A reason to kill, p.38
A Reason To Kill, page 38
“Sure surprised me,” was a concerned mumble as the other soldier moved closer to his mate while setting himself to make a lunge for the rifle. “Usually,” he continued in a soft drawl. “The real big ones handle easy—” The cage door came open and this soldier breathed a sigh of relief.
“Hi Doc. He’s a bit of a mess but I don’t think there’s anything broken.”
~~~
It was turning 10:00pm, when Megan O’Donnell situated herself in the suicide seat between Martin and Walsh and noted two other men occupied the safer rear seat of the auto. Then Megan thought, Here I was stupid enough to congratulate myself for spending a whole day in Ireland without collecting another bruise. In her imagination she was already supping on bread and water in Dede’s Belfast Prison.
At Kelly’s she heard no alarms go off, nor did guard dogs attack and she felt a bit better. The rear door came off its hinges and was expertly replaced with her group on the inside. “I’m going to need some light. I’m not an owl.”
Slapping a flashlight in her hand, Walsh ordered, “Keep your voice down.”
While Martin grinned. “Sure, Jacky, you hoping she’s not planning too long a visit?”
“I still think one of you should wait in the car?” This breech of TV rules upset Megan.
“Lass,” Walsh explained. “A bloke just sitting in a parked car is bound ta draw suspicious soldiers. Remember, here they are constantly on the prowl.”
First he tried to aid her, being unsuccessful; he then tried to hurry her. “Holy Mother, girl, this ain’t no shopping spree. If we’re needing to run, who’s to be toting all this stuff?”
“I need it.”
“Your needs,” Walsh moaned, “may soon be my undoing. Do speed it up.”
When everyone’s arms were loaded with contraband, and the lock, no longer of benefit to them, disconnected, Megan paused at a desk to fish in her shoulder bag. Walsh asked through clenched teeth, “Sure, what are you up to now?”
“I’m leaving money.” She began to count out the pound notes. “I’ll not be called a thief.”
David Martin grabbed the bills from her hand and tossed them on the counter stating, “That will be enough. If we don’t get ourselves out of here it won’t be bad names giving us grief.”
~~~
Megan worked diligently, so in the wee hours of dawn, a returning David Martin left off a small bundle in a mail slot in Belfast addressed to Colonel Oliver Reed. It wasn’t the lack of postage that upset the postman who found it, gagged, ‘bomb’ and got far enough away before he called the authorities.
Less than an hour passed before Sergeant Darren Davis spoke into the mouthpiece of his radio. “Sir, do you literally mean for us to do full body searches on every passenger who boards a train today?” He was standing watching a milling crowd of young people overflowing the station. In a fury over being detained, they were expressing the fact—loudly.
“I said everyone,” came the sharp reply. “O’Donnell’s film is worthless if she can’t get it out. They’re not brazen enough to try the airport, but that’s secured by now. And the border will be shortly.”
“Yes sir and would you be sending a few reinforcements?”
“You’ve got twenty men there now?”
“Yes sir, and we could use a few dozen more matrons and maybe another couple squads or,” he said, “it is unlike a train will be leaving here before next week.”
“What?”
“That’s right sir, the place is jammed up with kids. They all have tickets, can’t miss ‘em the way they keep waving them in our faces while they engage in hollering about their rights, my rights, everybody’s bloomin’ rights.”
“I knew it.” There was renewed confidence in the colonel’s voice. “They’ve set it up to sneak the woman through in the confusion. Secure the place! Don’t let anyone leave. I’ll be there momentarily. We’ll draw something out of this.”
Sure, a friggin’ headache, Sergeant Davis thought but didn’t mention.
~~~
“Get your bloody paws off me! Do you know who my father is?” Bridget Monroe was playing her scene with relish.
“What the hell do you mean take my clothes off?”
“You daft man? I’ve had me ticket for a week.” Kevin Henry tried to hide his nervousness.
“I’ve got my rights.” But Neil Carey knew he didn’t. His father had been trying to impress this on his son since he was thirteen. He’d also been trying unsuccessfully since then to limit the association of his son with the O’Neill girls.
“Take my clothes off? Are you nuts?”
“Bend OVER! Are you a sicko?”
The Yankee accents surprised several officers who brought the matter to the Sergeant’s attention.
And a weary young soldier swore, “Holy be damn! I was stupid to join this man’s army to stick a torch up some bloke’s ass!” about the same time a well-known little green Ford pulled up to confront two grinning border guards.
“Dede? Where ya headed?”
“Just into Dublin. Have to pick up my cousin at the airport. You know Amy, she’s scared of the shuttle.”
One young man smiled nervously as he asked, “You won’t be forgetting Saturday?”
Deirdre’s face deliberately crinkled with mischief as she said, “My pa won’t be liking it much. You being Protestant and such…” She flicked a hand at his uniformed chest.
“Ah, Dee, come on you promised.”
“Oh, all right.” She laughed softly. “Seeing how you took my fooling serious. I’ll go to the dance with you. But, mind you better behave yourself.”
Soon the little green Ford took off and then the other young guard remarked. “Should have checked the auto.”
“Dede?”
“Aye, you’re right, would’ve been a waste of time. And,” he snickered. “You might be left bumping your belly against a wall come Saturday night.”
~~~
“Shit! Now what?” Was a joint complaint as four armored vehicles tore up dust in pulling to a halt to expel a fresh contingency of military personnel.
Jack Walsh beat the others to the ringing phone. “Hi, Mr. Walsh.” Was followed with a barely suppressed laugh. “It went down according to plan. I swear they made us strip bare. The girls too, you should have heard ‘em yelling. Telling those English off. A Colonel Reed showed up. Found out who my dad was and apologized personally, ‘for the inconvenience, lads’.” He mimicked the colonel’s voice. “Thought Bri was gonna shit his pants.” Jason Connors was having a grand time.
Walsh turned towards the others. “Connors’ boy,” he grunted. “Worse than Dede, lad thinks it’s bloody fun.”
“What did he say?”
Walsh grinned at an impatient Megan. “The younguns did their part. Kept them Tommies humping all morning—now we wait for Dede,” ended with a second ringing of the phone. A sigh of relief circled the room as he answered with, “Dede, lass.”
Megan leaped up, as he relayed the message that everything was a go, and flung her arms around a startled David Martin’s neck. Though he was smiling too, he reminded. “We bought Seamus some time. But it’s only a beginning; the rest depends on how convincing a blackmailer you can be.”
Chapter 70
Northern Ireland, 1984
It was barely noon when Megan O’Donnell strutted up to the desk and tossed her press card very importantly—as if it was a common occurrence for her to appear in a newspaper office resembling a bedraggled victim of a war zone. She was dressed once more in her own disheveled clothing. Deirdre’s knack for creating drama increased the grubby look. A touch of body paint here and there improved the sight of her black and blue marks and her own tongue left the crust on her mouth seeping a bit of blood. “Megan O’Donnell.” She announced what the press card confirmed.
Well informed on the missing woman, the young man stared up in surprise but pushed the right button. “Mr. Cortney,” was stammered into the intercom. “There’s a Mrs. O’Donnell out here—”
“Holy Shit! Get her in here.” Megan gasped in pleasure at the sound of that voice. Not sweet gentle Irish but good old gutsy Yank.
“Hold my calls. And keep your mouth shut!” Came as a personal command, for the man had come down the short hallway to usher her back to his office.
“How did you find me?” Cortney asked as he offered a chair. The girl slumped with an exaggerated show of weariness and his concern was honest. “You poor kid. You look rough. How ‘bout a drink?”
“Please, anything,” came through an exhausted breath. She took time to empty the glass of scotch then asked the stupid question, “You’re an American?” because she found comfort in the knowledge.
“Man works were he gets paid.” He smiled. “Now, how about you? I should be on the horn right now. They’re not going to like me one little bit. Not when they’re tearing up half the country looking for you.”
“Mr. Cortney?”
“Jake.”
“Jake, I need help.” She discovered the tears came easier than she expected. “It’s all so mixed up.”
“Don’t rush it.” The hanky offered bore witness of a bachelor’s tell-tale gray.
“I can’t believe what’s happened. When we realized the plane was hijacked, Seamus said he was going for help. The Army must have mistaken him for one of the hijackers. They jumped him when he left the plane. Oh God!” She trembled honestly at the memory. “They were all over him, beating him, they gave him no chance to explain—I tried to follow…” The tears were flowing freely now.
His large hand came down gently on her narrow shoulder as he said, “Easy.” He refilled her glass before he asked, “How long have you known your husband?”
“We are only just married, but I met him several years back. Why?”
“Do you know who Seamus O’Donnell is?”
“Of course. Wait a minute? What are you implying? Who he is?”
“The Army thinks he may have links to the IRA.”
“That’s crazy! Seamus isn’t IR-anything. He’s not even a Catholic. They’ve got the wrong man! Is that why they’ve been chasing me all over hell?” The slender pink tongue licked at her scabbed upper lip.
“Who’s been beating up on you? Don’t tell me it was the law?”
“No.” She admitted. Wisely she stayed as close to the truth as she could without compromising anyone, as she explained. “I was grabbed getting off the plane but it wasn’t a legal arrest. You could say I was plainly kidnapped. Still, they seemed only intent on helping me. Another group attempted to take me and that’s when I really got banged up.” She finished her tale of terror with the declaration, “How do people survive in this place?”
“I like it here.” The smile on his face belied the number of years he carried. It bore the humor of youth that the gray hair and wrinkles denied. “You just ran into the wrong people.” He had begun to pace during her story and glance every so often at the phone. Finally he admitted, “I’m going to at least have to call the RUC. But,” he quickly assured, “If you’re telling the truth, you’ve nothing to worry about.”
Megan removed an eight by ten manila envelope from her shoulder bag and laid it on his desk. “Please? Take a look at these. Think about publishing the contents. I am a reporter.” She vacated the chair and stepped to the window to look out on the dismal day, as he returned to his desk. He fingered the envelope, obviously in no hurry to open it.
Rain was threatening and people hurried along the drab street in an attempt to reach shelter. Megan watched them scatter when the heavens erupted. “Sure, girl, I’m a blonde who turned rusty from all this rain.” Her mother had said that. She didn’t remember her mother—never even tried to picture what she looked like. Why did she suddenly remember a stupid saying? “Ya bury your dead, lass, go on with the living—because soon enough you’ll bury some more.” Her dad had told her that. When? She couldn’t remember. She turned as an appreciated whistle filled the room.
“You want a job?” Cortney said replacing the material in its envelope.
“Not if I have to stay here.”
“You’re not Irish?” He gave a short laugh. “All Irish love the Mother Land.”
“Most do from afar.” Megan was suddenly pleased her father had been one. “Will you help me?”
“Not by printing this. Not yet anyway. I’d only get my butt burned.” He pushed a button and spoke into the intercom. “Lad, get me the American Embassy in Dublin.” Turning back on Megan he flipped his hand to indicate the envelope. “Where is the original film?”
“On its way to the States.” She glanced at her watch. “It left Dublin about twenty minutes ago. Just a precaution. If the British don’t feel cooperative, it will be in the news, my paper first, then TV.”
“You really are a reporter?”
“Should it make a difference? I take it the Army doesn’t know that?”
“Right now, the only thing they are letting out is a sketchy description of you and your name.”
“Seamus?” She wondered aloud. “Why hasn’t he explained?” Then she shivered openly as she said, “My God they’ve killed him.”
“No, I doubt that. Discounting the fact this is 1984, your husband is a little too well known for that kind of accident. Now stop worrying. I’ll have some lunch brought in and we’ll wait for the political wheels to turn.”
~~~
Megan hadn’t expected the ambassador, but she figured they’d at least have enough respect for her dilemma to send someone old enough to shave. And to further insult her, the ‘young suit’ was addressing her as if she was a certified nutcase.
“Mrs. O’Donnell?” He kept making it a question. “Neither the Army nor the RUC were actively hunting you as a criminal. There was concern for your whereabouts, naturally, considering the manner you left the airport. And while Mr. O’Donnell is not actually our responsibility, we did make an inquiry, and were assured that indeed there had been an arrest. But once his identity was confirmed and the mistake at the airport brought to light, those charges were dropped.”
“Then where is he?”
“I understand he was accidentally injured and is in hospital at present.”
“Accidentally! Did you see those prints?”
“I saw them. And I believe the British Army has honestly explained the situation to our satisfaction, which, I hope you understand, they were not required to do. The northern authorities have been more than cooperative. If you like I will accompany you to the hospital. I have a car waiting.”
~~~
“It looks worse than it is.” The doctor seemed reluctant to explain. “He has a concussion and was extremely irate so I felt it wise to keep him sedated. He did require a bit of suturing.”
“I want him out of here.”
“Out of the hospital?” The suit from the embassy glowered at her. “Why, for heaven’s sake?”
Megan ignored him. Her interest shifted between the English Colonel Reed and Inspector Dan Mitchell. Reed, she had decided early on, was the embodiment of Satan. While he had been overly polite, she was certain he’d much rather have been talking to her in a cell with the aid of whips and fists.
The inspector appeared rather amused by the situation, and she found that even more annoying. “Doctor?” She attempted to maintain a semblance of dignity. “Would it be detrimental to my husband to move him to Dublin?”
“No, he can receive adequate attention there. But in his present condition, it would be necessary to transport him by ambulance. Whereas if you wait a few hours—”
“Now,” she demanded. “I want him moved now.”
“No problem.” The inspector interrupted. “I believe Mrs. O’Donnell is under the assumption the stories she writes border on facts.”
“I only wrote what I saw,” Megan said. “And the lens of a camera is a fairly accurate witness.”
“If you don’t know the circumstances leading up to the incident,” Reed answered. “O’Donnell shouldn’t have fled the plane. That character screaming hijacker and bomb set the stage. While security was involved with O’Donnell, he conveniently escaped. We believe this was the same man who decided to take you along as a hostage. He nearly got you and your husband killed, yet, you hesitate to give any information that might aid in his capture.”
“Wrong,” Megan lied. “What I’ve told you was the truth. We were constantly on the move; traveling back roads I couldn’t hope to put a name or location too. And with ski-masks hiding all but blue eyes, which are not unique in this country, I’m afraid any descriptions are sketchy.”
“A reporter? You’re trained to observe—”
“Oh, please.” She cut Reed off. “I have one good storyline because I happened to be a member of an organization; otherwise I’m lucky if I cover dinner parties. Now, if there’s no objection I’d like to arrange to get Seamus out of here?”
“We’ll take care of the arrangements.” The embassy suit finally opened his mouth. “You can drive with me and the hospital will see to transporting your husband?” The way they all tagged a question mark on husband concerned Megan but she didn’t let on only decided to continue the farce until they were safely across the border. If she were going to land in an Irish jail at least it wouldn’t be a northern one.
Chapter 71
Dublin, Ireland, 1984
Inspector Dan Mitchell made no comment on the broken locks as the luggage was swung on the bench for him. He flipped open one of the larger leather cases. He rummaged through the masculine wear that bore only personal labels and no size markers. “Custom made,” he said. “The bloke does all right for himself.”
