A/N: Thank you to everyone for their continued enthusiasm for our not so little AU. We appreciate all readers old and new who take the time to leave their feedback and we never get tired of giving gratitude for your support of BN FF.
There will be a new chapter of "Season Seven Songbook" based on 7.01 from Jedi Skysinger as we work our way through Season 7 at #burnerclub and the final chapter of "Behind Blue Eyes" by Purdy's Pal for those of you who asked for a happier version of Season 7.
Meanwhile, back in Clonmel, the enemies encircling our favorite couple are drawing ever closer while they plan their escape and a very unwanted guest will be stepping out of the shadows soon…
BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Twenty Seven
Covert intelligence involves a lot of waiting around; any meeting, any appointment, you have to show up early make sure you're not followed. Make sure the area is secure, check out the other guy's advance team and see how well he is prepared. It's good trade craft, but it's like hanging out in your dentist's reception area 24 hrs a day: you read magazines, sip coffee and every once in a while, somebody tries to kill you.
Tom Card smiled as that particular monologue ran through his head. How many times had he used that exact same speech during his opening seminar to all the good little spy boys and girls? His smile widened. If things went well in the next hour, he would be one step closer to never having to utter those words again... It all hinged on his ability to sweet talk the widowed mother of his star pupil's gunrunning, bomb-making girlfriend.
Picking up the delicate bone china cup which had been delivered to his table inside Clary's Tearoom along with a matching teapot and a small plate holding two thin slices of moist ginger cake, the CIAs leading training officer continued with his surveillance of the surrounding area.
So far he was confident that as there was no sign of Maeve Glenanne having an advance team of her own and, as he had managed to secure himself a strategically placed table in the cozy 'olde world' cafe with a good view of the street outside and all the exits, he concluded it was safe for him to get back to sipping his tea and, rather than reading a celebrity magazine, peruse the contents of the file he had brought with him while he waited for the doyenne of the original IRA.
From the moment he had come up with the idea of joining forces with Liam Glenanne, he had known making contact was going to be problematical. Even after he had found a way to get a message to Fiona's elusive big brother, he had still expected the head of the family to shy away from meeting with a stranger at a venue not of his choosing. That was the reason behind only giving Glenanne's cousin a time and a location to meet with no contact details; it should have ensured there was no wriggle room for negotiation.
But it wasn't to be so. Card chuckled mirthlessly as he thought about how Ryan O'Keefe had managed to force his hand and agree to not only a change of venue, but also agree to a change of negotiator.
"Hello thar, this is tha man ya had chained ta a table half tha night. If ya donnae call me back immediately, tha next number I dial isnae gonna be tha speaking clock."
He had been monitoring the bug he had placed inside O'Keefe's cell phone, not expecting to hear anything useful as the device had remained silent since it had been handed back to the Dublin criminal.
"One last chance, fella, call me back or Am gonna put a call through ta yar embassy an' see whot they have ta say about a feckin' spy bastid dressed inna fancy suit, slicked back hair an' his own team, askin' questions about me cousin or mabbe tha Brits would be just as interested."
He had fumbled with his own phone in an effort to call the pain in the ass Irishman back before he could carry out his threat.
"One – Ta – Three… Okay then, pin back yar ears Mr. C – I - A if ya think Am lyin'."
Regardless of how angry he had been at the time at having his plans thwarted by a bunch of criminals and terrorists he had instantly been reminded of another of his favorite platitudes.
When dealing with a trained operative, it is like playing chess with a master. Dealing with criminals, on the other hand, is like playing checkers with a three year-old: they like to change the rules...
So he had bitten back the words which he had longed to utter and instead plastered a smile on his face and made sure none of his rancour could be heard in his voice when he agreed to the changes.
With one eye on the pavement and the spot on the opposite side of the busy main road where he had left the nondescript sedan Mrs. Joyce had rented under a false flag, Agent Card used his other eye to study one of the last surveillance photographs taken of Maeve Glenanne. It was a dark, grainy shot taken at long range during the funeral of her youngest child. She looked tiny and frail standing at the head of the funeral cortege with Liam at her side and the rest of the family lined up behind them.
During the mid-fifties, all the way through the sixties and into the early seventies, Maeve Glenanne had been a poster girl for the Republican cause, renown for her steadfast support of her firebrand husband Patrick and feared for her own abilities with a shotgun: arrested seventeen times for obstruction, six times for actual bodily harm, and nine for grievous bodily harm, yet all those arrests never once led to charges being filed. Even the British Army's own interrogators had reported they had been unable to break her and further attempts would be an exercise in futility.
But it had been fifteen years since she had effectively been forced into retirement, exiled from the front lines in north by her second born to live in the safety of the south. All the reports Mrs. Joyce had managed to get her hands on said the same thing.
Ever since Liam Glenanne had taken over control of the family, the days of having to defend her home from loyalist attacks or armed assaults by either the Ulster constabulary or the British army had gone. The wife of a legendary IRA bomb-maker and mother to her own personal terror cell now spent her days tending to the needs of her Belgium shepherd dogs or polishing the pews in St. Augustine Church.
Tom Card took another bite of ginger cake and closed the file. It seemed like O'Keefe had actually done him a favor.
If given the choice to attempt to sell his plan to a rumored to be psychotic hardened terrorist or to go on a charm offensive to win the support of the said terrorist's ageing mother, it was really a no brainer.
()()()()
As he continued to stare at the door between the kitchen and the living room while trying to figure out what to say to Fiona, the ex-spy's former terrorist girlfriend was the first to break the silence.
"When ya asked about anythin' I should refrain fram doin', whot exactly did ya have in mind, Bobby Creegan?"
Michael turned around and found himself facing the woman he loved as she sauntered slowly in his direction, her hips swaying and her lips curving into an alluring smile.
"Cat got yar tongue?" Stopping in front of him, she placed her hands on his shoulders for balance while she stood on her tiptoes to brush her lips over his. "I thought ya always hadda answer fer everythin'?"
He swallowed, closed his eyes and then pulled her into his arms, holding her close.
Fiona Glenanne was the strongest, the toughest woman he had ever known and yet she also had a sweet vulnerability about her which, even though she was doing her best to hide it, was shining through her flirty façade. Her blue-green eyes still glistened with the tears she had shed earlier and her lips, though smiling, trembled from the effort of putting on a brave face.
Dropping his chin, he buried his face into her neck, breathing in her natural scent. Why hadn't she told him?
He couldn't ask outright, he didn't have a clue on what to say and from what she had said it would seem like it had happened years ago, her brothers having already dealt with the animal who had attacked her. What was her family thinking? Damn their stupid Glenanne pride, she should have been taken to a hospital, received treatment, counselling...
Even as he thought those things, he knew exactly why that hadn't happened. Fiona herself would never have allowed it and as for her family... well, in the midst of their 'dating' phrase, he'd gotten a sharp reminder of how her family handled threats, perceived or otherwise, to its members.
He had been slammed hard against the wall, the back of his head bouncing off the flowered wallpaper in Sean Glenanne's living room. "Am nae happy about this, but Am nae so stupid as ta think I can stop tha pair o' ya..." Fiona's brother had leaned in close. "But ya hurt har in any way, I swear I'll feckin' castrate ya me self."
At the time he had thought the youngest of the Glenanne boys was just being wildly over-protective, given how capable his sister was of defending herself. After all, the man had just walked in to find them sitting on his couch kissing. He had written it off at the time to typical Irish big brother bravado, particularly in Sean's case as he was always trying to prove himself.
But now the fury in the man's intense blue-green eyes and the violence that had followed seemed a little more justified. He'd received a quieter, but no less real, promise of the same outcome from Rosanna. It had puzzled him coming one of his few early advocates in the family; however, now it made perfect sense.
"Michael?" she whispered his name and drew back so she could look up at his face. "Michael, say sommit..."
Raising his head to stare up at the ceiling, he breathed in deeply and then let it out in a long sigh.
Her small delicate hand, which was capable of delivering a resounding slap or a bone jarring punch, gently ghosted over his cheek.
"Am fine. It wa' years ago an' tha bastid is in his grave."
He heard the quiver in her voice behind the bravado and looked down at her. There was so much more he needed to say and he was angry with himself that for all his training and field experience, he had no idea what that was. With another sigh, he turned his mind to the things he could control.
"Ya need ta come up wit' thot list o' places I asked fer..." His own hurt over her past pain made the words come out harsher than he'd intended, but he continued on in a rush, desperate to focus on something else to divert him from his perceived helplessness in the situation. "It's more important than ever we find, we find somewhere safe to settle... I thought we had months, but… but we don't, so -"
"Michael, calm down, yer accent's slippin'," she warned on a whisper. "Am ten weeks thot's all. We have plenty o' time."
"No, we donnae Kim..." He paused biting down hard on his bottom lip to stop the words that longed to come out. She was using his own tactics against him, deflecting and down playing the whole situation.
"Bobby, Am absolutely certain thot this babby of ours isnae goin' ta arrive -"
"I know thot," he interrupted. "But we have ta find a safe place whare we can stay until after tha birth. We have ta find a doctor we kin trust... Money fer ya ta stay in hospital and ta pay tha rent on a house. We donnae-"
"Shhhh…." The hand which had been stroking through his beard moved to cover his lips and stop his words. "Yer gettin' way ahead o' yarself, me darlin' man. Ya get us ta France, thot's tha first step. Fram thar, we've got tha whole o' Europe ta find somewhare an' as fer money... We both have tha skills ta take whotever we need."
"Wa're nae robbin' banks," Michael countered flatly.
"I seem ta remember tellin' ya befer, at tha end o' tha day a spy is just a thief wit' a government pay check... We'll do whot we have ta, whotever it takes ta get tha job done."
Now she was using his favorite catchphrase against him, but her tactics weren't helping to settle any of his anxiety.
"We'll do whot we have ta, as long as it donnae put either o' ya in unnecessary danger," he amended.
"Thot's all o' us, Bobby, nae just me an' tha babby... I've told ya befer yer gonna get yarself killed tryin' ta keep me safe. Yer nae gonna leave us alone cuz o' yar stubbornness." He heard the same tremor in her voice again. "Wa're in this together, remember?"
"Aye, sweetheart…" He needed to pull himself together. The shoe was firmly on the other foot and he was pretty uncomfortable in her wedges, he decided, a trace of humor helping to settle his own angst. There would be time to deal with this later.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and then, when she tilted her chin upwards, he drew her back into his arms and into a lingering kiss. They were still wrapped in each other's arms when, after a gentle knock on the kitchen door, a soft voice called out.
"Are ya decent, Kim...? Sara has gone nar an' we wa' wonderin' if ya would both like a nice cuppa tea?"
Pulling apart, they stared into one other's eyes and smiled. "Yes, Cathy, Am decent nar an' we'd both love a cuppa tea, thank ya," Fiona answered back through the wooden barrier between them.
"I should try ta get Gerry ta one side, tell ham wa're leavin' t'night. D'ya think ya can convince Esme ta drop us off in tha nearest town?" he asked quietly.
"I told ya once befer, senior citizens ar' one o' me many specialities."
Before he could comment, the door to the kitchen swung open and their host's sister in law stepped into the room, her bright blue eyes peering through the thick lens of her spectacles as she eyed the young couple.
"Esme, come on in an' sit yarself down." Fiona caught hold of the older woman's arm and began to guide her over to one of the chairs close to the hearth. "Bobby, why dontcha bring a coupla logs in fer tha fire?"
()()()()
"If ya donnae mind me askin', whot are we doin' sittin' har? Tis been over an hour an' ya left Seamus thinkin' ya wa' goin' ta a church meeting."
Connor O'Toole knew he wasn't the smartest man in Liam Glenanne's employ, his skillset relied rather more on his two hundred pound frame and his ability to punch holes in whatever or whoever stood in his way than being able to problem solve. But even he knew that the market town of Naas was twenty miles north of the usual meeting place for the ladies of the St. Augustine church committee.
"Tis a meetin' o' a sort Am goin' ta." He glanced into his rear view mirror as he heard the Maeve Glenanne move forward on the back seat and then gulped when he felt her breath against his ear and one small slender hand land gently on his shoulder. "Nar, be a good lad an' keep this between tha pair o' us. I'll be lettin' Seamus an' Liam know, but nae till after."
He had always been a little in awe of the great Maeve Glenanne, having grown up three houses down from where the family had lived in West Belfast during the mid-seventies. At the age of seven, he had witnessed her taking a saucepan to the head of a police officer attempting to gain entry to her home and had watched open mouthed, until his own mother had dragged him in indoors, as the tiny bird like woman had been picked up by three more officers all at least twice her size and thrown into the back of an armored patrol vehicle.
"I willnae call in... But if Shay or Liam ring me, I cannae lie ta them." He came up with a compromise he hoped his boss's mother would agree to."
"Thot will be fine, Connor. Am gonna be jus' down tha road thar at Clary's. I'll be back in half an hour, so ye jus' sit back an' wait har an' as long as ya keep yar promise ta stay off ya phone, I'll be sure ta bring ya back a piece o' Clary's apple turn over... Nar, let me outta tha back o' this contraption an' I'll be on me way."
Hurriedly leaving his position behind the wheel of Seamus' heavily armored Mitsubishi Shogun, the enforcer rushed around to the other side of the large SUV to open the rear door on the pavement side.
"Sorry, I shoulda taken off tha child locks befer we left. I didnae think-"
Maeve took the younger man's hand and stepped out onto the pavement. "Whot ya mean ta say is Shay ordered ya ta leave tha blasted things on..." She took a moment to pull and tug on her skirt to straighten up the seams. "I donnae know whot tha pair o' ya wa thinkin', tis nae like am gonna fall out, tis it?... Nar, wait har an' keep yar eyes open. If Am nae back in thirty minutes, ya can come an' get me."
Leaning down, Connor took a moment to switch off the child lock on the back door and then as he straightened up, he frowned.
The usually spritely Mrs Glenanne was walking at little more than a snail's pace, her perfect posture replaced with the hunched shoulders and appearance of a much older woman. Taking a cigarette from the pocket of his short leather jacket, the enforcer lit up his smoke.
"Am gonna get some shite fer this," he muttered under his breath as he made his way back to his seat behind the wheel.
()()()()
Martin McCullough flopped down into this car and with a weary sigh slumped forward, resting his head on the steering wheel. It had been a long trying morning. First had been his unpleasant conversation with Tommy O'Neill.
How tha hell wa' he ta know it wa' tha man himself callin' on his mother's phone? Dinnae tha stupid mare call ham at every opportunity? Tha las' time had been cuz tha friggin' washing machine wa' broke. Whot tha feck did he know about repairin' tha friggin' thing?
And now after spending all morning scouring Clonmel, he was no further forward in his search for the bloody Glenanne woman. He banged his forehead against the hard plastic wheel.
Every single B and B, the bus and train stations, cafes, and truck stops...Whot on God's green earth had possessed ham ta promise a certified feckin' head banger thot he could find his old girlfriend? Jayzuz, man, if tha girl donnae want ta know ya, move on...
At that moment, his phone began to ring and with a huff he sat upright and then swore under his breath when he didn't recognize the number on the caller display.
"Tis Martin, whot can I do fer ya?" Resting back in his seat, he answered the call.
"Martin, tis Lindsey... Fram Cindy's cafe, ya left me yar number this morning."
"Aye, aye Lindsey, tha waitress, I remember." He sat upright, the look of defeat slipping from his face. "Ya have sommit fer me?" Please God, tell me ya have tham sat at a table, waitin' ta be snatched up.
"Mabbe, but first, thot money ya wa' flashin'. D'ya mean it? Ya still have it wit' ya?"
"O' course I do, darlin', nar whot d'ya know?"
The line went quiet for a few seconds and then when she spoke again her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Thar's a woman in har, a community nurse, ya know one o' those who drive around seein' ta tha old folk, or those thot cannae get ta hospital... She's just been on tha phone ta har husband I think it wa'... Tellin' ham all about a mysterious couple har Uncle Gerry has taken in... Well, whot d'ya think? She's still har if yer nearby, ya could ask har all about it. Thot's gotta be worth sommit, yeah?"
He stared at his own reflection in the rear view mirror, his eyes narrowing as he weighed up the odds of more than one mysterious couple being found roaming the Irish countryside. "Has she said anythin' else about them?... Did she say whot they looked like or anythin' at all? Whot about whar they came fram?"
"No, nothin' like thot... Oh, she did say they woman wa' pregnant."
"Jayzuz! Feck me sidewards..." Tommy wa' gonna have a fit if this woman turned out ta be Glenanne... "Sorry, luv... Look, can ya keep har thar? Am ten minutes away." He fumbled getting the key into the ignition.
"I -"
"They'll be an extra twenty in it fer ya. Jus mess up har order, do whotever ya have ta, please, luv."
He hung up before she had a chance to reply. Tossing his phone onto the passenger seat he pulled away from the curb, searching for a place where he could turn around.
It wasn't much, but it was a lead and something he could take to O'Neill. He just hoped the nurse knew something worthwhile. With his eyes fixed on the road ahead, he reached over and picked up his phone.
Twenty minutes earlier, while he had been sitting in the bus station cafe chatting to a couple of the drivers, he'd received a text message from Kevin telling him they'd gotten car trouble and needed picking up from outside the entrance to the disused gravel pit on the Clonmel Road.
Using just his thumb, he pressed down on one on his speed dial and held his phone up to his ear.
"Kev, I have a lead. Find yar self another car an' get yar arse over ta Cindy's cafe in Clonmel... And donnae take all day about it." He ended the call before his brother could reply, not caring for one second that his brother hadn't uttered a single word, not even a greeting.
And twenty miles away, sitting on the back seat of his Mercedes S class, Liam Glenanne tossed Kevin McCullough's phone down on the seat beside him and smiled grimly.
"It looks like big brother isnae gonna be as accommodating. Wa're lookin' fer a place called Cindy's cafe in Clonmel... D'ya think ya can find it fer us, Joe? Sometime this week would be good, lad."
()()()()
Spies come from all walks of life and no two are exactly alike. But whether they're an experienced operative who uses his wealth of knowledge to bring up the next generation of spies or a former star of a terrorist organization, they both share one trait: Punctuality. Showing up on time means you're fifteen minutes late.
Entering Clary's Tearooms, Maeve hesitated in the doorway. She had already identified the man she was going to be meeting, but gave no sign until he got to his feet and gestured with the wave of his hand. Letting the door swing shut, she made her way slowly over to the table, smiling sweetly and apologizing when she had to squeeze through a gap between other customers.
Though she was perfectly capable of defending herself and had never been squeamish regarding the use of firearms or bombs to make a point, she also knew the value of being underestimated.
How many times during the height of The Troubles had she donned a wig and, with her head bowed muttering only the softest and most polite replies to the soldiers questions, made it safely through the security forces check points while carrying weapons and information to "the boys."
"Mrs. Glenanne," the American held out a hand in greeting, which she pointedly ignored. "Please, sit."
Smiling graciously, Maeve allowed him to help her out of coat and then hold her chair while she took the proffered seat.
"Er, um, there is no need to pretend, not with me." He smiled nervously and sat down facing her across the white linen covered round table. "I, er, understand you have every reason in the world to hate my guts."
"I donnae hate ya, Mr. -?" She gave him a chance to fill in the gap, but when he made no move to give her a name, she continued. "I donnae know a thing about ya, or whot ya want, come to thot."
"You don't know what a relief it is to hear you say that. I was hoping we could be if not friends at least become allies. Wasn't it one of your country's great heroes, who said, 'the part which American friendship played in helping us to win the freedom we enjoy in this part of Ireland has been gratefully recognized and acknowledged by our people'...?"
She couldn't believe her ears; Ryan had warned her tha man was crafty... "Yar quotin' Michael Collins at me? He also said: thar's no crime in detectin' an' destroyin' in wartime tha spy an' tha informer. They have destroyed without trial. I have paid them back in thar own coin... I think thot one is more relevant ta our discussion, dontcha think?"
"You believe you are still at war?" He raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Whot flag flies o'er Stormont? An' if we are nae at war, why would ya be sittin' har wantin' ta talk ta me about yar missing spy?"
"Touché, Mrs. Glenanne." He stopped talking as the elderly waitress who had served him earlier came back to the table.
"Can I get yar anything else, sur? An' whot about ya, madame?" she asked as she cleared away the empty plate and the cold teapot.
"Another pot o' tea an' two cups… would ya be wantin' any more cake, Mr….?" She paused again, biting back on the smile that was longing to show as he appeared to flounder, before with a huff he finally gave her a name.
"Perry, you can call me Mr. Perry, and no more cake for me, thank you."
"Thar, thot wasnae hard, wa' it?" If Perry wa' his real name, she'd chew on a brick o' C4. Turning her attention to the patiently waiting waitress, she continued. "It'll just be tha tea fer nar then, thank ye."
With their order complete, Maeve drew back the sleeve of her blouse and checked the time on her wrist watch. "As nice as it wa' ta trade quotes wit' ya, Mr. Perry, I told me driver I would be stepping outside in half an hour an' we've used up ten o' those minutes already, so whot is it ya have ta say?"
She watched as he leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on the table while his lips formed a thin tight line. Then, after a deep sigh, he began to talk.
"I can't believe I'm doing this." He ran his tongue over his top lip before continuing. "Okay, let's cut to the chase. We both know it is a big bad world out there, Ms. Glenanne. I know the involvement of my agency has cost your whole family a lot and for that I am deeply, deeply sorry."
Maeve didn't believe that for a second, but she let him continue without interruption.
"But people like you, me – your son Liam, we make calls every day. We've all done bad things, necessary things I'm sure... I wasn't lying when I said to your nephew that I only want to help, help put an end this situation." He paused again, and lowered his voice as if passing on a secret.
"You see, I, I don't have a whole load of family. In fact, Michael, the man you know as McBride, is the closest thing I have to a son and I'm hoping we can move past all the wrongs that have been done and move into the future... A future where you help me get your daughter back into the arms of her loving family and I take Michael with me on a flight to somewhere far away and I swear you will never hear from either one of us again."
He sat back in his chair as the waitress returned with a tray holding a fresh pot of tea and two ornate cups and saucers.
"Are ya sure ya will nae be wantin' anythin' else?"
"We're positive, thank you." Agent Perry dismissed the woman with a cursory wave of his hand and then flashed his teeth in a dazzling smile. "So, what do you say, Mrs. Glenanne? Your family's local knowledge and my agencies technology, working together, we could have those crazy kids back where they belong in oh let's say forty eight hours."
"Is thot it? Technology? How far has all yar fancy equipment got ya so far?"
"They will ruin each other's lives, Ms. Glenanne. Michael's status at the agency is on shaky ground at best and, forgive me for saying this, but your daughter makes a living trading weapons to some very dangerous people. What do you think will happen when word gets out? When every person they have ever crossed comes looking for payback? What I'm talking about is keeping them alive… All of them."
Maeve felt her heart begin to beat a little faster at the emphasis the CIA agent put on his last three words.
"Why dontcha just say whot tis ya think ya know, Mr. Perry, an' then I can decide if I think tis sommit my son might be interested in hearing."
She watched intently as he sat back and ran his hands over his slicked back hair. "I could lose everything." He shook his head.
And now it was her turn to lean forward over the table. "Donnae think ya cannae talk ta me about loss, Mr. Agency Man," she hissed. "Ya have read me file, Am sure. Ya know whot I've lost o'er tha years. Nar, if ya have nothin' else ta say, I'll be on me way."
She recognized the game he was playing, from quoting Michael Collins to the way he had told her he thought of McBride as a son. Over the years she had witnessed first-hand the different approaches made by the intelligence services and so far the only thing that was stopping her walking out was the knowledge he had some information about her daughter.
To win a negotiation you have to show you're willing to walk away. And the best way to show you're willing to walk away – is to walk away
She was half way out of her chair when the American reached across the table and captured her wrist.
"I suggest you sit back down, ... Please, sit down and I will tell you everything."
Just for a second she had caught a glimpse of the real man behind all the faux charm, the steely glint in his blue eyes and the flash of arrogance in his words. It crossed her mind at that moment to reach into her bag, pull out her gun and shoot the bastard right between the eyes and have done with it.
But the moment was brief, as good sense took over and after pulling her arm free she retook her seat.
"I'll give ya five more minutes an' then I'm on me way."
"Thank you." He sighed and relaxed back. "This isn't easy for me you know. But let's get down to business... As you undoubtedly know, Michael and your daughter have been living and working together for quite some time, so I'm guessing what I am about to say can't come as a galloping shock to you... I have a strong reason to believe your daughter is with child, Michael's child... And if I'm right, we both know what a colossal disaster is about to unfold."
Sucking in a deep breath, Maeve forced down all her emotions. If she had been tempted to shoot him before, the urge now was almost impossible to bear. As a way of giving her hands something else to do, she poured them both a cup of tea.
"Tis true Fiona has shown some bad judgement recently, but whot makes ya so sure yer right about this?"
"I know some of this will be hard to hear, but one thing you'll always get from me is the truth, Ms Glenanne. Michael is a highly trained, experienced operative, he is or was a patriot, completely loyal to his country and government. I can only think of one, maybe two, scenarios which would cause him throw away his career, his life like this." Her new best friend paused and drew a breath, for dramatic effect she had no doubt, as if she needed any more reason to hang on his next words.
"And then I found several pages from a variety of pregnancy magazines at that cottage where your daughter blew up a US embassy helicopter and its crew... And having paid a visit the happy couple's apartment, I can tell you 'Mother and Baby' isn't on your daughter's regular reading list, soooo that leaves only one conclusion."
"Who knows about this?" Maeve closed her eyes as her mind was suddenly filled with all the dangers her only living girl was facing.
They would have to send her away, somewhere remote where nobody would know who she was, and then maybe in a year or two she could come back with a tragic tale of a dead husband. Or maybe Isabelle or Rosanna could -
"No one, I found the evidence and dealt with it personally. I mean, it isn't like it is something that is going to stay hidden for long is it?" The CIA man continued to drone on.
"I'll speak ta Liam… D'ya have a number we can contact ya on?"
He produced a slip of paper and a pen from his pocket and scribbled down a number. "Right here and now, I can tell any story I want. As far as the rest of my team knows, I've taken the afternoon off. But dear sweet Fiona isn't going to be able to hide her condition for long and once-"
"I understand, Mr. Perry." Maeve snatched the piece of paper from his hand and got to her feet. "I'll speak ta me son and ya'll have our answer by tha end o' tha day." She pulled on her coat and picked up her bag. "Nobody else knows about this, yer sure?"
"Nobody, you have my word."
"I'll be in touch… G'day ta ya."
Weaving between the tables, she stopped beside the long glass fronted counter which ran along the far wall of the tea room. "I'll take a slice o' tha apple turnover ta eat out, please." She spoke to the young woman standing on the other side of the counter and then half turned as the older woman who had been their server came out of the kitchen. "I think me gentleman friend is ready ta pay tha bill."
"I'll be sure ta get it fer him nar."
"Ye do thot. In fact ya can add on tha price o' me apple turnover. Am sure he can afford it." Picking up the decorative box holding the treat for Connor O'Toole, Maeve stepped back out on to the street.
Card watched as the matriarch of the clan took her leave. He hadn't been fooled for one minute by the frail old lady act the former terrorist had insisted on putting on. MI-5 and 6 were both wrong about Maeve Glenanne. She might have been removed from the front line, but there was no doubt in his mind she was still the power behind the throne, the one her oldest surviving son turned to in times of difficulty.
"Will ya be wantin' anythin' else, sur?"
He looked up into a pair of pale blue eyes and wrinkled features of the elderly waitress.
"Um, no, thank you, just the bill."
"I have it here, sur... Tha lady said ya would be payin' fer tha pastry she purchased?" She placed a saucer down on the table with the receipt resting on top.
"Of course, just wait a second." He picked up the bill and perused the charges before reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulling out his wallet. Choosing a twenty Irish pound note, he handed the saucer and money to the waitress. "Keep the change."
"Thank ye, sur." She beamed and walked away.
Card ran a quick hand over his jelled hair before coming to his feet. The intel had been delivered. The only thing left to do now was await the outcome of the transaction. He wondered briefly what chain of events was being set off right now within Clan Glenanne at the news that their wayward sister was about to present them all with an addition to the brood as he headed towards the front of the café and towards his car.
()()()()()
Walking straight into the back room between where the counter for out-sales and the kitchen, the elderly waitress with the kindly face dropped both the invoice and the twenty pound note into a metal trash can and then carried it outside. Standing in a small courtyard, she dropped a match onto the two pieces of paper and watched them burn.
"Auntie Claire, he's gone. Ar' ya sure Am nae gonna get inta any trouble fer this?" Maureen O'Donnell asked her father's uncle's widow.
"It'll be fine, Maureen. Thot man has nae told a soul whot he wa' up ta – an' nar he never will."
Claire Saoirse Glenanne-Sullivan-Fitzpatrick-O'Donnell smiled dreamily into the flames as the only evidence of her wrong doing turned to ashes.
"But whot if –?"
"Nothin' will ever come back on ya, Maureen, me love. Ya have ta trust yar Auntie Claire. Believe me, I've done this more times than I can count." She patted the young woman on the cheek and then removed the crisp white apron she had worn while posing as a waitress.
"Nar ya run along an' ferget all about this an' I'll be sure ta mention yar kindness ta yar cousin Liam... Why I would nae be surprised if he dinnae have a word wit' thot planning officer ya wa' complainin' about. Mabbe he can convince tha man ta rush through yar application ta expand inta next door...Nar, ya need ta get back ta yar customers an' I need ta be on me way. I have a bread puddin' in tha oven an' I donnae want it burned."
With that, the many times married sister-in-law to Maeve Glenanne slipped out of the gate leading into an alleyway behind the shops and walked away.
Nobody, not anybody, threatened her brother's children and got away with it, especially jumped up Americans out to do the British government's dirty work.
The longer you've been in the game, the more you have to be careful about underestimating an opponent. Say you don't think much of senior citizens, don't feel they're worth your time or attention? Then a little old lady posing as a waitress with receipt coated in hydrofluoric acid is the perfect person to send to kill you.
()()()()
Pregnant, her girl wa' pregnant, carrying a babe which could bring tha whole world crashing down on tha lot o' tham.
Maeve closed her eyes and fell back against the shop window next to Clary's, her heart beating so fast she put a hand to her chest to stop the pain.
They had ta act fast. She had ta put a stop ta it all befer matters got any worse. Gasping and gulping down air, she fought to bring herself back under control, forcing the fear down and quelling the panic which had risen up so fast it had nearly overtaken her.
Reaching into her bag, she brought out her phone and pressed down on one on the speed dial. Liam had made it plain that he was going to be too busy to take calls, that the sound of his phone ringing at the wrong time could get him killed. But this was too important; she had to take the chance.
The number she had dialled was one only known to closest family members and was only to be used in dire emergencies. It was also the number of the only phone her oldest son never turned off.
"Whot's up?" Her son answered the call on the third ring, his voice sounding more grim than usual.
"Liam, thank God, have ya found tham? Tell me ya have nae found tham yet."
"Am close, Am followin' up on sommit right now. Mam, why are ya callin' me?"
"I've jus' learned - it doesnae matter, I'll explain it ta a later, but ya need tae bring tham both back ta me, unhurt... I have ta talk ta tham both, ya hear me, son?"
"I hear ya, but we talked about this -"
"Fiona's pregnant! She's run off because she's carrying McBride's babby. Ya cannae kill him. Ya bring tham back home, in chains if ya have ta, but ya donnae kill ham."
"She's… she's pregnant? How d'ya-"
"Aye, she is, an' I'll tell ya all about it later. Fer now, just take it as gospel. I have ta go nar, son. Bring har back an' quickly befer it becomes common knowledge."
"Shite... Sorry... I'll do me best... though I cannae guarantee McBride wonnae have a coupla holes in ham, but he'll be breathing."
"Thot's all I ask, son. Nar get back ta it."
Putting the phone away, she sniffed and then froze as a shadow fell over her and something hard and very familiar dug into her side.
"Mrs. Glenanne, you look tired. Let me assist you to your car."
The crisp cold tones of an English accent sent a chill up her spine, but the gun muzzle being pushed hard against her ribs stopped her from reacting with anything other than complete compliance.
"Now don't try anything stupid and all this will be over soon." She barely managed to control the urge to cringe as the stranger gripped her arm with his free hand, drawing her to his side. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"