Evil for evil bbwim-4

by James R Benn

  "Indeed. Italy is proving to be a tough old boot and might have been the end of Sergeant Brennan in any case."

  "And I think that Sam was the target at the RUC station, not me. Taggart shot him first then sprayed the windows with fire to keep everyone down. But why shoot a U.S. Army officer? There's no percentage."

  "Be glad you can't understand the motivations of killers like Taggart, Boyle. He obviously enjoys killing for its own sake. Anything else?"

  "There's something fishy going on at a Protestant bank in Armagh. Brennan was kidnapped near there, and a local constable named Simms was in on it. It's where Jenkins does his banking, and Sam Burnham was seen nearby before he was killed."

  "My God, Boyle. What a mishmash of conjectures. Who cares where Andrew Jenkins keeps his money? Perhaps this Simms fellow is in the black market business himself and had a score to settle. As I said, leave local corruption to the police. District Inspector Carrick is on the case, is he not?"

  "Yes. He's looking into the bank. He knows the manager."

  "Then leave it to him."

  "Yes, sir." Leave it to the man who isn't allowed to look at Jenkins's file. Perfect. "Say, Major, you wouldn't happen to be a member of the Royal Black Knights of the British Commonwealth, would you?"

  "And if I were?" Cosgrove growled.

  "Nothing, just curious. I'd never heard of them before, and they seem to be everywhere in this case."

  "It so happens I am proud to be a member. I was invited to join several years ago, when I was originally posted here. I was inducted at Brownlow House."

  "The headquarters of the society. I've been there. Not a member myself, though."

  "I should say-" Cosgrove stopped himself. "Never mind. Does this have anything to do with what we are discussing?"

  "No, sir." I decided it was time to clam up.

  "Any luck tracking the Germans, Major?" Slaine asked, helpfully filling in the silence.

  "None. We did find two rubber rafts hidden among the weeds at the edge of Lough Neagh. They had been sunk in shallow water. A few footprints in the mud, nothing else. Up the coast, by Bangor, we've had reports of three strangers with knapsacks boarding a train to Belfast. Their trousers and shoes were wet, but it had been raining. No one thought much of it at the time but a conductor remembered when the police asked about suspicious strangers. They could be from the U-boat or they could be bird-watchers out for a holiday. No trace of them since."

  "Any idea of what the target might be? If all these events are related, it adds up to a major operation. Pulling off the arms theft, coordinating with Germans, it had to be carefully planned in advance," I said. "What are they after?"

  "It almost doesn't matter what the target is," Cosgrove said. "That's the devil of it. There are so many places to strike, they can have their pick. There are U.S. Army convoys on most main roads every day. Units in the field on maneuvers. RAF bases. The Belfast shipyards. Seaplane bases on the west coast. Give me one hundred well-armed men and I could raise havoc long before a sufficient force was dispatched to stop me. Then I'd fall back into the hills and dare them to give chase."

  "And all the while, the world cheers on the brave lads striking a blow for freedom. The American Irish ponder their loyalties, and the Republicans in the south begin to act on theirs. Soon we have a crisis in the alliance between the United States and Great Britain," Slaine said.

  "That may be the best-case scenario. Imagine if de Valera is pressured into aiding the IRA in the north, even clandestinely? Great Britain could not stand for it. There would be war again across all of Ireland. It would be terrible for the Irish, and possibly delay the Allies' invasion of the continent, giving the Nazis another year to prepare their defenses. Unthinkable."

  A telephone rang. One of the black ones. I wondered who called on the red phone.

  "Yes" was all Cosgrove said. He listened for a minute and then hung up. "We've intercepted a dispatch-don't bother asking how- that gives the code name for the German agents landing in Northern Ireland. Operation Sea Eagle II. The Nazis are absolute dolts when it comes to code names; there was an Operation Sea Eagle two years ago, landing agents by seaplane in the Republic. Obviously Sea Eagle II is more of the same but here in the north."

  "Any indication of the target?" Slaine asked.

  "None. But another team is expected to be dropped in tonight. We've no idea where. The RAF will have their night fighters up but it's impossible to cover every location. They could use another seaplane or they could make a parachute drop. If they fly low and evade our radar, they stand a good chance of getting in and out."

  "If we could capture them, we might discover the target," I said.

  "We have a surfeit of ifs, young man, and very few facts. If going through the files will help you with the latter, by all means, get to it. I've arranged for you to view the files on the three individuals you requested, and I also had one put together noting any unsolved killings during the last month, in case any of those incidents are related."

  "LEAVE YOUR COAT and jacket in this outer room, sir," said a Royal Marine private, his hand resting on his sidearm as if I might respond violently to the suggestion. He pointed to a coat stand and I hung up my trench coat and my tanker's jacket.

  "Your belt and weapon then empty your pockets onto this table," he said.

  I handed him my web belt and. 45, and dumped out a few coins and chewing gum onto the table. I took a pen from my shirt pocket and left it as well, along with my ID and a few pound notes.

  "Is that everything, sir? You are not permitted to bring anything in with you or anything out." He had escorted me from Cosgrove's office and through another metal doorway. This one led to a small antechamber, where I was relieved of about everything except my shoelaces. "No writing implements of any kind. No paper or any item on which you could take notes. Is that understood, sir?"

  "Nothing up my sleeve," I said, pushing up my shirtsleeves.

  "Is that understood, sir?"

  "Understood, Private. Just kidding around."

  "The major doesn't appreciate kidding, sir."

  "Tell me about it. What next?"

  "I will take you into the file room. You will find a table with the files you requested. You may sit and read. You may not get up from your seat. When you are done, tell the guard behind the desk. He will summon me, and I will escort you out. You will be searched. Is that understood, sir?" He spoke in a monotone that told me he'd given this speech many times before.

  "Sure. Does Subaltern O'Brien conduct the search?"

  "Quite the kidder you are, sir. Follow me."

  He unlocked the inner door. Straight ahead of me was a table and one chair. Four file folders sat in a row in front of the chair. To the right was a counter behind steel bars. Beyond the counter were rows of file cabinets, single lightblubs dangling from the ceiling every couple of yards. There were hundreds of file cabinets, and I couldn't see how far the rows extended around the corner. Seated behind the counter and behind the bars was another Royal Marine. Or was I the one behind the bars? As my escort shut the door, I saw there was no knob on my side. Basically, I was in a cell.

  "How long do you have to stay down here?" I hollered to the marine on the other side of the bars.

  "Doesn't matter, sir. Please read your files and inform me when you are done."

  I decided I'd be testy too if I had to spend more than an hour down here. Cold concrete floors, army green paint job, and black iron bars. What a cheery place to work.

  I grabbed the first file. Jenkins, Andrew. A strip of blue tape across the top and the word RESTRICTED in bright yellow. Beneath that was a memo stapled to the file folder. It said the file was not to leave the file room, and that access was restricted to MI-5 personnel. I felt honored.

  Jenkins's file contained a section on his personal history. Evidently the Jenkins clan had lived in Armagh for generations, and his grandfather had started the family business. During the War of Independence, Andrew's father had targeted t
he Catholic competition, creating opportunity out of chaos. After the partition, the more prosperous Catholic farmers had been burned out, and the only other vegetable wholesaler was dead. Andrew Jenkins inherited a thriving business and the thanks of the Protestant farmers who had divided the spoils. Not very pleasant or too surprising.

  Another section dealt with his association with the Red Hand. Each page was headed by dates. The first was 1925-1929. He had joined as a young boy after the partition, and enthusiastically took part in suppressing the Catholic minority. He was a suspect in the murder of a Catholic whose body was found beaten to a pulp in 1928. No arrest, lack of evidence. Another run-in with the law in 1930 over the shooting of an IRA suspect who had turned out to be a businessman from south of the border with no known IRA links. Again, no witnesses, no evidence, no arrest. By 1938, Andrew Jenkins was a well-respected businessman himself, and commander of the Red Hand. He had risen within the ranks through a combination of brutality and the ability to evade the law. The RUC did arrest some of the Red Hand mob when the killings were too public and distasteful even for them. As I read the file, I noticed some of those arrested had been Jenkins's competition within the Red Hand. Like his father before him, he was good at coming out on top.

  I turned to the page headed 1938-1940, where the file ended. There was no entry for any of the last three years. The final note was dated March 1940. Jenkins had been brought to Stormont for questioning in the death of a British soldier, a Catholic from Birmingham, suspected of selling arms to the IRA. He hadn't been taken by the police but by MI-5. Why?

  They had his bank records too. According to the Northern Bank, he had a fair-sized savings account. Nothing out of the ordinary for a successful businessman. If he had dirty money, and I was sure he did, it was probably in his mattress or an overseas account.

  The door opened and I watched a private wearing an apron carry a stack of photographs to the counter. They looked shiny and new, as if he'd just pulled them from the developing tray. He handed them to the marine through a slot in the steel mesh.

  "Here you go, Hawkins. More photos for your collection, all ready to be signed off. Some of my best work, I think."

  Hawkins barely nodded, apparently not in the mood for conversation with this guy either. The private shrugged and left. Hawkins shuffled through the photos, checking the back of each and sorting them into separate piles.

  I went back to the file, working through a section labeled SURVEILLANCE. Notes and photos from various stakeouts, including one taken in Portadown, similar to the RUC surveillance photo that had caught Subaltern O'Brien meeting with Jenkins. It showed her and Jenkins entering the pub but from a different angle. On the back was a label marked FILE: JENKINS, ANDREW. Below that a written notation: Meeting with A. Jenkins, the location, and the date, three days before the arms heist. Plus a section for "Officer's Name." Subaltern S. O'Brien had been typed in, and beneath that was the signature of Slaine O'Brien. It looked like MI-5 documented contacts with characters like Jenkins, probably so no one later could accuse them of unauthorized activities. And for their own protection. I looked at the photos Hawkins still had in his hands. They seemed to bear the same filing label as the ones in front of me.

  "Here's another for one of your files, Lieutenant," Hawkins said. He held out a glossy through the slot. I got up and took it. It was the same pub, the same two people. The same notations were on the back, except it was dated yesterday. Slaine hadn't signed it yet. I gathered that she and Lynch had gone to Portadown after I'd seen her at Clough. Why hadn't she mentioned meeting Jenkins again?

  "Do you want this back or should I put it in the Jenkins file?" I asked, looking up from the photo. Hawkins had taken one of the piles he'd sorted and was bent over a file drawer a few rows to the right.

  "In the file, Lieutenant." He didn't waste a word or look up as he pawed through the drawer, which was crammed with manila folders.

  I looked at the piles of photographs he'd left on the counter. There were five, facedown, in alphabetical order. The first was Connolly, the last Wilson. Right next to Wilson was a label that read FILE: TAGGART, JACK. Hawkins seemed all business, not the type to forget he'd pulled Taggart's file for me. I gave the Taggart file on the table a quick glance. No blue label, no filing indicator of any kind. I figured that meant Taggart's file was also restricted but they didn't want anyone to know.

  Hawkins had two files pulled and was placing photos in each. I reached through the slot and took the Taggart photos, two of them, looking as brand-new as the one he'd handed me. The scene was darker, maybe late afternoon. The note on the back gave the location as Castlewellan. I recognized it as one of the towns I'd driven through on my trip to Lurgan a few days ago. It was outside a restaurant. The first shot showed Slaine and Sergeant Lynch entering together. Behind them was a tall man with the brim of his hat pulled down low over one side of his face. His hand was up, scratching his nose, so his face was unrecognizable.

  I saw what the photographer had done. The guy must have spotted him, so he changed positions and waited for the man to emerge from the restaurant. This time his cap was pulled down to conceal his face in the direction where the photographer had been, revealing his full profile to the hidden photographer's new angle. He'd gotten a clear shot of Red Jack Taggart, fresh from sharing a meal with Slaine O'Brien and the late Sergeant Cyrus Lynch.

  I put the Taggart photos back just as Hawkins closed the file cabinet drawer. He walked back stiffly, as if he had a cramp in his leg.

  "In the file, did you say? Couldn't hear you," I said, holding up the Jenkins photo.

  "Yes, Lieutenant. In the file, please." He looked at the piles on his counter and back at me, his forehead wrinkled in thought. I smiled my best dumb smile, which must have been convincing, since he picked up the Connolly photos and went limping off to do more filing.

  Jenkins and Taggart. One a thieving brute and likely murderer, the other the very man we were after. And Slaine O'Brien breaking bread with him on the same day she complained that I hadn't found him yet. I'd had the evidence in my hands. But I never would have gotten it out of this room and would probably have been tossed in an even deeper cell if I had tried. I had to figure some way to find out what she and Taggart were up to, and whose side each of them was on. The prospect made me dizzy.

  I went through the Taggart file I had been provided. It was obvious it was only part of what they had on him. The file cover was blank and smelled of fresh-cut paper along the edges, as if it had just come out of the box. I thumbed through what they'd given me, certain that anything important was sitting in the original restricted file on the other side of those iron bars.

  There was the standard background history about his family in Dublin. The first surprise was that his mother, Polly, had been Protestant, disowned by her family when she married Brian Taggart, a Catholic. Jack Taggart had been raised a Roman Catholic and left home in 1916 when he joined the Irish Volunteers to fight for independence. His father died two years later in the influenza epidemic, and in 1920 his mother remarried-to a Protestant this time. The report noted that the marriage had been arranged by her family, so she must have been taken back into the fold at some point.

  In 1921, shortly after the birth of their new child, Polly and her husband were caught in a cross fire on a Dublin street between the IRA and the Royal Irish Constabulary. Both were killed. Not an uncommon event, unfortunately. I wondered what share of the hatred Red Jack carried came from the losses he endured in the first two decades of his life.

  There were blank spaces in the chronological record before his service in the Spanish Civil War. After his return, minus most of the men he'd brought with him to fight in the Republican Brigade, he recovered from his physical wounds and drank his way through his emotional ones. He married and cleaned himself up. His wife had twins, and he obtained his position with the Irish Hospitals' Sweepstake. The report noted matter-of-factly that the sweepstake tickets sold in the U.S. provided a conduit for funds
to be channeled back to the IRA, as Clan na Gael added significant sums to wire transfers as well as to the hard cash delivered across the Atlantic. Jack Taggart seemed to have been tamed by his marriage and his nearly legitimate job.

  In early 1941, he dropped out of sight. His wife and two children no longer lived in Dublin, and the file showed no trace of their whereabouts. There were no surveillance photos. All the good stuff was hidden away. I figured that's when the IRA chief of staff sent him to Ulster to work with the IRA Northern Command. Maybe he brought his family with him, under an assumed name. Or perhaps they'd moved to one of the border counties, so he could slip across for a visit when things got too hot in Ulster. Wherever his family was, it must have been before the IRA chief of staff found out Red Jack had been cooking the books.

  Two years later, Eddie Mahoney is sent north to set things right, and nothing works out the way anyone planned. Slaine O'Brien hobnobs with the likes of Jenkins and Taggart at the same time she's trying to keep a lid on sectarian violence. Mahoney is just doing his job, and before he can finish his Agatha Christie, he's facedown in a ditch. Sam Burnham and Pete Brennan are caught up in it somehow, and they end up dead before their time.

  I opened the next file, the one Major Cosgrove had assembled containing details of unsolved incidents. The most recent was the murder of the RUC constable in Dromara. DI Carrick had just come from his funeral when I first met him. Four shots in the back, almost on his doorstep. Attributed to the IRA. No suspects.

  A week before, the body of a Protestant member of the Ulster Volunteer Force-not that there were any Catholic members-was found on the outskirts of Castlereagh, just to the east of Belfast. A hood was tied over his head and he'd been shot twice in the heart. The report mentioned that he was thought to have split off from the Red Hand, dissatisfied with what he considered to be a lukewarm response to Republican violence. No suspects.

  A garage had blown up in Shankill, the Catholic neighborhood in Belfast. The body of a man, burned beyond recognition, was found along with bits and pieces of bomb-making equipment. It appeared he had been bound to a chair and left to watch his own bomb explode. No suspects.