Once In, Never Out

by Dan Mahoney

  “He always has, O’Bannion and his whole family. His brother Seamus was an IRA soldier, and there’s talk that Timothy was as well.”

  “What do you mean, ‘talk’?”

  “I mean that my government has some evidence that he and Seamus were behind an ambush that killed two British soldiers in Londonderry in 1971, but it turned into a tactical defeat for the IRA. One of their men was killed during the firefight and three were wounded, including Seamus. They all managed to get away from the scene, but Seamus and another one of their wounded were captured an hour later.”

  “But not Timothy?” Thor guessed.

  “No, not Timothy. He showed up back in the Republic with an alibi.”

  “I’m assuming the evidence wasn’t strong enough to extradite him.”

  “In those days the Republic didn’t extradite IRA people, so the request was never made.”

  “What happened to Seamus?”

  “Tough case. He never talked, didn’t say a word at his trial. He was convicted of murder and sentenced to life. Went on a hunger strike in the Maze Prison in 1977 and died after thirty-two days. Made himself into one of the IRA martyrs.”

  “I see. Is O’Bannion against the peace process?”

  “He’s a major obstacle and one of Smythe-Douglass’s most vocal critics in the Irish government.”

  “Are you beginning to see my point?” Thor asked.

  “I think so. This Rockall dispute between your government and mine had been festering for weeks and was bound to come to a head, sooner or later. Throw in the Royal Navy’s action and Sir Ian’s got an instant crisis on his hands, especially since he’s the one who reportedly fanned the flames.”

  “Reportedly?”

  “I can’t admit it officially, but it’s said that Sir Ian pushed through the measure declaring Rockall to be part of the British Isles. He was the MP for Cornwall, the center of our fishing industry, so he stood to gain if Rockall was ours alone. It’s also said that he persuaded the prime minister to send the Royal Navy there to back up the claim.”

  “Aren’t there quite a few Irish-born sailors in your navy?” Thor asked.

  “Many seamen, and officers as well. There’s also quite a few Irishmen in our fishing fleets. If O’Bannion was inclined to listen, I’m sure he would have heard of our plan to send the fishing fleet to Rockall and then protect it with the Royal Navy.”

  Try to protect it, Thor almost added before courtesy killed the comment. “I’m sure that plan had been brewing for weeks, so let’s assume he did,” he said instead. “Would O’Bannion be smart enough to predict the outcome of that encounter?”

  “I’m certain he is. I don’t consider myself a genius and I could have predicted it,” Chatwick said. “Problem is, nobody asked me. Anyway, engineer an Irish claim to Rockall, and from the foreign secretary’s viewpoint, it’s a crisis that has to be resolved quickly. Maybe O’Bannion figured Sir Ian would be coming here to mend fences. If so, that’s brilliant.”

  “Kill Smythe-Douglass and it becomes diabolical,” Thor added.

  “Yes, that would be diabolical if he put it all together and then figured Sir Ian would stay in the Saga’s presidential suite,” Chatwick agreed. “Do you have any other indicators pointing in his direction?”

  “Just that the bomber was extraordinarily thorough. He planted two bombs, one in the master bedroom and one in the servant’s bed. Who would expect that Smythe-Douglass and his wife weren’t getting along and sleeping apart?”

  “I see. If Sir Ian stayed in a hotel when he was in Dublin with his wife, it would have to be someone with connections in the hotel industry.”

  “Yes, someone who could quietly have had the maids questioned. Is that O’Bannion?” Thor asked.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll find that out, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So now all you have to do is identify the bomber and connect him to O’Bannion, if possible.”

  “Identifying him could be difficult,” Thor said.

  “Difficult, but at least you have everybody who’s been in that suite in the past weeks on video, don’t you?”

  “Not exactly,” Thor said. “Our constable standing guard in the hallway was a problem.”

  Chatwick understood at once. Haarold had been in the hallway for more than two hours before the bombs went off. “How far back does the videotape go?” he asked.

  “Fortunately, Janus had the cameras shut off as soon as he arrived or we’d have nothing. As it is, from the camera facing the presidential suite I’ve got one hour and three minutes video of our constable.”

  “Why’s that? He was there for more that two hours, wasn’t he?”

  “You know Haarold?”

  “Met him last night. Very impressive.”

  “And very unusual. Apparently, he doesn’t move around much. The camera taping him in front of the suite kept shutting down for lack of motion. We still have video going back to February twenty-eighth on that one.”

  “How about the other camera?”

  “Much better. It’s over the door to the presidential suite, so it didn’t get much of Haarold moving around. That tape goes back six days, to February twenty-fourth. There’s a good chance we’ve got the bomber on that one.”

  “Have you watched both tapes?” Chatwick asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “I’m not sure, yet. A Canadian named Thomas Winthrop checked into the hotel on Saturday, February twenty-first, and was given a room on the fifth floor. On the following Wednesday he asked Jónas for a change to the presidential suite, said he had gotten married last month in Canada and that his wife was flying in to meet him. It’s off-season, so Jónas was happy to give it to him. The bellboy brought Winthrop’s luggage up and tape shows him entering and leaving the suite a total of eight times—always alone.”

  “His wife never showed up?”

  “No. He checked out on the evening of February twenty-eighth and she doesn’t appear on the videotapes, if she exists.”

  “He checked out of the presidential suite the day before the foreign secretary arrived?” Chatwick asked.

  “Yes, but right after the Rockall incident. If Winthrop is our man, he knew that Sir Ian would be coming here before long. If so, I have to figure that Winthrop watched the hotel and saw him and his wife arrive.”

  “Does your immigration have a record of when Winthrop arrived in Iceland?”

  “Came in on an Icelandair flight from Montreal on Saturday, February twenty-first. However, according to our immigration, he still hasn’t left the country.”

  “Did he have much luggage?”

  “Five pieces. More than enough to carry the equipment to make the type of bombs I think were used.”

  “So what’s your plan from here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I’ve got Immigration watching out for him and I’ve got people checking every hotel in the country.”

  “And if you don’t find him?” Chatwick asked.

  “Foreigners attract attention here at this time of year. If I don’t get him in the next couple of days, I’ll go public. In the meantime, I’ll try and pin down the exact workings and composition of the bombs.”

  Thor stood up, but kept his eyes on Chatwick. He could see that the ambassador was thinking and knew what he had on his mind.

  “Before you go, there’s something I have to ask you,” Chatwick said. “I hope you don’t take it the wrong way.”

  It was just what Thor wanted to hear. “Go on.”

  “Since it was our foreign secretary who was killed, I’ve been instructed by my government to offer you any assistance you might require in this case. As you might imagine, we have people with quite a bit of experience investigating bombings, specifically IRA bombings.”

  “I don’t mind a little help, as long as it’s subtle,” Thor said. “Frankly, I could use some specialized scientific equipment and people who know how to use it.”<
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  “We’d also be glad to help you out there. We have a mobile lab designed specifically for bomb investigations.”

  “That’s fine with me, but I’ll have to check with Janus first. He’ll probably want to establish some ground rules.”

  “Rules like no overt presence, give help only that’s asked for, no firearms, and no talking to the press?” Chatwick asked with a smile.

  Thor had to smile himself. “Roger, it’s a pleasure dealing with an agreeable person who understands the fine art of diplomacy. When can your people and that lab of yours be here?”

  “Two hours.”

  Wonderful! Thor thought. All the expensive scientific equipment needed, equipment that had never been deemed necessary in Iceland, is on the runway in the U.K. and ready to go. “Two hours would be fine. I also wouldn’t mind having a person who knows the IRA personnel and tactics.”

  “That would be Inspector Rollins. He’ll also be here in two hours.” Chatwick stood up and offered his hand. Thor was about to take it and thank the ambassador, but was stopped by a loud knock at the door. Chatwick went to the door and returned with Janus.

  Thor could tell by one look at the chief’s face that more trouble was brewing. He could also see that Janus wanted to talk to him alone, but Thor didn’t think that would be polite after just having made Chatwick and his government a de facto partner in the case. “Let’s have the bad news, Janus.”

  “There’s been another murder. A girl’s body washed up this morning on the beach near Heimaey.”

  “Murdered?” Thor asked, astonished. Three murders in one week? Impossible!

  “Horribly. Body is naked and sexually mutilated. Fingers are gone and all her teeth have been knocked out.”

  Heimaey? That’s in the Westmann Islands, about a hundred kilometers from here, Thor thought. Can there possibly be a connection? “Whoever did it doesn’t want her identified,” he said.

  “Do you want the body brought to the morgue here?” Janus asked.

  Thor put his hand in his pocket to check his Dramamine supply before answering. “I guess so.”

  Four

  THURSDAY, MARCH 5TH—NEW YORK CITY

  Aside from whatever protocols are described in the city charter, it is generally acknowledged that the second most powerful man in New York City government is the police commissioner. It follows that if a person possesses sufficient influence, has a police-related problem, and is lucky enough to get an appointment to see the man in charge of the largest municipal police department in the world, he or she would go for anointing to the commissioner’s large, fancy office on the top floor of Police Headquarters, One Police Plaza. By tradition, the PC is never one for leaving his office to visit individual civilian problems, with two exceptions. One is, of course, the mayor. The other is the Cardinal of the Archdiocese of New York, a personage who exercises enormous (but quiet) influence on New York City politics in general and on the police department in particular.

  So it was that, at the direction of Exception Number One, Ray Brunette was on his way to visit Exception Number Two. He had been to the cardinal’s residence at Madison Avenue and East 50th Street many times before and didn’t need anyone to show him the way. Since visits to the cardinal were always confidential and his trusted regular driver was on vacation, Brunette had elected to drive himself in an old, beat-up, unmarked car. He pulled into a garage on East 50th Street, a half block from the cardinal’s residence, and tried to look inconspicuous as he gave the surprised attendant the keys.

  It was no use. In good shape, six feet tall, with his trademark straight black hair, Brunette was just too easily recognizable to anyone with a TV in New York City. “Howya doin’ today, Commissioner?” the attendant asked as if Brunette parked in that garage every day.

  “Fine, thank you. Yourself?”

  “You know. Been dealing with cheapskates all day long, but what’s the use complaining?”

  Brunette nodded sympathetically. “Yeah. Break your ass all day trying to do the right thing and what thanks do you get? Town’s loaded with cheapskates, most of them driving Mercedes and BMWs.”

  “Man, you got that shit right.”

  With the New York formalities over, Brunette thought he was going to make it out of the garage without further fanfare. Then he noticed that the attendant had taken a disapproving interest in the unmarked car. “Mind if I ask whatcha wasting money for leaving that car here? That piece a shit’s a police car, right?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Then why? You can drop it anywhere and go about your business. Ain’t nobody gonna give it no summons, even this funky old piece a shit.”

  “Really?” Brunette asked with a straight face.

  “Sure. Bus stops, fire hydrants, wherever you want. Don’t make no never mind.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, live and learn,” the attendant said as he punched the ticket. “How long ya gonna be?”

  “Maybe an hour.”

  “I’ll have it right here, right up front. Want me to clean it up a bit for you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Brunette put the garage ticket in his pocket and headed up the crowded street, but it got worse. “Hey, Commissioner! You going to see the cardinal?” he heard the attendant shout behind him.

  Now isn’t this just wonderful? Brunette asked himself as every person within earshot focused on him. A few waved, so he forced a smile and waved back at more new old friends.

  Like Brunette, Detective First Grade Brian McKenna of the Major Case Squad was frequently subject to the recognition factor. He was easily the NYPD’s most famous detective and had been involved in many newsworthy cases over the years, so many that people he had never met before stopped him on the street to ask him how Angelita and the kids were doing.

  McKenna felt himself lucky in many ways: He was healthy, wasn’t ugly, and generally stayed out of trouble. Being for many years the best friend of the man who would eventually become the police commissioner was another piece of luck, but it had a down side. Both men shared the same religion—the NYPD—but Brunette was always looking to refine the creed, and he used his friend as a sounding board for every new idea. So, while all McKenna wanted to do was work his cases and put bad guys in jail, he spent extra hours every day in the hated headquarters building, listening to Brunette and offering suggestions as his friend talked about the latest cost analysis, the most recent management survey, or the projected police budget. It went with the territory and McKenna was glad to offer Brunette whatever help he could, but it was tiring and bored him to tears.

  Today was a welcome break in the routine. Brunette had wanted to talk over lunch about his new ideas on the promotional screening board, but the mayor suggested he have lunch with the cardinal instead. Then McKenna received an equally important summons. Chipmunk had something on his mind and wanted to see him. Perfect, McKenna thought, because he and Angelita had a problem and she had been urging him to bring it to the uncannily influential Chipmunk’s attention.

  Chipmunk was proclaimed by many to be the world’s greatest bartender, but he was more than that. He was an old friend of both Brunette and McKenna and knew everybody who was anybody in law enforcement circles in town. Whatever was happening in the NYPD, the FBI, and the DEA, he knew who was up and on the fast track and who was on the way down and out. He knew, but he didn’t say, and he could be counted on to keep a confidence.

  It all happened at Churchill’s on Third Avenue and East 73rd Street, the English-style pub where Chipmunk worked. Serving good food in adequate portions at moderate prices, Churchill’s was the place where cops and reporters got together and talked over the problems in their day, their week, their lives. Complaints were aired, chiefs were bludgeoned, editors were trashed, contracts were made, and reporters could learn more there on any crime story than they ever could by hanging around station houses or the courts. However, by tradition, Churchill’s was sanctuary. Nothing said there in confidenc
e would ever appear in print.

  Thursdays were the slowest days of the week in the restaurant business, so Churchill’s wasn’t crowded when McKenna walked in and took a seat at the end of the bar nearer the door. At the far end were seated two men McKenna knew: a detective from the 19th Squad and an FBI agent assigned to the JFK Airport Task Force. Chipmunk was presiding over their conversation and all acknowledged McKenna’s presence with a wave or a nod.

  It was a few minutes before Chipmunk was able to disengage himself from the conversation and come down the bar to McKenna. As usual, before getting down to business the Chipmunk amenities had to be observed. He anointed McKenna with a kiss on the forehead before he opened a bottle of O’Doul’s nonalcoholic beer and poured him half a glass. For himself, Chip took a bottle of something clear and potent from the rack and poured a stiff shot. Both men raised their glasses and Chip gave his toast to all airmen downed, soldiers killed in battle, and sailors lost at sea. Not a word was spoken until the glasses were empty. Then Chip had his usual questions concerning Angelita and the kids, a matter of special concern to him since he was godfather to one of the new arrivals.

  It was just what McKenna wanted to discuss with Chip. Janine was two years old and a constant delight, but the twins were driving Angelita and him crazy. Sean and Shane were four months old and never slept at the same time. Both were colicky, throwing up almost everything they ate after loud crying fits. Worse, each was allergic to the other’s formula, a fact that had taken McKenna, Angelita, and their pediatrician a long and trying month to discover.

  They weren’t the only ones suffering. The McKenna family was living in a suite at the Gramercy Park Hotel, an arrangement Angelita had wanted to maintain for another year. The hotel was adjacent to Manhattan’s only private park, a one-square-block, fenced-in tranquil oasis in the hectic city. As a hotel resident, Angelita was entitled to a key to the park and she loved taking the kids there, but the manager had politely suggested that maybe it was time for them to move on. Nobody on their floor was getting much sleep, so McKenna was spending a great deal of his time unsuccessfully searching for a three-bedroom co-op.