Pray for Us Sinners Read Online Free PDF

had once seen in the Belfast zoo.
    The major said, quickly and in a very matter-of-fact voice, “You know a lot about explosives. You can mix with any crowd of locals and speak ‘Northern Ireland.’” The small man’s Oxbridge speech slipped and the last two words came out harsh and grating, a fair imitation of the accent of the Falls—“Norn Irn.”
    Marcus felt slightly ashamed. He was embarrassed by his brogue and had adopted a veneer of vocal gentility. The army called it the chameleon effect.
    â€œOh yes,” said the major. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and chucked a piece of paper onto the table. “You might like to read this press release.”
    Marcus took the paper. “Lieutenant Marcus Richardson, RAOC, died last night of injuries—”
    â€œWhat?” Marcus heard his own voice over the buzzing inside his head. His words were shrill. “What?”
    â€œDeepest condolences, old boy. Your father seems to have taken the news like a man. I gather your mother was a bit upset. She’ll be over for the funeral in a couple of days. Army expense, naturally. Seems your old man can’t make it.”
    â€œWhat the hell is going on?” There was an edge to Marcus’s voice. He remembered how surprised he had been when his father refused to go to Grandfather’s funeral.
    The major coughed. Politely. “I’ll put that down to shock—this time.”
    â€œShit.”
    â€œThat’s ‘shit, sir.’” The major’s eyes slitted.
    Marcus controlled himself—just—as his training reasserted itself.
    The major softened his approach. “Look, I need your help. It’s bloody nearly impossible to find out what’s happening on the street. Someone like you could fit in.”
    â€œFit in, sir?”
    â€œIt just seemed that if you were dead, you’d be less likely to be recognized by someone who knew you when you were still, if you’ll forgive the pun, living in Ulster.”
    It was too much for Marcus to digest. Undercover work, Dad not coming to bury his only son.
    The major interrupted his thoughts. “If you resurfaced on the street in Belfast you could keep your eyes and ears open, pick up a few odds and ends.”
    â€œI don’t know anything about intelligence work.”
    â€œNeither do some of the charlies who are out there at the moment. That’s part of our problem.” The major smiled. “We’d soon teach you, though.”

 
    SEVEN
    THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 7
    The garage was attached to a white stucco-covered house. It was dark in the garage, and there was the smell of mouse droppings. A man worked by the light of a pencil torch gripped in his teeth. He sat beside a Volkswagen, his head bent over a flat metal box. He ignored the four sticks of dynamite nestled inside the container, the mercury tilt switch, the batteries and the tangle of wires.
    He concentrated on the face of a kitchen timer, the kind that rings. This one wouldn’t. The bell had been removed by one of Brendan McGuinness’s armourers. A metal plate, wired to the batteries inside the box, had been fixed at the zero mark at the top of the dial. A second piece of tin, connected to the detonator, had been screwed to the arm that marked elapsed time. It would strike the plate at zero when the desired number of hours had elapsed.
    The man shone the thin beam on his wrist. His watch said 4:11. He redirected the light to the timer and twisted the timing arm to 5:00. He could hardly hear the faint ticking. The circuit would be quite safe until five hours had passed; then, with the plates touching, it would be armed. Still, nothing would happen, not until the mercury in the tilt switch was disturbed and the liquid metal touched both ends of the glass tube.
    *   *   *
    Inside the stuccoed house, Bertie Dunne sat up in bed. He was racked with a fit of coughing. He felt like