Will said nothing as she hoisted her pack onto one shoulder. The dog looked up at her with his big brown eyes, and she leaned over to him and whispered, “Slán a fhágáil ag duine.” Which, if she remembered correctly, was Irish for some kind of goodbye. She liked to think it was a phrase her Irish-born mother would have taught her if she’d lived.
The local men watched her from their tables, Eddie O’Shea from behind the bar, all of them accustomed, she thought, to the routines of their lives. Farm, sea, village, church, family. They’d all come up in the talk Lizzie had overheard. Her own life had few such routines, and she doubted Will Davenport’s did, either.
She grabbed her jacket off the peg by the door and pulled it on, zipping it up as the men at the tables roared with laughter at a story one was telling. Why not stay and sit by the fire for the evening and never mind why she’d come to Ireland and this tiny, out-of-the way village?
But that, of course, was impossible.
She headed outside. The wind and rain had eased, leaving behind a fine, persistent mist. She dug out her cell phone and saw she had two text messages from her cousin Jeremiah, the third-born of her Rush cousins. He worked at the Whitcomb, her family’s hotel in Boston. He was tawny-haired, blue-eyed and good-looking and claimed, as his brothers did, that Lizzie had them wrapped around her little finger.
An exaggeration.
Jeremiah never used text shorthand. His first message read:
Cahill and March in Boston.
No Keira.
Lizzie read the message again to make sure she hadn’t made a mistake. Simon Cahill, a special agent with the FBI, and John March, the director of the FBI, were in Boston?
Why?
She’d run into Simon a half dozen times over the past year. He was a handsome, broad-shouldered bruiser of a man, a black-haired, green-eyed natural charmer who had persuaded Norman Estabrook that he was an ex-FBI agent with an ax to grind against March, his former boss.
Such, however, was not the case.
Had Simon already been on his way to Boston when she’d left for Ireland last night? Lizzie almost laughed out loud. Talk about ironic. She’d come to Ireland to convince Simon to do all he could to keep Norman in custody and not to fall for his line about having stumbled into a network of violent criminals. He had meant every word of his threat against Simon and Director March. It wasn’t just about vengeance, either. Norman was no longer willing to sit on the sidelines. He was itching to do something dramatic and violent himself.
Lizzie returned her phone to her jacket pocket and shivered in the chilly early evening air.
If Keira Sullivan hadn’t gone to Boston with Simon, where was she now?
And why was Will Davenport here and so serious?
Lizzie smelled pipe smoke and noticed an old man in traditional farmer’s clothes seated on the front bench of a wooden picnic table by the pub door. His face was deeply lined, his eyebrows bushy above steady eyes that were a clear, even fierce, blue. He held up his pipe, smoke curling into the mist. “You’ll be wanting to go to the stone circle.”
She eased her pack off her shoulder. “For what?”
“For what you’re looking for, dearie.”
“How do you know what I’m looking for?”
He pointed his pipe up the quiet street. “There. It’s down the lane and up the hill. You’ll find your way.” His eyes, gleaming with intensity, fixed on her. “You always do, don’t you, dearie?”
Steadying herself against a sudden gust of wind that blew up from the harbor at her back, Lizzie peered past the rows of brightly painted houses—fuchsia, blue, yellow, red, mustard, all a welcome antidote to the gray weather. She loved the unique light, the special feel of being back in Ireland.
But find her way to what?
When she turned to ask, the old man was gone.
Eddie O’Shea’s springer spaniel wandered out of the pub and trotted up the village street in the direction the old man had pointed.
There was no one else about. A basket of flowers hung from a lamppost, swinging in the breeze, and Lizzie could identify with its drooping and dripping pink geraniums, purple petunias and sprays of lavender.
The dog paused and looked back at her, his tail wagging.
Lizzie could no longer smell the old farmer’s pipe smoke in the damp air. If she’d been drinking Guinness instead of coffee she’d have been sure she conjured him up. As it was…she had no idea.
“All right,” she called to the spaniel. “I’ll follow you.”
Chapter 2
Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland
5:50 p.m., IST
August 25
Will Davenport stabbed the toe of his shoe into the wet gravel in front of the small, traditional stone cottage where Keira was staying while Simon was in Boston. The cottage was situated on a narrow lane cut along an ancient wall that ran parallel to the bay and the mountains. A steady wind blew dark clouds across the rugged, barren hills that swept up from the harbor to the spine of the peninsula.
He had resisted the temptations of Eddie O’Shea’s pub—a pint, a fire, camaraderie—and returned to his car, finding his way here. Rambling pink roses scented the damp, cool air as the remains of the storm pushed east across Ireland. To the north, across Kenmare Bay, he could see the jagged outlines of the McGilli-cuddy Reeks of the Iveragh Peninsula, another finger of land that jutted into the Atlantic.
Keira’s car was parked in the drive by the roses, and a light glowed in the cottage kitchen, but she hadn’t come to the door when he’d knocked.
Was she having a bath, perhaps?
She had arrived in Ireland in June to paint and look into the Beara Peninsula origins of the folktale she’d heard in a South Boston kitchen. The Slieve Mikish—the Mikish Mountains—at the tip of the peninsula held rich veins of copper that had drawn settlers to the region thousands of years ago. Will had driven along Bantry Bay on the southern side of the peninsula, the weather deteriorating the closer he came to the Atlantic and Allihies. He’d talked to Simon briefly and had hoped to find Keira poking around among the skeletal remains of the long-abandoned Industrial Age mines scattered across the remote, starkly beautiful landscape. When he hadn’t found her, he’d headed to the pub on Kenmare Bay, discovering not his friend’s new love but a hiker with striking light green eyes and one of Keira’s books.
Pushing back a nagging sense of worry, Will checked his BlackBerry and saw he had a message from Josie Goodwin, his assistant in London, who had arranged for his flight into Cork and the car that had awaited him.
Josie’s words were straight to the point:
Estabrook free 9 AM MDT.
With a grimace at the unpleasant, if not unexpected, news, Will dialed Josie’s number.
“I was about to call you,” she said without preamble when she picked up. “I have more. Apparently Estabrook couldn’t wait to get off his ranch and left in his private plane immediately after signing his plea agreement. I gather he’s never been one to sit still. He must be stir-crazy after two months.”
“Did he go alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then he kept his promise to provide authorities with all he knows about his drug-trafficking friends?”
“The Americans must be satisfied or they wouldn’t have let him go free.”
“Josie, the man threatened to kill Simon and Director March.”
“He insists he was speaking metaphorically.”
Someone who didn’t know Josie well could miss her wry tone, but she and Will had worked together for the past three years. He didn’t miss it. “Metaphorically,” he said. “I’ll have to remember that one.”
“Ireland is a long way from Montana, Will. Estabrook has no history of violence, nor is he suspected of having been involved with his associates’ violent crimes. Not that participating in the spread of the poison of illegal drugs isn’t a kind of violence.”
“I’m at Keira’s cottage now,” Will said. “Her car is here, but sh
e’s not. She must have gone for a walk.”
“From what Simon’s told me, she does love to walk. They’re a remarkable pair, aren’t they, Will? True love is a rare thing, but they’ve found it.”
This time, Will heard wistfulness in Josie’s voice. She was the thirty-eight-year-old single mother of a teenage son and a woman who had faced more than her share of heartbreak. She was also a capable, resourceful member of the British Secret Intelligence Service, and Will trusted her without hesitation. She understood, as he did, that their lives and work ran more smoothly, more easily, unencumbered by romantic entanglements. She’d learned her lesson the hard way through personal experience. He’d learned his by example.
Matters, he thought, for another day.
“Have you talked to Simon?” he asked.
“Briefly. He appreciates that you’re in Ireland and Keira’s not alone. He’d never have left her if he’d known Estabrook would be released. He and March had hoped they could keep him in custody.”
Will resisted any comment on the FBI director. He and March had a history, not a good one. “A woman was at the pub just now, reading one of Keira’s books. A hiker. Small, slim, light green eyes, black hair. American. Do you recognize the description?”
“Long hair, short hair?”
“I don’t know. Long, I think. I only saw a few strands. The rest was under a red bandanna.”
“Ah.”
Will sighed. “She said she’s from Las Vegas and is here hiking the Beara Way.”
“Alone?”
“As far as I could tell, yes.”
“Seems a lovely thing to do,” Josie said. “But you don’t believe her, do you, Will?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“You wouldn’t be drawn to an Irish village where an ancient, magical stone angel was reportedly discovered in a ruin?”
“Josie…”
“I’ve jotted down the description and will see what I can learn. One never knows. Good luck finding Keira. Simon trusts you completely.”
“I owe him, Josie.”
“Yes, you do.”
Will stared down through the gray mist and fog down toward the harbor, remembering back two years to a tragic, violent eighteen hours in Afghanistan that ended with Simon Cahill saving his life. It was a debt they both understood could never be repaid—and yet Will kept trying. But it wasn’t why he’d come to Ireland. He had come, simply, as a friend.
“Will,” Josie added crisply, “Simon knows you’re not some fop who spends all his time fishing and golfing. He’s aware by now that you weren’t in Afghanistan to catch butterflies.”
She disconnected before Will could respond.
He shoved his BlackBerry into his coat pocket, but part of him was still back in Afghanistan, alone, dehydrated, bruised and bloodied, determined to stay alive for one reason: he owed the truth to the memory and the service of the two SAS soldiers—his friends—who had died at his side hours earlier on that long, violent night. At great risk to himself, with only an ax, a rope and his own brute strength at his disposal, Simon had come upon the bombed-out cave and freed Will. Together they then dug out the bodies of David Mears and Philip Billings, who had died because Will had trusted the wrong man.
Another friend.
Myles Fletcher.
Will made himself silently say the name of the man—the British military officer and intelligence agent—who had compromised their highly classified mission, only to be captured and dragged off by the very enemy fighters he had embraced as allies.
After reuniting Will with his SAS colleagues, Simon had returned to his own classified mission on behalf of the FBI. He had never asked for an explanation of Will’s presence in the cave—or thanks for saving his life.
After two years, Myles Fletcher’s remains had yet to be recovered. Presumably his terrorist allies had turned on him and killed him after he’d served his purpose. There wasn’t a shred of evidence that he was still alive, but Will wouldn’t be satisfied until he had definitive proof.
The FBI had been onto a drug-trafficking and terrorism connection that had evaporated due to Will’s failed mission. John March considered Will ultimately responsible for Myles’s treachery.
Simon didn’t blame Will for anything, but Will had discovered in their two years of friendship that little fazed Simon Cahill.
Except being on one side of the Atlantic while the woman he loved was on the other.
Will buttoned his coat and locked the memories back into their own tight compartment as he walked out to the lane in search of Keira.
Chapter 3
Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland
6:20 p.m., IST
August 25
Lizzie pulled off her bandanna, relishing the feel of the cool wind and mist in her hair. Eddie’s dog had led her onto a narrow country lane that followed a stone wall between bay and mountains. She tried to enjoy her walk past rain-soaked roses, holly and wildflowers, fragrant on the wet summer evening. She smiled at lambs settling in for the night and stood for a moment in front of an old, abandoned stone cottage, a reminder of the long-ago famine and subsequent decades of mass emigration that had hit West Cork hard.
Up ahead, the spaniel paused and looked back, tail wagging. Lizzie laughed, dismissing any notion that he was trying to lead her somewhere or was connected to her strange encounter with the old farmer.
Too little sleep. Too many Irish fairy stories.
She came to a cheerful yellow-painted bungalow. A red-haired woman stood at the kitchen sink while a man, handsome and smiling, brought a stack of dishes to the counter and young children colored at a table behind them. Feeling an unexpected tug of emotion, Lizzie continued along the lane. If nothing else, the cool air and brisk walk were helping to clear her head so that she could figure out what to do now that Simon Cahill was in Boston.
She could hear the intermittent bleating of sheep, out to pasture as far up into the rock-strewn hills as she could see. Pale gray fog and mist swirled over the highest of the peaks, settling into rocky dips and crevices. Given her cover story, she’d stuffed her backpack with hiking gear, dry clothes, flashlight, trail food, even a tent. All she had to do now was get herself onto the Beara Way and keep going. Hike for real. She could leave her car in the village and follow the mix of roads, lanes and trails up the peninsula to Kenmare, or down to Allihies and Dursey Island.
How many times had she debated walking away from Norman Estabrook and all she knew about him? She’d met him when he’d been a guest at her family’s Dublin hotel sixteen months ago. He was a brilliant, successful hedge-fund manager who had the resources to indulge his every whim, and as an adrenaline junkie, he had many whims. He was known as much for his death-defying adventures as his immense fortune. He wasn’t reckless. Whether he was planning to circumnavigate the globe in a hot-air balloon, jump out of an airplane at high-altitude, or head off on a hike in extreme conditions, he would prepare for anything that could go wrong.
At first, Lizzie had believed he was hanging out with major drug traffickers because he was naïve, but she’d learned otherwise. She now suspected that, all along, Norman had calculated that if he were caught, prosecutors would want his friends in the drug cartels more than they wanted him, the financial genius who’d helped them with their money. He was rarely impulsive, and he knew how to leverage himself and manage risk.
Lizzie had been at his ranch in Montana in late June when he’d realized federal agents were about to arrest him. He was a portly, bland-looking forty-year-old man who’d never married, and never would marry. Shocked and livid, he’d turned to her. “I’ve been betrayed.”
He’d meant Simon Cahill, not her. Norman had hired Simon the previous summer to help him plan and execute his high-risk adventures. He’d known Simon had just left the FBI and therefore might not be willing to look the other way if he discovered his client was involved in illegal activities, especially with major drug traffickers.
Turned out there
was nothing “ex” FBI about Simon.
In those tense hours before his arrest, Norman hadn’t looked at himself and acknowledged he’d at least been unwise to cozy up to criminals. Instead, he’d railed against those who had wronged him. Other than a few members of his household staff, Lizzie had been the only one with him. He had never had a serious romantic relationship that she knew of—and certainly not with her. The people in his life—family, friends, staff, colleagues—were planets circling his sun.
The rules just didn’t apply to Norman Estabrook. He’d gone to Harvard on scholarship, started working at a respected, established hedge fund right after graduating, then launched his own fund at twenty-seven. By forty, he was worth several billion dollars and able to take a less active role in his funds.
Lizzie had paced with him in front of the tall windows overlooking his sprawling ranch and the big western sky and tried to talk him into calling his attorneys and cooperating with authorities. But if she’d learned anything about Norman in the past year, it was that he did what he wanted to do. Most people about to be handcuffed and read their rights wouldn’t get on the phone and threaten an FBI agent and his boss, but Norman, as he’d often pointed out, wasn’t most people.
She’d watched his hatred and determination mount as he’d confronted the reality that Simon—the man he’d entrusted with his life—was actually an undercover federal agent.
That John March had won.
Retreating from the magnificent view, he had picked up the phone.
“Don’t, Norman,” Lizzie had said.
She wasn’t even sure he’d heard her. Spittle at the corners of his mouth, his eyes gleaming with rage, he’d called Simon in Boston and delivered his threat.
“You’re dead. Dead, dead, dead. First I kill John March. Then I kill you.”
Lizzie remembered staring out at the aspens, so green against the clear blue sky, and thinking she, too, would be dead, dead, dead if Norman figured out that for the better part of a year she’d been passing information about him anonymously to the FBI. Until his arrest, she hadn’t known if the FBI was taking her information seriously and had Norman’s activities under investigation. She certainly hadn’t known they had an undercover agent in position.
The Mist Page 2