Now and in the Hour of Our Death

by Patrick Taylor

  “What?”

  “Witness Protection for my man. We’ll have to get him out.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s earned it. He’s risked his life for six months now.”

  Alfie saw the chief’s frown. “I’m not so sure. Reliable informers are bloody hard to come by. We should milk them dry.”

  “I know.” He was going to need a stronger argument, “But he only knows one Provo cell. They’re the ones who are going to make this attack, and when we hit them, he’ll have no more contacts. He’ll be no more use to me.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Alfie nodded. “Absolutely, sir.” He pressed his point. “We’ll need him as a witness when this is over.”

  Old Mac raised one bushy eyebrow. “Oh, indeed. If none of the Provos survive, we’ll take a lot of stick and be accused by the media of mounting a ‘shoot-to-kill operation.’ I suppose your man could help us deny it. A few strong words about how the Provos were bent on causing mayhem and lots of civilian deaths wouldn’t hurt at all. Will he be able to do that?”

  “Yes, sir.” Sammy would do precisely as he was told if he wanted to be kept safe in England. Christ, Alfie thought, in the propaganda war, image was everything.

  He watched the chief rub his cheek before saying, “Very well, Ingram. I’ll see to it.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m sure he’s given me the inside gen on this one.”

  Alfie felt his shoulders relax. He’d kept his word. He’d done everything in his power to protect Sammy, and although it was part of his training to gain the confidence of his tout, Alfie had become more fond of the little man than he’d anticipated at the beginning.

  “I bloody well hope he has. For both our sakes.” Chief McMaster walked across to a tall glass-fronted cabinet and said as he opened its door, “I want you in Londonderry tomorrow morning for the planning session, Ingram.”

  “Right, sir.” Alfie rose and was surprised when the chief asked, “Would you care to join me in a small whiskey, Alfie?”

  Alfie? Good Lord. Old Mac must be pleased, and would you like a drink? Alfie had heard rumours that since his wife had died three years ago, the chief had become a lonely man. The least he could do was accept the offer, but just one. He had to be in Londonderry early tomorrow.

  Too bloody early if the length of time he’d had to wait was anything to go by, but the scraping of chairs being pushed back and the movement of men standing as the senior officers came in meant the waiting was over. One nagging thought stayed with him. He had better be right.

  Alfie stood and waited until the TCG(N)’s commander, a Special Branch chief inspector, and the army TCG(N) liaison officer, a moustachioed major, took their places at the head of the room. They stood behind a bare, pine trestle table; at their backs a large-scale ordnance survey map of Strabane and the surrounding countryside was fixed to the wall with drawing pins.

  “Be seated,” the commander said.

  Alfie recognized the Special Branch man, Harry Bowman. He’d lectured to Alfie last year on a course about undercover surveillance. He was fiftyish, balding, a port-wine-stain birthmark disfiguring his left cheek, belly bulging over his belt. He remained standing. Alfie flinched as Bowman hit the map an almighty whack with a wooden pointer. His voice was husky, and Alfie had to strain to hear the words. “Pay attention.” Another whack.

  “The Provos’ target will be the police barracks. Here.” Whack. “Unfortunately, we’re not sure of the exact day, but expect it will be very soon, so we’ll be setting things up tonight.” He dropped a hand to the seat of his pants and dragged their rear seam out of his backside before continuing. “The attackers will probably be a small group, but we’re taking no chances. They could have asked for help from other Provo units. We’re going to be in place with superior force.” He smiled when he said, “superior force.”

  Alfie heard the murmur of approval. The men around him had all lost subordinates at the hands of the Provos and were eager to hit back. The RUC inspector, Charlie Dunlop, was a Catholic, one of the few in the force. His brother, Sam Dunlop, E4A like Alfie, had been shot by a Provo sniper on the steps of his own home in Grange Park, Dunmurry, on March 25, 1974, killed by a gunman in front of his wife, Mary, and one of their daughters. It was believed, but never proven, that the assassination had been ordered by one of the recent escapees, Brendan McGuinness, because Sam had been running an informer inside McGuinness’s battalion. Alfie decided to forget about poor Sam and concentrate on what was being said.

  “Each of your units will have a defined task. I’ll deal with each one at a time.” Bowman turned to the SAS staff sergeant. “Mr. Atcheson, you, I believe, will have the contingent of twenty-four troopers stationed here in Ulster, and ten more have been requested from your Twenty-Two SAS Headquarters in Hereford?”

  “Correct, sir.” The sergeant’s voice was clipped, precise. “The men from G squadron arrive this afternoon.”

  Alfie gave a low whistle. The commander hadn’t been fooling when he’d said there’d be superior force.

  “You will be the nucleus of the observation post/reactive.”

  Or “ambush,” in plain terms, and with such a large number of men the crossfire would be ferocious. Wee Sammy could be right in the middle.

  “Mr. Atcheson, you’ve had a chance to study the ground. Come up here and show us where you will place your men.”

  The staff sergeant rose, moved to the front of the room, took the pointer, and half-turned to the map. His boots gleamed, and Alfie reckoned you could fillet a fish on the sharp creases in his khaki trousers.

  “Right, the barracks are … here. The main road, the A5 from Omagh to Strabane and on to Londonderry comes down a hill … here, to the front of the station, then branches into a T-junction in front of the barracks. It’s most probable the attackers will try to run a tractor with a bomb in a front bucket down this hill.”

  “Inspector Ingram has the details.” Harry Bowman nodded to Alfie.

  “Five hundred pounds of ammonal on a timer fuse. It’ll be in the bucket of a red tractor, registration number HKM 561.” He hadn’t needed to refer to his notes.

  “Thank you. If it’s on a timer, we must try to stop it before it gets inside the barracks’ fence. Please make a note of that.”

  Alfie heard a voice behind him and turned to look at the speaker. It was the regular army major. “Should we be asking for the bomb disposal squad, sir?”

  Bowman again. “TCG(N)’s considered the question. They’d stick out like sore thumbs with their equipment, and we don’t want to frighten our targets off. We want to send a very clear message to the Provos’ high command.”

  Alfie had no doubts about what the message was going to be. As many dead Provvies as possible. He glanced at Inspector Dunlop. The man’s grin was feral.

  Harry Bowman continued. “It’s probable that the device will be on a short fuse. There’d not be time for an ammunition technical officer to do his stuff. We’re prepared to accept the possibility of damage to surrounding property. Civilian casualties should be kept to a minimum, however.”

  And how in the hell were they going to achieve that? Alfie thought, and wondered how many more people would die or be maimed. He felt a tinge of anger with his own part in this. His job, when you boiled it down, was to protect the public, and yet by passing on the information, he was probably going to be indirectly responsible for bringing catastrophe to innocent victims. If he could take any comfort, it was from the thought that had he not found out about the attack, it would have gone ahead anyway and certainly have killed some of his own, the poor bastard constables inside the barracks as well as any passing civilians.

  The staff sergeant took over the briefing. “The assault group will be concealed in three locations in front of the barracks.”

  “You mean ‘killer group,’” a voice called from the back.

  “Indeed, I do, sir, but we don’t call it that in public. Mustn’t upset the civilians.”


  The staff sergeant waited until the laughter died. “We’ll have Sergeant Buchan’s squad in this house … here.” He indicated the corner of the hill road.

  “He was your chap at Ballydornan, wasn’t he?” Bowman asked. “He did a good job there.”

  Killed young Fiach O’Byrne, whose funeral was today, and managed to avoid an enquiry. Alfie had no doubt it was the latter action that warranted Harry Bowman’s approval.

  “Thank you, sir. He’ll have a 7.62 general-purpose machine gun. Two more squads will be in place here and here.” He pointed to houses on the corners of the streets joining the T at the right and left of the barracks. If we’re wrong and they come in from either end of the T or down either of these two streets, we’ll be ready.”

  “And,” Bowman interrupted, “equally well positioned to prevent escape by all routes. Carry on, sergeant.”

  “The houses on the far side of the T and the barracks back onto a field. On this side of the field, there’s a small wood. A second machine gun will be sited in rear at the corner of the wood in case they try to come in over the field.”

  Alfie nodded. The staff sergeant knew his stuff. Every route to the barracks was covered, and if the rest of the SAS troopers carried their standard-issue M16s or HK 53 assault rifles, the firepower would be overwhelming.

  “We’ll post two cutoff groups farther out on the arms of the T, and here, off the map”—he pointed past the left side of the paper square—“we’ll have an airborne quick-reaction force in two helicopters. Single men will be stationed here, here, and here as lookouts.” He indicated positions on the possible approach roads. “All groups will be netted in on a secure radio frequency shared with the other deployed military forces and the constabulary.” The staff sergeant coughed. “We were going to put men inside the barracks, sir, but that’s RUC turf.”

  There was a polite ripple of laughter that died when the inspector from HMSU said, “My men will be inside supporting the local constables.”

  “Will that not put them at risk if the Provos get the bomb through the fence and detonate it?” Harry Bowman asked.

  “Some, sir, but if the tractor comes straight down the hill, it will be aimed at the centre of the barracks. The men’ll be stationed at either end of the building, and all internal blast-proof shutters will be closed. We’ll leave the ones on the outside windows open until the last minute. Keeping them shut might warn off the Provvies.”

  Chief Inspector Bowman leaned forward to retrieve the pointer. “Thank you, both. Questions?”

  There were none.

  “Right. All forces to be in position tonight after dark and to remain concealed until the attack goes down or we get orders to call the whole show off.”

  The very thought of having the thing called off made the hairs on the nape of Alfie’s neck tingle.

  Bowman nodded to Alfie. “You’re next, Inspector Ingram.”

  “Sir.”

  “Your detachment—you’ll have how many men?”

  “Seven and me, sir. We’ll be working in four two-man teams on twelve-hour shifts. We’ve a pretty good idea who the attackers will be. I’ll be with one team keeping the suspects’ home base under observation. In case I’m wrong, there’ll be unmarked cars on the access roads three miles from the barracks to identify the tractor, any accompanying vehicles—and I’m told there will only be one … black, registration LKM 136. If I’m right and it is our boyos, once we’ve spotted them, we’ll radio ahead to the assault group and maintain distant surveillance.”

  “I’ll not ask for the names of your suspects now, Ingram. It’s not the way we usually operate. Innocent until proven guilty and all that.” Harry Bowman tried to look as if he meant the last remark. The official policy was to consider all the acts of the Security Forces to be governed by the rule of law.

  Alfie heard the laughter of the men round him and decided now was the time to make the request that he knew he must make. “May I ask a question, sir?”

  “Certainly.”

  “It’s likely my source will be with the attacking party. My chief inspector wants him protected. Will that be possible?” Alfie waited anxiously.

  Bowman asked, “Staff Sergeant? Can we protect one man?”

  “I honestly don’t know, sir. How can we identify him?”

  “If you’re apprehending him, he’ll tell you his name’s Sunshine.” Alfie inwardly congratulated himself for having thought of these details. “If the shooting starts, look out for a small man wearing a bright green scarf.”

  “Staff Sergeant, brief all of the assault group. Inspector, same for you and the HMSU team. We’ll do our best, Ingram.”

  “Thank you, sir.” It was all Alfie could hope for. He continued to worry about Sammy but paid attention as the various representatives dealt at length with details of the placement of uniformed RUC officers, regular army and UDF roadblocks.

  Extra RUC constables would be brought in on unconcealed foot patrols to surround the barracks. Their function was crowd control. The minute any shooting started, they were tasked with getting civilians in the area safely out of range and undercover. The army was to provide escorts for the police squads and distant cover on all access roads and country lanes. The UDF would send a detachment to reinforce the customs post on the bridge to Lifford across the border.

  None of that kind of backup would affect the roles of Alfie and his men, and if what he suspected was going to happen came to pass, there’d be no one left for the squads to arrest at the roadblocks. With the exception, as he fervently hoped, of Sammy, all the other “persons of interest” would never leave the streets around the Strabane Police Barracks.

  He glanced at his watch. Good. The briefing was almost over. He’d one other thing to do before he reported back to his chief, briefed his men, and sent the first shift out to their positions. He wanted to stop by Ballydornan churchyard and cast an eye over the people who would be gathered there.

  Alfie waited until everything was finished, said his good-byes, got in his car, and drove along the A5, out of Londonderry, and through Strabane. He stopped outside the barracks, picturing how it would be there—if his information was accurate. In his mind, he smelled the reek of gunpowder, saw the muzzle flashes. There was blood in the gutters, and Alfie made a silent wish none of it would have come from Sammy McCandless.

  He put the car in gear and headed up the hill, the hill a tractor would come barreling down in just a few days.

  He stopped some distance short of Ballydornan churchyard and took time to survey the little scene.

  As was customary at paramilitary funerals, a small detachment of uniformed police officers was in attendance. The mourners would be Provo sympathizers. Some would be active members. There was no honour party of balaclava-hooded men to fire a farewell burst over the grave. That mark of respect was reserved for active Provo volunteers, and the O’Byrne family and everyone else who had been questioned had sworn blind that young Fiach O’Byrne was not, had never been, a Provo.

  Anyone who believed that probably still had a soft spot for Santa Claus, Alfie reckoned, and he’d been certain for years, as he had told Sammy, that the O’Byrnes were active volunteers. The father had been a well-known IRA man in his time. But be damned if anyone had been able to prove their involvement.

  Getting a good look now at the folks at the graveside would give Alfie more faces to add to his mental catalogue of potential suspects for the future. And the O’Byrnes, who would assuredly know they were suspects, would have their suspicions raised if no one from his branch showed up. He’d seen them when he’d accompanied the uniformed men to tell the O’Byrnes about the death of their brother, and the girl had seen him. It wouldn’t hurt to let her see him again.

  When the funeral party had departed, Alfie would check the dead-letter drop under the big cross in case Sunshine had left a message.

  CHAPTER 43

  TYRONE. THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1983

  He’d get a message to Spud today, Sam
my thought, the phone call that would make amends and set things to rights for Erin and Cal. He sat at their kitchen table finishing his breakfast. He’d slept reasonably well last night, although at first he’d been uncomfortable when Erin put him in Fiach’s old room. He’d eventually drifted off after he’d told himself for the hundredth time that the way the peelers had set it up, he’d had no choice, none at all, but to turn. Now he was going to put things straight, but—he chewed a piece of black pudding—he was going to miss Erin’s cooking when she went to America.

  He glanced at the telephone on the Welsh dresser. The minute the O’Byrnes were out of the house, he’d be on to Spud, and, Sammy smiled, he was going to fuck up his new friend, him and his “trusting each other” bullshite, and there wouldn’t be a fuckin’ thing the peeler could do about it.

  Better still, no one in the townland would ever know Sammy had been an informer. They would have figured that out in no time if he’d stuck to the original plan and buggered off to England. Now he didn’t have to go, he’d not have to share the shame of Mollie MacDacker or Art O’Hanlon, names remembered with hatred over the centuries.

  The door to the hall opened, and Erin, in a black dress, hat, and veil, walked across the kitchen; Cal followed wearing black shoes, black suit, black tie, and black armband. Both the O’Byrnes were in the Northern Ireland uniforms of mourning.

  Sammy rose. “I’m sorry I can’t come, too, pay my last respects, like.” He bowed his head.

  “That’s all right, Sammy.” Erin lifted her raincoat from the coat stand. “You just get on with your work here until we get back.” She sounded subdued, but Sammy couldn’t see well enough through her veil to tell if she’d been crying.

  “Come on, Erin,” Cal said, taking his sister’s arm but needing the other hand to wrench the lower half of the kitchen door open. “If you’ve a minute, Sam, could you take a plane to that? I’ve been meaning to, but…”