dumped on the lawn and broken, a kid’s bicycle with stabilisers on the back wheels, a small football goal. There was a line beyond the back door, strung between an apple tree with fruit on it and an iron pole. A family’s washing was pegged to it. A man’s underwear and a woman’s – functional – his shirts and her blouses, jeans for both of them, a boy’s pants and vests, small socks, T-shirts, trousers and sports gear in the colours of a Gaelic club. There hadn’t been washing twenty-five years before, when the dawn had come up and he had last been there.
There would have been rain the night before and prolonged showers through the morning, but in the afternoon it had cleared. The night had been cold, no frost but a chill in the air and a wind. When they’d arrived in the hedgerow, it had blustered in the trees and had bent the nettles. The hole hadn’t dried out. He had been in water then, and was now.
A God-awful journey, no sleep. Danny Curnow knew that a Joe had been up the hill less than twenty-four hours before, that fog had left him with no adequate protection and that he had passed a detailed interrogation. He knew, too, that an arms purchase was in the air, that the principals would be on the move before nightfall and that Matthew Bentinick had put the reaction in place. Danny doubted that others at Five could have moved so fast, avoiding a string of administrative committee meetings, assessments and delays. He knew, as well, that no one other than Matthew Bentinick could have pulled him out of the bistro on the square. A phone call had been made. Cash had been left in the glove box of the Sword Tours minibus. A hotel room had been cleared. The aircraft had taken them across the Channel to Northolt. There had been a brusque farewell from Bentinick, as if his mind was still locked in a time when he had held a commission and was addressing Sergeant Curnow, who was lucky enough to be attached to FRU. He was told when they would meet up. Another take-off, and another tossing flight across open sea. The pilot had been short of conversation and anxious to keep to the schedule. Daylight mattered, avoiding it.
Sheep could have used the hide that Dusty had dug out for Desperate all those years before. They had camouflaged it well when they’d slipped away, been gone before the priest had left and after the Riordan woman, newly widowed, had come out, gathered her boy into her arms and carried him inside, still howling. The sticks under the grass sods would have collapsed on a winter’s day, when rain cascaded down from the upper field, and the indent would have been exposed. Sheep would have found it, or inquisitive cattle. It was a good place and gave them cover. He had led and Sebastian had followed. There had been a police team three-quarters of a mile back, probably using the same turn-off into a stand of trees that had hidden a close reaction force of Fusiliers a quarter of a century before. He had moved towards the hide with confidence.
The aircraft had landed at Aldergrove. It had been directed by the Tower to the old military area. In his day there would have been Hercules transports there, wing to wing, executive jets for ferrying generals, and helicopters in neat rows. Only a few helicopters remained under the floodlights. No formalities. Sebastian, from Five, had met him. He was based at the new complex out at the Palace Barracks north-east of the city: there was an orange glow to locate Belfast. Danny had been there so many times: had lived and breathed it and spoken its language. He was watched from the shadows by handling staff, as if a stranger coming under cover of darkness, not through Arrivals, heralded danger. The car was a Ford, with rust, dents and mud along its sides. He smiled coldly to himself when he stood beside it and waited for the doors to be unlocked. They could screw up the outside of a car but not the tyres: good tread and expensive rubber. He didn’t doubt that the engine
There would have been rain the night before and prolonged showers through the morning, but in the afternoon it had cleared. The night had been cold, no frost but a chill in the air and a wind. When they’d arrived in the hedgerow, it had blustered in the trees and had bent the nettles. The hole hadn’t dried out. He had been in water then, and was now.
A God-awful journey, no sleep. Danny Curnow knew that a Joe had been up the hill less than twenty-four hours before, that fog had left him with no adequate protection and that he had passed a detailed interrogation. He knew, too, that an arms purchase was in the air, that the principals would be on the move before nightfall and that Matthew Bentinick had put the reaction in place. Danny doubted that others at Five could have moved so fast, avoiding a string of administrative committee meetings, assessments and delays. He knew, as well, that no one other than Matthew Bentinick could have pulled him out of the bistro on the square. A phone call had been made. Cash had been left in the glove box of the Sword Tours minibus. A hotel room had been cleared. The aircraft had taken them across the Channel to Northolt. There had been a brusque farewell from Bentinick, as if his mind was still locked in a time when he had held a commission and was addressing Sergeant Curnow, who was lucky enough to be attached to FRU. He was told when they would meet up. Another take-off, and another tossing flight across open sea. The pilot had been short of conversation and anxious to keep to the schedule. Daylight mattered, avoiding it.
Sheep could have used the hide that Dusty had dug out for Desperate all those years before. They had camouflaged it well when they’d slipped away, been gone before the priest had left and after the Riordan woman, newly widowed, had come out, gathered her boy into her arms and carried him inside, still howling. The sticks under the grass sods would have collapsed on a winter’s day, when rain cascaded down from the upper field, and the indent would have been exposed. Sheep would have found it, or inquisitive cattle. It was a good place and gave them cover. He had led and Sebastian had followed. There had been a police team three-quarters of a mile back, probably using the same turn-off into a stand of trees that had hidden a close reaction force of Fusiliers a quarter of a century before. He had moved towards the hide with confidence.
The aircraft had landed at Aldergrove. It had been directed by the Tower to the old military area. In his day there would have been Hercules transports there, wing to wing, executive jets for ferrying generals, and helicopters in neat rows. Only a few helicopters remained under the floodlights. No formalities. Sebastian, from Five, had met him. He was based at the new complex out at the Palace Barracks north-east of the city: there was an orange glow to locate Belfast. Danny had been there so many times: had lived and breathed it and spoken its language. He was watched from the shadows by handling staff, as if a stranger coming under cover of darkness, not through Arrivals, heralded danger. The car was a Ford, with rust, dents and mud along its sides. He smiled coldly to himself when he stood beside it and waited for the doors to be unlocked. They could screw up the outside of a car but not the tyres: good tread and expensive rubber. He didn’t doubt that the engine
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