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‘No,’ barked Sean, ‘but that doesn’t fucking matter. Don’t go fucking thinking about it too much. He’s guilty by association.’
There was a heavy silence in the kitchen.
A dog barked outside.
Gerard Casey got up and patted his pocket.
‘I need to go and get some more fags,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in half an hour.’
‘Fifteen minutes,’ said Sean. ‘And Ciaran’s going with you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I fucking say so, that’s why. This is a military operation, and we have procedures. I’m not having you phoning your handler and warning off the Special Branch.’
Gerard gawped at him. Eventually he blurted out, ‘I’m no fucking tout.’
‘I know you’re not, son,’ said Sean, flatly. ‘It was a joke. If you was, sure you’d be dead by now, brother or not. Now go and get your fags, and then we’ll go over the plan again.’
9. (#ulink_17380360-eafb-511c-9cf1-ab7a17444572)
LESS THAN HALF a mile away, LCpl John Carr’s Land Rover led the three-vehicle Parachute Regiment/RUC patrol in through the big steel gates to Woodbourne police station, and parked up.
It was just before 13:00hrs, and within a matter of minutes the ravenous Toms were wolfing down police canteen sausage and chips, full of cackling and abuse.
Lt Guy de Vere carried his metal tray to the table and sat down opposite Scouse Parry and John Carr.
‘Not the sort of scoff you’re used to in the Officers’ Mess, boss,’ said Parry, shovelling a forkful of chips into his face, and winking at Carr. ‘But I bet you’re hungry.’
Carr chuckled. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘All that nervous energy, eh, Scouse?’
De Vere smiled: after a morning in their company, he was just starting to get used to the soldiers’ gentle piss-taking.
‘I was more scared of Private Keogh’s driving than the PIRA,’ he said, cutting into a fat sausage.
‘Fucking hell, boss,’ said Keogh, next to him. ‘I’m the best driver in the battalion!’
The other driver – Morris – shouted something abusive from the other end of the table. They all dissolved into raucous laughter, and de Vere started eating.
When they’d all finished, Parry disappeared off and John Carr wandered over to the hatch and fetched them both a huge mug of steaming tea.
‘We’ve got five minutes, boss,’ he said. ‘Get your laughing gear round that.’
‘Thanks, Corp’l Carr.’
They sat there, the tall, blond, well-bred Englishman and the dark, hard-faced Scot from the sprawling Edinburgh council estate: wildly different in many ways, but brought together by the uniform and pride in their work.
Carr watched him sip the hot, sweet tea. He looked knackered, but then the special stresses and strains of walking the streets of Belfast in a British Army uniform did take it out of you, and it was worse when you were the FNG and trying to catch up. Young Guy de Vere would have learned more in this half-day than in his entire Army career to date. The episode with Conor Gilfillan… they didn’t teach you stuff like that at Sandhurst, thought Carr.
It was as though de Vere had read his thoughts.
‘At least there’ll be no junior Gilfillans,’ he said. ‘After what you did to his bollocks.’
Carr grinned. ‘There’s about a dozen of the little fuckers already, sadly,’ he said. ‘But the greasy wanker will remember you, alright, boss. Nasty wee shite.’
‘All those tricolour-painted kerbstones and murals,’ he said, leaning back and looking at Carr. ‘And the graffiti. Fuck the Brits. Troops Out. It’s not the most salubrious city, is it?’
‘Come again?’ said Carr.
‘Belfast. It’s a bit rough.’
Carr picked at his teeth with a match. ‘Where are you from?’ he said.
‘Marlborough,’ said de Vere. ‘Well, a village not far from. My family has a farm there.’
‘Nice part of the world,’ said Carr, laconically. ‘I can see why you’d think Belfast was not very salubrious.’ He picked a bit of sausage out of his teeth, looked at it and put it back in his mouth. ‘But Belfast is better than where I’m from. See these semi-detacheds and nice rows of terraces?’ he said. ‘We dinnae have too many of them. Where I’m from, it’s all fucking tenements.’ He chuckled. ‘And we dinnae have the polis and the Army keeping order, neither. It’s dog eat fuckin’ dog.’
He watched in amusement as de Vere blushed slightly.
‘So where are you from?’ said the young officer.
‘Niddrie, boss. East Edinburgh.’
‘I don’t think I know it.’
‘You wouldnae. Shitehole. Good for heroin, stabbings, single mums, and dogshite. That’s about it.’
‘Family all up there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Nah. I mean, I’ve got a bird, like, but I met her over here.’
‘Planning to get married?’
‘To Stella?’ Carr laughed, and then was serious. ‘Tell you the truth, I’ve not thought about it.’
‘Father in the Army?’
‘In the war. But he left as soon as he could, like. He didnae like being fucked about by posh English bastards. No offence.’
It was de Vere’s turn to laugh. ‘I’m certainly English,’ he said, ‘and some might say I was posh, but my parents were married and I promise not to fuck you about any more than I absolutely have to.’ He paused for a moment. ‘So what made you join?’
Carr thought for a moment. ‘Always wanted to be a soldier,’ he said. ‘Since I was a boy.’ He grinned. ‘I like a good scrap, boss, and there’s no better way to get yourself into a scrap than join the Paras.’
‘And what are your plans?’
‘Selection.’
‘The SAS?’
‘Aye. I’m down for the next course.’
‘Good luck.’
‘No such thing. Hard work and mental strength, that’s what’ll get me through.’
De Vere polished off his tea and looked round the room.
His eye fell on Mick Parry, deep in conversation with the two RUC men.
‘Corporal Parry seems an impressive guy,’ he said.
‘Sound as a pound,’ said Carr. ‘Hard fucker, like. But fair. The blokes love him. Officers, not so much.’
De Vere nodded.
‘Brave, as well,’ said Carr. ‘Where we met Gilfillan, down on Ballygomartin? We were there three weeks back. Friday night. Drizzly, it was. Road was wet. Fucking joyriders come down there at seventy, maybe eighty. Stolen XR2i.’
He paused.
‘You know we lost one of the guys to a joyrider at the start of the tour? Never stopped. Hit him on the white line in Andytown. Good mate of mine. Fucking tragic.’
De Vere said, ‘Yes, I know about the incident.’
‘Ever since that, the blokes are fucking twitchy about joyriders,’ said Carr. ‘And the joyriders know it. So this XR2i comes down the road, sees us, and the driver jams on the anchors. Greasy road, shit tyres, the driver was only fifteen. No idea how to get out of the skid. He rolled the car and it hit a lamp-post fifty metres from our position. Set on fire. The lad was fucked up and dead, but there was three other kids trapped in the car – his mate and two wee girls. Mick run straight up the road and dragged them kids out of that car. Knowing it could have gone up at any minute. Or that some PIRA wanker might see him and have a pop.’ Carr finished his own drink. ‘He should get an award for it, really.’
‘And what…’ said the young lieutenant, but he was interrupted by the tramp of Mick Parry’s German para boots on the green lino.
‘Right, John,’ he said, to Carr. ‘Time to get the lads sparking.’ He looked at the lieutenant. ‘You too, boss. Can’t sit around all day chin-wagging with this idle fucker.’
10. (#ulink_abc1f9e6-0069-5c4e-bede-a8c5afa6b302)
AT AROUND THAT moment, a call was being made from a secure line at 10 Downing Street in London.
The man making the call was a major in the Royal Anglians who was on military liaison attachment to Mrs Thatcher’s personal staff.
The man receiving the call was the 3 Para adjutant in Belfast.
The call was to confirm final arrangements for an event which the two men had been discussing over the previous three days – an unannounced flying visit to Belfast by the PM.
The previous Thursday, gunmen from the Provisional IRA’s Belfast Brigade had shot three off-duty RUC men in a pub off the Shankill Road, killing two and seriously injuring the third. It came hot on the heels of the deaths of three members of the Parachute Regiment in the Mayobridge bombing, and together they demanded a political response.
At some time after 6pm that evening, Mrs Thatcher would be flying in for a secret visit to Knock, to meet grieving family members, and to rally the troops.
A pre-Christmas morale booster.
And, because of that, the city would be crawling with extra Army patrols, cars full of Special Branch, undercover members of 14th Intelligence Company – the surveillance specialists known as ‘the Det’, whose job it was to infiltrate both the Republican and Loyalist communities – and various other watchers, followers and shooters.
11. (#ulink_d463d2c3-f412-5526-be83-3616af1de730)
AT A QUARTER-TO-FIVE, as the winter darkness fell, the Casey brothers and Ciaran O’Brien finally left the house in Lenadoon Avenue.
Gerard felt simultaneously light and heavy, terrified and excited.
It was weird how the other two looked so relaxed; he tried to copy them.
Well-practised in counter-surveillance, they moved on foot – you spotted a tail much quicker that way – and headed across Lenadoon Park, a nice, wide-open space with enough ambient light to see if you were being followed. They walked out onto Derryveagh Drive, and then down to the Suffolk Road, which was long and straight enough to give good views in either direction.
They turned north.
Almost immediately, Sean said, ‘Shit!’ and dropped his head into his collar.
On the opposite side of the road, a joint Army–RUC mobile patrol was approaching, moving between one exercise in fucking up people’s lives and another. The front driver slowed, and the top-cover in the tail vehicle gave them a long stare, his SA80 rifle held at the ready. A tall, slim officer, he was new in the Province, but he was a diligent man, and he’d spent hours poring over mugshots of the main players. He might well have recognised Sean Casey and Ciaran O’Brien, had the light been better, and that would have been enough to get them a tug. Worse still for the IRA team, the soldiers were Paras, which quite possibly meant hours of being pissed about, and the job off for that night.
But in the gloaming and the drizzle the top-cover couldn’t make them out, and the Land Rovers rumbled and trundled on their way.
A few minutes later, the three of them walked in to McKill’s. It was early and empty, and the barman was polishing glasses. One man sat nursing a pint at a table by the wall – a low-level player who nodded respectfully to Sean and Ciaran. Gerard Casey, his stomach light and queasy, threw a strained half-smile at the barman, and got a quizzical look in return before the fellow went back to his polishing; something was clearly up, but he knew better than to see or ask anything.
They headed straight through to the office at the rear of the building.
The door was locked.
Sean rapped on the flaking green paint with his knuckles.
It was opened – slightly, at first, then wide – by a dark-haired man in his mid-thirties who was wearing dungarees and a thick jumper.
Gerard realised to his surprise that he knew the guy – his name was Martin Thompson, and he coached a kids’ Sunday football team down on the Rec there.
Gerard had had no idea that he was a member of the RA.
The cell structure, in action.
They stepped past Thompson, and the door was locked behind them.
The room was empty apart from an old table, a few chairs, a sports holdall, and a telephone.
Sitting on the table was another man, late twenties, a ginger bog brush on his head, and a face full of freckles – Brian ‘Freckles’ Keogh, Gerard knew his rep alright.
Next to Freckles was what Gerard recognised in the glare of the single bare lightbulb as a folding stock AK47, with two of its distinctive curved magazines lying beside it. There were also two pistols – he couldn’t have named them, but one was a modern-looking thing and the other an old revolver. Next to the revolver was a mug which bore the Celtic FC crest and contained a magazine for the automatic and six rounds for the revolver.
He realised with a jolt that both of the men were wearing pink washing-up gloves. In his state of controlled panic, the incongruity made him want to giggle, but he fought it back and kept his silence.
‘Alright, fellas,’ said Thompson.
‘Alright, Tommo,’ said Sean.
