Black Ops Bundle: Volume One

by Allan Leverone

  Kemiss quickly caught Allan Ayers up to speed and set the NSA analyst to work. When he hung up the phone, he turned back to Bellanger and said, "Let's eat."

  He had invited the young man to his home not because he had said he'd found something, Kemiss could have learned that over the phone, but to ensure that he had the young man's confidence. The job he'd been charged with was highly sensitive and while he had been told that at the time Kemiss had given it to him, he needed to be told again and made to realize the consequences of betraying that trust.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  8:19 a.m. Local Time – Saturday

  Greumach Manor

  Loch Builg, Aberdeenshire – Scotland

  "Well, if nothing else," Shane said, as he looked around at their surroundings, "we've established that there is, in fact, a bunker underneath Greumach Manor. I can make a small fortune writing books about it from my jail cell. My kids will appreciate it, I'm sure."

  Lying on one of the eight sets of barracks-style bunk beds that occupied the stone walled cellar they were in, Declan opened one eye and flashed a smile. "You don't have any kids."

  After their failed attempt to win the aid of Lord Dennis Allardyce, they had been taken beneath the castle and locked in what appeared to be the barracks part of whatever there was underneath the small fortress. As they'd been led below, they'd passed through several oak doors that appeared to be as old as the castle itself, and that had been reinforced with iron beams. With each of the doors undoubtedly locked as Allardyce and his security guards had returned to the upper floors, escape was impossible. The only other entrance stood at the far end of the room and was secured with three iron crossbars that had been riveted to the stone walls. Whatever was beyond had obviously not been used in a very long time.

  "Right," Shane said, standing from his own bunk and causing a cloud of dust to rise from the thin mattress. "Well, I'll find one of those old birds that have a thing for inmates, you know? We'll get married, have conjugal visits and adopt a whole cadre of orphans from around the world. Just like Brangelica."

  "Brangelina."

  "Right, whatever."

  Shane was never beyond a joke, but Declan knew the seriousness of their situation wasn't lost on him. Without the help of Allardyce, not only would they both be arrested and tried for their various crimes, but the only hope of learning the identity of the person who'd passed Declan's information from Great Britain to America was gone and with it, the last chance he had of exposing the conspiracy he'd become the center of. While Allardyce had said he would “get the matter straightened out,” Declan couldn't think of anyone that the aristocrat would have contact with that would possibly know the truth of what was going on. Short of an undercover sting operation being run by the governments of both Great Britain and America to entrap the conspirators, Allardyce would only get the official version of the events which, as far as Declan knew, had been designed and directed by the people who had been controlling the investigation through Seth Castellano. Despite the gravity of his own situation, Declan rested easy knowing that Constance was in good hands. Fintan would protect her, help her change her identity, and while her life might not be what she'd hoped for, she'd be alive and in time could possibly find happiness again.

  A loud sound echoed from outside the room and Declan knew immediately that it was the sound of the doors being opened along the hallway that led to their current location. But why? Had the authorities finally arrived to take him into proper custody? By his best estimation, it had been just over eight hours since he'd broken into Greumach Manor and confronted the MI5 director, and eight hours was almost exactly how long it had taken them to drive from London the previous day.

  With another loud slam as one of the iron deadbolts was released, the door to the barracks room opened and two of the black-clad security guards slowly stepped in, each aiming a pistol. Neither Declan nor Shane moved as the two guards regarded them coolly for several moments. Finally, they stepped aside and Lord Dennis Allardyce appeared in the doorway, wearing the same clothes he had the previous night.

  "Leave," Allardyce said, waving his two security guards out, "now."

  The two men exchanged surprised looks and then slowly turned and left the room. Allardyce pushed the heavy wooden door closed behind them and took a deep breath. "I've spent the last several hours going over this," he said, as he tossed a thick file onto one of the two rectangular, wooden tables that separated the two rows of bunks. Dust shot into the stale air as the file landed with a thud. "It's very interesting reading, but it leaves a lot to be desired. Starting with the confirmed guilt of any of the one hundred or so men mentioned as possible suspects."

  Declan looked at the legal-sized manila folder, its edges worn with age and its contents held inside by a thick rubber band. Faded red letters stamped on top of the folder read CLASSIFIED over the official seal of the United Kingdom's Cabinet Office. On the folder's tab the words PIRA – BLACK SHUCK were clearly visible in blue ink.

  "Your name appears thirty-eight times in this file," Allardyce continued. "Every single mention of you is pure hearsay and speculation on the part of the informer, in fact every single mention of anyone in this file is hearsay and speculation, yet the American, and now the international, media seem to be under the impression that you've already been tried and found guilty of every possible crime listed."

  "The radio show hosts don't call them the Drive-By media for nothing," Declan said, "guilty until proven innocent."

  "Yes, well, your statements to me last night would, in fact, indicate your guilt, but I'm getting the feeling this isn't something you're interested in hiding anymore. Am I correct?"

  "I'm sure every man listed in that file is guilty of something," Declan continued. "For my part, I was a member of the South Armagh Brigade of the Provisional IRA from 1986 until 1993. During that time I trained with a secret unit codenamed Black Shuck. But to answer your question, no one is guilty of Black Shuck, because the entire operation never made it past the intelligence-gathering phase. The attack the unit was created for never happened. The media believes I'm guilty because the people controlling the release of that information aren't interested in the truth. They're interested in burying my credibility, along with my lifeless body."

  "And that's your saving grace," Allardyce said. "This information was provided on the condition that it would only be used to affect an arrest of the chief suspect, you, in both the bombing and subsequent assassination. However, the release of this information, in any form, to the media was not part of that deal. I may look like an aging politician, but I assure you I'm a military man with a long career in the world of espionage. I know a black bag job when I see one. My phone has been ringing off the hook since this hit the airwaves on Thursday afternoon and, despite having just taken this position over less than a month ago, it's been made clear to me that my leadership of the Security Service will be extremely short if I don't get a handle on this and keep it from becoming a very embarrassing episode for the government of the United Kingdom."

  "You and I both know there's only one way that information was mishandled," Declan said. "On purpose. The person or people you released it to weren't working for who they said they were."

  Allardyce nodded slowly. "Yes, well, they're not the only ones with contacts abroad. Before this file was delivered to me a few hours ago I spent time gathering information on the two of you. I was quite shocked at your identity, Mr. O'Reilly. Imagine my surprise when I learned that the legendary IRA informer, Homeless Viper, was a low ranking intelligence officer in my own Irish & Domestic Terrorism Department. One of our own aiding an international fugitive is a serious offense."

  Shane grimaced and his eyes darted between Declan and Allardyce. "Declan's no fugitive. He's the best friend I've ever had and if you want to get to the bottom of this, he's the best friend you have."

  "Yes. That would seem to be true. As far as I can tell there's only one person who's told me the truth since this entire
thing began in the briefing room on Wednesday morning, and that's you, Mr. McIver. Try as I might, I cannot come up with any reason why you'd be involved in either the bombing or the assassination. You certainly have the experience to commit such an attack, your apparent friendship with Abaddon Kafni gave you the necessary access to commit such an attack, but as far as I can tell, you have absolutely no motivation to commit such an attack. The idea being passed around in the media that your motive is financial is ridiculous. You're sitting on nearly two million dollars in assets and your wife is heiress to another small fortune. If there's one thing you have in good supply, it's money."

  "You've done your research," Declan said, flashing a brief smile.

  "The man who requested that the Committee release its information on you is the London Station Chief of the American CIA."

  Declan and Shane exchanged a knowing glance. "Just like we thought," Shane muttered.

  "Where can I find him?" Declan asked.

  "I'll take you to him."

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  4:06 p.m. Local Time – Saturday

  Ashford Road

  Two miles south of Faversham, County of Kent – England

  Lane Simard sat alone in the backseat of the black, late model Range Rover that the United States Government provided him in his duties as the Central Intelligence Agency's London station chief. He watched through the tinted windows as the four man team of youthful agents that were in charge of his security and transportation entered the two story Tudor-style farmhouse he was preparing to spend a rare vacation in.

  The house sat at the end of a mile long lane called Baggins Road, an undoubted reference to the author, Tolkien. The house belonged to the family of an English couple whom he and his wife had made friends with during their four year stay in London and who had graciously offered the country estate for his use on several occasions. The rigors of his work often kept him away for several weeks at a time and he was looking forward to spending a relaxing few days with his family when they joined him later in the evening.

  "All set, sir," one of the young agents said, as he opened the rear passenger side door for Simard. "We've scanned the entire house. It's clean."

  Simard knew the man meant that the home had been found to be free of any kind of listening devices and even though he wasn't planning on making or receiving any sensitive phone calls, such conversations were always a possibility in his line of work.

  "Thank you," he said, as he stepped from the car and walked towards the arched front door. "I want two of you posted at the end of the lane with one of the SUVs and waiting for my family to arrive. They're being driven down from London in a few hours."

  "Yes, sir," the man said, as he opened the home's front door and stood aside. "Myself and Agent Fuller will handle it."

  Simard nodded and entered the house. He felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket as he entered the spacious, stone walled kitchen and withdrew it as he stepped through an archway and into the home's living area.

  "Hello?"

  "Mr. Simard, David Kemiss," the voice on the other end said. "You're a hard man to surprise."

  "Good evening, Senator," Simard said, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the level of friendliness in Kemiss' voice. The seasoned politician had, to date, never been anything other than abrupt, sometimes bordering on insulting. "How can I help you?"

  "Oh, you've already helped me a great deal and I wanted to express my gratitude. I sent a gift to your London residence, but the delivery company was told you had left for a few days."

  "Well, thank you, Senator. That's a great gesture. I'm away from London for a vacation with my family. I'll look forward to receiving your gift when I return."

  "I'm afraid by then it won't be much good. Perhaps I could have the delivery company bring it to your getaway? You and your wife could enjoy it during your well-deserved vacation."

  Simard didn't like the thought of someone coming to the farmhouse but, as his mind raced to think of a good excuse to refuse the offer, he settled on the notion that saying "no" to the senator would be a bad idea. "That would be great, thank you. I don't know the exact address, but I'm at a farmhouse in Kent, it's two miles south of the M2 motorway near Faversham. It's the only house on Baggins Road and it's at the very end. They can't miss it. I'll have one of my men meet them out front."

  "Beautiful area, my wife and I visited there some years back. I hope you enjoy your stay. I'll notify the delivery company immediately. Thank you again for everything you've done for me, and for your country."

  Simard nodded, though he knew Kemiss couldn't see him. "My pleasure, sir."

  He felt a swell of pride at being personally thanked by such a high-ranking member of his country's government, even though all he had done was his job. He listened as Kemiss hung up before he closed the phone and returned it to his pocket. Climbing the home's narrow wooden staircase, he entered a hallway and made an immediate left into the study, which overlooked the gravel driveway leading into the property. He removed some papers from his briefcase along with a copy of a book by one of his favorite authors. Setting the papers down on the desk before loosening his tie and removing his shoes, he took a seat in the leather chair next to the room's picture window. Without meaning to be, he was asleep within a few minutes.

  He awakened suddenly as he heard the front door of the farmhouse slam closed. Glancing at his watch, he stood and looked through the window. Judging from the faint orange glow to the west that illuminated the green shrubbery along the driveway, the sun was just about to set for the day. He leaned over and placed his hands on the window sill, admiring for a moment the majestic evening that was just beginning. His thoughts were interrupted as he noticed a pair of headlights coming down the drive. Was it time for his family to arrive already? He smiled and thumped his closed fist against the sill victoriously before turning to exit the room.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  6:02 p.m. Local Time – Saturday

  Intersection of Ashford Road & the M2 Motorway

  Half a mile south of Faversham, County of Kent – England

  "How is it that you came to work in Her Majesty's Security Service, Mr. O'Reilly?" Lord Dennis Allardyce asked, as the Range Rover they were riding in cruised smoothly off the M2 motorway onto Ashford Road. Declan tried to hide a smile as Shane shifted uncomfortably in the front passenger seat. Like their involvement in both the IRA and Black Shuck, their dealings with the intelligence agencies of Great Britain were a long story.

  Shane cleared his throat. "I became an informer for the FRU in the late eighties. That's where the codename Homeless Viper came from. When things went bad and the IRA tried to execute me, my handler, Harold Thom, brought me to London. I've worked there ever since. Who better to run Irish informers than an Irish informer, right? I made a deal with Her Majesty's Government to provide high-value intelligence in exchange for immunity, and employment."

  "But you didn't fulfill that agreement completely, did you? You made sure that Her Majesty's Government didn't find out the true identities of the Black Shuck Unit, including that of your friend, Declan McIver."

  Shane nodded.

  "And you've kept in touch with him over the years and were able to warn him that someone was trying to leak his past in an effort to frame him for Abaddon Kafni's assassination?"

  "Something like that, sir. I've known Declan since we were teenagers. He's saved my life a number of times. I would never have protected anyone that I wasn't sure of. Declan turned his back on violence, even before I did."

  "I believe you. Here is something that I still don't know the answer to," Allardyce said, as he looked over at Declan. "How is it that an Irish paramilitary and a conservative Israeli celebrity became friends in the first place? That can't be a common thing."

  Declan thought about the question for a moment. Allardyce had been peppering both him and Shane with questions most of the journey and it was starting to annoy him. Talking about his past wasn't something he enj
oyed doing, but he felt, with Allardyce, like he had no choice. Thankfully, in what Declan considered to be typical aristocratic behavior, Allardyce had made it clear that he had no intention of making the ten hour drive to where the CIA chief was located. Instead, Allardyce had chartered a small private aircraft and the journey had been completed in less than half that time.

  "There's more to Abaddon Kafni than a lot of people realize," Declan said. "I first met him in Belfast in 1990."

  Allardyce smiled as if the answer to the question had suddenly become clear to him. "He was undercover for Israel, wasn't he?"

  Declan nodded. "Aye, he was the leader of a small contingent of Mossad operatives in Belfast who were keeping watch on the Provos' connections with the PLO."

  "Thatcher made it illegal for Mossad to operate in Northern Ireland, but I'm not at all surprised to learn that they ignored her. They've never been an organization that's particularly good at following rules. What was their cover?"

  "Bookstore, they ran a secondhand bookstore called Salinger's on the A6, a few blocks northwest of the Belfast Synagogue."

  "Amazing," Allardyce said, shaking his head with a laugh.

  "Here we are, sir," Tom Gordon said from the driver's seat. "Baggins Road."

  Gordon slowed the Range Rover and turned onto a one lane gravel road with thick overgrowth on either side of it providing a natural fence between it and the fields beyond.

  Declan looked forward through the windshield from his seat on the rear passenger side next to Allardyce. They had left Greumach Manor at noon for the county of Kent, where Lord Allardyce had located Lane Simard, the CIA's London Station Chief and the man who had requested the U.K.'s files regarding Declan. He didn't know how exactly Allardyce had located him, but he had a strong suspicion that the Security Service kept a watchful eye on the diplomats and embassy personnel of other countries. He wasn't surprised.