'How much do you know about what you were finishing him for?' asked Alex, sipping the whiskey, feeling the dark burn of its descent.
'Officially, nothing. Except that it was clear he was going over the water. And going in very deep, given the attention he was given. And I also knew that he was very good. Almost certainly the best man I ever trained.'
'No one told you anything?'
'No, we were left to draw our own conclusions. I'll tell you something, though.
They made a big thing about the secrecy of the operation. It was an RTUable offence even to mention it.'
'Well, notes are being compared now.'
Connolly waited, his glass steady in his hand, immobile.
Alex leant forward.
'You were right about Ireland, obviously. He went in deep, joined the Provies, worked his way up.
'Brave lad.'
'He was,' agreed Alex.
'Until the whole thing went arse-up. They turned him, Den.'
'Not possible,' said Connolly flatly.
'They never turned that lad, I'd bet the bar on it. He was the best I ever saw. The most committed. He'd never have fallen for all that tin pot Armed Struggle bollocks.'
'They turned him, Den,' Alex repeated.
'He joined Belfast Brigade's Nutting Squad. Made bombs for them. Personally tortured and murdered those FRU blokes - Bledsoe and Wheen.'
'Not possible, mate,' said Connolly again matter-of-factly, tapping the filter of a cigarette on the table and lighting it.
'I just don't believe you.
'It's true and it's verified. The province's worst nightmare, and the Regiment and Box put him there.'
Connolly shook his head in disbelief. Closed his eyes, briefly.
'So now you're after him, yeah?'
'Look, I don't know what happened over the water, Den, but the man's certainly killing people now. Three in the last couple of months.'
'And so you've been pulled in to kill him.' Connolly took a drag of his cigarette, sipped reflectively at his whiskey and stared out over the sea.
'I need to find him. Put any spin on that you like.'
Connolly shook his head.
'You can fuckin' whistle, chum.'
'Den, mate, you've got a nice set-up here, and you've been good to me and Dawn. But do you really want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, worrying that someone's going to grass you up? Worrying that every new customer might have an extradition order and a warrant in his pocket? Armed robbery, Den. Think about it. It pulls down a heavy score.
From the other man's expression Alex could see that he had thought about it, often.
'Are you threatening me?'
'No. What I'm saying is that I can make that worry disappear. For ever. But I'm going to have to have something very solid to offer in return. If you've nothing to give me I'll disappear, and everything will carry on as it was before.'
He emptied his glass and poured himself another.
'I'm not threatening you, Den, I'm just making you an offer. Take it or leave it.~ For several minutes they both stared out at the sea. From below them, in the bar, came the muted sound of singing and laughter.
'There was a thing Joe told me once, about his childhood,' Connolly began abruptly.
'He spent his teens, it must have been, with his dad in the West Country Dorchester, was it, somewhere like that and every summer they'd go caravanning. Lake District, New Forest, Norfolk Broads, all over. Just the two of them. Now on one of those trips, he told me can't remember which his dad parked up the caravan and they set off for a hike across country.
'Usual enough story they went a bit too far, weren't quite sure of their bearings, weather turned nasty on them, so rather than foot slog it back they decided to try and find a bed and breakfast. No B&B for miles, as it turned out, but what they did find was the entrance to a big old house. Deserted, with boarded-up windows and that kind of thing. The place had obviously been secured at some point, but the padlocks and the notices on the gate had been vandalised and it was pouring with rain and in they went. It was getting dark by then, and the plan was to shelter for the night and make tracks back to the caravan park in the morning.
'So anyway they got inside, found a dry corner and got their heads down. The old man's a bit worried by this point, being a law-abiding sort of bloke, but the boy's in heaven: he and his dad are having the adventure of a lifetime! Morning comes and they find that there's not just the house there's a ruined church and a river and some falling-down cottages and a couple of shops a whole village. All completely deserted. Obviously been locked away for years.'
'Like Imber, on Salisbury Plain? Or what's that Royal Armoured Corps place in Dorset Tyneham?'
'Exactly. Just like that. So they have a bit of an explore. The dad's still a bit jumpy but as I say, the boy's having the time of his life. He climbs into the church through a window, jimmies a door open and finds his way down to the crypt. Now I can't remember the exact details but somewhere down there, locked away in boxes or cupboards or something, is all this antique gear.'
'Gear?'
'Covert resistance stuff. Transceivers, morse sets, one-time pads, time-pencil detonators that sort of thing, all packed away in grease proof paper. So he takes some bits and pieces up to his dad, who can't believe his eyes, because although the gear's all World War Two vintage it's still in mint condition.'
'A cache in case of enemy invasion,' suggested Alex.
'That's what they eventually figure. And they find other stuff, too, hidden away beneath the other houses. Electrical bits and pieces, radio components, ironmongery, what have you. A real Aladdin's cave for a young lad.'
'So how come no one had found this stuff before them?'
'I dunno. I'm guessing that it was because the only other people who'd been near the place for decades had been dossers and tramps. A few bikers, perhaps, and maybe the local satanist coven but..
Alex nodded.
'Go on.'
'Well, the boy's all for helping himself to the gear but the old man puts his foot down. They haven't committed any offence yet, he says it's not trespassing to walk through an open gate, after all and he doesn't object to their having a look at all this stuff, but they're not taking it away. So they poke around, Dad explains how it all works, and then they pack it away again, reseal the boxes and off they go, make their way back to wherever they left the caravan.
'Anyway, to cut a long story short, Joe persuades the old boy to shift the caravan to a farm a couple of miles away and they go up to the old house every day creeping around like a couple of commandos, Joe said, and having a good old sticky beak at all this secret resistance gear. Happiest time he ever knew, Joe says. Best days ever. And when it's time to go home, he tells me, he does a funny thing. He goes and buys his own padlock and chain, and locks the place up properly. Puts up all the old notices again MOD Property, Strictly no Entrance to the Public and so on.
'Why does he do that?'
'Not sure. My guess is that it was something to do with deep-freezing the experience. Sealing it away. And also to do with the fact that his dad could have made a lot of money out of flogging the gear without anyone being any the wiser but chose not to out of principle. There were a few of the old Mark III transceivers down there, apparently the SOE suitcase jobs. They'd have to be worth a few grand apiece now. I suppose Joe didn't want anyone else having them away.
'You know what I'm going to ask you next, don't you?' said Alex.
'Yeah and I'm afraid I honestly don't know the answer. I really don't. All I can remember is that the place
