Declan grimaced as the Senator's statements from two nights prior flashed through his mind. Had Kemiss really had a partner? If so, was the man Kemiss had identified a further danger or had the events in Virginia been the culmination of his threats? At the time Declan had thought it was all just another desperate attempt by Kemiss to keep people from learning the truth, but now he wasn't so sure.
"I guess my point is," Harel continued, when no one else spoke, "that while your actions certainly saved a lot of lives, it doesn't seem to have done much to end the manhunt for you. You're still very much a wanted man."
Declan nodded. "Maybe this will help," he said, as he withdrew a red flash drive from his coat pocket. "It's the confession Kemiss gave us at his house the other night, the confession that led us to Baktayev. That should help the authorities piece everything together if we can get it into the right hands."
Harel took the drive and turned it over in his hand for a moment. "I'm sure it will. I'll make some calls to my contacts in Washington right away and a copy of this will be in the President's hands by tomorrow morning."
"That will certainly help in the long term," Allardyce said, "but we need to worry about the short term."
"Lynch and I are returning to Dublin as soon as we're done here," Fintan said. "Mullaghmore is your home for as long as you need. I would think you and the missus will be plenty safe there."
"Aye, that's grand," Declan said, "but what we'd really like is to go home, back to our old lives before all of this happened."
"I'm afraid," Lord Allardyce said, "that that is the one thing nobody can give you."
Everyone looked up at the aged aristocrat.
"The cat is out of the bag, as the Americans say," he continued. "Even if, God willing, the truth is discovered among all of the obfuscation Kemiss has put out, the media will not soon forget what they've learned about you. There's a new ripple in their reality and I don't think their fascination with it will go away for quite some time."
"You're saying that even when I'm proven innocent, the stigma of my past isn't going to leave us alone, that we can't return to the way things were, no matter what?"
Allardyce nodded. "I'm afraid that's exactly what I'm saying. While I believe your heroic actions in having brought this terrible plan to a happy ending will play very well for us all in the eyes of the government, I don't think the same can be said for your friends and business associates. Even if you're completely exonerated, and I'm certain you will be, what's their reaction going to be to all of this, to the news that you're a Russian trained terrorist that can probably kill them in more ways with a plastic fork than they can ever imagine?"
Declan shook his head and smiled. "I don't know. When you put it like that, I guess I don't see us getting many trick-or-treaters for the next few years."
The group of men laughed. In all honesty, Declan really didn't care how other people looked at him right now. There was no going back to undo past mistakes and if he'd learned one thing throughout the last week and a half, it was that every cloud had a silver lining. His training had saved both his and Constance's lives, in addition to hundreds of others, and he was confident that they would move on, together, and rebuild their lives.
He looked around the group towards the SUVs.
"We didn't tell her you were coming in, old son," Fintan said. "With the covert nature of your movements, we thought it wouldn't be very nice to get her hopes up in case we had to stash you away again or something."
Declan nodded.
"That's Mr. Hogan," Fintan said pointing to an older gentleman in the driver's seat of the fourth Range Rover. "He's the head of the staff at the estate and he'll take you home or to anywhere else you want to go. I'm sure your missus will be pleasantly surprised when you roll up to the front door."
As the black Range Rover made a sharp turn onto a roughly paved driveway and waited for a set of wrought iron gates supported by two stone columns to open, Declan finally felt as though he could stop running. In decades past the two-hundred year old estate he was entering had been a safe haven and he hoped it could remain that way for a while longer.
The SUV pulled through the gates and rumbled up the driveway past three large cottages until it arrived in the motor court of a three story stone house, its walls covered in dark green ivy. "All set then, Mr. McIver?" Alan Hogan said, as he left the driver's side and opened the rear door.
"Grand," Declan said, as he took hold of a small duffel bag and exited the vehicle.
The heavy wooden door of the house opened with a thunk and Constance startled both of them as she rushed out of the doorway. Declan dropped the duffel bag as she threw herself at him in a wide embrace, her long auburn hair spilling over his head as he lifted her off the ground. After rubbing his face and kissing him several times she said, "Hi," with a sheepish grin.
"Hi," he said, as he put her down and beamed at her. "Did you miss me much?"
She gave a small, nervous laugh and stood beside him as a portly woman in a white apron appeared in the doorway.
"Good evening, dear," Alan Hogan said, as he picked up Declan's duffel bag and moved to where his wife stood in the doorway. He gave the rosy faced woman a quick peck on the cheek and said, "It'll be grand to have a family around again, won't it?"
Inside, Declan and Constance followed the Hogans through the home's elegant foyer and into a large den where three brown leather sofas stood around a fireplace. A green area rug with multiple colors and designs woven into it covered the stone floor and it was obvious that the home had been unoccupied for quite some time. The surfaces near the fireplace and the window sills had been recently cleaned but the haste of the job was evident in the streaks made by the cleaners as they'd done the best they could in short notice.
Declan looked around the room as memories came rushing back at him. This house had once belonged to Eamon McGuire and he had used it as a base of operations for the Black Shuck team. Though it had at one time been the closest thing Declan had to a home as a young adult, he hadn't returned in many years. The last time he had seen the house was the night that he and Shane had discovered the murdered bodies of their teammates and officer commanding.
Declan walked to one of the wide windows beside the fireplace. He looked out over the expansive Irish countryside for a moment before turning back. Constance held her hand out and as he reached out and took hold of it, she pulled him into a tight embrace.
"Dinner's at eight, sir," Alan Hogan said, as he and his wife left the room, closing the door behind them.
"There are still a lot of things coming down the pipe at us," Declan said, returning Constance's embrace. "I wish I could say that it's all one hundred percent over and done with, but there's still going to be a lot of questions that need answering."
"I don't care about any of that right now. I only care about the fact that you're here with me and that we're both safe. Tomorrow we'll do whatever we have to, but tonight, right now, I just want to enjoy a few moments with you, alone."
Declan smiled. "Aye, that sounds grand. You know," he said, as he motioned out the window to the east where the last rays of the sun were shining on the rolling hills Ireland was so famous for, "I was born in a farmhouse just sixty miles from here."
"Funny you should mention being born," Constance said.
He looked back at her suddenly, suspicion rising in him and giving way to excitement as he saw her small smile get wider.
"I'm pregnant," she said. "You're going to be a father."
THE END
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ian Graham was born in New Hampshire on July 4th, the third generation of his
family to share a birthday with the United States of America. His three main interests have always been politics, religion and history. The stories and characters he writes about are centered on the explosive conflicts created when the three intersect.
His writing has previously appeared in Action Pulse Pounding Tales Volumes 1 & 2 alongside best selling thriller authors Matt Hilton, Stephen Leather, Adrian Magson, and Zoe Sharpe. He lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of the eastern United States with his wife and two daughters.
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Also by Ian Graham:
Patriots & Tyrants
Signs of Violence
A few words of appreciation...
This book has evolved over several years from a simple idea into the completed project it is now. During the long researching and writing process there have been many people who have supported and encouraged me and I would like to thank them here.
The Troubles is a conflict that has no modern equal in my opinion. In addition to the often shocking violence; the amount of spying, treachery and double dealing that became a part of daily life in Northern Ireland are difficult for an outsider such as myself to understand. Joe McCoubrey and Harvey Black were kind enough to offer me their expertise and have both helped me immensely.
Paul O'Brien, Andrew Scorah and Rebecca Erickson shared with me their knowledge of the political parties and inner workings of both the Irish, British and United States governments respectively and without them this book wouldn't be what it is.
There are several scenes throughout the book that feature characters who speak languages other than English. I would like to thank Ian Kharitonov, Mark Greaney and Marcos Ramirez for their help in understanding the languages and customs of Russia, Germany and Mexico. In addition to the altogether foreign languages, many of the characters live in or have backgrounds in Great Britain, Northern Ireland or the Irish Republic and while their languages are technically English, they're still quite unique to an American like me. Thanks to Andrew Scorah, Andrew Peters, Matt Hilton, Ian McAdam, Graham Smith, Stephen Cheshire and Col Bury for helping me not to embarrass myself (too badly.)
Any book worth the pages (or screen) it's printed on cannot have become so without the help of a superb graphic designer, formatter and editor. Thanks to Jane Dixon-Smith for her excellent artwork, Lucinda Campbell for formatting the ebook version and to Julie Lewthwaite for her eagle eyed editing! Any mistakes that have wormed their way into this book are mine (due to my constant tweaking) and not hers.
And for all things flight related...Colin Graham, congratulations on earning your fixed wing pilots license, bro-ham!
In addition, to my family (Cristina, Hannah, Kinley, Dennis, Karla and Brittany) for their support and encouragement and for putting up with what started as a nagging idea and became a complete obsession. You'll be happy to know that I only have about 8 – 10 more books planned.
Lastly, to the people who lived through and continue to live with The Troubles, the first and second Chechen Wars, the Beslan school crisis, September the 11th, July the 7th and the other acts of terror referenced in this book; God be with you, you are the real heroes.
Go back to Features Index
PARALLAX VIEW
ALLAN LEVERONE
Copyright ©2012 by Allan Leverone
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is unintended and entirely coincidental.
Parallax View is dedicated to the selfless Americans who fight for freedom, toiling in obscurity, getting their hands dirty—and sometimes bloody—doing the jobs the politicians will never acknowledge, and the citizens will never know about.
1
Nikolayev South Shipyard, Ukraine
May 20, 1987 – late in the Cold War
2:25 a.m.
Tracie Tanner carefully eased one drawer closed and opened another in the dented, World War II-era metal filing cabinet wedged behind the desk of the general manager’s office at Shipyard No. 444. Where’s that damned file? She’d been searching for nearly half an hour already with no luck, unable to decipher the Soviets’ Byzantine filing system.
Her eyes burned from the strain of reading reports typed in Cyrillic on substandard Russian-made typewriters, and she could sense time ticking away—surveillance reports indicated the guards’ patrol patterns included a walk-through of this very office every forty-five minutes or so.
The darkened office smelled sour, its cement block construction retaining the unpleasant fishy stench of the Black Sea combined with old sweat. She clenched a small penlight between her teeth to free up both hands for the search, and she worked methodically, flipping through file after file under the most likely tab headings.
Tracie, a CIA clandestine ops specialist, had been assigned to remove the guidance system software specs for the Soviet aircraft carrier Buka, scheduled for commission later this year, and replace them with bogus specifications. Construction had been completed on Buka years earlier, but bugs in the ship’s sophisticated software had delayed commissioning ever since.
Four years ago, in a successful nighttime operation, another CIA clandestine ops specialist had broken into this very office and replaced the proper specs with useless, CIA-generated data. Now the goal was to repeat the scenario and delay launch of the Buka for several more months, if possible.
Tracie worked quickly but thoroughly. Next to the office door the Soviet bureaucrat in charge had placed a large aquarium filled with exotic fish, and the steady drone of the water filter motor began to lull her into drowsiness. She blinked hard, closed the filing cabinet drawer, and opened another. She had worked her way through nearly two-thirds of the file cabinet and had found nothing.
And then, there it was. The first folder in the new drawer. It was blue, filled with several dozen sheets of numbers, diagrams and specifications. Tracie lifted out the folder and compared some of the sheets inside it to corresponding sheets of paper in the dummy file she had brought into the office. They appeared identical. The differences in the specifications were so minute it would take a team of engineers months to decipher the problem, and that was after they had discovered there was a problem.
She smiled in the darkness and removed the original specs, sliding the forged documents into the file folder in their place. She rolled the drawer closed, slowly and quietly, and then stood, glad to be finished. She placed the original software specs into a small briefcase and snapped it shut.
Padded quietly across the office.
And dropped her flashlight. It slipped out of her hand and clattered to the floor, rolling to a stop against the door.
Dammit.
Tracie froze, waiting to hear a shouted challenge or footsteps pounding down the hallway.
Nothing.
She waited fifteen seconds. Thirty. Then breathed a silent sigh of relief and picked up the flashlight. Be more careful, dummy.
She eased the door open and stepped into the hallway. And walked straight into a Soviet security guard’s Makarov semiautomatic pistol.
Tracie s
tepped backward instinctively, calculating the odds of reaching her Beretta 9mm inside the shoulder holster under her jacket. Result: not good.
The guard said, “Stay right where you are,” in Russian, and Tracie moved back another three steps, hoping he would follow her into the office. He did.
She stepped back and he moved forward. Stepped back again and he followed, still holding the gun on her. She backed into the general manager’s desk, studying the guard. He was barely more than a kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen, and he wore a threadbare Red Army uniform that had probably been handed down from soldier to soldier two or three times, maybe more. His hands were shaking, just a little, and he said, “You’re coming with me.”
I don’t think so, Tracie thought, but raised her hands to chest level in submission. “All right,” she answered in Russian, hoping her slight English accent would be undetectable. “This is a simple misunderstanding. I can explain.”
“Not my problem,” the guard said. “You will explain to my superiors.” He gestured with his head toward the door. “Go,” he told her, “and do not try anything stupid.” The Makarov stuttered and jumped and Tracie hoped he wouldn’t shoot her by accident.
The guard stepped aside to allow Tracie to pass him into the hallway. He brushed up against the table holding the aquarium, and as she moved past him, she pushed hard, a blur of sudden motion in the semi-darkness, and smashed his hands, gun and all, straight down into the side wall of the aquarium.
The glass shattered and the guard gasped, the sound almost but not quite a scream. He pulled the trigger reflexively and the gun fired, the slug whizzing past Tracie’s head. A wave of water and fish flooded out of the tank, soaking Tracie and the guard. Even in the dim light she could see the razor-sharp glass had ripped a gash in the guard’s forearm. Had she been sliced, too? No time to worry about that now.
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