by Dan Mahoney
“Pardon?” Rollins said, confused and taken aback by McKenna’s demand.
“Joseph Dwyer.”
“Pardon?” Rollins repeated, but the confusion was vanishing and there was an edge in his voice.
McKenna picked up the envelope and took out the book on the IRA he had bought. “It was a nice foreword you wrote for this book. Very informative and it gives a little background on yourself. Says that you’ve been chasing the IRA for over twenty years with some success. Also says that before joining Special Branch, you were affiliated with British Intelligence in one fashion or another.”
“All true,” Rollins said. “What about Joseph Dwyer?”
McKenna again reached into the envelope and took out the crime scene photo of Dwyer in the hotel room and passed it to Rollins. “Our bomber did this to him, and we both know why. If we can agree to my suggested modifications to our arrangement here, this information stays with us.”
“This is outrageous! I thought we already had a deal,” Rollins stated, then stared at the grisly photo.
“It’s only a deal after we shake on it,” McKenna countered. “Until then, we’re in negotiations.”
“Inspector, maybe you should consider this,” Thor said. “If he’s tried in Iceland, I can guarantee that he will be found guilty by our magistrates in two days. During his short trial we will acknowledge the help given us by the British and American governments. There will be no demonstrations of support for him here nor will the IRA be able to portray him to our people as a political prisoner. He will receive three life sentences and eventually die in jail here with the heat turned down low.”
Rollins looked up from the photo and placed it on the coffee table. “We’ve already considered all that and I agree that there’s some merit in what you’re suggesting,” Rollins said to Thor.
“Substantial merit,” McKenna insisted.
“All right, Brian. Substantial merit,” Rollins said with a hint of a smile. “Am I to understand that if we agree to your suggested modifications, then your groundless suspicions regarding Joseph Dwyer’s auxiliary employment will never be mentioned to anyone in your government?”
“Exactly. Nor will I be talking to anyone in the press about my silly groundless suspicions. You know how reporters love to inquire and speculate, but I just hate to cause trouble.”
“Then I think I can easily explain the wisdom of your suggestions to my superiors,” Rollins said as he offered his hand.
The three men shook on the deal, then Rollins reached into his briefcase, removed a bulky folder, and opened it.
On top was another crime scene photo documenting another one of Mullen’s painful stress-relieving sessions. She had been a dirty-blond version of Meaghan Maher. The top photo was the first of many.
“Following Thor’s suggestion, we’ve searched for unsolved sex killings throughout the world that took place around the same time as an IRA bombing,” Rollins said. “What we’ve found is that our bomber is a particularly nasty, well-traveled bloke with an insatiable appetite for causing pain. We’ve come up with four cases going back to 1992 that we can definitely attribute to him. Apparently, the killings all took place a couple of days before the bombing, but in all four cases the bodies weren’t discovered until after the bombing.”
Rollins passed the top photo to McKenna. “That was the last one. The bomb incident was in Londonderry in November of ninety-six, but the girl was killed in Newry. That’s still in the North, but about a hundred miles away from Londonderry. She was found in a ditch there four days after the incident, but she had been dead about a week.”
McKenna passed the photo to Thor after looking at it only long enough to see that she had been horribly beaten and burned, that she had been strangled, and that her nipples were gone. “What do you mean by a bomb incident?” McKenna asked.
“Car bomb, six-hundred pounds of explosive placed in a car in front of police headquarters in Londonderry. It had been placed there by an IRA splinter group calling themselves the Irish Army Continuity Council, but somebody had a change of heart and called in a warning. Our troops disarmed the bomb in a controlled explosion.”
“What was this girl’s religion?” Thor asked, handing the photo back to Rollins.
“Nominally Protestant. Not very religious at all. She was a waitress in Newry with a bit of a reputation as a loose girl.”
“Politics?”
“Totally apolitical. Not interested at all in the Troubles, as they call the conflict in Northern Ireland. The one before that is in London in December of ninety-five. The IRA blew up one of our municipal buses. Some injuries, but no fatalities. Her body was found in an abandoned row house in Liverpool.” Rollins handed McKenna the next photo.
McKenna could see that Mullen had found another redhead, but he barely glanced at it before passing it on. Thor didn’t even give it a glance before handing it back to Rollins.
“No more photos?” Rollins asked.
“We can do without them, for now,” McKenna said. “Where was that girl from?”
“Living in London, but originally from Galway in the Republic. Catholic, politics unknown. The one before that was Bermuda, March of 1994. The Commandant of our Royal Marines was there on holiday and was the victim of a car bomb with a rather sophisticated tilt detonator. The bomb went off when he drove his car up the ramp from the hotel garage.”
“Was he killed?” McKenna asked.
“No, but maybe he should have been. He was seriously maimed and horribly burned. I think that was the bomber’s intention.”
“And the other victim there?”
“Not at all his usual type. She was black and the youngest of the lot, just sixteen. But she got the same treatment from him, so bad that the local police started searching for a voodoo cult.”
“He does have his preferences, but not all the cases will be the same,” McKenna said.
“In any event, he was able to exercise his usual preference in the last case I’ve got to show you,” Rollins said. “That was in Ottawa, Canada, November of ninety-two, a letter bomb addressed to our ambassador there. Rather sophisticated. We still don’t know what the explosive was or how it was made. The envelope was X-rayed and passed through the chemical detector we had at the time. One of our security people was killed when he opened it up.”
“What was the postmark?” McKenna asked.
“Toronto.”
“And the victim?”
“She was last seen in a club in Kingston, Ontario, two days before the bombing. That’s about halfway between Toronto and Ottawa, but her body was discovered two weeks later in the woods about thirty miles south of Quebec.”
So what does all this tell us that we didn’t already know or suspect? McKenna wondered. Not much, he concluded. We already knew that we were after a monster. “Did the IRA claim responsibility for all the bombings?”
“All except the Londonderry one. Like I said, that was the Irish Army Continuity Council. At the time we figured that was a splinter group, but now I believe it was the IRA after all.”
“Why? Because it was the same bomber?”
“Precisely. As I recall, there was a truce on at the time, so I figure the IRA set the bomb, then made up this other group to shift the blame from themselves.”
“But they still haven’t claimed credit for the bombing here. Don’t you find that strange?”
“Somewhat, but we know it has to be them. British target, same bomber, same MO,” Rollins said. “Are you ready to go on to O’Bannion?”
“Not yet. It’s important for us to agree on one thing before we go on,” McKenna insisted. “There are more victims than your people have uncovered. He kills whenever he’s under stress, not just before he blows something up.”
“We are agreed on that, and it disturbs me deeply. However, at this point I see no reason to cloud the issue with additional inquiries to authorities in other countries that would necessarily lead to unwelcome speculation on their part.”
/> Well said, McKenna thought. We’ve already got enough to hang Mullen, so why make a splash asking around? “You’re right, Inspector. Let’s get him first, ask around later. What about O’Bannion?”
“We don’t know if he had anything to do with the other bombings, but we know he’s involved in the bombing here.”
“Know or suspect?” Thor asked.
“I’d say highly suspect, but everything we’ve learned would be termed circumstantial evidence. As Thor had suggested, O’Bannion made some indirect inquiries when Sir Ian and his wife were in Dublin last year. As a result, he knew that they weren’t getting on and customarily slept in separate beds. We think that he advised the bomber to place charges in both the master bed and the one in the servant’s room.”
“How did he make an indirect inquiry?” McKenna asked.
“Is it necessary I explain that?”
“Yes. When I confront him, I have to go in with at least some real proof, not total conjecture.”
“I’m afraid that could involve burning a very valuable source. Because of his background, O’Bannion was at the top of the list of people we were curious about.”
“Is it someone very close to him?”
“Yes, someone very close. Someone very valuable to us in her present position.”
“You’re gonna have to give us the whole story and trust us not to jeopardize any operations you may be running,” McKenna said.
“All right, I will. We got it from his secretary.”
“Incredible!” McKenna said. “The Irish minister for finance’s secretary is a British agent?”
“No, not an agent. I guess you would call her a sometime informant. She usually doesn’t tell us a thing about O’Bannion’s day-to-day government business, but she despises the IRA. Fortunately for us, she’s managed to keep her sentiments to herself. Otherwise, O’Bannion would never have her around.”
“Is she Protestant?”
“No, she’s Catholic and originally from the North.”
“Then her sentiments are a little unusual, aren’t they?”
“Yes, unusual for a Northern Catholic. Mind you, she has no love for the Ulster Protestants. Probably has no love for us either, for that matter. But back in the seventies her sister was one of those innocent bystanders we often hear about. She was killed by an IRA explosion when they ambushed one of our patrols in Belfast.”
“I see. So she reasons that if there were no IRA, then her sister would still be alive,” McKenna surmised.
“I presume that’s the case. In any event, her handler hears from her whenever she suspects that O’Bannion is up to something that’s IRA-connected. O’Bannion is pretty careful, so we’ve found that sometimes she’s wrong.”
“But not always?”
“No, not always.”
“Tell me about this time.”
“Before O’Bannion was the minister of finance, he served as the minister for labor,” Rollins explained. “His power base is the unions. The man who heads the Council of Free Trade Unions is John O’Rourke, a handpicked crony of his. Our girl overheard O’Bannion asking him to have his workers in the hotel keep an eye on Sir Ian and his wife when they were in Dublin.”
“So Thor was right, but that’s not much to go on,” McKenna said.
“There’s more,” Rollins stated, smiling. “On February twenty-seventh, O’Bannion was out of the office when a man calling himself Rory McGivens rang for him. He left a number and asked our girl to have O’Bannion ring him back. Since McGivens is a Northern name, she was curious. She checked the country code for the number he gave and found it was—”
“Iceland! The Saga Hotel!” McKenna said, almost shouting.
“Yes, it was here,” Rollins said calmly. “She didn’t know it was the Saga at the time, but she had the carbon copy from her telephone message book. She put it together after the bombing and called the number. That’s when she found out it was the Saga. She also found out that there hadn’t been a Rory McGivens registered here. That night she contacted her handler.”
“Do you have that message slip?”
“She couldn’t take a chance on tearing it out of the book, but she did Xerox it.” Rollins turned a few pages in the folder in front of him before he found it and passed it to McKenna.
McKenna saw that it was a copy of a page from the standard while-you-were-out message book. In a neat feminine handwriting was the date, the time, and the simple message. McKenna noted with satisfaction that there was no room number listed next to the phone number in the message.
God, these Brits have been sitting on some pretty powerful stuff, he thought. O’Bannion knew that McGivens was in the hotel under the Winthrop name or he wouldn’t have been able to reach him. And he called O’Bannion three days before the bombing, probably to report that the bombs were in place and asking if everything was going according to plan at Rockall. Now let’s see what else Rollins is sitting on. “Does the name Rory McGivens mean anything to you?”
“Unfortunately, no. We’ve done an exhaustive review of our files and it shows up nowhere. We presume it’s an alias.”
“Probably, but let me show you what he looks like. Maybe that will help.” McKenna reached into the manila envelope on the coffee table and took out two five-by-seven photos. One was Mullen’s seven-year-old arrest photo and the other was a copy of the photo taken in uniform for his ID card when he had first joined the NYPD in 1975.
As he passed the photos to Rollins, McKenna was hoping against all odds that the IRA expert would instantly recognize Mullen and jump off the sofa in a spasm of joy. But Rollins just studied the photos intently. Then he placed them both on the coffee table.
“I guess you don’t recognize him,” McKenna said.
“No, I don’t. I take it this man was a cop?”
“Yes. He sneaked into our department under an alias. Was with us for seventeen years before he was arrested and fired in 1991.”
“What was he arrested for?”
“Shaking down call girls.”
“Was he assigned to the Bomb Squad at any time?”
I’m up to my neck in sharp guys, McKenna thought. “Yes, he was.”
“Interesting,” the unflappable Rollins said. “I’m glad your department recognizes talent when it presents itself. I, for one, would like to hear the whole story if you’d care to tell it.”
It wasn’t a story McKenna relished telling, but a deal was a deal. For the better part of an hour he talked about Mullen, pointing out the pertinent parts in the fugitive’s personnel folder as he explained what had happened.
Rollins listened intently throughout the account, asking very few questions and giving no indication of surprise or disapproval at Mullen’s hiring by the NYPD. When McKenna finished, he had just one comment. “You’re right. He was always IRA and he must be in our files somewhere. If you don’t mind, I’d like to fax his fingerprint cards and photo to London.”
“I’d insist on it,” McKenna said. “This room comes with a fax. You can use it, if you like.”
“I’d rather use the secure line at our embassy. Besides, it will give me an opportunity to explain to my superiors the amendments to the deal we’ve agreed on.” Rollins allowed himself a small smile. “When I do that, I’d prefer to be in a place where you won’t be able to hear them screaming.”
“How long will it take to get a reply from London?”
“I’m sure this matter will be given the highest priority. Would it be convenient if we meet back here at nine?”
“Quite convenient,” McKenna answered. “Splendid, in fact.”
Eighteen
Thor and McKenna decided to go out for dinner while awaiting Rollins’s return, but McKenna’s luck ran out in the lobby. He had forgotten Jónas’s advice and had not called down to let the manager know he was leaving. There were a couple of Icelandic reporters lounging near the front door and Thor was recognized by them at once.
Worse, so was McKenna. In a matter of se
conds the bar emptied out and there were six reporters between the detectives and the door, all shouting their questions.
In New York McKenna would have ignored them and pushed through to freedom as politely as he could. But they weren’t in New York and that wasn’t the Icelandic way. To McKenna’s consternation, Thor stopped. They were captured.
At first, he tried denying being that famous Det. Brian McKenna of the NYPD. They responded good-naturedly with chuckles and guffaws, as if McKenna had just told them a real backslapper. In embarrassed desperation he turned to Thor, hoping that the Icelander would somehow handle his nation’s press on his own.
Thor did handle them, but lying and denying wasn’t his style. The reporters were content to let him do the talking, obviously preferring the honest local color to the devious, foreign, big-city detective. That was their mistake. Thor was cagey and told a few half truths, but no outright lies.
The first shouted questions all concerned McKenna. What they wanted to know most was, What he was doing in Iceland and did his presence have anything to do with the bombing?
Thor told them. McKenna was in the country only to investigate a New York missing persons case. He had been successful, had found his missing person, and had assisted the Icelandic police in identifying her. She was Meaghan Maher, the girl whose body had washed up on Heimaey Island the day of the bombing. According to Thor, McKenna’s work was finished in Iceland and he would be leaving the next day to escort Meaghan’s body to her parents in Ireland.
As for the bombing and Meaghan’s murder, those cases remained a local matter under the jurisdiction of the Icelandic police.
“The murder of Meaghan Maher and the Saga bombing are connected, aren’t they?” one reporter asked.
“I believe they are and I’m working on that assumption,” Thor answered.
“Are you making any progress in the bombing case?” asked another.
“Yes, I believe I am.”
“Have you identified the bomber?”
“I know the name he used when he was in Iceland and I know how he detonated the bombs, but I don’t know yet who he really is and have no idea where in the world he is.”