was the temporary destruction of the IRA as a terrorist threat. Most of those killed were the leaders and the planners, and without them the IRA was a headless snake, thrashing around waiting to die.
For a time it was Mary Hennessy who had tried to pull the organisation together, beginning with her anti- British speech at her husband’s funeral. She called in vain for a public inquiry into the IRA deaths but her appeals were ignored and a year after burying Liam Hennessy she went underground, becoming a fully-fledged terrorist for the first time in her life. She organised a bombing campaign in Belfast which resulted in the destruction of an RUC station and an Army barracks. When Northern Ireland became too dangerous for her she moved over the border. From the South she made frequent forays back into Northern Ireland, her attacks always aimed at the British forces or the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Her fight was not religious in any way, it was political and aimed at those she blamed for the death of her husband. According to the FBI file she was responsible for the death of three undercover SAS officers who had been caught operating in the border country. Her torture of the men had been especially brutal and she’d been branded by the tabloid press as ‘The Black Widow’. It appeared as if she had become mentally unbalanced after the death of her husband, and she was described in one RUC report as borderline psychotic. Mary Hennessy had never come close to being captured, and the last report in the file said that she was living close to Dublin, staying with various IRA sympathisers and still trying to rebuild the terrorist organisation.
Appended to the file was a comprehensive list of all the IRA’s terrorist attacks over the previous twenty years. Howard was familiar with many of the atrocities: car bombs, sniper attacks, fire bombs, torture. No-one seemed to be beyond the range of the terrorists. They’d come close to killing Margaret Thatcher at a Conservative Party Conference by blowing up the hotel she was staying at, and during the run-up to the Gulf War they’d managed to launch home-made mortars against Number Ten Downing Street while Prime Minister John Major was meeting with his War Cabinet. Judges, Army officers, politicians, all had been assassinated by IRA hit squads, and for every terrorist captured and imprisoned, another dozen were waiting to take their place.
Howard looked at his watch and realised it was time to leave. He drove quickly through the afternoon traffic and reached the office where the meeting was to be held shortly before two o’clock. The office belonged to a leading lawyer whom Howard had met on several occasions. There were more than a dozen people there, most of them men and most, like Howard, wearing business suits. A taxi driver served coffee as they took their places in the chairs which had been brought into the plush office. The lawyer allowed the large office to be used for AA meetings once a month, but Howard had seen him at other venues: basketball courts, scruffy basements in run-down buildings, back rooms in public libraries.
The group sat and listened to one of the members, an out-of-town fertiliser salesman called Gordon, tell his life story. It was depressingly familiar: a good job, steady income, a wife and child, more stress than he could cope with, and a descent into the bottle. Gordon told the group he hadn’t had a drink for six months, and he was warmly applauded.
Howard was next to speak and he took his place in front of the two ranks of chairs. The first time he’d attended an AA meeting he’d been more than a little cynical, he’d considered the public breast-beating to be little more than mental masturbation, that the speakers were just taking pleasure from publicly reopening old wounds. He had trouble too in dealing with the religious aspects of the meetings and the reliance on God, until a long-term AA member had suggested that he think of God as a Group of Drunks, and from that point on he’d become a convert. Now, after almost four years of regular attendance, Howard knew how valuable the meetings were in the battle against the bottle, and that telling others about his setbacks and successes strengthened his own resolve.
He put his coffee cup on the desk and clasped his hands behind his back. “My name’s Cole, and I’m an alcoholic,” he said. “Hi, Cole,” the group chanted. “It’s been almost four years since I had a drink,” he continued. The group applauded and there were several cries of “Well done”. Howard waited until the clapping died down. “I didn’t know I had a drinking problem, I guess no-one in the office had the courage to tell me. But I was making mistakes, both at work and at home. There were arguments with my co-workers and fights with my wife. Everything came to a head when I crashed our car. Well, it was my wife’s car, really, but I was driving. We both had our seat belts on, or I’m sure we’d have died. I hit a truck, we went off the road, and the next thing I knew, I was in hospital. My father-in-law found out, and he personally booked me into a clinic to dry out.”
The group nodded encouragingly. He knew that some of those present, including the lawyer, had heard his story several times, but they still expressed support. “I’m grateful to my father-in-law, but recently I’ve found myself resenting the influence he has on my life. On all aspects of my life. At the time I had a drinking problem he went to my employer and made sure that I kept my job, and I’m grateful to him for that, but now he interferes at home, he tries to influence my children, he seems to be coming between me and my wife. That puts me under a lot of stress, and that makes me want to drink again. I know that I have to learn to stop resenting him, but it’s difficult. I know that he cares about his daughter very much, and that he wants what’s best for her. God, there are times when I want a drink so bad. It’s worse now than it’s ever been. I know that it would be easy to give in, to pick up the bottle and start drinking again, but I know that would be the biggest mistake I could make. Alcoholism is a disease, and it’s a disease for which there’s no cure. I’ll be an alcoholic for the rest of my life, but that doesn’t mean I have to drink. I can fight it, but it’s one day at a time. I just have to accept that some days will be harder than others.” The group applauded again, and Howard returned to his seat, feeling revitalised and with the urge for alcohol in a temporary retreat.
Todd Otterman sat in reception, tapping the file against his knee. The hotel foyer was busy, with several members of a dental convention queuing up to check out. Bellboys scurried back and forth, running suitcases outside, while girls in black and white uniforms processed the guests as quickly as possible, their smiles starting to wear thin.
Otterman had never met Gilbert Feinstein but he recognised the type as soon as he stepped out of the lift. Hair too long and untidy to be fashionable, a slight stoop, and eyes that continually sought the floor. According to the file Feinstein was twenty-four years old and had been working in the hotel kitchens for the past year. He had dropped out of high school and had a succession of minimum wage jobs, interspersed with short prison sentences for drug possession. It was after his second spell in prison that he’d written the letter to the President, spelling out in no uncertain terms what he wanted to do to him and his family. The letter had been one of the more graphic received at the White House, and the details of what Feinstein had planned for the First Lady’s cat had raised a few smiles among the Secret Service agents.
Feinstein went over to the reception desk and spoke to one of the girls. She pointed to where Otterman was sitting and Feinstein’s shoulders slumped as if he knew what was coming. He walked over and stood before the Secret Service agent. “You wanted to see me?” he said, his voice unsteady.
Otterman flicked open his ID and showed it to Feinstein. “You know what it’s about, Mr Feinstein?”
Feinstein nodded. “Did you have to come here, to my work?” he said, his voice a monotone. “You could lose me my job.”
Otterman motioned to the seat next to his. “Sit down, Mr Feinstein. You’ve been through this before so let’s make it as painless as possible, shall we?” Feinstein sat down and began to bite his nails. “So, how do you feel about the President these days?” Otterman’s tone was conversational, almost friendly.
“He’s doing a wonderful job,” sneered Feinstein. “Economy’s looking good, foreign policy’s never been better, everything’s just hunky-dory.”
“Had any more thoughts about what you’d like to do to his family?”
Feinstein sighed. “Look, I wrote that letter two years ago. I’d taken a couple of tablets, I was as high as a kite, I don’t even remember mailing it.”
“I understand that, but unfortunately it stays on file.”
“But I didn’t mean it! I was just a kid, a crazy kid.”
One of the girls at reception looked over. “Try not to raise your voice, Mr Feinstein,” said Otterman quietly.
“You’re persecuting me!” Feinstein hissed.
“Mr Feinstein, we’ve never met before today.”
“Not you personally. I mean the White House, the Secret Service. You won’t leave me alone.”
“Once you threaten the President of the United States, your name goes on file and it stays there. What do you think? You think we should just ignore someone when they threaten the President? Have you forgotten what you wrote? I’ve got a copy here if you want to refresh your memory.”
