Free Retribution by Ian Barclay

wasn’t answering to the name of Frankie Grady. I forget now what he was calling himself.”
    “Where’s Walthamstow?”
    “It’s a northern suburb, by the Epping Forest. What do you want to see him for? If you take my advice, you’ll stay away from
     him. Unless of course you’re involved with that side of things?”
    Dartley pretended not to understand what he was talking about, and the man asked no more question’s. He had been referring
     guardedly to Grady’s ties to the IRA provisionals, curious to know if Dartley too was involved. He might be a police informer
     and he might not.
    Frankie Grady’s name at the Stag and Hounds was Tom Boyd. He dropped an empty glass when he saw Richard Dartley walk in, and
     it shattered on the floor.
    “I’m glad to see that your memory is in goodworking order,” Dartley said to him pleasantly as Grady swept up the broken glass.
    The Irishman had good reason to be startled at Dartley’s sudden appearance in this out-of-the-way part of London. Last time
     he had seen him the American had been looking down the barrel of a rifle at him. Grady knew that the only reason he had been
     spared was that he had held back an ambush in order to let two children escape from the line of fire. The American had seen
     him do that and had later spared his life in recognition of it.
    But Dartley didn’t bother to chitchat about old times. The big pub was nearly empty, and no one could hear them.
    Dartley said, “I don’t suppose the Provos are too happy about Britain and Ireland signing this concordance.”
    “I suppose not.”
    “They could be badly affected by it.”
    “I imagine so,” Grady replied, as if he had no special knowledge on which to have an opinion.
    “Frankie—”
    “Tom Boyd, sir. Tom’s my name here.”
    “Tom, I think there’s a good chance that three or more Palestinians are on their way to Ireland right now or in the very near
     future. I also think there’s a good chance that a certain illegal organization in Ireland might decide to help them, since
     all of them oppose the concordance. Do you think that at all likely?”
    Grady pointed the neck of a whiskey bottle at Dartley, who shook his head, then poured a generousmeasure for himself, which he downed in a single gulp. He said, “I’ll have to ask.”
    “Fair enough. There are a few pros and cons about this situation which I think they may not know about. I’ll stick with the
     cons. The first is that the British intend to blame the Provos for the Oxford and Buckingham Palace killings—that’s plain
     already from the slant of newspaper and television reports. They’ll use this mainly to alienate Provo sympathizers throughout
     Europe. If the Provos did these things here, they must have done them in Holland too. And next in Ireland. The IRA will lose
     a lot of sympathizers. But that’s only the first disadvantage of being associated with these Palestinians. The second is that
     the British army and police will have total public support no matter what they do in retaliation against the IRA. These are
     not isolated incidents. This is just the beginning. The Provos have no choice now. It’s in their own backyard. They have to
     come down on one side or the other. If they have helped these Palestinians in any way, and it can be traced to them, it will
     set back their movement several years.”
    “You think they ask me to make their decisions?” Grady asked.
    “Some of the people who make decisions might be willing to listen to you.”
    “What do you want?”
    Dartley took his time. “I only need to locate the Palestinians. Tell me where they will be at a certain time.”
    “That’s a tall order.”
    “I can make it worth your while.”
    A look of anger crossed Grady’s face. “Keep your filthy dollars. I’m not in any of this for money.”
    “When will you know?”
    “Come back tomorrow.”
    “I need to know before then.”
    “Well, you’ll have to find out some other way.”