Betrayal

Table of Contents

Title Page

Acknowledgements

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

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25

ALSO BY PAUL CARSON

AMBUSH

Copyright Page

To Jean, Emily and David

Acknowledgements

Harmon Penitentiary does not exist. The descriptions of prison life and conditions in Betrayal are based on background from police and prison officers, prison doctors and ex-convicts. The physical details and history are drawn from Tim Carey’s ‘Mountjoy, the story of a prison’ (The Collins Press 2000).

Accounts of conflict and war crimes in the Balkans were gleaned from news bureaux archives and Amnesty International internet files.

Rick and Faerlie Pearse in South Australia refreshed my recollections of outback life while in Dublin Maeve Agar suggested financial terminology.

Susan Sandon and the editorial and publicity divisions at Random House UK enthusiastically supported this project making my job so much easier and worthwhile. Thanks all round.

Separately, I would like to acknowledge the work and commitment of the Darley Anderson Literary Agency team who represent my interests.

No novel gets shelf space without the backing of the book trade and I very much appreciate that generosity and support.

1

The ringing tone finally penetrated my sleeping brain. I groped in the dark and found the receiver, succeeding only in knocking it off my bedside locker, and somewhere in the distance a tinny voice called out. Reaching over the edge of the bed I found the coiled wire and slowly dragged the phone upwards. The red digits on my alarm clock flicked to 3.30 and I sensed immediately whoever was calling wasn’t bringing good news.

‘Yeah?’

‘Dr Ryan?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sorry to disturb you but we need you at the prison right away.’

I groaned, not tonight of all nights. It was 12 February and freezing outside. For the previous four days Arctic gales had buffeted the east coast of Ireland, icing roads and leaving snow on high ground. The wind chill made it even more dangerous along Dublin’s dark and wet streets and the met office was advising against unnecessary journeys. So I was in no mood to be dragged out at such an ungodly hour, especially as I was very comfortable curled up beside my girlfriend Lisa. I could feel her stir as I pulled myself into an upright position and arched away from her body.

‘What’s up?’ I was whispering so quietly I wondered could I be heard.

‘We’ve had a suicide.’

Dammit, not another. Now I was wide awake and trying to get my thoughts in order. This was the fourth at Harmon jail in six months. The media would have a field day. ‘What happened?’

‘Convict in J-wing found hanged about an hour ago.’

‘Any more details?’ I was half out of the bed and feeling for my boxers. My hand brushed against Lisa’s naked backside and for a delicious moment I left it there before rummaging at the bottom of the duvet. I discovered them and Lisa’s panties at the same time and had to block out some very carnal images.

‘Not much. I think it’s a young guy in on an assault charge. He was only processed today.’

I kept the phone pressed to my ear with a shoulder and flicked on a side light. Now I could see my clothes, scattered to the corners of the room where I’d dropped them in a lustful hurry to get into bed. Lisa had already been there, wearing a half-smile and little else. ‘Just a minute.’ I had one leg inside my trousers and was skipping to connect with the other. And my mind was racing. The caller said the dead man was found in J-wing but J-wing had been closed for the past week for refits. Also, he was ‘a young guy in on an assault charge’. Not true, I thought. Newly processed prisoners are never put into J-wing because it harbours dangerous recidivists. Moving this group of psychos to another centre while the repair work was going on had been a national emergency. Army, air force and armed police had escorted the convoy of murderers as it trundled to a hastily commandeered barracks outside the city. ‘Where is he now?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know that.’ I tried to link the voice to a face but it wouldn’t come. It was male, sounded youngish, maybe thirty or forty, but there was no accent to give me a clue. I pulled a vest, then a heavy sweater over my head and buckled my belt.

‘I mean, is he still in the cell? Did anyone touch him?’ There were specific guidelines for prison suicides including resuscitation procedures, and as sole doctor to the facility my life was made a lot easier in subsequent inquiries by such attention to detail. Resuscitation efforts often leave marks on the body that can be mistaken for assault injuries. Equally, leaving a corpse as discovered helps in murder cases. In Harmon Penitentiary it wasn’t uncommon for feuds to be settled with a contrived self-hanging. Usually the efforts were clumsy and required little more than common sense and basic forensic skills to know the man dangling from his window bars had first been throttled, then dragged to the cell and strung up. Getting witnesses was the problem. Despite forty-four prisoners to a block nobody ever saw anything. So as I slipped on my overcoat I was trying to get as many facts as possible. But the line went dead, leaving me listening to a dialling tone. Then, about two seconds later, I heard a distinct click and I stared at the receiver, puzzled.

A husky voice interrupted my thoughts. ‘What’s wrong, Frank? Why are you dressed?’ Lisa cocked an eye at me from behind the safety of a pillow.

I leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead and warm fingertips caressed the back of my neck, making my skin tingle. ‘I have to go out.’

Lisa squinted at the digital clock. ‘At this hour?’ The duvet slipped down from her breasts, distracting me totally.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her long blonde hair, coiling a tress between my fingers and brushing it against her face making her crinkle her nose. But I was in a rush and decided this was not the time to explain the significance of prison suicides. ‘I’ve had a call,’ I offered, searching for the right lie. ‘One of the inmates is throwing up and they want to know should he be moved out of his cell. They’re worried he could start an epidemic.’ It was as good as I could come up with considering the time and my need to flee. And, as always, I was trying to shield Lisa from the darker side of my work. But in the back of my head worrying thoughts niggled. Was someone listening in on that conversation? Then, have the newspapers been tipped off? If so I would face a barrage of cameras when I arrived at the massive steel gates in front of the jail.

‘I hate that job you do.’ Lisa pulled the duvet over her shoulders and pouted. ‘Why don’t you get a proper hospital position like every other doctor?’

‘This conversation is going nowhere,’ I said as I reached for my Gladstone bag. I flicked open the lock and checked I had a full complement of emergency drugs, needles and syringes. The patient who awaited me wouldn’t need medical attention but from past experience I knew it looked good to arrive fully prepared. So into the bag went my stethoscope, auriscope and compact sphygmomanometer. I made sure everything was in place including a nine-millimetre Beretta handgun. Without removing it from the Gladstone I snapped a full magazine into position and checked the safety catch. Fortunately Lisa didn’t hear the ratchet of metal against metal, the gun issue really freaked her out. ‘I work at Harmon because that’s where the pathology is.’ I stuffed a stun grenade into my right pocket and a can of Mace into the left. ‘Where else can I see patients with Aids, hepatitis B and C and a multitude of other infections all under one roof?’ I closed the lock on the Gladstone and stood up. ‘They’re human beings just like you and me and don’t deserve to be abandoned like dogs. I treat them and at the same time further my research. Now that’s the last time I’m going to defend this.’

Lisa put on her hurt look, a cross between a frown and a come-on, and I had to steel myself from crawling back in beside her. ‘Hurry back,’ she cooed. ‘We could have breakfast in bed.’ She fluttered her eyelashes provocatively and blew me a kiss. ‘Afterwards.’ For a daft moment I almost said, After what?

The front door to my apartment is bulletproof. There is a quarter-inch of steel plate bolted to the heavy-duty wooden frame and five separate locks for added protection, including a three-minute time-delay mechanism. I slid the top and bottom bolts free and then turned keys in the two Chubbs and waited. I yawned and scratched my stubble and pressed a switch to my right. Seconds later a TV monitor fixed to the wall flickered and then glowed. The digital-sharp colour CCTV image showed puddles rippling in the wind and sheets of rain but the front entry to the complex was clear with no suspicious movements or shadows. Recently I’d become a failed expert on shadows after calling out an armed response unit when I spotted dodgy shading on the ground underneath my car. It turned out to be an oil leak and this discovery did little for my credibility. Still, the Justice Department insisted on strict security precautions including firearms training, wearing a Combo SPV stab-proof vest when on duty and living in an apartment structured like a fortress. Harmon Penitentiary was run by the prisoners and solely for the prisoners’ benefit. To the cell-block bosses the governor and warders were no more than peripheral figureheads. And while the position of Penitentiary Chief Medical Officer sounded grand in reality it was the job from hell. My immediate predecessor had been brutally murdered in front of his family because he’d refused to smuggle heroin into the jail for a notorious drugs baron. The word along the wings was the system had to be taught a lesson. Before that, four other doctors had packed their medical kits and quit after a few months, unable to handle the intimidation and harassment. One found he was being shadowed by a Glasgow hit man while another had bullets sent to him through the post. The other two resigned when they discovered their children were being tailed to and from school. So in many ways that’s why I was an ideal candidate for the vacancy when it was advertised. I was a tall and strong single thirty-year-old. I did have a beautiful girlfriend but she was showing no signs of settling into a permanent relationship and was not considered a risk. In addition, as an Australian national with no family ties in Ireland, I didn’t have siblings or parents for the crime lords to target. More importantly, I was genuinely interested in prisoner health issues, especially the scourges of HIV and hepatitis, and wanted to carry out a research project where the subjects would stay in the same place. In Harmon few of the inmates were going anywhere, many on life stretches.

The facility was a Victorian dump with the dubious reputation as Europe’s most dangerous prison. Built in castellated style, the ten-acre site resembled a razor-wire stronghold from the outside. The perimeter walls were sixty feet high and fifteen feet wide with viewing towers every hundred yards. The five holding wings shot out like spokes on a wheel with upper and lower levels. The design allowed end-to-end observation of all cell blocks from a central HQ, which was a semicircle bulletproof glass unit with a battery of CCTV and listening devices. Solid-lock steel doors, multiple rolls of razor wire and crash bollards protected the entrance. In a country that took great pride in having an unarmed police force, this high-security institution was its sole exception. After a series of hostage-taking scares, knife attacks on warders and two cell-block riots, the authorities were forced to adopt a harsher regime, including the use of firearms with live ammunition. The measures reduced the number of violent incidents but didn’t enhance the prison’s standing. A visiting committee of human-rights lawyers described it as a diseased and drug-ridden nightmare and after twelve months working there I found it hard to disagree with them. There had been a number of attempts to escape over the years, including a recent daring helicopter drop into the exercise yard. However, no one had actually succeeded and the remains of the helicopter is on show somewhere as a reminder of what can happen when seven Uzi sub-machine guns let rip at the same target at the same time. Inside, the blocks were strictly segregated with separate eating and exercise regimes. Wings A and B detained terrorists and increasingly this meant Islamic extremists caught with bomb-making equipment and literature linking them to Al Qaeda. There was also a small quota of diehard IRA volunteers determined to shoot Ireland free from British oppression. Blocks C and D were the lock-ups for murderers, serial killers and arsonists while wings E and F kept violent sex offenders. The row of cells on landings G and H were reserved for less physically vicious types such as counterfeiters, fraudsters, con men and Internet child-porn perverts. There was also a women’s wing but no woman doctor so I visited that unit twice a week. J-wing, where I was headed, was the most dangerous division of all.

I changed CCTV camera angles and inspected the immediate corridor outside which seemed clear. Then I surveyed the well-lit stairwell and street-level halls. They were deserted with the audio links silent, not even a draught picked up by the hidden microphones. A separate button activated halogen lights on all sides of the apartment building and I switched to outside views. The small car park was empty apart from three cars and driving rain. The six-year-old badly dented Saab belonged to me while the other two I recognised as owned by a couple living on the ground floor. I don’t much care for cars, unlike some doctors who spend much of their time coveting top-of-the-range Mercs and BMWs and Porsches. I prefer public transport but Harmon Penitentiary is five miles away through narrow streets and busy roads so my beloved but neglected Saab kept me mobile. I clipped my personal alarm pager onto my belt and tested the batteries. Then I turned the Yale lock, stepped outside and waited until the door shut behind me. For a moment I stood still and tried to collect my thoughts. The click on the telephone line still bothered me and I considered going back to check that the message had actually come from the prison. Then the clunk of bolts self-engaging echoed along the passage. I knew the time-delay mechanism had also reconnected. The hallway was freezing and I was anxious to get the call over with so I pressed ahead.

I was halfway down the stairs when the niggling doubts became major worries. The J-wing mistake jarred, its significance too important for a simple error. Shifting the recidivist inmates had caused a major stir, not easily forgotten. Why didn’t I read the caller ID? And the click on the line, was someone listening in? I stopped in my tracks, my heart thumping in my chest. Relax, I told myself, this could still be an error. It could be a genuine request with the warder just getting the blocks mixed up. Then the lights went out, plunging the building into darkness. I felt ice course up and down my spine.

I pressed the silent alarm mode on my pager and flicked open the Gladstone. The Beretta fitted my grip perfectly. I checked my watch, the luminous dial glowing in the dark. If my worst fears were realised then split-second moves were vital. The alarm was connected to sensors around the apartment complex and when activated the cry for help was carried to two police units in the immediate area. Practice drills had shown an emergency-response team could be with me within five minutes, authorised to carry a small arsenal of light firearms. A paramedic squad was also primed to react. It was now coming up to four. With good fortune and empty streets the assist squad might make it in less than five minutes. I briefly considered crawling back to the sanctuary of the apartment but just as quickly dismissed the notion. If some gang were after me it would only draw them to Lisa. I put the Gladstone down, desperate not to make a noise, and set the stun grenade beside me, ready for use. Then I crouched and tried to hold my breath, by now frantic with fear and dread.

Where are they? Who are they? Am I overreacting? I slowly unbuttoned my overcoat, slipped it off and laid it on the step. I sensed movement at the top of the stairs. I was now at the middle level with no escape backwards. My mouth was dry, my pulse so rapid I felt dizzy. Which way to go? Think, Ryan, think. What did they say at training exercises? I couldn’t remember. No matter how much I mentally banged my forehead my brain was too frightened to function. My instructor had seen action in Bosnia, Lebanon and Liberia and had fought his way out of many tough spots but his wise words were wasted at this frenzied moment.

Suddenly, no more than ten feet away in the gloom below, a tall shape became obvious. ‘Put the gun down, Ryan.’ It was the man on the telephone, I recognised his voice immediately. The call had been a ruse to lure me out of my fortress and I’d fallen for it. How did he know I had a gun? ‘Put the fucking gun down, Ryan. Do you want us to blow your brains out and leave you like a dog?’ This time the snarled order came from behind and I spun to find two large shapes at the top of the stairs. How did they get there? They must have been hiding in a recess at the end of the corridor. And there are three of them. I’ll be dead before help arrives. I’m six foot one and weigh two hundred pounds with little flab and am no slouch when it comes to self-defence. My coach says I handle myself well in training but I knew immediately hand-to-hand combat was not an option here. I held up my overcoat as cover and feinted to one side, then rolled in a ball and flung the stun grenade upwards. As soon as I heard it thump on the floor I started shooting downwards. The explosion almost deafened me and echoed round the building. I couldn’t see whether my bullets had hit, as the area was black and smelling of cordite. My head bounced off the edge of a step but I kept rolling, one hand gripping my Beretta, the other protecting my fall. I discharged another four rounds, aiming wildly and hoping at least one would knock a target. I realised I was at the bottom of the stairs and scrambled to my feet. The entrance was only a few paces away and could be burst open with an almighty shove. If I reached the car park I could put distance between the thugs and myself, maybe even take cover behind the Saab and shoot it out. The emergency-response unit would be with me by then and I’d be safe. Suddenly a high-powered light flashed into my face, momentarily blinding me. I pulled my gun hand up to shield my eyes and immediately a boot caught me by the ankles, tumbling me to the tiled floor. I dropped like a stone, the force winding me.

‘You bastard, Ryan. That fucking grenade nearly killed me.’ I couldn’t see where the menacing voice was coming from and as I twisted a punch bounced viciously off my left ear. ‘Try another stunt like that and I’ll tear you apart.’ The light went out and I sensed two bulky shapes at my sides, strong hands gripping my arms. I could feel warm breath and smell whiskey.

‘Let go,’ I shouted, wriggling right and left. ‘My bodyguards are outside, you’ll never get away.’

Something very hard hit me on the side of the head, stunning me instantly, and the Beretta slipped from my grasp. Now I was completely defenceless, the can of Mace left in the pocket of my overcoat. My feet were lifted from under me and through a dazed fog I realised I was being carried. The front door shattered and splintered as the lock was kicked out and suddenly I was in driving rain. ‘Come on, shift it,’ a new voice with a strange accent called and I sensed urgency.

An image flashed in my mind, a crime-scene photo of my predecessor lying on the ground after being assassinated. His head lolled like a doll, his body slumped against a wall. His face was unrecognisable, the flesh and bone and cartilage destroyed in a hail of bullets. He was covered in blood. Now it was my turn, but not without a fight. I went limp, the effect forcing the two heavies at my arms to stumble, and there was an angry grunt followed by a string of oaths. ‘For Chrissake hold the bastard,’ the man gripping my feet shouted. I felt one of them skid on the wet tarmac and bent my knees, drew my legs back with all my strength and tried to spin my body. A savage grip slipped away leaving my head dangling inches from the ground. There was another angry exchange of oaths and then a boot connected with my ribs. I recoiled in pain and started shouting. Suddenly I was lying on my back, the rain drilling against my face as the wind swirled like a mini tornado. I tried to roll to one side but a heel found my groin and stayed there, twisting and grinding. I gagged as a sickening ache filled my belly. Another blow came from somewhere, landing on my shoulder, and I curled myself into a protective ball and wrapped both hands around my head.

I was soaked and terrified and aching and desperate to keep conscious. Where is that fucking emergency-response team? Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked and I froze. This is it. If they can’t take me away they’ll finish me off. I worm-wriggled furiously and jerked my head back just as the first bullet thudded into the tarmac, inches from my right ear. Then I squirmed again, this time in the opposite direction. A second round seared my scalp and I felt warm blood spurt down my neck. A vicious kick caught me in the back and then one skimmed off my left thigh. I was beginning to sink, the pain and blows taking their toll. But I had to keep going; if I stopped fighting I knew they’d kill me. Through a mountain of pain I lashed out with my right foot but only hit air. Then I rolled onto my side and flailed blindly with hands and feet but didn’t connect. The rain was now driving in sheets and the icy wind stung my battered skin. I sensed scuffling beside me. ‘Stand back, I’m gonna blow the fucker’s head off.’ I heard a heavy-duty weapon being cocked and forced my eyes open against the squall. A sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun was being pointed straight at me. I splayed my arms and legs crucifix-style, and waited. Two more boots connected with my head as the barrels flashed and my world went dark.

2

I awoke screaming. I was dead; I had to be because there was so much intense light. My head felt as if it was in a vice, the pain excruciating. I darted my eyes from side to side but saw only phosphorous flare brightness, multicoloured and dazzling and confusing. Where am I? I closed my eyes and immediately the image of a double-barrelled shotgun flooded my brain. I screamed and tried to move but the throbbing in my temples was so severe I collapsed back in a heap, moaning and panting in short bursts. My head hurt, my ribs ached, my back and shoulders and legs were sore. There was a sharp rawness coursing in a straight line at the back of my scalp. My groin was furnace hot. I was a writhing, struggling bundle of extreme pain. I desperately wanted to speak but the effort was more than I could handle and I heard myself grunt and whimper and sob.

‘It’s OK, Mr Ryan. Everything’s fine.’ A man’s voice came at me from the left and I turned towards it but neck spasm made me wince and catch my breath. ‘I’m going to give you something to make you comfortable.’ Then I heard another voice, this time female and reassuring. A warm hand curled around my own and squeezed it gently and I squeezed back, desperate for any form of human contact. I overheard a snatch of conversation and almost cried with relief. It was real people talking with normal-sounding voices. I wasn’t dead. Suddenly I felt a sting in my backside and heard the word morphine whispered. The warm hand was now stroking my forearm while another brushed at my hair. My mind drifted and the hurt began to ease. I kept my eyes closed and pushed a hand beneath my body and felt damp sheets, then a mattress. I pressed my neck against the softness holding me up. The mattress started to move and I floated to the outside lane of a slow-moving traffic circle. Now I could hear car horns and people babbling and the hum of stalled vehicles. I sniffed, expecting to smell diesel fumes, but only got a hint of Hibiscrub antiseptic. I’m in hospital. Please God, let me be in hospital. Then my senses fogged over and mercifully I fell asleep.

‘Where am I?’ I was propped up in bed on a bank of pillows, awake but this time not so fearful. My eyes took in the space, its clinical white walls and ceiling with a dark blue door almost directly in front. Crossword-puzzle-patterned privacy curtains were half drawn on each side, immediately reminding me of a hospital recovery unit. The room was about thirty foot square with a tight-pile industrial-strength beige carpet. Another blue door opened into a grey-tiled side cubicle that looked like a bathroom. There were two chunky and narrow panelled ripple windows unusually high up on the walls. They offered little light compared to the harsh fluoro tubes above me. I was underneath faded yellow linen with a red logo machine-stitched to the corners. A drip was attached to a vein in the back of my left hand and through a blur I read ‘5% Dextrose’ on the fluid bag. Another bag hung from a stand and I wondered what had coursed through my veins while I was unconscious. Pushed into a corner was the apparatus of resuscitation. There was oxygen tubing with plastic face masks; suction piping and a collection bottle; an anaesthetic trolley with syringes, ampoules, stainless-steel artery clips and needle holders, scissors, bandages and swabs. Rust-red endotracheal tubes rested beside a shiny stainless-steel laryngoscope. There was a cardiac monitor at eye level and I watched with simple fascination as my heart rhythm flickered across the blue screen. I was relieved to see the red lines zigzag in the correct mode, the impulses carried from three electrodes stuck to my chest. Whatever had happened during the assault, my heart was still in perfect working order. A pretty young nurse in green fatigues leaned over me. ‘How are you feeling, Mr Ryan?’ She lifted my right hand and stroked the skin. She was smiling at me and I knew it wasn’t a false smile because her eyes smiled too and I felt reassured.

‘Where am I?’ I tried to sit up but couldn’t as a fresh wave of pain swept over and I felt light-headed and sick. The blood must have drained from my face as the nurse’s expression changed immediately. She gently eased me into the support of the pillows and pressed a buzzer on the wall. A red light glowed on the tip of the buzzer and if my guesswork was correct somewhere outside another red light would flick into ON mode, alerting medical staff. I lay back and waited for the dizziness to pass and when I looked up again a female doctor was frowning at me. She was wearing Islamic headdress and clothes, her skin sallow. There was no name tag to help me identify her country of origin and so I plumped for Egypt. There were a lot of Egyptian medics working in Dublin.

‘You must take it easy, Mr Ryan, and please do not move without help,’ she admonished. ‘You have been in another world altogether for the past twenty-four hours and you are very weak.’ She paused to inspect a chart and then adjusted the drip rate. It gave me a few seconds to absorb what she’d said. I’ve been out for a whole day! What did those bastards do to me? The doctor returned her attention. ‘Fortunately, you have not broken any bones or damaged internal organs but you were severely beaten.’ She forced a medical panic alarm into my right hand, turning it so my thumb rested on the button. ‘From now on if you need help, press that. If you want to use the toilet, press that. If you feel a change in your condition, press that. If you feel you are getting cold or too warm, press that. If you—’

By now I’d heard enough. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I snapped. ‘I’ll press the fucking button. Now tell me, where am I?’

The doctor’s expression switched from frown to disapproval and I silently cursed my bad temper. This was as much a cultural mistake as ill manners. ‘You are in hospital and you will stay here until they decide it is safe for you to leave.’ This time her tone was neutral, as if she was reading from a prepared statement.

‘Which hospital?’ Suddenly I didn’t give a damn that I’d annoyed her, I was the one in the bed in no man’s land. ‘Is it Beaumont or the Mater? Maybe St Vincent’s or St