SERPENT’S TOOTH

  Denis Kilcommons

  Silvertail Books ♦ London

  FOR SIOBHAN

  How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is

  To have a thankless child!

  King Lear

  PROLOGUE

  St Jean de Luz

  The two young women floated on air beds on the still waters of the swimming pool. They wore bikinis and their bodies were golden.

  ‘Tans are supposed to be vulgar,’ said the one with short dark hair.

  Her companion, a blonde, laughed.

  ‘That’s propaganda put about by people who are white.’

  They floated some more, as if drained of energy by the sun.

  ‘Thirty,’ the blonde said. ‘You’re going to be thirty. Over the hill. The concept is gross!’

  ‘I know. It feels ancient. Where did it all go?’

  ‘On having a good time?’

  They laughed.

  ‘How about,’ the blonde said, speculatively, ‘going out with a bang?’

  The pause lasted long enough to be suggestive and they both burst out laughing.

  ‘You don’t mean . . . the hired help?’

  ‘John is not hired help. But if you insist, there’s always Manuel . . .’

  ‘Ughh!’ She shuddered theatrically. ‘God. He’s so fat. It makes you wonder how he could do it.’

  ‘Cooks are supposed to be fat. And if you want to discover how he does it, I can arrange a demonstration.’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting. I’ll stick with John.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Well. . . we’ll see. There’s another ten days yet. A lot can happen.’

  ‘Ten days to thirty. God, I’d kill myself,’ the blonde said.

  ‘You’ll get there, one day. Anyway, it’s the age that life begins at.’

  ‘More propaganda, put about by people who are old. I’d rather go out with a bang.’

  Her friend laughed.

  ‘I’ll try to arrange it.’

  1

  The drive from Ostend took two hours. Devlin relaxed in the passenger seat of the Peugeot and enjoyed the scenery. It had been a long time since he had been away from the waterfront.

  The flat green countryside made a welcome change, even though the weather was unseasonably damp for June. But then the road signs became history and the landscape was dominated by the neat acres of white crosses and gravestones. Flanders’ fields were as lush as legend. The husbandry of their cemeteries was regimental, impressive and as evocative as the last post.

  Another time, another war but the harvest was the same. Young men scythed in their prime. The psalm was consoling in only one respect. They would never grow old.

  Devlin wondered if that was his trouble. Was thirty-one too old?

  They went through Ypres, the unpronounceable town that had been Wipers to thousands of soldiers from Britain, America, Australia, Canada and Ireland. Always from Ireland. The Brits had been good at declaring wars and the Irish had been good at dying in them.

  His countrymen had a reputation for fighting that was not all folklore. They were fighting still. Only the style of war had changed.

  They turned back on themselves by a different road and headed north again. They passed a roadside crucifixion, a tortured Christ weeping rust. The early morning drizzle had stopped and the sun pierced the thin cloud in shards to give him a halo. It looked like special effects from Hollywood, an omen of divine intervention, but he had stopped believing in God, at least in daylight. He had stopped believing in most things.

  He watched another cemetery glide past and longed for a war as simple as a bayonet charge.

  Henri Besson took his eyes from the road ahead to smile at him briefly.

  ‘These burial grounds. They make you feel sad?’ he asked.

  ‘They make me feel mortal.’

  They spoke in French.

  Besson shrugged.

  ‘Death is nothing. Someone switching out a light. The way you die is important.’

  ‘Not when you’re dead.’

  ‘Of course when you’re dead. Immortality is the memory of your friends. If you’re lucky, the world might remember, too.’

  Devlin did not respond. It was just his luck to take a trip through the graveyards of the First World War with a philosophy graduate. He stared out of the window but could still feel the other man’s smile.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Besson said.

  Nearly where?

  Devlin had agreed to the mystery tour at short notice, partly out of duty and partly because Besson had asked for his company. Normally he would have required assurances but Besson had been his host for three months and to refuse would have been churlish. Also, there could be positive benefits.

  The Belgian was the best sort of host. He put in an appearance only once a week. Devlin had the apartment above the bar to himself. It was safe but he was not used to the inactivity. He would make a bad prisoner. Perhaps, if it came to it, he would prefer someone to switch out his light. He wondered if Besson would be capable of it?

  Besson looked the part. He was small and dark with a short Gallic haircut that accentuated his good looks. His clothes were invariably well cut and blue in colour. He favoured a blue trench coat that lay on the back seat of the car. He fastened it by knotting the belt.

  ‘We’re here.’

  They turned off a quiet country road onto a dirt track which ran forty yards before reaching a metal gate that was the only access through a wire fence. Parked beyond it was an old Citroën van, rear doors facing them. A young man in jeans and a windcheater leaned on the gate and watched them approach and stop. He had been there some time and his hair was wet and stuck close to his head and his shoulders were damp from the earlier drizzle.

  He opened the gate, came through and closed it behind him. One of the rear doors of the Citroën opened a few inches. Besson lowered his window and the young man looked into the car at them.

  Besson said, ‘We’ve come for the private showing.’

  The young man said nothing but he walked back to the gate and opened it wide.

  They drove through and continued along the track. On their right was a gravel car park and a wooden hut that fronted irregular lumps and contours in the turf.

  ‘What’s that?’ Devlin asked.

  ‘Tourism. Trenches from the First World War. Privately owned and closed for renovation. They look towards Passchendaele.’

  ‘Trenches?’

  ‘This whole area was riddled with them. A farmer dug them out after World War Two, added a small museum and filled it with memorabilia from the junk shops of Ypres and stuff he ploughed up himself. It’s more lucrative than farming.’

  They continued towards a house that was further up the slope on their left. Besson drove round the far side and parked next to two other cars. The slope climbed gently for another hundred yards. Parked on top was an open jeep in which was a figure in a full length, all-weather parka.

  The show of security did not impress Devlin but it did make him uneasy. It was ostentatious rather than effective and he preferred back streets to an exposed farmhouse; there were more places to run. But why was such a show of force necessary?

  They got out of the car and walked round the back of the house. A kitchen door was open and they went inside. Two men were standing by the sink drinking coffee from mugs. A jar of Nescafé, an electric kettle and more mugs stood on the draining board. The men didn’t speak or change their posture. They didn’t offer them any coffee, either.

  ‘Besson,’ said Besson.

  Still no reaction.

  ‘Is Marcel here?’

  The younger of the two men pointed to another door. The Belgian led Devlin through it and into a stone-flagged corridor. He opened a door to his left and walked into a room full of voices and cigarette smoke. Devlin followed and the talk stopped immediately.

  Five people, three men and two women, sat around a long dining table that held papers, pencils, ashtrays, water jugs and glasses. On a wall were several maps ranged around a general map of Western Europe. Coloured pins gave them life and importance.

  A large bearded man got to his feet, scraping the chair back in his haste, and stood in front of the maps. When a colleague realized his motive, he joined him.

  Devlin looked away from the wall. He looked at the people instead and realized that was probably as unwelcome.

  Beside him, Besson twittered apologies for being late and still hadn’t realised anything was wrong.

  An intense but attractive young woman left the table and walked towards them.

  Besson said, ‘Gabrielle!’ and held out his hand.

  She ignored the hand, walked to the door and held it open.

  ‘Out,’ she said.

  Devlin went back through the corridor and into the kitchen. Besson followed, shoulders moving in both apology and confusion.

  ‘I’m sorry we’re late, Gabrielle. There were road works leaving Ostend and we hit traffic through Ypres.’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  The tone of her voice finally made him realize all was not well. The two men, who had watched their return, now put down their coffee mugs and became alert.

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry, you haven’t met.’ He smiled, as if the introduction would make everything all right. ‘This is Major Liam Devlin of the Irish Republican Army. Liam, this is . . .’

  ‘Shut up, Besson,’ she said.

  Devlin knew he was in trouble. He had not been expected and was not
welcome. This was not the type of meeting he should be at. It looked as if Besson had asked him along to boost his own image and the move had backfired. He had been invited as a buttonhole and could end up a wreath.

  Gabrielle was of medium height, her dark hair bobbed short. She wore designer jeans and an Yves St Laurent sweater. He had never met her before but he knew her second name was Chirac. He also knew she had killed at least five people. If she decided to have him shot, she would probably do it herself. She stared at him. It was a total appraisal.

  ‘I had heard you were with Besson. I did not expect him to bring you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought the meeting was with an armourer. I understood my attendance had been approved.’

  ‘It had not.’ She glanced at Besson.

  Devlin realized that the Belgian did not rate highly in this brotherhood. He was on the wrong side of the line that divided killers from voyeurs.

  ‘I am entirely at your disposal. If you wish me to leave, I will do so.’

  Her eyes locked with his. They were cool, unblinking. She hadn’t yet decided what to do with him.

  ‘I think, Major, it would be best if you wait. This is an operational meeting. It has nothing to do with the Republican Army. We will talk again, when our business is concluded. Bernard and Jean-Marc will keep you company.’

  He inclined his head in agreement.

  ‘Are you armed?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  She motioned to Bernard who walked forward until he stood behind Devlin.

  ‘You will permit?’

  She made it sound like a question even though it wasn’t.

  ‘Of course.’

  He raised his arms and allowed himself to be searched.

  ‘Pardon the formality,’ she said. ‘We will talk again later.’

  She turned and went back through the door. Besson followed her, shrugging his shoulders again, this time for Devlin’s benefit, before he closed it behind him.

  What the hell had he walked into?

  Devlin exchanged non-committal stares with Bernard and Jean-Marc, then went to the sink and filled the kettle before plugging it in. He put coffee in a mug and lit a Marlboro while he waited for the water to boil.

  Gabrielle Chirac, urban guerilla and graduate of Action Directe. She now led her own group, the Regis Faction, and she was the last person he would have wished to meet.

  Dealing with the red brigades was always delicate. It was Army Council policy to avoid political or military involvement with them as they were considered unstable and bad for image. In Devlin’s book, their leaders were middle class terrorists playing games of god and death. Among the Europeans, only the Basque freedom fighters of Eta were considered to be comrades-in-arms.

  Of course, they could be useful, as Besson had been useful. He helped run safe houses and organise ordnance for the Fighting Kommunist Cells in Belgium and the Netherlands. The IRA had developed an understanding with the FKC after using Amsterdam as a European base for arms deals. Besson was a lawyer who liked the idea of living dangerously and being a quartermaster gave him the opportunity to do so without the threat of dying on active service.

  There had been four other people at the table and there was a lot of muscle around the farm and the grounds. Too many to all come from one group. The Regis Faction and the FKC. Anybody else, he wondered? A red brigade coalition? It would not be new. But speculation was dangerous. It would be healthier to remain ignorant.

  The water boiled and he made his coffee.

  During the journey the graves had reminded him of his job and that he would soon be required to return to it. But it was now no longer certain he would be able to do so.

  It was unlikely that Gabrielle Chirac would think security so compromised that it called for his death, but it was a possibility. In a way, it might be a relief. He could think of no other escape. He had a reputation he would never be allowed to relinquish. A reputation to write songs about. After he was dead.

  The stay in Ostend had been ordered by Northern Command in Belfast for three reasons. He had been top of the boys from Hereford’s hit list, he was experienced at the sort of European liaison that could negotiate weapons and, more importantly, he had needed the rest.

  The solitude had helped. It was a month since he had last cried in his sleep.

  It had been such a frequent occurrence he had long ago stopped regarding it as weakness. The tears were not of sadness or sorrow. They were simply tears and they were accompanied by feelings of loneliness and guilt.

  He wondered if Gabrielle Chirac experienced similar nights? Probably not. The red brigades waged their campaigns as intellectual exercises, while Devlin was fighting for his country. At least, that had been his ideal at the beginning. He had since discovered that war devalued ideals.

  He drank his coffee and settled for a long wait.

  He browsed through the three dog-eared magazines on the kitchen table, drank more coffee and smoked more cigarettes. After an hour he suggested some fresh air and Bernard went with him. They walked slowly down the track towards the trenches.

  They were floored with duckboards and the farmer had built timbered observation posts. Devlin mounted the short ladder on one and gazed over the top, past a strand of barbed wire and down a tree-dotted slope onto peaceful fields that were flat enough to be an ocean. The scene could not have been less warlike.

  He stepped down and walked along the bottom of the trench. The atmosphere was damp. Around the next corner he stopped short. An arm in a field-grey sleeve stuck out of the wall. It was plastic but a neat trick for the tourists. It would remind them why Flanders was so verdant.

  The windows of the wooden hut were boarded up to keep out the light, and the interior had been designed to look like an underground bunker. Uniformed figures that had probably come from a men’s outfitters had been posed in unrealistic tableaux. Helmets, weapons and kit were displayed. There was a machine gun manned by a pasty-faced German whose moustache had come unstuck and which dangled down his chin. By the exit, framed photographs showed how the countryside had looked during the hostilities more than 70 years before.

  Those green and pleasant fields had been grey unrelenting mud. A small wood had been bombarded out of existence. Not even splinters stood where once there had been trees.

  In the photographs, the landscape was featureless and the trenches had real limbs protruding from their sides. Soldiers, without benefit of duckboards, stood knee deep in water. Perhaps a bayonet charge had not been so simple.

  Devlin felt there was little to choose between the young men of 1914 and his own comrades. They were all bonded by the dying. All trapped behind barricades of bodies. The ideal was no longer important. Those who had died had replaced it and become the reason.

  The exhibition was depressing and he was glad to get outside and breath the fresh damp air. This time he walked on the grass and looked down into the trenches that had become graves for so m any young men. He paused to light a cigarette. It had been a mistake, in more ways than one, to make the journey with Besson.

  He returned to the house, the faithful Bernard at his heels. As they neared the corner, he could hear a man talking in English. The sound of the voice was a shock. He turned the corner and bumped into two men.

  Devlin said, ‘Pardon,’ in French.

  The man said, ‘Sorry, sport,’ in English.

  They smiled politely at each other and Devlin stood to one side to let them pass. They too, were taking the air.

  Back in the kitchen, he filled the kettle once more and plugged it in. He held up the coffee jar to Bernard and Jean-Marc and they both nodded. He put coffee in three mugs.

  The inner door was open and he could hear voices. Judging by the movement and the intonation, it appeared the meeting had adjourned. The water boiled, he made the coffee, handed out the mugs and waited.

  Gabrielle Chirac came into the room and walked across to him.

  ‘Major,’ she said, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘I’m afraid your wait goes on. It will be another two hours before we finish.’

  He smiled back. He had noticed before the European love of titles. The IRA was the closest there was to a real army fighting a covert war in the western world and his presence went some way to legitimising less valid groups engaged in urban conflict. They accepted his rank with envy. What they didn’t appreciate was that it originated as a nickname because of his ability to adopt an English accent. Northern Command had humorously confirmed it when he had become a staff officer.