Irish Lady (19 page)

Annie snorted. “Y're talking about a boy who grew up on these very streets. When did danger ever stop him?”

Meghann flushed and looked away. When she spoke her voice was so low that Annie cupped her hand behind her ear and leaned forward. “He may not mind for himself, but this time he's not alone. Michael would never put me in danger.”

She felt her godmother's eyes on her face and knew that Annie was assessing her statement. Not much escaped Annie Devlin's piercing blue gaze.

“Y' trust him that much, do you?” Unconsciously, Annie repeated the question Connor had put to Michael just two days before.

Meghann lifted her head and looked directly at the woman who had raised her. This time her voice was confident, her words clear and strong. “I trust him with my life, Annie. I always have.”

Satisfied that everything was going in the right direction, Annie reached over and touched Meghann's clenched hands. “Keep me company while I make us a pot of tea. Such talk is a wee bit tiring. How do y' do it, Meggie, and still stand up at the end of the day?”

Meghann followed Annie into the kitchen and sniffed the air. She had never felt more energized. “I'm used to it. Um, something smells delicious.”

Annie beamed. “Soda bread was always y'r favorite. Did y' think I'd forgotten?”

Annie never forgot anything, not a birthday, not a First Communion, not a favorite color. Make the slightest wish in her presence and it was stamped indelibly on her brain, resurfacing at some future date, wrapped in colored foil under the Christmas tree, beside a plate at Easter dinner, or under a pillow on Saint Stephen's Day.

Horrified at the mist appearing before her eyes, Meghann turned away, pretending to search for the teacups.

“They're in the same place they always were,” Annie said gently, “and there's no shame in a tear now and then. Emotions keep us all humble.”

“Tell that to your son,” Meghann mumbled under her breath.

Annie's eyes twinkled as she set out the napkins. “I believe I'll leave that to you. And remember that I'm not deaf yet.”

***

Meghann unlocked the door of her hotel room and stepped inside. Immediately she sensed it, the sweet unmistakable smell of recently burned carbon. Someone had been in her room. Maybe he was still here.
Breathe, Meggie, breathe,
whispered a memory from Cupar Street. Meghann breathed, gathered her nerve and fumbled for the light switch.

“Don't turn it on,” said a voice she would have known anywhere.

Relief weakened her. She sagged against the wall. “For heaven's sake, Michael,” she gasped. “You might have given me some warning.”

He stepped out of the shadows and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. “There wasn't time. Why do y' want to see Maguire?”

She ignored his question. “Why did you allow me to believe you were still part of the IRA?”

Michael shrugged, walked across the room to the couch and sat down. “Once an IRA man always an IRA man. That's all that matters t' the British and the RUC.”

Her voice was soft, like music. “What made you change your mind, Mick? Why aren't you one of them any longer?”

Something flickered in his eyes. “It isn't important, Meggie.”

“It is to me.”

“Would my reasons make a difference t' you?”

She thought for a minute. Michael was no longer a soldier in the Irish Republican Army. Somehow, some way, he had come to the conclusion of all reasonable men, that murder could not be justified, not even in the name of freedom. Would there be anything that wasn't worth that end result, any reason at all that would make her draw back in horror, leave this room, this country, this man, and take up her sane and comfortable life in London? “No,” she said quietly. “The only thing that matters to me is that you are no longer connected.”

He kept his eyes on her face, wondering how much to believe. After all, she was the girl who'd left him without a word. She smiled and his heart swelled. She was also the woman who'd come back without conditions. “Frankie McLeish was killed the morning of his daughter's baptism,” he told her.

“I know. I'm so sorry, Michael. I read about it in the paper.”

Michael's mouth twisted into a bitter grimace. “He was seen comin' out of the RUC station. They didn't even bother t' check it out before they targeted him as an informer. Turns out he was a community advocate for peace. The Kashmir neighborhood is mixed, and the people there have done well together mostly because of Frankie. All he wanted was a contribution for the rummage sale. That's why he had two hundred quid in his pocket. I tried t' convince them. I thought I had until he turned up dead on the steps of Saint Stephen's, his wife holdin' the baby and his family all around.” He looked up, pain and rage reflected in his eyes. “Can you imagine it, Meggie? A boy you loved like a brother gunned down on the steps of his church, by mistake?”

She shook her head, her eyes wide and unblinking in an effort to keep the tears at bay.

“I kept wonderin' how many other mistakes we'd made and how many more we'd make. That did it for me.”

Meghann crossed the room and sat down beside him, deliberately pushing aside her reaction to his nearness. “It explains why you're suddenly expendable.”

“I'd thought of that, but ten years is a long time. Why would they wait so long to be rid of me?”

“Perhaps because they never had reason before.”

Michael frowned. “I don't understand.”

Meghann leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped. “Until very recently a peace settlement has never been seriously considered. Suddenly it's a real possibility. But Britain stalls, first to pander to the loyalists, second to wait out the elections. Fourteen months go by. Tired of waiting, the IRA breaks the cease-fire, hoping to frighten the parties involved into coming back to the table, thereby moving the process forward.”

“Why James Killingsworth, and why me?”

“This is only speculation, of course, but it's possible that someone wants to discredit you. By claiming you are not connected and that you acted on your own, two goals are accomplished: Sinn Fein is painted in a positive light and an eloquent critic who was one of their own is eliminated. As for choosing Killingsworth for a victim, who in all of Britain had more press coverage? Of course, there's another possibility.”

“What's that?”

“Perhaps not everyone wants peace, and Killingsworth was a serious threat. Your part could have been played by anyone who was at the Europa Hotel that day.”

She watched him as she spoke, hoping to gauge his emotions from his eyes and the expression on his face. To her disappointment, he kept himself carefully neutral, veiling all thoughts from her probing gaze. “This can't be a surprise, Michael. Surely you knew that someone set you up.”

He nodded. “Aye. But I hoped it would take a bit longer for you to come to the same conclusion.”

“Why?”

He reached for her hand. Keeping his eyes fixed on hers, he lifted her palm to his lips and kissed the warm center before answering. “Because now you'll insist on something dangerous like interviewing Andrew Maguire, and there won't be anything I can do t' stop you.” Bending his head, he kissed her palm again and then turned her hand over and leisurely kissed each finger before drawing her into the circle of his arms.

Meghann released her breath and closed her eyes, giving herself up to the erotic pressure of his mouth on her skin. For a few insecure moments she had thought Michael intended to behave as if their relationship was nothing more than that of any client with his attorney, as if their last two days in Donegal had never been. She had prepared herself to go through the motions, to pretend there was nothing between them if that was the way he wanted it. But the moment he reached for her and their eyes locked, Meghann knew she couldn't have managed it. She would have promised him anything, groveled if necessary, just to have him touch her again. Silently she blessed him for removing the possibility of that humiliation.

“Christ, Meghann, I've missed you,” he whispered against her hair. “Tell me y' feel the same.”

She nodded, burrowing her face into his shoulder, afraid to speak and disturb the magic.

He lifted her chin and found her mouth. Desperation and the limits of time heightened their exchange, and too soon he forced himself to pull away, removing his hands from beneath the smooth skin of her jumper. “I wasn't planning t' do that,” he admitted shakily.

Meghann went completely still. “Why not?”

“It isn't fair, not after what I came here to ask.”

“Are you suggesting that I'll do whatever you ask because of a few kisses?”

“Of course not.”

“No?” She stared at him, noticing the rising color under his skin.

Lord, she was quick. Exasperated, Michael came out with it all at once. “I don't want y' anywhere near Andrew Maguire.”

“I need him, Michael.”

“He won't crack. You can't really believe that a man who's held his position for fifteen years will tell you anything.”

“He doesn't have to. It's his reaction I want.”

Michael shook his head. “It won't work. Andrew has dealt with this before. He already knows what you'll ask him.”

“I hope so. That strategy usually works best.”

“What are y' talking about?”

Meghann shook out her hair and straightened her shoulders. “I'm a barrister, Michael, and a very good one. Trust me on this.”

“You, I trust. I wish I could say the same for him.”

She slipped her hand under his. “Arrange the meeting. He can't hurt me. I promise.”

***

Michael was so preoccupied that he almost didn't see the army barricade set up on the corner of his mother's street. By the time he did it was too late to turn back. Holding his breath, he kept his head down, slowed his pace and walked right past them.

“Hey, you there. Stop and turn around.”

Michael cursed under his breath and turned. There were three of them, and they were too close for him to make a run for it.

The short one lifted his flashlight. “Why, it's Devlin again. I'll be damned if I'm going to run his papers through another time. Don't you ever stay home, Devlin?”

Michael took his cue and pretended to be Connor. “Y' know how it is, lads. A pint tastes that much better in good company.”

“Go along with you, bloody Taig. You're making our job that much harder. Don't come through again or I'll take you in.”

Michael couldn't resist. “And what might the charges be?”

The soldier thought a minute, then grinned. “Suspicious activity.”

Michael turned and continued walking until he reached his mother's porch. There, he lifted his hand in a mock salute to the soldiers and opened the door.

“For pity's sake, Mick.” Annie hurried over to lock the door behind him. “Y' can't just walk down the street pretendin' you're John Major. I nearly took my last breath when I heard them shoutin' at you.”

“It wasn't me they were shoutin' at, Ma. It was Connor.”

“What nonsense are y' talking, lad? Connor's asleep in his bed.”

“I'll need to wake him. Someone must take a message to Andrew Maguire. He'll know who to trust.”

Annie's brow wrinkled. “Y' must be slippin', Michael, if y' couldn't talk her out of it.”

Michael grinned and Annie's heart leaped. It was there again, the old brightness that drew everyone into the circle of his charm.

“Meghann's tough, Ma. I don't think anyone could talk her out of something she wanted to do.”

“No one ever could,” his mother agreed. “
Except
you
,” she added quietly before climbing the stairs to wake Connor.

Meghann shivered and moved closer to Michael. The night was bitterly cold, unusual for late summer. A heavy fog hung uneasily over the brick buildings and high above, shrouded in mist, streetlights glowed, changing the color of the fog from gunmetal gray to a dull yellow-white. Fifteen years ago Meghann had known the streets of West Belfast as well as she knew the songs in her mother's music books. Now, everything had changed.

Tidy brick-terraced buildings had replaced the row-house tenements where she had grown to maturity. Hearth fires had given way to central heating, and indoor plumbing provided every family with its own bath and toilet. No longer did boarded-up dwellings with broken windows hide Irish political prisoners, and the dark entries that back in the seventies had served many a lad fleeing from English bullets were now sealed and whitewashed.

The standard of living had improved tremendously for residents of West Belfast, but it frightened Meghann to see how similar and characterless each residence had become. O'Connor's pub no longer bordered Springfield Road's Peace Line. McMahon's convenience store had given way to a gravel parking lot used primarily as a storage site for British tanks.

There was little time for reflection. Michael moved through the backstreets at a murderous pace. He seemed unusually preoccupied and in no mood for conversation. She refused to delve too deeply into the reason for the tension lines creasing his forehead, but she knew intuitively that the stiff angle of his right arm and the way he kept his hand concealed inside his pocket did not bode well for the meeting ahead.

He made an immediate left, leading them down the stairs of a neat brick building, where he knocked three times and waited without speaking. Minutes passed. Finally someone opened the door.

Michael reached out to pull Meghann against him. His breath tickled her ear. “Stay behind me,” he ordered, waiting until she nodded before releasing her.

She followed him down the stairs into a well-lit sitting room. At the back of the room, behind a large desk was Andrew Maguire, Belfast Brigade's Officer Commanding and the man believed by many to be the war hawk of the Provisional Irish Republican Army.

Two burly men in denim trousers and black ski jackets stood by his side. One stepped forward, frisked Michael and pulled the gun from his pocket before moving back to his original position.

Maguire never blinked. Meghann's heart pounded. She had never seen Andrew Maguire. For as long as she could remember he had been a legend in the streets of Belfast, and yet his fit body and thick blond hair made him look much younger than his forty-five years.

Few in the movement commanded as much respect as Andrew Maguire. He had never been convicted of a crime, and for the last twelve years his canny intelligence had kept him out of the interrogation center, something few IRA men could claim. Among the Falls Road nationalists his reputation for fairness assumed heroic proportions. The mere mention of his name engendered more reverence than a papal visit.

Michael had explained it to her. Within the small Catholic population of Belfast, the IRA's leadership came from a close-knit clan of approximately forty active volunteers and twice as many supporters. Blood relationships and family ties were strong. Leaders came from within the political wing of Sinn Fein and other individual IRA men. The structure of the Brigade began with the Officer Commanding. Below him was the Belfast Brigade command, approximately ten experienced men with two or three elected Sinn Fein officials. Then came the command staff responsible for supplying all weapons, the engineering staff for constructing bombs, the finance department for raising funds, and the internal security unit for routing informers. These were small, fluid groupings of two to three men, more like the branches of a family than a true military structure. Everyone knew everyone else. Families frequently intermarried. To penetrate the security of the IRA extended family in Belfast was virtually impossible.

Andrew Maguire personified the Irish republican struggle. He, more than anyone else, had kept the movement together for more than twenty-five years. Maguire appeared to be what every IRA man aspired to be. His dress was casual, consisting of tweed jackets and denim trousers. No one had ever seen him wear a tie. He accepted no special favors, standing in the queue at the infirmary and walking his children to church. It was reported that he didn't drink, smoke, or cheat on his wife. He attended Mass every Sunday and spoke ill of no one but the British. If Andrew Maguire said something, every Irish Catholic in Belfast believed it. He had been Michael's mentor. He was also a complete fraud.

Meghann took the initiative. Without approaching the IRA leader or extending herself in any way, she greeted him from where she stood. “Good evening, Mr. Maguire. I'm Meghann McCarthy, Michael's attorney.”

Cold gray eyes flicked over her, assessing her accent, the color of her hair, and the deceptively simple but expensive navy wool coat and low-heeled shoes. There was no doubt that she despised him. His mouth twisted into a contemptuous smirk. “How does a high-powered London barrister become interested in the case of a former IRA activist?”

“I'm sure you already know the answer to that,” she replied. “In fact you probably know everything about me including the fact that I was born and raised in the Falls.”

Michael slouched by the door, looking relaxed. He returned Andrew's thoughtful gaze with a level, unblinking stare.

“How are y', Michael?”

He shrugged. “I've been better.”

Meghann cut in. “I'd like to ask you some questions, Mr. Maguire.”

The blond man nodded. “For obvious reasons I don't give interviews. But for Michael's sake, I'll make an exception.”

“Very well, then.” Meghann approached the desk and sat down in a chair. “Shall we begin?”

Andrew raised his light eyebrows and looked at Michael, who remained silent. “I'm at y'r disposal, Miss McCarthy, or shall I call y' Lady Sutton?”

“Don't call me anything, Mr. Maguire. This isn't a social visit. We won't be meeting again. Please tell me what your position is regarding the murder of James Killingsworth.”

“Surely y' already know the answer to that.”

“No, actually, I don't.”

For the first time since their arrival, Andrew Maguire appeared impatient. “My position is the official one. The IRA has no knowledge or information regardin' the murder.”

“Michael was in the audience at the Europa Hotel at your request. Why wasn't his name on the guest list?”

Maguire shrugged. “I assume he used another name or he attended without an invitation. We don't usually advertise our whereabouts.”

Meghann folded her hands in her lap and looked directly at Maguire. “Who do you think is responsible for the murder of James Killingsworth?”

His features assumed an impassive expression. “Mr. Killingsworth is responsible, as is the British presence in Ireland. There will be no more political murders when people like you realize that y' have no future in Ireland.”

“I'm Irish, Mr. Maguire,” she reminded him. “My parents died in the Cupar Street burnings. I have no reason to apologize for my presence here. As for your answer to my question, I can only say that you are incredibly naive for a man in your position. There most certainly will be political murders. In fact there will be a bloodbath such as this country hasn't seen since the Easter Rising. I only hope you're prepared for it.” She stood. “I believe I've enough information for now. Thank you for your time.”

She didn't like him. He could sense it. It was more than his IRA affiliation. It was something deeper, something personal. In response to a subtle inclination of his head, the two men flanking him moved from behind the desk to take their positions on either side of Meghann. “Turnabout is fair play, Miss McCarthy. There are some questions I'd like t' ask you.”

“Another time.” She started toward the door, but the men stepped closer, blocking her way. “I beg your pardon,” she said to the expressionless faces. The men didn't move. Meghann turned back to Maguire. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

Andrew Maguire stood and leaned over his desk, resting on his hands. “A Catholic girl from Belfast who made good among enemies. But this isn't England, Meghann. It's Belfast. And in West Belfast, I am the law.”

“Not quite, Andrew,” Michael said steadily. His voice, deadly and cold as ice, cut through the tension in the room. In his hands, aimed straight at Andrew Maguire's heart, was a nine-millimeter handgun, an identical copy of the one sitting on Maguire's desk. “Call off your guards, put your hands over your head and turn around.”

“Don't be an arse, Devlin. Y're no killer.”

“What do y' think, Meghann? The man knows I'm not a killer. Should we call him in as a character witness?”

“Let's go, Michael,” she stammered.

“You're right, Andrew,” Michael continued. “I'm no killer, but I've kneecapped a man or two in my time.”

The man on Maguire's right lunged toward the gun on the desk. Meghann heard a muffled crack. The man cried out and fell against the desk, clutching his knee. Blood gushed from the artery. No one moved. Meghann looked at the spurting red stream coming from the hole in the man's leg and her legs buckled. She would have fallen if an iron hand hadn't closed around her arm.

“Don't faint now, Meggie,” Michael ordered, pulling her behind him. “We've got t' get out of here first.”

“Not just yet, Devlin.” In those few seconds when Michael's attention had been distracted by the whiteness of Meghann's face, Andrew Maguire had reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a long-barreled handgun with a checkered handle, calling card of the Irish Republican Army. He leveled it at Michael's head.

“Y' were never unreasonable, although we didn't always see eye t' eye. Because we've come through a great deal together I won't lie t' you now. We had nothing t' do with Killingsworth's murder, but the Brits won't believe it. They want one of us t' pay, and you were there when it happened. I won't say that it doesn't tie ends up nicely for us, because it does. Consider it your sacrifice for Irish freedom. You'll be a martyr, Mick, unless this pretty Irish colleen can produce the real killer.”

“Kill me now, you bloody son of a bitch. Do y' think I don't know what this is about? Y' don't want peace. What would happen t' the powerful Andrew Maguire if Irishmen were no longer shootin' at each other?” Michael sounded nothing like himself. The man in the ski jacket continued to bleed on the floor. He appeared to be unconscious. Meghann watched in horror as Andrew's fingers closed around the trigger.

“No,” she cried out. “My God, please, don't!” She closed her eyes, praying for a miracle, waiting for the muffled crack and the sound of Michael's body dropping to the ground. But neither came.

Weak with relief, she opened her eyes and witnessed an unexplainable phenomenon. The lights had dimmed. Andrew's gun was no longer pointing at Michael, and standing between the two of them was a woman dressed in white, speaking in the low tones of the language Meghann had first learned at her mother's knee. She barely had time to notice the coppery color of the woman's hair before absolute darkness settled in.

Across the room, Andrew cursed. A gun discharged and the acrid unmistakable stench of gunpowder filled the room. Meghann dropped to the floor. Close to her head, someone breathed. A hand closed over her arm and Michael whispered, “Hold on.”

Meghann reached out, found the leather of his belt and clung to it while he dragged her across the room to the end of the carpet. She felt stone steps beneath her knees. Releasing her hold, she scrambled to her feet. The smell of roses was overwhelming. Instinctively, she knew which way to go. Fumbling for Michael's hand, she took the initiative and followed the floral scent, leading him through the twisted maze of quiet streets at a pace that burned her lungs until her breath would no longer come.

The distance back was traveled in much less time than it had taken to arrive. Strangely enough, there were no English troops at the Falls Road barricade. They crossed without arousing attention. Neither one spoke. A thick mist cocooned them in a foggy chrysalis. Meghann's senses were unusually sharp. Occasionally, when she leaned forward, she caught the fragrance of dried rose petals. She wanted to speak, to ask if Michael had seen the apparition in white. But something held her back.

All at once the fog lifted. Bewildered, Meghann stopped and turned to Michael. He stared at her oddly. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she stammered.

“Like what?”

“As if I were some strange creature you had never seen before.”

He shook his head. “Sometimes I try t' imagine what your life was like after y' left the Falls.”

She laughed uncertainly. “What has that got to do with anything?”

Michael searched her face. “One minute you're so pale I thought I'd have t' carry you all the way and the next you're leadin' us out of that death trap as if the devil himself was at our heels.”

“
I
didn't lead us anywhere
,” she said flatly.

He frowned. “Of course, y' did. How do y' think we got here?”

Meghann opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Michael would have told her if he'd seen her, and if he hadn't he would never believe her. She shrugged. “I'm not I sure. Call it intuition.”

He nodded slowly. “Perhaps. Your instincts are very good, Meghann.”

She considered lying and rejected the notion. Neither would she tell him about the woman who had led them to safety. Settling on a partial truth, she said, “I grew up in the Falls, Michael. If that doesn't teach self-preservation, nothing will.”