I gasped, realizing I’d forgotten to breathe. I’d felt the hot Sicilian sun on me for that moment. The ground had been brown and broken, not green and smooth. I clutched the steering wheel, relaxing my white-knuckled hands. Never mind, I told myself. They’ll have to find out for themselves. In their place I wouldn’t have listened to anyone else either. I hadn’t, and I knew how Brennan felt, seeing all these faces and knowing so many would die, stunned at the rapid violence of combat, unfired rifles in their hands, calling out for their mothers, as they always did. Mama,
mutti
,
madre
.
I started the engine and gazed straight ahead, driving through the base, avoiding looking at each face I passed along the way.
AT 5:00 A.M.—OR 0500, as I was informed—someone thumped at the door to my Quonset hut with a message. Too early for me. I’d stopped at the the Lug o’ the Tub and stayed longer than I should have, watching GIs drink their beer while trying to sound manly and brave in the face of the unknown. I’d listened to Grady tell stories of the Anglo-Irish War without mentioning the Lewis gun. In turn I had told him about Diana but never mentioned Jerusalem. We each kept our wounds hidden.
The message had been from Hugh Carrick: Come to Clough immediately. I retraced my route of not so long ago, watching for some sign of the RUC. Clough wasn’t so big that I was likely to miss anything. As the early morning mist rose from the ground, it looked like each stone wall corralled a field of fog. The top row of stones stood above the thick grayness, like grave markers all in a line. The sun came up over Dundrum Bay to the east as the sound of sheep bells echoed from hill to hill. Farmers and police, early risers both, tending their respective flocks.
I knew which way to turn even before the pub came into view. Not far down the narrow road to Grady O’Brick’s dirt-floored cottage and Julia Simms’s proper Presbyterian home, a gaggle of police cars and a military police jeep were parked. Not to mention a gray Austin four-door sedan, license plate FZG 129. The car Red Jack Taggart had been in, slewed to the side of the road, the front caught up in brambles along a stone wall. When I saw the Austin, I knew there would be a body inside. It had been driven off the road at the same spot where Mahoney had been left.
District Inspector Hugh Carrick stood in the middle of the roadway, dispatching constables to search the fields on either side. Adrian Simms stood, with Sergeant Jack Patterson, next to the Austin.
“Lieutenant Boyle, good morning,” Carrick said. “I thought you’d want to be here.”
“Who’s inside?” I asked, hoping I was wrong.
“Your Sergeant Brennan. In the trunk. Local man who makes the milk deliveries saw the car and stopped by Constable Simms’s home to report it. When he gave Simms the license-plate number, Simms called it in straightaway.”
Pete’s name hit me like a two-by-four. Why him? It made no sense. He was free and clear, set to ship out today.
“Are you sure?” I couldn’t take it in. I’d been imagining Pete boarding a ship in Belfast Harbor.
Carrick beckoned me to follow him to the car. Patterson vaguely stood to attention and gave me a quick salute. I touched my hand to my forehead and froze as Simms opened the trunk. It was Pete Brennan, expert ordnanceman, veteran of Salerno, last survivor of his squad. He was on his side, his back to us, knees drawn up to his chest. Two black-and-rust-colored holes punctured the back of his skull.
“Small-caliber weapon,” I offered, although I was sure that had been apparent to Carrick. No exit wounds.
“Execution,” Carrick said.
“Aye,” Simms said. “Typical IRA job.”
“Who owns the car?” I asked in a low voice.
“A Catholic businessman in Londonderry. He reported it stolen four days ago. He appears to have no connection to this business.”
“Why would the IRA kill Pete?” I said out loud, but I was speaking to myself.
“Maybe a falling-out over the BAR theft?” Simms suggested.
“He had nothing to do with that. He was shipping out today to Italy. Why kill him?”
“That is what we are going to find out, Boyle,” Carrick said.
I barely heard him. I leaned into the trunk, careful not to touch anything. I studied Pete’s head, ignoring the face with its contorted puffiness from the gunshots. I smelled his uniform.
“What are you doing, Boyle?” Carrick demanded.
“It rained yesterday,” I said. “His hair is dry, and so is his uniform. If he’d been thrown in here wet, it would smell damp.”
“There is an army trench coat in the backseat, a trifle damp to the touch,” Carrick said.
“He left Ballykinler yesterday morning, probably before it started raining. He was out in it for a bit, but not enough to get himself soaked. I’d say he was shot after it stopped, which was about four o’clock. Then dumped here, after the pub shut its doors.”
“Aye, Tom said the road was clear when he closed up, not long after you yourself departed,” Simms said.
Was there a question left hanging? Did Simms wonder where I’d gone after I left the pub? Did he envision me firing a gun twice into Pete’s skull?
“Did you see Brennan at all yesterday?” Carrick asked me.
“No, I tried to find him in the afternoon, to say goodbye, but I’d missed him. His lieutenant had let him off to take care of some personal business.”
“And you’re convinced there was no connection between Brennan and the BAR theft?”
“I’m convinced he wasn’t involved. But there had to be a connection.”
“Why?”
“Because what other reason is there for two bullets to the head? There must be something, some clue that we’re missing but Pete didn’t.”
“Where do you suppose he went yesterday?” Carrick asked.
“No idea,” I said as a very good idea formed in my mind. I had no reason to let Carrick in on it yet, since he wouldn’t like it one bit.
“That’s obviously where he got into trouble. Pity he didn’t stay on the base,” Carrick said, shaking his head sadly.
“Jack,” I said, turning to the MP, “he left Ballykinler in a jeep. Has one turned up?”
“We’re looking. I thought he might have gone to the pub last night, so we started checking the back roads between here and the base.”
“The only thing we know for certain is that you saw Taggart in this car, and now Brennan has turned up, dead, in the trunk. The IRA connection is fairly clear,” Carrick said, but he sounded less than certain. “Perhaps there was an entirely different connection, one we’re not aware of, and Brennan was killed over that. Perhaps because he was being transferred, deserting the cause?” Carrick rubbed his chin, thinking as he spoke. I could tell he wanted to believe the IRA had shot Brennan. It was so neat, I could hardly blame him. It fit into his view of the world, which was a powerful reason for belief. Still, I sensed the doubt in his mind as he considered different theories.
“Have you searched the body?” I asked.
“Yes, I have, along with Sergeant Patterson. Nothing of note. Cigarettes, a lighter, a few pound notes.”
“He usually went out armed.”
“No evidence of a weapon, sir, but you’re right. Pete always carried a .45.”
“Not entirely legal for him to go out armed while off duty and outside the base, but I understand his reason,” Carrick said.
“You didn’t find anything else?” I asked.
“Nothing. His coat and cap were in the vehicle. Otherwise it looks clean. We will have it checked for fingerprints, but I doubt we’ll find anything. It looks like all the surfaces were wiped down.”
“That’s odd. Why would Red Jack care about his fingerprints?”
“He has help,” Carrick said. “There are a number of cells operated by the IRA Northern Command. Most of them operate in secret, and their members lead outwardly normal lives. It would be to protect them, not his own identity.”
“Makes sense. Do you mind if I take a closer look at the body?”
“Be careful,” Carrick said. “Don’t touch any surfaces.”
I nodded, holding back the question I was about to ask: So in case you find my prints on the car, you’ll know I was involved? Or was Carrick merely exercising crime-scene control? It was the kind of thing my dad would have done, a natural caution against accidentally interfering with evidence. Maybe I was being overly sensitive. Maybe I was being framed. I ran over a list in my mind of any personal possessions I might have lost in the past few days, in case something showed up in the car. But I didn’t possess much except for army-issue gear, which, for once, was a blessing.
I didn’t bother looking in Pete’s pockets. I knew DI Carrick and Patterson would have done a thorough search. I did look at his hands. His left was open, fingers splayed across his right arm in the cramped pose he’d been left in. His right hand was clenched in a fist, rigor mortis had already set hard.
“He’s real stiff,” I said. “He had to have been killed at least twelve hours ago.”
“That would be six o’clock last night,” Carrick said. “If he left an hour before noon, he could’ve traveled for two hours, which would leave two hours for him to return. Killed between one and four o’clock then.”
“Too many factors we don’t know,” I said. “Who would have known he was going off base? I wonder if his execution was planned or a spur-of-the-moment thing?”
“Saul knew,” Patterson said. “And anybody at the depot Pete might have told.”
“But Saul told me he didn’t know where Pete was going.”
“An accidental encounter? But with whom?” Carrick asked. “Constable Simms, have you seen any strangers about? Anyone suspicious?”
“No, sir, it’s been very quiet.”
“We need to find the jeep Brennan drove,” I said as I pulled at Pete’s fingers, reminding myself it was only his body, that he was long gone. I managed to pull two fingers apart. I took the small wooden object and held it in my palm. It was cold.
“What’s that?” Constable Simms asked. Carrick moved in to take a closer look.
“It’s a carved animal of some sort,” he said.
“Its name is Pig,” I said.
PETE BRENNAN HAD died with his good luck charm in the palm of his hand. Pig hadn’t kept him alive but at least had been there at the end. Maybe Pete was a fool to go wherever he’d gone. Maybe he was wrong to volunteer to return to the front lines before he had to. Maybe he would’ve been killed in Italy anyway. It didn’t matter. He’d been executed. Like Sam Burnham had been executed?
Despite the car I didn’t think the IRA was responsible. As I stood in the road, watching the searchers in the fields and rubbing Pig’s belly, I could think of only one person who would have had a reason to meet up with Pete yesterday. Jenkins had told me his part was to give Pete one hundred pounds, and Thornton’s part was to authorize his transfer. I’d assumed Jenkins had already paid out the money. But he hadn’t actually said so. And he’d been headed for the Northern Bank in Armagh yesterday afternoon. The timing would have worked out. Jenkins could have met Pete between one and two o’clock, perhaps near the bank, but somewhere they wouldn’t be seen together. Instead of a hundred quid, Pete had ended up with two slugs. I couldn’t figure how Jenkins had gotten the Austin, but the scenario was perfect in its symmetry. The IRA boosts his truck and implicates him in the arms theft; he uses their stolen car to point the finger at them for Pete’s murder. I liked it. It fit into
my
view of the world, which was that Jenkins was a thieving Orangeman who’d gladly kill a Catholic rather than hand over more than four hundred dollars to him.
A U.S. Army ambulance showed up, trailed by a British Army staff car. This was turning into a full-scale international incident. I put Pig in my jacket pocket and watched them move Pete’s body from the trunk of the Austin to the ambulance. It was an awkward process due to the body’s rigor. Patterson helped steady it on the stretcher as they gingerly loaded it into the ambulance. Simms looked away as Carrick stood ramrod straight, eyes front. I think if he’d been in uniform, he would have saluted, no matter what religion Brennan had been baptized into. But there were no funerals today. He wore a dark woolen overcoat over a suit, the slightly askew knotted tie the only sign that he’d dressed in a rush in response to an early morning call. I watched his eyes move to the staff car, his forehead wrinkling. It looked like it was a surprise to him as well as me.
Its driver, a British Army sergeant, approached me and gave a stiff, palm-out salute. His eyes wandered to the body, then focused on me.
He was short and compact, a neatly trimmed mustache above a thin mouth. A scar ran along his jaw, a jagged white line of puckered skin. He was armed, a revolver holstered at his side. He might have been posted behind a wheel, but he looked like more than a driver. I returned the salute.
“Lieutenant Boyle?”
“Who’s asking?”
“You’ll be him then. Please step inside the car, sir.”
“That isn’t necessarily the safest thing to do around here, Sergeant,” I said, nodding toward the ambulance as it pulled away.
“What’s this about?” DI Carrick asked the sergeant.
“Military matter, sir. No need to involve civilians, if you don’t mind.”
“I do if it involves this crime.”
“Military matter, sir. Now please excuse us. Lieutenant?”
I could tell we’d get no more out of this sergeant. I shrugged and followed him to the car. It was a Ford Fordor, the kind I’d seen in North Africa, a Canadian station wagon converted for military use. I’d never seen one with anything less than a full colonel in the back, but I couldn’t even see inside this one, since the rear windows were opaque. The sergeant opened the rear door and held it for me. It was dark inside, and the rear seat was pushed back, so I still couldn’t see who was waiting for me. I stooped and entered. The first thing I saw was a pair of crossed legs.
“Sit down, Lieutenant Boyle. I don’t bite,” said Sláine O’Brien. “Unless it’s called for.”
“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” I said as I settled into the wide backseat. I’d been in smaller living rooms. “How does a subaltern rate one of these?”
“I don’t have time for small talk, so let’s get down to business, Lieutenant. What have you found out about the BARs?” She held a pen in one hand while flipping through a file. It looked like she was about to give me demerits.
“Well, I got shot at by one. Two Americans have been murdered since I arrived here. Oh, yeah, and a major has been arrested for bribery, but that was over black market produce, not guns.”
“It sounds as if you’ve been busy,” she said, “investigating cabbages.” The pen started tapping against her knee.
“I forgot to mention. It was Red Jack Taggart who shot at me and killed at least one of the Americans. With a BAR. And do you have another Yank working this case? Older guy, wears a gray fedora hat.”
“Taggart? Are you sure?” She sounded shocked that an IRA man would shoot at anyone, much less Yanks.
“Damn right I’m sure. He murdered Lieutenant Sam Burnham while we were at an RUC station after a funeral. I chased him but he got away.”
“I’d say you’re lucky to be alive. Taggart is not known for letting his quarry escape his clutches.”
“He’s the one lucky to be alive. He was
my
quarry. I think he was after Burnham for some reason. Taggart shot Burnham, as he stood at a window. Then he sprayed the house, to keep the rest of us down.”
“But you didn’t stay down?” She uncrossed her legs, smoothing down the green wool fabric. Her buttons were as shiny on her dress uniform as they’d been on her khakis in Jerusalem. I was distracted as I watched her shift in the seat. I always was a button man.
“No, I don’t like being a stationary target.”
“Neither do I, Lieutenant Boyle,” she said, crossing her legs again, the smooth sound of her nylons rubbing against each other filling the silence. Or maybe filling my imagination, I’m not sure.
“You haven’t answered my question about the other American, the one in civvies,” I persisted.
“I’m finding that one American is quite enough, Lieutenant. Do you have any idea who he is or what he wants?”
“No, but he’s mixed up in this somehow. I think he’s following me.”
“Why would another Yank follow you?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself. I thought you might have brought someone else in. Or maybe army CID. But no dice there. So who is he, and why is he here?”
“I’ll have my people look into it,” she said. She tapped her pen on the clipboard, impatient at the unanticipated complication. My eyes went from the pen to those buttons to her legs before settling on her eyes. All the choices, except the pen, were mesmerizing. Her eyes met mine, and I looked away, embarrassed, as if she could read my mind. She wasn’t like any woman I’d ever met. I had the odd thought pop into my head that it was going to be tough to go back to Boston and settle down with a nice girl who worked in a department store or a deli.
“Who’s the corpse?” Sláine said, nodding toward the automobile by the side of the road.
“Pete Brennan. GI from the base at Ballykinler.”
“Is he involved in the BAR theft?”
“He was on duty the night it happened but I don’t think he was killed over that.”
“Coincidence?”
“I’m not sure. I think there is a connection but it has more to do with the black market than with the IRA. I need your help with that.”
“What exactly do you need?”
“I need to know more about both Jenkins and Taggart.”
“Such as?”
“Anything and everything you have. Background, connections, all the dope you must have in your security files on them. I’m working blind here, and I need to know more about these guys to try to get a handle on what to do next.”
“Why Jenkins? Do you think he’s involved in the weapons theft?”
“I don’t think so but I’d rather be sure. How well do you know him?”
“I know what he’s capable of.”
“But do you know him personally?”
“I’ve questioned him, yes.”
“In a Portadown pub?”
“Wherever necessary. Don’t forget what you are supposed to be investigating, Lieutenant Boyle, and whom you are working for.”
“Is that a threat?” I asked.
“A reminder to stay focused. Part of my job is to keep tabs on the militia groups, including the Red Hand. It’s an open secret that Jenkins controls them, so of course I meet with him. He knows I’m with MI-5. One hand washes the other, as they say. I don’t know how you found out about that rendezvous but it has nothing to do with this case.”
“I still want to see his file. And I need to know more about Taggart. He obviously knows where the BARs are; he demonstrated that pretty clearly.”
She tapped her pen against the file folder in her lap again. “Very well. I have other business here today but meet me at the Slieve Donard Hotel in Newcastle, eight o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll take you to Stormont Castle in Belfast and you can review the files. Will that do?”
“Sure. The hotel is the big brick one with the tower, right?”
“Aye, you can’t miss it.”
“Does your business here have anything to do with this killing? Are you keeping something from me?” I asked.
“Many things, to be sure, but nothing germane to this investigation. I’ll give you what I can about Taggart and Jenkins. Is there anything else?”
“I thought perhaps I could buy you dinner, and you could tell me about the one Irish-American you admire.”
“Pardon me?”
“In Jerusalem, when I asked if you didn’t like Irish-Americans, you said there was one you admired very much. I’d like to know who.”
“If you find the BARs, Lieutenant, there will be two. I’m quite busy now, so if you’re done?”
“One question before I go. How did you get here so quickly? Who told you?”
“That’s a matter of security.”
“What isn’t?”
“Until tomorrow morning, Lieutenant?”
She didn’t look up from the open file on her lap but I saw one corner of her mouth turn up in a smile. I wasn’t sure what I was doing with her. Part of me said the invitation to dinner was to interrogate her. Another part of me said it would be nice to spend time in her company. She was an Irish girl, after all. Ultimately, I was glad she’d turned me down. I got out of the car and nodded to her driver, who leaned against the front fender as he smoked. He looked past me, eyeing something down the road. It was Grady O’Brick, riding in a pony cart, the rear stacked high with black peat held in place by slats of wood bound with rope.
“What’s this now?” Grady asked, fixing his gaze on me. The ambulance was gone, but the Austin still had its nose in the ditch, with DI Carrick and his constables searching it. Grady glanced at the staff car, the sergeant, then back to me. “Have you got yourself in trouble, Billy Boyle?”
“Not me, Grady. Pete Brennan,” I said as I walked over and scratched the pony on its withers.
“What kind of trouble?”
“Dead. Murdered, found in the trunk of that car,” I said, looking at the gray Austin. “Same car that Red Jack Taggart got away in after the shooting in Killough.”
“Red Jack? Do you think he did this?” Grady sounded incredulous that Taggart would kill Pete, that I’d even consider the possibility.
“I have no idea. Same car, that’s all. It could mean anything. It’s no coincidence, though.”
“No, you’re right about that, boy. Damn!” He shook his head, gripping the reins tighter around his ruined hands. “May the devil swallow him sideways, the fellow who did this.”
“Move along now,” the sergeant said, waving his hand in the direction of the village.
“Move yourself, you English thief. Don’t tell me to move along in my own village!”
“Take it easy,” I said, holding my palm out to the sergeant, who had stiffened at the insult, his hand resting on his holster. “The soldier who was killed was a friend of ours; he doesn’t mean anything by it.”
The sergeant let his hand drop to his side. I looked up at Grady.
“I don’t much like the sight of that uniform, as you know,” said Grady, his face stern as he gazed straight ahead. His tone contained all the apology he was capable of, and the British sergeant moved away and got into the staff car.
“I know,” I said.
Grady looked down at me and winked.
“The curse of his own weapons upon him,” he whispered, and laughed. “What are you doing with a bastard like that anyway?”
“It’s a long story.”
“It’ll keep. I’ll be back in an hour, Billy Boyle. Meet me at my home and I’ll put the kettle on. It’s a cold dawning for all here.”
“OK, I will.”
“First turning back there,” he said with a backward nod as he flicked the reins and the pony clip-clopped away. Grady turned and stared at the Austin as he passed it, and his shoulders sagged. The staff car, mysterious with darkened windows and shining grillwork, started up, its growling engine powerful and alien in the small country lane. The driver turned the car around in the road, leaving deep tire marks on the soft shoulder and spitting mud as he gained traction. He drove behind Grady slowly; the old man didn’t coax the pony into a trot or move an inch from the center of the lane. Finally, the road branched near the pub, and the staff car accelerated, disappearing around the corner.
The curse of his own weapons upon him.
A frightening curse, and I shivered. Even the memory of Sláine’s legs and the enticing soft sound of nylon rubbing against nylon did not warm me.
“Who was that?” Adrian Simms asked. He seemed chilled too. His hands were stuffed into his pockets and his shoulders hunched.
“Military matter,” I said.
“With that sleekit sergeant? Who is he driving around in that big automobile?”
“What did you call him?”
“Sleekit. What you might call a sly one, with a dab of dishonesty thrown in.”
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“I’ve seen him around. Cyrus Lynch. He’s one of the secret bunch up at Stormont. He’s brought in IRA boys and Red Hand boys. Most are never seen again.”
“What about the Black Knights?”
“What about them?” Simms said, his eyes darting to where Carrick stood by the car. “What do they have to do with anything?”
“Just wondering if they were ever arrested along with the Red Hands.”