Dancing With Mortality (2 page)

‘How will this Hanson know who I am?’

‘He’s looking for the Land Rover, and if it isn’t you
driving it they’ll be shot. So use the code word ”Sterling” when you meet him
if you want to avoid that. That’s it, go now. I’ll call Natalie and say you’re
doing some overtime.’

‘No, sir, I’ll call her.’ He returned Litchfield’s
challenging gaze with a quiet fury, and picked up the phone.

Harry had driven as fast as he could
to Cork, arriving at the hotel just after midnight. Hanson had been in the car
park waiting for him. Dressed in civvies, he was a tall powerfully built man in
his mid-thirties, with a solid well-sculpted face sporting an equally well-sculpted
Roman nose and steady brown eyes. After verifying Harry’s identity, he’d
briefed him in short clipped tones. Hanson had ten men, they were on their way
(from where God only knew), and they would be quite invisible to anyone near
the beach by 1am.

‘Where’s that accent from?’ said Hanson, abruptly changing
the subject.

‘New Zealand, why?’

‘What’s a Kiwi doing in this line of work then?’

‘My parents are English. I got into this more by accident
than anything else. The locals hear the accent and assume I’m a harmless
student, which is what I tell them. Studying Irish at Trinity, which is true
enough most of the time. They assume I have no sympathies on either side,
Unionist or Republican. I don’t contradict them.’

‘But you speak Irish fluently I’m told.’

‘Fluently enough.’

‘I hope so. Enough chit chat then.’

He handed the radio to Harry and told him to park in the
layby and await confirmation of success, which Harry had gratefully done. It
was unlikely that anyone would approach from this direction. If they did spot
him and get curious, he intended to say he’d had a few too many and was
sleeping it off. He took the flask of whiskey from his coat pocket and had a
small sip. Would need some alcohol on the breath to back that story up. But it
was a flimsy story and he felt a surge of anger towards Litchfield for dropping
him in the deep end. And he was scared. He wasn’t armed and he had no military
training. He felt exposed and defenceless.

Now, after the lethal conclusion of
the SAS ambush, he wondered how the hell he’d allowed himself to be put in this
situation. And where was the man on the horse?

Harry had been in Ireland for almost two years. Auckland was
a long way from ‘the troubles’, and although the IRA got some media coverage,
the struggle in Northern Ireland seemed remote and slightly surreal. He
couldn’t see it impacting on his decision to take some time to travel and study
abroad. He’d done exceptionally well in his modern languages studies, with a BA
and MA under his belt, and was recognised as a talented German and French
linguist. Irish presented a quite different challenge, as it was so
grammatically and conceptually different. Seeing it written, and looking
nothing like the languages he already knew, made him wonder just how ancient in
origin it must be. When his tutor had mentioned a scholarship at Trinity
College his interest had been aroused, and he’d been pleasantly surprised to
find out his application had been accepted.

The plan was to do the post grad degree, travel around
Europe, and then return home. Natalie, who had recently finished her own MA in
clinical psychology, had bagged a contract through the Irish consulate in Auckland
to work as a psychologist assistant at St. Patrick’s hospital. And it was an
opportunity to travel regularly. They’d only been married six months, and it
seemed an ideal opportunity to get out and see some of the world before
settling down.

The first year they had taken the chance to discover Europe,
spending that summer in France and Germany. They’d travelled between one cheap
hostel and another on their limited budget, using the rail links wherever they
could to find their way round the popular destinations.

One evening shortly after their return and the resumption of
his studies, and just as he was leaving class for the day, he’d been approached
by Jack Hudson. Harry had noticed Hudson sitting in on lectures, and wondered
what the older man, who took no notes and seemed anomalous in comparison to
Harry’s studious and mostly twenty-something contemporaries, was actually doing
in an Irish lecture.

Hudson was a lean man with a long thin face that had
delicately defined features. He sported very long feminine eyelashes, and was
immaculately dressed in a three piece pinstripe suit. He introduced himself to
Harry and proffered a card with a slender well manicured hand.

‘I work in security, Mr Ellis. We may have a vacancy for an
Irish speaker here in Dublin, if you’re interested. Part time of course, we
know you need to study. But the extra money will boost your income, and you
might find the work interesting too. Phone that number if you want to take it
further. Any time during office hours.’

Then, before Harry had a chance to respond, Hudson had
smiled and walked away. So more out of curiosity than anything Harry had phoned
the number, and a few days later he found himself talking to Litchfield in a
local pub.

Litchfield had donned his charming persona for the occasion.
They were sitting in a booth away from the other customers.

‘Harry, must confess we’ve got you here under slightly false
pretences. Oh, the job is real enough, but if you do decide to take it there
are certain undertakings we’ll need from you first.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, firstly we’ll need a signature from you confirming
that any knowledge you acquire here is not to be disclosed to anyone outside
the office. Standard confidentiality stuff. And secondly, even though your
involvement will be limited to translating certain documents, there is some
risk involved in your being employed by us at all in Ireland just at this time.
Am I making myself clear?’

‘Not entirely, no.’

‘This is shall we say, confidential work. I’ve taken the
liberty of checking you out. I know that both your parents are English, which
takes care of the main eligibility requirement. We also made some discreet
enquiries in Auckland. I think you’ll be an asset to us, as the fact you’re
neither English nor Irish means you won’t arouse certain suspicions. And that
your language abilities are first rate.’

‘What sort of suspicions are you talking about?’

‘Let’s just say that if certain people with Republican
sympathies got to know you were working for us, they might not take it too kindly.’

‘And how real is that risk?’

‘Minimal. We have a small office here. No one knows about
us, I can assure you. But protocol means I need to point out the pros and cons,
that’s all.’

‘What do I tell my wife?’

‘You tell her you’re doing translation work for a security
firm. And that there may be some anti-social hours involved. That’s all true
enough.’

‘Security firm – who are you really then? You’ve taken a lot
of trouble over me already.’

Litchfield smiled enigmatically. ‘I’ve told you about the
work and stated our conditions. You’ll be needed on a part time basis, some
afternoons and evenings to fit in with your studies here. I think you’ll find
our financial terms more than adequate. If you accept, you’ll get a full
briefing then. Go away and consider it for a few days, then call me at this
number when you’ve made up your mind.’ He handed Harry his card.

He discussed it with Natalie, leaving out the bit about
miffed Republicans and the consequent risk. God knew they needed the extra
money. The exchange rate against the Kiwi dollar meant that the money they’d
brought with them was being spent a little too fast for comfort. He decided to
accept Litchfield’s offer, even when he found out later that the ‘security’
firm was in fact SIS. He weighed the extra income against the perceived risk
and concluded he’d be here studying one more year then they’d leave Ireland and
any risk of incurring the wrath of anyone would disappear.

After tonight’s little party at the beach he wasn’t so sure.

The sky was lightening and the grey
cloud cover was dispersing to reveal patches of blue overhead. The intermittent
showers of rain that had punctuated Michael’s frantic last two hours of riding
looked like they might die away completely. There was even the odd ray of
sunshine forcing its way between the retreating clouds.

He wasn’t sure where he was. An hour ago he’d taken his
leave of the road and turned his horse into the fields and up into higher
country. Visibility was still poor and it was slow going. All he could do was
urge the horse forward at a walk, hoping that the direction they were taking
was leading them to the north, away from the beach and his possible pursuers.
Now that daylight had arrived, he reined his mount in and stopped to take stock
of his surroundings.

He’d climbed higher than he thought. Behind him the sea was
clearly visible; he reckoned he must have put only ten miles between him and
the beach in the last two hours. The horse had found its way onto a track
through the rocky ridges that bordered the narrow fields in this area. He
needed to strike north east to get away from these ridges and into the forested
land where he wouldn’t be so easy to spot.

He dismounted, tying the reins to an outcrop of rock. The
horse gave a soft snort and nuzzled his shoulder gently. He brushed its long
neck in automatic response.

‘Glad to have me off your back are you? You look as
exhausted as I feel.’

He sat down heavily on the pebbly surface. His legs felt
rubbery, and he realised just how tired he was. He gave a long exhalation, and
then as he allowed himself to relax a little, the import of what had transpired
just a few hours previously hit him hard, like a punch to the stomach. He put
his head in his hands, taking long rasping breaths, waiting for his body to
find some equilibrium again.

After five or so minutes, when his breathing became more
regular, he stood up and went over to his horse. He stroked its neck and head
softly, whispering calming words in its ear.

‘Listen with me.’

Horse and man stood stock still, sensing their environment.
Michael could see the track by which they’d negotiated their way, winding
through the fields down to the road, which was no longer visible. His eyes and
ears were sharp with the aftermath of adrenalin. The green of the countryside
below him and the birdsong of the morning were crystal clear. He knew that the
horse was more sensitive to disturbances than he was, but the animal seemed
calm enough. He relaxed a little more.

He started to try and piece it all together. Someone must
have informed on them. That was always a danger, but he thought this particular
event had been kept well under wraps. Obviously not. Then he thought of the men
who, to the best of his knowledge, must all be either dead or captured. He knew
three of them personally, but the men on the boat had to be taken on trust.
Could one of them have been an informer?

Once the arms were unloaded the plan had been to transport
them to arms dumps in the South Armagh region, but he’d intended to hold a
dozen rifles and ammunition back. He and Tom O’Brien were to load up the two
horses and ride to a deserted farmhouse further south, the theory being that it
was always useful to have a private stash available just in case.

Now Tom was lying dead on the beach. They’d known each other
since primary school, and lived on the same street in West Belfast. Their
friendship had jelled and grown as they rode shotgun for each other to and from
school. The sectarian divide was literal enough, you knew where you could and couldn’t
go. But at times there were trespassers from the Protestant side, and it was
best to see them first then fade into a side street.

As adolescents, and having witnessed some savage attacks
instigated by both factions, they’d stopped avoiding trouble and actively gone
looking for it. Everyone knew someone or had a friend who’d suffered from the
unpredictable violence. People would get shot on a whim. There was both fear
and anger in Michael, and he directed it back at the bastards who’d been
grinding the Catholic population of Belfast down since before Cromwell’s
arrival in Ulster. And relentlessly ever since.

He was a well-built lad, even at 16, and wasn’t afraid to
fight. But sometimes his anger would predominate over a rational assessment of
the odds in these encounters. Tom, who was just as angry but more level headed,
had helped him out of some nasty confrontations simply by calming him down. Had
saved his life effectively.

He remembered 1968 when the Civil Rights movement came to
Belfast, with its demands for fairer Catholic treatment. And what had happened?
Just an appalling escalation in violence, especially in the following year when
houses were burned, and people were killed or driven out of their homes.
Shortly after that the British troops arrived. And we were grateful for them
too, he thought ruefully. How that changed.

At the same time, the Provisional IRA came into being as a
result of a split in Republican ranks over participation in the political
process. The faction that became the Provos had been embarrassed at how
unprepared they were to actively defend Catholics during the Belfast and Derry
riots. Now they intended to redress that error by resorting to more traditional
tactics.

Michael hadn’t thought about joining the IRA in ’69, because
they weren’t seen as an influential force at that point. Although his daily
life could be punctuated by violence, his plan to cope with it was to do well
at secondary school, go to Queens University then find a way out of Belfast.

Then on Bloody Sunday, January 30, 1972, everything changed.
When he heard the news that 26 unarmed civil rights marchers had been shot by
British troops in Derry, he knew he no longer wanted to run away from the
problem, he wanted to do something to fix it. Catholics should not allow
themselves to be shot in the street. They needed to fight more tangibly for
their rights and their own protection. Marches and politics were achieving
nothing. The only person he confided in about this change of heart was Tom
O’Brien. Tom felt the same way he did, and they weren’t the only ones. After
Bloody Sunday there was a sudden influx of young men wanting to join the IRA,
and along with Tom, he became one of them. In 1972, aged 18, he stopped being
an uncommitted spectator, and embraced the politics of violence. He’d
maintained that embrace wholeheartedly ever since.

Those bastards didn’t give us any chance to surrender, he
thought bitterly. They just opened fire and didn’t stop. The first intimation
of trouble came when two searchlights suddenly appeared from the direction of
the dunes, illuminating the men on the beach clear as day. With yells and
curses Tom and the others tried to evade the light, and then the firing
started. He doubted if any of his men even had the chance to return it.

If he hadn’t been in the back of the truck, preparing to
lead out the horses, he’d be dead now. He’d quickly mounted his terrified horse
and jumped it straight out onto the sand. He saw Tom, face down with blood
streaming from his head, as he kicked hard at the horse’s flanks. The animal
needed no encouragement to gallop like hell away from the bloody melee. He was
damn lucky the road away from the beach had no one on it, they must all have
been in the surrounding dunes. Obviously not expecting a man on horseback to
come out of there so fast. But given the amount of automatic fire raining down,
both he and the horse had been fortunate to escape unscathed.

He exhaled long and slowly, shock and sadness mingling
together. With that level of gunfire it seemed unlikely that anyone else on the
beach would have survived. He’d not be drinking another pint anywhere with Tom
O’Brien again. His sadness began to be tempered with anger. He needed to stay
alive, get further away from here, and work out what came next. The first thing
to do was to seek more cover. He suddenly realised that his clothes were damp,
and he shivered. He needed to get moving. He listened again intently to the
sounds of the day around him, and could hear nothing to suggest anyone else was
nearby. Not that I’d hear them coming anyway, if they’re any good, he
reflected.

He looked back once more to the distant sea then mounted his
horse and urged it onward. He would find somewhere secluded where he could lie low
for a few hours. Then maybe he could ditch the horse and risk taking a bus back
to Dublin. He moved his hand up to his chest to seek out the reassuring
presence of the Browning semi-automatic pistol in the inside jacket pocket. He
had one spare magazine in the other pocket. An instrument of last resort, the
only time he carried it was during an operation. Unless he was stopped and
searched by the army or Garda men it would stay just where it was.

The sun warmed his back as he flicked the reins. The horse
picked up the pace a little, though on this uneven terrain it would be tough
getting it to trot, let alone canter. After 20 minutes the slope began to even
out, the rocky path gave way to a grassy track, and he could see the forest
looming ever closer. Ten minutes later he was swallowed by the trees.

Siobhan O’Reilly shuffled
impatiently through her bag and found the house keys. She’d walked for 20
minutes from the Harcourt hotel, where she worked as personnel manager, to the
small terraced house she rented off Fitzwilliam Street. The dusk of early evening
was rapidly deepening into darkness as she opened the door and stepped into the
hall. After removing her coat, she walked through to the narrow kitchen and
filled the kettle. She retrieved the teapot from the draining board where it
had languished since breakfast, and after quickly rinsing it added two
teaspoons of tea. Stifling a yawn, she switched on the radio and waited for the
kettle to boil.

She ran a hand through her wavy, red hair. It needed
brushing. God knew at the best of times it was difficult to bring any semblance
of order to her flowing but unruly locks, which seemed to have a mind of their
own. She walked back to the hall and looked at herself in the mirror, picking
up the hairbrush she kept on the hall table for bad hair moments. Should just
cut it short, she thought, as the brush found its way through the tangles. But
she was proud of her long, auburn hair. Someone had once told her she reminded
him of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, and after she’d browsed through a number of
illustrated art books on the movement in the local library, she could see why.
She could easily have substituted for one of Rosetti’s models. She was 25, and
had the full lips and pale skin to complement the hair, with a pair of pale
blue eyes, and a well proportioned figure. Born in the wrong age she thought
wistfully – sure his models didn’t come from Belfast either.

Her reverie was interrupted by a soft knock at the front
door. She paused her brushing, slightly surprised. Not many people knew where
she lived, so callers at this hour were rare.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Michael, Sis, let me in.’

She dropped the brush back on the table and walked quickly
to the door and opened it. ‘I didn’t know you were in Dublin,’ she began. The
smile on her lips and the surge of happiness she felt on hearing her brother’s
voice were extinguished by the deadly intensity etched on his face. He looked
bedraggled, tired and on edge. He saw the effect his appearance had produced
and tried to smile.

‘Siobhan, good to see you.’ He came through into the hall
and wrapped her in a bear hug, lifting her off her feet. At a shade over six
feet, he was a powerfully built man and she felt the breath go out of her.

‘Put me down,’ she gasped, and he laughed as he released
her. His laugh brought back some of the light to his equally pale blue eyes,
and his face relaxed for a moment. She felt a stab of relief at seeing a flash
of the big brother she knew and loved. Then his face turned serious again. She
knew something bad must have happened, but decided to say nothing on that
score.

‘I’m making some tea, want some?’

‘Yes, that would be grand. You alone?’

‘Just me and the radio.’ She tried to smile but his mood had
infected her and it died prematurely. ‘Go into the living room, I’ll be there
in a minute.’

She returned to the kitchen and found another cup. As she
filled the teapot the radio intruded on her thoughts:

‘Unconfirmed reports are coming in of a shooting
involving the Provisional IRA and British Army units in Cork earlier today.
We’re told there have been fatalities, but of whom and how many exactly is
still unknown...’

Siobhan switched it off, her heart sinking. She took a deep
breath and poured the tea. She took it through to the living room where Michael
sat quietly, staring out the window.

‘Thanks,’ he said, wrapping his hands around the cup and
taking a sip. ‘That’s good, you always make good tea.’

He looked around the room. It wasn’t a large room, and
Siobhan hadn’t cluttered it with too many ornaments. There was a Victorian-style
fireplace with a mantelpiece sporting a few half-used candles in saucers. Above
those hung a poster of the Lady of Shallot: a redhead in a flowing white dress,
sitting in her boat prior to drifting down to Camelot.

‘Don’t remember that being here last time.’

‘That’s me in my fantasy life, Michael. When I get tired of
managing the staff at the Harcourt, I pretend I’m in a boat on a river far
away, chasing gallant knights.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Such imagination. I see the
resemblance, sure enough. Have you read the poem? She was cursed.’

‘I know, but she died for love.’

His lips formed a harsh straight line, then he sighed. She
sat down beside him on the sofa, which apart from the coffee table and a
bookcase was the only other item of furniture in the room. She placed her hand
on his shoulder.