and wouldn’t you admire the view from here, out to the lighthouse. My old grandpa always told me it was the finest view in Europe.”
“Was he widely traveled?”
“Hell, no. He only once left here for more than three hours, when he went to Dublin for a family wedding. He was so homesick, they brought him home before the reception.”
Ravi chuckled. “Well, I’ll be happy to get aboard, Jerry, and thank you very much.”
Mr. O’Connell did not seem to be in a hurry. “Ah, jaysus, Rupe,” he said. “And what brings you to a tiny outpost like Crookhaven on a fine mornin’ like this? You don’t look like a sailor to me — and you sure as hell don’t look like a farmer. did you stay in one of the hotels last night? I’ve an aunt who works at the Old Castle House.”
Ravi’s mind raced. “No,” he replied. “I was staying down there with friends.”
“On land?”
“Yes, on land. Couple of fellas from school.”
“Ah, there’s nothing like a reunion, Rupe, talking of old times with a couple of jars of Jameson’s under your belt.”
“We had a good time, Jerry,” said Ravi. And even as he spoke, he realized the options were fast running out for the Irish dairy farmer, who pressed on with the conversation regardless.
“Now, who exactly are these fellows from school?” he asked. “My family have lived down here for three hundred years at least, and I’ll be sure to know them. And their friend will be my friend. What’s their names, Rupe?”
So far as Ravi was concerned, this was becoming lethal. His mind buzzed. Jerry O’Connell already knew far too much. He could identify him; everyone would know in a half-hour that there had been a complete stranger wearing a suede jacket walking along the cliff top at six o’clock in the morning. Lying about his origins. Claiming impossible friendships with people who did not exist.
Ravi could no more come up with names of Crookhaven residents than fly in the air. Whatever he said, the farmer would know he was lying. Ravi distractedly walked over to the farm truck and pretended to see a flat tire on the left rear wheel. Now half-hidden from sight, he delved into his bag and pulled on his leather driving gloves.
“I think you might be in a bit of trouble here, Jerry,” he said. “There’s no air in this tire.”
“That rear one?” replied the Irishman. “Let me have a wee bit of a look.”
He walked over to join Ravi just as the Hamas terrorist was reaching for his combat knife. Not to stab or slash, but to hold it the wrong way around, and to use the handle as a blunt instrument.
Ravi bent down to examine the tire, and as he did so, Jerry O’Connell joined him. “That tire looks pretty good to me,” he said, uttering the last words he would ever utter. Because Ravi straightened up and struck like a cobra. He slammed the handle of the dagger hard into the area between Jerry’s bushy eyebrows, and with the bone well and truly splintered, he dropped the dagger, drew back his hand, and slammed the heel of his palm hard into Jerry’s nostrils, driving the bone known as the septum into the brain.
Ravi Rashood killed Jerry O’Connell instantly, with a classic SAS unarmed-combat blow. The Irish farmer was dead before he hit the roadside grass. His heart had stopped before he landed backward on the sparse grazing soil of West Cork. Wrong place, wrong time.
CHAPTER 9
With the body of the late Jerry O’Connell lying slumped at the roadside, General Rashood needed to move very quickly. On the right-hand side, the land fell away down the cliff toward the ocean, and Ravi elected to roll the corpse down there and hope to hell it jammed in the foliage but was hidden from view.
He checked that there was no further traffic from either direction and then dragged the dairy farmer to the edge of the cliff top and tipped him over. Jerry rolled down for about forty feet and came to a halt against a gorse bush that was still in flower. Ravi stared. Jerry was plainly visible.
Leaving his bag on the roadside next to the milk truck, he clambered down the cliff and dislodged Jerry, dragging the body around the gorse and jamming it into the far side. Now it would not be noticed from above, although it was still just visible if someone was really looking. Which, Ravi guessed, they would be before this day was done.
He climbed back up the cliff and considered his getaway options. Walk or ride? And then he boarded the milk truck, revved the engine, put it into gear, and took off, with the urns rattling in the rear. He considered that he was, more or less, safe for another half hour, before someone missed either Jerry or the truck.
There was only one way to drive, and that was straight along to Goleen, through the village, and on to Schull, Ballydehob, and Skibbereen. He kept his driving gloves on and kept going, passing the West End Hotel in Schull, where, unbeknownst to him, his wife had stayed last week.
Only one person in the entire fourteen-mile journey noticed him. Patrick O’Driscoll, the driver of the central milk tanker, was just coming out of Murphy’s Breakfast Bar in Goleen when he saw O’Connell’s truck with the usual four big urns of milk come fast through the village, drive straight past the dropoff point, and keep going out along the road to Schull. He found that puzzling, but guessed Jerry must have had an errand.
Meanwhile, Ravi was approaching the market town of Skibbereen and preparing to ditch Jerry’s truck. He slowed down a half mile out of town and turned onto a farm track that led to a house situated beyond a wood. Ravi swung into the trees and drove for about three hundred yards before coming to a halt in a dense clump of birch trees. He switched off the engine, grabbed his bag, and walked on to Skibbereen. It was 7:15 in the morning, and the town was more or less deserted.
Ravi had eaten nothing since the previous evening and had not had anything to drink for many hours. The lure of the Shamrock Cafe was too strong for him to resist, and he took off his jacket, which he knew made him very distinctive in these rural areas. He stuffed it into his bag and walked inside, where he ordered toast, orange juice, and coffee from a very sharp young Irishman, aged around twenty, who Ravi thought would probably end up mayor of Skibbereen one day. He asked about the bus to Cork City and was told it left daily at 8 A.M. from outside the Eldon Hotel on Main Street.
Ravi sat at a table with his back to the counter. The excesses of killing Jerry and climbing up and down the cliff had made him thirsty, and he hit the orange juice in one go, then ordered another. He was so thirsty, he ignored the terrorist’s mantra never to do anything that would cause anyone to notice anything. The kid behind the counter might now remember.
The mistake was small, and Ravi cast it to the back of his mind. He ate his buttered toast and drank his coffee. He paid with his euros and made his way out to the Eldon Hotel for the bus to Cork. The journey was a little over forty miles, but it took General Rashood much longer.
Twice he left the bus, at Clonakilty and again at Inishannon on the Bandon River. Both times he waited for the next one, but at Clonakilty he caught sight of the Michael Collins Centre and spent a half hour standing at the back of a group of tourists, listening to the guide recounting the exploits of Ireland’s great twentieth-century patriot.
Eventually he arrived in Cork just before 12:30, and, since he would shortly be wanted for murder, decided to take a circuitous route to Dublin rather than the regular direct rail link from Kent Train Station. He elected for a long train ride along the coast to Waterford, and then to take the three-hour ride on the railroad up to Dublin.
Every step of the way, Ravi did everything possible to cover his tracks. On the train to Waterford, he changed carriages every half hour. He spoke to no one, ate nothing, drank nothing, kept his head buried in a succession of newspapers. People may have seen him, but no one had time to take a lasting impression of him.
He arrived in Waterford late in the afternoon. It was Monday, July 16, the first day Shakira would be looking for him in Dublin, in the precincts of the Mosque at five in the afternoon. He was not going to make it. But the Mosque, in Ravi’s mind, was only a “fail-safe.” He had Shakira’s cell-phone number, but intended to use it only in an emergency, perhaps just once, in the middle of Dublin where it would be untraceable.
And was this ever an emergency. In the following few hours, Ravi was aware, he would become an unknown
