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Dublin, and theoretically not many people even inside the IRA
knew how active he was operationally. He’d tried to keep a low profile over the
years, and to a certain extent he thought he’d succeeded. But he knew
allegiances in his organisation could change, and it was never wise to assume
the intelligence services were ignorant of his identity either. So far, he’d
not been detained or arrested, and he wanted to keep it that way. He continued
to scan the street as he walked, but could see nothing to alarm him. Of course,
they could be observing him from a window or from a passing car. He sighed, –
paranoia must be the price of freedom after all. Lighten up, man.
    A few minutes later and he stood in a phone box, feeding
loose change into the slot. He dialled a Belfast number and waited, still
scanning the area for anything unusual. The call was answered after three
rings.
    ‘Fitzpatrick Carpentry, how can I help you?’
    Michael knew the voice, but before acknowledging it there
was a ritual to be followed.
    ‘I need a custom made bookcase for a specialised book
collection,’ he began.
    ‘What’s your specialised subject then?’
    ‘The Easter Uprising, 1916.’
    ‘A fascinating period of Irish history. Are you wanting to
place an order now?’
    Michael concluded the coded exchange ‘Yes, that would be
grand.’
    ‘I know that voice. What happened to you then, Michael?’
    ‘Hello, Colin, all well with you I trust?’ Colin Fitzpatrick
was his immediate superior, and the commander of the battalion to which he
belonged.
    ‘Fine, thank you. We were wondering if anyone got out. Tell
me what happened.’
    Michael recounted the events on the beach and his horseback
escape.
    ‘And you had no idea you were being ambushed?’ Fitzpatrick’s
voice was calm and level, but Michael detected an undertone of doubt. He
answered promptly, with a touch of indignation.
    ‘Of course not. Do you think I’d have got myself into any
such situation?’
    ‘Ok, Michael. We lost good people, not to mention valuable
arms. I thought security was tight on this one. I wonder where it slipped up.
Where are you now?’
    ‘Dublin. I’ll wait a couple of days and then be on my way
back to see you.’
    ‘You at a hotel?’
    ‘No, I...’ He paused for a split second. ‘I mean yes, just
off O’Connell Street.’
    He wondered if the pause had gone unnoticed. He thought it
best to keep his sister’s house out of the conversation. She wasn’t affiliated
to the IRA in any way, and she wouldn’t be amused by him giving her address to
his colleagues.
    ‘Call me when you get back to Belfast. We’ll have a talk
then.’ The phone went dead.
    Michael felt mildly surprised. Fitzpatrick hadn’t asked many
questions. Just waiting till I show up, I guess, then it will be a full
debrief. He was also probably angry that all the organisation, planning and
expense lavished on the arms shipment had been wasted. Understandable.
    He zipped up his jacket, stepping out of the phone box.
Reflecting on the brevity and the content of the conversation, he neglected his
usual vigilance as he retraced his steps back to the house.
     
    Siobhan came home late afternoon.
She seemed in better spirits, but he could see the anxiety in her eyes when she
looked at him. He tried to distract her by suggesting they go out for dinner.
    ‘It’s my last night with you. I’m getting the bus back up
North in the morning. Let’s go to the Italian round the corner, I’ve got
money.’
    ‘We had bolognese last night, Michael. Should you be going
out after what’s happened?’
    ‘It’s fine, Sis. Stop worrying. And I’m sure there’s more to
Italian cuisine than bolognese. Come on.’
    ‘Alright then. I’m having a long soak in the bath first
though. You can entertain yourself until I’ve finished.’ She grinned at him.
    That’s an improvement, he thought.
    It was quiet at Gennaro’s. The proprietor knew Siobhan from
previous visits.
    ‘Ah, pleasure to see