"Change of plans," Declan whispered upwards to Shane. "Get down from there. We're going in the front door." He pulled the downed security guard out of the line of sight of the front door and ran up a set of stone steps that led to a porch and an oak door. He depressed the thumb latch on the door as he heard Shane land on the gravel drive with a thud. Looking over his shoulder to be sure Shane was on his way, he pushed the door open.
A rush of warm air flowed through the open doorway and Declan cautiously stepped inside, his eyes moving around the castle's large foyer. The floor was black and white parquet and directly ahead of him, along the left side of the mahogany-paneled walls, was a grand staircase leading to a second floor balcony that overlooked both the foyer and whatever room was beyond the closed wooden door on the right side of the staircase. The lighting was dim, but he could see an open-arched doorway to his right and a dining room beyond it containing a long wooden dining table. To his left, a small parlor with a writing desk and a chair stood surrounded by floor to ceiling windows.
Shane stepped in behind him and gently pushed the door closed. Declan started to reach for the pistol in his belt, but thought better of it. He had no desire to shoot anyone inside and if someone shot at him, he'd just have to duck away. Killing innocent people simply wasn't an option.
"Wait here," he whispered to Shane, as he pointed to the small parlor.
Shane nodded and walked into the room, taking a position just inside the door where he couldn't be seen if someone were to approach from inside the house.
Declan cleared the dining room with a few quick glances and moved onto the red carpeted stairway. Looking up towards the balcony, he climbed the stairs, watching carefully for any signs of more security guards. The flickering light he had seen through the second story window had to be from a fireplace. Hopefully it was some kind of den or study where Lord Allardyce was located. He had no desire to traipse throughout the entire castle trying to find the man, even if the castle was on the smallish side.
Declan reached the top of the stairs and turned right after clearing the hallway to his left. It contained only another closed wooden door, no sign of any lights on inside the room beyond showing around the edges. He approached the other side of the balcony where another staircase lead to the third floor and looked over into the room below. It was a large den with a fireplace along the right wall and a set of circular picture windows that presumably looked out over the loch when the weather was clear enough to see it. Knowing he was exposed on top of the balcony, he moved past the staircase, where a long hallway led to a closed wooden door. Four other doors stood closed along the hallway. With his back pressed to the wall, he moved past each of the doors.
From underneath a doorway halfway down the hall he saw what he was looking for; a faint flicker of light from a fireplace. He moved across the hallway towards the door and listened. From inside the room beyond, he could hear a low key conversation. He reached out and gripped the wrought iron door handle and depressed the latch, pushing the door open and bathing the hallway in orange light.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Declan waited momentarily for his eyes to adjust. Slowly, when no noise or motion came from inside the room, he stepped around the edge of the doorframe and revealed himself. Two men looked in his direction from a billiard table, surprise evident on their faces.
"Who are you?" the man on the opposite side of the table from the door said. Declan recognized him from vague, childhood memories and from the Daily Telegraph article he had read earlier.
Lord Dennis Allardyce was a lanky man with thinning blonde hair and touches of gray over his ears, wearing a dark red wool sweater and brown trousers. He stared blankly at Declan, his face momentarily registering uncertainty, before turning emotionless again.
"I don't mean you any harm," Declan said, raising his hands to show that they were empty.
"Well, I should say you do if you've gone to the trouble of breaking in here. I suppose you're the lost tourist and that the all clear we just received was from my men who were afraid for their lives."
Declan nodded. "They're fine. A few bumps and bruises, but fine."
Allardyce grimaced and the man standing opposite him with the pool cue in his hand turned slowly around. He was an elderly man, gray haired, with a receding hairline and a wrinkled face. His brown eyes darted between the door and Declan as he tried to register the situation.
"Well, get on with it if you must," Allardyce said, straightening himself as if he was preparing to take a bullet. "I'd hoped we were free of your lot trying to assassinate us, but I guess that'll never be so."
Declan lowered his hands. "I haven't come here to assassinate you. The minor harm done to your security was regrettable, but necessary."
"Do you know how many crimes you've committed by breaking in here?"
"Nothing compared to what I've committed trying to get here. In the last four days I've committed more violent acts than in the previous forty-one years combined, and that's saying something because I've got quite a story. My name is Declan McIver and I've only come here to talk to you."
"Declan McIver?" Allardyce asked, as he looked Declan up and down. "If that's true, there's a good many people looking for you."
"That's why I need your help."
"My help,” Allardyce said, with a quick smile that bordered on a sneer. "Oh, you'd have better luck assassinating me."
"Just hear me out. If you don't believe what I tell you, you can hold me here until the police come." Declan withdrew the Glock pistol from inside his coat and stepped forward, placing it on the billiard table before backing away. Allardyce tensed as he saw the weapon, but relaxed again as it was laid down.
From outside of the room came a violent thud as the door opened and a black-clad man was shoved through, his face bearing a red swelling near the eye and cheek. "Found this sorry bastard outside plotting some violence," Shane said, as he appeared in the doorway behind the man and holding what Declan presumed was the security guard's pistol.
Allardyce cleared his throat as he looked at his vanquished security. The room quickly returned to the way it was before the interruption. "That's a nice gesture," he said, nodding at Declan's surrendered pistol, "but since you didn't come here alone, that pistol won't do me much good, will it?"
"My list of friends has become extremely short in the last few days, but thankfully I still have one or two."
"Well then, since I'm being press-ganged into playing your host, why don't you get on with it?"
Declan did. He reviewed briefly his life, his movements before the bombing at the university, and everything he'd done since. When he was finished, Allardyce let it all sink in for a moment before he spoke. "I don't suppose there's anyone who can verify any of this, is there?"
Declan grimaced and shook his head. "No. They've cut me off from everyone and everything. If not for the help of a few old friends I'd probably be dead by now, my wife, too."
"I'm sure that I don't need to tell you the percentage of people in our prisons that claim they are innocent of the charges against them."
"Why would I risk everything to come here if what I'm saying is a lie? Why would I have the audacity to come to you, a lifetime civil servant of Great Britain, for help if I didn't really need it? You knew my father and he regarded you as an honorable man. He told me once, shortly before he died, that if I ever needed help that I should contact you. I'm about thirty years late, but I'm here, hoping against hope that he wasn't wrong."
"Your father?"
"Paul McIver, elected Member of Parliament for the North Down constituency in the elections of 1979. You campaigned with him while you were Secretary of State for Northern Ireland. He was murdered along with his wife, Lorna, the very next year. His son, Declan, witnessed the deaths of his parents from the backseat of their newly purchased Mercedes Benz."
Allardyce looked down, examining the crimson carpet for a moment as he mulled over the names. When he looked up he said, "You're the s
on of Paul and Lorna McIver?"
Declan nodded as Allardyce stared in his direction.
"Where did they live?" the aged aristocrat charged.
"In the town of Ballygowan, in a two-story stone house on the Tullygarvan Road near the intersection with Springmount Road."
"What was the name of the house?"
"The Brae Bridge House, but you'd only know that if you pulled back the ivy on the right stone column near the entrance, where the black iron shingle was placed."
"You've done your research."
"My father carried a black, leather-bound journal with him in his briefcase," Declan said. "My da' woke up at sunrise every morning and spent a few hours in his study before the rest of the family awakened. The last entry in his journal was on June 16th, 1980, the morning before my parents were murdered at a fake UDR roadblock while driving home along the Ravara Road. The journal was given to me in 1987 by Father Liam Donnelly. Today it sits in an armoire inside my house in Roanoke, Virginia, in the United States. The inscription on the inside cover is a quote from Thomas Jefferson and reads, 'Nothing can stop the man with the right mental attitude from achieving his goal.' Writing in that journal is something he learned from you. You gave those journals to all of the candidates for Parliament who supported the idea of a power-sharing government in Northern Ireland in the 1979 election."
Allardyce looked at Declan for several moments, his stare unblinking. "My God," he said, "the little blonde-haired boy who campaigned with his father all those years ago. I never made the connection. And what of all this talk about an IRA hit squad targeting London? Also a made up lie, I suppose?"
Declan shook his head. "No. That part's true. As I said, I'm about thirty years late and I'm afraid the circumstances of my existence in Northern Ireland after the deaths of my parents found me in the company of some rather violent men."
Allardyce nodded slowly, his face softening a bit. "That's a sad story which has been repeated many times in Northern Ireland, so many there were caught up in the Troubles despite not being political hardliners of one persuasion or another."
"You can't seriously be considering helping this man," the older man who had been standing silently in the room all along said. "He's a wanted terrorist. You're the director-general of the Security Service. It would be political suicide."
"I've served my country for a long time, Tom. Don't lecture me on politics. If I've been used, and my country as a result, by someone with less than honorable intentions then I want to know about it and set it right."
"Then you'll help me expose this conspiracy?" Declan said. "You'll tell me who requested the information on me and where it went?"
"No," Allardyce said, as he set down his pool cue and withdrew a Walther PP from the pocket of his trousers. He aimed it at Shane. "Drop the weapon, son."
The older man whom Allardyce had just called Tom reached over and picked up the Glock that Declan had surrendered.
Shane stayed where he was, his pistol still aimed at the security guard standing in front of him. He looked between Allardyce and Declan.
"Drop it, Shane," Declan said. "We're not here to hurt anyone. That's not going to help us."
Slowly, Shane allowed the pistol to fall out of his grip and hang by his index finger. He held it up as the security guard in front of him relaxed and turned, taking his pistol back.
"Now what?" Declan asked.
"Now you're both officially in the custody of the Security Service," Allardyce said, "and until I get this matter straightened out, that's where you're going to stay."
Chapter Sixty
6:23 p.m. Eastern Time – Friday
Constitutional Condominiums
6th St. & Maryland Avenue – Washington D.C.
David Kemiss walked over to the door, opening it in response to the sharp knock. "Come in, Colin. Come in."
Colin Bellanger stepped into the apartment. In the button-down shirts and ties required at the Senate office building, Kemiss thought the young man looked awkward and lanky. But tonight, in his off hours, wearing a black twill zip-up jacket that fitted his lean figure perfectly, with his hair wet from the rain outside and his glasses exchanged for a pair of contacts, he looked athletic and maybe even sophisticated.
"Dinner's just been delivered. I hope Chinese from City Lights is okay."
"Great. City Lights delivered all the way to Stanton Park? Impressive. Thank you, Senator."
"Perk of the job and its David tonight, I get tired of all the titles."
Bellanger smiled and unzipped his coat, pulling out a thick file from underneath that he had been shielding from the rain. "I can understand that, I guess."
The young man seemed nervous.
"So, I hate to bring you out on a night like this, but you said you'd found something?" Kemiss asked.
While he was trying very hard to be polite and to come off as cool and collected, inside Kemiss was feeling almost panicked. Earlier in the day he had learned that Declan McIver had been spotted in Wales and news since then had seemed to confirm Kemiss' worst fears; McIver appeared to be heading inland towards London. Police in the U.K. had discovered that he had carjacked a couple of tourists not far from where he had spent the night with a wildlife worker and her elderly father. The tourists' stolen car had turned up only an hour outside of London, but McIver had yet to be located. In response to the developments, Kemiss had charged Lukas Kreft with hiring assassins to kill Lane Simard, the only person in London that could positively tie Kemiss to McIver and so to the attacks on Liberty University and Abaddon Kafni. The question burning in his mind was could Kreft find the kind of men they needed to do the job in time? Having never hired professional killers, Kemiss would have had no idea where to start. Hopefully, Kreft was more experienced and better prepared.
"So what is it, what have you got?"
"Well, I think I've finally found something. I hope it will be useful."
"Well, don't keep me in suspense," Kemiss said with a smile, as they moved into the apartment's main living area and took a seat on the sofa. Two large bags filled with various Chinese entrées were on the table, but Kemiss pushed them aside as Bellanger placed the folder on the table and opened it.
"Yes, sir." Bellanger began removing some of the papers inside the file. "I've been going over the documents you asked me to and I've made what I think is an important connection. Do you remember the plane that the FBI had boarded when it landed in Ireland?"
"Yes."
"Well, I think it was connected to Declan McIver after all."
"Do tell."
"A lot of the names in the file have been redacted and the connection isn't an easy one to make without them, but by process of elimination I believe I've figured out the man who was running the show in the Black Shuck Unit of the IRA. I believe it's a man named Eamon McGuire."
Kemiss bristled for a moment. How could Irish law enforcement have allowed an international fugitive to get off an airplane without seeing him? And what about McIver's presence in the U.K.? He hoped Bellanger wasn't wasting his time. "As in McGuire & Lyons Industries?"
"Yes, sir, the company that owned the plane. Eamon McGuire never played an active role in the company. I guess he was far too busy with his IRA activities, so he left the running of the family business to his brother. Both of them are dead now, but the company is run by Eamon's son, Fintan, who's one of the names on the list of suspects in the Black Shuck Unit."
"And you're betting that Fintan is a chip off of the old block and is helping his old childhood friend, Declan McIver, hide out?"
"Yes, sir. Now, I know what you're thinking, that this can't be connected because McIver's in England, not Ireland, but hear me out?"
Kemiss nodded.
"Fintan McGuire was one of the people on that plane when it landed in Ireland, which means he was in the United States. Now, I've gone over everything I can find about him on Google and all over the Internet and I can't find any reason why he would be in West Virginia. I can't ev
en find any reason why he would be in the United States, especially for such a short time. McGuire & Lyons Industries is focused primarily on emerging economies across Europe, Southern Asia and South America. Now, is it possible that he was in town for a meeting at the Greenbrier? Sure it is. But that's an awfully big coincidence, if you ask me, and I don't believe in coincidences."
"He was here to get his old friend out of the country," Kemiss said, though he thought the young man was reaching, possibly out of a desire to make a name for himself in the powerful company he found himself in. Careers in Washington had been made on less. Still, Bellanger was onto something and though he couldn't have known this, the airport McGuire's plane had landed and taken off from was a small, out of the way place not normally connected with the Greenbrier Resort, and that lent itself to the idea that McGuire had been trying to hide something. "Well, I'll admit there are a lot of factors in play and your theory has at best a fifty-fifty shot, but it's worth checking into further."
And it was worth checking into further. Though Declan McIver had been seen in the U.K., all of the eyewitness accounts had said that he was alone. There had been no sign of his wife which meant that he had to have hidden her again, and property associated with McGuire & Lyons Industries was as good a place to start as any. Even if McIver himself wasn't there, the presence of his wife would mean that he would eventually show up. Kemiss picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. "Allan, it's David. I have something I want you to look into."
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