Slowly she backed away and took her seat without another word. He'd won this argument because there really wasn't any other way out. Neither option was any good, but he'd much rather take his chances with a risky jump out of a plane than sit around waiting to see who would stick a knife between his ribs in an American jail.
Twenty five minutes later Declan sat on the floor near the rear of the plane with the parachute rig secured around him. He'd changed into a black jumpsuit and held a plastic helmet and goggles. He could see the sun glinting off of the vast ocean below through the oval windows as the plane made its descent. In a short amount of time the deep blue would change to the rocky cliffs of Wales and the jet would make the sharp left-hand turn that would take them around towards Waterford.
Dean Lynch exited the cockpit and walked to the back of the plane. Fintan got slowly to his feet, with the aid of his crutches, and followed.
"Captain says we're about five minutes out, mate. You sure you're ready for this?"
Declan glanced over and saw Constance place her head in her hands. "Aye. No other way that I can figure. If I'm on this plane when it lands, we're all in a lot of trouble."
"You can say that again," Fintan said, arriving behind Lynch. "I'll have a damn hard time explaining that to the Dáil. If we ever get back to the U.S. I'll be sure and pay Mr. Crickard a friendly visit. It had to be him that gave us away. He's the only one that ever saw Declan."
"You'll have to get in line, Governor," Lynch said. "I'm sure there's a long list of people that would like ol' Nate's head on a pole. Myself included, after this go round."
"I'll let you have a go at him for the both of us—" he was interrupted by the voice of the captain over the plane's intercom.
"Three minutes, sir. I'm bringing her in low and slow."
"Christ this is dangerous," Lynch breathed as the engines whined. "If the plane slows too much it'll stall and we'll all end up in the Irish Sea or worse, plastered into the side of a Welsh mountain."
"Cummings is the best, old friend." Fintan said. "All that's missing for him is some bullets flying at us."
The lopsided grin that stretched across Lynch's face told Declan that he knew Fintan was right. Declan had never met Cummings until they'd arrived at the airport, but he'd been told the man was good, a former RAF fighter pilot now employed privately by McGuire & Lyons.
"Alright," Lynch said, looking at Declan. "This part of the plane seals off from the rest, so it'll just be you and I back here." He reached up and clasped a carabiner to a metal rod above the exit ramp. Although he wasn't jumping, he had a full harness and chute on just in case. "I'll make sure the door's closed after you're out. There's no internal stairs so you won't have to worry about that. The handicap ramp retracts into the underbelly of the jet, so this is just a wide open hole. Just dive straight down and you'll clear fine. Inside your pack there are several things you're going to need. For starters, there's a shovel to bury your rig with once you're on the ground. You don't want a parachute blowing around the moor, might cause a lot of questions. The second item you need to know about is a satellite phone. It's encrypted, but I'd still limit the usage. Let us know when you're on the ground and safe. The rest of the items are self-explanatory. Got it?"
"Aye, got it."
"Grand. Let's do it." Lynch gripped the lever that would open the door and waited for the captain's signal.
"Hey, Dec," Fintan called. "Look on the bright side, if you don't make it, Constance will be free to date." His grin was ear to ear.
"See you on the ground, old son," Declan said, grasping him hard on the shoulder. "And hands off my wife, or you'll need a lot more than crutches to get around."
He let go and Fintan moved back towards the main cabin, sliding the door closed behind him.
"Now or never," said Cummings over the intercom. Lynch pulled the lever and the door opened inwards, revealing a rectangular shaped hole where the handicapped ramp descended for the plane's passengers to unload. The sound of the engines outside was deafening and cold air rushed into the tiny compartment from the open door. Lynch held tight to the railing along the wall.
Declan pulled the goggles on his head down over his eyes and crossed himself as he unhooked his carabiner. He gripped each side of the doorway and with a one-two-three motion, pulled himself out of the plane. In a fraction of a second the noise of the engines disappeared, replaced by the sound of the earth rushing towards him as his body entered terminal velocity.
Chapter Fifty
10:42 a.m. Eastern Time – Thursday
Constitutional Condominiums
6th St. & Maryland Avenue – Washington D.C.
The Constitutional Condominiums stood six blocks northeast of the U.S. capitol building and overlooked both Stanton Park and the medievally designed Imani Temple. The eighteenth century brick building with its aged stone accents and arcuate windows was four stories tall, six stories wide and housed twenty-four one-floor, two bedroom apartments, all occupied by employees of the United States Senate, or in the case of David Kemiss, the senator himself.
Kemiss massaged his temples with one hand as he sat in the fourth floor, fully furnished corner unit the U.S. taxpayers were providing for his lengthy stays in the nation's capital. The residence was small by his standards, but luxurious, and it was all he needed during the week. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were served at the capitol building and he took advantage of it as he worked long hours.
He stood up from the leather sofa, crossed the room to a doorway leading into a small bathroom and turned on the faucet. He was tired, having barely slept in nearly five days. The dark circles around his eyes looked familiar. He was used to late nights, and little sleep. Politics in the United States had become so divisive over his last term that negotiations and filibusters lasting into the early morning were common. Thankfully the crisis he was currently handling, the reason for his complete lack of sleep, would soon be over. A tip called into the FBI hotline had placed Declan McIver on a plane belonging to an Irish entrepreneur and by now, the Irish Garda would have taken him into custody and would be making the necessary arrangements to have him transferred back to the U.S. Hopefully, there wouldn't be any lengthy delays over whether the death penalty would be sought in any trial. As far as he was concerned, the Federal Government could guarantee that McIver wouldn't get more than a slap on the wrist because, as he saw it, the chances of him making it to trial were slim.
He splashed cold water over his face and toweled off his hands before exiting the bathroom through a different door, into his bedroom. He pulled back the sheets on the king-sized bed and kicked off his shoes. As he sat on the edge of the bed and prepared to lie down, he heard the sound of his cell phone ringing inside the computer bag he'd left in the living room. He crossed the tiled bathroom floor quickly and retrieved the phone from the bag.
"Tell me they've got him," he said, as he answered the call.
He gripped the phone, his body rigid, as he listened to the answer. Placing a hand to his forehead, he sighed in aggravation. "How can one man keep dodging the complete manpower of every government agency sent after him?"
"I don't know, sir," the voice of Robert Evers said. "The tipster must've been mistaken. It looks like the United States Government is going to owe the executives at McGuire & Lyons Industries a big apology."
"So we'll send them a big basket of fruit!"
There was silence on the other end of the phone line. Kemiss held the phone away from his head and took a deep breath. "So we're back to square one?" he asked, when he'd collected himself.
"It looks that way, sir. I'm sorry to have disturbed you with this tip just for it to turn out to have been bogus. We'll go back over everything we have and I'll let you know what we come up with, but until then, I'm afraid he's still out there somewhere."
"Thank you, Mr. Evers," Kemiss said, with a tone of resignation.
"Sir, if I may?" Evers said, before Kemiss could hang up.
"Go on."
> "I hope the people of Virginia realize the kind of man they have representing them in the Senate. And I'm not saying that to kiss ass. You've been an integral part of this process and without you we'd be much further behind this scumbag than we currently are. I hope you'll use this in your next campaign. Men of your integrity are hard to come by in Washington these days."
Kemiss bathed in the glow of the compliment for a moment before responding. If only he could use this in a campaign. "Thank you, Mr. Evers. Please call me with any updates as soon as you have them."
"Of course, sir," he heard Evers say, as he moved the phone away from his ear and closed it. He turned around and caught sight of his reflection in the window behind his desk. He looked even more tired than he had moments ago in the bathroom mirror. With Seth Castellano dead, he didn't know how much longer he could keep up the charade he was putting on. He crossed the bathroom floor, quickly undressed, and slid into the bed.
As soon as he'd closed his eyes, his phone rang again.
"David," a familiar voice said as he picked up the line. It was Lukas Kreft.
Kemiss adjusted himself in the bed and took a slow breath. "What is it now?"
"Baktayev's made his choice. We need all the documentation there is on it, now."
"Okay. Okay. I'll take care of it."
Chapter Fifty-One
3:56 p.m. Local Time – Thursday
Pembrokeshire Coast National Park
Wales, United Kingdom
Declan dragged himself slowly up onto the beach, grabbing handfuls of wet sand with each reach. Cold, salty waves washed over him, doing their part to push him ashore. He stopped and turned over onto his back, breathing heavily. The late afternoon sun peered down from behind a springtime haze. He'd survived the jump from the plane and the free fall down; it was the landing that had nearly killed him. As soon as he'd opened his parachute he'd known he was in trouble. At four thousand feet, the wind had been blowing in from the southeast, up the rocky Welsh coastline, pushing anything brazen enough to be aloft to the west and into the Irish Sea.
Despite his best efforts to steer the ram-air chute onto one of the several islands that dotted the coastline, nature had won and he'd ended up taking a swim. In the northwest corner of Europe, early spring was no time for swimming. The temperature had to be near forty degrees and, coupled with the surging wind, it felt even colder. The risk of hypothermia notwithstanding, the riptides had been merciless and had grabbed a hold of his chute as soon as he'd hit the water, like the tentacles of some vengeful sea beast. Had Dean Lynch not so diligently prepared the two escape chutes, he'd have been pulled out to sea and drowned. Instead, the six inch bowie knife secured to the harness around his waist had allowed him to cut the tangled lines of the nylon noose. So much for burying the parachute so it won't be found.
Dragging himself the rest of the way onto the beach he became aware of a sharp pain in his right wrist. He cleared the salt water from his eyes to see that it was swollen badly. As he stood and took stock of himself a tear in the left leg of his jumpsuit caught his attention. Leaning down and doing his best to spread the polyester with his one good hand, he revealed a twelve inch gash on the outside of his calf. Blood dotted the sand beneath him, but he felt no pain; apparently his legs were numb from the frigid water. He didn't remember hitting anything as he'd struggled to swim ashore, but he must have, more than likely one of the many jagged rocks that populated the coastline like naturally formed Czech hedgehogs awaiting an invading army.
Slowly his legs began to regain feeling and he limped over to a nearby rock. Sitting against it he released the black skydiving rig from his torso. The main compartment that had been strapped to his back was now empty except for the ends of the severed nylon cords that had once held the parachute in place. Strapped to his front had been the tightly packed twelve inch by twelve inch compartment that held what little equipment the rig allowed a skydiver to bring along. Standing up and setting the rig against the rock, he unzipped the compartment and began removing the items Lynch had packed. On top was a Glock 17, two extra magazines and a suppressor, secured together with a Velcro strap. A man after my own heart, Declan thought, smiling to himself as he set the weapon aside. Next out was a compact first aid kit, followed by a foldaway shovel the size of a fist, a roll of paper money secured with a rubber band, a Thuraya satphone and a firmly packed piece of thin, square nylon with a another Velcro strap around it. He turned the square over in his hands wondering what it was. As he undid the Velcro strap, the square fell loose and began to unfold. Shaking it the rest of the way open he was surprised to see a miniature duffel bag complete with two handles and a zipper. I love you, Lynch he mouthed jokingly as he unzipped it and began placing the gear inside, leaving only the first aid kit out.
Opening the first-aid kit and removing the jumpsuit with one hand was slow going, but he eventually managed to clean the jagged laceration with antiseptic and wrap sterile gauze around it, using the tiny role of tape included in the kit to secure it in place and keep pressure against it at the same time. It was far from perfect but hopefully it would hold until he could get some proper treatment. Using the bowie knife, which he'd hung onto after cutting the chute loose, he sliced up the black nylon straps that held the rig together and gingerly wrapped them around his right wrist, securing the brace with more of the tape. Having inspected his wrist as well as possible, he was reasonably sure it wasn't broken, just sprained. The pressure from the makeshift brace was already beginning to make it feel better, the movement in his fingers was returning. He redressed in what was left of the black jumpsuit. He grimaced as he pulled on the wet clothes, the wind making it feel as though being naked would be preferable. He shivered almost uncontrollably as the material clung to his body, the damp soaking through his hasty bandages.
He pushed the cold out of his mind and forced himself to focus on his surroundings. In front of him was a half-moon shaped bay, flanked on three sides by tall moss-covered rocks topped with wiry grass that had been flattened by the constant wind, its color deadened to a sickly yellow by the clinging winter. Behind him one of the many offshore islands jutted out of the water. Atlantic Puffins massed on the rocky formation, some diving for fish, others hovering low above the water in search of a meal, the sound of their wings flapping furiously barely audible over the howling wind. He knew he was on the coast of Wales, a lot further west then he had hoped, but he didn't know exactly where along the seven hundred and fifty miles of coastline he was positioned. He'd have to climb out of the bay to get a better look at the landscape, a prospect that made him groan with anticipated pain.
Not wanting to delay the inevitable he scanned the rocks for the easiest way up and found it at his eleven o'clock. He stuffed the contents of the first aid kit into the duffel bag, zipped it up and walked the short distance across the beach to the edge of the cliff. The spot he'd chosen switch-backed several times and the surfaces were covered with heavy moss or course grass, meaning he'd have good traction.
Sometime later the moss had proven slicker than he'd expected, forcing him onto all fours at several points during his climb. He wasn't sure, but he estimated that it took him nearly an hour to reach the top. Breathing heavily, he struggled onto the plateau and looked east. All he could see along the horizon was rolling hills broken occasionally by jagged rocks. No buildings. No roads. Not even an old goat path. Overhead the sun was obscured almost completely by the low clouds, an ivory orb the only evidence of its existence. He guessed by its location that it was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon. At best, he had two hours until dark.
Calling up both his perfect mental map of the British Isles, and of Ireland across the Irish Sea, he decided, based on the location of the airport Fintan's plane had been heading for, that his most likely location was Pembrokeshire and that the large offshore island was Skomer Island. If he was right, he'd eventually meet with the small village of Marloes to the east, if he was wrong he'd meet a sheer cliff leading into the Milford
Haven Waterway and be forced to turn north, having wasted a lot of the remaining daylight. There was only one way to find out. Throwing the duffel bag over his shoulder, he walked east.
One hour later the sun was sinking behind the rolling hills, its dying rays hidden by the gathering clouds. A storm was approaching from the east. Declan could see the rainfall many miles ahead of him, the wall of approaching precipitation giving the landscape the appearance of an old oil painting. About a mile from the coastline he'd gotten lucky and found a one lane dirt road heading east. With the injury to his left leg his progress was slow, although he was beginning to think it was due more to sheer exhaustion than the injury. He hadn't slept or eaten since he'd left the United States and with the physical rush that had accompanied his jump from the plane and his fight to survive the landing, his body was feeling the effects. It seemed as though every muscle ached, his head was pounding and his skin was pale, icy to the touch from the onslaught of the Atlantic wind against his wet clothes. He kept his head down in an attempt to keep his face warm, but it made little difference.
Again, for the second time in as many days, he found himself thankful for the Special Forces training he'd received in Afghanistan and for the lifelong fitness habits it had instilled in him. At the age of forty-one he was in better shape than most twenty-five year olds and it was a good thing, because without it he would not have survived. As he topped a small rise in the dirt road, he glanced up and his eyes settled on a much needed sight.
Directly ahead of him, no more than a mile from his current position, he could see the corrugated steel roofing of several buildings grouped tightly together on the right side of the road. There were no lights visible in the gathering darkness, but at least it was a sign he was heading in the right direction. He quickened his pace as much as possible, invigorated by the thought of a warm place to ride out the coming storm.
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