by Declan Burke
She took her time, probably wondering if she should tell me what I wanted to hear, but then she nodded.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘So maybe he was just telling you funny stories about the sun because he knew you’d like to hear them.’
‘Are funny stories lies?’
‘A little bit. But they’re not bad lies.’
‘Oh.’
‘Listen, Emily?’ I stood up and took her little hand in mine, led her along the street towards Belle’s Kitchen. ‘We’re going to have breakfast now, in this café. But Daddy needs to talk to a man while we’re eating. Is that OK?’
‘The clown man?’
‘No, not the clown man. His friend.’
‘Is he a clown?’
‘I doubt it very much, love. Now, what would you like for breakfast? Pancakes?’
‘Croissants,’ she said. ‘But warm ones.’
Emily had two warm croissants with a glass of milk. I had the large fry with extra sausage and a pot of coffee. Francis – ‘But call me Franco, everyone else does’ – had a cup of Earl Grey tea and a blueberry muffin, which he picked at while I ate.
Of Seanie the Clown there was nary a sign.
Belle’s Kitchen had the look of an American diner, longer than it was wide and lined on one wall with cubicles of bright red faux-leather seating, a coffee machine hissing steam behind the counter. Franco hadn’t been hard to spot, the only likely candidate, sitting with his back to the far wall at the table farthest from the door, although the fact that he was wearing the gilet favoured by the horsey set caused me to hesitate until he waved me over. Once the introductions were made, and the food was served, I cued up some Adele on my phone and gave Emily the ear buds. She couldn’t believe her luck – music and croissants and breakfast in a café. She sat Barbie upright on one side of her plate and tucked in, dabbing her hunks of croissant into a pool of honey.
‘You know who I am,’ Franco said. The Boston accent, for some reason, was less harsh in person than it had been on the phone. Maybe he’d been forcing it last night, trying to make a point.
‘I’m guessing you’re Shay’s brother,’ I said.
The resemblance was unmistakable. He was younger by more than ten years but it was Franco who had the look of a crude prototype to the fully formed man.
‘What has he told you?’
‘About you? Nothing.’
That didn’t seem to surprise him. ‘I’m the CFO of Govern Industries,’ he said.
I forked home some sausage and toast, chewed it around. When it was down the hatch I said, ‘And?’
‘I’m just clarifying, Tom.’
‘Great.’ I lowered my voice. ‘So while we’re clarifying a few things, let me clarify for you that if anyone ever waves a gun around my child again I’ll rip his fucking throat out. Are we clear?’
My father had a phrase when he was talking about a certain kind of man, a serious man, a man not to be messed around. A hardy joker, he’d say, the corner of his mouth turning down.
Franco Govern was a hardy joker. Somewhere in his late sixties, with a head that reminded me of the time Rachel and I had taken the three-month-old Emily on a holiday in the south of England and I’d found an arrow flint on Chesil Beach. Blunt and rounded at the back, coarsely struck into sharper points towards the front. He’d shaved his head to a fine stubble, hoarfrost on a skull, but it was the eyes that gave you pause, wide-set and grey, like I imagine an old wolf’s eyes should be. They’d seen it all, those eyes, but as calm as he appeared to be as he sat slumped in his seat, both hands in his lap, he never stopped watching, looking, assessing.
I’d met a few of his kind before on my travels. Sat across a table with a tape recorder running and knew, just knew, they were capable of doing what they believed needed to be done, and never think of it again.
Which is why I had to put it out there early. Draw a line in the sand about Seanie, or any other clown, playing the pistolero. Franco would have known just by looking at me that I wasn’t any kind of hard man. What he had to believe was that I could be, just once, if I needed to be.
‘I’ll be sure to pass that on,’ he said.
I chewed some toast and he worked on pretending he was taking my threat seriously and Emily dabbed up some honey on her chunk of croissant. She had a snotty nose and crumbs glued to the corners of her mouth but I left her to it, waiting for Franco to make the next move.
‘Tell me about this book Shay has you writing,’ he said.
If he knew that much he probably knew a lot more. ‘Are you worried you’re in it?’ I said.
‘Call me curious.’
I considered that as I forked up some sausage, tucked it away. When I’d swallowed I said, ‘As I understood it, you were the one who had information for me.’
‘Let’s just say I hate repeating myself. You bring me up to speed on what he’s already told you, it’ll save us both a lot of time.’
I nodded, then shook my head, then said, ‘Look, Franco, I don’t know Shay at all well. We’ve only met twice, and briefly both times. Right now all I know is that he’s commissioned me to ghost write a book about this thriller writer, Sebastian Devereaux, who used to live on Delphi.’
‘And you didn’t think to look into his background, this guy who just shows up and commissions a book.’
‘I tried, yeah. But there isn’t a lot out there. By the looks of it, Shay likes his privacy. About all I know is he’s worth a hundred million dollars or near enough, and that he’s spent a chunk of his money on foundations and what-have-you here in Ireland, and now he’s looking to invest in Delphi, this gold mine he wants to develop as part of the whole Irish-American philanthropist bit. But that’s about it.’
‘Maybe we should talk again,’ he said, ‘once you’ve had a chance to chat properly with Shay.’
‘Give me a reason.’
‘Say again?’
‘Shay’s paying me good money to write this story. Why would I want to mess with that, run off behind his back and get cosy with the guy who stuck a gun in my daughter’s face?’
The laughter lines hardened, went thin. ‘That’s not exactly the way it played, was it?’
‘Wasn’t far off, either.’
He was exasperated now, but working to control it. Took his time, lifting his cup in both hands and inhaling the steam before taking a sip. ‘Has he told you why he went to America?’ he said.
It’s a rare conversation where you don’t learn more by playing dumb rather than pretending to be smart. I played dumb.
‘There was nothing for him here,’ I said. ‘So he got out.’
‘In 1940.’
‘Apparently so.’
‘You wouldn’t have thought there’d be a lot of emigration to the States in 1940, would you? With the war going on and all.’
‘I wouldn’t, no.’
‘So what was his hurry?’
‘I’m all ears.’
He sipped some more tea, set the cup down on the table. ‘I take it he hasn’t mentioned the kids.’
‘What kids?’
‘The ones that died on Delphi in a massacre not long before Shay upped sticks for the States.’
Playing dumb will only get you so far, and it sounded to me like Franco Govern was all in. ‘He told me about it, yeah,’ I said.
‘Good.’
‘How is that good?’
‘It means we’re on the same page, Tom. That you know where I’m coming from. I mean, a guy who’s in control, he’s compos mentis, like they might say in court – he doesn’t usually run around telling people he’s just met he was mixed up in some war crime, does he?’
‘It wouldn’t be my experience, no.’
He was fiddling with his tea cup now, his eyes down. ‘We’re worried about him, Tom. OK, you’ve only met him a couple of times, but he comes across as a smart guy, getting on a bit but still sharp. Solid. Right?’ I nodded. ‘But you don’t know him. You don’t know who he used to be. The family are worried. Shay ha
sn’t been the same man since Marie died. And it’s not just, you know, that he’s mourning her. Marie, she was …’
‘He told me she pretty much made all the big decisions.’
‘Well, yeah. And now she’s not around any more, God rest her soul, Shay’s been a bit flakey for the last couple of years. By his standards, I mean. Making executive decisions, throwing a lot of money around that isn’t really his to throw. All very noble stuff, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like he’s blowing it on hookers and coke. But this notion, like you mentioned earlier, of Shay being a philanthropist – he’s taking that a bit more seriously than maybe he should. This gold mine on Delphi being a case in point.’
He was worried about Shay, all right. Terrified Shay would blow the family fortune before the CFO and the rest of the family got its hands on it.
I couldn’t help but wonder if he was worried enough to put an old man in a canal if he thought the old man could destroy Shay Govern’s reputation, the family name, with a story about a massacre, an atrocity.
‘You think Shay’s being led astray?’ I said.
‘We do, yeah. To a certain extent.’
‘By Carol Devereaux.’
‘You’ve met her?’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘Soon as I meet Shay, he’s going to put us together. She’s the daughter of the guy I’m writing the book about.’
‘Sure. But she’s also, I’m hearing, the woman who pulls all the strings on Delphi.’
‘So Shay said.’
‘Yeah. She’s working with Shay on this gold mine idea too.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘Would you tell me if you did?’
‘I’ve told you plenty.’
‘What you’ve done is confirm what I already know.’
By now Emily had wiped her plate, soaking up the last of the honey, and was sitting back with her eyes closed, feet drumming against the seat as she tapped along to Adele.
‘Sounds to me,’ I said, ‘that you know a lot about who I am. Right? So you know what I do.’ He nodded. ‘Then you’ll understand, if I’m working on a story, that I’m obliged to protect my source.’
‘Even if your source is the story you’re working on.’
‘That might complicate things a little, sure. But the principle stands.’
He grinned. ‘Principles?’
‘That’s what they call them, yeah.’
He was still grinning as he leaned in. He spoke so softly I could hardly hear him over the hiss of the coffee machine.
‘It’s been my experience,’ he said, ‘that kids and principles don’t mix. I mean, in a situation like this.’
Then he folded his arms on the table and tilted his chin upwards a fraction, as if offering me his throat.
Calling my bluff.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Fair enough.’ I nodded over at Emily. ‘But not here. I don’t want her to maybe hear anything she shouldn’t. Is there anywhere we can go?’
He jerked his head towards the fire exit. ‘We’ll step out there,’ he said, standing up and edging around the table. ‘Excuse me?’ he called to the woman behind the counter. ‘Would you mind keeping an eye on the little girl there? We’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Aye, no bother.’
I held up two fingers for Emily, then pointed at the rear exit and curled my little finger for a pinky promise that I’d be back in two minutes. She nodded, although she wasn’t happy about it. Franco went ahead, pushed down the safety bar on the fire-exit door and walked out into a small yard lined with plastic crates full of empty bottles. There was a stink of ammonia and stale urine and cats. Franco took out a pack of Marlboro and a lighter, offered me one, then lit one for himself when I declined. He took a heavy first drag and turned his head to one side as he exhaled, saying, ‘Look, all I want to know is—’
He stopped then, because I’d stepped in and pushed the point of the greasy knife up under his chin.
‘One more word,’ I said. ‘Just say one more word about my girl and I’ll fucking skewer you where you stand.’
A flash of rage in the grey eyes that drained away fast, leaving behind an Arctic fog.
‘Listen to me now,’ I said. I gave the knife a little twist, pushed his chin up another inch or so. ‘I’ve had threats before, from boys who’d throw you out of the way to get at a fight. And maybe you’re Johnny Big-Balls over in Boston, the second coming of Whitey fucking Bulger, but here you’re fucking nobody. Nobody. You hear me?’
He couldn’t nod, but he made a low grunt in his throat.
‘I already owe Seanie one for waving his gun around my kid,’ I said. ‘So go ahead, yeah, call him in. But if you do,’ another twist on the knife, ‘you won’t be in any state to see him or anyone else come through the door. So think on that and mind your fucking manners.’
I lowered the knife and stepped back.
His move now.
He rubbed a thumb on the underside of his chin, then checked it for blood. It came away clean, which wasn’t any great surprise, the knife being as blunt as the back of his own skull. Then he took another drag on his cigarette.
Gradually the fog in his eyes seeped away and he came to terms with the fact that I had about thirty years and twenty pounds on him, and was still holding the knife. I’d imagine what tipped the balance in my favour, though, was that he needed what was in my head more than he needed the satisfaction of pounding it off the cat-piss concrete.
When he could trust himself to speak again he said, ‘You’re a lucky man.’
Maybe it wasn’t bluster, exactly, but a man who’s talking is a man who isn’t doing.
Another drag on the cigarette. The stench of cat piss was so strong now that I wished I’d taken him up on his offer of a smoke. He said, ‘So, Shay.’
‘What about him?’
‘Did he tell you about the gold?’
‘He did, yeah. Shay has big plans for Delphi.’
‘Not the mine. The real gold.’ Franco dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out with his toe without taking those cold grey eyes off mine. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he said, ‘Shay by any chance mentioned how he was planning to scrub off the swastikas?’
FIFTEEN
The fire-exit door pushed open with a wheezy sigh. The waitress, her cheeks flushed, stuck her head out. ‘Hi, lads? That wee girl’s getting restless.’
It had been the same ever since Rachel and I split. If you left Emily alone for more than ten minutes at a time, even watching TV, she started to get anxious, wondering where you were. She’d wander into the kitchen from the living room and watch you chopping onions and peppers, tell you something inconsequential that had happened that day at school, or ballet class, then wander back out again. We didn’t need any psychologist to tell us why, although I took it as a positive sign that her anxious moments always seemed to coincide with the ad breaks.
I’d tried to talk her through it. Told her that just because I wasn’t with her all the time, that didn’t mean I wasn’t with her – I’d place my hand over her heart – here. That I’d moved out of our house, sure, but I’d never move farther away than my apartment, and she could see me any time.
None of it worked. She understood what we told her, sure, had a fair grasp of how love can still work at a distance. She just didn’t buy it. A child sees what she sees.
When we got back inside she was sitting with her back against the booth, knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her shins. No tears, but her eyes were shining.
I ignored the disapproving glances from nearby tables and took the buds out of her ears while Franco went to the counter. ‘Sorry, love,’ I said. ‘I thought you knew we were just going outside for a minute.’
‘It was ten minutes.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Can we go now?’
‘Not just yet. But soon, I promise.’ I wanted to get out of there just as much as Emily did, but I needed to know more about this cache of swastika
-stamped gold before I sat down with Shay Govern again. ‘Would you like another croissant?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Is there anything you would like?’
‘Apple juice. Please.’
I got an apple juice organized, and watched as she made five or six attempts to spear the straw through the opening in the cardboard carton. Once she was sipping on that I cued up some Arabian Nights stories on the phone – Adele, she reckoned, was too loud – and popped the buds back into her ears.
By then Franco had placed a fresh coffee on the table for me, hot black tea for himself. ‘You forget how sensitive they can be at that age,’ he said, stirring in a sugar.
‘She takes after her father, yeah. So tell me about this gold you’re scamming.’
‘You think I want the gold?’
‘You didn’t come all this way for the Guinness, Franco. And call me cynical, but if it’s stamped with swastikas like you’re saying, I doubt you’re planning to donate it to any museums. Or maybe, because it’ll qualify as salvage, you’re thinking of hauling it up and handing it over to the State, get yourself a nice pat on the head. Is that it?’
‘Those are options, sure.’
‘But they’re probably not at the top of the list.’
‘No, they’re not.’
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘if you’re here because you think Shay’s told me about any German gold, you’re way wide.’ Shay hadn’t mentioned any gold, and neither had Gerard Smyth. And if illicit Nazi loot had turned up in Sebastian Devereaux’s Rendezvous at Thira, it wouldn’t have been like Martin to miss it.
‘You’re not wondering why?’ Franco said.
‘I’m guessing because it doesn’t exist.’
‘Not why Shay didn’t mention it. Why the massacre happened in the first place.’
‘The Germans were after a British spy. The locals wouldn’t hand him up.’
‘Right. But why did the Germans want the spy so badly they’d start killing kids?’
According to Gerard Smyth, Richter had wanted the rendezvous time and place for the submarine. But he hadn’t said why it mattered.
‘Go on,’ I said.
‘The gold,’ he said, ‘was sent over in a German submarine in 1940 to fund an IRA campaign against the Belfast shipyards, the airports, cause a little cross-border mischief. The idea being to destabilize the Brits at their back door, make them think a little harder about the North Atlantic.’