Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (55 page)

"The radio show hosts don't call them the Drive-By media for nothing," Declan said, "guilty until proven innocent."

"Yes, well, your statements to me last night would, in fact, indicate your guilt, but I'm getting the feeling this isn't something you're interested in hiding anymore. Am I correct?"

"I'm sure every man listed in that file is guilty of something," Declan continued. "For my part, I was a member of the South Armagh Brigade of the Provisional IRA from 1986 until 1993. During that time I trained with a secret unit codenamed Black Shuck. But to answer your question, no one is guilty of Black Shuck, because the entire operation never made it past the intelligence-gathering phase. The attack the unit was created for never happened. The media believes I'm guilty because the people controlling the release of that information aren't interested in the truth. They're interested in burying my credibility, along with my lifeless body."

"And that's your saving grace," Allardyce said. "This information was provided on the condition that it would only be used to affect an arrest of the chief suspect,
you
, in both the bombing and subsequent assassination. However, the release of this information, in any form, to the media was not part of that deal. I may look like an aging politician, but I assure you I'm a military man with a long career in the world of espionage. I know a black bag job when I see one. My phone has been ringing off the hook since this hit the airwaves on Thursday afternoon and, despite having just taken this position over less than a month ago, it's been made clear to me that my leadership of the Security Service will be extremely short if I don't get a handle on this and keep it from becoming a very embarrassing episode for the government of the United Kingdom."

"You and I both know there's only one way that information was mishandled," Declan said. "On purpose. The person or people you released it to weren't working for who they said they were."

Allardyce nodded slowly. "Yes, well, they're not the only ones with contacts abroad. Before this file was delivered to me a few hours ago I spent time gathering information on the two of you. I was quite shocked at your identity, Mr. O'Reilly. Imagine my surprise when I learned that the legendary IRA informer,
Homeless Viper,
was a low ranking intelligence officer in my own Irish & Domestic Terrorism Department. One of our own aiding an international fugitive is a serious offense."

Shane grimaced and his eyes darted between Declan and Allardyce. "Declan's no fugitive. He's the best friend I've ever had and if you want to get to the bottom of this, he's the best friend you have."

"Yes. That would seem to be true. As far as I can tell there's only one person who's told me the truth since this entire thing began in the briefing room on Wednesday morning, and that's you, Mr. McIver. Try as I might, I cannot come up with any reason why you'd be involved in either the bombing or the assassination. You certainly have the experience to commit such an attack, your apparent friendship with Abaddon Kafni gave you the necessary access to commit such an attack, but as far as I can tell, you have absolutely no motivation to commit such an attack. The idea being passed around in the media that your motive is financial is ridiculous. You're sitting on nearly two million dollars in assets and your wife is heiress to another small fortune. If there's one thing you have in good supply, it's money."

"You've done your research," Declan said, flashing a brief smile.

"The man who requested that the Committee release its information on you is the London Station Chief of the American CIA."

Declan and Shane exchanged a knowing glance. "Just like we thought," Shane muttered.

"Where can I find him?" Declan asked.

"I'll take you to him."

4:06 p.m. Local Time – Saturday

Ashford Road

Two miles south of Faversham, County of Kent – England

Lane Simard sat alone in the backseat of the black, late model Range Rover that the United States Government provided him in his duties as the Central Intelligence Agency's London station chief. He watched through the tinted windows as the four man team of youthful agents that were in charge of his security and transportation entered the two story Tudor-style farmhouse he was preparing to spend a rare vacation in.

The house sat at the end of a mile long lane called Baggins Road, an undoubted reference to the author, Tolkien. The house belonged to the family of an English couple whom he and his wife had made friends with during their four year stay in London and who had graciously offered the country estate for his use on several occasions. The rigors of his work often kept him away for several weeks at a time and he was looking forward to spending a relaxing few days with his family when they joined him later in the evening.

"All set, sir," one of the young agents said, as he opened the rear passenger side door for Simard. "We've scanned the entire house. It's clean."

Simard knew the man meant that the home had been found to be free of any kind of listening devices and even though he wasn't planning on making or receiving any sensitive phone calls, such conversations were always a possibility in his line of work.

"Thank you," he said, as he stepped from the car and walked towards the arched front door. "I want two of you posted at the end of the lane with one of the SUVs and waiting for my family to arrive. They're being driven down from London in a few hours."

"Yes, sir," the man said, as he opened the home's front door and stood aside. "Myself and Agent Fuller will handle it."

Simard nodded and entered the house. He felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket as he entered the spacious, stone walled kitchen and withdrew it as he stepped through an archway and into the home's living area.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Simard, David Kemiss," the voice on the other end said. "You're a hard man to surprise."

"Good evening, Senator," Simard said, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the level of friendliness in Kemiss' voice. The seasoned politician had, to date, never been anything other than abrupt, sometimes bordering on insulting. "How can I help you?"

"Oh, you've already helped me a great deal and I wanted to express my gratitude. I sent a gift to your London residence, but the delivery company was told you had left for a few days."

"Well, thank you, Senator. That's a great gesture. I'm away from London for a vacation with my family. I'll look forward to receiving your gift when I return."

"I'm afraid by then it won't be much good. Perhaps I could have the delivery company bring it to your getaway? You and your wife could enjoy it during your well-deserved vacation."

Simard didn't like the thought of someone coming to the farmhouse but, as his mind raced to think of a good excuse to refuse the offer, he settled on the notion that saying "no" to the senator would be a bad idea. "That would be great, thank you. I don't know the exact address, but I'm at a farmhouse in Kent, it's two miles south of the M2 motorway near Faversham. It's the only house on Baggins Road and it's at the very end. They can't miss it. I'll have one of my men meet them out front."

"Beautiful area, my wife and I visited there some years back. I hope you enjoy your stay. I'll notify the delivery company immediately. Thank you again for everything you've done for me, and for your country."

Simard nodded, though he knew Kemiss couldn't see him. "My pleasure, sir."

He felt a swell of pride at being personally thanked by such a high-ranking member of his country's government, even though all he had done was his job. He listened as Kemiss hung up before he closed the phone and returned it to his pocket. Climbing the home's narrow wooden staircase, he entered a hallway and made an immediate left into the study, which overlooked the gravel driveway leading into the property. He removed some papers from his briefcase along with a copy of a book by one of his favorite authors. Setting the papers down on the desk before loosening his tie and removing his shoes, he took a seat in the leather chair next to the room's picture window. Without meaning to be, he was asleep within a few minutes.

He awakened suddenly as he heard the front door of the farmhouse slam closed. Glancing at his watch, he stood and looked through the window. Judging from the faint orange glow to the west that illuminated the green shrubbery along the driveway, the sun was just about to set for the day. He leaned over and placed his hands on the window sill, admiring for a moment the majestic evening that was just beginning. His thoughts were interrupted as he noticed a pair of headlights coming down the drive. Was it time for his family to arrive already? He smiled and thumped his closed fist against the sill victoriously before turning to exit the room.

6:02 p.m. Local Time – Saturday

Intersection of Ashford Road & the M2 Motorway

Half a mile south of Faversham, County of Kent – England

"How is it that you came to work in Her Majesty's Security Service, Mr. O'Reilly?" Lord Dennis Allardyce asked, as the Range Rover they were riding in cruised smoothly off the M2 motorway onto Ashford Road. Declan tried to hide a smile as Shane shifted uncomfortably in the front passenger seat. Like their involvement in both the IRA and Black Shuck, their dealings with the intelligence agencies of Great Britain were a long story.

Shane cleared his throat. "I became an informer for the FRU in the late eighties. That's where the codename
Homeless Viper
came from. When things went bad and the IRA tried to execute me, my handler, Harold Thom, brought me to London. I've worked there ever since. Who better to run Irish informers than an Irish informer, right? I made a deal with Her Majesty's Government to provide high-value intelligence in exchange for immunity, and employment."

"But you didn't fulfill that agreement completely, did you? You made sure that Her Majesty's Government didn't find out the true identities of the Black Shuck Unit, including that of your friend, Declan McIver."

Shane nodded.

"And you've kept in touch with him over the years and were able to warn him that someone was trying to leak his past in an effort to frame him for Abaddon Kafni's assassination?"

"Something like that, sir. I've known Declan since we were teenagers. He's saved my life a number of times. I would never have protected anyone that I wasn't sure of. Declan turned his back on violence, even before I did."

"I believe you. Here is something that I still don't know the answer to," Allardyce said, as he looked over at Declan. "How is it that an Irish paramilitary and a conservative Israeli celebrity became friends in the first place? That can't be a common thing."

Declan thought about the question for a moment. Allardyce had been peppering both him and Shane with questions most of the journey and it was starting to annoy him. Talking about his past wasn't something he enjoyed doing, but he felt, with Allardyce, like he had no choice. Thankfully, in what Declan considered to be typical aristocratic behavior, Allardyce had made it clear that he had no intention of making the ten hour drive to where the CIA chief was located. Instead, Allardyce had chartered a small private aircraft and the journey had been completed in less than half that time.

"There's more to Abaddon Kafni than a lot of people realize," Declan said. "I first met him in Belfast in 1990."

Allardyce smiled as if the answer to the question had suddenly become clear to him. "He was undercover for Israel, wasn't he?"

Declan nodded. "Aye, he was the leader of a small contingent of Mossad operatives in Belfast who were keeping watch on the Provos' connections with the PLO."

"Thatcher made it illegal for Mossad to operate in Northern Ireland, but I'm not at all surprised to learn that they ignored her. They've never been an organization that's particularly good at following rules. What was their cover?"

"Bookstore, they ran a secondhand bookstore called Salinger's on the A6, a few blocks northwest of the Belfast Synagogue."