The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  JUNE 1966

  BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND

  ANNA MARIE SECURED her kerchief around her head and adjusted the huge belly that hung by straps from her shoulders. Readying herself with a deep breath, she pushed the huge pram up to the Royal Ulster Constabulary officer. A round-faced baby with brilliant red curls peeked over the tall sides of the huge baby carriage.

  “Where to?” the RUC officer asked, too young to know better.

  “I live down to Ardoyne. Let us pass.”

  “Sorry, Missus. You can’t walk down Shankill Road. Take yourself around to Falls Park and up,” he said, motioning with his rifle in the opposite direction.

  “You’re asking me to walk all the way around? That’s another six kilometers, my back is aching, and my Johnny needs a new nappy. Me and my friends just want to get on home,” she said, motioning to the group of women behind her.

  “Sorry, orange parade is on and we don’t want issues.”

  “Jaysus! Of all the stupidity. What’s the fear with a group of mothers?”

  “What’s the problem, Georgina?” Bridget said, stepping forward and bouncing a baby boy on her hip. “What’s this young man sayin’?”

  “He’s tellin’ us to walk ‘round the parades. Says he’s worried about issues arisin’.” Anna Marie creased her brow with distress and rubbed her swollen belly. “I just don’t have it in me, Judith,” she said, voice crumbling.

  Bridget gave Anna Marie a gentle rub on her back and looked at the young officer. “She’s a week away from being a mum of two, and with this stress she could drop that new baby right at your feet.” She looked at the group of three other women and various children behind her. “We can’t go our separate ways. Safety in numbers and all that.” Standing closer to the officer and lowering her voice she asked, “What is it that your superiors are afraid of? Surely it’s not mums and babes.”

  The young officer stammered. “I... I need to keep the Crumlin area clear of civilians, M’am.”

  “The whole area?” Bridget looked up and down the street in exaggerated concern. Armored trucks and groups of soldiers milled about, checking papers on other pedestrians and letting some through. “Look at us, officer—um, Officer Smythe,” she said, looking at his tags, “Check our papers. Search our prams. Do what you need to do, but let us through. You don’t want to start an incident because a clan of irrational women wanted to protect one of their own and charged your blockade, do you?” She said this with a disarming laugh and the other women chimed in, chiding the young man. Some of the women rustled identification papers under his nose, others paraded ample bosoms and bums asking to be frisked. More laughter bubbled up.

  He flushed and looked around for another officer to help. Without one close by, he relented. “Let me check your papers and parcels and be on your way. Don’t dawdle.”

  “What’s that you say?” Anna Marie asked in mocked insult. “I can’t keep me movin’ except in a waddle.”

  The women erupted in laughter and the RUC officer’s color deepened. Each woman opened her shopping parcels for inspection with great ceremony, pushing one another aside teasingly wanting to be the first to be searched and bashing prams together in a gentle roller derby of “Me, first!” Toddlers gaped wide-eyed with fingers in mouths at the sudden activity. The soldier poked about the prams, handling the soiled nappies like snapping turtles and visibly beginning to shake when the tots began to wail at his invasion of their space.

  “Fair enough, Missus. Be on your ways and take care. Be alert.” He tapped his helmet with two fingers, as if tipping his hat to them. They all smiled and walked on.

  A few blocks later, they rounded a corner and slipped down a narrow alley. False bedding bottoms were lifted up and goods consolidated into two prams. Long sashes of brass bullets and green fist-sized grenades were carefully repacked. The three women gathered up all the children and hastened out of the alley and down the street. Bridget helped Anna Marie unstrap her belly and place it in the childless pram, gently tucking the blankets around gauzes, sutures and other medical supplies they fervently hoped they would not need. They walked slowly and deliberately out of the alley and back onto the street, chatting and laughing with ease, nothing noteworthy about two mums out for a stroll with sleeping babies in bouncing prams. Three more streets up and they were joined by two men.

  Bridget kept the smile on her face, but brought her voice to a whisper. The urgency in her eyes was clear. “Get everyone and everything out of the Crumlin Road flats. They’ve been tipped.” The men nodded their understanding. “Are we safe ahead?”

  Once assurances were given, the men smiled and gave them each a quick peck on the cheeks. One man leaned over and said good-bye to the belly contents nestled in one pram and gave a bounce of the handles on the other. They all smiled and relaxed a bit with the humor and walked on.

  Three more blocks and Anna Marie and Bridget opened the door of a brick tenement and hauled the prams inside. As soon as the door shut behind them and they were certain of their privacy, Anna Marie gave a shrill whistle in three short bursts. Doors opened and soon the prams’ contents were spirited into the bowels of the building. Guns, ammunition, gas masks, food tins, cash, and more were delivered safely.

  They gratefully accepted a hearty meal and a safe bed for their labors. Anna Marie barely finished half of what was served. When she caught Bridget eying her leftovers, she offered the last bits of cold meats and bread and smiled when Bridget hungrily ate them down. The next morning she woke to Bridget hustling to the loo. When she joined her at the breakfast table, Bridget nibbled at her weak tea and toast.

  Anna Marie waited until they were back on the street to ask.

  “Gus?”

  Bridget looked confused. “Excuse me?”

  “I figured there is no Mr. Harvey either alive or dead, so it must be Gus’s.”

  Bridget’s steps paused only slightly as she kept moving forward at her usual clipped speed. “You’re bein’ daft. I can’t believe what you’re saying.”

  “Don’t make me eek it out of you. You’re pregnant, and I want to let you know how happy I am for you and Gus.”

  Bridget fought the rising panic mixed with morning sickness and did her best not to puke on the street. She was furious with herself. Everything that she had planned for and steadily worked toward started to teeter. Being a mother was something she never wanted to be, especially in this city. In this hell. They had been so careful. The love they had for one another could not be stopped, and their passion for each other burned too hot to be doused by reality. She did not want this baby, or any baby, and knew the father would feel the same. But even as she thought those words, a filament glowed, lighting a love she willed to stay dark. Bridget knew that fighting the blossoming love she had for the life inside her would be a wasted effort. She didn’t want to love him or her, but every moment proved that impossible. She loved this baby with a fierceness that frightened her. She gave herself no alternative but to swell and birth. Anna Marie was right. Mr. Harvey’s existence could not be confirmed—or denied. She had sussed out the facts and landed on Gus.

  Anna Marie reached over and gave her friend a hug. “Congratulations. Gus is crazy about you, and you both deserve the happiness.”

  Bridget accepted the hug stiffly, swallowing hard against a wave of nausea. She steeled herself and put as much authority into her voice as she could. “I don’t have to tell you of the risks to our men when they are made vulnerable by protecting their women. You can think what you want about who the father is, but neither Gus nor I will ever say.”

  She stopped walking and faced Anna Marie, drawing herself up to her full height and bringing her face as close to her friend’s as possible. “And let me make this clear. You are not to speak of this to anyone. I am not pregnant,” she said, wishing the words were true, “and I’m going to need your help.”

  And with that, she let herself be wrapped up in Anna Marie’s arms and wept.

  ANTRIM, NOR
THERN IRELAND

  MICHAEL SAT IN front of his computer screen staring at a truth he desperately wished didn’t exist. The spreadsheet had headings and numbers, some bold black and others red. He traced his finger through the columns representing the pipeline of holding companies and offshore accounts. Pausing, he double-checked dates off a second document, cursing when the information stayed the same as when he last looked. No matter how he tried to disprove it, the Charity’s money funded each step of the Arndale bombing.

  A thick paste of fear coated his mouth as he explained his findings to his uncle. The older man leaned over his shoulder, the white of his hair and brows cast blue by the screen. Entries showed purchases of the truck, cars used for getting to the job and away from it, rental of the flats, and the payment to the soldiers. All tracked because Michael had an odd luxury of knowing what to look for in the numbers.

  To Michael’s trained eye, the masterful shell game of shelters and accounts that closed after they served their purpose made tracing the money outward from the source intuitive. An investigator coming into the numbers cold and tracking the money inward from the point of purchase back to those corporate accounts would have an almost insurmountable task. In such an investigation, the blind alleys would stay blind.

  But the trail existed whether it was cold or not. Money flow could be followed easily enough if investigators had enough of the pieces, knew what they were looking for, or knew where to look. Then the trail would heat up again. Each piece of information was a domino carefully placed; one lucky flick and the entire serpentine path would clatter to his door. Michael did not set up the network, so he had no way of knowing whether someone had carefully placed dominos crosswise to bring the progression to a dead stop, or if it would be too late by the time he figured it out.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he said as he pushed himself away from his desk.

  Liam settled himself in a thickly padded leather chair, accustomed to its comfort. He tented his fingers and assumed a professorial tone. “Men who claim to feel no pressure cannot assess risks properly. Their character is best weighed when measured in crisis.” He studied Michael’s face carefully.

  “I know. I’m doing my best.” Liam’s expression took on a new life that had been missing since his brother died. Liam was expert at determining a man’s breaking point and counseled Magnus accordingly. Michael wondered if the years spent on the sidelines quietly watching and assessing Magnus could help him now. “You once said, ‘Men of greatest interest were those who bore the weight until their legs buckled.’ I’m still standing.”

  Liam smiled and nodded approvingly. “What do you see as your options?”

  “The MI5 is going to be combing through all the information they can find about the truck. One scrap of charred metal, and they’ll trace the truck’s VIN, figure out where and when it was purchased and by whom, if they can, and go from there. I only have enough information to see whoever set this bombing up wasn’t stupid enough to have red flags waving over the transactions. There’s a bit of smoke and mirrors with the money, but I’m concerned efforts weren’t deft enough. It seems like whoever used to run the books for the Charity completely forgot how to wash cash as of five months ago.”

  “And before then?”

  “Masterful. A simple God-damned genius was at work.”

  Liam rested his chin on this thumbs and batted the tips of his fingers together. “That’s the first compliment you’ve ever given to your father’s work.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Magnus died five months ago.”

  “So you’re saying his death triggered these events?”

  Liam’s eyes darted to the side then he cleared his throat. “I’m saying he had a tremendous amount of foresight and no one was waiting in the wings to fill his shoes.”

  Michael suppressed a grimace. “It’s maddening. I know what I’m looking for so it’s not so much of a needle in a haystack. One good thing is that when I follow the money backward—for example, if I trace money from the flat rental back to me—there are enough blind alleys and false leads that it will take some effort to connect the dots back. But, a few transfers happened after he died. I need to find out who in the organization made them.”

  “And when you find out?”

  “I’ll figure out if we’re working for the same team or not.”

  Liam considered the strategy and prodded. “Do you think someone would risk exposure of the Charity?”

  “No, actually, I don’t. The final payments were made the day before the blast. I’m pretty sure the transfers were supposed to be invisible.”

  “How?”

  “Someone counted on replenishing two of the accounts before anyone—namely me—could notice the balances drop. My hunch is that the positive spit test was a surprise. Whoever he was wanted to use the purse to cover his tracks.”

  “You have to consider two scenarios. If you’re saying you see a marked difference in the skill of who set the transfers up, then two people may be involved. If it was the same person, he may want the trail to lead back to you.”

  “I’ve considered both possibilities. That’s why I want to see the betting ledgers.”

  “My brother knew exactly what he was doing, Michael. He wouldn’t be so stupid as to leave any telltale signs on truck purchases, and the dead don’t bet.” His manner bordered on antagonistic.

  Michael cursed himself for not seeing the whole picture. The answers were there if he could just understand what each clue meant. “Where else should I look?”

  “The race purse proceeds. Who were they intended to fool?”

  “Anyone looking at the money trail from the corporation end.”

  Liam was openly irritated. He gripped the arms of the chair. “I marvel at how someone so similar to his own father would have so few of his innate skills. You still haven’t told me what you see as your options.”

  Michael ignored the barbed comment. “It’s pretty straightforward. I could wait until I get a knock on my door and handed a subpoena, or I could do a preemptive strike and go directly to MI5.”

  Liam exploded. “You’re not a fecking fool, Michael! Do you honestly believe that waltzing the MI5 through our books is going to do any good? What’s the purpose? You came into the Charity against your better wishes. But you did come. You came because you wanted to continue your work—your charitable work—with Magnus’ wealth. There’s another layer going on here. You’ve judged him and his organization as not being worthy of you, and you want to destroy it. You turn up your nose at how we get things done and arrogantly act as if you’re the better of us. But you can’t destroy the organization without jeopardizing the very thing that you want—the money. The power.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michael growled, keeping the shock out of his voice. “I’m trying to set a new course here. I’ve seen the transfers. Magnus was closely affiliated with Sinn Fein, some would say too close. The Charity used its money to fund violent campaigns intended to destabilized governments. It...”

  Liam stood up so quickly that the heavy chair tipped backward, his face red with anger. “Be careful what assumptions you make. The Charity funded people and organizations. It did not, as you say, fund violent campaigns.”

  “Then what the hell is Arndale? Christ, Liam! If that isn’t an example of a violent campaign, I don’t know what is.”

  “No one died. They made sure of that.”

  Michael sat back, stunned. His body sank as if all the air were leaked from it. “You knew.”

  Liam’s eyes grew round and he wrung his hands together. “If you can only imagine how sick I felt when I learned of this. Those that want violence are feeling stronger without anyone to tell them otherwise. I could do nothing to stop it.” He projected the very image of a saddened and contrite man.

  “How? When?” Too many questions needed to be asked.

  Liam hung his head and heaved a dramatic breath. He looked at Michael from the corner
of his eye. “Last week. Just before the race. You and I were meeting with many people, and I sensed then something was in play, and was imminent. I thought perhaps if you sensed it, too, you’d ask me. I didn’t grasp the extent of the plan or I surely would have told you. But, you left to be with that girl, so I thought I was wrong.” He gave an offhand shrug.

  “But you could see that the trail leads back to the Charity.”

  “The trail leads back to you, Michael. The Charity is not a separate entity from you.”

  Michael rubbed his face with his hands, as if the gesture would rouse him from a dream. “Me.” His voice was barely audible. “For how long?”

  Liam began to pace the floor as if doing so would help him think and put together the pieces. “The plan must have been made long before you arrived in Ireland. It’s no secret Magnus and I wanted you out of the States and back here where you belong. I can only imagine this was part of his plan.” He looked at Michael and gave a helpless shrug.

  Conversations Michael had with his father after his brother’s death came back to him in stark detail. He remembered how Magnus approached him, head bowed and solemn, grief stricken certainly, but assessing the chess board for his next move. “Just before Liam was killed he said the Charity would be mine. That he was proud to have a son follow in his footsteps. It’s true, then. He killed Liam.” His skin was ashen.

  “Young Liam never had the innate smarts to run an enterprise as sprawling as the Charity. He was a brilliant strategist on the streets, but never had the ability to make money the way you do. Magnus crowed about your investments in lumber and land in Kentucky. He even went so far as to opine that your career in law enforcement was merely a clever ruse to position yourself inside communities to learn who the players were, who was in financial distress and ready to sell at bargain basement prices.”

  “That’s... that’s a lie. I-I never hid like that.”