Though they spoke softly, their voices echoed in the hollows and alcoves. O’Byrne blessed himself and said, “Do you believe in God, Dermot? Because I believe in God, and I believe he’ll forgive me my sins.”
“I hope he forgives sins,” Sparhawk said. “If not, I might as well get fitted for a red union suit right now.”
“This is no place for levity,” O’Byrne said. “This is a holy shrine.”
“I meant no disrespect.” Sparhawk blessed himself, which seemed to be a gesture of solidarity with O’Byrne. “I’m listening.”
“I believe God judges us most harshly on sins of omission,” O’Byrne continued. “When we fail to act when we are called to act. Do you agree?”
“I never gave it much thought.”
Though Sparhawk seemed to be indifferent to the question, O’Byrne pursued the topic nonetheless.
“The Lord will forgive the sexual dalliance or the impulsive drinking spree or even an act of extreme violence,” O’Byrne said. “But I don’t think he’ll forgive a sin of omission, turning your back on a friend when he needs your help. Am I right?”
“I’m not a theologian, O’Byrne.” Sparhawk gazed at the stained-glass windows. “What a magnificent building.”
“Aye, ’tis.”
“Why did you call me here today?” Sparhawk asked.
“Liam suspects you’re in Belfast.” O’Byrne craned his head and gazed at the vaulted ceiling. “He all but said it the other day.”
“That’s not good news, but it’s not surprising news, either.”
“He suspects that I know you’re in Belfast.” He thumbed the rosary beads in his hands. “You put me in harm’s way. I’m a dead man if he finds out we talked.”
“I won’t tell him.”
“You won’t tell him. My God, you haven’t a clue.” O’Byrne let loose a laugh that filled the side chapels. “Do you not understand, lad? You’ll never get the chance to tell him. If he finds out you’re here in Belfast, by God, he will kill you. If he knew you were at the Maryville House, he’d burn it to the ground.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t find out.”
O’Byrne leaned back in the pew and absorbed the beauty of the monastery. He listened to the sounds of the outside world and smelled the burning candles.
“Why did you come to Slattery’s that day?” O’Byrne asked.
“Because I want to end this thing, right here in Belfast,” Sparhawk said. “I can’t live life looking over my shoulder. If I get killed, I’ll get killed in Belfast.”
“But did you why come to me?”
“You called off the hit on me,” Sparhawk said. “You called it off because you want no more sins of omission staining your soul.”
“I suppose you’re right about that.” O’Byrne laughed again, but not as loudly. “My boyo in heaven, Saint Angus MacNisse of Connor, has quite a sense of humor.”
“Who’s Saint Angus MacNisse?”
“Doesn’t matter,” O’Byrne said. “So a third man came at you in Boston. Tell me, what did he look like?”
Sparhawk closed his eyes and began to speak.
“He was an older man, probably in his sixties. He wore a dark suit with pinstripes. White shirt, red tie, silver cufflinks, cordovan wingtips—all of it was quality stuff. He had a trim build and thinning hair. His hands looked soft, not the hands of a workingman. He wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t solid, a man with a desk job. The only thing that distinguished him was a gun.”
“Did he speak at all?” O’Byrne waited. “Did he have a brogue?”
“He never spoke to me, because he never got a chance to speak,” Sparhawk said. “I didn’t even see him until he was dead.”
“How is that possible?”
“Another man, who was hired to look out for me, shot the third man twice in the head. Right there on the bridge he killed him.”
“So he never spoke to you, this third man.” O’Byrne palmed his scalp. “Usually the Irish give you a little something, like ‘This bullet is from Liam McGrew,’ or something like that. I don’t know why we do that, but we do.”
“I don’t think he was Irish,” Sparhawk said.
“Not Irish?” O’Byrne sounded surprised. “How can you be sure?”
“No real reason, just an impression.”
“That’s not very persuasive.” O’Byrne folded his hands. The rosary beads were back in his pocket. “Did Alroy and McAfee strike you as Irish?”
“McAfee did, yes. I couldn’t really see Alroy because it was dark. I thought I heard a brogue, but Alroy was so drunk it could have been a slur.” Sparhawk waved his hand as if something came to him. “I wasn’t surprised when I found out Alroy was Irish, but I would be surprised if the third man was Irish.”
The two men kept talking. O’Byrne asked Sparhawk what he planned to do next, and Sparhawk told him he wasn’t entirely sure. They rose from the pew in unison and genuflected in the aisle as one. At the holy water font, they dipped their fingers and blessed themselves. They left the monastery in staggered fashion, Sparhawk first, O’Byrne fifteen minutes later. One can never be too careful in Belfast.
II.
O’Byrne took a bus to the Teagueland Inn, a Belfast barrelhouse favored by the weary lads of Sinn Fein, located in the working-class enclave of Sailortown. He was sitting alone in the rear of the bus when he removed a revolver from his waistband. He released the cylinder and checked the bullets. The gun was fully loaded. He bent low and eyed the front sight. He fingered the trigger, clutched the grip, and with a flick of the wrist he snapped the cylinder shut and tucked the gun back in his waistband.
The Teagueland Inn was also favored by members of the Army Council, who gathered there to discuss matters that needed discussing. And if no matters came up that needed discussing, they’d stay the night anyway in case such matters arose. The bus pulled up in front, the last stop on the route, and O’Byrne got off.
The sun sank hard in the Ulster west, casting a dreary pall over the Clarendon docks. The waters rested calmly, barely lapping the pilings, barely indicating the war zone that had once raged here. O’Byrne went inside the inn and ordered whiskey at the bar, and he looked around the room. Sitting alone at a table near the kitchen was Salty McBrine, a longtime council member in good standing, a man O’Byrne could trust. He walked to Salty’s table and cleared his throat. Salty looked up and seemed pleased.
“O’Byrne, it has been too bloody long. Pull up a chair and join me for a taste.” Salty drank some ale. “What brings you to Sailortown on this gray evening?”
“I needed a change of scenery, I suppose.” O’Byrne sat across from Salty and placed his whiskey on the table. “And some pleasant company.”
“So it’s pleasant company you’re after.”
“Aye.” O’Byrne sipped. “Pleasant company and pleasant conversation are hard to come by these days.”
“Indeed, indeed, both are scarce in the North,” Salty said. “People think the Troubles are over, but they’re not.”
“No, they’re not,” O’Byrne agreed.
“So now, how are the lads at Slattery’s faring?”
“Good, very good,” O’Byrne said.
They talked and drank through three more rounds. Salty switched to the hard stuff, Bushmills Black Bush his choice, and he began to show the whiskey’s effect. When O’Byrne detected a slur in Salty’s speech, he made his move.
“Did you know that on this very day in 1922, Michael Collins himself was killed?” O’Byrne signaled the bartender for another round. “’Twas a bad day for the big fellow, a fatal day indeed. He was traveling from Dublin to Cork when they got him.”
“Aye, you’re right about that. That’s where they ambushed him, Cork, possibly slain by his very own.” Salty drank. “The Treaty caused fierce quarrels. Anti-treaty Irish stood accused of killing Collins, and
maybe they did at that. We’ll likely never know.”
O’Byrne nodded to Salty. “Black ’47, the potato famines, the repeal of the Corn Laws, the Brits exporting grain while a million Irish starved, it’s a wonder any of us survived.” He waved for another round. “Another million fled Ireland all together. America, Australia, Canada, they left for good, too.”
“They did at that, they did at that, none to return to their ancestral home.”
“They settled all over the world, the United States, especially,” O’Byrne said. “New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Boston.”
“Don’t forget about the Appalachian backcountry and the Carolina Piedmont, the Irish weren’t all city folk, O’Byrne.” Salty slugged down the whiskey. “I have relatives in New York, out in Brooklyn, in the Red Hook section, firemen and policemen. I went to Red Hook once. You’d think I was Saint Patrick himself the way they treated me.”
“I have people in Boston.”
“Have you been to Boston?” Salty asked. “It’s a grand town, lots of Irish.”
“Not to visit family, no.”
“Well, I highly recommend it.” Salty put his glass on the table. “Have you been to Boston on other matters?”
“I visited a couple of times in the past.”
“But not to see family?”
“No, not family,” O’Byrne said quietly.
“Did you go on holiday?”
“No, not holiday,” O’Byrne said.
“You went to Boston, but not for family or holiday.” Salty was now leaning forward in his seat. “Perhaps you went for matters pertaining to army business. Was it army business then, the Boston excursion?”
Salty was asking if it was army business, which meant that Salty knew nothing about the trip to Boston. Liam never told him about the job.
“I respect the chain of command,” O’Byrne said. “Liam is my commander, the head of our cell. Do you understand my position?”
“It is a good thing to honor the chain of command.” Salty looked over his shoulder and then back at O’Byrne. “Liam is your immediate commander, after all.”
“I’m with him a long time now, Salty.”
“And a loyal soldier you’ve been. You never shied away from sacrifice, as I well know, being your cellmate in the Maze.”
“Hard times in the Maze back then,” O’Byrne said. “Sleeping in shite, the stench, the maggots.”
“The hunger strikes, the blankets, the billie beatings, the dirty protests.”
“The hosings and torture.”
“Thank God it’s in the past,” Salty said, the whiskey’s effect vanishing from his eyes. “Tell me now, this business in Boston, what did it entail?”
Liam never told the Army Council about the World’s Fair of Money. He never got the okay from the high command, and more importantly, he never paid tribute to the cause. This was bad, very bad indeed. And then there were the deaths. Alroy McGrew, William McAfee, and the third man, whoever he might be, all dead. Liam implied that the Army Council had hired the third man, but they couldn’t have hired him, because Liam never told them about Boston. And what about Mr. H’s payment of two million dollars? What about the sheet of $100,000 bills? Was Liam hoarding it for himself?
O’Byrne’s loyalty to Liam waned in light of this information. What did he really owe Liam anyway? Still, Liam had rank. And Liam had fought for the cause. There had to be an explanation, surely there had to be.
Salty repeated, “O’Byrne, I asked you about Boston.”
“It was nothing, just a trip.”
“Just a trip? And when did this trip take place?”
“Not long ago, Liam can fill you in.”
“Liam neglected to tell us of this American foray,” Salty said, his eyes now alert. “I’ve never known Liam’s crew to leave Belfast.”
It seemed that the Army Council didn’t know about the museum job from two decades ago, either. Where had that money gone? And the paintings, what about the paintings? A Rembrandt, a Vermeer, a Degas, worth hundreds of millions. Was Liam freelancing without the council’s approval?
“He probably forgot to mention it.” O’Byrne tapped his empty glass on the table. “Liam has been ill.”
“Liam’s been ill, you say. Then it was just an oversight on his part, not telling us about Boston. Is that what you’re saying, O’Byrne?”
“Aye, that’s what I’m saying.” His job was done. O’Byrne got up from the table. “It was a good talk we had, Salty. I need to be getting home now.”
“Are you still living on Divis Street?”
“I am indeed.”
“I’ll be stopping by for a cup of tea someday soon.” Salty stood. “We have more to discuss.”
“The kettle will be boiling.”
O’Byrne shook Salty McBrine’s hand and left the Teagueland Inn.
III.
I ate pot roast with mashed potatoes and green beans at a Shankill Road tavern, washing it down with pistachio cake and tea. After walking off the supper I returned to the Maryville House and drank coffee in the front lobby. In my room I stretched out on the bed, but I couldn’t unwind. I turned on the TV, but the local cable didn’t carry the Red Sox, sparing the people of Belfast one form of torture. I was wondering how many games the Sox were out of first place when my cell phone rang. Kenny Bowen was calling.
We exchanged hellos and it became apparent that Kenny had something to tell me, something he was building up to, probably something good. Excitement infused his voice, so I listened without interrupting. Interrupting would have ruined the dramatic flow. He eventually got to the point.
“I know the identity of the third man,” he said, “but it makes no sense to me.”
“Tell me about him.”
“I’ll tell you about him, but I can’t see the third man’s connection to either Liam McGrew or the IRA.”
“What’s his name, Kenny?” I asked.
“His name is Phillip Webb, a highly decorated British Army Intelligence officer who specialized in counter sabotage in Belfast and Derry. He spent a great deal of time in London, too.”
“Phillip Webb was with the British Army?”
“That is correct,” Kenny said.
I said to verify, “Phillip Webb was the gunman on the bridge, the man Rat T. Kennedy shot in the head.”
“I confirmed his identity with Scotland Yard, but I still can’t figure his link to the IRA, especially his willingness to kill for Liam McGrew.”
“He must have had a reason,” I said.
“How does a top British Army soldier fit with the IRA?” Kenny shuffled papers and apparently found what he wanted. “Listen to his credentials. Webb earned one of his many medals by foiling an IRA arms shipment off the coast of Londonderry, in the town of Tullyverry. He and his battalion killed four IRA rebels that day.”
“Four of them?”
“Webb was a one-man wrecking crew as far as the IRA was concerned. You should see his list of arrests.” Kenny shuffled more papers. “He loved collecting trophies and medals for acts of valor. He thrived on the recognition.”
“What else does the report say?”
He shuffled papers again. It must have been quite the report.
“Phillip Charles Webb graduated first in his class at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, the British equivalent of West Point. Before Sandhurst he attended Eton, where he excelled as a student and an athlete.”
“Why would a superstar like Webb come to Boston to shoot me?” I asked. “It doesn’t fit the pattern.”
“What pattern?”
“Alroy McGrew and William McAfee, both IRA soldiers, tried to kill me, which makes sense. And then Phillip Webb, a decorated British Army Intelligence officer, tried to kill me, which doesn’t make sense. Webb doesn’t fit with the other two men. He’s not IRA. More than
that, he’s their enemy. So why would Webb do the IRA’s bidding?”
“An excellent question.”
“Yeah, but what’s the answer?”
“Webb doesn’t fit on the face of it, and yet he must fit in somehow. I’ll keep digging to see what else I can find out. Hold the fort,” Kenny said. “I have a call coming in from Scotland Yard. I’ll get back to you.” And he hung up.
I tried something that was a reach for me: I brainstormed. It wasn’t exactly a synaptic tsunami. As I brainstormed along, I was raising more questions than I was arriving at answers. For example:
Why would a British Army Intelligence officer, a man who had stopped numerous IRA maneuvers in the past, agree to kill me for the IRA? What was it that motivated Webb? I couldn’t come up with an answer, so I flipped my thinking around. What if the IRA had nothing to do with Webb? What if Webb acted on his own? I thought about that for a while and came up with another question. What if Webb’s attempt on my life had something to do with the money fair? I mulled over that prospect, and I decided it didn’t seem likely. He wouldn’t get reward money if he killed me, so why would he do it? What was driving him?
I sifted the information, looking at it from ten different angles, and something clicked into place, a possible reason for Webb to fly to Boston to put me to sleep. He was taking orders from Liam McGrew. It had to be Liam. This led to another question. Why would Webb be taking orders from Liam?
I weighed and reweighed the information. Liam McGrew and Phillip Webb, an IRA chieftain and a British Army Intelligence soldier, conspiring to kill me. I almost felt special, bringing warring factions together. But why would they team up? They had nothing in common, or did they? And if they had something in common, what the hell was it, and why did it involve me?
I kept on brainstorming and I arrived at a plausible if fantastical explanation, an explanation I never would have thought of if not for the shenanigans between the Boston office of the FBI and the Boston mob. Paid snitches.
What if Liam was an informer to the British Army? And what if Webb was his handler? I was making an assumption, and a crazy assumption at that, but I ran with it anyway. Act as if, they say in AA.
The Revenge of Liam McGrew: A Dermot Sparhawk Mystery Page 17