LITMIR.BIZ

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this morning? he wondered. Who would press for a major investigation into the identity of the member who had leaked the operation to spring the men from the Crum? Who would pick up on the McKendrick farce and turn it to his advantage?

      Conlan or Quin, he knew; in the end it would come down to one of these. Both were respected in the Movement, both were playing for their places closer to the top of the pecking order. Both politicos, sharp tongues and sharper brains. Conlan tall, slender build. Quin bigger, using his bulk to disguise the speed at which his mind moved.

      In a way the Movement was at yet another crossroads. There had always been discussion—often dissent – between the Republicans and the Socialists, even after the Movement had appeared to wither in the fifties and sixties. And in the seventies the Official IRA, the Stickies, had lost ground to the new heads and fiery demands of the Provisionals. Yet within the Provos there had also been disagreement – about the role of violence and the desirability of combining the gun with the vote. Now the new crossroads, Conlan and Quin already laying out their qualifications for the leadership, for the job of Chief of Staff. He finished dressing and left the house.

      The Army Council met at eleven, seven men made up from representatives of the Southern Command, the Northern Command – the so-called war zone – and GHQ. The room in which the meeting took place had been electronically swept beforehand. For two hours they discussed the implications of the changes in Eastern Europe, the Middle East and North Africa, and how they would affect the financing of the Movement and the flow of arms, ammunition and explosives to it.

      Conlan and Quin know, Doherty thought once; both have looked in my eyes and seen the shadow of the Maker lurking there.

      For the next hour they discussed the quartermaster’s reports on the arms and explosives situation, the fact that although Libya had now said it would stop supplying the IRA, the statement made little difference given the volume already shipped to Ireland and stored there.

      So how would he like to be remembered? The Bringer of Peace – if there could ever be such a person in that small corner of the world they called Ireland – or the Harbinger of War? What single action would mark the end of his stewardship of the Movement? And who would give it to him, who would give him what he now craved for more than peace or war?

      They moved to the next item: the aborted attempt to free the men from Crumlin Road jail, the deaths which had accompanied it, and the political capital made by both the Protestants and the English. Who’s going to move first, Doherty wondered, Conlan or Quin? The senior officer from the Northern Command briefed them on the background to the operation, the planning which had prefaced it, then the events of the day and evening.

      ‘So what went wrong?’ It was Quin.

      The officer commanding the North Belfast Brigade shrugged.

      ‘There was a leak?’

      The man shrugged again. ‘Possibly.’

      ‘And what action has been taken to trace it?’

      ‘A board of enquiry has been set up. The security section has already begun its investigations.’

      The council was about to be split, they all understood, to be torn apart by the implications of the Orange Day fiasco.

      ‘Who knew about the operation? Who knew enough to direct the security forces to Beechwood Street and to the Crum? Who knew about Tommy Reardon?’

      The only people who knew the overall military details were the planners on the Northern Command. Therefore the leak must have come from one of them or their staff. With the implications for the Movement which followed from this.

      ‘Gentlemen.’ Conlan’s voice was quiet, calming. Laying the groundwork for his move. That was the difference between the two men, Doherty understood. Quin would make his move, upfront and immediate. Conlan would lay the ground then withdraw, come back for the kill later. A come-on, just as the bombers sometimes left a small device by the roadside or in a car, but the main device in a second car or where they knew the security forces would wait while the Bomb Disposal dealt with the first. ‘There may or may not be a leak. If there is we must find it. If there isn’t, we mustn’t let the British con us into thinking there was and wrecking the Movement with a witch-hunt.’

      The trap now, the execution later, Doherty knew for certain.

      ‘I would only like to say one other thing. We all approved the operation.’ Therefore we must all share the guilt – it was unspoken, but clearly meant and equally clearly understood. ‘And that decision was a correct one. The political and military value of the operation had it come off would have been incalculable.’ He turned to the officer commanding the North Belfast Brigade. ‘Now perhaps you could tell us of any progress on the part of the security section.’

      ‘So where was the leak in the organization?’ Quin returned to his original theme. ‘How does it affect future operations? What about operations on the mainland?’

      What are you playing at? Doherty glanced at Conlan. Where are you taking us? He saw the way the other man was looking at him. You know, he thought again. You know what the doctor has told me to expect, you know the question growing in my mind.

      ‘So what do we do?’ The discussion continued for another forty minutes before Doherty gave Conlan and Quin their chance. Quin would move first, he supposed; Conlan would allow that, then checkmate him.

      ‘A spectacular.’ Instead it was Conlan, speaking first and more forcefully, though his voice was still quiet. ‘One the bastards will remember for ever.’ Conlan rarely swore, they all knew.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘For the morale of the Movement after Orange Day.’

      A come-on, Doherty remembered, waiting for the moment.

      ‘How?’ Quin walked into the trap. ‘We’ve already agreed that until we know otherwise we must assume that the units in the North and the ASUs on the mainland and in Europe might be compromised.’

      Conlan paused. ‘There’s a sleeper.’

      They would all remember the moment and the silence which hung round it.

      ‘Where?’

      ‘On the other side of the water.’

      ‘Who?’

      Conlan shook his head.

      ‘Details?’

      He shook his head again. Some disciplines in life were easy to maintain, others more difficult. Yet none compared with the discipline which he imposed upon himself when he thought about the individual they were now discussing.

      ‘Who recruited him?’ It was Quin.

      ‘I did.’

      ‘How long’s he been in place?’

      ‘Five, six years.’ The answer was necessarily vague. ‘Perhaps more, perhaps less.’

      ‘But he’s done nothing in that time?’ Quin looked for the way out.

      ‘A few jobs for the French and Germans, a couple for the Libyans and Palestinians. Occasionally for us as well, though it was always camouflaged, made to look as if it was somebody else’s job.’

      Doherty sensed the excitement round the table.

      ‘So why haven’t you told us about Sleeper?’

      It was ironic, Doherty thought later, that it was Quin who gave the man his codename. Who stopped referring to him as simply a sleeper. Who provided the name which would immortalize him.

      Conlan shrugged, did not reply.

      ‘So what do we do?’ Doherty moved them round the impasse, asked the question again.

      ‘A spectacular.’ Conlan repeated his previous answer. ‘Something no one will ever forget.’

      He’s giving me my epitaph, Doherty thought, and in doing so he’s staking his

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