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?"