by Sam O'Brien
“What the fuck? You know how much time that’ll waste?”
“I don’t give a fuck. You do it,” he bellowed.
There was a pause. “If he turns up, then what?”
“I’ll let you know. Keep an eye on him.” He hung up and swore. He needed to contact Marco.
Chapter 67
Oliver woke and looked out of the tiny window. He could see the sun on the horizon and knew they were approaching Ireland when he saw the thick, low clouds in the distance. Ninety minutes later, the plane dipped through them and plunged into the damp, grey air above Dublin. The crosswind buffeted the small plane and stopped conversation until they were safely at a standstill.
Monica was the first to her feet. She pulled a card out of her pocket and thrust it at Oliver.
“Hmm, business cards,” he said with a grin.
“I’m sorry, what?” said Monica.
“Never mind.”
Monica looked puzzled, but shook it off. “Anyway, this is Rosen’s card; it has his numbers and a secure email on it.” She turned the card over. “I wrote my own details here. It’d be great if you could check in with us from time to time. Let us know you’re OK.”
Oliver was genuinely taken aback. “Thanks, Monica, really. I, er . . . thanks.”
“Look, I know Huntley would like to just forget about you, but Rosen told me to make sure you were looked after. You can call anytime.”
Rebecca gave Monica a hug and Oliver awkwardly shook her hand as they alighted.
“Bec, the last time somebody told me they’d look after me, or words to that effect, it was Marco,” he said, as they stepped on solid ground.
“Hon, she’s nice. Take it from me. Woman’s intuition.”
“Well, how’s it going?” said a cheery voice behind them.
Oliver turned his head and saw the redhaired and redfaced young Customs officer, who told them he would escort them to Passport Control.
“Aren’t you going to inspect the plane?” said Oliver, winking at Rebecca.
“No point, sure it’s not stopping. Anyway, it’s a US Government plane. What were you two doing on it?”
“You could say we got a present of the flight.”
“Jaysus, not so bad. Better than going with Freefly, I’d say.”
Oliver shot him a sideways glance as the three of them splashed across the tarmac to the busy terminal. “Why’d you say that?”
“Stingy fuckers. Treat you like shite, and herd you in like cattle. Still, it’s cheap, I s’pose. But a free flight on an American private jet – now that’s beat all!” he chuckled to himself.
“Do Freefly still do the private jets?”
“No, they had to knock that on the head after the drug scandal and yer man’s death. They locked up some flight attendant for it, I think. The new man in charge said the company made a mistake, and would concentrate on what it did best. They can talk some shite, them suits. What he didn’t say was that the Minister for Transport and Aviation took away their licence to operate private jets.”
“Really, why’s that?” asked Oliver.
“Sure, they were shitting themselves somebody else in Ireland’d try it. Imagine: some gangster trying, like that fella in America, the Mafia lad. Unbelievable!”
“Oh yeah, I think I heard about that. Unbelievable is right.”
“He got done with a planeload of donkeys full of dope. Ha, talk about drug mules! That’s beat all. They reckon that plane was coming to Ireland, too!”
Rebecca and Oliver exchanged glances and tried to stifle nervous chuckles, to no avail. All three of them laughed like school kids as they entered the terminal and found their way to Customs and Passport Control.
They flashed their Canadian passports at the Duty Officer, who gave them a cursory look and scanned them into the system. Rebecca felt slightly uneasy when she heard the machine beep, but their passports were handed back without comment.
On the way out, while Rebecca dashed to the toilet, Oliver’s eye was caught by a national newspaper headline: MORE COCAINE DEATH. He bought the paper and stood bolt still as he read the article.
Four people overdosed on cocaine in Limerick city in twenty-four hours last weekend. Add this to the six that died from overdoses last autumn, and Limerick is becoming a graveyard of drug tragedy, the journalist clumsily commented. One of the victims last weekend was a well-known, pretty, 20-year-old classical violinist. She was celebrating having won a scholarship to the Julliard in New York.
Gardai found a small amount of the drug in her pockets, which they sent for analysis. It is believed that the recent deaths are due to the purity of the drug. According to Gardai, cocaine of this purity has never been dispensed on the streets in Ireland.
The article contained a lengthy quote from a senior Garda officer in Limerick. “Usually the drug arrives in Ireland in relatively small quantities, so the gangs water it down, so to speak, to maximise profit. In this case, the drug was distributed in an almost pure form. The user would have a better high and keep coming back for more of the same product. It would follow that whoever brought this batch may well be planning on bringing in sufficient quantity so as to reduce the need to cut it down, thereby flooding the streets with a highly addictive and dangerous narcotic. Ireland could be on the cusp of a cocaine epidemic.”
Oliver felt himself weaken and his stomach start to churn. He really hadn’t given much thought to what might have happened to the drugs he brought over inside Painter.
Rebecca saw the look on his face as she walked towards him. He offered her the paper and slumped against the wall.
“Holy shit!” she said. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That we may have killed those people?”
“I, well, not exactly that. I mean, we didn’t force them to take it. But it was here because of us.”
Oliver looked uncomfortable and conflicted. He tore off the front page and folded it into his pocket. “Come on, let’s get to a hotel.”
They said nothing as they caught a taxi to the city centre and booked into a generic, plain hotel near Temple Bar. Oliver bought a pre-paid mobile and used it to call his mother.
Evelyn answered, sounding frail.
“Hi, Mum. How are you?”
“Oliver! How are you? I saw in the papers they put that awful man in jail for life. They didn’t say much about you, though, apart from something about you and a vet being forced to work for him. There was some sordid gossip about you and Richard being drug smuggling brothers, but I declined to read the details. Anyway, enough of that. Where are you? Is Rebecca with you?”
“We’re both fine and we’re in Ireland. Er, Mum, can you catch the train to Dublin tomorrow?”
“Of course, but why don’t you come here?”
“I’ll explain it all to you tomorrow. Call me on this number with the times, OK?”
“What’s it all about?”
“I’ll explain everything tomorrow . . . And, Mum?”
“Yes?”
“You know I love you, right?”
“Of course I do. Why are you saying that? I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
He ended the call and immediately dialled Foster’s office. After being kept on hold for ten minutes by the sourly efficient secretary, he eventually got through to Foster.
“James. It’s Oliver McMahon.”
“Oliver, God, how are you? You, er, just vanished for a while. Your mother’s very worried. I’ve been keeping her up-to-date on everything. I carried out those instructions you left me. They, er, mentioned you in the papers a bit. The horse world papers, I mean. My wife showed me the articles. Quite the scandal in the horse business, it seems. Some flying groom is planning a tell-all article in next week’s Horse’s Mouth magazine.”
“Hmm, I don’t suppose I’ll be returning to my former line of work, James. Look, I know this is a bit out of the blue, but I’m under pressure and I have to disappear for a bit. So I was won
dering, can you meet me tomorrow morning in Temple Bar?”
"Tomorrow? Well, I’m not sure. Can I get back to you?"
“No, I’m only here for a day or so and I’ve got a lot to sort out. Please, James, meet me in the Quality Night Hotel in Temple Bar at eleven. I’ll explain everything to you then. There’s a lot of stuff you don’t know. Oh, and James?”
“Yes?” he said gingerly.
“Don’t tell anyone where you’re going to be.”
“What?”
“And before we meet, please go to the safety deposit box you opened for me. Open it, read the letter that Rich wrote, and bring me fifty grand in cash, please.”
“I don’t understand all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, Oliver.”
“Look, I haven’t asked you for much up to now. I’d give you more time if I had it, but I don’t. So cancel what you have to, and do what I ask. Please, James, it’s very important.”
The lawyer remembered the last time a McMahon had asked him for help in such a tone, and told Oliver he would cancel his meetings and be there for eleven the next day.
At six-thirty that evening, Oliver sat himself in a corner booth in the hotel lounge. He ordered a pint of Guinness and a gin and tonic, and waited for Rebecca.
She slid in beside him and took a sip of her gin. “Hmm, that’s not much of a drink.”
“All style and no substance here. The Guinness isn’t great, either.”
She looked him up and down. “Why the long face, hon?”
“I’ve made a proper bollocks of things. Family-wise, I mean. It’s funny, it occurred to me that Mum’ll end up a bit like Marco: separated from her remaining family, except in her case it’s no fault of her own. And all I can do is see that she’s set up financially, just like Rich used to do.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, there’s not much you can do about it. For the moment, anyway.”
He had a pained expression on his face. “We crossed the line when we brought that shit here inside Painter. I can’t believe I never considered that before. That shipment was a part of our game also, and the stuff got onto the street to mess up kids and families. We allowed it to happen to serve our own ends.”
She wagged her finger at him. “Hold on a minute. We, yes we, are responsible for putting Marco Romano away for a very long time. If we’d called Huntley for the Painter bust, Marco’d have barely got a rap on the knuckles. Then how long before it was business as usual for him, huh? How many people dead then? No, we did the right thing. And let’s face it, we didn’t have a whole lot of options.”
“Hmm, I suppose you’re right.” He pushed his glass away and glanced around. “Let’s go somewhere for a quiet dinner. I don’t want to keep talking here.”
Chapter 68
The next day the rain hammered down out of the thick, grey winter sky as Oliver collected his mother off the noon train at Heuston Station. She had put on a little weight and looked almost sprightly as she wheeled her case along the platform. Oliver ran to her and hugged her tight, kissing her cheek. Her skin was icy cold. She barely recognised him.
“Mum, you’re freezing.”
“And you look strange with no hair and that dirty-looking stubble.”
He rubbed his shiny scalp. “Oh, er, a new image – and Bec’s gone blonde. You look well, though.”
“Thank you, I think,” she said jokingly. “I’ve been keeping myself busy, feeding that nice horse you left on the place. She really is a sweetheart.”
Oliver forced a smile. “I’m glad she’s keeping you company.”
“It’s not the same as having you and Rebecca, but I’ll manage.”
The smile disappeared. “I know, Mum, I know.”
They walked off the platform onto the street and took a cab for the hotel.
* * *
Neither of them noticed the burly man wearing the bomber jacket who followed Evelyn off the train and got into the next cab. He made a call on the way. “Yeah, I’m in Dublin. The old woman, she met a guy at the station.”
“Was it him?”
“I never saw him before. This guy has shaved head and beard, but he embraced her, kissed her on both cheeks. So I think we have our man. I am following them now. What I do next?”
“Wait there. I have to talk to the Italians. I’ll get back to you.”
* * *
When they arrived, Oliver took his mother for tea in the lounge. Evelyn threw off her coat and gloves, sank into an armchair, and sipped the hot drink with a look of relief.
Oliver took a deep breath and spelled it all out for her. “Mum, I’ll get straight to the point. Rebecca and I have to go away for a while. It’s just a precaution, after all the stuff with Marco Romano and the horses, but it’s for the best. The Americans got us new passports and we’re going to keep travelling around, stay on the hop, and use the time to see the world.”
She put her cup down and looked at her son with a mixture of sadness and resolve. “I was expecting this. I can’t say it’s thrilling to hear it for definite, but . . .” Her voice began to crack and a tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away sharply.
Evelyn reached across the table and took his hand in hers. “You just take care of that girl of yours and start a family, that’s all I want. We’ll see each other soon enough.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to end up like your brother,” she said, letting Oliver off the hook.
“What?” He looked puzzled.
“Foster and the papers kept me informed of the news here. The Gardai are sure that organised crime was involved in the drug scandal and your brother’s death. Can you believe that Italian chap still hasn’t said a word?”
Oliver could believe it only too well.
She sighed in exasperation. “So they locked him up. The airline looked ruined, but a chap called Martin Forrester got Freefly off the hook somehow. Wasn’t he the thin chap who came to the house after the funeral?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Anyway, they never did explain it fully.” She shrugged. “Then it all blew over.” She looked straight at him. “Two brothers, drugs, and a Mafia boss. I can’t imagine what persuaded you both to get mixed up with him. Anyway, what’s done is done. I’ve already lost one son to that awful man, I don’t want to lose another, so go on, take off and look after yourselves.” Another tear welled up in her eye and threatened to stream down her thin face. She fumbled in her handbag for a tissue.
Oliver was in shock. He knew she was selflessly saying this to make it easier for him, but he still felt like he was deserting her. Hell, he was deserting her. He rubbed his temples, to stop his brain spinning. “Mum, you can’t make it that easy for me. I’m doing exactly what I promised not to do.”
She looked at him sharply. “I can make it as easy as I like. I’m an old woman, and you’re now my only son. You’re in the prime of your life; now I want you to enjoy it. This is my gift to you.” She paused. “Consider it compensation for your father’s neglect. He was too hard on you, but try to understand that he didn’t mean it. He just wanted you to be as tough as your brother. What’s done is done; I’ve learnt that since Richard died. Don’t dwell on the past and don’t let it eat away at you.”
Oliver was stunned, and flopped back in the chair. He had never seen his mother look so steely, and he was starting to realise that she was tougher than he gave her credit for. She took everything life threw at her without complaining.
“You sound like Rebecca,” he said, smiling. “But the only way I can try to put this behind me is to do something good with Richard’s money. And with Painter.”
She raised her eyebrows. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I met James Foster this morning. We discussed everything. First of all: he sold Rich’s apartment for 600,000. The money will go to you, along with another million.”
Evelyn nearly dropped her teacup. “600,000 for a flat? In Clontarf? That’s ridiculous!”
Oliver chuckled. “I agree, but there
you are. James says property’s worth a fortune in Dublin, and still going up in value.”
“Huh, the country’s gone mad.”
“Hmm . . . Anyway, we’ll set up a charity that will provide legal advice and representation for people who have been treated unfairly by their employers, dismissed without just cause, or who have been victims of lies and deceit by corporations.”
Evelyn looked stunned.
“James will run it. I appealed to his humanitarian streak – you know what he did in the Philippines when he was young – and you’ll be a trustee. So will I; the Americans haven’t killed me off, just given me a new ID. I gave James my real passport and driver’s licence.”
He gulped down a glass of water. “Anyway, the service will be free of charge, but if litigation fees soar, which they might do if the case is against a large corporation, then we’ll have to work it like those so-called ambulance-chasers: take a percentage of any settlement to cover costs. We can’t do any good if we go broke defending a case against a multi-national, or if we lose a case and get wiped out. Far better we take a percentage of a generous settlement and live to fight another day.”
“Is it always all about money, these days?” asked Evelyn.
Oliver sighed. “Yes, Mum, unfortunately it is. I wish it wasn’t. I’d love to do all the work for free, but there’s no point in going out of business. Who’ll fight for the little man, then? And like I said, I can’t take Rich’s cash and run off into the sunset. I just can’t.”
“Why on earth not? You’ve certainly earned it, with all you’ve endured.”
“I haven’t, Mum. I haven’t earned seventy-five million Euro. And neither did he. He just figured out a way to make it. So I’ve got to take that and use it to help people. James will take care of it and set it up; he’ll be in touch with the details. I’ll communicate via email. Claude’s brother will set me up an untraceable account.”
“It’s all very cloak and dagger.”