James Benn - Evil for evil

"Good. I'm glad we met. It's good to have told someone what happened. Come, walk with me. I saw your vehicle back near O'Neill's."

This time he took me along Abbey Street, skirting the Armagh Gaol and RUC station.

The wind had died down and the sun shone for a few minutes before being engulfed by clouds again.

"Micheal, do you happen to know Grady O'Brick? From back during the war?"

"He's from Downpatrick, right?"

"Clough, a little village nearby."

"Aye, I haven't heard that name in a while. Them boys was famous for not being famous, if you follow me."

"I know the story. Mick the Master was their leader."

"Oh? Perhaps. It's not how I heard the story but facts change with the telling and the years."

"What did you hear?"

"Billy, you've got to get it into that Yank head of yours. This is not ancient history, as it may seem to you folk in America. This is all still happening here. You can't go about asking questions like that. Someone may take offense, on either side. If it's the Red Hand, you're most likely to disappear. If it's the IRA," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, "then two in the brain is what you'll get, and your body dumped out in the open, so others will see. That's how each side likes it. So you mind your step here."

"But what did you hear?"

"Never mind. Drink with me or go, but stop asking questions that will only cause trouble." We were nearing the bank, and his eyes searched the street for anyone watching.

"Sorry, Micheal. Thanks, and don't worry."

"Someone should worry about you, Yank. I hope there's one who does."

So do I, I thought as I drove out of Armagh, leaving the red brick and limestone buildings behind, the countryside opening up in brilliant greens once more as the sun filtered through gray clouds. Was Diana worrying about me now, or was she too busy being outfitted in French clothes, learning a new identity, being tested over and over again? Shouldn't I worry more about her, as she might be about to parachute into occupied Europe? It would be a waste of time, I told myself. I might not ever see her again, and if I did, we'd have a rocky time of it. It was all so far away-Jerusalem, the SOE, Uncle Ike-that it felt as if I could put it aside and forget about it for a while. The cool air, the emerald green landscape, it was so different from the life we'd shared the past few months. Had that life been real? Had we turned to each other to see a living face, someone who was not dead, drowned, or dying? Or was ours a fantasy of wartime, to fool ourselves into thinking we had a future?

Part of me said that was wrong. The memories of Diana were too vivid, her draw too strong. I'd come to understand that exposure to so much death made life more valuable. Love could be an antidote, a surety against being swallowed up by the war and left for dead, unmourned, far from home. What kind of life could Diana and I expect if we found ourselves alive in peacetime? Would there be an embarrassed silence as we tried to make small talk? No more dinners with generals, secret missions, shared agonies, or thrilling news from the front to form the substance of our days. Who would we be? A Boston cop and a cop's wife? An English lady and her American husband, on her father's country estate? I couldn't imagine either life.

I put it out of my mind as I drove through small villages, southeast toward Newry and the coast. First Markethill, with its neat white-painted brick buildings facing each other across the road, a pub anchoring one end of the village and a church the other. I waited outside of town for a parade of cows to cross the road, as men brought them in from a field into enclosures, where an auction was going on. The automobiles and trucks were old and well used, maybe because of the shortage of new vehicles for civilians, or perhaps because these were thrifty folk. Either way, business had to be good with the U.S. Army paying to feed thousands. Food was rationed for the civilians here as it was in England, and it must be tempting to take advantage of the black market and the food being smuggled in from the Republic, where there was no rationing.

Animal and vehicle traffic lightened as I drove. Through Whitecross, with one pub, a blacksmith's, and a few shops, all gone before I had a chance to slow down. Then to Forkill, a little village with an odd-sounding name stuck between two large hilltops. Beyond was the border. I parked the jeep near the town center and stretched my legs, checking my watch. It was late afternoon, and the sun was at my back, casting a long shadow on the road. I unfolded my map and laid it open on the hood, holding it down. A cool breeze flapped at the corners.

I was trying to figure out how long it would have taken the BAR thieves to get the truck over the border, unload it, and leave it outside Omeath. There was only one way to get to that stretch of border from Ballykinler, and that was along the coast. The Mournes blocked any other route. So they would've driven out of the base, through Clough, where they stopped to kill Eddie Mahoney and dump his body, then on through Newcastle, south along the coast, passing through Annalong and Kilkeel, then west to drive along Carlingford Lough, a bay about fifteen miles long that formed part of the border with the Republic of Ireland. Then a few more miles, north into Newry, where they'd cross the river, drive south for a while, and cross the border just east of where I was standing. Omeath was the first town across the border. So that's where they would have unloaded the BARs and ditched Jenkins's truck. It would have been time to get rid of it, since Jenkins would have reported it stolen.

"You lost, Yank?" a voice from behind me asked. I turned to see an RUC constable and an older fellow looking over my shoulder. The constable was young, reminding me of my kid brother Danny. He still had freckles across the bridge of his nose, and his skin was fair. The older guy was short, with a weather-beaten face that spoke of long, hard hours outdoors. He wore the usual collarless, once-white shirt, vest, and shabby jacket.

"I just wanted to make sure I didn't cross over the border by accident," I said. "Don't want to spend the rest of the war in an internment camp." Actually, the thought was kind of appealing but I knew it wasn't in the cards.

"Well, you be careful then," the constable said. "You take the right turn there and it's only a hop and a skip to the crossing. They wouldn't let you in, though, not with that uniform on."

"It's guarded?"

"Aye, by the customs officers on our side, and the Garda on theirs. There's some smuggling of foodstuffs and other rationed items, so it's well manned."

"Aye, some," said the older fellow with a wink.

"There's probably places where you could cross over without going through all that paperwork. If you knew the back roads and all," I ventured.

"Sure," said the constable, "but that's what they pay me for, isn't it? To keep an eye on things like that."

"You've only got two eyes, John," the older man said. "There's a dozen places a man could cross where no one would see."

"Aye, that's true."

"What about a truck? A big delivery truck?"

"Ach, that's different now," the old fellow said. "A truck of any size would have to keep to the roads. It's all farmland or grazing pastures here. Each field is bounded by rocks and trees; there'd be no way for a truck to get through. A man on a horse or pulling a donkey, now that's more like it. But a truck, no."

"I'd take Kieran's word for it," said the constable. "He seems to have a good supply of butter on hand." They both chuckled, and I got the idea that a little free trade over the border was not high on the list of crimes to be tracked down. I explained why I was asking questions without going into detail. I gave them both a description of Jenkins's truck and the date of the heist. Neither had seen a truck matching my description.