FORTY-FIVE

The Last Man Standing

The Irish newspapers during the next few days were filled with breathy accounts and exclusives and speculative stories that jump-started the pulses and heartbeats of even the most complacent of conspiracy theorists – and especially those who were convinced that the ghost of Oliver Cromwell still stalked the land.

But the stories of alleged crazed terrorists advocating the overthrow of British rule on Irish soil by force and violence also played well throughout Europe and especially in the USA, where so many claim Celtic heritage.

Good to our word, we hadn’t said a thing … not to the Irish Telegraph or the Irish Times or the folks at the RTE broadcasting studios, nor to the London Times, the New York Times, or the Los Angeles Times. Still, it’s damn tough to disguise a firefight on a remote island off Ireland’s magnificent coast when Mickey O’Halpin, the intrepid skipper of the Mary Kate, was close enough to record video footage with his cell phone and then sweet-talk his tech-savvy niece into uploading more than seven minutes of raw data, complete with sound, to YouTube.

A couple of mouse-clicks and text messages and phone calls later, and … well, as I’d told Michael Corbin during our back-and-forth on the island’s windy perch, moments before the Italian cavalry showed up and the bullets started flying in earnest, you can’t keep the cat in the bag forever.

The best that can be said was that the story ended, although not well … and certainly not well for everybody. The redoubtable Mister Corbin was among the initial casualties, as were the five mercenaries who accompanied him to Mutton Island.

Two additional Corbin cohorts also perished after their runabout mysteriously sank. Their bodies were fished from the ocean two days after the YouTube video went viral.

One of Penn and Teller’s crew of Italian bodyguards who came to our rescue, sent with the blessing of Vincenzo Fierro, the ailing don, was killed by gunfire during the skirmish. Another was wounded, though not seriously enough to require official medical attention.

The Italians, we learned later, were never off the clock, even if they remained out of our sight once they left Castle Ballygarvan.

Elmore and Leonard were unharmed, as was Caeli, thank god – or at least it’s safe to say that she was physically unharmed. The pain that she’ll carry with her, and for a long time to come, is immeasurable. 

I was badly cut by rock shards and bullet fragments, the result of gunfire that strafed the lighthouse. Caeli eventually used pink thread and a needle from the lost-button kit in her travel bag to mend a slice on my cheek, just below my left eye, that required 10 stitches and another on my neck that required an additional 22 stitches to adequately close.

A bottle of Power’s Irish whiskey, supplied by Elmore, was the only anesthetic available, though I didn’t see the point of complaining. Caeli demonstrated a fine, steady hand, both pouring and stitching, and the alternative – seeking a doctor’s assistance – was simply out of the question. I lost a great deal of blood and gave everyone a good scare, and yeah, I’m sporting a couple of rakish scars today. But what the hell: I’m not exactly modeling for GQ these days anyway, nor for the art classes at the local college. 

And what of the fate of His Eminence, the Archbishop of Armagh, Caeli’s Uncle Jack, you ask?

Let’s just say that it didn’t end well for the archbishop, either. Here’s what happened, in sequence, as close as I can piece it all together, given what I witnessed and the cryptic nature of my scribbled notes in the Bed & Breakfast in Quilty later that night, fogged though they were by the whiskey, shortly before Vinny Fierro’s private jet collected us for a hurried return to faraway Oregon.

Within minutes of the Italians’ arrival, Mutton Island, or at least the portion of it that we occupied, was a war zone in every sense of the phrase.

I also suspect that the Italians had help, though I can’t prove it and, as is often typical in these situations, no one in authority is talking.

During the subsequent 20 minutes or so of steady fighting, I did everything I could think of to keep Caeli safe, sheltering her from the bullets that battered and blistered the lighthouse and its rock walls and that ripped through the air with the force and speed and fire of a dragon’s breath.

To place the situation into its appropriate context, in the unlikely event that you want to set up tin soldiers on the kitchen table and re-enact the battle, the Italians were on one side of the decrepit wall that surrounded the lighthouse, most of Corbin’s men were on the opposite side of that wall, the archbishop included, and we were sheltered behind what was left of the lighthouse itself, with the Atlantic at our back.

It’s worth noting that our position also provided us with a clear line of fire at Corbin, at his men, and at Uncle Jack, even as their attention was focused on the fight in front of them, as they looked out toward the east. Not that we were inclined to back-shoot anybody, least of all the archbishop, but that should help clarify the battlefield for you.

Despite the betrayal, despite the look of pure hatred that flashed through his eyes when he realized that his deception had been thwarted by forces out of his control, Caeli was determined to save Jack O’Lennox, even if he didn’t want to be saved, even if he’d played her – no, played all of us – multiple times, which he had.

A year ago, he’d planted the seed that he was not what he appeared to be, likely because he wanted to let her down easy when the time came for the world to know of his cockamamie plans to reunite the Irish Republic with Ulster.

Still, Caeli was drawn into the game, and me with her, by Monsignor Donald McBride, the archbishop’s longtime friend and aide, who believed that Caeli’s presence in Armagh might change the archbishop’s mind, perhaps trusting that His Eminence would see reason and logic when he looked once more into the loving eyes of his loving niece. The postcard that McBride sent, without the archbishop’s knowledge, is what brought us both into the game. 

McBride paid for his lapse in judgment with his life – yet another sign that the archbishop was far too committed to his cause, and too far off the rails, to let even a lifelong friendship interfere with his zealotry.

But family was far different from friendship. Rather than kill Caeli, once she flew to Ireland to attempt a rescue, Uncle Jack did something that was far worse, in Caeli’s eyes, anyway. After his attempts to scare us away failed, he tried to convince her that he was a victim, that Michael Corbin was the real culprit, and that as long as she left Ireland without giving up what she knew, his life would be spared.

But he hadn’t thought it through, just as many fanatics fail to see the larger picture when they are so focused on the power … and the glory, I suppose.

For starters, he hadn’t realized that Caeli’s devotion to him would strengthen her commitment to return him safely to the parsonage, despite the dangers she would face, despite the barriers he threw in her way, despite the personal toll it would take.

He didn’t count on my blind support for the woman I love, either.

He also didn’t realize that Corbin had been secretly working with the Brits off and on for years and was even now playing both ends against the middle – a candle that was burning at both ends.

He surely didn’t realize the incredible obstacle he was up against in Vinny Fierro’s empire, which we were fortunate enough to temporarily command: money, resources, personnel, the ability to quickly circumvent laws and borders and impediments that would otherwise hinder even the most determined individuals who didn’t have such vast means at their immediate disposal.

You can say what you want about Don Vincenzo, and a great many people who work for a great many agencies, clandestine or otherwise, have done exactly that through the years. But you couldn’t easily dismiss the man and the influence that he maintained with little more than a snap of his fingers or the push of a button on a smartphone … or even one that was attached to his sick bed.

I’ve said before that it’s good to have friends in low places. And it turned out that the archbishop underestimated our connection to the man whose tentacles spread across the globe – even into Uncle Jack’s beloved Ireland, the Ireland he wanted to save from British rule … even if that ship had sailed with Oliver Cromwell in 1649, more than 350 years into the past.

As bullets smacked into the lighthouse with increasing regularity, I tugged Caeli away from her spot at the base of the wall and convinced her to follow me to Elmore and Leonard’s position, short yards away, figuring that we could watch the action from a more secluded position.

“We can ride it out here – out of the line of fire,” I said.

“What about Uncle Jack? We can’t just leave him out there.”

I peered around the wall’s edge at her words – by instinct, I suppose. I could just make out Jack’s position, though it was easy enough to hear the steady burp of his AK-47 as he strafed the countryside, emptying a magazine and then taking a moment to snap in another and repeat the process.

“The only thing that matters right now is keeping you safe – keeping all of us safe,” I said.

“The only thing I care about right now is keeping him safe … regardless of what he’s done,” she said. She was on her feet and edging around the end of the keep, as though she wanted to make a mad dash across the rocks and somehow rescue her uncle.

“Max is right,” Elmore said, stepping in her way, using his considerable girth to block her path. “We’re safe enough here – for now. But out there?” He pointed with his free hand, cradling the rifle in the crook of his left arm. “The odds of swimming home are better than running out there to save your uncle.”

She nodded her head up and down, as though she’d processed Elmore’s words and understood them well enough. But I could tell that she still wanted to bolt, regardless of the danger, regardless of whether Uncle Jack wasn’t interested in being saved.

Not by us, he’s not …

Leonard moved closer, his eyes fastened on Caeli’s.

“We need to focus,” he said, shouting the words to make his voice heard above the whistling, roaring winds and the steady hammering of the guns. “Corbin’s people would be better protected in our position, and we can’t give it up – not without a fight.”

His message was clear: We had more important things to do, and she recognized in that instant, I think, that what she felt in her heart would have to take a back seat to her own safety and that of her companions. 

“You’re right,” she said. “All of you are right. We need to hold this spot. Maybe afterward … maybe then …”

Her eyes drifted again, but Leonard was relentless.

“You need to hold that flank,” he said, pointing toward the spot we’d just left. “Both of you. We can’t let Corbin and his people get behind the lighthouse. They’ll kill us all.”

He hoisted the barrel of his AK-47 skyward, the professional at work.

“We’re on it, Leonard,” I said.

We scrambled back to our original spot behind the lighthouse then, and I kept a close watch on Caeli as the gun battle raged on. I didn’t want to think that she was merely biding time, waiting for a chance to leave the relative safety of our position and make a run for her uncle. But I also didn’t want to take the chance that she might do exactly that.

Penn and Teller and their crew had far different ideas as to how all of this would play out, however.

The gunfire intensified, as though additional forces had joined the attack. Corbin quickly glanced over his shoulder – back in our direction – and yelled something that was lost in the wind and the firefight, at least to me. But his intention became clear when he swept his arm toward the lighthouse and began scrambling in our direction, with two of his mercenaries following along in close pursuit. 

I raised my rifle, disengaged the safety, and placed my finger on the trigger, hoping that the mere sight of the weapon would force Corbin to a halt.

It didn’t.

But just as I was tightening my index finger on the trigger to fire off a warning shot, Leonard laid down a solid wall of gunfire in front of Corbin and his men. In retrospect, it lasted for no more than three seconds. But at the time, it sounded as though it came from a dozen rifles and persisted for minutes instead of brief seconds. The bullets struck the rock-strewn landscape with a chattering, high-pitched intensity, sending a series of shards and granite chunks into the air.

Corbin cursed as he crashed to the rocks, and he fired off a quick burst at the lighthouse keep.

“You can’t win a war on two fronts,” I muttered as the skirmish unfolded.

Leonard was thinking the same thing.

“You’re on your own,” he hollered at Corbin. “You’re not welcome here.”

Corbin’s eyes were wide with hate and a seething anger and fear, and perhaps even regret, and he fired another volley toward the keep, cursing loudly enough to be heard this time. Recognizing the futility of his efforts and his increasing vulnerability, he called to his men and shifted directions and again scrambled toward the rock wall that had provided him with scant cover moments earlier.

He didn’t make it, and it surprised me when it happened. I figured that Corbin owned the nine lives of an alley cat. But maybe it was just that he’d already used up eight of those lives, long before he showed up on Mutton Island.

He’d taken no more than five or six steps when he was cut down by gunfire that seemed to come from the south, well off to our right. We couldn’t see in that direction without exposing our position, but it was apparent from the way Corbin’s body twisted and then pitched forward that he’d been struck on his right side.

I remember muttering something as the shock of what had just happened took hold, as did Caeli. But for the life of me, I can’t recall what it was that either of us said.

The two mercenaries who’d attempted the retreat toward the lighthouse grabbed Corbin by his arms and started tugging him back toward the wall, which was perhaps a dozen yards away from their position. But one of them was struck by multiple rounds an instant later, and he pitched sideways, stumbling over Corbin’s now-prone body and into the third man in the trio, who was knocked off balance and toppled to the granite.

Corbin and the first of his two helpers remained motionless among the rocks. Despite our close-up view, I couldn’t tell whether either man remained alive, but I had my doubts. The third man, the one who’d been upended like a bowling pin, either didn’t think so or didn’t care. He glanced around for the briefest of instants, began scrambling for better cover, but he, too, was cut down an instant later.

This time I remember exactly what I muttered, but it won’t be repeated here. My mother, who often reads these accounts, would be shocked to learn that her son knows such words – just as I was shocked to see it all play out before us.

The gunfire intensified again, now thundering toward the archbishop’s position from three sides. That prompted me to stick my head out from the rounded side of the lighthouse to get a better view of the action, ensuring at the same time that Caeli couldn’t do the same.

I wanted to call out to Uncle Jack. I wanted to yell at him that it wasn’t too late to surrender. But stray fire shattered the aging rocks inches from my face and left me with two deep gashes that were free-bleeders. 

Caeli dragged me back behind the lighthouse, hollering for Elmore. His rucksack produced some butterfly bandages that were slapped onto the cuts moments later, slowing but not stopping the bleeding, and Caeli spent an inordinate amount of time staunching the flow of blood from my neck wound with the sleeve from her sweater while chiding my attempts to keep her safe.

At least, that’s what I remember most about the torrent of words that were directed at me by both Caeli and Elmore in the next few moments.

I didn’t see Uncle Jack’s last charge. But Caeli watched it unfold like a slow-motion segment from an action movie, and she laid it out for me later, using a reporter’s notebook and a ballpoint pen and her exquisite handwriting to dispassionately record the event as she saw it.

“He’d looked back, toward the spot where Corbin and two of his men were lying in a heap among the rocks, not more than a dozen yards from our position behind the lighthouse. The gunfire was steady, intense, coming in bursts from different directions: first from the east, then from the south, then from the north. The sound intensified as the Italians got closer, and I could see clearly the look of concern on his face. All of his plans had come down to this.

“I called out to him, after you were hit, telling him to keep his head down, telling him to surrender, telling him that it was all over. But he wouldn’t do it. He was always stubborn about getting his way, especially when he thought he was right, and he remained stubborn right up to the end. He stood up and hollered something I couldn’t hear and started firing, straight ahead, over the top of the wall. I yelled at him one more time: ‘Give up, Uncle Jack. Just give up.’ The rain had stopped again, but the wind was blowing hard, and I couldn’t see clearly, and I closed my eyes and wiped them with the palms of my hands. And when I looked up again, I didn’t see Uncle Jack at the wall any longer. And then the gunfire ended abruptly, as though a movie director yelled ‘Cut.’ 

“By that time, you were in no condition to leave untended because you’d lost so much blood. And by the time we got you stabilized, and I finally had the chance to go over and see if he was still alive, or at least to say good-bye, the Italians were already there, keeping me away with words I didn’t understand and gestures I knew all too well. Nothing I said or did made any difference.”

Leonard’s account, while succinct, was just as telling.

“The crazy old bastard went out on his own terms,” he said. “Don’t know what else to tell you.”