Four: Connection

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"Don't you ever knock?"

Pete was looking out the window of his new hotel room and didn't glance up when MacGyver slipped in, although he knew he had locked the door.

"You weren't tailed from the airport." Mac looked around the modest room. "Hey, not bad. Not as fancy as the last one, but it's cozier." The new hotel was far downscale from the elegant VIP suite in the hotel in the English sector where the symposium attendees had been lodged.

"Good." Pete turned away from the view of gritty rain-soaked evening streets with a satisfied nod. "With any luck, nobody will connect the British Army's recently departed VIP guest with the Irish-American tourist who just caught a cab from the main airport." Pete had changed his tailored suit for an old tweed jacket and well-worn flat cap; for someone planning to bluff out a band of hardened killers, MacGyver thought he looked almost indecently relaxed.

"So what now?"

"Kathleen thinks it will take a few days for this Máire Ui Súilleabháin to set up the contact – I think she has to work through several layers so as not to blow her own cover. Meanwhile, I settle in, play tourist, see the sights, keep out of trouble, and stay away from Shankill Road."

"Yeah, I know. Don't walk down the wrong street, stop on the wrong corner, hail the wrong cab, go into the wrong pub, and for God's sake don't order the wrong drink."

"What?"

"Whatever you do, don't order a Black and Tan."

"Mac, what's eating you?"

"Pete, did you know Mark Thompson was out here just last month?" Pete nodded. "He lasted two days. We don't even know which side shot him."

"Thompson didn't have anyone watching his back."

"Pete – "

"Mac, not another word about walking away from this. It's too important. And you're the last person to try and tell me that something's too dangerous."

MacGyver looked up suddenly from where he was fiddling with an old-fashioned clock on a side table. "Pete, what's happened to your instincts? You're about to walk blindfolded into a snake pit . . . and you're enjoying this." He set down the clock and straightened up. "Just how big a promotion are they planning for you? Are they gonna dump you behind a big polished desk where you won't get to come out into the field and play operative any more?"

Mac saw Pete's face shutter. Oh, great. I triggered the stone wall. In his worry, he had pushed too hard and said too much.

It was a long moment before Pete answered, and then he simply shrugged. "Look, I'm not admitting to anything . . . but it feels good to get away from the suits once in a while. I'd've thought that you'd understand that."

Mac picked up the clock again and tapped at its face with a thumbnail. "Yeah. I do."

"You don't have a monopoly on the dangerous side of this business, you know." Pete picked up his still-unpacked suitcase and heaved it onto the bed.

"Okay, okay, I get it. You can't blame me for worrying." Mac set the clock down again and sighed, looking at Pete apologetically. "And you're right. Who says I get all the fun?"

"Fun . . .? Well, yeah. I guess." Pete opened the suitcase and began to sort through the neatly folded clothes. "So what are you going to do with yourself for the next few days? We can't be seen together."

In spite of his anxiety, Mac found himself grinning. It was a new country, a new game, and a new set of rules to figure out. "I'll think of something."

"Well, don't get yourself killed in the meanwhile."

"I'll try." Both men relaxed as the hectoring exchange fell into its usual pattern.

"And look, it's not like we're behind the Iron Curtain," Pete continued. "The government isn't trying to kill or deport us – "

"Makes a nice change."

"– the electricity and plumbing work consistently, the food's recognisable, and there's no language barrier."

Mac winced. "Oh, trust me, Pete. There's a language barrier. It's just a different kinda language."

- - -

Pete had to admit that the pub had atmosphere . . . unfortunately, the atmosphere wasn't breathable. He could feel his senses of smell and taste shriveling under the assault of the dense clouds of nicotine from dozens of raw, unfiltered cigarettes. Oh, well, at least it doesn't make me want to start smoking again. Just the reverse.

He hadn't cared for the pub as a rendezvous in the first place, but it hadn't been his decision; the Provisionals chose the meeting place, and this was their choice. Belfast was full of pubs, and they could meet for years without ever using the same location twice. Or perhaps not – from Kathleen's remarks, there was a strict territorial code, and it was as much as a man's life was worth to be found drinking in the wrong neighbourhood.

Pete didn't like the pub, and he didn't like the feel of the crowd: too many sullen faces, too many hooded eyes and sidelong glances. Everyone seemed to be watching the exits and tallying arrivals and departures. As he threaded his way through the tables he caught fragments of conversation, mostly political discussion, always laced with obscenity and edged with bitter rage.

He didn't want to face a meeting with the IRA without backup, and he couldn't imagine how MacGyver was going to manage his end of the business. True, the man was three-quarters chameleon and Pete had seen him disappear into the most unlikely backgrounds, but compared to this chilly, smoky, tense room, the kasbahs and souks of the Middle East seemed almost cozy and homelike.

How does a man who doesn't smoke, doesn't drink, and doesn't even swear going to blend in with a crowd like this?

Still fretting over MacGyver, Pete headed for the bar, where the owner, a pretty blonde woman with a carrying voice, was haranguing the stooped back of her nearly invisible assistant, who was busy at something under the bar.

"If you can't get it fixed before the next wave of regulars come in, we're fucked," she groaned. "The fucking thing was working not half an hour ago . . . do your best, will ye just? I've got to get something down the throats of Mick's boys or we won't get a lick of music out of them and the crowd will fucking kill us all." She pushed out from behind the bar with a trayful of pint glasses and vanished into a wall of smoke and profanity. Pete watched her go, still uneasy.

Behind him, a familiar voice drawled from behind the bar, "Hey, Yank. Whaddaya drinkin'?"

Pete spun around. "Mac! What . . . are you doing back there?"

MacGyver lounged against the bar behind the taps, looking completely natural and at home in a buff bartender's apron over his black jeans and T-shirt. "Oh, just the usual . . . meeting new people, making friends . . . learning new skills. Noreen just taught me the fine art of building a Guinness. Want one?"

Pete relaxed and laughed. "That's handy – if your current boss ever fires you, at least you'll always have something to fall back on."

Mac grinned. "I don't think so. I like my day job pretty well."

The blonde materialised at Mac's elbow. "Have I got another Yank on my hands, so? Do you two know each other?"

Mac draped an arm over her shoulders; the top of her head barely reached his chin. "Noreen, I told you, America's a big place. We don't all know each other out there . . ."

"Never mind that. Why's he still waiting for his drink? Come on, come on, let's see you do it right this time." Noreen turned to Pete. "Can you believe it? Hands like that, he can fix anything you've a mind to, and he's never tended bar in his life. What the fuck are they after out there in America, wasting such talents?" She spun back to Mac, leaving Pete feeling breathless. "Will the taps hold out for the evening?"

"For now, but I told you, the equipment's old and it can only be coaxed along so far before it just gets tired."

"Fuck that." Pete saw the trace of a wince pass over Mac's face. "Just get me through tonight and I'll fucking worry about it tomorrow, as long as we're all alive to see the day." She glanced anxiously at the door, slipped out from under Mac's arm and hurried down the bar to where a new surge of patrons were clamouring for attention.

MacGyver was busy at the taps. "Funny thing, Pete. This is a nice big city, but you'd think it was a small town. Everyone knows everything that's going on, and nobody is talking about any of it. You just soak it in through your pores." He handed Pete a pint of Guinness, the top a perfection of froth. "I hope you like this stuff. Are you supposed to drink it or chew it?"

Pete shrugged as he took the glass. "Both, I think." His next remark was eclipsed by a sudden agitation in the room: at one end of the pub, chairs and tables were being pushed back to clear a space, musical instruments were pulled out of cases, and suddenly the entire crowd was roaring in hoarse unison.

Up a long ladder and down a short rope,
To Hell with King Billy and God bless the Pope,
If that doesn't do it we'll tear them in two . . .

"Is that the band warming up, or an incitement to riot?" Pete murmured under the din.

"Both, I think." Mac bent over the taps, adding softly, "Head's-up on your left – don't look. Rough-looking character heading this way."

The man was clean-shaven, sandy-haired and tall, nearly as tall as MacGyver, and massively built, with a heavy stride. Pete recognised him from Walsh's files: Connor Kelly, head of the IRA cell they were targeting, a self-contained unit believed to be on the verge of splintering from the Provisional IRA. The dossier had detailed his record but had failed to convey the aura of barely checked rage that seemed to seep from his skin. Pete noticed that as he made his way through the crowded room, other patrons glanced up and nodded at him but did not attempt to talk, and many of them shifted inconspicuously sideways out of his direct path.

Noreen had materialised beside Mac at the taps. "For fuck's sake, what's Barking Connor doing here tonight?" she muttered. "Serve him quick and don't give him any guff."

"'Barking' Connor?" Mac murmured as he reached for more glasses.

"And don't call him that where he can hear it. He's barking mad, so he is."

"No sense of humour, huh?"

"Hush you!"

Connor reached the bar and leaned over it, almost touching shoulders with Pete, who glanced over at him as if only just noticing the new arrival. Mac gave the man a broad smile.

"Hiya, friend. What're you drinkin'?"

Connor glared at MacGyver. "Noreen, what's this gobshite Yank doin' behind the taps?"

"Building you a Guinness," Noreen snapped. "And you going to be paying for your drink tonight or am I chalking it all up til the Cause?"

"Chalk it up and I'll settle next week." Connor was still eyeing MacGyver. With a sudden burst of speed startling in a man of his size, he lashed out and seized Mac's left hand with a sudden jerk that pulled him up against the inside of the bar, twisting Mac's wrist sharply backwards and catching the thumb in a lock that nearly dislocated it. Mac caught back a gasp of pain and gritted his teeth. "I said, what the fuck is this Yank doin' here?"

"For fuck's sake, Connor, let him go! You break his hand and I'm down a bartender for the night!"

Connor leered at her. "Bartender, so he is? What's a fuckin' Yankee tourist need with tendin' bar in a dive like this?"

Mac sucked in his breath as the pressure on his hand increased. "Hey, lighten up, will ya?" He glanced at Noreen and leaned towards Connor confidentially. "C'mon, gimme a break. My money isn't lasting the way I thought it would, and Noreen said she could pay me under the table, y'know? She even said the musicians might let me sit in with them later on . . . and," Mac tried to keep his voice even as Connor's fingers tightened, "I can't do that if you break my thumb."

Connor's eyes narrowed. He lifted MacGyver's hand and studied the ends of the fingers. Mac held his breath; there hadn't been much time for music in the last few frenetic years, and the once-heavy callouses that had marked the ends of his fingers, the stigmata of the guitarist, were now thin and faded.

But the marks were still visible. Connor sniffed. "Guitar, is it now?" MacGyver nodded. "Haven't been playin' much lately, so you haven't."

Mac shrugged his right shoulder, careful not to add to the pressure on his left hand. "Well, okay, I'm a little out of practice . . . my guitar's been in storage since my last move . . . "

"Storage?" Suddenly Connor had released Mac's hand and was roaring with contemptuous laughter. "In hock, more like! Watch yourself, Noreen. Give this one an inch and he'll be sleepin' on your couch till his visa runs dead. Now where's my fuckin' drink?"

MacGyver set a Guinness within Connor's reach and quickly and deliberately withdrew his hand. Connor roared again, picked up the glass and turned to Pete for the first time. "I don't know you, either. Are you a Yank too?"

Pete half turned and gave him a long look, propping one elbow up on the bar, and Mac could see his 'tough guy' expression – he'd seen hoods from LA to Leningrad recognise a common soul in that face. "Yeah, I'm an American. You got a problem with that?"

"Now, that depends. D'ye know this culchie?"

"Hardly," Pete said. "We only just met. I'm from Chicago. He isn't." He leaned closer to Connor. "Just between you and me, I think he's one of those knee-jerk pacifists from California. Know what I mean?"

"And you're not, I take it?"

"Lemme put it this way – everything I ever had I've had to fight for."

Connor smiled suddenly and extended a broad hand. "Now, that's spoken like a man! 'Tis glad I am to meet you. Connor Kelly."

"Pete Thornton." When they shook, there was a harsh testing pressure to the handshake; Pete gave as good as he got and saw the startled sparkle in the other man's eyes at the strength in the grip.

"And are you waitin' for anyone? Or would you have time for some craic with me boys?"

"Your . . . boys?"

Connor jerked his head towards a table in the corner. "Come and have a talk with us."

MacGyver watched Pete go and tried not to show his anxiety. He could guess what it had cost Pete to remain impassively watching while Connor was on his rampage, but it had paid off. Everything was going as well as it might . . . and even Connor, for all his bullying and posing, was less of a terror than a warning.

Sure, everyone knows what terrorists look like. What colour hair they have. Skin colour, eye colour, beards . . . They're different from anyone you know. Except these guys look like . . . well, just anyone.

Mac glanced at the table where Pete was now taking his seat beside two other men he recognised from Walsh's files, Kevin Kelly and Liam Doherty. Connor's brother Kevin was a blurred younger copy from the same mould, while Liam was half a head shorter and a generation older, with wiry reddish hair thinning on top and going to grey.

Mac had noticed Liam's arrival ten minutes earlier – it would have been difficult not to notice, not when the senses were keyed up to watch for danger. Connor's progress through the crowd had been marked by the patrons quietly sidestepping; but when Liam had walked through the door, people got well out of his way. The ripple that had run through the crowd had been broader and far more chilling. The table Liam had selected had emptied as he approached, although the men at it had looked like being settled in for the evening.

And now Pete was entrenched at the same table, deep in conversation – or, rather listening intently with the air that MacGyver knew had an almost magical effect. He didn't doubt that the men at the table were talking more expansively than they had ever intended, detailing more of their thoughts and plans than they ever realised.

Man, he's good. I only hope I'll be that good someday. If we both live to get that far . . .

The pub was getting noisier, easy cover for any conversation; at the far end of the room, the band had started a new song and the crowd were bellowing the chorus in harsh, belligerent unison.

Come out, you Black-and-Tans,
Come out and fight me like a man . . .

In all his reading, Mac hadn't missed that the most common reason for an IRA murder was that someone was a suspected informer.

Kathleen Walsh, are you setting us up?

- - -