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Battalion
    Headquarters worked out of the back of the Springfield Road R.U.C. station.
    Captain Jason Perceval had done well for himself. Intelligence Officer was a good
    number. He had an office big enough for his desk and chair, plus an easy chair,
    plus his VDU, plus a table for his portable television set. His walls were papered
    with the photographs of escaped prisoners and activists gone underground, what
    he called the OTRs, those On The Run.
    He had been reading, and he placed the papers upside down on his desk as if Ferris represented a security risk.
    `What can do, David?'
    The telephone rang. The Intelligence Officer grimaced as if to explain the pressure of work, picked up the receiver.
    `Wait one, David ... Yes, yes ... There's someone with me. Call me back, please.
    Five minutes ... Now, what can do, David?'
    Ferris often wondered where Jason Perceval had learned his language, and where
    he had learned that toothy smile that was meant to charm.
    `Just came across a new face today, thought you might like to have it.'
    `Very conscientious ... What new face and where?'
    The majority of the Battalion officers were Grammar School or Comprehensive,
    different to ten years back, sign of new times. The minority had been privately educated. Ferris thought the minority were bloody anxious to point up the difference.
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    **`Gave his name as Sean McAnally, address as 63 The Drive, Turf Lodge . . .'
    `Doesn't ring with me.'
    Ìf you're not interested . . .'
    Ì didn't hear myself say I wasn't interested. No need to scratch. Tell.'
    `Sean McAnally, aged about thirty, fair hair, ginger really, says he works down in
    the Republic. Wife is Roisin, she's full time up here with the kids. My platoon hadn't come across him before. He was in a car we stopped at a VCP two nights
    ago, the car was cleared. That's all.'
    `Kind of you, squire.'
    The Intelligence Officer lifted his chair across the room to the table and the Visual Display Unit. He flicked the switch, animated the screen, and started to type.
    Ferris watched as the Intelligence Officer eased his chair back, waited for the Headquarters computer to throw them some information, and lit himself a black
    papered Sobranie.
    Ì'm all for HumInt,' the Intelligence Officer said easily. ÈlInt's got a place in things, but HumInt's what scores ...'
    The screen began to fill. Ferris disliked the military's jargon. Human Intelligence
    in Ferris's book was simply observation, and Electronic Intelligence was
    mechanical surveillance.
    `Bit of a bullseye, David. Very good. McAnally, Sean Pius. Born 1955. Fianna Youth cadre. Aggro brat. Thought to be A.S.U. member in Turf Lodge and
    Ballymurphy through to mid‐seventies. Done on possession of firearms in '76. No
    statement, written or verbal. Five years in the Lazy Kay. Wasn't on the dirty protest, didn't wipe his shit on the walls. Wasn't on the list of those wanting to slim for Ireland, not a Hunger Striker. Came out and went back to his old ways,
    but sharp enough never to have been incriminated, never found in flagrante, and
    never informed against either. Two years ago he went south. The law have checked him out down there, the word came back that he'd cut his links.
    Probably just back to give his lady a touch of the tickler ...'
    Àre they able to cut their links, do you think?'
    `Perhaps, perhaps not ... That's why it's useful to hear your news.'
    `He looked as if he could have messed his pants when I had him over.'
    `You're not starting to feel sorry for the vermin, David? 'He was pretty pathetic.'
    Jason Perceval looked keenly at David Ferris. `Your job's soldiering, laddie, not feeling sorry for them.'
    Ì only said that he looked pathetic.'
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    `Have you ever seen'an armed terrorist, David?' Ferris hesitated. `No ... well, I've seen prisoners.'
    `Have you ever seen a terrorist with an Armalite or a nail bomb or an M60
    machine gun?
    'No.
    'Well, I fancy that if you had then you wouldn't be talking about him looking