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  O'Brien said, "Six weeks ago we intercepted a message from Tom Barry, the IRA intelligence director, to Joe McGarrity in America, head of Clan na Gael. Do you know of him?"

  "I've heard the name." I didn't mention that I'd heard the name when Uncle Dan introduced me to him. Joe McGarrity had had Sunday supper at our home when he was in Boston a few years ago, along with an IRA man named Seamus Rafferty. Raising money for the Cause. I wanted to find out what this was about but I didn't think they'd keep me in their confidence if they knew the Boyle household was a regular gathering place for the Irish Republican movement. To us, Republican didn't mean Wendell Willkie, it meant a united Ireland. Free of the English. I did my best to make my replies neutral, free of politics, to keep them talking. At least listening to Subaltern O'Brien's voice was pleasant.

  "The message was 'Ask Clan na Gael to rush supplies.'"

  "Supplies for what?"

  "Five days ago, a U.S. Army arms depot at Ballykinler in Northern Ireland was raided. They got away with fifty of the latest models of the Browning Automatic Rifle and over two hundred thousand rounds of ammunition. What do you think it's for, Lieutenant Boyle?"

  "Are you certain it was the IRA? Not German saboteurs?"

  "About four miles from the main gate, we found the body of Eddie Mahoney, a known IRA man. Shot twice in the back of the head and left with a pound note folded in the palm of his hand."

  "The mark of the informer," I said automatically.

  "You do seem to know something of the ways of the IRA, Boyle," Cosgrove said. "Do you have Republican leanings yourself?"

  "It wouldn't matter if I did. General Eisenhower told me to cooperate, and that's what I plan to do."

  "Excellent. We take this matter very seriously, especially given the involvement of this Tom Barry chap. He proposed an invasion of Northern Ireland by the IRA about ten years ago. He was overruled by IRA general staff then but he could be trying again. Money from America, arms from the U.S. Army, and perhaps involvement by the Abwehr. We will work on the German angle, and we want you to investigate the arms theft in Ireland."

  "In Northern Ireland?"

  "Of course. Ulster."

  "Of course."

  I had always wondered if I'd make it to the old sod someday. Now I would but it wasn't County Roscommon I'd be seeing. It was the northern counties, home of the Orangemen and the Red Hand of Ulster, where the Protestants still celebrated their victory over the Catholics at the Battle of the Boyne more than two hundred and fifty years ago. It had always seemed a dark, brutal, and bitter land of long, unforgiving memories. My childhood fear of the Orangeman welled up within me and I shivered. In my house, it wasn't the bogeyman who would come get you if you were bad, it was the Orangeman. My grandfather used to tell us about their parades every July celebrating the Battle of the Boyne, how they'd march through Catholic neighborhoods with their English flags and orange banners, thrashing any Catholic boys they found on the street.

  It felt like I was being sent to hell itself.

  It was a shock when Cosgrove informed me that I had to leave in fifteen minutes.

  "Pack up your kit, Boyle. There will be a car out front waiting to drive you to the aerodrome at Lydda. Subaltern O'Brien will accompany you and provide further instructions. General Eisenhower will inform your Major Harding about this assignment but you are to discuss it with no one. You can expect spies and informers everywhere in Palestine with all the Arabs and Jews about. No time to waste, my boy. The RAF operates on a tight schedule."

  With that, he shook my hand and heaved himself down the stairs to the main lobby. It was typical of the British to express dismay at so many of the local population in their occupied territories. It seemed to me the Brits never met a foreigner they liked or a foreign land they didn't.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I had fifteen minutes to find Diana and tell her I was leaving. It wasn't the best timing, in view of the fight we'd had. A few minutes was not going to be long enough to convince her to give up the SOE while I went off on a mission, but I had to think of a way to get through to her. I went over what Kay had said as I hurried to Diana's room. Don't let your pride kill what the two of you have. Don't be a fool. But who was the fool here? Me, trying to keep Diana from death and torture? Or Kay, driving Uncle Ike around and clasping his secret scribbles to her breast? Or maybe it was Diana, risking death again after all she had been through and all she had lost.

  Diana had gone with the British Expeditionary Force to France in 1940 as a member of the FANY, working at headquarters as a switchboard operator. But the German Blitzkrieg had turned rear areas into front lines, and soon she was part of the retreat to Dunkirk and found herself caring for wounded soldiers crammed onto the deck of a British destroyer. When the Stukas came, dive-bombing and strafing the ship, she'd watched the stretcher cases slide into the cold channel waters as the destroyer capsized. Everywhere around her, men died, the waves cresting with corpses, while she survived, unhurt. She'd been rescued and made it back to England, visions of death haunting her dreams, driving the guilt deep inside her.

  Then she lost her sister, Daphne. Daphne had befriended me when I first showed up at U.S. Army headquarters in London, and had been killed when she'd gotten too close to the murderer of a Norwegian official. After that, Diana was determined to go to war as an SOE agent, telling everyone she had to do her duty. But I knew there was more to it; she had to tempt death, and find out if she truly deserved to live. When she was finally sent on a mission, it was betrayed before it began, and she was picked up in Algiers by the Vichy French police. Fascist police. It hadn't been pretty. She'd been drugged, beaten, and raped. It wasn't the clean confrontation with death that she had sought. It was dirty, sordid, horrible, painful, and demeaning. I couldn't let her go through that again. I couldn't go through it again.

  I knocked on her door. No answer. I called to her, rattled the door handle. Silence. I looked at my watch. Ten minutes. I ran to my room down the hall and threw my kit together, shaving gear, soap, and comb wrapped into a hotel towel and stuffed in my field bag with one good spare shirt and a few other articles of clothing. There was just enough room for a bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey, half empty, and a paperback book I'd been reading, also about half done. The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler. It was a murder mystery about a detective working for a general. Seemed right up my alley.

  I buckled on my web belt with the. 45 automatic snug in its holster. I patted the pouches for the extra clips and did a quick check around the room. I had my razor, toothbrush, clean shirt, booze, book, automatic, and ammo. Everything I needed for a long trip to Belfast. Five minutes to go.

  I began to write Diana a note, then realized I didn't know what to say. I wasn't sure about anything. Not her, myself, or where the war might take us. After seeing Kay's note from Uncle Ike, I wasn't sure whom I could trust or if trust even mattered anymore. Maybe I was a fool. I thought about saying I was sorry but I wasn't. I looked at my watch. Five minutes. I wrote fast.

  Diana- I've been called away. Ask the general for details. I can't say anything. May be gone for a while. Let's start over when I get back. Stay safe.

  Billy

  I'm no Raymond Chandler, that's for sure. I thought "stay safe" was good, though. It might mean stay safe at headquarters or it could mean be safe on your SOE mission. I slipped it under her door, and then wished I'd signed it Love, Billy. I was a fool. Too late for love-that summed up the day so far. I stood in the hallway, waiting for a sound to come from within the room. It was quiet, so at least she wasn't inside, ignoring me.

  Two minutes. I had to go. Where had all my fine Irish words gone when I needed them? No wonder they called it the gift of gab; mine had deserted me. I could blather the whole day and into the night but when it came to putting a few words on paper for the woman I loved, I was lost, tongue-tied, reduced to a few trite lines.

  I cursed myself as I ran through the lobby and out through the pink sandstone arches. Cypress trees
shaded the walkway, lending swatches of green to the dusty pinks, beiges, and browns covering the landscape. I glanced back at the hotel, wondering if Diana had opened her door and found my note. Perhaps she was looking out a window and watching me leave, pack slung over my back. Part of me was glad to be going, I was ashamed to admit. It was a way out of my troubles. Not the best way but there was no denying it: I was off to another part of the world, and whatever was going to happen would happen without me. It might be the best thing for Diana and me, I told myself. Like I'd said in the note, when I got back, we could start over. And what if she wasn't around when I got back? Well, I had a long plane ride to figure that one out. I felt the same about Uncle Ike and Kay. Now that I knew something was going on between them, I was secretly relieved that Major Cosgrove had showed up to rescue me from these crosscurrents of passion and deception.

  I didn't like the way things had turned out on this little side trip to the Holy Land. It was supposed to have been fun, a break from the routine of war: the paperwork, the waiting, the moments of terror, the lousy food, and more sudden terror. Instead, the people I loved were acting in ways I didn't understand, moving away from me, shifting and changing the few precious things I had counted on. Damned if it didn't feel good to leave that hotel behind me.

  A British Army corporal gave me one of their backhanded salutes that always made me think they were slapping their foreheads. I gave him a snappy one in return and tossed him my pack. He opened the door of the staff car and I got in back, next to Subaltern O'Brien. She was fanning herself with a file folder marked SECRET in bold red letters.

  "Am I in that file?" I asked.

  "Not this one, Lieutenant Boyle," she said as the driver sped off, scattering pedestrians and the odd donkey with an utter disregard for civilians. As we turned onto the main road, I caught a last glimpse of the old walled city, the New Gate with its narrow archway into the Christian Quarter fading from view as we picked up speed.

  "What are you doing here anyway?" I asked her.

  "Finishing your briefing," she said as she thumbed through the papers in the file.

  "No, I mean serving with the British. You're Irish."

  "So are you," she said.

  "It's not the same. My country is at war, yours isn't. And you're part of MI-5, the same people who go after the IRA in Northern Ireland."

  "Which is exactly what you have been assigned to do, courtesy of General Eisenhower."

  "You know what I mean," I said. "I don't think anyone ordered you to join the ATS, much less become part of MI-5." At that, she shrugged, silently granting the point, as she finally looked up from her file.

  "Are you one of those Irish-Americans who romanticize the brave lads of the IRA, raising pints to them in your Boston bars and crying great rivers of tears when 'Danny Boy' plays? Do the pipes call to you, Billy Boyle, from glen to glen and down the mountainside? I think they must, even in Boston. But you never answer them, do you? You send your money and your guns, you sons of Eire, but not yourselves, so you never see the agony you cause as you keep open the great wounds of our nation. Well, now the pipes have called and you must answer. You must."

  "It's not like that," I said, after I had recovered from the quiet force of her words. "It sounds like you don't like Irish-Americans very much."

  "I'm sure there are some fine ones. One, I even admire very much. Now here's what we know about the theft-"

  "Wait, who is it you admire?"

  "Never mind, it's nothing to do with this. Now listen."

  She went through the file, reviewing the details. The U.S. Army base at Ballykinler regularly received supplies from local farmers and shops. On the night of the raid, a truck loaded with cabbages and rutabagas had been admitted at the gate. Two men, the driver and a helper, had carried the food to the kitchen and then made an unscheduled stop at the arms depot. Fifty Browning Automatic Rifles, newly delivered, and more than two hundred thousand rounds were loaded onto the truck and driven out the main gate. The two men had not been escorted, and there was no search of the truck. Based on the time the truck was signed in and out and the estimated time it took for the food delivery, they broke into the arms depot and loaded up in under ten minutes. Eddie Mahoney's body was found at the side of the road less than half a mile from the base, hands bound behind his back.

  "It must have been an inside job," she concluded. "Except for Mahoney."

  "Was he an informer?" I asked when she closed the file.

  "No. Our information tells us he was trusted by the IRA General Staff in Dublin."

  "Would you tell me if he was an informer?"

  "Yes," she said. "If it would help you, I would. There is one other IRA operative from Dublin you may run across. A man named Jack Taggart. He's called Red Jack because of his leftist political leanings. We know he lived in Dublin and that the IRA General Staff sent him north two years ago to help build up the IRA Northern Command. He fought in Spain against Franco with the Irish Brigade. He's experienced and very secretive. We lost track of him when he crossed the border. It's likely he moved his wife and children north also, since they're nowhere to be found in the Republic. They're probably living under assumed identities."

  "Do you have any evidence this Red Jack character is involved?"

  "No, simply a warning to watch out for him. If you do encounter him, you're to inform me and take no action."

  "How do I do that-inform you, I mean?"

  "I'll be in Belfast soon enough," she said. "I'd be more than impressed if you found Red Jack Taggart in your first few days. I've been hunting him for three years."

  "But how will I get in touch with you then?"

  "Don't worry, I'll find you."

  I didn't like her attitude. I didn't like being told I was predictable, and not to worry. I didn't like her calling the shots. I wasn't used to being given orders by a woman, and the recent blowup with Diana was too fresh in my mind to allow me to take them with grace from this woman.

  "What can you tell me about the truck?" I asked, changing the topic. I liked to ask the questions.

  "It was found abandoned outside of Dundalk, in the Republic."

  "When?"

  "At exactly 6:10 a.m.," she said, consulting a sheet of paper in her file. "By a milkman, near Omeath in County Louth, perhaps twelve or so miles from Dundalk."

  "So they drove the arms across the border?"

  "All we can say is that the truck crossed over. It could have been empty, left there to throw us off the scent."

  "OK, maybe. Whose was it? You said the food delivery was expected at the base."

  "Yes, the truck belonged to a wholesaler who does business with the army. It had been stolen earlier that night, and he had reported it to the police. His story checked out."

  "Any chance he knows more than he's telling?"

  "Yes, its very likely, but he's not hiding anything about the truck. His name is Andrew Jenkins, and he is a major force in the Unionist ranks. We think he's behind the Red Hand Society, a Protestant secret militia."

  "What do they do?"

  "Kill Catholics. Sometimes suspected members of the IRA. Sometimes IRA sympathizers. When they want a reprisal killing, any Catholic will do."

  "Reprisals for what?"

  "Practically anything the IRA does. They started the very day Great Britain went to war. The IRA shot a British soldier, to show the war made no difference to them. Then the Red Hand killed several Catholics unlucky enough to be in Protestant neighborhoods. None had any connection to the original shooting that we know of. At some point, the killings take on a life of their own, if you'll excuse the expression."

  "How so?"

  "So many blood debts build up that it's impossible to keep track of what is a reprisal for what. The Red Hand is a reaction to the IRA actions around Belfast. Most of those are supported from the south, by Clan na Gael funds sent from America. If it wasn't for that support, the IRA might wither and die but instead it gets enough money to keep the fanatics on bo
th sides busy."

  I avoided looking at her, not wanting to react to her statement about America. We drove through an intersection with shops and three-story buildings made from the same pink stone as the King David. More cypress trees rose up along the side of the road, creating spindles of shade that fell across the dwellings. An Arab village dotted a hillside, small gray stone buildings with graceful curved openings set among shrubs and trees. It reminded me of my Sunday school lessons.

  But it wasn't Bible stories I had on my mind. It was the Browning Automatic Rifle. The BAR M1918A2, is capable of firing three hundred to six hundred and fifty rounds per minute, effective up to six hundred yards. Nearly a third of a mile. Fully loaded, it weighed twenty-one pounds. Not something you'd want to run around with, but a fine weapon to fire from ambush, a specialty of the IRA. This I knew from Uncle Dan, who used to tell me stories of his cousins who fought the British and then the Dublin government in the Irish Civil War. In our family, the heroes always were the antitreaty IRA boys, not the Irish police or army. We grieved for Michael Collins, for all he had been, but agreed it had been best that he'd been killed in ambush on that road in County Cork, by those who could not bear the thought of the northern counties of Ulster ruled by Britain, the Irish nation split in two.

  "Do you think the Arabs and Jews will ever live together in peace if the English leave Palestine?" Her question brought me back from thoughts of BARs sending armor-piercing M2 slugs into columns of vehicles as they turned a corner on a narrow country lane. American, British, or Irish-which would be the first target?

  "I wouldn't know," I said. "I'm not Arab, Jewish, or British."

  "I think they'll slaughter each other," she said in a soft voice as she looked out at the buildings on the hillside, their rock houses blending into the land as if they were natural formations.

  "The Red Hand is already slaughtering Catholics," I reminded her.

  "Only a few. It would be more if the Royal Ulster Constabulary and the British Army weren't containing them. Can you imagine Northern Ireland if the English gave it up? There would be a bloodbath."