To the Death am-10

by Patrick Robinson

  “Skibbereen,” replied Ravi.

  “Well, I’m not going that far meself, but I’ll gladly take you along to Schull. There’s a bus at eight o’clock — and wouldn’t you admire the view from here, out to the lighthouse. My old grandpa always told me it was the finest view in Europe.”

  “Was he widely traveled?”

  “Hell, no. He only once left here for more than three hours, when he went to Dublin for a family wedding. He was so homesick, they brought him home before the reception.”

  Ravi chuckled. “Well, I’ll be happy to get aboard, Jerry, and thank you very much.”

  Mr. O’Connell did not seem to be in a hurry. “Ah, jaysus, Rupe,” he said. “And what brings you to a tiny outpost like Crookhaven on a fine mornin’ like this? You don’t look like a sailor to me — and you sure as hell don’t look like a farmer. did you stay in one of the hotels last night? I’ve an aunt who works at the Old Castle House.”

  Ravi’s mind raced. “No,” he replied. “I was staying down there with friends.”

  “On land?”

  “Yes, on land. Couple of fellas from school.”

  “Ah, there’s nothing like a reunion, Rupe, talking of old times with a couple of jars of Jameson’s under your belt.”

  “We had a good time, Jerry,” said Ravi. And even as he spoke, he realized the options were fast running out for the Irish dairy farmer, who pressed on with the conversation regardless.

  “Now, who exactly are these fellows from school?” he asked. “My family have lived down here for three hundred years at least, and I’ll be sure to know them. And their friend will be my friend. What’s their names, Rupe?”

  So far as Ravi was concerned, this was becoming lethal. His mind buzzed. Jerry O’Connell already knew far too much. He could identify him; everyone would know in a half-hour that there had been a complete stranger wearing a suede jacket walking along the cliff top at six o’clock in the morning. Lying about his origins. Claiming impossible friendships with people who did not exist.

  Ravi could no more come up with names of Crookhaven residents than fly in the air. Whatever he said, the farmer would know he was lying. Ravi distractedly walked over to the farm truck and pretended to see a flat tire on the left rear wheel. Now half-hidden from sight, he delved into his bag and pulled on his leather driving gloves.

  “I think you might be in a bit of trouble here, Jerry,” he said. “There’s no air in this tire.”

  “That rear one?” replied the Irishman. “Let me have a wee bit of a look.”

  He walked over to join Ravi just as the Hamas terrorist was reaching for his combat knife. Not to stab or slash, but to hold it the wrong way around, and to use the handle as a blunt instrument.

  Ravi bent down to examine the tire, and as he did so, Jerry O’Connell joined him. “That tire looks pretty good to me,” he said, uttering the last words he would ever utter. Because Ravi straightened up and struck like a cobra. He slammed the handle of the dagger hard into the area between Jerry’s bushy eyebrows, and with the bone well and truly splintered, he dropped the dagger, drew back his hand, and slammed the heel of his palm hard into Jerry’s nostrils, driving the bone known as the septum into the brain.

  Ravi Rashood killed Jerry O’Connell instantly, with a classic SAS unarmed-combat blow. The Irish farmer was dead before he hit the roadside grass. His heart had stopped before he landed backward on the sparse grazing soil of West Cork. Wrong place, wrong time.

  CHAPTER 9

  With the body of the late Jerry O’Connell lying slumped at the roadside, General Rashood needed to move very quickly. On the right-hand side, the land fell away down the cliff toward the ocean, and Ravi elected to roll the corpse down there and hope to hell it jammed in the foliage but was hidden from view.

  He checked that there was no further traffic from either direction and then dragged the dairy farmer to the edge of the cliff top and tipped him over. Jerry rolled down for about forty feet and came to a halt against a gorse bush that was still in flower. Ravi stared. Jerry was plainly visible.

  Leaving his bag on the roadside next to the milk truck, he clambered down the cliff and dislodged Jerry, dragging the body around the gorse and jamming it into the far side. Now it would not be noticed from above, although it was still just visible if someone was really looking. Which, Ravi guessed, they would be before this day was done.

  He climbed back up the cliff and considered his getaway options. Walk or ride? And then he boarded the milk truck, revved the engine, put it into gear, and took off, with the urns rattling in the rear. He considered that he was, more or less, safe for another half hour, before someone missed either Jerry or the truck.

  There was only one way to drive, and that was straight along to Goleen, through the village, and on to Schull, Ballydehob, and Skibbereen. He kept his driving gloves on and kept going, passing the West End Hotel in Schull, where, unbeknownst to him, his wife had stayed last week.

  Only one person in the entire fourteen-mile journey noticed him. Patrick O’Driscoll, the driver of the central milk tanker, was just coming out of Murphy’s Breakfast Bar in Goleen when he saw O’Connell’s truck with the usual four big urns of milk come fast through the village, drive straight past the dropoff point, and keep going out along the road to Schull. He found that puzzling, but guessed Jerry must have had an errand. Still, he thought, he’d better get back here quickly, or I’ll be gone, and then he’ll have to drive to Skibbereen.

  Meanwhile, Ravi was approaching the market town of Skibbereen and preparing to ditch Jerry’s truck. He slowed down a half mile out of town and turned onto a farm track that led to a house situated beyond a wood. Ravi swung into the trees and drove for about three hundred yards before coming to a halt in a dense clump of birch trees. He switched off the engine, grabbed his bag, and walked on to Skibbereen. It was 7:15 in the morning, and the town was more or less deserted.

  Ravi had eaten nothing since the previous evening and had not had anything to drink for many hours. The lure of the Shamrock Café was too strong for him to resist, and he took off his jacket, which he knew made him very distinctive in these rural areas. He stuffed it into his bag and walked inside, where he ordered toast, orange juice, and coffee from a very sharp young Irishman, aged around twenty, who Ravi thought would probably end up mayor of Skibbereen one day. He asked about the bus to Cork City and was told it left daily at 8 A.M. from outside the Eldon Hotel on Main Street.

  Ravi sat at a table with his back to the counter. The excesses of killing Jerry and climbing up and down the cliff had made him thirsty, and he hit the orange juice in one go, then ordered another. He was so thirsty, he ignored the terrorist’s mantra never to do anything that would cause anyone to notice anything. The kid behind the counter might now remember.

  The mistake was small, and Ravi cast it to the back of his mind. He ate his buttered toast and drank his coffee. He paid with his euros and made his way out to the Eldon Hotel for the bus to Cork. The journey was a little over forty miles, but it took General Rashood much longer.

  Twice he left the bus, at Clonakilty and again at Inishannon on the Bandon River. Both times he waited for the next one, but at Clonakilty he caught sight of the Michael Collins Centre and spent a half hour standing at the back of a group of tourists, listening to the guide recounting the exploits of Ireland’s great twentieth-century patriot.

  Eventually he arrived in Cork just before 12:30, and, since he would shortly be wanted for murder, decided to take a circuitous route to Dublin rather than the regular direct rail link from Kent Train Station. He elected for a long train ride along the coast to Waterford, and then to take the three-hour ride on the railroad up to Dublin.

  Every step of the way, Ravi did everything possible to cover his tracks. On the train to Waterford, he changed carriages every half hour. He spoke to no one, ate nothing, drank nothing, kept his head buried in a succession of newspapers. People may have seen him, but no one had time to take a lasting impression o
f him.

  He arrived in Waterford late in the afternoon. It was Monday, July 16, the first day Shakira would be looking for him in Dublin, in the precincts of the Mosque at five in the afternoon. He was not going to make it. But the Mosque, in Ravi’s mind, was only a “fail-safe.” He had Shakira’s cell-phone number, but intended to use it only in an emergency, perhaps just once, in the middle of Dublin where it would be untraceable.

  And was this ever an emergency. In the following few hours, Ravi was aware, he would become an unknown but hunted man. He did not believe he had left many clues behind, but the Irish Garda would be very angry that a well-liked farmer from West Cork had been brutally murdered two miles from his home. And it would not take them long to deduce that the killer was a stranger.

  1400 Same Day Crookhaven, County Cork

  There were two police cars outside Seaview Farm, where Mrs. Mary O’Connell was utterly distraught. Yes, Jerry had left with the milk at the usual time, and no, he had not been seen since. And no, he had never gone missing before.

  Down on the waterfront, there were two more police cars, with Garda officers calling at every shop, business, and private home. There weren’t many, but everyone who spoke to the Garda that morning knew Jerry, and had not seen him that day.

  Detective Superintendent Ray McDwyer, who had taken over this relatively routine missing-person case, was thoughtful. He sat alone in the police cruiser, waiting for his driver, Officer Joe Carey, who was busy talking to the girl who pumped gasoline at the waterfront garage.

  When he returned, Ray suggested the most useful thing they could do would be to check out whether Jerry had indeed arrived at the dropoff point in Goleen with his four cans of milk. He made one quick phone call to the Central Milk Corporation and came up with the name of the tanker driver, Patrick O’Driscoll, who lived in Goleen.

  Ten minutes later, they were at his front door, and Patrick quickly explained the unusual events of the early morning: “Sure, I saw Jerry’s truck come speeding through the village around seven this morning. He drove straight past the collection point and kept on going.”

  “Did you see him come back?”

  “I did not. And I noticed that his other four cans were still there when I packed up at two o’clock. I collected no milk from Jerry today.”

  “Was the truck going unusually fast?”

  “Well, Jerry always did drive it pretty quickly, but this morning it was going real quick, even for him.”

  “Did he wave to you, or acknowledge you in any way?”

  “He did not. Just went right by.”

  “Mr. O’Driscoll, I want you to think very carefully before you answer this question. Are you absolutely certain that Jerry was behind the wheel of that truck when you saw it drive straight through Goleen?”

  Patrick O’Driscoll hesitated. “Well, I’d thought he was. when you see a fella like Jerry every day of your life, you get a kind of set impression. You know. Truck, milk, and Jerry.”

  Detective Ray McDwyer smiled. He was a well-dressed serious man of around forty and looked like the managing director of a bank. But he was a very good policeman, and there were those who thought he would climb even higher in his chosen profession.

  “Patrick,” he said, “I want you to swear to God you saw Jerry Driscoll in his truck driving through Goleen this morning.”

  Patrick was silent for a few moments. And then he said, “I’m trying to get the picture clear in my mind. And I can do no more. But I cannot swear Jerry was behind the wheel. That truck was past me in a flash, and to tell the truth, if I hadn’t known it was Jerry’s truck, I would not have known who the hell it was.”

  Detective McDwyer persisted. “Did you see his back, or his coat?”

  “I did not. I was focused on the milk cans swaying around in the back. I just thought Jerry was off on some errand and that he’d be back. I didn’t mean to mislead you, sir. You can trust me on that.”

  “I know you didn’t,” replied Detective Ray McDwyer. “The memory’s a funny thing. It can trick you. And I’m grateful for your help.”

  Officer Joe Carey drove them back to the Crookhaven waterfront, where McDwyer called in the other cars. He asked all seven of his men to pay attention, and he told them, “It looks to me as if Jerry O’Connell was removed from his truck somewhere between the top road and Goleen, a distance of less than three miles.

  “I want you to organize a search all along there with as many officers as you can find. This is getting more serious than I first thought. But Jerry’s truck was seen driving fast through Goleen at around seven o’clock. You may assume he was not at the wheel.”

  There were many hours of daylight left, and another dozen policemen were drafted in from outlying districts. And for hour after hour they walked along the high road above the harbor, searching both sides of the road for signs of an injured man — or a dumped body.

  At 4:30 P.M., Ray McDwyer himself was walking along the road, staring down in search of any clue as to where the milk truck had stopped. And he stopped at a short, maybe four-foot-long skid mark on the left-hand side of the road. To him, the rubber looked fresh and black, and he told Joe Carey to step up the search along this stretch of road, with six men on the left and eight on the right, along the cliff top.

  At 5:25 that afternoon, they found the body of Jerry O’Connell, his septum crushed into his brain.

  “Mother of God!” murmured Ray McDwyer.

  1600 Atlantic Ocean off Southern Ireland 51.15 North, 08.29 West

  The Royal Navy’s 7,000-ton Astute-class hunter-killer submarine Artful was making a steady course southwest at twenty-two knots, bound for the Gibraltar Base. This part of the North Atlantic has been known for centuries as St. George’s Channel, named of course by the English, possibly to let the hapless Irish know precisely who owned the great waters and who indeed might be expected to walk on them. Cry God for Harry, England, and St. George.

  The ship was quiet. There were no U.S. submarines this far south, the French underwater boats were in their huge base at Brest on the Brittany coast, and the Russians right now had nothing beyond the confines of the Baltic. Everyone knew there was nothing around, and nothing was expected.

  However, at four minutes past four o’clock, a short, sharp exclamation was uttered by one of the young sonar operators; uttered almost in disbelief, in language not normally associated with the formal idiom of a submarine on patrol.

  “What the bloody hell’s that?” snapped Able Seaman Jeff Cooper, staring at his screen. “I’m getting something, a rise, could be engine lines. I’d say it’s a submarine.”

  A supervisor walked over and said, “Let me take a look.”

  AB Cooper just had time to say “Right here, sir,” before the contact disappeared. And it did not return any time in the next five minutes. But then it did, and this time it was clearer, perhaps closer. Jeff Cooper coordinated the data quickly.

  “Level of certainty they were engine lines?”

  “One hundred percent, sir.”

  “You thought it was a submarine?”

  “I’m sure it was.”

  “Well, that’s very peculiar. We have no notification that there is any submarine within two hundred miles of our track. What does the computer conclude?”

  “Single shaft. Five blades. Compressed cavitation. Fits Russian diesel-electric Kilo-class boat.”

  Five minutes later, the commanding officer was informed. Immediately, he ordered Artful to periscope depth and sent a signal to the satellite.

  Noon Same Day National Security Agency Fort Meade, Maryland

  Lt. Commander Jimmy Ramshawe stared at the signal in front of him, which had arrived direct from Naval Intelligence. It was not couched in alarming tones, nor was it regarded as urgent. It just stated: RN HMS Artful 51.15N 08.29W picked up short transient contact on very quiet vessel at 161604JULY12. Insufficient hard copy for firm classification — aural, compressed cavitation, one shaft, five blades, probably non-nuclear. No inf
ormation on friendly transits relates.

  “That, old mate,” said Jimmy decisively, to the entirely empty room, “is a bloke who was bloody sure he just heard a submarine.”

  He pulled up his computer chart for the northeastern Atlantic and checked the precise whereabouts of Artful when the transient contact was detected. About twenty-four miles south of Kinsale in County Cork. now, what in the name of Christ is an unknown submarine doing there? Unless the crew wants a decent round of golf — my dad played Old Head, Kinsale, last year — shot a 98!

  He hit the secure link to COMSUBLANT and spoke to a lieutenant he knew well, questioning the likelihood of a submarine patrolling the coast of Ireland.

  “Jack, I think it might have been Russian,” he said. “Five blades, that’s Russian for sure, and non-nuclear. The Brits obviously think it’s a Kilo, but they haven’t said so in as many words.”

  Jim, we do have something on the boards. Only one, an Iranian Kilo, recently out of refit in the Baltic. We were tracking it in the western end of the Med, then tracked it north maybe a week ago. That’s probably her.

  “Well, the Brits are damn reliable and wouldn’t make a mistake like this. Were you guys tracking it subsurface?”

  Sure. We had Cheyenne in there.

  Jimmy closed down the link and phoned the Big Man, who was, for once in his life, not betraying outright impatience.

  “Listen, kid. You are sure the only submarine that has gone off the boards is that Iranian Kilo, right?”

  “I am sure. COMSUBLANT has every other underwater boat on earth under observation.”

  “And now a submarine, which fits the pattern, is located by the Brits twenty-four miles south of Kinsale in Ireland, right? Maybe 1,500 miles from its last known.”

  “Correct.”

  “Well, that Kilo can probably cover three hundred miles in a day, snorkeling. I guess that’s gotta be it. Hull 901 on the loose, way south in the Irish Sea.”

  “That’s how I figured it, boss.”