COLIN WAS AN honest man. Eddie Mahoney had left his wallet behind with four twenty-pound notes inside. A driver’s license in another name—John Davies—and a few odds and ends made it look like he was a guy named Davies and not a feared IRA killer. He’d left all traces of identity behind when he went out on the heist, figuring to beat it back here for breakfast and then hightail it out.
Of course, Colin could have been too afraid to take the money or maybe there had been more and he left some to divert suspicion. That’s the price you pay, I guess, for being a cop. Everyone is suspect, even for apparent honesty. You start wondering what angle the guy’s playing. Then, sooner or later, you start wondering why you’ve stayed honest so long—or at least what passes for honest—when everyone else is bent.
I had my own definition of honest and it didn’t include stealing a dead guy’s cash, even if it had been left under an assumed identity and he was an outlaw. Those last two things tested me, but I left the money in the wallet. I tossed it aside and went through the rest of the stuff in the box Colin had stashed on a shelf in his storeroom. I moved the box to a small table under the single bare lightbulb that hung from a cord. There wasn’t much to see. A shaving kit and a few toiletries. A roll of black electrical tape, a jackknife, and a fountain pen. A dog-eared paperback,
Appointment with Death
by Agatha Christie, waited for its reader to discover who the murderer was, a page toward the end folded down to mark where he’d left it.
Some objects hold nothing once a person dies. I’d handled his wallet and his toothbrush, and they were just things. But that folded page still held the aura of his hand, the feel of his fingernail on the crease, the expectation of life going on, of another day, the sun shining, a cup of tea, and a paperback waiting to be finished. It was the kind of thing that got to me, more than the big stuff, since life was really made up of little things. The things you kept on your night table. The jackknife in your pocket. The photo you kept in your wallet. The book you were reading.
I fanned the pages to see if anything was hidden but all I got was air. I stuffed the book in my pocket. Someone had to finish it.
A crumpled pack of Senior Service cigarettes still held a couple of butts. He’d probably taken a fresh pack with him. A few hard candies showed he had a sweet tooth, and the stub of a pencil and a crossword puzzle from a month-old London
Times
told me he was bright but not bright enough to finish it. The only thing left in the box was a book of matches. I grabbed it and idly turned it in my fingers, eyeing the suitcase next. I opened it on the chance something might be stuck inside but all I found were three lonely matches. I closed it and made to toss it into the box but something caught my eye. It was so familiar I almost didn’t realize how out of place it was.
I held it under the light and stared at the picture of Warren Spahn, left-handed pitcher for the Boston Braves, our National League team. They gave out matchbooks with pictures of all their top players. They were a dime a dozen in Beantown but I never expected to see one east of Boston Harbor. Spahn had been in the news during his first season with the Braves in ’42. He hadn’t gotten along with their manager, a guy named Casey Stengel, and was sent down to the minors after refusing to hit a batter. Spahn had enlisted after that season, and for all I knew, he was somewhere in Northern Ireland. Maybe he’d left the matchbook in a bar and Eddie picked it up. However it got here, it was a little bit of home, and I tucked it away in my shirt pocket, thinking of Braves Field on a bright spring day, wondering how long it would be until I watched a game again.
Next was Eddie’s suitcase. It was small, well used, scuffed, and worn at the corners. One pair of trousers and a shirt were neatly folded on top, nestled in among undergarments and socks. A scarf and one wool sweater, worn through at the elbows, completed Eddie Mahoney’s wardrobe. He traveled light, and given the condition of the suitcase and clothes, I guessed they were secondhand props, used only while on this job for the IRA. Which meant that there wouldn’t be anything of value, any evidence, left here. Eddie expected to be back but if he did have anything important in his possession, he would have hidden it. An IRA professional would take precautions out of habit.
“Colin,” I shouted over my shoulder, “anyone in his room?”
“It’s vacant. Go on up if you want a look,” he said, sticking his head in the door. “It’s open—just don’t leave a mess, will you? First door on the left.”
There were four rooms upstairs, two on each side of a narrow hall. I entered Eddie Mahoney’s last abode, turned on a light switch, and surveyed the room. Bed against the wall to my left, bureau to my right. Washstand along the wall by the door, and a thick rug on a hardwood floor. A single curtained window straight ahead looked out over the harbor. Next to it was a wooden chair with wide arms and embroidered cushions. Is that where Eddie sat, reading his mystery, waiting?
I sat in the chair and looked around the room. He was going on a dangerous mission. If Eddie had anything to hide, where would he hide it? Under the mattress? No, that’s the first place someone would look. He’d want to hide it from snooping landlords or cleaning ladies, so it would have to be somewhere a traveler wouldn’t normally stash valuables.
I walked the floor, feeling for loose floorboards but everything seemed nailed down tight. I looked under the mattress, couldn’t help myself. Nothing. I felt the cushions on the chair but came up empty. It wouldn’t be that elaborate anyway; it would have to be someplace he could get to easily and quickly in case he needed to make a fast exit.
I opened the window and stuck my head out into the rain, looking for what I don’t know. A hidey-hole in the brickwork maybe? The wall within reach was disappointingly solid, and all I came up with was a face full of water.
I wiped my eyes and looked at the room again, remembering that roll of electrical tape. There were only a few surfaces hidden from view so I started on those. Behind the bedboard: nothing. Behind the bureau: nothing except cobwebs. I felt along the bottom of the bureau and came up with nothing but thin, cracked wood, the underside of the bottom drawer. I opened that drawer and felt the bottom of the one above it. My hand brushed the dry wood, sweeping back and forth. At the back, my fingers caught on paper. I pulled at it, and a sealed blank envelope came out, dangling two strips of black tape.
It was a good hiding place. You couldn’t see it but Eddie could reach in and grab it in a second. I sat in the chair and listened to the rain drive itself against the window for a minute, hoping this would finally tell me something useful. Maybe it would or maybe it contained dirty pictures or his last will and testament. I ripped the envelope open and read the top typewritten sheet.
DATE: 3 November 1943
FROM: Charlie Kerins, chief of staff, Irish Republican Army, Dublin
TO: IRA Northern Command
IRA units of the Northern Command are ordered to provide all necessary assistance to the bearer of this letter. His true identity will not be revealed for reasons of security. He is on a mission to gather evidence to determine the guilt, or innocence, of IRA member Jack Taggart, also known as Red Jack, in the matter of embezzlement of funds from Clan na Gael and the Irish Hospitals’ Sweepstake.
Funds sent from America have gone missing, and the bearer of this letter is charged with determining if Jack Taggart is guilty, and if so, to recover the funds and apprehend him for an IRA court-martial.
Additionally, IRA Northern Command units are directed to assist in any other tactical operations these two men are engaged in, without reference to the above.
So the hunter had become the hunted. Red Jack must’ve tumbled to his game and decided all Mahoney was going to get was that single pound note. That was meant to throw us off track. The IRA in Dublin would know what had happened but not the northern IRA, if Eddie had not made contact yet. The last sentence was interesting. Apparently even embezzlement didn’t trump fifty BARs. Eddie had thought he was using Red Jack, and all the time it was the other way around. I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
The second sheet was on different, cheaper paper, handwritten, probably with the fountain pen Eddie had left behind. Each entry was headed with a date and time, and it had the look of a surveillance record. I scanned the notes; most of them appeared to be about IRA meets or casing Ballykinler. There were several mentions of Clough, and I wondered if they’d stopped for a pint on the way back from driving by the base. Two entries for Armagh caught my eye. October 25 at 2:00 p.m., Eddie observed Red Jack meet an unidentified male carrying a briefcase outside the Northern Bank. They entered together but left separately half an hour later. Red Jack had told Eddie he was going to meet an American GI who had information about the layout of the base. He later claimed the GI failed to show. Eddie followed him to the bank again on the morning of November 3, and this time he recorded a description of the other man. Short, sandy-haired, midtwenties.
That description fit a lot of Irishmen. It also perfectly described Adrian Simms. But it made no sense at all. Adrian was probably in cahoots with Andrew Jenkins. Red Jack? It wasn’t likely he’d be working both sides of the sectarian wars. Maybe he was undercover? I doubted it but I’d ask DI Carrick about it to be sure. I wondered about McBurney and what he hadn’t told me. Maybe I could get Carrick to bring him in for questioning, Black Knight brothers or no.
The October date nagged at me. Hadn’t Micheál said that McBurney gave him and a new teller the afternoon off about a month ago? Was there any connection? Red Jack Taggart entering a Protestant bank was unusual, that’s for sure. Especially since it seemed like he was making a deposit, not robbing and shooting up the place. Then it hit me. What a perfect hiding place for embezzled IRA funds. An assumed identity, and the money is deposited under the watchful eye of a Royal Black Knight. Maybe the short guy he met had introduced him to McBurney and recommended the bank. Was he an accomplice or a dupe? Or was Red Jack simply saving his pennies?
I pocketed the papers and went back down to the bar. Colin had kept my dinner warm and I ate my sausages and boxty, hardly noticing what was on my plate. I had a whole new motive for Red Jack’s actions now, and things were beginning to make sense. Except why had he gone through with the arms theft? If he knew the IRA Command was onto him, why bother? Why hadn’t he simply taken the money and run?
MORNING ARRIVED TOO soon but at least it brought sunlight and blue skies. After yesterday’s cold winds and rain it made everything seem fresh and new, scrubbed clean and verdant. The air was cool and crisp as I drove from headquarters down the hill to the Slieve Donard Hotel in Newcastle to meet Sláine O’Brien for our trip to Stormont Castle. The Boston Irish part of me didn’t like the sound of that one bit but at least I was being taken there as an ally, not a prisoner.
Main Street was quiet, the shops and businesses not yet open. I turned right on Railway Street, which led to the railroad station and the hotel, driving close to waves lapping the hard-packed gray sand beach as I slowed to enter the gravel drive. The hotel was an ornate, four-story, red-brick affair, with a single tower jutting skyward above the main entrance. Military and civilian vehicles were neatly parked along the front but I could see a few jeeps and an ambulance farther down, along the wing of the hotel that faced the sea, parked at angles to each other on the lawn. The haphazard arrangement was out of place with the studied elegance of the building and grounds, so I drove closer for a look. I could see RUC and British Army uniforms among the men in plainclothes standing around, looking up at something beyond my line of vision. I got out and walked over, a feeling of dread washing over me. This was a crime scene.
The wing of the hotel was angled to face the water, and as I drew closer I saw orderly rows of double windows and dormers set against red brick and gray slate. Except that one of those windows was blown out, black streaks radiating from the edges. Debris lay strewn on the ground, and firemen were rolling up hoses and putting away their gear. The air smelled of smoke and ashes.
“Stand back, sir,” a British corporal said, his hand held up in a polite but firm command.
“What happened?” I asked. He looked away and stood at attention, as did the other soldiers, while a stretcher was brought out of the hotel bearing a figure covered in a white sheet. It looked like a body but it didn’t lie right under the covering. It was uneven, as if pieces were missing or terribly twisted.
“A bomb,” I said, not realizing I’d spoken. The stretcher was loaded into the ambulance. The breeze from the Irish Sea swirled the odor of burnt flesh around us, and I stood rooted to the spot, wondering who it was and hoping this was not the work of my childhood heroes.
“Aye, a bomb, sir,” the corporal said once the body was on its way. “It blew up in his room. We think it was planted there earlier in the day.”
“His? Who was that?”
“Sergeant Cyrus Lynch, Lieutenant. My sergeant. And what is your business here?” The corporal asked his question with a minimum of regard for my rank.
“My name is Boyle. I was to drive to Belfast today with the sergeant and Subaltern O’Brien.”
“We’ve been expecting you. Did you tell anyone where you’d be meeting them this morning?”
“Who is ‘we’ exactly?”
“Special security detail, attached to MI-5. Please answer the question, Lieutenant Boyle.”
“No. No one knew I was coming here this morning, and I didn’t tell a soul where the meeting was.”
“Very well. Please show me your identification.” I showed him my orders and ID, which he went through carefully, studying my face as well as the paperwork. As he handed it back to me, I caught sight of DI Carrick.
“I’m not surprised to see you here, Boyle,” he said. “Trouble seems to follow you about.”
“I was supposed to meet someone,” I said neutrally, glancing at the corporal.
“You can tell the bloody district inspector about it, especially since the bomb’s already gone off,” he muttered as walked away, “sir.”
“Yes, I know. You seem to have entrée into the secret world of MI-5,” Carrick said, studying the corporal’s back.
“More than you do?” I asked, craning my neck up to the blown-out third-floor windows.
“I’m sure you’re aware that there are conflicts between agencies.
Sometimes their need for secrecy outweighs my need for information.”
“Like Andrew Jenkins and his file?”
“Yes, like that. My presence here this morning is a formality. The RUC will not receive one ounce of cooperation from these louts.”
“Louts? Aren’t you on the same side? Don’t you all go to the same church?”
“Subaltern O’Brien certainly doesn’t, and I doubt these men have seen the inside of a church since baptism. Be careful, Boyle.” Carrick spoke without looking at me, watching the flow of security men around us. I was surprised at his concern, until I thought about what he might need from me.
“You want me to snoop around for you, don’t you? Try to find out what’s so top secret about Jenkins.”
“That would aid you in your investigation, wouldn’t it?”
“It may confirm what I know already—that he’s a thief, a black marketeer, and a killer.”
“I’m already aware of that, and so is half of Ulster. What I want to know is why your Subaltern O’Brien deems him worthy of protection.” I let the
your
slide by. I knew what he meant, and it was so ingrained I wasn’t sure he was even aware of his implication.
“Fair question. If I find anything out, I may have some questions for you about your Constable Simms.”
“What sort of questions?”
“For now, can you tell me if he’s been assigned to any kind of undercover work?”
“No, he hasn’t. What are the other questions?”
“Uncomfortable ones but I’m not ready to ask them yet. Until I am, I’d recommend not sharing any sensitive information with Simms. Keep him in the dark.”
“I will let Constable Simms tend to his duties in Clough, which he does very well,” Carrick said, folding his arms behind him and tilting his head back, the familiar anger and arrogance returning.
“I’ll take that as agreement.”
“As you wish.”
“One more thing,” I said.
“What is it, man?”
I knew he was frustrated at being frozen out by the security toughs, and by the fact that I had the ear of Sláine O’Brien. He couldn’t take it out on them, and the act of being nice to me had drained him, so I made allowance for his irritated tone.
“They never took the guns into the Republic. They’re close by.”
“How do you know?”
Carrick sounded happier. I told him about the delivery of the empty truck the night of the theft to Warrenpoint. I didn’t see much reason to tell him about Red Jack embezzling IRA funds; that had the feel of a family matter.
“There’s a reason Red Jack is still around, and why they didn’t want us to think the BARs were still in Ulster. That’s what we’ve got to figure out.” As well as who the mystery Yank was, what role Adrian Simms had played in the whole thing, if there were any Germans hiding in the woodwork, and who the hell else might be involved.
“Is that all?”
“Actually, it isn’t. Do you know a banker named McBurney in Armagh? He’s part of your Royal Black Knight outfit.”
“Yes, what’s he got to do with all this?”
“There’s something strange going on at that bank. I think Red Jack may have stashed some money there for a rainy day.”
“Taggart? But he’s a wanted man and a Catholic! That bank is frequented by Protestants, good solid businessmen, not Republicans.”
“Exactly.” I let that thought settle, and as it did I saw that Carrick had put two and two together.
“Very well. I shall have a talk with Mr. McBurney. And I’ll not tell Constable Simms about it. But I want to hear from you very soon if you have any evidence of his wrongdoing.”
“The wrongdoing outweighs the evidence at the moment. But I’ll do my best.”
“I shall be at RUC headquarters if you find out anything. It’s on Waring Street in Belfast center, near the Albert Memorial Clock Tower. Just ask, everyone knows where that is.” With that, Carrick motioned to his men, and they went to their vehicles, leaving the investigation to the security force and me on my own.
I asked the corporal to take me to Subaltern O’Brien. He led me into the hotel past one guard and down a hallway with men posted at either end. He knocked on a door, two short raps that sounded like a signal. He entered, I followed.
Sláine O’Brien sat at a desk, facing the door. In one hand she held a telephone, in the other a revolver. Only after the corporal shut the door after himself did she set down the gun.
“Yes, he’s here now. I’ll tell him . . . yes. I understand . . . I’ll ring you later.” She hung up the phone and rested her head in her hands, the big black telephone and the handgun at each elbow. “It was supposed to be me.”
“What was?”
“In that room. It was supposed to be me. Cyrus said he had a bad feeling about being here without an escort, and we should switch rooms. He was going to sit up all night, he said, with his Thompson, and wait for them.”
“Why? I mean, why not go somewhere else or get new rooms?”
“Because it’s what we do, Lieutenant Boyle. We hunt extremists. Cyrus thought they’d come during the night, and that he could take them. He was usually right about these things.” She pushed back in her chair, taking a deep breath. She looked exhausted. She motioned to a chair.
“There’s tea,” she said, nodding to a tray. “Still hot enough, I think.”
“No thanks,” I said. “What did you mean about being here without an escort? How did that make Cyrus nervous?”
“The IRA has a price on my head. It was five hundred pounds, last I heard. To them I’m a traitor, and somehow they find the notion of a woman hunting them especially despicable.”
“Then why didn’t you have an escort?”
“Sometimes my job requires discretion. Sergeant Lynch was my bodyguard, and he was very good at it. I had to visit a few contacts, and a motorcycle escort would have attracted too much attention.”
“Looks like you got someone’s attention,” I said.
“Evidently. Did Corporal Finch ask if you’d told anyone about meeting me here?”
“Yes he did. I was glad to be able to tell him I hadn’t. He looks like a tough customer.”
“Otherwise you don’t survive long in this business.”
“Sláine, why
are
you in this business?”
“Do you have a problem with women in the service, Billy?”
“No,” I said, thinking how complicated that question was for me. “It’s not unfamiliar ground. I know it can be tough. But I’m not talking about doing your bit for the war effort. I mean, why are you in the business of hunting extremists? Or Republicans, depending on your viewpoint.”
“Or Unionists. They have their own brand of extremists, as you know.”
“OK, I get your point. But why you?” She poured herself tea and stirred in a cube of sugar. I thought I could use some caffeine too, and joined her.
“You know that there used to be one police force for all of Ireland, before the partition,” she said. “The Royal Irish Constabulary.”
“Sure. Up here it became the Royal Ulster Constabulary, and in the Republic, the Garda.”
“Right. My father was an RIC constable in Dublin. He never rose far in the ranks, he just did his duty and kept the peace of the city, much like your father does in Boston. Anyway, one spring day, he drew Sunday duty at Dublin Castle. You know what that is?”
“Yeah, it’s where the British had their headquarters. Police, intelligence, government.”
“Yes. I was just a wee girl at the time but I swear I remember him leaving the house that morning, his buttons shined and his big shoes gleaming. But no sidearm. The RIC constables did not go armed, just like the bobbies in England. I remember that morning because I was so excited about my new Easter dress.”
“Was this 1916?”
“Aye, Billy. It was the Easter Rising, which so many of our kind celebrate in song. But to me, every Easter is bitter. You see, there was hardly anyone at the castle, so they only had one constable on duty. Other than a few clerks, the place was empty, except for my da, standing guard in the courtyard. The Irish Volunteers sent a flying column in. Through the gate they came, men running with rifles at the ready, charging right at Constable O’Brien.”
“What happened?” I could see the picture in my mind, since I’d seen so many illustrations of that day. Dublin Castle was small, a stone turret and attached building, right in the middle of the city.
“He did his duty. He stood his ground. He held up his hand, palm toward the gunmen, and ordered them to stop. Can you believe that? Can you imagine yourself unarmed in Boston, a gang of armed men charging you?”
“No, I can’t. What happened?”
“They shot him dead. I learned later that one bullet pierced his hand.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been terrible.”
“Oh, that’s not even the really terrible part. Do you know your history? Do you know what happened then?”
“At the castle? No.”
“I’ll tell you then. Nothing. Those brave Volunteers who had just gunned down an unarmed man stood in the courtyard, looking at the great stone fortress, and saw no one else. It was theirs for the taking. Having come that far, all they needed to do was take a few more steps and they could have held it. But they didn’t. They turned and ran, leaving my poor da dead on the cobblestones, for nothing. They killed him for nothing, and they lost the great prize. That’s why I’m in this business, Billy. If they had taken the castle and won the day, I would have been a little girl who’d lost her father in that great battle, and that’s all. But I grew up despising the rabble who killed without thought, and then ran from victory. I hate them for what I lost, and for what they lost. I can’t bear the thought of them.”
She drank her tea, made a face, and set the cup down. “It’s cold,” she said. I couldn’t argue.
“Who was that on the phone when I came in?” I wanted to get back to the here and now, and leave the dead of 1916 in peace. It seemed to me that those who’d died in that fight had at least been spared the agony of witnessing civil war, assassinations, bombings, and the divided loyalties that the struggle had brought about.
“Major Cosgrove. He’s anxious to hear about your progress. Have you learned anything since yesterday?”
“I’m certain the BARs were not driven south into the Republic. That was a ruse. Jenkins’s truck was delivered empty to Warrenpoint a few hours after the theft. So the weapons are still close by, somewhere between Ballykinler and Warrenpoint.”