“Go on.”
* * *
The dicker stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and ambled along the street in the opposite direction as the British squad approached the corner.
In an upstairs room, six houses from the corner, a man dressed in overalls pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. He’d seen the hanky signal and knew the soldiers were on their way.
The gloves felt tight, but Brendan McGuinness had been insistent. Wear the overalls and gloves. Do the job. Dump the outer garments. They would absorb any traces of powder. There’d be none on him if he was unlucky enough to be picked up. Leave at once and give the weapon to a dicker who would be waiting inside the back hall. He would return it to the battalion quartermaster.
The man picked up a rifle and steadied it on the window ledge. Eight British soldiers approached, four on either side of the narrow street. He sighted, just below the red hackle on the caubeen of the last man in the nearest file.
* * *
Sir Charles listened patiently as the major handed over another file and said, “These are the last twenty Provo attacks on the army. As far as I can puzzle it out, the PIRA would have needed some kind of inside gen to mount them.” He paused. “Can your people find out, quietly, which RUC E Branch officers might have had any knowledge of our troops’ movements prior to each of these attacks? I didn’t think you’d want me to ask Gillespie, sir.”
“Quite.” Sir Charles hesitated. “I’ll have a word with Sir Graham Shillington. He’s retired now as RUC chief constable. He’s an old friend and can keep his mouth shut.” He grunted. “My minister would go berserk if I were to be responsible for upsetting our relations with the RUC. Mind you, it’ll take Sir Graham a few days.”
“I could use a few days. I’m putting a man on the street.”
One of Sir Charles’s eyebrows rose. “Isn’t that a bit risky?”
Major Smith nodded, not betraying at all to Sir Charles exactly how risky it was going to be for Roberts, né Richardson, when he made contact with the Provos.
* * *
The sergeant turned away from McKenzie’s corpse and threw up. He’d seen men killed before, but never one who had been shot in the head. He’d not known that brains look like porridge.
FOURTEEN
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 21
Marcus had worked since Sunday with the SAS captain, Captain Rupert Warnock. Warnock had introduced himself and asked if he was speaking to Mike Roberts, the chap who was going to go into the Republican areas of Belfast.
Warnock had clearly been well briefed, and Marcus, after two weeks of thinking of himself as Mike, had no trouble answering to the name. He wondered what Mr. Hyde would have done if someone had addressed him as Dr. Jekyll.
Warnock had come straight to the point. “We’ve not much time. My job is to give you enough know-how to fit in locally, not compromise yourself, perhaps give you a chance to pick up some useful stuff while you’re there and have a fighting chance of getting out of any tight corners.” He poked Marcus in the midriff and remarked, “Getting a bit flabby.”
He instituted a brutal regime of calisthenics. The burpees and sit-ups and push-ups were getting easier after four days.
Warnock spent two days briefing Marcus on techniques for striking up acquaintances in bars, how to ask leading questions without seeming to do so, and how to read a face. It seemed that when a subject important to the listener was broached, or if a man was lying, his pupils contracted. And there was the “Pinocchio effect”—liars invariably touched their noses with a finger, presumably to see if it had grown. The two role-played until Marcus was sick and tired of being a friendly stranger in a pub.
Yesterday he’d started learning the words and tunes of a dozen Republican songs, like “The Men Behind the Wire,” “Four Green Fields,” and “The Broad Black Brimmer.” Warnock assured Marcus that anyone purporting to be of Ulster extraction and with Republican sentiments would have a repertoire of such ditties. They were tuneful, but not a patch on Mozart.
Today Warnock was to give Marcus a rundown on the Provisional IRA.
They sat together at the table, a table overflowing with maps of Alberta, Belfast, Calgary; a Roman Catholic Breviary; books about football in Alberta, Canada—he now knew what his Stampeders windcheater was about—photographs of suspected Provos; and notes. Notes from the major, notes from Captain Warnock, and, somewhere under the heap, the green folder containing what Marcus now thought of as “The Life and Times of Mike Roberts.”
The SAS captain explained to Marcus how the Provisional IRA could trace its roots back to the United Irishmen of the eighteenth century. Led by Wolfe Tone and Henry Joy McCracken, they had risen to expel the English and been thrashed. An American anti-British group, the Fenian Brotherhood, had flourished in the States among refugees from the potato famines of the 1840s.
In 1916, at Eastertide, followers of Patrick Pearse, Joseph Plunkett, and Éamonn Ceannt had rebelled while England was enmeshed in the meat grinder of First World War. The men who captured the General Post Office in Dublin styled themselves the Irish Republican Army. They found little popular support, and England reacted to the threat on her western flank with ruthless efficiency. The rebels were defeated, and their leaders—all but Eamon de Valera, who could claim American citizenship—were executed. England had secured her flanks, but Ireland had a fresh crop of martyrs whose example would raise fresh men to carry the banner of the IRA.
And the world moved on. The First World War ended. Ireland was partitioned. The twenty-six southern counties, predominantly Catholic, became the Irish Republic; the northeastern six counties, mainly Protestant, remained a part of the United Kingdom. World War Two staggered to its bloody conclusion. Vietnam came and went. Russians and Americans circled the earth and raced to be the first nation to put a man on the moon. England shed her empire in India, in Africa, in the islands of the Pacific and the Caribbean. And still the six counties of Northern Ireland clung resolutely to mother England’s skirts like a terrified two-year-old.
Committed Republicans still hewed to the Irish Republican Army. They tried and failed to unite Ireland by force. In the midsixties, the remnants of the IRA, bypassed by history, were reduced to meeting at sentimental gatherings of the National Graves Association, which cared for the resting places of old Republican heroes, or the Republican Welfare Association, which offered what assistance it could to dependents of those who had suffered for the Cause. By 1969, the year Ulster went up in flames, there were fewer than sixty men in Belfast who regarded themselves as members of the IRA.
When the remaining IRA men tried to assume their old role as protectors of the Catholics, they had neither the manpower nor the weapons to succeed. In May 1969, when Ruairí Ó Brádaigh asked how much material the Belfast IRA possessed, he was informed: “a pistol, a machine gun, and some ammunition.”
The old IRA had failed its constituency, but in its ranks were men who believed that the organization could be rebuilt and could, in time, move to the offensive against the British. The dreams of the men who had been executed after the failed Easter Rising, the martyrs of 1916, could be fulfilled with one more big push. A few days before Christmas 1969, a small group met and agreed to abandon the ways of the old IRA. They elected a Provisional Executive of twelve, who in turn selected a Provisional Army Council. These men, Seán MacStiofáin, chief of staff; Ruairí Ó Brádaigh, Dáithi Ó’Connaill, Leo Martin, Patrick Mulcahey, and Joe Cahill were the leaders of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. The Provos.
Until 1970 an uneasy harmony prevailed between the new men and those who had stayed with the old guard, the Official IRA, but at the end of April 1970 a group of Provisionals fired thirteen times at a group of Officials in Andersonstown. All of the shots missed, but in March 1971 Charlie Hughes, Provo commander of D Company in the Lower Falls, was shot dead by an Official. His death sobered the hotheads of both factions and brought the sides together to try, unsuccessfully, to bury their differences. The
internecine struggle ended in April 1972, when the Officials had had enough and withdrew from the struggle, leaving the Provos, the toughest of the hard men, to continue the campaign.
Marcus was fascinated by Warnock’s encyclopedic knowledge. “I never paid much attention to Irish history,” he said.
Captain Warnock shrugged. “You’d better know who Wolfe Tone was if you’re going to pass as a Republican. Here,” he handed over a slim paperback. “It’s all in here.”
“Thanks.”
“And you’ll need to understand who the individuals are you might run into.” Warnock stood. “Being in the Provos is a family business. Eighty percent of the volunteers have at least one other family member in the organization.”
“Really?”
“Umm. That chap Gerry Adams. Three of his brothers have been or are in.”
“I see.”
“The volunteers are all working-class.” Warnock grinned. “I suppose it is more fun to be a Provo than an unemployed greyhound walker. Gives a man stature in his community.”
“Right,” said Marcus. “And a bit of cash.”
“Not really. A Provo volunteer only gets twenty pounds a week and he can’t have that if he signs on for unemployment benefits. I doubt if many are in it for the money.”
“Then why—”
“Some of the younger ones are in it for kicks. They don’t usually last very long. Some are there for revenge. It’s a tightly knit community, and it’s damn near impossible to live on the Falls or in Derry without having had a relative or a friend killed, wounded, or imprisoned. A lot of that sort pack it up after a while, too.”
Marcus nodded.
“The really hard men—the ones in for the long haul—are the idealists. You know the type. Dreams of Celtic Twilight, sings ‘A Nation Once Again,’ knows the names of the sixteen martyrs of nineteen sixteen better than his own address, and remembers the potato famine better than his last hot meal. They tend to be the Fifties Men.”
“Sorry?”
“Fifties Men. The Provos date blokes by when they got involved. There’re none of the men of nineteen sixteen left, but there are still a few Forties Men, and a lot of the early senior Provos were Fifties Men left over from their Operation Harvest. They call the recent crop Sixty-niners.” He scowled. “I suspect our children will be dealing with the Two Thousanders.”
Marcus laughed.
Warnock did not. “You have to understand how bloody suspicious they are, particularly of strangers. Now we do know that a number of men with Republican backgrounds who had been living abroad have come back to join up. But if you’re going to persuade the bold boyos you’ve come back from Canada, you’d better be damn well word perfect in your story.”
Marcus glanced at the pile of books.
“Because if you’re not, the Provos don’t take chances.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
Warnock’s grin was chilling. “Let’s just say if you blow your cover, you’ll never have to worry about passing the examinations for promotion to captain.”
FIFTEEN
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 23
McCusker lay on the floor beneath the table, paws tucked under him like a sphinx with amputated front legs. He’s a loaf of cat, Davy thought. Wolfed his supper and now he’s going to have a snooze. Davy sat and picked up the newspaper, known as “The Pink” because the Saturday-evening sporting edition of the Belfast Telegraph was printed on paper that colour. Linfield had lost to Glentoran, 2–0. Coleraine had won. Mind you, beating Glenavon this season wasn’t hard.
The ginger tom opened his eyes and pricked his ears at the sound of hammering at the front door.
“Do you reckon that’s Jimmy, McCusker?” Davy put down “The Pink” and looked at the clock. Six. “He’s a bit early.” Davy rose and limped to the door. Jimmy’d said he’d pop round for a bit of a blether. Davy opened the door.
Jimmy stood there rubbing his hands, cupping them and blowing into the hollow. “Bloody freezing, so it is.”
“Aye,” said Davy, pleased to see his friend. It was two and a half weeks now since Fiona had gone. Fifteen lonely days. He followed Jimmy back to the kitchen.
“Turn on the fire, for God’s sake.” Jimmy bent and flipped the switch of a two-bar electric heater. As the element glowed cherry-red he squatted and held his hands to the heat. “That’s better,” he said over his shoulder. “Cosy enough.” His smile was wry. “It must have been bloody parky for them Brits over in Cupar Way.”
“What Brits?”
McCusker sat up, disturbed by the urgency in Davy’s voice.
Jimmy stood. “The lads found another of them secret hidey-holes last night. Four soldiers in the attic of a deserted house, infrared sniper scopes, cameras and all. They fucked off as soon as they knew they’d been rumbled. The fellow that lived next door heard noises, like. He took a wee dander over. He was poking about on the top floor when the trapdoor opened and a big soldier jumped on him. Your man near shit himself.” Jimmy laughed his high-pitched hee-hee. “Can’t be much fun for them soldiers, stuck for days in places like that. No heat, no WC nor nothing. The fellow that found them took a look in the attic. He said the smell would have put you out.”
Davy noticed that his friend’s jaw had not twitched once. And Jimmy was laughing, even if it sounded a bit forced. That was a better sign. Maybe the last few weeks of enforced idleness had been good for him. Davy himself had found the boredom hard to take. Wars weren’t won by men sitting around on their arses.
Davy waved Jimmy to a chair. He’d not let Jimmy see the concern. “You’ll be asking them round for a cup of tea and a piece next.”
Jimmy sat, picked his nose, and hee-hee’d. “What’ve you been up to, anyway?” Jimmy kept shifting in his seat.
Davy shrugged and said, “Minding my own business.” The less he moved about, the less he was likely to be noticed, but staying cooped up all day could arouse the suspicions of the watchers, too. “I’ve been to see Celtic play a couple of times, picked up my dole, had a few jars, read a bit.” Tried not to think about her, he thought. Tried and failed.
“Whenever the missus would give me peace, I done a fair bit of reading myself.” Jimmy cocked his thin head to one side. “Did you ever hear ‘September 1913’?”
Davy never ceased to be amazed that Jimmy, child of the slums like himself, had an abiding passion for the works of William Butler Yeats. Aye, he’d heard the bloody thing a thousand times, but if Jimmy wanted to recite Davy had nothing better to do than listen Jimmy’s harsh voice softened.
Davy let his friend carry on until he finished with,
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.
* * *
Jimmy seemed to take his pleasure in the cadences, the rhymes. Davy heard the words. He rocked slightly, thinking, Aye, but you’re wrong, Mr. Yeats. Romantic Ireland’s not dead and gone. She’s still worth fighting for. As he fought and his dead father had fought.
Davy’s Ulster wasn’t just the mean streets of the Falls or the grimy Lagan, flowing past the docks and the Queen’s Island’s shipyards to Belfast Lough. It was the white beaches of Antrim, the bustle of Smithfield Market, the purple, brooding Mourne Mountains, where the silence was only broken by the chuckling of the Shimna River.
By God, he did know what he was fighting for, and for whom. The people: poets and platers, singers and bobbin shifters, drunks and scholars, whores and wives. The Ulster people, humorous, warm—and absolutely, utterly unforgiving of a wrong. He wondered why, for all the injustices, past and present, he could not find it in his heart to hate the English. He simply wanted them gone.
Jimmy was saying something.
“Are you in there, Davy?” He leaned across the table. “That’s a powerful poem, so it is.”
“Right enough.” Davy had no desire to tell Jimmy what he had been thinking. “You’re a grand man for your Yeats, Jim. But you didn’t pop in just to do
your party piece.”
Jimmy’s jaw twitched. “Not at all. Like, ah, it’s been a brave while since we’ve had a job. Three weeks since that ATO got killed. Do you think they’ve forgot us?”
“I’d doubt it, Jim. I reckon Sean’s keeping the pair of us hid. For a special job, maybe. It’s not as if just because we’re not working the war’s stopped.”
“Aye. There’s been plenty of action. Just about every night.”
Davy’s lip curled. “Soft targets. Shops. Pubs. It’s time we hit the fucking peelers or the army again.”
“They took out a Scottish soldier on Wednesday.” Jimmy looked down at his boots and back to Davy. “Still, it’s been nice and quiet for us, like.”
“What are you trying to say, Jim?”
“D’you ever think about getting out, Davy?”
“Not at all. You getting cold feet?” Stupid question. He knew bloody well that Jim was, and in truth so had Davy. She’d come back to him if he did.
“Me? No way. Just wondered. I’d a letter from Siobhan. She says Canada’s a great place.” Davy heard the wistfulness in his friend’s voice.
“Jimmy, I don’t know as much Yeats as you, but you once told me one of your Mr. Yeats’s poems, ‘Remorse for Intemperate Speech.’”
Jimmy said, “Aye, he wrote that, in 1931. Twenty-eighth of August.”
“All about great hatreds and fanatic hearts?”
“I know every word.” Jimmy frowned. “But sure, Davy, you don’t hate, do you?”
“Not at all. But I want the Brits gone.” Davy knew he could very well need Jimmy’s help soon. He wasn’t going to get out of it. Davy sought for words of encouragement. “Your Siobhan says Canada’s a great place?”
“Aye.”
“So’s Ireland. And it’s going to be a better place. You and me’s going to help see to that. Aren’t we, Jim?”
“Oh, aye. Right enough.”
“Good. Sean’ll send for us soon. I just know it’ll be a big one, but nothing we can’t handle.” Before Davy could say anything more, he heard a noise like a miniature cement mixer coming from under the table. “Ah, shit.” He dropped onto his hands and knees. McCusker had sicked up a mess of half-digested cat food. He crouched, staring at Davy. Davy stood. “Bloody cat’s been sick. Serve him right. That’ll teach him to bite off more than he can chew.”