One hundred metres from the gate he found an uncrowded café, sat at one of the small tables on the sidewalk and brusquely ordered a cappuccino from the waitress. Once alone, he extracted his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled the number of his brother in Dublin.
I can talk now. What has happened? Why the panic in your voice?
We have a problem.
For the next five minutes, Thomas listened to his older brother tell the tale of Father James from Bray and worked his way through the implications. Of where his weak points lay. Of what could be done to mitigate the threat. He’d decided upon a course of action even before William finished his rambling tale.
Okay, William. I understand completely. I will take the necessary precautions from this end. I trust you will do the same.
Understood, Thomas. I’ll let you know once I’ve done likewise.
As will I, brother.
Father Thomas Moynihan broke the connection with his brother and immediately dialled another number – this one local.
It was picked up on the second ring, and Thomas heard the familiar sing-song voice of the young female receptionist
Studi Legali di Williams e Teacher.
Dottore Previti, please.
***
In the small cottage behind the Immaculate Conception Church, Father William Moynihan drained the remainder of the golden liquid from his glass. He too dialled another number.
A chill come over him as he held the phone to his ear with one hand while tapping nervously on the desk with the fingertips of his other. He glanced over his shoulder to the hearth and noticed the fire all but extinguished, only a few smouldering embers remained, but wasn’t convinced that was the reason.
You have reached the offices of Stuart Clancy, Teachta Dála. How may I direct your call?
Father William walked from his desk to the sideboard and poured another Teeling. With the phone tucked under his chin, he spoke.
Mr Clancy, please.
Who may I say is calling?
Tell him it’s his priest. He’ll know who it is.
Yes, sir. Ahh… I mean, Father.
A smile momentarily crept through his dark thoughts as he whispered under his breath.
That’s more like it.
Clancy was on the line a moment later.
My priest?
Well, aren’t I? Assuming you still pray occasionally.
I note a hint of aggression in your voice, boyo. May I recommend you have a little tipple? Just to even out the body’s equilibrium, of course.
Father William looked down at the glass in his hand. I’m way ahead of you, he thought.
What I do is my own business. What I need you to do is take care of your business.
Okay, okay, settle down. What seems to be the problem?
I’ve heard through my grapevine you will be having some… fundraising activities later this week.
The words struck Clancy mute. He wondered, how did the priest know of their plans? His mind immediately jumped to the obvious conclusion.
Clancy was of the old school and knew to be careful in choosing his words over an open phone line. He knew the priest could be relied upon to do the same.
Well, we do like to keep our fundraising activities to ourselves. The last thing we want is to tip off the opposition. May I ask how you got wind of it?
Well, it really doesn’t matter, does it? Trust me there. But I do know how much you like to make donations to worthy causes.
Clancy was all ears; realising the priest must’ve already arranged to keep his source silent. Now all he needed to know was the extent of the damage.
Did you have a certain… location in mind?
Well, if you were to be so inclined. We have a small… leak… in the roof of a church down in Bray which could really use some attention. She really is a magnificent old church, I’d hate to see any lasting damage to our infrastructure we’ve worked so hard to maintain. Leaks can be ever so troublesome, don’t you think?
Aye, Father. Yes, they can. Let me have someone look into the matter for you. I think you’ll find she’ll be as good as new in two shakes.
The line was quickly disconnected.
Father William felt a renewed sense of calm knowing Clancy understood the message. Clancy was a man action, decisive, not someone to wait for a focus group to tell him how he should react. And exactly how Clancy handled the matter, well, that wasn’t his concern, just so long as the Church wasn’t involved.
Father William poured himself another two fingers of Teeling, swirled the golden liquid around his glass and stared into the hearth’s smouldering embers.
I knew you’d understand. You’re a good man yourself, Stuart.
Melbourne, Australia
Friday, March 18
A cool breeze greeted Dayne when he stepped from the train at the Clifton Hill stop. It made for a refreshing respite for his walk home after a long day suffering through an extended 10-hour shift at the Harvey Norman store on Bridge Road. And as the station clock ticked over to 7:30 he wearily made his way through the station gates and along Hoddle Street.
Dayne hitched his backpack up on his shoulder then scratched the back of his neck. He was having a tough time getting used to the shorter hairstyle, long hair being an integral part of his persona for as long as he could remember. Then hung his head in shame recalling the reason for having it cut, and wondered why men do stupid things trying to impress women.
He’d met Megan after his solo gig at the Yarra; they’d talked over a few drinks after the show and seemed to hit it off. However, she’d commented his hair reminded her of an old boyfriend. He scheduled an appointment with his hairdresser the next day. However, their date the following week proved to be an absolute disaster. Apparently, the long hair, like a long forgotten song heard for the first time in years, brought back fond memories. And the old boyfriend, it soon became obvious, was destined to be dusted off and put back into heavy rotation. Over gnocchi and a bottle of Shiraz, Megan told Dayne all about “Sam”. And what a great guy “Sam” was, perhaps just a little misunderstood.
Dayne smiled meekly and contemplated how he could bill fucking “Sam” the $60 he’d wasted on Megan for dinner.
Although, a few weeks removed, Dayne was slowly coming around on the new style. He liked to think he’d transformed himself, just like a young Brad Pitt in Troy to the more mature one in Ocean’s Eleven, but as yet no one else was buying it. At the intersection of Hoddle and Ramsden Street, he waited for the little red man on the light pole to be replaced by the green one. The wind blew cold against his neck. ‘Bloody women’, he muttered, as he hunched his shoulders up near his ears.
Five minutes later, he stepped over his inoperable front gate and made his way along the path to his front veranda. The weeds in the front yard having finally overrun the flower beds, were preparing for a two-pronged assault on the small concrete divide separating their two empires. His thoughts concentrated on an assault of a different nature.
Dayne closed the front door with a nifty back-heel while simultaneously tossing his backpack onto the worn armchair in the front room. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, levered off the cap with his favourite Lakes Entrance souvenir bottle opener and made his way to the back of the house and his office which doubled as a bedroom.
Taking a long pull on the bottle, he stared at the monitor on the left of the two arrayed on the table top. The login screen for the Williams & Teacher law firm stared back.
There’s a good boy, Garth. Looks like someone’s been checking up on their team’s pre-season performance.
The ringing of his mobile interrupted his taking a seat.
Craiggo, what’s up?
Just checking to see how the master plan is coming alone.
Everything is on track. I’ve got eyes on Garth’s work computer as we speak.
Already? Want me to come over?
Hold your horses, mate. I’m not totally in yet. I’ve still got to implant another
program which utilises stylesheets, iFrames and opaque screen overlays so’s I can capture keystroke data.
Was that English you just spoke?
Dayne suppressed a laugh.
The technique known as clickjacking was designed to capture user identification and password keystrokes through the use of transparent virtual screens overlaying the originals. But he didn’t expect Craig to understand.
All you need to know is after I load this program the next time he logs on I’ll have all his I.D. and password information. I’ll then have the keys to the kingdom, mate.
What do you need me to do?
Absolutely nothing. Just try and relax. I’ll call you when I learn something.
You’re the expert. Talk to you later. And Dayne, be careful.
Yeah, mate. You know me. Later.
With the program implanted he’d soon be able to understand exactly what game Garth O’Neal was playing. Thinking of Craig’s warning, he assumed doing so posed a very low amount of risk. He doubted the level of security employed at a small law firm like Williams & Teacher would cause too many headaches. Certainly nothing to compare with the IT firms he’d breeched over the past few years. Speaking of security, he’d meant to ask Craig what he knew of the bank’s systems. He scratched out a note to ask next time they talked.
***
Moonlight filtered through the second-floor windows of the Southern Cross Bank & Trust building bathing the interior in a soft bluish hue. A sliver of white light and the soft hum of music leaked from under an office door but scarcely disturbed the tranquil scene.
Past 9:30 on a Friday evening, not a soul remained in the building other than one man. For Lenny Mansfield, it was this quiet time he relished the most. It brought back happy memories of years spent as a security guard protecting, for the most part, empty office buildings on his preferred graveyard shift. How he came to be a security guard, well, those memories were not always so pleasant.
Excessive use of force being the official reason for being drummed out of the Victoria Police. As a young constable, he one day took exception to the spray of abuse he received from a young punk arrested for drug possession. Now, 20 years later, he considered himself fortunate the kid lived. Though sometimes, when in a not so calm introspective mood, he wished he’d finished the job.
However, Lenny wasn’t one to brood and waste time dwelling on past mistakes. Through a sprinkling of computer and business classes taken at night school under his belt, he managed to parlay his security and law enforcement background into a security consultant position. From there, he landed his current role with Southern Cross. The transformation from uniformed thug to corporate professional was 15 years in the making but time and money well spent.
On the middle shelf of his office’s bookcase sat a small stereo. From it, the muted sounds of a Dire Straits CD broke the silence. After plucking a computer printout from his in-tray, Lenny leant back and propped his feet up on the edge of his desk. The five-page document constituted the past week’s Restricted Access report.
Each time a banker, or one of their assistants, accessed the accounts of a client, the paperwork in Lenny’s hands captured the information. Employees were strictly prohibited from accessing their individual accounts or those of any family member. Filters within the report captured these illicit activities thus giving Lenny his greatest thrill in this otherwise humdrum position; the ignominious employee walk-of-shame from the premises.
The report also highlighted anomalies in account retrieval. The primary purpose to protect client privacy from wide-eyed assistants. Taking a peek at the account balance of a famous athlete may make for a great conversation starter with your mates at the pub, but if the access was unauthorised, your days with Southern Cross B&T were over.
Well now, what have we here?
The opening organ arrangement to Tunnel of Love floated throughout the office as Lenny dropped his feet to the floor, straightened in his chair, and took a closer look at the report.
A flurry of activity by one of the assistants on the 11th, last Friday, jumped off the page. Thirty-six client accounts accessed in less than thirty minutes.
What the hell was Craig Walters up to?
He first checked the assistant’s work from earlier in the day and found nothing out of the ordinary. He knew Craig’s banker, Eric Mullane, performed “know your customer” updates last week, but nobody could update notes that quickly.
Lenny logged into the bank’s client account system and typed in the names of interest to Walters.
All of them bloody old. Okay. Small balances. Why are we messing around with this crap? Oh, and they all reside at the hospice Eric has as a client. What am I missing here?
Dire Straits moved on from a carnival ride to Expresso Love, Mark Knopfler’s dulcet tones pondering the difference between lust and love. Lenny stared pensively across the room to the framed picture of him and a former captain of the Melbourne football club, searching within for inspiration.
I don’t get it. Why so interested in these people?
The digital display of the small clock on his desk ticked over to 10:05 and Lenny was no closer to an answer. With a touch of a button he silenced the stereo and powered down his computer.
The incandescent glow of a three-quarter moon shone through the vertical blinds helping to guide him along the corridor and to the back staircase leading to the parking garage. He hoped a cold beer or two would provide some inspiration in solving this dilemma, for he was certain something was not right. And if inspiration didn’t strike, he’d lay it at the feet of Mr Lewis on Monday morning and get the boss’ thoughts.
Bray, Ireland
Saturday, March 19
Marnie Coogan strolled along Main Street, her shopping trolley loaded down with groceries from her weekly shopping excursion. She mentally checked off the stops made, and those still to go, as she meandered past the stores of Bray’s high street. She’d picked up some lovely cuts of meat from the butcher’s shop, fresh vegetables from the greengrocer, a sharp cheddar from the supermarket and Sam’s prescription for his lumbago from the chemist. All now safely tucked away inside her trolley.
Shadows lengthened across the two-lane thoroughfare as the sun dipped below the tops of the buildings, plunging the east side of Main Street into near darkness. Marnie stepped into the last of the sun’s rays jagging between the row of shops separated by Davitt Road and paused to soak in their last ounces of warmth. She smiled realising a week from now she’d be enjoying a far warmer version of this same sun from a vastly different locale. Upon opening her eyes, Marnie noticed Holland’s on the other side of the road. An idea sprang to mind to pick up a nice bottle of wine for dinner to surprise Sam. Marnie shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand as she pushed her trolley across Main Street and pondered if she should go with a dry white or a bold red.
Later, eyewitnesses swore she never stood a chance. As Marnie stepped out from between two parked cars, the driver of the white transit van striking her never even so much as touched their brakes.
Marnie’s body was thrown 30 metres farther down Main Street from the force of the collision. If she wasn’t already dead from the initial impact, she surely was by the time the van ran over her a second time as it continued to accelerate through town.
Reports regarding the description of the driver varied wildly; though all agreed he was male. Most described him as dark-skinned and wearing a cap and sunglasses. Some thought he looked Asian and wore a turban. Mrs MacInnes remained convinced it was her next-door neighbour with whom she’d fought a long-running battle over the incessant barking of his small terrier. Also, little information was forthcoming regarding the van. It bore no exterior advertising or distinguishing features, nor did anyone recall seeing license plates.
At the home of Sam and Marnie Coogan, Sam sat at the small kitchen table overlooking their petite backyard waiting for Marnie’s return from the shops.
He’d received news earlier in the day, thoug
h not from his normal contact, his services were no longer needed for the following week’s bank heist. Sam knew better than to ask questions, and more importantly, knew to keep his mouth shut.
Forever and ever amen.
Sam sipped his Harp Lager from the bottle, as he distractedly peeled the label. He wondered how Marnie would take the news. She initially wasn’t thrilled with him working for his old mates again but thought with time – more than a year having passed since the previous job – she’d softened and was, in a small way, looking forward to spending the meagre cut he received. He knew she looked forward to visiting Rome again, too.
A knock at the front door dragged him back to the here and now.
Bloody woman. Did she forget her keys again?
Sam rose from the kitchen chair and made his way down the hallway to the front door. As he approached, he could see through the door’s bevelled glass two shapes on the front stoop.
When he opened the door to the sight of two Gardaí officers his blood ran cold. When they asked to come inside, he complied. When they asked if he’d like to sit down, he wondered why. When they told him of the accident, his mind spun and raced but finally settled on the obvious conclusion. Sam hated coincidences. Coincidences, if you failed to pay attention, got you killed.
Sam answered the officer’s few brief questions in a mind-numbing haze. The emotions of losing his wife of 28 years battled for space in his mind with the palpable fear that her death was not an accident but a message. He needed time alone to sort through the rubble and discover why. He also needed the two Gardaí officers out of his house. And, as much as it pained him, grieving for his Marnie would need to be put on hold for the time being.
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