they kept filled with ice where they stored food all year round. Be a hell of a hiding place now.'
We waited. I didn't hear a thing but after a couple of minutes a GI appeared in front of us and gave the all clear signal. Then he was gone, and Masters had us head up the treeless path one by one, spaced out so we could see the person ahead of us but not make easy targets. I began to wish I did have a rifle so I could use it for a crutch. I began to hate Red Jack Taggart all over again. This was worse than being shot at.
I cursed silently as sweat dripped into my eyes. I cursed Taggart, I cursed Slaine O'Brien for coming along and having legs like a jackrabbit. I cursed Major Cosgrove and Uncle Ike for sending me here. I cursed the highest mountain in Northern Ireland, and I cursed Andrew Jenkins for getting himself killed before I had time to eat my lunch. I got into a rhythm of cursing, damning the Irish for their feuds and the English for being here. I cursed Pete Brennan for his greed and Sam Burnham for standing in front of the window. I cursed a blue streak at Diana for wanting to be a spy and at Adrian Simms for not being satisfied with his life as a cop. I cursed his wife for wanting him to be something he wasn't, but found I was cussed out when I thought about her shooting him. That at least was logical, as terrible as it was. He should have known her better.
Who was left? Should I curse myself? Grady O'Brick came to mind, and what he'd said when Sergeant Lynch drove by. The curse of his own weapons upon him. And the next morning, he was dead. Maybe I should lay off the cursing. Sooner or later I'd come to yours truly, and to be honest, I had some coming. I'd been a bum with Diana, I knew that. It didn't change how I felt about her taking chances with a Gestapo interrogation but it hadn't been my best moment.
And I felt like a traitor to everything my dad and uncle had taught me about the struggle to free Ireland. I hadn't changed my mind about the British overlords but I saw things from a different angle, one that revealed the suffering that comes with unresolved hate. God help me, Slaine's plan to kill off the worst of each side had made sense to me, at least in the early stages. But I knew that when people in uniform started playing God, sooner than later they unleashed demons beyond their control.
So I cursed myself among all the other Irish. For believing in fairy tales that masked sectarian slaughter. For not thinking about where things led. And for failing my grandfather, Liam O'Baoighill, who wished to send an avenging warrior back to the old country, to strike hard at the British masters. Instead, here I was, gasping for air about a quarter mile up, scrambling over rocks by the light of a half-moon to put a stop to an IRA plot to do just that.
Damn my eyes.
Crack. Crack. Two sharp sounds, pistol shots maybe, echoed off the rock slopes on either side of us. Impossible to pinpoint the source. We all froze, waiting for the next shots, wondering if they'd be aimed our way. All my curses were forgotten, as an unspoken truth flashed through my mind: I'm glad it wasn't me.
Callahan was in front of me, and I could see him ease himself down, slowly, quietly, making a smaller target. His head swiveled, eyes and ears searching for the sound of boots or metal, maybe a wood stock laid down on granite to steady the aim. I did the same, except that the climb, altitude, and fear all combined to keep my breathing ragged, my nose running, and my heart pumping so hard I couldn't see anything beyond dark, gray rocks. Slaine appeared at my side, pointing up to the right. Her arm pulled at my shoulder, her lips next to my ear. I could feel her hot breath and excitement.
'Pistol shots, up by the wall.' And then she was gone, holding her Sten gun close to her chest, cradling it so it wouldn't scrape against a rock. I'd never seen a woman so at home with cold metal, even Diana. At this point, it was her only salvation. Even Major Cosgrove of MI-5 couldn't let her contract killings go unpunished, especially since a straight arrow like DI Carrick knew about them now. She had to bring back Taggart, if only to enable her to go out with her head held high. Taggart dead, that is. Alive, he knew too much. Personally, once a guy fires an automatic weapon at me, I take a dim view of his longevity. But I didn't want Taggart shot full of lead before we got everything he knew out of him and found the BARs. Then Uncle Dan or Slaine could do what they needed to do. I owed Red Jack Taggart no justice, no day in court, no sympathy for his politics. He had killed a friend, had tried to kill me, and now maybe he was killing someone a few hundred yards above us.
It was time. I gasped for air, and took off after Slaine. I caught up to her huddled with Masters. He pointed to two men and they went off the trail, hunched low, to hide among the rocks.
'Rear guard,' Masters whispered to me. 'They'll block the path in case he gets past us. That shot came from Slieve Commedagh, the peak to our right. If we get up to the Saddle-the ridge that connects the two mountains-we might be able to nab him as he comes down.'
I nodded. I didn't have enough air in my lungs to ask questions: What if he hears us coming? What if he does have a BAR with him? What if it was a shepherd shooting at a fox? None of the answers mattered. Shots had been fired, and we had good reason to believe Taggart was up there. If we were right, odds were he had pulled the trigger.
'Let's go,' I said, trying to sound as if I'd caught my breath. Masters rose and started off at a slow trot, taking rocks like stairs as the trail rose from the plateau, curving up to the Saddle, where the Mourne Wall ran between the peaks. It marked some sort of reservoir system, twenty or more miles of stone wall, over five feet high and nearly three feet thick. It wasn't the Great Wall of China but it was impressive. I'd never expected to see it, much less while hunting a killer in the dark.
It seemed easier taken at a run. I felt lighter jumping from rock to rock than carefully picking my way. My fatigue faded and everything around me grew clearer by the faint light of the partial moon. At my back I could hear the wind blowing up from the sea, rushing over the landscape. The stars were sparkling against the blue-black sky, the rid-geline a smooth black line beneath them. As we neared the top of the Saddle, I looked down, taking in the wide bowl we'd just come through, the place we thought the parachutists would aim for. Maybe they'd been blown off course or maybe they hadn't shown up yet. Maybe the plane had gone down or gone home, a malfunctioning engine saving everyone a lot of trouble. Maybe this, maybe that; it didn't feel right to me.
Masters signaled us to halt. He sent Callahan ahead at a crawl to peek over the top where the path led to an open area. Then he signaled us one by one to follow, motioning with his hand, palm flat to the ground, to keep low. I followed Slaine, head bent, watching for loose rocks, one hand gripping my automatic. We gathered in the lee of the wall, the wind surging against it, breaking over it, swirling loudly around us. We were at the lowest point of the Saddle. The Mourne Wall rose in either direction, up Slieve Donard to our left and Slieve Commedagh, where the shots had come from, on the right. Masters sent two men scrambling up the Slieve Donard side, left two behind to block the path, and signaled Callahan to take point, moving up, up, up, along the incredibly straight wall, heading directly for the peak. The terrain dipped and then rose again. Callahan held his hand up for us to halt as he raised his head, scanning the remaining distance to the top.
A shot boomed out, and Callahan's head snapped back, blood coating the wall as he fell against it, limp as a rag doll.
'Spread out,' Masters yelled as he ran to Callahan, saw he was beyond help, and raced to the right to peer over the edge. He gave one of his men some quick hand signals I couldn't make out, and in a second he was over the top of the wall, covering our other side. Another shot came, loud enough to be recognizable as coming from a high-velocity rifle. This one missed, but sent rock chips flying.
In silent understanding, Masters and his men stood at the same moment and unleashed a fusillade, then ducked, reloaded, and without a glance at each other, rose again, firing M1s and Thompsons in a second thunderous response. Again they went down and reloaded but this time when they rose they ran, without a word, to the top. I followed, figuring the idea was that Taggart would lie low, expecting a third volley.
I came to the crest,. 45 in hand, pointing it at every shadow I saw, gasping for air, each breath a deep, rasping struggle. I blinked sweat from my eyes. Masters and his men spread out, and I went straight, feeling as if I were at the center of a bull's-eye. A howling roar rolled up from beneath us, a churning wind from the sea blowing itself a half mile up, low and insistent, like a freight train with its horn blasting. When it hit, it almost bowled me over, knocking me down on one knee. A white form jumped up in front of me, towering over my head, snapping at my face and enveloping me. I fell back, recoiling from a demon, a ghost, a killer, a mountain wraith, I had no idea. The wind gusted again, loud and insistent, and the whiteness descended on me. Without thinking I fired three quick shots, not knowing what I was shooting at or if the bullets would take it down.
The wind dropped, and I felt the smooth silk of a parachute as it fell limp across my face. I'd shot a German parachute. Hands pulled at me, helping me up and bundling the parachute. Masters signaled silence, and the group formed a circle, facing out in every direction, squinting in the darkness for a sign of movement, listening for a footstep. Nothing but the sound of a dying wind over rocks. Our own breathing. The soft flap of silk in the breeze.
