Trinity

by Leon Uris

  Conor nodded that it was his understanding also. As Sweeney had said, men with full bellies don't run into the streets and rebel, and the fuller the belly, the less the inclination.

  Sweeney indulged in a cigarette. He rarely failed to apologize for this weakness but rationalized that one could hardly be a revolutionary without them.

  "We've a theory to tinker with," Sweeney continued. "O'Hurley farts higher than his ass. He's a big spender and is always running late at his bank, a notable Irish trait. A man like him might be bought"

  "Isn't that dicy?" Conor asked.

  "Yes and no." Sweeney shrugged. "Everything's dicy in this business. The main thing is, we all like your plan. Sometimes it's better to have a man in your debt. Once you've got something over his head he can find a sudden sense of patriotism he never knew he had."

  "Who puts the bell around the cat's neck?" Conor said.

  "You stay out of it. Somewhere along the tour someone is going to approach O'Hurley. When do you play in Bradford?"

  Conor closed his eyes to draw up a mental image of the nineteen-game schedule. "Bradford? Right near the end. One of the last two or three games."

  "Good. By the time you reach Bradford you'll know if O'Hurley is in or not."

  "Why Bradford?" Conor asked.

  "Does the name Brendan Barrett mean anything to you?"

  "Brendan Sean Barrett?"

  Long Dan nodded.

  Brendan Sean Barrett was another of those minor Fenian heroes and poets known to any young lad who had been brought up in a republican house. Barrett, like Long Dan, had firsthand knowledge of British prisons. He had been a schoolteacher and went on to be the writer, idealist and lecturer of the slumbering movement, remaining in America for years in the equally dormant Dan of the Gaels. His greatest claim to fame was that he became the first republican to try a hunger strike in prison. "Silent defiance," they termed it, a new kind of weapon of self-imposed martyrdom. Barrett won his demands after twenty-four days of starving himself. Songs had been written about it.

  "Brendan is our man in England," Sweeney said. "He's the conduit for our funds from the Dan in America and he's the keeper of the arms cache."

  Conor feigned a nod of quiet understanding in the best Sweeney tradition, trying to hide the jumping of his heart.

  "You'll make contact with him in Bradford and he'll advise you if O'Hurley is with us or not. If it's go, Brendan will give you further instructions on where and how to convert the tender car. You'll go to Callaghan's Funeral Parlor, Wild Boar Road, Wapping District, Bradford. Callaghan will set up a meeting. Brendan's got a heavy price on his head, so make the contact with extreme care. Use your judgment. If you feel you've been followed, wait until the tour is over, then return to Bradford."

  "Aye, I've got it all."

  "One more thing. Brendan will be handing you a packet of money, a lot of it. Three thousand quid. Don't lose it."

  "I'll try not to. Anything else?"

  "Yes. You've a week's holiday at the conclusion of the tour. I want you to use it to make some further contacts in London and Manchester."

  Conor froze and paled, unable to cover his reaction this time. "Dan, listen. Between scouting the yard, working the districts by night, the rugby and my regular job, I’ve been going like twenty hours a day. After nineteen games in twelve weeks on tour I'll be done in. I've made plans for a holiday."

  "Change them," Sweeney retorted.

  Conor sucked in a breath and clenched his teeth a moment "I don't think I will," he said.

  The two men locked stares over the rickety table. "A woman?"

  "Maybe."

  "Call it off," Sweeney commanded softly.

  "No."

  Long Dan's chair squealed back. He got up, shoved his hands into his pockets and turned his back to Conor for a long, long time. He showed his face again only after his own mind was clear. "The plan is off. You're out of the Brotherhood. Get out."

  "I don't want out!" Conor cried, alarmed at the sudden sharp burst of his own words.

  "I said you're out and you're lucky to get out now. It's early enough in the game and I don't take you for an informer so you'll shut up about what you've learned. If it were any later, you know what would happen to you, don't you?"

  "I've an idea," Conor said harshly.

  Sweeney returned to his seat and breathed out foul breath and tapped his monstrous fist on the table as he nodded toward the door.

  "Can't you change your mind, Dan? I'll see the girl and call it off."

  "All right, this time. Your soul may belong to the Virgin but your ass belongs to the Brotherhood. Yea or nae?"

  "Yea," Conor said, shaken.

  "Who's the girl?" he demanded.

  Conor sagged at the first real beating of his life. "The sister of a teammate."

  "Catholic?"

  "No."

  "You'd better give her up."

  "Now look, Dan. I said I'd give up the holiday, but there's no rule against having a woman."

  "I'm the rule book as far as your life is concerned, Larkin. I've seen a lot of smart lads who think they can handle both things but they were all fucking fools, all of them, every last one. If you really care for this girl you'd better consider what you're going to do with her life. Hell, you'll give her hell. Hell with every tick of the clock. Is he coming back from this one or are his brains scattered over half the street?"

  Conor reeled over the room and came to a stop leaning hard against the wall. "I'm thirty-one," he said harshly. "I've waited so long, Dan. I'm in love, man. Just because you've never felt it yourself, you can't condemn me for it and you can't purge me of it. You've no bloody feelings!"

  Sweeney's surge was abruptly halted as he turned ashen. "You're right enough about that — I was sixteen when they put me away."

  "I'm sorry," Conor said, "I shouldn't have said that . . . Tm sorry . . ."

  "No man is sorry for me!" the old man cried. "If you want to know, Larkin, I felt it once but it was so long ago I can't remember what she looked like and her name has become a totally meaningless word . . . Aileen . . . Aileen . . . O'Dunne." Long Dan's shoulders slumped. "Don't you think I don't know you, boy!" he groaned. "Don't you know that Dan Sweeney was named after Daniel O'Connell and don't you think he didn't write poetry in his father's booley house? Don't you think I didn't weep at Parnell's grave and run off to sea? Don't you think I didn't crawl back to Ireland hating myself for returning!"

  Conor held his face in his hands. When he looked up, he looked into the old man's face and he shuddered as he saw himself horribly aged in a mirror of time.

  "Take your girl and go on holiday," Dan said.

  "You'd better not let me, Dan. I'm liable not to come back."

  Sweeney grunted in old wisdom. "You'll come back," he said. "Dumb bastards like us always come back. So go have your fucking fling. When your own time comes perhaps the memory of her might lighten up your prison cell brighter than was the case in mine."

  Conor held out his hand an instant, then withdrew it and sagged off for the door.

  "In the future," Sweeney said, returning to Sweeney, "you'll not disobey an order. It's a fucked-up little army but make no mistake about our discipline. I’ll not hesitate to put a bullet through your kneecap any more than you will when you've got to do the same. I'll pray for the success of your mission . . . and for yourself as well. Now, get the hell out."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The entourage consisting of the Earl and Countess of Foyle, Viscount Coleraine, Sir Frederick Weed, staff and various servants and aides disgorged from a line of carriages at Weed Ship & Iron Pier Number Three where the overnight train steamer to Liverpool lay in waiting.

  On the dock, Derek Crawford, Doxie O'Brien and the Boilermakers stood at a semblance of attention before several hundred workers gathered on the lunch break along with a combined band from four Orange Lodges. Opposite the team and its proprietors stood a row of municipal and other dignitaries all bloated up to imp
art their farewells.

  Sir Frederick promised smashing victories. Captain Robin MacLeod vowed redemption of Ulster's honor. The dignitaries spewed accolades. The band whipped it up and partisans shouted hurrahs as the team boarded.

  On the steamer deck there was a rush of excitement and backslapping, for there was a glimmer of hope for salvaging the disastrous season. Conor Larkin's sudden large presence plus acquisition of two "gentlemen players" pumped in new hope. The gentlemen players were high standing amateurs who had done meritorious college and national team service. Sir Frederick lured them to the professional game in exchange for a few bright pennies and for the "good of Ulster."

  Robin and Conor lingered at the rail observing the spectacle at dockside which peaked with the arrival of the Red Hand Express decked out for royalty. The throngs cheered. Duffy O'Hurley and Calhoun Hanly fielded the honors with Shakespearean aplomb and O'Hurley rolled her aboard. Conor's eye never left the coal tender.

  Who would reach Duffy? Where and when would it happen? How would they react? He'd know when he got to Bradford . . . Calm down, it's three months off. Calm down . . .

  "Shelley told Lucy and me about it last night."

  "Uh, what?" Conor said.

  "Shelley told us about it. You know, her coming over after the tour. I want you to know we're happy for you. Hey, Conor, you might have thought your pet dog died the way you're acting."

  "Sorry. I'm glad you both approve. It's just that it's a long time off yet."

  "Mind you, it'll go quick."

  After the Red Hand was aboard, a shuttle engine rolled on Sir Frederick's private cars. There were four in all, one for the masters, one for the team, one for the staff and one for the guests. Lady Caroline's personal assistant, a blizzard-faced Germanic woman, directed the line of trunks to the various cabins. Jeremy Hubble wedged in between Robin and Conor, the band played "Auld Lang Syne" and the boat divorced itself from its land ties.

  "Mr. Larkin?"

  Conor turned and was handed an envelope by one of the servants containing a handwritten note.

  Dear Mr. Larkin,

  I should like the pleasure of your company after dinner. If the weather is decent I shall meet you on deck. Otherwise, please come to our cabin.

  Caroline Hubble

  Roger Hubble looked on the annual trek of the Boilermakers with something other than delight, but a necessary appeasement of Freddie and his wife. His own schedule was overloaded, demands on his time ponderous. Roger had risen in Ulster life to be one of its most prominent figures, the single most powerful Unionist in the west. He attended to his seat in the House of Lords faithfully as well as having a total involvement in the Hubble-Weed combine. For three years he had served Dublin Castle as a special adviser on Ulster development, an additional burden, but one that gave him a great deal of say over the province's future.

  Except for Caroline's demands for play time he would have grown into a consummate public and corporate figure. This year she insisted to a point of intimidation that he slow down, at least long enough to enjoy the London season.

  Roger was scratching away at omnipresent paperwork on a small ship's desk when she came from the adjoining cabin in a lounging robe and stroked away at his hair. She adored it now, it had grayed handsomely. She leaned over from behind, making certain his neck came into contact with her bosom and his nostrils got the full scent of her perfume. As the message became quite clear, Roger doffed his glasses, just a tad annoyed at being seduced at this particular moment. When Caroline required attention, she got it. He set the pen down and responded to the overture.

  Caroline filled a sherry glass and, with him fully in tow, rubbed the back of his neck until he succumbed with a resonant growl. "You are to enjoy London and even try to enjoy a few of the rugby games."

  "Not going to be all that easy. For the next three months I'm not going to get a lick of work out of Freddie. Do you know what that man has gone and done? He's hired a personal photographer and someone full time to do nothing but put out releases to the press. He's like a child on the tour."

  "Bother, bother," she said, "you'll not change him now."

  "Besides," Roger continued, "I rather believe you like this rugby insanity as much as he does."

  "The story goes that Freddie went up to the Mourne Mountains and wept for a month when he found out his first-born was a female. I made it a point to love it."

  Roger slipped out of his smoking jacket and liberated various attachments to his shirt, then dunked his face into the water bowl, emitting large "ahs," and neatened himself in the mirror. "I see how you light up every year."

  "I'm off on that ugly little right wing three quarter," she said. "He's got halitosis, pimples, yellow teeth and yards of hair. But, let's face it, his tight little ass is absolutely beautiful under those silk shorts. I've had my eye out for him for weeks."

  "You are dreary, Caroline."

  She sat cross-legged on the bed. "What is really sexy, really, really sexy, is seeing them at the end of the game all sweaty and bloody and matted and stinking to heaven."

  "Good God, woman, you grow more ill with age."

  "I hear the whispers, Roger. They still think I'm good looking, they does." Roger responded to that by going up her leg and helping himself to a half bite, half kiss on the backside. Caroline had succeeded, for the twinkle was on between them. As he returned to dressing, buttoning into a stiff shirt, she nibbled at her lip, sparring around to find an opening.

  "Darling," she ventured.

  Roger had already picked up the signal and sat beside her curiously.

  "It's about Jeremy," she said.

  "What about our monster child?"

  "Freddie and the boy will be absolutely crushed if he doesn't stay for the tour. Jeremy's been dreaming of it for two years."

  Roger's gameful mood changed noticeably.

  "Roger, don't be a prig," she implored. Then she sagged, seeing his total immobility. He simply glared, that dirty Roger Hubble glare. "Well, say something, dammit."

  "I'm full up to here," he said, holding his hand up to eye level, "at this conspiracy. Thank God we've one son who has decided to forgo this aspect of his enlightenment."

  Caroline recoiled. "And I am just as delighted, no, utterly overjoyed, that Jeremy Hubble is going to become a big, hairy, smelly player instead of a senior clerk."

  Roger grunted disdain and returned to dressing before the mirror. "It's been difficult enough to accept the fact, thanks to his mother, that he is going to that monstrosity of a college in Dublin instead of a proper school. It borders on tragedy that you and he have conspired to ignore his studies so that even getting into Trinity has become a monumental achievement. If and when he does begin his studies I have no objection if he plays rugby for that provincial outhouse down there, but I'll be damned if he's going to spend half his adult life letting blood for the East Belfast Boilermakers."

  Caroline silenced under the assault. Her deflation reached him. He patted her and turned completely serious. "We've a problem with Jeremy. I'm not going to compare him with Christopher. No, I won't do that. Nor will I appeal to you on the grounds that I am looking forward to the boys coming into the business. It's Jeremy's mind, his lackadaisical attitude, his world-is-an-oyster playground mentality. He's got tremendous responsibilities up the road and he's got to get on with them."

  "He's sweet, he's charming and he's got the devil in him," she said. "And I know one man who never stopped resenting the fact his father rushed him into all those responsibilities before he was ready."

  Roger dropped his hairbrush at that. "Not the same thing, at all. I'm not Arthur and Jeremy is not Roger. My father did it to pursue his pleasures. I don't think you can say that about me."

  "I didn't mean to bring up anything unpleasant but the boy is nineteen and has all his life to serve God, country, Ulster and the enterprises. Let him cut loose. If we restrain him at this moment, we're liable to pay for it later on with a confused, perhaps hostile son.
A few bloody years aren't going to make that much difference."

  Roger threw up his hands. "Yes, madam, I quite agree. Please take my order for ten — no, make that an even dozen Red Hand Express engines. I've never run into a salesman of your caliber."

  "Roger, tell him he can take the tour."

  "No, you tell him. It's your present, yours and Freddie's. He'll be Freddie's responsibility, totally."

  The victory bell tolled hollow. Caroline uncrossed her legs and scooted off the bed. "Do you remember a chap named Conor Larkin?"

  "Yes, quite well."

  "He's with the club now."

  "I know."

  "Jeremy adores him. Larkin is a good, sensitive man. Twelve weeks under his wing might be the best thing in the world for the boy. There's a whole universe of things he can open up for Jeremy."

  "Are you saying that this Larkin person is better suited to take care of our own son than his own grandfather?"

  "I'm saying that when there's a problem like this an outside force can be the best possible influence. At this moment in Jeremy's life, he'll respond to a big brother."

  So that was it, the full extent of the conspiracy, Roger thought. He walked off to the adjoining parlor cabin; Caroline left him alone to collect his thoughts.

  When Roger first saw the drawings of the gift doors to the Belfast City Hall on Freddie's desk, he had been alarmed over the return of Larkin. That man and Kevin O'Garvey had been thick as flies. O'Garvey reneged on their deal in order to have Larkin's forge restored.

  Roger had been uneasy since the shirt factory fire. Anything that remotely hinted of it aroused his suspicions. For over a year certain journalists had continued to snoop in an attempt to discredit the commission's report. Follow-up stories about conditions in the building had been embarrassing. Fortunately, Frank Carney never broke fn his story that he had heard the arsonist's confession. Carney had held them up for plenty.

  Roger related his fears to Freddie about Larkin's return and only then discovered that Jeremy and Caroline had interceded in his behalf. For two months Larkin was kept under surveillance by Swan's people. Nothing suspicious showed up. Books, concerts, pub crawling and then a woman, the team captain's sister. Larkin was cleared.