‘Of course, I missed you. I always hoped you were well, and we’d meet again but not under these circumstances. When you hadn’t been in touch, I thought you’d left all this behind you. I heard a rumour you’d divorced Brendan.’
‘Yes. When he went inside for that armed robbery, I was able to push it through. I sold up and moved back to Belfast. I live there now on the Lisburn Road.’
Reece knew it was because of the information provided by Mike that he’d been able to set up the operation in Newry that caught Brendan McAuley coming out of the town Post Office with a balaclava on his head and a gun and a bag of money in his hand. Reece had promised Mike that they wouldn’t shoot Brendan unless he gave them no option; he didn’t. When he walked out of the Post Office it seemed to him, his luck had run out when a police patrol had been passing at the same time. The operation had been set up to allow the young getaway driver to escape. This would reinforce the feeling that the appearance of a passing police patrol was just bad luck. As Brendan had carried out the robbery on his own accord, more fool him. There was no inquiry by the PIRA internal investigation team; commonly known as the Nutting Squad. Brendan was given a beating when he was on remand for doing the job without permission and losing a perfectly good pistol.
John, the waiter came again, and took their food order then, leaving with a slight bow, returned to the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry I was unable to keep in touch. I’ve missed our chats, but I’ve left the force a while now,’ Reece said.
‘But you still work in the game?’
‘Yes, but for a bigger company with a bigger remit.’
‘That’s good because you’re going to need that bigger company with the bigger remit,’ she said with a smile that didn’t show her teeth.
‘Is it anything to do with Sean Costello?’
‘Yes, and this time he’s mixing business with the Islamic crowd.’
Reece didn’t expect that. Republicans and Islamic Jihad usually kept away from each other, both ideologies went about their own terrorism from different points of view.
‘In what way?’ asked Reece.
‘Well, to bring you up to date I must go back some time in my story. What I’m going to tell you, some of which you may already know, starts in Iran and Lebanon some years ago. When Sean Costello joined the Provisional IRA, it was quickly noticed how good a shot he was and how ruthless he could be. At that time, the movement was very closely associated with other terrorist groups such as Black September, Basque Separatists, and the German Baader-Meinhof gang. The top players in these organisations were sent to Arab training camps throughout the Middle East, sponsored by the likes of Gaddafi and Iran. It was at these camps the best the terror groups had to offer went to finishing school; polishing their skills and making them deadly killers. This is where Costello learnt to be an even more efficient killer with all kinds of weapons and explosives. Being that kind of boiling pot for the many terrorist groups of that time, it was inevitable that friendships would be forged across the boundaries of the different ideologies. Friendships that bring me here today. I have to tell you now, one of those forged friendships will be visiting this country soon with a deadly intent.’
Reece hesitated before he took another sip of the cold Chablis.
‘I presume Costello is one side of this deadly friendship. Most of what you’ve already said, especially where Costello is concerned indicates he is. I know only too well his particular skills.’ As Reece spoke, he instinctively felt his right shoulder with his left hand, squeezing the muscle gently.
‘Correct, and this is where the other half comes in. Have you ever heard the name Sharon Lyndsey?’
Reece had not only heard of her; he’d been given her file by Jim Broad when he first joined the Department. The White Widow.
Reece had been surprised to see that she’d been born in the town of Banbridge in Northern Ireland in 1983. Reece had been living in the same town at that time while working in the Newry Special Branch office.
The file had told him that Lyndsey’s father had been a British soldier and during her early years, she’d moved to England with the family where she’d grown up and converted to Islam. She’d married one of the London July Seven suicide bombers, Germaine Lindsay, and earned the White Widow moniker. She’d claimed not to have known anything about the bomb attacks, or her husband’s involvement with extreme Islamic Jihad, and the police had accepted this.
The file went on to say that she’d taken her young family to South Africa and then to Kenya where she became an important cog in the ranks of Al Shabab and al-Qaeda. She was involved in organising the Islamic attacks in the region. She also appeared to be deeply involved in the financing of the terrorist campaigns.
Mary sipped her wine while watching Reece for his reaction.
‘Yes, I’ve heard of her, and from what I’ve heard she’s a nasty piece of work. What’s all this about?’
‘As I said, it’s a bit of a long story. Somewhere along the line, she and Costello crossed paths, most likely in one of the training camps they both attended, God knows, but they met. Now they’re working together to attack this country, a spectacular as you might call it.’
‘How do you know this?’ asked Reece.
‘One week ago, I met up with Kevin O’Hagan in Belfast. To say he was angry is an understatement. He told me that working with the Brits and Unionists was always going to be difficult
