IRA terrorists as they crisscrossed the border between North and South was a matter of infinite patience and concentration, days of inactivity followed by frantic seconds of gunfire. Sitting under a tree on a pleasant evening was a breeze by comparison.
The light in the office went off and Joker put the binoculars to his eyes and trained them on the entrance. After thirty seconds or so the glass door opened and a large man stepped out, a briefcase in his hand. A lone light was on above the door and Joker could see that the man was in his early sixties, grey-haired with ruddy cheeks as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. He was wearing a red polo shirt and white shorts, with knee length socks, and he had a beer drinker’s stomach which hung over his shorts like a late pregnancy. Joker assumed that he was Patrick Farrell Senior, but as he had no way of identifying the man he kept an open mind. He could just be a hired hand. The man locked the door and climbed into his car. A few seconds later he drove off and Joker heard the engine fade away into the distance. He listened to the sounds of the forest: the clicking of insects, the hoot of an owl, the faraway howl of a wild cat, and tentative rustlings in the undergrowth. Joker waited a full thirty minutes until he was sure that the man wasn’t returning. He moved quietly through the trees and out onto the airfield, heading first for the hangars to satisfy himself that all the mechanics had left.
The sliding doors to the hangars were locked and Joker couldn’t see any lights inside. He slipped silently through the shadows to the Farrell building, careful to keep away from the light above the main door. There was an alarm bell high up on the wall and he could see that the windows were wired, but it was a simple system and one which he could by-pass with little trouble. Around the back of the building there was a drainpipe which ran by a small frosted window, probably a bathroom. It looked climbable and when he pulled at it he could feel that it was strong enough to bear his weight. He hoped to get what he wanted without resorting to breaking and entering, but if it proved necessary he wouldn’t have any problems gaining entry to the offices. He headed back to his car. He’d already earmarked a motel a couple of miles away from the airfield where he could catch a few hours’ sleep.
Kelly put up the collar of her long green cashmere coat and kept a wary hand on her bag. She walked quickly, her heels tapping on the sidewalk like a blind man’s cane. She looked over her shoulder, left and right, more to check that there were no potential muggers nearby than because she feared she was being followed. She found Filbin’s and stood for a while looking through its murky leaded windows. Behind the polished wood bar stood a diminutive barman, polishing a glass like he expected a genie to appear and grant him three wishes. Kelly pushed open the door and walked into the warm and smoky atmosphere of the bar. Several customers looked up to see who the intruder was and their gazes lingered. Even wrapped up in her coat she was still something special to look at, especially in a downmarket bar like Filbin’s. She ignored the avaricious stares and walked to the end of the bar closest to the door, her hand still on the clasp of her bag. The elf-like barman walked over to her, still polishing his glass. “What can I get you, my dear?” he asked.
She leaned forward. “Are you Shorty?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
The barman laughed. “What do you think?” he replied, and put the clean glass on a shelf. He grinned at two young men who were huddled over pints of Guinness. “She wants to know if I’m Shorty!” The three men laughed together and Kelly felt her cheeks redden.
Kelly waited for the laughter to die down, then leaned her elbows on the bar. She motioned with her finger and Shorty moved closer. “My name’s Kelly Armstrong,” she whispered. “Fergus O’Malley said I should speak to you.”
Shorty’s mouth dropped. “You’re O’Malley’s niece?” he said. “Jesus, I wouldn’t believe an ugly old sod like him could be related to a looker like you.”
“Why, thank you, I think,” smiled Kelly.
Shorty frowned. “But Armstrong is a Prod name? What’s a good Catholic girl doing with a name like Armstrong?”
“I married an American,” she explained. “And he’s neither Catholic nor Protestant.” Shorty nodded thoughtfully. “So, can you help me or not?” Kelly asked.
Shorty looked around the bar, saw that there were no customers waiting to be served, and motioned to a table in the corner. “Sit over there,” he said. “What can I get you?”
Kelly said she’d have a Coke and went over to the table to wait for the barman. Shorty joined her, gave her a glass of Coke and sipped a malt whisky from a balloon glass. He smacked his lips appreciatively, all the time his eyes never leaving Kelly’s face. He shook his head in wonder. “Fergus O’Malley’s niece,” he mused. “Who’d have thought it?”
Kelly was beginning to tire of the man’s attitude. “My uncle told you I’d be coming?”
“Aye, that he did.”
“And what I wanted?”
“Aye.” He took another sip of whisky, the creases deepening in his brow. “You wouldn’t be offended if I asked you for identification, would you?” he said.
Kelly wondered how Shorty would react if she produced her FBI credentials, but instead she showed him her driving licence. Shorty studied it and then handed it back to her. “Well?” she said.
Shorty placed his glass on the table and folded his arms. “The person you’re looking for doesn’t want to be found,” he said quietly. Kelly said nothing. “By anyone,” he added. Kelly raised an eyebrow. “Your uncle said it was important, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was about.”
“He doesn’t know,” Kelly said. They were both speaking in low voices, their heads bent forward.
“Would you like to tell me?” asked Shorty.
“I can’t do that,” she said. “Do you know what she’s involved in?”
“No,” admitted Shorty.
“But you know how to reach her?”
Shorty didn’t reply. A customer stood up at a nearby table, put on his coat and left.
“You trust my uncle, don’t you?” Kelly pressed. Shorty nodded. “And he told you to help me, didn’t he?” Shorty nodded again. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He tapped it on the table, then opened it and took out a card. He looked at the handwritten telephone number on the card and handed it to her. “I can reach her at this number?” asked Kelly.
Shorty shook his head. “No, but it’s the number of a man who might be able to help you — if you can persuade him that you’re to be trusted.” He drained his glass, stood up and went back to the bar. Kelly slipped the card into the pocket of her coat and left. The two young men drinking Guinness watched her go. So did FBI agent Don Clutesi, his eye pressed to the camcorder on its tripod at the window overlooking Filbin’s. Clutesi didn’t recognise the woman, but she was clearly a cut above the normal type of customer who frequented the bar. Clutesi wondered if she was a hooker on the make. Young, blonde and pretty, what other reason could she have had for visiting a bar alone? She’d spoken to Shorty but Clutesi hadn’t picked up anything from the listening devices. Either they’d been out of range or they’d been whispering. Clutesi made a note in his incident book and stretched his arms above his head. He was tired, but there was another two hours to go before he was due to be relieved. Then he had to go back to Federal Plaza to meet the agent from Phoenix.
An FBI driver was waiting outside JFK holding a sign with Cole Howard’s name on it, and he carried Howard’s bag to the car. They made polite conversation on the drive into Manhattan, about the Mets, the weather, and the murder of three DEA agents in the Bronx that afternoon.
The driver took Howard into Federal Plaza and helped him obtain a visitor’s pass which Howard clipped to the breast pocket of his suit. The receptionist rang the Counter-Terrorism Division to tell them that Howard was on the way up, then she told him which floor to go to. The driver nodded goodbye and Howard headed to the elevator.
When the doors hissed open a small, shrewish woman with grey hair and a reluctance to look him in the eye took him along to Mulholland’s office. Ed Mulholland was in his fifties, with a craggy, lined face and a grey, military crewcut. He had a bone-crushing handshake and looked as if he worked out a lot.
“Cole, good to see you. Jake Sheldon speaks very highly of you. You want coffee? Tea?”
Howard shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”
Mulholland looked over Howard’s shoulder. “Katie, can you get Hank along for this, please? And ask Frank Sullivan and Don Clutesi to sit in, too. Thanks.”
As the secretary scurried away, Mulholland motioned to two grey sofas which were set at right angles to each other in the far corner of his office. The sofas faced a low, square brass and glass table on which were scattered half a dozen law-enforcement magazines. “Let’s sit over there, shall we, Cole, it’ll give us a bit more
