Pray for Us Sinners (13 page)

“Good,” said Turlough Galvin. “Keep at it.”

McGuinness looked at Galvin. “Turlough, how much longer will it be until the lads out in Libya are up to speed?”

“Hard to say. Gadhafi's lot can be pretty disorganized.”

“Fucking A-rabs.”

Sean said quietly, “Those ‘A-rabs' have given us millions, arms, Semtex, and they're training our new explosives experts. Watch who you're calling names, McGuinness.”

Turlough Galvin snapped, “That's enough.”

McGuinness bowed his head. “All right, Turlough.” He smiled, showing uneven teeth. Teeth that had a slight green discolouration. “We'll see how McCutcheon does.” The smile fled. “But as soon as the boys get back from Libya, McCutcheon's expendable.”

 

NINETEEN

FRIDAY, MARCH 8

Rhododendrons. The major was sick of rhododendrons. The bloody things leered out of that god-awful print next door and lurked in an identical picture waiting for him when he returned here to his half of the semi.

He lit a cigarette. He'd be out of these quarters tonight. It would take half an hour to drive Richardson to New Lodge, and then the major could head over to army HQ at Thiepval. He'd be glad to be back home in an officers' mess and to have Richardson in play.

The doorbell rang. Smith opened the door to a corporal standing at attention. “Delivery, sir.” The corporal handed over an envelope.

“Thank you, Corporal.”

“Sir.” The NCO about-turned and marched away, his ammunition boots crashing on the tarmac.

The major closed the door and returned to the living room. He glanced in the envelope before throwing it on the table. Canadian passport and Alberta driver's licence, both in the name of Michael Roberts.

He was assailed by a fit of coughing. Bloody cigarettes. The medical officer had told him to stop smoking, spouting some rubbish about lung cancer. His malarial spleen was more likely to get him. It was the size of a rugby football and fragile as a jellyfish. The Malays used to murder people with a gadget like a knobby crucifix called a larang. If they belted a chap below his left ribs with the larang, his malarial spleen went pop.

He stood up and stepped to the window, looking across the Bangor to Belfast Road and over the marshes of the shores of Belfast Lough. To his left, in the distance, the Goliath crane loomed over the dry dock of the Harland and Wolff shipyards. To his right he could see the high perimeter fence and the sentry posts at the gateway, posts manned by armed soldiers. God, it was good to be back in the army.

He ran his fingers along the windowsill, inspecting them for dust. His fingertips were filthy. He hated dust and felt that since he had left the army, his life had been turning to dust. He pursed his lips. Today any idea of patriotism, Queen, and country was passé, but, damn it, being a soldier was all he'd ever wanted.

He walked to the kitchen, turned on the tap, waited for the plumbing to disgorge a thin stream of rusty water, washed and dried his hands on a towel. He folded the towel in threes before hanging it back on the rail, neither end overlapping the other. He looked at his watch. Harry Swanson should be here soon, and not long afterward they would collect Richardson and drop him in New Lodge. Then—what had Holmes said to Watson?—“The game's afoot.”

He went back into the dining room. A fly-tying vise was mounted on the edge of the table, the half-finished body of a Royal Coachman held in its jaws. He sat and admired his handiwork. He could certainly finish it, and a few more, before it was time to go. That was the difficulty with fly-fishing. As often as not, when the fish had taken the lure, it made a run for freedom, and the fly was gone forever.

And he had to think of lures now. He pinched the bridge of his nose between a forefinger and thumb and yawned. It had been a long two months since Sir Charles had offered John Smith this mission. He'd spent the time painstakingly reviewing files, interviewing intelligence officers and their FINCOs—field-intelligence noncommissioned officers. He was satisfied that all Harry's blokes in 14 Intelligence Company were clean, and MI5 had been most helpful. Unlikely that the leak was there. He had no doubt, none at all, that somewhere in RUC Special Branch a traitor was feeding info to the Provos.

It was a shame that Sir Charles had insisted on all this pussyfooting about because of the sensitivity of RUC-intelligence relations. Eric Gillespie could have found out the gen the major wanted in no time flat without them having to send Richardson in.

The major shrugged. He was thankful for small mercies. Even if Gillespie had been misled about the real reason Richardson was being trained, Eric had been useful. Very useful. That had been a hell of a performance when he'd impersonated the ex-Provo. Neither Harry Swanson nor the major himself could have been as convincing. He'd really given Richardson something to think about.

The major was quite sure that, after the way Richardson had handled himself, the young man was ready. Bursting at the seams to find the IRA bomber and his superiors.

The major picked up the dangling spool of black thread and began to wrap the thorax of the fly with patient, meticulously even turns. The time passed quickly. He paused to admire the six beautifully tied flies: two Royal Coachmen, two William's Favourites, and a pair of Renegades clipped in place in a small silver fly box. He could tie one more before Harry arrived. He selected a Mustad hook, clamped it in place, and had almost completed the fly when he heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. He went to the front door, opening it before Harry Swanson had a chance to knock.

“John.”

“Come in, Harry.”

The major glanced over Swanson's shoulder and saw that the car parked outside was the Ford he had ordered, repainted and with new number plates. Good. Wouldn't do to let the Provos see the same civilian vehicles in their neighbourhoods too often. Certainly wouldn't do if some sharp-eyed terrorist noticed young Richardson getting out of a car that had been identified. He followed Harry Swanson into the living room. They sat.

“So,” said Swanson, “all set?”

“Yes.” The major looked at his companion. Bald as a billiard ball, slim, clean-shaven, a deep dimple in his left cheek when he smiled as he was smiling now.

He said, “I didn't know you were an angler.”

“Trout mostly.”

“I prefer chub or dace myself. Lots of them in the canals in Yorkshire.” Swanson's smile faded. “We're after bigger fish now, John.”

“True. And thanks for all your help.”

“I just hope it works.”

“It should. It'll take Richardson a week or two to make contact. I'll have the intelligence from London by then.”

“You're sure the man we're after is in the RUC?”

“Pretty much. I've asked Sir Charles to let me have the details of unexpected attacks on our forces. Missions that the Provos could only have mounted with inside gen. I particularly want to know which RUC officers would have known the movements of our people.”

“You reckon there'll be a pattern?”

“Definitely. I'm betting there will be one name that stands out.”

“Then what?”

“Depends on Richardson.”

“How?”

“If the brave boyos do take him on, he'll have to know when raids are coming up. We'll organize a juicy bombing target that only our suspect knows about. If Richardson's told to prepare a device for an attack, he'll tell us and we'll know where the Provos got their info.”

“That might just work.”

The major began to attach the wings to the Black Butcher. “It had bloody well better.” If it didn't he had only one other plan up his sleeve, one he had no intention of sharing with Harry Swanson. “I'll just finish this fly and then we'll be off.” He cocked his head to inspect the underbelly. It wasn't quite even. Not up to his usual standards, but sometimes he had to use the best lure that came to hand. Flies really were the only sporting way to take a fish. Only a thorough rotter—he finished the knot and cut the thread—would use live bait.

 

TWENTY

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 20

The stink was enough to choke a cat. McCusker, in fact, had fled. Despite a streaming head cold, Davy could not ignore the acrid steam coming from four pints of his urine, boiling in a can on the stove. He sniffed, feeling the raw burning in his nostrils, the tightness at the back of his throat.

Another ten minutes should have the original eighty ounces evaporated down to eight. There would be plenty of urea in that, and one of Jimmy's mates had nicked enough nitric acid from Mackie's Foundry up on the Springfield Road. Now, if Jimmy had been successful on this afternoon's errand …

Davy sat at the table and waited. A few more hours wouldn't make a pick of difference. It was nearly two weeks since his meeting with Sean Conlon. A bloody long two weeks, but the job was on for this Friday. It was good to be back at work, and knowing that the target was the army helped. Not even Fiona—gone six weeks—could object to this one. Or maybe she could. She hadn't said, “Stick to being a soldier.” She'd said, “The Provos or me.” Davy glanced at her picture and took a deep breath, coughed as the fumes burnt his throat, and murmured, “God, I want you back, girl.”

He sneezed and groped in the pocket of his brown grocers' coat for a handkerchief. He honked into the cloth and was wiping the end of his nose when someone knocked at the front door.

“Hold your horses.”

Jimmy stood on the step, dressed in paint-splattered white dungarees. He looked cheerful. “Got it,” he said, offering a carrier bag to Davy.

“Good man.” Davy took the bag. “Come on in.”

“Jesus,” said Jimmy. “Smells like a French hoor house.”

“How the fuck would you know? You've never been outside of Ireland in your life.” Davy closed the door and followed Jimmy into the kitchen.

“I've read about French hoor houses.” Jimmy peered into the can on the stove. “Looks like it's near ready.”

Davy rummaged in the carrier and pulled out a tin of brown enamel paint. “For Christ's sake, I didn't send you to buy paint.”

Jimmy mouthed a snatch from an old music hall song. “Do you want your oul' lobby washed down, Mrs. Brown?” He shoved his hand inside his dungaree top and produced a paper bag. “You reckon this'll do the trick?” He handed the package to Davy. “Buy paint in a paint shop, they think you're a painter. Buy aluminum powder, and you've half the RUC on your back. It's easy enough to feck a pound or two when the storeman's in the back mixing,” he pointed to the can and said in a falsetto voice, “burnt ochre.”

Davy looked into the bag and saw the silvery granules. “Good man.” He set the bag beside the bottle of nitric acid. “Right. Give us the carboy.”

Jimmy lifted a large glass bottle from the floor. A strip of gauze was tied firmly over the mouth. Davy limped to the stove, turned off the gas, put on a pair of oven mitts, and carried the can over to the table. He poured the concentrated urine through the gauze and into the bottle.

Jimmy, who had taken a seat, watched. “Jesus, Davy. You've a quare soft hand under a duck.”

“Quit farting about. Hand me the nitric.” He put the empty can on the floor, took off the mitts, and eyed the bottle of acid. “What do you reckon?”

“Near enough to three to one.”

“Right.” Davy dribbled the nitric into the urine, holding his head to one side as the mixture frothed and gave off nostril-burning yellow fumes. He put the bottle on the table and sneezed. “Bugger.” He sniffed. Loudly.

“Bless you,” said Jimmy, scratching his sandy hair. “Do you fancy nipping out for a jar while we wait?”

“Nah. You run on, Jim. I'm full of the cold. Anyway, I'd better not take a drink 'til I've this here finished. Away on home to your missus.”

“Aye. But I'll stop in for one on the way.” He chuckled, “hee-hee. The old one always looks a bit better after I've had a couple. Mind you,” Jimmy was beaming, “she's been in better form this last while, ever since our wee girl wrote and said she was coming back from Canada.”

“Siobhan? How long's she coming for?”

“Six weeks. She's been gone four years. She was a wee corker when she left. She'll likely be the quare lady now. I'll hardly know my own daughter. Plane comes in to Aldergrove tomorrow.” Jimmy positively bubbled. “Four years is a brave long time, so it is. She's had to save up for the fare.”

Davy was going to speak, but a fit of coughing cut him short. He slapped himself twice on the chest.

There was concern in Jimmy's voice. “You going to be all right?”

Davy nodded and waited for the coughing to stop. Why was Jimmy looking like a mother whose youngster had just fallen down and skinned his knees? A mother with a facial tic.

“You mean this cold?”

“Aye. And, Davy. You're getting too old to be gallivanting about with an action squad. You take care of yourself, now.”

“Don't worry your head about me, Jim.”

Jimmy made a sucking noise of cheek against teeth. “All right,” he said, rising. “I believe you. Thousands wouldn't.” He peered into the carboy. “It's coming on. I doubt there's another man in Belfast would know how to do that.”

“Away on. Sure they taught us that years ago.”

“Aye, and gelly and TNT and ammonium nitrate.”

Davy hesitated. “Do you know anything about Semtex, Jim?”

“Semtex?”

“Aye.”

“It's one of them new plastic jobs.”

“I know that. Do you know how to use it?”

“Why?”

“Sean says there's a batch coming in. He wants us to do something special with it.”

“Jesus. I seen a movie once. The hero had to make what they called ‘shaped charges'. Made a hell of a bang in the film.”