James Benn - Evil for evil

WE PULLED INTO the rear of the brick RUC station on Musgrave Road as DI Carrick took Uncle Dan by the arm and led him up the steps. It wasn't a tight grip and he didn't use handcuffs. Professional courtesy, I guess.

"Major Cosgrove?" a constable asked as we stepped out of the vehicle. "Message for you, sir. Follow me." We did, turning right as we entered the building. I watched Uncle Dan and Carrick disappear down the opposite corridor. We were taken to a radio room. An operator handed Cosgrove a dispatch, which he read carefully then held over an ashtray and lit with his lighter. He held it until flames licked his fingers, and then dropped it.

"Operation Sea Eagle II," he said in a whisper. "A Focke-Wulf Condor will take off from Saint-Servais in Brittany this evening. Two men will be dropped by parachute tonight, somewhere near the border."

"How do you know-?"

"Never mind that, Boyle. What matters is we do know."

"Are you going to intercept it?"

"What would you suggest, Subaltern O'Brien?" Cosgrove said, ushering us out into the deserted hallway.

"I'd prefer those two men alive. Let them come."

"Of course. Only sensible thing to do at this point. Now let's find out what your relative has been up to and then work out this little puzzle."

A little puzzle. That's all this was to the old men of the British Empire, the riddle of the Irish. I didn't have much sympathy for the Luftwaffe, based on recent experiences, but I did feel sorry for those guys, gearing up for their flight, not knowing that their lives were being weighed in the balance. Was their part of the puzzle to live or die? I hoped no one was thinking about me that way, and then I remembered Slaine and her secret meetings. Was I part of her puzzle? And if so, was I her solution?

We entered what looked like home. A big room, desks pushed together, guys pecking at typewriters, talking on telephones with receivers scrunched between cheek and shoulder as they took notes, the low buzz of talk and back talk and all the familiar noises of a big city stationhouse. Rising above the Ulster Irish accents was one pure American voice.

"… so then I says to him, 'Either way is fine with me!'"

Laughter broke out at the punch line from a group of constables crowded around Uncle Dan, who took a sip of tea from a mug one of them handed him. He was grinning ear to ear as he winked at me, charming everyone around him as usual. I watched DI Carrick in his office, through the open door, as he spoke on the telephone, one eye on Uncle Dan.

"Billy, come here and tell our brother officers about your first arrest, that Frenchman who couldn't keep his pants on, wasn't it?" He set down the mug and hitched his trousers up, the way he always did when he carried a pistol, badge, and cuffs. Cop force of habit. He rocked on his heels, his head tilted back as he brushed his thick brown hair off his forehead. He looked good, still strong, broad in the shoulders with blue eyes that drank in everything around him.

The constables looked eagerly at me but I wasn't the storyteller Uncle Dan was. I saw Carrick hang up.

"I think we're keeping DI Carrick waiting," I said.

The group broke up, a few of the men wishing Uncle Dan luck before moving back to their desks and duties. Carrick motioned us in. His office was long and narrow, a conference table to the right of his desk, along a window that overlooked the room. He sat at the head under a portrait of King George VI, gazing serenely over us in his naval uniform, one hand languidly resting on a chair, gold braid up the elbow. Uncle Dan looked at it, then turned away to face Major Cosgrove and Slaine across the table. He shook his head slowly and muttered something under his breath. I didn't dare ask him what he'd said.

"I have many questions for you," Carrick said as he opened a small notepad. "But please begin with how you came to know about the bomb in the truck."

"I'll not speak further in front of this lot," Uncle Dan said, gesturing dismissively with his thumb toward Slaine and Cosgrove.

"You certainly will, and answer every question put to you," Cosgrove said, his cheeks puffed out in indignation. "I've half a mind to take you in for espionage as it is."

"The old man has only half a mind, as he says," Uncle Dan said, turning to face Slaine. "What's your excuse?"

"Hold on," I said, watching Cosgrove's face redden. "I think we're all after the same thing here, so let's not fight each other. OK?" I laid my hand on Uncle Dan's arm and held my breath. Dad always said I got my wiseacre mouth from his brother Dan, and he was right. Problem was, right now we needed some of Dad's calm diplomacy, and this branch of the Boyle clan was short on both.

"Allow me to suggest that Mr. Boyle need not worry about the security services carting him off if there is no proof of actual espionage," Carrick said. "I would remind you that we would all be in very small pieces right now if not for his arrival, which was at great risk to himself."

"Yes," Cosgrove said. "I suppose we do owe him that. Very well."

"Mr. Boyle, your nephew has been working with Major Cosgrove and his section. As a ranking detective yourself, I am sure you understand they must be involved."

"I can't fault you there. I can see why you're a district inspector, you've got a fair hand," Uncle Dan said. "OK, I'll lay it out for you, as best I can."

"The bomb?" Carrick said, his pen poised.

"Well, now, I have to start back a ways first. Without revealing unnecessary details of names and identities, I'll just say that I was asked by an organization in the States to pay a visit to Ireland-the Republic of Ireland-and investigate charges of embezzlement against one Jack Taggart."

"Was it Clan na Gael?" Slaine said. "Such an assignment must've come from Joe McGarrity himself."

"There's no need for names, young lady. And it was a request, not an assignment, from an organization that sends funds to Dublin to benefit hospitals and to care for the sick. I work for the Boston Police Department. I had plenty of vacation due me, so I decided it was time to see the world. I booked passage on a neutral steamer to Cork, all nice and legal."

"Proceeds from illegal Irish Hospitals' Sweepstake tickets sold in the United States," Slaine offered. "Funds for IRA activities are often conveyed along with their proceeds."

"That's a fine story, but certain details are not necessary," Uncle Dan said. "What's important is that this fine fraternal organization was concerned that Taggart was siphoning off funds."

"We understand, Mr. Boyle. I am not concerned with the legality of sweepstakes tickets at the moment. Please continue," Carrick said, with a quick glance at Slaine. I could tell Carrick wanted her to shut up and let the story come out.

"All right then. I get to Dublin and find that Taggart is no longer at the Sweepstake-I mean his place of employment-although they still carry him on their books. I ask questions in certain quarters that the young lady does not need to mention, and I find out that he's gone north, over the border. That presents me with a problem. The border's closed up tighter than a spinster's knees, and I have no idea where to look. So, I do two things. I search for his relatives, and I buy a motorcycle."

"For slipping across the border," Cosgrove said.

"And then saving your hide, yes. Taggart's parents are both dead but I find an aunt, his father's sister. I tell her I was with Jack in Spain, that we served together in the International Brigade, and I wanted to get in touch. It took a bit of charm and a damn lot of tea, but finally she said it couldn't do any harm to tell an old comrade that Jack was somewhere in County Down, about to do something grand for the cause."

I leaned forward, about to ask a question, but stopped when I realized I didn't know what it was. Something in what he'd said triggered a question in my mind but it was so far down I couldn't even put it into words. Like Dad said, sometimes your subconscious does its job but it takes its own sweet time about it.