Chapter 116

 

Southern Ireland, 1984

 

The sunlight flooding O’Connell Station, in the heart of Dublin, would have been unusual in the middle of summer, and here it was winter. The man smiled to himself, it must be a good omen. He glanced at his watch as he descended the stone steps instead of the convenient escalator to the street. From across the road, the neon lights flashed, and he remembered another time.

The three of them had been in the same room. Short on funds they’d paid for only one occupant. Drunk out of their minds, they’d passed out on the floor. No one had even benefited from the comfortable bed.

“Not even messed the blooming spread,” Emanon O’Neill had smiled coyly at the pretty young clerk, while he and Rory Hanlon nearly crapped their britches, and she quickly forgot her phone call, the Gardaí, the criminals they were.

Still confident of his ability he ignored the squawking horns as he dodged the noontime Dublin traffic.

~~~

 

“Room twenty-seven,” he said at the desk. With a knowing smile the clerk passed him the key to the lounge and accepted the pound notes.

“A tray?” she asked.

“Naturally. Just one bottle of Red Breast. If the English bastard doesn’t like Irish whiskey he can go dry.” The remark deepened her smile. “This fellow will be along shortly wearing a black London fog. He will have a shamrock right here,” was accompanied by a grin as he pointed to his own lapel. Laying another fifty-pound note on the counter, he said, “He’ll ask the correct time. If he’s alone, give him the room number.”

“If he’s not?”

“Give him the correct time.”

The girl giggled as she shoved the money into her own pocket.

~~~

 

Inspector Dan Mitchell was uneasy. The other side held all the cards. They knew who he was. They picked the location. They even knew the license number on the green Ford he pulled into the parking space. He’d been instructed where to find the car at the airport. He cut the engine as a young male approached. A steady look at his face, a satisfied glance into the empty car, and a quick nod sent Mitchell hurrying into the hotel. “The correct time?” He was sorry he snapped as the attractive girl smiled.

She said, “Room twenty-seven,” and pointed towards the stairway.

Hesitating at the door that proclaimed the proper number, Mitchell took a moment to catch his breath before he carefully opened it. Had he then screamed, he felt no court would have convicted him of cowardice. But he didn’t. Rather calmly he closed and locked the door behind him. He asked, “We strip now?”

“That’s the plan.” And the two men began removing their clothing until they reached their undershorts. “Far enough.” The first man in the room grunted. “I’m not about to poke my finger up your ass.”

“Not saying I wouldn’t.” Mitchell tossed his jacket at the other as they began to examine discarded clothing. When his adversary simply gave his jacket and pants a quick going over, removing the wallet to toss on the small table, Mitchell reprimanded him. “Careless. Today you can hide a recorder in a button.”

“What’s to gain? You knew we’d be doing a strip search. Only a fool would try to sneak one in. You?” He motioned and the inspector joined him at the table as he poured the drinks.

“Good whiskey,” Mitchell lifted the bottle. “Shouldn’t water it with ice.”

“The ice was for you.”

“And you?” A questioning stare was rapidly replaced by an angry frown. “You, you son of a bitch! What’s in this for you?”

Thomas Devlin grinned before he answered. “Don’t let it throw you Dan. I’m just an errand boy, too. Whoever is holding the stakes is controlling us both.”

“Then how can we deal?”

“Simple, lad, there is no dealing. They’ve made the decision cut and dried.” He calmly sipped his drink and explained. “It might have turned out different if you hadn’t grabbed those kids. But now it appears O’Donnell and O’Neill are of significant importance to someone other than just their families. This group proved to my satisfaction that they hold a live Connors and Sheppard. These were handed to me as I stepped off the plane this morning.” He placed several three-by-five prints on the table.

Mitchell lifted them, went to window and studied them for a few minutes. There were two prints of each prisoner taken separately so it was impossible to tell if they were being held in the same place. “No chance they’ve been doctored?”

“I checked the show, that news was aired live just as you see it there at ten past six this morning. Those are Polaroid prints right out of the camera.”

“They are being held in London?”

“Probably not.” Devlin shrugged. “Maybe in England? Still, several countries carry the London news live. I was given those pictures a few minutes after ten so they could have come from anywhere. But one thing that was made very clear to me on the phone last night, all the captives go free or none do.”

Mitchell allowed himself a second double shot, which he carried to an easy chair on the far side of the room, plagued by a desire to put a non-slugging distance between them. As he spread out, he said, “Just like that! How do you purpose we do it?”

“Your problem. I’d say our unknown acquaintances hold the more valuable commodity. You English might sacrifice Sheppard on principle, but how do you muzzle the Yanks? They paid their dues by electing Connors. All our friends need to do is start spreading out proof Jason is alive and the English are jeopardizing our attempts to rescue him. Can you imagine the outcry?”

“The military has stacked up enough evidence to put ropes around those brats necks,” Mitchell admitted. “I don’t see it coming to that even with the new Terrorist Act. But opening the doors, just turning them lose without a trial, it’s too late for that.”

“You’re a bunch of sorry asses,” Devlin said without raising his voice. “Those kids had nothing to do with Monaghan’s. That action was probably what it appeared, soldiers killing soldiers.”

“A terrorist bombing.”

“War covers a multitude of vile actions, lad,” Devlin answered. “Dose a fancy uniform, a legally purchased bullet, make a man any less a killer than a bit of plastic explosive in the hand of a raggedy ass civilian?”

Dan Mitchell’s tone grew hard. “Never expected to hear that from your end. Can you, excuse me, they, prove what occurred at Monaghan’s?”

“Don’t you think if they had proof, Liam O’Neill wouldn’t already be in possession of it? Remember, that old guy has a lot of markers due him. Not likely either side would withhold information that could help his granddaughter.”

“So,” Mitchell offered, “What do you say to a jail break? Get them out now and clear them later.”

“The O’Donnell couldn’t accept that nor would the O’Neills settle for making Deirdre a fugitive. We have to clear them completely.”

“Would they be happier if one or both died during the trial? Dede is already threatening to play the hunger striker and Sean will follow her lead.”

“Keep it from the boy.”

“Your nephew.” Mitchell suddenly recalled. “Sorry, Tom, you know there’s no way we can prevent his finding out. Even if the clans hadn’t decided to pool their resources—the media will play this up as a major movie.”

“Nothing those blokes like better than a few dark heroes. Damp in here, you mind?” He reached for his trousers as Mitchell gave a go ahead sign. Stepping into slacks, he pulled on a tee shirt, then a woolen sweater. He perched on the couch to roll out his socks as he said, “It would be a damn shame if this game should finish Seamus O’Donnell.”