Evil for Evil (7 page)

“Assuming no more than two or three guys, I’d say twenty minutes. Half hour tops.”

“Who was on duty?”

“Sergeant Brennan. He was in the office, said he never heard a thing.”

“Is that likely? He wouldn’t notice a truck pulling up?”

“Probably not. Remember, there was no fence, no gate around the place, and it was dark. They must have come in from the opposite direction, backed up to the loading dock, and broken in.”

“How’d they do it? I assume the door was locked.”

“It was. They popped the hinges. It wasn’t hard; this building wasn’t designed as a bank.”

“And Brennan heard nothing?”

“It was raining to beat the band, Billy. It was windy too. I can believe it. And night duty didn’t mean anything other than being ready if a call came in for something. No one ever thought we needed guards in the middle of the camp.”

“Do you know if anyone checked the boot prints?”

“For what?”

“Never mind.” Maybe Carrick had. Saul didn’t have a suspicious nature, that much was clear. The first thing I would have done was see if any of the boot prints had a GI tread.

I scanned the room in back of the stairway. Another faded, yellowing poster was nailed to the side of a shelf. BRITISHERS, ENLIST TODAY!

“Obviously this was an English base in the last war,” I said.

“Yeah, I think a lot of the local units went through here. They have some sort of militia or something.”

“The Ulster Volunteer Force,” I said, remembering Uncle Dan talking about the Covenant, the document many Protestants signed in their own blood, vowing to resist Home Rule for Ireland if it was granted. The UVF was formed to be ready to fight to keep Ulster British, but they didn’t have to. UVF units signed up to fight in France, and this would have been where they would have been trained and turned into real soldiers.

“Something like that. I think Inspector Carrick said he’d been in the first war. Maybe he’d been through Ballykinler back then.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe he knows the place very well.” Had he signed the Covenant in his own blood? For the first time I thought about the assumption that the IRA had been behind the theft. It was fair enough, since an IRA man had been found dead nearby, but that raised the issue of who had killed him. The IRA, because he was an informer? Or the Red Hand, to confuse things?

“I’m going to the beach,” I said, hoping the salt air would clear my head of the swirling suspicions and mistrust that seemed to spring from the soil of Northern Ireland.

CHAPTER • NINE

TUFTS OF GRASS bent away from the sea as the breeze freshened and blew gray sand against my boots. I pulled my garrison cap down tighter and trudged across the wide dunes, watching the clouds that covered the peaks of the Mountains of Mourne in the distance. A single aircraft droned out over the Irish Sea, but other than that faint noise and the rhythmic crashing of waves, it was quiet. I moved out of the dunes and onto the beach, looking both ways for a sign of Brennan. In the distance, to my right, I saw a figure seated on a driftwood log and figured that had to be him. As I walked in his direction, I noticed how peaceful this place was, how far from the camp filled with marching men, how calming the water was with the sound of smooth stones being pulled back in the surf, and realized that I hadn’t thought of beaches that way in a long time. They had become beachheads, bristling with machine guns, blood-soaked obstacles to be overcome, no longer places for solitary meditation. What did Brennan think about out here? The Germans at Salerno? The next beach the 5th Division would hit, maybe the big invasion everyone was talking about? Or did he think about where those BARs had gone to?

As I drew close, I started to call out, but stopped when I heard him speak. He was holding something in his hand, and it seemed like he was talking to it. There was no one else around. I took a few more quiet steps, and stopped.

“Now, Pig, you know that the one who gets me gets you. So you do your part, and I’ll do mine. OK, Pig? That last one wasn’t for either of us, and the next one won’t be either. OK?” He held a small carved wooden pig in one hand and rubbed its belly with the thumb of the other. He stared at it, as if waiting for an answer.

“That sounds like one lucky pig, Sergeant Brennan.”

He rolled off the log, falling behind it and reaching for a .45 automatic in a shoulder holster. His eyes were wide in panic.

“Hold on, hold on!” I hollered, my hands outstretched. I had my own .45 by my side and I didn’t want him getting the wrong idea. He grunted, an exasperated, somewhat embarrassed look on his face.

“Jesus Christ, why’d you go and sneak up on me like that?” Brennan said. He let out a breath and gulped air into his lungs. His hand moved away from the pistol as he glanced at my lieutenant’s bars. “Sir.”

“I didn’t sneak, I walked up. And you were deep in conversation.”

“It’s not a conversation. Pig doesn’t talk back to me, I’m not crazy.” He got back up on the log, and I joined him. He unclenched his fist, and there sat Pig, his belly smooth where Brennan had been rubbing it.

“Pig?”

“I got him onboard a troop transport from a gob who carved all sorts of animals. We have pigs at home and I like them, so I bought him.”

“How’d he get so lucky?”

“You pulling my leg, sir?”

“No, I’m not. I’ve seen plenty of guys with good luck charms. Once you find one, you keep it. I knew a guy who had a book of matches in his pocket when the truck he was in hit a mine. He was the only one in the truck who lived, and he was convinced those matches did it. He never went anywhere without them after that. He even gave up cigarettes so he wouldn’t be tempted to use them.”

“Where was this guy?”

“North Africa.”

“You been in combat, Lieutenant?”

“Some. How about you?” He didn’t answer right away. He blew sand from a few spots where it had stuck to Pig, rubbed the animal some more, and put it in his shirt pocket, over his heart. We watched the waves curl and crash onto the shore as he pulled a pack of Luckies from his jacket. He offered me one and I declined. He flicked a battered Zippo and shielded the flame with his hand. When he lit up, he cupped the cigarette in his hand, like you would at night, in your foxhole.

“They said it was going to be easy,” he began. “The Italians had just surrendered. Our officers said the beaches didn’t need a preliminary bombardment, that we’d just stroll ashore. So all those big naval guns sat quiet. It was going to be easy.”

“It wasn’t,” I said.

“No, it wasn’t. Mortars and machine guns hit us as soon as the landing craft dropped its ramp and took out half the guys, everyone up front. We had to step over the bodies to get out. Then the machine guns really started up. I was the only guy to get to shore alive. Just me and Pig. There was no one else to talk to, no one else close by that I even recognized. I was scared, so I started telling Pig that nothing was going to happen to us there, more to convince myself than anything else. There was so much machine-gun fire, their tracer rounds hit my pack and it started to burn. You couldn’t even lift your head up off the ground. But they didn’t kill me. So I kept on talking to Pig every day. I’d tell him to watch out, to do his part, because if I went, so did he.”

“It worked?”

“For ten days. We got hit hard by them Germans. They were on the high ground all around us. Seemed like the only way we had to attack was up. They had lots of tanks, too goddamn many tanks. They counterattacked one morning and them Panzer Grenadiers infiltrated our rear area. Tanks out front, Jerries behind us, mortars everywhere. I couldn’t even talk to Pig, it was so loud with those 88s slamming into us. Next thing I knew, there was an explosion, some kind of fireball. My back was filled with shrapnel, they told me. I ended up in a hospital in England. When I recovered, they transferred me here. Didn’t matter much to me, my buddies are all dead.”

“So you came to Ireland with Pig.”

“Yeah, I managed to hang on to him. I haven’t missed a day since. I figure if he makes it, I make it. Sound nuts to you, Lieutenant?”

“It might, in polite society. But that’s not where we are, is it?”

“Hardly. Say, how did you know my name, Lieutenant? Why are you here?”

“The name’s Billy Boyle. I came here to look into that arms theft last week. I have a few questions for you.”

“Are you with Captain Heck?”

“Everybody asks me that, in a sort of worried tone. Why is that?”

“I dunno, cops make people nervous, don’t they?”

“Well, that depends. Some people like cops; they feel more secure with them around.”

“Military police? Belfast police? You said your name was Boyle, didn’t you?”

“That I did,” I said, letting a bit of the brogue roll into my voice. “Is that why you’re going around armed? Not many people wear a piece around here when they’re off duty.”

“Makes me feel safe. Sort of like having my own personal cop around. You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

“Was, back in Boston. Which is why they asked me to look into this. And I don’t work for Heck.”

“Didn’t think so. He’s put me through the wringer, him and that Carrick guy.”

“If you’re not in the stockade they must think you weren’t involved.”

“There’s barbed wire all around this place if you haven’t noticed. What questions do you have?”

“Was Lieutenant Hayes lax on security?”

“Hell no, he was a good ordnance man. He knew his stuff. I was glad when I got transferred to the Ordnance Depot. I spent my first two weeks here working in the mess hall, and let me tell you, I was glad to get off that detail.”

“I bet,” I said. “How does Lieutenant Jacobson compare to Hayes?”

“Saul is all right, he runs the place OK, but he doesn’t know weapons like Stan did. They needed a scapegoat, and Stan was their choice. Protected everyone else. There hadn’t been any security orders for the arms depot. Just like there aren’t any for the motor pool. We’re inside an army base, for Christ’s sake.”

“Makes sense. What about that night? You had no idea what was going on?”

“None. I was at the opposite end of the building. It was raining sideways, and with all that noise and wind it would have been impossible to hear anything. I did notice the truck driving away, though. It switched on its headlights, which I thought was odd. That’s when I went in the back and saw the door had been forced open.”

“I suppose you called Lieutenant Hayes?”

“First I tried to call the main gate, to stop the truck. But they’d cut the telephone wires. I couldn’t get anyone. By the time I roused Stan, they were long gone.”

“What time was this?”

“Close to midnight.”

“Any idea who was behind it? Any rumors floating around?”

“None that make any sense. Everyone seems convinced it was the IRA.”

“You’re not?”

“Well, they used Jenkins’s truck, right? And he’s big with the Red Hand boys around here. Now that would be a slap in the face to the Protestants, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, if that’s why they did it. But he had access to the post, he made regular deliveries here, so it makes sense to grab one of his vehicles.”

“No, you don’t understand. Do you know your Irish history, Lieutenant?”

“It’s a fairly big deal in my family.”

“Mine too. So think about this. The IRA steals a vehicle from the leader of the Red Hand and uses it to steal automatic weapons, adding insult to injury. What would Jenkins’s first reaction be?”

“Retribution,” I said, as I began to see what Brennan meant.

“You are a cop! And as an Irish cop, you’d know that any Catholic would do, IRA member or not.”

“Have there been any reprisals? Retaliation of any kind?”

“Not against Catholics by Protestant militia. The IRA shot a Belfast cop a couple days ago. With a pistol. That’s it. At least that’s all that’s been in the newspapers.”

“Could’ve happened that way. Or maybe with everyone looking for the BARs, the Red Hand decided to lie low for a while.”

“Lieutenant Boyle, if you know anything about recent history here, you’ll know that lying low isn’t something either side does.” He drew Pig out of his pocket and began to rub the creature absentmindedly as he gazed out over the sea.

“I just got here. To Ireland, I mean. What’s it like for someone with a sense of Irish history to be here in the north?”

“Helping the British garrison their part of Ireland, you mean? I don’t like it much, but we probably won’t be here long anyway. It is strange, though. Most of the IRA activity these days goes on up here or along the border. After hearing so many stories, it’s odd to see it really happening. I mean, back home, who cares if you’re Catholic or Protestant? Here it could get you killed if the other fellow has his blood up.”

“Tell me, has anyone from the IRA ever approached you? Appealing to you as a patriotic Irishman?”

“I’m not sure. There was one time—it was in a pub in Ardglass—a guy asked me what church I attended. I thought it was a strange way to strike up a conversation, but it turned out to be common around here. Lets you know right away if you’re drinking with the right kind or not. He said he went to Saint Mary’s, which meant he was Catholic. Once I told him I went to Saint Brigid’s back home, he started talking about how we all have to stick together, even those who’d left Ireland for America. It could’ve been nothing but talk except that he asked a lot of questions about what type of guns we had, almost as if he knew I was assigned to the arms depot.”

“Did you ever see him again?”

“Once, over in Clough. It’s a lot closer than Ardglass, and I wondered if he was looking for me. I waved and he nodded back but that was it. He was deep in conversation with another guy, some GI, and I didn’t want to butt in.”

“What did he look like?”

“Pretty average looking, except for his red hair. Bright red, like a carrot. The other fellow was tall, forty or so, balding.”

“Do you remember his name, the guy you’d talked to before?”

“Yeah, it was Eamonn, he said. A Gaelic name. He talked about how it used to be illegal for an Irishman to even say his name in Gaelic. Can you believe that?”

“Yes, I can.” “Eamonn” was “Edward” in English. Eddie Mahoney had bright red hair, and this was the second time he’d come up. Or the third, if you counted the time someone had shot him in the head.