Pray for Us Sinners (14 page)

“Shaped charges?”

“Aye. But that's all I know.”

“Never worry. I'll find out somehow.”

Jimmy scratched his chin. “Did Sean tell you what it's for?”

“Not at all. He just said it would be an important job.”

“Important?”

“Aye.”

“Davy.” Jimmy looked down. “Do you not think, maybe, you should tell Sean?”

“Tell him what?”

“Tell him we know nothing about Semtex.”

“Look, Jim, if Sean says it's for something really big, I want in on it.” He glanced back to her picture. “I want this fucking war over.”

Jimmy's voice softened. “You miss her sore, don't you?” He stood and put a hand on Davy's shoulder.

Davy nodded.

Jimmy said nothing, just looked at Davy, sadness in his pale eyes.

Davy pursed his lips. “But standing here blethering about it won't get the baby a new coat. Away you on home. I've work to do.”

“I'll run on.” Jimmy paused. “You look after yourself, oul' hand.”

Davy shrugged, touched by Jimmy's sincerity. “Aye. Right.”

Davy was left to wonder if his friend had meant to look after the cold, take care on the mission—or something else. It would keep. This land mine was needed on Friday night and this time it wasn't being collected. This time Davy was going out with the Active Service Unit. Fusing mines could be tricky, and he'd have to do it on the spot. The components were a lot easier to get past the Security Forces than a completed device.

*   *   *

It was dark outside, but Davy worked on in the brightly lit kitchen. Urea nitrate packed a heavy punch and wasn't difficult to make; it just took time. He should have let the hot filtered urine stand for an hour before adding the nitric acid, but it didn't really matter. It cooled more quickly the way he'd done it. He'd taken his time refiltering the mixture, watching the heap of white crystals grow on the gauze. Then he'd washed the crystals and left them to dry in a dish floating in a bath of warm water.

He'd not wasted the two hours the drying had taken. The pieces for the trigger were finished. Two thin metal plates, one ten by ten, the other eight by ten, were separated by four short wooden blocks, one at each corner. He'd soldered a piece of copper wire to the top plate. It would go to the batteries. One of the wires from the detonator would run to the batteries and the other to the bottom plate. Push the pieces of metal together and the circuit would be completed. He'd leave the batteries in the torch that lay on the table and finish the assembly on Friday, at the ambush. He'd just have to nail the plates to the blocks and attach the wires to the trigger. He lifted a roll of black insulating tape and set it closer to the wood and metal. He'd need that to wrap the sides of the trigger. A bit of mud in there might stop the plates touching when compressed by the wheel of a vehicle. No contact, no explosion. And Sean was relying on him.

He went to the parlour and drew the curtains. He switched on the light, pale from a forty-watt bulb hidden in a pink lightshade. The shadows cast by the hanging silk tassels made looped patterns on the papered walls.

Davy leaned his weight against a small settee, tutting to himself when he noticed a bit of kapok sticking through the fabric where McCusker had sharpened his claws. Once the couch was against the wall he rolled back an imitation Persian rug, threadbare in the centre, colours still bright where the weave had been protected by the settee. Fiona had wanted rid of that old rug, but it had been Ma's and she had been proud of it.

The bare planks of the floor were dusty. One was loose, and he had no difficulty prying it free. The dust made his eyes water, and he sneezed, grabbed for his hanky, blew his nose, and wiped his eyes.

Only joists and boards and concrete foundations were below the floorboards. He squatted by the hole, imagining the reactions of the members of a British search team—their initial delight at finding such a poorly concealed hiding place, their frustration when they saw that it held nothing.

He slipped his hand into his coat pocket and took out a screwdriver. It took him some time to find the hole in the concrete. It was blocked with dust. The screwdriver slipped in easily, and it only took a moment to lever out a slab that had been cut with precision to fit into its niche.

He reached into the cavity. His searching fingers felt the box of blasting caps. They were safer in here than in a bag of cat food. He removed a five-pound tin of Epsom salts, a length of iron pipe, and the wooden box and set them on the floor. He opened the box and took one blasting cap from among its companions, closed the box, put it gently back into the hole, replaced the slab, and filled the nearly invisible cracks with a generous helping of concrete dust. The dust hid the crevices and—he sneezed again—would do just that to any Brit sniffer dogs.

Davy relaid the rug and heaved the settee back into place. Maybe it was the effects of his cold, but the effort had tired him. He sat on the sofa. Just for a wee breather.

And unbidden the memories came of the night of the Abercorn. Davy hunched forward, elbows on knees, big fingers massaging his forehead. Fiona's ghost sat beside him now, so real he could nearly touch her. He heard her voice, soft, contralto: “Davy, I wish you'd get out.”

He stood and gathered up the components. “I can't.” He sighed, a deep shuddering noise. He would put her from his mind. He had his trade, and he'd better get on with it. He switched out the light and took his equipment back to the kitchen.

He put the blasting cap and pipe on the tabletop. He used the screwdriver to lift the lid of the tin and, taking the bowl of white crystals from their water bath, tipped them into the rest of the urea nitrate in the Epsom salts tin. Now, where was the aluminum powder? The mix was four to one.

Davy sat at the table, humming to himself as he worked. The tune was one she'd loved, “Down by the Salley Gardens.” Jimmy would approve. His Mr. Yeats had written the words.

Done. The pipe, screw cap fixed to one end, was crammed with the explosive; the detonator was snug at the top end, buried in the powder. The wires were coiled neatly inside. He knew he was taking a chance. Detonators and the explosives were not meant to be put together until the last moment, but he could think of no other way to hide the blasting cap. He screwed another cap onto the top of the pipe. He'd drill the holes for the wires when he reached the site of the ambush.

He looked at the assortment of objects on the tabletop. Pipe, metal plates, wooden blocks, wires, insulating tape, nails. There was nothing sinister about any of the separate pieces, unless someone unscrewed the top of the pipe. When he packed them in his toolbox, along with his drill and hammer and assortment of wrenches, he'd have little difficulty persuading any nosy security man that he was simply what he seemed to be—a plumber going about his lawful purpose. Even the batteries in the torch were perfectly legitimate—until they sent their current through the fulminate of mercury in the detonator hidden in the pipe. Assembling the device should only take about twenty minutes, and Sean had said he'd allowed plenty of time.

Davy stretched. He'd pack all this away in his toolbox. Then bed. He had nothing to do now but wait until Friday night. He sneezed, sniffed, and made one last check. Everything was in order. He'd not let Sean down. It was all going to go perfectly.

 

TWENTY-ONE

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 20

Cathal Fogarty finished his fifth pint, stood unsteadily, and said, “I'm away on now, lads.”

Other men at the table waved or mouthed, “'Night, Cathal. See you about.” One added, “And buy your fucking round next time.”

He left the bar and walked through the dim night. He didn't need streetlights. He'd lived here in Andersonstown all his life and knew his way around these alleys. Not like his sister's place in Fivemiletown where he had spent the last couple of weeks. The country was spooky at night and he'd been bored silly. He was glad to be back on home territory, able to have a jar with his mates. “Buy your fucking round,” indeed. That Willy Brennan was a right chancer. Cathal had used the last of the money he'd got from the peeler to buy
two
rounds.

He was in no hurry to accept any more of Sergeant Dunlop's cash. Cathal knew he'd been right to get out of the city for a while. Get away from that fucking RUC man with the red hair. Maybe the bugger would leave him alone for a bit. Cathal gave a little shudder. It was a bloody chancy business, informing. Bloody chancy.

Cathal sensed movement beside him. Someone grabbed his wrist and forced his right arm up into the small of his back. Christ, that hurt. He wriggled. A hand was clamped over his mouth, and he was shoved into the back of a waiting car.

The car drove away and turned onto a main street. He could feel something digging into his ribs. Something cold and hard. A voice said, “Keep your mouth shut,” and the hand was taken from his face.

He drew in a great lungful of air. “What—”

“Keep your fucking mouth shut.”

The gun muzzle ground into his side. Cathal tried but couldn't stop making soft moaning noises. He stared about him. The driver was a dark hump, silhouetted by the glare of streetlights. Two men hemmed Cathal in; the one who had snatched him and the one with the gun, a short man who carried his left shoulder higher than his right. Cathal sobbed.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Cathal clapped his hand over his mouth and felt his breath hot on the palm of his hand. The car jolted as it pulled onto a rough piece of ground. He peered through the windscreen. He could make out piles of rubble and the broken walls and fallen roof timbers of a row of razed houses. They were in one of the streets that had been gutted in the riots of '69. Benweeds struggled through piles of fire-blackened bricks. Pools of muddy water sullenly reflected the headlights' glare. The car stopped.

“Holy Mary,” Cathal whimpered. His whole body shook. He was fucked.

The driver switched off the headlamps. The dim glow of distant streetlights cast shadows inside the vehicle.

“Who are you? What do youse want?”

“What are you worried about, Cathal? We're your friends.” The man with the gun turned. He wore spectacles and there was something odd about the left lens. His voice was low-pitched.

Cathal squirmed. “Friends? I've no friends that would take a fellow off a street like that. You're UVF.”

“Not at all. Ulster Volunteer Force? We're not a bunch of fucking Prods.”

Oh, Jesus. These men were Provos. Cathal felt hot tears run down his cheeks, tasted the salt.

“We just wanted a wee word.”

Cathal jerked his head from side to side. He had to get out, but he couldn't. The man who had forced him into the car sat solidly, arms folded, staring ahead. The other one had the gun.

“What about?” he sobbed.

“One of the boys says he saw you in the Elbow Room a couple of weeks back.”

Cathal bent forward and leaned his head on the upholstery of the seat in front.

“Well?”

He sat up. “So?”

“Says you were talking to a peeler.”

“I don't know what the fuck you're talking about.”

“A red-haired man. At the bar.”

Cathal shook his head, sniffed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Red-haired? Sure that fellow only wanted a light. I've never seen him in my life before. He's a bulky?”

“Special Branch.”

“Fuck me. If I'd of known I wouldn't have given him one.” He stared at his interrogator's face, trying to detect any signs that he was believed.

“So our lad was wrong?”

“Aye, certainly. Look. I'm a volunteer in First Battalion. I'd not want to be near any fucking policemen.”

“It's our mistake then?”

“Aye, it is.” Cathal took a deep breath. “Jesus, you'd me half scared to death there.” He was going to get away with it. And as soon as he was out of here he was going to England, as far the fuck away from Belfast as he could get.

The man with the gun opened the door and slid along the seat. Cathal followed, only to be stopped when the man said, “We've to be careful, you know.”

Cathal nodded. “It's all right. No sweat.”

The gunman left the car. “Mind the puddle,” he said, stepping aside as Cathal got out.

Cathal stood on the rough ground hauling in lungfuls of air, hardly believing his luck. He looked up and saw the stars, faint against the glow of the city.

A metal pipe with holes drilled in its sides, wrapped in cotton wool, and stuffed inside a pipe of wider bore makes a very effective silencer. The .22 pistol made only a coughing sound as Brendan McGuinness shot Cathal Fogarty behind the left knee.

Cathal screamed, clasped both hands to his leg, and toppled over to lie on the broken bricks, his head in a pool of stagnant water. He howled, high-pitched keening like a wounded hare, choking as the water blocked his throat.

McGuinness knelt beside Cathal, grabbed a handful of hair, and hauled the man's head out of the scum. “Shut up.”

Cathal screamed.

McGuinness slashed the pistol butt across his mouth. Blood spurted over the youth's chin.

Cathal's screams shrank to whimpers.

“That's better.” McGuinness squatted. “Now, son. How long were you working for the Brits?”

Cathal tried to shake his head, but the grip in his hair was too tight. He felt the muzzle of the pistol resting against his right kneecap. “All right. All right.” His tears flowed and mingled with the blood from his smashed mouth.

“How long?”

“Six months.”

“Six?”

“I swear to God. Six months.”

“Who ran you?”

“Sergeant Dunlop. Springfield Road.” Cathal grabbed for his inquisitor's sleeve. “Agh, Christ, please. Please!”

“Any more of our lads working with you?”