“Bullshit,” said Keller.
“Whatever you say,” replied Walsh.
“Who else was at the camp with him?”
“It was PLO, mainly, and a couple of lads from one of the splinter organizations.”
“Which one?”
“I believe it was the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.”
“You know your Palestinian terror groups.”
“We have a great deal in common with the Palestinians.”
“How so?”
“We’re both occupied by racist colonial powers.”
Keller looked at Gabriel, who was gazing impassively at his hands. Walsh, still blindfolded, seemed to sense the tension in the room. Outside, the wind prowled at the doors and windows of the cottage, as if searching for a point of entry.
“Where am I?” asked Walsh.
“Hell,” replied Keller.
“What do I have to do to get out?”
“Keep talking.”
“What do you want to know?”
“The details of your first operation.”
“It was 1993.”
“What month?”
“April.”
“Ulster or mainland?”
“Mainland.”
“What city?”
“The only city that matters.”
“London?”
“Yes.”
“Bishopsgate?”
Walsh nodded. Bishopsgate . . .
The truck, a Ford Iveco tipper, vanished from Newcastle-under-Lyme, Staffordshire, in March. They took it to a rented warehouse and painted it dark blue. Then Quinn fitted it with the bomb, a one-ton ammonium nitrate/fuel oil device that he assembled in South Armagh and smuggled into England. On the morning of April 24, Walsh drove the truck to London and parked it outside 99 Bishopsgate, an office tower occupied solely by HSBC. The blast shattered more than five hundred tons of glass, collapsed a church, and killed a news photographer. The British government responded by surrounding London’s financial district in a security cordon known as the “ring of steel.” Undeterred, the IRA returned to London in February 1996 with another truck bomb designed and assembled by Eamon Quinn. This time, the target was Canary Wharf in the Docklands. The blast was so powerful it shook windows five miles away. The prime ministers of Britain and Ireland quickly announced the resumption of peace talks. Eighteen months later, in July 1997, the IRA accepted a cease-fire. “It was,” said Liam Walsh, “a fucking disaster.”
“And when the IRA fractured later that autumn,” said Keller, “you went with McKevitt and Bernadette Sands?”
“No,” replied Walsh. “I went with Eamon Quinn.”
From the outset, Walsh continued, the Real IRA was riddled with informers reporting to MI5 and Crime and Security, a shadowy division of the Garda Síochána that operated out of unmarked offices in the Phoenix Park section of Dublin. Even so, the group managed to carry out a string of bombings, including a devastating attack on Banbridge on August 1, 1998. The bomb weighed five hundred pounds and was concealed inside a red Vauxhall Cavalier. The coded telephone warnings were imprecise—no location, no time of detonation. As a result, thirty-three people were seriously injured, including two officers of the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Pieces of the Vauxhall were found six hundred yards away. It was, said Walsh, a preview of coming attractions.
“Omagh,” said Keller quietly.
Walsh said nothing.
“You were part of the operational team?”
Walsh nodded.
“Which car?” asked Keller. “Bomb, scout, or escape?”
“Bomb.”
“Driver or passenger?”
“I was supposed to be the driver, but there was a change at the last minute.”
“Who drove?”
Walsh hesitated, then said, “Quinn.”
“Why the change?”
“He said he was more on edge than usual before an operation. He said the driving would help calm his nerves.”
“But that wasn’t the real reason, was it, Liam? Quinn wanted to take matters into his own hands. Quinn wanted to put a nail in the coffin of the peace process.”
“A bullet in the head was how he described it.”
“He was supposed to leave the bomb at the courthouse?”
“That was the plan.”
“Did he even look for a parking space?”
“No,” said Walsh, shaking his head. “He went straight to Lower Market Street and parked outside S.D. Kells.”
“Why didn’t you do something?”
“I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“You should have tried harder, Liam.”
“You obviously don’t know Eamon Quinn.”
“Where was the escape car?”
“In the parking lot of the supermarket.”
“And when you got inside?”
“The call went back to the other side of the border.”
“‘The bricks are in the wall.’”
Walsh nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone the bomb was in the wrong place?”
“If I’d opened my mouth, Quinn would have killed me. Besides,” Walsh added, “it was too late.”
“And when the bomb went off?”
“It was shit city.”
The death and devastation ignited revulsion on both sides of the border and around the world. The Real IRA issued an apology and announced a cease-fire, but it was too late; the movement had suffered irreparable damage. Walsh settled in Dublin to look after the Real IRA’s interests in the burgeoning drug trade. Quinn went into hiding.
“Where?”
“Spain.”
“What did he do?”
“He hung out on the beach until the money ran out.”
“And then?”
“He called an old friend and said he wanted back in the game.”
“Who was the friend?”
Walsh hesitated, then said, “Muammar Gaddafi.”
17
CLIFDEN, COUNTY GALWAY
IT WASN’T REALLY GADDAFI, Walsh added quickly. It was a close confidant from Libyan intelligence whom Quinn had befriended when he was at the desert terror training camp. Quinn requested sanctuary, and the man from Libyan intelligence, after consulting with the ruler, agreed to allow Quinn into the country. He lived in a walled villa in an upscale Tripoli neighborhood and did odd jobs for the Libyan security services. He was also a frequent visitor to Gaddafi’s underground bunker, where he would regale the leader with stories of the fight against the British. In time, Gaddafi shared Quinn with some of his less savory regional allies. He developed contacts with every bad actor on the continent: dictators, warlords, mercenaries, diamond smugglers, Islamic militants of every stripe. He also made the acquaintance of a Russian arms dealer who was pouring weaponry and ammunition into every civil war and insurgency in sub-Saharan Africa. The arms dealer agreed to send a small container of AK-47s and plastic explosives to the Real IRA. Walsh took delivery of the shipment in Dublin.
“Do you remember the name of the man from Libyan intelligence?” asked Keller.
“He called himself Abu Muhammad.”
Keller looked at Gabriel, who nodded slowly.
“And the Russian arms dealer?” asked Keller.
“It was Ivan Kharkov, the one who was killed in Saint-Tropez a few years ago.”
“You’re sure, Liam? You’re sure it was Ivan?”
“Who else could it be? Ivan controlled the arms trade in Africa, and he killed anyone who tried to get in on the action.”
“And the villa in Tripoli? Do you know where it was?”
“It was in the neighborhood they call al-Andalus.”
“The street?”
“Via Canova. Number Twenty-Seven,” Walsh added. “But don’t waste your time. Quinn left Libya years ago.”
“What happened?”
“Gaddafi decided to clean up his act. He gave up his weapons programs and told the Americans and the Europeans that he wanted to normalize relations. Tony Blair shook his hand in a tent outside Tripoli. BP got drilling rights on Libyan soil. Remember?”
“I remember, Liam.”
Apparently, said Walsh, MI6 knew that Quinn was living secretly in Tripoli. The chief of MI6 prevailed upon Gaddafi to send Quinn packing, and Gaddafi agreed. He called a few of his friends in Africa, but no one would take Quinn in. Then he called one of his best friends in the world, and the deal was done. A week later Gaddafi gave Quinn a signed copy of his Green Book and put him on an airplane.