by James R Benn
"Where does the afternoon off come in?" Slaine said.
"That was Lawson's second appointment with McBurney. It could well have been the same day Sam was in Armagh. My guess is that Simms brought his half brother into the bank as Mr. Lawson, telling McBurney some story about him, and that only trusted employees should be allowed to see him. I'd guess that visit was a surprise. And an even bigger surprise was when Simms and Taggart, posing as Lawson, ran into Sam on the street. It was his death sentence."
"Because Simms knew that sooner or later, Lieutenant Burnham would see a picture of Taggart," Slaine said.
"Exactly," I said. "And he couldn't afford for his link to Taggart to be known. He also had a hand in kidnapping Pete Brennan as he was about to be paid off by Jenkins. Another loose end cleaned up, since Brennan had both seen Taggart in Clough with Eddie Mahoney and had evidence against Jenkins."
"And you say Simms was working with Jenkins?" Carrick said.
"Yes. Jenkins might have been happy to let Brennan go but I bet Simms talked him into saving his money. That way there was no risk that Brennan could place Taggart anywhere near Simms. The sighting at Clough must have been too close for comfort."
"How does this bank figure into everything?" Uncle Dan asked.
"It's the perfect cover for a Catholic extremist," Slaine said. "Create a new identity, have a customer vouch for you, and you've got your money hidden away in a Protestant bank, protected by a Royal Black Knight, no less. Perhaps Simms alluded to the Red Hand, or something equally secretive, so that McBurney would handle everything discreetly."
"So that's where the money is, the money that Taggart embezzled," Uncle Dan said. Clan na Gael money.
"Yes," Carrick said, drumming his fingers on the table, his tea long gone cold. "That seems likely. But at the moment, money is not our main concern. The guns, Taggart, and the German agents are."
"Does it seem likely that on the one hand, Taggart would steal from the IRA," Slaine said, "and on the other hand, work with the Germans on their behalf?"
"The same Germans who killed his family," I said, half to myself. A picture started to form in my mind. A picture of two half brothers, united in death, despair, and disillusionment. "Forget the politics. Taggart and Simms both lost their mother to a gun battle, no telling which side fired the killing shots. Then Taggart serves in the Spanish Civil War and loses his idealism. He returns to Ireland, drinks heavily for a while, and is finally able to start a normal life. He's still working for the cause but he has a regular job, marries, starts a family."
"Then they send him north," Slaine said, picking up on the thread I was weaving. "He brings his family under an assumed identity, thinking they'll be safe. But they're not. German bombs find them, and he's lost everything. Again."
"Maybe he started skimming the sweepstake money before, or maybe that was the trigger," I said. "Either way, I think he got in touch with his half brother, Adrian Simms, and made common cause with him."
"Them against the world," Uncle Dan said. "Against the Brits, the Americans, the Germans, the rest of the Irish, damn all in their eyes."
"Did you notice a change in him, Slaine?" I said it softly, watching her eyes. She didn't look at me. She didn't answer.
"What do you mean?" Carrick said.
"Tell them," I said to her. She raised her face, a small twitch at one corner of her mouth betraying her emotions. Her eyes glistened for a moment but she sat up straight, one hand laid flat on the table as if to steady herself.
"Taggart and Jenkins, they both work for me," she said. "Worked, I should say."
"That's insane," Carrick said. "What could those two do for you?"
"Maintain a balance," I said. "Each of them taking care of the worst of their own lot. Or did they kill each other's rotten apples?"
"They took care of their own," she said. "Jenkins was easy. What he wanted most was protection and to eliminate his rivals. Taggart was more difficult to manage. He wanted money."
"Does MI-5 have money problems?" Uncle Dan said.
"He wanted a good deal of money. I needed to keep it a secret, and the greater the sums, the more likely someone would question it."
"You sanctioned murder? Actually paid them to assassinate their own people? In my jurisdiction?" Carrick sounded astounded at the scope of it.
"It was necessary," she said, making a fist and pounding the table, rattling teacups. "You have no idea how many revenge killings we stopped. The more brutal the attacks, the more necessary it was to eliminate the attacker. Like stopping an infection before it spreads."
"And you kept on meeting with Taggart, even after the theft of the BARs? Even after he killed Sam Burnham?"
"It was all part of the agreement, with both of them. That was separate from everything else. They understood that I might need to investigate them with one hand and pay them with the other."
"You can't separate murder from everything else. You can't deal with men like Jenkins and Taggart and expect them to maintain some sort of code of honor," I said. "Jenkins wound up hanging from a rafter, and you almost got blown up, twice."
"I didn't expect honor. I thought I knew what each of them wanted. With Jenkins, I think I did. He needed to be the top man, to have the respect and fear of all those around him. I insured he'd be untouchable, and he did the rest. I never really understood with Taggart, although he seemed to be satisfied. Pleased with himself actually. He took large sums from MI-5 and still played the IRA rogue."
"And you never questioned him about the weapons theft?" Carrick said.
"No. It was part of the agreement. When we met it was always about the task at hand. It was understood that neither would use the situation for any other purpose. We used a drop, a different one for each of them. Sergeant Lynch would leave a message whenever we needed to meet."
"One of them told you about Brennan, didn't he? How else would you have known about it?"
"Yes. Jenkins did. He said he had nothing to do with it. He was afraid the Americans would think he had killed their soldier, and that I wouldn't be able to protect him."
"Now we know why the same car was used by Taggart and Brennan's killer," Carrick said. "Simms had easy access to the vehicle. It confused us, which was probably the intent. Do you think Jenkins was in on it?"
"Just a guess but I'd say Simms talked him into going along. Which may be why he ended up in that noose," I said.
"Well, it seems to me that Red Jack is a man on the edge," Uncle Dan said. "Playing each side against the other, and planning something big. If he were simply in it for the money, he'd be long gone by now, wouldn't he?"
"Both he and Simms," I said.
"He hasn't legged it. Why is he still here? He's got his sixty grand, plus all the money from the sweepstake, tens of thousands of dollars. He could have the Northern Bank wire it where he wants. He could be in Switzerland or Rio, anywhere. What's keeping him here?"
"He's waiting for the other thing he wants, if you're right." Carrick said. "He has money; all that is left to him is revenge."
"Revenge for his family, for his losses in life," Slaine said. "But revenge visited upon whom exactly?"
"All of us," Carrick said. "God help us, all of us."
CHAPTER * THIRTY
CARRICK HAD SENT a squad out to round up Simms but he was nowhere to be found. He had set the wheels in motion for a Crown prosecutor to investigate the Armagh bank, McBurney, and the accounts of the mysterious Mr. Lawson but that wasn't going to help us right now. He'd also put in a call to Major Cosgrove, then pointedly asked us to leave his office. Uncle Dan was stuck with Constable Porter, one of the men who had been at Jenkins's warehouse. Carrick had called Porter his "escort," but it was clear he was also a minder, charged with keeping Uncle Dan on a short leash.
Slaine had watched Carrick on the telephone with Cosgrove through the office window, lines of worry furrowing her brow. I wondered if Carrick was considering charges against her, then decided he was actually wondering if
he could make them stick. In time of war, MI-5 personnel were not likely to be brought into a courtroom. But it was easy to see that Slaine's schemes went far beyond what Carrick was willing to condone. He was a straight arrow, maybe not a great friend of the Irish Republic but a policeman you could count on to go by the book. And the book didn't countenance assassinations, no matter how carefully balanced between extremist groups. Still, he didn't strike me as naive, and unless he had a couple of aces up his sleeve, he wasn't going to handcuff Slaine O'Brien anytime soon.
Slaine was the one with the worries. She was quick to come up with a reason to leave RUC headquarters. The only link we had to Simms was his wife, and we both thought it worth a visit to see if we could shake any information out of her. It was better than sitting around waiting for reports from a string of radar stations, so I told Uncle Dan and Constable Porter where we were headed, and that we'd call in after we talked with Mrs. Simms.
Former Corporal Finch had been quick about finding sergeant's stripes, and he gave them the occasional glance as he drove us south, through Carryduff and Ballynahinch, small market towns with gray granite buildings marked by rows of four-stacker chimneys. Rain splattered on the windshield as the sky darkened. We had a wet and cold night of waiting ahead of us.
"I never should have let you see those files," Slaine said. She stared out the window, streaks of rain making tiny rivers across the glass. She tapped a finger against her lips, calculating where she'd gone wrong, granted me too much, and revealed her dealings with Catholic and Protestant devils.
"Then we wouldn't have made the connection between Taggart and Simms," I said.
"I'm not sure how important that is in the larger scheme of things. What you have to understand is that there always will be a divide in Ireland. The solution is managing it."
"And managing it is more important than recovering the stolen weapons?"
"Fifty automatic weapons are serious, I grant you. But I had an opportunity to maintain an equilibrium, possibly for years. What's fifty guns, which may or may not ever be used, against that?"
"I get nervous when people who work for outfits like MI-5 use words like equilibrium when they mean murder, even if the victims are killers themselves. Call it what it is; don't try to dress it up. At best, you're a vigilante," I said.
"And at worst?" She traced a line on the glass, her finger leaving an arc in the condensation.
"That's not for me to say. Uncle Dan once told me that we all know the worst of ourselves, and that it's only the truly evil who let themselves off the hook."
"I saved lives. I did."
"Yes," I said, but at what cost to her soul? I wasn't the one to judge her, I knew that much.
We stopped at an intersection as a column of trucks crossed in front of us. A sign pointed toward Lurgan, where tomorrow at this time the Royal Black Knights would be gathering at Brownlow House to honor their American cousins and do whatever secret societies did. Some sort of ritual perhaps? Funny clothes, handshakes, odd titles? I wondered if Cosgrove was a worshipful master of some sort, and if he'd enjoy being saluted as such. Maybe I should drop in and give all those Protestant bigwigs a real Boston Irish surprise.
"What do you know about the Royal Black Knights? Are they really a harmless bunch of lodge brothers?"
"Harmless implies a lack of power, which they are not short of. They are a step above the Orange societies and provide stability among the professional classes. Not dangerous but hardly harmless."
"All heavy hitters?"
"Pardon me?"
"Important men. Movers and shakers."
"Ah, I see. Yes. I can't think of any leader in business or government, not to mention the military, who isn't a member."
"And you would know. You probably have files on all of them."
"Lists of members, certainly. Some names are too important to keep dossiers on. At least in the official files."
"Really? Well, maybe you won't have to worry about losing your job if you know all those secrets."
"It wouldn't be my job I'd be worried about," Slaine said.
"What do you mean?"
"My position offers certain protections. But I do have enemies, and it might be difficult to sort out who was responsible if one of them got to me. After what happened today, have you rethought the matter of the bomb at the hotel?"
"No. It must have been Taggart, right? He had a supply of plastic explosive."
"I don't buy it. Think about it. He must have already set up Jenkins's death and planned the trap for all of us. Then why go through all the trouble of planting that bomb to kill me the night before? It doesn't make sense. He's the one suspect we can eliminate."
"You're right," I said. "Simms?"
"I don't see why. He's already taken care of Brennan and Burnham. As far as he knows, we haven't made the connection between him and Taggart yet."
"So who else wants you dead?"
"That could be a long list. The real question is who needed me dead now?"
I didn't have an answer for that. Thinking about all the people who'd like to kill you doesn't make for cheery conversation, so I let it drop as Slaine gazed at her reflection in the window. I couldn't tell if there were tears in her eyes or if it was the rain splattering against the glass.
We passed the Lug o' the Tub Pub and the boreen leading to Grady O'Brick's cottage. We pulled up in front of Simms's house. Rain dripped off the thatch but the smell of a fire promised warmth. I knocked on the heavy wooden door as Slaine and I huddled beneath the overhanging thatch, water catching our backs.
"Yes?" Mrs. Simms said, opening the door wide. "Are you looking for Adrian?"
"Yes, ma'am, we are. May we come in?" She stood there, the wind blowing rain into the house and carrying her loose black hair into swirls around her head.
"Of course, forgive me," she finally said, as if she'd just woken up. "Lieutenant Boyle, isn't it? Here, let me take your coats, it's a sinful night to be out."
"This is Subaltern Slaine O'Brien," I said, shaking the water off my trench coat. She nodded at Slaine as she helped her with her raincoat with no trace of animosity. From the little I'd seen of her, and from what I'd heard about her, I didn't expect a warm welcome for two Catholics. But Slaine was in a British uniform, and that probably helped. She hung our coats on pegs near the door, and gestured to chairs near the fire.
"Please, sit." She clutched a shawl at her breast as she sat on a straight-back chair, leaving the two cushioned seats for her guests. It was all very cordial but there was something about her hair and the way she gripped the shawl that looked wrong. Before, she had been very prim and tidy. Now she looked like a wild woman, her hand crushing the shawl in her grip.
"We need Adrian's help," Slaine said, smoothing out her skirt. "Have you seen him today?"
"He's my husband, isn't he?" she said, evading the question. "All the same, I don't think you should count on him for much help."
"We're all on the same side, Mrs. Simms," I said. "I know there are differences here that go back centuries but we do have a common enemy."
"You know, I said the same thing to Adrian just this morning. That whatever happened in the past, we all have to do our part now."
"This morning?" Slaine said. "Was that when you saw him last?"
"Oh no, I've seen him since then. What do you need him for?"
"It's important," Slaine said.
"German agents," I said. "We need him to help us find German agents." I watched her face as she looked back and forth, at us, around the room, to the door leading to what had to be the kitchen, as if she expected Adrian to walk in at any moment. "Are you expecting someone? Is Adrian here?"
"Do you think I don't know where my own husband is? Do you think I'm mad, is that it? He's my husband, he is. A good, God-fearing Protestant. No more, no less. A man I'll spend my life with, right here, in this house. Not off to some other land."
"Mrs. Simms?" Slaine prompted. Something about the woman's conversation was
odd.
A faint odor penetrated my senses. Not the scent of the peat fire, not the smell of a cigarette. Something else.
"When you marry," Mrs. Simms said, cautioning Slaine, "you expect your husband to be who he says he is. But all men have secrets, I suppose. One secret, even a shameful one, could be forgiven. But not another. Not one that betrays everything you hold dear."
She began to cry, with big gulping sobs. She let go of the shawl, her hand covered her mouth, and the shawl slipped from her heaving shoulders. Her blouse was stained dark red between her breasts, but there was no wound. Then I recognized the odor. Cordite lingered in the air, the faintly peppery smell of spent gunpowder drawing out another terrible and familiar scent.
"Have Finch drive to the pub and call Carrick," I said to Slaine as I walked to the kitchen door. Mrs. Simms was hunched over now, silent, her head buried in her hands. I entered the narrow room, the smell of death heavy in the air. Gunpowder and blood, whiskey and piss. Adrian Simms faced me, seated at the end of a small kitchen table, his face tilted toward the ceiling, his mouth slack. His revolver lay on the table, surrounded by a box of shells and cleaning gear. Bore brush, rags, an old toothbrush, and solvent. A bottle of whiskey had been tipped over, the amber liquid soaking into the tabletop. A broken glass lay on the floor.
One shot to the heart. Simms wasn't in uniform. He had on a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. A dark hole above his shirt pocket was tattooed with gunpowder marks, the dried blood coating his shirt and soaking his trousers. He hadn't died right away; he'd had a minute, maybe two, as his blood flowed.
"He told me we had to leave," Mrs. Simms said, coming up behind me. She was wringing her hands, her eyes darting from me to her dead husband. "Leave, can you believe it? Hide, like criminals, all because of his hideous half brother, that Bolshevik killer. He said we would go to South America. South America!"