Fred rammed his bristly head forward and spat, “How long have you been working for the Brits?”
Mike jerked backward. “What?” Don’t get rattled, he told himself. “Away off and feel your head.”
“Say the first two lines of the Hail Mary.”
“Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee; Blessed art Thou amongst women, and blessed is the Fruit of Thy womb, Jesus.” Mike crossed himself.
“What killed Jane?”
“Tarzan, for all I know. Who the fuck’s Jane?”
“Your mother.”
“I already told you her name was Jean. Jean. Are you deaf or stupid?”
Fred’s eyes narrowed. Spittle flecked his lips as he shouted, “Don’t you call me stupid, you wee shite.” He leaned forward and stabbed Mike’s chest with a rigid index finger. “Do you know what kind of trouble you’re in?”
Mike began to rise. He remembered what Captain Warnock had said, not to be afraid to show anger to an interrogator, as an innocent man certainly would. “Shit. I don’t have to take”—he felt hands force him back into the chair and a voice from behind saying, “But you do, son.”
He squirmed but couldn’t turn. The pressure of the grip on his collarbones was painful. He was surprised by the major’s strength.
Fred calmed down as suddenly as he had exploded. “I’ll ask you again. How long have you been working for the Brits?”
“I’m not.” He let his feigned cockiness evaporate. “Honest to God. I’m not.”
Fred looked in the file. “Where’ve you been for the last nine years?”
“Canada. My da took me and my two brothers out there—”
“Mrs. Kildare, number 6, Victoria Road, says you were a great lad for a song when you were wee. Says you knew every word of ‘The Cruise of the Calabar.’”
Mike said nothing.
“Give us a verse or two.”
“Ah, come on…”
“Now!”
Mike coughed, cast his mind back to the pages of the students’ songbook, and sang,
Come all you dry land sailors and listen to my song.
It’s only a hundred verses so I won’t detain you long.
It’s about the adventures of this …
The punch rocked his head back. The scar on his lower lip burst, filling his mouth with the coppery taste of blood. Fred stood over him, file open in one hand, accusatory finger pointing. “You, you miserable cunt, you’re not Mike Roberts. You’re Lieutenant Marcus Richardson, Royal Army Ordnance Corps.”
The stinging blow had momentarily scrambled his mind, but he mumbled past the pain of his split lip. “I’m not. I’m not.” He felt his eyes filling. “I’m Michael Roberts from Bangor. A good Catholic, from Bangor. For fuck’s sake, I’m on your side. Honest to God.”
* * *
The man called Fred had left.
“Sorry about that, but it was necessary.” The major leaned across the table from where he was sitting and took back his bloodstained handkerchief. “Stopped?”
“I’ve had worse boxing.”
“Of course.” The major glanced at the red blotches on the white linen before stuffing it into the pocket of his Donegal tweed sports jacket. “Must say I thought you did rather well.”
Marcus managed a small smile. “Dead-on.”
His smile was returned. “Good. I’d have been disappointed if you’d said, ‘Thank you.’” The smile faded. “Of course, the real thing would be considerably worse, but play your cards right and it won’t come to that. The story—and by the way you do seem to have learnt it well—will hold up. You’d the right amount of insolence, and there’s nothing wrong with showing fear.”
Marcus said nothing. He had not been acting at the end. He had been terrified when the ex-Provo erupted.
“Fred’s not the bloke’s real name, and he’s not a Provo.” The major looked embarrassed. “RUC Special Branch, actually. Very solid chap.”
Marcus felt the stiffness in his jaw. “I noticed.”
“What? Oh. Quite.” The major smiled. “Quite. Well done.” He pulled an envelope from the inside of his jacket. “Some final details.” He put the buff packet on the table, his jaundiced gaze firmly locked on Marcus’s eyes. “We’ve been through most of this before, but you’d better refresh your memory and look carefully at the new stuff. You’re going in on Friday.”
“Friday?” The dryness in his mouth, not the split lip, made speaking a tad difficult. “That’s the day after tomorrow.”
The major held out his hand. “I’m proud of you.”
Marcus took the hand. “Thanks, John.”
“Have a bit of rest today and tomorrow.” The major picked up the envelope. “Take a look at this. Your new address is in here. Number Ten Robina Street, New Lodge. A bed-sitter’s been rented in your name.” He opened the envelope and removed two typed sheets of paper and some black-and-white photographs.
Marcus began to reach for them but was forestalled when the major said, “Patience, laddie. Look at these first.” He handed over the typescript. “Please read this very carefully. It gives you the details of what you’ve to look for, how you’re to report, and”—he hesitated briefly—“how to get to hell out if you think you’ve been spotted.” He lit a cigarette. “Take your time.”
Marcus began to read. It was clear from the first page that he was not being asked to be James Bond and single-handedly overthrow the entire Provisional IRA. He was to move into his flat, get to know the neighbourhood, frequent the betting shops and pubs, and spend some of the money he’d purportedly made in Canada. He was to try to become accepted by the locals and keep an eye out for any of the men whose photographs he had been studying for the last four weeks. If he met any of them, he was to make a special effort to strike up a conversation. Flaunt his Republican sympathies and boast that he had become an explosives expert while working in the Alberta oil patch, had heard other Irishmen had come back from overseas to fight for the Cause, and thought that he should, too. Sooner or later, if all went well, he would be approached.
“Seems simple enough.”
“Read on.”
The second page was more specific. Once approached, he was to go along with his recruiters, even to the lengths of making the Provisional IRA declaration of allegiance. His mission was to identify the bomb maker or makers of 2nd Provo Battalion and as many of their battalion or brigade officers as possible. The more senior Provos he could make contact with, the better.
“So you want the officers?”
“We do.”
“Right.” Marcus returned to the instructions. Reporting was to be kept to a minimum. If something were to be passed back, he was to make an appointment to see a Dr. Kennedy, whose surgery was on the Antrim Road. The major would have someone there to take the report. That method should be used infrequently and only when he had something of real importance. A telephone number was given for emergencies only. Marcus recognized that it did not have the Belfast 0232 prefix. He started to ask where the phone was located but realized that if he was meant to have the information, it would have been given.
The final paragraph was headed “If Compromised.” His experience with the man called Fred was fresh in Marcus’s mind. “I don’t fancy the sound of this ‘If Compromised’ bit.”
“Shouldn’t worry, old boy. You’re going to be damn good at this.” The major’s smile was open, honest.
Marcus took comfort from his friend’s obvious confidence and trust.
Major Smith stubbed out his cigarette. “If the one in a million does happen, the procedure’s simple. It’s all in there.” He nodded at the typed pages. “Head for the nearest army observation post or patrol, RUC officers, or barracks and give them the password.”
Marcus consulted the page. “Whigmaleerie”
The major laughed. “Right. What is a whigmaleerie, by the way?”
“A whatchamacallit. A thingamabob.”
“Mmm. Whigmaleerie.” He handed Marcus t
wo photographs. “Here’s a few more. These two just came in last night. This chap,” he indicated a young man with a set of whiskers not unlike the ones Marcus had grown, “we think is quartermaster for D Company of the Second Battalion. This is Frank Fitzsimmons, First Battalion. He’ll not be around by the weekend. We’re onto him.”
Marcus saw the major’s expression. He looked like a man who had found something disgusting on the sole of his shoe as he said, “You know ‘Fitz’ is old Norman-Irish for ‘bastard son’? He’s well named.” The major picked up the remaining pictures. “Have a good look at these brave boyos.” His upper lip curled and his voice was venomous. “These sods were involved in the M62 bombing last month. These are older pictures, but we’d like to know if these men have resurfaced in Belfast. We really do want to have a word with them.”
Marcus heard the anger. He shared it. On February 4, nine soldiers, a woman, and two children had been killed when a bomb exploded on a bus from the army camp at Catterick. “I’ll keep a special eye out for them.”
“Good lad.” The major stood. “Get your gear together and get rid of anything that would connect you with us. I’ll pick you up at nineteen hundred on Friday.”
Marcus stood quickly. It was really happening. He had a clear idea of what was expected of him, and obviously John had confidence that “Mike” would perform well. That was important. The major was not the kind of man that Marcus would let down. He picked up the photographs, anxious to commit the faces to memory.
The major said, “Silly of me. I nearly forgot.” He produced a small camera from his jacket pocket. “Just need a couple of candids. Stand over there by the wall.”
Marcus moved away from the table.
“Not in front of those bloody rhododendrons.”
“Right.”
The series of flashes blinded him. He wondered what the pictures were for.
“We’ll airbrush out that split in your lip.” The major put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Sorry that the interrogation was so tough.”
Marcus adopted Mike’s character, shrugged, and said, “Sure thon fella couldn’t have knocked the skin off a rice pudding.”
The major did not smile. “He’s done a lot more than that. And the lads he was imitating? So have they.”
“No sweat.”
The major turned as he reached the door. “I know you’ll do well, Marcus.”
Mike looked over his shoulder to see who the major was addressing. “Who’s this Marcus fellow?”
“Well done, Mike.”
“I seen The Great Escape. Gordon Jackson’s pretending to be French and a German says, ‘Good luck’ in English. Stupid bugger Jackson answers in English. That trick has whiskers.”
The major chuckled and then asked, “What’s the last line of the Hail Mary?”
And Marcus answered, “Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”
EIGHTEEN
THURSDAY, MARCH 7
Davy had been ordered to 15B Myrtlefield Park at two in the afternoon on Thursday. He rang the bell and waited. The front door opened.
“Come on in, Davy. Good to see you.” It was the commanding officer of the 2nd Battalion.
“Sean Conlon?” Davy stepped forward and clasped the man’s hand. “Sean—what the hell are you doing here?”
“Will you come in, man.”
Davy was hustled into a ground-floor flat. He heard the door close behind him. The room was beautifully furnished, high-ceilinged, spacious, and well lit by a bay window. This was very grand. He snatched off his cap.
“Here. Give us your coat. Sit down. How are you, Davy?”
“Well enough.”
Davy took one of the chairs surrounding a mahogany dining table. He kept his hands in his lap, worried that his sweat might mar the polish.
“Make yourself at home.” Sean sat at the other side of the table. The broad grin on his open face could not disguise the dark circles under his blue eyes.
“Jesus,” said Davy. “This is very swank.”
“Aye. Not the sort of place for the likes of us.”
Davy nodded.
“We hope the Brits think that way, too.”
“What?” Davy stiffened. “What Brits?”
“The ones that keep searching houses in the Falls and Ardoyne and the Pound Loney and all the other places where they go hunting for us. Do you think they’d break into houses where the rich people live?”
“Right enough.” Davy smiled at his mental image of an irate company director, standing beside a door with a shattered lock, giving a British squaddie the bollocking of his life. “Right enough. They’d never come to a place like this. It’s a dead brilliant idea, Sean, so it is.”
Sean Conlon’s smile faded. God, thought Davy, the man looks tired. Thirty-five and he looks fifty. “How long have you been living here?”
“Not long enough. Did you hear what happened last week?”
“What?”
“The fucking soldiers cleaned out First Battalion’s dump and their explosives men.”
“Shit.” Davy hawked, but could not bring himself to spit on the plush carpet.
“Aye. Shit, but do you know what?”
“What?”
“We’re going to hit back. We’ve a job for you. The buggers that raided the supply dump.”
“Good. What do you need?”
“A land mine.”
“No sweat. What’ll the quartermaster have for me? Gelignite? TNT?”
Sean shook his head. “That’s the problem, Davy. There’s a shipment due from Dublin, but it’s not in yet. We’ve nothing left since the raid on First Battalion’s folks. Last night’s attack on the Grand Central Hotel was a five-hundred pounder. It cleared out Second Battalion’s reserves.”
Davy grunted. “More civilians.”
“Come on, Davy. The Brits were using it as an army HQ for the Royal Horse Artillery.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t one of mine.” He paused. “You’re out of explosives?”
“Aye.”
“No problem. Be like the old days. You’d be amazed what can be made with stuff that’s just lying about. What’s the target?”
“Army Land Rovers.”
“Pipe bomb’ll do it. I’d need to go out with the action squad to set it.” Davy wondered why the CO had a worried look on his face.
“Would you go out?”
Davy’s grin broadened. “Aye, certainly. It’s been a brave while since I had a close-up whack at the shites.” His grin faded and he peered at Sean. “You said army, didn’t you?”
“Aye.”
“That’s all right then. I’d not want to go after civilians.”
“I know how you feel, but the pair of us have to do what Army Council says, and they reckon that part of our job’s to make this province ungovernable.”
“I suppose railway ticket collectors are part of the government.” Davy hardly considered his words. Unbidden, his mind had turned to Fiona.
“What?”
“My last one took out a ticket man. His kids were in Fiona’s class. She took such a scunner she left me.”
“Jesus, Davy. I’m sorry.”
Davy heard the concern in Sean’s voice.
“Aye. Well. We’ll say no more. When do you want the mine?”
“Do you think she’ll come back?”
“I said, ‘When do you want the mine?’”
“Friday, two weeks. Unless the stuff comes in from Dublin before. We’ll let you know. If it does, you’ll not need to cook up something in your kitchen.”
“I’d still need a bit of time, and I’d have to know what explosives I’d be using if you do get the new stuff in.”
Sean lowered his voice and Davy wondered why. If there was anyone else here, they would not have to be kept in the dark. “We should be getting some of the usual stuff, but if it all works out this time we’ll be getting our first consignment of Semtex.”
Davy whist
led. Semtex. He’d read about the stuff in a badly translated Czech manual but had never worked with it. Hadn’t the first clue how to. “Semtex? That’s pretty powerful stuff, so it is.”
“It is, and we’d only use it for important targets. Even if it comes in, we’ll not be sending you any for this one.”
Davy was not sure whether to be relieved that he would not be asked to work with the new plastique or annoyed that his next mission was not considered important. He scowled.
“Come on, Davy, I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Aye. Well.”
“Look. I can’t give you the details, but this raid on the army Rovers is important. It’s the first step in something really big that we’re planning.”
“Oh?”
Sean smiled. “Davy, even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn’t. Sometimes our Brigade IO plays his cards very close. He’s told me there’s a big one coming, but I don’t know the details myself.”
“Sean, I believe you.”
“I know.” Sean rose. “Davy, get this one out of the way and I promise you’ll get your chance with the Semtex.”
Davy stood and took Sean’s outstretched hand. “Don’t bother your head about this one.”
“I won’t. And I meant it about the Semtex. You’ll get it for the big one.”
“I know,” said Davy, flattered at Sean’s automatic confidence in his munition man’s expertise—and already wondering where in the name of Jesus Christ Almighty was he going to find out how to work with the stuff.
* * *
Sean Conlon watched through the bay window as big Davy limped down Myrtlefield Park toward the Lisburn Road. Sound man, Davy McCutcheon. One of the old guard. They’d fought together for four years now. Just like Davy to want to be reassured that he would be attacking the military. And he would be, when an army patrol was decoyed out to a remote country lane. A mined country lane.
When McCutcheon went out this time, the action squad would be 1st Battalion men. They wouldn’t know Davy, and he was to keep it that way. Sean wanted to keep his best armourer’s identity secret, even from his own volunteers. Good munitions experts were hard to find and, as far as Sean was concerned, should be protected from any chance an informer might give them away. He heard the door open and turned. He greeted two men. “Brendan. Turlough.”
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