In Belfast, the British SAS squad lay in wait for the arrival of the IRA cell members. The Australian SAS man, nicknamed Smithy, with an impeccable record which included war service and duties as an agent in his country and the US, sat on his haunches on top of a tall building opposite the target area.
He was sent a signal by a mobile phone which gave out two words from the top pocket of his green work shirt.
The officer had an educated accent with a slight wisp. ‘OK, Dave.’
Dave looked through the sights of his rifle as the three IRA men knocked on the door of the house opposite. He squeezed off three shots from the silenced rifle which hit all of the targets in the centre of the chest. They lay still, bleeding and dead.
The squad ran over and kicked in the door. An ambulance nearby picked up the three bodies and drove away
‘Come over, Dave,’ the officer said.
Smithy walked in the open door, noting that the blood on the pavement had already been scrubbed away.
‘Great shooting, Dave.’
Noting the captain’s look of concern, Smithy said, ‘What’s up, skipper?’
‘Read this, Dave.’ He thrust out a report headed ‘Australian Government’. It detailed the names of members from Australia serving with the British SAS. Dave ran his finger along the names and there it was: his name, his unit, his current address and missions. CIA connections were included.
‘My God, skipper. My God.’ He immediately thought of Joan and the kids and how his job had put them in harm’s way. He knew he couldn’t get out.
Smithy was flown back to Melbourne. He dropped his keys in the hall and heard the sounds of pot and pans. Joan ran towards him, her bellowing laugh bouncing off the walls. She knew not to pry but asked how he was.
‘OK, love.’
His curt reply concerned her and she placed her hand on her mouth when he briefed her about the spy papers which were found in Belfast.
‘I’m not moving, Dave, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’
He looked down without reply
‘Why don’t we just keep our heads down? They could get us anyway, couldn’t they, if they wanted to?’
‘Guess you’re right.’
He spoke to his boss the next day.
‘Look, Smithy, we’ll make sure you don’t go back. You’ll soon be forgotten in Ireland. They’re Irish after all.’
‘Fair go, boss. Some of my mob come from Ireland.’
‘Join the club, mate,’ replied Colonel Johns.
Joan scratched Belfast off her trip locations and never spoke again about the episode, though she wondered what Smithy had done to incur the hate of the IRA. Then she remembered when she cleaned out the bottom of his bedroom closet and found a green balaclava with eyes cut out. She had held it up. ‘Planning to rob a bank, mate?’
He had snatched it from her. She saw him forming words to offer a reply yet nothing came out. He walked out to the industrial bin and threw it inside.
‘A man of many secrets,’ she had muttered and it confirmed her suspicions about the nature of the duties which her husband was tied into. Was she just like a Mafia wife? She pondered on her question, never daring to form a reply.