“And Kevin O’Donnell?”
“Yes, he’s probably the leader. He dropped off the earth four years ago, as you well know, after — ah, you know the story as well as I.”
Kevin Joseph O’Donnell, Ashley reminded himself. Thirty-four now. Six feet, one hundred sixty pounds, unmarried — this data was old and therefore suspect. The all-time Provo champion at “own-goals.” Kevin had been the most ruthless chief of security the Proves had ever had, thrown out after it had been proven that he’d used his power as counterintelligence boss to purge the Organization of political elements he disapproved of. What was the figure — ten, fifteen solid members that he’d had killed or maimed before the Brigade Commander’d found him out? The amazing thing, Ashley thought, was that he’d escaped alive at all. But Murphy was wrong on one thing, Ashley didn’t know what had finally tipped the Brigade that O’Donnell was outlaw.
“I fail to see why you feel the urge to protect him and his group.” He knew the reason, but why not prod the man when he had the chance?
“And if we turn ‘grass,’ what becomes of the Organization?” Murphy asked.
“Not my problem, Mr. Murphy, but I do see your point. Still and all, if you want us to believe you –”
“Mr. Ashley, you demonstrate the basis of the entire problem we have, don’t you? Had your country ever dealt with Ireland in mutual good faith, surely we would not be here now, would we?”
The intelligence officer reflected on that. It took no more than a couple of seconds, so many times had he examined the historical basis of the Troubles. Some deliberate policy acts, mixed with historical accidents — who could have known that the onset of the crisis that erupted into World War I would prevent a solution to the issue of “Home [or “Rome”] Rule,” that the Conservative Party of the time would use this issue as a hammer that would eventually crush the Liberal Party — and who was there to blame now? They were all dead and forgotten, except by hard-core academics who knew that their studies mattered for nothing. It was far too late for that. Is there a way out of this bloody quagmire? he wondered. Ashley shook his head. That was not his brief. That was something for politicians. The same sort, he reminded himself, who’d built the Troubles, one small brick at a time.
“I’ll tell you this much, Mr. Ashley –” The waiter showed up with dinner. It was amazing how quick the service was here. The waiter uncorked the wine with a flourish, allowing Ashley to smell the cork and sample a splash in his glass. The Englishman was surprised at the quality of the restaurant’s cellar.
“This much you will tell me . . . ” Ashley said after the waiter left.
“They get very good information. So good, you would not believe it. And their information comes from your side of the Irish Sea, Mr. Ashley. We don’t know who, and we don’t know how. The lad who found out died, four years ago, you see.” Murphy sampled the broccoli. “There, I told you the vegetables were fresh.”
“Four years?”
Murphy looked up. “You don’t know the story, then? That is a surprise, Mr. Ashley. Yes. His name was Mickey Baird. He worked closely with Kevin. He’s the lad who — well, you can guess. He was talking with me over a jar in Derry and said that Kevin had a bloody good new intelligence source. Next day he was dead. The day after, Kevin managed to escape us by an hour. We haven’t seen him since. If we find Kevin again, Mr. Ashley, we’ll do your work for you, and leave the body for your SAS assassins to collect. Would that be fair enough, now? We cannot exactly tout to the enemy, but he’s on our list, too, and if you manage to find the lad, and you don’t wish to bring him in yourselves, we’ll handle the job for you — assuming, of course, that you don’t interfere with the lads who do the work. Can we agree on that?”
“I’ll pass that along,” Ashley said. “If I could approve it myself, I would. Mr. Murphy, I think we can believe you on this.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ashley. That wasn’t so painful, was it?” Dinner was excellent.
Chapter 4
Players
Ryan tried to blink away the blue dots that swirled around his eyes as the television crews set up their own lights. Why the newspaper photographers couldn’t wait for the powerful TV lights, he didn’t know, and didn’t bother asking. Everyone was kind enough to ask how he felt — but nothing short of respiratory arrest would have gotten them out of the room.
It could have been worse, of course. Dr. Scott had told the newspeople rather forcefully that his patient needed rest to recover speedily, and Nurse Kittiwake was there to glower at the intruders. So press access to Ryan was being limited to no more than the number of people who would fit into his room. This included the TV crew. It was the best sort of bargain Jack could get. The cameramen and sound technicians took up space that would otherwise be occupied by more inquisitorial reporters.
The morning papers — Ryan had been through the Times and the Daily Telegraph — had carried reports that Ryan was a former (or current) employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, something that was technically not true, and that Jack had not expected to become public in any case. He found himself remembering what the people at Langley said about leaks, and how pleased they’d been with his offhand invention of the Canary Trap. A pity they couldn’t use it in my case, Ryan told himself wryly. I really need this complication to my life, don’t I? For crying out loud, I turned their offer down. Sort of.
“All ready here,” the lighting technician said. A moment later he proved this was true by turning on the three klieg lights that brought tears to Jack’s squinted eyes.
“They are awfully bright, aren’t they?” a reporter sympathized, while the still photographers continued to snap-and-whir away with their strobe-equipped Nikons.
“You might say that,” Jack replied. A two-headed mike was clipped to his robe.
“Say something, will you?” the sound man asked.
“And how are you enjoying your first trip to London, Doctor Ryan?”
“Well, I better not hear any complaints about how American tourists are staying away due to panic over the terrorism problem!” Ryan grinned. You jerk.
“Indeed,” the reporter laughed. “Okay?”
The cameraman and sound man pronounced themselves ready. Ryan sipped at his tea and made certain that the ashtray was out of sight. One print journalist shared a joke with a colleague. A TV correspondent from NBC was there, along with the London correspondent of the Washington Post, but all the others were British. Everything would be pooled with the rest of the media, it had been agreed. There just wasn’t room here for a proper press conference. The camera started rolling tape.
They ran through the usual questions. The camera turned to linger on his arm, hanging from its overhead rack. They’d run that shot with the voice-over of Jack’s story on when he was shot, he was sure. Nothing like a little drama, as he’d already been told. He wiggled his fingers for the camera.
“Doctor Ryan, there are reports in the American and British press that you are an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“I read that this morning. It was as much a surprise to me as it was to anyone else.” Ryan smiled. “Somebody made a mistake. I’m not good-looking enough to be a spy.”
“So you deny that report?” asked the Daily Mirror.
“Correct. It’s just not true. I teach history at the Naval Academy, in Annapolis. That ought to be easy enough to check out. I just gave an exam last week. You can ask my students.” Jack waved his left hand at the camera again.
“The report comes from some highly placed sources,” observed the Post.
“If you read a little history, you’ll see that highly placed folks have been known to make mistakes. I think that’s what happened here. I teach. I write books. I lecture — okay, I did give a lecture at CIA once, but that was just a repeat of one I delivered at the Naval War College and one other symposium. It wasn’t even classified. Maybe that’s where the report comes from. Like I said, check it out. My office is in Leahy Hall, at the Naval Academy. I think somebody just goofed.” Somebody goofed, all right. “I can get you guys a copy of the lecture. It’s no big deal.”
“How do you like being a public figure, now?” one of the Brit TV people asked.
Thanks for changing the subject. “I think I can live without it. I’m not a movie star, either — again, not good-looking enough.”