A/N: As always we are grateful for the continued support for our little 'What If" story imagining what would happen if our favorite couple had never separated. Thank you to everyone who's still with us and reviewing. In this chapter, all the chicken are coming home to roost, not only for our lovebirds, but for the friends, family and enemies whose schemes have and have not come to fruition.
BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Thirty Seven
When something goes wrong in the intelligence world, a scandal, a security breech or just a failed operation, there is always a debriefing where the facts are sorted out. When those facts threaten careers and institutions, no one takes any chances. You are locked away until the process is over. All you can do is tell your side of the story and hope for the best and know no matter what you say your fate lies in someone else's hands.
It wasn't a long walk from the room into which she had been escorted in the US Embassy building a little after six PM the previous evening to her own office on the next floor up. But after spending over eighteen hours sitting on a hard-molded plastic chair in a dimly lit room answering questions from a succession of CIA and State Department drones, Mrs. Julietta Joyce felt like she was walking for miles.
"I seem to be missing something here. Can you explain to me why your senior officer was using a rental leased under a false flag?"
"We have CC TV footage from various sources showing that it was you who leased out the vehicle and showing you leaving the car in a parking garage and then Mr. Card later leaving in that vehicle... Care to comment?"
She had answered all their questions with frank honesty. After all she had nothing to hide and although her boss could be unconventional, she didn't doubt his loyalty to the Agency.
"What was Card working on exactly….? Yeah, we know he was searching for the whereabouts of Michael Westen. What we need to know is what exactly he was doing that day before the accident. You were his PA, he must have told you something?"
However, it didn't take her long to work out that, higher up the chain of command, people were getting nervous.
"You said here in your statement that Card had discovered a lead while picking through the debris recovered from the farmhouse near Waterford, but that you have no idea what he found and there is no report regarding the item..."
"He told me to pour him a scotch neat and then he washed off the rubber gloves he was wearing and threw them away. Same as I told the last three people who asked."
"Yet you handled all of your boss's paperwork. Didn't you find it odd that Card failed to record what he found?"
"Exactly how long have you been with the Agency overseas, son? You're still a tad wet behind the ears, aren't you?"
The questioning had continued all night without a break. When one team of agents had become tired and had exhausted their inquiries, they would leave and a new batch would arrive to take their place.
"What can you tell us about Mr. Card's relationship with the British operative Mason Gilroy? We understand that he was placed in charge of the operation to bring in Agent Westen, which failed spectacularly. The British are claiming that though Gilroy was blamed for the failure, it was actually Tom Card's lack of leadership which led to the loss of an entire tactical team."
"Since Mason Gilroy was the one out in the field leading our tactical team at our host's insistence, the British are going to have to work a lot harder to polish that turd, don't you think?"
Yes, Julieta knew she had been getting really worn out when her natural sarcasm had started to shine through and her long deceased husband's military slang had started coming out of her mouth and still they carried on, the same queries, endlessly repeated.
"You arranged for travel and equipment for an operative code named Recon to come to Ireland to allegedly pursue Westen after the Gilroy snafu. Are you aware that we have preliminary information that Tyler Grey is dead?"
And that had solved the mystery for her as to why Card's latest protégé had gone radio silent after reporting in the other night...
"Grey's remains were found in a gravel pit explosion in Clomnel with two former RIRA members. Do you have any information on what operation he was conducting and how it was tied to either your boss or the Westen investigation?"
It had been years since she had been involved in a blown mission of this magnitude and this one had the added issues created by the diplomatic situation. Each and every detail was picked over and then gone over a second and third time just to be sure she wasn't missing or hiding anything.
Pushing open the door to her own work space, she stopped and stared at the scene which greeted her. The two filing cabinets behind her desk had been emptied, the steel drawers left open, just as the wooden doors and drawers on her desk had also been open and the contents either taken away or left on the desk top.
Pursing her lips, the older woman walked stiffly over to her chair and sunk down onto the comfortable padded leather seat, her eyes alighting on the three boxes which had been left behind. These were filled with all the intelligence they had gathered on the Glenanne family, including the reports she had put together on the head of the clan.
She had been answering questions for over twelve hours and had been thoroughly exhausted when Station Chief Fickas had finally entered the debriefing room and ordered everyone else out. Having arrived after her boss had come to London, Mrs. Joyce had yet to meet the man in person, though she'd had occasion to speak to him over the phone.
Quite frankly, she'd never had much time for the man in charge of the Company's UK office. Born into wealth and power and no doubt groomed for success from early childhood, David Fickas had risen far and fast to the level of his own incompetence, a living embodiment of the Peter Principle at work if she'd ever seen one.
"Ms. Joyce. I wish we were meeting in better circumstances." He had pulled out a chair and sat down facing her, his slick expression doing nothing to improve the older woman's opinion of him.
"You look tired, so let's get straight down to business. Do you have the slightest idea of the diplomatic fubar your boss has cooked up during his time out of the classroom? I am still trying to figure out why Raines put him in charge of reeling in an out of control asset of Westen's talents. Obviously, the man was out of his depth and now unfortunately it's up to us to clean up the mess he left behind." He had flashed his teeth in what was supposed to be a charming smile but in truth it had just set Mrs. Joyce's teeth on edge.
"You've been very helpful so far. So I won't keep you much longer, I promise. In a short while, after we're finished here, I want you to go back to your office and wait until the agent who's taking over the investigation arrives. Then once you've read them in and signed off on your statement you can pick up your ticket home."
What she had needed at the time was something to eat, a stiff drink and then a long night's sleep. I'm getting too old for this... she had thought.
"I've got your request for all the files held by MI-5 and 6 regarding the Glenannes and their extended family both in the North and South. Those files were requested, even though Card knew he had been ordered to stay away from the family because of the peace talks due to take place. I need to know what he wanted with those files."
"Like I told everyone else, he said he was researching the family as a way to track down where Michael Westen might have gone using his asset's family's contacts."
Sighing heavily, the former OSS operative pinched the bridge of her nose in an effort to reduce the pressure building in her head and stave off the oncoming headache. She really was getting too old for this crap.
The silver fox had been looking upon this appointment as a way of easing herself towards retirement. Stepping into Sandy Miller's shoes, a younger woman she had previously trained, when her former protege had moved over to Operations had seemed like a good way to help utilize her expertise in a less demanding format. But Mr. Card it had turned out had had designs on getting himself over to the operations side.
He could be pompous and conceited but she had to admit he had had a certain style about him. Working with Tom Card, whether it was organizing trainee assignments or aiding him in tracking down a rogue protege, had never been boring. Sometimes she had considered it her duty to the Agency to keep the man's ambitions on the lighter side of the shades of gray where all good intelligence operatives lived and worked.
Her old friend Kay Anderson had been right when she had gotten out of the game a few years ago. Maybe it was time to follow her example. She really didn't relish the idea of breaking in another case officer. For all that Tom Card could be a spectacular pain in the ass to work for, he had at least respected her talents and abilities. But it now looked like her recently deceased boss was going to be used as a scapegoat for the whole sorry boondoggle. Dead men tell no tales after all.
She had no idea what he had found in those files or what scheme he had hatched to contact Liam Glenanne and without any better intel than that, with the brass was looking hard for someone to blame, she was not about to volunteer herself to be one of the sacrificial lambs.
With that thought firmly in mind, the career Company woman was going to hand everything over to the latest agent in charge, sign her statement and collect her ticket back home. Someone had to escort Tom Card's body back to the family for burial and it had seemed a fitting way to end her time working with him.
A light knock on the door frame shook her out of her distracted reverie... She clearly needed to get some sleep after letting someone get past her guard like that, Julieta thought as she looked up.
"Mrs. Joyce?... Olivia Riley, I'm here to investigate Tom's murder."
Staring at the tightly wound young woman standing in front of her, whose sharp brown eyes were taking in and assessing every detail, Julieta Joyce realized that the triad of Tom's top former students all had one thing in common and that was a predatory level intensity.
"Did Fickas send you?" the older woman asked, knowing that with one apprentice gone rogue and the other missing and presumed dead that Card's third and oldest acolyte could well be here on her own, having been read into some operational details during her last mission at Card's behest that she herself hadn't been privy to.
"Yes, I'm here in an official capacity."
The dark skinned woman entered the room and took a seat on the opposite side of the desk. Reaching into her jacket, Riley removed a lighter and a single cigarette from the inner breast pocket and made herself comfortable.
"You look like you could use a smoke," she said extending the tobacco stick towards the other woman, who shook her head to the contrary. "No? Well, you're probably going to want some coffee then. I'm sorry, but your long night is about to turn into a longer day."
()()()()()()
Fiona Glenanne had smoked her first cigarette at the age of thirteen, having stolen one from her brother Seamus' stash on a dare issued by her then best friends Jannine Reilly and Marie Nash. She had smoked her last ever cigarette thirteen months later during what had been up to then one of the worst years in her young life.
It had been on a sunny late September afternoon three months, two weeks and four days after she had seen her oldest brother cut down by the British paratroopers who had burst through their kitchen door and three short weeks before Liam was forcing them all, except for Seamus who was still being held without charge in Long Kesh gaol, to leave their Belfast home to move to the south and into some rambling old house in a small village miles from anywhere interesting.
She was supposed to have been at home helping her mother and younger sister pack up their belongings for the move, but instead she had chosen to sneak away to join her friends, sitting on the grass next to the bandstand in Dunville Park on Falls Road.
"Jayzuz, I thought I'd never get away. I swear me mammy has got eyes in tha back o' har head an' Claire… I could swing fer har sometimes. I cannae turn around wit out trippin' over har... I had ta send har downstairs ta get me some more boxes an' then climb outta tha bedroom window."
She had flopped down onto the grass between her two best-friends.
"I still cannae believe yer goin' an' so soon. Yar Liam doesnae mess around, does he?" Marie commented.
"Liam cannae stand bein' around us... I dunno why he bothered comin' home. He's out all tha time an' when he is back, he hardly says a word." She wiped the back of her hand over her eyes. She had snuck out to get away from all the reminders of her family's problems. "So, whot war ya talkin' about?"
"We war talkin' about tha dance this weekend." Jannine Reilly had tossed back her long brown hair and beamed happily. "Will ya be goin'?"
The bi-weekly youth club dances were one of the few things which helped lift her out of the gloom which filled her every waking minute. O' course she wa' going... As long as Liam wa' out o' tha house or if he wa' home, hopefully he would be distracted by sommit one o' tha boys had done and ignore whot she wa' up ta.
She had lain back on the grass and stared up at the clouds being carried along on the light autumn breeze. Listening to Jannine and Marie as they went back to chatting about their latest beaus was comforting in a way, a welcoming touch of normality for a teenager whose whole world was being turned upside down.
While her friends were talking about boys, she had remained silent, internally bemoaning the fact that with her big brother ruling the roost she was bound to end up becoming a nun... A nun in some remote desolate place far from anything or anyone exciting... It wasnae even har beloved first home, tha farmhouse midway between Belfast and Derry. Why couldnae they go back thar?
"Me Johnny wa' sayin' his friend Eammon Garside thinks yer a fine lookin' girl. He'd ask ya out but tis afraid ya will say no an' embarrass ham." Jannine tossed back her long dark hair again as she produced a pack of cigarettes from her bag.
"Eammon Garside? Is he tha little one wit' glasses... His mammy works in tha grocers?" She had screwed her face up in disgust. She wasnae thot desperate fer a date.
"Thot's Eammon Mooney yer thinkin' of..." Jannine lit up her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke out in a perfect circle before offering one to each of her friends. "Eammon Garside is tha tall blond, ya know tha one I mean. Ya wa' makin' eyes at ham at tha dance las' week."
"Oh him… I wasnae makin' eyes, he's a blond fer a start an' a great gangly lump." She had flushed red at the time, as she had indeed noticed the tall blond standing in the corner with the other local boys. But even at fourteen she was finding herself far more attracted to dark haired men. Men, nae boys, it would take a real man ta stand up ta har misguided an' grossly overprotective brothers.
"Besides, whot's tha point? Am nae gonna be around fer much longer... Hare, give me a light, will ya? Liam took me lighter along wit' tha las' packet. Tha bastid then gave me a two hour feckin' lecture on tha -"
"Fifi!" Marie squeaked, her baby blue eyes going wide.
"Oh hush, Mare, he is a bastid. I swear -"
"No, ya donnae-"
But it had been too late. As Fiona had taken in a lungful of nicotine, a large shadow had fallen over her and Jannine, just before a hand had come down stealing away her cigarette and crumbling the tobacco to the wind.
"Whot tha feck!" All three girls had scrabbled to their feet, the invective coming from the furious redhead's mouth before she had gotten a good look at her assailant, staring straight into her older brother's pale blue eyes.
"Yer wanted at home... Nar!" Liam had snarled, his icy cold tone causing her friends to fall back several steps but not her. She remembered thinking at the time that her siblings might all be afraid of Liam, but she wasn't going to put up with his overbearing ways any longer.
"Am nae goin' an' Am nae gonna give up smokin' jus' because ya say so... Ya have never tol' Shay off fer it."
"Ya wanta be like Shay? Shay is locked inna six by ten foot cell right nar. Ya wanta join ham thar taa? Gettin' let out fer an hour a day if yer lucky?" The cruel words and the fury she had seen in her big brother's face had knocked the rebellion out of her in an instant and she had turned tail running off, the rest of her brother's words coming after her. "Ya better be home when I get thar or ya willnae like whot happens next... All o' ya get off ta yar homes nar befer -"
She'd spent the next three weeks grounded, ordered to remain inside and help her mother and sister pack all their bags and clean the house that had been their home for the last six years.
Another voice from her past then brought her quickly back to the present.
"Ahh, she's hare, oh my! I thought I didnae recognize tha car. Yar Auntie Claire is hare taa... Courage me girl... I'll go an' let tham in... An' fram tha look on yar mammy's face, ya best offer up a prayer fer kindness and understanding." Father Conlon let go of the net curtain covering the window which gave him a clear view of the front of his home and headed for the front door.
"I'll do thot, Father." From her position on the couch, she offered the elderly priest a half smile, her hands knotted up in her lap as she nervously glanced at the door which led out to the hall. Biting down on her bottom lip, the redhead looked down at her fingers which were twisting and twitching, unable to keep still.
Whot would she give fer tha calmin' effects of a smoke nar...
No, that wasn't right, right now more than anything she longed for nothing more than the comforting presence of her father.
"Be brave me little angel." It had been a warning of a sort, but not always.
There had been times after the danger had passed, when the bad men had gone away or the loud bangs ceased, when she had crawled out of her hiding spot to be cradled in his arms, when she had buried her face into his shirt front, breathing in the heady mix of scents which made Patrick Glenanne so special: Tobacco mingled with the faint odour of chemicals and with the fresh slightly menthol accents of his Aqua Velva after shave.
"Thare, thare, all is safe, all is well, me brave little angel, ya must always be brave, little angel..." his sing song tone lulling her fluttering heartbeat back to normal.
"Maeve, me daor ... Mrs O'Donnell, tá brón orainn, Claire raibh mé ag súil leat freisin. Le do thoil teacht liom."
The young woman perked up as she caught the priest's words as he greeted her mother and aunt in Irish, obviously choosing to use that particular language in the hope of keeping any troubling news from her lover's ears.
"Father Liam, is é mo chailín, sí anseo in éineacht leat?" Maeve's soft lilting voice inquiring after her daughter was tugging at the young woman's heartstrings.
"Is ea, tá yes aici, ach -"
Hearing her mother's voice, hearing the concern in her tone, Fiona couldn't sit and wait any longer. Overwhelmed with a rush of emotion, she lurched to her feet and swiftly crossed to the door, her hand gripping the handle just in time to hear her aunt ask if it was Michael whom she had spotted watching them from the bell tower.
"Mac Giolla Bhríde, is é an diabhal anseo léi ... guessed mé an oiread. Go raibh air spied mé sa cloigtheach?"
"Yes, he's up thare up outta tha way. I thought it war fer tha best... Please Maeve, Am asking you ta remember whare ya ar' nar. An bhfuil tú ina n-aonar?
She couldn't wait any longer. Quietly opening the door, she slipped out into the hallway her eyes taking in the sight of two of the most of important women in her life. Everythin' wa' gonna be alright nar. Her mammy wa' hare along wit' her Aunt Claire. Neither Liam or Sean would dare go against their word.
"Ya donnae have ta worry Father, wa're alone. Yar guest is safe as long as he - Fiona," Claire's words came to a stop and for several seconds the three Glenanne women just stared at each other.
"Mammy... Auntie Claire, I -" Tears welled up in her eyes and all of a sudden she was that little girl again, the one who after some scrape or another desperately needed her mother's love. Maeve would make things right. Thare wasnae a problem har mother couldnae solve.
One step led to two and then before she realized it, Fiona was running.
"Mammy, Am so sorry." She reached for the older woman, longing to lose herself in the other's arms.
"Owww!"
The redhead didn't see the slap coming and when the palm of her mother's hand made contact, it wasn't only the pain from the blow which sent her reeling backwards.
"Ya stupid stupid girl... Whot war ya thinkin? D'ya even think?"
It was the raw fury etched into her mother's face.
"Mammy?" Cradling a cheek which she could feel swelling under her hand, the younger woman tried to make sense of what was happening.
"Dontcha mammy me, Fiona Cairan Glenanne... D'ya know whot ya've done? D'ya know whot ya've put us all through, an' fer whot? – Ham?"
Fiona's gaze followed to the spot on the stairs where Michael was now standing with his way barred by the elderly priest.
"Maeveen, ya need ta calm yarself. Remember whare ya ar' nar." It was Claire's gentle admonishment which stopped the torrent of abuse her mother was raining down on her child.
"Father, if ya donnae mind I think me sister and niece need ta sit down together an' talk... Maeve, Fiona. Dry yar tears, girl, an' go inta tha front room thar an' tha pair o' ya, use yar words. Yer in yar priest's home, so nae more fisticuffs. D'ya hear me nar?"
"I hear ya fine, Claire. Nae need ta be shoutin'."
Fiona stood dumbfounded as her mother sent her dark haired lover one more venom filled glare, only breaking out of her shock induced stupor when fingers with an ironclad grip wrapped about her forearm.
"Come, Fiona. We need ta talk... Whot I mean ta say is Am gonna talk an' ya fer once in yar life ya are gonna listen ta every word I have ta say."
()()()()()()
Sir Richard Chambers glanced up at the large wall clock, which in a loud and most annoying manner, was ticking away the seconds and pursed his lips. Two hours that damned woman had kept him waiting. Two damned hours when he could have been working on all the other cases which needed his attention. It was tempting to get up and inform the middle aged woman sitting behind the desk in front of him that the Minister could call him back when she was free.
Tick... tick... tick... tick... tick...
The head of covert affairs, ground his teeth, his eyes narrowing in anger. Two damned hours he had been kept waiting by that tiresome woman...
Tick... tick... tick... tick...
The sound of the second hand on the large wall clock set above the desk guarding the entry to the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland temporary office in the Parliament Building at Stormont continued its slow interminable never ending journey.
The man from MI6 crossed and uncrossed his legs for what had to have been the hundredth time, his anger growing. He had disrupted his whole schedule in an effort to meet the Secretary of State's unreasonable demands. He had pulled people away from important, nay, essential tasks because of her request for a full debrief.
Why were they wasting his time reviewing closed operations against these sectarian groups and successful ones at that? Five years ago, they had been issuing shoot to kill orders on them and now the politicians were having hissy fits every time one of these groups so much as sneezed. Didn't he have enough to do overlooking security for these talks?
He glanced down at the blue box file sat on the neighboring chair. Inside was every report she had asked for and all got within her preposterous time scale.
Tick... tick... tick...
"Ah, Sir Richard…"
The Operations Chief jumped to his feet as the door to the inner office opened to reveal a man of about thirty, with untidy brown hair, an eager expression and dressed in a cheap ill-fitting suit.
"Sorry for the delay. Ms Mowlam has, um, been called away. She has asked me to have a word with you. My name is McDonald."
"I know who you are Mr. McDonald." Chambers made no effort to hide his dislike of the man standing framed in the door way.
James McDonald, Irish/English, born and raised in a London suburb, grammar school educated and who had received two degrees at the London School of Economics, a prominent activist in the left wing of the Labour government. He was also a member of the Prime Minister's inner circle and one of the PM's strongest supporters in the cause to bring peace to Ireland. So much was the young upstart determined to see that peace brought about he was reported to have attended several sectarian rallies and even joined in with their rebel songs.
"Well, that makes things a lot easier then, as I know all about you too, Sir Richard." The man smiled politely and held the door open wide. "Please step through."
"It is probably something about nothing," McDonald pulled out a chair for his guest before taking his own seat. "But there have been some developments since Jeremy spoke to you this morning. We only became aware of certain facts, well rumors really, a short while ago."
Chambers dropped the blue box folder onto the younger man's desk and then took his time straightening the seam of his trouser leg before looking up into a pair of expectant blue eyes. "The Under Secretary had a lot to say this morning, I can't possibly think what else there could be to discuss."
"You don't think an explosion in Clonmel with at least three dead worthy of your time, Sir Richard?"
"Of course it is of interest, but Clonmel is a long way from Stormont and my understanding is that the Under Secretary was more concerned about our security arrangements here rather than random sectarian events, if that is indeed what it turns out to be," he blustered. His own department had only just received confirmation on two of the bodies and the third one's identity was expected to be discovered shortly. "The explosion occurred in a disused quarry. There is no telling what may have caused the blast and until we have conclusive evidence I prefer to keep an open mind."
"Mmm, given that two of the bodies found have already been identified as Martin McCullough and Thomas O'Neill, both known as fervent supporters of the Republican cause, I think it is safe to assume it was more than some local children playing with discarded blasting caps, wouldn't you?"
If there wasn't already, there should be a place reserved in hell for jumped grammar school plebs like this James McDonald. The man was utterly insufferable and an apologist for the IRA and a pacifist to boot. People like him had no business involving themselves in the security of the realm.
And while what the Operations Chief was thinking was firmly his opinion on the matter of politicians involving themselves in things best left to trained covert intelligence professionals, a life time working in the civil service had taught the older man that you don't go about insulting the Prime Minister's friends if you wanted to continue to advance in your career.
"What I meant to say was that I do not put rumors or my own personal opinions into official reports. Now if that is all?" He began to rise.
"It isn't. Please sit. I haven't made myself clear. I think it is best if we start at the beginning and then we'll get to these troubling rumors which are coming out of the Sinn Fein camp."
"Sinn Fein! You've pulled me away from my work over something that has come from a so called political party which in reality is nothing more than-"
"Sir Richard, do I have to remind you who's asked for this inquiry?" The soft spoken young man looked up from the papers he was shuffling.
Sighing heavily, Chamber sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "So what is the rumor mill saying? Please enlighten me."
Through narrowed eyes, the head of MI6's covert units watched as the aide to the Secretary of State finally found the documents he had been searching for and arranged them into a neat stack.
"Now about the American situation... Their officer that was killed... Do you have anything to add to the last report you sent to the Secretary?"
"As I explained, Agent Card informed me he was here to meet with Station Chief Fickas on reviewing personnel transfers and I saw no reason to inquire further into his business at the time. We have no conclusive proof at this time that his death is anything more than another American who couldn't remember to keep their car on the proper side of the road."
"I see... Well perhaps we may be able to shed some light on that situation. You were involved in a joint operation with the CIA to ensure that the group known as the Real IRA did not succeed in disrupting the talks, a very successful operation by all accounts... Of course, with the sad exception of being unable to prevent the bombing in Omagh…."
Sir Richard clenched his teeth in an effort to keep quiet. He had endured far more than enough scrutiny regarding that sorry affair. He'd had every reason to insist on double checking Westen's intelligence before acting on the information.
"And while the operation was active, you personally supervised the CIA agent who infiltrated the Republican group..." McDonald made a show of flipping through the reports. "Ah yes, Michael Westen, you met the man in person?"
"Yes, of course I met with him. I was his handler for the operation and I met with him until it was concluded. But clearly you should know this already." Chambers huffed impatiently, eager for the other man to get to the point he was obviously trying to make.
"Mmmm, it is just that... I... On instruction from the Prime Minister I have formed a close working relationship with the membership of Sinn Fein, and as you no doubt know I have also, in the course of my brief met with certain, er, members of the Republican army."
"Terrorists, Mr McDonald," Really this was going beyond the pale. "Call them exactly what they are, terrorists."
"Um, yes, if you say so. Terrorists... These ah, terrorists have passed on some very worrying intelligence to me this morning, very worrying indeed." He paused, shaking his head and then looked up. "They are saying that they have proof that an American special tactical unit is still actively hunting down and killing members of the Real IRA and that this unit is now working to destroy the Provo by pitting other... shall we say... offshoot groups against them and potentially starting another war between these sectarian groups. Which of course you are aware would go completely against the cease fire which was agreed to by all sides."
McDonald held up a hand in case the spy master sitting opposite was thinking of interrupting him before he could finish.
"As my source has been reliable in the past I decided to make my own inquiries and came across this." He slid two pages across the table and waited as Chambers picked them up and perused the report. "The original was in Russian, I have translated it to the best of my ability. As you can see it remarks on the death of a Spetnaz unit in Kiev all killed by a special tactics unit of the CIA code named Michael Westen."
"I -" Sir Richard Chamber's blustered, his face going red as he looked up from the damning evidence, the pages slowly being crushed in his hand.
"Where has Agent Westen gotten off to by the way? There's no information in any of your reports regarding his current location. Would that perhaps be the personnel issues Agent Card was here to speak to Station Chief Fickas about?"
It was all the older man could do to keep a neutral expression on his face. If there was a special place in hell for the man seated before him, then there was an even deeper and darker hole reserved for the rogue American agent who'd run off with his terrorist girlfriend.
"So I'm sure I don't have to spell it out for you, Sir Richard. If in fact Michael Westen never left Ireland and is possibly leading another covert team, one has to wonder if it is possible that the death of an American CIA officer is not somehow tied to unsanctioned operations being carried out under your very nose, sir, as surely Her Majesty's government would not knowingly undertake such actions."
"I will of course look into this matter immediately." Had Fickas and Card really set him up? It made no sense, the Americans wanted this peace process to succeed as much as his own people... But if they had used him to help cover up the presence of an on going black bag operation... If they had, the one surviving member of the duo would pay dearly.
"This afternoons committee meeting has been cancelled, Ms Mowlam has requested your full answer by tomorrow morning before they reconvene. Is that enough time for you, Sir Richard?"
"I'll get my best people on it right away." The chief of covert affairs rose up from his chair, stuffing the offending pieces of paper into his jacket pocket.
"Ah, not your best people, Sir Richard... Ms Mowlam requested you personally look into this matter. You after all worked with this, ah, Michael Westen. We need to know if he is indeed one man, or in fact one in a team of agents operating under that legend. Finding out where Agent Westen is at the moment would certainly be a grand place to start."
"As I said I'll get right on it." Chambers hastily walked away, silently fuming. This had to be Westen trying to stir up trouble between the agencies to cover his tracks. It had to be because the only other explanation was the Americans were riding roughshod over not only Her Majesty's government, but also more importantly MI6 and if that were the case then there would be more than merry hell to pay.
Reaching into the inside pocket he brought out his phone and angrily tapped down on the keys which would put him in contact with his PA.
"Caroline, get me a dinner reservation for two at Harvey's, then call David Fickas and invite him... No, make that tell him to join me. After you've done that I want a room prepared for a new investigation. I want the Michael Westen dossier thoroughly dissected. I want to know everything about him, everywhere he has been and, Caroline, I don't want our American friends to be made privy to any of this... Do you understand?"
"Yes sir. Ah, before you go, you have had several calls from an Agent Riley. She is the agent in charge of the Westen/Card investigation. She's requesting a meeting and that we hand over any files we have pertinent to her investigation."
Chambers narrowed his eyes. Was this another ploy by Fickas to keep his attention off what was now beginning to look like a conspiracy by the CIA? After all who in their right mind put a training officer on the job of bringing in a spy of Westen's caliber in the first place? If the CIA were truly operating past their remit, this Riley woman could be there to slow his investigation down and cover Westen's escape.
"I have no time to waste on some junior foreign agent. Have any files she requests sent over, that will be the extent of our assistance in this matter. I expect the room ready for me in an hour."
()()()()()()
It had been voices… tense concerned voices speaking Irish too low and too rapidly for him to understand… it had been the sound of a door closing and feet moving quickly toward a target…
"…Mammy…" How had his beloved managed to put so much happiness and heartbreak into one word? "Auntie Claire, I -"
But then had come the crack that only happens when somebody's hand lands on someone's face with enough force to bruise, to cause them to stagger, to cause the startled gasp he'd heard torn from her throat.
"Gawd dammit, woman, when will ya git through that pea brain o' yers? Ya do whud Ah tell ya!"
And for a split second that seemed like an eternity, Michael Westen wasn't an American operative on the run from his government and his pregnant lover's family hiding on the staircase of her mother's father confessor's home in the rectory, he was a small scared child hiding out in a stifling close dark closet while his father raged at his own mother about some alleged transgression he couldn't even recall now.
But he had been too disciplined to allow the traitorous memory that had broken out of its box to have more than a moment in his head and too much in love with Fiona Glenanne to stay hidden while she was being hurt in the worst way possible as his training would have demanded.
Uncaring whether he would inflame the situation or get himself shot, Michael had leapt to his feet and rushed down the staircase. Now, as he sat there exiled to the kitchen of the elderly priest, the irony of him doing almost exactly what he had berated Fiona for back at the cottage had occurred to him. But at the time, the only thing on his mind was protecting her.
The faux Irishman looked into the grim faces of Father Conlon and Claire Glenanne, neither of whom were making any pretense that they weren't making sure that he stayed in that kitchen and didn't interrupt the dialogue taking place between mother and daughter nor that they weren't worried themselves over what was being said.
However, the memory of Fiona's face as she stood there, shell shocked and clutching her rapidly reddening cheek, made it extremely difficult to sit quietly. His experience told him he should be trying to mitigate the damage he'd caused by trying to get past the old priest and Fiona's aunt as they'd made sure to stop him on the stairway, but somehow he was finding it difficult to approach this logically at all.
He should have insisted on leaving Ireland the minute they had escaped from the Coleraine's farm. He had known nothing good could come of it. They would be in France right now instead of sitting around waiting to see how Clan Glenanne had decided to deal with their rebellious child and the treasonous father of her child. Try as he might, Michael couldn't see anything good coming out of this scenario.
However, he hadn't been able to see a sound reason for it when his intended had proposed the idea either. Conversations with the good father might have given him some small insight into why something so tactically disastrous would actually be beneficial to his beloved, but none of that mattered if it got them caught and separated. Maybe it was for the best after all… Life on the run with a baby…
Biting down hard on his bottom lip, Michael brought that train of thought to a screeching halt. NO! They were engaged. He had made a commitment to Fiona and their child. He would do his damnedest to see to it that he fulfilled that promise to the both of them that they were safe and happy…
Regardless of whether or not he was momentarily at a complete loss for a way to do so… They would be safer if he were out of the picture…though he was smart enough to know that Fiona would not be happier under that arrangement… and honestly neither would he… but it didn't matter what he wanted…
"Ya appear ta be a man wit' much on his mind, lad," Father Conlon said quietly.
The dark haired former spy merely nodded, uncertain now whether to continue to pursue his cover ID as he was reasonably convinced that the elderly man of the cloth knew he wasn't actually an Irishman from Kilkenny, but there was another person in the room who might not know his secret.
"Go on then," the older woman urged. "Ask yar questions, boy. Ya knew how this had ta end befer ya got started. All thot's left now is tha whar and tha how o' yar leaving."
Michael switched to sticking his teeth into his top lip but didn't answer immediately.
"They all know whot ya ar' nar, son," the priest said. "Tis time ya stopped all tha lies and tha deceit."
Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out on a sigh, the American answered them in his own voice.
"So, what does happen now?"
()()()()()()
A few short miles away in Maeve Glenanne's own kitchen, her two oldest boys had finally come up with a solution to getting their little sister and the spy she had fallen for safely out of the country.
"Thare tis done. His jet will land at Newcastle Aerodrome late tonight an' Fiona an' McBride will board officially as part o' a crew change. He apologizes thot he willnae be thar himself but he has guests flying in fram outta town he has ta take care of first." The younger man sighed and shook his head.
"He says he'll see ta it thot tha right people get paid off so security will look tha other way. He's gonna call me later wit' tha exact details, once he's hadda chance ta talk wit' his pilot... Ya know as soon as Fiona works out whot we've done, she'll want ta murder tha lot o' us?"
Seamus Glenanne turned around and tossed his mobile phone onto his mother's kitchen table, his eyes looking upwards as two more loud bangs of doors being flung open or shut sounded from above.
"Thot's if those two up thar donnae save har half tha job an' kill each other first... Why'd ya have piss tham off taa? An' ya know Sean ain't helpin' tha situation? Ya woulda done better ta send ham off ta keep a watch on thot car instead o' lettin' ham go upstairs an' stick his nose inta women's business."
Liam snorted. "Better? T'would only be better if I wanted ham rampagin' around tha countryside looking ta put a bullet in McBride, which I donnae. Helpin' Rosie pack up Fiona's bags will give ham sommit ta keep ham occupied."
Another bang followed by the clatter of something falling or maybe being thrown caused the gunrunner to wince. The arguing between Rosie and Sean had been going on ever since Liam had walked into the kitchen followed by the two elder stateswomen of the family.
Seamus could have sworn the temperature dropped two degrees when the trio had taken up their seats about the kitchen table, each one tight lipped and wearing a stony expression. The head of the family hadn't minced his words, cutting through the barrage of questions which had come at him from all directions.
"All o' ya shut yar mouths an' pin back yar ears. In case ya havenae worked it out fer yerselves, Am hare ta tell ya wa're all in tha shite an' tha way I see it thare's only one way whare we come out o' it free an' clear..."
And by the end of his speech, they had all been left a little bit shaky at what they would be facing if anything went wrong with Liam's solution to the monumental mess their sister was leaving in her wake.
"Have ya finished wit ya whining yet, brudder?" Liam Glenanne asked, the sounds of destruction happening over his head seemingly not bothering the older man in the least.
"Have I finished? Nae by a long chalk." Seamus widened his eyes and glared at his sibling and then with a weary sigh pulled out a chair to sit down and face the head of the family. "Ya know whot he's like, always ready ta help a friend, my arse... Aye, he'll help ya, but nae fer free. Thar is always a cost whare he's concerned."
"So why dontcha just tell me whot he wants, Shay. Cuz I've gotta bank robbery ta organize and -" he paused, his lips tightening in annoyance.
"Sean, whot d'ya think ya're doin'? Put thot bag down nar ya blasted fool. Ar' ya tryin' ta burst yar stitches?" Rosie shrieked, her voice carrying all the way down to the men sitting in the kitchen.
"Ya'd think she'd learned by nar ta-"
"She's nae used ta this, Liam. Cut har some slack, will ya?" Seamus interrupted, as the voices from upstairs went silent.
It was true. Rosanna had assimilated into the Glenanne clan so well that it was hard for most of the family to remember that not only was she barely out of her teens but also that she had been born and raised in East London far away from the troubles of her parents' homeland. The news that her oldest brother in law had delivered so matter of factly had brought tears to the young woman's eyes and caused her to run upstairs at the earliest opportunity.
"I'll go through Fiona's wardrobe ta find har sommit ta take wit har... Mabbe some o' my stuff for when she gets bigger... An' photos, an' keepsakes... I cannae believe wa're gonna do this." She'd fled the kitchen, with Isabelle following after her promising the rest of the room she would look after her little sister.
"She's gonna have ta learn fast. She opens har mouth at tha wrong time, ta the wrong people an' we'll all be dead... I'll have mammy talk ta har when she gets back... Nar fer tha second time o' askin', whot's got yar knickers inna twist?"
"Thare is a warehouse in Limerick. In thot warehouse thare is a consignment o' Stinger missiles Am ta liberate an' see they make it ta a harbor close ta La Harve. As soon as tha missiles are in transit, Fiona will be on har way ta sunnier climes... I know ya said we have ta keep our noses clean 'til this blows over, but whot could I say? I mean thare's nae other way."
Maeve's third born son waited patiently while his older brother stared into space as he thought through the problem.
"We can use this..." Liam nodded thoughtfully. "I put tha cat among tha pigeons wit' tha whole CIA getting' inta bed wit' tha Continuity lot. Fram whot I heard, Sinn Fein have been throwin' out accusations left, right an' center... If we do this right, it'll have tham all at each other's throats fer weeks ta come." The older man leaned forward, warming to his subject.
"When ya steal tham missiles, after ya make sure everyone is out, ya'll blow tha warehouse. Am gonna need Sean ta whip up a batch o' explosives... Tis a shame we cannae get our hands on some American made C4. Thot would really sell it."
Seamus shifted in his seat. Unlike his older brother and two younger siblings, he had never been officially part of the organization which had intruded so much into their lives. But even he had misgivings about how far the head of the clan was pushing them over the line. Hiding a spy, protecting a collaborator, the assassination of the O'Neills and now deliberately sabotaging the peace process?
"Ya lied ta tha council! Is it nae bad enough our sister is a feckin' tout, nar ya have marked yarself as a traitor taa!" Sean had raged, his pale features flushed bright red, when Liam had admitted the level of his deceit.
If it hadn't been for his bullet damaged arm, Seamus was convinced Liam would have killed his little brother for that comment. Instead it had been their father's sister who had brought an end to the fight before it could start.
"Whot would ya have had him do? Turn Fiona over ta tham? Stand back an watch while they butchered har? Yar brudder did whot he had taa, whot anyone o' us woulda done."
"Would it nae be better fer us ta do this quietly? We donnae have a lotta time ta do this an' if anythin' goes wrong, if we get caught by a roadblock on tha way ta tha docks..."
"Ya set a timer, ya get clear, by whotever means necessary." Liam fixed his gaze on the younger man. "We've nae choice in this, nae any more. Fiona is leavin' t'night. Yer gonna take Sean wit' ya an' make sure we make tha payment fer har safe passage. Tomorrow night Am havin' tha night safe o' tha KBC Bank in Bruges blown wit' some o' Fi's own mix, which will prove beyond a doubt thot I wa' tellin' tha truth an' Fiona is gone. Then all thot's left is fer Ryan ta swear thot tha American thot lifted ham wa' after him workin' fer tha CIRA an' we should be able ta breathe easy."
"Ya make it sound taa easy, brudder."
"It will be, trust me. Ya just have ta keep yar nerve, Shay." Liam got to his feet, rolling his shoulders to get rid of some the tension which had built up over the last hour. "Nar, I've got things ta do. So I'll leave ya ta let Sean in on tha plan. AM sure he'll cheer up no end when he finds out he's bein' let loose wit' tha explosives."
"Liam," Seamus called out. "Thare is sommit else. Armand... He wanted ta know, is McBride under our protection?"
"No, not under our protection, but ya should remind ham thot tha bastid means a lot ta Fi. He might ta consider thot befer he does anything rash."