Irish Tiger

by Andrew M. Greeley

  Nikos had put on thick gloves and was wearing the standard police armor, neither one of which would be much protection against a car bomb, one that might demolish our whole block on Sheffield Avenue. He inserted the key into the lock and turned it. But the key was somehow jammed in the lock and wouldn’t turn.

  “It worked yesterday,” Nuala protested.

  “Someone messed with it after you closed it,” Nikos said softly. “Probably pried it open so they could put in the explosives.”

  “There’d be no reason for the explosion to happen before the taping this evening,” Nuala said confidently. “Why waste all that effort on a block on Sheffield Avenue.”

  My Nuala Anne didn’t seem at all frightened. But then maybe she could see things that I couldn’t.

  Nikos tried again. The lock wouldn’t budge.

  “Let me give it a try,” my wife ordered. “I’m pretty good with contentious locks. . . . Just like contentious husbands.”

  We all laughed nervously, meself louder than anyone else.

  The door, knowing as I did who was the boss, promptly sprung open. I peered inside cautiously, as if looking at the explosives would set them off. A piece of tarpaulin covered a shapeless mass.

  Nikos ran one of his little magic tools over the mass.

  “As I expected there is no indication of an ignition device which would cause an explosion at this time. Everyone can relax.”

  “I’m shaking because of the blizzard,” I protested.

  Everyone laughed again.

  Nuala clutched my arm. We would die together just as the ancient warriors, male and female alike, died together.

  With a gentle and delicate movement, Nikos pulled back the tarp.

  “Just kids’ schoolbags,” Superintendent Glen said, as though he were disappointed.

  “Madrid,” Nikos and I said together.

  “When the jihadists destroyed the commuter trains in Madrid,” Nikos explained, “they put the explosives in backpacks which did not seem to have any traditional ignition mechanism. They did not want them to explode before the proper time. Instead they used the insides of cell phones. When someone called the number, a simple device connecting the phone to the bomb ignited the explosive material. All the bombs went off at the same moment. With these pastel-colored backpacks, intended for little girls like my own, you need to ignite only one of the packs. When it explodes it will ignite all the others. You would have quite literally a blockbuster.”

  The hounds howled again, just for the record I suppose.

  “This device—” he produced from his kit of surprises a slender instrument, about a foot long, with a scale running its full length. “—will measure each of the backpacks for the presence of metal, like a mobile phone mechanism. I will assume that like all crazy people, these morons had a sense of symmetry and that they chose the center bag.” He touched the far left bag first and then the next one. He skipped the center and touched the final two. In each case, the instrument flashed on and off.

  Then he touched the central backpack. His magic wand went crazy, flashing red lights and howling. The hounds not to be outdone howled in response.

  “That’s the bag with the ignition mechanism. Now, my last bit of magic, this camera is no ordinary camera. Rather it photographs the inside of the bag, penetrating the fabric around it. Moreover it produces a picture in thirty seconds.”

  He flicked a switch, the camera made whirling and swirling sounds like a small waterfall. Then it spat out a three-by-five picture. Nikos considered it carefully.

  “You were right, Dermot. It is the same kind of mechanism used in the mass murders in Madrid. Note the lumpish material that fills the bag. That’s the plastique, the plastic explosive. The bright red object as you can see is the innards of a cell phone. Someone dials the number, the ringer is activated and with it a current that flows into this blob of explosive and ignites it. The result is an exploding car bomb, or in this case an exploding truck bomb. In a crowded parking lot many, perhaps most of the gasoline tanks would explode almost at once. Instant mass murder. I am going to disconnect the ignition and remove it. In that way the truck bomb is permanently defused. . . . I presume, Nuala Anne, that during the rehearsal yesterday, they pried open the trunk, quickly dumped these bags into the car, and departed. It was a chance, but they are people used to taking chances. Fortunately for us, Fiona and Maeve knew that something was wrong and alerted us to the problem.”

  He patted the large heads of the great white dogs and they tried to lick his face.

  “Chill out!” Nuala ordered. The dogs settled down on their haunches, panting happily.

  “They were also taking the chance that you would not notice the bags and that your security resources here”—he patted both dogs again—“would not sniff something wrong. Their scheme was to mine the car when there was no one around, you would drive it home, and not activate the bombs. Then you would drive it into the parking lot this evening. They would be located somewhere in the vicinity. Once they saw this distinguishable vehicle, they would know that they could activate the bomb at their leisure and with a simple phone call kill hundreds of people.”

  “Well done, Captain,” Superintendent Glen said.

  “Lieutenant, sir.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Thank you, sir . . . I will now remove the ignition device. I assure you that there is nothing at all dangerous in this exercise.”

  He removed a sharp knife from his bag of tricks, cut open the center bag, lifted the remains of a mobile phone, snapped the wire that fed into the plastique, removed the mobile carefully, and placed it in a transparent evidence bag.

  Me wife loosened her compulsive grip on my right arm.

  “If I may make a recommendation, Nuala and gentlemen.” He began to assemble the tools of his trade. “When our bomb truck arrives, we will transfer the explosive material and bring it to our headquarters. I will drive this impressive vehicle to the appropriate lab and demand that it be swept for all available evidence. I would suggest that forensic teams finish their work in early afternoon and return the car to its present location. Then Nuala and Dermot could drive it over to the soundstage. In the meantime the force could search the neighborhood for the observation post of the perpetrators.”

  “I personally will direct the search,” Terry Glen said. “Moreover we will throw a cordon of cops all around the soundstage and its environs. We will also search every car entering the parking lot—even the mayor’s car.”

  “Having informed him earlier in the day of the situation,” Mike Casey said with a laugh.

  Terry Glen echoed the laugh.

  “I’ll tell him the whole story. He’ll love it.”

  The police brass left us, their cars slipping and squirming down the alley. The big bomb squad truck arrived, lurching into the alley like a clumsy dinosaur. Some young cops examined the Lincoln repeating the steps that Nikos Mashek had taken. Then they loaded the backpacks into the truck. Nikos shook hands with us and the dogs, climbed into Nuala’s car, and turned over the ignition. The Navigator started smoothly and followed the dinosaur down the alley and out on the street. Suddenly our alley was quiet. The wind subsided but the snow continued to fall, like your man said, on the living and the dead.

  Nuala Anne

  WHEN I woke up, I wondered what day it was. The sun was shining and there was kid noise outside and a couple dogs were barking enthusiastically. My dogs and my kids? I reached over to ask me husband what was happening. He wasn’t there. Where was my friggin’ husband?

  We had slept in each other’s arms all night, too weary to do anything more exciting. What day was it? If the kids were playing outside at this hour—my alarm claimed it was ten o’clock—it must be Saturday. Something important was supposed to happen on Saturday. What was it? Something very important. Nothing in court. Some test at TCD? No, I had four kids outside playing in the snow. I hadn’t attended Trinity in ages. . . . What was it?

  Then I remembe
red—the Christmas special . . . Lullaby and Good Night . . . I had a terrible nightmare about it. . . . A big explosion. . . Then I remembered it all and bounced out of bed. Had someone really tried to plant a bomb in my battered Lincoln Navigator?!

  I put on me robe, stumbled over to the window, and peeked through the blinds. There was me friggin’ husband out there rolling in the snow with me kids. Didn’t he know we had a concert. The kids should be resting their voices.

  Then the phone rang—the private line.

  “’Tis meself.”

  “Who else would it be?”

  Familiar voice.

  “It might be me friggin’ husband and himself outside in the snow playing with me kids.”

  “You sound like you had a terrible night. . . . Or was it a bad run-through yesterday?”

  “We were up terrible late altogether.”

  My memory started operating again.

  The blizzard had been real. The bombs in the boot of me car had been real. The dinosaur truck had been real. I wanted to cry.

  “Everything’s all right?” Maria asked.

  “Everything is brilliant,” I said, crossing me fingers.

  “My family,” she said tentatively, “would like to come to the concert. By that I mean my five daughters and my poor, dear husband.”

  “And how is that good man keeping?”

  “Much better . . . They’ve fixed him up so he’s not reluctant to go outside. . . . You can get us tickets?”

  “It’s me own concert. Of course I can get you the tickets. Why don’t you come over to our house.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  I hung up and thought about jumping into the shower. But the phone rang again. It was Dermot’s private. We have a rule in our house—well, didn’t I make it—that he can’t answer me private line, but I can answer his.

  ’Tis only fair.

  “Nuala Anne.”

  “It’s Dominic, Nuala.”

  “Hey, Dom, what’s happening?. . . Me Dermot is outside playing in the snow.”

  “My friends tell me that their friends have cornered the bad guys in a house on Ohio Street, Nine Eighty-seven West, right near your concert place. They don’t know my friends are on to them. But my friends want to know whether they should put them down or leave it to the cops.”

  “I think me husband would say that it’s better to leave it to the cops. Let me have Dermot call you back in five minutes, okay, Dom?”

  “That’s beautiful. But no more than fifteen minutes.”

  I put on me sweater and me jeans and me playing-in-snow boots and rushed downstairs, Dermot’s mobile phone in me hand.

  It was bitter cold, but the sun was shining brightly.

  “Dermot Michael Coyne!” I shouted, instantly regretting the possible damage to me voice.

  He knew after all the years of marriage that was a command.

  It was bitter cold, so I stood at the top of our stairs staring down to the ground, waiting impatiently.

  “Wasn’t I thinking all along that I was sleeping in your arms, and yourself outside playing in the snow and ruining the voices of me talent.”

  And then, before we could get into an argument, I told him about Dom’s call and gave him his phone.

  “I’ll see what Mike Casey says.”

  As he punched in Mike’s number, I whistled me letcha-come-in whistle. The kids and the dogs froze in their tracks and then disconsolately gathered their snow things and trudged up the stairs.

  “Youse can play all day tomorrow,” I told them, “after church, but won’t you be needing your singing voices tonight? Take off your boots and then inside with youse.”

  I always feel guilty when I use my boss voice with the small ’uns. They should not be afraid of their mother, should they?

  The two puppies were the last ones up the stairs. They paused hoping for some sign of approval, as if they were saying, they weren’t singing tonight, were they? I patted both of them and they charged happily into the house, doubtless working havoc with the parlor rugs. I followed them in.

  “Downstairs with the lot of youse!”

  “Ma,” Nelliecoyne pleaded with me, “Da wouldn’t let us shout.”

  “I know that, dear.”

  “You just wanted to remind us?”

  “Just wanted to remind you.”

  Diplomatic little bitch, wasn’t she?

  Dermot was talking to his friend Dominic.

  “My contacts at the department tell me that they’ll collect the bad guys in early afternoon, so they’d appreciate it if your friends keep an eye on them until the contacts get all their players in place. They also direct me to say that they’re very grateful for the cooperation of your friends. If anything happens over on Ohio Street, you might give me a ring. . . . Uzbekistan, that’s an interesting innovation. I’ll pass that on. . . . Our cars are clean now. . . . I appreciate your concern. . . . Once again thanks for all the help.”

  He smiled at me, the same smile which has melted me heart since the first night at O’Neil’s pub. He pushed another button on his mobile phone.

  “Mike? Dermot . . . The boys apparently have the bad guys under surveillance on the West Side. They say they’re commandos from Uzbekistan. My feeling is that you good guys should proceed with caution but get them all out of there, one way or another, by four this afternoon at the latest. . . . Mike, don’t give me that. Those Soviet-trained commando units traditionally bring mortars with them. It’s an easy shot from where they are to the parking lot or to the soundstage itself. There’ll be some activity there among the cops when the mayor’s car shows up. . . . Or the senator’s. . . Doesn’t the Chicago Police Department have tear gas anymore? And what if the bad guys have gas masks?. . . You remember the Powell Doctrine? Right, maximum force! . . . Helicopters overhead. . . We’re certainly not coming over in the red tank and we’re not coming at all until that place is cleaned out.”

  “Trouble?” I said meekly.

  “The friggin’ cops don’t get it. I’ve told them where the commandos are and they have to take them out now or they’ll spread through the neighborhood shooting at anything in sight. . . .”

  “Dominic’s friends might be willing if the cops are not?” I asked.

  Me Dermot’s face brightened.

  “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  He punched in Mike’s button.

  “Busy signal . . . I’ll call Culhane. . . .

  “John. . . What the fuck is going on with you assholes?”

  I looked around to see if any of the kids were present to hear Da engage in cop talk.

  “Don’t they understand that they’re black berets from Uzbekistan. They’re tough, resourceful, and just a little crazy. If you’re not going to use maximum force then don’t bother. . . . I don’t care what anyone says. . . . Look, my friends on the West Side are perfectly willing to take them out. . . . They will if I say so. . . . I want to hear in fifteen minutes or it will be St. Valentine’s Day Massacre all over again. . . . What will they do? I don’t know and I don’t care. . . . Maybe they’ll drive a truck bomb into the two-flat. . . . Fifteen minutes . . . Have your friend Terry give me a ring. . . . Or I’ll call the mayor and tell him that the taping is canceled and why. . . .

  “Woman,” he said, as he hung up, “I want me breakfast . . . . No, wrong line. . . Woman, come down to the kitchen and I’ll make you some breakfast. . . .”

  Who was the Irish Tiger now, I wondered. Poor dear Dermot said I was. But I was frazzled and scarcely coherent and wasn’t he giving out something fierce altogether. Normally I make breakfast because I’m up a little bit earlier, though Ellie does it often these days because she does her best studying in the morning or so she says. Danuta comes in around breakfast time and insists on making something healthy. But today Ellie is finishing a paper and Danuta doesn’t come in on weekends. So I let Dermot make me favorite breakfast, oatmeal with brown sugar, apple juice, and toast with marmalade. He hates the very s
ight of marmalade which he says pollutes perfectly good toast. But this morning wasn’t he slathering it all over.

  “You didn’t feed yourself, did you?”

  This in the tone of voice that suggests that of course he had.

  “Woman, I did and the chiles too.”

  “Aren’t you a perfect whirlwind of a Celtic Tiger?”

  “Woman, I am.”

  His mobile rang.

  “Dermot Coyne. . . And the best of the day to you, Terry Glen. . . Ah, you want to thank me for the support. . . . I scared the big brass did I?. . . Well, good enough for them . . . Look, Terry, there may be only a handful of them and they may not feel like dying quite yet, but the CPD can’t afford to be too little and too late. . . . Your very point? Lots of fingerprints on the bags? That will help. . . . Hey, sure enough, the tank is back in the alley where it belongs. . . . You’ll excuse me, but our family will come over in one of Superintendent Casey’s limos. . . . We’re retiring the M1A1 tank until we find the time to fix the grille. . . . Me wife likes her cars to look sharp. . . . Yeah, she sure is. . . becomes more beautiful every day. . .”

  “Dermot Michael Coyne, you are totally full of bullshite!” I said, blushing at the exchange of compliments. . . . “I have put some of that awful raspberry stuff on a couple of slices of toast for yourself.”

  “God bless you and keep you!” he says to me. He likes to talk like he’s a mick when he’s nothing but a friggin’ rich Yank.

  “And aren’t you acting like you’ve become the Irish Tiger and meself a shattered wreck!”

  “Well, you’re going to have a nice long nap this afternoon and won’t Ellie and I get the clan ready for the concert.”

  “’Tis yourself who deserves the nap. . . .”

  “I won’t hear a word of it. You have to be your smiling self tonight!”

  “I don’t deserve a husband as good as you, Dermot Michael Coyne.”

  “As Archbishop Blackie would say, arguably.”

  Our eldest appeared, camera in hand.