3

      ‘Martin Aodh Brosnan,’ Ferguson said. ‘The Aodh is Gaelic for Hugh, if you’re interested, after his maternal grandfather, a well-known Dublin Union leader in his day.’

      The fire was burning well. It was four o’clock in the morning and Harry Fox felt unaccountably alive, except for the hand, of course, which ached a little as if it were still there. That always happened under stress.

      ‘According to the file he was born in Boston in nineteen forty-five, sir, of Irish-American parentage. His great, great-grandfather emigrated from Kerry during the famine. Made the family fortune out of shipping during the second half of the nineteenth century, since when they’ve never looked back. Oil, construction, chemical plants – you name it. And very social register.’ Fox frowned and looked up. ‘A Protestant. That’s astonishing.’

      ‘Why?’ Ferguson said. ‘A lot of prejudice against the Catholics in America in the old days. Probably one of his ancestors changed sides. He’s hardly the first Protestant to want a United Ireland. What about Wolfe Tone? He started it all. And the man who came closest to getting it from the British Government of his day, Charles Stewart Parnell, was another.’

      ‘According to this, Brosnan’s mother is a Catholic.’

      ‘Unremittingly so. Mass four times a week. Born in Dublin. Met her husband when she was a student at Boston University. He’s been dead for some years. She rules the family empire with a rod of iron. I believe the only human being she has never been able to bend to her will is her son.’

      ‘He did all the right things, it seems. Very Ivy League stuff. Top prep school, Andover. Took a degree in English literature at Princeton.’

      ‘Majored,’ Ferguson corrected him.

      ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

      ‘Majored in English, that’s what our American friends say.’

      Fox shrugged and returned to the file. ‘Then in nineteen sixty-six he volunteered for Vietnam. Airborne Rangers and Special Services. And in the ranks, sir, that’s the puzzling thing.’

      ‘A very important point, that, Harry.’

      Ferguson poured himself more tea. ‘Vietnam was never exactly a popular issue in America. If you were at University or College, it was possible to avoid the draft, which was exactly what most young men with Brosnan’s background did. He could have continued to avoid service by staying on at University and taking a doctorate. He didn’t. What’s the word that’s so popular these days, Harry, macho? Maybe that had something to do with it? Perhaps he felt less of a man because he’d avoided it for so long. In the end, the important thing is that he went.’

      ‘And to some purpose, sir.’ Fox whistled. ‘Distinguished Service Cross, Silver Star with Oak Leaves, Vietnamese Cross of Valor.’ He frowned. ‘And the Legion of Honour. How in the hell did the French get involved?’

      Ferguson stood up and walked to the window. ‘An interesting one, that. His last flamboyant gesture. He saved the neck of a famous French war photographer, a woman, would you believe it, name of Anne-Marie Audin. Some ambush or other. She pops up in the story again. The photo from the Paris-Match article, remember, with Brosnan, Liam Devlin and Frank Barry? The good Mademoiselle Audin took that, amongst others. She wrote the same story for Life Magazine and got a Pulitzer Prize for it. A behind-the-scenes look at the Irish struggle. Went down very well in Boston.’

      Fox reached for the next file. ‘But how in the hell did he move on from that to the IRA?’

      ‘Wildly illogical, but beautifully simple,’ Ferguson turned and walked back to the fire. ‘I’ll shorthand it for you and save you some time. On leaving the army, Brosnan went to Trinity College, Dublin, to work for that doctorate we mentioned. In August, nineteen sixty-nine, he was visiting an old Catholic uncle on his mother’s side, a priest-in-charge of a Church on the Falls Road in Belfast. When did you first visit that fair city, Harry?’

      ‘Nineteen seventy-six, sir.’

      Ferguson nodded. ‘So much has happened, so much water under the bridge, that the first wild years of the Troubles must seem like ancient history to people like you. So many names, faces.’ He sighed and sat down. ‘During Brosnan’s visit, Orange mobs led by “B” Specials, an organisation now happily defunct, went on the rampage. They burnt down Brosnan’s uncle’s Church. In fact, the old man was so badly beaten he lost an eye.’

      ‘I see,’ Fox said soberly.

      ‘No you don’t, Harry. I had an agent once called Vaughan – Major Simon Vaughan. Won’t work for me now, but that’s another story. He really did see, because like Brosnan, he had an Irish mother. Oh, the IRA has its fair share of thugs and mad bombers and too many men like Frank Barry, perhaps, but it also has its Liam Devlins and its Martin Brosnans. Genuine idealists in the Pearse and Connolly and Michael Collins tradition. Whether you agree with them or not, men who believe passionately that they’re engaged in a struggle for which the stake is nothing less than the freedom of their country.’

      Fox raised his gloved hand. ‘Sorry, sir, but I’ve seen women and kids run screaming from a bombing too many times to believe that one any more.’

      ‘Exactly,’ Ferguson said. ‘Men like Devlin and Brosnan want to be able to fight with clean hands and a little honour. Their tragedy is that in this kind of war that just is not possible.’

      He got up again and paced the room restlessly. ‘You see, I can’t blame Brosnan for what happened in Belfast that night in August, ’sixty-nine. A handful of Republicans, no more than six in all led by Liam Devlin, took to the streets. They had three rifles, two revolvers and a rather antiquated Thompson sub-machine gun. Brosnan found himself caught up in the thick of it during the defence of the Church, and when one of them was shot dead at Devlin’s side, he picked up the man’s rifle instinctively. He was far and away the most experienced fighting man there, remember. From then on he was caught up in the IRA cause, Devlin’s right-hand man during the period Devlin was Chief of Staff in Ulster.’

      ‘Then what?’

      ‘During the first couple of years or so, it was fine. Men like Devlin and Brosnan were able to fight the good old-fashioned guerrilla kind of war that would have delighted Michael Collins’ heart. No bombs – they left that to men like Frank Barry. Taking on the army was the way Devlin saw it. He believed that was the way to gain world sympathy for the Cause. By the way, how would you feel if you were the General Officer commanding Northern Ireland, and you went into the private office of your headquarters