It’s been a long couple of days for Mickey. He slides his Glock from its black suede Safariland holster and lays it on the night table beside the bed.
10:00 PM here, is 5:00 PM back in Philly. Good, let me call the bride. She should be home from work by now.
Mickey makes the call. Talks to his wife, Pat, for about ten minutes, ending by giving her the phone number for his suite. Next, he calls the police commissioner’s office to give him an update. The PC is out but Mickey speaks to Carol, his secretary, and leaves a short message.
Mickey forgoes looking at the shots he took at Trinity. Instead, he opens his wood casement windows in the living room and glances at the subdued lit walkways crisscrossing Saint Stephen’s Square and listens to the miniature street-cleaning jitneys humming up and down Grafton Street, getting the area ready for the morning throng of humanity. Mick decides to leave the window open just a crack to take in the gentle breezes of Dublin City. He sets his travel alarm for eight o’clock, giving him a two-hour window to make his ten o’clock appointment with Superintendent Kevin O’Clooney.
It’s nice to finally catch some zzzs in a real bed.
It doesn’t take long for him to fall into deep REM sleep between crisp white sheets and a hand-embroidered quilt.
CHAPTER 21
“He that loveth danger shall perish in it.”
Irish Proverb
The Drum Sheep Ranch
27 Road Clancy, Castleknock, Ireland
With complete darkness now encompassing the whole of Castleknock, a group of multinationals begins to discuss their plans to disrupt the US president’s visit to Dublin, among other things. The nine men, all with individual hardened skills, are gathered around a hundred-year-old wooden kitchen table. The plastic shades on all four windows are drawn. And the single French door to the rear yard is bolted. The mid-May night air is chilly, so one of the men has started a fire fueled by peat from the ranch’s bog field. The men are not strangers to developing and carrying out what some would consider random acts of violence.
The group plans and carries out all of their terrorist activities in complete anonymity. They never give warnings, state demands, take credit, or utilize any materials or methods that could identify a “signature” or operational mode. For law enforcement around the globe, the group’s indistinctness has been a huge problem. It has come to the point where investigative agencies have adapted a position for labeling these random acts as the work of nameless “global militants.”
The list of the so-called “global militant” acts is growing and includes a sniper-type murder of a Belfast Ireland crime reporter killed sitting in her car at a stop light, the crash of a Douglas DC-9 on takeoff in the Florida Everglades killing 110, a fiery explosion at an Egyptian hotel killing eighteen Greek tourists, the C-4 explosion of a TWA 747 over Long Island killing all 230, and the gangland-style murder of thirty-three British businessmen in San Juan, Puerto Rico.
Investigating authorities including the FBI and NTSB have concluded that some or all of these acts could have been done by the same “global militants.” But the identity of the person or persons responsible is unknown. So far there have been no slipups. No passing images caught on ATM cameras. No usable fingerprints, palm prints, shoe impressions. No trace evidence at any scene. Nothing that could be used by law enforcement to even begin to identify the doer or doers.
The men, including three Dubliners, three Americans, a Canadian, a resident from Belfast, and the leader, a man holding dual citizenship in the US and Greece, all consider themselves liberators and patriots. The leader sees himself more as a cause than a man.
There have been numerous unsuccessful attempts to pigeonhole the single reason for why a person turns to terrorism. What is known is that people become terrorists in different ways for different reasons. All of the men meeting at the Castleknock sheep ranch have been drawn together because they believe they’ve been the victim of some injustice. They also display a need to identify with others who share common vulnerabilities.
The three Americans, one from a well-off family, one from a big-city law-enforcement agency, and one a retired federal agent, all share the ends-justify-the-means philosophy. All have used violence to advance certain values they believe essential to freedom and democracy. Over the past couple of years their brand of violence has crossed all borders. They’ve reached out to other “patriots” in England, Greece and Ireland and offered their services to help with the others’ struggles.
Tonight’s meeting revolves around Jerry Drum’s demise, the American who delivered the news, and the US president’s visit to Ireland. The group needs to narrow their lengthy wish list of damaging activities down to a manageable two or three having the most impact around the world.
After several heated discussions, the group settled on events they believed would, as the Canadian phrased it, “give the most bang for the buck.” At 3:20 AM, Dublin time, six of the men leave the Drum ranch each with their own piece of the plot to synchronize. The other three still have work to do. They’re installing a new “alarm system” in the main house and the two-level barn.
There will be no need for the entire group to meet again until after completion of the operation. That meeting will be determined at the appropriate time by their leader.
CHAPTER 22
“The explanation of every riddle is contained in itself.”
Irish Proverb
Thursday
May 23, 1996
8:00 AM, Dublin Time
Eight o’clock came quicker than Mickey would have liked. He turns off the alarm halfway through its first cadence of annoying high-pitched beeps. He swings his legs out of bed and sits on the end of the bed a few seconds, holding his head in both hands.
Day two. Think I lost a day somewhere. Must still be on Philly time.
By 8:30, Mickey has readied himself for whatever may come at him this rare bright and sunny Ireland day.
Let’s get this show on the road. Mickey locks up the suite. Takes the lift back down to the ground floor and walks a half block away to the underground parking lot and his rented compact. He compares his map with the diagram Kevin drew for him last night at dinner.
Looks pretty straightforward.
He pulls out of the lot, turns right, then left around the park heading for Garda Headquarters in Phoenix Park, about seven miles west of center city Dublin.
Phoenix Park is a 1,700-acre public park filled with monuments, a quaint café, a seventeenth-century restored castle, endless athletic fields, and the thirty-two-acre Dublin Zoo. Phoenix Park is where the Pope said mass in 1979, to more than 1.3 million people. The Park is five times the size of Hyde Park in London and over double the size of New York’s Central Park.
Mickey arrives at Garda Headquarters with thirty minutes to spare. He uses some of that time traversing the main roads of the park and getting his bearings, just in case. At 9:30 he pulls up in front of the main gate of Dublin’s Garda Headquarters and stops short of the red and white lift gate controlled by the Garda on duty inside the small security building.
Garda Headquarters is a huge two-story gray-stone building. It’s the home base for the commissioner, most of his top Garda officials and a few special units. The grounds are considerable and surrounded by a ten-foot-high stone wall. The main gate, the only access into the complex, is directly across from the rear exit of the Dublin Zoo.
The Republic of Ireland’s Garda was formed by the provisional government in February 1922. It took over the responsibility of policing the new Irish Free State. Like the Philly PD, it’s headed by a commissioner who’s appointed by the Government. The present commissioner of the Garda is Patrick Byrne who is scheduled to retire in July of 1996. The Garda covers over 70,273 kilometers and is divided into six “Garda Force Regions,” responsible for policing a population of approximately five million.
The Garda has about 15,000 officers and 2,500 civilian support staff. Uniformed members of the Garda do not routinely ca
rry firearms. However, some 3,000 members, mostly special units and detectives, are armed. Another reason Mickey thought it prudent to bring his firearm. There’s no doubt that if he does finally meet up with “The Greek,” he’ll be armed to the teeth.
The Garda follows a mandate that would never hold up in the City of Brotherly Love.
“The Garda Siochána will succeed not by
force of arms or numbers, but on their moral
authority as servants of the people.”
In Philly, even the judges and lawyers strap on a gun or two in the performance of their “moral authority.”
There is no international transfer process. A cop in Philly can’t decide to move to Dublin and be instantly hired by the Garda. Their basic training is two years. Philly’s Police Academy is six months, then it’s straight to street duty in one of the patrol districts. Unless of course you “know somebody,” then you could end up working for a chief inspector or even the commissioner. Unlike the PPD, who has a one-year probation period which includes time spent at the Academy, the Garda has a two-year probation period.
Mickey exits his rental and walks up the ramp to the side door leading to the security counter where a gray-haired Garda official has already stood up to greet him.
“Good morning. You must be the American captain here to see Superintendent O’Clooney. He said you’d be here around ten o’clock.”
“Good morning. How ya doing?” Mickey extends his hand to the uniformed Garda. “Captain Mickey Devlin, Philly PD.” Mickey shows the Garda his PD photo ID card.
“Good morning, sir. I’m doin’ just fine, thanks. Let me call over to the super’s office. He’ll have one of his fellows come down and take you over. It’s just a short walk across the courtyard and up a flight.”
“Thank you. Sounds good.”
The man makes the call. “Someone will be here presently to escort you.”
The security Garda asked Mickey if he wouldn’t mind signing the visitors’ log and moving his vehicle to one of the open parking spaces to the left of the Garda building outside the gate.
Mickey does as requested and comes back to the security desk. He reads the man’s name tag, “Garda Kerr. Kerr! That’s a fine name. My great grandmother, Lisa, was a Kerr. She was born in Lurgan, Armagh.”
“Small world! Who knows? Maybe we’re related.”
“You’re right. We should—”
Mickey’s family history conversation is interrupted when Student Garda, Matt Kelly, bursts through the aluminum and glass rear door of the security building. As part of their field-training experience, Garda college recruits are sent out to various locations to get a firsthand look at the overall operation of the country’s policing agency. This week it’s Matt Kelly’s turn to observe Garda Headquarters function.
Mickey found out later that Matt would be assigned to the O’Connor Garda station in the heart of Dublin, a station familiar to Mickey from his 1985 trip to Dublin. It’s where he easily enticed a few eager Garda to trade uniform insignias, tie clips and unit patches for Philly PD memorabilia.
In ‘85, what proved to be in the biggest demand were a handful of very colorful lapel pins surrounding the May thirteenth confrontation with the “Back to Nature” group MOVE. The “unauthorized” pins were produced by a retired cop with ties to the first confrontation with the same group years earlier. The Dublin Garda Mickey spoke to were all aware of the ‘85 clash and had a very interesting Celtic slant on the outcome.
Matt Kelly introduced himself and then had Mickey follow him through the employee turnstile, around the security desk to the back door, avoiding the metal detector. From Mickey’s perspective, a welcomed relief but unexpected security move. It was as if “they” didn’t want to know if he was armed. Mickey followed Kelly across the large gray cobblestone courtyard of Garda Headquarters to the center entrance, a classic blue, double door with brass hardware. The men climbed the bi-level flight of concrete stairs and walked the long bright hallway decorated with past Garda commissioners, to a half-glass door professionally etched.
Superintendent Kevin O’Clooney
Special Detective Bureau
The superintendent’s outer office is about the same size as CIB Headquarters but with a twelve-foot-high ceiling. Here, Mickey is greeted by a middle-aged black-hair woman in civilian attire, rising from her desk.
“Top of the morning to ya, Captain Devlin. You Americans are always so prompt. I’m Peg Scullion. Follow me then, the super is expecting ya. You can go back to whatever you were doing, Matt Kelly. The super will call ya when it pleases him.”
Matt Kelly leaves and Mickey follows Peg Scullion through a second set of large wooden doors to Kevin O’Clooney’s private office. Kevin immediately comes from behind his desk to greet Mickey.
“Good morning, Mickey. Guess you’ve already met Peg, my gatekeeper.”
Mrs. Peg Scullion smiles and leaves the room, closing the door after her.
“Sit, Mickey. Did ya have your morning tea yet?”
“None for me, Kevin. I’m fine.”
Kevin walks back behind his desk and pulls out a thick envelope from his bottom drawer.
“Before we get started let me have your camera. I’ll have Matt take it to Visuals so they can print those shots you took at Drum’s.” Mickey gives his Casio QV-11 to Kevin, who then pushes the intercom button on his phone.
“Peg, ring up Matt. I have a duty for him.”
A few seconds later an out-of-breath Matt Kelly knocks, then enters the office.
“Here, take this to Visuals. Tell them you want these photos printed in eleven by sixteen.”
Kevin writes down a half-dozen numbers and shows them to Mickey.
“I got them all, Mick?”
Mickey checks the numbers he and Kevin agreed should be enlarged last night at dinner.
“You got them.”
“Tell them I want them straightaway. Wait for the prints, then bring them back here.”
“Yes, sir. Straightaway it is.”
Matt leaves and Kevin comments. “Fine lad that Matt Kelly. He’s number one in his class. So far! He’ll make an outstanding Garda one day. His Da was killed while on duty at ‘Sniper’s Alley’ in Sarajevo in May of ‘95.”
“Sorry to hear that. Seems like a nice kid.”
“That, he is. Pull your chair around here, Mickey. Let’s go through what I’ve been able to put together between my office and the Intelligence and Immigration Bureaus.
“First, take a look at the aerials I had taken of the Drum ranch. We didn’t see anything out of the normal. Maybe you can see something we missed. A fresh set of eyes is always good.”
Kevin hands Mickey a dozen color eight-by-ten photographs. Most are of the photos of Patrick Drum’s green home with that peculiar orange front door. Mickey goes through the pile meticulously, doing his famous eye-squint focusing trick for better clarity.
He’s used to perusing aerial photography, and spotting not-so-obvious forms and structures based on the hundreds of photos he’s taken from his friend’s single engine Cherokee 150. Mickey hoped to be part of the PD’s proposed Helicopter Unit. He even had an interview with the commissioner to discuss his qualifications and recommendations for that new unit. Mickey never heard back from the police commissioner but wasn’t surprised to hear the PC selected a sergeant from the Mayor’s security detail. After his first choice failed the FAA mandatory written test twice, he was replaced with another one of the PC’s inner circle.
Halfway through the stack of photos Mickey spots what looks “out of place.” It’s two flatbeds like the ones Drum was pulling with his tractor. On one of the flatbeds, bales of hay are lined up neatly around the perimeter creating a sizeable cavern-like pit in the center. A portion of that flatbed is covered with a dark tarp. Mickey pulls that photo out and sets it aside.
He continues to scan the photos until he again notices something else that appears odd for the surrounding topography. It’s a large moun
d of dirt behind the barn. At one end of the mound is a long white board that appears to be mounted on a small platform raising it slightly above the dirt mound. Mickey places that with the other photo set aside earlier. He finishes looking at the remainder of the aerials and hands them back to Kevin.
Kevin points to the photos Mickey set aside and asks, “Ya see something interesting in those two, Mick?”
Mickey continues to inspect the photos closely, holding one in each hand and doesn’t respond. He repeatedly examines the photos, one and then the other.
Kevin tries again. “Ya want to share what’s catching your fancy there, Mickey?”
Mickey responds, “I’m sorry, Kevin. I got a little mesmerized with these two.” He places both photos down on the desk in front of Kevin.
First, he points at the flatbed truck with the missing bales of hay. “I’m no farmer, but isn’t that a strange way to stack hay on a truck? Only around the edges. “
“I’m no farmer either, but I’d agree it is a bit odd.”
“If I wanted to hide something or someone from street-level view that setup would do it. Plus that tarp would help cloak the cargo from above.”
“I’ll be damned. You got an eagle eye, Mickey Devlin. What about that other photo you got there?”
With his index finger, Mickey circles the mound of dirt in the shot and then points to that white board at one end. “That looks like a diving board to me. Don’t see many outdoor swimming pools in Ireland. And if I’m correct about that mound, then my next question is why did Patrick Drum backfill the pool? Or because I’m such a suspicious person, what is he hiding in the hole?”
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