Sitting on the couch and bouncing Danny in his lap, Dessie gazed out the window and into the garden. Eamonn and Sean were playing in the small sandbox, building castles and knocking them down. They didn't have a care in the world; to some extent Dessie envied them.
He wondered just how much of an effect Catherine's inevitable lifetime incarceration would have on them. Not having Catherine around would be the hardest on Eamonn. Sean, the scrappy, resilient boy he was, would bounce back faster than any of them expected. Danny—Dessie's heart broke the most for him. He'd never have the chance to know what a wonderful mother Catherine was, and Dessie vowed to never let a day pass without him knowing just how much she loved him, and that the horrific image of her the journos would paint in the papers was far from the truth.
"Where is she being held?" he asked.
"As of an hour ago, we don't know." Adam McKenzie rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. He was an American who graduated at the top of his class from Oxford law school. His specialization in human rights and international criminal law, coupled with fierce ties to his mother's homeland, drew him to Northern Ireland. Adam was the best money could buy, and Catherine was worth every pence. "The good news is, from the intel my office got, it all points to the U.K. government still being in the dark about her arrest. If they have no idea she's been detained, that means they have not filed the extradition paperwork, and we can assume there aren't any formal charges either."
Patrick was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He was stone cold. "Why do I sense there's a but coming?"
"That's because there is, Paddy," chuckled Adam.
Dessie clenched his jaw and ground his teeth, talking himself out of punching the arrogant bastard square in the face. He didn't appreciate the wise-cracks and blasé attitude.
Connor took Danny from Dessie and set him in the playpen, wanting to be a step ahead in case this turned to shit. Emotions and tensions were running high; not that Connor blamed Dessie and Patrick. In retrospect, they were handling it quite well.
"Is there anything useful you can tell us? Or am I just paying you for assumptions?" snapped Dessie.
Adam bobbed his head and pursed his lips, insulted. Dessie couldn't give two shits about whether he'd insulted the bastard with his wife lost the shuffle of the American judicial system. All he wanted was answers; being kept in the dark and having so many unknowns hanging over his head was worse than having the worst-case scenario come true. At least then he can accept it and move on with his life. He'd rather be in Hell, not stuck in some unmoving, unrelenting purgatory.
"But, her arrest not being disclosed so long after it happened raises a lot of red flags. Since the Irish Republican Army considers itself—for lack of better words—an armed force, we need to be prepared for the possibility the U.S. government deemed Catherine an enemy combatant who poses a threat to national security, and she was transferred into the custody of the United States military. For all we know, she's on a plane headed for Cuba right now."
"Guantanamo Bay." Dessie bolted up and paced the living room. "You're telling me there's a chance my wife is in Guantanamo Bay?"
"Yes. A very slight chance, but still a chance. If that's the case, we'll move for a Combatant Status Review, and argue that the IRA is not, and never has been engaged with the United States in an armed conflict. But that may be difficult to win because she and Jimmy have a documented relationship with several high-ranking members of the Taliban. And, once that comes out, there's no guarantee the Russians won't start digging for a connection between her and the Chechens. This maybe difficult to hear, but Catherine is facing serious charges that will be close to impossible to beat. Absolute best case: she'll serve fifteen or twenty years at the supermax prison in Colorado before she's extradited back to Northern Ireland and transferred to Maghaberry to start her life-sentences."
Scraping his teeth along his bottom lip, Dessie turned to Patrick. They stared at one another, wholly dumbfounded, unable to comprehend what Adam told them. Neither could believe Catherine had slipped through the cracks in their fingers, and they wished they could go back two weeks and stop her from leaving for America.
Fat tears bubbled and stung Dessie's eyes. He blinked, and they slid down his cheeks. "She called me right before she got lifted, Paddy. She called, and I just watched it go to voicemail."
Resting his hands on top of his head, Dessie bent at the waist, and the tears flowed like molten lava. The dull ache in his chest turned sharp and excruciating. It knocked the breath from his lungs. He screamed, and Patrick slid down the wall, pulling one knee into his chest while the other leg was stretched out in front of him. The walls were closing in around the both of them, and it was suffocating. His knees giving out, Dessie collapsed. He curled into the fetal position, digging his head into the hardwood floor.
Connor buried his face in his hands. Watching the two strongest men he'd ever known reach their utter breaking points was too much to handle. His stomach twisted inside-out at the visions of Catherine swathed in the orange jumpsuit; she was the last person any of them figured would end up in that position.
When the tears slowed, Dessie got back up to his feet and lumbered to the playpen. He picked up Danny, holding him close to his chest, and nuzzled his hair. For Eamonn, Sean, and Danny, Dessie realized he needed to pull himself together—now more than ever, he needed to be their defense. Without the fierce protection of their mother, he was the only one those boys had left. And so long as Jimmy was alive and out of prison, he had to do everything in his willpower to keep Eamonn safe.
"Dessie." Adam cleared his throat. "Our best bet at lessening the severity of Catherine's sentence is to have her psychologically evaluated; we can document that her sexual relationship with Jimmy began when she was a teenager, and essentially argue he groomed her into the IRA. In return, she'll need to turn State's witness against Jimmy and offer testimony that'll lead to his conviction on the terrorism and arms-trafficking charges."
"In other words, you want her to tout," said Patrick. Adam nodded. "Absolutely not. She touts, then she won't last ten minutes in Maghaberry... even in solitary."
"Witness protection is always an option. We can even negotiate a deal for you to leave the country with her, too, Dessie. You've got just as big of a target on your back against the Irish Kings as she does. Think about what's best for your family."
Dessie didn't have to think—he already knew.
Catherine stared at the unopened can of Coke and bacon cheeseburger sitting on the table, taunting her.
She was parched and famished, her mouth watering at the prospect of devouring the offering, though she knew better. That Coke can wouldn't be tossed in the bin like any ordinary piece of trash. They would swab it for her DNA and use the sample to tie her to countless murders. The last thing she'd ever do was give anyone the satisfaction. And, if she were being honest with herself, it made Catherine feel insulted, leaving her to wonder if she had the word sucker tattooed across her forehead in bold, blackened letters.
Stretching out her arm, Catherine rested her head and closed her eyes. Being left alone in the bright, sterile interrogation room at the Stockton federal plaza for hours on end was borderline torturous. She'd much rather be in a crumbling cell because at least then there'd be a bed so she could get some shuteye. The extreme fatigue long since weaved its way into her worn out body and mind, which only made Catherine more anxious than she needed to be. In surviving long, grueling hours of questioning, sleep deprivation was her worst enemy.
Then again, that's what they were counting on—her being confused by their questions left her susceptible to inadvertently leaking precious intelligence. Catherine had to craft every word with care; when it came to building an international case, there was no such thing as a small, useless piece of information.
Agent June Stahl was right—anything she said would be used against her.
Catherine remembered an important bit of advice Jimmy had told her nine odd years ago. Something along the lines of invoking the fifth and how her refusal to answer questions wouldn't be used against her as a sign of guilt once she got in front of a jury.
She had no interest in talking, regardless. When she took her oath—pledged her allegiance to the Irish Republican Army on that damp New Year's Eve in Jimmy's office, Catherine well enough understood what she'd gotten herself into. She'd done her duty, served the cause well, and as one ultimate act of gallant homage, she'd bear the weight of the consequences and not bring anyone down with her.
It was the least she could do.
Darragh would have been proud of her.
Dessie, too.
But most importantly, as would Jimmy and Patrick.
And one day, she hoped Eamonn, Sean, and Danny would be proud of her, and understand that every choice she made was for them and their future. That she fought so one day they'd be free.
The heavy metal door across from Catherine opened. She looked up; Agent June Stahl walked in solo, a thick stack of folders tucked into one arm as she closed the door behind her. Catherine straightened up and once June approached the table, she tossed the one thing Catherine had politely requested—her glasses. Taking out the contact lenses, which were practically glued to her aching eyes, Catherine put on the thick-framed glasses.
From the small pocket of her suit jacket, June retrieved the case for Catherine's contacts and tossed it onto the table, too. "I found this in the bathroom; figured you'd want it."
Sticking her tongue out, Catherine dropped the pair of soft lenses onto it. June didn't so much as flinch, watching Catherine dry swallow them. She figured that wasn't anywhere near the weirdest thing June had seen during her tenure as a federal agent. Contact lenses could be swabbed for DNA, too. There was a method to her madness.
"Smart." Setting the folders down, June pulled out the chair and took a seat. "I suppose we should get down to business."
It took every ounce of self-control Catherine had not to laugh. She was tired of the same old song-and-dance. June would spread out a collection of surveillance photos, claim they had a mountain of evidence to put her away for the rest of her natural life, when the fact of the matter was that they didn't even have enough to convince a grand jury.
It was a dog and pony show. Smoke and mirrors. Nothing more than a pathetic attempt to get them to turn on one another.
As if on cue, June opened the folder and spread out the glossy photos. They were of she and Jimmy in the Bellagio casino, and walking hand-in-hand down the Strip after their business dinner with Noel and Val.
"I'm a little confused. So I'm hoping you can shed some light here for me." June pressed her finger to the photo of Catherine and Jimmy at the craps table, his hands on her hips. "When we last spoke at St. Thomas, you made it clear you and Jimmy weren't together anymore, but the romantic trip to Vegas suggests otherwise. If you're no longer together, then why did you go with him?"
Because I was making a fat sale of Kalashnikovs to the mafia.
But for obvious reasons, Catherine couldn't divulge that.
She shrugged.
Tensing, June tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, then leaned forward. "You need to look passed whatever it is the IRA planted in your head about people like me. I'm not the enemy here. I can give you a way out of this; a better life for not only yourself, but your children. Those boys mean the world to you, so I know this is a rhetorical question: do you honestly want to drag those boys through the pain of your court proceedings and then watch someone else raise them?"
Catherine's stomach knotted, and she thought she was going to be sick. Bringing up her sons was a cheap shot, albeit fair. Still, Catherine said nothing.
June continued, "You're incredibly smart, and deep down you know the bullshit that all the men in your life have dragged you into is wrong. I know you want the violence to end because if you didn't, you never would have done the work you did with Sinn Fein. You know the only sensible way to get what you believe in is through political action. But I get it, getting your point across to men is improbable especially when all they want to do is smash and burn things, and in Jimmy's case, come to find the only thing that speaks louder than peace talks in London are dollars, pounds sterling, and—"
Catherine interjected, grated nerves getting the better of her. "Are you charging me?"
She didn't want to do this anymore. She didn't want to sit through another second of June's pandering nonsense and for her to just cut to the chase.
Opening one of the leather folders, June slid a piece of paper in front of Catherine. "This is the indictment which the Department of Homeland Security has agreed to. It's simple. All you have to do is agree to give us Jimmy O'Phelan, and you're free to walk right out of here. We'll pick you and Jimmy up at a time and location which we disclose to you, you'll be taken into ICE custody where you'll be charged with misdemeanor illegal entry. The most you'll get is a fine and six months in prison, then once you're deported you become the U.K.'s problem."
Dodging charges in one country was too tempting, and too sweet. What Catherine wanted to tell June was that only in her safe, disconnected world was it that simple. The one slice of reality that June also failed to realize was the very idea of prison wasn't what terrified her. Being in solitary confinement in Maghaberry wouldn't be enough protection to keep the Irish Kings from getting to her. Being in prison in the United States was the only place Catherine thought she stood a decent chance for survival. Thousands of miles of vast ocean wouldn't stop the bounty from being placed on her head, but it was a start.
"And if I don't?"
"Then these immigration charges will be the least of your concern. My bureau is prepared to file federal charges against you for felony arms-trafficking. Do you understand me, Catherine? You've broken just about every international arms embargo in the books—that's twenty-five years right there. Then you'll be deported, so factor in terrorism, conspiracy terrorism, and God-knows how many murder charges once you're back in Northern Ireland. And unlike your husband, the Belfast Agreement won't save you from serving every second of your miserable sentence. Don't do this," urged June. "Don't protect Jimmy; the man has done nothing but batter and abuse you since you were just old enough for him to legally crawl in-between your legs." Collecting the indictment and surveillance photos, June shoved them back into their respective folders, and looked at her watch. "You have forty-five minutes to decide your fate; at ten a.m. I'll be handing the paperwork over to the AUSA's office." Standing up, June planted her palms on the table. "And don't fuck with my case, lassie, because if you do, I will bury you so deep you'll never make it back to Belfast."
Catherine sank down into the metal chair, crossing her arms over her chest.
"You know, when I was a wee girl, my da... he was in and out of the H-block. That's where they kept the Provos at the time. I remember this one night after he'd been released, and it was just he and I in the kitchen washin' dishes and he taught he taught me this really catchy song—Now in Ireland we've rouges enough to last, there's the UDR, the Army, and the SAS... But the lowest of the low is the foe you do not know... And that's the man they call the supergrass." Leaning forward, Catherine met June's harden gaze. "You can fuck right off, lassie."
