by Declan Finn
He buttered a piece of scone with the steak knife. What could’ve made this tough guy nervous? It wasn’t Wayne; that much was certain. Stress? Somehow, that didn’t seem right. He took a sip of coffee. He hadn’t been nervous until after the call. More scone. There was always the possibility that the man’s wife was in labor. Sip. Check that, he wouldn’t have been sent if that were the case.
Wayne was ready to leave when his answer arrived. He had polished off the scone and the Bewley’s Irish Breakfast Tea, and gripped his suitcase tightly when the nervous thug tensed. Wayne followed his gaze to a man of medium build with a black widow’s peak and darker eyebrows.
Michael DeValera didn’t need Paul Brennan—a valued plant in the IRA for years now—to point out Wayne. Brennan had called DeValera immediately after he had been called to shadow Williams. Paul had planned to nod toward his target, but Mike remembered him well: from the plane. He had kissed…
Oh God! There was only one partner Williams could have had for this mission, and Mike had looked straight at her. He had stared STRONGBOW right in the eye and….
Wayne didn’t need to be told what had happened. Someone had assigned an IRA traitor to baby-sit him. That traitor had called… Who? Another IRA cell group? Or someone who liked to play with nuclear devices?
DeValera bolted, and Wayne had to choose following him or trapping the traitor. In the crowds outside, someone would almost certainly be killed, but here…
He pulled out Blaine Lansing’s H&K and fired a round into the ceiling, prompting customers to the floor and the two heavies to go for their weapons. The ‘reader’ hesitated once he saw Wayne had fired, but Brennan drew down on him. Williams, already on one knee, scooped up his knife and threw it from the blade, compensating for the lack of balance. It landed somewhere between Brennan’s armpit and his collarbone. The gun fell from Brennan’s hand as the nerves holding the arm up were rendered ineffective.
The gun hit the floor and killed the man Brennan was with, shooting him at an acute angle in the thigh. He bled out almost instantly.
Williams hopped over prostrate civilians and knelt down next to the wounded Brennan.
Wayne dragged Brennan to his feet. “No need for alarm,” Wayne called out. “I’m Garda Special Branch.” Only Special Branch routinely carried weapons. “Everything’s under control. No need for alarm.”
Yet.
Whoever the other men were, they didn’t follow Wayne out of the tea shop.
* * * *
STRONGBOW watched Michael Dredd push through the crowds. He was definitely spooked. She let him run. She wanted to see what could’ve made him run. Two minutes later, Wayne Williams came out of Bewley’s hefting a red haired man with a disheveled beard, frazzled hair and rumpled, stained clothes. Williams held him in one hand and his case in the other.
Catherine nodded thoughtfully as she stood in front of the street bard articulating— in one of those soft actor-voices that projected to the balcony. With the background noise of Great Grafton Street, she could imagine an entire chain of machine-gun rounds could go off without disturbing a soul. A less observant person—a.k.a., anyone who didn’t give a damn—would’ve thought the man Williams carried was a drunk.
Wayne carried Paul Brennan out into College Park. They went through the gate and made a right down a pleasant-looking path with trees on the left and bushes blocking the view of the massive rail iron fence. Wayne dropped Brennan and his case on the right-hand side of the walk.
Wayne knelt down beside Brennan and pulled his jacket open. His cell phone was clipped to the belt. Wayne flipped open the cheap burner.
Perfect!
Inside the cellular phone was a screen that listed the last five numbers Paul had called and received.
To which Wayne added a text to Maureen, giving her his location and the need for cleanup.
Wayne turned back to Brennan and hauled him up by his collar. “Listen to me, prick,” he said softly. “I just contacted some of the lads,” he lied. “We both know what they’d do to guys like you. I want you to tell me who you called, who you’re working for, and anything else you might know about my being here. Tell me everything to my satisfaction, and I’ll see to it that you get a half-day head start before they start hunting you down. If you stay silent… pray fast.”
* * * *
The Shelbourne was the best hotel in Dublin, and it was right off the park. Catherine Miller watched the blinking dot that was Mike Dredd go into the Shelbourne. She nodded, then slid her iPhone away. She stood on the corner diagonally across from Great Grafton Street, leaning against the gate to the park. She allowed her body to relax as she absorbed the silence.
Catherine glanced at her watch: 12:45. Great Grafton Street would empty in a matter of minutes. The park was already vacant; it was a weekday after all. She honestly couldn’t fault Williams for taking the wounded, thuggish man into the park; he could damn well torture the man until the end of the workday without much—if any—difficulty.
That was another problem, wasn’t it? A deadly conclusion was to be drawn from Wayne’s departure from Bewley’s. He had helped carry out the man she presumed he had shot; Williams wasn’t alone. No law enforcement agency would help him after yesterday, which meant his help was either an old friend, or Wayne was working with the enemy, who would keep people in Ireland until the day before it became luminescent.
A van pulled up to the corner. Four men stepped out and walked toward the park. Catherine noted the license plate number and walked away before they came back with a wounded man.
* * * *
Wayne sat against the van doors as it rolled toward an undisclosed location. Maureen sat next to him, her face expressionless as Wayne “talked” her out of having various painful acts committed upon Paul Brennan—even to go so far as to suggest “letting the traitor go.”
Maureen nodded slowly, playing the role of shot caller for Brennan’s benefit. “And why, pray tell, should I want to do such a thing?”
“Because I don’t think he knew he was as treacherous as he was,” Wayne said, playing for the audience. “He only knew of arranging a non-Provisional IRA shipment, and keeping an eye out for anything strange.” He pointed his thumb at his chest. “Like me.”
Maureen nodded slowly. “Who exactly did he think he was bringing in weapons for?”
“Another IRA group. I think he may have unwittingly brought in the device.”
She sighed heavily, looked him right in the eye. “That’s a fine thing to say! Only one problem, boy-o. No one has your precious device! No one bearing the self-imposed title of IRA is dumb enough to risk the fallout from such an explosion, even if it were one of those that didn’t leave such a mess behind, those are only made in the US in forms big enough to wipe out the isle. So pardon me, Mister Williams, if his story doesn’t pan out. My boys here will deal with him right proper.”
Brennan squirmed and quivered against this tirade, but he didn’t say anything to improve his situation.
Time to change tactics? Wayne thought. “All right! Maybe he did deal directly with the bad guys. He said he helped bring in weapons! They could’ve Fed-Exed the friggin bomb if that was all they were bringing in. They brought it with weapons to protect it after they sent the email.”
Maureen nodded slowly. “Yes, but why would they send a letter? Whatever! If I were to blow up your president, I’d simply do it, no questions asked. So would every man and woman who does this for a living. But when you send a message, then you create a need for complications such as men and guns to protect your stockpile. If no one knew this gadget exists, then we wouldn’t be talking now. You’d be back wherever they stuck you for the past six years; the bomb would blow, take Belfast out, and your fallout would blow East and irradiate Scotland and Scandinavia. No one would have a need for nine other weapons. As far as I’m concerned, you’re either chasing your tail, or there’s something else going on and no one’s told you about it.”
Probably true. Wayne sighe
d, remembering his same proposal to Secretary Stevens only the day before. “He also gave me a name. Michael DeValera. Does that ring any bells?”
Maureen shook her head. “That’s the sorta name I’d remember, but no, never met him. Might he be important?”
“Probably. Lemme use that phone I got off of Brennan.”
Chapter 13
Blaine Lansing shook. He felt fortunate the Vodka didn’t spill all over him as he downed the glass. Williams had fucked him big time. The bastard had memorized his credit card numbers: at least three of them, plus the security codes. He’d bought a ticket to Ireland, reservations at a hotel, not to mention ten thousand dollars in cash. With Scofield’s mindset, the director might use it as proof that Blaine was in league with Williams. He was dead, no two ways about it. Lansing would have swallowed his pistol, but Williams had that, too!
Lansing jumped as the phone rang on the other side of the living room. He was frozen as the second ring buzzed. If it was the office, Blaine figured he was to be shot at dawn. They’d know he was home—the Bureau knew everything, or seemed to—and he had to answer.
The phone rang a third time. Well, if you’re gonna die, go in feet first. He crossed the distance in time for the fourth ring. It was an unknown number. It couldn’t have been a robocall – he had hacked them all to remove him from their lists.
“Buon giorno?” he answered. It was a habit to dissuade non-Italian-speaking telephone salesmen.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Aren’t you a little young to be working here?” Blaine had heard before the gun cracked to his temple.
“Oh shit,” he groaned. If Scofield was as devious as everyone thought he was, he had had Lansing’s phone tapped while he was held at the J. Edgar complex. The computer nerd could feel the handcuffs on his wrists.
“Yep, you know who I am,” Wayne replied, the grin seeping into his voice. “I also know who you are, Agent Lansing. Working for the Internet Task Force must be a fascinating job. I figure the ITF could do a background check for me.”
“Get stuffed, pal,” Blaine replied, exhausted. The caffeine finally gave up on him. “I’m currently hunting you down, you prick.”
“Not unless you’re doing it on your own time, Agent Lansing,” Williams corrected. “Especially if Scofield’s tactics haven’t changed since last we met. I’d be shocked if you aren’t bugged right now.”
Yup, you know Scofield. An idea suddenly occurred to Blaine. He picked up the cradle and carried it with him into the den. “Keep talking,” he urged as he laid the cradle down on the desk. “Dig yourself in even deeper.”
“I’d be happy to help the FBI. Run a check on a man named Michael DeValera. I’m not quite sure of what he is or who he works for, but I’d bet a hundred bucks that he’s involved in some bad stuff going on in Europe right now.”
Lansing searched a cubbyhole. Bingo! He pulled out a present his mother gave him when he first went to work for Scofield’s FBI. It was a mail-order gadget that supposedly detected bugs. He hooked it up to the telephone. A small LED flashed green. Clear.
“All right, asshole,” the Fed growled, “I’ve swept this for bugs and nothing’s there. What the fuck did you call me for? I don’t know you from Eve, and the only time we met, you nearly decapitated me. Why?”
“Because I know you can’t go to Scofield while on his hit list, but you can still help me work this case, subvert that turd who runs the FBI, do your job, and become a hero at the same time. Sound like fun, Agent Lansing?”
Blaine considered the offer quickly. “And if you’re lying to me, I still get to hunt you down and stomp you.”
“Fair’s fair. Have we a deal?”
Several dozen miles away, sitting at a phone company desk, a gray man in a gray suit listened to Blaine Lansing say, “Done deal.”
The man copied down the phone number Wayne Williams gave the ITF operative, then hung up as Lansing logged online. He had been ever so grateful that the Bureau had convinced Ma Bell to continue to make phone intercepts during their last tech upgrade. The plain, unobtrusive man dialed the J. Edgar building to speak with Winston Scofield.
* * * *
“That DeValera will keep,” Williams said as he closed the cell phone. The van made a smooth turn in Dublin traffic.
“I heard,” Maureen told him. “What might you have against the head of your FBI?”
“More than he’d like to admit,” Wayne replied. “He’s one of the guys President Barry put in place. That I mentioned earlier.”
Maureen grit her teeth. “Oh. One of them.”
“And it’s not my FBI. If it were, I’d h’ve burned it down. The only good thing that ever came from there since Scofield joined was their marksman training.”
“Is that why I never saw you use more than one bullet per man?”
“’Tis… Time to get back to business. Brennan told me he had to deliver the weapon to Belfast in late December.”
Maureen raised her eyebrows. “December? Weren’t the weapons already in country?”
“They are. But they moved them somewhere else. They’d contact him when it came time.”
Maureen shook her head. “And after Bewley’s? Won’t they write him off?”
Wayne nodded. “But it’s not in Belfast yet. I’d think any urban environment is too unpredictable. You don’t want to put it somewhere that might be blown up at any moment. The plutonium particles in the air would be lethal enough, assuming the bomb itself didn’t detonate. Your target is gone, and, frankly, so’s half the city.”
Maureen nodded slowly. “The only place ‘safe’ to store it would be in the South.”
Wayne shook his head. “I doubt it. They wouldn’t have brought it in through Ulster if that were the case.”
Wayne looked down at the closed cellular phone in his hand with great thought. He flipped it open and hit the recall button. Numbers rolled down the one-inch screen. Lansing’s number topped the list, and the bottom number was…
“What’s the area code for Belfast?”
She told him and asked, “Why?”
“That’s not it,” he muttered to himself. He scrolled down the list and hit the enter key over the familiar area code.
“Newry Logistics, can I help you?”
“Logistics?” Wayne asked. “As in trucking?”
“Yes, sir. Do you have the right phone number?”
He grinned. “Oh, I’m sure I do. Could you give me your address?”
There was only one thing, in Wayne’s opinion, more annoying than Winston Scofield screwing up someone else’s life, and that was a puzzle that made no sense. And this mission annoyed the hell out of him. Maureen was right: Why send an email? Why ten bombs? Why bother?
“When did you move the weapons?” Maureen asked Brennan, propped up against the other side of the van. The doctor had only just finished with him, and she tired of waiting.
“Last week,” the redhead answered. “They said they were going to move the weapons somewhere safe. I found out it was the bloody Newry Logistics.” He rubbed his wounded shoulder as he continued. “I tried to talk them into telling me where the shipment went, but the feckin’ bastards wouldn’t tell me a thing.”
“We’ll do that,” Wayne told him. “You’ve done quite enough.” He turned his head to Maureen. “You think he’s done enough to save his neck?”
“Possible. Maybe just enough, we’ll see. It’ll depend on if we can get anything from this company.”
“We will,” Williams answered in a voice of cold steel. He closed his eyes and started to doze.
* * * *
Michael DeValera walked through the extravagant lobby of the Shelbourne Hotel. He looked forward to an all-expenses-paid lunch in their restaurant, where appetizers started at fifteen euro and went up from there. He had, of course, already changed into a light green polo shirt with a navy blue sports jacket.
A hand reached around his arm and hooked it, the attached person pressing herself
close to DeValera’s side.
“Hello, Michael,” Catherine Miller whispered into his ear. She wore a white sweater and matching slacks, which mysteriously went with her pale skin, opal eyes, and raven-black hair. “We have something to discuss, you and I. Let’s talk about it over lunch, shall we?”
DeValera tensed. The only thought that sprinted through his skull was STRONGBOW! It was simultaneously linked with the belief that he would be dead quite soon.
“You see,” she continued, “I represent a group of people who have caught wind of what you’re doing next year for the President. We would all like to see your plan succeed and want to offer any assistance we can.” She patted his arm as they made their way to the restaurant. “Come now, let’s talk about this somewhere a bit more private.”
The maitre d’ gracefully accompanied them to a corner table. Michael sat against one wall, Catherine another. He handed them both menus and recited the specials. She declined a drink while Dredd ordered a whiskey. The hovering waiter took down the order and slipped toward another incoming group.
STRONGBOW closed the menu and put it off to the side. “I saw the list outside,” she explained, smiled.
DeValera held his menu with shaking, sweating hands as Catherine patiently smiled at him. Hers was an ever so slight smile, and his mind reeled. His cover had been blown. By all rights, he was dead in so many different ways. Could it have been a good thing? Never! shouted every old instinct in him.
“How did you discover me?” he asked, feigning calm. He hadn’t even looked away from the menu.
“We have contacts everywhere, one of which received word of the creative email that made its way to the White House. After that, it was easy to find you, given your past employment.”
DeValera went numb from the sheer shock. His past was a closely guarded secret, one that should’ve been burned a lifetime ago. Sweat poured from the tip of his window’s peak. Given this, Catherine knew her guess was right on the mark. He couldn’t have been trusted to bring a bomb into a foreign country with such a colorful background.