Pray for Us Sinners (39 page)

Marcus's hand shook when he grabbed the phone. Fucking rats. He dialed the number he'd mentioned. Three double rings and a metallic, recorded female voice saying, “You are in the Lisburn area. Do not dial 084-62.”

He redialled, the phone's action slow as molasses on a cold day. A male voice said, “Thiepval HQ.”

“Mike—Sorry, Lieutenant Richardson. Connect me with Major John Smith. In a hurry.”

A clipped voice said, “Smith.”

“Major, I've only a few seconds. I'm in a farmhouse between Hillsborough and Lisburn. Near the Ravernet bridge. I'm with a Provo and we've mined the bridge. Target: some VIP tomorrow.”

He heard an indrawing of breath.

“I can't disarm the charges, but I'm close to the top men. Their IO's called Brendan McGuinness.”

“McGuinness?”

“Right. Now, John, stop the convoy, but do not, repeat, do not raid the farm. I'm going to need my contact to get the rest of the names.”

“Well done.”

Marcus put the phone down and flinched as it tinged, sure that Davy would have heard the noise as loudly as the tolling of a funeral bell.

 

FIFTY-SEVEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 18

The major replaced the receiver and swung his legs out of bed. Richardson had resurfaced as unexpectedly as a German U-boat in the middle of Belfast Lough. He was not dead, and for that the major was grateful because, by circumstances the major could only guess at, Richardson's situation was perfectly tailored to the major's needs. The lad was smack at the heart of the Provos' most spectacular attempt to date, had compromised it, and no one knew but Major Smith.

The snare that had been set for Eric on Tuesday was no longer operative. It hinged on the supposition that Richardson was dead. Palpably he was not, and his present circumstances had given the major the key to the conundrum, a key of such amazing simplicity that he felt as though he had just won the triple chance on the football pools.

The target, which Richardson had called “some VIP tomorrow,” was the British prime minister, Harold Wilson. Saving him would be a huge feather in the major's cap, and might by itself make Sir Charles sufficiently grateful to forget his threat of dismissal.

Killing Wilson would be an enormous propaganda coup for the Provos. The political fallout hardly bore thinking about. But failing to kill him, and being incontrovertibly identified as the perpetrators of such an assassination plot, could do the Provos huge damage in the arena of public opinion.

It would be simple now to reroute the PM and to have the bomb under the bridge discovered, but if that was all that happened, the PIRA would deny all knowledge of the device and try to divert blame to any one of the other paramilitary organizations operating in the province. If, on the other hand, the bomb—and the Provo who was to have fired it—could be taken, his presence would stamp the PIRA's signature on the attempt as clearly as if they had taken an advertisement in the
Belfast Telegraph
. And they would not want that to happen. Not at all.

If they found out that the whistle had been blown and that the Security Forces were going to raid the farm, they would cut their losses—they'd have to—by pulling their bomber out. And how would they find out? Any raid on the farmhouse would be mounted by the army, but there would have to be representatives of the civil authority. Detective Superintendent Eric Gillespie had said he wanted to hear when Richardson reappeared. He would hear. But not yet, not until time was so short that when he acted on the information and warned his controller, there would be no chance to muddy the trail.

The major yawned, set his alarm for 3
A.M
., and headed for the bathroom to take a pee. He hummed a little tune. “A-hunting we will go.”

*   *   *

The major sat on the side of his bed, cigarette in one hand, the telephone receiver pressed against his ear with the other.

“What's up?” Gillespie sounded drowsy.

God, but his Ulster accent was even more grating, distorted as it was by the telephone wires. “Spot of bother. My man's just reported in.” The major blew a smoke ring directly into the face of the bedside alarm.

“And?”

“Seems the bold boyos are going to have a go at the PM tomorrow. From a farmhouse.”

“What? Shit. Where?”

“Near a place called Ravernet.”

“Ravernet?”

“They've mined a bridge.”

“Ravernet. There's only one bridge there.”

“Could you pop over to Thiepval this morning? Have a word with one of the infantry chaps? Thought we might pay a visit to the farmhouse. You'd make the arrests.”

“Right. Your troops are here to support the civil authority.”

“Of course.” An edge crept into Major Smith's voice. “Be here at 0400.”

“You're not giving me much time.”

“Sorry about that.” The major grinned. “One more thing, old boy. Do keep it to yourself.” The major hung up, slid off the bed, stubbed the smoke in an ashtray on the bedside table, and went into the bathroom to shave. It wouldn't do to be scruffy-looking at the upcoming briefing.

The major thought about Richardson. He was a smart lad. As far as he knew, his mission was to identify senior Provos. Of course, he'd not want the farmhouse to be raided. If the PM simply didn't show, the Provo Richardson was with would have to put it down to bad luck. He and Richardson would vanish, and sometime later he'd make the introductions Richardson had been instructed to seek.

But Richardson did not know that the real reason for his mission was mole catching, and for that to succeed Major Smith knew that a raid would have to be mounted. They probably wouldn't catch the Provo. As soon as he was warned, he'd scarper. But it was the warning, and the trail leading directly back to Eric, that interested the major.

He'd have to try to ignore the obvious snag in the arrangements. Major Smith had known for several weeks that Richardson's cover had been blown, that the Provos knew who he was. How he had managed to find himself in such a strategically important position was unclear, but how did not matter now. That he was in that position did matter, and that posed something of a problem. When the Provo in the farm got the word to run, he would be ordered either to waste Richardson or to bring him out for in-depth interrogation. Either way, the young man's future looked cloudy in the extreme. Pity, Major Smith thought, as he finished lathering his face, but there really wasn't much he could do about it. The razor made a grating noise as it sliced through his unwanted stubble.

 

FIFTY-EIGHT

THURSDAY, APRIL 18

“Come quick, Brendan.” One of the communications centre's night-duty men wakened McGuinness.

He groped for his spectacles. “What time is it?”

“Three thirty.”

“Shit. It'd better be important.”

The man flinched. “The Brits know about the attack on the prime minister.”

“What?”

The smaller man crouched into himself. “The Brits know. There's an informer called Roberts with Davy.”

“There's a what? An informer? Roberts?”

“Aye—and the soldiers're going to raid the farmhouse.”

“Fuck.” McGuinness sat bolt upright. “Fuck.” He swung his legs to the floor. “Get to hell out while I get dressed.”

“Will I wake up Sean?”

“No. I'll be there in a minute.”

“Right.” He left.

Brendan struggled into his pants. He managed to get both feet into one of the trouser legs and almost fell. Shit! Now. The first thing to do was get the action squad out. The lads who were to herd the sheep at Norman Johnston's farm. They were to move in half an hour. There was bugger-all they could do now. What about the diversions? Later. He'd think about that later.

McCutcheon? With an informer? What the bloody hell was going on? How in the name of thundering Jesus had McCutcheon got tied up with the Brit Roberts? Roberts wasn't supposed to be approached until Brendan had given the OK. No one would have told McCutcheon that, because Sean kept his old bomber isolated. But why would the stupid shit have taken Roberts to the farm?

Brendan decided that the answers to those questions would have to wait. Right now he had to work on damage control. If the Brits attacked and found no one in the farm, they'd know that Davy had been tipped off. And that could compromise Brendan's source. The source of information was more important—vastly more important than a broken-down old Fifties Man.

McCutcheon would have to stew in his own juice. McGuinness finished dressing and went to his control centre. He was very wide awake.

*   *   *

No one slept in the farmhouse. Davy tossed and turned, impatient as a girl before her first Communion, willing the time to pass. Only a few more hours and he'd be finished, on his way to a new life with Fiona.

Marcus lay and stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow was going to be an anticlimax now that the major was tipped off. And Marcus didn't mind. During the weeks of being Mike Roberts, Marcus had noticed that his own attitudes were altering, as if the man in the green binder was trying to take over. He'd been doing it again this morning. Marcus the officer knew very well where his duty lay. Once this morning's nonevent was over, he must continue as ordered, meet the senior Provos, and turn them, and the bomber, in.

And after that? He'd missed Siobhan dreadfully since he'd been here. Once he'd satisfied the major, he would go to her, tell her the truth, and hope to God she would forgive him. Just like Davy's Fiona would forgive him.

But Mike Roberts, the wee lad from Bangor, had grown to like the old terrorist during their forced comradeship. Davy did have a sense of chivalry, even if it was misguided, and whatever he had done in the past, Davy was unlikely to be a threat in the future. Mike and Marcus agreed on what to do about Davy McCutcheon. Marcus had decided to go ahead with getting Davy to make the introductions, but afterward he'd let him have his chance to break with the Provos and go to his Fiona.

Which was all very well. None of that would solve Marcus's worries about how to explain to Siobhan who and what he really was and how she would react to the news. He was no closer to puzzling that out as he looked at his luminous watch, saw it was 3:45, and drifted off into a troubled doze.

*   *   *

At 0355, the major entered a briefing room. He carried a rolled-up map under his arm. He finished pinning it to an easel as the door opened and Captain Robby Knox came through the door. The major nodded toward a seat.

The captain sat. “Morning, sir.”

“Morning, Knox. Sorry to haul you out of bed.”

Knox yawned.

Eric Gillespie walked in, said nothing, and took a seat beside the Para captain.

“Morning, Eric,” the major said. “Detective Superintendent Gillespie, Captain Knox.”

The two men shook hands.

“Right,” said the major. “I need a rapid-reaction force on the ground here,” he pointed at the map to the Ravernet Road. “There's a mine under the bridge, so keep your men away from it. We'll send in the RAOC to deal with it later.

“The RAF will have to lay on a Wessex to transport a second team here, because in this farmhouse is one of the Provos' top bomb men. See to it, Knox.”

“It'll take an hour or two.”

“Be ready by 0900.”

“Yes, sir.”

The major turned to Eric. “That's your backup organized. Are you bringing anyone else?”

“You told me to keep it to myself. I'll go on my own with the soldiers in the chopper.”

The major asked Knox, “Leave Thiepval 0900, on the ground by?”

“Before 0930, sir.”

“Good. Now. There will be two men in the farm. The younger one's a British officer. I'd like you to get both out in one piece, but particularly my agent. His password's ‘whigmaleerie.'”

“‘Whigmaleerie'? Right, sir.” The captain rose. “I'd better get moving.”

“Hang on a moment, Knox.” The major spoke directly to Eric. “Do you have other arrangements to make?”

“Aye.”

“Use my office. Three doors along the hall.”

“Right.” Gillespie left.

The major said to Captain Knox, “For reasons which don't concern you, I want this operation kept absolutely hush-hush until you and your men have left Thiepval. Clear?”

“Sir.”

“I'll tell you, Knox, and no one else, the buggers were going to have a go at the PM.”

Captain Knox whistled.

“Quite. I don't want any possibility that our hand will be tipped to the Provos, so we'll keep that to ourselves until after you've hit the place. Have your wireless operator call in when you get started. Soon as I hear, I'll arrange to have the PM rerouted.”

“Right, sir.”

“Good man. Off you go. And, Knox? Good luck.”

*   *   *

By 8:45 Brendan had finished. He'd sent a lad to Johnston's farm. The three men of the action squad had been intercepted at the end of the lane and told to head back to Belfast. It had taken longer to reach the others. Brendan had made no idle boast when he told Sean that he expected to have a thousand Brits tied up. His plan would have caused chaos and diverted troops and police away from the bridge and the land mine.

Thirty men and women had been briefed earlier in the week to telephone from public facilities, starting at nine o'clock. Each message was supposed to have been to the RUC, the
Belfast Newsletter,
and the
Telegraph
, smaller regional papers like the
County Down Spectator,
and the television and radio stations. Each call was to be prefaced by a code word so that the recipients would know it to be genuine. Each was to warn of a bomb. After the explosion on the Shankill Road yesterday, the Security Forces would have had to respond. But now that the attack on the British prime minister was off, there was no point wasting a previously unused diversionary tactic. Brendan left the control room and went through to the lounge.