Dublin Odyssey

by Michael P. Cooney

  At seven thirty Mickey’s cell phone rings with a short rendition of “Anchors Aweigh.” Cute! It’s Superintendent Kevin O’Clooney.

  “Hey, Mick. Sorry I didn’t get back sooner. I took a couple of those pain pills the doc gave me and I went out like a light. You all right out there?”

  “Couldn’t be better. I lucked out. Met a retired cop from NYPD. Long story. I’ll tell you all about it when I see ya.”

  “Deal! Guess there’s been no sign of the Footballer out there or you wouldn’t be taking my call. Am I right?”

  “Pretty much. It’s gotta show up soon. Hold on a minute, Kev.”

  The entire time Mickey was talking to Kevin he continues to scan the harbor.

  “Gotta cut our conversation short, Kev. I can see the Footballer making its way around the far side of the ‘Eye.’ I’ll get back to ya. Okay?”

  “Ya want me to send backup, Mick? There’s a Garda station a short distance from Howth.”

  “Thanks! But not yet. I don’t want to spook these guys. Stay by your cell, though. I’ll let you know if I need savin’ again.”

  “I’ll be here. But don’t wait till the last minute, partner. Dial me up at the first hint of trouble.”

  “Will do.”

  Mickey presses the end button and monitors the approaching sailboat with the large number 31 high up on its mast. As it gets closer to the harbor Mickey focuses in on the crew to see if he can ID any of them as “The Greek.” Of the two crew members he can see clearly, one resembles the man from the Drum ranch. Will the real Patrick Drum please stand up?

  The closer 31 gets to the harbor it becomes obvious something is amiss. Where’s the third guy? There’s supposed to be a three-man crew: the “fake” John Deforrest and two guests. That’s what O’Malley said. I’m sure of it.

  Mickey shouts aloud, “Holy shh—the third guy is still out there somewhere. I can’t catch a break.”

  Mickey watches the remaining two crew members lower the sail and power their way back to their assigned spot in the marina. He can see them covering the sail and securing the cabin while they wait for the harbor taxi to take them back to port. Mickey watches them go ashore and enter their vehicle. Not having any real legal jurisdiction, Mick calls Kevin and gives him their descriptions and the tag number of their vehicle.

  “I’ll take care of it, Mick. And I’ll make certain we take them down quick and out of view of the harbor.”

  “Thanks, Kev. Gotta go!”

  Now Mickey’s thoughts turn to the whereabouts of the third crew member. His gut is telling him that he’s looking for Michael Odysseus. Knowing Odysseus’ long history with military and law enforcement weaponry, Mickey is certain that if the intention is to disable or bring down Air Force One, “The Greek” wouldn’t entrust that task to anyone except himself. The guy is an eternal rebel.

  To a certain extent, Mickey’s history with lethal weaponry parallels that of Odysseus. Both men were decorated Special Forces, Vietnam War veterans. Both were military-trained combat snipers. And both were standouts on the PPD handgun and long rifle competition teams.

  For Mickey to find Odysseus he would have to think like him. Where would I set up to take the shot? Take the shot and get outta Dodge before all hell breaks out. And he’ll want to escape cleanly, leaving no trace he was ever there.

  Using the binoculars Mickey starts to search anywhere one man could secrete himself and still have a clear shot at an aircraft on final approach into Dublin Airport. He takes another look at the time on the cell phone. Eight thirty. Still have some time before my window opens. From his vantage point it appears all the assigned harbor slips have now been filled. Earlier, Mickey asked McFadden for the phone number at the harbormaster’s boathouse. He decides to call down and talk to O’Malley.

  “Howth Marina security.”

  “Hi, O’Malley. Ernie Evans. Sorry to bother ya. I talked to you this afternoon about boat 31, the Footballer.”

  “Oh yes. I remember. Mister Evans, isn’t it?”

  “Yes! That’s correct.”

  “How can I help you, Mister Evans? I’m in the process of closing down for the night.”

  “I just need a minute of your time.”

  “Well, all right.”

  “I haven’t heard from my friends who rented Mister Ramzi’s sailboat, Footballer. Have they all returned to port? I’m starting to get a little concerned.”

  “As of about ten minutes ago all boats are back in port and tied down for the night. Let me check the sign-in manifest for the Footballer. Yes. It’s back safe and sound. And according to my sheet all three crew members signed in. I’m sure your friends just stopped for a pint somewhere. I wouldn’t worry, Mister Evans.”

  “All three signed in, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. All three. Misters Deforrest, Smith, and Jones.”

  “Smith and Jones?”

  “Yes. And Mister John Deforrest.”

  “Okay then. Sorry to bother ya. I’m sure, as you say, they stopped for a pint. Thanks again. Have a nice night.”

  “You too, sir.”

  Mickey presses the end key.

  Okay, all three signed in. I think O’Malley may have had a pint or two himself.

  Mickey goes back to scanning the harbor’s breaker wall for natural caves or drainage tunnels. Nothing! Where are you? I know you’re out there somewhere, just waiting to take your shot.

  Mickey starts to think about when he first saw the Footballer making its way to port. He remembers seeing it coming around the north end of the “Eye.” He starts to scan along the rocky coast of the island, then up toward the ruins of a Martello Tower. Not a soul. He continues scanning south.

  Then he suddenly focuses on the Martello Tower. The rope. Where’s the rope that was hanging from the window? It’s gone. Somebody’s in there. They pulled the rope in the tower so no one else can get up. Odysseus! Of course the window lines up perfectly with any arriving flight into Dublin Airport. I got to get out there. That Garda helicopter would be nice right about now. Never a cop around when ya need one.

  Mickey switches his focus back to Howth’s marina, specifically where the harbor’s water taxi is tied down. The one that transports all those excited weekend yachtsmen to their anchored sailboats. Bingo! Mickey grabs his cell phone, borrows the club’s binoculars, and makes his way back down from the rooftop glass observation room to the side door he came through over seven hours ago. From his perch atop the Yacht Club, he hadn’t noticed all the lights within a hundred yards of the marina had been turned off.

  He jogs to the mouth of the marina, past the locked harbormaster’s boathouse and along the dark dirt footpath to the tan-and-green six-seat outboard. Mickey hadn’t planned for a harbor “blackout” being part of the scheduled Mandatory Disaster Training Exercise between the Air Corps and the Garda.

  He climbs down the five foot, iron wall ladder to the small floating deck where passengers stand waiting to board the taxi and be transported out to their boats. He gives a quick look around the immediate area. Clear! Mickey gets in the small craft, pulls the starter cord, and the outboard starts up immediately, giving off a cloud of white smoke and a strong odor of diesel. He unties the stern first, then the bow, and pushes away from the stone-wall embankment with the six-foot aluminum extension pole lying across the backseats. Now as long as some dedicated public servant doesn’t take a shot at me for violating some bogus MDT exercise. Mickey decides to contact the Irish Air Corps for just that reason. He gets a message machine so he pushes the end key. I should get out to the “Eye” in fifteen minutes.

  CHAPTER 39

  “He comes like the bad weather, uninvited.”

  Irish Proverb

  Under a moonless night sky, Mickey slips out of Howth harbor unnoticed. He hopes for the same when he reaches the “Eye.” Except for the high tides gently washing against the strategically placed boulders along the marina wall, the night is dormant. Just before he runs the taxi up onto the narrow pebbl
e beach on the “Eye,” he puts his cell phone on vibrate and out of habit feels for his Glock 26 on his right hip. He pulls the front of the taxi further up on the beachhead and secures it to a large lifeless tree stump with the boat’s docking rigging.

  The Martello Tower is about a hundred yards to his left and forty feet above him. By now his night vision has kicked in. He follows the worn footpath used by tourists through the brush up toward the ancient tower. About thirty yards from the path end and the small clearing surrounding the large granite stepping stone directly under the tower’s window, he steps off the path and squats in the high grass to listen. Nothing!

  Then something catches his eye. The rope is back. Not good! Mickey tries to get into Odysseus’ mind-set. If I were him, what would I be doing? The few seconds it took to answer his own question proved to be too late. From behind him he heard a familiar voice and felt cold steel pressed against the back of his neck.

  “Don’t talk. Show me your palms. Stand up slowly. Do not turn around. Walk to the clearing. Do as I say and I may let you live. It’s your call.”

  Mickey doesn’t like it but he has no choice but to submit to his capture. When he reaches the clearing in front of the tower, the man has him stop, kneel, and cross his legs behind him. Mickey does as ordered while he weighs his options. He still has no idea who I am. I could be just a tourist or a kid on an “I dare ya” mission. Where’s my pat down. Odysseus has either gotten cocky or clumsy. I sense opportunity. One, two—

  The last thing Mickey remembers is feeling intense pain to the back of his head. The only reason he came out of his stupor was the vibration of his cell phone in his front left pocket. Still lightheaded, he unconsciously tries to reach for his phone but then realizes he’s sitting in the middle of the cold stone floor of the Martello Tower with his wrists bound behind him and his ankles tied together. Still got my cell? Could I still have my…? Mick’s train of thought is interrupted by some dark figure kicking him in the leg.

  “Been a long time, Mick. Or should I say Ernie Evans. Cute! Just like you to use the name of a 1960s rock-n-roller. Almost worked. The way my guy described his unannounced visitor bearing bad news of his brother’s death I had a weird suspicion that was you. That’s something we’ve always had in common. Those gut suspicions that turn out to be founded. What was it for you this time, Mick? What got those investigative juices flowing my way this time? Jerry Drum’s untimely passing? He had a big mouth. Was it because my wife suddenly decided to leave Philly? Or did I get caught on some surveillance camera somewhere and you thought you recognized your old Academy classmate? You might as well fess up, Mick. They tell me confession is good for the soul. Especially in your present circumstance.”

  Mickey remains silent.

  “Honestly, never thought I’d see your Irish arse here though. I take it you’re not over here tracing those damn Irish roots of yours. Am I right?”

  Mickey doesn’t answer, still a little groggy and reeling from the blow to the head and that boot to his leg.

  “Why are you out here in the middle of nowhere hiding in the bushes?”

  Mickey still doesn’t answer. He’s hoping the half-conscious scared victim card can work in his favor. Not that some of that isn’t true of course. Mickey also makes note how quiet the night skies are. We must be into that “no fly” thing before the president’s arrival. His cell phone vibrates for a second time.

  “What the fuck, Mick. Stop with the silent treatment bullshit from our ‘if caught by the Vietcong training.’ This isn’t Vietnam. This is Howth, Ireland. And I don’t need information from you. You’re not important to me—the mission is. And no bumbling Philly cop can do anything to stop that mission. It’s way beyond that. So, if you want to continue your little bullshit charade, be my guest. But remember, you are indeed my guest for as long as it pleases me. And I am affording you the opportunity to witness history.”

  Mickey finally responds. He addresses him how he addressed him in their Police Academy days.

  “What did you hit me with, OD?”

  “Well! Haven’t been called that for years. And never mind what I hit you with.”

  Mickey continues. “You’re right. I’m not over here tracing my roots. I’m here for you. And I know all about your so-called ‘mission.’ The Secret Service knows about it. At least the ones that can still be trusted and haven’t been locked up for helping you.”

  “I have no shortage of friends and people who think like me, Mick.”

  “The Garda knows all about your poorly planned mission and they’ve already delayed the President’s arrival.”

  Mickey hopes by reducing Odysseus’ assassination attempt to some minor inconvenience for the president and the crew of Air Force One, he’ll convince OD the game is over. And he’d better be served by making good on his escape now rather than later. A long shot. But there’s not much left in Mick’s bag of tricks at the moment. So what the heck.

  “Everybody and their grandmothers know all about your little plot to shoot down AF1. Your other two sailing buddies are already in Garda custody. And Deforrest—well, let’s just say we’re helping to get his dad back.”

  Now it’s Odysseus’ turn to be silent. He turns away from Mickey and walks toward the tower’s open stone window. He kneels down, clicks open two shiny latches on a long black case, and pulls out what looks like a short-range surface-to-air STA missile. Looks like a Soviet Gladiator or a Grizzly series. Mick tries one more tactic.

  “Oh! And OD”—Mickey’s been waiting for just the opening for this one—”or should I say Michael Collins, I’m not alone out here. I have my own mission and my own friends.”

  Odysseus stops what he’s doing and turns to Mickey.

  “What did you say?”

  “I’d give you about ten minutes to decide what’s most important to you and your wife. Your exposed mission, or getting out of Dodge while you can. I heard that your flight to Greece has been mysteriously delayed by the way. I’m only here as someone who was once your friend.”

  “Stop! Stop the crap. You’re alone. There ain’t nobody gonna ride in here on a white horse and save your tired ass. Let’s be serious, Mick. You stepped in shit coming out here. And as we say back in Philly, ‘Ya can’t shine shit.’ So just sit there and watch me make history.”

  “Whatever! I asked for thirty minutes alone with you. I did it as a friend. They gave me the time ‘cause they don’t want to see this whole thing get ugly.”

  Mickey took a risk and went with the percentages with his next move.

  “If you have any doubt, get the cell phone in my left pocket. Check the last three numbers. You’ll see they’re all law enforcement. They expected me to check in with them by now. So you may have less time than I thought, OD.”

  Odysseus is not completely sold on what his old Academy classmate is trying to sell. But he decides it’s in his best interest to call Mickey’s bluff. He takes the cell phone from Mickey’s pocket and scans the cell phone call history. He reads the last few calls aloud.

  “The first call says it came from a Superintendent Kevin Clooney. Friend of yours, Mick?”

  “Longtime friend.”

  Mickey crosses his fingers. One down. Two to go.

  “Next, you called Peter O’Malley, Howth Marina Security. Interesting, Mick.”

  For Mickey, the third call could be a game changer.

  “You also called Irish Air Corps Headquarters. Never heard of them.”

  “They’re the guys who fly the helicopters up and down Ireland’s coastline. They work with the Dublin Garda and gave me a ride up here earlier today. They have two copters in a field beside the Howth Yacht Club. I’d say time is running out on that whole history makin’ mission thing of yours, OD.”

  Mickey is becoming somewhat more believable. Odysseus goes to the window and stares at the starless sky for several minutes.

  Come on, scumbag, take the bait. I know I hit a nerve. When given the option of living to fight another da
y, survival, and making history from a prison cell or worse, survival in most cases wins out. Unless the person making the call is nuts right out of the gate. Not a Michael Odysseus characteristic. “The Greek” has never shown any signs of institutional insanity. Craziness? Perhaps!

  Odysseus quickly starts packing up and securing his STA. I can’t believe be bought it. Guess I’ll go for the hat trick.

  “What about me, OD? What are your plans for me?”

  “You’re still breathing. Isn’t that enough?”

  Odysseus pulls up the rope still hanging out the window and ties his long black case to it and lowers it to the ground. Then he cuts the rope and lets it fall.

  That was stupid.

  Because of the murky darkness inside the small circular tower Mickey never noticed the collapsible extension ladder against the opposite wall. So that’s how he got me up here. The guy’s still a bull.

  Odysseus extends the ladder to its maximum height and slides it back out the window to the ground below. Just before he climbs up on the stone sill, he throws Mickey’s cell phone on the floor and stomps his heel into it, sending little pieces of black plastic all over.

  Mickey asks again. “What about me?”

  “Have a nice life, Mick. Oh! And I have one last favor for ya, Devlin. I’ll be taking the water-taxi. I’m sure you don’t mind. Me letting you live and all. ‘Sides, all those friends of yours should be showing up soon to save your ass. Right? By the way, tell that editor friend of yours, Cunay, I’ll be in touch.”

  With that, Odysseus disappears out the window and down the ladder. Mickey can hear the distinct sounds of the massive Pratt & Whitney turbofans of C-141 Starlifters overhead. Once the advance party lands, AF1 should be close behind. That was close.

  The entire time Mickey sat on the floor in the dark he’d been fiddling with the two knots on the rope around his wrist. He had already made some headway with one of them before Odysseus left. The second knot was a little tighter than the other one. But he was close to loosening it. Success!