Ellis had called to apologize for “being an ass” after the St. Patrick’s Cathedral hostage crisis by trying to assert federal jurisdiction over the case. Then he asked if Karp could meet him for coffee. Curious as to what he would say, and wanting to get past his aversion to the man that on its face seemed unfair, Karp had agreed.
Five minutes into the conversation, Ellis made his opinion known about Jaxon. “Nice time to quit your country and go for the money,” he said, but then he saw the look on Karp’s face and quickly backpedaled. “Hey, sorry. Geez, I’m good at sticking my foot in my mouth, or maybe it’s my head up my ass. I know he’s a longtime friend and that was out of line. God knows he was taking down bad guys when I was still sucking my thumb. And I know the old government pension ain’t going to pay for much of a retirement. It’s just tough when the good ones leave; we can use all the help we can get. What I get left with are the snot-nosed kids and lazy good-for-nothings who nobody else wants.”
Karp told him not to worry about it. He’s trying, and I guess they don’t teach diplomacy at spook school, he thought. He’s not such a bad sort. Just a little overzealous. “I had misgivings about it when I heard, too,” he said. “But you’re right. I imagine in your business, the burnout rate can get pretty high and frustrating to deal with.”
“You got that straight,” Ellis said, shaking his head. “Sometimes between the media and Congress, I wonder who’s on whose side. Speaking of the media, how’s your friend, Miss Stupenagel?”
It was odd to hear Ariadne Stupenagel referred to as his friend. True, they’d known each other for a long time, but most of it had been contentious. He respected her, but he had to think about whether he considered her a friend. I guess I do, he thought.
“Better,” he replied to Ellis. “And from what I understand, she’s writing again. Sometimes I think she has a death wish.”
“Yeah, walking on thin ice with those stories,” Ellis agreed. “I’m not a big fan of the media these days, and I worry that she might drive these guys underground. We’d like to get our hands on Jamys Kellagh before that happens.”
“You’re not the only one,” Karp said. “But then you and I might find ourselves in another jurisdictional squabble.”
Ellis laughed and held up his hands. “Hey, I learned my lesson. Once you cross the river into Manhattan, one man’s word is law. But we will take the leftovers if you don’t mind.”
Karp had left the meeting with a better opinion of Ellis. He was never going to be a friend, but the guy was trying to do his bit and had his life on the line in dangerous waters. He decided that his original assessment of the assistant director of special operations had been an emotional one. Karp’s mentor, Garrahy, had always warned against making decisions based on emotions. Make up your mind on the facts, the old man used to preach. Save the emotional stuff for your friends and family.
Karp decided to follow that advice with Ellis, which was the reason his name was now crossed off on the legal pad. But it didn’t seem to matter; he wasn’t getting anywhere with the columns and names. He needed something that tied it all together.
He turned to another blank page and in the center wrote Jamys Kellagh and circled it. He surrounded the circle with a dozen smaller circles, to which he drew lines from the center. Some of the smaller circles he filled with the column headings from the first page. Kane’s Escape. Fey’s Murder. Aspen. And he added one more: Black Sea Café.
A few of the circles he left blank. Something told him that more of them would be filled in before it was over. However, now that he’d created the new page, he wasn’t sure what it meant, except that Jamys Kellagh was at the heart of it all, and he already knew that.
Karp turned the legal pad over and gave the pancakes his attention until Saul Silverstein, the ladies’ apparel pioneer, showed up with a copy of the newspaper and began reading Stupenagel’s story aloud to the others.
“Now, that is one brave lady,” Bill Florence said when Silverstein finished. “I would have been proud to have her on my staff at the Post. Met her once, big gal but pretty, nice set of jugs, too. Too bad we’re the ‘Sons’ of Liberty or we could ask her to join us.”
“She could be the women’s auxiliary, Daughters of Liberty,” the artist, Geoffrey Gilbert, quipped.
“To jugs and the First Amendment,” defense attorney Murray Epstein shouted, lifting a whiskey and orange juice.
“Jugs and the First Amendment,” the others said, joining the toast.
“Hey, are you guys talking about some other bimbo’s jugs?” Marjorie the waitress demanded with her hands on her hips.
“Never,” the Sons of Liberty shouted. “Show us your jugs!”
Marjorie laughed. “Your pacemakers couldn’t handle it. But…” she said, leaning toward them seductively.
“Yes?” the old men replied breathlessly.
“I just want you to know that they are magnificent.”
A table full of old men groaned and poured themselves another round from Florence’s silver flask. Karp laughed and began to return to his pancakes when he noticed his friend the priest, Jim Sunderland, and the former judge, Frank Plaut, standing off to the side talking. He couldn’t hear their conversation and wouldn’t have understood the context anyway unless he’d talked to his daughter first.
“Is it time to send the second package?” Sunderland asked.
“Yes, we seem to have gotten a response for the first,” Plaut answered.
“Interesting that Lucy Karp is involved,” the priest said, glancing over at the girl’s father.
“Yes, but perhaps that could have been anticipated, considering Jaxon’s relationship with the family,” Plaut pointed out.
“So what’s the lucky fellow’s name again?”
“Cian,” Plaut answered. “Cian Magee.”
13
LUCY SAW CIAN MAGEE STANDING AT THE TOP OF HIS STAIRWELL and knew that he had to be excited to have ventured so far from his burrow. He clutched the iron railing as though afraid that some ill wind was about to carry his great bulk off into the void. However, he managed to let go with one hand so that he could wave when he saw her.
“Céad míle fáilte romhat, Lucy,” he shouted.
“Go raibh maith agat,” Lucy thanked him. “A ‘hundred thousand welcomes’ is certainly a nice Irish greeting. How are you?”
“Very well, indeed, a ghra mo chroi!”
“Really, Cian.” Lucy laughed as she walked up and gave him a hug. “You’re going to have to stop calling me the love of your life or I’m going to demand a ring.”
“If only that were so, Lucy, I’d have already given you my mother’s ring. In fact, I have it right here in my pocket just in case.” Magee dug into his pants and to her surprise pulled out a beautiful ring with a large diamond in the center. Awkwardly, he got down on one knee. “So want to put your money where your mouth is, mo chuisle? An bpósfaidh tú mé?”
“Oh my, so now I’m your ‘pulse,’” Lucy said, giggling. She patted him on the cheek. “And no, I can’t marry you. I’m already spoken for.”
“Ah yes, the cowboy.” Magee sighed as he struggled to his feet. “Too bad I’m afraid of leaving this stairwell, and flying in airplanes, and probably deserts, too, or I’d go to New Mexico and challenge him to a duel for your hand. Rapiers…except, no, I’m also afraid of sharp objects, too. They can put your eyes out, you know.”
“So I’m told,” Lucy agreed with a laugh. “Now, what’s so exciting that you demanded we come right over?”
Magee looked around as if he were only just realizing where he was and didn’t like it. The evening was growing darker and only a few passersby scurried along the sidewalks, trying to get home. He nervously eyed the slow parade of cars that passed, as if he expected one of his phobias to leap out of one.
“Yes, yes, very exciting,” he said, and turned to go back down the stairs. “But that’s quite enough of the great outdoors. Let’s retire to my crib, as the kids like to say. By th
e way, where’s your friend…the secret agent man, I thought he was coming.”
“He is,” Lucy said, following behind. “But Jaxon called to say he was running a few minutes late. He can catch up.”
A minute later, Magee was safely ensconced in his easy chair, while Lucy sat on the stool across from him. He was obviously enjoying the moment, and the company, and in no hurry.
Lucy glanced around and noticed the Stouffer’s Turkey & Stuffing microwave dinner box in the trash can and felt a pang of guilt. I was home with my family and our friends enjoying the real thing with all the trimmings, and this poor man ate alone out of a box, she thought. It was unbearably sad, but she smiled for her friend’s sake and vowed that she’d visit him on Christmas.
“So, Cian. You said you’d received some ‘extraordinary’ information and that you needed to see us right away.”
“So I did,” Magee said, picking up an old book with a mustard-yellow cover that may or may not have been the original color. “And here is the reason why.”
“A book?” Lucy asked.
“Ah yes, but not just any old book,” Magee said. “This, my dear, I believe to be the veritable Rosetta stone to unlock the mystery presented to us by Agent Jaxon.”
“You figured out what the poem means?” Lucy asked.
“Well, not yet, but I think this explains a lot about the people involved and may lead us to the answer,” he said.
“Where did you get it?”
“Well, I have to admit that it wasn’t from any great sleuthing on my part,” Magee said. “Two days ago, someone rang my doorbell and when I answered nobody was there. However, they’d left a package, containing this book.”
“That’s odd,” Lucy said. “And kind of creepy.”
“Yes, indeed,” Magee agreed. “But as it was helpful, not hurtful, I have to think that the messenger was sent for benevolent purposes and perhaps knew of our quest.”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “I still don’t like all this clandestine stuff,” she said. “I wish Jaxon was here. He might have an idea where it came from.”
“Yes, well, perhaps he’ll be able to explain it when he arrives,” Magee said. “In the meantime, let me give you a taste.” He made a great show of blowing dust off the cover and then using a piece of plastic to gently open the book to the title page. “You, of course, are aware that the acids found in the oils on your fingertips can damage old manuscripts. This book isn’t particularly ancient—from what I can tell, probably only seventy-some-odd years or so. However, my research on the internet indicates that this may be one of a kind and needs to be treated with TLC.”
In spite of her misgivings about the book’s delivery, Lucy was intrigued. Magee had inherited the storytelling ability his Irish fore-bears were known for and was using it to full effect. “So what’s it about?”
“What’s it about?” he repeated, looking about mysteriously, which made her laugh again. “I’ll tell you what it’s about, little deir-fiúir.” He stopped and appeared to be listening to the sounds outside the garden-level window opposite his chair and above Lucy’s head. “I believe it’s a sort of unauthorized edition exposing an organization so secretive that they make the Freemasons look like publicity seekers.”
“I see, turn down your marriage proposal and suddenly I’m no longer ‘mo chuisle,’ I’m your little sister,” Lucy complained. “Oh well, fickle man, tell me more.”
“I have to do something to protect my wounded heart,” Magee sniffed. “Thinking of you as my little sister, and therefore unsuitable for carnal pleasures, will help me heal. But before I go further with the book, I think the occasion calls for better ambience.” He rose halfway from his chair and turned the switch that started his electric fireplace. The glowing “coals” and “flames” cast an orange pall on the room and strange flickering shadows on the walls. “Ah, that’s better,” he said.
“Much,” Lucy agreed. “Now tell me the name of this book and this mysterious group.”
“Such an impatient child,” Magee complained. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to ruin the mood. But as to your question—they are one and the same, the title and the group.” He turned the book to where she could see what it said.
“The Sons of Man,” Lucy read aloud. “From the poem?”
“Exactly. ‘A son of Man will march among the sons of Ireland to silence the critic for the good of us all.’ Only I think we should be reading that as ‘Son’ capitalized.”
“So the Sons of Man is the name of the group,” Lucy said. “What’s the book say about them?”
“It’s a history book,” Magee said. “Remember what I told you about the Isle of Man and how it was home to inveterate smugglers?”
“Yes, you said that the wealthiest people on the island today owe their fortunes to smuggling.”
“And you’ll remember how in 1783, the British, who were tired of being made fools of by the smugglers, as well as needing money to carry on war against the Americans, offered amnesty to the smugglers?” Magee continued.
“Yes, and five hundred took them up on the offer,” Lucy said.
“And those who didn’t and remained on the island were hunted down,” Magee added. “Well, it appears that there was a third group of smugglers who refused to join the British armed services, nor were they willing to live as hunted men on their own home island. These people…what was that?” Magee stopped his monologue and tilted his head to the window behind Lucy.
Lucy turned in her chair to listen, but hearing nothing, she scolded Magee. “Stop that, Cian,” she said. “You’re giving me the willies.”
“I thought I heard something at the window,” Magee protested. “But never mind. It could have been somebody walking by or one of the rats from the alley. I swear they’re getting bigger and more aggressive. I had to battle one for my peanut butter and jelly sandwich the other night. Fortunately, rats are not one of my phobias and I was victorious.”
Magee reached into a box next to his chair and pulled out a meerschaum pipe and a large plastic bag of tobacco. “Do you mind?” he asked. “I know it’s extraordinarily bad taste these days to subject someone to secondhand smoke, but it’s my one real vice and it adds to the story, I think.”
“Go ahead, Cian, I like pipe smoke,” Lucy said.
“Oh, good,” he said, lighting the bowl with great dramatic puffing. He sank back in his chair with his eyes closed and a look of satisfaction on his round face. “Anyway, this third group of smugglers, with all their kin—led by twelve heads of families—fled across the Atlantic to America, where the war was winding to a close. Patriots might have been fighting for freedom and ideals, but the smuggler families saw opportunity in the form of miles and miles of open coastline along which to ply their trade. They smuggled goods from Europe and the Caribbean—rum, tea, and even arms for the revolutionaries—not because of any patriotic zeal for their new homeland, but the desire for cold, hard cash.”
In the orange glow and swirling smoke, Lucy imagined the seafarers running British blockades as Magee continued his story. After the Americans won their war, the smuggler families continued their business with even greater ease. The fledgling government was having a difficult time collecting taxes from honest men, and had no navy to speak of. “So they grew wealthy.”
Smuggling remained the cornerstone of the empire they built, but it wasn’t the entire building. “They were no different from other immigrant groups that founded crime syndicates—the Irish mob, the Mafia—in that they saw the wisdom of funneling the ill-gotten gains into legitimate enterprises,” Magee said. “They also began to assimilate into society. Perhaps to disguise their roots, they changed their Manx names to English or Scottish, and using their fortune as bargaining chips, they began to marry into the best families. However, they continued their secret ways, organized into a council made up of the leaders of the twelve original families. Places on the council were passed from first sons to first sons. Other family members could be involve
d in the secret organization, if they were trusted, but only in unusual circumstances could someone who wasn’t a firstborn son ascend to a place on the council.”
“The Sons of Man,” Lucy said.
Magee nodded. “Yes, that’s where the name came from. As I said, their historic business was smuggling, and that apparently included a wide variety of commodities over the years, including slaves. But their operations remained diverse—rum from the Caribbean, diamonds from South Africa, whatever they could get past U.S. customs and make a lot of profit from. They also exported products made in the good old USA and smuggled them into other countries, especially weapons that went to foment revolutions and wars. They apparently made quite a killing smuggling liquor into the United States from Canada and Mexico during Prohibition. However, they seemed to be content with just getting their cargoes in or out and let others—like Al Capone—do the distributing, which I suspect avoided unnecessary conflicts with other armed groups.”
“Wow,” Lucy said. “This is all so out of left field. What else?”
“Well, the history stops just before the Second World War,” Magee said. “But if the Sons of Man stayed true to form, I suspect that their ventures evolved to smuggling drugs and God knows what else. However, what I find particularly interesting is that they weren’t just content with their smuggling empire. Somewhere along the line—maybe to protect what they had—they began to broaden their reach into politics, the legal system, the military, and financial institutions. First sons, the heirs to their fathers’ seats, were expected to pursue careers in these areas—so they became politicians, and lawyers, and judges, and bankers, and captains of industry.”
Magee patted the book. “And it’s all in here. The original Manx names and the name changes; the history and the general outline of their purpose. Up to the late 1930s anyway. It’s rather frightening, really, how a focused organization that is willing to bide its time and wait for the right moment can become a potent political and economic force. Maybe alter the course of history.”
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