James Benn - Evil for evil

"I do if it involves this crime."

"Military matter, sir. Now please excuse us. Lieutenant?"

I could tell we'd get no more out of this sergeant. I shrugged and followed him to the car. It was a Ford Fordor, the kind I'd seen in North Africa, a Canadian station wagon converted for military use. I'd never seen one with anything less than a full colonel in the back, but I couldn't even see inside this one, since the rear windows were opaque. The sergeant opened the rear door and held it for me. It was dark inside, and the rear seat was pushed back, so I still couldn't see who was waiting for me. I stooped and entered. The first thing I saw was a pair of crossed legs.

"Sit down, Lieutenant Boyle. I don't bite," said Slaine O'Brien. "Unless it's called for."

"I was wondering when you were going to show up," I said as I settled into the wide backseat. I'd been in smaller living rooms. "How does a subaltern rate one of these?"

"I don't have time for small talk, so let's get down to business, Lieutenant. What have you found out about the BARs?" She held a pen in one hand while flipping through a file. It looked like she was about to give me demerits.

"Well, I got shot at by one. Two Americans have been murdered since I arrived here. Oh, yeah, and a major has been arrested for bribery, but that was over black market produce, not guns."

"It sounds as if you've been busy," she said, "investigating cabbages." The pen started tapping against her knee.

"I forgot to mention. It was Red Jack Taggart who shot at me and killed at least one of the Americans. With a BAR. And do you have another Yank working this case? Older guy, wears a gray fedora hat."

"Taggart? Are you sure?" She sounded shocked that an IRA man would shoot at anyone, much less Yanks.

"Damn right I'm sure. He murdered Lieutenant Sam Burnham while we were at an RUC station after a funeral. I chased him but he got away."

"I'd say you're lucky to be alive. Taggart is not known for letting his quarry escape his clutches."

"He's the one lucky to be alive. He was my quarry. I think he was after Burnham for some reason. Taggart shot Burnham, as he stood at a window. Then he sprayed the house, to keep the rest of us down."

"But you didn't stay down?" She uncrossed her legs, smoothing down the green wool fabric. Her buttons were as shiny on her dress uniform as they'd been on her khakis in Jerusalem. I was distracted as I watched her shift in the seat. I always was a button man.

"No, I don't like being a stationary target."

"Neither do I, Lieutenant Boyle," she said, crossing her legs again, the smooth sound of her nylons rubbing against each other filling the silence. Or maybe filling my imagination, I'm not sure.

"You haven't answered my question about the other American, the one in civvies," I persisted.

"I'm finding that one American is quite enough, Lieutenant. Do you have any idea who he is or what he wants?"

"No, but he's mixed up in this somehow. I think he's following me."

"Why would another Yank follow you?"

"I've been wondering that myself. I thought you might have brought someone else in. Or maybe army CID. But no dice there. So who is he, and why is he here?"

"I'll have my people look into it," she said. She tapped her pen on the clipboard, impatient at the unanticipated complication. My eyes went from the pen to those buttons to her legs before settling on her eyes. All the choices, except the pen, were mesmerizing. Her eyes met mine, and I looked away, embarrassed, as if she could read my mind. She wasn't like any woman I'd ever met. I had the odd thought pop into my head that it was going to be tough to go back to Boston and settle down with a nice girl who worked in a department store or a deli.

"Who's the corpse?" Slaine said, nodding toward the automobile by the side of the road.

"Pete Brennan. GI from the base at Ballykinler."

"Is he involved in the BAR theft?"

"He was on duty the night it happened but I don't think he was killed over that."

"Coincidence?"

"I'm not sure. I think there is a connection but it has more to do with the black market than with the IRA. I need your help with that."

"What exactly do you need?"

"I need to know more about both Jenkins and Taggart."

"Such as?"

"Anything and everything you have. Background, connections, all the dope you must have in your security files on them. I'm working blind here, and I need to know more about these guys to try to get a handle on what to do next."

"Why Jenkins? Do you think he's involved in the weapons theft?"

"I don't think so but I'd rather be sure. How well do you know him?"

"I know what he's capable of."

"But do you know him personally?"

"I've questioned him, yes."

"In a Portadown pub?"

"Wherever necessary. Don't forget what you are supposed to be investigating, Lieutenant Boyle, and whom you are working for."

"Is that a threat?" I asked.

"A reminder to stay focused. Part of my job is to keep tabs on the militia groups, including the Red Hand. It's an open secret that Jenkins controls them, so of course I meet with him. He knows I'm with MI-5. One hand washes the other, as they say. I don't know how you found out about that rendezvous but it has nothing to do with this case."

"I still want to see his file. And I need to know more about Taggart. He obviously knows where the BARs are; he demonstrated that pretty clearly."

She tapped her pen against the file folder in her lap again. "Very well. I have other business here today but meet me at the Slieve Donard Hotel in Newcastle, eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll take you to Stormont Castle in Belfast and you can review the files. Will that do?"

"Sure. The hotel is the big brick one with the tower, right?"

"Aye, you can't miss it."

"Does your business here have anything to do with this killing? Are you keeping something from me?" I asked.

"Many things, to be sure, but nothing germane to this investigation. I'll give you what I can about Taggart and Jenkins. Is there anything else?"

"I thought perhaps I could buy you dinner, and you could tell me about the one Irish-American you admire."

"Pardon me?"

"In Jerusalem, when I asked if you didn't like Irish-Americans, you said there was one you admired very much. I'd like to know who."

"If you find the BARs, Lieutenant, there will be two. I'm quite busy now, so if you're done?"

"One question before I go. How did you get here so quickly? Who told you?"

"That's a matter of security."

"What isn't?"

"Until tomorrow morning, Lieutenant?"

She didn't look up from the open file on her lap but I saw one corner of her mouth turn up in a smile. I wasn't sure what I was doing with her. Part of me said the invitation to dinner was to interrogate her. Another part of me said it would be nice to spend time in her company. She was an Irish girl, after all. Ultimately, I was glad she'd turned me down. I got out of the car and nodded to her driver, who leaned against the front fender as he smoked. He looked past me, eyeing something down the road. It was Grady O'Brick, riding in a pony cart, the rear stacked high with black peat held in place by slats of wood bound with rope.

"What's this now?" Grady asked, fixing his gaze on me. The ambulance was gone, but the Austin still had its nose in the ditch, with DI Carrick and his constables searching it. Grady glanced at the staff car, the sergeant, then back to me. "Have you got yourself in trouble, Billy Boyle?"

"Not me, Grady. Pete Brennan," I said as I walked over and scratched the pony on its withers.

"What kind of trouble?"

"Dead. Murdered, found in the trunk of that car," I said, looking at the gray Austin. "Same car that Red Jack Taggart got away in after the shooting in Killough."