shit out of a nightclub door-man is another way.”
Campbell looked the major in the eye. “The charges were withdrawn, sir.”
“Yes - very conveniently for you, several witnesses changed their stories. You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you, Corporal?”
“No, sir.”
Major Ross looked back to the file. “Your record since joining the Black Watch has been good, but not exceptional. With your brains you should have been corporal a year ago. You’re a quick thinker, you’re tough, but you lack discipline. I’m told you’re good in a scrap. In fact, I’m told you’ve got a serious mean streak. You came close to a court martial last year after assaulting a protester at a Loyalist parade. Care to comment?”
“It was self-defence, sir. The charges were dropped.”
“Conveniently for you, yet again.” Major Ross smiled and placed the file back on the desk. “You’ve no family that you’re in contact with, and no friends outside this barracks, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” Campbell watched the two officers share a glance. “Can I ask what this is about, sir?”
Colonel Hanson went to shout some admonishment, but Major Ross raised a hand to silence him. “I want you to come and work for me,” he said.
So in the following months Campbell began to spend days at a time in England, at RAF Cosford and the Commando Training Center in Lympstone, being brutalised for the good of the country. When he flew back to Belfast he frequented some of the bars he and his colleagues had been warned to avoid. He wore a Glasgow Celtic shirt to pubs where matches were being screened, cheering loudest when they scored against Glasgow Rangers. An insider in Fourteen Int’s pay introduced him to some men, vouching for him. He answered questions about his Black Watch regiment, about the patrols he walked in. When they got more specific, when they asked about times and dates, he played coy. When he was discharged from the Black Watch a few months later for a contrived disciplinary breach, he grew less shy with the details. He worked his way into the enemy’s ranks, a little deeper every day, while once a week he met a handler in a car park or a country lane and reported on what he’d learned. Occasionally he would check a savings account, opened under another name, to see he had been well paid.
The first time he had to kill to protect his cover was difficult. They’d warned him it would happen eventually, but even so, the image of executing his old sergeant still woke him in the night, even fifteen years later. It was the wild hope in Sergeant Hendry’s eyes that burned in Campbell’s memory. Not the begging, not the weeping, but the moment Hendry recognised him, believing he was saved. Hendry’s hope died an instant before he did, when he watched Campbell’s finger tighten on the trigger.
Campbell shivered, suddenly cold despite the sun breaking through the bedroom window. The church bell signalled two o’clock. It was time to go. Time he went to McKenna’s bar to meet his contact.
15
McGinty’s imported Lincoln Town Car floated along the lower Falls Road like a magic carpet. The boys had swapped rumors about how much it cost to bring over from America. They said the leadership considered it distasteful, a vulgar display unbefitting the current climate. A glass screen separated Fegan and McGinty from Declan Quigley, the politician’s driver.
“You never got a driving licence, did you, Gerry?” McGinty asked.
“No,” Fegan said.
“Me neither. I can’t afford to take a chance on driving without one these days, so . . .” McGinty waved a manicured hand at the car’s black leather interior. “As needs must,” he said.
Fegan felt as if he was in a steel cocoon. The tinted windows appeared black from outside, and he imagined the car could withstand any attack from bullet or bomb.
“You wanted to see me,” he said.
“We’ll get to that,” McGinty said. Fegan could see his rictus smile from the corner of his eye. “I was hoping we could catch up a wee bit first.”
“All right,” Fegan said.
McGinty patted Fegan’s knee. “So, what’s the story? What’s been going on?”
“Nothing much.”
“How’s the Community Development job going?”
“I cash the checks.”
“You’re entitled to it, Gerry. You gave us twelve years. We won’t forget it. That job will keep paying as long as you want it, no questions asked.”
Fegan spared McGinty a sideways glance. “Thanks,” he said.
“Shame about Michael, eh?” McGinty said.
“Yeah,” Fegan said.
“And Vincie Caffola now, too.”
Fegan kept his eyes on the glass divider and the road beyond. They passed the right turn into Fallswater Parade, moving further away from McKenna’s mother’s house. The gable walls were painted over with murals, propaganda messages written as art. “You really think the peelers did it?” Fegan asked.
“Maybe,” McGinty said. “That’s my public position, anyway.”
“You said you had witnesses.”
“Of course I do, Gerry.” McGinty gave a short laugh. “Of course I do.”
He placed his hand on Fegan’s knee and kept it there. “The thing is . . . look at me, Gerry.”
