James Benn - Evil for evil

"Not me, Grady. Adrian Simms is dead."

"Jesus," Grady and Tom said at the same moment. I went behind the bar and called the division HQ, speaking to the new executive officer, Thornton's replacement. He was eager to please.

"He said there's a stone bridge across Glen River. They'll meet us there," I said to Slaine.

"How did he die then?" Grady asked me, ignoring Slaine.

"Bullet to the heart," I said.

"IRA? Red Hand? Smugglers?" Tom asked.

"His wife."

"Jesus," they said again.

"We have to go," Slaine said, cutting the conversation short. "There will be a lot of RUC men by shortly; they may need directions to Constable Simms's house."

"And where are you going, lass?" Grady said, his first acknowledgment of her presence. He raised his glass to his lips, watching her as he drank. I saw her eyes on his fingers, and wondered if she knew his story. If not his story, then if she knew what it meant.

"Away from here, old man."

I glanced at Grady as I followed her out. He was laughing, a wheezy, ancient laugh, and I wondered what could possibly have struck him as funny, having just heard of the death of Adrian Simms by his wife's hand, and then been insulted by an Irish girl in a British uniform.

We drove through Newcastle, into Donard Wood, past HQ, and along a dirt track until we came to the stone bridge. Three jeeps were parked off the track. I didn't see anyone until armed men appeared from nowhere, surrounding the car, blackened faces staring through the windows, weapons pointed at us.

"Lieutenant Boyle? I'm Sergeant Farrell, follow me please," one of them said, lowering his weapon.

"Here's your gum-chewing Yanks, Subaltern," I said as we got out of the jeep.

"My mistake, Billy. They appear fairly competent."

"Is that you, Billy?" Bob Masters said, shining a flashlight with a red night-vision lens in my face. "Who's that with you?"

"Yep, that's me. Thanks for joining the party. Lieutenant Bob Masters, this is Subaltern Slaine O'Brien. British Army."

"Slaine?" he said, pronouncing it carefully, to be sure he understood. "That's a girl's name, I thought." He shined the flashlight beam on her, and one of his men whistled.

"Shaddup," Masters said in a low growl. "Beg your pardon, Subaltern. I didn't expect a female, that's all. I assume this is not a drill?"

"Not a problem, Lieutenant. And this is for real." Slaine briefed Masters and his men, giving them Taggart's description, telling them about the FW-200 and the German agents.

"There may be other IRA men, or Taggart may be alone. We've no way of knowing," she said.

"This is the guy who stole the BARs?" Masters asked.

"Yes. He may be armed with one," Slaine said.

"Not if he's as smart as you say. I wouldn't hump one of those things up a mountain, an M1 is heavy enough. There are extra canteens, wool caps, and gloves in the jeep if you need them. Billy, you want some extra armament?" Bob asked as he watched Slaine check her clip.

"No, I have my. 45. I think we have enough firepower as it is."

I took a canteen and gloves, and we headed up a rocky path that followed the river, which was swollen and overflowing from the recent rains. Water splashed down the hillside. The path was narrow, and at times it was easier to go rock to rock in the water, catching a bit of moonlight outside of the canopy of trees. The only sounds were boots on hard earth and smooth stone, gurgling water, and the labored gasps of my own breathing. In no time I was soaked in sweat, my thighs aching from climbing the steady incline and my lungs heaving to draw in enough breath for the next step. I looked at my watch. We'd only been at it for fifteen minutes. I stopped to take a drink and splash cold water on my face.

"You OK, Lieutenant?" It was Callahan, the Irish kid in Masters's platoon. I remembered his voice from the mess hall but I wouldn't have recognized him in broad daylight. His face was blackened and a GI wool cap was pulled down tight.

"Yeah," I said, trying to sound normal. "Little out of shape maybe."

"Hell, we've run up this thing a few times. A walk in the park."

Then he was gone. I moved as quickly as I could, not wanting to be overtaken by the Tail End Charlie or to be outpaced by Slaine, both of which were distinctly possible. Pride won out over exhaustion, and I caught up to her about thirty minutes later. Masters had called a halt and was signaling two men to move ahead as I came upon them.

"Tree line ends ahead," he said in a whisper. "They're on point. Not a lot of room to spread out up there, steep walls on either side of the valley. We move out as soon as they check out the icehouse."

"Icehouse?"

"Yeah, you'll see it. Like a big stone igloo, built a hundred years ago, they say, over an underground chamber they kept filled with ice where they stored food all year round. Be a hell of a hiding place now."

We waited. I didn't hear a thing but after a couple of minutes a GI appeared in front of us and gave the all clear signal. Then he was gone, and Masters had us head up the treeless path one by one, spaced out so we could see the person ahead of us but not make easy targets. I began to wish I did have a rifle so I could use it for a crutch. I began to hate Red Jack Taggart all over again. This was worse than being shot at.

I cursed silently as sweat dripped into my eyes. I cursed Taggart, I cursed Slaine O'Brien for coming along and having legs like a jackrabbit. I cursed Major Cosgrove and Uncle Ike for sending me here. I cursed the highest mountain in Northern Ireland, and I cursed Andrew Jenkins for getting himself killed before I had time to eat my lunch. I got into a rhythm of cursing, damning the Irish for their feuds and the English for being here. I cursed Pete Brennan for his greed and Sam Burnham for standing in front of the window. I cursed a blue streak at Diana for wanting to be a spy and at Adrian Simms for not being satisfied with his life as a cop. I cursed his wife for wanting him to be something he wasn't, but found I was cussed out when I thought about her shooting him. That at least was logical, as terrible as it was. He should have known her better.

Who was left? Should I curse myself? Grady O'Brick came to mind, and what he'd said when Sergeant Lynch drove by. The curse of his own weapons upon him. And the next morning, he was dead. Maybe I should lay off the cursing. Sooner or later I'd come to yours truly, and to be honest, I had some coming. I'd been a bum with Diana, I knew that. It didn't change how I felt about her taking chances with a Gestapo interrogation but it hadn't been my best moment.

And I felt like a traitor to everything my dad and uncle had taught me about the struggle to free Ireland. I hadn't changed my mind about the British overlords but I saw things from a different angle, one that revealed the suffering that comes with unresolved hate. God help me, Slaine's plan to kill off the worst of each side had made sense to me, at least in the early stages. But I knew that when people in uniform started playing God, sooner than later they unleashed demons beyond their control.

So I cursed myself among all the other Irish. For believing in fairy tales that masked sectarian slaughter. For not thinking about where things led. And for failing my grandfather, Liam O'Baoighill, who wished to send an avenging warrior back to the old country, to strike hard at the British masters. Instead, here I was, gasping for air about a quarter mile up, scrambling over rocks by the light of a half-moon to put a stop to an IRA plot to do just that.

Damn my eyes.

Crack. Crack. Two sharp sounds, pistol shots maybe, echoed off the rock slopes on either side of us. Impossible to pinpoint the source. We all froze, waiting for the next shots, wondering if they'd be aimed our way. All my curses were forgotten, as an unspoken truth flashed through my mind: I'm glad it wasn't me.