The Hostage s-1

by Duncan Falconer

  Bill’s research failed to produce a location where they were buried and so he decided to visit the farm in the hope of finding out more. It turned out the family that had taken over the farmhouse were distant cousins and they informed Bill his parents had been killed in a head-on collision with a drunk driver and that their bodies had been sent back to the Republic for burial. The cousins showed little enthusiasm in helping Bill. In fact they were down right inhospitable. They were unimpressed that Bill had come all the way from London that day and did not even invite him into the house for a cup of tea, conducting the entire conversation on the doorstep. The last thing Bill asked before leaving was if they had any photographs of his parents. They did not, and with that they closed the door on him. Bill felt embarrassed and confused by their hostility and it was only on the bus back to the family home in Belfast that it dawned on him that it was possibly because of his accent. He might have been born a Catholic, and a Meagher, but as far as they were concerned, he was now an English Protestant, kin or not.

  With a month left of his holidays he decided to get this little investigation over and done with. The following day, equipped for no more than two nights on the road, he made the journey by train and bus to Southern Ireland and the village of Kumrady, several miles north-east of Limerick. On seeing the delightful setting his immediate thought was why his parents had ever wanted to leave. Enniskillen was not a patch on this place.

  It was early afternoon when he arrived in the village. His plan was to have a look around the place his parents were born and raised in, find the grave in the church cemetery, utilise any spare time looking for their family homes and be on his way in time to get back to Limerick by early evening so that he could find a B&B for the night and return to Belfast the following day.

  It took him a while to find the headstone, not that he had rushed in looking for it. Cemeteries fascinated him.The headstones transported one into the past, revealing the names of people who had actually lived, pure history that could pinpoint a precise day in the story of mankind. Within the confines of this one tiny cemetery, in the space of an hour or so, Bill found people who had been alive during the French revolution, the Peninsular War, the battle of Trafalgar and the Russian revolution. A high point of the day was finding two men who, it could be deduced, left the village when they were young, died somewhere in America in 1867, and were then shipped back to the place of their birth to be buried. Bill wondered how they had both come to die at the same time, and how they had enough money to pay for their bodies to be shipped all that way back to their little village.

  When he did find his parents’ grave the first thing Bill tried to imagine was how they had looked to the world; the little things: how they had acted, laughed, talked, what they did with their everyday lives. Now that he was here, standing above them, the urge to know more about them grew stronger. A sadness washed over him but he couldn’t think exactly why. Perhaps it was nostalgia. He’d had pretty much everything he needed growing up and never felt deprived of anything, and he had hardly thought about them for more than a few seconds in all those years let alone missed them. For the first time in his life he felt a personal loss. He wondered how much like them he was, or which of them he was most like. His mother was twenty-three when she died, just five years older than he was now, and his father twenty-seven.

  Bill leaned back on a nearby tree, lost in thought, unaware of a man approaching from behind, slowly making his way through the cemetery from gravestone to gravestone, reading each in turn. As he came around the tree he almost bumped into Bill, startling him. Bill noted the telltale white collar under the man’s tweed jacket. He was well mannered and acted most humble, as one might expect of a priest, however his appearance made him look more like a navvy; he was large, with heavy bone structure, powerful hands and a bull neck. He apologised for disturbing Bill but instead of leaving him to himself, as one might expect in a place such as a cemetery, the priest was intent on striking up a conversation. He was an American with a strong New England accent and introduced himself as Father Kinsella, on holiday from Boston and visiting relatives for a few weeks. His first question to Bill was what was an Englishman doing in an Irish graveyard.When Bill explained he was actually Irish and that his parents had come from the village the priest grew noticeably warmer towards him.At first Bill felt trapped by this friendly but overbearing character.This was a private time for him and now that it had been interrupted he wanted to beat a polite retreat at the first opportunity and be on his way. But Father Kinsella wasn’t ready to move on. He explained to Bill his fondness for reading gravestones, especially in Ireland, although the East Coast of America, specifically the central region, was particularly fascinating when it came to Irish headstones. He described how he once spent a two-month vacation following the trail of the famous 69th, an all-Irish Brigade that distinguished itself in some of the greatest battles of the American Civil War. He asked Bill if he knew that more than forty per cent of all foreign-born enlistments into the Union Army during the Civil War and about seventeen per cent of its entire strength were Irish. Bill did not. Father Kinsella knew his Irish history as well as any professor and was very passionate. He confessed that the names and dates on the headstones transported him back to times and places in America’s history and also Ireland’s often dark and troubled past. When Bill admitted he knew little of Irish history Father Kinsella did not hide his disappointment. In fact his animated expressions of horror initially amused Bill, though he had a feeling it might be unwise to show it.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Father Kinsella asked with an intimidating look, which once Bill got to know him, he realised was not nearly so intimidating. ‘I ask because there are very few Irish names that don’t have some history attached to them . . . Go on,’ he pushed. ‘Tell me it and I bet I’ll tell you a story about one of your ancestors that you didn’t know.’

  Bill could see himself getting stuck here all day. He tried to summon the courage to tell this priest he needed to be on his way, but he had to admit there was something interesting about the man. Perhaps it was the enthusiasm he had for history and the way he animated every swell of passion with majestic movements of his hands and exaggerated facial expressions.

  ‘Meagher,’ Bill said. It was a conscious decision to choose Meagher and not Lawton, even though he felt a tinge of guilt. But Meagher was, after all, his rightful family name and it was no point listening to anything Father Kinsella might have to say about Lawton since it was not truly his own. Bill was not prepared for the extraordinary reaction Father Kinsella expressed when he heard the name. His mouth opened and remained in that position for a few seconds, eyes wide and staring, like a large frozen grouper.

  ‘Did you say Meagher?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bill.

  ‘M-E-A-G-H-E-R?’ he spelled.

  ‘That’s right,’ Bill said, then pointed at the gravestone a few feet away. ‘That’s my mother and father’s grave.’

  Father Kinsella looked at the gravestone, the sight of which only fuelled his look of astonishment. ‘By God,’ he said. ‘That’s truly amazing.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Meagher was the name of the Brigadier General who commanded the 69th Irish Brigade I was just telling you about.’

  He quickly studied Bill, then his surprised expression turned into a frown. ‘Are you telling me you’re a Meagher and you don’t know anything about your family name?’

  ‘I only found out a few days ago,’ Bill said in his defence. ‘My parents died when I was young . . . I was adopted.’

  The priest’s frown melted, but not entirely. ‘You should still know enough about Irish history to know the name Meagher,’ he said and took a closer look at the gravestone.

  ‘I was adopted by a family in Belfast.’

  ‘What’s their name?’ he asked.

  ‘Lawton.’

  Father Kinsella looked around at him. ‘That’s not an Irish name,’ he said, almost accus
ingly. ‘You were adopted by an English family?’

  ‘Northern Irish,’ Bill said.

  ‘Protestants?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Father Kinsella took another look at the gravestone.‘Well, that explains why you don’t know anything about your Irish ancestors, I suppose. I’ll forgive you for now. But by God you’d better start learning.’

  ‘Yes, I will. I’m sorry,’ Bill said, unsure why he felt the need to apologise, but Father Kinsella nodded, accepting it as if it should have been offered.

  The priest turned to the gravestone and took a closer look in silence, and then he reached out and touched it, running his fingers slowly across the lettering with some reverence.

  ‘And you’ve never heard of Thomas Francis Meagher?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Bill said.

  ‘There should be a statue to the man. Probably will be one day. You ever been to Waterford?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s where he was from. He would be, let me see . . . He’d be your great, great, great, possibly great grandfather.’

  ‘How could you know that?’ said Bill.

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That that particular Meagher was an ancestor of mine?’

  ‘If you’re a Meagher from the county of Tipperary then you’re a descendant of the O’Meaghers of Ikerrin,’ he said. ‘Do you want to hear a little about him?’

  Bill felt he already knew enough about the priest to suspect this might take a while. ‘I don’t have a lot of time,’ Bill said checking his watch.

  ‘To hear about your own ancestor?’ Father Kinsella said, the frown starting to reappear. ‘Where’re you staying tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘Limerick.’

  ‘How’re you getting there?’

  ‘Bus,’ Bill said.

  ‘I’ll drive you. How’s that? Save yourself some money too, and time you can spend learning something valuable.’ Before Bill could respond, Father Kinsella started to head off. ‘Come on,’ he said, and Bill followed him out of the graveyard like an obedient Labrador. Nobody had led him by his nose so easily in his life.

  It was a bright, fresh day and as they crossed the stream that ran past the village on its way to Lough Derg and the River Shannon, Bill was taken back to another era. By the time they reached the rental car he was absorbed in everything the priest had to say. And it was not just history, it was Bill’s history.

  The stewardess arrived with Bill’s perfume and he paid her in cash. He smiled distractedly, his thoughts elsewhere, wondering if it was as early as that first day in the cemetery that Father Kinsella decided to commandeer Bill’s life and make him a martyr for the cause.

  Chapter 13

  Stratton stood alone in a room on the top floor of the British Embassy, looking down on the brightly lit city across the river, the tip of the Eiffel Tower, its silhouette outlined by thousands of white light bulbs, just visible above the Grand Palais. Beyond the gardens hundreds of red and white car lights shunted along the Champs Elysées.

  But Stratton could see none of this. All he could see was the crowded Rue de Rivoli of that afternoon. He thought he had seen Hank through the crowds, standing and looking about, and then he was gone. Stratton went to the spot and searched around, filtering the sea of faces passing him, the countless people moving in all directions, but there was no sign of Hank or Henri. He called Clemens and then Brent, whom he knew were in the area, but when he heard the automated message responses, it was evident they were out of signal range, which could only mean they had entered the subway and were underground. He called several other operatives but no one had anything to report. For the next few minutes he continued calling Clemens and Brent in the hope they had surfaced somewhere else around the Place de la Concorde, but after a while it became apparent they had taken the métro.When Clemens finally called him from Gare d’Austerlitz, Stratton chastised him for letting Hank go off on his own. When he had not heard from Hank for several hours, though it seemed a long shot and perhaps ludicrous to even contemplate, the word kidnap crossed his mind. It would have been his immediate concern had they been in Northern Ireland, but not Paris at eleven in the morning. Now, ten and a half hours later and still no sign of Hank, he knew in his gut that the bizarre possibility was true. The rest of the team were still on the streets checking the likely places he might turn up, searching hospitals and police stations for their ‘lost American friend’.

  The door opened behind him and Stratton focused on the reflection in glass; Lieutenant Jardene was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Anything?’ Jardene asked, knowing that if there was Stratton would have said so.

  Stratton had his cell-phone in his hand. ‘No,’ he said.

  Jardene let the door close behind him and entered the spacious office. ‘I can’t fucking believe this,’ he said. It was the first time Stratton had heard him swear.

  ‘He’s been lifted,’ Stratton said.

  ‘I still think it’s too soon to jump to that conclusion,’ Jardene said.

  ‘He’s been lifted,’ Stratton said again.

  Jardene was not in denial, but it was his responsibility to remain optimistic.‘We’ll have to tell the French soon.They’ll have to know . . . We’ll need their help in finding him.’

  Stratton’s phone vibrated and he raised it to his ear. ‘Yes?’ he said and listened for a moment. Jardene watched Stratton’s eyes, looking for any sign of good news even though he knew the man well enough to know his expression would give nothing away. Stratton would tell him they had found Hank alive and well or brutally murdered in the same casual manner.

  ‘Okay,’ Stratton said to the caller. ‘Stay there until you’re recalled.’ He thumbed the end-call button, pocketed the phone and said nothing to Jardene.

  ‘London’s going bloody apeshit,’ Jardene said.

  Stratton could sense something accusatory in his tone. Or perhaps he was being overly sensitive to the inevitable. The first question they would ask was who the ground team leader was. His name would have been the first that they cursed. Screw them, he thought.They couldn’t be any harder on him than he’d been on himself.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be in the boss’s shoes when the call is made to Washington,’ Jardene said.‘The Yanks’ll go through the roof . . . God, it doesn’t even bear thinking about. American Special Forces operative unofficially working for the Brits kidnapped while on illegal surveillance operation in France, and technically against the IRA.’ He couldn’t believe it himself. ‘The implications just go on and on. We can always tell the French to sod off and pipe down but the Americans are going to want someone’s head on a pike.’

  And shit rolls downhill, Stratton thought. He knew where a good part of the British shit would ultimately settle though. Around Hank himself. He would be buried in the stuff, especially if he wasn’t able to defend himself. London would wriggle all it could to focus much of the blame on poor old Hank, despite the fact he should not have been on the ground in the first place. The head most likely to roll in the unit itself was Jardene’s. He was the officer in command. Stratton would get dragged over the coals at the court of inquiry as the ground supervisor, but at the end of the day he was a field operative. It was one of the advantages of being a non-commissioned officer when commissioned ranks were on the ground. They got the glory that came with success - and the crap that came with failure. Jardene had been in the embassy throughout the op and therefore as good as in the field. He didn’t interfere with the ground op because he trusted Stratton, not that there was anything he could have done to help direct the operation anyhow. His experience of foot surveillance was virtually zero. If an operation came up next week somewhere in the world and Stratton was available he’d probably be on it. Life would soon be back to normal for him apart from the occasional dig from other operatives. It would not be long before it became an amusing story; such was the sick humour of the service. But it would be a serious bump in Jardene’s career. Jardene undoubtedly had dream
s of commanding the squadron one day. He was capable enough. But if there was competition for the post, what happened today might be the foot to kick the chair out from under him. The Yanks would not forget and might even be offended if the officer who lost one of their boys became CO of a unit they considered a sister.

  ‘What do you think happened?’ Jardene asked eventually.

  Stratton shrugged. ‘Henri sussed us.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At the café. He wouldn’t have gone there if he’d twigged before. He would have ran as soon as he smelled us.’

  ‘Then the café was the rendezvous?’

  Stratton nodded; he was certain of that. If you’re twigged on the walk you don’t stop for a coffee and let the enemy gather its forces. You take them away from your objective, keep them strung out, and you fly the first chance you get. Henri flew, the first chance he got, which was at the café. He went from there directly to the métro, the best place to screw with communications and to thin out any followers. If he flew from the café, that meant he twigged at the café.

  ‘Was he playing Russian, do you think?’ Jardene asked.

  Playing Russian referred to the way the Russians liked to carry out anti-surveillance. Stratton had worked against them in London more than once. They were the hardest in the business to follow because they often sent a tag to shadow the hare. Jardene was suggesting that Henri had a partner experienced in surveillance who followed him from far enough back with the specific task of watching to see if anyone was following him. If he detected any suspicious behaviour his job would have been to warn Henri off.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Stratton said.