by Shaun Clarke
When the people saw the dead PIRA man, the feared riot began.
As the dead PIRA gunman was picked off the road by two RUC officers, the watching women started screaming abuse and the men – mostly youths, including some known dickers – started throwing stones and every other kind of debris. No sooner had they started than an armoured pig came along the street to disgorge special riot-control Army troops, wearing their familiar, still frightening flak jackets, perspex-visored helmets and reinforced leg and arm pads, who charged the crowd while holding up large shields and swinging their truncheons wildly.
Ricketts tugged the respirator off his face and let it hang loose just below his chin. Standing beside him, Gumboot did the same.
‘Fuck it,’ Gumboot said, ‘they got O’Leary. They’ll make that poor sod talk.’
‘Let’s protect the door,’ Ricketts said.
Together they backed up to the door of O’Leary’s house, since that was the one the QRF team had entered, probably under instructions. While stones and other debris drummed against the shields of the riot-control troops, who were now breaking up to swarm through the crowd and pick off certain individuals, Ricketts and Gumboot stood guard, both with their Brownings at the ready. Within minutes, even as the street battle raged, the soldiers who had rushed into O’Leary’s house emerged again, this time in a protective circle around Lampton and Taff, both of whom were carrying packed-up surveillance equipment, as were some of the soldiers.
As Lampton and Taff were rushed to a waiting Saracen, a Q car pulled up and Lieutenant Cranfield climbed out, followed by Sergeant Lovelock. The latter was wearing a corduroy jacket and trousers, and an open-necked shirt. Cranfield was dressed in a black-leather jacket over what looked suspiciously like pinstripe trousers.
‘Where’s Quinn?’ Cranfield asked.
Filled with a sudden, all-consuming rage, Ricketts raised his Browning, as if wanting to use it as a hammer, then walked purposefully up to Lieutenant Cranfield. Luckily, Lampton hurried back from the Saracen to push Ricketts back.
‘That won’t help,’ he whispered.
‘You heard the surveillance tapes,’ Ricketts said. ‘We both know what O’Leary did. We know what those PIRA fuckers’ll do to him and who put him on that spot. We also know how many people will get hurt when O’Leary starts talking. We know who the big timer is.’
Ricketts started forward again, but again Lampton stopped him. ‘One more move, Ricketts, and I swear I’ll take my handgun and blow you to Kingdom Come. This won’t wash. It’s not your concern.’
‘We’re supposed to be the SAS,’ Ricketts said. ‘Not MI5.’
‘I know,’ Lampton said. ‘Quiet now.’ He turned to Cranfield, who took a step back and instinctively placed his hand inside his black-leather jacket, onto his Browning. ‘Quinn got away,’ Lampton said quietly, ‘and he took O’Leary with him. He obviously guessed, from the location of our OP, that O’Leary had let us up there. He’ll make him talk, Lieutenant.’
‘It’s time for a Chinese Parliament,’ Cranfield replied, showing little emotion. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Lampton said.
They all went their separate ways, heading back to Bessbrook in their own transport, leaving the QRF teams and riot-control soldiers to contain the continuing street violence.
The Saracen transporting Ricketts and Gumboot was stoned as it turned out of the street and headed back to Armagh.
‘What a fucking war!’ Gumboot said.
Chapter 15
Cranfield knew he was in trouble as soon as he saw Captain Dubois’ face. The Army intelligence officer was standing behind his desk, looking down through the window at the high-walled courtyard of Lisburn HQ, smoking a cigarette and radiating tension with every move of his body. When Cranfield entered the office, Dubois did not immediately turn to face him, but simply inhaled on his cigarette again, as if taking a deep breath to control himself.
Cranfield was already feeling shaky from the barrage of criticism he had received from, notably, Sergeant Lampton and Corporal Ricketts, at the Chinese Parliament, the informal meeting convened only an hour ago in the troop’s sleeping quarters in Bessbrook.
Ricketts, in particular, had been incensed over what he had learnt about Cranfield’s activities, from the conversations of Quinn and his spies, during his long surveillance in the OP above O’Leary’s house. From those conversations, recorded over a period of five days, Ricketts and the others had learnt about Cranfield’s illegal ‘snatch’ raids across the border, sometimes with, sometimes without, Captain Dubois; his killing of O’Halloran in his home in the Republic; and his exploitation of O’Leary’s personal financial problems with PIRA.
Neither Ricketts nor Lampton were particularly concerned with the role of Dubois in all this, because Dubois was regular Army, not an SAS officer. They were, however, incensed that Cranfield, SAS, had overstepped the bounds of the Regiment’s unwritten laws and, even worse, failed to consult any of his superiors before striking out on his own.
‘It’s out of order,’ Sergeant Lampton had told him, ‘and now we’re paying the price for it. To the locals, we’ve become the new Black and Tans, while to the media we’re a bunch of murderous cowboys. This is your fault, Lieutenant.’
As Cranfield knew only too well, regular Army officers entering the SAS for the first time invariably have to go through a painful period of adjustment when they discover that being limited to three-year stints deprives them of any real influence on the ethos of the Regiment; that the NCOs, who can remain in the Regiment for as long as their careers last, are actually the ones who will select or reject the officer entrants; and that even if selected, the officers will be treated with sly contempt by the NCOs and judged as short-term ‘Ruperts’ of dubious merit.
The SAS’s Chinese Parliament, so alien to the regular Army, had sprung out of this unusual reversal of military rank and authority. They were, therefore, remarkably informal meetings – usually held before an operation, not after – at which everyone, from the commander down, could pitch in with his own ideas or criticisms. Apart from its recognition that the ordinary soldier can have as much to contribute as the officers, the Chinese Parliament is a regular, healthy reminder that the SAS scorns the notion of class.
While this attitude normally appealed to Cranfield, it had rebounded on him badly when, during that meeting, he had been so thoroughly lambasted by the contemptuous Lampton and Ricketts.
‘You were grandstanding,’ Sergeant Lampton had told him. ‘Being a big timer. You wanted to fight this war on your own, but in the Regiment we work as a team. We’re anonymous and you couldn’t stand that, so you went out to be known. In doing that, you exposed us all.’
‘Bullshit,’ Cranfield had replied, trying to sound a lot more confident than he felt.
‘No,’ Ricketts had said. ‘Not bullshit. Sergeant Lampton is right. It was your illegal snatch raids that brought you to the attention of Quinn and eventually made him go all-out to get you. That shouldn’t have been the case. You should have played the game by the rules and remained anonymous, thus avoiding this range war with PIRA. It was also your cross-border raids that encouraged those dumb troopers on the Dublin road OP to pursue Quinn’s arms dealers across the border, driving straight into a Gardai checkpoint, a highly publicized night in an Irish jail and subsequent deportation to Hereford. It’s because of those men that Quinn learnt about the existence of the OPs overlooking his cottage in Armagh. And it’s because of that discovery that Quinn learnt that we were after his hide and sent his men out to get us. Finally, it’s because you insisted on inserting an OP facing Quinn’s Falls Road home, in the house of your tout, O’Leary, that Quinn learnt he was helping us and took him away. When that poor bastard’s tortured, he’ll talk, blowing everything sky-high.’
‘All of this, if I may say so,’ Lampton had said icily, ‘is because of your actions, which were based on self-interest and divorced from the best interests of the
SAS.’
‘We don’t like big timers in this Regiment,’ Ricketts had added, ‘but that’s what you were doing, Lieutenant – big timing all the way. Now the shit’s hit the fan.’
Cranfield had argued his case, of course, but it hadn’t cut much ice and when he left them it was with the knowledge that his reputation had been badly dented and possibly was now in ruins.
On the other hand, Lampton and Ricketts still didn’t know just how far he had gone to trap O’Leary in his web – namely, his use of Margaret Dogherty to get the Irishman in even more debt, thus encouraging him, with a little coaxing from Margaret, to turn to British Intelligence for financial assistance in return for information.
Thank God, they still didn’t know about that.
Nevertheless, after that acrimonious, damning Chinese Parliament, Cranfield wasn’t feeling too confident about this meeting with Captain Dubois. In fact, for the first time since childhood, he was feeling distinctly nervous. This feeling was not eased when Dubois turned around to face him, looking drawn and almost white with anger.
‘Ah,’ he said, sounding stiff. ‘Lieutenant Cranfield!’
‘Yes,’ Cranfield said.
‘Yes, sir! Dubois corrected him.
‘We use “boss” in the SAS.’
‘You do realize, do you not, that although you’re in the SAS, you come under the authority of the combined Intelligence and Security Group in this province?’
‘Yes, boss, I realize that.’
‘That means you must do as you’re told. As an Army officer – your senior officer – I’m ordering you to address me as you would if in the regular Army. In other words, you address me as “sir”.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cranfield said, torn between anger and admiration for Dubois’ surprising display of strength. Dubois, he suddenly realized, would have made a superb SAS officer. It made him like Dubois more.
Dubois nodded. ‘You’ve taken a barrel of dynamite,’ he said, ‘and set a match to it. You’ve blown up the whole works. Do you understand that, Lieutenant?’
The use of his rank, instead of his first name, confirmed for Cranfield that Dubois was really, deeply upset with him. Nevertheless, unable to accept that he was wrong, he replied: ‘No, I don’t understand. I did what I thought was the best thing – and at least we’ve got Quinn on the run.’
‘At what cost, Lieutenant?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The SAS is renowned not only for its skills in combat, but also for its use of psychological warfare when required – as it was in Malaya and Oman. The Regiment was brought here to use those same skills, but it made the mistake of bringing you with it, and what you’ve done, while very flamboyant, has caused more harm than good. Single-handedly you’ve destroyed the anonymity of the Regiment, risked the lives of a lot of other people, and set yourself up as PIRA’s number one target, thus placing the SAS centre-stage. Do you understand now?’
‘No,’ Cranfield said. ‘I think I’ve brought the worms out of the woodwork and given us a chance to get at them. Nothing comes without cost. I also think that I’m getting the blame for a lot of things I didn’t do.’
Shaking his head in disbelief, Dubois took the chair behind his desk and folded his hands under his chin. He studied his desk for some time, then looked back up at Cranfield.
‘This morning,’ he said, ‘another IRA terrorist, Sean McKee, in custody after being captured in south Armagh, supposedly by the RUC, claimed in court that in fact he’d been woken in his bed in the Republic by a British soldier holding a pistol to his head. That soldier, along with some of his friends, drove McKee back across the border and handed him over to the RUC. When the men responsible for this illegal act were named – and turned out to be some of your SAS troopers – they insisted that McKee was lying; that in fact he’d stumbled, drunk, into their foot patrol just this side of the border. McKee strongly denied this and stuck to his story, even as he was led away, thumbs defiantly in the air, to twenty-five years’ imprisonment.’
Cranfield shrugged. ‘McKee was high on a list of wanted men handed to us on our arrival in the area. We got him the only way we knew how.’
‘The royal “we”,’ Dubois said sardonically.
Cranfield shrugged again. ‘All right: I.’
Dubois nodded, then continued: ‘With help from an informer, two others were arrested in the Republic and likewise handed over to the RUC – and again, the SAS was fingered.’
‘I’m not responsible for them all,’ Cranfield replied with his singular brand of sincerity. ‘Some of my men are inclined to get impatient and take the initiative.’
‘Having you as a bad example,’ Dubois said.
‘Naturally, I don’t agree with that,’ Cranfield said, holding his ground. ‘And I really don’t see how these cases, genuine though they are, can be used as examples of how I’m endangering the lives of other people. To join the SAS is to court danger – that’s a weakness, or a perversion, shared by our officers, NCOs and troopers alike. So why blame me when what I do places my men in danger? It comes with the territory, Captain, so I’ve no guilt on that count.’
‘Danger is one thing. Unnecessary danger is another, and that’s what you brought about. Even worse, you didn’t limit the danger to your SAS troopers; nor did you limit yourself to proper rules of engagement. Instead, you used a well-known local whore, Margaret Dogherty, to entrap that PIRA bookkeeper, Michael O’Leary, and make him turn into a Fred, doing so with scant regard for what might happen, should the couple be caught out.’
Cranfield opened his mouth to protest, but Dubois silenced him with a pointing index finger, then continued: ‘Even worse, having already ignored the danger, in particular to O’Leary, you then offered him a lift-off to Australia in return for the use of his house for a covert OP – one inserted to watch the very man who could do O’Leary most damage, namely Michael Quinn. In doing so, you practically guaranteed that O’Leary’s turn would be exposed – and in doing that you also virtually guaranteed that all those connected with O’Leary would be taken down with him. In the event, that’s what happened.’
Suddenly, Cranfield felt his blood turning cold, some instinct telling him that he was about to hear something he would never forget.
‘O’Leary’s body has already been picked up from waste ground near the Divis flats,’ Dubois said. ‘First they gave him a six-pack with a pistol – elbows, kneecaps and ankles. Then they dropped concrete blocks on his shins. Then, while he was pinned down by the concrete blocks, they put a plastic bag over his head, kicked his ribs in, tortured him with a knife; and finally, presumably when he had talked, they blew his brains out. You can tear up his ticket to Australia – it’s no use to him now.’
Suddenly feeling light-headed, Cranfield closed his eyes, took a deep breath and tried to control the racing of his heart. Realizing that this might be misconstrued as a sign of weakness, he opened his eyes again and said, as calmly as he could manage: ‘O’Leary did what he did of his own accord and for his own benefit. He took his chances and paid the price. We all run that risk.’
There was silence for much longer than Cranfield could take comfortably, but eventually Captain Dubois, after another loud sigh, said: ‘Yes, I suppose so. There’s a certain truth in that. If you hadn’t gotten to him first, his theft from the PIRA funds would have been discovered anyway, resulting in something rather similar to his ultimate fate.’ He paused deliberately, tormentingly, but eventually added with chilling softness: ‘We’ll conveniently ignore the fact that your way of helping O’Leary out was to force him into becoming a turncoat. He was, after all, a member of PIRA and therefore, in the strictest sense of the term, still one of the enemy.’
‘Correct,’ Cranfield said, instantly feeling better.
‘Unfortunately,’ Dubois continued with soft-voiced, remorseless logic, ‘that doesn’t absolve you from the charge that your exploitation of O’Leary, and subsequent carelessness regarding him, put the lives of a lot of others in
danger.’
‘If you’re talking about the OPs,’ Cranfield said, already getting his confidence back, ‘I’d remind you that they were manned by the SAS – and those men expect danger.’
‘Not danger brought about by carelessness.’
‘The use of that word is debatable.’
‘Then what about the many others who might have been exposed by what O’Leary has revealed under torture?’
‘What others?’
‘The many who passed him information or were party to your entrapment and subsequent use of him.’
‘Such as?’
‘Let’s suggest Margaret Dogherty. The woman with whom you’ve been having an affair …’
‘You’ve had me watched?’ Cranfield asked, taken by surprise, shocked, and flushed with anger.
‘Of course. We keep our eye on our own men – particularly when they’re involved in clandestine surveillance.’
‘You bastard!’
‘And in doing so,’ Dubois continued with a slight, deadly smile, ‘we learnt of your affair with Miss Dogherty. As that lady had already worked for us in London and Dublin, we weren’t amused to find you becoming involved with her, far beyond the call of duty. It was completely out of order. Even more out of order, if I may say so, was getting her killed.’
The shock jolted through Cranfield like a bolt of electricity, first burning him, then turning him to ice, finally leaving him numb, with only a racing heart to remind him that he was still made of flesh and bone.
‘What …?’ He had to take a deep breath and let the word out when exhaling, but he simply couldn’t finish his question, already dreading the answer.
‘When O’Leary was tortured,’ Dubois said with deadly calm, ‘he must have confessed to pilfering the PIRA money. In doing so, he would also have told them that Margaret Dogherty had introduced him to you and that you had offered to replace the money if he became your tout. Given that Margaret Dogherty was, for reasons known to all the locals, not sympathetic to the local PIRA, who had once feathered and tarred her, Michael Quinn and his hoodlums would soon have put two and two together and gone in search of the lady, seeking revenge.’
