Once In, Never Out

by Dan Mahoney

  “Oh, no. Back then, I wouldn’t have told them about any of O’Bannion’s work for the movement. It was just economic stuff I gave them, but they were happy just the same. We’re rivals for the tourist trade, so they’re quite interested in our economy.”

  “Then why did you tell them about his connection to the Iceland bombing?”

  “Because Martin wanted me to after I told him about O’Bannion and Iceland.”

  Now here’s a twist, McKenna thought. She still reports to McGuinn and he tells her to feed O’Bannion to their enemy, the British. Why? To distance themselves from the Iceland bombing, of course, but there has to be more to it than that. These people don’t surrender one another to the British over internal politics.

  Their main courses arrived, giving McKenna some time to think while they ate. He came up with some answers, but another big question. O’Bannion’s a thorn in the side of Adams and McGuinn, executing unauthorized bombings, starting his own faction, killing British politicians they need, and generally screwing up their peace negotiations, McKenna reasoned. But he’s an important man in the South and he shouldn’t be up for a simple hit. Besides, like Mulrooney, O’Bannion’s brother is one of their martyrs, so knocking him off would divide their movement. So they feed him to the Brits for some action, hoping he’ll be disgraced and maybe even prosecuted. Then, when everything’s going according to their plan, they decide to kill him anyway. Why do that now?

  No faith in me or the Brits to do our jobs, McKenna thought, but only for a moment. Then it came to him. He put his fork down and stared at Ferguson until she did the same. “O’Bannion’s death is gonna look like a suicide, isn’t it?”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling at him as if he were one of the slow kids. “We couldn’t just gun down the Republic’s minister for finance, now could we?”

  “Is that why you paraded me around the ministry today, telling everyone you could about me being there to see him on some mysterious official business?”

  “That’s exactly why. Word travels fast, and we wanted to make sure that some people knew he was under pressure. They’ll all be talking after his suicide and everyone knows that you’re working on the Iceland bombing. They’ll reach the correct conclusion and it’ll look like O’Bannion couldn’t stand the pressure.”

  “Tell me how it’s going to be done,” McKenna insisted.

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “I have to know. I didn’t want to talk to your police about O’Bannion’s murder and I knew they’d want to talk to me, so I’ve made plans to leave for Belfast tonight. If your suicide plan sounds good enough to me, I’ll save myself some problems and leave for New York from here.”

  Ferguson considered McKenna’s request for a moment before she answered. “He’s going to shoot himself with his own pistol in his mistress’s flat tonight. He goes there every Friday night after his club meeting at the Old Belvedere Rugby Club. We have people there now, waiting inside for him with his pistol.”

  “How did they get in?”

  “It’s my old flat. I gave them the key and also his pistol. I took his gun from his desk after he left.”

  “What about his girlfriend?”

  “She won’t be there when he arrives.”

  “How do you know?” McKenna asked.

  “Because we’re friends and we have a lot in common. We had a few drinks together at O’Donoghue’s Pub right before I came here. We trashed O’Bannion a bit and she drank more than I did. By now, she should have had a minor traffic accident on her way home.”

  “She’s in jail?” McKenna guessed.

  “I’m sure. The other car was driven by an American tourist who will have insisted that she be arrested for driving under the influence. The laws here are quite strict on that, so she’s not going to make it home on time tonight.”

  “This woman is your friend?”

  “Yes, and I feel bad about that part of the plan. She doesn’t know she’s making this sacrifice for the movement, but it’s necessary.”

  McKenna thought that he had manipulated McGuinn, but Ferguson just made it clear to him that it was he who had been manipulated, and quite well. It was McGuinn who had made sure that he was at the ministry to see O’Bannion that day, Friday, the day O’Bannion went to see his girlfriend.

  But the plan was Ferguson’s, McKenna was sure. He examined it for flaws and found none. The only thing that could go wrong was that the IRA assassins could be seen either entering or leaving the flat, but McKenna considered that unlikely. If a public figure like O’Bannion had been able to slip in and out of there for years, the entrance must be protected from view. The police will be so busy handling the scandal generated by the minister for finance shooting himself in his girlfriend’s flat that they won’t even think of talking to me for days. “I guess I’ll be staying in Dublin tonight.”

  Ferguson took it as a compliment. “Thank you.”

  “I’m still not clear on a few things. What were you doing in Belfast on Tuesday night?”

  “Visiting my husband. He was the one driving the van when we picked you up and I thought it would be fun to go along.”

  “Didn’t you think I’d recognize you today?”

  “No, I guess I didn’t. But that really makes no difference now, does it?”

  “I guess you realize that you’re gonna be out of a job tomorrow, don’t you?”

  “Not out of a job. I’ll simply be reassigned to another office after I’m questioned by the police.”

  “I bet you’ll have quite a bit to tell them,” McKenna guessed.

  “Sure will. After I talk to the police, they might not think it necessary to talk to you. I’m going to rake O’Bannion’s name through the mud and I’m sure Inspector Rollins will be happy to help.”

  Even though she’s arranged his death, her hatred of O’Bannion is going to follow him past the grave. Even that old woman-scorned theory doesn’t account for this much hatred, McKenna thought. There has to be more. “I guess you don’t share O’Bannion’s politics,” he tried.

  “I surely don’t,” Ferguson said, obviously surprised that McKenna would even ask the question. “While Martin and Gerry Adams are working to stop the killing, O’Bannion has been using every sneaky trick he could think of to keep it going. Because of him and his ambition, it’s possible that many more are going to die.”

  “Possible?” McKenna asked, surprised at Ferguson’s choice of words. “You think there’s still a chance for peace?”

  “With O’Bannion gone, it’s possible there can be peace of a sort. Concessions will have to be made by both sides, but maybe the time is right. It’s been going on too long.”

  “I don’t know,” McKenna said. “From what I’ve seen and heard, I don’t believe those Protestants would ever agree to unification with the South.”

  “Maybe they’re right. But maybe this island can contain two countries living in peace, side by side.”

  McKenna was shocked that the IRA soldier sitting across the table from him would ever even consider such an idea. “Wouldn’t that idea be considered dangerous blasphemy by your comrades?” he asked.

  “By some of them, but not by Martin McGuinn and Gerry Adams. They’re sensible people and they now realize that the idea of a united Ireland just isn’t possible. It’s a great idea to threaten the Prods with and bring them around, but it just isn’t possible. I’m not a great thinker, and even I know that.”

  McKenna disagreed. Anyone who could put the O’Bannion plan together was a pretty sharp thinker, as far as he was concerned. “What brings you to that conclusion?” he asked.

  “Simple. I’ve been living in the South for years now and I know that the people here don’t really want us. Of course, when they’re thinking with their hearts, they say they want a united Ireland. But when they think with their heads, they know they really don’t. Ireland is a fairly prosperous, peaceful country, a country where the cops don’t even carry guns. Why would we want t
o annex another country that’s home to a million and a half crazy, angry Prods and where forty percent of the people are on the dole? That’s the question they ask themselves in private.”

  They finished their dinners in silence, each lost in thought. While waiting for the check, McKenna had one more question. He hesitated before asking it because he feared the answer. But he had to know for sure. “Where is your husband tonight?”

  “Sitting in a nice flat in Old Belvedere, waiting to put a bullet into the head of Mr. Timothy O’Bannion.”

  It was the answer McKenna had expected. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’ll admit that I’m curious, so I’m going to pass by my old flat to see if my husband has done his duty yet.”

  That was an answer McKenna hadn’t expected. After paying the check, he walked Ferguson to her car parked a block from the hotel. They formally shook hands and she drove off to check on the progress of her murderous plans.

  It had turned chilly and McKenna was dressed only in his suit, but the cold outside didn’t bother him as much as the cold he felt inside. He felt a need to clear his head, so he took a walk through the deserted city center.

  Twenty-Five

  McKenna woke up the next morning, called room service, and ordered coffee and a newspaper. When the waiter arrived carrying the tray, McKenna had him place it on the table and signed the check, adding a good tip. The newspaper was folded and McKenna poured himself a cup of coffee. Then he sat down to read.

  The headline shocked him. Even the best-laid plans can go awry, sometimes with horrifying results. The headline screamed that truth.

  TIMOTHY O’BANNION DEAD

  MINISTER FOR FINANCE KILLS SECRETARY AND HIMSELF

  McKenna read on without touching his coffee. According to the article, O’Bannion had been waiting for Ferguson outside her building. Neighbors stated that when Ferguson came home at 11:15 P.M. a loud argument in the street ensued between O’Bannion and her, with each accusing the other of treachery. O’Bannion took a pistol from his belt and fired two shots into Ferguson’s chest. He then turned the gun on himself and fired a single shot into his head. Both were dead by the time the Garda arrived.

  The article stated that Ferguson had worked for O’Bannion for fifteen years and persons contacted at the Ministry of Finance described their relationship as “close.” These same people stated that they believed Mr. O’Bannion was under some pressure at work, but the article didn’t disclose the nature of that pressure.

  O’Bannion was survived by his wife Margaret, age fifty-three, and a son, age thirty-one. Efforts were being made to locate and contact Ferguson’s relatives in Northern Ireland.

  McKenna’s name wasn’t mentioned in the article, but he knew that made no difference. By now, the Garda certainly knew of his visit to O’Bannion. A major scandal was brewing in the Irish press and the investigation of the circumstances leading to O’Bannion’s and Ferguson’s deaths would be exhaustive.

  McKenna tried to imagine the reasons Ferguson’s plan had backfired so tragically. He came up with three possible scenarios. The most likely was that O’Bannion didn’t buy that nonsense with the visitors list. When Ferguson hadn’t told him of McKenna’s impending visit, he suspected that it was she who had blown the whistle on him to the Brits and set McKenna on his trail.

  Another scenario could be that O’Bannion had discovered that his pistol was missing from his desk drawer. Being a practiced conspirator himself, he might have seen the implications of the theft. Again, Ferguson would be the person with whom he would want to talk about it. Unfortunately for her, that wasn’t the only pistol O’Bannion owned.

  The third possible scenario was the most painful one. It was possible that O’Bannion, after delivering the message to the Conrad Hilton, had then hung around the bar and had seen Ferguson arrive. It wouldn’t take him long to put two and two together when McKenna met her for dinner.

  In any event, despite his assurances to O’Bannion that everything would be fine as long as he gave up Mulrooney’s location, McKenna now realized that O’Bannion had considered his life over. The possibility of disgrace must have loomed large in his mind, but there was something else that probably had depressed him more. His visit had convinced O’Bannion that there was nowhere else for him to go in life—no new mountains to climb and no higher position to seek. For a man with O’Bannion’s all-consuming ambition, that was the worse news of all. He had decided to end it all and take the cause of his misery with him.

  McKenna phoned Brunette at home and gave him the depressing news. “You think O’Bannion was planning suicide when he went to Ferguson’s house?” Brunette asked.

  McKenna had expected the question and knew what Brunette was thinking. “I can’t be sure, of course, but that’s the way it looks to me,” he answered. “You wondering why he gave me the information on Mulrooney before he did himself in?”

  “I have to wonder. Suppose he decided to have the last laugh on you by setting up a wild goose chase here.”

  “I considered that, but I don’t think so. When I told O’Bannion about the things Mulrooney was doing while working for him, he was genuinely shocked. He saw the end for himself, but I think he wanted to clean up his place in history as best he could by helping us get Mulrooney.”

  “Maybe you even got to his conscience, if he had one,” Brunette suggested.

  “That’s a stretch, but maybe.”

  “Okay. I’m gonna spend money and manpower here on the assumption O’Bannion wasn’t bullshitting you,” Brunette said. The two men then talked strategy for half an hour. After hanging up, McKenna had two cups of coffee before he showered, dressed, packed, and sat down to await the arrival of the Garda.

  At ten o’clock Rollins called. “I hear your visit there caused quite a fuss,” he said.

  “It’s been trying,” McKenna admitted.

  “I suspect it’s going to be quite trying for me as well. I’m being recalled to London for consultation.”

  “Are you going to get any trouble out of this?”

  “I doubt it. My dealings with you concerning O’Bannion have been approved at the highest levels. Have you spoken to the Garda yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I must admit that it would help me tremendously in my dealings with my superiors if I knew what you were going to tell them.”

  McKenna did and Rollins was reasonably satisfied by the time he hung up. McKenna was also satisfied that he had gotten through the conversation without having to mention his meeting with McGuinn or the IRA’s plan for O’Bannion. Just as well, he thought. In this new state of affairs, those are probably things Rollins wouldn’t want to know about.

  The Garda arrived at 10:30 A.M. in the person of Senior Investigating Constable Padrick O’Dougherty. He was a stocky, well-dressed man who appeared to be too young to have such an impressive title. Everything about him led McKenna to believe that he would be dealing, unfortunately, with a sharp piece of work.

  After showing his credentials and introducing himself, O’Dougherty immediately began justifying McKenna’s suspicions. His eyes swept the room, pausing briefly on the newspaper open on the table and on the packed suitcases on the bed. “I see I don’t have to explain the reason for my visit,” he said.

  “No, I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Are you returning to New York today?”

  “Twelve o’clock flight. I have to be leaving for the airport soon.”

  “This shouldn’t take too long. Would you mind answering a few questions?”

  “That depends. Will anything I tell you appear in the press?” McKenna asked.

  “Mr. McKenna, I can only tell you that I won’t be giving it to them, but in a case like this I can’t guarantee anything. The whole government’s shaking and the press is very interested. I can’t tell you exactly what will be in the press release my superiors issue.”

  McKenna didn’t like a few things about O’Dougherty’s reply. First was call
ing him “Mr. McKenna,” not “Brian” or “Detective McKenna.” It was to be an adversarial interview and not a case of one cop talking to another. He also didn’t like the fact that, in so many words, O’Dougherty had warned him that everything he said would probably end up in the press, eventually. “Suppose I don’t want to tell you anything at this point?” McKenna asked.

  McKenna got his first hint of a smile from O’Dougherty. “Then I might try telling you that you won’t be making your flight today. But you wouldn’t believe that, would you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Then what I will tell you is that, if you don’t answer my questions, all bets are off. I will immediately phone every newspaper in town and tell them that I tried to interview you, but that you were uncooperative and refused to answer any questions. After I do that, I imagine that every reporter in New York will be waiting for you at the airport with the exact questions I want to ask you.”

  McKenna decided that it was an evil smile. “Let’s sit down and make ourselves comfortable,” he said, then led O’Dougherty to the table. Both men took seats, sitting across the table from each other. “Fire away,” McKenna said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Ask your questions.”

  O’Dougherty did, starting off with the big one in a monotone voice. “What was the purpose of your visit to Mr. O’Bannion at the Ministry of Finance yesterday?”

  “I was there to get from him the location and name of the person who planted the bomb in Iceland that killed the British foreign secretary and his wife. I believe that the same man killed an Irish girl in Iceland named Meaghan Maher, which is the case I’m investigating.”

  “You’re not investigating the bombing?”

  “As I’ve said for the record during an interview in Iceland that I’m sure you’re aware of, I have no interest in the bombing except as to how it relates to the murder of Meaghan Maher. The bombing is a matter for the Icelandic and British authorities.”

  “What prompted you to ask our minister for finance about a man who committed a terrorist bombing in Iceland?”