by Dan Mahoney
“Which one?”
“Maybe Mrs. O’Reilly would be interested in learning what kind of a man her husband has for a cousin. Jack is doing pretty good in this country, so maybe we should offer him a chance to help us out before he gets in too deep.”
“I don’t know,” Sheeran said, shaking his head. “We’d be taking quite a chance ourselves on that one. I’d prefer to wait and grab Mulrooney when Jack delivers the kids.”
Should we? McKenna asked himself. Mulrooney’s desperate, on the move, meeting with his pals, and set to blow up something big. We’ve got most of the bases covered, but he can still ruin our plan by killing people and causing damage between now and then. What’s the right thing to do right now?
Sheeran’s sharp and in charge, so I should be playing his plan, McKenna decided. “You’re the boss,” he said.
“Really?” Sheeran answered, smiling and patting McKenna on the back. “Let’s try this one out. You tell me what you want done and that’s what I’ll recommend we do.”
That wasn’t what McKenna wanted to hear. He sat thinking and worrying until the helicopter landed at the Wall Street Heliport.
Mulrooney made no further calls from his cell phone that afternoon and none of the other wiretaps turned up anything of interest, so McKenna spent three hours at the office typing up his reports documenting his week’s activities. He had been a detective a long time and knew that his reports were always considered in the Detective Bureau to be respectable models of ambiguity. He documented most of the information he had obtained and every source except McGuinn, but was loose enough in his reports to leave himself some latitude if he would have to testify in the case.
McKenna thought that prospect unlikely. The next time Mulrooney saw the inside of a New York courtroom should be his last before he was dragged back to Iceland, but the reports would enter the public domain after the case was over and, by tradition and procedure, had to be compiled anyway.
Missing from his reports was the meeting with McGuinn, but all the information McKenna had learned from him was there with one exception—there was no mention made of the murders in Donegal. McKenna attributed the rest of McGuinn’s information to Maggie Ferguson, although it pained him to think that her death had certainly helped him write credibly through some of the hard parts in his reports. He mentioned nothing about the plot to kill O’Bannion and her part in it.
In short, on paper everything he and the NYPD had done was entirely legal and he had fulfilled all the deals that had brought him to that point. There were never any illegal wiretaps and no inside police knowledge of any nasty murder plots anywhere. All his good guys shone through as being very good and eminently believable and all his bad guys were indeed despicably bad.
McKenna brought his reports into Sheeran’s office. As was his custom with McKenna, Sheeran merely glanced at each report before signing it.
McKenna suddenly realized that he’d had enough for a while. He was depressed, worried, jet-lagged, and bone-tired. “If it’s all right with you, Inspector, I’m gonna give Pao a break. I’m going home.”
“Glad to hear it. Me, too.”
Twenty-Nine
Thanks to the Iceland Weekly, Mulrooney thought it fate that Frieda would be his. The newspaper was designed to stir foreign interest in the country as well as keep the many Icelandic émigrés working abroad informed on events at home. Mulrooney had found Iceland to be a pleasant but rather dull place and he had no intention of ever returning there, but he was one of the newspaper’s most dedicated readers. The coverage of the bombing in the recent issue was still extensive two weeks after the event, a fact that surprised and gratified Mulrooney. He attributed this focus to a lack of any other real news in the nation, but the issue contained a few bonuses for him; there was a feature article on Thor, one of his opponents.
After poring over the article, it was apparent to Mulrooney that this Thor was something of a national hero and the slant of the article was that as a matter of course, Thor would eventually bring the bomber to justice. Mulrooney was amused by this viewpoint, but he was also astonished to learn how much the small-time detective had uncovered. He had found the relay transmitter hidden in the chandelier of Room 530, he knew about Mulrooney’s escape by boat, and he had also firmly tied the death of Meaghan Maher to him. Mulrooney had thought that none of those things would have been discovered, but Thor had done it. He was intrigued by this Icelandic detective, and just as intrigued by his wife.
There was a photo of Frieda, and Mulrooney thought her to be a striking woman. The newspaper devoted a half page in telling her history, a woman who had elevated herself from obscure sleaze to the pinnacle of respectability in Iceland, a minister in the national church.
Frieda’s choice of husband and occupation had placed her squarely in the enemy’s camp, as far as Mulrooney was concerned. She was a Protestant minister married to the man who thought he was going to get him. As he read the article, Mulrooney thought it would be amusing to somehow turn the tables on Thor. Then fate dealt Mulrooney an ace. The end of the article listed all the countries Frieda had traveled to during her ministry and stated that she would be conducting services at the First Norwegian Church of Brooklyn on Sunday, March 15th, today, the very morning Mulrooney read the article. Fate, Mulrooney was sure. Of all the places in the world for her to be, she was in the very city he was in. He felt an inner need to take some action.
The first thing Mulrooney did was call the First Norwegian Church. He learned that Frieda had already conducted a service at 9:00 A.M., but she would also be conducting an evening service in Icelandic at seven-thirty. Perfect timing, as far as Mulrooney was concerned. He was parked a half block from the church when Frieda left the small parsonage at seven-fifteen, but he was in for two surprises.
The first surprise was Frieda herself. She was very tall, possibly six feet, and she carried herself erect with an almost-military march as she walked. Although she was dressed in a black clerical cassock, Mulrooney thought she looked more like a professional basketball player than a minister. She exuded an air of confidence, maybe even superiority, that Mulrooney found exciting and alluring. She was something different, but just what he needed at the moment. As he briefly relished her appearance, he found himself wondering how Frieda sounded when she whimpered.
As Mulrooney had expected, she was accompanied by another minister. He chatted away as they walked and Frieda merely nodded a few times to acknowledge his presence. Mulrooney was parked too far away to hear any of the conversation, but he was amused that the minister had to look up to talk to Frieda. What Mulrooney hadn’t expected was the second man. He was a giant, a full head taller than Frieda, but he formed no part of the conversation as he trailed behind Frieda and the minister. He was a watchful fellow, unsmiling, looking up and down the block as he walked. For reasons Mulrooney couldn’t fathom, Frieda had a bodyguard.
Mulrooney had originally intended to take in the service, but the presence of the bodyguard ruled out that course of action. He was bound to be noticed in the small church during a service conducted in a language he didn’t understand, and that wouldn’t do with a bodyguard around. So Mulrooney waited in his car during the service, thinking and wondering. Why did Frieda have a bodyguard? The only conclusion he could draw was that Thor knew more about him than had been reported in the press, which had to mean that McKenna knew more about him. How much more? he wondered, but didn’t waste much time worrying about it. Frieda would tell him.
The service ended at eight-thirty, and the first two people out the front door were Frieda and her bodyguard. The big man stood ten yards away from Frieda, watching, while she greeted the worshippers leaving the church. It seemed to Mulrooney that she knew many of them and they obviously held her in awe as they waited in line to speak with her. A few stopped to talk to the bodyguard, but he was a man of few words. His eyes never left Frieda as he barely acknowledged their greetings.
Mulrooney liked his style and relished the cha
llenge represented by the man. He had always thought that feats accomplished easily were hardly worth doing, but this Frieda affair was shaping up as a worthwhile project. His adrenaline was flowing as Frieda, the bodyguard, and the other minister returned to the parsonage.
The three were out again in fifteen minutes. The minister had changed into a suit, but the change in Frieda was dramatic. She was wearing jeans, penny loafers, white socks, and a fur jacket, and she had her blond hair in a ponytail. Mulrooney knew she had to be in her thirties, maybe even her forties, but she looked like a teenager to him—a very exciting teenager. She was the farthest thing from a minister he had ever seen and he found himself longing to see her bound, naked, terrified, and in pain.
There was a two-car garage separating the church from the parsonage and the minister went in to get the car, leaving Frieda and her bodyguard standing on the sidewalk. Mulrooney ducked under the dashboard as the bodyguard surveyed the street. Frieda was talking to him, but he appeared to be ignoring her as he concentrated on his surroundings. He opened the front passenger door for Frieda when the minister pulled up in the large Oldsmobile, took a final look around, and got into the backseat.
Mulrooney followed them at a prudent distance. Fortunately for him, there was enough traffic to enable him to stay at least three cars behind the Oldsmobile and he wasn’t noticed. The minister drove to Rizzo’s, a restaurant with its own parking lot, and the three entered as Mulrooney watched, parked a block away. They were out again just after ten o’clock and Mulrooney followed the Oldsmobile to the Harbor Lights Motel, a perfect location as far as he was concerned. The upscale motel was located near the service road of the Belt Parkway, it had its own parking lot, and judging from the number of cars parked there, it didn’t appear to be anywhere near full occupancy. He watched as the minister pulled away after dropping off Frieda and her bodyguard. She went into Room 137, the corner unit, while the bodyguard stood in front of Room 136, having a smoke.
Mulrooney parked in the lot of a shopping center a block away and returned in time to see the bodyguard enter Room 136.
The hotel clerk was at his desk at 4:30 A.M., enjoying a small snooze, when he felt something hard and metallic pressed against his forehead. He knew he was in real trouble even before he opened his eyes to stare at the man across the desk from him. When he did, his terror abated slightly. Though a large pistol with a silencer attached was at his head, the brute holding the gun and leaning across the desk was smiling and appeared to be congenial. The clerk had been robbed twice before during his ten years of working the night shift, but this man didn’t seem as bad as those other crack-crazed robbers.
“You feeling cooperative this morning?” Mulrooney asked.
“Especially cooperative, sir. The place is yours, anything you want.”
“Then this should be fairly easy for you. What’s your name?”
“Issac Markman.”
“Issac, I want you to give me the pass key, I want you to draw a diagram of Rooms 136 and 137, and I want you to give me your car keys. Would you do all that for me?”
“Anything. The pass key’s in the desk drawer in front of me,” Issac said without moving. “There’s a pen and paper in there, too.”
“That’s good for both of us.”
Five minutes later Issac attached a note to the front door of the office as Mulrooney watched. It read “Family Emergency—be back in two hours.” Issac turned out the lights and locked the office, then the two walked down the motel’s exterior walkway to Room 136. Mulrooney’s gun was out of sight, tucked into the front of his pants under his jacket, but that meant nothing to Issac. He knew the man could easily snap him in half.
Mulrooney returned the pass key to Issac and took out his gun again. “Open the door, Issac,” he ordered softly.
“I’m not going to do it if you’re going to kill them. I won’t be party to murder,” Issac whispered, trembling as he stared into Mulrooney’s eyes. “If you’re going to kill me, do it now.”
Mulrooney’s smile broadened as he measured the small man in front of him. “Issac, I’m not going to kill anyone unless I have to. I just need some information from them. Once I get it, I’m out of your hair and out of their hair.”
“Honest?” Issac asked, wanting to believe.
“Honest Injun. Let’s get this over with.”
Issac turned and inserted the key into the lock. He swung the door open as far as he could and everything was as Mulrooney had expected. The room was dark and the security chain was on.
Mulrooney suddenly gave Issac a hard shove from behind. The force broke the security chain, swung the door wide open, and propelled Issac into the room. There was a single gunshot, a muzzle flash, and Issac moaned as he fell to the floor.
From the door, Mulrooney fired three times at the source of the muzzle flash, his silenced pistol making more noise than he would have liked. Then he stood back, outside the room, and listened. The only sound he heard was Issac’s labored breathing. Without entering the room, he reached into it and turned on the lights. He was satisfied at the sight that greeted him as he peered in. Issac was on the floor, shot in his left side. The bodyguard was sitting up in bed, his revolver still in his hand, eyes open in surprise, and dead with three holes in his chest.
Mulrooney entered, shooting Issac in the head as he stepped over him. He stopped at the connecting door between Rooms 136 and 137, took another gun from his belt, stepped back, and kicked at the doorknob. The door swung open to reveal Frieda getting out of bed in the lighted room. Mulrooney was disappointed to note that she was wearing a flannel granny nightgown. He fired once and the tranquilizer dart lodged in her back. She tried to pull it out, but couldn’t reach it. She gave up and turned to face him, her eyes already glassing over.
“Lay down and don’t scream,” Mulrooney ordered, but she ignored him as she began to wobble. Mulrooney crossed the room and stood in front of her. She raised her hand to hit him, but the drug was taking effect and slowing her reflexes. He easily avoided the blow and pushed her onto the bed. He waited and watched. Within a minute, Frieda’s breathing became regular. Her eyes were open, but she was unconscious and would be for half an hour.
Mulrooney went outside and placed DO NOT DISTURB signs on the doorknobs of both rooms. He left the door of Room 137 slightly ajar, then walked across the street and waited. He was mildly concerned that someone might have heard the bodyguard’s shot, but after ten minutes he realized he had succeeded. No police. He whistled merrily as he walked to his car for his toolbox.
Thirty
MONDAY, MARCH 16TH—GREENWICH VILLAGE
McKenna was up with Angelita at 6:00 A.M., one minute after the twins had loudly announced that they were awake, hungry, and ready for a new day. McKenna was in synch with their feelings. He felt well rested, recharged, hungry, and ready to get back to work. But first came the chores.
After the morning routine of changing diapers, feeding, burping, vomiting, howling, feeding again, and changing diapers again was over, the twins decided that their father and mother had suffered just about enough for one session. The little devils went back to sleep, smiling and looking like angels in their bassinet.
Then Janine felt it was her turn to act up. Most of her toys and dolls had been left in the hotel and she had already filled all her coloring books with her artwork. She was bored and in a tizzy, feeling neglected and jealous of all the attention her new brothers had already received that morning, but Angelita knew how to deal with the situation. While McKenna made breakfast, Angelita sat with Janine in front of the TV, watching a PBS bilingual children’s show.
Everything’s going to be okay today, McKenna thought as he flipped flapjacks in the kitchen and listened. Janine was in the living room, squealing with delight as she watched her show. She had all the answers and knew all the words in both Spanish and English, and Angelita was being lavish in her praise of their smart little girl.
But McKenna was wrong. The day started going bad
when he went out for the papers after breakfast. The Post’s banner headline was MCKENNA DINES MATA HARI AND … He paid for the paper and stood in front of the newsstand, reading.
Maggie Ferguson, a cog in the Troubles during her life, had been transformed by the tabloids into a superspy by her death. It was her picture under the headline that gave McKenna his first inkling that he was in for another tough day. A tourist had been especially impressed by her looks and he had snapped a photo of her while she had been standing in the lobby of the Conrad Hilton waiting for McKenna. Unfortunately, he had turned out to be a photographer with a sensible touch of greed; he had sold his photo to the Belfast, Dublin, and London tabloids.
The Post had also gotten into the deal, and in a rare departure from its black-and-white format, ran the photo on the front page in full color as a U.S. exclusive. A file photo of McKenna’s face was placed as an inset in the corner of the Ferguson photo.
Maggie Ferguson had looked exceedingly beautiful in her sexy green dress in the last hours of her life. McKenna was certain that photo wasn’t going to play well at home, but after reading the article inside, he knew that would play even worse.
The British and Irish reporters had been working hard, delving deep, cashing in favors, and putting on the pressure—so much pressure that they had gotten both Martin McGuinn and the British minister for defense to admit that Maggie Ferguson had been one of their agents. McGuinn had stated that he had heard from one of his unnamed sources that Ferguson had been an IRA agent infiltrated into British Intelligence. On the other hand, the minister for defense had claimed the opposite. Maggie Ferguson had been a British agent inserted into the IRA.