CHAPTER TWO
The wooded crest of the hill looked out over a panorama of uneven roofs in the middle distance and the undulating patchwork of fields beyond it. Far to the right, the circular fourteenth century keep of Clough Oughter spiked the mist that partially clouded the small island on the Lough.
Rath had made good time today on his daily walk and was satisfied that his rate of recovery from exertion had improved. Lowering himself stiffly onto the mossy slope, he gazed across the moist green and blue hues to Cavan.
His customary cynicism, which coloured most of his thoughts, was dormant. In boyhood, scenes like this had encapsulated an Ireland worth dying for; however, the reality of callous violence and precipitate death, which now saturated life, tainted any such reveries.
His wound, no longer painful, had left no lasting damage, aside from the initial stiffness each morning. He grinned wryly. He should be proud to bear the stigmata of a soldier, a battle scar, as proof of his contribution in the struggle against the tyrants. At least, that is how Father O’Brien back in Derry would see it.
He remembered very little of his escape from Belfast. The flight was a jumble of disjointed actions, shrouded in haze, glimpsed as a drugged observer rather than an active participant. Clouded images intermittently floated past a black wall of comatose consciousness. He recalled toppling over into the car, then nothing until he had felt the tourniquet tighten on his leg.
At some indeterminate time, strong hands lifted him despite his large frame, onto the wooden cargo bed of a truck. He felt the prick of the needle, and he plummeted into an abyss of oblivion. An aeon passed before a frayed rope of tattered awareness dragged him slowly, to the surface of consciousness.
He was aware of a harsh, grating sound filling the cavernous darkness about him. They were piling bricks over and around him. Panic flared briefly but subsided when the concomitant surge of adrenalin merged with the anaesthetic. It swept him from his precarious raft of consciousness back into the void.
Much later, the smell of horse manure featured prominently in his recollection. He had been delirious when they had led the horses from the horsebox, uncovered him and lifted him out of the manger.
The ensuing days of treatment and convalescence had provided hours of solitude—time to think, review and re-evaluate his life. Boyish, idealistic illusions, fostered by his father’s tales of the Famine, the Easter Rising, and the War for Independence, had gone the way of the adolescent passions roused by stories of his grandfather’s role in the struggle against the English.
The establishment of the English-controlled Six Counties had betrayed his grandfather, as it did many Irishmen. His father had felt the same sense of betrayal years later, on his return to the North from England’s war after debilitating years as a prisoner of the Japanese in Burma. Nothing had changed. The reality of an Eire whole and free in constitution, spirit and politics faded—but never the hope for it.
As a youth, his reading had been single-minded and voracious. Everything he read had been about Ireland, her people and their struggles. At the age of fifteen, he had moved with his parents, his brother, and younger sister, to Derry, where his idealism was eroded, turning it into an implacable pragmatism, fuelled by a fervent hatred of the system. Recollection of the eviction caused an unholy anger to rage within him.
His unemployed father had had great difficulty in putting food on the table for the family. The rent for Number 13 Kinnard Park was often in arrears. Nevertheless, they always managed to pay, though not without a sense of shame since the money was more often than not from social services.
Reallocation of the house to an unmarried Protestant woman working on the Council changed his shame to hatred. Relatives took in the boys. They sent his sister, who went without protest, almost willingly, to convent school.
Within days of going to live with his grandmother, the RUC had badly beaten his father during a demonstration. Three weeks later, he died from complications related to his injuries. Four months after the death of his father, the Army shot his oldest brother Sean. The so-called tribunal, one solitary English judge, determined that his killing had been lawful.
With the help of an aunt who worked in the Job Centre, he attended an interview and gained a position as a copyboy on the Irish Times. He started night school, where he met others who shared his fervour for a unified Ireland. All were convinced that a political solution was not possible.
One evening a recruiter for the IRA approached him. The youth confirmed that he was ready to help rid the island of the British. Their proposition that he should join the British Army—and the Parachute Regiment at that—surprised him. However, finally persuaded that there was no better training opportunity, he travelled to England to enlist.
His dedication and will to learn, together with his dispassionate competence, impressed his instructors. Several months later, basic and airborne training behind him, his battalion was warned for duty in Armagh. He knew that soon he would have to use his newly acquired skills against his compatriots.
He deserted.
Back in Ireland, he was soon operational. At first, he watched and recorded the daily movement of troops and local Royal Ulster Constabulary members, but he soon took part in the elimination of Ulster Defence Regiment volunteers. He killed his first soldier when they ambushed a detachment on its way from Belfast docks to Long Kesh.
More active service followed, and the command structure soon recognized his ability. Within months, he had graduated to assassinations, sometimes as member of a team but more often as an independent operative.
Due to his success, the seeds of dissatisfaction were slow to wax into disillusionment, but grow they did. He still believed in the Cause, but any regard he had for the men directing the liberation efforts had dissipated. Doubts germinated relentlessly. The policies seemed ineffectual and he thought they had no real hope of success. They achieved too little at too high a price. The leaders also compromised with time. There was a mañana complex.
Nevertheless, he saw no other hope for a unified Ireland. The setbacks suffered by the Officials and then the Provos over the years did not diminish his enthusiasm nor cause him to question his beliefs. The number of deaths, casualties and captures among his fellow combatants did not compel him to challenge the validity of the means used to free Ireland.
He was proud of the part he had played in the executions and assassinations, since he saw them as distinct targeting of the enemy. The shootings, properly planned, were direct actions in which the risk for uninvolved innocents was minimal.
He had even begun to enjoy them. The adrenalin flow beforehand, the feeling of power, that followed a successful mission, left a heady sense of accomplishment.
Nevertheless, the first seeds of doubt, fertilized by a lack of faith in the command structure, gradually grew stronger. He didn’t question the validity of armed struggle and violence, but the methods chosen to pursue it, the specious and indiscriminate use of the bomb as a weapon against soft targets—became abhorrent to him.
He had listened, at first with patience, to the justifications made for the attacks—how fear and mindless terror would convince the public that the current authorities could not preserve their safety.
However, more and more, the disinterested, almost callous, newspaper reporting of the bombings, couched in terms of bored impartiality, angered him.
“A bomb exploded in a restaurant in Belfast today. One person was killed and eight injured.”
The horrific finality of the dreadful wounds hidden behind that bland summary of “eight injured” nauseated him. There began to rise in him a conflict of passion and guilt. The increasing number of disabled, deformed victims among their own Irish people weakened his resolve: there were amputees, wheelchair-bound cripples, and so many, maimed and disabled by the haphazard use of the bomb.
In the name of Independence, the guileless had become sacrifices for no reason beyond expediency. The dead and injured over the years counted as
irretrievable collateral damage, unfortunate but necessary. He started to think that the price for recognition of Sinn Fein and its acceptability in the political life of Ireland had been far too high.
It was soon to become a belief.
* * * * *
The rain streamed down the outside of the bus’s window and, forming a double layer with the cold condensation clinging to the inside surfaces, reduced visibility. There was nothing picturesque to see outside; terraced houses and the ragged gardens that fronted them, littered gutters and overfilled bins. This area was not scenic Belfast. The interior of the bus smelt like drying dog as the warmth caused the passengers’ wet clothing to steam.
Not that this bothered young Mrs Devlin this Saturday morning; she had lived too long in this part of the North for the weather to influence her mood or disposition. Besides, she was on her way to the city centre shops.
She loved shopping, and not only “buying” shopping but “just looking” shopping as well. She knew she had good dress sense and enjoyed seeing the latest trends.
This was the first time she had come downtown alone since her wedding six weeks ago. Up until now, they had come to the shops together every Saturday, but today Dr Devlin was the on-duty GP in the practice he shared with two other aspiring young medics. She did not really mind because, much as she loved Gary Devlin, he did tend to get under her feet, and he certainly had no patience for her way of shopping. He did not seem to know that looking a lot, without necessarily buying, was an integral part of the enjoyment.
Saturday in town was agreeable, though today it might be even more pleasurable, she thought, as she stepped down from the bus. The rain seemed to have deterred some shoppers. The shops and streets would not be so crowded.
She made her way quickly from the bus stop to the entrance of the nearby department store, to shelter while opening her umbrella.
She had her back to the shop when the bomb exploded. Shoes, pullovers, ornamental window dressings and plastic limbs of the dissected tailor’s dummies hurtled into the street in a cruel immediate parody of the butchered human bodies inside the store.
Mrs Helen Devlin, née Rath, felt the blow in the small of her back before she blacked out.
Death came from a huge shard of granite masonry that severed her spinal cord.
* * * * *
The news stunned him. His jaw hung open, and he stared unseeingly at the wall of the darkened room. The letter fell to the floor between his legs. How long had he been there? He had no idea. Images flashed across his consciousness but kept him from thinking the unthinkable.
He saw her as a little girl, clutching her battered suitcase and wearing a dark blue raincoat, waiting at the end of the road where the bus had dropped her home on holiday from the convent. He saw her on the homemade swing at their Gran’s, one hand holding the rope support, the other a thick slice of bread, her chin and cheeks covered in plum jam.
Another picture jostled for place and she was giggling with her cousin Mary, both dressed as bridesmaids, as they walked up the path to the church for their aunt’s wedding.
In myriad flashback clips, he saw her laughing, crying, giggling, pouting, and sulking. Running, skipping, jumping, dancing, singing...then her image as a beautiful, radiant young bride filled his head.
Now she was dead. Those fucking mad-dog, indiscriminate swine of bombers had killed her.
He knew that he could not stay in Ireland. The carnage he had caused on the University steps was reason enough for the authorities in the North to leave no stone unturned to find him. Their efforts had not slackened.
Informers had always been prevalent, and it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that one would provide the information that would allow a paramilitary or SAS group to come south and kill him. His leaders could barely hide their frustration and annoyance that the Security Forces had remained at high-level readiness.
The IRA postponed or curtailed many planned actions. It was not comfortable knowing that some on his own side categorized him as a hindrance. Discussions on his future had taken place, but not without acrimony. His value to the cause had vastly depreciated.
The few belongings he had accrued in the last few weeks were already packed. However, where could he go? Should he wait for the organization to move him? According to the scant information he had, his handlers had made arrangements, but these were in abeyance pending final clearance from the Council. Going wherever they had in mind might not be acceptable if, in the interest of expediency, his departure should be permanent and cost no more than a .45 bullet.
He rose stiffly, and then started to walk back to the cottage, his mind occupied with thoughts on how he could leave safely.
* * * * *
The sound of the car stopping outside caused him to rise from the chair and cross to the mirror. The angle captured the path and the gate outside the house, and the reflection showed Doctor Gillis, in the company of another man, opening the gate. He recognized the other man—Belfast had decided.
He opened the door to the men and stood aside as they entered. The second man stayed in the kitchen as the doctor examined him, somewhat perfunctorily, but not without care.
“Everything has healed up nicely. Good clean scar tissue. No problem when you walk?” asked the doctor as he stood up and returned to his bag on the kitchen table.
“None,”
Apart from the initial greeting, the visitor from Belfast had said nothing but had watched the examination closely.
“Good. Excellent. Then there’ll be no more reason for me to see you.” He smiled and closed his bag. “He’s fit,” he said to the visitor. “You’ll be able to make your own way back? Good, then I’ll show myself out.”
The front door closed. The sound of the car pulling away faded.
* * * * *
The late afternoon sun slid behind the hills and the kitchen darkened. Both men remained seated; then the visitor stood and filled the kettle at the sink.
“Where do you keep the tea? No, don’t get up, I’ll make it.” He opened the cupboard and stretched up for the tea caddy, apparently unaware that Rath’s eyes ran over his torso searching for the bulge of a weapon. “We’re delighted with the progress you are making. And despite any misgivings you might have, the Army Council’s highly pleased with your success to date.”
He set out the mugs and resumed his seat. For a few moments, only the sound of the gas mingling with the slow burble of water as it started to boil disturbed the silence.
“Have you wondered yet how and why they were waiting for you?” He clasped his hands on the table and leant forward.
“I never gave it a thought,” the big man lied. “But I knew that the rat catchers would be looking. When you got here I thought maybe you were one from Security.”
“And now?”
“Well, you could still be, but as I’ve got to be the last person under suspicion, since the job was completed, it means you still don’t know who did inform.”
The pale-grey, Belfast eyes blinked once behind rimless lenses.
“But we think we do. Oh yes, we think we do. That’s why I’m here.” He got up, took the kettle off the stove, poured the steaming water into the teapot, and returned to the table. “We’ve another job for you,” he said, “If you are up for it...”
“I’m listening.”
“Well, it looked straightforward at first; the number of people who knew was limited. Fortunately, we were able to sequester all those involved as soon as possible after the action—”
“Sequester?”
“Isolate for questioning. It’s the official terminology now.”
He smiled sheepishly then shrugged.
“Be that as it may, we interrogated everyone connected with the mission and all the others that might have suspected. We thought we had a result when we found out that the RUC knew where you stayed overnight. We followed that up and settled with the family you stayed with, the McCrackens. The woman admitted informing. However, whe
n the findings were reviewed it became obvious that her info would’ve been too late for them to set up that ambush.
“We started the investigation again, but somebody we wanted to talk with had already left Belfast. We tracked him to Airdrie, in Scotland, and then we lost him. We want him back to finalise the matter.”
“So where do you start looking?”
“Well, that’s where you come in. We believe he is now in Frankfurt. Germany.”
Rath said nothing.
“There was a feeling that he could still be in Scotland, but we put out a general alert and the word filtered back from Germany that there had been a sighting over there. Our people in Frankfurt are looking for him.”
“If they find him then surely they can interrogate him?”
“It’s not that convenient. Our people there are pretty low profile, and we have nobody in place with the necessary interrogative skills. You see, McDermot is only under suspicion—for the moment. We would like him back here for questioning under the proper conditions. We need to—in fact, we have—be really sure about him.”
Again, Rath made no comment but looked at the other man, who he thought seemed uncomfortable, with a trace of sheepishness in his demeanour.
“He’s the younger brother of Liam McDermot.”
Rath could not smother the smile that spread across his face as the realization dawned on him. The grey eyes flickered and the man from Belfast made a wry face.
“So that’s why he’s getting the soft treatment! Shaft him, without being sure, and you’d have one very pissed-off Armagh Brigade Commander.” He grinned at the investigator then, with difficulty, subdued the smile.
“And I should bring him back?”
“Well, yes and no. We want you to go to Frankfurt. Speak to our people over there, get whatever you can, see if he has moved on or not. Contact him, talk to him—overcome his reluctance, if you will. If you need help, our people there have been told to be ready.”
The Tuzla Run Page 3
