Jake looked back at Meg as she halted by the inn’s door to the kitchen. By the look on her face, he could tell she wasn’t totally surprised. He was just confirming what she’d already tossed around in her mind. Still, the truth hurt. He dropped the key on the counter as the blushing teenaged boy watched them stop and talk.
They lingered beside the kitchen door, reluctant to part. Jake’s pulse quickened at the melancholy look Meg wore. She shook her head morosely.
“So Gran’s been undercover all these years. What a terrible burden for her, regardless of what she did during the war.” Meg looked up at him. “I thought I knew my grandmother. I don’t really know her at all, I guess. Jake, I think Gran was in touch with the Le Blancs before this tour. I think they met up on purpose.”
Her voice sounded on the verge of breaking, so Jake tried to console her by stroking her face with the back of his knuckles. He wished like hell he could assure her that his investigation had cleared her grandmother. Just the opposite was true, and now the Le Blancs had unwittingly confirmed his and MI5’s theory.
So Mary McCoy Snider was indeed Clare Eberhard.
The SS spy’s wife. A Nazi spy, herself, code-named Hummingbird.
The two most successful Nazi moles in Britain…never caught by the Allies. Horst and Clare Eberhard.
And now…what the hell did it matter?
“Your grandmother’s been living her cover story so long, it’s become her. Or she’s become it. Maybe she reinvented herself and became the woman her American husband wanted her to be. Aren’t some women like that? They lose their true selves when they link up with a strong, domineering man? In your grandmother’s case, staying Mary McCoy Snider was a matter of life and death. With your grandfather gone, she’s drifting back to her old self. The Clare Eberhard she used to be.”
Meg searched his eyes. “You may be right. Or maybe she’s a blend of both.”
“You’d never do that, would you? Lose your true self to fit in with a man and his life?”
Her dark blue eyes narrowed. He was testing her and he could tell she knew it.
“Just let a man try. One thing I’ve learned along the way, Jake, I do my own thing, no matter what. No one’s going to make me into someone I’m not. And that’s a fair warning to you, too.”
“Good. I like that about you. You’re a kick-ass woman who knows her own mind.”
She smiled wistfully. “That’s what men say at the beginning.”
“I’m different, Meg.”
They took a long moment to stare at each other. This could be the last time they saw each other alone in a long while. Or maybe, the last time ever. He knew Meg’s trust only went so far.
The image of his mother—paintbrush in hand, squinting over her latest canvas—flickered to mind. Her strength and independence had sparked more than a few arguments between his parents but his father continued to adore her.
“I like strong women.” He broke off. The lump in his throat made it difficult for him to speak.
As if reading his mind, Meg, too, had watery eyes. They came together and kissed long and hard. Then he stepped back and away. Cleared his throat before speaking.
“Go back through the kitchen, Meg. I’ll go outside, around the front. I don’t want the Le Blancs to know we’ve seen each other.”
Before Meg left, she turned to him. “I like the way we see each other.” She grinned.
He chucked her gently under the chin. Her smile vanished, replaced by a frown.
“I think the Le Blancs are crazy.”
“Be careful, Meg. Don’t provoke them.”
She nodded solemnly.
The Le Blancs weren’t crazy, but they were fanatics. And fanatics had a way of justifying anything they did. “Don’t let them find that beacon.”
They exchanged a long, troubled look before she disappeared into the kitchen. A feeling of uneasiness overcame him. He’d had little choice but he now wondered if he’d done the smart thing by giving Meg that GPS transponder.
What if the Le Blancs found it?
What then?
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The sun was low in the sky. Another two hours on the road, and they’d take their tour of the thoroughbred stud farm. An hour after that and they’d be in Dublin. Jake still hadn’t spoken to Meg, but the apprehensive expression on her face when he looked back a few times spoke volumes.
Once during a bathroom and snack break near the city of Limerick, she’d climbed down and approached their guide, Robert. She held up a map and let him take hold of it with one hand. Apparently asking him directions or determining how much farther to Dublin. It didn’t take a genius to realize she was arranging a detour to the airport, maybe before they reached their hotel in Dublin.
Jake hadn’t considered that possibility. But then, the black Land Rover would follow her and her grandmother to the airport and prevent them from leaving. They’d never be able to get off the ground. Surely, Meg realized that.
Dammit, Meg, help me out here.
He didn’t want MI5 bringing “Obstruction of Justice” charges against her, too. He was keeping his distance from her so as not to alarm her grandmother and the Le Blancs. But second-guessing their next move was making him frantic with worry.
They already knew Mary Snider’s arrest was imminent. The Le Blancs wouldn’t want to get caught in the cross fire. With their political ties to right-wing organizations, even though Blood and Honour was legal in the U.K., they’d still want to avoid a brush with MI5. One would think that, anyway.
In line at the rest stop’s café, he pretended to brush against Meg as she waited for her cup of espresso at the counter. Her eyes were darting about, she was wired, and kept fidgeting with her purse. The Le Blancs were close by, seemingly holding her on a short leash. Pierce and Badgely were taking turns, spotting Mary Snider who remained on the coach. The two new agents lounged around the café, keeping eyes on Meg and the Le Blancs.
“Hey, Meg, how’re things?” he asked casually. It would’ve looked peculiar if he’d ignored her. “Looking forward to seeing the most valuable stallion in Ireland?”
She shrugged, glanced over at the Le Blancs. Then smiled up at him, “Sure. I used to ride horses a lot when I was younger. You can’t live in Texas and not be around horses. You?”
Moving over so that his back blocked the Le Blancs’ view of Meg, Jake said loudly, “Nope, never been around ’em. Water’s more my scene.” He mouthed, “What’s going on?” He tried to take hold of her hand but she moved out of his reach.
“Robert says you need to pay for the excursion in Dublin,” she said loudly, “You know, the Irish dance festival. You should go see him. You’re the only one who hasn’t paid.”
Her espresso arrived and she walked over to the far end of the café to sit with the Le Blancs, her eyes shuttered, her expression closed off.
Sensing Meg was trying to clue him in on something, Jake paid for a coffee to go, then sauntered out of the café. Robert was smoking with the driver by the front of the motor coach. Jake approached, careful to keep his back to possibly prying eyes in the café.
“Meg says you have a bill for me to pay. The Irish dance festival in Dublin.”
The man gave Jake an inquisitive look, his eyes settling significantly on the slight bulge on Jake’s left side. So Robert Morse knew who he was. Temple must’ve decided to widen his need-to-know net. Clearly not happy about his mission, their guide passed him the invoice sheet. Underneath he slid a postcard. Jake took both and strolled to the other side of the coach.
The postcard showed the cathedral in Killarney, one of many scenes the old codger, Danny Boy, was selling that day of their jaunty car ride. He remembered buying a handful of postcards, himself. The wiry ol’ guy had provided such welcome comic relief. He’d made Meg laugh and had given her a couple of cards.
Jake flipped it over. Five words: Berlin. Reichstag. Hannover. Engesohde Friedhof.
Berlin and Hannover, he knew. Of course
he knew the Reichstag, at least that was its name during the Nazi’s Third Reich era. Now, it was the Parliament Building of present-day reunited Germany; its current name was the Bundestag. The building had been damaged by the Soviets during World War II but had been restored to its former splendid Neo-classic self.
It was a good place for a photo shoot.
But Engesohde Friedhof? A cemetery? In Hannover?
Jake looked up at the sky and swore. What the hell were the Le Blancs and the old bat getting Meg into?
****
The motor coach veered off M7 and took a country road over low-lying hills and grassy fields. Finally, a large sign in white and green announced the Irish National Stud Farm. Theirs being one of three large coaches, their driver parked in front of a huge, wall-high hedge in the lot nearest the road. Evidently a tourist attraction, there were numerous cars and motor coaches clogging two main parking lots. Jake watched as the black Land Rover parked in the other lot, where most of the visitors’ cars were parked.
Robert led the entire group to a meeting area and then introduced the gentleman who’d be leading their tour of the farm. While Jake surveyed the buildings where their group was standing—an information center, gift shop and restrooms—Donald McDonald, as he called himself, gave them a brief lay of the land. A middle-aged man with a paunch, Donald was stoop-shouldered, thin, and had such a bad case of rosacea on his face that his cheeks were almost purple. He wore cord trousers and a wool plaid shirt, befitting a farm worker, and as he spoke in his high-tenor, Irish-lilted voice, he gave them a few facts about the farm before starting out.
Over twelve-hundred acres, the stud farm provided a lot of space for the ten stallions and ninety mares and foals, all thoroughbreds with the highest pedigreed papers. El Cid, their prize thoroughbred stallion, had won numerous derby trophies and boasted a current value of over six-million euros, or about ten-million American dollars. In unison, their coach group exclaimed with appreciation.
Jake noted the MI5 men taking their positions: Badgely stayed with Meg and her grandmother, who was holding onto the arm of Madeleine Le Blanc. Meg’s gaze met his, and she looked away quickly. The perpetual frown pinching her pretty face meant only one thing to Jake. Something was going to happen.
Pierce was sticking close to Jake, at his very elbow. One of the new guys sent by Temple was staying in his car in the far parking lot. Another was lounging by Robert and the coach driver on the left side—open door side—of the motor coach. He was sharing a smoke break and pretending to be another coach driver waiting for his group to return.
Jake didn’t like it. They were spread out too thin. But he had no chance to say anything as their tour group took off after Donald down the road. The tourist buildings fell behind them as they passed barns and other outbuildings on their left and came to a large fenced pasture on their right. Thoroughbred mares grazed amid oaks and evergreens, a bucolic scene which Jake normally would’ve enjoyed.
Not today. The tension squeezing his chest increased when Pierce nudged him.
“The ladies fell behind and went to the gift shop, looks like. Or maybe the restroom.”
“Which ladies?”
“The two targets.”
“Anyone else?” Jake stopped and gazed back down the road.
“The Canadian woman.”
About a hundred yards back, Meg and her grandmother, aided by Madeleine Le Blanc, were entering the gift shop. Then he lost sight of them. Another large group of tourists, keeping pace with their own guide just behind them, blocked his view.
He didn’t like that development.
Not one damned bit.
Donald urged Jake’s group to keep moving so his voice wouldn’t have to compete with the other group’s guide. As one, they moved by the vast pasture on their right and stopped at a large multi-acre paddock on their left, where newborns cavorted with their mothers. Several nursed contentedly at their mothers’ teats. At the vanguard of the group, Donald explained the process of separating the foals from the other possibly hostile and jealous mares. Life on this stud farm had its own share of danger.
Growing more uneasy, Jake turned to Pierce.
“Maybe you should go back and give Badgely some help. Keep Meg and Mary Snider in sight.”
He glanced around and relaxed a little when he spied Pierre Le Blanc in the middle of their motor coach group. He was walking beside Hank Philemon and the two New Jersey sisters, chatting amiably. It was Jake’s intention to keep him in constant sight. Convinced that Pierre Le Blanc had given instructions to the two skinheads at the cliffside inn, Jake was watching him for any unusual or sudden behavior, like using his cell phone in the middle of their tour of the farm. The man could be a decoy for the main operation back at the tourist center, but Jake doubted Mary Snider and Madeleine would be taking off without the little man in the fedora. Or without Meg.
“Yeah, you’re right. Something’s going down.”
With that, Pierce broke into a sprint back toward the visitors’ buildings they’d just left. Since the road back to the parking lot and entrance buildings wound around in an arc to their right, Pierce and the gift shop were soon out of Jake’s sight.
He reached inside his windbreaker to thumb off the safety on his 9 mm semi-automatic pistol. Then he thought better of it and left the safety on. There were too many civilians milling around, not to mention the valuable thoroughbreds in every direction he looked. Temple would have his head on a plate if he provoked an incident or caused the demise of any of Ireland’s prizewinning racehorses. That would be the end of his undercover fieldwork and most certainly the end of his FBI career.
Keeping Terry in the loop was prudent, but nothing his supervisor did would save Jake’s sorry ass if he shot and killed one of these thoroughbreds. Hell, one of these animals was worth more than he was.
Like Pierce, the hot queasy feeling in his gut was telling him something was wrong.
His guts never lied.
Five minutes later, Jake’s tourist group approached a series of long, rectangular paddocks. Inside each spacious paddock a thoroughbred stallion either paced or trotted, expelling testosterone-fueled energy with each whinny and snuffle. Each stallion tossed his mane and tail like a narcissistic opera divo. As if, strangely enough, Jake mused, each magnificent animal knew his worth in their human-controlled world.
The sturdy fence bordering the roadway was six-feet high, built to withstand an aggressive thoroughbred, if necessary. Between individual paddocks, the fencing was double-thick, two stretches of six-foot high hardwood fence preventing two high-octane stud stallions from attacking each other.
Donald pointed proudly to one paddock.
“El Cid. This handsome lad has a value of over six-million Euros. Not that he doesn’t work for that claim to fame. He entertains the ladies, he does, eight to nine months of the year. A tedious job, to be sure, but poor boy, he’s got to do it.”
A solid black stallion trotted back and forth along the double-fence side, challenging in horse-gestures, Jake surmised, his neighboring pal, a bay stallion with black mane and tail. Both alpha males halted occasionally to stare each other down, snort and stamp their hooves until one of them grew bored and trotted away down the fence line. More often than not, the other one would follow suit and show off his prowess along that same fence line. They’d stop, stare, toss their manes and hike up their tails. Then trot off again. Seconds later, they’d repeat the same king-of-the-hill routine.
All posturing and puffing out one’s chest. Kind of a horse’s way of playing bully in the school yard, Jake thought. For a minute, even he was intrigued by their aggressive, alpha male behavior.
They reminded him of a couple of guys he’d known in the military. It was probably the way he’d behave if another guy came near Meg. Yet, what could he do, with Meg in Texas and him a thousand miles away in Virginia? He’d have to do something about that. If she wanted him, that is… She certainly had wanted him a few hours ago. But would she want h
im around all the time?
Just as germane, what would he sacrifice in order to be with her? Offhand, he couldn’t answer that.
“He’s here in Ireland for four months,” Donald continued expansively, “while the mares on the farm are in heat. A couple of years ago, we had a few of the Queen’s thoroughbred mares here for a visit. I’m here to tell you they left quite satisfied. The other four months, El Cid travels to the Southern Hemisphere in his own private jet and entertains the ladies in the desert. Prize thoroughbred mares owned by rich sheiks, Arab princes and oil barons. Then he’s back with us for a bit of a rest, poor fellow, before he goes to work again. It’s a tough life, wouldn’t you say, folks?”
Appreciative chuckles followed. Jake saw Pierre consult his watch; a minute later, he did the same. Five o’clock on the dot, Jake noted.
As the group moved on toward a large, two-story stable building and yard, Jake hung back. The group behind him began to flow past him. He sensed he was missing something.
He was a good half-mile away from the parking and entrance area. Pierce hadn’t called his cell phone to check in; neither had the others. At least twenty minutes had passed from the time they’d begun their tour of the farm with Donald.
To his immediate left ran a smaller roadway, wide enough to service the compact trucks and tractors that seemed to roam around the farm, carrying grain feed for the horses, gardening supplies and other farm equipment. It was probably designed to provide immediate access to the barns and appeared to cut through to a more direct route back to the visitors’ buildings.
Jake strode toward it. He sensed something and glanced back. Two men had broken away from the second tour group that was passing by and were now following him. Not the thugs from the Audi. These were older men. For a second, he wondered how large the Le Blancs’ network was.
More Celtic Wolves? Or their German counterparts?
He didn’t have time for another thought.
Amping up for a run, he took off, digging under his windbreaker for his gun. He was about to unsnap the holster’s strap when he had to slow down. There was a guy on a tractor parked in the middle of the darkened breezeway between two barns. Jake braked to a stride to slide around the tractor. If he had to, he’d use the tractor as a shield and pull out his gun. He started to wave the man off his seat, trying to warn him.
A Bodyguard of Lies Page 30