Cathedral

“I believe you know a Liam Coogan, Miss Malone. An associate of yours. He’s turned Queen’s evidence.” An odd half smile passed over his face. “I’m afraid we’ve got you now.”

“If you know so goddamned much, why did your men—”

“Oh, they’re not my men. They’re paratroop lads. Served with Harding and Shelby. Brought them here for the occasion. I’m in Intelligence, of course.” Major Martin’s voice changed, became more intimate. “You’re damned lucky they didn’t kill you.”

Sheila Malone considered her situation. Even under normal British law she would probably be convicted on Coogan’s testimony. Then why had she been arrested under the Special Powers Act? Why had they bothered to plant a gun and explosives in her room? Major Martin was after something else.

Martin stared at her, then cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, there is no capital punishment for murder in our enlightened kingdom. However, we’re going to try something new. We’re going to try to get an indictment for treason—I think we can safely say that the Provisional Irish Republican Army, of which you are a member, has committed treason toward the Crown.”

He looked down at an open book in front of him. “‘Acts that constitute treason. Paragraph 811—Levies war against the Sovereign in her realm….’ I think you fill that bill nicely.” He pulled the book closer and read, “‘Paragraph 812—The essence of the offense of treason lies in the violation of the allegiance owed to the Sovereign….’ And Paragraph 813 is my favorite. It says simply”—he looked at her without reading from the book—“‘The punishment for treason is death by hanging.’” He stressed the last words and looked for a reaction, but there was none. “It was Mr. Churchill, commenting on the Irish uprising of 1916, who said, ‘The grass grows green on the battlefield, but never on the scaffold.’ It’s time we started hanging Irish traitors again. You first. And beside you on the scaffold will be your sister, Maureen.”

She sat up. “My sister? Why … ?”

“Coogan says she was there as well. You, your sister, and her lover, Brian Flynn.”

“That’s a bloody lie.”

“Why would a man turn Queen’s evidence and then lie about who committed the murders?”

“Because he shot those soldiers—”

“There were two calibers of bullets. We can try two people for murder—any two. So why don’t you let me work out who did what to whom?”

“You don’t care who killed those soldiers. It’s Flynn you want to hang.”

“Someone must hang.” But Major Martin had no intention of hanging any of them and making more Irish martyrs. He wanted to get Flynn into Long Kesh, where he could wring out every piece of information that he possessed about the Provisional IRA. Then he would cut Brian Flynn’s throat with a piece of glass and call it suicide.

He said, “Let’s assume that you escape the hangman’s noose. Assume also that we pick up your sister, which is not unlikely. Consider if you will, Miss Malone, sharing a cell with your sister for the rest of your natural lives. How old are you? Not twenty yet? The months, the years pass slowly. Slowly. Young girls wasting their lives … and for what? A philosophy? The rest of the world will go on living and loving, free to come and go. And you … well, the real hell of it is that Maureen, at least, is innocent of murder. You are the reason she’d be there—because you wouldn’t name her lover. And Flynn will have found another woman, of course. And Coogan, yes, Coogan will have gone to London or America to live and—”

“Shut up! For God’s sake, shut up!” She buried her face in her hands and tried to think before he started again.

“Now there is a way out.” He looked down at his papers, then looked up again. “There always is, isn’t there? What you must do is dictate a confession naming Brian Flynn as an officer in the Provisional IRA—which he is—and naming him as the murderer of Sergeant Shelby and Private Harding. You will be charged as an accessory after the fact and be free within … let’s say, seven years.”

“And my sister?”

“We’ll put out a warrant for her arrest only as an accessory. She should leave Ulster and never return. We will not look for her and will not press any country for extradition. But this arrangement is operative only if we find Brian Flynn.” He leaned forward. “Where is Brian Flynn?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Martin leaned back in his chair. “Well, we must charge you with something within ninety days of internment. That’s the law, you understand. If we don’t find Flynn by the ninetieth day, we will charge you with double homicide—perhaps treason as well. So, if you can remember anything that will lead us to him, please don’t hesitate to tell us.” He paused. “Will you think about where Flynn might be?”

She didn’t answer.

“Actually, if you really don’t know, then you’re useless to me … unless … You see, your sister will try to free you, and with her will be Flynn … so perhaps—”

“You won’t use me for bait, you bastard.”

“No? Well, we’ll have to see about that, won’t we?”

“May I have a bed?”

“Certainly. You may stand now.”

She stood. “No more Gestapo tactics?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” He rose from his chair. “The matron will escort you to a cell. Good night.”

She turned and opened the door. A hood came down over her head, but before it did she saw not the matron but two young Royal Ulster Constabulary men and three grinning paratroopers.

CHAPTER 2

Brian Flynn looked up at Queen’s Bridge, shrouded in March mist and darkness. The Lagan River fog rolled down the partially lit street and hung between the red-brick buildings of Bank Road. The curfew was in effect, and there was no traffic.

Maureen Malone looked at him. His handsome, dark features always seemed sinister at night. She pulled back the sleeve of her trench coat and looked at her watch. “It’s after four. Where the hell are—”

“Quiet! Listen.”

She heard the rhythmic footsteps coming out of Oxford Street. In the mist a squad of Royal Ulster Constabulary appeared and turned toward them, and they crouched behind a stack of oil drums.

They waited in silence, their breathing coming irregularly in long plumes of fog. The patrol passed, and a few seconds later they heard the whining of a truck changing gears and saw the headlights in the mist. A Belfast Gas Works truck pulled up to the curbstone near them, and they jumped in the open side door. The driver, Rory Devane, moved the truck slowly north toward the bridge. The man in the passenger seat, Tommy Fitzgerald, turned. “Road block on Cromac Street.”

Maureen Malone sat on the floor. “Is everything set?”

Devane spoke as he steered slowly toward the bridge. “Yes. Sheila left Long Kesh in an RUC van a half hour ago. They took the A23 and were seen passing through Castlereagh not ten minutes ago. They’ll be coming over the Queen’s Bridge about now.”

Flynn lit a cigarette. “Escort?”

“No,” said Devane. “Just a driver and guard in the cab and two guards in the back, according to our sources.”

“Other prisoners?”

“Maybe as many as ten. All going to Crumlin Road Jail, except for two women going up to Armagh.” He paused. “Where do you want to hit them?”

Flynn looked out the rear window of the truck. A pair of headlights appeared on the bridge. “Collins’s men are set up on Waring Street. That’s the way they’ll have to go to Crumlin Road.” He wiped the fog from the window and stared. “Here’s the RUC van.” Devane cut off the engine and shut the lights.

The black, unmarked RUC van rolled off the bridge and headed into Ann Street. Devane waited, then