Too Secret Service: Part One

by Declan Finn

  She gingerly set the alarm clock back on the nightstand and bolted for her room. Catherine scooped up her traveling case, her canvas bag, and another suitcase filled with quick-change accessories, and charged into the hall. No one there. Good. She rushed down the hall, the canvas bag’s strap over her shoulder. She had to leave her clothes behind; it just wasn’t practical to take them with her as crowds rushed out of the building.

  STRONGBOW hit the fire alarm on her way into the stairwell.

  * * * *

  Wayne had been sitting on a bench in the Trinity College courtyard when he heard the faint, distant sound of thunder. He even felt the ground vibrate. He looked up from his Russell Newquist novel. There weren’t any clouds overhead. He shrugged; probably his ultra-sensitive hearing playing with him again. Wayne glanced at his watch: 9:01. He’d been there for a half hour. He turned back to his book.

  “Wayne,” said a gentle, lyrical voice behind him.

  Wayne closed the book and tried not to draw attention to himself. “Hello, Maureen.”

  A feather light touch landed on his shoulder. “They told me you were dead.”

  Maureen McGrail stepped around the bench and sat next to him. Maureen was a raven-haired Irish beauty with pale green eyes and pale white skin.

  “They told me you were dead,” Maureen said again. “Years ago. Right after your mission here.”

  Wayne smiled gently. “I was under orders. President Barry thought that I had overstepped during the Irish trip. How is Lynch, anyway?”

  Commandant Deaglan Lynch of the IRA had been one of the many colorful people he had run into during his last trip to Ireland. But afterwards, the President had been so unappreciative of the efforts to save his lousy behind, Wayne had been told never to contact Ireland again.

  “Lynch died during the siege on the Vatican,” Maureen answered. Her hands slid forward to take his in hers. She stopped herself halfway there and pulled back. She stared into his eyes for a long moment. “You don’t happen to have a brother who’s a priest, do you?”

  Wayne smiled and rolled his eyes. “You met Frank, did you?”

  She nodded, her smile gentle. “I did. And wasn’t he fun?”

  “Not as much fun as my father.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I met him, too. Your family does get into trouble. I’m surprised you didn’t join the battle.”

  Wayne frowned. “Part of my punishment. I had to surrender my passport so I could only leave the country on sanctioned government business.”

  Maureen gave a gentle sigh. “I’m sorry.”

  He forced a smile. “Not your fault.”

  Maureen took a deep breath and let it out slowly, redirecting her focus back to sanity. “Now, what is this about a bomb?”

  “Someone wants to nuke President Weaver, mid-tour. In Ireland, I would bet that someone gave an IRA group the bomb as a way to outsource help. But If I were the owner of the nuke, I would keep my finger on the remote trigger. The only guys in Ulster who’d hold onto a nuclear bomb is an IRA group with plenty of artillery and no sense. Do you know anyone like that?”

  Maureen’s eyes drifted off to the side, thinking over the problem. She winced a few times along the way as she considered it. After a time, she lowered her eyes toward Wayne. “I might know such a group.” She leaned back on the bench, facing forward. “Interpol could handle it.”

  “No, you, won’t,” Williams told her, his voice steely enough to draw her attention back. He reached out and took her hand this time. She gasped at the contact. Her hand was exceptionally warm to the touch. “Maureen, you’re not dealing with a US nuke that can take a grenade and not blow. This is a Russian tactical device. When the US and Russia went through disarming various and sundry ballistic missiles, they found that if World War III ever truly broke out, half of the Soviet stockpile would’ve blown up in their silos. So trust me, Maureen, when I say that the last thing you wish to do is send in the trigger-happy goons from Europol or MI5, or whoever runs things in Ulster these days, who take pleasure in firing off a dozen rounds into one person. Because if one stray bullet happens to nick that backpack, it will get mad and blow them all up.”

  Maureen frowned, and reluctantly agreed. “I’ll find out where the bahstard’s been keeping himself. When I know, you will. Good enough?”

  “Good enough. Thank you, Maureen.”

  She leveled a glare at him. “But you know I want in, don’t you?”

  Wayne’s gaze hardened. “You can’t, Maureen. I don’t want you near the nuke anymore than I’d want my family.”

  “I can take care of myself–” she started to object.

  “I know you can,” Wayne interrupted. He shook his head softly. “You don’t understand. The people who told you I was dead have been out to get me ever since President Barry’s attack on the Vatican failed.”

  Maureen furrowed her pretty brows. “But why? President Weaver had nothing to do with it.”

  “But a lot of the people who did are still in place.”

  Maureen arched her brows. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  “Presidents come and go. The bureaucracy is forever,” Wayne answered. He grimaced. “People like to throw around names like deep state. It’s just a collection of bureaucrats who like to be paper pushers. And you know that bureaucrats can destroy anything if they work hard enough. One of them happens to be the head of the FBI. The fallout around me after this may be as bad as the nuke going off.”

  Maureen saw the end of the conversation closing in, and how he would conclude it. She pulled her hands out of his and turned away from him. “Ah.”

  “One more thing, Maureen, I wouldn’t let anyone know why you’re looking for these people. If they have any sense at all, they have some of their people mixed in with yours.”

  Maureen stood and smoothed out her rain coat. “I may be in Interpol, Agent Williams. I’m not stupid.”

  Wayne nodded over to a park bench, where two middle-ages heavies sat, badly trying to not acknowledge him. “So you noticed Pat and Mike over there follow you to the college?”

  She nodded. “Aye. They’re some of the lads. Try not to hurt them too much, will ya?”

  Wayne nodded slowly. “I’ll do my best.”

  * * * *

  Catherine Miller glanced at her watch; 9:10. She felt grateful that Dredd’s room was on the back end of the hotel, otherwise, everyone on the street below would’ve been covered with mortar fragments, glass, and God knows what else. She could hear the sirens of the fire trucks on the other side of the hotel. They were at least killing the blaze.

  Catherine stayed to the back of the crowd, almost out on the street. She heard mutterings of “Bloody Lunatics” through the staff, and several guests took photos of the ruined windows. The assassin shook her head, trying not to laugh. She had saved their lives, and they were taking photos. It was a thankless job some days.

  “I have the feeling I’ll have to change rooms,” she murmured to herself as she spotted the bellman Dylan approaching her.

  “I hope you didn’t need anything too important in either your room or his, ma’am,” he told her. “Because I think they were both blown to smithereens.”

  “No, Dylan, thank you. Will we need to go to another hotel now?”

  “I don’t think so. Only the fifth, fourth, and sixth floors really have something to worry about. You can probably just move to another room above or below them.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “No problem, ma’am. I just wonder how insurance is going to cover this!” he muttered as he wandered away.

  STRONGBOW, having dealt with the government for eight years of active duty, knew when to crack open a book and let management act with all the efficiency of the Keystone Kops. By 11:30, she had finished Assassin and felt the urge to introduce the worthless bureaucrats to various persons: War, Famine, Pestilence and Death… or at least Death. Catherine figured that she and the Grim Reaper would be on a first name
basis when they ever came face to face.

  At 11:35, the head manager decided to do what the fire marshal had proclaimed over an hour before: move the guests back inside. This wise course of action had saved his life by about five minutes.

  Dylan was at her side a moment before this announcement. The assassin was tempted to ask who trained him to approach guests like a professional spook. By the time she’d realized someone had advanced toward her, Catherine had to resist severing Dylan’s spine. He was merely there to bring her to her new room. The bellman obviously expected the large tip she planned to provide. Catherine knew when Dredd came back, he wouldn’t stay for long—and of course, he had to come back; it would look suspicious if he didn’t.

  Once her things were securely packed, she went to work. When she finished, she sat in the lobby with long black hair, opal blue eyes, a relaxed posture, and no freckles against her currently pale skin. She hadn’t bothered to change her black turtleneck or blue jeans; she had seen at least five other women wear the same outfit in the parking lot.

  Dredd arrived promptly at noon…. 12:01 to be exact. Upon contact with the front desk, he exploded in a display of gesticulations and occasional shouts of why would any reasonable businessman stay in a hotel after a bombing?

  “Because ‘reasonable businessman’ is an oxymoron?” wasn’t a sufficient reason for him. He stormed out and no one bothered to bill him for the hour he had had a room.

  When Michael stormed through the first door to the antechamber leading outside, he ran directly into a mass of muscles and bone called a bellman.

  “I would’ve sworn I opened that door,” he thought as two sets of strong hands lifted him to his feet.

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” said the wall of a man. “I honestly didn’t see you there.”

  “Quite all right, I assure you. I didn’t see you either.” How I didn’t see you, I’ll never know.

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you,” he continued to Dredd’s retreating form. Dylan stopped at the threshold and turned toward the woman who helped yank Dredd to his feet.

  Catherine smiled and nodded her thanks. He returned the smile and went back to his normally boring job. STRONGBOW returned to the lobby and pulled out her iPhone. She called up a map of the surrounding area and watched the man who called himself Michael Dredd walk toward the park, the dot blinking all the way. The GPS tag she planted on him worked perfectly.

  * * * *

  Wayne finished his Newquist novel around 11 o’clock. He gave a slight laugh as he realized that he hadn’t touched food since his flight to Washington.

  And sure, aren’t I having too much fun altogether? he thought.

  Wayne slipped the novel into the large briefcase and closed it with a snap. He recalled a charming little tea shop on Great Grafton Street—the brick-paved road closed to automobile traffic—called Bewley’s. It was only a few blocks back the way he came. Maureen would contact him at Trinity at one, followed by another contact at five if nothing had been ferreted out the first time.

  Wayne stood, stretching vigorously. He twisted his torso right, and then snapped it left.

  There were two heavies still there playing baby-sitter. Wayne felt the urge to invite them to tea, but he didn’t want the poor men to think they were all too blatant at watching him. Truth be told, they were worse. Neither had even the decency to bring a book or newspaper, even a pipe to occupy their time. Both had made bad attempts at making passersby believe that they enjoyed twiddling their thumbs and staring at the same piece of lawn for two straight hours.

  Then again, I’m assuming they’re literate. The IRA has come a long way from the poet who wrote their Declaration of Independence. Pearse, wasn’t it?

  Being the smart ass Wayne was wont to be sometimes, he retrieved War Demons from the case and walked over to the two thugs…No. “Soldiers,” Wayne corrected himself. He gave a heartless little laugh as he tossed it to one of the “hard men”. “Something to occupy your time. Both of you gents look awfully bored.”

  Depending on the mindset of the high-class knee breakers, his statement could have been taken as a helpful recommendation from a passerby, or a sarcastic remark of a true professional. But since both of them believed they were professionals, they thought he was simply being a nice guy.

  So much for the boys from the old brigade.

  Great Grafton Street bustled with people on a noon weekday. There were the shouts of bards reading poetry aloud on request, and the various footfalls on the brick-paved road. It reminded Wayne of a small outdoor mall in New York during its rush hour. He didn’t dare approach any store or street side table; being stampeded was not something he wanted to be. He danced, swirled, and sidestepped through the crowd until he somehow made it to Bewley’s. He gave his pursuers a glance. One held back a bit, talking into a cell phone.

  The lobby of the famous tea shop had counters lining either side, filled to the brim with teas and coffees to be bought for home brewing. The center was isolated by two bank ropes that isolated the crowds waiting to be seated from the crowds trying to bring over the counter stuff home with them. Wayne decided to be kind to the thugs trailing him and waited in line instead of walking past the counters, up the stairs and to the café; perhaps taking a balcony seat.

  Chapter 12

  Blaine Lansing pounded the desktop. His fist shook from the caffeine intake of the past twelve hours. The Federal agent hadn’t moved from the computer screen except to make pot after pot of coffee, although he did allow himself an occasional trip to the restroom. But, despite all that time, he had uncovered nothing to reveal a possible location on Williams. Unless the man had pockets deeper than the Marianas Trench, Wayne was out cold on a street corner in the park with several broken ribs (after a barrage like he’d taken, he’d have broken at least several, if not all).

  Enough. It was time to give himself a break. He’d take fifteen minutes to unwind, calm down, maybe even change clothes from the night before. Blaine placed the IBMicrosoft on rapid resume and creaked to his feet. Definitely sitting too long. He shifted his gaze over his desk, stopping on a computer mag. He recalled he’d dog-eared intriguing items he wanted to dismantle and reassemble. Why not treat himself to a toy? Several, even?

  He pulled out the wallet Wayne had searched the day before and took out a credit card. He seemed to think the credit cards were not in their usual order but proceeded with his purchase. He paid more attention after being told the card he had kept scrupulously current—to avoid Providian’s usurious interest rates—was declared to be over-limit.

  Five minutes later, he switched the computer on and typed in a new search phrase:

  Blaine Lansing.

  * * * *

  MONIAK scanned the frequencies of the Irish airwaves with his Walkman. No matter what some of his generation said about the bulky things, they came in handy. Without a viable lead, he’d have no way of finding his old pupil amid this vast city.

  MONIAK closed his eyes as he listened; no one would think this strange in the midst of the deepest part of Dublin Park. He recalled the face of Catherine Miller: every face he had taught her to make, and the ones she learned to make all by herself. In terms of blending in and vanishing, he had to admit she surpassed even him. She was good at many things, especially killing. He remembered her amazing razor-sharp mind and her superb analytical abilities. She reminded him a bit of his son.

  “An explosion today at the Doyle hotel in Dublin leads authorities to believe an IRA splinter group activities have finally begun to spread to the south—”

  MONIAK’s eyes flipped open.

  “Although the exact type of bomb has yet to be discovered, it has been speculated that it was some form of plastique. Luckily, twenty minutes before the explosion, someone had pulled the fire alarm. Five minutes after the building had been evacuated, the bomb detonated. We have not yet ascertained whether someone knew about the bomb before triggering the alarm, or whether it was a fortunate prank that saved the lives of a
lmost a hundred guests.”

  MONIAK smiled. He never believed in luck, but he believed in STRONGBOW. Since they met, she had been impressed with notion that life was precious…. Unless, of course, it had been given to someone who didn’t deserve it. That being the case, she would happily deprive the bastard of that gift. She’d have known about the bomb— since Catherine was as good as he thought she was— and would have pulled the alarm with a five-minute margin to get civilians out of the way, even if it put her at risk.

  MONIAK laughed. Catherine probably didn’t even suspect her move put her in danger of being found. It was ironic. He’d trained her to avoid being hunted, and he was the one who had to hunt her.

  * * * *

  Wayne held back a laugh when he saw his trackers stumble to a table on the second floor of Bewley’s, tripping over customers who’d been seated for an hour before. Someone needed better men; that’s all there was to it.

  Williams parked his briefcase at a table and moved to the bar counter. He ordered coffee and a scone, and maybe some butter with that, miss? Thanks. He took both items and settled back into the chair beside his case. Wayne broke the scone in two, then again, all the while watching both men. One of them had taken his hint, although instead of actually reading War Demons, he had opened it in the middle and pretended to glance through it.

  The other one, however, was different. He hadn’t even glanced at Wayne since he sat down, but instead watched the top of the stairs expectantly. Wasn’t he the one who had hung back to make a cell phone call? Yes, it was. It would’ve made a wonderful cover for surveillance: one patiently reading a book while his anxious friend waited for a third party. But this didn’t fit with the prior performance. It was always possible the one with the cell phone couldn’t think of anything else after his partner grabbed the novel, but he watched too anxiously.