Chapter 36

 

Northern Ireland, 1981

 

Tomb-like silence outside the walls, made even a law-a-biding citizen feel a twinge of nervousness when confronting a prison. Knowing how he could have so easily been incarcerated beyond those walls all these many years sent a shiver through Thomas Devlin.

He was grateful that Liam O’Neill ordered him to wait with his auto. “I don’t care to have your damn Yankee trap rattling off in there. You wait outside. I’ll send the lad out and you get him far away from here.”

Yankee. God, how many times he wished he’d been born one. But then you wouldn’t be this Thomas Devlin—now would you lad? You’d lack all the history and emotional baggage that created such a bastard. A small tight grin creased his mouth. The cab of the car became too confining, so he threw open the door and stepped outside. He walked around to the front, leaned his butt against the hood and lit a cigarette.

“Get Rory far away. I don’t want to read his obituary in a week.” What drew that remark from O’Neill? The old man was clever, he had access to Republicans both in and out of jail, and he’d picked up on something.

Devlin thought about what he learned yesterday.

Moylan was back in Ireland. He would have to find out if the fool came on his own or if he was sent for and if so by whom? Jack Walsh knew of Moylan’s return but wasn’t taking credit for it. With Moylan’s knowledge of weaponry, he could have brought that plane down—but why? And for who? Was he still traveling under the cloak of Richard Quinn? If so, that was a waste of a good cover.

The gate swung open. He could see Liam O’Neill talking to someone—then gesturing towards his car. A lump formed in his throat as he felt a fresh onset of guilt. He’d never tried to contact Rory. Years had gone by—almost ten before he made any effort on his friend’s behalf.

Now Rory Hanlon was coming towards the car. In a crowd, he realized, he would never pick him out. The prison years had been cruel. The fair looking lad of Devlin’s memory had been transformed into a skinny wretched semblance of a man. His black hair was prematurely sprinkled with gray. Where it had blown softly about his ears now it hung on his shoulders lusterless and limp. A shuffle replaced the rapid stalk that once a younger Devlin had trouble keeping up with.

“Tom Devlin. Know ya in a minute lad.” One thing they hadn’t killed was Hanlon’s eyes, more mischievous than ever in the thin face half hidden beneath a thick black beard.

“Gave me somethin’ ta tend.” He admitted when Devlin remarked on the beard after they’d settled into the car. “Prison times hard on a young bloke. Mostly you spend it growing old. Glad them bastards believed you was clean. Couldn’t have stood it knowing that pint you bought me landed you in the same hole.” He rattled on—near starved for conversation. It surprised Devlin for the Rory Hanlon of their youth had been a lad of few wasted words. “Heard tell.” Came out like an apology. “They gave you quite a hammering.”

“Not overly much considering what they were hunting,” Devlin said. “Never did locate your explosives until they parked their fucking trucks on them.” Was followed by a mean spirited laugh. Then he shrugged. “Surprised hell out of me when they took your word and let me go.”

“Weren’t just my word lad. Bastard sold me out cleared ya.”

Devlin reacted quickly to end that subject. “I have a place for you to lie low. In Donegal—old hunting lodge.”

“Thanks, lad, but I can’t be leavin’…”

“That’s taken care of.” He swung the car off the main road and doubled back on a rarely used dirt road hardly wide enough for a single a car. If they were being followed, this would make it difficult to hide the fact.

“Now ain’t you the wonder worker. You’re a Yank now.” A frown clouded Hanlon’s face. “Heard about Emanon; musta cut you up real bad.”

“Took some getting over,” Devlin said. Nothing but the dust of their passing appeared in his rearview mirror and he sighed in relief. Then he grinned. “You ever flown in a chopper?”

“Ain’t flown no way, ain’t about ta.”

~~~

 

Several hours later, fortified with a full stomach and several pints of Guinness Stout, Hanlon still howled in protest. “You daft man! You expectin’ me ta get in that contraption?”

The ride was short, the air cool, but it was a sweaty Tom Devlin who finally brought the helicopter to the ground and a now rapidly moving Rory Hanlon who exited it.

“Ground…Sweet Jesus! Ground,” Hanlon hissed through clenched teeth and gave his own ear a whack with the heel of his palm. He shook his head in what looked like surprise as a group of men approached. “Jacky Walsh, ya old son-of-a-bitch? Monaghan? What a sight to greet a dying man.” Hanlon punctuated his words with clouts and hand grasps.

Casting an arm about the shoulders of the returning hero, Walsh ordered, “Go fetch us a drink, Davy.”

“Get it your damn self,” David Martin muttered, as he followed along behind the older men. Still, on entering the cabin, he obediently fetched a bottle of Powers and several glasses that he plopped unceremoniously on the table.

“Who’s this youngster?” Hanlon asked.

“David Martin.” The young man blushed for it appeared the other men had been intentionally ignoring his presence.

Devlin watched the action and felt pity for the young man. He was aware of how much David Martin had anticipated this meeting. Rory Hanlon’s name as a war hero fascinated the youth. Until now the other men had tended to treat young Martin as an equal—enter the big hero and they cut him down. “Davy,” he offered. “I’m staying the week. How’d you like to check out on the bird?”

“Fly it?”

“It could pay off if you learned how.”

“That bloody eggbeater. Me at the controls?” Interest smoothed the depression on Martin’s features. “Sure like to give it a try.”

“Good. We’ll start you off in an hour or so.” Then he asked in an offhanded way, “See anything of Dede O’Neill?”

Martin laughed before he answered. “Sure, but didn’t the lass sneak over to my place, past midnight it was. Night I met O’Donnell. He’s grooming himself for something big.”

“O’Donnell.” Hanlon was quick to catch the name. “What O’Donnell?”

Walsh answered. “Lad’s talking ‘bout Carrach’s youngest, Seamus. You musta known him? Round your age, he was close with Emanon O’Neill.”

“A bloody Orangeman!”

“Times change lad.” Monaghan gave a nervous grunt. “Seamus was never much on religion. Davy’s right he’s got his sights set high.”

 “How high?”

“Come on Rory.” Devlin freshened their drinks. “Forget The O’Donnell. He won’t move in your circles.” He gave the man’s shoulder a friendly swat.

Walsh said, “Rory, lad, them circles are tight now. No more free running. We’ve shaped ourselves up smart.”

“Right.” Brendan Monaghan was quick to second that opinion. “What happened to you, lad, can’t happen no more. Fuckin’ RUC can’t keep an informer alive long enough to finger anyone. We even got the Army covered,” he bragged. “We’re so tight air can’t squeeze in.”

“So I’ve heard.” Hanlon eyed them suspiciously. “No room for Rory Hanlon? Law be riding my ass too close? I’m to be washed out?”

“Not that way at all,” Walsh said. “You just gotta go easy lad. We’ll see you’re not lacking.”

Hanlon purpled in rage. “Goddamn it! You’d make me a fuckin’ dependent! You’d cut off my balls!”

Devlin’s hand dropped on his friend’s shoulder. He gripped harder as Hanlon attempted to shrug him off. “Rory, listen to reason. You are misunderstanding. All they want is for you to stay under wraps for a time.”

“How long?”

“Until they can clean up your act,” Devlin said smoothly. “Make you so safe you can stroll into Westminster.” The others laughed.

But Hanlon grunted, “Take a plastic surgeon to do that.”

“Not really.” Devlin tugged on Hanlon’s beard. “How long you had the fuzz?”

“Six, maybe seven years.”

“Good. With plenty of fresh air, the right food, you’ll put the meat back on. A naked face that’s lost the prison pallor. Fix up your hair. Their mug shots of you with a bare face are old.” He patted Hanlon’s cheek. “Men grow beards to hide behind; we’ll shave you for a disguise.”

“Ain’t gonna dye my hair, no way. Thought you were a Yank, Tom. What stake yah got in this?”

“Take it slow, Rory. Don’t look for answers too soon. Relax.” Devlin grinned. “You’ve earned a holiday.”