Operation Hell Gate - Marc Cerasini [28]
"Ours is a justified war, and we're soldiers in it. The Brits... they try to label us 'terrorists,' but if that's so, then what are they, eh? Weren't the RAF 'terrorists' when they dropped two thousand tons of bombs on Dresden civilians? Weren't they guilty of 'terrorism' when they forced civilians into concentration camps in South Africa where thousands of 'em died?"
Whether their war was justified or not, in the end, Griff and Shamus both realized they'd been the losers. What was supposed to have been the highest achievement of their lives, the most important accomplishment for the Cause, had left them barely escaping the British Army, hiding on a tanker bound for North Africa. Everything had changed after that spring of '81. They could never again return to their homeland, never go back to using their real names. Yet Shamus had trusted Griff and he'd come through — found a way for them to continue the fight...
"Don't our brothers need arms?" Griff had told him. "Don't they need explosives and weapons? That's what we'll provide. The Cause is still ours. Now we'll just be fightin' it another way..."
Of course, Griff had said all that a long time go, almost seventeen years. Since then, their homeland — what they could remember of it — had changed its outlook. Peace agreements renouncing violence were now being struck by the IRA's political arm. While their comrades were rotting in hellishly long sentences in British prisons, the thrust of their people's will was being spent on disarmament.
Griffs cell phone rang. He pulled it out, flipped it open. Shamus's eyes were drawn to the twisted blast scars on his brother's hands, wrists, the callused knob that was once a finger. The wounds went deeper, spidering up his arms. The extent of their reach was hidden beneath the neatly tailored suit. For years, Shamus had seen them as badges of honor. Only in the past few weeks had he begun to ask...
"What are we doing, Griff? This job has nothing to do with the Cause."
"We didn't leave the Cause, Shea. It left us."
Griff had said the writing was on the wall. Adjustments were necessary. Shamus had disagreed. Weren't there still splinter factions like the real IRA who were still fighting the good fight? The Omagh bombing alone had proved the fight was still on. Wasn't a five-hundred-pound bomb tearing through a small town, killing twenty-eight and injuring hundreds, enough proof that peace under British rule was not a certainty?
But Griff was unyielding. He claimed the real money for arms had dried up. And Shamus realized the real money was all he seemed to be after now.
"Chin up, lad," he'd told Shamus. "With our new employer, we can ply our trade and get rich doin' it. We both know this is better than babysitting a stinking warlord in that stinking weapons market in Somalia."
The red light blinked to green and Shamus gave the Mercedes gas. Listening in on his brother's cell phone conversation, he maneuvered the sedan along the narrow, congested streets. From what Shamus could deduce, there was some kind of snag — bad news, coming less than twenty-four hours before the whole operation was supposed to go down. By the deferential tone in Griffs voice, Shamus concluded their associate was not happy, and his brother was trying to fix the problem.
"Don't worry, I'll take care of it. Just like I took care of Dante and his Posse. Tell Taj the delivery will be there by morning. I guarantee it."
Griff ended the conversation, closed the cell, and stared straight ahead. "There's been a complication."
"Is that so?"
"Did you hear our boy Dante mention a lost memory stick?"
"Not a