Simon Berthon - A Secret Worth Killing For

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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017

Copyright © Simon Berthon 2017

Simon Berthon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Ebook Edition © July 2017 ISBN: 9780008214388

Version: 2018-02-06

As a journalist, historian and documentary maker, SIMON BERTHONhas long been fascinated by the secrecies, deceits and ambitions of the state. His previous books are Allies at War and Warlords (with Joanna Potts). A Secret Worth Killing For is his first novel.

For Penelope,

and for Helena and Olivia

Cover

Title

Copyright

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

Acknowledgements

July 1991

‘The movement needs your help.’ She’s lying next to him in Falls Park, the summer of 1991. A-levels are over, the sun shines, university beckons. A scholarship at Trinity College, Dublin, is in the offing and, in the case of clever Maire Anne McCartney, the teachers are confident.

‘Whaddya mean, Joseph?’ she asks, propping herself on an elbow and looking down into his eyes.

‘You’re committed, aren’t you,’ he says. It’s a statement – a confirmation – not a question.

‘Course,’ she replies. ‘Politically, anyway. Freedom, equality.’

‘Politics won’t get us there. It’s the struggle that matters.’

‘I’d never stand in your way, Joseph, you know that. It’s just not the way for me.’ She leans down and gives him a peck on the forehead.

The brightness of the day illuminates him, the chiselled chin, full lips, straight nose, the sparkle in his azure eyes. She expects him to put his arms round her, pull her on to him and roll in the grass till they laugh themselves to a halt. Last night they made love three times; she can still feel him inside her.

He turns away, avoiding her. She detects a tightening in his eyes, a clenching of the cheeks she’s never quite seen before.

‘You know I love you, don’t you, Maire?’

‘Course I do. And I love you too, Joseph. Don’t I always say it?’

‘You do. But just this once I need you too,’ he says, turning back to her. ‘I mean the movement needs you.’

A quiver of alarm. ‘I dunno what you mean.’ He shifts away again. ‘You better tell me,’ she urges.

His eyes swivel and engage hers with a ferocious intensity. ‘There’s a Brit peeler over here – name of Halliburton – Special Branch. On some kind of loan. We’ve been tracking him. He gets lonely at night, drinks in the Europa, eyes up the bar girls. But doesn’t follow through. Around eleven, he’s in his car, heading back to Castlereagh. They’re either housing him in the station or somewhere near; we’re not sure. We wanna speak with him.’

‘Speak with him, Joseph? Whaddya mean, speak with him?’

‘Interrogate him. Find out what he’s doing. Get some intelligence.’

‘And then what? When you’ve interrogated him.’

‘Just scare him. Let him know we’re onto him. Suggest it’s time he leaves.’

‘What’d be the point of that?’

‘Propaganda. How we ran a Brit SB man out of our island. It’ll read well.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘Aye, that’s all.’

She rolls over and sits up straight – he raises himself alongside her.

‘Does Martin know ’bout this?’ she asks. ‘Course he knows.’

‘And ’bout you speaking to me.’

‘He would, wouldn’t he? But it couldn’t come from him, could it? Not brother to sister. Wouldn’t be right.’

‘But he knows.’

‘Well, he would.’

She stands up, the warmth of the sun heating her back through her light-red jumper. It’s not enough in itself to create the sweat that’s prickling her. He springs up and ranges alongside.

‘We just need you to attract him. Your quick wits, quick tongue, it’ll be easy. Just a chat-up in the bar, you’re a student wanting a free drink. You take him to a flat. We got one ready in the university area.’

He outlines the plan. All she’s doing is picking up a bloke over a drink. Happens every night, hundreds of times over. She’s listening hard – he cranks it up. ‘Look, Maire, there are moments when you can’t just stand by and look on. Be a passive observer. At some point, everyone has to do their bit. Look at the leadership now, the politicians. Do you think all they ever did was talk?’

‘I’ve just finished A-levels, Joseph.’ Her first instinct is to repel him but right now, at this moment, she doesn’t want to show weakness that could invite his disapproval.

‘Aye, you’ve done well. But you’re eighteen now, grown up. An adult. You’ve responsibilities.’

‘What about responsibilities to myself?’

‘That’s just selfishness. It’s not just the struggle, it’s your friends, your family, your community.’

She halts abruptly. Divis mountain ahead, so often a dour, brooding darkness, seems almost radiant, a mass of green light.

‘I’ve never got involved in that way.’

‘Aye, but this isn’t like that.’

‘You promise me it’s just to interrogate him?’

‘Aye.’

‘No violence. No beating. Just propaganda. Just to show you can do it.’

‘Aye.’

‘I need to hear you promise me, Joseph.’

‘That’s fine. I promise.’

‘You give me your word.’

‘Aye.’

‘And Martin approves?’

‘Aye, he would, that’s for sure. No doubt ’bout that.’

She thinks in silence. She remembers the hunger strikers dying when she’s still a girl and the hatred for the British oppressor. Three years later, she shares her big brother’s pleasure when the IRA blows up Mrs Thatcher’s hotel in Brighton. She knows the cause is just but, for her, school, good results, getting to university become the priority. The British state is still hateful, but her belief in the ‘armed struggle’ deflates like a slow puncture.