To The Death Part 27

"Steady, kid. There's too many gaps. Too few real links. Although I recognize the death of the Irish farmer is significant, and according to your story it does look as if the killer might have got off that submarine."

"Arnie, will you cancel London?"

"h.e.l.l, no. I got a lot of security around me. I'll be fine. You can't let 'em rule you, kid, otherwise they've won. And we're not gonna let that happen, right?"

Jimmy ended the phone call, and contemplated the sheer futility of trying to convince Admiral Morgan that he might be in danger. And he racked his brains to think of a link, or even a terror suspect who might have killed Jerry O'Connell.

He pulled up his most-wanted list of Middle Eastern hard men, guys suspected of heinous crimes against humanity, guys who'd killed and maimed in Israel, murdered in Jordan, committed atrocities in Iraq and Afghanistan and at various U.S. emba.s.sies in Africa.

Had one of them traveled to Ireland in the missing Kilo? And why Ireland? Arnie wasn't going there. He tried to put himself in the shoes of the terrorist, and went through a process he had perfected years ago: Right, guys, here I go. I'm gonna kill the Big Man at the Ritz Hotel. Shoot him stone dead. Question: what with. Answer: a rifle, telescopic sights, no bulls.h.i.+t. Where do I get it: London, because I cannot possibly get such a weapon into the country, too much security at the airports and seaports. You get caught with a weapon like that, trying to smuggle it into Great Britain, they'll put you in the slammer and throw away the key.

Jimmy leaned back reflectively as Jane reentered the room. "Could I ask why you're talking to yourself?" she said brightly. "Aside from the fact that you might be losing your mind through overwork."

"I'm not talking to myself," he replied. "I'm processing information. Forming strategy."

"Okay. It just sounded to me a lot like you were talking to yourself."

"Perception, Jane, perception. Try to look beyond the obvious."

"Well, I did. And you were obviously talking to yourself."

"Jane, I was strategizing. And I still am. And I want to ask you a question. You are a terrorist, and you're trying to get into England, unarmed, and with a pa.s.sport. How do you do it?"

"Me? I get a flight to Heathrow, and walk through with my pa.s.sport."

"That's what you won't do. They make a record of that. Computerized. The security is unbelievable, and remember you've got to get out after you murder your target."

"Okay, I'll come in by car, off a ferry, from a different country. I know they're not nearly as strict at the ferry ports."

"Okay. Which country are you coming from? France? Holland? Spain?"

"Yes. I suppose so."

"And how do you get in there?"

"I fly in."

"Wrong. Then you run into that heavy European security again."

"Okay. Well, how do I get in?"

"Ireland, by sea, Jane. It's always been the soft option. For years they did not even have pa.s.sports between the two countries. And it's not much different now, even in England, not if you're holding a European Union pa.s.sport. Ireland's the way into England."

"How about flying into Ireland from a foreign country?" asked Jane.

"That's much more difficult. The Irish adhere to the European rules as best they can. They want to know who you are, how long you're staying, and the rest."

"Well, how the heck do you get in then?" said Jane, tiring of the conversation.

"You get in by sea. There's miles and miles of coastline, and the Irish have hardly any Coast Guard protection. You could land from deep water just about anywhere. You'd never try the same thing in England. Because they'd catch you. They arrest people all the time."

"So the method for a killer is into Ireland by boat, then a ferry to England, and no one would know you were in the UK."

"Precisely."

"And you think Carla did that?"

"No. Carla's not an a.s.sa.s.sin, though I doubt Matt Barker would agree. But her mate is. The one who killed Jerry O'Connell."

2300 Tuesday 17 July Belgrave Square, London.

Shakira's fast Audi A6 came swiftly into London's grandest square after their long journey halfway across England. They had made it in seven hours, which was superb driving considering that the general had elected to duck and dive through country roads and never to stick to a predictable route down the high-speed British motorways.

His reason was clear. If anyone had managed to identify them, or somehow get on their trail, it was ten times easier for the police to patrol the freeways than to organize a search through the highways and byways of the rural heart of England.

He'd stuck to the A-5 all the way to the historic river town of Shrewsbury, then cut to the M-5 freeway south of Birmingham, through Herefords.h.i.+re, on roads he had once known like the palm of his hand. He exited at number 10, picked up the A-40, and in the twilight of this fine July evening raced through some of the loveliest country in England, to the wonderful steep Cotswold town of Burford, and then fast around the Oxford Ring Road onto the M-40.

From there it was a straight shot at London, past his old school, Harrow, and then off the freeway into the Holland Park area. He knew these roads better than he knew Damascus, and he cut through to Knightsbridge, swung right just before Harrods, and made Belgrave Square right on time.

He pulled up outside No. 8 and immediately two staff members from the Syrian emba.s.sy ran down the steps to greet him. One said, "General, please take your wife inside immediately. We will take care of everything."

Ravi and Shakira ran inside, while one Syrian grabbed their bags from the trunk and the other slipped behind the wheel and drove the Audi around the square and into the underground Motcombe Street garage, where the emba.s.sy had many reserved s.p.a.ces. The two runaway terrorists had spent exactly seven seconds on the sidewalk.

The amba.s.sador was there to meet the Hamas C-in-C, with his wife and the military attache. One of the cultural attaches was also there, but he knew roughly as much about culture as Genghis Khan. Ahmed was a terrorist and a spy, fresh from slamming a bomb at the U.S. emba.s.sy in Tel Aviv.

Dinner was set for the six of them, and the amba.s.sador requested that Ravi and Shakira not take time to change, which both of them thought was very thoughtful since neither had much to change into, their bags containing mostly a pile of laundry.

His Excellency understood entirely and poured everyone a gla.s.s of Chateau-bottled French Bordeaux, 2002, never mind Muslim disapproval of alcohol, and led them to their allotted places for dinner. The amba.s.sador sat at the head, with Ravi and Shakira on either side. Lannie, his wife, sat next to Shakira, and Ahmed was next to the general, with the military attache at the foot.

As dinner-table place settings go, with four men and two ladies, it was thus all over the place, but this was a military strategy meeting, not a social gathering. Lannie was only there as a politeness to Shakira.

The conversation was grim and extremely serious. The Syrians understood entirely the purpose of the visit. For they too had little reason to thank the USA for its att.i.tude to them. And they were frankly furious at the recent bombing of the street near Bab Touma in Damascus.

Everyone at the table knew that Admiral Arnold Morgan was behind all of the carnage, and they were honored indeed to have been selected by the Hamas High Command to provide a headquarters for the legendary Palestinian terrorist general, who planned, finally, to dispose of the American Prince of Darkness.

"You have accurate dates and times?" asked the amba.s.sador, who was a very smooth-looking Arabian diplomat, medium height, slim, perfectly dressed in a light suit cut for him by Prince Charles's tailor, Huntsman, on Savile Row.

"Thanks to Shakira, I do," replied Ravi. "I must visit the gunsmith tomorrow; we have only two weeks to plan everything and organize my exit, first from Piccadilly, then from England."

"We've done the doc.u.ments and arranged the transportation," replied the amba.s.sador. "In the end, timing will be everything."

"It usually is," said Ravi.

The amba.s.sador smiled. "Don't miss," he whispered theatrically.

"I never miss," replied the Hamas general sternly.

0900 Wednesday 18 July Garda Headquarters, Dublin.

Detective Superintendent Ray McDwyer was combing through the evidence that had been gathered from the bus and train companies. Despite all of Ravi's shenanigans, jumping on and off various buses and changing railroad carriages, the Irish police had traced his route all the way to Dublin. Ray had thus made his new headquarters in the city, where they now believed the killer was.

So far as the investigation was concerned, there were only two people who had come face-to-face with the murderer. There were others who claimed to have seen him, bus and train staff who might have seen him. But only two who had both seen and spoken to him.

One was the ticket clerk at Waterford Station, who could not swear it was the right man because he could not remember the facial makeup of the pa.s.senger on the bench who had left behind his change from a fifty-euro bill.

The other was Mick Barton from the Shamrock Cafe, who had served the stranger, recalled what he was wearing, and directed him to the bus stop outside the Eldon Hotel. Officer Joe Carey had called in and asked if he would be prepared to come to Dublin and spend a day looking through closed-circuit television footage, to try to identify the man to whom he had served two large gla.s.ses of orange juice.

"Forget it," said Mick. "I'm too busy trying to earn a living, not pouncing around all day on wild-goose chases like yourself."

Joe put him in a cheerful headlock, and told him this was a serious matter. Mick said his neck was probably broken and he'd be suing for a million.

Joe asked how he'd feel about a private helicopter ride up to Dublin, and they would award him two days' full pay for his time.

"Done," said Mick. "What time?"

"Tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. Right here in the square."

"Where's the helicopter gonna be?"

"Right over here in that field."

"Oh, jaysus, Joe . . . I can't . . . I forgot . . . I have a dentist's appointment."

Joe sighed the sigh of the profoundly suspicious.

"Of course you have," he said. "All right, three days."

"Done," said Mick. "Final offer?"

"Final offer."

"I'll be there."

0900 Thursday 19 July Dublin.

Mick Barton arrived at the Garda Station in style, in the back of an unmarked police car. He was led into a private room, where Ray McDwyer met him with a cheerful "Morning to you, Michael."

At the back of the room were a projector and an operator. At the front was a large white screen.

"Okay, lad, you know what you're doing. We are going to show you a steady line of people going through security at Dublin airport getting onto international flights only. We just want you to stop us and identify the man you served the orange juice to on Monday morning."

"Do I get a bonus if I find him?"

"Absolutely not," said Ray. "You might make something up, just to get the bonus!"

"Who, me?"

"I've only known you since you were three years old. Yes, you."

Mick laughed, half flattered. He saw himself, after all, as a hard-driving businessman. But suddenly he was dead serious. "Roll 'em," he said. "If he's there, I'll find him. Black T-s.h.i.+rt, right?"

And slowly the projectionist began to run the film, and Mick sat quietly, sometimes leaning forward asking for a pause or a rewind. He worked solidly for three and a half hours, drinking just one cup of coffee, which obliged him to ask, formally, whether it had been percolated in Dachau. Everyone laughed, which Mick expected, being Skibbereen's established breakfast-bar wit and everything.

He had looked carefully at hundreds of air travelers, and found a couple of marginal candidates, but in the end he always said the same thing, "No, that's not him."

They gave him a ham sandwich and an ice cream for lunch, and then settled down to show him the much shorter lines of people disembarking the Irish Sea ferries in England. As expected, they were mostly backpackers and hitchhikers. "b.l.o.o.d.y rabble," observed Mick, but he kept going, checking every person who had sailed from Dun Laoghaire or the Dublin Port Terminal over a two-day period.

He found nothing, not until three o'clock in the afternoon. They were rolling the seventh tape from Holyhead, when Mick asked first for a rewind. Then for a pause. Then he stood up and stepped closer.

And he shoved out his finger, pointing directly at a pa.s.senger wearing a jacket and a T-s.h.i.+rt, accompanied by a very good-looking lady who was standing slightly aside.

"You want me to zoom in, Mick?" asked the projectionist.

"Good idea," he replied. "On the guy in the jacket."

The image came up bigger. Mick pointed again at the man in the jacket, which was now obviously made of suede or some other kind of soft leather.

"That's him," said Mick. "That's definitely him."

"One thing, Mick," interjected Ray McDwyer. "That T-s.h.i.+rt he's wearing is white, not black."

"Personally," replied the kid from the Shamrock Cafe, "I don't give a rat's a.s.s if it's pink. That's still him, the thirsty b.a.s.t.a.r.d who couldn't find his own way to Cork City."

Ray McDwyer chuckled. And Mick added, "I'll tell you something else, and there's no charge for this-that's a very fair piece of crumpet he's got with him."

CHAPTER 10

Ray McDwyer looked hard at the image of the man who might have killed Jerry O'Connell for reasons unknown. And he also looked hard at Mick Barton, the local Flash Harry, upon whose memory this entire case rested. Could Mick be trusted? Maybe. Did he have any doubts about this identification? Apparently not. Jerry O'Connell for reasons unknown. And he also looked hard at Mick Barton, the local Flash Harry, upon whose memory this entire case rested. Could Mick be trusted? Maybe. Did he have any doubts about this identification? Apparently not.

Ray suddenly viewed the entire scenario with mixed feelings. If Mick was correct, the murderer was no longer in Ireland: he'd gone to England on the two o'clock ferry from Dublin to Holyhead. Right now he could be anywhere. And there were only sixty million people in England.

So far as Ray was concerned, his task was more or less over. The killer had gone, and the most the Irish detective could do was to circulate the picture to all the relevant agencies and see if anyone recognized the man in the brown suede jacket.

This could, of course, be achieved extremely fast with modern E-mail, and Ray instructed a young Garda officer to have the photograph digitally enhanced to the highest possible standard and then transmit it to New Scotland Yard, MI-5 and MI-6, Interpol, the CIA, the FBI, and the Mossad. Each of those agencies would forward the picture on to various military intelligence operations, and within a couple of hours every branch of every secret service in the Western world would be staring at the apparent killer who had come into Crookhaven from the deep rough water that pounds the Fastnet Rock.

Ray McDwyer, though nominally the officer of record on the case, was essentially finished with it, unless someone arrested the suspect and he was brought back to County Cork to face trial. Meanwhile, he would return to Skibbereen, and politely he asked Mick Barton if he would mind sharing the helicopter.