any evidence this Red Jack character is involved?”
“No, simply a warning to watch out for him. If you do encounter him, you’re to inform me and take no action.”
“How do I do that—inform you, I mean?”
“I’ll be in Belfast soon enough,” she said. “I’d be more than impressed if you found Red Jack Taggart in your first few days. I’ve been hunting him for three years.”
“But how will I get in touch with you then?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll find you.”
I didn’t like her attitude. I didn’t like being told I was predictable, and not to worry. I didn’t like her calling the shots. I wasn’t used to being given orders by a woman, and the recent blowup with Diana was too fresh in my mind to allow me to take them with grace from this woman.
“What can you tell me about the truck?” I asked, changing the topic. I liked to ask the questions.
“It was found abandoned outside of Dundalk, in the Republic.”
“When?”
“At exactly 6:10 a.m.,” she said, consulting a sheet of paper in her file. “By a milkman, near Omeath in County Louth, perhaps twelve or so miles from Dundalk.”
“So they drove the arms across the border?”
“All we can say is that the truck crossed over. It could have been empty, left there to throw us off the scent.”
“OK, maybe. Whose was it? You said the food delivery was expected at the base.”
“Yes, the truck belonged to a wholesaler who does business with the army. It had been stolen earlier that night, and he had reported it to the police. His story checked out.”
“Any chance he knows more than he’s telling?”
“Yes, its very likely, but he’s not hiding anything about the truck. His name is Andrew Jenkins, and he is a major force in the Unionist ranks. We think he’s behind the Red Hand Society, a Protestant secret militia.”
“What do they do?”
“Kill Catholics. Sometimes suspected members of the IRA. Sometimes IRA sympathizers. When they want a reprisal killing, any Catholic will do.”
“Reprisals for what?”
“Practically anything the IRA does. They started the very day Great Britain went to war. The IRA shot a British soldier, to show the war made no difference to them. Then the Red Hand killed several Catholics unlucky enough to be in Protestant neighborhoods. None had any connection to the original shooting that we know of. At some point, the killings take on a life of their own, if you’ll excuse the expression.”
“How so?”
“So many blood debts build up that it’s impossible to keep track of what is a reprisal for what. The Red Hand is a reaction to the IRA actions around Belfast. Most of those are supported from the south, by Clan na Gael funds sent from America. If it wasn’t for that support, the IRA might wither and die but instead it gets enough money to keep the fanatics on both sides busy.”
I avoided looking at her, not wanting to react to her statement about America. We drove through an intersection with shops and three-story buildings made from the same pink stone as the King David. More cypress trees rose up along the side of the road, creating spindles of shade that fell across the dwellings. An Arab village dotted a hillside, small gray stone buildings with graceful curved openings set among shrubs and trees. It reminded me of my Sunday school lessons.
But it wasn’t Bible stories I had on my mind. It was the Browning Automatic Rifle. The BAR M1918A2, is capable of firing three hundred to six hundred and fifty rounds per minute, effective up to six hundred yards. Nearly a third of a mile. Fully loaded, it weighed twenty-one pounds. Not something you’d want to run around with, but a fine weapon to fire from ambush, a specialty of the IRA. This I knew from Uncle Dan, who used to tell me stories of his cousins who fought the British and then the Dublin government in the Irish Civil War. In our family, the heroes always were the antitreaty IRA boys, not the Irish police or army. We grieved for