The man looked at the young woman with a tinge of relief. It was nice to talk to somebody who could understand the root of his hatred.
“This Charity is clever. It’s a network of contacts they sometimes call ‘cells’ disbursed in different types of businesses sprinkled around the US. What assignment are they going to give you?”
“Um, they want me to learn about their different, er, assignments to see what I’m best suited for.”
Sarge nodded his head. “They won’t use you for the real heavy missions. At least not yet. They’ll most likely use you as a plant in one of their targeted businesses. You need to get inside and see how it works. You could pose as their accountant or other trusted advisor or even a receptionist—anything that would give you access to inside information. Then you’ll help siphon off funds and transfer them to designated accounts.”
“Directly to the Charity? That doesn’t seem safe.”
“Of course not. No funds transferred would go directly from any business to the Charity. That would be too easy to trace in the event that the embezzlement was discovered. Each transfer must be made into at least a half dozen other accounts, sometimes splitting into two or more amounts before finally landing in the ‘home’ account. If they are discovered, our own lawyers will be used for both the prosecution and the defense.”
“I’m a little overwhelmed at how many contacts the Charity has. I guess that’s good news if I ever got caught.”
“Oh yes. You’d be taken care of. Any soldier’s family receives a ‘battle stipend’ until the soldier is freed from custody. The ‘donations,’ as the money obtained from the businesses is called, are used for these payments to the troops. Most of the donations are transferred out of the US and used by our resistance fighters. The soldiers are well protected. Until recently, everyone got very light sentences.”
“Recently? What happened?”
“Well, I heard there was some hot shot lawyer in Boston who’s trying to prove himself or something. He’s going for the harsh sentences on some of the soldiers who worked in the targeted businesses.”
“Owen Shea?”
“Yes. That’s the name.”
“Are you s-still an active soldier?”
This was the point Sarge was waiting for. It was his moment of glory. “No. I was part of the elite core. I never did the grunt’s work of stealing funds; I did the reconnaissance for businesses and conducted the ‘Hearts and Minds’ campaigns.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“First, we would do what we could without the owner’s knowledge. Misdirected shipments or funds may go unnoticed for a few weeks or months. Always, I would try to find business owners that were sympathetic to our cause. It would make it so much easier to raise donations for the Charity like that. But sometimes, people just would not cooperate. It was up to me to convince them.”
The chill that sped up Jessica’s spine returned. She tried to shake it off with a twisting motion of her shoulders. Even if she wanted to, she could not get up and run from the diner. Her legs had become too rubbery with emotion and fear.
She tried to keep her voice steady. “How did you do that?”
“Well, the owners of the businesses were too valuable to us to harm. If anything happened to them, there was a risk that the running of the business would be passed on to someone else. So, of course, we targeted the families.” Sarge beamed at his listener. He liked the look of shock on her face. “Many of the plans that were executed were my idea. I performed well for the Charity and was rewarded for my loyalty.”
“When working with the business wasn’t enough, you went after them directly?”
He continued his story. “Americans were such a trusting lot of people. For the most part, they still are. They could never imagine acts of terrorism or hatred happening on their soil. It was incredibly easy thirty years ago or so to get someone to cooperate with our vision. A car accident, a mugging, a well-timed cluster of legal problems all followed with a phone call or visit explaining what was happening to them won many hearts. No one wanted their loved ones hurt. I grabbed their hearts. Their minds quickly followed.”
“Is that why your family disowned you?” Jessica’s head bent downward. She did not want him to read the expression of hatred in her own eyes.
“Yes. It was the cause of much pain for me. But I had to do what I did for the honor of my father and mother, so that they did not die for nothing. My wife never said what she thought of my work. She was well cared for and tended a loving household. My children never forgave me for what I did to other children.”
“Other children?” The words rang in her head. “You killed children for the Charity?” Her heart began to pound steadily in her chest.
“Kill? Oh, no, no. Never intentionally. Sometimes an owner would be more stubborn than most. No amount of intimidation would work. Some foolish men even went to the authorities. Of course, we were way ahead of them. Like you said, we have contacts everywhere. When they thought they were talking to a sympathetic ear of the law, they were talking to the Charity. Only after they took such drastic measures would we go to a last resort. With our contacts in hospitals, it was easy to make our point.”
She swallowed hard. “What are you saying?”
“It only takes a couple of minutes of no oxygen to harm a young brain.” Sarge smiled.
Jessica had never felt the chill of evil so clearly in all of her life. The man repulsed her. It took her several minutes to regain control. She dared not to move, for if she did, at that moment she would have killed him.
“Don’t look so shocked! Each and every one of those children was well cared for. Think of it. The family needed money to care for their child. They probably had other children they were desperate to keep safe. The Charity even made contributions to institutions that cared for some of these children. None of the infants knew what happened to them, and most of the children themselves were numbly happy the rest of their days. It was the parents we wanted to harm. That got results.”
Erin’s face smiled before her eyes. The truth of what she was hearing was being forced out of her mind. It was too horrible to even consider. What kind of animal would harm an infant like that?
“And the Charity told you to do that?”
“No. They just wanted a certain family or a certain business. It was up to me to make it happen.” He sat back in the booth with a proud and self-important air. “That was my idea. It got results every time.”
“So, if you were so valuable to the Charity, why are you living on the streets?” Jessica barely hid the derisive tone of her voice.
Sarge glowered at the insolent woman. Couldn’t she see the glory of his schemes? He caught himself. It was not the girl he was angry at. “The Charity betrayed me and they’ll betray you too if you work for them out of ideology instead of money.”
“Tell me about that.” The complete revulsion she felt for the man and what he did would not stop her from finding out as much information as she could.
“They told me my goals were their goals. That all they wanted was to help their brothers and sisters unite Ireland and free it from British influence. I gave them my life for that goal, and they let me believe their tales. Every soldier I spoke with shared the same dream, same drive. We were all bound by the blood of our fathers to make their dreams a reality. I must have been the first to dissent.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was aware of all of this money being channeled through the home account. It was millions of dollars. But I was still hearing news reports about the ‘struggling’ movement of the IRA. I began to question where the money was going and how it was being used. Well, any questioning of the old man’s authority was tantamount to treason. It wasn’t long before I was sidelined by them. No one leaves the Charity alive, so you should think carefully about your involvement now.”
“‘Sidelined’?”
“Being ‘sidelined’ means I will be kept in their ‘reserves,’ destined to forever be silent or they’ll go after my own family. My past years of service keep them honor bound not to kill me. Besides, they know if I ever surface to the authorities, I would never talk because I could never be sure that I was not talking to another soldier. I have never voiced my suspicions again until today. But let me tell you this,” he leaned forward and jabbed a gnarled finger at Jessica’s nose. “History tells the truth. The Charity stopped being about freedom and started being about greed and power. Just look at what has recently happened. Sinn Fein, the political party of the IRA, is about to enter negotiations with the British Government after a cease-fire for nearly a year and a half. All of this says that the need for more money to buy guns or explosives or to train recruits is much less.”
“So the Charity is reducing its, er, its operations?”
“Do you think a lack of need for money has stopped the old man? No!” He spat out the words in disgust. “I know he is still raising and channeling funds. We should ask why! There’s no need for arms when a cease-fire is in effect! I believe the money is staying with him and with a select few men who make money on the wars of others. Think about it. We’re being told that the IRA feels that laying down their arms is an act of surrender. If we all believe that it’s only a matter of time before they act again then we keep our cells intact and continue our efforts to fill the coffers.”
Jessica sat back in the booth with a heavy sigh. She had no reason to believe this man, but she had no reason to doubt him either. So much of what he said fit into the information she already knew. But this wild conspiracy stuff was too foreign to her. She had to talk to Shea. The waitress was motioned over and dutifully scribed an order for several large sandwiches and drinks to go. Sarge looked at her expectantly.
“Hey, Sarge,” her voice thinned in its effort for control, “That’s a pretty incredible story you’ve told me, but how do I know it’s all true?”
A look of respect crept into the older man’s eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to believe the rantings of a homeless man.” He rolled up his sleeve. The outline of a broken clover could be seen in faint black lines on his left forearm. “At each step up the command ladder, a soldier earns a mark. The highest rank goes to those men who had the shamrock, dagger, and all three drops of blood. Just like what’s on the lighter.”
She remembered that the mark Granger had was not complete. He must still be at the lower ranks. “So, what does that all mean?”
“The divided shamrock represents the divided motherland, the dagger is the force of the British Empire and the drops of blood are the men, women, and children who have died for the cause.”
The lump of the lighter pressed into her thigh through her jeans’ pocket. Jessica thought of the times she saw the mark—on the man who killed Gus and her family and tried to kill her and the carvings on the mantel piece in what used to be her home. Whatever guilt she had felt about the deaths in her life faded in this moment of clarity.
“Would you ever want to get back at the Charity for twisting your dreams?”
Ah, she understood. “I have thought many hours about how I would do just that. But I fear the death at the hands of the First Officer. I have seen his work, and I won’t risk being caught by them. So long as I stay out of sight and impotent, I am safe.”
“I’ve heard some rumors, but what do you think is happening with the Charity now?”
Sarge leaned back in the booth and stretched out his legs. “Ah. That is the most interesting question. The old man, the Chairman, wants to step down, but he does not trust anyone to take over from him. He is a firm believer that only a son will do. He had two to choose from. Both were raised to respect the tie of blood and duty above all else.”
She found it strangely incongruous that a man who would condone the killing and maiming of children would covet his own connections to family. “What can you tell me about his family?”
The set of white teeth again flashed at her. “Fate has a way of dealing with evil. About twelve years ago, the Chairman’s younger son orchestrated the death of the oldest son, the heir, by rigging unstable gel-ignite to explode during a bombing preparation. Then the young lad disappeared. The knowledge that one son killed another drove his wife insane and she drowned herself in the ocean.” Sarge pursed his lips as he remembered the tragedy. “I don’t think the old man has ever recovered from the shock. Like me, he will do anything to secure the loyalty of a family member. No loyalty. No life.”
Jessica could feel the deep loathing building inside for the vermin before her. He would pay for what he did, but he would help her with her mission first. She had to get everything in place before she took what she needed from him.
“Take these sandwiches, Sarge. Is there anything else you need?”
“No. I’m fine, Siobhan. This is my home now, and I have all I need.”
She stood up and looked at the old man. “I’m coming back for you, Sarge.”
The fading soldier looked at the food neatly wrapped before him. His eyes misted at her generosity. “Godspeed, Siobhan.”
A few snow flurries stuck to her face as she walked down the street.
“With all due respect, Sheriff, I am finding this just a little hard to believe.” Commissioner Donald Davenport looked at the documents spread out along his desktop. The police commissioner was an athletic man in his mid-fifties who still liked his hair in a buzz cut and wore suits tailored to a uniform’s perfection. His shirt was an expensive cotton weave and tie was striped silk. A long-time friend of the mayor of Boston, many people felt he received the coveted position of Police Commissioner of Boston Area Precincts on the merits of friendship alone. However, his nearly six years of stellar work proved even his most vocal opponents wrong. Still Michael hoped he would get what looked like fair treatment from this man.
“I can appreciate that, sir. But if what I’m saying to you is completely wrong, no harm would be done by reopening the case. If I’m right, then that’s the only prudent course of action.” Michael sat back in his chair. This meeting had lasted far longer than he anticipated. The elegant brass clock on the mahogany credenza chimed three times, indicating that two hours had passed. Commissioner Davenport was the fifth person he had spoken with that day. No one else was confident enough or possessed enough power to make the call to reopen the case by themselves. The request got booted up the ladder. The answer would come from the commissioner.
“Let’s just summarize what you’ve told me,” Commissioner Davenport said as he perused the documents and photographs before him. “You initially identified the suspect after several unusual occurrences forced her to confess to the murder of Gus Adams and disappear. A friend of yours, Mrs. Lavielle, allowed you to tap her phone and set up surveillance. When the suspect called to check on her horses, Mrs. Lavielle traced the number to Concord, New Hampshire and recorded the conversation. Being just over one hour’s drive from Boston, you assumed that this fugitive, one Jessica Wyeth, was in town again.”
Michael grew impatient at the hundredth reiteration of the facts even though he knew it was a standard interrogation practice used by police to catch the interview subject in inconsistencies. He had to keep sharp. Forcing patience into his demeanor he replied, “I want to use all available methods to help in tracking her down. Having a co-operative relationship with the local police will help tremendously.” He held his tongue not to say that this way, two armies of eyes would be looking for the needle in the haystack.
“Reopening a seven-year-old murder case when the prime suspect was thought to have been dead is not an easy task. Your research on the case, the photographs and detailed background sketches on both Jessica Wyeth and Tess White, are compelling. The photographs alone are enough to prove that there is sufficient evidence that they are one and the same person. The background profiles supp
ort your conclusion just in the event that anyone could doubt their own eyes.”
“Yes. Exactly. I do not want to relinquish my position as the lead investigative officer in this matter and make that a stipulated condition of bringing forth new evidence. Professional courtesy from cross-jurisdictional lines should allow that all information would flow through me. That way, I will know everything about the case at any given time and still maintain communication and control over the officers that do not directly report to me.” Michael knew that in the politically astute climate of Boston, he had to be very careful about whom he spoke with and how. “Frankly, Commissioner, I don’t want any cowboys taking this story to the press before I am good and ready. This is the kind of sensational case that could make a career. We have to be very careful how we handle this.”
“Very well,” Commissioner Davenport reviewed the documents one last time. He replaced the photographs on the desk, took off his glasses and leaned across the desk when he spoke, all actions calculated to give off the greatest impression of power. “You can count on having all police files at your disposal. We will issue an APB with the most recent photographs and background you have here. All officers will be briefed at their roll calls in the morning. The notification will also span to the surrounding states, especially in light of the traced phone call. You will have immediate notification of any and all information on the suspect. Please let it be clear that this enforcement body will not supply you with designated officers, detectives or inspectors to help you with your investigation. On that front, you are on your own until you develop substantive leads. After an evaluation of the new evidence of her whereabouts, we may assign you support, subject to our approval only.”
Michael sat back and listened to the conditions. It was not all that he wanted, but it would do. “And what about prosecution?”
“I’m sure the AG’s office will concur with our opinion to reopen. In fact, if I recall correctly, the attorney general himself, Owen Shea, was on the investigative team of the murder when he was a junior detective. He’ll be intrigued with what you have to say. The papers dubbed this Wyeth woman the Murdering Heiress, so I’m sure he’ll have no difficulty in reopening this case. Rumor has it he may make a run for the Governor’s seat next year. The publicity would help him out of his office on Ashburton Place and move up to a bigger one on Beacon Hill.”
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