Smith looked down into his lap, his shoulders heaving.
For the first time, the Provos could sense the burning hatred and powerful passion for revenge that had driven this man to them. It was in his body language. Murderous hatred poured off him in hot waves.
'Vengeance will be mine!' he cried, looking up and slamming his fist down on the table with enough force to upset their liquor glasses. 'Do you people understand me? Listen closely, Mr. McKee. I want to murder all these Royal bastards. Every fucking one of them. Why, if I could, I would roam the graveyards of England digging up British monarchs long dead and crushing their bones to dust beneath my heels. And smash every last one of their bloody skulls against their own tombstones!'
The four men stared at him in stunned silence.
'Good enough for me,' McKee said, astounded at the depths of the man's feelings. 'What say the lads?'
'Aye,' they murmured, nodding their heads as Smith had expected. They now knew they had little to lose, and the world to gain, after all.
'What'll you be needing then, from me?' McKee asked.
'Explosives, for starters,' Smith said, getting his emotions once more under control.
'What kind of explosives?'
'Untraceable. Compact. Easily transportable. Waterproof. Completely reliable. What do you recommend?'
'How close you think you can get to the fella?'
'Very close.'
'Within five hundred yards?'
'Closer. But I'd err on the side of more is more. Leave nothing to chance.'
'Fifty pounds of gelignite ought to do it, mate.'
'Familiar with gelignite. Never used it, however.'
'We use it all the bloody time. A kind of blasting gelatin, easily moldable, dissolved in nitroglycerine and mixed with wood pulp and potassium nitrate. Very stable. And very cheap. And very fuckin' serious.'
'I'll need a remote detonator.'
'You bloody well will unless you plan to join his bleeding lordship in hell,' the Provo said, earning a few guffaws and bottoms up around the table.
Smith said, 'It's done, then? That's it? You'll help me?'
'When I'm completely satisfied you are who you say you are, yes. That envelope of yours looks pretty good to me. But we're all still alive because we are extremely thorough in our investigations. Until then you'll be ensconced in a little locked room upstairs. Pip and Scottie McBain standing outside will rotate. Feed you and make sure you don't stray from yer quarters. Understood?'
'Completely. I'd do the same myself.'
'All right, then.'
Smith took a breath, then said, 'All right, then. Good. Thank you.'
'We're done here, looks like, mates. You'll be hearing from us, one way or the other, Mr. Smith. Let's hope, for your sake, you're an honest man. Or you'll not leave this house alive.'
'I never claimed honesty, sir, only truthfulness.'
'Sounds like ruddy Mahatma Gandhi himself, don't he, boys?'
'Mahatma never killed a flea,' one of the Provos said as they all rose from the table. 'Much less the last Viceroy of India. But here's a queer bloke seeming determined to do just that!'
'Bloody unlikely, ain't it, Pad?'
'Dunno. This one's got a look in his eye like I've never seen. He just might do it. He could bloody well pull off the impossible.'
NINETEEN
MULLAGHMORE, NORTHERN IRELAND, AUGUST 1979
THE MONTHS PASSED QUICKLY. NOT SURPRISING, Smith thought, what with his normal responsibilities coupled with all the travel, meticulous planning, and intelligence gathering he had done, plus certain 'extracurricular' activities he had been conducting out on the island. Weekend jaunts from his remote digs off the coast, slipping into Mullaghmore harbor of an evening for a quick look round before fading away, returning by boat to his perfect hideaway on Mutton Island.
The fishing village of Mullaghmore overlooked a small harbor. A few commercial boats and pleasure boats bobbed at their moorings on warm summer days. Only twelve miles away lay the border with Northern Ireland, so the town was a popular vacation spot for terrorist IRA volunteers.
It was also the vacation home of one of the Royal Family's most venerated and public figures, Lord Louis Mountbatten. A powerful member of the family, it was Lord Louis who had arranged the courtship of his nephew Prince Philip and then Princess Elizabeth, now the reigning monarch.
If Mountbatten was sanguine about his security, it was with good reason. There had never been a single attempt on his life. The only terrorist attack in Mullaghmore had come one night courtesy of some lads at the pub. They'd sneaked down to the harbor and drilled holes in the bottom of Shadow V, Mountbatten's beloved fishing boat, hoping she'd sink with the morning tide.
She didn't.
A mile or so away from town, atop a hill known as 'Fairy Rock,' which overlooked the bay, stood Classiebawn Castle, the summer home of Lord Mountbatten. It had been the site of many jolly family holidays for over thirty years. It was not a castle, really, just a large Victorian mansion. But it had a turret, and it was the home of a Royal, so historically, it had been called a castle. Built in 1874, it overlooked the forbidding rock-faced cliffs and the tide- washed strands of Donegal Bay, with the windswept island of Inishmurray visible in the near distance, and the open sea in the far.
IT HAD RAINED LIKE MAD every day all summer long. But tonight, stars appeared and the clouds seemed to be scudding away; a slice of yellow moon glimmered on the dark bay. The forecast for tomorrow was sunny. Good boating weather, with any luck at all, Mountbatten thought, closing the seaward bedroom windows before retiring, and about time, too.
Smith, standing in the stern of the small fishing boat, was reassured by the sound of her motor chugging steadily. The Rose of Tralee, she was called. The two IRA men, Tom McMahon and Francie McGirl, had provided her, no questions asked.
Smith, his balaclava pulled down over his face, put a pair of high-powered binoculars to the eyeholes. He raised the glasses to the great manse atop Fairy Rock. Though it was quite late, lights still shone in a few of the upper windows, and he could make out Mountbatten's flag fluttering from its standard atop the turret. The banner only flew when the lord of the manor was in residence.
Smith's most recent intelligence indicated a number of family members in residence in addition to Mountbatten himself. His grandson, Nicholas; Lady Brabourne; Lady Patricia, her husband and son; and Timothy Knatchbull. There were others, but their names were not known to him.
It didn't matter. Only one of them mattered.
McMahon, at the helm, was running just above idle speed. They had kept their navigation lights on, after some debate, as it was felt the chances of anyone taking notice of Rose of Tralee were slimmer. Still, they'd taken precautions. The rucksack filled with fifty pounds of high-powered explosives was weighted with lead. It sat tethered to the transom where it could easily be lowered silently and sunk should they be approached by the local Gardai patrol boat, whose schedule was famously unpredictable.
None of the three men were armed.
The two IRA Provos were attired as if returning from a long day of offshore drift fishing for salmon, and they had taken the trouble to fill the live well with fresh fish. The nets were piled on the deck aft of the small pilothouse. On the boat's stern, she bore Sligo as her hailing port. Their story was, should they need one, that they'd been offshore fishing, had engine trouble, and were pulling into Mullaghmore for the night, hoping to make repairs next morning, and to return to Sligo Harbor by noon.
McGirl, with a professional touch Smith admired, periodically squirted oil onto the hot manifold, and the engine
