'Billy, this building is the headquarters of the Royal Black Knights of the British Commonwealth. That's a very exclusive Protestant society.'
'Never heard of them.'
'Exactly. They're more orange than the Orange Society. And twice as secretive.'
'You're kidding, right?'
'Nope. I've seen their rooms in the south wing. The Ulster government took over the building for the duration, but let the Black Knights keep a section. They meet here every month. They even say there's a secret tunnel somewhere that the original Lord Brownlow had dug so he could sneak out at night without his wife knowing.'
'I'm still trying to get the Black Knight thing straight, so never mind about the secret tunnel tall tales, OK?'
'It's true, one of the chaplains told me. It's more of a religious thing; they're not into politics as much as the Orange Society. More like the Masons back home maybe. Pretty hard to get admitted, the padre said.'
'Why?'
'I forget. Basically you have to be Protestant every which way and never have had any family connected with the Roman Catholic Church.'
'Was it a priest who told you this?'
'No, a Methodist minister. Said he was studying up on the local religious customs.'
'He'll need a scorecard for that.'
I LEFT BOB Masters to his stew, glad to escape the gloom of Brownlow House and visions of Black Knight rituals held within its rooms. I walked down a staircase to the third floor and along a corridor lit by tall windows along the outside wall, which I was fairly sure led to the way out. I looked into the courtyard below to make sure I was on the right side of the building. Below me, leaning against a wall that angled off to the left, was a guy in a trench coat, wearing a gray fedora. He flicked a cigarette and jammed his hands into his pockets. He was too close beneath me to get a look at his face, but he moved like an American. Too casual for a Brit. Was this the mystery Yank?
I looked for another exit, one that would put me behind him. But by the time I found a door, I wasn't sure which side of this crazy building I was on. There were so many angles and twists that I'd gotten myself turned around. I ran along the wall, peeking around each corner I came to, until I found the spot where he'd been. Nothing. He was gone, not a fedora in sight. I heard a motorcycle start up from around the corner and ran to look as the rider gunned it and drove off down the driveway. He was bareheaded but his collar was turned up and buttoned tight, so I couldn't catch a glimpse of his face. A jeep and a slow-moving truck followed him. I knew there was no hope of following that motorcycle into city traffic.
The sky was turning gray and I put my jeep's canvas top back up, for protection against a sudden November rain. I'm getting jumpy, I thought. There have to be a few thousand guys in hats and trench coats in Northern Ireland right now, and I didn't have time to sneak up on every one. I drove south in the direction of Armagh, checking my rearview mirror for a tail, but not seeing one. I stayed on the Armagh road, figuring it was time to have a little chat with Andrew Jenkins. One advantage I had was that I doubted he knew about the picture of him with Subaltern O'Brien. I wondered what his Red Hand pals would think of his date with a British intelligence officer? The Ulster Unionists were probably ninety percent in accord with the British government but they hated and feared the notion of becoming part of the Irish Republic. So ten percent of the time they were thinking about Churchill being ready to sell them out to get Ireland into the war. That kind of thinking could lead to paranoia, and even the hint that Jenkins was working with MI-5 could get him killed. Of course, that worked both ways. Hinting at it could get me killed. I had to think of a way to approach this subtly, which I knew was not my strong point.
I navigated through the city, passing the tall twin spires of a Catholic cathedral and then the short, squat tower over the Protestant cathedral. As different as night and day, they stood in defiance of each other, even the architectural styles seeming to scream at each other, Blasphemer, nonbeliever!
I had to stop and ask directions for Jenkins's business a few times. It was on the outskirts, where green fields mingled with creeping industry, and train tracks crossed muddy lanes. The sign at the closed gate read JENKINS FOODS LTD. I took that to mean Andrew Jenkins was a plainspoken, literal kind of fellow.
'What about ye?' asked a skinny kid, from the other side of the gate. His stringy black hair hung over his ears, and his hands were as dirty as his boots.
'What about me?'
'What's up, is what I mean. Whaddya want here?'
'I'd like to see Mr. Jenkins,' I said, leaning out of the jeep.
'And about what do ya want to see him?'
'Who are you, his secretary? Open up, kid, I'm on official U.S. Army business.'
'Hold your hour now; I'll go see if he's about.' The kid ran off toward two warehouses, long buildings with sheet-metal roofs and loading docks facing each other, with a cobblestone drive between them. At the end of one was a door with a sign hanging over it that looked like an office. The kid went in and I waited, trying to figure out what 'hold your hour' meant. Fortunately, I didn't have to wait an hour. He came trotting out and stood at the gate, catching his breath.
'What's yer name?'
'Boyle,' I said, wondering if you needed a Protestant name to get through the gate.
'OK, come on in,' he said as he unlocked the gate. 'He's been wonderin' what kept ya.'
He held open the gate as I drove through, pointing toward the office. I parked the jeep and wondered who'd told Jenkins about me. Slaine O'Brien? Hugh Carrick? Thornton? The unknown Yank? The possibilities of betrayal were endless.
'So you're Boyle, are you?' A voice boomed out from the doorway as a sturdy middle-aged man, barrel- chested and bowlegged, emerged from the office, holding a clipboard. The wind picked up and a gust flapped the sheets against his hand. He had short brown hair with gray strands showing, and he needed a shave. If he was a Black Knight of the British Commonwealth, he didn't look the part. 'Come with me, there's work I need to do. It's going to rain; is that all you've got?'
He pointed to my tanker's jacket as if I'd dressed for a blizzard in a pinafore. He was wearing an oilskin coat and shook his head. I grabbed my trench coat from the back of the jeep and pulled it on, watching Jenkins run his fingers across the sheets of paper on his clipboard. His lips moved as he studied each line. He might not be well educated but he was smart enough to gauge the weather. And to present himself as a harried businessman, kindly enough to wait while his American visitor buttoned up, instead of an ultra-Unionist killer.
'Did someone tell you I was coming, Mr. Jenkins?' I asked, hurrying to keep pace with him. He held up one finger, perhaps to tell me to hold my hour, as we turned a corner to the space between the warehouses.
'Campbell,' he roared. 'You got them potatoes sacked?'
'Nearly done, we are.'
Inside were storage bins of potatoes, mounds of them, with two workers loading them into burlap sacks. It was the same up and down in each warehouse. Piles and mounds of cabbages, beets, cauliflower, and other vegetables still in season. Refrigerator units were stocked with hanging hams, sides of beef, and large cans of milk. In each, workers were readying orders for delivery.
'I've got to stay on top of these boys. I've got more produce coming in every day, and it's got to be sorted out, weighed, and parceled out for your army. You've brought a lot of hungry lads with you, haven't you?' He laughed before I could answer. 'All right, let's get out of the way before the trucks arrive. I can feel the rain, can you?'
As if on cue, the gray clouds let loose, and Jenkins trundled his squat body forward, tucking his clipboard inside his oilskin. He pushed open the office door and stood aside, shaking the water off as if he were a big, friendly dog.
'Take off your coat, Mr. Boyle, come into my office, and rest yourself. Frances, wet the tea, will you?'
Frances took my coat without a word but gave me a hard stare up and down as if she were judging the value of this Yank she had to make tea for. She hung it on a peg near the door then went around her desk and plugged in an electric kettle. I followed Jenkins down a narrow hallway and into his office, the warmth hitting me as I entered. A small coal stove stood against the wall, and he opened it, shoveled in a bit from a bucket, and rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.
