Stephen Leather
Dead Men
Irish Republican Army Ceasefire Statement
31 August 1994
Recognising the potential of the current situation and in order to enhance the democratic process and underlying our definitive commitment to its success, the leadership of the IRA have decided that as of midnight, 31 August, there will be a complete cessation of military operations. All our units have been instructed accordingly.
At this crossroads the leadership of the IRA salutes and commends our volunteers, other activists, our supporters and the political prisoners who have sustained the struggle against all odds for the past 25 years. Your courage, determination and sacrifice have demonstrated that the freedom and the desire for peace based on a just and lasting settlement cannot be crushed. We remember all those who have died for Irish freedom and we reiterate our commitment to our republican objectives. Our struggle has seen many gains and advances made by nationalists and for the democratic position.
We believe that an opportunity to secure a just and lasting settlement has been created. We are therefore entering into a new situation in a spirit of determination and confidence, determined that the injustices which created this conflict will be removed and confident in the strength and justice of our struggle to achieve this.
Two years later.
28 August 1996
There were five in the car, and between them they had killed more than a dozen men. The man in the front passenger seat was Joe McFee, the oldest of the group and the most experienced. He had killed two British soldiers, three policemen and a drug-dealer, and had slept like a baby after each murder. He had a kindly face and ruddy cheeks, like a beardless Father Christmas, and the only sign of his tension was a tendency to crack his knuckles.
The clouds had been threatening rain as the men had driven across East Belfast, and now the first flecks hit the windscreen. Willie McEvoy flipped the wipers on and they swished back and forth, leaving greasy streaks on the glass. The digital clock set into the dashboard told him it was just before eight and there were few other cars on the street. They had chosen the time carefully. Late enough to miss the rush-hour, early enough that five men driving around wouldn’t attract the wrong sort of attention. ‘Great weather for ducks,’ he mumbled.
Gerry Lynn checked the action of his semi-automatic. It was his operation. He’d researched the target and planned the hit, and he’d gone to the Army Council for permission. It had been readily granted. The target had long been a thorn in the side of the IRA and they would be happy to see the back of him. Lynn was sitting behind McFee. As leader of the group, his rightful place was in the front, but he’d wanted to show respect to McFee, who had been his mentor for more than a decade. McFee had seen him throwing rocks and petrol bombs at British Army Land Rovers, taken him to one side and told him that there were more fruitful ways of striking at the occupying power. He had taught Lynn to kill, and Lynn had been a willing pupil.
Sitting directly behind McFee was Adrian Dunne. He was in his early thirties, and all muscle. During the day he worked as a drayman, delivering beer barrels around the city, while most evenings he was in the gym, lifting weights. Dunne had been Lynn’s first choice for the operation. They had worked together several times and there had never been any problems. Dunne slid his gun out from its holster under his left armpit, ejected the magazine, then slotted it back into place.
‘Nearly there, boys,’ said McEvoy. The rain was falling faster now and he upped the pace of the windscreen wipers. It was a good sign, thought Lynn. It would cut down visibility and keep people off the streets. He took a black woollen ski mask from his pocket and pulled it over his face. Dunne did the same.
Sitting between Lynn and Dunne was Noel Kinsella, the youngest of the group, barely out of his teens. He had the looks of a young Pierce Brosnan, with jet black hair and a strong jaw. He was breathing heavily, his eyes flicking between McFee and Lynn. ‘Are you all right there, Noel?’ asked Lynn.
‘I’m grand,’ said Kinsella.
‘It’s the boy’s blooding,’ said McFee. ‘He’ll make his dad proud.’ Kinsella’s father was in the Maze prison, serving life for the murder of two Ulster Defence Force activists.
‘Put your mask on,lad,’said Lynn,‘and check your weapon.’
Kinsella did as he was told. McEvoy brought the Saab to a gentle halt at the roadside. They were in Casaeldona Park, a suburb with well-tended gardens and mid-range saloon cars parked in the driveways. Lynn had spent weeks watching the semi-detached house and knew that once the man who lived there arrived home he was usually in for the night. The target was careful. He always parked his car in the garage and used the internal door to enter the house. The sitting room was at the front, as was the first-floor bedroom where he and his wife slept. Their young son was at the back of the house in a room overlooking a large garden. An old couple lived in the house to the left. The husband was almost deaf and the wife was in a wheelchair. At the house on the right,the middle- aged owners had just left for a two-week holiday in Spain. No one would interfere with the men and what they had planned.
Lynn took a deep breath. His heart was pounding – with anticipation, not fear or anxiety. McFee put on his ski mask, then massaged his gloved hands. He looked at Lynn expectantly. ‘Let’s do it,’ said Lynn. ‘And remember, Carter’s a hard bastard. Don’t give him any room to manoeuvre.’
McFee got out and walked to the rear of the car. McEvoy pressed the button to unlock the boot and gunned the engine. ‘Easy, Willie,’ said Lynn. ‘This isn’t Formula One.’ McFee reached into the boot and took out a sledgehammer.
‘In we go then,’ said Lynn. ‘Let’s go get the bastard.’ He opened the passenger door and climbed out of the Saab. Kinsella followed and stood with his gun held close to his leg. Dunne got out at the other side as McFee walked down the path, cradling the sledgehammer. Lynn and Kinsella hurried after him.
Lynn looked over his shoulder and saw Dunne heading for the front door. There was a narrow strip of grass between the garage and the fence and McFee squeezed through. Lynn motioned for Kinsella to follow McFee. Kinsella’s eyes were wide and he was panting. Lynn squeezed his shoulder. ‘You’re doing fine,’ he said. Kinsella rushed after McFee. Lynn followed.
At the back of the garage a small paved yard was overlooked by a large kitchen window but the lights were off inside. A motion-sensitive security light was fixed high on the wall but McFee stopped before he stepped into its range. Kinsella and Lynn joined him. They crouched in silence. Lynn looked at his watch and counted off the seconds. On the other side of the city, a man should have been making a call from a phone box. They waited.
They stiffened as they heard the phone ring inside the house, then someone answer it. Dunne pressed the doorbell. It buzzed. He pressed it again. They heard Carter shout,‘Get the door, will you, love?’ and Lynn pointed at McFee. He walked quickly across the yard to the kitchen door. The halogen light clicked on.
They heard Carter on the phone, asking who was calling.
McFee raised the sledgehammer and swung it. The wood round the lock splintered. He stepped aside and Lynn kicked the kitchen door wide, then rushed in, his gun arm outstretched. As he reached the door that led to the hallway he saw Carter standing with the phone to his ear, a surprised look on his face. He pointed the gun at Carter’s chest. ‘Put down the phone and put your hands behind your head.’
Carter replaced the receiver.
His wife was standing by the front door. She was a good five years younger than her husband, with long red hair framing a freckled face. She was wearing a pale green silk dressing-gown with a dragon on the back. ‘Open the door, now!’ Lynn barked at her.
