I watched his face for a sign of rage and kept half an eye on those folded hands, in case one came up a fist to slam me. It didn't.
"It wasn't us, and it wasn't the British Army," he said, his face relaxing slightly. He rested one arm on the tabletop, the most casual pose he had yet taken. "You're right about that-it doesn't add up, unless the IRA got it all wrong."
"Or it wasn't the IRA."
"I doubt that. The Red Hand would have an easier time stealing British arms, don't you think? More sympathizers among the British troops, just as the IRA has its sympathizers among the Americans."
"That makes some sense, although if the opportunity presented itself-"
"Jenkins would surely take it, yes."
"But if it was the IRA, then either they were wrong about Mahoney or there's something going on you don't know about."
"Doubtful."
"What if they were right about an informer but wrong about who it was?"
"Wouldn't surprise me at all. They can be incredibly stupid at times, very clever at others. And no, you will not be allowed to review information about our current informants."
"But you will."
"It may be worth the time. I'll let you know if I find anything," he said, sounding as if the possibility was remote. Still, he had taken to the idea. "Tell me, are there any other Americans investigating this case? A civilian perhaps?"
"Not that I know of, no. Why?"
"We've had reports of an American, always in civilian clothes, asking questions about certain IRA associates in this area. No name, and not much of a description. About my age. Wears a fedora hat and a trench coat. Nothing else to go on."
"Sorry, it's news to me. Is there anything else about the case you can tell me, DI Carrick?" I asked that with the most sincerity and humility I could muster.
"We've just had a name come up in connection with this case. Jack Taggart."
"Red Jack?" The man Subaltern O'Brien was after.
"So you've heard of him? He had a falling-out with his comrades after he came home from fighting against Franco in Spain with his tail between his legs. Seeing Bolsheviks up close seems to have cured most of their romantic notions. But they still call him Red Jack."
"Is he senior in the IRA?"
"We think so. He seems to have operated as their channel for funds from Germany and America. He had something to do with the bombing campaign in England-the S-Plan, as they called it. Not directly, mind you, but most of the money to support it came from him. Lately there've been sightings of him in Northern Ireland. He may have been here for some time."
"So you think he's part of this plot?"
"It would be the kind of thing he would be part of. Not just the theft but what they intend to do with the arms. It's the German connection that worries us. He worked with Seamus Rafferty-I'm sure you've heard of him-smuggling arms and agents in from Nazi Germany."
"Yes, I've heard of Rafferty. He was in the States before the war." I didn't mention the dinner at my parents' house, when he was the guest of honor along with Joe McGarrity, head of Clan na Gael.
"Right. That's when they raised most of the money for the S-Plan. Perhaps some of the funds used to kill innocent civilians came from your hometown, Lieutenant Boyle."
"Perhaps. A lot of people die in wars, DI Carrick. Perhaps there are a few innocent Catholics who would be alive today if you did your job and put those Red Hand boys behind bars. How many of them have you arrested?"
"You must know it's impossible to get evidence against them," Carrick said through gritted teeth. "They close ranks and swear on a stack of Bibles they were all having tea with their mothers. And their mothers lie and serve you stale biscuits while telling you what God-fearing lads their boys are."
His eyes were wide and he was panting. With that tight, high collar choking him, I thought he might burst a blood vessel. He was steaming mad but not at me. It was those mothers, pouring tea and covering up their sons' gruesome murders. Maybe he was a real cop after all.
"Do you have a picture of Taggart?"
"I'll give you one," he said, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "There are some at the RUC station at Killough, about five miles from the gate. You've a vehicle?"
I told him I did.
"Follow me if you're done here. Some of the local constables are gathering at Killough to toast the dead tonight. It will be a chance for them to lay eyes on you, take your measure."
"Have you?"
"You're no fool, which is saying a lot for a papist Yank. You may be of some help if you don't get yourself killed first," he said without an apparent trace of regret at the thought. He drummed his fingers on the table, staring at me as the rhythmic sound increased in speed, then stopped. "I hate them all, you know."
"Who?"
"The Red Hand, the bloody IRA. Fools like you who sleep with them and then get up in the morning and wash your hands clean. All of you." He rose, brushing off his uniform as if it were dirty. He tucked his cap under his arm.
"His wife and his wee girls found him. Did I tell you?"
He didn't wait for an answer as I followed him out.
I thought I'd better give Major Thornton a call before going off with Carrick. He'd told me to check in every day so I decided to get that over with now, before toasts to the dead constable got too far along. I called from the Ordnance Depot office while Carrick and Jacobson chatted. I reached a clerk at 5th Division HQ who said Thornton was out on the rifle range. I left word that I'd met up with Carrick, that we were going to the RUC station at Killough, and that I'd picked up a lead. I figured I'd give the major something positive. I had no idea how the name of Red Jack Taggart would help me find the BARs, but it was something. At least I'd have a picture to show around, like a real policeman. And I had a few places to show it: the pubs in Annalong and Ardglass, where Mahoney had been sighted, as well as the Lug o' the Tub Pub in Clough. I was heartened that the suspects so far were all drinkers, rather than operagoers or bird-watchers.
As we left the office, Sergeant Brennan approached, stopping short when he saw Carrick. His mouth opened for a second then he clammed up. He saluted and I returned it, watching his face as he mumbled a greeting and hurried past us.
"No need to worry, son," Carrick called after him. "I'm not here to take you away."
The unspoken word yet hung in the air. Brennan had his hand on the doorknob but didn't open it. He turned to face us, his body rigid.
"One of you will, soon enough," he said. "I don't expect justice from the army or the British."
"I am an Irishman too, young man," Carrick said. "I was born here, unlike you or your lieutenant here."
"He's not my lieutenant," Brennan said. "I just heard from my CO that Major Thornton is bringing me up on court-martial charges. Unlawful disposition of military property in wartime. Is that what you're here for, Lieutenant Boyle? To build a case against me?"
He didn't wait for an answer. The door slammed and Carrick and I looked at each other in surprise.
"Perhaps Major Thornton has some new evidence," he said.
"Perhaps he wants someone else to take the rap before some colonel starts eyeing him. Brennan is a sitting duck, an enlisted sitting duck at that. Thornton busts a lieutenant to buck private and ships him out then gets a noncom thrown in the slammer. The heat's off him and the brass are happy. If he gets me to find the BARs he'll come out smelling like a rose."
"It's natural you'd defend Brennan," Carrick said.
"Because we're both papists?" I asked, with an edge of anger I couldn't keep out of my voice.
"To some extent. But no, that is not what I meant. I mean since you have both seen the elephant, and Thornton has not yet been in combat. I've found that's a greater divide than the one between the Church of Rome and the Church of Ireland. Wouldn't you agree, Lieutenant Boyle?"