Death on Gibraltar. Shaun Clarke

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СКАЧАТЬ Dan’s favourite, however, was the ‘six-pack’, the fate of particularly serious offenders. The victim received a bullet in each elbow, knee and ankle, which put him on crutches for a long time.

      While the six-pack was reserved for ‘touts’, or informers, and other traitors, the less damaging, certainly less agonizing punishments were administered to car thieves, burglars, sex offenders, or anyone too openly critical of the IRA, even though they may have actually done nothing.

      As one of the leading practitioners of such punishments, Mad Dan struck so much terror into his victims that when they received a visit from one of his minions, telling them that they had to report for punishment, they nearly always went of their own accord to the place selected for the kneecapping. Knowing what was going to happen to them, many tried to anaesthetize themselves beforehand by getting drunk or sedating themselves with Valium, but Mad Dan always waited for the effects to wear off before inflicting the punishment. He liked to hear them screaming.

      ‘Sure, yer squealin’ like a stuck pig,’ he would say after the punishment had been dispensed. ‘Stop shamin’ your mother, bejasus, and act like a man!’

      After a couple of pints with some IRA friends in a Republican pub in Andersonstown, Mad Dan caught a taxi to the Falls Road, the Provos’ heartland and one of the deadliest killing grounds in Northern Ireland. The streets of the ‘war zone’, as British soldiers called it, were clogged with armoured Land Rovers and forbidding military fortresses looming against the sky. British Army barricades, topped with barbed wire and protected by machine-gun crews atop Saracen armoured cars, were blocking off the entrance to many streets, with the foot soldiers well armed and looking like Martians in their DPM uniforms, boots, webbing, camouflaged helmets and chin-protectors. The black taxis were packed with passengers too frightened to use public transport or walk. Grey-painted RUC mobiles and Saracens were passing constantly. From both kinds of vehicle, police officers were scanning the upper windows and roofs on either side of the road, looking for possible sniper positions. At the barricades, soldiers were checking everyone entering and, in many instances, taking them aside to roughly search them. As Mad Dan noted with his experienced gaze, there were British Army static observation posts with powerful cameras on the roofs of the higher buildings, recording every movement in these streets. There were also, as he knew, listening devices in the ceilings of suspected IRA buildings, as well as bugs on selected phone lines.

      Small wonder that caught between the Brits and the IRA, ever vigilant in their own way, the Catholics in these streets had little privacy and were inclined to be paranoid.

      Turning into a side-street off the Falls Road, Mad Dan made his way to a dismal block of flats by a patch of waste ground filled with rubbish, where mangy dogs and scruffy, dirt-smeared children were playing noisily in the gathering darkness. In fact, the block of flats looked like a prison, and all the more so because up on the high roof was a British Army OP, its powerful telescope scanning the many people who loitered along the balconies or on the ground below. One soldier was manning a 7.62mm GPMG; the others were holding M16 rifles with the barrels resting lightly on the sandbagged wall.

      Grinning as he looked up at the overt OP, Mad Dan placed the thumb of his right hand on his nose, then flipped his hand left and right in ironic, insulting salute. Then he entered the pub. It was smoky, noisy and convivial inside. Seeing Patrick Tyrone sitting at one of the tables with an almost empty glass of Guinness in front of him, Mad Dan asked with a gesture if he wanted another. When Tyrone nodded, Mad Dan ordered and paid for two pints, then carried them over to Tyrone’s table. Sitting down, he slid one over to Tyrone, had a long drink from his own, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

      ‘Ach, sure that’s good!’ he said.

      When Tyrone, another hard man, had responded with a thin, humourless smile, Mad Dan nodded towards the front door and said: ‘I see the Brits have some OPs on the roof. Do they do any damage?’

      ‘Aye. They’re equipped with computers linked to vehicle-registration and suspect-information centres, as well as to surveillance cameras. Also, the shites’ high visibility reminds us of their presence and so places a quare few constraints on us. At the same time, the OPs allow members of regular Brit units and 14 Intelligence Company to observe suspects and see who their associates are. This in turn allows the shites collecting intelligence at Lisburn and Brit HQ to investigate links between meetings of individuals and our subsequent group activities. So, aye, those bastard OPs can do us lots of damage.’

      ‘Sure, that’s a hell of a mouthful, Pat.’

      ‘Sure, it’s also the truth.’

      ‘Do those OPs have any back up?’ Mad Dan asked.

      ‘Ackaye’. Each of ’em’s backed up with another consisting of two to four soldiers and located near enough to offer immediate firearms support. If that weren’t enough, those two OPs are backed up by a QRF…’

      ‘Sure, what’s that if you’d be writin’ home?’

      ‘A Quick Reaction Force of soldiers or police, sometimes both, located at the nearest convenient SF base. And that QRF will respond immediately to a radio call for help from the OPs. So, no, they’re not alone, Dan. Those Brit bastards up there have a lot of support.’

      Mad Dan nodded, indicating he understood, but really he wasn’t all that interested. He was there to receive specific instructions for the forthcoming evening. It was what he now lived for.

      ‘So what is it?’ he asked.

      ‘A double hit,’ Tyrone informed him. ‘A bit of weedin’ in the garden. Two bastards that have to be put down to put them out of their misery.’

      ‘A decent thought,’ Mad Dan said. ‘Now who would they be, then?’

      Tyrone had another sip of his Guinness, then took a deep breath. ‘Detective Sergeants Michael Malone and Ernest Carson.’

      ‘Two bastards, right enough,’ Mad Dan said. ‘Sure, that’s a quare good choice. Tonight, is it?’

      ‘Aye. They’ll be in the Liverpool Bar for a meetin’ from eight o’clock on. Just walk in there and do as you see fit. We’ve no brief other than that. Just make sure they stop breathin’.’

      ‘Any security?’

      ‘None. The dumb shites think they’re in neutral territory, so they’re there for nothin’ else but a quare ol’ time. Let the bastards die happy.’

      ‘Weapon?’

      ‘I’ll give it to you outside. A 9mm Browning, removed from an SAS bastard killed back in ’76. Appropriate, right?’

      ‘Ackaye, real appropriate. Let’s go get it an’ then I’ll be off.’

      ‘Sure, I knew you’d say that.’

      After finishing their drinks in a leisurely manner, the two men left the bar. Glancing up at the OPs and fully aware that the pub was under surveillance, Tyrone led Mad Dan along the street and up the concrete steps of the grim block of flats. He stopped on the gloomy landing, where the steps turned back in the other direction to lead up to the first balcony. There, out of sight of the spying Brits, he removed the Browning and handed it to Mad Dan, along with a fourteen-round magazine.

      ‘That’s the only ammunition you’re gettin’,’ he said, ‘because you’ve only got time for one round before hightailing it out of there. That also means you’ve no time for mistakes, so make sure you get СКАЧАТЬ