Stone of the Heart
The Invitation
There was no mistaking what was about to happen. An event that had happened too often in the past of this troubled city: a funeral turned into political statement. The cortège and the assailants were about to meet, with Fiona in the immediate crossfire. One pull of the trigger, one throw of the grenade and Michael would lose her forever.
"Grenade. AK. I'm taking them down." Michael didn't wait for the order; he didn't have seconds to waste on a chain of command. He had the instincts and the training to act upon the information available to him at the moment. Four men were about to unleash hell on the funeral procession passing before him. He could not let that happen, not when he had the expertise to stop it.
He fired... once... then again. Both men dropped immediately, dropped before they could begin their intended rampage. The other two, the ones who wielded the potential firebombs, abandoned their bottles and fled the scene without delay, scampering back to the Shankill before bullets cut them down, as well.
Fiona saw a flicker of movement turning her head slightly to get a better view. Two masked men approaching the procession, armed and prepared to inflict mayhem and death. Her eyes met with the gunman, an evil smile on his face as he prepared to fire. Fiona reached behind for her own weapon but before she could draw, a sniper's bullets found their marks. The threats were neutralised. Their bodies fell immediately to the pavement.
Chaos erupted as the sound of sniper fire could be heard. Some ducked for cover, some ran into open doorways lining the route, and several guns appeared throughout the crowd. This was a city that knew war, knew terror. They waited for what might come next, covering their children, their loved ones, as best they were able. Then, silence. No additional gunfire, no explosions or the sound of crunching glass.
Fiona had the foresight to 'accidentally' topple an avid cameraman from the local news station. She was unaware of exactly what was transpiring but discretion seemed to be the wisest course of action until it could be determined. What was known is that there were two bodies on the ground. Fiona glanced up at the rooftop where Michael had been positioned. The bullets had come from his perch, of that she was certain. Apparently, her trust had not been misplaced. A wave of satisfaction coursed through her.
Michael had no time to rest on his laurels. The moment the assailants fell, Donnelly took the lead. "Bloody hell, McBride. Ya can shoot, I'll say that fer ya. Just hope ya made the right call or we'll be buried, we will." He started moving across the roof swiftly, followed closely by the sharpshooter. They needed to remove themselves from the area at once before the British officials or the RUC arrived to investigate.
Michael said nothing. He knew his actions were justified. He just saved not only Fiona's life but a great many other innocent bystanders, as well. He doubted very much that Tom Card, his training officer would concur. He had exceeded the parameters of his mission. He could almost hear the scolding Card would have unleashed upon him. These were the kind of things that could get an operative 'burned' - perish the thought! But she was still breathing and at the moment that was all that was important to the American spy.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Let me show my appreciation, Michael, your sniper skills may have just saved my life." Fiona purred the words as she moved astride of him.
"You thanked me three times already." Michael reached toward her. "Not that I'm complaining." Their lips had been about to meet when the ringing of a mobile dampened the mood.
Fiona reached over to the bedside table, grabbed the offending instrument, and handed it to her partner, a scowl on her face. She hoped the call was brief so they could return to the business at hand.
"Hannon. Nice to hear from you." Michael's tone grew serious. Fiona unfurled herself from his body so that he was better able to concentrate on his caller. She listened to the conversation as Michael increased the volume making it easier for her to hear.
"Sounds like you've been a busy boy, McBride." Hannon had already heard the man's name linked to yesterday's events. At first he thought the newcomer was a bit of a chancer, but now it was clear that the man had a skill set that could prove useful to someone in his position. "Was hoping you'd meet me around nine this morning. I'll even buy you your own breakfast this time."
"I'll be there." Michael ended the call. Turning toward Fiona, he added. "Looks like I'm in."
"Ready to sell me out, are ya?" Fiona was still uncomfortable with the current strategy but Michael had proven that he could be trusted. Even Donnelly had to admit that he saved the day by dealing with the assailants before they had time to set their plan into motion. And Donnelly was stingy with praise, at best.
"If there was another way, Fi... " Michael placed his hand gently along the side of her face, hating his many acts of betrayal.
She placed his hand over his, the sheet slipping downward exposing more of her. "Well, maybe you can make it up to me?"
Michael grinned, "I'll need to take a rain check if I'm to meet Hannon on time." He was fairly certain he knew what she intended.
"Actually, I had somethin' else in mind." She paused until she had Michael's full attention. "I was hopin' ya would come to tea with me at mam's on Sunday." Her green eyes widened, a flutter of nervousness accompanied her request. Perhaps, it was too soon in their relationship to be asking but she hoped he would say yes.
"Tea?" Michael envisioned lace doilies, china cups emblazoned with roses, and tiny finger sandwiches laden with mayonnaise. His expression was filled with disdain at the thought.
"Yes, Michael. Tea." Fiona was beginning to feel annoyed: annoyed with herself for asking the question, annoyed with the man for his hesitation and his disgusted expression. "I make an appearance at least monthly to tea at my mother's. This week, one of my myriads of nephews is being christened, so it's expected that I be there. I was hopin' ya would join me."
Michael had a deer in the headlights sort of look on his face. "Look, Fi, I'm not really a tea sorta guy." He held up his hand indicating the act of holding a teacup, his pinkie extended in mockery.
"Sometimes, I wonder if we actually speak the same language, Michael." Now, her irritation broke through unambiguously. "I didn't say High Tea with the bloody Queen. I said tea. You know, a roast, tatties, possibly a crumble for pudding. Tea."
"That sounds like dinner." The American was completely befuddled.
"Dinner?" Now, it was her turn to be confused. "Kilkenny seems to be a world of its own." Fiona raised one eyebrow as she focused on Michael. It seemed as if he was often clueless about the most commonplace parts of life. It was almost as if he suddenly appeared in Ireland unaware of its social expectations and customs. She pursed her lips awaiting an answer and picked up the sheet wrapping it tightly around her body, the deliberate action speaking loudly to Michael. "Would ya like to come to tea or not?" Fiona demanded an answer, pretending that she did not care about his final answer. But, she cared deeply. It had been years since she invited anyone home. A string of dalliances were hardly the types to bring into the family fold, but this man was different. She looked away reading his hesitation for refusal.
Michael sensed her evolving mood: nervousness to irritation to despair. The spy would rather stick a hot poker in his eye than attend any family gathering, especially his own. He noticed how she pretended that his answer was immaterial, how she no longer could meet his eyes. Once again, Michael Westen planted his cover's smile upon his face. "I would love to." Fiona looked up, reassured by his expression. "But now, I have to go meet a gun dealer." He placed a kiss on the top of her head, and then headed off to the shower. As he walked away he thought how much better breakfast with an unscrupulous arms dealer sounded than Sunday tea with the Glenannes.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
He sauntered into the cafe after receiving death glares from the now upright bodyguard at the entrance. Once spotted, Hannon greeted his guest, ushering him into the chair opposite his.
"Coffee?" The arms dealer poured himself a cup, then another for Michael. "Glad you could join me on such short notice." A traditional Irish fry appeared within moments. Hannon tucked into his without delay. Michael could see breakfast was the first order of the day, business placed to the back burner temporarily. The American stared at his plate: fried eggs, fried sausages, fried bacon, a few mushrooms, a tomato, and an indistinguishable blob, which he surmised to be black pudding. A rack of dry toast was soon set on the table. He couldn't understand why everyone here simply didn't drop dead from heart failure before the age of forty, though he acknowledged the traditional American breakfast was not likely any healthier. He nibbled at parts of it wishing for a nice container of yoghurt.
"So, McBride, I've been giving your proposition some thought." Hannon continued to study the man before him.
"And?" Michael could sense that Hannon was interested but had reservations.
"The incident yesterday, well, if the stories I'm hearing are accurate, you have other skills bedsides driving. I'm curious how you might have come by them." The arms dealer's smile was menacing.
Michael knew his sniper skills would draw unwanted attention and questions. Unfortunately, he felt he had no choice. Of course, Card would have told him he never should have been on the damn roof in the first place. "Don't mix with the natives any more than is absolutely necessary," was his frequent mantra. The spy launched into his prepared tale. "You know what this place is like. Not too many jobs around here and I'm really not political. Left home, like many do. Worked awhile in the Balkans, trained in 'security'."
"Mercenary, then?" Hannon began to see a picture emerge.
Michael shrugged. "Call it what you like. It paid the bills." He paused and saw subtle signs that Hannon was buying into his tale. "During my time there I worked some for Kovalenko, an associate of yours I believe. Anyway, once he was relieved of his business, I found myself unemployed. Thought I'd come back here. Thought there might be opportunities for a man such as myself."
"Kovalenko? Then why had I never met you before?" Hannon looked sceptical at this connection.
He folded his hands on the table pushing away the plate and leaned forward on the table. Michael smiled, the cold smile of an assassin. "That's because I was perched on a rooftop with your head in my gunsights waiting for a signal to blow your head off." Hannon's blood ran cold at the icy delivery of that statement. Michael leaned back in his chair, his demeanour rapidly changing. "Now, I'd like to be self-employed, or at least an independent contractor, not beholding to the orders of others."
Michael was convincing. Hannon's doubts were being assuaged, but there was still a twinge of concern. "Seems like you've gotten awfully chummy with the girl. How do I know you're not in this together?"
"Like I told you, I'm not political. She's a means to an end. I could have tried to develop a friendship with someone like Donnelly or one of the brothers, but, with the woman, it was easier to get close. And there are a few perks that go along with the association." Michael paused. "Believe me. I'm all about the green." Hannon' eyes narrowed hearing that statement. "The kind that lines my pockets."
Hannon liked what he saw. The man had skills, access, and an air of confidence. "I'm willing to give you a whirl, McBride." Michael inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed that this meeting was headed toward a partnership rather than a bullet. "But, before we get into our own business relationship, I'll need you to do a little job for me. Call it a show of good faith." The arms dealer didn't rise in this field without being circumspect in his dealings especially with eager new disciples.
"A job?" Michael's smile faded slightly, wary of the request.
"I have a shipment coming in tonight. Down at the port. The seller will unload the cargo and get it to that location." Hannon took a slip of paper from his breast pocket and passed it along the table to Michael. The American noted the details and folded the paper before placing it in his own pocket. "Pick it up. Bring it to me. And then, we'll talk." Hannon stood up indicating that breakfast was over. Michael nodded and headed toward the exit.
It wasn't surprising that the arms dealer would propose something like this but it put another roadblock in his path. He needed to secure a crate of arms from an undisclosed seller, drive it through the streets of a city at war that was filled with British troops, and avoid the notice of any of the paramilitary groups in the area. He was going to need a little help. He was going to need Fiona.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"So, let me get this straight, Michael. Ya have no idea who the seller might be. No idea if Hannon is the actual buyer or if he's circumventin' another's delivery. No idea who else might know about the deal. And the time and location of the exchange has been set by someone other than yourself." She looked at him with disbelief as she laid out the facts, as she understood them.
"That about covers it." Michael concurred with her assessment.
"Are ya completely daft?" Fiona was not one to shy away from risk but even she had her limits. "There's no way ya can get away clean."
"Not without help I can't." He had a devilish twinkle in his eye hoping she would rise to the challenge.
She lifted her eyes to the heavens as she contemplated the bargain he had made. "Well, then, I suppose we'd better come up with a plan that doesn't involve us in remand, or worse. Sounds like fun!" Fiona and Michael shared a conspiratorial smile, their minds linked with thoughts of mayhem.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Michael prepped for the better part of the evening. Guns were cleaned and maps studied. Michael had a map of the area spread across the table as he looked for possible escape routes should things go awry. Fiona finally emerged from the bedroom. Her eyes were heavily lined, her hair straightened. She wore an alarmingly short dress with black boots almost to her knees. "Interesting look." Michael's focus turned momentarily toward her when she entered the room.
"Ya want me trolling the streets in the wee hours of the night, Michael, in case ya be needin' backup, do ya not?" He nodded. "This seems like the right choice."
"Going for a lady of the night look, then?" Michael thought her reasoning sound.
"Actually, I was tryin' for the clubbing look but I suppose either works. Ready?" She gathered her supplies as she prepared to leave.
Michael paused, "So, about Sunday, I was wondering what I should bring, you know, for your mam?" He understood this was important to Fiona and he wanted to make the right impression.
She pondered the question. "I suppose you could bring a cake." Michael grinned, content with her answer, and he turned to leave. "Of course, she might be thinkin' ya have doubts that she'd be servin' a proper pudding." The grin left his face. "She does enjoy a wee drop now and then. A bottle of Bushmills might do." This time the spy waited for the disclaimer. "Or she might get the idea ya think she's a bit of a lush." Michael looked askance at her suggestions. "Dunno. You decide." With a wry smile she disappeared into the night.
Michael set off for the waterfront his attention now focused on the mission, confident that in this milieu he would have the right answers. And if things went badly, well, at least he would be spared sitting through a social gathering with Fiona's family. Death or tea - he wasn't sure which one was the preferred outcome.