Pray for Us Sinners (42 page)

*   *   *

The one-tonner swung into Myrtlefield Park, stopping in the middle of the street. Six armed soldiers dismounted, led by Harry Swanson, and doubled into the garden of number 15. Swanson pounded on the front door. A man appeared and immediately tried to slam the door, but Swanson smashed it back and disappeared inside, followed by three men. Three more soldiers crouched in the garden covering the housefront. Another squad had been posted at the rear of the building.

Someone was clambering through a downstairs window.

“Oi, you.” A soldier swung his SLR. “Freeze.”

The shot from the Provo's automatic missed the soldier and shattered a window in the house opposite. The sound of breaking glass was drowned by the crack of an SLR and the howling of the would-be escapee.

Harry Swanson ignored the racket outside. A short man, bespectacled, one lens of leather, sat at a long table. “What the fuck?”

“Stay there,” Swanson yelled. “Hands on your head. You.” He pointed to the second man in the room. “Against the wall.”

The man obeyed.

“Sergeant. Watch them. Corporal. With me.” Harry Swanson strode into the room next door and halted. He stopped, eyes wide. He recognized the Howa Machinery ArmaLite crates stacked along one wall. Two boxes in the far corner were labeled in Czech. He had stumbled onto a cache of Semtex. And rocket-propelled grenades. Their tubes were in a corner.

The rest of the equipment in the room puzzled him. An electrical panel sat on a desk. From a communications board on the desktop, red and blue wires equipped with male connectors ran to sockets in the panel. He was in a telephone exchange.

“Jesus,” he said quietly, “Jesus Christ. A PIRA communications centre.”

Harry smiled. Not a bad catch. The bloke next door was Brendan McGuinness. The bold boyos would sorely miss their arms and explosives cache, and this telephone setup must be important.

He might pick up some useful information if the board was active. He slipped on a set of earphones. His ears filled with a static hum, then an English voice said, “Right, Sergeant. Send Two Platoon to Crossmaglen. Get one of your Saladins back here to Thiepval HQ.” There was the sound of a telephone connection being broken, more static, then the whirrs of a number being dialed.

“Hello? Palace Barracks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Brigadier Hutchinson here, Thirty-nine Brigade. Put me through to your officer of the day.”

Swanson clamped his hands over the earphones, listening, concentrating, wondering. It couldn't be. It couldn't. The bloody Provos had a tap into the Thiepval Barracks switchboard. The enormity of his discovery hardly bore thinking about. No wonder the Provos could strike at will. He removed the headset.

Swanson smiled. John Smith would be delighted. Of course, because the PIRA had been using such sophisticated surveillance methods, they wouldn't have needed an inside man. Poor old John. He'd been so utterly convinced he'd been on the track of a mole, was going to pull off the intelligence coup of the war. Swanson's smile faded. He had to feel sorry for his colleague. All that effort, all the man's hopes pinned on catching a nonexistent informer. And the answer had been here in Myrtlefield Park, right under their noses.

No wonder the Provos had known when a patrol would go out looking for a decoy arms dump, were able to set a mine under Ravernet bridge. Crafty buggers. John Smith would be very interested in this setup—and, Harry thought, without John having named McGuinness, they would never have stumbled onto it. Perhaps the old SAS man could still get some of the recognition he so much wanted.

*   *   *

The major shifted on the wooden chair. It was cold in the cell and they'd been in there for four hours. The glare of the overhead light cast his shadow on the metal table on the far side where Eric Gillespie sat, dressed only in his shirt and beltless pants.

He was coldly defiant now, but the major was determined to make the bastard crack open like a rotten walnut. Although the circumstantial evidence was strong, very strong, the major wanted a confession. He wanted to see Gillespie abased. He rested his elbows on the tabletop, folded his hands, and leaned his chin on his fingers.

“Eric, you could save us all a lot of bother if you'd tell me the truth.”

Gillespie sat, arms folded, and met the major's stare.

“You were the only one outside the army who knew we were going to raid the farm.”

Gillespie said nothing.

“McCutcheon told me they were warned. Who else could have tipped them off?”

“I've no fucking idea. It wasn't me.”

“It was, Eric.”

Gillespie examined the quick of a fingernail and ignored the major.

The major rose. “I'm off.” He shivered. “Cold in here. I think I'll have a bite and a bath.” He moved to the door and knocked. “Corporal.” The major turned to Eric, glanced down at his bare feet, and said, “Do try to keep warm.”

*   *   *

It was cosy in the major's office. He'd popped in to collect some notes, then he'd be off to have that meal and a bath. He'd turn in early tonight and continue Gillespie's interrogation tomorrow. The MP had orders to ensure that the prisoner did not sleep. Tomorrow morning, Gillespie would be cold, hungry, tired, and, in consequence, more vulnerable.

The major wanted that.

He stretched, picked up the file, and started for the door. Someone knocked.

He opened the door. “Harry?”

“Sorry to disturb you, John.”

“Come in, man.”

“I wanted you to hear this as soon as possible.” Harry smiled and his dimples deepened. “We got McGuinness. Nasty piece of work. Shame he tripped getting into our one-tonner. Doc says he'll be laid up for weeks with a fractured skull. His trial'll have to wait 'til he's better.”

The major spared little thought for one PIRA man. If Harry's squaddies had beaten the hell out of McGuinness, it was none of the major's business. “Blokes like him should watch their steps.”

Harry laughed. “We found something else.”

“Oh?”

“McGuinness's mob had a direct phone tap into Thiepval.”

“Really?” The major tried to sound interested.

“Don't you see? All this mole business was a red herring.”

“Would you mind repeating that?”

“The Provos had a telephone tap into the Thiepval switchboard. We found the equipment in their flat. They've been listening to our conversations for months.”

“I don't see what that has to do with my mole.” The major wondered if he was being deliberately obtuse, but he could not—or would not—see what Harry was driving at.

“Look, John. Your job was to find a leak. You've found it. Not what you expected, but it's how the PIRA were able to keep one jump ahead.”

“Rubbish. Gillespie's the mole.”

“I'm sorry, John. There never was a mole. It was a bugging operation.”

“Gillespie's as guilty as sin.”

“You really think so?”

The major sat heavily in his chair. “Of course I do. Gillespie knew about every one of the raids I examined. He was the only one who knew we were going to attack McCutcheon in the farmhouse.”

“He wasn't. Anyone listening to the telephone traffic from HQ would have had exactly the same gen, including Richardson's warning call from the farmhouse. It came through Thiepval switchboard.”

The major's head drooped, and for several moments he said nothing. “Harry, I know, I bloody well
know
Gillespie's as guilty as bedamned.” He could feel his prize slipping away like a trout that has snapped the leader.

“He may be, but how can you make it stick? The tap gives a perfectly reasonable explanation for the leaks. Have you any other hard evidence?”

The major set the file he had been carrying on the desktop. He ignored the question. “Go on.” He forced his words to be calm.

“Not even a Diplock court would convict him now. I'd leave him alone if I were you.”

“Would you?”

“Bloody right. Have you any idea how arresting him would bugger up army-RUC—”

“He's in my custody.”

The major saw Harry take a step back, as a healthy man will avoid a leper. “Oh, Christ.”

John Smith's head drooped. He could see little sympathy on Harry's face but still had to ask.

“You're absolutely sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Smith hesitated, then said stiffly, “Thank you, Harry. You've been a great help.” He reached for the phone. “If you don't mind, I'd like you to leave. I've some phone calls to make.”

 

SIXTY-TWO

SUNDAY, APRIL 21

“I didn't bring you here to London, Swanson, to have you make excuses for Smith. Your loyalty to him is commendable, but I have to clean up the god-awful mess he's created. My minister is livid.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry Swanson could not meet Sir Charles's glare.

“It's a bloody shambles. The RUC are barely on speaking terms with the army. One of their best men arrested by some unheard-of, self-appointed James Bond. Christ Almighty.” At least, Sir Charles thought, news of Gillespie's arrest had not been made public—yet. “We have to restore some semblance of working relations.”

“It'll be tricky, sir.”

“I'm well aware of that. Come on, man. You're supposed to be an expert on Ulster. Think.”

Harry Swanson took a deep breath. “Have you seen today's papers, sir?”

“No.”

“According to the
Sunday Telegraph,
Eric Gillespie should get a pension and a gold clock. The 'ero who save our 'arold.”

The Yorkshire man's accent was grating, and that was no way to refer to the PM.

“Mr. Harold Wilson, I think you mean.”

“Sorry, sir. But
The Mail on Sunday
wants Gillespie knighted.”

“You mean we should fete the man?”

“Yes, sir. Maybe the RUC would see that as a kind of atonement for our sins.”

“Smith's sins.”

“Sir.”

Sir Charles nodded once, sharply. But I think a CBE should be enough. I'll see to it. I'll let Sir Graham Shillington know—if he'll talk to me—have him pass the word to their chief constable.” Sir Charles liked the idea. “You know, Swanson, we might just go one better. If we really get the PR people working—gallant RUC officer, brilliant detective work, typical of the calibre of the Ulster police—it could smooth quite a few ruffled feathers. They might even consider promoting Gillespie.”

“I think I'd leave promotion up to them, sir. The coppers don't take kindly to being told what to do.”

Sir Charles raised one eyebrow. “Nobody's going to tell them—but a hint or two in the right places…”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” Sir Charles fiddled with the knot in his tie. “Now that only leaves one more problem. I asked Sir Graham for quite a bit of help—names of RUC personnel who knew about army operations. It wouldn't be too difficult for him to wonder why and to whom I was passing the information.”

“Do you think he could connect you to—”

“Don't be ridiculous. Of course he could.”

Swanson took a very deep breath, lowered his head, then looked directly at his superior and said, “You could try coming clean, sir.”

Sir Charles glared at Harry Swanson as a bull might a matador. “Tell Sir Graham that Smith was my man? Rubbish.”

“Smith was once very sick with malaria.”

Sir Charles's eyes widened. There might be something here. “Malaria, eh? Can it spoil a man's ability to think straight?”

“Apparently the high fever affects the brain, sir.”

“I could use that. Suggest that he'd broken down on the job. Temporary loss of his faculties. In Ulster on a simple fact-gathering task. Exceeded his remit. I like that Swanson. I like that.” Sir Charles clapped Harry on the shoulder.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Pity about Smith. It'll be the end of him—but you know the old saw about omelettes and eggs.” He removed his hand. “Right. Off you go, back to Belfast. I'll sort things out at this end.”

As Sir Charles watched Swanson leave, his thoughts turned to his next interview. And he was not looking forward to it.

*   *   *

In keeping with civil service regulations, the heat had been turned off in Sir Charles's office since the first of April, and the chill in the room reflected the iciness of the worlds spoken by a tall, hazel-eyed man sitting, arms folded, at the opposite side of the desk.

“The whole thing's appalling. Simply appalling. First, we're told our son has been killed in a bomb blast—months ago. Then, out of the blue, you phone to say he was shot dead last Thursday and my wife and I should come to London for a full explanation—and his funeral.”

Sir Charles cleared his throat. “It's not the sort of thing one can explain over the telephone.”

“I don't see that it can be explained at all. How do you think his mother's taking this?”

“I understand.”

“I don't think you do. She wasn't coming here today. I had to leave her in our hotel. I could hardly bring myself to see you.” Professor Richardson's voice cracked. “He was our only child. We were proud of him.”

“So are we, Professor Richardson. Very proud. His sacrifice saved the life of the prime minister.”

“Yes. Well—”

Sir Charles sensed a softening in Marcus's father. “The army is putting him in for the George Cross.”

“It won't bring him back.”

Sir Charles let the silence hang, then said, “I really think it might help if I told you what happened.”

Professor Richardson unfolded his arms and laid his hands palm down on the desktop. “Go on.” His gaze held Sir Charles's.

Sir Charles lowered his eyes and said softly, “When Lieutenant Richardson survived the explosion, it was decided that your son might be able to serve his country better as an intelligence operative. It was for his protection that the story about his death was fabricated.”