Professor Blythe arrived at the JFK terminal, where Peter—or Thomas Murphy, the fictitious name Niall had provided—was waiting for him at the gate. He knew the professor had been briefed on Thomas’s role as his driver and physical aide, so he just introduced himself, took the professor’s luggage, and assisted him to the town car Niall had gifted him. This new part Niall had asked him to play was certainly a lot more stimulating than making midnight visits to buildings to ensure they were properly locked down.
He drove Blythe directly to one of Niall’s beautiful Midtown skyscrapers, where an apartment had been made available for the professor. In fact, this building was the one where Niall himself lived, and Niall’s driver was parked in the circular alcove right outside. Peter pulled up alongside the other car, lowering the passenger window to give his friend a surreptitious thumbs-up. Niall partially lowered his tinted glass window to acknowledge and to nod his thanks. Peter then backed up and parked behind Niall’s car and, per instructions, escorted James up to the apartment.
Peter didn’t make conversation other than to give Blythe a quick tour of the place. He then accompanied the professor to the bedroom, placed his suitcase on the bed, and told him that Mr. Dempsey would be right up.
Blythe thanked him, and Peter retreated to the unit’s hallway.
He didn’t have long to wait.
Niall showed up moments later. He stepped inside the apartment but kept the door ajar—a clear message to Peter that his job was over for tonight.
“Thank you, mate,” he said. “Now I’ve got to lay the groundwork.”
Peter nodded. “Ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“Yes.”
“See you then.” With that, Peter took off.
Having heard voices, Professor Blythe came out of the bedroom, leaning heavily on his cane, and inclined his head. “Mr. Dempsey?”
“Niall, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor.” Niall walked over and extended his hand. “Thank you for coming all this way.”
The professor met Niall’s handshake, his eyes twinkling. “It was my pleasure. And it’s James. I’m not in the classroom, I’m with a colleague.”
“Then James it is.” Niall gestured toward the living room sofa. “Please, sit. You’ve come a long way in a very short time. What can I offer you? The refrigerator is fully stocked.”
James limped gratefully over to the sofa and sank down, propping his cane alongside him. “I was well fed on the plane, but thank you. Just some water would be fine.”
Niall fetched two chilled bottles, handing one to the professor before walking over to the club chair across from his guest and taking a seat. “I hope this apartment meets your needs.” He’d intentionally situated James in this building, just a few floors down from his penthouse. They’d meet here. That way, there was no chance of being seen together. Their meetings could remain as clandestine as he intended them to be.
A chuckle. “I can’t imagine whose needs it wouldn’t meet. The bedroom is larger than my cottage.”
Niall smiled back. “I own many buildings, but I have a special fondness for this one. It’s where I call home.”
James took that in. “I must confess, I’d never heard of you before your courier arrived. I now understand that you’re a prominent real estate developer. If your other buildings are as impressive as this one, I can understand how you could offer me such a generous consulting fee.”
Niall was more amused than annoyed by James’s obviously insular existence. Actually, his purely cerebral nature served Niall’s purposes quite well. The less James knew about his life—other than his patriotic search for the Vadrefjord Hoard—the better.
“I take great pride in the construction and design of my buildings,” he stated simply. “So, yes, I’m blessed to have the means to pay for your expertise and your assistance.”
“Frankly? I would have offered you both just for travel and living expenses. The Vadrefjord Hoard is my greatest fascination. If I can help in its recovery and return to Ireland, it would be the greatest honor of my life.”
“Then we share the same goal.” Niall could see that James was exhausted, but he had to set the stage, discuss tomorrow’s agenda, and to earn some goodwill before they said good night.
“You were close to Rose Flaherty,” he said in a gentle voice. “She mentioned you often, especially recently with the research she was doing for Fiona McKay. Her death was tragic.”
That made James’s shoulders slump. “Her murder,” he corrected, his eyes moist. “And, yes, Rose and I go back many, many years. Do you know if the police have learned anything about who killed her?”
Niall kept his sad face on. “Not as far as I know. It’s still an open investigation. But I don’t know who’d want that wonderful woman dead. She didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
James blinked back his tears. “Clearly, that wasn’t the case. And I keep asking myself over and over if her murder had anything to do with the research you referred to. Did she uncover anything after she and I spoke? Did that knowledge put her in danger?”
“I’ve asked myself the same questions, multiple times. And I fervently hope that the police find the answers. Like you, I was very fond of Rose. I not only did quite a bit of business with her, I also learned from her more about the treasures of the world than I can recount.” Niall paused. “Rose and I were both congregants of the Basilica of Saint Patrick’s Old Cathedral. I’ve spoken with the monsignor and arranged for you to visit Rose’s burial site tomorrow morning at ten thirty. Thomas will take you. You’re free to spend as much time as you’d like honoring your dear friend.”
James took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “Thank you. That means a great deal to me.”
“Of course.” Niall uncapped his water and took a few swallows—long enough for James to compose himself. He’d established the goodwill. Now came the stage-setting and the description of tomorrow’s agenda.
“Before we begin, I need you to agree to two things,” Niall said. “One is that anything we discuss remains between us. I realize that requires trust. I’m hoping that our mutual devotion to Rose is enough to establish that trust. Because we both want to quickly accomplish our shared goal and restore the hoard to our country.”
“I understand,” James replied after mulling it over. “However, I’ll need to probe a few things with you before I can agree. But tell me, what is your second requirement?”
“My anonymity. Under no circumstances do I want my name used. I’ll work closely with you and provide any assistance you need, but behind the scenes.”
That gave James pause. “And why is that?”
Niall didn’t intend to lie about this. It would only come back to bite him in the ass if he did. “Because despite my national pride, I’m fundamentally self-interested. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have accomplished all I have. Rose’s murder has widened in its scope. Fiona herself has been threatened. She’s hired private investigators to help her find the killer. I can’t have my name associated with a murder investigation. It would throw too much unwanted media attention in my direction. Especially since the McKays and I are congregants of the same church and go back many years together.”
James paled. “Threatened? Has someone tried to harm Fiona McKay?”
“Not yet.” Again, the truth. “But her townhouse was broken into and the entire place was turned upside down. I have to assume that whoever did this was looking for something connected to Rose’s findings.” A poignant pause. “Such as the tapestry panels.”
A heartbeat of silence. “So you do know about the tapestries.”
Niall nodded. “Rose was very excited about this project. She showed me the panel Fiona was having her research.”
“I see. Well, that certainly answers one of my questions.” James inclined his head. “Were the panels stolen during the break-in?”
“I don’t think they were ever at Fiona’s house. When I went to her parents’ gathering in honor of Rose, I saw one of the panels hanging on the living room wall. My guess is that all the panels were there.”
“Were?”
Niall nodded. “Knowing Fiona, she would never put her parents in danger. So after her own home was torn apart, I suspect she moved the panels to the offices of Forensic Instincts—the PIs she hired.”
James blew out a breath. “That poor girl.”
“I agree. That’s another reason I want to solve this puzzle quickly. It would take Fiona out of harm’s way.”
“So I’m here to help you do that, by offering her my assistance and, as a result, by tying the tapestries to the location of the hoard.”
“Precisely.” Niall set down his water bottle and leaned forward. “I’ll lay out the specifics in a minute. But first, you said you had questions. Ask them. I want us to be of one mind when I leave this apartment tonight.”
“As do I.” James set down his own bottle and tapped the head of his cane. “You’ve already addressed one of my questions. You’re aware of the tapestries. So I have only one other. How is it you’re also aware of the tapestries’ link to the Vadrefjord Hoard, as well as the McKays’ connection to it? I hadn’t had time enough to share that information with Rose, so she couldn’t have discussed it with you.”
“Like you, I’ve been fascinated with the Vadrefjord Hoard for years.” Niall stuck with facts he was quite sure James already knew. “As I said, Rose showed me the tapestry panel she was researching for Fiona and told me there were twelve smaller panels that interwove with that central one. Based on what I was seeing—particularly the chalice—not to mention the allusions to royalty, the gemstones, and the Celtic symbols, I came to the conclusion that the secret to the hoard’s location was somehow hidden in these tapestries.”
“You’re saying you came to that conclusion just from viewing a random tapestry with similarities to the hoard’s contents?”
“Of course not.” Again, Niall stuck to candor. “I’ve long since suspected that the hoard was dug up from its original location and transported to New York. I had a reliable source—one whose father came over on the same ship as those who carried the hoard—who convinced me of that, as well as of the date this happened. I did some digging. It turns out that the McKays arrived in New York on that same ship on that same date. So once I saw the tapestry, it was easy to connect the dots.”
That obviously satisfied James, because he visibly relaxed. “I can tell you more about the hoard’s history if that would help.”
“I’m sure it would, but let’s get to that tomorrow. Right now, I want to finish our conversation and let you get some sleep.” Niall could wait for the history. All he needed now was to go over tomorrow’s plan. “After you finish at the church tomorrow morning, Thomas will take you to see Fiona. I’ll have checked up on her anyway, just to make sure she’s okay, so I’ll know where she is—which will probably be at Forensic Instincts. Once you tell her who you are and why you’re there, she’ll be eager to accept your help interpreting the symbols and the imagery on the tapestries. Thomas will be there, both as an escort and to ensure you’re steady on your feet and not overtaxing yourself. You and I will meet back here once you’re finished.”
James’s hesitation was slight but present nonetheless. “Somehow I feel I’m being deceitful by acquiring information and passing it along to you without saying a word about it to Fiona.”
“I respect your integrity. However, I’ve already told you my reasons for staying in the shadows.” Niall was prepared for this annoying possibility. “Plus, as I said, the McKays and I go back many years. They’re very proud and honorable people. If they know I’m assisting you, they’ll feel indebted to me. That’s the last thing I want. It will complicate our search and slow it down by adding an emotional component.”
James was still visibly waffling.
“This is where the trust I referred to comes in,” Niall said. “But if you still have doubts, I’ll be blunt. I’m a multimillionaire. I don’t need the profits from the treasure, no matter how great they are. My only motivations are my fascination for the Vadrefjord Hoard and my desire for it to be found and returned to Ireland. Between your expertise and my resources, we can make that happen. And once it does, I’ll expedite the process of transporting the hoard to the National Museum of Ireland and provide full disclosure to the McKays—and, in the process, take the target off Fiona’s back. Is that enough for you?”
This time, James gave a definitive nod. “It is.”
Niall rose. “Then I’ll let you get some rest. Thomas will be here at ten.”
***
After a day of playing phone tag, Patrick got hold of his former colleague, had the answers he was looking for, and promptly called a team meeting. Everyone gathered in the conference room—all except Marc, who was uncharacteristically absent.
Patrick shot Casey a should-I-wait look, and Casey nodded.
“Marc has been on the phone all day, talking to I have no idea who,” she said. “But when I poked my head into his office and motioned to him that we’re having a meeting, he held up a just-a-minute finger. So let’s give him time to wrap up his call and join us.”
As she spoke, Marc walked into the room and shut the door behind him. “Did I hold things up?”
“Nope,” Ryan informed him. “We were just getting settled. Fee is with Hero in the War Room. I practically had to tie her down to keep her away. But until I know what we’re dealing with, I don’t want her involved.”
“She wouldn’t be allowed to get involved,” Casey reminded him, taking her seat at the head of the table and setting down her coffee mug. “First and foremost, she’s our client, despite the fact that she’s your sister. Meetings like these are closed. We’ll fill Fiona in as need be.”
“Good point.” Ryan took a belt of coffee. “I’ll be sure to use it when Fee pounces on me after we’re done.”
Casey glanced from Patrick to Marc. “Who first?”
Patrick assessed Marc’s expression and gestured for him to take the lead. “You go ahead, Marc. We’ve both spent the day playing phone tag. I have the strong feeling we’ve been barking up the same tree from different vantage points. In which case, my findings will corroborate anything you’ve turned up.”
“Yeah, great minds and former FBI agents think alike,” Marc said drily. “But thanks.” He turned his attention to the entire team. “First, I tracked down a buddy of mine who was a former Navy doctor. Having served in the military, he’d obviously seen injuries like the one you described Dempsey having. I told him the exact details you provided. His immediate response was to say that it was likely caused by a bomb or ordnance going off in close proximity to his hand.” Pausing only to take a swallow of coffee, Marc continued. “After that, I reached out to one of the BU’s best bomb techs, who confirmed that, in a training video, he’d seen an interview of someone with an injury matching my description who’d had a detonator explode in his hand.”
“That fits,” Claire said quietly. “Given all the explosion images I keep getting off the pages Casey gave me—that and a whole lot more—everything you’re saying concurs with what I’m sensing.”
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Casey said. “Dempsey’s old life was with the IRA. It’s crossed all our minds. Now it’s taking shape. The problem is we have no proof.”
“But a great deal more food for thought,” Patrick responded.
Casey’s gaze instantly moved to him. “It’s your turn. Go.”
Patrick bent one knee and crossed his leg over the other. “For some reason, Dempsey naming his two dogs Pope and Martha just rang an alarm bell and it was really bugging me. Having heard your description of Dempsey’s hand, thinking of the fact that he left Ireland during the Troubles, I came to the same conclusion: IRA. I needed to connect the two things. So I spent the day reaching out to FBI colleagues I had—some retired and some current—who worked terrorism in the eighties, in those days through the Intelligence Division. The Counterterrorism Division wasn’t created until the late nineties. Are any of you familiar with the Omagh bombing?”
“Of course,” Marc said. Comprehension began to dawn in his eyes.
A few head shakes, and Emma said, “I was born in the nineties.”
A corner of Patrick’s mouth lifted. “Ouch.”
“Sorry,” she replied sheepishly.
“Don’t be. All of you are too young to have seen the original TV footage or read the news at the time.”
“I saw the documentary that was made about it,” Casey said. “But I’m clearly missing something. So go on.”
Patrick recounted the facts: that on August fifteenth, 1998—four months after the signing of the Belfast Agreement—a dissident republican car bomb exploded in the market town of Omagh, County Tyrone, Ireland. Twenty-nine people were killed.
“How horrible,” Claire murmured.
“Yes, it was.” Patrick’s expression was sober. “The terrorists phoned the Ulster Television newsroom with a warning of the bomb’s location and the time it would be detonated.” A pause. “The callers used the Real IRA code word. It was Martha Pope.”
A long silence filled the room.
“Shit,” Marc broke the silence to say. “Dempsey is openly celebrating an IRA terrorist attack.”
“Yeah, he’s a real prick.” Ryan looked like he wanted to punch something or someone.
Casey was assimilating all she’d just learned. “The problem is that none of this is hard evidence. The use of Martha Pope certainly labels Dempsey an IRA sympathizer, but that’s still a leap from being an active IRA member—even with the likelihood that a detonator exploded in his hand.”
Ryan swore under his breath. “It’s urgent that I figure out who this son of a bitch really is. Because Niall Dempsey sure as hell isn’t his real name.” He pushed back his chair. “Are we done here? Because I’m itching to get back to my lair. I had just come up with an avenue to pursue. It’s not going to be quick. But if it works, we’ll have our answers.”
Casey responded in a word: “Go.”