Brute Force

104

In Russian prisons, your life story is tattooed on your body, and this boy's was pretty much an open book.

The initiation tattoo of a new gang member is usually on the chest. I opened the dead man's shirt. The first thing I saw was a rose. He was Russian mafia. The ace of clubs nearby represented a warrior's sword. I didn't need to rip off his Levis to know there'd be a small star on each kneecap to show he would never kneel before anyone.

The tattoos were blue and blurred. The ink must have been improvised from a mixture of soot and piss, and applied without proper instruments. It was often injected into the skin with a sharpened guitar string attached to an electric shaver.

I scanned the rest of the wreckage. Both of our assailants were dead.

I made my way back up the side of the wadi, and as I crested the ridge I heard a single shot.

Lynn was standing motionless over Mansour's body, .38 in hand.

'What the fuck did you do that for? I thought he was your friend. Old enemies, mutual respect . . .'

Lynn looked up at me. His voice was steel. 'He knew.'

'He knew what?'

'The identity of the source. The man who betrayed PIRA all those years ago . . .'

'Who was it?'

'Nick . . .'

I thought he was about to fuck me off with need-to-know. Instead, he shook his head incredulously. 'You listened to Mansour's little speech. He was spot on. There's only one man who made the transition from acknowledged member of the IRA Army Council to democratically elected politician . . .'

'Isham? Richard Isham turned informer?'

'Richard Isham is a hero. He should have got a Nobel prize. Without him, there would be no Good Friday Agreement, no peace in Northern Ireland . . .'

'And all along, you knew this was why the Firm was after you – after us. But you said fuck all!'

'There is no higher state secret I know of . . .'

I kicked Mansour. 'Is that why you killed him?'

'One of the reasons, yes. Hadn't we better get going?'

He was right. This could wait.

We climbed back into the Audi and I gunned it another half K towards Tripoli until the wadi petered out and I could drive onto the sand and scrub. I turned the car and paralleled the road until we were past the JCB and rejoined it soon afterwards as the sun began to sink towards the horizon.

Lynn's time bomb had been ticking away quietly for years – retirement must do that to some people. You work for decades, you make it your life, and then – boom – one day it all stops and you get out the stamp album and the jigsaws, or in his case the mushrooms, and realize this is it – a one-way ticket.

When Caroline killed herself, he became an outcast. He must have been riddled with guilt. Even his kids had binned him. This dirty little secret was all he had left.