Dermott Lynch drove the Ford Granada slowly down the rutted track, the steering wheel threatening to tear itself from his gloved hands. It was only after he’d picked up the car that he realised it was an automatic and he was having trouble remembering not to use his left foot. It wasn’t as if he had a choice — the vehicle had been appropriated for him by two teenagers acting under IRA orders, and left in a car park close to Belfast railway station with its ignition key in the exhaust pipe. The Granada belonged to an old couple who lived in the outskirts of Belfast and they wouldn’t report it stolen until the following day, not if they knew what was good for them.
Davie Quinn sat in the front passenger seat, sniffing as if he had the beginnings of a cold. His brother Paulie was in the back. From occasional glances in the driving mirror, Lynch could see that the younger Quinn brother was nervous. His cheeks were flushed and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. ‘You okay, Paulie?’ Lynch asked.
Paulie jerked as if he’d been stung. ‘What? Oh yeah. I’m fine.’
‘Good lad,’ said Lynch, smiling to himself. Thomas McCormack had insisted that the Quinn boys be taken on the job. They’d both conducted themselves well in Howth, but no shots had been fired and no one had been hurt. It was important to discover how the boys would react under pressure. He looked across at Davie. Davie was by far the more confident of the two brothers and had all the makings of an ideal volunteer. He had a sharp intelligence but he kept quiet when necessary. Lynch was all too well aware of how many operations had been blown by a youngster who was the worse for drink showing off to his mates or a girlfriend. The ceasefire meant that it was more important than ever before for the organisation’s volunteers to conduct themselves well. The IRA wasn’t being dismantled, it was simply going even further underground, waiting for the call to return to violence if the political process failed to come up with the goods. Discipline had to be maintained, volunteers had to be trained, and active service units continued to gather data on prospective targets in Ireland and on the mainland.
If Davie handled himself well, Lynch would recommend that he be put forward for specialised training, with a view to sending him to the mainland as part of a deep cover active service unit. There was no doubt that he was committed to the Cause. His father had been gunned down in a Falls Road pub by three UFF men in ski masks, for no other reason than he’d been a Catholic. There had been no military honours at Paddy Quinn’s funeral, no pistol shots or tricolour draped over the coffin, because he had refused to have anything to do with the IRA. But his sons, they were a different matter. They’d joined the organisation a week after their father’s funeral, despite their mother’s protests.
The track curved to the left and O’Riordan’s farm came into view, a ramshackle collection of weathered stone buildings, a grey metal barn and a gleaming white silo. Lynch parked in front of the silo and told the Quinn brothers to stay in the car.
O’Riordan had the door of the farmhouse open before Lynch reached it, his arm outstretched. They shook hands and Lynch could feel the hard callouses on O’Riordan’s palms. It was a small farm and even with European Community subsidies it didn’t generate enough income for O’Riordan to employ more than two labourers, so he had to do much of the heavy work himself.
The acrid smell of pig manure wafted over from one of the outbuildings and Lynch pulled a face. He preferred his pork sliced into rashers and sizzling in a frying pan. O’Riordan laughed at his discomfort and slapped him on the back. ‘You never could stand the countryside, could you?’
Lynch cleared his throat and spat on the grass. ‘I suppose you need something to keep the cities apart,’ he growled. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yeah. The stuff’s in the stable.’ O’Riordan stuck his hands into his brown corduroy trousers and walked with Lynch to a single storey stable building. He pushed open a door to an empty stall and held it open while Lynch walked inside.
‘Jesus, Pat. How can you live with this stink?’ asked Lynch, holding his nose.
O’Riordan stepped in the stall and closed the door. He breathed in and grinned. ‘Nothing wrong with a little horseshit,’ he said. ‘It brings the roses up a treat.’ He picked up a shovel that was leaning against a whitewashed wall and used it to clear away the straw from a corner. He pushed the edge of the shovel into the gap between two of the flagstones and levered one up. Underneath were three stainless steel milk churns. ‘Give me a hand, will you?’ said O’Riordan as he placed the shovel on the floor. Together they pulled out the churns. O’Riordan unscrewed the caps and one by one emptied out more than a dozen polythene-wrapped parcels. ‘Choose your weapons,’ he said.
Lynch peered at the parcels. ‘What have you got?’ he asked.
‘A sawn-off, an East German Kalashnikov, a Czech Model 58V assault rifle, a couple of Uzis, a. .’
‘We’re not going to war, you know,’ interrupted Lynch.
O’Riordan ignored him and continued to rattle off his list. ‘. . half a dozen Czech M1970s, they’re just like the Walther PPK, a Romanian TT33, a Chinese Tokarev, a couple of Brownings, a 9mm Beretta. .’ He prodded the parcels with his foot. ‘Oh yeah, an old Colt.45, but it hasn’t been fired for ten years or so and it’ll probably take your hand off.’ He stood up and put his hands on his hips. ‘What do you feel like?’
Lynch pursed his lips and scratched his beard. ‘Italian,’ he said eventually. ‘I feel like Italian.’
O’Riordan bent down and picked up one of the packages. Lynch unwrapped the polythene. Inside was the Beretta wrapped in an oiled cloth with two clips of ammunition. He checked the action and nodded his approval. ‘Have you used it?’ Lynch asked.
‘Yeah, but it’s clean. What about the boys?’
‘Brownings. But make sure the safeties are on.’
O’Riordan grinned. ‘And I’ll have the shotgun. Just in case.’
‘Just in case?’
‘Aye. Just in case we have to get heavy.’
‘We won’t,’ said Lynch.
