Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (41 page)

"You got that right, bud."

7:26 p.m. Eastern Time – Wednesday

Russell Senate Office Building

Washington, D.C.

"The cabin was definitely theirs, Senator," the voice of SAC Robert Evers said, as David Kemiss answered the line. "But it looks like they cleared out just before we got there."

"Dammit!" Kemiss slammed his fist on his desk. He still hadn't heard a word from Lane Simard and the FBI had come up empty. With every hour that ticked by, Declan McIver could be getting further and further away. "Have you got anything, anything at all?"

Evers was silent for a moment and Kemiss realized he was overstepping the invisible boundaries between being an interested policymaker wanting to help and a desperate man with an ulterior motive. "Sorry," Kemiss said bringing his voice back to a normal level. "The Castellanos are good friends, and I'm taking this very personal."

"I understand, sir. We think they cleared out minutes before we got there. Somehow they saw us coming and took off. There were still groceries in a bag on the front porch. We have police patrols all over the area, checkpoints set up and their pictures will be in the local media outlets within minutes. If they're still in the area, we'll find them."

"Good. The Castellano and Kafni families deserve justice and don't even get me started on the families of those people at Liberty University."

"It's the Bureau's top priority across the nation, Senator. Declan McIver's been moved to the top of the most wanted list and we're moving heaven and earth to find him. We just have very little to go on."

"I told you that my office would help, so I have. I'm working on getting you more information on his past."

"I'm sure that would be very helpful, sir. Judging from the cabin, they left in a hurry and on foot. They can't have gotten far."

"Hopefully not. Keep me updated every step of the way, will you?"

"Yes, of course, sir."

Kemiss set down the phone and looked at his watch; so much for Simard having answers for him by breakfast. It was already evening in the U.S. and after midnight in the United Kingdom. If Simard wanted to keep his posh job as the London station chief and not find himself transferred to a remote substation in the Ukraine, he'd be making a phone call soon.

Kemiss stood from his desk and stretched. It was late, but if he hurried he could still catch the last train to his nearby apartment and at least try to get some rest. He began to gather some files containing legislation that he would soon be asked to vote on, but set them back on the desk. What good would reading the bills be if he wasn't in the Senate to vote on them? And that's exactly what would happen if his plans didn't come to fruition soon. He'd be washed out of American politics on a tidal wave of scandal.

His phone sounded suddenly and before it could produce even half a ring, he'd picked it up and brought the receiver to his ear. At this time of night the Capitol's switchboard staff had left for the day and any calls would be from someone who had the private numbers of any legislators that happened to be working.

"Kemiss?"

"It's Simard, sir," the voice on the other end said. "I apologize for the delay, but it seems the files in London were quite old and some of the information had to be reconstructed before it could be passed on."

"Fine, fine, what's it say?"

"I'm sending the files to you now, but as it turns out Declan McIver doesn't have a file at the Security Service. His name only appears in a file dedicated to a unit known as Black Shuck."

"What the hell is Black Shuck?"

"Do you remember what Forestor said the other day about having evidence that the Soviets may have been involved with the IRA?"

"Yes."

"Well, he was right. The files the Security Service sent over indicate that in the mid-eighties there were rumors being spread around the paramilitary groups that some ultra-right wing members of the IRA were busy preparing a secret unit. Supposedly someone fairly wealthy within the ranks of the IRA had connections with some military brass in the Soviet Union and sent some men to be trained by their version of the Special Forces, the
Spetsnaz
. Officially, the group was known as Black Shuck."

"Jesus Christ," Kemiss murmured. "So this guy's a Russian trained terrorist?"

"Maybe. His name appears on a list with about a hundred possible suspects and it appears in a number of individual reports within the file, but there's nothing concrete. The British intelligence agencies never finished the job. The investigation was abandoned in ninety-four after a supposedly rock solid source, codenamed Homeless Viper, said that the unit was wiped out from the inside. Apparently the IRA was infamous for eating its own children because of the infiltration of British spies throughout their ranks."

"Intriguing." Kemiss was interested in the concept whether Declan McIver was involved or not. If he could pin McIver as a member of a specially trained unit of terrorists, then nothing the man said to anyone would ever be believed and he'd be on the run for the rest of his life–which wouldn't be very long if Kemiss had his way.

"When it comes to Northern Ireland, David, I have to caution you, you're dealing with an extremely difficult to understand situation."

"I don't care about understanding the situation," Kemiss said, being careful not to make the same mistake he had with Robert Evers moments ago. Like Evers, Simard was trying to capture a man whom he believed was guilty of a crime, not eliminate the only witness to it. "I only want this information because it might reveal where this guy's hiding and who he may reach out to for help."

"There's a lot here, David. It's going to take some time to go through and pick out anything useful."

"Have you seen the amount of regulations generated by the federal government lately? Send it all to me. I've got people around here that deserve purple hearts for the amount of paper cuts they've suffered."

"On its way, sir. I'll warn you, though. Some of the names and locations have been redacted to protect the identities of undercover agents. There was nothing I could do about that."

"Thank you, Mr. Simard. I'll be sure and send word of your helpfulness to your superiors."

"Thank you—"

Kemiss pressed the button on the phone's cradle to end the call before the man could finish speaking. Dialing another number, he waited.

"Colin?" he said as a young man's voice answered. "It's David Kemiss. I have a job I need you to get on right away. Are you up for it, son?"

"Yes, sir, of course."

"Good. Get in here and I'll explain everything."

9:10 p.m. Eastern Time – Wednesday

The Greenbrier Resort

White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia

Declan felt a rush of cold air as the cargo door on the van slid open, followed closely by the stench of garbage. He'd been conscious for only a few moments and his head was still buzzing from the effects of whatever poison he'd been hit with. His wrists and ankles were bound tightly together; a blindfold that stunk of grease and felt like it had been fashioned out of an old dishrag had been placed over his eyes. He felt two large hands grip him under the arms and pull upwards.

"Let's go, bud, your date's waiting."

He recognized the voice as the seven o'clock gunman from outside the cabin. He tried to drop his weight and make himself as heavy as possible, but realized quickly that his muscles were useless. He was already being supported one hundred percent by the two men, each with an arm looped under his, holding him up as they dragged him out of the van. His legs stung like they'd been asleep as his feet impacted with the floor and he felt himself being pulled forward. The stinging continued as his feet bounced against the edges of steps as he was dragged upwards.

The smell of grease hung thick in the air and from the sounds around him he guessed he was in some kind of loading area in close proximity to a restaurant. How long had he been out? Where was Constance? He tried again to struggle against the two men carrying him, to no avail. He drew in a breath of putrid air and tried to ask "Where's my wife?" but all that came out was slurred babble.

"Bring him through here," he heard a voice say from up ahead. The two men dragging him stopped for a moment and he heard a door unlatch and open before they pulled him inside.

The unmistakable sound of a metal chair being pulled across a concrete floor filled his ears and when it stopped, the two men dumped him into the seat. He sat completely still concentrating hard on staying upright in the chair as he fought against the lingering effect of the drugs. He heard the shuffling of feet as at least two men moved around him and then a loud slam as the door he'd been brought through closed, leaving the room in silence. Was he alone? No, he felt someone nearby, standing in front of him.

"Welcome to the Greenbrier Resort, old friend. Sorry the accommodations aren't a bit better, but it seems you've gotten yourself into some trouble."

Declan recognized the voice immediately. It sounded older now, more experienced somehow but it was still close enough that he knew who it was even though he couldn't see him.

The blindfold was pulled off and the cold air attacked his sweaty face as he looked around. His vision was still blurry but his eyes finally settled on the person in front of him.

"Fintan?"

"Aye, you look like hell, old son."

"Screw you," Declan said his voice weak and catching in his throat. "How'd you get here so fast?"

"Fast? We've been looking for you for three days."

"Why?"

"Well, if you've been reading the same newspapers I have, you're in a lot of trouble."

"They killed Abe and set me up because I saw it."

"I figured it had to be something like that. Here, drink this. It'll help clear your head."

Declan felt cold condensation drip from a bottle as a hand held it to his mouth.

"Oh, cut him loose already," Fintan ordered. "He's not gonna hurt anyone. He can barely sit upright."

Declan felt the bindings on his wrists tighten momentarily as something pushed against them. With a small pop his hands fell to his sides as the restraints were cut. Sitting forward, he placed his hands on his face, wiping sweat away. The bottle was tapped against his right hand. He took it and gulped cold water, allowing it to spill over his chin and onto his shirt. Placing the bottle on the floor, he took another moment to collect himself. He rubbed his eyes as his vision began to clear and the buzzing in his head slowed.

He looked around to see that he was in an empty walk-in freezer. A tall, dark-haired man with a square chin stood behind him, wearing a black trench coat, his face threateningly blank. Fintan sat a few feet in front of him and as Declan looked toward him he was surprised. He'd nearly forgotten he was wheelchair-bound, a gift from their days in Northern Ireland.

Fintan patted the armrests of the chair and smiled. He still had the same neatly combed blonde hair and angular features as the last time Declan had seen him. His face was a bit more lined, but his eyes still gave off the same
I'm smarter than you
look they always had. "A bit sportier a model than the one you last saw," Fintan said. "I can actually walk with the assistance of crutches, but with all the twists and turns in this place, well, it's just easier this way."

Declan remembered the night Fintan had been injured; a gunshot to his lower back had left him paralyzed from the waist down. In 1993, a group of left wing IRA leaders from Belfast had paid an assassin to attack the McGuire family home in Mullaghmore, just over the border with the Irish Republic. Their goal had been to put an end to an internal power struggle within the IRA that had pitted them against right wing commanders from around the six counties of the north who disagreed with the consolidation of power in Belfast and with the political ambitions of Sinn Fein.