NINE

Things to Hate about Ireland  

“Well, nuts,” I said, and not for the first time that day.

Or maybe it was a couple of days. You tend to lose track of time when you’re jet-setting halfway around the world, flying through time zones as though they were mere cumulus clouds.

I yawned, stretched, got shakily to my feet, plopped back down into the seat for a moment, yawned again, and started looking around for my shoes, which I’d abandoned at some point over the broad Atlantic.

“That’s a hell of way to get from one side of the world to the other,” Elmore said as he approached me again, this time carrying a small leather briefcase that he’d stashed away before the flight.

“What have you got in there?” I asked.

“Instructions, mostly,” he said. “Plus contacts, phone numbers, safe house locations, dead drops, details on friends of Mister F’s, maps – the usual.”

“Don’t leave home without it,” I said, evoking the old American Express slogan from the 1970s. But that was well before Elmore’s time, apparently.

“I didn’t – a good thing, too,” he said, patting the case with his left hand. “So long as I keep it safe, the stuff in here’s as good as a gun – maybe better.”

High praise, indeed.

We were taxiing minutes later toward a section of Dublin’s international airport that services private jets from around the world and eventually pulled to a stop near a customs hanger. Leonard and Elmore unsealed the door and helped set the stairway in place. A maintenance worker, wearing a uniform that looked a bit rumpled, assisted with the stairs and popped his head inside the cabin to ensure that everything was flush.

He slipped Elmore a package as he waved that all was well and disappeared down the stairway.

“Here’s your passport,” Elmore said a moment later. “Easy as that.”

I flipped it open, and sure enough, my smiling face was staring back at me, the official USA stamp of approval in place, the document as real as the hand that held it, the jet we’d arrived in, the simple fact that we were now in Ireland. Also included: a thick wad of Euros, compliments of Don Vincenzo.

“Next time, don’t leave home without it,” Elmore said.

“A quick study,” I said. “Next time.”

But Elmore was focused elsewhere. He reassuringly patted the left breast pocket of his jacket as he started toward the hatch, urging me to follow.

“We’re here on business,” he said, speaking over his shoulder. “Length of stay depends on the success of the business venture, which is establishing another branch of Fierro Enterprises in Dublin.”

“What’s Fierro Enterprises this time?” I asked.

“Import/export, just like Seinfeld,” he said.

“What do we import/export?”

“We’re in the wine business. You didn’t know that?”

“OK, right. What’s my job at Fierro Enterprises?”

“Not that it’s likely to come up, but you’re an author, writing a book about Mister F’s life,” he said.

Leonard was frowning at us from the top step of the stairs, his head sticking through the doorway.

“You jokers ready for this?”

I spread my legs wide, as though I’d just climbed off a horse, and used my best John Wayne imitation.

“I was born ready, pilgrim,” I said.

What I was really thinking was Hell no – this whole thing is crazy.

Leonard gave me a look that would wither the grass on a putting green.

“Don’t try the Duke with the customs guys,” Elmore cautioned. “They don’t like smartass, as a rule.”

But the brief preparation for customs was unnecessary. We sailed through with hardly a look and no questions directed my way, although the efficient agents performed a perfunctory search of the luggage that was pulled from the jet by the maintenance crew, one of whom looked suspiciously familiar to me as he approached the hanger with two bags in hand.

“Isn’t that the guy who just …”

“Yeah – name’s Tommy,” Elmore said in a whisper, though the immensity of the customs hanger made the muted voice unnecessary. “He’s one of Mister F’s guys over here. We’ll see him again in a few minutes.”

Leonard did most of the chatting through the customs line, answering in bulk for the three of us. He was congenial, he smiled, he was polite – in short, he exhibited traits that I’d never seen before. I poked Elmore’s shoulder at one point.

“Who is this guy?”

“Don’t worry,” he whispered back. “The real Leonard will return shortly.”

That, too, was an accurate prediction.

As we made our way out of the customs hanger, heading toward a red Range Rover Evoque, a 5-passenger turbo-charged SUV, Leonard scowled at the dampness in the air.

“I hate this place,” he grumbled, as though talking to himself. “Rains every time I come here.”

“Rains in Oregon,” Elmore said.

“Ain’t the same.”

Elmore looked puzzled.

“Rain’s rain,” he said.

We tossed our bags into the Range Rover, Leonard got behind the wheel, Elmore took up the shotgun position, and I climbed into the back, noting that the SUV was well-appointed, with luxury leather seats, a moon roof, and doors that seemed more substantial than you’d usually find. I was about to pass it off as the difference between American and European models, but Elmore gave me the lowdown.

“The rig’s been tricked out,” he said. “Bulletproof glass, beefed-up chassis, armored doors and body, bomb blankets – the usual, plus a special antenna to enhance the satellite signal for the phones. Did you see the bumper guard over the grille? Just like the ones the cops have back home. Plus, it scoots along pretty good – the engine’s been goosed.”

“Is all that precaution necessary?” I asked.

“You tell me, Blake. It’s your mission,” Leonard said.

Elmore was more congenial.

“We’ve got some bulletproof vests in the back – just in case,” he said.

Leonard mumbled an off-color observation and fired up the engine, then followed the Exit signs that spilled us out onto dark, empty streets. The local time was close to 1 a.m.

“Something else I hate about this place,” Leonard said. “They roll the sidewalks up at night and don’t shake ’em loose again ’til morning – if they shake ’em loose at all.”

“Bet the pubs are full,” Elmore said.

“Not at this hour.” Leonard mumbled something that I missed and added, “And they drive on the wrong damn side of the road … something else I hate about this place.”

He pulled the SUV to a halt on a side street a couple of miles from the airport, leaving the engine running.

“Hope this doesn’t take all night,” he grumbled.

“No reason to,” Elmore said. “He’ll be along shortly.”

I’d already figured out the reason for the delay and kept my mouth closed, not wanting to additionally aggravate Leonard. Besides, I was fighting a serious case of the yawns. I probably even nodded off for a moment because a tap-tap on the window, a heavy ring against the glass, startled me. Leonard hit the down button, and Tommy’s face was smiling back at us.

“Evenin’, boyos – or is it mornin’?” he said with a sharp Dublin accent. “I’ve got a bit of a send-off for ya, should ye come across lions or tigers or bears.”

The line failed to get a response from Leonard, but Tommy didn’t seem offended.

“It’s that kind of a crowd, is it? All right then, lads – here ye go.”

He offered up a satchel, which Leonard hefted inside, grunting at the weight, and handed off to Elmore, who set it on his lap with a grunt of his own, cautiously pulled the zipper, and gave the contents a thorough going-over before indicating his approval.

“Didn’t know ye Yanks took a likin’ to the Walther,” Tommy said. “Fine pistol, that. Might ’ave to git one for meself.”

“You do that,” Leonard said.

“An’ I just might, boyo,” he said cheerily. “Are ye right then?” Without waiting for a reply, he said, “Fine – holler if yer after needin’ anything else. I’ll see ya when I see ya.”

Tommy’s face disappeared from sight, and Leonard grunted again.

“Something else I hate about this place,” he said, as much to himself as to either Elmore or me. “They don’t speak English.”

I laughed, which drew a dark stare that I caught in the rearview mirror.

“So where are we off to, Blake?” Leonard asked. “It’s your damn show.”

“Right. The Shelbourne Hotel, downtown, near St. Stephen’s Green,” I said.

“Is your girlfriend there? Why didn’t you tell us that back home? We could’ve saved a hell of a lot of time and jet fuel.”

“I don’t know where Caeli is,” I said. “But there’s a luxury bed at the Shelbourne, and it’s got my name on it. Let’s go.”

“Yeah, well, there’d better be a bed there for me,” Leonard mumbled as he jacked the SUV’s gearshift into place and stomped on the accelerator.

We were ready to go by 9 a.m. the following day after an uneventful night at the luxurious Shelbourne, which was happy to take us in on short notice after a couple of palms were properly greased.

Elmore knocked on my door early, carrying the satchel that we’d collected from Tommy the night before.

“Here you go,” he said, pulling out a Walther P99 that was secured inside a High Noon IWB black holster. The belt clip had been re-stitched so that it could be tucked at the same depth and cant as my original at home.

“Nice,” I said. “How’d you manage that?”

“Same as your passport photo. We pay attention to details,” Elmore said.

He next pulled two additional loaded magazines, also locked into a belt carrier, and tossed them over.

“Federal Premium JHP rounds,” he said. “And here’s a couple of extra boxes – not that we should need ’em. But better safe …”

“What the well-dressed man wears in Dublin these days,” I said. “What do we do if we get stopped and frisked?”

“We don’t get stopped, and we sure as hell don’t get frisked,” Elmore said. “Ireland’s a bad place to get caught with a gun. The laws here are ridiculous. Nobody has guns – not even the cops.”

But he produced two pieces of ID that he handed over with a grin.

“Worse case, you try one of these,” he said.

The first was a laminated card attesting to my association with Interpol. The second was a similar card for the An Garda Síochána, the Irish national police force, commonly called the Garda or, in English, the Guards. Both IDs had my smiling mug attached as though they were the real deal.

“I’d go with Interpol if worse comes to worse,” he said. “That’s what Leonard and I are thinking, anyway. We sure as hell don’t sound like we’re from Dublin.”

“You don’t exactly sound French, either,” I said. “Where is he, anyway?”

He initially ignored the question, looking puzzled.

“Why French?”

“Interpol’s headquarters are in France.”

“Huh. Didn’t know that,” Elmore said. “Leonard is working some angles with Tommy, for leads. We’re meeting our Irish contacts in an hour or so. We should get moving if you want to eat.”

“Eating sounds good,” I said. “The Shelbourne has a lovely dining room.”

“You’ve been here before.”

“A year ago. Right before our passports expired.”

“Lesson learned.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “No passport got me on a private jet. I could get used to flying Don Vincenzo’s Italian Airline.”

“Just remember that Leonard and me are part of the friendly service, Professor B,” he said. “Gotta be careful what you wish for.”

He had a point.

We had breakfast in the hotel’s Saddle Room restaurant. If you’re ever in Dublin, be sure to check out the Shelbourne and its many fine 5-Star dining opportunities. I had the omelette with potato scones – hold the mushrooms, spinach, and goat’s cheese, if you please, which drew a look from our reserved waiter – and heavy on the Irish farm bacon, with Bewley’s Earl Grey on the side. Elmore had the Shelbourne pancakes with a side of bacon and a sourdough muffin, washing it down with strong coffee.

“Leonard doesn’t know what he’s missing,” I said at one point.

“Leonard was up early – said he’d get a bite down the street,” Elmore said. “I don’t think he’d like this place anyway – not his style.”

I stared at the sat-phone for much of the time that we were in the hotel, debating whether I should try Caeli and get it over with if she picked up, or try the parsonage and talk with one of the assistants again to see if any word of the archbishop’s whereabouts had filtered in during the past couple of days.

“So go ahead, Professor B,” Elmore eventually said between mouthfuls. “Give her a call.”

“I’m not sure she’ll pick up,” I said. “And if she doesn’t, I don’t want to think about it for the rest of the day.”

“You’ll think about it anyway,” he said. “Might as well see if she’s there. Maybe you can get a line on her and save us some time.”

I waited until we’d settled our account for the rooms and meal, with Elmore producing his own wad of Euros, and headed across the street to St. Stephen’s Green, the 22-acre Central Park of Dublin. It’s a glorious spot to find a bit of privacy, well away from potential prying eyes and ears inside the hotel.

That was my thinking, anyway.

The call immediately was directed to voice mail, and Caeli hadn’t bothered setting up a personalized recording. I tried it a second time, just in case, but got the same result and didn’t leave a message after the extended beep and empty air.

Not good, I thought. That’s not a good start.

I then hit the speed dial number for the archbishop’s residence in Armagh and was talking with an efficient woman a moment later.

“Good day,” I said. “I wonder if Archbishop O’Lennox has returned from his … vacation?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and I detected no hesitation in her voice at all. “May I ask the nature of the call?”

“It’s a personal matter,” I said.

“I see. I am only authorized to tell you, sir, that His Eminence is away. Would ye care to leave a message?”

“Could you tell me when he’s expected back or how I might reach him?” I said, trying to avoid the brush-off. “I called a couple of days ago and spoke with a gentleman who indicated the archbishop was expected back in Armagh by now.”

She hesitated, no doubt spotting my lie, and then muttered a quick “One moment” and placed me on hold.

I glanced at Elmore, placing my hand over the phone’s mouthpiece.

“Do these things leave a number behind – at the other end?”

“No. We took care of that when they were set up,” he said. “Even with Caller ID, all they get is a blank screen – not even a Blocked Number message.”

She was back on the line a moment later.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman said. “I suggest ye call back another time. Perhaps His Eminence will be at home. Good day to ye.”

The line went dead, and I wasn’t happy about going 0 for 2 on this otherwise fine morning.

I thought about trying Caeli’s line again, but Elmore’s sat-phone rang at that moment, and he picked it the call, listened for a few seconds, and clicked it off after a brief acknowledgment.

“Leonard’s made connections with our contacts,” he said. “Looks like they got a lead.”

“A lead?” I said. “For Caeli or the archbishop?”

“Both, apparently.”

He was already heading for the hotel, which was immediately across well-traveled Merrion Row, a busy one-way thoroughfare that accommodated traffic between the park and the hotel. We were forced to stop for the traffic light at the crosswalk, with neither one of us paying much attention – a mistake that almost proved fatal. A dark grey Volvo charged out of Lower Baggot Street, running against traffic, and made a beeline straight for us.

I spotted the speeding car at the last instant, crashed into Elmore’s bulk by ramming my shoulder as hard as I could into his rock-hard frame, and sent the two of us sprawling backward onto the footpath. The Volvo missed us by inches.

A sharp squealing of tires indicated that the attack wasn’t over. The Volvo spun around, this time heading with the traffic, and began winding up for another run. I helped tug Elmore to his feet and pulled him by the arm, yelling “We’ve got to move,” and then shoved him into the heavy metal fence rails that line the park. The Volvo could no longer reach us, and the car raced down Lower Baggot with horns blaring and people from all directions converging on the site to ensure that we were uninjured. 

“You good?” I asked, ignoring the numerous shouts and inquiries from curious Dubliners who’d witnessed the event.

“Yeah. Thanks – for doing my job,” he said as he dusted off his pants.

“Forget it. We need to get out of here – before the Guards show up.”

A bystander approached us, shouting as though we were yards away and couldn’t hear him.

“For the love of jaysus,” he hollered, “but I thought that bloody eejit was good for the both of ya, I did. He’s a right drunken bollox, a nutter. Are ye lads all right then?”

“Me friend’s hurt,” I said, affecting a Dublin accent, “and I’ve no bloody phone. Would ya be after callin’ 9-9-9?” – the Irish equivalent of 9-1-1.

He pulled out his smart phone, his face at once earnest and helpful and concerned, and I nodded my thanks and started tugging at Elmore again, pulling him across Merrion Row and back toward the Shelbourne, weaving in and out of the passing traffic.

“Where’s Leonard?” I asked.

“On Kildare Street. I think it’s …”

“I know where it is,” I said, ignoring the calls from our would-be rescuer behind us. “Come on. We’ll cut through the hotel – away from prying eyes.”

We were slinking through the Shelbourne moments later, approaching a back exit for maintenance staff, when Elmore tugged my arm.

“Thought you said not to use an Irish accent.”

“I did – you and Leonard,” I said. “My accent’s passable in an emergency. Caeli taught me.”

“You didn’t want them knowing we were Yanks, right?” he said.

“You catch on quick, Elmore.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a good thing Leonard wasn’t there,” he said. “He would’ve shot the driver, and the guy trying to help, then told us that was something else he hated about Ireland.”

I laughed as we pushed through the door – I couldn’t help it.

But banter aside, I wasn’t happy about this turn, and I’m sure that my ruffled bodyguard wasn’t, either.