To the Death

poetry, seeming to echo through the Golden Vale of Tipperary where she now stood.

Shakira signaled for her driver to park the car in a long drive in front of the hotel where her guidebook had suggested she stay. It was a grand pink-bricked eighteenth-century building, now converted into the Cashel Palace Hotel, a mecca for visiting horsemen from all over the world. There had been a mass exodus north from the town for Irish Derby weekend, and it was no trouble booking a single room for a few days. She just checked in, using a hitherto unused American Express card, issued to a British citizen, Margaret Adams. No one even asked to see her passport.

She took her suitcase up to her room, declining assistance from the doorman. She unpacked carefully, hung a few things in the gigantic old polished wardrobe, and stuffed her essentials into her regular leather handbag: forged passports, credit cards, wallet, several thousand euros in cash, her forged British driver’s license with Margaret’s address in Warwickshire, and her driving gloves.

She had one stop to make at the fishing tackle shop she had noticed in the main street. Shakira felt very vulnerable when she was unarmed, as she had been for several days, ever since she had left her principal weapon jutting out of Matt Barker’s chest.

And now she went into the store and spent a few minutes looking at the fishermen’s knife selection. Finally she chose one with a long straight blade with a serrated edge and leather-gripped handle. She asked the assistant to gift-wrap it, as it was a present for her younger brother.

Shakira did not for one moment expect to use the knife in any form of combat, but neither had she anticipated using her Syrian dagger. She very definitely felt a lot better for having the knife, and she ripped the paper off as soon as she exited the shop, tossed it in a trashcan, and placed the knife in her bag.

Thus rearmed, she climbed back into the car and asked her driver to take her out along the road to Fethard. She had no plans to visit any particular place. She just wanted to see the land where these amazing horses were raised. So far, the cool green landscape of southern Ireland had not reminded her even remotely of her desert homeland, where the Darley Arabian had once lived.

They drove east along the country road amid the endless green of the Irish pastures on either side of the road. In the distance, she could see mares and foals in lush paddocks, but none of them were close to the road.

She remembered that Michael O’Donnell had mentioned an enormous sum of money for his filly foal from Easter Rebel’s dam, and imagined the security on these baby racehorses must be intensive. It did not seem possible that she could ever get close to them, and before long she suggested they turn around and return to the Cashel Palace.

When they arrived, Shakira said good-bye to her driver, who was returning to Dublin and promised he would have a local man at the hotel in the morning to transport her around the southwest of Ireland. No, he did not require payment. She could settle next week when he again came south to bring her back to Dublin.

This was not the first time she had really liked the Irish, and once more she made a mental note to forbid Ravi from killing any of them. So far as she was concerned, the Great Satan’s European cohorts ended in England. The Irish were not to be included in any future attacks. They just weren’t the kind of people to have anything to do with terrorists.

Back in her room, Shakira drew back the curtains on the tall windows for the first time, and she was utterly amazed at the sight that awaited her: high on a hill, directly above her room, were the stark ruins of the ancient Irish cathedral high on the Rock of Cashel, for seven centuries the seat of the Irish kings, St. Patrick’s Rock. Great limestone walls, built in the twelfth century, were still standing. There were windows and a historic round tower. A Celtic high cross jutted into the evening sky, and all around the land fell away.

“The view must be breathtaking,” she thought, flicking the pages of her local guidebook. “Tomorrow I will go and stand up there.”

Shakira dined alone in her room, and later, restless for someone to talk to, she made her way down the wide staircase and asked the front desk if there was a coffee shop in the hotel. “No, we’ve no such thing,” replied the desk clerk. “But if you go down those stone steps over there, you’ll find the nicest bar you ever saw. Tell Dennis I said he’s to make you an Irish coffee.”

Shakira did exactly as she was told, and Dennis the barman delivered her an Irish coffee, its tall head of double cream obscuring a mighty measure of Jameson’s finest whiskey. The bar was quite busy, and the former Carla Martin chose a corner seat with a small table and an empty chair next to hers.

She had no idea that she was sipping such a strong alcoholic drink, but it tasted so good, she never gave it a thought. After twenty minutes, she noticed a heavyset, rustic-looking local, aged around fifty, come down the stairs and order a pint of Guinness. Slightly to her surprise, he came and sat beside her, and she did not notice the look of concern on the barman’s face.

The newcomer turned to her and said, “Good evenin’ to yer, ma’am. I’m Pat Slater.”

And almost before Shakira had nodded a greeting, Dennis came over and said quietly, “Now Patrick, this lady is staying in the hotel. And don’t you be boring her to death with yer tales of bygone days.”

Mr. Slater smiled and said he had no intention of boring anyone, and besides, he’d only come in for the one. He had a mare due to foal that night, and he wouldn’t be far away from the barn now, would he?

Dennis retreated, and over the next ten minutes Pat Slater just asked politely what Shakira was doing in Ireland and how long was she staying. But, unknowingly being bombarded with a pack of lies, he was good to his word and got up to leave. Just before he climbed the old familiar stairs, he leaned over and muttered to Shakira, “I wasn’t always just a stockman. I used to have a very important career.”

And with that he was gone. It was almost 9:30 P.M. now, and the bar was emptying out as residents left and went into the dining room. The place would get a “second wind” at around eleven o’clock, but in the meantime Shakira was almost alone.

She finished her Irish coffee and walked up to the bar to speak to Dennis. “That man told me he used to have an important career,” she said, as always unable to resist getting right to the bottom of any unclear information.

And Dennis raised his eyebrows and said, “Miss Carson, that man is, secretly, a former freedom fighter with the Irish Republican Army, the fellers who shot and bombed the English into submission over Northern Ireland.

“Trouble is, he never got over it. Spends his entire life yearning for the good old days when he and a few others were out there causing mayhem. Most of ’em found it very hard to fall back into peaceful civilian life after those years when they were on the run, plotting and planning and killing. That kind of life was like a drug to some of ’em, and Pat Slater is one.”

Shakira looked bemused. “Were these Irish Republican men terrorists, or did they fight like a national armed force?”

“No, they were never like that. They attacked the British along the borders, blew up train stations, and sometimes streets. They wore the badge of terrorists proudly, and said they were fighting a war to drive the British out of Ireland forever.”

“And did they succeed?”

“As far as anyone could ever succeed in Northern Ireland, I suppose. But up there, the majority of the population wants to keep their British ties.”

“But did the bombing and killing get results?” Shakira persisted.

“Oh, yes. No doubt about that. In the end, the Brits were really fed up with it, but so were the people of Northern Ireland. Everyone just grew tired of an endless conflict.”

“Was it like the Muslim Jihad?”

“In some ways it was, but not on so large a scale. The IRA was a much smaller force, even though they had a few pretty ambitious targets. There was nothing like the Twin Towers in New York.”

“Do you think their attacks proved that a great and worthwhile cause can be achieved by a sustained campaign of terror?”

“In a way, they did. The British government would never have given in so quickly if they hadn’t been afraid of more bombs in London.”

“Then it was good news for all terrorists,” laughed Shakira.

“It wasn’t that good,” said Dennis. “Did you ever see a man so gloomy as Pat Slater? He’s like all the rest. The glory for them was in the chase, not the objective. how about another Irish coffee? I’ll have one with you