn’t calling anyone. That at least was a good sign.
Lynch jumped as a siren went off and the call box was lit up by a flashing blue light. Instinctively he reached behind him, going for one of the guns, but then he smiled as he saw the ambulance rush by. ‘Easy, boy,’ he whispered to himself. He kept the phone pressed against his ear as he waited for Foley. He could see the front of the Underground station from his vantage point, its entrances now closed behind metal gates, and he was safer in the call box than he would be out in the open.
Foley arrived exactly eight minutes after Lynch’s phone call, which Lynch took as another good sign. He slipped into the passenger seat and told Foley to drive. ‘Where to?’ asked Foley.
‘Just drive.’ Lynch twisted around and quickly checked through the contents of the suitcase on the back seat. His passport was tucked into a side pocket, along with an envelope containing five hundred pounds. He took out a green pullover and closed the case.
‘Something strange happened just after you phoned,’ said Foley as he drove down the Edgware Road. ‘The phone rang, then went dead.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Lynch. He bent his head to look in the wing mirror.
‘There’s no one following us,’ said Foley. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened? Maida Vale was swarming with cops.’
‘Four guys in a Transit attacked me.’ Lynch pulled out the wallet he’d taken from the driver. There was a driving licence and a Barclaycard inside. ‘They were from Belfast.’
‘UFF?’
‘The driver was from the Falls Road. Name of Sean O’Ryan. Does that sound like a Prod to you, Eamonn?’
Foley shook his head. ‘Doesn’t make sense, does it?’
Lynch pointed to a car park. ‘Drive in there and let me out,’ he said.
‘Don’t be daft. You’re safe in my flat.’
‘I don’t think so. I’m going to have to lie low.’
‘Okay, you know best.’ Foley drove into the car park and turned to face Lynch.
‘I’m sorry about this, Eamonn.’
‘Hey, don’t worry about. .’ His face fell when he saw the pistol pointed at his chest. ‘Don’t,’ said Foley. Lynch quickly wrapped the pullover around the gun to muffle the noise. ‘Dermott, please. You can’t.’
‘I don’t want to, Eamonn, but I don’t have any choice.’ The muffled bang would be loud in the confines of the car, but Lynch doubted if the sound would travel too far.
‘Let’s talk about this, Dermott. You can’t just shoot me.’
Lynch wasn’t happy at having to kill Foley, but McCormack had given him no choice. The IRA had passed a death sentence on him, and Lynch would do whatever it took to survive. ‘I’ve just killed four of the boys,’ said Lynch. ‘I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but I’m a marked man. And they’ll use you to get to me.’
‘Shit, I don’t know where you’re going, Dermott. Just run. I’ll not say anything. I swear on my mother’s life.’ Foley’s voice was wavering, his eyes wide and fearful. ‘Please.’
Lynch looked at Foley. He gnawed his lower lip. Foley was right. He didn’t know anything. If he’d been in on it, they’d probably have waited for Lynch inside Foley’s flat.
‘Take the car, Dermott. Take my wallet. Take everything. Just don’t kill me.’
Lynch’s finger tightened on the trigger, but something held him back. The only information Foley had was that Lynch had cut his hair and shaved off his beard, but McCormack wasn’t stupid, he’d have considered that possibility anyway. His new appearance hadn’t fooled the hit team, and it wouldn’t fool anyone else they sent after him.
‘Please,’ begged Foley as if sensing Lynch’s change of heart. ‘You can keep the car. I won’t even report it stolen.’
Lynch licked his lips. He was about to agree when Foley lunged to the side, grabbing for the gun. Lynch fired instinctively. The bullet caught Foley in the throat, ripping through the soft flesh and cartilage and lodging in his lower jaw. Foley tried to speak but his voice box was shattered and all he managed was a grunting sound. Blood frothed from the wound and his chest heaved, then his eyes glassed over and he slumped forward. Lynch grabbed him by the collar and hauled him away from the steering wheel, keeping his body off the horn.
‘You stupid bastard,’ said Lynch sorrowfully. ‘You stupid, stupid bastard.’ He climbed out of the car, and when he was satisfied that the car park was deserted, he pulled Foley’s body out of the driver’s seat and dragged it around to the boot. After he’d covered the corpse with a tartan blanket he locked the boot and wiped Foley’s blood off the front seat with a rag.
Lynch sat behind the wheel as he considered his options. Going back to Ireland was out of the question, he wouldn’t last ten minutes on IRA territory. He wanted to confront McCormack, but that too would be a death sentence. He had no choice but to hide, but Lynch didn’t like the idea of running to ground like a hunted fox. He smiled as another possibility sprang to mind.
He left the car park and found a call box. He dropped a pound coin in the slot and dialled the number in Dublin. Luke McDonough answered on the third ring. ‘How did you get on?’ asked Lynch.
‘No sweat,’ answered McDonough. ‘They were in contact with Swansea ATC most of the way. Since that Chinook went down on the Mull of Kintyre and killed all those intelligence and security chiefs, MoD chopper pilots tend to play by the rules more often than not. Trouble is, they didn’t land at an airfield, civilian or military. They flew close to Swansea airspace but landed somewhere to the north. All I’ve got is a map reference.’
‘That’s fine, Luke. Just let me get a pen.’ Lynch took a black ballpoint pen from his inside jacket pocket. He didn’t have any paper but there were several postcards advertising massage services stuck to the call box wall. He took one down and turned it over. ‘Shoot,’ he told McDonough. McDonough read out the numbers and Lynch wrote
