“When the two prime ministers met last year they looked at the whole bag of tricks all over again and reckoned there was only one way out … to make Northern Ireland an independent state with its independence guaranteed by both Dublin and London.”
Symons yawned. “How would that help … the Irish would still want a united Ireland and the people in the north wouldn’t have it in a million years. I don’t see what difference it makes.”
“That’s why you’re not on Capitol Hill, buddy. The difference is that London would be out of it. The Irish hate the Brits and they enjoy hating them. It’s their national sport. The idea of negotiating with the Brits about anything is a signal for raking up all the old hatreds. And the Northern Ireland lot detest London almost as much. So it would change the sides of the triangle. It would be independent Irishmen negotiating with independent Irishmen. Given time they could work something out.”
“So why the wet-jobs on the IRA men?”
“Dublin and London feel that with those two out of the way they could get maybe two, three months without murders so that when the Independent Northern Ireland Bill comes up in the House of Commons and the Dail it could stand a sporting chance of being discussed. There could be one more job to do, on one of the so-called Loyalist leaders, but they’ll decide that when the first two targets have been hit.”
“So again, Ziggy, why don’t they just shoot those two?”
“So that London, and the Army, or even the Loyalists, can’t be accused. The two IRA men are diehard guerrillas; as much against Dublin as London. It would take months for the IRA to mount a real campaign with them out of the way.”
Petersen sat with his head back, turning it slightly to look at Grabowski.
“You know … the Irish are always supposed to be able to charm the birds off the trees … why for God’s sake do they murder and cripple people instead of trying the charm?”
Grabowski shrugged. “Maybe like you just said … they do it for God’s sake. For the Belfast Irish, God’s a Brit and the Pope’s the whore of Rome. For the southern Irish they don’t spend much time worrying about God. They’ve got priests and their fellow in the Vatican to worry about God for them.”
Symons stood up, stretching carefully. “When do they want to start?”
“Soon as you can make it.”
“Maybe you can get your pal Carter to make clear that we’re in charge of controlling the girl. It’s medical and scientific not bang-bang stuff.”
“I’ll talk to him on the phone tomorrow before we get started.”
Donald Hardie Maclaren folded his clothes carefully and neatly, arranging them on the two chairs as if for a kit inspection. For a few minutes he stood at the uncurtained window. There was no light from a house or a building as far as he could see. Just a faint glow on the horizon that could be from the sea or the moonlight on the far-away hills. Beyond those hills was the Scottish border and across the Forth was Methil, the small town where he was born. His father and mother would be fast asleep in their separate beds in their separate rooms.
His father’s family had owned the chemist’s shop at the turn of the century, several Maclarens had been town councillors, and at least two had been magistrates. His father was a magistrate. He could remember being taken to the court to see his father handing out justice and advice to the grey figures in the dock. His father was much respected by the townspeople. Hard on offenders of course, but that was what the law was all about, and what they deserved.
His mother was on a dozen committees and was liked even more than his father. She was known for her good works and energy.
Maclaren had hated them both for most of his life. Certainly all his life that he could remember. He could still feel anger at 6.15 any evening. The time when his father came home from the shop. The time when the day with his mother was cut short and he no longer mattered. Lying upstairs in his bed, hearing their low voices and sometimes his mother’s laugh, he had sweated with rage and frustration. Twice he had run away from home. The first time, when he was six and a half, the town had turned out to search for him. They had found him in the hut on the golf links. The second time was a year later, and he had gone down to the docks and the dock police had taken him home. He had heard his father tell the policeman that it was just an attention-getting expedition, and he had decided then and there to kill his father when he was big enough and old enough. He still thought about it sometimes.
The girls at the school had been scared of him. He was a bully. Most boys were scared of him too, and whenever he was involved in a fight it always went far beyond the usual schoolboy horse-play. He hurt people when he could. He in his turn was hated. Not only for his cruelty but also because he was always the cleverest boy in his class. He had won a scholarship to George Heriot’s School in Edinburgh, and had won a university place with only minimum effort.
Twice he had gone on mad spending sprees in Edinburgh, pledging his father’s credit. The money had gone on clothes and girls. Girls found him strangely attractive until he got them into bed. Once was always enough.
