Northern Spy by Berry, Flynn (free ebooks for android .TXT) 📕

previous tracks laid in the snow. At any minute I’ll hear Marian’s voice.

A key turns in the lock. From behind the door, a woman clears her throat. Relief flashes through me. I rush toward my sister, then stagger back.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” the woman says. “I’m Detective Sergeant Cairn. I work in counter-terrorism with DI Fenton. Are you all right?”

“Fine,” I say. The sergeant’s name sounds familiar. She might have read statements from the police before. She’d be good at a press conference, with her composure, her stillness. I find it unnerving, in this confined space. Her eyes haven’t left mine.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“To speak with you,” she says crisply. The police must have the building under surveillance, they must have watched me come inside. “Can I ask what you’re doing here yourself?”

“Nothing. I came because I miss my sister.”

In a soft voice, she asks, “Are you a member of the IRA, Tessa?”

“No.”

“Has your sister ever tried to recruit you?”

“My sister’s not in the IRA.”

“Are you familiar with the name Cillian Burke?” she asks, and I nod. “Burke was placed under audio surveillance after the attack in Castlerock. At the moment, he’s on trial for directing terrorism.”

“I know. We’ve been covering his case at my work.”

The sergeant sets her phone on the table and says, “This is a recording from the twelfth of March. The man speaking is Cillian Burke, and you should recognize the other voice.”

My legs start to shake. On the tape, Cillian says, “How was your trip, then?”

“Grand,” says Marian, and a buzzing starts at the base of my skull. “Belgrade didn’t work out but Kruševac did.”

“How many have they got?”

“Twenty,” she says. “For six hundred thousand dinar.”

“They’re having a laugh.”

“That’s market rate,” she says. “They can easily get that much for Makarovs.”

The sergeant stops the recording. It’s like a pin is being slowly slid out from a hole in a dam. I feel distant from the room, but like I can see everything inside it very clearly. “Play the rest,” I say. “They weren’t done talking.”

“The rest of their conversation touches on an open inquiry into another IRA member,” she says. “I can’t play it for you.”

“Where were they?”

“Knockbracken reservoir.”

Cillian must have thought he couldn’t be heard by surveillance in such an open space. I wonder how the security service managed to catch it.

The sergeant says, “They were discussing the import of guns from a criminal organization in Serbia.”

“Marian has never been to Serbia.”

“In March, she flew to Belgrade airport with another IRA member and spent four days traveling around the country.”

I don’t want to start crying in front of this woman, but it’s too late, my chin is already trembling.

“I’m sorry, Tessa.”

“What if she wants to come back?”

“Back?” says the sergeant. “Where has she been?”

“You know what I mean. She made a mistake. Will you let her come home?”

“Your sister participated in a plan to import automatic rifles.”

“She hasn’t hurt anyone.”

“To your knowledge,” says the sergeant. “And how do you think the IRA would use those guns? Do you think no one would be hurt?”

“She’s still a victim. They must have brainwashed her.”

“The IRA began grooming the Grafton Road bomber when he was fourteen. They brought him to McDonald’s. Should he not be punished either?”

I drop my head, pressing my eyes shut. My sister will never come home. She will be killed along with her unit or sent to prison for the rest of her life.

—

Two bouncers stand outside the Rock bar. We grew up together. Both of them are from Andersonstown, both of them are IRA sympathizers, if not members themselves. They watch me walking up to them, as singing comes from inside the bar, drunken men shouting along to “Four Green Fields.”

“Where’s my sister?”

“We’ve not seen Marian in tonight,” says Danny.

“I need to talk to her.”

Without looking at me, Danny fixes his glove, pulling it higher on his wrist. “I’m sure she’ll be giving you a shout when she wants.”

12

I open a kitchen drawer the next morning and consider the objects inside, like I’ve forgotten what they’re for. Marian has used all the cooking tools in this kitchen, or I’ve used them to cook for her. On her last birthday, I made a sponge layer cake with rose frosting. I spent hours preparing the base and the filling, assembling the layers, spreading thick frosting down the sides with a cake knife. In the other room our friends turned off the lights. I remember carrying the cake into the room, with its lit candles, and setting it down in front of her. She was a terrorist then. She’d already been one for years.

There might still be an explanation. She might have joined the IRA for protection, or been forced into joining.

Finn won’t be back from Donegal until tomorrow morning, and the house feels flat without him. Being alone in it for one more minute might do my head in. I shove my feet into plimsolls and open the sliding door.

When I reach the top of the hill, six helicopters are hanging above the city in the distance. I freeze, searching for a line of smoke rising between the buildings. The helicopters are spaced apart in the powder-blue sky, which might mean that different locations have been attacked simultaneously.

I dial Tom’s number. “Where are you? Where’s Finn?”

“At the house.”

“In Ardara?”

“Yes. What’s wrong?”

“Do you know what’s happened? There are helicopters over the city.”

“Oh,” he says. “Nothing’s happened yet. The threat level has been raised again.”

“Did they say why?”

“No.” I can hear Finn cooing in the background, and I press the phone to my ear, wishing myself toward him.

After we hang up, I stand on the hill reading the news on my phone. An attack is believed to be imminent. Police snipers are lying with their rifles on rooftops around the city center. Barricades have been built outside Stormont, Great Victoria Station, and Belfast Castle, and every bridge over the Lagan has been closed.