Bandit Country. Peter Corrigan
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Belfast
The Crown Bar, opposite the much-bombed Europa Hotel, was quiet. It was two o’clock on a weekday afternoon and there seemed to be only a handful of men in there, seated in the walled-off snugs and nursing Guinness or whiskey, leafing through the Belfast Telegraph.
One of those men was Captain John Early of the SAS. He was a squat, powerful figure of medium height who appeared shorter because of the breadth of his shoulders. He could have – and frequently did – pass for a brickie on his lunch hour or whiling away the days of unemployment. His hands were blunt and calloused, the arms powerfully muscled. His face was square, the close-cropped hair sprinkled with premature grey at the temples and a badly broken nose making him look slightly thuggish. But the blue eyes were intelligent, belying the brutality of the face. Despite the haircut, he did not look like a soldier, certainly not a holder of the Queen’s Commission. And when he quietly asked the barman for another pint his accent bore the stamp of north-east Ulster.
There was no trace left of the clean-cut young officer who had joined the Queen’s Regiment back in 1977, or even of the breezy subaltern who had agonized through SAS selection eight years previously. Turnover of officers among the SAS was much swifter than that of troopers; they rarely served more than five or six years with a Sabre Squadron. Early had come over with Ulster Troop in 1984 and gone undercover two years later. He was an ‘independent’, operating now under the aegis of MI5, but he never forgot where he had come from. If he died here, his name would be inscribed on the Clock Tower in Hereford, where all the dead of the SAS left their names.
Early sipped his whiskey patiently. He was waiting for a friend.
James Cordwain came through the door. Early recognized him instantly, though he hadn’t seen him in years. The hair was longer of course – all the SAS seemed to believe that long hair was obligatory when serving in Northern Ireland. But he still had the aristocratic bearing, the finely chiselled jaw and flashing eyes. He looked every inch an officer. Early sighed, ordered another drink and took it into a snug.
It was ten minutes before Cordwain joined him, smiling.
‘You’re not an easy man to get hold of, John.’
‘The name is Dominic, Dominic McAteer,’ Early told him sharply. Cordwain winced.
‘Why did we have to meet anyway? A phone call could have done it.’
Cordwain shook his head, regaining his self-assurance quickly. ‘I had to talk to you in person.’
‘Talk then.’
Cordwain looked at him, slightly offended. They had been good friends once, in the Falklands. Early seemed aged, irritable beyond his years. It was undercover work that did it, Cordwain decided.
‘I have a Q car down the street. We can talk in there,’ he said. A Q car was the army’s name for an unmarked vehicle.
‘Are you mad? Every dicker in the city knows a Q car when he sees one. We’re safe enough here. I know the barman. He thinks I’m just another unemployed navvy and you’re in here about a job.’
‘Which, in a way, I am.’
‘So tell me about it.’
Cordwain tried hard not to look smug. ‘It’s on.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as you can relocate. We have an opening down in Cross. Construction.’
‘Not on a fucking army base, I trust.’
Cordwain grinned. ‘Not likely. No, a local firm, Lavery’s, has been given a contract – new bungalows.’
Early’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s a front, is it?’
‘Yes and no. The contract is real enough, but our people are the ones behind it, buried three layers deep. Get yourself settled in, and then we’ll start working on a channel of communication.’
‘I take it Special Branch came up with fuck-all.’
‘They don’t even know you exist.’
Early nodded. He liked it that way.
‘What about our friends the spooks?’ he said, referring to his handlers in the Intelligence Service.
‘You’re on leave, seeing a sick auntie. They think you’re back across the water. They’ll be mightily pissed off when the truth comes out though.’
‘Fuck them. This is my last caper, James. After this I’m getting out.’
‘I’m sorry about Jeff. I take it he’s the reason behind all this.’
Jeffrey Early had hero-worshipped John and gone into the army as soon as he could, following in his revered older brother’s footsteps. But the Border Fox had killed Jeff three months ago. One bullet, taking off most of his head. Early had not even been able to go to the funeral.
‘I want this bastard, James. I really want him.’
Cordwain nodded. ‘Don’t let hatred cloud your thinking, John. Remember, your job will be identification. I provide the Button Men.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Charles Boyd for one. You don’t know him, but he’s a good man.’
‘I don’t want him tripping over my shadow, James. This South Armagh lot are the most formidable we’ve ever encountered. They sniff the colour green and I’m dead. Tell your man to keep his distance.’
Cordwain was not happy. ‘They have to provide effective back-up.’
‘So long as they don’t compromise me.’
‘They won’t. I’ll have a word. Boyd will want to meet you as soon as is practicable.’
‘Why, for fuck’s sake?’
‘To get a feel of the thing. He wants you to draw him a few pictures.’
‘Are you saying he’s still wet behind the ears?’
Cordwain grinned. ‘A little. He’s out in west Tyrone at the minute, but that op should finish within a day at most.’
‘Terrific.’ Early finished his drink and stood up, glancing quickly over the wooden partition of the snug. The bar was still more or less deserted.
‘I’ll be in touch.’
Then he left, exchanging a farewell with the barman as he went. Cordwain lingered a while to leave a gap between them. This had to be the most hare-brained operation he had ever begun. But the men Upstairs had given the go-ahead, and besides, he did not like doing nothing while British soldiers were slaughtered with impunity. Talking once to an officer in the ‘Green Army’, he had been struck by a phase the man had used. ‘We’re just figure 11s, out standing on the streets,’ the officer had said. A ‘figure 11’ was the standard target used on firing ranges. Cordwain did not like the image. It was time the terrorists took a turn at ducking bullets.
Lieutenant Charles Boyd shifted position minutely to try to get some blood circulating in his cramped and chilled legs. The rain had been pouring down for hours now, reducing visibility and soaking him to the marrow. There were streams of freezing water trickling down the neck of his combat smock and between his buttocks. He was lying in a rapidly deepening puddle with the stock of an Armalite M16 assault rifle close to his cheek. His belt-order dug into his slim waist and his elbows were sinking deeper into peat-black mud.
‘July in Tyrone,’ his companion whispered. ‘Jesus fucking Christ. Why didn’t I become a grocer?’
‘Shut it, Haymaker.’
‘Yes, boss,’ the other man mumbled. The hissing downpour of the rain reduced the chances of their being heard but there was no point in taking risks.
It was getting on towards evening; the second evening they had spent