Irish Lady (18 page)

I fought for breath. Precious seconds passed. Smoke seared my lungs as I followed Niall to the third-story landing. There was a loud explosion and the door to the hall went up in flames. A huge wall of fire consumed the floor, just missing Niall as he fell back, curling his body into a ball and rolling down the stairs to where I stood, frozen with horror. Unbelievably, he stood and pulled me behind him.

“You can thank your husband for this as well, Nuala,” he shouted, his voice raw from smoke. “Rory's army surrounds us. The fire is his doing.”

“But the babies and Kathleen,” I cried. “What of them?”

“Dead,” Niall said flatly, maintaining his pace, pulling me along. “Burned to death in their beds.”

My mind could absorb no more. I heard Niall's words with a curious detachment. We were in the courtyard now, and it seemed as if the entire world were ablaze. The gates were nearly gone. In another moment Rory's soldiers would ride through the opening.

Niall caught at the bridle of a nearby horse and swung into the saddle, pulling me with him. He took my face between his hands and kissed me fiercely.

At the same moment, Rory rode through the flame-choked September sunlight to see his wife in the desperate, passionate embrace of his enemy.

Belfast, 1994

Since the cease-fire, British tanks no longer routinely patrolled the Falls Road. Michael strolled casually down the dimly lit streets to his mother's house and walked in without knocking. He heard voices from the kitchen and followed the sound, stopping at the doorway to take in the scene before him. Connor and Davie sat at the table eating soup and fries smothered in brown sauce while Annie stood at the stove stirring something that smelled delicious. “Is there room for one more?” he asked.

Three heads turned in his direction. His brothers, hardened by life on the run, acknowledged his presence with a mere lift of their eyebrows. Annie's lips paled and she dropped her ladle into the soup. Collecting herself, she hurried to pull down the window shades before holding out her arms to her son. Michael walked unashamedly into them, finding the same comfort he had as a toddler with skinned knees and a bloody nose.

Annie held onto him for several minutes without speaking. Finally she dropped her arms, wiped her eyes with her apron and shook her head. “Thank God, y've got some meat on your bones. Y're a lovely sight, Mick, much better than the last time I saw you. Sit down and have some supper with y'r brothers.”

Connor grabbed his brother's hand and squeezed while Davie slapped him on the back. Annie filled his teacup and set a hot bowl of soup on the table. Hanging his jacket on the back of his chair, Michael sat down and applied himself to his meal.

“What's happened, Mick?” Connor asked quietly.

Michael swallowed and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “There's a safe house in Sligo. I'll hole up there until a trial date is set. If I'm allowed a jury, I'll go back to the Maze.”

Annie gasped. “Why would y' go there?”

“Life on the run isn't living, Ma. That's all over for me. If Meghann believes I have a case, I don't mind the risk.”

Davie interrupted. “What if the Brits want a Diplock court?”

Michael looked across the table at his younger brother. “Then I'm done for,” he said softly.

Annie's hand flew to her mouth. “God help us. Have y' found out anythin' yet?”

“Not yet, Ma.”

Connor Devlin stood and carried his plate to the sink. “It's clear enough t' me,” he said bitterly. “The Brits want an excuse t' keep us away from the negotiations. Look at the newspapers. We're executioners again. No one wants to deal with terrorists.”

Michael shrugged.

Connor swore under his breath and looked guiltily at his mother. “Sorry, Ma. Why aren't the Provisionals saying anythin', Michael? I don't like it. I don't like it at all.”

“Will we be able to reach you?” Davie was always practical.

Michael held the soup in his mouth, savoring the last delicious mouthful. No one made soup like his mother. Reluctantly, he swallowed. “I'll be back in prison as soon as it's out that Meghann's defending me.”

Annie's eyes widened. “Don't y' know, Mick? Meggie's left her firm after sellin' out to Mr. Thorndike. She's here in Belfast until after the trial.”

Michael's lips twisted into a derisive grin. “It appears that my days of freedom are over.”

Folding his arms against his chest, Connor leaned against the counter. “I'd see Liam first, if I were you. Y' won't be much good at findin' answers in the Maze.” He hesitated. “Do y' trust her that much, Mick?”

Did he trust her that much? The question hung in the air, demanding that he face it. Michael wasn't rational when it came to Meggie. He never had been. Now, his life depended on her. She might be unable to save him, but not for a minute did he believe she would betray him. “Aye. I trust her that much.”

Annie released the breath she had been holding. “Thank God. I was afraid—” She looked at the expression on Michael's face and stopped. “Never mind,” she said hastily.

Michael stood, reached for his jacket and bent to kiss his mother's cheek. “Don't worry, Ma. I'll keep in touch.”

Annie nodded and turned back to the stove, refusing to watch him leave. The Falls were much safer since the cease-fire. But that didn't mean the house of a man wanted for murder wasn't under surveillance. “Mother of Jesus,” she prayed. “Keep my son safe and let Meghann come quickly.”

Michael stopped at the door, reached out with both arms and wrapped his brothers against his chest in a crushing embrace. “Tell Meggie anything y' can find out,” he said huskily, “and don't let anyone, not even Liam or anyone else, know where I'll be. Don't even tell them y' saw me.”

Connor frowned and would have spoken, but Davie had already nodded in agreement. “Aye, Mick. We'll say nothin' to anyone, not even to Andrew himself.”

***

Meghann rubbed the frown from her forehead, pushed aside the deposition copies she had committed to memory and stared blankly out the window of her hotel suite. Five witnesses stated that on March 18, Michael had been seated at a table near the back of the room and that he'd disappeared shortly before Killingsworth's speech. Yet the guest list from the Europa Hotel did not include his name. The claim ticket he swore was in his pocket had disappeared at the interrogation center, and the number he remembered as his own belonged to a man named Peter Fitch. The list had been entered as part of the Crown's evidence.

She stood and massaged her temples while pacing back and forth across the carpeted floor. Relief eluded her. Collapsing on the low couch, she tucked her legs beneath her and played devil's advocate with herself.

Why
was
it
necessary
to
position
Michael
as
a
man
without
a
ticket?
The answer came immediately.
To
portray
him
as
an
intruder
in
the
legal
political
process. Why would a Protestant glassmaker from the Shankill Road, a conservative Tory, pay five hundred pounds to hear a Labour candidate speak?
This one wasn't so easy.
Because
he
wanted
to
see
and
hear
the
man
who
would
most
likely
be
England's next prime minister?
Possibly, but not likely. Five hundred pounds was a healthy sum, enough to take a glassmaker's family on a two-week holiday to Donegal. Politics to the working-class Shankill Protestants had never meant more than food on the table.

Something didn't fit. The hotel guest list was a forgery, of course, and not a very good one. Even an untrained eye could see that the printing on Peter Fitch's newly entered name was slightly different. Meghann had visited the man earlier in the day. He was a cretin, an uneducated brute with bad teeth who had never traveled two miles outside the Shankill. Meghann was sure he'd been bribed. She would need to discredit him immediately.

All the other evidence was circumstantial. Other than Michael's connection with the IRA, there was nothing to convict him. She should have felt optimistic, but the legacy of Catholic persecution in the Six Counties was strong. British law was sound, but representatives of the Crown did not always strictly adhere to the law in Northern Ireland.

There must be someone who had seen Michael and remembered. Someone who could place him at the same moment that James Killingsworth lost his life helping his daughter into a taxi. Meghann had spoken with nearly everyone who had been in the audience. No one on the list could be sure of Michael's whereabouts with absolute certainty. That left the usual crowd of onlookers and the press.
Who, among Protestant Belfast and the British Broadcasting Company was brave enough to come forward and clear an official of the Sinn Fein council when even their own members remained silent?
That one had no answer.
But
where
was
the
motive?

Meghann abandoned each new idea as quickly as it came until there was one she couldn't discard It was not uncommon for the Ulster SAS to recruit insiders for information. Communities in the Six Counties were small and tightly knit. Sinn Fein and the IRA could not be infiltrated by outsiders. Men and women who became informers were among their own, usually lured by fear and more money than they would normally see in a lifetime.

A young man would be kidnapped by the RUC, the life of a family member threatened, and then he would be dropped off where his neighbors could clearly see that he had been consorting with the enemy. Shortly after, some secret spot would be hit, and word would leak out that the young man had supplied the information. He would have no choice but to turn to his enemies.

Instinctively, Meghann knew her case was much more than a random killing. Given the current direction of politics, neither Michael nor James Killingsworth had been a threat to any of the major forces shaping the future of Northern Ireland. That left only one farfetched possibility. Michael had been set up as a scapegoat for political maneuvering. Someone important wanted to change the direction of British politics and destroy all hope of a united Ireland. Perhaps money was involved. That kind of money could change a man's life, make him forget his lofty ideals.

The
why
of such a convoluted objective no longer mattered. That would come later. If her hunch was correct, there must be something she could do. But what?

Turning off the lamp, she made her way into the luxurious bedroom, picked up the phone, and pressed zero. Housekeeping answered immediately. “Can I help y', Miss McCarthy?” asked a voice, vowel-flat and softly accommodating, the brogue of West Belfast.

Unconsciously, Meghann slipped into the familiar cadence. “If it's not too much trouble, you can wake me at nine. I've an appointment in the Falls.”

“No trouble at all, dear,” the voice replied. “Get some rest now.”

Grateful for the comforting thickness of the down comforter, Meghann snuggled into its luxurious warmth. Her last conscious thought was that, at this very moment, reporters were assembling in the downstairs lobby. This time she would tell them everything.

At eleven o'clock the following morning, Meghann arrived on Annie Devlin's doorstep. She carried a kidskin briefcase and wore a designer suit of forest green tweed. The pleated skirt ended above her knees, and the jacket, nipped in at the waist and tailored to perfection, was both feminine and professional.

A news crew stood on the pavement filming her arrival, but Meghann appeared oblivious to the attention. She flashed them a brilliant smile, tucked an errant curl behind her ear and knocked on the door of the refurbished brick house.

Annie was no stranger to Meghann's charm. Hiding her amusement, she motioned the younger woman inside, closed the door against the invasive cameras, and hugged her fiercely. “We heard the news this mornin',” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “John Hume was on the telly. He's talking about a jury trial for Michael if he'll come in on his own. However did you manage it, Meggie?”

Meghann squeezed her godmother's shoulders and stepped back. “He's still only talking. He'll have to do more than that before I believe him.” Annie's forehead wrinkled and Meghann laughed. “Never mind. Just remember to be very kind to the press. Answer their questions. Tell them about Michael and what he was like as a child. Be sure they know about his writing and his academic credentials. Personalize him as much as possible, and never, ever mention the IRA. If anyone asks, tell them you know nothing about such nonsense. Always repeat that Michael is a good boy who wants nothing more than to come home. Can you do that, Annie?”

Annie nodded. “Aye. It's the truth, except for the IRA part. I knew that he was one of them. Mother Mary, how could he not be? I prayed every day that he would change his mind. Michael is brilliant. He had choices, something the others didn't have. Never underestimate the power of prayer, Meggie. It was prayer that finally made Michael come t' his senses and leave that violent nonsense behind.”

Meghann sat down on a chair. A strange ringing sounded in her ears. She couldn't have heard correctly. “What are you saying, Annie? I thought Michael was the leader of the Falls Road Brigade for West Belfast.”

Annie's blue eyes widened. “Michael is an elected member of the Sinn Fein political council. He hasn't been active in the IRA for years, not since he argued for a cease-fire and decommissioning in exchange for a seat at the peace talks.”

“Sinn Fein is legal.”

“Aye.”

All at once a very large piece of the puzzle fell into place. The Irish Republican Army wasn't turning on one of their own. Michael was a dissenter, worse than a dissenter. He was a talented writer, an inspirational orator who had defected from the ranks. Discrediting him would be of great benefit to them. But why had he allowed her to believe he was still connected? There were too many missing pieces to make any sense of it. “Where is he, Annie?” Meghann asked.

Annie Devlin's face went blank. “He asked us not t' tell you, for your own protection.”

“Can you get a message to him?”

“Aye.”

“Tell him I need to see him.” Meghann hesitated and chewed the inside of her lip before continuing. “Tell him I need to arrange a meeting with Andrew Maguire, off the record.”

“It will be very dangerous for you, Meggie, especially if no one knows y're goin'. It may be dangerous for Michael, too.”

“I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.” She patted the older woman's lined hand. “Why don't we let Michael decide if it's too dangerous?”