by Dan Mahoney
McKenna understood Owen’s plight and his heart went out to him. Like everyone else, he spent a good part of the day consoling Owen, but then the problem arose.
It began when Ryer led the gathered family and friends in the traditional praying of the rosary before Meaghan’s coffin was closed for the last time. It soon became apparent to everyone that Owen didn’t know the words to the Hail Mary. They all immediately suspected that Meaghan’s boyfriend wasn’t Catholic, and McKenna sensed that news didn’t sit well with them. During the prayers he noticed that Kevin seemed particularly interested in Owen, lost in thought as he stared suspiciously at his niece’s boyfriend.
After the funeral home closed, McKenna wanted Owen to accompany him back to the hotel. However, Owen decided to accept the Mahers’ invitation to the gathering of family and friends traditional after every Irish wake. McKenna certainly didn’t want to go, but he went to Bridgette and Kevin’s house anyway in the hope that he would be able to exercise some damage control.
He couldn’t. McKenna didn’t drink, but everyone else did. There was food and drinks for everyone, and more than enough to go around. For most of the night McKenna tried keeping Owen away from Kevin, but ultimately he failed. McKenna was just too much in demand and everyone wanted to talk to him. At one point he found himself telling Thomas and Ryer about his night with Roger Forsythe when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kevin and Owen standing in a corner of the room, deep in conversation. McKenna was worried, but their conversation seemed friendly enough, so he didn’t interfere.
Toward the end of the evening, McKenna saw Kevin and Bridgette lead Peg and Thomas Maher upstairs. It looked like a family crisis brewing and McKenna feared the worst. When they didn’t return, he alerted Ryer and told him his fears. Ryer understood at once. He also went upstairs, but he, too, was gone for a while.
They all came down together: Ryer, Peg, Thomas, Kevin, and Bridgette. They were smiling politely and still appeared to be the perfect hosts, but McKenna sensed the hostility between them and he could tell that the women had been crying.
Ryer approached McKenna at the first opportune moment to give him the news. “You’re right. Owen’s not Catholic, but it’s even worse than you thought.”
“He’s an atheist?” McKenna guessed.
“Worse. He’s a devout Presbyterian and divorced as well, so he and Meaghan had planned to get married in the Presbyterian church. According to Kevin and Bridgette, Owen’s got the enemy’s religion and the enemy’s morals.”
“Couldn’t you talk any sense into them.”
“I tried, and I think I smoothed things over pretty well with my folks. They’re hurt and disappointed, but they’ll get over it.”
“But not Kevin and Bridgette?”
“No, they called me a heathen priest and a heretic when I tried. They’re very old school Northern Irish Catholics and narrow-minded when it comes to marriage and religion. Remember, people kill each other over religion up here.”
“But this is different. I’m sure that Meaghan and Owen weren’t planning to live in Belfast,” McKenna reasoned.
“Makes no difference to Bridgette and Kevin, Meaghan was still family and her marrying a Protestant would be a disgrace for them. They didn’t say it, but I know they feel that God saved Meaghan’s immortal soul by taking her before she could marry Owen.”
“You folks are all out of your minds,” McKenna said, struggling to keep his anger under control.
“I know.”
During the funeral early the next morning, McKenna could see that the news of Owen’s religion had become common knowledge. He noticed that everyone was icily correct in their treatment of the grieving soldier.
It promised to be a beautiful day, warm, with only a few puffy clouds in the sky, but it turned out to be a long morning. The ceremony dragged on for an hour and the cemetery was a half-hour ride away. McKenna was more than ready to put Belfast behind him by the time Ryer dropped him at his hotel. He packed, checked out, and took a taxi to the railroad station with his luggage. He found that the next train to Dublin wasn’t leaving for an hour, so he went to a newsstand for a paper. He was immediately sorry that he did. The headline of the Belfast Times was RUC SERGEANT MURDERED, TWO OTHERS DEAD.
McKenna feared the worst. He wanted to read the story as he stood at the counter, but he didn’t trust himself to remain steady. He took the paper to a coffee shop in the station, bought a cup of coffee, and sat down to read.
It was Roger Forsythe. The sergeant had been ambushed by four men shortly after midnight in front of his home after working an evening shift. His wife, Emma, had been waiting for him at the window when the attack had occurred. She had seen it all. As Forsythe had left his car, another car occupied by four men had pulled alongside. Forsythe had been ready and fired first, killing the driver and one of the passengers in the rear seat. The other two men in the front and rear seats had fired over the bodies of the dead men, hitting Forsythe at least nine times. They had then gotten out of their car, emptied their pistols into Forsythe’s body, and ran west toward The Shankill Road. The car with the two bodies inside had been abandoned at the scene.
The dead men were identified by the RUC as Harold Tyrie, age twenty-nine, and Glenn Lyttle, age thirty. Both had criminal records including charges of weapons possession and assault and both had served time in prison. According to the RUC, the dead men were thought to be members of the Red Hand of Ulster, an outlawed paramilitary organization. The car used by the murderers had been reported stolen that day.
Emma Forsythe was interviewed and she detailed a series of harassing actions directed against her family over the course of the past four years. Their car tires had been slashed on three occasions, rocks had twice been thrown through their windows, and their two boys had been tormented in school by their classmates and the older boys who had constantly bullied them and called them names like “Pope Lover.”
According to Emma Forsythe, her husband had been murdered by the paramilitaries because of his efforts to remove their members from the ranks of the RUC. She stated that she planned to move from Belfast as soon as possible.
Superintendent McMichael of the RUC had been interviewed and he basically agreed with Emma’s assessment. He called Forsythe, “a fine man, one of the best we had,” and promised quick arrests of the remaining killers. He had stated that Forsythe’s efforts to rid the RUC of paramilitary members would be continued and intensified.
McKenna was saddened, stunned, and depressed by Forsythe’s assassination. It heightened his feeling of relief that he was leaving Belfast, with any luck never to return. He hated the city and saw no promise in its future.
The scenery on the train ride to Dublin improved McKenna’s mood considerably. The morning’s promise had been fulfilled; it was a sunny day and the countryside was spectacularly green with rolling hills on one side of the tracks and the Irish Sea on the other. By three o’clock he had checked into the Conrad Hilton Hotel, two and a half hours and a world away from Belfast.
McKenna was pressed for time and he didn’t bother unpacking. If things ran McGuinn’s way, he knew he had to see O’Bannion before the man left his office for the day. He got directions for the Ministry of Finance from the hotel receptionist. It was located on Merillion Square, a ten-minute walk from the hotel.
McKenna enjoyed the trip. He had heard that Dublin was a friendly city and by the time he arrived on Upper Merillion Street he agreed with that assessment. People on the street nodded and smiled at him as he passed them and nobody seemed to be in a hurry. They all looked like people he wouldn’t mind knowing.
The ministry was housed in a grand old white Georgian building. It actually was Merillion Square, surrounding a fenced courtyard on three sides, but it wasn’t a public square. A wrought-iron fence formed the fourth side and entry was restricted. There was a guard shack at the gate manned by a uniformed cop. McKenna took his shield out and approached him. “Good afternoon, Officer. I’m Detective McK
enna of the New York City Police Department and I’d like to see Mr. O’Bannion,” he said, holding up his shield.
The constable barely glanced at the shield. “The Detective McKenna?”
“The same.”
“Well then, let me shake your hand. Constable John Sullivan at your service.”
McKenna put his shield back in his pocket and shook Sullivan’s hand. He had expected to be interrogated by Sullivan, but instead they talked about the weather and how wonderful it was to be in the fine city of Dublin on such a fine day. It was minutes before Sullivan returned to business. “I would have been told if the minister knew you were coming, so I take it you’re not expected,” he said.
“No, but it’s important that I see him today. Do you know if he’s in?”
“Sure he’s in, but I can’t let you pass without checking with his secretary. Procedure, you know.”
“Quite all right. I understand.”
McKenna had anticipated some delay in getting to see O’Bannion. He knew that the minister for finance would be shocked to learn that the New York City detective working on Meaghan’s murder in Iceland was on his doorstep in Dublin wanting to speak with him. He would be worried, and that was exactly the state of mind McKenna wanted him in. He figured that O’Bannion would play for time to put his thoughts in order, but McKenna knew that he would be seen. O’Bannion would want to know how much he knew.
As it turned out, McKenna was wrong. There was no delay. The constable called O’Bannion’s secretary and spoke for only a moment. She would be at the front gate shortly to escort McKenna to see her boss.
While he waited, McKenna chatted with his new friend. He learned that the police in the South were called the Garda and that in contrast to the heavily armed police in the North, they were unarmed. Sullivan stated that he had never been to Belfast and had no desire to ever go there. “I’ve heard that the people of the North are a strange lot, you know. Peculiar, cantankerous, and unfriendly they are.”
McKenna couldn’t agree more. Then Sullivan nodded toward a tall, thin woman walking across the courtyard toward them. “Now here’s an exception for you,” he said. “Maggie Ferguson, Mr. O’Bannion’s secretary. She’s a delightful person and I hear she’s from someplace up North. Belfast, maybe.”
A confusing suspicion formed in McKenna’s mind as he watched Maggie Ferguson approach. He guessed that she was about thirty years old, but she was trying to look older. She wore a plain business suit and her red hair was pulled back into a large, severe bun. When she was standing in front of him he saw that she wore no jewelry and very little makeup. Maggie Ferguson certainly wasn’t ugly, but McKenna was sure that she could be very attractive whenever she wanted to be. Her red hair was offset by the greenest eyes he had ever seen.
Ferguson offered her hand, gave him a businesslike smile, and said, “A pleasure to meet you, Detective McKenna.”
In one day McKenna had learned to recognize the strange Northern accent, and it was there in a voice he thought familiar. But he couldn’t be absolutely certain, so he just nodded as he shook her hand. “Would you follow me, please? I’m sure I’ll be able to squeeze you in to see the minister straightaway,” she said, and McKenna did, following and concentrating on her hair as she walked. He was certain that she had enough hair in that bun to reach past her waist if she undid it.
When they were halfway across the courtyard, McKenna said, “I was going to keep your cap as a souvenir, but I’d be happy to return it.”
She stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. McKenna had expected shock or fear to register on her face, but all he got was a lilting smile. “Don’t bother, Detective McKenna. You can keep your souvenir with my compliments. It’s quite an old cap, isn’t it?”
What kind of confusing mess is this? McKenna wondered. O’Bannion’s secretary and Rollins’s spy in the Ministry of Finance is really Martin McGuinn’s IRA secret agent? It’s gonna take me a while to get to the bottom of this situation, if I’m even gonna try. “What was O’Bannion’s reaction to my visit?” he asked.
“We’ll both find that out, won’t we? He doesn’t know you’re here yet. It should be quite an unpleasant surprise for him.”
Ferguson’s small smile had spread ear to ear. She’s really enjoying this, McKenna saw. Wouldn’t it be a bad career move for her to bring me in to see her boss, unannounced and without warning? The answer soon came to him. Under normal circumstances, of course it would. But not now. She knows that O’Bannion is not long for this world and it looks like she isn’t bothered at all by his imminent demise. “You really hate him, don’t you?” he asked.
“Of course he doesn’t know, but I surely do. You’ll probably hate him yourself in a few minutes.”
“What’s he like?”
“He thinks himself the grandest, smartest man in all the world and I want to be there when he finds out that he’s not.” That was all the information Ferguson was willing to impart for the moment. She turned and resumed walking.
McKenna followed her into the building and up a staircase to the second floor. It was a trip that took much longer than it should have. Ferguson was obviously well liked and she stopped to talk to many of the people they passed in the building on their way to O’Bannion’s office. She introduced Det. Brian McKenna of the New York City Police Department to everyone she talked to, always mentioning that McKenna was on his way to speak to the minister on some official matter.
They were all civil servants and knew that when Ferguson said official matter, then no further questions were to be asked. Still, McKenna could see that she left everyone wondering, with their curiosities whetted. For her own reasons, she was cranking up the pressure on her boss. There would be plenty of talk, questions would be asked, and rumors were forming right before his eyes.
The office of the Republic’s minister for finance was just as impressive as McKenna had expected, inside and out. The heavy mahogany double doors were at the end of the long, wide marble-lined second-floor corridor. Another constable stood outside. He smiled and respectfully tipped his hat to Ferguson, then opened the door to admit her and McKenna. Just inside was a large waiting room adorned with the standing portraits of men who McKenna guessed had been ministers for finance before O’Bannion. The room was vacant except for a receptionist sitting behind her desk in front of another set of mahogany doors. She looked quizzically at McKenna as Ferguson led him past her and through the second set of doors, but she said nothing.
Inside was Ferguson’s office with a third set of mahogany doors at the far end. She went directly to those doors and stood there while McKenna looked around and tried to put his thoughts in order.
Ferguson’s office was large, neat, and tastefully appointed. There was a row of books and bound budgets in a mahogany bookcase lining one wall, and mahogany-framed charts illustrating government deficits, spending and revenue projections, and tourism figures adorned the other walls. The file cabinets under the charts were also mahogany and so was Ferguson’s desk. On it was a PC, a telephone, a large vase containing a dozen roses, and nothing else. Placed at a right angle to her desk was another smaller one with a fax machine, a printer, and a copy machine on top.
McKenna could see that Ferguson was efficient in her job. The furniture glistened with polish, there wasn’t a scrap of paper out of place in the office, and he guessed that her desk always looked as if she was done for the day.
“Ready?” Ferguson asked, then raised her hand to knock on the door.
“Wait a minute,” McKenna insisted. “Aren’t you going to at least call him to let him know I’m here?”
“No.”
“Then how are you going to explain this unannounced visit after I’m gone?”
“Easy. Besides being the minister for finance, Mr. O’Bannion is basically a politician with constituents from his district and important visitors from America in and out of here all day long for quick, impromptu meetings. Most of them amount to nothing more than a greeting
and a photo of them shaking the minister’s hand. I place a memo in the top right-hand drawer of his desk every morning that lists his visitors for the day, but he’s a very busy man and hardly ever looks at it. Fridays are usually especially busy days for him and this one’s been no different.”
“And my name is on that list of today’s visitors?”
“Yes, and I predict that, right after you leave, for once he’ll look very carefully at that list.”
“Won’t he think that you should have told him I was coming?”
“Sure he will, but I forgot. He knows that I’ve been sick all day long.”
“Have you been sick?” McKenna asked, knowing the answer.
“Never felt better. Now stand next to me. I want to be able to see his face when he first sees you.”
McKenna did as he was told. Ferguson rapped twice on the door, then turned to McKenna and smiled. “By the way, he also keeps a pistol in the same drawer as the visitors list.” Then she opened both doors inward.
Ferguson’s office was large, but O’Bannion’s was positively expansive and exquisitely furnished in the same Old World mahogany style, complete with mahogany floor-to-ceiling paneling. On the left was a large conference table with seating for twelve and on the right were two leather Chesterfield sofas and two matching armchairs arranged around a large, low table.
O’Bannion was seated behind his large desk at the far end of the room in his shirtsleeves with his feet propped up on an ottoman as he talked on the phone. He gave Ferguson and McKenna no more than a cursory glance, then waved his hand to acknowledge their presence before he resumed his phone conversation in hushed tones.
It’s obvious that, once again, the minister has neglected to read his visitors list, McKenna thought as he stood in the doorway next to Ferguson, waiting and studying O’Bannion. He figured that the minister was somewhere in his fifties. Like Ferguson, he was very thin and his hair was his most distinguishing feature. It was thick, silver, and curly in an unruly way. With his thick mane, O’Bannion reminded McKenna of an old lion—regal, thin, and wiry, but still with some fight and bite left in him.