The Donegal Conversion: The Coulter Confessions, #4

By J P Hidcote

The Donegal Conversion is the fourth volume of J P Hidcote's Coulter Confessions series.  It maintains the fierce pace of The Downings Awakening as hapless British Security Services operative Edwin Coulter tries desperately to survive the fallout from his mission. Alone and friendless in a foreign land Coulter struggles to cope with the pressure as he is swamped by a tidal wave of problems and threats that culminate in a terrifying ordeal.  This time it seems that Coulter's luck has well and truly run out.

 

In the Coulter Confessions series Hidcote has assembled a tremendous cast of complex characters and in this latest out the realistic, snappy dialogue drives the story on through some remarkable twists and turns to a ferocious climax with a deadly outcome

 

  

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Kelly
• Release date: Dec 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781916176652

J P Hidcote

J P Hidcote is a British author who has had a varied working life starting in the construction industry before joining the British Government Civil Service and moving to Technology Project management in the international banking sector. Born in South Wales of Irish parentage and educated in Scotland and England he believes that he grew up with a unique insight into the complexities of national identity in the British Isles. Hidcote cites his experience of trials and tribulations project management in the public and private sectors as an invaluable resource for a novelist. The Lubeck Diversion is the fifth of a series of novels based around the career of Edwin Coulter in the British Intelligence Services from the 1980's to the end of the 20th century. The Lubeck Diversion follows the rehabilitation of the hero after the near catastrophic end to his mission in Ireland. It is an exploration of way that a shared experience can affect each individual in a dramatically different manner. It takes Coulter from sun kissed Cyprus to winter in the old Hanseatic city of Lubeck before a dramatic conclusion in the Rhineland.

Book preview

Chapter 1

In my rearview mirror the fireball illuminated the countryside like a low-lying sun.  I cursed the day I was born as the flames licked the sky. Terror soon replaced self-pity and I drove furiously through the dark Donegal countryside desperate to get off the road before the Gardai found me.  In the mirror, the orange flames flickered in the night sky as I threw the car along the dark lanes with no concern for man nor beast.  I eventually reached my lodgings but found myself locked out.  I had fallen foul of the landlady’s 11.30pm curfew.  Desperate to get off the road, I headed for our company yard and resigned myself to sleeping on a chair or worse still the concrete floor.

Eventually I constructed a makeshift bed of cardboard boxes and tried to sleep despite the bitter cold and the fumes from a freshly painted Peugeot estate that sat in the corner of the building.  But sleep wouldn’t come; my mind was racing, constantly replaying the night’s drama, the presence of the Peugeot a reminder of just how cynical the whole exercise had been. Over the past year my life had been progressively destroyed by my association with some of the worst terrorist acts of the Troubles in Northern Ireland.  In late 1983, a botched investigation in Glasgow had resulted in the killing of five Irishmen in the small Dunbartonshire town of Bowling by British Security forces.  The incident had caused an international outcry and widespread condemnation of the British State.  The dead men had become Irish Republican Martyrs and universally known as ‘The Bowling Five’.

I had hoped that ‘The Bowling Massacre’ would have been my final brush with Britain’s ‘Dirty War’ in Northern Ireland.  Unfortunately, my involvement in Bowling was leaked to the press by various sources and my management made a decision to take me out of circulation.  Their approach to the issue was extreme; my death was faked, and I was posted to an Intelligence job in Ulster with a new identity.  As ‘Edwin Coulter’, I was ostensibly the West Ulster Intelligence Chief; in reality, I was a pawn in a devilish revenge game played by my boss: the fiendish Major Alex Crichton.  Crichton was determined to break up a highly efficient IRA arms smuggling operation run by Donegal farmer John Henry McGill and a former mercenary called John Herrity.  Both men had featured prominently in a tragedy that devastated Crichton’s childhood. 

Herrity was a fascinating character who had been central to the arms smuggling activity that resulted in ‘The Bowling Massacre’ despite having allegedly died in Rhodesia during the mid-70s.  He had links to a mysterious Polish WWII veteran  called Franz Zuck, who was the foreman at the same building site that ‘The Bowling Five’ had been working prior to their deaths.  I had been called in to investigate a tip off that the men were involved in an alleged plot to kill Prince Charles.  In partnership with Glasgow Special Branch, I visited the site and interviewed the site management including Mr Zuck.  Unfortunately, this intervention appeared to trigger an outbreak of violence between Zuck and one of the suspects: a man called Sean Farren. Farren attacked Zuck in the middle of the building site and Zuck responded by knocking Farren senseless.  Shortly afterwards I had my first encounter with Major Crichton, who warned me off the investigation and claimed that Zuck was a long-standing British agent who was assisting with a wider operation to shut down John Herrity’s arms smuggling operation. I chose not to share Crichton’s claims with Glasgow Special Branch, who in any case, were more interested in prosecuting Zuck for his involvement in Nazi atrocities and various other massacres and human rights abuses committed during his career as a mercenary in the 50s and 60s.

Events overtook all of us the following day when Farren was found dead in his flat.  Shortly afterwards, we discovered the body of the Special Branch surveillance officer who had been watching Zuck’s home the previous night.  Zuck was arrested; and after intensive interrogation by Glasgow CID; he confessed to Farren’s murder.  At this point, I returned to my hotel believing that the investigation was over only to wake up to news of the ‘The Bowling Massacre’.  Overnight, Crichton(or Zuider-Michel as he called himself at the time) had mobilised political support to get Zuck released in return for information that allowed Strathclyde Police to ambush the five men as they transported a shipment of assault rifles.  Afterwards, I fervently hoped never to meet Crichton again. 

Unfortunately, in my new life in the small village of Gortin, near Omagh Co. Tyrone, I became embroiled in a feud between the local Republican battalion, the UVF and Crichton’s Military Intelligence operation.  I barely survived a Loyalist attack which left a leading Republican and a civil rights lawyer dead before becoming deeply involved with the local IRA commander’s family, as they dealt with the tragic loss of their brother.  In the meantime, Crichton supplied an anti-aircraft cannon to the IRA which was subsequently used in a devastating revenge attack against the UVF.  Throughout this period, ‘persons unknown’ continued to feed snippets of information to the Ulster press which suggested that I was indirectly responsible for the dramatic escalation in violence in Tyrone.

I only escaped from Tyrone when news of Zuck’s arrest in Scotland on war crimes charges was announced.  I was sent to work in Donegal in my cover role as a heating and ventilation salesman while Crichton returned to Scotland to ‘spring’ Zuck once again.  Along the way I made a further mistake by becoming romantically involved with Angela Gallagher, wife of a Tyrone Republican and a leading Republican in her own right.  Through Angela, I met John Herrity for the first time and discovered that, like Crichton, he too had plans for my future.

Initially life calmed down and I felt able to imagine I was a normal man doing a normal job, but it didn’t take long for events to spiral out of control, leading to the death of an English author-cum-journalist called Clawson. Clawson was a fellow boarder at my lodgings who I had spent the odd night in pub with.  On an expedition to look at an abandoned traction engine, he stumbled onto one of Herrity’s arms dumps. He was spotted by Herrity’s gang and seriously injured one of them while making his escape.  I helped the poor chap to get out of Donegal but Herrity’s people tracked him down and killed him near Dublin.

The one positive in my time in Donegal was reconnecting with Davie Farrell: one of the Special Branch officers I worked with in Glasgow.  Davie had provided the information to the press that resulted in Zuck being arrested for war crimes and had subsequently been suspended by the force.  He had relocated to his ancestral cottage in Donegal with his new girlfriend and appeared to be leading an idyllic existence.  Through Davie, I had made contact with Dennis Jordan; an investigative journalist and told him what I knew about Crichton’s role in ‘The Bowling Massacre’ and the Tyrone murders. I harboured a slight hope that Jordan would be able to expose Crichton’s activities and somehow free me from my current nightmare.

Through my day job I discovered that Zuck was in hiding at a cottage in the grounds of the Cranford Demesne hotel in Donegal.  The hotel proprietor Fidger Green, turned out to be an old acquaintance of Crichton, Herrity and Zuck from their days in East Africa.  I subsequently found out from a local man called Jimmy Morgan that the Irish Government were aware of Zuck’s presence and planned to arrest him for war crimes he allegedly committed against Irish UN soldiers during the civil war in the Congo.  I managed to get our team some work installing ventilation equipment at the hotel and on my daily visits, I frequently spotted the Irish surveillance team lurking at the entrance to the hotel and looked forward to hearing the news that Zuck had been arrested.

I also secured a contract to install ventilation equipment at a large uranium processing plant which was being built in Letterkenny.  The Irish government had lifted its ban on uranium mining to allow a mine to be sunk in the Derryveagh mountains.  There were also plans to build a nuclear power station in the historic town of Ramelton.  Naturally enough, the prospect of the nuclear industry setting up in Donegal split public opinion: some welcomed it as an excellent source of jobs for an economically stunted area; whilst other opposed it ferociously.  I encountered anti-nuclear protestors who ranged from the usual student types to veteran Republicans such as Crichton’s bête noire John Henry McGill and his friend Jimmy O’Donnell, Angela Gallagher’s father. On the other side there were many locals who were doing very well out of the construction of the plant and providing security for the mine. 

Both sides assumed that I agreed with them, especially Dave Kimmell, the manager of the uranium plant build who engaged my company to provide the ventilation equipment when his previous supplier’s premises mysteriously burned down.  Crichton and his half-brother-cum-business partner Martin ‘Cheesey’ Pye were, on the surface, very enthusiastic to take on the job presumably for the profit involved. Underneath, I knew that they planned to use the work to insert an undercover team into Donegal to take the fight to McGill.  We set up a yard in the town; stocked it with equipment including a blue Peugeot estate car, identical to the one driven by Jimmy O’Donnell.  Crichton assured me that the car was to be used for a special operation.

I tried to carry on with life as normal but found myself living on my nerves.  On one occasion, I snapped when one of McGill’s minions verbally abused me in a bar whilst I was drinking to forget my role in Clawson’s demise.  The minion, an obnoxious brute called Phonsie Alcock, took a swing at me when his verbal tirade failed to intimidate me.  I reacted with a near psychotic level of violence; smashing Alcock’s head against the bar until he was unconscious; leaving several of his teeth embedded in the top of the bar.  The following day I assaulted Dr Casey the leader of the student anti-nuclear protestors when he accused me of tailing him for the Republicans.  I was really in no fit state to carry out any dangerous undercover work.

Crichton however had no concern for my welfare.  One evening he called me at short notice and told me to go to the yard and call him back from the secure line in the office.  Once there, he instructed me to drive to the cottage at the Cranford Demesne in the Peugeot and pick up two passengers and bring them to the car park of The Cross Keys Inn just outside the border town of Lifford.  On arrival, I was to handover the passengers to Cheesey, who would spirit them over the border and back to Gortin.  At no point did he mention how dangerous this task would be. 

When I made it to the hotel, I found the cottage under heavy fire.  Risking life and limb, I drove down to the cottage with bullets whizzing past me.  Inside the building, I discovered Herrity and three other men returning fire against a concentrated attack from the hotel grounds.  Above the gunfire, I could hear the terrified and confused roars of the elephants and lions in the owner’s menagerie, as the poor beasts were caught in the crossfire.  I soon ascertained that Mr and Mrs Zuck were to be my passengers. Herrity and his men, for God knows what reason, chose to stay and fight.  Our escape was almost aborted before it began when the car was struck by a stampeding elephant as we left the cottage grounds.  Fortunately, the hotel owner intervened and shot the elephant before it could do us any further harm.  I then drove the half-wrecked car to the meeting point with the Irish police pursuing us.  After I handed over the Zucks, Cheesey put what I believed was an incendiary device in the getaway car, presumably to destroy any evidence that would allow the vehicle to be identified.  

As I drove away, I saw three Irish police cars drive into the Cross Keys car park. Seconds later there was a giant explosion which presumably killed everyone in the vicinity.  In that moment, the sheer depth of Crichton’s perfidy struck me with the force of a left hook from Joe Frazier.  Crichton had sent me to the Cranford in the clear knowledge that it was a suicide mission, hoping that both Zuck and I would be killed. I thought back to the Peugeot estate and how familiar it felt and realised that they had stolen Jimmy O’Donnell’s car and left it in the garage for me to pick up and drive to Cranford.  They clearly intended to frame Jimmy for either rescuing Zuck or the bomb at the Cross Keys or possibly both.  I wondered where Jimmy had spent the evening and hoped he had some reliable witnesses.  God knows why they had resprayed the other Peugeot, but I suspected it was to eliminate any suspicion that it could have been involved in the night’s events.

Eventually I fell asleep on my makeshift bed.  I woke at six, stiff and sore. I made a cup of tea while I listened to the latest news on the radio.

In a slow sonorous tone the newsreader said Donegal has seen the worst night of violence in the recent history of the Troubles.  A veteran IRA unit has killed several members of the Defence Force in a fierce gun battle at the Cranford Desmesne Hotel.  Two surviving members of the IRA unit were arrested and are currently receiving emergency treatment at Letterkenny Hospital.  Two others died at the scene and it is believed three escaped in a Peugeot 504 estate, which was later used as a car bomb to kill two Garda and three civilians and left around 30 others seriously injured at The Cross Keys Inn, Lifford.  The Gardai were pursuing the Peugeot and had received a report that it had stopped at the pub on the outskirts of Lifford.  Michael McGowan is on the scene at the Cranford Desmesne.  Michael what can you tell us?

Well, we are at the gates of the hotel which is still sealed off by the Gardai.  Local people report that the gun battle started after 8pm last night and continued for at least two hours.  A small band of the terrorists appear to have escaped in a badly damaged light blue estate car around 9.45pm which was spotted travelling through Milford, Ramelton and Manorcunningham before it was reported as being parked at The Cross Keys Inn, Lifford not far from the border with Strabane.  The Gardai commenced a pursuit of the vehicle after a concerned citizen reported a heavily damaged vehicle passing through Ramelton.  The vehicle stopped at a house in Drumoghill near Manorcunningham and requested water for an injured passenger.  The driver claimed that the vehicle had been hit by a bull and he was trying to get his injured relatives back to the North.  Shortly afterwards, the Gardai received a further report that the vehicle had stopped at The Cross Keys Inn. Three Gardai vehicles containing six officers were despatched to investigate and, if possible, apprehend the driver and his passengers.  The three cars had just stopped in the car park when the bomb went off.  The Gardai believe that this was a deliberate planned ambush similar to the attack on the British parachute regiment at Warrenpoint.

Thank you Michael. Do you have any details on the terrorists that have been killed or arrested?

Officially nothing, however we know that the two survivors were veteran Republicans. One bizarrely, is a man who was believed to have been killed several years ago.  The dead men have yet to be named but one is believed to be a man in his late forties from the Manorcunningham area and the other is a man in his twenties from Creeslough. 

Very interesting. Have the Gardai or the Defence Force given any information on why this operation was mounted?

They have been fairly tight-lipped so far, but it would appear that the gang in question were heavily linked to gun running and that that at least one member of the gang was wanted for a serious offence against the state.

Now over to the Dail, where the Defence Minister has issued a statement, Paul Connolly: what did the minister say?

"Well not much more than Michael has already reported. The striking thing is this angle about the gang being wanted for serious offences against the Irish State.  This would appear to have been the main justification for the heavyweight assault by the Defence Force.  It’s a terminology that relates to the Offences Against the State Act 1939, which criminalises a number of actions deemed detrimental to state security, such as membership of the IRA or planning acts of terrorism.  The Act was used in the 1950s to suppress the IRA Border campaign by interning known activists.  The act criminalises activities that may be deemed to be an obstruction of the government and also membership of secret societies within the police and the army." 

All of which suggests that this gang was planning something very serious or had been involved in some historic acts of terrorism here in the Republic.  Although at present, we are all unsure what it relates to.  The minister did emphasise that the full force of the government would be applied to track down the driver of the blue Peugeot and his passengers and bring them to justice for the murder of the two Garda and the three innocent civilians at The Cross Keys Inn.  The minister vowed that the level of violence that has become commonplace in the North would not be tolerated in the Republic.  He warned Republican sympathisers in Donegal and elsewhere that they would pay a heavy price if they were found to be harbouring these three individuals.  He described last night’s events as a heinous crime against all Irish men and women.  An assault on the security forces of this magnitude can only be considered an act of war for which the individuals and organisations involved will encounter the full weight of the state’s wrath. 

Strong stuff, Paul!  What does this really mean?

Well I think over the next twenty four hours, all known Republicans in Donegal and the surrounding counties are likely to be arrested and potentially interned.  The British government will be happy because they have complained for some time that the Provisional IRA has used border counties like Donegal as safe havens from which to launch attacks in the North.  This is likely to be a major turning point in the Troubles.  Last night’s events, combined with the extreme violence that occurred in Tyrone in the last two months, are potentially the straw that broke the camel’s back.  The government here in Dublin can no longer sit on the fence where the IRA are concerned. The unspoken compact between the Provisionals and the Republic has been irretrievably broken by tonight’s events.  The IRA have struck a serious blow at the national security establishment which cannot go unpunished.

You mentioned an unspoken compact, what does that mean?

The IRA’s General Order No.8 specifically prohibits Volunteers from taking any military action against 26 County forces.  In the event of a security forces raid they are instructed to leave the area immediately and disable any weaponry that has to be left behind. In no circumstances is it acceptable for volunteers to fire on the Gardai or the Defence Force.  Until tonight with a few exceptions, this directive has been followed across the country.

My goodness if what you are saying is true then tonight’s atrocities represent a dramatic escalation of the IRA’s campaign.

Absolutely, that is why the minister has committed to bringing the full weight of the state down on the perpetrators.  I have no doubt that the Republican movement will come to seriously regret last night’s events.

Thanks Paul and now to other news. The Band Aid single has gone to number one and is expected to be the highest selling record of all time...

I switched off the radio and sat in the chair shaking.  There was a good chance I was now one of the most wanted men in Ireland.  I could try and run for the border but there was, I suspected, little chance of getting across any border point today.  The British and the Irish would be extra vigilant in looking for the three escapees from Cranford.  The alternative was to tough it out and hope that no one recognised me.  The chances of that were slim, the staff of the petrol station I stopped at in Ramelton for medical supplies had seen me before and may have recognised me though they didn’t exactly pay me much attention last night.  The people at Drumoghill saw me at close range, so I would need to avoid them if at all possible. 

To allay suspicion, I needed to act as a responsible boss and contact the Cranford and find out if Barry and Terry our two employees who were working at the hotel were OK.  It would be abnormal to hear news like this morning’s and not call. The Gardai would I am sure be expecting someone to call.  I picked up the phone and dialled the reception number and after three rings it was answered.

Hello Cranford Demesne Hotel said an unfamiliar voice, almost certainly a Garda from one of the southern counties.

Hi this is Mr Coulter from TyRaVent. I heard the terrible news on the radio and thought I should call to check that our two chaps: Barry McCabe and Terry Conlan are all right.  They have been working on the air conditioning in the hall.

Coulter from TyRaVent you say? And you want to speak to Mr Conlan and Mr McCabe?

Yes either one will be fine. As I say, just to make sure that they are OK.

Hold on.

After a couple of minutes an older more senior voice came on the line.  Who is calling?

Hi, I am Edwin Coulter from TyRaVent. Two of my men have been staying at the hotel whilst they install fans in the hall.  I was just calling to make sure that they are OK following the disturbance last night.  I explained this to the other chap already.

Yes he told me.  We have already received numerous calls from journalists and general nosey parkers today. Why should I believe that you are any different?

Well you could ask Mr or Mrs Green to confirm who I am or Mr McCabe or Mr Conlan to confirm that they work for TyRaVent and that I am their boss.

I am afraid Mr Green is unavailable.

In the background, I heard him say Mrs Green, do you know a Mr Coulter from TyRaVent?  Sounds like an Englishman.

Yah he is the salesman who convinced my husband to get the ventilation equipment installed in the hall.

OK. Please speak to this man and confirm that he is who he says he is.

Hello

Hi Mrs Green, Edwin Coulter here. I just wanted to check that everyone was alright.

Hello Coulter, I can’t say everything is alright but I am alive.

I am glad to hear that I said, What about Barry and Terry?

They are alive.

Can I speak to them?

Hold on, I will ask the policeman.

Again, I heard the offline conversation, He wants to speak to his men.

Tell him that they are fine but can’t come to the phone.

OK.

Coulter, they are fine, but they can’t come to the phone just now.

Are they being interviewed by the police?

I don’t know.

OK. How is Fidger?

I don’t know.

The senior officer took the phone off Mrs Green and said Mr Coulter, you will understand we are in the early stages of a very serious investigation.  Until the situation becomes a little clearer, the residents of the hotel will have to assist us in our enquiries.  Once we have the full picture, they will be free to go.  I can assure you that your employees are safe and well. 

OK I said, Tell them to call me when they get a chance.  Sorry to have bothered you. I was just concerned when I heard about the incident and the number of people who had been killed.

Not a problem, perfectly understandable but our investigation must take precedence.  Goodbye.

I didn’t get a chance to say ‘goodbye’ before he hung up.  I cradled the phone in my hand wondering how to interpret the call.  Barry and Terry were being questioned.  Fidger was unavailable, possibly under arrest.  The Gardai were handling the hotel switchboard.  They didn’t appear to know who I was or about TyRaVent, which was a positive because it suggested that I wasn’t a suspect at present.  I decided that common sense dictated that I behave as if I had nothing to do with the incident.  I gave my face a splash and headed back to the Port House for breakfast.

I parked in my usual space and went straight in. The door was open and I could hear Mrs Reilly and Mary chatting in the kitchen.  I went up to my room, showered and changed my clothes and noted that I would need to do some washing very soon. Thankfully last night’s collision hadn’t left me with any visible bruises though my shoulder was a mess and my neck very stiff.  I went down to breakfast walking stiffly like an old man and entered the dining room to find my fellow boarders Kimmell, Devine, Tug and Rog in their usual places.

Gee buddy you look rough said Kimmell. Tough night?

Yes. I fell foul of the doors closed at 11.30 rule.

We thought it might have been you banging the door the middle of the night.  Where did you sleep?

On the floor at our yard. At least it was indoors.

Sounds wonderful!

What about the gun fight over in Cranford and the bomb in Lifford?  The whole county went mad last night! exclaimed Devine.

I know. Our other two lads are doing a little job at the Cranford Demesne.  I called the place after I heard the news this morning.  The Gardai answered the phone and wouldn’t let me speak to them.  Think they thought I was a journalist.

Fuck’s sake that is wile! Do ye think your fellas will be all right?  The Provos seem to have killed half the army in that battle.  Two Englishmen would have had no chance of getting away.

That’s why I called to see if they were alright but all they would tell me is that they are alive.

Worrying events said Kimmell in his American drawl.  One of the reasons Chemniz invested in this area is because it was stable.  If this kind of violence continues, the big boys in the States will pull the plug.  Operating nuclear facilities in a war zone is just not worth the risk.

I had a distinct sense of an epiphany when I digested Kimmell’s comment. The sheer evil genius of Crichton’s plan was breathtaking.  Destroy the IRA gun running channel; ensure the Irish state suppresses Republicans and create a climate of political and social instability that drives away foreign investment and puts the kybosh on the Irish government’s dreams of being a nuclear-powered state.

Ah Mr Coulter! Down for yer breakfast at last? said Mary bringing out the usual plate of bacon, eggs, black pudding; tomato and fried bread and a cup of tea.

Thanks Mary I replied.

Don’t mention it: you are very welcome.  Have you heard the news?  Those bloody Provos have gone mad and brought their war across the border.  Madness! You aren’t safe stepping out the door these days.  Think of all those poor soldiers and policemen that went to work yesterday morning and now they’re dead. Widows and orphans everywhere after this.  Tragic! God rest them all and the three boys who died in the Cross Keys when the bomb went off.  One of them was that Phonsie Alcock, who was only just recovering from being badly beaten up at the weekend.  He was at a meeting of the Laggan Valley GAA committee, my brother Paul was there too but left early.

Was that a regular meeting? I asked.

Yes, they meet at the Cross Keys on the first Thursday of every month.

Dear me that was terrible bad luck for Mr Alcock and very fortunate for your brother. I said feeling genuinely sorry for Alcock: a fellow pawn in this horrible game.

I know there but for the grace of God, go we!

I ate in silence as the depth of Crichton’s plan sank in.  I suspected that Cheesey always planned to blow up one of the Peugeot estates in the Cross Keys car park to either kill Jimmy O’Donnell or frame him for killing the Gardai. The plan was brutally simple: kill as many soldiers, police and IRA men as possible and then implicate the local IRA leadership in the killings. That I had managed to extricate Zuck from the Cranford and had the Gardai in close pursuit was the icing on the cake that linked the two incidents together.

I hoped that Crichton really did have the support of the PM because if his involvement ever came to light, the fallout would be ferocious.   It would be deemed an act of war by the UK on a sovereign state.  The Irish could legitimately demand that Britain be thrown out of the EEC and that the UN impose sanctions.  I doubted that the Americans would stand by us this time like they did during the Falklands.  I was so engrossed I barely noticed Kimmell and Devine leaving.  I was brought to my senses by Tug’s dulcet tones.

Are the scousers definitely alright?

As far as I know, yes.

What the fuck happened?

I really don’t know the full story and it will best if you don’t hear anything from me.

I knew you were a fucking liability! he snarled and punched the table.

Steady on. I had nothing to do with planning or executing last night’s fiasco.

Bollocks! Everywhere you fucking go there is a trail of blood.  Glasgow, Tyrone and now here. Each time we had a basic surveillance op and it turned into a fucking bloodbath.  Well take my advice and keep yer murdering hands out of the fucking Chemniz job or I’ll put a hole in yer meself. Got it?

Point taken I said, Just remember that I am the patsy in this.  Your boss has repeatedly set me up and it’s only a fucking miracle I am still alive. So I will be quite happy never to set foot in the Chemniz site again.  The downside is that the dear Major will probably force me to attend on his behalf.

Well if he does, you fucking mek sure that me and Rog are not involved in any of your fucking hare-brained schemes.

Happy to oblige, though you must realise the Major is the man you should be worried about.

Listen you little shit, I have served wi that man fer nearly thirty years and he has never caused anything like the fucking havoc that follows you around, so don’t try and blame him.  You fucking ‘Ruperts’ are all the same: make a mess and then blame someone else.

Fine let’s agree to differ and let’s not speak again.

Fuck you! he snarled and left the room.

I stood up and headed for the door.

What was that about? called Mrs Reilly from the kitchen?

Nothing. Just old Tug getting a bit over emotional about work stuff.

It didn’t sound like it! Anyway, to be honest, I will be glad to see the back of the two of ye’s.  He is a miserable bastard and trouble seems to follow you around.  Make sure yer room is empty by ten.

Don’t worry I will be gone shortly.

Good leave yer key in the room door.

As you wish I said and headed for the stairs thinking just how glad I would be to exit her less than salubrious establishment for the last time. I packed quickly and left my key in the lock.  I walked down the stairs with a spring in my step. Leaving the Port House was like getting out of jail.  A small bright spot on an otherwise deeply gloomy day! After the altercation with Tug, I decided to avoid the Chemniz plant until Monday which left me plenty of free time.  I stopped at the bottom of the main street and asked an older woman for directions to the nearest launderette.  After a couple of wrong turns, I found the laundry and threw my clothes into a couple of machines.  The owner was a cheery Italian man who asked if I had anything that needed dry cleaning, so I gave him my suit and sports jacket.  Pleased with the extra business, he agreed to dry my washing and have everything ready for five o’clock.  I paid him and headed off to find something to fill my day.

I considered doing some exploring then I remembered that I was at risk of being exposed at any time as one of the escapees from the Cranford shootout. I drove to the yard and locked the gate behind me.  I had hardly sat down in the office when the phone rang.

Hello.

Fuck’s sake! Where have you been man?  I have been calling constantly since 8.30.

Well it’s a pity you didn’t think to call a little earlier as I had to spend the night here when I got locked out of the Port House.  Anyway, what would you want to speak to me for?  I would have thought that I was surplus to requirements now that you have implicated me in the worst terrorist atrocities in the history of Donegal.  The police are actively searching for the driver of the vehicle that escaped from the Cranford, so my time is likely to be limited.

It’s always about you isn’t?  Nothing but fucking self-pity!  It is not an endearing trait Philip, it really isn’t.  Now, I need to know what has happened so far today.  Are our two lads at the Cranford OK?

They are allegedly alive and at liberty but the Gardai won’t let me speak to them until they have been interviewed.

Good, so you aren’t quite as big a self-centred tosser as you appear.  We need to get them out of there quickly in case Green says or does something stupid.

I suspect that it might be too late to worry about Green doing something stupid.

Why, what did he do?

He shot one of his elephants that had escaped and run into my car. 

Fuck’s sake man! That wasn’t stupid: that was heroic. You would probably be dead if he hadn’t stepped in.

True, the downside is I suspect he did it with a gun that was supposedly deactivated and when the elephant dropped, it landed on two of the Free State Army men.

Ah... so you think he might be in the bag for killing two of them?

Yes. I fear so. Mrs Green was pretty vague when I asked about him this morning.

When you got to the cottage; who was there?

Herrity, Sean Foley, Tim Herrity and someone called Neil Dolan.

Interesting... I don’t understand why they chose to fight it out.  They could easily have surrendered and handed Zuck over as soon as they realised it was a military assault.

I asked Herrity but he said it was a long story.  I don’t think they planned to fight to the death, just hold out long enough to let Zuck escape.  While I was there things took a turn for the worse.  Dolan took one between the eyes and died instantly then Foley was hit in the upper chest.  Herrity had been hit in the head and leg.  It looked like they had the Portuguese AR-10s stored there, so they had a definite reason to try and hold out, but it made no sense to me.

Pure bloody mindedness by the sounds of it!  The IRA Army Council have already denied that the Cranford shootout and the Cross Keys bombing were officially sanctioned operations. It looks like the High Command are trying to distance themselves from it as quickly as possible.  No wonder really, as killing 8 Free State soldiers and Gardai doesn’t have the same resonance in the US as killing a British platoon would!  It will be hard for them to turn this into some kind of ‘Fenian Rorke’s Drift’; a last stand of the Old IRA maybe, but I am sure the Republican turd polishers will have a go.

"Yes, well that is Herrity’s problem, assuming he is still alive.  My problem is a little more pressing. It will only be a matter of time before people work out that I was driving the Peugeot that was used in the bombing. Once they do I will end up going down for a long time unless I turn in your psychotic