The Naked Assassin

By James McKeon

THE NAKED ASSASSIN is a political thriller set in Ireland. It is full of spills and thrills, twists and turns, sex and drama. Eric Smith is a professional assassin. His motto is have gun – will kill if the money is right. He has no morals. He will kill anyone, anywhere. M15 and the UVF have regularly availed of his services. Eric has never left them down. He had carried out successful operations in Africa and all over Europe but this is the strangest assignment yet. He smiled. The target is a well-known clergyman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Dec 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781984592620

Book preview

CHAPTER

ONE

ERIC SMYTH COULD BE found most days in Einsteins, a little bar not too far from Liverpool University. He went there for one reason. Sex. The bar had a great atmosphere and was usually packed with foreign students, especially young, female students looking for a little excitement, even a hint of danger. It was noisy. It was cramped, but it served its purpose. It was the students’ unofficial meeting point, the college watering hole. After a long day studying they were eager for a bit of fun. If they wanted to let their hair down then he was available to oblige. He had a cosy flat in nearby Highgate Street, a short walk, a vodka or two, no strings attached. A little passion never hurt anyone. He always sat near the door to the ladies toilet to observe the talent coming and going. That way he couldn’t miss anyone. They often made the first move. With his blond hair and pale features he was sometimes mistaken as Swedish. He laughed at this; a Scandinavian Scotsman. He could really turn on the charm when he wanted to. It worked every time. This time was no different. Another day. Another notch on his weapon.

Maria Steinman was two years in to a law degree at Liverpool University. She was an attractive Berlin girl with long auburn hair. This was the second time she’d accompanied Eric to his flat. She knew what to expect. At first she lay there naked on the bed watching him undress. She could see he was up for it. She was impatient. Her body was wet with desire. Vodka had that affect on her. She was twenty-two years old. She was hungry. She felt his weight on her. Good. Her body tingled with anticipation. Yes. He kissed her neck, her breasts, all over. She was impatient. She wrapped her long legs around his back. At last he entered her slowly. She moaned. Each thrust got faster. Each push got stronger, more urgent. She groaned out loud and arched her body, lifting him off the bed. She wanted more. She trembled all over with excitement, throbbing, out of control. Yes. She screamed out with satisfaction. The phone in the kitchen pierced the air. Eric swore out loud and wondered who the fuck was calling him at this time on a Saturday night?

The King’s Arms pub is in the heart of East Belfast. Here every Saturday evening the senior officers of the Ulster Volunteer Force held their weekly meeting. Big Sam McAllister was a man you wouldn’t like to bump into on a dark night. He was angry. He threw his cigarette on the floor. He stood on it, and banged the table with his fist.

‘I don’t trust the fucking IRA. They’re up to something.’

There were four men, three seated, one standing. It was a small, smoke-filled room directly above the bar. The walls were bare except for a picture of Queen Elizabeth looking benevolently down on them. As usual Sam McAllister was in charge. The McAllisters were Scottish Presbyterian planters who came to Northern Ireland in the middle of the eighteenth century. Sam, better known as the boss in Loyalist circles, was six foot six and tipped the scales at twenty-three stone. He had been an officer in the now disbanded B Specials. His three comrades watched him in silence. The floor-boards creaked as he paced back and forth, deep in thought. They had seen it all before. John McRae stood up.

‘Sammy, none of us trust the IRA. But they’re on ceasefire now for a month. We have to do something. The eyes of the world are on us.’

Sam grunted in disgust. He was still living in the past.

‘Big deal, they’ve been murdering men, women and children for the past twenty-five years. Now they’re being treated like boy scouts just because they they’ve stopped killing people. Those Fenian bastards have a lot to answer for. They forget our brave men in the siege of Londonderry. What about the Battle of the Boyne when King Willie sent them crying back to their mammies. The cowardly fuckers wouldn’t even fight in the last war.’

It was common knowledge that if Sam had his way he’d drive every Roman Catholic out of Ulster with a horse whip and build a wall with armed guards across the border. His war cry was:

No surrender. Ulster for the Ulster people.

If they want a republic let the Eire government feed them.

John Calderwood, a bank manager, and the boss’ right hand man, lit a cigarette and took a long, slow drag on it.

‘I couldn’t agree more with you, boss, but we must act fast. The IRA are winning the propaganda war. World sympathy is growing for the ‘brave, peace-loving nationalists’. You saw that shit on the paper saying the only long-term solution to the Irish problem is a thirty-two county republic.’

Sam strode angrily around the room again.

‘I refuse to be intimidated into following them like sheep. We’re here three hundred years fighting and dying for king and country. What’s all this conniving with the Dublin government? What next? The IRA will be invited to have cream doughnuts with the queen at Buckingham fucking Palace.’

Sam stopped and turned on George Orr. He didn’t like George, the youngest of the four, and a bit too lukewarm for Sam. His father was an MP. George liked to keep a low profile. He spoke with a soft voice.

‘We’ll have to face up to reality, Sam. The old days are gone. Loyalist Ulster is like a millstone around the British government’s neck. It’s an ideal training ground for their army who are now keeping peace in Loyalist areas. It’s ridiculous. The people in the South…’

Sam exploded.

‘Fuck the people in the South. They need to be taught a lesson.’

John McRae could see a row brewing.

‘Sammy, we can’t, not now. Anyway, all our best men are too well known in Dublin.’

There was a gleam in Sam’s eye. He stared at the three of them and spoke slowly and deliberately.

‘Forget Dublin. I’m talking about Cork. The rebel city I think they call it, in the sunny southeast. Let’s hit them where they least expect it.’

The three men looked at each other. Cork was a strange choice. There was only one direction out. Even if the operation was a success it was a long way back to base, two hundred and fifty republican miles with roadblocks all the way, and every policeman in the country on the lookout. Once they’d intended to blow up the Whitegate Refinery in County Cork but the operation was too risky.

McCrea was the first to speak.

‘Sammy, what have you got up your sleeve, man? Why Cork?’

‘I’ll tell you why, John.’

There was an urgency in Sam’s voice. He took a newspaper from the pocket of his overcoat hanging on the door. Unfolding it he laid it out on the table in front of them.

‘Read that.’

There was a photograph with a huge headline.

NEW CARDINAL TO VISIT HOME.

It went on to state that newly appointed Cardinal Duggan in Boston was looking forward to a visit home to the place of his birth, the village of Glanmire on the outskirts of Cork city. The article pointed out that not alone was he a respected theologian but he had the right credentials to be a possible future pope. Sam crumpled the newspaper in his huge fist and held it over his head.

‘A future pope. That’s all we want. It’s bad enough being pontificated to from Rome. Can you imagine a Fenian pope on our very own doorstep.’

Sam’s face grew more flushed at the thought of it. George Orr still sat quietly. He knew Sam was up to something. Sam spat it out.

‘We kidnap the fucker.’

Sam stood leaning back in triumph, a big smile on his face, hands deep in his pockets. He knew he’d caught them off guard. He’d dropped a bombshell and he was savouring the moment. George got up and walked over to Sam.

‘And what are you going to do with him? Parade him on a milk float down the Falls Road with a brass band behind playing the Sash my Father Wore. Will you stop and think for once in your life? If you kidnap someone who has a chance of being the next pope we will be hounded by the media?’

Sam played his trump card.

‘That’s exactly what I want. Play them at their own game. We just borrow him for a few days as a little reminder who they’re dealing with.’

He could visualise the headlines highlighting the predicament they were in.

UVF DEMAND JUSTICE.

James Calderwood cleared his throat.

‘Sam, there’s just one thing; who’s going to carry out this operation?’

By now the big man was in sparkling form. He paused for affect.

‘Eric.’

That was his master stroke. Eric had done several jobs for them. His track record was perfect, the ideal mercenary; callous, professional, dependable. Sam looked out the window with his back to his colleagues. He wanted to let it sink in. They knew the rules. Every decision made had to be unanimous. He faced them.

‘I propose we hire Eric to carry out this operation in the Republic of Ireland. All in favour raise their right hand.’

Sam’s hand was first up followed quickly by McCrea’s. After a slight pause Calderwood hesitantly obliged. George Orr sat head slightly bowed, stiff and tight-lipped. He looked up at Sam.

‘And then we declare peace?’

Sam smiled.

‘And then we declare peace.’

George shrugged and put his hand up level with his shoulder.

‘Good man, Georgie boy. Your father would e proud of you.’

George was still poker-faced.

‘What if he doesn’t want the job?’

Sam took a notebook from his pocket. He thumbed through the pages, picked up the phone and dialled a number.

‘We’ll know soon enough… Hello, is that you, Eric?… This is Sam in Belfast…Are you free for a wee bit of business?… You know where to find me.’

He replaced the receiver.

‘He’ll be here in two days.’

He took his overcoat from the door, struggled into it, and put his arm around George’s shoulder.

‘Cheer up, George. Come on downstairs. The drinks are on me.’

CHAPTER

TWO

ERIC SMYTH SMILED AS he put down the phone. He stood naked in the kitchen of his Liverpool flat. He had just made love to a beautiful and highly intelligent young German student who was now sprawled fast asleep on his bed. Her clothes were scattered on the bedroom floor. An empty Smirnoff bottle stood alone on the bedside locker. Sam’s timing was not one of his strong points. The two loves in Eric’s life were money and women. Although he loved women with a passion he never married. He found it impossible to make a commitment to just one woman for the rest of his life. Eric stood six foot two in his bare feet. With his blond curly hair and steel blue eyes female company was never a problem. He preferred them young and willing. He liked to treat them rough and tell them nothing.

Money was a different matter. He was bored and almost broke. The call from the King’s Arms could not have come at a better time. It was three months since Eric’s last job in Ireland. A certain individual, a difficult target, had to be dealt with; a well-known republican with a loose tongue. The fee was always the same; ten thousand pounds for what he called immediate expenses, plus an agreed sum when the contract was fulfilled. In, out, and back to England in no time. It was fast, clean, and profitable, and police found it impossible to trace a motiveless killing. Eric Smyth was an assassin; have gun, will kill, if the price is right. He took pride in the fact that he always delivered. There were whispered rumours about him in the criminal world. One was that seconds before he killed the target he always murmured smile – you’re dead.

Checking his watch he decided to move out at once. He dressed quickly. He liked to travel light. The last important piece of luggage was held up for inspection: Betsy, his trusty .22 Woodsman. They’d been together now for many years. She’d never let him down.

‘I love you, honey,’ he whispered before strapping it carefully in the secret holster inside the top of his trousers. One last glance in the bedroom revealed a nude Maria, her knees tucked under her chin foetus-like, with her bottom half-cocked in almost obscene invitation. Pushing brief second thought about leaving out of his mind, he ruefully scribbled a note.

Call soon, Maria, lock door on way out. Ich liebe Dich. Eric

Nothing interfered with his work.

Two hours later he was sitting in the bar of the boat to Dublin. He preferred boats and trains. They were less conspicuous. Planes were faster and more practical but prior to one flight in the early days he had some explaining to do when Betsy showed up on the security scan. His passport, marked government official, helped.

It was a smooth crossing shortened by a crowd of boisterous soccer fans returning from a match. They sang loudly and badly and waved their red scarves all the way to Dublin. Eric sat quietly in the background and admired their stamina.

After a brief stay in Dublin Eric was on an early train to Belfast sharing a compartment with two kind old ladies who kept offering him Milk Tray. He smiled at the irony of it. Little did they know the identity of their travelling companion; Eric Smyth, trained killer, who stopped counting after the first twenty notches, was a highly skilled administrator.

Have gun. Will travel.

Anytime. Anywhere.

Eric Smyth was an ex-SAS man. Five years had passed since he was ‘offered’ compulsory retirement. He tried not to dwell on it. The thought of it still hurt. His superiors called it operational fatigue. Twelve years of dangerous missions were beginning to