The teacup slipped from her fingers. This couldn’t be true. She looked hard at the face before her. Sweet Jesus, no matter what his real name was, she was looking into her Mike’s eyes. Mike was dead? He couldn’t be.
She stood, laid the paper on the seat, knelt, and busied herself picking up the broken china, piece by piece. She’d have to get a cloth and clean up the spilled tea. The milk in it would stain the carpet if she didn’t hurry up. She put the shards on the newspaper and saw his picture again. It was Mike. She knew it was Mike. She hugged herself, keening as she rocked and whispered his name. “Mike.” And her tears flowed like Mourne freshets after the cold Ulster rains.
* * *
A pair of blue plastic swinging doors opened onto the main corridor of the Royal Victoria Hospital. Light filtered in through skylights and dappled the hospital-yellow-painted walls. Nurses in blue uniforms, orderlies, white-coated doctors, members of the public jostled each other as they passed to and fro. There was an antiseptic smell. The major made his way through the throng. He could see the ward numbers on small plaques above the doorways. Ward 9. Not far to go.
What a waste. Weeks of planning, waiting, and now, unless McCutcheon cooperated, nothing to show for it that would satisfy Sir Charles beyond reasonable doubt. Admittedly, Richardson’s intelligence had aborted an attempt on the life of Harold Wilson, and the major had been able to give Harry Swanson the name of Brendan McGuinness. If Harry’s boys grabbed McGuinness, it might be enough to keep the major in the army, but he still wanted that bastard Gillespie. McCutcheon had better give.
The major turned onto ward 18. He could see the rows of beds in the public area. Two armed constables stood outside the door to a private room. A handsome dark-haired woman argued with one of the policemen. “I’ve every right to see him. I’m his wife.”
“Sorry, madam. No visitors.”
The major approved. It wouldn’t be the first time the Provos had sprung a wounded member from hospital, or killed one in his bed if they thought he might give away vital information. And they were not above using women as assassins. He produced his pass and handed it to one of the policemen.
“Thank you, Major Smith.”
The woman stepped in front of him. “You’re an officer. Tell this man to let me by.”
He was struck by the deepness of her black eyes. If she was the Provo’s wife, the major could almost feel sorry for her. More to the point, he might be able to use her. “What’s your name?”
“Fiona.”
He did not know if McCutcheon was married, but this woman obviously cared for him. He said, “Wait here,” as he pushed the door open.
McCutcheon’s bed was surrounded by curtains hanging from a rail suspended from the ceiling. The major stretched out his hand.
* * *
The lace bedroom curtains of 18 Myrtlefield Park hid two men from enquiring eyes. Stark on its tripod, a Nikon with a telephoto lens was aimed at the front door of 15B across the street.
“That’s him,” the shorter of the two watchers said as a dark-haired man wearing spectacles, their left lens replaced by some opaque material, came out through the door opposite. The shutter clicked and the automatic mechanism whirred as the film advanced.
They’d been in the bedroom since last night, when they had been told by their CO, Harry Swanson, that a suspect he was after had been spotted in Andersonstown and trailed back to Myrtlefield Park. It had taken some very persuasive talking to coerce the owner, a retired banker, to let the surveillance team move into his house. He’d not be sorry to see one of them go to deliver the film to HQ. The other would keep a watching brief behind the lace.
* * *
The major pulled the bedside curtains back and looked down on McCutcheon. His left leg, swathed in a plaster cast and hanging from a gantry, was suspended by wires attached to a steel pin that seemed to go right through the lower end of his thigh bone. An intravenous solution dripped from a bottle. McCutcheon’s eyes were open but looked unfocused. The major guessed it was an effect of morphine. That might be helpful. The man’s guard would be down under the influence of the narcotic.
Major Smith sat on a chair beside the bed. “McCutcheon?”
McCutcheon’s head turned. He blinked. The man’s pupils were tiny, but his stare said, “Fuck you.”
The major had not expected this interrogation to be easy. “You’re David McCutcheon?”
No reply.
“Of Conway Street.”
Silence.
“McCutcheon, you shot one soldier. There were two killed in the explosion. You’ll get life. I can make it easier for you. Answer one question.”
McCutcheon closed his eyes.
The major stood, leaned over, grabbed the stainless-steel pin, and shook it. The jagged bone ends inside the cast would grate.
McCutcheon opened his eyes and moaned.
“Were you warned about our attack?”
A bead of sweat appeared on the Provo’s forehead.
The major felt the steel pin, cold in his hand, and yanked. Hard. “Were you?” He listened to the throaty whimper and the harsh sound as McCutcheon ground his teeth. There were no more beads on McCutcheon’s face. The drops had coalesced to form a sweaty sheen. He said nothing.
Tug. “Were you?”
McCutcheon’s words were slurred. “Fuck … you.”
The major took a deep breath. He knew that men who would break because of physical pain did so early. Others could hold out for days. McCutcheon was clearly one of the latter, and the major was running out of time. He bent over and whispered into McCutcheon’s ear, “Fiona.”
“What?”
“Fiona’s outside.”
McCutcheon’s eyes widened. He muttered, “Fiona.”
“Would you like to see her?” The major waited. He’d be surprised if a fully alert McCutcheon would say yes, but he was muddled by the morphine. “Would you like to see Fiona?”
McCutcheon’s nod was nearly imperceptible.
“Were you warned?” The major saw the big man’s eyes mist as he clamped his mouth shut.
“Davy,” the major said gently, “unless you tell me, you’ll never see her. I’ll get her as an accomplice. She’ll do twenty years.” It wasn’t true, but McCutcheon might believe him. “Twenty years, Davy.”
“You cunt.”
“Twenty years.”
“Fuck you to hell, you British bastard. I was phoned.”
The major smiled. He’d got him. He’d got Gillespie. Someone had warned McCutcheon. “That wasn’t too hard, Davy, was it?” The major turned to leave. He had never enjoyed seeing a man cry.
As he passed the sentries, the woman named Fiona blocked his path. “I want to see him.”
The major shook his head. “Sorry, dear. The constable was right. No visitors.”
SIXTY-ONE
FRIDAY, APRIL 19
Brendan McGuinness bent over the mahogany table staring at a newspaper lying on the polished wood. He knew that he stood accused by the headline—“Provos Try to Kill Wilson”—and the subhead, “Attack Foiled by Senior RUC Officer with Help of Army. Terrorist Taken.” The news had been all over the television this morning. The Brits’ propaganda machine was rubbing the Provos’ noses in their own dirt.
Brendan screwed his good eye shut and rubbed at the itch in the empty socket under the leather patch. What a fuckup—and all because Sean Conlon had been softhearted about that broken-down old bastard McCutcheon. What did it matter if McCutcheon had been taken? The explosives team that had been training in Libya would be back in Northern Ireland next week. McCutcheon was expendable. They were well shot of him. At least the old bugger would know enough to keep his mouth shut—not tell the Security fuckers about Sean’s stupid warning phone call.
Damn Conlon. He’d disobeyed a direct order, challenged Brendan’s authority. He’d have to be brought to heel. Brendan began to pace—short, angry steps. He’d been right to send Sean to Dublin to brief Army Council. That got
the insubordinate shite out of the way, gave Brendan time to decide how to deal with the man. Forget about Conlon, he told himself. Think about what can be salvaged.
It was unlikely that their ability to monitor British signals traffic would be compromised. There could be no suspicion cast on Gillespie—indeed, the media were making him out to be a hero, the man who’d saved their prime minister. So what if the carefully planned attack hadn’t got Wilson? There would be plenty of other targets and the Brits’ little propaganda victory would soon be old news. Brendan allowed himself a suggestion of a smile. The war wasn’t lost. Not by a long shot.
* * *
The major spoke softly into his office phone. “Thank you, Sir Charles, although saving the PM was an extraordinary bit of luck … Yes, it is a great pity about young Richardson. Brave chap.”
The major half listened as Sir Charles explained the difficulty his office was going to have in breaking the news to the young man’s parents. That was Sir Charles’s problem. As far as the major was concerned, it was like the parachute jumps in Borneo. “You can’t make an omelette,” and all that. He waited until Sir Charles had finished.
“Actually, sir, I phoned to tell you I’ve got our man … the mole … Yes, I’m sure … senior RUC officer … I know, sir. It’ll cause a bit of a stink when you have to tell the chief constable. I fully understand. Perhaps it would be better to say nothing until it’s all sewn up—but it will be. I just need a day or two … I will, sir. You’ll hear the minute I’ve got the final bits of evidence … Thank you, Sir Charles. Thank you very much.”
The major hung up and said softly, “Lieutenant Colonel Smith.” He smiled. Lieutenant Colonel. And the man who was going to make it happen, that abrasive bastard Gillespie—the media’s current darling—was waiting in a detention cell. Gillespie had come to the major’s office in response to an earlier phone call. His “you’re out of your mind” had cut no ice with the two MPs who hauled him away. Major Smith hoisted his feet onto his desk and lit a cigarette. Gillespie could wait—just a little longer.
* * *
The one-tonner swung into Myrtlefield Park, stopping in the middle of the street. Six armed soldiers dismounted, led by Harry Swanson, and doubled into the garden of number 15. Swanson pounded on the front door. A man appeared and immediately tried to slam the door, but Swanson smashed it back and disappeared inside, followed by three men. Three more soldiers crouched in the garden covering the housefront. Another squad had been posted at the rear of the building.
Someone was clambering through a downstairs window.
“Oi, you.” A soldier swung his SLR. “Freeze.”
The shot from the Provo’s automatic missed the soldier and shattered a window in the house opposite. The sound of breaking glass was drowned by the crack of an SLR and the howling of the would-be escapee.
Harry Swanson ignored the racket outside. A short man, bespectacled, one lens of leather, sat at a long table. “What the fuck?”
“Stay there,” Swanson yelled. “Hands on your head. You.” He pointed to the second man in the room. “Against the wall.”
The man obeyed.
“Sergeant. Watch them. Corporal. With me.” Harry Swanson strode into the room next door and halted. He stopped, eyes wide. He recognized the Howa Machinery ArmaLite crates stacked along one wall. Two boxes in the far corner were labeled in Czech. He had stumbled onto a cache of Semtex. And rocket-propelled grenades. Their tubes were in a corner.
The rest of the equipment in the room puzzled him. An electrical panel sat on a desk. From a communications board on the desktop, red and blue wires equipped with male connectors ran to sockets in the panel. He was in a telephone exchange.
“Jesus,” he said quietly, “Jesus Christ. A PIRA communications centre.”
Harry smiled. Not a bad catch. The bloke next door was Brendan McGuinness. The bold boyos would sorely miss their arms and explosives cache, and this telephone setup must be important.
He might pick up some useful information if the board was active. He slipped on a set of earphones. His ears filled with a static hum, then an English voice said, “Right, Sergeant. Send Two Platoon to Crossmaglen. Get one of your Saladins back here to Thiepval HQ.” There was the sound of a telephone connection being broken, more static, then the whirrs of a number being dialed.
“Hello? Palace Barracks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Brigadier Hutchinson here, Thirty-nine Brigade. Put me through to your officer of the day.”
Swanson clamped his hands over the earphones, listening, concentrating, wondering. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. The bloody Provos had a tap into the Thiepval Barracks switchboard. The enormity of his discovery hardly bore thinking about. No wonder the Provos could strike at will. He removed the headset.
Swanson smiled. John Smith would be delighted. Of course, because the PIRA had been using such sophisticated surveillance methods, they wouldn’t have needed an inside man. Poor old John. He’d been so utterly convinced he’d been on the track of a mole, was going to pull off the intelligence coup of the war. Swanson’s smile faded. He had to feel sorry for his colleague. All that effort, all the man’s hopes pinned on catching a nonexistent informer. And the answer had been here in Myrtlefield Park, right under their noses.
No wonder the Provos had known when a patrol would go out looking for a decoy arms dump, were able to set a mine under Ravernet bridge. Crafty buggers. John Smith would be very interested in this setup—and, Harry thought, without John having named McGuinness, they would never have stumbled onto it. Perhaps the old SAS man could still get some of the recognition he so much wanted.
* * *
The major shifted on the wooden chair. It was cold in the cell and they’d been in there for four hours. The glare of the overhead light cast his shadow on the metal table on the far side where Eric Gillespie sat, dressed only in his shirt and beltless pants.
He was coldly defiant now, but the major was determined to make the bastard crack open like a rotten walnut. Although the circumstantial evidence was strong, very strong, the major wanted a confession. He wanted to see Gillespie abased. He rested his elbows on the tabletop, folded his hands, and leaned his chin on his fingers.
“Eric, you could save us all a lot of bother if you’d tell me the truth.”
Gillespie sat, arms folded, and met the major’s stare.
“You were the only one outside the army who knew we were going to raid the farm.”
Gillespie said nothing.
“McCutcheon told me they were warned. Who else could have tipped them off?”
“I’ve no fucking idea. It wasn’t me.”
“It was, Eric.”
Gillespie examined the quick of a fingernail and ignored the major.
The major rose. “I’m off.” He shivered. “Cold in here. I think I’ll have a bite and a bath.” He moved to the door and knocked. “Corporal.” The major turned to Eric, glanced down at his bare feet, and said, “Do try to keep warm.”
* * *
It was cosy in the major’s office. He’d popped in to collect some notes, then he’d be off to have that meal and a bath. He’d turn in early tonight and continue Gillespie’s interrogation tomorrow. The MP had orders to ensure that the prisoner did not sleep. Tomorrow morning, Gillespie would be cold, hungry, tired, and, in consequence, more vulnerable.
The major wanted that.
He stretched, picked up the file, and started for the door. Someone knocked.
He opened the door. “Harry?”
“Sorry to disturb you, John.”
“Come in, man.”
“I wanted you to hear this as soon as possible.” Harry smiled and his dimples deepened. “We got McGuinness. Nasty piece of work. Shame he tripped getting into our one-tonner. Doc says he’ll be laid up for weeks with a fractured skull. His trial’ll have to wait ’til he’s better.”
The major spared little thought for one PIRA man. If Harry’s squaddies had beaten the
hell out of McGuinness, it was none of the major’s business. “Blokes like him should watch their steps.”
Harry laughed. “We found something else.”
“Oh?”
“McGuinness’s mob had a direct phone tap into Thiepval.”
“Really?” The major tried to sound interested.
“Don’t you see? All this mole business was a red herring.”
“Would you mind repeating that?”
“The Provos had a telephone tap into the Thiepval switchboard. We found the equipment in their flat. They’ve been listening to our conversations for months.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with my mole.” The major wondered if he was being deliberately obtuse, but he could not—or would not—see what Harry was driving at.
“Look, John. Your job was to find a leak. You’ve found it. Not what you expected, but it’s how the PIRA were able to keep one jump ahead.”
“Rubbish. Gillespie’s the mole.”
“I’m sorry, John. There never was a mole. It was a bugging operation.”
“Gillespie’s as guilty as sin.”
“You really think so?”
The major sat heavily in his chair. “Of course I do. Gillespie knew about every one of the raids I examined. He was the only one who knew we were going to attack McCutcheon in the farmhouse.”
“He wasn’t. Anyone listening to the telephone traffic from HQ would have had exactly the same gen, including Richardson’s warning call from the farmhouse. It came through Thiepval switchboard.”
The major’s head drooped, and for several moments he said nothing. “Harry, I know, I bloody well know Gillespie’s as guilty as bedamned.” He could feel his prize slipping away like a trout that has snapped the leader.
“He may be, but how can you make it stick? The tap gives a perfectly reasonable explanation for the leaks. Have you any other hard evidence?”
The major set the file he had been carrying on the desktop. He ignored the question. “Go on.” He forced his words to be calm.
“Not even a Diplock court would convict him now. I’d leave him alone if I were you.”
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