This Irish House (20 page)

She knew better than to act on the emotions roiling through her. Her first inclination had been to call Neil Anderson, to vent on him her fury, her feelings of betrayal, contempt and, down there beneath it all, a small, raw kernel of hurt. He'd used her, charmed her, soothed her into believing he respected her, found her attractive, even admired her work. It was all a lie to get to Kevin. She'd woven fantasies around him, impossible, schoolgirl fantasies that could never be, but nonetheless lifted her to another place where possibilities still existed.

She hurt inside. Kate was no stranger to hurt and this one was very small when taken in perspective. Still, it hit her in a new place, rawer, because it had never been touched before. Kate had loved only one man in her life and he had never disappointed her, never given her a moment's insecurity. He made her feel attractive, desirable and feminine. Never once had she doubted that Patrick loved her or that she was first in his life. She was an amateur when it came to relationships, all kinds.

The blinking light on her message machine alerted her to a new message. She hit the button and smiled when she heard the voice. Maeve Murphy was her only real friend. An artist from Dublin who sculpted glass, Maeve was lovely, tall, full-breasted, long-limbed with flowing auburn hair. She'd refurbished a mansion on the beach and held raucous parties with handsome European men who spoke in heavy, romantic accents.

Patrick had disliked Maeve, more than was warranted, Kate often thought. He'd barely known her, not enough for the vehemence of his feelings.
Selfish,
he'd called her,
and
garish,
loud
and
crass.
Kate hadn't seen any of those qualities. She'd seen only a generosity of spirit, a lack of pretentiousness, and a sensual charm she would very much have liked to cultivate for herself. Maeve was a breath of air blown in from exotic destinations. She had been Kate's lifeline in troubled times. She was the only woman she could truly call a friend. She lived in New York City for much of the year, returning to Ireland when there was the hope of a bit of sun. Kate missed her very much. They'd only had a few conversations since the trouble with Kevin. These had been satisfying, but not nearly as much as a regular visit, just the two of them sharing a bottle of expensive wine and a whole evening ahead.

If there was ever a time she needed Maeve, it was now. She checked her watch and decided against the call. Maeve was never home during the day.

There was no getting around it. Neil Anderson had hurt her pride. Kate was no longer young but she believed, in the recesses of her heart, that one day, when this was over and her obligation to Patrick fulfilled, she would love again. She had never considered Neil as a possible contender for her affections. She could never be with an Englishman from Special Forces, but there would be someone, a quiet man with no pretensions, no need for celebrity status, a man comfortable enough with himself to allow others to save the world, a man satisfied with a wife and stepchildren. Now, her dream felt tarnished around the edges, her confidence shaken.

Her tea was cold and still she'd come up with no alternative. She would have to confront Neil. Even now, Kevin might be in danger. Rationally she knew there was nothing she could do. Kevin was an adult in the eyes of the law and could make his own decisions. She wasn't even sure if the decision was a bad one. The alternative was Long Kesh. She wanted none of that for him. A niggling suspicion crossed her mind. Was Kevin's sentence a reaction to the trouble in Belfast or was it unduly harsh because Neil Anderson needed him?

The phone rang. Kate answered on the third double ring.

A female voice spoke. “The prime minister is returning your call, Mrs. Nolan. Please hold.”

She waited for a full five minutes before she heard his voice. It always surprised her. One of the most important men in the world and he sounded like a schoolboy.

“Hello, Kate. How are you today?”

She was in no mood for pleasantries. “I'm concerned,” she said bluntly. “My husband's investigation seems to be on hold. I haven't heard anything for a very long time and, truthfully, I've lost faith in the government's ability to resolve this issue.”

She heard his breath catch and the hesitation in his response. “These things take time, Kate.”

“I don't have any more time. Neither does my son.”

“What's happened with your son?”

“Sources have told me he's being used by Neil Anderson in a sting operation in West Belfast. On the surface, it appears that drugs are the issue. But it may be a great deal more.”

Again, the hesitation. Finally, “What can I do for you, Kate?”

“I'd like an appointment with you as soon as possible.”

“When can you get here?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“I'll clear my calendar.”

“Thank you.”

Kate exhaled and replaced the receiver. One down, one to go. But that would be later, after tomorrow. She could only hope that Kevin could hold on until then. As much as she resisted the idea, she would have to depend on Dominick. Kevin was family. Dominick's sense of loyalty was strong. He wouldn't allow anything to happen to Patrick's son.

Liam Nolan brought up the subject casually, almost as if he'd forgotten it, an afterthought barely worth the trouble of conversation. “I saw Deirdre today.”

Dominick nodded. He didn't bother to look up. The map in front of him was purposely skewed. In light of new developments with the Peace Accord, even Sinn Fein was wavering. He'd be damned if he turned over even one FN rifle to the bloody bastards. The arsenal would have to be moved. He didn't like exposing himself so obviously, but if need be, he would handle it himself.

“She's seeing a Protestant.”

Dominick grunted. “Why doesn't that surprise me?”

“His name is Peter Clarke.”

“It sounds familiar.”

“His father is an RUC man.”

Dominick lifted his head. “Are you thinking what I am?”

“I'm thinking it's a dangerous association.”

“It can't go on.”

“I'll speak with Deirdre.”

“What good will that do?”

Liam looked surprised. “She'll know to stop seeing him. She'll have no choice.”

“You'll have to tell her everything, Liam. Are you prepared to tell Patrick's daughter that he was an IRA man?”

“If I must.”

“She'll tell Kate. We'll have the RUC on our backs in no time.”

“Kate wouldn't turn in her own family.”

“In case you haven't noticed, Kate doesn't consider us
family.
The last six years have made that plain enough. She's also involved with Anderson.”

“One meal doesn't mean involved, Dom. She isn't seeing him socially.”

“How do we know?”

“Someone would have noticed and told us. Be reasonable.”

“I'm always reasonable.”

Liam sighed. “If I'm not supposed to tell Deirdre, what else did you have in mind?”

Dominick's eyes narrowed to cold blue slits in his thin face.

“No, Dom,” Liam protested. “Peter's just a lad.”

“How many of our lads have paid the price, Liam?”

“For Christ sake, Dom. Times have changed.”

Dominick snorted. “Some things don't change, Liam. If you're too softhearted for the game, perhaps it's time you got out.”

Liam straightened and looked steadily at his brother, his eyes hard and bright and very blue. “Perhaps it is,” he said quietly.

T
he British Midlands flight to Heathrow was nearly empty. As soon as the plane leveled, Kate pulled out her laptop and settled down to finish her report. As long as she had an appointment with the prime minister, she would bring him up to speed on the progress, or lack thereof, of the Patten Report. Damn Robbie Finnigan. Her cool disdain for the man had turned into something much more rabid.

London bustled with energy. Men and women in expensive tweeds, carrying briefcases and umbrellas, their eyes fixed on a spot over one's shoulder moved past each other, hurrying in the direction of an all important destination. Intimidated by the sheer size of the city and the grim, bland faces, she arranged her expression into one she deemed suitable and maneuvered her way through the airport crowds to the land transport queue. Inside the cab, Kate willed herself to relax and think about how best to approach the elected leader of Britain.

Neil Anderson, balled fists thrust deeply into the pockets of his trousers, looked out of the exquisite bay windows of Number 10 Downing Street and swore feelingly.

From behind his desk, the prime minister frowned. “I'm sorry, Neil.”

Anderson turned. “How did we come to this?”

“It was inevitable.”

“I didn't see it.”

“Nonsense,” the prime minister said. “What we didn't foresee was Patrick Nolan's involvement in the Irish Republican Army. It's most unusual. If I had known, I would never have asked Kate to stand as ombudsman.”

“Your problem would be nonexistent, but it doesn't help mine much,” Neil said bitterly.

“I don't understand.”

“Kate's position as ombudsman has nothing to do with me. I'm still the man who investigated her husband. I'm also the man who has placed her son in an extremely dangerous position. Our relationship would be no different even if she weren't in the employ of the British government.”

“I see.” The prime minister cleared his throat. “Have you allowed it to become personal?”

Neil turned and continued to stare out the window.
Personal?
What
exactly
constituted
personal?
“No,” he said shortly, “of course not.” He heard the prime minister's sigh of relief. August. It was already late summer and yet the temperature was brisk and cold, more like early spring. He recalled his years in the Middle East where mornings dawned black and white, dogs slept in deep purple shadows, heat seared and the long, lazy days were smeared with gaudy color, when the mind-stealing dryness had done things to his brain and he had been so desperate he would have given everything that was his for one cold rush of wind rolling off the bogs, scented with heather and peat. He felt that same desperation now, when he was minutes from a confrontation he dreaded. She would think he had used her and she would be right. He had an overwhelming desire to make her understand it was more than that. Again he turned. Purposefully he crossed the room to where the prime minister sat behind his desk. Palms down on the polished mahogany, he leaned forward. “Tell me why I'm here.”

“I've told you.”

“Not all of it. Why are you paying me an enormous salary to do a job that any detective worth his salt could do?”

“Don't sell yourself short.”

Neil no longer cared whether he kept his job. “Don't play me for a fool.”

“Calm down, Neil.”

“I asked you a question. I deserve an answer, an honest one.”

The prime minister rose and walked to the window. “Is it my imagination or is the weather particularly bad this year?”

Neil headed for the door. He'd had enough. The man could handle Kate on his own. He reached for the doorknob.

“Wait, Neil. Don't go. You do deserve an explanation. The reason for my hesitancy is that by revealing the entire situation I'll dishonor a confidence, several of them.”

“I'm not interested in names.”

“In this case names can't be avoided.”

“I don't understand.”

“We, and I include myself, haven't behaved honorably with Kate Nolan or with this entire bloody Northern Ireland problem. In my own defense, it began long before my time. Thousands of people's rights have been violated in the last three decades. Thousands have died unnecessarily. People are still in prison serving sentences for crimes to which they confessed under torture. Amnesty International has cited Britain for more civil rights violations than any other country in Europe. I'm not proud of that. I'm trying to change it.”

“What has that got to do with me?”

“I wanted someone unfamiliar with this entire mess, someone unbiased. You're a Catholic from Wales and a Special Forces agent with experience ferreting out terrorist operations. I couldn't have chosen better if I'd created you myself.”

“What are we really doing there?”

“The Peace Accord under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement specifies a turning over of arms by both Loyalists and Nationalists. Neither side is complying. What is happening in the North is arms smuggling. My sources report that instead of demilitarizing, paramilitaries are building weapons arsenals that threaten national security. In short, given the right provocation, we might find ourselves involved in a full-scale civil war in Northern Ireland.”

“Who are these people?”

“Splinter groups who've become disenfranchised by the Peace Accord. The same people who import drugs into the cities are also bringing in weapons.”

“Drugs are the diversion?”

“Precisely.”

“Why didn't you tell me this before?”

For the first time the prime minister's face relaxed. “You've a reputation, Neil. While I'm convinced you're the man for the job, I didn't think you'd accept if given the entire picture. Drugs are a dirty business and Northern Ireland is a cesspool. Men in your position can call their own shots at this point in their careers. No one in his right mind would choose Northern Ireland. Quite simply, there was no one else and I couldn't risk the chance that you would turn us down.”

“So, you assumed everything would simply unravel in time and by then I'd be in too deeply to back out?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Where does Kate fit into all this?”

“She's become an important part of the equation. Her husband's brothers are very much involved in arms smuggling. We may need her help.”

Neil couldn't keep the expression of shock from his face. “You can't believe Kate knows anything about this?”

The prime minister shrugged. “Probably not, but we can't rule it out. That's where I need you.”

“I won't set her up.”

“What if she isn't the person you think she is? Her husband certainly wasn't. What if she's involved? Isn't that worth finding out?”

Neil could feel the blood leave his face. Never, since their first meeting, had he even considered such a thing.

“You said you hadn't allowed your relationship to become personal. Do you stand by that?”

He was slow in answering. “That doesn't mean I'm going to feel comfortable selling her out.”

“That won't happen if she's as innocent as she appears.”

Neil hadn't prayed in a very long time. He found himself on the verge of a very brief prayer and wondered if it would help or hurt Kate Nolan. In the end he decided in favor of the drink the prime minister offered. They sat across from each other in silence facing the marvelous windows that overlooked Downing Street. Neither felt compelled to make conversation.

Twenty minutes later, the phone rang. The prime minister answered on the first ring. Neil straightened. The tension was unsupportable. What would she think when she saw him?

“Send her in. I'm expecting her.”

Neil set down his drink, his gaze fixed on the door. His heartbeat accelerated.

She wore something green, a statement, perhaps, that despite her position, she was Irish.

“Welcome, Kate,” the prime minister said. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Sherry, dry, if you have it.”

“To the queen,” he said after pouring her drink.

Neil suppressed a grin. He imagined that Kate had never in her life lifted her glass to the queen.

She did not pick up her glass. Instead she spoke to Neil. “I'm not sure why you're here.”

“Perhaps I should ask you the same question.”

She came right to the point. “I'm here for two reasons, the most important being Kevin. I've been told that his arrest was a sham.” Her eyes, blue and cold, were fixed on Neil. “Is that true?”

“No,” he said. “Kevin wasn't set up, if that's what you mean. His arrest was authentic. He was trafficking in cocaine. That's not something we see often.”

“What about his sentence? Do we sentence sixteen-year-old boys to Long Kesh?”

The prime minister was silent.

“It isn't common,” said Neil, “but neither is distribution of cocaine. We have a drug problem, Kate, but it isn't heroin or cocaine, not in Ireland. Ecstasy or cannabis are common, but not the hard drugs. Kevin is a troubled young man. A prison sentence for such a crime isn't unheard of.”

She stared at him, cool, lovely, angry. “Are you using my son, Mr. Anderson?”

A great deal depended on his answer. He knew that. He also knew that a lie, now, with this woman, would come back to haunt him. Lifting his head, he met her stare. “Yes,” he said. “By law, Kevin is an adult. He's agreed to act as an informant. I need him.”

“He was blackmailed.”

“Who is your source, Kate?”

Color flooded her cheeks. “That's none of your business.”

“It could mean a great deal to Kevin if I knew.”

Her control broke. “You don't care about Kevin.”

“I care about saving people's lives. I care about mothers like Mrs. Quinn who have sons and daughters who will be helped by cleaning up their streets. Kevin has committed a crime, Kate. Sorry or not, he's going to pay for it. Think of this as atonement.”

“He could die.”

“Who is your source?”

The prime minister leaned forward. “No one will know, Kate. Your answers will be kept in strictest confidence.”

Her eyes flashed. “I don't care about that. I care about Kevin. I care about my husband's investigation.”

Neil positioned himself in front of the prime minister, blocking Kate from his view. “Who is your source?” he repeated.

Kate shook her head, stood and walked to the window. She pulled aside the drape. Minutes ticked by. “Dominick Nolan, my brother-in-law,” she said at last. “He visited my son at Tranquility House. Kevin trusts him. He's the one who most resembles Patrick.”

Neil wasn't aware that he'd crossed the room or that his hand was on her shoulder. In his mind the prime minister was already dismissed. “Do
you
trust him?”

Her eyes blurred. She didn't answer.

His voice gentled, became personal, intimate. “Trust
me,
Kate.”

“What about my husband's investigation? Should I trust you to tell me about that as well?”

The only sound in the room was the ticking of the huge grandfather clock. The tension was thick, ugly. Finally the prime minister cleared his throat. Pushing back his chair he walked around his desk to approach Kate. He studied her, unsmiling. “I have the greatest respect for you, Kate. If I could have spared you this I would.”

“Don't spare me anything.”

“Please believe me when I say we had no idea of any of this when we began the investigation of your husband's death.”

She turned. “Go on.”

Once again the prime minister cleared his throat and waved his hand to a wing chair. “Will you sit down? This will take some time.”

Kate sat and folded her hands. Her skin was stretched tightly, her knuckles white and prominent.

“Patrick was very deeply involved in the Irish Republican Army.”

“I know that,” she said impatiently.

The two men exchanged looks.

The prime minister picked up a file on his desk and handed it to Kate. “Perhaps you should read the report on your own.”

“I don't understand.”

“There is some information here you may not be familiar with. It may be painful to you.”

She looked down at the file in her lap. “May I have some time alone?”

“Of course.” The prime minister's hand was on the doorknob. “Pick up the phone when you're finished.”

Neil didn't move.

Kate looked pointedly at him.

“I'm staying,” he said. “Don't try to convince me to leave.”

She nodded, turned toward the light and opened the file.

Neil resumed his position at the window and waited. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. He would know the exact moment she finished, the moment she read his name at the bottom of the report.

Her gasp was harsh, choking. Neil turned to face his reckoning. Her hand was at her throat, her face bleached white like sheets drying in the summer sun. The blue of her eyes scorched him.

“All this time, you knew. It was you who investigated Patrick's murder.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

He shrugged, realized how pathetic an excuse the gesture was, and tried to explain. “At first, there was no reason. You were simply the wife of a terrorist. Later—”

“Later?”

The words came out, the rush of confession, the leaping to another step. “Later, I couldn't. I knew it would hurt you.”

“Do you have any idea how this hurts me?”

“I'm sorry, Kate. I tried to protect you.”

“That's a pitiful answer, Neil.” She stood and walked toward him, the file open. “In your world, I suppose women need protection. But not in mine. I'm Irish. I saw my husband shot to death in front of me. I feared my children would be next. They do that, you know, murder children in front of their parents.”