'Ma'am? Should we go back inside?' Finch wanted to know.
'No. It's too late for that. Let's get to Stormont. Lieutenant Boyle has a lot of reading to do. I shall miss this automobile. Get me a new car, Sergeant Finch. You're promoted.'
Finch accelerated and she leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes as she let out a long sigh. New car, new sergeant, and off we go. I wondered what she was thinking, dealing with the fact that she had narrowly missed an assassination attempt and had lost her trusted noncom in the bargain? Was she plotting her next move in the secret war against Irish extremists, holding her hand up, forcing them to stop, never knowing when the bullet would pierce her palm, wedding her to her family's stubborn history? And I wondered about that car. It did stand out but someone would have had to see it and know she and Lynch were staying in the area. Then check the hotels, waiting for the vehicle to turn up. Get the room number and plant the bomb.
'Did you leave your rooms after you checked in?' I said.
'We got in about six o'clock. We met in the dining room at seven. We were there about two hours. We had work to do, so we stayed after the meal. That's when Cyrus said he wanted to switch rooms.'
'And that's when the bomb was planted. It gave them enough time to get your room number, wait for you to leave, and set the timer.'
'That implies a number of people involved. They'd have to watch several hotels.'
'Do you always stay at the same hotel in Newcastle?'
'No, we've used several. This one more than others, since there's a garage for the car. The IRA must have noticed a pattern.'
'Why limit it to the IRA? What about the Red Hand? Aren't they on your list of extremists?'
'They are, but the only group on that list allied with the Nazis is the IRA. This may be linked to the two German teams.'
Was this the opening salvo in an IRA uprising in Ulster, aided by fifty American BARs and German commandos? What would the IRA in the Republic do? Cross the border probably. Launch hit-and-run attacks, tying down the American and British forces here. Lots of people would die, and there would be cries for more blood. Vengeance. Reprisals. Would we strike back across the border, to hit at the IRA? Would the Republic attack Ulster, coming to the aid of the IRA with the hope of uniting Ireland? My mind swirled with the possibilities, all of them awful. Ireland stumbling into an alliance with Nazi Germany, guerrilla war across the border, ambushes of American troops training for the invasion, and the grim work of men like Finch, Jenkins, and Taggart going on and on.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
My boot heels fell softly on the marble floor as we crossed the foyer of Stormont Castle. Slaine's dress shoes clacked loudly ahead of me, echoing off the stone walls as we approached another set of sentries. This was the seat of Ulster rule, the fortress of loyalty to the British crown. On the outskirts of Belfast, it felt like a castle, set in a large park, green lawns all around it giving a clear view from any direction. The intelligence services had their headquarters here and their secret cells too, places into which suspected IRA men and their sympathizers disappeared. The very name had sounded evil to me as I was growing up, hearing it cursed as if it were a living thing, a beast. And now I walked through it, British soldiers opening doors for me, as I followed a strange and beautiful Irish woman deeper and deeper into its cold stone interior.
We took a circular iron staircase to a narrow corridor. Steel beams were visible above our heads. Metal doors ran along one side. Slaine knocked at the first. A small peephole appeared at a Judas window and a set of eyes looked us over. Locks tumbled open and we were admitted by a Royal Marine sergeant with a Sten gun hanging from a strap over his shoulder.
'Ah, there you are,' said Major Charles Cosgrove. 'So glad to see you in one piece, my dear.' Cosgrove sat behind a huge, ornately carved wooden desk that seemed out of place in a basement office. The whole room was a surprise, with thick carpets, several easy chairs, and a fireplace. But no windows. A row of telephones sat on a shelf behind Cosgrove, three black, one green, and one red. Above them was a map of Northern Ireland and the border counties of the Republic. 'Sit, please. Good to see you too, Boyle. Getting on all right, are you?'
'Fine, except for all the dead bodies.'
'Yes, terrible. What a waste. Sergeant Lynch was a good man.'
'I wouldn't know about him. I mean Sam Burnham and Pete Brennan.'
'Ah, yes,' Cosgrove said, flipping through an open file on his desk, licking his finger as he turned each sheet. 'Lieutenant Burnham was killed in an IRA ambush, am I correct? And this enlisted man, Brennan, wasn't he mixed up in the black market? Has the look of a falling-out among thieves, doesn't it?'
'Who suggested that?' I said.
'It suggests itself. Now, if these killings have anything to do with the task you were sent here to complete, please do tell all. If not, leave the matter to the authorities.'
I was about to argue with Cosgrove that Jenkins was involved and the authorities weren't allowed to touch him but managed to stop myself. My main reason for being here was to find out more about Jenkins and why he was off-limits. Cracking wise with Cosgrove might be fun but it wouldn't get me what I wanted.
'Yes, sir,' I said, with the right combination of resentment and obedience.
'Good. Now give me a summary of what you've learned. Then I shall brief you both on the hunt for these Germans.'
I went through my reasons for believing the weapons were still in the Clough-Ballykinler area. I told Cosgrove an informant had given me the dope on Eddie Mahoney being sent by the IRA chief of staff to keep an eye on Red Jack, who was suspected of stealing IRA funds. With the unknown Yank still out there, I wanted to play that one close to the vest, so I kept mum about the letter and notes I'd found in Mahoney's room.
'What is your opinion of all this, Subaltern O'Brien?' Cosgrove asked as he lit up his pipe. The smoke floated above him, then disappeared as a vent soundlessly sucked it out of the room.
'There is no hard evidence other than the empty truck in Warrenpoint but it is a very good theory. It explains everything, and there is no other rational explanation for why Mahoney was killed.'
'The IRA could simply have mistakenly believed he was an informant,' Cosgrove said.
'True,' she said. 'And it's happened before. But would they let an informant in on such an important operation? He might've slipped away. It doesn't add up.'
'Very well. But where does that get us? It leaves us with a very large area to search for the arms cache. Boyle, what else have you found out?'
'I was sidetracked at first by the black market activity and the fact that one of Jenkins's trucks was used in the robbery. I thought there might be a link but all I found there was a crooked U.S. Army major. The military police have him. Pete Brennan was involved in a lesser way. He asked for a transfer to Italy and was about to ship out when he was killed. His body was found in the car Red Jack Taggart had used for his getaway vehicle after shooting up the RUC station and killing Sam Burnham.'
'That is odd. Any idea why the vehicle was used?'
'No. That's one reason I wanted to get a look at the files you have here on Jenkins and Taggart. Maybe there's something we're missing. Jenkins had a motive for killing Brennan but not much of one. Only a few hundred bucks. It would have been easier to let him get on the boat to Italy.'
'Indeed. Italy is proving to be a tough old boot and might have been the end of Sergeant Brennan in any case.'
'And I think that Sam was the target at the RUC station, not me. Taggart shot him first then sprayed the windows with fire to keep everyone down. But why shoot a U.S. Army officer? There's no percentage.'
'Be glad you can't understand the motivations of killers like Taggart, Boyle. He obviously enjoys killing for its own sake. Anything else?'
'There's something fishy going on at a Protestant bank in Armagh. Brennan was kidnapped near there, and a local constable named Simms was in on it. It's where Jenkins does his banking, and Sam Burnham was seen nearby before he was killed.'
'My God, Boyle. What a mishmash of conjectures. Who cares where Andrew Jenkins keeps his money? Perhaps this Simms fellow is in the black market business himself and had a score to settle. As I said, leave local
