"Andrew Jenkins, head of the local Red Hands, and he supplies the base with produce, right?"
"Right. He buys stuff from all the farmers in the area and sells it to the army. Potatoes, whatever the hell they grow around here. Whiskey, ham, fresh eggs, all sorts of stuff for the officers' messes."
"Besides his truck being used, do you have any evidence of his involvement?"
"Evidence? No. Except that I know he'd do anything to hit the IRA. I wouldn't put it past him."
"Why do you say that?"
"I can tell," Thornton said, as he tapped the broken pencil on his desk. "I can tell when a man wants something, something larger than himself. Something grand. Do you know what I mean?"
"Yes, I do. I've seen it," I said, knowing what he meant. Combat, glory, promotion. "It's not grand at all. But you won't believe me until you've seen it yourself."
"Why?" For the first time in our conversation, Thornton seemed to relax and actually listen, genuinely curious about what I had to say.
"Because I wouldn't have."
"Yeah, that's the hell of it, isn't it?"
"Sure is."
Thornton looked at the broken pencil for a while, then sighed and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. He drummed his fingers on his desk, his frustrated energy keeping his body moving even while seated. I sat, the visions of that thing, the unknowable, the unimaginable, flowing through my mind. It wasn't grand at all, I had told the truth about that. It was gruesome and dirty, painful and demeaning, but at times-especially when you realized you were alive and had cheated death-there was something grand about it, something around the edges, in the light of explosions in the distance, the loud thuds of artillery, the rush of adrenaline, the eerie calm in the midst of a fight when time slowed and everything crackled with crystal clarity. There was grandness in the confusion I felt then, the feeling of wishing I could erase it all from my mind while knowing that it was the most significant, important, otherworldly thing I'd ever experienced. Sometimes I wondered if there was something holy in it all, as if I could almost see the best of creation in the midst of the worst of it.
"There's one more thing," he said. "Mahoney-the dead guy with the money in his hand? Well, I'd seen him before. He looked a bit different then, with his brains all inside his skull, but I saw him drinking in a pub in Annalong, a little south of here."
"When was this?"
"The Sunday before the theft. I had to get out of here for a while, so I drove down the coast road and ended up in Annalong. There's a place, the Harbor Bar, right on the water, where I stopped and got something to eat and had a few pints. I noticed him because he was arguing with someone-quietly, but you could tell it was heated by the way they strained to keep their voices down."
"Would you know the other man if you saw him?"
"No, his back was to me, and he had a cap on. But as soon as I saw the red hair on the corpse, I recognized him. Bright orange, like a carrot. That was Mahoney."
"OK, that's something."
"I told Heck and Inspector Carrick about it, you can check with them."
"Yeah, I will. Anything else you remember?"
"Nope. Now tell me what you need to find my BARs."
"Transport. I'll need a jeep. And if I need some muscle, can I call on your MPs? I met Burnham and Patterson yesterday. They seem pretty capable."
"They're good men. I'll let them know you may be in touch. But go through me. I need to be kept up to date. Check in with me every day." He scribbled out an order for a jeep and a pass to all 5th Division installations and handed them to me. "Motor pool is out and to the left. Follow the lane through the trees, about a quarter mile. Need a ride?"
"No, sir. But one more thing. Can you tell me who received the radio dispatch about my arrival?"
"I never saw one. Northern Ireland Command told me to expect you any day now but I never heard when or how you were coming."
"Then I'd like to start at your Signals Company, talk to whoever was on duty yesterday."
"Is there a problem?"
"No, strictly routine."
He eyed me for a few seconds, then lifted his telephone and made a call.
Ten minutes later I was in a Quonset hut crammed with radios and noisy with the static and tinny crackling sounds of communications gear. A technical sergeant named Lasner leafed through clipboards of dispatch sheets, all the documentation for signals sent and received. Below his sergeant's stripes were two service stripes, meaning he'd been in more than six years. A regular, and it showed in everything from the shine on his boots to the gleaming brass Signal Corps emblem on his tunic's lapels. There were six clipboards, all neatly arranged on a table with wire baskets where the forms were deposited when received.
"Nothing here with your name on it, Lieutenant Boyle," he said as he finished with the last clipboard.
"It wasn't for me, Sarge."
"I understand that, Lieutenant. I mean there are no messages here that include your name. Anywhere."
"Got it. Looks like you run a tight ship."
"Yes, sir. Anything else, Lieutenant?" I could tell he was eager to get rid of me but then again most noncoms would be eager to get a second louie out of their hair, especially if he was from another outfit and was making extra work for them.
"Are all these receipts for messages received? If a message came into Northern Ireland Command HQ to be passed on to you, would they have the same kind of documents?"
"They ought to. And sent, as well. But if I don't have a record of it coming in, they didn't send it."
"I can believe it, Sarge. Everything looks fine on your end."
"Is there a problem, if you don't mind me asking?"
"You know Captain Heck, the provost marshal?"
"Know of him," Lasner said, his tone carefully neutral.
"I think he intercepted a message meant for Major Thornton about my arrival here. Sound likely to you?"
"From what I hear, he'd be careful to cover his tracks. Not that I'm accusing the provost marshal of anything."
"That would mean he had someone working for him at HQ."
"Let's just say I've heard Heck will do you a favor if you find yourself at the wrong end of an MP's nightstick. Only problem is, once he's got you over a barrel, the favors have to keep coming."
"So he'll withhold charges for a price?"
"He doesn't take money, if that's what you mean. He's always looking for an angle, so he'd rather have information. He's smart, Lieutenant. Watch yourself around him."
"You're not the first to warn me. If that's his game, and he's so slick, how can you be certain it wasn't one of your men here who killed the message to Thornton and gave it to Heck?"
"I know my men. I trained them all, and they know what would happen if they pulled something like that." There was a hard look in his eyes, a combination of resentment that I'd asked the question and fury at the thought of such betrayal.
"How about your captain?"
"I couldn't imagine it. Besides, he doesn't spend a lot of time here."
"He lets you run the show?"
"The captain wisely delegates responsibility. I think he's been in Belfast for the last few days."
"Doing what?"
"Whatever it is that officers do while the work gets done, Lieutenant."
"Understood, Sarge. One more question, though. You know anything about the BARs stolen from the depot at Ballykinler?"
"Only that Major Thornton is mightily pissed off about it. Heck has been nosing around asking a lot of questions too, looking through stacks of shipping receipts, bills of lading, making himself a real pain. Every time he shows up, it takes us a day to put the place back together. You investigating that?"
"Yeah. And I'm not working for Heck, to answer your next question. Any rumors about who was in on the heist?"