"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.
CHAPTER TEN
I sat alone in the mess hall, drinking coffee and trying to figure out what do next. So far, all I knew was that Eddie Mahoney had been sighted in two area pubs, once arguing with someone, and once chatting with a GI. Not evidence of anything, not even a clue. I knew that Major Thornton hadn't bothered to tell me Inspector Carrick had asked for Brennan's file. Again, nothing really suspicious; worth asking about but I doubted it meant anything. Brennan was in the know about the IRA, and sympathetic, but so was I, and likely hundreds of other GIs in Northern Ireland. I needed to check out Andrew Jenkins to see if he was brazen enough to have used his own delivery truck in the heist. Something about Mahoney and how he was found bothered me. It seemed as if there was a missing piece to this puzzle but I couldn't see it.
Also, I had been warned by old Grady O'Brick as soon as I landed, warned to watch my step. He'd nodded in the direction of the MP waiting for me but was that what he'd meant? Or was he gesturing toward the land itself? I didn't know, which pretty much summed up where I was in this investigation. No answers.
I watched the men in the mess hall, eating chow, laughing and talking, doing everyday things, as much as that was possible in the army. Some of these guys had been on garrison duty in Iceland; others were fresh from the States. A few, like Brennan, were transfers from outfits that had been in combat. Maybe the army wanted to add experienced men to the unit but it never made much sense to me. Until men went through combat and saw for themselves, veterans like Brennan would be viewed as oddballs, paranoid and superstitious, strangers in their midst. Brennan himself, his pals all dead, stood apart, doing his job, but unwilling or unable to form the bonds of friendship with men who might get chopped up beside him on the next invasion beach. Instead, his only buddy was a carved pig.