that his buddy in the FBI had called and wanted to talk urgently.
Jimmy was in his apartment at the Watergate with Jane when the message came through. He called back and listened as the agent explained that the Special Branch had flown into Ireland from Scotland Yard and all hell seemed to be breaking loose over the death of the Irish farmer.
“Any idea why?” asked Jimmy innocently, hardly able to contain his excitement.
“Yeah. He was apparently killed by an unarmed combat blow which could only have been delivered by a Special Forces guy, you know, a Navy SEAL or an SAS man.”
“I KNEW IT!” yelled Jimmy.
“Knew what?”
“I knew there was something going on in connection with southern Ireland.”
“Not to mention southern Virginia. Christ, Jimmy, we’ve made more calls for you than we have for ourselves. Carla Martin, Maureen Whatsername, Aer Lingus, Shelbourne Hotel, passports, embassies. I gotta tell you, buddy, it looks like there might be some connection here—”
“NO SHIT!” yelled Jimmy, ungraciously. He thanked his buddy for the call, pressed the cutoff button, and dialed Admiral Morgan.
And once more he related the myriad of “disconnected facts” that suggested to him that someone was going to make an attempt on the life of the president’s most trusted adviser, scourge of the Middle Eastern terrorists.
But this time he was leading up to a payoff line. And with something of a flourish, he revealed the priceless information to the admiral: that the Irish farmer had been killed by a blow which could only have been delivered by a member, or at least a former member, of the U.S. or British Special Forces.
“You’re telling me, Jimmy, that someone hopped off that Iranian submarine, right out there in the Irish Sea, and killed the farmer on his way to killing me?”
“Well, not exactly. But I do know that an agent, wielding a Syrian dagger, befriended your mother-in-law very deliberately and then vanished from the face of the earth, in the full knowledge of your arrival time and hotel reservation in London on Tuesday, July 31.
“And that female agent, in my opinion, went to Ireland. Where the submarine was, and where another agent, a colleague and Special Forces guy, has just committed a murder on the way to his final destination, which might just be the Ritz Hotel.”
“Steady, kid. There’s too many gaps. Too few real links. Although I recognize the death of the Irish farmer is significant, and according to your story it does look as if the killer might have got off that submarine.”
“Arnie, will you cancel London?”
“Hell, no. I got a lot of security around me. I’ll be fine. You can’t let ’em rule you, kid, otherwise they’ve won. And we’re not gonna let that happen, right?”
Jimmy ended the phone call, and contemplated the sheer futility of trying to convince Admiral Morgan that he might be in danger. And he racked his brains to think of a link, or even a terror suspect who might have killed Jerry O’Connell.
He pulled up his most-wanted list of Middle Eastern hard men, guys suspected of heinous crimes against humanity, guys who’d killed and maimed in Israel, murdered in Jordan, committed atrocities in Iraq and Afghanistan and at various U.S. embassies in Africa.
Had one of them traveled to Ireland in the missing Kilo? And why Ireland? Arnie wasn’t going there. He tried to put himself in the shoes of the terrorist, and went through a process he had perfected years ago:
Jimmy leaned back reflectively as Jane reentered the room. “Could I ask why you’re talking to yourself?” she said brightly. “Aside from the fact that you might be losing your mind through overwork.”
“I’m not talking to myself,” he replied. “I’m processing information. Forming strategy.”
“Okay. It just sounded to me a lot like you were talking to yourself.”
“Perception, Jane, perception. Try to look beyond the obvious.”
“Well, I did. And you were obviously talking to yourself.”
“Jane, I was strategizing. And I still am. And I want to ask you a question. You are a terrorist, and you’re trying to get into England, unarmed, and with a passport. How do you do it?”
“Me? I get a flight to Heathrow, and walk through with my passport.”
“That’s what you won’t do. They make a record of that. Computerized. The security is unbelievable, and remember you’ve got to get out after you murder your target.”
“Okay, I’ll come in by car, off a ferry, from a different country. I know they’re not nearly as strict at the ferry ports.”
“Okay. Which country are you coming from? France? Holland? Spain?”
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“And how do you get in there?”
“I fly in.”
“Wrong. Then you run into that heavy European security again.”
“Okay. Well, how do I get in?”
“Ireland, by sea, Jane. It’s always been the soft option. For years they did not even have passports between the two countries. And it’s not much different now, even in England, not if you’re holding a European Union passport. Ireland’s the way into England.”
“How about flying into Ireland from a foreign country?” asked Jane.
“That’s much more difficult. The Irish adhere to the European rules as best they can. They want to know who you are, how long you’re staying, and the rest.”
“Well, how the heck do you get in then?” said Jane, tiring of the conversation.
“You get in by sea. There’s miles and miles of coastline, and the Irish have hardly any Coast Guard protection. You could land from deep water just about anywhere. You’d never try the same thing in England. Because they’d catch you. They arrest people all the time.”
“So the method for a killer is into Ireland by boat, then a ferry to England, and no one would know you were in the UK.”
“Precisely.”
“And you think Carla did that?”
“No. Carla’s not an assassin, though I doubt Matt Barker would agree. But her mate is. The one who killed Jerry O’Connell.”
Shakira’s fast Audi A6 came swiftly into London’s grandest square after their long journey halfway across England. They had made it in seven hours, which was superb driving considering that the general had elected to duck and dive through country roads and never to stick to a predictable route down the high-speed British motorways.
His reason was clear. If anyone had managed to identify them, or somehow get on their trail, it was ten times easier for the police to patrol the freeways than to organize a search through the highways and byways of the rural heart of England.
He’d stuck to the A-5 all the way to the historic river town of Shrewsbury, then cut to the M-5 freeway south of Birmingham, through Herefordshire, on roads he had once known like the palm of his hand. He exited at number 10, picked up the A-40, and in the twilight of this fine July evening raced through some of the loveliest country in England, to the wonderful steep Cotswold town of Burford, and then fast around the Oxford Ring Road onto the M- 40.
From there it was a straight shot at London, past his old school, Harrow, and then off the freeway into the Holland Park area. He knew these roads better than he knew Damascus, and he cut through to Knightsbridge, swung right just before Harrods, and made Belgrave Square right on time.
He pulled up outside No. 8 and immediately two staff members from the Syrian embassy ran down the steps
