Jig (8 page)

He stood up, moving towards one of the harps. He angrily ran his fingers over all the strings and the room rippled with sound.

‘This bloody country!' Finn shouted suddenly, as if the climate of Ireland were responsible for his hair loss. ‘This godforsaken island of good intentions, dried-up old nuns, and bloody gossips! I tell you, there are times when I want nothing more than to just turn my back on the whole bloody place and let it sink into the ocean and see if I care!' Finn paused. ‘You know what the ocean would do? Eh? It would spit the bloody island back
up
again! And you know why, boy? Because it's too much fucking trouble, that's why! Besides, what ocean would want the taste of a man like Ivor McInnes in it?'

Ivor McInnes, a Protestant minister who until recently had had a parish in Belfast, was Finn's bête noire. McInnes, who specialised in sermons that were critical of Catholicism in general and the IRA in particular, was symptomatic, in Finn's mind, of the wrongs that plagued the island today. There were just too many hard core Protestants, with views that were sometimes to the far right of bigotry, wandering the land. Finn thought all extremists should be incarcerated and the key thrown away. He brought up the name of McInnes at every opportunity, rather in the way a man with congested lungs might bring up phlegm.

The young man watched as Finn wandered around the room, plucking strings until the whole room was humming and singing.

Over the endless vibrations, Finn was talking rapidly. He moved backwards and forwards, waving his arms in an erratic fashion. He was ranting about how he'd struggled for supreme control of the finances of the Irish Republican Army, how he'd formed the ultra-secret innermost cell called the Association of the Wolfe precisely for the purpose of handling income. How, since 1981, he'd taken great pains to make sure that the money that came from ‘the friends overseas' was spread carefully and discreetly around, because he wanted to keep it out of the hands of the extremists. He wanted an end to the
atrocious
image the IRA had made for itself. What bloody good did it do to blow up a London bus, say? Wasn't that a waste of explosives and
terrible
PR into the bargain? If there was to be killing, it had to be selective. If there were to be assassinations, only hostile political targets were to be picked. Nothing else could ever be justified.

Finn shook his head from side to side. ‘Aside from the almighty dent that buying arms puts in our budget, do you know where our money goes, Jig?'

Jig shook his head. Finn had never talked about the particulars of finance before.

‘I'll tell you. It goes to the Catholic families in the North when the man of the house is stuck in some bloody British jail because he was stupid enough to try and set off a bomb in the Tower of London and get himself caught. Do you know what this maintenance money costs us every year? Have you any idea? What will those women and children do if we can't get money to them?'

Santa Claus, Jig thought, dispensing banknotes from a sack.

‘I'll tell you something else you didn't know,' Finn continued. ‘Money gets ploughed into keeping the Gaelic alive. It goes to finance teachers and students and the publication of works in Irish. How can we sit around and talk English if we're supposed to be an independent country? English is a barbaric tongue, Jig, a mishmash. It doesn't have the sweetness of the Gaelic. Have you ever imagined what it would have sounded like if Bill Shakespeare had written in the Gaelic? Imagine
Hamlet
in Irish.'

Finn smiled. The harps trembled and rattled. Jig stood very still. He'd never heard this kind of desperate note in Finn's voice before. The news of the
Connie O'Mara
had clearly wounded the old man in a deep place.

Finn stood at the window now, his hands folded behind his back. ‘She was a fine ship run by fine men,' he said, his voice a whisper suddenly. ‘Liam O'Reilly grew up with me down in Bantry. A good man. And now he's dead and they're all dead and the bloody money's gone. Our money, boy. Our purse.'

Jig said nothing.

Finn rubbed him lightly on the shoulder. ‘You're going to get it back for me, boy. Aren't you?'

The young man looked into Finn's eyes. What he saw there was a kind of madness, a needle-sharp single-mindedness. He imagined that the ancient saints who went out into the wilderness for months at a time had looked exactly like this. A manic light.

‘If there's a way,' Jig answered.

‘No ifs, Jig. There's always a way.' Finn moved back to the window. He stood looking out as if he anticipated enemies in the shrubbery. ‘The bloody Americans,' he muttered.

‘You think they're responsible?'

‘For many years now, we've had sympathetic songbirds inside the New York City Police Department because that place is still basically an Irish colony. And the information that reached me late last night is that the
Connie
's crew was slaughtered by American weapons.'

‘American weapons are widely available,' the young man said.

Finn spread his hands out. ‘There's more. I'm not quite finished. The same source was kind enough to mention the contents of a ballistics report conducted by the gentlemen of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.'

‘And?'

‘The ammunition used was something called the SS109, which is manufactured by an American company called the Olin Corporation. This kind of ammunition, they tell me, is used in the Colt M-16A2 automatic rifle, also American.'

Jig licked his lips, which were dry. ‘All right. Suppose the pirates were American. How do you narrow that down to specific individuals, Finn? The last time I heard, there were more than two hundred million people in the United States.'

‘Simple, simple,' Finn answered. ‘Consider this. A group of men collects a large sum of money for the Cause. Imagine one of this group says to himself that the poor old
Connie O'Mara
is a sitting duck just waiting to be shot and plucked. This treacherous bastard sees gold in front of his eyes. He can taste it. He decides he's going to make his own arrangements and to hell with the Cause! He's going to make himself rich at our expense!'

There were little spots of saliva at the corners of Finn's mouth. ‘Only this group of men knew the cargo and destination of the
Connie
. Only
this
group, boy. Nobody else. And one of them is our fucking Judas. One of them
has
to be. It could only have been an inside job. I'll swear by that.'

Jig absorbed all this for a second. ‘Who are the members of this group?' he asked. He knew what Finn's answer would be.

‘Now right there you encounter your first obstacle,' Finn said. ‘The lines of communication were established in such a way that the money always came from what we might call sources unknown. Even the telephone number I call in America is never the same one twice. All this was done in the sainted name of secrecy, of course, which we all know is a two-faced bastard that can easily work against you.'

The young man spread his hands in a perplexed manner. ‘Where do you expect me to start?'

Finn narrowed his eyes. ‘I'll give you a name and that's all I can give you.'

‘Who?'

‘A certain Father Tumulty in New York.'

‘What can a priest tell me?'

‘I never said the man was a priest, did I now?' Finn looked faintly mischievous.

‘How do you want me to handle all this?' Jig asked.

Finn studied the young man's face. It was a good face, handsome and strong, with eyes that suggested layers of inner conviction.
You chose this one well, Finn
. There was steel in this boy, there was backbone and guts and, best of all, a chill dedication to the Cause. He placed one hand on Jig's shoulder. ‘I'd be the happiest man in God's earth if I could tell you the names of the men who call themselves the Fund-raisers, because if I knew that we could sit down the way we usually do and devise a blueprint of action for you. I can tell you the
kind
of men they are. I can tell you they're the sort of men who've always been drawn to the Cause because it brings a small sense of danger into their otherwise drab lives. It gives them the illusion of
purpose
, boy. They send large sums of money over here then they sit back on their fat Yankee arses and feel very Irish. They've paid their dues. They think they belong. They think they
understand
. They think they're part of the whole bloody struggle. But they're not. They're money men, and
they
don't have any blood on their lovely white hands. They have silly little dreams in their head, but the only dream worth a damn is the one you're prepared to die for. And these men aren't ready to die for anything just yet, thank you very much. They're not Irish. They're Americans. They beat their chests and call themselves
Irish
-Americans, and they put on a big green production every St. Patrick's Day, but they're about as Irish as the Queen of England. Personally I long for the day when we won't need such men …' Finn, who had a moment of uneasiness, a sense of uncertainty, a sudden nagging doubt, glanced at the boy. ‘I know the kind of men they are, but I don't know their names, and I don't know how many of them are in the group. Three, four, six, I just don't know. Consequently …' and here he took a deep breath, ‘we don't have a blueprint, boy. Only a burning bloody need for
that money
.'

The young man knew the kind of American Finn was talking about. He didn't care for them any more than Finn did, but his private feelings were irrelevant to him right then. He said, ‘You still haven't answered my question, Finn. How do you want me to handle this?'

Finn rubbed the tip of his long straight nose. ‘You have to keep several things in mind. One, the members of this group are going to be more than a little paranoid right now. The money's gone. They're going to be accusing one another and suspecting one another. They're going to be nervous, boy. And a nervous man isn't altogether a predictable one. Remember that. Two, when you find out who is involved in the Fund-raisers, you've got to proceed on the possibility that each and every one of them is the traitor. None of them is going to be happy to see you, because they're going to think that you
suspect
each of them of this awful crime. None of them will want to be your friend.' Finn looked suddenly exasperated. ‘Ah, Jesus, it's a tricky situation.'

The young man blinked at the morning light climbing against the window.
None of them will want to be your friend
. He had no friends other than Finn, nor did he imagine ever needing any. He could have made friends if he'd wanted to, because he had an easy charm he was able to turn on and off and he had the kind of looks that others found attractive. But friendships were for other people. They were part of ordinary lives.

Finn put his hands in the pockets of his pants. ‘Approach them carefully. Try to take them off guard if you can. But expect them to lie to you. Expect them to shift suspicions onto other members. Expect them to deny they have anything to do with sending money to Ireland. And don't be surprised if some of them treat you with outright animosity. As I said, these are nervous men. Push them a little if you feel you have to, but bear in mind this sorry fact – we'll probably need the services of some of these men in the future.'

The young man said nothing. He hadn't anticipated making a trip to America, and he found the prospect just a little unsettling. When he operated on the British mainland or in Northern Ireland, he always did so with a specific plan in mind, a detailed map of what he was supposed to do and how it was going to be achieved. Now, though, it seemed as if Finn expected him to go into America blind, which was an idea he didn't like. When you didn't have a plan, it was difficult to maintain control. And if one thing was anathema to him, it was the loss of control. He didn't want to go to America, but if Finn commanded him, then he'd obey. It would never have occurred to him to question Finn's orders.

The harp strings in the big room had all stilled now, and there was only a pale lingering echo of any noise.

Finn sat down, crossing his long legs and adjusting his baggy cord pants as if they had a razor-sharp crease that needed to be preserved. He was a man of small, endearing vanities. ‘You'll need a gun, although I hope with all my heart you don't have to use it. But it would be downright foolish to go into this without one. Tumulty can help you there. I don't want you going into one of those bloody Irish bars in Queens and picking up what our American friends call a Saturday Night Special, Jig. I don't want you making any kind of contact with the Irish rabble that collects money in tin cans and sends cheap handguns to post-office boxes in Belfast or Derry. They mean well, no doubt, but they drink too much and they talk too bloody much, and we don't need any kind of gossip about you.'

Jig nodded. What he suddenly wished was that Finn was going to the United States with him. For a moment he felt a twinge of loneliness, but he put the sensation out of his mind. He had chosen this life. Nobody had selected it for him. Finn, certainly, had nudged him in the direction of this existence, but finally the choice had been entirely his own.

‘One other thing,' Finn said, regretting his anger when he'd talked on the telephone with his anonymous American contact. He'd blurted out some threat about sending a man over, and now he was sorry about it. Quick to rage and say things he wished he hadn't – would he never change? ‘They'll be expecting you over there.'

‘Somebody's always expecting me, Finn.'

The old man didn't speak for a time. He reached for the bottle of peppermint schnapps that sat on a table against the wall, then changed his mind about drinking. He wanted to be cold sober. ‘You did a fine job with Whiteford,' he said in a low voice.