by Dan Mahoney
“Do you still believe that the IRA was behind the bombing?” asked a third reporter.
“Yes, I do, but that’s all I’m prepared to say at the moment. I’m off duty now, very hungry, and just going out to dinner with Detective McKenna.”
To McKenna’s amazement, that was it. Try that one with the New York press, McKenna thought. Like it or not, we’d all be going to dinner together. But it was Iceland. They all thanked Thor for the interview, even shaking his hand. Then they all wrapped up their microphones, put their tape recorders in their pockets and their cameras in their cases.
All except one, that is, a crusty-looking old-timer. “Detective McKenna, would you mind answering just one question?” he asked.
Oh-oh, McKenna thought. Here we go. Thor’s expertly buffaloed all but one, but that one is enough to spoil it. “No, not at all,” he answered with his practiced meet-the-press, you-can-believe-me smile on his face.
“Thank you. I’m sorry, but it’s a rather involved question,” the old-timer said as he turned on his tape recorder.
Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh! “Go ahead and ask it.”
“Could you please give us your impressions of crime in Iceland as compared to the crime problems in New York?”
McKenna managed not to laugh and gave his answer.
The impromptu press conference had gone well enough, but McKenna was worried. If Vernon was right, Mullen would still be following the news in Iceland and would learn that McKenna had been assigned the Meaghan Maher case. Although Thor had deftly avoided telling the reporters that Mullen had been identified, it was just a matter of time before Mullen learned that McKenna was on his trail.
McKenna worried about Angelita, the kids, and something else that Vernon had said: Mullen would take the news personally. As he picked at his food, McKenna couldn’t erase the image of Angelita being tied up and tortured by the monster. Since it was common knowledge in New York that he lived at the Gramercy Park Hotel, McKenna decided that protective measures would have to be taken at once. He voiced his concerns to Thor and the Icelander agreed. Until Mullen was in custody, great care should be taken to protect their families.
By six-thirty they had finished eating. They had two and a half hours to kill before their next meeting with Rollins, so Thor decided to go home to spend a couple of hours with Frieda.
Suddenly, McKenna envied the Icelander. He missed Angelita and had tried calling her a couple of times that day, but she had been out. He desperately wanted to talk to her just to hear her voice.
The phone was ringing when McKenna entered his suite and he got his wish. “Brian, you’ll never guess what happened today,” Angelita said.
Of course, she was right. McKenna never could guess, but he tried and fared poorly at the game. When he finally ran out of guesses, Angelita told him, her voice filled with excitement. “We got an apartment today, and it’s beautiful. It’s got three bedrooms, it comes nicely furnished, and it’s in the Village on West 10th Street, right near our old place. It’s not for sale, but we’re getting a one-year lease.”
“That’s wonderful news,” McKenna said, almost as excited as she was. He had wanted to buy an apartment, but they were desperate. A year would give the boys time to grow out of their screaming fits of colic and make them more acceptable prospects to a co-op board. But there was still the big New York question. “How much?”
“Guess.”
Three bedrooms in the Village, furnished? What should that cost to rent, McKenna wondered. It has to be a good price or she wouldn’t be so excited. “Twenty-five hundred a month,” he tried.
“Nope. Fifteen hundred plus utilities.”
Fifteen hundred? Wonderful! That even fits into our budget, McKenna thought. “How’d you get it?”
“The owner called me up this morning and said he heard we were looking for an apartment. Said he’s a retired FBI guy with a nice job on Wall Street, but his company’s transferred him to Atlanta for a year. He wasn’t going to rent the place, but all he really wants is for us to watch it and take good care of it while he’s gone.”
“How did he hear we were looking for an apartment?” McKenna asked, already knowing the answer.
“Chipmunk told him.”
“When can we move in?”
“I’ve already signed the lease and he’s leaving tomorrow, so I guess as soon as you get back.”
“No. I’ve got a better idea. I’d like you to pack up some things and take the kids there tomorrow. Don’t tell anyone in the hotel where you’re going, just move into the apartment and stay there. I’ll take care of everything else when I get back.”
McKenna had told her about Mullen’s proclivities, so Angelita at once guessed the implications implied by McKenna’s wishes. “Are we in some kind of danger?” she asked.
“Not yet, but there’s a remote chance that you might be in a couple of days. I’m just trying to be careful.”
“Okay, we’ll do it.”
“Thanks. That takes a lot off my mind. Get a phone as soon as you get in, but don’t get it listed in our name.”
“You want me to get us an unlisted number?
“No, let’s be real careful. Any PI worth his salt can get an unlisted number and an address, so make up a name and have the phone number listed under it.”
“Okay. How about Zergo Zwielich?”
“Zergo Zwielich? Who’s that?”
“I don’t know, but wouldn’t it be nice being the last name in the phone book?” Angelita asked.
“I’m not crazy about being Zergo Zwielich, but I like it anyway,” McKenna said.
They spent the next ten minutes talking about everything and nothing. McKenna felt much better after he hung up, so much better that he decided to take a run and get another good look at the city on his last night there.
Running was McKenna’s usual way of relieving tension and stress. Although his age had slowed his average mileage time down by fifteen seconds over the past year, he didn’t mind. He liked being in shape and still ran two marathons a year with respectable times.
McKenna ran all around Reykjavík, circling the buildings that interested him and taking his time. He was enjoying himself and had just decided that it was one of the most delightful cities he had even visited when the weather changed and revised his opinion. It had been mild, balmy, and about forty degrees for most of his run, but then a cold Arctic wind suddenly blew in and dropped the temperature by ten degrees in seconds. The wind was followed by a driving rain so cold that McKenna wondered as it stung his face why it wasn’t snow. He put his head down and raced for the Saga. By the time he got there, cold and drenched, he had decided that Iceland might not be Paradise after all.
Once he was back in his suite, McKenna took a long, hot shower and put on a fresh suit. He was ready by eight-thirty and put in an order with room service for another pot of tea. He had just hung up when the phone rang again. It was Brunette. “The kids were in Belfast with their father,” he said.
Belfast? That made sense to McKenna. Northern Ireland was part of the U.K., so Mullen could have taken them there from London without ever having to show a passport. Mullen would want to give his sons the heritage tour and explain their roots to them. “How do you know it was Belfast?” he asked. “Did the kids have some pictures?”
“They still do. I sent Gaspar, Fitzhughs, and Pao to do the search of Kathleen’s house and they’d brought a one-on-one camera with them. After they found the pictures in the boys’ room, they took duplicate photos. There’s one of the boys standing with an old man in front of a building that looks a lot like our city hall, only nicer. Fitzhughs told me it was Belfast City Hall.”
McKenna marveled at Brunette’s choice of personnel to do the very sensitive and illegal search. Gaspar was assigned to TARU, the Detective Bureau’s Technical Assistance Resources Unit. He was an expert at wiretaps, electronic surveillance, and could open most locks in seconds without benefit of a key.
Fitzhughs and Pao were bot
h assigned to the Major Case Squad; both were excellent detectives and close friends of his. Fitzhughs had been born and raised in Northern Ireland, so he would at once recognize any clue that the boys had been there. He also had a highly developed gift of the gab and would enable them to get out of any trouble they might get into on the mission.
On the other hand, talking was not Pao’s way. The half-Chinese, half-Irish detective was the crankiest and most taciturn man McKenna knew, but that didn’t bother him. Pao had often served as his partner and was completely dedicated to him. An added bonus was that McKenna was convinced Pao was one of the toughest men alive and maybe the best shot in the department, a fact to which McKenna could gladly attest. Once he had saved McKenna’s life with an unforgettable shot, firing his pistol from a distance of almost two blocks and hitting a killer who was about to add McKenna to his list. “Was Mullen in any of the photos?”
“Two of them. In one he’s sitting in an armchair, snoozing with his mouth open and a pistol on his lap. I’m told by Fitzhughs that it’s a .357 Astra, a Spanish gun favored by the IRA. According to him, they get it from their Basque allies in the ETA.”
So Mullen’s always ready for action, even when he’s sleeping, McKenna thought. The pistol in plain sight means that he must have explained to the kids exactly why he had to be ready. They know he’s IRA, and maybe they’ve known it for some time. “How about the other photo?”
“It’s a shot of him standing with the kids, a woman in her thirties, and the same old man in front of a new row house.”
The old man is probably the kids’ grandfather, McKenna thought. But who’s the woman? Either a new squeeze or his sister, he concluded. “What does the woman look like?”
“Late thirties, maybe early forties, dark hair, a little on the portly side. Not bad, but she wouldn’t win any beauty contest.”
Sounds like the woman who picked the boys up in London, McKenna thought. “Any other souvenirs of their trip?”
“None that were found, and our guys were pretty lucky to have even found the photos. They were in an envelope taped over the door inside their closet. Mullen must have told them to be careful and closemouthed about the visit.”
“He did. They wouldn’t even say a word about it to Hunt, and they have to trust him by now. Did they find any phone numbers?”
“Nope. If they’re still in touch with Mullen and calling him, they must have his number memorized. They also have to be calling him from a pay phone, unless he’s in New York.”
“How do you know that? You check Kathleen’s phone records already?”
“Sheeran did. During the past seven years there have been lots of calls to a number in Londonderry, but he’s established that it’s the number of Kathleen Mullen’s folks. He tells me that she doesn’t use the phone much, and when she does it’s usually a local call.”
Hunt was right about Kathleen, McKenna thought. She doesn’t have much of a life. And I was right about one thing, too. She is from the North. “Could you tell me about the house?”
“Sure. That was one of the things I wanted to know about, too. It’s a small three bedroom. Kitchen, living room, dining room downstairs, the bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. The furniture’s not in bad shape, but our team tells me that Kathleen’s not much of a housekeeper. Most of the rooms are untidy, including her bedroom, and all but one of them could use a painting.”
“Which room was neat and painted?” McKenna asked, then answered his own question with a guess. “Tell me, was it the boys’ bedroom?”
“You got it. They’re an unusual pair and probably painted it themselves. The room’s spotless, dusted, the beds are made with military corners, and everything’s in its place. Looks like a barracks ready for inspection. All their clothes are neatly folded in precise rows, right down to their socks and underwear. They also do their own ironing, have an iron and ironing board in their closet and all the clothes hanging there are pressed with creases.”
“Tell me they have bunk beds,” McKenna said.
“That’s right, with army blankets and no spreads. They must get along pretty well together. There’s an extra bedroom, but apparently they’d rather share a room.”
That’s a very unusual attitude for brothers to have, McKenna thought. They’re close in age, thirteen and eleven years old now, but I’ve never heard of two brothers so close that they wouldn’t rather have their own rooms. “Do they have any books or magazines?”
“Nothing like any other teenagers I’ve ever heard of. Aside from The Anarchist Cookbook, the only other books they’ve got are on Ireland, Irish history, and the IRA. And get this—they’ve got a subscription to Soldier of Fortune magazine, piled neatly under the Irish flag hanging on the wall. They’ve also got a CD player in the room, but except for U2, rock ’n’ roll isn’t their cup of tea. It’s all Irish music, including a number of Irish revolutionary albums. These boys are hard-core.”
So Mullen already has his sons in military training, ready to take up the cause, McKenna thought. Worse, it sounds as if they like the idea. I bet they’re on his side and have nothing but contempt for their mother and the way she keeps the house. If they’re as mean and strong-willed as their father is, Kathleen’s life must be a daily living hell. These boys bear some close watching. “Are the surveillances in place yet?” he asked.
“We tailed Kathleen to work this morning and the boys to school. Her phone’s done, too.”
McKenna was grateful to Brunette for the chances he was taking on this case, but he knew it wasn’t necessary to express that gratitude. Both knew that if word ever got out on that illegal wiretap and the illegal bug, it was likely that Brunette would have to resign in disgrace. “I hope I’m able to bring enough home to make all that stuff you’re doing legal,” he said.
“At the moment, I’m not too worried about it. I trust everyone who knows about it,” Brunette countered. “However, if this goes on for a while, I admit that I’d probably sleep a lot easier if you could get enough for an eavesdropping warrant.”
“Will do. Buddy, I want you sleeping like a baby without a care in the world.”
Thor and Rollins arrived together, right after the tea had been brought up. They were soaked, but dried off in the bathroom. Rollins, who had brought his leather briefcase out with him in the rain, placed it squarely in front of him on the coffee table next to Mullen’s personnel folder and all the crime scene photos.
McKenna poured coffee for himself and Thor, tea for Rollins.
The Englishman calmly finished his tea, then placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table and smiled. “The indications are that your Michael Mulrooney is a very old friend of Mr. Timothy O’Bannion.”
“Michael Mulrooney? Is that Mullen’s real name?” McKenna asked.
“According to his fingerprints it is. Michael Mulrooney of Belfast, Northern Ireland. Fortunately for us, he has an arrest record with the RUC.”
“The RUC? What’s that?” Thor asked.
“The local police in Northern Ireland, the Royal Ulster Constabulary. They’re dedicated and well trained, but highly unpopular with the Catholic population. In 1962 they caught Mulrooney throwing rocks at one of their patrols. He was arrested and fingerprinted.”
“How old was he then?” asked McKenna.
“Eleven, lucky for him. Because of his age all he got was probation.”
“Was he ever arrested after that first time?” McKenna asked.
“No, but not because he escaped our attention. Do you know if he has a scar on his right leg?”
McKenna didn’t know, but he had the answer right in front of him. He opened Mullen’s personnel folder and turned to the medical examination he had been given before appointment. It was there. “He has a circular scar on the rear of his right thigh. He told our doctors that it was the result of a skiing accident, that he got it when his leg was punctured by a ski pole when he took a fall in 1972.”
“Quite remarkable that they didn’t recognize it as
a bullet wound, isn’t it?” Rollins asked, then instantly regretted the question. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to give offense,” he added.
“No offense taken,” McKenna said. “And yes, it really is quite remarkable that they bought his story. How did he really get it?”
“In Londonderry, 1971, during an IRA ambush of our troops.”
“The same ambush you think O’Bannion was involved in, the one where his brother Seamus was captured?”
“Yes. Also captured with Seamus after that ambush was another young IRA gunman, Patrick Mulrooney.”
“Michael Mulrooney’s brother?” McKenna asked.
“His younger brother. Our troops report that they wounded another of the gunmen, but he got away and was never captured. According to the reports, he had been shot in the right leg.”
“Did you suspect Michael Mulrooney at the time?”
“Yes, but we couldn’t find him. He had disappeared.”
“What happened to Patrick Mulrooney?”
“He had been seriously wounded, gut shot,” Rollins said. “Wound up losing half his stomach, but he recovered sufficiently to stand trial for murder. Just like Seamus O’Bannion, he never said a word at his trial and was sent to the Maze Prison for life. And just like Seamus, he went on a hunger strike in 1977, but it wasn’t quite as dramatic. With only half a stomach, he died just four days into his strike.”
Rollins sat back to give McKenna and Thor some time to think over the implications of his information.
McKenna was intrigued by the relationship between Michael Mulrooney and Timothy O’Bannion. He thought over the many things the two men had in common, things that must have brought them even closer together after that fateful ambush went bad on them and their brothers. He figured that both men knew they were hot after that day, too hot to stay involved in the IRA day-to-day military operations. But once in, never out.
So what did they do? McKenna asked himself. O’Bannion became a labor leader and later a powerful politician, but he was still IRA. As his power grew in the Republic, his status must have increased in the IRA until he was one of their shakers and movers, so high in the organization that he planned and ran the Iceland bombing.