The van lurched as Erin jumped into the back. “Morning, Davy.” She was wearing overalls under a hooded anorak. She was overdressed for the weather, he thought.
“Morning.” He found it hard to be civil.
There was more swaying as Cal and Eamon piled in. Davy heard Eamon call, “Get a move on, Brendan. We don’t want to keep the nice peelers waiting.” There was laughter from the others. How in the name of Christ could they laugh?
“Move over in the bed, Cal,” McGuinness said.
“’Bye, Tessie,” Erin called to the dog. “Cal phoned Willy McCoubrey over by Ardstraw this morning. He’ll pop over to feed you and see to the cows until Sammy gets better. Be a good girl.” Davy heard the catch in her voice as she added, “I’ll miss you, Tessie.” He wondered what else she would miss.
The back doors were slammed. “Right, Davy,” said Eamon. “Away you go.”
Davy started the engine, automatically checked the petrol gauge—good, the tank was full—put the van in gear, and drove off in the bright morning sunshine, out of the yard, along the farm lane, and turned left onto the A5 to head for a big shed, along the way to Strabane. He’d dump the others and their gear at the shed, then drive back to cross the border at Clady.
He heard Cal ask Erin, “Any word on Sammy?” and her answer, “Aye. I phoned Altnagelvin. They said he’s comfortable. He’ll likely be out by next Thursday.”
Eamon said, “Poor wee Sammy.”
* * *
Poor wee Sammy McCandless struggled awake and tried not to take any deep breaths. Every time he did, his broken ribs screamed in protest. The oxygen tubes up his nose chafed, and the intravenous line in his right arm throbbed where the needle had pierced the skin. He sat propped up on pillows, staring through the window of the ward of Derry’s Altnagelvin Hospital. He could see the huge bronze statue of Princess Macha. Jesus Christ, he paid fuckin’ taxes and all the Hospitals Authority could do with his money was buy an ugly lump of metal like that.
He tried to shift and ground his teeth as pain ran like green fire across his left side. Was it not time for his morphine yet? He groped for a bell push pinned to his pillow.
It seemed to take forever before a student nurse came to his bedside.
“Can I have my needle, nurse?”
She smiled and fluffed his pillow. “Not just yet, Mr. McCandless. In a wee while.”
Shite. “Nurse?” He was embarrassed to ask, but he wasn’t sure how long he’d been here. “What day is it?”
“Saturday,” she said brightly as she turned to leave.
Saturday? Saturday? Sammy fought to remember. His mind was addled with all the medications. The last thing he remembered clearly was the awful pressure as the cow crushed him on—on Thursday. He’d been so pleased with himself because he’d thought of a way to protect Erin with one short phone call to Spud that he’d not paid proper attention to the animals in the barn. Bloody cow. Bloody cow. But for her he’d have made that call.
It was too late now. All Sammy’s grand plans to safeguard Erin and, never mind her, safeguard himself were banjaxed. If the E4A man had acted on Sammy’s intelligence, had persuaded his superiors to prepare an ambush, Erin and Cal and Eamon and whoever had come with them from the Kesh were going to be royally fucked—if they weren’t already.
And then—then the senior Provos would know someone had touted, and they would come for Sammy. He knew it. He just knew it. His ribs grated, and he groaned, “Ah, Je-sus.” He was far too sore to try to make a run for it.
Think, man, he told himself. Think. The Provos’d not know he was in here. Maybe he could get hold of Spud, have the peelers come for him here at the hospital, stand guard until he was ready to be discharged. It would work. It had to. It was Sammy’s only hope of staying alive and still having a chance to get to England. Spud had promised to look after Sammy. Giving him a police minder for a day or two wasn’t too much to ask.
Spud would see to it because the bugger was going to get what he wanted—a chance to stop the O’Byrnes once and for all.
And “for all” meant death. Sammy saw Erin, bullet torn, gaunt as that bloody statue outside. He turned his face into his pillow and wept, clutching at his grating ribs as he was torn by deep, shuddering sobs. He’d have killed her as surely as he’d killed Fiach, and he could confess all he wished to his priest; neither unlimited acts of contrition nor a thousand novenas would ever absolve him from what he had done.
He could always forget about phoning Spud, wait docilely for the Provos to take their revenge and put him out of his misery like a dumb animal, but fuck guilt; he’d rather live with it than face eternal darkness.
He could only try to comfort himself by clinging to the hope, as a child clings to a comfort blanket, that once he got a phone call through, and there must be a phone he could use somewhere in the hospital, Spud would protect him. He would. He would.
* * *
“Joan mobile one to Joan control, over.” Alfie Ingram released the transmit button of his unmarked car’s radio.
“Go ahead, mobile one,” crackled from the dashboard speaker.
“The grey van has left the farmyard and is heading north on the A5, over.”
“Roger that.”
Good. Control was receiving the transmissions and would listen in to Alfie’s conversation with another of his cars.
“Mobile one to mobile two, over.”
Mobile two held a couple of Alfie’s officers and was stationed at a crossroads in the village of Victoria Bridge, four miles ahead. “Mobile two, over.”
“Joan mobile one in distant pursuit to peel off at the B163 junction, one half mile past you. Joan mobile two to tuck in behind us and pick up surveillance when we’ve gone. Mobile one will take over near Strabane. Confirm, two.”
“Mobile two to mobile one, that’s affirmative.”
“Mobile one standing by. Out.” Alfie hung the handheld microphone on its clip. He was satisfied with the arrangements. By switching the tailing cars, it was unlikely the suspects would notice anything unusual. They might if the same car kept following them. He spoke to his driver. “Drop back a bit. Mobile two’s waiting up ahead at the crossroads in Victoria Bridge. We’ll pull off there, take the B163, stop and observe. The 163 rejoins the A5 just outside Strabane. We’ll take over from mobile two there.” Alfie opened the glove compartment, took out his Ruger revolver, and laid it in his lap. He didn’t expect to be close when the shooting started, but he wasn’t taking any chances either.
* * *
“Everybody out,” Eamon said as soon as Davy stopped the van beside Sammy’s cottage.
Davy waited for them to get out. As Cal and Erin and McGuinness, carrying the four ArmaLites, walked to a large outbuilding and threw open the double doors, Eamon came to Davy’s window. “You know where you’ve to go?”
“Of course I fucking know. Haven’t you shown me the map a dozen times?”
“Aye, well. I just want to be sure. Remember, Davy, when you get to Lifford, put the van in the empty lot on the left-hand side of N14. Wait for us there.”
“You told me.”
“I’ll say it again, Father. I’m sorry you’re in this, but…”
“Let it go, Eamon. Just get it over with.” Davy turned away from Eamon and watched as a black station wagon, the one he was to wait for, was reversed out of the building. He heard the sound of another engine. A large red tractor appeared, its front bucket held high. He could see the sacks of fertilizer. The tractor stopped, and Cal came to the van.
“Gimme the knapsack, Eamon.”
Eamon handed it to Cal.
Shite, Davy thought, it wouldn’t be happening if I hadn’t fixed the fucking fuse. He’d had no choice but to strip off the little piece of insulation that would have rendered the detonator useless. The bloody thing was live. But it wouldn’t be if that bastard McGuinness hadn’t grabbed for Davy’s passport. And what the fuck was he going to do if McGuinness got lifted or shot? He’d have no pap
ers. Indeed, what was he going to do if the customs men at Clady wanted to see his driver’s licence?
“Eamon?”
“What?”
“Will the customs and the Gardai not want to see my papers?”
Eamon said, “Customs don’t usually ask for identification if you’re driving a car with Northern plates, but I suppose with all the racing round looking for escaped Provos, they just might. Jesus, I never thought of that.”
No, Davy thought, your head’s been stuffed with hobby-horse shite with all your planning for this bloody attack.
Eamon moved to where McGuinness had parked the black station wagon. Davy watched as Eamon stooped, straightened, came back to the van, and handed Davy a thin plastic card. “Here.”
Davy examined the thing. His own picture, auburn-haired, clean-shaven, peered at him through a pair of granny glasses. He rummaged in his breast pocket, took them out, and slipped them on. The top of the card read, DRIVER’S LICENCE BRITISH COLUMBIA. There was some kind of registration number and the name David McConnan beside the photo. He knew it was usual on forged documents to pick a name close to that of the holder of the papers. If anyone called out “Davy,” there’d be no reason why he shouldn’t reply.
“Tell the peelers you’re here on your holidays. You’ve been visiting family in Newtownstewart and you’re on your way to see a cousin in Ballybofey.”
“Did you not get my passport?”
Eamon shook his head. “He wouldn’t give it to me, and I’m not about to start a fight now. You’ll get it in Lifford.”
“I should bloody well hope so.”
“You will. Don’t worry your head.” Eamon offered his hand through the open window. “All right, Davy. Time you were off.”
In spite of himself, Davy shook hands. “You take care now, Eamon.”
Eamon grinned. “Never you worry about that. They’ll never know what hit them.”
* * *
“Are you sure we shouldn’t hit them now, sir?” Alfie’s driver asked from inside the car, parked on a hill road overlooking Sammy’s.
“Don’t be bloody stupid. With only the two of us? You might want to be a hero; I don’t. Now hold your wheest and let me watch.” Alfie focused his field glasses. He watched as a grey van left the lane from the cottage and the shed and turned right on the A5—away from Strabane. Shite. There were no Security Forces in that direction, and he’d have to make a quick decision. He could get his own vehicle behind the van and tail it, but Sammy had said to look for a black station wagon and a tractor. Let the van go. It might not even be a Provo driving. The O’Byrnes could have persuaded some local to do them a favour by taking them to the shed.
Alfie swung the glasses back toward the buildings below. Bloody great. There they were. Three people stood beside the tractor, two with red hair. He couldn’t make out their features, but he’d be damned if they weren’t the O’Byrnes. “Gimme the mic,” he said, and waited until the constable handed him the transceiver. The red-haired man climbed into the cab of the tractor, the others into the car. The car left first.
Alfie keyed the mic. “Joan mobile one to mobile control and mobile two, over.”
“Control.”
“Mobile two.”
“They’re on the move.”
“Control. Roger that.”
“Mobile two. Roger.”
Alfie handed the mic back to his driver and climbed in. “Right, son. You know where to go. Get moving.”
* * *
“They’re on the move, Sarge.” Sergeant Buchan’s communications man held the headset of his radio to his ear and grinned.
“Right,” said Buchan. He sidled across the floor of the upstairs bedroom and peered through a gap in the lace curtains. To his right, he could see the hill of the A5 as it came down into Strabane. Ahead, the police barracks squatted, grey and sullen behind its high wire fence. The loopholed, cast-iron shutters were open, but he knew there were constables behind each set ready to slam them shut.
He couldn’t see where the two minor roads joined the T-junction but knew squads like his were in position at both corners. Beneath him, the street was empty of the cars that would normally be parked there on a Saturday morning. The police had put up NO PARKING and MEN AT WORK signs from one end of the barracks to the other. The reason, ostensibly, was a trench dug by a gang of council workmen down there, who were busily doing nothing much but leaning on their shovels. He smiled. They were part of the SAS contingent flown in from Herefordshire. He hoped for their sakes they’d made the trench deep enough to provide blast shelter.
There were several pedestrians, mostly women in headscarves and plastic hair curlers, shopping bags on their arms. Three nuns in their black-and-white habits walked slowly toward the chapel he knew was at the far end of the street. From where he stood, they looked like penguins.
He had to hand it to whoever was in charge. Buchan’s officer had told him that every effort was to be made to protect civilians. Police foot patrols would be handy to hustle the shoppers to safety and the NO PARKING was a grand idea. It kept cars and their occupants off the streets, and—he glanced down at his two-man general-purpose machine-gun squad—it gave his men a clear field of fire over the kill zone.
“Right, lads,” he said, “take up your positions.” He knelt at the window beside the GPMG team and rested his Heckler and Koch on the sill. The house they had occupied on Thursday night, much to the disgust of the owners who were being held in a back bedroom so no word of the ambush could leak out, was on the street corner. Two more SAS troopers, M16s ready, knelt at the side window overlooking the hill. “Remember, it’s a red tractor and a black station wagon, registrations…”
“HKM 561 and LKM 136,” five voices chanted in unison.
“Good.” Sergeant Buchan decided he’d not have time to go for a pee. He wondered why he always wanted one just before the action started. It was to be expected, just like the way his mouth went dry and his palms started to sweat.
“Hold your fire ’til I give the word,” he said.
“Right, Sarge.”
They were a bunch of good lads, he thought. They bloody well ought to be, the way SAS troopers were selected and trained. No elite troops anywhere in the world like them. He tried to relax. Nothing to worry about. As far as Sergeant Buchan could tell, everything was ready.
* * *
“So, is everybody ready?” Eamon asked from the back of the station wagon parked behind the tractor at the top of the hill above Strabane. McGuinness was in the driver’s seat. Cal had climbed down from the parked tractor and sat in the passenger’s seat with his knapsack in his lap. Erin sat in the back beside Eamon and felt the warmth of his thigh pressed against hers.
“You were right, Eamon, to drive down into Strabane first and then come back up here,” she said. “A couple of peelers escorted by the odd soldier and that’s about it.”
Eamon squeezed her hand. “It’s handy about the road works. There’ll be less traffic to get in our way. It was nice of the road menders to leave those metal sheets across the trench as a bridge so the peelers can drive into the barracks. Cal’ll get across like a whippet.”
“Can Brendan get parked where he should?” she asked.
“No problems,” came from the driver’s seat.
“I’m off,” Cal said, opening his door. “I’ll watch for your hanky, Erin.” He leaned into the back and pecked her cheek. “See you in fifteen, twenty minutes.” She felt him squeeze her shoulder, saw him look into her eyes. “Be careful,” he said.
“And you look after yourself, too, Cal.” She watched as he climbed into the tractor’s cab. He had the worst job, the riskiest, and she couldn’t help worrying about him. But he’d be all right. Of course he would.
She shook her head. Dear Cal. The door he’d never got round to fixing had stuck this morning before she’d closed it. It would be someone else’s problem now. She’d never be seeing it again, or the churchyard at Ballydornan they’d driven p
ast on their way here. Erin’s eyes narrowed. Fiach was the last O’Byrne they’d leave in Ireland. As long as she and Cal and Eamon—she leaned across to kiss Eamon—had just a tiny bit of luck this morning.
“If you two’ve finished?” McGuinness said from the front.
“Go ahead, Brendan,” Eamon said. “Let’s get moving.”
* * *
Erin was half-roasted in the anorak, but it hid the ArmaLite. She stood at the corner of the hill road, pretended to look in a shop window, and saw to her left that Eamon was in position. Brendan had the black car parked where it should be. She pulled out her hanky.
She saw the cloud of blue smoke from the tractor’s exhaust. The front bucket was lowered, and Cal, knapsack in hand, bent over the sacks. He’d be setting the fuses. Ten more minutes. She stared ahead at the bulk of the barracks. Ten more minutes, and that monstrosity, that bastion of British rule, fortified like the old motte and bailey castles that the Normans had built eight centuries before to keep the Irish subdued, would be like one of the old ruins, just a few stones standing. One day, the bloody Brits would get the message. One day.
She watched the tractor rattle down the hill toward her, bucket raised as a charging elephant held high its trunk. Cal was picking up speed, and the fence was straight ahead. He trundled past her, and she cheered him on.
She heard a series of clangs from inside the compound and saw the dark iron shutters being slammed over the windows. Someone was wide awake in there. She fumbled under her anorak.
In seconds, Cal would be across the rusty metal plates, through the fence, and out of the cab, but if the peelers who’d closed the shutters were alert, he might need covering fire before he could get to her.
Now and in the Hour of Our Death Page 44