She passed through two more intersections and turned down Divas Street. They would be home, both of them. She’d called ahead to be sure.
Kate stopped in front of a white-framed house with a narrow porch. She set the brake but didn’t bother to lock the door. No one in his right mind would disturb a car parked here.
Her heels sounded loudly on the wooden porch. Before she could knock, the door opened. Liam Nolan smiled at her and held out his hand. She took it. “Welcome, Kate,” he said, when she’d stepped inside. “It’s been too long.”
“Thank you, Liam. It’s nice of you to say so.”
“Please.” He motioned toward a shabby sofa. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Dominick should be back soon. He knows you’re here. Shall we wait for him?”
Kate nodded. She had never been on warm terms with Patrick’s youngest brother.
Liam busied himself in the kitchen. She could hear the sounds of his movement, china tinkling, the kettle whistling, a drawer opening and closing.
“Shall I help you?” she called out.
“No, thanks.” He appeared in the doorway carrying a tray. “I’ve managed to put it together.”
The biscuits were the commercial kind, but the tea was hot and sustaining. She had poured her second cup when Dominick walked through the front door.
“Kate,” he said coolly. “To what do we owe the honor?”
She came directly to the point. “Kevin is in jail.”
“Where?” Dominick asked sharply.
“Long Kesh.”
“That’s impossible.”
Kate felt a tiny nerve throb in her temple. Impossible was the murder of her husband that had never in six long years been investigated. Impossible was her six-teen-year-old-son in Long Kesh prison on a drug charge. She couldn’t bring herself to speak.
Liam broke in. “What is the charge against him, Kate?”
“Trafficking in narcotics. They found an ounce of cocaine on him. A man was killed.”
“Was it a setup?” Dominick asked.
Kate shook her head. “I don’t think so. No one knew he was there. Apparently the house had been under surveillance for quite some time. The police happened to go in when Kevin was there.”
Dominick frowned. “Then what?”
“He was arrested and kept overnight. He saw the judge this morning.”
“Have you an attorney?”
“Dylan McCarthy.”
“Who presided?”
“Rodney Thompson.”
Liam’s voice was kinder than Dominick’s, patient, interested. “He’s the best Kevin could hope for. What happened?”
Kate bit her lip. She waited until she could be sure her voice was steady. “Dylan asked to have more time with Kevin. The judge agreed but refused to set bail. Kevin has to wait for his arraignment in Long Kesh.”
“That makes no sense at all.” Dominick stared at Kate. “Is this his first arrest on a drug charge?”
“It’s his first arrest ever.”
Over Kate’s head, Liam’s eyes met his brother’s. “Have you heard anything, Liam?” Dominick asked.
“Nothing.”
Dominick turned his attention back to Kate. “Give us some time. We’ll have answers for you in a few days.”
“What about Kevin?” Kate fought back her desperation. “He needs protection. There are people in prison with very long memories.”
Liam poured her another cup of tea. “Why don’t you go to your new friends, Kate? You’re cozy with the prime minister and the RUC. Why not ask them to intervene?”
She looked at him steadily. “I’m still an Irish Catholic, Dominick and this is still Ulster.”
Dominick grunted. “Don’t worry about Kevin. We’ll see to it that nothing happens to him.”
Dominick frowned. “Who do we have in the Cage?” “Danny Boyle is there and Fergus Feeney. They’re the last of the political prisoners.”
“Kevin won’t be placed with them. We need someone else.”
Liam thought. “What about Andrew Halloran?” “What’s he in for?”
Liam looked over at Kate. “You don’t want to know.”
Kate bit down on her lip. “Surely they won’t keep him with adult felons.”
Dominick stood and began to pace. “We can’t be sure of that. First, we must find out why they’ve locked him up. It’s unusual.”
“Why is it unusual?” Kate’s voice was bitter. Dominick stopped his pacing and stood in front of her, tall, lean, a younger, angrier version of Patrick. “British justice is relatively sympathetic to drug offenders, Catholic as well as Protestant. Only political crimes are given stiff sentences. This isn’t coincidental. One thing is certain. Someone important wants something from Kevin.” He stared at her, the message in his eyes unreadable. “Or else it’s you.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Perhaps it’s you they want.”
“What could anyone want of me?”
He smiled mockingly. “To see if it can be done.”
“If what can be done?”
“If the saintly Kathleen Nolan is corruptible.”
Twelve
Kevin, his hands hobbled, climbed into the bus and looked down the long row of seats. A dozen men, ugly men, all older and ravaged looking, sat sprawled, legs apart, heads thrown back, a challenge to anyone attempting to invade their space.
Heart hammering, Kevin sat down in the first empty spot and looked out the window. The worst, the unthinkable, had happened to him, to Kevin Nolan of Ardara. He was going to Long Kesh, the Maze, the Cages, a place so horrible even his uncles never spoke of it. How had he come to this? He was done with it all. He’d resolved to stay away from trouble, to settle in, to regain his life as it once was. One mistake, a single act of poor judgment and he was finished. The unfairness of it sickened him. He hadn’t wanted to hold the bag of cocaine. He was only delivering it to Sean. It had been in his hand for less than a minute. He’d told Tim he wanted no part of it. Why hadn’t he refused to hold it all?
He was paralyzed with fear. Even his tears were frozen. What would happen to him in a cell with men who’d robbed and murdered? Perhaps he could pray. He discarded the idea. God had given up on him long ago. His mother would help him. Never in his life had she let him down. She would move heaven and earth to secure his release. He relaxed. If anyone could get him out it was his mother. She was probably waiting for him even now.
He paid no attention to the twisting and turning of the bus as it passed through the wide streets of Belfast onto the Motorway leading to the outskirts of the city. He lowered one eyelid, the one closest to the window, closing out the brick town houses constructed after the Troubles, still little better than tenements, the red, white and blue curbs of the footpaths, the British flag, Loyalist territory. He wanted to sleep, to make it all disappear, but he was afraid.
The bus stopped in front of a chain-link fence. A man stepped out of the guardhouse and motioned it through the gate. Slowly it rolled down the rain-wet car park and stopped for a second time in front of a row of buildings.
As if on cue, the men in the bus stood. Kevin lurched to his feet. Systematically they all filed out of the bus and into the building where they lined up in front of a uniformed guard and a small, ordinary-looking man in street clothes.
When they were all assembled, the man spoke quietly to the guard who nodded and made notes on a small pad. Then the man cleared his throat and spoke. “I am the warden, Kenneth Edwards. You are here in Long Kesh. Today you will shower, shave and dress in prison uniform. Then you will be shown to your cells. Tomorrow you will be taken to your labor positions. If you behave and follow the rules, your sentence may be lessened, even commuted.” He cleared his throat again. “Good luck.”
Kevin heard only half of it. His mother wasn’t here. He would have to strip and shower in front of these men. His terror returned.
Slowly he follo
wed the prisoners who shuffled through another door where a man in a mustard-colored jumpsuit handed him a towel, a bar of soap, underwear, a plastic bag and a uniform identical to his own.
Kevin watched as the prisoners began to disrobe. “What are ye waitin’ for?” the man snarled.
Hurriedly, cheeks burning, Kevin began to take off his clothes. Low walls separated shower stalls. He stepped into one, lathered the soap in his palms and swiped his hands over his chest, once, twice, then rinsed and stepped out. He wrapped the lower half of his body in the inadequate towel and, somehow, managed to pull on the despised clothing. The plastic bag confused him at first but after watching the other inmates he stuffed his own clothing inside and gave it to the prisoner in charge.
Ten minutes later he was inside a cell, alone, seated on the bottom of a two-tiered bunk. He looked around. A single lightbulb dangled from the ceiling above an open latrine. The walls were gray and bare. Shoes were prohibited. Plastic slippers, gathered at the ankle were poor protection against the damp cold of the floor. Thank God he was alone. The tears that had eluded him all day threatened to spill over. He looked around for a clock. There was none. How would he survive here?
Neil Anderson tapped his pencil against his desk and frowned at the report in front of him. He was frustrated. For the first time he doubted his ability to resolve something he’d taken on. Perhaps his cause was an impossible one. Drug-involved crime was a way of life for city-dwellers. Certainly London wasn’t exempt, nor was Dublin, or any of the larger European or American cities. Belfast, once relatively drug-free in the Catholic areas during the active reign of the Irish Republican Army, should be no different. Why, then, the foil focus on Belfast? Something didn’t add up, something that had nothing to do with the manufactured explanations of those who’d recruited him.
Neil believed he had the answer and it had nothing to do with the cautious explanation afforded him. The explanation offered him was a reasonable one. The eyes of the world were on the peace process. Britain’s reputation, as well as America’s and the United Nations, was involved, the prime minister had explained. Censorship by Amnesty International was a terrible stigma. The Good Friday Agreement, the power sharing solution wrought out by the combined efforts of Ireland, England and America, was being held up and scrutinized by the world. Tony Blair, stung by the European Court of Human Rights who found Britain guilty of violations more times than any other signatory since 1950, wanted no mention of the rise of organized crime in Northern Ireland, nor did he want the RUC’s policing efforts to be held up against those of the IRA and found wanting. The influx of drugs and the influence of drug lords in the city of Belfast must be stopped before they became entrenched. His arguments were appealing, idealistic ones. They were also hogwash. Neil resented the secrecy, the lies. He’d earned the right to know what he was dealing with, although if the truth had been presented to him from the beginning he would have flatly turned it down.
Neil’s expertise was terrorist operations. He dealt with adults, criminals, men and women who knew the score, fanatics who expected to die. He had no experience with troubled children like Kevin Nolan, the children of confused parents who’d given their best. The horror of it all was that children would be sacrificed and he had no concrete knowledge of what he was dealing with, although an idea had wedged itself into his mind, an idea he couldn’t shake.
His thoughts turned to Kate Nolan. What he was about to do to her son caused the bile to rise in his throat. She didn’t deserve this. She hadn’t asked for it. But Neil was a marked man. His timetable had been established long before he’d agreed on the Ulster assignment. At the moment Kevin Nolan was his best chance. His only consolation was that his work here in Belfast might ultimately spare the sons of many mothers.
The sick feeling worked its way down to his stomach. Somehow he didn’t think Kate would be swayed by such an argument. From their brief acquaintance, he knew her children meant everything. Martyrdom held no allure for women like Kate. They were mothers before anything else.
Neil had never before been to Long Kesh. The tin, corrugated roofs of the outer buildings, the thin walls and the amateur nature of security surprised him. Since the release of nearly all the political prisoners, it stood half-empty, a brooding reminder of a dismal period in Ulster’s history.
Because he was Special Forces, he was ushered into the warden’s private office. Kenneth Edwards, a soft-spoken, serious man offered him a cup of tea.
“No, thank you.”
Edwards pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and meticulously wiped his hands. “The prisoner is on his way. I can arrange for someone to stay with you if you’d like.”
Neil’s eyebrow lifted. “For what purpose?”
The warden shrugged. “Protection?”
“The boy is sixteen years old.”
“He could be dangerous. Desperate types usually are.”
“I’m sure I can handle myself.”
“As you say.” Edwards walked to the door and opened it. “I shall be nearby if you need assistance.”
Neil’s lips twitched. Kenneth Edwards was a strange sort for a prison warden. He appeared bookish, studious, more the university professor type than a warden. The door opened and a burly guard entered the room with Kevin. The boy was cuffed and hobbled.
Neil stood and held out his hand. “Give me the keys.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve my orders, sir. No prisoner walks freely without permission from Mr. Edwards.”
Keeping his hand outstretched, Neil spoke again, very softly. “I’ll take full responsibility. Now, once again, give me the keys.”
For a full minute the two men took each other’s measure. Then the guard dropped the keys into Neil’s hand. “That will be all. I’ll call for you when I’m ready.”
Without a word, the guard left the room.
Neil dropped to his knees and inserted the key into the center of the leg iron. It dropped away. He did the same with the cuffs. Finally Kevin stood before him, rubbing his sore wrists.
Neil stepped back, waiting for the boy to say something. Kevin remained silent, wary, arms at his sides. “Are you all right, Kevin?”
“Aye.”
Neil came right to the point. “Have you had enough?”
Kevin’s lids dropped but not before Neil saw the light leap into his eyes. Again the boy said nothing.
Neil motioned to a chair. “Sit down, lad.”
Kevin sat and Neil continued. “A large shipment of drugs has intentionally been allowed into Belfast. I need to know who in this city has the money to finance such an operation. I need an informant. No one will suspect you.”
“No one will believe I’m in the drug trade on that level,” Kevin offered. “I’m an amateur. People on that scale don’t let people like me near them.”
“These people will.”
“Why?” Kevin looked up, freckled cheeks, eyes the blue-green of the sun-warmed Atlantic.
Neil cursed under his breath, jammed his hands into his pockets and began to pace. Minutes passed. Finally he collected himself and sat down across from Kevin. He spoke deliberately, tonelessly. “What I’m asking you to do isn’t pretty, Kevin. If I had anyone else, I would use him.”
“Go on.”
“You know these men.”
Neil watched the boy’s jaw harden. He already knew or perhaps he only suspected. He pushed on. “Do you know who I’m referring to, Kevin?”
“No.”
“I believe drugs are being trafficked into Belfast by high-ranking members of the Irish Republican Army.”
Kevin’s face whitened. He leaped to his feet, hands clenched, voice shaking. “You bastard! You want me to snitch on my own blood.”
“I want you to save yourself and others like yourself. There’s no good that can come of this. This isn’t a cause, Kevin, it’s a profit machine. A machine that thrives on the addiction of children, on the destruction of lives.”
“I won’t do it.
”
Neil stood. “Think about it.” He waved his arm. “This can’t be pleasant for you. I can make it go away. You’ll be pardoned, under certain conditions, of course.”
“What conditions?”
“You’ll have to attend a program for drug offenders.”
Kevin grimaced. “I don’t need a program. I wasn’t going to do it anymore. This whole thing is a mistake. I didn’t want the bag. Tim told me to take it back to the car. I told him I wouldn’t do it—” He stopped.
“But you did.”
“You don’t understand. It isn’t like that. It was all a game. I did it because—” He stopped.
Neil waited but the boy had stopped talking.
“These are the facts, Kevin. If you had been where you were supposed to be, in Ardara, in school, you wouldn’t be here right now. You were in the wrong place with the wrong people. That has to change or you’ll be here again and again. Is that the kind of life you want?”
Kevin swiped the hair back impatiently from his forehead. “No.”
“Will you help me?”
“I won’t inform on Liam and Dominick.”
“If they aren’t involved, you have nothing to worry about. If they are, you have nothing to feel guilty about.”
“I can’t,” Kevin repeated.
Neil moved toward the door. “Think about it,” he said again. “You know where to reach me. Call me. It doesn’t matter what time it is.”
Kevin sat in the semidarkness of his cell pretending to sleep. The mattress was thin and the blanket meager warmth against the evening chill. His life had closed in on him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He hadn’t intended to become so involved. It had seemed easy at first, harmless, a way to earn extra money. His mother wouldn’t allow him to work during the school year until his marks improved. Why shouldn’t he earn a bit of extra cash just by passing on what someone wanted? By the time he’d realized the drawbacks, he was already in. To back out took a bit of planning. He knew what he had to do. He had been willing to do it, if only everyone would let him. It was too late now. He was stuck. Unless he went along with the police, he would be sent up for trial and, possibly, prison. He didn’t like the looks of it. But to inform on drug lords, men who knew the ropes and had nothing to lose. Kevin shuddered. If they found him out, it was a death sentence. Liam and Dominick had nothing to do with drugs. Kevin was sure of it. But he was equally sure they couldn’t help him. The reality of his predicament struck him. What could he have been thinking? He pressed his face against the pillow. Tears, hot and self-pitying spilled down his cheeks. Where was his mother? He wanted his mother. Exhaustion overtook him. His eyelids drooped and he slept.
This Irish House Page 12