He turned north off Upper Newtownards Road onto Stoney Road, the eastern boundary of Stormont. As he drove, he noticed to his right that a thin layer of fog had settled onto the fairways of the darkened Knock Golf Club. He drove past the Stoney Road entrance to Stormont Estate, where he noticed an increase in security as well.
He continued north, circling east around the golf course until he found a suitable place to hide the car. It had been many years since he had been to Stormont and the landscape had changed, but he was hopeful the location would still be available for his covert entry onto the grounds.
He wore all black clothing to help conceal his movement across Stormont property. Soon he located the drainage ditch from the Knock Golf Club. The drainage ditch caught the runoff of rain and irrigation from the golf course and routed it through a four-foot diameter drain pipe that ran under Stoney Road through the Stormont Estate property, then north off the back of the estate property. The only security measure previously left in place was a removable grate on the golf club side that was used to catch debris.
The runoff ditch made a fifty-foot pass under the security fence. This was O’Rourke’s access to the estate.
Wading in nearly eight inches of water and debris, he slowly moved the rusty grate away from the pipe opening, allowing the debris to float through. He wore black assault boots designed for waterborne operations. Their ventilated quick-dry capabilities would allow him to move quietly across the yard.
He ducked down low and into the pipe, pulling the grate closed behind him. He pushed his way through the forty-foot pipe. Rats scurried about, disturbed by his intrusion into their habitat.
Reaching the other end of the pipe, he encountered a new obstacle—a section of chain-link fence over the opening. Rats squeezed through the openings in the fence. He felt along the fence, and then gave it a push. The flexible fence gave at the bottom and with another hard push it started to pull loose from the sides. He pushed harder and the fence gave way, creating a gap large enough for him to squeeze through.
Hunched over in the ditch, he traversed forty yards before climbing out at the tree line. He remained in the forested parts of the grounds, moving swiftly yet quietly around the eastern side of the castle. Then he headed north through the woods, arriving at the large parking lot east of the Parliament Building, exactly where he planned to make his initial approach to the building.
Crouched in the bushes, O’Rourke studied the building. He could detect cleaning crews moving from room to room, turning on the lights when they entered, turning off the lights when they left. He noticed lights that stayed on in one room on the third floor.
The two shadows moving around the room were not those of the cleaning team. One shadow appeared to pace back and forth across the room, while the larger shadow stood at the window that looked out over the lawns. His memory told him this room was his target destination, the office of the Secretary of State.
He circled the perimeter of the parking lot until he reached the Portland stone sarcophagus of Sir James Craig, also known as Lord Craigavon, who had served as the first Prime Minister of Northern Ireland from 1921 until his death in 1940.
O’Rourke used the griselinia hedge surrounding the sarcophagus as cover while he worked his way toward the east side of the Parliament Building.
When he reached the building he encountered his greatest obstacle—floodlights. Thousands of watts of bright light flooded down from the heights of the building, illuminating the proximity as if daylight were upon him. He crawled to the edge of the parking lot immediately adjacent to the building, and then made a dash for the rear service entrance where he knew he could slip into the building undetected.
CHAPTER 64
Jake leaned forward and removed the aircraft emergency booklet from the pouch next to his seat, looked at it, then laughed.
He jabbed Kaplan on the shoulder, held the booklet in front of him and said, “Small world, isn’t it? Kind of ironic that this whole thing started with the same type aircraft we’re sitting in, a Challenger 600.”
Kaplan laughed. “I just hope it’s not an omen.”
The CIA jet aircraft had picked up Jake, Kaplan and Hunt at Dulles International Airport with a destination of Sligo Airport in Strandhill, Ireland.
Neither Strandhill nor Sligo was to be their ultimate destination, but rather a town east of Sligo called Dromahair, a town, according to CIA and SIS surveillance records, Laurence O’Rourke visited numerous times over the course of the last twenty years.
“According to my research,” Jake said. “Land records showed several properties in County Leitrim owned by O’Rourke, including a well maintained homestead on the outskirts of town, a place where O’Rourke visits and disappears from sight for days at a time. The O’Rourke family also holds claim to a heritage entitlement to the historic site of The O’Rourke Banqueting Hall, directly adjacent to the ruins of the old O’Rourke Castle.”
Jake pulled out another folder and opened it up for Kaplan to see. “According to the CIA records, Dromahair, or Droim Ath Thair, was a historical stronghold for the O’Rourke clan from the late 8th century until the 17th century. The O’Rourkes built the Dromahair Castle and the Creevelea Abbey, which served as the 16th century O’Rourke family chapel.
The O’Rourke Banqueting Hall was built and enlarged during the 10th and 11th centuries and formed a fortified complex. The family’s feasts at the banqueting hall became legendary throughout the region. The hall has supposedly remained undisturbed for over the last three hundred years.”
Jake opened another folder. “Records of British Secret Intelligence Service, SIS, or MI6 as it is sometimes called, indicated numerous appearances in Dromahair by O’Rourke during and since his appointment as Quartermaster General of the IRA. The purpose of these visits isn’t known.”
When the news broke of Laurence O’Rourke’s alleged association with the British government and the suspicions of his spying on the IRA, his affiliation with Sinn Fein was terminated, and the IRA hired assassins with orders to kill O’Rourke in a “messy and public” manner. An example needed to be made.
Jake saw Kaplan looked bored. “Are you getting this or did I lose you along the way?”
Kaplan smiled. I don’t know, Jake. That’s a lot to take in. You sound like my 9th grade history teacher…boring. Is this shit really important?”
“This shit should be important to you. You might have to improvise in the field and having full background information will help you make better decisions. I always made sure I gave the Navy Seals a thorough briefing before each mission.”
“I knew you worked for Bentley, is this what you did?”
“Sometimes. When I worked for Bentley I mainly did research and wrote reports for him. He’d brief the Joint Chiefs and the President. Before Bentley though I worked in the field and briefed face to face on occasion.”
Kaplan sighed. “Okay, go on.”
“According to SIS records, O’Rourke had been recruited as a spy by a man known as the Commander. He’s not a commander at all but rather a behavioral psychiatrist, who once worked for British Intelligence as a handler for British operatives. O’Rourke had shown much promise but proved to be the Commander’s ultimate failure. The Commander now works in Belfast for the Northern Ireland Secretary of State, who just also happens to be a former director of British Secret Intelligence and had been the director when O’Rourke was recruited by the Commander.”
“Now isn’t that coincidental?” Kaplan said.
“O’Rourke’s objectives as specified by SIS were unclear, but it is believed that he went rogue. Since he became such a high-ranking public figure, SIS had left him alone until he announced he had earth-shattering news that would bring the New Northern Ireland Assembly to its knees. That announcement was made six days ago. Right before the attempt on his life in Savannah—”
Kaplan interrupted. “Something we now know had nothing to do with O’Rourke’s plan to undermine the Assembly.”
Jake reclined in his leather seat and closed his eyes. His wounds were healing. It’d only been four days since the shootout but with the marvels of modern medicine, and the help of a CIA physician, his shoulder only ached. His side was tender to the touch but not really painful. Otherwise, only mental and emotional scars remained from the St. Patrick’s Day mayhem.
The drain of the last few days caught up with him fast. Within minutes he was asleep, the aircraft emergency booklet still in his hand.
CHAPTER 65
O’Rourke entered the Parliament Building through a rear service entrance after timing the rounds of security guards. He knew where he was going, he had done this before—many times.
The five chandeliers in the Great Hall had been turned off for the night. One large chandelier, made from cast iron and gilded in twenty-four-karat gold was accompanied by four smaller replicas. Without the illumination from the chandeliers, the walnut, cream and golden Italian marble floor lost most of its luster and charm.
He climbed the east stairwell behind the Senate Chamber to the third floor. He opened the door slightly to peer out. He heard voices and saw some of the cleaning crew waxing the floors. When the cleaners were out of sight, O’Rourke darted across the hall into a utility closet, where he found coveralls matching those worn by the maintenance personnel. He also found something extra, the thirdfloor electrical circuit box.
O’Rourke knew the element of surprise would work in his favor, giving him a clear upper hand.
He had arrived back in Ireland faster than anticipated. He’d driven all night from Savannah to Hartford, Connecticut, where he stopped to rest, paying for a five-hour day-stay at a small motel. He had proceeded on to his source—an ally from earlier days—in Quebec City, Quebec, Canada, where he’d boarded a twin-engine turboprop owned by his ally and equipped with long-range fuel cells for the trans-Atlantic flight.
The Beechcraft King Air 350 had landed at Ronaldsway Airport just outside of Castletown on the Isle of Man, a territory of the United Kingdom located in the Irish Sea halfway between England and Ireland. After clearing Customs with the fake identification supplied to him by his source, O’Rourke had hopped a train to Douglas where he boarded the afternoon steam packet ferry to Belfast.
There, under the cover of darkness, he had hailed a taxi to take him to the Belfast Airport. When he found a suitable, nondescript vehicle in the long-term parking lot, he broke into it, hotwired it, and drove to Stormont Estate.
He cracked open the door to the utility closet, dressed in coveralls and carrying a toolbox, he scanned the hallway. Nobody. He noticed the stairwell door across the hall slowly opening and pulled the closet door shut leaving only a tiny crack.
He stood in the dark closet staring through the thin slit of light from the crack in the door. He spotted a man, dressed in black, carrying a silenced pistol. O’Rourke couldn’t tell what type but it really didn’t matter.
He didn’t recognize the man but he knew who he was. An assassin paid to kill him.
* * * The man in black entered the room, and both the Commander and the Secretary of State jumped in unison.
The Commander’s face furrowed in irritation. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The man said nothing, just looked around the room.
“Who is this man?” the Secretary asked.
“This is the asset we hired to take care of O’Rourke and Collins.”
“What’s he doing here? He can’t be seen here. We have too much to lose.”
The Commander looked into the intruder’s eyes. “Like I said, what are you doing here?”
The man moved to the window and parted the sheers with his silencer. “He’s here. He’s in the building.”
“What? Who’s here? O’Rourke?” the Secretary shouted. “Where is he now?” The Commander’s voice rose.
“He’s on this floor. I followed him into the building and up the stairwell,” said the man in black. “He’s here somewhere. I came in here because he will be here soon.”
The Commander walked over to the coat rack and rifled through his coat pockets. He pulled out a small pistol and tucked it inside the back of his waistband.
“Well, I guess we better get ready for him then before he—”
The room went dark.
The exterior floodlights of the Parliament Building left the room with just enough light to see shapes and figures against the stark white walls.
“What happened?” yelled the Secretary.
The man in black said, “It’s him. He’s cut the power, but only to this floor. See, the outside lights are still on.”
The Commander lifted the phone off the hook. “Phones are dead as well.”
The Secretary raised his voice. “What are we going to do?”
The Commander and the man in black said in unison, “We wait.”
* * * O’Rourke watched the man in black go into the Secretary’s office. He had to take action and he knew he had to do it quickly. He couldn’t afford to allow the three men time to formulate a plan.
He decided to smoke out the rats. He saw a one-liter can of acetone in the closet. The irritant and flammable properties of the acetone made it his best option. He grabbed the can from the closet, removed the screw-on cap and stuffed a rag into the spout. The rag quickly absorbed the acetone. He could feel the vapors burning his nostrils.
He moved down the darkened hallway to the Secretary’s door. He knew his next few moves were critical, life or death moves.
His own life or death.
He lit the rag with a lighter, then kicked open the Secretary’s office door and threw the acetone fire bomb inside. The can ricocheted off the wall sending a plume of flame against the wall and across the floor. The sheers on the windows went up in a blaze.
He had only a few seconds left now. The smoke would soon activate the fire alarms and the Parliament Building would be swarming with responders, cutting off any chance he had for escape.
He caught his first break. He could hear the Secretary shouting for someone to extinguish the fire. The first movement he saw through the doorway was that of the man in black. The man moved toward the flaming sheers as O’Rourke came through the doorway.
Before the man could turn around, O’Rourke fired three shots into his chest. The man fell backwards, his arms extended up in the air from the impacts to his chest. His silenced pistol flew out of his hand and slid across the floor, landing only a foot from O’Rourke’s feet. The man fell to the floor only three feet from the flames.
O’Rourke quickly moved into the room, pointing his weapon toward the only place the Commander and Secretary could be. His swiftness caught them off guard and they watched in fear as the man in black died.
Flames spread quickly casting an amber glow in the office. When the two men looked up, O’Rourke stood with his gun aimed in their direction. The Secretary threw up his hands to surrender. The Commander didn’t.
The Commander and O’Rourke stared each other in the eyes.
O’Rourke leaned down to pick up the hit man’s gun without breaking his eye lock with the Commander. The Secretary lowered his arms and reached toward his desk drawer. O’Rourke raised the hit man’s gun and fired a bullet dead center into the Secretary’s forehead. A faint shadow flew from the back of the Secretary’s head as his body fell to the floor.
The room filled with smoke and O’Rourke knew his time was running out. The Commander shouted, “Laurence, that’s enough. Put the weapon down. That is an order.”
O’Rourke laughed. “I don’t take orders from you anymore, old man.”
“Look, I can still salvage this. I’ll tell them the asset shot the Secretary. You can just leave. Leave now while you have a chance.”
“What?” O’Rourke chided, “Are you afraid of dying?”
“It doesn’t have to end this way,” the Commander said. “We can come to an arrangement.”
“Sorry, there will be no arrangements. I w
ill discredit Sinn Fein. I will discredit your dead Secretary. I owe you nothing. You did nothing but use me to do your dirty work, then left me hanging when your ill-conceived plans backfired. Because of you, I have no safe place to go.
“Fortunately though,” O’Rourke continued, “I planned ahead. I have enough documentation to bring down the entire New Northern Ireland Assembly. I have proof of all the lies. All your lies.
O’Rourke motioned to the lifeless Secretary of State with his pistol. “All his lies.”
O’Rourke smiled for the first time. “I’m going to expose everything, then I’m going to disappear forever. I have the money to live the life I deserve. I’m going someplace out of the reach of the SIS, the CIA, and everyone.”
The fire alarm sounded, interrupting his diatribe. O’Rourke raised the hit man’s pistol and fired twice. The first bullet struck the Commander in the chest. The second shot hit him in the right temple. He was dead before he hit the floor.
CHAPTER 66
Jake dreamt of Beth. The last few days rolled over and over in his unconscious mind. She lay in his blood-soaked arms. The yellow shirt stained with her blood. She was dying. Then the faces appeared. O’Rourke. Collins. McGill—eyes open but dead. Then he heard Sullivan talking to them from the darkness of their room at the Savannah Westin. He had no head.
The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series) Page 24