1

About the Author

A linguist and political scientist by academic background, Robert
Ramsay was for many years a senior official at the heart of
government in Belfast, London and Brussels. He witnessed at
close quarters many of the situations and personalities described
in this book and he has maintained contacts right across the
political and security spectrum
His interest in the theme of terrorism and governance inspired his
first book, The Corsican Time Bomb (ISBN -10-071900893X)
and he has also written a memoir of his own career in the UK and
EU, entitled Ringside Seats (ISBN 9780 7165 3020 6).
He is now an international consultant on administrative affairs,
dividing his time, when not on foreign assignment, between the
coast of County Down and the south of Spain.

Dedication
To James, Jonathan, Carl and Brian; and all theirs.

Robert Ramsay

CALLING THE SHOTS

Copyright Robert Ramsay (2015)

The right of Robert Ramsay to be identified as author of this
work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and
78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims
for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library.

ISBN 978 1 78554 084 4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978 1 78554 085 1 (Hardback)

www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2015)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Acknowledgments
My sincere thanks go to a great number of friends, colleagues
and sources, in both high and low places, whose co-operation
made the writing of this book possible.
They are too numerous to mention and many of them would,
in any case, prefer to remain in the shadows, which is their
natural habitat.
They know who they are and that I am grateful to them. May
their recompense be a certain satisfaction that this side of the
story has at last been told.

DECLARATION

This book is partly a work of fiction, based on unpalatable

facts. Where actual events are described, background details
and names have been changed in order to protect the innocent
... and the guilty.

10

ABBREVIATIONS

ACC Assistant Chief Constable

ASU Active Service Unit, of the (Provisional) IRA
BOTDR Brillouin Optical Time Domain Reflectometry
CASTLE Stormont Castle, administrative seat of the SoS (NI)
CC Chief Constable of the RUC
CID Criminal Investigation Division of the RUC
CLF Commander Land Forces (British Army)
CRUM Short for Crumlin Road Prison
DIY Do it yourself
DST Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, the French
equivalent of MI5
FCO Foreign and Commonwealth Office
GCMG Grand Cross of the Order of St Michael and St George
GFA Good Friday Agreement (also known as the Belfast
Agreement)
GOC General Officer Commanding
HMG Her Majestys Government
HSB Head of the RUCs Special Branch. These initials were
used as a form of address to the officer.
HUMINTEL Intelligence from human resources
JCB Heavy mechanical digger, manufactured by J. C.
Bamford Excavators Limited
JSC Joint Security Committee
JSC (INTEL) Intelligence subcommittee of the JSC
KCMG Knight Commander of the Order of St Michael and St
George
NIO Northern Ireland Office
OC Officer Commanding in the British Army; (used also by
some of the paramilitary organisations)
ODCs Ordinary decent criminals (i.e. not paramilitaries)
PIRA Provisional Irish Republican Army (a title often
abbreviated to IRA, or to the RA
PPE Philosophy, Politics and Economics, Oxbridge degree
course

11

PUS Permanent Undersecretary of State, the most senior civil

servant in any department; he/she is addressed as such.
RHC Red Hand Commandos, a Loyalist paramilitary
organisation
RPG Rocket-propelled grenade
RUC Royal Ulster Constabulary
SAS Special Air Services
SB Special Branch (of RUC)
SoS (NI) Secretary of State for Northern Ireland. He /she is
addressed as such
TECHNITEL Intelligence acquired through technical devices
UDA Ulster Defence Association, a Loyalist organisation
which was originally legal, but later banned
UDR Ulster Defence Regiment (of the British Army)
UFF Ulster Freedom Fighters, an offshoot of the UDA and
banned organisation
UVF Ulster Volunteer Force, a Loyalist paramilitary
organisation
WBG West Belfast Growth A government sponsored
organisation aimed at improving employment opportunities in
the area

12

GLOSSARY

Albornoz: Spanish for bathrobe

An Phoblacht: Irish for The Republic, a publication
sympathetic to the armed struggle
Ard fheisanna: annual conferences of Sinn Fein
Balneario: Spanish for thermal spa
Bateau-mouche: tourist pleasure boat on the Seine
Billy Sanderson: name deliberately distorted by Loyalists, of
IRA hunger striker, Bobby Sands
Brick: a small police foot patrol, guarded by soldiers
Cisteoir: Irish for treasurer
Ceili: Irish party with music
Claudia: Gunrunning ship arrested by the Irish navy in 1973
Garda Siochana: Irish for Civic Guard, the Republics police
force
Green-booked: IRA slang for sworn in.
Hallion: Ulster Scots dialect word for scamp, scoundrel
Maze: Prison (formerly called Long Kesh) in which most
paramilitary prisoners were held
Mozo: Spanish for porter / bell hop
Oglaigh na hEireann: Irish for Irish Army, the self-appointed
name of the IRA
PANORAMA: Computerised databank used by the security
forces to build up information on suspects
Ruby Murray: Belfast-born singer. Ulster slang rhymes her
name with curry
Shebeen: An illegal drinking den
Sunningdale: British Government administrative complex
near London, where a failed power-sharing agreement was
signed between NI political parties in 1973
Taoiseach: Irish Prime Minister
Teague: Pejorative nickname for a nationalist / Roman
Catholic
Tiocfaidh ar l: Irish for Our day will come, a slogan of the
IRA

13

VELLUM: A surveillance programme based on the bugging

of suspects vehicles
Woodbine: a brand of cheap cigarettes

14

Chapter 1

The sphincter-slackening moment of decision could be

delayed no longer. This bomb was old and Major Tomkins
knew it could explode within minutes, perhaps seconds. He
had already worked on it for well over an hour, huddled in a
corner of the Ford Transit van, in which the business end of
the device, a mass of wires and soldering, had been wedged
against the panel which divided the cargo area from the
drivers cab. There was no way Robbie the Robot could be
used to winkle this bomb out. Each bomb was now more
difficult to deal with than its predecessor; the war of wits
between bomb designer and bomb disposal officer had
become an ever more lethal struggle.
Tomkins temples throbbed from the effort of working in
an almost upside-down position, but the sustained adrenaline
flow through his body deadened the pain in his limbs. He had
at once recognized in the layout of the device the signature
handiwork of the PIRA bomb-brain he and his colleagues
referred to as Colin so called because the first device of
this particular signature retrieved intact had been in Colin
Glen, a small parkland area of West Belfast.
Tomkins had already discovered two tilt switches in the
mechanism, which if interfered with would have at once set
off the bomb. But had Colin invented a third anti-handling
device and hidden it in the jumble of the wiring which had
been inserted to cause confusion? And what if the electronic
jamming equipment being used by his colleagues from their
operational command vehicle down the road to prevent the
bomb being detonated by remote control could have been
circumvented by some new gadget in PIRAs armoury?

15

Youre sliding towards defeatism, Tomkins, old man. Pull

yourself together. Think positively.
He must review the situation one more time, then back his
knowledge, experience and judgement against the devious
skills of that bastard Colin.
As he gently manipulated the wires, he looked for the first
time in a long while at the back of his own hands. Not a
tremble: he was still Steady Eddy, the revered head of the
squad, with dozens of dismantles to his credit, and
authorship of an Operational Manual which had become the
standard reference work in several armies and police forces
around the world. But for how much longer could he lead this
sort of life? He noticed, almost with a start, a brown liver spot,
half the size of the nail of his little finger, in the middle of his
left hand. The first real reminder in his own body, of age and
mortality.
But look on the bright side.
Age would carry him to retirement in less than two years;
then the cottage in Cumbria with Valery. Thats if he could
keep ahead of Colin.
He thought through the wiring layout one last time, and
remained convinced that to cut wire K, as he had christened
it in his mind, was to break the link between detonator and
explosive charge.
Im going to slice, he whispered coolly into the
mouthpiece of his communications unit, buttoned into the top
of his shirt. That was heard not only by his colleagues in the
van down the road, but by the crisis team assembled in the
operations room at Castlereagh RUC Holding Centre, some
five miles away in the east of the city. As he took the wire
cutters from his belt and carefully placed them round K, he
received, superimposed on what he was concentrating on, an
image of Valery and the girls, sitting in a sunlit meadow,
laughing as they enjoyed a picnic. It was an image which
always came to him at the moment of truth. He did not know
where the meadow was, and the girls were but lentiginousfaced children, not their adult selves, but he knew this was
literally the picture of happiness, which he suspected his

16

subconscious had constructed for him, lest this thought prove

to be his last. He wore no protective clothing I cant work as
a watchmaker, dressed as an ice hockey goalkeeper and his
colleagues could not gainsay his calculation that if a 1000 kilo
device exploded at close quarters the wearing of the most
sophisticated protective gear available would have the effect
of reducing the number of body parts to be picked up from
four hundred to four an advantage of no interest to him
whatsoever.
With a firm grip he squeezed the cutters. Snick. Nothing.
The ache in his limbs, rather than relief, flooded his
consciousness. He moved to the back of the van and gave a
thumbs-up sign in the direction of the command vehicle.
In the crisis management room at Castlereagh the radio
crackled. Number One dealt with, contact.
Despite the tension of the past hours, there was no
celebratory outburst from those gathered round the table, just
a mild Hah from the CLF, who said Good boy, Eddy and
slapped the table with the palm of his hand. HSB and the
Security Co-Ordinator smiled nervously at one another, and
the supporting staff in the room went about their business.
They had all been there for three days, monitoring the crisis
and its potential consequences, sleeping on camp beds in the
offices along the corridor on the second floor, and eating the
arteryclogging Ulster breakfasts brought up from the
canteen. A monastic life, focused, not on the raising of the
Eucharist, but on the quasi-mystical act of dismantlement
performed by Major Tomkins.
The bomb had been aimed at one of two targets, perhaps
both. Firstly, an Orange Order parade was due to pass down
part of that road late on Saturday morning; and a battalion of a
Scottish regiment was to follow much the same route on their
way to the docks at the end of a tour of duty. Either would
have presented a choice target for the Provisional IRA, even at
the risk of collateral damage in the form of death or injury
suffered by innocent bystanders.
The security forces were on crisis alert, following a tip-off
from an RUC informant, Seamus Toner, codename Harry-

17

the-hound, whose Volunteer role in PIRA was as a runner,

which gave him access to important, but inevitably
fragmentary, information relating to terrorist operations, as he
carried messages to and fro between local commanders,
finance officers, bomb makers, drivers and, sometimes,
higher authorities. He had warned his handler earlier in the
week that two new mega-bombs would be planted at the
weekend. He knew one of them was destined for the
Springfield Road area; he did not know the planned location,
even generally, of the second, but would keep his ear to the
ground and report back by Friday at the latest. Then he had
simply vanished.
What are we doing to find him? asked Jeremy Granville,
the Security Services Director and Co-ordinator of
Intelligence.
His handler, Sgt. Bob McKinney, and five undercover
constables are scouring all his known haunts most of them
pubs but so far theres no sign of him, replied HSB.
How sure are we of him?
As sure as we can be of any of our touts and agents
...which means up to a point, based on our past positive
experience of them, but not all the way. Theyre not reliable
people by nature. He had almost said by profession, but
thought the MI5 man might take that amiss.
Harry-the-hound is in fact, a strange one, even by the
standards of the business. He was a walk-in several years
ago. His family is solidly Republican on both sides, all the
way back to the 1920s, so we were naturally suspicious of his
motives at first. McKinney thinks his man felt still feels
indeed undervalued by the higher-ups in the movement.
Then there was something vague about an uncle of his not
having received proper assistance after he came out from a
stretch in the Maze. But probably more important, nowadays,
is that our man values not only our subsidization of his wee
weakness, as they say in Belfast, but, strangely, his
relationship with McKinney. A sort of father-and-son thing.
And I think its mutual. We have to watch that, it could be

18

very dangerous. But up to now, weve done very well out of

friend Harry.
Up to now, repeated Granville, drily.
Yes. God alone knows where either he or bomb number
two are. Well just have to keep looking.
HSB picked up a scrambler phone and dialled home.
Its me. Shall we go over?
He pressed the scrambler button.
Still here. Business only half over. Tell Eric Im sorry to
spoil his birthday. The round of golf will have to wait. Yes, I
know hes disappointed. So am I. But at least he can have a
drink, now hes of age. Dont hold up the celebrations on my
account. Ive no idea when Ill be home. Ill ring. You too.
Bye.
Tomkins sat, grey faced, in the front seat of a service car,
still at the scene of his triumph. Two of his assistants and a
forensic officer were still at work on the bomb-carrying
vehicle.
If I cant have a beer until Ive dealt with number two,
Im at least going to have a fag, he said, reaching into the
glove compartment for his Dunhills.
Well done, sir, said the young lieutenant who was acting
as his deputy that day. It was said sincerely; only those who
worked and lived close-up to bombs and their handling could
appreciate just how tough the job could be. The amazing thing
was that bomb disposal units had traditionally far more
applicant volunteers than there were places on the teams.
Selecting new members was a delicate task: one didnt want to
bring on board excitement junkies Tomkins personally
called them the Russian Roulette Rabble who simply
craved danger in their hitherto drab little lives, as he put it.
Yet, at the same time, the ideal operator had to be able to
channel the excitement of danger into a heightened awareness
of all aspects of every tense situation; a totally calm individual
might not be able to produce the extraordinarily high level of
concentration required to do the job ... and to stay alive.
Tomkins smiled to himself, as he concluded his reverie with

19

the thought that the ideal operator had to be a well-balanced,

but alert, personality like himself. He knew how Valery
would tease him, if he were to say that out loud in front of her.
Yes, and modest with it, she would certainly say.
He had been extremely fortunate in his life, particularly as
regards Valery. All army wives have their hours, their days, of
anxiety whenever their husbands are in theatre. It is only
natural if the heart missed a beat whenever the doorbell or
telephone rang, especially at night. But the successful wives
do not transmit that angst to their husbands, or complain to
them about the stress under which they are living.
Valery and he had been married when he was just out of
Sandhurst and she had always been not only his lifes partner,
but his greatest supporter in his career. She had, without
complaint, followed him to various overseas postings, in
Cyprus and Germany; and had moved more times than she
cared to number round accommodation in army bases in
England, while he was serving in places as far away as Oman
and Hong Kong. None of these homes, as she emphatically
and doggedly called them, was anything better than
comfortable; several had been decidedly substandard,
reflecting the Governments priorities within the defence
budget. They were, in terms of her upbringing as a surgeons
only daughter, a sacrifice. Army life also imposed on the
Tomkins what they felt was a far greater sacrifice, in that their
two daughters had been obliged to go to boarding school from
an early age.
All these hardships Valery had accepted as part of her lot
in life, and were more than compensated for by sharing her
life with as interesting and amusing a man as Eddy.
Nevertheless, as his retirement appeared on the horizon and
why did his last posting have to be in Northern Ireland,
instead of a cushy number at Staff College she had started to
talk increasingly about pay-back time. This referred to
where they would set up their post-army home. Some years
before, when posted to the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall,
Tomkins had had the wisdom, or the luck, to buy a substantial
house in Putney. Its present value would ensure that the

20

existing mortgage could be easily paid off, with enough over

to buy a modest house in a region removed from the insane
housing market of the South East. Eddy had at first suggested
the South Coast, or even France, but she had not considered
those possibilities for a moment. No. Ive rattled around with
you in foreign parts long enough, Eddy Tomkins. This time
Im going to MY home, in MY country.
But Bournemouths hardly foreign, is it?
To me it is. Home to me is Cumbria. She could scarcely
believe her own daring and outspokenness.
Cumbria! For Gods sake, woman. It never stops raining
there.
I dont care. In Cumbria I am back to my roots. You
know, roots arent only for the descendants of black African
slaves. I want to be where I went to school, where my parents
and grandparents are buried, where I can look out every
morning at a lake I knew as a child, and where Ill meet old
friends down the street or in the pub.
Im all for peace and quiet, replied Tomkins, but isnt
Cumbria just a tad out of the way?
Then she put in her challenge: Where would you rather
be?
Tomkins was cornered. He had been on the move for such
a long time that he didnt look outside the army for any
concept of home: he had no alternative to put forward.
Besides, he knew that he owed Valery big time. So
Cumbria, with the highest bloody rainfall in the British Isles,
it had to be. Cumbria was the first time bomb he had failed to
dismantle. But the more he thought about it, the more he liked
the idea. He promised to go house hunting there during his
next leave. Meanwhile, there was bomb number two to think
about if the police and army could find it in time.

The dual mysteries of the whereabouts of bomb number

two and Harry-the-hound were solved within the next hour.
Firstly, a huge explosion rocked West Belfast, as a builders
lorry stolen in the housing estate of Poleglass earlier in the

21

week, it later transpired flew several metres into the air on

the Horseshoe Road on the slopes outside the city, at the
entrance to a field. No one was injured, as the road was
deserted at the time, no thanks to the bombers, as no warnings
had been given. It was surmised by those at Castlereagh that
the driver of the bomb-lorry had been disturbed on his way
to a designated target, perhaps by the sight of one of the many
police and army checkpoints which had been hastily put in
place on the basis of Harry-the-hounds intelligence, and had
aborted his mission according to PIRA procedures, by simply
driving into open country and abandoning his vehicle and its
lethal load, which was already primed by the bomb handler.
To deal with the explosive device was far beyond the remit,
or capabilities, of the Volunteer driver, whose role in, and
knowledge of, the operation was limited strictly to driving
from A (pick-up point) to B (target). C (point of mission
abortion) was at his discretion, and governed by the
circumstances he found himself in. He would, however, have
to justify the abandonment of his mission in great detail,
during a post-operation de-briefing with his local commander
and a senior figure from the disciplinary and security unit.
As for Harry-the-hound, Sgt. McKinney had used trusted
contacts within the administrative offices of the main Belfast
hospitals. It was a delicate matter, as the IRA also had
sympathizers in most of them and any speculative enquiry
about a patient could easily arouse suspicions. McKinney
struck gold with the Royal Victoria Hospital: a Mr Seamus
Patrick Toner was indeed a patient, having been admitted by
ambulance last Wednesday, with suspected kidney failure. He
was recovering, after treatment, in Ward 13 (Mens Surgical).
The poor guy. Kidneys and liver in a terrible state. Partly
indeed mostly, to tell the truth self-inflicted wounds. But
getting out of alcohol dependency is never easy for anyone,
particularly for a man under stress. But thank God hes safe
and not unmasked. Ill have to look after him.
The daily situation report mentioned the two bombs, an
arms find in the Creggan in Londonderry, and some brief
recreational rioting at Unity Flats, Belfast. Northern Ireland

22

had seen many worse days, but would it see better ones in the
foreseeable future, wondered a tired Granville, as his car
accelerated out of the narrow vehicle entrance of the Holding
Centre into the traffic in Ladas Drive. It would take more than
the successes of the Bomb Disposal Unit to achieve that. The
challenge for him, more than for anyone else, was to move
the situation into a new dimension.

23

Chapter 2

Noleen Cassidys curiosity didnt kill her, but it did bring

about what she would later call her Eve moment. She bit into
the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge knowledge of good and
evil by yielding, for the first time in her marriage, to the
temptation to be curious and prying about her husbands
behaviour. And, as things turned out, it did indeed change her
life.
Aidans voluminous briefcase lay on the bed, a modern
version of a Gladstone bag, with a clasp at the top. The zip
was pulled fully to the side, leaving an inviting gap of a
couple of inches. She had never seen Aidan carry a case like
that and as she now watched him outside in the driveway,
talking to Ernie, the gardener, she smiled at her own temerity
in not pulling aside the lips of the bag he could not possibly
come back into the house and be up the stairs in less than
twenty seconds; he might well even stay outside for several
more minutes. Yet she hesitated. To pry did not come
naturally or easily to her. And despite the fact that she might
have admitted to a certain loss of intimacy in recent years, she
felt a pang of guilt or was it apprehension as she
tentatively opened the bag another few inches, as carefully as
a bomb disposal officer.
She caught her breath and her hands froze on the lips of
the bag. Inside were stacked, in neat bundles, twenty pound
sterling notes, along with US dollars and Irish punts in various
denominations. Hurriedly, she returned the bag to its original
state and irrationally tiptoed out of the bedroom, across the
landing to the bathroom, where she locked the door and,
turning on the taps, sat down, panting and out of breath, on the
mock Roman stool by the bath. She didnt know whether to be
24

relieved or horrified; she was certainly disturbed. She had

noticed for some time that Aidan had some part of his life he
was no longer sharing with her. Was there another woman?
Possibly. She shuddered at the thought. They had been so
close, ever since her teenage years. He was not what she or
her girl friends would have called exciting, but instinctively
she admired his steadiness and had relied on his supportive
strength. He had helped her over two great traumas in her life
the potential disgrace of her youthful indiscretions and the
unexpected death of her mother. He had always been her
confidant. They knew one anothers innermost thoughts and
she had once been sure that he had no secrets from her.
There was only one faint shadow in their relationship, and
it was on her account. It wasnt, strictly speaking a secret, as
she felt sure that Aidan knew about it, or at least harboured
strong suspicions, but it was the only taboo subject between
them. In their circles it was almost certain that he would have
heard a rumour of her brief fling, at the age of eighteen, with
Sean Byrne, who had been a classmate of Aidans at St
Marys College.
Men, she reflected, were always prone to stray, as her
mother had never tired of saying, but now she felt sure that the
more likely explanation of Aidans withdrawal from their
former complete intimacy lay in another direction, almost
equally alarming the movement. They were both from
Catholic families in West Belfast, which meant more or less
automatically that they were nationalists. The world outside
tended to look on that community as united and
homogeneous. But within even Catholic West Belfast, not to
mention the Catholic population at large, were many
contrasting, as well as overlapping, groups. Her father, JohnJoe McManus, had inherited two public houses, which he had
developed into a thriving business, opening three other bars
within a decade. He had visibly prospered despite the
Troubles. His nationalism shaded subtly towards
republicanism and support for the armed struggle. He was
publicly identified with various local protest movements
notably about prison conditions for IRA men at the Maze

25

organized by Sinn Fein and it was generally known that he

was a generous donor to many republican causes. Beyond
that, who knew how far, in practical terms, his support would
reach? That would depend on what he was asked to do and, so
far, the security forces had him marked down merely as a
supporter, with no direct links to acts of violence. He would
joke with his wife, a Dubliner who had no interest in politics
of any sort, that his position was the only sensible one to take
for a man who wished to preserve both his business and his
own skin. Noleen had heard that family conversation repeated
many times since her childhood but had never been sure
whether her fathers refrain was the truth, or whether he was
indeed dedicated to the cause, as many of his neighbours and
customers would have said of him. She shared her mothers
indifference to political matters, particularly the lethal Irish
variety, though her schooling and upbringing had imbued her
with an almost automatic antipathy to all things British, to
whom most of the woes of Ireland were ritually ascribed. She
had also inherited her mothers love of the pictorial arts and
looked on her collection of books on European paintings and
her frequent visits to the great continental galleries as the core
of her personal version of the Good Life never a birthday or
wedding anniversary went by without such a treat. Aidan
would from time to time tease her that she was high artistic
maintenance, but, like her mother before her, she took these
privileges for granted, whilst regarding them as something to
be enjoyed discreetly.
Aidans family were standard issue Lower Falls: a twoup, two-down house in a side street; father a maintenance
mechanic in the Royal Victoria Hospital ; mother a cleaner.
He had been a conscientious pupil, a plodder rather than an
academic high flyer at St. Marys and had had difficulty in
gaining his B.Sc. (Commerce) at Queens University, where
he had been obliged to repeat his final year. He persevered
with studies bringing him post-graduate professional
qualifications and, thanks to financial backing from his fatherin-law, was able, within a short time, to set up his own
business as an insurance broker, in prestigious premises on the

26

top floor of the Scottish Provident Building, overlooking

Belfast City Hall, the hub of the city. That upward social and
financial mobility had isolated him to some extent from his
three older brothers, who had remained rooted in what they
were happy to call the working class, though it was rare for all
three of them to be working, in any sort of employment, at
any given moment. He was also separated from them by a
large age gap, his nearest brother being seven years older, and
he could sense their resentment at the fact that he was the only
son to have had an education which opened doors to a higher
standard of living. But Ive worked for it, while they played
billiards, was his self-justification, whenever he thought
about their attitude towards him. He was still in touch with
them, but not closely, and when his parents had both died
within a year of one another, his involvement with his
brothers and the wider family circle shrank to the essentials of
funerals, weddings and christenings. It was happier for all that
way.

27

Chapter 3

Any cigars in the SitReps? asked the Head of Special

Branch, putting his head round the door of the Operations
Room. (En clair: any significant arrests in the Situation
Reports?).
One here that might be. An Executive Officer, no less, of
the Northern Ireland Office, drunk and disorderly in
Shaftesbury Square. Mixed up with Glasgow Rangers
supporters coming out of their club after the Old Firm match.
Apparently blitzed out of his skull, fighting with all and
sundry, including one of our uniformed brethren. Now
contrite as a repentant sinner, not to mention shit-scared for
the consequences for his job.
What is his job exactly?
Apparently hes the chief cipher clerk in
Communications at Stormont Castle.
Really? Sounds promising. Is he at Castlereagh?
No, but I can have him sent there if you think hes a
suitable case for treatment.
Do NIO know about this yet?
No.
Good. Keep it that way. Lets see what we can do. Ill
brief Austin and Niblock before they give our man the once
over.
An hour or so later John Archibald McCune arrives at the
RUCs Holding Centre in Ladas Drive, Castlereagh, on the
eastern outskirts of Belfast. This is where terrorist suspects are
customarily grilled; ODCs ordinary decent criminals
rarely appear there, but McCune is a special case. He knows,
of course, as do the public at large, what Castlereagh is for
and is puzzled, though not yet alarmed, as to why he is there.
28

He cuts a sorry figure as he is administratively processed by

a bored constable prior to his interrogation. Personal details
are taken with the same disinterest as his fingerprints. Ditto
his account of what happened to him in Shaftesbury Square.
But Ive already told all that to the police where they
took me.
Well tell it again, sunshine, Ive got my job to do.
He suspects they are looking for contradictions in his two
versions of the events; in reality his first statement doesnt
look like a Castlereagh document, so the police are starting
from scratch.
Files in a recognisable format look better. Just in case.
You never know with tribunals of inquiry these days.
Does he want to be seen by a doctor? Does he want his
solicitor alerted? He gives a puzzled look.
Just asking, says the constable. Must make sure all
your tender human rights are respected.
No.
Good. Much better that way.
Incongruously for a football supporter out on the town, he
is wearing a dark, three-piece suit and tie, as he had gone to
the club direct from a Saturday morning spell of duty at
Stormont Castle. A bruise on his left cheek and some blood
stains on the collar of his white shirt were glaring indications
that his Saturday had not gone well. Firstly, Gers had lost 21 to the ancient enemy, Celtic, and would now almost
certainly lose the league championship to them. To a fan such
as McCune, a Rangers supporter since birth, if not indeed
conception, that was tragedy enough for one Saturday, but the
circumstances of the defeat made things worse: a disputed
penalty in injury time.
Definitely not a hand ball it struck the full back when
he put up his hand to shield his face.
Discussion of the sad end to the game prolonged his
planned post-match stay in the club. His fellow supporters
shared his outrage: Fuckin ref. is probably a Teague summed
up the general sentiment. McCunes unchanging weekend
drinking practice was to hoover up pints of stout at a steady

29

pace, with no intermissions, so that his longer-than-usual stay

in the club meant that even his capacity to hold his drink,
which had gradually been expanded over the years to an
impressive degree, had been overcome by the sheer volume
which flowed down his throat that afternoon. Once out in the
fresh air, which hit him like a hammer to the head, he
struggled to find his bearings and to set his course for Oxford
Street bus station and his way home to Comber.
He had no idea how, or why, the fight had started in
Shaftesbury Square. He only knew that, suddenly, the four or
five others who had left the club with him were under attack
from a much larger group of teenagers, who kicked and
punched and swore and yelled, all at the same time. McCune
had been in such scenes before and reacted automatically,
swinging punches and kicking wildly at anyone who came
into his blurred field of vision. He had not taken on board the
fact that the police had arrived until, flat on his back on the
pavement, he managed to locate and straighten his thick hornrimmed glasses and make out the new key fact in his
predicament, namely that the man who had pinned him to the
ground was a uniformed constable of the RUC. As he re- told
the story, it became ever more unreal to himself. Would he
awake and find it was all a hangover-fuelled nightmare?
Instead, he now lapsed into sleep and slid slightly along the
wall.
He was awakened roughly by Constable Report Maker,
who yanked him to his feet and half led, half dragged him
along a long corridor. Now he was ushered into one of the
state-of-the-black-art interrogation rooms, complete with
sound system, monitoring TV camera and observation
window/mirror. He felt nauseous and was glad to be able to
crouch forward over the table that stood between him and his
Special Branch inquisitors. There were two of them.
Gradually he focused on the older man, who seemed to have
an extraordinarily large, round, sad face, in which stood out
little squiggles of broken purple veins on both sides of his
nose, like a marginal warning note.

30

Well, well, what a tragedy, began Bill Austin with a

deep sigh, peering closely at McCune through thick glasses.
Just look at you. As the Good Book says strong drink
mocketh a man. And, boy, did it make a monkey out of you.
What a pity!
He paused for a moment, shaking his head, as though
struggling to come to terms with the enormity of the pity of it
all, as he studied the pangolin figure before him.
Its your poor old Mammy in Motherwell I feel sorry
for,, he went on mournfully, thus deliberately revealing that
he had already run a check on McCune with his Scottish
opposite number.
There she was, widowed at forty, bringing up four
hallions all on her lonesome. And thinking she at least had
you off her hands, with honour, no less: through high school,
an established civil servant with special skills, and an indexlinked pension; could go all over the world on Her Majestys
business. Now over here with great perks free housing,
allowances for this and that, trips home twice a month...sure,
you couldnt beat it with a big stick. On the pigs back. The
life of Riley in spades.
He spread his hands wide, to indicate the abundance of
McCunes personal cornucopia.
And now this.
Much shaking of earnest jowls. Now this. Drunk and
disorderly. Breach of the peace. And grievous bodily harm to
a policeman. That alones bound to be two years in the
Crumlin. Ever been in our wee jail, son? Not a good place to
be, the Crum. And, of course, youll be unemployed and
unemployable when you come out dishonourably discharged
from the Service, with not a friend in the world, believe you
me. What a tragedy!
To the outside observer it would have been clear that
Austin adored just such a tragedy, since it chimed perfectly
with his personal vision of lost humanity. His enjoyment in
this particular tragedy was, however, tempered by the
professional knowledge that his role in it was intended to be

31

but the first of two very different acts. They were known as
Bill and Ben, the statements men.
If youve nothing to say and what could you say? Ill
get the papers ready for the DPP and the court.
Muttering Strong drink, strong drink... dear, oh dear...
he packed up his file and left the room.
Ben Niblock waited a while before taking up the running.
He did not try to rouse McCune, who remained slumped
forward, his face almost touching the tabletop. McCune at last
stirred, removed his glasses and wiped them on his blue tie.
He peered at Niblock, who smiled at him. This was still a
coppers face, but sharp and alert. McCune could now see that
his interrogator was dressed in a track suit a fitness fanatic,
was he?
Would you like a cigarette, Jimmy?
My name is John, said McCune, with just a hint of
defiance.
Course it is, course it is. Look, Im only trying to help.
Here, have a Benson and Hedges, he said, flicking a cigarette
across the table.
Tipped OK for you? You see, Jimmy, Im your mans
superior, (thumb jerked in the direction of the departed
Austin), and I could overrule all that. I mean the court case
and so on. But Id need your help. Couldnt do it at all without
your help.
McCunes head remained down. He said nothing.
You see, Jimmy, Id really like to help, personally.
Between you, me and the gatepost, Im a Gers supporter
myself...and all that. Know what I mean? Not that were
allowed to say that too openly nowadays. A bit of a taboo in
our line of work, you might say. But, of course, our common
interests yours and mine cant get you off the hook. There
has to be, what do you call it, a quid pro quo. Right?
McCune remained silent.
Well, John, Ill lay it out for you: Ill mark your get-outof-jail card.
He lit his own cigarette and reached over the table with
the lighter in his hand. McCune sat up almost straight, sucked

32

on the cigarette till it glowed brightly. After a deep breath, he

exhaled a long stream of smoke.
Youre housed in Comber, right? McCune nodded.
Do you share a house or flat?
No, I have a small house to myself, off High Street.
Thats nice, so it is. Combers a good place. Convenient
wee town. Loyal wee town. Peaceful. Not bad shopping. One
or two reasonable pubs. Regular bus service to Belfast.
He paused. Were there any other jewels in Combers
crown?
Suppose you know McDades on the Square?
McCune appeared to come partly to life at the mention.
Aye, I do.
Grand pub. I was once stationed up the street from there.
Always a friendly crowd in. Salt of the earth. The foods
pretty good in the restaurant upstairs, Im told. Especially
their Sunday roasts. Ever tried it?
Not really, replied McCune, for whom food held no
particular pleasure, beyond its essential uses as fuel and
blotting paper. Which explained why he was, as colleagues
said, as thin as a pipe cleaner, despite his weekly intake of
alcohol.
So, heres the deal, John. Youre a bright young man, Im
sure, when youre not rolling about in Shaftsbury Square, but
instead handling the day-to-day documents between London
and Stormont Castle. The day job. Encrypting and decrypting
and all that technical stuff. You could do an extra copy of
anything that struck you as being likely to be of interest to us.
You know the sort of thing policy papers, papers on the
political situation, the security assessments, relations with the
army and police....what the mandarins are thinking. Im sure
you could make a good selection of the important ones.
No, no, I couldnt do that. Thats criminal. Thats the
sack for sure.
His Security Training Course (Advanced) would have
been proud of his reaction, however ephemeral.
But my dear John, at this moment dismissal and jail are
precisely what you are facing. And I am offering to get you

33

out of all that trouble. Its a no-brainer. Play my game and,

OK, there are risks, but you can control them yourself. Dont
play for me and all those risks are already a reality.
Niblock paused to let the proposition sink in.
But were friends, John, so I can do better than that. My
man will see you in McDades every Saturday, or some other
day, by arrangement, at lunch time. If you have something for
nhim, you can slip out to the gents to hand it over. I dont
expect product, as we call it in the trade, every week, but
one never knows. And heres the good bit ... Niblock paused
and smiled broadly at his soon-to-be recruit.
Whatever the week may bring or hold, my man will have
a wee packet for you enough for your Saturdays
entertainment and a bit more. A few pints of heavy (here
Niblock attempted a Glaswegian accent), a flutter on the nags,
a Ruby Murray at Rajis and a bevy or two more before
bedtime. Now, I cant say fairer than that, can I?
McCune did not look overjoyed, but as he drew on his
cigarette, he visibly relaxed.
Shall I stop the file? asked Niblock.
OK, came the weak reply, after some hesitation.
Done! cried Niblock, reaching over to clap his nowfully-fledged-recruit on the shoulder.
Thus began OPERATION GILLESPIE, a window into
the murky soul of London, as HSB would come to describe
it.

34

Chapter 4

Sir Julian Beardsley KCMG, sat back in the vast armchair by

the window of his club and gazed down at the swift-flowing
traffic in St Jamess Street. He had the contented air of a man
for whom the important things in life (to him at any rate) had
turned out well: his Foreign Office career, boosted by an early
spell in MI6, with which he had retained an association, had
so far taken him to within one step from the very top; the
shrewd investments he had made with the inheritance from his
father and the property in Marbella, bought before Spanish
prices had joined those of the rest of Europe, had already
assured him of a comfortable retirement; and, not least, his
golf was still the source of enjoyment, rather than frustration,
and he found it socially rewarding in both Spain and Surrey
and, at a steadfastly maintained handicap of four, it was in his
eyes an admirable accomplishment for a man of his age.
The one box which an analyst of the Beardsleyan vita
would have hesitated to tick was sex and marriage. Of the
latter there was not the slightest sign; of the former scarcely a
discernible trace. At Magdalen, where he had read PPE, he
had been far too busy working on his First (duly acquired,
along with a couple of the Glittering Prizes) to go partying or
playing the field. Then it was straight into the FCO, where he
had plunged headlong into the project of building The
Career, as he termed it whenever confiding in his mother, his
greatest fan.
There had been, it is true, the one incident, early in his
career, when posted to the embassy in Copenhagen. One of
the locally recruited staff, a stocky, short-haired
nymphomaniac, Lottie Pedersen, was renowned for her
conquests among her colleagues, both British and Danish. Her
35

directness and availability often trumped her basic

unattractiveness. She was also a notorious gossip, even
indeed especially about herself. It was generally accepted
that she had succeeded, after an Aalborg-fuelled office party
to celebrate the Queens birthday, in getting Beardsley into
bed, but claimed subsequently to her friends that he hadnt
been able to raise the mortgage.
Was he perhaps a homosexual? The question arose
officially every three years or so, whenever he underwent his
Positive Vetting procedure. The little Scotsman, ex-police by
the look and sound of him, who put the question in a slightly
embarrassed way, did not probe further in the interview once
he had received the firm, simple answer No. But he had had
enough experience of senior mandarins, who were, he
assumed, by definition and way of life, practised professional
liars one and all, to make his own extensive enquiries. The
point was not whether Beardsley was gay or not God knows
there were enough of them in the FCO out of the closet to
form a medium-sized Gay Parade all by themselves but, if
he had falsely denied homosexuality he would, in the eyes of
Security, be potentially open to blackmail. Big black marks all
round; indeed loss of top security clearance, therefore end of
career.
Scottish Positive Vetter failed to turn up anything faintly
incriminating in the voluminous evidence he amassed from
his sniffing around Beardsleys colleagues, neighbours, golf
partners and even the regulars at his local gastropub, where he
took his mother to Sunday lunch as a family ritual.
Nevertheless, tongues were bound to wag from time to time.
Bizarrely, his moustache, broad as Stalins but thinner and
turned down slightly at the ends, was occasionally the focus of
slanderous speculation amongst some of the more irreverent
juniors in the staff canteen whenever he put in an appearance
there.
Cant you see him, with that moustache, dark sunglasses
and a leather jacket, mincing along the paseo in Tossa del Mar
hand in hand with some Scandinavian bum-chum in pink?
Youre sure hed be the daddy?

36

Of course, always in control. Thats our Beardy.

In reality, no one had ever seen Beardsley, except on a
golf course, in anything other than a double-breasted suit,
which simultaneously spoke of expense and a lack of female
oversight. In the words of one of his contemporaries, he had
brought crumpled elegance to a new peak as an art form.
Indeed he seemed to have a double-breasted personality,
perhaps even wore double-breasted pyjamas, suggested one
joker. More charitable observers, that is to say his protgs,
such as Granville, thought that, on the balance of evidence,
Beardsley was probably one of lifes non-combatants as far as
sex was concerned. Power was more his thing power
exercised in the service of his confident personal view of what
should be. As one of his colleagues, whom Beardsley had
overtaken on the career ladder, had once remarked, in a phrase
which gained common currency in the Office, If Julian had
been Jehovah, the universe would have been organised
differently.
On the threshold of the drawing room, Granville paused to
straighten his tie before strolling over to where the great man
was sitting. He shook hands formally with Sir Julian (despite
their long-standing familiarity. Granville was always careful
to include the Sir, at least on first meeting) and was at once
offered a drink .
A double Bombay gin and tonic, with a slice of lime,
please.
Thank you for coming, Jeremy, Beardsley began. I
thought we had better have our little chat extramurally, so to
speak, with no minutes, watchers etcetera. I have no doubt we
are entering a very delicate phase in Ireland, which will
require especially delicate handling. Especially by you. So I
thought we two should compare notes.
Granville knew that meant: Ill now tell you what to do.
Beardsley sipped his Scotch and soda, set down his glass
and put his hands into church-steeple mode his favourite
pontifical posture.
We have done very well you, Jeremy, have done very
well out there in recent months. It was a stroke of genius on

37

your part to draft clarifications of government policies to

feed out under the table as a way of opening up talks-abouttalks with the other side.
Granville almost purred at this expression of praise; Sir
Julian was usually swifter to chide. He was emboldened to
interrupt the flow of wisdom to make an ambitious claim, Im
convinced that will eventually lure the top people in SF/IRA
into asking for direct, substantive talks.
Yes, but we must not be seen as the demandeurs in
this. But if we can manoeuvre them into asking for talks,
were in business. Super. And so far, I emphasise so far, we
havent had to pay a price in relation to any of our other
customers: the army, the RUC, the NIO and ministers and
MPs here, not to mention the local politicos, who dont seem
to have cottoned on just yet.
I wouldnt entirely agree with all of that, ventured
Grenville.
I sense that James Wheeler and I are regarded with some
suspicion in many quarters, especially by the police and army,
even by the NIO. The deeper in we get with this ploy, the
more those suspicions risk developing into opposition,
through obstruction, reduced co-operation and so on.
And we mustnt forget that the media have been docile
only because they havent worked out where these
clarifications are intended to lead. Once they put two and
two together they will blow our cover story out of the water.
I know, I know, interjected Beardsley with a wave of his
hand.
That is why the matter is now urgent. It will be our job
your job to push on with the greatest possible speed. Far
faster than heretofore. And lets not kid ourselves, its going
to get much harder still, because, he took a long swig of his
whisky, because we are now going to go for The Big One,
which will call for even more handling skills. But if we pull it
off, it will be the greatest prize we have won diplomatically in
a generation. And you and I, Jeremy, will have our part in the
victory and the spoils.

38

He smiled warmly at Granville, clapped him on the knee

and paused to receive a reciprocal sign of willingness.
Ive been through this informally and in total confidence
with the Foreign Secretary and the PM. And, just as
importantly, with the Leader of the Opposition and his top
people, including your friend Crispin Myles. They are all up
for it provided, of course, that we can bring it off.
Oh sure and if it all goes pear-shaped, where will they
all be?
Beardsley ignored this discordant note, resisting the rare
temptation to tell the truth, which would have been off stage
like a shot. Instead, he resumed his lecture.
Heres the change and the challenge.
Sounds like one of his Power Point slides, thought
Granville, recalling the many Beardsley performances he had
witnessed over the years, as the great man had briefed
ministers, military brass hats and closed sessions of the
Security and Foreign Affairs Committees on what they should
think about the Balkans, the Middle East or North Korea. He
revelled in his reputation as the Office Thinker.
So far, we have been aiming at a slow transition of the
Provos from war to peace, keeping them under
uncomfortable pressure, but without going for the jugular, as
some of our chums would like, and at the same time fostering
the idea that a settlement has to be found. Hitherto the general
assumption, particularly amongst our stakeholders
Westminster, Dublin, Washington et al. has been that it is
HMGs policy to bring Sinn Fein into the democratic process.
In return, of course , for a package of goodies early release
of PIRA prisoners, reform of the police, guaranteed respect
for the identity and values of the minority community, some
sort of Bill of Rights, enfin, tout le bazar.
The use of the French expression recalled their time
together in the embassy in Paris; Beardsley liked mood music.
The further assumption has been that this revived
democratic process and its framework will be to the benefit of
Humes SDLP and the Official Unionists. But heres the
change...

39

He looked round the otherwise empty room, cautiously.

I can see a truly, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to go
further. We will have it in our power, once we have Sinn Fein
firmly on board, to push them ahead of the SDLP, by dealing
more or less openly with new-found friends at Provo HQ, and
neglecting Hume. In effect making them top dogs.
Granville looked as though he wished to object, but
Beardsley waved away the threatened interruption.
The penny will soon drop with the nationalists as well as
the republicans and political support will flow towards the
perceived winners.
But that would produce all sorts of trouble from the
Prods. Paisley would have a field day.
Precisely, cried Beardsley in triumph,
And thats the beauty of Part Two of The Big One.....
Paisley will, on the back of unionist resentment, wax
automatically along with Sinn Fein. And dont tell me he isnt
interested in power. He will sell his church, his Orange Order
support, his Ballymena Bogtrotters and, if necessary, his blind
grandmother, down the river for a whiff of power. Hes been
after it now for over thirty years and hes seventy in the shade,
so its pretty much now or never for him.
I can see the ultras on both sides winning in the endgame.
And neither of them can be overtaken on the extremes. With
that sort of political peace and the absence of bang-bangs
we shall have delivered something which looks remarkably
like a Solution, with capital S, to the Irish Question. Until, of
course, the bloody Irish change the question. But thats for
another era altogether.
Of course, our political masters cant see that far ahead
they have to live from day-to-day, but it is our duty to peer
into the future for them and to ease them along, step by step.
Beardsley leaned back in his chair, well pleased with his
exposition, and with a circular movement of his index finger
indicated to the club steward across the deserted room, same
again.
It is now your job, dear boy, to move the game along in
that direction. Without making the first open request for talks,

40

step up the hints in the right quarters that this is HMGs longterm aim. But with the fall-back threat that if we are frigged
about, well be back to the long haul military solution and a
war of attrition which, you would have to convince them, will
pain them more than it will pain us. Even if thats not quite
true, as more big bombs in GB would certainly hurt us a lot.
They know that, militarily, we now have them by the nethers
and that if General Chesham is let off the leash, the shoot-tokill controversies of the past will be as a bun fight at a
Sunday school picnic. So, we can frighten them with the
prospect of a painful long war, but hold out the alternative
prospect of being our partners in progress.
Oh God, another Power Point slogan.
Have I have you really got cover for this? asked
Granville instinctively and somewhat too abruptly for his own
liking.
Yes indeed, came the prompt reply, and without
wishing to sound pompous (whereupon he cleared his throat
and sounded more pompous than usual), Ill be taking over the
Office from Roderick some time next year probably the
early part, as his health problems seem to be getting worse
and it will be up to us, with or without a new PM, to see this
thing through. We cant go wider than that in the meantime,
Im afraid. Remember what our old friend Machiavelli very
nearly said: No enterprise is more likely to succeed than one
concealed from the enemy or ones allies until it is ripe for
execution. However, the Cabinet and the usual committees
can be brought into the game once weve made some
significant progress.
Then, patting Granville on the knee, I leave it to you as to
how best to shield your hand from all the colleagues and
partners in crime in Belfast.
Beardsley put down his glass and leant forward again,
looking Granville steadfastly in the eye.
I really do need you on this, Jeremy. Youre the only one
who can make the change, the transition. You have the ability
to win the confidence of the other side, which is vital,
absolutely vital. Id say itll take a maximum of two years,

41

even at the Irish pace of doing things. And then you can have
your pick of the embassies which interest you amongst the Arabs. Out in the light, as Her Britannic Majestys Ambassador
to...wherever. Thats still your goal, I take it?
I havent thought about it lately, but yes, you know me,
that would be a consummation devoutly to be wished. Rabat
de prfrence.
Excellent! Then, changing tone, to indicate business
complete, Hows Penny? Still seeing her
deux, so to speak?
Yes, fine, thanks. Shes a bit fed up with my being out in
Ireland, but shes OK.
Not an entirely re-assuring response.
Beardsley paused to drain his glass.
Do give her my love, wont you?
Granvilles endgame was underway.

42

Chapter 5

Within the intelligence community in Northern Ireland, the

role of Jeremy Granville was, to say the least, controversial.
Since the beginning of OPERATION CHIFFON, MI5 had
been given, rather late in the day in the opinion of many
analysts, the responsibility for the overall management of
intelligence. At first Granvilles two predecessors had
concentrated on the bureaucratic efficiency side of the
business, making sure that the various agencies involved not
only co-operated in the sharing of information, but also coordinated their activities, day by day. It took some time to
overcome territorial jealousies the so-called turf wars
and to build up mutual trust between the army and police at
the top level and between the agencies within both, which
could often act as rivals. It was no easy task, which took up a
great deal of time and effort and would never be complete. For
example, Special Branch, RUC, frequently cut across the
activities of the CID, in cases where Ordinary Decent
Criminals appeared to have paramilitary connections or
where valuable SB informants needed to be shielded from the
normal rigours of law enforcement; similarly, the SAS and
14th Brigade caused many headaches for the army leadership
whenever they acted independently, that is to say, outside
normal army control and sometimes at variance with the very
law of the land (in order to get things done, as their
defenders were wont to plead).
Gradually, as they built up the number of their own
operatives, those predecessors paved the way for a more proactive role for MI5.The organisation had been engaged in a
certain amount of what was known as backstairs activity,
meaning talking to people in, or close to, hard core republican
43

circles; sounding out opinion, especially as regards how the

more realistic terrorist leaders saw an end to the conflict.
Those contacts had been fostered by a couple of mountain
climbers, through intermediaries, but it gradually became
clear to Granville, even before his anointment by Sir Julian,
that his mission was to take them to an altogether higher level.
His appointment brought with it the grand title of
Security Service Director and Co-ordinator of Intelligence
and with Beardsleys backing backing where it really
mattered he intended to be, as he told James Wheeler, the
senior Government Press Officer, fellow MI5 member and
closest professional confidant not that he had many of those
the determinant catalyst in the overall situation.
Despite never having set foot in Ireland, North or South,
before his appointment, Granville was, in his own eyes at
least, ideal for the job. Unusually, he had served in both MI5
and MI6, and thus had experience in both sides of the
business. He had been sounded out for recruitment while still
at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, where his academic
success in Modern Languages, achieved without any great
effort on his part, had marked him out as suitable material.
The talent spotter from MI6, a friend of the Master of the
college, had contacted him during a professional milk round
in his last term. He had walked him round the garden pond a
few times, chatting about government service generally,
before asking him whether he would like to be of particular
service to your country, in a rather specialised role. Granville
guessed what that meant and was flattered to be considered in
that context of the business. He knew of family friends who
had reputedly unspecified links to that business. No doubt
that had reinforced his attractiveness to the talent scouts. One
of our own.
On coming down from Cambridge, he passed the entrance
examination for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, (with
encouragement from the said scouts) which made possible
his double life as a diplomat and an MI6 officer attached to
embassies abroad. His career had been boosted early on by his
emergence as a star student at the FCOs Arabic Language

44

School in the Lebanese village of Shemlan, in the hills some

twenty miles from Beirut. There he had caught the eye of its
director, Donald Maitland. That led to postings in a series of
Arab-speaking capitals, as well as spells in Paris and London.
In recent years he had been on loan to MI5, which was an
arrangement of mutual benefit.
MI5 had precious few Arabic speakers and the need for
them was growing. Most of those recruited in haste to meet
operational demand were of Middle Eastern ethnicity and it
was the unspoken concern of management (unspoken for
reasons of political correctness) that there should be a
significant number of top flight ethnic Brits ( real Brits in
non-PC English) involved, just to keep an eye on everything.
Granvilles need, at least in the short term, had been for
regular orthopaedic monitoring and physiotherapeutic
treatment and care, following his accident, the turning point in
his life.
How many times had he relived those awful moments?
The sun is shining, the sky is an improbable, electric blue,
the motorway traffic is slight and they will be in Alicante in
good time for dinner at El Suquet, a highly recommended
restaurant to which he has phoned ahead a reservation. He
glances at Helena, who smiles at him happily. Pregnancy this
time has been good for her. No threat of a miscarriage; no
trouble at all. He touches her warm, sun-tanned cheek. It was
her excellent idea to drive back on summer leave from North
Africa and do a little tourism on the way. She closes her eyes
and leans back against the headrest, still smiling. He looks
back at the road.
Christ!
The giant refrigerator-lorry in front seems to be hurtling
towards him. He takes in the red lights and, absurdly, the
graffiti scrawled on the back door. Brake! Brake! The moment
of collision has been erased from his memory. He can only see
metal, he can feel nothing. He is half awake. Spanish voices
all around; flashing blue lights.
Helena!

45

No reply. Then a crescendo of pain, then oblivion.

Now this must be hospital. Tubes, machinery, pain, lots of
white.
Helena? Helena?
Some time later...how much later? a white-coated presence on
his left. A low voice in his ear: Lo siento muchissimo, se
or. Your wife, la seora, we could not....
Granville looked out of the window, over the immaculate
green lawns to the glasshouses to the rear of Stormont Castle,
as PUS called the meeting to order. As the Lord High CoOrdinator(as Beardsley had dubbed him), it fell to him to
present the overview of the intelligence situation. He began by
acknowledging that this topic overlapped with the political
situation. He would leave it to PUS to cover the broader
picture. PUS nodded agreement; General Chesham visibly
scowled, as though pained by indigestion.
There was much progress to report. Penetration of all the
paramilitary organisations had continued apace, and at all
levels. The computerised version of OPERATION
PANORAMA had dramatically increased the ability to
discover links between individuals; thus surmounting the
hurdle which, particularly in the case of PIRA, the small cell
structure had posed in the past. He reeled off the statistics
about the number of terrorist operations which had been
nipped in the bud, or which, post facto, had been followed by
good arrests, charges and convictions, thanks to intelligence,
rather than normal detective work.
As to the current thinking of the paramilitaries, there was
the usual sharp contrast between PIRA on the one hand and
the Loyalist alphabet soup organisations UDA, UVF, UFF,
RHC and the rest on the other. The thinking of the latter
was focused largely on the fast buck, that is to say the
proceeds of criminality, largely within their own community
protection rackets, robberies and burglaries. In general, they
had no clear objectives, beyond the perpetuation of their own
existence, though one or two had serious political aspirations
to take over from the conventional unionist parties in
46

Protestant working class areas, campaigning on the

bandwagon slogan of reversing deprivation. That strain, he
opined, might in the long run be susceptible to cultivation,
though he doubted it would ever make much general political
headway.
As for PIRA, the philosophy of the long haul war
appeared to be still generally valid, at least officially, even
though the penetration achieved against that organisation and
the consequent loss of a certain amount of momentum in their
military operations had no doubt dented confidence. Their
leadership was also worried about signs of war-weariness in
the Catholic population. Moreover, the IRAs obvious
inability to shield Catholics from the latest Loyalist tactic of
random sectarian assassinations aimed at destabilising the
overall situation and getting brownie points from working
class Protestants for hitting back had somewhat
undermined their former reputation as Protectors.
Granville was now getting to the potentially difficult
passage. He tried not to look directly at either Chesham or the
Chief Constable.
You will have seen Vincent Glasss piece in the Tribune
about so-called talks with the Provo leadership. A nice bit
of sensational journalism, but its important we all understand
the more prosaic reality behind it.
He paused, in order to underline the importance of what
he was about to say.
It seems that the top Republicans have taken to dissecting
every policy statement or speech by the SoS. Ever since the
Peter Brooke speech about HMG having no strategic
interest in Northern Ireland, they keep looking for more
crumbs and in my specific sphere of operations the job is to
keep explaining, speech after speech, that there aint any.
Oh, I do hope so, said Chesham loudly and with more
than a hint of irony.
Before I conclude, went on Granville, tiptoeing away
from the backstairs operations, there are just two points I
wish to make. Firstly, we have to be careful, in expanding our
informer network and acting on the intelligence gleaned from

47

it, by way of searches, taking in for questionings etc, that

we do not lay ourselves open to accusations of systematic
harassment of the ghetto populations, to quote our friend
Glass. There are already signs that the human rights lobby are
going to make a big issue out of that.
He could sense the Chief Constable bristling with
indignation at his side.
And secondly, whilst our inter-agency co-operation has
clearly improved, we can still do better. I dont think we need
another structural review, which would be time-consuming
and take our eye off the ball. What I am specifically thinking
of is the need to register centrally, for use in PANORAMA,
all new informants as soon as any agency has one on board.
We have so many now, which is a great success, that we risk
stumbling over one anothers feet. There have been one or two
cases of late insertion of info into PANORAMA, through a
lack of overall vision of the field of play and of all the known
players.
Through you, Mr Chairman, does that apply to MI5 as
well? asked the General, clearly with malice aforethought.
Of course, lied Granville, without the slightest
hesitation.
It was now PUSs turn to give an overview of relations
with, and between, the constitutional political parties.
Granville listened with only half an ear: none of this was new;
it had all been in the media and besides, James Wheeler sat in
on all the meetings with the local parties and briefed him
extensively after each one. The present situation was that the
parties were all more or less standing on the touchline,
shouting various accusations and demands at HMG, and
waiting for their own game to start, in some new forum, on
the far side of the physical conflict.
Would PUS be a help or a hindrance to his own game, as
it developed? Hard to say, mused Granville. On the one hand
Pickford was a dyed-in-the-wool civil servant and would
implement whatever policy came from on high. Imagination
wasnt his strong suit, as far as new policy thinking was
concerned which, again, probably wasnt a bad thing.

48

Conflicting visions could be a nightmare. But on the other

hand, he had been a Home Office official, man and boy, a law
and order enthusiast through and through. His instincts were
therefore in favour of locking up the baddies, be they
murderers, rapists, bank robbers or terrorists, and dont expect
him to shed any tears if afterwards the key cannot be found.
Cutting a deal with the Provos would be his last ever thought,
both personally and professionally. He would require careful
handling. And this sort of meeting, chaired by PUS, would
have to be gradually sidelined and replaced in importance by
one under his, Granvilles, direct control.
When the meeting was over Granville found his driver
and they headed off down the Bangor Road to St Oswalds,
the vast, government-owned house which was his residence
and alternative HQ. It was set in five acres of glorious,
secluded gardens in a bend in the side road which led down
from the main road at the Culloden Hotel to the seafront. The
profusion of mature trees and shrubs and the winding
driveway totally hid the house from the road. In any case, it
was discreetly guarded by a unit of the Royal Military Police,
who were under strict orders to fraternize with no one. It was
as secure as anywhere could be in this life; nevertheless, he
had a techo team from London check the grounds, premises
and communications equipment on a regular monthly basis.
He chose a Mahler symphony on his hi-fi system, poured
himself a more-than-generous gin and tonic and lit his first
Gauloise of the day. Really must give them up. As he closed
his eyes and drew strongly on the cigarette, so that his cheeks
hollowed, he might well have added an Augustinian but not
just yet.
Must ring Penny! As the thought flashed into his mind he
also realised that it was the first such thought for a long time
and what was no doubt for her a very long time.
Penny and he went back a long way. Her husband, Guy
Harbinson, had entered the Foreign Office on the same day as
himself and they had studied together at Shemlan. That time
in Lebanon had been an idyll for all of them. In retrospect it
was the happiest time of his life and theirs. They were

49

young and vigorous and gliding effortlessly towards a golden

future. The country they were living in had everything:
Mediterranean beaches, ski resorts in the mountains and the
fascinating melting pot of Beirut. There had been enough
spare time from study for the Harbinsons and Granvilles to go
exploring, picnicking and dining out in the nearby villages. It
was the Lebanese cuisine, healthy yet full of flavour, which
had first stimulated his interest in cooking, the only domestic
or DIY skill he had ever acquired, if one discounted dexterity
with a corkscrew.
Without warning, the Lebanese idyll would later collapse
into civil war, symbolically in parallel with the happiness of
the two couples. Guy was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer
and died within six months, just a year before the motorway
accident in which Helena had perished. Jeremy and Penny had
consoled one another, as old and close friends, and gradually
they had grown closer. Their friends began to nod knowingly:
there was general agreement that widow and widower would
make an ideal pair.
Both appeared to move imperceptibly towards acceptance
of the idea. There was not just a growing physical attraction
between them, as the taboo of their former relationship faded;
there was also the key factor that they recognised they were
both creatures from the strange world of security and
intelligence. That was a world in which few people could feel
at ease, such were the pressures of living a double life, but it
was one in which they both felt at home. Their relationship
was now at the stage of romance; they were recognized
socially as an item. Neither had raised the subject of
marriage, but it was becoming what Jeremys father termed a
working hypothesis.
Every time Jeremy thought of it and he had to admit to
himself that recently he had thought of it less frequently he
would end up saying to himself: Lets get Ireland out of the
way first.

50

Chapter 6

Since the beginning of the troubles, Aidan Cassidy had

played an increasingly important back room role in the
Provisional IRA. It was a role only a very few knew about. He
was never seen at a Sinn Fein, never mind a PIRA, function,
rally or protest march. To those amongst whom he had grown
up, he appeared to have moved on. He had married money,
become a business suit and had long since escaped from or
deserted, depending on your point of view his former life in
the Lower Falls ghetto, for a socially desirable address in
Myrtlefield Park, in the affluent Malone district of South
Belfast. There he had merged with the background of his
professional and mercantile neighbours with the ease of a
chameleon in the Amazonian undergrowth. Active
membership of the Rotary Club and the Chamber of Industry
and Commerce put the seal on his standing as a solid citizen,
the sort of middle class Catholic businessman that Protestant
moderates wanted to see more of in public life. More like
them, less of a threat.
Cassidy was not as he seemed. Over twenty years earlier,
when the struggle had started in earnest, he had been greenbooked , that is to say initiated, in the upstairs office of one
of his father-in-laws public houses on the Andersonstown
Road. Old McManus had organized the swearing in and the
local battalion commander, Sean Feeney, administered the
oath, with all the solemnity of a Clerk to the Privy Council, in
the presence of only one other witness, Feeneys son. This
was a membership to be kept strictly under wraps. Feeney
made clear that the new recruits role was never to be within
an Active Service Unit; on the contrary, he was to insulate

51

himself as far as possible from all contact with all those

engaged in the armed struggle.
Cassidy raised his right hand and read from a dog-eared
card handed to him by Feeney:
I, Aidan Patrick Cassidy, promise that I will promote the
objects of Oglaigh na hEireann to the best of my knowledge
and ability and that I will obey all orders and regulations
issued to me by the Army Authority and by my superior
officer.
Young man, said Feeney, gripping him by the forearm,
the part you will play will be even more important than that
of those who bear arms, handle propaganda or lead our
people. The sinews of war are money ,and its the money
youll have to take care of. Youll do so on behalf of all of us.
His voice broke slightly as he added with fresh emphasis and
piety, On behalf of Ireland.
Organisationally, Cassidy did not feature in the normal
hierarchy if the IRA. He had been deputy to the overall
cisteoir, the elderly Pat McGoldrick, a retired banker from
Dungannon, who reported directly to the nine-man Army
Council, on which Seamus Tolan had special responsibility
for finance. Each battalion had a finance officer, who
contributed takings to the centre and distributed monies
locally as required, but who, for security reasons, kept no
financial records beyond a maximum of seven days.
McGoldrick and Cassidy between them ran the overall
operation, meeting once a month, usually at McGoldricks
house. He, in turn, presented his figures to the Army Council
on a quarterly basis, in one of the six or seven safe houses in
North Donegal, just over the border from Derry, or in
Dundalk, over the border from Newry.
Monies in came from various sources: donations, either
locally or through Noraid, the IRAs fund raisers in the United
States; profits from illegal shebeens; protection rackets,
largely from building sites, but also from small shopkeepers;
and straightforward robbery and theft, from bank and post
office raids. The American connection had been particularly
important in the early years. In the Irish bars of New York and

52

Boston and on various St Patricks Day organising

committees, the fund raisers message of Help defend the
Catholic population from the British in the occupied North
initially produced a generous response. In recent years, thanks
to the efforts of the British embassy and consulates with the
US media, that simplistic approach had been progressively
eroded, but America was still an important element in monies
in.
Monies out went to support the families of republican
prisoners; to pay small amounts of bounties to volunteers for
services such as transportation or concealment of weapons;
larger amounts for the expenses of more senior members; and,
once in a while, to pay for supplies of guns and explosives.
We are our own auditors, McGoldrick had told him.
They trust us. But God help us if ever they suspect we
have... He paused, searching for the right euphemism ...gone
wrong in the sums somewhere.
Was that a hint, a warning? His impression was that
McGoldrick had taken less and less specific interest in the
details of the finances as his health had deteriorated. Bouts of
angina had landed him in hospital for several weeks in the
past year. But had some sixth sense in the wily old bruiser told
him that something was amiss?
Cassidy had pondered on that question many times since,
and now it had become uppermost in his mind when he read
his summons. His line of communication with the regular
structure of the IRA was through a single, trusted runner; all
other means of communication being considered as vulnerable
to interception. That runner was Malachy Doyle, cousin of
one of the commanders in Belfast city and proprietor of a
pizza house and delivery service in Castle Street, a five
minute walk from Cassidys office. Doyle was therefore a
frequent visitor to the top floor of the Scottish Provident
Building, bearing not only Shamrock pizzas, which mercifully
Cassidy liked, but, concealed in his large delivery box,
bundles of banknotes, along with notes as to their origin or
intended destination.

53

Today Doyle brought him only a simple note, initialled by

someone he knew to be a member of the Army Council. It
read: Come to meeting, 1 pm, this coming Sunday...and
added an address which he knew to be just outside the village
of Rathmelton in Donegal.
Had McGoldrick voiced any doubts to Seamus Tolan
before he died last week? Had he even worked again on the
accounts themselves? Cassidy had taken the precaution of reworking his own figures, covering the hole of 150,000 by
distributing 2000 round various items which would be hard
to check on, and marking 100,000 to a new Contingency
Reserve, which did not exist in actual cash fact. When would
he have to make his accountancy fiction match reality? And,
more importantly, how?
He poured himself a stiff whisky and stared glumly into
the depths of the glass, as though the answer might lie therein.
Then his fingers dialled, automatically, a number on his
desktop phone.
Hello. Yes, customer number 15047. Good. 150 on My
Hero in the 2.30 at Newbury. And 100 each way on Yellow
Mellow in the 3.30 at York. Thats correct. Thanks.
Like most gamblers, he harboured the irrational hope that
his luck would be bound to turn, and so he convinced himself,
perhaps subconsciously, that he had better continue to bet, lest
he miss the benefits of this upturn in his fortunes. It was a
habit which had slowly developed from his student days,
starting with sweepstakes on the big races, such as the Grand
National, and snowballing into a regular weekend pastime.
With a few friends he would spend Saturday afternoons
drinking in bars on the Falls Road, interrupting the intake of
Guinness every so often to nip down the street to a
bookmakers shop to place his bets, before returning to watch
many of the races on television in the pub. Some days he was
up on the investment game, as he liked to call it, but, with
mathematical inevitability, the days on which he was down
were more frequent.
Why did he do it? Not being a reflective personality, he
generally avoided the question. He would, if pressed, probably

54

have pleaded guilty to greed, but that was hardly the whole
story. There was also the depressive masochistic pleasure in
the thrill of probable loss and, once he had achieved adult and
professional respectability, there was the added subconscious
attraction of secrecy. He no longer frequented betting shops,
but invested by telephone. Noleen knew, of course, that he
liked a flutter now and then, but was blissfully ignorant of the
extent of his habit. It was a habit which had progressively
become a major factor in his life. Access to clients money
through his business had increased the temptations and the
risks of things getting out of hand and ending in bankruptcy.
More recently, being entrusted with the IRAs funds, with
only a loose control, also increased the temptations and the
risks of being unmasked and ending in a shallow, unmarked
grave.
Noleen Cassidy had only been half right when she had
concluded her husbands secret related to his active
participation in the movement; there was another factor in
the equation. Her name was Colette McShane.
Colette was a beautician in one of the department stores in
the Castle Court shopping complex in central Belfast. Aidan
had met her, inappropriately, two Christmases ago, when
buying perfume for his wife. She had flirted with him in a
coquettish way, as indeed she did with many male customers
it always, in her experience, helped sales along. While
allowing him to sample various products, she lightly touched
his forearm and fluttered her long eyelashes, as she tilted her
head this way and that, encouraging him to buy the best.
If I were your girlfriend, Id be really impressed with the
Caprice, she said, with an encouraging smile.
On the spur of the moment (how many lives have been
impaled on that spur?), whilst following her advice, Aidan
asked her for her telephone number, the first time in twenty
years he could remember having done such a thing, and
certainly not since his marriage.
In his eyes, Colette was a thing of beauty; and she turned
out to be a joy for a considerable time, but inevitably only for

55

a time. She was petite, very dark and, unsurprisingly, skilfully

maquille at any time of the day or night. Dressed usually in
sombre colours which heightened her overall allure, she
moved always in a way which blatantly promised an
underlying sensuousness.
It was a promise swiftly fulfilled for Aidan on their very
first intimate encounter. She had readily responded to his
phone calls and at the third time of asking, agreed to go with
him, on her Monday off, to Dublin, where he had an insurance
business meeting. On the return journey that afternoon they
stopped at the Ravensdale Forest Hotel, just before the border,
and after a meal Aidan booked and paid for a room. The
pleasure of the next few hours eclipsed for the first time in
months his constant worries about money, security and the
future. Nirvana was possible. And could be visited every other
week or so with Colette, discretion guaranteed.
She had entered into the relationship with her mascararimmed eyes wide open. She knew he was married and before
long knew who he was and what he did or at least knew as
much about him as his friends in West Belfast or his
neighbours in Myrtlefield Park did.
Youre a naughty boy, Aidan, she would say. But then
again, she went on, with a giggle, as she unzipped her grey
pencil skirt, Im a naughty girl.
This conjuncture of lust seemed for a while to be
exquisitely convenient for both parties. Its end came for two
reasons. Aidans ever-increasing familiarity with Colettes
charms, wardrobe and seductive tricks began to breed not
contempt, but the first twinges of boredom, in all affairs the
most lethal element imaginable. Then there was Colettes
growing ambition. She felt in Aidans pleasure her own
potential power over him. If he wanted her that much which
was obvious why couldnt she have him properly, and to
herself? She had begun to extract little half promises from him
that they could have a week together in London, that he
would help her set up her own beauty salon but had recently
dared to go for broke, telling him that if he really loved her, as
he claimed, he should follow his destiny and hers, make a

56

clean break with his wife and build a life together with her. A
film star role model of hers had made a similar speech to her
lover, as reported in Cosmopolitan magazine..
Their bedroom time together now followed an
emotionally draining routine: Colettes complaints, ending in
tears, about neglect and his lack of resolve; his consoling her,
whilst inventing excuses; and, finally, a reconciliatory
lovemaking of cathartic proportions. For Aidan each time was
just about worth the candle, but his pleasure was further
diminished by the realization that it could not indefinitely be
repeated. Nirvana had been lost, probably for ever.
He did not wish to sacrifice Colette, but in his calmer
moments he knew that he was never going to make real
sacrifices for her. There leaked into his mind the fear, the
growing certainty, that she had become so obsessive that, if
thwarted, she could ruin him through the unleashing of a
scandal. The consequences of that, in family and movement
terms, were too painful to contemplate. One day soon he
would have to decide to do something which would resolve
the situation without damage; but not just yet, he would tell
himself, as she snuggled against his chest, her perfume
fragrant in his nostrils. As to what that something could be,
he had as yet no clear, or even hazy, idea.

57

Chapter 7

He was glad that it was drizzling that kept people off the
streets. Cassidy parked the car in the main square of the little
Co. Donegal town and, after walking about for a few minutes
to make sure he was not being followed, he made his way to
the designated house. It was small but detached and sat
somewhat at an angle to its nearest neighbours, in a straggling
side street which petered out soon afterwards into the rocky
Donegal countryside. On a good day, the view out over the
ocean was stunningly beautiful, but today visibility offshore
was scarcely a hundred yards. Not that he was here for the
view.
There were no cars parked near the house, but he noticed
a keen face peering out from the window of the little pebbledashed porch. As he approached it, down a short, crazy paved
path, the door opened and he was ushered inside. Two
obvious minders sat around in the narrow inner hallway and in
the front room. One of them in the hall jerked his thumb in the
direction of the latter. Cassidy had barely sat down when
another minder called him and opened the door for him into
the main living room at the back of the house. The curtains
were drawn and there was no central light on; two table lamps
provided less-than-adequate illumination. Cassidy only
recognized his Belfast Army Council man, the head man from
Derry and Tolan, the member responsible for finance. These
three were seated at a table, along with others and two more
sat in armchairs either side of the fireplace, in which a low fire
smoked blackly.
Greetings were murmured, but no introductions made.
Right, said Tolan, turning to face Cassidy head-on.
Lets get to the point. Or rather points. Number one, the
58

succession. You are moving up into McGoldricks place. God

rest his soul. And your deputy, your twin, will be Liam
McGarrity from Derry. You know him?
Cassidy nodded negatively.
Well, he runs a big garage business on the Claudy Road
and hes an accountant. Point two and most important: we
need another shipment. Weve lost a lot of gear recently.
Why, is a different matter and security are looking into it. But
it has seriously held up operations. We cant let momentum
flag any further. Itll be risky bringing in more stuff and we
dont want another Claudia fiasco on our hands. But weve no
choice.
How much are we talking about? ventured Cassidy.
Anything from a half to three quarters of a million quid.
It has to be a big delivery to make a real difference. Our
contacts have identified a dealer in Belgium who can set
things up.
Our shopping list is being worked out by Tomas
McGiolla, who can brief you on probable prices, intervened
the Derryman. Hell look after the goods angle, youll handle
the finance. Its a joint operation.
If it went much over half a million, wed be hard
pressed, said Cassidy. Overheads like total payments to
prisoner families are going up and up, as the numbers go up,
even though you could argue that each family gets far too
little.
Too bad, shot back the Derryman, with a dismissive
sweep of his hand. This is make or break time. Whatever it
takes...Besides, (he smiled thinly), I believe we may be able
to, how shall I put it, supplement the coffers significantly
within the next few weeks.
Over the next few hours the details of Cassidys mission
to Belgium were discussed. He declined an offered drink, on
the grounds of his driving, though his nerves could have done
with a tranquillizer
Back on the road and over the border without being
stopped by a British Army patrol, he headed from Derry
towards the Glenshane Pass and home. He turned the

59

discussions of the day over and over again in his mind. The
most positive thing was that the Council seemed to have
confidence in him. At no point had he had the feeling that he
was being questioned in any way. He had not even been
asked to update his last financial report to Tolan, which would
have entailed repeating the myth of the Contingency Reserve
and perhaps cross-examination on that all-too-dangerous
point. On the other hand, the nomination of McGarrity as his
twin was not good news. McGarrity was bound to be close
to the Derryman, indeed he was in all probability his man.
And the Derry lot were always critical of Belfast, almost as a
reflex. Yes, he thought, McGarrity could be a real danger,
especially if it turned out that he wanted to immerse himself in
the minutiae of the books, as accountants tended to do, as a
natural reflex. Danger was also written all over the Belgian
operation. Confidentiality and security were becoming an
increasing problem within their own organisation, but once
outsiders became involved, particularly the sort of outsiders
whose stock-in-trade was illegal arms dealing, the risks of
betrayal, detection and capture were multiplied. Those who
approached such arms dealers were immediately exposed to
the risk of being shopped; nowadays government security
agents paid good money and no questions asked to those
who delivered the would-be buyers into their hands. He
thought of the score or more of Irish Republicans who were
languishing in various continental jails, victims of
international operations which had gone wrong usually
through the treachery of outside partners.
Unlike many, if not most, of his comrades-in-arms,
Cassidy felt no exhilaration at the prospect of that sort of
danger. Merely a dull dread, which he felt as though it were
simultaneously a clamp on the back of his head and on his
stomach. And in his relationship with Colette, he felt no
pleasure in the danger of being discovered his motivation
was essentially lust and escapism. Now his life was becoming
dominated by fear fear of the Colette situation exploding in
his face, which would mean the end of his marriage, scandal
and public attention focused on him, contrary to the IRAs

60

wishes; fear of being caught with his hand in the movements

till, which could bring any punishment up to a bullet in the
head; and fear that his recent neglect of his own business
could bring financial ruin in any case.
Special Branch were not fully aware of the extent of
Cassidys perceived problems, but they were beginning to
build up what for them was an encouraging picture. HSB was
briefed by the Detective Sergeant in charge of the file:
Since we had the tip-off from that runner fella, Harry-the
hound, weve been listening to Cassidys phones, tracking his
car, talking to business colleagues in other firms...all the
usual. Hes a canny one, doesnt give much away by way of
careless talk or action, but hes a baddie for sure, despite the
appearances he keeps up. Two bonus points for us: hes into
the geegees in a big way, with a running account with a
bookmaker in London, and hes got a floozy on the side.
You dont say! chuckled HSB.
Yip! Sees to her in out-of-town hotels. He recently had a
trip to Donegal, the trackers in VELLUM tell me. Probably
not for nookie, that one. More likely Provo-related. We think
Bunny was there. We are working on that, and weve asked
the Gards if they can throw any light on the matter. And thats
about it, as regards Mr Aidan Cassidy, so far.
HSB turned to his deputy, What do you think? Is there
any advantage in letting the hare sit and seeing what else we
might learn?
Dont think so. Not in this case. It looks as though hes
not operational in the usual sense, so by just watching him,
were not going to be led to any action as such.
I agree, said HSB briskly, lift him. He could come in
useful.

61

Chapter 8

OPERATION GILLESPIE took four weeks to bear its first

fruits. HSB now had before him a copy of a minute,
classification SECRET, sent from the most senior civil servant
in the NIO, the PUS (Permanent Undersecretary of State) to
the Secretary of State. It read:
SoS:
This is to follow up our brief airborne conversation of last
week about police expenditure.
You told me the First Secretary of the Treasury had
indicated to you informally that there were concerns in that
quarter about some aspects of the RUCs accounts; and about
the Police Authoritys ability, efficiently to monitor and
control them.
No doubt these concerns arise from the overall Spot
Check financial control initiative and the visit here last month
of the Walton team from the Treasury. We had detected some
initial borborygmus from that quarter, but I am grateful for
your early warning about the detail of their initial findings and
concentration on the police.
Having prised detailed statistics from a somewhat
reluctant Police Authority, and thanks to considerable
lucubration by officials here, my view is that there are three
principal areas of vulnerability:
Police overtime, the cost of which has increased by
46% over the past two years.
The cost of specialist equipment. (See the attached
graph of the increase in these costs over the past three years).
The Americans, and indeed Army Logistics, have introduced
the RUC to a whole range of new electronic and other

62

gadgetry and for the future there is the danger of the boy in
the toy shop syndrome.
Most vulnerable of all are the payments from the
slush funds in the Black Boxes, for informants, the protection
of witnesses and the re-settlement of ex-terrorists who have
turned Queens evidence. Accounting for these expenses in
due course to the Comptroller and Auditor General could
present particular difficulties.
I believe the police here have never been used to financial
constraints and they tend to take a micropsian view of their
over-spends. They blithely expect the Police Authority to
provide them with whatever funds they feel they need, all in
the name of operational requirements. Through the Police
Authority, we have been challenging the management side of
the RUC to introduce more efficient measures of cost control,
but they have constantly perendinated their introduction.
It is true that the Police Authority themselves have not
been strong on financial control. It is hard to get financially
competent people interested in serving on the Authority.
However, new appointments due in two months time will
give us the opportunity to strengthen the PAs capacity to
monitor costs. I attach a note on the proposed nominations
(which will be formally submitted within a few weeks for
your approval, when choices and soundings have been
completed).You will see that, with luck, we shall have a
stronger team in place before long.
I agree with you that we need a tighter grip on all of this,
for political as well as financial reasons, but I must also
caution against any excessive restraints being placed on the
RUC. I know certain colleagues have sometimes been
Laodecean about the role and organisation of the police, but,
in an improved partnership with the army, they have been
doing rather well recently in the field and it would be most
regrettable if our policy of the primacy of the police were to
be undermined in any way. It has served us well so far,
particularly politically, and should remain a key element in
our overall strategy.
I will keep you posted.
63

PUS
HSB grunted. The Chief Constable must see this at once.
No copies., he said, handing his senior clerk the document.
The bloody moneybags are after us.

QUANTICO , USA
HSB looked on his annual visit to the FBI Academy in
Quantico, Virginia almost as a period of 'rest and relaxation'.
True, he had to work up a programme of three lectures to be
given there on aspects of the Northern Ireland Situation which
were of special interest to the FBI this years topics were:
Communal Conflict; Gangsterism and Revolutionary Activity
and Comparative Interrogation Techniques. It was also true
that a week out of the office and its fast-moving action would
take a week or two to catch up on. However, his stay in
Quantico was always a valuable, and indeed enjoyable,
charge-your-batteries-time.
He was always well received by his American
counterparts and felt that he took on their professional
optimism and 'can-do' philosophy by a sort of professional
osmosis. These guys appeared to have resources unlimited, an
unshakeable belief in their own efficiency and they could, as
they say, 'kick ass' with a swagger. By and large the US
politicians of all stripes felt that they had to be seen to be on
their side. Quite a luxury, by UK or NI standards.
For HSB, Quantico was, above all, its surroundings. The
academy, which had originally been a base for the Marine
Corps, was set in almost four hundred acres of scenic
woodland, well outside the town, some thirty-five miles from
Washington. He would get up early every morning and
wander through the grounds, listening to the birdsong and
breathing in the crisp, pine-scented air. The tensions of his
hectic life at Brooklyn RUC Headquarters left him like dew in
the morning sun. No telephones, no Situation Reports of

64

another overnight atrocity, no files, no inconvenient questions

to be answered. Bliss. A special treat were the two or three
rounds of golf he managed to squeeze into his week at the
nearby Old Hickory Club were his FBI connections brought
him temporary membership. Tricky enough courses, despite
their benign appearances, but great fun...and totally anxietyfree from the point of view of personal security.
His lectures were, in general, well received.
'You are a real front line operative, with so much to teach
us,' said one of the chairmen of his sessions, with that
admiring seriousness which only Americans can produce.
Occasionally he could detect a subtle hostility in the questions
which followed his talk; references to the grievances of the
persecuted minority, or questions about how long the British
presence in Ireland would last, showed the influence of the
Irish American lobby in the US. He noticed that those who
introduced such notes had names like Quinn or O'Hagan and
he could imagine that their views of Ireland had been received
down the generations from forebears who had emigrated to
the States in the mid-nineteenth century, during or
immediately after the Great Famine, with resentment and
hatred of Great Britain in their hearts. However, the
questioning was always polite and his answers went
unchallenged.
He had developed a private 'Special Relationship' with
one of the study supervisors, Frank J. Miller, who unofficially
was now not only his 'Opposite Number' but chief
sympathiser. Life in the academy was comfortable but isolated
from the town. One night in his week there Miller would drive
him into town to a favourite restaurant, run by an ex-Major in
the Marines and a great local character in Quantico.
Miller was proud of the fact that his family, on his father's
side, could trace their origins to Dungannon, Co. Tyrone,
thereby claiming a 'Scotch Irish' ancestry. There was little
documentary proof of this, beyond some vague references
contained in old family letters, but the Millers simply 'knew'
about their lineage. He was aware of the other strain of
Irishness within his organisation and therefore felt a certain

65

protectiveness towards HSB, whose periodic visits constituted

a strange link with his own familys past. Neither he, nor as
far as he knew, anyone in his family, had ever visited Ireland,
and while he had no immediate plans to do so, his contact
with HSB fulfilled a vague wish to be associated in some way
with the land of his ancestors.
He therefore privately, and bi-laterally with HSB, often
went beyond the normal bounds of inter-force co-operation, in
the detailed information which he imparted regarding
technological advances in the equipment used in surveillance
and detection. The RUC had already benefited from his tip-off
about BOTDR Brillouin Optical Time Domain
Reflectometry developed by the Nippon Telegraph and
Telephone Corporation which had enabled the police greatly
to improve their rate of detection of tunnels and underground
arms caches.
This evening, as they sipped cold beers in a discreet snug
towards the back of The Majors, Miller began
apologetically, I have some news for you, but Im afraid I
cant give you all the data upfront. There has been a policy
brake put on technological support with non-US police forces,
yours included. To be honest, I think the RUC is particularly
targeted in that respect. Its a result of political agitation on
Capitol Hill about shoot- to- kill and all that. Our bosses feel
they have to respond to that. I wouldnt. I despise those pushy
little ethnics, but thats the reality we live with.
HSB wanted to interrupt, in protest, but Miller raised his
hand and went on: I know. I know. All that stuff about
infringements of human rights is ridiculous. But thats the
fashion. However, the good news is that I can point you in the
right direction about a new ground-penetrating radar system
which should be right up your street.
Sounds good. Is it a home product?
No, developed by the Israelis. By Technicon their
Institute of Technology. Its super-efficient. Weve tested it
thoroughly and were amazed by the results. It will certainly be
what Truman called a powerful weapon in the arsenal of
righteousness. A rabbit couldnt open a new burrow without

66

his home improvement scheme showing up on screen. It can

be operated from a helicopter at a height of several hundred
feet. And best of all: within a year or eighteen months it will
be capable of being used via satellite, either American or one
from the European Space Agency, at a fraction of the cost of
use by helicopters. I reckon that with a few sweeps you could
cover just about all of your territory with it. How many
counties did you say you have?
Six.
Six? my home state has two hundred and fifty-four!
What state is that?
Texas, said Miller, with an exaggerated swelling of a
proud chest, Im from Fort Worth.
Oh yeah, isnt that the buckle on the Bible Belt? teased
HSB.
Dont knock the Bible Belt. Nowadays its the only thing
holding Uncle Sams pants up.
Well, buckle or no buckle, heres to the new weapon,
said HSB, lifting his glass.
Remember, dont have this traced back to us and by
that I mean me. Ill give you the contact details and you can
go directly to the Israelis as innocent shoppers.
And with that Miller handed over a traditional brown
envelope, size A4. HSB was overjoyed, but the joy was not
entirely unalloyed: he could envisage a bumper price tag on
the equipment. The Chief Constable, already almost on his
knees before the Police Authority and the finance wallahs of
the NIO and the Treasury, would not be enamoured of the idea
of another massive financial commitment. The argument that
such expenditure was cost-effective, measured against the cost
of a single IRA bomb, was beginning to wear thin through
endless repetition. Both the TECHNITEL and HUMINTEL
parts of the budget were now accelerating by the month. It
could not go on like that for ever. However, HSB recalled one
of the great lessons he had learnt as a schoolboy winger on the
rugby field run until youre stopped, and always play to the
whistle.
Damn it, he would go on running.

67

Chapter 9

On Sunday night Aidan Cassidys week ahead appeared to be

pleasantly convenient. Noleen was off to London on Monday
morning for a few days shopping and to take in a special
exhibition at the Royal Academy, as well as a number of
galleries she frequented on every London visit. He was to join
her as soon as possible later in the week and their holiday
would include the following weekend a routine which was
repeated every couple of months. He would have the time and
opportunity to see some of his insurance contacts on a
keeping-in-touch basis and, more importantly, to do business
regarding international bank transfers. It also left a large part
of Monday free for Colette.
Things went agley from the start. Having previously
agreed to his suggestion, Colette refused to stay the night with
him in Myrtlefield Park. (It would make me feel creepy).
Instead, she met him in sombre mood, and insisted that they
go for a drive along the North Down coast. Half an hour later,
they ended up parked on Seafront Road, Cultra, outside the
town of Holywood, as Colette, who had barely said a word,
demanded that he stop and have a serious talk about us.
As they watched the lights on the ferry boat to Scotland
move slowly down Belfast Lough, Cassidy knew in his bones
what would come next.
You havent told your wife about us, as you promised
me, have you? I just knew you wouldnt.
Its very difficult, Colette. There hasnt been the right
moment. I want to get it right. For all of us.
Get it right? The right time? You have had months to get
it right. But you havent the guts, have you? Its so unfair!
68

Now youre being unfair. Its easier for you. I have so

many things to consider and get right. And I will. Because I
love you.
Seafront Road, Cultra, had doubtless been the scene of
many such conversations. It wasnt a lovers lane, but the
cars parked along its seaside after dark often contained
earnest-talking couples of dubious legitimacy. This pair talked
on and on, round and round, until long after the last noisy
members had left the nearby yacht club and the lights in the
bar had gone out.
At last Aiden felt he had persuaded Colette of his
enduring love and bought himself a little more time, though
what to do with that time he had no precise idea. Life seemed
increasingly to be made up of a series of short-term escapes
from his creditors, from the Army Council, and now from his
mistress. Colette, for her part, believed, mainly because she
wanted to believe, that she had succeed in stiffening his
resolve, if nothing else. She convinced herself, on the basis of
the way he had finally embraced her tightly and with tears in
his eyes that he really did love her.
When he had dropped Colette off near her home, Cassidy
felt relieved to be alone, yet with undiminished foreboding.
Mother of God, how did I get myself into this mess?
It was now late, very late to be ringing Noleen in the
Cumberland Hotel, but he knew he must, as she would be
expecting his call. He also knew she would ring him back five
minutes later, under some pretext or other, just to make sure
he was at home. She had become a bit snoopy like that of late.
He drove the Jaguar into the long driveway, got out and
zapped the remote control. He turned towards the house and
not until the last second did he see the two men who stepped
out swiftly from the shadow of a tall rhododendron bush.
Jesus! The UVF.
He had no time to recover from his shock. He felt a sharp
pain in his right shoulder, as he was expertly pinned to the
pathway in one overwhelming movement of force. But it
wasnt the UVF. A voice in his ear said: Aidan Patrick

69

Cassidy, I am arresting you on suspicion of being a member

of an illegal organisation.
All he managed to say was: No. To his surprise, he
wasnt taken off to a police car. He realised in retrospect that
there had been, in fact, no vehicle within a hundred yards of
the house. Instead, he was bundled inside his own house,
where already four or five men were moving purposefully
about, intent on various tasks. Forensic investigators? Would
they have cracked the safe? Two more men came in from the
garden, where they had been acting as backup.
To keep things nice and legal, heres my search warrant,
said the policeman, holding up a document, which Cassidy
didnt look at. They pushed him roughly into an armchair in
the drawing room. One sat in front of him, straddling a chair;
the others sat on sofas to the side.
Right, Mr Cassidy, time for us to have a little talk.
I want to see my solicitor, said he, hoarsely.
Oh no, you dont, Mr Cassidy. You dont want to see
anyone. And Ill tell you why. If I contacted a solicitor of your
choice, or simply took you to Castlereagh, as Im supposed to,
your murderous little playmates would inevitably, and soon,
know you had been with us. That would mean that whether
you were by some miracle released, or whether you ended up
on remand in the Crum, you would have to be de-briefed by
said playmates. And your affairs I use the term in its widest
sense would then come under some inconvenient scrutiny.
As we say in our trade, and indeed yours, you would be
thoroughly investigated. And I do mean thoroughly. Need I
say more?
He paused to let the significance of that sink in.
I should tell you that we have been doing quite a lot of
investigating ourselves, here, and in Donegal Square, and
elsewhere. And weve come up with lots of interesting items.
Some of these are of special interest to us, as they would no
doubt be to the courts. But some would be of equal interest to
your how would you put it? comrades-in-arms. What is
of interest to us could possibly get you ten to fifteen years in
clink. On the other hand, what would be of interest to the

70

comrades would definitely get you.... He drew his index

finger over his throat.
So, bearing all that in mind, shall we talk business?
I dont know what youre talking about, said Cassidy,
without much conviction.
Niblock sighed. He turned to his companions. Could
someone get the coffee on the go. This may take some time.
Cassidy then told them that he was due to make a
telephone call to his wife in London. The SB officers looked
at one another, thrown by this development. Niblock took his
deputy into the kitchen. Its probably a ploy, said Sgt.
McQuitty. Hell pass a message to her, through an alarm code
word.
Lets think this through from his side, countered
Niblock. Supposing hes shit-scared as he should be that
his RA chums find out hes with us. In that case, he might be
afraid that if the wife doesnt hear from him, shell go ringing
round his friends to find out whats going on. Hell want to
keep things as normal as possible until he can see a way out.
Youre an optimist. I say dont let him make the call.
At that moment, to their professional embarrassment, both
of them jumped, startled by the shrill ring of the telephone.
They could debate no longer. Rushing back into the other
room, they made contradictory thumbs-up, thumbs-down
gestures, until Niblock took charge.
Let him answer it.
Cassidy got up and crossed the room, to the phone which
sat on a small side table by the bookcase. As he reached to
pick up the receiver, the ringing stopped.
Telephonus interruptus, said Niblock.
The logic of his earlier decision determined that Cassidy
was allowed to call the Cumberland and be put through to his
wife. However, he was given a script, in telegraphic form,
which Niblock wrote out for him in a police notebook and tore
out the page. His captors stood over him, their close presence
a warning that he must not go off message.
When he got through to Noleen, Cassidy claimed to have
just missed her call of ten minutes earlier and had gone to the

71

bathroom in the meantime. He explained he had had a terrible

day (true!), having had to go on business to Derry in the
afternoon. Then he had been obliged to stay for dinner with a
client. And to crown it all, the Jag had broken down again!
on the M2. He had got the AA to tow it to a garage and had
taken a taxi home. He was knackered and still had a lot of
urgent business to attend to, so he wasnt sure when, or if, he
could join her in London. Then, dangerously, the conversation
went off the script, as Noleen got a word in edgewise.
Yes, of course, Im alright. Everythings fine. Im just
clapped out after today. Ill work at home tomorrow and take
it easy. Depending on how I get on, I might get over before
the end of the week, but Ill have to catch up for today and
that wont be easy. But you enjoy yourself. How was the
exhibition? And you. Take care...
And for the second time that night, albeit in different
circumstances, he breathed the great classic message: I love
you. Night-night.
His watchers looked at one another. The unspoken
question hung in the air. Had he sent a message? Eventually
Niblock shook his head, seemingly satisfied.
OK, lets get back to business. Where were we?
Answering his own question, he went on: Nowhere!
Nowhere, all because, dear Cassidy, you dont face up to
where you are, which is up Shit Creek, without the proverbial
paddle.
Cassidy knew what the IRA Green Book golden rule
was: Whatever you say, say nothing. He clung to that line,
sometimes merely shaking his head, sometimes saying, No
comment, more often than not claiming total ignorance of the
subject of the questioning. He was convinced that they already
knew a lot but exactly how much? He must not fall into the
trap of confirming things they suspected but were not sure of.
Occasionally he would vary his stonewall defence with a
show of indignant defiance.
This is illegal. You cant hold me here. You have either
to release me or charge me.

72

Niblock laughed, glad to have provoked a reaction,

however hostile.
Nothing illegal about it. We are talking to a suspect at the
scene of a crime.
There was no use arguing that that was nonsense: they had
the upper hand; he didnt have witnesses; so much for due
process.
Niblock kept pounding away, threatening, cajoling,
probing and getting nowhere. Shortly after dawn one of the
support team appeared from the kitchen with plates of egg and
bacon. Cassidy refused to eat.
Were not going to have a hunger strike on our hands as
well, are we? joked Niblock.
Tucking into his fry, he went on: Well, heres to Billy
Sanderson. Well never forget him.
Cassidy found Niblocks provocations less irritating than
the sermonising of his alter ego, Austin, who arrived in midmorning. As an interrogator, he seemed more interested in
achieving a religious conversion than in extracting
information. He didnt seem frustrated by Cassidys non-cooperation; rather , he gave the impression of enjoying the
opportunity of pouring out an uninterruptible flow of
admonitions. Guilt, God, punishment, repentance, forgiveness
were at the core of his vocabulary.
You may, by your silence, defy the judgment of the court
that awaits you here on earth. You may refuse to recognise it.
But there is another judgment to which you must surely be
subjected: For it is appointed unto man once to die, but after
this the judgment. Mark you, Gods own judgment. What
will you plead then, my friend, if you have not forsaken your
evil ways?
Cassidy asked to be allowed to shave. No way! When he
fell asleep they shook him awake. On and on went the
questioning. Who were his contacts and seniors? What were
the international bankers drafts in his safe for? He again
declined to eat. Was it evening or already night? Thank God,
Niblock was back, replacing Austin. Cassidys vision was

73

becoming distorted, as though he were seeing the world

through a series of mirrors in a funfair.
Mr Cassidy, I am a man with a problem. So are you. I am
soon going to have to take you off to Castlereagh, where
youll be processed. And once you are charged, youll be out
of my hands. No more use to me, apart from the material we
have already gathered. That would be a big disappointment to
me.
Niblock shook his head sadly, as though already
experiencing that deep disappointment.
And what about your future? Not martyred for the cause,
but, sure as eggs is eggs, executed in disgrace a trusted
member who put his hand in the till and cheated his comrades,
not to mention his devoted wife.
Cassidy had slumped sideways; Niblock leaned forward
and pushed him into the vertical again.
Look, Cassidy, I know about most, if not yet all, of your
problems. If you play ball with me, I can solve them for you.
The big new overdraft, the old one, the debts to William Hill
all of that. Plus an ongoing what shall I call it?
consultancy fee. And most important of all, my protection,
now and in the future, when the going gets really rough and
dirty, as it will.
Cassidy swayed again in his chair, eyes closed, saying
nothing. Niblock leaned forward again, and almost whispered,
in confidential tone, in his ear, I may even be able to help
with the little Colette problem. Think about it, and give me
your answer very soon. Were both running out of time. If its
yes, we can work out the details.
(A weary thought: Ive done more of these bloody deals in
two years than my old man ever did in the cattle market in
Enniskillen in a lifetime). Then with undisguised menace: If
its No, youre off to Castlereagh. Forthwith. In a tumbril.
And bugger you.
It was late on Thursday before Cassidy broke.

74

Chapter 10

Canon Murray had been a big name in West Belfast for over
two decades, first as a parish priest in the outer suburb of
Twinbrook, then as a canon, serving in St Peters Procathedral in the Lower Falls. In many ways he was the
archetypical Irish priest of an earlier era authoritarian,
outgoing, energetic, sport-loving, interfering and a man
instinctively looked up to by his parishioners. Over six feet
tall, with broad shoulders and a great cliff of snowy white
hair, he cut an impressive figure as he moved about the district
his district usually on foot, greeting members of his flock
at every turn and taking an intimate interest in their affairs. In
his youth he had studied at the Irish College in Rome
normally a sign that the fledgling priest had been identified as
a high flyer. At one period of his ministry he had been
administrative assistant to the Bishop of Down and Connor,
another sign of hierarchal approval. Many had thought of him
as a likely bishop, perhaps even an archbishop, in waiting.
However, he was already middle aged before he became a
canon and it now looked as though he was not going to rise
any higher, despite all the earlier promise.
Why? asked James Wheeler, with the simplicity of his
Balliol directness.
Oh, God knows and I suppose a few of his Little
Helpers, replied Vincent Glass, but it certainly surprised me;
hes a big man in every way. Could be he became too much of
a hearty, as you guys say, with all his GAA and boxing
clubs activities. Or maybe his nationalist politics were a bit
too up-front. The hierarchy like to keep a low profile in that
regard. It could also be that his social welfare work had a

75

tinge of liberation theology about it, which has always been a

big No-no with the cardinal.
You dont seem convinced by your own reasons, said
Wheeler.
You could be right. Perhaps he just ran across someone
who got up the tree faster and made damn sure your man
didnt. You know, its like a reporter who gets shafted by a
future editor, or I suppose a civil servant who has his career
blighted by some bastard who took a dislike to him.
Tell me about it! said Wheeler, and they both laughed
loudly.
Glass was Northern editor of a major Dublin newspaper,
who had made his career reporting on the Troubles, thanks
in no small part to the excellent contacts he had with the
republican leadership, thanks, in turn, to the role played by a
clutch of his uncles in the movement, in an earlier
generation. Glass had skilfully supplemented these contacts
on the other side of the ditch, by cultivating government
official spokesmen, who had come to welcome his interest,
despite the strident anti-government nature of many of his
articles. From their point of view, he could often help interpret
the moods and attitudes of the nationalist community.
Besides, he was great company and the purveyor of the sort of
gossip beloved of newsmen everywhere. He was particularly
close to James Wheeler (Wheela-deala to his friends), who
had been brought by the Secretary of State, on the
recommendation of Granville, from the Press Office of the
FCO to be Head of Information Services at Stormont Castle.
His colleagues suspected, rightly, that he had an MI6 or MI5
past and that his real master was Granville, rather than the
politicians.
Apart from official press conferences and briefings, Glass
and Wheeler would meet once or twice a month, to chew the
fat, as they called it. They avoided places such as the Europa
Hotel in Belfast, the main hangout of the press corps, and
instead favoured the offbeat location of some of Bangors
better pubs, twelve miles away along the shores of Belfast
Lough. Often there was nothing very serious or new to discuss

76

about the political or security situation and the two of them

would simply enjoy a convivial evening, poking fun at
politicians in Belfast, Dublin and London, and exchanging
ribald stories, of which both had an inexhaustible stock.
Occasionally, however, there would be a little nugget of
information to be passed on by either side: that HMG was
about to seek the extradition of a Sinn Fein fund-raiser from
the USA, on charges related to explosions in Great Britain
five years previously; or that a PIRA OC on the run in the
Republic was dying of cancer in a Dundalk hospital, under an
assumed name. Glass and Wheeler knew that such nuggets
would be passed on and would make their appearance,
suitably veiled, in the formers newspaper, or in Granvilles
next security report. Information was, they recognised, a trade
in its own right, and trade was a two-way street. Wheelers
off-the-record relationship had the blessing of Granville,
though with the warning, Always remember, diplomats tell
lies to journalists and then believe what they read.
Is that a pearl of Beardsley wisdom? asked Wheeler.
No, its from Karl Kraus. You wont have heard of him,
you were at Oxford. Sometimes Master Wheeler needed to be
put in his place.
Todays info-trading, carried out in a snug alcove of the
Windsor Bar, beside Bangors marina, was focused on a major
message Glass said he had been asked to pass on. He put
down his glass, made sure no one was in earshot, and, to
underline the importance of what he was about to say, tapped
Wheeler on the chest with his index finger.
I have been asked to convey to you the following. He
paused to pull a piece of paper from his breast pocket, from
which he read rather stiffly, to which you have one week to
reply, through me: the leadership of the Irish Republican
Army is keen to have serious talks with British Government
representatives. But, unlike earlier attempts at dialogue, such
talks have to be carefully prepared and move along a mutually
agreed path. He paused for effect. Canon Murray is their
chosen man for first contacts. He will not in any sense
negotiate. He will merely explore with you the possibility of

77

establishing initial ground rules, on which further, direct talks

could be held.
Wheeler remained silent for several moments. He was
sure Glass was to be taken seriously, but he was momentarily
off-balance.
I must say, I dont quite know what to make of the
proposed contacts, via you, then friend Murray, then
somebody else. Why so many layers to the onion?
Dont let that put you off. Its about a paranoid security
fear. A fear about internal security, to be precise. Youve no
idea how nervous the top guys are about this. They think they
now have a reasonable majority in favour of a move to
political negotiation, but if anything should go wrong, or leak
out prematurely, then thered be hell to pay. So, take my
advice: dont turn your back on this one. Or try to exploit it.
Play it straight and see where it will lead.
You forget the risks we would be running. Cant you see
the headlines: HMG parleys with terrorist leadership;
Secret negotiations with IRA? Horrendous! End of
Secretary of State.
I repeat: dont miss this opportunity. If you do, the hawks
will regain the upper hand and the chance for an end to the
war will vanish for a decade.
As they parted, an hour or so later, Glass grasped Wheeler
by the hand.
Tonight could be an historic day for Ireland.
Youre drunk, said Wheeler.
And they both laughed, each suspecting that the other
was right.
The visitors reception room in Clonard Monastery was a
gloomy, almost uncomfortable place. Sparsely furnished with
only two armchairs and a tiny table, it was poorly lit, the
brightest light being focused on a small stone sculpture of the
Madonna and Child; on another wall hung a print of a garish
Sacred heart of Jesus, of the series to be seen in half the

78

Catholic homes in Ireland. Clearly, visitors were not

encouraged to stay long.
Canon Murray was already seated in one of the armchairs
when Granville was shown in. He rose to greet him, with a
firm, more-than-polite handshake.
Thanks for coming. I thought it best to meet here, rather
than at my house. Its more anonymous here; we dont want
local questions about strangers. Its vitally important that none
of this gets out.
Thanks for receiving me. I appreciate the opportunity of
meeting you. I fully understand the need for complete
confidentiality. And you can assure your contacts that applies
to any dealings with them also.
Murray suddenly smiled. Were sounding like two
members of the UN Security Council, for Gods sake. Lets
have a drink. The suns bound to be over the yardarm by now,
if only we could see the damn thing in this foul weather.
He opened a panel in the low table and produced two
glasses, a jug of water and a bottle of Powers whiskey.
I hope you dont mind the Irish.
Not at all, said Glanville, cheerily. He had, in fact, hated
all whiskies since, at the age of ten and in bed with measles,
he had been forced by his mother to gulp down two table
spoonfuls, to bring out the spots. But.... always go along
with the other side as far as possible, provided the cost to be
paid is not too high.
I prefer it to scotch, resumed Murray. Its the triple
distillation that makes the difference, you know.
Granville thoughtfully sipped his drink, then said, I that
is to say, not only myself but my political masters were glad
to hear that serious links might be renewed with the PIRA
leadership. And I am grateful to you for your help. I neednt
go over the reasons why earlier contacts failed to come to
fruition. That was in any case before my time. This time
round, if we can keep in step, things could be different.
Yes. I personally sense that both sides now want a way
out of the present situation. The recent let-up in harassments
has created a space for a new dialogue, which could lead to an

79

end to hostilities. Depending, of course, on whats on offer

from your side.
Granville could scarcely suppress a smile. The recent letup in harassments he knew had come about as the result of
the security forces, almost overwhelmed by the amount of
information now flowing in about so many people, being
obliged to take stock through the PANORAMA system, of the
overall situation in order to determine priorities. He recalled
the wording of a recent joint Army / RUC paper on the
subject, which foresaw a subsequent co-ordinated attack on
key operatives, against whom serious charges could be
brought, with a reasonable expectation of conviction.
I take it that you have a message for me, setting out
suggested ground rules and possible pre-conditions?
Well, its simpler than that, really...
He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket.
My instructions come from two members of the Army
Council. They will be, whats the diplomatic phrase?
Plenipotentiaries. They want a maximum of two British
Government representatives, empowered to deal.
No problem.
We have already touched on confidentiality, but I must
re-emphasise it. Complete secrecy. No feed outs to the media.
No hints. If challenged on links, talks, negotiations etc., then
total denial is to be immediate and automatic.
Agreed.
Either side can raise any matter no closed agenda.
OK so far.
Two small, practical details, but of great importance: the
two to be able to carry side arms without fear of prosecution;
and the first meeting to be held as soon as possible, in
Donegal.
Granville sucked on his teeth in the time-honoured civil
service gesture which indicated a problem.
Pistols OK. Obviously I cant issue a Firearms
Certificate, but you have my word for immunity from
prosecution on that score. But Donegal. No. It must be in

80

Northern Ireland. There are enough remote locations suitable

for our purposes.
Good, said Murray. I knew you couldnt agree to
everything. That would be bad tactical politics.
Now youre back at the United Nations, joked Granville,
who was pleased to note that Murray was genuinely amused.
If Murray had the confidence of PIRA behind him, he,
Granville, would have to look on him as a valuable asset, who
might be brought into play again at some stage in the future.
There was nothing on the file about him, as regards activity.
It seemed likely that his links with the top of the IRA arose
from the fact that the Belfastman (code name in the RUC:
Bunny) had been his parishioner, involved in sporting clubs
run by the church, as well as having been his pupil in religious
instruction classes at St Marys.
Granville decided to explore what was known in his trade
as Personal Background Factors.
Im very grateful for your help in this matter. You can
certainly convey to your contacts our willingness to meet
face-to-face to discuss our respective positions. But tell me,
Im curious, how did you come to be involved?
You mean what is a man of the cloth doing mixed up
with a revolutionary movement?
Lets forget about definitions and categories. I am
interested in your personal views.
Let me ask you a question: do you believe in the concept
of a just war?
If you mean this war, I cant accept and you wouldnt
expect me to accept that it is a just one. There are
democratic frameworks within which Sinn Fein and other
republicans can pursue their political goals. Terrorism flouts
the democratic process and is therefore unjust.
But, my friend, the democratic frameworks you refer to
were perverted by partition. The Irish people were arbitrarily
divided. It is a just war to re-unite them. I regret, of course,
the sufferings of war and Id be the first to acknowledge that
mistakes have been made by the IRA, but I look on my

81

modest role as one which can help eliminate the suffering and
achieve a lasting peace.
Please dont take offence at my personal questions, but
do you really believe that role is compatible with your
vocation as a priest?
Emphatically yes. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they
shall be called sons of God. Thats my charter. Indeed I hope
peacemaking will save my sacerdotal ministry from failure.
Failure?
Granville theatrically raised his eyebrows. Murray took a
deep swig of his whiskey and was silent for a moment. When
he started to speak again, it was in a softer, almost sad, voice.
When I was ordained a priest I gloried in the authority
and universality of the Church. I was inspired by the liturgy
and I rejoiced in sharing it. All that has been lost. Tell it not in
Gath, but Vatican II was a disaster. The present generation,
using modernisation as a new belief system, no longer
recognize the supreme authority of the Church. They have lost
the majesty of the Latin Mass. Most of them wouldnt know
the Agnus Dei from Mrs Agnes Daly.
Agnes Daly?
Yes. She runs a sweet shop on the Springfield Road.
Granville was unsure whether to laugh at that, but Murray
beat him to it with a loud guffaw.
Thats awful, isnt it? But you see why I hope my
activities of a non-ecclesiastical nature can compensate for my
disappointments within the so-called modern church.
Murray drew deeply again on his Powers. But thats a
lot about me. Now I have one for you. Are you a man of
faith?
I wouldnt go so far as to say that. Although my maternal
grandfather was a Church of England clergyman a canon at
Warwick Cathedral as it happens. But that didnt seem to get
into my DNA. I would hope to qualify as a man of goodwill
isnt that enough when all dogmas are said and done?
It all depends on whether you believe in eternity, in the
transcendental.

82

I probably dont, in your terms. I mean, for example,

belief in an afterlife. I dont have that. What would your
reaction be if it could be proved and I know it cant be, but
just suppose that there was no afterlife?
Id be absolutely delighted. No hell, no retribution, no
post-mortem accusations, no purgatorial sufferings. And no
boring heaven either, with the righteous congratulating
themselves on being in the pound seats for keeps. Instead, all
of us tucked up in a snug oblivion, in a never-ending good
nights sleep. The sheer eternal luxury of it!
Murrays enthusiasm for the vision of a future of
nothingness did not last long.
Of course, I couldnt believe in that.
Why ever not? Many people do.
Because Im a Catholic. Thats all there is to it. My
baptism has inoculated me against total unbelief, even if I
wanted to stray in that direction. Life is a constant struggle
with my own inadequacies and with the temptations of
unbelief.
(Not to mention the temptations associated with angelic
altar boys and the constant fear of denunciation).
But definitive unbelief is a place Ill never be in.
Granville drained his half glass at one go, without
flinching. That should bring out the spots.
Id better be going. Weve talked more theology than
politics perhaps its the setting but youve been most
helpful.
Happy to be of use. Here are the contact details. He
passed over a white envelope.
Whatever your doubts and temptations, pray for success.
I will.

83

Chapter 11

To what do I owe the honour of this visit? said HSB with

mock reverence, rising from his desk to greet the GOC. The
two men knew one another well, not only from their ex officio
attendance at the all-too-frequent security meetings in which
they represented their respective forces, but from their tussles
on the golf course, in which they were evenly matched. They
played in a four-ball at Knock Golf Club, close to the
Stormont governmental estate, on most Saturday mornings,
crises permitting. Occasionally they managed another round
on Sunday morning, after which they would entertain their
companions to a leisurely lunch, either at Cheshams official
residence or chez Campbell, (HSBs family) in a leafy street
not far from police HQ at Brooklyn.
The GOC had a senior man based at Brooklyn, but he
rarely set foot there himself. HSB had therefore been surprised
at the generals discreet request to see him there, informally.
Thanks. Its not a courtesy call, he said, unnecessarily.
He sat down, looking uncomfortable.
This is a bit embarrassing, to tell you the truth, but I hope
youll understand. I need your help on this one. Ill owe you
one if you can.
He pulled from his inside pocket a folded A4 sheet and
smoothed it out on the desktop. It was a copy of the previous
days RUC list of arrests, which had been circulated to all the
usual group of interested parties, as well as being registered
on PANORAMA.
Chesham pointed to a name on the list: Francis Fanon.
That one. Hes mine. And I cant afford to lose him.
HSB could not contain his astonishment.

84

Francis Fanon? The Double F-er, as my lads call him? A

tout of yours? We have him down as a top notcher and hope
this time we have enough forensic on him to nail him good
and proper.
I heard that was the position. Thats why Im here, on
bended knee. You see, I inherited him from my predecessor. I
seem to remember he was a walk-in, offering his services.
Which, it must be said, have been invaluable, especially as
regards tip-offs about planned ops. To us, hes Mr Stiletto.
My very best asset.
And where does he get his info?
Well, you were on the button when you called him a top
notcher. But you are not going to believe this; hes head of
discipline for the entire shooting match. No pun intended
but it is a fact that the discipline meted out by his kangaroo
courts often involve a bullet in the head. Hes in on most
things, one of the few who know about ops. who arent
directly involved, hands-on.
Chesham paused to let the full import of his tale sink in.
He doesnt tell us everything of course, but his carefully
abridged version of Life in the RA is nonetheless gold dust.
Certainly, we are paying him in gold dust, if not indeed gold
ingots.
HSB whistled through his teeth. How does he sleep at
night?
How do any of them sleep at night?
Point taken. Do MI5 know about this?
Chesham coughed. Thats the thing. They werent in the
game here when Stiletto was first on the scene. And it was all
so hush-hush and delicate that we never got round to what
dear Jeremy calls sharing the spoils. Sure you can
understand my reluctance to share an asset like Stiletto. Its so
delicate, walking on eggshells wouldnt be in it. The more
people know on our side, the greater the risk of a leak. Which
, if I may mix metaphors, would be to slaughter the goose that
lays the golden eggs.
Thats way out of line with our sharing-caring
philosophy, teased HSB.

85

This isnt the bloody Co-op. As my old colonel used to

say, information is never shared, its traded.
Well, heres a trading proposition for you. You cut me in,
as regards your Stiletto source. And you revise upwards, of
course the number of bricks you can spare the RUC to
protect our foot patrols in West and North Belfast. I know
four soldiers to one policeman is a heavy manpower ratio, but
its a big deal on our side. The Chief is very keen on it.
You mean being seen on the ground?
Yes. The more we can do it, the more the mood swings
towards thinking the wars nearly over. Thats the theory
anyway.
If only .... but what can you do for me?
My proposal is this. Ill put Niblock on the Fanon-Stiletto
case. Hes our best interrogator, and inventive with it. Hell
find a way of releasing your man without arousing suspicions
anywhere. Then well square things with Jeremy, by dressing
up Stiletto as a re-activated agent and by overshadowing his
case with the sheer joy of our own piece of very good news,
which, good boys that we like to think we are, we are about to
share with the top of the system.
And he told him of Cassidy.
Good God, cried Chesham. We now own the Treasurer
and the Head of Discipline! A few more like that and we can
launch a take-over bid.
Steady on, its not quite a majority shareholding in Marks
& Spencer.
Anyway, its a deal, said Chesham, holding out his hand
as he stood up.
Care to stay for a spot of lunch?
Chesham, instantly recalling his last lunch in the Brooklyn
canteen, quickly declined.
Must get back to the ranch.

86

Chapter 12

The choreography for Cassidys new role took some time to

be established. The question of who should be the producer
was thrashed out at a rather tense meeting of the Joint
Intelligence Committee, under Granvilles chairmanship.
The first item of business was a statement by the GOC
regarding the Stiletto situation. He wished, he said, to be
crystal clear about this. His version of the past was,
however, distinctly muddy. (In those days the need-to-know
principle was paramount). Nevertheless, that aspect was
glossed over, with a rather grovelling acknowledgment on
Cheshams part of the present need to share such information,
as Granville had so recently emphasised.
There was general euphoria about the RUCs great coup.
Congratulations all round. How best to exploit this high-grade
asset? The RUC were the players in possession and HSB put
up a case for continuing to run what had become their man.
Granville struck a pensive pose, as though pondering deeply
on the issue, before commenting.
I hear what you say, (which almost invariably meant
bollocks to you) but I think there are wider considerations
here. Cassidy should be able to bring us operational details
from time to time usually post hoc, I suspect. That is to say,
who has done what, after the event. And , of course, that sort
of information can be most appropriately be acted upon by the
police. But there is another dimension to this. The real
potential value of Cassidy lets call him HERMES, shall
we? (Puzzled looks on several faces). You know the
messenger is that he can throw light on how the top Provos
are thinking, particularly as regards strategy.
.Now for the KO punch.
87

That leads us into territory above and beyond law and

order pure and simple into the quasi-political field. That is
why I feel sure (here he imagined how Sir Julian would put
across the point in a way which brooked no return of serve)
...I feel sure MI5 should take over the running. Ill keep a
close eye on it myself, for a while at least, to see how it goes.
And it goes without saying that whatever we get out of
HERMES well share with you.
The others nodded in agreement ... and, in their hearts,
disbelief.
May I take it then that you will be taking over the
financial aspects of our ... our obligations? queried HSB.
Yes, OK. I think that can be arranged.
As HSB later reported to the Chief Constable: I thought
if the buggers were going to nick our best ever tout, they
could pay the piper.
Just as well, in the light of the pressure we are going to
be under as regards our Slush Fund monies. Incidentally, I
have been looking at those break-down figures of where your
money our money! is going. A bit worrying. I mean, for
example, do you have to have half the hairdressers in North
and West Belfast on the payroll?
Believe me, Chief, theyre very good value, and the
individual payments are small. You see, the local women
relax when they go there, under those big hoods, whatever
theyre called. In their everyday lives they have all these pentup worries, about their sons getting mixed up with the Provos,
about violence in their street, and so on. Or they have
complaints about what they are expected to do for the cause
by the local Republican bullies. They dont normally talk
about such things with their neighbours theyre afraid to.
But they then confide in the hairdresser, often with useful
snippets of information about what is going on, who is doing
what and to whom.
You mean like the confessional?
Yes, only more luxurious and less demanding. The
hairdresser doesnt need to say much. She just listens and

88

makes sympathetic or is it empathetic? noises from time to

time. And there are no Hail Marys or Our Fathers to be
said afterwards, or contributions to church funds to be made.
Just the price of a wash and set, plus a modest tip.
I am still going through the figures and may need to
review policy with you later. But to get back to our prize tout
what are we to call him, HERMES? I thought that was one
of my wifes scarves. Anyway, I hope that MI5 will handle
him correctly. Above all, not push him too far. Hes bound to
be under terrific strain. Can you imagine it? And if pushed too
far, or too hard, he could go wrong on us. To adapt your
bagpipe analogy: When youve got the piper by the balls, he
may play the odd bum note.
Not to worry. I think Granville will be fine. Hes bright
and he has tuned into Provo thinking very quickly. Dont
forget, he has probably run raghead agents over half the
countries of the Middle East. My reservations about him
spring from the fact that his ultimate objectives are not always
clear. But hes a pro at the handling game.
HSB thought he should take the opportunity of putting
another piece on the chess board.
About your financial worries, I think I should warn you
theres another lot of increased expenditure on the horizon;
our Witness Protection Programme. Its wildly expensive in
each case re-housing a whole family, usually. Plus, in all
probability, helping with a new identity for the family, or even
re-settling in GB, Canada, the States or New Zealand the
whole shebang costs a fortune, but the programme is proving
to be a key weapon in our armoury.
How do we justify it to NIO, if the costs are spiralling?
As you know, after all the cock-ups in the courts, with
the original supergrasses, we more or less gave up using our
touts as witnesses. But the adaptation of the basic scheme has
worked wonderfully well. In reality it is now an Informers
Protection Programme. We get the touts on board through
payments, the promise that we wont use them as witnesses in
court and, most important of all, we guarantee protection, in

89

the widest sense. I need more men to process the candidates in

the queue. And more dosh.
A request for more money will go down like a lead
balloon. Can you work up stats. on the costs/ benefits of that?
Sure. The quality of our intelligence has soared since we
introduced the policy. The time had come for it. And we are
beginning to push at an open door. There are so many Provos
around, even in so-called middle management, who are so
stressed out and have been at it for so long that they are
looking for a way out. We provide that. But we must also do
what it takes and pay what it costs, to offer credible
protection. If things were to go wrong for some of our clients
and they ended up, face down, in the Lagan, our present
advances could be just as quickly reversed.
I know you are passionate about that. And Ill support
you all the way. But get a defensive paper ready for NIO.
Most of our war these days seems to be fought on paper.
Granville arranged for Cassidy to be invited to be a
member of West Belfast Growth, a voluntary development
association set up with the active participation of the
Department of Commerce, with the remit to promote the
creation of jobs in that area of high deprivation and high
unemployment. It was chaired by a junior NIO minister and
was staffed by officials from Commerce, under the watchful
eye of a NIO official from the Economics Section. On the
other side of the table sat a couple of trade unionists, an
energetic parish priest, two community workers ( in reality
Provos), two tenant association representatives and a Catholic
businessman who had made his money in the wholesale
livestock market. The addition of another Catholic
businessman would clearly strengthen the team. It would also
bring Cassidy into legitimate contact with officialdom, thus
simplifying communications enormously.
Cassidy claimed to his security handlers that he would
have to clear the appointment with the Army Council, which
would entail a delay of nearly three weeks. That was agreed
to.

90

Take him gently. Show him you care.

This time the meeting was in a safe house in Dundalk and
Cassidy was relieved when his financial report was accepted
with scarcely a query. When he told them of his invitation,
there was general laughter.
The Hillsborough Garden Party will be your next
appearance, said the Derryman. The others looked to the top
Belfastman for guidance.
Dont see why not. Could be useful, getting so close to a
Brit minister. You know, we could get Aidan to do a von
Stauffenberg.
Cassidy paled.
Only joking. Seriously, keep us posted if you get the
chance to talk to him off the agenda, so to speak. About the
overall situation and how he sees it.
Head of Operations then took over.
Aidan ,we have that outing lined up for you and for the
kitty. Now that Her Majestys post offices have contributed so
generously to the cause more generously than brother Brody
in New York, as you have told us, the Belgian operation is
now on. McGiolla should be here within the hour and we can
set things up for the pair of you.
Officialdom also underwent an important change at this
time, to take account of Cassidys recruitment; the NIO
Principal Officer, Economics Section, was replaced by
another NIO Officer, Keith Barrow, recently arrived from
London and in reality an MI5 operative. This had caused a
little flutter with PUS (NIO), who did not take at all warmly to
the idea of MI5 penetrating his domain. However, he was
overruled by SoS, thanks to the Granville-Beardsley-Foreign
Secretary-PM axis, and he was mollified by the assurance that
the post would not come out of his, NIOs, staff complement.
Barrow could genuinely if that adverb had any meaning in
this context look after the West Belfast Growth workload,
which represented a freebee for NIO, and there were plenty of
other things for him to do in Northern Ireland in his ample
spare time. Like garrotting passers-by, sniffed PUS.

91

Cassidy was told that Barrow was to be his own little

helper on the board. He also came to know Jeremy Granville,
who was to look after his activities more generally. He knew
from his initiation briefings, that Granville had an outside
persona, as a senior NIO official, Keith Barrows boss. But
the important relationship was with him as his principal
handler, paymaster and, he fervently hoped, protector.

92

Chapter 13

Thank you for coming, began PUS, tapping his teacup with
a spoon.
He looked round the large room formerly the cabinet
room, pre-1972, in Stormont Castle and mentally ticked off
the various groups: police, army, NIO, MI5, each with a team
of four or five.
I thought it would be useful to repeat our first joint
meeting of some months ago, which I believe was valuable to
all of us, in order to have a co-ordinated picture of just where
we are, both in security terms and politically. As you know,
ministers are keen to see the two fronts go forward together,
so it is a good idea, in my view, also to take stock of both in
parallel.
Heads nodded in agreement. But, mused Granville, how
much agreement would there be in those heads about the
wisdom or otherwise of mutating the underlying policy of
their political masters?
I propose we devote this afternoons session to security,
then take the political situation tomorrow morning. I apologise
for having had to cancel this mornings scheduled meeting at
such short notice; I could not get away from London last
night, as the Northern Ireland Committee in the Commons
overran and the SoS wanted to see me afterwards. Now then,
where shall we start? With you, Jeremy, or with you, Chief
Constable?
The two made you-go-first gestures to one another, but
the Chief Constable took the initiative. Flanked by HSB and
his own administrative assistant, he was the only one in the
room in uniform, though General Chesham, the GOC, had a

93

taste in clothes which made him look as though he were

perpetually in uniform; indeed perpetually taking the salute.
Thank you, PUS, Mr Chairman, began the Chief
Constable in formal tones. Then, under the careful scrutiny of
HSB, who had written most of them, he plunged into a series
of notes laid out on top of his slim portfolio. He had a
tendency to read at slightly too fast a pace and this was
exaggerated whenever he was using material assembled by
someone else.
I am pleased to report that, statistically, there has been a
marked improvement on almost all fronts over the past six
months, indeed the past year. If I may, I will give you the
stats. For the past twelve months, as compared to the
preceding twelve months, bombings are down by 60%;
shootings by half; the weight of explosives found is 63%
greater; the number of serviceable weaponry recovered is up
by almost half.
He paused and looked up from his notes. He judged the
meeting to be impressed, if not exactly overwhelmed. Then on
he went, like a Tibetan monk rotating his prayer wheel.
And in terms of people: casualties, excluding terrorists,
are down by 15% and on the other side of the balance sheet,
our arrest rate has trebled and our charge rate at the DPP is
almost double what it was a year ago. It will take some time
yet for the conviction rate to improve, but I am confident that
will happen, as these new cases move down the pipeline. So, I
think we can say with assurance that the policy of the
primacy of the police, propounded by the Bourne Report, has
been paying ever better dividends.
He thought he detected a low growl from Chesham, but as
he looked up again, PUS was smiling approvingly.
Of course, we couldnt do the half of that without the
physical backup from the GOC and his forces. And I would
like to say a special word of thanks to the Logistical Support
Group, for all their technological help, which has literally
transformed our intelligence-gathering capacities. The
PANORAMA programme and its ongoing development,
allows us to monitor a vastly greater number of suspects than

94

was possible only a couple of years ago and, most

importantly, that is now done in a co-ordinated way, often
even in real time. Its like working with the lights on, instead
of in the dark. And we can do better...
One thing you havent mentioned, Chief Constable,
interjected PUS, is cost. He took off his reading glasses and
sucked on a stem.
You are aware, I know, of the new round of expenditure
cuts. Were in the throes of juggling with the figures. New
savings will be demanded of us. But even before that exercise,
I understand from the Police Authority that the RUC was over
budget last year and is already seriously over budget this year.
We are going to have to enter into special bi-lateral talks with
the Treasury about how we get out of that particular hole. I
will have to don sackcloth and ashes on your behalf. So, I do
hope that you are not going to come forward today with any
new proposals which would exacerbate the situation.
The Chief Constable jumped back in at once. With
respect, PUS, (in such circles with respect invariably meant
the opposite), with respect, you cannot simply look at costs
without at the same time looking at the benefits the
investment of those costs have brought and can still bring.
You have to look at the situation in the round, with results
related to expenditure. Shall I give you an example?
Go on, yes, please, said PUS, with an evident lack of
enthusiasm.
Well, take just one set of outline figures: Criminal
Injuries claims: down by over 65%. In gross terms, that is well
over treble our overspend in the RUC. And thats only one
statistic. Think of the reduced costs in hospital care, in days
lost at work, in industrial disruption and so on. Never mind
the factor of human lives and suffering spared.
Im not sure we can put all these advances for mankind
down to the RUC, said PUS, with a quick smile which
instantly faded. He wondered who had put the CC up to this
new cost-benefit defence, but as he was about to follow up his
dampener, he could not ignore the firm signal from the GOC
that he wanted the floor. As was his wont, Chesham had

95

stretched his right arm out straight before him, almost at

shoulder height.
A bit like at Nuremberg, thought Granville.
I dont wish to get bogged down in the treacle of
accountancy. I leave that to my masters in MoD. But I must
say I have sympathy with the Chief Constables point of view.
Indeed, in the light of the most recent threat of another round
of cuts, Id go further and challenge ministers head-on.
The general paused and took a deep breath. The others
sensed that a Chesham special was on its way.
Ministers have got to realize that were fighting a war
here, for Gods sake. Were slowly winning, but what we need
is a knock-out blow. Something to put Johnnie Terrorist and
by that I mean all of them to flight once and for all. That is
the great lesson taught us by Malaya, the only totally
successful anti-insurgency campaign we, or anyone else, have
ever fought, anywhere, at any time.
Oh God, thought Granville, were going to get the Field
Marshal Templer Memorial Lecture.
What we need is a clear and enunciated policy of
victory first, politics later. To be understood by all. No ifs
and buts, no nods and winks just straight down the line.
Then a crack- down I mean a real crackdown on anything
that moves. Police and army together; pressure on all fronts.
Flood the difficult areas with personnel. Sit on the buggers.
Arrest and interrogate left, right and centre. Inundate the DPP
with files. In short, make everybody realise it is wartime and
that things wont improve until its over and the paramilitaries
jack it in. Their supporters must be made to yearn for an end
to it all and to cry enough is enough. We can only win that
way and we can only win if we can get on with the task
without having one hand tied behind our backs.
Chesham sat back in his chair, slightly red in the face.
Thank you, General, for those thoughts, said PUS with
exaggerated politeness, I must say, however, that they go
somewhat beyond the parameters of our current review. And I
know you will recognize that they represent a radical
departure from what we have hitherto understood to be

96

government policy. And I would add that I have detected no

appetite on the part of ministers to take political risks in this
sphere. They are already under severe pressure from all
quarters the Opposition at Westminster, the Irish, the
Americans, the SDLP, not to mention half the media about
our old friend Shoot-to-kill and about the deployment of the
SAS. You will say tougher measures have brought significant
gains, but it has been at a high political price. My instincts tell
me that ministers in this situation will tend to err on the side
of caution. And, of course, they will be comforted by the
police view, expressed here today, that we are winning.
Winning, yes, but whens V-Day? Five, ten, fifteen years
from now? cried Chesham, sitting bolt upright in his place,
eyes blazing.
General, said PUS quietly, like a schoolmistress calming
a promising but unruly pupil, we must concentrate today on
reviewing where we are. We can, of course, conclude our
subsequent paper with recommendations, indeed ministers
will expect us to do so. Your views can be incorporated in that
section, as one option, but frankly I feel it will be necessary to
make clear that your position in that regard is a minority one.
No one in the other teams moved a muscle.
The meeting then settled down to decide on Headings to
be used in their report to the SoS, and to sketch out the
contents of each section. The temperature cooled as the
participants concentrated on the more bureaucratic aspects of
their task. It was remarkable, thought Granville, how the
horrible realities of the streets were eventually transformed, as
though by alchemy, into the balanced, pellucid arguments of a
paper to ministers, logically marshalled and couched in the
precise prose of PUS, the ultimate desk jockey.
Immediately after the meeting, PUS and Granville found
themselves standing side by side at the urinals of the Gents
lavatory. Granville was a master at such chance meetings.
Do you think I could have a word with you before
tomorrows session? he enquired, looking over his shoulder
to make sure no one was listening. There are one or two
things ....

97

Yes, certainly, was PUSs response, thats a good idea.

Im out to dinner this evening, but you could pop up to the flat
about half past six for a drink and a chat.
Good. See you then.
Zip, zip.
Granville arrived early, but used the interval to drop by
the office of one of his Liaison Staff, where on a secure line
he managed a five minute briefing of Sir Julian Beardsley.
The office was in the same building, now called the Annex,
as the small, first-floor flat in which PUS was domestically
housed when in Belfast. The red brick building had originally
been the official residence of the Speaker of the old Stormont
House of Commons, but was now a warren of offices,
inhabited mostly by officials whose duties concerned the
darker aspects of what came under the title security.
Lemon or lime? asked PUS, poised at the cocktail
cabinet, a gin and tonic in hand.
Either, thanks. I must say I think you handled Chesham
very well today. He doesnt get any better, does he? I mean,
gung-ho is all very well in a military chap, but he is constantly
over the top. He may be mostly bluster, but I worry about his
influence on others.
He could be with us for another eighteen months or so,
Im afraid. Ive explored with my oppo. in MoD the
possibility of his moving to pastures new at an earlier date,
but thats not on for a funny reason. He paused to chuckle,
then, shaking his head ruefully, My man wouldnt agree to
it.
Your SoS wouldnt agree?
Thats right. Apparently he likes listening to Chesham,
especially when he is arguing with me. Says it gives balance
to the picture, presumably meaning he thinks Im a wet. But
positively, since the GOCs views are, lets say populist, the
SoS hears them expressed all over the place. And when he
hears my counter-arguments, he can recycle those whenever
tackled on the same lines.

98

Both men laughed heartily. PUS was seated in a large

high-backed chair, which was out of proportion to the
cramped living space. And indeed to PUS himself; Granville
could not help noticing that his tiny feet barely touched the
carpet.
About tomorrow, said Granville, this is where I may
need some protection from you in the chair. You see, neither
police nor army would be enamoured of my intention which
Ill therefore have to disguise somewhat to push our contacts
with Sinn Fein / IRA along significantly, even if theyre
stalled at the moment. My ideal is to get past the waffle about
giving them explanations of HMGs policies and to move
on to a recognized stage of substantive negotiations.
Eventually those negotiations will have to come out into the
open, with ministers publicly seen to be involved. At which
point I and my colleagues will fade and it will be up to you, in
NIO, and no doubt the Foreign Office and Number 10, to
manage the end of the endgame.
Thats an ambitious route map, said PUS cautiously,
pursing his lips. And there are a lot of potholes on the route.
I know, I know. Including potholes which our own
chums can dig for us. Thats why Ill have to soft pedal
tomorrow on what exactly my links with the paramilitaries are
and how I intend to develop them. Id be grateful if the focus
could be firmly on the mainstream political parties and
relations with HMG.
Certainly, point taken. But, could I say......
He drew his fingers through the wispy strands of hair over
his domed forehead. Id worry slightly about your plan and
whether it was watertight. If that were to get out and Sinn
Fein might at some point, for their own reasons, decide to let
it get out then the effect on the overall political situation
could be seismic. The Government might even have to disown
you.
As a rogue elephant ... I mean, a rogue element? said
Granville, laughing off what he recognized as the others
veiled threat. Well, excitement was one of the reasons we all
joined the Civil Service, was it not? Then, glancing at his

99

watch, Mustnt keep you from your dinner. Anywhere

interesting? Information gathering can become routinely
addictive.
Not really. Institute of Directors Annual, at the
Culloden.
Ah! I can see it now: prawn cocktail, steak Diane,
pavlova, Irish coffee, three boring speeches. A proven
formula.
Alas, one endlessly repeated in these parts. As will be the
calls for firmer security measures.
Happy days!

100

Chapter14

Colette McShane didnt usually drink. Bad for the waistline,

bad for the complexion. But this evening she had joined some
of her friends from work in Kellys Cellars in the city centre
for a brief celebration of the engagement of one of her fellow
beauticians. She sipped her vodka and orange half-heartedly
and joined in the conversation about rings, wedding venues
and dresses without much enthusiasm. Indeed her friends
obvious happiness secretly depressed her further. She seemed
to have made little progress with Aidan, despite having
pressed him more and more in recent weeks. And yet it could
all be so different and so wonderful, if only he could take his
courage in his hands and do what he had for such a long time
said he wanted to, namely make a fresh start with her.
At the earliest moment in the festivities when she could
leave without raising eyebrows, she said her goodbyes to the
newly betrothed and made her way to Great Victoria Street
railway station, to take the train home to Balmoral. Her home
was near Kennedy Way, close to the M1 motorway junction at
Stockmans Lane and she preferred the suburban train service
to that of the bus, which was less reliable. She had once been
on a bus which was hi-jacked and burned out and she had
resolved never to be in that position again.
At rush hour the train on her way home was normally
crowded, but this evening, over an hour later than usual, there
were only a few passengers scattered throughout her carriage.
She absentmindedly leafed through a copy of Cosmopolitan
and daydreamed. As she turned the pages, she became aware
that a scruffy-looking man, facing her two seats in front, was
taking a more-than-ordinary interest in her. He had long,
101

unkempt hair, an earring in his left ear and a stud to the right
of his nose. When they made eye contact, he looked away, but
a minute later she noticed he was looking at her again. Colette
was used to being the object of male attention, something
which did not displease her in the least, but there was
something about this mans interest which unnerved her. She
was therefore dismayed to find, when she alighted at
Balmoral, that the man was the only other passenger on the
platform. She walked briskly to Stockmans Lane and was at
first relieved to see that he was not keeping pace with her. But
as she approached the entrance to a small park on her left,
suddenly and silently he was at her side, pushing her roughly
into the shadows. She was too startled to cry out. She simply
froze; her mind racing. Was he a rapist, a mugger, a mad
murderer? To her amazement, he called her by name, as he
pressed her brutally against the wall.
I have a message for you, Colette McShane. One youd
better listen to. Your life depends on it.
She began to struggle, but at once felt his overpowering
strength. She had always heard it said that a woman in such
circumstances should make as much noise as possible, but
when she opened her mouth, her voice was just a startled
whisper.
Me and my friends know all about you and Aidan
Cassidy. Hes an important man in our community. And he
cant be compromised by a wee whore like you.
He shook her violently by the shoulders.
Howd you like to be tied to a lamp post with your
knickers round your ankles, all tarred and feathered. Or would
you prefer one of these?
He opened his leather jacket and from its inner pocket
pulled out a flick knife which he snapped open with his
thumb.
Say anything about this to anybody and I mean
anybody and youre dead meat, sweetie. Got that?
Colette did not reply. She could feel deep sobs swelling
up within her and when he released his grip, her knees gave
way and she sank to the ground. She was then violently sick

102

on the pathway. When she stopped vomiting and pulled

herself to her feet by hanging on to the park gates, her
assailant had gone. It was several minutes before she could
compose herself and walk the half mile home, conscious of
her dishevelled appearance, her laddered tights and her
unsteady swaying.
Meanwhile, Detective Sergeant Bill McCullough boarded
a train bound for Great Victoria Street, his shift for the day
completed.

103

Chapter 15

The car park at the River Bush end of the village of

Portballintrae was virtually deserted when Granville arrived in
his Ford Focus shooting brake. His protectors, he knew, were
already in place, two in a tall van, two others, sitting close as a
couple in the front seat of a family saloon at the other end of
the car park, where the narrow path descended to the
footbridge over the swirling river. Only one other car was
parked there, with a solitary figure behind the steering wheel,
munching a sandwich.
Granville had chosen this spot for one principal reason: it
was easy to seal off all exit routes from it, should anything go
wrong. Not that he thought it would. He could not believe the
Provos would mount their elaborate exercise to get into talks
simply as a camouflage for a plan to kidnap or assassinate
himself. But one never knew.
Dont take a chance you dont need to take.
He was a quarter of an hour early and he knew those
fifteen minutes would hang heavily upon him, so he got out of
the car, pulled on a parka and turned its hood up against the
wind and the half-hearted North Antrim drizzle and set off
towards the beach. On the far side of the bridge over the river
the sand was deep and heavy and he walked towards the tide
to find firmer footing. The waves were booming in, but in a
broken line. Not a good surfing day. He still sometimes
thought, longingly, of good surfing days, even though the
damage done to his legs in the accident at Alicante had put an
end to the enjoyment he had derived from that sport since the
days of family holidays in North Cornwall.
The beach was deserted; no surfers today and indeed no
family bathing parties any day, as a strong east-to-west rip
104

discouraged all but the strongest swimmers. The wind and

drizzle had driven away even the dog walkers who favoured
the beach in better weather. Except perhaps one. Still several
hundred yards away, walking in Granvilles direction, was a
lone figure, walking close to the seething tide. No, no dog.
Granville could see him more clearly now. And as the figure
approached he was not surprised to recognize him as one of
his designated interlocutors, as they said in the trade. It was
the Belfastman, reported to be a member of the Army Council
(though he was for ever to deny it) and known within security
circles as Bunny. No one could now remember how the
nickname had arisen. Perhaps it was the anxious, slightly
toothy movement of his mouth when he stumbled through the
obligatory opening passages in Irish whenever making set
piece speeches. Nowadays he sported a full beard and
designer glasses, which certainly improved his original image
in press and police photographs, which showed a callow youth
with heavy, black, horn-rimmed glasses and a wispy,
hormone-deficient facial growth.
Youre early, said Bunny, making the none-too-subtle
point that Granvilles face was not unknown to him.
How do you do, Granville heard himself saying, as he
automatically held out his hand in greeting.
Was this really happening to him?
Lets get back to shelter, said Bunny. I am a nature
lover, but this is ridiculous.
They walked in silence as far as the bridge. As they
crossed it, Bunny pointed at the brown flow of the river in
flood.
Im a teetotaller, but Im told its the peaty quality of the
water here which gives the special, distinctive characteristic to
Bushmills whiskey. Did you know that?
No, I didnt.
Local knowledge, that. You might call it an item of
intelligence. Theres so much the English dont know about
Ireland.
And vice versa.

105

True, but the difference is this: we are not over there, you
are over here.
Not entirely true. I could quote you a list of locations in
England where you and your friends have visited in recent
years, with tragic results.
Dont get too serious, too early, weve a long way to go,
rejoined Bunny, with a chuckle.
I was only teasing you. Now that were nearly up the hill,
your place or mine?
Mine, replied Granville firmly.
Thats OK by me, said Bunny, soothingly, then added,
since I assume both it and you are bugged.
By that are you accusing me of breaching the terms
agreed with Canon Murray?
Relax, relax. We know that if you are serious about talks
you will sustain them, in agreement with us. If not, then youll
wreck them sooner or later by one means or another. You will
have made the same calculation about our thinking. I suggest
we both think positively and get on with it and only judge one
another against results.
When they reached Granvilles car, Bunny paused and
signalled to the lone picnicker, who emerged from his car and
came over to join them. Again, no surprise: it was the
Derryman, known to the securocrats as Butch.
No prizes for guessing the origins of that nickname.
The three men settled down in Granvilles shooting brake
(the number plates of which would be changed the following
day). Butch had chosen the back seat.
OK, said Granville, as though chairing a meeting of the
JSC, whats on your mind as regards an opening agenda?
Not so fast, replied Bunny. We havent yet established
the ground rules.
Oh come on whats the point of using Canon Murray to
fix all that, only to start all over again confidentiality,
deniability and all that? My concerns are the same as yours in
that respect. Lets get serious. I am offering you the chance,
which your, er, movement has never had before, to put
forward an agenda which can be the basis of real negotiation.

106

You dont understand the risks we are taking in having

any contacts with you. We now have a majority within our
community and within our organization for seeking peace, but
only for a genuine, lasting peace. I cant over-emphasise that.
Any cock-ups and that majority could disappear overnight and
the war could go on for ever.
Of course, I understand all that. The pressures on my side
are the mirror image of yours. We have our own hawks, who
want nothing to do with negotiations, and any cock-ups in my
dealings with you would play right into their hands.
Butch stirred in the back seat. You asked us for our
agenda points. What are yours?
Very simple: the Government will want to be convinced
about a total and permanent ceasefire, a giving up of all arms
and explosives, and will wish to see clear moves towards
democratic political activity and away from criminality. In
return, we are willing to consider your suggestions as to how
that happy outcome can be achieved.
Bunny took up the running again.
All that boils down to is that the Brits want us to
surrender. Thats not on. We need to move in step towards
solutions. And we must start with some confidence-building
measures and some public indications by ministers of a
change of mindset. By that I mean that they accept that
republicanism is a valid and acceptable political force, on an
equal footing with unionism. The two communities must be
viewed and treated as equals.
He tapped the dashboard for emphasis. That is vital to us
within our own ranks. And until we get that public sign from
on high, we cant even get to first base. And so neither can
you.
Mind if I smoke? asked Granville, already pulling out
his cigarette case.
No, chorused the others without conviction a lack of
enthusiasm which grew as the first billows of Gauloise
swirled around them.
You still havent given me your agenda points. I cant
very well negotiate unilaterally.

107

The other two were silent for several seconds, before

Bunny spoke again.
We need a significant sign from your side first, and from
the very top, to convince us and our comrades, that you are
serious about bringing an end to the present situation and not
simply playing silly buggers with us.
Granville drew heavily on his cigarette.
It seems to me that we cant go any further today in that
case.
He sensed that this dismissal disappointed them.
But I will ensure that you have your heavenly sign,
publicly, from the mouth of the Secretary of State, within the
next few days. And whats good for the goose ...
What do you mean? said Bunny, a hint of anger in his
voice.
Ill be looking for a similar sign from you to match ours.
Something in public to indicate you want the conflict to end
soon. Then perhaps we can get down to real business. In the
meantime, here are my new contact numbers and
identification codes.
Bunny pocketed the envelope without looking at the
detail.
To coin a phrase, where shall we three meet again?
asked Granville.
I hope somewhere more convenient and sheltered than a
beach. We have an open invitation from Canon Murray to use
Clonard Monastery, which you already know, said Butch.
OK by me, replied Granville, in neutral voice,
remembering the gloom of that place.
Only one drawback for you, said Bunny.
Whats that?
Its a no smoking area. And he laughed, faking a
wheezing asthmatic cough.

108

Chapter 16

I hope you didnt mind my asking to see you here at home

this afternoon, began Granville.
Since we have such important mutual interests, I thought
we should get to know one another better. And exchange
views ... that sort of thing
They were installed in the spacious living room at
Myrtlefield Park.
No, thats alright. Provided you or your ... your
colleagues dont crowd me out, or make so many visits that
the neighbours start to take notice, replied Cassidy.
Good. We can mix it up a bit. I mean, meet in the
Department of Commerce downtown in Chichester House,
here, or even at Stormont. Now that you have official cover,
approved by, well ... all those who matter.
Cassidy shifted uneasily in his chair.
Id like your views on current Republican thinking, based
on your contacts. But perhaps we should get some domestic
issues out of the way first.
Would you like a drink? I should have asked.
Thanks, something light. Im driving. Mustnt get into
trouble with the forces of law and order.
Granville was a shade disappointed that Cassidy did not
acknowledge his little joke.
Something that I dont remember seeing in the file: the
exact state of knowledge of your wife.
Cassidy left the room to fetch drinks and Granville looked
around him in the fashion of an interior designer making an
initial assessment.
Yes, very tasteful and expensive.

109

His eye was drawn to an unusually high pile of coffee

table art books, sitting, appropriately enough, on a vast, glasstopped coffee table.
Cassidy returned with two glasses of Coke and a bowl of
nibbles on a tray. How far is she in the picture as regards
me?
Just the official version.
Excellent. And how about your other life? I dont mean
insurance, I mean the IRA.
She doesnt know about membership or specific
activities. But as regards sympathies and general support, yes,
of course. Its a family thing, taken for granted.
OK. Now we know where we are. Hope I can meet her
soon ...
His inflexion conveyed a question.
Sure. Shell probably be back soon. Shes exercising a
horse over at stables at Purdysburn.
A pause, then, Sorry to have to mention this, but have
you heard from Colette recently?
Cassidy flushed and took a sip of his Coke. No. Not a
thing. Not for three, four weeks.
Good. I dont think youll have any more trouble from
that quarter.
You havent
Had her bumped off? No, no, no, dear me no. Granville
chuckled in exaggerated fashion.
But she did receive a rather discouraging message on
your behalf.
He smiled to himself at the thought allegedly from the
IRA.
A car crunched on the gravel outside.
Thatll be Noleen. Shes back early.
The door to the living room opened.
Hi, there! cried a cheery voice, as Noleen, wearing a
dark jacket, fawn jodhpurs and polished black riding boots,
put her head round the door.
Be with you in ten minutes. I must just jump in the
shower. Im a mess. See you.

110

Granville waved hello and rose half way out of his chair.
Then turned back to business.
Tell me we must deal with this before your wife comes
back what do you glean (glean was a favourite verb in the
Granvillian vocabulary) about top Republican thinking. Their
public rhetoric seems to me to have gone backwards from our
point of view. But perhaps the view from inside is different.
What do you mean?
Well, now some of the leaders still seem to be
encouraging their supporters to dig in for a long haul war,
whereas others talk vaguely of working for a lasting peace,
by joining forces with the SDLP, the Irish government, the
Irish-Americans and God knows who-not, in a great panHibernian initiative. I rather like that. It sounds more
political. Up to now IRA propaganda has always been
consistent, if nothing else. Whats going on?
Theyre divided. Pretty much down the middle. The older
brigade are mostly armed struggle men through and
through. They want to win (he made inverted comma signs
in the air with his fingers), however long that takes. Some
areas are very hard line, like South Armagh and East Tyrone.
And the politicos have had a few bad setbacks recently. Last
months interview in The Times with the GOC, in which he
talked of definitively crushing PIRA, was a disaster. And in
Belfast, in particular, the Catholic community influences the
Provo leadership by loudly complaining to the media about
harassment, pointless house searches, the mistreatment of
detainees, etc. All that puts politics on the back burner.
Interesting. Very interesting indeed. Could you mark my
card as to who you think, amongst the important people, are
on each side of the argument, starting with the Army
Council? said Granville, producing a small notepad from his
pocket.
They had worked through twenty or so names by the time
Noleen rejoined them. (PANORAMA would be updated in the
morning). Her entrance, Granville would later reflect, made a
bigger impression on him than had any woman for years,
perhaps decades.

111

Shes so tall! Must be nearly as tall as I am, even without

those high heels. And the hair, is that slightly Irish redhead ,
or is it light blonde?
Introductions. Soft white hand in his. Fair, almost
porcelain complexion; playful smile.
What a figure! Have I ever seen such long legs?
A plain dress, understated elegance, minimal jewellery.
The three of them had hardly sat down when the phone
rang. Cassidy picked up the receiver. After a few seconds he
put his hand over the mouthpiece and said: This could take a
while. Ill go to the study.
Granvilles immediate thought was: personal security. But
he re-assured himself with the knowledge that his two sets of
minders, one in a saloon car, the other in a van marked TV
Repairs, parked at a discreet distance in the thoroughfare
outside, would be vigilant on his behalf. Turning to Noleen,
Granville said: I gather your husband has told you everything
about me.
Well, not everything, Im sure, she laughed.
You can say that again, baby.
Youre interested in employment creation in West
Belfast, I understand.
Thats right. Economic and Social Policy overall is my
bag. And can I tell you, Mrs Cassidy, how much I admire
what your husband is doing, not just in that area but in
participating fully in the economic life of the community at
large. He was now well launched on one of his cover set
pieces.
I know its not easy for someone in the minority
community to come forward. They risk suspicion from the
other side and often hostility from their own side. But in the
long run, its the only way forward for both sides, dont you
think?
Im afraid Im not really interested in politics as such.
But of course I support Aidan. He works very hard. Too hard
sometimes. He can often be very tired. But he sticks at it. He
has a strong sense of duty.
Oh yeah?

112

Is he interested in art, or is that your thing? asked

Granville, nodding towards the books on the coffee table.
No, mine, Im afraid. Thats my passion. Always has
been. Are you interested in art, Mr Granville?
Only peripherally. I think Im too lazy to develop the
expertise necessary for full enjoyment.
Too lazy?
Yes. I find paintings or indeed literature, to take
another art form demand a certain amount of intellectual
effort; you have to understand the significance of the picture
and know about the history of the techniques behind it. And
with literature, you have to wrestle with the ideas in a good
book.
And none of that with music?
She pulled an Im not convinced face.
No. With music, knowledge enhances, of course. But its
not initially essential. Music just pours over you (here he
stretched his arms in a wide circle) and goes straight into the
emotional bloodstream, without the need to be understood.
She laughed a tinkling, mischievous laugh.
You make it sound like a life-support intravenous drip in
an intensive care ward.
Some days, it is almost like that, he confessed. Contrary
to popular belief, the Civil Service can work one very hard.
Really? she interjected, in mock astonishment, a twinkle
in her eye.
Yes, believe it or not. he shot back, smiling as though to
say touch!
And in order to relax, I put on some sublime music and
the frustrations and burdens of the day fall away as if by
magic. I dont have to think about a thing.
I cant say I enjoy paintings in quite that way. I have
never analysed it I mean the pleasure of it but I suppose
its a balance between emotion and intellect. But whatever it
is, I love it!
Cassidy returned.
Sorry about that. Sure you wont have a real drink?

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No, thanks. Must be getting along. Your wife and I have

been having a pleasant argument about the respective merits
of painting and music.
Not an argument, surely, said she. More what the critics
call a constructive exchange of views.
Anyhow, Im glad it didnt involve me, said Cassidy.
Im more a figures man myself.
Yeah, like what youll bet on the favourite at two-to-one
on at Kempton Park.
Thanks for your hospitality. Youll have to come down to
me for supper one of these days. Ill be in London most of
next week, but Ill give you a ring after that.

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Chapter 17

Sean Byrne was impatience personified as he sat on a rather

threadbare sofa in the tiny front room of a house just off the
Falls Road. It was 9th August, anniversary of internment, and
he had been given the green light by his battalion OC to carry
out a sniper attack on a British Army patrol which was bound
to be deployed in the area in response to the protests and
disturbances which were the annual ritual. Although it was
still early, the sound of metal bin lids being bashed on the
ground was already echoing from neighbourhood to
neighbourhood. All housewives were expected to take part in
the ritual, whilst the local teenagers had carte blanche to hijack and burn whatever vehicles were foolish enough to
venture up the Falls that day. All but the politically
committed housewives looked on this as a chore to be
performed, in order to be considered a sound Republican
family; the teenagers, on the other hand, played their part with
a feral energy and obvious enjoyment.
Byrne was a tall, well-built man, with shoulders so broad
that he appeared stocky despite his height. His powerful
forearms were the legacy of his sporting youth, when he had
been a star amateur boxer of the Holy Family club and the top
scorer, year after year, for the water polo team of St Marys
College in the days when they regularly won the interschools Canada Cup. In the light of his later activities, his
nickname at that time had unfortunately but prophetically
been The Gun, on account of his strike power with both
glove and ball. Sport had dominated his schooldays, to the
detriment of his studies, and he had left St Marys with only a
handful of undistinguished qualifications, no tertiary
education entitlement and no real job prospects. He had
115

drifted around building sites, doing occasional labouring jobs,

like so many of his peers. His life had, however, been
transformed by his membership of the IRA, which he joined at
the age of nineteen. At training camps in County Cavan and
County Louth his marksmanship was outstanding and he
revelled in the rigours of the assault course, which was run,
incongruously, by a former PT instructor of the Royal
Warwickshire Regiment. Above all, the thrill of being on
operations gave him his addictive adrenaline rush the sense
of life-threatening danger, the intense concentration on the
task in hand, and, ultimately, the satisfaction of the kill, all
combined to make him feel supremely alive. Afterwards he
would slump both physically and mentally, like a druggie
after his trip. But now, in anticipation, he could hear his own
heartbeat thudding in his ears. He sat bolt upright on the sofa
and stretched his arms out straight in front of him, clenching
and unclenching his fists.
When would the runner arrive to tell him the target was
heading into the zone selected for his hit? He looked at his
watch every two minutes, without ever registering the exact
time.
The designated position had been chosen with great care,
some days before. It was on the flat roof of a repair garage at
the end of a street of houses and from it there was a perfect
snipers view, past a row of houses in the parallel street, to a
few square metres of the middle of the road in that street. The
view was blocked off by a warehouse to the left and the wall
of a school to the right. So, a narrow target area, but it had the
safety factor that the sniper could, in turn, only be seen from
those few square metres. The position was shielded by a taller
building to the north-east from observation from the Army
sangar constructed on the roof of a high-rise tower block, but
of course all positions were vulnerable to detection from the
air; today the usual single patrolling helicopter was joined by
two others. Internment Day was a red-letter day in so many
different calendars.
Byrne did not carry the rifle or ammunition. That was
done by two separate young caddies, who, from different

116

depot houses, would bring the component parts of the AK-47

to the firing point. They would then linger, again separately, at
street corners nearby until they saw the figure of Byrne leave
the garage; retrieving the weapon and returning its parts to the
depots was one of the most hazardous phases of the whole
game. The value of retaining the rifle, and the evidence which
could be obtained from it by Forensics, far outweighed the
risk to the freedom of the two caddies, who had scarcely any
knowledge worth the trouble of extracting by interrogation,
should they be caught.
At last, a tap on the front window. The moment had come.
Byrne left the house and made his way into the next street and
into the garage. He nodded to the proprietor, the deputy of the
local OC, who went on with his work, and quickly mounted
the steel staircase, which opened out on to the roof. Tight
against the parapet lay a large tarpaulin, the dual purpose of
which was to hide the now assembled AK47 and, should a
helicopter threaten the position, to hide himself. He pulled on
the gossamer-thin surgical gloves and, slipping the rifle from
under the tarpaulin, peered over the parapet, which was at a
convenient height to rest it on. He wished it had been an M60,
the great beast of the snipers armoury, which he had once
fired on the secret training ground in County Cavan. That was
a mind-boggling experience, allowing him to shatter an
armour-plated target piece at a distance of over a kilometre.
With that, in the narrower setting of urban Belfast, he could
take out several soldiers or policemen at once, as they
travelled in an allegedly protected vehicle, with a burst of fire
lasting no more than a second. To his disappointment, his
battalion OC had told him that a policy decision had been
taken higher up, not to risk one of the only two M60s in
their possession outside South Armagh, where the topography
and context gave the operators a better chance of using the
weapon without subsequently losing it, or causing unwanted
casualties in a built up area.
Peering through the telescopic sight, all he could see was
the empty surface of the small and narrow target area. None of
the three helicopters hovering over West Belfast posed an

117

immediate threat to him, but if one were to change course and

move in his direction he would be in danger within a matter of
seconds. If only the facade wall of the garage were a couple of
metres higher, he would be shielded on almost 300 degrees.
But nothing was ever perfect, not even for the sniper who
could choose his position well in advance of his hit.
Where were the bin-lid bangers? He could clearly hear the
racket they were making, and as far as he could judge it was
coming from the right direction. But there was no movement
on the target square. One of the helicopters moved in his
direction from Unity Flats, then, just as he was going to retreat
to his protective tarpaulin, it veered off to the north. When he
focused again on his square, he caught a glimpse of a youth
in a denim jacket running through it in his direction. He knew
several Volunteers had been detailed to lure the security
forces along that street; he could only hope Denim Jacket was
one of them.
Another helicopter, in the distance, was now on the move,
in an easterly direction. A few seconds and it could have him
in its sights. Again he lowered himself from the parapet. But
when he turned to follow the choppers flight path, he judged
it to be following the line of the M1 motorway into the city.
Probably vehicle-spotting.
He returned to his square. Now there were figures,
civilians, moving slowly from left to right through it. More
figures, some of them throwing stones and the occasional
Molotov cocktail. The police and army could only be a
hundred metres or so distant. But the movement was
agonizingly slow. How long would it take for the
confrontation to move those hundred metres? The helicopter
which had moved over North Belfast was now heading back
towards Unity Flats, and if it stayed on its present course
would very soon be in a danger zone as far as he was
concerned. He cursed the lookouts who had miscalculated the
timing of the operation. If they had to lie on a roof with an
AK-47, exposed to British helicopters, like a fledgling to a
sparrow hawk ...

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His target square went blank; the retreat and advance

was underway at last. The helicopter was hovering now, but
still drifting slowly towards him. The security forces line
would be a thin one and would probably pass through his
target area within seconds, rather than minutes.
Come on, come on, you bastards! Where are you?
He was going to have to crawl back below the tarpaulin if
the helicopter came any closer. And the third one had swung
from the city centre area out towards the Falls. He was now at
risk from two directions.
Still the target square was empty. Then movement, too
fast to focus on. Soldiers were coming through, but no
realistic target presented itself.
Only take on a certainty the golden rule.
Then, just as the noise from one of the helicopters
noticeably increased, he had in his cross-hairs the upper body
of a soldier. In a fraction of a second he took in the fact that he
was wearing body armour, but his face was exposed no
visor down. One through the head it had to be. Bryne relaxed
momentarily, then squeezed not just his finger but his whole
body. As the scope sprang up under the force of the blast, he
caught a glimpse as of a melon flying apart. He rolled away
from the parapet and hurled himself through the door and
down the metal stairs into the garage below. It was deserted,
with the big outside door closed. Within it there was a smaller
door, which he eased open, then stood listening.
The helicopters were no nearer. He closed the door behind
him, walked briskly to the corner of the street and fell in
alongside stray marchers who were walking away from the
direction of the city. Two streets further on he turned off the
main road and calmly walked into number sixty-four, the front
door of which stood unlocked, awaiting his arrival. As he
moved down the narrow hall a small, elderly woman with
sparse white hair came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on
a floral apron.
Sacred Heart, its yourself, Sean. Ill put the kettle on
right away. Youll be wantin a cup of tea, Im sure.
Aye, right. Thanks. Theres a lot goin on out there.

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Outside, ambulance sirens wailed.

From early on. What a racket. Honest till God, Sean, my
nerves is in ribbons.
Absent-mindedly clenching and opening his right fist,
Byrne muttered, I know what ymean.
In truth, he did ... and he didnt.

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Chapter 18

A van marked Roads Service was in position some hundred

yards from the Cassidy home in Myrtlefield Park. The two
men in it appeared to be absorbed in paperwork; maps and
drawings were unfolded over the dashboard. When Casssidys
Jaguar emerged from his drive one of the men spoke into a
microphone: Water supply OK in Myrtlefield. Granville
switched on the engine of his car parked in the parallel street
and headed for the Cassidy home.
Youve just missed him, said Noleen, answering the
doorbell, he left for a meeting two minutes ago. She was
dressed in T-shirt, designer jeans and white trainers.
Too bad, said Granville, Ill catch up with him later.
May I come in for a moment?
Yes, of course, sorry. She stepped back and he brushed
past her into the hallway. The door to the kitchen was open
and beyond it he could see an easel set up on the sunlit patio
outside.
I should explain that its nothing too urgent. I just wanted
to discuss a draft document he left with me. Its about France;
he may have mentioned it to you. Its about the regeneration
of depressed areas. Im not going to todays meeting of the
WBG and I thought I would catch him before he left here for
that. Hes going to be very early at the meeting, is he not?
I dont know about the timing, but I do know he often
looks into the office downtown before going anywhere else.
To commune with his turf accountant and/or to receive
instructions from his IRA runner?
Forgive me for being nosey, but I see you are not only a
knowledgeable painting buff but a painter yourself? You

121

didnt tell me. May I have a look at what you are working on
right now?
Fraid not. Im superstitious about that. When its
finished that is to say if it ever gets finished, because I
sometimes give up the struggle of putting on the canvas what
Ive seen in my head Ill invite you to see it then.
At the exhibition? I look forward to that.
An exhibition would be a fine thing. But dont hold your
breath. I dont dream of such things. Its only a hobby, a
pastime. Most of my friends have their time taken up with
children.
Granville dared to enter this delicate territory. Do you
regret not having any?
Not really, said she, automatically, having replied many
times to that question. Not really, all too clearly meant
yes.
If you have them then, fine. If not, there are advantages
to be found in what the agony aunts call non-parental
freedom. We didnt have any. Simple as that.
But it is not as simple as that. Like the drowning man who
sees his life pass before him in seconds, Noleen has a vivid
flashback. She is an Upper Sixth Form boarder in the
Dominican Convent School in Portstewart, on the north coast,
not far from the Giants Causeway. Security and discipline is
strict and rigid in the convent, overseen by the towering,
desiccated Sister Augusta, vigilant as a paranoid meerkat.
Why was it that God only got the women men didnt want?
Despite this regime, the more daring, worldly girls, of
whom Noleen is certainly one, occasionally manage to sneak
outside the forbidding walls, especially in the summer term, to
enjoy the limited fleshpots of the quaint, old-fashioned seaside
resort. Boys sometimes feature in these exciting escapades
and Noleen is the envy of her friends, for she has a steady,
who often has a rendezvous with her during the exeat time
allowed on Saturdays. Her steady is Sean Byrne. He comes up
from Belfast by bus, a large khaki kitbag on his back. Noleen
teases him about this parachute. It contains not only his
lunch, but a showerproof jacket and a tartan rug. They put the

122

rug to good use as a ground sheet in the secluded hollows in

the sand dunes behind the long beach which stretches towards
the mouth of the River Bann to the west of the town.
In these far from comfortable surroundings, Noleen loses
her virginity. She had never prized it as much as the nuns told
her and her classmates they should, and though her overexercised conscience is wounded, the pain and ultimate
ecstasy of Seans thrustings are somehow unforgettably
exciting.
Against the law of probability, she becomes pregnant
from this first encounter. She waits for a few panic-stricken
days fortunately it is now the summer holidays and tells
her parents. To her surprise it is her father who is the more
distressed religion, society and self-esteem push him into
such a frenzy Noleen fears for her life. On the other hand, her
mother, though deeply shocked, soon begins to think of
practical ways of getting out of this problem. An abortion is
not even considered by any of them. That would be murder. A
shotgun marriage to the as yet unsuspecting Byrne is out of
the question, says old man McManus.
No daughter of mine is going to marry a ragamuffin like
Sean Byrne.
So a decision in two parts is taken. First, a discreet birth in
England and after that they can decide on whether to put the
child up for adoption, or whether Noleen will be willing to
play the part of a single mother, far from the family she has
disgraced. The cover story is that before going up to
university she is going abroad to Florence, to take an
Appreciation of Art course. In reality, it is to stay with one of
her mothers sisters on the outskirts of Manchester. But again
the law of probability plays tricks: her pregnancy is revealed
as being ectopic and she needs urgent surgery. While her life
is not in immediate danger, the consultant, in his postoperative review, gives her the fateful news.
The surgical work we have had to carry out makes it
highly improbable that you will ever be able to have children.
When McManus hears this he says, Its a punishment
from God. His wife says, It could all have been worse.

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Noleen is not keen to return to Belfast, so a real course is

organised for her in Florence, and later Venice. She has never
told Byrne or Cassidy the truth of her curriculum vitae, though
before her marriage she did tell Cassidy that for unspecified
female reasons she was unlikely to have children. He had
accepted that without further questioning. If Sean Byrne had
his suspicions about the sudden departure to Florence, he did
not express them to Noleen on the rare occasions their paths
crossed in the years ahead, though she often wondered
whether the thought had crossed his mind. He had dropped out
of her life without drama; when she returned from Italy she
discovered that he was being consoled not by one, but
several, girls in his neighbourhood. He never sought her out
and she made no effort to contact him.
And how about you? she asks, almost as a challenge, as
she comes back to the present.
Alicante. Lo siento muchissimo, seor...
My wife had two miscarriages and then died in an
accident. I agree with you about the advantages.
Yes but what do you do in your spare time?
My job takes up most of my time. Economics and Social
Policy is a wide field.
Im sure thats true.
Does she suspect more?
But I have my music. If only passively nowadays. Ive
given up the piano. And then of course theres cooking. I find
that relaxing and I enjoy the end result, not to mention the
accompanying wine. Thats a short and boring list, compared
to horse riding, painting, study of art and, obviously, fashion
judging by all the elegant outfits Ive seen you in.
You know where flattery gets you
That wasnt flattery, it was a sincere comment.
Are you a sincere person?
Absolutely ... about most things.
Your qualification is telling.
Perhaps. But Im not talking about the things I exclude
from sincerity. You are not amongst them.
Now that is flattery!

124

Granville, careful not to overplay his hand, took his leave.

Ill catch up with Aidan later. As I said, nothing urgent.
Ill tell him you called.
Perhaps best not.
Why?
Well, I wouldnt want him thinking hes got a lot to
worry about. He might think there was some sort of
emergency.
He thought her smile held some significance.
Alright, then said she, knowingly.

125

Chapter 19

Cassidys meeting on Belgian soil was to take place in a

village outside Brussels and had been arranged by the Belgian
arms dealer, Emile Verhagen, who was the fixer for the
delivery of arms and explosives all the way from Libya,
through Tunisia and France to the Flemish port of Antwerp,
and then by the SS St Lucia to Dublin. Verhagen, product of a
union between a Brussels father and a Moroccan mother, had
made a good living, following his national service in Belgium,
as a dealer in arms and armaments; being essentially a wellinformed intermediary between shady arms suppliers and even
shadier arms buyers in three continents. He was known to
the Belgian authorities, but he was always careful to be
insulated as much as he could from his actual products,
keeping his distance from shipments as far as was
organisationally possible and playing a role as background
mastermind and go-between. He tried to keep within the rather
lax laws of Belgium and he was careful never to annoy
gratuitously law enforcement officers who none too subtly
kept tabs on him. It would have been an exaggeration to say
that he had friends in such places, but it was true that his
occasional chats with them took place over a glass or two of
kriek, the local cherry beer which was one of his few vices.
He liked to think of himself as an honest broker, though the
Belgian Suret men would have thought that description was
stretching the concept of honesty to the extremity of even a
Belgian understanding of the virtue. In the world of arms
supplies and the relations between governments and nongovernmental (that is to say rebel) agencies, Verhagen paid
for the indulgence of his national authorities by providing a

126

certain amount (not too much, business is business) of

information about what was going on in his occult world.
The present position with the IRA was far from simple,
but promised to be extremely fruitful, even if it were to be a
one-off. The Irish were obviously very keen to buy, and in
large quantities which pushed up the amount of his
commission and he was confident of the efficiency of the
three lots of people he was co-ordinating in North Africa,
France and on the high seas. The fact that he spoke fluent
Arabic (merci, Maman), French and English, as well as his
fathers Flemish, made things much easier and more secure
than they otherwise would have been. He didnt need
translators or interpreters, which saved time, avoided
misunderstandings and reduced the risk of betrayal.
He had been impressed by the detailed shopping list of
arms and explosives which had been prepared by McGiolla
these guys were certainly ambitious about waging their
insurrection and he only hoped that the financial resources
were a match for those ambitions.
Verhagen was keen to arrange the vital meeting at which
the details of the supply would be finalised and, most
importantly, the part payment for same would be made in a
way which attracted the least attention. Accordingly,
McGiolla had flown from Dublin to Paris and had come to
Brussels by train, therefore outside the scrutiny of his passport
at a Belgian airport. Cassidy flew direct to Zaventem, the
international airport of Brussels, as he had a perfect cover
story, namely a meeting with officials of the European
Commission about the possibility of training grants for setting
up businesses in West Belfast.
The three of them were to meet up, as casual visitors to an
exhibition of contemporary Flemish art, being staged in the
church of Our Lady of the Wood, in the village of Jezus-Eik,
just off the motorway to Luxembourg, to the south-east of
Brussels. The two Irishmen had arrived separately, by taxi,
some two hours before the appointed time and had lunched,
extremely well, again separately, in two of the traditional barrestaurants which lined both sides of the little village street.

127

Cassidy was surprised at his own nervousness, even though he

had tried to console himself with the thought that should the
worst happen and the meeting turn out to be a trap, his links
with Granville would surely save him from a long jail
sentence. He was probably more anxious about McGiolla, he
mused to himself over his starter of moules au vin blanc.
Tomas Emmet McGiolla was a legend in Republican
circles the ultimate hard man, hardliner from the hard PIRA
heartland of South Armagh. Paradoxically, part of his
mystique was, that as a young man, he had served five years
in the British Army. There was even a legend that he had been
in the SAS, which wasnt quite true; he had passed the
entrance qualifications for that lite unit, but had been sent
back to his regiment after the first month of probation, on the
grounds that his psychological profile did not quite fit.
Which, of course, had engendered a deep and abiding hatred
of the SAS in his Crossmaglen heart. What was, however,
even more useful to the IRA crazy SAS types were not, after
all, that rare amongst the Provo volunteers was the fact that
McGiolla had then, by the chance way in which things happen
in armies, been transferred to a post where he became
specialised in Orndnance that is to say, weapons of all
sorts, for use by all sorts of units, from the infantry and the
artillery, to the engineers and sappers. He was immensely
proud of his expertise in such matters and in his
uncompromising stand on matters political. Only the armed
struggle can lead us to victory, he would shout to his
companions when in his cups. He had become anxious, and
even slightly disillusioned, by what he had seen and heard in
recent months. Talk of political settlements, not only
unnerved him; it positively enraged him. If those fuckin
politicos are allowed to go cap in hand to the Brits, well be
sold out once more. When will we learn that we cant just give
up, as we did in 62. This time we go all the way. The Brits
cant beat us, but if we keep the heat on, we can beat them,
through their own public opinion.
He had therefore been slightly surprised, but greatly
encouraged, that this arms importation operation was going

128

ahead. It would, at a stroke, make good all the arms losses of

equipment suffered over the past two years and almost double
the hit-power of each and every Active Service Unit. That was
serious stuff. Perhaps even a turning point in the conflict. He
felt better at the thought.
Cassidy also felt better, for a different reason. The cte
los was the best bit of beef he had had in a long time, and the
almost full bottle of chteauneuf-du-Pape, with which he
washed it down, had certainly relaxed him.
Almost 3.30, time for the art exhibition. The three
conspirators found each other easily within the church. Only a
few people were moving about looking at the paintings which
had been set up on easels every 5 metres or so along the two
outer aisles of the mock rococo church. Most of these visitors
could be eliminated women, or members of an obvious
family group. The three gravitated to one another, while
feigning interest in a particular painting, which was a stylised,
Picasso-esque representation of a horse with a split face
rearing up on its hind legs.
Would you gentlemen like a copy of the catalogue? said
Verhagen in his slightly accented English.
Yes, I would, provided its not too expensive, said
Cassidy, on script.
Me too, said McGiolla provided its in English.
Verhagen nodded contentedly. Follow me.
He left the church and turned right into the woods, the
Foret de Soigne, and walked briskly ahead. The two Irishmen
stayed together but did not catch up with their guide. Ten
minutes later he led them to a large villa set in several hectares
of garden and orchard in Winterendreef. A security gate
opened at Verhagens remote control and he opened the stout
oak door of the villa with a large iron key.
Inside, the house was typical of the taste of a self-made
Brusselaar: bulbous furniture, lots of regency stripes, heavy
chandeliers and a row of pots on the windowsills, containing
green and yellow mother-in-laws tongue plants.
Verhagen opened a cocktail cabinet.
Whisky?

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They both nodded.

Me too, Ive even got Irish for you, he said, proudly
holding up a bottle of Powers.
So, first of all, agreement on your wish list. Ive checked
with my suppliers in Libya and all can be supplied, with just
three changes twenty fewer AK-47s, five fewer cases of
7.62mm ammunition, but twenty per cent more semtex.
Thats OK, provided the price is right, said McGiolla.
In fact its good. Im in favour of more big bangs. But are
you sure about the suppliers? I heard that the Libyans were
under severe French surveillance.
Thats right, your information is correct. But we have
another supply route through Algeria, then in wine, how you
say, camions citernes, bulk carrier lorries, as far as Paris.
There the cargo is safely repacked as agricultural machinery.
Last bit is Antwerp and then ship by regular steamer to
Dublin. The St Lucia is in and out of Dublin and Antwerp
every fortnight or so.
Now we come to the interesting bit, chuckled Verhagen,
or as we say here, the sorrowful bit that means, you pay
me. At that he laughed and raised his glass to them. He then
slid the mirror at the back of the cocktail cabinet to one side
revealing a narrow space from which he retrieved what he
referred to as the dossier.
McGiolla pulled out a wad of papers from the vast
poachers pockets in his tweed overcoat and placed them on
the low table in front of them. Lets see how they match up.
Verhagen visibly became impatient when McGiolla went
slowly through the inventory item by item, price by price, and
announced that he thought in broad terms that the price should
be reduced by $1100. Cassidy had the feeling he should
intervene, as finance was involved, but he subconsciously
admitted to himself that McGoillas overbearing personality
would probably drive a better bargain than he could himself.
Besides, if the final price had McGiollas agreement, that
would give him, Cassidy, cover, should awkward questions
arise later in Belfast.

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Verhagens eyes narrowed, but he controlled his

impatience and displeasure. No doubt drawing on that part of
his DNA which flowed from his grandfather, cot feminin,
who had bought and sold camels in Marrakesh in the good old
days, he said brightly:
My friend, I make you a good price. $500 off. You make
how you say hard bargain for Emile.
Eventually they settled on a $600 discount and were
about to move on to payment, when the Irishmen both
remembered an important point, pressed upon both of them by
the OC of the Operation on the Army Council.
Can the shipment arrive in Dublin on the 20th instead of
the 19th? Its for security reasons at the port customs and all
that.
One moment, please, said Verhagen. He walked to a
mock art deco telephone on a side table. He dialled with a
bejewelled little finger. When he got through, he spoke in
rapid Arabic. There followed a long silence on his part;
clearly, the changed date was being checked out at the other
end. Finally he said Ok and hung up.
As did Granville at the other end.

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Chapter 20

Brigadier Blitzer McCann, known to the security forces as

the boss of the UDA (and almost certainly of the UVF, its
even more sinister wing) in East Belfast, was in a tetchy
mood. In other men one might have said a nervous mood, but
nervousness was not a condition in which he could easily be
imagined. McCann can! was his oft repeated slogan, as he
slapped tabletops with the palm of his broad hand in meetings
in the realm in which he had chosen to develop his talents,
namely gangsterism.
It was a boast well justified. He had grown up in the
Willowfield area of Belfast, in a small run-down street which
ran between the Cregagh and Castlereagh roads and he was
already known as a real hard in the high noon of Teddy
boyism. A brief spell in the Royal Irish Rifles had done
nothing to smooth his image and he left the army with a
dishonourable discharge (following a punch-up with his
platoon commander) and a tattoo of the regimental crest on his
left forearm. Another tattoo, this time of a royal coat of arms
and the UDA motto Quis separabit was to follow later on the
right forearm. The political and social turmoil in working
class areas of the city in the early 1970s provided the ideal
habitat in which the McCanns of this world could flourish.
Under the guise of protectors and community activists,
men like him, by brute force and the threat of more brute
force, could impose themselves on whole neighbourhoods,
where, largely neglected by the police, they could mightily
prosper through extortion rackets, protection schemes and, not
infrequently, outright robbery of businesses and individuals.
The over-arching organisation for all of this thuggery was
allegedly political in nature, the mirror image of the IRA and
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its political wing, Sinn Fein. The fundamental difference

between the two their methods being chillingly similar
was that while the Republicans had a long-term goal of
constitutional change, the Loyalists of the McCann variety
wanted no such change; rather, they wished for the
perpetuation of the current state of affairs, in which they could
continue to prosper. If political power were to come to them,
well and good, but for most of them that would be only a
bonus.
Blitzer had certainly prospered. He lived with his wife and
teenage daughter in a large mock-Tudor house perched on the
slope of Ballyhanwood Hill, looking over Dundonald towards
Parliament Buildings, perched on Craigantlet Hill on the
opposite side of the broad, shallow valley He drove a large red
4X4Land Cruiser, which was a familiar sight outside public
houses such as the King Arthur on the Castlereagh Road (his
old local), the Great Western on the Newtownards Road and
the Kings Arms in Knock village. Part of his income came
from one-arm bandit gaming machines in these and similar
premises, whose owners, knowing what was good for their
health, leased him space at very reasonable rates. He also
held court daily in the UDAs Information Office above a
gents outfitters on the Newtownards Road. As his associates
were wont to say, he had it made in the shade.
Yet today he was indeed tetchy. On the domestic front,
the triangular relationships between his wife, Maureen, his
daughter, Iris and himself were tense on all three sides. His
wife had never really settled in the heights of Ballyhanwood.
She yearned for her native urban district, close to her mother
and sister, and complained that in Dundonald there wasnt a
decent shop, compared to the familiar delights of the
Cregagh. Iris, born in 1978 but out of wedlock, nursed not
only the teenagers natural antipathy towards, and impatience
with, both parents, but also what an educational psychologist
might term a socio-sado-narcissist aversion to her
circumstances and, ultimately, to herself. Her expensive
education she had been the first child in her wide family
circles on both sides to have gone to a private school had

133

widened the gulf with her parents and had deepened her
distaste for their attitudes and lifestyle. In an earlier generation
she might have found consolation in religion; in her case,
conviction, and its attendant zealotry, were found in
environmentalism. The publications of the bloody buttercups
and daisies brigade, as her father called them, were now her
only reading material. Save the planet, was the constant,
indeed almost sole, theme of her conversations, not that these
were very frequent. She lambasted Blitzer for his rape of the
environment, as epitomised by his gas-guzzling vehicle, and
her mother for her no-fewer-than three genuine fur coats, two
mink and one musquash.
As for conjugal relations, the passing passion of youth had
long since passed, secretly to Maureens relief, and those who
kept an eye on such things would have pointed to the
increasing number of lifts home offered by Blitzer at closing
time, to one of the pretty barmaids at the King Arthur as
circumstantial, yet compelling evidence of where his current
appetites lay. Maureen no longer pleased him; indeed she was
even falling short of the standards of a good Belfast
housekeeper.
Hey, Maureen, where the hell are my coloured shirts? I
cant see none here at all, he shouted down the stairs, as he
stood, stripped to the waist, in the dressing room which
opened off the pink master bedroom in the eaves of the house.
Open your eyes, came the instant reply.
Look in the hot press. Youve got more coloured shirts in
there than Nelson fuckin Mandela.
Without a word of thanks, Blitzer duly selected a
patterned blue shirt. Would he go with an open collar, or how
about a yellow silk tie? He regularly took fifteen to twenty
minutes, post- shower and shaving, to kit himself out, such
was the care he took with his appearance. He was proud of his
thick pile of still-black hair, cut by razor in the DA style, a
legacy of his Teddy boy youth. In meetings he would often
pat the nape of his neck with three or four rapid movements of
his hand, to reassure himself that this masterpiece was still in
place. His suits and blazers were always well cut, flattering his

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slightly thickening silhouette, which he had managed, by dint

of regular weightlifting, to maintain in its essentials, if not in
every detail, despite the counterbalance of a heavy weekly
intake of alcohol. His large collection of shoes, laid out neatly
on their trees in the bottom of his number one wardrobe,
ranged from suede, to gleaming black leather, to crocodile
skin (his personal favourite and not only because they
outraged Iris).
He admired the finished product in the full-length mirror
and felt momentarily better, until he remembered the second
reason for his own tetchiness: he was due to attend a meeting
of the Council, as the top of the UDA thuggery was called,
with all the reverence which might be accorded a plenary
session of NATO. And he did not like one bit how things were
developing at HQ.
His unhappiness was due to the influence of his rival, the
Supreme Commander, Gordon McVeigh, who spoke for the
organisation to the media and who represented its views to
government (in reality the latter related to talks with Jeremy
Granville, who, from time to time, would flatter him with
invitations to St Oswalds for drinks and an exchange of
views). Although McVeigh, unlike many in the UDA, had no
military background he had many advantages over his fellows
and potential rivals. He had been a founder member, had
served time in the Maze prison, (or Long Kesh as it was then
called), for robbery and illegal possession of a firearm, and
was unchallenged within the organisation as the most effective
and articulate spokesman. While in prison he had studied for,
and obtained, a BA degree in Sociology, which gave him new
ideas and a whole new glossary of technical words in his
vocabulary, with which he by turns dazzled and infuriated his
fellow thugs: words such as tranche, matrix, leverage and
fait accompli were added to his speeches and statements like
so many exotic spices. The effect of this enrichment of
vocabulary was, however, sometimes undermined by
McVeighs basic grammatical mistakes I done and I have
went being the worst of his howlers.

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This also amused Granville who, at the mention of

McVeighs name would say to his secretary: Buddy, can you
spare a paradigm? Granville had succeeded nonetheless in
influencing McVeigh to the point of manipulation. He
encouraged him to look on himself as The Political
Philosopher on the Loyalist side, preparing to lead his
organisation and community into post-conflict politics, where
he could harness the energies and support of the Protestant
working class in a genuine left-leaning, progressive political
party. But to arrive at that position it would be necessary to
turn off the violence and criminality into which the UDA and
UVF had quickly sunk after their establishment. He led
McVeigh to believe that HMG would assist in such an
evolution, by public endorsement and perhaps even
financially, through the provision of community development
grants which were being planned for the future.
When Sir Julian Beardsley had asked Granville over lunch
in his club whether he really believed that such an initiative
was necessary, the reply came at once.
Of course not, chuckled Granville.
If we can get the IRA morphed into a genuine political
party without an army, the Loyalist paramilitaries will melt
like snow. Their only strength is in the existence of the IRA
and their violence. If that disappears, the traditional unionist
parties will take up the running again and there will be no
democratic support for any sort of Loyalist politics. But in
the meantime, if we can dangle the prospect of future
government support before their greedy little eyes we can
have some purchase on them. At worst, our contacts will help
sow dissention amongst the leadership, which is to our
benefit.
Ah, yes, said Beardsley, Isnt their motto Quis
separabit?
Indeed. And my reply is Ego ...,with any luck. And in
any case, in the long run we wont have to deal with them, or
worry about them at all.
Surely they wont just slip away?

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Youre right, up to a point. The criminal element in the

Loyalist paramilitaries will, I am sure, continue their activities
without any spurious political cover, but that will be a matter
for normal policing and crime prevention. Nothing to do with
us. Nothing to do with politics. In the meantime, we must
encourage their leadership to get out of criminality and, above
all, to put an end to the assassination of random Catholic
targets. Those killings help maintain the IRAs fiction of
being the defenders of the Catholic population, though I must
say that their recent increase in number is beginning to make
that protection a bit shaky.
McVeigh, The Political Philosopher, had for some time
been arguing with his fellow brigadiers individually and in
full Council, for a change in policy, towards community
politics, which warmed Granvilles heart when he read the
transcripts from the recordings made by the bugging device at
UDA headquarters.
The bug was, appropriately enough, concealed in the
picture frame of the Queens portrait which hung on the side
wall of the meeting room. (Your sovereign is listening to you).
These headquarters premises did not reflect the undoubted
financial resources of the UDA, which were known to be
substantial, to say the least. Unlike their mirror image, namely
the Sinn Fein offices on the Falls Road, they did not convey to
the visitor the impression of organisational efficiency. On the
contrary, the three upstairs rooms were a jumble of desks and
tables, both overflowing with papers, and filing cabinets
which seemed to hang open all day. The premises had the
virtue of being in the Loyalist heartland and in themselves
epitomised the rundown state of that district and its
inhabitants. The nearest side street was partially boarded up
and the end gable, which featured a striking mural of King
Billy on a white horse, crossing the Boyne, was in dire need
of refreshment, as were most of the still occupied houses in
the street. Many of the walls were defaced with sprayed on
graffiti political and football slogans for the most part, along

137

with the standard sectarian three words, which Vincent Glass

had once memorably described, in an atmospheric piece for
the Tribune as a copulatory exhortation with specific
reference to the incumbent of the Holy See.
Blitzer McCann never liked spending much time at HQ.
Its untidiness offended his sense of style and the handling of
relations with the community, which provided some sort of
justification for the office, bored him profoundly. He knew he
had to be there a reasonable part of the time, if for no other
reason than to keep an eye on what was being discussed
amongst the other brigadiers, but he much preferred to be
out and about, as he termed it, looking after his own
commercial interests and simply enjoying himself. He was
deeply unhappy about the proposed change in direction he had
heard McVeigh and others talking about. Politics held
absolutely no attraction for him. He could not envisage
himself begging for votes, instead of telling the locals what to
do and think. As for the proposal to have more and better
resourced grass roots help centres, he dismissed the idea as
one for bloody social workers. He liked things as they were
and would argue for that at the meeting. He was already
rehearsing in his mind his challenge to McVeigh. He knew
that if push came to shove, he could see him off, but the real
obstacle to a putsch was Geezer Gifford, perhaps the most
brutal of all the brigadiers, with several murders already to
his name.
Gifford was a great hulk of a man, who dressed in the
manner of a Hells Angel leather jackets, festooned in
metal studs, and with calf-length industrial worker boots. In
meetings, regardless of room temperature, he would
invariably take off his jacket and roll up his sleeves to reveal
bulging biceps and enough tattoos to arouse the envy of a
Maori princess. He spent hours every day behind a desk at
UDA headquarters, without ever appearing to do anything
which could be categorised as work. He spent a large part of
the time on the telephone, mostly gossiping with his many
cronies; he appeared to read little and almost never wrote

138

anything. Nevertheless, he had a menacing presence, one

reinforced by that of his large dog, a cross-bred Staffordshire
terrier who lay at his feet. It stank from time to time, but no
one complained. Some visitors would try to pat it, no doubt as
a symbolic act of obeisance to Gifford, but it would reject
such advances with a low snarl. Geezer would then laugh.
See him? he would say, If he cant eat it or screw it, he isnt
interested. A great dog. Almost human, so he is.
Like dog, like master.
Gifford had supporters right across the city and in East
Antrim, by virtue of his reputation for sheer toughness and
recklessness. Yet, somewhat strangely, he was a devoted
follower of McVeigh, whom he trusted implicitly to lead the
organisation in the right direction.
No doubt about it, Geezer was the danger.
Blitzer brooded on these thoughts as he left the house
without a word of farewell and approached the Land Cruiser
in the drive. As he opened the door, his mood darkened even
more as he recalled his daughters words of reproach. He
kicked the white-walled front tyre and said aloud,
And fuck the polar bears anyway.

139

Chapter 21

Granville was still tired, despite having had a good nights

sleep in the Landsdowne Club, and despite his early morning
swim there, which he looked on as one of the luxuries of his
London life. The club was just round the corner from the
office from which he had operated for years and was an oasis
of calm, whatever the excitements of his official day.
Now he was set to enjoy another facet of which he looked
on as the quintessential English pleasure: lunch at a riverside
restaurant at Richmond, with Penny. George Orwell could
keep his idyllic vision of an England where old maids cycled
to Holy Communion. He had his own version, which featured
a smart, freshly coiffured Penny in a summer dress, seated at a
table in a wayside pub, overlooking a lazily flowing Thames.
He wasnt sure what the Irish equivalent would be, but he
could not suppress the image of the willowy Noleen which
flooded into his mind. Perhaps on the shores of Lough Erne.
I think we need the second bottle of Sancerre, he said,
coming back to Richmond.
You dont seem very relaxed, said Penny. He was
lighting his third Gauloise of the afternoon.
Im probably not. It takes a couple of days to decompress after Ireland.
Is it that bad? I thought from the newspapers that things
were calming down.
On the surface, yes, but underneath its bubbling away
like a witchs cauldron. It could either change to politics or
blow up in our faces.
What about danger?
For me, or generally?
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For you, of course, I have my priorities She touched

his forearm lightly.
For me, no danger at all worth talking about. Probably
less than the average citizen. Of course one can always be
unlucky wrong place at wrong time and all that but
mathematically, safer than London.
But psychologically very different?
True, but you have to look at it rationally. The real strain
is that everything changes constantly. People hesitate and
vacillate and go off at tangents. Contradict themselves. No
one is reliable.
Except you! she laughed. Seeing his face darken I
meant that as a joke but you are a reliable person.
Am I?
Another cigarette.
The day had clouded over suddenly. They walked hand in
hand back to her flat on the lower slopes of Richmond Hill,
but with a partial view of the Thames.
Must give up the fags. Bad taste..
As though reading his thoughts, Your toothbrush is in the
holder by the wash-hand basin, the blue one. But Ill taste you
as you are. She laughed happily, then kissed him long and
hard, as they headed to the bedroom.
Their love-making was urgent rather than passionate.
Granville would have loved another Gauloise, but the earlier
conversation ruled that out.
Out of the blue: When are you coming back to London?
She means back to me. She feels I am away.
Impossible to say. Im plugged into an ongoing process
and while no one is indispensable, I have a key role to play in
it. So it could be anything for up to a year.
A year?
She stiffened.
It doesnt have a timetable, its not a bus company you
know, said he, rather sharply.

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Penny grew more reproachful.

Couldnt I have a nice long holiday out there with you?
No, fraid not, said he hurriedly. Too dangerous.
But you said it wasnt dangerous.
Shit, walked into that one.
Its not, if one goes about with a whole team of
protectors which you wouldnt have. And youd stick out
like a sore thumb amongst the locals. Accent, style and
(regaining his footing) far too elegant, even when slumming
about.
Now youre being facetious.
I thought that was part of my irresistible charm.
She hit him in the face with a pillow, but playfully.
But no doubt there are more conversations like this on the
horizon.
Tell you what. How about coming with me when I do my
next rehab of the old pins in Archena?
Yes yes! Oh yes please!
Do I really want her there? Too late, Ive exposed flank.
The dangers of bedroom promises.
They were still in bed at six oclock. Granville reached for
the TV remote control and switched on. No picture. He sprang
out of bed and thumped the set hard twice with his right hand.
The BBC news came to life.
Vorsprung durch Technik, said he, proudly.
The second headline was The Secretary of State for
Northern Ireland holds out an olive branch to Republicans.
Wheeler had done his job in talking up the importance of
this historic speech, which Granville had drafted almost a
week before. It had taken him three days to pass, almost in its
entirety, the scrutiny of the Foreign Office and Number 10,
before being delivered at a businessmens lunch in Belfast.
More importantly, it had been given the green light by Bunny;
and its release time facilitated the Andersonstown News.
The kernel of the speech contained three main themes:

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Republicanism is a perfectly legitimate political concept.

It is not one I personally hold to, but I respect it nonetheless,
as every democrat should.
When we add to that concept the adjective Irish we
must also respect that tradition and acknowledge that its
followers have had honourable aspirations and have often
suffered in its cause. But the goals of Irish Republicanism
like the goals of Unionism must in modern society be
pursued by totally peaceful means.
It is not the policy of Her Majestys government to favour
either of the two political groups in Northern Ireland, far less
to impose a philosophy of our own. It is our goal to work for a
lasting peace which will allow both traditions to safeguard
their own identity and to work together for the good of all the
people of Northern Ireland. I sense that our goal is shared by
the overwhelming majority of the electorate. The time has
come to bring conflict to an end.
The BBC had done a reasonable job of summary, as had
ITN, the latter half of whose coverage Granville caught as he
switched channels.
So far, so good, said Granville, repressing the urge to
light another cigarette, Lets see if Bunny can reciprocate.
Its all so much hot air. I dont see how thats such a Big
Deal, said Penny.
Believe me, it is, replied Granville, curtly.

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Chapter 22

As in life, so in death: Blitzer McCanns end came suddenly,

brutally and without his having even contemplated the
possibility of it.
He knew, of course, that in the Council, McVeighs socalled new thinking had appeared to make an impression on
the leadership. On the other hand, he felt that he had himself
mounted a good contrary case, warning of the dangers of
going soft and of being absorbed by the mainstream party
politicians, who didnt give a toss about Loyalist areas, but
who would exploit them as soon as they could access them,
just the way they had done for decades in the past.
He hadnt paid enough attention to the body language of
Geezer Gifford, (the only language in which Gifford
expressed himself to any significant degree). Gifford had
nodded briefly, but positively, at various points in McVeighs
exposition, but had looked steadfastly at his Rolex Seamaster,
during his, McCanns, interventions. The meeting agreed that
it would be premature to take decisions that day on such
important issues; and a new date was fixed for the next
Council.
There was time to muster support; but political talk was
such a waste of time and effort.
Blitzer usually had the services of a UDA driver, one
Andrew Gabby Hayes, on his evening excursions into the
fleshpots of East Belfast. The exceptions to this rule were the
nights McCann intended to be at the King Arthur around
closing time, to collect some insurance money from various
clients and to offer a lift home to the Braniel Estate to the
pretty Tracey Hewitt. I like fat cheques and thin chicks was
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one of his oft-repeated quips. Gabbys presence on such

occasions would have been indelicate and, besides, he was not
technically needed as a designated driver, since Blitzer did
not over-imbibe on such occasions. Brewers droop could not
be allowed to spoil the fun. But no harm in a wee one now
and then.
Whatll it be? asked the barman, respectfully.
A Tina Turner, as usual, was the reply.
As always on a Friday night, the two big rooms of the
ground floor bar were crowded with enthusiastic punters,
sinking pints of Guinness and joshing with one another.
Football and horse racing were the main topics of
conversation; several were spectators at a needle darts match
in the corner. Occasionally the cry of one hundred and
eighty would resound and the proud thrower of this
maximum score would bow ironically to the onlookers.
Towards the back of the premises stood two pool tables and
Blitzer, sipping his Black Bush liqueur, played, and lost, a
couple of games with some old friends. His mind was on other
things; and he kept his eye on them, in her tight-fitting blouse,
as she worked efficiently behind the bar, flirting with the
drinkers, but keeping up with the steady stream of orders as,
metaphorically speaking, pay packets and Giro cheques
passed from pocket to till.
Last orders were finally, thankfully, called and half an
hour later Blitzer walked out of the main door, followed at a
discreet few paces, by the lovely Tracey. A lack of attention to
detail was his downfall. He had not noticed that the four bulky
figures on the pavement were facing inwards, towards the
pub, towards him, instead of away from it, as the last of the
drinkers were on their way home. It was all over in seconds.
Tracey was grabbed from behind and bundled back into the
pub without a sound. Blitzer was hit once on the head his
raised forearm failed to deflect the full-on blow, and he was
dragged into a side alley where more blows rained on his now
defenceless head. He never had the slightest chance of
deploying his famed street-fighting skills; he had been taken

145

totally by surprise, by overwhelming numbers who had

serious weapons and no inhibitions.
Within the hour, the switchboard of the Belfast
Newsletters received a coded call indicating where McCanns
body was to be found. The fact that the call was UVF-coded
meant that this was official. So was there a split in the
Loyalist paramilitary ranks? The media immediately began
pumping out stories about a feud, but Granville and his
colleagues were not so sure. Blitzer, whilst a powerful
individual feared by many, was not the leader of a discernible
faction, was the initial reasoning. He had been too lazy for
that; he was basically a thug on the make. Nevertheless, his
murder could have a significance beyond its own
circumstances; it could be a signal, particularly to the Loyalist
paramilitaries as a whole, that dissent would not be tolerated
by those in authority in the Council.
The pathologists report would later conclude that death
was due to severe cerebral injuries, sustained as a result of
multiple blows to the head, inflicted with a heavy blunt
instrument or instruments, possibly baseball bats.
Funny thing that about baseball bats, mused HSB at the
JSC. Theyre now more numerous than either hockey or
hurling sticks.
Perhaps theyre better for hitting home runs, chipped in
the GOC. Apparently they swing more comfortably.
Any specific suspects so far? asked Granville, from the
chair.
The word from within is that it was Giffords hoods who
carried it out, to his orders, and with McVeighs approval.
Thats as clear as the balls on a bulldog.
Not Gifford himself?
Dear me, no. But he is so crass, its unbelievable. Listen
to this: he not only constructed a cast-iron alibi by being seen
at the rock concert in the Kings Hall, he even had the gall to

146

go into Queen Street police station at the material time, in

order to report the alleged loss of his wallet.
That about clinches it. He did it, laughed Granville.
Well, Ill let you get on with the investigation.
He confided to Wheeler afterwards, I wouldnt put too
many resources into finding out who killed friend McCann, if
I were the RUC. I look on that lot as a horrible sideshow. The
IRA/Sinn Fein are the main act in our circus ring.

147

Chapter 23

County Kildare looks its best on a sunny June morning. The

grass on the meadows of the many stud and training farms for
racehorses is still lush from the generous rains in April and
May; the sun is high in an almost completely blue sky, and
only a few puffy white clouds drift slowly over the hills to the
east. The further one travels away from Dublin, heading west
across the county, the thinner the traffic becomes, so that a
leisurely drive becomes an idyllic antidote to the stresses of
everyday life.
Ireland as it ought to be.
As he sat in the back of his green VW Passat, immediately
behind Donny his driver, Bunnys thoughts were more on the
everyday stresses than on the restfulness of the landscape as it
slipped by. He was on his way to deliver the most important
speech of his life a speech on which his own life could
indeed literally depend. In the small town of Bodenstown,
which is scarcely more than a village, there is to be found, in
the little graveyard, the last resting place of one of Irish
Republicanisms iconic figures, the eighteenth-century
revolutionary, Theobald Wolfe Tone. Every year in June, on
or about the anniversary of his birth on the 20th of the month,
his heroic struggle for Irelands freedom is commemorated by
a series of ceremonies organised by various strands of
republicanism Sinn Fein, the Workers Party, the Irish
Socialist Party et al all of whom have their own take on
the man himself, what they think he stood for, and how their
own positions are in a direct line from his. As an Irish
revolutionary hero, Tone ticked most of the necessary boxes: a
romantic who had sought French military support for
rebellions against England; a great orator of high-flown,
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stirring speeches even from the dock in which he knew he

would be sentenced to death; a non-sectarian egalitarian; a
persecuted prisoner of England and, above all, a martyr for the
cause, in the best Irish tradition, having died of self-inflicted
wounds, following a botched attempt at cutting his own throat
with a pen knife, while awaiting execution in the Provosts
prison. There was enough in that life and death to inspire
and justify a whole range of political attitudes and actions, so
that a wide spectrum of party leaders could ritually advance
their own position in the spirit of Wolfe Tone.
Bunny had often delivered the Sinn Fein speech at the
annual Bodenstown ceremony. Media interest was always
intense in what were perceived to be such keynote speeches.
At party headquarters on the Falls Road he had often joked to
his colleagues that he was working on his State of the
Dissolution of the Union address.
Todays speech was make or break on several levels. In
party terms, he had to face down opposition from those who
were wedded to the idea of the armed struggle all the way to
victory. He had to prepare public opinion, especially in the
nationalist and republican community, for a radical change of
tack. And he had to fulfil an undertaking to Jeremy Granville
that he would respond to the Secretary of States olive branch
speech with his own public confidence-building measure.
Failure on any of those fronts would spell disaster disaster
for the policies he had personally developed, for his
community, for relations with Britain. Failure would also
empower his opponents within SF/IRA, who would certainly
look on his removal as inevitable.
On the road approaching the graveyard it was obvious that
the partys well oiled PR machine had succeeded in arousing
great media interest in what they billed as his wide-ranging
policy statement. Amongst the many cars lining the road
were several communication trucks, bristling with antennae
and satellite dishes fully a metre in diameter. In the crowd,

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which was still outside the churchyard, he recognised Paul

Devlin, from the Dublin office and organiser of the ceremony,
who came forward to greet him as he opened the car door.
Donny extracted the obligatory wreath from the boot of the
car and, accompanied now by a posse of party officials, they
moved through the entrance gate. Set into the three metre high
wall at the entrance was a larger-than-life bust of Tone,
looking streamlined with his aquiline nose and swept back
hair. (Or was it a wig, or a trendy eighteenth-century hat?).
Bunny waited patiently while the cameramen from TV and the
print media manoeuvred and jostled themselves into position
to record his act of wreath laying. He looked around the
crowd: party members from North and South; political
correspondents; one or two influential feature writers; even
some plain-clothes Garda Sochna Special Branch men. The
wreath laying he carried out in almost slow motion, so that it
could not be missed. Handshakes could always be repeated for
the benefit of the paparazzi but wreath laying was a one-shot
operation.
Bunny stepped back from the bust and bowed his head
respectfully.
Prince Charles couldnt have done it better, Granville
would later tease him.
No one appeared to take any notice of the card clipped to
the wreath, which read In memory of Theobald Wolfe Tone,
an Irish Patriot, who struggled for justice. No doubt Danny,
the PR man, would later draw that to the attention of
appropriate reporters.
On a paved area between the outer wall and the first of the
gravestones stood a temporary wooden lectern, surrounded by
four flag poles, on which fluttered two Irish tricolours and two
Sinn Fein flags showing the party logo superimposed on a
green map of All-Ireland.
There were two introductory, and thankfully brief,
speeches by party officials. As Bunny listened he was pleased
to note that they contained no political meat worth talking
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about nothing to detract from his own. He now wished that

he had remembered to drink some water before leaving the
car; his mouth was caked and dry and he feared that his voice
when he came to speak, would croak embarrassingly.
At last he was at the podium. His voice was OK and
without too much stumbling, he had got through the opening
paragraph of pious praise for Tone which young Eamonn
Hughes, his nephew, had written for him in Irish. He was into
his stride and could feel confidence flowing into himself. He
had the text before him on the lectern, on A5 paper sheets, in
enormous print, but he knew it by heart, so long had he
laboured over it and so often had he recited it to himself. The
main thrust of it had come to him as he walked alone on an
Atlantic beach near his holiday home in Donegal. Sometimes
he wished he could stay on that beach forever, listening to the
ocean breakers as they came crashing in, and to the cry of the
seagulls and the gannets, as they wheeled and dived for fish
out beyond the surf. But he knew that was self- delusion.
What made him tick was the adrenalin rush of the multiple
struggles he was involved in struggles within the party, in
the Army Council, with the security forces, with the two
sovereign governments, and with hostile elements in the
media. They wore him down, but they were his lifeblood. For
the foreseeable future Donegal could not compete.
He knew that the theme of his Bodenstown speech would
have to be peace. But it worried him. In the outside world
peace ranked with motherhood and apple pie as an
unassailable positive. But not in Ireland, not in Republican
circles. It could too easily be linked to such negatives as
suing for peace, and the peace of the grave, in other words,
defeat.
Then it had come to him: Peace with justice!
You cant have one without the other.
He had tried that out on Danny, who was one of the most
media-astute operators imaginable. He had joked, You mean
a fixed expression, like love n marriage or fish n
chips? But had nevertheless given the slogan his approval.

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It provides a link back to the injustices of the past and, if

endlessly repeated, will pass into the publics consciousness
as a single concept.
Thank you, Sigmund Freud, laughed Bunny, but the
endorsement from such an expert settled his nerves.
The Sinn Fein Bodenstown speech invariably contained
certain traditional passages, which Bunny proceeded to
deliver. Beginning with an encomium to all frontline freedom
fighters engaged in the struggle, there were expressions of
thanks to all Volunteers, and condolences to the families of
named victims of the British war machine or unionist death
squads. This year there was even a passage of thanks to the
media, whose more informed reporting in recent weeks had
helped alert world opinion to the real issues of social,
economic and political injustices in the occupied Six County
Statelet.
Then came the real theme: Peace with justice.
The IRA, with the support of the nationalist community,
has fought a long and hard battle for Irish freedom and for the
rights of the Irish people, North and South. Together we have
shown the world that no longer can Britain hope to suppress
us by force, as she has done so often in the past. As I predicted
at successive Ard Fheisanna, we have been able to answer
vicious military attack with heroic military defence. We have
suffered as a people, but we have prevailed.
Danny at this point sparked off a sustained round of
thunderous applause.
Now the time has come to profit from our sacrifices. The
British government knows and in its more honest moments
admits that a political solution has to be found. They and
their unionist allies cannot defeat us. That political solution
must acknowledge us as equals.
More thunderous applause.
The Secretary of State now says he recognises the
legitimacy of our republicanism and he talks of peace. But I
say to him, peace yes but only peace with - justice. Justice
for our prisoners, justice for our party and justice for our
community.

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This tertiary rhythm carried the audience up to another

burst of noisy approval.
We are prepared to negotiate peace with justice. We
have earned the right to do so. But I warn the British
government: if you dont deal fairly with us, I have no doubt
the IRA will punish you severely. Remember this: recent
operations have shown that the British heartlands are not
immune to the righteous vengeance of the awakened Irish
people.
Was this reference to a renewed bombing campaign in
Great Britain a big enough bone to throw to the hardliners
from South Armagh and East Tyrone? On the other hand, was
his expressed wish for peace negotiations positive enough to
satisfy Granvilles political masters? It had just about satisfied
Granville himself a few days before, when they had together
reviewed the text of the final draft in the visitors reception
room of the Clonard Monastery. Only time would tell, and in
the meantime he would have to continue to ride two horses at
once: One called Peace with Justice, the other called War.
He deliberately turned to his left to observe the reaction of a
group of those he knew to be hardliners. Their faces showed
no emotion but they did not enthusiastically join in the general
applause.
So I say to the IRA, (at this point there were smiles and
nudges from many, at this barefaced repetition of the fiction
that the leadership of Sinn Fein and that of the IRA were two
separate entities), lets call Londons bluff. A total ceasefire
will create extra space for the necessary political negotiations
at the highest level. You have fought a truly magnificent fight
for Ireland. Your armed struggle has obliged the enemy to
acknowledge the legitimacy of our cause. Now it is up to all
of us to pursue that struggle in politics at the negotiating table.
We do so with your strength behind us. We do so with
confidence in your continuing presence. We do so in the
knowledge that were the British Establishment to attempt to
stall the progress towards peace with justice, you stand
ready to resume hostilities. Tiocfaidh ar la!

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As he left the lectern, a group of his supporters, in a wellrehearsed move, rushed forward, cheering and slapping him
on the back, like aficionados congratulating a triumphant
torero. If they didnt carry him shoulder high from the ring,
they were, metaphorically speaking, nevertheless awarding
him both ears and the tail. The bull of the eternal armed
struggle appeared to have been dispatched.

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Chapter 24

Blitzers funeral was a grand affair, well stage managed by the

newly confident leadership. Not since the state funeral of
Feldmarschall Erwin Rommel had hypocrisy and pomp
combined in such a spectacular extravaganza. For public
consumption there was a show of Loyalist unity, which
attempted, with little success, to gloss over two ugly facts:
that McCann had been a criminal; and that some of his fellows
had savagely murdered him. He was to be buried something of
a flawed hero, with an underlying message that whilst his
direct action style had had its uses, it was really time to move
on. That would be into politics Realpolitik with
comprehensive policies, vote-getting, majorities and a
recognised representational role. In a word, respectability,
which is what McVeigh began to crave above everything else
Yes, respectability, properly financed, of course. One
couldnt be too scrupulous about that; we live in the real
world, after all.
The funeral service was held in the Belfast Mission
Church on the Lower Newtownards Road, with a PA system
relaying the service for the benefit of mourners who could not
get into the church buildings and who stood outside in the
rain. Despite the weather, the crowds were so big that the
police had to close the main road and set up traffic diversions
via neighbouring side streets. RUC snappers were positioned
in the upper floors of the shops on the opposite side of the
street, photographing all and sundry, the passing rubbernecks
as well as the numerous big-named hoodlums in attendance.

155

The latter sat, resplendent in Armani suits and

conspicuous bling, in reserved seats at the front of the wreathbedecked church, immediately behind the widow and
daughter, both of whom wept softly into their black veils.
Maureens lips trembled in prayer, something which surprised
her daughter when she glanced sidewards. The family
considered themselves to be Protestant, but clearly of a nonpractising variety. As McVeigh, himself no great theologian,
once said of Maureen, she probably thinks the road to
Damascus is a Bob Hope movie.
The service was taken by the Rev. Roy Meharg, a
Presbyterian minister who no longer had his own
congregation but who had made a name for himself through a
calling to serve in what were euphemistically called
difficult areas. In these he maintained daily contact with the
local powers that were, that is to say the UDA, UVF and Red
Hand Commandos, on behalf of the ordinary Loyalist
community. He was forever putting himself forward as a
mediator in any confrontational situation, and the news media
tended to indulge his personal fantasy that he was making a
real difference for peace and reconciliation.
Obviously, the obsequies for a thug such as McCann,
posed more than usual difficulties for the officiating
clergymen Catholic priests faced the same dilemma when
dealing with the passing of well known murderers, but they
could more easily fall back on a lengthy recital of the
appropriate liturgy to fill out a respectable three quarters of an
hour.
For the Rev. Meharg, the choice of hymns posed no
problem the family had readily approved of The day thou
gavest Lord, hath ended, (which was chronologically
incontrovertible), and Abide with me, with its resonance
from another solemn community occasion, namely, the FA
Cup Final. Everybody knew the words and the singing was, as
the Rev. Meharg said, inspirational. The content of his prayers

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was also no great challenge comfort for the family; an end to

violence and suffering; and wisdom for the decision makers in
these perilous times. These petitions to the Almighty wrote
themselves. But what to say about Blitzer himself? A man
with a zest for life, while undoubtedly ambiguous,
nevertheless sounded positive, as did he persevered tirelessly
in everything he put his hand to, though to those shopkeepers
from whom he had regularly extracted protection money, the
phrase had a more chilling meaning, as the hand in question
had never been far from their throats. Financial generosity was
often a virtue ascribed to deceased villains, but it would have
been stretching things a little too far, even in these
circumstances, to refer to any eleemosynary activities on
Blitzers part. Instead, Meharg restricted himself to a vague
reference to his numerous acts of kindness.
At last the grisly ceremony was over, and the solid oak
coffin was carried by six moustachioed gorillas from Blitzers
own battalion, out into the main road, where the pice de
rsistance awaited an enormous hearse, drawn by four
plumed, black horses the first appearance of such an
attelage in Belfast since the 1940s.
Along one side of the hearse, an array of white roses spelt
out B.L.I.T.Z.E.R. It was a work of art, but the florist may
have been rushed, for the final R listed somewhat to the left,
thereby partially ruining the effect. On the other side of the
hearse was a row of red roses, this time spelling out
DADDY. The widows personal contribution was a simple
wreath on top of the Ulster flag draped coffin, with a card
attached, bearing the ambiguous, but possibly sincere
message: I will never forget you, Maureen.
Behind the hearse came two ancient, but well maintained,
Austin Princess limousines, the sole purpose of which was to
convey the mountains of floral tributes which had arrived
from all parts of the Loyalist low life world. It had been
arranged that the coffin would be carried up the Lower

157

Newtownards Road to the junction with the Albert Bridge

Road, in five lifts, the changeover of pall-bearers each time
causing some anxiety until the new lifters got comfortably
into step. The horses were made nervous by the sounds of the
big crowd swirling about them. The coachman had difficulty
in controlling them and when two of them simultaneously
defecated, the pall-bearing unit was forced to zig-zag gingerly
in order to keep their shoes clean.
At the top of the road, at what the locals still called the
Ropeworks Corner, despite the fact that the works had been
demolished over twenty years before, the coffin was slotted
into the hearse and the horses set off at a trot in the direction
of Roselawn Cemetery, nonetheless causing traffic chaos in
half the city for the next forty minutes.

158

Chapter 25

HSB looked on his monthly meetings with his opposite

number in the Garda Sochna as amongst his most
challenging duties.
The Joint North-South Co-ordinating Committee on
which he took the lead for the RUC, was sandwiched below
the Baldonnel Committee at political level and above the
Border Superintendents Committee, which handled most of
the on-the-ground co-operation between the two police
services. In the view of the security community in Northern
Ireland it would have been more useful if the Irish army,
which had the more appropriate equipment and training, had
been the Souths main anti-terrorist force . However, that had
been, from the beginning of the Troubles, ruled out at
ministerial level in the Republic, for quasi-philosophical
reasons. The Dublin politicians of all the political parties
believed that to have the army in the lead would give the
whole co-operative exercise a state-to-state character, whereas
the national myth not yet relinquished was that the six
Northern counties were de jure, if not de facto, part of the
Irish state, a proposition which argued in favour of police-topolice security co-operation.
That strange reasoning sometimes also coloured the stance
taken by HSBs opposite number and his colleagues on the
Co-ordinating Committee. The atmosphere at their meetings
was invariably friendly and the hospitality offered to RUC
visitors in Dublin, in the Ashling Hotel, near the Garda HQ on
the edge of Phoenix Park, was unfailingly generous. Those
attending were all policemen together, facing similar problems
day-by-day. They were men who understood one another

159

better than any outsider group could, and as the bottles of

Jamiesons followed bottles of Jamiesons, their professional
talk became increasingly in-house and brotherly in character.
Yet two things always bothered him. The appointment of the
Garda Commissioner, the highest ranking officer, was always
a politically charged one and the relationships upwards to the
minister and downwards to the ranks of the Garda, were
heavily influenced by political considerations. Close cooperation with the RUC could either be looked upon
favourably as helping to safeguard public safety throughout
the island, or as a necessary evil to be kept to a minimum.
Fortunately, the recent change in both minister and
Commissioner had tilted the balance in favour of deeper cooperation.
HSBs second worry was about the integrity of some of
the individual Gardai involved in anti-terrorist work,
especially in border areas. It was widely believed within the
RUC that the murder by the IRA of two officers in 1989 near
the village of Jonesborough in South Armagh had been
facilitated by a tip-off from the Garda station in Dundalk,
where they had attended a cross-border meeting. The danger
came not from Garda officers being active IRA militants
that would have been too obvious within the force but from
the so-called sneaking regarders, that is to say from those
who had a sneaking regard for the terrorists actions.
HSBs opposite number was a large, bluff man, called
Finbar Flannigan, a renowned Cork hurler in his youth, who
had carved out a distinguished career for himself from the age
of eighteen. HSB genuinely felt he could trust him and he had
gone so far as to give Flannigan the name of the Garda officer
in Dundalk who was the RUCs main suspect as the murderer
of their colleagues. At their next meeting, HSB raised the
matter again. Its very difficult, as you can imagine, said
Flannigan rather awkwardly.
Theres no proof of collusion. Certainly nothing that a
case could be based on. And of course, politically
dynamite.

160

Was the matter to rest there? Flannigan then said very

firmly, holding out his hands as though to emphasize his
innocence, The individual concerned has been transferred to
duties which would give you no further grounds for concern.
Thats the best I can do.
Things had moved on from those days, to the point where
at each meeting detailed lists of individuals and their activities
were exchanged routinely. Acts of violence had tapered off
considerably for several months, but the two big moneymaking rackets, namely contraband fuel and cigarettes, had
greatly increased. So-called fuel laundering involved a crude
industrial process to remove red marker British dyes and
green Irish dyes from diesel which had been marked in that
way in order to identify it as being for agricultural purposes
and therefore subject to a much reduced excise duty. The new,
illegal fuel, transformed by being filtered through certain
cheap acids or even clay or cat litter, could then be sold on,
usually in Northern Ireland, to customers who were either
innocent of the fraud, or to those in the know, who enjoyed
the sweetener of a discount on the full price they would
otherwise have paid for legitimate fuel. This racket naturally
required secluded premises and an investment of several
thousand pounds in the equipment, but the financial rewards
were so high, because of the difference between the cost price
of the carburant and the price at the pump with the notional
addition of duty, was so great, that the smugglers could afford
to lose one or two laundering units every month. For every
thousand pound invested the racketeers reckoned to gain fifty
thousand in four weeks. Inevitably, the farmer on whose
premises such installations were discovered, would plead that
he had been forced to co-operate with the terrorists under pain
of death. That was even sometimes true, but usually the said
farmer was found to have militant republican family links.
Some months the meetings contained little more than the
exchange of statistics and of impressions as to how the battle
against the terrorist was going, but today there were meatier
items on the agenda. HSB told his counterpart that he had
intelligence from a normally reliable source (in reality, from a

161

recent recruit to the Protected Witness Scheme), according to

which one of the main technical brains behind the bombing
campaign was an academic in, or it could it have been
from Dundalk. Either way it should be easy for the Gardai
to pinpoint a small number of likely suspects, as there
couldnt be hundreds of them. And since the security forces in
Northern Ireland believed that the total number of bombbrains was not more than half a dozen, to have one of them
taken out of circulation would be a major victory.
Another goodie which HSB brought to the meeting was
a file on the Israeli detection equipment with which his
American friend Miller had supplied him. Links with what
was euphemistically called an intermediary had already been
established and the RUC hoped to deploy the device within
weeks.
In return, Flannigan had a present for his visitor: his
technical men had managed to place a listening device in the
home of a well known Republican leader in Dun Laoghaire.
He was perhaps the most influential of the Southern
Command. Being of an earlier generation, and indeed now
virtually house- bound due to a severe arthritic condition, he
had been gradually sidelined, but his voice still carried weight
throughout the movement. He had been visited only ten days
before by Bunny and one other, unidentified man. The quality
of the sound on the tape was poor, but the Garda had
succeeded in piecing together a transcript of a full evenings
conversation which captured about eighty percent of what had
been said. It made fascinating reading.
Clearly there was a North-South divide amongst the
Republican leadership. Bunny argued in favour of, as he put
it, cashing in our chips now rather than risk being in a
weaker position in a years time. That was the firm view of his
colleagues. The Southerner disagreed: the armed struggle had
gone further than ever before, and could go further yet. British
public opinion was sick, sore and tired of the North and that
opinion would eventually force the politicians to disregard the
hardline securocrats. Besides it was a moral issue could
the leadership now betray the Republican dead, the hunger

162

strikers, the imprisoned and the maimed, for some hoped-for

electoral gain?
Its all right for you down here, talking, said Bunny,
genuine anger sounding in his voice. Your people can watch
from afar and put a punt in the collection tin and philosophise
about war and peace. Our people are under the cosh day and
daily. There is a risk our support in the community could
crumble. And at the same time the Brits have shown they are
willing to talk turkey. Its the moment to pursue that. He then
added, in a calmer, almost inaudible voice, We dont need to
turn everything off operationally, quite the reverse. Especially
as regards the England Department. Thats our most secure
one and the one which can do most damage and thus
concentrate Londons mind wonderfully.
The conversation did not appear to have a decisive
conclusion and there were many gaps in the transcript, as the
participants appeared to leave the room, perhaps to have
something to eat in the kitchen. When the transcript resumed
there were two priceless items of intelligence: firstly that the
receipt of goods would be the responsibility of Eamon
Hogan, a senior Customs official known to the Garda as a
Republican sympathiser.
HSB at once thought he knew of the operation Hogan
would be involved in, and the nature of the goods. He put
Flannigan in the picture about the next instalment of the arms
from Libya story.
The second piece of news was an unfortunately garbled
reference to a forthcoming event, which appeared to be a
planned bank raid. A reference to Seamus McLoughlin helped
HSB surmise that the raid would be in East Tyrone,
McLoughlins sphere of operations.
Bunny had been uncharacteristically explicit about these
coming attractions as he described them. But that showed
that he needed to convince the older man that he and his
comrades in the North had not gone soft.
HSB gratefully took these treats on board. It had been an
unusually productive meeting from his point of view, even
though it had ended sooner than he had expected. His driver

163

was just arriving back at the hotel car park from his lunch
when HSB emerged.
Okay Billy. On our way. And I think well take the Slane
road home. Its longer, but a change of plan is always safer.

164

Chapter 26

Cassidys visit to Paris weighed heavily upon him. Normally

he liked to concentrate on one thing at a time, preferably horse
racing, now that Colette was history, but apart from pleasures
his instinct was to think about each problem in life separately.
Multi-tasking had never been his strong point, yet his need to
master it had increased dramatically. His double life as a
businessman and IRA operative had become a triple one, with
his enforced recruitment by the security forces. Had he the
temperament to maintain such complexity, he often asked
himself, or would he simply crumble at some point and be
exposed as a despicable sham? Noleen was both a help and
yet another complication. She seemed happier recently and
even her father, old McManus, had said to him, You must be
looking after my wee girl quare an well. Shes just radiant, so
she is.
But he had never taken the risk of telling her about the full
extent of his involvement with the Government. Would she
out of devotion to him take that in her stride also, or would
she denounce him to the IRA? His very life depended on that
relationship not going wrong. He was not entirely convinced
that Granvilles protection could save him from the vengeance
of his alleged comrades-in-arms, since their arm was a long
one and their patience unlimited, as the execution of several
deserters in Great Britain over the years had dramatically
shown.
Cassidy pondered on these things as his Air France flight
from London came into land at Charles de Gaulle airport. The
next three days were going to be complicated, reflecting the
complications of his life. The official, public reason for his
visit was as a board member of the West Belfast Growth
group, on a study visit to see how the French authorities were
165

tackling the social and economic problems of les cits, the

vast high-rise housing estates on the outskirts of Paris, where
unemployment, crime and alienation from authority were
endemic and, so far, intractable. Costly programmes, devised
by special task forces had been put in place to combat these
deep-seated and interlocked problems, such as the provision
of small factory and warehousing units near to the housing;
travel-to-work subsidies for the employed seeking jobs in
Paris itself; and detox centres in the housing silos themselves.
It was worth examining which measures might be applicable
in Belfast.
That is how governments imitate one another in wasting
taxpayers money.
It had been Granvilles idea that West Belfast could learn
some lessons from this experience and, through his contacts
with the British embassy, had laid on the visit programme for
Cassidy. Indeed, since Barlow, the MI5 official, alias NIO
Economics adviser, had taken ill, (Adenauer flu as it was
known in the service) Granville himself, travelling separately,
would join Cassidy in Paris and be part of the study visit,
providing liaison with the embassy and French authorities.
Granville would also play a backup role in the second part of
Cassidys visit, which was to rendezvous with Verhagen and
McGiolla in order to inspect the merchandise and effect the
next instalment of payment.
The third aspect of the visit would be no easier for
Cassidy: he had persuaded Noleen to accompany him, as it
would be their wedding anniversary in a few days time. What
better way to celebrate than to do so in Paris, city of light and
romance And, of course, the celebration was another layer of
cover for his activities. Would he take her on one of the river
cruises and, over dinner, come clean with her about every fact
of his life, throwing himself on her mercy and love and
hoping to be free from at least one burden. He had not yet
decided; it remained an option.
Granville always had mixed feelings whenever he was
back in Paris. There was, of course, the sadness of his loss of

166

Helena, with whom he had spent such a splendid time in the

city, working out of the embassy. They had been a glittering
couple on the diplomatic circuit, at a time when Foreign
Ministries all over the world had had the upper hand over their
respective Finance Ministries and vied with each other, in
prestige capitals such as Paris, in the lavishness of their style
and hospitality. But his memories of the city went back further
than that, to his student days at the Sorbonne and the exquisite
excesses of youth. He had been spoiled, he admitted, by an
uncle, his fathers brother, who lived in great style in a
magnificent apartment on the Ile St Louis a style de vie he
could afford, as a senior executive of an Anglo-French bank.
Uncle Damien, a widower with no children, seemed to live
vicariously through nephew Jeremy and was delighted when
Granville came to study at the Sorbonne. Neither admitted to
Granvilles parents the extent of Damiens avuncular support.
I just give the boy a saucer of milk and a biscuit every now
and then, but it even ran to a secret monthly allowance which
Granville put to good use, as he euphemistically described it.
Granville did not stay with his uncle, preferring to lead the full
student life on the Left Bank. His accommodation was,
however, well above the average student quarters, being in a
hotel albeit a modest one in the Rue Vernueil, close to St
Germain. Nostalgia always brought him back to that district;
even to that hotel, which over the years had moved steadily
upmarket to become what was now known as a boutique
hotel.
Discretion had decreed that he had arranged for the
Cassidys to be booked into the Lutetia on the Boulevard
Raspail, which was large, international and anonymous. It was
quite near, but far enough away to sustain the pretence of
distance, as far as Noleen was concerned. Mr Michael
Lushby, First Secretary at the embassy, took them there in an
embassy car and as they checked in, Aidan became the
unwitting protg of the DST, the French equivalent of MI5,
who would tail him during his stay in France. That was a
goodwill service on Granvilles behalf, but also, for the

167

French, an investment as regards possible intelligence gains

about arms trafficking on French soil.
The study visits to the cits were a chore as far as
Granville was concerned. Apart from cover, they served no
purpose in his terms. But he had better stay awake and scoop
up whatever documentation was available, in case Cassidy
needed administrative support in writing his report for his
West Belfast Growth responsibilities. Granville suddenly
realised that he had never seen a word written by Cassidy: was
he up to writing such a report or would he, Granville, have to
undertake that chore himself? The thought put him in a bad
mood. He thought instead of Noleen off shopping, for
clothes and for nineteenth-century prints and he wished the
day away. That evening the Cassidys were to dine alone,
while Granville visited and had a meal with Uncle Damien,
who was still spry in old age and enjoyed his food. Only
pleasure left in life he would say with conviction at every
meal. He had been a good cook in his day, but nowadays his
gouvernante (house-keeper) who conveniently lived just
across the river, cooked for him three times a week. He and
Granville spent the evening chatting about family news.
The Cassidys did not chat about much. The bateau
mouche scenario, which in Aidans mind had been the
possible setting for his confession to Noleen, disintegrated
when the city was lashed by a prolonged rainstorm which
reduced visibility to a few metres and drove the temperature
down by almost ten degrees. Aidan, more relieved than
disappointed, grasped at this turn of events as a sign that the
time was not propitious for his disclosures. At Lushbys
suggestion, they dined in the Boeuf Mode in rue de
lUniversit The meal was mediocre, the service poor and
their conversation rather flat for wedding anniversary
celebrants. In all, not a successful evening.
The following morning was one of those autumn days in
Paris that the songwriters write songs about. Everything
seemed to sparkle like new after the rain, the sky was a deep,

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deep blue and the warm sunshine, forecast to last all day, had
brought out summer outfits once more, for a last glorious
fling.
When they met over breakfast in the Lutetia, Granville
disclosed that he was going to play truant from the days
(alleged) study visit. This visit existed only on the typed
Programme of Visit, which would be appended to Cassidys
report. In reality, he too, was going to be a truant, off on IRA
business, to meet Verhagen and McGiolla in an industrial
warehouse near the markets at Rungis, on the southern
outskirts of the city.
And what are your plans? said Granville, turning to
Noleen. Then he risked adding, Perhaps we could play truant
together?
Oh, I dont think so, replied Noleen, but with a slight
giggle which betrayed her attraction to the idea. You see, Im
going gallery-crawling. I want to revisit both the Jeu de
Paume and the Quai dOrsay collections.
Well, I could endure that, especially the Impressionists,
countered Granville. And perhaps a spot of lunch somewhere
nice this fine day.
Thats a great idea, said Aidan, apparently without
suspicion. Why dont you do that?
OK, said Noleen, cheerfully, thats the programme
decided.
When Cassidy got out of the taxi, carrying his Gladstonetype briefcase, at the address he had been given, he found
himself in an ugly commercial/industrial estate, made up of
small factories and large warehouses, no doubt built there
because the site lay in the fork between the A6 motorway and
the N7, Route nationale .
Verhagen was already waiting for him at the door to the
reception area of a warehouse. Cassidys DST shadows were
parked in the customers car park of the building on the other
side of the street. The photographer prepared to take shots of
anyone who entered or left the warehouse.

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Inside the warehouse itself, a gloomy cavern of a place,

McGiolla was talking in careful airport English, to two men of
North African appearance. The two Irishmen grunted statutory
greetings and nodded to the Maghrbiens.
OK, allons-y, said Verhagen briskly, weve got a lot of
checking to do and financial matters to attend to, so lets make
a start. Fast.
He led the group towards the back of the warehousing
space, where long corridors of shelves reached almost to the
ceiling.
Lot 162, here it is. A stencil on the side read
quipments agricoles, and the destinataire was shown as
Mommens en Zoon, stevedores at Antwerp. McGiolla drew
a sheaf of paper from the depths of his pockets while the two
Algerians began deftly to open the packing cases for
inspection.
This could take some time, said Verhagen to Cassidy,
you like a coffee in the office while we work? Cassidy
nodded assent. He needed something to steady his nerves and
he preferred not to be looking over McGiollas shoulder
during the latters professional work. In fact, he never felt
comfortable in McGiollass presence. There was something
chilling about that man, despite his hail fellow well met
bonhomie, when drinking in pubs in Crossmaglen, singing
Republican songs till the rafters rang. He had the focused
personality of the true zealot, who never for a moment lost his
concentration on the cause. The two men shared a keen
interest in horse racing, but Cassidy could never generate a
relaxed conversation even on that topic.
Thats what this armed struggle does to a man. It sucks
the humanity out of him. God, I wish it was all over.
When the others joined them in the tiny, anonymous
upstairs office there were a few adjustments to be made to
accounts, in the light of minor discrepancies in the number of
assault rifles ordered and now semi-delivered. Agreement
was swiftly reached on the amounts to be paid to the
Algerians and a further interim payment to Verhagen. Cassidy

170

made the payments by way of bankers drafts, drawn on a

bank in Zurich, plus a small amount in US dollars.
Were all weighed and all paid, said McGiolla, as
though he were at a point-to-point race meeting.
Within minutes the five men had departed in different
directions.
In central Paris, Granville and Noleen were having a very
different day, one which Granville had taken great pains to
stage manage as much as possible. The visits to the Jeu de
Paume and the Quai dOrsay galleries had gone well. Noleen
was particularly excited by a special exhibition of Pisarros
made up of many paintings borrowed from other museums
and private collections. In her enthusiasm, her eyes, Granville
thought, seemed to dance with that gaiety which many Irish
women possess but all too frequently have little cause to
display.
Once, when they were crossing the traffic on the Pont
Neuf, Granville took her by the hand, protectively. It was not,
however, the grasp of a boy scout helping an old lady across
the road; rather it was in the manner of would-be lovers. She
did not immediately pull her hand free when they had safely
reached the opposite pavement, but waited until he,
reluctantly, released her.
Their lunch venue had been carefully chosen a longestablished brasserie on the corner of the Rue dEpron and
St. Andr des Arts. Granville had known it for years and had
always enjoyed its delights. Whenever he was feeling he
deserved a real treat he indulged in a raid on its extensive
cellar. He had hoped she would be enchanted at its
atmosphere of Parisian chic, and it appeared he had hit his
target: Noleen talked volubly and laughed a lot, a high
tinkling laugh which encouraged Granville to both tease her
and make flattering remarks about her appearance.
Oh look, I didnt know poussin was a baby chicken, she
cried.
You thought it was a seventeenth-century painter!
Yes! Thats right.

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My godfather wrote the definitive book about him. I must

dig you out a copy.
How lovely. Ill hold you to that.
Noleen started with mussels soup; Granville with a plate
of fruits de mer, sent on its way with a flinty Muscadet. Then,
on his recommendation, they both had faisan farci aux
marrons and a bottle of Echezeaux, Domaine de la RomaneeConti, which the sommelier poured with a care bordering on
reverence. Ruinously expensive, but look on it as an
investment.
Oh, if only Ireland could be like this, Noleen said
wistfully.
Do you mean politically or personally? He tried his best
to load the word personally with intimate meaning.
I suppose I mean both, she said seriously. I mean, my
life is partly ruined by the situation (she made quote marks in
the air) and I dont know if it will ever be anything different.
Thats the depressing thing.
Well, Im an optimist. Some day please God, soon
there will be some sort of settlement. Everybodys tired of it.
Tired of it, yes, but there are still two big obstacles in the
long run.
Which are.?
For a start, she said with sudden passion, you Brits
dont seem capable of calling the unionists bluff and of
telling them to get on with living with the rest of us in a united
Ireland. And then the unionists themselves all of them, not
just their fascist leaders cant see how much better off
theyd be in a united Ireland. Look at the Republics economy,
roaring ahead. And all the social benefits far superior to those
in the North.
I hear what youre saying, he said, falling back on his
automatic soft-soap FCO vocabulary, but I think youre
wrong on your first point. The UK wont force the unionists
into a united Ireland, but we wont hold on to Northern Ireland
as though we were all in a colonial context. We want to see all
sides on the island settle down together and fit into the
modern world.

172

He lit the first cigarette of the day progress was slow on

that point, but steady.
And as for the unionists, I think theyre pushed into their
defensive mode precisely by the Irish pressure. The Irish
should be courting them, not bombing them. And as for the
economy, I share the unionists suspicion that the Celtic tiger
which, incidentally, I thought Sinn Fein didnt like, as a
bourgeois creation may one day have to limp to the vets.
She shook her head, but nevertheless smiled at him. I see
you are teasing me because you think Im not a very good
republican. Its true I dont go along with all the partys
hairshirt economics, but when it comes to Irish freedom, Im a
Republican all the way.
Anyway, said Granville in a tone which indicated he
was keen to leave the swampy ground of Irish politics, Im
still an optimist and meantime gather ye rosebuds while ye
may.
He touched her hand across the table and she touched his
with her other hand. They lapsed into silence.
After lunch they strolled down to the Seine, by way of St.
Michel and across the Pont de Sully to the Ile Saint Louis.
When they reached the ornate iron outer door of Uncle
Damiens apartment building on the Quai dOrlans, he put
his arm round her and said, Now I have a surprise for you. I
want to show you how the French bourgeoisie live, and
punching in the code, he opened the door. In the broad
passage inside, as though by automatic mechanism, the
concierge popped out of her loge, like a figure on a weather
chalet. Ah, Monsieur Jeremy, bonjour. Desole, votre oncle
nest pas l, il est Londres.
Ca va, thats alright, Madame Lagrange, replied
Granville, I knew that. He gave me a key.
Madame gave Noleen an up-and-down look, which was at
once aesthetically approving and morally disapproving, as the
couple got into the lift.
Inside the vast apartment, with its double doors over three
metres high, Louis XVI furniture, ormolu clocks, gilded

173

mirrors and Goblin tapestries, Noleen observed the scene with

obvious delight.
And the view! she exclaimed, opening French windows
to a balcony off the salon, which looked south across the river.
It was much cooler now and the sun shone weakly as it began
to set over the rooftops of the Quai de la Tournelle, on the
Left Bank opposite.
I never tire of it, said Granville, Now lets see I know
where Uncle keeps his brandy. Opening a lacquered cabinet
he took out a decanter and two balloon glasses.
Heres our digestif, he said, handing her a glass with a
generous measure of the tawny liqueur. When their drinks
were almost finished they were sitting side-by-side on a green
chaise longue. With the calculation of a matador choosing the
moment of truth, he asked, Would you like to see the master
bedroom?
Noleen smiled knowingly and blushed. She hesitated.
Then she touched his arm again. No, please, no. Not ....
Did she mean definitely no, not ever, or merely not yet, or
possibly even yes, if you coax me some more?
Granville, quadrilingual though he was, could not
definitively interpret this response. Deciding not to take any
risks, he accepted it with a light remark about the pity it was
not to see the whole apartment, but as they were in the lift on
their way out, he leant forward and kissed her full on the lips.
She did not pull back or protest, but he nevertheless at once
said, Im sorry. I shouldnt have. But I couldnt resist.
Noleen said nothing.

174

Chapter 27

PANORAMA had been a massive step forward in antiterrorist equipment, used and praised by all its users in the
various intelligence agencies. The greatest thing since the
sliced panacea was HSBs description. But one thing which
bothered the analysts of PANORAMA was that they could not
glean, even from that system, the slightest indication of who
the Sniper was. They were pretty sure that they were looking
for one individual, but one whose identity was unknown to all
but the top of the Belfast command structure and one who was
ultra-careful about covering his tracks. No threats, no offers of
money could extract from the customers at Castlereagh even
a hint of who the sniper might be. Granville eventually
concluded that this was a genuine secret within PIRA and its
supporters one that could not be betrayed by more than a
very restricted number of top people.
It became ever more important that the Sniper be caught.
He was becoming an all-too-important instrument of terror in
the hands of the IRA. Looked at objectively and statistically,
the number of his victims eleven so far, all of them either
soldiers or policemen in uniform was not in itself a major
factor in the conflict which had already cost over three
thousand lives. But the fact that this man could, with
impunity, instantaneously snuff out lives, even at a great
distance, struck a fear in the public out of all proportion to the
mathematical threat to life which he posed. And on the other
hand, the mystery surrounding him and the one hundred per
cent death rate of his attacks, were used as propaganda by the
Republican movement as a whole. At a time when reports of
arrests and court appearances of IRA men and women were
multiplying weekly, An Poblacht could cheer up its readers
175

with stories about the daring deeds of a fictional An Claiomh

derg (the red sword), which was set in a vague period of the
past but which they could easily place in the context of
everyday reality.
Another man in Byrnes position might have been
tempted into indiscretions boasting in a safe shebeen, or
giving dark hints to his friends but his best defence was his
own secretive nature. He loved reading of his own exploits in
the newspapers, as he relived those exquisite moments of
primeval excitement. But he was careful never to cut out the
articles and when occasionally he heard trusted relatives
gossip about who An Claiomh derg might be based on, he
never itched to enlighten them. His secret reinforced his role.
He was happy in the perverted way a drug addict can be for
the duration of his high he was outside and above
mundane reality. But he was forever discontented with the
technical aspects of his job the maintenance of the gun, the
choice of target, the getaway arrangements most of which
were outside his control.
He didnt like the sound of his next assignment. It was
attractively ambitious, but geographically out of his comfort
zone and due to take place at a moment of maximum security
alertness. It was outlined to him by the OC of his battalion, as
they stood side by side at Casement Park, ostensibly watching
an inter-county Gaelic Athletic Association football match.
From sources within Belfast City Hall, the IRA had learnt that
the Unionist mayor had brought off what in his mind was a
brilliant propaganda coup: he had had a positive response to
his invitation to the Lord Mayor of the City of London, Sir
Peter Gooding, whom he had met at a solidarity lunch
organised in London by the Secretary of State. The invitation
was not only to visit Belfast but to switch on the Christmas
lights.
What a target! The personification of British imperialist
capitalism killed by Irish Republican freedom fighters.
Byrnes concerns were, in reality, focused on the likely
practicalities of such a hit, but he ventured a political

176

reservation: Would the Americans not be turned off by the

anti-capitalist bit?
Fuck the Americans! Theyre going soft on us anyway
and their moneys drying up. Gaddafi will love it. And hes
the guy sending the big guns and possibly the big bucks.
The OC lowered his voice, although there was no one
within earshot on the windswept terrace, and said with
emphasis, Ill look after the politics, Sean. You just take out
yer man.
The chosen stage for the assassination could not have
been more public. The IRA insider in the City Hall knew that
the scenario for the mayoral visit was that Sir Peter should
arrive outside the main gates of the City Hall, in Donegal
Square North, to be met by the Town Clerk, who would escort
him to the portico at the main entrance to the building; an
entrance which had long been closed for security reasons but
which would, symbolically, be opened for the great occasion.
There he would be officially welcomed by the Lord Mayor
and brought indoors to have drinks with those aldermen and
councillors who would have not heeded the nationalists call
to boycott the event. The official party would, some twenty
minutes later, emerge from the City Hall and mount a
platform at the gates, where the switch was located for the
ceremony.
The chosen moment for the hit was the initial meeting
between the two Lord Mayors at the portico, on the grounds
that the security detail would not yet have settled down with
the newcomer, and that the risk of collaterals was lower at
that point than when large numbers of the Belfast public,
always an unpredictable and unruly lot, would be involved.
Furthermore, if something were to crop up at the portico
moment and life rarely ran to schedule there would be
another, unfortunately riskier, moment of opportunity when
Sir Peter would be on the platform to switch on the lights.
The snipers position was not ideal, as Byrne muttered to
himself, when setting up his equipment. Admittedly, the
distance-to-target, at just over a hundred metres, was very

177

much shorter than his usual operating range. Of course, the

downside to that was that his eventual pursuers would also be
closer to him. He had to be ahead, and out of sight of the
inevitable chase, until he reached the designated safe house
in Joy Street, where he would be cleansed of all forensic
evidence by a nurse with relevant experience, and be provided
with a cast-iron alibi, playing cards with three friends.
Exceptionally, the AK-47 would this time be sacrificed as he
retreated. It would not hold any forensic clues. His providers
had secured for him a second floor office window in a red
sandstone building on the corner of Donegal Square North and
Chichester Street. The usual occupant of the office, a
manufacturers agent and Sinn Fein sympathiser, was
conveniently in Las Palmas with his wife, for a weeks
sunshine break, all expenses paid.
What irked Byrne about this position was that the
windowsill was at the wrong height. He could not get
comfortable, no matter which way he approached the problem.
He had, in advance, requested a tripod, to be delivered by his
caddy, but he had found that did not really help in setting up
a shooting position which combined steadiness, good
visibility and comfort. He pulled over a chair, knelt on it and
rested the rifle on the window ledge. He was now six inches
lower than before. That would have to do. Now for the wait,
always a strain on the nerves.
The whirling blue lights on the police motorbike outriders
heralded the arrival of Sir Peters hired limousine. Already
flashes from the paparazzi were lighting up the gloomy
November night.
Sir Peter was wearing his long red and gold robes of
office, with a broad ermine collar, and around his neck and
across his chest hung the heavy, glittering chain of office.
Byrne took in this scene as a whole, but his concentration was
reserved for the portico, at which the Belfast Lord Mayor had
now appeared. God, there were an awful lot of people milling
about, but the formal handshake at the portico for the benefit
of the photographers, would isolate the two principals and

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slow up the game. A wild thought crossed his mind: could he

take out both? He almost laughed at the enormity of the
thought, then put himself back into his hunters trance.
Miraculously, the golden moment arrived exactly as
planned: the two gaudily accoutred principals stood
motionless, vigorously shaking hands and beaming for the
photographers. Byrne had Sir Peter in his sights. But in the
nanosecond it took him to squeeze the trigger, the Lord
Mayors head turned and he looked to the left. The movement
could not have been more than half an inch, but it saved his
life. In the same second a chunk of white stone masonry flew
outwards from the porticos pillar.
Shit !
Byrne could scarcely believe he had missed. There was no
sudden movement amongst the people at the City Hall
entrance it always takes seconds for the mind to take in a
sudden and unexpected development. Byrne fired off another
round hurriedly and without taking precise aim. Another
plume of white dust sprang out of a pillar. Heads were now
turned in his direction and some people were diving for cover
into the portico.
Byrnes first failure was followed by panic and suddenly
everything started to go wrong for him. He lost precious
seconds fumbling with the key on the inside of the lock on the
office door, then on the ground floor he couldnt remember
whether to turn to the left or right at the end of the back
corridor in order to get to the door into the alleyway beyond.
He went left; he should have gone right. When he finally
reached the alleyway he headed east, in the direction of the
Law Courts. There were people about in Montgomery Street,
but not a big enough crowd into which he could easily melt.
And he could hear the sound of running feet from behind him.
What if the police already knew what he looked like. And
what about the revolver in his pocket should he dump it
now, or hold on to it in case of a shoot-out. He decided to
keep it and to run for it.
As he ran down another alley, the length of a multi-storey
car park, he heard someone running towards him, police

179

reinforcements called up by radio, he supposed. He ran into

the ground floor of the car park his only way out and made
for the stairs. If he could get to the roof, he might be able to
penetrate another building in the street and make his getaway
from there. He could hear the pounding of his pursuers feet
he had obviously been seen, but at least there only seemed to
be one policeman close to him. If he could hide from him until
he had passed to higher floors, or if he shot him, he would still
have a sporting chance of escaping.
At the third floor he pushed open the door and dived into
the area in which cars were parked. Could he hide there? He
crouched behind two cars but could not hear whether his
pursuer had gone past the door and up to the next floor, as cars
moved down the exit ramp, drowning out any footfall. Then
he saw the door open and a tall figure enter, a revolver in
hand. He reached for his own weapon, took aim and with both
hands out in front of him fired. And missed. The other
immediately went to ground, rolling between parked cars.
Now it was cat and mouse, except that, no doubt, other cats
would be on their way. He must get out now. Another car
moved down the exit ramp, then silence. He crept nearer to
the door opposite the one he and his adversary had come in
by. As he crept along the side of a large 4X4he did not see
that another driver had come through the first door, behind
him. The newcomer pulled his keys from his pocket and
pressed the remote, as he approached his own car, thus
triggering the flash-back response from the vehicle. Byrne
reacted instantly, in an automatic reflex, to this sudden noise
and flash of light, firing off two rounds at the source of his
surprise. In the gloom, this revealed where he was and Sgt.
Derek McQuillan earned his Police Commendation Medal by
hitting him once in the neck and once in the shoulder with two
rapid rounds from his Koch and Heckler with little thought
for his own safety and with great efficiency as the citation
would read.
Byrne knew he had been hit, the impact crashed through
him like a double mule kick, yet he felt no great pain at first.
As he lay on the cold concrete floor he was conscious only of

180

a deep numbness in his upper body and of the damp seepage

into his shirt of his own blood. The next half hour passed in a
blur. Increasing pain, shortness of breath, then more
policemen, some in uniform. Then the agony of being carried
on a stretcher down to an ambulance. The last thing he heard
was the cacophony of emergency service vehicles. Then an
injection, then sleep.
When he awoke, it was in the guarded wing of the
Musgrave Park Hospital. An intravenous drip was fastened to
his right forearm, an oxygen supply tube was fixed below his
nose and, above his bed, a monitor screen beeped from time to
time.
It had been a bad day at the office.

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Chapter 28

Early morning mists in the western English Channel were

beginning to lift, blown by a stiffening wind from the southwest, which turned the sea choppy, with white horses
appearing on the crests of the waves. The St Lucia came
butting along, heading for Lands End and the last stretch of
the voyage to Dublin. It was, for the captain and crew, a
routine trip, no different to the dozens they had made over the
years between Antwerp and Dublin.
Suddenly that calm routine was broken. Out of the
retreating mist to the north came the grey shape of a Royal
Navy minesweeper and, simultaneously, a radio order to
heave to. St Lucias captain, with the clear conscience which
comes from ignorance, complied immediately, wondering
whether, in the early misty morning light, his vessel had been
mistaken for a Spanish fishing pirate or mother ship. He could
now see Royal Navy sailors on the deck of the minesweeper,
preparing to come aboard.
Half an hour later, when the crates of agricultural
equipment had been jemmied open, to reveal rows of rifles,
boxes of ammunition and cartons of explosives, he was both
shocked and fearful. The lieutenant leading the boarding party
was not interested in his protestations of ignorance.
We are escorting you back the way youve come. You
are to put into Portsmouth at a berth well direct you to. After
that, its a police matter.
He paused, Is that clear? It was less a question, more a
command.
Alright, said the captain weakly.

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News of the arms seizure at sea was carefully packaged

in Belfast. In contrast to many events, about which the media
had immediate access and therefore the liberty to choose the
sort of presentation to be given to the facts, the government
machine had several hours start, and had control over all the
witnesses, either under lock and key or in Her Majestys
Senior Service.
Granville briefed Wheeler on the essentials: the official
announcement to be timed to receive maximum coverage on
television; emphasis to be placed on the fact that the operation
(given the codename WALRUS) had been mounted following
specific information gathered in Northern Ireland; and that the
Garda Sochna had co-operated closely in the preparation of
the operation. Still photographs of the minesweeper, the St
Lucia and part of the haul of armaments and explosives should
help sell the story. Like hot cakes.
And another thing, James. I assume youll have a tte-tte with your friend Vincent Glass on this one. May I suggest
that in vino part of your privileged veritas you should point
him vaguely, but firmly, in the direction of South Armagh as
the source of our information. No names, of course, but
season your tale with measured indiscretion.
Wheela-Deala was in luck: the day turned out to be
otherwise a slack news day no cabinet crisis, no sex scandal,
no sporting highlights, no competition to the lead story, wallto-wall, of the drama at sea. The euphoria which the news
released throughout the security forces found a happy channel
as the background mood to the RUCs Senior Officers
Christmas Ball, held in the hastily decorated canteen of their
Headquarters at Brooklyn. It was nowadays one of the few
major official occasions for the top of the force to come
together in a festive mood. Too often ceremonial turnouts
were related to funerals or memorial occasions and sports day
had long since been abandoned because of security
considerations. So the officers, and more particularly their
wives and sweethearts, made the most of the opportunity to
celebrate. The urge to dress up was undeniable and local
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fashion houses, from as far away as Cloughmills, rubbed their

hands at the prospect of providing ball gowns for the women
folk of a well paid police force.
Niblock and his young apprentice, Det. Constable Glenn
Addy, watched the arrivals from his office on the fourth floor,
overlooking the entrance hall.
Some style, eh? said he, as another couple of revellers
stepped into the pool of light at the main door. Nice piece of
curtain material there.
Addy laughed. Did you see Mrs Richardson a few
minutes ago. God, what a cleavage!
Thats not a cleavage, son, replied Niblock, thats a
ravine. Get your head stuck down there and itll take the Swiss
Mountain Rescue Team to get you out.
I hope Assistant Chief Constable Richardson doesnt hear
you make remarks like that, chuckled Addy.
And I hope the Chief can keep his hands off her.
Remember last year? He played her like a cello. I thought we
were in for a full-blown scandal all over the papers. Top cop
in wife swap would have been the headline, according to
Wheela.
I heard he managed to put a muzzle on the press boys on
that. He must be good, friend Wheela.
Niblocks eyes narrowed. Baldy little weasel. Take my
advice: if you sup with him take a 40-foot spoon with you.
I didnt know you disliked him to that extent.
Its not a question of like or dislike. I respect him as
being good at his job. But his interests arent always our
interests. He would shaft us as quick as wink.
Looking at his watch, Niblock continued, But enough of
this spectator sport. Its time to get down and dirty. You can
have the first dance with Mrs Richardson.
The mood at the ball was more upbeat and celebratory
than it had been for years, influenced by the general belief that
the war was being won, and heightened still further by the
triumph of the arrest of the St Lucia. Everyone talked about it.
Those not in the know speculated about the background; those
few in the know merely waffled.

184

To the dulcet saxophone-toned music of the Zenith Jazz Octet,

dancers swirled round the floor, watched from the peripheral
tables by those catching their breath or sipping their drinks.
Mrs Richardson was outshone by only one other wife, a much
younger woman it had to be said, who , in conformity with
that years fashion imperative, dazzled in a long, multi-frilled
dress in pink, la Sevilliana, which would have delighted
Danny LaRue.
One of the spectators taking in this scene and he would
remain a spectator all evening was Bill Austin, reflective
rather than festive, as he peered at the proceedings through his
thick glasses. As a non-participant at such events, which he
attended only out of a sense of organisational duty, he was
used to being teased by Ben Niblock, who now sidled up to
him.
Well, Bill, what do you think of Mrs Richardsons
outfit?
Austin appeared to reflect seriously on the question,
before replying,
A beautiful woman without discretion is like a jewel in a
pigs snout.
Sorry I asked. Can I get you a drink?
Austin rose to the provocation. Ben, you know very well
I dont drink.
I know, because youve told me often enough, that in
your lifetime you havent yet had a drink, but theres always
the first time.
My first drink, in your sense, will be a chalice of wine at
the marriage supper of the Lamb, replied Austin, looking
upwards to the ceiling, from which, unpromisingly, dangled
paper Chinese lanterns, alternating with miniature plastic
Christmas trees.
Niblock pulled a chastened face.
Well in the meantime, I think Ill have another one
myself, I feel like celebrating tonight. Dont you?
The RUC officers were not the only ones to celebrate that
night. When the last edition of Le Soir came out in Brussels, it
185

contained a quite detailed account of the St Lucias seizure.

Emile Verhagen smiled a contented smile. Reaching for the
phone, he dialled a UK number. There was no reply but the
call went on to the ansa-phone recording.
Good evening. Just to remind you that VAT is now
payable on your purchase. You have the numbers. And if you
need more goods, dont hesitate to contact me at any time. Its
been a pleasure doing business with you. Bye bye.
As he hung up he muttered, A pleasure indeed, and
poured himself a generous cognac.

186

Chapter 29

Helicopters were no novelty in the skies above South Armagh.

Indeed the security forces headquarters there, originally
housed in the reinforced RUC station in Crossmaglen,
incongruously situated cheek-by-jowl with the local
chemists, were supplied exclusively by choppers. The nearby
Gaelic Athletic Association football pitch controversially
requisitioned for the purpose served as their landing strip.
So many police and army vehicles had in the past been
ambushed close to the fiercely nationalist and republican
town, that even routine patrols sent out from the base used
helicopters to get out of, and back into, the town, as they did
their best to maintain a security presence in what the
newspapers called the Bad Lands of South Armagh. General
Chesham had an ever gloomier view of the place: whilst he
referred to the area around Armagh City and Craigavon as
Armagh North, he dubbed the south of the county ArmaghGeddon.
And it was true that, along with East Tyrone, this area
contained the greatest numbers of Republican die-in-the-ditch
hardliners, many of whom regarded Bunnys Bodenstown
speech with the gravest of reservations. Those areas had
provided the IRA with some of the organisations very best
ASUs, in terms of their daring, competence and ruthlessness.
They had basked in the admiration of the wider Republican
family, who looked on their hard men as the epitome of what
an Irish freedom fighter should be. But now, their
uncompromising devotion to the armed struggle was
somewhat of a potential embarrassment to a growing majority
of the overall leadership. However, their continuing existence
as a sort of kamikasi strike force, ready to be deployed with
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maximum effect, was still a valuable asset, to be used

sparingly, in the right circumstances, as Bunny would say to
those close to him.
The helicopter swung low over the town, on an unusual
trajectory designed to draw attention to its flight path, then
veered in a north-easterly direction, still at low altitude. The
fact that it did not follow the usual flight path in and out of the
base meant that there was no real threat from mortar or RPG
fire, so it could be as visible as the pilot chose. He was under
orders to be seen as much as possible, so that the lifting of
McGiolla would be public knowledge.
McGiolla was, of course, well known in the towns
Republican circles and in the community at large. He had
briefly been interned, which established his credentials, and he
always appeared at Sinn Fein public events, such as protest
marches, commemorations, parades and so on. It was assumed
rightly that he had a special role to play in the struggle,
which kept him away from ASUs and their risk of being
captured or wounded. Some even guessed that his army past
was being used in the service of their army, the Provisional
Irish Republican Army, but not many questions were openly
asked about him in the locality. It was safer that way.
A last minute check with VELLUM had confirmed that
McGiollas bugged vehicle, a rather battered diesel 4 x 4, had
not moved from the vicinity of his small farm. He was, in fact,
less than a hundred metres from the whitewashed house, in a
field, inspecting his store cattle. He watched the touchdown
with equanimity: he had been detained for questioning too
often to be fazed by the procedures; and as for incriminating
material in his house he supposed the police and army
would have a search warrant he would enjoy the
fruitlessness of their efforts, as all his stuff, such as details of
arms purchases, arms dumps, deployment etc. were in papers
he kept in the attic of his ancient aunts, in town.
Remember, said HSB with emphasis, the important
thing from our point of view is that an interrogation takes
place. Other outcomes might be a bonus, but that is unlikely.

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But your work has to look normal to friend McG. He was

preparing Niblock and Austin for their encounter with
McGiolla, at present on board the helicopter en route to the
Castlereagh Holding Centre, where he was being brought,
instead of Geogh Barracks in Armagh, for the convenience of
HSB, who was playing this one so close to his chest that even
his regional deputy was not in on the details.
They were joined by Granville, who would sit in with
HSB in the observation room, in order to follow the
interrogation next door.
He may well give us the usual I am saying nothing,,
which would not be a tragedy, but we will still, in that case,
have to spin things out for say a few hours, maybe even days
if were lucky, in order to be credible in his eyes.
Isnt that the most likely result? said Austin, The real
hardliners have clammed up successfully for quite some time.
As Id do in their shoes. A man who guards his mouth and
his tongue keeps his soul from troubles.b
How very wise, laughed HSB, Who said that? Friend
Stiletto?
No, it was the wisest man who ever lived: King Solomon
himself.
Im not so sure Id take lessons in wisdom from a guy
with three thousand wives, or whatever the number was. But I
take your point about the senior Provos being better prepared
nowadays to resist interrogation, unless theyre looking for a
way out, and / or for serious dosh.
Its only the volunteer amateurs we can get going with
nowadays, said Austin. Mind you, we do hear a lot of evil
things from them.
I think we might have more of a reaction from McG,
replied HSB. Hell be pretty confident about his Brussels trip,
but hell want to sound us out about how much we know.
Besides, hes an arrogant bastard, who thinks he can play cat
and mouse with us.

189

Filte, cara Tomas, filte go Caisleanreagh, said Niblock

with a grin, as McGiolla was shown into the interrogation
room.
Welcome, but is it go Caisleanreagh or is it na? the
prepositions in Irish always fox me.
You can go and fuck yourself, growled McGiolla.
Now thats not very friendly, Tomas. And heres me
trying to learn Irish for all our futures, together.
Your future, you Orange bastard, will be up against a
wall.
Niblock, well satisfied that he had provoked his quarry
out of careful passivity, moved straight to business. Wed
very much like to hear what you were doing, and where,
between the 17th and the 23rd of last month, inclusive.
Crossmaglen and even Tullyhanna felt bereft at your absence.
I was enjoying myself.
Austin intervened. Now, Tomas, I think it was Wilde
who said everything truly enjoyable is either illegal, immoral
or fattening. Lets leave morality and nutritional values out of
it. What about illegal?
No, and you have no right to harass me on my
movements. Thats an abuse of my human rights.
A wee birdie told me, said Niblock, that you were out
of the jurisdiction during that period.
Thats not yet a crime, even in this police state.
True, but withholding information is. If I mean when
I find out the truth we can come back to you on that In the
meantime we can hold you until Saturday to see if your cooperative spirit revives in the meantime.
You cant hold me for that.
Oh yes, we can, said Austin, in pantomime fashion.
McGiolla put his hand to his forehead. So they knew he
had been away. Probably no more than that. Better to shut the
game down as early as possible.
Since when has going to the races been a crime? he said.
Oh, the geegees? And where Punchestown, the
Curragh?
No. France, Longchamps.

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Longchamps, no less. Wow! With your Louis Vuitton

suitcases no doubt. And I take it you can prove that?
Yes, I flew from Dublin and stayed with friends outside
Paris. The boarding passes are possibly at home if your goons
havent lifted them. But anyway, Air France should have a
record. And as for my friends, they work at the racecourse.
Francis Murphy and Paul Wheatfield. I can give you their
addresses if I can have my address book.
Now theres something you dont see every day, said
Niblock, a terrorist with an address book. No doubt with the
details of the members of the Army Council. A likely story.
But dont worry, well have your racing friends checked out.
And you can stay here while we do so, added Austin.
That will give you time to reflect on your past deeds. You
could help us and yourself so much if you made a clean
breast of things. Its never too late to repent.
We could help you get out of your dangerous lifestyle.
See you were protected. Help you financially, said Niblock,
more out of habit than with any expectation of success.
Fuck off!
Both sides lapsed into a sullen boredom: McGiolla now
determined not to utter another word and wondering how long
they would hold him, as he was now convinced they had
nothing specific on him; his interrogators wondering how long
they could credibly spin out this non-interrogation.
The next day, early in the morning, Granville rang from
his office on his secure Goliath telephone and asked for
Niblock.
Anything new?
No. Hes back in his shell.
I think the time has come to return dear Tomas to the
wild. Make sure every last parishioner in and around the
glen see him delivered.
OK, understood. But hold on a minute. Im getting an
urgent report on the other line...this is interesting. About
South Armagh. Ill ring you back when I get a clear picture.

191

Gransha Farm, Tullycreevy, South Armagh was the scene

of two helicopter visitations that day. Firstly, a police
chopper, which had been criss-crossing the fields nearby,
came to hover, at only ten metres above the lane leading up to
the farm, about one hundred metres from the house. On board
was a crew of three: the pilot, an observer/lookout and a
sergeant, who operated the Goodlight detector equipment
recently acquired by the RUC from an Israeli provider. The
advance represented by the Goodlight MR 5 machine over
its predecessors was that it combined an indicator of recently
disturbed earth with a remote metal detection capability. The
lenses of two cameras, like the barrels of a cannon on a
galleon, protruded beneath the middle of the helicopter.
Inside, the operator could monitor two display screens, each
projecting a coloured image of the area covered by the
camera. If there was no obvious innocent explanation for a
change of colour there was frequently the suspicion that
something was amiss. The operator could also fuse the two
images on to a larger monitor screen. And where there was a
sizeable overlap between them, that suspicion would harden
into near certainty.
Bingo! said the sergeant excitedly, I think weve struck
gold. His companion checked his GPS reading against the coordinates on an Ordnance Survey map of the area folded on
his knee and handed the pilot a scribbled note, on the basis of
which he radioed a coded message to his base.
A second helicopter, this time an army Wessex,
containing a patrol of soldiers, arrived within minutes, like the
Fifth Cavalry, from the fort at Crossmaglen close by,. As it
arrived, the police chopper flew off in a southerly direction.
The Wessex came in low over the designated area, but as the
ground on both sides of the farm lane rose up in uneven
mounds, the pilot did not attempt to land there. Instead, he
swung round behind the house and carefully landed in an open
field. Immediately the patrol sprang out, rifles in their hands,
and fanned out in a well-rehearsed movement as they
approached the farmyard through a gap between two

192

outhouses, moving swiftly in a semi-crouched position. In the

farm close stood an elderly man and as the patrol entered the
yard a younger man emerged from the house. Both put their
hands up. Though the lieutenant did not recall the fact at that
moment, the older mans photograph had featured for some
time on the villains mug shot gallery which, behind a
curtain, was attached to the wall of the Humintel room back at
the fort. He was Barney Keefe, a tall, raggedly-dressed man,
with all the habits and social graces of a grizzly bear. As
regards politics and the situation a baddie, for sure.
Who else is here? said the patrol leader, as his men
adopted the three hundred and sixty degree defensive
formation.
Just my visitor, my neighbour from over there. He
pointed in a northerly direction. Just what the hell do you
want, comin in with all that racket, scarin the shit outta my
cattle. Im goin to complain to Armagh.
And no doubt claim compensation. Ill leave you the
application form ...when weve finished.
Three squaddies moved cautiously into the house and
emerged after a few minutes, giving a thumbs-up sign. In the
helicopter the radio crackled. New order: secure all
approaches to premises. Await further orders. Over.
Goodlight had trebled the discovery rate for arms dumps
within six weeks of its introduction and it remained one of the
security forces best kept secrets. It served two useful purposes
for the RUC: firstly, it helped detect any arms cache in open
country, so that only arms and explosives hidden in a place
which did not contain soil, such as the bottom of a silage silo,
were sheltered from its searching vision; secondly, once a
cache was suspected, one of the local evil persons, as Austin
quaintly called them that is to say a conveniently based
individual who featured in the PANORAMA database could
be implicated in a later discovery, thus causing useful
disarray in the ranks of the wicked.
Granville now went to see for himself such a ploy put into
practice. He sat in the back of a car with blacked out windows,

193

following the RUC squad car which was taking McGiolla

back to the wild. In front of it drove an army Land Rover, in
which rode six heavily armed soldiers.
When they reached the farmyard at Tullcreevy, McGiolla
was brought out of the car and, flanked by two SB men, was
brought down the lane on foot. Granvilles car slowly
followed them. His eyes were on the house and, to his great
satisfaction, he saw three faces at the window of the front
room of the farmhouse. If the occupants knew McGiolla and
the chances were heavily in favour of that in the tightly knit
local community they could not have failed to recognise him
at that distance in good light.
With perfect timing, a giant army JCB digger arrived
along the narrow road in front of the farm. McGiollas escorts
stopped him gently in the laneway beside the mound which
was to be excavated. He showed neither surprise nor
apprehension. The JCB had trouble swinging into the narrow
lane, but after a dozen turns the driver managed to bring the
vehicle into position and immediately manoeuvred it at right
angles to the hedge which divided lane from field. Then, like a
hungry dinosaur, the machine began to demolish the hedge
and to break into the earth in the rising ground behind it. The
scoop of the digger deposited the excavated soil to the right of
the target area and oscillated to and fro between the ever
widening hole and the heap of spoil a few metres to the right
of it. Within minutes the monsters probing scoop hit wooden
planks which were the protective casing of the arms cache.
In the event, the find was of considerable military
significance four AK-47s, a small amount of explosives,
but, more importantly, a Soviet-made Dushka heavy machine
gun. But the real value of the operation was the brief
announcement, written by Wheeler, put out via the RUCs
information office that night, and carried, unedited, by the
BBC: Acting on local information, the security forces have
made a significant arms find on a farm at Tullycreevy, in
South Armagh.
In St Oswalds, Granville switched off his bedside radio
and smiled to himself. He hadnt had a G and T, or even a

194

Gauloise, all day. He turned up the volume on his hi-fi system

and settled back to savour a Chopin nocturne.

195

Chapter 30

At three oclock in the morning all was quiet in the so-called

military wing of the Musgrave Park Hospital, in the southern
Belfast suburb of Balmoral. That wing housed two very
different and yet similar categories of patients: seriously
wounded soldiers and some policemen, suffering from lifethreatening bullet wounds and blast injuries from bomb and
mortar attacks; and a small number of Republican prisoners,
under arrest and treated for their injuries until they were well
enough to be discharged from hospital and then to be charged
with their crimes before the courts. Security was provided by
units of the Military Police and by the RUC (mostly Reserve
Officers). The security goals were to protect the one from
outside attack and to ensure that the other would remain in
custody. Indoor baddies in; outdoor baddies out was the
policy slogan.
The Republican wounded prisoners were accommodated
in a separate unit, accessed by a single corridor, running north
to south, which was blocked off by a security door guarded by
two policemen. At the northern end of the corridor, twenty
yards beyond the security door, was another long passage,
leading to the wards in which lay the wounded soldiers. It was
similarly approached via two military police posts.
Sean Byrne detached himself from his monitoring
equipment and, slipping out of bed in his single room, he
listened at the door. The night nurse had just left him sleeping,
as she thought, and he heard the slap, slap of her trainers on
the corridor floor, then the sounds of the security door
opening. But not closing. The routine breach of security was
running to schedule. Byrne had built up a knowledge of the
usual movements of his nocturnal carers and gaolers. In the
196

middle of the night the ward office outside his door was
closed down and the nurses would check on him every half
hour, coming from the military wing corridor to do so. A
second-class system for us even in here, he chuckled to
himself. The nurse was supposed to open the security door by
both PIN pad and heavy key, and to secure it each time she
went through. Over-security is as dangerous as inadequate
security: the procedure was too cumbersome and in that
middle-of-the-night tiredness which comes upon even the
most practiced of shift workers, nearly all the nurses would
neglect to lock the security door until the end of their shift, at
eight in the morning. Sometimes the attendant policeman
would do it for them; sometimes not.
Byrne had three immediate police guards, two at the door
closest to him and one in the corridor beyond that, with its
ever-open door giving out to a metal fire escape. He knew that
when the night nurse passed at three or thereabouts, those
policemen took it in turns to go to the main military ward for a
cup of tea. He could only hope that tonight two might go
together, thus massively improving the odds in his favour.
Though he had been in dangerous situations before, this was
the first time that thoughts of his own possible, or even
probable, death flooded his mind. Yet he was strangely elated.
Better seize the one chance he was likely to have than face life
imprisonment.
He returned to his locker and from two Kleenex boxes
extracted a small Savage Striker .22 bolt action pistol and a
specially adapted four-inch long tubular SWR Warlock II
silencer. Screwing the two together he went back to the door.
His heart thumped in his chest, his mouth was dry as dust and
his wounded shoulder hurt as never before. He crept towards
the security door, which was ajar. On the other side of it,
slumped lazily on a chair, was an RUC Reserve man. So far,
so good only one to contend with then. The policeman
stretched, yawned and closed his eyes. Was he going to nod
off? Could Byrne tiptoe past him? No, the dangers were too
great, for if he were past the policeman who then awoke, the
risk of being shot in the back was high too high.

197

So Byrne, at a range of barely six feet, killed his man. The

pistol jumped with surprising violence in his hand, but the
sound was no louder than the closing of a door on an
expensive car. The policemans head jerked sideways and a
spurt of blood streamed down his face.
Thats for Uncle Bernie.
Byrne moved swiftly to where the two corridors met and,
peering round the corner, could not believe his luck. There
was no one there. Turning down the third corridor, he half ran
to the end of it and pushed the emergency door out into the
night. The cold air hit him in the face and he felt his head
beginning to swim with the effort of moving. He took his
bearings and headed west, looking for the Meadowbank
Geriatric Unit, beyond which lay an internal perimeter road
and, more importantly, a perimeter fence along which, at
regular intervals, were planted pine trees. He searched behind
several of them, growing more frustrated by the second, until
he found what he was looking for a small gap in the high
fence made by wire cutters; a neat and unobtrusive job by his
supporters.
He wriggled through and some fifty yards further on he
found himself at the top of a slope on the side of the M1
motorway. Below, on the hard shoulder, sat a small
Volkswagen Golf, behind which was positioned a breakdown
triangle at a distance of some 40 metres. Traffic at that hour
was light, but he waited until there was a black interlude in it
before half-sliding, half-running down the gentle slope to the
car. He fumbled for the ignition key which he knew would be
secreted by sticking plaster below the off-side wheel arch, and
got into the car. He reached over into the back seat, to a
holdall and took out a tracksuit which he pulled on over his
hospital- issue pyjamas. The car started first time and he drove
off, at speed.

198

Chapter 31

Morning Prayers in the Chief Constables office was usually

a routine affair. Twenty minutes in which the various strands
of policing could be reviewed by the Chief and his Belfastbased Assistant Chief Constables, who could each bring a
member of staff for administrative backup. A low-key ritual
before the real business of the day commenced. Today was
different.
What the hell went wrong at Musgrave? roared the CC.
One of our biggest fish, all packaged for us, in bandages and
tubes, allowed to get hold of a firearm, shoot the guard and
apparently stroll off to a waiting car. Were a bloody laughing
stock.
There is a massive manhunt under way, though the trail is
very cold at the moment; Ive set up an inquiry right away,
said a flustered Assistant C C McMinn, and we already have
a picture of at least some of the things that happened.
And?
There was certainly a breach in security through the nonobservance of the control procedures.
Ill say there was, snarled the Chief.
According to the two other officers on duty there, they
had both gone to investigate a suspicious noise outside
Corridor B of the Military Wing here, you can understand it
better if you look at this plan of the layout.
He spread a neat architects plan on the table.
When one of them got back, only a few minutes later, to
Control Point A here he found Reserve Constable
Robinson slumped on the floor, shot through the front of the
face. And of course, Byrne gone.
And the weapon?
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We wont know until the pathologist and the forensic and

ballistic boys have compared notes. But its almost certainly a
small pistol, which must have been silenced, otherwise a shot
would have been heard at that time of night.
Yes, but how the blazes did he get hold of a weapon? I
thought all the nurses on the Military Wing at Musgrave were
Vestal Virgins or something, way above suspicion. The
doctors, ditto.
McMinn shifted uncomfortably. There must have been a
leak there, it stands to reason. Our people will review all the
security profiles of every single person who could possibly
have had access to Byrne.
What about the visitors we do know about?
None. He wasnt allowed any.
Not a single one, like his dear old mum?
None, only his priest, on two occasions.
Silence fell on the group for a moment: this was delicate
ground.
Are we sure about him? asked the Chief quietly.
Yes, the log book shows that he was given a grade A1
search both going in and coming out on both occasions. There
is even a note in the log to say that he objected to the searches.
Thought he was exempted as a member of the clergy.
The Chief Constable sighed and tapped his biro on the pad
in front of him.
HSB intervened: Presumably we know who this priest is,
he must have applied for admission. Why did we grant it?
Well, you know, these religious points are very sensitive.
If we turn down a request for permission to administer the last
rites, or to say Mass, wed be portrayed as the rapists of
Mother Teresa.
The Eucharist thats it, cried McAteer, the HSBs
assistant and the only Roman Catholic in the room. Hes
smuggled the shooter in his pyx.
Baffled looks all round.
Picks, as in shovels? queried the C.C.
No, p y x, its the container priests sometimes carry
the sacraments in, hung round their necks in a pouch.

200

Do we pull this priest in? asked ACC McMinn.

Not really worth it just yet, said the C.C. Thered be no
forensic on him. Hed deny everything we put to him and
the Church would kick up a stink about harassment. But put
a shadow on his movements. He could lead us to some
interesting parishioners.
Meantime, Chief, said McMinn, plaintively, what is
McGuigan to tell the press corps at the eleven oclock
briefing?
How about: We are actively pursuing several lines of
inquiry, or perhaps, more believably, Heres my ass. Kick
it? said the Chief, provoking the laughter necessary to relieve
the tension.
HSB raised his index finger.
I cant offer any crumbs of comfort about the Byrne
escape, but there is potentially very good news coming out of
VELLUM.
Do tell us, said the Chief. I need somehow cheering up
this morning.
I know many of you have been sceptical about our heavy
investment in the manpower needed to monitor the movement
of customers identified as important by PANORAMA. But
there are dividends. In the Coalisland area, last Sunday night,
no fewer than seven bugged vehicles had a rendezvous at the
farm of a high-grade suspect. We assume they werent there
for a ceilhe.
An ASU? asked the Chief.
Probably. Certainly a PIRA occasion. So we can target
more precisely now that we have established the link between
these individuals. Ill introduce surveillance measures on all
of them and try to bug their houses.
Have you the capacity to do that?
Yes, that is to say at one remove. The army have been
very good in offering their logistical support. Theyve got
some super new listening equipment and the means of
deploying it. The GOC is keen to be in on the act.
And friend Granville? asked the Chief, with a smile.

201

Probably too early to inform him. Later. Thats the

generals opinion.
Ill bet it is. But this is dangerous. Proceed with care.
As always.

So where the fuck is he then? rasped Stiletto.

He was walking alongside McGiolla, in a field in which
the latters store cattle were grazing. Nowadays, even in
Cullyhanna, security was only guaranteed in the open air
and even then
Ive told you. Ive no idea. He just didnt show up at
Mick OTooles house, as agreed. So how could we take him
over the border to the safe one at Lisderg? At nine oclock I
sent the message to Belfast. We thought he must have been
taken near the hospital. On the news I heard the police are
looking too.
That could be a diversionary tactic. They may have
turned him.
Theyd hardly let him shoot one of their own, replied
McGiolla with a laugh.
True. Though I wouldnt put it past them. But they may
have captured him, without announcing it. Just to make us
jumpy.
Im not jumpy, said McGiolla, defensively, and I dont
know why you have to come down from bloody Belfast to
investigate me.
Take it easy, its not an investigation. I mean its only for
information. The top dogs just need to be re-assured that
nothing went wrong at this end.
Well it didnt. Look at it from my point of view: Belfast
didnt deliver their man. And thats that.
Had Byrne any contacts down here?
Stiletto made down here sound like Alabama.
None that I know of. I thought he was the complete
townie. And I hear on the radio that a burnt out car has been
found near Larne. Was that ours? I mean a borrowed one? If

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so, yer man may have been on the ferry to Scotland. Doesnt it
look that way, or is that too obvious?
I dont know about the car yet. If he has gone to
Scotland, without Brit support, he wont last long. And if he
does come back hell have some answering to do, Ill tell
you.
The wind sharpened and the two men walked closer to the
hedge for cover.
Lets go in, said Stiletto, I dont like those cattle. The
way they look at you.
McGiolla guffawed. Theres a helluva lot of people dont
like the way you look at them.

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Chapter 32

PIRA lost no time in investigating the causes of the St Lucia

disaster, which had been a heavy blow to morale and prestige,
and a corresponding boost for the security forces. Orders came
from the Army Council for Stiletto to interview any
suspected informers. Because of the way the whole operation
had been handled, from a security point of view, and because
the Royal Navy had obviously been acting on precise
information relating to a specific vessel, the list of prime
suspects was a limited one. It boiled down to four: McGiolla,
Cassidy, Hogan, the IRA sympathiser in the customs office in
the port of Dublin, and Verhagen, the Belgian arms dealer.
Hogan had not been told in advance on which vessel the
arms were to arrive. He only knew the date and would be
informed of the ships details on the day. The dispersal team
waiting for his tip-off and help in getting to the lethal cargo
was to have been kept in the dark about the ships identity
until the day of arrival. It was theoretically possible that
Hogan could have had access to information relating to
expected arrivals in the port and to have made an educated
guess as to which one the goods were on, but that was a long
shot.
Hogan had several times acted as facilitator for a cell in
Dublin. He was very security conscious and content to be a
small cog in a big machine. Furthermore, as he sat flanked by
the OC of two Dublin-based PIRA cells, he stood up well to
the habitually hostile questioning of Stiletto, who interviewed
him in the back downstairs room of a small terraced house in
the shadow of Dublins Croke Park sporting stadium.
Look, I know you have your job to do and good luck
with it. But if you think I had anything to do with it and this
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feckin shipload, youre barking up the wrong tree, he said

with real anger in his voice.
Ive acted on your behalf in the docks for twelve years
now and if you suddenly think I might not be trustworthy, you
can go jump in the Liffey.
Take it easy, said Stiletto, soothingly, nobodys
accusing you of anything. We just need to get to the bottom of
the matter who knew, and who did what, when. Youve no
suspicions yourself?
None whatsoever, came the instant reply, none that is
that I could put facts to. The leak, I feel, must have been in the
North. Nobody down here was really in the loop. The other
two Dubliners nodded in agreement and in encouragement of
Hogan.
Why dont you look at the other end of the chain, said
the elder of the two, are you sure of your supplier?
That was an awkward one for Stiletto. Verhagen was to all
intents and purposes out of reach and control. But he had
benefited several times in the past from IRA shipments and in
the normal course of events, thought Stiletto, he could hope
for more orders in the future. Why would he wish to betray
them? That didnt make sense.
Except, of course, that Verhagen had made the calculation
that the military phase of PIRAs war was approaching its
end, so, despite its impressive size, this order was more than
likely the last one which would come his way. Orders for
another arms shipment were not a good bet. This was more the
moment to cuddle up to the intelligence community. He knew
that the security authorities in Belgium, the UK and France
had a lot of material on him as regards both the Balkans and
the Middle East and the deal he had been offered, namely to
co-operate in return for a certain administrative amnesia as
regards his recent past, was simply too good to refuse.
For Stiletto, that left the choice as one between McGiolla
and Cassidy. In his mind it simply had to be one or the other.
Both had impeccable credentials as long-term Republican
activists. This was not a case of some eighteen year old
Volunteer either taking fright when apprehended by the

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police, or succumbing to greed when offered the thirty pieces

of silver to inform. Neither suspect betrayed the slightest
ambiguity in their passionate denials of any sort of
involvement with the fatal leak. But there was a difference in
the circumstances: McGiolla had been at Castlereagh for a
long interrogation; Cassidy had not. Furthermore, there
seemed to be a lot of credibility attached to the South Armagh
rumours that McGiolla had been seen at Tullycreevy, in the
company of police and soldiers the day of the arms find there.
McGiolla had been summoned to a house in Dungannon to be
de-briefed by Stiletto personally. His story was that he had
gone through a long interrogation at Castlereagh but had
refused to say anything. Stiletto waited for him to mention his
visit to Tullycreevy. He did not, preferring to keep his story as
simple as possible. Such reticence was instinctive for a Provo,
whoever the interrogator might be. It was a bad mistake on
McGiollas part; it was a bad sign from Stilettos point of
view.
Stiletto knew that he would come under increasing
pressure from the Army Council to make his report, yet he
hesitated over a weekend to do so. Unusually, he was not free
to have either suspect tortured (referred to in the trade as
interrogated in depth) they were both too senior for that.
Eventually, having received two urgent messages requesting
his report as soon as possible, he briefly put on paper his
analysis, narrowing the field of definitive suspicion to
McGiolla and Cassidy. He could not, he reluctantly confessed,
easily decide between the two, but pointing out the fact of
McGiollas interrogation by the RUC and the rumours about
Tullycreevy, he decided on McGiolla and requested further
orders.
The reply which he received was a surprise to him, but not
to Granville when he heard the details. Acting on instructions,
Stiletto sent a trusted runner to consult the oracle of the
Derryman, in order to have Army Council cover. It was a cold
winters day, with a weak sun nonetheless peeping through
the grey clouds from time to time. A small group of
worshippers stood around outside the Catholic church of St

206

Marys on Fanad Drive, in theCreggan, gossiping and greeting

one another after twelve oclock mass. The Derryman stood in
the middle of a little sub-group of admirers. He knew all these
people, his supporters to a man (and woman), and he was
relaxed and even jovial in their presence. That was especially
true today, as he was putting in a special appearance with his
mother, a daily Mass-goer, whose birthday it was. He
exchanged how are ye doin? greetings with all and sundry
and waved cheerily to some passers-by who called out to him
in friendly fashion from across the street. He was still waving
to them when the runner, seizing his opportunity, whispered
his password and asked Whats the answer? Still smiling and
waving, looking into the distance, Butch said, out of the
corner of his mouth, Stiff im.
It was just before dawn when they came for McGiolla.
The front door of the old farmhouse yielded in seconds with a
crash, which wakened McGiolla, alone in the house. As he
sprang out of bed, instantly wide awake, he cursed himself for
leaving his pistol in its hiding place in the old dairy room,
instead of taking it to his bedside, as was his wont at night.
Three of the intruders quickly overpowered him, pinning his
arms behind his back.
No, no, he cried, as a fourth man came behind him and
tried to push a tampon into his mouth. He managed to shake
his head free for long enough to shout, A priest!
Not for you. Traitor. Bastard.
His head was forced down towards his knees. He almost
got his left arm free, but it was seized again and pinned back.
Now! shouted one of them. The fourth man pressed a
revolver against the back of McGiollas head and pulled the
trigger. The report was a crisp thud and McGiolla rolled
forward on to the floor without the slightest twitch.
Ten minutes later, having carried out a perfunctory
ransacking of the farmhouse, the hit squad set out in the two
cars they had arrived in, to take the unapproved road some
five miles away, which would take them over the border.
After two days of Rest and Relaxation in plain terms

207

drinking in the pubs of Dundalk they made their separate

ways back to Belfast. Mission accomplished.
McGiolla rendered one final, posthumous, service to
Republicanism: P.J. ONeill, the clandestine mouthpiece of
the IRA, in a communiqu to all media outlets, condemned
the cynical murder of this patriot by the security forces. MPs
at Westminster sympathetic to the Republican cause, put
down Parliamentary Questions about the alleged deployment
of SAS troops in the Province and the shoot-to- kill policy
of the security forces; and about the possible collusion
between those forces and Loyalist paramilitaries. Even the
Irish government expressed deep concern about the death and
called, with others, for a thorough, independent inquiry into
the circumstances surrounding the violent death of this man.
Four days later Stiletto had one of his regular contact
meetings with his army handler, sitting in a car in the car park
at Shaws Bridge, beside the river Lagan. The death of
McGiolla, whose large funeral in his native Crossmaglen,
with all the usual paramilitary trimmings, had featured
prominently on the national and regional news, and was a
natural topic of professional conversation. Something in the
dark recesses of Stilettos psyche, where normally a
conscience would have resided, prompted him to seek reassurance, in oblique terms, about McGiollas guilt.
I hope to Jasus we got the right man, he said.
No doubt about that, was the immediate and confident
reply, I hear he let the cat out of the bag when they had him
at Castlereagh. Apparently they had something else on him.
Maybe thats why he opened up. This lie was told with the
nonchalance of a footballer scything down an opponent in a
professional foul. It had to be done for the teams sake.
Nothing personal.
Stiletto seemed re-assured.
Then it was back to elementary business, namely the
exchange of information about the activities of certain
members of ASUs in the Belfast area, against a traditional
brown paper envelope containing used banknotes.

208

Stiletto had the delicatesse not to count them, before

tucking the envelope into an inside pocket of his leather
jacket.
His information was fed into the PANORAMA database
the next morning, in conformity with the inter-agency
agreement on intelligence sharing.

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Chapter 33

Granvilles visits to the Clonard Monastery began to take on a

routine. He always arrived before Bunny and Butch. The
priest or was he a monk? he was always in mufti who
showed him into the first room along the dark corridor which
led off the reception room, now greeted him each time as a
regular. Parking had been a problem, as well as a security
risk in that area, but his welcoming friend had solved that for
him, by giving him access to a side courtyard. He had
chuckled loudly when telling Granville the code to punch into
the keypad in order to lift the barrier: 1690.
Its the last number anyone would think of in relation to
this house, he said, referring to the Ulster Protestants
fixation with the Battle of the Boyne in that year. Granvilles
plain clothes Military Police driver was invariably siphoned
off and given tea and scones while he waited for his charge.
The cleric now stayed with Granville each time until the
others arrived, as though he were a guest to be entertained. He
talked easily about Premier League football, the weather or
whatever was in that days news headlines (except items
related to the the situation). Today he was full of the busy
time the monastery had had, with that years noventa a sort
of marathon pray in for which the Clonard Monastery was
famous, with Masses following on one another all day long,
every hour on the hour. Biggest crowds ever, he said, I
think the theme of peace with justice brought the people
out, from all walks of life.
Granville, in reluctant admiration of Bunnys subliminal
propaganda coup which that opinion represented, was about to
say Im glad to hear that, but, suddenly conscious that such a
curt reply would be impolite, and not being able to think of
210

anything appropriate, he decided to remain silent. He was

saved from embarrassment by the arrival of Bunny and Butch,
both of whom greeted him with a loud Hows about you
Jeremy? and a bears hug. He answered, somewhat selfconsciously, in the Belfast vernacular, stickin out
(excellent), which greatly amused the others. The Secret
Service was not one in which one got to choose ones friends,
or even acquaintances, but an ability to manufacture
familiarity was a professional asset.
Jeremy prolonged the small talk by enquiring after the
health of Butchs mother.
Much better, thanks, he replied. It was a scare. We
thought a heart attack, but its only an increased atrial
fibrillation, a sort of heart flutter which she has had for
years. Theres life in the oul doll yet.
When they got down to business, it was to mutual
recriminations. Granville expressed his disappointment that
IRA attacks on non-military targets had not decreased. How
can I believe you about political and constitutional matters
when you tell me lies there is no other word for it about
your operations?
Listen, Jeremy, we have always told you up front that we
may from time to time, under the pressure of events, have to
lie to you about operational matters, but in our real
negotiations about the end of the conflict, we have always
spoken the truth. And we always will.
Thats a fine point, said Granville, worthy of Ignatius
Loyola himself, but I need to know where I am with you, all
of the time, otherwise our negotiations will run into the
ground.
But that cant be one-sided, countered Bunny. Out
there, despite our genuine gestures for peace, your lot are
stepping up the pressure on us, pursuing our lot by fair means,
but mostly foul.
Foul?
Dont sound like a molested schoolgirl, all innocence.
You know what I mean our sympathisers brought in, in

211

increasing numbers, for alleged questioning are being

blackmailed by the RUC.
Bunny put on a stern face and a growly voice, to imitate a
policeman, Tell us about the big IRA men in your district or
well tell your missus about you and Mary Moffett.
Really? said Granville, raising his eyebrows
exaggeratedly and struggling to keep his face straight at the
thought of Bill and Ben the Statements men putting their
customers through the wringer as the RUC slang had it.
Surely not!
Before we go any further, said Granville, tapping the
table, I must tell you very clearly that last weeks bomb
outrages in GB, which could well have had more victims, are
in danger of turning political opinion on our side against any
sort of a settlement. You are sabotaging your own strategy.
No, said Butch, with a determined shake of the head.
GB operations are our banker. You are powerless to stop
them they can be mounted by our best and most secure
units. And, as you have just confirmed, they hurt like hell. If
you were tempted to backslide from agreements with us, GB
operations would be whats the word? significant.
That brings us to the nub of the matter. said Granville.
We have to get down to the outline of the specifics of our
agreement.
With respect to you and your mandate, Jeremy, our
detailed negotiations have to be with the Prime Minister and
they have to be known about publicly, in order to carry the
necessary weight here in Ireland.
Take it easy. There are risks on both sides when you go
public. You will not negotiate with the PM in the normal
sense. We need you and I to come to an agreement, in a
pretty advanced level of detail, before things get into the
public glare. You can then top and tail the agreements with
the PM. That way both you and we are covered. And we need
to know in advance that agreement over the whole range of
items is possible before we embark publicly on the
negotiations. In other words, the entire pie has to be pre-

212

cooked confidentially, then merely microwaved politically in

public. Its a process. A peace process.
A peace with justice process, said Bunny.
Lets not complicate things. Everybody understands
peace. Lets leave it at that.
So how do you see this Peace Agreement?
Well, obviously on your side a complete cessation of
violence, including disarmament, and a commitment to pursue
your political goals now publicly recognised by HMG as
legitimate by peaceful, democratic means.
And what are you offering?
A phased release of all IRA acknowledged prisoners, the
closure of the Maze prison, and a revisited constitutional
convention, to ensure equality between the communities here.
Im very disappointed, Jeremy, because you know, and I
know, that what you have said is not fair, by anybodys
standards. We havent been fighting for thirty years just to be
able to stop fighting. We want to see profound changes to the
Six Counties and, above all, we demand guarantees.
Guarantees?
Yes. What am I to say to the leader of an ASU when he
asks do you trust the Brits? Its no use saying yes even
if that were true, he added with a smirk. Ive got to be able
to show proof, not just of bona fides, but of copper bottomed
guarantees, as John Major promised the unionists.
Granville pulled his cigarette case from his pocket, tapped
it tentatively, then thought better of it, in view of his
surroundings, and put it back in his pocket.
You see, said Bunny, we have a list of legitimate
demands which go far beyond what you have been talking
about. You are not Field Marshal Montgomery, receiving the
unconditional surrender of the enemy on Luneberg Heath, you
know.
Of course not, said Granville, but I need to see the
detail of what you are talking about, in a document. It neednt
be one that is attributable, but we have to
Be bureaucratic completed Butch, with a grin.
Dont forget, I work for a bureaucracy, not a

213

Peace organisation, completed Butch again. They all

laughed.
Right, said Bunny. You shall have your document, my
dear. But here is the first instalment: the immediate release of
all our prisoners and an amnesty for those on the run and for
past actions, by our members.
Hold on a second, interjected Granville, prisoners cant
be just let out like that or past crimes swept under the carpet.
Even at the end of World War II, it took eighteen to twentyfour months to phase out the prisoners, and there was no
generalised pardon covering the past.
Youre trying to play politics with our POWs said
Bunny angrily. They are central to our considerations and if
you only knew the details, they are the best dove friends
you have. So dont knock them. But thats just the start. We
are demanding the disbandment of the RUC and the creation
of a two-tier police service, with local police working at
district level. There must be a withdrawal of troops, not just to
barracks, but to GB, where they belong. And we want a
reform of the judicial system and the removal of British
insignia from court houses and other public buildings. It goes
without saying that we need a constitutional settlement which
strengthens Sunningdale, so that one community can never
again rule over the other. The path to a united Ireland must be
clear and unobstructed. And the Irish language must be
fostered.
The Irish language? You must be joking?
Its not just an educational, linguistic matter its about
putting a cultural identity on an equal footing with the
neighbours.
Thats quite a list you have there, remarked Granville, I
noticed you did not say much about disarmament.
Thats true for a very good reason. This isnt a
surrender, in which a defeated army lays down its arms. Its a
negotiated settlement. Obviously, some agreement will have
to be devised about our arms not being used again, but you
must understand that in Irish political lore the concept of a
pike under the thatch still has a powerful resonance.

214

I foresee difficulties with that. The world will need to be

convinced that the cessation of violence is complete and for
keeps. Well need to work hard on how to express that to the
satisfaction of both sides. You have first go in your
document.
The others nodded in agreement.
And remember, added Granville, we have to sell what
were doing as a process, avoiding, for your purposes, the idea
of victory or defeat, but emphasising it is a peace process
which is irreversible and that the war is well and truly over.
Even before the public meeting with the Prime Minister we
need to agree on choreography and timing, so that the wall
which exists between us today is seen to be dismantled brick
by brick, in an even-handed way. That will gradually lead
supporters on both sides to embrace the concept of peace.

In a back room of Tolans Bar in a side street off the main

Falls Road, Bunny met Stiletto to be briefed about Sean
Byrne. Stiletto, head of the disciplinary nutter squad, as the
locals called it, had carried out an extensive inquiry, along
with Duffy, the Belfast security officer of PIRA into Byrnes
mysterious disappearance. The venue for the meeting had
been chosen only the day before, and would be used only
once, so great had become the paranoia of the leadership
about the bugging of their usual haunts. This was a wellfounded fear, in the light of the Logistical Support Groups
increasing successes. Transmitter bugs smaller than a drawing
pin and shielded electronically against the best sweeping
devices available to SF/IRA could be inserted into so many
places that although the occasional one was spotted, their
sheer numbers were overwhelming. Attempts to use such bugs
to relay false information to the listeners had usually failed,
because if the bug was approached within ten centimetres its
transmitter automatically shut down. The growing problem for
the security forces was to provide enough listeners and
analysts to process the material thus collected.

215

Well, any news? asked Bunny, sipping his sparkling

mineral water.
How Stiletto hated teetotallers. So bloody smug and dry in
every sense of the word.
Nothing concrete. Only speculation everywhere,
including amongst our own people. Mostly fevered
imagination stuff.
But why not a shred of hard facts? asked Bunny, with
obvious frustration.
You and Duffy are supposed to keep us all watertight and
now you have come up with damn all, after all this time. Its
very unsettling for all levels in the movement.
I know it is. But youve got to take into account the
exceptional circumstances. It wasnt like your average breakout, say like the mass escape from the Maze. Byrne was alone
throughout his escape, so theres nobody else to get a grip of.
Bunny looked at the others large frame and steady gaze
and could not help imagining what such getting to grips with
would entail.
Well, why the hell was he alone? Who organised that?
OHare, said Stiletto with alacrity, glad to have the focus
shift to someone else. He authorised it as a solo operation,
because of the risk factor.
What was so different about Byrne?
To shoot your way out of a military hospital and drive off
down a motorway was thought to be a madcap idea, but it was
Byrnes own idea and he insisted he wanted to try it. The
chances of success were, lets face it, minimal, so we couldnt
risk others being involved. Theyd stood to go to clink for
fifteen years if things didnt work out. So, OHare laid on the
shooter, through our friend the priest, and the getaway car and
left Byrne to it. And the bugger pulled it off. Fuckin
amazing.
Are you sure our guys in South Armagh or Dundalk
arent hiding anything?
Sure Im sure. He never showed up there. If he had, there
would be bound to be reports, or at least rumours, about that.
But no, nothing from that quarter at all.

216

Stiletto allowed himself a pause, as he quaffed his

Guinness for the first time.
I know this sounds far-fetched, but we have to think of
all possibilities, resumed Bunny. What are the chances the
Brits have him? Could they have turned him, like a few
bastards you and I can think of, with money, a new life and all
that shit?
No chance whatsoever. They were very much shat upon
by the whole story, so to put Byrne on trial for murder,
especially of a policeman, would in their eyes be sweet
revenge.
Any problems with missing money?
None. He did not have access to any dough. Apart from
expenses and his bounties for knocking off Brits and Rozzers.
There was no kitty for him to make off with.
How about women?
Lots of them. Sean put himself about quite a bit. Hes
been round more curves than a Monte Carlo Rally. But I
couldnt get any news of a special favourite. He just shagged
whatever was available at any one time. I dont think hes in
the arms of some dolly bird. He was never out of Belfast for
any length of time and there is no local lovely missing from
her usual whereabouts.
Could he have topped himself, in some remote location,
like a forest?
Dont think so. Hes not the type. I think a guy who
shoots his way out of custody doesnt suddenly go soft in the
head.
An accident then?
The car was found burnt out near Larne, but he wasnt in
it. And no unexplained corpse has shown up, like after a hitand-run or a drowning.
Ive always thought the Larne location was a red herring,
to make us all think hed taken the ferry to Stranraer, mused
Bunny.
Too obvious. But lets suppose he did. It would be very
difficult for him to disappear in Britain, without a lot of help

217

from others. Has he relatives there, or supporters of ours who

might mistakenly protect him?
Weve checked that out. Didnt lead anywhere. No
known relatives or contacts. And he never had anything to do
with the England Department.
Jazus, what a Houdini! Lets assume the worst: the Brits
get him. What could they get out of him by way of info?
Ive been concentrating on that, with Duffy. The answer
is not much. The training camps he knew at first hand down
south havent been used for years. He could, of course, tell
them about sniper techniques but those are based on British
Army manuals. Therefore, no big deal there. He knows next to
nothing about our structures or whos who. He only knows
some Volunteers, and Duffy himself, of course. But then
Duffy isnt exactly a secret to the enemy and since he gave up
active personal participation in his crazy three-times-a-day
operations, the Brits are unlikely to pin anything on him on
the basis of what Byrne might tell them.
So, sighed Bunny, were no further on. Its a deep
fucking mystery, so it is. We scored a PR goal with the
escape, but I am still a bit nervous about not knowing what
happened in case the mystery jumps up and bites us in the
arse one day.

218

Chapter 34

Before the troubles Drumphoe had been a medium-sized,

relatively prosperous market town, serving the surrounding
farmlands by providing the usual range of services, such as a
variety of shops, schools, churches and even a cinema. It had
an almost equally divided nationalistunionist population, the
sort of ratio most likely to encourage extremism, as the two
sides squared up to one another in a balance of prejudice and
grievance. The IRA was strong in the locality; as against that,
the town and its hinterland provided a large number of UDR
and RUC Reserve personnel, larger, proportionally, than the
Northern Ireland average. Several local members of the
security forces had been assassinated in horrific
circumstances: an off-duty policeman shot in the back as he
sat on his brothers tractor, ploughing an isolated field; a UDR
volunteer, a part-time school bus driver, had been killed in
front of a class of school children he was picking up at the
school gates in the afternoon. On the other hand, the
nationalist community complained of discrimination in the job
market and of harassment, through frequent and roughly
handled body searches, the disruption of very frequent vehicle
checkpoints and, overall, the occasional oppressive police and
army presence in and around the town.
Drumphoe had suffered two major explosions, which
destroyed several Protestant-owned businesses in the main
street. Only some of these had been rebuilt, leaving several
premises either as derelict shells, or boarded up, waiting for
peace and business confidence to be restored. Halfway along
the main street there ran off at almost right angles the second
most important in the town, Sperrin Street. Barely fifty metres
along it stood the solid building of the Ulster Bank, one of
219

only three banks in the town, if one discounted the rash of

new building society premises.
General Chesham stood at a table in his office at Thiepval
Barracks, Lisburn, poring over an enlarged street plan of
Drumphoe. He was being briefed by a senior military
Intelligence Officer, Eric Hammond and by Major Philip
Fitzwilliam, the operational head of the SAS in Northern
Ireland.
RUC SB are pretty sure that an ASU, with local support,
is planning to hit this bank some time in the near future, said
Hammond, producing photographs from his briefcase.
Why so sure?
Because there have been several meetings between the
top people recently in a known activists house. Our bugs in
this house have not been as efficient as we would like
nothing is ever perfect but we have picked up bank as a
frequently used key word. The police tell us that two of the
people identified by VELLUM and PANORAMA have been
seen near the Ulster Bank on at least three occasions,
behaving in a way which would suggest that they were
casing the joint.
Chesham picked up the photograph again and peered at it,
narrowing his eyes, then, tapping the street plan with his index
finger, said, The building marked A you propose as an
observation point and hide, overlooks the back of the bank
building. Is that practical, or is that the best we can get?
In fact its ideal, interjected Hammond. Building A is
empty and we can get a team in there without too much
difficulty. And they should be able to remain undetected.
Most importantly, it is the rear of the bank which will be the
business end of the operation.
How come?
Major Fitzwilliam took up the running. You see, sir,
recent security measures introduced in most banks make it
harder than ever for a conventional ambush or hold-up type
bank raid. The delivery vans now have armed escorts, which

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make an ambush a risky business from the terrorists point of

view. And within the banks premises, the strong room is time
locked, so no joy there. The weak spot is the back room,
behind the vault. It is not alarm-wired.
Why should it be worth penetrating?
Its used for the counting and recording of monies placed
in the night safe, which is used by customers to place their
days takings in. That happens every morning. Anything
between one hundred and two hundred thousand pounds can
be processed in that way.
The GOC reflected for a moment.
But surely the risk to our robber is great, going through
the bank to get to the back room. Every panic button in the
place would be pressed. And I assume that standing orders for
this counting house must include an instruction to lock the
door during the operation.
Thats true, said Hammond, but we think the ASU will
prepare a way into the back room, by sawing the iron bars on
the window in advance, allowing them to swiftly break in on
the day. Thats what we would do in their shoes. The great
advantage from our point of view is that we can strike with
full surprise. Another Loughall.
Another Loughall, maybe, reflected Chesham, but
remember the controversy about that one. We killed the
baddies, right outside the police station, but there was all hell
to pay from the tender hearts brigade. Well have to be
careful.
Whos going to involve MI5 in the detailed planning?
asked Hammond, perhaps innocently. There was an awkward
silence. Chesham smiled a thin smile. Oh, I dont think any
of us needs to do that just now. Do you? On the day, our
patrol could come upon a bank robbery and act accordingly.
But with SAS involvement is that credible? I mean who
is going to believe that they just happened to be in the
neighbourhood?
They were led there by RUC Special Branch in an
emergency situation, suggested Fitzwilliam.

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OK, said the GOC, crisply, lets run with it. Ill take the
flack afterwards if necessary, and there will probably be flack,
whether the operation is a success or failure.
As usual, Granville arrived on time and was therefore first
for the next Clonard meeting. It was bitterly cold, with sleet
being driven by an easterly wind that seemed to be coming
directly from the Russian Steppes. The Falls Road, miserable
enough at the best of times, was dreary and bleak. To add to
the midwinter discomfort, he had caught a severe head cold,
which blocked his sinuses and made his eyes stream. The
gloom of the echoing monastery added to his feeling of
misery. And yet his mission with the IRA seemed to be
flourishing, as one contentious issue after the other had been
identified and calmly examined, instead of the traditional
uncompromising rantings of Republican representatives.
The man who greeted him, whom he had christened to
himself as the cheerful monk, showed him into yet another
sparsely furnished room down the familiar corridor.
Thats a bad dose youve got there, he said, would you
like a wee hot toddy to make you feel better? Ill have it made
for you in no time.
Thanks, I could do with that.
Having whiskey forced upon me is obviously one of the
hazards of the job. Still, medicinal purposes, as Mother used
to say ...
A quarter of an hour later, which in the under-heated
monastery seemed a great deal longer, despite the burning
comfort of the bumper toddy, Bunny and Butch arrived, full
of effusive greetings and without apology. When they were all
seated at the table, Bunny was the first to move on from
meteorological small talk.
Well, where are we now? Have you an invitation for us
to a televised meeting with the Prime Minister in Downing
Street, to kick off publicly the negotiations we have already
concluded?
Not so fast, replied Granville, there are still a few is to
dot and ts to cross before we go public. For example, what

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can be said about the extent of the amnesty I mean, in

principle its covering the on-the-runs, as you have requested,
but we have to work out the details of how that will work in
practice. Not to mention disarmament. Your so-called
assurances about putting beyond use are nowhere near
enough. We will need proof of arms laid down.
Bunny sighed. You Brits dont seem to be able to put
yourselves in our shoes. We have a debt to our own history, to
our traditions, and to our martyrs. If we cant pay that debt in
the eyes of our community, any agreement we would enter
into with you would not be worth a wet Woodbine.
Talk me through it, Ill be your student.
For starters, you have accepted that the end of the war
should lead quickly to the release of all political prisoners.
Right?
OK.
For us that must cover the on-the-runs, who are held in
great respect by our people. And for us, its logical, and
indeed necessary, to wipe the slate clean for those on the run,
as well as letting the POWs out I know you dont like the
term POW, but it is our description. And I can tell you this:
those two categories will be overwhelmingly in favour of the
peace process. We greatly strengthen the chances of success
for all of us if we can carry them with us.
HMG will concede that, but you must remember we, too,
have a public which needs to be satisfied as much as possible
that what we are doing is both equitable and free from danger.
The compromise, as I see it, is that the concessions for you
cant happen all at once, but should be spread out over a
period of, lets say two years, during which time you will
demonstrate your good faith by closing down all military
activity. That will re-assure our public.
Interesting, said Butch with a smile, We cant go nap
on that today, but there is, I believe, a basis for agreement
there. He did not look for support from Bunny, but the latter
nevertheless nodded vigorously in agreement.
Now for what you call disarmament, said Bunny, As
we said before, we are not talking here of a defeated Germany

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after the First or Second World War. We havent lost. Both

you and we seek peace on the basis of equality. I would
remind you of the traditional pike under the thatch. Its not
just a deep-rooted tradition, we need to be able to keep some
arms in case we need them at some point in the future. Yes,
chimed in Butch, we dont want another 1969 on our hands,
with Loyalist gangs burning down streets of houses.
With respect, said Granville, we can understand your
so-called tradition, but we cannot be bound by it. The arms,
explosives and ammunition will have to go and in a visible
and verifiable way.
Then were stuck, said Bunny. It will be an
unforgivable tragedy if the peace process should founder on
this issue.
Again, I think the process can survive with another
compromise, by phasing action on this point. First, you
declare that the arms will be given up and, given the logistical
problems, that action will be spread over two years. That
period can be linked to our action on the release of prisoners
and your on-the-runs etc. Balanced, fair, careful and
transparent.
Im glad to see you are already drafting the Secretary of
States speech for him, teased Bunny. Perhaps we could help
improve it for you ...But well have to think about your
proposal. Its a very difficult one with our community. Any
feeling that our leadership is being suckered and its goodbye
the agreement not to mention, goodbye, us. You must
understand, failure for you means a career disappointment
maybe not even that; but for us it would mean curtains.
Granville smiled and changed the subject slightly, I see
you have one fewer possible opponents to worry about. In
South Armagh that is.
Butch could not suppress a chuckle as he replied, We
now know McGiolla was a traitor. Its a bad thing to be
thought of as a traitor. Thats my point.
As a matter of interest, said Granville nonchalantly,
why did you try to put the blame on to the security forces?

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At first, we didnt know who had done it. So it might

well have been the SAS. We later learned he had betrayed his
trust, so punishment was inevitable and was carried out by his
peers locally. We stuck with the ongoing story which had
been put out in good faith, in order not to increase the distress
to his family, who have served the cause in South Armagh for
generations.
Butch delivered this explanation at the speed of a
newsreader, in a rather flat voice.
Does he really expect to be believed? Does he care
whether he is or not? One thing is certain: the removal of a
leading hardliner like McGiolla, from South Armagh, the most
hard-line stick with the armed struggle sections of the
republican movement makes the task of Bunny and Butch that
little bit easier and the chances of agreement with HMG that
little bit better.
Granville consoled himself with that thought.

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Chapter 35

A white Ford Transit van moved slowly up Drumphoes

rainswept main street. It was the middle of the night and no
insomniacs or dog walkers were abroad. The van stopped just
before the junction with Sperrin Street and five dark figures
soundlessly alighted. One jemmied the front door of the
chosen derelict shop in seconds. The unit slipped inside. The
door was fastened closed again from the inside and the van
drove off. A good start: getting into places unnoticed was
often one of the most hazardous aspects of a deep surveillance
operation.
On the upstairs storey to the back of the building, the SAS
men quickly and quietly established their lie and set up their
glasses and night vision equipment, focused on the back wall
of the Ulster Bank building, across a narrow strip of backyard
and a delivery entry which ran behind the bank and the
adjoining shops.
It was Thursday. Intelligence reports had forecast a raid
within the next few days. How many made a few? Each
day, each night, spent almost entirely in silence and with the
minimum of movement, could feel like a week. At least they
had a roof over their head, however leaky, which was better
by far than some of the hides they had experienced, literally in
a ditch, watching the movements of suspect farmers in rural
areas. Field rations were nutritionally nourishing, but scarcely
a culinary treat, consisting largely of cereal bar type energy
biscuits. Food also meant waste disposal and they had the
necessary containers for that, along with a specially developed
air freshener. Odours could be one of the worst giveaways for
such an operation. The team operated a rota for the task of
100% observation of the target area, namely the back of the
226

bank building. Those not on watch dozed fitfully in their

sleeping bags, or quietly did press-ups on the floor. Reading
was not allowed and their radio was only to be switched on in
an emergency.
One sudden alarm the next morning was the constant
barking of what sounded like a very large dog, just outside the
boarded up shop. What had sparked that off and would
someone connected to it try to enter the building to see what
had animated the dog? It was always some random,
unforeseen circumstance curious dogs were a classic menace
which could suddenly endanger a surveillance operation.
The team prepared to move on, with their gear, into their fall
back position, which was to pull themselves and equipment up
into the roof space. The small square hole which gave access
to it was just outside the room they were occupying. It had no
built-in ladder, but the SAS men were fit enough to pull
themselves up into the roof space within seconds, should the
need arise.
Finally the barking ceased, and in the minutes which
followed, there was no sound of an attempted break-in. The
team relaxed; the binoculars, night-sights and tripod were
returned to their former position at the window.
It was in the early hours of Sunday morning that their
quarry turned up. It was raining again did Drumphoe ever
have a non-monsoon season? and the shadowy figure who
appeared on foot down the service alley, was wearing a vast
parka with hood and waterproof peak. He was carrying a long
sports bag, of the type used by Wimbledon tennis players, and
this he slung over the back wall of the banks perimeter fence,
before nimbly pulling himself up and over after it. He
approached the single window on the back wall, which was
six feet off the ground, protected by five vertical, two inch
thick metal bars.
Here we go, whispered the SAS observer to his teammates, who crowded behind him in the darkness.
Burglar unzipped his bag and took out a small fold-up
mini stepladder, like those used by shoe shop salesmen or
librarians in order to gain a foot or two in height for retrieving

227

shoes or books from higher shelves. The next object to emerge

from the bag was a hand-held Black and Decker circular saw.
The noise of the sawing reached the watchers, but would not
have been heard in either Sperrin Street or Main Street. It took
the IRA man some twenty minutes to complete his work, then
he quickly withdrew, packing his equipment, slinging his bag
over the wall before heaving himself over after it, then
walking briskly away in the direction from which he had
come.

As Granville packed his travelling case he wished he had

never invited Penny to join him. He was due to take his annual
cure in the physiotherapy department of the thermal resort of
Archena, near Murcia in the south-east corner of Spain. He
owed a lot to the rehabilitation treatment he had received there
in the months following the car accident. The hot mud
treatment and the expert physiotherapy in the medical section
of the resort had not only enabled him, post-operation, to walk
again more or less normally, but had given him the confidence
to suppress, if not entirely to eliminate, in his mind, the
trauma he had endured on the motorway and in hospital.
He had gone back to Archena every year, for what he
called a weeks top-up, repeating the exercises he had first
learned there in the Torture Chamber, relaxing in the hot
thermal pools, and enjoying good food and the calming, quasimonastic separation from everyday life. Normally, he looked
on this week as a self-indulgent treat, but today his heart
wasnt in it. Perhaps he was too tired and his persistent cold
didnt help and perhaps the mounting tension in his work, as
things moved towards what he called the Endgame, was
taking a greater toll on his nerves than he had imagined. But
there were other factors which weighed more heavily on him.
He had invited Penny on the spur of the moment, out of a
sense of guilt towards her he had certainly been neglecting
her and she was bound to have felt that. Now she would either
be reproachful for a full week, or put him under pressure to
marry her. Or perhaps both. Marriage was bound to become

228

an issue sooner or later, he acknowledged to himself. And he

admitted to himself also, that until recently he would have
drifted comfortably, even happily, into that stage of his
relationship with Penny. But had she ever affected him in the
way that Noleen now did?
As he checked the contents of his toilet bag he noticed
several sachets of nicotine patches. These had been urged
upon him by Penny but he had only occasionally applied them
and didnt really believe in their efficacy. Perversely, the sight
of these packages now reminded him of his Gauloises.
Bugger it, he said out loud and mechanically lit one. It
was going to be a difficult week.

229

Chapter 36

The operational silence was broken by a whispered question:

Isnt Monday a Bank Holiday?
Yes, but not a public holiday.
Thats it! It has just occurred to me: the buggers plan to
come back on Tuesday morning. You see, the night safe will
then contain what local businesses have deposited on Friday,
the weekend, and Monday evening. A double or even triple
catch compared to a normal day. Could be hundreds of
thousands.
Thats a thought. Youre probably right. But well have
to be on full alert in the meantime.
Silence and a bored vigilance re-descended, like dusk, on
the SAS unit. Tuesday morning was still a long way off.

Granville had treated himself to hiring a Cherokee Jeep

from Herz at Alicante airport. As they bowled along the
Alicante-Murcia motorway, through the green olive, orange
and lemon groves, irrigated by the waters of the River Segura,
he was conscious that Pennys thoughts were probably
elsewhere, possibly on what she would say to him in a showdown.
Look out for the turn-off to Albacete, he said. Its a
tricky exit and easily missed.
Will do. Can you turn up the air conditioning please, its
getting awfully hot.
Yeah, OK.
Shes never comfortable in a car. Its either too hot or too
cold, the seats are either too hard or too wallowy. Always

230

something. Is that the sort of irritating detail which drives

couples apart?
Once the switch to the Albacete road had been
successfully manoeuvred and, ten minutes further on, the
equally tricky turn-off to Archena, Granvilles mood
lightened. The landscape was a striking mixture of lush orange
groves, with a rising background of cactus-strewn scrubland
and, above that, jagged bare hills, reminiscent of Arizona. On
the far side of the town of Archena lay the balneario, the spa
resort, nestling in a bend of the Segura River, protected on
three sides by hills, which rose up dramatically from the
narrow valley. The spa village consisted exclusively of three
hotels. In the bowels of the most expensive one was the
source of the spa, gushing hot water and mud, both of which
were used in the medical and recreational aspects of the resort.
The thermal waters had been exploited since Roman times.
Between the three hotel buildings a luxurious garden
blossomed and in its paths there wandered, at a cloistered
pace, small groups of guests/patients in their standard issue
long, white albornozes. A very faint whiff of sulphur hung in
the air. The atmosphere was one of profound, languorous calm
and other-worldliness. A luxurious, secular equivalent of
Clonard Monastery, a place of reflection, far from the
preoccupations of everyday life, but with all mod. cons.
Leading European industrialists, investment bankers and
media personalities could always be found amongst the guests
in the five star hotel, which, noblesse oblige, had the best
position of the three.
Granville knew from experience that this blissful calm
was in stark contrast to the forthcoming pain to be endured in
the physiotherapy department, especially in the gymnasium.
There he would be submitted to excruciating stretchings and
twistings, which felt as though they were pulling his legs free
from his body. All in the name of annual maintenance. This
treatment, punctuated with mud baths and rigorous massages,
lasted every day from breakfast time to lunch. The afternoon
was more comfortably spent in and around the heated
swimming pool, in which, given its heavy mineral content and

231

its steady temperature of 37C, one could not really swim, but
instead wallow like a contented hippopotamus in the Zambesi.
Evenings could be spent in a rota of visits to bar-restaurants in
the town, where the riches of the local Murcian cuisine were
enthusiastically sampled by all visitors. Granville, whose
inherited work ethic gave him a slightly guilty conscience
about all this luxe, calme et volupt eased only by the
thought that his lotus-eating was only for a week. And, of
course, the suffering at the hands of the physiotherapists had a
compensatory, redemptive effect, at least in his own mind.
In any event, his lotus-eating days were to be numbered.
His improved mood was briefly shared by Penny when they
were installed in their de luxesuite on the top floor,
overlooking the garden. They felt and acted like lovers again,
but as Granville pulled on a post-coital Gauloise, he was
conscious that there was little he wanted to talk to Penny
about. She seldom asked him about his passion in life, namely
his work in Ireland, except every so often to pose la question
cl how long? To which there could be no definitive answer.
Her life had ceased to inspire his curiosity, let alone the sort of
interest which one lover naturally has about the object of his
or her love. Moreover, he could sense that she, knowing him
so well for so long, had detected his gradual change of attitude
towards her
Was this also what drifting apart meant?
He both relished and dreaded the week ahead.

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Chapter 37

Seamus Toner, alias Harry-the-hound, was feeling upbeat,

despite the fact that his kidney condition disrupted his sleep at
frequent, painful intervals every night of his life and
complicated his life during every day, with equally painful
side effects. The reason for his good humour was that he felt
his personal importance was at last increasing, in both of his
lives, that is to say, as an IRA Volunteer and as an RUC
Secret Agent, (a title skilfully bestowed upon him by Det.
Sgt. Bob McKinney, which sounded so much better than
tout). It was a strange thing, he reflected, as he unwisely
sipped a Guinness at the bar in Central Station ... strange that
he should like McKinney, whom he knew as Macintosh,
much more than his IRA superiors. He felt that the RUC man
genuinely cared. He went to enormous lengths to protect
Toners security and a bond of friendship had gradually been
established between them. Macintosh never failed to ask after
his health and family and would chat about his everyday life
his worries, his sporting interests and his hobby of model
aircraft building. As time went by, the handler showed a
growing appreciation of Toners value as a Secret Agent,
which was reflected in the increasing amounts of money he
was slipped every month. By contrast, he had never felt that
his superiors in his local battalion of the IRA gave him the
recognition which he believed he deserved. He was part of the
machine alright, but was always acutely conscious of how
small a cog he was in that machine. His local OC treated him
as though he were a not very bright schoolboy and the tasks
he was given, as a runner, were basically those of a message
boy.

233

However, things were beginning to look up, even on that

front, to his great satisfaction. He had been detailed to look
after two VIP visitors from the South, who were due to arrive
off the Dublin to Belfast Enterprise express in fifteen minutes
time. He had not been told, of course, who they were.
Externally, one was an academic, a senior lecturer in
Electrical Engineering at a Dublin university; the other was a
trade union official. Internally, one was a bomb-brain, the
other a security officer of the IRA and liaison man with
Belfast.
The reason for their visit north was the growing problem
of bomb production. Bombs nowadays had to be ever more
sophisticated, the bomb makers complained. Sinn Fein/IRA
policy, in the twilight zone of transition to politics, now
required that civilian casualties had to be kept to the
minimum. That meant warnings had to be given, in order that
all civilians could be evacuated from the scene of the coming
explosion. That in turn meant that the mechanism of the bomb
had to outwit the disposal experts in the relatively short
interval between warning and timed detonation. As Major
Tomkins and his men grew ever more efficient in their job, the
challenge to the bomb makers and behind them the bombbrains similarly increased. In this situation the pressure on
the small number of bomb-brains was becoming critical, since
only they could be counted on to design the necessary
technical traps for the bomb makers to incorporate in their
devices. And on top of that, within a month, the services of
two key designers had been lost to the organisation, due to the
successes of PANORAMA. It was unlikely that the police
would be able to gather enough evidence against them to have
them charged. However, since they would themselves know,
by the very fact of their arrests, that they had been rumbled,
it would be very difficult for the IRA leadership to rely on
their future help, which had always been given at one remove.
Now that they were compromised they both wanted to keep
out of the game, as they brutally described their activities.

234

The visitors from Dublin were therefore on a mission to

co-ordinate with Belfast how best to meet the problem of
shrinking top-level expertise and how to improve security.
Toner had been given no information whatsoever about
his charges, beyond their status as VIPs. He merely positioned
himself with the small knot of meeters and greeters near the
ticket collectors, as the passengers streamed from the
Enterprise Express into the station concourse. He carried a
small, yellow holdall with, along one side, an unusual logo of
a green snake. It was a conspicuous enough identification
marker, but Toner nevertheless was momentarily startled
when a man stopped in his stride as he reached him and used
the clichd password, Excuse me, I am from Tipperary.
Could you tell me where the taxis are?
Yes. Just come with me, he replied. As they walked
towards the exit, they were joined by another man, who was
obviously known to the first.
Mind if I share a taxi with you if youre going to the city
centre?
Sure.
Before they got into the last black taxi on the rank outside
the station, Toner, mindful of the Dublin accents of his
charges, said, Listen fellas. Dont say a word in the taxi. Let
me do all the talking.
To the Europa Hotel, he said to the driver. Five minutes
later they alighted there, and when the taxi had driven off into
the busy traffic of Great Victoria Street, Toner led the trio
across the road and into another taxi from the row waiting for
customers in nearby Amelia Street. This time they set off for
their real destination, Lenadoon Drive, in the suburbs of West
Belfast. Toner chatted to the driver almost non-stop, to deflect
attention from his companions, and instructed him to drop
them at the corner of the street, from where they walked the
hundred yards or so to where Stiletto and Charlie Ryan, an
experienced bomb maker, awaited them. The tenant of the
house was an old-timer in the Republican cause, whose only
service now was to make his home available as a safe house.
No longer the tearaway gunman of PIRA lore, he spent most

235

of his days lolling on the sofa in his front room, like a panda
in a Chinese zoo bamboo shoots, that is to say tins of lager,
courtesy of the generosity of the local Benefits Office of the
Department of Health and Social Services, ranged on a low
table before him.
Toner was sent away and told to return with a taxi in time
for the visitors to catch the evening Enterprise back to Dublin.

HSB was still at his desk in RUC Headquarters when he

received an urgent call from his opposite number in the Garda
Sochna in Dublin.
Afternoon my friend. A titbit for you. Ive just heard that
two of the local rowdies here are supposed to be up with you
today on big business. Im told they took the train, so they
may well come back that way.
Many thanks. Any other details names, descriptions
etc?
Ill fax that to you right away, on secure. Plus two mug
shots. Not very good quality, Im afraid, but it should help.
Thanks a million. Ill action at once when I have your
fax.
As he hung up, he shouted to his PA in the adjoining
office, Maggie, this is urgent. Get me the timetable for the
evening Enterprise.
I dont need to. I was on it last Friday. It leaves at ten
past six.
Damn, were going to be too late. But we can still get
them off at Portadown, or better still at Newry. That gives us
nearly an hour. Get me Chief Superintendent Ellison down
there, then forward to him the fax thats coming in from
Dublin.
Passengers on the Enterprise began to look at their
watches, as the train sat on in the station above Newry town,
well beyond its scheduled three minutes.

236

Not another bloody bomb on the line story, muttered

someone. Theyll have us off on a bus to Dundalk and well
be at least an hour late in Dublin.
Three groups of policemen, some in uniform, some in
civvies, moved systematically through the carriages,
scrutinising faces as they went. It took them ten minutes to
find the Dublin two, who had been sitting separately and they
were led off, without protest or struggle, and bundled
unceremoniously into waiting police cars.
At Castlereagh neither Niblock nor Austin made any
headway with the two detainees. Confident that there could be
no forensic or ballistic evidence against them the great
advantage of clean skins they both stuck to the simple
story that they had spent the day as tourists. Their superficial
knowledge of the city allowed each of them they denied
having been together to outline a sort of tourist board day
out: visits to Parliament Buildings, the City Hall and Queens
University, a pub lunch, (one mentioned the Crown Bar, the
other couldnt remember the name of the hostelry in the
university area), then window shopping in Donegal Place and
Royal Avenue. It was clear to their experienced interrogators
that not only were their stories lies, but that they knew that
they would be seen as such. Obviously they didnt care,
confident that nothing could be pinned on them. The fact that
they had been pulled off the train showed their cover had
somehow been blown, which was a great pity, but what else
could the police do to them?
Electrical Engineer felt confident enough to taunt
Niblock.
Since when has it been a crime in this fascist statelet to
spend a day sightseeing? Id heard about your police methods
and all that, but I never thought Id see it at close hand
myself.
Niblock refused to rise to the bait. He merely smiled and
said, Well, when weve compared your fingerprints with our
prize collection well have a better idea of what youve put
your hand to up here.

237

He did not, of course, believe that, for he was pretty sure

that these two men would never be hands-on operators.
When he rang HSB to report on the state of play, or more
accurately non-play, his boss said, Im not surprised. We
could do a CCTV check on them, but thats hardly worth the
time and bother. Lifes too short to iron the gusset of your
boxer shorts. But keep them there for the max. Ill have an
Order prepared for the Secretary of States signature. Just to
sow a bit of doubt and confusion amongst the opposition.
Make sure McGuigan tells the press of the dramatic arrest on
the train. That should stir things up a bit. Thinking about who
knew and who told will keep a few baddies out of trouble for
a while. And its good for morale elsewhere, even though its
a damp squib.

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Chapter 38

Howard Kerr, manager of the Drumphoe Ulster Bank, arrived

at the front door, in the half-light, at 8.25am, with the keys to
open up. Within five minutes, all the members of his staff had
arrived, and began going about their routine business before
opening to the public at 9.30am. Having consulted the work
rota, Kerr detailed two clerks to clear the night safe, count the
cash and cheques and do the necessary follow-up records,
acknowledgements etc. They took two large sacks with them
to the back of the night safe and it took two runs each for them
to effect the transfer into the bank counting house, the door
of which stood to the side of the vast steel vault. Once inside
the room, they locked the door and set about their tasks.
Five minutes later the watcher on duty at the window in
their hide, prepared for action. He did not take his eyes off his
binoculars; the others checked their weapons, not just as an
automatic routine, but with concentrated serious intent. No
one even whispered. Ten minutes later the watcher suddenly
stirred.
Theyve arrived! he hissed.
Below, in the alleyway behind the bank, a narrow Toyota
van pulled up. Three figures swiftly alighted. One stood in
front of the van, dressed in jeans and a green parka, a woollen
mask covering most of his face. The other two jointly heaved,
with some difficulty, a large sack over the wall then followed
it with considerable agility. A fourth member of the team
appeared from the rear of the van, carrying a small, collapsible
stepladder. Then he joined the others below the barred
window. Mounting the stepladder, he took the large bag from
the others and swung it against the bars, which immediately
caved in with a large crash of metal and glass which was
239

clearly audible in the SAS hide. The other two men replaced
him on the platform of the steps and produced handguns from
their jackets. The watchers could not hear what the raiders
were shouting but clearly they were threatening the bank staff
within, then one after the other, through the window, they
disappeared from view.
Right, lets go. Go! go! go! The SAS team descended
the stairs, slipped through the neglected backyard and through
a gap in the slats in the fence, emerging into the alleyway just
yards from the Toyota. The sentry spotted them at once and
reached into his jacket for his weapon. It never appeared:
there was the dull thud of a silenced Uzi and he slumped
forward without a sound, a red dot, the size of a 10p coin, in
the middle of his forehead. The unit swept on, over the wall
and, cautiously now, up to the platform in front of the
window. No one looked out and from outside they could hear
the murmur of voices, betraying no alarm inside the target
area. The problem which they had debated beforehand how
to determine who is who did not arise: three occupants of
the room wore parkas, the other two were in indoor civvies. In
an instant, the pent-up tension of the SAS men exploded, as a
fusillade of shots rang out, followed by screams of pain and
terror. Then only low moans from one of the bank tellers and
hyperventilation gasps from the other. Three parka clad bodies
lay askew over the upturned table, envelopes and bundles of
banknotes and cheques littered the room. In the bank beyond
the counting house, pandemonium reigned

Granville had not felt well all morning. He was sorry now
that he had drunk most of the bottle of Ricoti red the night
before, on top of three sharp finos. The local red was all very
well as an accompaniment to a barbecue, but at 15 degrees, in
large quantities, it claimed many a victim. Penny had been
moody, bordering on sulky, all evening; had refused more
than a half glass of wine, and had insisted, patronisingly he
thought, on taking over the driving on the way back to the
hotel. Breakfast had been a rather sombre affair; and the

240

mornings physiotherapy was particularly painful, as a big

brutal nurse bent his legs to what he felt must be near breaking
point. Things had somewhat improved in the hot mud session.
He lay on a bed covered in brown viscous mud and wrapped
in a linen shroud-like garment. He could feel his body relax
after the rigours of the Torture Chamber and had fallen into
a light sleep before the attendant roused him. His shroud was
unwrapped and the jet of hot water from a hose scattered the
mud from his body in seconds.
He tried to observe his own gait as he walked at the
patients pace, back to his room. His slight limp seemed to
have improved over the last year. He must come here for
longer periods and more frequently, he decided.
In his room the red button for messages was blinking on
the telephone. He lifted the receiver, to be connected to Pablo,
a jovial youth who doubled as concierge and telephone
exchange operator.
Buenas dias, seor. Very urgent call from your friend Mr
Oui-la. He want you for TV programme. I no know where you
are. You get his numbers? Right? Vale.
Yes, I have. Thats OK. Thanks.
As he dialled the number of his PA, Elspeth, his eye took
in a significant detail he should have noticed on entering the
room: no Penny clutter, no clothes on the floor and through
the open bathroom door he could see no array of bottles of
lotions on the shelves above the left-hand basin.
Elspeth answered. Thank goodness you have surfaced,
(en clair: where the hell have you been?). Ill get James to
ring you right away. Hes somewhere with the main press
boys. God, its mad here. Have you seen the news? About the
SAS shoot-out?
No.
Well, its on BBC 1 now, can you get that?
Yes.
Hang up and James will ring you back.
As he hung up, he reached for the TV remote control. On
it (she knew where he was likely to find it) was an envelope
marked J. Granville Esq. Personal.
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The TV picture and sound came on. It showed a shot of

what he was later to learn was the back of the Ulster Bank
building in Drumphoe, with a zoom into the gaping hole of
the window, followed by shots of bloodstains on the ground in
the alleyway. The voice over was saying Nationalist
politicians are calling for an immediate inquiry into the
incident and at Westminster there have been requests for an
urgent debate this afternoon.
At the bottom of the picture the ticker-tape flashing from
left to right read, Army kill four in bank raid ambush. One
bank employee seriously injured.
Yes, James. Sorry. I was having treatment and they
didnt come for me. Yes, I have just this minute seen the BBC
story. Is this SAS stuff?
Weve been holding the line so far that we dont
comment on army or regimental movements. But the
Secretary of State will eventually have to tell Parliament,
through parliamentary questions or in debate.
Hold the line for as long as possible. It could soon blow
over, even with four dead and an innocent injured!
Its worse than that. Seems another IRA man, maybe a
lookout, scorched out of town in his car and a mile down the
road hit an oncoming car head on. He died on the spot and the
driver of the other car, a thirty year old mother of two, died on
her way to hospital.
Jesus. Therell be hell to pay about this!
Weve managed to reel in the General a bit, but the
media are bound to play his initial gung-ho reaction. Youd
think hed won World War III.
I can imagine.
I hear Bunny and Butch are looking for you, urgently.
Not surprised. Tell Elspeth to get me out of here and
back to Belfast prontissimo. See you tonight.
Jesus, repeated Granville as he replaced the receiver. He
said it with such feeling that a theologian would have been
hard put to decide whether his exclamation was blasphemy or
pious invocation.

242

He knew what would be in the letter. It was just a matter

of how it was expressed.
Dear Jeremy,
You have always prided yourself on being a realist. I have
been more of a romantic, but I have now realised that I, too,
should be a realist.
As Im sure you know, I hoped that our relationship
would continue to progress. Clearly that is not the case. You
once said that the place a relationship can best be evaluated is
over the cornflakes at breakfast. I think youre right. And
judging by this morning, would either of us want that to be
our future?
I am sorry about the suddenness of this, but Im sure its
better this way.
I hope we can nevertheless remain friends.
With genuinely best wishes,
Penny.
Granvilles thoughts were of Noleen as he tore up the
letter.
Its simpler now, but its not that simple. In fact it could
be even more complicated.
An hour later, Granville was loading his luggage into the back
of the jeep. The mozo helped him in a way which required no
great effort on his own part, springing the back door of the
vehicle open, lifting the smaller of the two cases, and opening
the drivers door for Granville. As he trousered Granvilles tip
he said, with gusto, Gracias, seor y buen viaje. Ave a good
day now.
Unlikely.

243

Chapter 39

Reaction to the events at Drumphoe polarised press,

politicians and public opinion as no other topic had done for
years. At last, SAS in action! screamed the headline in the
Newsletter, reflecting broad unionist opinion. Horror killings
by British troops was the headline in the Irish News, followed
by reports of condemnation by Sinn Fein, the SDLP and the
local Catholic clergy.
Bloody Chesham throws the crockery at the wall and Ive
got to pick up the pieces. And put it together again, said
Granville to Wheeler. I dont buy the line that the SAS were
called in at short notice because the police couldnt handle
things themselves, once the scale of the IRA operation became
clear. Ill want a detailed timeline established for the whole
affair, as a matter of urgency.
Well I can tell you right away that our man up there and
your office werent put in the picture until it was far too late to
do anything about it.
Im not surprised. Id bet the farm on it having been
cooked up personally by the GOC and HSB. They are
sometimes far too cosy together, those two, for my liking.
And in some ways one is as bad as the other. Chesham is
upfront and obvious, but Campbell is a dark horse.
Do you really think hes all that clever? asked Wheeler,
doubtfully.
Well, hed be unlikely to solve the Riemann hypothesis,
but hes a crafty bugger all the same. Not to be
underestimated. Or always trusted, as this episode illustrates.
You will never really know the full story, I suspect. My
guess is that there will be no paper trail on this. More likely a

244

conversation on a green at Knock Golf Club one fine Saturday

morning.
If this is the GOCs interpretation of his orders to cool
it and hold the ring, I shudder to think what hed have done
if we had given him martial law when he was calling for it
eighteen months ago.
By the way, said Wheeler apologetically, Vincent Glass
tells me that Bunny and Butch are genuinely very upset.
Theyll accuse you of bad faith and mean it this time. Its
not just a ploy.
Of course, of course. What else are they to think?
Fortunately I think the timing is right for a ploy I can use to
bring them back on board.
Am I allowed to know? asked Wheeler, with just a hint
of anticipated reproach in his voice.
I think you can guess, replied Granville with a smile, I
am confident that if we have a reasonable amount of time to
move away from this incident, we can save our overall game
plan. But the immediate problem is to get them back into play,
before everything drifts away from us. A vacuum in our
dealings with them would be bound to play into the hands of
the PIRA hawks.
Does the way back pass through your favourite canon?
asked Wheeler.
Indeed it does. Which does not fill me with unalloyed
joy. But business is business. Ill just have to eat humble pie
AND flatter him. AND promise his chums the moon, and, if
necessary, the earth.
Meetings of the Joint Security Committee, Granville
reflected, were now becoming as difficult as his Clonard
encounters, if not more so. But he was nevertheless pleased
that in the overall scheme of things in London and Belfast,
this committee, his committee, had been gradually taking on
the role of the most important forum in the whole politicoadministrative scene.
He called the meeting to order and introduced the first
item on the agenda, Follow up to the Drumphoe Incident.

245

He deliberately did so in flat, factual terms as though he were

a neutral observer. Not a word of praise crossed his lips.
The General was first to demand the floor. I should have
thought, Mr Chairman, that the success of this mission would
engender a somewhat greater enthusiasm from you. My men
were working under very difficult, and indeed dangerous,
conditions and they managed to inflict an obvious defeat on
the enemy, which should deter other misguided young
hooligans from indulging in such activities. I would have
thought Granville interrupted him with a manual stop
sign. General, your operation, quite apart from drawing on to
HMG international criticism at the UN, no less, caused the
death of an innocent motorist and severe injuries to an
innocent bank clerk. It may have been a success as viewed
through military eyes, but frankly it was against the policy of
the peace process.
What is this policy? Can you please explain to us what it
is, said a reddening and angry General.
I thought I had made that clear many times; the process is
the policy. Were reeling them in. Into a post-war situation.
We are agreeing to things that would happen at the end of any
such conflict, in return for their acceptance that the war is
over.
The war is over, is it? demanded the General, Well if it
is, can you please tell me who has won?
The population at large has won. That is to say, they will
reap the peace dividend when all the loose ends are tied up.
Well, where is the surrender? demanded Chesham, still
very agitato.
The sort of surrender you have in mind, General, would
only mark a pause in hostilities. Another generation would
take up arms, as they have done before. This time we must
have a settled settlement.
This is all very confusing. What am I expected to do?
For as long as you are GOC NI, said Granville the
threat was obvious you should confine your forces
activities to peace-keeping. Keep up the intelligence gathering

246

by all means, which we all do and which is our greatest

weapon, and react to any acts of overt violence. Thats all.
If youre saying my Secretary of State will sack me for
success Ill be very surprised.
No question of sacking. On the contrary I look forward to
congratulating you on a further promotion when it comes.
HSB kept his head down, metaphorically and almost
physically, during these exchanges. He was glad that the heat
which they generated helped divert others from posing
questions about the role of his branch in the Drumphoe
incident. Not that Granville had forgotten about that aspect.
HSBs silence told him all he needed to know; he didnt need
any written report, a report which would, he knew in his
bones, be a fudged account of what had taken place between
police and army and why MI5 could not be put in the picture
at an earlier moment. But there was no point in pushing those
two into a permanent alliance against himself. In the long run,
the police would be needed more than the army.
Canon Murrays green VW Beetle crunched to a halt on
the gravel drive in front of St Oswalds. As he emerged from
the car, he took in the splendour of the magnificent sweep of
lawns and, beyond them, the pine trees which marked the
boundaries of the property and hid it from sight from the
roadway.
Such a change from the cramped concrete jungle of the
Lower Falls.
He took a deep, deep breath of the slightly sea-tangy air
and would have liked to stay where he was for a refreshing
pause, but a young official hurried down the flight of steps at
the entrance to greet him and show him into a spacious
drawing room, where Granville awaited him.
Thanks for coming, began Granville, gripping him
firmly by the hand.
I thought it was time we renewed our acquaintance and
took up the threads of our first meeting. Which was, of course,
both interesting and, as you know, fruitful.

247

Thats not quite true, said Murray, unsmilingly.

Oh? How come? replied Granville, raising his eyebrows
in mild and feigned astonishment.
Lets be frank. You invited me here because you are in
deep trouble and you think I might be able to get you out of
the mess you have made for yourself.
Granville reflected for half a second.
Should he prolong an argument about the motives for his
invitation? Was it not an argument he would almost certainly
lose?
He chose, instead, the opposite tack.
Rumbled again, he cried, smiling broadly, But surely
you wont hold that against me. After all, Im only taking you
up on your own self-definition of peacemaker?
A girl appeared with drinks on a tray. Murray lifted a
glass of Bushmills, which he swirled for a few seconds before
returning to the charge.
That was a limited role, to help the two sides to come
together. But were long past that stage now. You Brits have
had your chance. Youve completely destroyed any trust that
was building up. And without trust there is no way forward.
He was now into his hectoring mode, as though he was
chiding his flock for the paucity of their Easter offerings.
The massacre at Drumphoe was a huge political mistake.
Lets not exaggerate, Father, interrupted Granville. I
can assure you it was not a political mistake. It was an
accident.
Accident? snapped Murray in indignation. Accidents
just happen, in the twinkling of an eye. Drumphoe required
planning, organisation, co-ordination. That was no accident.
That was a deliberate and reckless decision by the British
Establishment.
Granville poured him another generous Bushmills, before
replying,
Now, you are a fair and balanced man. I take it you
would not deny that from time to time things go wrong for the
IRA. They have even publicly admitted that themselves. And
when I sayv go wrong I dont just mean a technical detail,

248

like a bomb going off prematurely, but go wrong because

someone down the line misinterprets the leaderships general
directions and embarks on a course of action which is actually
against those policies.
Are you trying to tell me, retorted Murray, with some
force, that you are putting the British army on the same
organisational level as what you otherwise call a clandestine
paramilitary gang?
No, Im not. But equally, you mustnt assume that the
Establishment, as you like to call it, is a perfectly organised,
monolithic structure, in which everybody knows what
everybody else is doing, minute by minute, and why. I would
never, ever, guarantee that elements in the security forces will
not occasionally act in a way for which their training has
prepared them, but which is not helpful to overall policy.
Are you saying that the powers that be were unaware in
advance of the Drumphoe operation?
Summoning up his most sincere demeanour, Granville
said in a low, confidential tone, I can personally give you that
assurance.
What has happened to those who stepped out of line?
Have they been put on a charge? Disciplined?
This is awkward. Kick for touch.
As you know, the incident is being fully investigated. It
would be wrong of me to comment until the results of that
inquiry are known. But I can tell you, strictly off the record,
that the government greatly regrets what has happened.
Murray was silent for several moments.
Even if I were to take what you say at face value which
I must frankly tell you I find hard to do what do you think I
could do to help the situation? Surely its a matter between
you and the representatives of the IRA.
Granville thought he sensed that the atmosphere was
thawing. Now was the moment to make his play.
Father, I think you know. I dont have to spell it out. The
interlocutors you kindly introduced me to are, how shall I put
it, not returning my calls. Neither metaphorically nor
practically. So, in view of what you told me at our first

249

meeting about your vocation as a peace maker, I thought you

might be prepared to act as what I believe you in the Church
would call an intercessory saint and one with great
influence over some key individuals.
He paused before adding in lighter vein, I take it that you
still believe in intercessory saints?
Yes, but Im not one of them, said Murray firmly, but
with a twinkle in his eye.
Oh, give it time, give it time. Im sure some heavenly
power is working on your promotion.
Murray, now apparently drawn into the spirit of the tease,
replied, You should know that to be a saint you have not only
to have two miracles attributed to you, but you must also be
dead.
Well in that case well allow the celestial and
ecclesiastical authorities a long, long time before a final
decision is taken; we dont want to lose you, said Granville
with a flourish. However, as practice for the long term future
and to enrich your spiritual CV in the meantime, you could in
the short term render not only me but the entire peace process
a great service by helping to restore relations to their preDrumphoe status.
By doing what? said the canon, now serious once more.
By convincing your friends of the sincerity of my regrets.
And of my good faith. And of my desire to move forward
once more, with them, in our confidence-building measures. I
have some proposals for that which I am sure will be of
considerable interest to them.
Would he take the bait ...and pass it on?
Murray was silent for several seconds, pursing his lips,
then swallowing a mouthful of whiskey, with an audible gulp.
I dont think I, or anybody else, can do anything at this
moment. It will take months, and a lot of patience, to get back
to where you were.
But we havent got that sort of time. If the momentum for
peace is lost because of a continuing stand-off, a great
opportunity will be missed. In that case history will not be
kind to any of us.

250

You should have thought of that not that I believe you

Brits spend much time thinking about our history here
before allowing a bunch of SAS thugs over here in the first
place. Let alone turning them loose in an area like Drumphoe
with a licence to kill.
With that, Murray rose from his chair.
Sorry, but thats the way I see it today. Thanks for the
whiskey anyhow.
Im sorry, too; very sorry that you cant see your way to
help just now. Perhaps another time. Soon, I hope.
Perhaps, but unlikely.

Later that afternoon Wheeler rang.

Any progress?
No great enthusiasm or optimism, Im afraid. He may go
back to them with what I said, but I have my doubts.
Shit!
And not a word to friend Glass or anyone else.
Course not.

251

Chapter 40

HSB was with his various counterparts at a meeting of the

Joint Security Committee when he was called to the telephone
to take an urgent call from Bill Austin.
This had better be important, he said.
It may well be; its for you to judge. Ive had a call from
CID to say we are holding Canon Murray for questioning in
the barracks in Andersonstown. (Austin always preferred the
word barracks over the, to him, weak PC modern term
station, which, as he would say, is where you go to take a
train.)
They thought it was a delicate matter.
In his most sepulchral Whats the world coming to voice
he went on, There has been a complaint from a minor, a boy
... about a sexual assault.
Good God! Im pretty sure our clerical friend is a
customer of you know who. Tell Andersonstown to hold him
there in the meantime. No action, no charge. No need to
explain. Ill deal with Andytown direct. Thanks for the tip-off.
Before setting off for West Belfast, Granville, having
been briefed by HSB, put Wheeler in the picture.
If any hint of this gets out, the Camoo (camouflage)
story is that Murray is in there to complain about army
activity in the area. Complaints about the army are nothing out
of the ordinary in those parts. Totally believable, Id say. But
better still if no explanations are needed.
Andersonstown RUC station had the outer appearance of
a modern version of a Beau Geste fort. Its already high outer
wall, defaced by elaborate RUC SS and Brits out graffiti
252

which the personnel inside had long since given up painting

out, was topped by a wire fence of almost equal height. Over
the years the station had been attacked by gunfire, bomb and
mortars; even now entry by car had to be co-ordinated by
radio.
Once inside, Granville and HSB were shown into a starkly
furnished room at the back of the building, in which Canon
Murray sat at a plain deal table, opposite a Detective
Constable. The handshakes were slightly awkward, but
Granville, left alone with Murray, adopted a relaxed tone.
Sorry you have had to stay here for such a long time, but
the delay was unavoidable. When I heard you were here, I had
to look at all the material in the file, to see if I could help in
any way. To be honest, the police are keen to prosecute, on
the basis of the available evidence, but, as I say, I would like
to help, if you could help me ...if you understand. He paused
in order to judge whether Murray did indeed understand. He
appeared to.
What evidence? You have no evidence. Im totally
innocent. This is a frame-up. Its a scandal. Ill sue you all and
expose this RUC plot.
Take it easy, said Granville, calmly. Lets not talk
about your exposing anything, shall we?
Shouldnt have said that. Concentrate on the deal.
You ask about evidence. Well, young Michael Doyle has
provided a very detailed account an all too detailed in fact
of what has happened in the sacristy of St Martins and
elsewhere apparently, since he was eleven. Thats seven years,
a long time. Now he wants to face up to all of that and he is
prepared to give evidence in court against you.
Murray showed no emotion.
He really is a hard nut. Or is it possible that he can turn
denial and autodenial into a solid defence mechanism?
Granville changed tone again and spoke in a friendly,
almost cajoling manner.
From where Im sitting, things look bad for you, Father.
Why dont you plead my cause you know how to do it and

253

I promise to help you. Only you and I will know anything

about our agreement.
No, I wont be blackmailed, he almost shouted.
I will not be blackmailed. Im innocent, I tell you. That
young Doyle is a well known scamp and teller of tales.
His defiance grew ever more strident.
And an ungrateful little blighter, after all Ive done for
him and his family over the years. Go ahead and charge me.
No judge or jury would take his word against mine.
They might if they listened to the tape.
What tape?
The first hint of anxiety in his voice.
The one Michael Doyle made the very last time you
...saw him. At Easter, after Mass, in your house.
I dont believe you!
But youre not so sure. Worth going for the jugular.
Are you going to force me to play it to you? I dont think
you or I want that, do we? The sound quality is exceptionally
good for an amateur recording. Every endearing word, every
little sound, can be clearly heard
Are you going to have me charged? said Murray
defiantly, but in a voice which Granville was convinced was
now very far from confident.
I hope not. But that now depends on you.
At that moment Granville slightly lost his nerve and
decided not to risk anything more for the moment.
Ill give you to the end of the week to decide. You can
send me a message, to say the channels with our mutual
friends are open again. If not ... His voice trailed off. By the
way, in case there are any questions anywhere about what you
were doing here, we can agree that you were complaining on
behalf of the local community about army harassment. Ive
read about such complaints in the Andersonstown News this
week, so they must be well founded.
Murray did not react to this sarcasm.
Tell you what: Ill arrange for the General to meet you
and a small delegation say half a dozen councillors or

254

community workers at your house. Look on that as a small

bonus for your co-operation.
Murray, his head slightly bowed, declined to shake
Granvilles outstretched hand as they parted.

That evening Granville was in festive mood, as he

recounted the days events to Wheeler.
I take it from what you say that the police dont have an
incriminating tape?
With a loud chuckle Granville replied, As the good or
perhaps not so good canon would say: what tape? He had
his doubts, strong doubts, but he didnt dare put my assertion
to the test. He didnt pay to see my hand, as we poker players
say. He was afraid to. Which indicates two things. Firstly, that
he is as guilty as hell. And, secondly, that he WILL deliver the
message to Bunny, as politely requested by me. Buggers cant
be choosers. He will even preach a peace process sermon to
PIRA, in order to cover his own, rather muddy, tracks.
Whats more, they will listen to him. I have a strong
feeling that he is more of a guide on tactics than either they or
he would admit. Goes back to childhood, obedience to
authority and all that.
But what about the boy?
We can tell the RUC to tell him that his complaint is still
being investigated. We can spin that out for quite a while.
Long enough for us not to need the canon any more.
But if his family get impatient and kick up a stink?
Provided Murray plays ball with us, we can tell the
Doyles that there is not enough evidence to justify a
prosecution.
And if they run to the media?
Wheeler could always be counted on to think of his
customers, and to judge whether there were any juicy scraps
to feed to them.
Hardly likely, its a one-parent outfit, but if they do, same
reply.

255

You would be nicely scuppered if it transpired that a tape

DID exist, said Wheeler, laughing loudly at the thought of it.
No chance. If it did, Doyle would have produced it right
at the beginning. No, its a matter of his word against
Murrays. I believe the boy, of course. He is taking a big risk
in pointing the finger at such a pillar of the church. He would
only do that if fired up with genuine indignation. Its a classic
case, I would say.
Arent you setting aside questions of justice here?
Justice is all very fine and dandy, but Ive got more
important things to worry about right now than some kiddyfiddling cleric and a complaining choirboy. Justice can wait.
And what will the General say about your committing
him to a meeting with a bunch of malcontents ?
It was Granvilles turn to laugh mischievously.
I think you will agree that Chesham merits some sort of
sanction for the Drumphoe balls-up. Dont forget, Im what
Sir Julian calls the Lord High Security Co-ordinator.
Arranging security meetings is a vital part of that coordination. And I must admit, it will be fun to drop old GOC
into the slurry. He richly deserves it.
Granville poured both of them a stiff nightcap.
The meeting the GOC reluctantly attended, was held in
what the canons housekeeper called the front parlour of his
house near St. Peters Pro-cathedral in the Lower Falls.
Murray presided with some formality, sitting in a vast
armchair in front of an ornate, inactive fireplace, flanked by a
local councillor and two community workers. The GOC had
asked for their names in advance and was not surprised to find
that they all featured in the PANORAMA database, classed as
SF militants/PIRA sympathisers/no confirmed direct terrorist
activities/not priority status for surveillance. General
Chesham, dressed down in his khaki woolly pullie, sat
somewhat uncomfortably on a low sofa, accompanied only by
his young ADC (although outside a heavily armed protection
squad surrounded the house).

256

Having introduced the others, Murray outlined the

substance of the complaints.
Its an overall problem, but seems to have become
particularly bad in Lenadoon, which is where my friends here
work and represent the local community. Its at its worst at
night and seems to be deliberate. Army patrols make a lot of
unnecessary noise, revving engines, slamming vehicle doors,
shouting obscenities and so on. And when they are sent to
carry out searches, they time such harassment for the middle
of the night.
Its worse than that, interrupted one of the community
workers. The soldiers urinate, even defecate, in the front
gardens.
And when they arrive at three in the morning to carry out
searches they dont give the householder more than a minute
to open the door before breaking it open with a battering ram,
added the other.
The councillor was keen to have his say: People come to
me just about every day, to complain that their houses have
been ransacked during these raids, with furniture ruined, such
as settees ripped open.
Such damage is, of course, regrettable, but there are
procedures for compensation, said the General, defensively.
Yes, but the reception we get when we try to lodge a
complaint is always hostile. The people who are supposed to
take our complaints on board treat us like dirt and mutter
things like fuckin bogtrotters.
Chesham took a deep breath, put down his teacup, and
leaned forward stiffly in a stance which was well known to his
colleagues on the JSC.
Naturally, Im disappointed to hear all this, and I am
grateful to you, Canon Murray, for having given all of us the
opportunity to air our views. Let me give you the other side of
the story. My men have a rough time of it. They are insulted
and even spat upon at every street corner, reviled at every
turn. So is it any wonder that some of them, some of the time
not all of them, all the time indulge in what you and I

257

would see as unimaginative acts? They are, after all, only

human.
Does that mean you are not going to do anything about
it? asked Murray.
No, emphatically not. I will speak clearly to my men. It
would help enormously if you could also speak to your
parishioners and constituents, to encourage them to be more
civilised towards my men, who are only trying to protect
them.
Protect? Who from? shot back one of the community
workers.
From anyone who acts against them outside the law
paramilitaries of every stripe. Orange or Green, theyre all the
same to me.
Thats something Id find hard to believe, General,
intervened Murray.
You should face up to it: you are an occupying force.
You must expect the natives, as you would call them, to resist
in whatever way they can. Your actions are actually holding
up the reforms which are necessary to end discrimination
against the Catholic population.
Now you are straying outside my bailiwick. Im a simple
soldier. Politics and with apologies to you, Canon religion
are not in my remit. Not to mention above my pay rate. But I
am happy about that. To come back to your complaints, Ive
taken them on board and will take action. I only ask that you
do the same. Thanks for the hospitality; those scones are
delicious.
As the visitors moved down the dark hallway on their way
out, Murray plucked Cheshams sleeve and held him back.
Tell your man Granville I have delivered and endorsed
his message, he whispered. He can expect a phone call
anytime now.
Uncharacteristically, they were waiting for him lying in
wait for him, more likely when he arrived at Clonard

258

Monastery. Greetings were barely grunted and palpable

resentment added to the chill of the gloomy room.
I knew nothing about it.
He did not need to mention context.
We dont bloody well believe you, said Bunny. Then
echoing the Murray line, An operation like that just doesnt
happen it takes not just organisation but a series of
approvals.
Should I ask whether he is speaking from experience?
Perhaps not, remember todays objective.
As you know, I was out of the country and Ive made my
investigations. None of my staff was in on the operation in
any way. Any organisation, including yours, if I may say
so,(is that too sarcastic and counter -productive?) is liable to
be taken by surprise by the unauthorised actions of a rogue
element.
Are you telling me, said Butch, red of face, that you
view a regiment of the British Army as a rogue element.
Whose fault is it, if the SAS is out of control?
Youve seen the Secretary of States statement. There
will be a full inquiry.
And another whitewash, no doubt, months or years from
now. But it is now that we are in the shit.
Bunny took up the running, You dont seem to
understand what this does to us. Here we are, at your
prompting, putting out a line that a just peace is obtainable
and that the war effort on both sides is being scaled down.
Thats a position under great strain throughout the Republican
movement and community. Then your rogue elements come
crashing in.
Granville could not hold back from saying, Lets not
forget that your activists crashed in first of all.
I must stop sounding like Chesham.
Do you realise, interjected an increasingly agitated
Butch, side-stepping that uncomfortable fact, that you have
created five more martyrs?

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I thought martyrs, like the hunger strikers, were all good

propaganda fodder for you, Granville shot back, unable to
resist this unwise return of serve.
Up to a point, conceded Butch, but we can all become
subject to the tyranny of the martyrs. Did Bobby Sands or
all the others die in vain? That is the sort of sentiment which
gets in the way of a negotiated peace. Do you guys not get it?
Thats only true if youve nothing to show for it. But I
have no doubt that the two proposals I want to put to you will
be not only compensation, but a real bonus.
The others looked at him, sceptically and in silence.
Firstly, the SAS. Let me say frankly, my own view is that
they should never have been deployed here in the first
instance. Im not knocking their expertise, which is
acknowledged worldwide, but theyre not suitable for use in a
civil setting. They always, always cause collateral damage.
And here they have too many people cheering them on.
Youre telling me, said Bunny, hostility still in his voice.
Look at it from the point of view of ministers. They
simply cannot reply positively to your demands that the SAS
be withdrawn. The price of doing that is far too high, not only
here but in GB and you must take that on board.
So youre saying no move on the SAS?
No, Im saying no announcement. We have already
announced an inquiry into Drumphoe and weve stuck to our
policy of never commenting on troop movements. But and
this is the important point we can soon feed out, under the
table, to certain journalists, your friend Glass being one of
them, that the SAS will soon be on their way. And in a few
weeks they will be, without an official announcement. You
have my word for it.
Your word, Jeremy, has lost a lot of its value, lately. The
government will have to do better than that.
Well, I think we can. Im authorised to tell you that the
Prime Minister is now willing, on the basis of what wed
already agreed, to invite you to Downing Street and for the
meeting to be publicly seen as an important part of the peace
process.

260

He could see the impact this had on them, temporarily

throwing them off balance.
When?
As soon as it suits you. You choose the date.
Well consider it, said Bunny cautiously.
You have until the weekend to phone me. You know
youd be crazy to pass this up. It will be the first fruits of the
process you can show to your people.
Well see.
That is as good as a yes.
Granville wondered who else could take such a decision.
Possibly the current ex-leader of the Republican prisoners, a
man known in security circles by his code name Mungo. If
that were the case, no problem. Mungo had already been
encouraged in the paths of peace by his RUC handlers, who
held over him some undeniable evidence of most unorthodox
sexual activities, the public disclosure of which would blow
Mungo out of the water, probably by his own relatives.
Was there any normal, legitimate sex life in these parts?

261

Chapter 41

Sir Julian Beardsleys suite of offices in the Foreign and

Commonwealth Office reminded the visitor of the past glories
of empire not to mention the glory of the present incumbent.
His own room, with its extraordinarily high ceiling, its gilt
and plush furniture was, he believed, with some justification,
the most sumptuous in Whitehall. A massive desk, which sat
in a pool of bright light from two ornate table lamps, and a
gleamingly polished conference table which was longer and
broader than any other outside the Cabinet Room, reflected his
importance as Head of the Diplomatic Corps and one of the
Prime Ministers closest and most valued advisers, on matters
both within and, more importantly beyond, his official job
description. His climb to the top of the greasy pole had been
thanks not only to his strictly diplomatic expertise, but to his
secret service background and his ability to influence national
policies over a wide spectrum. He had taken over the FCO
from his ailing predecessor in late spring. And the fact that the
head of the Home Civil Service was a rather lacklustre
character by recent Whitehall standards and one who did not
get on particularly well with the PM, further enhanced
Beardsleys role as the most important minence grise in
government. He was enjoying it immensely, in his own
double-breasted, pompous way.
A large clock ticked imperiously on the mantelpiece.
I thought I should convene a meeting of the civil powers
exclusively, he began. The others smiled at this dig at the
army and police. There were just three of them, plus
Beardsleys note taker: Sir Richard Pickford,(PUS/NIO),
Granville and Crispin Myles from the Prime Ministers office.

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Crispin had never liked his name, which he thought was a

burden in modern Britain. At Marlborough, a classics master
had christened him Cincinnatus and he was prepared to
accept, indeed embrace, the abbreviated nickname of SinSin, by which he was now universally known, even by his
mother, who had initially protested, saying, It sounds like an
immoral panda. His earlier career had been in the FCO, so he
was yet another of Beardsleys protgs. It is through such
networks that mandarins protect themselves in their old age.
Within the PMs Private Office Myles had been given a
special role as liaison man on all things relating to Northern
Ireland and he spent a great deal of his time shuttling to and
fro, in the interests of, as he put it, keeping up with a fast
moving game. There was, however, another, personal, reason
for the frequency of his visits to the province: for several
years he had been the live-in partner of a senior Home Office
official, Maurice Hobson, who, on promotion, had been
seconded to the NIO in Belfast. Thus, weekends out there
were no great hardship. Nor were the reasons for them a big
secret, as his lover was the soul of indiscretion, telling his PA,
who was every bit as indiscreet, how much he was looking
forward to his every weekend, when Crispin would be over
again. This partnership was more than frowned upon by
Austin, with whom Hobson had to do business every so often;
Niblock merely laughed and made ribald remarks about
Myles, whom he dubbed the London Derrire.
As Jeremy and Sin-Sin know, Beardsley went on, thus
somewhat isolating PUS/NI, the Foreign Secretary and the
Prime Minister are looking to us to bring finality to our Irish
project asap. We cant hope to put together a package which
will please everybody and which will not slightly unravel
from time to time. But Ireland is no place for perfectionists.
The much sought-after Solution to the Irish Question will
inevitably be a frail barque which may well need to be bailed
out from time to time. But if we can keep all the motley crew
on board that will constitute success.
He paused to sip his morning coffee.

263

Frankly, both my man and the PM are anxious about

certain aspects of how things seem recently to have slipped
back, after the excellent progress achieved these past few
months. Lurid descriptions of SAS ambushes are all very well
as fodder for the popular press and comfort to the unionists.
But there are downsides, as you are especially aware, Jeremy.
Granville nodded in agreement. He was relieved that
Beardsley had phrased his displeasure about the Drumphoe
incident, and his own failure to have averted it, in such mild
terms. On that fateful day, when Beardsley had at last made
contact with him in Archena, he, uncharacteristically, had
been roaring expletives down the telephone, to such an extent
that Granville feared for his posting, indeed his future career.
Anything that appears to be shoot-to-kill, or sounds
like we are striving for victory, stirs up a hornets nest, in
Parliament and elsewhere.
Yes, worldwide even, chipped in Sin-Sin.
Our American cousins are particularly restive at present,
precisely at a time when we need their support on various
items, like extradition and visas, not to mention non-Irish
ones, such as Zimbabwe.
I agree, said Sin-Sin loudly. It would have been hard to
imagine many things about which he would not agree with Sir
Julian.
As I say, all talk of victory is unhelpful. Were not
after victory, we are after an honourable draw. Whats the
speed of progress on the political front, Richard, with the socalled constitutional parties?
PUS/NI took a deep, audible breath. Of course I can only
speak about my dealings, in support of my S of S, with them,
but I have the distinct feeling that everybody is watching and
waiting for what will come out of Jeremys side of things,
which we all hope will subserve our purely political goals
within the framework of overall strategy.
And I should at once say that dealing with those parties is
like herding the proverbial cats at the crossroads.
He nodded to Granville, as though to acknowledge that he
had the more important role in all of this. He ploughed on.

264

The SDLP are holding back, trying to put together a panHibernian front, which they think will carry more weight. But
it seems to me that Dublin is no longer so keen on them.
Thats right, chimed in Granville, they now think,
having thought the opposite for decades, that Sinn Fein are the
better bet in the longer term.
I agree with that, echoed Sin-Sin.
As for the unionists, continued PUS doggedly, all their
varieties are still thrashing around. Publicly the two main
unionist parties are in competition as to who is the stronger
advocate for military victory and the least likely to make
concessions to the minority. But privately both of them are
making noises that clearly suggest to me that they would
welcome an agreement imposed by us, which would get them
back into some sort of Stormont. Even their ultras will, at the
end of the day, settle for half a loaf. Theyre now hungry for
power, for a new and solid role, not to mention salaries,
cars, perks and all the baubles.
Its clear to me, said Beardsley, with the air of the Lord
Chief Justice summing up a challenging case, that everything
turns on whether we can get Sinn Fein publicly and
irreversibly on board the Good Ship Settlement, not just with
us, but with all the other parties. We are almost there with
them barring further unforeseens, such as Drumphoe as
regards an outline settlement between them and ourselves. But
that will not be enough in the longer term; we have to get
them to be prepared to sit down with the other players and
work out an overall agreement. How do you see it, Jeremy?
We are making good progress and I think Drumphoe,
whilst still a sore point, is decreasing in importance. I think
we can say that, privately, there is now little between Sinn
Fein and ourselves. The problem is that we cant advertise the
fact, not even by leaks. We are at the most delicate stage and
we must keep the army quiet.
Yes, but we mustnt muzzle them altogether, interjected
PUS, otherwise theyll go public and play into the hands of
the more bloodthirsty, gung-ho tabloids.

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Granville said, in measured terms, Weve been around

this one before, without very much success, but I say it again:
it would help enormously if the PM were to issue instructions,
rather than vague suggestions, to SoS/MOD to rein in the
troops, especially the General and the top brass. By all means
the army should go on gathering intelligence and contributing
to PANORAMA. Naturally they should prevent paramilitary
operations whenever they find out about them. Incidentally, I
think its fair to say that there have been very few of such
operations recently, as the IRA move towards us. That is why
the army shouldnt go around arresting people how shall I
put it? unnecessarily, particularly the known doves.
Doves?
Yes, PUS. All these terms are relative. Im more and
more convinced that we need them, and can use them to great
effect right now. And we must acknowledge that the doves
have by and large ensured that the ceasefire has been almost
complete. The IRA leadership have shown that to a large
extent they can turn off the violence. Thats going to be of
extreme importance in the future. All now depends on whether
we can get Sinn Fein / IRA to the wider conference table with
the others in one piece. They are almost ready. And if they
come, without any significant splits, all the other parties,
whatever may be said or written, will be a pushover. But if the
Provos split, its back to the drawing board for everybody.
Sin-Sin said, with a gravitas of which Beardsley himself
would have been proud, Ill see what the PM can do. Hes
very keen to be seen publicly to have had detailed substantive
talks with Sinn Fein and to be able to call a definitive peace
conference, just as soon as you have secured the way. Its a
make or break risk and he can only take it if he is just about
100% satisfied about the outcome. When the moment is right
hes ready to move fast and imaginatively.
Granville replied with urgency, Id hope that is only a
very few weeks away, at the latest. So, with respect, I would
urge you to make haste. We must not miss high water. The
moderates pardon the expression, PUS, I suppose
moderates is no better to your ears than doves are still in

266

charge, but if they cant show results soon the tide will go out
and they will be left high and dry, with disastrous
consequences for us.
Point taken, said Sin-Sin, consolingly. Could you let me
have some draft paragraphs for use in a prime ministerial
statement in the Commons and some material for use in an
eventual press conference with Sinn Fein on that doorstep of
Number 10?
Certainly.
Beardsley intervened, teasingly, Im sure Jeremy can
ensure that neither speech will upset his contacts.
The others smiled at this little jibe.
Whats so funny? Its my bloody job.
Sir Julian went on, If we can get Sinn Fein into publicly
agreeing to substantive negotiations with the other parties as a
follow-up to their negotiations with the two sovereign
governments, Im sure all the others involved will quickly
agree to attend a round table conference. I think Jeremy is
right: we must now go for broke. Id say we should aim at
getting to the crunch by Easter.
What about the Irish? asked Granville.
The embassy in Dublin has kept them up-to-date on
progress, but Ill now go over myself and take them over this
ground. Its in their interest that we move on and I detect the
taoiseach is very keen to notch up a success on this one. The
Northern Ireland issue has fouled up politics in the South for
so long the government there is willing, for the first time ever,
to help us get a solution.
Back in St Oswalds, Granville briefed Wheeler over a
nightcap of a good brandy.
It was the usual Beardsley performance a record
number of mixed metaphors: packages, ships, tides going out,
victory at the games I lost count, but it was mostly a pulling
together of his admin. resources in preparation for a final
push.
The others mostly listened, or sucked up to him,
especially Master Sin-Sin, who kissed his every orifice.

267

Arent you just showing a prejudice against him, because

he has the special role on NI in the PMs office? challenged
Wheeler, emboldened by a second bumper of cognac.
Not at all. I dont mind Sin-Sin. Somebody has to look
after NI affairs in Number Ten and he doesnt bother me. Hes
both lazy and biddable, so hell take my line on things back to
Whitehall. As you know, he was far too pretty at Eton and I
think he somewhat fears what I might have on him, from my
previous incarnations, about his previous incarnations.
Something Positive Vetting DONT know about. Thats the
way to keep it.
As for Julian, you have to hand it to him, he has played a
long game and brought the big beasts of Westminster, as well
as his Whitehall colleagues, with him all the way to the
endgame. I agree entirely with his primary goal, which,
incidentally, I have never heard him express but its obvious
to me which is to have HMGs political policies in Ireland
driven by intelligence, rather than by so-called democratic
theory.
Dont be modest, Jeremy, said Wheeler. Beardsley
couldnt have got this far without your input. But youre right:
he steams ahead and ministers and Perm. Secs. follow in his
wake. It always strikes me as a bit strange that they all go
along with him without protest, despite the fact that his
Jehovah complex must get up their noses from time to time,
said Wheeler.
Thats true, replied Granville with a smile, but at the
same time one must admit that his sheer arrogance and singlemindedness help get things done. Its not quite done yet, of
course and its all a bit hairy, now that we are so close. The
biggest threat to success is our own side in the field and in
NIO. The security forces are still to some extent playing
goodies versus baddies and any reckless operation by them
could scare away the very people who matter in Sinn Fein /
IRA. And as for the NIO, they still concentrate on what Hume
or Trimble say about this or that, whereas you and I know,
James, that a few years from now Hume and Trimble wont

268

matter a damn. Our dear colleagues dont really take on board

I mean in their heart of hearts that the co-operation of
yesterdays baddies is not only a sine qua non for getting
the big peace conference off the ground; the baddies are , in
fact, our best bet for the future, on the far side of the
conference.
Thats going to be a hard sell, everywhere, said
Wheeler, doubtfully. Who is going to forget the acts of
terrorism the bombs, the murders, the mayhem?
We have to close our minds to the things they have done
in the past we dont have to love them and, above all, we
in the service of HMG must see where our long-term interests
lie and try to influence things accordingly.
And Ill tell you something else, he went on, swirling his
balloon glass and slurring his words ever so slightly, The
memories of all but those directly affected by the violence will
be surprisingly short. Peace, real peace, will be precious and
the last thirty years will be as a bad dream; there will be what
Gladstone called a blessed act of oblivion.
I hope youre right.
Arent I always right? he laughed, then added, Thats
enough philosophy for one night. Im off to my pit.
Sleep well.
But it was an hour later before Granville closed the door
of his office and headed at last for his bedroom, his
homework done.

269

Chapter 42

Bunny was in the chair at a full meeting of the IRA Army

Council, in a safe house near Letterkenny, Co. Donegal. The
location had been chosen only two days previously, to
minimise the danger of Garda Sochna surveillance and all
the participants had taken great care to ensure that their
movements were not observed. Only one of their cars, fitted
with a locational device, appeared on VELLUM and as its
owner was from Fermanagh, a crossing into Donegal was an
uneventful occurrence.
We are at a critical stage in our strategy, began Bunny.
A public meeting with the British Prime Minister is now
being lined up and the bulk of our demands agreed upon in
advance. Once that next stage is underway, well be the only
show in town!
The others smiled and nodded.
However, the price for that is a complete ceasefire, and
the lowest of low profiles. I know that will not, initially at
least, be popular or rightly understood by our supporters.
You can say that again, said McCarthy from East
Tyrone in a fairly hostile tone of voice. Bunny ignored the
comment and went on, On the other hand, I am sure that in
the meantime, and Im talking about a very few weeks, weve
got to keep the pressure on the Brits, in England. For two
reasons: to keep them in accommodating mode, and to reassure our own people that we havent gone soft or that we are
no longer up to waging the armed struggle.
No one challenged this analysis, but the silence in which it
was received did indicate an important element of doubt.
Conscious that Bunny needed support urgently, Butch

270

intervened, Youre absolutely right. Its crucial that we can

keep on goin in the final furlong, despite recent setbacks.
The word setbacks clearly focused the attention of the
other Council members. They were all painfully aware of the
details the increasing number of key personnel arrested and
charged; the disaster of Drumphoe; the foiled post office holdups; the loss of bomb-brains. All of which added up to a
paramilitary organisation in crisis. And one in which the
cancer of collaboration was spreading at an ever faster rate.
Butch rather needlessly took them through the list of
weaknesses, before concluding, I think its obvious to all of
us that our greatest weakness is treachery within. Its hard for
me to say that, after thirty years in the movement, but its an
inescapable, nasty fact. And we have to face up to it. That is
why Seamus Tolan here and I brought in Bobby Duffy from
outward intelligence, to examine how things and people
have gone wrong.
Why didnt we know about this? asked McCarthy,
sharply.
There wasnt time. After the Enterprise fiasco, we had to
act quickly to identify the source of the leak, before all the
details evaporated with time. And to examine other big
failures who was involved, who knew what and whose
behaviour, whose spending, gave rise to suspicion, and so on.
I think thats an insult to our rank and file, said
McCarthy angrily, looking round the room for support. But
none came.
Unfortunately, continued Butch, it wasnt only
Volunteers who showed up as suspects when we looked at the
probabilities of who was touting. For example, here he
paused and involuntarily lowered his voice, our Enforcers
name cropped up several times in the context of who knew
what at critical moments. A stunned silence followed.
And were no longer as sure as we were about the
Treasurer at the time of the St Lucia. McGarrity has had
suspicions about how kosher the books and funds are. He
cant always get sight of them when he wants to. So Bobby is
looking into a few cases like that.

271

Those present could guess what looking into might

entail. Duffy versus Stiletto would be quite a match, but of
course Duffy would be accompanied by some assessors, to
give weight to his enquiries.
Bunny was anxious to steady nerves around the table.
I know this state of affairs is a disappointment to all of
us. Touts in my view deserve to die.
Mungo stared at the table.
But we mustnt be deflected from our main goals, which
are now within reach. Its not surprising that after more than
thirty years our organisation should have acquired a few bad
uns. No revolutionary movement in history has been free
from Judas Iscariots. We are no different. But we are facing
up to the challenges and will do what we have to do.
He hoped he had steadied the ship, but only time would
tell.

The following week a parallel crisis meeting took place

within the JSC. The GOC reported that Stiletto was in a state
of near panic, because of the investigation which had come
upon him, from Duffy and Tolan. He was not worried about
financial matters, since he had always been careful to salt
away his payments offshore, as he had long-term plans to live
in the sun in his retirement. But for the moment questioning
had concentrated on the ill-fated Enterprise episode, as very
few people had known about it in advance. He hoped he could
survive that after all, he was innocent, (a rare case), but
what earlier cases would be scrutinised? Once the
investigators stood back and took a look at the big picture, his
name would be associated with all too many security failures
that he was bound to be in big trouble.
We cant allow this to happen, said the GOC with great
emphasis, Stiletto is by far my best our best ever
informant. There must be a way to save him and his lines of
communication to us.

272

To save his skin, Im sure the RUC would, in extremis,

shelter him as a Protected Witness, even though he has not
witnessed in court. Isnt that so? said Granville.
I suppose so, said HSB, thoughtfully, sucking on his
ballpoint. The GOC intervened, Im not just talking about his
skin. Im not interested in saving his wretched skin as such.
When alls said and done, hes a bloody terrorist and once
hes no longer of use, I hope he gets the chop, as he probably
will. No, what Im interested in is maintaining the flow of
information from him. Hes the goose that lays the golden
eggs and I want to preserve the rate of ovulation.
The only way we can do that, said Granville, is to
create a diversion, by pushing someone else into the limelight,
or more accurately, into the wilderness, as a scapegoat.
What do you have in mind? asked HSB, cautiously.
Well, if they are starting with the train arrests another
potential suspect is bound to be your tout, since I recall he was
involved in the operation from the IRAs perspective.
You mean sacrifice my man?
Regrettably, it is sometimes necessary to sacrifice a pawn
to protect a king. And dont get too possessive and
sentimental about your man, as you call him. Like Stiletto,
as the GOC rightly says, he is a terrorist, only one of less
value to us.
I know were in a very difficult situation with this one.
But can we really be happy about the moral aspects of such a
decision?
HSB, said Granville with some impatience, Happiness
and morality dont come into it. This is the Joint Security
Committee, not the Synod of the Church of England or
Ireland. Lets not lose sight of our moral responsibility
towards the other, completely innocent humans, namely the
population of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and
Northern Ireland. Besides, we dont know for sure what will
happen to your man when he is exposed.
Weve a pretty shrewd idea, though, countered HSB.
Hed be very lucky to get away with only the loss of his
kneecaps, or his testicles. More likely hell lose his neck.

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HSB was as hard-nosed a policeman as a Head of Special

Branch could be expected to be, but he sometimes wondered
about the morality of his British colleagues. He had always
been brought up to believe in the purity of British
governmental intentions, but he had been shocked to the core
some years before, when a fatal bomb outrage in the town of
Claudy had been traced to the activities of a local Catholic
priest, who was then simply transferred to a parish in Donegal
by Cardinal Conway (who knew of the mans guilt), with the
connivance of the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland,
William Whitelaw. Now here was another case, albeit in a
very different context, which showed how fickle the needle on
Londons moral compass could be. Despite the new Prime
Ministers religious-sounding pleas to the population, his
honesty levels did not impress him or indeed his colleagues.
When he had said to Austin, who should know about such
things, What do you make of the PMs piety? he had replied,
Given the lies hes telling, its more like porkpiety.
HSB himself was confronted in his daily job by the
problem of whether the end justified the means, but this was
the first time that the issue was one of life or death and one in
which he was, willy-nilly, obliged to make a choice. His
professional inner voice told him he would have to go along
with the sacrifice of the scapegoat, but he would do so with a
heavy heart. It was necessary, he told himself, and at least it
would make him that little bit more tolerant of his colleagues
pragmatism in other fields.
Granville was not to be diverted from his theme and the
decision which would flow from it.
We mustnt get hung up on the nasty details of the
everyday brutish, and perhaps brief, life of our customers. We
cant worry about whether theyve passed their go-to-hell-by
date. Theres a war on.
And we should make sure well win it at all costs, said
the GOC, scoring his little point over Granville.
Well, if thats the decision of the Committee and I trust
our discussion will be carefully minuted, if at all I will look
into the possibilities, said HSB.

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Urgently, said Granville.

Of course.
The unlikely solution to HSBs quandary turned out to be
Constable Eric Snowdon, from Traffic Branch, based in the
Musgrave Street police station, just over the Queens Bridge
from East Belfast. Snowdon had wanted to be a policeman
from the age of seven, and once he had become one he wanted
to be a detective or Special Branch officer. In this latter
ambition he had been disappointed, largely because his
superiors in the RUC came to regard him as a bit of a lig,
meaning an unserious person, indeed something of a Walter
Mitty character. His Mittyism and frustration with what
appeared to him to be an eternal posting to Traffic Branch had
led him, a few years beforehand, into a dangerous flirtation
with the world of security. If the police force wouldnt let him
into that sphere, he determined, he would make his own way
in. This he did by drinking in pubs up the Falls, or other
Republican strongholds, and talking to all and sundry. A
perilous game for a policeman. But he had been lucky
although originally suspected by the local IRA of being a
police undercover man, his offer to them to be their agent had
been accepted, after a great deal of hesitation on the part of
the battalions security officer. Snowdon agreed to work for
the Provos for a small fee, but his real motivation was the
thrill of being part of the world he had dreamt of for so long.
He would have been devastated to know that within a
month of joining the ranks of IRA supporters he had been
shopped to the RUC by a police informer in the Lower Falls.
That informer had always given material which checked out
as one hundred per cent accurate, so although Special Branch
were surprised at the revelation, Snowdon was not
interrogated, but closely monitored and, above all, kept well
away from sensitive information.
Snowdon had been in the same recruitment squad as Ben
Niblock at the RUC Training Depot in Enniskillen, and he
now envied Niblock his life in SB. Putting personal sentiment
aside, Niblock now built on their shared past to befriend

275

Snowdon again, to the extent of going with him to watch

Linfield FC play at Windsor Park and to share a mild bout of
drinking afterwards in a pub on the Lisburn Road.
Niblock never had to raise the topic of his work, as
Snowdon invariably raised it in conversation, then hung on his
friends every word, vicariously savouring every detail of the
ideal world revealed to him. Niblock let him have, in
measured dosages, pieces of information which would be of
interest, but ultimately of little use, to the Provos just
enough to string Snowdon and them along. Early on the
temptation had been to give Snowdon important false
information which could mislead the IRA on some crucial
issue. That temptation had been revisited, on the decision of
HSB himself.
Look on Snowdon as a conduit for a really big one.
Keep him in reserve for the crucial moment.
That moment had arrived.
Niblock was tasked accordingly by HSB. He was not
overjoyed with that task and was not comforted by Austin,
who commented, as he often did, with a biblical quotation:
Confidence in an unfaithful man in time of trouble is like a
broken tooth and a foot out of joint.
If you see me walking with a limp and holding my jaw
tomorrow morning, youll know whats happened, said
Niblock, ruefully.

Bobby Duffy was surprised when he received the news,

through Snowdons contact, that Toner was the villain of the
piece.
Didnt think he had it in him. Always thought he was as
useful as a nuns nipple. Certainly not the brightest, but when
you think of it the information he had access to as a runner,
and presumably he has been opening and reading the scripts
for ages. No wonder so many ops. have gone up the spout.
He turned to Bunny, Shall we take him out right away
and waste the little bastard?

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Bunny thought for a moment, his lower jaw twitching in

concentration. Id like to see where he can lead us. No use
stiffing him straight out. And theres a risk, I think, in putting
the squeeze on him. In his state of health God, I saw him a
few days ago and hardly knew him I fear hed croak on us
before we got anything out of him. Better to play him along a
bit, nice and slow. In fact, the plays probably the very thing.

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Chapter 43

At last, Seamus Toner, alias Harry-the-hound, felt he was

getting some recognition of his true value and talents. He had
arrived punctually at Unity Flats, a bleak new-build block at
Peters Hill at the city end of the Falls, to meet the local OC,
Declan Shields, and receive his running orders for the day; he
found his PIRA boss in jovial and friendly mood.
Howd you like a run out of town, Seamus? asked the
OC. I mean you go about the town here like a fuckin yo-yo
every bloody day of the week. A change will do you good.
What sort of change? asked Toner, somewhat anxiously.
To tell you the truth, Seamus, we need your help the
help of a resourceful man like yourself. One that we can rely
on for an important mission.
Oh, was the only reply Toner could make, but his mind
began racing.
Flattery is rarely unproductive.
You see, its getting harder and harder to keep our supply
lines going. Too many of our men who used to do runs from
the South have either been lifted or their faces and vehicles
are too well known.
Yeah, I read about new arrests the other day. Awful.
We dont know exactly what those fuckers in the army
observation towers in the border area are up to. You know,
what they can do, what technical gizmos they have and so on.
It may not be them, but something is causing havoc with our
regulars down there.
How do I fit into all of this?
Well, Seamus I wont bullshit you. Ive known you now
for how many years? and I want you to continue with the

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cause with your eyes wide open, on a mission which, Im

telling you now, is dangerous but very important.
The surge of excitement which Toner felt at these words
overwhelmed all other sensations.
Adrenalin over apprehension.
What you have to do is drive a van, which has a secret
compartment fitted, down to near Ardee in County Louth.
You pick up the goods and drive back to a garage in
Whiterock. Easy at one level but as I say, not without its
dangers. Get caught with that lot and its five to twelve years
in the slammer.
Toner looked pensive, as he took that in, but said nothing.
So, youre up for it?
Just one thing ... I mean two. I dont know my way
around down there. Been to Dublin a few times but in the
train.
No problem, interrupted Feeney, youll be given a very
clear, sure-fire map. And the route in the border area will give
you the best chance of missing police or the Brits. You know
what UAR stands for?
Not really. Ulster Association something or other. Who
the fuck are they anyway? Sound like Loyalists.
Oh, for Christs sake, Seamus, its an unapproved road
gets you over the border without passing checkpoints at the
main crossings. There are so many of them snaking about in
Armagh and Fermanagh that the fuzz cant keep tabs on them
all round the clock.
OK, but then theres the other thing. With my kidney
problem I need a piss every hour or so.
Sure you can find a ditch or two along the way. Or take a
bottle. But dont use it while stopped at the traffic lights,
chuckled the other.
Jesus, what a piss artist in every way.
Can you do the day after tomorrow. There and back in
the day?
Right.
Stickin out. The van is at Lannons garage on the
Whiterock road. You know it?

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Yeah.
Be there at nine oclock. And no fuckin sleepin in.
Right? Youll get all you need there.
Thanks.
The health of Toners van, which carried the markings D.
R. Cruise + Co. Builders Merchants, Belfast on its side, was
adding to his cartographical and urinary worries. He had
noticed the clutch slipping slightly as he had changed through
the gears when coming off the M1 motorway at Sprucefield
and turning on to the A1 dual carriageway, which went south
in the direction of the border and Dublin. This was the easiest
part of the journey, but what if the van broke down in some
godforsaken townland in the arsehole of nowhere in South
Armagh? Better not think about that just now. Toner tensed
momentarily when a police car overtook him, but it went on
its way at a much greater speed.
That reminded him of his RUC handler, Macintosh.
Should he have contacted him to tip him off about the new
type of mission? He recalled Macintoshs oft repeated peptalk: Always keep me right up to date, at the earliest possible
moment, about everything that is happening. Every little
detail, no matter how small, can be important. He could have
rung on the secret number yesterday, or even this morning at
the shopping centre he passed at Sprucefield, but something
had held him back. Might his handler impose some additional
task on him, or tell him to abort the mission? He always found
conversations with Macintosh re-assuring and full of good
advice, but this time his sense of adventure overcame his
instinct to confide in, and be guided by, his handler. He
decided he would wait until the job was done, then pass on
details of what he had learnt, but in a way that ensured the
information could not be traced back to him as the source by
the battalion. You had to watch your back ever so carefully
these days. A lot of informing was going on, that was clear,
and quite a number of informers were having tougher and
tougher punishments dealt out to them. Putting such thoughts
out of his mind, he fumbled the radio into life for the first time

280

and allowed himself to be diverted from the problems in hand

by the pop music which he found, and the intermittent chatter
of the DJs.

The first half of the mission went smoothly, barring

continuing clutch trouble, once Toner had turned off the good
roads in the Republic on to the N52, towards his destination,
which was a farmhouse set well back off the road at
Mandistown. His directions were indeed, sure-fire, as the OC
had promised, and he found without difficulty the pair of large
white pillars which marked the end of the farms laneway. He
was well received by two men father and son by the look of
them who were standing in the yard behind the house when
he drove in. No names were exchanged, but the men offered
their hands in greeting.
Now you come on in and have a cup of tea and a bite to
eat while we load her up, said the older man, showing him in
through the back door, into a large, modern kitchen. A
middle-aged woman was putting a pot on to a giant Aga stove.
She shook hands with Toner, with a warm smile.
Tea or coffee? And would you like a bowl of vegetable
broth?
Oh yes, please. I could do with that.
The men withdrew and it was clear he was meant to stay
indoors, away from the action. He was not told what his cargo
was. It could have been Semtex, or guns. He only hoped it
wouldnt rattle. He had enough to think about without that. He
need not have worried: sandbags dont rattle. When the
farmers wife left the kitchen to answer the telephone, Toner
took out his map and tried to memorise the six different road
changes he would have to make before he was back on the A1
across the border.
There you are. All ready for delivery, said the farmer,
wiping his boots before coming back into the kitchen. So Ill
wish you a safe journey home. And tell your fellas up there to
keep goin. No feckin cold feet at this stage.

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Ill do that, said Toner and thanked the farmers wife for
her hospitality. He tooted the horn as he drove out of the yard.
Well, there he goes, said the farmer to his wife and son
as they waved him off, I hope for his sake hes shite at map
reading.
His wife crossed herself and went inside.
Without an Ordnance Survey map and excellent cartointerpretive skills it was almost impossible to know on these
side roads, where one had crossed from the Republic into
South Armagh. The border was not marked by any sign;
indeed, even on the main roads the old placards announcing,
You are now entering Northern Ireland had been blown up
so many times that the Roads Service had given up replacing
them.
Toner judged that he was probably across and a change in
the road surface it improved argued in favour of his now
being in County Armagh. The fact that he could scarcely force
a gear change into top did not yet handicap him much, as the
twisting road was one on which he could only rarely reach
forty miles per hour in any case.
He rounded a blind bend and exclaimed Fuck!; the gears
seemed to be stuck in third and, more ominously, there was a
police checkpoint immediately ahead, which, along with a
green Land Rover Defender and a chicane, blocked the narrow
roadway. He had no option but to glide to a halt at the
chicane. He could see three RUC men and when he looked to
his left he noticed another man, in army battledress, sitting
behind the ditch, a rifle across his knee.
Hope hes Brit and not UDR. Better be co-operative
either way.
He wound down the window.
Could I see your driving licence please?
Certainly. There it is.
The constable took a hard look at it and pointed at the
Belfast address painted on the side of the van.
Youre a long way from base, Mr Toner. Where have you
been?
Near Ardee, visiting relatives.

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And you came back over unapproved roads.

Yes. Sorry about that, but its a short cut from where I
was coming from.
Is that so now? Have you papers for this vehicle, or an
authorising letter from your employer?
No officer, I havent. The boss gave me permission, but
no papers. You see, my own car broke down.
Would you mind stepping out of your vehicle, sir, said
the policeman, firmly but politely.
Toner could only stand by and watch as the other two
policemen began to search the van. He opened the bonnet at
their request and they peered inside, then tapped the hubcaps
on all four wheels, but did not remove them.
Where do you keep your spare wheel? asked one of
them.
Its in a compartment below the back tray.
Well lets see it.
Toner, his heart now pounding, found the catch with his
fingers and released a lid, beneath which lay the spare wheel.
That treads a bit dodgy. You should get it seen to, said
the policeman, who then tapped the inside wall of the
compartment.
Hello, thats a funny sound. Well have to see whats
behind there. Maybe cigarettes or something like that. Eh?
No. Nothing at all, said Toner, a little too quickly.
You wait over there with my colleague, Mr Toner, while
we have a good look at what you might have here.
Toner did as he was told there was no point in trying to
run away. That would only give the UDR man the excuse to
shoot him in the back. He had heard about such cases.
Jesus, look at this! he heard one of the policemen shout.
The first policeman drew his pistol from its holster.
Youre under arrest, Seamus Toner, for possession of
arms and explosives.
But its not what you think. Thats not the whole story. I
mean, Im on your side, gabbled Toner.
Oh really?

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Yes, Im working undercover as an as an agent. My

contact, that is to say, my RUC handler, is in Belfast. He can
tell you and explain everything.
How interesting. Well have to check this out right away.
In fact well do that right now on the blower. What is your
contacts name?
Macintosh.
Youll have a telephone number for him. Right?
Yes, I know it by heart.
Write it down here, said the policeman, handing him a
small notepad.
And is there an ID code for you?
Yes, Im ELM107.
At this, the policeman, Toner thought, seemed to be more
relaxed about the situation.
Thank God for Macintosh.
Youll have to wait over there, and talk to my colleague
about your Mr Macintosh while I find out whether this is true
or a load of baloney. You realise that if its baloney youll go
down for fifteen years.
He climbed into the cab of the Land Rover, in which a
radio crackled.
Number two policeman chatted to Toner about his life and
work, breaking off only to stop, then wave on, another stray
car, the first to have been on that road since Toner had himself
been stopped.
Ive often wondered how you guys operate. Tell me
about your contact procedures. Must be a fascinating job.
Toner, now almost fully relaxed, was only too pleased to
oblige. After several minutes number one policeman returned
and said to his colleague, I think weve probably got as much
as were likely to get. Agreed?
Yeah.
OK, Mr Toner, Youre coming with us for a little walk in
the woods. Get in.
Mother of God, a set-up. These guys are Provos.
The Land Rover went back down the road he had come,
then over the border, turned off to the east, towards

284

Ravensdale Forest. Then a service road took them deep into a

dark tunnel of mature pine trees. When they all got out of the
vehicle, Toner was marched a hundred metres or so off the
track. Only when they halted did Toner notice that one of the
men had taken a long-handled spade from the back of the
Land Rover.
Right, thisll do, said the leader. He threw the spade at
Toner.
Start diggin, you miserable little shit!
Toner took the spade in both hands, but he could suddenly
feel both nausea and weakness sweeping over him. He
staggered to his left, then collapsed in a heap.
Fuckin hell, well have to dig the grave ourselves.
First things first, said one of his companions, who
pressed a pistol into the left side of Toners temple, thought
better of it, stood back and at almost point-blank range, fired
three rapid shots into the prone man.
Thus ended Harry-the-hound, one more of the
disappeared.

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Chapter 44

Too many coincidences. Too many bloody coincidences,

said Bobby Duffy, thoughtfully. He was sitting at a long table
in the dining room of a large country house in Quoile Road
near Downpatrick, County Down. It belonged to a doctor with
a practice in the town and a willingness to help the IRA in
any struggle. Its the duty of the middle class to play their
part in the liberation of our country, was one of his usual
sayings within his large family. He was honoured to provide
protected accommodation to two important guests, namely
Duffy and Bunny. Here they could work in peace, without the
risk of the proverbial knock at the door.
Duffy had laid out on the table a series of small rectangles
of paper, each one bearing the name of a PIRA operative in
the Greater Belfast area, whether Volunteer or Officer. Across
the middle of the table were the names of those who had, in
the previous six months, been convicted in the courts for
offences ranging from membership of the IRA to the
possession of firearms, to attempted murder, or who had been
arrested on suspicion and later released. Beside each name
Duffy had assembled as large a number as he could remember
and his underlings had helped supplement the list of those
who could possibly have known about the operations
concerned and who therefore could, theoretically, have been
in a position to tout for the police or army.
Just look at the pattern, Duffy went on. Bunny whistled
softly.
Yes, when you see it like that it fairly jumps out at you.
The two names with by far the biggest the greatest
degree of commonality, are Toner and Cassidy.
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That only leaves Cassidy above the daisies, now that

Toner has been dealt with.
Couldnt have happened to a better person, the little
gobshite, added Duffy, with considerable venom. Duffy was
well known as a cool, ruthless operative. He had served two
years in the Maze and was deputy leader of the PIRA
prisoners during that time. He had suffered the humiliation of
discovering, as had everyone in his circle, that his wife had
given birth to a daughter during his second year in the prison.
The joke in the shebeens, told ever so furtively, was that
somebody has had it in for him. He was no longer the butt of
such banter when, on his release, he beat his wife black and
blue, threw her and her daughter out of the house, tracked
down the man who had cuckolded him and put a bullet behind
both of his knees, crippling him for life.
What I cant understand is why FF, our favourite
Enforcer, has never taken a grip of the situation.
My view is that FF is an excellent enforcer and an even
better interrogator, once he is pointed at a doubtful customer.
God, the things he has extracted! And I dont just mean teeth.
Wonderful. But his weakness is that he cant stand back and
see the big picture, whereas its only the big picture that can
tell you where to look.
I know.
Thats why the Council brought you in. Internal
intelligence is going to be more important now that were
virtually on ceasefire, with operations winding down, in order
to keep things going in negotiations. I cant devote as much
time as I would like to that side of things. This politicking, not
to mention media interviews and appearances, take up a
helluva lot of time.
I hope it will all be worth it. And that we dont lose sight
of the ultimate goal, Duffy said, rather doubtfully.
It is worth it alright. Just look at the political profile we
have built from virtually nothing. I see that our ratings in the
public opinion polls are climbing fast. We could overtake the
SDLP in a matter of months. Of course, that doesnt remove
the need for our own internal security to be watertight. Which

287

brings us back to friend Cassidy. We may have made a

mistake in allowing him to get close to the Brits.
I take it that it seemed to be a good idea at the time?
Something like that. He was left too much on his own. I
also wonder whether he has been in cahoots with Toner. They
had a lot of contact, nearly every day in recent months, after
Doyle got lifted. And another thing. McGarrity has
complained that he cant have sight of all the books when he
wants to. Cassidy deals with him piecemeal. Always has a
reason for not giving him full and immediate access.
Put all those factors together and it doesnt look good for
Cassidy.
We should bring him in to give an overview of our
finances, or something like that. Line up the Enforcer and a
few of the lads and we can put all these circumstantial
indications to him, and see what he says. If need be, we can
stimulate his memory via his short and curlies.
OK. Leave it with me.

Aidan Cassidy was not taken in for a second by the

invitation which arrived, via a new runner, to bring the
Army Council up to date with financial details, at their
meeting to be held in Co. Donegal the following Sunday. He
thought it best to reply, by return of runner: OK. Certainly.
As he wrote the words on a scrap of paper, he was aware that
his handwriting was wobbling slightly. He hoped none of his
readers would notice. When the runner had left the office,
Cassidy slumped over his desk.
Sweet Jesus, get me out of this!
He waited for half an hour, in case he was being watched
for signs of panic, then walked slowly to the car park situated
on waste ground near the Great Victoria Street bus and rail
station. He climbed into the Jaguar and set off for Myrtlefield
Park, almost felling a traffic bollard at the exit. He let himself
into an empty house and made straight for the cocktail
cabinet. He had just poured himself a stiff Scotch when
Noleen arrived back from her morning equestrian outing at

288

Purdysburn. She took one look at him and knew that

something was wrong. Badly wrong.
Terrible news, said Cassidy. Theres a feud in the
Belfast RA. And I think Im pretty sure that one lot have
it in for me. But I dont even know who they are.
He flung his arms round Noleen and held her tightly. He
could feel that she was sobbing, silently.
What do we do? she cried.
Id better contact Granville. Theres nowhere else to go.
If that gets out in these circumstances, were finished,
regardless of whos who.
But if I just stay here were finished anyway. They have
sent for me.
Do you know who they are?
Members of the Army Council some of them.
After a pause Noleen said, You havent told me
everything, have you?
No, but that was to protect you from well, to protect
you.
Do you think Granville will protect us now? Can he
protect us now?
He has good contacts. Hes our only hope.
Ive asked James Wheeler to sit in on this. When the
solids hit the fan well need careful news management, or the
story could spiral out of control.
Granville was chairing an emergency meeting of the JSC
at Stormont Castle, following a frantic phone call from
Cassidy.
We have some time a day or two at most before the
rumour mill goes into overdrive.
Youre absolutely right, said a confident Wheeler,
delighted to be at the top table, instead of having to hang
around waiting for the post-meeting guidance Granville would
normally give him.
There will be mega-interest from the media. Pinstripe
terrorist suspect disappears, all that sort of hype. Well be

289

under pressure to say what we know and flat denials may not
be sustainable in the long run.
It comes at a delicate time, said HSB. Things have
settled down a great deal since Sinn Fein have been openly in
the political game and this sort of thing could disrupt the
equilibrium, if it appears we have been running traitors to
their cause. The concept of mutual trust will take a bit of a
knock.
Could upset your peace process, said the General, with
more than a hint of sarcasm.
Theres another aspect to this, resumed Granville, not
rising to the bait. We have other protgs right now and we
dont know how many more we might need in the future, if
the politics go pear-shaped. There is merit in letting it be
known that we look after our own agents all the way.
HSB frowned deeply.
I agree, said the GOC, patting the table.
Thats all very well, said HSB, but I assume you will be
asking us in the RUC to take over responsibility for the
protection and we could be talking about lifelong protection
of Cassidy and probably his wife.
HSB tried not to look at either Chesham or Granville at
the mention of Noleen (though he did say to the GOC the next
day on the golf course, I do hope his balls dont run away
with his brains).
You will recall, continued HSB, that at the beginning of
the HERMES operation, you in MI5 undertook to finance it. I
believe that should continue to be the case, even if the RUC
have to protect by re-housing and relocating customers under
the Protection of Witnesses.
My dear HSB, said Granville mockingly, but in a
friendly fashion. I never thought of you as a bean counter. I
suggest we get our plans in place and worry about the
financial aspects later. Its up to ministers to decide that sort
of thing. Thats what theyre there for. Isnt it?
Id still like it minuted that I raised the question of cost.
These people will be a high maintenance job its not like re-

290

settling some run of the mill hoodlum in Bolton. Theyll need

to be far away and set up in some style.
First, said Granville firmly, anxious to move on, we
need to decide on our protective action, both in the short and
long term. Short term: have we a suitable safe house
available?
We will have in a week to ten days. We have that police
family lodged in Cherryvalley after being attacked in their
home in Onslow Parade, near the Ravenhill rugby grounds.
They are being permanently re-housed in Bangor, but they
dont get possession of their new house until the thirteenth of
the month. So there is that short-term problem.
A long pause ensued.
In view of the exceptional circumstances, I think I could
put them up at St Oswalds, ventured Granville, hoping he
wouldnt blush. He was, nevertheless, conscious of raised
eyebrows.
Youre assuming that these people will be willing to have
their lives re-organised in this way? queried the GOC.
Oh, I think so, to judge by Cassidys phone call to me.
Better to have ones life organised, than ones death.
How very true, remarked HSB, apparently now resigned
to Granvilles proposals.

The exodus from Myrtlefield Park was chaotic. The fact

that it happened at night made the operation even more
difficult. Cassidy wandered about from room to room in a
daze, muttering to himself. Noleen had a book of coloured
markers in her hand, which she used to mark furniture and
other items which were due to be put into long-term storage;
those which were to be stored with easy access; and those
personal effects which they would need in the immediate
future their future exile, she thought to herself, as she stuck
markers on some family photographs, having decided they
should be in the short-term category. One was of their
wedding day. How young they all looked, even her father and
mother. When would she be able to see her father again?

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Would he even want to see her? There was already a certain

frostiness between them, since McManus had begun to take
his housekeeper, the Widow Bradley, to social functions,
giving the appearance or was it confirming the reality?
that they were an item. The thought of Mrs Bradley
replacing her mother in the McManus household and family
was a repugnant one. Noleen shook off the depressing thought
and went on with the markings, as a large team of removal
men loaded up two vast lorries parked in the driveway.
Welcome to St Oswalds, said Granville, trying, not
completely successfully, to sound cheerful, as he stood in the
elegant hallway of his house-cum-alternative HQ.
Sorry that your visit should be in such disagreeable
circumstances. But make yourselves comfortable. It was four
oclock in the morning and the rain was almost horizontal.
The interior of the house was warm and indeed welcoming. A
Military Policeman appeared as if by magic, bearing a large
tray with mugs of tea. A woman in uniform led them up the
broad staircase and showed them into a bedroom which was at
once old-fashioned, elegant and comfortingly cosy.
During the night Cassidy disappeared several times into
the en suite bathroom to be physically sick. Despite that and
the upheavals of the past thirty-six hours, Noleen fell into a
deep sleep, feeling strangely safe.

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Chapter 45

One of the many things which Granvilles colleagues in other

services did not know about him was what he called his
Mashreg Maghreb (sunrise sunset in Arabic) daily routine
which had been his since his days in North Africa and the
Middle East. It involved his personal study time early in the
morning and last thing at night and in St Oswalds that took
place exclusively in an office just down the corridor from his
bedroom. There he received, through the media of papers and
secure telephone calls, on a system modestly called
UNIVERSE, reports from his five deputies, only two of whom
were known to the other security agencies. They supplied him
with information and intelligence gleaned through each of his
networks, which greatly supplemented the flow of allegedly
shared information in the context of the Joint Security
Committee.
MI5 had, disgracefully in his professional view, been
entirely absent from the field in Northern Ireland until 1986,
when OPERATION CHIFFON had been launched. It was
only then that ministers had given the green light to start
operations. Ironically it was the growing success of the IRAs
bombing campaign in Great Britain in the late 1980s which
was to prompt ministers to authorise MI5 involvement an
involvement which brought the greatest pressure to bear upon
the terrorist organisations on both sides of the community.
Since the beginning of CHIFFON, its penetration of the
paramilitary organisations had grown exponentially and,
combined with the work of police and army, had sown
confusion and wreaked havoc amongst the paramilitaries.
Even to those who watched him closely and quite a few
policemen and soldiers did Granville seemed to spend most
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of his day moving around the HQs of the other members of

the Joint Security Committee, asking questions, offering
advice and generally sticking his nose in, as HSB was often
heard to remark. His colleagues on the JSC were often
surprised, at a nine oclock meeting under his chairmanship,
how up to date he was with developments in their own fields,
even those which had taken place overnight. They did not
know that he would have had an hour in private, at St
Oswalds, before breakfast, digesting his info. before his
porridge, as James Wheeler put it. And when he said Good
night after dinner his hosts, or his guests, did not suspect that
another hours work lay ahead of him before bedtime. His
sunrise and sunset sessions at St Oswalds were when he
mostly ran his own organisation, rather than from his official
office on the second floor of Stormont Castle, isolated by a
grille on the landing at the top of the stairs. It was true that by
day he tried to run as much as possible of the other
organisations under his umbrella.
The candle at both ends but its not for ever, thank God.
The morning after the arrival at St Oswalds of the
Cassidys, Granville thought it discreet to have breakfast in his
bedroom, leaving his guests to be looked after by the staff in
the large, airy kitchen, which opened out on to an equally
large conservatory, beyond which lay the well-kept garden,
with its rolling lawns. The early morning hoar frost had
almost retreated from the grass before the weak warmth of the
spring sunshine. The deciduous trees in the garden had already
sprouted half their green and burgeoning foliage.
Granville, entering the kitchen from the hallway, took in
this scene, but focused on, to him, a more interesting sight:
standing in the conservatory was Noleen, motionless,
watching Aidan pace up and down, between the giant
rhododendron bushes which grew halfway to the trees. His
head was bowed and his shoulders slumped, giving him the
appearance of a convict circling the exercise yard of a prison.
Noleen was startled when Granville, having watched the scene
for several seconds, finally said Good morning. He could see
that she had tears in her eyes.

294

Isnt it awful? she said, turning to look again into the

garden. Hell be a prisoner for life. With no remission!
If hes bloody lucky.
But hes not a prisoner. Hes being protected. As you
both are. And I will make sure you and he will go on being
protected for as long as necessary. Its just difficult at the
moment, before everythings sorted out.
You say as long as necessary but how long is that?
As Ive told you before, this war is not going to last for
ever.
Maybe so, but the end of the conflict will not protect us
from the revenge and punishment of the Army! You have no
idea how a a situation like ours is looked on in our
community. There will be no mercy, no forgetting and no
forgiveness.
She shook her head slowly and the tears now streamed
down her cheeks, as her gaze never left the forlorn figure
shuffling to and fro in the garden.
Remember what you Brits did to traitors in your war with
Germany. Executed them. And with public support. Our
community is the same.
How could he find words to comfort her and at the same
time drive her away from Cassidy?
This is the blackest time for you. Things can get better,
believe me.
How can you say that? she snapped back. Were facing
exile exile! Either here or elsewhere. Never to be safe from
the past from this. How could Aidan have got us into this?
Granville waited a few moments before saying, You
dont have to go with him, you know. There is nothing
pointing at you that your community would think of as guilt.
He almost added, and both of you would be much safer if
separate, but instead asked, why do you feel that you cant
look after your own interests. After all, its Aidans fault, and
his alone, that you are in this difficulty.
You mean to abandon him? When he needs me the most?
I could never do that. Thoughts flooded in of the initial crisis

295

of her own life of England, Florence and a disgrace avoided

only at the last moment.
He was there when I needed someone. Whatever else he
has done and Im still trying to understand that he has
always been a good faithful husband to me.
Should I tell her about Colette, the gambling debts, the
embezzlements?
The temptation was great, but the consequences of such
revelations too unpredictable. Another time His frustration
at her naivety was overshadowed by his admiration of her
character. And, God, she looked lovely, even perhaps
especially in her early morning un-made up state. That
shining hair, that porcelain complexion, that willowy body.
You know, you dont have to take definitive decisions
just yet. You will be safely and well housed near police
headquarters at Knock, where nobody knows you. There will
be not only complete protection, but expert help in building a
new life either here, or somewhere else.
He paused and his voice lowered. Im sorry, truly sorry,
Noleen, to see you suffer in this way. None of this is your
fault. You are the victim of tragic circumstances. My job often
revolves around such circumstances it has to but that
doesnt make it any the easier to see someone like you caught
up in them.
He had moved very close to her and she now did not look
directly at him, but rested her head on his shoulder.
I know, she said softly.
Det. Sgt. McKinney sat in HSBs office at RUC Headquarters, his head bowed, gazing at the mug of tea on the desk
in front of him.
Bob, I know its difficult, the older man began, Its hard
on you, harder than on anybody else outside his family. But
weve got to be realistic and sensible.
Are you sure theres no hope?
None. You checked out most of the hospitals yourself
which was itself a bit iffy in the circs. Since I called you off

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the detail, Section D has been beavering away, looking for

clues. Absolutely none to date, except the inevitable rumours.
You cant rely on them.
I know, but in this case I think weve got to assume that
the basic rumour is true. Most probably the Provos rumbled
him, bumped him off and buried him somewhere where he
wont show up for a long time, if ever.
Poor Seamus. He never had a chance in life.
Now snap out of that, Bob. Poor Seamus was up to his
ears in terrorism and was then one of our paid touts. That
doesnt exactly make him Boy Scout of the Year, does it?
But he wasnt a bad lad, deep down. Might have made it
on to the straight and narrow when this things over.
No use dwelling on the might-have-beens.
But I cant help it. He was so brave about his health
problems which had always held him back. I wanted to
give His voice trailed off.
You wanted to give what?
McKinney sobbed before blurting out the killer words: a
kidney.
A kidney? For Gods sake, Bob, are you out of your
mind?
We talked about it. I was to be checked to see if I was a
suitable donor.
Well, said HSB with more firmness than sensitivity,
look on the bright side, some fucking IRA hit squad has
saved your spare parts. Ive never heard the like of it.
McKinney blew his nose and held his head in his hands.
Now Bob, weve got a job to do. And its one weve got
to do well, to protect our operations, and, not least, protect
you, you daft bugger.
Ive put all the data in my report.
Thats good. But we have to go over it all again, in case
weve missed anything. Lets assume the worst: they got him
and he sang sang the whole fucking song, all the verses.
Theyll have gone through all the contact procedures, magic
numbers, codes, all that crap. I know you were always careful
to keep each of your customers walled in from one another

297

and its just as well you were. But there are other dangerous
details, such as a good description of yourself. Bear that in
mind and get a shave and your bloody hair cut. No more
West Belfast for you, Bob. Were putting you on the analysis
team in PANORAMA.
But Im a field man, not a backroom Johnny.
Youre a backroom Johnny as of Monday. I expect you to
put your heart and soul not to mention both your kidneys
into the work. Now lets look at this report from the
beginning
The next phase of the Cassidy future was what the Soviets
would have called internal exile, that is to say they were
accommodated in a safe house, far from their usual haunts and
surroundings and insulated as much as possible from
neighbours and anyone who might recognise them. Their life
was protected, but restricted.
The house was in Cherryvalley, a road almost opposite the
main gates of Brooklyn RUC HQ and which snaked along,
following the contours of the quiet-flowing Knock River. On
one side of the road were large detached houses, set well back,
and on the other, the safe house was approached through a
wooded area which sloped down to the river, and could not be
seen from the road. Of much more recent construction than
the other houses in the area, it was a large chalet-bungalow
with dormer windows. Inside it was tastefully but sparsely
furnished. It was not Myrtlefield Park, but was even more
secluded and more to the point its garage contained a
round-the-clock police protection unit.
In the days following their arrival there the Cassidys were
systematically prepared for their new life. Aidan grew a beard
(which itched) and acquired a pair of tinted glasses and a flat
cap; Noleen had a makeover by a policewoman with amateur
dramatic connections. They were instructed never to go out
together. A Mini was at their disposal, the number plate of
which was changed once a month and an RUC graduate of the
police special academy in Ashford, Kent, passed on his
knowledge about tailing and what to do about it. The only

298

bright spot in Noleens life during the first week in

Cherryvalley was an excursion, with a stylish policewoman in
civvies, to a good dress shop in Newtownards, some eight
miles away, to buy several new outfits in keeping with her
makeover. But she had never imagined herself as a brunette.
Another bright spot appeared soon after, in the form of
Granville, who just dropped by to see how you were doing.
He brought with him a present.
Better not call it a house-warming present, thats bound
to be the sorest possible point.
This is to cheer you up. And deepen still further your
expert knowledge of the impressionists, said he with mock
ceremonial seriousness. It was a copy of Michael Palmers
recently published glossy work, entitled Magritte and the
Belgian Impressionists.
Isnt that just lovely! cried Noleen, with evident
pleasure.
And I havent forgotten the Poussin book. Its at my
parents in England. Ill pick it up next time Im there. I tried
to get a copy here, but apparently its out of print.
The first few times that Noleen went out in her new
persona she felt that every passer-by was looking at her.
Aidan rarely went out; he watched horse racing on television,
and drank ever-increasingly large amounts of vodka. He often
spent entire mornings mooching about the house in his
dressing gown and pyjamas. Both began to get used to their
new life, but not to like it, or even psychologically to accept it.
Compared to what life would really be like on the run, under
their own steam, it was a gilded existence, but it was in a
gilded cage. Without discussing it they only rarely discussed
anything nowadays both knew that things could not go on
like this.

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Chapter 46

At her initial view of Wellington, Noleens spirits lifted for

the first time in months, if not years. She was standing on the
Skyline Terrace, at the top of the cable car which brought
commuters and visitors up from the city to the entrance of
Victoria University and, further still, to the suburb of Kelburn.
The harbour below, as big as Belfast Lough, gleamed in the
spring sunshine, which was already warmer than she was used
to in summer. To the south, beyond the green bush-clothed
hills rose the Aorangi mountains, still topped with their winter
snow. To the east lay the Hutt River Valley and beyond that
another snow-capped range of mountains, the Akatarawas.
The inter-island ferryboat entered the harbour, completing its
voyage from Picton on the South Island and a flotilla of small
craft moved out of its way. The sound of traffic from the city
below reached her as only a distant rumble. Louder were the
noises from the university cricket ground, immediately below
her; and louder still was the intermittent, frenetic buzz of the
cicadas in the foliage in the nearby well-watered gardens.
Perhaps they had been right, after all, to decide on New
Zealand. Life had become intolerable for both of them in
Cherryvalley, despite its safety and advantages. From this
minor exile they had had to choose a place of permanent exile,
where they could resume something approaching normal life.
The choice was between lives that could be offered by the
police, through their contacts with friendly colleagues
elsewhere in the world, usually where an Ulsterman,
preferably an ex-RUC man, could be of influence. The very
thought of leaving Ireland was repugnant to both of them and
no amount of talk about fresh starts could kindle an
enthusiasm for the English Midlands, Toronto, upstate New
300

York or Wellington. Granville had argued, a little too

obviously, in favour of England. His vested interest was
clear to Noleen, who was perhaps relieved, when the decision
was made in favour of Wellington, to be free from the
temptations that would certainly have otherwise presented
themselves. The clincher was that the RUCs main contact
man there could handle all the usual protective measures, but
also an appropriate job for Aidan, in a private accountancy
firm on a long-term contract with the police service of New
Zealand. Ironically, it was in the context of detecting and
preventing insurance fraud. Poachers often do make the best
gamekeepers.
It took several weeks of careful preparation to equip the
Cassidys for their new identities and lives. Brown became
their surname, as seen on all their documents, including
Aidans degree certificate and professional qualification
diplomas, expertly forged by a vaguely referred to Special
technical branch. Equally important, they were rehearsed
repeatedly on their personal background stories, to ensure
their credibility and to avoid contradictions. Both were offered
a means of communication with close family members. This
would involve an elaborate roundabout procedure, whereby
they could use Canadian airmail letters, which would be sent
in the diplomatic bag to Ottawa, for posting to Northern
Ireland. Family replies would come through the same
channels in reverse. Both Aidan and Noleen, after much
agonising, declined this offer. Aidan was sure that his family
would have nothing to do with him and what could he offer
by way of excuse for his betrayal? It was more difficult for
Noleen, as she was sure her father would put the blame for the
whole situation on her husband; but what made it easier to say
no was the thought of Mrs Bradley in her mothers bed.
Noleen did not know whether to be relieved or
disappointed that Granville had not shown up to say goodbye
on their last day in Belfast. However, a small packet was
passed to her, which contained the book on Poussin. On the
fly page Granville had written:
As promised, the baby chicken. Enjoy it.

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Yours ever,
Jeremy.
Would she remember the lunch in Paris in the way he
did? He hoped he had struck just the right degree of intimacy
without compromise.
John Walker, a senior New Zealand policeman (ex-RUC)
had personally welcomed them and seen them installed in
their temporary safe house in Kowhai Road, just five minutes
walk from the top of the cable car. He ensured that there were
no other Ulster people on the New Immigrants courses which
they attended in order to familiarise themselves with their new
surroundings. He encouraged them to avoid social contact as
much as possible until they had built up enough local identity
to fly free, as he put it.
Aidan started work within a few days, in a tall building on
The Terrace, which ran in parallel with the waterfront and
from which he looked out over the downtown area of the city
and the harbour beyond. He was relieved to find the work was
comprehensible to him, and that his new colleagues were both
congenial and seemingly uninterested in his past.
A pleasant surprise for the Cassidys was that, at long last,
their housing finance from the sale of Myrtlefield Park, had
been sorted out in Belfast by the police. They could now
purchase a home in New Zealand.
After much research and on-the-spot viewing, their choice
fell on an out of town location, Waikanae Beach, a mostly
residential settlement some thirty miles due north of
Wellington, off the main road towards Wanganui and the
centre of the North Island. The principal advantages were that
they could afford a smallish clapboard house right on the
beachfront, in Williams Street; and that Aidan could easily
commute to the city on the suburban electric train, the unit,
as it was known in the local vocabulary.
Had their pasts been different, they could well have been
happy there. Aidan almost enjoyed his work, at first, and they
could afford it that Noleen stayed at home. She joined the
Pony Club in nearby Otaki and took up painting again. In that
she gradually became fascinated with the view out over the

302

water to Kapiti Island, in which light and colour seemed to

change from one minute to the next. She painted that same
view so many times she came to calling it my water lilies.
Gradually they made friends with some of their new
neighbours and the inevitable invitations to beach barbecues
followed the true mark of Kiwi acceptance. Their history
never presented any embarrassing problems and an outside
observer would have thought of them as being well adjusted,
well integrated new immigrants.
However, both knew, without sharing the dark thought
with the other, that all was not well. Not for nothing was
Exile historically thought of as a harsh punishment; and in
their case was the added torture of the fear of being exposed.
Aidan was possibly the one more at risk, coming into contact
with far more people every day. He certainly felt the greater
strain, which, after the excitements of the first few months,
began to show in several ways. His drinking increased and he
would waken in the night several times a week screaming, as
he emerged from yet another nightmare. More worrying still,
at home he would spend hours silently staring out to sea,
rocking to and fro in his chair like a distressed animal. Neither
of them talked about this situation. Both knew there was
nothing either of them could say which would ease the
suffering of the other. They could read one anothers thoughts
but they had become intimate strangers.
A new level of crisis was suddenly reached one evening
when Aidan burst into the living room, eyes blazing, on his
arrival home from work. Ive seen him! Ive seen him! he
cried.
What? Who? Calm yourself. What are you talking
about? replied Noleen, instantly anxious.
Ive seen him Sean Byrne. Im sure it was him.
Looking at me from behind a pillar in the station in
Wellington. Hes come to get us.
Nonsense, said Noleen firmly, but without conviction
that her husbands ramblings were delusional. One could
never tell.

303

I tell you, he looked straight at me, then ducked out of

sight. He must have recognised me. I ran like hell along the
platform and, thank God, the unit pulled out right away. But
what are we to do? he added plaintively.
Aidan, you must be mistaken. Your imagination is
playing tricks with you. Look at it rationally: if Sean Byrne is
another Protected Witness like us, they would never have
sent him to the same place as us. And if he got here by himself
he would want to go to ground. Why would he want to bother
us?
She said this soothingly, holding Aidans hand, but in
reality she could think of one or two reasons why he might be
looking for them: for Aidan as a traitor; for her as prey.
Memories of Portstewart Strand. But she knew that the IRA
had also been looking for Byrne, so it was not in his interest to
show himself to anybody in this way. No, it didnt make
sense, the more she thought about it. Aidan was sinking into
paranoia. There was no use, she felt, in suggesting a doctor;
instead she suggested they contact John Walker. But Aidan
would have none of it. He was locked in his own frightening
mental world.
In the days ahead Cassidys behaviour became even more
worrying for Noleen. He became obsessed with personal
security procedures looking under his car twice or three
times a day with a mirror, and varying his route home. The
only thing which changed was that he spoke of no more
sightings of Byrne. Was that a good sign that his original
had been an imaginary episode? Or could it mean that he was
not after all delusional and had really seen Byrne? Neither
thought was reassuring.

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Chapter 47

Operation GILLESPIE had not produced anything of note for

several months. McCune was eager, no doubt, to stay the right
side of his handler and equally keen to stay on the payroll, to
the fruits of which he had become financially accustomed, if
not indeed addicted. He therefore kept up a flow of documents
almost on a weekly basis, but their content revealed little of
interest to RUC HQ. Then came a copy of a memorandum
from PUS to Secretary of State which read:
S of S NI
This is a summary of my assessment of where we have
got to, post GFA. Detailed papers will be in your weekend
box.
The biggest gain has undoubtedly been the sharp decrease
in all the indicators of violence (Cf. Appendices 1 and 2 of
Paper A) and the concomitant switch of public interest from
armed conflict to politics. That switch has been the basis of
the generalised euphoria of the media and outside observers.
I believe that euphoria to be somewhat premature. You
will recall how shaky the Ulster Unionists were when trying
to get internal consensus on participation in the Executive;
there are signs that their instability has increased in office and
there have been some significant deserters from the party.
The SDLP has not managed to win the credit which they
feel is their due in winning improvements and concessions for
the broad nationalist community. They are an ageing party and
for some time have been out-organised on the ground by Sinn
Fein.
To quote Yeats out of context, the centre cannot hold
and I predict that sooner or later they will be outvoted by the
ultras on both sides.
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In the meantime we will have to face many alarms and

excursions, with perhaps even the re-imposition of Direct
Rule. If that happens, we shall have to grin and bear it and
make clear from the outset that such a development can only
be temporary. The public must get used to the thought that
devolution is here to stay. They cannot hope to run home to
nurse every time there is a crisis.
The unionists of both stripes and the media are fixated
on the de-commissioning of arms issue, which is proving to
be a serious acnestis on the body politic. I cannot see this
issue being resolved in the near future. Interestingly, our
friends in intelligence are sanguine about that, indeed
believe it could ultimately be the catalyst which brings about a
power-sharing arrangement which accurately reflects the
division of real power between the parties.
We, of course, have our preferences as regards which
parties run the place, but I believe we should now let nature
take its course.
Suggested paragraphs for your speech in the Commons on
Thursday are attached. They are much more upbeat than what
I have said above, but I trust leave you enough room to
brachiate on to another policy position, if need be, in the
months ahead.
PUS
Bloody ell, said HSB, were not going to get HMGs
support on de-commissioning. I always knew friend Granville
wasnt sound on that, but I thought the NIO looked on it as a
necessity, if the settlement achieved is to be a lasting one.
Now they are taking a back seat to MI5, agreed Niblock.
I suppose thats the logical consequence of the way the
Secretary of State got pushed aside at the Good Friday
negotiations. One of my chums was there and he told me that
Granville actually sat in the government team and was
constantly in cahoots with the Number 10 and FCO wallahs.
And he would wander off and call into the Sinn Fein office for
a cosy chat. We think of intelligence as being a tool for
government. Granville and Co. have gone far beyond that.

306

I think you are right. Its now a case of the tail wagging
the dog.
Its all right for him to be blas about IRA and UVF
arms. When we have to deal with them again! hell be
over the hills and far away, on the champagne and caviar
circuit, in a warm climate somewhere.
Yeah, cant you just see him in tropical whites on the
veranda of the Residency, sipping his aperitif and telling his
luncheon guests about his adventures in Paddyland?
Talking of embassies, must tell you some bad news, said
Niblock with a grimace. Our man Gillespie is being
transferred to the embassy in Rome. Leaves next month.
Shit! said HSB.
Should I try to find a way of keeping our talons in him?
Like copy to us what goes out from London about NI to
embassies abroad?
HSB thought for a moment. Naw. Too complicated, too
risky and probably the game wouldnt be worth the candle.
Cut him loose.

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Chapter 48

During the first few months in New Zealand, Noleen had been
more interested in the Situation in Ireland than she had ever
been at home. But that phase passed when politics then took
so many amazing twists and turns that it was impossible at a
distance and what a distance to follow the complexities of
what was going on. The Good Friday Agreement had not, of
course, solved all aspects of the community problem at a
stroke, but it did shift public attention, even in nationalist
areas, on to party politics. Bunny and Butch succeeded, by a
slimmer margin than was generally realised, in bringing the
IRA and Sinn Fein into the constitutional arena an arena
which had taken new shapes, all of them in their favour. They
had at first been in overall public difficulty on the decommissioning of arms issue, but Granville, confidentially,
encouraged them to play a long game on this.
There will, of course, come a time when total, visible,
verifiable disarmament becomes absolutely essential, even in
your own interests. But at the moment your political
commitment is only to use your best endeavours in that
direction. HMG will not accuse you of bad faith or of
breaching the Agreement. The longer you can string it along,
the more you will weaken the Official Unionists, surpass the
SDLP as the real show in town as all the media attention will
be on you. And at the same time, that will build up Paisley,
which will be essential in the long term.
Build up Paisley? Why?
Because the only agreement worth having here is
between you and him. Together you can make it stick for
keeps this time. Nobody else can do that.

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They didnt quite believe him about that or when he told

them that, methods apart, British interests in the future of
Ireland were closest to theirs. Nevertheless, they had gone
along with his advice faute de mieux and were even poised to
reap the harvest from it. Not that they would tell him that in so
many words. But when they heard he was to leave Northern
Ireland for a new, ambassadorial posting, they asked to see
him one more time.
The meeting took place in the familiar, if gloomy,
surroundings of Clonard Monastery. They were in fine spirits.
Well, Jeremy, wheres it to be next, now that youve
solved the Irish question Palestine, Iran, Chechnya?
Granville had to smile, then in mock imitation of the old
Bing Crosby film, he burst into song: Like Websters
Dictionary, Im Morocco bound. But dont tell anyone. It
hasnt been announced yet.
We can keep a secret, said Butch, apparently without
irony.
Jeremy, said Bunny, solemnly, you and me havent
always seen eye to eye, but I think we can both be pleased at
how far we have travelled. And to remind you of all that, as
you wallow disgracefully in the colonial luxury of your next
appointment, here is, he opened his briefcase, the first time
Granville had ever seen him carry one a genuine blackthorn
shillelagh. Its engraved Oglaigh na Eireann! Granville put
out his hand then hesitated.
Its alright, encouraged Butch, Its a de-commissioned
one. Its not quite a pike, but you can keep it under the thatch.
As Granville thanked them, with something he feared was
almost approaching sincerity, the door opened and a shock of
snow-white hair preceded the bulky form of Canon Murray,
bold as brass and without the slightest sign of embarrassment.
Butch and Bunny went to stand up pupil-master
relationships can last a lifetime but he motioned with a wave
of his hand that they were to stay seated. Not for the first time,
Granville wondered, but more seriously, whether the
relationship between Murray and Bunny might have gone
beyond that of teacher-pupil and priest-altar boy.

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That could explain a lot.

Ah, heres the man who doesnt believe in the afterlife,
said Murray jovially, slapping Granville on the shoulder, as
though Andersonstown police station, not to mention St
Martins, had never happened.
Sometimes I find it hard to believe in this life, was his
rejoinder. They knew what he meant, politically, and laughed.
But in our little theological debate I have a big
advantage, said the canon, for when we both die, you will
never know if you have been right. But I, on the other hand,
will never know that Ive been wrong.
Typically Irish always complicating things.
Touch, said Granville.
Now well have a wee drink for the road the road of
peace and enlightenment, said Murray, heading for the
cabinet. Bunny and Butch had, as usual, a soft drink each, the
canon, an enormous whiskey and Granville, who had long
since admitted in this sort of company where his beverage
preferences lay, had an equally enormous gin and tonic.
To Peace, said Canon Murray, raising his glass
ceremonially.
To Peace with Justice, replied Bunny.
They never give up, do they?

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Chapter 49

Cassidy decided he would go home early from the office. His

mind had been wandering all day from his files, as was
increasingly the case nowadays. He still managed, on his
better days, to keep on top of the job, but his boss was
beginning to think that he wasnt quite the gifted grafter he
had at first seemed to be. Drink certainly appeared to be part
of the problem. Whilst he was never seen to be drunk on the
job, he did often reek of alcohol first thing in the morning.
Cassidy had enough self-awareness to know his problem
was increasing. He was also lucid enough to know where the
source of this problem lay. But he could see no way of solving
it. No one could help him fight his demons of guilt, a guilt
which intensified rather than diminished with time. Noleen
had stood by him all these months and would no doubt try to
comfort him if he fully confided in her. But his guilt towards
her prevented him from doing so. Indeed, whenever she tried
to approach him in any serious way he would snap at her and
leave the room saying, I dont need your bloody help in the
gruffest possible way.
Why sit here staring unproductively out the window for
the next hour and a half, only to get stuck in the northbound
traffic during the rush? Since his scare about the possible
sighting of Byrne, he had given up travelling by train.
He drove out of the underground car park and five
minutes later suddenly decided not to take the shortest way
home, up the Ngauranga Gorge out of the city, but followed
the sea level motorway towards the Hutt Valley. He would
then have to take the mountain road which twisted over the
hills before descending to Plimmerton harbour on the north-

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south coast, where he could resume his northerly journey

home.
The journey would take anything up to half an hour
longer, but, that consideration aside, it was part of his
paranoiac policy of varying his travelling routes. Lessons
from Belfast still had their effect, however misplaced.
Besides, he normally enjoyed the scenery: the crumpled green
hills where the sheep grazed in enormous flocks, the
inaccessible valleys still under their lush primeval bush, and
finally, the glorious views from the highest point on the road,
out over Kapiti to the mountains of the South Island to the
west. The narrow road down from the summit fell very
steeply, through twenty or more hairpin bends. A drivers
nightmare.
As Cassidy turned off the Hutt Valley motorway and
veered past the vast electricity substation at Haywards, his
thoughts wandered back to Myrtlefield Park. What if it were
possible to benefit from the general amnesties declared by all
sides back in Northern Ireland as part of what had been known
as the Peace, Justice and Reconciliation Programme? He had
toyed with the idea but news of the fate of one of the IRA
Army Council drivers, who had been known to him, was not
in the least encouraging. The unfortunate had been unmasked
as an MI5 agent and soon after his flight to the wilds of
Donegal he had been executed in the cottage in which he had
holed up some months before.
Christ, if they do that to a driver, what wouldnt they do
to me?
Besides, even if that sort of revenge was not taken, the
fear of it would still haunt him always. Furthermore, he
suspected the Brits had betrayed the driver for reasons he
could not fathom, but might a day not come when he, too,
would be surplus to the governments policy requirements?
And, quite apart from security considerations, how could he
hold up his head ever again in Belfast? Exile was to be his
punishment, wherever he was. He was exiled even in his own
mind.

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Instinctively, Noleen knew at once when she opened the

front door to a policeman and woman. Aidan was no more.
Her husbands Holden estate car had been found in a crashed
state, at one of the hairpin bends on the hill above
Plimmerton. It had failed to take the bend. No other vehicle
was involved. Cassidy had been pronounced dead at the scene.
As she took in these facts Noleen swayed slightly and the
policewoman put her arm round her shoulder.
Im dreadfully sorry, said the policeman, as he always
did on such occasions.
You couldnt really train for it.

The wheels of justice and the law do not turn any faster in
New Zealand than anywhere else and it was several months
before the inquest was held, in the Coroners Court, housed in
the regional courthouse in Porirua. The hearing was a simple
affair, with few participants and no sense of occasion. The
facts of the case were outlined by a policeman reading from
his notebook in a monotone voice. No witnesses to the crash.
Nothing vitally wrong with the vehicle, for example brakes.
Pathologists report showed nothing out of the ordinary.
Blood alcohol level had been registered, but below the legal
maximum. Cause of death: shock; crushed diaphragm. In
summary, a straightforward, tragic accident.
The coroner, a kindly man, thanked the Inspector and
expressed his condolences to the widow. He was privately
pleased that no suspicions of suicide had arisen that was
always a painful and unproductive element for the family
and he guided the proceedings to a swift conclusion. A verdict
of death by misadventure.
The only face which Noleen recognised in the courtroom
was that of John Walker, who had arrived late, having torn
himself away from an important seminar, to give her a few
minutes of support. Outside the courthouse he apologised for
not having been on time; and further apologised for having to
leave her again so soon to get back to the office.

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Thats the worst over, Mrs Brown. Ill go over the

bureaucratic bits of business with you in a few days. Dont
worry, youll be alright. And dont take any rash decisions
about the house and so on; wait till things settle down!
As he got into his car he said once more, Catch up with
you next week, take care.
Noleen looked around her. Not a face that she knew. But
self-pity was not in her character.
The first day of the rest of my life.
She smiled to herself, remembering how she had often
mocked that clich, but now it had come true for her. As she
walked towards her car, past the park in front of the
courthouse, she had what she at first thought was a delusional
moment. Was she also falling prey to her own imagination?
For there, coming towards her was a man who looked
remarkably like Granville. It was Granville.
Neither of them greeted the other: they simply embraced.
It was not the polite embrace of old friends meeting, rather it
was a long, tight, animal-like embrace, in which emotion
surged to and fro between them.
That night, in Waikanae, they talked and talked, and
laughed and cried. The next day Noleen would have found it
difficult to recount precisely all that they had talked about.
Except what Granville had said when they finally parted
words which really would change her life forever.
Youll love it in Rabat.

THE END

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POST SCRIPTUM

In order to satisfy the readers curiosity, the following

notes outline what has happened since the above was
written:
Sir Julian Beardsley got his G, so is now a Knight
Grand Cross of the Order of St Michael and St George
(GCMG). He looks forward to his automatic seat in the Lords
on his retirement from the FCO in two years time. He is
already sketching his personal coat of arms; he has decided
that he will be known as Lord Beardsley of Plymouth.
Granville got his K and is therefore now a Knight
Commander of the Order of St Michael and St George
(KCMG). He is also one of Her Britannic Majestys
Ambassadors. He and Lady Granville ( ne McManus, but
a.k.a. ne Brown), are renowned embassy hosts and patrons of
the arts. He is a non-smoker at last.
Sin-Sin (Crispin) Myles left Whitehall and joined his
uncles firm in the City, as a special adviser on governmental
affairs. His former colleagues said he had always been a
merchant banker at heart.
Bunny and Butch are both in Government. They travel
extensively to receive Peace Prizes and honorary university
degrees for their successful policies of inclusiveness.
Mungo his treachery has so far escaped detection, as his
secret is still safe, for the moment, with the security services.
He is a major party figure.
Stiletto gives many interviews to pundits and authors,
for a fee. He takes frequent holidays overseas. His immunity
from IRA retribution is believed to be due to a cache of
documents about Bunny and Butch which he has lodged with
his solicitors.
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Bobby Duffy his health, ruined by a hunger strike in

which he had participated in the Maze in the 1980s,
deteriorated rapidly. An uncompromising armed struggle
man, he came to feel betrayed by Bunny and the politicos on
his own side. He died a disillusioned man.
General Chesham is an international security consultant.
He advises governments in the Middle East on weapons
procurement and law and order issues. The new AA719 dyespraying water cannon, manufactured by Anglican
Armaments, features prominently in his work, under both
headings.
HSB has retired after thirty-five years in the RUC. He
plays golf three times a week at Knock and in the winter often
travels with Chesham to play in Dubai.
The Chief Constable has moved on to higher things
within the police Establishment.
Ben Niblock is now Assistant Chief Constable PSNI
(Finance and Human Resources). He is seriously bored.
Bill Austin is, in his retirement, a lay preacher, whose
hell-fire sermons put the fear of God into Congregational
congregations up and down the country.
Canon Murray has recently been vilified in the press for
an alleged cover-up of cases of sexual abuse by Catholic
priests (including, it is rumoured, himself). It is also rumoured
that he may soon be transferred to the Philippines by the
Vatican.
PUS/NI has been replaced, in the fullness of time, by
another PUS/NI. Few have noticed the difference.
McCune is still in Rome. He has changed his tipple to
Campari soda (also, he claims, a favourite of the present
Pope); he secretly supports Lazio Football Club ( ditto His
Holiness, he says).
Major Tomkins (retired) was tragically knocked down
by a motorcyclist when crossing the street in Keswick,
Cumbria, and died of his injuries in hospital.
Penny runs a Cancer Research charity shop in
Richmond, Surrey, and plays bridge three nights a week. She
remains a widow.

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Rev. Meharg published a book entitled Riots and

Reconciliation. Few read past page twenty, but he was
awarded an MBE in last years Honours List, for services to
the community.
James Wheeler was seconded to the BBC World Service
to head a project called Presentation without Propaganda. As
he told his colleagues, It should make a change.
McVeigh got a six month suspended sentence and a fine
of 1500 for the illegal importation of a dangerous dog, to wit
a pit bull terrier, from Finland. The finances of his association
and minor political party are under police review.
Geezer Gifford is currently in prison, convicted of
assault and battery following a brawl in a pub on the
Newtownards Road.
Det. Sgt. McKinney suffered a nervous breakdown.
Now recovered, he works on the Community Relations side of
policing.
McManus has diversified into the hotel and catering
industry. He drives an antique Bentley and he and the new
Mrs McManus often go cruising in the Caribbean.
Sean Byrne has never been seen or heard of again by
anyone.
The British Army is back in barracks, in diminished
numbers.
The RUC was simultaneously awarded a collective
George Cross for bravery, and disbanded, in order to placate
Sinn Fein. It has been replaced by
The Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI) which is
greatly admired by the foreign media.
Special Branch has been replaced by a Criminal
Investigations Department and (in the background) MI5.
Crime detection rates have never been lower.
The Loyalist paramilitaries and some stragglers from
the PIRA have abandoned politically related activities and
concentrate on rackets. In terms of their grip on deprived
areas, they are, by and large, left alone by the PSNI.
MI5 for inadequately explained reasons, have erected
their biggest building outside London inside the army base at

317

Palace Barracks, Holywood, Co. Down. It is perhaps Sir

Jeremys professional legacy.

318