Chapter 115

 

London, 1984

 

“Why the hell is he staying here?” Michael O’Neill repeated the same complaint he had issued countless times since he discovered the arrangements. “Should’ve booked a hotel. Let him come to me.”

Thomas Devlin felt a sense of satisfaction in the big man’s discomfort but he didn’t dare let it show. “Come on Mike, with Mauve living this close to London? She is his daughter. Hasn’t the heat between you and Liam cooled by now?”

Devlin grinned to himself as he saw the same frown worn by Mike copied on his father’s face as Liam O’Neill nodded to his first-born. “Michael.” Then his eyes dropped on the creature clinging to Mike’s jacket. He smiled at the small face that peeked up at him. “So this is Gavin?”

Michael said, “Pa, meet the last of the litter.”

“Well, lad, come let’s have a look at you?” The man knelt to be more in keeping with his grandson’s size.

“Go on.” Michael prodded the child. And timidly Gavin stepped closer to the stranger apparently none too thrilled with his odd accent.

Wisely the adult male didn’t reach immediately for the boy only remarked. “Nice size lad.” As Gavin chewed nervously on his lower lip his grandfather offered. “Too many new things happening for a young fellow. You take your time. You’ll find your own way to us.” And he grinned. “Sure, you can’t be nearly the pest Dede claims?” This caused the boy to giggle.

Now when the big man held his arms out with, “It’s a bit of a kiss you’ve got for your grandpa?” very cautiously Gavin wiggled into them and pressed his lips lightly against the man’s cheek. The victor rose as he said, “It’s a fine boy you’ve brought me, Michael.”

Michael O’Neill threw his arm about his father’s shoulders as he felt a sense of relief in Liam’s acceptance of his son. Then he warned, “Enjoy him for a while but he goes home with me.”

~~~

 

Devlin returned Mauve’s smiling nod and followed her from the parlor. Though only a year younger than Michael, his sister had stayed at home caring for their ailing mother until she died. So while she eventually married and moved into upper class English society, she still maintained a country girl quality. Her untouched black hair showed a bit of natural gray frosting, and her scrubbed complexion was only slightly altered by makeup. The simplicity of her dress played down the middle-aged spread of hips that a wiser woman might have prevented. “The child will bring them together,” she said.

“Maybe?” Devlin wasn’t that confident as he reminded. “Dede, remember, only drove the wedge deeper.”

“Heavens, Tom, that tiny infant? No bigger than a doll when Emanon brought her to us. She was Momma’s toy and my yoke. Pa wasn’t into baby tending, not that he wasn’t fond of her. Then when ma died, Charles and I about to be married, it was relief he felt when Michael sent for her. Emanon was the only one upset over giving Deirdre to her father.”

“She was important to him.”

“Not really. Don’t tell me you’ve done like Pa? Created a ghost who hardly resembles the real lad? I loved my brother but a saint he was not. My parents spoilt him dreadfully. He found the baby intolerable. Why did he fight so hard to keep her from Michael? Nothing but spite I suspect. It was Emanon, not Michael, who brought the infant home to us.”

“Emanon believed in taking care of his own.”

The wide grin added youthfulness to her features. “You’ve made him a hero and Michael a villain. Not that Emanon wasn’t the charmer. Whenever Michael was around, sure Emanon would do his Hyde to Jekyll spin.”

“Knowing Mike, that’s easy to understand, smashed the kid every time he opened his mouth.”

Amazed at the accusation, Mauve shook her head in dismay as if she wondered where this idiot got his information and then she laughed. It was short and sad with past memories. “Why Michael, big lad that he was, let that nipper crawl all over him. Emanon was Michael’s shadow from the time he could toddle. My older brother was rough and a bit too quick to anger but never intentionally mean. Why do you think Michael moved to London when Emanon was having trouble in school? He hated England but he stayed three years to help Emanon make it through. Michael’s too much like Pa, always needing someone to be responsible for. Naturally they can’t see that. With Emanon dead they both needed the little girl.”

“So Dede did drive them apart.”

“No,” she disagreed. “They did that to themselves; they had no real need for each other.”

“Mauve!”

A guilty look flashed across her face as she turned to confront her father and brother.

But they apparently hadn’t overheard, for her father simply said, “Lad’s hungry. Would you be fixing him a bite?” He placed Gavin’s hand in hers. “Michael and I need to talk. You come too, Thomas.” Almost as an afterthought he added, “Charles comes home, send him in to us.”

“You don’t mind caring for Gavin?” Michael asked. “Ann wanted to stop and visit a friend in London. She’ll be here in the morning—kid shouldn’t be too much trouble till then.”

“Really, Michael, have I ever found your offspring trouble. It’s surely not like I’ve a pack of my own to contend with. You men tidy up this mess so we get our Dede back quickly. Gavin and I will have a grand time getting acquainted.”

~~~

 

Cautiously he weaved his way over the icy roads, passed stalled cars, angry drivers, and shivering pedestrians; all the pandemonium caused by an early winter storm. Dan Mitchell despised snow. Experience has taught him snow was a deterrent to nothing. Unlike rain, which even the most hardened criminals sought to avoid. This early harsh winter, with the cost of fuel escalating because of the Arabs, would put an added burden on the average wage earner. With cheap imports cutting into sales, the dwindling western job markets, he thought, how can you blame a bloke for turning a crooked buck? Perhaps Connors wouldn’t make the Yanks such a bad president; but it could prove damn hard on the rest of the world.

He reflected on the conversation he’d had that morning. “John Connors is a very angry man,” Michael O’Neill had said. “But it is as nothing compared to the fire burning in my gut. I laughed when Connors said it was time to wrap it in, roll it up tight, just plain declared the well’s dried up. No more imports, no more foreign investors, you want what I have come try and take it. But you don’t see me laughing now!”

“Sure,” Thomas Devlin had replied, “America will declare billions for defense, not one cent for foreign aid. A new Independence Day.”

“Shut the fuck up!” O’Neill growled at Devlin before turning on Mitchell. “You grabbed my kid. You goddamn better come up with a good explanation.”

But try as he might he hadn’t been able to explain to a father’s satisfaction why his child was being held, how she’d had been injured, and how she’d got to London. So while he wasn’t a coward, neither was he a damn fool.

When you faced a raging bull, you backed away. Mitchell had left the explanations to the embassy people and politely exited the first chance he got.

Now as he drove through London, going over the conversation in his mind, an uneasy thought came to him, Independence Day? The Fourth of July? Suddenly he laughed out loud. It was a figure of speech from a politician and Devlin was ridiculing Connors remarks at the time. “Radicals in the White House.” He grunted aloud. “Next I’ll be seeing terrorists on Downing Street.”

He pulled into a parking space, jerked his collar up against the wind, and made the rest of the way on foot. Now and then he nodded in the direction of a supposedly invisible character, as he contemplated how pathetic it was that leaders of nations must always be protected from those they govern.

Ushered into her office, he realized the lady wasn’t present. He felt an emptiness with her missing.

“Tea? Dan?” Reese motioned towards the silver service.

“Rather scotch.”

As Mitchell poured his own the head of the SAS grumbled, “Can’t blame you. A dirty business. Take a seat the films ready to roll.” Mitchell slipped into a familiar chair as the light winked out.

Done in the stark reality of black and white, with its many shades of gray, the cell was unquestionably a cell and the naked prisoner undoubtedly Stewart Sheppard. Sipping his drink, Dan Mitchell’s practiced sight carefully studied the captured images on the screen. At first it was merely disgusting what they were subjecting the young man too. Perverted play but harmless enough, and he could tell by his haughty expression that Stewart was also aware of this. Good for you, lad, he thought, for the young man’s face showed nervousness but not fear.

Then soon it became obvious drugs were being introduced. It was depressing to witness the rapid change in the victim. Stewart appeared to be breaking fast. Mitchell knew they had accomplished this by cropping but the result was still gruesome. The young captive no longer attempted to maintain his mental shields. His features were contorted by terror as he scratched and banged himself bloody on the walls and bars of his cage. “Bastards!” Mitchell mouthed the curse over the agonizing howls coming from the projector.

“It only gets worse.” Reese’s controlled tone showed signs of wearing thin. And on the screen, Stewart pounds his forehead at the bars of his cell until blood spurts into his cupped palms, then in plain view slips down to filthy floor and begins to masturbate.

Noticing the lack of blood on the prisoner’s penis Mitchell remarked, “Pieced this section.”

“Doesn’t make it any pleasanter.”

By the close of the reel, the twenty six year old male had reverted to a wretched form of infantilism. Rocking back and forth on his buttocks, hugging his arms to his chest, he cowered in a pool of spreading urine. Needing a refill, the inspector lurched to his feet.

“I’ll have the same.” Reese said before he told Mitchell. “We have to sit through another. We got a copy of the American’s film this morning.” Never much of a drinker, he grimaced at the bite on his tongue as he said, “That’s defiantly Jason Connors,” as the screen came to life.

“How carefully have we examined this film?” Mitchell asked.

“Naturally we didn’t take the Yanks’ word. We’ve gone completely over it inch by inch. Those tubes are legitimately connected to the lad’s body. The body and face are one. This videotape shows less signs of tampering than the movie film. Jason is either comatose or a damn fine actor. Strange, they did it all in color with a video camera?”

“Playing for a different audience. Smart sons of bitches, wanted to make sure the fuckin’ piss was yellow. Wonder what caused those wounds, if the blasted things are real, they’re fresh, and at least we know the boy was alive and bleeding at that time.”

“Perhaps that was the point and the wounds were intentionally inflicted. I’d say it also helps destroys the theory that Jason was involved in all this.”

“Not necessarily. They could have used him and then turned on him. That is if those wounds are real.”

“This was where his mother fainted, they tell me.” Reese remarked as a distinctive foreign accent asked, “After we supply this commodity how can we be certain the son of the Yankee president will be turned over to us? He is an Irish boy.”

And a thick Ulster brogue sneered. “Irish-American! Only good thing his people did for Ireland was leaving it.”

“Then it wouldn’t upset you if I were to lend him too few friends?” His words had a deliberately vile ring. “Some have a taste for young males. Pink-cheeked babe.” The dark fingers roamed over the fair naked thigh.

A round of curses polluted the air from the males present in the darken room—except for Dan Mitchell. As the screen went blank, he lighted up, took a deep drag, contemplated the slowly drifting smoke then suddenly gave a short laugh. Confronted by the shocked expressions of his companions, his mirth stilled as he said, “Gentlemen, the Yanks are being taken. I’d wager that whole scene was a carefully staged performance. Got to give them credit they’re good, I can’t find one split from the fake to the real flesh but the blood is a bit too brown—it was mixed with something to keep it from congealing.

“You can’t be certain?” came from several sources. “Sheppard’s was real enough?”

“True,” Mitchell admitted. “And we can’t gamble so we are all being conned by the best con men in the world. Not a damn thing we can do about it except what they decree—what do they want?”

And the head of the SAS said, “You, for a start.”