by G. C. Harmon
“I may have something,” Agent Stack announced. “He made several calls to a number… looks like a monastery or something in the hills south of the old Fort Hunter Liggett.”
Agent Pastor leaned in, looking at the screen over Stack’s shoulder. “Hey, the dates on these numbers, they coincide with some of the initial meetings for these Brexit talks.”
Steve tossed the brochure onto the table, letting it slide across to the State Agents. Pastor picked it up and glanced at it.
“I think we may have just found him,” Steve announced.
The state agents glanced over the brochure. “Sergeant Blazer, I don’t know,” Agent Birdsong said. “This seems like kind of a long shot.”
“Right now, it’s the only shot we got.”
“What if we get all the way there, and he’s not hiding there?”
Steve briefly considered this. “Then we may have to start picking random Catholic establishments between here and there and start knocking on doors. But with this place, it is kind of like we’re doing that already. I just happen to think we have better odds with this place.” He glanced round the room, including at his own men and at Captain Stanson. “Look, guys, we’ve been banging our head against the wall trying to find this guy for the last twenty-four hours, and with this, we finally have a lead that makes sense. I say we go for it. But we better decide fast. We don’t know if Fitzhugh’s stalker knows about these talks. He could be closer to finding the priest than we are.”
“I think we have little choice but to concur,” said a voice from the door. Bauman had quietly walked in and was listening, taking everything in. Just by staying silent for a moment, he’d deduced what that lead was.
Steve stepped toward him. “With that kind of faith in us, might you be able to scare us up a helicopter?”
“One big enough for all of you? No, we’re not the DIA.”
Steve shrugged, then looked at Stanson and his father. “It’s only two or three hours away, I guess we can drive. We’ve got our unmarked.”
“We brought the other one,” Dave said.
Steve nodded. “There’s no cages, so we can fit all of us in both.”
Birdsong led a couple other agents up to their group. “We’ve got our own cars. I guess we can all convoy.”
Steve nodded, glancing over the group.
“We just need some snacks and drinks for the road,” Brian said.
The man known as Conner woke to sunlight filtering through a blacked-out window. He glanced around the room, one of a handful that were crudely constructed along one side of the warehouse owned by Liam’s shipping company. The others all seemed to share rooms as their lodging. As the “legend,” Conner had been given a private room in the corner. While the others had cots to sleep on in other rooms, his had been left with a couple extra unused cots. On his first night here just days ago, he had set up a second cot next to his first to give him some extra bed space. They’d given him a ratty mattress to drape over the cots.
Most of the group of ex-pats worked for Liam and had lives that they attended to. But under Liam’s direction and masked by the shipping company, they ran a small underground operation here in the States. It mostly involved raising money from certain donors to send back to Northern Ireland for whatever the movement needed. The cause continued, but as an underground subversive movement. Occasionally, they were tasked with some kind of smuggling operation, such as with his official mission here to bring guns and explosives back to Belfast. As Liam had described, when that happened, most of the lads would bunk here. Liam had offered to put him up at a hotel or one of their homes. Conner was accustomed to roughing it in such harsh conditions. He’d accepted a cot and dirty mattress in a back room as part of the experience.
Last night after the action outside the bar, he’d returned to his room. He spent some time looking over maps and going over some of the details of the smuggling operation, actually distracting himself while he let his mind consider the problem of where the hated priest might be hiding. His door had been left partially open, and he looked up to see Deirdre standing in the entrance, a look on her face that he could not read. He’d stared at her for a moment, letting show his curiosity about her. She finally stepped inside, gently closed the door. She crossed the room and sat on the mattress next to him. She suddenly leaned in and practically attacked him with an almost angry kiss. He pushed back, letting his lips meld to hers.
They made love, though to him it was somewhat mechanical. It had been a while since his last sexual encounter. She was a decent looking woman, though significantly younger than him. The question raced through his mind: why was she seducing him? Was she after something? Setting him up for something? Or was she simply a whore for the cause. At first he was distracted by his dual missions, and it showed as a lack of enthusiasm. He thought she might give up in frustration, but it actually made her work harder for his affections. After awhile, he went with it and enjoyed the experience.
He rose from his bed and stretched the kinks from his body. He glanced down at the woman, remembering how she’d felt to his touch. He reached down, as if to stroke her hair, remember the touch of her body, but his hand froze an inch from contact. Thoughts of his mission crept back, and his mind grappled for a moment. Seeing her in his bed, he saw everything he’d sacrificed for the cause. Marriage, family, going through the motions at church. Not for the first time, he wondered if he’d placed the cause of Independence and the organization he served over the church that he supposedly believed in, the church that was the object of the strife that gave birth to that organization. Did he believe in the cause more than his Catholic God?
For better or worse, he did.
He withdrew his hand, quietly grabbed his pants and slipped them on. He tried to be quiet as he opened the door, but it creaked. Deirdre didn’t stir. He stepped out and closed it behind him.
As he walked across the warehouse, a clatter nearby drew his attention. Next to the rollup door was a smaller walk-in entrance, and the door slammed behind as Liam walked in with three young men in tow. “Good morning,” the older man announced. He gestured to his entourage. “I took the liberty of bailing out a few new friends. Seems they had a bit of fun roughing up our cop friends last night, but once the fight turned on them, they now would like a little payback. They had a couple other friends with them, but they elected not to join us. These are the lads brave enough to step up.”
Thomas sat at a table outside the sleeping quarters. A coffee pot on another table against the nearby wall boiled, and someone had gone out for donuts. Conner grabbed a glazed donut and then grabbed an empty cup to wait for the coffee. The coffee maker had a digital clock on it. It was just past seven thirty.
As Liam reached Conner, he lowered his voice. “I figured we might need some decent backup, and these gents were good in a bar fight. Besides, this bugger with the missing teeth is bloody crazy.”
Conner looked at the situation with a stone face, hiding his amusement. He studied the young men for a moment. All three appeared to be some sort of UK soccer hooligan. They had athletic physiques, close-cropped hair or shaved heads, and wore jeans and sports jerseys. One of them had a couple of missing teeth, which he believed could have been lost in his fight with the police last night.
Back in Ireland, Conner had been subjected to a detailed background check and tests of his loyalty before being accepted as a full-fledged soldier of the IRA. These guys were obviously being used just as local muscle. Considering his quest, and the new adversary he’d gone up against, maybe they’d need that muscle. And who was he to deny these guys some payback against those cops?
“Step this way, lads,” Conner said loudly, beckoning them across the warehouse. He led them toward a corner, where Liam’s crew had set up a stack of sandbags, formed into a U-shape and stacked about four feet high. A wooden post stood in the center of the U-shape, with legs nailed to the base. A small sheet of plywood faced them, with a paper target stapled to the wood.
&
nbsp; Conner stopped well short of the sandbags, instead going to something covered by a dusty tarp. He threw the tarp partially aside to reveal a stack of wooden crates. There were no markings, but one crate had its lid pried off and placed back unattached. He lifted the lid to reveal four rifles lined up, side by side. He picked up one of the rifles, and briefly worked the charging handle to confirm the rifle was unloaded. “This is the M-4 rifle, the weapon now being used by the American military. This is not your standard model, we’ve made some modifications for its use back home, including making them fully automatic. As you can see, we have a couple hundred of these beauties ready to be shipped by boat back to Northern Ireland. And by the by, now that I’ve told you all of that, if you go ratting to the coppers, I will have to kill you.”
The one with the missing teeth was grinning with awe at the weapon, but at the mention of the police, his face went slack. “Don’t you worry about that, mate. I owe the cops for last night.” He brushed at one of the small cuts on his face.
Conner noted the man had a bit of a lisp, possibly caused by the missing front teeth. “You may get your chance to collect.” Conner tossed him the rifle. His catch was a little awkward. “Let’s see if you can familiarize yourself with this.”
Toothless turned the rifle over in his hands for a moment, glanced back at his two buddies, then imitated what Conner had done, held the grip in his left hand and pulled back the charging handle. Conner smiled at the show, then handed him a thirty round magazine. He waited to see if Toothless could figure out the operation of the rifle. To his surprise, Toothleth took the mag, inserted it the right way, then again pulled back the charging handle to chamber a round. Conner stepped aside and gestured toward the target.
Toothless seemed momentarily to lose his innocent look. He raised the rifle and pulled the trigger. Immediately the innocence came back as the rifle bucked in his hands, the noise and echo hammering everyone’s ears. He rattled off the entire magazine in seconds. Paper and wood were shredded as bullets tore them apart. In seconds, the empty rifle fell silent.
Toothless stood still for a moment, seeing the wood and paper debris from the target settle to the floor. He suddenly let out a long war whoop. He turned to find his two buddies laughing and cheering him on. He raised the rifle and let out another war cry.
Conner stepped up and gently relieved him of the rifle. “What’s your name, lad?”
His cheers had settled to a hearty laugh. “Keith Mullens, sir. These are my friends, Joseph and Dennis.”
“Well, gents…welcome to the Irish Republican Army.”
Conner returned to the others gathered around the box of donuts, figuring the new guys would follow.
Liam came up next to him. “We have the shipping arranged for the guns. Later today, we can take them over to Oakland harbor and make sure they are loaded onto the ship.”
“That would mean that my mission here is almost at an end,” Conner said. “Except the priest still lives.” When Liam didn’t respond, Conner grabbed his shoulder. “I will not leave America with that traitor still breathin’. Forget the guns. The priest is my mission.”
“How are you going to kill him if ya can’t find him, lad?”
Conner released Liam’s shoulder. “I’ve been mullin’ over in my mind…right before I confronted him, I heard him talkin’ to one of the nuns. He talked about a trip down the coast, and she talked about his visiting a real-life castle.”
Liam considered this. “Could they be talkin’ about Hearst Castle?”
“I’m not familiar. Is that on the coast?”
“Aye, near. Let’s take a look.” Liam fished out his cell phone and brought up his mapping app. “Says here the castle has been closed to tourists for some time.” He brought up an internet browser and scanned the first few entries. “Well, look what we have here.” He clicked on a news article and showed Conner the headline: “Human rights talks over Brexit resume.”
Conner grabbed the phone and scanned the article. “No mention of his name. But could he be hiding out there?”
“I doubt we’ll ever know.”
“Wrong, Liam,” Conner said with a burst of confidence and zeal. “We’re going to find out. Get the lads together, we’re going down there.” He started back to his room to wake Deirdre and pack for the trip.
“What about the guns, Conner? We’re supposed to deliver to the shipyard in Oakland.”
Conner stopped at his doorway. “I suggest we give the guns a test run. We’ll bring them with us.”
Thomas stood nearby on his cell phone, and he hung up and joined them. “We may have a problem. That was the ship’s captain. He’s balking at the idea of transporting our guns. Seems the Customs officials are inspecting his ship a little more thoroughly than he was prepared for. He wants to cancel his end of the transport.”
“Shite, he can’t do that,” Liam said.
“He says he’ll give the money back.”
“It’s not that simple. Everything has been arranged in Belfast based on the precise schedule and his boat. People there have been paid off and are ready to act when the guns get there.” Liam glanced at the new guys as they wandered up to the conversation. “Thomas, why don’t you take the new lads over to Oakland and talk to this son of a bitch. Offer him another ten grand, and if that doesn’t work, use your charm to impress upon him his need to help us out.”
“In the meantime,” Conner said, “the rest of us, you Liam, Deirdre, Devon, Will and myself, we head to Hearst Castle and search for the priest. Thomas, the rest of you head that way and join us when you’re done. With these damn cops, we’ll probably need the backup.”
He looked away as Deirdre stepped out of his sleeping quarters, fully dressed. He didn’t see the doubtful look exchanged between Thomas and Liam. Conner looked over the group and said, “Let’s get ready to go.”
9
Within twenty minutes, the men of Special Forces had parked their vehicles along Mission, yellow directional lights turned on to warn passing traffic. Most of the team had gathered on the sidewalk next to the vehicles. Scot and Dave quietly chatted nearby, and Steve watched the street for the moment.
Drew Blazer sidled up to Scot. “Tell me something, lads,” he began, then lowered his voice. “You seem to be taking all this in stride. Does working these streets prepare you for something like this?”
“Partially,” Scot said.
“Working for your son prepares us for something like this,” Dave added.
Drew’s gaze flipped between them. To Scot, he said, “Last night, you did make it sound like this happens to my son rather frequently.”
Scot looked at Dave, and both nodded yes.
Drew glanced over at Steve and muttered to himself, “Shite. How well do I know me son?”
Both cops sensed the pang of regret in the elder Blazer. Hoping to distract him, Scot said, “So are you originally from Scotland?”
Drew hesitated, then pulled himself back to the present. “Nay, I was born here. My parents were immigrants, and I’ve been across the pond a time or two. I decided long ago to adopt the heritage of me ancestors. Plus, my dual citizenship aided in my job with State.”
“I never knew the name Blazer was a Scottish name,” Dave said.
“Now there’s a story of some amusement,” Drew smiled. Behind him, he didn’t see that Steve had heard the question. Steve smiled and shook his head, wondering which version of the story he was about to hear. “My family flourished in Glasgow, and over the years, our kin spread all across the UK and Europe. My Grandmother met and married a Jewish man named Glaser. When they emigrated, they landed at Ellis Island. The clerk there asked their name, but it appears he may have been a bit deaf. They gave him the name Glaser, and he wrote it down as Blazer. They didn’t find out until they read their paperwork later, and just decided not to change it. My granny bore the man two strong sons before he passed on early in his life. But we’ve carried the name proudly through the generations.”
Steve just chuckled to himself.
Steve looked across the street as Brian and A.J. emerged from a minimart with bags of snacks and drinks. Dave joined them, and they began to divide the bounty up for the occupants of each vehicle. In moments, two older model Ford Crown Victoria sedans pulled up behind the unmarked Police SUVs. Steve eyed the Crown Vics, the models that Police departments across the nation had used until recent years. These were maybe fifteen years old but appeared to be in good condition. One was driven by Agent Cliff Stack, the other by Agent Birdsong. The rest of the State delegation emerged from the building’s lobby and marched across the plaza toward the vehicles.
Steve approached the group, intending to speak with the drivers. “It’s just a straight shot down 101,” he said. “You have my cell number for when we get close. Let’s roll.”
The four car convoy rolled through the city. Steve led them onto Highway 101, headed south. His father rode shotgun, with Scot and Captain Stanson in the back seat. Dave, A.J. and Brian had the second Police vehicle, and the two Crown Vics followed. Steve still hadn’t bothered to associate names with faces of the Feds, so he didn’t know who rode in which car. For a few minutes, there was some operational banter. Soon, everyone settled into the monotony of the road trip.
As they left the bustle of the city behind and zipped past the suburbs south of the airport, Steve found himself glancing over at his father. Drew finally caught one of his glances and smiled at his son.
“So now I know what you did with your day when I was a kid,” Steve finally said.
Drew shrugged. “It was a job like any other.”
“So how did it work?” Seeing the question on his Dad’s face, he said, “This would have started in the late eighties, when things over there were supposedly winding down. Everyone associated with his cell was dead, so supposedly there was no real danger. How did your detail operate on a day to day basis?”
“Oh, boyo, I never believed that. I never believed that the danger was over, and I never operated that way. We don’t know who else knew about Cousin Fitzhugh’s rising star in the IRA, just like we currently don’t have a clue who wants him dead. Where this stalker has been hiding for thirty-five years, we don’t know. I was convinced that he could be taken out at any time, and I convinced Special Agent Bauman of that. The danger may have faded with time, but I took me job seriously. Each time Fitz transferred to a new Cathedral or church in town, we procured an office or a flat just up the street. I was on station in that church every morning, just to make sure he was alive. I stayed in that office and I monitored any intelligence traffic we got from Northern Ireland. I checked in with Fitz every few days to make sure he was gettin’ on OK. I sent regular reports back to Bauman. It was a rare occasion that I ever heard back. I think he was only too happy to ignore me.”