FEARLESS FINN'S MURDEROUS ADVENTURE

  FEARLESS FINN'S

  MURDEROUS ADVENTURE

  by

  MIKE COONY

  Copyright © Mike Coony, 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

  without the written consent of the author.

  Kindle Edition

  1

  IRELAND: 28th NOVEMBER, 1983

  I'm searching the wood around the abandoned farm like a clucking mother hen looking for scraps. Not exactly the stuff a gun-toting IRA commander likes to admit, nevertheless, it’s a whole lot closer to the truth.

  I broke cover ten minutes ago to make a last-minute sweep of the area before we deliver the hostage back to his family. I’m looking for anything incriminating – anything that might carry fingerprints, or be used as forensic evidence – that could lead back to my band of bank-robbing, mortar-bombing, knee-capping terrorists.

  Without warning, the quiet wood exploded into chaos. Automatic fire, single high-velocity rounds and sphincter-breaching blasts of Mills Bombs are ripping low branches from the trees.

  I dropped out of the barrage into a damp bed of fragrant pine needles between two fallen trees. The tree trunks offer some cover, but the pine needles don’t smother the pungent aroma of fiery cordite.

  Cautiously raising my head, I took a look around. It seems I’ve got meself caught in crossfire between the army and the Gardaí. Guards in dark blue uniforms are advancing through the silver birches on my right. To my left, four or five Army Rangers in khaki body armour are dashing across a clearing in the Scots pines. The soldiers are hard enough to spot, but the guards stand out against the silver birch.

  For my sins, I’m in charge of this sorry mess. If the lads back at the farmhouse have any brains they’ll clear out now; misplaced heroics and a rescue attempt are the last things I need. I’ve been in worse situations than this, and I got out in one piece. Well, almost one piece….

  ———

  There’s nothing as tedious as having drinks slid down a bar counter to you, with a wink and a nod, from some eejit who thinks he knows you’re involved in the movement. These assholes like giving the impression they’re connected to a real volunteer. They buy copies of An Phoblacht – the Republican newspaper – shove them in their back pockets so everyone can see, and then let on they’re helping the Irish Republican movement.

  Jaysus, give me strength! Is it any wonder I took meself off to raise money for our war against the Brits?

  I’m in charge of an active service unit (ASU) that identifies, targets, kidnaps and ransoms fat cat employees of the multinational companies springing up all over Ireland. Thanks to the tax-free holidays on offer from our gombeen government, this is much easier fund-raising than robbing banks or hitting armoured vehicles.

  The flood of new recruits joining PIRA includes a few psycho cases, and I have to make sure our new lads don’t rough up the hostages. It takes a big lad like me to keep them in their place, or so our Chief of Staff keeps telling me. I keep telling him that I’m not cut out to be a babysitter for a gang of thugs, but so far we’ve agreed to disagree. How long this accommodation will last I’ve no idea, but I suspect it won’t be long.

  This time, our hostage is the vice-president of a Clonmel-based American pharmaceutical facility. He’s being kept in a dug-out with cold running water and a hidden, silent-run generator supplying untraceable electricity. The dug-out is in an abandoned farmyard outside a town where the locals, farmers and woodsmen mind their own business – especially where the Provos are concerned.

  I wasn’t involved in lifting or moving this hostage, but I arrived on the scene after the lads got him tucked away. As the commander it’s my responsibility to take charge once I’m on-site.

  “Has he been fed?” I asked the lads.

  “No.”

  “Hurry up and prepare something for him to eat. We’re only letting on to be the UVF, we don’t have to behave like those savages. Get on with it!” I ordered them.

  Through the spy hole in the door I explained to the hostage why it’s in his own interest not to see the faces of his captors. When he was seated by the far wall with the hood over his head I unlocked the door. I slipped inside and put his sandwich and a cup of tea in a cubby-hole carved out of the earthen wall of the dug-out.

  “You’re being held for ransom by the Ulster Volunteer Force. If the money we’re demanding is paid, as we expect it will be…since you and the other senior members of your company enjoy insurance cover in these matters…you’ll be released. In the meantime, you’ll be treated well,” I told him, in my best imitation-Ulster accent.

  “How much are you asking for me, exactly?”

  “About one per cent of your group’s weekly turnover.”

  “Is that all?” he asked, sounding disappointed…as if he feels he’s worth a lot more.

  “That’s it. I’m leaving now. You can remove your hood and eat when you hear the door close.”

  “Wait…please wait. What about my family? My wife and children must be worried sick. Do they know where I am, that I’m alive?” he asked, now sounding a bit frantic.

  “I’ll get a message to your family tonight….I give you my word on that. I’ll tell them that you’re missing them and are looking forward to being home, and that you’re in good spirits…all considered.”

  “Thank you…thank you.”

  “Don’t remove your hood until you hear the door close behind me, and then enjoy your sandwich.” I watched him for a moment through the spy hole. He removed the hood and looked towards the door, to make sure it was closed. Then he stood up and stretched his legs before getting his tea and sandwich.

  After my own meal of steak and chips I drove into Clonmel. C3 will be monitoring all calls to the house, so I’ll have to make it quick.

  Mrs. Pearce answered the phone. I told her that her husband will be returned safe and sound within twenty-four hours – if we receive the money from his employer. Before the call could be traced, I passed on his love and said he was looking forward to being home with his family. She was sobbing as I cut the call; it made me think of how my own mother would react. I smothered that thought by remembering that it wasn’t us who started this dirty war.

  Within sixteen hours of the kidnap we got word from the lads monitoring the drop site that the ransom was paid in full. Our hostage’s employer had the money dropped off by a cruiser on the Carrick-on-Suir waterway in Kilsheelan village. And despite what the hostage feels, it’s a big pile of cash…at least we think so.

  I told the lads we can all go home now. It’s just a matter of getting the hostage out and clearing off without drawing any attention to ourselves…or leaving behind any tell tale evidence.

  ———

  My beard is soaking wet inside my balaclava, but catching a cold is the least of my worries. With the bullets and Mills Bombs flying, and the guards closing in, I’ve a bit more than a wet chin to fret about.

  There’s no fire coming from the direction of the farmhouse. If the lads have obeyed my orders the hostage is in the back of the Ford Transit by now, on his way to the Marlfield Road on the outskirts of Clonmel Town. He mightn’t realise it yet, but he’s on his way home. And where for Jaysus’s sake am I going to go?

  I ducked my head down to wipe the rain from my eyes with the back of my fist. As I raised my head a young guard dropped less than ten metres in front of me. I didn’t see the bullet exit his body, but I can clearly see where a round ripped into the back of his waterproof coat. In the crisp winter air a wisp of smoke is rising from the hole.

  The dead lad has a boyish face; he looks fresh out of Templemore. He’s far too young and untested to carry a firearm, o
r to be involved in a fire fight. The distinctive epaulets on his garda uniform are a sharp contrast against the reddish-brown of the forest floor beneath his lifeless body.

  With the young guard down there’s a lull in the firing. I hear some gobshite with a Limerick accent farther up the woods yelling out my nickname.

  “Come on Fearless! Come on ya bastard! We know you’re there with your head buried in the shite and your arse sticking up in the air! Come out with yer hands above yer head! There’s a good fellah! Do it now, no one’s going ta shoot you!”

  Not daring to lift my head from the bed of wet pine needles, I flattened meself into the ground. Like feck they aren’t going to shoot me. I wouldn’t bet on it. Who told the Gardaí and the army where to look for us? How did they hear I’m involved? And how did they get my nickname? Fearless Finn Flynn…I like the nickname, but not hearing it yelled by some Limerick arsehole in a garda uniform. If they didn’t get my nickname from one of our own, they must’ve got it from the Yanks. But why would an American informer use the nickname given to me by Mayor Daley of Chicago after I bedded the newly-wed wife of the pugnacious junior senator from Ohio?

  What a fecking mess. The guards will never admit they’ve shot one of their own. And no one will ever believe that I didn’t do it…even though he’s been hit in the back. They’ll blame me, nothing surer, and they’ll hunt me to the ends of the Earth. The guards are a bit like us in that regard. No one’s death is forgotten, and they never stop looking for the culprit. Someone has to pay.

  The fact that my Beretta 93R Parabellum automatic assault pistol hasn’t fired a single shot doesn’t matter a jot. I’ve shot no one. But on another day, in another place, I couldn’t make this claim. That’s the problem. As if I’m not in enough shite already, now that the Gardaí and the Rangers – the best soldiers in the Irish Army – are on my case.

  Jaysus, it’s bad enough that they’re searching for us, and now there’s a dead guard lying a few metres from me. I have to get out of here, and be quick about it like.

  Creeping backward like a crab, I reached the stream at the edge of the wood and slithered into the freezing water. With my body stretched from bank to bank I can feel the slimy boulders beneath my belly. Digging the toes of my boots in the bed of gravel, I levered myself on to the far side and slipped away through the rushes like an eel.

  I made it up to the statue of Christ the King, our rendezvous spot. I can see the surrounding country for fifteen kilometres or more. The lads aren’t here with the hostage, and I don’t see any roadblocks…so I guess they’re in Clonmel by now.

  Slipping behind a thick hedgerow of cropped yew, I crept down as far as PJ’s cottage at the edge of the wood. I threw meself up on Paddy the Poacher’s bicycle and peddled like fuck to Maher’s farm, five hundred metres away.

  Jimmy Maher was a volunteer in the 1950s’ campaign. I told him about the kidnapping and the shooting of the young guard.

  “Finn, best ta get the feck outa Tipp. Better still, get yourself outa the whole feckin’ island of Ireland. And get a move on with yourself. They’ll blame you for killing the young guard, nothing surer.”

  Jimmy was more than an ordinary volunteer in the 1950s. He’d been a commander in the old IRA, and he knows a thing or two about operational fuck-ups. I know the newspapers will make a fecking big deal about the young guard being shot in the back. The pressure to blame it on me, or one of the others, will be ferocious. And the real culprit is probably still pissing around in the woods – on overtime pay – yelling out nicknames and shooting at shadows. Seeing that this is the second kidnapping screw-up we’ve undertaken, I’ll take Jimmy's advice.

  When darkness fell ex-Commander Jimmy Maher instructed me to put on his deceased son’s motorbike gear – waterproofs, a crash helmet and goggles. Jimmy fired up his 1957 seven fifty cc Norton when he was satisfied that I was properly disguised. He ordered me on to the back of the bike and we rode to the Limerick Junction.

  From Limerick Junction I took a bus to Tipperary Town and met the Dwyer brothers. They threw a mattress in the back of their horse box, told me to lie down and say nothing. We drove to the port town of Arklow in County Wicklow, a good two hundred kilometres away. The brothers dropped me at Christie’s Bar on the main street, refused a drink, and drove straight back the way they came.

  They’re a nosey crowd in Arklow, and I’d prefer to give the place a miss. But there are good friends in the town – with boats and closed mouths – and I need to get to England without the authorities spotting me.

  Meanwhile, I have to hide meself in the middle of a crowd of boneheaded eejits. They’re glued to the special coverage of the miraculous rescue of the vice-president of the Clonmel-based American pharmaceutical facility.

  The TV reporter is standing outside Clonmel garda barracks, speaking into the camera: “Kidnapped executive Truman Pearce was found staggering around Marlfield Road on the outskirts of Clonmel. Having been dumped there by his captors, who were fleeing the pursuing joint Garda and Army Rangers Task Force, he was dazed and shocked, but otherwise unharmed. The brave captive believed that he was in the hands of Northern Ireland paramilitaries, but the leader of the kidnapping gang had been identified as a commander in the Provisional IRA, which led to the involvement of the Army’s special forces. It is believed that the Gardaí received intelligence from the American CIA which led to the location of the kidnappers’ hideout. There were early reports of a fatality amongst the highly trained Garda Tactical Unit, but no one was available to confirm or deny these reports.”

  I’m expecting my mug shot to appear on the TV above the bar any minute, but God bless the soccer. A couple of English holiday-makers asked the barman to switch over to see the results of the Arsenal v Chelsea match on the other channel.…

  It’s getting precious near closing time; I don’t think I can drink another Club Orange. Thanks be to Jaysus, the man I need to meet just came in the door and signalled the barman for a pint. Spotting me in the bar, Kieran Murray gave me the nod from where he stood in the snug.

  Ignoring him, I walked out of the bar and headed for the Julia C, a ninety foot trawler bobbing alongside the quay. I slipped into a urine-soaked phone box set against the Harbour Master’s Office and tapped out a twelve digit number. Then I waited.

  A man with an unmistakable Derry accent answered the phone at the other end. Using a gibberish code we’d taught ourselves when we were chatting up Swedish students in Brighton, I told Mac where I’m heading. He said a passport will be delivered to the safe house within thirty-six hours, and he promised to talk to the Army Council to see what they have to say about the kidnapping fuck-up. Before he hung up, Mac told me that they’re already looking for the informer who gave away our location…and my identity.

  Jaysus, whenever I talk to Mac – with his strong Derry accent – I can’t help thinking about all we’ve been through since we met that first time at the Ardoyne barricades. It was 15th August, 1969, the day the Royalist B-Specials attacked the homes of the Roman Catholic families in Belfast’s Nationalist ghetto. It took fired-up students like me, and apprentices like Mac – armed with old shotguns, stones and bottles – to ward off the marauding forces of the British Crown.

  It’s gas that I’m heading to Britain now – to avoid being caught by our own police. At least I’ll be getting there if Kieran Murray ever finishes his pint and gets down to his trawler.…

  “Finn son, you’ve got yourself inta some heap of shite, so ya have. They have that old newspaper photograph of you and Mac at that feckin’ peace march in Dundalk plastered all over the television. But don’t fret fellah, the tide is just right and we’ll be gone from here in a twinkle. Let’s get aboard and fuck off outa here. Make yourself useful will ya, and lift the line off that bollard there.” Kieran leapt aboard his trawler and flung open the wheelhouse door. “Get ya below Finn. No point in advertising I’ve a passenger aboard,” he whispered.

  Like all lifelong trawler men, Kieran Murray keep
s his boat spick ’n’ span. Every nook and cranny is hosed and scrubbed down after he lands his catch, so not a whiff of fish do I detect. I know Kieran lands plenty of fish, prawns and razor fish from the sandbanks around the Isle of Wight. This is why I thought of him when I was deciding the best way to get to England; it’s only a short ferry ride from the Isle of Wight to the mainland. Anyway, if rumour has it right, Kieran usually catches a few large turbot not seen by the Harbour Master – to cover the cost of diesel.

  I hear Kieran above my head. He’s muttering about having to collect his good-for-nothing nephews off Newport Quay before he can start on the prawns.

  “Stick the kettle on Finn! We’re five miles off the coast now…there’s no one paying us any mind!” he yelled down.

  I made two mugs of strong tea and carried them up to the wheelhouse.

  “So Finn, what’s the plan, if you don’t mind me asking like?”

  “I’ll leave you at Newport and take the Steam Packet to Liverpool. I can catch my breath in a safe house there, and then I’ll see where the devil takes me. Thanks for this Kieran. Sorry I couldn’t give you any warning, but you know the way it is.”

  “Aye Finn, don’t I just! Why you left Trinity and got yourself mixed up in all this, God only knows. But I’ll say this about ya Finn Flynn, for an Englishman, ya make a hell of an Irishman! I’ll drop ya at the Newport Quay, no problem. Now get yourself below and catch whatever sleep ya can, you’re probably going ta need it.”

  I’d forgot about the day my mother brought Kieran to meet me in the Buttery at Trinity College. His visit was by way of a wee celebration to commemorate my tenth year as a member of Fianna Éireann – the Republican youth movement. Of course he knows the whole story about my parents and my birth on English soil. Kieran fought alongside my father in the old IRA, right up to the time my father was shot dead by the Brits during the last IRA campaign in England.