by James R Benn
"Yeah, it's where the British had their headquarters. Police, intelligence, government."
"Yes. I was just a wee girl at the time but I swear I remember him leaving the house that morning, his buttons shined and his big shoes gleaming. But no sidearm. The RIC constables did not go armed, just like the bobbies in England. I remember that morning because I was so excited about my new Easter dress."
"Was this 1916?"
"Aye, Billy. It was the Easter Rising, which so many of our kind celebrate in song. But to me, every Easter is bitter. You see, there was hardly anyone at the castle, so they only had one constable on duty. Other than a few clerks, the place was empty, except for my da, standing guard in the courtyard. The Irish Volunteers sent a flying column in. Through the gate they came, men running with rifles at the ready, charging right at Constable O'Brien."
"What happened?" I could see the picture in my mind, since I'd seen so many illustrations of that day. Dublin Castle was small, a stone turret and attached building, right in the middle of the city.
"He did his duty. He stood his ground. He held up his hand, palm toward the gunmen, and ordered them to stop. Can you believe that? Can you imagine yourself unarmed in Boston, a gang of armed men charging you?"
"No, I can't. What happened?"
"They shot him dead. I learned later that one bullet pierced his hand."
"I'm sorry. That must have been terrible."
"Oh, that's not even the really terrible part. Do you know your history? Do you know what happened then?"
"At the castle? No."
"I'll tell you then. Nothing. Those brave Volunteers who had just gunned down an unarmed man stood in the courtyard, looking at the great stone fortress, and saw no one else. It was theirs for the taking. Having come that far, all they needed to do was take a few more steps and they could have held it. But they didn't. They turned and ran, leaving my poor da dead on the cobblestones, for nothing. They killed him for nothing, and they lost the great prize. That's why I'm in this business, Billy. If they had taken the castle and won the day, I would have been a little girl who'd lost her father in that great battle, and that's all. But I grew up despising the rabble who killed without thought, and then ran from victory. I hate them for what I lost, and for what they lost. I can't bear the thought of them."
She drank her tea, made a face, and set the cup down. "It's cold," she said. I couldn't argue.
"Who was that on the phone when I came in?" I wanted to get back to the here and now, and leave the dead of 1916 in peace. It seemed to me that those who'd died in that fight had at least been spared the agony of witnessing civil war, assassinations, bombings, and the divided loyalties that the struggle had brought about.
"Major Cosgrove. He's anxious to hear about your progress. Have you learned anything since yesterday?"
"I'm certain the BARs were not driven south into the Republic. That was a ruse. Jenkins's truck was delivered empty to Warrenpoint a few hours after the theft. So the weapons are still close by, somewhere between Ballykinler and Warrenpoint."
"That's not good news. Anything else?"
"A lot of little things but nothing that makes sense yet. About this case, anyway. Once I get a look through your files, I might be able to put two and two together. The problem is, everything here is so complex. It's not just tracking down suspects, it's thinking about their religion and their politics. It makes everything ten times more difficult."
"What about Negroes in America? Don't you have to think about race in the same way? Doesn't that complicate things for the police? You don't have any Negro parishioners in your church, do you? "
"No. But we understand where the lines are drawn. And we don't murder each other just because we're different."
"Really? Don't you mean they don't murder you because you're different? What about your Ku Klux Klan?"
"It's not my Ku Klux Klan! And that's different." It seemed like everyone over here wanted to slot me into some group so they'd know who I was. It didn't strike me as a useful system.
"No, it isn't. The only difference is you've grown up with all those rules and you understand them. You know how to navigate the boundaries of skin color in your own land so that it seems natural to you. Then you come here, saddled with your preconceived notions, and wonder why you have such a difficult time. It would be the same for me if I went to Boston, don't you see? Here, I understand where the lines of religion and class are drawn. I know how to step around them when I need to. I can deal with the extremists when I must, because I understand each side. I see each side and feel for them, more's the pity."
See each side. Slaine's words faded away until that phrase was all that was left. See each side. Ballykinler and Warrenpoint. The start and end point for the delivery truck's route after the arms theft. See each side. Why? Something was wrong, something was nagging at me about each side of that trip. What?
"Wait a minute!" I snapped my fingers as it came to me. "The BARs aren't anywhere near Warrenpoint. It wouldn't make any sense."
"What?"
"Listen. Red Jack shot Eddie Mahoney the night of the theft, right outside Clough. We agreed he needed Mahoney to help load the weapons at the depot, right?"
"Yes. So the same would hold for the unloading?"
"It would have to, especially given the short turnaround time. The truck was dropped off about 3:00 a.m. near the Warrenpoint ferry. I was assuming that since the truck was found in the Republic, Red Jack would have had help at that end with the unloading. But that wasn't the case."
"So you're thinking he needed Mahoney's help to unload? Then he killed him. But why would he? It still doesn't make sense."
"Mahoney was investigating Taggart on behalf of the IRA for skimming funds." I decided it would be best to keep the details to myself. I didn't want the heavy hand of the security forces interfering with my investigation of the murders of Pete Brennan and Sam Burnham. But I needed Slaine to believe my theory of the crime. She did.
"The guns are very close then."
"I'd guess within ten miles of Clough, if my calculations are right about driving time at night." I watched her eyes narrow as she thought this through. It seemed to trouble her, as if it signaled something else to worry about.
"There's one other thing. Major Cosgrove told me to inform you that we had a report of a German seaplane landing in Lough Neagh. The RAF shot it down over the Irish Sea. There were no survivors but it had been gaining altitude just east of the lough. And last night, on the coast near Bangor, north of Belfast, there was a confirmed sighting of a U-boat on the surface. We're searching now for signs that anyone was put ashore."
"What does that mean?"
"It means something is happening. There may be two teams of German agents or commandos and the IRA Northern Command with fifty BARs on our doorstep. It means we need to get to work."
Slaine rose and began gathering papers. As she opened her briefcase, I saw her hands were shaking. I reached out to hold the briefcase open and my fingers brushed against her trembling hand. She jumped, as if she'd been startled.
"I'm just trying to help. You've had a tough night," I said softly, as if soothing a frightened child. She avoided my eyes. Then her hand returned to mine and grasped it, the warmth of her skin surprising me. The briefcase fell to the floor and her arms were around my waist, her face pressed against my chest. I felt her body beneath the wool uniform jacket press against mine and I was caught up in her scent. Her eyes looked up into mine, rich with tears that seemed ready to be released.
Two raps sounded on the door, and before the knob turned we were apart, picking up papers that had fallen to the floor, forcing our bodies away from each other out of fear they'd fly together again.
"Ma'am?"
"Yes, Corporal Finch?"
"We found a few pieces of the device," he said, his eyes darting back and forth between us, finally settling on Slaine as she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "It was a timer, set to go off during the night. Plastic
explosive, under the bed. Sarge was in a chair, right next to it."
"Who had access to the room?" Slaine was all business now, the sharp officer questioning her noncom. Finch didn't show resentment at having to deal with these questions coming from a woman. He looked like a hard case but he gave her the respect she must've earned. I wondered what life was like for her, forever punishing killers and fools.
"Just about all the hotel staff, since any of the passkeys would work. We're going through the list of employees and questioning them but frankly our only hope is that someone saw something and will tell us. Whoever set the explosive isn't going to volunteer the information."
"Focus on whoever knew we were coming here. Cyrus called from Portadown around noon. Find out whom he talked to."
"Yes, ma'am. Lieutenant, if you don't mind my asking again, are you positive you didn't speak to anyone about your purpose in coming here?"
"I'm sure," I said. The curse of his own weapons upon him, I heard Grady O'Brick say to Lynch's back. "Positive." Had I said anything to Grady? He'd gotten a face full of Sergeant Lynch but was that encounter enough to set off a chain of events that placed a bomb under Slaine's bed hours later? No, it couldn't have been. But I had said something else to Grady, back at his house. That I was going up to Belfast the next day with Sergeant Lynch and another officer. But I never mentioned where they'd be staying, I was certain. Maybe Grady had mentioned his run-in with Lynch at the pub. The walls had ears here, they'd told me.
I'd ask Grady about it later, but I decided not to share this tidbit. There was no way I was going to subject him to a single question from the likes of the late Sergeant Lynch's crew. He had no more fingernails left to give.
"The boys are on it, ma'am," Finch was saying to Slaine. "I'll drive you to Stormont."
"Right," she said. "I'm afraid I'm not thinking clearly. Let's go." She gave me a look. A message that she'd been temporarily deranged? Or that there was more where that had come from? I had no idea, and felt a sinking feeling in my stomach when I realized I wasn't sure which I wanted it to be.
The corporal carried her overnight bag. Slaine seized her briefcase and stuffed her revolver into her uniform jacket pocket. I followed them to the main lobby, where they went to the manager's office, currently in use as an interrogation chamber. A cleaning woman sat in a straight-backed chair, facing two large British soldiers who stood before her. Their jackets were off, their sleeves rolled up. The three of them looked up as we entered, the faces of the two men blank, the woman's pleading.
"I've told them, miss, I don't know a thing about what happened. 'Tis true, I swear."
"Mrs. Delaney," one of the men said, consulting a clipboard. "She last cleaned the room yesterday."
"And?" Slaine asked, no trace of pity wasted on Mrs. Delaney.
"She went home when she was done at 1400 hours."
"Did you see any strangers about, Mrs. Delaney?" Slaine asked, now in a pleasant tone of voice, as if they were discussing the weather.
"Of course, 'tis a hotel. But you mean skulking about, pretending to be staff? No, I didn't, miss, I swear."
"Do you have a time clock here?"
"A what, miss?"
"How do you account for your hours? Do you simply come and go?"
"Oh, no, we have to see Mr. McGregor in the morning and then when we leave. He signs us in and out."
"Verified with McGregor?" Slaine asked the man with the clipboard. He nodded yes.
"Let her go unless you've heard of a thirteen-hour timer. The bomb went off just past three." She turned on her heel and strode out of the room, shaking her head. Finch shot the two men a dark look and followed her. I waited until Mrs. Delaney got up and walked her down the hall.
"They didn't mistreat you, did they, Mrs. Delaney?"
"They asked their questions rough, I don't mind saying, but they never so much as touched me. Not that they wouldn't if they were told to. A nice young American lad like you shouldn't associate with them ruffians, if you don't mind me saying so."
"I'd rather be back in Boston myself but those ruffians are our allies."
"Boston, is it? I thought you had Irish in you; it shows on your face, it does. I turn here, dear, it's the servants' entrance. They don't want us traipsing in and out through that grand lobby of theirs." She patted my arm and descended a staircase that led to the rear of the hotel. As she opened the door I heard an engine start, and voices rising above the sound. I took the stairs and stepped outside. Delivery trucks stood at a small loading dock, the familiar name of Jenkins printed on the side. Crates of potatoes and beets were being carried in. Beyond the loading dock was a garage with three large bays, spaces for two vehicles in each. Backing out of one was the Ford Fordor staff car Sergeant Lynch had driven in yesterday. Corporal Finch must have called for it from the front desk. It made sense that they'd have it parked in the garage; it was distinctive, and there'd be no percentage in advertising their presence by parking it out front. A guy wearing a blue coverall was at the wheel, probably a mechanic or janitor. I watched the scene for a minute: employees walking by the garage, coming and going to work. Jenkins's men finished unloading and the two of them leaned against the truck, smoking, in no hurry to rush back for more heavy lifting.
The garage doors were open. I walked over and went in, no one paying me much mind. The first bay held only one vehicle, a Rolls-Royce being waxed by two kids using elbow grease, too focused on getting a glossy shine to notice me. I walked to a workbench where a telephone was mounted on the wall. There was no dial so it must have been a house phone. Next to it was a clipboard hanging from a nail pounded into a stud. Greasy fingerprints stained the pages but the entries were readable. There were columns for vehicle description, license plate, bay number, and guest name and room number.
Next to the Ford Fordor entry was the name Miss S. Howard, Room 314. Who was S. Howard? Did Slaine use a false name? Probably; she had a price on her head. I pulled the sheet from the clipboard and made my way out of the main lobby.
"Lieutenant, we've been waiting," Finch said impatiently. I ignored him and got in the back with Slaine.
"What was your room number? The room Sergeant Lynch took?"
"It was 314. Why?" I handed her the sheet.
"Howard was the name you used, right? This was hanging in full view of dozens of people. No one even noticed me take it. All someone had to know was what your car looked like. There's not many of those driving around the countryside."
"Damn! We always use false names when booking rooms. And we always have the car parked under cover when we can for that very reason. And now it's gotten poor Cyrus killed."
"Ma'am? Should we go back inside?" Finch wanted to know.
"No. It's too late for that. Let's get to Stormont. Lieutenant Boyle has a lot of reading to do. I shall miss this automobile. Get me a new car, Sergeant Finch. You're promoted."
Finch accelerated and she leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes as she let out a long sigh. New car, new sergeant, and off we go. I wondered what she was thinking, dealing with the fact that she had narrowly missed an assassination attempt and had lost her trusted noncom in the bargain? Was she plotting her next move in the secret war against Irish extremists, holding her hand up, forcing them to stop, never knowing when the bullet would pierce her palm, wedding her to her family's stubborn history? And I wondered about that car. It did stand out but someone would have had to see it and know she and Lynch were staying in the area. Then check the hotels, waiting for the vehicle to turn up. Get the room number and plant the bomb.
"Did you leave your rooms after you checked in?" I said.
"We got in about six o'clock. We met in the dining room at seven. We were there about two hours. We had work to do, so we stayed after the meal. That's when Cyrus said he wanted to switch rooms."
"And that's when the bomb was planted. It gave them enough time to get your room number, wait for you to leave, and set the timer."
"That implies a number
of people involved. They'd have to watch several hotels."
"Do you always stay at the same hotel in Newcastle?"
"No, we've used several. This one more than others, since there's a garage for the car. The IRA must have noticed a pattern."
"Why limit it to the IRA? What about the Red Hand? Aren't they on your list of extremists?"
"They are, but the only group on that list allied with the Nazis is the IRA. This may be linked to the two German teams."
Was this the opening salvo in an IRA uprising in Ulster, aided by fifty American BARs and German commandos? What would the IRA in the Republic do? Cross the border probably. Launch hit-and-run attacks, tying down the American and British forces here. Lots of people would die, and there would be cries for more blood. Vengeance. Reprisals. Would we strike back across the border, to hit at the IRA? Would the Republic attack Ulster, coming to the aid of the IRA with the hope of uniting Ireland? My mind swirled with the possibilities, all of them awful. Ireland stumbling into an alliance with Nazi Germany, guerrilla war across the border, ambushes of American troops training for the invasion, and the grim work of men like Finch, Jenkins, and Taggart going on and on.
CHAPTER * TWENTY SEVEN
MY BOOT HEELS fell softly on the marble floor as we crossed the foyer of Stormont Castle. Slaine's dress shoes clacked loudly ahead of me, echoing off the stone walls as we approached another set of sentries. This was the seat of Ulster rule, the fortress of loyalty to the British crown. On the outskirts of Belfast, it felt like a castle, set in a large park, green lawns all around it giving a clear view from any direction. The intelligence services had their headquarters here and their secret cells too, places into which suspected IRA men and their sympathizers disappeared. The very name had sounded evil to me as I was growing up, hearing it cursed as if it were a living thing, a beast. And now I walked through it, British soldiers opening doors for me, as I followed a strange and beautiful Irish woman deeper and deeper into its cold stone interior.
We took a circular iron staircase to a narrow corridor. Steel beams were visible above our heads. Metal doors ran along one side. Slaine knocked at the first. A small peephole appeared at a Judas window and a set of eyes looked us over. Locks tumbled open and we were admitted by a Royal Marine sergeant with a Sten gun hanging from a strap over his shoulder.
