The Irish Puzzle

By BARRY HILLENBRAND/BELFAST

Explaining away violence is a Gerry Adams specialty. Whenever Irish Republican Army bombs dismember innocent victims, it is Adams, president of the I.R.A.'s political wing, Sinn Fein, who sits down before the microphones and attempts to transform atrocities into regrettable but necessary collateral damage in a just war against British oppression. The calm, reasonable, well- spoken Adams is good at the job.

Last week he was called to an expository task more complicated than usual. In three separate attacks, the I.R.A. had dropped 12 mortar shells into London's Heathrow Airport. Puzzlingly, none of them exploded. The only damage was to British nerves as flights were canceled and police shut down terminals to conduct security sweeps.

But the unexploded shells did shatter a fragile optimism in Britain and Ireland that serious negotiations to settle the 25-year conflict in Northern Ireland were about to begin. Major players in the Roman Catholic-vs.- Protestant struggle had been talking peace since last December, when British Prime Minister John Major and his Irish counterpart Albert Reynolds issued their Downing Street Declaration affirming that both countries would abide by any settlement democratically agreed upon by the people of Ireland, north and south.

The main sticking point was the I.R.A. Would it now agree to lay down its guns and talk? The British government admitted it had been holding secret talks with I.R.A. and Sinn Fein representatives prior to the declaration. Transcripts of notes from the meetings suggested a new willingness to deal with long-festering differences. All that was needed to open full-scale peace talks was a statement from the I.R.A. denouncing violence -- which has not arrived.

Did the Heathrow mortar shells ruin those hopes? Not at all, says Adams. The shells came during a "stalemate" in the process, and the attack might "have an accelerating effect upon the British government." Sinn Fein and the I.R.A. still want what they call "clarifications" from Britain before joining any talks. Until that happens, says Adams, "every so often there will be something spectacular to remind the world" that the conflict continues to boil.

As has happened so often in the past, Adams' measured words somehow turned violence into a plea for peace. His emergence as one of the key men to reckon with in Northern Ireland has brought him a long way from the rough streets of Belfast, where he began his activist career. Only two days before the attacks, he was rambling through the streets of west Belfast in a cold drizzle. He paused in front of a rubble heap, which for him was a monument to a heroic political struggle, not just the remnants of a high-rise public housing project. "These new houses are an improvement," he said, pointing to the neat brick homes surrounding the demolition site. His voice was mellow as he recounted his long battle with British authorities to get the dreary apartment blocks torn down and replaced by more livable bungalows.

Sectarian bombings and assassinations have so dominated the news from Northern Ireland that it is easy to forget how the current cycle of the Troubles began in 1969 as civil rights protests over discrimination against Catholics in jobs, education and housing. But Adams has not forgotten. These were the issues that first drew him into the vortex of political battle.

In Catholic west Belfast, Adams, 45, is a hero. But outside those confines, his image is far more ambiguous. Is he an ardent civil rights protester inspired by Martin Luther King? Or is he just a third-generation nationalist bruiser following in the footsteps of a father who was jailed by the British and a grandfather who stood shoulder to shoulder with James Connolly? Is he a peacemaker who has gradually pruned away the violent rhetoric of his party to prepare the way for compromise and reconciliation? Or is he a former -- even present -- I.R.A. member who sits on the Army Council and coldly plans terrorist attacks on civilian targets? Adams is, to one degree or another, all these things. His power lies partly in this very lack of clear definition: he is at once a mouthpiece for I.R.A. terror and a moderate voice for peace.

The leader of Sinn Fein came early to this dual role. In 1972, as street battles between Catholic Republicans and Protestant Unionists raged in Belfast, Adams was arrested by the British army and interned without charge. "There is nothing like being in an interrogation room to test your commitment," he says. He became a prison leader, and at 23 he was plucked out of jail with other I.R.A. veterans to negotiate a cease-fire in London. The peace pact was short-lived, and soon Adams was back behind bars, where he settled down to a "monastic regimen of studying, research and writing." He came out of prison a skillful writer with a sound intellectual foundation for his political beliefs.

Back on the streets of Belfast, Adams turned his energies toward revitalizing Sinn Fein. "He is a political genius," says Bernadette Devlin McAliskey, a fiery Republican activist in the 1970s. "He has great patience. I've seen him under pressure, and he never loses his temper. He encourages debate and slowly builds consensus so he can take the whole movement along."

Adams gradually moved Sinn Fein into electoral politics. The party won some local elections, and in 1983 Adams was elected to Britain's House of Commons from the Belfast West constituency. He refused to take up his seat, since it required him to pledge allegiance to the Queen, but he relished the prestige of being a British M.P. In 1992 Adams lost the seat and was bitterly disappointed. "It was our own fault," he says. "We were complacent, and I was skating around the country doing other work."

While Adams gained a thin veneer of respectability from his participation in electoral politics, he and his followers command attention mainly because of their links to the I.R.A. Yet Adams firmly denies being a member. "It's illegal," he says. "I could get 10 years. But I am at pains not to distance myself from them. Even if I did, no one will believe me, and besides, I accept that I have a responsibility to the same constituency." Catholics in Belfast stick together for protection and support; Adams was formed by the ethos of a community under siege. At least four of his brothers have served time in prison; he has been shot and his home has been fire bombed.

Sinn Fein, the I.R.A. and other Republican organizations constantly bicker over goals and tactics, but when trouble strikes and there are funerals to attend, the intertwining relationships pull everyone together. Adams felt no compunction about attending the funeral of I.R.A. member Thomas Begley, who died last October when the bomb he was planting in a fishmonger's shop in a Protestant neighborhood went off prematurely, killing nine men, women and children besides himself. As is the custom at Irish funerals, Adams "took a lift," shouldering the coffin for a short time on the way to the cemetery. ; That picture stirred outrage in Britain, where it was regarded as proof that Adams was an I.R.A. boss. "It would have been seen as a cynical political maneuver not to attend," he says. "I accept the criticism of the families who were killed. I think the operation was totally wrong."

In recent years Adams has gingerly modified his position on violence. "I don't defend the idea of armed struggle," he says. "I used to, but the situation has moved on. Our task is not to defend armed struggle but to bring an end to all aspects of struggle." He claims that if he moves too quickly toward a peace compromise, some of those who live by the gun may split off and take their weapons with them, as has frequently happened in the past in the Irish Republican movement. "We are trying to undo centuries of history here," he says. "We have to move carefully and leave no one behind."

The recurring question about this man is whether he is truly leading the move toward peace. His rhetoric of moderation, which so charmed Americans during a recent two-day visit to New York City, shows a new adaptability. "I am prepared to compromise, not only with the British but with the Unionists," says Adams. "I want to see a unified Irish state and the British out, but if it is going to take more years than I would like, then let's be flexible about it."

Such verbal flexibility has served him and his cause well. But his efforts to make himself all things to all people leave many wondering just where Gerry Adams really stands when it comes to the hard job of making peace. His calculated ambiguity could prove as damaging to hopes of progress as the mixed message of the unexploded shells at Heathrow.