Peace on Earth

By five thirty the IRA planner called McDonald had been given the code-name Michael, by five forty-five Enderson had solved the problem of the lay-out of the bar. At seven thirty that evening a house in the Falls Road opposite the home of the IRA planner called McDonald was broken into whilst the family who lived there were out. Nothing was stolen and the entry was not even noticed. When they returned at nine that evening there was no way the family could have known that concealed in the roofspace of their house was a man, lying in a hammock strung between the beams of the roof, looking through a hole where he had removed a tile, his radio on whisper.

* * *

By twelve fifteen the next day Enderson confirmed the arrangements he had set in motion to examine the internal lay-out of the Sportsman’s. Eighty-five minutes later Jimmy Roberts flew into Aldergrove Airport.

If he had asked them, he knew, they would have said no; instead he left the flat he shared in Earls Court, took the tube to Heathrow and caught the twelve thirty shuttle to Belfast. There was no trouble with security or Special Branch at either airport. Jimmy Roberts was, after all, an American citizen.

It was almost six weeks since the first message from California that his grandmother was ill, three days since she had died, two days since he had known of it.

He arrived at Milltown Cemetery fifteen minutes before they arrived to lay her to rest, the rain sheeting across the headstones and the mud churned round the hole they had dug for her. He had met her only twice in his life, on the two occasions she had visited the branch of her family on the West Coast of America, yet even there, he remembered, she had been fêted, even there they had known of her republicanism.

Roberts stayed at the gate till he saw the procession wind its way up from the city, the outline of Belfast almost lost in the clouds, and turn into the cemetery. Not many for such a fine woman, he thought, knowing again he should not have come, was glad he had. They passed by him, staring ahead; he watched the faces through the car windows, white, colourless, the men and women not looking at him, seeing him nevertheless, wondering who he was, what he was doing. Only when they had slid the wooden coffin from the hearse and the Holy Father was praying over his grandmother for the last time, did Roberts leave the gate and join the handful of mourners. They nodded at him and looked back at the priest.

He looked on as the box was lowered into the ground, remembering how he had listened to her, remembering the stories she had told him, the heady days of the Easter Rising, the mystery of the death of Michael Collins, the dread of the despised Black and Tans. Only when the coffin was still, and the earth had been sprinkled on it, did they turn to him.

‘I’m Sean.’ He had already worked out what he would say, knew there was no way they could check, no way any of them would know. They recognised his accent, knew he was who he said he was.

‘You’re Sean,’ one of them was saying, ‘all the way from America, you’re her Seamus’s boy.’

It was amazing, he thought, how the family ties still spread across the world, how they were still remembered. ‘Yes,’ he thought of his cousin, ‘I’m Seamus’s boy.’

The rain was harder: not a fitting day, they all agreed, asked him how he was getting back to the city, offering him a lift, someone suggesting he might like a drink. He thanked them, meaning it, was only sorry that he could not tell them the truth, that he never had the chance to tell his grandmother the truth.

Jimmy Roberts was twenty-six years old, his father had emigrated to America with his wife three years before Jimmy had been born. His uncle, the father of the man called Sean, had joined them two years later. They had settled on the West Coast, in the Bay area of San Francisco, where the old lady had visited them, once when Jimmy was four, the last time when he was eighteen. Roberts was both intelligent and industrious, he also shared his grandmother’s zeal for a united Ireland. In late 1982, after four years in the United States army, he had volunteered, through a complicated series of checks and cut-off points, for active service in the cause of the land he considered his own. His last meeting, in a bar in New York, was with a man introduced to him as the head of the movement in North America, whom he knew only by the nick-name or code-name, he was not sure which, of Chopper. The following summer he had been sent to the republic, where he met the men with whom he would live and fight until the movement tired of him, or he of it. Or, he always knew, until the day they buried him with the black beret and the tricolour on his coffin. Three months later Roberts and three others had been posted to London as a sleeper unit of the Provisional IRA. The job of the unit was simple, to lie low, build up a supply of arms and explosives and to wait for the moment the men who gave the orders decided it was time to bomb both the body and the soul out of the mainland. It was for this reason, he knew, that they would have said no if he had asked them permission to attend the funeral of his grandmother, for this reason he had not asked them.

The Falls Road was already dark when the car stopped outside the Sportsman’s. He followed the men inside, the car continuing, taking the women home. The room was small and warm, the condensation running from the windows. He reminded himself who he had said he was and knew that he should not have come. One drink with the family and then he would leave, he told himself; before anyone saw him, before anyone who might recognise him from the training in the Republic entered the bar. The family would not let him get away with just one drink, he knew. He knew again why he had not asked permission, knew he should not have come.

The door flew open and the troops came in. The Green Jackets, he knew, smashing through the tables, forcing the drinkers to get up, pushing them against the wall. He felt the panic rising in him and forced himself to stay calm, to act like the others, tried to persuade himself it was routine, looking at them hurrying through the bar, through the door at the end, up the stairs to the flat above.

The bastard on the end, he suddenly thought, same uniform as the others, same badges, same weapons hanging from his arm, same beret. He wondered why he had noticed the man, why he had singled him out, told himself to remember the face.

They were gone as quickly as they had come, crashing out through the door, the last man covering the others. He heard them moving along the street, the engines starting, pulling away, then he finished his drink and left.

By ten thirty that evening Jimmy was back in the flat in Earls Court which the active service unit used as a base and a bomb factory. He did not tell anyone where he had been or what had happened. It was almost Christmas; he remembered feeling the sadness that his grandmother would not see it, was glad, at least, that he had said goodbye.

By eleven Enderson had drawn out the plans of the bar from the details he had memorised on the raid that afternoon and briefed his teams. It was almost Christmas, he remembered; perhaps, he thought, he could phone his wife on Christmas Day, perhaps he could speak to the children.

* * *

Twelve days after the meeting in the villa outside Comarruga, Issam Sharaf reported back to Abu Nabil. Except for the tight circle of advisors who had need to know, there was no indication to anyone that either he or Nabil had been away; even within that circle no one knew where they had been or why they had gone.

It was almost lunchtime. Only after the bodyguard who sat behind Nabil had left the room did the soldier begin his briefing on the Barcelona conference and his meetings in West Germany; at no stage did Nabil inform Sharaf of his own discussions in Paris and London and at no stage did Sharaf ask.

The sky outside had the thinness of winter, cold and watery.

Sharaf listed those present in the villa at Las Piñas, describing the general atmosphere and detailing the consensus on the three-point agenda, his summary brief and businesslike.

‘Under the general policy that all actions must be seen as part of a coordinated campaign, it has been accepted that assassinations and kidnappings, if any, will be directed against figures connected to the military-industrial complex, and that bombings, which are more likely, will be restricted to companies and institutions linked directly to NATO.’ His voice was level, matter-of-fact.

Nabil nodded his agreement. ‘Weapons and explosives?’ he asked.

‘Arrangements have already been made for the groups involved to share weapons and explosives. There were some objections: some groups feared that it would suggest they were short of such items. It took time to persuade them that the effect would be the opposite.’

Nabil nodded again. ‘And communiqués?’

‘Also agreed. Communiqués will carry joint responsibility. There will also be a link-up between joint communiqués and the exchange of weapons.’ Nabil waited for an illustration. ‘If Action Directe, for example, carries out an assassination in France using a weapon previously used by the Red Brigades in Italy, then the communiqué claiming responsibility will be signed by those two groups. If the Belgians use explosives of a type already used in Germany, then the communiqué will carry the names of the CCC and the RAF.’

Nabil looked up from his drink. ‘It should set them thinking,’ he mused. ‘I wonder how long it will be before anyone picks it up?’

‘Not long at all.’

Nabil tapped the rim of his cup. ‘Anything specific?’

‘Yes. Action Directe are already planning the execution of the man in charge of French arms sales, General René Audran. They’ll postpone that action until ordered to carry it out. The weapon they’ll use will be a machine pistol already used by the Red Brigades in Italy.’

‘What was it used for in Italy?’

‘The killing of a magistrate in Turin in August.’ Sharaf’s voice was still matter-of-fact.

‘Any other specifics?’

‘The Germans and Belgians have agreed on a list of firms they’ll both attack, using explosives from the same source. They have also said that they are prepared to hold off.’

Nabil interpreted the nuance of his words. ‘They will hold off until what?’ he asked.

‘Until one condition has been met, the same with the French.’

‘The condition we assumed they would impose?’

‘Yes,’

They stopped for lunch: Nabil did not consider they should eat while discussing the next subject. The meal, in any case, was light and they completed it in fifteen minutes. When the plates had been cleared and they were again alone in the room, Sharaf raised the subject of the second stage of his European itinerary.

‘The hunger strike,’ he began. It was the part of the plans Nabil had requested him to set in motion which he had anticipated would be the most difficult, but the part which, to the contrary, had proved the easiest.

‘The West Germans have agreed. Contact has been made with those in prison for what the state calls acts of terrorism or who have connections, at whatever levels, with the Red Army Faction; all these are prepared to join a hunger strike.’ One other requirement, Nabil thought, one other prerequisite he had emphasised to Sharaf. ‘Contact has also been made with those in prison in West Germany for political offences not connected with acts of violence,’ continued the soldier. ‘Of these, a number are also prepared to join a hunger strike.’

‘How far are they all prepared to go?’

Sharaf looked at him. ‘As far as necessary,’ he replied simply.

‘What about the authorities? Will they try to stop the hunger strike in any way?’ He did not ask how the man had communicated with those in prison.

‘No,’ said Sharaf.

‘What about force feeding?’

‘The authorities will view the hunger strike as an extension of the campaign against them. Any attempt at force feeding would be considered a victory for the hunger-strikers.’