Read Online Pray for Us Sinners by Patrick Taylor - Free Book Online

university, but not well enough to be picked for the provincial side, never mind Ireland. His father had been capped twice.
    When the time had come to choose an army specialty, that disregard for danger led him to bomb disposal. He’d tested himself again and not found himself wanting for courage—until his brush with death. Now, with a bit of luck, he would be able to move on to the SAS with no loss of face. That bit of luck would come if he worked hard enough at his new assignment. He was working as hard as he could under the tutelage of Major Smith and when he was left alone to digest the information about Canada and the oil industry, the Catholic Mass. He’d even learned the Catholic kids’ doggerel version of the Hail Mary: “Holy Mary, Mother of God, serve us all a piece of cod.” The childish substitution was certainly more comforting to chant than the line that belonged in its place: “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”
    Notes were strewn on the table, along with the green folder. Mike Roberts’s folder. He hadn’t mastered every detail, but he was getting there. It helped that Major Smith refused to call Marcus anything but Mike or Roberts. It was a funny feeling, having two men living in the same body, having to stifle one and encourage the other. Perhaps this is how schizophrenics feel, Mike thought.
    He looked at his watch. 0855. Major Smith would be here at 0900. Exactly. Marcus glanced back at the Timex he’d been given to wear. Mike Roberts would have a cheap watch, but Marcus missed his Rolex. It had been a present from Dad when Marcus finished his seven-month course at the Kineton School of Ammunition. Dad attended that passing-out ceremony. He handed over the watch with a gruff “well done,” and Marcus glowed.
    â€œWhere are you, Roberts?” The major called from the hall.
    Marcus checked his Timex. 0900. Exactly. “In here, sir.”
    The major sat in his usual armchair. “Getting a handle on the bandits?” He pointed at the opened briefing notes. “Good. You’ve only got three weeks until your finals.”
    â€œFinals, sir?” It sounded like an examination.
    â€œAnd if you don’t want to end up like some of the Freds, you’d better pass.”
    â€œFreds, sir?”
    â€œDrop the ‘sir.’ Name’s John.”
    The invitation to dispense with military formality was a concession. “Thank you. Go on, John.”
    The major lit a cigarette. “Thought I’d give you an idea of what you’ll be up against—and how not to do it. Right. Freds. That was a right regal cock-up. The Freds were the special detachment of the Military Reconnaissance Force.”
    He stood and walked to the mantel, leaning against it like one of Marcus’s old lecturers. “The Provisional IRA are a suspicious bunch. We couldn’t even send uniformed patrols into their parts of the city for quite some time. The buggers set up no-go areas. Our lot backed off. The Military Reconnaissance Force, MRF, was formed in 1971. There were forty regular soldiers in plain clothes who looked for PIRA men on their own turf.” The major looked wistful. “Brave lads. If any one of them was rumbled, he was on his own.”
    â€œThose soldiers were the Freds?”
    The major shook his head. “No, they were the MRF. The Freds were the special detachment of the MRF. Clear?”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œLook.” The major held out his left hand. “MRF. Plainclothes regulars.” He held out his right hand. Ash fell from his cigarette onto the carpet, and he rubbed it in with the toe of an immaculately polished black shoe. “Keeps the moths out.” He looked back to his outstretched right hand. “Special detachment. Ten ex-Provos, working for us. Para captain was in charge.” He made a derisory sound. “Freds.”
    â€œHow on earth were Irish