England's Janissary

  ‘Joe! How the devil are you, old chap? Bloody marvellous to see you, bloody marvellous!’ he gushed a little too ebulliently to ring true as he vigorously pumped Maguire’s hand before turning and looking at Flynn, making him feel like he was under a microscope before he thrust his hand towards him. ‘And you must be Constable Flynn! Splendid! I’ve heard so much about you!’ Flynn’s heart sank; he hated it when people he’d never met before said that they had ‘heard so much about him,’ especially the ones who acted like they were in charge, and a familiar alarm bell began to clang inside his head as the man pumped his hand too. Flynn had no idea who the man was but he had a feeling that he was going to be trouble – trouble with a capital ‘T’.

  ‘Where are my manners?’ the Englishman declared suddenly, his dark, expressionless eyes glinting. ‘Please, please, come this way,’ he added, turning towards the tower as somewhere in the distance the muffled sound of gunfire rolled into the courtyard and reverberated off its walls and all three looked up for a moment like men studying the weather. ‘Let’s hope that it’s our lads sticking it to the blasted Shinners for a change, eh?’ The man clapped Maguire on the back, all bon homie. ‘On! On! There’s work to be done,’ he said, before speeding off back towards the tower.

  ‘Who is he?’ Flynn mouthed quietly to Maguire as he gestured towards the man’s receding back.

  ‘You’ll see soon enough.’ Maguire smiled. ‘But as it happens, he’s my boss! Now come on!’

  ‘You know, Joe, I had a feeling you were going to say that!’ Flynn muttered as Maguire sped off after the Englishman in the direction of the tower. Flynn shook his head and followed as another series of distant gunshots echoed across the yard.

  He was met at the door by a tall middle-aged man with a neat moustache and wavy fair hair who eyed Flynn suspiciously, as if he was weighing him up, much as the Englishman had a few minutes earlier, his hard eyes betraying nothing of what was behind them. He exuded the dangerous confidence of a man who knew how to look after himself. ‘This way, Constable,’ he said in a pronounced Mayo accent.

  Flynn gave him a polite smile and squeezed past into the confines of the tower. The man gestured up a flight of stairs and waited for Flynn to climb and on the third floor landing Flynn reached an impressive albeit somewhat spartan office that smelt of wax furniture polish and expensive tobacco. The Englishman stood behind a large leather-topped desk piled with thick beige and scarlet card-covered files and a crystal glass ashtray overflowing with the detritus of a serious nicotine habit. He was already lighting another cigarette when Flynn entered the room. Maguire had already made himself at home in a dark wood leather upholstered chair by a triplet of windows that overlooked the Lower Castle Yard.

  ‘Ah, so I see you’ve already met Head Constable Igoe,’ the Englishman announced and Head Constable Eugene Igoe gave Flynn a cursory nod before swinging the office door shut with a soft click. Igoe folded his arms and leant against it and Flynn couldn’t quite work out whether he was keeping people out or them in. ‘Please, please, take a seat, my dear chap,’ the Englishman said chummily, as he gestured towards an empty chair. ‘Take a seat, Kevin. You don’t mind if I call you Kevin, do you?’ The man didn’t wait for a response, safe in the knowledge that Flynn was unlikely to say no and even if he did, Flynn had a feeling that the man would call him Kevin anyway.

  Flynn dropped into a chair and tried, unsuccessfully, to look relaxed. It was then that he noticed the name etched in brass on the tally sitting on the man’s desk – Brigadier General Ormonde de l’Épée Winter CB CMG DSO (Late RA) – and blanched. So this was Maguire’s boss, the man they called the ‘Holy Terror’ himself; in short, the man responsible for running British intelligence operations in Ireland, the man who revelled in the codename ‘O’.

  Offering Flynn a cigarette, Winter was obviously relishing the theatricality of the moment and shot Flynn a cold smile, whilst sifting deftly through the pile of folders on his desk. He plucked one free and thumbed through it. Flynn felt distinctly uncomfortable and shifted uneasily in his seat as Winter shifted his gaze to Maguire. ‘Well, let’s get down to business, shall we, eh what? I’ve read your report, Joe. Damn rum business this O’Neill chappie blowing your cover and all. Worse still, he was one of our own, eh, Eugene?’ he said, looking over to Igoe. ‘Sends all the wrong blasted signals, having a Protestant republican, don’t you know.’

  ‘Bloody bad business, sir,’ Igoe concurred.

  ‘Well, Joe, Eugene here tells me that a little bird has told him that your man O’Neill is out and about in these parts. Apparently, he was seen getting off the Mullingar train with another fellow, his minder no doubt. We don’t have a positive ID of the minder yet, do we, Eugene?’ he asked Igoe.

  ‘Not yet, sir, but I’m sure we’ll get one soon.’ Igoe pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and placed it on Winter’s desk. It was a police artist’s sketch of a man’s face.

  ‘Is this the best we’ve got?’ Winter asked, as he tossed the sketch onto his desk. Maguire leant forward.

  ‘May I?’ he asked, pointedly omitting to say ‘sir’. Winter handed him the sketch and Maguire studied it closely. He held it up for Flynn and turned to the brigadier. ‘I could be wrong but it looks like a fella called Mick McNamara to me, eh, Kevin?’ Flynn nodded.

  ‘You know him?’ Winter asked.

  ‘You could say that,’ Maguire said slowly. ‘I was his commanding officer!’ Winter effervesced ebulliently, snorting a harsh, sharp laugh that grated on Flynn’s nerves.

  ‘Excuse me, but that is absolutely bloody marvellous. What a stroke of luck, eh, Eugene?’ Winter gushed at Igoe, who nodded again, keeping his thoughts to himself. The man was a closed book, his eyes cold and calculating. ‘Head Constable Igoe here has a bit of a knack of finding people, don’t you, Eugene, old chap? A gift some would say, eh?’

  ‘If you say so, sir,’ Igoe replied noncommittally.

  ‘If I say so! If I say so! You’re like a bloodhound, Eugene!’ He turned to the others. ‘Head Constable Igoe here has made quite a name for himself over in Galway, didn’t you, Eugene, catching Shinners? So good, in fact, I’ve invited the good head constable to come and work for me here in Dublin. We’ve got the rebels on the ropes here in Dublin and I want him to set up a new unit for me; a special operations unit to winkle out Shinners from whatever stone they are hiding under, finish them off, what! It’s still a work in progress but I’m minded to call this unit the Identification Branch of the Combined Intelligence Service, or something like that, anyway. I gather you’ve done a bit of intelligence work yourself, Kevin, old chap?’

  Flynn felt his stomach knotting and he tensed slightly as the brigadier addressed him. He didn’t know where the man was taking this conversation but Flynn already had an inkling that it wasn’t anywhere he wanted to go. ‘I’d hardly call it that, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘Now, now, Constable, you’re far too modest. Nasty business with Kelleher but Joe here speaks very highly of you in his report. Cool head under pressure, what! No more than I’d expect from a man with a Military Medal, eh?’ It struck Flynn that Winter had been doing his homework. ‘You know, Joe, I was thinking of spiriting you away over the water but I think in the circumstances I have a better idea. Yes, a much better idea. I don’t like what this O’Neill chap has done and I think that the Shinners need to be sent a message that it’s just not on. I’m getting sick to death of malcontent bloody policemen. Seeing as you know O’Neill and this McNamara chappie, how do you fancy having a go at bringing the treacherous little bastards to justice?’ It wasn’t really a question.

  ‘Eugene here will give you your instructions and you’ll report to him. I want those bastards off the streets and I want it done ASAP, understand? Oh, and by the way, you are not to mention this meeting to anyone. Is that clear?’

  Without waiting for Flynn and Maguire to respond, without even looking up, Winter plucked another folder from the pile of files and flipped it open as Igoe o
pened the office door. ‘There’s transport downstairs. They’ll take you over to the depot in Phoenix Park. I’ll meet you there at the guardroom at 9 a.m. on Monday,’ Igoe said dismissively. It was obvious that the meeting was over.

  CHAPTER 37

  RIC HQ, Phoenix Park, Dublin

  ‘SO WHY DID you do it?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Do what?’ Maguire replied, as he nursed his mug of strong, sweet tea.

  ‘Change sides, of course.’

  ‘I didn’t. Change sides, that is.’ He slurped another mouthful of tea and looked casually around the depot canteen. Flynn looked at him, unconvinced. ‘I’m on Ireland’s side. I still am.’

  ‘So how come you were IRA and now you’re not?’

  Maguire flashed Flynn a smile and placed his mug down with a gentle thud. ‘Ah, now there’s a tale,’ he said before picking up his tea once more and holding the mug in his cupped hands, feeling the warmth leech into his palms. He felt a perverse pleasure in making Flynn wait for him to tell his story. ‘Call it an epiphany if you like. When you were a lad, I bet your da read you bedtime stories about the three little pigs. Mine? I got stories of how the English pitch-capped my great-grandfather back in ’98, how they stole my country and murdered my people. Jaysus, did my folks teach me to hate the English, the devil and all his works or what?’ He laughed dryly. ‘Every generation needs its revolution, they say, to keep the torch burning until the next generation comes along. How ironically “British” of us – it’s not the winning or losing that matters, it’s the taking part, eh?’

  Maguire slid his mug of tea further away and looked Flynn in the eye. ‘Why did I change sides, as you put it? Why did you? You’re as Irish as me, yet you joined their army. You became a peeler. Why?

  ‘Because I don’t agree with what the Shinners are doing.’

  ‘Exactly, and neither do I. I just didn’t realize it until that bloody pointless Rising. What a bloody farce that was. Pearse told us that Ireland was ready for revolution, like hell! I had plenty of time to think when I was rotting in Frongoch internment camp. You tell me what sort of country can we build if we keep thinking that the gun is the answer? People didn’t vote for this bloody mess. No one said back in 1918 “vote for us and we’ll cause anarchy”. They talk about democracy but mean agree with me or get lost. Very bloody democratic! No wonder the Prods up north are so afraid of us. Now don’t get me wrong, Kevin, I’m still on Ireland’s side. I still want the British to leave my country alone but if it’s all right for us to kill anyone who disagrees with us then what’s to stop any malcontent with a gun doing the same? It’s a recipe for anarchy. You mark my words, Kevin. The moment the Brits leave, and they will, the first thing the rebels will do is turn on each other, so unless we learn to get what we want peacefully, there’ll be civil war. You mark my words.’

  ‘And that’s why you switched side,’ Flynn said.

  ‘I changed methods, not sides, that’s all. Besides, where do you fit in? Where do any of you fit in, in their new Ireland?’ Maguire swept his arm across the room at the other policemen idling away their time in the canteen. ‘You’re worse than the Prods, you’re one of “us”, a Catholic Irishman who dances to John Bull’s tune. You’re a traitor, Kevin, like all of the rest, like me even. Isn’t that why you joined the RIC, because you don’t agree with the Shinners? I was recruited by British intelligence to help stop these people wrecking my bloody country any further. God, if we had peace, then maybe the Brits really would piss off and leave us alone to sort our differences out without resorting to bloody murder.’

  Flynn laughed. ‘Now, just for a moment there, I thought that you were just another Irish romantic!’

  Maguire gave him a sharp look and then burst out laughing. ‘Sure, aren’t we all romantics at heart! It’s our curse!’

  ‘Ain’t it just!’

  Several heads turned in their direction, doubtless trying to work out what the joke was before turning back to their own muffled conversations. ‘So what do you think of this Igoe fella?’ Flynn asked but before Maguire could answer, the canteen door banged open and a great-coated constable stepped in out of the rain. He doffed his cap and shook the excess water from it before closing the door behind him. Pulling a crumpled piece of paper out of his coat pocket, the constable glanced at it and then, looking up, called out loudly. ‘Has anyone seen a Constable Kevin Flynn?’

  ‘What now?’ Flynn sighed, before raising his hand. ‘Over here!’ The constable wove his way through the tables until he stood next to Flynn and Maguire. The constable, Stephen Fallon, was a passing acquaintance of Flynn’s, having gone through training together. Fallon smiled as he approached Flynn’s table.

  ‘The orderly sergeant said I might find you here. This turned up in the mail room and he said I should make sure that you got it.’ He held out a crumpled envelope. Flynn took it.

  ‘Who’s on duty tonight?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Sergeant McLain. He sounded like he knows you.’

  ‘Bugger me! He was my old gaffer back in Drumlish. I’ll have to swing by the orderly office and say hello. I didn’t realize he was here.’

  ‘I’ll give him your regards.’

  ‘There’s a right old reunion going on here,’ Maguire quipped as Fallon walked back towards the door. ‘That old duffer, McLain, O’Neill, McNamara. Jaysus, it’s just like being back in Longford. Perhaps we should throw a party!’

  Flynn ignored him and looked down at the envelope, toying with it, turning it around in his hands. The postmark was two weeks old, stamped with Kingstown and Drumlish. Rain had smudged the neat feminine script that flowed across the paper. Kingstown. Kingstown. Who did he know in Kingstown? He snagged open the envelope and flicked open the letter.

  ‘And what has got you grinning like a Cheshire cat?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he lied, as his cheeks flushed deep red.

  ‘Nothing, my arse, it’ll be some colleen writing to you.’

  ‘So what do you think of this Igoe fella?’ Flynn asked desperately, changing the subject as he folded the letter and popped it in his jacket pocket.

  Maguire shrugged. ‘It looks like Winter has us painted into a corner. There isn’t a lot we can do but go along with him, but never mind that nonsense; we don’t have to worry about Igoe until Monday. So tell me who the letter is from. I don’t see no wedding ring so who’s the young lady?’

  ‘If it’s any of your business, it’s from a girl I used to know in Drumlish, Kathleen Moore. It would seem that she has been staying with her aunt in Kingstown and she’s trying to get in touch with me. She’s asked me to write her or drop by if I happen to be in the area.’

  ‘Ah, so she’s still keen on you, is she, this Kathleen?’ Maguire asked with a knowing smile.

  ‘I reckon,’ Flynn replied.

  ‘She’s taking a bit of a risk, isn’t she?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You do realize that the post office is full of rebel sympathizers.’ Flynn looked at him blankly, none the wiser. ‘I’d be gobsmacked if you are the only one who has read that letter. If it’s not their people reading people’s mail then it’s ours. Christ, the IRA’s Directorate of Military Intelligence has an entire section dedicated to reading the mail.’

  ‘Away with you,’ Flynn said. ‘Who’d be interested in this?’

  ‘Anyone with eyes, Kevin. Just look at the envelope.’

  Flynn pulled the paper back out of his pocket and looked at the address, looking up at Maguire with a puzzled expression. ‘So?’

  ‘Jaysus, you’re not the sharpest pencil in the box, are ye? Look at the address. Who is it addressed to?’

  ‘Constable Kevin Flynn, care of the RIC Barracks, Drumlish …’ Flynn’s voice trailed away into silence.

  ‘Exactly! It’s addressed to a peeler. Who wouldn’t be interested? It’s addressed to one of England’s janissaries! Do you think that one of our people wouldn’t be interested if they found a letter addressed to one of the enemy?’ F
lynn leapt up, sending his chair clattering against the table behind, attracting further curiosity. Maguire grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, holding him in place. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Going to Kingstown, of course. Kathleen may be in danger.’

  ‘Just calm down. That letter must be over a week old. If the IRA were going to do anything to your girl, then you’re already too late, believe me. They’d also make sure you knew about it. No, she’s still all right and besides, the last thing you want to do is charge across Dublin at night, what with the curfew. If the rebels don’t shoot us, some bloody trigger-happy squaddie probably will.’ Flynn didn’t look convinced. ‘Look, it’s Sunday tomorrow. Why don’t we …’

  ‘We?’

  ‘We. You don’t think I’m going to let you go running off on your own? Like I said, why don’t we blag a car from the motor pool and then go over to see Kingstown. Don’t worry, I won’t play gooseberry but at least you’ll get there in one piece. And besides, it’s pissing down – we’ll get soaked, you Jackeen eejit!’

  ‘All right, I’ll wait, but you better be right,’ Flynn replied sceptically.

  ‘Look, if you are that worried, why don’t you telephone the local DMP station in Kingstown and get them to take a look in on your girl? You’ve got the address. Let’s get over to the orderly office and say hello to your old mucker Sergeant McLain. I’m sure he’ll let you use the phone. After all, what else are old friends for?’

  CHAPTER 38

  Saturday, 20 November 1920, Kingstown, County Dublin

  THE TWO MEN hopped off the tram into the early evening’s long shadows and walked slowly down the road, trying to attract as little attention as possible. O’Neill couldn’t help noticing that the air was saltier here than in the middle of Dublin, making him feel tired, and the gentle breeze reminded him that he had not eaten all day. His stomach grumbled loudly. ‘I could murder a brew and a piece,’ O’Neill said to McNamara, who did an excellent impression of ignoring him as he fantasized about a mountainous greasy Ulster fry.