TWENTY-THREE

More Coincidences

Aw, nuts, I thought – and not for the first time since we’d been on this adventure.

Misadventure, maybe. Maybe misadventure is a much better word for the entire affair and the mess that we were furiously digging through.

Caeli’s two simple words, “McBride’s dead,” uttered inside the confines of Moby Dick’s, changed the complexity of the situation, and not for the better. Everything about Uncle Jack’s disappearance that I’d previously considered to be true to this point, or at least plausible, was now flying straight through the window and was blowing merrily on brisk Irish winds deep into the Atlantic, out there somewhere with Ahab’s white whale and John Huston’s fake blow-ups, one of which was reportedly lost during filming.

I also was thinking of true expletives well beyond Aw, nuts when I pulled a couple of Euro notes from my pocket and tossed them onto the table before heading for the door, trailing Caeli. 

I’d mentioned earlier, when we passed the commotion in the middle of a city block as we’d first arrived in Youghal and were looking for a parking spot close to Moby Dick’s, that at least we hadn’t seen any dead bodies lying in the street.

I was technically correct in that flippant observation.

Monsignor McBride’s dead body was sitting in full view of passers-by in the driver’s seat of his rented Buick, his head lolled off to one side, with a large bullet hole evident immediately between his horrified eyes.

We saw the crime scene photos later, supplied by one of Caeli’s sources.

As we scurried out of the pub, oblivious to the continuing light rain, looking for Sal and Sol, we spotted something else of curious interest: the very Range Rover that Elmore and Leonard had somehow lost in the parking lot at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Armagh the previous evening.

“That looks familiar,” I said to Caeli, pointing toward the SUV with the big grille guard as we hustled down the street.

“Can’t be a coincidence,” she said.

“Or even serendipitous. Have you seen Sal and Sol?”

“No, but that’s how it’s supposed to work,” she said. “Let’s get to the car. They’ll find us.”

She meant the Denali, which can’t be called a mere car, especially by European standards, but I understood her anyway and swept her along in my lengthy strides, which were exaggerated now for purposes of getting us off the street as quickly as we could manage. The last thing that either one of us wanted was to get into a confrontation or – and far worse – a gunfight in the lovely little tourist town of Youghal.

Gunfights in peaceful Irish villages don’t go over well … decidedly bad for business, I thought.

The Range Rover was parked on a side lane, close to the intersection where we’d left the Denali. We were moving across the street at a good clip when two people, a man and a woman, stepped out of the red SUV and started after us, closing the distance quickly, their hands hovering near what I considered to be logical spots to conceal firearms of one sort or another.

What happened next was a snap judgment on my part, made on the fly, but it was the best plan that I could offer in that particular moment.

Caeli saw it at the same time, apparently agreed with my initial assessment, and we both automatically reached for our firearms. Mine was in its holster, which was tucked inside the waistband of my Dockers. Caeli’s was secured inside a fanny pack, which was strapped to the left side of her stylish belt.

And then we both did something that I find curious. Instead of pulling our weapons and taking cover, preparing to defend ourselves against an assault that we were certain was both immediate and inevitable, we simply sprinted instead of jogged, trying to neutralize the situation by running away from it, leaving our Walthers tucked away. That reaction doesn’t come naturally to either one of us. We’re both Fight instead of Flight/Freeze types, Caeli especially.

Even now I’m uncertain how she managed it, racing away instead of heading directly into the battle, and we’ve discussed the moment in some detail in the months since. 

How we managed it without a word said between us is even more amazing. Hell, I was spoiling for a fight, and I’m damn certain that Caeli would’ve preferred a good old-fashioned dust-up to a jog as well.

Maybe it was a gift of sorts to the good citizens of Youghal.

Our best hope at that point was that the rapidly-closing, Range Rover-stealing thugs who were now after us were carrying pistols and not pipe bombs.

“We need to get to the car,” Caeli said, picking up speed.

I mentally agreed with her assessment. The Denali had armor plating, which we could use for protection.

“I don’t like it,” I muttered, talking to myself, keeping up an accelerated pace.

And then another ugly thought hit me:

For all we know, there’s already a pipe bomb under the Denali.

I stifled yet another Aw, nuts – no point in stating the obvious.

All I could think about was a shootout on the streets, with bullets flying and innocent bystanders killed or wounded – Hell, I’m an innocent bystander. So is Caeli – and the Guards racing to the rescue, unarmed and soon lying dead on the pavement. Before you knew it, cell phone photos of the participants, taken by passing tourists, would be supplied to the authorities, and a major manhunt for the two Americans with phony IDs who were illegally carrying firearms would be featured in the newspapers and broadcast on the telly with a full media trumpeting, both here and at home.

And that was only if we survived whatever was coming next, which seemed damned unlikely as the situation unfolded.

“I don’t like it,” I repeated.

But you can’t underestimate the influence of Vinny Fierro, even from thousands of miles away. Sal, or maybe it was Sol, already was at the SUV and was waving us in. His right hand was lowered and held close to his hip, with a Beretta 92 ready to spring into action.

He’s keeping it out of sight, in case somebody’s watching …

I didn’t immediately spot Sol, or maybe it was Sal, but I didn’t worry about it, figuring that he also was close and keeping an eye on things.

“Prego,” Sal/Sol calmly said when we reached the Denali, holding the door for us, as though we’d just arrived from the opera. “Dopo di lei.”  

“Please. After you?” Really? I thought.

I muttered a brisk “Grazie” as we scrambled inside, expecting gunfire to erupt at any second – expecting Sal/Sol to hoist his Beretta and begin blasting away to provide cover fire and perhaps even take down the pursuing thugs, and I remember thinking how surreal the situation was.

For what it’s worth, “Prego. Dopo di lei” is a bit formal for “Get your ass inside the rig and keep your heads down,” which is more or less what I would’ve been shouting, not calmly saying, had our roles been reversed.

Still, our asses were now inside the Denali and our heads were down and our weapons were out, with both of us trusting that the armor plating would keep us safe from the gunfire … that never came.

I popped my head up a moment later. Caeli quickly joined me. Sal/Sol was still at the side of the rig, grinning at us, his Beretta now tucked out of sight. The door remained open.

Our assailants were nowhere to be seen. It was as though they’d never been there at all.

“What the hell just happened?” I asked.

Sal/Sol ignored me.

“Signore. What happened, per favore?” Caeli said.

Her Irish is definitely better than her Italian, though she does know a few key words and some choice remarks that she’s picked up from me through the years.

He smiled at her, raising his eyebrows up and down a couple of times, an Italian version of flirting, I guess.  

“Our friends have – what’s the word, in English?” He mumbled this last part, then picked it up again. “Eliminated? Yes, I think so. Eliminated the threat.” His accent was thick, from Salerno, perhaps, or maybe Napoli, and he smiled broadly at Caeli, ignoring me completely, his grin requiring no translation.

“What friends?” I asked.

He didn’t bother to even look my way.

But Caeli had the answer, well before Sal/Sol could say it aloud.

“One of the other teams picked them up,” she said.

That made sense, though I wish I’d seen it actually happen. I’d lost track of the two other sets of bodyguards that were shadowing us on this trip.

It was damned fortunate that they hadn’t lost track of us.

So what do you say in a situation like that one?

Here’s what I said, anyway:

“Maybe now we’ll get the chance to talk with these yahoos – get some names and explanations … figure out what the hell is going on.”

Caeli looked doubtful at that piece of optimism.

“Are they alive?” she asked.

Sol/Sal was looking down the street and didn’t answer immediately, and she nudged me.

“Max, what’s the Italian word for alive?”

“Vivo,” I said. “But in this case, you’d ask Sono ancoare vivi?”

“Si,” he said. His eyes were still locked on the street, searching, watching carefully.

Then he bent down and whispered to Caeli.

“Right now they are alive. Yes.”

His partner appeared from nowhere at that instant, and both of the Italians climbed inside the Denali.

Sal/Sol swiveled his head from the driver’s seat and said, his eyes locked on Caeli, “Buckle up.”

The Denali rumbled to life an instant later, and we started up the street as though we’d just enjoyed a casual visit to the wharf, along with a drink and some fresh sea air, and were now heading home.

But that also brought up the obvious question: Just where were we going? Caeli asked the question before I could raise it and got a quick response.

“To the castle,” the driver said. “We shall talk to the …”

He was searching his memory for the correct word in English, and Caeli helped him with this:

“Miscreants,” she offered.

He repeated the word, stumbling twice with the pronunciation and then asking for a clarification.

“Mis-cree-ants,” Caeli said, dividing the word into three manageable bites.

He tried it again and was delighted when she complimented his skills.

“What does it mean, this mis-cree-ants?” he asked.

She nudged me for a translation.

“Stronzi,” I said quickly. “Definitely stronzi.”

Sal and Sol both laughed.

“I take it that stronzi doesn’t exactly translate into miscreants,” Caeli said.

“You could say that,” I said, though I didn’t offer her the translation.

Given the context, I expect that she understood it well enough.

We were back at Castle Ballygarvan an hour later, again taking the roundabout tour of back roads and lanes that were demandingly narrow, especially when considering the Denali’s girth. What would have happened had we actually passed another vehicle that was anywhere near as large as ours was unthinkable.

But we met no tourist buses, vans, lorries, or gigantic American-made SUVs –and better yet, no dark sedans, either – and we saw no signs of the other two Denalis that Don Vincenzo’s Italian contingent was driving. Still, we suspected that both of the rigs were close by and that one of them was ferrying the two Range Rover-stealing miscreants we’d seen for a fleeting second on the streets of Youghal to a close-up-and-personal date with a qualified interrogator.

In this case, I truly hoped that the role would fall to me.

The day remained dreary and damp, Sal and Sol were quiet and seemed to be in no hurry, and Caeli and I had some time to talk.

The conversation wasn’t what you might expect, despite what had just happened to the late Donald McBride.

“We haven’t had a good meal together since we’ve been here,” I said.

“What about that rather amazing breakfast this morning?”

“It’s not like we hand-picked a nice restaurant and made a date of it. Besides, you’d already eaten by the time I got downstairs. How about I take you out on the town tonight and treat you to something special? – after we settle this other business.”

“That’s wonderfully sweet of you,” Caeli said.

“Hey, I’m a sweet guy. It’s what I’m all about: la dolce vita.”

I heard a snort, or maybe it was a snigger, from one of our traveling companions in the front seat but ignored it.

“I really would like to sit down to a nice salad, with a fresh piece of salmon or plaice, and a glass of wine,” Caeli said.

“Especially the wine.”

“Red wine,” she said. “A blush, maybe. We aren’t likely to find pinot gris here to match the salmon. In Italy, maybe, but not here. Ireland is all about whiskey and stout.”

“So what say we wrap this business up and take a trip to Rome before we head back?” I said. “We can take your Uncle Jack along. He’ll be due for a vacation. We can catch him up on all the details that he’s missed during his time away.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Caeli said, though a bit wistfully, and I wondered whether I should’ve mentioned her uncle and the business that we were currently involved in at all – or at least in that moment.

“We can’t forget dessert,” I said, trying to keep the moment light. “What do you think? Sherry trifle? Bailey’s Bundt cake, or Bailey’s brownies, maybe?”

“Better that than chocolate potato cake.”

“Or potato dessert anything, including the recipes where they dump in the Irish cream, Bailey’s or otherwise.”

“If we were in the north, they’d serve Donegal oatmeal cream without asking.”

“Good thing we aren’t in the north, or in Donegal,” I said.

The talk of food was making me hungry, despite the huge breakfast.

“The chocolate orange Guinness cake we had the last time we were here was terrific – maybe a slice of that,” I said. “Plus the sherry trifle, of course. You can’t visit Ireland and miss the trifle.”

“Trifle with rum,” Caeli said. “You can’t forget rum when you’re making sherry trifle.”

“Seems like it should be renamed.”

“How typically American of you – typically Italian-American.”

We laughed softly, enjoying the moment, but it turned again … just as it would continue to turn until Uncle Jack was safely secured.

“I want a crack at these two characters – when we get back,” I said. “They’ve been dogging me since I stepped off the plane – dogging us. We still don’t have a clue as to who they are, or what they want, or who they’re working for, or why they’re doing what they’re doing.”

“Do you think they’ll talk?” Caeli said.

“With the right motivation, maybe. And I can’t wait to have at them – especially the part about who hired them. My money was on McBride, you know … right up until an hour ago.”

Caeli momentarily turned her head toward the passing scene, and a shadow passed over her face and caught for a fleeting second in her eyes before it disappeared into the gloom of the day.

“I’m fairly sure I know what they want,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter – not even McBride matters. All that matters is getting Uncle Jack back in one piece. They can fight their little war forever, whoever they are, so long as they fight it without trying to use him as a bargaining chip.”

She was right, of course. Our only concern for all of it – for any of it – was a safe return of the archbishop. The Troubles, political and religious and economic, had been ongoing in Ireland for centuries and would continue long after we were well beyond caring about the eventual outcome.

I took her hand, and she glanced at me and looked small and frail and incredibly sad and lovely, all at the same time.

We pulled onto the castle grounds minutes later and knew instantly that something was wrong.

The Denalis that had been driven by the other two sets of Italians were already parked at the main entrance, along with the phantom Range Rover. Liam Gallacher was waiting for us on the steps with a grim look on his face. A dozen or so men in tweed caps and nondescript overcoats suitable for a damp Irish day surrounded him.

The Italians and their two captives were nowhere in sight.

Nor were Elmore and Leonard, and this surprised me even more than the idea that grim news was ahead.

Hell, this whole business had been one dollop of grim news after another. Why would we expect anything different now?

“Ghastly, I’m afraid, Miss Brown, Professor Blake,” Gallacher said as we exited the SUV and walked toward him. “Simply ghastly.”

“What’s happened?” Caeli asked.

“Suicide,” Gallacher said, his face a picture of concern. “Cyanide capsules, most likely. Yer Italian friends didn’t even make it out of Youghal before the pair they was after bringin’ our way was, well … already dead.”

He brushed his hands together, left and then right, as he spoke the last two words and then repeated the motion several more times in quick succession.

“Dammit,” I said softly. “Back to square one.”

“No,” Caeli said, brushing past Gallacher and heading straight inside the castle. “We’re farther along than that. Come on. I’ve got something to show you.”