A/N: Thank you for all your reviews for the last chapter posted many months ago and your continued interest in our hopefully entertaining AU. As usual, we have a super long chapter to make up for taking so long.
While Fiona and Michael prepare to leave her homeland behind forever this time, her brothers attempt to clear the way for them, as Sean & Seamus arrange the 'payment' for their ride out and Liam makes a bold move that will hopefully ensure their safety and the very survival of the family.
For those who have been asking, there is another chapter of "Reconnecting" in the works based on our 301 AU that will hopefully be posted sooner rather than later.
So without further ado, their final farewell to Emerald Isle begins...
BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Forty
After awhile ya get ta whar ya can tell when a unit is about ta go off on a job. Thar is sommit about the way they move, a little strut in thar step... A hard set ta thar jaw. Thar'll be an atmosphere surroundin' tham, tis like static electricity... if ya get taa close, it'll make tha hairs on tha back on yar neck stand up. Ya feel tha excitement in tha air an' ya jus' know thot sommit bad or sommit very good, dependin' on yar point o' view, is about ta go down an' more than anythin' in tha whole world, ya want ta be part o' it.
And he heard again the words in his head, what Pat Junior had said to him as he'd slowly walked his sixteen year old self to the pub where, as befitted a son of the legendary Patrick Glenanne, Sean had been initiated into the ranks of the Irish Republic Army in front of the whole ruling council.
Ya have ta trust tha man next ta ya, ta know he has yar back... Tis tha only way this works, lad...
The youngest male of Clan Glenanne rested his good shoulder and the side of his head against the door of his sibling's SUV and tried to block out the inane chatter taking place around him, as he often did when faced with difficult situations, by continuing the internal dialogue with his long dead brother, whose rapid rise in the ranks of the PIRA had been cut cruelly short by British bullets ripping into his back. Sometimes it was as though his missing mentor was right there at his side, whispering in his ear.
Aye, Paddy,tis tha only way it would work unless yer inna car full o' insane amateurs, gunrunners who ar' treatin' a job ta steal Stinger missiles like thay're on tha way ta a bloody picnic...
"This weddin' is settin' me back tha best part o' thirty grand," the loud voice of Daly Wheelan intruded on Sean's thoughts. "I mean, I donnae resent me girl, or har fella, but Jaysus, seven feckin' Gs on a dress she's only gonna be wearin' tha once an' then thar's tha six bridesmaids, tha maid o' honor an' las' night me ol' wan rang ta let me know they wa' goin' inta Dublin today ta pick out har outfit. Am tellin' ya fellas, donnae be havin' girls."
His own wedding to Rosanna had been a very low key affair, as he hadn't informed his family of his upcoming nuptials and had also made sure that the father of the bride had kept his mouth shut too...
The congregation at the wedding ceremony performed in St. Margaret and All Saints church had barely filled the first two row of pews and they'd never gone on a proper honeymoon at all.
"So, will we be finally getting' ta see ya in a suit, Daly?" Seamus glanced back, risking taking his eyes off the road to ask the father of the bride.
"Damn straight ya ar', boss... I got it fram Arnotts a month ago." The middle aged man beamed back proudly, causing another burst of merriment. "An' Am told I look proper dashin' in it."
Sean clenched his jaw and tried telling himself it was a blessing to be back out in the field and finally doing something, even if it was being stuck working with a band of lunatics. He'd been going mad penned up in his mother's house with his mammy and his wife treating him like an invalid because that Brit bastard had got off a lucky shot.
It also gave him something else to focus on besides alternating between being angry with the mother of his children, his brothers and his bull-headed sister, but mostly with himself for allowing Michael McBride to worm his way in and ruin their collective lives.
"– An' I said fer thot money I'll throw in me wife taa."
The raucous laughter of Seamus' gunrunning gang only added to the youngest of the Glenanne boy's growing discontent. They were supposed to be on an important mission and potentially a very dangerous one at that. If he had been the one in charge, he would have had them all going over the plan to steal the missiles, just as Pat Junior would have insisted and God help the man that hadn't listened. He'd seen what happened to the people that didn't give his brother proper heed.
That was the other thing that rankled about his other brother's style of leadership… He had yet to hear anything that even resembled a plan... And McBride had always complained that he didn't give enough thought to the mission...
Thinking again about his sister's duplicitous boyfriend deepened the frown already etched deeply in his flushed features. Part of him was almost glad the man who'd become a father to him after his own Da had died for the Cause hadn't lived to see him be taken in by the likes of Michael McBride.
And Pat Junior certainly would've never left Seamus to run such an important operation.
But Sean wasn't in charge and Shay was. What was worse still was that he hadn't even been capable of wiring the detonator to the American made C4 Seamus had managed to procure because of his bullet damaged arm. Instead he had found himself trying to explain the intricacies of bomb-making to his one relative whom he now knew for certain had the soldering skills of a drunken orangutan.
He had done his best to talk the family gunrunner through the process. "It-It takes a delicate touch ta get tha resistor an' tha capacitor -"
"How about ya shut ya mouth an' let me get on wit' it? Tisn't supposed ta look like yar work, nar is it? So unless ya want this soldering iron shoved up ya arse, let me do it me own way."
"Heads up, fellas, wa're hare."
Sean looked up as his older sibling slowed the SUV and pulled off the road and into an empty parking lot next to the beige-colored transit van which had been carrying the Seamus' advance team.
"Right lads, off ya go an' get tham missiles, me an' Sean will be along in two ticks."
"NO FECKIN' WAY!"
At the angry exclamation, the five men in the cramped car had all turned to stare in amazement at the only true paramilitary in the group.
"Sommit ya want ta say, Sean?" Seamus asked mildly as he twisted around in his seat to look the younger man in the eye.
"Aye, thar is! Do ya think ya can jus' walk on in through tha front feckin' door…? Jaysus, whot wa' Liam thinking puttin' ya in charge? Ya donnae have a clue on how ta run an operation!" With his face flushed with a mix of anger and indignation, Sean waited for his relative to respond and when he did it was not what the youngest of the males of the clan was expecting.
The cabin of the SUV erupted in laughter.
"He donnae think we have a plan, boys…" Seamus' mocking tone set his hot headed brother's teeth on edge. "Dinnae I tell ya befer, this isnae tha first time we've had ta liberate, so ta speak, our cargo? D'ya think I've lived this long on gettin' by on me sparklin' personality and devilish good looks?"
This caused another flurry of merriment amongst the assembled crew and made the other man in their midst even angrier.
"Well, if ya have a plan, I've nae heard it yet." Sean sulked as his eyes went to each of Seamus' operatives before settling on his older brother.
The gunrunning captain sighed heavily and then gestured for them all, including Sean, to follow him out of the car and over to where the two men waited beside the van.
Folding his arms across his chest, Shay leaned back against the side of the vehicle. "Okay, lads, listen up... Nar, I know ya all want ta be on yar way an' get back ta yar loved ones an' we've done this many a time together, but fer tha sake o' me little brudder's peace o' mind let's have a refresher in case anyone has forgotten how this goes."
He paused as a couple of older members of his crew groaned.
"Okay, okay I get it, tis a pain in tha arse. I'll make this as quick as possible an' we'll agree ta keep questions an' second guessing ta tha minimum." He directed his gaze back to Sean, who scowled back at him.
"As ya all know, tha brains o' tha family did a little bit o' research befer we left, just ta make sure we're not walkin' inta an ambush, but in case anyone is unclear... Four nights ago, tha Roketsan factory in Turkey had ten o' thar missiles disappear fram thar loading bay. They've kept tha news quiet, but ya know whot Colin is like fer diggin' stuff up, tis like a dog wit' a bone..."
One o' Shay's Belgium Shepherd dogs latched on ta tha leg of an intruder wa' a more apt description of whot their middle brother wa' like when in pursuit o' an answer the head of the family desired.
"Anyhow, five o' tham missiles turned up in Libya last night, so whot wa're after is tha other five, which are accordin' ta our customer is in thot warehouse yonder. Nar, whot's gonna happen is whot's happened tha last five times we've had ta help ourselves ta some inventory. Daly an' Brian are gonna cut a hole in tha fence at tha point Mickey an' Ronan have found."
Shay nodded at his two man advance team.
"Then all me boys except fer us an' Daly, who is gonna keep an eye on tha security gate, ar' goin' ta sneak inside, break inta tha warehouse an' steal away those missiles. They all have silencers on thar guns, but unlike tha last job in Beriut, if ya run inta anyone, we need ya ta leave tham alive an' able ta give tha police or anyone else who asks a thorough witness statement..."
The family gun runner paused for the effect before concluding his very brief briefing.
"An' speakin' o' thot, Liam has a coupla o' requests. Brody, ya have tha best American accent outta us all, come across has all GI Joe. It needs ta sound like American special forces ar' involved, an' one o' ya throw out tha name Frank or Frankie once or twice."
He took a second or two to look over his men and picked the one whose height and build most resembled that of the sergeant at arms of the CIRA. "Tony, ya'll be Frankie Duggan. Make sure ta get good an' riled when they use yar name."
Coming to an end of his speech Seamus paused one last time waiting to see if anyone was going to be so bold as to question what he had said and when his team remained quiet, he smiled and clapped his hands together, "Okay lads, off ya go then an' we'll be along after ya ta tidy up things in tha warehouse."
Sean watched as the five men all dressed in black with balaclavas hiding their features ran off into the night. "So, thot's it? Thot's yar grand plan? Off ya bloody go?"
"Whot else needs ta be said, brudder? Am nae some mighty Provo commander an' those men ar' nae a bunch o' Saturday night warriors. Believe it or nae, I probably do this sorta thing more often tha yarself. Tha stuff I move about tha world donnae grow off trees, ya know... We'll give 'em a ten minute head start an' then go in ourselves ta plant them little bombs ya helped me make."
"But how-?"
"No more, Sean. I've answered yar questions, nar just fer once, feckin' take my advice an' relax."
For a second, Sean thought about continuing the argument, his blue-green eyes so much like Fiona's narrowing. But as he watched Shay remove a packet of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his coat, he took it as a signal that the other man was done talking. So instead they stood in silence, staring at the night sky and listening for any sounds which would alert them that Seamus' grand plan was falling apart.
It was now more than any other time he missed their little sister. She woulda found a way ta make Shay sit up an' take notice. Because if there was one thing Fiona could do better than any of them, it was make people take notice...
She had certainly made him take notice when she had decided that she had enough of trailing around after Seamus running guns and had instead turned her sights on joining the Provo when she'd returned home from the continent.
At the time he had been moving up the ranks and hadn't been at all happy with the idea of his little sister interfering with his rise to notoriety. After all, though it made him cringe to think about it now, back then he had been of firm opinion that women didn't belong on the front line.
"She wants ta help, so let har do this. She'll stay in tha car. Think o' har as back up," Liam had requested, though the hard glint in his eyes had made it plain that regardless of the quiet tone in his voice, it was more than a suggestion.
"She'll be in tha way. Tis better if she stays at home. If she's bored, she can paint har nails," he had grumbled and in the end, somehow Sean had managed to convince his big brother to leave her out of it, much to Fiona's fury.
Fortunately for him as it had turned out, she had refused to take no for an answer that night. However she'd managed it without him knowing, his younger sibling had secreted herself in the rear passenger footwell, her presence hidden by the old raincoat he kept in the back.
It had been a simple fund raising job, transferring a boot load of military grade C4 across the border from a weapons dump in Glenveagh Forest to a safe house in Derry to await transport to a buyer in the United States. It was a run he had done maybe four times before without any trouble.
Only that night their intelligence had been wrong or rather somebody had leaked the information to the other side. Shortly after crossing over into Derry, he had realized he'd picked up a tail, two cars taking turns sitting behind him.
Sean tried losing them on a series of right hand turns, hoping that he could get away by cutting across the oncoming traffic. But it was to no avail and his maneuvers had also let his pursuers know he was on to them. The first opening they got, the vehicles had tried to box him in.
Increasing his speed in desperation, Sean had taken a corner too fast, his souped-up little Vauxhall Corsa skidding on a patch of diesel in the road, hitting the curb and spinning around before coming to an abrupt stop against a tall brick wall, his head impacting the window with a sharp crack.
Dazed and with the air knocked from his lungs, the republican paramilitary had been helpless when rough hands had drug him out into the middle of the street. At that moment, he had been convinced he was about to meet his maker. He had tried to gather himself to try to fight back, knowing it was probably useless, but determined to go down swinging nevertheless.
Then without any warning came a chatter of automatic gunfire, bullets cutting the air, the singe of shells far too close to his body, cries cut off before they could finish, the hands that held him jerking free as the men surrounding him fell away.
"Sean! Let's go! Whot's yar problem?"
At the time he hadn't been sure if he was hallucinating or not. Because there in the street standing by the rear door of the Corsa was his little sister, her auburn hair hanging loose about her face, her eyes gleaming with what he could only describe as bloodlust while in her hands she gripped a MP5 machine gun.
"Whot tha feck ar' ya doin' here?" he had shouted the moment he had found his voice again.
"Savin' yar arse or tryin' taa." She had come quickly to his side, dragging him on to his feet and pushing him back to the car. "Come on, we need ta go nar... Ya drive."
Back in the vehicle with his head still ringing from where he'd hit it against the side window when he'd crashed, Sean could only watch in dazed silence as his sibling reached behind his seat to grab a large bag.
"I bet yer glad I chose ta ignore ya tonight... Stay at home... Girls have no place in tha front line…" she had baited him with a sing song voice while delving into the bag. "At least I know ta always come prepared fer any eventuality."
The youngest revealed a half brick of home-made plastique explosive, her own mix which was nearly as deadly as the military grade stuff in the boot but nowhere near as stable.
"Quit yer gawkin' and drive!"
Fiona had given him a crazy grin, her eyes shining with excitement as she rolled down the window, and tossed out her home-made bomb straight into the path of the fast approaching back up team for the ambushers.
"Sean, ar' ya gonna put yar foot down or d'ya need me ta do thot as well?" she had demanded before hanging out the window to spray lead at the pursuing vehicles as they returned the favor.
The following explosion had cleared away the last of the fog filling his brain and he had gotten them out of there, making it the rest of the way to the safe house without a problem.
After he'd secured their stash and ditched the bullet ridden car, Sean had told his older brother about the ambush and admitted he should have taken Fiona along. But he never told anyone in the family that she'd come along or what she'd done that day for a number of very good reasons. From that day on, he had always looked first to his crazy little sister whenever he needed back up.
Fiona had saved the mission that day with her bravery and determination. He couldn't think of a single thing that girl couldn't do once she set her mind to it...
Except bring a spy into the family and expect it to go well.
He could hardly blame her for thinking that though. He too had felt the comradery when working with McBride, the unique companionship of another liked minded man who was not his brother or one under his command. Plus their new partner in crime had made Fiona happy, so he was happy.
Or so they had thought...
Sean sighed and then coughed as he was all of a sudden hit by a cloud of cigarette smoke.
"Jaysus, Shay! Whot tha feck?"
"Sorry, I wanted ta make sure I had yar attention."
"Well, ya have it, whot's so important ya couldnae jus' ask?"
"Tis nae a subject Am happy discussin' wit' ya, but I've had Belle an' Liam both in me ear so here goes... Whot is goin' on between ya an' Rosie? Tha poor girl looks like she's about ta go runnin' back ta har mammy."
"Tis none of yar business..." Sean turned away but almost instantly spun back around, pointing a finger threateningly at his brother's chest. "Whot goes on between a man an' his wife-"
Then the younger man stopped, his hand dropping to his side. "She's scared, thot's all. As soon as this is all over, we'll be back ta normal."
Seamus's bright blue eyes widened and though he longed to laugh, he stopped himself.
"Is thot whot ya think...? Christ, yar thicker than I thought. She's every right ta be scared! Rosie's young but she's nae stupid. Am feckin' scared about whot Liam is takin' us inta, ya should be taa... Ya need ta talk ta har, nae at har. Yer demandin' she trusts yar word but yer nae givin' any o' thot trust back... Explain things instead o' fobbin' har off. She can take it, if yer truthful an' ya make sure she understands how protected she is..."
Finishing his cigarette, he tossed the end to the ground and pushed it into the earth with the toe of his boot. "An' when this is all over, take har somewhare nice, will ya? Tha pair o' ya could do wit' getting' some sun on ya. Liam is off ta his villa…"
He chuckled at Sean's incredulous stare.
"Aye, believe it or nae, tha big man is takin' a break. Or more like distancing himself fram tha chaos he's about ta unleash. Why dontcha ya two head over ta Paris or Venice fer a week an' leave tha kids with me an' Belle? Two more wonnae make much o' a difference." He glanced at his watch and straightened up. "Tis time, let's go make a warehouse disappear."
As the voice of his long departed brother filled his head, counseling him to focus now on the mission, Sean decided there was also wisdom in what his laid-back gun running relative had to say as well. Assuming this liberating some ordinance went as easily as Seamus seem to think it would, then he had the harder of work in front of him when he got home to his wife.
Mabbe they could both take tha time ta deal wit' tha outcome o' whot Fiona had done together.
"Quit yar lollygagging nar and let's go. Jaysus, ya talk about me nae paying attention. Come on then, brudder, let's see how me handiwork stands up ta tha family standards."
()()()()()()
The most dangerous time in any operation is just as everything is coming together. You never know whether you're about to get a pat on the back or a bullet to the back of the head. Of course, there's not much you can do but act like everything is fine.
Sitting quietly in the back of Claire Glenanne's dark red Skoda Favorit estate car staring straight ahead into the darkness, Michael waited patiently and unobtrusively for Fiona and her mother to say their heartfelt goodbyes, knowing there would be no time for protracted tears and well wishes once they arrived at the site where they had left Gerry Coleraine's Volvo and took their places in the van intended to take them to the aerodrome and the plane waiting to exit them from Ireland.
Biting down on his bottom lip, he tried not to listen in on the private moment taking place mere feet away but overheard the swallowed sobs and whispered words of love and distress nonetheless. Despite his best efforts to insulate himself, Michael couldn't help but feel guilty for his role in tearing mother and daughter apart... well, truthfully, he'd help rip her whole family asunder...
Fiona was connected to them in a way he would never understand, having gladly put his own dysfunctional family in his rear view long ago. But that didn't stop the one-time American operative from appreciating the enormity of what the mother of his child was sacrificing to be with him, as he'd come to know her relatives over the last year and a half and he would try to honor that sacrifice as he had wordlessly promised her mammy in the family priest's sitting room mere hours ago.
Although Fiona's wily old aunt had broached the subject of making tea to get him completely off the topic of where they were going to be taken once they had left the Emerald Isle before making her escape from the kitchen, the older woman's suggestion that he feed his girlfriend and her kinfolk was a sound one nevertheless. Fiona hadn't had anything since breakfast and even if she probably didn't feel like eating due to the highly stressful circumstances, that didn't change the fact that she and their baby needed the nourishment.
A quick perusal of Father Conlon's refrigerator had quickly revealed a large number of cold cuts, cheeses and even some salami, no doubt garnered during one of his trips to Italy based on the label, and a short search of the pantry had produced some reasonably fresh looking home-baked bread.
With those things in hand, Michael had set about making a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches while contemplating what to do with the rest of their relatively meager store of things they had brought with them from the Coleraine's farm, including hardware that they would probably not be allowed to take along on the plane. He'd already stashed the sniper rifle along with the rest of their weapons under a bush on the other side of the stone wall that marked the perimeter of the church grounds, weapons which would eventually be picked up and join the Glenanne's private arsenal.
The dark-haired man had also spent the time it took preparing supper trying to determine the best way to make amends with Fiona's mother, which was something under ordinary circumstances he would not have undertaken. Spies didn't usually hang around to apologize to asset's families for ruining their lives. But he hadn't considered Fiona just his asset for a very long time and she was leaving her family forever. It was the least her could do for her sake to attempt to bridge the gap he had certainly had a major hand in creating, despite not being wholly responsible for causing the rift.
Opting to keep the sandwiches simple, two slices of buttered bread, one layer of meat or cheese, skipping the fancy bits of salad-type vegetation, Michael had still made the one for his pregnant girlfriend extra thick, looking more like something from a New York deli than an Irish kitchen.
He'd knocked softly and entered the parlor quietly, bringing the enormous serving tray into the room without looking anyone present in the eye, concentrating solely on the task of inserting said silver object into the available space on the coffee table in front of the sofa where Fiona and her mother were sitting side by side.
As the ex-spy set the tray down and straightened up, not needing to see Maeve's hostile expression to feel the hatred being directed towards him, a memory stirred of the last time he was an accepted member of a gathering at the Glenanne matriarch's home during the prior year Christmas festivities.
"Fiona, luv, why ar' those wee hors d'oeuvres bleedin' out?"
It had been on one of the many surfaces covered with food and drink in her mammy's house in Manor Kilbride, all the sandwiches on that opulent table cut into precise triangles, crusts removed…
"Those ar' me mam's favorite... cheese and beetroot…Tis the juice yer seeing…"
It had been admittedly a bit weak as opening lines went, but the American had pressed ahead.
"I'm sorry," he'd begun. "But the good father didn't have any beetroot in his stores, so-"
"Donnae," the older woman had advised, cutting him off in a cold tone which would have guaranteed frostbite. "Donnae say a word. Donnae explain, donnae apologize. Fiona's chosen ya over her family an' thar's nothing more thot can be said about thot. Ya've won."
"Mammy—"
"No, Fiona, tis true." Those hard blue green eyes so much like his lover's had stared straight into his soul then. "Nar, ya make sure ya spend every day o' tha rest of yar life earning whot ya've taken fram us, Westen."
He had nodded mutely to the affirmative, looking at the queen of the clan until they were both satisfied they understood one another and then the former operative had turned his attention to the woman who had stolen his heart.
"I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything, Fi," he had said softly with as much tenderness and adoration as he could muster into that sentence.
The dark haired man had left to the sound of her sniffling, though he had forced himself not to turn back and intrude again on what little time Fiona had left with her mother and aunt.
Sitting in the kitchen, he had absently chewed on one the remaining sandwiches, not even noticing what he was eating other than he knew he needed the calories to stay sharp and keep functioning.
At the time, his mind kept drifting back to the expression on Maeve Glenanne's face, involuntarily recalling the other times he had seen such animosity so blatantly on display and in his own home.
The mixture of anger and frustration, resentment and rage was a familiar one. It had been on his father's face often enough, his mother's too for that matter, although her expressions frequently included fear and longing as well other emotions he could only guess at as a child. These were carefully concealed behind a brittle facade of insistence that everything was actually normal.
Following her example, Michael had learned early and often to mask his true feelings. He'd had no need to be taught at the Farm what others had to learn in order to become a spies; his training had started young and with brutal thoroughness. His methodology for dealing with his emotions had only changed in the scope of things he suppressed and circumvented rather than the approach itself.
While he watched the much married Claire join her sister-in-law in embracing the younger woman, he acknowledged that he would need to rethink that strategy where his lover was concerned, but that plan was in the future, a future where they were all safe from the forces aligned against them.
So, upon the arrival of Fiona's aunt, who'd entered the kitchen to tell him that it was time to depart, Michael had shaken himself inside, mentally closing all of the boxes that contained his unwanted memories and shoving them back into the recesses of his mind with practiced forcefulness.
"Tis time to go," she had said, pushing the door open slowly so as not to startle him apparently. He remembered smiling a little bit at that as clearly this was a lady used to dealing with high strung men. "Just stay out of Maeve's sight and we'll have you both on your way soon enough."
Not knowing what else to say, he had opted for a simple gratitude.
"No need to thank me yet," Claire had countered. "Ya have a long way ta go til yer clear o' this."
"And exactly how far would that be?"
"Nice try, laddie," his lover's elderly relative had chuckled. With a grin still on her weathered visage, she had reached out a hand and Michael had used all his spy mojo to remain still and not flinch.
If she had hit him, he certainly would have deserved it.
But ultimately the older woman had ended up patting him on the cheek. "Tis a shame ya ar' who ya ar', but so ya ar'… As me brudder used to say, if wishes war horses, beggars would ride."
"Yeah," he had sighed, dropping his eyes to the floor and allowing himself for just a fraction of a second to bask in the seeming acceptance of one of the two matriarchs in Fiona's life. "There really is nothing more to say, is there?"
The aged but surprisingly strong digits cradling his face had dug in, swiftly redirected his attention to her eyes. There had been kindness there, but also a caution. "Actually, thar is..."
Claire leaned in close. "I cannae say whar yer going, but I can tell ya thot ya need ta be careful, me boy. Those whot ar' taking ya in ar' a dangerous lot with love fer nothing but hard currency."
He had opened his mouth to protest, but she had headed it off quickly. "Nae harm will come ta Fiona from this bunch. They wonnae harm a hair on har head… and well, ya've already done all tha damage thar is ta do on har hair. I did whot I could ta fix it. Yer welcome, laddie."
Her aunt grinned for the briefest of moments before continuing. "'Tis ya thot needs ta watch yar back when ya land. Thar'll be no love lost between ya an' thot lot. Do ya understand me, Michael?"
He'd accepted her touch as she'd relaxed her grip and then stepped back as he'd nodded his assent.
"Thank you," the former American operative had repeated with true sincerity.
"Off with you then," the elderly but far from frail female had instructed, dropping her hand. "Tha car is waiting fer ya an' ya best be waitin' in tha back when those two come out fram the house."
The trio broke apart then, her mammy approaching the opposite side from where he sat. Getting his first good look at his fiancée since he'd brought them food, Fiona looked as distraught as she had when her mother had slapped her upon their arrival and he had winced internally at the sight.
He wanted in his heart more than anything to stop her pain, but his head knew there was no help.
Michael smiled self-consciously at them as Claire approached the vehicle with her niece in tow, sliding over to make room for the petite redhead. Maeve climbed stiffly into the front passenger seat while he laid himself along the length of cramped rear seat of the hatchback, knees bent. The older woman helped Fiona settle into his waiting arms, snuggling her back against his chest, her slim legs pinned between his own, the top of her head tucked under his chin.
As he enfolded Fiona's tiny trembling frame in a tight embrace, her aunt unfurled a heavy dark blanket to cover the two of them, making them nearly invisible in the gathering blackness of night.
"Are you okay?" he whispered, moving his mouth closer to her ear.
"I'm fine," she lied in a hushed tone and they both knew she was trying to hold herself together.
"No monkey business nar, tha pair o' ya," Claire called out over her shoulder as she started the car.
"Thot ship has already sailed," Maeve grumbled from the front and then the sound of the motor and the radio playing Classic FM drowned out everything else. In the darkness, Michael concentrated on the sound of his lover's labored breathing as she was losing the fight to get herself under control.
In response, he tightened his grip and pressed soft kisses into her short auburn tresses, missing the flowing hair she'd insisted he cut off to help disguise her appearance what now felt like two years ago but actually had been not quite two weeks past, and though it has only been hours they'd been apart, it had certainly felt much longer. Michael was grateful for the opportunity to hold her close, needing the reassurance of her physical presence, the weight and the warmth of her against him too.
When was the last time they'd been able to lie down together in something even remotely resembling peace? How long would it be before they would get the opportunity to do so again?
The fugitive spy fought off the feeling of helplessness and frustration over their situation. His mind slipped briefly back to that terrible moment when he'd realized what had happened to her all those years ago after the visiting nurse had examined her and the ghosts of Bosnia had attempted to come out of their graves for just a second before he'd ruthlessly repressed the nightmarish memories and the vain imaginations of what might have been done to the woman he loved in a Belfast alleyway.
"I'm sorry, Fi…" he said softly.
"Donnae be…" she answered him quietly as well. "I know this is nae whot ya wanted ta do, but thank ya… thank ya fer letting me..." and the petite Irishwoman was unable to finish the sentence.
Allowing his hand to slip from her waist to splay out over her no longer flat stomach, Michael sighed and lifted his head to kiss what part of her cheek he could reach before lying back again. He yearned to comfort her, but was once more at loss as to what to say, neither his training nor his experience preparing him for this moment... He longed once more to bury his face in her hair but it was gone, like so many things in their lives, and Michael shook off the temptation to dwell on it.
He needed to concentrate on the present. Fiona's aunt would not have gone against her family who would like nothing more than to see him dead or disappeared lightly to offer him a warning.
Turning his focus to the voices in the front of the vehicle again, the dark haired man strained to catch the snippets of their current conversation for any other hints Claire Glenanne might choose to drop, involuntarily or otherwise, as to what might lay in store for them, or rather him specifically.
"Ya need ta getaway, Maeveen. I know, we can go off ta London fer a weekend an' visit all tha sights. Thar's a certain American tourist's funeral I'd certainly luv ta attend, heh, me dear? We'll see how see how long tis befer we have an MI5 tail. Twill drive them mad tryin' ta figure out who –"
"Aye, an' Liam's head will have exploded long befer the Brits can make heads or tails o' it."
"Well, I donnae want ta do thot ta me favorite nephew. One o' me other nephews, one on the O'Donnell side, he's married ta a Scottish lass an' they have a lovely place near Edinburgh, quiet and remote out near tha mountains, jus' tha thing fer ya take long walks or practice yar skills wit' a long gun. None will be tha wiser. Thot's just tha ticket nar… Ya'll be yar auld self again in no time."
Her sister-in-law made a non-committal sound before she suddenly drew a sharp breath, the sound of which caused her daughter's entire body to stiffen, followed by a light tremor running through Fiona's petite frame. Maeve Glenanne could be heard choking back a sob when Claire spoke again.
"We've come ta tha end o' tha road, me dear ones. Tis time fer ya ta go."
()()()()()()
The Native American practice of "counting coux" involves touching enemies on the battle field. The object wasn't to do damage, but to establish your superiority as a warrior. Infiltrating someone's security can serve a similar function. It's a not-so-subtle way of saying "Hi, I'm not here to hurt you; but I could hurt you very badly if I chose to."
Under the muted glow of city street lamps a dark colored armored BMW 7 Series 750i glided along the damp Belfast roads, barely slowing as it neared one of the many roadside police checkpoints before being waved through, the officers on duty scrabbling to clear the way for the high ranking government official sitting inside.
Leaving the city center behind, the vehicle wound its way through suburban streets until it came to a stop before a set of wrought iron gates and a uniformed man armed with both a Canadian C8 carbine slung on a strap across his chest and a Glock 17 on his belt standing guard on the imposing three storey stone built building at the end of a short tree lined driveway.
The rear window of the BMW slid down to reveal the face of Sir Richard Chambers, MI6 head of operations for Northern Ireland and Eire.
"Sergeant…?" The foremost British spymaster on the Emerald Isle peered out, his gaze taking in the well-lit perimeter of his residence.
"Sir, there was a blip on the electrical grid an hour ago. The cameras, sound sensors, everything went down for approximately thirty seconds and then came back on. There was no drop in power reported in the area, we've checked our breakers and are just finishing off a sweep of the residence and grounds."
"You've done an extended search outside the perimeter too?" Chambers asked.
This was the problem when you escalated the danger level. The upcoming peace negotiations had everyone on edge.
"Yes sir, technicians are testing the two nearest electrical boxes, I have-" he paused, tilting his head slightly to the side and touching his ear piece before straightening up. "I've just been given the all clear, sir, you can go inside."
"Thank you, Sergeant."
As the window slid back up, Sir Richard's driver started the luxury sedan moving the short distance to the front door of the house where they witnessed a heavily armed SAS team exiting the magnificent 17th century former hunting lodge once used by British royalty and now a government owned residence that served as a home away from home for MI6 operation chiefs.
"I won't need you any more tonight, George. You can get off back to the barracks. I will need to be back in the office for six AM, so no sleeping in in the morning," Chambers instructed his driver as he left the vehicle.
"Goodnight, sir," the man called out, but the head of operations was already being distracted by the aide who had followed the security team outside and was now eagerly waiting to fill him in on all the news he had missed while dining with his CIA opposite number.
"Sir, Ms Carruthers called by with all the Michael Westen data she could gather. I understand it makes a very exciting read. There was also a phone call from Mr McDonald reminding you that the briefing with the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland is set for eight thirty and that he would like to meet you a half hour before to go over the structure of the meeting."
"Prime Minister Blair's confidential private secretary called, too," the younger man continued breathlessly. "The Prime Minister is requesting that in the interests of openness and cooperation that your report be made available to all parties involved in the talks... That, um, ah, includes Misters Adams and McGuinness... Also, ah, Reverend Paisley, of course…"
Sir Richard clenched his jaw and continued on his way through his house towards the kitchen with the green agent following in his wake. This went beyond the pale, handing over intelligence reports to terrorists... And it seemed junior aide was determined to keep handing out the bad news.
"The analysts at GCHQ who have been looking into the death Tom Card have come up with an interesting snippet, sir. It's all rather cloak and dagger, really. They took the mileage of the car Mr Card was driving from the rental company and the mileage shown at the time of the crash and then extrapolated the distance he covered and the towns within that radius. Then they gathered up all the feeds from CCTV and traffic cameras within that area. There wasn't much to work with because most of these towns have barely moved into the twentieth century."
"Get to the point, Saville. I don't need to be told how clever the boffins in Cheltenham are. What did they find?"
"Well, first of all they discovered where Agent Card had gone, a market town called Naas. The registration number of his hire car showed up on a traffic warden's records. He had parked in a time restricted area... Now, here's the really interesting bit. Having discovered the car, they then tried to discover what he was doing there. They haven't been able to find any connection to Fiona Glenanne or a reason for Westen to be there, so they tried see where he went, if he was meeting someone... Typical of these little towns, there is only one CCTV camera overlooking the main street and that didn't produce anything useful until..."
The young man paused for dramatic effect, his eyes shining with an enthusiasm for the job that made his superior clench his jaw harder and wish Caroline, his long term secretary, was giving him this news. She at least knew how to be succinct.
"Martin, please, it is late. Just get on with it." Chambers pinched the bridge of his nose while wondering how much worse things could get.
"Well, somebody had the idea of looking for reflections, and…" The junior agent couldn't resist another pause before flourishing a fax copy of a very blurry enlarged print captured from the CCTV film.
Snatching the stiff piece of paper, Chambers narrowed his eyes and stared at the grainy image, his face revealing his disbelief as he made out the features in the picture.
"It was an incredible fluke actually. The image was captured off a glass window. As you can see, it is very poor quality but enough for our purposes."
"Is there anything else you have to share?" Sir Richard asked without looking up.
"No, sir, er, um, is there anything else -?"
"No, you can go, get some sleep. Be back in the office for six."
"Goodnight, sir."
"Goodnight, Martin... And Martin, you did well, just cut the theatrics next time."
It wasn't generally in Sir Richard Chambers' nature to offer compliments or to nursemaid over eager inexperienced members of his staff, but being handed evidence of a former British assassin in the vicinity of a now deceased American agent threw a chap off his game somewhat.
Crushing the poorly produced photograph of Mason Gilroy in his hand, Chambers tossed the piece of paper onto the counter top and reached for his favorite cup and saucer. It was going to be a long night. He needed coffee, lots and lots of coffee.
Dinner with David Fickas had yielded nothing of value. The American's operations chief had managed to grow a spine since their last face to face meeting, though only as far as sticking to the CIA handbook: admitting nothing, denying everything, and when faced with irrefutable proof, the damned weasel of a man had thrown out counter accusations.
I hate to break it to you, Dickie, but Michael Westen is one man... one helluva an operative, but just one guy. No one on our side lied about that... Are you gonna believe what some Ruskie who's trying to stay out from in front of firing squad or the United States government? Jeez, I thought you Brits were smarter than that... Who gave you that file? Have you checked their credentials?"
Sir Richard glared at the crumpled picture of Mason Gilroy… a British sponsored assassin being within yards of a soon to be deceased CIA employee... This, this was just the sort of thing Fickas would use to lay the blame at the door of British Intelligence.
He could hear the damn man already. "When MI6 forced that guy on us, we were promised Gilroy would be discrete, that he was the best man for the job, the only one for the job in fact... Instead he got an embassy helicopter and a whole damned CIA tac team blow up all over the freaking Irish countryside. And now you're telling me he was in the same town as Tom Card an hour before Tom's death? You know I'm going to have to kick this upstairs now. This one's all on you, my friend."
Placing his cup and saucer onto a tray, Chambers turned his attention to preparing the largest of his cafeterias. Then with boiling water added to the coffee and the lid in place, he snatched up the image of the revoked spy along with the tray and made his way towards his study.
Was it possible Gilroy was in Naas to meet with Card? But why would Card want a secret meeting with a disgraced British spy? No... He dismissed the thought as soon as it entered his head. Bloody American did done nothing but complain ever since the Home Secretary insisted on his presence...
Damn it, trouble is I'm trapped in between that awful Fenian sympathizer, John McDonald, who claims he was only sucking up to the IRA rabble for the good of the Blair government and that smarmy coward David Fickas, who's desperately trying to cover his own backside...
Makes it hard for a chap to think straight… Hopefully there's something in the files Caroline delivered, something that will enable me to show the department in a better light…it's certainly looking bloody well awful at the moment. Damn Westen! He should have at least had the common decency to know when to separate business from pleasure.
Balancing the heavy tray awkwardly, the spymaster managed to get his hand to twist the knob on his study door, the only thought on his mind at that precise moment being that he hoped when he walked inside he wouldn't discover that the tactical team which had cleared his home ten minutes ago hadn't left behind a mess as they had gone through the room. The last thing I need right now is to be picking up papers off the floor and trying to match them with the...
"Mr. Chambers, I was beginning ta think I wa' gonna have ta come looking fer ya."
Sir Richard froze in the doorway, his mouth opening and closing several times before he could find the words. "You... How did you...?"
"T'wasn't easy, I can tell ya thot," his uninvited guest answered cheerfully. "Nar why dontcha come tha rest o' tha way inside an' shut tha door behind ya... I think tis time we had a little chat."
He thought about running, of tossing the tray holding the boiling hot cafeteria of coffee straight at the intruder and running, of calling for help, of raising the alarm by pressing down on one of the many panic buttons hidden throughout the residence and cowering in a corner while a team of SAS commandos took care of the psychotic Irishman in his study.
However, he did none of those things because, while one part of his brain was telling him a tactical retreat was in order, another part was reminding him of his heritage and the oath he had sworn when he had joined MI6. He was an officer of the Crown and he was the highest ranked member of Her Majesty's intelligence services in Northern Ireland. Regardless of how hard and fast his heart was beating in his chest, or the knot of fear making his stomach clench, he would not, could not possibly allow himself to show even a hint of cowardice in the face of an enemy.
"Mr. Glenanne, how remiss of me… Nobody told me you were here." Unfreezing his feet, Sir Richard did as he was requested and entered the room, kicking the door closed behind him.
"I am afraid I only have one cup..." He made to place the tray down on top of one of the many cabinets filling the room. "If you would allow me, I'll get another -"
"Thot's alright, Am nae thirsty. How about fer nar ya keep a tight hold on thot tray and if I even sense yer thinking about doin' sommit stupid, I'll forgo tha chat an' we'll take this meetin' straight ta tha next level."
Standing completely still, he watched as the infamous head of the Glenanne family came from behind the desk where he had obviously spent some time reading through the stack of classified reports Caroline had left and carefully approached him.
"I've already taken tha liberty o' havin' a little look around an' I found tha Webley revolver ya keep in tha third drawer down in tha second cabinet ta yar left and in case ya have nae worked it out yet, none o' yar alarms, cameras or hidden microphones ar' working... At least nae at yar end."
Sir Richard stiffened but didn't flinch as the younger man ran his hands over his body checking for a weapon.
"Ya should be pleased ta know ya put me man outside ta a lotta trouble finding a way past all yar security. But jus' think of it as me repayin' tha favour. Tis costin' me an arm an' leg ta fix whot thot American bitch ya sent round did ta me own system."
Chambers blinked and sucked in a deep breath as the PIRA's foremost interrogator backed away to sit on the edge of the polished oak desk. Had Fickas really been so stupid as to send someone into Liam Glenanne's home? Hadn't the man any idea how things escalated in this damn country?
"As much as you Irish like to blame all your misfortunes on the British, if someone invaded your home, it was not on my order." The tray was beginning to feel heavy in his hands and as much as he tried to ignore the strain, his arms began to shake as the pale blue-grey eyes of a killer stared back.
Every report he had read on Liam Glenanne described him as a psychopath with a deeply ingrained hatred for the British. A man who was suspected of the kidnapping, torture and murder of over fifty men, some of which were soldiers, prison officers, policemen or IRA members who turned informer.
Suddenly the other man dropped the death stare and bared his teeth in what passed as a friendly smile. "Tis okay, Mr. Chambers, if I wanted ya dead, I wouldnae be wasting me time talkin' ta ya... Believe me or nae, I have come hare ta talk." He gestured with a tilt of his chin to the line of cabinets besides the intelligence chief and then over to a chair. "Ya can put thot tray down nar an' ya might want ta take a seat. We've gotta lot ta discuss."
Talk? What sort of lunatic breaks into one of the most secure homes in Belfast for a chat?! Sir Richard glowered at his unwelcome guest, but did as he was bid. After all he was in no doubt that even though Glenanne appeared to be unarmed, in reality the other man wasn't giving him a choice.
With the tray resting on top of the filing cabinet, Chambers moved cautiously across the room and took the high backed chair indicated by the younger man. Taking his time to get comfortable, the intelligence chief used the time to gather his thoughts.
Breaking into the home of a high ranking Provo without filing all the correct paperwork and following the proper protocols was a bold move for Fickas, too bold. The Englishman thought to himself. …Which meant the CIA possibly had another rogue operative in their ranks besides Westen. Sir Richard Chambers smiled and looked up... Maybe Tom Card meeting up with Mason Gilroy wasn't as big a stretch as he had first thought.
"So if you're not here to assassinate me, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
…...Just maybe this conversation with a terrorist was going to yield some interesting information.
"There is a war brewin', Mr. Chambers, a war which will make tha Troubles look like kiddies scrappin' in tha playground."
"All because an unknown American woman broke into your home…?" Chambers raised an eyebrow, his confidence growing in the face of the other man's lack of violence.
"Not at all…." Liam reached around behind him and when he turned back he held out a folder.
"Ya know thot tha Provisional IRA leadership ar' trying hard ta work towards a peace. We've held ta tha latest cease fire even under massive provocation an' as yar own spy wrote in his reports, PIRA activists aided his own efforts ta bring an end ta tha threat by tha so-called Real IRA..."
"I know all about your efforts to stick to the cease fire... Four men were murdered in West Belfast-"
"Those men wa' drug dealers an' as far as Am aware, nobody has been charged fer their deaths. So there is nae proof as ta who killed tham," Liam countered and thrust the folder closer to the older man, his pale eyes narrowing until Chambers reluctantly took the item and opened the hard cardboard cover.
"Ta save time while ya have look at thot folder, Am gonna tell ya story and at tha end o' it all, ya get ta make a decision."
"A decision…? Ah, that will no doubt be when you threaten to kill me if I don't do as you say?"
"If ya know anythin' about me at all, Mr. Chambers, ya would know I don't make threats... I make promises... Nar, let's stop playing games befer I decide this is a waste o' me time an' I jus' leave yar mutilated corpse spread all over this fine room as a message ta yar masters back in London."
Remembering some of the crimes the Irishman before him was accused of, Sir Richard swallowed thickly. "Well then, let's get on with this, shall we?"
"Aye, let's…"
Glenanne actually had the damnable cheek to smirk back at him before continuing.
"Befer we start, I wanta assure ya me sister an' tha yank spy ya inflicted upon us are nae gonna be a problem anymore... Thar no longer in Ireland. They got out just ahead o' me, flown out ta somewhar in France or maybe Spain if I wa' ta guess."
"You've no proof they've gone, of course," Chambers commented without raising his eyes from the file he was quickly becoming engrossed in. A series of photographs of a dark skinned woman, dressed in a trouser suit, her black hair tied back in a tight pony tail. In one her face was close up against the camera, the edge of a hand in a corner, her fingers manipulating something out of view.
In another she was kneeling down, her head bent as she ran her hands underneath a set of drawers and in the last one she was sitting in a kitchen facing a curvy blonde who the spymaster recognized as Glenanne's "housekeeper," the Donahue woman. This had to be the suspected CIA operative who had the terrorist's knickers in a twist.
Turning the page, there were another set of photographs. These had been taken from a City of Dublin CCTV camera overlooking Capel Street late on last Sunday evening by the verification stamp in the corners. They showed the ugly face of CIRA enforcer Frank Duggan surrounded by his entourage crossing the road leading into an alleyway, followed by another set showing the mystery woman with her own team on the same street.
"What is this supposed to be?" Chambers asked.
"Thot is tha woman who bribed a Belfast detective inspector ta have his men arrest two o' me own so she could waltz up ta me front door an' break inta me home... An' tha others are tha same bitch meetin' up wit' Frankie Duggan."
Sir Richard shook his head. "You expect me to believe the CIA is making deals with members of the CIRA?"
"Did ya nae send Michael Westen ta make a similar deal with thot so-called Real IRA mob?" Glenanne countered.
"It is very plain to me that you are aware that was a sanctioned operation intended to aid the peace process, Mr. Glenanne... What you are eluding to-"
"So ya donnae believe tis possible thot tha C.I.A. would conduct business behind yar back?... Yer a very trustin' fella," the Irishman's lips twisted into a half smile. "Fer a spy."
"Mmmmm, this is very weak, Mr. Glenanne."
What it was… was an attempt to set up a situation to get all sides involved in the peace process at each other's throats… That was what thirty years in the intelligence business was telling the MI6 chief as he turned to the next set of photographs. These showing the scenes of the explosion which had killed Thomas O'Neill, Martin McCullough and the recently identified CIA agent Tyler Grey helped to confirmed his hypothesis.
"Weak or not, I have already handed a copy o' this over ta a friend in Sinn Fien, who wa' very happy with whot they saw an' fram whot I understand thar lawyers ar' nar doin' their own investigation ready fer tomorrows session at Stormont. Thar is gonna be questions asked, accusations ar' gonna be thrown... I imagine tha press will get ahold of it befer long."
The MI6 man closed the folder and looked up to glower at the other man. Clearing his throat, he spoke as calmly as he could in the face of such a blatant attempt at blackmail. "What you have here is at best a lot of innuendo, some may call it a conspiracy, but that is all."
"Wars have started over less, Mr. Chambers."
There was a subtle change coming over the Irishman who gazed back at him so calmly, the easy smile fading away as his mouth formed a thin line, the pale eyes which had previously just looked cold and flat now showed barely constrained hatred.
"You claim this woman who entered your home is an American agent, but do you have any proof? Is Ms. Donahue going to be made available to press charges and be a witness in court or at the very least an official hearing…? The same woman in the vicinity of a high ranking member of the Continuity rabble and another American operative killed in the presence of one of the few remaining members of the Real IRA... All can be explained away. The first a coincidence, the second, well, let's face it, nobody is going to mourn the death of O'Neill."
Sir Richard knew he was gabbling, but as much as he detested showing weakness, all he could think of as he stared into Liam Glenanne's eyes were a set of black and white photographs from the coroner's office over ten years ago of the mutilated body of an IRA volunteer turned MI6 informer.
"Alastar McTigue, forty two year old, father of seven, sir. His body was discovered on the docks." It had been Caroline who had handed him the file. "We got him on explosives charges eighteen months ago, turned him and have been running him ever since. Our sources say he was dragged from his home two nights ago, the family had been too scared to come forward until -"
"Whot ya think, Mr. Chambers, donnae really matter nar, does it?" the Irishman snarled, all signs of charm had now slipped away to reveal the PIRA interrogator's true nature. "We both know it comes down ta tha intestinal fortitude o' tha British government in tha face o' a war comin' ta tha streets o' London and don't ferget yar own part in this. Once tha press get ahold of tha story, yer gonna be painted as tha incompetent fool who let American spies run all over him... Yar reputation will be gone ta shit. Thot's if yar lord an' master donnae have ya tossed inta a dark hole somewhar."
Sucking in a breath, it took every ounce of the spymaster's willpower to keep his composure in the face of one of the most dangerous men in Ireland and the damnable probability that he was right.
"You go too far," he complained and winced at the quaver he detected in his voice.
"Trust me, I can go a lot further an' I will, if ya don't take me seriously." Liam bit down on his bottom lip and broke eye contact to stare at the patterned carpet on the floor. When he looked up, his expression had once again changed as the hostility of a moment had disappeared. His voice when he spoke again held more of a singsong lilt than the harsh Ulster brogue of before.
"Let me see if I can make this easier fer ya, Mr. Chambers... We both want tha same thing, ya want me sister an' har man outta yar hair. They're gone an' I can guarantee they will nae be back. Fiona knows tha rules an' Westen… well, is he nae tha yanks problem…? An' ya have ta admit tha CIA havenae exactly been honest wit' ya, have they? …... Let's face it, fram whot I've learned, they either have a whole load o' rogue agents running amok in Ireland: Westen, tha agent wit' O'Neill an' now this woman... Or thar runnin' black ops in yar own backyard without yar say so, which isnae good fer anyone. They're gonna feck up all yar hard work, Chambers, is thot whot ya want?" the Irishman paused, letting his words sink in before he continued.
"Nar, Am nae sayin' I know fer sure, but maybe, maybe this Westen fella ran off wit' me sister, his asset, cuz he wanted out o' whot his government wa' up ta? Who knows whot thot fella who turned up dead in tha company o' Thomas O'Neill wa' up ta? An' mabbe tha woman who broke inta my home an' met up wit' a CIRA enforcer in tha middle o' tha night is workin' alone or maybe nae... But one thing we can agree on is she's meddlin' in sommit thot should have nothin' ta do wit' herself or tha United States government... Ya need ta take charge, Mr. Chambers. Ya need ta show these yanks whose runnin' tha show an' when Gerry Adams gets up an' throws this lot at yar boss, ya need ta make sure thot Ms. Mowlam has har answers at tha ready."
Pursing his lips the intelligence chief leaned back on his chair and stared heavenward. As much as he hated it, he couldn't deny Glenanne had laid out a good case. It was all total hogwash, of course, but it was a story he could easily sell and it would solve many of his problems.
In the morning, the republicans would start hurling their accusations at the UK negotiators, who in turn would try to placate the barely legitimate political party. Then in turn the loyalist lot would jump in and before long the whole meeting would descend into chaos. Words would be exchanged and then most likely punches before the whole debacle returned to the streets and they were back to where they were three years ago... It wouldn't matter how many D notices he slapped on the press the news would get out... Those damned Americans again….
However, if he did as Glenanne suggested, it might be possible to unite all sides against the American envoy, who in turn would turn his wrath onto David Fickas, who would no doubt lay all the blame at the newly deceased Tom Card's door. If one took the time to consider it properly, this entire disaster was the fault of the Americans and particularly that jumped up training officer who should have hauled Westen off in chains from that basement he'd had him locked up in.
Blowing out a breath, Sir Richard turned to his guest and barred his teeth in a professional smile. He could cook up a suitable dossier in a few hours, filled with half-truths, conjecture and long complicated sentences which the politicians would eat up.
"Thank you for bringing this important information to my attention. I will give the matter my utmost consideration."
"Ya do thot, Mr. Chambers." Liam was on his feet now. "I'll leave ya ta yar thoughts." He began to cross the room, moving towards the door when he came to stop. "Oh, in case ya war thinkin' o' stoppin' me leavin' I want ya ta think about yar wife, Dahlia. I had a friend leave har a little present strapped ta tha chassis o har Bentley. Jus' in case-"
"You bastard!" Chambers bolted from his chair, his hands reaching for the phone on his desk.
"Tis jus' a way ta make sure ya don't play silly buggers, Dickie... And sommit ta remind ya at whot's on tha line... Get tha Americans ta back off, cuz tha next time I go ta tha trouble o' having a bomb planted I wonnae be givin' out a warnin' an' should I need ta see ya again, it wonnae be fer a polite chat."
Staring into those inhumanly cold pale blue eyes before the PIRA interrogator departed his office, Sir Richard Chambers knew without a doubt there was only one course of action left open to him.