The Trust

by Ronald H. Balson

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  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  To my wife, Monica,

  and a lifetime of mutual trust

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Trust is a work of historical fiction. The cast of characters portrayed herein are products of my imagination and do not refer to any actual person, living or dead. Nevertheless, Northern Ireland’s rich and complex history plays a substantial supportive role. I have tried to draw upon the history of the Troubles as authentically as I could, insofar as that setting supports the fictional story. The existence of the organizations mentioned—the Irish Republican Army, the Real IRA, the Ulster Volunteer Force, and the Ulster Defence Association—is indisputable, but their role in the story is purely fictional. The political parties and the police services—Sinn Fein, the Ulster Unionist Party, the Police Service of Northern Ireland, and the Royal Ulster Constabulary—were accurate references, though again, their connection to the story is fictional. The Rape of the Falls, the Orange Parades, and descriptions of the violence during the Troubles are unfortunately accurate. The Good Friday Peace Agreement and its provisions for early release of prisoners is also factual.

  I am indebted to the wonderful people of Northern Ireland and their beautiful country. I am especially grateful to the staff of the Ulster Museum, the staff of the Dunluce Castle, and the staff of the Titanic Museum, and for the wealth of history they were willing to share. My special thanks to historian Gerald McGlade, who graciously took us on a hands-on journey through the Belfast neighborhoods. As Liam would enthusiastically concur, I urge everyone to include Northern Ireland in their bucket list.

  Once again, thanks to my supportive group at St. Martin’s Press: my editor, Jennifer Weis; my publicist, Staci Burt; Brant Janeway, Sylvan Creekmore, and Jordan Hanley. Thanks to NaNá V. Stoelzle, for her talented editing. Thanks to my agent and good friend, Maura Teitelbaum.

  As always, my heartfelt thanks to my cadre of readers and their invaluable advice: The Honorable John T. Carr, Cindy Pogrund, David Pogrund, Linda Waldman, Rose McGowan, Richard Templer, Katie Lang, and Lawrence and Benjamin Balson. And my deepest gratitude to my indefatigable wife, Monica, who read the pages as they came out of the printer. She must have read and edited the story a thousand times and always stayed upbeat and positive.

  Finally, a toast to the lads at Robinson’s.

  PREFACE

  In the sixteenth century, the British Crown, mindful of the bourgeoning thirst for independence on the predominantly Catholic island of Ireland, instituted a landgrab policy referred to as the Plantation of Ulster. Catholic farmlands in the northeast sector of Ireland were confiscated and handed over to thousands of Protestant settlers from England and Scotland who were willing to pledge loyalty to the Crown. As a condition of ownership, the new landowners were prohibited from employing Catholic workers. Hence, the native Catholic population in the six northern counties was institutionally deprived of its lands, its income and its political status. Centuries of conflict ensued but failed to diminish the hold of the Protestant ascendancy.

  In 1920, the English Parliament passed the Government of Ireland Act, partitioning the island into two entities: Southern Ireland and Northern Ireland. The twenty-six counties of Southern Ireland would become the Irish Free State in 1922. The six northeast counties of Antrim, Armagh, Down, Fermanagh, Londonderry and Tyrone would become the country of Northern Ireland, and remain a part of the United Kingdom.

  By 1969, Catholics numbered a third of Northern Ireland’s population, but had not a single Catholic cabinet member. Judges were uniformly Protestant and civil servants were required to swear allegiance to the British crown. Public works and housing, administered by the Protestant-controlled government, directed economic benefits to Protestant neighborhoods. Living conditions for Catholics in the larger cities of Belfast, Derry, Portadown and Antrim were bleak and oppressive. Health care was poor and male unemployment exceeded 70 percent.

  Catholics began to organize protests and stage civil rights marches often ending in violence. The Irish Republican Army (IRA) and its political arm, Sinn Fein, advanced the Catholic cause, often by violent means. The Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) and the Loyalist Volunteer Force (LVF), with their political arm the Ulster Union Party (UUP) took up arms in opposition. Civil order in the six counties disintegrated and led to a bloody civil war that would last for thirty years. That war was known as the Troubles.

  ONE

  LIFE’S DIRECTION IS EPHEMERAL. Something as common as the ring of a telephone can knock it off its course. Simple as that, but I didn’t see it coming this time. I had just arrived at my office, set my coffee on my desk and was starting to unfold the morning Tribune when my phone rang. Since I make my living as a private investigator and my assignments typically begin with a phone call, the ring was not unwelcome. But this turned out to be a call I didn’t expect and I certainly didn’t want.

  It’s not that my life was so predictably calm, but lately I’d settled into a comfortable routine. I had a new baby, a happy marriage and a solid investigation practice. Then the phone rang, and like the switchman in a railroad yard, it redirected my life. First I’m going north, now I’m going east.

  I lifted the receiver. “Liam Taggart, Investigations.”

  “Liam? It’s Janie.”

  The call I didn’t expect. I sat there staring at the phone.

  “It’s Janie. Your cousin, Janie. The cute one. Holy Mother of God, Liam, have you lost your senses? Do you not remember your own family?”

  I winced. Janie was one of a dozen cousins I had back in Northern Ireland, a clan I hadn’t seen since the late nineties. She was seventeen then, a lively little dark-haired colleen. Deep expressive eyes. Little turned-up Irish nose. Full of spunk. Her voice brought back old memories. Memories I had locked away sixteen years ago.

  “I’m sorry, Janie, it’s just that your call took me by surprise. How’s everyone back in the North?”

  “Uncle Fergus died last night.”

  My heart sank and I swallowed hard. I feared this day would come and I knew I’d better make amends before it did. But I hadn’t. Damn the call I didn’t want. Fergus and I, we should have never left it like this. We had unfinished sentences, incomplete paragraphs. I could have gone to see him. We could’ve raised a pint, cleared the air, restored our relationship. Hell, it might have been as easy as a damn telephone call. We’d shared too much to let it end like this. Now he’s gone and it’s too late.

  No longer locked away, memories flipped through my mind like pages of a photo album. A smiling Fergus Taggart, my father’s brother and a giant of a man. Me, riding on his massive shoulders. Us, fishing in a wooden boat on the Lough Neagh. Me, sound asleep in a booth at McFlaherty’s Public House, my head upon his lap. Him, slipping a fifty-pound note into my jacket pocket the day I left for America. And the pure joy of Aunt Deirdre’s Sunday night dinners.

  Who was it that said hours pass slowly but years fly by? It was just sixteen years ago that Fergus said the l
ast words he’d ever speak to me.

  “I don’t think you and I have anything more to say to each other, Liam. You best be off now.”

  They were never supposed to be the last words. They were just words to end the day. Maybe the week. There would always be time to make amends. To find other words. Did Uncle Fergus believe those would be the last words or was he, like me, waiting for the inevitable reconciliation? I guess I’ll never know.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Janie, truly I am. That’s such sad news. How long had he been ill?”

  “The funeral’s Thursday. We’ll talk about it when you get here. Please come.”

  I took a deep breath. Three days. “Oh, I don’t know, Janie, I’m scheduled to—”

  “Mass is at St. Michael’s in Antrim, Thursday morning at eleven. The family needs you. Uncle Fergus needs you.”

  I furrowed my forehead at the odd remark. There would surely be no loving summons from my estranged Irish family. And Fergus wouldn’t know one way or the other. I nodded to the phone. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have to get back to you.”

  * * *

  CATHERINE MET ME AT the front door with her finger on her lips. “Shh, the baby’s sleeping.” She gave me a kiss. “What are you doing home so early? Are you feeling okay?”

  I nodded, hung my coat on the rack and went straight to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. “I got a call from a cousin in Northern Ireland,” I said over my shoulder. “My uncle Fergus died. They want me to come to Antrim for the funeral.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Catherine said. “Was he sick?”

  “I don’t know. I asked Janie and she gave me a cryptic answer—we’d talk about it when I got there. I mean, if he died of a heart attack, wouldn’t she tell me?”

  “I would think so. That’s a strange answer. You and your uncle were very close at one time, weren’t you?”

  Close? At a critical time in my life Fergus was the most important person in the world. When my mother became ill, I was sent to live with him. He and my aunt Deirdre took a scared little four-year-old boy in short pants into their home and raised and nurtured me for six years. Close? I loved him with all my heart. Still do. I needed him and depended on him and he was there for me. I blinked a few tears and nodded my head.

  Catherine put her arm around my shoulders. “I’m so sorry, honey. When’s the funeral?”

  “In three days. It doesn’t matter, I can’t go. I have appointments scheduled later this week.”

  “Can’t you reschedule them?”

  “Maybe I could, but that’s not entirely it. I think if I were there it would be uncomfortable. Not just for me, but for everyone. I didn’t leave under the best of circumstances and I haven’t talked to any of them in sixteen years. I had a falling-out with my uncle, returned to America and shut them all out of my life like they didn’t exist. I’m sure the family harbors bitter feelings and who could blame them? They deserved better from me. I should have taken the initiative, stayed in touch, but I just didn’t know how to start the conversation. Now it’s been too many years.”

  “You left because you had a falling-out with your uncle? Seems to me that it takes two to have an argument.”

  “No, Cat, this one was all my fault. I was living a lie and I got caught. I never should have put myself in a position where I had to lie to my family. It was foolish of me to accept a posting in Northern Ireland that was bound to end in a betrayal. I don’t know why I did it.”

  “Maybe because it was the right thing to do? And you were young, Liam. Cut yourself a break.”

  “At the time, I thought it was the right thing to do. It was 1994 and I was a young recruit with the CIA. I’d only been with the Agency for a year when a position opened up in Northern Ireland and I jumped on it. For one thing I hadn’t seen my Irish family since I was a young child and for another, Northern Ireland was the decade’s political hotspot and I wanted in on the action.

  “The Troubles was always front-page news for me. I followed it every day. In January 1994, President Clinton decided to get involved in the peace process. He invited Gerry Adams, the IRA’s top politician and the UK’s public enemy number one, to visit D.C. He arrived to rousing crowds and shook hands at the White House. It wasn’t exactly what Tony Blair and Bertie Ahern had in mind, but Clinton was an effective peacemaker.

  “As expected, Clinton directed the Agency to assist on the ground in Northern Ireland. Because I had family in County Antrim and could move about in the nationalist community, the Agency granted my request and posted me there. So in the summer of 1994, I returned to a grand reunion. My uncle Fergus was so happy to see me, it was like I’d never left. He gave me a bear hug so strong I thought he’d break my bones. As far as he and I were concerned, not a single minute had ticked off the clock since I was ten years old. There was my aunt Deirdre, with tears in her eyes and her arms wide open, the woman who warmly and unselfishly took me in and gave me a mother’s love when I was four years old. There was my uncle Robert, always a broad smile on his rosy face. There was my aunt Nora and my wise old Uncle Eamon. They couldn’t wait to welcome me back. And me, I was the undercover spy who was going to help bring an end to the war. What I didn’t realize was that I had chosen a path destined to alienate me from the family I loved.

  “The job directed me to use my family to spy on the Catholic community. At first, all the Agency asked me to do was to hang out in the various clubs and organizations and pass along information if I thought it was important. What’s the buzz in the nationalist circles? What rumors have you heard from the republicans? Is there anything going down that we should know about?” “My uncles were prominent in republican circles and because of them, I could freely come and go in those organizations and I learned quite a bit. Some of my information saved lives, Cat. Make no mistake, I did some real good while I was there.

  “Right up until the end, I was enjoying strong bonds with my family. I loved them all dearly and they loved me. Aunt Deirdre would cook these marvelous Sunday dinners and the whole family would come and gather around her long kitchen table. More often than not, there’d be an extra chair for a single girl that my aunt Nora ‘just happened to know’ and ‘wasn’t she a darling?’”

  Catherine raised her eyebrows. “I’m not sure I want to hear about the darling single girls.”

  Catherine was right about that. Most of the girls were just passing encounters, but not Annie. Just thinking about Annie and the year we had together brought all those feelings back to the surface—feelings that needed to stay locked away where I put them sixteen years ago. What would my life have been like had I not had that falling-out, had I not returned to America in 1999, had I stayed with Annie? What would my life have been like had I not been blindsided? Had the rug not been pulled out from under my feet? I had no desire to revisit those memories now, nor did I wish to discuss them with Catherine.

  “Nothing came of the darling girls,” I lied. “But everything ended in 1999 when my uncles learned who I really was and what I had done behind their backs. I was the great deceiver. I was a fraud. I had betrayed them.”

  “Seriously, Liam, aren’t you going a little overboard? What did your family think you were doing in Northern Ireland? Didn’t they have an inkling that you weren’t a liquor salesman?”

  I shook my head. “Absolutely not. I certainly couldn’t divulge that I was working for the CIA. I was sent there to secretly gather information. For five years I pretended to be working for a whiskey exporter. I even negotiated contracts for delivery of Uncle Fergus’s crops to an Agency front.

  “You sold your uncle’s wheat to a phony CIA distillery?”

  “Barley. It was barley. Single malt stuff. We brokered it to Jameson.”

  “And they never figured out you were CIA?”

  “Not until the end. Oh, one time Uncle Fergus caught me talking to my station chief, Jim Westerfield. It was right before one of the Drumcree marches and I thought my uncle was suspicious. He questioned me abo
ut Westerfield, but Westerfield had credentials as a whiskey distributor and my uncle was satisfied. He trusted me. And of course, there we have the crux of the matter. My uncles trusted me.”

  Catherine nodded. She understood—it was all about trust, or lack thereof.

  “Cat, my family took me in and loved me without qualification and I conned them. I played them for information. And when they learned the truth in 1999, it ended very badly. We haven’t spoken since I left. I should have called. But every time I thought about it, I didn’t know how to start the conversation, and every day that passed made it more difficult. Now I think it would be too awkward to go to the funeral. There are bound to be a lot of bad feelings.”

  “Well, staying in touch is a two-way street. He could have called you as well.”

  I shook my head. “Not the way it ended. I had to be the one to make the first move. And I didn’t.”

  “What really happened in ’ninety-nine? What was so earth-shaking that it destroyed your relationships?”

  I took a sip of coffee and a deep breath. “It all started with a guy named Seamus McManus. He was a technician, an IRA bomb maker. He designed and set off a petrol bomb in the Belfast Arms Hotel in 1975, killing twelve people including three children. Two years later he was arrested, tried, convicted and sentenced to life in prison by a judge who called him a monster. He sat in Crumlin Road Prison for twenty-two years.”

  “Don’t tell me they released him.”

  I nodded. “In 1998 the Troubles officially ended with the signing of the Good Friday Peace Agreement. I say officially because there were still plenty who wanted to keep fighting. The GFA called for the release of four hundred prisoners, and McManus was one of them. He was paroled in 1999.

  “One night, barely a month after his release, with his bones full of hate and his belly full of Guinness, he clubbed a Protestant aid worker to death with an iron pipe. He was rearrested and thrown into the Antrim jail. Westerfield got word that McManus was part of a plot to set off a bomb at the Orange Parade. He wanted to plant someone in the cell with McManus to pump him for information. I volunteered. They gave me the identity of Danny Foy and threw me into the cell with McManus. My cover story was that I was arrested for plotting to shoot up a Protestant lodge. I spent two days with McManus and I got it all. Everything. The where, the when, and the names of all the conspirators that McManus was plotting with. As a result, eight men were rounded up and their guns and bombs were confiscated. The planned attack never went off. The eight terrorists got life sentences. I did my job and I was damn proud of it.”