and drug gangsters played by big boys’ rules.
On the morning of the third day, maddened by thirst, he partook of a few ounces of room-temperature water. At midday he drank tea with milk and sugar, and in the evening he was given more tea and a single slice of toasted bread. It was then that Keller addressed him for the first time at any length. “You’re in a shitload of trouble, Liam,” he said in his East Belfast accent. “And the only way out is to tell me what I want to know.”
“Who are you?” asked Walsh through the pain of his broken jaw.
“That depends entirely on you,” replied Keller. “If you talk to me, I’ll be your best friend in the world. If you don’t, you’re going to end up like your three friends.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Omagh,” was all Keller said.
On the morning of the fourth day, Keller removed the plugs from Walsh’s ears and the gag from his mouth and elaborated on the situation in which the Irishman now found himself. Keller claimed to be a member of a small Protestant vigilante group seeking justice for the victims of republican terrorism. He suggested it had ties to the Ulster Volunteer Force, the loyalist paramilitary group that had killed at least five hundred people, mainly Roman Catholic civilians, during the worst of the Troubles in Northern Ireland. The UVF accepted a cease-fire in 1994, but its murals, with their images of armed masked men, still adorned walls in Protestant neighborhoods and towns in Ulster. Many of the murals bore the same slogan: “Prepared for peace, ready for war.” The same could have been said for Keller.
“I’m looking for the one who built the bomb,” he explained. “You know the bomb I’m talking about, Liam. The bomb that killed twenty-nine innocent people in Omagh. You were there that day. You were in the car with him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were there, Liam,” Keller repeated. “And you were in contact with him after the movement went to shit. He came down here to Dublin. You looked after him until it got too hot.”
“It’s not true. None of it’s true.”
“He’s back in circulation, Liam. Tell me where I can find him.”
Walsh said nothing for a moment. “And if I tell you?” he asked finally.
“You’ll spend some time in captivity, a long time, but you’ll live.”
“Bullshit,” spat Walsh.
“We’re not interested in you, Liam,” answered Keller calmly. “Only him. Tell us where we can find him, and we’ll let you live. Play dumb, and I’m going to kill you. And it won’t be with a nice neat bullet to the head. It’ll hurt, Liam. It’ll hurt badly.”
That afternoon a storm laid siege to the length and breadth of Connemara. Gabriel sat by the fire reading from a volume of Fitzgerald while Keller drove the windblown countryside looking for unusual Garda activity. Liam Walsh remained in isolation in the cellar, bound, gagged, blinded, deafened. He was given no liquid or food. By that evening he was so weakened by hunger and dehydration that Keller almost had to carry him to the toilet.
“How long?” asked Gabriel over dinner.
“We’re close,” said Keller.
“That’s what you said earlier.”
Keller was silent.
“Is there anything we can do to hurry things along? I’d like to be out of here before the Garda come knocking on the door.”
“Or the Real IRA,” added Keller.
“Well?”
“He’s immune to pain at this point.”
“What about water?”
“Water’s always good.”
“Does he know?”
“He knows.”
“Do you need help?”
“No,” said Keller, rising. “It’s personal.”
When Keller was gone, Gabriel went onto the terrace and stood in the ball-bearing rain. Five minutes was all it took. Even a hard man like Liam Walsh couldn’t stand the water for long.
15
THAMES HOUSE, LONDON
E ACH F RIDAY EVENING , usually at six o’clock but sometimes a bit later if London or the wider world were in crisis, Graham
On the morning of the third day, maddened by thirst, he partook of a few ounces of room-temperature water. At midday he drank tea with milk and sugar, and in the evening he was given more tea and a single slice of toasted bread. It was then that Keller addressed him for the first time at any length. “You’re in a shitload of trouble, Liam,” he said in his East Belfast accent. “And the only way out is to tell me what I want to know.”
“Who are you?” asked Walsh through the pain of his broken jaw.
“That depends entirely on you,” replied Keller. “If you talk to me, I’ll be your best friend in the world. If you don’t, you’re going to end up like your three friends.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Omagh,” was all Keller said.
On the morning of the fourth day, Keller removed the plugs from Walsh’s ears and the gag from his mouth and elaborated on the situation in which the Irishman now found himself. Keller claimed to be a member of a small Protestant vigilante group seeking justice for the victims of republican terrorism. He suggested it had ties to the Ulster Volunteer Force, the loyalist paramilitary group that had killed at least five hundred people, mainly Roman Catholic civilians, during the worst of the Troubles in Northern Ireland. The UVF accepted a cease-fire in 1994, but its murals, with their images of armed masked men, still adorned walls in Protestant neighborhoods and towns in Ulster. Many of the murals bore the same slogan: “Prepared for peace, ready for war.” The same could have been said for Keller.
“I’m looking for the one who built the bomb,” he explained. “You know the bomb I’m talking about, Liam. The bomb that killed twenty-nine innocent people in Omagh. You were there that day. You were in the car with him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were there, Liam,” Keller repeated. “And you were in contact with him after the movement went to shit. He came down here to Dublin. You looked after him until it got too hot.”
“It’s not true. None of it’s true.”
“He’s back in circulation, Liam. Tell me where I can find him.”
Walsh said nothing for a moment. “And if I tell you?” he asked finally.
“You’ll spend some time in captivity, a long time, but you’ll live.”
“Bullshit,” spat Walsh.
“We’re not interested in you, Liam,” answered Keller calmly. “Only him. Tell us where we can find him, and we’ll let you live. Play dumb, and I’m going to kill you. And it won’t be with a nice neat bullet to the head. It’ll hurt, Liam. It’ll hurt badly.”
That afternoon a storm laid siege to the length and breadth of Connemara. Gabriel sat by the fire reading from a volume of Fitzgerald while Keller drove the windblown countryside looking for unusual Garda activity. Liam Walsh remained in isolation in the cellar, bound, gagged, blinded, deafened. He was given no liquid or food. By that evening he was so weakened by hunger and dehydration that Keller almost had to carry him to the toilet.
“How long?” asked Gabriel over dinner.
“We’re close,” said Keller.
“That’s what you said earlier.”
Keller was silent.
“Is there anything we can do to hurry things along? I’d like to be out of here before the Garda come knocking on the door.”
“Or the Real IRA,” added Keller.
“Well?”
“He’s immune to pain at this point.”
“What about water?”
“Water’s always good.”
“Does he know?”
“He knows.”
“Do you need help?”
“No,” said Keller, rising. “It’s personal.”
When Keller was gone, Gabriel went onto the terrace and stood in the ball-bearing rain. Five minutes was all it took. Even a hard man like Liam Walsh couldn’t stand the water for long.
15
THAMES HOUSE, LONDON
E ACH F RIDAY EVENING , usually at six o’clock but sometimes a bit later if London or the wider world were in crisis, Graham
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