Now and in the Hour of Our Death (20 page)

The darkness since the moon had gone was like a shroud wrapping the graveyard. He scanned the target area through a monocular infrared telescope. Nothing but the grey-green outlines of the great cross, gravestones, the wall and gate at the far side. He stiffened, straining to hear. Yes. Yes. That was the engine of a tractor somewhere out beyond the wall. He waited. It was coming closer.

He squinted through the nightscope and saw the trooper farther up the ditch shift into firing position. So he'd heard it, too. The torch taped to the barrel of the man's ArmaLite was pointed directly at the sarcophagus.

The engine noises were much louder now, and the sergeant could smell the exhaust fumes. The engine stopped. The driver would be walking to the graveyard. Would he be alone?

Sergeant Buchan held his HK 53 ready and hoped to God his men would remember their orders. Bring 'em back alive. This was the first stakeout for the corporal and the trooper in the church. The soldier in the ditch was on his second tour in Ulster. He should know the ropes, and the rules of engagement. Every soldier in Ulster was issued with a Yellow Card, which said in no uncertain terms that, “opening fire is correct only if the person is committing or about to commit an act likely to endanger life.” Firing first was “likely to endanger life.” So, in the sergeant's opinion, was pointing a gun.

He heard a metallic screeching to his front and focused the nightscope. A figure had opened the iron gate in the far wall, passed through, and was walking toward the sarcophagus. No sign of anyone else. Once the bugger opened the lid of the old grave and actually picked up a weapon and put his fingerprints on it, they'd have him cold—and the arms cache.

The sergeant heard the faint, metallic click as the trooper slipped off the safety catch of his weapon. The shadowy figure ahead paused, lifted his head as if scenting the air for danger, waited, then knelt beside the grave. Stone rasped on stone. He was shifting the lid. The sergeant heard the man grunt as he reached inside the sarcophagus. He straightened, a rifle held in both hands.

“
Now
.”

The beam from the trooper's torch slashed across the graveyard.

“Drop it. Get your hands behind…” But the figure slammed the rifle against his shoulder and swung to aim along the beam of the torch. A glance up the ditch reassured the sergeant that his man was not in any danger, hidden as he was behind the lip of the ditch.

“Hold your fi…”

A sound like ripping calico tore from the church doorway. Muzzle flashes rent the darkness. The Provo was slammed across the open grave, his weapon clattering as it hit the stone.

“Shit,” Sergeant Buchan grunted, rising from his bramble patch and loping forward. “Keep that torch on him.”

The Provo clutched his belly and whimpered.

Sergeant Buchan bent over the man and ripped a balaclava off his head. “Oh, Christ,” the sergeant said, as he looked into eyes already milky with coming death. “It's only a kid.”

“With a fucking ArmaLite,” the corporal said from behind Buchan's shoulder. “And he fired first.”

Sergeant Buchan lifted the ArmaLite. He sniffed the muzzle. Clean. The weapon had not been fired. He opened the breech. Empty. There was going to be hell to pay. Unless—

“Give me a round.” He held his hand out to the corporal. The ArmaLite and the army-issue rifles were the same .223 calibre. He slipped the bullet into the open breech, closed it, pointed the weapon at the ground, and fired. “You're right, Corporal,” Buchan said. “The bugger did fire first.” He held the rifle for the corporal to smell the muzzle. “There's your evidence.”

“What about your prints, Sarge? They'll be all over the bloody thing now?”

“Careless of me, wasn't it, to break procedure and pick up the weapon.”

“Yes it was, Sarge.”

Buchan heard the corporal snigger. He knew he could trust his men to back up his story. He knelt and felt under the angle of the boy's chin. No pulse. They'd get no HUMINT out of this one. He was dead. Dead as mutton. Pity about that.

 

CHAPTER 17

TYRONE. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1983

It was a pity that Erin hadn't made sure Fiach'd taken Tess. Should she have sent Sammy along with the lad? What the hell was keeping Fiach, anyway? Was the consignment heavier than he'd anticipated and was it taking more time to unload in the neolithic grave? But if he had gone there, surely she would have heard the tractor go by as he passed the farmyard. But Fiach
would
be all right. Of course he would.

Erin yawned. Her eyes were gritty, lids drooping, but there'd be no bed for her until Fiach was safely home. She stared through the window.

The greys of the false dawn had yielded to a pink glow that tinted the eastern hills like rouge on the face of a courtesan. The edge of the rising sun sliced into the sky above Slieveard. It was light enough to see that nobody was driving across the fields at the back of the farmhouse. He
must
be at the grave. Or had the bloody tractor broken down?

She heard the hall door open behind her and turned to see Cal, hair tousled, shirt undone at the neck, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Is he not home yet?”

“No.”

“He's taking a brave while.”

“I'm worried, Cal.”

“Och, he'll be grand.” Cal turned to the range. “Tea on?”

“The kettle's boiled, but…”

“I'll make my own, have a cup, and if he's not home by the time I've drunk it, I'll take a wee run-race down to the tumulus. If he's not there, I'll head on over to Ballydornan.”

“I'll come with…” Erin stiffened. “What's that?” She strained to hear. It sounded like an engine. She ran to the back door. It must be Fiach. It had to be. She threw open the upper door half and heard the noises of an engine—more than one engine—coming down the farm lane from the main road. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

The sounds of the vehicles were drowned by the roaring of a helicopter appearing over the crest of the hills. It swooped toward her and hovered overhead. She could see the British soldiers in the aircraft's open side doors, flak-jacketed, helmeted. They were pointing machine guns down at the house.

She spun to Cal. “Fiach's been lifted.” Please, God, let that be all.

Cal moved toward her and put his arm round her shoulders. “We don't know that.”

She watched a grey-painted Land Rover and a Saracen armoured car drive into the farmyard. Both halted. Tessie raced at them, barking as she did when any strangers came.

“Get in here, Tess.” One of those trigger-happy bastards might shoot the dog.

Tessie obeyed, teeth bared, tail low, glancing over her shoulder at the intruders.

“Go to bed.”

The collie slunk into her kennel. Erin could hear the dog's throaty growling.

Soldiers leapt from the open tailgate of the Saracen and took up positions surrounding the wall of the farmyard. Some knelt, covering the approaches to the farm with their self-loading rifles. Three faced her, SLRs at the high port.

A bottle-green-uniformed police inspector accompanied by a constable left the Land Rover. Both were flak-jacketed. Both were armed. The inspector who was carrying a beige envelope in one hand wore a holstered revolver. The constable carried a Sten gun.

She heard Cal whisper, “Don't tell them anything.”

She peered inside the vehicle to where a man in plain clothes sat beside the uniformed driver. She knew that the ones in green were regular Criminal Investigation Department, CID, officers. The plainclothes man would be Special Branch, the antiterrorist wing of the police force. She could see part of his face. There was something wrong with his left eye. A triangle of brown in the green iris. She'd remember that.

The inspector and constable stopped outside the door. “Mr. O'Byrne?” the inspector asked.

“Yes.”

“I'd like to have a word.”

“What about?”

“Can we come inside?”

“Have you a warrant?” Cal moved to block the door.

“No.”

“You can stay where you are then.”

“We can do this back at the barracks, you know.”

Erin knew under the Prevention of Terrorism Act the police could arrest anyone on suspicion—and refusing entry would be regarded as suspicious.

“You'd better come in,” she said. “Just you. Leave that man outside. And tell him to point that gun somewhere else.”

“Wait here, Constable.”

“Sir.”

The inspector looked down at his muddy boots.

“Use that.” Erin pointed to a boot scraper beside the front step and waited while the policeman cleaned off most of the mud.

Why were they here? Was it just another routine raid? They knew about her and Eamon. Any associates, never mind girlfriends of known Provos, were kept under routine surveillance. But they'd never proved anything about the O'Byrnes. Never would.

Or was it about Fiach? She had to find out, right now.

“That'll do,” she snapped at the inspector. “They're clean enough. Come in.”

Cal wrenched the door open and stood aside. Erin preceded the inspector into the kitchen. Cal followed and stood beside her. She didn't offer the man a chair.

“What's all this about?” Cal asked.

“I'd prefer to speak to you alone, Mr. O'Byrne.”

“I'm not leaving.” Erin stared at the man until he looked away and said, “Suit yourself, Miss O'Byrne, but you may not want to hear this.”

Jesus Christ Almighty. They must have lifted Fiach.

“Mr. O'Byrne, a man was shot this morning. Resisting arrest.”

In spite of herself, Erin gasped.

The inspector swung to her.

“Are you worried about that, Miss O'Byrne?”

She steeled herself. “I am not. But I hate to hear of anyone getting shot. There's far too much of that round here.”

“I agree.” The policeman turned back to Cal. “We have reason to believe that the man in question was your brother, Fiach O'Byrne.”

No. No. No
. Erin screwed her eyes shut. She waited as the officer pulled a photograph from the envelope he carried. He showed it to Cal. “Can you identify this person?”

She couldn't bear to look. If it was Fiach, maybe—maybe—he was only wounded. She screwed her eyes more tightly and held her breath until she heard Cal say, “That's our Fiach.” Cal's voice was leaden. “Is he…?”

“I'm afraid so.” The inspector shoved the photograph back into its envelope.

Erin opened her eyes. “You mean Fiach's dead?”

“I'm sorry, Miss O'Byrne.”

Sorry? Sorry? You bastard. Standing there, mouthing platitudes, when it had to have been the Security Forces who'd murdered Fiach.

“What happened?” Her voice was level.

“I'm not at liberty…”

“What fucking well happened?” Something outside scared pigeons from the roof of the barn. She could hear their wings clattering as they took flight, rattling like a burst of automatic fire. She softened her voice. “Please. He's my wee brother. He's only sixteen. He plays hurley. He's not in the Provos.” Erin knew she should have said, “He
was
my wee brother” but couldn't bear to. Not yet. She glanced at Cal. “None of us O'Byrnes is in the Provos.”

The inspector coughed.

“Please.” She leaned against Cal. “Och, please. What happened?”

“All that I can tell you is that one of our routine patrols”—

So they hadn't been lying in wait for him.

—“Saw a man acting suspiciously.”

Jesus, why hadn't the young fool taken Tessie to scout for him? Why hadn't
she
made damn sure that he'd taken the dog? Why? Why? And yet, she tried to comfort herself, if the inspector was telling the truth, Tessie wouldn't have been much use. Granted, she could have sniffed out men lying concealed, but by the time she would have barked at a moving patrol, they would have had Fiach surrounded anyway.

“He fired at them. Our men returned fire.”

Erin's eyes narrowed. “He couldn't have fired at them. The only gun Fiach ever used was a shotgun when he went wildfowling. Civilians aren't allowed to have rifles in Northern Ireland—you know that as well as I do. I don't believe he fired. You murdered him. Just because he's a Catholic.”

“Miss O'Byrne, despite what Republican propaganda may say, the Security Forces do
not
indulge in reprisal killings. Not, may I say, like the Provos.”

“Our Fiach wasn't a bloody Provo.” That was technically true. Fiach had not made the declaration and been accepted as a volunteer. “He never fired that gun.”

“I'm sorry, Miss O'Byrne. Ballistics have shown that the rifle he was carrying had been recently used.”

“Liar.”

The inspector pursed his lips, drew his shoulders together. “I can understand that you are upset, Miss O'Byrne…”

“Upset? Jesus Christ.” She felt Cal's arms around her and looked up into his face, saw the frown and the almost imperceptible shake of his head that said, “Don't antagonize this man. They're bound to suspect us, too.” Erin hung her head. “I'm sorry. I am upset.” She hoped the bloody peeler couldn't see the fire that blazed in her eyes. Liar. Murderer. British bastard.

“I understand.” The inspector turned to Cal. “Mr. O'Byrne?”

“Yes.”

“Would you come to the mort … to Strabane Police Station to identify the body?”

She felt Cal's arms loosen. She clung to him and wailed, loudly, painfully, “Don't go, Cal. Don't leave me alone.” She hoped that Cal knew she was playacting. She and her brother would need time to talk. Get their story straight before Cal went off to the bloody barracks.

His grip tightened. “Could it not wait for a wee while? Can you not see that she's all nerves? I'll need to stay with her for a bit.”