“Who were the Black and Tans?”
“Oh, that was the English occupying army in southern Ireland, before we drove them out. My dad told me they had shot grandpa’s mother and both of his sisters when he was about fourteen years old down in Cork. He said Grandpa stood on the doorstep of the house, covered in the blood of his own dead mother, and he could hear the English soldiers marching off, singing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.’”
“Does that mean you want to become a terrorist, a soldier of the IRA?”
“I’m not sure. And I can’t explain it. You’d never understand what it feels like to be prepared to die for something you believe in, Mr. Arnold. I hate the English, and so does everyone in my family. They’ll never be forgiven for what they’ve done in Ireland. And it’s up to just a few us to get the last of them out of here. And the best way to do that is to bomb their bloody country until they leave.”
“I should be careful, Paul. It’s a lonely life you’re considering. Hunted by the English, the feeling that every man’s hand is turned against you. And the constant danger of high explosives and British Army marksmen. Worse yet, you end up not daring to trust anyone.”
“I’ve already studied the subject pretty carefully, Mr. Arnold. I’m brave enough, and I think I might be smart enough…I have helped in a few missions, but never in a real way. My father commanded an IRA squad, but he never told us what he had done.”
“Well, I think you should take it very carefully, Paul. It’s a big step. And you’ll have a lot of time to regret it if it turns out to be wrong for you. Also, you might get killed.”
“Ah, you say that because you can’t quite understand what it’s like to believe in something and be ready to die for it. It burns right into you, the hatred, and the feeling of being right, being justified. All terrorists are men apart.”
“So they are, Paul,” replied Benjamin Adnam.
Admiral Arnold Morgan was on the secure line to CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia.
“Yeah. Well, I don’t know where the hell he is, or where the hell he’s headed. But I know he was in Scotland last night. And I have no real reason to suspect he may be trying to get into the United States, but he might be…
“Yup. I got a picture the Mossad wired for us. Yup, it’s on the way over. Excellent quality…well, I’d be inclined to get some guys into the main airports of entry from Britain…flights from the northern airports, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Manchester…just because they’re nearer to his last-known position. Yeah, but we’d better watch flights in from London Heathrow and Gatwick. Just in case he heads south first. The Brits are watching all those airports.
“Yeah…I’ve sent a physical description. Remember he’s a Navy officer…usually looks smart. And he speaks with a very correct British accent. But remember, too, he’s no fool and is unlikely to oblige us by looking like a gentleman…right…right…well, I guess New York, Washington. Possibly Philly…possibly Boston…maybe Chicago.
“Yeah, alert immigration, the passport guys, for anyone fitting this description…okay…no I’m not sure…for all I know he might be going back to the Middle East…but he could be coming here…yeah, possibly Kansas…right… no…I don’t think he’ll have a visa…he won’t have time to get one. No…he’d forge a passport…but the modern U.S. visas are almost impossible to forge accurately…I’d guess he wouldn’t dare to try that…too big a risk. If he does try to enter the U.S.A., we’re looking for a guy with no visa, traveling just as a visitor, for less than ninety days.
“Okay…let’s stay right on top of this…remember, this bastard is the worst terrorist in history…and, if he comes here, I want the fucker caught. So does the President…so don’t screw it up.”
Arnold Morgan banged the phone down, yelled for coffee. Then yelled for Kathy O’Brien. Three seconds later, when the door didn’t open, he strode toward it, snapping, “Dumb-ass broad!” just as the President of the United States entered, chuckling, “Who me?”
“Christ, no, sir. Sorry. It’s just that bastard Adnam really gets to me. I’ve no proof, and it’s a real long shot, but he just could be on his way here.”
“Hell, that we don’t need.”
“Not if he plans to blow up another warship or a goddamned aircraft, or even an airport…he really spooks me…I just think the fucker might do anything.”
“I agree. If your theories are right, we might be in big trouble. Yet again. We gotta catch him, Arnold. What’s the latest?”
“Well, I just heard from Iain MacLean in Scotland.”
“Oh, yeah. What does he think?”
“Well, it was Iain who alerted us Adnam was in Scotland. He thinks he’s trying to locate Laura.”
“Jesus. You don’t think he’s trying to kill Bill, do you?”
“Hell. I hadn’t even thought about that. But when a guy’s killed as many people as Adnam, you don’t know what he might do.”
“We must find him, Arnold. Christ, he’s just killed the Vice President, among others. You got Langley on the case?”
“Absolutely.”
“Keep it tight, Arnie. We gotta get him. Use as many people as it takes. How ’bout Kansas? You think we need guys out there?”
“Not yet. He probably won’t even come here. I don’t want to alert the entire country. Right now I thought we’d just get a tight grip on all the incoming flights from Britain. We got good photos, good description…we might just have a shot at picking him up.”
“Okay, buddy. I’ll leave it to you. Keep me informed.”
“Aye, sir.”
Back on the
All of the cars from Fishguard just drove straight through, following the “Exit” signs, up the steep hill and out onto the main road to Wexford and, one hundred miles north, Dublin. It was growing light, and Ben could see he was driving over a long, flat coastal plain, with only few houses and little traffic. Thankfully, the fleet of heavy trucks from Wales was far behind, and Ben settled down to drive fast, along the wide, lonely Irish roads, up to Enniscorthy, then to Ferns, and Gorey and Arklow, through the Wicklow Mountains to the southern suburbs of Ireland’s capital city. Given the speed of the first part of the journey, he anticipated it would take him two hours. But as he proceeded north up the east coast, the rain began again, and the traffic grew heavier.
By the time he reached the outskirts of Dublin he was in a rainswept morning rush hour, bumper to bumper all along the N11. Up ahead he could see his landmark, the towering aerial tower of Ireland’s television station RTE. He was looking for the next right after that, at the Catholic church, and he finally turned into exclusive Anglesea Road at 1000.
Five minutes later he crossed Ballsbridge, swung right again into Shelbourne Road, and ran down to the Berkeley Court Hotel in Lansdowne Road. He drove straight in to the rear parking lot, checked in, and crashed onto his bed on the fourth floor. Exhausted. Hungry. Too tired to eat. But safe. And anonymous. In a new country, in which he had never even shown his passport.
Ben slept until midday, picked up the credit cards he had asked to be sent, and left the hotel in a light drizzle. He took a cab to Grafton Street and used his Royal Bank of Scotland credit card to purchase a raincoat and an umbrella in Brown Thomas, Dublin’s excellent answer to Harrods and Saks Fifth Avenue.
Then he walked back up to St. Stephen’s Green and picked up a cab from the rank. He had it drive him to the great round building of the American Embassy, which sat in its own grounds behind a black wrought-iron fence at the end of Shelbourne Road. He walked through the small gateway, crossed the cobbled courtyard, and walked up the slope to the visa office. He explained to the duty guard that he wanted to pick up application forms for a B-2 multiple-entry business visa.
