Evil for Evil (30 page)
CARRICK HAD SENT a squad out to round up Simms but he was nowhere to be found. He had set the wheels in motion for a Crown prosecutor to investigate the Armagh bank, McBurney, and the accounts of the mysterious Mr. Lawson but that wasn’t going to help us right now. He’d also put in a call to Major Cosgrove, then pointedly asked us to leave his office. Uncle Dan was stuck with Constable Porter, one of the men who had been at Jenkins’s warehouse. Carrick had called Porter his “escort,” but it was clear he was also a minder, charged with keeping Uncle Dan on a short leash.
Sláine had watched Carrick on the telephone with Cosgrove through the office window, lines of worry furrowing her brow. I wondered if Carrick was considering charges against her, then decided he was actually wondering if he could make them stick. In time of war, MI-5 personnel were not likely to be brought into a courtroom. But it was easy to see that Sláine’s schemes went far beyond what Carrick was willing to condone. He was a straight arrow, maybe not a great friend of the Irish Republic but a policeman you could count on to go by the book. And the book didn’t countenance assassinations, no matter how carefully balanced between extremist groups. Still, he didn’t strike me as naive, and unless he had a couple of aces up his sleeve, he wasn’t going to handcuff Sláine O’Brien anytime soon.
Sláine was the one with the worries. She was quick to come up with a reason to leave RUC headquarters. The only link we had to Simms was his wife, and we both thought it worth a visit to see if we could shake any information out of her. It was better than sitting around waiting for reports from a string of radar stations, so I told Uncle Dan and Constable Porter where we were headed, and that we’d call in after we talked with Mrs. Simms.
Former Corporal Finch had been quick about finding sergeant’s stripes, and he gave them the occasional glance as he drove us south, through Carryduff and Ballynahinch, small market towns with gray granite buildings marked by rows of four-stacker chimneys. Rain splattered on the windshield as the sky darkened. We had a wet and cold night of waiting ahead of us.
“I never should have let you see those files,” Sláine said. She stared out the window, streaks of rain making tiny rivers across the glass. She tapped a finger against her lips, calculating where she’d gone wrong, granted me too much, and revealed her dealings with Catholic and Protestant devils.
“Then we wouldn’t have made the connection between Taggart and Simms,” I said.
“I’m not sure how important that is in the larger scheme of things. What you have to understand is that there always will be a divide in Ireland. The solution is managing it.”
“And managing it is more important than recovering the stolen weapons?”
“Fifty automatic weapons are serious, I grant you. But I had an opportunity to maintain an equilibrium, possibly for years. What’s fifty guns, which may or may not ever be used, against that?”
“I get nervous when people who work for outfits like MI-5 use words like equilibrium when they mean murder, even if the victims are killers themselves. Call it what it is; don’t try to dress it up. At best, you’re a vigilante,” I said.
“And at worst?” She traced a line on the glass, her finger leaving an arc in the condensation.
“That’s not for me to say. Uncle Dan once told me that we all know the worst of ourselves, and that it’s only the truly evil who let themselves off the hook.”
“I saved lives. I did.”
“Yes,” I said, but at what cost to her soul? I wasn’t the one to judge her, I knew that much.
We stopped at an intersection as a column of trucks crossed in front of us. A sign pointed toward Lurgan, where tomorrow at this time the Royal Black Knights would be gathering at Brownlow House to honor their American cousins and do whatever secret societies did. Some sort of ritual perhaps? Funny clothes, handshakes, odd titles? I wondered if Cosgrove was a worshipful master of some sort, and if he’d enjoy being saluted as such. Maybe I should drop in and give all those Protestant bigwigs a real Boston Irish surprise.
“What do you know about the Royal Black Knights? Are they really a harmless bunch of lodge brothers?”
“Harmless implies a lack of power, which they are not short of. They are a step above the Orange societies and provide stability among the professional classes. Not dangerous but hardly harmless.”
“All heavy hitters?”
“Pardon me?”
“Important men. Movers and shakers.”
“Ah, I see. Yes. I can’t think of any leader in business or government, not to mention the military, who isn’t a member.”
“And you would know. You probably have files on all of them.”
“Lists of members, certainly. Some names are too important to keep dossiers on. At least in the official files.”
“Really? Well, maybe you won’t have to worry about losing your job if you know all those secrets.”
“It wouldn’t be my job I’d be worried about,” Sláine said.
“What do you mean?”
“My position offers certain protections. But I do have enemies, and it might be difficult to sort out who was responsible if one of them got to me. After what happened today, have you rethought the matter of the bomb at the hotel?”
“No. It must have been Taggart, right? He had a supply of plastic explosive.”
“I don’t buy it. Think about it. He must have already set up Jenkins’s death and planned the trap for all of us. Then why go through all the trouble of planting that bomb to kill me the night before? It doesn’t make sense. He’s the one suspect we can eliminate.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Simms?”
“I don’t see why. He’s already taken care of Brennan and Burnham. As far as he knows, we haven’t made the connection between him and Taggart yet.”
“So who else wants you dead?”
“That could be a long list. The real question is who needed me dead
now
?”
I didn’t have an answer for that. Thinking about all the people who’d like to kill you doesn’t make for cheery conversation, so I let it drop as Sláine gazed at her reflection in the window. I couldn’t tell if there were tears in her eyes or if it was the rain splattering against the glass.
We passed the Lug o’ the Tub Pub and the boreen leading to Grady O’Brick’s cottage. We pulled up in front of Simms’s house. Rain dripped off the thatch but the smell of a fire promised warmth. I knocked on the heavy wooden door as Sláine and I huddled beneath the overhanging thatch, water catching our backs.
“Yes?” Mrs. Simms said, opening the door wide. “Are you looking for Adrian?”
“Yes, ma’am, we are. May we come in?” She stood there, the wind blowing rain into the house and carrying her loose black hair into swirls around her head.
“Of course, forgive me,” she finally said, as if she’d just woken up. “Lieutenant Boyle, isn’t it? Here, let me take your coats, it’s a sinful night to be out.”
“This is Subaltern Sláine O’Brien,” I said, shaking the water off my trench coat. She nodded at Sláine as she helped her with her raincoat with no trace of animosity. From the little I’d seen of her, and from what I’d heard about her, I didn’t expect a warm welcome for two Catholics. But Sláine was in a British uniform, and that probably helped. She hung our coats on pegs near the door, and gestured to chairs near the fire.
“Please, sit.” She clutched a shawl at her breast as she sat on a straight-back chair, leaving the two cushioned seats for her guests. It was all very cordial but there was something about her hair and the way she gripped the shawl that looked wrong. Before, she had been very prim and tidy. Now she looked like a wild woman, her hand crushing the shawl in her grip.
“We need Adrian’s help,” Sláine said, smoothing out her skirt. “Have you seen him today?”
“He’s my husband, isn’t he?” she said, evading the question. “All the same, I don’t think you should count on him for much help.”
“We’re all on the same side, Mrs. Simms,” I said. “I know there are differences here that go back centuries but we do have a common enemy.”
“You know, I said the same thing to Adrian just this morning. That whatever happened in the past, we all have to do our part now.”
“This morning?” Sláine said. “Was that when you saw him last?”
“Oh no, I’ve seen him since then. What do you need him for?”
“It’s important,” Sláine said.
“German agents,” I said. “We need him to help us find German agents.” I watched her face as she looked back and forth, at us, around the room, to the door leading to what had to be the kitchen, as if she expected Adrian to walk in at any moment. “Are you expecting someone? Is Adrian here?”
“Do you think I don’t know where my own husband is? Do you think I’m mad, is that it? He’s my husband, he is. A good, God-fearing Protestant. No more, no less. A man I’ll spend my life with, right here, in this house. Not off to some other land.”
“Mrs. Simms?” Sláine prompted. Something about the woman’s conversation was odd.
A faint odor penetrated my senses. Not the scent of the peat fire, not the smell of a cigarette. Something else.
“When you marry,” Mrs. Simms said, cautioning Sláine, “you expect your husband to be who he says he is. But all men have secrets, I suppose. One secret, even a shameful one, could be forgiven. But not another. Not one that betrays everything you hold dear.”
She began to cry, with big gulping sobs. She let go of the shawl, her hand covered her mouth, and the shawl slipped from her heaving shoulders. Her blouse was stained dark red between her breasts, but there was no wound. Then I recognized the odor. Cordite lingered in the air, the faintly peppery smell of spent gunpowder drawing out another terrible and familiar scent.
“Have Finch drive to the pub and call Carrick,” I said to Sláine as I walked to the kitchen door. Mrs. Simms was hunched over now, silent, her head buried in her hands. I entered the narrow room, the smell of death heavy in the air. Gunpowder and blood, whiskey and piss. Adrian Simms faced me, seated at the end of a small kitchen table, his face tilted toward the ceiling, his mouth slack. His revolver lay on the table, surrounded by a box of shells and cleaning gear. Bore brush, rags, an old toothbrush, and solvent. A bottle of whiskey had been tipped over, the amber liquid soaking into the tabletop. A broken glass lay on the floor.
One shot to the heart. Simms wasn’t in uniform. He had on a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. A dark hole above his shirt pocket was tattooed with gunpowder marks, the dried blood coating his shirt and soaking his trousers. He hadn’t died right away; he’d had a minute, maybe two, as his blood flowed.
“He told me we had to leave,” Mrs. Simms said, coming up behind me. She was wringing her hands, her eyes darting from me to her dead husband. “Leave, can you believe it? Hide, like criminals, all because of his hideous half brother, that Bolshevik killer. He said we would go to South America. South America!”
“With Jack Taggart?”
“I said, ‘No, I am not leaving this house!’” She hadn’t heard me, wasn’t speaking to me. She pushed against my chest, her arm extended, pointing at her husband, continuing the argument that had ended with a bullet. “‘And neither are you. Would you make a laughingstock of me again, you liar? How dare you!’”
I could see it all, Adrian telling her that they had to go. Maybe he said the money was all for her, so she could be a high-society lady somewhere south of the equator. He’d laid his revolver down, finished with cleaning and loading it, ready for whatever the night held—German agents, the U.S. Army, everyone except his own dear wife. Maybe as he raised the glass to his lips, she’d grabbed the revolver, two-handed it, and pulled the trigger, less than a foot from his chest.
“Gold, he said, hard cash and gold, just a few hours away. Well, no one from my family ever ran off like a thief in the night, gold or no gold,” she said, her eyes fixed on her husband’s once-white shirt.
“What gold?” I asked, easing her out of the kitchen.
“German gold, he said it was. That wasn’t Adrian, that was his bad blood speaking. Catholics, Communists, and Germans. Did he think I’d consort with them? Take their money and flee my own nation, my family, my church? He was insane, don’t you see? It wasn’t his fault.”
Her face softened as some memory of the man she loved crept in and dissolved her hate and anger for a moment. I could imagine her placing the revolver on the table, hugging Adrian as he gasped for breath, the shock widening his eyes as his shattered heart pumped the last of his blood, staining his wife’s blouse, his dreams of revenge and wealth fading with each pulse, then gone.
“What will I do now?” Mrs. Simms said, seating herself in one of the good armchairs by the fire. Her chair, next to her husband’s.
“We’ll get this all sorted out,” I said as soothingly as I could, as if it were all a matter of paperwork. “Tell me, did he say anything about where the gold was? Was he going to meet Taggart tonight?”
“Don’t speak that name in my house,” she said, drawing the shawl around her.
“I’m sorry. The gold, that he said was only a few hours away. Do you know where?”
“He didn’t make any sense, he must have been off his head. He wasn’t responsible, you know; it was that terrible half brother of his.”
I heard the door open, and Sláine walked in ahead of Finch, who stood guard at the entrance. There was no wind now and his coat was dry.
“Have you come to take him away?” Mrs. Simms asked. “I have to clean up, I don’t like a messy house.”
“What was it that didn’t make sense?” I asked. I smiled, trying to keep her with me for another minute or so. She was retreating, falling back on memories and delusions, blotting out the present of betrayals and failures, her visions turned inward. “What did Adrian say?”
“That it was above us. Right above us. Do you think he meant in the attic?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t he say it was a few hours from here? It has to be someplace else.”
“Oh dear, I suppose you’re right. You can ask Adrian when he gets home.” With that, she relaxed, staring at the glowing peat, and sighed.
“A few hours away, and above us,” I said to Sláine. “What does that mean?”
“The German Focke-Wulf 200? It should make landfall within a few hours.”