Celtic Tiger

A novel by Evin Daly Editor: Dennis Liptrot

© 1999-2009 Registered with the Library of Congress (ref 1-172339481)

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Evin Daly Celtic Tiger (ii)

Is é oileán na hÉireann go hiomlán, maille lena oiléan agus a fharraigí teorann, na críocha náisiúnta.

The national territory consists of the whole island of Ireland, its islands and the territorial seas.

Enacted by the People 1st July, 1937 In operation as from 29th December, 1937

Constitution of Ireland

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The sun rose gently over the oily calm waters of Dublin Bay. Though it was mid-summer, the promise of a warm day was spoiled by a chill in the breeze. The River Liffey, the tidal artery that splits the ancient city in half, was swollen; its banks brimming to the top of its granite walls, the result of the combination of a high and Spring tide. The river’s dark waters gurgled as they mixed with the briny expanse of Dublin harbor, temporarily shielded from the open waters of the Irish Sea by the expansive stone arms of the protective Bull Walls. The morning light reflected in an orange glow off the eastern facing windows of the city buildings. The city was quiet, its inhabitants still in their slumber on this Sunday morning. Church bells pealed intermittently through the silence, their chimes marking the passage of time — it was too early for the first mass bell in this predominantly Catholic country. Dublin is a city in the throes of change; from a remote city situated on the fringe of continental Europe, into a truly European capital. Steeped in history, many of its grand buildings, notably the General Post Office, bear the scars of the violence that heralded the Republic’s Independence. The GPO’s six majestic columns are still pitted from the impact of bullets and shrapnel. The Vikings settled this city in A.D. 841 giving it its name Duibhlinn or “Black Pool,” since modified to its present spelling. College Green, the former seat of Parliament prior to 1804, and Trinity College basked in the warmth of the sunlight, their facades bleached near-white, not by sunlight, but from an intensive and successful battle by the city to scrub away two centuries of grime and soot. Grafton Street, the south-side’s main shopping thoroughfare, was quiet, it’s stores shuttered. The paved street was wet, garbage blowing in swirls. The upper windows of the buildings reflected the rising sun onto the street below. Two blocks away to the east the Sunday silence was disturbed. “Get these bastards outta here...”, Detective John Cullen motioned to his uniformed subordinate, in the direction of the media crews setting up on the other side of the now cordoned off section of Dawson Street. Cullen’s concern with the media was more for himself than the crime scene. He had been out until some hours before getting thoroughly plastered after what he recalled as “one bugger of a week.” In a dark mood he glowered at the cameras, his mouth dry, his breath putrid, as much from the booze as from the five

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cigarettes he had already smoked on his ten minute ride to the city center. In his blind fumbling to get out of the house, he was unfortunately still dressed in the clothes he had worn the night before, evident for all to see, crumpled and all as they were. Shaunessy, his new side-kick, was uncertain how to handle this. The media wouldn’t budge even if he ordered them to leave at gun- point; they had a perfect right to be there, and Cullen knew it as well as Shaunessy. Spic and span, he had been in the force for four years; unlike his boss, he had little interest in drinking. His three months with Cullen had made him aware of the danger signals of an impending explosion of temper, so he did the right thing and changed the subject. “Don’t know how ya handle it boss,” he caught Cullen’s attention immediately, who turned on him, color rising in his face lest the young whipper snapper be referring to his fondness for the Guinness. “Handle what?” He dared him to say it, he’d knock his block off, if he said anything. “Oh, dealing with crap like this day in and day out, MB&R’s [murders, beatings and rapes]. Let’s go have a look-see.” Shaunessy sauntered off toward the blue tarpaulin that covered the front of the building. “Get used to it son, you will after a time.” Brazen little bastard, he thought, he was going to say it - he just found another way of doing it. Cullen didn’t appreciate the inference that he had a drinking problem. He was nothing like those losers at the AA meeting he had attended eight years before at the suggestion of the police human resources department. Wished he had a handful of aspirin. Better still, a hair of the dog - maybe the Pathologist had a flask. Maybe Jesus would appear and turn the pending rain into wine...he’d have smiled at his wit if it wouldn’t have hurt so much. Shaunessy smirked, breathing a sigh of relief as he saw Cullen follow. He didn’t want to be the lead story on the evening news — the rookie cop who had pissed off the media. Finding someone impaled onto the front door of the Lord Mayor’s house on a Sunday morning was, to put it mildly, disturbing. Worse, the television cameras had arrived before the still warm cadaver could be removed, tagged and bagged. When a group of late night revelers had come across the site less than an hour previously, the cadaver had been alive; stammering in a bloody rush, his tongue cut out, the door and the steps underneath awash with fresh blood. A soiled note printed on what was later determined to be government stationery was found tacked to the door. After it was photographed in position, it was carefully removed for later forensic examination. It could hardly have been described as a person at all. His mind was gone as were his fingers, cut to the stumps. His eyes, what was

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left of them, scudded around aimlessly, sightless, the eyeballs empty of fluid, dribbling coagulated dark clotted blood onto his deeply bruised and lacerated cheeks. That he was alive at all was a miracle. Shock should have taken over, driving his suffering mind into oblivion. But he was pumped full of amphetamines, delivered intravenously, awakening his brain to the torment emanating from his exposed nerve endings. What distracted the media was the reptilian-like coil that lay at his feet protruding from his abdomen like a hose. He had been disemboweled as a parting gesture. The ambulance which arrived at the scene carried qualified medical personnel, none of whom knew what to do. It took the empathy of a passing surgeon on his way home after pulling two shifts at the Mater Hospital, attracted by the flashing lights and his medical instinct, to put the guy out of his misery. Administering an oddly high dosage of morphine, injected slowly, the body slumped first into unconsciousness and, after a few long seconds, shuddered into death. The white stumps of his fingers stopped moving within seconds as his heart, already at the point of seizing, froze, clenched in contraction. The ambulance crew followed the doctor’s example after he had retrieved a pair of heavy pliers from the building’s janitor. They helped him lower the cadaver, vomit and blood stained, its dead weight unyielding as they heaved and shoved, as if trying to minimize suffering. The coroner and the forensic Pathologist on call were not so pleased that the body had been touched at all. Crucial evidence could have been disturbed but the surgeon was in no mood. They were all good friends anyway, knowing each other in the Dublin medical social circles. All knew that their plans for Sunday lunch were shot. The surgeon was somber as he walked to his car, a numbness spreading throughout his body as his anticipated day of golf at Portmarnock was replaced by the unexpected emotions resulting from his first mercy killing. The paramedics would have nightmares for some time afterwards. The sight of the amphetamine saturated flesh twitching as it lay on a gurney, intestines draped over it like a huge coiled worm would make certain of that. Cullen’s first thought was that the hardwood door would have to be refinished, though the holes through which the dozen or so nails had been driven could be easily disguised, albeit putty-filled. It would take repeated sanding to remove the body fluid stains, he thought as he let Shaunessy take the notes. He thought the better of asking Pathologist O’Connor for an aspirin, he looked a bit the worse for wear himself. Everyone from the department was busy taking photographs, interviewing the ashen faced, and quickly sobered, crew who found the victim. They wouldn’t be able to handle even the thought of breakfast for the rest of the day.

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“Phil,” Cullen grunted to his side-kick who wasn’t looking the best himself as he tried to avoid looking at the body but was still drawn to look, fascinated by it. “Phil, for fuck’s sake...” “Yeah boss.” “Lets go over to South Anne’s Street and grab a bite...and a fuckin’ aspirin.” “Right yer are boss,” Shaunessy was only too happy to get away. He spoke to one of the interviewing detectives asking him to send over a copy of his notes when they were typed up later. The detective took a look at Cullen’s disheveled appearance and felt sorry for the lad beside him and told Shaunessy he would. “Oh for Christ’s sake, here’s fuckin Sherlock and Tonto - let’s leave before I puke.” Cullen was watching an unmarked car arrive, two figures emerged from it. Detective Seán Driscoll and his partner Peter Flanagan gathered their equipment and climbed the steps to the Mansion House front door. Driscoll nodded a grim greeting to everyone there and made a point of ignoring Cullen completely. He’d trained under Cullen many years before, endured four years of Cullen’s moods and binges and got transferred to the anti-terrorist unit, grateful that Cullen’s reputation hadn’t rubbed off on him. Cullen would be forced into retirement soon, early at 52, but word had it that the standard of enforcement and reputation of the Dublin police force would increase dramatically with his absence. Cullen glowered at his former protégé, who was dressed casually but well. He looked just as he had been trained to look; a plainclothes officer, he could have been mistaken for one of those God-awful yuppies that haunted the city center pubs. “Ungrateful little pup,” Cullen muttered bitterly, though he was proud of him. He was aware that Driscoll’s successes had reflected positively on him - he made sure that anyone that would listen knew he had shown Driscoll the ropes, “and every bar in Dublin,” was the unspoken quip that went with that boast. Flanagan did nod in Cullen’s direction winking at him. Cullen thought little of Flanagan, but he was a drinking buddy and a good source of gossip when well oiled. Flanagan slouched while Driscoll stood erect, ever attentive. If it wasn’t for his bitch physician wife they’d still be talking, Cullen thought harshly. “Fuck it, let’s ride,” and Cullen stomping off looked forward to a breakfast of eggs, bacon and sausage. He could taste it already. He hadn’t the slightest interest in the case, nor would he, until later in the day when he sobered up.

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Rain fell in solid sheets onto the frothing, rumbling ocean, reducing visibility to twenty meters. Clouds hung low, skirting the adjacent bluffs unleashing their sodden weight on the sandy hillsides. The seas lashed furiously at the worn beach as if trying to drag it whole into its boiling cauldron. Men and animals alike stayed home tonight, doors shut tight against the howling wind. Except for three. Mick O’Flaherty, Bobby Doyle and Seamus Malin stood at the shore close to where they had parked their Ford Transit van. Actually it was not theirs exactly, it had been borrowed from a dealer lot in Dublin two hours before, not five minutes after the owner had locked up and gone home for the evening, secure in the knowledge that his alarm system would keep his property safe. The van would be washed, polished, the odometer reconnected and returned before morning and none would be any the wiser. Bobby Doyle stood on the highest point of the dunes looking inland watching for the unlikely approach of a visitor. His face had a cyborg-like appearance, due to the night vision goggles strapped to his head, which cast an eerie green glow over the terrain as he looked through them. Using available light and magnifying it considerably, even in this terrible weather, they provided him with a more than adequate vista. Slung underneath his oil slick, his right hand grasping the pistol grip behind the trigger, was an AK-47, its lethal snout wet with rain pointed downward at an angle to stop moisture from traveling up the barrel. Despite the AK’s excellent reputation for robustness and durability under extreme conditions, he would field strip it later to remove any salt contamination or rust spots. He preferred his gun clean at all times. Wiping the goggle lenses occasionally to remove the rivulets of water, he gave up as it made little difference in the torrential downpour. They had parked the vehicle where the blacktop ended adjacent to the beach. Sunken elongated shadows lay scattered around, the mobile summer-homes of middle-class suburban Dublin, almost completely deserted on this stormy night. Malin huddled next to a hissing expanding package, an inflatable craft similar to the ones use for search and rescue. It groaned and popped while it expanded, bloating as if in the throes of agony. The process took less than a minute including strapping on the Evinrude outboard motor; a model identical to ones used by U.S. and U.K. marine forces, it featured a 35 horsepower motor and a muffled exhaust making it barely audible from 50 meters.

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On a night like this it would be inaudible from ten. They had practiced this for hours at end in a completely darkened warehouse until they had it down perfectly. It took both his and O’Flaherty’s combined weight to keep it from becoming instantly airborne, its smooth base took on all the characteristics of a wing in the rushing air. They ran it into the water, their momentum assisting its path through the inner waves. The electric starter whirred and the engine caught immediately. Thrown into gear, the blade burrowing into the churning water, propelling the craft forward as it smashed through the breaking waves. The gale ripped the tops off the outer- swells filling the air with salty spray. The men paid no heed, O’Flaherty kept the boat straight running out from the shoreline. Malin crouched at the front of the boat, partially obscured from view, his head thrust under his waterproof wind breaker as he watched the hand held radio direction finder. A white dot changed to yellow as the boat plowed onward and he depressed a button on the stalk of the device. Where, a second before, the tip of a green whip antenna had poked from the depths, a small electric motor whirred below the waves and raised a yellow strobe light which began to blink on and off rapidly. Their ear piece radios were silent, the only time they would hear anything was if Doyle spotted trouble. It was understood that if they had problems in the ocean they were on their own. Doyle would leave in exactly thirty minutes whether they returned or not. The beeping in Malin’s audio ear piece, which was plugged directly into the direction finder, increased in volume. After increasing the magnification on the screen, he indicated a course correction and a decrease in speed to O’Flaherty who complied instantly. The swells lifted and dropped the boat sickeningly, so much so that they could see but a few yards in front of them. Out of the gloom radiated the strobe light, its yellow rays cutting like a fog lamp into the darkness. Stopping the boat with a wave of his hand, Malin picked up a boat hook and leaned over the prow snagging, after the fourth attempt, the cable that was strung beneath the makeshift buoy. Hauling on the long aluminum telescopic handle he, despite the chance that he might be whipped overboard by the alarmingly vigorous vertical movement of their target, kept the restraining loop attached to the end of the pole, wrapped tightly around his wrist. There would be no second chances and falling overboard or failing would bring the same terminal results. He was glad that whoever had designed the device had the sense to anticipate rough seas. Attached to the light, which was shining steadily now that Malin had reset its switch, was a nozzle tipped

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with a brass coupling nipple. Hugging the assembly close to his cheek, and nearly wrenching his shoulder from its socket, he snapped a CO2 cylinder onto the connection and twisting the valve handle to the fully open position he released it, signaling to O’Flaherty to back off. The inert gas, driven by its expanding pressure as it converted from a cold liquid to its gaseous form, forced its way downward into the collapsed bladders below. As the men fought to keep the boat headed into the wind, around them appeared the shapes of large crates each resting in their own inflated floats. Each was attached in series to the other. Malin hauled the light and its appendage out of the water. Removing a cable clipped to the base, he attached it to the rear of the boat to a snap clasp riveted into the wooden engine mount. An additional fitting was attached to the engine block, welded solid as a backup, and he looped the cable through it, cutting his sodden hand as he did so against the engine cowling. He didn’t even notice as he leapt back to his bow position and waved with a circular motion of his hand for O’Flaherty to turn the boat around. He changed the frequency on the direction finder by depressing a button. On shore, attached to the roof of the van, a small black box activated, its surrounding cowling transmitting its radio impulses seaward. All the same, the few local residents did notice a pulsing effect on their television screens but ignored it putting it down to the God-awful weather outside. Returning as they had arrived, they beached the inflatable at nearly flat out speed, tipping the Evinrude’s prop at the last second to avoid damage. The sea washed them ashore on the crest of a wave and left them narrowly avoiding crashing headlong into a jutting sand dune. Behind them the crates skimmed in on their own floats and lay scattered on the smooth sand surface. It took the three of them to load the crates into the van, they weighed considerably more than their size betrayed. Seven crates in all, six feet by four by five, they would, when emptied, serve another purpose, that of enclosing the remains of digressors. Wrapped in cable and weighed with scrap iron, they would not be found for many decades to come, if ever, from the bogs into which they were sunk. The ride back to Dublin was uneventful except for the ceaseless inundation of rain. Had they been stopped, the unfortunate police officers would have been dispatched of quickly, likely to occupy the crates a tad prematurely. Off-loading the cargo into a larger truck, the van was cleaned meticulously and returned to the lot ready for a willing customer, who would not notice until some time after the purchase that the engine was shot, due to the extraordinarily heavy load and high speed of the return journey.

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The smell. Nauseating - cheap cologne. The rumbling, the vibration, made him sick to his stomach. “Jesus!, Jesus!” he screamed, eyes wide open, he grasped the seat in front of him. The plastic window was covered half way up with the condensation from the previous flight. In front the in-flight magazine had not been seated properly in its elastic topped seat holder. The vomit bag lay drooping. Leering at him, as cold beads of sweat formed on his brow. Around him passengers were busy with the pre-flight clicks, tucks and buckles, and anxious looks towards the stowed bar-cart. “Gotta get out, got to get OUT,” he fumbled with the cold out-of- date, and for what he cared, useless, seat belt. “Don’t wanna go, can’t go - just can’t fuckin’ go, gotta stay here.” In a second the restraint came loose, and he was free. He stood, slightly off balance. Confused for a moment, he realized that the plane, having trundled through his terror for the past three minutes, was now silent, as it swung onto the runway. He had time. Still had time. Squeezing past the adjacent passenger, he stood erect and scanned his options. The exit. The exit lay there five rows up. No-one would think it strange. He just wanted to get off. Just drop him here. They could go on. The deep roar shook him, as did the patronizing “Sir, SIR, please sit DOWN!” from the strapped in stewardesses, their instinctive anxiety over-coming their trained demeanor. They had six hours travel and 244 other passengers to entertain. “SIR, SIT DOWN! YOU MUST, YOU MUST!” The aircraft was moving now, accelerating hard down the runway. “The wings are shaking, they’re gonna fall off!” he screamed. The floor under his feet bucked and bounced. Lunging for an exit, he tripped over a passenger’s feet. He landed face-down on the thinly carpeted floor. “Didn’t they understand?” he thought, his brain was near hemorrhaging. “We’re going to die!” The aluminum handle to the exit door was cold to the touch. The red lettering, chipped and faded. “Yeah!” he sighed. He suddenly felt weightless. A heavy clunk as the gear was stowed. He ripped back the handle. But nothing happened. His last thoughts were “What’s wrong with the door?” A millisecond later he was swept screaming through the vortex as the aircraft swept upward and he was thrown onto the wing, narrowly missing the leading edge...

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Nick Riordan awoke at 36,000 feet unsure where he was, or what he should do next. He was in a lather of sweat, his heart pounded. The first thing he did was pop another Valium and swallow what remained of the large rum and Coke he had been sipping before he fell asleep. His fellow sleeping passenger shifted and grunted. A nightmare, a whopper. So real, so damn real. Stress. Too much of it. Panic. Sheer panic. He nodded off again, from the combination of the sedatives, and slept until just before the A330 landed at Dublin airport.

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The marchers shuffled forward, banners held high, the booming Lambeg drum beat set the pace. A tradition held every year on July 12, the parade wound deeply through Catholic areas of Dungannon, Northern Ireland. Despite great progress towards a peaceful settlement of political tensions, most notably the ratification of the Good Friday Accord, this was the last, and most visible, bastion of Protestant domination. A taunt, many would say, to the inhabitants of the neighborhood, reminded annually of their defeat by the Protestant Bonnie Prince Charlie, or King William of Orange as he was officially known, at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. Although it is an annual occurrence, the tradition did not start until some 100 years after the battle. In the marchers’ minds, it is a demonstration of loyalty to the English Crown, hence the term loyalists. Though a colorful parade, with huge banners depicting religious and historical motifs, marchers dressed in bowler hats and orange sashes, batons and drumsticks twirling, to the local Catholics it represented an archaic and bigoted image of the Orange Order. These divergent viewpoints have been the source of much sectarian violence and death throughout the centuries, with Catholics as the target of vehement hatred and oppression. This year the celebration would be one remembered, though not for the reasons intended by the organizers. Special attention was placed on cleaning the flags, instruments and various other paraphernalia that the participants held dear. Marching drums glinted in the bright sunlight, and were strung tightly, uniforms gleamed. Their gait was proud, backs straight, faces grim. The short sticks of the Lambeg drummer crossed and whirled as the drummers thumped their huge drums until their knuckles bled. Well protected by British security forces and the Royal Ulster Constabulary, cordoned on each side by nervous young soldiers, the throng set upon their way through an area in which they were annually unwelcome. Protected, in antiquity by their majority militia, for the past 30 years by an occupying army, they radiated the confidence of the oppressor. Among the observers were a number of inconspicuously-dressed members of another security force albeit an offensive one. Their presence at the celebration today was one designed to outrage. Their faces matched those of the marchers—grim and determined. They let the procession pass by until they were positioned to gain maximum effect from their intended actions. Standing on the second story of the terraced row houses, hidden from view, they each

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reacted to a single cue through their walkie-talkies. The streets were lined with British Army armored personnel carriers their windows covered by wire armor. Overhead, at a discrete distance, a spotting helicopter hovered, co-ordinating troop movements on the ground. All was designed to keep the two sides, Protestant and Catholic, apart. A lone gunman stood on a gray slate rooftop at the end of the street and opened fire with an automatic weapon drawing the immediate attention of the soldiers. Bullets spat from the muzzle of his gun, careening into the crowd, a stream of brass shells hosing from the side of his belt fed M60E3. At 24 pounds it was not a light weapon and its taxing recoil from a — at best precarious — standing position did little for accuracy. But accuracy was not the object. The forward pistol grip was more than adequate to aid in directing the fire much as a fireman directs a high pressure hose. The soldiers were trained to drop for cover and to protect each other by reviewing all possible fields of attacking fire. This day however, the carnage from the gunman drew their undivided attention, as the marching men, and the accompanying women and children screamed when their bodies were torn apart by the lethal hail of copper jacketed bullets. The rounds refused to stop at the initial impact but tore right through bodies to kill and maim those behind them, deflecting and disintegrating off the red brick walls of the houses that lined the street. Return fire was at first sporadic and inaccurate, but the soldiers, many of them veterans with two or more tours in Northern Ireland behind them, let their training kick in, and they used the powerful SUSAT telescopic sights mounted on their SA80 rifles to first, find the source of the attack, and then accurately release bursts of return fire. The squad Light Support Weapons, mounted in the personnel carriers, were quickly brought into play. The gunman continued firing until his ammunition was almost exhausted and he took refuge behind a tall chimney capped with a row of weathered aluminum TV antennas. A rope lay tied to a smoke pot and he kicked it and it uncoiled lazily down to the ground below. A woman, curlers tied in her hair, ran out of her kitchen door and grabbed the rope, steadying it and holding it taut. After his weapon spluttered out the remaining rounds, the gunman grabbed the rope with his left hand and threw his gun back on the sling attached to his upper body. While he swung down, the chimney exploded when the soldiers rounds found the target...too late, as he began the short two second descent. The British troops began to rise from their defensive positions while their rounds hammered the rooftop, smashing the slates to pieces, the entire roof shuddering, as though alive, from the massive staccato impacts. Countless empty cartridges clinked and bounced off the pavement.

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From the second story windows on either side of the street came another sound — that of breaking glass and the shriek of tortured wood as heavy boots kicked through them. Muzzles of ferocious weapons were thrust through the jagged openings — large caliber automatic weapons, automatic shotguns loaded with deer slugs and 00 buckshot, and grenade launchers loaded with incendiary rounds. They were supported by several strategically placed Hungarian manufactured Gepard M3s — its huge armor piercing rounds would cut through the personnel carriers armor as though through rice paper. As glass tinkled onto the pavements and street, the soldiers stopped firing and looked around them. “Sweet Jesus, have mercy,” a young foot soldier cried, voicing the common thought when he realized what was about to happen — his last thought — as his head exploded, ripped apart by the impact of several Russian manufactured 7.62mm rounds. The barrage of death that followed would be heard throughout the world.

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Nick Riordan felt apprehensive watching the crowd marching towards him. He checked his Sony Hi-Eight video camera mounted on its tripod nestled into the right angled corner of the houses at the end of the street. He had set the view finder and focus on automatic, which left him free to leave it alone without any need to adjust it. The narrow street ensured that everything was recorded and would not fall outside the viewing field of the lens. Around him the red brick terraced houses lay with their doors shut tight, many with their curtains drawn. He was alone, a visible observer, and a worm of anxiety burrowed in his stomach. He wondered if it was such a great idea for him to be there - what if the crowd turned ugly? The thump of the drums got louder as they approached, the baton twirlers who led the band threw their batons high into the air making their way towards him, followed by the throng of marchers. British soldiers walked along the pavement, their eyes everywhere searching for trouble. Their heavy flack jackets weighed them down as did their weapons which they held muzzle earthward. Nick jumped as he heard a rapid stutter, he recalled later, much like the sound of an outboard engine. The sound emanated above him slightly to his left. What happened next was burned into his memory in slow motion. A rain of brass shells streamed off the rooftop above him cascading onto the street around him. Rounds streaked into the crowd of people in front of him cutting through the marchers like a scythe in a corn field. Instruments flew into the air as the heavy bullets caught them and tossed them aside easily. In a comical sense it looked as if the band was throwing them away. And then the screams started, high pitched animal sounds - primeval screams of pain and death. Looking up, blue smoke wafted from where the muzzle must surely lie, occasional smoke rings puffing into the air. Time seemed suspended. Nick stood, a frozen witness to this event, watching as people panicked, turning to escape only to run into others behind them who were pushed forward. The result being that nobody went anywhere. Nick watched horrified at the scene and saw the soldiers drop down aiming their weapons in his direction. In panic he stepped backwards raising his hands to show that he was not responsible, that they didn’t have to shoot him. He was staring death in the face, bracing his body for the impact of the rounds that were being aimed at him, when a door opened behind him and a large hand dragged him in by the scruff of the neck. He was tossed unceremoniously into a small hallway and the

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door was slammed shut. In the semi-darkness, he looked up and saw a grim faced man look down at him. Without hesitating, the man grabbed Nick by the arm and pushed him towards the back of the house shoving him into a closet underneath the stairs. Nick caught a fleeting glimpse of a picture of the Sacred Heart on the hall wall, a dim candle bulb burning underneath it - incongruous given the circumstances. “Under the stairs - quickly or you’re a dead man,” the man urged in a thick Belfast accent. They both had barely crashed to the floor when the first rounds of return fire slammed off the concrete exterior walls like hammers, a few splintering the front door as they passed through, finally stopping, embedded inches from Nick’s head in the stairs above. He could hear the rounds slap into the tiles above him on the slate roof disintegrating them, followed by the sound of their remains shattering on the pavement outside as they slid away from their moorings. One of the front window panes clinked when a stray round punched through it, gouging a large hole into the living room wall. Nick and the stranger lay huddled together, like brothers, in the darkness of the stairwell as they waited in anticipation for the front door to burst open. The soldiers were sure to follow. Nick heard a thump at the back of the house, and a shout of thanks issued while someone hurried off. The firing stopped suddenly. Through the sounds of suffering Nick could hear another sound, that of glass breaking outside. A second later a fusillade of gunfire rang out - single booming shots mingling with the rip of automatic fire. Outside the doorway, bodies thumped at the door clawing at the wood trying to escape the mayhem. The front window smashed, hands reached in, blood streaming from cuts inflicted by the jagged glass. A few lives were saved that day by acts of compassion - but not in that house. A tall man strode in from the kitchen, dropping his M60 on the floor, a heavy dark pistol in his hand. He strode to the side of the front window his features highlighted by the light steaming in. A long scar ran down his left cheek. With a determined look on his face he raised the gun, and taking careful aim fired slowly and deliberately through the window.

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Nick wanted to scream at him to stop, but his sense of self preservation wouldn’t let him. The man continued firing, plucking off targets as if at a shooting gallery until the breech of his pistol sprang open, empty. When he turned to reload, Nick could see his face more clearly and saw that he was smiling - enjoying his work as an executioner. The living room reeked of cordite and blue smoke hung in the air — he quickly reloaded and continued his deadly work. Nick watched in fascination as the spent cartridges spun from the breech clattering off the walls leaving a mark. One fell beside Nick and he picked it up - it was surprisingly hot, its rim tarnished from the explosive heat. In time the guns fell silent outside, the screams were replaced by the moans of the wounded. Intermittent shots rang out as the attackers finished off those who showed signs of life. The gunman disappeared as quickly as he had arrived, taking his discarded M60 with him, his eyes intense but seemingly ignoring Nick and his companion — perhaps not even seeing them, so focused was his expression. In the silence, Nick noticed that the man beside him was shuddering, convulsing as he sobbed. “May Jesus forgive them,” he repeated over and over. Rising from his crouched position the man, who have given Nick shelter, staggered and lurched to the living room, quickly picking up the empty casings that littered the floor and furniture. Stopping, he remembered that Nick was there and said, “Ye better leave before the soldiers come and rip our houses apart - go now,” he drawled, pointing to the rear door. Nick bumped his head on the stairs as he rose. He hesitated, not sure what to do or say. “Thank you,” was all he could manage. “There’s a lane at the back of the house,” the man responded sniffing, “get out that way and get the hell away from here.” Nick started for the rear door but stopped abruptly. He wanted to run, to vomit the evil he had witnessed, but he wanted his camera more. “Jesus,” he kept repeating to himself, afraid of the sight that might greet him in the front of the house. He made up his mind and wrenched open the front door. A body slumped into the hallway, but he ignored it focusing solely on where he had left his camera. He stepped gingerly over other bodies and picked up the camera where it lay on the pavement - the motor still whirring in its casing. Automatically he dismantled the tripod and removed the camera. Only then did he allow himself to look up.

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Words could not describe the carnage that lay all around. His stomach could take no more as he vomited explosively onto the street where bodies lay heaped. Further up, men walked around through the fallen, guns extended. Nick ran for the door knowing that he would be an easy kill should any of them see him. Unfortunately one did, a very important member of the group, who also saw Nick holding his camera — he shouted an urgent command into his radio handset. In one of the windows over looking the street, a still camera documented the systematic extermination. Its operator responded to his leaders command and swung the lens, zoomed in, and snapped off a quick photograph of Nick, catching a glimpse of him as he picked up his equipment. Another gunman raced after him, his progress hampered by the sea of bodies that filled the street.

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Nick kept a constant nervous check on his rear view mirror as he sped south on the A 1 motor way. He stayed within the speed limit - barely, and kept in lane the whole way to the border, never passing, except where necessary, the odd farm vehicle or tractor blocking his way. He had thought of crossing by another route but decided against it. Instinct told him to get to familiar turf as quickly as possible. As he entered Newry, the obvious presence of the British troops and heavily armed police alarmed him, as did the numerous armored jeeps, anti-grenade skirts draping the undersides, protecting against the very real menace of a casually lobbed molotov cocktail or, in rarer cases, a bonafide grenade. The use of nail bombs had diminished over the years — normally a beverage can filled with home-made explosives wrapped with 12 inch nails, held together with electrical tape or wire - these crude devices, when they didn’t explode in their maker’s faces, were capable of gruesome results as they scattered their scything projectiles in all directions. The skirts were rigid enough to deflect these devices and were a sufficient deterrent, their successful protection had made attacks not worth the effort. Despite the casualness of the flapping canvas roofs of the jeeps, the soldiers preferred them that way. The lack of protection from a rifle attack was made up for in the ease of exit - the jeeps were stripped down to the bare necessities. At the moment of opening fire, the attacker could quickly become the prey as these highly specialized and trained troops dove headlong from their jeeps, searching for their target before they hit the ground. The police looked ordinary enough - the Royal Ulster Constabulary, or RUC as they were called. They directed traffic and patrolled the streets as a normal cop would. However, their upper bodies were draped in heavy flack jackets and they carried fully automatic weapons held at chest level ready for instant use. On their patrols through troubled neighborhoods, they walked their beat with a company of soldiers who walked and ducked and scanned, the cop oblivious to their presence as he made his rounds. The police station in the heart of the town was on steel stilts and its walls were encased with corrugated iron. Draped over the entire assembly was a rocket proof mesh netting added over the years, reflecting experience. Nick proceeded through the town, nudged along in the noon traffic. His eyes, though hidden under his dark glasses, were alert, flickering left and right, looking for signs of danger.

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As he emerged, he passed a tractor and trailer filled with manure, judging from the stink wafting from the load. The traffic was light and it took him but a few minutes to reach the border south of the town. A soldier waved him to stop, and as he pulled to a halt he lowered his driver-side window. His gut tightened as he watched two soldiers, one on either side of the car, train their SA 80 rifles right at him. The corporal, rifle held at the ready, its wooden butt scraped and dented from use, walked to the front of the car and looked at the license plate and spoke into the microphone of the walkie-talkie hanging from his jacket. Shouting to Nick, he ordered him, in a clipped British accent, to turn off the motor and to throw the keys onto the top of the dashboard. “Keep yer hands on the top of the wheel where I can see ‘em,” he growled. Nick’s heart pounded in his chest as he waited and tried to appear unfrazzled. The air was cool but his armpits pumped sweat down his shirt in copious nervous quantities. He desperately wanted to change his glasses to his regular clear ones to reduce, he thought in his anxiety, the appearance of being a gangster - anything to ease the process of getting through. The corporal stared over Nicks head as he listened to a response blurt from his radio set slung from his belt. He nodded to the soldier outside of Nick’s window and the man reacted quickly, walking to Nick and stopping, his rifle barrel an inch from Nicks right ear. “Out of the car — take the keys,” he ordered. Nick complied slowly, aware of the soldier who followed his every movement without once removing the gun from his head. As Nick stood outside the car, the soldier ordered him to the rear, keeping the keys held in his right hand, his left behind his head. Nick glanced around him and saw that the soldiers on the road comprised only a fraction of those who lay in the fields around him. All of them lying on the earth, rifles pointing at him. He felt a numbness spread through him and his alertness rose to crystal clarity as he walked the few steps to the trunk. “Open it and stand back four paces,” his shadow ordered. Fumbling with the keys using one hand, Nick opened the lock and the trunk creaked open on its restrained springs. In the darkness inside lay his backpack containing a change of clothes, some personal effects and his video camera. Slung beside these, the silhouette of his tri-pod poked out at an odd angle, one leg jutting upward as it was when he threw it in there in disturbed haste barely an hour before. He was told to take the bag out and to remove his effects laying them on the street, where they lay unexamined for some minutes. While he was waiting, he offered his identification which the

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corporal accepted without a word. Soldiers, appearing to emerge from nowhere, went through the car carefully and melted back into the surroundings after reporting their results to the corporal. The gun never left his ear. Behind them a line of cars waited their turn. Their drivers gawked at his plight until they realized that they were next. Eventually the corporal’s radio squawked again and he walked to where Nick was standing. “Pick up the video camera and turn it on. . . WAIT!...until I tell you!” he roared, as Nick reached down to where it lay. Nick could see the soldier smile out of the corner of his eye, his tension eased obviously by a signal from his superior and enjoying Nick’s discomfort immensely. They backed away from him putting the car between them and Nick before he was told to proceed. Nick did so, slowly, making pains to keep his actions deliberate and visible. He slid the switch on with his forefinger and the camera whirred to life. He was told to place it on top of the car and to stand away. The corporal looked closely at the tape mechanism inside without touching it and seemed satisfied that it was indeed a working device, not a dummy rigged with explosives. He told Nick to re-pack his things and replace them in the trunk. As he walked up to Nick, his papers in hand, he asked Nick his business in Northern Ireland. Nick mumbled something about a business trip to Belfast. Hardly listening to the reply, the officer, waved him back into his car and with a hand signal he indicated to the next car in line to prepare to move forward. “I hope you enjoyed your visit,” he smiled pleasantly at Nick, as if nothing had happened in the 5 minutes that had passed, and handed Nick his papers back. The soldiers moved away from the car, though not lowering their guard, and Nick pulled away, relief flooding through him. Through his window he heard the radio squawk again but the words were lost as he increased his speed. Entering the no-mans land between the British and Irish border posts he heard a shout behind him but it was lost as he turned a bend in the road. He was waved through the Irish side, the policeman, acknowledging the rental sticker on the windshield and not wanting to bother tourists, smiled at Nick and bade him a good day. Nick was bathed in sweat as he turned on his radio. Glancing in his mirror he saw a British army jeep, lights on, pull up beside the Irish post, its occupants spilling from the doors. Nick stepped harder on the accelerator fearing trouble. This was confirmed as Nick saw the Irish policeman gesturing toward his disappearing car and talking urgently into his hand-held police radio.

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“This was not, I repeat, this was not an IRA mission, nor was it carried out with the support or the knowledge of the army council.” Gerry Adams pursed his lips, biting his upper one as he chose his words carefully. He continued, “Nor was it undertaken by any renegade members of the organization, I can personally vouch for this.” How he could do so he did not elaborate on, but the grim set of his face reflected the anger of the investigation he had undertaken hours previous — the result of which produced nothing out of the ordinary. As head of the political arm of the IRA, Sinn Féin, translated as “ourselves alone,” he was a man of considerable power, politically, and some said, subversively, though there was no proof that he was involved officially in any way with the organizations more violent sister’s illegal operations. Since the advent of the peace agreement, Adams had kept an exceedingly tight rein on any violent activities. Anyone who had crossed him, who threatened to break the cease-fire, was simply ‘shopped out’ to the authorities and went to jail. They should have been grateful for the kind consideration. Previously, they would have been shot out of hand. Arms caches were all present and accounted for and the significant store of American manufactured Stinger SAMs — surface to air — shoulder fired missiles lay sealed in the small church graveyards where they had been placed without the permission of the crypt’s owners. Good Catholics, they would not have minded, many had died fighting the British. Every few months or so the SAM’s were removed from their cases, the power supply checked and all surfaces thoroughly cleaned to prevent water damage from the damp enclosure. They were boxed in coffins, which aided in their hiding. They only worry was that some of the graves were old and the coffins new. The damp soil was not known for its mummifying properties. The equipment was being kept for the time when they were absolutely needed as a lever or a defense of last resort. Much excited discussion had been undertaken in the IRA army council about using them as soon as they had been received, however, the commandant had overruled any such suggestion. With the patience that was his trademark, he explained that the few rockets they had would indeed shoot down British helicopters. However, it would be a short lived psychological victory without further supplies. Re-supply was out of the question for the present, due to pressure brought to bear in the U.S. by the British and Irish governments and the use of U.S. military satellites.

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SAM’s couldn’t be neatly tucked away and brought in as hand luggage off a plane. They needed space. And that required using a plane or a ship. U.S. satellites, at the request of the Irish and British governments, tracked suspect ocean vessels from origin to destination, the information was relayed ensuring that a successful intercept could be made. This had been successful many times. In one case in September 29, 1984, the Marita Ann , a smaller trawler onto which arms had been trans-shipped from a larger vessel the Valhalla, was captured by Irish Navy. Two Navy vessels had been waiting for the ship off the Kerry coast, the trawler loaded to the gunwales with arms and ammunition. U.S. intelligence had tipped off the government when one of its eyes-in-the-sky had peered downward as the Valhalla crew had made no effort to pretend that they were in fact a fishing vessel. The crew spent hours firing weapons of varying sorts — all of which was recorded on video tape at a download site, CIA headquarters, Langley, Virginia. Libyan supplies were also dwindling, and consisted mostly of AK- 47’s, ammunition, C4 explosives, and detonators. A recent shipment had yielded a crate-full of intact night vision goggles and rifle laser sights, which had been recovered by a Muslim group, from a disabled NATO personnel carrier, during the Bosnian war. The bottom line was that the ensuing escalation of conflicts would negate the short term benefits — in the words used by the commandant “we might drop a few ‘copters but we’ll never get the opportunity again. We can only do it once.” The reporters at the bottom of the steps of the Sinn Féin headquarters in Mountjoy Square in Dublin were well aware of the power of the man who stood above them. As the head of the political wing of the IRA, it was rumored, but never substantiated, that he had originally been head of the outlawed force before moving to politics. He was largely responsible for the current peace process having tempered his military counterparts’ ambitions in explaining the futility of further armed struggle, which was gaining little ground and only served to strengthen British resistance to negotiating with what they called terrorists. U.S. intervention had been made possible only after a clear demonstration of a sustained cease-fire and a sympathetic President. President Clinton’s predecessors had been too closely aligned with Britain, who they regarded as an vital strategic partner, until the fall of the Iron Curtain, to have any demonstrable interest in getting involved with what was always termed an unsolvable conflict. Now at this stage, despite a setback with bombs in London, Gerry Adams enjoyed the fruits of being a true political representative, with travel restrictions lifted from entering the U.S. and raising funds there for his evolving political machine. He had even been present in the annual Saint Patrick’s Day Parade, for the second

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time in four years, marching up Fifth Avenue with a security contingent of U.S. operatives. So great was his power in Irish American areas that the police offer to protect him was rejected — his own forces were more than able to provide adequate protection, though many were comprised of armed retired or off-duty cops. Political figures sympathetic to Ireland’s woes turned a blind eye to fund-raising efforts and rallies, secretly glad of the mud being cast in Britain’s eye. Despite his appearance of being alone on the step tops, aside from an aide who kept notes and recorded the proceeding, no one else was visible. However, behind him, on the other side of the deceivingly ordinary front door of the building on the shabby West side of Mountjoy Square — a door reinforced with a full 1/2 inch of steel much to the angst of the fashionable Georgian society who oversaw the restoration these architecturally significant buildings to their former glory — was a security presence comparable to any the British Prime Minister could boast of. In fact, the entire building was thus reinforced against rocket attack - a veritable fortress. Behind the door and in the upper stories were an armed contingent watching the crowd outside, but paying even more attention to the surrounding rooftops across the square and the pitched roof of the Rotunda Hospital that lay directly across the street. These soldiers were among the full time staff of the IRA, protection was their business and their skills would equal those of any of the world’s more legitimate security forces. They, like many of their associates, had trained in the Middle East, others in Libya. In the midlands of Ireland, on run down estates, in the vast tracts of private property that lay there, they trained new recruits in the ways of urban warfare. Many had been the instruments of assassination for politicians and of patrolling British soldiers - laying in wait in some cases for two full days, motionless on a rooftop or under the eaves of a building roof, until their target presented itself and, in a crack of fire, fulfilling their mission. They were capable of remaining in the open country for days, hiding out when they were on the run after a mission. Copying a ploy used by the North Vietnamese during that 60’s conflict, they would dig a hole in the earth and cover themselves with a camouflaged trapdoor. They would wait there for as long as it took for the searches to die down. Sometimes patrols would walk right past them — even the dogs didn’t smell them due to the added precaution of adding cow dung to the burrows entrance. The British field troops could have learned a thing or two from them — and sometimes did, with fatal results. The reporters pressed hard looking for signs of a crack in his composure, but were unsuccessful. Adams fielded each question, ignoring no one. The crack-down, that had already started, threatened to ignite the fervor of nationalists on both sides of the

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border and could lead, as it had often threatened in the past, to outright civil war. “Let me conclude by saying this,” Adams summarized, “I repeat, that the IRA nor any faction was involved in this outrage. The IRA has informed me that they will conduct an investigation of their own and will get to the bottom of this. I appeal to all to stay calm in spite of the aggression being shown by the occupying troops in the North. I appeal to our Unionist neighbors to avoid retaliation for an act that we did not commit. I extend to them the opportunity to meet and work together to find this new aggressor and to hunt down those responsible. Finally, I have given instructions to the Northern Irish Aid Committee trustees to offer whatever financial or economic assistance we can to the Protestant families of those who died on this darkest of Irish days.” With that he turned and walked to the front door, which opened automatically before him, and he was swallowed up by the darkness of the hallway. As he entered his plainly furnished office, decorated with posters of republican propaganda, he barked an order to his assistant. His phone rang as he sat behind his desk and a secretary announced a call from the U.S. Ambassador in Dublin. “I’ll take it,” he responded and eased his frame to sit more comfortably in the clear plastic covered seat. It creaked as he leant back on it and he stretched his legs beneath the metal desk. He was tempted to light his pipe but decided to keep that pleasure until he had concluded this call. “Gerry?” a female voice queried. “Jean, what can I do for you?” Gerry answered, his eyes focused on the ceiling above him. “I just finished watching your press conference. The President called me a few moments ago. He wanted me to convey to you his absolute revulsion of what happened...” “You’re speaking to the wrong person Ambassador. You would know that if you had listened to my press conference. This had nothing to do with us.” “Oh, come on Gerry, it had all the hallmarks of an IRA attack, and denial is the typical first response after any assault by your military wing. The call to the newspapers afterwards used one of the IRA code words.” “Jean, it wasn’t one of ours,” Adams responded calmly. “I have a lot to do to avert further tragedy, as I expect the unionist paramilitary to respond in kind if I don’t take immediate action. I would appreciate whatever support you can give at this time of need, and I will keep you apprised of progress resulting from our investigation. Until then there is nothing more for me to say — Good day Ambassador,” and he immediately regretted hanging up, but his patience was growing thin and action was now a necessity.

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His assistant stuck his head around his office door and was about to say something when a figure pushed the door open and walked in. “This isn’t the friggin Dáil,” the visitor growled at the startled assistant, as he walked to a chair and sat opposite Adams — the Dáil being the Irish seat of government. The two men acknowledged each other with a nod and the visitor opened the conversation. “The shit is about to hit a very large fan any second now Gerry, so what do ye want?” he said, lighting a cigarette and inhaling a long puff. He exhaled through his nose, large clouds of blue smoke billowing onto the front of his open parka jacket. “Liam, we have to fight this on a political level...” Adams started. His visitor snorted in contempt and leaned forward, slamming his fist on the desk top, crushing his cigarette between his thick fingers. “Political my arse!” he shouted, “the British army is kicking down doors and hauling my people off to camps — internment is back Gerry. The Unionists are planning a response equal to what happened today, just as I would if the tables were reversed. This is no time for politics — they’ll use this opportunity to try to wipe us all out...” “Which is why we can’t react,” Adams cut in. “Liam, if we do anything we will confirm without doubt that the accusation is true — we will be held to blame for today’s action, and that is all the excuse they need to begin to let their hounds loose and wipe us out. We can’t react even if they do attack us.” “Bollix!” his visitor responded, though calming himself knowing, that Adams was right. “What do I tell the people in Belfast if they see their families torn asunder — going out and poking a flower in the soldiers rifles will only result in their getting their heads shot off.” “You’re right,” Adams conceded, “but we have to focus our efforts at finding out who did this. Have you heard anything?” “Not a whisper. We can’t even speak to the people of the street — they’ve all been carted off for questioning. A woman on the adjacent street saw one of the attackers chase someone down their street. She described him as looking just like one of our men - mask and all. Even our own don’t believe us — she told the woman I sent over to clear off and never to come back! There was mention of a civilian getting away in a car with a Dublin registration, but for all we know that could have been one of the marchers...” Adams interrupted him and picked up his TV remote control, raising his hand to silence his guest. He turned on the television just as the early evening news began. The announcer was in mid-sentence, “and the British army allowed our reporters full access to the scene on condition that we broadcast our footage just as we filmed it. The following images

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are extremely graphic, please turn away if your are of a weak disposition.” What followed were two minutes of videotape footage of the slaughter, bodies piled on top of each other. People of all ages sprawled in the agony of death — indescribable mutilations, shattered bodies, dead eyes staring blankly. Above all was the blood and the stench of death, portrayed by the revulsion in the reporter’s face as he attempted to provide a commentary, but failing, having to move out of the picture sick to the stomach at the sights and smells. “Reaction from Downing Street has been swift with a crack-down on all public travel. The border is closed and will remain so until further notice. Additional troops have been pouring in by air throughout the afternoon. Despite denials by Sinn Féin leader Gerry Adams, unionist leaders have been quick to lay the blame for this attack squarely on the IRA. Both the British and Irish governments have been uncommonly quiet, citing “no comment” when approached for a statement as to the perpetrators. Meetings at the highest levels are currently underway between the British and Irish governments at Number 10 Downing Street.” The voice trailed away as further footage showed the remains of a downed mangled helicopter - caught unawares by a few rounds from a Gepard — and burned out scarred personnel carriers. Adams was about to turn off the set when the announcer broke in. “This just in...” the announcer was handed a script sheet from the side of the studio. “A photograph received anonymously by the Irish police moments ago shows someone whom they believe to be one of the attackers.” An image flickered onto the screen as the technician adjusted the focus, showing a man crouched, his features not sharp but clear enough to show a receding hairline and a mustache. He cradled something in his arms — it could have been a rifle but again the sharpness of the image was not there and whatever he was holding was pointing at the camera lens giving a front profile. “A car was reported leaving an adjacent street at high speed - a gray Renault 21 with Dublin plates. There is some confusion, but the police have issued a request for any information to be called directly to their hot tip line. The suspect is believed to be armed and extremely dangerous — viewers are cautioned to stay clear if they come across him and to immediately call the police.” A toll-free number followed for viewers to call. “There’s your lead, Liam,” Adams pointed at the set with the remote control. “Find him, before someone else does and we’ll have a shot at getting out of this mess clean — and make sure he’s alive and kicking, a dead man won’t help us here.” The visitor got up from his chair and walked from the room without saying a word. Adams lit his pipe and puffed on it

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wondering if his visitor, lifelong friend and the head of the Provisional IRA, would be able to track this guy down. Liam O’Morochu made a few calls from his car phone and within minutes operatives all over the country were receiving instructions in tracking the gray car. He dispatched an operative to talk again to the woman on Bedford Street to see, even at the risk of inflicting pain, if her memory would improve and provide details missed in their earlier talk. A call to the police yielded him a copy of the photograph which he collected himself from Police Headquarters front desk in Harcourt Street.

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The phone call disturbed him. The front desk had called to tell him that the gentlemen he was expecting were on the way up. Nick had asked who they were — he wasn’t expecting anybody. Not many people knew he was in town. The phone had been hung up abruptly before the receptionist could respond. Nick pondered his position. What was he going to do? He couldn’t call the police, could he? Where to go? The airport or any of the ferry ports was the ideal answer, but his mug shot on the television evening news had put pay to that. He looked over at his video camera lying on the hotel room credenza and caught his own reflection in the mirror hanging behind it. His stubbled face needed a shave and a scrub, but it would have to wait. Clenching his jaw tightly, he mentally reviewed his inventory and decided what to pack and what to leave behind. In his case he had a backpack, which he used when filming, to store his camera, tapes and batteries — it would have to do. The hotel in which he was staying was situated in the heart of fashionable Dublin 4 — Jury’s Hotel — well known in tourist and business circles. Attached to the main reception area was a luxury accommodation wing — the Towers — of eight stories, popular for its exclusivity, though at a price. The cost ensured that the corridors were quiet and the amenities were what an international traveler would expect. A week in the place would have paid Nick’s mortgage for a month, he mused when checking in. Everything fit tightly into his waterproof backpack, including his video camera, which he dropped in a plastic shopping bag to protect it from dampness. He surrounded it with his clothes and settled it neatly into the middle of the pack. From the marble tiled bathroom, he took a small wash-towel with the hotel’s logo on it and wrapped it around the camera for extra protection. He left his suits where they were in the closet and dropped his remaining belongings into his suitcase, which he slipped into the closet behind the suits. He picked up his rental car keys and flicked the key-ring upright. Reaching for the phone he called the toll-free number printed on the key-ring. Giving the reservation number to the answering gentleman, he explained that he had to leave at short notice and that he would leave the car where it was in the hotel parking lot and drop the key into a mailbox. “Er, sir, you could leave the key at the reception desk,” the reservation agent probed.

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Quietly Nick explained that he was in a terrible rush and would mail it. “You have my credit card if there’s any problem,” he told the man. “Very well, sir, it’s a little unusual, but that will be fine. Have a pleasant...” Nick hung up on him, checked the room quickly and, out of habit, looked over the bathroom. Nothing was amiss, though he longed for a shower and a shave. Pausing by the room’s door, he checked himself before opening it. He stood quietly for a second and switched off the hallway light. There was a cover on the peephole, which he slid aside slowly so as not to make a sound. Raising his eye to the lens, he squinted to make out the view of the hallway outside. Peering through the fisheye lens he saw that the hallway was clear; the doors to the other rooms were shut tightly. He could see the remnants of leftover room service outside a few of them, but nothing else. As he was about to turn the handle, the phone rang. A shrill electronic beep. He felt a chill on his back as he realized that his unwelcome guests might already be in the elevator. Access to these suites was restricted. Each guest had to use a digital key card to swipe their entry from the lobby below, to call the elevator, and gain access to the floor of on which he was staying. However, it was token security as there were no security personnel in these areas to check each person. Who the hell was calling him? He walked a few steps to the bathroom and picked up the extension there. “Hello?” he said, trying to sound groggy as if he had been awakened from a deep slumber. “Nicky? Hi big guy,” his mother’s voice cracked over the line. “Mom,” he interrupted, “Mom, I’ve got to catch a plane right away, some urgent business has come up in London.” He lied. “But, Nicky, you didn’t come to see us! Oh, your dad is going to be very disappointed.” She paused for a moment and her instinct told her — “Nick, is there something wrong?” Nick was silent for a moment and thought about what he should tell her. Both of his parents were elderly and had been looking forward to seeing him, as it had been some time since his last visit. The hotel wasn’t more than fifteen minutes by car from their well appointed home in Foxrock, a popular, though his mother thought, over-rated, and tired suburb of Dublin. Leaving without a good reason was close to impossible. She knew him too well to lie convincingly, and he did not want to worry her. Compromising, he told her that he had a call from a client who needed to see him in London first thing in the morning. A new client, his office had set it up and faxed him the details earlier in the day. He would be back soon and he told her not to worry. Hanging up, he muttered, “Love you,” into the phone. That disturbed

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his mother, because he hadn’t said that to her for over twenty years, it was very unlike him. She shrugged it off and went into the living room to inform his dad of the news. Sitting on the edge of his bed he wondered what to do next. How should he exit the hotel? Going through the front lobby was too obvious a trap. Walking over to the heavy curtains, he peered outside at the balcony to check for an exit that way. His heart froze and he was paralyzed with fear at the sight that beheld him. Inches away from his face stood a heavy set man, his back to him, assisting a second man over the balcony railings silhouetted against the hotel lights. Both were dressed in tight- knit dark woolen pull-overs, and what scared him most wasn’t the sight of the shapes, or the guns that were slung over their shoulders, but the tight ski masks that hid their faces. Very carefully, Nick stood back from the window and let the curtain fall back into place. He reached out with his hand and smoothed the cloth. Blood pounded into his temples as his heart raced. He felt panic rise in his throat as he inched away from the window. The edge of the bed caught the back of his knee and he staggered, reaching out with his right hand and catching himself before he lost his balance completely. He felt the crumpled quilt material beneath his fingers. He stood there, listening intently and he felt his face blush with a surge of anger as he tried to control his emotions. Moving quickly to the room door, guided by the light that shone through the still-open peephole, he thrust his eye to the aperture again. Still nothing outside. Grasping the door handle in his right hand he inched it open and peered outside. A cool breeze from the air-conditioning greeted him, as he looked toward the elevator at the end of the hallway. Looking at the illuminated up arrow, he knew that the steel doors would slide open at any second. Committing himself, he slid through the doorway, nearly catching his bag in the process as he clicked the door shut as quietly as he could. The click sounded like a thunderclap in the silence that surrounded him. Cold beads of sweat ran down his temples, and his eyes sought out any sound. To his right he could hear a woman’s soft moaning accompanied by rougher male grunts. “Lucky bastards,” Nick muttered to himself. There was an emergency exit at the end of the hallway adjacent to the soda and ice machine. As he strode quickly toward it he could hear his phone cheep again. Looking over his shoulder nervously, he reached the emergency exit door and quickly glanced through the fireproof glass panel that lay above the handle. A red notice was pinned to the aluminum bar, warning guests that opening the door would sound an alarm.

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He reached out, and as he was about to touch the door his hand jerked reactively as a bolt of static electricity shot from his fingertip to the metal door handle. “Jesus,” he muttered aloud, holding his hand protectively. Behind him he heard the ding as the elevator reached his floor, and with no other options available to him, Nick reached into the fire alarm box beside him and pushed the button. Simultaneously, he heaved against the fire door and shoved it open and ran headlong down the concrete stairway. Behind him he could hear, the siren of the fire alarm whoop and the shriek of the door alarm box. The stairwell echoed the clatter of his descent and it took him but 20 seconds to reach the bottom, as his room was on the third floor. Bursting through the steel fire door, he ran headlong into a tall scrub which soaked him with water from the earlier rain. It drenched him, but refreshed him all the same. The cool damp night air enveloped Nick as he ran down the narrow strip of concrete path to the parking lot at the end, which was illuminated brightly by sodium lamps. The branches of tall trees drooped low, heavy with the weight of the evening rain. The wind rushed through the thick foliage, rustling the leaves. Reaching the first car in the lot, Nick crouched down and peered through the wet windows at the lot toward the hotel entrance. His own car was at the far end, parked there by the doorman. He knew better than to approach it. Ahead of him and to the side of the taller hotel main wing lay a high chain link fence. To its right gaped the side entrance to the hotel and he ran for it, crouched low behind the rows of wet cars. There was little evidence of any commotion from the hotel, although he could see some lights come on in the guest windows of the wing he had just left, a few anxious faces peering into the darkness.

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The British Prime Minister Blair ushered his cabinet into his office greeting each with a grim nod. All entered mute and apprehensive, note pads clasped in their hands. The PM cleared his throat, and for a moment while gathering his thoughts, avoided eye contact with any of the men seated in front of him. Apart from the Thatcher era, the cabinet was a male preserve — old habits dying hard. The silence hung like a heavy velvet curtain. The late evening sun shone through the window like a laser, illuminating the dust particles floating in the room. “For those of you who wish to smoke, please do so,” he began, but none did, knowing his allergic asthmatic response to even a whiff of smoke. His eyes set deep underneath his reading glasses, he looked older than his years. Nearly a full term as PM had taken its toll with the constant pressures of office. “We have before us, gentlemen, a national emergency that has only been equaled in recent memory by the Iraqi war and Falkland conflict,” he started. Pausing, he rose from the edge of his desk where he had sat, and choosing his words carefully, he began to pace slowly in front of the wooden table casting his gaze squarely on the carpet in front of him. “The event that has taken place has thrown any hope of settling the Northern Ireland situation peacefully to the wind. Violence has returned just as a few of you predicted it would.” A few murmurs of recognition rose from those seated, anxious now that they be recognized for their prophetic abilities at a time when everyone wanted to be rid of that “bloody province,” as it was referred to. The PM acknowledged them with a sharp disapproving glance. Running his right hand through his hair, he continued, “I am, however, puzzled, not so much by the motive of the aggressors, nor the target itself — we have been warning the loyalists for years about taunting their neighbors with their infernal marches. No, I’m troubled at the ferocity of the attack — the outright carnage. The fact that they sought to kill so many.” One of his ministers sought to interrupt, but the PM stopped him in his tracks with a wave of his hand and went on, “It has all the hallmarks of an IRA attack, even the immediate denial and the later confirmation using their code words. Gerry Adams is due to give a press conference to deny that the IRA had any hand in it. On a smaller scale I wouldn’t, for a moment, doubt their involvement, but the sheer size of the operation, the complexity and the ruthlessness doesn’t quite fit the bill. Christ,” he exclaimed, “238 people dead - children, women.” He wiped his face in exasperation.

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“Why? I’ll leave that for you to tell me. Who? I know that you’ve all, supported by our preliminary intelligence analysis of the incident, pinned this down on the IRA, and I won’t question your judgment for now — at least until more facts present themselves.” Turning to his intelligence chief from MI6, he asked, “We have a few well placed men in that organization — one at the highest levels — why didn’t we know in advance? The planning, the sheer size of the...how is it that there wasn’t a leak, a whisper...something?” The director attempted to answer, but he, like his earlier colleague, was cut off before he could get two words out. The PM went on, settling back on the edge of his desk. “We heard nothing in advance — even now we hear denials, even from our own people. Despite the fact that a small group of renegades was involved in the London attacks, we knew in advance, but regrettably could do nothing to stop them lest we tip them off and have our sources served back to us on a platter. We even let the first bomb explode at a cost of human life and millions of pounds in collateral damage before we blew the bugger up on that bus, on his way to his next mission.” “I want all the information we have available, as well as your recommendations on my desk before the end of the day,” he checked his Rolex, “Include in your recommendations a response.” “In the interim, I have granted emergency powers to the commander of the troops on the ground over there.” This met with murmurs of approval, and he continued quickly, “With strict instruction to contain the situation and explicit instructions not to intimidate the government in Southern Ireland.” This statement was met with stunned silence. It was too much for one minister who leapt from his chair protesting, “But the south is where those bastards will be hiding out — protected by the state — they’ve been doing it for years!” The PM cut him no slack, “There is no proof to that accusation — none at all. The situation as you are fully aware is explosive — the wrong move or overtones could spark a civil war that could come to haunt us here in London in days. I want to preserve the momentum gained through the ratification of the Good Friday Treaty and the spirit of real co-operation that it brought forth. I simply will not allow years of work to be erased in a blink of an eye.” He let his words sink in. “I have invited members of the Irish government to meet later this evening.” “Since when, Prime Minister,” Robert Lerwill, a minister from the department of foreign affairs, “did England start negotiating our policy prior to implementation. We must assume a position of strength and negotiate then!” he protested indignantly. “You’re right, of course. But you fail to realize that times have changed a great deal in the past few years,” the PM explained, “that we can annihilate the south militarily is not in question, but

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there are considerations. Political considerations — we have to consider the reaction of the world community to whatever actions we take. Ireland is not after all a desert country in the Middle East, nor is it an Island off the shores of Argentina — it’s forty miles away from our Western coast and damn well in the middle of European affairs.” He knew he was about to put his head into the proverbial lion’s mouth but plowed ahead anyway. “We cannot afford any adverse reaction from the Americans, nor our European neighbors. That is not to say that we will not make the appropriate noises in support of diplomatic efforts.” Two of the ministers exchanged glances, smiling inwardly. Their suspicions that the man was a wimp had just been confirmed, and, at the first opportunity, his quality of leadership would be called into question. Ardent supporters of the PM’s only female predecessor, Margaret Thatcher — despite their Labor Party affiliations — they knew that during her time she would not have had any qualms about telling the Southern Irish government exactly what she thought, and to hell with the consequences. The Americans would have been taken care of in a quiet phone call to her then counterpart, the American President. And damn the European countries, this affair was none of their business. Their glance was not lost on the PM. Minister Rankin, a home office official made no bones at all about his feelings with regard to these “pesky Paddies,” as he referred to them at any given opportunity. Though he had never actually set foot in Ireland, he was convinced that England was the heart of the world, and its neighbors to the west were but a bunch of wild drunken men masquerading in the trappings of finery, much like the wogs that had been shipped back in the last century from darkest Africa — “you can’t make a silk purse out of a Paddy!” was one of his favorite expressions. “Prime Minister,” he interrupted, “if I may comment,” he added graciously, his tone belied his purpose. The PM gazed at him stonily — Rankin, nor his fellow minister Bromley, were among his favorites — they represented the last of a dying breed of Englishmen who felt that the sun should still continue to always shine on the British Empire, as it had 150 years previously when it was possible to travel from Palestine to South Africa without ever leaving British soil. That the sun never set on the Empire referred to the fact that, despite the revolutions of the earth, a British territory was always bathed in sunlight; from Africa to India, Hong Kong, Australia and Canada. A fair man always, he allowed the minister to speak, regretting his decision as soon as the fellow opened his mouth. “PM, fellow cabinet members, I am, as you know, as are many of my colleagues, a conservative concerning the Northern Irish issue.

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Some would call us ultra-conservative and if this is what you call a man for upholding British principles and traditions so be it.” He noticed the PM glowering at his long-windedness, but pressed on regardless, “Let me cut to the quick and ask you a simple question — if any other nation killed 238 Britons in a such a cold hearted murderous method, what would our response be? What if it was the Italians, the Greeks, the Palestinians? Would we hesitate in our response? NEVER!” Raising his voice he went on, “These people were murdered for living their God given right to march peacefully under the flag of their monarch, their country. I’ll answer the question for you — we would be screaming at the UN for immediate sanctions against the country. We would take direct action gentlemen, as is the practice that England has done, without hesitation, throughout the centuries. And would we care about other countries’ reactions? Not one hoot! What would the Israelis do? — they would, without remorse or a care, annihilate the perpetrators.” Voices of support rose up from those seated. “Northern Ireland is sovereign territory and its Unionist inhabitants are as British as we are. This attack gentlemen, was an attack at the heart of all things British, and our response should be quick, decisive and devastating, lest we be regarded,” and he looked directly at the PM as he finished, “as weak in our resolution and character.” He sat down abruptly to the sound of applause of his supporters as well as murmurs of support from others present — his careful wording had touched a raw nerve, and all eyes now turned to the PM. His eyes shone angrily and he stooped forward in an aggressive stance. “Much of what the...good minister has said is true,” he paused, “given different circumstances. Ireland however is not only our neighbor — it is our economic partner. We have committed, through the treaty that was passed by a voting majority north and south of the Irish border, to support wholeheartedly our joint effort to resolve the Northern Irish question through peaceful political means. The cities and towns of our country are filled with generations of immigrants who uphold our traditions and culture and supply much needed labor to our industry.” Angrily he spat his words, “We are not talking here about relations with Iraq or Libya — all eyes are upon us. How we react will determine forever more our standing in the world community — especially so with the attention this incident is getting from the American President who, as you are well aware, was instrumental in formulating the current peace proposal.” He faced them and looked at them condescendingly as though they were errant schoolchildren.

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“The truth, gentlemen, is that we are an occupying force.” Murmurs of dissent rose up, but he raised his voice over them, “we are an occupying force in a land that does not want us, nor, by recent polls, do the British people want us to be there for much longer. This was the purpose of the peace process — it is, was, the cornerstone of our eventual withdrawal. Despite what you may think, Britain will someday leave Northern Ireland, just as we left Hong Kong, though without the pomp and ceremony. This roll-back is a process that started over two hundred years ago when we got thrown out of the Americas and damn near got ourselves invaded by the U.S. Navy — led, surprisingly enough, by an Irishman.” He referred to Perry’s attack on British coastal shipping during the American Revolutionary War. “Other examples gentlemen — Egypt, Palestine, India, Rhodesia, South Africa, the Far East, and in the not too distant future, we will have our ties with Canada and Australia also severed. And our efforts to keep these colonies have one thing in common. Failure. Complete failure.” He was aware that he sounded like a prep school history teacher, but he continued nonetheless. “We are no longer a world power — we live in the shadow of our former greatness, that ended at the end of World War II when the U.S. saved us from German domination. We may bluster and protest, but those are the realities — our pretensions at being a superpower are just that, pretensions. Any disruption of trade resulting from how we now act could very well tear our house down around us, monarchy and all. All that will be left will be a mention in the history books, written, I might add, by a Tory government.” Gazing around him, his colleagues looked back, not one of them liking what he was saying. They had lived in denial since the last hurrah of the Falkland conflict — even in the Iraqi war they played to the sound of the American drummer, along with the French and the other coalition troops there. “We will respond in a responsible fashion — with forethought, grace and determination, once we have established who has perpetrated the crime. Let us not fool ourselves with delusions of grandeur,” referring to Rankin, “I hear a Tory Prime Minister’s ghost knocking at the door.” He dismissed them, saying, “Keep me informed and we will meet here again in later — thank you for coming.” As the room emptied, the PM called back the Defense Minister, Peter Woolworth, a close friend since university days. Closing the door, he walked to the oak drink cabinet and removed a bottle of scotch and two tumblers. Without saying a word, he poured them both a finger of whisky and quietly handed his friend a glass. Facing each other in studded leather armchairs, Peter was the first to speak.

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“A bit harsh Tony, you’re not going out of your way to make any allies,” he started, a twinkle in his eye. “You touched, nay scraped, a raw nerve.” He took a swallow from his drink. “Harsh, but true Peter,” the PM responded. “They were all set to unleash the dogs of war and lay waste the island, similar to what that American general had suggested before the start of Desert Storm. As I recall he proposed that America nuke Iraq, and turn the sands into a vast skating rink. We must tread carefully, Peter.” Sipping his scotch, he held the tumbler loosely in his left hand drooped over the arm rest. “I had a call from the American President not more than an hour ago. He urged restraint, a thorough investigation and above all caution. He reminded me that he has 40 million Irish Americans, many of whom are calling their senators with their continued support of the peace process. Congress is comprised of a large Irish American contingent — the president himself is part Irish — mongrel that he is!” he added good naturedly. Peter smiled at his friend, recognizing the deep sense of humor that lay just beneath the surface of his stony face. He never understood fully why Tony had taken the PM spot — it did not suit his temperament, and he lived in the shadow of one of Britain’s most powerful prime ministers after Churchill. Tony’s face reflected the burden and strain of office; his early popularity had dwindled as his term progressed. Sipping his drink, he favored the strong spirit, yearning to light a cigarette. The PM leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Don’t you, nor should they,” he waved his hand at the door, “misunderstand my resolve. I have given orders for 6,000 troops to be airlifted into Northern Ireland — some are arriving as we speak. The Special Air Services are leading the way, returning there for the first time since what the Irish still call “Bloody Sunday.” I don’t want a repeat of that calamity — it sparked the fire that has terrorized our nation since. I have given orders for the use of all reasonable measures, and I use that term loosely to give our army leaders the teeth to find who is behind this horror. I’ve even given the go ahead for air support.” “But we have been using helicopter support for years...” Peter interjected. “Fighter support — a psychological weapon really — what the hell can they shoot at? Despite what I said here, we must project the impression that whoever designed this has stirred a hornet’s nest.” He drained his glass and rose, saying, “Stay close Peter, there are rough days ahead.” Peter clapped his friend on the shoulder and left his near empty glass on the coffee table, closing the door behind him quietly. Exiting Number 10, Woolworth nodded to the policemen outside armed with their Sterling submachine guns. Posing briefly for the

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press photographers, who had been corralled at the end of the street he, deep in thought, climbed into his ministerial car and was whisked back to his offices. His secretary greeted him on his return handing him a sheaf of calls that had come in his absence. He asked her to make him a pot of coffee, a taste which he had picked up during a four year stay in New York, where he had pursued an advanced degree at Columbia University. He made his way to the bathroom, not using his own, he preferred to use the general facility to keep in touch with his male staff and to appear to be one of the crowd. Another American habit, he smiled to himself as he walked down the linoleum covered corridor. Through the corner of his eye he saw that one of his assistant’s doors was open and the room empty. On his return from the bathroom where he met no one, perhaps it was too late in the evening, he slipped into the empty office, leaving the door slightly ajar. Lifting the hand-set from the cradle, he dialed a local London number and waited for a connection. The phone call forwarded to two other numbers before finally connecting with a beeper service. When the phone was answered he punched a string of numbers before hanging up. One hundred and forty miles away in a Dublin office a beeper sounded. The recipient tapped his watch which enclosed the beeper and read the message, “29454.” The first digit identified the caller, the second three was a time and the final digit a code for a phone number. Any additional number would have been disregarded unless the numbers “999” were at the end signifying that the caller was in immediate distress. The internal security contingent in the Defense Ministry taped the call but did not log it, ignoring it as a mis-dial; happened all the time. Gerard O’Shea re-adjusted his shirt sleeve covering his wrist watch, pocketed the beeper and called for his car which brought him to his private plane at Dublin airport, arriving at his London office almost exactly two hours later.

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“You can’t be serious!” Woolworth quipped, a large gin and tonic in his fist. O’Shea stopped what he was doing and looked him straight in the eye coldly. “I’ve never been more so.” “But the people of the country will never stand for it — for God’s sake the time for violent upheaval and revolution ended in Europe after the Second World War...” “The Irish are good at one thing Peter — failure. As a nation we relish in it. We savor it. We wallow in it, awash in pints of beer and melancholy of what could have been...‘Ah sure if only this hadn’t happened or that had changed,’ we have an excuse for everything. We even let the Americans walk in and impose a settlement in Northern Ireland.” Woolworth rose and walked over to examine one of the many paintings that lined O’Shea’s mahogany walls. Though in his mid- forties, Woolworth was aging well, retaining some of the handsome features that had been his hallmark as a youth. His full head of salt and pepper hair was combed neatly, his hazel eyes framed by his Christian Dior glasses. Sallow skin, inherited from a Brazilian mother, bore the tan acquired a month previously on a Spanish beach between rounds at a foreign affairs summit — the surrender of Britain’s outpost at Gibraltar being the topic. His dark hands bore the wrinkles of too much sun, and his face was creased with lines, beginning to sag from too much of everything. Decked in an Armani suit, beautifully tailored, his six foot three height made him an imposing figure, an attribute that he used to maximum effectiveness. He was a skilled politician, capable of charming and intimidating his opponents in equal measure to attain whatever he wanted. His true skill, however, was in making those who he dealt with feel that they had won, despite the fact that they had lost the shop. A man of means, his father was a much decorated general during the Second World War, having inherited much of his wealth from his own father, a trader who worked the European capitals for the De Beers, the diamond company in South Africa. The family money had been invested wisely in the post war economy ensuring a privileged life-style and the easy access to politics that went with it. His father had instilled in him two motivating factors, a love of country and a respect for money. This had been adhered to until the late eighties, when as a name for Lloyds of London, he had been hit with an astronomical tab for defaulting insurance issued by the company. The prestige of being a member, or a ‘name’ as they were referred to, was allotted to the method by which insurance was

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issued. When a new satellite or ship needed insurance a broker would circulate details to the names in the exclusive club. These men and women would weigh the risk, adjust the premium until it was mutually acceptable between all parties and, if a deal could be made, issue a policy. In a singular event, like a rocket launch, the premium was earned completely on the safe delivery of the cargo to space and they went home with a fat check in their pocket. However, if the rocket blew up destroying its cargo, the names would have to fork over the amount due to the insured from their own pockets. There was no limit to liability. This in itself would have been but an inconvenience to Woolworth and his estate, but it was followed by the failure of Barings Bank in 1995. This effectively wiped out his considerable liquid assets — £19.8 million sterling to be exact, leaving him with his fixed assets — real estate and an estate in Oxfordshire, against which he had liabilities due to Lloyds, and little or no cash flow to fund his day-to-day expenses. He had met O’Shea some years earlier, and they had hit it off immediately, a relationship which O’Shea had gone out of his way to develop. They had spent some time together over the years, traveling mostly to vacation spots to enjoy the sun, and sample the young women who frequented the same areas and were dazzled by the prospect of older men with obvious signs of wealth. The disappointment of being replaced the next day meant nothing to the two adventurers. O’Shea had followed Woolworth’s fortunes, or their diminishment closely, as he was aware of the pressures of his Lloyds’ liabilities. They had talked of Irish politics and joked about at O’Shea’s plans and Woolworth’s rise through British politics, from an MP elected during the Thatcher years, to his current position of Minister of Defense within the Labor government. Their last vacation together had been more subdued, O’Shea had insisted on picking up the tab. The truth of Woolworth’s predicament came to light one night when he had too much to drink. O’Shea had replaced his own gin and tonic with tonic alone and plied Peter for information — very subtly lest he detect the ruse. Out came the threads of his financial problems which when woven into O’Shea’s own research provided the picture and opportunity he required. O’Shea, before the end of the trip, suggested that he had some consulting work available for one of his offshore companies, “for the right person” was how he put it, and asked Woolworth to let him know if he came across someone suitable. It took only a few weeks before Woolworth, creditors pressing in on him, aided by information leaked by one of O’Shea’s London based colleagues, called O’Shea suggesting a meeting to discuss the nature and qualifications needed for this consulting enterprise. O’Shea had Peter over to Dublin for dinner at his St. Stephen’s Green Club,

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followed by a night out in one of the better class of brothels that Dublin had to offer to the exclusive, anonymous few. O’Shea explained that someone like Woolworth, with contacts within the government, could secure passage of equipment for his west coast of Ireland assembly plant based near Castlebar, County Mayo. Also, he needed to secure certain military components for an overseas client, their exact nature to be discussed in the future. He feigned surprise when Woolworth suggested that he might fit the role himself to stimulate his career that was bogged down in the quagmire of politics. The up front consulting fee, which O’Shea had delivered to him the next day, was enough to immediately ease the pressure of his creditors, and the promise of a regular monthly stipend cheered Peter up considerably. O’Shea made sure that the amount was just enough to keep the wolf from the door and to keep Woolworth hungry for the bonus, which would more than replace his cash losses. The extra cash would be paid after his services were rendered in full, and although Peter was not aware of the exact nature of these services, he trusted his friend for helping him out of a financial and social disaster. O’Shea neglected to tell him that if matters came to a head, the record chronicled on audio and video tape would make it evident that Peter had come to him and not vice versa. “Dear God, Gerry, your wish list includes practically everything on our arms export list — anti-tank rockets, anti-aircraft missiles, battlefield electronics...Christ, the only thing missing is a blooming fighter jet!” “Not in the budget old chap,” O’Shea smiled without missing a beat. “Besides, the export license will list these items as being sent to Chile and they’re on the official export B list, they’ll hardly be noticed.” The list he referred to was one governing the sale of out-of-date and surplus weaponry. Not that they could not do what they were designed to do, but because like all consumer items they had been replaced by newer versions with more bells and whistles. The arms business was a lucrative one enjoyed by most industrialized countries and it was a buyers market. O’Shea let Woolworth digest the list fully, refilling his glass with a liberal amount of gin and a splash of tonic. Placing the glass beside Peter’s hand, he sat behind his desk without a word and busied himself with checking papers left there earlier, by his assistant Maeve. When he felt the time was right he asked quietly. “Well, can you do it?” Peter had regained his facial color, lost earlier at first sight of the document in his hand. Without looking up he muttered grimly, “May one ask the true destination of these...products.” “One may ask, but one will be told exactly what I’ve told you already — Chile.”

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Frustrated, Peter dropped the list on the desk. “The ultimate destination Gerry is not Chile — please, I’m not so stupid to believe that you would need my assistance in securing them. Britain already exports product to South America, this sort of deal could have been done directly or through the Ambassador.” “You’re concerned that they may be used to down British aircraft, kill British soldiers,” O’Shea voiced for him. Standing abruptly Peter concurred forcefully, walking to help himself to another drink “Yes, damn it, my conscience wouldn’t allow it. My father was a decorated...” “Yes, Peter, I know,” O’Shea assured him. He rose from the desk and walked to where Peter was standing. He grasped his shoulders and stared intently into his eyes. “I promise you Peter that they will not be used in any way against the British armed forces, or in any way that will embarrass you or your government. These weapons will be sent to Chile, and, yes, that country is not the true end user. Some will be trickled back to Ireland for use not against the British, but to arm a fifth column should I run into any obstacles in securing my own plans.” Woolworth bought it immediately, perhaps because he wanted to hear it. His stomach was a tight ball as he realized the precarious position that he was in, the fact that he had put himself in a position to become the Judas for his country. O’Shea recognized the signal in Peter’s eyes and released his grip on his shoulders. He ushered his friend to sit and drew a chair close, sitting himself. “What I am about to tell you will cost you and me our lives if it should ever be revealed.” He raised his eyebrows to emphasize the point. Woolworth nodded, sucking deeply from his glass. “My plans are to modernize the thinking of this island nation — to bring us into the twenty-first century, not as a socialist county, but one with a capitalist backbone. For too long we have been the land of saints and scholars, but for what? The saints have turned out not to be saints at all, just read the newspapers, the Church is falling apart with scandals. As far as I’ve traveled I can see that despite our huge investment in education, the key is learning to use it effectively. Anyone can teach. It takes skill to put the lesson into practice. That’s why we have so many business schools and their lofty professors. If they were as good as they think they are, they wouldn’t be teaching at all — they’d be millionaires, like me!” He paused and lit a cigarette, placing his gold lighter beside his packet of Rothmans on the drinks table. “As a nation we are among the most highly educated. So why are we piss poor, with a disgustingly high rate of unemployment and an alcoholism rate that makes us the laughing stock of the world? Recent economic advances have been made with European Economic

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Community hand-outs. Irish people succeed when they travel abroad, away from the mother’s bosom of college and our social net, and go it alone, sink or swim. World experience hardens them. Hard work hardens them. They become successful, losing the snotty middle- class attitude instilled in them at school, particularly in our private schools.” “And what happens? They stay away, keeping their talents and money with them.” Taking a drag on his depleted cigarette he stubbed it out angrily in the Waterford glass ashtray. “For too long this country has satisfied itself at being mediocre, a commentator on world affairs, while we back no horses, take no risks. And it hasn’t got us anywhere. Sure we have a large middle class with their phony West-Brit accents, their holiday homes and their two cars. But what’s behind it? Debt and foreign investment. Take away foreign investment and the economy folds like a pack of cards.” “My plan calls for the elimination of the social safety net, and the introduction of mandatory health insurance. It will save the country a fortune which can be channeled into business development and manufacturing. The EEC can go to hell, we’ll be out of that quicker than you can say Euro-dollar. Prohibition will be introduced to break the generations of alcoholism, and we will have the country set up as one vast tax-free zone for foreign investors. Tax increases will slow the growth of the consumer debt burden. Land ownership will be strictly Irish based. Public fund surpluses will be spent on infrastructure development — bridges, highways. My insurance companies, as sole providers, will benefit from the need for private health insurance...” O’Shea stopped himself and took a swig from his drink, the ice had long since melted and it tasted watery. He quietly complimented himself on how easily the lies came to him. “To my point. I am expecting, shall we say, opposition to my plans when they are announced, as I will suspend free elections for at least a five year period. Some of my policies, particularly social reforms, prohibition, taxes, and law and order will, I expect, cause blood to boil, and while people may take to the streets in protest, I can only guarantee implementation through the support of the armed forces.” “I have on my side a number of influential commanders of various ranks, but I cannot guarantee that the army will stand behind me against the initial onslaught of public opinion. Chances are the army may stay out of it, but that damned IRA will support the people against me, as this goes against all that they have been fighting for.” “I have formed, over the years, a network of public, private and foreign allies who are behind me. The arms that you will assist me in acquiring are to ensure that the regular Irish army will comply,

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or be destroyed. The icing on the cake is that I will give my fifth column free reign in dealing with any terrorist threats. Anyway,” he added, “you get the picture.” Peter shook his head slowly from side to side trying to make sense of it all. After a moment he asked, “What about Northern Ireland — the peace treaty?” “Britain, the Unionists, can have it all — I have no interest in having an economy requiring additional billions of state capital draining already meager resources. And besides, what would Her Majesty’s troops do without that valuable training ground? Perhaps I can charge them rent!” O’Shea smiled warmly, as he saw the twinkle return to his friends eye. He reached forward and slapped him on the arm, laughing with Woolworth, at the notion. Had he thought it through, Woolworth would have realized the fallacy of O’Shea’s banter, but financial pressures had a way of blinding even the most intelligent of men. “Are you with me Peter?” O’Shea quizzed. “One hundred percent, Gerry,” Woolworth hesitated and then added a little unsurely. “Em...to the matter of the bonus...” Gerry raised his hand to silence him, and rising, walked to his desk. From underneath his desk diary he removed an envelope which he handed to Peter. “What’s this,” he asked puzzled, “I’m not due my monthly check for another two weeks.” With a flip of his hand, O’Shea removed Peters glass and walked to the drinks tray. “Open it,” he ordered without looking at Peter. While Peter slid a finger under the flap, O’Shea removed a fresh pair of glasses from the cupboard underneath the tray. Ice tinkled into the glass followed by a slice of lemon as Woolworth removed the paper from the envelope. Woolworth’s eyes lit up at the sum of the transfer inside to his Luxembourg account — it far exceeded his expectations...far exceeded. As O’Shea mixed the drinks, Woolworth did not notice him snapping the neck off a vial of clear liquid which he added to Peter’s drink followed by effervescent tonic. As he returned to their chairs, O’Shea handed him his glass, “An advance on the bonus Peter, an indication of the importance of this project to me.” “Gerry I really don’t know what to say except, thank you and I will always be in your debt.” His troubles would soon be over. Relief flooded through him riding on the back of the alcohol that warmed his soul. “Exactly,” O’Shea thought to himself as he raised his glass in a toast. “To friendship, diligence and a new Ireland — down the hatch.” Peter was only too glad to comply and swallowed his drink, straining it through the ice that knocked against his teeth, giving

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him an instant cold headache, relieved by the relative warmth of the gin. He did not notice for an instant the additive that O’Shea had dispensed, nor would he until O’Shea was ready to give him the second component of the stereo poison some time in the near future. The initial dose in itself would not affect him in the least until combined with a second dose of the other half of the lethal mix, a concoction that was reputed to have killed the former media mogul Robert Maxwell. The beauty of it was that it left no trace at all.

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Nick ran for the gate and, as he turned left into the street, promptly slipped on fallen leaves that were laying on the slick roadway. Lying on his side on the puddle strewn sidewalk, he checked for broken bones and found none. He peered at his wristwatch and depressed the indiglo light, it read 9:40 P.M. Crouching and nursing his left elbow, Nick saw a short line of taxies at the end of the street, awaiting a call from the doorman to whisk a hotel guest away. Running to the last taxi in the line, he swung the door open and slid inside onto the back seat. “Oi! You’ve gotta go to the front of the line, buddy,” the driver said in a Dublin drawl, looking at Nick through his rearview mirror. When he saw that Nick had no intention of moving, he added, “You’ve gotta go to the front car, you know, first in, first out.” Shoving a twenty pound note into the cabbys face, Nick muttered, “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t, get me down to Leeson Street quickly.” “Never look a gift horse in the mouth, me mommy used to say,” the cabby grinned plucking the money deftly from the Nick’s hand. “Duck down there, would ya for a second?” Nick obliged. Pulling away from the curb, the cabby picked up his CB hand set and depressed the talk button. “Fourteen,” he said. The hiss of static sprang through the speaker. “Fourteen go,” the controller’s voice responded. “Gonna try my luck down at the Strip,” the cabby told him. “Roger dodger,” was the bored reply. Waving at his fellow drivers, the cabby smiled quietly to himself knowing that they had all heard the transmission and would think no more of his sudden departure. There would be hell to pay if he was caught jumping the queue. The cabby lowered his window and reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a packet of cigarettes. Shaking them, he proffered the pack to Nick, and asked, “Ye wanna fag?” Hesitating for a second, Nick accepted one from the noticeably small box. It was a ten pack of a brand his father had smoked when he was a child, Sweet Afton. The driver lit his own and handed his lighter back to Nick. Placing the cigarette to his lips he could taste the bitter sweet flavor of the tobacco protruding from the paper. It had been fifteen years since he had smoked a non tipped cigarette but he eagerly inhaled the first puff deeply into his lungs.

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He fought back the gagging reaction and felt the rush of nicotine course through his body. The sweet smell of the blue smoke filled his nostrils as he exhaled slowly. The familiar sensation made his mind relax, although he could feel his heart race from the stimulant. Nick leaned back in the seat and looked over his shoulder. Looking through the fogged rear window, he wiped it briefly with the back of his hand. He stiffened as he saw a figure walk quickly to the taxi at the head of the rank and bend to speak to the driver. He saw the taxi interior light go on as the cabby looked at something that had been handed to him. Nick could make out the bright glow of a cigar in the inquirer’s mouth as he stood back from the car and peered at Nick’s cab which jolted forward as the traffic light turned green. Nick ducked out of sight, his left cheek hard against the vinyl seat, hoping he hadn’t been seen. “What’s your problem?” the driver asked him. “Got the law after you or what?” “Porked someone’s girlfriend I met at the bar and now he’s after my hide,” Nick responded hopefully. The cabby said nothing and looked at Nick through his mirror. Noting his unshaven appearance, he guessed that he had been right the first time. He’d seen guys on the lam before, with the same scared eyes. “What time does the last bus leave?” Nick asked. “Where are you going?” the cabby responded. “Dundrum, Ranelagh.” “You’ve missed them all, except for you might get lucky and catch an Imp — a rambling bus. Gimme another fifteen pounds and I’ll drop you anywhere you want.” The amber street lamps flashed by as the taxi sped along Upper Baggot Street, hardly slowing for the red light at the bridge. The car heaved as it hit the hump of the bridge and splashed heavily through a large puddle on the other side. The hedged divide raced by on the right hand side. An untidy single line of parked cars passed on the left, and the taxi slowed as Fitzwilliam Street approached. “Turn left into the alley way...here...HERE!” Nick prodded the driver on the shoulder with his knuckles. “Alright...I heard ya,” the driver snapped back, braking heavily. “You’re no stranger to these parts,” the driver commented, as he nudged the car through the narrow archway into Lad Lane. “My father’s lawyer has an office right overhead,” Nick thought, but said nothing. As the car splashed through pools of rainwater, Nick looked out at the mews that passed on either side, garage doors shut with “No Parking” signs on each one of them. Cars were parked tightly against the tall jagged glass-topped walls, their owners partying or

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asleep in the apartments behind. A crude but very effective method of recycling glass while protecting their property, Dubliners broke old bottles and set them in wet cement on the top of their walls. A cat raced across the narrow street in front of them. The driver’s urgent voice roused Nick from his thoughts. “We’ve got company,” he muttered, a cigarette, dangling from his lips, the smoke from which drifted over his left eye making it weep. Nick looked out the back window, which was clear now after the driver had turned on the defroster, and the previously condensed water had evaporated. “Where...” Nick started, but stopped as he saw the headlights far behind them. “Damnit,” he muttered, his heart beating quickly. “Don’t worry, I’ll lose them,” the driver grinned, reading Nick’s mind and stomped on the accelerator. The end of the laneway loomed, bathed in the orange glow of street lights and the flashes of passing traffic on Cumberland Road. Still the driver kept accelerating waiting until the last minute before simultaneously hammering on the horn and ripping up the parking brake as he slewed into a sickening right handbrake turn onto Cumberland Road. A startled police officer stood aghast, frozen in place, as the car slid by, tires squealing in protest, ripping as they shuddered across the wet roadway, narrowly missing an oncoming car while the rear fishtailed perilously close to the row of parked cars on the other side of the street. “Jesus Christ,” Nick yelled, his body clammy with sweat. Before he could finish he was interrupted in mid sentence by a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass. He peered out the back window in time to see the chase car crash back down onto the street from the impact as it failed to negotiate the turn. Glass and metal flew, and steam rose in a plume from what used to be the front of the car. Then it was gone, lost in the wail of car alarms as the cab driver swore loudly. Ahead of them a car had stopped, blocking their access to Fitzwilliam Place, its occupants spilling onto the street crouching, aiming their weapons hastily at the oncoming taxi. For once the cab driver had nothing to say, hovering in indecision as to whether he should choose between stomping on the gas or on the brake. In a millisecond the decision was made for them. A car turning from Fitzwilliam place careened into the back end of the parked car tossing it, and the men using it for cover, aside. In that instant the cabby gunned the engine and rocketed through the opening, the dull thud of pistol shots echoed in their wake. Cutting straight across two lanes of traffic and into Kingram Place, they hurtled down the poorly lit laneway, the dark walls of the mews a blur. The sound of protesting drivers blaring their horns receded in the darkness.

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“You’ll be sure to give me a little extra in a tip, won’t you?” the cabby cracked, reaching underneath his dashboard and depressing a button there. Nick was sure he had peed his pants, his heart pounded from the adrenaline rush, he held onto the passenger headrest in a death grip. He nodded stiffly. “Oh, you’re a right man you are, woman-trouble indeed!” the driver chortled. Unbeknownst to Nick, a signal was now being transmitted from the radio antenna, pulsing out for miles around. Not far away as the crow flies, in Crowley Street, in a building adjacent to the landmark Bad Ass Cafe in the Temple Bar area, a computer picked up the signal and beeped, alerting the operator that his attention was needed. The attic room was loaded with the latest hi-tech communications and tracking devices, with live video links placed at strategic locations all around the capital. Not entirely legitimate, the cameras were installed over a series of months and lay under the very eyes of law and order, dangling from roof tops, hidden by gargoyles, birdhouses, and suchlike. The center had also, at no small cost, managed to tie in to the banking security network that dotted the city center, allowing them to control a single or a whole array of cameras and even illuminate, via infrared, a subject, if the need arose. The screen saver disappeared as the operator touched his mouse and he clicked on the query button. Entering a password every time ensured that, in the unlikely event of a police raid, the computers would support the premise that the operation provided radio dispatched motorcycle couriers. The hard-drive spun as the computer interrogated the signal and searched its database for information. Within a couple of seconds it began to display its find in layers. The name of the driver, personnel records, car make and plate as well as other data, which on examination by a lay person would seem not quite essential for driving a taxi — his rank, serial number, etc. Seconds later a city map was displayed with the taxi’s location blinking as a bright red dot. Holding down the mouse and dragging it over a section of a few city blocks in area, the computer zoomed in the view and the operator was able to watch the blinking dot and gauge its direction. Its speed, engine temperature, oil pressure and fuel status was provided in a constantly refreshing window in the upper right of the screen, as was a video display of the interior of the vehicle, which was recorded on tape. Its quality was poor, as the buildings surrounding the car absorbed or bounced the signal, but the operator could clearly identify the driver. The system was part of an underground security network owned and operated by the political arm of the IRA. It served three purposes, information gathering, visual monitoring of the city, and providing security for personnel in the field.

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“Got Paddy Gallagher on a code nine,” the operator informed his supervisor. This code indicated an alarm of the highest priority. “Code nine?” the supervisor repeated, startled, and put down his coffee cup onto the racing section of his newspaper, pushing his wheeled office chair so that he coasted close to the screen without interfering with the operator. The operator shook his head, typing commands onto the keyboard to try and improve the video image that was displayed as a picture within a picture on the screen. The computer updated the map as the car continued, indicating in green where available street cameras were placed. These were activated and monitored from another screen. In the taxi, Gallagher noticed the connection confirmation light blink on his fuel gauge and depressed a foot switch to open a live audio link, which, as luck would have it, didn’t work terribly well — the relay unit in the trunk of the car had been damaged by a bullet that had hit the car. “Need a little help here ...’bout to get shot to pieces ... ” was all they got before they lost the connection and the live video link went down. The supervisor, listening through his own headphones, noticed this immediately, depressed a talk button and dispatched two motorcycle riders to intercept the car. “What was that?” Nick asked, noticing that the driver was talking. “I said we’re going to need some help before we get shot to pieces.” He didn’t add that he was not talking to Nick. Tapping a few keys on his taxi dispatch mini-keyboard he relayed a top priority code to his base, confirming his request for immediate assistance. He traveled unarmed — to be caught with a weapon would have ensured his lengthy presence as a guest of the state. But the security system worked well, normally any would be robber would find himself being dragged unwittingly from a taxi to be pulverized for his trouble. No cars were visible in his rear-view mirror as he drove out of Leeson Lane into Lower Leeson Street and he relaxed a few notches, opening his window, lighting another cigarette. He didn’t offer Nick one, never occurred to him, his mind racing. The light at St. Stephen’s Green was red so he stopped, sparse traffic pulling up beside them. His last thought transpired when he lifted his right arm to stretch. A silenced gunshot from the car to his right slammed into his armpit, cleaving through his ribs, his right lung and stopped in the left ventricle of his heart. Death was instantaneous. Nick heard him grunt and slump forward lifelessly onto the steering wheel. Through his side window he saw the muzzle turn towards him, but it was quickly withdrawn as the car’s doors opened, two men emerging, reaching for his door. Nick, his mind completely alert,

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reached forward and pushed Gallagher sideways, practically kicking him out of the way as he slipped into the driver seat and slipped the motor into gear. A large hand grabbed him by the throat through the open window, choking him violently — he couldn’t breathe, his eyes filling with blood from the pressure on his carotid artery. Nick slipped the clutch and the car jumped forward and stalled. Desperately he reached blindly for the keys restarting the motor while at the same time feeling on the driver door for the power window button which he found and depressed. Nick’s arm was pulled away as his attacker reached with his other arm, but the window was automatic sliding smoothly upwards trapping the intruding arms against the top of the door. The hands loosened their grip as the window acted like a lever pinning the arms to the top of the door for a brief moment before he hastily snatched them back. The passenger door was ripped open. “Gotcha now ya little fuck,” a skinny middle aged man sneered, aiming his pistol at Nicks head from the opened passenger door. Nick popped the clutch and the car leapt forward, Gallagher tumbling out onto the roadway, knocking the gunman aside. Nick sped away, the passenger door flapping briefly before slamming shut. Behind him the men jumped in their car and attempted to follow, but as luck would have it a police officer emerged from the shadows of Leeson Lane and saw the skinny fellow gathering himself, the body lying sprawled on the street. He talked quickly into his radio and ran across. “Hey!” he called, “hey, hold up what’s going on here?” The skinny one composed himself quickly, jamming the pistol into the back of his pants where it was hidden by the flap of his tweed jacket. He looked at his partner communicating silently — they had been given strict orders not to attract attention — not that their compatriots had any luck in that area tonight. Excitedly, the man beckoned to the police officer, “Officer, officer!” he called and knelt beside Gallagher’s prone figure as if trying to help him. He turned him over and began rudimentary CPR. As the officer drew close he explained. “We were just here at the lights and we saw,” he pointed at the receding shape of the taxi cab as it sped down St. Stephen’s Green, “rather I heard a shot and this poor fellow was dumped out on the street.” “Are you a doctor?” “Er, no.” “Then stand back, there’s an ambulance and paramedics on the way.” The skinny fellow was only too happy to comply and as the ambulance pulled up he slipped into his car, his companion driving, and they disappeared into the damp night. Everything had been

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observed by a leather clad figure on a motocross bike who relayed his observations into a microphone embedded in his full face helmet. The supervisor called together a team to track Nick down. The feed from the taxi was still intermittently active, though diminishing as it got further away from the city center, but nonetheless the information was good from the motorcycle rider who followed Nick, his lights dimmed, but his attention very much focused on the task at hand. Due to pressures from the days events up North, the office was short staffed and the tapes of the action on the Leeson Street, all of which were recorded from two cameras positioned, one on the Lesson Street corner at St. Stephen’s Green, the other opposite, mounted on the roof top of a large international insurance agency, were hastily reviewed. It was too late, when the tapes were reviewed in detail the following morning, that they found the occupants of the car beside the taxi were responsible for Gallagher’s death. The motorcycle rider kept his distance when the taxi stopped at a house in Mount Merrion and Nick slid into the garage. Moments later he watched as Nick emerged, a long dark object in his hand, and got back into the cab and drove off. The motorcyclist reported it all back to base.

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The gravel crunched hard as Nick swung the Ford Mondeo off the main road onto the long steep road to the farmhouse. Far to his left the orange lights of Dublin city shone brightly, reflecting off the night-time overcast sky. The car lurched into a rain filled pot-hole, and as he dropped the car into second gear, the wheels bit hard into the loose gravel that sprinkled the weathered blacktop. Despite this concession, the car continued to heave and roll, its headlights alternating between lighting the roadway and the cover of tall trees, whose branches drooped from the sky. Water droplets splattered the windshield as they careened from the leaves. The worn wiper blades smeared the glass as they attempted to perform their task, but it was enough to allow Nick to see where he was going. A damp mist rose from the ground and it swirled lazily as the halogen headlights cut through it. The lane way was bordered on each side by low stone walls. To the left lay open fields and to the right lay higher ground topped by tall trees, their type indiscernible in the darkness. The dark shape of a house emerged directly in front of the car but the road swung away from it. A sheep dog barked angrily at the car as it passed. Nick swore silently and disengaged the gears altogether and coasted to minimize the noise in the quiet night air. He patted the rifle case standing against the passenger seat. Though it was unloaded, it comforted him anyway. Many years before he had, on countless occasions, followed the same route to his friend’s house, without a care in the world, to spend an afternoon hunting in the fields that now surrounded him. At last he saw the tall stone pillars and the farm gate illuminated by his head lamps. All looked as it had the last time he had been here years ago, when he had dropped his friend’s inebriated brother off late one Friday night. So drunk, that when he fell off his bed later, he remained completely unconscious and sandwiched his leg between the bedpost and the wall. The ensuing lack of circulation to his trapped leg resulted in having to spend a month hobbling about on crutches. However sore his leg was, it didn’t deter nor dissuade his drinking the very next evening. Stopping the car, he swung open the driver’s door and slipped out. The damp night mountain air was brisk and refreshing as he strode to the heavy wooden gate, which he unlatched and swung open. It creaked and groaned from lack of oil on its hinges and shuddered like a living creature when it hit the boulder which stopped its progress at the limit of its axis.

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Nick hurried back to the car and shifted it into gear, driving through the gateway just in time to avoid the closing gate. Stopping again, he latched the gate checking to make sure that there were no visible traces of his entry. The blacktop blended with the driveway’s gravel and no tracks were evident. The car motor muttered as it idled and emitted a steady cloud of white vapor which clung in the air. Aside from this, there was an eerie silence, unlike Long Island where crickets would be chirping a comforting lullaby. Walking up to the farm house, Nick looked over the buildings in the light from the car’s lamps. In front of him stood the original barn with a two bedroom cottage butted at a right angle to it. The barn’s roof had long ago given up its corrugated fight with the elements and, although empty, it had been used in recent years as a garage. To his right lay a more modern building, the family home, windows dark, now empty. Looking over the place brought back memories of a happier time. His two friends had lived here with their sisters and parents. Wild mountain men who finished their college degrees in accountancy and psychology, they now resided in far-off lands. One cooking shrimps on the barbie in a land down under, the other teaching English in Spain, riding a donkey to work each day — a long time ago. Removing his pack and rifle case from the car, Nick reconnoitered the barn. Seeing a spot suitable for his needs, he reversed the car into a dark corner and shut off the motor and lights. Reaching into the glove compartment, he removed the flashlight he had stowed there and switched it on, its beam cutting sharply through the darkness. He searched around and found what he was looking for in the eaves. He pitchforked clumps of rotting straw over the car before covering it with the dripping, mildewed, slug covered tarpaulin he had found. Adding a few fork fulls over the tarp for good measure, he kicked straw over the tracks he had made reversing in and walked over to where he had left his gear. Lifting it onto his shoulders he paced quietly to the rear of the white-washed cottage and examined the small window that hung from the smooth concrete wall. Using his pocket knife, he slipped the latch and shimmied the bottom pane upwards revealing the room within. He lowered his backpack in the open window, followed by his rifle and clambered awkwardly over the low window sill. Leaving his pack where it was, he shone the light around seeing the toilet and sink, grimy as they always were; old newspapers stacked to the side of the lavatory to be alternatively used as reading and wiping material. Pushing aside a heavy velvet curtain he peered into the larger room beyond. Books lined the shelves on one wall, where a peat stove jutted out from it abruptly, covered in a thin film of white ash. In fact everything, he observed, was covered with the ash, as the room obviously hadn’t been used in some time.

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A flecked, black iron spring bed lay uncovered to his right, and as he swiveled his lamp he blinded himself when it reflected off the front window, beyond which lay the courtyard. Memories of his college years flooded back — mad drunken, stoned orgies of literature, and lustful wishful thinking rushed about him. He laughed out loud remembering one of his friends galloping around this very room on another’s back, horse whip in one hand, a slopping beer in the other with a riding hat perched precariously on his head, while a visiting American cousin, well past the point of complete inebriation, discussed the merits of Yeats and Joyce with a well-toasted Psychologist. Nick, at this stage of the evening — he remembered with a smirk — could hardly speak coherently let alone discuss anything, staring wondrously at the array of century old books that lay in the wobbly bookshelf. Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” filled his ears. He could smell the damp peat fire burning in the stove, ready to scorch the unwary.... Snapping back to reality, he groaned and turned back through the curtains to grab his pack. Dropping it onto the bare bed springs, he walked over and closed the heavy curtain covering the front window. Lighting the gas lamp from his pack, he unzipped the rifle case and removed the heavy weapon inside. He examined it carefully in the harsh light and caressed the solid wooden stock. Drawing back the ejection slide he peered down the barrel to see if there were any bumps or notches on the rifling. It was still coated in the oil he had applied fourteen years before, nonetheless he broke the rifle down and cleaned each part thoroughly with the cleaning kit he had stashed in the case. Next, he examined the ammunition and the spare magazines. Most of the shells retained their brightness, those that didn’t he removed and discarded into a pocket in his backpack. What remained were 43 rounds of Long Rifle .22 high velocity rounds and a handful of low-powered. He knew that the spare magazines had never been used enough to work down the springs so he loaded each with only five instead of nine, one with low-power silver shells the other with brass hypervelocity rounds. The clip from the rifle, he knew, could reliably hold nine 1,250 feet-per-second high-velocity rounds without jamming and he filled it slowly. Nick clipped it into the breech and levered a round, removed the clip and added another bullet, so that he now had ten rounds available. Though it would be practically useless without the opportunity to range it, he screwed the telescopic sight into position and cleaned the lens. Cleaning and replacing the protective yellow lens caps on each end of the sight, he lay the gun beside the bed and put the case away into his pack. It wasn’t much of a weapon. A German made rifle, an Anshutz .22 cal., it was all that was available in the Republic of Ireland since all heavier caliber weapons had been recalled in the 1950’s,

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effectively disarming the country in the light of possible terrorist activities. Its sturdy build made it a reliable rifle with few misfeeds and the heavy barrel allowed it to be reasonably accurate to 100 yards. It had killed a rabbit at close to 400 yards, but only after exhausting seven rounds, the first six of which had startled the animal into staying still as the rounds puffed up spouts of dirt around it. With little recoil, the hyper-velocity rounds left the muzzle at 1,250 feet per second, emitting a loud tearing sound as they broke the sound barrier on the way to their target. Hence the futility of the hunt, as every other animal in the vicinity dove for cover as soon as they heard the first shot. The low powered ammunition was sub sonic and Nick could swear he could see the rounds as they sailed lazily, grossly under-powered through the air, leaving the rifle with a barely audible plop. They hardly had enough power to eject the spent shell from the blow-back breech mechanism. “They’ll do as a back-up,” he thought. He scored the side of the clip loaded with low power rounds with the side of a 50 pence piece, a coin large enough to do the job comfortably. Inspecting his work in the dim light, he saw the aluminum shine through the black paint and felt the scratches with his thumb. Satisfied, he dropped the coin back into his hip pocket and the clip into his jacket inside breast pocket with the other unmarked clip. He probed his pocket and fingered them lightly and was able to identify which was which without any problem. Nick’s hands were oily. Grabbing the lamp, he walked to the back of the room and into the toilet where a corroded dripping faucet awaited him. To the side lay a long disused piece of soap, shrunk and dried out. He twisted the tap on and the pipes groaned and gurgled as water rose and gushed forcefully from its mouth. The tap shuddered from the pressure of the water and much to Nick’s chagrin, it splashed over his shirt. Fumbling with the ancient hardened soap, he managed to rub a few layers of grime from his hands, and then started on his face. The water was freezing as he splashed his face, but it refreshed him. Walking back and retrieving his wash kit from his backpack, he decided to have a shave — not his favorite pastime with cold water, but he knew it would make him feel better. Dragging the plastic razor over his whiskers, he used the window as a mirror and scratched off most of the stubble as best he could. Running his hand over his newly shaven face, he grunted with satisfaction and turned to wash the remaining soap off. He stopped abruptly, realizing what a fool he had been exposing himself through the window to whoever might be outside. “Relax,” he told himself. Nobody knew he was here, how could they?

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Still, he hurried back into the musty bedroom, careful to avoid letting the light shine near the window. Checking over his stuff, he took off his boots — glad that he had decided to wear them instead of shoes. Greeted by a waft of foot odor, he thought the better of it and slipped them back on, tying them tight. Leaning onto the groaning bedsprings, he lay his rifle and pack by his right hand and snapped off the lamp. The darkness was complete and enveloping. Nick lay for a few short moments recollecting the day and drifted into a deep dreamless sleep.

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“Where was the car spotted?” Detective Seán Driscoll fumbled, as he attempted to get his car started while talking to the dispatcher through his mobile phone. “Kilmacud, in the Industrial Park heading south towards the mountains. Patrol cars have been directed to intercept.” “What about the patrol car that spotted him?” The Ford Scorpio’s motor roared to life and Seán thrust it into gear, heading towards the underground parking lot exit. “Lost him as he exited the Industrial Park, but they are attempting to find him...” “Where exactly?” Seán barked tersely. “There are four different roads he can take from the roundabout at the exit!” He was met with silence. “Keep me informed.” He hung up. He hoped that the officers hadn’t made a mistaken identity. There was nothing he could do anyway. He pressed the speed dial on his phone. “Doctor Leonard please.” He was put on hold. A moment later his wife, Imelda Leonard picked up. He explained that he would be home late again. The case he was working on might drag on through the night. She wasn’t surprised. She asked him what was up. “We’ve got a hot lead on a suspect on the shootings at that march today. Strangely enough, he has the same name as your friend Jessica’s husband.” Imelda commented that many people, even in Ireland, had the same name. Seán had never met Jessica or her family. Imelda had know Jessica in college, before they had got married. “Do ya later,” he smirked into the phone. He just heard the response as he hung up. “You wish!” He gunned the car up past the end of Lesson Street, slowing as he passed the still taped off scene of the cab driver shooting. A few stragglers hung around hoping for some action, but it was late and the investigating officers were wrapping up. He swerved his car up the one way street, flicking on his dashboard mounted flashing blue light to allay the indignant look of the uniformed police who turned to see who the impertinent motorist was. Looking around there was not much to see. The night showers had washed away most traces of blood, and the forensics had scooped up any interesting debris. He wasn’t here for that anyway. He asked who was the first officer on the scene, and walked over to

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him. He sat, his fist grasping a foam cup filled with tea, his cap on the car hood beside him. “Evenin’,” Seán nodded a greeting to him. The officer returned the nod. “Cigarette?” Seán asked. “No thanks sir, I have one,” he tapped his breast uniform pocket, his blue tie askew. “No, I mean, may I have one?” Seán continued. The officer smiled at that and shook one out of the box for him. “I suppose you’ll be wantin’ a light as well?” “Actually I’m all set,” and Seán withdrew a lighter from his trouser pocket hoping that the officer wouldn’t see his own pack nestled there. They sat in silence for a moment or two. Officer Sheen broke the silence first. “I’ve already given a statement — would you like a copy?” Seán shook his head, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the damp air. Imelda would cut his nuts off if she smelled the cigarettes on his clothes. “Not at all,” he wanted to put Sheen at ease. “Read it already.” Another moment passed as did some late evening traffic. Two motorcycle police waved the slowing traffic forward not allowing them the opportunity to rubberneck. “There is something that caught my eye,” Seán said. Sheen lifted his head waiting. “You mentioned a car stopped here when you arrived.” “They were trying to give first aid.” “Did you ID the occupants?” “No, I was trying to make the victim as comfortable as possible before the ambulance arrived.” Seán nodded in understanding, “Of course,” he agreed, “of course.” “I gave their description in the report and the make of car. The license plate was . . .” Seán stopped him with a lift of his hand. He flicked the remainder of the cigarette towards a storm drain missing it completely. “Stolen,” he muttered. “Go way!” “Reported missing around 6:00 P.M., from out Dalky way.” “Think they had anything to do with it? I saw the guy drive off in the taxi. Those guys weren’t in any hurry to leave.” Seán said nothing. Had the officer questioned the occupants of the car too closely, he too would probably be spending the night on a slab in the morgue, along side Paddy Gallagher. “Anyone else around?”

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“People were millin’ out of O’Dwyer’s pub across the street once they saw the commotion.” “Any other cars . . . bikes?” “There was a motorcycle, two actually, now that you mention it. One took off after the taxi, the other stayed around and left when the ambulance arrived.” Seán had run a check on some old files. Gallagher, the cabby, was a suspected IRA member from way back — now performed messenger and chauffeur duties, but nothing major. The police suspected the IRA connection with the cab services, most of whom were independent contractors. It made sense really. Driving around in broad daylight, they would be able to perform their duties, public and private, without intrusion from anyone. “What make of bikes were they?” “Fucked if I know, I had other things on my mind.” Sheen was dog tired and wanted to get off duty and have a pint before he headed home. Seán was delaying him. “Not the brand, what type?” “Oh, messenger bikes — motocross, the ones you see around every day.” But not late at night, not two of them, Seán thought. “Off ye go and get some well deserved rest.” Standing he offered his hand, which the middle aged officer readily accepted. Stiff as a board and his clothes damp, he was only too happy to finish. Seán gave him his card. “If anything else comes up, or if you remember anything else,” he said, “please give me a ring — day or night.” He knew better than to patronize an older man by congratulating him on his night’s work. Seán turned his car around and drove off weary. His confidence at finding Nick Riordan had diminished, now that he was pretty sure that Nick had the IRA after him. He wasn’t aware of just how right he was at the time.

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Nick wasn’t sure what woke him. Dawn filtered through the tired drapes that covered the single window. He was immediately alert, his eyes probing the darkness, looking for sound. Listening intently, his right hand felt for his gun, finding it, he brought it up over his belly. Its weight, and the coolness of its hard-wood stock, made him feel more secure as he slowly raised his body from the creaking bed and sat there listening intently. It reminded him of waking in his parents’ house as a child in the dead of night, awoken by a strange sound, knowing instinctively that something was amiss. The dog’s barking in the distance confirmed his worry and he swung from the bed, reaching for the backpack. Glad now that he had kept his boots on, he dropped onto the hard floor and shuffled toward the curtain covering the entrance to the rudimentary bathroom. The air was chill and reeked of dampness. “This place always gave me the creeps,” he thought, as he slid the curtain aside. Looking behind him to make sure everything was in order, he moved forward and glanced into the toilet bowl to make sure that it was clear of any leftover tell-tale debris. Everything seemed as it should be. The window drape at the front of the house remained closed as he had left it. He made for the toilet window. Stopping, he watched the ground outside, checking for movement. In the semi-darkness, he checked his weapon, sliding back the ejection lever to double-check that a round was in place. Slipping off the safety catch, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and slowly raised the window. It lifted with some exertion on Nick’s part, shuddering and shaking in protest. As he was about to exit through the window, he tuned to check the place once more. He could see, through the half light, his tracks across the floor, captured by the dust. Glancing anxiously around he retrieved an old newspaper from the bathroom and rolled it tightly. Sweeping side-to-side he cleared the prints that he had made, raising a cloud of dust. He retreated into the bedroom and brushed the floor there. It would have to do. Satisfied, he turned toward the bathroom and stopped abruptly. The dog had stopped barking. Nick raced to the window, and eased out, pulling his pack behind him, careful not to damage the glass with his rifle. Squatting low beside the window, barely breathing, he looked around slowly, using his peripheral vision to spot movements. He lumbered his back-pack onto his shoulders, tightened the straps and pointed the rifle forward, finger lightly on the trigger guard.

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The early sun was diffused by a thick blanket of low gray clouds which clung to the hillside like a cotton blanket. A low mist hung over the surrounding fields, the grass heavy with dew. Water dripped from the leaves falling soundlessly to the ground. The loudest sound was the thumping of his heart. Nick squatted beside the window, alert for the slightest sound, unsure of what he should do. Planning to come here was easy, but he hadn’t thought beyond that. There was someone he could call on the other side of the low mountain, but he hadn’t anticipated any further trouble. Perhaps he was being paranoid. A long, broken, moss covered stone wall lay ahead of Nick, to his right an overgrown vegetable garden. His breath hung in the still air and he longed for a cigarette. For a moment, he thought that he heard the sound of gravel crunching, and he had to fight the urge to walk to the front of the cottage to investigate. A moment later, his belly tight with anxiety, he jumped as he heard a distinctive metallic ‘click’ from the far side of the cottage. Fighting his instinct to turn and run from the danger, Nick reached into the side pocket of his bag and withdrew the items stored there that he had picked up from his visit to the house in Mount Merrion the night before. His aunt, the owner of the house, would be none the wiser of his entry as she was ensconced in a nursing home convalescing after a hip replacement operation. It had occurred to him to stay in her house for the night, but he had responded to the urge to run, and run he had. Shuffling as quietly as he could to the gable end of the house near the wall, he bent there and deposited the contents of the pocket — a packet of marine flares and a coil of fishing wire — and set the fishing wire as securely as he could across the moss covered pathway. He knew that by leaving the device there, he would be confirming to whomever was after him the fact that he was indeed there, but he hoped the surprise value would be worth the trade-off. Up to his right, perhaps 150 yards away, on the other side of the wall, was an elevated clump of tall evergreen trees. He was familiar with the spot as he had used it in the past as a blind while hunting. He would have to traverse the wall to reach it. Looking behind him he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Leaning forward he walked quickly to the wall and stepped gingerly over it, avoiding the loose stones lest he trip and set them tumbling. By staying close to the low wall he could travel to the trees without leaving obvious marks in the wet grass and it would also provide him with cover. “How did they find me?” he thought, “Forget how — who?” Nick immediately dismissed it and set his mind to the present task. The backpack was securely nestled, the rifle heavy in his hands. The telescopic sight was covered with snap-off yellow fog lenses — a cheap but effective remedy to counter poor visibility. He left the

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lenses where they were — it might give him an edge. Progress to the trees was swift even though he was hunched down using the cover offered by the wall as he inched forward. A movement to his left caught his eye and he stopped, aware that he had no cover. Bending to one knee he raised the rifle and squinted through the sight, focusing as best he could on the area where he saw the movement. He had been correct. He saw it again, this time accompanied by a cloud of exhaled air. From the slope of the hill a shape appeared, rising up the grassy hill. Determined, Nick lifted his rifle to his shoulder, licking his lips nervously, preparing to fire. The cross hairs settled and he felt the trigger give as his forefinger tightened on it. “Squeeze the trigger,” his firearms instructor had told him years before, “never pull.” A millisecond before the hammer fell, something told him that the shape was wrong and he relaxed his grip. Relief flooded through him as he saw a massive head rear up and look at him with loving bovine eyes, strings of mucus streaming from its steaming mouth. “Jesus!” he thought, “I nearly shot a cow.” He felt more at ease as he stumbled the final distance to the trees, but he made sure to keep low and held the strap of the rifle tightly against the weapon to stop it from rattling. Stepping through a patch of mud, he stopped and grabbed a handful, grimacing at the obvious signs of the cow manure laced through it, and smeared it over his face and the back of his hands to dull the gleam of his white skin against the canopy of trees where he lay. It worked in the movies, so “why not?” he thought. Rushing into the grove of trees he threw himself flat behind a man sized shard of a glacial boulder that lay there. “I bet if I rummage through these needles I’ll find a few of my old shells,” he thought, looking around. Laying the rifle on top of the rock, he peered through the telescopic sight and adjusted the focus so that he could see the cottage and its environs sharply. Directly below him lay the dilapidated barn in which he had parked the car the night before, the cottage to the left. Half of the cottage was blocked from view by the stone wall he had just traversed, and it occurred to him that an attacker could easily approach him undetected on the other side. Standing against one of the scrawny trees, he eliminated that possibility as he had a view of the ground approaching the wall. Nick waited, watched and listened. His mind was sharp, his eyes alert. He was aware of the escape route behind him. A section of forest covering the entire top of the hill lay there, but the prospect of having to work his way through it was daunting. The trees were thick, the air dark. He would much prefer to wait it out. He hoped that he was indeed over reacting, and the noises he

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heard were caused by none other than a farm cat. If he waited a while, perhaps he could go back down there, start up the car and be on his way. Maybe a stint on the phone would clear this mess up. He wondered if the taxi driver was all right. Behind the barn was a thick area of tall grass adjacent to the wooden gate that allowed access to the field by tractor. Or at least it did once — before the toll of Irish weather and neglect had taken their course. Looking through the sight he could see the rust-laden chain that bound it shut. A movement caught his eye . . . the tops of the grass shuddered briefly. “A rat?” Nick wondered. His peripheral vision caught a shadow and he looked up as someone rushed from the gable end of the cottage wall to the overgrown garden. A fleeting shadow, lost. Definitely not a rodent. “Damn.” He was in trouble now. The hairs on his neck prickled, a chill tingled the length of his spine. Nick lifted a fallen pine frond and lay it over the barrel of the rifle to add to his camouflage. Making some calculations, Nick adjusted the gun’s iron sights and raised the rear one to the 150 yard position. He knew there was some advantage to shooting down hill, but he could not for the life of him remember what it was. He settled down watching the tall grass below him. He froze. Not 30 feet away, he heard the low crackle of a CB radio. No words, just the quiet sound of the talk button being depressed quickly as some kind of signal. He sank slowly behind the rock, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He peered around at the wall adjacent to him, knowing that someone was there. Panic rose in his throat, and he fought the urge to run. Reaching into his inside pocket, he felt for the rasp of the scored clip which contained the sub-sonic rounds. Retrieving it, he lay it bedside him removing two silver rounds. Nick dropped the clip out of his rifle, and slid the ejection slide back to drop the round out of the breech. Fumbling, he removed two shells from the clip and replaced them with the two from the scored clip, and quietly snapped it back into the gun. In an effort to keep as quiet as possible he slid the cocking lever back slowly, and in the process nearly dropped the loading round onto the ground. He had to stuff it back in with his forefinger. Behind him, about 10 yards away, lay the upper wall of the field and behind that, the relative safety of the pine forest. He longed to run for it, but knew that he would make enough noise clambering over the wall to wake the dead. A calm overcame him as he thought about what he had to do. If only he could harness that for his flying — perhaps it was the morning air. He made a silent prayer and stood up. Running to the wall, the source of the radio sound, he lifted his gun high and peered over. Immediately in front of him, not more than ten feet away, a khaki clad figure squatted, a black woolen ski

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mask over his head and AK 47 cradled in his hand, the stock protruding over his right elbow. Their eyes met at the same instant and the figure raised his weapon in an arch towards Nick in a fluid motion. No doubt left in his mind, and with a rising anger, Nick dropped the barrel and pulled the trigger twice. Two quiet plops were emitted when the low powered rounds sprang from the breech and plowed hard into the attacker’s wool covered head with a sickening slap. He toppled backwards, not so much from the force of the impact, as the bullets lacked the horsepower to more than penetrate the skin and crack the skull bone underneath. He was already off balance from his awkward stance. The rounds merely pushed him over and he fell to the ground, where he lay motionless, blood seeping from his dark ski mask. Nick ran back to the trees and slid behind his rocky cover, afraid to look up. His hands were wet with sweat and he had to concentrate hard on ejecting the clip from the gun and feeding replacement rounds. The noise of the shots must have been heard by anyone else in the party — they weren’t all that quiet. They had been heard, but at any distance it was difficult to pinpoint their source. He hugged the ground awaiting the barrage of fire that must surely follow. His hands trembled at the enormity of what he had done, but for the first time in his life he was able to completely control his emotions, a cold confidence overcame him and he calmed himself down, concentrating totally on the present. A high of some sort, he figured. His device at the cottage didn’t operate as planned. It was not a human who set it off but a large tom cat who, disturbed by the activity, had become ensnared in the fishing wire. He angrily swiped at it, spitting and snarling with his needle teeth. The wire was attached to the remnants of the tear off trigger mechanism that topped the stick flare. It did not require a flare gun to operate. It was designed for the casual boater. “Tear off the plastic taper and hold aloft, aiming skyward,” was the worded instruction on the side of the flare. Nick had helped by removing most of the taper, so the gentlest of tugs exposed and ignited the fuse. It was nothing more than a large elaborate firework. Nick saw the flash of the rising star and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. A parachute flare, it soared skyward in a plume of phosphorous white and red light. No one could avoid the instinctive reaction of looking at it, so sudden was its presence. And everyone who looked, lost what vestige of good vision they had, gone in a blinding flash, much as when a flash bulb is fired on a camera, the brightness seared into the retina. Their eyes would need many minutes to regain their sensitivity. Rising slowly to scrutinize the landscape below him, Nick saw a dark figure emerge quickly from the garden and run to the cottage wall. Crouching intuitively against the wall, the figure swept the

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area with his weapon and edged to the window of the cottage. Thrusting his head around the sill, the person glanced inside and threw himself forward, rolling to the place where the smoking tube of the flare launcher lay. Sweeping his gun from right to left, the attacker examined the area and returned to the garden, gun held at the shoulder, ready, alert. Nick lost sight of him in the undergrowth. From the back of the barn, the tall grass parted and another figure emerged warily. Nick let him clear the grass. This one was looking all around but held his weapon rigid, pointed uncertainly into the air in front of him, waiting for a target. Nick squinted through the rifle sight and planted the cross-hair squarely on the attacker’s chest. Dropping his eye to the manual sight he reckoned he was off by a foot or two, but at this point he had run out of options. Squeezing the trigger, he used the manual sight for aiming and loosed off four rounds in quick succession marching them toward the target. All missed but one. Through the sight he saw the ground explode in front of the attacker as the hyper-sonic rounds screamed from the muzzle at almost twice the speed of sound and ripped into the soft, wet soil expending their energy as they gouged clumps of grass and dirt. He was about to shoot again but stopped when he saw the figure drop his weapon and tumble forward clutching his groin with both hands. The crack of the firing dulled his ears but he could hear the cry of anguish from his target. Dropping the clip from his rifle, he groped in his pocket and pulled out a handful of rounds. He slid them into the clip one by one, feeling the resistance of the spring as he reached the limit of its capacity. He slid it back into the breech of the gun, adrenaline pumping as he turned it toward the cottage. The trees exploded over his head, as they were ripped apart by a barrage of heavy AK 47 rounds. Shards clawed and ripped at his face as Nick dove for cover. Bullets whined into the distance as they bounced off the rock and the wall behind it. Nick felt the warm salty taste of blood seep into his mouth from a wound to his cheek. The firing stopped, the attackers clip expended. Nick didn’t hesitate. Grabbing his rifle, he ran, crouched, for the wall behind him and jumped over it, just as the firing started again, bullets smashed into the stone work. Nick rapidly changed his position and ran to the left, his legs becoming tangled in the dense undergrowth. Cursing with frustration, he ripped his legs from the thorns and stumbled forward toward a new perch. The firing had stopped as the attacker changed position, or replaced his depleted magazine again. Nick wished for a second that he had retrieved the gun from the first man that he had shot, but it was too late now and he hadn’t thought of it then.

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Panting for breath, heart thumping, he threw himself against the wall. Sweat threatened to blind him. Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he threw himself face forward against the wall and peeped over the top. Below him lay the body of the first attacker. Easing the rifle over the top he looked around anxiously seeking the source of the fire. “The guy could be anywhere,” Nick thought.” Looking at the inert body, yards away, he saw that the man’s weapon lay close by his side, tied to his wrist by a cord. He would have to cut it clear, he thought, and leave himself completely exposed in the process. Far below him, the cries of the person he had just shot were becoming more pronounced and soon became a scream. Screams of agony. It tore at Nicks brain like a saw.

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The crack and flash of the rising flare had startled him. In fact, it had scared the crap out of him. It could have been a mine like the one that had blown his friend, Robbie, to pieces, during an operation in Belfast, when it had detonated some four hours prematurely. Robby’s flesh had stuck to the walls of the abandoned garage, hanging there like fried bacon emitting a sweet burned odor. Since that day, Jimmy had not been able to stomach rashers for breakfast. The most junior member of the group, he had been given the least demanding position — that of flanking behind the barn from which there was no window nor an exit. They had expected their quarry to be holed up in the main house, or the cottage, asleep, blissfully unaware of the dawn attack. A dumb Yank, they had been told. Had killed one of their men. Wouldn’t know his arse from his elbow. Would come out pleading like a pig, offering big money to be let go. They hadn’t expected to be set up. Although this was his first combat mission, he did have some experience behind him. He had been assigned to accompany the roving punishment squads on the late evening round-ups through the Belfast streets. These round-ups consisted of picking up unsuspecting lads from the Catholic neighborhood who had been fingered by the locals as troublemakers of one kind or another, untouchables by the disinterested local police standards, and, despite verbal warnings, continued with their misdeeds. Pick-ups were the easy part, the punishments were something else indeed — something he could never get used to. A black Ford Cargo van, legitimately owned and operated by one of the group, would rove the streets and snag their designated felons. Drawing up beside them, the doors would be flung open and the protesting victim thrown into the dark interior. Added to the fear of incarceration was the fact that the van was used to transport animal offal during the day; the reek of stale blood and animal waste permeated the vehicle. These pick-ups continued, prompted from a list prepared by the local IRA council, for an hour or two. The darkness and the smell had some of the earlier passengers puking from the effect and the prospect of what lay ahead. For all they knew, Loyalists could have been the drivers and the evening ahead could have brought with it a night of unimaginable torture or death from a bullet, if they were lucky, to the nape of the neck. The van would travel at a normal speed, in normal traffic to their destination — an empty warehouse, or the back of a block of flats. On arrival, the van would stop and the driver and passenger

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doors would open and slam shut. The ensuing silence was designed as a psychological means to raise the anxiety level of the prisoners. The punishment group commander gave whispered instructions to the squad on each prisoner and their fate. The rear doors would be flung open, and hands reached into the darkness to grab the lads and throw them to the ground outside. The shapes of automatic weapons being swept from side to side was enough to keep the prisoners quiet, their guards indistinguishable behind their ski masks. “Against the wall, move, move, faces to the wall,” they were ordered, aided in reaching their desired position with kicks and blows from the stocks of their guards’ weapons. “Gentlemen,” a voice would sneer from behind them, “I am the commander of this unit of the Irish Republican Army. At this late hour I am normally at home in bed with the wife or down at the local with the lads, but because of your antics I’m here with you bunch of wankers.” A silence followed as he let the words sink in. “You all know why you’re here. Be glad it’s us and not the Prods, or you wouldn’t be enjoying the luxury of breathing,” he added. Nervously, a few heads turned to look at the speaker, but were quick to “assume the position” as they felt the cold steel muzzles of pistols touch the back of their necks. A list of names and offenses were read off. Those who had been picked up for the first and second time were led aside, beaten into various stages of unconsciousness and warned never to repeat their crime. They were then let go to make their way home through the damp night air. Those remaining were stood back from the wall, pushed forward spread-eagled so that their weight was on their hands and ordered to drop their pants below their knees. A quiet command brought forward the enforcers who withdrew their pistols and stood ready. At a final command, they leaned forward, and extended their arms and touched the pistols behind the left knees of their prisoners. In unison they would fire into the left legs, the bullets ripping through flesh and bone of the knee cap. The recipients would collapse from the damage caused to their legs, doubled over at the shock of being shot. It was too early yet for the pain to set in but it would come, in spades. “Check for bleeders,” the commander would order. Sometimes the bullet fragments nicked an artery and left the victim spouting a spray of bright red arterial blood. If this was the case, a tourniquet was applied to the leg, to help avoid death from shock before the ambulance arrived. At a curt command, the squad would disappear into the shadows, and the van would drive away to call an ambulance from the nearest working pay phone, or one of the neighbors would do the honors.

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His dad had told him that many years before, when guns were not so readily available, knee cappings were carried out in a far less surgical method involving the use of a standard Black and Decker drill with a quarter or half inch bit. With the help of a crutch these modern victims were fortunate. They might regain the full use of the leg, with a limp. If they were unlucky, and the bullet damaged the popliteal nerve, their lower leg would be paralyzed. The earlier more primitive method practically guaranteed that they would lose the leg from the thigh down, and their walking days were over. “They deserved all they got,” he thought as he crouched lower in the wet grass, trying to blend in, becoming invisible. He didn’t know which way to look. The brilliant flare had destroyed his vision — leaving spots in his eyes — and cast flickering shadows around the barn wall and the meadows. He hardly noticed the ground beneath him as it spat in his face. Not realizing what was happening he felt what seemed like a rock hit his groin and he stumbled back from the impact. As he lay there he tried to sit upright but felt a hard stiffness in his lower stomach. The .22 caliber round had entered his body below his combat jacket. It shouldn’t have done the damage it did, but what it lacked in mass, it made up for in velocity. The bullet disintegrated when it impacted against his pelvic bone sending shards in all directions. “What the heck?” he thought, looking down at his pants. Bright red blood sprayed violently between his fingers that clutched his groin. At first there was a numbness, no feeling at all, just the warmth of his own blood hot and slick on his hands. Slowly the pain began to ebb toward his brain in waves, each larger than the last, and he opened his mouth, trying to catch his breath gasping. The intensity of the pain doubled him over. As he fought against it, he vomited convulsively. It could have been a slow death but the bone shards had opened up a large section of his femoral artery and his blood poured from the wound. His last vision of this world was the spluttering flare drifting on it’s parachute in the sky mingling, with a crimson rain that fogged his vision. It took him some minutes to die; he was unaware of his screaming; he was insane with the pain; the terminal throes of his calvary. His last breath was a struggle, a fight for oxygen but he lacked the blood with which to carry it to his numbing brain.

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Nick had no idea how long he had been running. Fir branches flayed his face as he stumbled headlong through the dark forest. He did what he could to hold onto his backpack and rifle. He lost the gun when he tripped over a rock outcrop but it had been saved from damage when it slipped from his grasp and tumbled into a pile of fir needles. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he continued to run as he heard the sounds of pursuit not far behind him. It was hard to tell, in the close confines of the trees, how close his pursuers were. At least the shooting had stopped, but that did nothing to ease his fear. After what seemed like an eternity, but in fact was only a few short minutes, he rushed breathlessly into a clearing, narrowly avoiding falling into a pond of still water. In the small clearing the sunlight struggled to reach the ground through the tall trees; the air was cool and smelled strongly of damp pine. “What next?” he thought, panting, “which way do I go?” He fought the panic that teetered on the edge of his consciousness. Around him lay the ruined remains of a long forgotten and derelict mountain cottage, its roof and most of its walls long gone. Dark green ferns grew from the cracks and crevices between the bricks, and tall undergrowth invaded it. Nick had little time to think, but knew that to remain there would prove fatal, because the position was surrounded closely on all sides by forest and offered little or no protection. Listening intently he could make out the sound of his pursuers, and though it was difficult to judge just how far behind him they were, he knew that he had seconds to decide what to do. He dropped his backpack to the ground and removed one of the remaining flares that he had stored there. Quickly rigging it, as he had done at the farm, he wedged the flare inside the remains in the corner where it would stay standing. Listening again he could hear nothing, his pursuers obviously wondering what he was up to, as the forest lay quiet under a blanket of silence. Hoping that his crude device would work a second time, and, like Pavlov’s bell, alarm his enemy into remaining static when it was activated. He planned to gain as much time as he could in the ensuing delay. The forest lay dark around him, as he ran the fishing wire, crudely, given the limited time he had - they could come rushing in on top of him at any second, blazing away. He dismissed it from his mind as he tied off the loop. He glanced around the clearing and picked up a stone from the ground and threw it up and at an angle away from him in the direction of his attackers in the hope of

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confusing them before disappearing, into the trees, walking as quickly and quietly as he could. Nick heard the rock crash through the foliage, and it was followed by the same deadly silence. The quietness added to uneasiness - could it be that they had already found him and were ready to pounce again? Had they circled him in the short minute that he had been there? His eyes adjusted for the limited light around him, but even so he could barely see more than a few yards in either direction. He trod on, unslinging his rifle from his shoulder, checking the breech to see that there was a round chambered. He had completely lost count of how many shots he had fired. The glint of the cartridge reassured him that he had at least one shot left and he dared not slow or stop to check his clip, forgetting that he had previously reloaded it. The rifle threatened to slow his progress should it snag in any of the branches that drooped in his way. He felt eyes boring holes in his back, but ignored the sensation and plodded on toward what he hoped was a way out. After a couple of hundred yards, he stopped again listening intently. He squatted down in the foliage but could hear nothing except the sound of his blood rushing through his ears. Squinting he realized that from this vantage point he could see quite far - the trees were so densely packed that little useful sunlight reached the floor hence the lack of growth. Glancing through his telescopic sight he could easily see the clearing he had left and coldly realized that it was a two way street. His pursuer could be watching him in the same way and could have been since before he reached the clearing. The tumble of the ruin broke the line of sight as did mounds of wilted and fallen fronds, but from his vantage point he could just make out the boots of the person standing there. As he watched the boots - he could see no other part of his pursuers as the tree line robbed him of sight at just above ankle level - they made a circular route around the ruin looking for something. Not surprisingly, his trap had not worked twice but it bought Nick time. Time to think. Adrenaline rushed through his body as he thought about what he should do. Once the pursuers found his hastily deposited flare they would find him if they ran straight uphill, this being the logical route. As Nick continued to watch, he saw the man drop to a knee and examine the area where the flare was hidden. As his shape became more distinct Nick dropped his finger to his trigger and squeezed. He aimed carefully allowing for the distance - at this range he could not hope for accuracy to within a foot or two either way, but he felt that the risk was worth it. The snap of the hammer hitting the firing pin surprised, him and he wondered if his cartridge had misfired. A puff of blue smoke

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lingering in the foliage belayed this doubt, as did the howl of surprise, when his subsonic round tumbled through the trees and entered the clearing, missing his target by a good yard. What he lacked in accuracy was made up for by the effect the impacting round had on his attackers, as it tore into an old brick. Shattering, it scattered debris into the face of the men stooped there. Nick’s attacker had been gingerly examining the flare wondering if there was anything hidden nearby that any prodding to this obviously worthless device would trigger. The brick exploded at just the right moment and, despite their seasoning in the field, one reacted instinctively, yelling in surprise and diving for cover. The trees had hidden the sound and direction of the source of the shot. In anger and frustration they lifted their submachine guns and sprayed the tree line all around just as Nick made a run for it. The booming resonance of the shootings deafening effect on the attacker’s ears, covered the sound of his flight, and within a minute he burst out from the trees into a welcome sunlight filled field. Nick ran until he felt his heart would burst, first cresting the hill on which the forest lay, and then ran down hill and towards the stone wall that bordered the roadway. He knew exactly where he was now and ran knowing that nothing would stop him. Further down the road, the farm well behind him, he washed his face and hands free of the muck of the forest in a brook that bordered the roadside. Behind him his pursuers backtracked knowing that their quarry was gone. This did not trouble them as much as the reaction they would get from their boss waiting at the farm.

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“Hey Nick! How’s the sperm count?” Imelda Driscoll grinned nonchalantly, as if she had seen Nick the week before rather than 12 years previously. “Spit in your hand and you tell me!” he responded, relaxing as she closed the door behind him. “Haven’t lost your charm I see,” she quipped, as she hugged him tightly in greeting. “Nasty scratch,” she added, spotting the now congealed gash on his cheek. Imelda held him at arms length examining his features, a little rough this early in the morning, but perhaps he had been out for a few drinks the night before. Despite the early hour she did not seem surprised to see him, an instinctive professional, an oncologist to be exact and a good one, it was in her nature to hide concern behind a very good jovial mask. Her joy at seeing him was not contrived; however, it had been a long time. The warmth of the house, centrally heated, and the lingering odors of breakfast filled Nicks nostrils, making him salivate. “Throw your stuff in the hall - fancy some breakfast?” Nick nodded eagerly, pausing to look through the front door window, checking that the way he had come was clear. The move was not lost on Imelda, nor was the fact that he had arrived on foot. The sounds of a popular talk show host, which filled the kitchen, were quickly doused with a flick of her finger on the remote control laying on the counter. The living room was clean and comfortable. Despite the early hour - Nick saw that it was a little after 9:00 A.M. on the wall clock - the fireplace in the sitting room was lit, blazing and crackling under its burden of coal and logs. “How do you take your tea, or would you prefer a more American refreshment - coffee?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye, as she waved him to sit on the sofa, visible through the open French door that separated the kitchen from the living room. “Tea would be fine, milk and sugar...thanks.” He admired her slim build as he watched her move across the kitchen. Thirty five and still looking great - just like his wife Jessica. He stopped himself, feeling guilty. He removed a white lab coat, its pockets teeming with papers, stethoscope and pens, from the sofa and hung it over the back of a chair. He knew from what Jessica told him that Imelda had a child of her own now, though there was no sign of the paraphernalia of infanthood. While Imelda prepared the tea, she and Nick made small talk, chatting about their respective families.

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“You off today?” he called out as he sat, his weary bones readily absorbing the heat of the flames, the softness of the sofa easing the stiffness of his muscles. “No, I always work from home!” she sang back, adding, “I’m pulling evenings this week. The little lad is with his granny ‘til Friday.” Nick settled his backpack on the floor, avoiding letting the dirty parts stain the rug. He had slung the rifle into a bush outside - he had unscrewed the barrel, to avoid calling attention to the unmistakable shape, in his lonely walk here. Imelda entered carrying two steaming mugs of tea. Oddly silent. Nick accepted his gratefully and nearly scalded himself in his eagerness for warm refreshment. “So,” Imelda sat on the arm of a full armchair, “tell me all - hiked your way up here I see.” Nick’s dirty clothes certainly told a tale, as did his somewhat disheveled appearance. A wave of fatigue and nausea swept over Nick as he collected his thoughts - a combination of delayed shock and the lack of sleep from the previous night. He rubbed his forehead wearily with his hand as he began to talk. He decided to tell her all - it was the only way to get it all in order in his head. Imelda listened intently, her interest roused, her head cocked to one side as he spoke. Half way through, she beckoned to him to follow her into the kitchen where she set about preparing a full breakfast for him in the best Irish tradition - eggs, bacon, mushrooms and tomatoes. Just as he finished his story, she too was finished and set the feast in front of him on her kitchen table. Nick attacked it ravenously. He hadn’t eaten a decent meal in days, except for the half finished room service dinner he was forced to leave the night before - but that was a distant memory. When he had wiped his plate clean, Imelda refreshed his cup of tea. He felt 100% better, though he knew he needed some sleep soon. “Well,” she smiled, though her eyes were cold, “you’ve certainly got yourself a pile of trouble.” Rising and walking to the front window, she glanced outside, “Sure they didn’t follow you here?” “Pretty sure - actually I’m quite certain. I waited over an hour at the bottom of the road before I walked up here. I would have called but the pub, Johnny Foxes, was closed and I couldn’t get to a pay phone. My mobile phone battery is dead.” Imelda glanced at the shotgun on the wall rack; Nick followed her eyes and noticed it for the first time. Funny he hadn’t seen it before - a Mossberg it had a short barrel and a pistol grip - not exactly hunting equipment. “So that was your rifle you threw in the bush?” Before he could answer, she walked outside, retrieved it, and brought it back inside.

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Laying it on the kitchen table, she opened the case and withdrew the two parts, examining them both closely. “I detest these things - detest them.” she muttered, “you might want to clean it,” she added, laying it down on the counter. “I don’t know if it is to your advantage or not but my husband is a police officer.” “Yes Jessica had mentioned that to me.” Ignoring him, Imelda went on, “He’s a member of the anti-terrorist squad. This, as you know, is a small country everybody knows everyone - I’m not so sure he’ll be thrilled when he finds out that you came here. For goodness sake, he’s out there now looking for you!” “I don’t wish to sound melodramatic but I’ve witnessed a slaughter — over the past two days I’ve been shot at more times than I care to remember, and I don’t even know who’s behind it all.” Trying to put a humorous spin on it, he added “besides I happened to be in the neighborhood...I had hoped to make some calls back at O’Reilly’s Farm and move on from there — I didn’t mean to bring any trouble...” “I know, Nick. I’m just worried. If they spotted you coming here, whoever they are, they’ll tie it in with Seán . . . he’s under enough pressure as it is. When you live out here in relative isolation, the trade off of having the pretty Glencullen River and the mountains in your backyard, is the constant fear that someone could be watching from those trees across the river, waiting for Seán to come home.” She turned away hiding the tears that sprung to her eyes. Nick let her be. She turned back, biting her lip and examined his haggard features, noticing how well he looked - how he still retained the handsomeness of his youth. His blue eyes sparkled, though they were laced, bloodshot from fatigue. She had an interest in jumping his bones once - more than once actually, but that was before both of their marriages. “I’d appreciate, if I could use the phone. I’ve got to check on Jessica and the children in case these guys try anything there.” Imelda threw him the cordless. “Get out of your clothes and I’ll throw them in the wash. You could use a shower yourself,” and she gestured to him to follow her to the upstairs bathroom. Nick complied, feeling more comfortable in his boxers, though he could feel Imelda’s eyes on him as he undressed. He turned away in embarrassment, his penis rising in early morning glory. Imelda laughed admiring the bulge and grabbed his clothes from him. “Howdy to you too - Jessica was right about you!” and she left Nick bewildered. “Throw me out the boxers too.”

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Nick emptied out his backpack grabbing the assorted pieces of clothing he had used to wrap the camera. As he lay the camera down on the floor he heard a sharp chink. “Damn,” he thought, “must have damaged it.” He checked his watch. It read 9:55 A.M. He debated whether to call Jessica or shower first and decided on the latter, it would help him clear his head and organize his thoughts. He borrowed Imelda’s husband’s shaving kit and removed what growth was left from the night before. He tried to avoid the wound on his cheek but to no avail as he cut himself in the process. Closer examination of the disposable confirmed that it was probably one that Imelda used to shave her legs, hence the gouge. Nothing new in that he thought. The shower was, simply, rejuvenating. Deliciously refreshing, he washed the dirt and grime from his head and torso, avoiding the temptation to stay in longer he reluctantly turned off the piping hot water and got out. As he toweled himself off, Imelda stuck her head in the door, her eyes half shut as she grinned from ear to ear. She proffered a handful of clothes. “Seán’s,” she explained. “He should be home soon,” and closed the door. Nick checked his watch again and went downstairs. He found that his rifle had been stripped, cleaned and reassembled, a light coat of oil covered the long barrel. “What did you do with these rounds, they look like they’re thirty years old?” Imelda observed Nick explained, and lay the bullets out on the counter. He loaded the best of them into their respective clips and put the rest aside. “So what do I say to Seán?” Nick asked. “The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He can smell a rat a mile away - that’s his job, so don’t try to hide anything.” While they waited for Detective Sergeant Seán Driscoll to arrive, Nick, using his calling card, called a number in New York. He had spent a good half hour on the phone near begging his friend, John Hussar, to help him get out of Ireland. At first John had thought it a joke, then dismissed the possibility as improbable - he was ensconced in his home in Westchester - but the promise that his expenses would be paid for, combined with the need he heard in his friends voice, persuaded him that he would at least try what Nick had in mind. He was the adventurous type and never could resist a challenge. When they hung up Nick made another call to his home on Long Island, New York. He bit his lip nervously as he waited for the phone to answer, afraid that Jessica might be out. The phone rang and rang, just as he was about to hang up it was answered by a very tired Jessica.

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“Hi honey?” Nick greeted her. “Oh, hi Nick...how are you sweety?” she perked up immediately, she looked at the bedside clock. It was 5:50 AM. “Fine, how are the children?” “I was up most of last night with Julie — a toothache. So I’m fried; I miss you. I can’t wait to see you!” “We’ll all be together soon enough...” “You mean tomorrow night, or are you having so much fun you’ve forgotten?” The silence on the line alerted her. She could hear Nick breathing heavily as he decided on how best to tell her what had happened. The phone’s ringing had woken the children; they got up to make their breakfast and watch cartoons before school. “Jess, I’m in a lot of trouble.” She could hear the acute anxiety in his voice and as his story unfolded she felt a knot of tension rise in herself. Jessica interrupted him. “Nick, go to the police. Tell them what happened and this thing will resolve itself.” “I can’t. Somehow they’ve fingered me as one of the perpetrators.” “Oh come on honey! You’re a photographer on assignment. They’ll check you out and...” “Jessica, in the past twelve hours someone has tried to kill me twice. I’ve shot...killed two people.” “Oh my God! Are you all right Nick? You’re not hurt are you?” Nick reassured her that he was fine, but reiterated his concern that not only did his pursuers seem anxious to find him, they also seemed to - in the relatively short period of twenty four hours - know how to anticipate his actions. “I’m worried about you guys...you’ve got to get out of the house immediately and as far away as possible.” “Why? You don’t think we’re in any danger do you?” Jessica felt his anxiety. They’re life was falling apart around them. “I have to be honest Jessica. Under normal circumstances you know I have the instincts of a blind lemming, but someone wants me and quickly. It has to be connected to the incident in Dungannon.” In the background, their youngest cried out to her mother, “Mom, Mom, come look - daddy’s on TV!” “Hold on Nick, I’m going to take you on the cordless phone.” Nick heard the hiss as Jessica picked up the call on the well weathered black Sony cordless that they had to constantly retrieve from their eldest son’s room.

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“In a new development in Ireland today, Prime Minister Quinlan, has declared that ‘no stone shall be left unturned’ in an effort to find the perpetrators of the massacre at the Dungannon parade two days ago. He has offered a reward sponsored by the Government of £100,000 - the US equivalent of $140,000 for information leading to the arrest and conviction of those responsible.” The camera displayed video footage of the clean-up operation, dwelling on the dried up pools of blood and the bullet scared walls. Inset was a picture of Gerry O’Shea, obviously a public relations photo from the clean cut smile. “Further, a leading Dublin based business man, Gerry O’Shea, has personally added another £50,000 to the fund and has encouraged the public to use the toll-free hotline.” “When the Prime Minister was asked if he thought that it was an act of the outlawed Irish Republican Army, he commented,” and the screen filled with a picture of Quinlan at a press conference. “Despite the size of the event...it has all the ear marks of an IRA operation. A call was made to the London and Irish Times shortly afterwards claiming responsibility on their behalf.” A reporter interrupted. “Prime Minister, isn’t it true that there have been a number of claims of responsibility?” “Yes, Marion, there have; however, the IRA has a pre-arranged code to verify authenticity when these claims are made. We are taking this line of inquiry very seriously.” “Will that include the arrest of Gerry Adams? He guaranteed that the IRA would not take any aggressive actions after the peace accord was voted on and signed,” a British correspondent asked. “No comment on that one, except to say that Mr. Adams is not a known member of the IRA, but the head of a political party as you well know.” The CNN announcer went on to describe the response of the British Government, who made no bones about what they regarded as the necessary response from the Irish government. “Arrest every known member of the terrorist organization, and once and for all, lock down the free passage that terrorists are allowed, into and out of Northern Ireland from the South.” New footage showed streets being blocked off in Belfast and other Catholic enclaves. Houses were being searched, none too gently, despite the television coverage, and both men and women alike removed from their homes and carried away in trucks for questioning. Reminiscent, some declared, of the British response to the outbreak of violence some thirty years before. “The President of the United States has requested a meeting between representatives of both the Irish and British governments, and their joint Northern Irish Councils, at the earliest possible

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time, to discuss matters and to offer aid to the Northern Irish administration.” “Unionist representatives were more outspoken in their outrage to what a spokesman described as quote ‘the deliberate and cold-blooded elimination of some of Ulster’s finest men and women, exercising their constitutional right to march, only to be set upon by Nationalists.’” Spittle flew from the speaker, Ian Paisley, his bejowled mouth working hard as the words spewed angrily into the microphone. He and his Democratic Unionist Party had been the most prominent opposition to any concessions given to the Catholics since the troubles in Northern Ireland began. “Any movement forward on the issues of harmony between Ulster and the Southern Irish governments have been set back to the stone age. As I predicted, when all of the treaties and peace talks were taking place, it was all a waste of time and public money.” “An Irish security force’s spokesman issued a picture of a suspect in this case.” A blurred image of Nick appeared on the screen followed by a clearer one, obviously pulled from his US drivers license, a copy of which he had left at the car rental agency. The announcer described Riordan as an Irish-American, a freelance photo-journalist who lived in New York. A brief mention was made regarding his family and the fact that he had immigrated to the US in the mid-1980’s. The announcer did clarify that there was no immediate tie-in between Riordan and any illegal organizations. “Riordan was seen during the incident and is wanted by the police for questioning. The public has been advised to treat the suspect as armed and extremely dangerous.” The CNN announcer finished adding, “British troops are being sent to the province, increasing their numbers to levels not seen since the late 1970’s. And now to other news . . . ” Nick could hear Jessica fumble with the phone and the volume being turned down on the family TV. “Christ Nick!” was all she could muster as she rummaged through the kitchen shelves for a pack of cigarettes, which she kept hidden there since Nick quit. She thought quietly as she waited for the burner on the stove to get hot to light her cigarette, biting a finger nail nervously. “I’m surprised I haven’t had a call from anyone here yet,” she commented, drawing deeply on the barely lit cigarette. Jessica peered out of the front window of the house to see if there were any strange cars or trucks on the street. She was relieved to see that there weren’t. “Jesus,” she muttered. “I watched that whole event on the late news last night, but you weren’t mentioned. You are OK?” she softened. “Fine, nothing a tumble in the hay wouldn’t fix.”

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Jessica tried to laugh. “So what do you suggest I do?” “Leave right away. Pack up and get the hell out of Kansas. The news crews will be there this morning — I’m surprised they haven’t arrived already. Maybe the nuts who have been after me will show up too. Just leave.” This was met with silence. “That bad huh?” “Honey, they — whoever they are — have tried to kill me twice — in one day. The reason you’ve not been contacted is probably because the phone is tapped or they’re waiting for me at JFK airport, hoping I’ll show up. So careful what you say. Go to John’s place. I’ve called and made arrangements. Stay there until you here from me again. Take whatever cash you can - all you can. You may need it.” “Nick, what about my work?” “Let the hospital figure it out — they can fill in for you.” “All right, I’ll get the kids ready.” Jessica stubbed out the cigarette in the sink, annoyed that she had bothered to smoke at all — the house reeked. The early morning nicotine rush made her jumpy. “I’ll beep you and enter either the number for you to call back or the time I’ll call you. There’s no way you can contact me for now.” “What are you going to do Nick? Jesus, I hope you’ll be alright.” “I’ll be OK. I’ll probably hole up here for a while — who knows. Don’t worry, it’s me they’re after. I just want to you to be safe.” He hesitated. He had deliberately toned down how desperate his situation was, fearing that he would panic his wife. “Jessica, I love you. Kiss the children for me. And pray that this all works out.” He left out the feeling he had that he might not ever see them again; he couldn’t face it. Jessica wept silently; they had been together long enough for her to read his thoughts and he, hers. Nick told her he loved her again and handed the phone over to Imelda so that she and Jessica could talk quickly. It was 7:35 A.M. New York time. Jessica decided to pack right away. She’d have to wait for the bank to open at nine. She told the children to turn off the television and explained to them that they would be missing school today. They helped her excitedly, exuberant at the delightful prospect of an unexpected day off. As they got ready, Jessica was glad of the protective company of their large dog, Jake. Nick made a silent prayer. It was quite a favor he had just asked his friend John Hussar, some 3,400 miles away to the West.

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Flanagan had received a call from the trauma unit of St. Vincent’s hospital in accordance with the stipulation that violent injury or traumas be reported to the homicide department in police headquarters. These were automatically referred to the anti- terrorist unit if they were gun shot related. The information on the phone had been sketchy. A white male, mid twenties, pronounced dead on arrival with a wound to the lower abdomen. The victim had bled, quite quickly, to death. It warranted a visit to the reporting hospital. “Where did the ambulance pick him up?” he asked the Emergency Room desk clerk. “They didn’t,” was the reply, as the clerk shuffled through patient files looking for the right one. His yellowed tobacco stained fingers found what he was looking for and he slid it across the counter to Flanagan. “He was dropped off around 9:15 A.M.” “Ye hardly drop off someone who’s been bleeding like a pig all over yer seats.” Flanagan interrupted, leafing through the report. “Do ya want me to finish or do ya want to figure it out for yourself!” the clerk asked testily. “Oh, go on, you’re the expert.” Flanagan had decided that he didn’t like this guy. Conlon was the name on his identity tag. Working class smart ass — could trim the hair which sprouted from his flared nostrils — a smarmy little fuck — Cullen would call him. “He was dropped off on the bench seat outside the main door. We got a call and found him there.” “So you’ve no idea what the dropper-offers looked like?” Conlon looked at him like he had two heads. “I can’t see through the bleedin’ walls, can I?” “No, but you do have a video camera here in the hallway and another outside over the entrance.” Stumped, Conlon looked at Flanagan, in awe. “Never though of that.” Flanagan grinned smugly. “Where are the tapes kept?” Conlon showed him where. Flanagan signed out the tape of the preceding four hours. As he left he spoke to the Staff Nurse who had been on duty at the time. He knew her vaguely from way back. “So he had his balls shot off?” Flanagan was not one to beat around the bush. “In a manner of speaking, yes,” Flanagans bluntness didn’t phase the nurse one bit. She’d met all types, and was just completing a week of Emergency Room overnight shifts. Pretty, with hollow dark

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eyes from too many late nights, and the strain of the work she was involved in, she offered Flanagan a cup of coffee. She filled him in on the morning delivery. “A severe trauma, massive blood loss. From the damage to the major vessels it would appear that he died quickly. We’ll know more after the autopsy.” “Any signs of a bullet or bullets?” “Some shards maybe. They’ll all be delivered with the pathologist’s report. Surgeon O’Brien - the resident who looked him over - commented,” she pointed to the doctor’s report on the inside of the folder, “‘that the wound was characteristic of the damage done by a lead bullet - complete disintegration.’ Not a large round mind you, the entrance wound was small. The round was traveling at high speed — that’s what did the damage, and the impact onto the pelvic bone, which splattered the bullet in all directions, hence the range of secondary injuries.” “I suppose ye can’t smoke in here?” Flanagan asked woefully. “Not really. But whose going to stop a cop - particularly one with a gun.” Nurse Branigan smiled, nodding to the butt of the pistol that jutted from underneath Flanagan’s tweed jacket. It never failed to raise an eye — but in this case the nurse wasn’t all that impressed, but pretended she was. “So,” she had forgotten his name. “Want to give a tired nurse a ride home?” Peter Flanagan was only too delighted to oblige, and was even happier when she invited him up for another cup of coffee when they got there.

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“The fucker thinks he’s Rupert bloody Murdock,” the IRA commandant spat, “where does O’Shea get off, offering his own money for a reward?” “What’s the story on the next Dáil meeting?” Adams asked, sucking on his pipe, ignoring him. “It’s been delayed...” “Afraid to come?” “Yeah, all of the members have received threats and warnings in the mail and by phone. All are untraceable.” “How history repeats itself, Collins did the same thing. People have long memories.” Adams responded. “Fuck that! I wouldn’t mind so much if I knew who was behind it. But this isn’t even our operation, yet we’re getting the blame. We haven’t fired a shot for close to two years and yet their calling us scumbags on national TV.” Adams reached across the desk and grabbed his friends arm tightly. “Calm yourself Seamus, ’twas a mere reflection. The Brits called Collins, Pearce and Connolly scum bags. And where would we be today without them? Any word on that photo journalist, Riordan, that everybody’s been chasing?” Seamus Mahony retorted with a sneer. “He’s no spring chicken Gerry. Killed two of my brigade, possibly three.” “How did that happen?” Mahony filled him in on the taxi chase and the death of the driver. “They followed him up to a farm in Kilteirnan.” “He was alone? Why didn’t your guys grab him? “We only had one guy on his tail, it took a while to get a squad up there...” Impatiently, Adams interrupted. “You mentioned a possible third kill - what’s the confusion?” Mahony shook a Marlboro out of a pack and lit it, drawing deeply before he answered. “Let me finish. The squad went to the farm but before they had a chance to flush him out he was gone. Appears he was waiting for them, or in the throes of making an escape. Anyway one of the new guys got popped as they were surrounding the shed they thought he was in. Screamed the bloody neighborhood down before he died. The other was killed as he made his way up the field to where the shots came from - shot in the head at close range.” He rubbed his balding head wearily. “Go on.”

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“The taxi driver - you’ve met him, a guy by the name of Gallagher from Walkinstown, used to be a driver for cash and carry jobs,” — referring to armed robberies of banks and post offices - “he was shot at close range with a pistol. But from the wrong side - the right side of his head. No way a back seat passenger could have done that. Besides he had communicated with headquarters that the he was being pursued - or his passenger was. Unfortunately he was killed outright, so we have little to go on.” “The car was transmitting images?” “Sure, we have it all on tape. Bit fuzzy, no clear picture of the passenger, but could be enough to go on. Enhanced image copies have been distributed” “The farm - O’Reilly’s was it?” “I know what you’re going to say. We have a munitions bunker buried up there, normally guarded by an Active Service Unit. The ASU squad had been transferred to the border as a precaution with the marches.” “What did this guy shoot our men with?” “Looks like a high powered rifle — possibly a .22 caliber. During the cleanup they found some .22 caliber casings. With the ruckus that the young fella made, the squad was lucky to get out of there before the police arrived. The unit commander had him followed into the forest and they pumped a few rounds after him.” “The news report said it was like a bloody war, but the police never found any of our empty shells.” “Och, they probably leaded the trees. They had a catch bag attached to their weapons though to catch the shells, nothing was left behind.” “We have strict regulations about the use of excessive force these days. Everything has to be cleared through headquarters.” “Bollix!” Mahony slammed his fist onto the desk-top, “they’d just seen two of their squad killed...” “Bollix yerself!” Adams whipped back, standing. “Our men are trained as well as any Marine or British SAS unit. Emotion is a non-player! And you fuckin’ know it! Any negative press on top of what happened yesterday will only point the finger at us and confirm the speculation that we’ve gone active again!” Exasperated he ran his hands through his dark hair, scratching the back of his head. “Seamus, if it’s a .22 he used, it’s probably a legitimately owned gun - that, one of the two legal caliber rifles available here in the South. Find out where he picked it up. I know it’s a long shot but have one of your men run it through the police firearms computer and see what comes up.” Mahony was seething but he picked up his mobile phone, dialed a few numbers and spoke tersely to whoever answered the phone, “No I can’t fuckin’ wait, do it now, I’ll hold. See if you find a match

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between a .22 caliber and the name Nickolas Riordan.” Seconds passed, then minutes. He paced, his patience worn dangerously thin. Finally, he wrote down a few details and hung up. Adams looked at him expectantly. “Gun was bought in 1980 - an Anshutz .22 caliber, semi-auto. License is out of date.” “Riordan bought it?” Mahony examined his handwriting. “Yep, January 19, 1980.” “Run a trace?” “That was eighteen years ago!” “Get goin’ Seamus. Find him.” The phone rang. Adams answered it with a grunt, listened and hung up without a word. “Seems the threatening letters have been followed with a few examples. Reports coming into police HQ that a number of Dáil deputies have been shot, others missing.” He stared out the large window through the blinds into the skyline beyond. “Something stinks in Glocomara, Seamus. There’s someone, or something, bigger behind all this. Issue a general order - mobilize all the brigades and have the commanders gather to await further instructions.” Mahony felt a surge of adrenaline. An order like this had not been issued by the general command for some time. He practically leapt from his chair and raced for the door. “Seamus!” Adams roared after him. “Find Riordan today.”

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“So what’s the word?” Peter Flanagan, already two sheets to the wind, took a second to turn and focus on the person standing beside him. Not that Cullen was in much better shape. “Hey Seán, me oul’ son,” Flanagan responded, a broad grin on his face, using Cullen’s Irish name. “Fuck of a week, eh! Never a dull moment.” “No truer word.” He’d have offered Flanagan a pint, but why waste it he thought, the guy was smashed enough already. He looked like he was ready to puke any second, his eyes were glazed and out of focus, and he swayed like the drunk he was. No need to pussy-foot around with any more pleasantries. “So, youse gettin’ anywhere with the investigation?” Cullen asked, pretending to be more sloshed than he was. Fourteen pints of Guinness never gave him more than a buzz and a weak bladder anymore. “Ahhh, you’re a cute whore!” Flanagan wagged his finger at him knowingly, as if reprimanding a small child and tapped his nose gesturing that he knew quite a lot but was not going to divulge anything. “Screw it Pete, just a social question, I could give a rat’s ass, hey barman!” he beckoned to the well dressed, vested and bow-tied bar keep, busy creaming the heads off just poured pints of black stuff. “A pint for yer man and a Jameson whisky for myself - no water, no ice,” Cullen threw a £10 note onto the polished counter top making sure that it didn’t stray too far. The barman was new so what was about to happen wasn’t his fault really. He was just doing his job. Besides, he had been warned about continuing to serve fall-down drunks - a law suit wouldn’t be far behind and his job would be history with even the hint. Though he wasn’t exactly known for his tact. “Think you’ve had enough sir. Why don’t you go on off home?” And with a smile, he added in an accent which indicated that he was a country boy, “Ye’ll have a fierce oul headache tomorrow.” All with the best intentions of good humor, he continued what he was doing. His second mistake was the conspiratorial nod and smirk he gave to the customer he was serving. Cullen didn’t respond. But a strange metamorphosis came over him. His face darkened and his fists clenched, teeth tightly clamped. As inebriated as Flanagan was, he knew what was going to happen and stopped himself, just in time, from putting his hand out to calm Cullen down.

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Cullen rotated on his heel, suddenly very somber. His eyes were dark as he strode the few feet where to the barman stood. Flanagan searched about, desperately looking for other members of their department who were there who might intervene, but came up blank. He winced and went back to his drink and watched the show. Nodding to the barman with a smile Cullen called him over with a whisper, “Com’ere.” The barman didn’t note the change in moods and did as he was asked, throwing his bar towel beneath the counter. He leaned across a shade patronizingly, his arms braced on the edge of the bar. Cullen wiggled his fore-finger drawing him closer. With a motion someone wouldn’t credit a man of his age, and certainly not someone who had consumed close to two imperial gallons of heavy beer, Cullen’s right hand flashed forward and grabbed the bar keep by the throat, drawing him so close to his face that the keep could smell the sweet reek of liquor off Cullen’s breath. “Noticed yer name is,” Cullen drew his head back and glanced at the barman’s name tag, “Andrew.” Andrew began to struggle, a look of panic and anger in his startled eyes. He was even more surprised but ceased his struggle completely when Cullen, to use a local term for a head butt, yossered him over the bridge of his nose, nearly breaking it. “Fuck you,” he croaked, more a reaction than a concerted thought. He’d hardly finished when Cullen grabbed the neck of his shirt with both hands and hauled him over the counter top, scattering glasses in all directions. As people turned to see what the commotion was — though not many did, as it was late and the bar was filled with loud and gregarious patrons — Cullen switched his grip and held Andrew under his right arm, avoiding the stream of blood from his ruined nose. He waved with his left. “Not feelin’ too well, needs a breath of fresh air!” Those at the bar who had witnessed the event had already grabbed their drinks and disappeared into the crowd. Without any more fuss, Cullen walked outside dragging Andrew with him and took him around to the delivery entrance at the side of the building. “So, ya little fuck, I’ve had enough to drink!” followed by a stunning right foot kick to the barman’s crotch. Andrew bent over double and retched onto the dirty sidewalk. He rolled into the fetal position, his legs tucked to protect his genitals from further attack, but there are other ways to inflict pain, ways Cullen knew well. A rapid kick to both kidneys, both carefully aimed and delivered, guaranteed that Andrew would be pissing blood for the next few days, but Cullen didn’t want him unconscious, so he left his head alone. He bent down to the moaning figure.

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“Run off home ye little shit. And next time I call for drink, don’t ever,” he emphasized the ever with a jab to Andrews nose, “call me on it. The only words I want from you are ‘Yes, sir, anything you say, SIR!.” There was no response. Cullen tidied himself off. He’d managed to keep the bastard’s blood off his shirt, but there was a splatter of puke on his right shoe. He carefully wiped this off on Andrew’s pants. As he walked away, lighting a cigarette, Andrew’s courage finally rose to the surface. “I’m gonna call the cops ye old alchie fuck,” he gasped. “Gonna have ye arrested. For assault. I’ll sue . . .” He stopped right there more because he was unable to speak any further. The pistol barrel chipped his incisor as Cullen rammed it into his mouth. Andrew trembled, helpless. “No you won’t you little shite,” Cullen cocked the hammer with his thumb. The barman pissed his pants. They always did, Cullen thought, enjoying the moment. “I am the fuckin’ law. The law and the executioner. Good-bye,” he whispered and pulled the trigger. Eyes wide in fear Andrew heard the click of the hammer falling. It took him a few seconds to realize that the hammer had fallen onto an empty chamber. He blacked out, the last sounds he heard was Cullen’s quiet mocking laugh. When he came to a few minutes later, he managed to crawl to his car and drive to the emergency room of nearby St. Vincent’s Hospital. Despite the urgings of the doctors and nurses he refused to say a word, claiming he had been mugged and hadn’t seen his assailant, so the police went uncalled. Next day he quit his job. Returning to the bar, Flanagan had Cullen’s whisky ready for him, and a fresh pint as well. Cullen was looking weary now, the steam gone out of him. “So, Peter, you were sayin’... ” Cullen commented downing the whisky in one mouthful. Flanagan told him what he knew, and paid for the drinks as well. After which Cullen made a call to a better part of town.

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“Finding Riordan today” was not as arduous a task as it would have been seventy years ago. That was when Michael Collins had a network of spies throughout Government, both Irish and British, that supplied him with timely vital information. Collins’ boldness was still talked about in the government intelligence circles, and his ingenuity had never been matched again. On the IRA intelligence gathering staff were two computer graduates who gave up long hours in return for doing their bit for Ireland. The stipend that kept them in beer money didn’t hinder their willingness either. One had graduated from Trinity College in 1992 and was in the final throes of finishing a Ph.D., that he hoped would lead to an invitation to teach, an eventual professorship perhaps. College life was something Eamonn Power hoped never to leave. The IRA gave him full backing, paying his way, as his services were close to irreplaceable. Aside from that, the computer access he had through the Trinity College network was invaluable. He epitomized the look of a computer geek, spotty faced, bearded, generally unkempt in his dress and personal hygiene. His knowledge of worldwide computer systems, emerging technology and breaking encrypted messages was something a legitimate intelligence organization would have paid a great deal for. Fiona Boyle was not as technically proficient, but what she lacked there she more than made up for in her tenacity and doggedness in breaking into computer systems — anonymously — rarely leaving tracks behind that would compromise their organization. After completing her MA in History and Computer Sciences at University College Dublin, she had turned down a prestigious post- graduate lecturing position to pursue her lucrative current career. She had been recruited for the IRA in her freshman year. Her salary and work under the disguise of a legitimate computer consulting company kept her boyfriend and family happy in the knowledge that unlike many of her fellow graduates she did not have to face the daunting task of having to emigrate to get a decent paying job. None would describe her as beautiful, but in many ways that was her intention. She worked unnoticed, traveled unhindered, dressed as a professional, and aroused no suspicions. But there was a beauty there, as many Irish women had, barely beneath the surface which would show itself at weekends, or on the special occasion when she would doll herself up and be the talk of the pub. Operating in a Baggot Street office, they had a fiber optic connection to the Internet as well as an array of high speed modems.

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Investigation and interrogation of data servers was carried out through a number of anonymous computer servers based in the Netherlands and forwarded then to another in Maine, they could only be traced - if any effort was ever put into tracing them to a terminal in the Provost’s office of Trinity College. The servers were torn down regularly - a technical way of saying that they were shut down, their phone numbers and the computer itself changed to a new location, hard drive physically destroyed and replaced with a new one. Eamonn and Fiona’s job was rarely to destroy data, merely to manipulate it, occasionally but more often than not, to use the systems provided by government for internal use to aid them in their investigation. If an aggressive trace was made, it would end up in Maine, and if Interpol got involved, the Netherlands, but in the process they would receive notification of the search or sniff as it was known. Their chances of getting caught were a near impossibility. However, for the slim chance that did exist, the servers, and the computers they worked on, could destroy their hard drives at an electronic command, or if tampered with a magnet built into the hard drive casing would be unsheathed instantly destroying every bit and bite on the platters. And so it began. Tapping into the Irish Government Network, Fiona ran Nickolas Riordan’s name through the main police computer looking for criminal files which turned up blank, next through the Internal Revenue system which had been recently updated, and through which she found that Riordan had a tax ID number and had paid taxes until 1986 when the records ended. Motor vehicles yielded a driver license, and an additional file indicating that an Irish one had been traded for a New York equivalent in 1987, and included a license number and an address in Queens, New York. There were no other records that matched Nick’s name. Satisfied, she tapped into the US Motor Vehicles computers based in Albany, New York and searched using his license number. It took a few seconds but sure enough up it came along with a current address and a digitized photo and a social security number. The license had been renewed in 1996. He and his wife had two cars registered on the motor registration’s database - a leased 1996 Buick wagon, 8 cylinder, automatic, blue, and a 1993 Ford Explorer, 6 cylinder, manual, green, fully paid for. Before continuing, she printed out this information and kept it beside her. She didn’t want to be premature and send off the incorrect information. Next she accessed the US Internal Revenue Service’s database located in Hicksville, New York and punched in his social security number which she had noted from the motor vehicle files. The search revealed that he was married, had children - all were listed, including their date of birth, and his wife’s file was included as

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they did joint returns. Fiona noticed with a smile that he was late paying this year’s taxes. In the US, the social security number was the one unique identifier that every citizen or resident alien had in order to pay their taxes. Attached to these files is relevant information regarding current employer, home address, phone number etc. His home address was confirmed as it matched the one listed on his driver license. Commercial interests also used it to track credit files on individuals, including to whom they owed money, how quickly they paid, etc. Fiona tapped into TRW, a credit reporting agency, and in a matter of minutes had a complete public financial profile of Nickolas Riordan and his wife Jessica. A search of Suffolk County public records provided information on his house which he had bought and paid $240,000 for in 1990 at a fixed mortgage rate of 9%. The telephone number for the home was unlisted on the on-line directories, however, a quick call to a neighbor pretending to be a relative was fruitful, as a child answered the phone and readily gave out the information. All this in twenty-three minutes. Fiona printed out all of the information, compiled it with a cover sheet and faxed it off to Mahony. What remained on her computer was compressed and encrypted, retrievable to no one but Eamonn and herself. The original printouts were sent over to the Sinn Féin office by messenger.

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Gerry Adams was pouring over the documents when Mahony entered, a sheaf of fax paper in his hands. He had been in transit when his car fax rang. He could have stored the information in the machine’s memory to be printed out at a later time, but the urgency of this query necessitated allowing the passenger side floor to become littered with a sizable ream of paper. He would have preferred an e-mail but with the improvement of police detection the attached file of documents would have been easily traced. On a day to day basis inter-IRA E-Mail was generally not encrypted to avoid rousing suspicion, but the language was straightforward not giving away any indication that anything illegal was going on. “What’s the word from Police Headquarters at Harcourt Street?” Adams asked without looking up. “Aside from us being in the shithouse? The whole fuckin’ world is blaming us for the what happened the other day. Someone even called in to the newspapers and TV stations using one of our codes confirming that we executed it as a mission.” “Tell me something I don’t already know,” Adams thought quietly, but remained outwardly calm and smiled at Mahony, belaying his frustration with the man, who, on a day-to-day basis was competent but at times couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Seamus Mahony had been a junior volunteer recruited near the home of Brendan Behan in Donnycarney on the north side of Dublin. His claim to fame came during a bank raid. He had held the anti-terrorist police at bay with an AK-47, while his compatriots made good their escape. Unfortunately, he made two mistakes: the first was wounding three police officers; the second was letting a press photographer, who was in the area, see his face after Mahony got into the get away car and shed his ski mask. The IRA took good care of him when the police raided his house late that night, much to the bewilderment of his mother and father, ensuring that he got away to a quiet place, and after the ruckus had calmed down they provided him with a new identity. They even covered his tracks by burning the get away car some time later with a body inside, which the police presumed was his. He lacked dental records, as he never visited a dentist - a fact clearly visible to this day twelve years later in the row of rotten teeth that were revealed when he was angry, or on a less frequent occasion, when he smiled. Adams was fond of him because of his street-wise ferocity in protecting his compatriots, without much care for his own welfare, whenever they were threatened. His one weakness, aside from the

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cigarettes, was his fondness for the booze - his binges were legendary and could last for days on end. Adams saw this as a small price to pay for his loyalty, but had warned him to never compromise any missions, or the organization by coming into the office drunk while on duty. Stocky, he made up for what he lacked in height by the sheer bulk of hardened muscles. He regarded his private joke, in the politically correct world, that he was “follically compromised” a howl, despite the number of times he mentioned it. No accident - he shaved his head daily covering his baldness with a collection of wigs and baseball hats to throw off the casual observer. He was a regular mass goer - his killing at least four British agents and soldiers, that he knew of, affected his faith and beliefs in no way whatsoever. “All right, surprise of the day,” he smirked, “Riordan is one of us.” Adams mouth fell in disbelief, “No way!” “Grandfather was in the ‘RA during the troubles from 1912 to Dev’s election in ‘32.” He referred to Eamonn DeVelera’s election to power with his Fianna Fáil party during that year. Not the most popular man during the Civil War, he backed out of supporting the Treaty with Britain signed by Arthur Griffith and Michael Collins, despite a vote by the people of Ireland in June, 1922 which favored the treaty by a 3:1 majority. His withdrawal, despite his insistence that he was doing it for the good of the country in getting a Republic without losing the Northern six counties, sparked the civil war during which his forces were firmly trounced by the legendary Michael Collins. Rumor had it, but in fact it was quite unfounded, that DeVelera was behind Collin’s assassination. DeVelera never gained the support that would have given him dictatorial powers. Despite all this, he turned out to be a popular statesman and president until his death in 1975. “Riordan’s father was a highly placed civil servant who threw his weight behind Fianna Fáil during the ’40’s up through the ’70’s from his government career. A whisper has it that his position allowed him insight into the sensitive government documents and used this to aid Charley Haughy” - later to become head of the party and prime minister - “in running guns north of the border during the early days of the troubles. He had a connection with our Belfast Brigade in ‘72 but gave it all up when he retired in ’75.” Mahony read from his notes. “Enough with the history lesson. Jesus you sound like my school teacher - what’s the story with Riordan?” Adams prompted urgently. Ignoring him, Mahony went on. “Riordan was recruited in ‘81 while he was at University College Dublin but he never took it very seriously. He was spotted at a gun club - must be the same gun he has now - and was trained as a sniper over a period of eight weeks on an estate in County Laoise. Only one mission carried out in

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January of 1985. He and another were sent to the border cherry picking” - he referred to the practice, later to be implemented using a US based contract killer whose weapon of choice was a semi- automatic .50 caliber Barrett rifle. The round was over five inches long and had an accurate range in excess of 1,500 yards in the right hands. A well trained sniper could shoot from the relative safety of the Southern side of the border at British soldiers manning their border posts. “Both were assigned the same mission on the same day, obstensively for Riordan it was to be in-field training. The mission was a success; however, Higgins was killed. The next day we found him dumped on Dollymount Strand. Riordan disappeared completely - we thought he had suffered the same fate. How wrong we were.” “Indeed!” Adams thought for a few seconds. “You’re certain it’s the same guy?” “No. These are preliminary reports. But there’s a lot of co- incidence’s.” “Any idea who’s been after him?” “Could have been anybody - the Loyalist paramilitaries, British army, Irish special branch.” “Highly unlikely, the special branch would have bade their time and moved in without a gunfight.” “He put his talents to good use though - a photo journalist.” Adams twiddled his pencil. “We need to talk to Riordan. Who’s been assigned to handle the case in the police department?” “The incident and Riordan fall within the jurisdiction of many different departments, but word has it that Seán Driscoll is heading up the investigation.” “Hmmm, not my choice, but I know him. Think he has anything more that we do?” “Doubt it.” “Think Riordan was behind this?” “Gut feeling says no. Too well organized - it was an Irish job - a big one. We didn’t even get a sniff.” “Riordan killed two of our men — but he wasn’t to know who they were - someone bungled that operation.” Adams said stating the obvious. “Riordan’s the key, find him and everything else will fall in place. Let’s get crackin’. Get those calls off, and have Betty get me a cod an’ chips, I’m friggin starvin’.”

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“With all due respect Nick,” Seán Driscoll smiled at Nick, who sat on the sofa his legs stretched toward the crackling coal fire, “the Irish police are not a bunch of red necks with blue lights attached to their black bicycles...” “I didn’t mean...” In a direct manner uncharacteristic of an Irishman, Driscoll put his cup of tea down hard on the table top and responded. “You did. But don’t take my being tired too personally. You Yanks think you have the best of everything.” Nick thought to himself. “American bashing, Europe’s favorite pastime.” Instead of allowing himself to get angry, he smiled and responded, “That’s because we do! And if it wasn’t for America and their lend-lease program with Britain and Russia during the war, there’s a very good chance that you, Imelda, and the rest of the population here would be goose-stepping around to the beat of the Nazi drum.” It was an old debate, and Seán knew Nick was right, but he’d had a hell of a night. He hadn’t had a wink of sleep for nearly 36 hours, his boss was leaning on him hard for fast results, and to top it all, the leading suspect for the latest fiasco was sitting in his living room. “Fuck it,” Seán stalked from the room slamming the door behind him, leaving a puzzled and angry Nick sitting in his wake. Outside he could hear Imelda talking to him in not-so-hushed tones, words drifted through that made him uneasy. “Should...arrest. Locked up...investigation.” The conversation ended abruptly with an “Oh, for Christ’s sake Seán!” from Imelda. Nick just sat there feeling increasingly uncomfortable and uneasy, wondering if the police officer was going to call a squad car and arrest him on the spot. A few moments later Driscoll returned, two Heineken beers in his hands, one of which he placed in front of Nick, who nodded his thanks. Nick glanced at his watch. Just before noon and the liquid refreshment was beginning already - worse things could happen he supposed. Sipping the peace offering, he waited for Seán to compose himself, which he did as abruptly as he had left the room. Staring at the fire, the light from which lit up the lines and creases of his tired face, he didn’t look at Nick as he barked in a more moderate tone, “Starting from your leaving the US, tell me everything that happened. Leave nothing out.”

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As Nick was about to comply, Seán drew a portable cassette recorder from his pocket, turned it on to record, and set it on the floor between the two of them. He held up his hand indicating that Nick should remain silent as he spoke in a clear professional voice: “Detective Sergeant Seán Driscoll, Special Anti-terrorist Police Unit, ID # 5562. Interview with...” and he mentioned Nick by name, the date and the circumstances of the interview. He deliberately omitted the location and the time. He then nodded to Nick to proceed. It took the best part of an hour and a half. During the time, Seán changed the sides of the micro-cassette. Nick spoke slowly, clearly and deliberately. The process helped him as much as it did Seán, because it required him to get all “his ducks in a row” to make sense of it. Occasionally, when a fact or some relevant information was missing, Seán would hold up his hand stopping Nick and ask a question. Imelda, in the mean time, dropped in the remaining cans of the six pack so that by the end of the interview both Nick and the beers were finished. The combination of the effort to talk for so long, the alcohol, and the heat from the fire exhausted him. Not surprisingly, considering the excitement of the night before. The tape safely put aside, Seán looked at Nick in a new light - it had been a hell of an ordeal - if in fact he was telling the truth. “You’re, to put it mildly, in the shithouse Nick. The Irish police, the British police and armed forces, and Interpol have you as their number one suspect. I wouldn’t be surprised if your under a ‘shoot-to-kill’ order. As for those guys last night, I have no idea who they were. They could have been IRA, but I don’t see the link, unless it was a freelance operation. One thing’s certain, your nobody’s friend at present.” Nick gave him a “tell me something I didn’t know” look. “You’ve got to get out of the country ASAP. Or, if you know anyone here, find a place to go to ground. But it could be for some considerable time. An investigation of this kind quickly becomes a witch hunt, especially with the bounty put on your balding head”. He smiled at his own joke. Nick, his eyes closing, allowed him the luxury, nodding in agreement, a half smirk on his mouth. Imelda stuck her head into the room. “Coffee anyone?” she asked. Seán nodded at Nick’s now sleeping figure. “Best let him catch up on some shuteye, he’ll need his energy later,” she suggested, “as you might too, if I can get my hands on you!” she added with a smile. Imelda had sat at the door listening to the entire conversation, not out of idle curiosity, but because Seán had asked her to. He was startled to find Nick in his living room on his return home, but

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Imelda had quickly explained the situation. He didn’t know the first thing about Nick, so he needed her input in deciding if Nick was telling the truth, and what he should do about it. An underlying and nagging feeling was one of uncertainty, there was a distinct possibility that his being associated with this case could have disastrous consequences. Though the British Army had not yet given the Irish police force a full rundown of the previous day’s events, it was becoming evident that the attack had been highly organized, planned and executed. Initial reaction had put the blame squarely in the nationalist and terrorist camp. However, Nick’s photo, records of his hasty retreat from the North of Ireland, and rumors being circulated from an outside source, had spotlighted him as the linchpin of the attack, and as a result, had drawn full co-operation of the Southern police in an attempt to apprehend him in short order. That he was by all accounts free and roaming around the country- side unapprehended was, as a British news program had accused with a barely suppressed sneer, an insult to the force, who over the years had developed a good rapport with it’s UK counterpart. The size, coordination and particularly the brutality of the attack puzzled Seán as it did his boss. Their extensive experience in terrorist tactics suggested that the paramilitaries would have used an explosive device as their means of attack. This allowed them the maximum preparation and escape time without the possibility of being caught red-handed, except when a bomb went off prematurely, and then it didn’t matter. No, this attack was deliberately calculated to cause the maximum damage, both physical and psychological. It was as if the attackers didn’t care, either that, or they had the most confidence Seán had ever seen in any terrorist force. The traditional terrorist groups were aging, their leaders thinking ahead to old age, a pension, retirement. All possible only if they entered the sphere of respectable politics, as some had done by distancing themselves over the years from the more radical elements of their organizations. Some had been more successful than others, especially those who had supported the US sponsored peace treaty. Many had been eradicated in bloody feuds which had erupted at the possibility of compromise. Driscoll knew that someone big, Irish, English or whomever, was behind the raid, supporting such a bold public attack. Reports had it that there were at least twenty automatic weapons fired. That took manpower in the form of the soldiers themselves - mercenaries perhaps - plus their support crew. A local organization would not be able to keep such a large group hidden for long, or quiet any talk about them. They would have had to be trained, armed, transported, and equipped - that took a great deal of money and time. Or, perhaps, they had been hired already trained. In his opinion, it seemed as if the attack was a demonstration of force,

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perhaps a demonstration of a lack of fear for the security forces designed to cause unease. Seán grunted. That was an obvious motive. This was the stuff of the godfathers, gangsters, not the hit and run tactic typical of politically motivated terrorists. Terrorists aimed to strike, run and fight another day. This was unlike anything he had every seen or heard of before. He would follow Sherlock Holmes’ example and eliminate the obvious; he would then be left with the solution. He looked at Nick asleep on the sofa. Imelda had covered him with a tartan blanket. Perhaps he was looking at the obvious. “Sorry bastard,” Seán thought, “whatever the outcome he’s in for a rough ride.” Somehow he couldn’t see Nick, armed with his .22 caliber rifle being a threat to anyone, but he would have to make sure. He wasn’t paid, nor had experience taught him, to rely on a hunch. He would investigate while Nick slept. Seán groaned as he raised himself from his armchair. He would loved to have kicked off his shoes and toasted his toes by the fire and join Nick in oblivion for a few hours, but he had work to do. He punched his mobile phone speed dial and waited while the connection went through. The female voice that answered merely gave the extension number when she picked up the phone, “Five, five, two.” “Hey Maggie,” “Hi Seán, thought you’d be in the Land of Nod by now.” “Something’s come up. Need a transcript of a tape I got this morning. You got to keep this quiet Mag, you’ll know why when you hear it.” “Sure, Seán,” she yawned. This job could be boring to the nth degree at times. “Maggie, I’m sending it as a burst.” “Christ, you’re a pain...hold on,” she lay the phone down as she set up her tape machine. Both Seán’s and her machines could send and receive at twenty times normal dubbing speed. A technology that had survived the cold war, it was now used to facilitate administrative duties, primarily by not having to have officers return to the office to have work typed up. “Go ahead,” she depressed the receive button, which set the machine on standby ready to start recording as soon as the first chirps of transmission came down the phone line. Maggie typed up the transcript on her word processor and faxed it back to Seán’s home by 3:20 P.M. where it lay beside his bed as he slept. Maggie filed the original in Seán’s desk safe as he had instructed and would have remained there undisturbed had Seán’s boss, Chief Superintendent Diarmad Casey, not stopped by and noticed the look on Maggie face.

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“Troubles?” he quizzed her quickly, glowering through his heavy jowls, this was as close as he came to good humor. Maggie changed her expression right away hiding her discomfort. “Eh, no, sir.” She shuffled uncomfortably in her seat - he had that effect on her. His reputation among his colleagues as a ball breaker was fearsome, though he had always shown her respect. He caught her in his steely gaze, knowing something was amiss. “Ms. Granger, I’m not in the habit of having to bully, but if there is something to do with police business that is upsetting you, then out with it! I don’t have to remind you that you work here at my discretion.” His eyes twinkled; his clothes reeked of stale cigar smoke. “Very well sir, look at this,” and she handed him the file that she had just finished faxing. There was only so much ass covering she could do - losing her job as a consequence was not something she planned on. “Normally it wouldn’t bother me sir, but Riordan’s on the top of our - as Seán puts it - shit list, and I don’t know why he hasn’t circulated a flash memo on this...” “Nor do I my dear, nor do I.” Casey could feel his blood pressure rise as he read over the transcript. He could have Driscoll fired, worse, jailed indefinitely for this, but since it had just come in he had to give him the benefit of the doubt. The fact remained, however, that one of his senior officers had contact with someone who was, as Maggie had put it so nicely, on the department’s list, to say nothing of the media exposure Riordan had been getting for the past 24 hours. Why hadn’t Driscoll called it in to him? “Where is Detective Driscoll now?” “At home sir, he left this morning after pulling an all-nighter. Faxed the transcript to him an hour ago.” Casey looked at his watch, a pocket watch that he kept in his trousers secured to his belt by a silver chain. Without a word he turned and returned to his office where he called for his car, plus a backup car which arrived at front door of the Harcourt Police Headquarters laden with well armed and capable men. The stint that the department had done with the Israeli Mossad during the early eighties had put in place an anti-terrorist training program that was the envy of the European police forces. Casey’s men were so good that the department took on training projects for foreign agencies. He was quite sure that none of the department’s staff would have any trouble doubling or tripling their salaries if they should move to private industry, but despite the pressures and dangers none had. He disliked guns. A strange quirk for someone of his profession, but he had grown through the force as an unarmed detective. Policy stipulated that he carry a firearm, preferably a 9mm Glock. He chose, however, to carry a .22 Ruger. Light and simple to operate,

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an Israeli colleague had convinced him that it had all the stopping power of any other weapon, if two shots were fired each time instead of one. “As you Irish say, ‘To be sure, to be sure!” the Israeli had laughed at his own joke. The Mossad used under powered .22’s while guarding their El Al flights. It allowed them the ability to use lethal force while minimizing the danger of puncturing the skin of the aircraft. Casey had his tailor make an allowance for it in fitting his suits so that he could wear it in an underarm holster without discomfort. He sent the second car ahead to set up a surveillance position at Seán’s home. Could be Seán was being held against his will — Casey didn’t like to second guess without facts available to support his conclusions. He doubted that Seán was in any trouble, he was too well trained to let it happen without alerting headquarters. He could not understand how Seán got the transcript, unless of course, they were sitting cozily around the fire having a chat. Unlikely. He would have Driscoll’s balls on a platter if that were the case. Before he left the office, he had the tape sent to the lab for analysis. He was interested to hear what sort of stress Riordan was under while he was dictating his statement - was he under the gun or holding it? Strange, he thought, Driscoll was always a bit of a maverick — a likable one — but then that was to be expected in this line of business. The wet streets of Dublin sped by as the Saab 9000 snaked its way to the outer suburbs. Rush hour was just beginning. Casey had instructed his driver to take the most direct route and he let him be. He relaxed closing his eyes. He hadn’t slept either for the past 48 hours, now was as good a time as any.

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Seán awoke with a shudder, his head pounding from the after affects of the beer and the dehydration of the fire. The afternoon was dark and overcast; not a sign of sunshine made its way through his living room window. The source of his discomfort made itself known to him again, as his beeper vibrated against his belt sending an uncomfortable tingle up his side. He looked quickly to the sofa, but saw that Nick was still there, out cold, under his blanket. Nick’s boots had mysteriously been removed - Imelda’s handiwork again, he suspected. Seán’s mouth tasted as it used to when he smoked a pack or more a day, and he felt that urgent need to light one up, as he did occasionally since he cut down. Being married to a doctor had its ups and downs - free medical attention, accompanied by copious nagging to give up the bad habits. His shirt was stuck to him and wafted of the sweet smell of sweat. He groaned as he reached for his beeper and clicked it off. He read the message - it indicated that he should call his partner, Flanagan. Nothing unusual about that in itself, but why hadn’t Peter called him here at home or on his mobile phone? He was paid to be suspicious of everything. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and hit the speed dial for Flanagans number. As he waited for the connection, he noticed static on the line and found that the “no carrier’ notice blinked. “Shit,” he thought, as he searched the room for the cordless phone. Living between two mountains played havoc with mobile technology, though most times it all came down to the weather. A fine Irish response to everything, blame the weather. “Tea honey?,” Imelda asked him, “I’ve got to get going soon, I’m giving a CPR class in the library this evening.” “Love some,” Seán had by now found the phone and dialed Peter’s number. “Yeah?” was the greeting he got. “Pete, it’s Seán.” “Hold on a sec, I’ll go to a quieter phone.” A second or two later, Peter Flanagan was back. “Seán, you’ve stirred a hornets nest - the main man is driving out to visit you.” “Shit...Maggie there?” “Leave her alone,” Flanagan responded, “Casey leaned on her. He’s going to get there in about 15 minutes. He sent a security team out ahead and they should be there anytime now.”

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“Hold on Peter.” Seán clamped his hand over the phone and beckoned to Imelda. “Leave now,” he whispered urgently. She made as if to protest, but he grabbed her arm, handed her car keys and lead her to the front door. The color rose in her cheeks. “Hey! I’ve got to get my things.” “Casey is on the way here right now - you can’t be here.” Imelda hesitated, knowing that it was out of character for her husband to behave like this. She raced up the stairs, grabbed her briefcase and handbag and returned pecking him on the cheek before departing. She exited the driveway in her car, and sped down the road, her exhaust leaving a cloud in the damp air. She missed the advance team by two minutes. “Seán, SEÁN!” Pete was whispering furiously down the phone. “Yeah, Pete?” perspiration crept onto Seán’s upper lip. “Take my advice buddy, go for a long walk, think this out and give the boss a call. IF Riordan is still with you, give him up or get rid of him. You’ll be suspended, or even locked up for this.” “OK, Pete, thanks, I’ll be in touch.” Seán snapped off the phone. He didn’t have much time. Once the advance team got there, no one would be able to enter or exit the house without their permission — probably block off the road as well. “Nick,” he shook the prostrate body, “Nick, wake up.” Nick sat up, a bewildered look on his face. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was. Seán explained to him what was going on in as few words as he could while he gathered Nick’s bag, boots, and gun case. “My problem is what to do with you...” he bit his lip. They could hear a car pull up at the end of the driveway.

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After she hung up the phone, Jessica felt dazed. In a matter of a few minutes her, their, life had changed, from one of relative normality to one of complete uncertainty. It was only a momentary hesitation, her sharp instincts kicked in and she began the tasks of organizing what she had to do. She called the school to tell them the children would not be in today and then set a record in packing the essentials of what they would need for their journey. A further call to the bank and a quick word with their friend, the bank manager, ensured that she would have a minimal wait when she went to collect the funds that she would need. She did feel a stab of guilt at having to lie about there being a death in the family, hence the urgency. Locking up the house she looked it over to make sure that everything was secure. Her neighbor would drop the dog off at the kennel. From the time she had hung up the phone until she and the children were secured in her huge Buick wagon took two hours — longer than she had expected. She left none too soon. A news truck pulled up just as she left, but did not follow. She drove quickly down route 91 from Stony Brook, where they lived, towards Interstate 495, otherwise known as the Long Island Expressway. She had emptied the house safe and their safety deposit box which contained nearly ten thousand dollars in cash - their entire emergency savings. Her credit cards had just been paid up, giving her a buffer should the need arise. Calling to the emergency care clinic where she worked as a Nurse Practitioner, she used the same excuse she had given her bank manager. It would ensure at least a couple of weeks emergency leave, though the doctor there, a good friend, was suspicious, but knew better than to pry. Jessica was partner material and he wanted her as such, just as soon as her final year of medical school was completed. Though she would not admit it, Jessica at times resented Nick’s ability to pack up and leave for extended periods, abandoning her with her career and the children, which were not always a perfect combination. A nurse practitioner, she was studying for her M.D., as well as handling a number of client cases during the week and, on occasion, an overnight. A dedicated caregiver, she was the catalyst that kept their marriage and family as sturdy as it was. Attractive, still blond, though with a little help from the hair stylist, at 35 she looked many years younger, an advantage she put to use professionally, and with Nick. Her confidence reflected through their children.

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She drove furiously, her radar detector mounted on the dash ready to warn her of any hidden cops ahead. She did not speak to the children about their journey until she had thought the scenario through as thoroughly as she could. She then told them that they were going on a project to help their dad. Her eldest, a smart, good looking boy of 12, knew her well and his gut told him that something was up, but a hard stare from his mother kept him from asking anything. A reassuring squeeze to his hand calmed him. His sister Julie was calm and collected glad to be free from the chores of school. At 11, she was an honor roll student, a student with a keen interest in books of all kinds, she was pretty, like her mom. She would glower when someone would compare them - saying how alike she and her mom were, but she was, in a way, flattered. The youngest, Paul, a boy of nine, was the most excitable of all of them. His father’s call had rescued him from a class test from hell. They all shared their parents’ Irish looks, all were blond, the boys with their father’s bright blue eyes, Julie her mother’s hazel. It broke Jessica’s heart to leave the dog behind, not knowing when she would see him again. An animal lover, she had spent a long summer vacation in Des Moines, Iowa, working in a veterinary clinic and had come very close to accepting her employer’s offer to put her through veterinary school. The one consolation was that she knew the kennel owner. His surprise at the quick drop-off, with little notice, was made-up for by Jessica’s insistence that she pay him for 2 months in advance. She missed Nick more than she had realized; she missed his comforting words and the mutual confidence that they shared when they were together. The children sensed her mood and did what they knew would help — nothing. The temperature in the car, though in the mid 80’s outside, was a pleasant if frigid 70 degrees or so, fed from the air conditioning system that pumped streams of cool dry air. The model she drove was barely a year old and provided a comfortable ride. They had at first thought of purchasing a mini-van but were put off by the accident statistics. She preferred having six feet of metal and engine in front of her. She recalled what a journalist had once written when he referred to his mother’s Buick, “a ride like a Rolls-Royce at a tenth of the cost.” The Long Island Expressway was its busy, smoggy, self, but a lot of the traffic was heading in the opposite direction, heading East towards the beaches of the Hamptons. The police lay in wait for the occasional hot heads in the east bound traffic, who, fresh from the city, would let loose, throwing caution to the wind as they attempted to run the gauntlet and reach their recluse in under two hours.

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As they climbed the long ramp to the Throgs Neck Bridge, which spanned the narrows between Long Island and the Bronx, the City of New York was partially hidden by a blanket of brown, dirty smog that lay upon the buildings as if attempting to suffocate it. The traffic stopped mid-span. Jessica knew she should have been more careful and check the bridge before going onto it. The Whitestone might have been quicker. Her anxiety was focused on her youngest son who was terrified of heights - he now sat rigid in the back seat, his head firmly hidden in his T-shirt. “Tell me when we’re off, mom,” he instructed her. He was mad at her for not telling him that they were going to go this way. She had known better - he would have worried the whole way here. The bridge vibrated eerily underneath the car, the soft suspension absorbing some, but not all of the waves caused by trucks crossing in the other direction. The bridge hummed like a tuning fork. Jessica glanced in the rear-view mirror, watching a car she had spotted changing lanes behind her on the LIE. The driver was taking a more than casual interest in her. As she nudged forward, impatient with the delay, she forgot about him. It was only when she had dropped her token into the collection basket on the automated toll gate that she saw him again, one car length behind her. Puzzled, there were nine other lanes to choose from, she remembered Nick’s warning to be aware of anything out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, she stomped her foot onto the gas pedal as soon as the foam covered arm rose. The car surged forward, hot exhaust gases spewing over the shoes of a tired toll guard, who stepped out after she passed to hold the lane traffic while he emptied the tokens from the rear of the machine. Jessica eased off the speed as she took the 95 North spur - a sure shot for a speed trap. And sure enough there, off to the right, was a NYC officer, the Christmas tree of lights on his roof ablaze, writing a ticket. This, in a traditional sense, was the most dangerous part of her journey. The Bronx was thought of, and was often depicted in movies, as being an earthy extension of hell. As the vertical walls of the highway sped by, Jessica watched in the rear-view mirror for a sign of the gold Ford Taurus that had alerted her. Merging with the busy I-95 traffic, she gunned the car forward, surging swiftly to 70 mph, flashing her head lamps to get the slow traffic out of her way. Far behind she saw the Taurus merge with the traffic. Her turnoff was not far ahead, but once committed, she would have no recourse. Thinking quickly she eased off the gas again, and pulled into the middle lane, and then changed lanes again, watching as the following car ate up the distance that separated them. Just as they passed the exit for the Hutchinson River Parkway, she stomped on the

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brakes pulling over to the shoulder. The Taurus was level with her, but two lanes out. The action of the driver confirmed her fears. An attempt to mimic her maneuvers nearly led to his colliding with a massive 18 wheeler. The exit was just ahead, she took off along the shoulder and slid down the ramp smiling, her heart racing, as the Taurus continued along I95 to pull up hard, in a cloud of burnt rubber and road debris, on the other side of the overpass. The Taurus’s driver watched Jessica merge with the northbound traffic, furious that he had been tricked. Or had he? He couldn’t be certain that she had seen him. His instructions had been clear. If he couldn’t capture her himself, he was to eliminate them as cleanly as possible, without drawing attention, but that was not a pre-requisite. Pollard was a freelancer, working for the remnants of the Irish Mafia in Brooklyn, but was getting most of his living doing contract work for the Russians in Brighton Beach. The call had come, as most did, in the early hours. A beep on his pager with a code instructed him to dial a bulletin board service with his computer. There he downloaded an encrypted text file which carried his instructions. A full profile of his target was provided - name, address, phone, bank account, credit cards, place of work, car make and registration - everything he would need to make his contract successful. This had come with an added bonus. Completion within 24 hours would double his $10,000 fee. That there were children involved meant nothing to him. Business was business. They even paid his mileage. Checking his mirrors he couldn’t see any sign of law enforcement. He threw the powerful Taurus SHO, stolen the previous night and supplied with a phony registration that would pass cleanly through a police computer swipe, into reverse and rocketed back along the narrow shoulder lane. He remained cool as he swerved across the ramp and punched the car forward into the lane, pouring all of the 235 horsepower into the front wheels laying a long path of burnt rubber. A motorist behind him lay hard on the horn as he cut him off. “Fuck you!” he shouted at the driver, snarling like a wild animal. Given more time he would have taken care of the irritant, but what lay ahead was his bread and butter. He floored the accelerator and swerved out into the traffic straining to catch a glimpse of Jessica’s car. He had been fortunate - extremely lucky was how he thought of it - that he had spotted her earlier. As he had rode into the village of Stony Brook on the way to her home, he had seen her car leave the bank. On a hunch, he had followed her, checking the license plate, congratulating himself on his good fortune. Good fortune that had started two weeks earlier, when he had concluded two, albeit small, contracts rather quickly, netting himself his usual fee in a few days, rather than the weeks a contract sometimes took. Pollard had

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settled some gambling debts and took a long weekend, partying with a few local hookers, a few bottles of tequila, and a large sandwich bag of coke. He scratched his crotch unconsciously, his penis sensitive from an infection he had picked up — a small price to pay for a weekend of fun. There she was about half a mile ahead. “Now what’s the bitch going to do, stay on the Hutch or, if she knows I’m here, cut off and hit I-95 again?” He stayed pumped as he followed her, as a hawk would his prey. Jessica spotted him tearing up on the outside lane at an unbelievable speed. She had the option of engaging the five liter V8 that lay under her hood but she didn’t want a chase. Though she was a good driver, she realized it would lead only to an accident, and with the children in the car she tempered her combative instinct. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered, biting on her lower lip. The exit back to the Interstate sped towards her. This was her last chance. In the light traffic, she remained in the center lane maintaining a steady 60 mph, seemingly unaware of the pursuit, or so she hoped to project to the car behind. As the exit approached, Jessica turned on her left directional signal, as if she was about to move into the passing lane; she tapped her brakes as she saw the Taurus race up behind her. The children said nothing; they had never seen their mom like this. Paul opened his mouth to protest, but his sister motioned to him to be quiet. Nudging the wheel, Jessica feinted a left turn but she was in fact watching her right mirror, and when the inside lane was clear, with just milli-seconds left, she swung on the wheel and slid the long wagon into a hard right turn. She nearly didn’t make it. The weight and length of the wagon plowed the turn into a fishtail, the rear wheels hopped and spun furiously as they attempted to bite into the hot blacktop. Assisted in making the turn by the anti-locking brakes, Jessica’s car rocketed up the narrow ramp to join I-95 leaving clouds of dust in her wake. There was no way the car behind her made the turn. She stomped hard on her brakes to make the merge into the highway traffic. Pollard cursed aloud, his eyes wild in anger. He had seen Jessica in the center lane and he had nearly caught up. His Ingram sub machine gun was cocked and ready on the passenger seat. One burst would have sliced through the Buick killing them all. He had no choice now. Losing her here would be final - he did not know where she was going, and besides that, if he missed this exit he had no way of getting back onto 95. The bitch had seen him. He hauled on the wheel but was dramatically less successful than Jessica. The front wheel drive car careened into the turn, but was clipped by a Chevy Suburban, which spun the Taurus around wildly on

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its axis. Insult was added to injury when another motorist, taken completely by surprise, broad-sided him, pushing the passenger door nearly into the center of the car. The airbag saved Pollard, leaving him slightly dazed, the powder burned his eyes. Pollard deflated the airbag, roughly ripping at it, snarling. As he angrily attempted to start the stalled motor, a loud bang on his window startled him. Outside, the fuming driver of one of the crashed cars stood, attempting to rip the door open, his face bright red under his baseball cap. Ignoring him, Pollard roared in frustration as the motor wouldn’t catch, not surprising with the extent of damage to the hood and side panels. Escaping pressurized coolant hissed from the mangled engine compartment. He slammed the steering wheel in frustration. He had lost the Ingram in the crash, but as he leaned into opening his door, assisted by the tugging from the outside, he slipped his hand under the light jacket he was wearing feeling the cool metal and plastic grip of the 9mm pistol he had secreted there. “You stupid asshole - look at my car...” was the tirade that greeted his ears, a punch in mid-flight behind it. Whipping his hand from his jacket he slapped the man hard on the side of his face knocking his baseball hat right off. The forward gun sight ripped a deep cut across his attackers cheek from the base of his right ear to his mouth, leaving a gaping blood filled wound. Continuing in the motion of exiting the car, he cocked the hammer and thrust his gun, angled upward, into the beer- gut mass of the mans belly and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore upwards, cleaving open the heart, and the man was dead instantly. His size ensured that there was no exit wound. There was very little blood - his heart was quite still. The shot was muffled by the proximity of the barrel to cloth and flesh; the only indication a shot had been fired was the tinkle of the spent cartridge casing on the hot road surface. A few anxious and dazed people were gathering - the traffic at a complete standstill. The dead man slumped against Pollard, who used the momentary confusion turning potential disaster into an opportunity. “Help me!” he called out, waving his meaty right arm, “I thinks the guys had a heart attack.” He repeated this a couple of times until he got some people’s attention. “I know CPR,” one middle-aged man called out, anxiously gripping his wife’s hand. “You’ll need to be Jesus to fix this one,” Pollard laughed under his breath as he lowered the dead man onto the hot pavement, being careful to cover the bright stain that was spreading from his lower belly. The beer gut hid the fact that he had been shot quite well, Pollard noticed.

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His eyes darted around looking for an escape vehicle. He could hear the wail of a siren in the distance, he had no time to lose. The traffic was at a standstill, but he was sure he could maneuver back to get onto the I-95 ramp. His eyes lit up as he saw a car attempting to get off onto the ramp. Walking quickly to the BMW 328 convertible, he waved at the driver, who in a moment of panic, snapped the door locks shut, not realizing that the soft top roof was down. She grinned foolishly at Pollard who towered over her, wondering if she had the time to get the car into gear and get away. The decision was made for her as Pollard pulled his pistol from under his shirt, the need for pretense now gone. Time was off the essence. “Out of the car...NOW!” he hissed. The driver complied, seeing the pistol in his hand. The insurance would cover the cost she reassured herself, as she jumped out grabbing her handbag on the way. Anyway it wasn’t her car... Pollard held the pistol in his right hand as he ripped the automatic transmission lever into drive. He had to reverse to maneuver into a good position. Looking forward he noticed that the driver was blocking his path, her handbag clutched to her chest, her right hand buried in it. A smile broke out on her face as her hand touched the butt of her service pistol, stored in a specially tailored recess of her bag. Her smile disorientated Pollard, who beckoned with his gun. “Get out of the way, bitch!” he shouted at her. Lieutenant Gonzales responded, her face in mock surprise from his coarse language, she shook her head from side to side. Pollard gunned the motor aiming directly at her. “Fuck you!” he screamed in rage, as he felt the rear wheels spin. Gonzales removed her pistol in a fluid motion, casting her bag aside, as she sidestepped the path of the oncoming car, cocking the gun and steadying it in a two-handed grip. As the first of two rounds exited the barrel she mouthed, “No, fuck you!” Pollard’s face, damaged from the rounds that slapped into it, still registered a look of surprise when the coroner zipped him up in a city issued body bag an hour or so later.

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“Jesus, what a day!” Nick muttered as he left through the back yard of the Driscoll home. His back-pack, securely on his shoulders, the rifle still broken down, at Seán’s insistence, all fit into the bag, though the top of the barrel protruded, protected from the elements by a stout layer of plastic shopping bags. “You’ll have little need for that now.” Seán had warned him. But he did not encourage him to leave it behind. Getting caught with an illegal firearm was the least of Nick’s problems and besides, it had already saved his life. Much as Seán showed his displeasure at having his normally hectic regime thrown to the wind by having Ireland’s most wanted man in his living room, he admired Nick’s sheer willpower in managing to stay ahead. At least Nick appeared upbeat when his world was falling apart around him. His gut feeling, reinforced by Imelda’s encouragement, had him trust Nick’s story, and despite his best efforts, he could not get him to slip up on the details of his remarkable experience. It had remained consistent, with Nick unfazed, despite Seáns efforts to get him to contradict himself. Fortified by a few hours’ sleep, and the strength derived from a good meal, Nick now set off to meet with what he prayed was his ticket out of Ireland. Earlier in the day Seán had offered to give him a ride to his destination after the fuss died down, but Nick refused. “You’ve done enough already and it wouldn’t do you any good to be aiding and abetting a criminal any further.” Nick had said with a smirk. Imelda was visibly relieved - the strain of her husband’s occupation was hard enough. Getting him ejected from the police force would make him a target for any of his past charges with a grudge - a threat they already lived with on a day-to-day basis. Seán had promised her an early retirement in Portugal - a promise that they would keep funded by money they saved from two good salaries. She had just finished repaying her medical college loans - no small feat in itself, considering the meager income she had lived on for years of internship. But she was strong and intensely driven - so much so that she was thirty before she realized that if she didn’t take Seán’s offer of marriage seriously she would end up an old maid, a rich one if she followed the career path she had chosen, but alone none-the-less. Turning down an offer from the prestigious Guy’s Hospital in London, she opted instead to develop her own life and had no regrets. Now all she wanted was to hold onto him.

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The rain was a drizzle, hanging suspended from the sky like a gray veil. The mountain tops were hidden, as was any feature more than 250 yards away. He hadn’t expected to have to leave as early as he did. John wasn’t due for another day or two, if he turned up at all. Seán’s abrupt push out the back door, and the run to the end of the field at the back of the house, was plenty to wake him up properly. Seán had given him an olive green wind sheeter for which he was grateful. The afternoon forecast, on the national radio, had promised that the weather would clear later in the evening. A brief glimpse earlier at the television had shocked him, as the news footage of the devastation in the aftermath of the parade was shown. His bottom jaw dropped when he saw his name mentioned as a possible suspect, though no photograph was shown. The news announcer made no mention of the incident at O’Reilly’s farm at all. His surprise was not lost on Seán or Imelda. As he had gathered his stuff Seán had briefed him. “When you leave, hike along the mountain behind the house. The roads will all be watched. Get off the mountain quickly - it’s the first place we look when someone is on the run. Good Luck.” There was no time for a handshake. Climbing the back fence at the end of the field from the Driscoll house looked easier than it was. Raised on an embankment, the barbed wire, strung on wooden posts, had seen better days, though it managed to keep the sheep out of the vegetable patch. Neighbors were well distant to either side, no danger of them seeing him. Nick had two choices: go back to Dublin and lose himself in the busy metropolis - which he dismissed immediately, his memories of the preceding 24 hours were too vivid; or head South, perhaps to Enniskerry, the nearest town. He had looked over a map that Seán had given him. He had to get out of this area first, a task made all the more unpleasant by the sight of the Glencullen river, which he would have to cross. Birds chirped in the still, damp air as he tramped along the wet heather on the mountainside of what the map referred to as Prince William’s Seat. Nick had no intention of climbing it - at 1,825 feet, the near-bald elevation would have left him too exposed to a searching helicopter. The air smelled of wet earth, sweet and invigorating. He nearly forgot that his feet were soaking wet. He decided to follow the river as it flowed through Enniskerry, though it meant that he would have to cross a road along the way. Glancing at his watch, he calculated that it would take him about three hours to get to the town, as he wasn’t making great headway through the undergrowth which clung at his legs with every step. He tightened his pack straps and plodded on.

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“No, there’s no rentals here sir,” the local shopkeeper told him, after Nick emerged from the brush a half hour ahead of schedule. Nick had gone to great lengths to tidy himself up, but his jeans were soaking and his boots had absorbed every drop they possibly could. He looked like a hiker on a day trip. The shopkeeper looked at him in a malevolent way. These bloody Yanks were all the same - never came prepared for the weather, even though it was mid-summer. “I’m staying with a friend up in Glencullen.” Nick kept as close to the truth as he could, no point in getting caught in a lie, and causing unnecessary suspicion. “He suggested that a moped might be a better way to see the sights, at least better than this,” he waved to his disheveled appearance. The shop had a bright interior, recently redecorated with a mock antique shop-front, which made it - as the guide books would say - picturesque. Nick purchased a baseball cap and proceeded to ask about rentals. The town was pretty, nestled in a hollow, surrounded by tall broad-leafed trees. Its streets - a circle really - sloped Eastward. A road running from the town towards the N 11 motor-way, ran parallel to the Glencullen river, with whose meandering upper route he was now so familiar, and beyond to Bray. At the top of the hill, south of the town, lay Powerscourt House and Gardens, its former glory lost to a fire in 1974, but the gardens were still intact and well kept. The shopkeeper took money from another customer and bade them good evening. “A bit late in the day me oul son to be lookin’ for wheels,” he commented, taking a Golden Pages directory from underneath the counter. He flicked through it and found the place he was looking for. Removing a pair of glasses from his breast pocket he flicked them open and deposited them on his ample nose. “Nearest place is Bray, far as I can tell, here.” he proffered the book to Nick its pages flapping, as two new customers entered the shop, “see for yourself.” Nick nodded his thanks and looked over the pages. He asked for paper and pencil, but the shopkeeper waved him off. “Just rip the pages out; I’ve another book here.” He gave Nick a long glance and frowned as if trying to place his face, but gave up. A photo of Nick had been broadcast on the six o’clock news. When he turned to talk to Nick again, he found that he was gone, but was pleased at the sight of a pound coin on top of the phone book, which he promptly deposited it in his pocket. Later in the week he would be kicking himself that he didn’t probe more closely - he could have got a substantial reward if he had been a little more

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patient and inquisitive. Nick picked up a UPS mailing package as he left. Bray, a coastal town nearby - a popular bathing and vacationing place during the Victorian era - was probably a better bet, but it meant cutting across a large swath of suburbia. Getting to Bray was a lot easier than Nick expected. As he emerged from the store he spotted a taxi cab depositing a passenger right next door. The cabby was only too glad to get a fare which would bring him close to home and had Nick in Bray and in front of the bustling main street bike shop minutes before it closed. On the way Nick scribbled a quick note and deposited it, and most of the contents from his wallet, into the UPS envelope which they dropped off at a pick-up location. As the proprietor of the bike rental store was satisfied with the deposit and advance payment in lieu of holding Nick’s passport, Nick set off, map in hand, into the late evening traffic. The tiny engine screamed in protest as he negotiated the hill south out of Bray, past the Tudor-like town hall building. He still had a couple of hours of daylight left, as twilight would remain until close to 11:00 P.M., after which he would have to find a bed for the night. The sun had disappeared behind the mound of The Sugarloaf - a long extinct volcano - to his right as he motored south past acres of suburban homes, its rays shining a bright orange against the remains of the clouds that had dissipated as the evening wore on. It was a tranquil, if noisy, setting as the little bike roared its way through the hills beyond Bray towards the dormitory town of Greystones. The sea was hidden by the gentle granite slopes of Bray Head, it’s heather cover ablaze in the late evening sun. The smell of burning bracken was pungent in the salt laden air, as it was burned off the hillsides to prevent its unwanted spread. Nick was disappointed that he didn’t have the time, or the working equipment, to record the images. Another time he promised himself. As he traveled southward, he stopped in Greystones to check his gas, after a harrowing descent along the long hill into the town. His anxiety was not helped at all by the passing of a double-decker bus which buffeted past him, its driver seeming to attempt to set a new world speed record for such an awkward vehicle, noxious diesel fumes billowing in its wake. The bikes tiny motor had not consumed much on the climb - it cost less than 80 pence to top it up. The rental store owner had told Nick that he could get up to 50 miles out of a tank - it looked as though it could hold little more than a couple of cup fulls, plenty to get him through the night. As an added precaution, he filled a glass 1 liter 7-UP bottle with petrol providing him with ample reserve. He also made use of the grimy Petrol Station’s bathroom to clean up, shave and take care of nature’s call.

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With a greasy but tasty meal of fish and chips in his belly, he set off again taking the back roads, as Seán had warned, with the aim of getting to the town of Wicklow before nightfall - by his estimation 12 miles away. He didn’t mull over the events of the previous days - he looked forward, hoping that he could get out of this nightmare alive and unscathed.

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Handwritten and illustrated, circa 800 A.D., the Book of Kells lies in Trinity College Dublin, displayed in a light controlled hardened case. Despite the passage of time, the vellum pages, especially prepared from calfskin, can still be identified as to which is the flesh side and which is the hair side. The inks, made from the juices of plants, roots and leaves, provide impressions that haven’t faded. The process that made up the five primary colors and the browns and blacks has been long lost, and attempts to reproduce the look and feel of the book have met with failure. Its original gold cover was removed, never to reappear after the book was stolen in 1006 A.D. Written with a reed, or Goose feather, there was not one author; it was an unsurpassed achievement created in ancient monastic communities headed up by Saint Columba. Trinity College’s Old Library, which houses the book, was built in 1732, its ceiling modified fitted with a barrel-vault in 1860. The library is filled with over 2.5 million books, many of them ancient and most irreplaceable. The visitor to Trinity College — like many others on similar missions in places of national importance that day — eased through the throng of tourists, playing the part fully, even to the point of consulting a tour guide book as she carried out her mission. Her short hair was cropped fashionably close to her head. Her clothes were nondescript, though her tee-shirt adorned with a Levi’s logo in French satisfied anyone curious enough to wonder where she was from. A minimum of makeup completed the successful attempt at anonymity, hiding enough of her pretty features to make her appear plain. She followed the tour guide, closely observing the security cameras and personnel. The day was hot, and everyone was relaxed in this precious and rare gift from nature. As the guide commented on the magnitude of the library, the vast quantity of books available, and the pressing need for expansion, Clare slipped her hand into her bag, letting it rest on the high tech device therein. Made completely of plastic, it was barely larger than a small makeup box and it fit in the palm of her hand snugly. Though she had practiced this many times, she felt perspiration flow down her back, and her heart rate increased. She relaxed her breathing and found the control she needed. With slight movements, not noticeable to anyone, she peeled off the paper backing to the adhesive strips that covered one side of the package.

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“It needs two full minutes to cure and must be applied not more than 50 seconds later,” her instructor had warned her. “Be careful not to touch the exposed surface, it will capture a very defined fingerprint.” The device was a bomb but a very well made one designed for a specific purpose. Its basic components were like any other. The plastic explosive, C4, took up most of the space, shaped as it was for maximum upward explosive effect. The detonator, buried in the odorless mass, was connected to a triggering device. The basic components came from a beeper with one modification - a trembler device linked to a mercury switch. The bomb could be detonated by two means. The first, the intended method, would occur simply by using a telephone, from any location in the world. Entering the beeper number and a code would activate the receiving mechanism and set off the explosive. The second method was through the use of a mercury tilt switch, which would ensure that anyone touching, or attempting to remove or tamper with the device would complete the circuit with the same net effect. The black matte exterior was stenciled with a warning “Security device - do not touch or attempt to remove!” along with a fictitious logo. It was enough to fool even the security people. Clare waited until the guide gathered the group around the Book of Kells display case, before she made her move. She was one of the first to look down on the ancient illustrated manuscript, bathed in its glory by a special lighting system. As she moved away to allow the next impatient viewer their turn, she dropped her guide book and immediately dropped down to retrieve it. It took but a fraction of a second to depress the activation button and push the device against the bottom of the display case, which she did, as she had practiced many times, with her left hand as if leaning for support while she picked up her book. She glanced at it quickly as she rose, it seemed securely fastened. The specially formulated glue would make the bond permanent. As she rose grasping her book, she smiled at the person next to her and said, “Pardonnez-moi.” Exiting was a matter of simply following the tour to their next destination, a favorite student watering hole, The Buttery. By the time they arrived there, she was long gone but not at all missed. And the bomb, now permanently attached to the bottom of the display case armed itself after four minutes with nothing more than an unnoticed beep.

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A wind gust alerted the pilots’ attention to possible problems ahead. Flying, 2,000 feet above the dark cloud formations, it was impossible to avoid the occasional wisps of clouds that raised their tentacles upwards. The collision warning false alarm hadn’t helped their nerves, frayed after a long bumpy flight across the North Atlantic. Both pilots were tired, and the coffee they had consumed stretched their nerves further. “EI 621 requesting permission to begin descent to 26,000 feet,” the copilot radioed New York approach. After a moment the ear piece crackled, “EI 621 negative. 34,000 feet maintain. Heavy weather advisory. PIREPs advises wind gusting to 80 MPH. Low altitude wind shear conditions. Cloud tops 32,000 feet. Advise you consider an alternate airport,” the controller responded noting their position on his flight control radar. As if to remind the pilots of the fact, the clouds lit up like a giant flash cube in front of the aircraft. The brightness blinded them temporarily, but faded quickly. The captain consulted with his copilot briefly to consider the advice, given by approach, that they divert to an alternate airport. Considering the size of their craft, only a few possibilities existed. Newark, New Jersey would probably wave them off, considering the localized weather problem. That left Philadelphia to the south, or Boston, both could be reached, weather permitting, by flying through the storm front. As the plane descended, the expected increased buffeting and turbulence commenced. A courtesy announcement to the passenger cabin ensured that all loose items were put away and the tray tops secured. Nervous travelers strapped on their seat belts without waiting for the overhead warning. Cabin crew scurried to their positions. With all of the latest technology on board, the pilots knew that they could land in almost any weather. Despite this, the captain’s gut tightened. A call, just received through SatLink to his on board phone from the Irish airport security, had warned of a bomb on board. Getting on the ground was now a matter of imminent importance. Not wishing to arouse any panic, he had divulged the information to only his first officer. Their concern over the turbulence vanished. Together they formulated a plan to search the hold for the bomb. He had been warned that it could be tiny - the size of a cigarette package, but not necessarily that shape - plastic explosive could be

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in any shape. Their first step would be to notify the controllers of the need for preferential treatment through an emergency landing. As he set the coordinates for the alternative airport, the radio came alive. “Flight EI 621 be aware of an emergency - come to channel 19”. The first officer complied. “Be advised we have reports of the possibility a bomb on board your aircraft. Do not change course without further notification,” the radio hissed with static, as the controller conferred with his supervisor who was now standing beside him watching the aircraft transponder on the radar screen. The nervous flight crew did not have to wait long. “EI 621 you are cleared to land at Logan Airport, Boston. You will be contacted by Logan tower.” There followed a stream of technical data indicating the airport coordinates for the in-flight navigation computer, weather information and more, all essential to ensure the shortest time to arrival. That the plane was, as the crow flies, thirty miles away from Logan didn’t help. It was also five miles high traveling at over 600 miles per hour - 10 miles a minute. The problem was to slow the aircraft quickly and loose altitude at the same time without panicking the passengers. It was decided to over-fly the city in a circular route and approach the runway from the ocean. In the belly of the craft, the device lay propped against the bulkhead. As the plane dropped through 12,000 feet, the explosive armed itself. This did two things, first it started a timer, which, when it ran out of its 400 second countdown, would trigger the device; secondly, it armed a pressure sensitive switch which, when the aircraft passed through 3,000 feet, would fire the bomb. This provided a backup should one or the other system fail. The controller at Logan snatched up a pair of high powered binoculars as the aircraft neared the end of the runway. Emergency vehicles lined the taxi-ways ready to disembark the passengers. The vehicle lights twinkled and twirled in the heavy rain that now fell from the low thunderclouds that hung above the airport. The plane’s landing lights glared as it sliced through the dark clouds, lightning flashing, glinting off the brightly painted craft. The landing gear hung like talons as the rushing air whipped past them. Vapor trails poured from the wing tips. The hungry engines sucked in the moisture laden clouds, spitting out a maelstrom of superheated air from the exhaust ventricles in massive spinning vortices. The pilot was in mid-sentence when the pressure sensitive device finally responded. The fluctuating high and low pressure from the storm deceived it into thinking that it was higher than it actually was. When it finally sparked, the timer was just a couple of seconds from zero.

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The plane loomed massively into view as the controller adjusted the focus on his binoculars. The explosion that burst in the hold seemed to swell the aircraft’s belly, as the expanding gases ripped through the baggage compartment, parting the aluminum surfaces and bulkheads like a hot knife through butter. It ruptured through the skin, just aft of the wings, billowing, outward in a jet of orange and yellow, leaving for a moment a gaping hole that poured black smoke. In the passenger cabin, a whole section of the floor disappeared above where the explosion had occurred, swallowing people and seats alike, the force scattering bodies in all directions. Still, the plane continued to fly, dropping through 2,400 feet, speed now at 180 knots. However, the blast had driven white hot bulkhead fragments deep into the fuel tanks where they cooled fizzling in the volatile liquid. Now, at 1,100 feet, they were within 900 yards of the runway as they approached over the sea. The pilot concentrated on getting the aircraft down quickly, the instrument array was alive with alerts and alarms. With one final check of their airspeed, he shut the engines down and dropped the nose a few degrees aiming at the long white painted strips that bordered the beginning of the runway. Decorated with the tire marks of countless previous aircraft landings, the runway rose to meet them. Sweat covered the pilot’s face as he made last minute adjustments while he flew on manual, overriding the flight computer in an effort to get on the ground. Airspeed bled off until it hovered at the 130 knot mark, barely above stalling speed. “We’re going to make it!” he thought as he felt the massive craft begin to flare as it seemed to hover over the end of the runway. A strong cross wind gust pushed the tail section, and as the pilot eased the rudder pedal to correct, he noticed that the yaw increased - the controls were not responding. From the passenger cabin, those who were not hysterical watched white knuckled as fuel cascaded from the wing pods where the ruptured fuel cells had been ripped open by the flying shrapnel. Hope at the sight of the approaching runway turned to dismay as the plane turned, pushed by the cross wind until it seemed that the left wing was where the nose should be. As the air flow changed, fuel was driven outward on the wings until the fuel splashed over the still hot engines. The controllers, and all watching the approach, gazed helplessly as the aircraft tipped on a wing and exploded in midair, only a few hundred feet from and above the runway. The nose and tail sections drooped, seeming to melt off the body. The central section disappeared completely in an expanding ball of liquid fire. The momentum of the molten mass continued its path towards the runway and landed there as though cast down by the hand of God. Crashing, tumbling, ripping, the remains of the once flyable object smashed

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onto the tarmac, burning and seething as it skidded to a screeching halt. The emergency vehicles had their foam hoses ready at full power as they raced toward the now stationary fireball though it took an hour before they could quell the blaze. The tail section had fallen into the water and it lay there, passengers still strapped to their seats, scorched and quite dead. The nose section had hit hard and rolled away from the main bulk of the inferno. As a fire truck approached it, a bloody face appeared from the smashed first officer’s window with an outstretched hand. “Help us” he mouthed. Rescuers threw themselves at the windshield, and one squeezed inside. Both pilots were bloodied from flying glass, but otherwise seemed relatively unscathed as they sat strapped to their seats. Later they found that the first officer had a ruptured spleen and broken ribs where the yoke had punched him in the chest at impact. The rescuers were even able to evacuate them through the internal cabin door, its anti-hijacking armor had saved them from the blast and opened freely on its hinges. By days end, 264 passengers and crew were dead, most charred beyond recognition. A call to the Irish Times, using a pre-agreed password, claimed the atrocity in the name of the Protestant backed Ulster Liberation Force, as retaliation for the parade slaughter. In Dublin, a well dressed businessman watching the news on TV poured himself a large gin and tonic and saluted himself in the gilded mirror in his office. “To a job well done,” he smiled at his reflection.

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The Buick left a dust cloud as Jessica roared up the ramp and snapped into the heavy northbound traffic. A trooper noticed her abrupt maneuvers, but chose to ignore ticketing her as she merged cleanly and stayed in lane. He was distracted soon afterwards by a call over his radio from a fellow officer seeking backup on the Hutchinson River Parkway. Jessica kept near constant eye on the rear view mirror wondering if, or when, that Taurus would appear. She pushed her way into the fictitious fast lane which slowed down as she went through road works at New Rochelle, where the traffic was squeezed into two lanes, bordered by an unbroken wall of concrete barrier on either side. A huge truck rode perilously close beside her, its huge tires spinning, the air brake belching streams of compressed air. She had a nightmare of getting a blowout under such circumstances and, in her minds eye, could see her car getting sucked under those huge tires, the car becoming mangled... “Mom?” her youngest asked, tapping her lightly on the shoulder. “Mom?” he repeated. “What is it sweetie?” Jessica asked, glad of the distraction, feeling slightly ashamed that she had ignored the children for so long. “Ice cream - can we stop for some?” “Sure, lets look out for a 7-11 or Carvel when we get off the highway.” Jessica was relieved that she could comply, the granting of the request eased her conscience. Christ, she admonished herself, how could she have forgotten them? Her eldest son interrupted her thoughts. “Looks like you lost him, mom,” he confided in a low voice. Jessica was going to bluff, pretending that she didn’t know what he was talking about, but decided that she would be doing them both a disfavor. “How do you know honey?” she asked, glancing again at the rear view mirror. “He never made it onto the ramp,” Patrick replied emphatically, “I was watching him in the side mirror, he should have been up that ramp right after us but he never made it. I wonder what happened?” “So do I,” Jessica thought, relieved in a strange way that he too had seen their pursuer. She could, she thought, have been imagining it, but Patrick’s confirmation reassured her. A little over an hour later, they arrived at John Hussar’s house, which she found easily, despite only having visited there once. Nick’s directions were accurate. John lived in a split level ranch

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at the end of a lengthy driveway. The house had just been repainted and gleamed a perfect white in the sun. It was a beautiful day. After an anxious moment when she couldn’t find the front door key, and she thought she would have to bust the door down setting off the alarm, she found what she was looking for, an old can of WD40 thrown seemingly carelessly behind some shrubs. Twisting off the lid, the inside was exposed, not an oil can at all, but an off the shelf device for hiding valuables. John had sprayed the outside with a light acid which had accelerated the old look. The product line had been designed for interior use. Heeding Nick’s warning, she left the children sitting on the front lawn and entered the house alone. Referring to her notes, she went from room to room checking for and removing various weapons she found there. Her quick sweep of the ground floor revealed a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, a civil war era pre-loaded pistol, a shotgun and a muzzle-loader dating back to the American Revolution. Jessica never could bring herself around to asking John, with his WASPy background, with which side had his great grandfather fought. There had been other weapons Nick had mentioned, but they were absent. Carrying her load to the attic, she dumped the lot underneath John’s desk, which lay there burdened by two large computer screens, cluttered with hard-drives and other electronic components. The computers themselves lay underneath the desk. She knew from a tour John had given her the one time she visited that the attic was honeycombed with compartments, filled with what he regarded as a treasure trove of heirloom goodies. Jessica just wanted to make sure that her children left everything well enough alone to avoid injury to themselves and damage to John’s property. Despite protests from Patrick that he knew how to use the games on John’s computer, she dumped the weapons there and locked the door, leaving danger and temptation out of the children’s reach. The house needed a cleaning, but Jessica only did what was necessary, she hadn’t planned on an extended stay. She gave the children chores, helping her to set up beds, though in the evening they did all end up sharing John’s large king-size bed. Next morning the UPS truck woke her with a package from Nick. Inside she found a couple of thousand dollars in unsigned traveler’s checks, some cash in the form of $100 bills, and a hurried note from Nick offering her words of encouragement, and some suggestions for what Nick thought would be a good next move for her. But Jessica was way ahead of Nick, having been on the phone with her travel agent friend the previous night, arranging, what she had determined, the most obvious plan of action open to her. Cost was a major factor, as was her instinct to hide the fact that she was traveling. Jessica insisted that the tickets be booked under different names which could be changed the day of departure. She considered booking using her credit card, but the warning Nick had given her about the

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ease with which credit card transactions could be traced, made her reluctant to use it on this occasion. Her agent friend sensed something was up, and booked the tickets for her using an agency order - perhaps she thought Jessica was having marital problems. Jessica could pay for the tickets when she picked them up at the airport. The travel agent was puzzled by the request that the seats be booked under fictitious names, but let it be, as the unexpected commission on the $4,200 was quite welcome on what was otherwise a quiet day. She would try to get Jessica an upgrade for what would be an 11 hour flight. Using the instructions that Nick had given her, Jessica slipped into John’s office and checked his e-mail. There were a lot of messages for John and one from John addressed to her. In it he told her that he had created an e-mail account for her, and gave instructions, should the need arise, on how she could access, send and retrieve messages. Jessica compiled a return message explaining where she would leave her car, the keys, and closed with a note to be passed on to Nick, that they were 100% behind him every step of the way. She choked back a tear as she hit the send button, and the electronic packet was sent on its way. She couldn’t help but wonder when she and Nick would see each other again. Next, using a calling card she had purchased the evening before at the local 7-11, she called the Greek tourist board on their 800 number and secured the telephone number for the Leventis Hotel in Aghios Nikolaos in Crete. She got through the first time but had difficulty trying to explain with whom she wanted to speak. Eventually the person on the other end of the line gave her another number to call. It was getting late in the day, Greece was seven hours ahead of US Eastern time. There was an echo on the line as the connection went through. She was using the pre-paid calling cards to avoid putting charges on John’s phone, and to avoid recording the numbers on her or John’s phone account, should anyone access either in an attempt to find her. Paranoid she knew, but she was also practical, being well aware of the advances in technology and the ability to track people using their electronic fingerprints. After six rings the phone was picked up, and Jessica was greeted by a torrent of Greek, interrupted as someone attempted to pick up the line and disengage the answering machine. “Yani, please,” Jessica called in a clear voice. “Who’s speaking?” the female respondent returned. “Jessica Riordan, I’m an old friend.” “Jessica? OK, hold on,” and the line went silent as it was put on hold. A few seconds later the phone was picked up again and a warm friendly voice echoed across 7,500, miles to her. “Jessica?”

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“Yani, it’s Jessica Riordan, do you remember?” “Sure, sure, I remember you Irish! It has been some time since I last saw you - 12 years?” “Exactly.” “So what’s up Jessica, what can I do for you?” Jessica, aware of the cost of the call, launched straight into her story and her immediate needs. After a pause Yani responded, “I can handle it, Jessica, no problem. But instead of staying at one of our hotels, I suggest an apartment, like the one you had last time you were here. The same one may be available, besides if anyone tries to shoot you, it won’t affect my business.” He guffawed at his wisecrack. “Love you too Yani,” Jessica had forgotten his dry sense of humor, but she didn’t let it get to her. She ran over what she needed, Yani gave her an estimate of costs and that was that. She would see him the day after next. “When did you say you were flying in?” he asked absent mindedly. “Yani, I’m leaving here tomorrow - we’ll be arriving in Heraklion at noon the day after.” There was a silence on the phone before Yani launched into a tirade of Greek - throwing the Greek equivalent of a tantrum. She knew him well enough to know he was just blowing off steam, but knew that the little extra pressure she was putting on him wouldn’t hinder her cause. Allowing a sob to enter her voice, she asked, “Now Yani, you will help me won’t you?” Yani immediately soothed his temper, and reassured her not to worry, all would be taken care of. Yani was used to the tourist trade where anything urgent normally had a two week advance warning attached to it. Nick and Jessica had met Yani some 16 years before, quite by accident. He and his father were entrepreneurs in the tourist industry. Yani’s family had a 20 room hotel which was in a half finished state for much of the time they knew them. Yani was a well manicured man, short but chubbily handsome in his own way, he had dark features, but had striking blue eyes. His jowls always had the appearance of being haggard, the result of too many late nights. But his eyes retained a twinkle that lit up, adding to his natural charm that had, according to him, wooed countless members of the opposite sex to his warm bed. They had met Yani while visiting his hotel bar after-hours late one evening for a nightcap during one of many vacations to Crete. The bar had been unattended so they had helped themselves to a couple of beers and left the money and a note on the countertop. The next day on a return visit to the bar, Yani had greeted them like old friends, such was his delight at their honesty, something that was severely lacking, he explained, among cash strapped package

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tourists. Over the following six years they had returned three more times to the same town, and each time had either stayed in Yani’s hotel or in accommodations arranged by him. He had supplied them with access to rented Suzuki jeeps and motorcycles, and they were known to his family as the “Irish” of whom he was very fond, as opposed to the Irish “virgins,” who would let him get them drunk at his expense and then not give him so much as a feel before staggering off to bed. These he had written off as a complete waste of time and resources. Jessica glanced at her watch, relaxing for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, content that she had completed planning the next stage of their journey. She didn’t allow herself the luxury of fully understanding what it was all about. She didn’t want to dwell on the obvious danger that Nick had relayed to her. She flicked the remote control that lay beside the phone and put on CNN, just in time for the headlines. She wasn’t prepared for the lead story and was left feeling completely numb and aghast. “Good afternoon this is Suzy Gallop, filling in for Jeannine McKenzie who is on vacation. The top story this hour is an update on the massacre in Northern Ireland two days ago...” The news reporter recounted the numbers, now finalized at two hundred and forty two dead and three critically wounded. Pictures of the grizzly scene flashed onto the screen followed by a blown up photo of Nick taken from his Press Pass. “The British government has offered a one million pound reward, that’s approximately one point four million dollars, for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Nickolas Riordan, who they describe as the main suspect in the orchestration of this attack. Eye witnesses and photographs place him at the scene,” and the next picture was one of Nick, blurred, holding what appeared to be a weapon of some kind pointing directly at the camera. “The toll free number at the bottom of the screen is confidential for the largest man-hunt in recent Irish history. Mr. Riordan is believed to be in the South of Ireland and police suspect that he may be attempting to return to the US, where he lives in suburban New York.” This was followed by a live picture of Nick’s home. Neighbors were interviewed, with reactions of, “I can’t believe this, Nick is a good neighbor, an honest and kind man,” to that of old Mrs. Kealy, who Jessica barely knew, but was only to happy to tell the interviewer, in her twangy Long Island accent, that “the events didn’t surprise her in the least, that, this fellow was rarely home...Irish and the terrorists...typical...aren’t they all mixed up in it some way.” She went on to say that she was not in the least bit surprised that he was suspected, “a bit of a dark horse, and the fact that the family had obviously flown - probably back to where they had come from - was the greatest demonstration of guilt.” Jessica snapped the set off and flung the remote at the

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screen in frustration, missing a breaking news bulletin about a air crash in Boston. “Bitch,” she hissed. But instead of dwelling on the news, she stayed busy preparing a picnic lunch for herself and the children, which they consumed on the front lawn, basking in the heat of the day. Though tense, she did not mention the news to the children. Instead of eating, she slowly ground the sandwich to a pulp in her hand and threw it into the trees wishing that the roast turkey was Mrs. Kealy’s neck. Patrick noticed her aggravation and he did what he could to keep his brother and sister in line. After fixing herself a large mug of coffee, Jessica sat on the front steps and called the children to her. She was glad of the khaki shorts that she wore; the day was truly a scorcher, the air alive with the shimmer of heat, though she could see the formation of an afternoon thunderstorm in the distance. She composed herself, and told the children of the great adventure and unexpected vacation that lay ahead of them. The reaction was one of delight, as would be expected of young children. They were full of questions and excited chatter. Paul quieted down first and asked the question that she had been expecting. “What about daddy?” he asked simply. “We’ll be meeting him later on, but first we have to get packed and ready. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” and she ushered them off to finish packing. Later, as she lay in bed, with the children who were fast asleep, her thoughts drifted to Nick, wondering where he was and what he was doing. She would check her e-mail before she left. She wished she had the laptop to bring with her, but hoped that Yani had a computer she could use. She did, however, pack a modem, a spare 28.8K that had been attached to their computer at home. She made and checked off her list in her mind, which was as good as counting sheep, she was on the edge of sleep in five minutes. She must have dozed off but she awoke suddenly with a feeling of imminent danger. Slipping silently from the bed she stumbled to the bedroom door, searching the darkness with her eyes as well as her ears. A tight knot grabbed at her stomach as she wondered what she should do. She reached back to the bedside table and took the portable phone that lay there, a poor weapon, but the thought of being able to summon the police was reassuring. She, for a moment, wished that she had one of the weapons that she had left locked upstairs. Retrieving the key from her jeans, she drew them on tucking in the T-shirt she had worn in bed. In near complete darkness, she climbed the stairs to the attic workshop. Jessica jumped, barely suppressing a scream, as she saw a flash at her feet. A bright blue flash lit up the hallway in an eerie light, quickly followed by another. Jessica threw herself down onto

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the stairs her mind racing, her eyes probing the darkness for the source of danger. She lay there for a few seconds panting, her chest crushed against the hard musty stairs. A movement of her hand caught her attention. As her fingers brushed the carpet, a series of sparks leaped from her fingers. “Static!” she gasped aloud, relieved. Her relief was short lived as she heard a noise again from outside. She fumbled on the stairs, as she grasped for the door, unlocked it and went inside. The property was surrounded by a dense and overgrown tree line which came to within 50 feet of the house. This was something that had caught Jessica’s attention that afternoon as they had sat outside having their lunch. “It made the house dangerously accessible,” she thought. But then, the cover could just as easily be used to exit. “Why didn’t I think to hide the car?” she wondered as she slid across the floor to John’s desk, her slim hand searching and finding the cold shape of the pistol that lay there. Its chrome skin was cool to the touch and its weight, as she hefted the .38, gave her a degree of confidence. Thus armed, she returned down the stairs, carefully locking up again. She wished that she had her dog with them, he would make short work of any would-be intruders. She checked the alarm system in the hallway. All the zones were armed, a mouse couldn’t move without setting it off. Further, the system had the ability to indicate graphically the exact location of the intruder when it was tripped. Jessica slid silently to a front bedroom window and peered outside through the half-closed blinds. “They could be anywhere,” she thought, though she was unsure who “they” would be. The crickets were quiet at this late hour. A series of running footsteps drew her back to the window again, instantly alert, the pistol held ready to be cocked. She hoped that her touching the blinds would not alert anyone outside but she had to see, to set eyes on whoever was out there. Just as she peered out, the clouds parted allowing moonlight to illuminate the lawn in its silver glow. A doe stood nibbling on the grass, probably enjoying a drink from the dew. Jessica allowed the pistol to drop limp in her hand, raising her eyes to heaven. “Jesus,” she thought, her heart pounded as relief flooded through her when she brushed the blinds closed and returned to bed. “I’m getting nutty in my old age,” she thought, as she slipped the revolver under the mattress and snuggled down amidst her children. She wouldn’t have thought so if she knew that outside, not two feet from where she was standing, were the imprints made by someone who was in the middle of deactivating the alarm system. He had been warned off by his accomplice who had seen the blinds move. Instead, he installed a tracking device on the Buick, and left to snooze in a

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car further up the lane. Dawn wasn’t far off; the day would bring with it the opportunity for them to follow their IRA commander’s orders.

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The trip south went more quickly than Nick could have hoped. Noise and insects aside, the scenery more than made up for the lack of creature comforts. Not heeding Seán’s warning about avoiding traveling at night, he carried on, reaching Wicklow town by 10.25 P.M.; its overlooking hill still lit by the twilight sun, supplemented by the moon which had risen, promising to bathe the landscape in its milky luminescence. Nick diverted towards the town as he emerged from the side roads, spying a petrol station, it’s colorful fluorescent sign interestingly pretty in the half light. He bought a Snickers and a couple of cans of Coke, topping off the near full petrol tank. A pint of dark Guinness would have been just what the doctor ordered, but there was no time. A late evening train bellowed out of the platform located behind the pumps of the petrol station. Nick noted a police car in the train station parking lot. Shortly after the train had left, three police officers emerged from the platform and got back into their car. Nick didn’t realize just how tightly the noose was closing in the search for him. He decided to call Jessica, but would leave it until later in the night so as not to disturb her sleep. He did call John once again, at a contact number he had given him, but instead of calling collect he used his AT&T calling card. No one answered. In a basement in Dublin, an operator was alerted by his computer. The screen blinked with Nick’s calling card number and the number he was calling. Immediately the computer went into a trace mode. This was made all the easier by the digital phone system that had been installed in Ireland under the leadership and direction of Michael Smurfit, an Irish business tycoon, picked especially for the job of revitalizing the then Stone age phone system. The trace was able to determine that it was a pay phone and its exact location in County Wicklow. This information was e-mailed to the relevant parties, one of whom had a particular interest and roused his men ready for the next intercept. Nick made good time, traveling forty miles in the next two hours. He called it a day at a town called Blackwater, a little off the beaten path, but that’s exactly how he wanted it. It was a sleepy hamlet, filled with souvenir shops and cafes. All were closed, including the pub, though late night stragglers were leaving as the bewitching hour approached. Summer closing time was 11:30 P.M., and the premises had to be cleared by midnight. Seán had warned Nick that this time of night was a time for roadblocks, as the police checked for intoxicated drivers. It was as good a time as any to

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find a place to sleep for the night. He found an ideal spot behind the sea shell encrusted, decorative water fountains in the center of town on a bench. The thought of rats did not bother him in the least, and he slept soundly for a few hours.

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“Why Wicklow? If he’d been smart he could’ve got out on a Stena Ferry from Dun Laoghaire last night and been in England an hour and a half later.” “Right into the arms of the British police.” “That’s beside the point. Where’s he off to? Rosslare?” “We have a standby team ready to move at a moment’s notice. There’s no way he can get onto a plane ferry without being spotted.” “He could steal a small boat and head for England.” “Highly unlikely - the sea’s extremely rough and will stay that way for the next day or two. We’re checking car rentals - I’ll keep you informed.” “Do that,” and the caller hung up. The phone call came at 5:15 A.M. the following morning. Nick had called Jessica as soon as he reached his destination, and although the conversation was brief, he had used his calling card, and the tracing operators got a fix on the location. They notified the team leader right away by cellular phone, who was waiting for word beside his intercept cars. No command was necessary, the black Saabs emerged from their location in a warehouse close to the Point Theater in the Dublin docks. Crossing the East Link toll bridge, they shot across Sandymount Road, the sea visible far out in the moonlight as the tide waned. The lights of the Blackrock and Dun Laoghaire twinkled in the early morning hours, the roads empty, save for early morning delivery trucks. Turning left through the train crossing they sped down the Blackrock road, buy stayed within the speed limit as they passed the new Blackrock police station. Intersecting with the N 11 highway at Cornelscourt, they turned south and increased their speed, the traffic lights in their favor. The choice of car was as much to do with speed and reliability as it was with the fact that they were the vehicle of choice for diplomatic escorts. Once onto the highway the drivers turned on their grill mounted flashing blue lights - enough to keep a curious police officer puzzled, and discourage them from stopping the speeding cars. The scenery that had interested Nick barely 8 hours before flashed past unnoticed as their speed exceeded 100 mph. Dawn was less than an hour away, and with it there was a good possibility that they would lose their opportunity to trap their quarry. Permanent daylight at these northern extremes was only 300 miles to the north during the summer months hence the short nights in Ireland.

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The turbocharged motors of the Saabs were well capable of exceeding 140 mph, which they did on the stretches of motor way leading south out of Dublin. Their laptop chirped, displaying a map and directions to their destination. “Plenty of time,” the driver thought, his eyes never leaving the road as he whipped through the Wicklow countryside. In their wake another car followed, out of sight; it’s occupants relaxed for their mission ahead. More than one group was capable of monitoring the phone lines.

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The Cessna, crabbing — its nose off center due to the sideways force of the wind on its tail — in the early morning breeze, descended soundlessly, propeller feathered. With a gentle pop, the tires kissed the concrete runway and the propeller spluttered to a stop seconds after landing. Silently the light plane coasted to a halt, turning completely on its left wheel to face back the way it came. An old plane, a 172 model, it had seen better days. However, a number of paint jobs over the years ensured that its bright aluminum skin remained covered from the elements. Where parts of the flight surfaces moved, the flaps, aileron and rudder, the metal shone brightly through the scraped paint. The prop blades were pitted and scoured from the infinite impacts of stray stones and debris drawn thought its turbulent vortex. The airfield was deserted. A bright orange windsock swung lazily in the light breeze; the tall wild grasses moved as though flowing from the air that pushed against it. Between the slabs of runway sprouted tufts of crab grass, jutting boldly upwards, occasionally trampled by an arriving or departing plane. Scattered around the single building that served the local flying club, planes lay, mostly hidden under tarpaulins of a variety of colors, shapes, textures and sizes. Securing lines, tied to the wing tips, held the planes taut. A rusted, dilapidated, barbed wire fence surrounded the property, decorated with wisps of wool from sheep who chose to scratch against it. The silence was complete and unexpected. Nick had visions of a roaring aircraft toiling to the landing strip, waking the inhabitants of the loosely strung necklace of surrounding homes. From underneath the supported wing, the hatch clicked and swung open on its leather hinges. A khaki clad leg swung from behind the door, followed by a figure grunting from stiffness caused from a long night of travel. Without looking at or acknowledging Nick, the pilot reached over to the back seat and removed a dull black rifle — his favorite, as Nick recalled, an AR-15, the semi-automatic version of the military issue, M-16. Nick always smiled when he thought of the civilian label, as if being hit with one or three rounds a second would amount to a hill of beans when you were being shot at. Squinting around the open field through his aviator sunglasses, the pilot lifted the rifle and snapped a round into the breech, pulling back on the rear mounted loading lever with his thumb and forefinger. Swinging the carrying harness over his right shoulder, he advanced from under the shadow of the wing, the rifle suspended

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from its strap. He swept the perimeter of the field quickly before his eyes settled on Nick and lifted his hand in silent greeting. Grinning, he greeted Nick with a cheery “Dude!” His smile did not belay the fatigue that lined his face. Nick walked to him as they extended hands and shook, Nick patting the pilot’s right elbow with his left hand. “Thanks for coming, John,” Nick muttered quietly, hesitating he added, “I didn’t know if you would.” “Think nothing of it,” John responded, his grin getting wider, “you’re paying for the gas and tolls — besides I need the flying hours and who knows, if there’s some real excitement, I might even get the theme for a next movie.” “Was there a first?” Nick asked jokingly. John responded by lightly slapping Nick on the side of his head. John was a MacGyver — a jack of all trades and a master of a lot of them. His college major had been in film production and he was constantly working on scripts, rewrites, and trying to obtain the quarter million dollars funding needed to get the whole show started. In his spare time he was a superb computer tech, capable of running rings around the best corporate computer nerds, as he called them, while charming his female clients with his lean muscular body, clear blue eyes and his sweep of blond hair. He was a loner, never pressing on anyone, never needing anyone. Girl friends came and went. But the big movie was what he lived for. They continued the small talk for a few short moments. “What’s that?” John asked pointing at Nicks rifle case. Nick unzipped the case and handed the Anshutz over. John looked at it, feeling its weight. “Nice gun, but not much use in a fight — bet it jams a lot,” he added, going on to explain the problems, that he accurately predicted the .22 caliber would have. Nick was well aware of these problems, but he allowed John to talk his fill anyway. “Absorbs a lot of energy and if you use a low powered round, I doubt if it would eject at all. Is it accurate?” Nick started to recount his hitting a vicious pigeon at 100 plus yards, but John’s attention was drifting. Looking over his plane, he lifted Nick’s bag and walked over and threw it into the back seat. “Got a smoke?” Nick asked his friend. “Sure,” John reached into his breast pocket and threw them over to Nick. Matches were wedged into the cellophane wrapper. “Don’t light up too close to the plane,” his friend warned, “go up wind — aviation fuel loves a spark.” John continued his walk-around, checking out the plane he had rented in Wales the previous night, as he prepared for their departure. Walking away from the plane, the light warm morning breeze tossed Nick’s short hair, and he cupped his hands as he lit his cigarette.

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Standing, he inhaled the smoke and exhaled slowly, his mind mulling over what possibilities lay before him. During the past days he had little time to strategize, but it was coming to him...what he would do, options that were open to him. One thing that was certain, whoever wanted him wanted him very badly. Looking at the tired plane and his friend, Nick realized that despite their calls on the phone, it had been some time since they had last met. John, “skin”, as Nick usually called him, though he could not recall where the moniker had originated, was aging well for all of his 36 years. He retained his athletic build despite the garbage he fed himself. His shock of blond hair, now hidden under an Ithaca College baseball cap retained its natural hue. His tan appeared faded under his pale skin, paled from the tiring journey he had undertaken without sleep, and lines were visible under his neck - a sign of too much sun over the years. The plane had his complete attention as he finished his walk-around. John laughed out loud suddenly and turned to Nick. “So, here I am in the land of the Leprechauns — I never thought that I’d see it this way. This isn’t the main international airport is it?” he grinned, sweeping his left hand around in a slow arch. “Sure is,” Nick responded, not missing a beat, “should have the 747’s rolling in any minute now.” He got a response of a toothy grin from John, who was extinguishing his own cigarette on the heel of his boot. He flicked the stub into the gravel beside the pock marked taxi-way. “Do you hear that?” Nick asked, tilting his head into the wind. John did not respond, instead he turned toward the direction Nick was facing and craned his neck, eyes alert. “Wait...now, do you hear it?” Nick quizzed. In the distance came the ebb and flow of a car motor, straining at high speed. “Trouble?” John asked, knowing the answer by the look he found in Nick’s face. “How the heck could anyone know?” Nick thought and dismissed the question, as too many remained unanswered to date, and now was not the time to debate. “Sure you’re not being your paranoid self?” John jibed him, as he tugged on Nick’s arm and led him toward the plane. John knew Nick’s paranoia well, some would call it instinct, and knew also that he was seldom wrong in his feelings, particularly in business. John handed him the AR-15 and told him to get in the passenger door. “Keep your finger off the trigger,” John warned, “I don’t want you putting a hole in the plane.” Nick gave him a quick look of disgust and tossed his rifle case into the back seat. Grabbing hold of the wing strut he heaved himself into the seat, slipping the rifle between his legs.

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“Open your window and stick the gun out of it — be careful of the wing strut and the wing,” John ordered, as he adjusted the controls. Leaning out the window, Nick could hear that the car was much closer now, it’s tortured motor screaming in protest, as the driver pushed it to the limit in low gears to maneuver the narrow roads approaching the airport. “Well, they’re not going to church, that’s certain,” Nick muttered, looking at John as he concentrated on his pre-flight checks. John barely acknowledged him as he gave everything a once- over and warned Nick to mind his head as he flicked on the ignition switches. “What?” Nick asked, only to blasted with a stream of cold air and exhaust gases as the prop spluttered to life. Cursing he pulled his head back through the window and closed it, leaving enough room for the protruding rifle. “Put these on,” John shouted at him, throwing a head set into his lap. Doing as he was ordered, Nick slipped them on and found both instant relief from the engine noise, and John’s voice crisp and clear in his ears. “Double trouble,” John said loudly through the head phone, pointing in the direction of the airport gates. Sure enough, not one, but two cars were stopped, the driver of the first was unlatching the steel gate and swinging it open between the granite stone walls. John had parked the Cessna facing into the wind at the end of the runway and now throttled up, the engine bellowing as the prop bit the air. Indeterminable increasing speed at first, the plane waddled forward and John offset the rudder to keep it straight in the breeze. Nick prayed silently as he saw the cars speed across the open meadow towards them. He watched John, his jaw tight, push the throttle lever to the stop, and saw him observe the steady climb of the air-speed indicator. The first car was carving long gouges out of the grass, as the wheels spun wildly fighting for traction. The windows that Nick could see were lowered and dark snouts of weapons protruded, bouncing wildly as the car lurched across the field. The second car had stopped by a parked plane, and the passengers were busy pulling the tarpaulin off it. The first car was increasing speed and looked as if it was going to collide with the plane any second. With condensation smoking off the prop tips, John pulled back on the controls, and the small plane skipped as the wings grabbed for lift. “Come ON!” John shouted and thumped the control panel in frustration, easing back on the column momentarily before hauling it

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back as if he was trying to rip it out of the panel. The plane hesitated, as if trying to decide what to do, but a strong gust hit it head-on and it lifted gently into the morning sky. Nick’s stomach fell as the earth dropped away below them. “Christ,” Nick thought, having never flown in a small plane before, “this isn’t a plane, it a kite with a goddamn lawnmower engine.” The car was nearly underneath them, skidding to a stop. “Can’t you make this go any faster?” he begged John, panic rising in his voice. “Wanna get out and walk,” John hissed at him. “We...we should have left right away!” Nick responded. “Coulda, shoulda, woulda...” John’s voice trailed as he looked beneath them coldly eyeing the situation as the car, now stopped, disgorged its passengers. Two men stumbled as they trained their weapons skyward, their aim frustrated by their hurried exit from the car. Nick was unable to drop the angle of his gun, as the arch of fire was restricted by the window opening and the low altitude angle of the plane. He pushed the door open, holding it with his foot, the buffeting air straining it as the propeller wash jolted the aluminum. He was rudely pulled back by his collar, as John shouted at him that he was causing them to loose airspeed. Snapping the door shut, they could both hear the rip of an automatic weapon discharge. A neat row of holes were stitched along the right trailing wing flap — leaving shiny aluminum blotches where the searing hot rounds had clipped through the white painted surface. John said nothing, but stomped on the left rudder pedal, skidding the plane in mid-air, changing the angle of attack of the lifting surfaces. Raising the flaps, he dropped the nose slightly to maintain air-speed. As the end of the runway approached, Nick could hear another blast from the weapons below, but could not hear nor feel any discernible damage. He gaped in horror at the sight in front of him, where large pine trees looked certain to block their way — he covered his eyes instinctively. John dropped the flaps to their fully lowered position and held his breath. The metal bit into the air, dropping their airspeed, but in turn compensated by boosting their altitude, generating additional lift. The result flared the plane, thrusting it high into the air, allowing them to clear the treetops. Nick looked forward, anticipating the worst and instead he turned just in time to see a tree top being mowed to mulch by the spinning prop. As they cleared the tree, more rounds thudded into the airframe. “Bastards!” John growled, “They shot the plane!” Pulling the flaps back up he let the airspeed build as he quickly checked the gauges. Nothing seemed amiss. Peering out, first to

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his left, and then past Nick to his right, he checked the aircraft’s surfaces. He looked past Nick’s left shoulder and saw the jagged holes that ripped from the rudder to the passenger cabin. The rounds nearly missed the plane, as the holes were long and in some cases the entry holes had matching pocked exit holes. Pushing the rudder pedals carefully, he found increased resistance. “Must have damaged the cable or the rudder hinges,” John said to no-one in particular. He would have to minimize the use of the rudders in case anything snapped. The ground rushed past a couple of hundred feet below them as John turned to Nick and informed him that he was about to have his first flying lesson. He pulled the throttles back to their normal setting and the engine’s roar dropped to an acceptable decibel level. Nick was sweating profusely, a tight knot rose in the pit of his stomach. His bowels wobbled queasily and he felt a cold clammy chill in his spine. John, not getting a response to his last instruction to Nick, looked at him and saw the rising panic. Nick’s face was the color of parchment. He reached over and hit Nick hard on the side of the face — the immediate look of disbelief and rising anger made John smile, as he knew that he had read Nick correctly. John grinned as he patted his friends arm. “Need you to stay together, bud. How about it — you’re flying lesson?” Swinging the Cessna into a tight left turn, he told his friend “Stay cool, I need you.” Nick felt his anger abate and realized how close he had come to losing control.

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The Saab plunged off the end of the runway, engine screaming as the driver fought to slow the car and turn it at the same time. There was no danger of hitting anything — whoever had built the airfield may have been short on runway but left plenty of room for overshoots. Applying the brakes did little to slow the forward motion of the vehicle. The driver swung the wheel hard and yanked up the hand brake leaning the rear of the car into a sharp right turn arriving at where the aircraft was seconds after it had lifted off. Sliding onto the concrete strip, the tires finally found traction and the car lurched to a stop. As the motor stalled, the rear passengers flung open their doors, dizzy from the riotous approach, and trained their weapons skyward. One let rip immediately, aiming in the general direction of the plane, which seemed to hang suspended from the sky, its propeller wash spilling behind it. The other gunman shook his head and levered a round into the chamber before taking deliberate aim. Had he had an AK-47 or an M-16, he would have succeeded in his task of destroying the target. However, in his hands he held a stubby Uzi submachine gun which hosed a burst of 9mm rounds skyward, wildly inaccurate as the distance to the plane increased. The ejected brass shells clinked off the runway, spinning and glinting in the morning sun. Emptying the clip, he saw with satisfaction that some of the rounds hit, though he could not be sure if they had reached the passenger cabin. His associate, now steadier, lifted his gun again but as he pulled the trigger, the plane suddenly crabbed sideways losing altitude throwing his aim completely off. As he adjusted his stance, the plane leapt skyward just clearing the trees at the end of the runway. Firing off bursts of rounds the gunman lost sight of the plane as it sped away, its shape obscured by the trees. Behind them the only sound was the clicking of the Saab’s turn signal. On the other side of the field near the maintenance shed, the group of men from the second car were working feverishly, removing the last of the securing lines from a parked plane. One of them circled the plane more quickly than he would have liked, doing a very brief pre-flight check before climbing into the cockpit. Two others clambered in the opposing door hauling their weapons. The propeller spun and the engine spluttered to life, a cloud of blue smoke billowing from the exhaust manifold, whisked away by the force of the vortex. Frantic gesturing from the leader of the intercept group, now approaching from across the field, prompted the pilot to

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forego any other checks and the plane loped toward the taxi way. Because of the planes location and the time it would take to line up correctly, the pilot decided to take off with the wind in an effort to become airborne quickly.

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“The controls are simple,” John explained, pointing out the air speed indicator and the altitude gauge. “You know all this stuff — this lever is the throttle...” “In theory.” Nick protested. “Hold the stick steady like this, and I’ll tell you what to do,” John went on, ignoring Nick, demonstrating how to hold the yoke — which he did easily with his left hand. “Don’t make any sudden moves like pushing which will make us crash or pulling which will make us stall,” John continued, “when I signal to you I want you to straighten up the plane and fly straight and steady.” Nick shook his head in bewilderment, but with a determined look on his face he grabbed the yoke with both hands, the cold plastic covering felt slick from the sweat on his palms. “Hey Nick,” John smiled, “relax, it’s just like driving a car.” “Sure,” Nick responded in a croak, “except in 3-D.” Flying in a low left turn 100 feet over the tree tops, John eased the throttle back, reducing the engine noise further but leaving enough power to maneuver. Treetops flashed past, and the plane buffeted in the breeze. As John tightened the turn, condensation streamed from the left wing tip. Still steadying the stick, John took the AR-15 from Nick’s lap, and reaching over to the back seat removed a spare clip from a duffel bag. Dropping the clip from the rifle, he inserted the new one and wedged the other between the seat and his right thigh for easy retrieval. The Saab pulled up beside the second car, and the men gathered around watching the second plane throttle up for take off. So anxious was the pilot to get in the air that he was accelerating as he turned onto the runway, causing his left wing tip to dip precariously toward the ground. With a low wing set, as opposed to the overhead wings on John’s Cessna, the ground clearance was negligible. A wiggle on the rudder lined the plane up, its rear skidding in the propeller wash. All eyes were fixed on the plane, glad that they were on terra firma. They didn’t notice John’s Cessna returning as it swept in from just above the tree line until it was too late. “Steady, Nick, hold the Goddamn thing steady,” John murmured, settling the AR’s stock to his cheek. The plane lurched as Nick corrected the turn. “Jesus, I nearly dropped it — hold it STEADY!” John roared at Nick. “Stay above 300 feet — and no more surprises.”

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Nick completely ignored him, realizing that he literally held his own life as well as John’s in his hands. Turning back, John sighted the weapon as best he could. Suddenly they cleared the trees, and there below and to their left, seemingly within calling distance, were the two cars and the men who had shot his plane. Accuracy was not a viable option, given the circumstances. He squeezed the trigger. Despite the ear phones Nick jumped, though not from the sound. Searing hot brass cartridge cases careened and bounced across the control panel and windshield as they were ejected from the AR in a steady stream. Wincing, he grimaced and held on to the yoke tightly, watching the gauges as best he could. The first rounds hurtled though the air like angry bees with a powerful sting in their tail. Punching holes in the metal sides of the cars, the rounds exploded on impact, scattering scalpel sharp debris around the impact points. Some rounds went wide of the mark throwing huge clumps of dirt into the air. The startled onlookers, caught totally unaware, glanced skyward before diving instinctively for cover. The air was filled with flying metal and concrete chips. Shearing through the metal framework and upholstery, the rounds didn’t need accuracy to find their targets. A round hit above one gunman’s right ear, entering his skull and exploded just as it exited in a eruption of brain tissue and blood, dead before his body crumpled against the side of the Saab. Another, hit in the shoulder rose aghast, his tattered arm held to his torso by fragments of ligament and muscle. The second car burst into flames. The driver, lying behind the engine block, his hands covering his ears as he lay in the fetal position, didn’t know what hit him as a wall of flame blasted him far into the airfield, flailing as he hit the ground. He lay still, gasping, his neck broken. The leader remained bloody from the deep cuts he received from the flying fragments. Rolling from the Saab, which was fast becoming a sieve, he rose to his feet and ran toward the plane, under John’s angle of fire. He did not even think of returning fire, so great was his urge to stay alive. Behind him his men lay dead or mortally wounded, both cars burning and damaged beyond recognition. The hammer fell on an empty chamber, and in a fluid motion John released the clip which fell to the floor of the plane and replaced it with the one he had under his thigh. Straining, he tried to find the shadow that had run from the cars, but the moment of opportunity was gone as the plane sped past. A pall of black acrid smoke rose above the bright orange flames, but the view was lost behind the plane. Nick stared forward, the brief second of the encounter burned into his mind. John slapped his window shut and released a long breath, easing his neck as he grasped the controls.

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“How’d you do?” Nick asked. “It’s a mess down there,” he looked puzzled. “There’s only one problem.” “What?” “I wasn’t the only one shooting at them.” He looked around below searching for something. As he turned back, he reacted instinctively grabbing the controls. “Jesus Christ!” John screamed, as he spotted the movement close to the side of the plane.

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Snatching control of the plane away from Nick, John pushed hard on the stick turning the aircraft to the right, while simultaneously kicking the right protesting rudder pedal. His left hand snapped the throttle lever forward so hard that the plastic knob on top broke off clean in his hand. The other plane had just lifted off, and as John’s craft was banking around the end of the runway, neither pilot was aware of the other’s presence. The chase plane was so close that John could see the shocked expression on the other pilot’s face through the spinning prop, seconds before what seemed then to be, the impending impact. Reacting instinctively, the chase pilot pulled up on his stick stalling his plane as he attempted to make it stand on its tail. The roaring prop ripped through the air uselessly, it’s angle of attack too high. What saved the plane was the fact that the flaps were still extended fully, in effect catching the plane as it began to slide earthward from 275 feet. Nick clutched the dashboard in rigid terror as John fought to control the plane. The wings had snapped near vertical in response to his sudden move and the entire plane swung on its axis as the tail skidded, the rudder biting the air. The effect was to throw the plane hard right and downward, creating distance and increasing speed. However, as the plane was at maximum turn, nose slightly down, the rudder’s angle increased the downward angle. Had the engine more power, the torque effect would have turned the plane upside down. Deflected away from the oncoming plane a new danger presented itself as the rudder refused to center. Fractions of second counted as the plane continued to swing downward. The ground raced towards them. Centering the wings back onto an even keel, John put hard pressure on the left rudder pedal and just as he thought the control cable might snap, the rudder righted itself. Quickly dropping the flaps to increase lift, the plane, as if on a bungie cord, struggled to remain airborne, finally climbing, as its wheels tore through the tops of bushes, and they rose with the grace of a butterfly into the air. Nick knew he was going to die. His stomach was somewhere else — he was caught totally by surprise by the sudden move. He had watched in horror as the field rose to meet them, and he prayed silently asking God to forgive him his sins. That he was an agnostic was irrelevant. It had taken him some seconds to focus before he realized that they were still in the air. It was the

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rising sun that startled him back into reality, as they were flying directly toward it. Relief flooded through him as he watched John ease up the flaps when the craft surged forward and more importantly, upward. His shirt was wet under the armpits and he was afraid to look at his crotch, he was sure that the dampness there was not from sweat. John checked all of the gauges carefully and peered over his shoulder at the tail of the plane. The rudder was slightly off center but nothing, for the moment, to worry about. Tapping the fuel gauge with his nail, it remained steady although it looked lower than it should. The motor was running slightly hot, but that was to be expected from the punishment it had been through. All else appeared normal. Behind them the red Piper Cherokee bucked and climbed, grasping for altitude. Unlike John the pilot did not have enough airspeed for much maneuvering. Flaps fully extended, the throttle wide open, the stall warning horn went silent. The airspeed indicator crept past the stall redline. Hitting a switch in the console, a dull shudder ran through the airframe while the landing gear retracted. With the drag greatly reduced — the plane seemed to spring forward. He pulled gently on the stick and the aircraft rose. Looking at his passengers he saw the pale ashen faces, eyes glazed in shock, as they, as Nick had, realized that fate had spared them. John trimmed the Cessna, flying low, building up speed. Glancing briefly out the cabin window, he grunted and turned to Nick who was positively elated that he was still in one piece. “Our troubles aren’t over yet bud,” he warned motioning backward with his hand. Nick looked but couldn’t see anything. “Those aren’t sightseers — they’re gunning for us,” John explained. Looking back again he spoke to Nick. “They’re flying a Piper which has a maximum speed 10 miles per hour faster than us. They’re not much more than a half mile behind us — if the pilot’s good, he should overtake us in less than five minutes.” Pausing, he asked, “Do we stay around here and deal with them, or do we head out to sea?” Nick shrugged and made a face, “Why ask me?” John thought for a moment before talking again. “If I were that pilot, I would take my time, trading speed for additional altitude. That would let him climb above us and basically pick us off at will.” Checking his gauges again, he added, “I think we have a fuel leak,” looking past Nick he pointed and said, “There, half way down the wing...do you see the hole?” Nick peered and sure enough gas was leaking, evaporating immediately in the wind. “Are you sure we have enough?” Nick quizzed.

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“No, I’m not but we’re fast running out of options. If we stay here they will definitely get us. So we’re damned if we do or damned if we don’t.” John turned the plane to maximize the tail wind. Below them lay Rosslare Strand, stretching northward towards Wexford harbor estuary from which flowed the Slaney River. In front, the dark green Irish sea was rough, the white-tops churning on this fresh morning. The air was laden with the briny smell of salt. Seagulls wheeled away from the aircraft as they idled, twirling in the wind. Nick climbed into the rear seat. Fumbling with his backpack he withdrew the remaining rounds for his rifle and checked the clip to make sure that it was full of high velocity rounds. Climbing back into the front, he slid the rifle barrel out the window — he would have to shoot with his left hand. John said nothing, not sure whether he should burst Nick’s bubble by telling him that the soft lead rounds would be nearly useless. He decided to say nothing. His own rifle would not be effective until they were very close unless he had a telescopic sight, like Nick’s. “Try to avoid their propeller — the blades will probably stop anything from passing through. I’ll set the tail off center to let you get a straight shot.” John nudged the rudder pedals setting plane off at an angle. Peering through the sight Nick thought about what John had said. The red Piper drifted in and out of the lens. What did John mean, avoid the propeller? That’s all he could see, the whole plane hid behind its blur. Nick lined up as best he could and fired off a couple of rounds. He could see into the cabin clearly, the pilot was looking right at him, and he could make out the other men who accompanied him. The one sitting in the copilot’s seat looked none too happy, his gun cradled in his arm. The first round splattered, just as John had predicted, against one of the blades in a puff of disintegrating lead, the second tore through and hit the windshield just to the right of the pilot. In the chase plane, the first sign to alert them that they were under attack was the anvil-like sound from the round hitting the prop. As the pilot looked out, the windshield in front of him shuddered under the impact of the second round, the bullet not quite penetrating the glass, but surrounding the point of impact with a spider web of cracks. He pulled back on the stick in an automatic reaction, pulling the plane upward away from harms way. Nick watched and continued firing until his clip was empty. Some of the rounds went completely astray, but others slapped into the bulkhead, where the wing joined the plane, ripping into the fuel tank. The rounds were spent on entry. The fuel tank was full. Had there been more oxygen available, the tank would have exploded. The reaction in the plane was one of dismay, anger and surprise. The pilot was aghast that his plane was being peppered by gunfire

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and wanted to immediately turn back. The gunmen, however, with little effort, warned him that turning back was not an option until their mission was completed. “Catch the bastard,” he was ordered, “get us a clear shot at him.” The pilot complied clawing for altitude at full power, a fine spray of aviation fuel in his wake. He changed seats with the man in his copilot’s seat, not too easy a task, but necessary as he could see little through his shattered window. “I think you’ve woken the hornets nest,” John remarked, as he watched the chase plane climb out of view. “They’re no more awake than they were a few minutes ago,” Nick responded as he loaded his last rounds into his clip. “They’re going above us, just as I thought. We have to do something, and quick. This damn wing is in the way — I can’t see them at all.” It was a curious sight, as John noticed the sea ahead of him erupt in needle fountains of white foam. It reminded him of World War II nose gun footage from fighter planes when they hosed a wounded bomber before the final kill — rounds that missed churned up the sea as the bullets, expended their energy angrily at the waters surface. He had been prepared for this, and responded by killing the throttle and dropping full flaps. The plane decelerated quickly as the flaps traded forward — kinetic energy — for lift. Nick left his stomach a hundred feet below as they rose upward like a kite in a strong breeze. Nick took the controls as they had planned, and banked the plane to the right while John slid his AR out his window, lining up his aim carefully as the wing swept skyward. They were within hailing distance of the other plane when he squeezed the trigger firing rapidly into the body of the plane and into the engine cowling. Sparks flashed when the bullets struck, and he could see their consternation by the flurry of movement caused by his rounds slicing through the thin aluminum skin of the passenger cabin. Suddenly the chase plane was gone from view when Nick dropped the wing again throttling up as he had been told. John left the rifle across his knee when he took over the controls and turned their Cessna back toward the shore. If his plan didn’t work, he wanted to be close enough to dry land as possible if they had to crash land. John’s rounds had done serious damage to the chase plane. The inside was strewn with blood and gore, where his rounds had torn through the seats and bodies inside. Amazingly no one was killed, but the pilot was hysterical as his instruments spun wildly and the engine coughed, black oily smoke pouring from the canopy, droplets of oil smearing the windshield. They could have survived had they concentrated on getting the plane down right away. But one of the men, screaming in rage and

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pain from his wounds, pushed his weapon far out of his window and opened fire in the general direction of where John’s plane should be. The hot cartridges rained into the slipstream, the muzzle flashes scattered hot, burnt powder in the wake of the bullets that spat out, igniting the fine mist of fuel that wet the side of the plane. Just before it exploded, a stream of fire raced along the outside of the plane, so hot that it melted the aluminum, turning the interior into a roasting oven. When it reached the fuel tank the eruption disintegrated the fragile aircraft spewing the occupants outward in a wave of concussion. They fell, still alive, strapped into their seats as they plunged into the waters below. John and Nick felt the shock and heat before they heard the dull thud of the explosion. Without looking down, John turned their plane again and set his course for Wales, behind them a black pall of smoke hung in the air like an exploded artillery shell. He thought of calling for the sea rescue, but, for whatever reason, he never did pick up the radio hand set.

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The rumble of the plane’s motor became monotonous with time. The dark ocean depths swallowed the glinting sunlight in their heavy green troughs. A rising breeze whipped the froth off the bulging swells. In the distance, a passing ferry, plowing evenly through the choppy sea, proceeded steadily toward its destination unimpeded by the choppy waters. Seagulls whirled lazily above the boat awaiting scraps or garbage from the kitchen. John was kept busy, poring over the map strapped to his thigh, calculating distance and fuel consumption. He kept to himself, suspecting that the fuel leak was greater than he had first thought. The fuel gauge hadn't moved much since they had started this second part of their dog-leg course. It was most likely stuck, but that didn't tell him how much fuel was left. The leak that had been visible some time earlier was now impossible to see. The airspeed and head-wind combined to evaporate it as it bubbled from the tear in the wing tip. The Welsh coast was visible on the horizon, a smudge, hardly visible, covered by a woolly blanket of wispy clouds. Nick noticed a change in the engine pitch when John began a slow climb. Adding altitude would maximize their ability to glide should the engine die, starved from lack of fuel. From their current position they would splash in the ocean long before landfall but every mile the engine lasted would increase their chances of avoiding a long swim. Nick's mind was numb. A heavy fatigue lay over him like a wet shawl. The surges of adrenaline which had pumped through him were long depleted. John, seeing Nick’s blank stare, recognized the onset of shock. Rummaging through his bag he withdrew a chocolate bar and a half empty liter bottle of Pepsi and dropped them on Nick’s lap. When Nick glanced in puzzlement at him, John forced a smile and prompted, "Raises your blood sugar — go ahead eat up." Nick fumbled with the wrapper of the chocolate bar and eventually ripped it open nearly dropping the contents on the floor. John twisted the top off the beverage container and took a long swig. He passed it to Nick, who nearly emptied it as he slaked his ravaging thirst. Almost immediately he started to feel better as his body eagerly absorbed the sugars and carbohydrates. The land features slowly became more distinguishable while they droned onward. Occasional wind gusts buffeted the aircraft, and John had to be constantly vigilant, correcting their course. “Can this thing glide?” Nick asked nervously, stretching his arms behind his seat easing his aching shoulders muscles.

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“Sure can,” John answered, hauling back on the stick trying to reach 8,000 feet before leveling out and getting his airspeed back to an even 120 knots. The airspeed indicator hovered around the 80 knot mark as he maintained his steep climb. They passed through a layer of opaque cloud and a few seconds of near darkness enclosed their cabin. As they emerged, the engine spluttered, coughing a dark smudge of smoke from the exhaust. John immediately leveled off the plane and whacked the fuel gauge with his right hand. The shock cracked the glass, but the needle responded, dropping down to the reserve redline. Making a mental calculation, he figured they had but a few gallons of fuel left. Referring to his map, he reviewed his options. He had already marked a number of alternate landing sites on his map — they most likely would not make it to Cardiff. Besides, he did not want to have to declare an emergency, with the unwanted attention that it would attract. The most promising was a deserted World War II era airfield, that lay close to a town near the Bristol Channel called St. Clears. It was either that or try a beach. When he achieved normal cruising speed he throttled back to conserve whatever fuel they had left. The coast slid by beneath them, a sandy shore followed by steep cliffs. Nick felt his throat tighten as he realized that for the third time in three days he had beaten the odds, that being a greater than 50% chance of dying. Without turning, he keyed his mike and asked John what they were going to do with the weapons. John instructed him to reach into his backpack side pocket and remove the cloth bundled there. Following his instructions, Nick bound the two rifles together and tied a make-shift parachute to the flash guard on the AR. Fashioned from a large silk scarf John had sewn cords to the four corners the ends of which were now tied to the rifle. He hadn’t anticipated Nick’s addition but he figured that as the stocks would hit ground first, damage should be minimal. He had planned for this eventuality while returning the plane to its original airport at Cardiff, he didn’t want any questions asked about removing a rifle from the plane. With surprising suddenness the prop simply stopped turning, the engine gasped its last, and they were engulfed by the sound of rushing air. John nudged the nose to a slight down angle to stay above stalling speed. Even so, the airspeed indicator dropped quickly below 100 knots. The airfield lay some distance away — six or seven miles John guessed. He gave Nick instructions on how and when to release their makeshift airdrop. Nick filled and zippered their bags leaving nothing including garbage behind. On John’s instruction he held them in front of him to act as a cushion in case they nosed into the earth below, if they ran out of air in their approach.

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The plane was nearly at a right angle to the overgrown runway. John decided to wait until the last minute before he turned to avoid bleeding off precious speed and altitude. The silence pressed upon them, broken only by the whistle of the wind through the openings in the doors and engine cowling. Neither spoke. A mile out John peered down looking for a landmark. He spotted what he hoped would do and had Nick slide the guns out the window. The rifles spun slowly downwards away from the aircraft. The chute looked as thought it was caught around the barrels, but just when they thought they would crash into the ground, it ripped fully open. The rifles spun on the ends of the cords until they were out of sight. Approaching the runway, John banked the plane and dropped the flaps. Their shadow flitted across the ground a few hundred feet beneath them. The banking effect caused the plane to turn sharply and, he lined up on where the centerline should be, the plane flared, riding on the cushion of air trapped beneath the wings and the ground below. “Too high and still to fast, but without enough energy for a second try,” John thought as he retracted the flaps. The plane dropped nose heavy. When they were about to plunge into the runway, he dropped the flaps once more and the plane rose like a kite and hung there ten feet off the ground before dropping like a stone, bouncing off the rotted concrete. John grabbed a pack from Nick and jammed it between his head and dashboard, as the Cessna tipped forward and careened to a stop in a shower of sparks, its tail high in the air, looking like a scorpion about to strike.

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It was like going from zero to the speed of sound in two seconds. He lost control of his bladder sphincter, and his urine rushed down his urethra smashing to a halt at the resistance created by the rubber band. He was the surviving member from the Wexford airport, quickly immobilized by the IRA squad that had arrived shortly after the Saab. John had indeed been right about someone else shooting. Hardly any of his rounds had hit their mark. He groaned loudly from the pain, his eyes rolling as he struggled against his bonds. His entire body trembled and his muscles jerked spasmodically as they responded to the powerful stimulant. A metallic odor seeped from his nostrils as he tried in vain to breathe deeply to calm himself. Shunts in both his wrists pumped his body with saline, and a powerful diuretic, his body fought against the burden while trying to expel the excess, but to no avail. He wanted to vomit but there was nothing to void. Heart muscles pumped harder and harder in response to his panic and the excessive stimulants. It wasn’t long before his mind began to slip, and he began to turn from a functioning human being into an animal moaning from the searing agony and torment. The interrogator watched, with neither compassion nor much interest, from another room through a thick glass window as he munched on a sandwich and coffee. A recording studio, it fitted the purpose perfectly, hidden as it was in the Wexford countryside, disguised to resemble an old cottage, it allowed international artists to come and go unhindered. Closed this month for renovations, it was completely deserted, and would be for days to come. It hadn’t taken long to get a reaction from the “client” strapped to the studio chair. When he had been brought in, with a bag over his head, he was, as expected, full of piss and vinegar. A half hour in the chair, naked in complete silence, uneased him, and when he was approached he expected questions and a deal to be made. This was not the interrogator’s method. Matt preferred to chat later - he wasn’t much of a talker this early in the day. Gobbling the last mouthful, Matt tidied up, clearing away his eating area. He tossed the newspaper in the garbage, having called in a bet to the local bookies for a race scheduled later in the day. Wasn’t sure why he bothered, he normally lost more than he won, but it gave him something to look forward to. Leaning back he stretched, yawning, and then reluctantly determined that he’d better take care of business before the boss called.

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Snapping on two pairs of latex gloves — he was well aware of the danger of AIDS from his experience as a nurse in the local hospital — he slipped soundlessly into the interrogation room and walked to the monitors which were hooked up to his guest. “Tut, tut,” he admonished his writhing patient, as he noted the racing heartbeat. The blood pressure at 210/160 gave him concern — Matt didn’t want him to stroke out before he had served his purpose. Detaching the syringe from the shunt in the left wrist, he removed it and lay it to one side. In it was a solution which contained a noxious dosage of nicotine - 10 mg - half of which had been pumped into his “client” over the past hour. Enough to kill him if given straight, but the solution diluted the effect nicely. To drop his blood pressure, an intravenous dose of a vaso dilator was given, but this did not relieve the pounding heart beat, as the body attempted to control everything that was happening. Next, he inserted a valved catheter into his penis, sliding the tube upward until he hit the resistance of his crude but very effective strangulating blockage, which, when all was secure he released, but he did not release any of the urine which threatened to erupt from the blocked off valve. Taking another syringe, he inserted it into the shunt, depressing the plunger slowly. As the sodium pentothal entered his clients bloodstream its calming effect began to immediately relax him. He no longer strained against his bonds, though his arms and ankles were raw and bloody from the friction. Attaching a tube to the catheter, he snaked and taped the other end to a large bucket — a 13 gallon waste paper basket - which would be disposed of later. The patient was not himself, his mouth was parched and his body dehydrated despite the infusions, as the diuretics drained his tissues of water. “Now me oul son, it’s time we had a chat,” he spoke gently to his captive, lighting a cigarette from a packet of Rothmans. He lowered the dosage of the sodium pentothal and watched as consciousness slipped back into his victim’s eyes. “I know ya can hear me — nod yer head — aaaah good. Now you have two choices — pleasure or pain. I can have ya screamin’ again in side a few seconds if ya give me the wrong answer, or I can leave ya the way ya are, nice and comfy - ye get the picture? Sure ya do,” he patted his arm and stubbed out his cigarette. Stretching forward he flicked on a small cassette recorder and began his questioning. After the first round, satisfied with the answers, he released the catheter valve and let a full pint of urine trickle slowly from the tube. He had to be careful, if he released it too quickly the shock would kill his patient before he was finished with him. “And to think ya told me to fuck off when we met, sure aren’t we now the best of buddies?” he crooned, as he watched the decrease in body fluids lower his patient’s blood pressure dramatically.

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“Old Joe wanted to string ye up like a chicken and beat ya half to death, but Matt said no. Yep, we’re the best a palls.” Progress was slow but methodical, Jack Fleming, he said his name was, though almost completely intoxicated, he was full of useful information. This was all recorded on tape and transcribed. Within a couple of hours it was forwarded by e-mail to Sinn Féin headquarters before the young lad from the local shop arrived with Matt’s lunch. The information was very interesting indeed, and the wheels of the IRA investigation began to spin very quickly. Their information was days ahead of either police force, so was their opportunity to take advantage of it. Their attitude towards Nick Riordan changed dramatically — from one of suspicion to one of understanding. Matt’s team had already disposed of the remains of the other bodies. Wood chippers had come into their own as an effective and clean method of disposal. A fact Jack Fleming found out later that day.

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“Our top story tonight on CNN is the bombing of the Irish Airline at Logan Airport Boston. At 7:10 P.M. Eastern time, an A330, flying a regularly scheduled flight from Dublin Ireland to JFK New York, exploded as it made an emergency landing at Boston’s Logan airport.” In the background, a shaky amateur video filled the screen showing the large aircraft dropping from the sky. The camera shake got worse as fire and flame erupted from the belly of the plane, and the video was accompanied by excited garble, including a long series of beeps when the operator uttered a stream of expletives at the sight. After reviewing the casualties, and the miraculous survival of the captain and his first officer, there followed brief statements from the Irish and US Governments, along with comments wrestled from spokespeople for various paramilitary groups, denying involvement and condemning the act. “The situation in the Irish Republic is becoming tense, though dialog continues with the British Government, who have offered every assistance they have available in tracing the perpetrators. Following this news broadcast there will be a 20/20 program on ABC which was prepared last year. It traces the rise of Irish Prime Minister Quinlan and his social democratic party since their election three years ago.” “In the light of recent events, Mr. Quinlan has unexpectedly appointed a prominent Irish businessman and friend, Gerard O’Shea to the post of Deputy Prime Minister. Mr. O’Shea has been outspoken about the need for healing at times such as this, and is well respected in business and social circles. This appointment was sudden, reflecting a need for a prominent public figure in this time of turmoil, according to our Dublin based correspondent. Though not confirmed by official sources, there is rumor of pressure being brought to bear on politicians to not attend their congressional meetings and these threats have already resulted in at least one death. We await confirmation of this information.” “In further developments regarding the march massacre in Northern Ireland, Irish troops have been mobilized to the border areas, primarily as a means of completely shutting down access to the province from Southern based IRA terrorists.” Images of armored cars and scout vehicles of the Irish Territorials could be seen trundling northward from Dublin, and from their commands in Donegal and the West of the country. Whip antennas, donned with their unit flags, waved; the first such mass movement since Prime Minister Jack Lynch had done so in 1969, at the onset of the then latest rounds of

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“troubles.” Lynch’s effort however, was one of providing solace for fleeing Catholics who were being terrorized by enraged Protestants in retaliation for the Catholic’s demand for equal rights under the law. “The Irish government said in a statement today that the move was not one of aggression against the North, but one to finally cut off a route of attack and escape for terrorists. Unionist leaders, however, have rallied their members against what they term as a pending foreign invasion, and have demanded that the British government match the deployment one-for-one with the Irish troops. While the British government refuses to comment, the crackdown on Catholic enclaves continues with mass arrests and the reopening of the H-block internment camps. British Troop movements along the border have increased and cross-border traffic is being subjected to intense scrutiny. This is Kitty Chun with CNN news.”

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“The British Government today announced that all marching permits were to be revoked until further notice. This, in light of the violence of last week, was met with anger from the Protestant community who, as argued in the past, regard the right of free assembly as a basic democratic right. Catholic groups have sided with the government, especially in light of what is being called a ‘tit for tat’ reprisal bombing of the Aer Lingus A 330 and have called for protection from the increasing acts of violence threatened by the Protestant majority. President Clinton, in a rare move, angered by the ongoing escalating tensions, called on the Protestants to forego this ancient and I quote, ‘bigoted practice of taunting the minority. It is similar to Nazi groups marching through Jewish communities. Neither tolerable nor ethical, and certainly not a right by a far stretch of anyone’s imagination.’ He reminded the Protestant leadership that, despite their loyalty to England, their heritage was as Irish as their Catholic neighbors. Catholics are now close to 45% of the population and it is estimated that by the year 2008, they will have an adult population of 55%.” “The newly elected Deputy Prime Minister O’Shea has offered aid to the families of the dead from last weeks massacre. This has been rebuffed by militant Protestant leaders, who have told the families that taking such aid would be aiding and abetting the enemy. In response to cross-border skirmishes between terrorist groups, and in light of the closing of the border by the British Government, Irish troops have begun deploying on the Southern side, reinforced by heavy units of armored cars and tanks. Reserves have been recalled and are confined to barracks awaiting deployment orders. In response to outrage by Protestant militants, the Irish government had pointed out that the reserve recall is purely coincidental. The summer season is the high point of training and exercises for the reserves.” “‘I would suggest to the militants that they look to heal their own wounds before they strike out at their neighbors,’ O’Shea said today, during a break from a EEC conference in Dublin. ‘The last thing we want is another civil war. However, by definition, a civil war is a war between inhabitants of a country - countrymen, brothers. The Protestants have never regarded themselves as Irishmen and women, never. Acts of violence therefore must be regarded as acts of war from a foreign nation and dealt with as such. Any act of retribution against the Catholics in Northern Ireland or against the South will be regarded in this light.’ His words have shocked many of those close to the negotiations. Never

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before has such a strongly worded statement been issued through official channels by a member of the Irish government.” “When asked what was meant by Paul Kenny, a junior minister from Cork, at a press conference earlier, when he appealed to Irishmen everywhere to come to the aid of Ireland, O’Shea dismissed the comment as irresponsible. However, he defended the representative, quoting Ben Gurion from a statement in 1947 asking Jews to return to Israel to defend the new state from its outside aggressors, who coincidentally where also the British. A reporter asked, ‘Does this mean that we will see a large influx of Irish returning to Ireland to defend the country, plane loads from the corners of the earth?’ This was met by a laugh from O’Shea. ‘God forbid. How would we feed them all! In the US alone we have 40 million Irish descendants. Irish-Australians constitute a third of their population. Add them all up and we’d have a descendent population far greater than England’s 64 million.’ Pushed for clarification O’Shea brushed off questioning with a dismissive ‘Che serà, serà.’” “The UN has asked Britain to allow observers to enter the troubled areas. Official sources have been quick to point out that Britain would refuse such a move, but would ‘take it into consideration.’” “The IRA issued a statement today, repeating the denial of involvement in last week’s massacre. In an unprecedented move the IRA spokesman, speaking through a contact in the Irish Times, offered aid to all the families affected, regardless of their religious denomination, through a charity organization set up to support Catholics. They said that an investigation of their own was progressing well, and a report would be issued through the Irish Times in the coming weeks.” “After the break we will be talking to a panel about the ongoing effect of these recent moves. This is Paul Schaeffer for the RTE evening news.”

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The cars were driven to the dockside in Sligo town, where they were left sitting for some minutes adjacent to mountains of coal. The darkness of the night was complete, the moon hidden behind a thick cloud cover. But that made no difference to the plan at hand. The stench of the turning low tide filled the nostrils of those present at the quay, the slime of exposed seaweed clung like a predator to the damp bare quayside. Lights from a housing estate twinkled orange on the black water of the Garavogue River, which could be heard crashing over the weir under the nearby Douglas Hyde Bridge. A church bell pealed in the distance, marking time through the lonely hours. The two Volvo S70’s, although capable of filtering the air through their air conditioners, were incapable of moving. When hauled onto the truck, two simple weld cuts each had disengaged their front wheel drive train, but allowed the motors to be run - a welcome relief to the passengers who were close to nausea from the stink of congealed blood, and in the case of the second car, the death of the driver. They frantically went through their options for escape, but narrowed it down to next to nil. The Reverend Ian Paisley was seated in one of the cars; the other car was an escort vehicle. As the most outspoken critic of any swing toward the involvement of Irish government in Northern affairs, he was an obvious, though to date ignored, target for assassination. His Protestant Fundamentalist Church was the backdrop for his constant verbal harassment of Catholics, and his vehement opposition of any drift towards changing the status quo in the political climes in Northern Ireland. Paisley’s fiery public denunciations were responsible for inciting countless acts of violence. Paisley had tested the theory that they could remove the rear seat back and get out through the trunk. However, the half inch steel that protected his back from rogue bullets now imprisoned him. The thick bullet-proof glass became greener as the light faded, heightening the fact that they were secure from entry, and from escape. A chase car that had followed them from the border provided the electronic jamming of any frequency emanating from the vehicles, blacking out transmissions from radios, car phones and their portable LoJack tracking system. The truck which carried the cars Southwest had picked up an immediate escort on crossing the Irish border at a point where the truck and its driver were familiar with the border police. The convoy had proceeded to Sligo without a hitch.

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The intelligence group located in Monaghan town, south of the border, were monitoring the British Army frequencies, and it was not long before a request for assistance was answered from Paisley’s headquarters to search for his missing car when it had failed to report in. Activating the cars LoJack tracking system had produced no results. Two British Army Air Corps Lynx helicopters converged on the roadway, one standing off while the other hovered, searching over the last stretch of roadway from which transmissions had been received. The pilot’s attention was attracted by two parked cars, similar in color to the ones reported missing, and, after a brief conference with his controller, it was decided to let four soldiers rappel down from the aircraft to check out the area on foot. As he set the helicopter into automatic hover over the cars, ropes were thrown from the opened side doors in the belly of the craft, and soldiers slid down to the roadway below. As they acknowledged their safe decent, an electronic signal radiated its way across from a field over a mile away. A Remote Monitoring Unit, set in a tree overlooking the scene, recorded and broadcast, in real time, the sights and sounds of the area to a receiver in the hands of the kidnappers’ incursion patrol. Instead of beating a hasty retreat to the border, they had made a forced march and awaited the opportunity to confuse the situation further, giving the truck as much time as possible to fulfill its mission, carrying Paisley’s hi- jacked cars south of the border. The leader of the incursion patrol, focusing his Nikon shipping glasses on the area, was glad of the remote unit, because it made up for the lack of the depth of field that the glasses provided, although crystal clear in their imaging, they flattened the perspective. The RMU had a directional antenna which focused the broadcast signal into a narrow corridor avoiding interception from British transmission monitoring units. As the helicopter flared, turning away from the drop zone, the leader depressed a red button on his remote control black box set to particular transmission frequency. A millisecond later, a receiving device located in both cars beeped before they simultaneously blew apart in a tremendous fireball. Both cars were packed with 300 pounds of plastic explosives, each of the bombs wrapped tightly in cellophane and lined with industrial ball bearings. The force of the explosions accelerated the shrapnel shrouded charges upwards and out shearing through the metallic skin of the cars. The soldiers did not have a chance, they were ripped apart where they stood. It was difficult to determine what had caused their death, incineration or the steel balls. The mini projectiles, heated by the explosive to near melting point, splattered flat against the soldiers Kelvar body armor. What areas remained exposed were lacerated by the lethal balls.

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The helicopter suffered a similar fate. The expanding gasses ballooned it upwards and away. The steel balls sliced through the taut aluminum skin killing the pilot and the remaining soldiers. The balls, combined with the heat of the explosion, shredded the rotors, turning the once flyable hunk of metal into an unaerodynamic brick, which crashed to the ground in the fireball that resulted from ruptured fuel cells. The second helicopter, riding shotgun at a distance, turned as the pilot reacted instinctively, hauling back on the collective and kicking the right rudder, pulling the aircraft up and away from the expanding flash. The heat of the blast overtook them, surging the Lynx skyward in an unbelievable burst of acceleration. Fighting to maintain control, only one of the warning lights that began to blink meant anything to the pilot - that, warning of damage to the tail rotor. Training warned him to set the aircraft down immediately, lest this vital piece of equipment fail, sending them into a terminal spiral as the torque of the main rotor would spin them out of control in a matter of seconds. Reacting automatically, he feathered the main rotor and let the nimble Lynx drop before hauling on the collective to utilize the remaining lift being generated by the turning prop. Relief flooded through him when he saw the ground rise towards them barely twenty feet below. A bright warning light, accompanied by a warning horn, shocked him back into reality. “Incoming!” he shouted into his throat microphone, he forced the aircraft down while punching out three flares, a futile gesture he knew. At this altitude the flares would barely have time to burst into life before hitting the ground, but it was all he could do. “Jump! Get out now!” he shouted to the troops in the rear, who were happy to oblige, tumbling out of the already open doorway. When they hit the ground, a couple of soldiers could see the trail of smoke that followed the missile as it sailed yards above the ground toward the hot exhausts. Although protected by heat shrouds to fool heat seeking projectile, the helicopter now offered a very large and attractive target to the missile, angled as it was toward its sensitive nitrogen cooled seeker head. The flares did confuse it for a fraction of a second, but had an overall negative effect. The pilot had been correct in his assumption that the flares would fall to the ground; they remained there burning furiously at a temperature considerably higher than the exhaust ports. At the missiles rate of closure - an American Stinger shoulder fired model - in excess of twice the speed of sound, the distraction did little to change its flight path, but in fact sealed the fate of the already doomed machine. The missile attempted to change course towards the more attractive targets but the Lynx settled to the ground in its path and the Stinger’s velocity punched it through the thin skin of the engine compartment where it was deflected by the

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heavy aluminum of the motor casing. It tore forward through the padded firewall that separated the engine compartment from the troop loading area before exploding right behind the pilots head. The entire front end of the Lynx seemed to expand as the canopy windshields blew out some twenty yards, fluttering in the air like falling autumn leaves. The nose section literally fell off. The flying debris killed all of the troops, a patrol of six who were lying on either side of the now destroyed craft. The main rotor still spinning, spun free, disintegrating and scything the surrounding area with lethal debris. The commander of the incursion force seemed happy with his work, and in an Eastern European dialect ordered his men to move out on their continued forced march southward. All that was left to do was to depress the fire button on his remote control box once more, and as he turned away he could hear the muffled sound of the RMU as it destroyed itself, its parts scattering over a wide area of foliage and roadway. They would remain unnoticed until sorted from the remains of the cars and helicopters that littered the area, mingled liberally with the flesh and thickly coagulated blood of the British soldiers. Paisley’s cars were unloaded from the carrier by a powerful shunting truck. A tall figure approached and watched, smoking, as they were loaded by a crane onto a small coastal cargo ship that lay tied up at the docks, which in the damp gloom was illuminated by a sole orange halogen street lamp. The whine of the crane motor was the only sound as it wound up its coils of steel thread, lifting its cargo onto the rusty deck of the freighter. Typical of freighters that roamed the coast for most of the past century, these ships operated close to the coast, ready, if the weather turned, to race toward harbor for shelter. They were, for many years, before the advent of the more economical and timely diesel truck, the backbone of Irish inter-town and inter-island trade, favored highly in the delivery of coal and other essential supplies to less accessible areas. This relic had been bought from its owner five months before for a tidy sum. It still flew the flag of commerce, albeit irreverently. Applying a device to the car body, much like a hydrophone used by submariners, the passengers in the lead car were surprised by the sound, although tinny, of the voice that addressed them. “Reverend, how nice to see you!” the sneer could be detected even through the metallic resonance. Paisley sat up in his seat illuminated by the reading lights that lit the interior. Squinting through the glass, he could not see his captor. “Who are you?” he asked. “A Taig,” he said using the derogatory Protestant term for a Catholic, “and a vengeful one at that, you pompous dinosaur.”

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Still Paisley couldn’t see, he turned to his security chief questioning him with a touch to his shoulder. The security chief, trying to analyze in their situation, shrugged his shoulders, he could only see his own reflection in the glass. Men approached the cars, portable blow torches in hands and set about applying a further weld to the doors, trunk and hood. “Doomsday has arrived,” the anonymous voice crackled through the makeshift communications device. “But you won’t be around to see it.” Paisley bristled, “Show yourself you coward!” he called. “Surely,” he added as he calmed, trying to buy time when he heard the large ship engines come to life, “surely, there must be a way to negotiate some agreement...” The newly appointed Deputy Prime Minister of Ireland walked away, waving his right hand to another figure unseen in the shadows. Paisley braced himself, as he felt the tires being removed from the car, followed by the sound of a pneumatic punch which blew 1 inch holes in the top surfaces of the car including the roof of the passenger compartments. The lingering smell of blood, combining with the stench of the oxidizing seaweed outside, did nothing to settle their already upset stomachs, as they realized that the vents were not for air, because they had that already, but to let in sea water. The cars, one at a time, were hoisted and lowered onto the deck of the ship and loaded into containers. They had to wait for a time for the tide to turn, hoping and praying that help would arrive. But it never did.

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“They’re bloody killin’ themselves in their eagerness to see justice done,” Peter Flanagan commented from the passenger seat of their unmarked car, flicking through a tabloid article covering all aspects of the air disaster. Seán, his thoughts on other matters, was miles away, like how he was going to explain his extra hours to his wife. They didn’t need the overtime money, but they did need the time together. Imelda was concerned that she would get a phone call late one night to hear the news that Seán had been killed - not an unusual thought given his line of work — and their life together would be over before they had time to get to know each other properly. They knew each other intimately; sex had been the glue that bonded their early relationship having hardly got out of bed when they were together. No, they needed time for themselves and screw everyone else. “Rippin’ each other apart,” Flanagan was a great one for exaggeration, “pissing blood, gobbin’ at each other like school children,” he said, as he tried to get Seán’s attention. “What?” Seán finally allowed his consciousness to register what Peter was saying. “Oh, the Prods and the Catholics up north.” “What are you gas bagging about?” “They’re gonna friggin start milling about, killin’ each other over this mess the other day.” “They already have - haven’t you seen the reports?” Seán knew that Peter preferred to watch the TV or listen to the news on the radio to keep up to date. On an international scale, news agencies were normally well ahead of intelligence resources due to the people they had on the ground and the miracles of digital technology. But Northern Ireland was different, because everyone looked the same — no skin color differences. They dressed and spoke the same way — religion was the barrier. “Sure. One things certain. All the good brought about after that peace referendum is shot — gone out the window. The army up there is interring Catholics and radical Protestants alike by the truck load without a hope of them getting out — they’ve extended the internment from 7 to 14 days without a charge.” “Exactly what we’d do here,” Seán thought. He merely nodded. Traffic was heavy, as was Seán’s heart, wondering what was going to happen next — to Nick, to the south, to his family. A call came over the his cell phone. “Fifty six,” Seán responded.

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“Shooting reported at the top of Booterstown Avenue. How close are you?” A loaded question. They were, as the crow flies, three miles away, but they were stopped in traffic in Clonskeagh. They were immersed in rush hour congestion. “Fifteen minutes.” Seán responded, and flicked on his flashing blue lights, which were nestled both behind the grille on the front of the car and inside the rear window. He added, “Can you check to see if the gates are open in Belfield?” He referred to the trestle gates at University College Dublin, nestled in the heart of the south Dublin suburbs. If they were open he could shave 5 minutes off his estimate. He checked his watch. It read 8:05 A.M. “Will do - faxing you the incident details.” And the dispatcher hung up. The flashing lights and the whooping siren had the desired effect. Seán was able to turn the car around quickly as the early bird motorists woke up and cleared the way, happy for the break in their monotonous routine. They would have something to talk about in the office over coffee. Seán did not spare the horses as they roared up Clonskeagh Road. He was careful to watch out for cycling students who wound their way lazily to college, some, no doubt, hungover from the night before and not quite with it at this early hour. The dispatcher called as they made their left turn into Belfield and confirmed what they could already see, that the gates were indeed open. Speed bumps aside, they were across the campus in under three minutes. They raced across the highway overpass on the Stillorgan Road, turning south into three lanes free of traffic. The traffic on the rush hour side was at a crawl. Seán was grateful that their destination was in the opposite direction. Flanagan was trying, in vain, to mop up a coffee stain caused from a spill when Seán had taken the right turn onto the highway more abruptly than Peter had anticipated. Three sets of traffic lights later, they made their left turn onto Booterstown Avenue and slowed to check street addresses. They need not have bothered. The blue lights from the white patrol cars marked the spot quite nicely. The fax machine hummed with their brief sheet, and Flanagan read it over as they drew up to the house. “A politician, Alice Goggin, Independent, 44 years old, married, husband Peter, two kids.” He read out mechanically. They stopped and were approached by a uniformed patrol man, who was looking around him warily. “Mornin’.” Flanagan greeted him. “They could still be in the area.”

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Flanagan reached into the back seat of their car and picked up the UZI he kept there - arming it simply by pushing the safety off. Seán, meanwhile, removed an Ithaca semi-automatic 12-gauge shotgun from a saddle underneath the same seat, loaded with double-ought buck shot, both standard issue for the armed portion of the police force. The uniformed personnel were unarmed, a position that left them at the complete mercy of any thug carrying a weapon. The policy was not a popular one within the force, considering that the job came with the same danger to life and limb that all other police forces worldwide dealt with on a daily basis. “One adult female dead; one adult male wounded, badly from what the ambulance guys said.” Other task force cars pulled up, their occupants spilling out onto the roadway, holding weapons high, looking for targets as they began their well rehearsed and often used dance. They spread out to check the house and surrounding neighborhood. Seán was the senior man on the scene. Seán and Peter walked inside the house noting the neatness of the lawn. The victims cars were in the driveway still covered with the night’s rain. Neither had been moved this morning. “Where are the children?” Seán asked the accompanying patrol man. “No kids here sir. A neighbor told us they’ve been away on holiday with an aunt in Galway.” “Thank God,” Seán thought, as he made his way into the warm home. The smell was the first thing that hit him. A familiar smell to someone in his field. They made their way up the staircase and into the master bedroom. Other patrolmen were there but did not enter the room. They stood quietly, ashen faced, eager to be relieved. “Oh Christ!” Flanagan gasped, as the brunt of the odor of blood and death reached their nostrils. There would be little need for a ballistics check, the work was obviously done with a shotgun. The woman was still there, her torso anyway. Her head was spread over the bedroom wall. The warmth of the central heating had coagulated the mat of blood, brains, hair, and bone fragments into a dark crimson, nearly black mess, on the pocked wall where the buckshot had lodged. On the other side of the bed the sheets were wet with blood, where her husband had been shot. Seán walked slowly around the bed looking at the floor. He lifted the sheets with the barrel of his shotgun but was rewarded with nothing. He had hoped that an empty casing might have been hidden there. He checked under the bed. “The rest of her head is on the floor,” he commented to Flanagan, who was making notes. “Take some Polaroids.” Seán instructed him. The state pathologist’s office would take more detailed shots later, but Polaroids were for the file. They saved time waiting for copies.

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Flanagan turned to the bedroom door and asked one of the patrol men. “Any sign of a forced entry?” “Sure. The glass on the kitchen window was cut out.” “Cut out?” “Yes, sir.” “Show me.” Seán went with him. It was obvious that the attack had happened while both were sleeping. The breakfast table was set for two. The coffee pot off, the kettle cold. The counter top was covered with a few fragments of broken glass, but the gap in the window was more or less a clean square cut. Flanagan examined the area. The patrolmen had opened the back door and he went outside and looked around. He went back inside to Seán who had just taken a call from the office. “They stuck, I would guess, a one by two foot section of cellophane onto the window. Cut the edge six inches inside the border with a glass cutter, and pulled it out with a suction cup. The remains are outside.” He instructed the patrol man to have the detectives check for fingerprints. Seán raised his eyebrows questioning, “An alarm?” “Quite an elaborate one by the looks of things,” Flanagan responded going outside again. When he came back he gave a shrug. “The phone cable is intact as is the alarm bell under the eave. The power is still on.” Seán walked into the hallway and looked into the closet. The alarm lights were all working but the key was in the off position. “Seems they left it off last night. Caught them both in bed. The positioning of the blood stains suggest that she was awake and sitting up...” “Or told to sit up?” Flanagan muttered. Seán nodded. He dialed the office, gave a brief update. When he hung up he looked puzzled. Flanagan raised an eyebrow in question. “There have been two other shootings similar to this in the city this morning, and three more in various parts of the country.” “Go figure.” Flanagan responded grim faced, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. They went outside for a smoke while they waited for the coroner to arrive.

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The Newsnight program, broadcast that night, drew the attention of most of the Irish population. It posed many questions — but answered few. Who was behind the attacks remained a mystery. Not a shred of evidence linked any one person to the atrocities, nor any group of people for that matter. The obvious assumption that these were sectarian attacks did not require a college degree to figure out, par for the course in the thirty years of continued violence. What was different was the ferocity of the attacks — the sheer audacity — the boldness of the attackers. Why kill all those people so indiscriminately, particularly in light of the hard won peace of the Good Friday Accord? These and many more questions were being reviewed by security forces on both sides of the Irish border. The British tabloid newspaper headlines did little to quiet the storm. “IRA Bastards Silence The Innocents,” “Irish Hands Awash In Blood,” and perhaps the most poignant for the Daily Mail , “When Irish Eyes Are Killing - No Peace This Millennium,” set the tone for a shaken populace. Following the march massacre, radical Republican newspapers claimed a great victory, though, the IRA newspaper, An Phoblacht did project restraint and the need for calm. This was due in a large part to a call from a furious Gerry Adams when he learned that the original headline was to have been “About Bloody Time.” Their jubilance was silenced abruptly after the downing of the A 330. In the south, the politicians, on the their summer recess, were recalled to discuss emergency measures should a response be needed. Money was set aside for a relief fund and appeals were made through the government owned national television and Radio Telefis Eireann renouncing violence and the people behind the carnage. A reward fund of considerable size was set up along with a toll free number for people to call. What was not mentioned were the death threats. Each member of congress, or the Dáil as it is referred to in Ireland, had received repeated threats advising them to stay to their constituencies and to avoid returning to Dublin. Ignored as a prank, these threats received the members undivided attention when three Government congressmen were found shot in the head, along with a note from the same source. The fact that these notes were from the same source did not require the detective work of the police, because each was delivered and printed on Irish government stationery. An emergency meeting was called, but little could be determined. The politicians were human after all and feared death as much as everyone else. New notes delivered the

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afternoon of the three killings indicated that future “enforcement,” as it was referred to, would include families, if the instructions were not carried out. Much to the annoyance of Irish Prime Minister Quinlan, a number of higher ranking officials decided that overseas business needed immediate attention, and duly disappeared along with kith and kin, despite warnings that they would lose their government seats and pension. Like cattle shuffling nervously in the slaughter yard, it quickly became a stampede when indeed a congressman’s entire family was killed that very afternoon. The politicians disbanded in complete panic, despite assurances from the police that they would be protected. The police force was stretched to near breaking point in an effort to track the source of the distress. Word spread to the media, and within the course of one edition of the evening papers, the country was in an uproar of jittery speculation. The bars did great business, being the focal point of the communities where people gathered to discuss what was quickly dubbed as the “emergency” - borrowing the term Ireland used during World War II, which it rode out as a neutral country. It took some days for reality to set in — the reality of who would govern and lead at a time of crisis. Speculation was rife as to who was behind the whole affair. Some logically concluded that it was an effort by Northern Ireland to destabilize the Republic, to avoid any hope of reuniting the country, a fact so close a week previous — now a distant, if not fond, memory. Some thought that the North was going to invade the South to reverse the progress of fifty years of independence. The remaining members of government who stayed in Dublin did what they could with the approval of the Prime Minister. They declared a national crisis and enacted the powers that went with it. The army was called out of their barracks and assisted the police in patrolling the streets in preparation. In preparation for what, was anyone’s guess. Through all of the confusion, one newspaper projected a stable and uniform message. The man behind the newspaper, a successful Irishman who had made his fortune in America and returned to invest in his homeland, was a rock of good sense, and used every opportunity in his publication to advise for calm restraint and to publicly advise the government as to what he thought they should do. He had bought the near bankrupt Irish Press some years before, promptly renamed it the Irish Chronicle , and changed the format to resemble something similar to the world renowned Wall Street Journal . He avoided muck spreading and the much touted success of the tabloid format, concentrating instead on providing in depth investigation of world, as well as home news. In doing so he put a large dent in the fortunes of the other dailies, The Irish Times , and The Irish Independent . Well respected both publicly and

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privately, he was frequently called upon to advise those in government circles who cared to listen. His name was Gerard O’Shea. He was born in 1947, in a blue collar neighborhood in North Dublin. Educated by the Christian Brothers, and later by the Jesuits in Belvedere College, where his father used every penny he had saved to ensure that his only son received a solid education, he graduated from University College Dublin in 1969 close to the top of his class in business and history. He went onto Harvard in the U.S. under the umbrella of a business scholarship. While at Harvard he developed a keen interest in two areas of business, communications and technology. He used these interests to invest his early finances in both industries. His early successes attracted the interest of investors. Before long he created, and for twenty-five years maintained one of the most successful investment firms on Wall Street, creating vast wealth for himself and his clients. In 1990 he retired, and his departure from the world of finance was touted as the only loss he had ever made for his investors. Close links with Ireland, and his generosity with investing his money in all things Irish, ensured that upon his permanent move there, he was welcomed as a returning hero. O’Shea’s influence was such that, in this time of crisis he was the only stable ship in a stormy sea. It was quite understandable that his country would ask to be tethered to his unwavering side. The appointment was not lost on Gerry Adams, who watched the show in silence knowing that one of his biggest fears was coming true. He had heard rumors of O’Shea and his dark side. Ireland had just appointed a dictator.

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A strange sensation overcame Nick after he said good-bye to Ted Smith at Heathrow Airport. Nick was overwhelmed by a feeling of sadness — loss, while he waited for his flight to Newark, New Jersey. “Very strange,” he thought, trying to rationalize an emotion that he had not felt for years. His mind flashed back to those late August days, waving good-bye to the friends that he had made at summer camp as they all headed home, back to school. Things would never be the same again, and they never were. It lay heavy in his gut for most of the day as he traveled to the U.S., under an assumed name, his hair cut short. Ted had been expecting him when he arrived in London, after a hitching a ride from where John had landed the plane in Wales. Ted had greeted Nick like a long lost son. He had put on some extra years but had lost weight since his triple by-pass. Conspicuously absent were the blue packets of non-tipped French Gitane, Ted’s cigarettes of choice, which he used to consume as if he was a shareholder in the manufacturing company. Nick had never seen him look so well, what with the color in his cheeks and a glint in his eye. Ted had been waiting for him at the gangplank of his river barge, which was moored to the banks of the Thames in the suburb of Hampton; the morning was cool following a night of sporadic rain. The heavy clouds were gone, replaced by high cirrus which streaked the sky. Weeping willows lined the bank, their fronds caressing the water as they leaned river-ward. A taxi had dropped Nick about half a mile away just as Ted had instructed, when they spoke on the phone the previous afternoon. Nick had waited fifteen minutes, observing cars traveling past on the tree lined street. None stopped nor even slowed. However, twice a young woman in a jogging suit passed him. “Strange,” Nick thought, as he looked up at her the second time, “she hasn’t even broken a sweat.” She did not look at him nor acknowledge him in any way. Slung to her midsection was a fanny pack which hung low. After the allotted time, Nick used the directions Ted had given him and made his way down the river bank, pausing occasionally to see if he had any company. At this early hour none were visible but, as he saw Ted, the jogger was working her way back toward him again. Ted saw the distraction in Nick’s eyes as he greeted him. Before Nick could ask, Ted said in a low voice, “She’s one of mine.” As she passed this time, she flashed them both a smile, visible only to them, so quick was its passing.

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“Come in, come in,” Ted led him to his barge and across the beautifully finished teak deck into the cabin below. The exterior paint work was in traditional colors - black with a red finish. The brasses shone and the river gurgled by on it’s journey down through greater London. They had to stoop as they entered, and Nick caught the waft of cooked bacon and eggs rising from the cabin. “Bonjour!,” Ted’s wife Muriel smiled broadly, as Nick emerged from the stairwell. She rushed over and hugged him, kissing him on both cheeks as was the French custom. Her perfume, a light pleasant scent, assailed his senses. Muriel, Ted’s second wife, many years younger than he, was a sight for sore eyes. Her blue eyes sparkled, and her auburn hair was tied back in a pony tail, her skin was soft and wrinkle free. She did not look her forty-one years. She wore a cotton track suit which did little to hide her well proportioned body, and Nick felt a little ashamed at the strong sense of arousal that he felt at her touch. “Let me look at you,” Muriel held him at arms length. “Mon Dieu, you look tired, and I think you need a shower!” she added, as she jokingly sniffed at him. “I will have breakfast ready in ten minutes - yours - Ted is on a strict low fat diet.” Ted looked at her in mock disgust, smiling. “Please go and have a shower. Ted has left some clothes out for you in the changing room.” She led him back deeper into the boat, and swung open the bathroom door. “You will find it a little tight in there but the water is hot and you will have all you need. Throw out your clothes when you get undressed, and I will put them in the machine.” She fussed over him and would not pause to allow him to speak. Nick was quite happy to have someone tell him what do. When she left him, he quickly peeled away his dirty clothes, disposing of them as Muriel had instructed, and turned on the shower. The shower was indeed cramped, but heaven once the hot water cascaded down onto him, needling his tired flesh. He felt the tension ebb away with the dirt and sweat of his journey. “He looks awful, Ted!” Muriel commented as he returned to the kitchen. “He’s had a tough week sweetheart - reminds me of the war, that same weary look of a combat soldier.” Muriel picked up a mug of coffee and sipped. “Can you help him?” “I’ve made discrete inquiries, and he’s in a lot of hot water. Seems like he’s getting the blame for that whole incident in Northern Ireland a few days ago. His story checks out though - I spoke to his wife Jessica last night. She called me after she saw the news reports, and I told her to do exactly as Nick had told her with a couple of minor changes.” “Like what?”

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“I told her to contact our New York office. They will get her secure means of communication - a SkyTel beeper and a secure portable phone and whatever else she needs. She’s smart though, she didn’t leave a number and she will have them picked up when she chooses. Anyway, that end is taken care of for now.” “Is Nick involved? I mean is it possible that he was behind the attack or involved in some way?” “Of course it’s possible, but I’ve known the guy for years. He’s a shrewd businessman and despite some past family connections with the IRA, all my checking has turned him up clean.” Ted set the table for breakfast, and he and Muriel talked quietly until they heard the shower stop running. When Nick returned, he looked like a new man. He had shaved, and his skin was tight from the heat of the water. His hair was combed back still wet, and the clothes that Ted had left him, although a little large, hung well from his frame. “The shoes where too big Ted,” Nick apologized, as he paddled to the table in his bare feet. Ted asked him his shoe size, and disappeared up into the bright morning light, returning a minute later. “We’ll have you all fixed up in a little while.” Pointing to the food on the table, he urged Nick, “Eat, eat, time to refuel.” Nick did not have to be asked twice. They made small talk as they ate. Muriel chatted about life in London and how Ted had made a marvelous recovery since his operation. Satisfied, Nick sat back in his seat and said, “I hate to say this in front of you Ted, but I’d love a cigarette.” Muriel smiled and rose from the table. She reached into one of the small cabinets that lined one wall and withdrew a packet which she tossed to Nick. “You’ll have to smoke on deck, cheri.” Nick had expected to get down to business right away; however, Ted urged him to go below and rest. Protesting all the way, Nick did as he was bade and when he settled on the bunk, sleep overcame him. Later that afternoon when he awoke, he felt refreshed. On the floor beside his bed lay a pair of new high-top sneakers, still in their box. He tried them on and they fit him perfectly. Set beside it was a fishing rod. After a cup of tea, Ted and Nick set off in Ted’s car. “So where are we off to?” Nick asked him. As they turned onto the entrance to the M 40, Ted replied, “Oxford and the environs.” They chatted lightly throughout the trip. Ted pointed out landmarks, in particular, “follies” built a century earlier. These peculiar structures were constructed for no particular reason other than to provide labor for a work force during hard times. They had no purpose - one in High Wycombe was a tower without windows. Tall

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and gray, it stood, left as it had been finished, unused, paid for with funds supplied by a wealthy landowner so that his tenants could eat. The motor-way turned into a well paved two lane road, bordered by the low hills of farming country. Gentle slopes were clothed in waving blankets of barley and wheat. Freshly plowed earth stood in proud rows as a tractor cleaved open the grassy pasture, exposing the rich soil beneath. The occasional pub flashed past, wooden banners hanging from poles proclaiming their names, tables set outside laden with golden lagers, and more so with the brown ales indigenous to the region. They exited onto a winding side road passing through what seemed like a deserted town - no one was around. Turning past an old church, a manor house rose from the countryside and Ted turned into the driveway. “I was born here,” Ted offered. “Not in the main house, mind you, but upstairs in the maid’s quarters. Lived here most of my childhood. My father and mother were part of the staff, my father a butler and my mother a maid.” “When did you leave?” “With the onset of World War II - I was a whipper snapper - 15 at the time. I joined up after the battle of Dunkirk. I lied about my age, but then we all did. Went off to see the glories...the horrors of war.” Ted stopped the car halfway up the approach and turned off the engine. As he got out of the car Nick followed his lead. Ted instinctively patted his breast pocket searching for the cigarettes that he knew were not there. With a sigh, he leaned back against the hood and turned his face skyward letting the evening sun warm his rugged face. The silence was broken only by the sounds of blackbirds and jackdaws cawing in the trees. In the distance the sound of a mower rose and fell in the gentle warm breeze. The air smelt of freshly cut crass. Ted wiped his face with one of his huge hands and gazed at the house. “Saw action in North Africa in ’41 fighting under “Monty” - Field Marshall Montgomery. We kicked Rommel out in August of ’42 but not before I lost a lot of my army pals. A German shell landed square in our position. I was lucky, having a piss in the latrine. Heard the shell crackling towards us and I looked up. It left a vapor trail as it arched across the sky. A large part of the lieutenant crashed through the roof of the latrine; I had to fish it out of all the shit and muck. He had a cigar clenched between his teeth, still there when I retrieved his bits. Anyway, the rest of the detail were strewn about - limbs, torso’s smashed against the earth. I buried them all and joined up with an American outfit shortly afterwards.” Ted continued his story as they walked through the Oxford countryside. He recounted how he had been befriended by a Jewish

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soldier from Brooklyn, and how, after the war, in ’47 he had helped run guns to Israel through the British blockade. “We British had promised the Jews a homeland in Palestine after the war, but it never happened. It took the resistance tactics of Ben Gurion and his small army to get Britain to the negotiating table which resulted in independence for the newly founded state in 1948. We British were a pompous lot then, but times have changed.” Smiling he added, “Maybe not.” “Didn’t you feel badly about helping an enemy of the state?” “Yes and no. I was still full of the vigor of youth, and it helped lay the foundation for my career in the international trade, which over the years became a respectable outfit providing a language translation service to many of the world’s leading companies.” He laughed. “Little did they know that much of the profits of the business were used to provide financial assistance for arms shipments. All for a good cause though,” he added. “I never did back a side just for the profit. I backed the side that was the underdog. Most of my leads were provided by the Israelis and the Americans. I even managed to squeeze in a College degree in London.” “How long have you been retired from the arms’ business?” “I sold off the trading business fifteen years ago. I wanted to end my career in a real business, buying and selling like everyone else. But you know, every business has its dark side, and in some cases even the best companies do things that made my gun running look positively angelic.” They set up camp adjacent to the Thames, some miles south of Oxford, close to the town of Lechlade. The evening clouded over, and as darkness fell, so too did a heavy rain shower. Their tents were on high sandy ground, and the water had little effect other than to make them smell the dampness in their clothes. Later, a wispy fog settled around them. It made no difference to them, as they sat for most of the evening in a local tavern sipping on pints of brew and talking into the wee hours about everything but the predicament in which Nick was in. This served the purpose of further relaxing Nick, and brought back an air of normality, as temporary as it was, to his life. By the time that they settled into their down sleeping bags, Nick’s mind was muddled with nothing more than sleep. Nick awoke to the sounds of chirping birds and the bright light of the sun that filtered through the wall of the tent. A sharp headache above his right eye reminded him of the previous evening’s drinks, but it was nothing that a Tylenol couldn’t take care of. As he zippered the tent flap open, the sparkle of the sun reflecting off the river water caught his eye, so did the sight of Ted sitting on a folding chair with fishing lines draped from their poles into the gently flowing current.

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“Coffee’s brewed.” Ted called out, not looking behind him. “Good morning. What time is it?” Nick responded, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “A little after eight. C’mon out here. Should have breakfast any time now.” As he said that one of the lines went taut, and the reel whirled as a fish caught the lure and ran with it. Ted leaped over and grabbed the rod, snapping the reel restraint and hauling back on it. “Its a big one!” A silver flash splashed from the river surface, as the fish surged upward in an attempt to evade whatever had snagged its mouth. Its tail whipped in mid air before it plunged back into the brown water. “A trout!” Ted worked the fish for a few minutes while Nick got dressed. By the time that he emerged, Ted had landed and gutted the fish; the pan perched on top of the gas stove was sizzling with melted butter. “I allow myself a little fat on special occasions, but I’ll have to walk it off later.” He smiled and beckoned to Nick to join him at the small table he had set up. The fish was delicious - it cooked perfectly in minutes. Accompanied by steaming coffee and fresh French baguette, bought locally the previous evening, they consumed their sumptuous meal quietly. Satisfied, Ted refilled his coffee cup and asked Nick to get him up to date on his troubles. He refrained for now from telling him that he had seen the coverage on the news. It took the better part of an hour, during which Ted listened intently. Finally Nick set his cup down, exhausted and holding his hands skyward he ended with, “And then we went fishing.” Ted quizzed him on parts of his story. Silent for a moment, he started to analyze the position that Nick was now in. “You’re in the shithouse, Nick. Big trouble. The TV news has you listed as one of the most wanted men in years, right up there with the Jack the Ripper and Colonel Qaddafi. I checked with some of my sources and they told me that you’re a walking dead man; shoot to kill is the order, and they’re pulling out all the stops to get you.” Nick said nothing, just looking intently at Ted while he talked. “What about your videotape...where is it?” “Gave it to John...thought he might have a better chance of getting away and, besides, I felt it might be safer in the US.” “Damn shame, it could have helped you here...helped you a lot, actually.” “It was damaged Ted. A round caught the camera through the lens, I didn’t want to touch it until he had seen it.” “Nothing we can do now. Someone wants to peg you with the blame for this, to set you up, as they say in America, as the fall guy. Unfortunately the media has played right along with them.”

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“What should I do Ted, I mean I’ve got to get out of here, got to make sure Jessica and the kids are OK?” “The only one you have to worry about right now is you. You did the right thing having Jessica leave, but they’ll find her and you in the States. You can’t live indefinitely without using a credit card or a bank account or whatever. Got any ideas as to what safe place you can get her to?” “Crete. We vacationed there many times, and I did some business with a local hotel owner over the years. Assuming he’s still there, he will help Jessica, “ Nick said. “He had more than a professional interest in her last time we were there...” Nick smiled in recollection. “If you can get her there, I can have somebody protect her. I would prefer if you could get her to Israel...” “And what then Ted? She knows nobody there. We’d stick out like sore thumbs. In Greece she has friends in a vacation town and will fit in quite well. Yani’s got pull with the local police....” “Leave the local police alone, they’d be next to useless in a case like this. I’ll make some calls and arrange something.” Ted rubbed his stubbled chin grimacing as he thought out Nick’s next move. “You have to get out of the UK. I may be able to get you out in a transport plane, rather than a regularly scheduled flight. Like horses do you?” “Huh?” “A colleague of mine flys thoroughbreds to and from Virginia. I may be able to get you on board as a stable hand.” He saw Nick’s downhearted look and patted him on the shoulder reassuringly. “Just kidding,” he laughed.

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“Tell me the name of one politician who isn’t on the take?” Flanagan said, referring to the back-handers that were common in day-to-day Irish life. “They can’t all be....” “‘Course they are in some way or other.” Flanagan enjoyed showing off in front of the uniformed staff at the cafeteria. “From the top to the bottom, it’s how the politician survives.” He could make sense when he had been off the booze for a few days. There was hope, some joked, that there could be intelligent life somewhere under the graying mop of hair. “You’re just saying that because of that Haughy scandal!” He referred to a former Irish Prime Minister accused, in his twilight years, of accepting bribes from businessman in return for political favors. “That’s part of it. But if the man at the top was guilty, you have to admit that it casts a shadow over the rest of them.” The uniformed cop was thinking of his local congressman. He did drive a Mercedes, but that didn’t mean.... Flanagan slurped at his coffee and took a deep drag from his cigarette. A hand brushed his shoulder, and he turned to look. “Howya Pete.” “Hey there Cullen.” “How’s it going?” Cullen sat opposite him. His coffee ran over the edge of the mug dripping onto the Formica topped table. Reaching over, he took the sugar dispenser and poured, what looked to Flanagan like most of it, into his mug. As he stirred the mixture, he lit a cigarette with the other hand and stared at the uniformed officer giving him a patronizing “now’s a good time to leave” look. The uniformed cop missed the hint and continued eating. “So lads, what’s going on?” Cullen asked. “Detective Flanagan here says that all politicians are on the take, and I just can’t believe that. Sure if that’s true, ye can’t trust anyone.” Cullen gave Flanagan a snide look. “What was this fucker talking like that to the rank and file for, especially with the current problems in this very area. Regardless of the fact that it was more true than even Flanagan could imagine,” Cullen thought. “So’s the Pope!” Cullen announced. “What?” “Ya have t’understand that the good Detective here is just yankin’ yer chain. That’s his way. Does it to everyone.”

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Flanagan tried to protest, but his mouth was full of an apple turnover, and all that came out was a gagging sound. That stopped too when he felt pressure on his foot, hard pressure. The uniformed officer looked over at Flanagan noting the redness in his face. A further stomp from Cullen brought the answer needed. “Sure he’s right - no truer word was said,” Flanagan muttered disgustedly. Cullen looked at the uniformed officer. The lad was not in the force more than two years, probably was not yet 21. A fine young man, his accent placed him as a Midlands man - probably form Longford. Assigned to police headquarters for the experience — he had shown promise. The last thing needed was to get too smart too soon. Might end up going somewhere. Like that other genius Driscoll. The officer excused himself and left. Flanagan turned angrily to Cullen. “Ye made me look like a fuckin’ eedjit.” “Jesus Peter,” Cullen laughed at him. “Ye know well you can’t fuck around like that with the new boys. Word’ll get upstairs and it’ll come back to haunt you.” “Sure I was only talking.” “Loose lips sink ships!” “For fucks sake, I can’t say a word in this place.” “Any news on the Riordan guy?” Flanagan had decided that there was no point trying to keep anything form Cullen. He’d only find out the next time they went for a few drinks. Peter couldn’t help himself. Besides, he could do with friends in other departments, to put in a good word for him from time to time. Lowering his voice he said, “That plane crash in Wexford four days ago. We think there was a connection.” “A plane reported as missing from Wexford?” “Yeah. We found one. Crashed off the shore. Locals were complaining about an oil slick, so the local police investigated. Found the wreck in thirty feet of water.” “So? A plane crashed. Happens all the time.” “The plane hasn’t been recovered yet. The weather hasn’t cleared enough. But it’s listed as stolen, and we’ve recovered three bodies so far.” Flanagan took another cigarette from his pack and lit it up. “So?” Cullen urged. “So they died from drowning. But their bodies were burned. The plane was on fire when it hit the water. One of the bodies had a bullet lodged in his neck.” “Could have been a fragment from an exploding fuel tank couldn’t it?”

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“Nope. The round was practically intact — .22 copper round. The coroner found it in the back of his throat.” Cullen said nothing, his mind whirring. “Any ID on the men?” he asked, knowing the answer. “No, which is what put the case into our department. That and the submachine guns they were carrying.” “And that leaves Riordan where?” “My best guess...” “Driscoll’s guess you mean,” Cullen thought. Flanagan continued, “Riordan was either on that plane and it crashed, or he’s flown the coop in another one.” “Riordan was last seen in Dublin, how do you tie him in down there?” Proud of himself, Flanagan took a long drag of his cigarette before answering. “Evidence. No other plane has been reported missing, so he could have been in the one that crashed. An eye-witness reported two planes in the air that morning, along with reports of gunshots - a lot of them. And, of course, the phone records from the airport payphone record a long distance call to his home in New York. Given the pressures on him, I would say it all fits together nicely.” “So what do you think?” Cullen asked finishing his coffee. “Personally, I think the guy’s into it up to his neck. He knew how to get away. Seems he was carrying a piece.” “I’d hardly call a .22 cal a piece.” Flanagan went on unfazed. “An airlift out. All too convenient. If he was innocent he’d have turned himself in and be a free man today.” “And a dead one.” Cullen thought. He looked at his watch. He had a call to make, now that he knew what to report to O’Shea about the missing men. Not one had checked in. “Pint later?” Flanagan asked, sensing he deserved one. Cullen nodded and left the table without a word.

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“What the hell is going on?” Prime Minister Quinlan asked O’Shea as he entered his office without knocking. O’Shea appeared startled, but inwardly he had been expecting this reaction, although he had thought that it would have happened a little earlier. Quinlan had spent the previous few hours traveling, as O’Shea well knew, from the UK where he had met with the British Prime Minister. It was the British PM who had told Quinlan the disturbing news about the additional troop movements in the Irish Republic — that they had been roused in the pre-dawn hours, assembled and rushed to the border. He had managed a brave attempt to hide his initial shock, but the PM’s eyes twinkled in his knowledge that he had caught his Irish counterpart off guard. Rush hour was just starting and commuters were confronted by the sight of army patrols surrounding government buildings and the main broadcasting authority based in Donnybrook. All over the country, strategic national assets: power plants, fuel depots, airports, and transportation centers were being sealed off in a similar fashion. Dubliners had seen this some 25 years before, during a time when bombs exploded all over the city in 1974. What was different this time was the obtrusive number of armored vehicles on the road, and the manner in which they were used. They had been positioned on pavements without regard to the damage that the vehicles, particularly the tracked ones, would inflict on the aesthetics of the city. Pavement edges were ground down to dust where the tracked armored personnel carriers had mounted them, scouring deep ridged scars in their roadway. Sandbags were unloaded from army trucks and lifted into position at key intersections behind which signal corps antennas snapped in the stiff morning breeze, their unit insignia fluttering, weapons bristling from ports, set at varying angles. O’Shea paused, elbows on the desk in front of him kneading his fingers. “I’ve alerted the army to a high level threat...” he began. “Alerted the army without my, the senate’s, or the president’s approval is tantamount to treason!” Quinlan shouted, beside himself with rage. “I have spent most of the night here...” “Gerry, have you gone out of your fucking mind? Did you lose my telephone number or that of any of the members of the government.” He hammered the desk. “First thing I heard about deployment was from the British Prime Minister!”

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“Desperate diseases demand desperate remedies!” Quinlan shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’ve put us on a path that could result in an outbreak of hostilities without the consensus of the people, and,” he added, “the British government must be laughing their themselves silly knowing that I as Prime Minister didn’t have a clue as to what was happening.” “The people wouldn’t know what was good for them if it jumped up and bit them in the ass.” Rising from his mahogany desk, O’Shea walked to his window and gazed out into the morning light. “Have you any idea the number of alcoholics that exist on this island; how many of the people that walk past here every morning are in the throes of a hangover?” “What the hell has that got to do with anything!” Quinlan interjected angrily, wondering if O’Shea had finally gone off the deep end. “It has to do with the perception of reality! The reality that these people have no idea what is right or wrong, what’s good for them or for the country. How could they, they’ve barely got their wits about them to get to work?” A silence fell as Quinlan sized O’Shea up. The man was a psychopath. “To the matter at hand! I authorized the army to commence maneuvers as a precaution after that plane bombing last night. We don’t want loyalist hoards romping through the country killing women and children at will as they have for centuries.” “You’re off your rocker!” Quinlan grunted, reaching for the phone. As he punched in the numbers for the Government security office he heard a loud click from the direction in which O’Shea was standing. “Hang up the phone!” O’Shea hissed. “What the?” Quinlan’s eyes opened wide in disbelief as he turned and saw the small chrome-plated silencer-equipped automatic in O’Shea’s hand. It pointed directly at his chest. “Hang up the phone,” O’Shea repeated, indicating what he wanted done with a toss of his head. “I’m quite serious.” Quinlan reacted with the speed of a cat, throwing the phone, cradle and all, at O’Shea’s face. Before the objects had made contact, he was down low running for the door. He nearly made it. As he grasped the brass handle, he felt a blow to his head smashing against his skull like a hammer. His world went instantly red as blood cascaded from his temple, and faded to black as he crashed against the still closed door. In fact, his impact with the door had been the loudest sound in the room. The automatic had fired with a barely audible plop. The action of the breech ejecting the spent cartridge was louder - metal

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scraping against metal. O’Shea pressed a speed dial on his mobile phone which was answered after the first ring. “Get the cleaners up here quickly before the bastard’s blood destroys my rug,” he muttered, pressing the end button with his thumb. He glanced at the video monitor beside his desk through which he could see his secretary’s ante-chamber outside. It was empty, just a little too early for Maeve to be at her desk. He depressed a button adjacent to where his phone would have been, had Quinlan not thrown it, locking the outside doors. His hand stung from the impact of the phone which he had avoided. He had expected such a reaction, he knew his now ex-boss well. Besides, Quinlan’s move was just what the government ministers had been taught by the special security contingent that guarded them as an anti-terrorist tactic to catch the aggressor off guard. He turned to the window, stooping momentarily to retrieve the spent casing which he slipped into his jacket pocket. Smiling, he held the weapon to his lips and blew the smoke from the barrel in the direction of Kildare Street which was now bathed in bright morning sunshine. Everything had gone very smoothly, just as he had planned. Now if only that damn American, Pollard would just check in.

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The Royal Dublin Society Hall was filled with supporters on their feet, applauding the new Prime Minister as he glowed in the public attention he was getting. He had opened with his sincerest regrets about what had happened to Quinlan — who had been found shot to death in his car — the regrets of a grateful nation. He had assured the Quinlan family that all would be done to find the murderer and that they could continue living in the PM’s residence for as long as they wished. Television crews were present from around the globe, conveniently tipped off that this would be an event worth the coverage, and that they would not be sorry. They were in Dublin as part of an EEC junket being hosted by the Irish Government at the time that Quinlan went missing. Although it was just a short while since O’Shea had assumed the mantle of power, rumor had it, that in light of the recent upset in Northern Ireland, he would institute a state of emergency to bring the tense border situation under control. That these powers would also harness the media and his opponents was just beginning to occur to everyone. “Economic issues aside, I want to say a few words about the continuing aggression that is festering North of the Republic’s border.” The crowd hushed and hardly a sound escaped in expectation. “It has come to light that the IRA and so called Loyalist paramilitaries are hell bent to destroy the Good Friday Accord which, by the approval of the electorate, had have been carefully put in place. This accord was destined to failure as has been amply demonstrated with the recent loss of almost six hundred innocent lives. Some say that there is no solution to the Northern Irish question, no means of resolution left. There is one. Personally,” and O’Shea paused, knowing the reaction that he was about to receive, “personally, I regard Northern Ireland as part of Ireland, and in my official capacity as Prime Minister I declare the Government of Ireland Act signed by the pro-treaty forces on December 6, 1921, and all treaties since signed with Britain, including the now defunct Good Friday Accord, pertaining to Northern Ireland, null and void.” His words were met with a stunned silence. Not in a million years had anyone expected to hear anything remotely close to what he was suggesting. This event was an inaugural ceremony, low-key out of respect for the circumstances of Quinlan’s demise. An electric stillness filled the hall, broken only by the whine of the video cameras and the static from the microphone.

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“As such, I am enabling the Emergency Powers Act, updated and available tomorrow from my office. In it, provisions will be made for the emergence of Northern Ireland into Irish sovereign territory in 60 days, by whatever means are available to us and are necessary to achieve this goal. To our Protestant brethren, I offer them a place in our State in which to prosper and grow in peace and tranquillity.” “To those who oppose us I give two choices, which have been given in many former British colonies, particularly those in the former Rhodesia and South Africa. If your loyalty to England is so strong, the State will pay for your resettlement in Britain. If you violently resist, I can assure you that I will fight fire with fire to ensure that at last this nation will be whole once again.” The audience shuffled uneasily. “To that end, the Irish Army, and I refer to the one employed by the state, will seal the border as of four o’clock tomorrow morning” A hush fell on the crowd like a blanket as they waited for O’Shea to continue. They simply could not believe their ears. He was treating the amalgamation of the country as if it was a line item on the state budget. But O’Shea had saved the best wine till last. “The festering hatred, the anarchy, the remnants of the apartheid, and outright racism that has been the cross of the Catholics and Irish citizens of Northern Ireland have had to bear for generations, is one that finds its roots over 400 years ago during the reign of James I.” He paused, savoring his words, the crowd was hushed. “The deliberate plantation of our country with English and Scottish settlers was designed to ensure a strong pro-British sympathy in the maintaining of the status quo.” Among the crowds a few heads nodded as O’Shea struck a chord close to home among nationalists. O’Shea smiled inwardly. “A tactic the British used wherever they went - America; South Africa; Zimbabwe, formerly known as Southern Rhodesia; India....” He paused again as the crowd murmured agreement. “None of these colonies succeeded in regaining their sovereignty until the people took control, and, by all means at their disposal, made the country in question impossible to police and unaffordable to govern. World events, and the growth of the influence of the international media, have rolled up the maggot filled carpet of colonialism since World War II. At this point we now have only a few vestiges of imperialism left under the control of the British government since the return of Hong Kong to China.” The murmur had become a rolling roar as O’Shea’s words fell like nectar on ravenous bees. He raised his voice, though unnecessarily as the public address system was more than adequate.

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“And they are, the Falkland Islands, Gibraltar and Northern Ireland.” He raised his right hand to calm the crowd and paused for effect. “The commonwealth process of retreat through attrition is not, any more, an acceptable solution - we have to throw the buggers out.” He smiled and added for foreign audiences, “Just as our forefathers helped to do in America in 1776, India in 1947, our Jewish brothers did in 1949, Zimbabwe in the 1970’s.” His speech had struck a raw nerve in all Irish people, and there were countless thousands of those who agreed with him, shouting their agreement in their living rooms, invisible to the huge throng standing, waving their hands in support in front of him. Others watched in awed silence, wondering, praying, that this was some kind of sick joke. O’Shea basked in the glory of it all, glad that he had not listened to his advisors — who had urged him to temper his delivery — not that he ever did listen. “At last,” he thought, “at last.” He let the applause run its course before continuing, his hands grasping the podium tightly as he projected his words forward. “While my opponents voice dissent, a calling for patience, I would remind them that it was violent conflict and violent conflict alone that saw the rebirth of the Southern Republic - a sacrifice that cost many brave men and women their lives.” The hall exploded in a barrage of noise as the audience roared themselves hoarse and stomped their feet. It was a full five minutes before it began to subside. O’Shea stood there throughout, his face grim, his eyes gleaming in the spotlight. He yearned for a sip from the gin and tonic that lay beside his notes, but didn’t, lest he break the spell. “While Prime Minister Quinlan and myself did much work together to solidify this matter, there is still great work to be done. The sticking point remains, when will Ireland be whole again? The year 2,000; 2,050; 2,100? This wonderful nation belongs to the Irish people, the people whose allegiance is to the Republic and not,” he pounded the podium with his fist, “to a foreign country!” “Ireland, from this day forward, assumes the cloak of responsibility to dictate our own policies” and stealing from a well known song, a suggestion from a sympathetic junior minister who would never get credit for it, he ended, “one Ireland, one nation, one people!” With that a huge tri-color, the flag of the Republic, unfurled, lit up by intense halogen spotlights and O’Shea left the stage. The cries from the crowd rang in his ears for many hours later, and rolled across the oceans that surrounded the island nation like distant thunder.

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The restaurant, Rules, was one of the oldest continuously operated in London, situated a few streets away from the bustle of Covent garden. Founded in 1798, it had survived countless years of social unrest and wars. World War II had laid waste to adjacent streets, but apart from a few broken glasses and a crack in the plaster wall, the restaurant, unlike many of its wartime patrons, had survived unscathed. Though more than a few minutes ride away from his wartime headquarters situated in Little St. James’s Street, Churchill was a frequent visitor, German bombs seldom came between his stomach and his evening meal in one of his favorite restaurants. Service was slow, but that was to be expected in a restaurant of its caliber where each course was made from scratch with fresh ingredients. The wine list was second to none, again expected. Plainly furnished with hunting prints on the wall, discretion was the order of the day. The waiters were always patient, impersonal and not intrusive. To anyone used to American standards of service, they could be regarded as being borderline rude. Patrons were address by their surnames and favorite tables allotted in a time honored way. In fact, all of the tables were well appointed, just out of earshot of their neighbors. Adorned in silver and glass ware, the tablecloths were of a crisp white cotton. Catering to a strict reservations only list, walk-ins were neither encouraged nor welcome. Despite leaps in national culinary tastes the leather bound handwritten menus offered the same delightful house specials as they had for the past century. “Wrong place at the wrong time.” Ted continued, munching on his pheasant. The hastily arranged lunch with his friend, Chief Inspector Frederick Mortimer of Scotland Yard, had turned out to be a culinary delight. “How can you be sure? They’ve a photo of him circulating, which places him at the scene with a weapon in his hand.” “Digital file was it? Have to be sent here so quickly. Ever heard of a piece of software called Adobe Photoshop?” Ted lay down his utensils and swallowed a mouthful of Bordeaux. He dabbed his mouth with his white starched lined napkin. “This software has many uses, among them an excellent utility, facilitating retouching. With a few mouse clicks, I could put your head on that picture and put a shovel in your hand. With a little extra work, your own mother would swear that it was you.” He raised his hand to stop his friend from interrupting.

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“This isn’t exactly the latest in high tech - been around for years. Not like the old days of burning one photo into another. I suggest you follow up this line of inquiry, particularly as that picture was released very soon after the event. Also who took it?” Satisfied for the moment, he resumed eating. “Well, old chap, we are familiar with technological advances,” Mortimer said a little indignantly, scribbling in his notebook, “but you’re right, we didn’t have time to check it out. The photo was distributed by the Irish government, dispatched by modem right into Scotland Yard. With all the upset we distributed it right away to catch the rascal if he crossed into our country. As to who took it — I don’t know.” “Sounds a little convenient that this photo was the only one available, considering that the Army didn’t secure the area for nearly an hour afterwards, while they were checking for bombs - and the direction from which it’s taken, seems as if the photographer took the shot from an elevated position half way down the street in which the victims were trapped. Now if that isn’t convenient...” “All right, All right, point taken.” Inspector Mortimer, held up a juicy morsel of his Duck À L’Orange in anticipation. “You could have got yourself into a lot of trouble if caught with a fugitive of that caliber, despite your network of contacts in government circles, might have opened a whole can of worms.” He observed his friend through his bushy eyebrows but was disappointed with the lack of emotion on his face. “For goodness sake Mort, the man’s a photographer! He’s innocent and he may have some evidence for you. Nick and I met many years ago in New York when we both were performing work for a large US car company. Nice family, and I wish his wife was around my way thirty years ago - lucky bastard. Anyway he impressed me as a decent fellow, saved me a couple of hundred grand when a local production house tried to pull a fast one on me. Sent my kids gifts now and again and always kept in touch, particularly right before, during and after my bypass.” “Did he have any idea of your real occupation - could he have been using you?” “None whatsoever. He called me out of desperation, half scared to death. You should have seen the wreck that arrived at my door a few days ago.” Mortimer ate silently listening to every word, pausing only to briefly hold up his eyeglasses to inspect some of the meat that he was consuming - a habit he had from eating wild pheasant, when he wanted to avoid consuming shotgun pellets. Ted went on. “As a photographer and video cameraman, he had an interest in recording one of these marches before they became extinct, what with the passing of that Good Friday Accord into law and all.” “Never happen,” Inspector Mortimer shrugged.

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“Regardless, he went there, set up and now he thinks that he has a record of the entire event on tape.” “Thinks?” “A slug plowed through his camera lens jamming the mechanism burying itself in the casing adjacent to the tape, it could be damaged.” “I would be happy to have the chaps back at the lab look it over...” “Too late, he’s having a specialist analyze it.” “How convenient. Where?” “State side. Riordan flew out today.” Instinctively Mortimer looked at his watch. “Too late, his flight arrived hours ago.” Ted had read his mind and despite his ignorance about who Nick’s rescuer was, or how the tape had traveled, he did not want his police associate complicating things by notifying the US authorities. “Pity.” Mortimer resumed eating, making a mental note to have the flight manifests checked. The waiter came to top off their water while the wine captain refilled their wine glasses. “So where is this Nick chap now?” “Out of harms way, trying work out how best to protect his wife and children. They got away just in time.” “Good gracious, you can’t be serious. There’s been an attempt on them?” Mortimer lowered his knife and fork with a clatter, inviting glances from other tables. “This is unraveling at a terrific speed. They had barely left their home when she noticed that they were being followed. Managed to shake the bugger off but, Jessica was quite certain that this was not chance occurrence. I know you won’t mind if I don’t tell you where they’re holed up...” “Of course, of course, old chap.” Mortimer was dying to know but knew better than to ask. That Ted had only a vague idea himself did not occur to him. Mortimer sat back waiting for his plate to be removed and was already looking forward to the sorbet he had ordered for dessert. Looking at his friend, he thought that he was looking very well, for a man who use to consume such large quantities of cigarettes and lived life to the full. Ted was looking younger than he should, with a full color to his complexion. They had known each other since college days when they attended the University of London together, their paths crossing frequently. Their close trust and bond was set in Israel in 1973 when Ted had saved Mortimer’s life during the Arab-Israeli conflict. Ted had been there as an advisor and supplier to the Israeli army, Mortimer as an official of the British secret service. Not a glamorous position, attached as he was to the embassy, he stuck out like a

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sore thumb with his lily white skin, his haughty accent, but then that was the point. He operated openly, plainly visible for what he was, while others hid in the shadows carrying out their tasks. Not familiar with the shifting boundaries in the Sinai desert, Mortimer had wandered through Israeli lines close to the city of Elat, to take tourist pictures he had recalled later. That his roll, when developed by the Israeli Mossad, contained close-ups of defense positions, didn’t help his case in the army court held the day after his capture by Israeli soldiers. Low on ammunition, the Israeli soldiers were exhausted, having fought a fierce tank battle. After they fired their last shell, without any sign of re-supply, their only means of offense had been the vehicles themselves. Urged by headquarters not to give an inch, they had driven over the Egyptian troops, the same men that they had played games with days before at the Suez Canal, and, against all odds had captured over 600 of them. Mortimer’s presence could not have been more ill-timed. Despite a couple of bruises, he had not been mistreated, but was assured that if he had fallen into Arab hands, he may have awoken the next day to enjoy the full heat of the sun staked to the desert floor providing breakfast for the ants and vultures. It was a chance encounter that had saved his life. Ted had been organizing an emergency supply of tank shells through a Turkish supplier, as the US had been slow to respond to the Israeli cries for help. Not intentionally, but the US had been as surprised as Israel, by the Yom Kippur Syrian and Egyptian onslaught. Only the sheer determination and superior air power of the Israeli defense forces had stopped the joint attack in its tracks, reversing it and inflicting heavy losses in terms of both men and fighting equipment on the Arabs. Ted was one of a number of suppliers to the region, but was the first to respond, anticipating the call as soon as he heard of the outbreak of conflict. He had obtained, through persuasion bordering on coercion, from a commander of a US base situated in Greece, most of the base’s supply of high explosive anti-tank shells, and got them to Tel Aviv by borrowing a tourist ferry. He had been enjoying a late evening drink with a grateful associate, Yakov Ostreicher, a commander in the Israeli Defense Force, when Ostreicher had brought up the subject that one of Ted’s countrymen was to be shot the following morning. Ted had been curious about the charge and, when told the name of the prisoner, made mention that Mortimer was part of the British diplomatic corps. Ostreicher got angry at the suggestion, reminding Ted that a spy was a spy and in the event of a national emergency diplomatic privileges did not exist for someone caught so red-handedly.

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“He is also a friend,” Ted had added quietly. Ostreicher stared at Ted for a long moment and quietly picked up the black phone on his desk, dialing a number Ted could not make out. Identifying himself tersely, he spoke briefly in Yiddish. Without a word he led Ted to a balcony overlooking the port city where they watched the last remnants of the sun set over the Mediterranean. Neither spoke as they sat in wicker chairs. Twenty minutes later, a black Mercedes drew up to the gate of the courtyard that surrounded the villa and entered after the sentry identified the driver. “I have a gift for you Ted,” Yakov declared. Ted had been expecting as much, but bowed anyway in appreciation. “Israel has been very much in your debt....” Ted shook Yakov’s hand and thanked him for Mortimer’s life. Yakov nodded and accepted Ted’s thanks, with a reminder that it would be unwise for Mortimer to revisit Israel again. Exiting the villa he pulled the heavy wooden front door closed behind him and slid into the car. Invisible to prying eyes through the dark tinted window glass Ted settled in beside the hooded prisoner shackled to his plainclothes guard. Another sat in the front passenger seat, his Galil rifle propped in his lap. They pulled up outside Ted’s hotel. Mortimer’s handcuffs and hood were removed as Ted got out. Startled, Mortimer looked around him like a frightened deer. Without a word Ted reached in and grabbed his arm, leading him through the foyer to his room where he poured him a large tumbler of Scotch. Mortimer drank it back thirstily. “Damn fool thing you did getting caught like that,” Ted had scolded him, beckoning to him to join him on the balcony. Facing each other outside they raised their glasses in a silent toast. “Thanks,” Mortimer said, “but the embassy would have got me out before the end of the week.” He blanched when Ted told him how little difference British diplomatic efforts had made — he was to be shot early the next morning. Asked why he had been so blatant in his espionage, Mortimer explained that his blundering was cover for removal of a British commando reconnaissance force which had become trapped in all the fighting nearby, and that his capture had not been accidental. “Quite the contrary old chap, I was romping around like a bull in a china shop,” he said, quite pleased with himself in the afterglow of the whisky. “I’ll have another — surprised the blighters didn’t catch me before then, never seemed to notice me, doesn’t say much for their security.” “They were doing you the courtesy of waiting word from headquarters as to whether they should shoot you out of hand - they had been observing you for over an hour - you were lucky the Mossad had an interest. As for the commando force, the Israelis had more

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to worry about than getting involved in a fracas with a bunch of lost British paratroopers. The Israeli Defense Force let them escape - in fact they were on the verge of walking in and offering them a lift back to Tel Aviv - they preferred to let the group save face and get out under their own steam. You nearly lost your life for nothing, Freddy.” On his return to London a month later, Ted found a roll of film and transcripts from a radio scanner. The pictures contained images of the Egyptian front lines, the words spoken by the drivers and gunners of the IDF tanks desperate for re-supply and a picture of soldiers of unknown origin firing at the Arabic attackers. Later he learned that Mortimer and his commandos had knocked out in excess of six tanks during that night the Israelis were waiting for re-supply. Mortimer had been caught as he had exited the battlefield, providing cover for the exhausted British troops. Since then Mortimer, his face too well known, had quit the “foreign affairs” department and got himself set up in a good position within Scotland Yard. A favorable word from the foreign office had ensured his quick promotion and the confidence given him had paid off handsomely with his ability to hunt down terrorists and keep British soil relatively free of unwelcome foreign influence. He carried a big stick and was respected throughout the political administration and police force. He never forgot his debt to Ted. “So what can I do to help, Ted?” Mortimer asked before he slid a spoonful of sorbet into his mouth. “Call off the dogs for now, check out that photo and let’s find out who’s really behind this. My instinct tells me it’s a new group, and I’m off to Ireland to find out.” “Never liked the place much myself - a clannish bunch and those IRA are a bugger to catch...” “Careful, my grandmother came from Wexford, and Irish ancestry runs deep in our blood,” Ted smiled at him, sipping his black coffee, having passed on dessert. “And besides your own stock hails from Scottish highlands, tartan, clans and all. Descendents of the old Irish, if the history books are to be believed!” Mortimer let out a hearty guffaw, and in his next breath nearly choked as Ted made a final suggestion, that of calling a colleague in Ireland in an unofficial capacity. On this somber note they finished up and, after Ted paid, they went their separate ways. Before leaving, Mortimer gave Ted a telephone number along with an invitation for Nick to call it if the wolves were closing in on him. Later that evening, Ted made a call to an old friend in Israel inquiring after his health and requesting that a party of children and their mother be given refuge in Israel should the need arise. He received an affirmative response and was asked their present location. Unable to provide an exact one, Ted promised to call back as soon as he got the information, which he did the following

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morning after quietly checking his computer, through which the telephone line was routed, recording all numbers dialed from the main handset. Checking the numbers Nick had dialed prior to his departure, through special reverse directory, he was able to check, via the Internet, the names, addresses and exact locations behind the numbers. Satisfied, he went about making arrangements.

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“Fucked if I know,” Flanagan turned the device in his hand, his head still weary from a late night session with his friends, though it was now close to lunch time. His armpits sweaty, he handed the plastic encased box over to Seán. Seán grimaced, embarrassed at the state that Peter was in, particularly in front of their English counterparts. They smiled as if they didn’t notice. “A beeper?” Seán offered. It was about the size of a beeper but with a sealed aluminum finish, hard to know what it was. “Close enough Seán.” He pronounced it ‘Shown,’ Flemingworth’s English accent couldn’t match the softness of the Irish name. Though labeled as a special branch policeman, he had spent some years with the Special Air Services. His family pedigree didn’t stop his army sergeant from attempting to pound his body to dust during the months of training. His file was labeled secret — all that anyone was meant to know was that he was a cop. His file in the Irish Police headquarters had a detailed resume, detailed enough to surprise even Flemingworth with its thoroughness. “Interesting photos too,” Seán thought, though he wondered how Flemingworth had been photographed in such a compromising position. Flemingworth went on. “It’s a tracking device, a simple form of a transponder, similar to the ones they use in aircraft to identify them with air traffic control.” Seán made a face inwardly, he knew quite well the function of a transponder, but he revealed nothing, his face dead pan. “We, er, use them to track VIP vehicles and personnel, a recent development,” Flemingworth explained. “Like the vehicle tracking device that has been in use in the U.S. for the past ten years?” Seán suggested. “Quite,” Flemingworth replied tersely. “except that these are more readily portable.” “Get to the friggin’ point,” Seán thought. “We embed these in vehicles which allows us to pinpoint their location quite accurately. They are passive, insofar as they only respond when interrogated from a satellite channel.” Seán glanced at his computer screen as it flashed a warning of incoming e-mail. He had never got used to e-mail, always had an urge to read it immediately, though he was rarely impressed with its contents since they usually demanded an immediate reply. Flemingworth sensed Seán’s distraction. “We found this particular one in Sligo,” he said. Seán glanced back at him raising his eyebrows questioningly.

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“Belongs to one of the cars that the Rev. Paisley was using, found it on the quayside, a bit rough for wear but functional nonetheless.” “Any ideas how it got there?” “A couple of theories. One thing is certain, this one was dropped from the emergency hatch adjacent to the petrol tank. It can be activated by a manual wire pull, like the ones used to open petrol caps, from inside the cabin.” “How long?” “What?” “Was it there?” “Oh, a day perhaps. An operator spotted it after the alert was raised. We retrieved it as soon as we could.” “We could have done it for you,” Seán commented. British agents weren’t exactly free nor welcome to conduct business in the Republic as they pleased. This met with a quiet smile from Flemingworth but no verbal response. “What the hell were they doin’ in Sligo?” Flanagan interjected. “On the quayside?” “What indeed, unless the car was dumped or crashed in the harbor...” “Or taken for a boat-ride,” the British officer’s, until now, silent companion offered. A robust man, he was a more friendly sort - with an unfortunate name of Fuchs. “We should be able to conduct a search, the harbor is not very deep, and from what I know of the area, it’s shallow at low tide.” Flanagan offered. “I, we, would prefer not to bother,” Flemingworth continued. “In God’s name why?” Flanagan blustered. Flemingworth paused. He retrieved a satellite photo from his briefcase which showed Sligo harbor and the bay in black and white. “We received a second signal from a different location,” he pointed to the photograph, stabbing his finger on an empty tract of ocean out to sea. “But there’s nothing there,” Flanagan commented, licking his lips at the prospect of a pint later in the day. The blahs of the morning hours were fast disappearing. “It can only have got there by boat...” he observed. “Or have been planted,” Seán suggested. “Unlikely, why not just smash it to pieces instead of going to all the trouble of dumping it out to sea?” Fuchs explained. “Any ideas?” Seán asked. “One, this coastal steamer was in harbor that evening. The harbor master’s manifest indicates that it left for a few hours, returning before dawn. The notation shows that they were testing a refitted engine. No other ships in the area.” “Have you run a check on it?”

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“Certainly, it’s owned by a firm registered in the Isle of Man...Hanran Enterprises Limited. Privacy issues have had to be overturned to trace ownership back to the holding company, but we’ve come up with two companies, both registered in Panama.” “O’Shea.” Seán muttered. “What’s that?” Flemingworth quizzed. “A theory we’re working on. Here let me print out a list of companies that we’re investigating. If you find a match, let me know.” “You know something further?” “Just a guess, a private theory, that I’ll be happy to divulge after you look over the list. Not making me very popular higher up, but popularity isn’t my job.” Flemingworth was beside himself. “What did Driscoll know?” “One more thing,” Seán addressed him. “Why the ocean?” “That’s what we’re about to find out.” Flemingworth responded. “We’ll get back in touch tomorrow or the day after.”

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“The only way out of this is to find who was really behind it.” Nick spoke earnestly to John. Nick had arrived back into the US early that morning using the passport that Ted had acquired for him. The UK passport did him justice considering the minor changes he had to make to his features to change enough to fool British emigration. Gone was his hair, shaved to the scalp, a great source of amusement to John when he picked him up from Newark airport that morning, as were the diplomatic papers that got Nick through the US immigration barrier. “So you’re a British soldier,” John laughed, as he read the transcript, “attached to the British consulate. Well that’s ironic, considering the circumstances!” Nick laughed as well, relaxing for the first time in a week. He was unhappy with the haircut at first, which Ted had insisted upon, but he was getting used to it; the sun felt good as they trekked northward in John’s open Jeep Wrangler toward the Tappenzee Bridge, which would bring them to John’s home in Westchester. “Beer?” John popped one out of a cooler from the back seat. “Excellent,” Nick beamed, “keep them coming,” even though it was a little after ten in the morning. For a few moments he was able to forget his troubles and enjoy the scenery. It wasn’t long though before his thoughts went to Jessica and the children. The familiar knot crept back into his stomach, but the beer helped to ease the longing. He hadn’t drunk anything on the plane so that he would be alert in case he was questioned on his arrival in the US. Strangely, since his hop across the Irish Sea, his fear of flying was just about gone. “I’ve been monitoring the police computers for the past few days, watching them build your file, looking for new suspects...” “How’d you manage that?” Nick asked in mock incredulousness. John’s well deserved reputation as a hacker was well known. He made a living by protecting banks and large corporations from the prying eyes of people just like himself. John smiled, glad of the compliment and tapped his nose with his forefinger, in the familiar yet unspoken “Me to know, you to find out” gesture. “So what’d you find out?” Nick asked. “Lots of stuff. You’re a popular guy, and I don’t mean that in a good sense.” They were on the back roads of Westchester now, scooting along under the canopy of trees, the journey north had taken close to two hours.

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“You’re still the number one suspect. Given the circumstances, if I didn’t know you better, I’d pin it on you myself. All the evidence is there — they’ve got a picture of you at the scene carrying what looks like a gun.” “My video camera...” “I know, I’m just telling you the facts. Now all they have to do is find evidence of collusion or premeditation and you’ll be the first guy hanged in the UK for years.” Nick sat quietly brooding. John interrupted his thoughts. “You haven’t asked about the tape.” Nick had completely forgotten about it. “Well?” “To quote a Vietnam movie, Full Metal Jacket ...‘Hard-core man, fuckin’ hard-core’...took a bit of work to get the tape playable but it works OK.” “I’m not so sure I want to see it.” “The whole world can see it — I digitized it and loaded a low resolution version onto the Internet. That way we have a copy that can be accessed from anywhere. It‘ll need work though. You might want to send it to your buddy who got you over here.” “Definitely — how about sending it to the police?” “Not yet. It’ll only incriminate you further. They’ll wonder why you taped the show. It needs close analysis by someone with a strong stomach and an eye for detail.” “Why?” “Well, toward the end, there’s a shot of a guy wading through the mess delivering ‘coup de grace’ head shots to finish the wounded off. Cocky bastard, he’s bareheaded. Could be a lead.” Nick took it all in, belched loudly and opened another beer. A thought sprang to his mind. “Hey, who’s goin’ to pay for that plane you crashed?” “I crashed?” John laughed. “We survived and walked away. Be glad!” Nick had a nagging suspicion that John had used Nick’s credit card number as a deposit. “I paid cash. I even got a receipt...here.” John dropped it into Nicks lap. Nick looked it over, reading the name that the receipt was made out to, which wasn’t his...or John’s. “Who’s David Newton?” he asked reading the name out loud. “He’s the guy whose credit card I used.” “You stole a credit card?” “Oh please! Borrowed.” “You know what? Don’t bother, I’d prefer not knowing.” Nick dropped the subject, smirking. He could strike a $30,000 bill for replacing the plane off his list of worries. Later that evening, using an anonymous e-mail server, they sent Ted a message containing the electronic address or URL where the

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tape was stored. It would take Ted a while to download the file and a lot of hard drive space. But John had saved it at the lowest resolution so that it could be viewed without overloading a hard drive. They decided to leave it until the next day before calling Ted to ensure he had received it. John suggested that they eat at a local Chinese restaurant. Nick was happy to oblige.

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“Sure he’s an oul’ whore,” the old fellow smirked, his pint in his hand, toasting the recipient of his praise as he spoke. The cameraman never flinched, but the interviewer, Angela Pauletti from CNN, cringed not knowing exactly what the interviewee meant, but feared that it wasn’t kosher. A quick glance at the representative from the Irish Journalist Union confirmed this, however the rep encouraged Pauletti to continue, tumbling his fore- fingers knowing that it would be lost on all but Irish viewers. Besides, this was a live feed. “Exactly,” Pauletti caught herself, and launched into her next question, referring quickly to a note pad. “What kind of man is O’Shea in the eyes of the ordinary punter?” “Ordinary punter?” the drinker asked raising his eye brows at the indignity of being referred to in such a manner. Sure wasn’t he like the great Brendan Beehan, an author in waiting summoning up his thoughts, his long wholesome soliloquies, at the high, albeit beer stained, altar of life. He took a long swig from his near depleted pint of draught Guinness. Grimacing at the bitter taste, not of the pint but at the referral, he took a deep breath, a drag from his cigarette and hissed the smoke through his yellowed teeth before he responded. “O’Shea...O’Shea is a man who could change the world, if he was let. Not a genius by any means, but smart enough to ride into power on the coat-tails of one. He’s not a man of the streets mind you...” Another gulp drained his glass and a nod to the barman ensconced at the end of the bar brought about a fresh one as if from thin air. Satisfied by the sight, the fellow went on. “This country needs a firm hand - one that’ll direct it into the next century toward a brighter tomorrow and a future where unemployment is reduced from a real rate of 17 to 20% to a near perfect rate of 8% or under.” The interviewer was impressed and urged her subject to go on. The man shifted in his padded bar stool. “His ideas of expanding our tax-free base may be unconstitutional and against the EEC treaties, but if carefully implemented, the penalty of losing corporate taxation will be offset nicely by the multiplier effect initiated by full employment, accompanied by a healthy pay-as-you- earn tax roll which will balance our budget by the year 2,000, making Ireland one of the most prosperous countries in the Western Hemisphere.” A cheer rose from the regulars huddled at the snug at the end of the bar, and the interviewee looked quite pleased with himself as he

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raised the fresh pint to his lips and took a long pull. He flicked his tongue across his upper lip removing most of the frothy mustache deposited there by the hearty beverage. The interviewer was also impressed. Could it be that the entire nation was made up of such intellectual phenomena? That her subject was non other than a retired professor of economics from Trinity College was never told to her at the time that she entered the pub looking for a chat with an average “Dublin Joe.” The others had laughed merrily as they pushed McCarthy forward, a man well used to the limelight, the educator of the middle classes, and the soon-to- be befuddler of world news. Before the interviewer could ask another question, McCarthy raised his yellowed forefinger to indicate that he had more to say. The interviewer patted down the creases on her dress and waited. “To be sure,” he raised an eyebrow at his consorts a few yards away to ensure that his Irishness was appropriately measured, and received the approving raising of beer glasses, “he’s the man for the job. With his background, of which I know of only from the likes of yourselves,” he gestured in the direction of the news crew, “he’s got a hard backbone — doesn’t mind a few jars,” he motioned towards the drinks lest anyone mistake what he was talking about. “and, God bless him, he has a sense of nationalism that would put Padraig Pearse,” he blessed himself as he said it, “to shame.” His gesture was in deference to the memory of the martyred signatory of the Irish Declaration of Independence in the Easter Rising of 1916. “So you think he’s the man for the job?” the interviewer asked, glad that she had in fifteen minutes filled the sound-bite for the late evening broadcast - it normally took hours. Once this was over they could wrap up and head back to the hotel for some well earned rest. “Oh sure he’s a grand man. Like another that comes to mind, he’s certain that the path ahead is clear and certain that he won’t let anything nor anyone come before the good of the country. All of the problems are to be taken care of, such as the itinerants.” He was referring to the group of traveling gypsies — not related to the original tribes from Hungary or Rumania — who traveled the roads scrounging a living from begging and from the generosity of householders. Legend had it they could be traced back to 1653 when Cromwell told the Irish that they had the choice, on being evicted from their homes, to decide between going to “Hell or to Connaught” - referring to the near barren Western province of the country. In recent decades many attempts had been made to settle the gypsies and house them in accommodations with running water and electricity, but to no avail. “The end of the dole, of the free loaders, and it’s every man for himself. His proposals for conscription will add discipline to the youth and a respect for authority in the future. The state take-

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over of banks will...” he paused in mid-sentence looking for a cigarette which was thrust to him from a source outside the camera’s view point, he nodded his thanks, “provide a steady cash flow from and on the behalf of the people. The clamp down on law and order, the raising of the issue of North of Ireland ‘peace without negotiation’, as he says it himself,” McCarthy took a gulp from his pint to moisten his throat, “his assurance that Northern Ireland will be part of the Republic within 60 days - all adds up to a powerful man like no other we’ve seen, except once this century.” The interviewer, aware that she was just about to wrap up, prompted McCarthy to finish. “And who might that be?” she asked, winding up the slack on the microphone lead. “Ah sure none other than the man himself,” McCarthy drew it out emptying his pint and plopping it down on the saturated beer-mat on the counter. Pausing, the interviewer pursed her lipstick faded lips and raised her eyes brows in expectation. McCarthy wiped his mouth and looked right into the camera despite being asked to aim his responses away from it. “Oh yeah,” he continued, “ the lad himself.” He raised his empty pint shaking it asking for another. “Well,” the interviewer asked, regretting her insistence as soon as she got her answer. A fresh pint in his hand, he raised it to the television viewers and quietly said, “Hitler.”

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An invitation to visit was not uncommon. Embassy security was part of Driscoll’s portfolio. What was uncommon was the idea of the US Ambassador inviting him to talk to her about “current events” as she put it. Seán was quite relaxed with her. They had known each other informally for many years, meeting at various venues whenever he pulled the shift. More often than not he was tagged for US security - at the insistence of the ambassador herself - though he was unaware of her influence. The conversation had swung quickly to the turmoil that was brewing in the country. The ambassador had been frank, as was her manner, getting to the point at once. Seán was unrestrained in his criticism of O’Shea’s leadership. Jean had a calming effect on him; he knew that their conversation would go no further than the room they were in. The TV interview comparing O’Shea to Hitler was the talk of the town, as were the troop movements and the increased army activity on the streets. In response to a casually put question, Seán explained to the ambassador the difficulties involved in orchestrating any response to O’Shea and his threat to the stability of the country. O’Shea had chosen his path carefully, appealing to the nationalists who wanted reunification of the North and South at any cost. And, he was appeasing the moderates, the vast middle class, who instinctively leaned towards nationalism, but were governed by education and the bigger picture. Above all they did not want their tranquillity and comforts spoiled. There were divisions too within the security forces, leaning in most part towards O’Shea for two reasons: nationalism again and the chain of command. The Irish President, traditionally head of the armed forces, deferred to O’Shea in providing guidance and orders to the officers after Quinlan’s murder. The police force was also split. It was near impossible to know where allegiances fell. The prospect of promotions and rewards under O’Shea, as opposed to the loss of career for not following orders, was not to be ignored. Over tea, the ambassador highlighted the information that had been gathered by her own intelligence staff about O’Shea and his suspected activities. Seán could see, from the way the facts were presented to him, that his own suspicions were, for the most part, correct. There was, the ambassador pointed out, a lack of tangible evidence tying O’Shea into any conspiracy theories, merely circumstantial evidence. Something was needed that would link him irrefutably. Seán knew that officially he was walking on dangerous ground; chatting like this was tantamount to treason — if taken the wrong

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way. He was technically treading on very thin ice between his duty as a police officer and an Irish citizen. But what choice did he have? There was no one he could trust within his own service, and the country was preparing for war, as unbelievable as it sounded. And here he was cavorting with a foreign power, albeit a sympathetic one. The only one that had been instrumental in bringing the conflicting parties to the negotiating table. He had known the ambassador for several years and had on a number of occasions spoken to her while on duty, supplementing her own escorts. Her Irish sympathies were well known, a family heirloom. Seán made up his mind and told her about his interview with Nick Riordan. The ambassador knew much of the story already, but her ears pricked up when he made mention of the video tape that Nick had socked away in his backpack. Although he had not had contact with him since he left his house some days before, he knew there was a reason for all the fuss in trying to track him, though he was unsure who was after him. He pointed this out to the ambassador and his theory that perhaps it was the IRA. “Thankfully no,” she smiled. “How do you know?” “Two reasons. First if it was the IRA, they would have run him to ground by now. They’re pretty good at that.” “And?” “I have contact with Gerry Adams and he has, shall we say interviewed, one of the pursuers that nearly got Mr. Riordan while he was making good his escape from Wexford. The interviewee was insistent that he was working for an Irish government figure - a direct referral to our Mr. O’Shea.” “Christ.” was all Seán could muster, shaking his head. “What?” the ambassador pressed. “I spend my career protecting people like you from Adams’ band of merry men and here you are chatting to him like an old friend.” “We go back a way.” “Leave it at that, I don’t want to know.” “Perhaps you’re right,” she smiled again, “More tea?” Seán nodded an affirmative, his mind buzzing with ideas. “Whatever is on the tape is important to O’Shea, so we’ll just have to find it. Any idea where he is?” Seán didn’t know and really hadn’t a clue on how to contact Nick. “Perhaps through his parents, they live in the suburbs.” “I would suspect that their phones are tapped and the house watched in the event that Riordan tries to contact them,” the ambassador offered. “By more than one party, I would guess. So how do we get a message to them?” “Mr. Adams already has.”

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Seán could hardly believe it. Two weeks before, this conversation would never have happened. It was unimaginable that the representative from the US would be on such good relations with the top man in one of the most feared terrorist organizations in the world; even though he was fast becoming a respectable politician. When push came to shove, perhaps there was a logic to it — fire fighting fire. “I have a meeting scheduled with Mr. O’Shea this evening. The state department has instructed me to make him aware of our suspicions in the hope that it will encourage him to pull in his horns. Personally, I doubt it. He’s been preparing for this for too long.” She looked at him for a long moment. “I have a favor to ask.” Seán shrugged signaling her to go on. “It has been our experience — the US State Department’s actually — that many people store very personal information on their computers. For some reason, people think that their personal computer is beyond outside interference, particularly when they try to protect it through the use of passwords or encryption. Between you and I, nothing could be further from the truth. And I think that one way to crack open Mr. O’Shea’s case is to access the computer he has in his office. I want you to get that information for me.” Driscoll paled and put his cup down abruptly. “How? Why ask me?” “It’s a matter of trust, Seán. I can’t trust anyone else to do it. If it is shown that we are involved, and O’Shea is innocent, there would be an almighty incident.” “And if I’m caught I’m expendable. I know the drill, I’ve seen the movies.” The Ambassador knew better than to coddle him. “Seán, this is a matter of national security, the stability of the entire European Federation depends upon settling this matter quickly. If Ireland declares war on Britain, no one knows how this will end up. Britain will, if provoked enough, make a desert of Ireland. Their tolerance for this kind of threatening is low enough as it is. O’Shea’s posturing is bound to lead to an incident. Perhaps,” she added, “that is his design.” She was met with silence as Detective Seán Driscoll contemplated his loyalties; the moment of decision had arrived. “At least listen to what I propose. Will you Seán?” “Go on.” “As I said, there is a very good chance that the information we need is stored on his computer. The key is to copy all of the information on his hard disk.” “I can hardly walk in there and chat with him while I do it.”

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The Ambassador ignored his quip and continued. “Attached to his computer is a high speed modem. I have a layout of his office and he is known to be an Internet freak. We also have the phone number for the line that it is connected to. I need that modem and computer turned on after O’Shea leaves his office for at least an hour and then turned off again before he returns.” “How do you suggest I do that?” “That you’ll have to work out for yourself. Any evening will do. When you have it on, call this number and they will take it from there.” She gave him a cell phone number. “Only make sure that you turn it off again after an hour.” “I’m not sure this is something I want to be involved in.” “You already are Seán, otherwise you wouldn’t have spent the last hour talking with me. I will understand if you can’t, or won’t help. But I would, and your countrymen would also, be grateful if you did.” Seán knew he was being fed a line, but he knew that what she suggested did make sense, and perhaps it could help resolve the controversy surrounding the future of his country. She lead Seán out to his car. They shook hands and Seán left. The ambassador wondered if, when this was all over, Driscoll would consider taking a position at the US embassy. She liked him.

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“Life goes on, as usual,” Flanagan muttered to Seán, as they passed through another roadblock. They had to stop at each one, show their identification, occasionally having it verified with headquarters. Every car had their license plate checked with the traffic computer before being allowed to pass. Had it been a police block, they’d have been waved through. But this was an army stop, one of many in place since O’Shea had put himself in charge of internal security in response to threats to the members of government. And, because of his influence, the threats and assaults had stopped as abruptly as they had started. So credit was given where credit was due, thus bolstering his growing political power. What Driscoll could not know was that the soldiers were as disgruntled as he. Long hours, policing the very people that they were meant to protect, they were nervously awaiting notice that they might have to move north to the border to supplement the sizable Irish army contingent already in place. Not that they were afraid of a fight — far from it. They were amongst the best trained soldiers in Europe. Their leaders had lived long enough to know that any aggressive action against the British forces in the North would result in a similar counter action in the South. Before long it would turn into a free for all. That was why it had never been an option tried in the past — studied to the point of exhaustion, but with the same conclusion, a no win situation. “So, you never told me. What did Casey do to you, when he went to visit you at your house?” Seán had been waiting for the inevitable questions. He had just been surprised it had taken the normally curious Flanagan so long. He suspected Cullen was behind it. He had probably told him not to push to hard for information. Seán had to guess that whatever he told Flanagan would be in Cullen’s ear before night. “Never thanked you for the tip-off.” “Screw that. C’mon spill the beans.” “I told Casey that I tracked Riordan down to his hotel and called him. The transcript was a recording from a phone interview.” “Just like that?” Flanagan barely hid the sneer. “No, not quite. I checked the hotels and found him registered under his real name. It was luck really. The hard part was trying to get him to talk,” Seán lied. “How’d you manage that?”

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They pulled up to the government buildings from Kildare Street and stopped at the gate, identified themselves and were let in after the security ramp was lowered. Driscoll left the car running while he contemplated what he was about to do. He continued the conversation while they made their way into the building. “I told Riordan I could cut him a deal if he told me who he was involved with here.” “But you can’t.” “He didn’t, and doesn’t know that. Funny though, that he spoke as long as he did. He must have known I could have had a squad there to pick him up. Anyway he denied any involvement.” Flanagan would have to do with that, as they had to pass through security again at the main door. As high ranking police officers they were let in and shown to O’Shea’s office where they were told to wait in an outer room. His secretary regarded them with suspicion. “I don’t have a note about any meeting with the Prime Minister.” Seán was patient. “We spoke this afternoon and he asked me to come over.” “And the purpose of the meeting.” “Matter of state security I would assume,” Seán responded with a grin. She wasn’t impressed and retained her dour expression. “He won’t be back for at least an hour. You’ll have to wait.” “Any chance of a cup of coffee?” A look of exasperation crossed her face. It was going to be another late night of unscheduled overtime. However, she resigned herself to the fact and sauntered off to get them their beverages. She had hardly closed the door when Seán rose soundlessly and crossed to O’Shea’s mahogany office door. Without a word, he opened it and slipped inside. He left Flanagan open mouthed, wanting to know what was going on. Within a minute he was back as quietly as he had left. Flanagan looked at him expecting an explanation but Seán motioned him to silence. Instead, he enjoyed the coffee when the secretary returned. She did not engage in any small talk, but returned to her desk and tapped away on her computer. The time passed slowly. “And to what may I owe this unexpected pleasure?” O’Shea greeted them as he strode into the room some time later. Seán was startled by his earlier than expected arrival. O’Shea’s face was flushed from the effect of a late afternoon cocktail in his club, and he was in a jolly mood. Seán and Peter rose. Seán handled the introductions. O’Shea looked well in his blue tailored suit. The “unexpected” was not lost on his secretary who glowered at them from behind O’Shea’s back. “We’re here to discuss your personal security Prime Minister O’Shea.” Seán began.

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“Oh, indeed, please come into my office.” He opened the door for them and ushered them in. “Have a seat gentlemen. Do you mind waiting a moment? I’m dying for a pee.” He left the room through a side door. “Peter, go to the window and see what the vantage points are outside...do it!” Seán urgently ordered. Peter complied and sauntered to the double window. As he did, Seán reached over and turned off O’Shea’s computer and modem. He hoped the US embassy people had enough time to take what they wanted. He hoped even more that O’Shea hadn’t noticed that they were turned on when he had led them into the room. O’Shea returned and sat at his desk as Seán explained his concerns about O’Shea’s personal security. O’Shea listened and nodded appropriately. When Seán had finished he rose indicating that they should do likewise and strode to his office door. “I shall take your recommendations gentlemen. But security is something I take seriously already. I have a contingent assigned to me from the army. The army rangers actually, you’ll meet them as you leave. My thanks again.” He dismissed them, and put a call through to their boss, Chief Superintendent Casey. In the ante room, two civilians stood by the door. One male, one female, barely concealing the weapons slung underneath their jackets. They didn’t acknowledge either of the detectives as they left. In fact, they looked right through them — neither spoke a word of English. As they drove out of the gate, Seán commented to a quiet Flanagan, “The rangers haven’t hired any female personnel yet. I wonder how she got there?” Flanagan could have cared less. He knew Seán was up to something, but couldn’t put his finger on it. He’d have to be careful what he told Cullen. By including Flanagan on the trip, any information that might be whispered back to Seán could only have come from one source. Checkmate.

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Superintendent Casey gave Driscoll a roasting for his unwanted attention in visiting O’Shea’s office. This was as a result of the call that O’Shea had made to Casey’s office shortly after they had left. There was nothing to be done, as Seán was within his limits, though he had stretched his leash. The matter was dropped quickly and they moved onto other business. “No one reported missing?” Chief Inspector Casey asked Driscoll, as he flicked through the file update that had been routed to him. The autopsy on the crucified John Doe was completed. The cause of death was obvious. “Yes sir, I have one that may match the description of the John we found.” “Meaning what? The pathologist’s report doesn’t give you much to go on.” “Actually it did narrow the search down: Caucasian, male, 5 feet 8 inches, 50 years old, evidence of heart disease, a smoker - his lungs were rotten, no liver damage...” “So what?” “So he didn’t drink or indulge in drugs,” Seán went on with his litany. “Sallow skin - evidence of past sun damage to the backs of his hands, face and neck. Callused hands but the palm tissue was soft from the application of oils or creams, no earrings. Digestive tract had remains of a recent meal - what was left after the amphetamines had flushed out his system...” “Cut to the chase - what’s your conclusion?” “Teetotaler - rural background. From Connaught, now a professional, possibly with money.” Seán held his breath, “Here it comes,” he thought. “What’s the evidence?” “Sallow skin signifies a Mediterranean bloodline - possibly a local dominant Spanish influence dating from the Spanish Armada...” “Horse shit! He could have been a foreigner!” “Sun damage and callused hands is conclusive with a farming background, at least in younger years. The use of hand skin softeners signifies someone who takes care of themselves at this stage...” “And?” his boss raised his eyes exasperated. “A politician, a lawyer, or an accountant, from the West of Ireland.” “Dig deeper - we need more than that.” He dismissed Seán with a wave of his hand. “Full report on my desk by end of the day, please.”

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Seán hesitated. “I do have something else that I didn’t have time to put in my notes.” Casey waited. “We had a missing person’s report filed in Galway City. I just got wind of it yesterday morning. A college professor from the University of Galway who never returned home from a trip to Dublin. His wife called it in to the local police station there. Unfortunately we don’t have much to use as a means of identification aside from photographs.” “How about DNA?” “That requires a tissue sample taken before he died. I’m looking into that.” “So what makes you think that it’s him?” Casey was only half listening. He had a busy day ahead of him. “Circumstantial evidence. His wife told me that he was here to meet a businessman regarding an article that her husband had written about him. Seems it was picked up by a regional paper, but never managed to get to the national press. Her husband suspected behind the scenes tampering, and was here to investigate his suspicions.” “What kind of article?” Seán handed him a smudged copy that had been faxed up from the newspaper’s offices. Casey read it, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he got to the end. He slid it back across his desk to Seán. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. The killing had the hallmarks of the other recent political murders. How do you explain the note found at the scene?” “It was a ruse. A slight of hand, without meaning, designed to throw us off. The writing on it was practically illegible. Part of it was missing. All that struck the eye was the government letterhead. Combined with the threats that were sent to members of government, we would have to draw the obvious conclusions and look at it as politically motivated when, in my opinion, it was an act of personal vengeance. It also casts a shadow over the subject of the article, Prime Minister O’Shea.” “You’re speculating.” Casey looked over the fax again. “This was written by some pissed off local yokel, who sees O’Shea as a threat to his grant money.” “That article was written by the Professor of Political Sciences, he’s hardly someone that...” Casey rose from his seat, agitated. “Pure speculation without hard evidence. Look into it further and get back to me.” He dismissed Seán curtly. As the door closed behind Seán, Casey’s look of authority changed to worry. Seán had no idea how close to the mark he was. Chances were that Seán would have it put to bed before the end of the day, and the shit would hit the fan. “Too good at this,” Casey thought. Time to distract Driscoll. He tapped the intercom, “send Driscoll back.”

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“What’s your read on this Riordan character?” “Photo-journalist. Grew up here. Emigrated to the states ten years ago. Thirty-eight years old. Married, three kids. Wife’s a nurse.” “I’ve read the report - I asked you what you thought of him.” “An unlikely suspect. Lacked a motive and the means. His being at the scene was mere coincidence.” “Did he register for a press permit with the security forces prior to the march?” “No - leads me to believe that his being there was an impulse or in a non-professional capacity.” “Do you know him personally?” Caught completely off guard, Seán stammered a negative response, confirming a suspicion that lay in his boss’s head. “His wife and mine trained together in the early 1980’s.” Seán covered his tracks quickly. “Any contact with him recently, other than the phone interview?” “No, sir.” Seán answered, strangely quiet. “Shit!” he thought. “You would report any contact with him, wouldn’t you.” “It goes without saying.” “It should. OK you’re dismissed.” His boss pulled out a map of South Dublin. An ordinance survey map, it had a scale of an inch to a mile. He found the farm where the disturbance of the night before had occurred, and then Driscoll’s house — barely four miles apart. He called his man in internal affairs, who arrived breathless into his office some three minutes later. The boss did not like to be kept waiting. “Pull phone records for Seán Driscoll for the past two weeks: office, car, home, e-mails, and correspondence.” The IA man wrote it all down. “I need it all in before noon - my eyes only.” The Internal Affairs man didn’t protest. It would have done no good. When he left, Casey made a call and arranged a new lunch appointment.

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The moonlight washed the hillside, bathing it in its eerie beauty. Crickets chirped, pulsating their rhythm. The ancient landscape virtually untouched by man over the ages radiated the heat of the day back into the cool nighttime air. A breeze from sea dispersed the sometimes overpowering humidity, though it did little to deter the marauding swarms of mosquitoes as they sped silently on their quest to fill their gullets with warm blood. Inserting their needle probes deep into their preys skin, they injected a squirt of anesthetic so that they were fed and gone before discomfort set in. In the distance, music wafted from the heart of the Aghios Nikolaos’ bustling tourist filled clubs. The breeze fed ebb made determining the song near impossible to identify. Bats flitted between the scrawny treetops, hunting for night time insects and the occasional mouse. Jessica enjoyed the sights and sounds. She was always close to nature and appreciated quiet moments like these. Her thoughts were with Nick, wondering, for what seemed like the millionth time, where he was, what he was doing, and if he was alright. She pushed worry from her mind, though it clawed at her stomach. Jessica thought of lighting a cigarette but ignored the urge. Her “minders” were out there somewhere. She had skirted them as she crept silently barefoot to the base of the tree on the top of the hillside. The house was close by should any of the children wake up, which was unlikely after their day of hectic activity at the beach. She suddenly felt a chill - her instinct aroused. Peering into the darkness she could sense something out of the ordinary. No cars were visible on the road that wound past the hillside, and she could hear no movement anywhere. This did little to reassure her. A flash of light in the corner of her eye startled her — could it have been her imagination? Unsettled she made her way back to the house, her feet patting on the cool marble floor as she quietly closed the front door and made her way to check on the children. Satisfied that all was well, she went into her own room. Lying on her bed she picked up the two-way radio beside her bed and keyed the talk button for three seconds. She did not say anything — the transmission would squawk in the ear piece of her protectors outside, notifying them that she wanted to talk. A second later a voice responded with a curt, “Yes?” Hesitating, not knowing what exactly to say, she asked, “Everything OK?” “Everything’s fine,” the guard responded and added, “next time you want to go out please let us know. We had to change our rounds to accommodate your excursion.”

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Jessica smiled and mouthed a quiet “Thank You” to him before turning over to go to sleep. She must have heard them moving outside. With a sigh she drifted off to sleep. On a desolate hilltop, a quarter of a mile away, a soldier with different loyalties talked on his mobile phone, recounting the movements of her guards as he slid his rifle back into its case, being careful to turn off the laser sight he had just used to get an accurate range to his target.

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The radar on board the British trawler swept the surrounding waters for signs of air and sea traffic. It was not of the commercial variety. Stowed below decks, easily activated by the intelligence gathering staff who occupied the space normally reserved for a second engine, a defensive armature would automatically rise festooned with four ground to air missiles, ready for operation if an air threat appeared. The trawler was developed in 1984, toward the end of the cold war as a spy ship. However, it never saw service in the arena for which it was designed, that of spying on the Soviet Bloc. Not that the Admiralty had any reason to complain, they had plenty of uses for this unique vessel. Modifications had been made to accommodate a mini-sub, designed for deep sea searches, which could be lowered to the ocean depths, manned or by cable control. They were situated off the Sligo coast on Ireland’s Western shoreline, eight miles due west of Roses Point, the blink of the Black Rock Lighthouse was clearly visible as was the twinkle of lights from Sligo town and the sea-side resort village Strand Hill. The ship was painted a dull gray to blend in with the surrounding waters, its bulk capable of handling the heaviest of seas when underway, its arching bow able to cut through the ocean like an ax blade. The massive single engine’s power was fed through a gearbox providing ample torque to the twin brass props. An auxiliary engine at the front of the boat provided power for the computer controlled thruster props recessed into the bow, ensuring stability for the dive platform in rough seas. In the late Summer’s night the dusk lasted until nearly 11:00 P.M., and in the distance the sharp leading edge of the mountain of Ben Bulbin could be seen, like an overturned ship, its top dark and gray catching the final seconds of daylight. To the southeast, Knocknarea Mountain, topped with its Megalithic Tomb, the legendary resting place of Queen Maeve, stood like an upturned breast, a necklace of sodium lights at its base marking the treacherous Strand Hill Beach. No lights were visible on the boat. Any illumination was provided by red lamps inside and on the deck facing due West to lessen the ships profile from any observer on land. Work had to be done in the errie light or with the assistance of a night vision scope. Even the heat signature from the engines was suppressed to the bare minimum by routing the exhaust pipes through water cooled baffles which exited the boat through a heavy muffler just above the

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waterline. Unintentional electronic emissions were carefully monitored during the operation — the hull was specially designed to keep radiation to a minimum. Essential computers were kept running, housed below the waterline in the engine compartment. All was ready, the submersible had been prepared on the trip from Belfast, equipment checked and rechecked. All that was left to be done was to winch it over the side. *** Far to the north, a Royal Air Force AWAC radar plane monitored the region, providing early warning threat detection information from its station sixteen miles off the Donegal coast. Orbiting in a racetrack pattern at 22,000 feet, its search radar reaching far out in all directions for over 150 miles. A British Navy vessel, the trawler was technically trespassing in Irish waters. To the west over Scotland, and as far as the Irish sea, commercial aircraft routes were busy, which was normal at this time of day. However, the aircrews’ attention was focused on the West coast of Ireland where air traffic was minimal. Sligo’s airport was a rural one used for light private and commercial hops by the national airline. Further to the South, in the town of Knock lay a somewhat more substantial runway. It was capable of handling international flights, large enough to accommodate a fully laden 747, despite the fact that it lay surrounded by a bog, on a hillside, and to all intents and purposes in the middle of nowhere. It had been constructed using Irish taxpayer’s money in the early 1980’s under the urging and direction of Monsignor James Horan, who saw its completion shortly before he died in 1986. Often called a white elephant, it was built in anticipation of “build it and they shall come” philosophy, hoping that it would ignite the religious fervor of European and American Catholics alike in their rush to see the Basilica of Knock, where over a 120 years before on August 21, 1879, a sighting of the Virgin Mary, St. Joseph and St. John appeared - an apparition seen on a foggy night by, as the commission of inquiry recorded, 15 men, women and children. “It’s 8,200 feet long, no wonder the Americans were eager for its completion.” The captain smirked to himself, reading off the technical statistics that accompanied his brief “ILS 110.7 category 1, IDENRT ICK, Tower radions 130.7....” Had the cold war not abated, the US had plans for the airstrip in the event of a heightening of tensions between the then superpowers - with or without the co-operation of the neutral Irish government. It would have made a fine forward base, easily defended, ideal for AWAC’s and long range reconnaissance. His attention was brought back to the radar image as a blink of light flashed briefly on the screen. It disappeared just as quickly and didn’t reappear. The operator advised that it was a flock of birds. However, he highlighted the area of the screen with his

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track ball, which created a screen within the larger one. To augment the trace he increased the power of the radar to a higher setting. Forty three miles away, to the south, the submersible camera platform was ten feet below the surface having completed its self diagnostics. It was a model, the plans of which had been purchased from the US in 1989, that was capable of reaching depths in excess of 13,000 feet or 2.4 miles. It achieved this depth using gravity aided by an internal chamber loaded with lead balls. When the module was required to surface it dumped these balls through a chute, and with the positive buoyancy provided by compressed air in its tanks, it rose. For this dive however, into 240 feet of water, the submersible was driven by powerful bi-directional electric motors situated in pairs, fore and aft on swivel joints, allowing the operator to maneuver the craft in any desired direction. A manned model could house three people, indeed the US version “Alvin” had been used to visit the remains of the Titanic some years previous. Housed underneath was an array of lights and cameras, still and video, recently updated to take digital pictures which were fed through a cable to the operator overhead, and from there, if the need arose, through a satellite feed back to the London headquarters. This was not the first sortie in the area. They were searching for the source of the emissions that had interested Detectives Flemingworth and Fuchs. Unfortunately the emissions had since faded out. The seabed had been scanned by Royal Air Force helicopters, obstensively on training exercises, to detect any magnetic anomalies of sunken metal. A few promising sites had been visited, but without success. Examination of this area would fill a gap in the grid. The skipper was concerned with the direct line of sight from shore, but was reassured that they were not being swept with any kind of threatening radar. The only hits being received were from fishing trawlers far to the south and west as they made their nighttime fishing run. A coastal vessel tramping up from Galway now off the Mayo, coast, swept the area intermittently, but its signal was lost behind the clutter of the broken, Atlantic ravaged, Mayo coastline. *** The blip returned to the radar screen. The operator interrogated it, unsure exactly what it was. It did not return a transponder code and just as suddenly as it appeared, it disappeared again. “Check for a heat signature next time around, could just be a weather or terrain anomaly,” his supervisor advised. *** The submersible sank, its search lights off until it was deep enough, so that when they were turned on they would be invisible

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from close range except from directly above. The last thing they wanted was a bright plume of light glowing out to sea. As it sank, the officer in charge turned on the cameras and checked them using an infrared lamp. Everything was working properly. There were many fast moving currents in the area. Aside from the rush of the Atlantic, Sligo Bay emptied out its contents twice daily as the tide ebbed, creating countless dangerous rip currents for any diver. The same would apply for the submersible; however, it was controlled by a computer which compensated by running the motors to keep it in position through synchronization with its Global Positioning Satellite link. At fifty feet, the officer turned on the main lights. The silt and plankton in the water smothered any escaping light, it was barely discernible even to an observer from the deck above. Parkinson, the sub’s operator and designer, a graduate of the now disbanded British 1st Paratroop Regiment, had spent time in Cyprus as part of a contingent sent to the island in 1956 in response to Greek attacks on British forces. The island was, following the Russo-Turkish War of 1877-78, a Turkish possession, but was under the administrative control of Britain. In 1954 Greek Cypriots founded an organization with the express aim of uniting the island with Greece. British troops were sent there to combat increasing acts of violence against the British citizens. Parkinson often reflected, now that he was nearing retirement age, that the army had behaved similarly to the Gestapo, or the SS, in the way that they enforced the mandate and hunted out Greek terrorists. Perhaps it was the sight of missing British soldiers found hanging from tree limbs, their windpipes and spines severed by piano wire, as they were left to die slowly, the effort to free themselves hacking the thin wire through the layers of flesh, that roused the young soldiers blood. By the time they were found, very often the birds, insects, and sun had turned their corpses into stinking nearly unrecognizable carcasses. He swore it would never happen to him. He was part of a six man guerrilla squad. They brought the war to the terrorists on their own terms, spending weeks in the bush with nothing but their huge backpacks filled with foodstuffs to live off, and of course, weaponry. They were one of the first units issued with rubber soled boots, a blessing and a curse at the same time. A blessing for the comfort it brought, but the ridged soles left clearly defined footprints. To combat this in a practical way, the soldiers wrapped their boots with muslin and eliminated the problem. Following Cyprus, Parkinson was sent to Egypt as part of the Anglo-French invasion of 1956, after the nationalization of the Suez Canal by Egypt. He escaped both conflicts unscathed, but with a distaste for killing and a determined wish to get out of foot soldering altogether. His interest in mechanics and, during the

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late sixties and early seventies, in electronics, combined with a degree paid for by the army, got him into more specialized areas. Diving was one of them; and in 1976 he was transferred to the Royal Marines where he was assigned a position in electronic eavesdropping. Despite his best intentions, he saw action again in the Southern Atlantic on board a British submarine during the Falklands conflict. His vessel sank the Belgrano, an Argentian troop ship killing 1,800. However, he kept his politics to himself. With age came wisdom and the big brother policies of the British government disturbed him. More so because, in his innocence, he had been an instrument of their enforcement. Still he was an Englishman through and through and swore an allegiance to the crown, right or wrong. His current duties in the recon submersible were due to his expertise and the fact that he had been recently honorably discharged from the regular service. He had assisted in building the sub they were using today. Despite his familiarity with the controls, the younger operator — he liked to be referred to as the copilot — a sprightly Yorkshire lad, was more than capable of taking over Parkinson’s duties and would, permanently, one of these days. *** “A glitch?” “How about the thermal image?” “Our angle doesn’t help, I’ve got plumes of heat all around there from homes.” “There it is again, here let me try something,” his supervisor took control from his console. The plane they flew, a Boeing 767, was leased from the US Government, while they awaited delivery of their own fleet. The British government was purchasing these jets to supplement the AWAC fleet. Their smaller size, and the fuel efficiency wrought from their two powerful engines, made them more suitable for regional roles than their four engined E-3 Sentry cousin. Highlighting the ghost target again, the supervisor depressed a button which fired off a laser beam burst. On striking a solid object it would be reflected, identifying it as such, as opposed to a flock of birds or ground clutter. The computer would then take over and paint the target with a laser, displaying an outline on the operators screen. “Bingo!” he whispered, as the shape of a helicopter appeared. It was gone a few seconds later. “Next time you pop up, we’ll be ready.” Strange that a civilian aircraft had no transponder, its electronic means of identification, without one it would have to be treated as a threat. *** Parkinson watched as the gauges read off the depth of the mini- sub, and he noted that the tide was beginning to turn as the craft

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maneuvered to keep itself steady while it descended through layers of currents. The sub also had a bottom radar with which it could scan the sea-bed for features of interest. “Strange,” Parkinson thought, “the sea-bed charts for the area show an uneven muddy bottom.” On the display in front of him were scattered rectangular shapes. He picked one and had the sub steer towards it. Using the visible light camera, he looked for an image through the murky dark water, ignoring the stray fish - these waters had been long over-fished - and the debris of the turning tide. Visibility was, at best, six feet. When the sub was twenty feet off the bottom, he put it into a hover mode as he searched for whatever was down there through his video camera monitor. A reflection caught his eye and he nudged the joystick forward, inching the sub toward what had captured his attention. Using a laser scanner, he mapped the shape. Examining it, as the computer rendered a model using a central processing unit designed specifically for the task, the computer first outlined the object, and filled in the details on subsequent passes, enabled by employing two lasers. Within 80 seconds, when the computer matched the scanned image with its internal library, he had a fairly good idea that what was lying there was a 38 foot cargo container used by trucks and trains alike. Using the short range radar he extended the arms of the manipulators, opening their jaws to shield the craft in the event of a sudden forward surge. There it was not ten feet away, the ridges of the top of the container clearly visible on the low light camera monitor, where the metal was squared off for reinforcement. There was a lot of fish activity concentrated on what looked like a row of holes that dotted the top of the container at regular intervals. An examination showed that they were close to three inches in diameter when measured against the scale scored onto one of the grapple arms. He watched as forward wash from one of the thrusters sucked white debris from the hole nearest the area where the camera was focused. Parkinson maneuvered the sub carefully around the container so as not to snag any cables. Examining the doors, partially buried in the sand and silt, he saw that they had been welded shut at the hinges, and where the two doors met. No need to try and work them loose, the weld would have held them in a solid grip. He searched the rest of the area and saw that there were seven containers in all. They did not look as if they had been there long, lacking any great cover from barnacles and shellfish and they were not battered in any way by storm damage. They all bore the logo of the Irish national railroad. All had fish around them except one which lay at an off angle as if one end descended more quickly that the other when they were dropped into the ocean. Parkinson selected the fiber optic camera, which could be extended some distance from the sub and was ideal for

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investigations such as this. He put the sub into an auto hover mode - he would have liked to have set it down but the angle at which the container was resting would not allow it. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, or at for that matter. These containers, though not new, didn’t look like discards and besides why dump them in the sea? And why weld the doors shut? To keep whatever was in them from falling out when the containers hit the bottom? But that would have made them near impossible to sink empty, perhaps that explained the row of holes, they may have been matched underneath by identical holes. The bottom set, in addition to the natural leakage through the seams, would allow the container to fill with water and the top set would let the air escape. Made sense. But he had to see what was inside. Carefully he extended the grappling arm and poked the fiber optic camera cable through the hole that he had selected. The cable consisted of two fiber strands harnessed together and complemented each other in so far as one housed the camera link while the other was a light source. It was a tight fit, but they were well armored, and a little pushing and shoving would not damage them. All of the work he was doing was being transmitted simultaneously by satellite to a near identical setup in London. *** “Here he comes again,” the captain notified his supervisor. Sure enough the helicopter was back, though its motion was vertical with little discernible horizontal movement. “Could be a commercial sprayer.” It was good practice, tracking the elusive contact, it broke the boredom of what had been an uneventful few hours. “He’s climbing this time, close to maximum rate, 3,500 feet, huge thermal plume from his exhaust - making that engine work pretty hard, 4,500 feet,” the operator called out. “What’s he up to?” He depressed his throat microphone and called his operations center in Northern Ireland requesting fighter cover. The flight captain did not feel it was needed, but the regulations stipulated that he should do so, and besides it would make an interesting exercise. He could not give the fighter pilot a destination, as the contact was well within Irish airspace, but he was told that the pair of Harriers would be on station circling over the closest British occupied county, Fermanagh, within seven minutes. “It’s at 6,500 feet and climbing.” *** Parkinson cursed softly to himself. Though he had been as gentle as possible, his nudging of the manipulator arm had raised some silt and this obscured his vision. The cable slid through the hole and he flipped on the illuminator switch. Part of the head of the camera and light combination was an auto focus transceiver. It fired out streams of infrared waves, and the time taken on the

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return of which from the object of interest determined the distance to the subject. Everything however was completely out of focus and it took some great effort to make out what he was looking at. He fed the cable deeper into the container. *** “Captain,” the operator called over his microphone. “You might want to look at this.” “It’s now at 8,500 feet and leveling.” For some reason, which would have to be explained later at a court of inquiry, no one thought to warn the ship for which they were providing sentinel cover. *** Even the trawler captain’s hardened stomach was not ready for the sight that awaited him, as he made his way down in the red lit stairwell. When he approached the observation room, a whiff of vomit greeted his sensitive nostrils. On entering the room, he saw Parkinson hunched over the controls. In the corner, Parkinson’s assistant was gagging and retching into a waste paper basket. Puzzled, Captain Wilson strode the few steps to sit in the co-pilot seat, which was the traditional term for the seat next to Parkinson; the control panel in front of it was a duplicate of Parkinson’s. It took a second, but he slowly pieced together what he was seeing on the screen in front of him. It looked for all the world like a picture from a World War II holocaust newsreel. “Jesus,” he whispered. The container was packed to capacity with bodies in varying stages of decomposition. As he watched, sea worms devoured the pale, lifeless flesh. Heads, with their mouths open in silent pleas, stared back at him. The water was filled with pieces of flesh, loosened by the contact with salt water. “Is this being sent to London?” he asked Parkinson. A silent nod was his answer. “How many more containers?” “Six.” “Check them all.” “I can’t Jack, for Christ sake, they’re right below us, a charnel house...” Captain Jack Wilson lay his hand on Parkinson’s arm in understanding. He told Parkinson’s assistant to leave, and in as a nice a way as possible to bring his bucket with him. He had spent many hours, day and weeks watching how Parkinson operated the equipment and he attempted to recall exactly how it went as he looked over the control panel. There was no time for niceties, he simply reversed the sub pulling the fiber optic cables with it. *** “Sir, SIR!, he’s illuminating. Jesus Christ he’s turned on an attack radar!”

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“Tiger Flight, state position.” “Four minutes to rendezvous,” the Harrier flight leader squawked back. “Need you here right away. Can you see the contact radar?” “Roger.” “Advise split the flight. We need cover here. Send the other directly to intercept.” “We’ll be violating Irish airspace, I’ll need to confirm with our controller.” “Do it. And hurry!” *** Captain Wilson nearly crashed the mini-sub. Parkinson growled at him as he watched Wilson maneuver it spasmodically towards the next container. He snatched his own joystick and disabled Wilson’s controls. On this container he was able to set the sub down before he poked his mini eye through a vent hole. The water this time was surprisingly clear. The monitor screen went white from the near mirror reflection. Parkinson adjusted the angle of the light and the computer adjusted the aperture of the lens. *** “Launch! LAUNCH! The contact has launched an air-to-air missile right at us! Second launch, same trajectory.” The pilot of the AWAC immediately pulled the plane out of orbit and began a steep dive westward towards the coastline some 47 miles away. Had he had gone north instead, they might have just made it. His co-pilot began electronic countermeasures and the defense computer pumped bundle after bundle of chaff from the canisters fitted into the rear of the plane along with a pattern of flares. “What’s chasing us?” he asked the operator calmly. “Two missiles inbound. Seems like they’re heat seekers, the helicopter attack radar is off.” Inside the aircraft the steep dive of close to 2,000 feet per minute created near weightlessness. Styrofoam coffee cups and pencils floated, though most else was fastened or clipped down. The operator kept watching his contact. “He’s illuminating again.” “Shooting at us again?” “Negative, he just lit off a couple at the Harriers.” The Harrier flight leader was traveling at 480 knots when he heard the tweedle-tweedle of the threat warning and the steady whine following the launch of the missiles. Calmly he broke his flight apart and began evasive maneuvers. “Another launch sir! Air-to-ground - right at the trawler!” “Warn them!” “They already know sir, they have their own warning system.” ***

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There were now five missiles in the air, all traveling in different directions, all in excess of Mach 2. The two aimed at the AWAC flew straight and true. One of them was a Russian built radar guided model. It’s built-in radar turned on a minute after launch and acquired the large diving aircraft immediately. The other was a heat seeker which, though limited in range, locked onto the target’s hot signature against the cold night sky. The Harriers were being chased by the radar guided variety, but had a distinct advantage in that they were built to evade this very threat. They both dove and turned to meet the missiles head on, providing narrow profiles and converging with the threats at a combined closing speed of nearly Mach 3. *** The helicopter began a dive of its own heading earthward and away from the launch site. The air to ground missile was an aged, but functioning, anti-ship French built Exocet. Jury rigged it had been precariously fitted to the underside of the helicopter’s belly; it had been touch and go as to whether it would be able to launch at all. At over fifteen feet in length and weighing in excess of 1,500 pounds, the pilot feared that it might simply fall off, so poor were the fittings, but they had been good enough. The air to air missiles were diversionary, though they were reliable. As the Exocet lit off, it already had an altitude of 8,500 feet and began a steady dive toward its target, building up to its 684 MPH cruising speed. It’s on-board computer acquired the trawler, then plotted a course to bring it in at wave top level. It was completely self contained; time to target was a mere minute and forty seven seconds. *** On board the trawler a klaxon sounded. “All hands. Missile inbound. Battle stations!” Parkinson laughed out loud. “Battle stations!” There weren’t any on this tub. The best advice was to get the hell off. He screamed at his assistant to do just that when the young fellow ran into the operations room to see what all the fuss was about. “Grab a life vest and just jump over the side - quickly!” Advice that the captain repeated over the intercom, when he shouted, “Abandon ship.” Parkinson checked that the link to London was still operating and spoke with his controller there. He maneuvered the fiber optic cable downward. His last vision was that of a blue Ford Scorpio’s windshield and the faces of its dead occupants languishing inside. Seconds later the missile struck, its final approach visible from its fiery exhaust plume. If anyone had been watching they would have seen the shock wave of its near supersonic advance, rippling a rooster tail over the surface of the ocean. *** The Harriers both escaped unscathed. The AWAC was not so fortunate. The first heat seeking missile ran out of fuel five

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miles short of its target. Kinetic energy kept it going in its arch, detonating on contact with a flare that was ejected from the side of the aircraft, it’s remains tumbling harmlessly into the sea below. The second missile had a good lock and proceeded to home in. Seconds away, the pilot pulled up and away from the inbound, the co- pilot worked the counter-measures furiously, filling the air behind them with bundles of aluminum. The missile, confused momentarily having to choose between two targets, did what it was supposed to and exploded behind the aircraft. It showered the aluminum skin with a rain of deadly shrapnel, which punched their way into the starboard engine casing, where it destroyed the spinning turbine housed inside. “Fire in number two!” the co-pilot warned. “Shut it down! Get that fire out!” the pilot responded, struggling with keeping the aircraft in the air. Their airspeed was near maximum, the craft shuddered and struggled to stay flying with the loss of power on one side. Smoke poured from the now defunct engine, and he had to fight with the rudder pedals to keep the plane from yawing terminally. One of the Harriers formed up a hundred yards off his left wing tip to act as a decoy, should any more launches be detected. The other scanned the area from where the launches had been detected, but found nothing - no radar emissions, no helicopter, nothing. Instinct warned the pilot that following the ghost into the mountains that guarded the north of the county of Mayo might not be advisable at this time, a fact that was confirmed by his controller, who diverted him to the ship’s last known position to search for survivors. *** In London, Flemingworth watched the satellite feed splutter out, but he had seen enough to now know where Paisley, and many other missing parties were to be found. A fax from Seán Driscoll confirmed that one of O’Shea’s companies, did indeed own the ship they were investigating. The evidence was added to O’Shea’s file which was forwarded to the British Prime Minister through the detective’s boss, Inspector Frederick Mortimer.

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“Madam Ambassador, we may be a small nation in geographic size and in population, but our sphere of influence is worldwide.” O’Shea flicked a speck of lint off the crossed leg of his beautifully tailored navy suit. “Not quite to the degree of our imperialist neighbor nor your good selves. We don’t, for example, have an aircraft carrier like the JFK ,to visit overseas ports to remind the world of the firepower we can bring to bare if we don’t get what we want.” He flashed a cold smile. The US ambassador shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her intelligence reports were making O’Shea out to be more than an opportunistic politician, a murderer was how they had put it, a mass murderer, if the latest information from London was correct. “Ambassador...Jean,” O’Shea smiled, sensing her attention drifting, and was pleased with the slightly startled reaction as she recovered her poise. “I don’t need to remind you that the Irish constitute in excess of 15% of the US population...15% of the white voting population, a block that a senator from Massachusetts, a relation of yours, will attest is vital to the election of those wishing to remain in power on Capitol hill.” The patronizing tone behind the delivery was difficult to ignore. “What an asshole,” Jean Kirkpatrick thought, returning his steely gaze. The Irish immigrants in the US would not be so pleased if they knew what kind of man was running the country of their forefathers, but they would soon know. “Might,” she reminded herself, contingent on the computer enhancement of the video they had downloaded, following a tip from Scotland Yard. They would need the original, however, for greater detail and to determine authenticity. “Prime Minister,” she fought the urge to turn her wedding ring, a habit she had under stress, pointed out to her by the CIA during a training session many years prior to her taking her position in the country of her ancestors. “I have been instructed by the President himself to deliver a warning to you...” “So send it in the open through normal diplomatic channels,” O’Shea interrupted. Kirkpatrick ignored him and continued, “in the strongest possible terms, that he will not sit idly by while you destroy all the work that has been done over the past seven years in an effort to rekindle a violent conflict with,” she chose her words carefully,

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avoiding the word “ally”, “a friend of both our countries while the pursuit of a peaceful settlement to the conflict was near its end.” O’Shea looked her over as he would an impertinent subordinate. Rage rose inside of him. How he would have liked, no loved , to have pulled his pistol from his desk drawer, shoot the bitch and send her home in a garbage bag. How dare anyone interfere in the affairs of Irish national importance! The Americans with their nuclear arsenal, playing Russian roulette with anyone who threatened the status quo. How dare they! The American peoples’ roots lay in nations such as this, yet like a spoiled brat they came back to threaten their parents. Instead, he ran his hand over the length of his tie and straightened himself in his seat, rising above his guest. “Strange words from a nation which wrested itself from the control of the same adversary, albeit over 200 years ago.” Kirkpatrick did not respond, her many years of diplomatic experience knew that the pot was on the boil and she would not hinder the venting of steam. ‘“Funny”, she thought, “they all react this way...” “Ireland is not Iraq. We do not possess anything in the way of a strategic importance to the US. We do not possess oil, uranium, nuclear warheads, in fact, if this country disappeared tomorrow, I doubt that the President would even notice.” “Please do not take me for a fool,” Kirkpatrick could hardly contain her contempt for the man. She had never liked him. Even as a fringe politician, he was always full of his own importance, never letting his guard down. “You know quite well that in this era of peace, wrought from the experience of two world wars and threat of global annihilation during the cold war, that a violent conflict is not the answer - it never has been. Neither the U.S. nor the EEC will let it happen. There are procedures to resolve these issues, and resolved they will be.” O’Shea stood up, interrupting, his face white and drawn. “This country had been the victim of racism and ethnic cleansing long before it was fashionable in Bosnia, South Africa or Alabama. What you see north of our border are the seething remnants of a policy that was deliberately put in place over 400 years ago, for Christ’s sake the Protestants still regard the withdrawal of British troops as ‘Doomsday’ - a time for all Protestants to unite to destroy the Catholics. Well, by God, they’ll have their Doomsday or whatever they wish to call it because I will not let you, the US or anyone interfere with the process of history. NO ONE!” O’Shea slammed his fist on his desk top smashing a cup and saucer set into fragments which flew in all directions, a piece of which cut the ambassador underneath her eye. Blood pouted from the wound, slight as it was, she trembled as she wiped the area, the crimson

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smearing across her fore finger. O’Shea towered above her and she was within a millisecond away from touching her bejeweled lapel. Doing so would have activated a radio panic button summoning her bodyguards from where they sat, at an already high state of readiness, in an adjoining ante room. Armed with compact submachine guns, they would have died to get to her, and remove her to the safety of the embassy on Elgin Road. In the process they would have had destroyed anyone and everything to fulfill their mission, Prime Minister included. O’Shea did not realize how close he had come to the end of his career. Kirkpatrick and O’Shea both realized the unforgivable breach of protocol. Because of her instructions, and the gravity of her mission, Jean did her utmost to underplay the incident, hiding as best she could the damage done to her person. O’Shea noticed the blood and despite the fact that he did not wish to show his hand at this stage, he decided that he may as well play it through its conclusion. His ego would have it no other way. “My apologies Madam Ambassador,” he made his way to offer her a tissue to clean off her garments, but was rebuffed sternly as Kirkpatrick regained her dignity. She regarded him in her acid glare as she rose to depart. Her contempt was visible to O’Shea and he responded, his anger rising again. “I, the nation, will not let the US interfere with the workings of this ancient country nor the conclusion of its destiny. If I detect any sign of interference,” he straightened his jacket, re- fastening a button that had popped loose, “I will provide your chickenshit President with a demonstration of what exactly the Irish can do to harm the status quo of your great country,” he sneered at the reference. “Be warned, our geniality belies a serpent within...as a review of our recent history will attest. Good day Ambassador!” Kirkpatrick looked him over and decided that it wasn’t worth it. O’Shea knew what he was doing and he was daring her to rebuke him. “Fuck him,” she thought, her cheek was beginning to ache and she turned to go. “Madam Ambassador,” O’Shea called out, “don’t underestimate what I say. If you do I will be forced,” he smiled at the thought, “to demonstrate my sincerity. And the world,” he added, “will not sit idly by and allow you nor your country to bully us when behind their adoring gazes they are supporting us 100%.” He turned his back to her until he heard the door shut. He pumped his arm upward in victory only to be cut short by a cold voice. Kirkpatrick had not yet left the room. “Don’t bet your life on it.” She left the door open as she went.

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The days tumbled past as John and Nick immersed themselves in the research they undertook. A phone call with Ted Smith, narrowed down the search. He suggested that they investigate none other than the most prominent person in the media, Gerard O’Shea. When Nick asked why they should look into O’Shea, Ted told him that he had received information from a British intelligence source backed by recent derogatory media coverage that O’Shea was receiving locally in the UK. As a professional hacker, John knew where to start looking, but as time passed it became clear that their target of inquiry was squeaky clean. Frustration mounted as did the reams of records they pulled from various electronic sources. Bank accounts, credit cards, property transactions - the list went on and on, filling a new half gig hard drive they had allocated for the task. John would prowl the electronic connections in the wee hours when most systems were quiet or backing up. There was always the danger of a security specialist tracking them down, but John used a series of call transfer and cut- offs — which he changed frequently — through university sites, to connect to the various databases. A trace would yield little in the way of pinpointing his exact location. His calls originated from any of six different cellular phones that he had bought for $1,000 in the Bronx - the numbers stolen from their unaware owners. Using a specialized matrix, each call originated using a unique calling number - virtually untraceable except by the FBI who, John hoped, had bigger fish to fry, as the information he was accessing and downloading was just that, information, not credit card numbers or data that could be of fraudulent use. A case some years previously had instilled in him the use of extreme caution. A super confident and careless hacker had been traced even though he was using a cellular phone. He was so confident that he would not be caught that he continued using the same phone from his apartment, and was surprised when the FBI came knocking at his door. Despite being able to access the data and read it on a computer screen, Nick preferred to format it and print it out. While John slept during the day, Nick would pour over the records and highlight anything he did not understand or areas of interest for later discussion with John. Following O’Shea’s retirement in 1990 and his move to Ireland, he concentrated on his media interests. Indeed, the Irish companies were bought at times of distress at excellent prices.

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With his reserves other bidders simply backed off knowing that they could not outbid him. They had seen him in action in his overseas acquisitions where, more often than not, he got what he wanted and at a good price. His political aspirations emerged seemingly from two sources. First, his media holdings made him privy to every event of government in the Irish state, a relatively small country, where everyone knew everyone else’s business. The state’s agenda was limited to keeping the country stable and economically sound. Foreign policy was a courtesy only, due to its neutral stance in world events, except for St. Patrick’s Day when the only politicians not on an overseas junket were the ones who were buried in their local graveyard. The second, was his intense interest in the land of his birth which, combined with his recent lucrative retirement, gave him all the time in the world to involve himself in fringe political issues. At first, outspoken against the socialist political lie of the country - a necessary stance due to the high unemployment and lack of natural resources - he softened his attack upon the counsel of his political advisers lest he alienate a large portion of the electorate. Change he knew could only come from within. His model was the US, where personal responsibility was a Republican ideal. The expensive social net of the unemployment insurance system in place in Ireland was simply not tolerated in the US. His other social agendas were not public knowledge merely rumors. O’Shea became a man of the people, a success story, never campaigning openly for public office — he had far more freedom commenting through his media outlets. Quick with a handshake, long with a chat, and free with his money when he would take time off in a pub. His charisma rubbed off on most of his growing following. His personal wealth left them in awe, and people reasoned that if he could do that for himself he could do the same for the country should he ever run for office. It was in the most unlikely of places that they spotted a possible chink in his armor. While slogging through old newspaper clippings at the New York City Publin Library, Nick found an article written by a former disgruntled employee of one of O'Shea’s company. The suit, filed by an Eileen Barr comprised of accusations of harassment and she claimed that on one occasion O'Shea had physically threatened her. The suit was settled and that was the end of it. Ms. Barr died shortly afterward in a drunk driving incident - despite a claim by her husband that she never drank. The autopsy showed that she had alcohol in her system; however, her body was decomposed somewhat due to submersion in a New York reservoir where she had run off the road a week before in an area she never frequented.

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Nick made a note to follow up on this lead by contacting her husband under the guise of a journalist. A phone call yielded nothing except for an answering machine - the electronic kind supplied by the phone company. Not wanting to arouse suspicion or leave his number he simply hung up each time until one evening he was lucky. Introducing himself as a freelance journalist, he quietly informed Mr. Barr that he was writing a follow up piece on the case and the accident and would Mr. Barr be gracious enough to give him an hour of his time. “You’ve got five minutes,” “Excellent,” Nick asked him for his opinion on Eileen Barr’s death. “I’ve said all I will say in the newspapers. There is no doubt in my mind, however, that O’Shea killed her. And if he didn’t do it himself, he had someone do it for him.” “Why do you think that?” Nick asked. “You’ve read the reasons,” Barr sounded like he wanted to hang up. “Yes, I have, but how can you be sure?” Barr was quiet, sounding unsure how to answer. Nick could hear his breath heavy on the phone as he mulled over a decision he wanted make. Instead Barr asked a question. “Why are you so interested?” John’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at Nick’s answer. “Because he’s trying to kill me too.” Barr didn’t comment right away. “My wife kept a detailed diary. And copies of papers from the office. I didn’t tell the media about it at the time of her death because I couldn’t stand the publicity or having her dragged through the spotlight.” “Is there information that might incriminate O’Shea?” “Plenty. And before you ask about why I didn’t bring it to the attention of the police, it’s because I was afraid.” “Of O’Shea?” “Yeah. Do you want to see the files?” This was more than Nick could have hoped for. He agreed instantly and wanted to leave right away. Being that it was late in the evening, Barr said that it would have to wait until the morning.

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“What?” Jessica thought, as she heard the night sounds fade suddenly and then die out completely. She knew this moment was almost certain to come about, despite the reassurances that Yani had given her. She and the children were not safe here, how could they be? It wouldn’t have taken long for someone to find that of all the European vacation spots that she and Nick had visited in the past, Aghios Nikolaos, was on top of the list. Any of her friends could have told them, and probably did, she thought, as she strained her ears. The protection that Yani had given her had consisted of four men on two shifts, all locals, who seemed fine and fit. Their parents had fought the Germans during the W.W.II — memories their grandparents, still alive, retained vividly. German tourists were treated with open hostility and disdain when they came as sightseers in their villages. More often than not, they seemed to understand and would go on their way. On the rare occasion that a young German would stand his ground, grandfather would mutter and disappear inside the cottage, blustering a heated warning that he was going to get his gun and drive the Krauts into the sea. The rest of the family would reassure the visitor that all was well, but he or she might be better off elsewhere, in a place less boring than this particularly insignificant village. Grabbing the two-way radio from the shelf beside her, Jessica slid out of bed. Standing on tip-toe, she reached to the top of the wicker wardrobe and her small hand enveloped the large and heavy pistol that lay there, a Colt .45 pistol, a relic left behind by the Americans after the Second World War. Gingerly, she drew back the slide and armed the weapon. The gun’s blue metal was dull and fingerprints — hers— covered the barrel, placed there when she had caressed it in her lap late at night, asking herself if she would ever use it. The nagging doubt could never be answered until a night like tonight, and she knew she would not hesitate. Softly opening her pine bedroom door, she was aware of the breeze that blew gently through the shutters. She shivered, goose bumps rising on her thighs, more from anticipation than cool air. She was thinking completely in the now, everything else was blocked from her mind. Clearing her mind she saw nothing but the open door, she was aware of the heavy pistol in her right hand and the radio in her left. She hoped the radio would crackle with the jolly banter that her minders ceaselessly at times engaged in. But it was strangely silent now, not a whisper, not a chirp.

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She had insisted that the children all sleep in one room. Security was her objective. Once asleep, the children were comfortable, their room cool from the evening ocean breeze. Getting them to sleep was the problem. Over the past few days however, she found that gathering them close for a family reading worked. She usually picked a lengthy book which drew on the children’s imagination. A soft tale, usually about Irish mythology, was the norm. One by one they would snuggle down in their shared beds and drift off. She missed the nuzzle of the dog eager to leap onto the covers beside her as if to also listen. Raising the pistol as she had been taught by Yani when he had given her the gun, she lifted her hand to follow her eye. She knew that the recoil from the .45 would throw off her aim if she didn’t brace her wrist with the other hand, but the security of the radio, the need for outside contact was necessary, until she knew if something was wrong. Sweeping the kitchen and living room area, she saw that nothing was amiss. All the doors were closed and the shutters tight. She had rigged an ultrasonic alarm system in these rooms, a simple box plugged into the electrical outlet, backed up by a nine volt battery which would emit an ear piercing multi decibel sound if anyone walked into the room breaking the even pattern of ultrasonic emissions. It also kept her guards out of the kitchen, preventing their pillaging her refrigerator of late night snacks. Before stepping across the cold marble floor, she turned off the hall light and briefly let her eyes get used to the darkness, not enough for full night vision, but close enough. Stooping down, Jessica creaked the children’s door open. Her eyes and ears were instantly alert should anything be out of the ordinary. Instinctively she listened to the sound of the children sleeping, all breathing normally as it turned out. She lifted her pistol toward the ceiling to avoid scaring anyone who might wake up and see her squatting there. Nudging her eldest son Patrick, she urged him to wake up. She had warned him before that the occasion of this middle-of-the-night arousal might occur, leaving out a few pertinent facts. He moaned quietly and his eyes were instantly awake. “Hey, big guy,” she whispered, “this is it, I need you now.” Nodding he lifted his weary blond head. He propped himself up on the pillow and rubbed his nose and eyes with his hand. Pausing, he asked calmly, “So what’s the gun for?” Before she could answer, he had slipped out of bed and was kneeling beside his sister who he woke gently. “Come on, wake up,” he needled her, getting a dismal response, “we’ve gotta go.” Jessica shushed her as she began to protest this rude awakening.

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“Get dressed and grab your stuff,” she urged her, adding, “wake up your brother.” This proved to be less of a problem as he was already awake wondering what all the fuss was about and “couldn’t everyone chill, and keep it down.” Checking that everyone was dressed and had their bags, Jessica opened the air vent at the bottom of the wall that led outside. They had practiced this as a fire drill since they had arrived. Removing the inside mesh, she reached through and released the outside grill. She slid through first. Looking left and right everything looked OK. She began to emerge from the opening when a shadow, a slight movement caught her eye. She waved the children back with her right hand, she turned down the volume and gave the radio to Patrick. It had an LED readout to show any voice traffic and she warned him to watch it. God, her back was hurting. Jessica slid the pistol out and looked hard into the night trying to pinpoint and focus on the movement she had seen. Not a sound, the crickets maintained their silence. Pulling her feet from inside, she stood upright and pushed her back hard against the exterior wall of the house. Sniffing the air, Jessica caught the sweet smell of tobacco. She slid along the wall, careful to avoid the occasional stone that might crunch beneath her feet and give away her position. Rounding the front of the house where an abutment drew out for the chimney, she came upon the back of a person standing there, a rifle cradled in their hand. “Now, what? Stay or go back?” she thought anxiously. She knew that if she went back the children would certainly alert this prowler. Gathering herself for a second, she held the pistol in both hands and slid it up to the ear of the person in front of her. “Don’t move!” she hissed. Her target stiffened but did exactly as ordered. “Grab the rifle by the barrel with your right hand and pass it back,” she whispered. The person did as asked without hesitating. Grasping the rifle, she slung it over her shoulder by its strap. Holding her hands rigidly, the large gun pointing forward she instructed the person to move, placing their hands behind their heads and to follow her directions exactly. “I’m new to this, stumble and I’ll squeeze the trigger. Do you understand?” she quizzed her captive. A positive shake of the head was the only response. Nudging the prisoner forward Jessica made her way back to where the children waited. Patrick had already emerged from the ventilation shaft. “Get them all out, now,” she whispered. “Quietly, very quietly,” she added. To the person in front she whispered, “If you so much as twitch, I’m going to pull the trigger — remember that.”

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When they were all outside, Jessica slid her captive’s rifle gently into the shaft. She told the children to quietly make their way to the first gathering point, as she had drilled them. They did as instructed and, amazingly, stayed very quiet. They stared at their mom in awe and gazed at the prisoner, looking for some inkling of recognition. Instead, their mom lead them down behind the apartment through the underbrush to where her car was parked, hidden from view, as Yani had instructed her. She bundled the children inside, all the while training her pistol on her captive. She motioned to him to walk away, which he did. Gingerly, she maneuvered herself into the driver’s seat and drove off quietly in a billow of dust leaving her prisoner staring intently after her in the darkness. When she had disappeared, her captive spoke urgently in Hebrew into a collar microphone as he ran back to the apartment.

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The route south from the north coast of Crete is lined with dizzying heights and vistas of breathtaking beauty. Jessica chose not the quickest route but perhaps the most scenic, not for its aesthetic value, but to throw any would be tail off track. Yani had told her that at the first sign of any trouble, she should head southwest, crossing the mountain plateaus to Agia Galini, a former fishing village, now a mecca for tourists, where his cousin would get her to the mainland by boat. Instead, using her eldest son as navigator, she turned south, not far west of Malia and climbed through the village of Kasteli, taking the back roads before intersecting with the main East-West route. The motor hummed as the car climbed the steep ascent and the lowlands dropped away, the mountain peaks inviting them upward. Behind them, the turquoise glimmer of the Aegean Sea twinkled in the bright sunlight, tousled with whitecaps as the heat of the day began to cover it with a blanket of haze. Their journey, although short when viewed on the map, would take them most of the morning due to the winding narrow roads that traversed the landscape. She didn’t expect to arrive until after noon. Occasionally, a tour bus would block their path, its diesel motor bellowing in protest, spewing black smoke into the fresh highland air as it labored its way upward. On either side lay fields of rocks and scorched grass surrounding islands of olive groves. Vineyards were also visible, though at this time of the day they were deserted of workers and farmers who enjoyed a siesta in unseen huts. The mountain goats, however, were abundant, leaping from one precarious position to another on seemingly sheer rock faces, remaining sure-footed as they hunted for tufts of sweet grass. Above them, the sky became more clear and blue as they climbed 700 feet above sea level. Jessica spent much of the early part of the journey pointing out the flora and fauna, spotting the odd hawk and animal, explaining to the children that everything was much the same as it was for centuries. Following the map closely, Jessica took a less traveled route to get to the hamlet of Téfeli, where, under a stripped canvas awning, she and the children enjoyed a lunch of Greek salad and stuffed vine leaves prepared by an old woman dressed in traditional Greek clothes. The salad teemed from the serving bowl, laden with tomatoes, sweet onions, and crumbled feta cheese. They washed it down with fresh orange juice, and though Jessica was tempted, she avoided having an ice cold beer which the lady offered, the green bottle dripping with condensation. She needed to keep a clear head.

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After making sure that the children had used the bathroom, they piled into the car and continued their journey, bellies full. After a few minutes she smiled as she saw the three of them fast asleep in the back of the car, the motion of the car lulling them, as they made up for the sleep they had lost from the unexpected early start. Jessica was glad that they were able to take all the excitement in stride, she had made a great effort to shield them from the stress that she had been under, and they had all responded amazingly well. Jessica enjoyed the hour of peace that she had, as she progressed towards her destination and whatever the future held. Her resolve was absolute, her mind determined to see this through. She managed to compartmentalize the episode of the night before for later digestion. Her mind wandered to thoughts of Nick and his welfare as it did through most of the day, when she had a few moments without distraction. She longed to be with him again, to share their bed. She positively ached, and laughed to herself at the longing that remained after sixteen years of marriage. Though they had a stormy relationship, their bond grew throughout the years so that they had become like a single person. They could read each other’s moods from a mile away. The nature of Nick’s work would keep him away for periods of time, and while they would invariably argue the night before he left, the homecoming was a time they both looked forward to. She snapped back to reality, her peripheral vision spotting a refection of light in the rear-view mirror. She was approaching the main road to Agia Galini, in fact she was surprised that she had not yet reached it. Quickly she scanned the road ahead and saw a grove of trees on the left. Gently braking the car, she swung in underneath them and got out leaving the engine running. Scanning the sky she walked to the edge of the trees and listened intently. She could only hear the gentle purr of the car motor, so she walked back and turned it off. Listening again she could hear a distant engine noise ebb in and out in the near windless air, and then she saw it. Not more than a mile away a helicopter was following the contours of the road, flying barely 200 feet above its dusty surface. As she watched it bank to avoid rocky outcrops, it left behind a cloud of dust thrown up by the vortices created by the spinning main rotor. She looked around quickly realizing that the trees, while providing shade, would not provide adequate cover should the helicopter investigate closely; the car would be visible through the leaves. She ran back to the car and snapped open the rear door, waking the children from their slumber, urging them to follow her. She led them to the cover of a stone wall where she pressed them against the base of the stones, they would be invisible from the air, above them a rocky outcrop would deprive the aircraft of the space necessary to fly closely. Covering them with a blanket, she

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warned them to stay still and not to come out, no matter what happened, unless she called them. The hum of the helicopter was closer now, it would be upon them in a matter of seconds. Looking at the car she wished she had driven it closer to the trees, but there was nothing she could do. Reaching to her waistband, she realized that she had left the .45 in the car underneath the front seat. Without hesitating, she leapt across the wall and dashed for the driver’s door desperately grabbing for the butt of the weapon and the spare clip, finding them just as the helicopter rounded the last bend and rushed up the short stretch of road toward her. They must have been traveling too fast, because they over-shot the grove, a rush of wind from the rotor blasting through the tree limbs. Jessica used the opportunity to get back to where the children lay and she pressed herself closely against them shielding them instinctively as she cocked the heavy handgun. The helicopter flared, as the pilot turned, its white and blue aluminum side gleaming in the sunlight. Jessica squinted through a gap in the top of the wall and confirmed her belief that this was no coincidence. From the side door of the helicopter, a khaki clad man was training a weapon in the direction of the car as the aircraft drew level, no more than 50 feet away. She had seconds to react, and in that time she knew she would decide the fate of Nick, herself and the children. A deep anger grew inside her. She was tired of being chased, pursued like a rabid dog. Scenes like this were from the movies, it could not, and should not be happening to her. Who the hell did they think they were, endangering her and her children? She watched as the helicopter moved slowly forward, its main rotor wash scouring the landscape beneath it. The pilot and passengers vied to see the car more clearly. Jessica slid away from the children, and took a deep breath. With strength and speed that she never thought she had in her, she rose, cleared the wall, and ran breakneck towards the hovering aircraft. The air parted close to her head as the gunman slung from the doorway fired instinctively as he saw the threat. Jessica did not slow as she ran directly underneath the belly of the aircraft and raised her pistol in a two-handed grip. Deliberately and with great determination she fired upward, loosing off round after round until the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Releasing the clip with her right thumb, she withdrew a fresh one from her jean’s pocket slapping it home cleanly as if she did this everyday of her life. Above her the helicopters skin was dotted with holes, the nearly half inch wide rounds ripped through the fuselage into the cabin inside. The pilot reacted, hauling back on the collective, slamming on the power as he attempted to pull away. The door gunner was slumped

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forward hanging out the opening held in place by his seat belt, his weapon dangling from his limp hands. Jessica cocked the gun and fired again, her aim compromised by the rush of down coming air and the changed angle of the target. Her rounds were not wasted as they hammered into the engine compartment. A flume of black smoke poured from the rear of the helicopter; her bullets ripped through the hydraulic lines inside, spilling oil onto the searing hot exhaust manifold. Jessica stopped shooting, having counted her shots, realizing that if she emptied this clip she would have no way to protect herself; her remaining cartridges lay in a box in the glove compartment in the car. She watched in fascination as the pilot fought for control, the aircraft reared and bucked like a rodeo horse. She ran back through the trees fearing that the helicopter might explode over her head, and continued to the relative safety of the wall. She saw flames leap from the engine cowling and smoke pour from the passenger compartment. She could see the pilot plainly while he fought gaining altitude, heard him throttle up as the rotor bit the air. Then he seemed to turn the engine off as it fell silent. Dipping the nose forward the pilot aimed the aircraft at the roadway and the craft fell like a stone. When he was just feet away from the surface, he hauled the nose up again using the torque remaining in the spinning prop to flare the aircraft on a cushion of air. It landed with a sickening crunch. The force of the impact crushed the undercarriage and the helicopter dipped on its side, the spinning rotor blades destroying themselves as they lashed the hard blacktop, the body of the unflyable craft shuddering and rearing from the transferred energy. Quite suddenly it lay still. The air reeked of the strong odor of aviation fuel. Jessica rose and trained her gun on the smoking wreck. “Get into the car. Patrick you start it. Don’t stop! Just run!” The children did as they were told though the sight of the wreckage tugged at their attention. Jessica followed them, her face grim the barrel aimed at the limp forms that slumped inside the burning hulk. The pilot attempted to unbuckle his harness but failed, his right arm lay limp and he couldn’t reach with his left. Jessica’s medical training fought her instinct to flee while she watched the flames spread rapidly. Making up her mind she ran to the pilot’s door and tried to open it, but the frame had buckled during the impact. The rear door had burst open and a foot protruded from the interior, smoke billowing out over it. Carefully, she peeked inside, her weapon aimed steadily, she was ready to fire, but nothing moved. There were two people in the back. The foot belonged to a woman who still clutched her rifle, though unconscious. Jessica grabbed it and threw it outside. She coughed as the acrid smoke irritated her lungs. When

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she climbed in, the woman grabbed her ankle. Jessica responded by pressing the cold muzzle of her .45 against the woman’s temple. “I’ll blow your goddamn head off - let go.” She did not have to ask twice. Reaching into the front she unbuckled the pilots harness and backed out, as he got out of his seat groaning with pain, nursing his damaged arm. The remains of his aviator sunglasses were askew on his face, but he did not seem to notice, blood seeped from his right ear. Outside, Jessica tugged at the woman’s leg and shouted at her to get out. The flames were intense, now threatening to scorch Jessica’s hair. Running to the other side, she undid the harness holding the door gunner into his seat, and he fell onto the roadway face forward. She backed off when the pilot and the woman emerged, staggering from the other side of the aircraft. “Help your friend,” Jessica ordered, which they did grabbing an arm each and dragging him away from the inferno. The fuel tank blew when they were just 20 yards away and the force of the explosion threw them onto the ground, the pilot screaming from the pain of the impact onto his shattered arm. Jessica, further away, shielded her head with her arms and cast a worried eye at the car where her children’s faces looked from the back window. Jessica did not offer to help the wounded people in front of her, her humanity only went so far, she would shoot them out of hand if they so much as made a threatening move, and she told them that. They didn’t seem to care. They made their way wearily to the trees. A sudden gust of wind blew the flames in their direction, licking the trees, leaves snapped and exploded in the sudden heat, but they did not catch fire. Jessica signaled with the gun that they sit. “Throw me your weapons and wallets.” They complied, the woman had a small hand gun, and she removed the unconscious man’s wallet for him. The pilot attempted to say something. “Shut up!” Jessica waved the .45 in his face and he did. Squatting she picked up one of the wallets and flipped it open, inside were some credit cards. She flipped up the section normally used for a driver license. Looking at her was a photo of the woman, but what got her attention was not the shot but the identification card. She checked the other two and they looked the same — military ID’s. She was not familiar with the printed language. Jessica never noticed the arrival of the BMW which coasted to stop twenty yards away, nor the figure that reached out and fired at her knocking her flat on the ground. As she drifted to unconsciousness, she could hear the anxious cries of her children, and there was nothing she could do about it.

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“John, wake up...,” Nick urged the slumbering mass, lying on the mattress on the otherwise spotless bedroom floor. The room reeked of the sweet odor of alcohol. The smell turned his stomach. “Wake up...wake up!” John snorted, rubbing his face with the inside of his hand and grunted, opening his swollen eyes. “What’s wrong?” he slurred, coughing. “Trouble man, I heard a car pull up outside...wake up and listen asshole!” Nick hissed. That did it. John’s filthy mood at being woken was now directed at Nick for the insult. “Don’t you call me that you little Irish fuck!” he roared, as he lifted himself up in his bed, a sheet barely covering his crotch, where the hair from his belly met his bush of pubic hair. He stopped when he saw Nick smiling at him with a baseball bat in his hand. “What’s goin’ on?” “I couldn’t sleep. About five minutes ago I heard a car going up the hill.” “So what, it was probably the Hydes’ coming home...what time is it?” “Four thirty. Listen to me! A few minutes ago I heard some noises in the trees behind the house.” “Deer, they come around my yard like friggin Bambi, it makes cutting the grass a real howl, messy bastards.” “Except that Bambi doesn’t use a laser sight.” John was all ears now, and crawled out of bed stark naked struggling to heave his jeans on while wiggling on the floor. He rarely wore underwear. "Wish I didn’t...” “Drink so much,” Nick finished. “Here I brought you some Tylenol and a glass of water, figured you’d need it.” John nodded gratefully and gulped them down, hesitating before he swallowed to avoid gagging. Lurching for the door to his bathroom he muttered something about needing a leak and Nick had to wait an anxious minute while he heard urine splash more or less in the direction of the toilet bowl. Despite his fuzzy head, John did have the sense to leave the light off maintaining both of their night visions in the darkened house. “Get the guns out of the wardrobe,” he instructed Nick, as he very carefully zippered his fly. He pulled a fresh T-shirt over his head, his tousled mane popped from the top.

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“Clips are on the top shelf. Get my black bag as well, down there behind my boots.” “What should we do?” “Well, were not staying here that’s for sure. If there’s a shooting match I don’t want it here where my house will get wrecked.” “How do you suggest we leave, walk out the front door like nothings happening?” “Leave the thinking to me, go upstairs and get my laptop and your bag of stuff. Bring them down here while I have a look-see.” He grabbed his AR-15 from Nick, slapped a clip into the breech and armed the gun. He handed it back to Nick and quickly checked the .38 pistol which he held onto. “Leave the safety on. I don’t want you getting spooked and blasting a hole in my office.” “John, you feeling OK, you sound like shit?” “No, I’m not, but what can I do now? Remind me not to drink any more Jack Daniel’s, I’m goin’ to keep to beer from now on, my head hurts!” he groaned. Nick did as John had asked and picked up his own pre-packed bag and note pad from his room. He moved, keeping low, below the windowsills. All of their research and printouts had been packed away in the basement, with the exception of a few odds and ends. John had insisted on this precaution in case they did have to leave suddenly. He wanted to make anyone curious enough to enter the house work hard to find any evidence of their investigation. What remained, Nick stuffed into the side pocket of his bag. John stumbled into the room. “Purge your hard-drive, you’re right we do have company. Use the program I installed for you and leave it. It’ll do it all automatically. Take the back-up optical disks.” Before Nick could answer John had disappeared again, to do the same to his own computer. All of their work as well as huge volumes of Johns own could fit quite comfortably on his laptop and the 3.5 inch optical disks that John had mentioned. Nick turned on the computer and dimmed the screen to its lowest viewable setting. He used a floppy disk to boot up, and within less than a minute he had, with a few clicks of his mouse, set in motion the sequence that would reformat his drive. He click off the screen when reformatting commenced and left the room to find John. “Turn on the alarm, full setting. If they break the circuit the house will light up like a ball park. In fact...” John trailed off, as he pushed past Nick and set the system himself. “How do we get out if that’s on?” Ignoring him, John beckoned that he should follow him down the short steps to the living room. “On you’re stomach...crawl after me.”

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Nick lay flat, and as he inched forward, it reminded him of his childhood days of playing cowboys and Indians, carpet burns and all. They kept a watchful eye on the windows when they passed into the kitchen where the going got better on the linoleum floor. Reaching the basement stairs, they heard the handle on the exterior kitchen door being turned. The handle creaked against its spring, and Nick had to squint to spot the slow movement. “Quick,” John whispered, taking the AR from Nick. “They’re coming in — this way.” Slipping the safety off his rifle he led the way downstairs where they were engulfed in complete darkness. Nick had to grab hold of John’s belt to keep from falling over items that lay strewn about. The only light came from the flickering glow that emanated from the boiler, which burst into action as they shuffled across the underground space, casting erie shadows on the white washed walls. “This way, through here,” John led on past tall piles of boxes and other odds and ends of junk. He reached in behind a bookcase that was flush to the wall, and feeling behind it he released a hidden catch. The bookcase swung outwards on a hinge, and John eased behind it pulling Nick with him just as they heard the sound of glass smashing on the floor of the kitchen above them. Nick tensed waiting for the alarm to go off but nothing happened. “John,” he whispered, “the alarm it didn’t...” “I reset it so that it wouldn’t go off until a pressure pad is depressed. I don’t want the whole yard lit up until we get out of here.” “Out of where, what is this place?” Nick could see little, though John had illuminated the room with a small lamp, red tape covering the lens. They were in a small airless room with concrete walls and a concrete roof. A single unlit light bulb hung suspended on a chord from the ceiling. “My father had it installed back in the ‘60’s, it’s a nuclear fallout shelter.” “But we’re trapped, what if they find us?” “The walls are over 18 inches thick, made of reinforced concrete. The door is three inch layered steel. Running water and a generator...lots of food in cans. And a phone...” “Jesus, John we can’t stay here.” Smiling in the darkness, knowing his friend to be claustrophobic, John paused before answering, “We won’t, look here and hold the lamp.” Reaching up he removed a rusted metal grating, it shuddered as he wrenched it from its frame. Behind lay a hole large enough for them to crawl through. “Where does it lead?” “Originally, it was an air-shaft fitted with a scrubber to remove airborne contaminants. Now it leads to the tree-line emerging at

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the wood shed.” The shed was far enough away from the main driveway not to be seen. “Right near your car!” Above them they would hear movement as someone crossed the living room floor. Still the alarm didn’t sound. John handed his rifle back to Nick, checking to make sure the safety was back on. As they began to enter the shaft, John hesitated and reached into his inside pocket. Satisfied he went on wiggling through the opening. Nick followed him avoiding his feet, as his only source of light was from the lamp that John had clenched between his teeth. The air in the shaft was damp and smelled of earth. There was no room to turn around. They pushed on through until John stopped. “Quiet, ssshh! Stay here.” he whispered. Inching onward John disappeared as he rounded a curve. Nick’s knees were soaked through from the dampness that lined the tunnel. His shoulders ached from his cramped posture, and the fact that he had to drag his pack and John’s rifle behind him. One of his boot laces had come undone but there was no way. The bulge in his belt dug painfully into his ribs, such was the position in which he crouched. On their way out John had reached up into the suspended ceiling in his den, pushing aside a tile, and retrieved a heavy Navy Colt pistol that he had hidden there. Thrusting it into Nicks hand as they rushed to the basement he apologized, “All I can give you, I’m afraid.” Nick was unfamiliar with the use of the weapon, but tucked it under his belt. The silence and darkness began to press down upon him. Closing his eyes and opening them again made no difference - he could see absolutely nothing. Insects scuttled away from them as they progressed. Shuddering, Nick could feel them crunch beneath his hands and knees. Just as he felt that he would begin to panic, he heard a low voice call him from just ahead, and he gratefully crawled forward toward the dim glow that now lighted the tunnel. A blast of fresh night air greeted him when he reached the spot where John had gone out of sight, and he was glad to see the exit appear in front of him. “Hurry up,” John urged. Puffing and panting, Nick traversed the last few feet and nearly tumbled from the mouth of the tunnel except that John grabbed his collar at the last second stopping him. “We can’t get near the car,” John mouthed, as he retrieved his rifle checking it with his hands in the near darkness. “Someone’s standing there. See.” Nick peered through the trees and when he was about to dismiss John’s words as a hallucination he saw the movement near the Jeep. A figure, the red glow of a cigarette dangling from his lips, looked over a weapon at the house waiting for them to bolt. They were about ten yards away.

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“How come the alarm didn’t go off?” Nick whispered. “They must have checked the house by walking at the edge of the room, obviously professionals. However, I can change that quite easily.” John withdrew a small box from his shirt pocket, similar in size to the arming device for a car alarm. “I can set the alarm off with this. A panic button.” “What if they’ve disconnected the alarm itself?” “Not likely, its got a battery backup and will automatically sound if tampered with.” As John lifted his arm, aiming the device, with a soft click he depressed the button, and the box projected a ray of infrared energy towards the house. His aim was off because of his poor positioning in the foliage that surrounded the exit from the tunnel. Had he been closer to the house he would have missed completely. However by the time the narrow beam had traveled the distance it had spread like pellets from a shotgun and blanked the front of the house with its invisible energy. Mounted adjacent to the front door was a receiver wired directly to the alarm system inside. It interpreted the code carried by the beam as genuine, activating an electrical switch which closed the circuit on the alarm. As predicted it did light up the entire house, as all of the lights tripped on and a wailing siren screamed to life, filling the garden and surrounding lots with its searing piercing wail. John grabbed and held Nick’s head close to the ground. There were two reasons, the first was to remain immobile as the area was lit by the bright halogen security lights, the second was to maintain their night vision should they decide to leave through the adjoining woods.

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Jessica awoke with a throbbing headache. Her whole body seemed to be trembling. Her mouth was dry, her tongue swollen. She attempted to open her eyes and sit up, but her eyelids would not respond to the messages from her brain. “Mom, MOM,” her eldest son’s voice urged her to fight harder, and she finally lifted her head focusing on the source of the sound. Her heart beat powerfully in her chest and her breath came hard rasping in her arid throat. “Mom,” her eyes opened, and she lifted her head to look for the source of the call. She felt like she was going to throw up. She was lying on a gurney a drip feeding into her left arm. Movement was impossible, as she was strapped onto the stretcher. Jessica could just make out the features of the room in which she lay. Her son reached over and stroked her hair which was damp. Her forehead glistened with sweat. His hand was cool and reassuring. “Where...are we?” she croaked. “Just sleep mom,” he urged. Jessica strained to focus, but all she could make out was the confines of the rumbling room and just before she passed out again, she felt a wave of despair. What she saw seated beside her son, and the sleeping children, was a grim faced armed soldier, and then nothing. The helicopter rumbled out over the Mediterranean away from Crete.

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A drop of condensed dew fell onto Nick’s head with a plop, its icy cold spread through his scalp like a broken egg. He kept his eyes tightly shut, his chest felt as though it was in a vice grip. He wondered if he was having a heart attack, his heart fluttered from the tension and panic that engulfed him. He was certain that the click of his valves opening and shutting must be audible giving his position away. The Navy Colt .45 was of Civil War vintage. A heavy weapon it was the predecessor to the modern combat revolver with one distinct difference. It didn’t use cartridges. Instead each chamber of the 6 shot weapon was hand loaded with black powder, a wad and a lead ball. To detonate the rounds primer caps were fitted onto the rear of each chamber which when hit by the descending hammer ignited the charge and fired the round. The long barrel ensured reasonable accuracy at close range. It had one additional feature that made it popular, the revolving cylinder could be dropped out and refitted with a freshly loaded one, making it a true predecessor of the modern handgun. A good weapon as long as the primers and powder didn’t get wet. The size of the soft lead rounds were enough to take a man’s leg off. A museum piece, it should have been preserved, but John believed in the premise that if it works, use it, and he did. He didn’t vouch for the reliability of the pistol, as he had loaded it some years previously and hadn’t used it since. Still its bulk was reassuring and John was practically certain that he had replaced the percussion caps. John had the AR-15 but kept the .38 for himself as a backup. Nick trembled and opened his eyes slowly. A snap of a breaking twig caused him to instinctively look in the direction of the sound. John was a couple of yards ahead of him, silhouetted in the light from the house. He was gazing intently through an available light spotting scope, another one of his toys, sweeping the tree-line looking for signs of activity. He reached back and touched Nick’s leg and pointed. But Nick couldn’t see anything, but understood the gesture to mean that John had seen someone hiding under the densely packed trees on the other side of the lawn. Destroying his night vision, John swept the front lawn ahead of them, his night spotting scope practically blinded him as it caught and magnified the glare of the halogen spotlight that illuminated the side of the house. “We’ve got to move,” he whispered to Nick, “The alarm is wired to the police station down the road.” Nick squatted beside him. John’s breath smelled strongly of liquor. He hoped that he would

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maintain his alertness. “If instinct serves me correctly,” John continued, “these guys will finish their work and then sweep the perimeter before they leave, they won’t just bolt.” John rose to a low stoop and edged further into the underbrush. Nick was watching the house, letting John move ahead before following him. Nick didn’t see what happened next, but heard a sickening thud and the crash of John’s unconscious frame falling heavily to the ground. Nick remained frozen in the spot he was in and slowly tried to ease the large pistol from his belt. It snagged and he couldn’t extract it without straightening his body. He could see little in the bad light. All he could see of John was his shoe as it lay inert a couple of yards ahead of him. With a grunt, he hauled the pistol from his belt and held it in front of him. John had told him that there were only five rounds, he stored it with the hammer resting on an empty chamber. He had also warned him that cocking the hammer would require a good haul, but once cocked it had a hair trigger. These weapons were built to last. The long barrel pulled his wrist earthward, the weight strained his wrist. Calculating what he should do, he controlled his breathing, waiting for the attacker to make his first move. He had a strange sensation of deja-vu. Why didn’t the fellow show himself? And besides, where exactly was he? Nick licked his dry lips, but found his tongue parched. Concentrating, using his thumb, he drew back on the hammer, nearly dropping it from the spring tension. He could feel the chambers turn and suddenly he had the hammer cocked, accompanied by a click that he was sure could have been heard from some distance. If he had known better he could have relieved the tension by depressing the trigger part-way until the hammer locked into position, but he didn’t. He heard a noise ahead of him and caught a fleeting sight of a figure rolling across his line of fire. Nick followed the movement and depressed the trigger, closing his eyes in anticipation of the roar and flash that would surely follow. Instead he was greeted by a loud metallic click when the hammer fell on the primer which failed to ignite. He fumbled, repeating the cocking action, but had lost sight of his quarry, so he ducked low lest he become the target. He scanned the surrounding trees, but, frustratingly, he could see nothing. Slowly, keeping the pistol in front of him he edged to where John lay, found the night scope and peered through it. The night instantly became as bright as day though with a green tinge. What had been shadows were miraculously transformed into brightly lit areas, so bright it seemed that a spotlight was attached to the lens. He could see John’s jeep parked close by. They could make it, Nick thought. But first he had to deal with whoever had hit John. He scanned the tree line.

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And there he was, not ten yards away crouched behind a tree. Staring right at him, raising his weapon and pointing it straight where Nick was squatting. Nick had guessed correctly, that the gunman was relying on sounds to locate his target. Unsure of what to do, Nick reached over and lay his hand on John’s cheek. The pressure was enough to extract a groan, which in turn was enough for their pursuer to home in on them. There was nothing else to do, so he depressed the trigger again. There was a loud snap as the hammer hit the primer, which in turn exploded, igniting the black powder charge. Nick leapt up as the leaden ball hurtled forward. The roar of the pistol would have woken the dead, and the bullet left a large white cloud of burnt powder in its wake. Nick didn’t wait. He grabbed John and attempted to sling him over his shoulder, no easy task given that John was semi-conscious. But Nick managed, half dragging, half carrying John. After a dozen steps he was able to throw John and the rest of their gear into the rear of the jeep. The keys were in the ignition. As he turned them, he could hear the sounds of shouting behind him, orders being given. Releasing the parking brake, he let the car roll onto the street under its own momentum — the reversing lights would have given away his position. A thought popped into his head while he started the car. He slipped the clutch and moved the jeep forward. Nick cocked the Navy revolver again and threw it high over the trees into John’s yard. It hit the ground as he changed into second gear, and discharged with a loud flash and bang on impact. There was a fusillade of gunfire in the direction of the discarded pistol, and by then Nick was gone, roaring down the hill toward the main road, the wailing of the house alarm siren fading into the distance. “There’s an abandoned house at the other end of town.” John groaned sitting up. “Take a right at the bottom of the hill and I’ll show you.” Nick did as he was told and drove at high speed through the sleeping town of Armonk, not even slowing for the blinking red traffic light. A police cruiser whipped past them going in the opposite direction. “Turn here.” John ordered. Nick hesitated, but John grabbed the wheel and slewed the jeep into what appeared to be a tree covered hillside. The jeep stalled. John pushed Nick over and taking his night scope back, drove up a long overgrown driveway, all but invisible from the roadway. He drove with the lights off; he could see quite clearly through his scope. John let the jeep slow avoiding the brakes until the last second, when he heaved on the parking brake and they coasted to a rustling stop. “Best we stay here ‘til the morning.” he told Nick. The silence surrounded them, even the crickets were quiet while Nick and John

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made their way into the nearby abandoned house. The electricity was off, so they made themselves as comfortable as they could on the rickety kitchen furniture. Neither slept, waiting for day break.

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The advertisement ran in the Irish Times, the New York Times and several other international papers over the course of a number of days, but Nick Riordan never saw it. Nor did he see it on the Internet version of the Irish Times — even though he checked it every day, watching the slide towards anarchy, towards chaos, towards a civil war. It said the same thing. Nick R, call your dad. Simple and straightforward, but ineffective. The morning after their narrow escape from Armonk, Nick and John drove to Manhattan. Nick called his parents’ home from an office in the city where an obliging receptionist had allowed him to use the phone. John had left him while he handled some business of his own. Nick was on the line for only twelve minutes. In that time the call was traced, and he passed someone in the hallway of the building sent to intercept him as he left. He wasn’t recognized because he had heeded John’s advice. To be un-noticed, be noticeable. During his time in John’s house, he had grown a goatee and mustache. He had an earring, and he kept his head shaved to a stubble. The look complimented him. His blue eyes radiated. But it was enough of a change that his wife would have done a double take before recognizing him. His father, aware that the line was certainly tapped on his end, gave it to him straight, after the initial small talk, reassuring each other that everyone was fine. “Imperative, son, that you contact an old friend of yours in the IRA. Crucial.” Nick was shocked. His contact with them had been what seemed an eon ago, and even then it had been but for a few months. What the heck did they want him for? His mother had warned him during his first years in college. “Once in the IRA, always in.” So he responded to his fathers direction the only way he could, asking “How?” His father, reading from the type-written page that had been dropped off at his home some time before, gave him a number in New York, and told him that the only way contact could be made was for Nick to identify himself with information that would be asked of him on calling. For a moment Nick wondered if his dad was being coerced into giving him the instructions, but he knew his father well. There was no way he would put Nick in harm’s way. He had to trust his father’s instructions. Wisely, Nick decided to get to another phone before making the call. The receptionist was beginning to give him the evil eye. He found a pay phone, a taxi ride away in Union Square.

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Through the noisy street traffic Nick heard the phone answer on the first ring with a gruff, “Hello?” Nick hesitated but then decided that he had little to lose at this stage and identified himself by name. The answerer responded in fluent Irish. Nick caught most of it — it had been a while since he had spoken a word of the language. The voice asked if he understood, “An dtuigeann tú?” “Sea,” Nick responded positively. He had been told that he would be asked a series of questions, and he had to answer them correctly immediately, or the phone would be hung up, permanently. The questions taxed his brain. But they were pertinent to him, and he managed the responses well. “Actual place of birth; social security number; Irish tax ID number, he stumbled through this; mother’s maiden name; paternal grandmother’s first name; date of maternal grandfather’s death,”... it went on and on for over five minutes. It was possible that someone could fake the answers with enough research, but that would have required a response lapse to search through data. Nick fed more money into the phone. There was a silence that lasted half a minute. “Put the guy behind you on the phone,” the instruction sent a chill up his spine. Nick had been so engrossed with the conversation that he did not notice that he was now hemmed in from behind by four men, rough looking characters who looked at him without expression. He held the phone out to have it taken by the smaller of them. He smelled of sweat, not surprising, considering the heat of the New York day. His eyes never left Nick as he listened to his instructions and hung up. He gestured with his head that Nick should move away and into a car that was waiting, rear doors open. Nick got in, to be flanked on either side by his guards. The car’s air-conditioning blasted out tepid air. He felt panic rise as the car pulled away. His heart pounded, sweat poured from the soles of his feet making them slippery. The words from the small fellow did not make him any more comfortable as they shot into the Midtown tunnel, “Welcome back Nick,” accompanied by a glimmer of what could have been either a smile or a sneer.

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“Line two,” his secretary said over the intercom. Line two was a secure line, with a voice scrambler which, matched with a duplicate phone on the other end, modulated so quickly that no eavesdropper would make sense of the conversation — that it was a gift from the US Ambassador was speculation. Adams picked up the phone. “Jean, top of the morning to you.” “And the rest of the day to yourself, Gerry.” “And to what do I owe the call?” “We should meet, this morning if possible.” Gerry laughed out loud. “The thought of the head of Sein Féin meeting the US Ambassador for lunch in one of the better restaurants in town would have the columnists flying. You might even get recalled!” Jean Kirkpatrick laughed along with him. “I’ll send a car to the usual place. Say eleven o’clock?” “Make it 11:30, as you can imagine, I have a few things to take care of here.” “See you then.” Phoenix Park, situated in the northwest of the city center with 1,760 acres, is the largest enclosed urban park in the world. In 1671, the Duke of Ormonde had walls erected around the park to keep the deer population from straying. It contains the Peoples Gardens, the Irish Army headquarters, Dublin Zoo, the papal nunciature, the residence of the Irish President, and the destination of the unmarked, but armored, car that carried Gerry Adams to his lunch date, the residence of the US ambassador. Adams didn’t notice any of this when he checked the knot on his tie in the glass reflection of the back seat. He of all people knew Dublin and its history well. At times he preferred it to his native Belfast. During the current unrest he decidedly preferred it. Being in Belfast would have left him very exposed. He had no intention of getting shot a second time in his career, once, as he had in 1984, was enough. Adams was dumbfounded by the information that Kirkpatrick showed him. Even his intelligence arm had not picked up a fraction of what the ambassador displayed to him on her laptop computer. The information that her staff had downloaded from O’Shea’s computer was pure gold. His files had indeed been encrypted but he had used a program that was easily cracked.

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The Ambassador showed him O’Shea’s plan for the takeover of Northern Ireland, his supply routes, attack routes. There was even a designation of which army divisions would attack where. “What are the helicopter symbols?” Adams asked. “I would imagine that they represent air support.” “Ireland doesn’t have a fleet of attack helicopters, there must be thirty of forty there,” he counted. “O’Shea has an aircraft refurbishing plant in the West of Ireland close to Knock airport. I have to assume he has an assembly facility as well. I need you to have this confirmed.” “That plant is staffed by foreign contract workers. Irish staffing is minimal and restricted to front office only.” “You’ll find a way.” “I don’t recognize the other symbols.” “O’Shea has contracted mercenaries, again from Eastern Europe. Not a lot, maybe 300 total but they’re battle hardened, well paid, and hungry for work. He uses them for his personal protection.” “You know quite a bit for an American lassie,” Adams said in mock admiration, feigning complete ignorance, though he had suspected about the mercenaries. “Where did you get this information? How accurate is it?” Jean ignored his first question. “The source of this information is gospel. And there’s quite a lot of it. I’m only showing you what I consider relevant to you.” “You mean there’s more?” “Plenty. But we only received it recently and we’re trying to fit it all together.” “So what can we do?” “WE can do precisely nothing. The US can’t take a position because of its relationships with Ireland, England, and the peace process. O’Shea has been careful to appeal to the nationalist spirit, and by the looks of things he’s succeeding.” Adams noted that she didn’t include him in the “we.” “Do you have any evidence linking him to any of the violence, the bomb on that plane in Boston?” “We have mention of it in the files that we apprehended. But the evidence is circumstantial. There’s nothing that proves that he was directly involved.” “Pity.” “This will be of interest to you and your loyalist counterparts for one reason.” Kirkpatrick tapped the laptops keyboard until she came to the right slide. She was silent as Adams read the action plan which called for the elimination of all known political dissidents on both sides of the fence, including their known relatives, north and south of the border. “Do you think he can do this.”

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She flicked the keyboard again, displaying a slide made from the transmissions from the British trawler shortly before it was destroyed. The face of the Rev. Ian Paisley, blanched and bloated looked down at them from the depths of the ocean. “He already has,” was all she said. Adams had seen death many times before, but this was a shock. Not so much the sight of his nemesis locked in death’s embrace, but the fact that he was there at all. Paisley, despite his racist agenda, was an untouchable. His Protestant Democratic Unionist Party, political and paramilitary, was extraordinarily powerful at focusing the hard edge of public opinion. Killing him, much as his opponents wanted to, would have lead to a slaughter of many Catholics. Consideration was also given to who might replace him if he was killed. Those who stood behind him were in some cases far more militant than he, without the political veneer. So he had been left alone under the auspices of the “better the devil you know” category. Adams realized with a chill that it was now not a case of whether he would be hit, but when. O’Shea was not operating under any rules of engagement. “We have plans to eliminate O’Shea.” He knew he could be frank with Jean as long as he didn’t tie her in with anything. “Perhaps I should move up the schedule.” His eyes were grim and his jaw set tightly as he realized how close he was to joining Paisley in his watery grave, luck had been the only thing that had stopped him from being first. Jean shook her head disapprovingly. “That will accomplish precisely nothing. O’Shea’s momentum is such that his elimination will only serve to enhance his reputation and his so called cause. It would do more damage than good. Besides,” she added for the record, “the United States government does not condone assassination of any kind.” She saw the look of defiance on his face. “We need direct evidence of his involvement to stop him in his tracks. Only by appealing to public opinion, a smear campaign if you will, can we turn this whole thing around. If there is time. Hopefully it’s not too late. Any ideas?” “I have heard through a source of my own that Nick Riordan, who was in the news right after the first attack...” “Yes, I remember.” “Well it turns out he is, or was, depending on whether he’s alive, a photojournalist. My source also tells me that he was at that parade with a video camera and recorded the whole event. We are trying to get the tape, but have been told that it was damaged when he was shot at before he left Ireland.” “Who shot him?”

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“He wasn’t hurt, but it was one of our paramilitary units responding to an attack that he was thought to have made on one of our operatives. Riordan, as it turns out, was not involved. We interviewed one of O’Shea’s men shortly after the Riordan incident, and found out that O’Shea operates through a number of command cut- offs. Again there’s a link to him but nothing tangible.” “We would like to check out the original of that tape.” “So would we. Let me see what I can do.” “I don’t think I’ll be seeing much of you over the next few weeks. I take it you’ll be going to ground.” “Like a rabbit before the hounds.” “How do we keep in contact?” Adams pondered and smiled as he rose from the table extending his hand in farewell. “I have, shall we say a mutual friend, Seán Driscoll.” Kirkpatrick was genuinely shocked. “You know Seán?” “Not exactly the best of buddies, but he’d be happy to help.” “I hope you’re right!” Kirkpatrick smiled. “Me too,” Adams said to himself as he kissed her on the cheek in farewell.

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Flanagan was being overly cautious, Driscoll decided. His call came early in the morning just as Seán was rising and preparing to go to work. Peter didn’t say anything over the phone, but the tone of his voice displayed his anxiety. “Meet me at the usual McDonald’s for breakfast at seven,” was all he said, and he simply hung up. Seán didn’t like to eat fast food for breakfast, and only met Peter there on a rare occasion. It was his nature to be suspicious, but considering the current clime, nothing was beginning to surprise him. He kissed his still sleeping wife good-bye. Imelda opened her eyes and wished him well, and promptly fell back to sleep. The McDonald’s in Stillorgan was sparsely occupied and he saw Flanagan immediately. Seán ordered tea, McDonald’s coffee was not something he enjoyed, and joined him. Peter was working through his second Egg McMuffin, and nodded a greeting. “They’ll kill you,” Seán advised. Peter nodded contemptuously, and continued to scoff the remainder of his sandwich. Seán glanced at his watch and waited for Peter to finish. “So what’s up?” Flanagan was agitated and lit a cigarette, glancing out the glass paneled front of the restaurant. “Two things. First, I don’t know what the hell you’re up to and frankly I don’t want to know. I don’t want to get mixed up with it any more than I am already. But Cullen has been pumping me for information for the past week. Every opportunity he has, he wants to know what you’re doing, where you’ve been, who you’re meeting with.” “And what have you told him.” Flanagan blushed and Seán knew that the answer would be a lie. “Eh, I’ve fed him little bits.” “It’s none of his damn business. He doesn’t even work with our department.” “I know, I know,” Peter said defensively. “Be careful of him Pete, he’s a nasty bastard.” “I know that too.” Seán could see the fear in Peter’s eyes and while he felt betrayed, he knew that Cullen had a way of making someone of Peter’s frail character bend. Cullen had a reputation for it, particularly at the wrong end of a few pints. “What else?” “You’re out of the loop.”

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Driscoll squinted questioningly. “Cullen told me last night that you’re going to be suspended today, pending an inquiry for your participation in cooperating with Riordan’s escape.” “You know that’s horse-shit.” Seán felt his own color rise, not in embarrassment but in anger. “Is it Seán? Is it? You have had contact with him, there’s a record of the conversation in the office. And what the hell were we doing in O’Shea’s office? You could have got both of us in the crapper and I can’t afford to get suspended. I’ve got bills to pay. There’s not much in this town for a fired cop.” “So you told Cullen everything to save your job?” “No Seán, not everything. I left out what you did in O’Shea’s office. Otherwise I would have implicated myself for Christ’s sake. Look,” he said, nearly pleading, “I’m telling you this because I’m your partner. You know what Cullen knows. And Cullen must be feeding the information to someone, the boss maybe. The bottom line is, when you go to work today you’re going to get an immediate suspension, and I thought you would be better off knowing before it happened.” Seán looked Flanagan over. Peter was always a weak link. He wasn’t a bad officer, but better suited for the regular detective work, foot slogging around collecting information. Still, he was his partner, and was demonstrating his loyalty, albeit with Judas’ hindsight. “All right Peter. Thanks for the tip off.” Peter looked relieved. He had anticipated a protracted argument. “But Peter,” Seán looked him straight in the eye. “you’re still my partner. Watch my back.” As he rose to leave he added, “and you’re own.”

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The Prime Minister sheaffed incredulously through the report that had been passed to him by the US Ambassador to London at the evening cocktail party. It was unbelievable, simply unbelievable. Britain, through the Defense Minister, his friend Peter Woolworth, had provided O’Shea with the stick with which to beat themselves. It was outrageous, but its source was not to be ignored. All of this on top of the loss of the Royal Navy trawler attacked from Southern Irish airspace. It was too much. He was tempted to pick up the phone and question Woolworth immediately, but his better judgment prevailed. Ordinarily, a document such as this would have been routed through British intelligence services, but he was a friend of the US Ambassador, and with the timing involved, formalities would have to be done away with. “Who else was involved?” he wondered. Woolworth was one of his best friends. They’d known each other so long, he couldn’t put a number on the years. He’d only known his own wife longer. So he did what his sharp instinct told him and put in a call to his colleague in Scotland Yard, Chief Inspector Mortimer, and another to MI5. He had his secretary call Peter Woolworth, who was unavailable. Blair held his head in his hands for a long moment, and then shrugged it off and continued to plow through the file. It would take some time for the invited parties to arrive at the Prime Minister’s Chequers Estate, and at this late hour he needed some good advice from his foot soldiers before diving headlong into the fracas that the next day was sure to bring. Mortimer was the first to arrive, driving himself in his unmarked, but powerful, Range Rover. He was ushered into the PM’s study by the butler, who despite his domestic look, was in fact a member of the Special Air Services, as were most of the staff that had direct contact with officials. He didn’t speak to Mortimer, nor was he expected to. The PM’s face was grave as he shook the police chief’s hand and pointed him to a leather armchair. The butler returned with a tray of tea and biscuits and left as soon as he served them. The PM didn’t bother with formalities but launched straight into his brief. “It would seem that we have a rat in our midst and I need your advice concerning what I am to do about it.” Mortimer said nothing, merely stirred his tea with a spoon, but his ears pricked up at the prospect of a high profile case. For the Prime Minister to be involved it must be a big one. If successfully

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concluded, this would guarantee him a promotion, maybe even a knighthood. The PM ran through his notes and outlined the relevant details. He refrained from using Woolworth’s name. He detailed the amount and type of arms that had been exported, where to, by whom, delivery dates, and the costs involved. Mortimer spoke up, “Sir, with all due respect, these seem like normal arms export transactions.” “Except that the final delivery was not made to the Brazilian company.” Mortimer raised his eyebrows in question, finishing his cup of tea. “Those deliveries were made to Ireland.” the PM said quietly. Mortimer’s jaw dropped. “That must have required complicity from the highest level.” “It did.” “Any idea who?” “Yes, Peter Woolworth.” Mortimer was not given to shows of emotion but he visibly shaken at the prospect. “Woolworth comes from a good family sir, a long line of close party supporters. For God’s sake you and he are...” “Were, Mortimer, were. It’s amazing what a shortage of cash will do to a man.” “Heard he’s fond of the booze as well.” “Always was.” The PM ignored the comment. “So what do you want from me?” “I want all of these leads checked out. Also, I want you personally to keep an eye on Woolworth. See what he’s up to, who he meets. And keep a very tight lid on this, no leaks.” “In light of this sir, we may have to rethink this whole affair with Riordan - the fellow caught on film at the march.” “Why? He is probably in cahoots with O’Shea.” “I have had contact with an old friend who knows him. He tried to persuade me that Riordan was not involved.” “But there were photographs of him there for goodness sake.” “Digitally altered. He was there all right but my contact informs me that he was holding a camera not a gun.” “Look into it.” “Want me to investigate O’Shea?” “Thanks but no. Not your department. I’m due to brief the foreign office and MI5 any time now. You will report directly to me. And don’t pick up Woolworth until I tell you.” “Goes without saying sir.” Mortimer hated being told the obvious. The retort was lost on the PM who was busy sorting his file for the next briefing.

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Ted Smith hadn’t received a call so early in the morning for a long time. He had been up very late watching developments in Northern Ireland on the extended news program. Any past co- operation between the British and Irish governments was but a distant memory, now that O’Shea had assumed leadership. Irish civil servants based in Belfast were fleeing southward, and nothing was being done to stop them. The Catholic and Protestant populations were at each others throats. The two enormous acts of violence had, in a macabre way, evened the score, even though both sides knew that they were not responsible. Enclaves were barricading themselves in anticipation of the rumored invasion of Northern Ireland by southern troops. The British commander of British troops in Northern Ireland, was beside himself, in preparation for a war that he promised would be over before it started. British troops were pouring in by air and by sea. Helicopter reinforcements for ground support were buzzing over the province, armed to the gills with missiles. Tornado jets were due to be delivered the next day. The border areas were closed tightly. All roads had been blocked with formed concrete obstacles, and while it was near impossible to have permanent soldiers lining the entire border, roving patrols supported by close air support faced off their southern counterparts most of the way from the northern tip of Donegal to the south of Antrim in the East. There was no way in or out. Rumors and counter-rumors circulated about the part O’Shea may have played in the events leading up to this point, but it was all speculation. Feelings south of the border were running high as well. Many were volunteering to join the army. Others were preparing for a British counter-attack by forming vigilante groups, arming themselves as best they could. The flag of the Irish Republic was displayed prominently across the country. O’Shea’s speeches and press releases were increasingly inflammatory, designed to boil the blood. He spoke of ending 800 years of oppression in one fell swoop. He taunted the United Nations for their lack of support, asking why they wouldn’t support the overthrow of the last apartheid regime in the Western world. He appealed to Irish Americans to pressure their senators, and indeed the President himself, into supporting his Irish reunification goals. He offered free passage to any Irish Americans who would come back to fight the last great battle of Irish freedom. Smith decided some time before that O’Shea was well capable of playing to the media. British media saw the news as local. However

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CNN and SkyNews saw the larger perspective, and reported it as objectively as they could, making parallels between O’Shea’s quest and the plight of the African National Congress lead by Nelson Mandela during the struggle to free South Africa. Charges that O’Shea was involved in the killing of innocents were brushed off as British propaganda. “Typical,” he was quoted as saying, “of the defamation that the English have used throughout the centuries against all Irish patriots.” Curiously enough the Irish airline fleet, Aer Lingus, was flying its routes as normal, but many pilots having completed their outbound leg of the journey would not fly back. They preferred to sit it out and wait. Consequently, the appeal to Irish Americans was a case of semantics, because, of the four A 330’s that flew to the US daily, two did not return. It was impossible to gauge the feeling among the ordinary people of Ireland. O’Shea had imposed a curfew which severely hindered the ability of journalists to interview anyone after the fiasco in the pub, but the look on the peoples’ faces was enough. Fear and despair was prevalent, a stark contrast to the flag wavers who, it seemed, could not wait to go to war. Mortimer wanted to come right over and Ted agreed. While he waited, he put a pot of tea on the stove, and out of habit patted his empty shirt pocket for a cigarette. “Damn,” he missed them. It was raining heavily when Mortimer pulled up alongside the barge. Despite the early hour, two of Ted’s security personnel were there to meet him, one with an umbrella, the other parked the car further down the street in a private secure parking area. Mortimer was bone tired and was surprised to see Ted looking as fresh as he did. “Don’t you ever sleep?” he asked his friend. “I do until people like you call me. Drink?” “Tea, just tea. I’m going straight from here into the office.” Mortimer draped his raincoat over the back of a chair and slid onto the sofa, leaning his head back in an effort to relax his tired neck muscles. He waited for Ted to pour his tea before he began. “Some time ago, you came to me to discuss Nick Riordan. I had that photograph analyzed and it turns out that it was indeed retouched. I believe, from our experts, that it is a relatively simple process to manipulate a digital image, and fairly difficult to spot any tampering.” “Just as I told you,” Ted said to himself smugly. “I received information confirming that others were involved in this Irish melee. Riordan, you told me, has a tape recording of that event. We need that tape for analysis. ASAP.” “You’re in luck Mort. I received an e-mail from Nick last evening. His associate, on my request, redigitized the tape at a

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much higher resolution. It’s at a new Internet address. Despite the amount of hard drive space required, the quality is remarkably good. I didn’t go through it all. Couldn’t stomach it.” Ted accessed his e-mail from his computer, wrote down the site address, and handed the slip of paper to Mortimer. “There’s a password too you might want to write down.” “Go ahead.” Ted called out a string of numbers. Mortimer repeated it to make sure he had it right. “Any relevance, or an abstract number?” he asked. “O’Shea’s personal line.” Ted answered with a tight grin. Pocketing the information, Mortimer finished off his tea. “What’s your read on this Irish situation?” “You want the short or the long version?” Ted asked, leaning against the kitchen counter top. “Short.” “O’Shea is the mastermind. He’s a shrewd bastard. Well organized, focused. He’s captured the attention of the international media. With his background and reputation in business, he’s not being regarded as a local despot. It’s hard to pinpoint where the genuine article ends and megalomaniac begins. One thing is certain, the Irish government brought a lot of it on themselves by allowing him to attain the political power that he has. They gave it to him!” “They were not in a very good position. From what I heard, O’Shea looked like a savior to them.” “What’s done is done. I was in Ireland after our last talk, just for a day. I got some background on O’Shea and I can tell you he has no love for us as a nation, and he’s not too fond of a lot of his fellow Irish either. During the fight for independence his paternal grandparents were killed by the Black and Tans. In the civil war that followed, his maternal grandfather was captured, tortured and killed by the anti-treaty forces. His father was shot when O’Shea was just a young boy, during an IRA raid in the South...and O’Shea hasn’t forgotten. His mother featured prominently in his life, reinforcing the prejudices and the hatred that has been a driving force in his life. What surprises me is that he is not aligned with the IRA now. It would make his efforts a lot easier.” Ted went on. “Our forces outnumber the Republic’s troops by about three to one, but that works in his favor. He doesn’t care if his troops get wiped out. If that happens, world opinion will fall right in behind him and he’ll win. If he scores some military victories, all the better for him.” Mortimer thought about it and saw the logic behind Ted’s thinking.

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“I have some information on that, but it falls under the Official Secrets Act.” “Doesn’t everything. All right.” Ted had been bound under the Act before. “The PM received information last night that sheds light on a lot of this. I’m not sure of the source, but it’s deep. O’Shea’s invasion plans call for the elimination of all paramilitaries both loyalist and nationalist.” “That’s no surprise, we’re been trying for years.” “Complete elimination. A new twist to solving the age old sectarian problem. He intends to kill each and every one of them, their families, and then he’s going to raze the areas in which they lived. When he’s done there’ll be no trace left.” “I would assume that he intends to this in the South as well.” “No details on that I’m afraid, but I would assume the same.” “How does he intend to do all of this? You’re assuming that he had to battle his way into the North and take over completely. Last time I checked, there seemed to be more soldiers there than people. The Irish army’s equipment consists of armored personnel carriers and a couple of tanks, but they have, to the best of my knowledge, little or no air support worth mentioning. He won’t even get one foot across the border.” Mortimer hesitated before he went on resigned to the weariness of it all. “O’Shea has been importing a lot of military hardware. From what I have heard, he’s got plenty of anti-tank, anti-aircraft missiles. We have reason to believe that he may have as many as fifty fully equipped helicopters in strategic locations ready for action.” “He didn’t get these at a convenience store, did he?” “Seems that he bought a large amount of our surplus, from us, through an as yet, unnamed source.” “Smart bastard.” Smith knew better than to push for a name. “Still, the odds are against him,” Mortimer mused. “On the contrary. He has the media behind him. And when all is said and done, this will be viewed as the last great Irish freedom effort. The province isn’t all that big. With a hard push he could overrun the place in a day — two tops. He will have to contend with a large portion of the population who will resist him fully. The Protestant population has close to 100,000 registered firearms.” “He’ll kill all of them.” “How does he intend to break through the border?” “Intelligence claims that he has a combat hardened force of some 300 mercenaries fresh from the killing fields of Bosnia. Once the shooting starts, the rest of the army will have no option but to join in.” “If I were he, I would have the British troops fire the first shots. Any response would then be justified.” Ted laughed. “He

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can’t lose. Even if every member of the Irish armed service is killed he will still have won - defending what the world regards as rightfully Ireland’s. We can’t drive into the South without incurring the wrath of three million Southerners. We can’t bomb the South for the same reason.” “You haven’t answered your own question though. How will he cross the border?” Ted rubbed his head before answering. “It’s actually very simple. He’ll have his mercenaries fire on the Irish and British troops at the same time.” “That would require that they be inserted behind the British lines.” “If O’Shea is as smart as I think he is, they already have, Mortimer. They already have.” Mortimer thought it through and saw what Ted was saying indeed made very good sense. His old friend’s mind was still as sharp as the day they had met.

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Just as Flanagan had predicted, Seán was called into the Chief’s office as soon as he entered the building. Casey looked as if he had been working all night, but that was no concern to Seán as he stood before his desk. Casey didn’t invite him to sit down, in fact he didn’t even acknowledge his presence until after a few long moments. He put his pen down and stood up himself. “You’re suspended from the force pending an investigation. The charges include aiding and abetting a known criminal, obstruction of justice, and withholding information vital to an investigation.” He proffered a folded sheet of paper, “Consider yourself served.” Seán didn’t have to be prompted on what to do next, nor did he offer any argument, there would have been little point. He removed his gun from it’s holster and lay it on the desk along side his police ID badge. “Turn over all your files to Peter Flanagan, including any files on your laptop.” “Yes, sir.” “Do you have anything to say.” Seán remained emotionless. “No, sir.” Casey looked him over for a few seconds, before dismissing him. As Seán passed the desk of Casey’s secretary she pointed him to the en-suite bathroom. Seán stopped, unsure of what she meant, but did as he was bade and entered. He decided a leak wasn’t a bad idea. The door opened and closed quietly behind him. He finished up and flushed the urinal. Casey was standing there with a brown manila package in his hand. “You’re in deep trouble Seán,” he whispered. “We all are.” Seán was taken back. “This may be the only room not bugged by O’Shea’s security people,” Casey explained. He proffered the envelope. It was heavy. “Whatever you’re doing I hope it’s for the best, because you’ve pissed off O’Shea and his people. My advice is to get out of town and keep you’re head down.” Seán took the package and asked, “Why the change of heart?” Casey looked downhearted and shuffled his foot grinding at an invisible speck on the tiled floor. “A foolish dream, Seán. I really thought the man could deliver. But I’ve seen his methods and he scares the shit out of me. I received a call from a colleague in Scotland Yard who put me

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straight...I hope it’s not too late.” Casey slowly regained his composure and, looking at himself in the wall mirror, straightened his crumpled tie. As Casey left he mouthed, “Watch your back, son.” Seán opened the package and found a pistol there identical to his own, and an identity badge bearing his picture but with a different department, “Special Operations,” the highest security clearance available to the police force. Funnily enough, that didn’t make him feel much better, but for the first time he was sure that the path he had chosen was the right one. His first priority was to call home and get Imelda and their baby safely stowed in a hotel well away from the center of Dublin.

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Seán had just got off his cellular phone with Imelda when it rang again. It hadn’t taken much persuading for her to agree to get out of town to a quiet guest house they both knew in County Clare in the southwest part of the country. He told her not to go home after she picked up the baby from her mother’s house before departing. “Driscoll.” “Ah, Seán, me ‘ol fellow. How are things?” Seán recognized the voice. A voice from the past. One also familiar from the television. “Gerry Adams?” “The one and only. Are ye free for a spot of tea?” Seán was flabbergasted. In days full of surprises, this was the last call he had expected. “I’m not so sure I’d want tea with the likes of you.” “Ahh Seán, that’s no way to speak to a pal.” “You’re no friend of mine.” “It would be in the best interests of the country and perhaps of your own health, that we meet.” Seán had been threatened before and by harder men than Gerry Adams, but there was an uncharacteristic strain in his voice that made him think. “All right. When?” “I’m waiting for you at the top of the ramp as you exit the car park.” And so he was. Driscoll slowed to let him in. Adams glanced around before opening the door and slid into the passenger seat. Seán was silent as they drove away. The uniformed policeman manning the gate did a double take as he saw Adams enter the car, but dismissed the notion as a mistake. “We’re wanted men, Seán,” Adams began, taking his pipe out of his coat pocket. He began scraping the bowl with his pocket knife, preparing it for a fresh smoke. Its heavy tobacco aroma permeated the interior of the car. “I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke that thing in the car.” Adams obliged and pocketed the pipe after he had refilled it with tobacco. “The IRA’s been on the top of the list for years. What’s so different about now?” Seán drove slowly north around the 22 acre park of St. Stephen’s Green, keeping a look out for military check points. It wouldn’t do to be caught with Adams in his car. “When I said we, I meant ‘we’, you and I. We have a mutual enemy whose put us both on the hit list, although I take the honor of being higher up on it than you.”

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Sean’s blood ran cold. “How do you know?” “I know. That’s all that matters. When all this has blown over, assuming we survive of course, I don’t want you knowing my sources.” “So what do you want?” “I have to go into hiding for a while.” “You should be well used to that,” Seán answered with a wry smile. “Ah, sure let me finish. Are you sure I can’t smoke my pipe?” Seán glanced at him and saw the weariness of the years of struggle. Not that he cared, Adams and his ilk had been killing all of those years as well. But seeing as both were — much as he disliked to admit it — he hoped temporarily, in the same boat, Seán reluctantly conceded. Adams puffed the pipe until the bowl was glowing red before he spoke. “Besides our common enemy, we have a mutual friend. Jean Kirkpatrick.” He got the reaction he wanted, as Seán swerved the car in surprise. “Yes, Jean and I go back awhile,” Adams added puffing away. That was all he got to say as Seán slowed the car. “Checkpoint ahead, they’ll want to check our ID’s.” Seán looked around for a lane way to turn off the main road. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place though, because the military would look for this maneuver and have a secondary checkpoint to catch people making the turn. He was simply too close. “Why don’t you put on your blue flashing light and barrel through?” Adams suggested, not seeming at all perturbed. The thought had occurred to Nick, and it seemed like the only option. So he did, and put on the siren for good measure. The cars in front pulled aside and let him glide up to the checkpoint. Fortunately it was manned by Irish troops, not O’Shea’s henchmen. He had been harassed by troops who recently seemed to be coming out of the woodwork and didn’t speak great English. They checked his ID and asked what the hurry was. “Shooting outside the American Embassy,” Seán offered. The soldier nodded in Adams direction. “Your partner, let’s see his ID.” Adams reached inside his coat, and for a second thought about pulling out his .32 cal. Mauser pistol, but what good would it do? So he pulled out his wallet and handed over an ID he selected. Seán was making small talk with the soldier and when he handed over Adams’ ID, it only got a cursory glance. They were waved on. Seán was handing it back when he decided to look at it. “Flanagan, Peter H., Special Branch,” the card read and had a photo of Adams looking brazenly at the camera.

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“You’re a cheeky bugger,” Seán admonished him. “I should hold onto this.” “I really wish you wouldn’t. It may save my life again soon.” Seán threw it back on Adams lap. “So you know Jean. What’s that got to do with anything?” “I’m going to need a go between to communicate with her. We will need each other in the days ahead.” “And I’m the chosen one?” “You should be happy. This’ll work wonders for your career.” Seán snorted but realized he wasn’t in any position to argue. “The IRA is going to be an integral part of what is going to go wrong for O’Shea in the next few days. I can’t be seen nor can I go to my office. You will have to be my eyes and ears on the street and with Kirkpatrick.” “Jesus, Gerry you flatter yourself.” “Seán, me ‘oul sausage, you know me as well as I do you. You have the lives of a cat. I know ‘cus I saved you from execution more than once. You’re not as bulletproof as you might think on your own.” That made Seán think, and kept him quiet. “I’ve got Nick Riordan flying in to Dublin at some stage tomorrow. I’ll need you to pick him up and keep him safe. He’s got the goods on O’Shea. We hope he’s going to be the one to draw O’Shea out of cover long enough for us to take a shot at him.” “Nick isn’t a military man. He’ll end up dead for sure. What about his wife and kids?” “They, I’ve been told, are in troubles of their own. Only with O’Shea out of the way is there any hope that he will ever see them again. So I’m certain of his co-operation.” “You’re a hard bastard Adams.” Seán saw an army patrol vehicle keeping pace behind them in his rear view mirror. The knot tightened in his stomach again. “The life of one, to save many, Seán. I’d freely give my own if it would help.” “Sure you would,” Seán responded sarcastically. Adams nodded and lowered the passenger window and waved his hand. “How come you haven’t popped O’Shea before now?” Seán asked, as he watched the Nissan patrol vehicle speed up to overtake them. They were alongside the American Embassy in Ballsbridge by now. He was surprised when the Nissan swerved to stop in front of him. Adams seemed undisturbed. “Because I only found out of his singular involvement, as you did, recently. Had I proof that he was responsible for those attacks, I would have had him ‘popped,’ as you put it, sooner.” “Since when do you need proof to kill anyone?” Seán was uncharacteristically unsure of what to do, the conversation had

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distracted him. He drew his pistol unconsciously as the soldiers from the stopped patrol vehicles approached the car. Adams patted his knee. “No need for that Seán, I’ll talk to them. And no killings are carried out without a full burden of proof. In theory anyway. Sometimes the hot-heads get carried away, but that’s a topic we’ll chat about in the future.” “If we have one, there’s another patrol behind us.” Another army vehicle pulled up behind them, lights flashing. The soldiers surrounded the car, guns at the ready. Seán feared the worst, until he noticed that the weapons were pointed away from the car, not at it. “Ah, my lift has arrived.” Adams smiled proffering his hand to shake Seáns. “Best of luck. I’ll be in contact later today.” And he was gone. Seán was in a bit of a daze. He sat in the car watching as Adams jumped into the front Nissan patrol. He knew Adams was well connected, but the sight of the army vehicles moved his respect for him up a notch or two — the man had balls of steel. Seán pulled away from the curbside and glanced at the US embassy. For a second, he could have sworn he could see Jean Kirkpatrick smiling down on him from the top of the building, but when he looked again, she was gone.

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The Huey fluttered down over the Bronx rooftops, high enough to avoid jutting antennas, low enough to avoid the radar at La Guardia or Newark airports. The thumping main rotor blade made noise that was distinctively different than the din of the street traffic below. The drab, olive colored craft crabbed, fighting to remain straight, in the strong afternoon breeze. “Two minutes,” the pilot muttered, adjusting the throttle control to slow the helicopter. It descended as they passed over the stretch of water that connects the East and Hudson Rivers at the tip of Harlem. The rotors spun in a blur, the helicopter proceeded, it’s chopping sound reminiscent of the Vietnam era. Its shadow dropped over the water and rushed to meet it again as they passed over the Manhattan shoreline. Harlem rushed past on either side as they raced southward on Park Avenue, following the Amtrak rail line, which lay below, elevated from the street. Passing 97th street, the railway tunnel lay three blocks ahead. The rails disappeared toward the labyrinth of Grand Central Terminal at 42nd street. The gunners headphones crackled. “Fire for effect, range your guns,” the pilot ordered. “Roger,” was the dual response from the door gunners, as they swiveled their M60 machine guns downward on their pivots, each gunner cocking his weapon, pulling back the arming lever, which loaded the first shell into the breech from their belt fed ammunition. There wasn’t much aiming to do. Though the pilot had drastically reduced speed, the proximity of the buildings made them blur past — actual aiming was impossible, but the effect was all that was expected. The guns were loaded with explosive ammunition. Jacketed with copper for maximum penetration, the rounds would explode in a fraction of a second after impact, destroying anything with which they came in contact. Each gun was capable of firing in excess of 500 rounds per minute. The heavy gun barrels would dissipate the excessive heat of over firing effectively. The only limiting factor was the finite supply of ammunition in each loading case. Checking that the belts were feeding properly, the gunners fired a three second burst, expending 25 rounds each in a loud chatter. Empty shells, and the disintegrating link belt onto which the individual rounds were fitted, spun and clinked as they were ejected from the breeches, streaming like a garden hose. To improve on the task of aiming, every fourth round was a tracer. Fine at a

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distance, but in these close confines it gave but a slight advantage. These first rounds splattered across the seventh floor levels of the buildings at which they were aimed. Some rounds, but not all, buried themselves into the concrete and brickwork, exploding forth, and throwing out large clumps of masonry. Others cleaved through the glass windows, ripping through all that was in their way, furniture, walls, floors, before exploding, destroying the room in which they detonated. Little remained of any human contact except for a mist of blood and damaged tissue. “Free fire,” the pilot ordered, steadying the aircraft over the Park Avenue centerline, anticipating the expected wind gusts from the passing cross streets. In response, the gunners aimed backward from their bay doors to improve their aim, but more to avoid damaging the helicopter from erupting debris. Their backs rested on the cold metallic sides of the ammunition drums stacked behind them. Not comfortable, but comfort was not an anticipated luxury with the task at hand. Their assistant replaced their spent belts as quickly as they ran out. Closing their fingers against the triggers, they set about their task and opened fire, smoke pouring from the flash guards at the end of the large barrels, while they hosed destruction into the glass and metal buildings on either side. For maximum effect, the gunners lifted and dipped their weapons, so that the firing would have a larger target area, two or three floors instead of one. On the street below, pedestrians stood gaping at the destruction that rained into the buildings above them. They were rewarded for their curiosity by showers of glass and debris which sliced downward, maiming the unwary. A lone police officer returned fire quickly but uselessly, emptying his Glock 9mm pistol skyward. One building got special attention from the gunners - that of the Waldorf Astoria, with its gilded gold exterior. The helicopter slowed momentarily to allow the port gunner time to concentrate his aim at the lobby area, ripping it and its inhabitants to pieces with countless searing rounds of lethal projectiles. While he did this, the pilot activated a switch on his stick flipping the protective cover open. Depressing the button, the gattling gun attached under the nose of the cockpit spat out its own deadly contents. Inside the pilot’s visor was projected a target symbol in a heads-up display. Wherever the pilot turned his head, the gun would follow. The Met Life building stood at the end of Park Avenue, its acres of glass were half bathed in shadow. Round after round plowed through the panes. Inside the building the people became aware of the danger when they heard the plink and tinkle of the bullets entering through the glass windows - the helicopter was too far away for them to hear the noise of the discharging nose gun. Afterwards,

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those who lived would remember the sound that followed the onslaught as a roar, a ripping sound like a straining chain-saw. Later, lower Park Avenue would be closed for a week, while detectives combed through the wreckage and rubble looking for clues. They would find absolutely nothing - even the empty casings were absent, collected by the gunners in burlap sacks attached to the ejection slots like horse feeders. The bullets themselves, being of the explosive variety, left only fragments. Even those that didn’t explode were so scarred from their entry through the glass and masonry that they left little if anything of the rifling of the weapon that discharged them. Though adrenaline coursed through his body, sparking off a rush of endorphins, the pilot maintained an outward calm expression and tone in his voice. “Going up,” he said clearly into his intercom. The side gunners stopped firing in unison as did the pilot while they prepared to go to phase two. As soon as he had spoken the words, he hauled back on the collective, pitching the blades of the main rotor upward, and the helicopter rose like an elevator. Rising above the office towers, the pilot radioed a pre-determined code on an open frequency using a tone keypad like that on a telephone. The code was a meaningless series of tones except to one listener, situated in Melville, Long Island. A high antenna rose above his roof, as a ham radio operator - that was his cover - he needed it to extend above any interference from intermediate hills, of which there were few on the island. Melville sported the most significant, rising 200 feet before the broad expanse that stretched to Manhattan’s glittering glass towers. The operator noted the time on his note pad without responding. The helicopter heeled westward, skimming the rooftops until two blocks away it reached 6th Avenue or Avenue of the Americas as the street signs boasted. Around them lay an immense expanse of glass covered structures. The port gunner had the most opportunities, because the target buildings lay on the west side of the avenue. The pilot flew north on 6th, utilizing his weapon for maximum effect, while the port waist gunner hosed the buildings from top to bottom. So efficient was their plan that the pilot took care of the distant towers and the waist gunner the nearest, until the entire avenue was awash in glass and steel. The starboard gunner’s opportunity came at Rockefeller Plaza and Radio City Music Hall, and he wasted no time in catching up with his companions. The final phase had to do with a prominent international building on the West Side - a few minutes travel away. They used this time to reload. Empty ammunition cases were kicked out of the gun port doors when the pilot made a lazy turn high above the East River. The cases fluttered soundlessly to the murky water, splashing into it, and sinking almost immediately.

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In police headquarters, the phones rang off the hook with reports of the uptown onslaught. The police helicopter unit was immediately notified, as were a number of the SWAT teams. The police helicopters, three of them, took off, bringing with them marksmen who set up their powerful rifles on a specially fitted bracket in the rear of the helicopter. A call from the police chief notified both the National Guard based on Staten Island and the Coast Guard unit on Governor’s Island. The helicopter had the United Nations’ Building, their final target, in it’s sights. Prior to their mission their information on the status of air defenses was uncertain. From his vantage point a hundred feet above the building, the pilot could see that the security personnel had indeed the shoulder launched SAMs his intelligence sources had warned him about. He sprayed the roof top with the remaining rounds from his nose gun making sure that he eliminated any immediate threat to his aircraft. Heeling the helicopter hard on its axis, he raced over to the Queens side of the East River before reinforcements ventured onto the United Nations Building rooftop. The waist gunners provided cover until the receding building was out of range. Almost adjacent to the Queens 59th Street bridge, the pilot lowered the aircraft, allowing his passengers to jump safely to the ground on an abandoned pier. While they did, he tied off his controls using a combination of rope and duct tape and jumped out himself. The helicopter hovered momentarily and began to edge out away from the pier while the men jumped into a waiting car, their mission of destruction completed. They didn’t wait to watch it flutter uselessly and splash into the brown river water where, after churning the water into a cauldron, it sank quietly to the bottom.

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Ted Smith left the review of the redigitized copy to the professionals. He didn’t have it in him to watch it again. So he set about trying to contact Nick Riordan. All he had for a contact was an e-mail address on America On-line and a beeper number in New York. He tried both twice and then all he could do was wait...and wait. He put a call into Mortimer, who was tailing Woolworth. Woolworth’s movements were routine. Mortimer hated tailing through traffic, because he had to be close enough not to lose the target, but far enough away so as not to be constantly in the rear view mirror and thus avoid detection. He had no sleep the previous night, and he had to make every effort to stay awake. He told Ted he would keep him informed. Nick eventually did call, but not in response to Ted’s attempts to contact him. “Have you seen the news?” Nick asked. “Yeah, I’ve been watching the Irish situation closely.” “No, New York. Some loonies in a helicopter literally shot up Park Avenue and tried to blow some holes in the UN Building.” Ted flicked to CNN and watched the coverage as he spoke to Nick. After a minute of watching he muttered “Jesus,” and turned it off again. There were more pressing matters at hand. “We need that tape Nick. You still have it don’t you?” “Yes, I do. But first I need some advice.” “Shoot.” “I’ve run into some people here that want the tape as well.” “Really! And who might they be?” Ted asked, thinking perhaps that a media group may have had an interest. “The IRA.” Ted was silent. “And?” “They want to use it as bait to get O’Shea to break cover.” “Why should he? He doesn’t have an interest in it.” Ted heard a beep from his second line. “Nick, hold on I’ve got to answer this,” and he put him on hold. “Ted, Mort here. That tape is priceless. After reviewing the enhanced digital version, we have a clear shot of someone who looks awfully familiar firing shots into the bodies on the street. We’ve got to have the original tape though, and work from that.” “That’s a breakthrough. I think I can work something out.” “You’ve got to, and I’ve got to go old chap. Just got word we have to pick up the suspect I’m following. Bye,” and he hung up.

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Ted clicked back to Nick. For a second he though he lost him as there was a long pause before Nick spoke again. “Nick? I need that tape today if possible.” “The only way is for me to messenger it over to you. I’m a persona non grata in Blighty. There are plans afoot over here to ship me back to Ireland, to use me as bait to get O’Shea.” “He’ll kill you in half a heartbeat. Wait, if the IRA have you, why are they letting you call me?” “They’ve made me an offer I can’t refuse Ted. I am in their custody for my protection, not as a means of intimidating me. I’m free to go as long as they accompany me. I’m very worried about Jessica and the children. She’s not responding to any of my calls. I’ll call you back as soon as I can figure out what I’m going to do.” “Wait, I’m going to book you onto a British Airways’ flight into London tonight. You can pick up the ticket at the airport. I’ll be waiting for you at the terminal, and I’ll get you cleared through customs.” There was a pause. Ted was sure that there was someone else on the line. There had to be. If Nick was in IRA custody, he would be under tight wraps. Ted could hear muffled talking on the other end of the phone while he waited. “Ted, you will need to book two tickets. The only way they will let me leave here is if I am accompanied. You will receive a call from an IRA contact in London to make arrangements about what they have in mind for the tape.” “Let me give you a number.” “I think they already have it. I called you remember... sorry. See you tomorrow.” “Nick, Jessica has ...” but the line was dead.

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O’Shea was furious. He stomped across his room and flung the communiqué onto his desk, which it missed and landed in a flurry of paper on the floor. His secretary stooped and picked it up, leaving it in a tidy heap on his desk. She waited, knowing that her boss would have instructions for her after his temper had blown off. But that was a ways off she thought — first the storm. “That Goddamn American bitch. Who the fuck does she think she is?” His eyes blazed and he pounded his fist into his palm as he strode the room. He was reacting to a letter sent over to him from Jean Kirkpatrick, which in no uncertain words told him that the game was up. It had been a carefully calculated ploy which, after consultation with the U.S. foreign office, had been decided to hint at the information that the U.S. possessed concerning O’Shea and his designs. The Ambassador was showing her hand to a certain extent, but after the incident that had left her bloodied, and telling the President about O’Shea’s reference to his being of the “Chickenshit” variety, she was, with the blessing and support of the US President, given a free hand in managing the affair. Kirkpatrick had e-mailed off her plans for a response after Adams left the night before, and had an approval, with a couple of revisions, that morning. The basis of the US stance was that it did not recognize O’Shea as a political leader and therefore he would not be offered the privileges that were afforded that position. The main thrust of the document included statements that: the US was withdrawing from any official diplomatic communications with the O’Shea led Irish government until the democratic elected leaders once again took office; all economic aid would end immediately; at the behest of remaining Irish officials, who had registered their request through the US Ambassador, all Irish commercial funds and state assets in the US would be frozen immediately; no commercial or civil aircraft would be permitted to travel between Ireland and the US and that would include grounding the remaining Irish aircraft in the US; the US Ambassador and the American personnel that staffed the Ballsbridge embassy facility were to be recalled, and only essential personnel and security staff would remain. O’Shea knew the implications. Other countries would follow suit. Ireland would become a diplomatic ghost town overnight. He would have to move quickly. What disturbed him even more was the statement that the US was going to release irrefutable evidence of his alleged involvement in the mass killing of innocents. That date had not been set, but it

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was too late O’Shea thought. A selection of items of the military hardware that he had imported was also listed. “Woolworth, the little shit,” he thought, “must have talked.” But Woolworth was still up and running providing him with key information regarding British moods and military deployment. O’Shea stopped his pacing and turned and stared at his computer. “Could it be possible that someone had cracked my encrypted files?” he thought. “Impossible!” Snarling, he turned on his secretary. “Has anyone been in my office alone?” His secretary was startled. The office had only one entrance and she was there to buzz visitors in. “No. I don’t even go in unless you’re here.” “No one has had access to my room? You’re absolutely sure?” “Your security personnel are here 24 hours a day...” “They’ve only been here a week. How about before that?” His secretary wished she had her desk diary so that she could check. A dim memory surfaced. “Last week we had a visit from two state security personnel, a Detective Driscoll and his partner. I left them alone outside your office for a couple of minutes while I got some tea. They’re the only ones I remember.” “Driscoll again. He’s been suspended from the force, right?” “All done according to your call to Chief Casey yesterday.” “Something smells. I should have taken care of Driscoll a long time ago. Get Cullen over here right away.” He thought of something else. Woolworth had outlived his usefulness. “Have my office in London send Peter Woolworth a bottle of champagne with my compliments. Tell them to take any of the bottles out of my office refrigerator. I want that done immediately.” His secretary waited in case there were any other orders. “Go on, get on with it!” was his curt dismissal. He sat at his desk reviewing his options. His plan called for further escalation prior to his attack timetable, set for three days from now. He would have to move the schedule up and provoke the Brits a little harder. He smiled as he realized that he could get some payback with Jean Kirkpatrick. He was screwed diplomatically anyway. “May as well get hanged for stealing a sheep as for a lamb,” he thought as he called a number outside of London. It was time to push Britain a little harder toward the brink.

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As the Royal Air Force flight leader taxied his Tornado fighter aircraft to the end of the runway, he made last minute pre-flight checks, referring to the list strapped to his thigh. Since his downing during the Gulf War, he had been doubly careful, because he had been blown out of the sky by a large Soviet made SAM - the last of three, having successfully evaded the first two. A proximity fuse was what got him, a second more and he would have been clear, but the missile had exploded aft of his tail, ripping through the control surfaces. Despite the extensive damage, the flight computer kicked in and took over, enabling the aircraft to continue flying much longer than he could have on his own. However, when the rear ailerons literally fell off moments later, the flight computer became just another piece of useless electronics while the plane spun, spiraling through the dark night towards the cool desert sands below. Flight Lieutenant DuPont had ejected at a low altitude, having radioed his position to his base, and had practically landed on top of an Iraqi patrol. As he thumped into the ground, his parachute shroud billowing around him, he was greeted, not too enthusiastically, by a group of heavily armed Iraqi soldiers whose units had been bombed to bits by B52’s earlier in the night. That he had managed to live was a tribute to his survival skills, and the shrewd negotiation of a high ranking American general. As the war progressed, and Iraq learned that the coalition forces could indeed place a bomb wherever they pleased, deals were made that certain areas would be removed from the list in return for certain downed pilots. Lt. DuPont was one of the fortunate pawns and was released prior to the end of hostilities. “Flight leader, cleared for take off,” the tower signaled as he rolled onto the runway, his wing man shadowing him. Glancing at his bare wings which glowed in the pulse of his navigation lights, he tapped his brakes lining the aircraft up on the runway. The flight had minimal armament. The two 27mm nose cannons were armed and two air to air Sidewinder missiles were slung underneath the wing tips. Swept forward for takeoff, the wings would, after takeoff, be swept back to provide a maximum speed of Mach 2. The two 15,000 pound thrust engines, during normal flight operations, would require the addition of wing hung fuel pods. However, tonight’s flight had a duration of under an hour as their flight plan had them fly over Wales, west across the Irish Sea and north to Belfast. Behind him, in the second seat, his co-pilot was busy checking his instruments, his helmeted and visored face bathed in the glow of

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the cockpit lights. The rest of the flight waited in pairs on the taxi way while DuPont slid the throttles to the stops, igniting the afterburners. Twin tongues of flame shot from the engine exhausts — a bright orange settling into a focused blue, like a blowtorch. The powerful aircraft shuddered like a racehorse, straining against the starting gate. DuPont released the brakes as he and his wing man began their take-off roll simultaneously. He felt the G- forces push him back into his seat, and he braced his head against the headrest while he waited for his speed to reach rotation velocity. Behind him, the squadron began to roll, taking their place on the runway, awaiting clearance before hurtling down the tarmac into the night. Their mission was to travel to Belfast at near maximum speed for two reasons. The first was to notify the renegade Irish Government that the flight was taking place, as they would be flying in the clear at 22,000 feet, easily detectable from the controller’s radar at Dublin airport. The second, traveling at high speed would provide a demonstration of just how fast these aircraft could get into action - a psychological threat was how the defense Minister, Woolworth, had put it. It was sign of the clout that the British could bring to bear, amplified by the sonic boom that would rattle a few window panes on the East coast of the country. Woolworth had notified O’Shea of the flight plan as he had been instructed. Once over the Irish sea they would fly northeast towards Dublin increasing speed and height quickly so that they would pass just east of Dun Laoire, a major ferry port south of Dublin, at close to 1,400 MPH. The sonic shockwave would provide an ample demonstration of their power. Their remaining trip to their destination would take all of three minutes as they traveled a mile every four seconds. As soon as DuPont had cleared the ground he punched off his afterburners to conserve on fuel. The night air was still, much of the turbulence expected from the warm summer’s day dissipated into the cool night. He was distracted momentarily by flashes that filled his rear view mirror. “What going on back there?” he asked the second flight leader, who had taken off behind him. “Er, unsure, turbulence?” the pilot responded checking his control panel in dismay, as oil pressure dropped on his number one engine and his second engine spluttered. His first thought was that he had strayed into the jet wash of the preceding flight, but he dismissed that option because the takeoff gap was sufficient and the wash would have dissipated. The second element of the flight had barely cleared the end of the runway before they were bombarded by an upward hail of hot steel. From near point-blank range a triangulated set of FN MAG machine guns lanced the planes soft aluminum fuselages with 7.62mm

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rounds, traveling at 2,800 feet per second. Every third round was a tracer - a bullet with a hollowed rear end filled with combustible material which ignited when the round was fired, and burned brightly for the few seconds of flight, giving the machine gunner an accurate method of aiming in darkness. Though aiming was haphazard, the volume of fire from the three weapons filled the night sky with a sufficient quantity of deadly projectiles to serve their purpose. Given the velocity of the aircraft, the gunners relied on their ears and their own position at the end of the runway, to give them an idea of where the aircraft were, and they simply filled the sky in front of it with fire, and let the planes fly right into the fusillade. From sites prepared some hours before under the cover of darkness, the ground assault team had, following detailed instructions and hours of training, entered a field adjoining the air base. The van that had dropped them didn’t even come to a complete halt, so as not to arouse the suspicions of the regular patrols of MP’s. The men had jumped from the side door of the van into the hedgerow and waited patiently for a second van to pass some twenty minutes later. From this, their equipment was thrown, in two large heavily padded army surplus kit bags. The men carried with them folding shovels which they used to excavate shallow fox holes. Using the excavated soil they built up mounds in front of them onto which they set the barrel mounted swivels. They continued digging as late as possible, each shovel full adding to the degree of their firing angle. The added benefit was that they were all but invisible to roving eyes as they, inch by inch, lowered themselves into the soft earth surrounded by the tall grasses of the meadow. Their orders were to use the first flight for ranging and gauging the speed and takeoff direction of the following aircraft. By the time their leader’s watch alarm went off, they were ready, poised for maximum effectiveness. Their escape route was simple. Taking their weapons with them, they would booby trap the foxholes, run for the hedgerow and be picked up by a passing ambulance. It all came down to timing. As the flight leader roared above them, they followed his silhouette, using the glow from the luminous paint dabbed on the front and rear gunsights. When the glow of his afterburner snuffed out, they turned their attention toward the end of the runway and waited. Smoke filled the cockpits of both of the second flight’s planes, as the jacketed rounds sliced into the airframes destroying everything that lay in their path. Alarms inundated the pilots when all of their systems failed. A navigator shouted, “Bail out, bail out!” while he reached underneath his armored seat for the ejection handle. His fingers were torn off by a round that passed through

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the floor plate before ricocheting upward through the canopy shattering the reinforced Plexiglas. However, his pilot pulled his control handle ejecting them both on their rocket packs through the canopy into the night sky. The crew of the second plane was not so fortunate. Their afterburners were still lit when fuel cascaded from their ruptured tanks. The pilot yanked back on his stick instinctively, fighting for altitude, his tail section ablaze. The fuel spurted from the gaping holes with the added G-forces, and, on contact with the searing hot metal of the engine exhaust nozzles, shot a sheet of flame that jumped the length of the plane. The effect was devastating, the intense heat literally melted the airframe, and the plane fell apart. The pilot and co-pilot hadn’t a chance. DuPont banked his Tornado high and turned back to investigate. He caught the explosion that rocked the sky as both of his second flight’s aircraft smashed into the ground not more than 200 yards apart, lighting up the surrounding countryside in pillars of angry orange flame. His call to the tower to abort the remaining flight wings was relayed to the aircraft on the ground. However, the third pair were already committed, too late to stop. Both pilots had seen the destruction ahead of them as they rolled down the runway. “Separate on takeoff,” the third flight leader radioed his wing man, calculating what he should do with seconds to spare. As in Iraq, though from a higher altitude, he had seen the familiar necklaces of tracers arching upwards clawing at the sky, and knew that he had to rely on instinct to motor through. On the ground, the assault team watched the sky waiting for their next victims. The result of the initial onslaught had been more than they had expected. That they had successfully downed both planes was a bonus. That in itself represented in excess of 30 million pounds sterling of collateral damage, though they had lost sight of the flight crew that had bailed out successfully, and this represented an immediate danger, should they be brave enough to track back from where they had landed. The assault team leader called out to his men, preparing them to meet the planes that he could hear roaring towards them. However, this was not to be so easy. As the planes left the ground, on the leading pilot’s instructions, they separated by using hard rudder movements to change direction, because it was too dangerous to bank at such a low altitude and airspeed. Popping off their after burners immediately, they were still within the airfield perimeters as their noses swung away from their intended flight path. When they passed over the end of the runway they were a hundred yards apart, traveling at 160 knots, time seemed to slow down in the few seconds of flight.

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Below, the assault team scanned the sky waiting for the sight of their quarry. Having seen the bloom of the afterburners in the night sky, they were surprised when on either side of them, far from where they had expected, the shapes of the aircraft loomed. They didn’t see them so much as hear them. On a command from the lead pilot, they simultaneously threw their throttles into full afterburner, their aircraft leaped forward as if on rocket sleds. The gunners arched their weapons to follow them, but they had been set up for maximum effect in one direction - aimed at the centerline at the end of the runway. When they swung their FN’s, taking the weapons’ full weight in their arms, they could only hope for a snap shot - a lucky strike as the aircraft, flying level only yards from the ground, raced past them. They started to fire, but it was like trying to hit a fast moving target with a fire hose, and the tracers swept the sky harmlessly. They could feel and smell the heat from the afterburners, the scalding exhaust searing the night air. At a further order from the lead pilot, both aircraft, now traveling at 300 knots and accelerating, knocked off their afterburners, banked hard and punched out a trail of missile decoy flares, which popped and crackled as they illuminated the ground below. They had the effect of blinding the assault gunners, depriving them completely of their night vision. The flares swung, burning furiously from their parachutes touching down in the meadow long before their combustible material ran out. The tinder dry grass caught fire immediately, the flames fanning out in wide pools from their source fed by the evening breeze. The attackers had trained for most contingencies, but not for this one. They saw that the flames could well cut off their route of retreat if they did not leave immediately. However, their mission was not yet complete. The leader keyed his radio hand set and muttered a code word into it. In the distance the siren of an ambulance wailed, though its lights were still out of sight. The men gathered their weapons and set their booby traps that would hinder the search for evidence, and, they hoped, take some unsuspecting British Military Police with it. The remaining flying Tornadoes were long gone, having radioed their base and having received instructions to continue to an alternative airfield to check for damage. DuPont had ideas of his own, however, as he had his wing man fly shotgun high above the last flight out. The field from which he assumed the attack originated, lay bathed in light from the spreading fires some three miles away and 2,000 feet below his slowly circling plane. He confirmed that the flight path was clear while he made brief adjustments before rolling back on a course that would bring him into a silent shallow dive over the field.

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Below, the assault team ran to the airfield perimeter fence and poked their weapons through the wire mesh fence. Spaced 15 yards apart, they aimed at the retreating grounded Tornadoes as they raced for their hardened bomb-proof bunkers. They opened fire without receiving any command from their leader, and marched the steady stream of bullets over open sights to the planes. The leader concentrated his fire on emergency equipment that raced out from the service buildings. He had no idea of his effectiveness, but gauged the results by the flight of the tracers as they arched lazily across the bare airfield. After a few seconds of continuous fire, they had to reload with their final cache of ammunition slung around their necks. These they fired in quick bursts, and as they turned to leave, fires erupted from successful hits on aircraft and vehicles. The pickup ambulance was now within a few hundred yards of the field and slowed, its blue lights flashing in the night air, though the image was distorted by the shimmer caused by the low flames of the burning grass. At a command from their leader, the assault team broke cover and raced for the hedgerow, the belts of nearly depleted ammunition whipping and clanging against their weapons as they ran. Surprise registered on their faces when the ground around them erupted. Two went down shrieking, their bodies shuddering from the impact of incoming fire. Their leader was more fortunate having tripped and fallen yards behind. He stayed prone, covering his head with his hands while the ground shook under him, as high velocity cannon shells tore into it from the diving Tornado. It was over as quickly as it had started. The aircraft howled over his head. He rose loosening off what remained of his ammunition in the general direction of the receding plane, easily visible from the blue torches of its engines. Stooping beside the remains of his men, he ignored the weapons that lay bent out of shape beside them. The weapons had long since been subjected to the heat of a welders torch to remove all identifying marks and serial numbers. Both men were a complete mess, literally shredded by the force of the cannon shells. One had his head intact, and the leader smashed at it with the stock of his FN, fragmenting his teeth to avoid giving any clue to his identity. Finally, he withdrew two phosphorous grenades, and slinging his weapon over his shoulder, removed the pins, allowing the arming lever to start the detonating sequence. He threw one on each of the remains and ran for the hedgerow at a full gait. With dull thumps, he heard the grenades explode behind him, and he crashed through the bushes without looking back. Beyond, the ambulance side doors stood open, and he was hauled inside by hooded armed men who, on noticing that he was the only passenger, slammed the doors shut and shouted an instruction to the driver.

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The assault team leader threw his weapon onto a stretcher and grasped his fatigue jacket for the source of the burning that seared his back. His discarded jacket smoldered on, but the agonizing burning continued. “Stop the truck!” he shouted at the driver beating on the panel. “Why?” one of the hooded figures asked. Without answering, the leader slung open the door and jumped outside as the ambulance stopped. He ran to the ditch along side the road and grabbed through the grass at the bottom. He scooped up a handful of mud and slapped it against the muscle area of his shoulder from which the torturous pain emanated. The relief was immediate when the phosphorous that was burying its way into his flesh was deprived of oxygen. Tears streamed from his eyes at the severity of the pain, while staggered back to the ambulance under the stony gaze of the men that awaited him, neither of whom spoke nor offered to help. With a jolt, the ambulance driver resumed his journey, and they were swallowed up by the night, unhindered as they raced to their dispersal point. High above, DuPont watched as best he could, unsure whether or not to press the attack on the ambulance, but he tracked its progress updating his controller at regular intervals. MP’s had now reached the burning field, but were under orders not to proceed pending the arrival of the army’s bomb sniffing robot. They need not have worried, when the fire consumed the dry grass of the field, it set off the explosives that had been placed to trap them, spurting large globs of dirt and hot ash skyward. DuPont lost the ambulance when it turned off its lights before it merged with motor-way traffic heading for London. A stream of emergency vehicles converged on the area from different directions, and DuPont turned his plane to aid them in any way he could, because he was concerned as to the fate of his downed pilots. The image of the scene that had taken place in under four minutes would be the basis of an all night debriefing. The assault leader relieved the driver of the ambulance of his portable phone and dialed a London number. It rang once, and when answered emitted a series of low beeps. He dialed in a series of numbers and pressed the pound key sending his message to a beeper, which moments later sounded in the governemnt offices in Dublin. Satisfied, he lay back and had one of the men dress his wound, after he had removed the remnants of the phosphorus under his agonized direction. He would have to shower prior to changing for his flight later to Dublin. The loss of his associates meant nothing to him - his instructions had been to dispose of them anyway on their return to their base. It was after all, as he smiled to himself through the pain, one less thing to worry about.

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After reviewing his timetable for his opening attack, O’Shea called his tailor to make sure that his latest suit was ready. It was, and would be dropped off later in the afternoon — not soon enough. He had passed on orders to commence hostilities at 9:00 P.M. that evening. A quiet threat got a promise from the tailor to have everything delivered by lunch time. O’Shea watched CNN while he had his early morning breakfast. He was disappointed that there was no mention of the attack on the English Air Force base. That was more than made up for by the images that flashed in front of him of the shattered buildings in New York. The newscaster repeated that it was thought to be the work of an ultra-right-wing group. O’Shea was feeling jubilant, and made the mistake of allowing his ego to overtake his reason. He picked up his phone and called Jean Kirkpatrick. She made him wait some time before she picked up. She was not in the least bit friendly, nor did she attempt to be. O’Shea acknowledged receipt of her package the previous day, and asked that she reconsider her position. “After all, you don’t want to be on the wrong side when this all shakes out,” he urged. “O’Shea, the official stance of the US Government is that we do not deal with terrorists.” “Tut, tut. Name calling does not become you.” O’Shea felt the sting of her admonition. “Is that all you want? I have a busy schedule.” Kirkpatrick responded curtly. “That helicopter attack in New York was unfortunate.” Kirkpatrick said nothing. She wanted this conversation over with. “An unfortunate loss of life. And needless.” The Ambassadors ears pricked up. What did he know about the attack other than had been mentioned on the news? “What are you getting at?” she asked. “I’ll save your investigators some time. The four guys in the ‘copter were upset with the way you were handling this situation and took it upon themselves to voice their displeasure.” Kirkpatrick was glad she was recording the conversation. “While you have my sympathies for the loss of life, it should be fair warning that Irish Americans will not stand by idly, without taking steps to ensure that their voice be heard.” The ambassador was speechless. Had this buffoon orchestrated an attack on the nation’s trading capital? Could it be?

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“You did this?” she hissed. “You wouldn’t dare!” O’Shea laughed loudly. “Would, could, and did,” and he ended the call. In doing so, he effectively put the nail in his own coffin. It didn’t matter any more. It was too late. No one could stop the inevitable. He left his breakfast unfinished, called in his chief of staff, and proceeded to give out the orders of battle.

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In times of crisis and peace, the offices of Irish Government, continued to function normally. Curfews aside, the country’s economic life went on. People went to work, relaxed at the pub, went home, continued with their daily lives. Apart from the sight of soldiers tooling here and their in their patrol vehicles, all seemed normal — outwardly. The bars, the social hubs of Ireland, were buzzing with the latest news, the latest gossip. With the exception of those who had a few drinks too many, great care was taken not to criticize O’Shea too loudly. He had a popular nationalist following whose memory of the past war of Independence and the Irish Civil war, though seldom first hand, was bolstered by their knowledge that they were to play a part in the making of history. The unification of the country on the Republic’s terms had been the goal ever since the Irish Government was founded. O’Shea’s enforcers made sure that anyone who talked against his historical quest was to be regarded as consorting with the enemy, so conversation was kept in hushed tones. The Irish and British governments were no longer communicating by any means. O’Shea had made it abundantly clear, through his actions, that he was beyond dialog and goaded the British into making the first move. The US President was reluctant to speak about the crisis, preferring instead to inform the public that it was a case of waiting and seeing. He had a vested interest in Irish issues, as he had been instrumental in bringing all of the sides involved in the Northern Irish conflict together to a final settlement. It was important that he not be seen to take sides. He instead called for restraint and forethought before either Britain or Ireland made any irreversible moves. “There was too much to lose,” he said, “and too little to gain, and the real danger of tremendous loss of life on both sides.” Efforts to bring O’Shea and the British government back to the bargaining table were met with barely disguised contempt from O’Shea’s camp. O’Shea made it quite clear that this was an Irish issue and needed no input from the US. Irish interests in the US were putting pressure on the President and Congress to do something. There was an even split between those who wanted him to support O’Shea in the renunciation of Ireland by force of arms, and those who wanted the US to pressure the United Nations to enter the conflict as a buffer. There was an obstacle here, however, as both Britain and Ireland insisted that this was an internal matter and therefore outside the scope of the United Nations mandate.

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Jean Kirkpatrick was a voice vehemently against O’Shea. Being the President’s eyes on the ground in Ireland, she was against any negotiation with O’Shea at all. Kirkpatrick argued that the elimination of O’Shea was only halfway to solving the problem. She insisted that, if he was guilty of the crimes that the US suspected him of, the only sure way of relieving the pressure cooker of tensions was to publicly discredit him in front of the Irish people. To that end she was talking with Irish politicians to craft a method toward this goal. However, it hinged completely upon finding irrefutable evidence that O’Shea’s interests were more than political, and the public being made aware that he was indeed the megalomaniac that he was suspected of being. The helicopter attack in New York was being reported by the media as the work of some right wing crazies. That would change, however, before the end of the day. To that end, the President left Kirkpatrick to her own devices. She had been the Ambassador to the Emerald Isle for over a decade and was well connected socially and politically. He supported her plan of discontinuing diplomatic ties with O’Shea and his provisional government, until such time as he returned to the negotiating table and backed off his hostile military strategy. Despite the President’s resolve not to interfere militarily, he did concede on two points. He supported Kirkpatrick’s wish to remain at the embassy, and to protect her he authorized flying in a company of marines. The four platoons would be divided equally between the embassy and her official residence, with a squad at the ready to escort her. This would supplement an already powerful force of Secret Service personnel who always accompanied her wherever she went. The other concession was not evident immediately. The aircraft carrier, US Independence , on rotation from the Mediterranean back to Norfolk Virginia after a three month tour, was to make a diversion northward. The attack on the British airfield never reached the news. The destroyed aircraft were written off as an accident during a routine training flight. But as low tech as the attack was, the effect was exactly as O’Shea had predicted. British forces went to their highest state of alert. There was little the politicians could do but wait, despite their anger, as Northern Ireland’s fate rested on the control that the commanders had over their troops, and the self control of the individual soldiers on the ground.

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The British Prime Minister called the US Ambassador to England to thank him for the information that he had passed on. Of course it was a major embarrassment that information about Woolworth had come, not from his own intelligence services, but from the Americans. The Ambassador told him to think nothing of it, and apologized for being the bearer of bad news. The PM noticed that there was no air of patronization. The Prime Minister and the US President were, as head of states go, close friends. Of similar age and educational backgrounds, they had struck it off the first time they met. During the course of the Northern Ireland peace talks this friendship had helped immeasurably. Agreements that would not have been possible during the reign of the Tory party — as they relied heavily on the Northern Irish Unionist votes in their election — were struck. The US President had quietly brokered the deal through his intermediaries. What was threatened now was not only the hard won peace in Ireland but also the withdrawal of major US funding in the form of grants for both Northern and Southern Ireland — a behind- the-scenes penalty clause in the agreement. The Ambassador asked him to await a call from the President. Presently the phone rang and the quiet voice of William Clinton greeted the PM. After the usual formalities, Mr. Clinton, as was typical of his style, abruptly got down to business. He reviewed all of the information they both had. “Have you any idea of a timetable for O’Shea’s plans?” he asked the PM. “Our intelligence services picked up a flurry of transmissions in the Republic this morning. I fear that we might have trouble on our hands as early as tonight.” “That soon?” “Yes. But we’re well prepared to meet anything he might throw at us.” “I’m going to give you my opinion even though you haven’t asked for it.” The PM had expected as much, and indeed privately welcomed it. “You cannot react to any acts of aggression that O’Shea makes — defense aside.” The PM was stunned. This was not what he had expected. “Let me explain. O’Shea has planned to open this conflict on three fronts. First, as you know, he has his own private army in place, scattered around the country. Of most concern are the numbers that are already positioned in Ulster, whose job it will be, from what we have determined, to ignite open conflict between the

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Catholic and Protestant militias. The second will be a rear action, again by these previously placed troops, on British barracks, communications facilities, and on army personnel. Finally, he has in place and, from our satellite data, already begun dispersing a sizable fleet of helicopters, which will initiate the main battle and drop troops at key areas all over the Province. The success of the plan depends completely upon on the concurrent execution of all three of these missions. Furthermore, his success, and I can’t overstate the importance of this, will be determined by drawing the Irish Territorial Army into the conflict. They will provide the muscle to accomplish the task.” “Blitzkrieg?” “Exactly.” “Christ, we hadn’t...” and he stopped himself in mid sentence. Political friend or not, he had to stop himself from demonstrating any weakness or lack of knowledge. “So, Bill, you’re suggesting that we don’t fight at all?” “Not so. You have advance knowledge of what is going to happen so you can make preparations for it. I believe that the plan we have in mind will, assuming we’re not too late, resolve this matter, and bring political matters back close to where they were before this entire fiasco began. But it will require that you stay out of any conflict.” “I find that hard to swallow Bill. We’re teetering on the verge of war.” “I understand completely. But let me explain. O’Shea is a very smart man. Not an astute politician but then he never planned it that way. He has the support of the Irish people, the way the leader of a mob leads the crowd. By keeping up the pressure on the domestic and political fronts, he has very cleverly managed to keep the Irish public off balance, unable to think through their position rationally as a nation. His appeal to nationalist fervor has struck a chord that has in turn thrown the weight of public opinion behind him. Anyone who opposes him is afraid to speak out, fearing the consequences. You have read his manifesto, or plan, or whatever you want to call it. Nationalism is his aim, but his motivating factors are revenge, for what was done to his family in the past, and genocide. Once united, he will systematically eradicate any opposition north and south of the border, until he has a country that will be tailor made to his specifications. Many, many revolutionaries have tried this before, some on a larger scale, Stalin and Hitler for instance. Others smaller, Idi Amin of Uganda and Castro come to mind. It is the idiot ideology, simply because it does not work. It can’t.” There was a pause as Clinton took as sip of water. His Chief of Staff, seated in the Oval Office with him, nodded encouragingly, and gave the President a thumbs up. Foreign affairs were not the

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President’s forte, but he was doing very well — he had authored the US response himself. “If British troops come into conflict with Irish troops, O’Shea will win. You may pound him militarily but you will ignite a country wide war that will shake Europe to its foundations. You will be seen as beating up the little guy and O’Shea has, for now, the media on his side.” The PM chewed on his pencil. All of this was being taped for the record. “What I am suggesting is that we, the US, take the initiative. The US has been the peace broker, we’ve been actively involved in Irish politics for years. We are in the position to resolve this problem, if resolution is possible at this late stage. The media will scream bloody murder, I know, but we can take the heat.” The PM had scribbled a note to his assistant to call in the cabinet to his Downing Street office as soon as he had got the gist of what the President was suggesting. Within minutes they began to arrive in his ante-room, waiting to be called into the main office. The US President outlined his plan to an initially reluctant PM. But by the end of the conversation, the PM saw the logic behind it. Now all he had to do was get all of his ducks in a row. In his cabinet briefing after the call, he had to relieve more than one member from his post to accomplish this.

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From his vantage point on the upper floor of the house on Coliemore Road, Gerry Adams watched the sea, oily calm, slop against the shore of nearby Dalkey Island. The barren island was desolate, save for the goats that roamed its rough pasture under the gaze of an abandoned Martello Tower — one of such 20 defensive towers that dot Dublin’s coast, built in 1804, to withstand a Napoleonic invasion that never materialized — and the seventh century ruin of St. Begnet’s Church. On a pleasant summer morning such as this, the waters should have been speckled with sail boats and wind surfers alike. But the population was distracted by the prospect of coming events. Adams was secure in a safe house in the South Dublin suburb of Dalkey. The house’s location left him a number of avenues of escape should the need arise. It was quite clear to him what had to be done. The latest communication from Jean Kirkpatrick, faxed to him through Seán Driscoll, highlighted in no uncertain terms, what O’Shea’s plans were for the troublesome elements of Northern Ireland. As Adams poured over the lengthy fax, he became increasingly disturbed. O’Shea planned the complete eradication of all nationalist elements. Further, O’Shea intended — and from the notes that Kirkpatrick had included, had already started — to prune the Unionist majority of its more militant members. From his contacts with his IRA counterpart Martin McGuinness, who was in Belfast, he knew that emotions in both the loyalist and nationalist camps were at crisis point. Acts of indiscriminate sectarian violence were rekindling. The ancient enemies were dangerously close to open confrontation of a kind never seen before. Perhaps, Adams thought, the plan was to let these hostilities boil over into street warfare, providing O’Shea with yet another reason for his planned invasion. Kirkpatrick had received Adams’ note the previous evening when his operatives in Mayo confirmed that O’Shea’s assembly plant did indeed have a large inventory of completed helicopters. His operatives had no need to break into the plant to find out. Flight tests were being carried out quite openly. It didn’t take a genius to realize that this was the main means that O’Shea intended to use to as a weapons platform. What was amazing, was his ability to keep it secret to this point. Not much happened in Ireland that Adams did not know about. So he made two calls. The first was to Martin McGuinness, whom he urged to keep a lid on things, and more importantly to distribute the cache of surface to air missiles that had been imported through Wicklow some months

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previous. McGuiness had protested, arguing that these were weapons of absolute emergency. Gerry soothed his concern, and stopped his protests cold, by telling him an abbreviated version of what he had leaned. McGuiness assured him that the weapons would be made ready for immediate use and distributed around the province and in Dublin, to the IRA personnel already trained to use them. Adams quietly rebuked his concern over Adams’ safety assuring him that he was fine. He wished he felt it. The second call required some thought before he put it through. He decided that honesty was the best policy and dialed the number. The worst that could happen was that the recipient would say “No.” “Peter Benson.” “Peter, Gerry Adams.” There was a long pause. Adams figured that Benson was either going to hang up or hurl a tirade of abuse over the line for the intrusion. Benson was the head of the Ulster Unionist Party. “Well, Adams, what do you want?” “You and I have a common problem. We’ll have to come up with a joint solution.” “You’ve got to be joking. We would never have anything to do with a nationalist terrorist group.” He made no effort to conceal the contempt in his voice. “You didn’t seem to have a problem dealing with one during the peace accord talks.” “Only because we were forced to.” “Hear me out. You can decide then whether I’m making any sense.” Adams construed the silence that followed to be an agreement. So he launched into the information he had about O’Shea, his political visions, and Adam’s knowledge of his ambitions to reunite the country. “I know a lot of this already, I have my own sources. It’ll never happen.” Benson said impatiently. “O’Shea is a pimple on the backside of history and just as easily squished.” Adams bit his tongue. Speaking with this bigot civily was exceedingly difficult. So he dampened down the anger that threatened to spoil his composure. “There’s more to this than meets the eye, Peter.” “Och, go on Adams, spit it out.” “In a nutshell, Gerard O’Shea’s plans for Ulster includes the eradication and elimination of all Loyalist and Nationalist hard- liners.” “Elimination? Fancy words for a terrorist.” “All right then. He’s going to kill us all. You, me and everyone else.” “I find that hard to believe. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were in cahoots with O’Shea. You and your nationalist ilk have everything to gain from his moves. Which I may add, will come to

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naught, just as your terrorist activities for the past thirty years have achieved nothing.” “It got you to the negotiating table. It got the Unionist party to make concessions. It improved the way of life for the Catholic minority dramatically.” “At the cost of over 3,000 lives!” Benson shot back. “A drop in the bucket in the grand scheme of things. Your friends, the Brits, killed more in one hour’s bombing in World War II.” Adams knew that he was loosing the point and went on before Benson could hang up. “And a fraction of the deaths that will occur over the next few weeks if O’Shea manages to have his way.” “So what has this to do with me?” “It has everything to do with you. You personally are on his list just as Paisley was. And he got rid of him easily enough.” “And how do you know about all of this?” “I have been made privy to a document taken from O’Shea’s office.” Benson was silent. “Adams, you started this whole fiasco by breaking the cease fire killing our people at our commemorative march.” “Just as you retaliated by destroying the Aer Lingus flight in Boston.” “We had nothing to do with that!” Benson protested. “Nor had we anything to do with that march.” Benson was obviously conferring with someone listening in on the call. Adams heard a muffled heated conversation in the background, the scuff of a hand over the telephone mouth piece. “Adams, why should I listen to you?” “Despite our differences, we have little choice but to co- operate. We may hate the sight of each other, but unless we unite to combat O’Shea, we will be but insignificant blips in the grand scheme of history. O’Shea plans to divert the British armies attention at a critical moment by igniting open hostilities between Loyalists and Nationalists in Belfast, Derry and other areas. He had troops in place scattered throughout the province, who will open fire on both our constituencies at the same time. And he will coordinate rearguard attacks on British troops, who are protecting key facilities. The British army will in essence be fighting a war on two fronts. A battle that cannot be won.” “How can I believe you?” “I’m going to give you the telephone number of the US Ambassador. She will confirm what I have said. She, if you are willing to listen, will provide you with the same information that she has given to me.” “The US ambassador is mixed up in all of this?” “Just as she has in getting the peace process in hand over the years.”

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“I will have to confer with my council.” “Then may I suggest you do so very quickly. There’s very little time. This conflict could begin as early as tonight. Either we fight back to back, or by tomorrow we’ll be lying dead beside each other, our blood mingling in the soil of Ulster.” “Oh Christ, the thought of it.” “My sentiments exactly.” “Very well, I’ll get back to you.” “One other thing. You will have to sell this to the RUC commander to avoid police interference. There’ll be a lot of armed Nationalists in the streets. I don’t want this to backfire.” Benson snorted, but agreed, contingent on a few provisions. “There is no room for negotiation here,” Adams reprimanded him, “we’re fighting for our very existence.” Benson heard the urgency in Adams’ voice. Perhaps he was telling the truth. Benson wrote down Adams’ cellular number, told Adams he would get back to him and hung up. Gerry Adams then called his own council to pass on the news. Their response was even more heated than Benson’s, Adams thought he would lose the day, but with threats, promises, and flattery he got them around to his way of thinking, and a new era of cooperation in the long bloody history of Ulster began.

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The flight from New York was uneventful. Nick declined the courtesy beverages, though he wished he could throw a few down. He had a inordinate interest in a couple of the female cabin staff, a side effect from being away from Jessica for so long. He stowed his lust away with his fear of flying and tried to nap. For once he was successful waking only when the British Airways 747-400 touched down at London’s Heathrow airport twenty minutes early, the large plane benefiting from the strong easterly jet stream. Nick was exhausted, drained from the constant barrage of stress. He was sick with concern about Jessica and their children, but there was only so much his mind could take, so he put it aside until he could be in a position to do something about it. After the plane landed, a shadow of apprehension about being arrested flitted through his brain. But he was too tired to be nervous while he exited the plane and made his way with his one carry-on bag to passport control. Long lines lay ahead. An IRA man had accompanied him, but had made no contact with him during the flight. He took up position a few yards behind Nick in the line, his eyes nervously scanning for signs of trouble. The IRA men in New York were a hard bunch and not overly friendly with Nick during the days he was with them. Then again they were not all that warm with each other. It had been a relief when he found out that they had not intended him any harm. Their only concern was to make sure that he had the video tape on his person. Once that was certain, they left him be, allowing him to use the phone, but they wouldn’t let him out of the run down Elmhurst, Queens, apartment at all. He had the pleasure, albeit dubious on Nick’s part, of speaking with Gerry Adams, who told him the IRA’s intentions for him and, in no uncertain terms, the dangers involved. As instructed, Nick had put a call into the O’Shea’s office and after introducing himself, spoke directly with O’Shea. As coolly as he could, he offered to make a deal with O’Shea. He informed him that he had a number of offers from the media to purchase the tape. Nick also told him that the tape was damaged, but he would agree to hand it over for guarantee that he and his family be allowed to go unharmed. O’Shea didn’t beat around the bush. He had a passing interest in the tape and would go along with Nick’s offer on the condition that he deliver it personally. When Nick asked him if he thought he a fool, O’Shea casually asked how Jessica and the children were enjoying their stay in Aghios Nickolas. The inference chilled Nick — O’Shea had known their location all along, and could, should he desire it, have them killed, if, Nick realized with a start, he had

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not already done so. Nick asked how he was to know that they were all right now. O’Shea laughed and answered “you don’t.” He instructed Nick to contact O’Shea’s office at whatever time he got into Dublin. Nick was deeply concerned about Jessica. Calls that he made to her apartment were answered with a busy signal. Yani was unavailable. There was little he could do but pray. An armed policeman approached him as he stood in line and asked him quietly, but firmly, to accompany him. A glance to the rear showed another policeman backing up the first, so Nick picked up his bag and did as he was told. His IRA companion strained to see what was happening, unable to interfere. Throwing down his hand luggage in frustration, he angrily pushed his way out of the line and, finding a payphone, made an urgent call. Relief flooded through Nick as he saw Ted waiting for him at passport control, where he was handed over without even a courtesy glance at his passport. “Welcome back,” Ted patted Nick on the back, as he led him to his car which was parked illegally outside the main Heathrow arrivals terminal. A policeman was speaking excitedly into his walkie- talkie, as Ted approached him he flashed an ID badge and apologized for the man’s trouble. The Bobby walked off, back to his beat, eyeing both disdainfully. When they drove off, Nick asked where they were going. “Scotland Yard, assuming you have the tape with you.” Nick nodded affirmatively and drifted off to sleep as they entered the busy M 4 Motorway to London. Nick jolted awake to find himself in the parking lot of Scotland Yard. The tall building soared above him, small by New York standards, but substantial. He glanced at the rotating sign, so often seen in movies or used as a backdrop by news reporters. Shaking himself awake, his body hot in the early morning sun and from the nap in the car, he followed Ted through security clearance. Mortimer had sent one of his staff to get them through. After a quick introduction, Nick handed the tape over, along with the original damaged cassette casing that Ted had told him to bring with him, the AK round taped to the side. Then they did what everyone does while they wait in England, they had a cup of tea and made small talk. It was close to 8:30 A.M. when a technician knocked at the door and handed a package over to Mortimer. He slid the contents onto the desk. Out fell the original video cassette, refilled with video tape, and the bullet was where John had originally found it, nestled between the cover and one of the spools. “This is what you’re going to bring to Dublin.” Mortimer began. “The tape is a copy of the original, except that it has been damaged further to hinder proper viewing. But it will play. Inside is a

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hollow AK round fitted with a transmitter inside. We did this at the behest of...” he hesitated, grimacing, “an Irish organization...” “The IRA,” Ted interjected. “Yes, the damned IRA. I can’t believe we’re assisting a known enemy in this way.” Mortimer calmed himself and went on. “Anyway, they are presuming that O’Shea will keep this tape close to him, and they have an interest in, shall we say, keeping an eye on him.” “I have to get you back to the airport for a 10:40 A.M. flight to Dublin. We’re lucky there are any flights at all.” Ted said to Nick. “You’ll be met at Dublin airport by a Detective Driscoll.” He saw Nick’s eyes light up. “You know him?” “Yes...it’s a long story,” and he left it at that. “You should try to meet with O’Shea publicly if at all possible. I won’t bullshit you, he has no interest in you personally, other than in getting the tape. You have to hope that the fact that it is damaged will be enough to convince him that you haven’t seen it or shown it to anyone.” “He’s going to kill me.” “There’s a good possibility that he will.” “I hope that whatever plan the IRA have in Dublin, will be enough to keep me alive.” “Much as it makes me sick to say it, the IRA does whatever they put their mind to. So I would give you a 50/50 chance.” “He knows where Jessica and the kids are. He told me as much when I spoke to him. Do you know anything?” Mortimer and Ted exchanged a glance. Out of Nick’s line of sight Ted shook his head. “Were not sure where they are Nick, I’m sorry.” Mortimer answered. Ted looked evasive, but Nick put it down to his being uncomfortable. It had been decided that the information they had about his family would wait. “So why should I do this? They could have been captured or already dead,” Nick said coldly. “Three reasons,” Mortimer replied. “First, you don’t know for sure what happened to them. So you have to assume they’re alive and well. Second, this is the only chance we have at saving hundreds, if not thousands, of lives. Third, you owe it to yourself to see this through. What life will you have if O’Shea’s going to hunt you down forever? It must end.” An assistant put her head around the door and spoke to Mortimer. “Sir, the studio is ready for you now.” He nodded his acknowledgment. “Good luck, Nick,” and they shook hands.

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Ted offered his as well. Nick was surprised, expecting that he would take him to the airport. “I have something to take care of here. We’re preparing a little something for O’Shea tonight that will take every second we have to complete. There’s a staff car waiting to take you to Heathrow.” “Well, Ted, keep a look out for Jessica and contact me as soon as you hear anything.” Ted avoided his eyes but nodded his agreement. Mortimer buzzed his assistant and she escorted Nick out. “You’re a bastard Ted.” Mortimer admonished his friend. “I know Mort, I know.” Mortimer was well aware that Ted knew more about Jessica than he was saying. But the powers that be had demanded that nothing be told to Nick at this stage. “So,” Ted changed the subject, “did you pick up the suspect you were following yesterday?” “The shit was about to open a bottle of champagne when we busted through his door. With all that’s going on you’d think he’d be packing his bags and heading to Spain or some distant land.” “May I ask who he is?” “None other than the Minister of Defense.” “Peter Woolworth?” “In person. He’s being very co-operative. The Prime Minister insisted that he speak with him in person as soon as he was arrested. Woolworth started blubbering like a scolded schoolboy at the sight of his friend.” “Did you get anything useful from him?” “Oh, plenty. Too much in fact. The news is not good. O’Shea is so well equipped that we have to seriously rethink our military defense strategy in Northern Ireland.” “That bad, huh?” “Worse.” “Mind if I use your phone?” “Be my guest.” Ted flicked open his diary and made a long distance call to Israel. Shortly afterwards, a private Lear jet lifted off from Tel- Aviv bound for London.

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Cullen was in a foul mood. He had slept late — the phone’s incessant ringing had awoken him. He absolutely hated being spoken down to, particularly this early in the morning, though it was after nine o’clock. O’Shea had just given him an ear full. He had relied on Cullen, O’Shea had said, to watch Driscoll, and now there was a security breach. The entire operation could be jeopardized. O’Shea’s language had left Cullen with no doubt that he was seen as failing in his task. He could redeem himself somewhat, if he would remove Driscoll permanently before the end of the day. The problem was Cullen had no idea where Driscoll was. He had been forceful in his argument that Driscoll be left at his post, so that he could keep him under observation, but his words had fallen on deaf ears. Cullen got dressed hurriedly, not having time for a shower. His hands trembled, his heart beat furiously. His breath reeked from the flurry of beverages he had consumed the night before. To get rid of his shakes, he had a couple of long slugs of brandy straight from the bottle. The warmth spread through his stomach and gradually eased away the anxiety and pain of waking as the alcohol entered his bloodstream. It also got him fired up, and he diverted all of his anger and focused it clearly on Driscoll. His only wish was that he knew where Driscoll was so he could get the job done quickly and impress O’Shea. An hour on his home phone yielded no results. In frustration he grabbed his jacket, slipped his pistol into his holster and left his house. As he was getting into his car, his cell phone rang. One of his plainclothes detectives had spotted Driscoll upstairs at the airport sitting down for breakfast at the self service restaurant there. Cullen was ecstatic and ordered the detective to keep a close eye on him and report any movements. “If Driscoll leaves find a reason to shoot him,” Cullen ordered. Cullen started his car and headed for the airport with his lights and siren blaring. Rush hour traffic parted like the Red Sea, not because of his official standing, but because of the speed with which he approached, threatening to crash his way through the slow moving cars. A special window permit allowed him to get through the military checkpoints with little delay, and he was at the airport 35 minutes after he left the house. Parking was not a problem, he just left his car outside the arrivals’ terminal and had one of the policemen watch it. Inside, he had to get his bearings, but was spared having to search for his

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contact, because the man was already there waiting for him. No greeting was necessary, a nod in the direction of the arrival gate, signaled him to where Seán Driscoll was standing, watching passengers emerge from the British Airways flight. Cullen’s hangover had receded but his nerves were still taut while he keyed his cell phone and gave O’Shea’s office an update. At first Cullen didn’t recognize the figure that Driscoll greeted as a passenger emerged from the dark glass doors of the arrivals’ hall. Closer examination of the figure revealed that today he might just kill two birds with the one stone. A grin spread across his gray face at the prospect. O’Shea would be very pleased indeed. Cullen made a further call to his office informing him of the news. He was surprised when O’Shea roared at him to keep his hands off Riordan, and to just bring him to his office with a package he had. Cullen removed his pistol from his holster and approached Driscoll from behind, nudging Driscoll’s right kidney with the barrel as a greeting. Driscoll spun around to meet the threat, but found himself staring down the barrel of Cullen’s pistol. “Hello Seán, me ‘oul skin, and if it isn’t Nick Riordan, the widower from New York!” Cullen growled. Nick’s eyes lit up and he lurched towards Cullen. Seán’s outstretched arm stopped him. “Cullen knows nothing, Nick. O’Shea wouldn’t trust the drunk to wipe his arse.” Cullen’s face turned crimson. The pistol shook in his hand as he drew it up to Seán’s face. Cullen’s plainclothes officer pushed the pistol down, looking around at the onlookers staring faces. “Not here Cullen...not here,” he interceded firmly. Cullen regained his self control. His features were dark. “O’Shea trusts me enough to kill you!” he hissed close to Seán’s face. Riordan returned his gaze, emotionless. Driscoll didn’t grace him with a response, but looked for a possible avenue of escape. Instead he saw another man approach with his gun drawn, he recognized the face, and knew the game was up, for now. Seán glanced at Nick who appeared resigned. “It’s OK Nick,” he reassured him. “Hardly.” Cullen grunted sullenly. “Lets go.” He pushed Seán forward toward the exit to his waiting car and waved his gun at Nick indicating that he keep up. What Cullen didn’t see, was a man not twenty feet away speaking into his own cell phone awaiting instructions, his hand under his jacket, gripping a pistol. Cullen left the airport and drove back towards the city, the traffic heavy, but manageable. Nick and Seán were seated in the back seat under the armed watchful scrutiny of one of the

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plainclothes officers who occupied the passenger seat. He had taken the precaution of removing Driscoll’s gun and handcuffing him. Cullen was silent, trying to decide if he should get rid of Seán before he got to O’Shea, or keep him until after he had dropped off Nick. His hesitance was based in his fear of O’Shea’s reaction if delayed any further. “You’re a dead man Cullen,” Seán said, just loud enough to interrupt Cullen’s thoughts. “You’re one to talk, Driscoll. Shut the fuck up,” Cullen sneered, glancing at him angrily through the rear view mirror. “O’Shea’ll throw you away like a used snot rag when he’s done with you, and you know it.” Cullen did have a nagging doubt about his future role within O’Shea’s administration, but had put the thought away for another day. O’Shea did pay him well, and, in theory at least, his plan for uniting Ireland sounded like it just might work. Of course Cullen and his consorts had heard the fiery rhetoric in its slimmed down version, but O’Shea’s talks were convincing enough. “You’re on borrowed time Seán. If you’re not a prayin’ man, now’s a good time to start.” That was all Seán needed to know. Seán’s interruption had made up Cullen’s mind for him. Cullen’s mind played through the sadistic pleasure it would give to kill him. Now was as good a time as any to do him in. Cullen took a left turn off Drumcondra Road to bring them down through the dock-lands. He noticed an army patrol vehicle turn behind them, but thought nothing of it. After a few quiet minutes, he turned left again, crossing the Tolka River on the far side of the railroad track trestle and stopped the car adjacent to the railway embankment. Cullen opened the rear door, ordering Seán out. Seán slipped out of the rear of the car under the gaze of Cullen’s gun. There was nothing he could do to resist. They began to walk up an incline adjacent toward the railway tracks. Seán didn’t have any backup weapon. In any case it would have been found when Cullen’s companion frisked him at the airport. Pressing on, Cullen wanted to be out of sight of the main road before he did what he termed “the dirty deed.” The embankment was steep. Tufts of uncut grass caught at Seán’s shoes; he had to walk carefully lest he fall on his face. He strained against the bite of the handcuffs, his mind whirring trying to think of a way out. Was this what went through the minds of all murdered people before they died, he thought? He pictured Imelda’s and his child’s faces as tears of anguish sprung to his eyes. He could smell the ocean; his senses heightened. Time seemed to slow down. He wouldn’t beg. That’s just what Cullen would want. He had to do something!...he heard Cullen cock his pistol. Driscoll said an act of contrition. A loud bang shattered the still air.

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He ducked instinctively as a gun discharged behind him, aware that his back and head were doused with a splash of warm liquid. Seán touched the back of his head, feeling the oily texture of blood. But he was all right. Confused, he turned slowly around. Nick was standing there his arm extended holding a pistol. The air smelled of cordite, smoke wisped from the gun’s muzzle. Cullen was lying flat on his face on the gravel, the top of his head askew, and a large puddle of blood quickly pooled around it. A commuter train whooshed past on the tracks above them, the riders oblivious to drama that had just unfolded. Nick looked ashen, and slowly dropped his arm. Unbelievable relief flooded through Seán. He was alive! He looked back towards the road. Cullen’s partner was spread-eagled on the hood of the car, kept firmly in place by two soldiers. Seán recognized one of them from the army contingent that had picked up Adams. For once, Seán was glad to have an IRA guardian angel. Seán held his hand up indicating that it was all over. He took the gun from Nick, leading him back down to where the car was parked. He put his arm around his shoulder, but had to stop when Nick suddenly vomited. “Thanks Nick, you saved my life,” he patted him reassuringly on the back. Nick stopped gagging and nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of this hand. “Welcome,” was all he could manage. One of the soldiers approached Seán and asked what they should do with the body. “Leave him there,” was Seáns bitter response.

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The soldiers trussed Cullens partner up like a chicken, threw him into the back of their patrol vehicle, and drove away. Seán removed his soiled jacket, wrapped it in a plastic bag and put it in his trunk. Then, after dusting off his pants, he and Nick drove toward the city center in Cullen’s car. The window sticker got them waved through two army checkpoints. Seán got them both tea at McDonald’s on O’Connell street, and then wheeled the car around heading towards Leinster House. “I think we might just want to lay low, Nick.” “If I don’t get that tape to O’Shea,” Nick looked out his window in near despair, his jaw set tight, “he’ll have Jessica and the kids killed. I don’t have any choice.” Tears of anger welled up at the thought. He brushed them away. “You’re sure he has them?” “He knows where they are, I have to assume the worst.” “You know he’ll probably kill them anyway.” Seán regretted his words as soon as he said them. “Gee, thanks Seán, I’ve being trying to persuade myself otherwise. I’ve got to hope that there’s a chance, however slim.” After what had just happened, Nick knew in his heart that Seán was right. He hoped that it wasn’t too late. “All right, so what’s the plan?” “I was to call O’Shea on arriving here to receive instructions.” “Go ahead, call him and we’ll see what happens.” Seán passed Nick his cell phone. A female voice answered. “Good afternoon, Prime Minister’s office.” “This is Nick Riordan...” O’Shea’s assistant interrupted him. “Ah yes, Mr. Riordan, we are expecting you. Please come to the Merrion Square entrance, and I will leave word with security to have you buzzed through.” The delivery was so smooth, Nick could have been calling any corporate office rather than the lair of a madman. Seán had trouble finding a parking spot at Merrion Square so he evoked police privilege and parked in a loading zone. Seán could see the apprehension in Nick’s face, the twitch of a nerve in his cheek. “You want this gun back?” he asked. Nick looked at him and the proffered weapon. “They’ll take it from me at the front door.” He would have felt a lot safer with it in his waistband. Seán nodded his agreement.

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Nick opened his door but Seán grabbed his arm stopping him from getting out. “Listen Nick,” Seán bit his lip. “I’d go with you but they wouldn’t let me in. I will tell you this, however.” He looked hard into Nick’s eyes. “If you need help call me here on my cell phone and I’ll come get you no matter what.” He realized that it was an empty gesture, but he said it to reassure Nick that he was not alone. Nick nodded. “Just one final request Seán. Promise me, swear, that you’ll get O’Shea. I’ve never hated someone as intensely as I do him, and given the opportunity I’ll rip his fuckin’ eyes out.” Jessica’s face flashed into his head — carefree and smiling, the children surrounded her. “And don’t let him die easily,” Nick added. “There’s nothing I’d enjoy more.” And Nick was gone. Seán said a silent prayer for his safe keeping. Nick made his way into the government building, and was quickly cleared through the various security points. O’Shea’s assistant met him in the hallway and asked him to follow her upstairs. She didn’t make any polite conversation, in fact she did not even look at him. The building was bustling with the business of government, but Nick didn’t notice. His heart pounded hard in his chest in anticipation of what was to come. At O’Shea’s office, two soldiers frisked him none too gently, before the assistant ushered him through the door. One of the guards followed, his gun level with Nick’s back. O’Shea did not greet him as he entered his office, nor did he ask him to sit down. He merely held out his hand. “The tape?” Nick complied and handed it over. O’Shea noticed the damage and looked at Nick questioningly. “It got damaged. I got shot at,” was all Nick could manage, his mouth dry. A sense of calm enveloped him. O’Shea took his letter opener and pried the round out of the plastic cassette. It fell into his hand. O’Shea rolled it in his palm, feeling its weight. “You wouldn’t be trying to screw around with me would you?” he asked quietly. “I would hardly have come the whole way here to do so.” Nick responded evenly. “So why did you come?” “I want my wife and children back unharmed.” O’Shea laughed quietly. He opened a folder on his desk, removed a photograph and threw it across the desk in front of Nick. Grinning he added, “It’s a bit late for that.” The photograph was a close up showing Jessica and the children exiting the apartment in Greece. Overlying the image was a circle and cross hair centered on his eldest son’s head.

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Something snapped inside Nick’s head. With a snarl he threw himself across the broad desk and grabbed a startled O’Shea by his shirt collar. “Where are they? What have you done to them?” he shouted, squeezing O’Shea’s throat, digging his thumbs into his larynx. O’Shea was stunned — no one had ever done that before — they wouldn’t dare! Grasping desperately, he reached into his desk drawer and removed the chrome pistol and slid it under Nick’s chin. “Back off!” he gasped struggling for air. The soldier behind Nick was caught off guard — he didn’t understand a word of the conversation; his English was rudimentary, so he was slow to respond, trying to decide how to shoot without hitting his boss. Instead he raised his rifle and crashed it into Nick’s wriggling back, forcing the air from his lungs. But Nick wouldn’t let up. Instead he attempted to grab the pistol with his left hand and scuffled with O’Shea, who kept a firm grip on the handle. Nick felt O’Shea’s grip loosen and stepped away to pull the gun away from him. As he reached for the discarded letter opener, Nick felt a sharp crack on the back of his head and then nothing, as he slumped semi-conscious to the floor. “Well you took long enough!” O’Shea snarled, rubbing his bruised throat as he attempted to catch his breath. He staggered around his desk to where Nick lay. Nick’s eyes were glazed as he struggled to focus. O’Shea slammed his pistol hard against Nick’s cheek. His eyes shone with the outrage and humiliation of what Nick had done to him. “You...you, impudent fuck!” He hit Nick hard with the barrel of his pistol, cutting his scalp. Pressing the barrel against Nick’s head, he whispered viciously. “Time to visit your goddamn bitch in hell...” and he pulled the trigger.

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Seán Driscoll sat in his car thinking deeply after Nick had left him. He came to a decision and dialed Peter Flanagan’s beeper number on his cell phone. As he waited for the return call, he lit a cigarette and stared at the black painted railings of the park. A weeping willow drooped over the railings, its swaying branches mesmerizing Seán as they danced in the afternoon breeze. He hadn’t noticed that the sun was shining when he went out that morning. But, after being seconds away from death, he was sure he would never take the sun’s bright light for granted again. His phone chirped. “Yeah,” he answered. “Seán, it’s me. Peter.” “Where are you?” “I’m at the office waiting for Cullen to come back.” Flanagan spoke in a hushed tone. “I need you here, now,” Seán said quietly. Flanagan hesitated. “I can’t help you, you’re off the force.” “Like hell. Casey gave me my badge back.” “That’s not what Cullen told me.” Flanagan shot back defensively. Seán’s patience ran out. “I’m your partner, not Cullen!” he shouted, flicking his cigarette out the window. “All right! What will I say to Cullen?” “Nothing. Cullen won’t be coming back...ever.” Seán gave Flanagan his location and told him to hurry up. He thought of calling other members of the force he knew well, but he was unsure where their loyalties lay. He made another call, this time to Gerry Adams. He filled him in on Nick’s arrival and urged Adams to do something to help Nick now. “Patience Seán, patience. Everything comes to those who wait.” Adams responded softly in his Belfast accent. “For Christ’s sake, Riordan’s up there already, in O’Shea’s office!” “I know. What do you expect me to do? Ride in there in a tank, guns blazing? It doesn’t work like that.” “Look, Riordan saved my life today. I’m just trying to save his. I’m waiting for my partner to get here. Maybe we can get into the building somehow. I’ve got to do something.” “I wouldn’t go near that building if I were you.” “Why?” “Just don’t. Not unless you want to end up like your amigo Cullen. You’re welcome, by the way. I heard my cavalry saved the day.”

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Seán was going to contradict him but knew that by giving Nick the opportunity, Adams’ men had saved his life. “You’re right, thanks.” “Think nothing of it. Stay low and keep you’re head down. I’ll be in touch.” Adams ended the call. All Seán could do was wait.

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Military orders were beamed across the country, putting the Irish troops on high alert. The different commands had been kept in a capsule of a “need to know” basis, and many had been forbidden access to the media. Their initial orders, after the bombing of the A 330, were to seal the border, pending an invasion from the North. This had been in response to the threatening rhetoric that had been published in the South on behalf of Northern loyalist paramilitary wings, that the only way to contain the rabid Republicans would be to take over the Republic itself. Despite denials from Unionist officials, the threat had been delivered with the appropriate code words, and were therefore printed verbatim. One editor had asked O’Shea’s office if he should publish the inflammatory announcement, only to receive O’Shea’s blessing under the umbrella of freedom of the press. O’Shea’s own newspaper had a heyday with large headlines predicting doom. O’Shea embellished the story to produce the desired effect. No one knew that he was also the original author. O’Shea had orchestrated the strategy to win over the commanders of the Irish army. From the very beginning they had been staunchly loyal to the government and their Chief of Staff, the Irish President; they were the largest obstacle that O’Shea had thought he would have to overcome. However, he found a few high level friends in their midst, men of his way of thinking. He used the powers of his office, the propaganda that he generated through his manipulation of the media, and sheer willpower to bully the rest. The opportunity to mobilize had come more easily than he had expected. The Irish President had, in the state of emergency following both the downing of the Irish airliner and the threats of assassination that had plagued the government ministers, turned over the reigns of the army to Prime Minister Quinlan. O’Shea had used this to his advantage immediately, and after Quinlan’s “removal” from office, he had never offered to relinquish control, given the unstable political climate. From the time of mobilization on, it was just a matter of keeping up the heat, and the troops stayed just where they were. Except, what they had heard was that they were protecting the border as defenders rather than as aggressors. It was a scenario that had been rehearsed over the decades, and the troops knew their roles well. Their Achilles’ heel was their lack of air cover. While this deficiency could never fully be equalized, the army was well equipped with ground to air missiles. The above-the-rotor mounted seek radar on the latest generation of the British army’s helicopters, introduced an even greater

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complexity in combating them. But there were relatively few, and this was a problem that would have to dealt with when the time came. With the receipt of their orders, the time was now. In O’Shea’s Mayo assembly facility, the time for pretense was over. The large hanger doors at the end of the huge facility were opened at dawn, and the first of almost fifty Vietnam-war era, Huey helicopters, were wheeled out on platforms, fueled up, and flown in flights of six to predetermined destinations where O’Shea’s Eastern European troops waited. The helicopters were armed with rocket pods and fixed forward facing gattling guns, containing armor piercing rounds. What they lacked in technology — they had been stripped to the minimum flight equipment needed to allow for greater range — they made up for in fire-power. Their job was to deliver the initial shock and clear the way for the Irish armored divisions, drop their human cargo, and, if they survived, go back to the Republic and re-arm for a second attack. One platoon had a separate mission. That of opening fire on the Irish brigades to draw the troops into the action. Fueled, manned and ready to go, they all awaited the final order.

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The logistics of the US intervention plan was all in the timing. The diverted carrier, en route back from the Mediterranean, was still a full day away from its optimum position off the Southern Irish coast. The problem would not have arisen if the main force of attack was to be fixed wing aircraft. They could have refueled from their tanker support aircraft. Due to the delicate nature of the intervention, and the lack of accurate data available as to where exactly O’Shea’s Eastern European troops were, it was decided that the main thrust of the attack would be made by helicopter. The USS Wasp , the largest ship ever built, was part of the flotilla, but was out of range to use her AH1W Cobra attack helicopters right away; they would, however, be able to provide a supporting role later in the evening. Immediate support would be possible from her CH-53E Super Stallion heavy transports. Once within range, they would be able to deploy and be ready for action within two hours. There was no need to employ the full means of destructive power that was available to the task force. Theirs was a task of containment, not conquest. Two Navy E-2 Hawkeyes took up station and patrolled off the West coast, providing surveillance and monitoring radio traffic as they directed the operation. They were protected by pairs of F-14 Tomcats, who circled the vulnerable E- 2’s, leaving only to top off from a KC-10 air refueling tanker. Intelligence gathered prior to the roll out had indicated an absence of fixed surface to air missile sites, but that did not rule out the possibility that they existed. United States Blackhawk and Apache helicopters were to be used, drawn from their bases in the UK, equipped with air-to-ground hellfire missiles. Each platoon of 6 choppers carried 12 of these missiles, and were capable, with their unique seek radar, of accurately pinpointing targets without endangering their aircraft. Equipped with a similar above-the-rotor radar as the UK forces, the lead helicopter could, from a concealed position, view the enemy by unshielding its attack radar. Through it’s fire control computer, it could direct, not only its own missiles to the target, but also designate and direct fire for the other helicopters with minimum exposure to the enemy . The US did not want the attack to originate from Britain for obvious reasons, so it was decided that the attack helicopters would ferry across the Irish sea to Shannon airport in the Southwest of the country. It would be up to the Marines flown in from the carrier group by the powerful Super Stallions, with armored personnel carriers carried underneath in huge slings, to take over

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the airport, establish a defense perimeter, and allow the Blackhawks, Apaches and supplies to be ferried in. A command post would be set up from there to co-ordinate air and ground movements. Another command post would also be set up closer to the border at Knock International Airport, very much dependent on the threat, or lack of, ground to air radar and missile sites. Pending the agreement of the British Prime Minister and approval of the official Irish government, all of this had to be ready to go without rehearsal within a six hour time frame. They had practiced for similar eventualities many times before on the training grounds of West Germany prior to the wall coming down. They hoped they could pull it all together in the time allocated to them.

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Nick awoke, his head throbbing. He groaned and tried to move, but found that he could not move his limbs. The smell hit him again, the searing odor of ammonia. He opened his eyes and focused. Inches away O’Shea’s face was staring at him, a bottle of smelling salts in his hand. They were situated in an office down the hall from O’Shea’s own. Drapes covered the window. The only light shone from a desk lamp. “You’re going to wish I had cocked the gun when I pulled the trigger,” O’Shea said, so close to his face that Nick couldn’t focus on him. “Your breath smells,” Nick responded groggily. He was rewarded with a hard crack across his face from one of O’Shea’s guards who stepped out of the darkness to deliver the blow. “Shooting you would have been too easy. I have other means of disposing of you to ensure that you enjoy every second of your death,” O’Shea gestured to the desk that lay to their side. Nick looked over. Blood seeped into one of his eyes forcing him to close it and look with the other. On the table lay a velvet jeweler’s cloth. Neatly arranged on top sat an array of surgical instruments and syringes. Next to them lay a pair of kitchen gloves. Nick shuffled his feet in fear and heard the rustle of plastic. “A throw sheet to catch the spills,” O’Shea laughed at him. “First, some questions.” He sat straddled across a chair, his arms leaning on the backrest. “Who did you show that tape to?” Nick did not respond. O’Shea reached over to the desk and selected a scalpel, which he stroked against Nick’s cheek like a razor. “Well?” “Nobody. The tape was damaged. I couldn’t play it.” “I find that hard to believe. You’ll have to do better.” The blade twinkled in the harsh light. “For Christ’s sake, I protected that goddamn tape with my life...” Nick was rewarded with another blow to his head. O’Shea grabbed him by the throat and shouted. “WHO did you show it too? The Americans? The British?” Nick was silent. O’Shea nodded to the unseen guard, who lay his weapon on the floor and stepped in front of Nick. After applying a strip of electrical tape across Nick’s mouth, he proceeded to beat Nick methodically with a rubber billy club across his upper body and his thighs. Nick tried to scream from the excruciating pain but the

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sounds would not come out of his sealed mouth. He bucked against his bonds but they were too tight and he couldn’t avoid the blows from the flailing cudgel. The soldier was obviously experienced. He knew when and where to hit, to exact the most pain. As suddenly as he started, he stopped and grabbed Nick’s head by the chin forcing him to look at O’Shea. Nick’s eyes were wide open in terror, his breath came hard. O’Shea stood and selected a syringe from the desk and held it up to the light. He slowly depressed the plunger, emptying out any air until a stream of liquid spurted from the needle. Holding it in his hand he waved it menacingly in front of Nick’s face. “Let me tell you about others that have pissed me off. They didn’t live to regret it. But before they go, I make sure that they die horribly. I had one impertinent little fuck who wrote an article criticizing me and my ideas for a United Ireland. I warned him off, but would he listen? NO! He even went as far as threatening me. HE threatened ME! NO, SIR. That’s not the way it goes. I dispatched of him in the same chair you’re in now. It took two hours.” O’Shea shuddered visibly, he bared his teeth at the pleasure of the memory. “And when I finished with him here, I had him nailed to a door, still alive.” “First I start with a shot of this,” he held the syringe in front of Nick’s battered face. “A potent amphetamine to ensure that you’re wide awake for all the fun.” He flicked at a vein in Nick’s bare arm. “Then, I...” A guard appeared at the door, his body silhouetted from the light behind him in the bright hallway. “Sir, there’s a problem. You’ll want to see this.” O’Shea roared at him. “I told you not to interrupt me!” “Sir, it’s vitally important.” O’Shea dismissed him with a curt wave. He replaced the syringe on the jewelers cloth, rolled it tight and put it in a drawer. He stood close to Nick and whispered, in a poor Arnold Schwartzenegger imitation, “I’ll be back.”

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The broadcast was transmitted over all available commercial television and radio frequencies at precisely 6 P.M. Greenwich time. This time was decided on because it coincided with the transmission of the Catholic Angelus — a one minute religious pause in Ireland — followed by the prime time news. RTE, Ireland national broadcasting authority had agreed to carry his message live, when they were contacted by members of the government in hiding. It would never be known that the request from Gerry Adams had a more convincing tone. O’Shea’s cronies that staffed the station didn’t even realize what was happening, until it was too late. News channels in Britain carried the broadcast as did Sky news and CNN. It would last for fifteen minutes, but within the first two the damage had been done. The face of the President of the United States filled the screen. “Good evening, citizens of Ireland both North and South. My broadcast to you tonight is a necessary intrusion on your lives. The news I bring you is not good. In fact, this is the only opportunity there is to stop widespread and unnecessary bloodshed in your country.” The president was dry mouthed as he spoke, but he resisted the temptation to stop and sip his water. Timing, and composure, was of the essence. “The man leading the Irish government, Gerard O’Shea, is, to put it quite bluntly, a criminal. He has deliberately and purposely put the citizens of the country in harm’s way in an attempt to reunite the North of Ireland with the South through violent means. From investigations carried out here in the US, it has been shown that he was personally involved in the July march massacre, the downing of the Aer Lingus A330 at Boston’s, Logan Airport, and just yesterday, mounted an attack on the citizens of New York in response to our requests that he seek a solution through dialog.” The President had been presented with circumstantial evidence for two of these attacks, but he had seen firsthand the evidence necessary to justify his stepping in, as he was now doing. “Countless others have been killed over the past few weeks, politicians, elected members of the government, anyone who would stand in O’Shea’s way. And tonight he intends, by garnering your support through deceitful means, to invade the province of Ulster and massacre all political opponents both Catholic and Protestant under the false colors of nationalism.” “But my words are empty without the proof to back it up. For those with a weak heart, I would warn you to avert your eyes from the footage that follows.”

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Nick’s video of the carnage at the march began to play. It was heart breaking to watch the destruction of human life. The tape was played through until the final segment, which was shown in slow motion. An image of a khaki clad figure could be seen wading through the bodies, shooting, seemingly at random, into the fallen. The figure stopped and pulled off his ski mask, breathing in deeply. He then continued firing and reloading until he stopped, apparently out of ammunition. The camera was too far away to see his features properly. But the image began to magnify, enhanced by the most modern FBI computers, until there was no mistaking the grimacing, blood splattered face, of Gerard O’Shea. The President paused for a few seconds, while the final segment was repeated again and again. Then he spoke. “Seeing is believing. A very brave man risked his life to protect the contents of this tape. O’Shea has hounded Nick Riordan and his family to retrieve what you have just seen. And I am saddened to tell you that I don’t know what has happened to them.” A face familiar to most Irish viewers filled the screen adjacent to the President. That of Gay Byrne, a long time Irish television talk show host. Gay had been in the business for over thirty years with the ever successful “Late, Late Show,” and a well listened to daily radio talk program. He appeared calm but his voice had a shake, perhaps from the images he had seen. His screen image fluttered as the signal from the satellite feed was adjusted. “Good evening. You all know who I am.” he spoke earnestly to the camera. Age had been good to him. Apart from his white hair, his face retained the looks that were so familiar to his audience throughout the years. “Everything the good President has said and shown you is the truth. I have seen the evidence for myself. I am coming to you from the US Ambassador’s residence in England. I just made it in time for this broadcast.” His hastily applied makeup testified to that. “Gerard O’Shea is Irish just like the rest of us, but he has been poisoned with a profound hatred for all things English. That hatred has been distorted by his need for power to the point that he know longer knows the difference between right and wrong. Not only that, he is a man focused on the complete annihilation of anybody or anything that steps in his way. I am begging all of you listening this evening to withdraw your support for this monster before he destroys the very fragile peace in which we live, or, tomorrow you will wake up to an Ireland in which there will be no place for you. I’ll hand you back to the President. Good night.” The camera stayed on him for a few seconds longer than he expected, and the last sight that viewers saw was Byrne laying his head in his hands, sobbing. “The Irish government, the British government, the Unionist Party and Sinn Féin, have requested military assistance from the US. I

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have agreed — the American people have agreed. It is imperative therefore that you heed the following directions.” “First, to the members of the armed forces, in the Irish and British armies, you will be given instructions from your commanders. You are ordered to stand down. I will repeat that instruction. You are to stand down and maintain defensive positions only. Any attacks that are made on you will be from a group of mercenaries that O’Shea has operating on both sides of the border.” There followed an inset on the live pictures of Tony Blair and the Irish President repeating the orders. “Secondly, the citizens of the country are asked to stay indoors for the next twenty-four hours, or until you hear from me again. Do not get involved in any conflicts. From eight o’clock tonight a strict 24 hour curfew is imposed both North and South of the border.” “Finally. My aim tonight is to avoid bloodshed of any kind. But O’Shea has made it amply clear that he will not back down without conflict. You may see fighting on the street, in the air. Do not get involved. Tomorrow, US forces will be on the ground in Ireland to act as a buffer in resolving this terrible problem. They are your friends and you’ll have no trouble identifying them.” The President stared into the camera for a long second before concluding. “You, the Irish people have fought too long and too hard to have the peace broken. Too many lives have already been lost. The peace has been hard won, and I pledge every effort we can make to retain it. Without your support, O’Shea is the Emperor without his clothes. And I will make one final promise and this is directed to one person watching.” The President’s jaw tightened. “O’Shea, you will, if you survive the night, be brought to swift justice. You are nothing but a pretender, a terrorist of the worst kind. To the people of Ireland, I wish you good night. May God bless you all.”

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The British troops had been briefed by their commanders on a direct order by the Prime Minister Blair, who confirmed his earlier televised instructions. With the exception of the area commander, all of the other higher ranking staff had been replaced and confined to barracks under guard. This was all that could be done to counter any free spirited commanders who Woolworth had not fingered by name, but had alluded to during his debriefing. Their replacements were given strict instructions as to what was expected from them on taking over their units. This information was passed down to units all over the countryside. A similar directive had been issued to the Irish army. The effect was startling. All British troops returned to barracks, save those needed to protect essential facilities. Those commandos who were hiding out in the countryside were disappointed by the wasted effort and energy of living out of communication for close to two weeks, when their cover was blown by their airlift out. The border was cleared, the roads reopened. At exactly 8:00 P.M. all aircraft, civil and military, were grounded. In fact, most military and civil flights had earlier made a dash for the British coast, a scant twenty minutes flying time. Most of the military airfields lay empty. The British Prime Minister hoped that the US President was correct in his calculations. Any slip-up and the PM would be out of a job before he had time to instigate any damage control. In Nationalist and Loyalist ghetto areas, roadblocks remained in place. The British army was conspicuously absent, but what was evident was that the opposing paramilitary manned barricades were greeting each other — not entirely warm and fuzzy to begin with — and walked to and fro from each others’ areas freely. They had a new common enemy, and perhaps, for the first time realized, that they needed each other to survive.

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Dublin city was unusually quiet. Road traffic was at a stand still. Traffic lights blinked their dance of colors to empty streets. Litter fluttered on the sidewalks; the people who had earlier filled the streets were now but a memory. As dusk approached, few ventured outside. All across the countryside television and radio sets were filled with static. To counter any broadcast appeal that O’Shea’s faction might make, the airwaves were electronically jammed by the United States military, borrowing a British facility on the West coast of England. The military checkpoints, which until a few hours before were heavily manned, were now gone, vanishing as quickly as they had arrived. It was into this silence that Gerard O’Shea emerged — in full military uniform — he graced himself on dressing as a brigadier general. As he entered an armored personnel carrier, one of many he had procured from England from his well paid friend Woolworth, he paused, flipped up his cell phone and dialed a paging service number. Taken by surprise by the American President’s broadcast, he admonished himself for not shutting down mass communications sooner. He had planned a pre-recorded broadcast for nine o’clock to coincide with the commencement of military activities, but it was too late for that. He had to take action right away. He ordered a group of six of helicopters armed with air to air missiles to patrol a corridor stretching from Dublin in the East to Galway in the West. Their orders were to engage and destroy any aircraft that attempted to fly north of that line. The pager number rang and when it answered he prepared to type in a code. By depressing the pound key, a signal would be transmitted all over the city, detonating a series of explosive devices that he had dispersed, through his intermediaries, in key places. Some were placed in areas of national heritage: under the Book of Kells, in the National Archives, in museums and art galleries. Others were placed under national monuments — the round tower under which patriots were buried in Glasnevin Cemetery, the patriotic statues that dotted the city center and other symbols of national pride. He had a purpose for wanting to destroy them. Their destruction would remove all traces of what he regarded as the symbols of false pride in the failures of Irish history. Once gone, the country would grow anew, beginning with him, Gerard O’Shea as the leader of a whole Ireland. The history of failure would end, and a new era begin. This, he knew, was only part of the reason. His ego would not allow any past heroes to share in the glory of what he was about to accomplish.

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The telecast had not deflected his enthusiasm one bit. On the contrary, it made everything all the more challenging. So, the US wasn’t on his side — no big deal. The recalling of the Irish Army meant nothing either. Once his troops opened up on them from the other side of the border, they would fight back. The standing down of the British Army would only add to his advantage. The Americans might just have done him a favor. Much as he regretted it, he would have to leave finishing off Riordan until later. He looked forward to it. He gave an arranged press conference on the steps of Leinster House to international journalists, of which few remained in the city. Most had left, fearing being stranded in the midst of hostilities. They watched him mount a small podium, a cell phone in his hand. A few, veterans in their journalist trade, smirked inwardly when they saw his uniform, seeing through his pretensions. Wisely, they said nothing. When he began to speak, he saw their jaws drop practically in unison and shy away from the podium. A bright red dot had appeared in the center of his forehead, shimmering though unwavering. One of his soldiers ran to him and pulled him off. Angered, he asked what was the hell was going on. Around him his troops crouched, their weapons sweeping. The journalists were gone save for a photographer who remained, his camera on O’Shea, hoping for a lucky shot. The soldier told O’Shea what had happened. Confused for a moment, his blood ran cold as he realized that it could only have been caused by the laser sight of a sniper rifle. “Where are the troops guarding the perimeter?” O’Shea roared. His staff talked into their walkie-talkies and all responded the same way. The Irish troops were gone. “What about my troops?” The same answer. They too were gone. For the first time a thread of fear and uncertainty crept into his head, but he shook it off. “Change of plan,” he grumbled, forgetting his cellular phone for the moment. He had intended to announce the new beginning, and the destruction of the old, during the press conference. Instead, he pocketed it and ordered a helicopter with escorts to be brought to the courtyard. A flight of three Huey’s arrived within ten minutes, and while the one designated to airlift O’Shea settled to the ground, the escorts buzzed the surrounding rooftops to dissuade any would-be snipers. On O’Shea’s orders, the helicopters flew quickly northward, passing over Trinity College and the River Liffey which reeked, now at low tide. The setting sun glared through the cockpit window as they hugged the roof-tops to avoid being fired upon. Soon Dublin was again silent.

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O’Shea had the co-pilot relinquish his seat and move into the rear of the helicopter. He wanted a better view of the terrain over which they flew. They kept over the M 1 Motorway, passing Dublin airport, whose terminal building was unlit, its runways eerily dark on O’Shea’s orders. All flights had been canceled. Approaching the town of Swords, the teeming acres of homes speeding underneath the aircraft, O’Shea checked his watch, 8:58 P.M. The sun had set but the long dusk wouldn’t fade to darkness for another hour or longer. This was ideal hunting time for O’Shea’s combat helicopters, because even though they were not equipped for night flying, they would be able to make at least two sorties in this half light. Their silhouettes would be hard to distinguish, flying as they would close to the ground. He imagined them now sitting waiting for liftoff, their engines running, rotors spinning fully armed, ready to go. His destiny was within his grasp. The highways were suddenly plunged into darkness as the hour struck. O’Shea had decided not to bother with a surgical shutdown of electricity to deprive British pilots of landmarks. Instead, he had his men power down all of the country’s electrical grid from their source, the power stations. This would also deprive the population of any television coverage until his victorious speech the following day on the steps of Stormont Castle — the bastion of Protestant power — in Northern Ireland. Ahead, in the distance, the Mourne Mountains curved gently down to the Irish Sea. The helicopter’s radio came alive as the attack helicopters squad leaders called in confirming takeoffs as they spiraled up and Northward. Only one had a malfunction which required an abort. “Not bad,” O’Shea thought. He had been expecting more. The plan had all of the dispersed helicopters flying in groups of four, converging to within two miles of the border before pressing their attack. This way they could cover each others flanks while they rocketed and strafed their targets. The rendezvous was scheduled for 9:10 P.M., and all went according to schedule as the helicopters thumped northward, hugging the terrain tightly to avoid attack from the ground and British search radar. The radio crackled again from the teams, they were at their initial point, and ready to cross the border. O’Shea confirmed curtly and ordered them to proceed. Radio silence was to be maintained until the first attack was completed. O’Shea sat back in the vibrating cockpit and let his thoughts wander to what would be. In his minds eye he could see the drama unfold as his men pressed their attack — the victorious calls of the pilots as they laced their target. The beauty of the evening lost on him.

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Suddenly, the airwaves were alive with chatter. “What is it?” O’Shea questioned the pilot, who raised his hand to silence him as he listened intently to the radio traffic through his earpiece. O’Shea was about to ask him again when the pilot responded. “Reports coming in of the squad being over flown by high speed aircraft, sir. They request instructions.” “Tell them to blow the bastards out of the sky!” O’Shea shouted, over the noise in the cockpit. “The aircraft were gone too quickly for them to respond.” “Press the attack, press the attack!” O’Shea ordered, agitated. The pilot relayed the order. As they flew further north, O’Shea scanned the horizon with his low light binoculars to search for troop activity. He looked puzzled, adjusted his lenses and looked again. “What the hell are they doing?” he asked at no-one in particular. “What the...” He was thrown hard against the bulkhead as if by an invisible hand, and he would have lost his binoculars had they not been fastened around his neck by their strap. The helicopter lost altitude, dropping sickeningly like a stone, spinning wildly as the pilot fought to regain control. When he finally did, very close to the ground, O’Shea regained enough composure to ask what had happened. “We were caught in the wash of a high speed aircraft. He must have missed colliding with us by a matter of a couple of feet. Jesus!” the pilot exclaimed, as he checked over his instruments. “Fire at him, blow him out of the sky!” O’Shea was beside himself with rage. “Negative, sir, he’s gone.” “Turn the helicopter around and find him, goddamnit!” The pilot informed his escorts of what he intended to do. They got out of his way stacking below and behind him. The pilot set the helicopter into a hover mode and let it turn slowly towards where he thought the plane had gone. Simultaneously, he unsheathed the heat sensitive nose of a Stinger missile, slung from a pylon under the side of the aircraft. Each helicopter was equipped with two, the remaining space on the pods being allocated for air to ground attack missiles. O’Shea could hear the warble in his headphones as the seeker head found a hot target. “Fire!” O’Shea ordered. “Sir, it could be one of ours.” “Fire I said!”

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The projectile left its pod in a blinding flash of flame and smoke. It arched upward toward the heat source, its internal guidance computer making minute adjustments to its trajectory. O’Shea couldn’t see its progress because he had temporarily lost his vision by not shielding his eyes, as the pilot had done, before launch. The pilot could see it go toward its unseen target, the rear of the rocket an angry red as the rocket fuel burned furiously. It flew straight and true until the propulsion system twinkled out. It exploded. “Did it hit anything?” O’Shea asked. “Negative. The target was out of range. The missile ran out of fuel and self destructed.” “You should have fired when I ordered you to.” O’Shea was less sure of himself as he was still recovering from the fly-by. The pilot took no heed. Instead he busied himself checking his instrumentation — not that there was much on this stripped down Huey — and turned the aircraft back onto its northerly heading. It was just as well they hadn’t hit the fly-byer, there were probably others about, and it wouldn’t do to piss them off. Their helicopter was a sitting duck now that they had lost the element of surprise. Seconds later, the airwaves were alive again, with the sounds of confused pilots. “Squad C, under attack. Squad D under attack....” O’Shea listened helplessly as the calls came in. Off in the distance to the West, the pilot saw bright orange flashes in the sky, and the brilliant phosphorescence of flares popping. The helicopters were fitted with the most rudimentary form of missile defense. The rear gunners had flare guns whose rounds had to be fired manually through the belly doors in an attempt to attract and fool an incoming heat-seeking missile. They were useless, however, against radar guided missiles. The calls became frantic and then one by one they fell silent. O’Shea was helpless while his armada was systematically chopped to pieces. Calls came in requesting permission to abort. “Negative, press on.” O’Shea shouted back, furious that his pilots even considered the possibility. The radio traffic diminished until there was nothing but silence. O’Shea keyed his microphone demanding that unit leaders report in, but all he got was the hiss of static. He thumped the radio in frustration. Then O’Shea saw the traffic. Below him on the N 1, stretching into the distance, a long column of camouflaged army vehicles were making their way south, lights on. O’Shea looked in puzzlement. “Had the British army busted through?” he wondered. He ordered the pilot to open fire. The pilot complied unleashing a barrage of

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rockets which blew large holes in the road. O’Shea, peering through his binoculars, touched the pilots arm and told him to stop firing. “Take us down! I want a closer look.” he ordered. They could not make out the markings on the vehicles in the diminishing light. “Get right down there,” O’Shea urged him. The pilot did as he was told and hovered the helicopter twenty feet off the ground. The escorts stayed high providing cover. His actions had the desired effect, and the vehicles slowed menaced by the sight of the fat Huey bristling with weapons. “Jesus Christ, they’re the Irish army. What the fuck are they doing?” O’Shea roared. “Patch me in to their unit commander.” The pilot switched frequencies and received an acknowledgment. He nodded at O’Shea. “Who is this?” O’Shea demanded. The officer identified himself and made a demand of his own, asking O’Shea to identify himself with the daily code. O’Shea gave him one, and with contempt, asked the officer what the hell they were doing. “We are returning to base.” “What! The British are shooting up Irish aircraft and you’re returning to base? Turn your equipment around immediately!” “Negative.” “Do as I say or I’ll have you in front of a firing squad by the morning.” “Negative.” “Don’t you negative me. Turn around now or I’ll blow you and the rest of your pathetic cowards to hell!” The radio went silent. The pilot was watching the armored vehicles in front of them on the road and was disquieted when he saw that his helicopter was in the direct line of fire from the turret mounted cannon and machine guns. He pulled back on the collective and slowly gained altitude. He noticed that while the cannons stayed level, the pivot mounted heavy machine guns on the Panhard personnel carriers followed him. A nervous finger on a trigger down there and they would very quickly be reduced to burning hulk. So he broke away, hard right and accelerated at near ground level until they were clear. The escort ships followed from their lofty perch. “Why did you do that?” O’Shea asked. “Sir, those armored vehicles were training their weapons on us. I took us out of the line of fire.” “How dare they? I am their commander-in-chief. They must do as I say!” The pilot noticed the spit fly from O’Shea’s mouth. O’Shea snapped to a decision. He told the pilot to turn back and open fire on the column. “I don’t recommend it. They’re equipped with radar mounted ground to air missiles. We’d be a sitting duck.” They were now

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flying over the sea-side town of Skerries. Smoke drifted lazily from chimney pots in the still evening air. The Irish sea lay directly in front of them, leaden in its gray stillness. The low islands off the coast dark smudges in the late evening light. “Have the escorts gain some altitude and light off something at the convoy.” The pilot relayed the order. The escorts gunships complied, rising in the warm evening air roaring off westward towards the military column on the N 1. They were gone from sight within a few seconds. O’Shea was silent, sullen, as he tried to piece together what had happened. Despite repeated calls over the radio, none of his attack helicopters responded — not one. What had happened? The escort ships reported that they were strafing the column but broke off the attack when fire was returned. O’Shea could see long streams of tracers arch towards them as the escorts raced back. Two flashes in the distance marked the end of flight for two pursuing missiles. The escorts formed up, one of each side of the command ship. They were nearly stationary in the sky, a hundred feet above Skerries, their oily exhaust filled the air, forced to the ground by the spinning main rotor. O’Shea was despondent, his eyes dark and dangerous. He turned to the pilot, and told him to head back to Dublin. As they turned the helicopter was thrown to the side when one of their escorts exploded and crashed to the ground. The pilot pointed while he maneuvered the aircraft and began to return fire from the nose gun. A telltale streak of smoke showed where a missile had been fired from the ground, in a housing area not half a mile away from them. The helicopter shuddered as round after round peppered the houses and street from where the missile had come. Directly below the helicopter, the street chattered from the sound of the shell casings that streamed down. “Get us out of here!” O’Shea bellowed. And the pilot heeled the aircraft southward towards Dublin. “Flares back there,” the pilot instructed the rear gunners. They were happy to oblige. However, the missile was the only one from that source, and their precaution was wasted but a signal had been sent, and as they left Skerries in a pall of smoke, other missile holders stepped forward south of them, scanning the skies, waiting for the opportunity to strike. The pilot stayed close to the ground. All O’Shea could do now was to go to plan B, which entailed his high-tailing it out of Ireland to a Mediterranean retreat. Much as he had been convinced of the successful outcome of his venture, he was wise enough to have an ace in the hole. His Lear jet was stationed at Dublin airport with a flight crew standing by. But

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first he had to detour back to Leinster House, gather a few papers, and find out how his units on the ground in Ulster had done. They headed back to the city. While they were approaching Leinster House, O’Shea’s ground units confirmed that the area was secure. When the helicopters turned across Merrion Square, their wash tossed the tree tops below them, the remaining escort called over the radio. “We’ve got company.” O’Shea strained his neck looking out of the canopy, but couldn’t see anything. However he did see the stream of tracers that crossed the sky in front of them. Slowly, on either side of them, two ugly helicopters approached keeping level with them. Slung underneath their noses, their swivel gattling guns pointed directly at O’Shea’s cockpit. The pilot and co-pilot sat one behind the other. A deaths head insignia was stenciled onto the rotor boom. O’Shea looked about desperately. The radio came alive. “Attention unidentified aircraft, set down immediately.” O’Shea growled when he heard the American accent. There was no mistaking the distinctive silhouette of the Apache helicopters. The remaining escort ship broke away and made a run for it. Its door gunners opened fire, but the rounds went wildly askew with the pitching of the aircraft as it raced at roof top level, heading for the Irish sea. The Apaches didn’t change their station. Then, from behind O’Shea’s line of vision, and higher up, one missile, then another, roared after it. The escaping escort’s crew were pumping flares out of the belly doors, but the missiles stayed on course. Then the pilot made a mistake. In an attempt to evade the missiles he turned, exposing his broad side to the fast closing AIM-120 radar guided missiles and exploded when they both plowed through and destroyed his aircraft in a huge fire ball. The body of the helicopter, what was left of it, crashed into the street in a blaze of burning fuel, the rotor snapped off into the sky to crash, still spinning, a good half mile away.

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In the near darkness, O’Shea’s pilot set the aircraft down on the Leinster House landing pad none too gently. The navigation lights blinked off as he wound down the engine. The Apaches did not follow them but broke off the engagement, left the immediate area and circled high overhead. O’Shea tore off his helmet, and tumbling over the cockpit clutter, ran from the aircraft toward the main door of the building. A voice stopped him in his tracks. “Top of the evenin’ Prime Minister!” Adams opened the door to meet him. “Get out of my way.” O’Shea tried to push him aside. The door gunners were emerging from the helicopter, guns at the ready. They swung their weapons around to provide cover for O’Shea and for themselves, but stopped when they saw heavily armed hooded figures emerging from bushes around them. The gunners were quickly subdued and thrown to the ground. “Now, now, O’Shea,” Adams’ mouth smiled, but his eyes didn’t as he put his arm around O’Shea’s shoulders, “You’ve been under a bit of a strain.” “What the hell are you doing here! I thought you were...” “Dead is the word you’re looking for. But thank the Lord, I’m alive and well, but your lads aren’t.” O’Shea looked at him puzzled. “What lads?” “Your boyos in country, hoping to start the revolution.” “What about them.” “They’re all dead. And those that aren’t, will be before morning breaks.” He lead O’Shea into the open and walked towards the railings that walled the government building. The main gate was closed, armed men watched them both. “You see,” Adams went on, “your soldiers are running into a spot of trouble. Seems the Americans weren’t terribly impressed with your actions and have intervened.” “Why? Who asked them to?” “Och, the Irish and British governments. I did, and Benson put in a good word as well.” “You’re full of it. They wouldn’t dare.” “Dare and would O’Shea! Dare and did. The Americans came into Shannon Airport earlier this evening, set up shop and went hunting. Firstoff they got your helicopters, that was the easy part. Like shooting fish in a barrel I believe, from the reports just in. They used planes for that. Once that was out of the way their Apaches — I believe you’ve seen a couple, went looking for your troops.”

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“Impossible. They’ll never find them.” O’Shea wasn’t so confident anymore as the reality of the situation hit him. He looked around desperately for his own men. Where were they? “To quote Sherlock Holmes, it was ‘elementary.’ With all of the troops recalled to barracks, all of the people of the country snug in their homes, the only warm bodies outside were your guys. Well, I’m not what you would call astute when it comes to understanding military technology, dear me now, but I can give you the gist of things. The Apaches are equipped with, what I’ve been told is, a thermal imaging system. It lets the pilot see warm objects, like your men, hiding on the ground. So it’s a matter of scanning the countryside and clearing up whatever they came across.” O’Shea looked around, desperate for a means of escape. Adams saw the glance and recognized the fear. “Oh there’s nowhere to go mister, nowhere at all.” They strolled further. “And as for your plans to start a wee war in our neighborhoods in Belfast and the environs, that didn’t work out either. We, the poor Catholics, and the Loyalists were waiting for your laddies to show up and what a surprise they got — are still getting. You did do one good thing though, you’ve proven that nationalist and loyalists can get along. We manned each other’s barricades and fought shoulder to shoulder. I must admit, that surprised even me.” They stopped and Adams lit his pipe. O’Shea wondered how far he would get if he was to draw his weapon and hold Adams hostage. “You see O’Shea, Ireland has come a long way. We’re sick of the fighting, of the killing. And we’ve finally learned that we can win what we want just as easily at the ballot box as with a gun.” O’Shea fumbled in his pocket and took out his cellular phone. He hit the speed dialer, calling the pager number. Adams stepped away. “Good bye Prime Minister O’Shea. You will, most definitely, rot in hell,” Adams said as he walked off. O’Shea fumbled with the phone, keying in the detonation code, but he never got to depress the pound key. On a roof top from the west side of Merrion Square an IRA marksman lined up his rifle sight on O’Shea. Adams walking away had been the signal. He squinted patiently through his Unertl sniper scope and gently squeezed the trigger on the Barrett rifle, the stock snug against his shoulder. The rhythmic beat of the helicopters high overhead filled the air. There was a distinctive searing crack as the rifle fired. The sniper peered through his scope ready to squeeze off a second round, but saw, as he suspected, that his target did not need another. With .50 caliber bullets, you rarely needed more than one.

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Nick awoke, aching and contorted in pain. He was terribly uncomfortable, his lower back felt as though he had been shot and he badly needed to pee, but that was impossible tied as he was to the chair. Something hard was sticking into his lower back. The room in which he sat was dark, the curtains shut, blocking out any light. His face was swollen from the beating, his lips cracked and caked in dried blood. O’Shea’s guard had given him a blow to the head with his rifle, as they left, for good measure, leaving him unconscious. He was ravaged with thirst. Behind him he heard the door open and a familiar voice. “So there you are, sunshine, napping!” Seán Driscoll called out, his pistol in his hand as he scanned the dark room and walked over to Nick. Outside the door Nick could hear the sounds of running feet and urgent commands being issued. Accompanying him, Peter Flanagan, searched for a light switch and not finding one flicked on the desk lamp. Seán was aghast. Nick’s face was a mess. “All right Nick, we’re goin’ to get you out of here,” Nick nodded glumly and strained on his binds. Seán quickly untied him and tried to helped Nick out of the chair. Nick was slow, rubbing his wrists hard, to get the blood flowing again. “They’re dead, Seán.” “Who?” “Jessica, Patrick, Julie and little Paul.” Tears sprang into Nick’s eyes. He was devastated. “You’ve no way of knowing for sure, Nick. Here, let me get you cleaned up.” Nick brushed him off. “O’Shea killed them all.” Nick’s head slumped onto his chest, despondently. Seán looked at him, feeling sorry for the burden he had to carry. He sat in front of Nick and took him by the shoulders. “Listen Nick,” he said. “Don’t give up. You can’t. O’Shea lied to everybody. He probably lied to you.” “He had a photograph of them.” This startled Seán. “Alive?” Nick nodded and rose from the chair. Seán helped him up. They all heard a loud click, and watched as a shard of metal sprang onto the floor from where Nick was sitting. A wisp of smoke rose from the seat. Seán pushed Nick instinctively through the door and into the hallway. Flanagan was more curious and hesitated. Too late, he realized that it was a grenade and it exploded while he lurched for the exit. Shrapnel

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showered the room, the force of the explosion ripped the clothes off Flanagans back. When the smoke cleared, sucked from the room by the air- conditioning vent, Seán edged cautiously back in to check on his partner. The fire alarm had gone off and so had the sprinkler system. The water from the sprinkler probably saved Peter’s life, cooling his scorched flesh. Irish army soldiers poured into the room, crouching and ducking as they checked to make sure the room was secure. One spoke into a walkie-talkie, and within a couple of minutes paramedics arrived whisking Flanagan off to the trauma center. “Will he be all right?” Nick asked Seán wearily. The ambulance had been meant for him. They stood in the hallway, the windows black from the darkness outside. “I’m not sure. But their taking him to St. Vincent’s hospital. He’ll be in good hands.” Seán saw that Nick was staring at his clothes. Following his gaze he saw that he was soaked in Peter’s blood. Wiping his hands on his pants he added, “Peter’s got a girlfriend there, a nurse. Com’on, let’s get out of here.” He helped Nick to his feet and they walked down the hallway. Everywhere they looked, members of the Irish army were checking out rooms and looking busy securing the building. Outside, floodlights were set up near the main gateway within its ornate railings. Police milled about taking measurements and pictures. Nick looked closely and saw a pair of feet sticking out from underneath from what looked like a yellow fireman’s jacket. Ten yards away in some shrubbery another jacket, this time more clumped, lay. “Who’s that?” Nick asked. “The former Prime Minister of Ireland.” Nick was sorry he asked what was under the second jacket. He knew the answer before Seán responded. “His head.”

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“How are you feeling?” Seán asked Nick, seeing that the bleeding seeping through the bandage had stopped. The blows to Nick’s head probably required stitches. “Better.” Nick lied, but he didn’t want to have to go to a hospital if he didn’t have to. Seán’s cell phone rang. The call was brief. “I have a trip to make to the airport, to pick up a friend of yours, Ted Smith. You might as well tag along.” Nick said nothing, but settled back in his seat as they drove down O’Connell street. They were stopped many times by army checkpoints on the way, but after careful examination of Seán’s identity badge, and a call to his office, they were waved through each time. The civilian curfew was still in effect. “Why all the fuss?” Nick asked. “Seems O’Shea’s private army left as soon as the shooting started. Most of them were captured, but the others ran. As mercenaries they have no interest in continuing the conflict. I’m sure they hope to live to spend their paychecks.” Nick checked his watch. It was a little after 4:00 A.M. Dawn would soon spread slowly over the eastern sky, and though his heart was heavy, he looked forward to seeing it. Perhaps the light of a new day would bring with it new hope about Jessica. “I have a question for you Nick,” Seán was hesitant, “I asked Gerry Adams why he had such an interest in protecting you. It can’t be just the tape. What the hell would the IRA have done with it?” He drove with his police lights on to warn off any would-be IRA snipers on the lookout for O’Shea’s fleeing men. “What did he tell you?” “Nothing, he told me to ask you.” Nick mind drifted back to college years, to memories of the clarity of youthful ideals. “I was a member of the IRA once. It was in 1981 during the height of the hunger strike on H-block. Nationalist feelings were high, particularly among college students, myself included. Bobby Sands had died on a hunger strike shortly after he had been elected as a British MP, and others were soon to follow. Our university was a perfect recruitment center for the IRA. We thought we could change the world. My proficiency was as a shooter; I did target shooting two or three times a week. This, of course, was of interest to them. Most raw recruits had to be trained...got a cigarette?”

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Seán handed him the packet and depressed the cars cigarette lighter. Nick waited for it to pop up and lit his cigarette before proceeding. He drew deeply, filling his lungs with smoke. As he exhaled he cracked his window to allow the smoke to escape. “I spent a number of weekends training, using a variety of weapons in the midlands. My calling was to be a long distance sniper, shooting across the border at army patrols. My first mission was my last.” “How so?” “I was tagged with a partner, I can’t even remember his name. He was to be the shooter and I the spotter, there to confirm range to target. We were dropped off late one evening in County Monaghan. After hiking across muddy fields to an abandoned farm building, we set up. It was maybe ten o’clock the following morning when the patrol crossed in front of us, a little under a half mile away.” “What the heck did you use to shoot at that distance?” “A Russian sniping rifle, a Dragunov, I believe. Our quartermaster had it fitted with an enormous scope. And don’t ask where they got it all, I haven’t a clue.” Nick flicked the remains of his cigarette out the window. They were getting close to the airport. “What happened?” “To cut a long story short, my partner decided that he wanted me to pull the trigger. So I took over his position and centered the cross hairs on one of the soldiers.” Bile rose in his throat from the memory. “I couldn’t shoot, I froze.” “Why?” Seán steered the car onto the roundabout outside the airport. “The soldier turned and faced me. He was laughing at something one of his friends had said ... he was just a kid, younger than I was. With that scope I could see the freckles on his face, the whiteness of his teeth. I just couldn’t do it.” After they were waved through the airport security cordon, they pulled into the terminal parking lot and Seán turned into an empty space. “My partner was furious. He practically spat at me, calling me a coward, a disgrace to the cause. He was going to report me for not following an order, and he literally kicked me off the roof of the building. I ran and ran until I thought my lungs would burst, hitching a ride from the first motorist that would stop. As I got into the car I heard the shot, and in my head I could see that kid die, some mother’s son. I heard later that my partner never made it back, the British patrol crossed the border and caught up with him. I think the IRA thought we were both caught. I kept a low profile after that, never graduated and took up a job as a photographer. Later I left for America.” “I’m glad you didn’t tell me this when we first met.”

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“You’re the only one who knows the story. I never told Jessica.” “There’s no need, no one will hear it from me.” Seán rubbed Nick’s shoulder. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

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Inside the terminal building, the airport seemed to be returning to normal, gearing up for the lifting of the curfew. Security was extremely tight, and the armed guards at the entrance looked at Seán strangely when he approached them, his shirt sleeves caked in dried blood. Seán and Nick sat and had coffee, practically alone in the upstairs cafe. Seán excused himself when they started their second cup and went to the bathroom to attempt to clean up. Nick allowed himself to doze off into an uncomfortable sleep filled with fleeting dark dreams. Seán woke him after checking with security to see when the expected flight would arrive, and they made their way downstairs to the arrivals area. A few moments later Ted Smith emerged alone from a side door and raised his hand in greeting. He looked tired and drawn; his clothes were heavily creased. “Gentlemen,” he greeted them shaking their hands heartily. “you’ve both done a terrific job.” Nick said nothing. “What the hell happened to you?” Ted asked examining his wounds. Seán filled him in. “Ted, Jessica...” “Ah, yes, Jessica, I have some news for you in that department.” He put his arm around Nick’s shoulder and led him toward the exit, his mouth tight as if he didn’t know where to start. Nick feared the worst. From behind a gentle hand stroked Nick’s cheek as small arms grabbed his waist. Nick turned, his eyes wide in disbelief. Jessica stood before him, tears of joy in her eyes. She looked at his damaged face, full of concern, and hugged him close, melting into his chest. The children wrapped around them whimpering with the joy of seeing their father. Nick sobbed, crying with relief. After a long moment Nick pulled Jessica away from him, and looked hard into her soft features. “How...what happened?” Jessica beamed nodding at Ted. “You can thank him. He got us out. He had some friends in Israel lift us out of Crete and flew us to Tel Aviv. In the nick of time too.” Nick’s mind was busy piecing it all together. He felt a bandage on her neck. Jessica flinched when he touched it. “What happened?” he asked. “I was a little too enthusiastic when they came to rescue me. They subdued me with a dart. Ouch, it still hurts.”

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Nick turned slowly to Ted, who avoided his eyes. “You KNEW!” Nick snarled. “You knew they were alive and never told me. You let me come here. Christ I could have been killed!” Ted nodded. “I found out that they were all right, the morning you arrived in London. But you were essential to disrupting O’Shea, absolutely essential. Without your tape and your courage this could have turned out completely differently. I have to live with the guilt; I’m sorry.” The children wondered why their dad was suddenly so angry. Nick shook it off. His pains forgotten, he embraced his wife tightly and then each of his children in turn. Seán was grinning from ear to ear. He patted Nick on the back and laughed out loud as he saw the tears of joy on their faces. “Together again.” “I’m speechless,” Nick responded, not letting go of his family. Ted was silent. Nick turned to him, his frown softened. “Thanks Ted, I have my life back.” Ted accepted the thanks with a shake of his head. “Not quite,” Seán interrupted, having just got off his cell phone. “The Irish Government wants to express its gratitude.” Nick could have cared less. “Any flights to New York today?” he asked Seán. “I think you’d prefer to stay and enjoy the hospitality of the Irish state for a few days and recuperate.” Seán checked his watch. “If we leave now, I can guarantee you all an excellent breakfast.” Dawn broke as they left the airport, the Riordan family crammed into the rear seat of Seán’s, formerly Cullen’s, car. An odd thought sprang into Nick’s mind. He wondered if he would be able to accumulate frequent flyer points for the miles he flew under the alias. The odd thought quickly faded with a long kiss from his wife, and an unspoken promise of something far more rewarding.

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