Once In, Never Out

by Dan Mahoney

  But what could Mulrooney do? After his brother was captured, Mulrooney knew he was wanted by the British for questioning. Since he was from the North, he didn’t have the Southern sanctuary O’Bannion enjoyed. He had to get out of the country, but first he had to get medical attention and hide out in an IRA safe house until his leg wound healed. After that, he went to Canada and the U.S. to start over, probably with some IRA help with his initial financing and a passport. Then he became Michael Mullen.

  Mulrooney was on his own and did well enough for a long time in his new identity. Well enough to fool the NYPD until now, McKenna mused. But like O’Bannion, Michael Mulrooney was always IRA.

  So where do we go from here? McKenna asked himself, watching Rollins watch him. “Do you have anything on Mulrooney’s family?” he asked.

  “Quite a bit. His mother’s dead, but his father’s still alive and living in Belfast.”

  “How about his sister?”

  “How did you know he had a sister?” Rollins asked, surprised.

  “Informed guess,” McKenna answered, then told Rollins about the search of Kathleen Mullen’s home in Woodlawn and the photos found in the boys’ closet.

  Rollins took the news of the boys’ visit to their father, grandfather, and aunt in Belfast as a personal affront. “Mulrooney’s certainly got brass, bringing in his sons right under our noses,” he observed wryly.

  “He probably figured you’ve stopped looking for him,” Thor suggested.

  “Unfortunately, he’s right,” Rollins admitted. “I suspect his case hasn’t been looked at in twenty-five years, but that’s about to change. The Mulrooney family is due to get quite a bit of attention from us.”

  “Wiretaps and surveillance?” McKenna asked.

  “We’ll certainly be listening in, but I’m afraid a surveillance is impossible. They live in Ballymurphy, a very Catholic, close-knit neighborhood and a traditional IRA bastion. Any stranger there would be noticed at once. If anybody in his family has a way of getting in touch with him, he’d know that we’re once again interested in him.”

  That prospect disturbed McKenna and he appreciated Rollins’s judgment. “Well, we don’t want that at this stage of the game,” McKenna said.

  “Suppose he’s there now, staying with his folks in Ballymurphy,” Thor said. “If you don’t take a look at the place, we’d be missing a grand opportunity to get him.”

  “I suppose it’s possible he’s there, but I consider it unlikely,” Rollins stated.

  “I assume that searching that house would be a military operation, wouldn’t it?” McKenna asked Rollins.

  “Yes. An SAS operation, I suppose. They’re quite proficient at that sort of thing.”

  “Then let’s do it this way,” McKenna said. “We’ll still have the wiretap on the house. That should give us an indication if he’s living there, or even visiting every once in a while. If so, your troops hit the place and it’s over. But if he’s not there, we leave the place alone until Janus has to release his identity to the press. That still gives us some time to find him before he knows we’re even looking for him.”

  “That sounds sensible to me,” Rollins said.

  McKenna and Rollins both turned to Thor for his opinion. The Icelander was sipping his coffee, still thinking. “Then we’re agreed,” he said as he placed his cup on the coffee table. “I’ll also go along with Brian’s suggestion.”

  Nineteen

  TUESDAY, MARCH 10TH—KEFLAVÍK AIRPORT

  The weather had improved considerably. Although it was still dark at 9:00 A.M., the temperature was in the fifties, the wind had died down, and there was no hint of rain in the air. It was a nice day to be in Iceland, but the barren volcanic landscape they passed on the way to the airport reflected McKenna’s somber mood. He had arrived in an unmarked police Volvo with Rollins and Thor, following the hearse that contained Meaghan’s body. McKenna knew it was going to be a long, sad day and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He was dressed for the wake, wearing a white shirt, a pin-striped suit, and a dark blue tie.

  There was quite a crowd at Keflavík Airport. Vernon Gebreth, Dennis Hunt, and Chris O’Malley were there for their return flight to New York, but Rollins and Thor had come to the airport just to see McKenna off. McKenna had thought they would be accompanying him to Belfast and Dublin, but both had good reasons for staying.

  Thor was sure his absence would be noted and the subject of public speculation by the Icelandic reporters, especially after they learned that McKenna was also gone. They would then put unwelcome pressure on Janus for the answer and that would never do.

  On the other hand, Rollins wasn’t worried about leaving Iceland with McKenna. What worried him was arriving in Belfast with him. Rollins was well known there and thought that McKenna would also be recognized. Since he was sure that the IRA knew he was in Iceland working on the bombing, he saw no reason to get them wondering by showing up in their backyard with McKenna.

  So McKenna was to be on his own for a while. He would keep both Thor and Rollins informed on any developments in the case, but he didn’t expect to see them again until he had located Mulrooney. They both wanted to be there for that arrest, wherever it might be.

  The New York flight was loaded before McKenna’s, and he was grateful for that. As he waited on line to board, through the terminal’s windows he saw Meaghan’s casket being loaded into the cargo bay of his plane. The sight saddened and depressed him, and he was sure it would have had O’Malley bawling again.

  Icelandair had no direct flights to Belfast, so McKenna had to change planes in London and didn’t arrive at Belfast’s Aldergrove Airport until after three. Through the terminal’s window he could see that the hearse was on the tarmac next to his plane, but Meaghan was the last piece of cargo unloaded. She was on her way to the funeral home before he picked up his baggage and checked the arrival schedules. Ryer Maher’s Aer Lingus flight from New York was on schedule, due to arrive in half an hour.

  McKenna claimed his luggage from the baggage carousel, changed three hundred dollars into British pounds at the airport currency exchange, then went to the British Immigration and Customs section to wait. He was dreading the meeting with Ryer, so the half hour seemed like two hours as he ran through his mind all the things he would say to Meaghan’s brother.

  As it turned out, there wasn’t much cause for concern. McKenna saw him waiting on line to clear British Customs, casually dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt, and a ski jacket, looking more like a college student than a priest.

  McKenna could see that Ryer was strong and prepared to be his family’s bulwark. Somehow the priest had accepted his sister’s horrible death without understanding the reasons for her murder. He also stoically accepted the vigorous inspection he and his luggage received from Customs. After he was finally passed through with his two suitcases, he greeted McKenna with a firm handshake and thanked him for coming.

  “It seems to me that you were the object of some special attention by Customs,” McKenna observed.

  “It’s to be expected,” Ryer answered, shrugging it off. “Don’t forget, I’m traveling here from America on an Irish passport and these folks regard your country as a sort of IRA base camp and armory.”

  “I guess I can understand that,” McKenna said.

  “Were you able to find someone to make Meaghan look presentable for my mom and dad?”

  It was a subject that made McKenna uncomfortable, but the question had to be answered. “I haven’t seen her since the morgue in Iceland, but the undertaker I used there came highly recommended. Her body’s on the way to the funeral home right now.”

  “And the casket? Did you get a nice one for her?”

  “I thought it was nice, if there is such a thing as a nice casket.”

  “Maybe there isn’t, but it’s important to my folks. Now, how much do I owe you? And please don’t be shy.”

  That question made McKenna even more uncomfortable, and he was shy. He shaved two thousan
d dollars off the price he had paid in Iceland and gave Ryer the number.

  “Nonsense, too low,” Ryer said. “I’ve heard that things are expensive in Iceland and in my business I’ve gotten some idea of how much these things should cost. Now, please tell me how much I really owe you.”

  “I already told you,” McKenna stated emphatically, then decided it was a good time to change the subject. “Do you know if your folks have arrived in town yet?”

  Ryer looked for a moment like he wasn’t going to let McKenna off the hook, but he did. “They got in last night. They’re staying at my aunt’s house in Ballymurphy, close to the funeral home.”

  McKenna felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck at the mention of the Mulrooney neighborhood, and a few ideas ran through his mind. “Is it far from here?”

  “It’s on the other side of town, but it’s still not far. No more than half an hour.”

  “Mind if I take a ride with you to meet your folks?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask,” Ryer said. “I’m going to rent a car, and I can show you some of the town on the way. You have a place to stay?”

  “I’m booked into the Hotel Europa.”

  “The Europa? Why did you pick that hotel?”

  “Because I was told that it’s a nice place in the middle of town.”

  “Well, it is nice and it is in City Centre, but weren’t you told that it’s probably the most frequently bombed hotel in the world today?”

  “No, I wasn’t. My travel agent neglected to mention that, but I don’t mind,” McKenna said. “Maybe staying there will give me a feel for the city.”

  Ryer gave McKenna a sidelong glance, then shook his head and smiled. “Suit yourself, but I can’t imagine for the life of me why anyone would want a feel for this city. You’re going to find that it’s a pretty unfriendly place.”

  “That’s all right, I’ve worked in unfriendly places before. Could we stop at the hotel on the way?” McKenna asked. “I’d like to check in and drop off my luggage before meeting everyone.”

  “No problem.”

  Ryer expected that he would be the one shuttling relatives back and forth from the funeral home, so he rented a medium-sized sedan at the airport rental agency. They found the car, put their luggage in the trunk, and headed into town.

  Although it was McKenna’s first visit to Ireland, he had traveled to England and had even reluctantly driven while he was there. But that was years before and almost forgotten. Everyone was driving on the wrong side of the road, including Ryer. It was disconcerting to McKenna to be sitting in the front left seat without a steering wheel and pedals in front of him.

  Once they climbed onto the motorway, the Belfast skyline came into view. From a distance, it looked like a nice city—very modern and bounded by verdant cliffs on the west and a fine harbor on the east. The countryside was spectacular, overwhelmingly green and dotted with small, well-kept farms that gave way to neat suburbs as they approached the city limits. To McKenna’s surprise, he couldn’t see a sign of the Troubles.

  During the trip McKenna performed one of the chores he had been dreading, answering Ryer’s questions about the progress made in the investigation of Meaghan’s death. The questions were pointed and McKenna answered them as truthfully and completely as he could. Ryer seemed especially interested in the Belfast origins of her killer, stating that the Mulrooney house wasn’t too far from the house where he had grown up.

  “Is it possible that Meaghan recognized Michael Mulrooney in Iceland?” McKenna asked.

  “I doubt it. He was already a fugitive when she was born, and the Brits don’t make a habit of publicizing the identities of the people they’re looking for. They’d rather take them by surprise and unawares.”

  “How about you? Would you know him?”

  Ryer thought the question over for a minute before answering. “I don’t know the name. He’s older than me, so I wouldn’t have grown up with him.”

  “Is it possible you’d know his father?”

  “Maybe if I saw him, but it’s hard to say. It’s been a long time since we lived here.”

  “How about your folks? Any chance that they’d know Mulrooney or his father?”

  “Maybe, if the Mulrooneys were originally from one of the old blocks in The Lower Falls, like we were.”

  “What’s The Lower Falls?” McKenna asked.

  “What was The Lower Falls is a better question. There’s not much left of it now. It was the old Catholic neighborhood between Ballymurphy and The Shankill.”

  “The Shankill?”

  “A very militant, very Protestant neighborhood. In the early seventies there was a lot of terrorist activity in The Lower Falls, with both sides bombing, shooting, maiming, and murdering each other. The Catholics got the worst of it and most of the neighborhood was destroyed.”

  “So what happened to the rest of The Lower Falls?”

  “Militarily expedient urban renewal. Since so many of the houses were damaged anyway, the Brits decided to save themselves a headache and created a barrier between Ballymurphy and The Shankill. They moved the old residents to new houses and plowed the neighborhood under. Most of it is now the Belfast DMZ.”

  “Was your house one of those plowed under?”

  “Yes, which is one of the reasons my folks moved south. As you’ll see, there’s been a lot of urban renewal, most of it good. Very few of the people in Ballymurphy are living in the same old houses they were in when we lived here.”

  “But it’s still possible your folks know the Mulrooneys,” McKenna insisted.

  “Maybe years ago. In any event, they wouldn’t know him now. My folks have never been involved in the politics here and have always tried to put the Troubles behind them,” Ryer said, apparently considering the matter closed.

  But it wasn’t. “It’s good that they don’t know him, because I wouldn’t want your relatives contacting the Mulrooney family for any reason,” McKenna stated. “At this point I can’t afford to have Meaghan’s killer aware that he’s been identified and that I’ll be looking for him.”

  “I understand, so here’s what we should do. If anybody in my family asks you any questions about your investigation into Meaghan’s murder, just direct them to me. I’ll handle it from there.”

  “You’ll lie to them?” McKenna asked.

  “Yes, I’ll lie to them,” the priest stated simply. They drove in uncomfortable silence for a minute before Ryer added, “If you think that’s what it’ll take, I’ll lie to my family and tell them we know nothing about the man who murdered my sister.”

  There was no further conversation between them until they arrived downtown. McKenna had not wanted to get involved just then in a discussion of the local politics with Ryer, especially since the priest’s sister had been an indirect victim of the Troubles. He planned to talk to him and learn about the local situation later, possibly after the first day of the wake. But then he noticed something he considered so unusual that he had to ask about it. The shops were all open, the sidewalks were bustling with people, and the traffic was flowing smoothly, but there were no cars parked on the street.

  “We’re in the downtown security zone,” Ryer explained. “Because of the danger of car bombs, there’s no street parking allowed here. You can drop people off and pick them up, but the driver has to stay behind the wheel.”

  “What happens if he leaves the car?”

  “Everybody runs for their lives,” Ryer said without a touch of humor.

  They stopped at a light in front of a building McKenna immediately recognized from Brunette’s description of it. Like he had said, it looked like New York’s city hall, only nicer. Belfast City Hall was the magnificent, sprawling, white Georgian building that had served as a backdrop for the photo of the Mullen boys with the old man.

  There were two things about the building that McKenna felt sure hadn’t been captured in that photo. One was the Union Jack, flying from the flagpole on top of the building and flappin
g proudly in the breeze.

  The other was the solid police presence, giving McKenna his first look at the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Two battleship gray armored police Land Rovers were parked guarding the gated entrance to the grounds. A pair of constables stood outside each Land Rover, but they weren’t lounging around as New York cops were prone to do when on a fixed post outside City Hall. They stood erect and alert, eyeing traffic and every person entering the grounds. Their dark blue uniforms looked sharp and military, with a blue bulletproof vest worn on the outside as part of the uniform. One cop in each team had his hand on his holstered pistol. To McKenna, they looked distinctly unfriendly and taller than New York cops.

  Inside the grounds McKenna could see more of the same. The RUC had men at each building entrance and others patrolling the grounds in pairs, and McKenna could guess why. In front of City Hall stood a tall statue of Queen Victoria, her arms regally outstretched to her loyal subjects. McKenna was sure that some of the Empire’s less-than-loyal subjects in town would delight in blowing the old queen and her building to smithereens.

  McKenna saw only one more police patrol before they reached the hotel. Nobody on the street paid the RUC the slightest bit of attention and, if they hadn’t been riding in armored Land Rovers, McKenna imagined from the pleasant cosmopolitan background that he could have been downtown in any city in the U.K. There was no graffiti, bomb damage, or any other sign of the Troubles visible to him.

  Even the stately Hotel Europa showed no sign of bomb damage. After Ryer pulled up in front, McKenna left him behind the wheel and went into the lobby with his luggage. It looked to be exactly the type of European hotel he preferred, a study in understated elegance staffed by a courteous group of professionals.

  McKenna was expected, so checking in took only minutes. He completed the registration process, got his key from the efficient receptionist, and asked her to have his luggage brought up to his room. He was surprised when he was told that his luggage would have to be searched first, but it seemed like a sensible precaution. He and his luggage were taken to a side room by two security men who expertly searched his bags before sending them up to his room. They also politely informed McKenna that all persons entering the hotel were subject to random body searches.