McGuinness entered a scruffy kitchen. He ignored the pile of pots and a grease-encrusted frying pan lying in a pool of scummy water in the kitchen sink.
It was one thing for Sean Conlon to help out with little things, but had he the stomach for something really big? He’d better have.
McGuinness’s job as Brigade IO was to sift incoming information and use it to ensure the security of the Provo volunteers, as well as to advise on the targets that, when hit, would do the most damage to the British. His old sources were working well but hadn’t been used to plan today’s raid. This morning’s attack had been little more than a diversion. Random violence on a small scale kept the Security Forces on the hop and could not compromise his most precious intelligence asset.
His eye socket itched, and he poked his finger in to scratch. He might have only one good eye, but his ears were everywhere in Belfast and, after the move out of these cruddy quarters in a couple of weeks, he’d have one more listening device. One that neither Sean nor even the Officer Commanding the Belfast Brigade would be privy to.
It would need to be tested. It would take a week or two to have the system set up, but once it was working the Belfast Provos could truly inflict major damage on the Brits. And when the PIRA began to go for major targets, ones that would carry serious risks to attack—like the one his prime source had suggested as a real possibility—then they’d see what Sean Conlon was made of.
FIVE
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 4
“You’ll be leaving this evening, Lieutenant Richardson.” The young nurse smoothed the corner of the sheet. “Now take these.” She handed him two painkillers.
He popped the pills in his mouth and washed them down with a mouthful of water.
“Good.” She took the glass.
Marcus wished he could hear her more clearly, but the ringing in his ears refused to go away. He felt so bloody useless, stiff and bruised and stuck in hospital. At least no bones were broken. Nothing smashed up inside. But it had been a near thing on Saturday. Too bloody near. It had given him pause for thought. He shuddered but said, “Thank you.”
She smiled, showing small white teeth. She had great eyes, green and feline. He wondered what she’d look like in civvies—or, better still, out of them. She must have noticed his look. Pink spread from beneath her white starched collar. “Now settle down,” she said, but the smile remained. “The ambulance will be here soon.”
Her name tag said J. LOUGHRIDGE. She hadn’t been on duty when he’d regained consciousness yesterday. They’d told him he’d been out for twenty-four hours. The blast had been on Saturday, so this must be Tuesday.
He tried to give her his best smile, but the split in his lower lip stung. “Ouch!” He dabbed at his mouth with the tips of the fingers of his right hand. “What’s the J for?”
“None of your business.” She turned to leave, then paused and looked at him, the smile returning. “If you must know, it’s Jennifer.”
He lay watching the play of the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window behind his bed, the rays brightening the sway of the curtains where she had passed. Jennifer. Jennifer Loughridge. An Antrim girl by her accent. He had a vivid image of the way her eyes had shone when they’d reflected the light as she turned. He’d seen the same green fire in an emerald, deep and lustrous.
He might be able to play the wounded hero with Nurse Loughridge. It had been too long since he’d enjoyed the company of a woman. He really would have to try to get Nurse Loughridge’s phone number.
He was not given the chance. The door opened, a Royal Army Medical Corps corporal appeared, helped Marcus into a wheelchair, and trundled him to where an RAMC ambulance waited. The inside was spartan and smelled of disinfectant. He heard the engine start, and the vehicle lurched as it was driven away. Marcus settled back on the stretcher, assuming he was being taken back to Thiepval, where his unit was stationed.
The trip was taking much longer than it should. He sat up, swung his legs to the floor, and, bracing himself against the swaying of the vehicle, peered out the small window in one rear door. They were not on the M1 motorway, the shortest route to Lisburn. He could see the gantries of Harland and Wolff’s shipyard, the great yellow bulk of the Goliath crane over the dry dock and the Cave Hill behind. This was the Bangor to Belfast road.
The vehicle made a right turn and stopped. Marcus heard the driver speaking. The ambulance moved forward. They had passed two sentry posts flanking gates in a high fence of Dannert wire. There was only one army base on the Bangor to Belfast Road. Palace Barracks, outside Holywood. Now why the hell had the driver brought him here? Marcus did not know how fast Harry Swanson had moved to effect this transfer.
The doors were opened and the orderly helped Marcus into the chair and pushed him toward the front door of a small, red-brick, semi-detached house, one of a row of identical semis that in times of peace had been married quarters.
The orderly opened the door. Marcus had had enough of wheelchairs. He stood, ignoring the look of horror on the man’s face. “At ease, Corporal,” he said and stepped into a narrow hall. He ignored the NCO’s expostulations but followed his instructions to go upstairs. By the time Marcus had come into a bedroom he was happy enough to climb into the bed.
He tried to ask why he was here, but the corporal brushed the question aside with a regulation “Sorry, sir, dunno,” tucked Marcus in, and left the room.
The chintz curtains were drawn and the room was beginning to darken. It must be six or seven o’clock. He hadn’t realized how tired he was. The aftereffects of the blast, he supposed. He might as well have a zizz and wait until he awoke to wonder about what he was doing here.
SIX
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 6
Marcus was not pleased. No one had come near him since yesterday morning. And the corporal who’d brought Marcus here had told him he was not to leave the house. It was bloody well about time …
Someone opened the front door. Marcus swiveled in his chair. A short man stood in the kitchen. His tweed suit could not disguise his military bearing, and his sallow cheeks and yellow sclera suggested that he had seen service in the tropics.
The stranger’s voice was clipped, English public school. “Major Smith. Brigade HQ.” He did not offer to shake hands.
“Sir.” Marcus rose.
The major moved to the table. “Feeling better?” The question sounded like an order.
“Yes, sir.” Marcus trotted out the Ordnance Corps’ one-liner—“Shaken but Not Stirred”—as he looked at the major’s eyes. A line from the song “Mr. Bojangles” came to mind—he had the eyes of age.
“MO says you’ll need a few weeks to recover.”
“Yes, sir.” That was fine by Marcus.
The major sat, steepled his fingers, and began tapping the tips rapidly together. “Sit down, boy.”
Marcus sat.
The major raised an eyebrow. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“No, sir. Not if I can ask you why I’m here.”
“Later, laddie. Now let’s see if I’ve got this right: born in Bangor; Protestant; father a professor of agriculture, presently on sabbatical at Texas A&M in America, mother with him; no brothers or sisters. You finished your B.Sc. on an army scholarship, Sandhurst, RAOC, blues for rugby and sailing, half blue for boxing, out of the country for the last five years”—he paused. “So far so good?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you think we’re doing in this nasty little war here?” The major’s eyes were hard as obsidian.
Marcus pointed at the bruise on his left cheek. “Someone makes pretty effective bombs.”
“True. That’s where you can help. We’d like to know who that ‘someone’ is.”
This was moving too quickly. What was the major suggesting? The man’s eyes reminded Marcus of a python he had once seen in the Belfast zoo.
The major said, quickly and in a very matter-of-fact voice, “You know a lot about explosives. You c
an mix with any crowd of locals and speak ‘Northern Ireland.’” The small man’s Oxbridge speech slipped and the last two words came out harsh and grating, a fair imitation of the accent of the Falls—“Norn Irn.”
Marcus felt slightly ashamed. He was embarrassed by his brogue and had adopted a veneer of vocal gentility. The army called it the chameleon effect.
“Oh yes,” said the major. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and chucked a piece of paper onto the table. “You might like to read this press release.”
Marcus took the paper. “Lieutenant Marcus Richardson, RAOC, died last night of injuries—”
“What?” Marcus heard his own voice over the buzzing inside his head. His words were shrill. “What?”
“Deepest condolences, old boy. Your father seems to have taken the news like a man. I gather your mother was a bit upset. She’ll be over for the funeral in a couple of days. Army expense, naturally. Seems your old man can’t make it.”
“What the hell is going on?” There was an edge to Marcus’s voice. He remembered how surprised he had been when his father refused to go to Grandfather’s funeral.
The major coughed. Politely. “I’ll put that down to shock—this time.”
“Shit.”
“That’s ‘shit, sir.’” The major’s eyes slitted.
Marcus controlled himself—just—as his training reasserted itself.
The major softened his approach. “Look, I need your help. It’s bloody nearly impossible to find out what’s happening on the street. Someone like you could fit in.”
“Fit in, sir?”
“It just seemed that if you were dead, you’d be less likely to be recognized by someone who knew you when you were still, if you’ll forgive the pun, living in Ulster.”
It was too much for Marcus to digest. Undercover work, Dad not coming to bury his only son.
The major interrupted his thoughts. “If you resurfaced on the street in Belfast you could keep your eyes and ears open, pick up a few odds and ends.”
“I don’t know anything about intelligence work.”
“Neither do some of the charlies who are out there at the moment. That’s part of our problem.” The major smiled. “We’d soon teach you, though.”
SEVEN
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 7
The garage was attached to a white stucco-covered house. It was dark in the garage, and there was the smell of mouse droppings. A man worked by the light of a pencil torch gripped in his teeth. He sat beside a Volkswagen, his head bent over a flat metal box. He ignored the four sticks of dynamite nestled inside the container, the mercury tilt switch, the batteries and the tangle of wires.
He concentrated on the face of a kitchen timer, the kind that rings. This one wouldn’t. The bell had been removed by one of Brendan McGuinness’s armourers. A metal plate, wired to the batteries inside the box, had been fixed at the zero mark at the top of the dial. A second piece of tin, connected to the detonator, had been screwed to the arm that marked elapsed time. It would strike the plate at zero when the desired number of hours had elapsed.
The man shone the thin beam on his wrist. His watch said 4:11. He redirected the light to the timer and twisted the timing arm to 5:00. He could hardly hear the faint ticking. The circuit would be quite safe until five hours had passed; then, with the plates touching, it would be armed. Still, nothing would happen, not until the mercury in the tilt switch was disturbed and the liquid metal touched both ends of the glass tube.
* * *
Inside the stuccoed house, Bertie Dunne sat up in bed. He was racked with a fit of coughing. He felt like shit. He’d been hot as hell when he’d gone to bed and for the last hour had shivered and sweated. He was getting the flu. His wife stirred beside him.
“You all right, Bertie?”
“Aye.” He’d not let some stupid infection get in the way of his plans for tomorrow.
“You’re burning up.”
“I’m rightly.”
“You are not.” She switched on the light. “Look at you. Your face is red as a beetroot.”
“I’m all right, woman.” He watched her get out of bed. “Where are you off to?”
“I’m for getting you some Panadol, so I am.”
Bertie coughed. “Would you get me a hanky while you’re at it?”
“Aye.”
He watched her go, saw the light go on in the landing.
* * *
The man in the garage froze when the upstairs lights of the house shone in through his window. He had just finished fixing the magnets on the metal tin to the chassis of the Volkswagen. He switched off his torch and peered out. No lights on downstairs. Someone was probably taking a piss. He hoped that Mr. Bertie-fucking-Dunne’s prostate was acting up. Serve the Orange cunt right.
Dunne was a tough bastard, usually moved about only in his own Loyalist neighbourhood, rarely traveled without several bodyguards, had a track record of reprisal killings of Catholics, and was a prime target on Brendan McGuinness’s list.
The lights went out. Only the one in the back of the house—the man guessed it was probably the bedroom—stayed on. He relit his torch and examined the concrete floor. There were scuffs in the dust where he had slid under the car. He shone the beam around the walls, careful not to let it shine through the window. He found what he was looking for, lifted a broom, and with a few careless strokes covered the evidence of his movements.
He replaced the broom, doused his light, and let himself out the side door. He glanced up. The upstairs window was still lit. Piss on you and your prostate, Dunne, he thought as he slipped into the shadows, heading for the car that was waiting for him at the end of the road.
* * *
Bertie Dunne pulled the bedclothes round him. The Panadol had better work. He had to meet tomorrow morning with two other senior Ulster Volunteer Force men. Their Protestant paramilitary group had big plans for a couple of Fenian bastards from Ardoyne. If the Security Forces couldn’t get the Republican shites off the streets, the UVF could. Permanently.
“Better now, dear?” his wife asked.
“Aye. Thanks. Put out the light.” He heard her sniff. There was no fooling Jeannie. She knew he was feeling lousy. The light went off.
“We’ll see how you are in the morning,” she said. “If you’re no better, you’re not going out.”
“I am so.”
“Don’t be stupid. You’ll kill yourself.”
He was worse in the morning. She took his temperature, tutting as she read the thermometer. “A hundred and three. You’re for staying in bed.”
“What time is it?”
“After eight.”
“Look. Call you Willie Mills. Tell him I’m sick.”
“Never mind Willie. I’m calling the doctor.”
“Jesus, would you call them both?”
“All right.”
His head felt like someone was using a rivet gun on it. He rolled over. Maybe Willie would see to the Fenians. He heard her in the hall below.
“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll nip round and pick up the prescription.” Jeannie Dunne hung up. The kitchen clock said nine. As she shrugged into her raincoat, she called upstairs. “I’m just going out for a wee minute.”
She opened the garage doors. Normally she would have walked—it wasn’t far—but not in this downpour. She’d take the Volkswagen.
To stop terrorists throwing petrol bombs from speeding cars, the Security Forces had built huge speed bumps in front of police stations. As Jeannie’s car climbed over the mound of solid tarmac, the mercury flowed. The detonator fired. The blast from four sticks of dynamite vapourized the metal box and melted a four-foot hole in the speed bump. The force smashed through the front axle and hurled the Volkswagen onto its roof.
Jeannie Dunne lost both legs and needed sixteen plastic procedures to give her something that resembled a face.
EIGHT
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8
The split on Marcus Richardson’s lip had
almost healed and his bruises were fading. His hearing had cleared yesterday, and for that he was thankful. Life had been confusing enough since the major had dropped his bombshell two days ago, without the added complication of feeling as though his head was full of bees.
Still, a few aches and pains were a lot better than being the real subject of the major’s press release. That had been a hell of a thing to do, to tell a man he was dead.
At first, Marcus had reacted with disbelief, anger, and sullen hostility. And not all of his anger was directed at the major. To hell with Dad’s stiff upper lip, his dislike of funerals. The man only had one son. Could he not have bent enough to come and see him given a decent burial? It was, Marcus realized, an opportunity not given to many, to see how one’s nearest and dearest would react to the news of one’s demise. Dad’s response had been predictable, but still it stung.
Marcus had been given no chance to dwell on his hurt. Major Smith had continued to expound on the security situation, obviously unconcerned about Marcus’s feelings.
It seemed that the British were lagging badly on the intelligence front. Major Smith had explained that indeed the increased army presence in the Republican neighbourhoods was inhibiting the terrorists’ ability to function, to move about freely. He had described how static observation posts and electronic surveillance devices helped, but although the Royal Ulster Constabulary had their touts, the RUC were unwilling to share their informers’ intelligence with the army. “And,” he had said, emphasizing the point, “the best information always comes from HUMINT. Human intelligence. Men and women on the street.” He’d paused and frowned. “That’s the problem.”
He had explained how the Republican ghettoes were tribal and any strangers were suspect, especially if they didn’t talk like the locals. That was where Marcus’s ability to speak Norn Irn would be priceless.