“He comes like the bad weather, uninvited.”
Irish Proverb
Under a moonless night sky, Mickey slips out of Howth harbor unnoticed. He hopes for the same when he reaches the “Eye.” Except for the high tides gently washing against the strategically placed boulders along the marina wall, the night is dormant. Just before he runs the taxi up onto the narrow pebble beach on the “Eye,” he puts his cell phone on vibrate and out of habit feels for his Glock 26 on his right hip. He pulls the front of the taxi further up on the beachhead and secures it to a large lifeless tree stump with the boat’s docking rigging.
The Martello Tower is about a hundred yards to his left and forty feet above him. By now his night vision has kicked in. He follows the worn footpath used by tourists through the brush up toward the ancient tower. About thirty yards from the path end and the small clearing surrounding the large granite stepping stone directly under the tower’s window, he steps off the path and squats in the high grass to listen. Nothing!
Then something catches his eye. The rope is back. Not good! Mickey tries to get into Odysseus’ mind-set. If I were him, what would I be doing? The few seconds it took to answer his own question proved to be too late. From behind him he heard a familiar voice and felt cold steel pressed against the back of his neck.
“Don’t talk. Show me your palms. Stand up slowly. Do not turn around. Walk to the clearing. Do as I say and I may let you live. It’s your call.”
Mickey doesn’t like it but he has no choice but to submit to his capture. When he reaches the clearing in front of the tower, the man has him stop, kneel, and cross his legs behind him. Mickey does as ordered while he weighs his options. He still has no idea who I am. I could be just a tourist or a kid on an “I dare ya” mission. Where’s my pat down. Odysseus has either gotten cocky or clumsy. I sense opportunity. One, two—
The last thing Mickey remembers is feeling intense pain to the back of his head. The only reason he came out of his stupor was the vibration of his cell phone in his front left pocket. Still lightheaded, he unconsciously tries to reach for his phone but then realizes he’s sitting in the middle of the cold stone floor of the Martello Tower with his wrists bound behind him and his ankles tied together. Still got my cell? Could I still have my…? Mick’s train of thought is interrupted by some dark figure kicking him in the leg.
“Been a long time, Mick. Or should I say Ernie Evans. Cute! Just like you to use the name of a 1960s rock-n-roller. Almost worked. The way my guy described his unannounced visitor bearing bad news of his brother’s death I had a weird suspicion that was you. That’s something we’ve always had in common. Those gut suspicions that turn out to be founded. What was it for you this time, Mick? What got those investigative juices flowing my way this time? Jerry Drum’s untimely passing? He had a big mouth. Was it because my wife suddenly decided to leave Philly? Or did I get caught on some surveillance camera somewhere and you thought you recognized your old Academy classmate? You might as well fess up, Mick. They tell me confession is good for the soul. Especially in your present circumstance.”
Mickey remains silent.
“Honestly, never thought I’d see your Irish arse here though. I take it you’re not over here tracing those damn Irish roots of yours. Am I right?”
Mickey doesn’t answer, still a little groggy and reeling from the blow to the head and that boot to his leg.
“Why are you out here in the middle of nowhere hiding in the bushes?”
Mickey still doesn’t answer. He’s hoping the half-conscious scared victim card can work in his favor. Not that some of that isn’t true of course. Mickey also makes note how quiet the night skies are. We must be into that “no fly” thing before the president’s arrival. His cell phone vibrates for a second time.
“What the fuck, Mick. Stop with the silent treatment bullshit from our ‘if caught by the Vietcong training.’ This isn’t Vietnam. This is Howth, Ireland. And I don’t need information from you. You’re not important to me—the mission is. And no bumbling Philly cop can do anything to stop that mission. It’s way beyond that. So, if you want to continue your little bullshit charade, be my guest. But remember, you are indeed my guest for as long as it pleases me. And I am affording you the opportunity to witness history.”
Mickey finally responds. He addresses him how he addressed him in their Police Academy days.
“What did you hit me with, OD?”
“Well! Haven’t been called that for years. And never mind what I hit you with.”
Mickey continues. “You’re right. I’m not over here tracing my roots. I’m here for you. And I know all about your so-called ‘mission.’ The Secret Service knows about it. At least the ones that can still be trusted and haven’t been locked up for helping you.”
“I have no shortage of friends and people who think like me, Mick.”
“The Garda knows all about your poorly planned mission and they’ve already delayed the President’s arrival.”
Mickey hopes by reducing Odysseus’ assassination attempt to some minor inconvenience for the president and the crew of Air Force One, he’ll convince OD the game is over. And he’d better be served by making good on his escape now rather than later. A long shot. But there’s not much left in Mick’s bag of tricks at the moment. So what the heck.
“Everybody and their grandmothers know all about your little plot to shoot down AF1. Your other two sailing buddies are already in Garda custody. And Deforrest—well, let’s just say we’re helping to get his dad back.”
Now it’s Odysseus’ turn to be silent. He turns away from Mickey and walks toward the tower’s open stone window. He kneels down, clicks open two shiny latches on a long black case, and pulls out what looks like a short-range surface-to-air STA missile. Looks like a Soviet Gladiator or a Grizzly series. Mick tries one more tactic.
“Oh! And OD”—Mickey’s been waiting for just the opening for this one—”or should I say Michael Collins, I’m not alone out here. I have my own mission and my own friends.”
Odysseus stops what he’s doing and turns to Mickey.
“What did you say?”
“I’d give you about ten minutes to decide what’s most important to you and your wife. Your exposed mission, or getting out of Dodge while you can. I heard that your flight to Greece has been mysteriously delayed by the way. I’m only here as someone who was once your friend.”
“Stop! Stop the crap. You’re alone. There ain’t nobody gonna ride in here on a white horse and save your tired ass. Let’s be serious, Mick. You stepped in shit coming out here. And as we say back in Philly, ‘Ya can’t shine shit.’ So just sit there and watch me make history.”
“Whatever! I asked for thirty minutes alone with you. I did it as a friend. They gave me the time ‘cause they don’t want to see this whole thing get ugly.”
Mickey took a risk and went with the percentages with his next move.
“If you have any doubt, get the cell phone in my left pocket. Check the last three numbers. You’ll see they’re all law enforcement. They expected me to check in with them by now. So you may have less time than I thought, OD.”
Odysseus is not completely sold on what his old Academy classmate is trying to sell. But he decides it’s in his best interest to call Mickey’s bluff. He takes the cell phone from Mickey’s pocket and scans the cell phone call history. He reads the last few calls aloud.
“The first call says it came from a Superintendent Kevin Clooney. Friend of yours, Mick?”
“Longtime friend.”
Mickey crosses his fingers. One down. Two to go.
“Next, you called Peter O’Malley, Howth Marina Security. Interesting, Mick.”
For Mickey, the third call could be a game changer.
“You also called Irish Air Corps Headquarters. Never heard of them.”
“They’re the guys who fly the helicopters up and down Ireland’s coastline. They work with the Dublin Garda and gave me a ride up here earlier today. They have two copters in a field beside the Howth Yacht Club. I’d say time is running out on that whole history makin’ mission thing of yours, OD.”
Mickey is becoming somewhat more believable. Odysseus goes to the window and stares at the starless sky for several minutes.
Come on, scumbag, take the bait. I know I hit a nerve. When given the option of living to fight another day, survival, and making history from a prison cell or worse, survival in most cases wins out. Unless the person making the call is nuts right out of the gate. Not a Michael Odysseus characteristic. “The Greek” has never shown any signs of institutional insanity. Craziness? Perhaps!
Odysseus quickly starts packing up and securing his STA. I can’t believe be bought it. Guess I’ll go for the hat trick.
“What about me, OD? What are your plans for me?”
“You’re still breathing. Isn’t that enough?”
Odysseus pulls up the rope still hanging out the window and ties his long black case to it and lowers it to the ground. Then he cuts the rope and lets it fall.
That was stupid.
Because of the murky darkness inside the small circular tower Mickey never noticed the collapsible extension ladder against the opposite wall. So that’s how he got me up here. The guy’s still a bull.
Odysseus extends the ladder to its maximum height and slides it back out the window to the ground below. Just before he climbs up on the stone sill, he throws Mickey’s cell phone on the floor and stomps his heel into it, sending little pieces of black plastic all over.
Mickey asks again. “What about me?”
“Have a nice life, Mick. Oh! And I have one last favor for ya, Devlin. I’ll be taking the water-taxi. I’m sure you don’t mind. Me letting you live and all. ‘Sides, all those friends of yours should be showing up soon to save your ass. Right? By the way, tell that editor friend of yours, Cunay, I’ll be in touch.”
With that, Odysseus disappears out the window and down the ladder. Mickey can hear the distinct sounds of the massive Pratt & Whitney turbofans of C-141 Starlifters overhead. Once the advance party lands, AF1 should be close behind. That was close.
The entire time Mickey sat on the floor in the dark he’d been fiddling with the two knots on the rope around his wrist. He had already made some headway with one of them before Odysseus left. The second knot was a little tighter than the other one. But he was close to loosening it. Success!
Mickey unravels the rest of the rope from around his wrist and unties his ankles. He leaps to his feet and the first thing he does is feel for his Glock. He can’t believe it’s still on his hip. How’d he ever miss this? He keeps making rookie mistakes. He looks out the window for any signs of his old nemesis. Can’t see squat. A full moon would be nice about now.
He sees the rope and the ladder lying on the ground. Oh well. He shimmies out the window and hangs his six-foot frame from the sill a few seconds, calls on Saint Jude for a little assistance, then lets go.
He holds his breath and drops to the granite stepping stone directly under the window and falls backward onto the dirt clearing with a thud. His landing wasn’t pretty but nothing feels broken. In fact, his landing this time was exactly how he landed ninety percent of the time after parachuting from a C-130—feet, ass, and head. If the jump master saw that, he’d whack me with an Article 15.
He shakes off the effects of the fall, feels for his weapon again, and cautiously starts back down the footpath. In the distance he can hear Odysseus trying and retrying to start the little four-stroke outboard on the water taxi and smiles. Dummy! OD has no idea that Mickey had taken the only spark plug with him after he secured the craft. Just in case. Something else Odysseus would have known if he had followed proper PD procedure and searched Mickey when he had a chance. But like so many big PD bosses, he got lax and sloppy. This time it will cost Odysseus, big time.
When Mickey gets to the bottom of the path, he can see Odysseus sitting in the stern of the taxi. He looks defeated sitting there griping that long black case of potential mass destruction. A look Mickey is not used to seeing on the face of the infamous “Greek.” Odysseus looks up and sees Mickey standing at the water’s edge, pointing a Glock in his direction.
“You son of a bitch. You screwed with the outboard, didn’t you?”
Mickey holds up a single spark plug.
“Guess I’m not as dumb as you thought.”
“I may have thought a lot of things about you over the years, Mick. But dumb wasn’t one of them. So where do we go from here? It’s obvious there are no guys on white horses gonna show up. You’re out here solo, right? I still like my odds.”
Mickey tilts his Glock sideways, so OD can see it better and says, “I like my odds a little better, my man. Mine and Mister Glock here.”
Odysseus starts to say something, but it’s drowned out by the thunderous ground-shaking noise of a Boeing 747 on final approach to Dublin Airport. The low-flying aircraft’s tail section is lit up so Mickey can read the 28000 in bold black print. He points his Glock toward the sky and smiles.
“That would be Air Force One, OD. So much for your historic mission.”
Odysseus looks toward the sky.
“Now get your Greek arse out of the boat. Get on your knees and don’t say a word. Do as I say and maybe I’ll let you live.” Mickey pats his prisoner down and is stunned he’s not armed. Mick brought the handcuffs of Officer Fitzsimons, the youngest officer assassinated by Odysseus in 1991. He used them to secure his prisoner.
Mickey has Odysseus walk to the bow of the taxi. He pushes the small craft into deeper water. He reseats the spark plug with the wrench hanging from a block of wood beside him, while holding his Glock on OD the whole time. After two strong pulls of the cord, the outboard hums to life.
Mickey steers the taxi toward the Howth marina. Just as he sees the outline of the marina, the water taxi is engulfed in bright lights from several different directions, followed by an ear-shattering blast from a foghorn. Both men try to shade their eyes and squint into the bright floodlights.
Odysseus yells, “All right, we see ya. Cut the fucking lights.”
Next, Mickey hears a familiar voice coming through a bullhorn.
“Thought you might need saving again, partner.”
Mickey recognizes Kevin’s husky voice. He looks up, still shading his eyes with a big smile on his still-obviously bruised and swollen face. He holds up his left thumb.
“I owe ya, partner.”
“Follow us into port. We’ll sort things out there.”
Once docked in the Howth marina and based on a copy of a body warrant faxed by Katherine McBride, Philly’s DA, to Kevin’s office, Mickey delivers “The Greek” and his long black case to the local Garda for safekeeping overnight.