Fitzroy had Parkinson’s disease; he’d revealed this to Court on their last meeting, but Fitzroy had also been all but blown to bits during that same reunion, so the Parkinson’s had taken something of a backseat when it came to priorities at the time.
“I’m getting by, lad. Getting by. I must ask, why does it always seem that I only hear from you when the world is on fire?”
“Maybe because the world is always on fire.”
“Too true. What can a boring old man do for his dashing young friend?”
“I’m no longer young, and I was never dashing.”
“And I’m shite as a charmer. I did try, though.”
Court smiled, his eyes on the monitors showing him views around his boat. He was paranoid by nurture, not by nature, but in the past he’d been proven right in his paranoia with such regularity that it usually seemed a safe bet that danger was just around the corner.
He said, “I need to ask you about Northern Ireland.”
Fitzroy sniffed. “Vacation plans, have you?”
“For now, I just need a history lesson.”
“Well then, if it is ancient history you seek, I’m your man. I was there, right in the bloody middle of it.”
“Running MI5 operations, if I remember correctly.”
“A step removed from the top, but that was just because my hands had become too dirty, and the effects of my actions too valuable to put me behind a desk at Gower Street or Thames House. I lived most of the time on a military base in Bessbrook, down in South Armagh, or up in Belfast, but I did get out into the field with great regularity, of course.”
“I’ve got questions about a man from back then.”
“Our side or theirs?”
“Well,” Court said, “that’s actually one of my questions. I’m not sure. His name was Coyle.”
Sir Donald Fitzroy paused; Court sensed a hesitancy, but perhaps the man was simply unsure. Eventually, Fitz said, “Not an uncommon name there, is it?”
NowCourt read the old man’s tone. “I hear it in your voice, Fitz. What does that name mean to you?”
Don Fitzroy let out a long sigh. “What have you gotten yourself into with this, lad?”
“Youdoknow him?”
There was a long pause. Court scanned the monitors topside now; a sea bird flew by on this gray winter day. “If you know something, it could save some lives.”
“Tell me about your sudden interest in an old Ulster ghost.”
Thirty-Six
“An old Ulster ghost? What does that mean?”
“Back in the Troubles. I knew a man named Rory Coyle.”
Court shook his head in the saloon of his boat. “No, this guy would have to be younger, I’m not exactly sure—”
“Let me tell my story, lad.”
Court’s brows furrowed. “Go ahead.”
“Roderick ‘Rory’ Coyle was head of an ASU, an Active Service Unit, a Provisional IRA cell. Based in Belfast. And he also, for a time, ran a Nutter Squad. They did enforcement jobs, mostly. Targeting other IRA members, killing or maiming them for spying for the British, but when he led the ASU, he assassinated three British police officers in London.
“He was a right bastard.”
