Stone of the Heart
The Sting
Michael arrived at the cottage finding Fiona giving herself a pedicure, wads of cloth sprouted between her toes. She looked up briefly before focusing back on applying the topcoat to her recently applied nail lacquer. "So, how did it go?"
"It went... as expected." Michael headed toward the refrigerator and poured himself a large glass of ice tea. One of the few perks of having Fiona learn the truth of his identity was being able to indulge in his beverage of choice without fear. "Want some?" She nodded. Fiona was adapting to the taste of the cold tea. She thought if she were able to visit Michael in Miami sometime in the future, it would help her fit in better, make her seem more local.
"As expected? What exactly does that mean?" She had been on edge as soon as she delivered the coordinates of the location. Since she needed to stay alert, ready for immediate action, wine was not a choice. The pedicure was an attempt to relax. She had put PIRA guns into the hands of a notorious arms dealer trusting that the American spy handing her a glass of iced tea would get them back before her deception was uncovered. If he failed, she would very likely have a bullet through her forehead by this time tomorrow. At least they would discover her body with a fresh pedicure. It was a small point of consolation.
Michael sat on the sofa beside her. "Picked everything up. Did the vehicle switch. Unloaded at the warehouse."
Fiona looked surprised. "Ya got inside?"
The spy nodded and reported what he had observed. They had all the Intel they needed as long as the skittish Harbour Master played his part, an unknown but necessary variable that was beyond their control.
"Hannon was quite pleased with himself. Seems he made a deal with some Libyans. He even offered me a permanent position on staff." Michael took a large sip.
"He took the bait." Fiona's face brightened.
"Hook, line, and sinker." Michael reached into his inside pocket and removed his mobile. "You have an offshore account?" It was more a statement than actual question. Someone in Fiona's position must have a viable method of keeping and dispersing funds away from prying eyes.
Her smile faded at the question. "An offshore account? Why ya asking?" She had no intention of giving the CIA or any other government agency here or abroad any more information than was absolutely necessary.
Michael pointed the screen toward the woman. "My share of the sale. Thought I should transfer the funds to you. After all, you made the deal possible."
Her eyes widened. "Will that be all right with your people? The CIA?" This seemed too good to be true.
"You wanted 'compensation'. I've done MY part." There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. "The United States government thanks you for your service. Of course, unless we hear from O'Reilly, you won't have much time to spend it." He raised his glass and they toasted to the future, hoping that the possibility of human potato blight wiping out the population was enough of a worry to spur a certain Irishman to action.
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Donal O'Reilly had several sleepless nights after the impromptu visit from the Federal Drug Administration inspectors from the States. He spent time in front of the mirror watching for any sign of disease. He purchased several cleaning products that boasted about their disinfection capabilities but still, he worried about the missus and the wee ones coming down with something that he brought home from the docks.
As a precaution, when he received an order for a shipping container to be delivered to Clontarf Medical Supplies, he rummaged through reams of paperwork on his desk in an effort to find the business card of Inspectors Cagney and Lacey. The man contacted the pair immediately, informing them of the impending threat, seeking guidance as to whether to comply with the request or if the matter should be handled by some government agency either in Ireland or abroad.
Michael and Fiona breathed sighs of relief that the man heeded their dire warnings about the 'virus'. They sprung into action, recreating their cover identities, and raced to the port area without delay. O'Reilly greeted them with enthusiasm. "Sweet Mary! Tank you fer comin' so fast. The can's supposed to be delivered tonight."
Inspector Cagney took the lead. The American spoke reassuringly to the man. "You did the right thing, Mr. O'Reilly. If you'll allow us, we can take the container to the address ourselves. Conduct a few tests to see if this medical supply company truly is the source of the contagion. If it is, we'll place it in quarantine keeping you and the rest of the port safe."
The Harbour Master looked relieved to be freed of this burden. "Ta. But ya need to attach it to a semi to get it there. I could send one of me lads..." The operatives exchanged glances. They wanted to avoid involving additional players.
"There's no need." Inspector Lacey using her perfected American accent explained. "I grew up on a farm. Kansas. Driven trucks since I was knee high to a grasshopper." The spy inwardly squirmed at her comment but plastered a smile that was meant to be reassuring on his face. O'Reilly arranged for the container to be prepared. He was anxious to get the inspectors and the vehicle off the property as soon as possible.
Fiona settled behind the wheel. Michael exchanged a few words with the harbour master thanking him for his service and with the promise to return and provide him with a full report. Once in the cab, Michael asked, "Kansas?" The spy wondered why Fiona had picked that particular state as her own.
"Wizard of Oz." Fiona sighed. "I think that's when my love for shoes began."
"Shoes?" Michael looked completely baffled.
"Ya know. The ruby slippers." Fiona stated what she believed to be a well-known part of the classic American film but the spy gave no indication that he recognised the reference. "Honestly, Michael, ya need to get out more."
"Just drive." Michael gave a slight wave to the man on site before driving off. They had a long night ahead if this plan had a chance of success.
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Fiona drove the truck like a pro, Michael amazed by the many talents in her repertoire. She pulled into what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the city. A large red haired man stood in the opened bay surrounded by a small generator and a slew of tools. Michael recognised the face. "Let me guess, Ruairi?"
"Drove down from Killybegs. Wife isn't too happy that I 'summoned' him. She thought he was done with this life. Hoping he'll become a farmer, grow barley, or something." Fiona had been in touch with her associate after their Belfast operation went awry. The man hated the country and was eager for any excuse to leave. Sheilagh, on the other hand, wanted a fresh start for their family, away from the Army, away from the city, away from Fiona Glenanne.
"Are you sure it's a good idea involving him?" Michael was reticent to include others in their operation.
Fiona parked the truck and faced the man beside her. "No, Michael, it's not a good idea but since we can't very well drive the truck and follow your plan, compromises need to be made." She waited for him to dispute her logic.
"Good point." The spy exited the cab, greeted their new partner, and began the task after a quick change of clothing. Their 'Inspector' outfits were not conducive for a covert operation.
A false wall was created at the far corner of shipping container. Sheets of metal were soldered into place, painted to match the existing interior. Another small escape hatch was created along one wall allowing an exterior access point should things go badly. They worked quickly and quietly. The whirring of a drill the only sound breaking the silence. Soon, their work was complete.
Before the false wall was sealed with Fiona and Michael along with their own weapons and supplies inside, plans were finalised. Ruairi shook his head. He had strong reservations and pleaded his case to find another way. The plan was foolhardy, too much was left to chance, but the couple seemed determined to go through with it. He would just have to hope for the best.
The operatives hunkered down in their corner, a space about two and a half metres wide and less than a metre deep. Luckily, neither had issues with tight spaces, both actually enjoying the forced closeness, the unity of purpose. Ruairi began to create a loose seal that would release the panel with one or two strong kicks while Fiona and Michael settled themselves in the hidden space. Michael stood, bracing himself in a corner. Fiona sat on a small crate that contained her own set of necessities: water, snacks, explosives.
The big man bellowed a greeting, wanting to be sure his passengers were prepared and situated as comfortably as possible before their journey began. A nod of Fiona's head indicated that she was ready. Michael pounded on the metal frame, affirming it was time to move out.
A torch shed weak light throughout the confined space. Fiona focused on her partner, his eyes closed, either using the travel time to rest or visualise the operation, searching for potential pitfalls. She looked about her limited surroundings. "Well, I suppose we could find something to do to pass the time. Be at least a half hour before we're there." Her focus strayed from the business at hand.
Michael spotted the glint in her eye. "I'm not a contortionist, Fi."
"Ah, well, just a thought." She winked at the man knowing full well that he would decline her offer but also understanding the comment and the thought behind it would diffuse some of the mounting tension. He tried not to smile, knowing his partner did not need any encouragement or she would likely pursue the issue.
This was not the first time he had used this tactic to attempt a covert breech of a facility. Last year, in St. Petersburg he had enacted this same plan with great success. Same idea, another woman. He recalled how different this felt from working with Samantha. His future ex-fiancée had stood on the opposite corner of the container, her eyes closed, reviewing how she would steal the documents once inside the facility. It would never occur to her to pass the time in other ways. She was always 'on', ready to play the game, not revealing too much of herself in the process. In fact, she was a lot like him. Maybe that's what made it so easy.
Fiona wasn't satisfied with simply a working relationship. She pushed him, reminded him that he was more than a spy, that he was a man. It made things somewhat complicated as he had denied himself a life of his own for so long. She made it seem possible. This job was drawing to a close. He would have to make a decision soon; a decision Fiona did not even know was in the realm of reality. Once Hannon was dealt with, Michael could walk away, not from her, but from the CIA, take control over his own destiny. He struggled with the choice. Could he be Michael McBride forever? Would he want to? The truck began to slow down interrupting his rambling thoughts. It was time for action.
It was a daring plan: slip into Hannon's storage facility hidden in a shipping container. So much could go wrong but it was their only chance at foiling the arms dealer's plans and getting the PIRA munitions that Fiona put at risk back. They had no other option to achieve both goals.
Muffled voices could be heard; the sound of the gate opening and finally the steel door rolled back, the motor humming as it lifted the heavy portal. The operatives gave reassuring glances to one another. It seemed to be exactly what they witnessed during their surveillance at the site. Ruairi and Hannon's employees uncoupled the cab from the container and the IRA man was swiftly away. He would wait for Fiona's signal to return. Michael and Fiona were on their own.
The shipping container's door slowly opened, the squeaky hinges producing an unmistakable sound. The hidden operatives, Kevlar vests in place, pointed their weapons toward the false wall, prepared to act if their ruse was detected. Michael held up three fingers indicating the number of distinct voices that he was able to discern. Fiona nodded, his message delivered and received.
The men had performed this task hundreds of times. They expected no subterfuge; no inspection was required or conducted of the can. All began the task of loading the container. Mindless chatter accompanied their work. It was a difficult task. The armaments were heavy. The sound of a whirring forklift could be discerned assisting in the transfer of the weapons. Great care was taken to ensure there would be no damage to the valuable cargo. Money had already exchanged hands. Any mishap at this juncture would likely end with a bullet for the offender. And then, it was done. The voices drifted away.
Michael and Fiona waited, barely breathing, as they determined when to make their move. The American suspected that Hannon would increase his guard. It was likely all three guards would remain. One inside, just as before, while the others patrolled the exterior alert for any sign of unwanted visitors. A gesture from the spy let Fi know it was time to signal their driver to return. Then, they removed the false wall, a strong kick from the man once they heard the sound of the metal door begin its descent, covering their movements within the container.
On the count of three they burst through the door surprising the guard posted at the electronic panel that controlled the entry. Michael disabled him before he had a chance to warn his companions.
Fiona inspected the security system. It was a fingerprint scanning mechanism that operated the doors but luckily they had the key. She dangled the inert man's hand delivering the message to her partner. Now they just had to get passed the two watchdogs posted at the gate.
Just then, Ruairi returned. The guards opened the gate for him as a discussion ensued about Hannon's change of plans. The driver insisted that he was told to return, pick up the can, and drive to the port immediately. The steel door began to open. The big man pointed to its movement assuring the two that the inside guard had received his orders and was complying. The guards headed toward the opening seeking confirmation to the driver's claims. Instead of a positive reply, they each received an incapacitating bullet courtesy of the spy and his accomplice. The loaded shipping container was quickly reattached to the cab and the trio of thieves slunk off into the night with their prize.
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The escape was complete. No alarms or pursuit followed their exit as the truck rumbled down the road. The two Irish operatives exchanged glances; a subtle nod of Fiona's head told her associate it was time. The driver found a safe location to pull to the side of the road stopping temporarily.
"Why are we stopping?" Michael asked at this sudden detour.
"This is your stop, McBride." Fiona explained. "DART station is three blocks down that way. I'll meet ya at my place." The American spy stared at the woman. Apparently, the volunteers had decided to close ranks. The munitions would be returned to storage, a place known only to a few, and Michael was not part of that inner circle. Secrecy for a cause was a motive he understood. With a sigh and a tip of his head he exited. He watched as the vehicle disappeared from view before heading toward the train, hoping he had enough cash for the ticket.
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It was dawn by the time the munitions had been secured, the truck and container disposed of, fire consuming any trace evidence of the night's events. Ruairi headed home to Killybegs, pleased to be back in action. Fi would deposit his spoils, which would ease Sheilagh's anger a wee bit.
Now, it was time to make the call. The PIRA operative contacted her Libyan connection. She informed him of Hannon's theft of the Army's provisions and her subsequent retrieval of the merchandise restoring it to the rightful owners. Fiona pointed out the long mutual beneficial association that their organisations shared. Her tone was hard and somewhat accusatory putting her Libyan associate on defence. He assured her that he had entered the sale with the gunrunner in good faith, thinking the man was acting in her stead.
"Well, I hope the funds were being transferred upon delivery 'cause if ya paid upfront, ya were taken, my friend. Ya can't sell what's not yours, now can ya, Tariq?" Fiona hoped to spur the other to rectify the situation, provoke him to retaliate in some way.
There was a long pause before an answer was forthcoming. "It appears we have both been robbed, Fiona." She heard the discomfort in the voice at the other end.
There were several seconds of silence before Fiona spoke again. "If there were to be some amends for the incident... a gesture on your part... then perhaps when the leadership is ready to sell we would contact ya, give ya a fair price in recognition for your losses."
Tariq relaxed feeling a solution was reachable. "That can be arranged. I have an associate in Dublin as we speak. Perhaps he can pay a visit to our mutual friend."
"Perhaps. Pleasure doing business with ya, Tariq. I'll be in touch." Fiona ended the call; confident that Michael's problem would be solved imminently. Her outlook brightened. The Libyans now owed her a favour. Hannon would be dealt with, likely losing both his business and his life, and Marchuk had no reason now to ever set foot in Ireland. Success on all fronts! She could hardly wait to catch Michael up on all the developments. It appeared a celebration was in order; maybe she could even entice him to stay. She had a lightness to her step as she headed toward home, as she headed toward him.
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Tom Card paced around his office as he awaited the arrival of the airline manifests that would put his mind at ease. When the fax finally arrived, his administrative assistant tentatively set it on his desk and backed away wordlessly. Card scanned the three pages: Dublin to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to Dubai, Dubai to DC. No passenger with the names on Michael's false travel documents appeared on any of the lists. Unless his protégé had made his own travel arrangements at the last minute, the spy did not leave the country as ordered. Card flung the papers across the room. "Dammit!"
He went to his desk. A mobile phone, a last resort to contact an agent in the field, rested in the bottom drawer. He dialled and waited, but his call went unanswered. Either Westen was incapacitated, dead, or was intentionally avoiding his Agency responsibilities. None of these possibilities were good outcomes for the young spy.
Card picked up the phone once again. This time, a local call, in fact it was to a fellow employee, Behan's handler. "I need your boy there to get eyes on Westen. Be sure the SOB is still breathing. I don't care how he makes it happen. Check out every damn pub in the city! Go to Glenanne's love shack; pretend he's a Girl Scout selling cookies... or Lucky Charms... whatever the hell they eat there. Just make it happen, Dave. I've got an agent hanging in the wind." He slammed the receiver down and then stood with his hands on his hips staring out the window as he pondered his options.
A/N: Things are quickly spinning out of control for our happy couple! To counteract the heartbreak that looms, a happier tale awaits. "A Very Kerry Christmas" will be posted on Friday, December 12. It focuses on Charlie's first Christmas with his forever family. Hope you enjoy!