"You drink a wee bit of that now, Billy. And be sure to eat something, dear."
"Thanks, Mildred." I put the tea to my lips and blew on the steam. Bob came in and tossed a mug shot onto the table.
"That's Taggart, about two years ago," he said, tapping his finger on the picture. "We brought him in on suspicion of IRA activity but couldn't prove anything. Had to let him go. Apparently, he'd just come north and we had no idea he was such a big fish."
I set the tea down and studied the picture. Thinning brown hair, a chin that jutted out, and those eyes, with that amused expression. A roguish charmer, perhaps.
"That's the man in the car, the man who shot at me. The man with the BAR."
"Red Jack Taggart, here?" Adrian said, as if it seemed impossible.
"Aye, it was a message all right," Carrick said. "And one he may well deliver again. Watch how you go, Boyle."
That was exactly what Grady O'Brick had said to me, less than two days ago, and already someone was dead, someone at a window who might have been me.
"No. Red Jack needs to watch how he goes."
CHAPTER TWELVE
It had started to rain but I drove the jeep fast, my. 45 on the seat next to me, safety off, round in the chamber. I didn't know whom I could trust, with the strange exception of just about any Ulster Loyalist. Someone was feeding the IRA information, and it sure as hell wouldn't be one of them. It could be someone wearing khaki but not someone wearing the RUC dark green.
I sped down narrow country lanes as whitewashed thatched cottages stood out in the darkening evening light. Each was a threat, and I scanned windows for the snout of a BAR. I downshifted too late as I took one curve, and the jeep slid on the slick roadway. The tires kicked up loose gravel as I gunned it out of a ditch and regained the road. That slowed me down. No sense getting myself killed-one dead lieutenant today was more than enough.
Names swirled through my head. Brennan, Jacobson, Thornton. Maybe Lasner, the sergeant at the communications section? Heck? Maybe even him, if he'd been at headquarters when my message came through. Parties unknown? Sure were plenty of them around here. Could it have been pure chance that Sam was killed? Wrong window, wrong time, wrong bullet?
No, I didn't think so. If I was an IRA man, I'd wait instead of shooting an unknown Yank, in case he might be a sympathetic Irish-American. But those first two shots were right on target, to the chest, and then everything else had been to keep people flat on the floor while Red Jack made his getaway. The only American he thought would be there was me, a sympathetic Irish-American if ever there was one. Either my reputation as a Boston detective preceded me, or I had stumbled onto something, something that pointed to him. What?
I had no idea, I admitted to myself as I stopped at the main gate to Ballykinler. The GI on duty glanced at the automatic on the seat next to me. I told him there were bandits on the back roads, and he nodded as if it were common knowledge as he opened the gate. I went through the second gate, to the Ordnance Depot, with my. 45 holstered, remembering that these guards were sharper than the others.
A few minutes later I opened the door to the office. A clerk was on the telephone, going down a checklist. Jacobson was on the phone in his office, standing with his back to me, waving one arm in the air. I walked closer to him.
"How was I supposed to know… yeah, yeah… I'll call you." He hung up.
"Hi, Saul," I said. "Is Sergeant Brennan around?"
"Jeez, Boyle, knock or something, why don't you?" He did look surprised but maybe that was because he didn't expect to find me standing right behind him. "Why is everybody looking for Brennan? Is it about the BARs?"
"Who else is looking?"
"Thornton. He's sending MPs over to pick him up."
"Was that him just now on the phone?"
"No, that was Joe Patterson, he's a sergeant in charge of the MP detail. I told him I'd given Pete an evening pass. He has to be back by midnight."
"Any special reason for the pass?"
"When he gets jittery he likes to get out, have a few drinks with the locals. I think it calms him down to be away from the army for a while."
"Him and a million other guys. Any idea where he went?"
"He said he'd probably go in to Clough. He likes the Lug o' the Tub, know it?"
"I know where it is. Anything unusual going on? With Brennan, I mean?"
"He was OK after he talked to you. We were out on the loading dock after a shipment of bazookas came in. One of Jenkins's trucks went by on its way to the mess hall. He clammed up. Came back an hour later and asked for the pass. Why, what's going on?"
"An MP was shot a while ago," I said. "Sam Burnham, know him?"
"Lieutenant, right? Yeah, I know who he is. What happened?"
"Long story. Listen, any idea why seeing Jenkins's truck would make Brennan nervous?"
"I have no idea, Boyle. Maybe Pete is mixed up in all this, I don't know. I have enough problems as it is. I got bazookas without rockets, 81mm mortars with no ammo, 60mm mortar shells but no mortars- you want me to go on?"
"No need, I'll leave you to your troubles," I said, thinking that Brennan must not have mentioned anything to Saul about the MPs coming for him. "Thanks."
"Find those BARs, that'll solve one of my problems at least," Saul said as I left. Everyone wanted me to find the BARs but I was more worried about them finding me first.
Saul had acted completely normal after his initial shock when he turned around and saw me. Did Brennan's departure have anything to do with the attack on the station? I didn't see how it could. Maybe the sight of the truck had made him jumpy, or maybe he'd started a fight in the wrong pub over politics or religion, and he was worried about the Red Hand. But why leave the base? Did Saul know the MPs were coming for Brennan, and if he did, why would he give Brennan a pass?
I drove out of the Ballykinler base, turning left on the road to Clough. The last thing I wanted was another drink, but I had to check on Brennan. Besides, by now it was likely that word had gotten back to Thornton about Sam being shot. As soon as they sent the ambulance for his body, the XO would get a report. Executive officers got reports all day and all night, from every formation under their command. Which probably meant that Thornton had known Sam was going to the funeral. He was probably the only person who knew there would be two American officers there. Not that I could come up with a reason to suspect him, other than having caught him in a couple of lies, but it did make me wonder. Was Sam the intended target after all? If he was, why? What could he have known that was worth his life? I needed to talk to his sergeant, Patterson, to see if there was anything I was missing. Adrian too, since he seemed to be a pal of Sam's.
The Lug o' the Tub sat near the edge of the road, its whitewashed stone walls gleaming in the moonlight. The overhanging thatched roof loomed darkly, and the smell of peat smoke floated in the night air. There wasn't much room to park, so I edged the jeep off the road as best I could. Bicycles leaned against the building and one old sedan was parked beside it. No other jeep was in sight.
I opened the door and stepped into a haze of yellow lamplight, cigarette smoke, and murmured conversations. The bar was set along the wall to my left, and necks craned as they do in neighborhood bars all over the world, checking out the newcomer. I had new Yank written all over me, and the locals, in their white shirts and vests, or shabby old suit coats that had once been their Sunday best but now wore the shine of decades, turned away as one, grinding out cigarettes and sipping their Guinnesses. The barman nodded, ever so slightly, keeping his eyes on me as I scanned the room. Tables were set along the walls, and small groups huddled over their drinks. Four GIs sat at one, grimly drinking warm beer and probably thinking of bars back home that had actual women in them. Clough was not much for nightlife, and the clientele was decidedly male, and on the grayer side of that sex. In the farthest corner, with his back to the wall, sat Grady O'Brick. He raised his glass to me and as he did, his drinking partner turned around. Pete Brennan grinned when he saw me, a cigarette at the corner of his mouth drifting smoke across his squinting eyes.