Stone of the Heart
The Trap
He watched her, resting on his elbow, as she prepared for the day. He had never really been interested in a woman 's toilette before, but like everything else about her, he found it fascinating. Those hands that could glide over his skin so gently could also assemble a weapon rapidly or create an explosive device with ease. He watched her fingers braid and twist her long tresses into a knot at the nape of her neck.
She knew that he was ogling her, urging her with his eyes back to the comfort of his arms. "Don't be lookin' at me like that! I've got to go."
"Do you want me to come?" Michael asked her once more.
Fiona shook her head. "No. I think yer right that this would be the best time to approach Hannon. He'll know where I am, why we're not together. Easy to sell him on why ya picked this moment to approach him and propose a partnership." She still had some misgivings about their plan but was committed to make the attempt. In some ways she hoped Michael would be rebuffed and they would need to devise another method to take the gunrunner down. She was uncomfortable with the thought of Michael putting himself in harm's way, pretending to use her for his own ends. It was a heinous thought to betray one so close to you. She hoped that Michael could pull it off.
"The wake will go on till the wee hours. Ya know how these things go." He nodded slightly, agreeing with her statement but in truth he had no idea what an Irish wake entailed, other than whiskey seemed to be involved. "Will ya come after?" She asked as she continued dressing. She was to be part of the Honour Guard flanking Old Jimmy's coffin during the viewing.
"I will." He agreed, rising slowly, joining her. He stood behind her, wrapping his arms about her as they both looked forward. "As long as things go smoothly." One never knew what turns an operation could take. Fiona was the link between the two men; a connection that Michael was unable to use under the current plan. So, he was walking in cold, without backup, no go between to make the appropriate introductions. The spy had to hope that Hannon's greed would override his caution as Fiona's weapons supply was dangled before him.
"And if things don't go smoothly?" A shadow crossed Fiona's face, wanting to hear words of encouragement, understanding any promises were meaningless. He remained silent and gently buried his face in her neck, giving her the only answer he was able.
There was nothing left to say. They moved slightly apart. She regarded herself in the mirror, placing the black beret atop her head. She turned to face him, no longer looking like the woman he was falling in love with but rather like a member of an unlawful paramilitary group, the types of people Michael Westen often sought to destroy. When she was in his arms, he sometimes forgot this is also who she was. She noticed the rapid change in his expression. It was evident that this part of her made him uncomfortable. She wasn't quite sure why, as he seemed to be a supporter of the struggle. This was the first time he saw her in traditional PIRA uniform, a rare instance reserved for important occasions.
Michael quickly regained his composure, making a jest to lighten the mood. "What no balaclava?"
"Not for the wake, ya eejit, that's for tomorrow at the funeral!" Michael gave her that look, the one she noticed every time that she said or did something he did not expect. She placed a soft kiss on his lips. "For luck."
"Do I need luck then?" He was reluctant to let her leave.
"Approachin' Hannon uninvited without as much as a slingshot? I'd say ya need a field of clovers." Fiona applauded his confidence. He hoped he had the skills to accompany that bravado or Jimmy's wake may not be the only one she'd be attending. She walked slowly away, pausing at the door to take one last look at the man. A slight nod of his head bid her goodbye and the door closed behind her leaving Michael alone once more.
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Michael sauntered into the cafe where Hannon would likely be found at this hour. A cold approach is never ideal but sometimes it's the only option. He strode in with confidence. His forward progress abruptly halted by a burly security guard manning the entrance. "The place is closed. Best shove off."
The directive was unambiguous but Michael was not easily swayed. "I'm not here for the coffee. I have a proposition. One I think your boss might be interested in." The man did not flinch, nor make a move to inform his boss that he had a visitor. Michael flashed an understanding smile, turned slightly as if to leave, then swung back delivering a blow that incapacitated the fellow. Michael stepped over his inert body and made his way over to Hannon's table.
The gunrunner stopped eating momentarily but soon tucked back into his Ulster fry as Michael settled into the empty chair at the table. It wasn't until he was seated that he noticed the guns pointed in his direction. "In case you hadn't noticed, I prefer to dine alone." Michael looked about the empty cafe, Hannon the only patron. He counted three guards in the room, all armed and with grim expressions.
"You're a hard man to meet. Thought this might be the best place to introduce myself." Michael tried to sound relaxed despite his lack of backup if things went awry.
"And why would I want to meet the likes of you? Wheel man, are you? I'll not be needing those services, boyo." Hannon tore into a rasher with gusto.
"Lets just say I'm tired of cars and I have a notion to move up in the world." He reached into his jacket and the guns drew closer. He waved them off, opening his jacket to reveal no weapon, and then slipped a photo onto the table for Hannon's inspection. "I'd like you to meet the Thompsons. It's a rather large family but I thought I'd start out with the oldest of the group."
Hannon was confused. He examined the photograph that contained a parcel of collectible Thompsons. "Where'd you get this?" His interest was piqued but that didn't mean he would entertain the notion of bringing him into the fold.
"It's part of Fiona Glenanne's stock." Michael reached across the table, taking a piece of toast from the rack.
"And why would you be bringing this to me?" Hannon watched the spy's movements and made no comment regarding the toast, which Michael took to be a positive sign.
"Thought you might be interested. Is that jam?" He reached toward the small bowl in the centre of the table.
Hannon stopped chewing "Interested in what exactly?"
Michael spread the jam on the toast "Interested in getting your hands on some of her supplies. You see, she and I, well, we've gotten quite friendly." He smile was wide. Then he took a bite of the toast, his face contorting at the taste. "Is this grape? I was hoping for blueberry."
"I've wanted to tap that one myself. Bit of an ice princess. What makes you think you can deliver some of her Thompsons - to me?" Hannon made no comment about the intruder sharing his breakfast but concentrated on the man before him trying to ascertain if he was a complete amadan or if there was something to his claims.
"She trusts me. She's letting me in, in more ways than one." He laughed at his own double entendre, feeling uncomfortable with this comment the moment the words left his lips. "I intend to use her trust to line my pockets. I'd need a distributor though so I thought perhaps a partnership. I get the guns; you add them to your 'collection'. We split the profits." Michael dropped the toast and his expression turned earnest.
"And why should I trust the likes if you?"
"Because she has what you want... the link to the IRA arsenal if they disarm. And I have what she wants." He paused, his smile oozing arrogance. "Think about it. You can reach me at that number." He handed Hannon a card with his mobile number. Then, he stood up as he prepared to leave. "Don't be waitin' too long now. There are others who may be interested, as well." With that, he exited stepping over the still unconscious security guard. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hannon pick up the card and slip it into his pocket before he took a large swig of coffee. The trap had been set.
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He put off going to the pub as long as possible. Michael Westen was uncomfortable with outward displays of emotion, preferring to keep those sentiments locked deep inside him. The scene following the wake was likely to be laden with sentiment, the whiskey flowing along with tears and tales of the deceased. He would be expected to contribute, something about the man's valiant past, a reference to a fallen hero perhaps, but his depth of knowledge in this area was limited. The struggle for Irish independence was not a subject taught in American schools and he feared his ignorance would be noted, suspicions raised. Michael knew that she would be waiting, curious as to how the meeting with Hannon went, but he wanted others to be well in their cups before he made his appearance so that any lapses in knowledge would be barely noticed.
As he approached he noticed the flashing lights, the crowd milling in front of the pub, the gawkers gathered on the opposite corner of the street. His pace quickened as worry washed over him. The RUC patrol cars were just pulling away from the curb as he arrived. A lone ambulance remained at the scene. His feet crunched the broken glass, splashes of blood scattered along the worn floorboards, as he crossed the threshold.
Then he saw her. She was facing him but her face was turned downward. The fatigues replaced by a black sheath dress, which was unzipped slightly and pulled down around her shoulders. A paramedic stood behind addressing a gash across her upper back. Relief washed over him upon spotting her and he slowly advanced taking note of the damage, the wounded, the sorrow, and the anger. Slight nods of those gathered acknowledged his arrival but little conversation was taking place, waiting until the last of the medical personnel had vacated the premises.
Fiona sensed his approach and glanced upward. The concern in his eyes was easily read. A small smile reassured him. "It's not so bad," referring to the wound being attended to. He took note of her injuries: several small cuts along the back of her, a deeper gash recently stitched, her hose torn and bloodied.
"What the hell happened?" He searched her face for answers.
The paramedic finished, handed Fiona some antiseptic cream and care instructions, and disappeared into the night. "Drive by. UVF likely. Seems my wee surprise the other night was not as clever as I hoped." She might have fooled the RUC but the opposition knew the tactics of their foe and were not so easily tricked. She continued, "Sprayed the place with automatic gunfire. Seemed like hundreds of rounds. It's a bloody miracle no one was killed."
"Casualties?" Michael assisted in zipping up her now tattered dress and switched from worried lover to operative.
"A few. Couple of people taken to the hospital. A few who required medical attention but needed to stay clear of the RUC will get help another way." Michael understood that occasionally performing your own brand of field medicine was better than a hospital stay in cuffs. "I hit the floor the moment it started so I escaped the worst of it." He reached out and softly stroked her face. Fiona reached for his arm holding his hand in place, relishing the comfort, wanting it to continue. "And your meeting?" She wanted to ask more but circumstances dictated discretion.
"About what we expected." Michael didn't want to talk about Hannon. He wanted to focus on her, wishing he had arrived sooner, regretting his tardiness.
As the last of the emergency services left, the mood shifted. The people from the street filtered back in, joined by those who had been nearby at Caffreys. Angry voices dominated the conversation. First, The Black Sand Pub was bombed, now a drive by at The Red Devil. Two messages sent with unambiguous meanings. This war, despite the news reports to the contrary, was far from over. Some advocated a quick retaliation. Others urged calm wanting to preserve the ceasefire, refusing to be goaded into destroying the peace process. The debate was heated and prolonged. Michael had difficulty following some of the talk but had no trouble recognising the volatile situation brewing. Card was right: this place was ready to explode!
A loud voice broke through the bickering storm. Michael identified the face of a frequent patron, Donnelly, his name, who pointed out the first order of business. "Before we get ahead of ourselves. We need a plan for tomorrow." Tomorrow, they would lay one of their own to rest. Old Jimmy would make his final journey down The Falls Road to Milltown Cemetery where he would join the other fallen heroes of the movement. His coffin would be draped with a tricolour, a black beret, and gloves in tribute for his service. An IRA Honour Guard would accompany the funeral cortège, several volunteers would flank the procession, and Fiona would be one of them. "The UVF will know where we'll all be headin'. We're sittin' ducks if they'd be wantin' to pick us off." Quiet murmurs of agreement could be heard among the crowd. "We'll be needin' a plan."
Sean Glenanne chimed in with an idea. "I'll get a team of snipers together. Post 'em along the route, I will. We'll be ready if they make a move." Several men in the crowd volunteered, Sean agreeing to their help.
His thoughts in turmoil, the American reviewed the scene about him, his gaze falling upon his bloodied 'asset', pondering the fate she narrowly avoided. She would be in that procession tomorrow, he couldn't risk losing her again. Michael raised his hand applying his name to the proposed task. Fiona shot him a look of surprise. "This isn't a game McBride. I'm needin' those who can do the job." Sean spoke quickly. He didn't need the help of his sister's love struck puppy.
Michael's countenance turned steely. "Trust me. I can handle it."
Fiona whispered, "I appreciate the thought but ya have no idea..."
He cut her off before she could speak further, "I didn't just run guns, Fiona. I know how to use them. You've been impressed by some of my other talents." He gave her a suggestive look. "Let's just say they pale in comparison to how a handle a sniper rifle."
Her eyebrows raised in surprise, intrigued by this new revelation. "Well, then, McBride, let's see what ya got." She turned to her brother and nodded, delivering an unmistakable message.
"All right, McBride, yer in." It was time for Michael McBride to step into the light.