The Shorthand Notebook - Part 5 - The Final Instalment.

"How did you spot that Tony? That's like sixth sense and shit!"

"I saw it through the back of the sheet."

"That kinda backs up what Judge O' Sullivan said in the interview."

"What do you mean Lenore?"

"Give me a couple of minutes. I've literally transcribed what I can understand from this notebook. It might not make perfect sense initially, but I'm sure we can thrash it out between ourselves."

"Okay - hit me with it."

"It starts off a bit formally and as I said previously, as this guy was writing as fast as he could. The judge introduces himself and says he's entering into this interview willingly and not under any duress."

"Making it clear that he's of sound mind, I'd say. To make sure it stands up in court, if needed," I add.

"You're probably right Tony. Carty makes a reference to scotch here, but I can't make out the context of the sentence. The judge makes some remark that he wished to right one of his biggest regrets of his entire life."

"Which would be?"

"Not putting Sergeant James McCarthy behind bars."

"Whoa!"

"Are you serious Lenore?"

"Yep. That's what is says here Tony. My transcription might not be perfect, but that's what my understanding of it is."

"That's a very serious allegation! Why would he make such a statement? He's a man, or was a man of the law. You can't just make wild accusations like that without evidence! Or proof!"

"Maybe that's why he's telling his story to a reporter Rob. Getting him to do the digging as he has only a certain period of time left in his life. Or had - you know, what I mean. Leaving a legacy and all that."

"Maybe it's these allegations that got them both into trouble."

"Maybe it was, Lenore. And this god-damn notebook is the key to the evidence."

"Shit. I never thought of it like that! Jesus Christ Tony! What else do the notes say?"

"Em, the judge gives us his back story. He attended Clongowes school in Dublin as a boy and one summer worked in his uncle's law offices in London. He loved London and his uncle, whom he was very fond of, sponsored him to attend law school after regular school at King's College London. He showed a natural aptitude for law and graduated in the top 1% of his class. Before qualifying for the bar, he was approached."

"What do you mean approached?"

"By MI6."

"Oh!" both of us said in unison.

"The judge spent six years in London practising law in his uncle's firm - whilst also working for MI6 on the side. He says he barely had time for a day off or a girlfriend during those years. He states that he was quite lonely during his early twenties but had feck all time to wallow on it. On the eve of his twenty-fourth birthday, his uncle died suddenly and suspiciously. His uncle was a prominent and well respected Irishman in London, and lived in wealthy Kensington."

"How did he die?"

"In a fire in his own home. The fire service never determined what started the fire, but they suspected arson. This was London in the early 1970's where an Irish accent was viewed with suspicion. The judge then states that although it was never proven, he suspected it was the work of the IRA."

"Holy shit!"

"Fearing for his own safety, the judge returned to Dublin. His association with MI6 continued though, informing his bosses of any terrorist links that might prove worthy of them pursuing. He sat the bar in Dublin and passed it without any complications. He soon joined a top firm in Dublin and was being touted as the next big thing. He worked hard and kept his head down. He met Angela, who joined the firm as a paralegal and got married in a whirlwind romance. Within eighteen months, their first boy, Andrew, was born. A second followed soon after - by the name of Michael. It was shortly after Michael's fifth birthday, where he first came upon a cocky young Garda, by the name of McCarthy."

"Hardly the same Sergeant McCarthy from the airport?"asked Rob.

"Yes indeed Rob. James McCarthy graduated from Templemore in 1974. That same Garda now runs the Special Investigations Unit (SIU). Born and bred in Dundalk, he had his own run-in's with the law as a young fella - but they were all expunged from his record when he signed up for the Gardai."

"How the fuck did that happen?"

"According to the notes, he had an uncle, who was a Detective at the time. He was stationed in Ballybofey who looked out for him. McCarthy was lucky to be stationed in Monaghan town, close enough for his uncle to have influence. After about five years there, he then was stationed in Drogheda. That's when serious shit started to happen. Files would go missing, evidence would get lost - that kind of shit. The thing is that type of behaviour was rife in the border counties at the time. It made a mockery of bringing anyone with terrorist links to trial. Very rarely was anyone prosecuted without something going wrong at some stage."

This was sounding like a film. Rob and I sat glued to our seats. I had forgotten about my pint sitting right in front of me.

"Anyway - the first time he met McCarthy was in the Four Courts in 1979. The judge was working second chair in a case against a known arms trafficker for the IRA. This man, Alan McKeever, was also on the run from the British forces for suspected terrorist offences up north. The plan was to sentence him here in the Republic, if convicted, and then transfer him for extradition when his sentence concluded. If all was supposed to go according to plan, he was going to spend about ten years in Portlaoise or Mountjoy, and then get his marching orders to the UK for trial."

"McKeever? Why does that name sound so familiar?"

"That's because it's famous Tony. The McKeever escape case?"

"Jesus yeah! That was this case?"

"It was. The judge says that the trial was floundering from the very start anyhow. Evidence got lost on the eve of the first day in court. Papers weren't filed initially too, holding it up another four days. Tensions were mounting and everyone was under extreme pressure to do their jobs properly. Even the government were putting the squeeze on. And then the jury tampering began."

"The what?"

"You heard me right. Two jurors had to be removed on day two - one was a registered card holding member of Sinn Fein. The other was visited in his local pub by two 'gentlemen' with northern accents - who proceeded to knock seven shades of shite out of him. The judge had no option but to remove both from the jury panel."

"Jesus! I thought that type of shit only happened in movies!"

"All this hype and distraction made everyone take their eyes off the ball. That was their end game according to the judge. After a drawn out case with lots of shit going on, McKeever only gets six years for arms trafficking. As he's being transported to Portlaoise, the prison van is ambushed. The IRA are heavily suspected, but it's never proven. McKeever goes on the run and never serves jail time in the Republic. They think he manages to get on a boat to Amsterdam and then to the USA. They still think he's over there under another alias. The big thing that stinks about the escape is suspected Garda collusion."

"Jesus Christ! This notebook is just full of bad shit!"

"The ambush goes too well. No Garda or prison officer is killed, which is exceptional in those type of circumstances. That's what made everyone think there was an inside man or men involved. But one man gets a broken leg and a heavily bruised cheek - guess who?"

"Sergeant McCarthy?"

"Correct Rob. He gets a commendation, as do all the Gardai involved. It just so happens that McCarthy gets promoted to Detective less than a year later. The judge has no actual contact with McCarthy during the trial, but he and some of his peers have their suspicions. He then passes on his theory to MI6."

"So this story goes international quite quickly?"

"MI6 send over their own agents to monitor McCarthy for a period of six months, but it reveals very little. He keeps his head down and they suspect he knows, that he's actually being watched."

"Does he confront them?"

"No apparently not. The MI6 had an odd theory at this time, that they too had a mole inside their operation. This was never proven also, but it was strange that McCarthy seemed to be one step ahead all the time. This is where the judge starts to meander on a bit and asks for more scotch. The reporter Carty, puts a big question mark in here. Anyhow eh, the judge continues in his own career and makes it onto the bench in 1992. He starts off in the District Courts before getting the big push up to the Criminal Court in 1999. In the meantime, he keeps a close eye on the progress of now Sergeant McCarthy."

"Do they cross paths?"

"Yeah, now where is it? Here it is - they meet alright, but before the judge makes the big leap to the Criminal Court. On a civil matter in 1995, an elderly male neighbour of McCarthy brings a civil boundary issue to the court. The neighbour states that McCarthy built a boundary wall that crossed onto his property. McCarthy denies it by playing the 'I'm a great Garda I'd never do any such thing' card. The neighbour produces the original deeds to the property which had been owned by his family for two generations. The judge rules in the elderly man's favour and McCarthy throws a vile stare at the judge upon reaching his verdict. He says he still can remember those eyes burrowing into him from across the courtroom."

"So he lost and blamed Judge O' Sullivan?"

"Well, yes and no Tony. Yes he lost the case but he still kept his boundary wall. His neighbour died of a heart attack less than six weeks later and before the wall was due to be torn down. Postmortem revealed it was due to stress. Guess who bought the house when it went up for auction?"

"I'm really beginning to hate this prick."

"So they had no interaction with each other apart from that civil matter, until late last year. Two days before any judge was appointed to oversee the case of a Dublin based drug boss being prosecuted, they met 'accidently' in the toilets under Court number 3. In the judge's opinion, it was no accident. He had no idea that he was going to get the nod to oversee the case. But apparently McCarthy knew something he didn't."

"How the hell did he know?"

"The judge had no idea Rob - but he threatened him. At this time, McCarthy was now in charge of the SIU and his team led the investigation against this drug boss. This boss also had strong links to the Real IRA. Their case was fairly threadbare because of their heavy-handed tactics on not securing warrants before seizures of property. I see a note that Carty scratched here that looks like 'half arsed job'. McCarthy warned the judge not to make his unit look bad in the eyes of the media. He mentioned the judge's two sons by their first names. According to these notes and quoting Carty here, he went as white as a sheet when talking about their encounter."

"This asshole had it in for him."

"This is where I'm not sure about the notes. It's either Carty taking direct quotes from the judge or is just paraphrasing and making up his own mind about things. He uses some shorthand notes I'm not too sure about."

"Well, what do you think it is Lenore?"

"I actually think it's the judge's theories. I would lay money on the fact that the judge suspected that this case was a win-win for McCarthy. If the charges stick against the drug boss, McCarthy and the SIU are brilliant and he gets looked on favourably by his bosses for promotion once again."

"And if he lost, how is that a win?"

"They can chalk it down as a learning experience and go at them harder the next time. And then McCarthy gets his cut."

"Cut of what??" I ask incredulously, fearing what came next.

"Oh yeah, I forgot to mention and go back to your initial theory Tony. The judge suspected that James McCarthy was, and always has been - a member of the IRA."

"And as a result - he could be a member of the Real IRA. Fuck." Rob finished Lenore's train of thought and confirmation of the notes.

"Which means this fucker has his finger in so many pies. And he's dangerous - very dangerous."

"What else is in the notes Lenore?'

"Not much else Tony. That's the essential nuts and bolts of the interview."

We sat for a  moment, digesting the revelations. Rob broke the silence

"Any idea what we should do?"

"Well top of my list is not to go to the Gardai!"

We laughed nervously.

"How about you sleep on it? You both can sleep at my house. I kinda em, live alone. The Gardai won't know that you're there and you'd be safe. As would the notebook."

Failing to come up with any other valid ideas, Rob and I decided it was most likely, the safest option. The past few hours had drained me physically and emotionally, and I needed to rest. Rob, being the fitter of us two, barely looked like it had taken anything out of him. We took a cab to Lenore's three-bed semi-detached house.

In the confines of a small box bedroom at 3.32am - the solution hit me. Rob snored loudly in the double room next door. I wanted to share my idea with them both - just to see if I had covered every angle - and that justice might still be done. I lay awake for the next three hours, running over the plan. Lenore stirred first on the landing, gently tapping on my door. I jumped from my bed and took that as my cue to wake Rob.

Lenore made coffee while I ran my plan by the two of them. My thoroughness impressed them.
Then we overheard the news on the radio at 7am, playing in the background.

"A body was found late last night in a wooded area in the Dublin mountains. The body is believed to be that of the journalist Pierce Carty who disappeared a few days ago. Reports are yet unconfirmed.."

"Now we have to do this," I reiterated.

We copied all pages of the notebook from Lenore's printer. We also threw in copies of Lenore's transcripts. We all wore latex gloves. I rang the live reporting desk of the Evening Herald from my new phone - Pierce's paper. At this time of the morning, very few staff would have clocked in. But there would be a staff member there.

I asked for the lead reporter's name dealing with the story of Pierce and the murdered judge. The name given to me was Sandra Greally. I wrote her name down on the bubble-wrapped envelope and sealed it. I insisted that Rob and Lenore go back to their jobs to avoid suspicion. They resisted initially, but soon saw the merits of my idea.

Lenore called a cab for Rob and I to take to the airport. I needed to borrow some things from Lenore to pull this off. I left my bag and laptop with her at the house. I would have to return for them later. As the cab arrived, I placed the small borrowed wheelie bag into the boot of the car.

My wig wasn't the most secure, but it would do. Rob was more nervous than I. My latex gloves were barely visible to the naked eye.

I instructed the cab driver to drop me off outside the main vehicle entrance to the airport. I would be walking in. I tucked up the sleeves of the over sized coat before exiting out of the back passenger door. I winked at Rob as he mouthed the words 'Good luck'. I felt brave in the inside yet my hands quivered.

Walking into the airport along the path, an idea sprung. I spotted the hotel courtesy bus outside the front of the Clarion hotel. If cameras were going to catch my movements, I might as well have fun running them around in circles. Then a large slice of luck fell on my lap.

A school tour group of about fifty students wearing bright red t-shirts were leaving the hotel. I hung around the front of the hotel and got speaking to one of the leaders of the group. They were flying back to Madrid after spending yesterday evening travelling up by bus from Cork. I commented on how bright the t-shirts were and asked if he had a spare one. I explained that I was from Cork and that this was my county colour - even though I was from Limerick. I don't think he fully understood me and my dodgy Cork accent, but he handed me a spare one from his bag. Whipping off the over-sized coat, I donned my new costume complete with dark sunglasses. I was going to get lost in a crowd.

I stayed with the group as long as I could before filing away toward the arrivals level. I kept my head low and my movements slow and steady. To the untrained eye, I looked like a student. I made my way over to the weigh-and-pay self service kiosk. The self service post kiosk was Rob's brilliant idea. I calmly followed the easy guide and placed the envelope into the postbox. I continued to keep my head low and made my way to the toilet.

I returned out of the toilet in a new costume. The red t-shirt was in the bin along with the black mullet wig. I had a long-sleeved white t-shirt on and different sunglasses - all courtesy of Lenore's ex-husband. A Pringle tank top completed the outfit. My hair was slicked tight too.

I boarded the Aircoach bus to take me into the city centre. I sat in the back seat of the bus, which was vacant at this time of the morning. I spotted one camera at the front entrance of the bus - no others. No other passenger sat in the last seven or eight rows. I changed my clothes again - taking off the tank top and sunglasses. I put on a grey hoodie and baseball hat. Inside the wheelie bag was a blue sports bag. I transferred everything into it. Using the time I had left on the bus, I rang my previous phone provider. I told them that my old phone had been robbed yesterday morning, and I was now using a friend's phone. I asked them to delete and block the number completely - for good.

As we entered the depot of my final destination, I dialled a number I found online.

"Hello and good morning - this is the British Embassy - how can I help you?"

"Hello and good morning. Can you tell me if all your telephone queries from the public are recorded Madam?"

"I'm not sure quite what you're asking for Sir? And of course, I cannot divulge that information over the phone. May I patch you through to any particular department?"

"Okay then. This message is for the attention of your Diplomatic Secretary and more importantly, your two secret service agents who were in Dublin yesterday. The notebook they search for is now back in the same position as I found it yesterday - at the train station. It is now taped underneath the seat they saw me sitting on. Do you understand my message?"

"Em, yes Sir. But I'm not quite sure you're talking to the right person."

"Is this conversation recorded?"

"Em,.."

"I'll take your hesitation as a yes."

I hung up the phone and quickly switched it off, pulling out the battery too. Taping the notebook underneath my seat was easy. I made my way to the toilet again and changed into my last set of clothes. I wiped all components of my new phone clean of all fingerprints and dropped it into the bin as I exited the toilet as yesterday.

I had gelled my hair forward and wore a light green woman's Parka jacket. The wheelie bag was back out too. I spotted no one watching my movements. I jumped onto the LUAS red line and took it to Connolly station. I still saw no one following me. I had to wait fifteen minutes before boarding a DART train to Malahide. Those fifteen minutes seemed like an eternity. The commuter train was near empty, but I still eyed everyone warily.

Stepping off the platform, I still spotted no one watching me. I walked the mile or so to Lenore's house. But I still didn't feel comfortable. I couldn't see anyone following me, but I knew something was up. I could sense it.

But upon reaching Lenore's house, I relaxed. Her estate was quiet and as I slid the spare key into her front door, I let out a loud, relieved sigh. The cue to let both Rob and Lenore know everything was okay - was two rings from Lenore's land line phone in the hall. I rang both of them as agreed and opened the door leading into the kitchen.

The two British agents sat at the breakfast counter, calmly drinking tea.

The taller, greyer one tapped the notebook between his hands, while the other stirred his mug.

"I was beginning to think that you weren't going to show Tony."

"How the hell do you know my name?"

"All we can say is that we've been watching you for a while. Quite some time actually. We've known your every move since we met yesterday - in that bathroom toilet."

"And how would you have known that? Even I didn't know what was going to be happening over the last 24 hours! You're full of shit!"

"I'm full of shit. Okay! Here's what we know about you - your name is Tony Nugent and you're 23 years old. You're in IT. You commute back home to Limerick at weekends. Your favourite colour is green. We sprayed a marker into your coat which we've been tracing. How am I doing so far?"

"Okay! So you've done a background check on me - you're a whizz on a computer! That doesn't impress me. Sure I could do better in half an hour on Facebook."

"Okay - so you want to be impressed then."

"Well you haven't done it yet and I'm still nearest the front door."

"What if I told you that this entire past twenty four hours was a test? Specifically for you? Would you be marginally flattered then?"

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"We didn't kill the judge - or the reporter. We made up the idea of the actual notebook being real and leaked it to the press. Carty was dirty - just like the copper. He was IRA too."

"Whoa a second! So that interview never happened? And you knew Carty was dead?"

"The interview never happened and yes - we suspected that Carty had been killed."

"How did you know that?"

"Please! We do work in intelligence!"

"What about my friend Rob? How did you know he'd act the way he did?"
\
"We took advantage of your friends' love for spy films and his desire to be something else. What we didn't count on - was your ability to make friends so easily with the travellers and your friend Lenore being able to read shorthand."

"But the judge and the reporter are dead!"

"We know - but that was never anything to do with us. We took the opportunity of using the situation to our advantage. Your instincts are first rate and you trust your gut. We placed that notebook near you in the train station - just to see how you would react."

"You're bullshitting me. What about the cops? And the bloody fingerprint?"

"The Gardai followed McCarthy's orders because he thought there was a notebook. That guy is frightened that he won't be able to claim a pension with full benefits. He's dirty as shit and we don't like him. The bloody fingerprint was easy enough to fake as we had Pierce Carty's fingerprint on file. We were using the story to get rid of him and at the same time, get you onboard."

"Seriously?? All this? Just for me?"

"Well, it was a case of killing two birds with one stone, if you like. We've known about you since you were thirteen when you hacked the mainframe of the FBI Tony."

"Now you're yanking my chain."

"No I'm not. You have talents that we can hone and fine tune."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"We like people that think on their feet. People with several quality attributes."

"You want me to join ye??"

"Well, would you be interested?"

The Shorthand Notebook - Part 4.

"Okay - so let me get this straight! Judge O' Sullivan - who was murdered in his driveway yesterday morning - happened to be on the same flight as the missing reporter Pierce Carty?"

"Yep."

"And that bloody fingerprint belongs to the reporter?"

"Yep."

"What do you suggest we do next Rob?"

"I haven't a clue. You got any ideas?"

"We could see what the shorthand means. Is there an app that could help us read it?"

"Let's have a look. No. Nothing there. How do you know it's shorthand? Apart from the fact it says the words shorthand notebook on the cover?"

"Do you remember I shared that house in Rathmines while I was at college? One of those housemates was a girl - called Lenore."

"As in the fabric softener?? Brings new meaning to the slogan "Everyone feels good in..""

"Don't! Jaysus she hated that slogan. She was doing secretarial studies and had a few of these notebooks lying around."

"I don't remember her. Was I here at the time?"

"I'm not sure but it was first year in college. You could have been in the US training."

"I don't ever remember you mentioning her. Because I would've remembered her name for damn sure."

"It eh, didn't end well. Let me see if I'm still friends with her on Facebook."

"Wait! Don't!"

"Why?"

"They might be keeping an eye on all your accounts and shit!"

"But they don't know my name Rob! At least, I didn't tell them. Would they be able to identify me from my mobile number and facial recognition software?"

"They would be able to identify your face alright, I'd say. Sure didn't they track you to the airport? But to get your name, they'd have to access confidential information to your phone records from your phone provider. They wouldn't be allowed to do that."

"But these bastards don't seem like boy scouts Rob! I'm not sure we should risk it. They could be here in a flash!"

"Let me try finding her through my account. What was Lenore's second name?"

"Martin."

"Wow! She's local! What are the chances?"

We stayed silent in the taxi, so to be as forgettable as we possibly could. The driver seemed content staying quiet too. We drove into Malahide village and asked the driver to drop us right at the front door of Gibney's pub. Keeping our heads down, we scurried into a quiet corner. En route to the pub, Rob had sent Lenore a private message via Facebook.

"What did you send her?"

"I asked her if she remembered you from your days in college. Let's get her interest first and then we'll ask for her help. I'll send her my number if she replies."

"Did you do your scanner thingy to check for bugs and stuff?"

"Way ahead of you. I scanned as we entered the pub. We're good. There's cameras outside and at the bar. Also at the main entry points. We'll be fine sitting here."

While we waited hoping for Lenore to respond, we went through the notebook in minute detail. Rob took pictures with his phone of anything that later might be important. The notebook was mainly notations, numbers and scrawling of the reporter. I flicked back to the front and started to go through the shorthand pages. There were forty one pages, back to back, of shorthand scribblings I couldn't understand. But something caught my eye on the back of the page that contained the name Sergeant James McCarthy - something that irked me.

"She just sent me a reply."

"What did she say?"

"She remembers you alright and asks how I know you. What should I reply with?"

"Say you're a very good friend of his and in his company right now. He might need your help. Could you ring me on this number? How about that?"

"Sounds good."

While we waited, I forgot about showing Rob the notation I had spotted. Lenore rang and I answered. She seemed very reticent to speak.

"Hiya Lenore - it's me, Tony."

"Eh, hi Tony? I haven't heard from you in ages. What's going on?"

"I know it sounds a bit weird Lenore, but I need your help."

"You need my help? Are you serious? After leaving me in the lurch six years ago?"

"Please don't get mad Lenore. I really need your help."

"You want help from me? What with?"

"Understanding some shorthand."

"What? Are you serious? I have barely used that in the years since college. And I don't live anywhere near town anymore."

"Yeah I kinda know that. We're eh, in your village right now."

"As in my village?? You're in Malahide right now?"

"Eh, yeah."

"What the fuck is going on Tony?? Why are you ringing me up after six years and asking for my help? I've a good mind to ring the Gardai right now! This whole thing smells like shit to me! You have some nerve!"

"Please don't do that Lenore! Please! Just meet up with us first and let me explain! Please?"

"You're presuming one hell of a lot from me here Tony!"

"I know, I know. Please Lenore? For old times sake?"

"Okay then! Where are you?"

I asked her not to tell anyone what she was doing, while she made her way to us. The fewer people who got involved with this, the better. I told Rob the short story of Lenore and I.

Lenore arrived and I asked Rob to get her a drink. I explained the entire situation to her while Rob shielded his face from the bar cameras. She initially sat with her arms folded and legs crossed. As I told the story of the past couple of hours, her stance and posture slowly relaxed. She was fascinated by the time I pulled the notebook out onto the table. She was hooked.

As Rob returned with her drink, she asked for a piece of paper and a pen. She would try to decipher the notations and transfer what she understood to the blank sheet. We sat transfixed.

"Tony - this is an interview. This reporter is frantically writing his quickest shorthand. He's leaving out everyday common words that make up sentences."

"What do you mean?"

"Words like it, and, like, but - those type of words. This guy being interviewed is dying."

"Well I hate to point this out - but he's dead already."

"Shush Rob! We know that! You say he was already dying at the time of this interview?"

"Yeah. From lung cancer. He had six months left to live."

"Holy shit!"

"Hold your questions until I'm finished. I'm not quite remembering the strokes and nuances of it. You're going to have to be patient!"

We fell back into silence as Lenore asked for another blank sheet, writing front and back. She kept shaking her head and exhaling - loudly. We didn't interrupt until she was ready. It took her almost forty minutes to transcribe it all. We were now on our fifth pint, eagerly awaiting news.

"Well?"

"What's written here could get us all killed."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure either of you should know. It gives you both deniability."

"I'm in up to my neck already. Give it to me."

"Me too," agreed Rob.

"This was an interview with the judge. It took place I think, on a flight going somewhere. This fella knew he was dying and took the opportunity to speak out to whomever owns this notebook."

"So Carty took this opportunity and sneakily took notes?"

"No Tony. The judge told him to take notes. He even signed the notebook. That's why you see his name at the end of the shorthand notes."

"So this was like his last will and testament?"

"In a way, yes Rob. He spilled his darkest secrets. He said he'd probably never get a chance to write his autobiography, so this was going to be his opportunity to somehow right his wrongs. I could swear he was drinking heavily during the interview."

"How do you know?"

"He makes reference to scotch on at least four occasions Rob. And he's not talking about Scotland."

"Shit! Guys - I'd forgotten to show you both this. I saw this earlier and I just realised it's significance!"

I use my thumb to flick hurriedly through the notebook. It's as if a light bulb has been switched on inside my head.

"What would you both make of this notation?"

"Gibberish."

"It's just a number and some random letters Tony. It's nothing."

"Reverse them."

The notation read 6IM ARIR.

The Shorthand Notebook - Part 3.

We hunched behind a brand new Mercedes-Benz with Austrian diplomatic plates. Rob took pictures of the Gardai as they leaped out of their cars. One Garda Sergeant was directing and issuing orders. I saw him zoom in on the lead Garda.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"You'll see."

He sent the pictures to his work colleague again. Rob was all action, and seemingly loving every second of this. I, on the other hand was now, near shitting myself. He waited about twenty seconds before he urged me through a tunnel, alongside rose bushes and toward the road that led out of the airport.

"Why are we going this way Rob"

"They probably have the exit routes covered. Look! The traffic is backing up already - they're checking the cars leaving the airport. You've pissed them all off by finding that notebook. Keep it somewhere safe, whatever you do. With any luck, we might slip out of here without them noticing us."

"That jacket will hardly keep us unnoticed!"

"Well, let's see. Where have you got the book?"

"It's safe and sound."

"Good. Have you still got it in your laptop bag?"

"Nope. It's somewhere far safer and less obvious than eh, there."

"I"m not going to ask."

We walked through a few car parks until we thought we were relatively safe. Rob called a local taxi company and asked to be picked up near the back entrance of the airport. I spent those few minutes taking pictures of the notebook with my new disposable phone.We walked toward the entrance of a halting site.

"Eh Rob! What are you doing?"

"Do you honestly think the Gardai are going to mess with these lads here, for no apparent reason?"

He had a valid point. We were soon approached in our silly looking outfits.

"Can I help you boys at all?"

"Hiya doing! We're just waiting on a cab here if that's alright Sir."

The rather large man eyed us suspiciously. He knew straight away that we were up to something.

"I just heard on a scanner of mine that the boys in blue are looking for someone in the terminal up there. Said this boy is dangerous. That he had two bags and had pertinent information relating to another investigation. You have two bags there."

"Really?" Rob tried to hide his amazement.

"So the fella wouldn't be eh, either of you two boys then?"

"I have no idea what you're on about Sir."

"Please don't call me Sir - I feel like I'm in a court again. Yer jackets gave ye away boys.  If yer running from the coppers, you're more than welcome in here. C'mon in."

Rob shrugged his shoulders and gave me a 'what the hell' look. We certainly were safer here than out there standing on the road. We walked into the middle of the halting site and no one gave us a second glance as we walked with John Joe Joyce - head of the clan inside this site. I led the introductions.

"Thank you for your understanding - I'm Tony and this here is Rob. We've kinda found ourselves in the middle of a eh, shit storm that is none of our making."

"Can I help ye lads?"

"Em, I'm not sure you can."

"Robert, is it? I think you might be surprised by what I can and cannot do. Why are the coppers after ye two? And don't bullshit me - I can spot any kind of yer shite a mile off."

"I found something that wasn't mine. I happened to pick it up and there's a few people who eh, want it."

"So you're helping your friend out then? You're a good pal. And there's someone else - apart from the coppers chasing ye? Is that about the nub of it?"

"Yeah, it eh, is. Eh, how did you figure that out so damn quickly? You should work at my job - you're fecking amazing at reading a situation!"

"Listen Yankee boy - I've been in so many scrapes since I was a young fella, that I know a 'situation' as you put it, when I see one."

I stood incredulous, as did Rob.

"Jaysus boys, close yer gobs. You'll be catching flies in a minute. Come into me office here."

We walked into a portacabin, just like a regular site office. It wasn't spotlessly clean, but it was functional. I saw two police scanners in the corner. John Joe caught my glance.

"I'm not worried about you seeing those. Keeps us eh, ahead of the police posse. If I'm honest, I'm kinda intrigued about what ye have - that so many others want, boys."

We hesitated, half wondering what to do. Rob's phone rang. He wasn't sure if he should answer it or not.

"Jaysus Yankee boy, answer the fecking thing! Go outside if ya want."

Rob excused himself.

"So are ya going to take that thing out of the back of yer pants or what?

This guy was unreal! I pulled it out of my underpants and placed it slowly on the desk.

"What the hell is that? Sure, that's just a notebook."

"i know. But there's names in it that are kind of eh, important."

"Tell me who they are."

"Em, I'm not sure I should eh, John Joe."

"I'm hardly cavorting around in big ponds Tony. Whose name is in it?"

I wasn't sure whether or not to trust this man I had just met. But he had trusted us and invited us in without a hesitation. And he was shrewd.

"Okay John Joe. The first name I spotted was the name John O' Sullivan. The second one was Pierce Carty."

I waited for a reaction. I suddenly wished to never play poker against this man. He wasn't flinching. Not even a twitch of the fingers or eyelids.

"The judge and the reporter. One dead and one missing. Jaysus, you're in a fierce pickle alright young Tony."

Rob re-entered the cabin.

"Eh, John Joe - could you do us a favour?"

"Depends on the favour."

"Could you drop us into Swords? I just saw the Gardai pulling up outside the back entrance of the airport."

John Joe reacted before saying anything. He lifted an innocuous pad before pressing a black button.

"Eh? What's that John Joe??' asked Rob.

"Closing the front door boys. Just in case those feckers get ideas above their station."

Within ten or so seconds, two white vans appeared out of nowhere. They were reversed back to back to close the entrance to the halting site. No one would get in here without their permission.

We were safe for now - but also trapped. We would have to wait it out.

"Let's give it a minute to see if they approach boys. If they don't, we'll drop ye off as quick as we can."

The Garda seemed interested only in the traffic coming out of the airport. John Joe told the vans to move aside, within ten minutes. We were placed under rolls of carpet in the back of a Ford Transit van.

"Sorry boys - I know it's a cliche - travellers and carpets, but it's a great way of hiding ye. Just in case they have another stop and search further down the road."

We were trusting John Joe hugely here. He could just drop us off at the local Garda station and fob on us. I didn't think he would and neither did Rob. We whispered under layers of heavy carpets.

"Well? What did your friend say?"

"I'll tell you in five minutes. Not here - not now."

"Whereabouts are we going in the village?"

"The Old Schoolhouse."

We stepped out of the van and shook hands thankfully with John Joe.

"We owe you at least a drink John Joe. Thank you."

"No problem Tony. Give me a ring on this number if ye need help at all. No matter when."

"I couldn't do that John Joe!"

"Yes you can if you need help. Rob - I will call you if I need help someday going through to the US of A!"

"Eh, how did you know where I worked?"

"Your shirt peeked out once under that awful jacket."

"Thanks a million John Joe."

We said our goodbyes and I tucked John Joe's business card into my front pocket. Rob seemed animated more than he was back on the halting site.

"So, what's the story?"

"No. We need a drink first."

"Is it that bad?

"Wait until you hear."

The bar had only five customers. Two were seated on their own, at the bar. A trio of what looked like work colleagues, ate dinner at a corner booth. Rob pulled out his phone and brought up the apps on his phone.

"Really? Is it time for you to play a game? Like right now? Seriously?"

"Shut the fuck up a sec. It's an app that's scanning. Just another thirty seconds and I'll spill."

"I'll get two pints in the meantime."

Rob sat on a high stool at a waist high table, staring into space.

"What were you doing with your phone?"

"Just using an app that a friend of mine in eh, Homeland gave to me. Unofficially of course."

"What is it?"

"It scans for bugs and cameras."

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

"Jesus! That kind of shit exists?"

"It does. But of course it doesn't, if you know what I eh  mean."

"If you think about it, I was supposewd to be on a train right now. I hadn't sat on that fecking notebook, I'd be passing through somewhere like Portlaoise about now!"

"Eh, my friend identified the Sergeant at the airport from facial recognition."

"Don't tell me - Sergeant James Mc Carthy?"

"You got it in one."

"Why is he leading this investigation? Why is he taking such an active role?"

"I've no idea. My friend scanned the fingerprint and put it through our system. He put a rush on it through New York."

"Holy shit! You could get fired for that Rob!"

"He's a good lad and owes me big style. He's a decent skin."

"And?"

"The print belongs to Pierce Carty."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! We scanned his prints when he went over to Chicago last year to cover the Paddys' Day parade."

"How do you know that?"

"I can't tell you that exactly, but I do remember him."

"You processed him??"

"I did."

"Fuck!"

"We had a full blown conversation about what he was doing for the few days he was going over for. I kinda half remember him, but I wasn't sure. My friend confirmed it after looking through the video footage of the day."

"You sound like you're not telling me everything."

Rob took a big gulp of his pint and sighed.

"I also remember the next person I processed that very day. He stood in line right behind Pierce Carty."

"Now I don't want you to tell me."

"Judge John O'Sullivan."

"Oh shit!"

The Shorthand Notebook – Part 2.

What had I stumbled upon?

I took a minute to decide my next best course of action. I had to ask someone that I trusted implicitly. There was only one name that sprung immediately to mind – my mate Rob. He worked in Dublin Airport for the USA Customs and Border Protection (CBP). He had an American passport, was born in the USA, but had grown up his entire life in Dublin.

My initial reaction of heading straight to the airport was well founded. Although I had no phone, I knew Rob would be finishing up his shift around now. We had spoken only this morning, so Rob would know something was up if I was ringing for the second time in less than a day. I asked the cab driver if I could borrow his phone, as we passed through Whitehall.

“I hope that’s a local number!” he joked, handing it over.

I knew Rob’s number by heart, thankfully. He might not answer the phone, spotting the odd number. He had to be fairly careful in his job, as he was employed by the US Embassy and Homeland Security.

“Eh, hello?”

“Hiya Rob – it’s me Tony. I’m ringing you from a cabbie’s phone. Mine’s eh, lost.”

“Okay. Is everything like, okay Tones?”

“Not really. Are you finished work or what?”

“Just about to leave in about five. What’s going on? Where are you?”

“Everything’s eh, a bit off. I’m on the way out to you at the airport. Can I meet you? I need to show you something.”

“Okay so. Are you sure everything is alright?”

“Yeah, I’m grand – honestly. Where can I eh, meet up with you?”

“The old arrivals bar in Terminal One? Do you know where that is?”

“I’ll find it – don’t worry. See you in about ten or so minutes.”

Rob hung up and I could tell by his tone that he knew it was bigger than I was letting on. I was a brutal actor despite my calm exterior in the toilets of Heuston Station, and could rarely get away with telling even the mildest white lie. Rob was amazing at spotting liars and gauging people’s nervousness – after all - it was what he did for a living.

The taxi man got me quicker than I thought it was possible and I threw him a fifty. I thanked him for his courtesy and the use of his phone. He dropped me off on the departures level at Terminal One. Descending the escalator to the arrivals hall, I spotted the Vodafone shop.

Trying my best to keep calm, I purchased a prepaid phone and sauntered over to the “Failte” arrivals bar. Rob had ordered two pints and both were sitting in front of him. He sat in the quietest corner of the bar, facing the entrance.

“I knew by your tone that you might need one!”

“You’re not wrong there lad! I have no idea where to start with this!”

“How about - start at the beginning?”

I relayed the entire last hour and what I’d discovered. Rob stayed silent digesting everything – he then started running through the possible scenarios.

“Firstly we have to determine if..”

 I interrupted straight away.

“What’s this ‘we”? There’s no ‘we’ – you can’t risk it Rob! I just need advice – that’s it!”

“You’ve told me, so as your best friend I’m helping. If your life is in danger, I’m here to help. Never mind what I do or what my my job is!”

“I appreciate the sentiment lad, but...”

“But nothing! Enough said! Okay?”

“Alright then! I never knew you had this capacity for being a drama queen!”

Rob laughed at my attempt at humour and chance to diffuse the serious situation we now faced.

“But seriously Tony – let’s consider the possibilities.”

“What possibilities?”

“Those English guys are probably not MI6 or British agents. They would’ve been armed if they were. My guess would be mercenaries or guys linked to the Loyalists up north.”

“Well if they were linked to those boys, they’d definitely be armed!”

“True point. What about the Sergeant on the phone? How did he sound?”

“Whatcha mean?”

“Like how did he come across on the phone? Like concerned for himself or genuinely concerned for your well-being?”

“He sounded okay, I suppose. He grew more insistent once he was sure what I had in my hand.”

“Really? Did you reveal that you saw his name on the pad?”

“Jesus no! I quickly hung up and got rid of the phone like I told you.”

“Did any of them spot you getting off the Galway train and getting into the taxi?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so though.”

“If it was me and I didn’t think you got off the Limerick train – I’d send men to grab you at the first stop that train made enroute to Limerick.”

“Jesus! I never thought of that!”

“Then again I’d do the same for the first stop enroute to Galway too. Just to cover all bases. If that brought up nothing, I’d start checking the CCTV footage from the station. They’d definitely spot you hopping into the taxi and be able to check traffic cameras running through the city to spot your escape route.”

“Seriously, who are you? James fecking Bond or something?”

“If you got away clean from the station, you might have gotten a decent head start on them. They’d be tracking your phone too, even though you had the presence of mind to dispose of it.”

“You watch too many spy films Rob!”

“I’d say you might get a thirty or so minute lead on them, if you were lucky.”

“Ah come on Rob! You’re being paranoid now!”

“I’m being paranoid, am I?”

“Yes you are!”

“Describe those two English men for me again, would you?”

“One was tall with grey hair, probably in his early forties – quite mean looking. The other was shorter with a receding hairline – he was in his late twenties or early thirties. Why?”

“Please resist the urge to turn around.  I think I just spotted them getting out of a British diplomatic car just ten seconds ago. They got out of the car behind you just outside. I might have to revise my theory on the MI6 issue.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Nope.”

“What do I do next?”

“Stay where you are for a sec. Okay - they’re going upstairs to departures. I bet they think you’re catching a flight. Bailing with the notebook. Jesus!”

“Are you talking to me or just thinking out loud?”

“I’ve got an idea. Do me a favour and take off your jacket.”

“Eh, why?”

“Turn it inside out.”

“The arms are yellow. The bloody main part is red! I can’t wear this outside!”

“It’s not for you. Put my jacket on. There are no cameras on in here. Have you a hat?”

“In my bag, yeah. Why?”

“Give it to me.”

“You look like a sap. Oh! I get you now! Good plan! Where are we going?”

“Keep your head down. Away from the cameras and stay interested in your feet. Don’t look up under any circumstances.”

We walked out of the bar and turned left out the main door of Terminal One. Rob knew this building well and where the cameras were. We walked right by the empty diplomatic car the two English men had abandoned in the exclusive VIP car park. To my astonishment, we went back into another section of the terminal.

“Eh, Rob? What are we doing?”

“It’s cool Tones. There are no cameras in here – diplomats use this part of the terminal all the time. They love their privacy for a reason.”

“And why are we in here?”

“We’re going to give those English feckers something to chase!”

“What?”

“I have a friend in here who is a whizz with her keyboard.”

“I still have no idea what you’re on about.”

Rob checked inside the small private offices and left me standing in the hallway. He waved me in – the office was vacant apart from two occupied cubicles. They were private and plain – anyone could pass through here without being noticed.

“Tones – this is Rebecca, a good pal of mine. Becs – this is Tony.”

We all said our respective hellos. Rebecca was a young lady who Rob clearly had an eye on.

“Becs – could you do me a favour?”

“You do realize that I’m going to need a favour in return someday Rob?”

“I realize that Becs. We need to screw with a friend of ours – can you help?”

“That depends on the screwing, Rob.”

She took far too long saying the last word – making it clear of her intentions with Rob.

“Can you access the Ryanair check-in system and check in someone for me?”

Rebecca sucked through her teeth but didn’t say no.

“Mmm. I don’t know Rob. What you’re asking for is a bit beyond what we’re allowed to do.”

“So you can do it then?”

“Of course I can! I could also get fired for it, but since it’s you...”

“You’re a gem Becs.”

Rebecca checked me in for a flight departing for London Stansted in fifty five minutes. Rob wanted to see what the Englishmen might do next. From our vantage point in the private diplomatic terminal, we could see the entire VIP car park. We could see if they left or not.

Within minutes, Rebecca informed us that two English males, without any baggage had just paid a huge amount for late one way tickets. Booked on the same flight as me.

Rob took out his phone and asked for the notebook. I hesitated initially, asking why.

“Just show me the bloody fingerprints again?”

“Eh, why?”

“Just do it and don’t ask questions.”

Rob took a snap of it and sent it to someone.

“What the fuck lad?”

“I just sent it to someone I trust from work. Let’s find out whose fingerprint that is. Meanwhile – we’re getting out of here right now.”

I tried to protest, but realized I had no idea what else to do. He was right.

As we walked out cautiously through the VIP car park, we saw something we didn’t expect.

There sat six Garda cars with flashing sirens, outside the front of the building. We had more of a following than we realized.  

The Shorthand Notebook - Part 1.

I sat on it, by accident, at the train station. I didn't see it initially, as I plonked myself down on the hard metal seat beside the platform entrance to gate 5. I had moved a paper bag of empty sandwich wrappers aside. It was wedged firmly between the back of my seat.The bound spiral edges were digging into the cheeks of my bum.

As I was about to unearth this uncomfortable item, I noticed two gentlemen frantically searching for something they had obviously lost, or misplaced. They spoke into earwigs and were rudely moving people sitting on other metal seats approximately thirty feet in front of me. They seemed anxious to find whatever they were looking for and were sweating and cursing profusely. Whatever it was, they weren't finding it. Their search was moving slowly moving toward me.

Finding it hard to remain seated, I raised myself slightly, wondering what the hell was making my seat so damn uncomfortable. A small spiral A5 notebook.

It was open in the middle with hand written notations - almost completely indecipherable. Then I turned it over and spotted a bloody thumbprint and index finger on the page. Glancing back at the two men manically still searching the seats in front, I got up, feeling a rather urgent need to pee.

Was this what they were looking for?

I kept my walk even and didn't draw attention to myself as I made my way toward the toilets. They were now checking where I was once seated. Fiddling in my pockets for change, I found a twenty cent coin.  I made my way into the large disabled cubicle, as it was the only one vacant. Curiousity began to get the better of me.

I flicked to the front of the notebook, looking for a name of the owner. There was none. It was a simple shorthand notebook. I began flicking through it from the front. The first ten or so pages were shorthand, as I couldn't make head nor tail of it. Then I spotted a name that I recognised - John O'Sullivan. It seemed familiar somehow. Flicking further, I saw more names that I vaguely recognised. I slid the notebook into my laptop bag and zipped it closed. I flushed the toilet and exited the stall. Standing at the entrance to the toilets were the two men.

"Excuse me sir - have you come across a small notebook?" asked the younger man. His accent was English - I could swear from up north, like Birmingham.

I couldn't believe how calm I was. I strolled to the hand basins and turned on the hot tap. Despite the heat of the water, I didn't flinch.

"Notebook? What do you mean?"

"Have you anything in your possession that isn't yours?" asked the older, grey haired man. He was far bigger in stature than his colleague. He looked far more imposing.

"I'm not sure I understand you. Why would I have anything of anyone else's? Sure all I have here is my laptop and my bag."

"Would you mind if we had a look inside them sir?"

The threat was subtle. I dried my hands with brown paper towels as they asked.

"Yes I mind. Do you have a warrant?"

"We don't need one sir. You're in a public bathroom in a public train station. This entire area falls under The Terrorist Acts and Terrorist Crimes against the Public."

"And what jurisdiction do you operate under gentlemen? I could swear by your accents that you both are English. This is Dublin, Ireland. And you both still haven't shown me any identification."

The raised voices had drawn out two other men from their stalls. One other man had entered the toilets. This was becoming a bit of a standoff.

"Eh, excuse me - can I leave?" asked an older gentleman with a grey peaked cap.

"No one can leave until we search your belongings."

"You're doing no such thing! All I have in this bag are my sandwiches and no one is putting their grubby paws on them. And as this young man has just said - where is your ID to prove you have the right to stop anyone in a bathroom to search their belongings?"

"I'm ringing the Gardai right now gentlemen," I added.

They stopped with their posturing and stepped aside. I continued to follow through with my threat. I was put through to Store Street Station and I reported the incident. Then just as I'm about to hang up, another deeper, gruffer voice interjects. He identified himself as Sergeant James McCarthy.

"They were looking for what? A notebook? Which notebook would this be?"

"The one I have right here in my possession."

"What does it look like exactly?"

"Em, it's a regular A5 shorthand notebook. It has shorthand notations on the first few pages. Then there's a bloody fingerprint or two and the first name on it is John O'Sullivan."

"John O'Sullivan you say? And what else?"

"Well I haven't read much more than that, but there's acres more. Oh, hang on. There's a name on the back piece of cardboard here. Eh, it's Pierce Carty. Do you think this belongs to the reporter Pierce Carty? The one from off the television! Jaysus!"

"Sir - what is your exact location right this moment?"

"Eh, I'm about to catch my train to Limerick. I'm in Heuston Station. Why?"

"Stay right where you are. Do not move from your location. Do not get on that train. Are those two gentlemen still watching you?"

"Yeah they're eyeballing me but the ticket inspector won't let them through the gate. They obviously haven't got tickets to board the platform."

The two Englishmen are trying desperately to force their way through to get to me. The train is just pulling onto the platform. The Galway train is boarding beside me on the opposite platform.

"Sir - what is your name? Do not move under any circumstances."

As the Sergeant speaks, I continue to flick through the notepad. A name catches my eye. James McCarthy. And a line underneath - not to be trusted.

I hang up the phone, switch it off and place it in the nearest bin. It is only an old Nokia phone that can easily be replaced.

The two English lads have seen me board the train. This train leaves in four minutes for Galway. I sit down facing their location. Then I see three Gardai approach them. They back off and leave the station. Then I see the Gardai receive some message on their radios.

They literally run toward the Limerick train. Now I definitely have to bolt - how long will it be before they discover I'm not on it?

Exiting the train on the far side, I keep a keen eye out for my two English friends. I keep low and below the level of the railings. Getting to the top where the ticket inspector is, I quietly ask him to move. He does so and I exit toward the taxi rank. I jump into the first taxi and stay low in the back seat.

"Oh howya! Where did you bleedin' spring from?"

"I'm sorry sir. Could you just drive? I'm eh, trying to avoid someone."

"Oh roigh! I gotcha! An ex or sometin?"

"Yeah. Eh, let's call it that."

"Any idea where you want to go to?"

"Limerick, but that's now on hold for the minute. Em, head toward the airport please."

" I can't drive ya to Limerick boss, as much a I'd like to. So, toward the airport or the actual airport then?"

"Actually - the airport is a great idea. Yeah! Airport please."

In the quiet of the back seat of the cab, I pick up a copy of the day's evening paper. It had been left there by a previous passenger.

The front headline sinks me deep into the seat.

GARDAI SUSPECT FOUL PLAY IN MURDER OF TOP JUDGE.

He was killed yesterday morning in his own driveway as he made his way to work. Judge John O'Sullivan - no wonder the name sounded familiar to me. I'd heard his name mentioned on the radio.

Then I see the sidebar of the front page, complete with picture.

HAVE YOU SEEN PIERCE? HERALD REPORTER MISSING FOR LAST THREE DAYS.

The headlines have me saying 'fuck' out loud, even though I'm not even aware I'm saying it.

"Are you alright there bud?"

"Em, I'm not sure. Get to the airport as quick as you can and there's another twenty in it for you."

What have I stumbled upon?