Free Pray for Us Sinners by Patrick Taylor Page B

boys. The kill-women-and-children rebels. Davy spat, found an empty bit of wall to lean against, and listened to the words.
    Eager and ready to defend you for love of you they die.
    Proud march the soldiers of the rearguard.
    Soldiers, he thought. Right, not murderers. Och, to hell with it. The song went on. As long as the youngster was going to perform, Davy would sit here, listening, enjoying, remembering—and wishing that Sean would get in touch. If Davy could no longer be a lover, at least he could be a soldier. But when would the call come?

 
    THIRTEEN
    WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 20
    Angus McKenzie, the Glaswegian private who had stopped Davy McCutcheon on his way to the pub, hefted his SLR. Up ahead, the sergeant ordered a halt. McKenzie squatted on the pavement. He was sick of Belfast. He’d not had a job in Glasgow since he’d left school, and the recruiting poster had seemed attractive: a grinning squaddie in a swimsuit, arm round a stunning bird, blue water, palm trees. “Join the Army and see the world,” it said. He spat. “See the world?” And he’d got fucking Belfast. Still, his regiment was on roulade, only here for six months, and those six months would be up at the end of this week. Two more days, then back to their depot in Scotland. Couldn’t come soon enough.
    As last man in the file he could see the rest of the squad, hunkered like him. He took off his caubeen and ran his fingers through his hair. He wished they were allowed to wear steel helmets, but some brass-hatted bastard had decided that helmets were seen as threatening by the civilian population. And self-loading rifles weren’t?
    He heard the sergeant yell, “All right. Move yourselves.”
    He crammed his caubeen back on his head, careless of the beret’s bright red hackle, then stood and trudged along the Belfast street. He paid little attention to the lout leaning against a house on the corner, blowing his nose into a large white handkerchief.
    *   *   *
    It had been a short flight from Belfast’s Aldergrove Airport to Heathrow. The major paid the cabby, went through the building’s front doors, and took the lift to Sir Charles’s fourth-floor office.
    â€œCome in, Major. Have a seat.”
    Major Smith sat. “Thank you for seeing me, Sir Charles.”
    â€œTea?”
    â€œNo thank you, sir. I’d better get on with my report.”
    â€œAre you getting close?”
    â€œNot yet, sir.” Major Smith saw Sir Charles’s eyebrows move closer to each other as furrows appeared on the man’s forehead. “But I’m making progress. I’ve a pretty good idea where our man’s not, where to concentrate now, and how to do it.”
    â€œTell me.”
    â€œWell, sir, Harry Swanson’s been most helpful, even if he wasn’t too happy about my suspecting any of his Fourteen Intelligence people and insisting we clear them first.”
    Sir Charles smiled. “He’ll survive. Some of Swanson’s mob come from the Republic of Ireland or the Catholic slums of Belfast.”
    â€œYes, sir. We concentrated on Thirty-nine Brigade. You said the mole was working in their tactical area.”
    â€œQuite right.”
    Major Smith pulled a file from his briefcase. He stood, placed it on the desk, opened the file, and bent over. “Here’s the chain of command of a Fourteen Intelligence company detachment seconded to the Second Paras. Field-intelligence NCOs, Intelligence subaltern. Staff captain, Intelligence.” The column was marred by a cross-check. “All these men are utterly reliable.”
    â€œGood Lord, and you’ve done this for all of Swanson’s command?”
    â€œJust the ones with Thirty-nine Brigade, sir.”
    â€œYou’ve been hard at it, Major.”
    Major Smith permitted himself a brief smile. “Gillespie, the RUC man, has been most helpful. A bit suspicious at first. You were