Pray for Us Sinners (41 page)

The RUC man put one foot up on a kitchen chair. “I ordered them to wait outside.”

“Christ. You reckoned the pair of you could take out a committed Provo? You've got one soldier killed. McCutcheon was waiting for you. Someone tipped him off about your raid.”

The RUC man lifted his foot from the chair and stood erect. “How do you know that?” Marcus heard the same tone in the man's voice that he'd used during the mock interrogation.

“Because somebody phoned McCutcheon and told him.”

“You sure?”

Marcus looked up into a pair of hard, lifeless eyes. “Of course I'm bloody well sure.”

“That would interest your major.” The eyes narrowed.

“Maybe, but he was after senior Provos.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“Yes.”

Fred shook his head. “You were had, son. I think he was after informers.” Eric Gillespie snapped the SLR against his shoulder and put one 7.62-mm full-metal-jacket round between Marcus Richardson's staring hazel eyes.

 

SIXTY

FRIDAY, APRIL 19

Major Smith walked up the steps of the Clinical Sciences Institute and stopped at the hall porter's office.

“Orthopaedics?”

“Ward eighteen.” The porter pointed to a staircase and said, “Up two flights and follow the corridor.”

The major walked on. It was a shame about Richardson. According to Gillespie, the paratrooper had been shot by the PIRA bomber and spun and fired as he fell. Richardson was killed instantly. And no way to prove it hadn't happened exactly as Gillespie had reported. The Provo—Gillespie said his name was Davy McCutcheon—had broken his leg trying to escape, was captured and taken to the Royal.

Things had not worked out the way the major had planned. Not at all. He had expected the farmhouse to be deserted yesterday morning, clear evidence that someone—to be precise, Eric Gillespie—had warned the Provos off. The bomber and Richardson were there when the attack went in. Either they had not been warned or the warning had come too late. Richardson could have told the major what had transpired, but Richardson was dead. Conveniently dead, as far as Gillespie was concerned. But McCutcheon might have the information, and if he did the major would get it out of him. He permitted himself a tight smile as he strode along a rubber-tiled corridor. He'd wring McCutcheon dry.

*   *   *

Siobhan had slept late. She hadn't slept well since Mike had gone off on that stupid business with Uncle Davy. And Dad had been no help. He hadn't a clue where they were. Didn't seem to care. All he could think about was how soon he and Mum could leave for Toronto. They were out at Canada House this morning finishing up their paperwork. Dad was right about emigrating. The sooner the whole family and—she smiled in spite of her concerns—that pigheaded Mike Roberts were in Canada, the better.

She took a cup of tea and the newspaper through to the parlour, sat, balanced the cup and saucer on the arm of the chair, and glanced at the front page. More bloody violence. She glanced at a clean-cut British officer staring at her from a head-and-shoulders photograph.

She tutted as she read the story. There'd been an attempt on the life of the British prime minister. A British agent, Lieutenant Marcus Richardson, had infiltrated the PIRA and uncovered the plot, but was killed in the attack that captured the man who was to have assassinated Harold Wilson. She felt a pang of sorrow for the young man, glanced at his photograph again, lifted her teacup, and read on.

The story said that a terrorist, David McCutcheon, had been arrested. Uncle Davy? Good God. Uncle Davy? And Mike was with him. It couldn't be. She stared at the picture. The long hair and ridiculous moustache weren't there, but she recognized the eyes, Mike's eyes. Mike Roberts had been a man called Marcus Richardson?

The teacup slipped from her fingers. This couldn't be true. She looked hard at the face before her. Sweet Jesus, no matter what his real name was, she was looking into her Mike's eyes. Mike was dead? He couldn't be.

She stood, laid the paper on the seat, knelt, and busied herself picking up the broken china, piece by piece. She'd have to get a cloth and clean up the spilled tea. The milk in it would stain the carpet if she didn't hurry up. She put the shards on the newspaper and saw his picture again. It was Mike. She knew it was Mike. She hugged herself, keening as she rocked and whispered his name. “Mike.” And her tears flowed like Mourne freshets after the cold Ulster rains.

*   *   *

A pair of blue plastic swinging doors opened onto the main corridor of the Royal Victoria Hospital. Light filtered in through skylights and dappled the hospital-yellow-painted walls. Nurses in blue uniforms, orderlies, white-coated doctors, members of the public jostled each other as they passed to and fro. There was an antiseptic smell. The major made his way through the throng. He could see the ward numbers on small plaques above the doorways. Ward 9. Not far to go.

What a waste. Weeks of planning, waiting, and now, unless McCutcheon cooperated, nothing to show for it that would satisfy Sir Charles beyond reasonable doubt. Admittedly, Richardson's intelligence had aborted an attempt on the life of Harold Wilson, and the major had been able to give Harry Swanson the name of Brendan McGuinness. If Harry's boys grabbed McGuinness, it might be enough to keep the major in the army, but he still wanted that bastard Gillespie. McCutcheon had better give.

The major turned onto ward 18. He could see the rows of beds in the public area. Two armed constables stood outside the door to a private room. A handsome dark-haired woman argued with one of the policemen. “I've every right to see him. I'm his wife.”

“Sorry, madam. No visitors.”

The major approved. It wouldn't be the first time the Provos had sprung a wounded member from hospital, or killed one in his bed if they thought he might give away vital information. And they were not above using women as assassins. He produced his pass and handed it to one of the policemen.

“Thank you, Major Smith.”

The woman stepped in front of him. “You're an officer. Tell this man to let me by.”

He was struck by the deepness of her black eyes. If she was the Provo's wife, the major could almost feel sorry for her. More to the point, he might be able to use her. “What's your name?”

“Fiona.”

He did not know if McCutcheon was married, but this woman obviously cared for him. He said, “Wait here,” as he pushed the door open.

McCutcheon's bed was surrounded by curtains hanging from a rail suspended from the ceiling. The major stretched out his hand.

*   *   *

The lace bedroom curtains of 18 Myrtlefield Park hid two men from enquiring eyes. Stark on its tripod, a Nikon with a telephoto lens was aimed at the front door of 15B across the street.

“That's him,” the shorter of the two watchers said as a dark-haired man wearing spectacles, their left lens replaced by some opaque material, came out through the door opposite. The shutter clicked and the automatic mechanism whirred as the film advanced.

They'd been in the bedroom since last night, when they had been told by their CO, Harry Swanson, that a suspect he was after had been spotted in Andersonstown and trailed back to Myrtlefield Park. It had taken some very persuasive talking to coerce the owner, a retired banker, to let the surveillance team move into his house. He'd not be sorry to see one of them go to deliver the film to HQ. The other would keep a watching brief behind the lace.

*   *   *

The major pulled the bedside curtains back and looked down on McCutcheon. His left leg, swathed in a plaster cast and hanging from a gantry, was suspended by wires attached to a steel pin that seemed to go right through the lower end of his thigh bone. An intravenous solution dripped from a bottle. McCutcheon's eyes were open but looked unfocused. The major guessed it was an effect of morphine. That might be helpful. The man's guard would be down under the influence of the narcotic.

Major Smith sat on a chair beside the bed. “McCutcheon?”

McCutcheon's head turned. He blinked. The man's pupils were tiny, but his stare said, “Fuck you.”

The major had not expected this interrogation to be easy. “You're David McCutcheon?”

No reply.

“Of Conway Street.”

Silence.

“McCutcheon, you shot one soldier. There were two killed in the explosion. You'll get life. I can make it easier for you. Answer one question.”

McCutcheon closed his eyes.

The major stood, leaned over, grabbed the stainless-steel pin, and shook it. The jagged bone ends inside the cast would grate.

McCutcheon opened his eyes and moaned.

“Were you warned about our attack?”

A bead of sweat appeared on the Provo's forehead.

The major felt the steel pin, cold in his hand, and yanked. Hard. “Were you?” He listened to the throaty whimper and the harsh sound as McCutcheon ground his teeth. There were no more beads on McCutcheon's face. The drops had coalesced to form a sweaty sheen. He said nothing.

Tug. “Were you?”

McCutcheon's words were slurred. “Fuck … you.”

The major took a deep breath. He knew that men who would break because of physical pain did so early. Others could hold out for days. McCutcheon was clearly one of the latter, and the major was running out of time. He bent over and whispered into McCutcheon's ear, “Fiona.”

“What?”

“Fiona's outside.”

McCutcheon's eyes widened. He muttered, “Fiona.”

“Would you like to see her?” The major waited. He'd be surprised if a fully alert McCutcheon would say yes, but he was muddled by the morphine. “Would you like to see Fiona?”

McCutcheon's nod was nearly imperceptible.

“Were you warned?” The major saw the big man's eyes mist as he clamped his mouth shut.

“Davy,” the major said gently, “unless you tell me, you'll never see her. I'll get her as an accomplice. She'll do twenty years.” It wasn't true, but McCutcheon might believe him. “Twenty years, Davy.”

“You cunt.”

“Twenty years.”

“Fuck you to hell, you British bastard. I was phoned.”

The major smiled. He'd got him. He'd got Gillespie. Someone had warned McCutcheon. “That wasn't too hard, Davy, was it?” The major turned to leave. He had never enjoyed seeing a man cry.

As he passed the sentries, the woman named Fiona blocked his path. “I want to see him.”

The major shook his head. “Sorry, dear. The constable was right. No visitors.”

 

SIXTY-ONE

FRIDAY, APRIL 19

Brendan McGuinness bent over the mahogany table staring at a newspaper lying on the polished wood. He knew that he stood accused by the headline—“Provos Try to Kill Wilson”—and the subhead, “Attack Foiled by Senior RUC Officer with Help of Army. Terrorist Taken.” The news had been all over the television this morning. The Brits' propaganda machine was rubbing the Provos' noses in their own dirt.

Brendan screwed his good eye shut and rubbed at the itch in the empty socket under the leather patch. What a fuckup—and all because Sean Conlon had been softhearted about that broken-down old bastard McCutcheon. What did it matter if McCutcheon had been taken? The explosives team that had been training in Libya would be back in Northern Ireland next week. McCutcheon was expendable. They were well shot of him. At least the old bugger would know enough to keep his mouth shut—not tell the Security fuckers about Sean's stupid warning phone call.

Damn Conlon. He'd disobeyed a direct order, challenged Brendan's authority. He'd have to be brought to heel. Brendan began to pace—short, angry steps. He'd been right to send Sean to Dublin to brief Army Council. That got the insubordinate shite out of the way, gave Brendan time to decide how to deal with the man. Forget about Conlon, he told himself. Think about what can be salvaged.

It was unlikely that their ability to monitor British signals traffic would be compromised. There could be no suspicion cast on Gillespie—indeed, the media were making him out to be a hero, the man who'd saved their prime minister. So what if the carefully planned attack hadn't got Wilson? There would be plenty of other targets and the Brits' little propaganda victory would soon be old news. Brendan allowed himself a suggestion of a smile. The war wasn't lost. Not by a long shot.

*   *   *

The major spoke softly into his office phone. “Thank you, Sir Charles, although saving the PM was an extraordinary bit of luck … Yes, it is a great pity about young Richardson. Brave chap.”

The major half listened as Sir Charles explained the difficulty his office was going to have in breaking the news to the young man's parents. That was Sir Charles's problem. As far as the major was concerned, it was like the parachute jumps in Borneo. “You can't make an omelette,” and all that. He waited until Sir Charles had finished.

“Actually, sir, I phoned to tell you I've got our man … the mole … Yes, I'm sure … senior RUC officer … I know, sir. It'll cause a bit of a stink when you have to tell the chief constable. I fully understand. Perhaps it would be better to say nothing until it's all sewn up—but it will be. I just need a day or two … I will, sir. You'll hear the minute I've got the final bits of evidence … Thank you, Sir Charles. Thank you very much.”

The major hung up and said softly, “Lieutenant Colonel Smith.” He smiled.
Lieutenant Colonel.
And the man who was going to make it happen, that abrasive bastard Gillespie—the media's current darling—was waiting in a detention cell. Gillespie had come to the major's office in response to an earlier phone call. His “you're out of your mind” had cut no ice with the two MPs who hauled him away. Major Smith hoisted his feet onto his desk and lit a cigarette. Gillespie could wait—just a little longer.