This Irish House (30 page)

“Craic means conversation and you must know what a pint is. Surely they have them in England.”

“Craic, conversation.” Neil shook his head. “I never would have guessed.”

“It really was lovely of you to check on Deirdre.” Neil took her arm. “This isn't a social call, Kate. I wish it was. I'm afraid I have bad news.”

Kate whitened and swayed. Neil reached out to grip her arm.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Liam believes that Dominick intends to leave Ireland for a safer haven.”

“Is he taking Kevin?”

He could hear the hysteria in her voice and spoke deliberately, calmly. “I don't believe he intends to harm Kevin. Neither does Liam. We're going after him, Kate. As we speak there are checkpoints at all the border crossings. We're covering every square inch of land. I'm going in myself. We'll find him, Kate. I promise you.”

She was pale and mute and obviously terrified. Neil recognized shock when he saw it. Sliding one arm around her waist and the other behind her legs, he lifted her into his arms and carried her into an empty room. Gently he eased her down on the bed and slid a pillow behind her head. Then he pulled the blanket up over her shoulders and pressed the red attendant's button. A nurse appeared.

“Mrs. Nolan has had some difficult news,” he explained. “Is there anything you can do for her?”

Immediately the woman moved to the bed and felt Kate's pulse. “I'll find a doctor,” she said and left the room.

Kate's eyelids fluttered. “I'm all right,” she said. “You shouldn't be here. I want you to find my son.”

“Right now you're the one I'm worried about.”

Kate sat up. “Dominick won't harm Kevin. He's using him, that's all.”

“I'll wait with you until the doctor comes.”

“Do you have any idea where he's gone?”

“No. However, I'm sure Liam does.” Neil lifted Kate's hand and kissed it. “I'll find him, Kate. I promise you I'll find him.”

“I believe you.”

N
eil marked another
x
on the map and retraced the route Dominick had taken with his finger. The man was an amateur. The trail was direct and obvious, almost as if Dominick wanted to be found. An ambush was a possibility but one that Neil discarded quickly. At this point Dominick's motive was to leave Ireland, nothing more. What Kevin's role would be and for how long his uncle would keep him, Neil could only speculate. The boy had no passport with him. It would take several days to manufacture one for him, and Maeve, the IRA's counterfeit document specialist, was in New York and not likely to want any more involvement with the Nolans. Neil didn't believe Dominick would take Kevin out of Ireland.

Liam had suggested the Strabane checkpoint into Donegal. It was farther north and too far west of Newry, the usual exit point, to be suspect. Neil had his own misgivings over Liam's contributions. Dominick was his brother and because of Kevin's abduction there was no longer any hope for clemency. Fortunately Neil hadn't needed anything more than the briefest of initial direction. He sent Liam home and proceeded with only a staff of two agents, James McElroy and Douglas Hartwell, both experienced, silent and purposeful.

After picking up a trail at Strabane, they followed Dominick to a series of safe houses in Spiddal, cottages used by members of the IRA while on the run. The only question was which one. The town was in the middle of the Gaeltacht, an Irish-speaking strip of land on the coast of Galway, heavily infested with tourists in the spring and summer, a condition for which Neil was grateful. Three strangers with grim, watchful expressions who ate all their meals out and had little to say to one another would be more obvious to the suspicious natives than a signpost advertising their presence. He had no doubt that the locals would be sympathetic to the Nolans over three British government agents unless, of course, they knew about Kevin.

The Irish loved children. Unlike the English who delegated the care of their children to nannies on nearly every occasion, the Irish included theirs in every aspect of their lives. Even the pubs with pool tables and television, soft drinks, bright lights and popular music were geared to families.

Neil sat at a corner table and nursed his lager. Feeling the need for solitude, he had begged off dinner with his colleagues and wandered into what was obviously the local pub. He wondered what his daughter would think of this. Erin, with her cool sophistication, her preference for American fast food, shopping malls and hip-hop music, would more than likely scoff at the idea of girls dancing together and boys arm-wrestling for coppers. Their last visit had not been a success. She was bored with nearly all his suggestions, spoke in monosyllables the entire weekend and requested to be sent home early. In essence, she was very like Lydia. He couldn't help comparing her with Deirdre and then immediately chastised himself. Erin was thirteen years old, typical of her age. He should be comparing her with Kevin who was also often sullen and unappreciative.

The waitress, a sturdy young woman with apple cheeks, stopped at his table. “Would you like anything else?” she asked in English.

“Are you serving sandwiches?”

“Only until two. Can I interest you in steamed mussels and brown bread? We're famous for both.”

Suddenly Neil was hungry. “Bring them on.”

“Would you care for another lager?”

“I'll have one when you bring the mussels.”

She moved away. The door opened and a lean, blackhaired man walked in and looked around.

Neil tensed and looked away, keeping the man in his peripheral vision. His eyes would be blue. Blood ran true among the Nolans. The resemblance was uncanny. Except for about two stone, the man could be Liam or even Kevin in twenty years. There was no doubt the man was Dominick Nolan. He was alone.

He walked to the bar, sat down on a stool and spoke to the barman. The man leaned in close to Dominick. Neil felt the hair lift on the back of his neck. Something was wrong. They were too casual, too careful not to look in his direction. The barmaid came with his mussels, blocking his view. When she moved away, Dominick was gone.

Neil reached into his pocket for a twenty-pound note, slid it under his untouched plate and left the pub. There was no sign of Dominick. A white vehicle turned the corner at the end of the road. Neil ran for his car. Reaching for his mobile phone, he flipped it open, pressed the single digit that would connect him to Hartwell and backed out of the car park.

The connection was immediate. “Nolan's here,” he said tersely, “just leaving Mulvaney's Pub in a white auto, traveling east on the Coast Road. He's alone. I didn't get the make of the car or the plates. Can you follow me?”

Hartwell's answer was clipped, regretful. “We're at a restaurant at the north end of town. Give us ten minutes.”

Neil swore under his breath.

“Sorry, mate.”

“It can't be helped. Do your best.”

During the summer, days were fifteen hours long in the West and the light was good. Still, Neil saw no sign of a white car. Local families inhabited the small cottages clustered along the road. He'd checked them out and they were all legitimate. There was no way of knowing if they harbored IRA activists, but he doubted it. Safe houses would not be those with children. It was too dangerous. Children could not be counted on to keep secrets.

Neil could feel the rise in his blood pressure. Keeping his cool was essential. Because of Kate, he was too close to this one. Kevin was too important. He began to doubt his ability to see this through.

What was he missing? Where could they be? A fork in the road stopped him. To the right, tire tracks marked freshly turned earth. To the left, was dry gravel. He was about to veer right when he changed his mind. Setting the brake, he opened the door, stepped out on to the road and reached down to scoop up a handful of dirt. Frowning he stared at the mix of dirt and gravel in his hand. The gravel dribbling through his fingers was dry, yet the dirt with the patterned tire tracks was wet.

An innocuous, gray automobile pulled up behind him and stopped. Simultaneously McElroy and Hartwell stepped out of the car and walked toward him.

“Where do we go from here?” McElroy asked.

Neil pointed to the ground. “What do you make of this patch of dirt?”

“It looks like tire tracks,” Hartwell volunteered.

“Where did the dirt come from?” McElroy asked. Neil stared thoughtfully at the ground. “From anywhere, I suppose. It's an Irish road.”

McElroy shook his head. “The road is gravel, like the other one. This is only the spot with earth and yet there's gravel beneath. It looks deliberate as if someone raked it across and drove over it.”

Neil smiled. “You're brilliant, McElroy. We'll take the left fork. I've a hunch our man is headed in that direction.”

Connemara, or the Burren, was a desolate, windswept bogland, unlike any other part of Ireland. The terrain was flat and golden with silver lakes, some the size of puddles, others as large as glaciers, dotting the landscape as far as the eye could see. This was Connaught, the province where, four hundred years before, Cromwell had banished what was left of the massacred Irish population. It wasn't the Ireland of the guide books but it had a severe beauty of its own.

Neil credited sheer luck with what happened next. Out of the dozens of narrow, unpaved roads leading to nowhere at all, he happened upon the one he was looking for. At the end of a dirt-carved road which curved treacherously several times before ending abruptly, stood an unappealing dwelling that was little more than a flimsy shack. There was no sign of a white car. He killed the engine quickly, but it was too late. He saw movement behind the pulled curtain. Dominick knew they had him.

Slowly Neil pulled out his gun and released the safety. They were out of range for most firearms but one could never be too sure. McElroy and Hartwell had stopped behind him. He signaled them to remain in their vehicle. Then he opened the door. Using it as a shield, he crouched behind it and spoke into a bullhorn. “Send the boy out, Nolan.”

There was no answer. Neil hadn't expected one. Again he lifted the horn to his lips. “This is Neil Anderson, Special Forces Investigator. We know you're in there. Come out with your hands up.”

Again, no answer.

Neil picked up his telephone, dialed Belfast and waited for the connection. It came quickly. “We have him,” he said, “and he's not responding. I believe the boy is with him.” He pulled out a map and unfolded it. “We're about thirty kilometers south of Galway. A chopper would be helpful if you can spare one.” His hand tightened on the phone.

“Good God. Well done. Do you have it on tape?” He waited.

“Charles, this is Kate Nolan's son. I don't think you'll get an argument on this one.”

Hartwell was looking through binoculars. He hand-signaled Neil, acknowledged his nod and began a half run to the other side of the dwelling. Shots rang out and he hit the dirt.

Neil flipped off his mobile phone and stuffed it into his pocket. McElroy was beside him. “Anything positive?”

“Martin Crosse has confessed to the murder of Tom McGinnis.”

“Is Nolan in the clear?”

“He was there.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“He's an accessory, not the murderer. That gives us some leverage in dealing with him. Maybe he'll be open to a bargain.”

“He's shooting at us, Neil.”

“He's afraid. I'm going to try to talk to him.”

McElroy shrugged. “It's your funeral. I'll cover you as far as I can. Shall I call for backup?”

“Not until I get the boy out of there.” Neil lifted the bullhorn to his lips. “Hold your fire. I'm coming in to make you an offer.”

“Call your man off,” shouted a voice from the house.

Neil punched in Hartwell's mobile number. “Hold your position,” he said. “I'm going in.”

Stuffing the gun back into his belt, he cautiously moved toward the house, his mind forwarding to every possible scenario. Dominick had nothing to lose and everything to gain by listening to an offer. He was outnumbered with no possibility of escape. His only options were surrender or die resisting arrest. Neil took comfort in the knowledge that neither his nor Kevin's death would benefit Dominick.

Encouraged by the silence, Neil stopped in front of the house and knocked. Kevin opened the door. Relief was instant and intense. The boy was unharmed. Neil stepped inside and Dominick, gun raised, walked into the light.

“There's no need for a gun,” Neil said.

“I'll be the judge of that.”

“Let the boy go. You have me.”

Dominick's mouth twisted into a half smile. “Not a chance. What's your offer?”

Neil hadn't expected him to agree. “Amnesty in this case and reluctant accessory status in the murder of Tom McGinnis. Crosse confessed.”

“There was nothing reluctant about it, mate. It was my idea. He wouldn't go along with the Clarke kidnapping.”

“No one knows that.”

“You do.”

“We make deals all the time.”

“When the circumstances are right?”

Neil nodded. “Yes.”

Dominick waved the gun.

Neil held his breath.

“You must want our Kevin here very badly.”

“He's just a boy. The risks are enormous.”

Dominick glanced at his nephew. “Are you just a boy, Kevin, lad? Why don't we tell the man what sixteen-year-old boys do in the Falls?”

“Uncle Dominick,” Kevin pleaded. “Listen to him. You aren't getting out of this one.”

Dominick's voice was very soft. “Maybe you won't be getting out of this one either, lad.”

Kevin's cheeks paled and he looked away.

“You'll get seven years, less maybe with good behavior.”

Dominick laughed. “So, you really think seven years is a good deal?”

“I do.”

“Have you ever been to prison, Mr. Anderson?”

“No.”

“Seven years is a long time.”

“Death is longer. You'll be a free man and Tom McGinnis will still be dead.”

“You do have a way of turning a phrase, Mr. Anderson.”

Neil's phone rang.

Dominick tensed. “What's that?”

“My phone. I'd like to answer it.”

Once again, Dominick lifted the gun and aimed it at Neil. “By all means.”

Slowly, with one hand, Neil reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. “Anderson, here,” he said. “What is it?”

McElroy's voice filled his ear.

“That's impossible,” Neil said flatly.

Again McElroy repeated his incredible information, this time including the source.

For the first time in his career, Neil blanked. Deliberately he kept McElroy on the phone, stalling for time. When his conversation was no longer believable, he ended it abruptly.

“Trouble?” Dominick asked innocently.

“Let the boy go, Nolan,” he said.

“What about our deal?”

“We'll work it out when Kevin leaves.”

“There isn't anything you can't say in front of my nephew. Kevin is family.”

Against his will, the words came out. “Family means a great deal to you, doesn't it, Nolan?”

Dominick's eyes glittered. “It does.”

“Send the boy out.”

“No.”

“I don't think you want him to hear this.”

“Be careful, Anderson,” Dominick warned.

“Send the boy away.”

Dominick considered his nephew. Kevin sat at the table as silent and still as a corpse. “What do you have to say about all this, Kevin, lad? Is it time to leave your uncle?”

Kevin said nothing.

“Answer me, lad.” Dominick's tone was ugly, menacing.

“It doesn't matter,” replied Kevin.

“There now. You have your answer, Anderson. Kevin doesn't want to leave. Say whatever you will.”