The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3

by B. Hesse Pflingger

  “Not often. When it happens, usually it’s rocks from rooftops. Occasional petrol bombs. Once in a while a pot shot fired from a distance. Firefights in the city have been relatively rare. A lot of phoned-in bomb threats, but few actual bombs. The RUC rounds up suspects and rousts gatherings on the street. Might be more action if the British troops weren’t there. Or there might be less. No one can say. What you’re seeing is the norm. Uniformed soldiers patrol the neighborhoods in groups, and armored cars continually prowl the city streets. They run checkpoints, looking for bombs or weapons or wanted men…or just to underscore their presence, who knows? Maybe there’s no clear-cut strategy behind it at all, just do it to be doing something. You learn to live with it. The checkpoints are annoying, but trying to avoid them isn’t any better.” To underscore his point, we were stopped again within a mile. “Life’s a little more relaxed out where we’re located,” he remarked as we pulled away from that one.

  We passed over the city limits into the countryside. Older villages and suburban developments of duplexes and detached houses shared the space with parks and playing fields, farm plots and small-scale industrial businesses housed within cinderblock or corrugated steel walls. Some of the latter were up and running, some were closed and abandoned with empty parking lots and “Available” notices. We passed through several village centers—not that different from small town US, but no supermarkets, no big box stores, no sprawling parking lots. As we neared the DeLorean factory, I saw a few automotive parts and services businesses along the road, all of them new, not all of them still in operation. “I’m dropping you off at the Conway Hotel,” Mr. Fonko,” said Myron. “It’s close by the factory. You’ve been in transit for a long time, and I’m sure you’d like to freshen up.”

  The Conway was on well-landscaped grounds across from the factory fence, looked nice enough—a stately two stories fronted by a column-supported portico with a balcony running across it. Myron parked at the entranceway. “I’ll turn you over to the Conway people,” he said. “Everything’s arranged. I’ll be by to get you at four p.m. Mr. Nesseth wants to meet with you. See you then.”

  A bellman collected my bags and led me to the reception desk. “I think you have a room reserved for me,” I said. “Jake Fonko.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Fonko,” said the clerk, a comely, red-haired young woman with a twinkle in her eye. She riffled through the reservations folder. “Here you are. A single room. Indefinite stay. Now, how will you be paying for the room?”

  “I’m with the DeLorean Company,” I said.

  “Yes, they arranged the reservation.”

  “I assumed it would be charged to their account.”

  “I’m so sorry, sir, but we do not carry an account for the DeLorean Company. We accept Visa, MasterCard or American Express cards. Or payment in advance.”

  I handed her my AmEx card. She ran it through the reader and gave it back to me, along with the charge slip and a pen. I signed it and handed it back. “Thank you, Mr. Fonko. Do enjoy your stay.”

  The bellman escorted me and my gear up to my room. It was small but comfy. The rate was higher than I’d have expected for the room, but it would go on the expense account. The man deposited my suitcase on a luggage rack and sat the backpack down by the closet door, then showed me where the bathroom was. Standard service. “I didn’t have a chance to get money changed,” I said. “Is American money okay?”

  “I’ve never been one to spurn the almighty dollar,” he said. “Thank you, sir.” And he left me in my modest room. Which comprised what would be a double-bed in the US, a chest of drawers, a small bathroom, and a smaller closet. Standard three-star accommodation on the continent, but top of the line for here. It had cozy décor and furnishings, at least.

  What I’d seen so far of Northern Ireland didn’t look too bad—run down and shabby, parts of it, but well-cared for and most of it striving for respectability. The military presence was a downer, but except for that the place seemed by and large hospitable. The people I’d brushed elbows with were friendly enough, they spoke my language, and I’ve always liked the Irish I knew in America. But what was going on with the hotel? You’d think DeLorean Motors would have an account here. Being the area’s largest employer, and operating on an international scale, they must bring a lot of business to the Conway, the nearest quality hotel. Surely the Hotel would strive to maintain good relations. Oh well, Myron read me right. I’d been on the road since yesterday evening. I needed a shower and shave. I needed something to eat. I needed some rest. I set about my tasks, and when I lay down I called the desk to ring me at 3:30.

  I was waiting in the lobby, feeling refreshed enough, when Myron came at four. The factory was not far away; I didn’t really need a ride, but Myron wanted to drive me around the periphery. Two courses of high chain-link fence, topped with coils of barbed wire, enclosed it. A wide roadway ran along by the fence, inside. I could see several large, low buildings and a parking area crammed with rows of stainless steel cars. From the outside the facility looked new, modern, untroubled. We passed a pair of gates, inner and outer. “That’s the Catholic side,” Myron explained. “Their workers come and go through there. The Protestant workers come and go through their own gates on the other side of the plant. This settlement over yonder is the Catholic neighborhood, Twinbrook. The Protestants’ district, Deraighy and Lisburn, is where their gate is. The plant was deliberately located between the two so as not to show favoritism. Equal opportunity employers, that’s us.”

  “Has the plant had much trouble with the Troubles?” I asked.

  “We’ve done our best to stay out of it. Some of the Catholic youngsters will fire petrol bombs over the fence with slingshots they make out of pantyhose, but those just amount to bonfires on the test track. Security sweeps the broken glass off to the side and no harm done. When Bobby Sands starved himself to death, the Catholics mounted a ruckus, broke through the outer gate and petrol-bombed a couple of wooden sheds that sat close to the fence. That was the only action that amounted to anything, and it didn’t amount to much.”

  “The IRA hasn’t tried to destroy the factory, then?”

  “What, you’ve been reading the London tabloids? No, that was a few hundred thousand pounds worth of damage. Insurance covered it in full. Replaced the sheds with structures further away from the fence. The Republicans pretty much leave us alone. They’re not about to drive the jobs away. Their people want to work, too. The only grievance they have with the factory is they claim the Protestants are hogging the good jobs.”

  “There’s no problem with sniper fire?”

  “None to speak of. Who’ve you been talking to?”

  “Just rumors I’d heard.”

  We entered via the main gate, welcomed by a big blue sign. Myron parked by the entrance of the office building and took me in. “Mr. Nesseth is expecting you,” he said as he led me along a corridor. He knocked on a door, waited a moment and then ushered me in.

  Nesseth was seated behind a desk, apparently engrossed in something. “Mr. Fonko?” he said, noticing my arrival. He stood up. My God he was huge, about six foot six, I estimated, and bulky, and ugly. He came lumbering around the desk, hand extended. I knew what that meant and was prepared for it. I jammed my hand far into his own, so that he couldn’t crush mine and I was in position to massage his bones painfully if it came to a contest. It didn’t. We looked each other up and down. He was your basic schoolyard bully, used to getting his way through size and intimidation. Few people, leaned on by this gorilla, would give him a fight. And he was an expert bully. He might have given me a go when he was thirty years younger, but he quickly figured out that he wouldn’t last a minute against me unless he sneaked up and hit me from behind, so he backed off. I filed a mental note never to let him get behind me.

  Intimidation was a no-go, so he opened the charm spigots that had sold a thousand Chevrolets. A wide, sincere smile lit up his face.
Instantly he morphed into a big, friendly St. Bernard dog. “Mr. Fonko, it is a pleasure to meet you. John has told me so much about you. Your resume was most impressive, the one man in a million that we so desperately need. You are doing us a great service by coming here to help us.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Nesseth (“Call me Roy,” he interjected). It’s not clear what my job will be, but you can count on me to do it to the best of my ability.”

  “It’s not clear to you, because it’s not yet completely clear to us,” he replied. “The situation is still evolving. John probably told you we’re in receivership right now. Money is tight as a Chinese virgin’s twat. We’re scrambling for financing, and that doesn’t always involve banks. Some investors require special handling.”

  “Here in Ireland?”

  “We’re in the hands of the government here, so in these islands they’ve got us hog-tied. But there’s money in places everywhere else the world—Arabia. Europe. The US. Asia. You’ve been around the barn. You can handle yourself in difficult spots, with difficult folks. You may be involved in negotiations, delivery of goods, collection of money, scouting out the lay of the land, locating people, keeping situations friendly—we’ll know what-all about that in the near by-and-by. Let me tell you about things here in Northern Ireland. Have a seat.” He proceeded to supply a history of the factory, leaving out the role that Lotus had played. He told me production schedules, he ran down a list of problems that company faced—none their own fault—and he repeated the visions that DeLorean had spun out for me, almost line for line. Either these guys were true believers, or they were working from the same script.

  When his spiel finally ran out of steam, I asked, “Conway Hotel insisted that I put the bill on my credit card. My agreement with Mr. DeLorean was that you people will cover all expenses.”

  “We will, we will, you can rely on that,” Nesseth assured me. “Just submit an expense log. Aoibheann in accounting will take care of it.”

  “Also, the agreement stipulates a payment to me of $10,000 upon arrival for the job. Here I am. How are you going to handle that?”

  “You’ll probably want to have some money here, so explain the situation to Aoibheann. She’ll set up an account for you at a local bank and deposit the funds. Anything else?”

  “Yes. I mailed something in a package to myself here. It went air express, so it should be here by now. Where would I go to get it?”

  “The mail room. Ask Liam. He’s in charge there. Any other questions?”

  “For now, that’s about it. After I’ve been around for a day or two I’ll probably have more.”

  “And I’ll answer them all. Open communication, that’s our watchword. One you haven’t asked, I’ll answer right now. Jake, you are here in Belfast because we need you on site when things begin to break, which could be any day now. There are no particular jobs for you for the next couple days, so what I’d like you to do is familiarize yourself with the plant, and with the surrounding area. Reconnoiter it, get some knowledge of the roads. You might drop into a pub or two, maybe talk to the locals. They’re not bad chaps, if you avoid politics. Very touchy around here. If the subject comes up, plead ignorance, fresh off the boat, no spikka da Irish. Above all do not take a side. You never know who you’re talking to.”

  “How will I get around the area?”

  “I’ll have Myron fix you up with a company car. And he’ll assign someone to show you around. I’d do it myself, but I have to fly out of here a little later. Let’s see about that car right now.” He picked up the phone, buzzed, waited a moment, then issued a curt order. Within a minute Myron knocked and entered. “I want you to procure a car for Mr. Fonko. Have them bring it around in front.” Myron left, and Nesseth was back to me. “Jake, one last thing before I walk you out front. There’s another service you might be able to perform for us while you’re waiting for deployment. Your intelligence background would be suited to it, I think. You see, cars coming out of this factory have inexplicable defects and problems. John suspects there may be saboteurs behind it. So in your wanderings through the plant, you might keep your eyes open, see if you spot anything suspicious.”

  “I’m not an automotive engineer, or a detective either, but if I spot anything suspicious I’ll let you know.”

  “That’s all we expect,” Nesseth assured me. We took our time going to the entrance, and he pointed out things and explained things. We were in an office building, with cubicles and desks and telexes and copy machines. They assembled the cars in the other buildings. I noticed that no one in the office greeted Nesseth or even made eye contact. Some shifted away from him as we passed. Mr. Popularity.

  My ride was a grey Mini-Cooper. Far from a Vette, but not a bad little car—peppy motor, good handling. “They drive on the left side of the road here, Jake. Best to take it easy until you get used to it.”

  “The hotel isn’t far. I’ve done this before.”

  He reached out to shake hands, and this time there was no hint of funny business. “I can’t tell you how delighted we are to have you aboard, Jake. I’ll catch you when I get back.” One more wide, sincere smile, then he turned abruptly and charged back into the building.

  I didn’t feel up to reconning the area that night. Catching up on sleep sounded better to me. I had dinner in the hotel, strolled around the grounds to stretch my legs then went back to the room to see what was on the telly. BBC. Caught a Monty Python rerun; always enjoyed those guys. And marveled at what an improvement this was over my Iran gig. No spy agencies to deal with. The same language I spoke. Familiar customs and manners. Not working for a delusional client. No revolution in prospect…Just a few minor details I’d have to iron out.

  Owing to time zone differences I awoke early, but having no fixed schedule that day, I took my time. When I arrived at the plant office a little after ten no one seemed especially busy. The receptionist rounded up Myron for me. “Nesseth said you’d find someone to show me around,” I said.

  “Might as well be me. It’s a quiet morning.”

  “Is this break time? People seem to be taking it easy.”

  “No, it’s just that there isn’t much work to do. The company’s been in receivership since February. The money ran out. Production’s been scaled way back. The work force got up to 2,500, we were turning out 80 cars every day. Now we’re down below 1,000 employees, and dropping. That’s why Nesseth was here—he fired another 178 this week. We can build cars as long as the supply of parts holds up. DeLorean bought enough of some parts for 30,000 cars, but the first part we run out of stops production, because we have no money to buy any more. But since we can’t sell the cars anyhow, what difference does it make? Everybody is just treading water right now, hoping for a miracle. When the paychecks stop, that’s the end of some of the best jobs in Belfast.”

  “Which reminds me, I have to talk to Aoibheann in accounting.”

  “Sure. This way.” He took me section enclosed in partitions with a number of people working at desks.

  Aoibheann was chief accounting clerk, her desk at the front of the room facing the others. She was middle-aged and stout, what you might imagine “The Irish Washerwoman” to look like. “I have some questions that Roy Nesseth said you could help me with,” I said.

  “Oh, and did he, now? What’s your questions, then?”

  “I’m due a payment of $10,000. I don’t know what that would be in pounds. He said you’d set up an account at a local bank and deposit the money in it.”

  “I could set up an account for you, surely. There’s Barclays, Ulster, Bank of Scotland, Allied Irish, you have your pick. But deposits I can’t be makin’ until I have authorization.”

  “Whose authorization?”

  “Mr. DeLorean’s, or Mr. Nesseth’s.”

  “They didn’t tell you about this?”

  “Nary a word. Will you be wantin’ that account?”

&n
bsp; “With nothing to put in it, no. Next question. How are expenses handled here?”

  “Which expenses?”

  “Mine. My contract includes all expenses.”

  “I’ve been told nothing, nor have I seen your contract.”

  “How can I get reimbursed, then?”

  “Until I have authorization, you cannot. Best you keep a list, and when I receive authorization, then you’ll receive reimbursement.”

  “Any possibility of an advance until then?”

  “None at all. Though if you be wantin’ me to establish that account, they require a deposit, which I would naturally put in.”

  I had Aoibheann enter me for an account at Barclay’s with an initial deposit of £1,000. That would cover immediate expenses, at least, so I had Myron take me to the next stop on my list, the mail room. “I’m looking for Liam,” I announced to the lanky young man reading a football magazine at a table by a bank of pigeon holes.

  “Sure, and you’ve found him,” he replied. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Jake Fonko. A package is supposed to have arrived for me. Do you have it here?”

  “No.”

  “That’s odd. I sent it air express, and I posted it almost a week ago. It should have arrived by now.”

  “Ah, but that’s a different issue. It might be that it arrived, but it’s true that I don’t have it here in this room.”

  “Then where is it?”

  “You might be lookin’ in Mr. Nesseth’s office. But you’ll be lookin’ in vain, because he keeps his office door locked when he isn’t in it, and he isn’t in it right now.”

  “Could you let me in to get my package?”

  “I could not. You’d best be asking the chief of security, Mr. Cohan.”

  So Myron took me to the security department. I explained the situation to Mr. Cohan, a stout, balding man of dour demeanor. “I cannot let you into Mr. Nesseth’s office without authorization,” he explained.