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  McGirk addressed the meeting, “Brothers, I need to know whether this Coughlin still lives. Is he active? And can he bring harm to the brigade?”

  O’Donnell was the first to answer. “We have lost him, only temporarily, but we’re almost sure that he is currently in hiding in the London area. We have plenty of workers in the city who have their noses to the floor; they will surely pick up a lead soon.”

  McGirk drew a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter; it would appear that so far he has kept his mouth shut, nothing seems to have transpired relating to him, so I guess he is inactive.”

  McInerney broke the silence. “If he has spoken with the police we will not know until the day.”

  “That is too fucking late, and Declan and Billy will be doing twenty years by then.”

  “What do we do, call the thing off?” queried O’Donnell.

  There was quiet. After a long pause, McGirk turned away from the window and sat down heavily on an armchair. “We cannot; it is a dual operation with the Soviets and now it’s too late – we would not only lose face but may acquire other enemies that we certainly do not want at the present moment.”

  McGirk held a hand up to his forehead, in deep thought. The other two said nothing and waited. Then he perked up and gestured to O’Donnell. “You get back to Belfast and see what you can do regarding a backup, just in case the plan goes tits up. Don’t forget that we are on the edge, there’s not much time.” He was perspiring as he turned to McInerney. “And you, put the word around regarding our friend Coughlin; someone knows where this guy is. I need to stay here, both for an alibi and for army business. Keep the pressure on your duties; we certainly need to be smart, as the feds are hitting us hard.” McGirk continued to stare at McInerney. “Find this man quickly.”

  “And if we find him?” he answered.

  “Needs to be a summary. But no evidence, do you understand?”

  “OK, we will do what is necessary,” McInerney confirmed.

  “And by the way, if it turns out that this man Coughlin keeps his mouth shut we may take the heat off him. Keep him in mind, you understand, but do not commit people to look for him when it is not necessary.” McGirk seemed flustered.

  “Then we need to find him now to reduce future risks.”

  “That’s right. Phone me if you have a problem.”

  O’Donnell and McInerney opened the door carefully to ensure that the coast was clear, then silently slipped out.

  McGirk waited, and when the door was closed he picked up the telephone and dialled a number. “Billy, is that you?”

  McGirk was calling Billy Keogh who was one of the best bomb makers in the IRA. He was the replacement for Barney Coughlin at Sullom Voe.

  “To be sure it’s me.” Billy was being mischievous.

  “How are the preparations going?”

  “Fine.”

  “How fine?”

  “Well, it’s difficult to get close at the moment due to security but we are getting there.”

  “What are the difficulties?”

  “Access and delivery.”

  “Access?”

  “The stage is too open, difficulty in selecting a spot, but we are working on it; may have to go further away with a bigger blast.”

  “OK, and delivery?”

  “Yes, we are waiting to collect at the post depot, but cannot keep asking the postman, he may get wind, so find out when it will come.”

  “OK, I will. How many are you expecting?”

  “Two big ones.”

  “OK, I will chase up. Keep at it.”

  “By the way, any sign of Coughlin?”

  “In a word, no.” McGirk felt exposed.

  “OK, must go.” Billy sounded impatient.

  “See you.” McGirk put the phone down gently.

  13

  Forbidden Liaison,

  1967/68

  Kwasi Nzema was forty years of age. He had originally graduated from Accra University with a degree in communications (English), and since then had travelled around, working his way through various colleges and universities in Africa.

  This tall and bespectacled man had a reputation as a womaniser, but anyone who met him would have thought he was far from the Casanova type. Generally well liked in college circles, his energy and enthusiasm earned him a good reputation.

  This reputation did not reflect his dark side, his fascination with a female pupil; it was totally outside the bounds of his most wayward thought; it did not bear the slightest resemblance to the basic rules between a teacher at a junior school and pupil. A girl under the age of consent, a forbidden relationship – it was a problem on the greatest scale; one that could finish his career or under the rules of the village even his life. This tall, beautiful student was always in his mind; dangerous to him and totally illegal. This did not deter him; he was heading for disaster.

  Just two months before the end of term Kwasi made his first move by approaching the wife of one of his teaching colleagues. He had previously been associated with this woman; their sordid affair lasted but a few months and they now only shared ‘things’ in common. He discussed the situation with her, his plans for hosting a small party at her house on the day after school finished for the holiday. Her husband agreed with his wife and they rented the house to Kwasi for two nights; she stipulated that any comeback from those two days would be his responsibility.

  Naomi would be invited to the party on the pretext that it was a going-away celebration following her success at Standard 8, leading up to matriculation at Standard 10.

  For Kwasi the time leading up to the school holidays passed slowly, but when the last day of term finally arrived he paid the rent and waited to prepare the house for his ‘party’. He then rearranged the furniture, closed all the curtains and blinds to make it as secluded as possible, then carefully arranged drinks and snacks on the long sideboard.

  Expecting Naomi at any moment, he dashed upstairs, showered and put on a casual open-necked shirt. It hung over his trousers in a youthful fashion, and he was ready to meet his next conquest.

  Sitting down on the long sofa, it wasn’t long before he heard movement outside, and at about seven o’clock she passed the window, followed a few seconds later by a restrained knock at the door. He waited a few moments.

  “Hello, Naomi, I was not sure whether I would recognise you in your going-away clothes. You look beautiful, and welcome.” Kwasi spoke with the assurance of an older man. “I am afraid we are the only two people left for the party; all the others have not been able to come for one reason or another, and it would be a shame to waste the food and drink.” Kwasi reeled off the excuses for the other four guests, and at the same time ushered Naomi into the lounge.

  Although a respected teacher within the school Naomi did not trust him based on his previous behaviour. She also knew that if he became aggressive and she screamed for help it was her opinion that people would only believe his version of the story.

  He did not take long to show her the house, and the conversation wilted when they reached the bedroom. He shut the door quietly and took off his shirt.

  She moved towards the door, she was both scared but still worried if she shouted and then was accused of being rude to the teacher.

  “Come, child.” He touched her arm gently and stroked her hair. She felt uncomfortable and asked Kwasi to let her go to the bathroom; he held her, and told her she could go in a while.

  Slowly but forcefully he undressed her, and she froze in terror. His tone and actions became agitated and he pushed her onto the bed. The whole process of his seduction seemed to last an eternity and the act left her scared and disgusted.

  Later in the evening he fell asleep, and she wasted no time in collecting her clothes and slipping out of the house. Dishevelled and scared, she did not stop until she reached the bus stop, where she sat dow
n and sobbed for hours, not even noticing that it was now early morning.

  Just as the morning was breaking and light could be seen over the distant sky, some miners, worse for drink from the night before, passed her. In a kind but slurred tone of voice, they asked if everything was OK. She told them that she was all right, but had missed the bus the night before and was waiting for the first of the day. They showed no emotion, nodded and moved on towards their destination.

  The time was passing slowly it was a long night, and so tired she fell asleep and woke up periodically, and was grateful she was awake when the bus arrived; it was 6.30 in the morning. In a daze she paid her fare, fell into a double seat and immediately fell into a deep slumber. She remained in this state for many hours, but then as if by magic she stood up. Her destination approached and her demeanour changed; she came alive. It was another day, this time for love, kisses and hugs from everyone who would welcome her home, especially her mother. But before she could experience this, there would be a flight to Lusaka and then another bus. She thought that when she arrived at the village all this travelling would be worth it.

  14

  A Friend So Near is Not Always So Dear,

  May 1980

  The old Zambia Airways Boeing 707 bumped down at Lusaka Airport, and Martin Valeron stepped out from the plane and into the bright African sunlight. The airport was chaotic and he finally pushed his way through the vibrant crowd into the reception area and sought out his next flight to Kitwe.

  He waited for an hour before boarding, and the flight was scheduled to take an hour, so it was a respite when he fell asleep for the duration.

  At Kitwe Airport he was glad to see his old friend from Sullom Voe, a funny and fun-loving man by the name of Geoff de Kok. He wore his normal cheeky grin his innocent face giving nothing away to his true character and the dangerous practical jokes that he could play.

  The ex-public schoolboy had lost none of his boyish ways, but Martin was glad to hear his rich and mature British accent wafting across the airport.

  As a former colleague Geoff had arrived in Kitwe six weeks earlier. This was to cover for Martin, who had been retained at Sullom Voe for a suitable handover period from the job he was leaving.

  “Hope that you had a good journey, old boy, plenty of rest, because you will be busy during the next couple of years.”

  It was May 1980 and the rains had yet to come; the terrain on the way from the airport was dry and the dust was churned up by the truck, not helped by de Kok’s erratic driving.

  “I am tired, the flight was bloody hard; all I want to do is rest,” explained Martin.

  “You do not need too much sleep, that’s for old people, and you will only end up with jet lag. I will settle you in the guest house – it’s an old VD clinic converted for expatriate workers, quite comfortable – and then this evening I will introduce you to my friends at the yacht club.” Geoff was buoyant, and his attitude had not changed.

  “Yacht club? What is this, a bloody holiday camp?” stammered Martin.

  “Your job is going to be hard. You know – ordering and delivery of equipment for the cobalt plant is difficult in this part of the world, client not paying his bills, delays incorrect delivery of plant, otherwise this place is wonderful.”

  “How do you mean, wonderful?” asked Martin.

  “Weather is the best in the world, every sports club in the town is tailored to suit one’s interest, although food is scarce, there is nothing in the supermarket.” Geoff shrugged and went on. “That’s why I want to show you the yacht club. I have reserved a single scull for you later; have you done any sailing before?”

  “No, I haven’t; we didn’t have the facilities at my school, unlike your posh set-up.” Martin was sarcastic.

  They pulled up at a large white house and Geoff jumped out, quickly offloading Martin’s suitcase, whilst Martin quickly exited the vehicle. Then Geoff jumped straight back in and departed in a hail of dust, shouting, “Pick you up at five.”

  Rest and Recuperation

  The yacht club looked serene as Martin manoeuvred the old vehicle along the unmade road, through two huge gates and into the evening sun.

  “Pull to the left, Martin, and we will leave this old thing here whilst I take you to the skiff.” Geoff was his old youthful, exuberant self. “Lovely building, don’t you think, old boy? Colonial style, that’s for sure! The type constructed by expats back some hundred or so years ago, and in those days everything was built to Commonwealth standards; fit for a king, you know what I mean? Come, I’ll show you inside.”

  The building had a grand entrance with two large double doors. Inside the stairs were large and grand and wound up to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, to the right, a double door led to an open bar with a panoramic view of the lake outside. To the left of the stairs, opposite the bar, a corridor wound through to the rear of the clubhouse. Each of the rooms had windows with a view of interest; whether it was the lake, the tennis courts or the swimming pool, each scene was quite unique.

  “We will have a drink later, but first the boat, so let’s get started.”

  They walked along the jetty and Geoff helped Martin into a small skiff. It felt unstable, and Martin held back.

  “Be more gentle, slide in slowly, and once I push you off get your hands on the oars and keep the blades in the water all the time. Feather them, you know; skim them back along the water.”

  “Why?”

  “Because otherwise you will tip the bloody thing up and land in this beautiful lake; you don’t want that, old chap, especially with all those nasties in the water.”

  Geoff pushed off the skiff.

  “Wait a minute, Geoff, I’ve never done this before!” Martin was panicking.

  Geoff walked away from the quayside and made his way back to the clubhouse, striding quickly.

  “Geoff, wait, come back!”

  “Meet you in the bar later, old chap, and remember: keep your oars in the water at all times!”

  Martin tried to pull himself together. He rowed and feathered the oars as he pulled them, and the boat moved rapidly through the water. Although he kept his head down to avoid any imbalance, when he looked sideways, he was aware of a multitude of green eyes on the bank not so far away.

  He needed to return to the quay as soon as possible, not so much for fun but for his own safety – who would save him if this bloody boat tipped over? He needed to be very careful.

  It was getting dark so he kept one oar stationary and retained in the water; the other he paddled carefully and feathered between strokes. The boat turned quickly, but just as he headed for home there was an almighty bellow that shook Martin to his core.

  He turned his head to see a pair of hippopotamuses frolicking in the water not more than thirty feet away. It was a crisis and he needed to act accordingly, so with superhuman strength fuelled by panic, he struck the oars solidly into the water and the boat glided through so quickly he rammed the bow into the quay in his quest for safety.

  He reached the bar in a fury and did not know whether to drink his first pint of beer or drown de Kok in it.

  15

  An Aspiration,

  June 1980

  The challenge of changing his professional duties from work associated with the construction of North Sea oilrigs to the installation of mining products in the middle of Africa appealed to Martin. The challenge was there and he was to work in a continent that had so much to offer but was so backward in producing it.

  The climate was second to none and there were so many recreational activities it would spoil him for the future.

  He was not proud of the fact that six months ago whilst working in the Shetlands he had informed a member of the security forces that a close friend of his may be operating on behalf of the IRA. He had reasons to believe that this man was plotting to assassinate the British Queen. A
lthough he classed this man a friend he had begun to suspect him after overhearing certain discussions that he was having with a third party.

  The MI6 agent involved was George Webster, Martin did not hesitate to report his concerns but had always felt a twinge of guilt in doing so. It seemed that his suspicions were however correct as Barney later disappeared, and a potential terrorist attack was for a time thwarted.

  Whatever the situation that now prevailed, Martin felt that he had betrayed Barney, who had been more than an acquaintance at the time. He should have told him face to face rather than report him as if to stab him in the back, but under the circumstances there was nothing else he could have done at the time.

  Now in Zambia, he felt like he was a million miles away from Shetland, and he was looking forward to the work ahead of him. This was his bread and butter; it should be fun.

  His brief was to control the schedule to ensure that the contractual date was achieved, and costs controlled within the parameters of the budget.

  Other Than Work

  From a young boy Martin had had aspirations to become professional in the world of sport. Time had now passed him by as a player but now as an adult and training professional boxers he was hoping for success at the highest level.

  Working in Zambia provided him with the raw talent that he wanted to win a world championship; his dream of a real Rocky outcome.

  During the first few months he reviewed the talent available, discussing their potential with local coaches, and outside of the gym he started to investigate the practicalities of the available local halls that could be suitable for future promotions or utilised for training.

  One name mentioned frequently during his research was an ex-boxer called Lemmie Chipili, and Martin wanted to put a face to the name. It seemed that most people knew him as ‘the Lion of Kitwe’, and his popularity was immense; the man was a living legend. A former heavyweight boxer, after many fights against his African counterparts Lemmie had his chance to fight for the Zambian title held by a white champion. This had the potential to lead to the dismantling of segregation in the world of boxing in Southern Africa.