Diamondhead

by Diamondhead (UK) (retail) (epub)

  He decided to make his first challenge after two miles, and he kept on going, driving forward like always. He was already asking questions of his body, and he was getting the right answers. His breath came easily, his legs had no ache, and at the two-mile mark, he closed his eyes tight. He tried to imagine Instructor Mills running alongside him, on an easy stride – “YOU’RE NOT PUTTING OUT FOR ME, BEDFORD – YOU’RE RUNNING LIKE A GODDAMNED LITTLE BOY!” That had usually been yelled at him when he was right up with the leaders, going for his life. Around him there was a ripple of suppressed laughter among the guys at the sheer mind-numbing unfairness of it, with possibly ninety men laboring behind the leaders.

  And then the quietly uttered payoff – “Bedford, get wet and sandy.” Mac heard it then, and he heard it again now, echoing down the years, into his mind, those dreaded words that had contributed so much to the man he now was. He turned sharp right, and, in the glare of the rising sun, Mack Bedford rushed into the freezing Atlantic. Boots and all. This was BUDs revisited.

  The shock of the water brought back a thousand memories as he plunged beneath the surface, swimming hard, keeping his head down, feeling the icy water numbing his face. He kept going, driving through the water, swimming with one of the most powerful overarm strokes the instructors had ever seen at Coronado. On the first day in the SEAL training pool, he had overheard an instructor asking, “What the hell is this guy, some kind of a fucking fish?”

  Mack swam out for a quarter of a mile and then turned back, still going hard, all the way to the beach. He climbed out of the shallows and walked to the deep, dry sand and threw himself down, rolling in it, back and forth. Finally he stood up, rigidly to attention, and somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, he heard the far-lost cry of the faithful – “HOO-YAH, MACK BEDFORD!” How could he forget that? How could anyone ever forget that?

  Once more he turned to face the east, and he set off again, pounding forward, checking his watch, counting off the miles. Back at the top of the beach, a state parking lot attendant came on duty, and watched Mack’s exit from the water. He shook his head, confident he was staring at a person who had almost certainly gone stark-raving mad.

  Twice more on the run, once at the four-mile mark and then again at the end, Mack hurled himself into the ocean, the last time washing away the sand that had made the exercise so uncomfortable. Then with a cheerful grin on his face, he strode back to the car. He could still do it, right? Like always. No problem. HOO-YAH, Mack.

  He’d packed a couple of big towels in the back of the car, and he removed all of his soaking clothes and used one towel as a sarong and the other to cover the seat. The place was still deserted, since it was only seven o’clock.

  Mack reached home at around eight thirty, took a shower, and put on dry clothes. The past few days had made him feel great, as he reached the kind of peak fitness known only to those who have spent a lifetime achieving it. His muscles felt supple, he knew his reactions would be razor sharp, and there was an inner strength deep inside that gave him supreme confidence.

  Mack, in just a few days, had regained the old SEAL swagger, the feeling of physical and mental supremacy that rendered him, in his own mind, indestructible: the way all SEALs must feel when they go into combat.

  He had prepared for this mission, because he understood there may be adversity. He must somehow steal into France, and he must be prepared if necessary to cope with armed security men. For a normal person, this would be a nerve-racking, tense operation. For Lieutenant Commander Bedford it was an extension of what he had always done. He was not nervous, and he was unafraid. Indeed, he was gratified to know his opponents at least would not be trying to hit him with a Diamondhead missile, even if their fucking boss did manufacture the damn thing.

  He hit the parallel steel bar shortly after eleven and stared right over it thirty-two times, no sweat. It was, he knew, a superhuman performance. He’d never seen anyone beat that in all his years in the navy.

  At noon he went to Harry’s office to collect the cash, and his partner had everything ready, the bank notes packed in bundles amounting to 4,000 dollars each, fifty of them packed into a leather briefcase, three lines of six, in each of three layers. Crushed down tightly. Mack knew there was more room in the secret compartment in his own leather bag, under the attack board.

  They had a cup of coffee together, and Harry handed over the first-class return Aer Lingus ticket to Dublin. Both men agreed not to meet or speak again. It was better that way. They should not be seen together anymore, not at this stage of the proceedings.

  Mack had only one last request, that Harry arrange for him to use the near-Olympic-sized pool at the private golf and country club outside Portland. In the remaining days he did not want to run on the roads, and swimming represented the safest way to work out hard without straining or jarring joints, muscles, or tendons.

  This was no time for accidents or mistakes. Mack wanted to swim more than fifty laps every day, to stay right on top of his game. And every day he drove to the country club, signed in as Mr. Patrick O’Grady, an Irish friend of Harry Remson’s, and completed his workout.

  On Saturday afternoon, he finished packing and stowed the reservoir of cash under his underwater gear. He took barely any clothes, just underwear, shaving kit, toothpaste, and socks. He was unarmed, for the opening stage of the journey. He was wearing his light-blond wig, with the thin mustache, and rimless glasses. It was astounding how different he looked. He wore dark-gray slacks, black loafers, and a dark tweed sport coat. A blue shirt with a maroon necktie completed his innocuous appearance.

  At four o’clock a black limousine pulled up outside the house, sent from a private car-hire firm in Portland, to be charged to the account of Mr. Harry Remson, chairman, Remsons Shipbuilding, Dartford, Maine.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. O’Grady,” said the driver. “Logan Airport, right?”

  “You got it. Aer Lingus. Terminal E.”

  “May I take your bag, sir, and put it in the trunk?”

  “No thanks, pal. I prefer to keep it with me.”

  They pulled away, up the long country lane to the main road where Mack had arrived by bus, just a couple of weeks previously. They turned left, and neither of them noticed a dark-blue Bentley parked about a mile along the road outside the local garage.

  The driver of the Bentley did, however, see them. Because he’d been waiting for almost an hour, half in disbelief, half in almost unbearable excitement. But he fought the feeling down as the limo swept past. “God go with you, Mack,” breathed Harry Remson.

  Chapter 8

  Mack checked in with his Jeffery Simpson passport. The Aer Lingus girl, neatly dressed in her emerald-green uniform, glanced at it briefly and allocated him a seat at the front of the aircraft, which she said was not full tonight.

  Mack thanked her and walked upstairs to the security lines and put his bag on the conveyor belt for X-ray. The dials on the attack board instruments showed up like small travel clocks, and did not strike the operator like possible dangerous weapons. The rest of the contents were mostly paper and soft rubber, and the old leather grip came straight through.

  The chimes did not spring to life as Mack walked past the metal detectors, and three minutes later he was in the newspaper shop, purchasing a copy of the French daily, Le Monde.

  He found the first-class lounge and settled in an armchair at a corner table, near the television. The Irish attendant said she would bring him coffee, and a sandwich if he wished, and there was no need for him to take any notice of any announcements. She would escort him to the aircraft at the appropriate time.

  This particular lounge was very quiet since the flight to Dublin was the only Aer Lingus departure at night. There were perhaps six other people in residence, but Mack was the only one watching the ball game from Fenway Park.

  The smoked salmon sandwich, wild Irish salmon no less, represented probably the best meal he’d eaten since Anne left for Switzerland. When the Red Sox loade
d the bases and then jumped to a 3-0 lead, bottom of the first, he decided life was not really that bad after all.

  They called the flight early, and Mack settled into his roomy green-patterned seat with the Red Sox still holding a 5-3 lead. It was warm on board, and Mack took off his jacket. The first-class attendant asked him if he’d care for a black velvet before they left.

  “What’s a black velvet?” he asked.

  “Guinness and champagne,” said the girl. “The lifeblood of Ireland.”

  Mack declined, as he was resolved to decline all alcohol until Henri Foche lay dead, and he was safely home.

  They took off on time, and Mack had a medium-rare Irish fillet steak for dinner. He read for a while, practiced his French with Le Monde, and noticed a photograph of Foche on page eight of the newspaper. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered, and tried to fathom what the story said about the French politician. The answer was not much, except that he seemed to be making a speech in his hometown of Rennes the following day. The newspaper was dated mercredi, so he’d probably made it already. But Mack was gratified to see that a speech by the man he sought was now considered news on a national scale – “Stop the sneaky little bastard hiding from me, right?”

  Mack slept for most of the transatlantic crossing. Five hours later he was still asleep when the flight attendant awakened him and suggested a few scrambled eggs and Irish bacon with soda bread for breakfast. They’d be landing at Dublin in thirty-five minutes.

  Revived by a tall glass of orange juice, “Jeffery Simpson” adjusted his wig and enjoyed one of the great airline breakfasts. “The hell with cereal and yogurt,” he thought. “This is the game for me.”

  They landed in Dublin on Sunday morning at 9:30 am local. Mack picked up his bag and moved into his first serious test at a foreign immigration desk. He lined up and presented his US passport. The official in the booth smiled and opened it, checked the photograph against Mack’s face, and asked, “How long will you stay in Ireland, Mr. Simpson?”

  “Maybe a week.”

  The official stamped the passport, confirming a Dublin port of entry, and said, “Welcome, sir. Have a grand visit.”

  Mack moved outside and joined the short line for a taxi. He jumped aboard the first available cab and asked to be taken to the Shelbourne Hotel in St. Stephen’s Green. Traffic was light, and after seven miles and twenty minutes, they were moving through the outskirts of the relatively small city.

  They crossed the Liffey, turned left, and ran along the south bank toward the outskirts of Ballsbridge. Up ahead Mack could see precisely what he was seeking – a large used-car dealership with a lot of flags flying and obvious activity.

  He allowed the driver to drive perhaps 400 yards farther, and then said in the best Irish accent he could manage, “Will you stop right here, sir? I’ve decided to have a quick cup of coffee with my aunt.”

  “No problem. That’ll be twenty-four euros.”

  Mack pulled a few notes out of his pocket and gave the man thirty. He climbed out of the cab and walked back to the car dealership, strolling slowly down the line of cars, not wishing to attract the immediate attention of an overeager salesman.

  That represented his first failure of the journey. Michael McArdle, the owner, was upon him, telling him the Ford Fiesta at which he was currently staring was probably the greatest buy in the entire history of motorized commerce. “I’ll tell you something about this particular car,” he said. “It’s four years old and used to be owned by a local lady. It’s got only 16,000 miles on the clock, and I’ve serviced every last one of ’em meself. This particular car represents one of the great bargains of me life.

  “Am I asking twenty t’ousand for it? Nossir, I’m not. Am I askin’ fifteen t’ousand for it? Nossir, I’m not. I’ll tell you what, twelve t’ousand buys it! And could anyone ever be fairer than that?”

  “Depends,” said Mack. “How about 10,000 for cash?”

  “Well, I’d have to let the check clear first.”

  “I said cash. Bank notes. Ten thousand euros,” said Mack.

  “I’ll take dat,” said Michael McArdle. “I’ll take dat, even though it’s like a dagger to me heart, to part with this car for that money… When do you need it?”

  “Now.”

  “Now! Christ! I have to do the paperwork, register it, fill in the forms. That’ll mean tomorrow.”

  “Guess I came to the wrong place. See you,” replied Mack.

  “Now wait a minute, sor,” said the proprietor of McArdles. “I’ll have to see what I can do. But I need to fill out a government form. I’ll want good identification.”

  “No problem. I got a passport and a driver’s license right here. I don’t have to get my photograph done?” asked Mack.

  “Jaysus, no. They don’t need that. Just the numbers.”

  “You sure this thing runs okay?”

  “I’m sure enough to give you the two-year McArdle guarantee,” he said. “And we’ve been here for half a century. This car breaks down in the first five t’ousand miles, you can have your money back and you can keep the car.”

  Mack laughed. “Come on, Michael, let’s get this thing done.”

  A half hour later, the Ford Fiesta in “moondust silver” with AC pulled out onto the road and swung left for Lansdowne Road. It was registered with the government authorities in the name of Patrick O’Grady who (a) did not exist himself, (b) had an address that was also nonexistent, and (c) possessed an Irish driver’s license that had never been issued to anyone.

  Mack had managed to coerce a map of Ireland out of Michael McArdle, who confirmed that deals as generous as this would most certainly be the death of him. But nonetheless he hoped the wind would always be at Mr. O’Grady’s back.

  Mack hit the gas pedal, and was happy to discover the Ford engine was as sharp and fine-tuned as Michael had claimed. He swung up to the Merrion Road, turned right after crossing Ballsbridge, and cut through to the main road to the southeast, heading straight for the Wicklow Mountains.

  In the whole of Ireland, he had but one contact, a man named Liam O’Brien in the little Wicklow town of Gorey. And he came by that name only by the luckiest of circumstances. In the final days of his life, before he died in the tank, Charlie O’Brien had mentioned that he and his wife were planning a vacation in Ireland. Mack had asked him where they were staying, and Charlie had responded by telling him he had a long-lost cousin he had never met, in the town of Gorey. “He keeps a hardware store,” said Charlie. “But my father swears to God he was a senior member of the IRA. Liam’s father, who died years ago, was my dad’s brother.”

  Mack had somehow remembered that, and in the long days he spent alone after Anne had left had decided that here was a man who might know a gunsmith in England, because there was no question of trying to acquire a rifle anywhere else and then attempting to bring it through Britain’s red-hot customs and immigration.

  To his great delight he had seen that Gorey was on the main Dublin road south, the N11, and in that moment had decided to take the ferry to England from Rosslare in County Wexford, rather than from Dun Laoghaire on the south side of Dublin. Gorey stands thirty-four miles north of Rosslare Harbor.

  The trouble was, O’Brien’s hardware store was unlikely to be open, and Mack elected to get into the town, locate the store, and then try to get a number for Charlie’s cousin. He would not call from the magic cell phone, because he was already thinking like a man on the run. Mack actually found it hard to believe that no one had yet committed a crime, except against the Irish motor taxation authorities. And he did not really count that.

  He drove through the Wicklows, running east of the Great Sugar Loaf Mountain, which rose above the highway. The Ford Fiesta then whipped past the range of hills that led up to the Devil’s Glen. It was a fast new road, and swept straight around the historic old port of Ark-low, County Wicklow’s busiest town, with history dating back to the second century.

  Mack crossed the River Bann and ran into
quiet little Gorey at around two o’clock Sunday, lunchtime. “Quiet little Gorey” is, however, a mild deception, because in this hillside town in southern Wicklow, there beats the heart of Irish Republicanism. It was for years a stronghold of the IRA. Indeed, when they blew that double-decker bus to smithereens in London a few years back, the perpetrator was from Gorey.

  Mack Bedford did not, of course, know this; otherwise, he might have stepped more carefully. He could see there were a few shops open, and several bars, the iron grip of the Catholic Church having been released somewhat in southern Ireland in recent years. However, there was no luck at the hardware store, which he located on a small side street forty yards off the main road that ran through the middle of town.

  It was very definitely closed, and the only information Mack acquired was the name, L. O’Brien and Sons, Hardware and Paint. Mack headed up the road to the church and found a telephone kiosk. He could see the phone book in there, and parked and scanned down the columns. He found the store, and right below it, he located another L. O’Brien of the same address. Plainly, this was the private number, and the family lived above the store. Mack considered this a stroke of good fortune because there were about seven thousand O’Briens in the phone book.

  He went back to the car and boldly dialed the number of one of the most dangerous former IRA commanders in the country. A somewhat gruff voice answered, a noncommittal, “Yes?”

  Mack decided to speak in his regular American accent and said:

  “Is that Mr. O’Brien?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I was a close friend of your American cousin, Charlie O’Brien.”

  “Oh, you were?”

  “I was. I was with him in Iraq just before he died, and I told him I was coming to Ireland and then to England.”

  “And what can I do to help you?”

  “Well, sir, I am going shooting in England this fall, and I was trying to locate a gunsmith in London. Charlie said you might be able to help.”