Pray for Us Sinners (35 page)

The driver waited for the light to change, then moved the tractor slowly forward. He glanced at his companion. “Are you right?”

The man nodded and slipped a hand down to the floor of the cab to lift an ArmaLite. The driver looked to his right where a red Ford was parked. The driver of the Ford held one thumb up.

“Now.” The passenger cradled the rifle as the driver slammed his foot onto the accelerator and aimed the vehicle straight at the wire fence surrounding the barracks.

*   *   *

Woman Police Constable Young stared in through the window of the tractor's cab. God Almighty, that was a rifle the passenger was holding. “Sergeant,” she yelled, hauling out her ·38 revolver. “Sergeant! We're under attack.”

She steadied her right wrist with her left hand and triggered one shot. The bullet missed the driver, but it shattered the glass, and a flying shard sliced into the man's left eye. He screamed, clapped both hands to his face, and lost control. The tractor skidded broadside into the mesh fence and stalled.

“I'm fucking blinded.”

“Get out,” the passenger yelled, tugging at his driver's sleeve. “Get out.” He ducked as rounds spat from the police station and whined off the tractor's body. If one of them went into the bucket … He slipped from the cab and took cover behind the tractor, laying the ArmaLite on the mudguard and loosing off an automatic burst.

Chips of brick flew from the station's wall. Bright stars of steel shone through the grey-painted shutters where the rounds had hit. The racket of firing drowned the driver's howls. The muzzle of a Sten gun slipped through an aperture in one of the shutters and winked yellow flame. The driver convulsed like an electrocuted rag doll, his howling cut short.

The man with the ArmaLite crabbed sideways, keeping the body of the tractor between him and the front of the police station. He stared off to his right. The red Ford pulled away from the curb, heading his way. One door was open. Bullets cracked overhead. As the car came abreast, he hurled himself through the open door. “Get the fuck away to hell—”

A row of slugs stitched him from hip to shoulder and punched neat holes in the red metal of the car. One round in the burst struck a nun in full habit as she cowered on the pavement opposite, killing her instantly. The red Ford sped away, heading for Belfast, as its driver sobbed, “Oh, shite. Oh, shite.”

*   *   *

Woman Police Constable Young could not stop trembling. Her nostrils were assailed by the acrid smell of gun smoke, her ears still rang from the clamour of the now-silent automatic weapons. From below, she heard Sergeant Crawford's voice. “Jesus Christ, there must be half a ton of ammonium nitrate in this bucket. For God's sake, get the bomb squad.” She heard footsteps on the stairs. Sergeant Crawford stood in the doorway. “God, Mary, you done good.” His arms were wide open. She fled to the comfort of him.

 

FIFTY-ONE

TUESDAY, APRIL 16

The major waited in his office. He'd had hell's delight getting a message through that he needed to see Eric Gillespie. Sir Charles had insisted that the major use the RUC man, and that was precisely what he intended to do—although not in the way Sir Charles intended. Richardson would be the key. It would be an outside chance, but, given the major's mandate, he would have to take chances. Or, to be more precise, Richardson would.

Since this morning's meeting, when his deadline had been reduced to three days, the major had rapidly reviewed his options and decided on a course of action. Harry Swanson's sergeant had not seen Richardson for a couple of days. Did it mean that he had been picked up by the PIRA? If he had and was still alive, there was an outside chance that the major could still use Richardson the way he had originally planned. Eric, and only Eric, would be notified about an imaginary British operation. One that would be easy to attack. Gillespie would be unable to resist notifying his controllers. If they went ahead planning an attack and used Richardson as their bomb maker, he would pass the word back to the major. And as there was no real target and only Gillespie would be privy to the information, only Gillespie could tip off the Provos. Two plus two equals four.

Most probably the Provos would eventually kill Richardson. But he'd only been missing for forty-eight hours, and they usually interrogated suspected British intelligence operatives for days. Of course, Richardson was a soldier, and as far as the major was concerned, death was an occupational hazard. He could regard the possibility of Richardson's demise with detached equanimity, provided it led to the attainment of the objective.

It might be even more helpful if he
were
killed. Apart from Harry, Harry's operative, and the major, no one knew that Richardson was undercover—except Gillespie. If Richardson's corpse showed up in the next day or two, it could be used to the major's advantage. He would simply have Gillespie arrested on the suspicion that he had used his knowledge to tip off the Provos about Richardson.

At the moment, any link between Gillespie's knowledge and the possible demise of Richardson was tenuous, and, even with the circumstantial evidence that Gillespie had known about all of the twenty planned Provo attacks, it would not be enough to convince a jury. But Gillespie would not face a jury. Under the Northern Ireland Act, which had come into force on August 8, 1973, suspected terrorists could be tried in secret by a judge alone—a judge who was sympathetic to the Security Forces. The Diplock courts.

There would be a witness to Gillespie's arrival for the meeting tonight. The major could swear he had briefed Gillespie about Richardson's true mission. No mole could ignore that. That line of reasoning should be enough to convince a judge. The major would satisfy Sir Charles, gain his permanent commission, and be able to visit the rustic peace of Bourn only when on leave.

The major answered a knock. An MP corporal stood outside the door. “Someone to see you, sir.”

The major ignored the NCO. “Come in, Eric. Sorry to drag you here.” He closed the door.

“What do you want?” Gillespie looked tired. Those dark bags under his hard eyes had not been there the last time they had met. Was he tired from his routine work, or from the stress of leading a double life?

“Would you care to sit.”

“No. What do you want?”

“You remember Richardson?”

“Your man I roughed up?”

“Yes. He seems to have disappeared.”

Eric narrowed his eyes. “When?”

“A few days ago.”

“It's none of my business.”

“I know, but I wondered if your people could sniff about. See if they can find him. I'm a bit worried.”

“Do you think the Provos have lifted him?”

“What do you think?”

“They might.”

“You're the expert, Eric. If they have, what will happen?”

Gillespie said in a matter-of-fact voice, “Either they'll let him go or they won't.”

The major produced a convincing shudder. “Is there any way you could find out what's happened to him?”

“I can have my people keep an eye out for him. If we're wrong about his being lifted, or if he reappears, I'll let you know.”

“I'd be most grateful.”

“Aye. And if he contacts you, let me know. My men have better things to do than waste time looking for some bloody amateur.”

The major ignored the jibe. “Fine. Eric?”

“What?”

“Do you think, if the Provos do have him, they'd kill him if his story doesn't hold up?”

Gillespie snorted. “No, they'd give him a thousand pounds and send him off on his holidays. Of course they'd fucking well kill him.”

“I know.” The major sounded contrite. “You'll tell me at once if you find a corpse?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” The major forced a weak smile. “Silly of me to worry, but one does get attached to these young chaps.”

“Jesus Christ. You should have thought of that before you sent him in.”

“I know. Still, he's probably all right.”

Gillespie shrugged. “Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“I'm off then. I'm up to my neck arranging security.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. Harold Wilson's coming here on Thursday.”

“Really?”

“Aye.” He turned to the door.

The major opened it. “Corporal Arbuthnot.” The MP trotted down the hall. “See Superintendent Gillespie to his car.”

“Sir.”

The major shut the door. He congratulated himself. The pieces were in place. Arbuthnot could confirm that Gillespie had met with the major tonight. The major would swear that he had asked the RUC man here for his help in locating Richardson, which was perfectly true. The major would also testify that he had explained Richardson's mission—to find the Provo bomber and his superiors—in detail to Gillespie. If Richardson's body was found, the finger would point at one man. Gillespie would naturally deny that he had been briefed, that he was PIRA, but it would be his word against the major's. And who would the judge believe—an Ulsterman, or an officer and a gentleman?

 

FIFTY-TWO

TUESDAY, APRIL 16

The good black earth in the ploughed field glistened through the steam of its drying. The level of the Ravernet River was falling. As soon as it was dark, Marcus and Davy would get in under the bridge to complete the measuring that Marcus had begun yesterday. The charges would be set tomorrow night, but it was time to start their construction. The two men stood together at the table surveying the components that would form the firing circuit: blasting caps, spare batteries, and a small transmitter and receiver. A galvanometer lay close by.

Marcus said, “Fulminate of mercury caps. Sixes. Have you any delayed-action caps?”

Davy shook his head.

“Pity. If you had, we could have the charges go off in sequence, put a couple of laterals to fire first. That would increase the force of the central charge.”

“Will it matter if we can't?”

“Not at all. We'll make the middle charge hollow.”

“All right.”

Marcus picked up the receiver. “What's this?”

“Model-aeroplane control.” Davy pointed at the little box. “The transmitter moves levers inside. If we make them part of the circuit, we can close it from up to six hundred yards way.”

“Have you given it a try?”

“Not yet.”

“Here, hold this.” Marcus handed Davy the receiver. “Take it over to the far side of the room.”

Davy carried the flat metal box. It had a tiny aerial at one end, two wires dangling from the other, one coated in blue plastic, the other in red. Beyond the coloured insulation, copper filaments, bright and braided, shone in the evening sunlight that streamed through the window.

“Far enough.” Marcus held the transmitter in one hand. “Put the ends of the wires together.”

“Right.”

Marcus flipped a switch. A bulb on the box in his hand glowed red. “Spark?”

Davy shook his head.

“Put the ends closer.”

Davy did so.

“Spark?”

“Nothing.”

“Where's the galvanometer?”

“On the table.”

“Give us the receiver.”

Davy limped back to the table. “Here.”

Marcus connected the wires to screw terminals on the galvanometer. The needle did not move.

“Well?” Davy asked, and Marcus could hear the anxiety.

“Let's see.” Marcus took a screwdriver and pried the back from the box. He pulled a battery free, loosened the receiver from the galvanometer, and put one of the meter's wires on the anode, the other on the cathode of the battery. The needle whisked across the dial. “Not the battery.”

“Jesus, without that receiver the Semtex is about as much fucking use as putty.”

“Cheer up, Davy.”

“What?”

“You've a face on you like a Lurgan spade.” Marcus fiddled inside the receiver. “Aha.”

“What?”

“See that there?” Marcus indicated a wire lying beside one of the clips that would hold the battery in place. “Wire's loose.”

Davy produced a piece of solder and a soldering iron from his kit. “Here.”

“Nice piece of equipment, Davy. There's one wee snag.”

“What?”

“It's an electric iron.”

“Fuck it. There's no electricity here.”

“Never worry. I'll bet you were using solder before all these high-powered whigmaleeries was invented.”

“Right enough.” Davy went to the fireplace, picked up a poker, and brought it back to the range. He thrust the poker inside. “Just a minute.”

“No rush.”

Davy waited for the poker's end to glow cherry-red, then carried it to the table.

Marcus grasped the wire with a pair of needle-nose pliers. He touched the end of the solder to the poker and, as the amalgam melted, guided a molten drop over the terminal and the wire. He held the wire in place with the pliers until the silver metal hardened. “That's her now.”

Davy moved the poker aside.

Marcus slipped the battery back into its nest and reconnected the galvanometer. Davy made a phewing noise as the needle flicked across the dial. “Good man. You'd me going for a minute there.”

Marcus slipped the cover back in place. “Let's give it another go.”

“Right.” Davy carried the receiver back to the shelf, pausing on his way to replace the poker in the fireplace. Marcus threw the switch, and a spark crackled between the wires.

Davy grinned. “Dead-on. Good lad.”

Marcus smiled back. “Right enough.” He smiled because he had found what he had been searching for. The way to disable the system. “It'll soon be dark enough to go and take a look at the bridge.”

*   *   *

Davy crouched under the lee of the ivy-covered abutment. The stones of the pier were damp, and moss grew between the granite blocks. The mortar in the cracks was old and pried loose easily with a screwdriver. The bridge had probably been there for two hundred years. It was seventy feet from bank to bank, the roadway fourteen feet wide. Six feet or so from the water to the highest part of the undersurface. Eight feet from the riverbed.