Pray for Us Sinners by Patrick Taylor

the Elbow Room, walked up Dublin Road to Amelia Street, and got into a parked Ford Consul. The waiting driver pulled away from the curb.
    Not until he was safely back behind the high wire anti-bomb fencing of the Springfield Road police station did Sam Dunlop open the packet of Gallagher’s Greens. The note was there, stuffed between four cigarettes. Fogarty had made out well on this transaction—not only had he collected a hundred pounds, but there had been ten unsmoked fags in Sergeant Dunlop’s packet.
    Fogarty’d been brought in by the CID blokes on a breaking-and-entering charge six months earlier. He agreed to pass information in return for having the charges dropped, and he’d been a useful source so far. He was the one who’d given the tip about the van bomb that killed the poor sod of an ATO, Richardson. Dunlop had been sure, though, to make it seem that the arrest of the van’s occupants had been the result of a routine stop-and-search mission. Reliable informers were hard to come by.
    The sergeant read Fogarty’s note by the glare of the arc lights surrounding the barracks. He whistled. The words, written in a jerky hand, said, “Explosives and weapons dump at 12 Slieveban Drive.”
    He looked at his watch. Seven. Dunlop went into the building and headed straight for the inspector’s office. It would only take an hour to arrange the RUC detail and the protecting troop escort, half an hour to Slieveban Drive in Andersonstown. By 9:30 the PIRA would be short of more supplies and, with a bit of luck, some personnel.
    *   *   *
    Brendan McGuinness’s face was puce as he slammed the telephone receiver down. “Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck … it!”
    Sean Conlon sat watching the information officer’s rage. Turlough was in bed, and Sean saw no reason to disturb the man. It was after midnight. He and Brendan had been putting the finishing touches on the plan for the attack that was to be launched the next night.
    â€œI don’t fucking well believe it.” Brendan’s fist pounded on the shining tabletop.
    Sean said nothing.
    â€œThe Brits took out Slieveban Drive about three hours ago.”
    â€œSo you’ve lost First Battalion’s ammo dump?”
    â€œFive hundred pounds of explosives, detonators, Cordtex, sixteen ArmaLites, two RPG-7s, five thousand rounds of 7.62-millimeter ball cartridge”—he paused—“and three explosives men. The buggers were building the mine for tomorrow night.”
    â€œPity about your men.”
    â€œNever mind the fucking men.” Brendan paced away from Sean, swung back, and snarled, “There’s no way now we can set up the attack for tomorrow night.”
    â€œSo? There’ll be other chances.”
    â€œYou think I don’t know that? For God’s sake, it was the first time we could give the surveillance equipment a decent field trial.”
    â€œI thought you had it working.”
    â€œChrist, Sean. Routine stuff. Routine stuff’s coming in loud and clear, but it’s not the same as when the buggers are after a real target. They could use some kind of code. I have to know.”
    â€œThere’ll be a way to set up the kind of mission you need.”
    â€œHow? Your quartermaster’s out of explosives. That was our last lot until the next shipment comes in from Dublin, and I’ve no more munitions men.”
    â€œWe’ve stockpiled weapons here.”
    â€œJesus. Guns and a few grenades? Do you fancy taking on armoured Land Rovers with nothing else?”
    Sean shook his head. “No. But it’s a start.”
    â€œShit. I’ve got to get hold of my action squad and my inside man. Tell them the whole thing’s off.”
    â€œCan you?”
    â€œThe lads is easy, but I can’t talk to him. I’m not due to see him for a few days, but I can get him a message.”
    â€œDo it.”
    Brendan strode to