Four more of their men were here also, but the remainder of the rescue force had immediately flown home via Rome and Brussels, putting a new string of entry stamps on their “travel” passports.
“It’s not Ireland,” O’Donnell agreed. His nose crinkled at the smell of dust, and his own sweat. Not like home. No smell of the mist over the peat, or coke fires on the hearths, or the alcoholic ambience of the local pub.
That was an annoying development: no liquor. The locals had got another attack of Allah and decided that even the fellow members of the international revolutionary community could not break God’s law. What a bloody nuisance.
It wasn’t much of a camp. Six buildings, one of them a garage. An unused helicopter pad, a road half-covered with sand from the last storm. One deep well for water. A firing range. Nothing else. In the past as many as fifty people had cycled through here at a time. Not now. This was the ULA’s own camp, well separated from camps used by other groups. Every one of them had learned the importance of security. On a blackboard in hut #l was a schedule provided by other fair-skinned friends that gave the pass-over times for American reconnaissance satellites; everyone knew when to be out of sight, and the camp’s vehicles were under cover.
Two headlights appeared on the horizon, heading south toward the camp. O’Donnell noted their appearance, but said nothing about it. The horizon was far away. He put his arms into the sleeves of his jacket to ward off the gathering chill as he watched the lights slide left and right, their conical beams tracing over the dunes. The driver was taking his time, Kevin saw. The lights weren’t bouncing about. The climate made it hard for a man to push himself hard. Things would get done tomorrow, God willing. Insh’Allah, a Latin colleague had once told him, meant the same thing as manana — but without the urgency.
The vehicle was a Toyota Land Cruiser, the four-wheel-drive that had replaced the Land-Rover in most places. The driver took it right into the garage before getting out. O’Donnell checked his watch. The next satellite pass was in thirty minutes. Close enough. He rose and walked into hut #3. Miller followed, waving to the man who’d just come into the camp. A uniformed soldier from the camp’s permanent force closed the garage door, and otherwise ignored them.
“Glad to see you got out, Sean,” the visitor said. He carried a small satchel.
“Thank you, Shamus.”
O’Donnell held open the door. He was not one to stand on ceremony.
“Thank you, Kevin.”
“You’re just in time for dinner,” the chief of the ULA said.
“Well, one can’t always be lucky,” Shamus Padraig Connolly said. He looked around the inside of the hut. “No wogs about?”
“Not in here.” O’Donnell assured him.
“Good.” Connolly opened his satchel and brought out two bottles. “I thought you might like a drop of the pure.”
“How did you get it past the bastards?” Miller asked.
“I heard about the new rule. I told them I was bringing in a gun, of course.” Everyone laughed as Miller fetched three glasses and ice. You always used ice in this place.
“When are you supposed to arrive at the camp?” O’Donnell referred to the one forty miles away used by the PIRA.
“I’m having some car trouble, and staying the night with our uniformed friends. The bad news is that they’ve confiscated my whiskey.”
“Bloody heathens!” Miller laughed. The three men toasted one another.
“How was it inside, Sean?” Connolly asked. The first round of drinks was already gone.
“Could have been worse. A week before Kevin came for me, I had a bad time with some thugs — the peelers put them up to it, of course, and they had a merry time. Bloody faggots. Aside from that, ah, it is so entertaining to sit there and watch them talk and talk and talk like a bunch of old women.”
“You didn’t think that Sean would talk, did you?” O’Donnell asked reprovingly. The smile covered his feelings — of course they had all worried about that; they had worried most of all what might happen when the PIRA and INLA lads in Parkhurst Prison got hold of him.
“Good lad!” Connolly refilled the glasses.
“So, what’s the news from Belfast?” the chief asked.
“Johnny Doyle is not very pleased with having lost Maureen. The men are becoming restless — not much, mind, but there is talk. Your op in London, Sean, in case you’ve not been told, had glasses filled and raised throughout the Six Counties.” That most citizens in Northern Ireland, Protestant and Catholic, had been disgusted by the operation mattered not to Connolly. His small community of revolutionaries was the entire world.
“One does not get drunk for a failure,” Miller observed sourly. That bastard Ryan!
“But it was a splendid attempt. It is clear enough that you were unlucky, no more than that, and we are all slaves to fortune.”
O’Donnell frowned. His guest was too poetic for Kevin’s way of thinking, despite the fact, as Connolly was fond of pointing out, that Mao himself had written poetry.
“Will they try to spring Maureen?”
Connolly laughed at that one. “After what you did with Sean here? Not bloody likely. How ever did you pull that off, Kevin?”
“There are ways.” O’Donnell let it go at that. His intelligence source was under strict orders not to do a thing for two months. Dennis’s bookstore was closed so far as he was concerned. The decision to use him to get information for the rescue operation hadn’t come easy. That was the problem with good intelligence, his teachers had hammered into his head years before. The really valuable stuff was always a risk to the source itself. It was a paradox. The most useful material was often too dangerous to use, but at the same time intelligence information that could not be used had no value at all.
“Well, you’ve gotten everyone’s attention. The reason I’m here is to brief our lads on your operation.”
“Really!” Kevin laughed. “And what does Mr. Doyle think of us?”
The visitor crooked a comically accusing finger. “You are a counterrevolutionary influence whose objective is to wreck the movement. The op on The Mall has had serious repercussions on the other side of the Atlantic. We’ll — excuse me, they’ll be sending some of their chaps to Boston in another month or so to set things right, to tell the Yanks that they had nothing to do with it,” Connolly said.
“Money — we don’t need their bloody money!” Miller objected. “And they can put their ‘moral support’ up –”
“Mustn’t offend the Americans,” Connolly pointed out.
O’Donnell raised his glass for a toast: “The devil with the bloody Americans.”
As he drank off the last of his second whiskey. Miller’s eyes snapped open sharply enough to make a click.
“Kevin, we won’t be doing much in the U.K. for a while . . . ”
“Nor in the Six Counties,” O’Donnell said thoughtfully. “This is a time to lie low, I think. We’ll concentrate on our training for the moment and await our next opportunity.”
“Shamus, how effective might Doyle’s men be in Boston?”
Connolly shrugged his shoulders. “Get enough liquor into them and they’ll believe anything they’re told, and toss their dollars into the hat as always.”
Miller smiled for a moment. He refilled his own glass this time as the other two talked on. His own mind began assembling a plan.
Murray had had a number of assignments in the Bureau over his many years of service, ranging from junior agent involved in chasing down bank robbers to instructor in investigation procedures at the FBI Academy at Quantico, Virginia. One thing he’d always told the youngsters in the classroom was the importance of intuition. Law enforcement was still as much art as science. The Bureau had immense scientific resources to process evidence, had written procedures for everything, but when you got down to it, there was never a substitute for the mind of an experienced agent. It was mostly experience, Murray knew, the way you fitted evidence together, the way you got a feel for the mind of your target and tried to predict his next move. But more than experience, there was intuition. The two qualities worked together until you couldn’t separate them in your own mind.
That’s the hard part, Murray told himself on the drive home from the embassy. Because intuition can run a little wild if there’s not enough evidence to hold on to.
“You will learn to trust your instincts,” Murray told the traffic, quoting from his memorized class notes. “Instinct is never a substitute for evidence and procedure, but it can be a very useful tool in adapting one to another — oh, Dan, you would have made a hell of a Jesuit.” He chuckled to himself, oblivious of the stare he was getting from the car on his right.