Marcus heard Davy’s door open, and the van lurched on poorly maintained springs. Marcus climbed out and hunched his shoulders against the rain, trying to hide his features. He sensed movement. The captain stood one foot away.
“Have you some identification, sir?”
Marcus reached for his wallet.
“I say. Haven’t we met?”
Marcus looked the young officer full in the face and let a smile of recognition play on his lips. Please God, don’t let the captain go into his “thought you were someone I knew in the army” routine. “Aye. A while back. In the Causerie.”
“Right. You were with a smashing blond.”
“Aye.” Marcus lowered his voice. “Don’t mention her. She’s a Protestant. We’re Catholics. My cousin Davy would go bananas if he knew about her.”
The Para captain grinned. “See what you mean.” A heavier-than-usual rain squall slashed along the road. “Go on.” He gestured to the van. “Sorry about this. Routine, you know.”
“Thanks.” Marcus nipped back inside and slammed the door. “Get us out of here, Davy.”
“What did that fucker want?” Davy drove past a parked Saracen.
Marcus watched the man’s face, the way he sat. He was tense, angry. Marcus said, “The usual, but he thinks we’re a couple of farmers. Didn’t go much for the stink.”
“Good.” Davy’s smile was obviously forced. “Grand stuff, pig shite. Attracts flies but keeps the soldiers off.”
“Off what?”
“Off our case. Jesus. You think this is some kind of game. You don’t understand, do you?”
“Understand what?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you know I’m a Provo.”
Finally. The man had admitted it.
“If the soldiers had found that out, were after me—where do you think that would have left you?”
“In the back of the van.”
“What are you talking about?”
“In the shite, Davy. In the shite.” Marcus’s voice held a trace more sincerity than he had intended.
“It’s no time to be buggering about,” Davy laughed. What Marcus had just said must have struck home. Perhaps it was a release of tension—the wisecrack hadn’t been that funny—but Davy threw back his head and guffawed. “Right enough. That’s just where we’d have been.” His big shoulders shook under his waterproof jacket. “In the shite.” He chuckled for a moment longer, then said, “You’re a cool bastard, aren’t you, Mike Roberts?”
Marcus’s own relieved laughter died away. “Probably don’t know enough to be worried.”
“Unless them lads in camouflage suits is your mates.”
“Aye. Right enough. I was in the Chinese forces before I went to Canada.”
Davy looked puzzled. “Chinese—?”
“The Foo-king arm-ee.”
“The—?” McCutcheon laughed again. “All right. We’ll say no more.”
Marcus listened to the engine, the sounds of the tyres on the wet road, the ticking of the wiper blades. At least he’d made McCutcheon laugh. They sat in silence, and Marcus was able to contain his curiosity now that he knew where they were heading. Hillsborough. Government House was there. He did not think they were going to pay a social call. More important, something had happened at the checkpoint. Was it because Davy had opened up enough there to give his name, because they had shared a laugh, because Davy had admitted he was PIRA and said he believed Mike’s story—or because, for a moment, each for his own reason had been scared silly?
Marcus looked over at the big man beside him. Something about the way he was sitting, one arm resting on the window edge, wheel held loosely, told Marcus that Davy had sensed it, too. Good. If he was satisfied, that would make it easier with the Provos. Whenever they finally met them.
He watched the trees flash by, lime and apple green in their early spring foliage, sheep huddled against a hedge, the little fields. The van turned onto a country road, narrow and tree-lined; jolted over the potholes; slowed; and entered a lane leading to a grey farmhouse.
“We’re here,” Davy said as he parked in the farmyard.
“Right.” Marcus was alert, anticipating the meeting. He remembered the SAS man’s instructions. Take a good look around and study your surroundings. You never know what might be important if you have to get out in a hurry.
McCutcheon had left the van and hurried through the rain to the door of the farmhouse. Grey stone. Two stories. Sash windows with green frames, the paint blistered and peeling. Two slates were missing from the roof. Telephone wires ran from white ceramic insulators under the eaves to a bare pole standing starkly among a windbreak of tall poplars. The trees marched from the corner of the house along the lane to the country road a hundred yards away. The phone lines were strung on telegraph poles among the trees.
Marcus retrieved his knapsack, opened the door, and stepped out into the mud of the farmyard. There was no dog, and that was strange. All farms had dogs. Border collies, usually.
He turned to get his bearings. The house fronted onto a yard of mud and straw. A blackthorn hedge bordered its near side. Across the yard an open barn, rusting corrugated iron sheets held up on wooden posts, sheltered a Massey-Harris tractor. He could see empty stalls at the back of the building. No animals, and by this time of the evening the cows should be in for milking. No dog. No cattle.
“Will you come in the fuck out of the rain?” Davy stood inside the doorway, beckoning.
Marcus squelched across the yard. Something nagged at him. It wasn’t that the place seemed to be deserted … He stopped. There were no other vehicles. How had the men he was to meet got here? He pushed past Davy.
In the dim light coming from the two windows behind him, Marcus could see that there was no hall. He had entered the main room. A sink set into a countertop, cupboards above, took up space on the wall to his right. Past it he could see a staircase. To his left a range bulked black. Beside it was a pile of turf, which filled the space between the range and a huge open fireplace, visible directly ahead, behind the plain wooden table and chairs in the middle of the room. Where did that door beside the fireplace lead to? Black cast-iron gallows stood out from the sides of the hearth. There was no fire. And there was no one else there. Marcus spun round and saw Davy standing by a cardboard suitcase on the slate floor. Davy said, “Cold in here.”
“Cold? Never mind that. Where the hell is everybody?”
“Nobody lives here. The owner, Sammy McCandless, died a month ago.”
“I don’t mean that. You said I’d meet the senior men. Where the hell are they?”
“They’ll be along.”
Marcus sensed that Davy was lying but said, “Jesus Christ, I came here to meet people. I should have listened to Siobhan.”
“What?”
“I was out with her for lunch today. I told her I was seeing you again this evening.”
“You told her?”
“Come on, Davy. Jimmy’s daughter’s not going to blow the whistle.”
“Mebbe.”
“She says I’m daft. I should forget about you lot and go back to Canada with her.”
“Mebbe you should.”
“Look. I want to find out what’s going on.”
“You will. We’ve to get this place ready for them.”
“All right.”
“Put down your bag and give us a hand.”
Marcus set his knapsack on the planks of the tabletop, seeing the dust of disuse on the wood. “What do you want me to do?”
“Get a fire lit. I’m foundered.” Davy produced a box of Swift matches.
Marcus took the matchbox, moved round the table, and knelt at the hearth. Someone had laid a fire. Bunched-up balls of newspaper supported a pile of fresh kindling. Two bricks of peat perched on top. Dust on the tabletop but a freshly laid fire? It was like Alice in Wonderland—curiouser and curiouser. He struck a match and held the flame to the paper. The kindling began crackling. Marcus heard Davy say, “Gi
ve us the matches,” and stood to hand over the box.
Davy held a brass kerosene lamp in one hand; the funnel and globe lay on the tabletop. He lit the wick, slipped the funnel over, and covered it with the glass globe. The light was bright and threw shadows on the white plaster walls. “That’s better.” He opened his waterproof coat, took it off, and said, “Here. Gimme yours.”
Davy shook the rain off both and hung them on a coatrack tucked in between the front door and a large chest of drawers. Marcus asked, “What now?”
“We’ll have to wait.” Davy lit a cigarette. He seemed to have found something of interest on the floor, and he was scratching his nose.
Pinocchio. The SAS chap had said that when men lied they often touched their noses. Marcus felt an alarm bell ringing in his head. The same one that went off when he sensed all was not well with a fuse, and when that happened, you got the hell out—fast.
“How long?” Marcus looked directly at Davy.
His stare was returned. “Until we do a wee job together.”
“A what?”
“A wee job.” Davy smiled and there was a challenge in his smile. “With Semtex.”
Davy stood by the door watching Roberts’s response.
“A job? With Semtex?” was all the younger man said. Either Roberts was a bloody good bluffer, or he had meant what he’d said about joining up.
“Aye. Semtex. That’s what’s under all the pig shite.”
“Wait a minute. You told me you were going to introduce me to higher-ups in the Provos. You never said nothing about a fucking job.”
“Would you have come if I had?”
“No bloody way.”
“But you’re here now, and you are going to give me a hand.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“What do you think?”
The lad fidgeted, rubbing one foot back and forth over the slates. “I don’t suppose I do, do I?”
“That’s about the length and the breadth of it.”
Roberts surprised Davy by saying, “I’m your man, then.”
“You will get to meet my CO—once it’s over.” Davy looked into the younger man’s eyes. “I suppose you’d want to know about the job?”
“Not at all. I’ll just stand here, both legs the same length, picking my fucking nose.”
“You do that. I’m for making a cup of tea. There should be a food safe out the back. See you if there’s milk in it.”
“What about the Semtex?”
“Take your hurry in your hand. We’ll have a wet first.”
“All right.”
Davy watched Roberts go through the back door and stood, waiting to see if he would try to bolt.
He returned and closed the door. “Got it.”
“Set it over there by the sink.”
Roberts put the milk bottle down on a shelf beside a tapless chipped sink and asked, “Is there a pump out there?”
“Should be.” Davy picked up a heavy, soot-blackened kettle. “Away off and fill that up.”
“Right.”
Davy was stooped, stirring the turf with a poker, when Roberts returned. Davy took the kettle, hung its handle on one of the gallows, and swung the arm over the heat. “Not be long.” He held his hands to the warmth. “Jesus, that’s better.” Christ, Davy thought, the last time I was near peat I was hiding under it. After the fuckup. After that wee Hanrahan girl. He turned and said, “Picked your nose enough, have you?”
“Och, come on, Davy. You know bloody well I want to know what’s going on.”
“And I’ll tell you. When we get the tea made.” Davy busied himself. He wanted to see how well the lad could contain his curiosity, and make sure there was nothing fishy about Mike Roberts’s story. He asked, “Did you say you went to Bangor Grammar School?”
“Aye. And I told you I’m not a Prod.”
“Is Bangor Grammar the one with the red and green school caps?”
“Away off and chase yourself. Bangor Grammar’s blue and yellow.”
“My mistake.”
“D’you ever go to Bangor, Davy?”
“Aye. When I was a wee lad. The BCDR—”
“Belfast and County Down Railway.”
“That’s it. They had a slogan, ‘Bangor and back for a bob.’”
“Queens Quay Station, the one they bombed a while back, to the top of Main Street, Bangor.”
Davy thought, Queen’s Quay. The one he’d bombed a while back that nearly cost him Fiona. “Aye. I suppose so. Here.” He handed Roberts a cup of tea. “Come on and sit down, Mike. That’s what they call you, isn’t it?”
“It’s better than shitface, Davy. It’s my name.”
Davy laughed, choked on his tea, and coughed. “You’re no dozer, are you?”
“No.”
“All right. You want to know?”
“Aye.”
“This farm’s not far from Lisburn. Do you know what’s there?”
“No.”
“Thiepval Barracks. You’ll see the yellow arc lights when it gets dark. It’s British army headquarters. The General Officer Commanding Northern Ireland and the headquarters of Thirty-nine Infantry Brigade’s there.”
Roberts said nothing.
“Down to the southeast of that’s Government House, in Hillsborough. There’s a lot of traffic back and forth.”
“So?”
“Between Lisburn and Hillsborough the road crosses a bridge over the Ravernet River.”
“And you want to take out the bridge?”
“I do.”
“And you need Semtex charges to do it?”
“Aye.”
“And you want me to make the charges?”
Davy swallowed his pride. “That’s right.”
“No sweat.”
“Dead-on,” said Davy. “We’re going to pull one off in the Brits’ own backyard, right between Government House and their fucking army headquarters. Four days from now.”
“Why four days?”
“There’s going to be a convoy on the bridge.”
* * *
It took them two hours to unload the van. They stowed the Semtex under sacks of manure, in one of the stalls of the barn. The detonating apparatus and Davy’s tool kit were taken into the farmhouse. The last thing Davy unloaded was an ArmaLite—one from Howa Machinery in Japan, not the American modification of the M16—.223-calibre, folding-stock, with single-shot, semi-, and fully automatic capability. The Provos called the weapon the widow maker.
During those two hours, Marcus worked out a plan. Having come this far, it seemed a pity to ruin his chances of meeting the senior Provos by making a run for it when Davy was asleep, or by trying to overpower the man. Davy wanted Marcus to make a bomb. He’d do it, but he’d build in a defect so that it wouldn’t explode. No one in the convoy would get hurt, the man Davy thought of as Mike Roberts would have shown loyalty and willingness, and Davy would have to keep his word about making the introductions in the not-too-distant future.
Marcus knew that he would have to keep his guard up. That business about the colour of the caps worn by pupils of Bangor Grammar School hadn’t been a slip of Davy’s memory. He’d been testing, and he’d probably test again. And Marcus, unless he wanted to be the proud possessor of a .223-calibre bullet in his brain, had better pass every test that Davy set.
FORTY-EIGHT
MONDAY, APRIL 15
Davy rose on Monday morning and washed in a basin on his dressing table. He dried his face, noticing a framed print of the Madonna hanging above. “Hail Mary, full of grace—” He crossed himself, turned away, and pulled on his trousers, hoisting the braces over his shoulders, tucking in the tails of his shirt, buttoning the fly. He’d never liked zippers.
Davy moved to the window and drew the curtains. Through the pouring rain he could see a ploughed field that marched along the back of the farmyard. Three hundred yards away the field met the main road to the village of Ravernet—the road that linked Thiepval with Hill
sborough.
To his left a wood bordered the road at the side of the field. The wood where Sean’s people would leave the motorcycle. To his right the river flowed past the field. A low hedgerow marked its near bank and two large elms grew in the hedge, not far from the bridge. There was a gate between the trees.
The main Ravernet Road crossed the river at the far corner of the field. The bridge, the all-important bridge, and the approaches from Lisburn were clearly visible from Davy’s room. The convoy would come along the road and onto the span, moving across from right to left. There was a clear line of sight from the bedroom window. The remote transmitter worked on line of sight.
A secondary road ran from the main Ravernet Road to the lane to the farmhouse. It started half a mile from the bridge, passed the farmhouse where McGuinness was going to put his sheepherding men, and skirted the wood. Past Davy’s hideout the back road followed a curve in the river and crossed it five miles upstream. That would be important when it was time to run. It would be a ten-mile round-trip for anyone leaving the site of the ambush to get onto the back road at its far end and drive to the farmhouse.
When the Semtex blew under the vehicle in the middle of the convoy, the lead Saracen would either be disabled by the blast or stuck on this side of the demolished bridge. There was a deep, wide ditch between the ploughed field and the Ravernet Road. It would take more than a Saracen to cross that.
If the armoured personnel carrier followed the main route to the back road, it would be held up long enough by the flock of sheep to give Davy time to slip down the farm lane, screened from the main road by the poplars, then along the back road and onto a connecting road that headed away from Lisburn.
The rear escort would be stranded on the other riverbank. Its troops might be able to ford the river, but in the inevitable confusion that would follow the explosion, Davy would be long gone by the time they crossed the ploughed field on foot. It was a good escape plan. Davy would make it all right. If nothing unexpected happened.
* * *
The Massey-Harris tractor jolted over the furrows. Davy sat on the perforated metal seat, steering as best he could with the weight of Mike’s hands on his shoulders. The rain sleeted past. Davy set a course to skirt the field. His knowledge of farming was sketchy, but he couldn’t believe any farmer who’d ploughed such straight rows would churn them up by running the tractor’s huge rear wheels across the results of his labour.