And the terrible truth.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Weakly, Meg leaned against the cold stone outerwall of the rectory, closed her eyes and moaned. She had no idea how much time passed but after a while, Jake was beside her, pulling her to his side with one strong arm. She propped herself against him and whimpered. No tears spilled, just whimpers and moans.
“Meg, can you make it to the pub?” In his other arm, braced against his side, was the box of file copies. “Or shall we go back to the hotel? We’ll have to walk a coupla blocks to the town center to find a cab.”
She schooled herself to a kind of shaky but steady composure.
“You knew, didn’t you?”
“Knew what?”
“I’d find something. Proof.”
“I suspected, just wasn’t sure.” He continued to support and guide her while they began walking. She saw nothing, was just walking blindly. His low voice was calming, soothing. “I guess the photo of a teenaged Mary cinched it? Only facial reconstruction would change features that much.”
She steeled herself for more of the ugly truth. “The letters?”
“Incriminating. The letter that Mary McCoy mailed to Father Dillon before she boarded the ferry that June night in 1940 had a slightly different signature than the letters that came after the ferry catastrophe.”
He let the significance of that revelation settle upon her before adding, “Those typed letters with a slightly different signature came after whoever took the real Mary’s place settled in London and began her work at the War Office. I’m positive the FBI Lab’s handwriting specialists will find the signatures on those letters from London forged. Even Father Dillon noticed the difference.”
“Whoever took Mary McCoy’s place—that was my grandmother?” The answer, she already knew.
“Yes, I’m sorry to say.”
“What happened to the real Mary?” She almost choked on the question but she had to ask.
“We—MI5 and I—think she was murdered on the ferry before the killer set off the explosions. Her body’s either at the bottom of the Irish Sea or it was swept out to the Atlantic. It’ll never be found.”
“Oh God!” Meg drew in a deep breath. It caught deep in her throat and escaped as a sob. “Grandma couldn’t have done that! I know her!” She dissolved into hot tears. “It must’ve been that Horst Eberhard. He did it and forced Grandma to go along afterwards. Maybe he threatened to kill her!”
“Possibly.” Jake’s tone was guarded. He tried to put his arm around her but she fended him off. The FBI and MI5 were ganging up against her grandmother because of Gran’s association with that horrible German spy!
Tears streamed down her cheeks until finally she composed herself. She took deep breaths, trying to still the quivering inside. Thoughts assailed her and she fought desperately to sort through them all. One caught the edge of her mind, a sliver of hope.
She slowed her pace alongside Jake, maintaining her distance. Jake made no further attempt to touch her.
“Did MI5 have a copy of that same letter? The one that was sent to Father Dillon before the ferry sank?” she asked. If British Intelligence had it and didn’t think the signatures in the letters following the ferry explosion were forged, why would the FBI arrive at such a conclusion?
“Good point. Thing is, they didn’t. Millie just told me tonight, that particular letter—the only written document with the real Mary McCoy’s handwriting—was in its original envelope and had gotten caught in the back of the cabinet. Millie just found it today as she was taking out the file to make copies. Talk about luck—” He halted in mid-sentence. “Sorry, Meg, poor choice of words. I know you’re crushed. I’m sorry for that. If MI5 had seen that letter sent by Mary before the ferry sank, they would’ve indicted your grandmother long before now.”
His hand went up to clasp her shoulder. The nausea having passed, Meg wrested herself out of his arm and took rapid steps by herself.
“I’m sorry, Meg. I know how very hurt you must feel.”
“I don’t know what to think, what to feel,” she expelled a shuddering breath, “it’s a nightmare. I keep hoping I’ll wake up.”
Jake began taking longer strides down the street. “Meg, do you feel strong enough to walk a little faster?”
Jake kept looking back over his shoulder at the dark roadway of New Street. The town center was four long blocks away. The dark clouds that now sat like a lid over the town seemed to have sucked up most of the light.
It was still afternoon, only half past three, but looked like twilight. There were no street lamps in this part of town, just the ambient lights from the cathedral and its parish buildings. The gathering, heavy mist cast everything in a shroud of opaque grayness.
The heavy mist fit her mood. She saw no way out for her grandmother.
She shook off another attempt by Jake to take her hand. New noises ruptured the silent street and she too followed Jake’s glances. Beyond Jake, Meg now saw what was causing him to speed up. Faces hidden behind visors, two black-helmeted motorcyclists appeared to be tracking them. Stealthy and quiet at first, they were now riding abreast of each other about fifty yards behind, slowly enough to keep them in sight but hanging back.
“Who—?” she cried.
“I don’t know. They’re not MI5. Those guys are at the hotel, watching your grandmother. These two are tailing us.”
Meg’s pulse skittered with fear as she tried to keep pace with Jake’s rapid strides. He stubbornly seized her hand and began to jog, pulling her along. Fear creased his handsome face, making her own fear bank even higher.
“Meg, stay with me.” Suddenly, Jake broke into a sprint.
Meg was now glad she wore sneakers for suddenly Jake broke into a sprint. She had no choice; he was dragging her with him. The motorcyclists behind them gunned their engines, turning up their throttles. She tossed a look at the two bikers, no longer hanging back. Now they were flat-out pursuing. One of the bikers was pointing something at them. The asphalt by Jake’s feet exploded.
“Shit!” Jake swore, almost losing his balance. He recovered just in time for another pfft and eruption of roadway.
Someone was firing at them? Normally, there’d be the popping sound of a gunshot. Was he using a silencer? She threw a glance at Jake; his face was pale in the darkness. With his left arm, his hand still clutching hers tightly, he indicated a zigzagging course down the road. They sped up their run. Meg let Jake’s arm lead her as he yanked her left and right. In desperation, she stepped up her pace.
Ping! A third bullet landed behind them, sending asphalt chunks and gravel flying like darts of debris. One hit the back of Jake’s leg. He stumbled but didn’t stop.
“Damn!”
A fourth shot hit the pavement. Meg’s calf was stung by a chunk of rock; she screeched out a cry.
“Meg, are you hit?”
“No!” she screamed. From Jake’s body language, she knew he was heading to the left. And speeding up. Her heart pounded, she felt it was going to burst in her chest. Good thing they’d been running every day, she thought; otherwise, she’d be flat on her face in the street. She felt the sweat run down her back, her face, her neck. Gasping for breath, her mouth open, she began to pant heavily.
A long block ahead, the Killarney public library loomed. On the corner of Rock Road and New Street, its arched windows were lit and a small crowd lingered in front by the entrance. Some kind of public event was taking place and people were taking a smoking break or leaving for the night. Meg saw Jake jerk his head in that direction.
They were little more than fifty yards away when the crowd heard the motorcyclists and saw the two in front running for their lives. Faces turned their way. Meg hazarded a look behind. The two bikers instantly banked off to the right, gunning their bikes for a fast race down High Street. They veered off the main downtown road just as Meg and Jake leaped to the sidewalk. Unable to check their momentum, they fell sprawling forward on the lawn in front of the l
ibrary. They tumbled and rolled on the wet grass before they both landed on their backs by the feet of a few townfolk.
“Were those lads chasing you?” a man asked as he stared down at them.
“Bloody bikers! Someone should call the Garda!”
Jake stood and brushed himself off, then helped up Meg. The cardboard box and its spilled contents were scattered all over.
“We’re fine,” he assured them. His words came out in a gush of breath. He doubled over for a moment, clutching his thighs, then looked closely at Meg. “You okay?”
She nodded, breathless, her knees and elbows hurting where they’d taken the brunt of her fall. Luckily, they had no broken bones or sprained ankles. The soft grass had cushioned their fall although now they were wet. Adrenaline still surged through her, warming her insides. She was dripping with sweat.
“Someone, call the police!” she cried to the crowd. “Those men were shooting at us! They were trying to kill us!”
A barrage of questions erupted, followed by Jake’s silence as he picked up the file papers and stuffed them back into the box. Meg was confused by his subdued reaction but she remained the irate tourist attempting to answer their questions.
“They came out of nowhere! We just left the cathedral and there they were! We don’t know who they are!”
A woman in a macintosh made a call on her mobile phone.
“The garda, they’ll be here soon. Just five blocks away, they are.” She pointed north.
“Shit,” Jake swore under his breath but Meg heard him. She limped over to him, rubbing her knees, as he closed the lid on the box.
“Don’t you want to report those bikers? I mean, they fired at us, Jake!”
He gave her a blank look, then his eyes rolled up. He collapsed on the lawn. His face seemed bloodless, his eyes closed. Terrified, she sank to her knees beside him.
“Jake?” She touched his right thigh, her hand came away wet and bloody. His dark blue dockers had concealed the blood but now she spied the hole in the pants leg. “God, you’re hurt!”
His eyes fluttered open. “A ricochet. Help me up. I need to find the men’s room.”
While he pressed one hand against his thigh, Meg and another man supported him. Jake leaned on the man and another one who offered aid; the three made their way inside the building. Her gaze fixed with worry on the front door, where Jake had disappeared with the two men, Meg still did her best to field the questions shooting at her from the crowd.
“I don’t know why—we just left the cathedral. All of a sudden those bikers came out of nowhere.”
“American tourists, are you not?” one elderly man asked, “Now why in bloody hell would those hooligans bother you?”
There were murmurings in the Irish language that Meg didn’t understand. From their collective expressions, now showing anger, she surmised they had an idea who the bikers were.
“Do you know who they are?” she asked. Five minutes had passed and still no Jake. Was he okay? Another minute and she was going inside that men’s room.
“Thugs, ’twere sure.”
“White-supremacists,” a woman supplied.
“Damn neo-Nazis,” another one said, “they’ve come here before, they have. There’s a camp of ’em nearby.”
“A camp?” Meg sagged with relief when Jake reappeared with the same two men. He was limping but walking on his own. An overwhelming desire to rush up to him swept over her. Resenting her own weakness, she quashed the urge.
“A paramilitary camp,” the same woman explained. “They target shoot, play war games.” Her comments were followed by more Irish murmurings. “I know,” she explained for Meg’s benefit, “ because my nephew joins them whenever they come around.” She shook her head with emphasis. “They’re thugs looking for a cause. They call themselves Celtic Wolves.”
Jake and the two men drew up to the crowd. Meg went up to Jake and grasped his arm.
“Are you okay?” Her eyes searched his pale, drawn face, then his right leg.
“I’m fine. Just a piece of road rock. Went right through.”
“We cleaned him up a bit, miss,” offered one of the men. He was jangling keys in his hand. “Look, the pub your friend said he wanted to go to is three blocks up High Street. I’ll give you a lift. No point in trying to walk it. You’d be sitting ducks if those buggers come back.”
Jake looked over at the woman with the cell phone. “Tell the Garda we’ll be at The Muckross Stag. Getting some liquid tranquilizers.”
Chapter Thirty
Five minutes later, the man dropped them off with a repeated expression of outrage that tourists should be so abused by a bunch of hoodlums.
“Could be those skinheads. There’s a bunch in Dublin causing mischief now and then. Sometimes they come down here, hold a camp in the hills. They think they’re Irish militia but mostly it’s an excuse to harass Jews and immigrants from the Middle East.” Then he doffed his cap and added gentle admonishments to take a cab back to their hotel. They thanked him and took seats in the pub minutes before the Garda showed up in their white car with the green stripe.
The man’s words didn’t register until later. By then, they were gulping their first round of beer and fielding the Garda’s questions.
“One of the women said they were Celtic Wolves,” Meg said, “A gang of neo-Nazis. Why would they shoot at us?”
The two young Garda officers exchanged glances. One took copious notes. Apparently, Jake didn’t want the local police involved in this matter any more than it was necessary. Although he kept to his cover as a Virginia banker on tour, Jake gave his correct name. Meg had to conclude that Jake didn’t want MI5’s investigation exposed because the Irish probably wouldn’t take too kindly to a foreign intelligence operation conducted on their soil without their consent or knowledge. At least, that was what Meg assumed; the Irish authorities were in the dark.
Prudently, she went along.
“They were firing at me, Meg, not you. Those bullets were warning shots. If they’d wanted, they could’ve drilled me in the back. They were good marksmen.”
She could only stare in shock. “Why?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” He leveled a sober look at the two local cops. For the next minute, she recounted for the Irish policemen the details of what had happened even though it was difficult to concentrate. Her mind was churning. What could she do to protect her grandmother? Why were those thugs after Jake? Her head throbbed with pain. In desperation, she drank more beer.
Jake corroborated her story and one of the Garda policemen wrapped up his notetaking. The two cops shrugged in unison, said they’d go over in the morning to the Celtic Wolves’ camp nearby in the north hills. By the time they discovered anything, however, one of them reminded Jake and Meg, their motor coach would be on their way out of County Kerry.
“’Tis boys taking sport with you,” one of them said. It was clear where his loyalties lay.
“It’s a goodnight to you, then,” the second cop said as he clambered to his feet, tipping his duck-billed hat.
Jake grumbled a reply and restrained Meg as she bolted to her feet in outrage.
“That’s all? We could’ve been killed!” He tugged on her arm until she frowned and sat down. She scrutinized Jake’s face. “They act like it’s no big deal! You look kinda pale. How’s your leg?”
Jake smiled and winced. “I’ll live. It’s clear the Garda’s going to whitewash this whole thing. One of them probably has a brother or friend at that camp. They knew, Meg. I kind of announced my presence when I went to see Young Mike at the jailhouse this morning. I used my real name, Bernstein.”
“They came after us because you’re Jewish?”
“No, I think somebody else tipped them off. Somebody who wants to scare me off this investigation.”
Before Meg could react to his statement, their attention was drawn to the bar. Jake’s hand clamped down on hers.
“There’s Young Mike. He’s coming ove
r to plead his case, Meg. Are you willing to listen with an open mind?”
The big man with a bald crown and gray fringe of hair, serving drinks at the bar, had stared at them the entire time they were sitting at their table. Meg was so freaked out by the shooting and their run to safety that she hadn’t recognized the big man. When she did, it was with a jolt of fright. Her hand fluttered to her cheek.
“Yeah, that’s the man who slapped you on the ferry. Young Mike McCoy. He co-owns this pub with Mary McCoy, his long lost cousin. Legally, that would be your grandmother. I think he’s on his meds. ’Least, he’s acting normal tonight.”
“Great,” she muttered, forgetting her fear and letting her anger vent, “a perfect way to end this shitty day. Well, he’d better stay normal. If he raises a hand to me, so help me, I won’t hesitate to use this.” She held up the pepper-spray canister on a key chain that she fished out of her pea coat pocket. She’d bought it in London.
Jake widened his eyes. “Go for it, girl.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be armed?” she inquired archly, narrowing her eyes accusingly. “You’re the big FBI dude. I saw your gun. It would’ve come in handy, don’t you think, a little while ago?”
Jake’s usually ruddy cheeks were pale above his five o’clock shadow of stubble. The only reaction to her criticism was his twisted half-smile, half-grimace.
“I promised the Brits I wouldn’t carry unless it became necessary. Tonight, it sure became necessary.”
“Ya think?” Meg asked, sarcasm spilling over.
In a brief moment of spite while they were talking with the Garda, she’d felt tempted to reveal that Jake was an American federal agent working with British Intelligence. If it was true, that those bikers were shooting at him—then destroying Jake’s cover might endanger his life even more. That, she would not be a party to. She didn’t want Jake hurt any more than she wanted her grandmother arrested.
A Bodyguard of Lies Page 24