Pray for Us Sinners by Patrick Taylor Page A

the phone and dialed. “Hello, Billy? Tell the boys to tuck their heads in. Aye, it’s off. And leave a note in the usual place. Say, ‘No party tonight.’ Aye. ‘No party tonight.’” He hung up. “He’ll get that when he checks the dead-letter drop.”
    â€œGood, because it’s still a good plan, and we don’t want your source to get a reputation for giving false alarms.”
    â€œTrue.”
    â€œCan we hold off for a week or two?”
    â€œHave we a choice?”
    â€œNo. It’ll take a wee while to organize, but I’ve a man who could make a land mine out of his granny’s knickers and a piece of string.”
    Brendan nodded. “Go on.”
    â€œLet me get hold of him, get him on the job, and that’ll give you time to get in touch with your fellow.”
    â€œIf your bloke can do what you say, it could work.”
    â€œAye. You can test your fancy gear, see if you can hear the Brits in action, and we’ll take out a few more of their troops.”
    McGuinness thought for a moment. The British General Election was in two days, on the twenty-eighth. Another week or two wasn’t so important. The British PM would be unlikely to visit Ulster for at least a month, probably longer. Sean was right. “Sounds good. We’ll talk to Turlough about it in the morning. Who is your man, by the way?”
    â€œDavy. Davy McCutcheon.”

 
    SEVENTEEN
    WEDNESDAY, MARCH 6
    Captain Warnock had left ten days ago. Warnock and his “Let’s just say if you blow your cover, you’ll never have to worry about passing the examinations for promotion to captain.” Today was to be a different kind of examination—the finals the major had mentioned at the start of Marcus’s training. Marcus rose early, impatient, wanting to get on with it.
    He finished shaving, running the razor over the strip of skin that stretched from his lower lip, round the centre of his chin, and down over his throat. He looked in the mirror. The split in his lip had healed, leaving a pale, thin scar. The bruises had turned from black to a yellowy greenish-purple, like the skin round the vent of a pheasant hung for too long. His new moustache was an expanded Pancho Villa—full over the upper lip, narrower at the corners of the mouth, and widening again as it ran down his chin and in underneath. He frowned when he discovered some grey hairs among the black.
    The acne was an irritant. He lifted the dark, oily fringe from his forehead and peered at the angry red pustules. A military haircut would stick out like a sore thumb, but after four weeks—and he had been ready for a trim before all of this—he was starting to look like John Lennon in his Maharishi phase.
    â€œ Ohm mane padme ohm, ” he intoned solemnly. The smile in his hazel eyes, reflected in the glass, gave the lie to his gloomy voice. He didn’t mind the length of his hair. He just wished that this Mike Roberts character was a man of more fastidious habits.
    Marcus Richardson spoke to his reflection: “Mike Roberts, you’re a right heap of shit, so y’are.” His accent was thick County Down. Norn Irn.
    It had taken time to work into his new persona—Mike Roberts, the man in the green ring binder—but it had been fun. No, he corrected himself, a wee lad from Bangor would never talk about “fun.” It was powerful craic , so it was—so far. This finals business? He wondered if it could be any worse than the “render safe procedure” he’d had to take at Longmoor before graduating. They’d given him a real sod of a parcel bomb to deal with.
    He buttoned his shirt and trotted down the stairs. He looked at the briefing materials strewn around the small living room, a far cry from the tidy heaps that John had left on the first day. So much to have learned in so short a time.
    In the kitchen an electric clock hanging crookedly on