James Benn - Evil for evil

I sat in the chair and looked around the room. He was going on a dangerous mission. If Eddie had anything to hide, where would he hide it? Under the mattress? No, that's the first place someone would look. He'd want to hide it from snooping landlords or cleaning ladies, so it would have to be somewhere a traveler wouldn't normally stash valuables.

I walked the floor, feeling for loose floorboards but everything seemed nailed down tight. I looked under the mattress, couldn't help myself. Nothing. I felt the cushions on the chair but came up empty. It wouldn't be that elaborate anyway; it would have to be someplace he could get to easily and quickly in case he needed to make a fast exit.

I opened the window and stuck my head out into the rain, looking for what I don't know. A hidey-hole in the brickwork maybe? The wall within reach was disappointingly solid, and all I came up with was a face full of water.

I wiped my eyes and looked at the room again, remembering that roll of electrical tape. There were only a few surfaces hidden from view so I started on those. Behind the bedboard: nothing. Behind the bureau: nothing except cobwebs. I felt along the bottom of the bureau and came up with nothing but thin, cracked wood, the underside of the bottom drawer. I opened that drawer and felt the bottom of the one above it. My hand brushed the dry wood, sweeping back and forth. At the back, my fingers caught on paper. I pulled at it, and a sealed blank envelope came out, dangling two strips of black tape.

It was a good hiding place. You couldn't see it but Eddie could reach in and grab it in a second. I sat in the chair and listened to the rain drive itself against the window for a minute, hoping this would finally tell me something useful. Maybe it would or maybe it contained dirty pictures or his last will and testament. I ripped the envelope open and read the top typewritten sheet.

DATE: 3 November 1943 FROM: Charlie Kerins, chief of staff, Irish Republican Army, Dublin TO: IRA Northern Command

IRA units of the Northern Command are ordered to provide all necessary assistance to the bearer of this letter. His true identity will not be revealed for reasons of security. He is on a mission to gather evidence to determine the guilt, or innocence, of IRA member Jack Taggart, also known as Red Jack, in the matter of embezzlement of funds from Clan na Gael and the Irish Hospitals' Sweepstake.

Funds sent from America have gone missing, and the bearer of this letter is charged with determining if Jack Taggart is guilty, and if so, to recover the funds and apprehend him for an IRA court-martial.

Additionally, IRA Northern Command units are directed to assist in any other tactical operations these two men are engaged in, without reference to the above.

So the hunter had become the hunted. Red Jack must've tumbled to his game and decided all Mahoney was going to get was that single pound note. That was meant to throw us off track. The IRA in Dublin would know what had happened but not the northern IRA, if Eddie had not made contact yet. The last sentence was interesting. Apparently even embezzlement didn't trump fifty BARs. Eddie had thought he was using Red Jack, and all the time it was the other way around. I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

The second sheet was on different, cheaper paper, handwritten, probably with the fountain pen Eddie had left behind. Each entry was headed with a date and time, and it had the look of a surveillance record. I scanned the notes; most of them appeared to be about IRA meets or casing Ballykinler. There were several mentions of Clough, and I wondered if they'd stopped for a pint on the way back from driving by the base. Two entries for Armagh caught my eye. October 25 at 2:00 p.m., Eddie observed Red Jack meet an unidentified male carrying a briefcase outside the Northern Bank. They entered together but left separately half an hour later. Red Jack had told Eddie he was going to meet an American GI who had information about the layout of the base. He later claimed the GI failed to show. Eddie followed him to the bank again on the morning of November 3, and this time he recorded a description of the other man. Short, sandy-haired, midtwenties.

That description fit a lot of Irishmen. It also perfectly described Adrian Simms. But it made no sense at all. Adrian was probably in cahoots with Andrew Jenkins. Red Jack? It wasn't likely he'd be working both sides of the sectarian wars. Maybe he was undercover? I doubted it but I'd ask DI Carrick about it to be sure. I wondered about McBurney and what he hadn't told me. Maybe I could get Carrick to bring him in for questioning, Black Knight brothers or no.

The October date nagged at me. Hadn't Micheal said that McBurney gave him and a new teller the afternoon off about a month ago? Was there any connection? Red Jack Taggart entering a Protestant bank was unusual, that's for sure. Especially since it seemed like he was making a deposit, not robbing and shooting up the place. Then it hit me. What a perfect hiding place for embezzled IRA funds. An assumed identity, and the money is deposited under the watchful eye of a Royal Black Knight. Maybe the short guy he met had introduced him to McBurney and recommended the bank. Was he an accomplice or a dupe? Or was Red Jack simply saving his pennies?

I pocketed the papers and went back down to the bar. Colin had kept my dinner warm and I ate my sausages and boxty, hardly noticing what was on my plate. I had a whole new motive for Red Jack's actions now, and things were beginning to make sense. Except why had he gone through with the arms theft? If he knew the IRA Command was onto him, why bother? Why hadn't he simply taken the money and run?

Morning arrived too soon but at least it brought sunlight and blue skies. After yesterday's cold winds and rain it made everything seem fresh and new, scrubbed clean and verdant. The air was cool and crisp as I drove from headquarters down the hill to the Slieve Donard Hotel in Newcastle to meet Slaine O'Brien for our trip to Stormont Castle. The Boston Irish part of me didn't like the sound of that one bit but at least I was being taken there as an ally, not a prisoner.

Main Street was quiet, the shops and businesses not yet open. I turned right on Railway Street, which led to the railroad station and the hotel, driving close to waves lapping the hard-packed gray sand beach as I slowed to enter the gravel drive. The hotel was an ornate, four-story, red-brick affair, with a single tower jutting skyward above the main entrance. Military and civilian vehicles were neatly parked along the front but I could see a few jeeps and an ambulance farther down, along the wing of the hotel that faced the sea, parked at angles to each other on the lawn. The haphazard arrangement was out of place with the studied elegance of the building and grounds, so I drove closer for a look. I could see RUC and British Army uniforms among the men in plainclothes standing around, looking up at something beyond my line of vision. I got out and walked over, a feeling of dread washing over me. This was a crime scene.

The wing of the hotel was angled to face the water, and as I drew closer I saw orderly rows of double windows and dormers set against red brick and gray slate. Except that one of those windows was blown out, black streaks radiating from the edges. Debris lay strewn on the ground, and firemen were rolling up hoses and putting away their gear. The air smelled of smoke and ashes.

"Stand back, sir," a British corporal said, his hand held up in a polite but firm command.

"What happened?" I asked. He looked away and stood at attention, as did the other soldiers, while a stretcher was brought out of the hotel bearing a figure covered in a white sheet. It looked like a body but it didn't lie right under the covering. It was uneven, as if pieces were missing or terribly twisted.