5

      Looking back, Harry Miller remembered that year well, not just because of the bad March weather in London and the constant rain, but because what happened proved a turning point in his life. He was a full lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps at twenty-four and nothing much seemed to be happening. He shared an office with a young second lieutenant named Alice Tilsey, and she’d beaten him to it that morning. He took off his trench coat, revealing a tweed country suit, uniforms being out that year as the IRA had announced that men in uniform on London streets were a legitimate target.

      Alice said brightly, ‘Thank God you’re wearing a decent suit. Colonel Baxter called for you five minutes ago.’

      ‘What have I done?’

      ‘I lied and said you were getting the post downstairs.’

      ‘You’re an angel.’

      He hurried up to the next floor and reported to Baxter’s receptionist, a staff sergeant he knew well. ‘Am I in trouble, Mary?’

      ‘Search me, love, but he certainly wants you right now. In you go. Captain Glover’s with him.’

      Baxter glanced up. ‘There you are, Miller. Just sit down for a moment.’

      He and Glover had their heads together and enjoyed a brief conversation which made no sense to Miller, and then Baxter said, ‘Still living at Dover Street with your father?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘He’s certainly the sort of MP we can rely on. Always has a good word for the Army in his speeches in Parliament.’

      ‘Old soldier, sir.’

      ‘Captain Glover would like a word.’

      ‘Of course, sir.’

      Glover had a file open. ‘You were on the Falklands Campaign seconded to 42 Commando, which of course was invaluable experience of war at the sharp end. Since then, you’ve been seconded once to the Intelligence Desk at Infantry Headquarters at the Grand Hotel in Belfast. What did you make of that?’

      ‘Interesting, sir, but it was only six weeks.’

      Glover said, ‘Looking at your personal details, I see you’re a Roman Catholic, Miller. If I ask if your faith is important to you, please don’t be offended. It could be crucial to why you’re here.’

      Uncertain what Glover was getting at, Miller said, ‘I was raised in the faith, I was a choirboy, I’m obviously familiar with the liturgy, and so on. Having said that, I must admit that, like many people, my religion is not at the forefront of my life.’

      Baxter intervened, ‘So you’d be capable of going to Belfast for us as a Catholic?’

      There was a distinct pause, Miller totally astonished, and it was Glover who explained. ‘Think of it as one of those old black and white British war films where SOE sends you to go to Occupied France as an undercover agent.’

      ‘Which is what we want you to do in Belfast for us.’ Baxter smiled. ‘Are you up for it?’

      Miller’s stomach was churning. It was the same rush of adrenaline he’d experienced in the landings at San Carlos in the Falklands with those Argentine Skyhawks coming in.

      ‘I certainly am. Just one thing, sir, having visited Belfast, I know that the Northern Irish accent is unique, and I don’t know if –’

      ‘No problem. You’ll stay English,’ Glover told him.

      ‘Then I’m at your command, sir.’

      ‘Excellent. You’re in Captain Glover’s hands.’

      In the planning room, Glover laid out a map of Belfast. ‘The River Lagan runs into Belfast Lough and the docks, it’s a busy area.’ He pushed a manila file across. ‘Everything you need is in there, but I’ll go through it anyway. Boats go backwards and forwards from Glasgow, trawlers, freighters.’

      ‘Illegal cargoes, sir?’

      ‘Sometimes, arms, for example, and people. There’s a pub in the dock area we’re interested in, the Sailor. The owner is a man named Slim Kelly.’

      ‘IRA, sir?’

      ‘Certainly. Did time in the Maze Prison and was released, so there’s good photos of him in your file. He’s supposedly clean these days, but he’s certainly killed many times. Our understanding is that he’s fallen out of favour with the Provos. Lately he’s been involved with a man named Liam Ryan, a psychopath who murders for fun. He’s another one the IRA want to dispose of. Our information is that he’s done a deal to supply Kelly with Stinger missiles. These things can be operated by one man and they’ll bring down a helicopter. We understand they’ll be delivered to Kelly by Ryan next week in a trawler called the Lost Hope. The moment you can confirm the meet, you call in your contact number in Belfast, which will bring in an SAS team on the run. It sounds simple, but who knows? Whatever happens, don’t use the contact number unless you are positive you have Kelly and Ryan in the frame.’

      ‘What exactly is my cover, sir?’

      ‘You’re employed by St Mary’s Hospice in Wapping. There’s a branch in Belfast close to the Sailor, an old priory run by nuns that provides for the deserving poor, and so forth. It needs renovating, and it’s already had a building surveyor from London come in. You’re an ordinand, whatever that is.’

      ‘Someone who’s considering the priesthood.’

      ‘Perfect cover, I should have thought. You’re from the London estate office. You’ve got all the documents on what needs doing. The story is you’re there to confirm it. You’re the man from head office, in a way.’

      ‘Where do I stay?’

      ‘The Priory. It’s all arranged by the Mother Superior, a Sister Maria Brosnan. To her, you’re the genuine article.’

      Which in some strange way made Miller slightly uncomfortable. ‘Can I ask how you’ve been able to make these arrangements, sir?’

      ‘As it happens, Colonel Baxter’s younger brother is Monsignor Hilary Baxter in the Bishop of London’s Office. St Mary’s Hospice in Wapping was facing closure because their lease was coming to an end. We’ve been able to resolve their problem.’

      To that, there was no answer. ‘I see, sir.’

      ‘If you call round to Wapping this afternoon with the documents in your file, there’s an old boy called Frobisher who’ll go through them with you. All the necessary work’s been done. You just pretend at the hospice and look busy. Sister Maria Brosnan expects you Monday.’

      ‘What about my identity?’

      ‘It’s all in the file, Harry, courtesy of the forgery department of MI6.’

      ‘And weaponry?’

      ‘I’m afraid you’re expecting too much there. After all, you’re a travelling civilian heading into the war zone. There’s no way you could go armed.’

      ‘I see, sir, it’s we-who-are-about-to-die-salute-you time.’ It was a statement, not a question, and Miller carried on, ‘What you really want aren’t the Stingers on that boat. This is all about Kelly, the publican of the Sailor who has fallen out of favour with the Provos, and this Liam Ryan who you say is a psychopath.’

      ‘Two years ago, he formed a breakaway group, no more than a dozen people, calling it the Irish Liberation Movement. Wholesale butchery, torture, kidnap – his favourite pastime is removing his victim’s fingers with bolt cutters. Bad news for the Republican movement as a whole. The word is the Provos put their best enforcer on the case.