Five: Navigation

- - -

Pete was awake, dressed and ready long before the 8 o'clock briefing they'd scheduled in his hotel room the next morning. He wasn't ready for the heaven-sent aroma of coffee and pastry that greeted him when he opened the door to Kathleen's knock, or for the lines of worry in her face. She was alone and in civilian clothes, her short brown hair netted with beads of dampness; this late in November, the sun was only just rising at this hour, and Belfast was wrapped in a chilly fog that didn't look likely to clear up any time soon.

"You're all right then, thank God."

"We're both fine. Isn't Grant with you?"

"Grant? Are you mad? Even in mufti he'd show up like a maiden aunt at a fair." Kathleen glanced around the room as she entered and saw MacGyver sprawled on the couch, looking more than a little disheveled; but neither man was visibly damaged and Pete looked bright-eyed and well-rested. "How did it go?"

"Not too bad. MacGyver came in for a bit of harassment, but no harm done."

"It made a pretty good icebreaker," Mac remarked.

Kathleen studied him. "Nothing broken other than ice? You're looking a bit of the stray cat."

Mac shrugged and reached for the coffee. Pete regarded him thoughtfully; MacGyver had arrived only ten minutes ahead of Kathleen, unshaven and noncommittal about where he'd been during the rest of the night, but there had been no time to inquire further. Pete gulped his own coffee gratefully and turned his attention to the matter at hand.

"How long do you think it will take Máire to set up contact with the next group?"

They were discussing possibilities for the next step, and how far they might be able to extend the probe to other factions, when the phone rang. MacGyver, who had remained dourly uninvolved in the discussion, reached to answer it and checked himself. Since Pete was the only official occupant of the room, it wouldn't do for someone else to answer.

Pete picked up the receiver on the second ring. "Yeah? Oh. Lieutenant. Yeah, she's here." He held out the phone to Kathleen. "It's Grant."

Both men were watching the Major as she listened to the distant voice, and saw the wave of glacial whiteness wash across her face. Mac spotted her knees beginning to shake and slid off the couch to push a chair up close behind her, and Pete caught her elbow and guided her down. She seemed barely aware of either man until the call rang off.

Kathleen put down the phone with a hand that shook so hard she missed the cradle; Pete caught the receiver as it started to slide away.

"Máire Ui Súilleabháin has gone missing. No-one's seen her since early this morning." Her voice was flat and dead. "The bastards must have her."

There's a saying, 'Careful what you wish for – you just might get it.'

The more time I'd spent on the streets of Belfast, the more I'd wanted Pete off them, safe out of reach of the IRA, the UVF, the RUC, and every other pack of homicidal lettermen from Enniskillen to Carrickfergus. Now, with our key contact compromised, Pete's cover was probably blown and he was off the streets all right – but I had to go right back out onto them.

Major Walsh was panicking and pretending not to . . . and I had an idea where to start looking.

- - -

Noreen Gallagher and her family lived all crowded into a little flat above the pub off of Divis Street, in the Falls Road neighbourhood. It would have been even more cramped if their parents had still been around; but it was just Noreen riding herd on four younger siblings. When the kids weren't in school, everyone – even the youngest – worked in the pub to support another sister who was finishing up a medical degree in the States. Noreen had dropped out of college herself several years back to make it all happen – but if she resented any of it, she didn't let on.

With everyone keeping such late hours, there were no early risers; they'd all been sound asleep that morning when I'd slipped away. But it had taken me a while to find some of the things I needed, and I was pretty sure they'd be stirring well before I got back.

The alley behind the row of buildings housing the pub and its neighbours was far too narrow for cars, but the motorbike slipped through easily. The first thing MacGyver saw when he pulled up was the youngest boy, Bobby, playing in the areaway behind the block of buildings, too intent to pay heed to the approaching cycle. It was a moment before Mac spotted what he was doing, and the blood rushed to his head: the child, armed with a homemade slingshot, was taking a careful bead on one of the seagulls that were investigating the rubbish bins in the alley.

"Hey, whoa!" MacGyver was off the bike and striding over to Bobby as the gull squawked its annoyance and flapped away. Mac plucked the slingshot from the boy's hand and extracted the ammunition: instead of the pebble he'd been expecting, it proved to be a spent shotgun cartridge. He dropped the heavy shell as if it had burned his fingers.

"Bobby, what are you doing? I didn't fix this for you so you could turn around and kill wild creatures with it."

The boy scowled. "Are ye codding me? 'Tis a feckin' seagull just. What of it?"

Mac made himself take a deep breath before he answered. I'm getting used to that inside-out way of talking. I could even get used to the cussing. No way am I ever gonna get used to a ten-year-old who's that callous about killing. I don't want to get used to it. "Well, look at them," he said at last, gesturing to the rest of the flock, which had begun to swoop back down towards the bins. "They're alive, they're free, they're beautiful. Wouldn't you like to be able to fly like that?"

"And live on garbage?"

"It isn't garbage to them. They can live on what we throw away. It's not like they're competing with you for food – and you don't need to hunt them to eat."

"Eat seagulls? That's disgustin'!"

"Not if you were hungry enough."

Bobby studied the gulls thoughtfully, but looked far from convinced. With a sigh, Mac slipped the slingshot into his jacket pocket. "Is Matt awake?"

The child sniffed with fraternal contempt. "Still dead til the world."

MacGyver nodded. Matthew, the oldest boy at fifteen, had not returned home until well after four in the morning, long after the rest of the exhausted household had been quiet. Mac had counted on him still being asleep. "I need to speak to your sister. Where is she?"

"Which one? Dearbhla and Molly are in the kitchen and Noreen's in the taproom."

"Noreen."

"And are ye sure ye want to be speakin' with herself?"

"Why not?"

Bobby gave him a sidelong look. "When we woke up this mornin' and you were gone, Noreen said she allowed as we wouldn't be seein' you again."

"Well, she was wrong, big guy. I just had some errands I had to run. C'mon, you can soften her up for me."

"Can I have my catapult back?"

"Later – after the gulls are outta range."

-

"Noreeeeen . . . "

"Jaysus, Bobby, didn't I tell you to play outside if it wasn't too wet? Is it after raining again already . . .?" Her voice trailed off when she saw MacGyver. "Bobby, if you must be inside go see if Matty's stirring himself yet. Tell Dearbhla I said you can have a biscuit now." The child slipped away as she straightened up from behind the taps, but her expression was guarded rather than welcoming. "Well, what about ye?"

"What about what?"

"When I saw the couch empty this morning, I didn't know if you'd be showing your face around here again."

MacGyver glanced towards the doorway to make sure they weren't being overheard by any of the younger kids. The couch had not been Noreen's first suggestion of a place to spend the night, and keeping her at arm's length hadn't been easy – doing so tactfully, against his own inclinations, had been even harder, and didn't look like getting any easier with practice. He leaned over the bar across from where she'd been working, not quite close enough to touch. "So were you down here checking the cashbox, or counting the silverware?"

Noreen tried to repress a smile at his ingenuous look, but in the end she shook her head and laughed. "Neither, damn your eyes. I was moaning over the fu – over the damned taps."

Mac nodded and set several paper-wrapped parcels on the bar. "It took me a while to scrounge the parts I needed. But I also brought something for breakfast. Or lunch. Depending." He pushed one bag towards Noreen; it fell over and half a dozen oranges rolled out. He grinned with satisfaction as her eyes sparkled – as he had guessed, the fresh fruit must be a rarity for them, especially in winter. "So where's the toolbox? I thought I left it right here last night."

Noreen turned her attention to the glassware as MacGyver worked. He waited several minutes before he asked, "So Matt hasn't poked his nose out of bed yet?"

"No more he hasn't. I don't suppose you might be knowin' what time last night he finally rolled in?"

"Don't you?"

"Now, if you aren't being one of those that's better at asking questions than answering them."

"Am I?" Mac glanced up from under the bar and grinned. Noreen's return smile lacked some of its previous light; the worry in her eyes overshadowed the warmth of the moment. Mac worked for several more minutes, then set down the pliers he'd been using and stood up.

"Mind if I go have a word with him?"

-

In the tiny back bedroom Matthew shared with Bobby, all MacGyver could see was a lump under twisted shabby blankets. Although it was now late morning, the November daylight was only feebly breaking through the fog and haze that wrapped the city, and the bedroom was as gloomy as if dusk had already fallen. Mac snapped on the electric light, a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and was greeted by a groan of protest as the lump tried to burrow farther under the covers.

MacGyver picked his way through the cluttered room towards the bed. None of the Gallaghers seemed to own much, but most of the space in the boys' room not taken up by furniture was filled with instrument cases and the components of a basic sound system. It felt like coming full circle; three days before, it had been Matt who had provided Mac with his first point of entry into the household, when he'd come upon the boy swearing desperately over a damaged speaker that was needed for a gig that night.

When you got right down to it, that was really the most constant thing in MacGyver's constantly changing life: no matter where he went in the world, there was always something that needed fixing.

Mac sat down on the end of the bed, suddenly and heavily, and Matt yelped and thrashed his way out from underneath.

"Ye bloody great eejit, that was my foot!"

"Was it? Sorry about that."

"Like hell ye are." Matt scrabbled his way out from under the covers, looking rumpled and bleary. He was still wearing the clothes he'd had on the night before. He blinked several times at Mac as if not quite sure who he was, then looked around uneasily.

"Noreen and the rest have been up for quite a while. I think they were expecting a little help from you today – since you didn't do much last night."

Matt shook his head as if to get it working again, then sat up and tossed off the blankets, glowering sullenly at MacGyver. "I'll be along quick enough. You can tell them that."

"Oh, I think Noreen already knows without my telling her." Mac stood up but made no move to leave; instead he looked around the room as if inventorying the equipment.

The boy gave Mac an anxious look, then shrugged and picked up a shoe from beside the bed. "I'll be right down . . . soon's as I can. Tell Noreen I'm sorry, I'll make it up til her."

The boy clearly wanted him to go, but instead MacGyver picked up a power cord that was lying in a tangle on the floor and began to run it through his hands, his sensitive fingers automatically checking for hidden breaks in the wires. "How's Colin's amp holding up?"

Matt finally located his other shoe, far under the bed. "Fine, but . . . well, he's blown the other speaker now . . . I don't suppose, well, that you could maybe fix that one too?"

"Depends. I'd have to take a look at it." Mac coiled up the power cord neatly and secured the coil with a piece of string he'd found amongst the mess.

"That would be brilliant if you could – he's another gig in three day's time." Matt yanked his shoe on without bothering to untie and retie it. "It's late enough he'll be awake, we can go see him right now."

The boy's nervousness was so transparent that Mac almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

As Matt tried to slip past him towards the door, MacGyver put out a hand and blocked him with a flat palm against the chest. The movement seemed casual, but it stopped the husky boy dead in his tracks, and the hollow slapping echo of the impact echoed very loudly in the tiny room.

"Where's it stashed, Matt?"

"What?"

"Where is it? Under the mattress? In the closet? You don't have a whole lot of privacy here, not with a younger brother in such a small room, but you must have a pretty good hiding place."

"What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"I'm talking about the gun Connor gave you last night. That was a real big important day in your life, wasn't it? Your very first gun, huh?" Mac didn't try to keep the contempt out of his voice. "Does Noreen know you've joined the IRA?"

It wasn't the first time I'd come face to face with a kid who, because of being born in the wrong year or even the wrong decade, in the wrong part of the globe, was all ready and set to grow up to be a terrorist. A kid who just didn't know anything else.

It was the first time that kid had looked exactly like the kids I grew up with – hair and eyes and face just like my friends' – or, God help me, mine. Going head to head with Matt was like looking into a distorting mirror at my own younger face, right down to the angry scowl and the hormone-fueled sense of offended adolescent grievance. I used to blow off that rage on the rink, and when I got busted up it got trapped inside.

I didn't want to know what Matt did with his.

"C'mon, Matt. You were playing lookout for Connor and his merry band last night at the pub. I watched you the whole time. And I was awake and watching when you got in last night – although I haven't told Noreen just how late it was."

"I was helpin' the musicians."

"Not last night you weren't."

Matt tried to knock MacGyver's hand aside and push past, but Mac easily evaded the clumsy attempt and held his ground. "Look, Matt, I know it's hard. Three older sisters and Noreen ruling the roost – and I bet Connor's been feeding you some kind of macho garbage about becoming the man of the family, right?"

The boy bristled. "You can't tell me what to do, you – you – you fuckin' gobshite Yankee tourist!"

"That's Connor talking. Haven't you got anything of your own to say?"

Matt's fierce blue eyes blazed. "You can't possibly understand what it's about! This is for freedom, and Ireland, and – and – it's time we pushed the fuckin' Proddies out and took back what's ours. There's been too much blood shed to back down now! If we don't fight, who will?"

MacGyver made a face. "Man, is that the best Connor can do? I suppose it lost something in translation, but that's awful lame even for rabble-rousing. But he's right on a couple of things – if you don't fight, maybe nobody will, and you can stop shedding blood, 'cause there has been too much."

"For fuck's sake, you just don't get it!" Matt pulled himself away, slipped under Mac's arm and was off into the hallway and down the back stairs, MacGyver on his heels. Mac caught him by the elbow as they both reached the ground floor.

"You left your shiny new gun behind, Matt. What's Connor gonna do if you turn up without it? Give you another one?"

"For fuck's sake, Yank, do you have the first idea just how many guns there are in Northern Ireland? Are you thinkin' you can disarm the whole fuckin' province?"

"You know, just for the record, my name isn't 'Yank'. My friends call me Mac."

"Friends?" Matt's voice cracked on the word, and he turned scarlet with adolescent fury.

"Yeah, that's right. Friends. Noreen doesn't know, does she?" Matt shook his head violently. "She'll be livid if she finds out." Matt nodded just as vigourously. "Well, if we get rid of it, maybe she won't have to."

"I can't do that," Matt choked. "Not for Noreen, not for you, not for anybody living. There's been too much already . . . "

Mac spoke more softly, knowing he was aiming for a raw nerve. "Matt, is this about your dad? It won't bring him back, you know."

Matt's face went from crimson to white, and his expression froze into stone. Okay, bull's-eye, but now what? Matthew Gallagher Senior had been beaten to death in the Maze Prison, and the family assumed he'd died at the hands of the authorities; MacGyver had learned that on his first evening with Noreen's family. The worst part is, you're right, and I can't tell you that.

"Look, Matt, you know that rhyme everyone was bellowing at the pub last night? The one about the ladder?"

"You mean 'Up a long ladder and down a short rope'. What about it?"

"Well, it's like this. It can take a long time getting to the point where you have to make the final choice about violence, about killing. But once you're there, it's over. There's nowhere to go but down. There's nothing after that except killing and death. Is that where you want to end up?"

"You don't fuckin' know what you're talkin' about, Yank!" Matt tore himself loose and bolted again; before MacGyver could catch up with him, he'd shoved the back door open and was out into the back alley. He swung the door hard shut behind him, and Mac had to stop and catch it before it slammed into his face.

The moment's delay was enough to give Matt a head start, and that was all the boy needed. It was almost noon, but the fog that choked the streets under the overcast sky deepened the gloom and played tricks on the eyes. Mac tried to follow and see where Matt had gone, but the boy knew the streets far too well, and the foggy shadows swallowed him without a trace before Mac had gone half a block.

MacGyver stood in agitated frustration in the back lane, clenching and unclenching his fingers for a long minute as if he could still reach out to the angry fugitive, before he went back inside.

During the running argument, Mac hadn't had time to worry about whether they might have been overheard; but the first thing he saw when he opened the door was Noreen standing in the shadows at the foot of the stairs. She spoke before he had a chance to catch his breath and collect his thoughts.

"He's gotten in with that lot, hasn't he?"

"I tried to talk to him . . . he's gone. I lost him."

Even before he saw her clearly, MacGyver was certain that she knew what he really meant. The gut feeling was confirmed when she stepped out under the harsh light of the bare bulb that lit the hallway and he saw what she held in her hand.

Noreen must have known Matt's pet hiding places to have found the gun he'd been given so quickly; she was holding the ugly snub-nosed pistol as if the mere touch were poisonous. "That Matt – he does my head in, but what can I do? I promised Da I'd look after him." Her eyes were shining with unshed tears, but her face was grim. "And knowing Connor, 'tis a dirty piece." She set the gun down on a side table and wiped her palms as if she'd been handling filth. "'Tis this day I've been dreadin' since Mam died. Mac, what am I going to do?"

"Do you know Máire Ui Súilleabháin?"

Her blue eyes met his in confused surprise. "Everyone does – well, everyone in the Falls. Why? How do you know her?"

"How long since you last saw her?"

"I saw her for a moment yesterday afternoon, but just in passing. And we had some fine craic a few days past – just before you fetched up on my back step, come til that." Noreen drew closer to Mac and reached up a hand to touch his cheek. "So – you didn't land on my couch by accident, did you now?"

Mac caught her hand gently in his own. "No, I'm afraid not." He saw her eyes shutter and added, "I'm sorry."

Noreen blinked, swallowed hard and shrugged. "More's the pity. Give us six months and we might make a musician of you yet . . . but you'll not be staying."

He shook his head. "Look, Noreen. Maybe everyone doesn't know everything that goes on around here, but someone must know something that might help. Who would know where Connor is?"

Noreen's face blanched, and Mac could feel her hand grow suddenly icy. "For the love of holy Mother Church, why?"

"He's got Máire."

"Oh, fuck." Noreen saw Mac's face twitch slightly at the obscenity, and in spite of herself she smiled faintly. "Sorry, Yank. You're really not used til it, are you?" She sighed and closed her eyes, and let her head fall against his chest. "And if I tell you nothing, you'll be danderin' about in even mingier corners, asking more bloody questions, and you'll be gettin' yourself shot sooner rather than later."

He put an arm around her shoulders and waited. After a moment, he heard her murmur, "Conway's. Try Conway's."

"Conway's . . . on Conway Street?" His mind flashed back to the border, and the guard. I'll remember that. Count on it.

Noreen looked up and met his eyes again, and her gaze was suddenly frank and streetwise. "Word is there was a tall Yank on a motorbike who covered for Kevin O'Hare when he shot his mouth off at the Armagh border last week."

MacGyver's eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me he's IRA . . . Noreen, don't tell me I helped a killer."

Noreen snorted and shook her head emphatically, and Mac breathed again. "No, he's just a hothead. But he's well-liked for all that. He plays a mean concertina, so he does. And he's got a wife and six children, and there'd be the devil to pay if he was cashiered."

She had wrapped an arm around his waist, holding on tightly; now she let him go. "Brian Conway will know he owes you one. And Brian Conway knows everything that happens in the Falls."

- - -

Like I said, it's the assumptions that really get you.

You assume that, in a city that's a war zone, with army patrols on every corner and bombs going off and kids desperate to grow up and graduate to their first guns and their first murder, no-one has time for much beyond survival.

Certainly they aren't gonna waste time on music, right?

Wrong.

At Conway's, they were hopping mad at Connor and ready to roll on him – Belfast has no shortage of empty and abandoned housing, but he'd taken over a private home a few days before and told the owner, Seán O'Boyle, to go stay with relatives till Connor felt like moving on. But that wasn't what made folks so mad. No, it was that Connor was squatting in the local 'seisiun' house, where folks gathered to make music, and that was more than anyone could take lying down. O'Boyle was a local fiddle champion who had won the All-Ireland three times, and Connor had crossed a line that even trumped politics.

But they couldn't tell the police.

They told Noreen. Noreen told me.

And then everyone told me not to meddle – at least, that's what I think they meant by "don't you be faffin' about in Connor's business or he'll do worse than plant you a looter". Then they went back to drinking and arguing over what to do.

And I went back out onto the dim, foggy streets.

- - -