A Known Enemy

By G.C. Webb

Stolen weapons, targeted murders and a high-profile kidnapping signal an insurrection is underway in Ireland. Soon, intercepts captured by Canadian and NSA super-computers confirm that an IRA splinter group is preparing to usurp control of the country. Its commander will then seek vengeance on Canada. A year earlier, its security forces destroyed her criminal empire.
Determined to stop the mobster/insurgent, and finish what he started a decade before, Colonel Ian Munro (The Arch Deceiver) takes the fight to her. In County Cork, the Irish Defence Forces and the Canadian colonel battle the militants.
Upon returning to Canada, Munro finds himself in another crisis. A cabal of foreign agents is plotting retribution. Munro and his off-the-books intelligence agency, The Insurgent Review Commission, are ordered to find them.
Complicating his mission, Munro must also protect an APEC summit taking place in Vancouver. There is another challenge. As in previous missions, an MI6 officer is assigned to him. She is an ex-lover.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.C. Webb
• Release date: Sep 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310554506

G.C. Webb

G. C. Webb is a former legal officer, security analyst and peace officer. The Arch Deceiver and A known Enemy are works of fiction. A third is planned for November 2016.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

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The Republic of Ireland

County Mayo

The air cargo flight from Frankfurt, Germany, arrived at Ireland West Airport Knock on schedule. And without the incident. It happened later.

In Knock’s newly refurbished terminal, an Immigration Officer checked the crew’s passports then welcomed them to Ireland.

Detaching herself from the group, a woman with dark hair and a slight stoop headed towards two men standing near the main exit. Dressed in bomber jackets, jeans and boots, they had the appearance and demeanour of men who had fought Ireland’s wars from the shadows.

A psychologist, preparing to board the daily Ryanair flight to Liverpool, was surprised by one’s body language. Although muscular and with the cudgeled face, scarred eyebrows and cauliflower ears of a boxer, he seemed nervous at the approach of the mild-mannered traveller.

The trio left the building and climbed aboard a Land Cruiser. As it proceeded along the main egress road, a Ford Taurus followed. Moments later, a VW Passat discreetly fell in behind, and a conspiracy to destroy the country’s political structure was underway.

The convoy turned south onto the N17. After travelling in five of the country’s twenty-six counties, and on four of its national primary roadways, it changed direction at Rockhill, County Limerick. Heading west on the R 518, the Japanese and American vehicles pulled into a lay-by at the halfway point to County Kerry.

Beside it, was a pastoral acreage with Suckler cows, an industry that makes Ireland the fourth-largest beef exporter in the world. The nearest bovine gave the mechanical intruders a perfunctory glance then returned to munching lunch.

Unnoticed, the German vehicle motored on by while the trio clambered out of the Land Cruiser.

Two men dismounted from the Taurus. Their appearances couldn’t have been more dissimilar. The driver was tall, robust and had the look of an Irish bard, even though he wasn’t one. His passenger was a blending of Rumpelstiltskin and a leprechaun.

The poet carried two bottles of Powers Gold Label Irish Whiskey while the limping leprechaun toted plastic cups.

The woman had transformed en route from Knock. Gone were cheek pads, contact lenses, black wig and hunched shoulder. A hiking ensemble had replaced the bogus airline attire.

Also gone was the docile personality. There was authority in her voice when she ordered a round of drinks. Within seconds, tumblers were filled with gold-coloured liquid, and a toast was proposed to the success of their mission.

And, even though Maeve Glynn McConnell had been a senior member of the Irish Republican Army for years, she cursed its leadership with several more. The reason for her vitriol was simple: McConnell was dedicated to uniting the Island by force. The IRA’s Army Council wasn’t.

Meanwhile, further along the roadway, the Passat turned onto a track used by farmers to shuttle livestock between rock-lined pastures. It proceeded up an incline. Still at the lay-by, the group finished the first bottle of whiskey and started on the second.

The psychologist at the airport had been correct. Kevin Boyce, the nervous one, was a boxer. Like McConnell, now standing beside him, Boyce hailed from Armagh City in the North. He was also a welder and Maeve McConnell’s one and only love interest.

An adept tactician, Brendan Casey, the poet look-alike, appreciated they were vulnerable in the open countryside. Anxious to get underway to McConnell’s hideaway near Kilmeedy Village, he proposed a final toast in the Irish tradition of a Parting Glass.

Casey didn’t know it, but that ritual was to become more than a figure of speech.

Now concealed at the summit of a hill, the VW driver studied his target through a Schmidt and Bender Classic Fixed Power 7X50 telescopic sight fastened to a L96 Sniper Rifle. The weapon was an older model, a British-made Accuracy International chambered in 7.62X51mm. He had screwed a noise suppressor onto the barrel. It was one with baffles, proven not to reduce the velocity or power of a bullet.

A skilled shooter, he then gauged distance, windage and elevation. He grinned. The wind effect and drop rate wouldn’t be significant. And it was 390 meters, an optimum distance for a weapon with a true, accurate range of 548. The target was without body armour, so penetration wouldn’t be a problem either.

At the same time, Kevin Boyce ordered the man who had driven the Land Cruiser from Knock to check for suspicious traffic. The chauffeur walked over to the roadway and scanned it in both directions. While he was doing so, Boyce pulled two sheets of paper from his jacket. Maeve was silent until she finished reading them.

Fuckin’ eedjit. She returned them. Do it.

After waving an ‘all clear’ hand signal, the scout started to return, but Boyce asked him to fetch a bottle of Tipperary Natural Mineral Water for their boss. Filtered at a mountain spring called The Devil’s Bit, it was an apt name for their purpose.

The Land Cruiser was parked at the shoulder of a ditch. When the factotum reached a rear bumper Boyce shed his jacket, signaling the shooter.

Two seconds later, a 7.62X51mm round with a velocity of 598 meters per second struck the centre of the man’s back.

Shocked by the scene and confused by the absence of noise, the poet and the leprechaun watched a geyser of blood erupt from the victim’s chest. The impact also propelled him into a ditch. The duo winced when his head thudded onto a boulder.

Hide th’ fucker’s corpse, McConnell growled. And Kevin……… The following pause was more nerve-wracking than any fire-fight he’d experienced with the British Security Forces, including the famed SAS. Boyce was afraid he might be joining the deceased in the ditch until McConnell broke her silence, ….my gratitude for identifying that now deceased traitor.

She signaled for another drink. Locating those transfers from the IRA to his account was worth the money you’ve been paying that banker.

He noticed McConnell’s diction was fluctuating between the polished Anglo/Irish voices of announcers on Dublin TV, RTE 1, and the unique tones of Armagh. While in prison, she had practised the articulation to match her new personality. But the boxer knew Armagh would always surface in times of fury.

He glanced at the two men standing beside the Land Cruiser. Unlike his boss, Boyce’s voice would always be the streets of his home town. Me’ source says Brendan an’ Tom’re clean.

Both still seemed disturbed by the man’s death. McConnell studied them. If they weren’t, I’d turn them over to your cousin’s friends. They’d enjoy hacking off their limbs with chainsaws.

Boyce’s knees were bent. He was rapidly raising his feet in the air, as if marching double-time on the spot. Both were symptoms that his nerves were screaming for an urgent bladder discharge. He mumbled apologies to Maeve then ran over to a yellow Gorse thicket. While thus engaged, he muttered that McConnell truly deserved her nom de guerre: The Hag.

Pleased, the sniper disassembled his weapon then drove the VW down a track on the opposite side of the hill. A gifted vocalist, a sprightly song with political overtones filled the car. When the Passat turned onto a roadway, he began the second verse of an IRA Anthem: "A Nation Once Again."

CHAPTER 1

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Vancouver, Canada

Jericho Beach Park

Ian Munro wasn’t surprised to find himself back in Vancouver. An experienced intelligence officer, an intercept ferretted out by the Central Intelligence Agency and his instincts had sent him to the West Coast post-haste on a military flight.

Munro was also back in the same headquarters his off-the-books unit, The Insurgent Review Commission (IRC), used months earlier to track down and eliminate threats to national security from English anarchists, Balkan military gangsters and an Irish insurgent turned mobster.

In a brilliantly-planned operation, the latter two nearly succeeded in assassinating the G7 heads of state at a hotel/conference centre a mere 8.8 kilometers to the northeast. From his window, Munro could easily view the West End behind which that venue sat on the Inner Harbour. A multi-linguist, Munro cursed sotto voce in Scottish Gaelic. Within weeks, the same complex was hosting another high-profile political event.

Approaching the mid-century mark Munro’s grey, green-flecked eyes remained strong, and a healthy lifestyle would prevent the spiritual spook with the scythe from reaping the nearly two meter frame encompassing them anytime soon. This morning he appreciated the eyesight even more.

Earlier, currents from the Pacific Ocean chased away the curtain of grey covering the Lions Gate Bridge, Burrard Inlet and Central Vancouver. The citizens of the country’s busiest seaport were enjoying spectacular scenery.

A realist, not pessimist, Munro realized the meteorological truce had a downside. Mother Nature was sending squalls with the sunshine. Gusts shook the office windows and pounded the roof. Munro expected a few tiles to land in the parking lot.

He wouldn’t be surprised if other parts of the building joined them. However, the quasi-decrepit appearance suited its users. No one would suspect such a premises to house folks engaged in espionage activity.

The phone buzzed. Two members of the IRC had arrived from Ottawa, the nation’s capital. While striding along the corridor to greet them, Munro did a quick review of his ad hoc agency’s genesis.

The blandly named organization was the brain child of a senior agent in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS), who was also an officer in Canada’s Reserve Army. His concept was supported by the country’s four most powerful politicians, especially the Prime Minister. The nation’s chief executive appointed the man who conceived the unit to command it. Deceptive and unorthodox, Lt. Col. Ian Munro was a natural choice.

Established a year earlier as a temporary response to a national emergency, the three-person agency impressed the few mandarins who knew of it and they extended its mandate.

At Munro’s request, they also increased its numbers. Without a hint of inter-agency squabbling, Sergeant Judy West and Corporal Fergus Haddad were seconded from the federal police force. Both had assisted Munro during his mission to protect the G7 Leaders. They were the duo waiting in the conference room.

Due to her rank and experience--Judy West had commanded one of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police’s most effective surveillance units—she took precedence.

Is the CIA certain the intel is accurate? Or could some group like ‘Nerds for Peace’ be yanking our chain?

No. An agent from Langley will be here shortly to explain why, Munro said He was referring to the headquarters of the CIA in Virginia not the city east of Vancouver.

Colonel, do we know who they’re sending? Fergus Haddad enquired.

A unique blend of Irish and Lebanese, Fergus inherited the fighting spirit of both races and had done an enlistment in Canada’s Armed Forces. A few soldier mannerisms remained. By force of habit, he usually addressed Munro by his military title. Over time, the rest of the IRC staff followed.

Mad Mike Martinez. Don’t let the name fool you. He’s a brilliant operative. The colonel smiled. A good man to have around in a screwball situation. Mike was visiting the American Consulate downtown. I asked him to attend here and give you a first-hand brief.

He noticed the two appeared fatigued from travel. An avid caffeine consumer, Munro knew it was one of the most widely used legal psychoactive stimulants. It would give them an immediate boost. Let’s have a coffee.

There was an unwritten edict at headquarters that the caffeine had to be fresh, a contrast to the hours-old, stomach-wrenching concoctions in the office of General Deveraux, Canada’s top soldier and Munro’s conduit to the Prime Minister’s Office. The general’s brews had the consistency of something found at the bottom of a Leopard 2 Main Battle Tank’s crank case. Munro’s machine was a fast brewer and the trio soon had mugs in hand.

Has there been intel from other sources? Judy asked.

Yes. The Brits. My contact at their Secret Intelligence Service says it’s too nebulous so far. But they’ll keep working their sources.

Because of surveillance work and her secondment to the IRC, Judy’s hair had grown longer than the off-the-collar style required by police regulations. Red tresses with blonde highlights had unraveled from a barrette. She dug an elastic band out of her purse and snapped the locks into a pony tail.

Why are the Brits interested?

Their PM is attending the APEC gathering. My contact is his liaison officer to MI6 and will accompany him.

Munro appeared uneasy. Perceptive, the others knew of whom he was speaking. His military-grade encrypted cell phone indicated an incoming call, ending further discussion. For once, the intrusion of technology was welcome.

CHAPTER 2

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Munro had alerted the security officer on duty. The former Black Watch sergeant buzzed the agent from the CIA and his female driver into headquarters immediately upon arrival.

Mike Martinez matched his descriptive nickname. Burly, above average height, and with a full head of unkempt black hair, fiery cobalt eyes and bushy Pancho Villa moustache, he even intimidated one of his best friends, a Jesuit priest.

A contrast to the scary specter was the slim, elegant woman with wine-hued hair who had chaffered him to Jericho from the Consulate building on West Pender Street. Aseelah Cameron was the third original member of the IRC. Like Haddad, she possessed an unusual ethnic mixture.

Munro made the introductions then filled and refilled mugs. Since the inception of the IRC, he had kept the corporate culture informal. Calling him colonel was acceptable if the troops were happy. But to reinforce the casual environment, he often poured them a coffee, a ritual unheard of in military units.

Mike had made his way to the bottom of the mug before Munro could ask him to brief the group.

Our National Security Agency caught some chatter. A conversation in Ireland. I’m a field operative, but managed to understand some of the geek-speak used to explain the process of snaring and decoding intercepts.

Mike’s family had emigrated from Mexico when he was a child, and Munro’s linguistically-tuned ears picked up faint traces of Spanish.

The transmission in question was captured, compressed then dispatched to one of our computers for analysis. A programme had identified key components within the conversation. That intercept was then sent to a server and a nerd genius decrypted it.

Without human help, a fan above them started spinning its blades. Munro recognized it as the one with an irritating pitch that had distracted meetings when they were at Jericho months before.

Mike asked if the four in the room understood. Judy seemed a bit bewildered but the others nodded in the affirmative.

He went on, Our linguists verified the speakers were Irish. They mentioned someone called Maeve McConnell. They also spoke about the venues and security for the APEC meeting here in Vancouver.

Mike was referring to the 21 country Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation forum by its acronym: APEC.

The President is attending along with several businesses executives. So, my boss sent me here, A-SAP. If there’s a threat, even a seconds-long conversation, we can’t ignore it.

The colonel became silent for a few seconds then placed his fingers on the keyboard of a computer in front of him. The machine had been dubbed Corporal Wizard by an aide. Navigating through codes and passwords, he accessed a file.

Inviting Mike to read it, Munro suggested the others take a moment to refuel from a vending machine stocked with a health fiend’s nightmare: chocolate bars, potato chips, pop cans and peanuts. While Toonies and Loonies clattered into the machine, Munro stepped into the corridor.

His liaison to the Prime Minister’s Office needed to know that the CIA agent had confirmed what they already suspected. So did a friend in Ireland.

Meanwhile, Mike’s walrus moustache was making contortions while he read the document. It was an Executive Summary of the G7 crisis.

Minutes later when he finished, Martinez muttered a Spanish colloquialism. It was fortunate that neither of the women in the room understood the loving tongue. His epithet was anything but.

The CIA man switched to English after recalling an anecdote Munro shared with him when they were in Sarajevo, Bosnia. It was about an Irish pirate queen who set standards of larceny during the mid-sixteenth century.

That woman is a direct descendant of Grace O’Malley, Mike grumbled. It’s no wonder she’s also called the Hag.

The fan began to squeak. Munro espied the control panel and switched it off. He made a note to replace the obnoxious appliance. And more ferocious.

The colonel’s cell indicated an in-coming call. He had brief, mostly one-sided, conversation.

It seems this matter has moved to another level. My presence is required in Ottawa. Munro’s uniquely tinged eyes focused on his computer. The rest of the unit can keep working here. We might have no problems. However, as I’ve said before, assumption is the Godmother of adversity.

Mike Martinez looked disappointed. I’d like to spend a few weeks in Vancouver with your IRC, but my boss wants me on the ground in Langley. However, I’ll stay on top of the situation. And keep you informed of any new developments.

The colonel thanked him in Spanish then slipped Corporal Wizard into a computer carrying case. A military aircraft was already scheduled to leave Vancouver International. I can hitch a ride.

CHAPTER 3

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Ottawa, Ontario

On the tenth floor of Canada’s National Defence Headquarters was a door with the designation: Custodial Service Area.

A contrast to other maintenance room portals throughout the Major General George R. Pearkes Building, 101 Colonel By Drive, this one had a unique lock. It disengaged only when a member of the IRC depressed a button on a gizmo the size of a flash drive. It then swung open.

Inside was a darkened space, and against the far wall, stood a door with a palm entry access panel. Beyond it were the offices of The Insurgent Review Commission.

Ian Munro was at his desk less than five minutes when an aide called from General Deveraux’s office. The Chief of the Defence Staff (CDS) wished to speak with him immediately. Within seconds, the colonel found himself standing at attention in front of the general’s desk.

Near the door to a conference room, stood an antique grandfather clock. Deveraux disliked ostentation, and the pendulum-driven long clock was his sole indulgence. Unfortunately, the office-sized Big Ben had its own notions of correct time.

The CDS and Munro had been friends for years. They’d met while serving together as peacekeepers on the Golan Heights of Syria. Deveraux waved him into a chair and suggested a coffee. Recalling the potency of those concoctions, Munro politely declined.

Munro knew the general preferred clear, concise dialogue instead of officers obfuscating. He went directly to the matter at hand. Sir, you stated the situation has moved to another level?

Deveraux glimpsed at a cabinet in which he kept a modest supply of liquor. Ian, you speak Irish. What’s their Prime Minister’s title?

Teeshok, sir. It’s spelled T-a-o-i-s-e-a-c-h, but pronounced Tee-shook.

The general worked his tongue for a few moments practicing the word. The Tee-shook’s people are grateful for the intel you garnered from the CIA about Maeve McConnell.

After the next three sentences, it was Munro’s turn to glance at the liquor stash.

They’ve also asked your help in tracking her down. Your administrative chief agrees. In fact, General Hennessy said that if anyone could accomplish that task, it was you.

The CDS discerned that his friend needed a shot of whiskey and headed for the hidden bar.

Your pal, the Minister for Justice, made the request personally. He called his counterpart in our government and articulated the following rationale: You’ve been battling McConnell off and on for years. Probably, better than anyone, you understand how that hellion operates. You also know the culture and speak the language.

Munro continued to converse candidly while replying. The Irish are quite capable of dealing with the Irish. After all, it’s their country. Why not let them do it?

"You make a valid point. However, our PM wants redress for her attempt to wipe out the G7 Leadership. In his country. Even if she winds up in an Irish prison, he’ll be happy."

General Roy Deveraux was referring to the crisis in Vancouver a few months earlier. Maeve McConnell and General Steven Sepic, a now deceased war criminal, had collaborated to assassinate the G7 heads of state in Vancouver.

The attacking unit, a rogue Special Forces group formed by Sepic, was two minutes from obliterating the dignitaries.

Munro’s deviousness, meticulous planning, flexibility and quick reactions thwarted it. With the exception of their on-site commander, a major, the entire force was killed or captured.

A week later, Steven Sepic was himself assassinated. He was blown to bits by a car bomb while attempting to flee Ottawa.

McConnell had also vanished: Until the CIA captured that intercept in Dublin.

The CDS possessed a sardonic sense of humour which seldom surfaced. It did now.

"Should we ever get her back here, our Department of Justice says there are enough charges to