you didn’t know.’
Bill could see himself getting stuck here all day. He tried to summon the courage to tell this priest he needed to be on his way, but he had to admit there was something interesting about the man. Perhaps it was the enthusiasm he had for history and the way he animated every swell of passion with majestic movements of his hands and exaggerated facial expressions.
‘Meagher,’ Bill said. It was a conscious decision to choose Meagher and not Lawton, even though he felt a tinge of guilt. But Meagher was, after all, his rightful family name and it was no point listening to anything Father Kinsella might have to say about Lawton since it was not truly his own. Bill was not prepared for the extraordinary reaction Father Kinsella expressed when he heard the name. His mouth opened and remained in that position for a few seconds, eyes wide and staring, like a large frozen grouper.
‘Did you say Meagher?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Bill.
‘M-E-A-G-H-E-R?’ he spelled.
‘That’s right,’ Bill said, then pointed at the gravestone a few feet away. ‘That’s my mother and father’s grave.’
Father Kinsella looked at the gravestone, the sight of which only fuelled his look of astonishment. ‘By God,’ he said. ‘That’s truly amazing.’
‘Why’s that?’ Bill asked.
‘Meagher was the name of the Brigadier General who commanded the 69th Irish Brigade I was just telling you about.’
He quickly studied Bill, then his surprised expression turned into a frown. ‘Are you telling me you’re a Meagher and you don’t know anything about your family name?’
‘I only found out a few days ago,’ Bill said in his defence. ‘My parents died when I was young . . . I was adopted.’
The priest’s frown melted, but not entirely. ‘You should still know enough about Irish history to know the name Meagher,’ he said and took a closer look at the gravestone.
‘I was adopted by a family in Belfast.’
‘What’s their name?’ he asked.
‘Lawton.’
Father Kinsella looked around at him. ‘That’s not an Irish name,’ he said, almost accusingly. ‘You were adopted by an English family?’
‘Northern Irish,’ Bill said.
‘Protestants?’
‘Yes.’
Father Kinsella took another look at the gravestone.‘Well, that explains why you don’t know anything about your Irish ancestors, I suppose. I’ll forgive you for now. But by God you’d better start learning.’
‘Yes, I will. I’m sorry,’ Bill said, unsure why he felt the need to apologise, but Father Kinsella nodded, accepting it as if it should have been offered.
The priest turned to the gravestone and took a closer look in silence, and then he reached out and touched it, running his fingers slowly across the lettering with some reverence.
‘And you’ve never heard of Thomas Francis Meagher?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Bill said.
‘There should be a statue to the man. Probably will be one day. You ever been to Waterford?’
‘No.’
‘That’s where he was from. He would be, let me see . . . He’d be your great, great, great, possibly great grandfather.’
‘How could you know that?’ said Bill.
‘Know what?’
‘That that particular Meagher was an ancestor of mine?’
‘If you’re a Meagher from the county of Tipperary then you’re a descendant of the O’Meaghers of Ikerrin,’ he said. ‘Do you want to hear a little about him?’
Bill felt he already knew enough about the priest to suspect this might take a while. ‘I don’t have a lot of time,’ Bill said checking his watch.
‘To hear about your own ancestor?’ Father Kinsella said, the frown starting to reappear. ‘Where’re you staying tonight?’ he asked.
‘Limerick.’
‘How’re you getting there?’
‘Bus,’ Bill said.
‘I’ll drive you. How’s that? Save yourself some money too, and time you can spend learning something valuable.’ Before Bill could respond, Father Kinsella started to head off. ‘Come on,’ he said, and Bill followed him out of the graveyard like an obedient Labrador. Nobody had led him by his nose so easily in his life.
It was a bright, fresh day and as they crossed the stream that ran past the village on its way to Lough Derg and the River Shannon, Bill was taken back to another era. By the time they reached the rental car he was absorbed in everything the priest had to say. And it was not just history, it was Bill’s history.
The stewardess arrived with Bill’s perfume and he paid her in cash. He smiled distractedly, his thoughts elsewhere, wondering if it was as early as that first day in the cemetery that Father Kinsella decided to commandeer Bill’s life and make him a martyr for the cause.
Stratton stood alone in a room on the top floor of the British Embassy, looking down on the brightly lit city across the river, the tip of the Eiffel Tower, its silhouette outlined by thousands of white light bulbs, just visible above the Grand Palais. Beyond the gardens hundreds of red and white car lights shunted along the Champs Elysees.
But Stratton could see none of this. All he could see was the crowded Rue de Rivoli of that afternoon. He thought he had seen Hank through the crowds, standing and looking about, and then he was gone. Stratton went to the spot and searched around, filtering the sea of faces passing him, the countless people moving in all directions, but there was no sign of Hank or Henri. He called Clemens and then Brent, whom he knew were in the area, but when he heard the automated message responses, it was evident they were out of signal range, which could only mean they had entered the subway and were underground. He called several other operatives but no one had anything to report. For the next few minutes he continued calling Clemens and Brent in the hope they had surfaced somewhere else around the Place de la Concorde, but after a while it became apparent they had taken the metro.When Clemens finally called him from Gare d’Austerlitz, Stratton chastised him for letting Hank go off on his own. When he had not heard from Hank for several hours, though it seemed a long shot and perhaps ludicrous to even contemplate, the word kidnap crossed his mind. It would have been his immediate concern had they been in Northern Ireland, but not Paris at eleven in the morning. Now, ten and a half hours later and still no sign of Hank, he knew in his gut that the bizarre possibility was true. The rest of the team were still on the streets checking the likely places he might turn up, searching hospitals and police stations for their ‘lost American friend’.
The door opened behind him and Stratton focused on the reflection in glass; Lieutenant Jardene was standing in the doorway.
‘Anything?’ Jardene asked, knowing that if there was Stratton would have said so.
Stratton had his cell-phone in his hand. ‘No,’ he said.
Jardene let the door close behind him and entered the spacious office. ‘I can’t fucking believe this,’ he said. It was the first time Stratton had heard him swear.
‘He’s been lifted,’ Stratton said.
‘I still think it’s too soon to jump to that conclusion,’ Jardene said.
‘He’s been lifted,’ Stratton said again.
