Chapter Thirty-Six
Thirty-Six
“An old Ulster ghost? What does that mean?”
“Back in the Troubles. I knew a man named Rory Coyle.”
Court shook his head in the saloon of his boat. “No, this guy would have to be younger, I’m not exactly sure—”
“Let me tell my story, lad.”
Court’s brows furrowed. “Go ahead.”
“Roderick ‘Rory’ Coyle was head of an ASU, an Active Service Unit, a Provisional IRA cell.
Based in Belfast. And he also, for a time, ran a Nutter Squad.
They did enforcement jobs, mostly. Targeting other IRA members, killing or maiming them for spying for the British, but when he led the ASU, he assassinated three British police officers in London.
“He was a right bastard.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
Fitzroy hesitated once again, then spoke energetically. “Of course I do. January of 1994, his bullet-riddled body was found in an oil drum in central Belfast, in a little alley called Murray Street, to be more precise.”
Court sniffed. “Seeing as how that was thirty years ago, you seem to remember the details especially well.”
“Like it was yesterday, lad.”
“You did it?”
“If by ‘it’ you mean put the bullets in him, no, I didn’t do it.
But…” He took a beat, then gave a little sniff before continuing.
“You ever roll a two-hundred-pound oil drum out the back of a van by yourself? Could have applied for disability after that. Threw my back out for a week. Old Rory got the last laugh, he did.”
Court tried to picture the event. It had nothing to do with him, but he’d always been fascinated with Fitzroy’s past. Finally, he understood. “Could this be the father of the guy I’m asking about?”
Fitzroy said nothing. Court registered the pause, noticed it was followed by a shuffle noise and he discerned something from Fitzroy’s actions.
“Yes. Rory Coyle, in fact, did have a son.”
“What do you know about the son?”
“What I know about him has been buried in the back of my brain for a long time.”
“Dig it up, Fitz,” Court demanded.
“Campbell was the boy’s name.” Sir Donald Fitzroy added, “Whetstone was the name we gave him.”
Court just breathed into the phone for a long moment, then said, “Holy shit. You ran him?”
“At first, we did. But at the end of the day, I’d say he ran us.” The older man said, “Rory Coyle’s boy was a teenager when his father died, and the lad believed the story that we sold to the media.”
“What story?”
“That his father had been killed by a rival splinter Provo unit. Rory had personally ended the lives and livelihood of a lot of Irish Catholics, touts and suspected touts. It was hardly difficult to convince the IRA, and the world at large, that one of their own had a quarrel with him.”
“And what did his son do?”
“Funny enough, he came to us. We sent him away at first. He was too young to be of any use. A couple years after, he ran away from home, joined the Foreign Legion.
“He came back our way after that, every bit as eager as before, if not more so. But he’d grown big, strong, smart, trained.
“We ran him as an asset against his own people. He assassinated dissident Irish Catholics, as well as others who’d long since gotten out of the game.
Terrorists with English blood on their hands.
We sent Whetstone to the continent, and to America.
He did jobs in Boston and New York, in Frankfurt, in Madrid.
All that in addition to the work he did in Ulster, and down in Ireland. He was an efficient, bloody killer.”
Court said, “And he killed because you guys made him think his targets had been involved in his dad’s murder, when you guys actually were the ones who killed his father.”
Defensively, the Englishman said, “Exactly that. It was the dirtiest of wars. I don’t want any moralizing from you on what went on back then, because you weren’t there, and you’ve got your own dirt under your nails, and your own stench on your breath.”
“Did I say anything?”
Fitzroy took a beat, then seemed to calm a little.
“After a few years, it got tougher to convince him there were others involved in his father’s death, and he had no interest in continuing to work for us.
He did a couple of jobs we did not sanction.
Contract work, including against some of England’s friends over there.
“Ultimately, we cut him loose. He went off, trained in Libya, fought across Africa, did work as a hit man all over the world.”
“He ever work for you when he was a contract killer? Like I did?”
“Good lord, no! He didn’t trust me, and I didn’t trust him not to turn on me. Very few people terrify me, lad, but nightmares of the son of Rory Coyle used to scare me out of my bloody wits.”
“Any idea where he is now?”
“I haven’t heard his name spoken in decades, lad. I’m bloody surprised he’s still living, and more surprised you know about him.
“He was young when we ran him…still, he’s late forties now, I suppose. You think he still has some capabilities?”
“I know he does. He’s leaving a trail of dead and damaged trying to get to me.”
“Bloody hell. How can I help?”
“Put feelers out. I need to know how I can sneak up behind him, should the need arise. Addresses, known associates, methods of operation, whatever you can learn.”
Fitz clicked his tongue a few times, as if he were trying to think of something. “I know his da wasn’t from Belfast. He was from somewhere north. County Antrim, near the coast, I think. It’s been so bloody long, just can’t remember.”
“You know anything about a mother?”
Fitzroy thought back. Finally, he said, “Rory’s wife? I don’t. Truthfully, if I ever knew, I’ve long since forgotten.”
“Who would know?”
“A little Irishman named Bill Tully. He was RUC, he ran Whetstone up close. He’d know.”
Court quickly typed the name William Tully into Google, looking for a photo. Instead, he found a day-old news article about a senior Northern Ireland police official’s body turning up in England. “Remember when I mentioned Coyle was leaving a trail of bodies to get to me?”
“Old Bill is lying along that trail?”
“That would be my guess. He was found in a shallow grave outside of Oxford yesterday.”
“Oxford? That’s strange. Certainly not Tully’s normal stomping ground. Wonder why he was in England.”
“Any ideas?” Court asked, still scanning the article.
“The MI5 man who ran Tully, back when Tully ran Whetstone. His name is Sir Allen Glazebrook. Back then he was the same rank I was. He’s got a place in the Cotswolds. Not far from Oxford.”
“Can you ask him about Whetstone for me?”
“Old Allen and I never got on, really; he saw me as rougher, more base, perhaps. Too keen to break the bones of my enemies. I saw him…well…I suppose I saw him just as he was. An Eton prick, a plugged-in Oxford grad trying to pass his time in Ulster without mussing his hair. He quite failed at that, I’ll say.
And then, after the service, Sir Allen and I became competitors.
Hiring blokes like you, running commercial security services around the globe.
But since I’ve left that game, I imagine that arranging a chat with him shouldn’t be a problem.
I’ll ring a mutual friend and report back. ”
“Thanks, Fitz.”
“This mess going on in America. Is this related to that?”
“It’s looking that way.”
“Are you back home, then, doing what you do?”
“It won’t benefit either of us if you know where I am and what I’m up to.”
“That’s fair, lad. Word is American secrets are for sale, and whoever’s doin’ the buying intends on some real damage over there. I hope you get it squared away. America with its house in order is a good thing for the rest of the world.”
Court had a camera on the flybridge of his boat, and it faced pier B and the parking lot beyond it. He had noticed a black Suburban pull up a few seconds earlier, and now he saw a group of four men coming up the pier, unlocking the gate with a key as they did so.
Court said, “Rumors around here are that Russia or China is involved.”
“Bollocks,” Fitzroy said. “America itself is the one you have to fear. Sorry to say, but whether it’s China or Russia who’s benefiting from what’s happening right now, the fact remains there are people high up in your intel community who are happy to let this happen.”
Court thought this over; he couldn’t argue, especially because only half his attention was going to Fitzroy’s comment.
The other half was on the group of men heading up the docks in the direction of Ship Happens, Two.
Matt Hanley was at the center, and the three men around him, Court suspected, were part of the Five Guys, the security team that worked at Ghost Town.
Hanley had his phone in his hand, held to his ear.
“Gotta run, Fitz. Glad to hear you sounding good. Please get back to me when you have something.”
Court’s phone beeped; he looked and saw that Hanley was calling him.
“Will do, lad. Keep ducking those bullets.”
“Roger that.” Court disconnected from Signal and answered the call from Hanley.
He answered, “Permission to come aboard is granted. I see you brought your backup dancers.”
Hanley chuckled a little. “Security. They’ll stay up here on deck.”
Court hung up, holstered his pistol, and unlocked the door down to the saloon, and soon enough, he and Hanley were sitting on the couch, each with a beer. These were Pacifico Mexican lagers—Court’s choice, this time, but Hanley didn’t complain.
The music over the salon stereo played a bluesy tune called “Broken Bones”; it wasn’t loud, but the first words out of Hanley’s mouth were completely predictable to Court.
Hanley said, “Can I get you to turn that down?”
Court moved over to the stereo and lowered the volume, but he let the music play more softly.
“Still with the country music?” Hanley asked.
“How the fuck is this country? It’s blues. In fact, these guys are from Iceland.”
“It all sounds like country to me. When do you have time to listen to music?”