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Michael Collins, for all he had been, but agreed it had been best that he’d been killed in ambush on that road in County Cork, by those who could not bear the thought of the northern counties of Ulster ruled by Britain, the Irish nation split in two.
    “Do you think the Arabs and Jews will ever live together in peace if the English leave Palestine?” Her question brought me back from thoughts of BARs sending armor-piercing M2 slugs into columns of vehicles as they turned a corner on a narrow country lane. American, British, or Irish—which would be the first target?
    “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I’m not Arab, Jewish, or British.”
    “I think they’ll slaughter each other,” she said in a soft voice as she looked out at the buildings on the hillside, their rock houses blending into the land as if they were natural formations.
    “The Red Hand is already slaughtering Catholics,” I reminded her.
    “Only a few. It would be more if the Royal Ulster Constabulary and the British Army weren’t containing them. Can you imagine Northern Ireland if the English gave it up? There would be a bloodbath.”
    “Churchill did offer to give it up, you said.”
    “Aye, but he knew de Valera would never accept. The Irish don’t want another war so soon after the last ones. Thousands fought in the Great War then lived through the Anglo-Irish War and the Civil War. It was enough.”
    “But not for you. You’re in uniform.”
    “I have my reasons,” she said, leafing through the folder again.
    “Where are you from? How did you end up in England?”
    “That’s not important. You need to focus on where you’re going. When you land, someone will meet you and take you to the 5th Division headquarters in Newcastle. The Ballykinler depot is in their area. They will have been alerted to your arrival and will provide whatever logistical support you need. It’s all in your paperwork.”
    With that, it was all business for the rest of the thirty miles to the RAF air base. She gave me my travel orders, joint ones from U.S. and British commands authorizing my investigation, instructions allowing me to draw supplies and transport, just the sort of paperwork any commanding officer hates to be presented with by a mere lieutenant. I wasn’t going to Northern Ireland to make friends.
    “Here are copies of reports on the theft from the police and military investigations,” she said as she handed me a thick envelope of paperwork when the staff car stopped near a hangar. “The name of the RUC detective you’ll be working with is in one of them. You should see him as soon as possible.”
    “I have to work with an Orangeman?”
    “Of course. His name is Hugh Carrick. He’s a district inspector in the Royal Ulster Constabulary.”
    “What do I do if and when I—I mean this Orangeman and I—find the weapons?”
    “Don’t worry. Major Cosgrove and I will be joining you in a few days. We can organize enough troops to take them back.”
    “What if they’re in the Republic?”
    “The Republic of Ireland doesn’t want the IRA on the loose with fifty BARs any more than we do.”
    I took the paperwork, grabbed my pack, and got out of the car. Then I leaned in and tried one more time.
    “Sláine, you’re asking me to risk my life and possibly betray my countrymen, no matter how misguided they may be. Don’t you think you owe it to me to tell me how you came to work for MI-5? Most Irish I know, no matter which side of the fence they’re on, would call you a traitor.” I waited for the word to take hold, to light a fire hot enough to explode into a reaction. She turned her face to me. It was flushed a bit, but she was a fair-skinned Irish lass in a burning hot climate, so it could have been from the heat.
    “And what will they call you, Billy Boyle, when all is said and done?”

CHAPTER • FIVE
    I LOST TRACK of the hours, even the day. I had started off in a Bristol Beaufighter, cramped in the single seat behind the pilot,