Pray for Us Sinners Read Free Page B

produce soon that chance would be gone.
    Major John Smith ran his hands over his khaki pants. God, but it was good to be back in uniform. He knew very well he would not have been, but for that phone call last month from Sir Charles Featherstone, Permanent Under-Secretary to the Northern Ireland Office.
    Major Smith closed his eyes and recalled the interview in Whitehall with Sir Charles, the promise—and the threat.
    Sir Charles had not risen from his desk.
    â€œHave a seat, Smith.”
    He sat down. Why did he feel like a fourth-former summoned to the headmaster’s study? John Smith studied the man behind the desk.
    Sir Charles Featherstone was in his early sixties, thick grey hair swept straight back, bushed at the temples. His nose was sharp and stood stiffly between deep-set blue eyes. His neck was wattled above his starched white collar. His Guards tie showed above the waistcoat of his pinstriped suit. He spoke. “I’ll come straight to the point, Smith.”
    â€œSir.”
    â€œI got your name from Frank Kitson. You met him in Malaya, I believe.”
    â€œBrigadier Kitson? Yes, sir.”
    â€œHe says you can be trusted.” Sir Charles cocked his head to one side. “Would you like to come back in?”
    John Smith looked directly into Sir Charles’s eyes. “Very much, sir. Very much indeed.”
    â€œYou’d not mind working in Ulster?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    Sir Charles steepled his fingers. “I need a man I can rely on. An operative working for me and no one else.”
    John Smith sensed that he should remain silent.
    â€œThe intelligence situation’s a shambles over there. Do you know how many units are operating?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œNeither do we. Not completely. MI6 have pulled out. MI5—‘BOX,’ as they call themselves, because their address is a post office box—are still there. The Royal Ulster Constabulary have two departments. C is the ordinary criminal investigation bunch. E is their special branch, antiterrorist. And the civilian organizations are child’s play compared to the military.”
    Sir Charles cracked his knuckles. “Thirty-nine Brigade ran a mob called the Military Reconnaissance Force. Your old chum Kitson’s idea. Total flop. We packed them up this year. Replaced them with 14 Intelligence Company.
    â€œAs if all that wasn’t bad enough, every regular army unit’s intelligence officer fancies himself to be Le Carré’s Smiley and runs his own agents. There might even be some of your old mob, the SAS, on the ground—not officially, of course.”
    Sir Charles harrumphed. “The Royal Ulster Constabulary won’t talk to the army. The army mistrusts the RUC. Even in the army, the daft buggers don’t talk to each other. It’s a bloody shambles.”
    Sir Charles scowled. John Smith saw the look and felt his muscles tighten as the civil servant continued. “And the Provos have begun to mount operations that could only have worked with the benefit of top-grade inside information. There’s a mole somewhere in our organization, in Thirty-nine Brigade’s tactical area of operations. Your job will be to find him—and gut him.”
    â€œYes, sir.” John Smith sat rigidly at attention.
    â€œRemember, Smith, you’ll be working for me. No one else.”
    â€œWill I be working completely alone, sir?”
    â€œNo. The CO of Fourteen Intelligence, Harry Swanson, has been briefed about you. He’s a Yorkshireman. Calls a spade a bloody shovel. He’ll provide you with logistic backup, documents, access to files.”
    â€œSir.”
    â€œThere’s another chappie who’ll be able to help you. He’s sound as a bell. Completely familiar with the local situation. Ulsterman. Catholic. Name’s Eric Gillespie. Detective Superintendent in the special branch. Give you the local colour.” Sir Charles’s smile