A/N: As usual, we thank you all for your reviews and continued interest in our little tale of the path not taken. Our lovers have escaped the reach of their latest set of enemies and are poised to make peace with Fiona's family… But can anything ever really be that easy for Michael and Fiona?
BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Thirty Four
When yer on tha hunt fer a traitor and ya need information fast, tha best approach is ta provoke action, set people in motion. Ya go through yar target's life, ya speak ta those thot know tham best. Ya beat tha bushes until eventually sommit flies out, until some panicked individual gives ya whot ya want or goes runnin' off ta warn thar friend or family member thot yer comin' fer tham. It wa' inevitable, like death and taxes.
While Davy Doyle put his employer's large Mercedes S class through its paces along the narrow back roads between Clonmel and the town of Portlaoise some sixty miles to the north, Liam Glenanne lounged on the wide comfy back seat, trying to take a much needed nap; however, his mind was refusing to cooperate. There was, simply put, too much insanity going on around him.
His sister was on the run with a man who would sooner or later be denounced as a spy. His mother and aunt had in the space of one afternoon poisoned the man in charge of the CIA's manhunt for Michael Westen and had slaughtered a British assassin who had been planning on using Maeve as bait to bring in the fugitive couple.
Of course, he had the greatest respect for his Aunt Claire's skills with her box of potions. The woman had in her day managed to slip in to the barracks at Armagh and introduce listeria toxin into a whole vat of spaghetti bolognese, incapacitating a large number of troopers the day before a civil rights protest march was going to be passing through the town. His mother was no slouch either when it came to protecting her family, whether it was using a batch of home-made explosive, a shotgun or an Armalite rifle.
But the two women had been retired for years and there were too many factors which his elders had failed to take into account when they had slipped out of their pinafores and dusted off their weapons.
Whot if they had miscalculated when they had reacted ta tha threat posed by tha American and tha English hitman? Whot if tha CIA agent had lied about not telling anyone about thar meeting? Whot if the assassin had nae been working alone?
Liam opened his eyes and stared out at the blur of green fields and stone-built walls as Davy kept up a furious pace. The CIA and MI6 weren't the only ones threatening his family. There was another organization which, if they got the slightest whiff that the Glenannes had betrayed them, would prove far more lethal.
So far he had managed to conceal what was going on from the Executive Council of the Provisional IRA, but that wasn't going to last for long if he didn't clean up all the mess his little sister had caused by choosing Michael Westen over her family.
The two bodies he had handed over, along with a recording of Pat Mulholland's confession, had satisfied his superiors' concerns about an informer in their ranks, at least for now. The bigger problem was what the council members' reaction was going to be to the deaths of the O'Neill siblings and Antonio Ortega.
Thomas O'Neill had been nothing more than a bloodthirsty hooligan, trading on his relative's reputation in an effort to become more than a foot soldier. His penchant for death and destruction had eventually caused him to change his allegiance to the Real IRA. Liam was fairly certain the younger man's demise wasn't going to cause anybody to lose sleep.
But young Tommy's sister was a totally different matter. Fourteen years older than Thomas, Scarlett O'Neill had raised her little brother all by herself after their parents and siblings were wiped out by a fire bomb posted through the letterbox of the family home.
At one time, she had been the darling of the original IRA with a reputation as a totally ruthless cold blooded killer. Even though she had retired to marry her Spanish lover Antonio Ortega over ten years ago, she still had friends amongst the various factions of the IRA. Many of those men were part of the old guard, the ones who now held all the power and called the shots.
And if he was going to protect his family from the wrath of those men, he was going to have to sell the story he had come up with everything he had.
"WHOT THA FECK!"
Liam grabbed hold of the back of seat in front of him when the Mercedes fishtailed dangerously as it shot out of a quiet country lane onto a busy main road.
"Sorry about thot, boss, but ya said ya wanted ta get har fast." Davy Doyle risked looking over his shoulder and grinned at his friend and employer before slotting the large car into a gap between two fast moving lorries.
"Whar ar' we?" the eldest Glenanne asked, peering out of the window in search of some landmark which would give him a clue.
"Whar ya wanted ta be... Keys Business Park is just along the way." Doyle gestured with the nod of his head to a high chain link fence running along the opposite side of the road.
Keys had been the destination he had given his driver as a place to aim for. He had chosen the busy industrial estate for several reasons, the main one being for its position right next to the motorway which cut across the country from Dublin to Limerick.
"Go down onta tha motorway headin' west, then pull off again at tha first service station ya come ta," he ordered.
"Tha motorway? I thought tha plan wa' ta stay off tha radar?" Davy quizzed his friend.
"Thot was then, nar I wanta make sure wa're seen. So if anyone asks, we can prove we war no whar near Clonmel on tha morning Tommy O'Neill blew his self ta bits."
When Liam had driven away from Coleraine's farm, he'd had clear goal in his head and a few vague tactical ideas on how to make it happen. Finding O'Neill's transport along the way had helped a lot, especially when they discovered a small amount of Real IRA operative's own brand of explosive on board.
It was something he had learned almost from the cradle: bomb makers, like master chefs, tend to have their own signature dish. If you can duplicate it, you can leave their fingerprint wherever you want. And now he was going to use that knowledge to remove all doubt that it was Tommy O'Neill who made a fatal error and blew himself up.
With the two bodies in the boot of his Mercedes, Donald behind the wheel of O'Neill's Land Rover and Jamesy in the cousin's panel van, they had continued on their way to Clonmel, arriving at the quarry just as the sun was peeking over the horizon and by then he had been working through the final details of his plan to protect his family.
"So this trip has nothin' ta do wit' yar sister?"
"Fiona is -" The head of the family paused, a sick feeling rising up at the thought of giving voice to what he had been thinking. "Am done wit' har... Fiona has made har own bed, she can lie in it."
"Ya cannae mean it." Doyle couldn't keep the shock out of his voice. "After all this, yer just goin' ta let har go?"
"She's made it plain enough she does nae want me help an' now with O'Neill dead and thot CIA guy wiped out, tis time I concentrate on saving our skins. Nar, stop asking questions and do whot I pay ya ta do." Liam hadn't slept for over forty eight hours and the stress was getting to him.
The eldest dreaded the thought of having to admit his failure to his mother and feared what the consequences of his sister's and mother's actions were going to have on the whole family. He had no choice now but to put all his thoughts into damage control.
They had positioned the bodies to look like the American had tried to get the drop on the two RIRA men and then had stood well back before using a remote detonator to reduce the storage shed to fiery pile of rubble.
With the whole area covered in smoke and dust, they had abandoned the Land Rover with O'Neill and Martin McCullough's DNA and fingerprints all over it where it would be found. Jamesy and Donald had taken off for Waterford in their panel van to make sure the senior McCulloughs kept their mouths shut when the Gardai came calling while the head of Clan Glenanne was driven away in the opposite direction.
Wiping a hand over his eyes, Liam fought against a wave of fatigue. Things were moving fast now. He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket as Davy pulled into a parking space close to the facilities at the motorway services.
"Go clean yar self up an' get us some coffee an' sommit ta eat. I've gotta make a call." He dismissed the other man, staring down at his phone until Doyle exited the vehicle, leaving him alone.
He had already lied to Valentine Temple once in the last three days and now he was going to compound that lie and possibly provoke a bloody civil war amongst the various factions of the IRA, all to protect his family from the repercussions of his wayward sister's actions.
Running his tongue over his lips, he pressed down on the key which would put the call through to the man who had vouched for him during his initiation into the Provo. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and a cold sweat breaking out down his back. Wa' this how all traitors felt when they took thot first step over tha line…?
"Liam Glenanne, jus' tha man I wanted ta talk taa."
At the sound of Temple's voice, Liam closed off that part of his brain which was racked by guilt. What he was about to do was necessary for the survival of all his kin.
"Seamus called me late last night an' said ya had been trying ta get hold o' me... Sorry but I've been busy. I had me phone turned off." Swallowing down the distaste for what was to come, the PIRA's premiere interrogator kept his tone level.
"I wa' after an update on yar sister. But nar… nar, I've got more important things on me mind... I've had one o' Sinn Fein's chief advisers in me ear fer tha last hour wantin' ta know whot tha feck wa're playin' at when thar's talks goin' on."
"Whot's thot supposed ta mean?" He feigned ignorance. "I've already tol' ya, tha Yank's helicopter comin' down had nothin' ta do wit' Fiona an' if ya'll remember, twas Sean who got jumped. We still donnae know if he's gonna get tha full use o' his arm back... By tha way, have ya found out anythin' about thot?"
"Am nae talkin' about thot. Have ya nae seen tha news this mornin'? Thar's been an explosion over in Clonmel, three dead... An' thot's nae tha end o' it… Scarlett O'Neill, ya remember har, dontcha? Well, she wa' killed las' night… executed on a mountain pass along wit' har ol' man, so she was. Paisley an' his DUP bunch are already claimin' it has sommit ta do wit' us an' is shoutin' his head off, demandin' Sinn Fein be thrown out o' tha talks fer good this time."
The older man paused, drawing a breath before delivering the worst of his news. "An' d'ya want ta hear tha rest o' it? Whot's nae made it ta tha press yet? Addam's people got it firsthand fram a fella inside Special Branch. Thay've already gotta a name on one o' tha dead. Martin feckin' McCullough, a wannabe, but also a good friend o' Thomas O'Neill's. D'ya see whar Am goin' wit' this, laddie?"
Liam swallowed thickly. He hadn't expected Val to already have the names of the dead in Clonmel. He had thought he had time to drip feed the suspicions he'd planned on raising...
"Ya think somebody has declared war on tha O'Neills, an' Am guessin' ya think thot person is me," he answered the question and then immediately laid out his defense. "I've been out searchin' fer me sister, Val, jus' like ya tol' me ta. D'ya really think I've had time ta go after thot deranged bitch? An' why would I? Feck it, I have nae even thought about har in years until ya brought har up."
It had been during his first year as head of the family when he had had his first and only contact with the notorious IRA enforcer, Scarlett O'Neill. He had been tasked with hunting down a former volunteer who had turned on his compatriots in return for a large cash payment from the Crown.
The man had been ghost and after two weeks with no results, he had been informed by the ruling council they were sending somebody more experienced to assist in the hunt.
"I've gone through his life, turned tha lives o' everyone he loves ta shite an' it's made no difference. He took tha money cuz his kid has some rare form o' cancer an' needs ta go ta some fancy hospital in America. Am watchin' tha kid's mother waitin' fer har ta make a move, but so far she an' tha kid have stayed put. My guess is thar waitin' fer tha Brits to get 'em out."
"Yer taa soft," the older woman had told him. "I'll have ham beggin' us ta kill ham by tomorra mornin'... Watch an' learn."
Temple snorted his disbelief. "I know how ya work, Liam, an' let's face it, whar thar's smoke, thar's usually fire. Thar have been rumors makin' tha rounds fer days thot Tommy boy wa' on his way home. Ya took yar feelings fer his sister an' took 'em out on tha lad when he hooked up wit' Fiona las' time, takin' his teeth out wit' a hammer an' orderin' ham outta tha country…"
Their best interrogator knew the PIRA shot caller was remembering the same somewhat uncomfortable conversation which had followed that incident just as he was.
"We let ya get away wit' it cuz ya war grievin' fer yar Claire an' Tommy wa' a pain in tha arse," Val almost chuckled, but not quite. "But nae this time… Whot's ta say thot ya have nae done tha same thing again, only this time ya made sure neither Tommy or harself could come back again?"
Closing his eyes, Liam took a deep breath held it for a second before letting it out slowly and as quietly as he could. He had been in awe of the stunning black haired Miss O'Neill and eager to learn from one of the best. With her insanity well hidden behind doe eyes and full lips, he had been drawn in by her forceful personality and had blindly followed her lead.
So he had stood back and watched as she had built a bomb with thirty pounds of army grade semtex and two cartons of ball bearings soaked in a full bottle of rat poison, which she had then had planted under a table in a busy Belfast restaurant. He had waited at her side across the road in an alleyway for their target's family to take their place for a birthday meal.
He had expected her to call in a warning and he had stared in disbelief when instead of witnessing the evacuation of the whole street and the arrival of the bomb squad, Mr. Glenanne had gotten to see up close and personal the devastation caused by one of O'Neill's bombs.
"Thar, nar, we've taken away everything he loves. Nar, he has no reason left ta hide," she'd smugly informed him, her eyes shining with excitement at the death and destruction she had wrought.
After that, any respect he'd had for the woman was destroyed as effectively as the family friendly restaurant and all its patrons.
"Jayzuz, Val," the younger man poured every ounce of sincerity he could into his words. "Am at a service station jus' outside Portlaoise an' tha last I heard thot crazy bitch wa' livin' in a shack on some Spanish hillside. Am good, but even I cannae be in two places at once."
"Ya have money, Liam, more than most o' us have managed ta squirrel away. Who's ta say ya dinnae pay ta have someone else close Scarlett's eyes fer ya? An' ya say yer in Portlaoise? Clonmel, jus' down tha road fram whar ya say ya ar' now isnae it?"
When yer on tha hunt fer a traitor and ya need information fast, tha best approach is ta provoke action... Wa' Val tryin' ta provoke ham?
"I earned every penny I've got squirrelled away an' ya know it." He shot back at the accusation, but then with a heavy audible sigh, he changed his tone.
This was the tricky bit. If he messed up now, if Val picked up on his deceit, he would be signing not only his own death warrant but that of everyone else the Belfast commander decided was to blame.
"But Am nae gonna lie ta ya. I knew Tommy had come home," Liam admitted, making a show of his reluctance to confess. "And if I'da seen ham, I'da put tha bastid in his grave an' done it wit' a smile on me face. But I've been taa busy trackin' down Fi, like ya ask me ta."
"So whar' is she?" Temple demanded.
"Thot's whot I wa' callin' ta say. She's gone an' las' I saw har, she an' McBride wa' getting' on a light aircraft over by Ballymahon," Liam lied without missing a beat. "My guess is thar on tha way ta tha UK or mabbe France."
"Ballymahon? Whose flyin' outta thar nowadays?"
"I donnae. Twas a little single-engine Cesna. Probably one o' har gun runnin' friends, I'll have ta check wit' Seamus once I get home." He vaguely remembered his brother saying something about an enterprising newcomer to the area setting up a rival smuggling business which was beginning to encroach on Seamus' own trade in contraband.
"Ya war a fool ta give har an ultimatum, lad. Ya should know thar's more than one way ta skin a cat."
"Aye," Liam agreed with the older man, "I donnae know whot I wa' thinkin'. McBride wa' clean, but ya know how tis…tha rumors goin' round about ham war causing troubles fer tha family an' I wanted ham gone. I thought she'd see reason. I shoulda left Fi out o' it an' had a little word wit' him meself, man ta man."
Val Temple's burst of laughter coming through the loud speaker caused Liam to wince. "Reason? Tis Fiona wer talkin' about, is it nae? Aye, ya shoulda had a chat wit' tha lad yarself, but tis done... So, ar' ya headin' home nar?"
"Am gonna spend a few days at me mam's place if ya need me. Colin wa' lookin' inta who ambushed us an' shot Sean in Waterford. If he gets anythin' useful, I'll call ya straight away."
"Ya do thot, son... Ah, ya should know, Desmond McGarry is gonna be lookin' in ta thot explosion in Clonmel an' whot happened over in Spain. So, he's gonna be wantin' a word wit' ya taa."
"Yer bringin' McGarry outta retirement?" Liam felt his stomach knot.
McGarry had to be in his late sixties now. A hardened member of the old guard with no family and no real friends left alive, he was renowned for his tenacity and utter devotion to the Cause. McGarry, tha Taxman... If he was on yar case, ya war done fer... It wa' inevitable jus' like death – an' taxes.
"Orders have come fram up high. Sinn Fein want ham runnin' tha investigation... I tell ya, thar spittin' feathers over this. They only jus' got back inta tha negotiations after tha las' time. I swear thar gonna want blood this time... Still, tis nothin' ta do wit ya nar, is it?.. So ya get yar self home."
He let the silence lay heavy for several seconds, building up a little tension for what he had to say next. Over the years he had witnessed men finally break so many times he could mimic the emotion easily. "Val, thar is sommit... Sommit, if McGarry... If McGarry is gonna be diggin' around I should tell ya nar," he spoke as if the words were being torn from his lips.
"Jayzuz, whot have ya done, Liam?"
"Ye wa' right. I knew O'Neill wa' on his way back an' it wa' on me mind thot if he got word thot Fiona wa' no longer under me protection thot he might go after har..."
He paused, took a deep noisy breath and continued.
"I wa' in Mallow on Monday mornin' when I came across Kevin McCullough an' an older fella, Paddy Moffatt. I thought if tha rumors wa' true, then Kevin would be tha one ta know fer sure. So I followed tham back ta a flat above a bookies on tha high street."
"Ya shoulda called it in. Ya shoulda let us deal wit' O'Neill. Ya -"
"I dinnae call it in cuz I knew ya woulda ordered me ta drop it," Liam interrupted the older man. "An' yer right taa, I woulda killed O'Neill if I knew whar he wa' hidin' out, but McCullough tol' me nothin'... Nothin' but some wild tale about Tommy comin' home ta hunt down some American special forces team who had been behind tha collapse o' tha Real IRA."
"Yer tellin' me O'Neill thought tha Yanks wa' behind it all?" From disappointment at the younger man's lack of discipline, the PIRA shot caller's tone changed to that of mild amusement.
As far as everybody in the know was concerned, the Real IRA had been brought to its knees by the actions of Fiona and Sean Glenanne, who had been acting on behalf of the Provo.
"Aye, I woulda laughed if it warn't so feckin' daft. But McCullough wa' sure o' it. He said Tommy boy had proof thot tha CIA or some Yank special forces team wa' involved..." He paused again, waiting just the right amount of time for his confession once made to have maximum effect.
"I killed tham both. I couldnae risk tham talkin' nae after whot I'd done ta tham. They didnae know whar O'Neill wa' hidin' an' I swear on me family's lives, it wasnae me who killed Tommy or his sister. But ya can see how it'll look when those bodies turn up in Mallow."
"Ya have given me a right mess ta clean up, ya know thot donnae ya?" Valentine growled. "Am goin' ta have ta pass all this up tha line... Americans, ya say?"
"Aye, have ya ever heard anythin' so feckin' stupid? McCullough musta thought I wa' simple minded ta believe thot rot."
"Tommy Boy wa' never known fer his brain power," Temple muttered and then suddenly changed his tone as something else he had heard came to mind. "Ya know, thar wa' an American tourist killed in Lucan yesterday. I heard thar wa' a lot more cops on tha scene than ya would expect fer one tourist... Plain clothes as well as uniform. It might be sommit... I'll mention it ta McGarry."
Liam blinked and sat up straighter. This was better than he had hoped for. Now good old paranoia was finishing the job he had started. Clearing his throat, he gave his boss the rest of his news.
"Seamus mentioned our cousin Ryan wa' sayin' he'd had a run in wit' Frankie Duggan, tha CIRAs sergeant at arms tha other night... Frankie wa' after piggy backing a weapons shipment off Ryan's cigarette runs. He said Duggan wa' backed up by a woman wit' an American accent."
He let the silence hang in the air for a second and then chuckled.
"Feck it, Val, tis all coincidence. We'll be seein' spies hiding in every shadow if wa're nae careful. Whot would tha Yanks have ta gain setting us all against each other?"
"Nae tha Yanks, Liam lad. Am thinkin' tha Brits or Paisley's bunch nar… They'd get a whole lot outta us fighting amongst ourselves an' it tis just tha sorta underhanded trick they'd pull... Am gonna pass this up tha line an' get McGarry ta check it out."
"I'll speak ta Ryan, if ya like... Find out whar tha meetin' took place an' get Colin on tha case. Tis tha least I can do. Thar may be CCTV coverage nearby an' we can catch a look at Duggan's mysterious new friends."
"Ya do thot, lad. I'll have a talk wit' tha Gardai over near Lucan befer callin' McGarry, see whot I can learn fram tham... Ya know, if tis tha CIA stickin' thar noses in whar they donnae belong, it'll give Addam's sommit he can throw back at tha bloody lot o' tham. Jus' think o' all tha concessions he'd be able ta wring outta thot bastid Prime Minister, Mr. Tony bloody Blair ta keep tha talks on track." He laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. "Mabbe we should be hopin' Tommy boy wa' right about tha whole thing."
"Maybe we should... Look, I know Sinn Fein want thar man runnin' tha investigation but ar' ya sure ya want me ta sit this out? I have more contacts in tha North than McGarry, an' if we both work on it, we'll get ta tha truth far quicker than one man workin' alone."
He held his breath waiting, hoping that the Belfast commander would take the bait.
"Sure, knock yarself out. Only ya keep me up ta date on whot ya're doin'. No more wandering off on ya own. Ya got me?"
"Aye, I gotcha, Val."
"Good, call me later after ya talk ta yar brother."
When yer playin' tha role of spy hunter an' tha person yer hunting tis yarself, tha trail of evidence can lead anywhere ya say it does.
With the call over, Liam flopped back in his seat, a broad smile creasing his face.
An' no one can create more fear, more paranoia than tha spy-hunter…
()()()()
And while her big brother was lying to his bosses to protect her, the man of her dreams had just come to the realization of a very startling truth about his beloved. Something buried deeply in the the soul of Michael Westen had broken free and risen swiftly to the surface when the petite redhead had given voice to her fear of his abandonment… her apparent belief that he would grow to hate her and their baby because of all he had lost….
"So you still think I'll leave you one day?"
"Thot's whot ya wa' about ta do, Michael. Not so long ago, ya wa' gonna drug me an' slip away inta tha night."
Her words had jolted him, made him realize that the fear, that pain, he was experiencing now for the first time was the one she had been living with ever since they had decided to runaway together.
He had left everything behind, the career that had defined him most of his entire adult life, to be with her. Hadn't that shown her how much she meant to him…? But staring into her moisture filled eyes had answered his question better than anything she could have said.
He had failed again to make her understand… Why was it that when he was dealing with tribal warlords or terrorist leaders, he knew exactly what to say and do, but with Miss Fiona Glenanne, he was confounded at every turn?
But in that sudden rush of relational clarity, Michael knew the answer: a lifetime of training to keep who he really was and what he thought and felt locked safely away. Fiona had guessed at his true feelings, at his heart, she'd said as much…. Except, it had been just that, a guess, a hunch that her intuitive sense of who he was at his core had been correct.
And that wasn't much of an assurance when being asked to abandon not only who you were and the life you led as he had, but also to leave behind people you were bonded to at the heart level, as she was to her family. They had both known deep down how this was all going to turn out in the end.
And, that was when Mr. Westen had made the decision to ignore all own his deeply rooted trust issues from his nightmare of a childhood and do what was right for the mother of his child…
"I'm right where I want to be and I will always be right here… with you, with our baby... So, that's how I feel and now it's up to you to decide if you believe me." He had dropped down onto one knee in worship of the woman he… loved, his hand still clutching hers as he spoke the words that had up until that moment always stuck in the back of his throat, finally admitting the depth of his feelings.
"Miss Fiona Glenanne, I have nothing to my name. No job, no money and I can't even guarantee being able to provide a roof over your head. Will you have me?"
He had been off-balance and a little unsteady when she had pulled him to his feet, her lips instantly sealing over his, her arms tightly wrapped about his neck as if she planned on never letting him go.
When they had finally parted, both of them more than a little out of breath, Michael hadn't been able to resist speaking the words that had ensured he had gotten that first dance with the most important person in his life.
"I take it thot means yes."
"Yes, Michael, it means yes." She was back in his arms, her body molded tightly against his as those beautiful but so deadly fingers of hers raked through his unruly black hair.
As his whole world had compressed and narrowed to the woman who was truly the center of his own personal universe, the moment becoming almost surreal. Whether from the passion they had thrown into that lip lock or the enormity of the commitment he had just made, the former spy found himself still a little light headed when their mouths separated this time.
"I'll talk ta me mam, she'll convince Liam ta help us," his beloved declared a bit breathlessly herself. "They'll have ta help us nar... nar thot wer ta be married..."
"Marry me, Michael..."
He blinked and tried to push away the guilty secret which had suddenly escaped from the deep recess of his mind.
"Tis fine, Michael," Fiona assured him, fortunately misreading the cause for the sudden shift in his demeanor. "I dinnae ever want a big fancy wedding anyway...tis a tactical nightmare."
"Think about it. We each have our own lives. You have your work, I have mine. Sometimes I help you when you want me to and I never ask you to help me. We have our own money..."
The soft voice in his head continued to cajole, those silky tones from another lifetime drowning out the words of the slender red head wrapped in his arms, who was now snuggled tightly against his chest, her cheek pressed over his accelerating heart.
"I wa' thinkin' about Norway or Sweden. I've nae been ta any o' tha Scandinavian countries an' ya never mentioned tham. Whot d'ya think? If they help us, we'll have money then an' false papers. We can stay in hotels or rent an apartment thar if ya like..."
"We live in hotels and luxury apartments. We don't keep tabs on each other. We don't ask what happened on the other's jobs we've never asked, never told and covers are what they are..."
Long supple fingers capable of picking the most intricate lock had skimmed over the light sweat on his torso from their earlier erotic exertions, holding him place as the brunette had spun her web.
"It'll just be us all alone. Won't thot be divine? No CIA or Provo Council ta interfere in our lives..."
"Michael," she had whispered in his ear, her soft breath tickling his neck. "We'll never fight over a mortgage or kids or who takes out the garbage. We can have all the good things in our live, none of the bad things other people deal with... And we'll have each other too."
"I'm sure Shay can get us- Michael, ar' yar listenin' ta me? D'ya nae like tha idea o' Norway?"
"It's certainly worth thinking about," he agreed, taking a deep breath to calm himself before smiling down at Fiona, who had leaned back slightly to gaze up at his face, all the while wishing he had actually heard the details of her proposal.
There was that word again: proposal. His guilty little secret... Michael stared down into his lover's blue-green eyes and saw love, trust and the hope of a joint future together shining back at him.
Tenderly combing his fingers through her short auburn locks, he wondered exactly how bad the petite guerrilla fighter's reaction would be to the news he already had one fiancée who he'd abandoned in Russia and was not liking the obvious answer at all.
Living with Samantha Keyes had been so easy. The tall, slender woman with the body of a ballet dancer and a cascade of chocolate curls had always been ready to aid him when he needed her skills. She'd never questioned his orders or asked awkward questions about an assignment, whereas the fiery tempered Irishwoman had challenged him at every turn.
"Fiona, there's something we should talk about."
Fiona Glenanne pushed and prodded him to look further than his mission brief, refused to follow orders unless she believed in the course of action laid out. She was impossible, at times infuriating and yet she held his attention like no other woman ever had.
But that tiny firecracker had seen a side of him that no one else had… He had allowed her in and as crazy as she was and as crazy as she made him at times, Fiona was the balm that soothed his battered soul which he had kept carefully protected, locked away from the rest of the world.
"Yer right…" She stepped out of his arms completely now, her happy smile lighting up her face and making what he was planning to say even more difficult. "We should work out whot wa're gonna say to me mam or heaven help us Liam, if he's managed ta get home yet."
Michael found his resolve to deal with this potential landmine crumbling quickly. Why cause an argument? Surely not now, not when for the first time in two weeks she is completely happy and there was really no reason for her to know...He would tell her, but he would wait for the right time.
"Michael, ar' we agreed on Norway? Or whot about Denmark? Tis closer ta Europe, so thot opens up our options if thar's trouble."
"I was mostly stationed in Eastern Europe and Western Russia…" He gave her a slither of his past. "As far as I'm aware, nobody knows me in that part of the world."
Samantha was a smart woman and he had warned her up front he might never come back. Agent Westen had just been thinking of a different reason for his not ever returning. But after two years, would she even still be waiting for him...? Unfortunately he wasn't sure he liked the answer to that question either. But now was surely not the time to tell his lover about the woman he had left behind.
"So Scandinavia," she beamed, pushing him down onto a chair before turning her attention to refilling Father Conlon's ancient kettle. "An' it wa' only a day ago we war stuck on findin' a place whar we would be safe. I remember readin' somewhar thot Sweden has some o' tha best maternity care, which will be a comfort. I wa' beginning ta worry ya ware expectin' me ta give birth in tha back o' a car."
"Sweden is a possibility, but Denmark might be a better choice... Logistically that is," the ex-operative interrupted her plans; his years of training had only allowed him a short respite before reasserting itself.
Denmark was right next to Germany where he happened to have relocated one very grateful asset whom he had rushed in and saved from a FSK interrogation team which had been about to make Vladmir Kozlov last days on earth very unpleasant indeed.
If Fiona's family could be convinced to smuggle them over to Denmark, he could risk contacting Vladmir. The man's loyalty was to him personally and, with a little bit of luck, they would soon be on their way somewhere far away and a lot more secure, where nobody knew who they were.
()()()()
While it was the middle of the morning in Ireland, on the other side of the Atlantic ocean the sun had yet to lighten the pre-dawn sky and in a darkened room, inside an impressive four bedroom town house close to the very center of Washington DC, Deputy Director of Operations William Raines sat in a wing backed leather chair deep in thought.
He had been awoken just before one AM by Station Chief David Fickas, the man in charge of the CIA's network covering the UK and Ireland calling with all sorts of bad news.
"What the hell were you thinking, Raines, sending Tom Card over here to bring in a field operative?" had been the words that had greeted him when he'd leaned out of bed to answer the phone. "The man was a TRAIN-ING officer for god's sakes! Just because you recruited him and Card taught him you two thought what? That Westen would just come running when he whistled like some trained guard dog? Well, congratulations, your bright idea didn't work because your guard dog is pissing all over my backyard and your buddy Card is a stain on the pavement!"
"Hang on just a damned minute," he had hissed while climbing out of bed, fumbling with his dressing gown in the darkness, not wanting to disturb his still sleeping wife. "What the hell are you talking about, Fickas?"
"Your pal Card... He's dead, killed yesterday afternoon. The man was driving on the wrong side of the road and got taken out by a truck."
"Slow down, what you mean dead? How? You're sure it was an accident? Has Nicole been informed?" The questions had flowed as he had hurriedly made his way downstairs. Working in full operational mode, his mind had cut off all feelings of loss to concentrate on the need for information.
"Of course it was an accident. There were witnesses and they all said the same thing: he drove onto the wrong side of the road coming up on a bend. They all agreed there was nothing the truck driver could do... As for Nicole, is that his wife? I'm sure his PA, what's her name? Mrs Joyce is taking care of all those details. No, what I'm calling you about is way more important..."
Raines picked up the near empty glass of neat Scotch which had been resting on the table beside him. He had always thought David Fickas was a bitchy little girl, more of a politician than a spy.
While he and Tom Card had been out in the field for a relatively short amount of time as operatives went, the Senator's son had somehow made the move from analyst to Station Chief through his familial and political connections. David was always in the rear with the gear and clueless when it came to life on the front lines because what his father had excelled at was rubbing elbows and greasing palms, which was how an idiot like Fickas had landed such a cushy posting as the UK.
Sipping down the last of the hard spirits in one long swallow, Raines rested his head back against the wing back of his chair and let his eyes close, not for the first time wishing he could get the sound of the Station Chief's voice out of his head.
Michael could never have gotten this far out of line under someone else's watch, the assistant director had thought bitterly, conveniently forgetting just how far off the reservation that young man had gone under the tutelage of one Larry Sizemore. But the jackass on the phone had barely paused for a breath before getting on to the real reason for his call and redirected his attention.
"You've got to help me clean up this mess, Bill. You're the one who sent Card over here. The guy hadn't been out in the field for years. The freaking Brits ran all over him. How the hell else do you explain Mason Gilroy being in the mix? He's a mad dog and Card let him off the leash!"
"Gilroy -" The older man had attempted to interrupt the other man's near hysterical ranting but Fickas had steamrollered on.
"Gilroy isn't even half of it... You heard what that maniac did, didn't you? I've got a downed chopper that rained debris all over the Irish countryside and damned near a whole tactical team wiped out. What the hell am I supposed to tell Langley about that? Not to mention the diplomatic nightmare I'm dealing with from all the blowback from London and it was THEIR paid assassin running a CIA team! What the hell was he thinking, Raines?"
But the whining continued unabated without a pause for him to answer.
"Only now Card's turned up dead, driving a car leased out under a false flag and nobody knows what he was up to or where he'd been. I should have been read into-"
"What do you mean nobody knows what he was up to?"
Except Raines had known exactly what the aggrieved agent meant.
Oh he knew all to well how his friend liked to operate. How he liked to keep back little details so he could ride in at the end of the day and be the white knight. Card was always looking to make that splash that would get him back on the Operations side of the house.
Bringing Michael back into the fold and heading off a potential boondoggle between Irish and British relations at this critical juncture would have done just that; however, from what the idiot who had been allegedly in charge had been telling him, that is the opposite of what had happened.
"All I can get out of his PA is that he was researching a way to reach out to the Glenanne family. Well, now I've got the MI-6 operations chief telling me we are endangering the negotiations between the UK government and the various sectarian factions," Fickas had whined, doing credible imitation of whatever Brit he'd been talking to. "This is one helluva mess your buddy Card made trying to bring back your golden boy, Bill. Michael Westen is NOT going to cost me my career, so you better get this colossal pig screw under control, like yesterday!"
"You need to get a grip, Fickas," he had growled angrily into the phone as soon as he got the chance to speak. "I'd forgotten what a pain in the ass you are, you spineless jellyfish. You want to talk about what Tom let happen? YOU'RE the one whose letting the Brits walk all over YOU."
Setting the heavy glass tumbler on the table, Raines remembered being pleased to finally set the man straight, though the moment was short lived indeed.
"First off, Fickas, if you have to tell Langley anything, you can remind them Tom Card was the best hope they had for bringing in Westen discretely and that Mason Gilroy was in the mix because MI6 insisted THEIR man run the show and if that isn't enough, you can add to that that it wasn't only our agent who went rogue on Dickie Chambers watch."
"And the diplomatic mess? Card was expressly ordered to stay away from the Glenanne family, which he obviously ignored. You have no idea how sensitive negotiations are amongst the different political parties, let alone all the damned terrorist groups involved too."
And there it was... Instead just being the guy who had been looking out for the career of a young agent he had helped to recruit, now thanks to Dickie Chamber's ineptitude as a handler and Dave Fickas total lack of backbone, it was going to be up to him to find the right broom to sweep this whole sorry mess under the carpet.
Opening his eyes, William Raines glanced over at the gold carriage clock sitting on the mantel piece above the fire place. It was now nearly five AM and in a couple of hours at most, he was going to have to inform his wife of his friend's death.
He would send Rene over to comfort Tom's widow, Nicole. He knew his spouse would know all the right questions to ask. Discussing missions outside of the agency was completely against the rules of course, but that didn't mean Tom might not have let something useful slip.
Until Rene came downstairs, the Assistant Director had other things to do. Ot was coming up mid morning in the UK and it was obvious the Station Chief for the UK and Ireland was not up to the job of investigating Tom Card's death or bringing an end to the whole sorry Michael Westen affair.
Getting to his feet, he made his way over to the heavy velvet curtains and pulled back the drapes to stare out at the street below. Tom Card was too damn smart to make such a rookie mistake as to drive on the wrong side of the road. He had been travelling on a false flag too, which had to mean he was up to something.
Raines knew needed somebody in Ireland who could cut through all the red tape and roadblocks the Brits were bound to set up to save their precious treaty to discover what Tom had been working on. Card had to have been on to something, something which had gotten him taken out of the game.
Now he just had to find out what it was.
From his last conversation with his friend, he knew that Tyler Grey was missing and had most likely been killed by Michael Westen. That left only left one of the triad of Card's elite trainees still in the game, Olivia Riley, and Tom had been planning to bring her in once Grey went dark.
As he thumbed through his contacts on his phone, William Raines could only hope that Riley had at least partially been read into whatever Card had been up to that had gotten him killed.
()()()()
With morning prayers over, Father Conlon stepped down from his pulpit and left his church in the capable hands of two of St. Augustine's stalwart members of the women's guild to polish the pews and sweep the floors.
He had known it was a long shot… His best friend's widow rarely made an appearance at the first service of the day, but it hadn't stopped him hoping to catch sight of the slight figure of Maeve Glenanne sitting in her usual spot amongst the group of local ladies who made up the majority of his regular congregation.
It would have made things so much easier if he could have had a quiet word in her ear without her sons being present. The task ahead of him was going to be difficult enough without trying to control the hot tempered male members of the Glenanne clan, although he seemed to remember that none of those boys had ever been able to hold a candle to Fiona when it came to spirited confrontation.
Pausing on the large stone steps which led down to the wide gravel covered pathway, the elderly priest's gaze focused on the scene taking place on the other side of the little country lane, outside the church hall and community center. Squinting through the sunlight coming from in between the trees lining the road, Father Conlon watched the parade of mothers along with their young ones making their way inside for the weekly meeting with the local health visitor and pediatric nurse.
As hard as he tried, the older man just couldn't imagine the young woman waiting in his kitchen pushing a stroller or holding the hand of a toddler, worrying about getting home in time to provide her husband with a hot meal.
Miss Glenanne had too much of her father in her. Patrick's fiery temper and strong sense of right and wrong had fashioned him into a man of great purpose. Fiona had that same fire, or at least she used to.
"Am worried, Father. Am worried fer me only livin' girl. Thot she is gonna get hurt. I donnae whot tis about har new fella, but thar is sommit about ham. Sommit thot does nae feel right ta me. She's changin' an' it's nae like tha last time she came home. Am sure this McBride fella has some sorta hold over har an' I donnae like it."
At the time, he had tried to reassure his dear friend that her concerns were just those for a mother for her daughter. He had caught a glimpse of Mr. McBride several times during the christening of Sean and Rosie's youngest. The lad had seemed harmless enough, attentive to his partner and friendly to all the other guests at the happy event, just an ordinary, good Catholic son of Ireland.
But it appeared that everything had changed over the last few months, Fiona was no longer the healthy feisty young woman he was used to seeing, who either was verbally or sometimes physically sparring with her older brothers. It was a pale, drawn and almost stoic girl waiting for him while her boyfriend and father to her unborn child had the air of a desperate man.
"Father, I need ya ta pray wit' me... Fiona has gone. She's run away wit' har man. He's nae who we thought he wa'. He's lied ta har, turned har head so bad thot she's turned on har own all fer ham."
Sighing heavily, Father Conlon began to slowly walk toward his home all the while wondering where things had gone wrong for Patrick Glenanne's little girl.
Coming to a stop before his front door, the priest pursed his lips at the sight of the broken window. The square panes which fitted into the thick wooden frames were custom made and the last time they had needed replacing had taken two months to be delivered and fitted.
"An' I dare say tha little minx dinnae wipe har feet befer strollin' all over me fine axminster rug," he grumbled as he went through the front door in search of his uninvited guests.
"Ya war a spy, Michael. I donnae think they'll ever truly forgive ya fer thot. But I think it may soften tham enough so they'll listen ta whot we have ta say."
His hand had been tightening upon the handle when he froze in place. Were his ears deceiving him…? A spy! Little Fiona Glenanne wa' aidin' a spy? No, nae aidin'… collaboratin' wit' him!
Carefully removing his shaking hand from the brass handle that he had been gripping so tightly, Father Conlon leaned in closer to hear more of the conversation taking place on the other side of the heavy wooden door.
"It's a start I suppose... Have you given any thought to what we're… I mean, what you're gonna say to them? I mean, they're your family, you know them best and families… ummm, they're not really my thing. I barely talk to mine. I don't see that I'd be any better at talking to yours."
And Michael McBride no longer sounded like a good natured lad from Kilkenny, but a Yank! God help them all, Maeve had been right about her daughter's young man.
"Families fight, Michael. Ya fight an' then ya make up."
As horrified as he was at what he had just learned, Father Conlon couldn't help but smile a little at that comment. There was the Fiona that he remembered, the girl who always had an answer.
"Ya heard Liam. He promised no harm would come ta ya. Thot is a big improvement ta a week ago. Am sure if we can get ta talk ta him an' me mam wit'out guns enterin' tha equation, they'll help us. I think we've proved beyond doubt they will nae be able ta tear us apart."
Rubbing a hand over his chin, the elderly priest fought against the urge to back away from the barrier and pretend he had never heard the fragments of conversation coming from the other side.
Yes, Michael McBride was obviously no Irishman and a spy to boot, but it was also plain to him that both Maeve and Liam knew Fiona's beau's true identity and that they had somehow already agreed to a truce of sorts. Closing his eyes he sought to quell his confusion at what he was hearing and what his own eyes had shown him earlier...
Faith, hope and love and the greatest of these is love…
Fiona wasn't cowed and defeated as he had first thought. Her silence had been masking her fears for her lover and their future and the mere fact that this American was willing to face down the whole Glenanne clan spoke volumes of his love for her. He knew both her mother and oldest brother wanted to do what they thought was best for the youngest girl, but it was becoming clear to him that neither Maeve nor Liam were going to be able to see what was truly best without some help.
Straightening up, Father Conlon approached the door again, this time with a determined air.
What the couple was planning to do was risky in the extreme, but he would do whatever he could to help. He owed it to Patrick to see his little angel was safely wed and in the arms of the man who loved her and he also owed it to his dearly departed best friend to make sure that that man, whoever he really was, understood just what a fine and rare treasure had been entrusted with.
And heaven help them all if he couldn't accomplish those tasks.