Ded Reckoning (19 page)

Marnee whispers, "We should finish and move on.  Go hang out in the lobby bar. My guess is that Romeo here is going to sip wine and then head for the boudoir for the evening."

"I agree.  I hope she doesn't cause him to have a heart attack or stroke before he leads us to our man."

Marnee laughs, more a snicker.  "He wishes ... well, not for an attack."

"Let me sign the check and we'll leave.  We're going to have our hands full tomorrow.  He's going fishing, or thus it appears.  She however ..."

Marnee smiles, finishes, "Primp, shop, primp and get set to get ready to do it over again.  And again. What a life."

"You can do all that except the shop portion.  I'm willing."

"If you suggest this again.  Even think it again, your choices will be the tub or the floor.  And if you blink, the hall."

They leave quietly, ignored by the room of still filled tables, and certainly unseen by Rocco sipping his wine, gazing at Adrianna and the seaside view.  

 

 

Hunter arrives at Dulles International Airport.  He is to meet Joe Zachary here, and he will depart from here later on a Pam Am 747 for Heathrow in London.  Dulles, with its unique design, was dedicated by President John F. Kennedy on November 17th, 1962 and is still to some extent a white elephant.  It's an inconvenient twenty-six miles from downtown Washington and not an easy trip from the suburbs.  However, times are changing and the flight options are much greater than at its conception.  Particularly if you're a Texan and want to fly the colorful Branniff Airlines.

Hunter finds Joe in a bar in the terminal, sitting in a far corner table.  The restaurant portion is not full and those here are all seated at the bar, busy drinking, talking, reading papers or people watching.  And those being watched are the few females passing through the terminal, most seem to be "stews".  Most young.  All beautiful, but none in the same league with PSA stews.

Hunter sits next to Joe, both have their backs to the wall and are facing out toward the terminal. Hunter says, "Does Ruth know you're out here watching the skirts?"

"There's better where I work, and more of them every day."

"Not better than PSA, believe me.  Long legs, big on top and hot pants ... and breath, but speaking of work, what'd ya have for me that's new?"

"Glad to see you're focused.  However, inside the folded newspaper in front of you are some photos and artist sketches.  Pretty good.  You can take the paper with you.  Everything else we know, you know.  The trail stops in Pisa."  Joe passes.  Takes a sip of coffee.  Looks at Hunter, asks, "Did you want some?"

"Naw.  Had too much on the plane."

Zachary takes another sip, continues.  "He stills owns that London flat.  His is empty we think.  The other three are still leased; run by a property manager.  He's paid from Geneva.  The rent goes to Geneva.  We have nothing else of a paper trail.  Interpol doesn't either. Don't have or can't get anything regarding money transfers.  Do know it's a huge account.  Millions upon."

Hunter asks, "Any in Italy?  Elsewhere?"

Joe says, "We have nothing in that regard.  Hell, he could be dead for all we know.  Except, one of his henchmen, Rocco DeStefano, was in Pisa, at least as of yesterday.  And that guy, Antonio Rizzo, that I suspect everyone is looking for, hasn't been spotted yet.  We think he went to ground in Pisa.  If not, he's gone.  If you find him, you may find out where Pisces is or went.  And, if you can get to his other henchman, Bruno Costa, you could for sure find his boss.  Of course, either might kill anyone that asks a question.  You'll want to be careful.  Both pictures are inside also.  And Rizzo's as well.  He's a good lookin' guy.  Probably a lady's man so the gals at Alberto's must know something of him.  But he must know that Pisces is looking for him, hard."

"Okay.  What about Patrick Shanahan?  And O'Rourke?  And any other of their cohorts?"

"Was just going to get to that.  Patrick Shanahan is, was, a hit man for the PIRA.  No doubt.  His target was Samantha for the reasons I've already described.   Shanahan has two brothers back in Ireland.  Both in the Army.  Both on the Brit's suspect list, or people to be watched. The Brit's say those two, Danny and Sean, younger than Patrick, are still in town.  Derry.  The Brit's don't think the PIRA will seek retribution.  Shanahan was a casualty of war.  No one killed him.  He fell off a cliff."  He pauses.  Then, "I agree with them.  He's not a problem, or it shouldn't be for us.  For you."

"Well, Joe.  I tend to disagree or why would this gent, O'Rourke, been dispatched to find out what went on?  And find me?  Come to my house? Joe, I know this IRA splinter group is a vindictive bunch.  Hard corps.  Clannish.  Hell, Joe.  In weaponry they've advanced but mentally they haven't moved much beyond axes, spears and clubs.  My guess is that either they, or if not them, the two brothers will want some blood.  Mine."

Joe nods agreement.  "You may be right, but MacBeer doesn't think so."

"MacBeer," Hunter snarls.  

"Yeah, well, we'll fix that but for now, be careful and I will stay with it.  For your sake if not the Agency's.  As a friend.  And handler.  Now, Marine, the bad news."

"Bad news.  Where was the good news?  I've got a gut feel I'm going to be one pissed-off Marine in a second or two."

"Former Marine, but, yes, probably more than pissed."  Joe pauses, stalls some more by looking around the entire bar and concourse area, exhales loudly, says, "O'Rourke is gone."

Hunter stares at Joe.  Takes his right hand and rubs his forehead hard, then moves it down, squeezing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.  Looks up, sighs, "Gone?  Where?  And how the hell did that happen?  The police had him?"

Joe exhales again.  Eyebrows raised.  Grimaces.  "There must have been a team with O'Rourke.  After he left your house in the squad car, there was an accident.  Not an accident per se, they were rammed by another car.  The patrolman got out, was knocked unconscious by one of the men.  They un-cuffed O'Rourke and fled.  The car was found later abandoned at the airport.  The descriptions of the two men were vague at best from the patrolman and three eye witnesses, two of which were street people."  He pauses, "You know, they even have them in San Diego.  Probably wear Bermuda shorts though.  Anyway, they weren't interested or didn't want to get involved."

Hunter listens, his head held in both hands, slumped nearly to his chest.  "Wonderful."

"SDPD and the FBI put out an APB.  Notified Immigration here and in Canada.  Bradovich was playing it straight and was having O'Rourke brought directly to the FBI head shed.  For his cooperation, he was invited to attend the interrogation.  Obviously, there was none.  Bottom line, O'Rourke is gone, as are his two buddies.  The FBI is watching his home and shop in Boston, and the Boston PD has the APB."   Joe gazes at Hunter, "Sorry, pal. We, they, them, us, whomever, fucked-up."

Hunter doesn't say anything for several moments.  Joe continues to stare at him, then shifts his gaze to the ceiling, other tables, bar, and finally back to Hunter.  Hunter is not glaring at Joe, but the look is focused.  The stare of his eyes are like ultra-thin ice picks, punching into the retina of Zachary's eyes.  "Joe, this convinces me.  They, the PIRA, are wanting revenge for Shanahan's death.  And they either suspect or know, or want it to be me, or don't give a damn.  To them, it's me.  They are going to try to find me and kill me.  You need to find this O'Rourke asshole and kill him.  And his two friends.  And the Brits need to pick up the Shanahan brothers and stow them someplace.  I don't need these bungholes chasing me while I'm looking for Pisces. After that, we can take care of the IRA or whatever they call themselves nowadays."

"We'll try, Hawk.  I'll put everything I can on this.  O'Rourke has a brother in Ireland.  I've already sent one of our assets to watch the man and check him out.  See where it leads.  Perchance to a local leader.  The Brit's will be helping."

Hunter shakes his head.  "O'Rourke has a brother?  In Ireland?  Let me guess.  He's in the Army too, right?"

"Apparently.  Twin brothers as a matter of fact.  Mickey and Mike."

Hunter's eyes roll to the top, "And one is married.  Right?  To Minnie, who works for Looney Tunes, the Irish version of the SAS and CIA."

"No, but Mickey is married and has a daughter, Mary Kate.  We're watching her also.  She lives with and works for her Uncle Mike."

Hunter breaks out laughing.  And does for a good two or three minutes.  Then with tears in his eyes, says, "Joe, if this wasn't damn serious, it would be funny.  I mean Roadrunner cartoon funny.  Is this a script for Disney?"  He laughs again.

The Hawk pauses, wipes his eyes with the back of his hands.  His face turns to stone.  He hisses, "Joe, find 'em.  Kill them all.  Mickey, Mike, the two buddies, the brothers, and Mary friggin' Kate.  Kill them all or they're goin' to kill me, or damn sure try.  And if they do try, Joseph Jackson Lee Zachary, there will be collateral damage strewn along my path that will make the fire-bombing of Tokyo look like a family picnic.  Understand?"

"Hunter, we can't kill them all.  Good, Lord.  We'll get O'Rourke back or find him.  The others, we'll watch, and if they make a move, we'll move right along with them."

"Kill 'em, Joe."  Hunter picks up the folded newspaper.  "Or I will.  You did say, Derry?"  Peeks inside the fold.   Tucks it under his arm, says, "Anything else?  I've got a plane to catch."

Hunter is standing beside the table now.  Joe looks up, mumbles, "MacBeer."  Looks down at the table shaking his head.  Then back to Hunter.

Hunter sits.  "What?"

"I'm smelling old cheese.  I'm seeing shadows.  I'm smellin' dead bodies.  I'm diggin' and gettin' old bones and cadavers.  He's so dirty,
Tide
has found a formula yet to help.    Watch your six.  Be careful.  Especially of Columbo, even though I put her in the game with you.  I promise you I will do everything I can and will tell you what I find, when I find it."

"This is incredible.  Unbelievable.  Staggering.  Mind-blowing or boggling, or whatever.  And in Technicolor. Okay.  I'm leaving.  Stay in touch.  And tell everyone that might come near me that I'm not going to be polite.  I'm not going to be professional.  I'm going to kill everyone I meet."  He turns to leave, takes a step.  Stops.  Returns.  Pats Joe on the shoulder a few times, says, "Thanks, Joe.  Semper Fi."  Then turns and leaves toward the Pan Am departure area.

Joe remains seated.  Stares after Hunter.  Whispers, "Semper Fi, ole buddy.  Semper Fi.  I will try or die."  He sighs, "And no further than the back of my fighting hole, Hawk.  Not one inch."

 

 

Mary Kate calls her father.  She is a mixture of tears, giggles, and prayers.  The time difference should work.  Her dad should still be in the shop.  If not, she'll call his number at his flat in a few hours.  Like here, he lives above the shop.  He might stop at a local pub for a pint and some darts.

She gets no answer and hangs up after ten rings, each counted on her fingers as her one hand rests on the table top beneath the wall phone in her uncle's living room.  He is at a pub for sure.  She believes in her heart that she must tell her father first, or at least try as best she can to do so.  After she puts the phone back on the wall, she looks out the window onto the narrow street below, then to the sky above and whispers, "Mama, I've found me a good man and one that I don't think is involved in all this rubbish.  I miss ya, Mama," and blesses herself as she steps back from the window.

 

 

Dee arrives at Heathrow Airport in London.  With only carry-on luggage, she is off and through customs in short-order.  Regardless of traveling First Class on both flights, and in spite of the reasonable comfort of the First Class Lounge at JFK airport, she is tired.  The first class seats were spacious.  The food good, and the drinks comforting.  But, hour upon hour, for all practical purposes a full day of traveling is tiring.  

Outside the terminal Dee does as instructed.  Takes a cab from Heathrow to Grosvenor's Square.  Gets out and walks a short distance and then takes another cab to the hotel.  Once there, she carries her own bags into the lobby.  Sits at a table in the lounge area and has a cup of tea.  After about forty minutes, and finished with the tea, she registers.  As far as she can tell, no one followed her and no one here is showing any interest nor is acting suspicious.

Once in the room, she hangs up her few outfits, takes out necessary items from the briefcase and places them in the
loo
, freshens up and comes out into the suite.  Opens the drapes and looks down on Piccadilly.  
Nice.  Never been here.  Still alive at this hour.
 

She goes to the phone sitting on an antique maple table in the drawing room of the suite.  Dials a number from memory and waits.  Two rings.

The voice on the other end says, "Hello."

Dee responds, "It's me.  I'm here."

"Okay, good.  The plan has changed a bit.  It's a little more complicated.  The good Mister O'Rourke has escaped, been kidnapped, or assisted.  He's not been located.  But he will be soon. The belief around here is that he was assisted by two of his comrades at arms.  That of course is not true.  His comrades in arms back home will get a little feisty.  As a result, be alert.  Nonetheless, your role hasn't changed."

"Understand."

"Has the subject tumbled for any of your wily ways?"

"No.  To the contrary.  He's rejected everything.  Mind is focused."

"Well, after this afternoon he will be depressed and vulnerable.  I suggest you be more demur.  He might submit, so be careful.  Although that might make everything easier, it would not make me feel good at all.  I want you to know that."

Dee pauses, says, "Don't worry.  Anything else for now?"

"No.  It is what it is.  Be careful.  Call in."