by James R Benn
"Mr. McBurney," I said, "I told you this investigation has to do with enemy agents, and you decide to withhold information. Do you know what British security would think about that?"
"I assure you-"
"Don't assure me," I said, standing over him with my hands on his desk. "Tell me the truth, it's so much more helpful."
"Mr. Simms did apply for membership in the Royal Black Knights, and I recognized him. I can't say I actually know him, as a friend or even an acquaintance."
"And? What happened?"
"Well, everything seemed to be in order. He's a member of one of the Orange Societies. But membership in the Royal Black Knights is on another level entirely, since it is the most senior of all the lodges and societies. One has to prove one's lineage in the Reformed Faith."
"There was a problem?"
"Must you know? I don't see why it matters."
"Mr. McBurney, please let me decide that. I'm certain there are details in the banking business that seem unimportant to the average person but that are critical to you. It's that way in an investigation. Discovering little things often brings you to the larger truth. If it turns out to be a dead end, then it's forgotten, along with who passed on the information."
"And if it does turn out to be important?" He had stopped fiddling with the fountain pen and folded his hands on his belly.
"Then the person who provided the clue becomes quite important. Perhaps a hero, Mr. McBurney."
"Very well," he said, leaning forward and glancing behind me, making sure the door was shut. "The membership rules are very strict, as I said. The applicant must swear that he was born in wedlock, and neither parent was ever, in any way, connected with the Roman Catholic religion. No exceptions."
"Did Simms?"
"Yes, he did. But given that he came from Dublin, and no one locally could vouch for the veracity of his statements, we checked with our sources in that city. His mother had married a Catholic."
"Did that make Adrian Simms a Catholic?" I tried to keep my tone neutral. I wanted the information to keep coming, and I didn't want my distaste for this pasty-faced little man to show.
"No, no, he is not a Catholic," McBurney said, leaving the God forbid hanging in the air. "And neither were his parents. His mother's first husband died, and she remarried, this time to a Protestant, who was the young man's father."
"So the problem was the first husband, who died?"
"Not just that. It could have been overlooked, perhaps, though the rule is very strict. But there was a son from that first marriage, so Mr. Simms has a half brother. A half brother baptized in the Roman Catholic faith! That was that."
"I understand Mrs. Simms was none too happy with your decision."
"No, she was not," he said, one corner of his mouth rising in a sneering smirk. "Not what she expected, I'd say."
"Women," I said. "Who can figure 'em, right?" I hoped the common bond of men perplexed by the fair sex would trump my being a papist.
"The trick is," he said, leaning closer across his desk, "to figure out the one you marry, before you take the vow. That's what I always say."
"Adrian Simms didn't?"
"I'd say not." He drew his chair closer to his desk, lowering his head, his eyes darting about as if eavesdroppers were hiding somewhere. "She wants more than young Simms can give, in terms of social status. She was more upset over his application being denied than he was. Came right in here, and called me a liar. Demanded he be given another chance. It was quite a scene."
"What did you do?"
"I showed her the material our people in Dublin sent up. Copies of birth certificates, baptismal records, the whole lot. She didn't like it much, but it quieted her down."
"Sounds like a thorough background check. I'm surprised they haven't asked you to join the security services," I said.
"Oh, well, it was nothing really. Child's play compared to your job, I'm sure, Lieutenant Boyle. Is there anything else I can do to help?"
"Do you still have the file on Adrian Simms?"
"No, no reason to keep it. Mrs. Simms asked for it, and I gave it to her."
"OK. One more thing. I don't have a picture, but another man I'm looking for is about your age, a bit taller, balding, with dark brown hair.
Sharp, prominent chin. Very lively eyes, always on the lookout."
"Do you have a name?" McBurney asked as he sat up straight, his eyes narrowing. I could tell he recognized the description.
"Yes, but I doubt it means anything. Does the description fit anyone you know?"
"A few chaps, certainly. All customers of the bank, and I can't divulge information concerning them."
"I could arrange for the government to insist."
"I doubt that even your connections at Stormont Castle would produce any results, Lieutenant Boyle. There are Royal Black Knights everywhere, you know."
He smiled when he said it but it wasn't a nice smile. We weren't talking about women anymore, so our bond was broken, and I had been warned.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
I stood on the sidewalk outside the bank, zipping up my jacket against the chill. I still had a long drive ahead of me, down to Newry along the border, to see where the delivery truck used in the BAR theft had crossed over. I hunched up my shoulders and turned my face into the wind, wondering who my description of Red Jack Taggart had reminded McBurney of. I doubted a renegade ex-Bolshevik IRA fighter would ever have stepped foot in that bank without a Thompson and an empty sack.
I felt someone walking close behind me, to my right. I turned and saw Bailey from the bank. He nodded a greeting and subtly motioned me to follow him. He quickstepped ahead of me, looking more nimble than he had in the bank, where he'd moved from one brass doodad to the other at a snail's pace. We passed an RUC station, a solid three-story stone building that dominated the street. I followed him as he turned on Barrack Street, leading me past another imposing gray granite three-story structure, this one set back from the street in a small square. ARMAGH GAOL, the sign said. There were black iron bars on the windows and a high fence surrounded the place. Finally, he turned into a more pleasant street, leading to a long stretch of green grass and wide paths. A bunch of guys in white were playing cricket. They all yelled at one point though it didn't look like anything had happened. I trudged along in Bailey's wake until he came to a bench, out of sight of the street and the cricket players.
"Let's set ourselves," he said. He puffed out his cheeks and sighed. "I never like walking past the gaol, but it was the quickest way here, and this is a nice, quiet spot, away from prying eyes. Micheal Bailey is my name." He said it in the Gaelic fashion, mee-hawl .
"Billy Boyle," I said as we shook hands. "Pleased to meet you. Gives me a chance to thank you for getting that door open."
"As soon as I heard your name, I knew you had no chance of getting by Mrs. Turkington. She doesn't take kindly to Catholics, unless they're cleaning something, and then she's never happy with the result."
"But why did you help me, Micheal? What if you'd gotten in trouble?"
"I'll tell you, Billy. There are two reasons. The first is the month I spent in that gaol, for saying my name in Gaelic. It was right before the War of Independence, and soon enough they needed room for prisoners who done more than speak out of turn, so I was out on the street. Thin as a rail and black and blue from the beatings. So naturally I'd help a fellow like you out."
"What's the other reason?"
"I reckon you're asking about the American lad they took away."
"Who took away?"
"It was yesterday, about this time. I was leaving work, since I start my day at dawn, and I was on my way to O'Neill's for a pint. A Yank was walking toward me, whistling a tune. He looked happy, not a care in the world. Then a copper stepped out from a store and put his hand to my chest, and told me to stay put. A car pulled over and I could see someone beckon to the Yank. Quick as a flash the door opened and someone pushed the Yank in. The car drove off, and the copper told me to keep m
y mouth shut if I knew what was good for me. There was another, about twenty yards down the sidewalk. It was a trap, laid out by the RUC, which is nothing that should surprise me, except that they took a Yank! Well, that's a new one."
"You didn't report it to anyone?"
"Are ye daft, boy? I'm telling you, aren't I? Who else should I go to? The British Army? It'll be more than a month in gaol if anyone finds out what I've told you, so mind what you say about it."
"Is this the American they took?" I handed him the photo of Peter Brennan.
"Aye, that's him. You've been looking for him then?"
"Found him this morning. Dead. What kind of car was it?"
"An Austin-gray, I think. That's a pity about the Yank, it is."
"More than a pity, Micheal, a crime. Did you recognize either of the men who took him?"
"Aye, I know one by sight, but I won't even say his name. If he heard I talked, my home would be burnt with the missus and me inside."
"Andrew Jenkins."
"I didn't speak that name."
"OK. Recognize anybody else here?" I showed him the pictures of Adrian with Sam, and Eddie Mahoney.
"That's the other fellow, right here."
"Which one?"
"The constable. Only he wasn't in uniform yesterday."
"He's the one in the car?"
"No, he was the one who pushed your Yank in, and got in after him."
"Adrian Simms."
"If that's his name, then that's him."
Adrian Simms. Blackballed out of the Royal Black Knights. Working with Andrew Jenkins. Kidnapping and maybe murdering Pete Brennan. But why? How had he gotten hold of the Austin used by Red Jack? Who had pulled the trigger on Pete?
"Anything odd going on at the bank lately?"
"How do you mean, odd?"
"I don't know. Out of the ordinary. Large deposits, strangers visiting McBurney, anything unusual."
"No, it's the same boring business every day. Wait! About two weeks ago McBurney did give me a few hours off. Told me to go home early. That's unusual."
"Was anybody else told to go home?"
"Now that you mention it, one of the newest tellers. He told her she was looking peaked, and she should leave at noon. That was strange. He's not one to worry about anyone's health but his own."
"Is she Catholic?"
"Oh no, boy, that wouldn't do, not in a Protestant bank. It's one thing to have a papist clean the floors, it's another to have one count out your pound notes. Oh no!" He got a chuckle out of that. "But she was new, hadn't even been with us a couple of months."
I gave him my description of Red Jack Taggart, and asked if it sounded like anyone he'd seen.
"Now that's a strange thing to be asking, if you don't mind my saying."
"What do you mean?"
"What you said about the eyes. It does bring someone to mind. But you're asking an awful lot of dangerous questions here. Have you any idea?"
"Some," I said. "Have you seen this man at the bank?"
"If I did, I'd keep it to meself. Which is what I'm doing right now. I'd be a fool to betray an IRA man, now wouldn't I?"
"Did you think he was planning a bank heist?"
"The only thing I'll say is that I caught a glimpse of a fellow who looks much like this one, less than a week ago, sitting as pretty as you please in McBurney's office. I made it my business to mind my own business after that. But I did catch a glimpse of Mrs. Turkington's calendar the next morning, before she came in. The appointment the day before was listed as Mr. Lawson. He was also on the schedule the afternoon McBurney had given us off."
"Did you see who else was with him?"
"I'll say no more. I've said too much already." He held up his hand, as if turning back my question.
"OK," I said. "Subject closed. But tell me this, was there any other reason they threw you in that gaol? Maybe you were one of the Volunteers?"
"No, not then I wasn't. And afterward, when I was, they never caught me!" He jabbed his elbow in my side and laughed. "You're a smart one, Billy. But smart or not, I don't know you well enough to trust you with all my secrets. I'm retired from everything but bank cleaning now. When the war ended and Ulster stayed with the English, I decided that like it or not, it was my home. So I've made the best of things. It might not have been the best decision but here I am. I can rest easy knowing I did my part and that once most of Ireland was free, I suffered no more blood to be spilt. It's a terrible thing, Billy, terrible. You look as if you may know. The spilt blood doesn't fade with the years, I'll tell you."
"No," I said, thinking of the dead I'd seen at my feet. "It doesn't. What about Red Jack, have you seen him since?"
"I can't say for certain it was him I saw, or some fellow named Lawson who looks like him. And if I'd seen him this morning, I wouldn't tell you. If I say more, both sides would be looking to kill me. I'll just tell you the description you gave matches the man named Lawson, and leave it at that. He wasn't there when the Yank was taken so I don't know that it matters much."
"OK, I understand."
"Well," he said, standing. "I'll be off now. Time for my pint. Will you join me?"
"Can't, Micheal, I've got a long drive ahead of me. And don't worry, I won't say where I heard any of this."
"Good. I'm glad we met. It's good to have told someone what happened. Come, walk with me. I saw your vehicle back near O'Neill's."
This time he took me along Abbey Street, skirting the Armagh Gaol and RUC station.
The wind had died down and the sun shone for a few minutes before being engulfed by clouds again.
"Micheal, do you happen to know Grady O'Brick? From back during the war?"
"He's from Downpatrick, right?"
"Clough, a little village nearby."
"Aye, I haven't heard that name in a while. Them boys was famous for not being famous, if you follow me."
"I know the story. Mick the Master was their leader."
"Oh? Perhaps. It's not how I heard the story but facts change with the telling and the years."
"What did you hear?"
"Billy, you've got to get it into that Yank head of yours. This is not ancient history, as it may seem to you folk in America. This is all still happening here. You can't go about asking questions like that. Someone may take offense, on either side. If it's the Red Hand, you're most likely to disappear. If it's the IRA," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, "then two in the brain is what you'll get, and your body dumped out in the open, so others will see. That's how each side likes it. So you mind your step here."
"But what did you hear?"
"Never mind. Drink with me or go, but stop asking questions that will only cause trouble." We were nearing the bank, and his eyes searched the street for anyone watching.
"Sorry, Micheal. Thanks, and don't worry."
"Someone should worry about you, Yank. I hope there's one who does."
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
So do I, I thought as I drove out of Armagh, leaving the red brick and limestone buildings behind, the countryside opening up in brilliant greens once more as the sun filtered through gray clouds. Was Diana worrying about me now, or was she too busy being outfitted in French clothes, learning a new identity, being tested over and over again? Shouldn't I worry more about her, as she might be about to parachute into occupied Europe? It would be a waste of time, I told myself. I might not ever see her again, and if I did, we'd have a rocky time of it. It was all so far away-Jerusalem, the SOE, Uncle Ike-that it felt as if I could put it aside and forget about it for a while. The cool air, the emerald green landscape, it was so different from the life we'd shared the past few months. Had that life been real? Had we turned to each other to see a living face, someone who was not dead, drowned, or dying? Or was ours a fantasy of wartime, to fool ourselves into thinking we had a future?
Part of me said that was wrong. The memories of Diana were too vivid, her draw too strong. I'd come to understand that exposure to so much de
ath made life more valuable. Love could be an antidote, a surety against being swallowed up by the war and left for dead, unmourned, far from home. What kind of life could Diana and I expect if we found ourselves alive in peacetime? Would there be an embarrassed silence as we tried to make small talk? No more dinners with generals, secret missions, shared agonies, or thrilling news from the front to form the substance of our days. Who would we be? A Boston cop and a cop's wife? An English lady and her American husband, on her father's country estate? I couldn't imagine either life.
I put it out of my mind as I drove through small villages, southeast toward Newry and the coast. First Markethill, with its neat white-painted brick buildings facing each other across the road, a pub anchoring one end of the village and a church the other. I waited outside of town for a parade of cows to cross the road, as men brought them in from a field into enclosures, where an auction was going on. The automobiles and trucks were old and well used, maybe because of the shortage of new vehicles for civilians, or perhaps because these were thrifty folk. Either way, business had to be good with the U.S. Army paying to feed thousands. Food was rationed for the civilians here as it was in England, and it must be tempting to take advantage of the black market and the food being smuggled in from the Republic, where there was no rationing.
Animal and vehicle traffic lightened as I drove. Through Whitecross, with one pub, a blacksmith's, and a few shops, all gone before I had a chance to slow down. Then to Forkill, a little village with an odd-sounding name stuck between two large hilltops. Beyond was the border. I parked the jeep near the town center and stretched my legs, checking my watch. It was late afternoon, and the sun was at my back, casting a long shadow on the road. I unfolded my map and laid it open on the hood, holding it down. A cool breeze flapped at the corners.
I was trying to figure out how long it would have taken the BAR thieves to get the truck over the border, unload it, and leave it outside Omeath. There was only one way to get to that stretch of border from Ballykinler, and that was along the coast. The Mournes blocked any other route. So they would've driven out of the base, through Clough, where they stopped to kill Eddie Mahoney and dump his body, then on through Newcastle, south along the coast, passing through Annalong and Kilkeel, then west to drive along Carlingford Lough, a bay about fifteen miles long that formed part of the border with the Republic of Ireland. Then a few more miles, north into Newry, where they'd cross the river, drive south for a while, and cross the border just east of where I was standing. Omeath was the first town across the border. So that's where they would have unloaded the BARs and ditched Jenkins's truck. It would have been time to get rid of it, since Jenkins would have reported it stolen.