by Paul Bishop
"Bit of a tall order, isn't it? Especially given the time frame we're talking about."
"It still has to be done."
Each of us glared at the other as if involved in some juvenile stare-down contest. Inside me, self-doubt battled with the loyalty and friendship toward a man I respected. Loyalty and friendship won. Easily.
There was a time, before the Sir became part of his name when I would have laid down my life for Adam Qwale. I had no doubt he still wouldn’t hesitate to give his for me. The respect and experiences that create such feelings are hard won. Once established, they are even harder to put aside. My explosion during the weekend before, when I'd thrown my brandy at him, was an exception—understandable only because my emotions had been on a raw edge.
I took a deep breath. "Tell me about the Ravens."
The muscles in Sir Adam's face relaxed. "Great! I knew you'd come around." Enthusiasm seemed to gush forth from him in electric waves. "The Ravens are part of the Brisbane family of sports franchises."
"Nina Brisbane's family?"
"Yes. Her father is Terranee Brisbane. Multimillionaire several times over. Irish to the core of his soul, though he's never set foot on the sacred soil. His great-grandfather emigrated to America and began to amass a fortune in the construction business. Grandfather Brisbane moved the fortune into distilleries and speakeasies, running booze and flappers during Prohibition like a low-profile Al Capone. Daddy Brisbane took the fortune out of the illegal rackets and into hotels, restaurants, laundries, and fast-food chains.
"When Terranee stepped into the family money, he too was blessed with the golden touch. His fortune has quadrupled in the last thirty years as he poured it back into real estate and construction. For fun he owns sports franchises. When he found he couldn't buy any of the teams in his Los Angeles home base, he built his own sports complex—the Acropolis—and brought new franchises to the area."
I broke into the spiel with a question. "How did he manage to get the established leagues to let him form new teams? I thought there was a long list of potential owners waiting for opportunity to knock."
"Money is all in La-La Land."
"But don't all of the other potential owners have money?"
"True. But none of them have a ready-built sports complex waiting to be filled. Brisbane earned a lot of favors while building the complex, and all of them were called due when he approached the leagues. He now has an ABA basketball team, an NHL hockey team, an indoor tennis franchise, a professional volleyball team, and the Ravens."
I shook my head in wonder. "Money and power—it's amazing what the combination can accomplish. How did you get a chunk of the action?"
"Terranee might be a financial whiz, but his family relationships have never been smooth. Terranee has two daughters: Nina, whom you've met, and Caitlin. The girls have never gotten along, especially since Nina's horror."
I raised my eyebrows, but Sir Adam stayed with his original subject.
"Terranee refuses to play favorites. So, to test which of the girls should inherit controlling interest in his business dealings, he has given each of them two sports franchises to run. Caitlin has hockey and volleyball. Nina, tennis and soccer. Their track records in the business of running the teams will determine who takes over as chairman of the board when Terranee retires. The Ravens have proven to be a tough fiscal entity. When Nina ran into some financial problems with the team, I was able to help her out."
"Does that put her in a difficult position with her father?" I asked.
"Not necessarily. It was a smart financial move, and Caitlin is having problems of her own with the hockey franchise. Either sister would go to great lengths to see the other fail."
"As go the Ravens, so goes the Brisbane fortune—at least as far as Nina's concerned," I said.
Sir Adam nodded and refilled his glass from the whiskey decanter.
"What happened to Nina's face?" I asked directly. "Why does she wear a veil?"
"There lies a tragic and, I'm afraid, a truly Irish tale." Sir Adam lowered the level of his whiskey again, as if seeking fortification. "I told you Terranee Brisbane was a staunch Irish supporter, although he's never been closer to Ireland than Finnian's Bar and Grill in New York."
"You're telling me," I said, "he financially supports the IRA, having no idea what the 'troubles' are about, and thinks it makes him a big man in the eyes of the Irish community."
"It's a typical story," said Sir Adam. "The sorry part of the situation is unlike most other American IRA money sources—who have now decided it's unfashionable to be seen supporting a terrorist cause—Terranee Brisbane is still known to be knocking huge amounts of financial resources into the IRA coffers. He doesn't use legitimate funding mediums any longer, but money is flowing from somewhere in the Brisbane business empire. I'm still in a position to know such things."
I tried to look wise. "Should you come across the source of said income while involved in a business arrangement with Brisbane's daughter, you could again prove yourself of service to Queen and country."
"You sound as if you disapprove."
"Not me. Anyone who supports the bloody IRA rabble deserves to be taken down. But what does this have to do with Nina?"
"Well, while Terranee Brisbane hasn't been to Ireland, his daughters have been welcomed there on several occasions. Six years ago, Nina was staying with a family whose patriarch, Auggie McBride, was a member of high regard within the IRA hierarchy. McBride, however, was also an army informer of long standing whose luck finally ran out. When he was exposed, he was murdered and dismembered at an IRA Council meeting. His body was mailed in pieces to Army HQ, and his entire family marked for execution as an example to others.
"It was Nina's misfortune to answer the door when the executioner came calling. She took a twelve-gauge shotgun blast in the face through the glass of the entryway. The rest of the family was murdered outright...McBride's wife, two daughters, one son, and the mother-in-law. Somehow, though, Nina was still alive and conscious when the police arrived.
"They rushed her to the hospital, but most of the right side of her face and the inside of her mouth was caved in from the impact of the shot. She could barely breathe. She could not swallow, talk, or see, and she was bleeding to death. The doctors performed a dubious miracle—a sixteen-hour operation, which not only kept Nina alive, but also made life possible outside of a hospital environment. Various parts of her body were used to recreate her upper jaw, eye socket, and cheekbone, the rest was reformed like a huge human jigsaw puzzle. One eye was saved, as was her tongue. Somewhere, through all of this, Nina was able to identify the shooter, Duncan Finlas, a known IRA gunman, who was captured trying to escape the country three days after the shooting.
"Finlas was put behind bars for life. Nina survived the seventeen operations, which gave her face some type of human form. Unfortunately, the success of the facial rebuild, though brilliant in medical expertise, fell far short in the aesthetic, making the veil necessary. Nina was a beautiful young woman whose face was changed into a grotesque mask."
"Her father still supports the IRA?” I felt outraged.
Sir Adam shrugged. "Nina is an amazing person. She's fought back and forged ahead with her life. When she refused to play the martyr for the IRA cause, Terrance decided to step up. He has all the power and money he could ever need, but the IRA gives him a purpose for living. Somehow, he's managed to turn Nina's tragedy into the British army's fault, a position from which he refuses to back down. He's a fanatic—and there is nothing more dangerous."
I pulled out a chair and gingerly perched my sore posterior on the center of the cushion. "Do you think the murder of Maddox has IRA connections?"
"Maddox had no known IRA connections, but he did have known criminal ones—as evidenced by his involvement in the Italian betting scandal."
"What about the rumors he was letting goals be scored on purpose?" I asked.
"Unsubstantiated. As it stands, it's locker room gossip only.
"
"Someone with Maddox's past is always going to have someone spreading rumors about his current activities." I said. "Do the police think the murder was a mugging gone wrong?"
"Yes." Sir Adam stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. He ran a scraggly claw of a hand over his face. For the first time I noticed he looked old. "From what they tell me, Los Angeles is quickly earning the nickname Murder City that once belonged to Detroit and Miami. The police are looking for the easiest route to get the murder off the books or into the inactive file so they can get onto the next case. The local group of soccer hooligans, one English import I'm sure the rest of the world could do without, seems to be the easiest target for the blame."
"Are the police doing any further follow-up?"
"You'll have to check, but I don't think they'll be doing anything unless further evidence turns up. The detectives in charge are Briggs and Gill. They were polite in their supercilious way."
"The same the world over," I said.
"They seem like good men. But they don't have much to go on, and numerous other cases are making demands on their attention."
"What if they're right and it is this bunch of kids?"
"Then find the buggers and let justice run its course."
With a touch of formality, Sir Adam brought several envelopes out of his blazer and passed them over to me.
"You'll find everything you need in there—airline tickets, a visa and work permit for the States, health insurance card, etcetera. Your plane will be met at the other end, and I've taken care of your accommodations. I know Gerald acts as your agent and business manager, so I have worked out the contract negotiations and other paperwork with him."
"Was he happy?"
"I’d hate to be up against your brother in a corporate battle. He's satisfied with our deal."
"Now you know why he's my business manager." I stood up and so did Sir Adam. My backside was relieved.
"There is one other small item you might be interested in before you go."
"Yes..."I said, expectantly.
"How would you like a crack at the two bastards who burned down my stables?"
Chapter 7
The four men gathered around the hood of a black sedan looked up as Sir Adam and I exited the taxi which had delivered us to the Limehouse side street. In the falling evening dusk, I could see the group were a tough-looking bunch, but I reserved further judgment for the moment. Some of the toughest characters I'd ever run across in the SAS would make Lord Peter Wimsey look like Charles Branson. You could never tell.
Because of the presence of the taxi driver, the only thing Sir Adam had told me in the cab was that we were on the way to meet an operations team. The men by the sedan appeared to fit that category. The tallest of the group stepped forward and nodded to Sir Adam. A smile broke out on his face when he looked at me.
"How have you been keeping, Ian? I was sorry to hear about your troubles."
I took a closer look at the man, mentally subtracted several years of hard living from his face and added a thatch of thick black hair to his bald pate.
"Denny Malcolm? Is that you, old son?" I laughed, recognizing him as another mate from my army days. Sir Adam seemed to have remained in touch with more than one of us.
"It's now Inspector Malcolm, Special Branch, but you can still call me Den. " He gripped my arm and we pounded each other on the shoulder.
"Who's your crew?" I asked, looking past him at the three other men still standing in the background.
"A few hand-picked lads who enjoy a punch-up. These little sorties of Sir Adam's usually end up with fists flying."
I looked at Sir Adam. "You really haven't let your cloak and dagger gather much dust."
"Not true. Not true. Occasionally, I have to call in the heavy mob to help keep them on their toes, but it's nothing like the old days."
"Thank God," Den and I said in unison and then laughed.
Den turned and pointed toward his companions. In physical appearance they were as alike as peas in a pod—same height, weight, and general impression of command presence and fitness.
"The ugly bugger on the left is Reggie Leggit," Den said by way of introduction. "He's on special attachment to MI8 from the SAS. He saw quite a bit of action in the Falklands, and from all accounts he'd rather fight than screw."
"Hope he fights better than he screws," said the bloke standing next to Leggit with a comical grin plastered across his face.
"How would you know how I screw?"
"Your dear old mum told me...."
Leggit responded by cuffing his compatriot roughly around the ears.
Den snorted and the two men settled down. "The comedian is Derek Watford. Up through the ranks to Special Branch and, God help me, my partner. If he caught his winkie in the loo door he'd have something funny to say about it."
Watford scrunched up his rubberlike face to the point where his lower lip almost touched his nose. It made him look like he was swallowing his face. You couldn't help but laugh. "At least my whatsit's long enough to catch it in the loo door," he said, returning his face to what passed for normal. "Not like some folks I know."
Den ignored him and moved on to the last introduction.
' 'Harry Martin is another one of Sir Adam's MI8 goons. Came over from the Middle East spook squad didn't you, Harry?"
"That's right," Harry said in a rolling Scot's accent. He stepped forward to shake my hand. "It's a right pleasure to meet you, Ian. Too bad you weren't born north of the border. Then you could have played with a real soccer team."
"As I recall England beat Scotland only last week in an international."
"Ahh...How can you consider that game a win? The referee had his whistle caught in his throat, was blind in one eye, and couldn't see out of the other?" He looked at my eye patch and hurriedly added, "No offense."
"I've always said that about Scottish teams," I replied drolly.
"If you gents are through?" Den spoke up in a stem voice and guided me away to the front of the sedan. There he waved at three items scattered across the hood. "I think you'll find these interesting. We came up with the photos through the descriptions and first names you gave us of the blokes who attacked you at Wren's Haven."
The photos Den was referring to were a couple of eight-by-ten, black-and-white glossies of the monsters who'd tried to gouge my eye out. I felt my heart suddenly kick into a higher gear and jump up from my chest to block my throat. My response must have been visible because Den reacted to it with a tight-lipped grimace. "Yeah," he said. "That's the way I feel about them, too."
"You know them?" I asked.
"Sean Brody and Liam Donovan. Bloody murdering Sons of Erin. Offspring of the devil. Been chasing them for three years, ever since they pulled a bank job in the Fullam Road and killed two of my best men in the process."
I silently picked up the photo of Sean Brody and studied it. His face looked like a cross between a bulldog and a mastiff, all jowls and knotted muscle.
"The IRA christened him 'The Slab,' " said Den. "The tag came about when Brody got tired of drilling the kneecaps of IRA informants and began dropping slabs of concrete on them. He made a major gaff one day, though, and broke the back of an IRA chieftain's favorite nephew. Brody had mistaken the nephew for a British informer whom he physically resembled.
"The chieftain went berserk and put out a contract on Brody. However, it cost the IRA three valuable men to find out Brody was too tough to kill. The contract was cancelled. Instead, Brody was simply excommunicated from the movement—too much of a loose cannon, even for those bastards. The edict didn't cramp his style, though, since he soon found his talents in demand by the Sons of Erin."
Den stuck out a bony finger and poked at the photo of Liam Donovan.
"This one is even worse," he said. "Donovan is a sadist of the first mark. Loves to kill with a knife and has lost count of the number of men he's sent to hell. He has no political commitment past whatever g
roup will support the satisfaction of his violent desires. The IRA originally sent him to Libya where he was trained to become a specialist with explosives.
"He was a loner until he hooked up with Brody. They've been inseparable ever since, and it's a partnership blessed by the devil's luck. Using Donovan's skills and Brody's brute force, they've taken down banks, armored cars, and betting shops—never hesitating to kill, never leaving behind any witnesses willing to testify. As far as our informants are concerned, the pair have been in hiding in Ireland since the Fullam Road blag brought so much heat down on them. Even the IRA has put a price on their heads, but they aren't actively pursuing the contract after their last experiences with Brody. This is the first we've known of them being back in England, and I want them before they get away again."
I wanted a piece of them too. "How did you find out where they were holed up?"
Den scratched his head before replying. "Strange, that. A woman called up the Special Branch office and asked to speak to me. It was obvious she knew I'd been in charge of the Fullam Road investigation. Her voice was muffled, like she had her hanky over the phone mouthpiece. No discernible accent, no background noises, and of course she refused to identify herself. She just flat out stated that if we wanted Brody and Donovan, we'd find them tonight at The Squire and Pipe, second floor, last room at the rear."
"Have you considered the possibility of a set-up?" Sir Adam asked.
"Oh, I've considered it," said Den. "But I don't give a tinker's damn, if there's the slightest chance of catching up with these two sorry bastards. I figure the informant is probably a jilted girlfriend, or something of the sort. That's usually the way this type of thing happens."
Picking up the third item from the hood of the vehicle, Den turned it toward me. It was a hand-drawn floor plan of The Squire and Pipe.