by P A Duncan
Elijah smiled. “Putting a mongrel brat out of its misery? I look upon it as bestowing my blessing.” Elijah again squeezed the man’s shoulder. “I know you’ve had some false starts, but I have a good feeling about our friend Jay. I think he’s what you’ve been looking for.”
“What about her?” The older man pointed to one of the monitors, which showed the woman Carroll had spoken with, back in the exhibit hall.
“She’s nothing, like all women. I heard her say her name was Siobhan Dochartaigh. Irish. Said she was lying low.”
“It would not hurt to have her checked.”
“He may never see her again.”
“Are you certain she passed him no contact information?”
“Reasonably certain.”
“Best to be safe,” the old man said. “I have a contact at the British Home Office who can confirm her status.”
Elijah leaned down and kissed a scar on the older man’s cheek.
“Your wisdom, Father, makes me thank Yahweh every day you found me and put me on the right path.”
“That path is redemption, and I have been unable to walk it for fifty years. Now, you will carry me.”
49
Unintended Consequences
As she headed for the convention center exit, Mai replayed the encounter with Carroll. She wanted to bounce every word, nuance, and expression off Alexei.
The sight of a familiar profile brought her up short.
Mai turned quickly to an exhibitor’s table and picked up a brochure to study. The vendor stepped closer and began his sales spiel, but Mai watched a red-haired, freckled man of about forty-five two tables away.
Padraig “Paddy” O’Riordan, an IRA man wanted by Her Majesty’s government for murder and conspiracy to commit terrorist acts. The sensation of having been watched made sense. O’Riordan moved away from the table, and Mai smiled her thanks to the vendor and handed him his brochure.
She followed Paddy, looking for some way to get past him without being seen.
Paddy stopped at another vendor, forcing Mai to do the same.
What the hell was Paddy doing in America? Well, there was the obvious, being at the MW Convention. Why hadn’t Home Office alerted The Directorate he was in the country? He could recognize her for what she was, and since it only took a beer or two to lubricate his throat, he wouldn’t hesitate to spread the word here the U.N. had infiltrated the convention. And if John Carroll caught wind of that…
Paddy moved from table to table, keeping himself between her and the only exit from the exhibit area. Bastard. He’d made her and was toying with her.
After an hour of cat and mouse, Paddy at last headed for the exit, fishing a pack of cigarettes from his denim jacket as he walked. Mai slowed to get some space between them and followed.
In the parking lot, she thought she’d lost him until she spotted him walking past some outside vendors in a far corner of the lot. He continued past them toward a line of portable toilets, lighting a cigarette and smoking as he walked. Mai altered course to bypass the vendors and looked over the area. Las Vegas was in a construction boom, and Paddy headed for a sloping, graded area behind the convention center. She glanced around, seeking surveillance cameras and saw none.
With the toilets providing cover, Mai drew her Beretta and screwed on the noise suppressor. She had no intention of killing Paddy O’Riordan, but he’d take a bribe, especially with a gun pointed at him.
At the bottom of the slope, Paddy stood, relieving himself, and Mai minded her footing as she descended. Swift and silent, she came up behind him and put the muzzle of the silencer behind his right ear.
“‘Afternoon, Paddy. I thought you were inside-trained.”
He inclined his head toward the toilets. “Those things are filthy.” His Belfast brogue rendered the th-sounds as “Tose tings are filty.”
Paddy shook himself dry, tucked his penis back in his pants, and zipped up. He raised his hands and peered over his shoulder. “I was wondering how long before youse would catch up with me, lass.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Now, I could be asking you the same.”
“I asked first.”
“Bloody Brits. Always got to have your way. Doing a little dealing, darling, but if youse were here for me, you’d know that.”
“I’m not here for you, but I’d like you to move on now and leave whatever deal you’ve got going. I’ll make it worth your time.”
“And you pass on to MI-6 me whereabouts.”
Ah, that was why British Intelligence hadn’t alerted anyone; they didn’t know where he was.
“I told you,” Mai said, “I’m not here for you. How much for you to move along before you blab?”
“Oh, I’m supposed to waltz away on your say-so? I always said you had more balls than Maggie Thatcher.” He peered over his shoulder again. “What if I say no? Do I get one in the back of me head? That’s not your style, lass.”
“If you won’t take my money, how about a ride to the local FBI office?”
“All me papers are in perfect order, thanks to some well-meaning politicians of Irish descent.”
“The FBI will run your fingerprints, and they’ll hold you for MI-6. All you have to do is leave and save us both the heartache. You owe me. You know that.”
“Oh, aye, you talked my sister out of following in me footsteps, and I’m grateful for it.”
“How much?”
“Two thousand.”
At least she was getting off cheap. “I have that on me. I’ll even drive you to the airport.”
Mai lowered her gun and stepped back.
Paddy’s hands dropped to his sides, and he turned to face her.
“Christ, woman, you look like a Provo,” he said. “If you’re not after me, who is it? Ah, you’re working someone here, aren’t you, now?”
“Let’s go, Paddy.”
“Jesus Wept, lass. I’m trying to be sociable.”
“Paddy, move along if you want that money.”
“All right, all right. I’ll have a nip from my flask first.”
Paddy O’Riordan drew a gun from beneath his jacket, but its noise suppressor caught in the fabric of his trousers. His ill-timed shot was all haste and chance and caught Mai in the fleshy part of her waist.
Her reflexive shot was all instinct, and the bullet entered O’Riordan’s brain through the bridge of his nose.
He was dead before his legs folded.
Lips pursed in pain, Mai pressed her hand against her side and looked around. The back side of the convention center had no windows, and they were below the line of sight of other buildings. Given that, she had no time to lose.
Why the fuck hadn’t she searched him?
Because he’d always been a bomber, not a shooter.
No one rushed up, and she put the gun in her waistband. She scanned the ground for the brass from her bullet. There. In the dirt to her right. She picked it up and pocketed it.
She knelt beside O’Riodan’s body and retrieved any identification from it. That would delay immediate identification, but his fingerprints would be in many international databases. She took the gun, too, so the police wouldn’t search for a bullet and find her DNA, and shoved the gun in her waistband, too.
Mai stood and made certain she wasn’t leaking blood into the dirt. She gave O’Riordan’s body a shove with her foot. It rolled a few feet into a ditch, mostly out of sight.
She didn’t watch it tumble.
Alexei heard the prearranged knock on the hotel room’s door and ignored it. When he heard some fumbling with the key, he looked up from the baseball game he watched. The door opened, and Mai entered. He almost turned his attention back to the game, but he smelled blood.
He was beside her before either of them realized it. “What the hell is this?”
Between clenched teeth, Mai replied, “Paddy O’Riordan was there. He made me. Fucking shot me.”
“Come on.” Hand at her elbow, h
e urged her toward the bed. She stood fast.
“I can’t bleed all over the sheets,” she said. “Get the shower curtain. Don’t rip it down. Unhook it.”
When he returned with the plastic curtain, she’d shed her jacket and let it fall to the floor. Blood stained the lining.
“Fucking Paddy O’Riordan. I liked that jacket.”
Alexei spread the curtain over the single bed in the room and went back to her. She leaned against the dresser. He removed her sunglasses and both guns from her waistband.
Holding up an S&W six-shot revolver with a crude silencer, he asked, “Paddy’s?”
Mai nodded, took a step, faltered. He’d get an earful later, but he picked her up and carried her to the bed, placing her in the center so he’d have room to sit. He pulled her hand away from pressing on the wound.
“Clean through,” he said, “but a bleeder.”
Her teeth chattered. “I know.”
From the closet, he took the medical kit they carried with them, rummaged through it, and pulled out the supplies he wanted.
“Where’s O’Riodan?” he asked, prepping a syringe with a broad-spectrum antibiotic.
“Dead. Hidden.”
He gave her the shot in her right arm and began to cut away her shirt with scissors.
“I’m going into shock,” she muttered.
“Not if you talk to me. Tell me what happened.”
“O’Riordan fucking shot me.”
“We’ve established that. What was he doing at the convention?”
“Gun deal. I saw him.”
“O’Riordan? Obviously.”
“No, no. John Carroll.”
“You’re sure?”
“Fuck, yes, Alexei.”
“Did he see you with O’Riordan.”
“No. We talked. I’m fucking cold.”
“I know,” he murmured. “Bear with me a bit longer.” He unfastened her jeans and slipped them and her underwear low on her hips. “I apologize in advance. This will hurt.”
He soaked a pad of gauze with alcohol and pressed it over the entry wound.
She may have growled at him.
He did the same for the exit wound. While he cut long strips of surgical tape and secured the gauze pads over both wounds, she began to shiver. He started to remove her bloody clothing.
“Come on,” he said. “You’re not talking to me. Tell me about John Carroll.”
“Polite. Courteous.”
Alexei used antiseptic wipes to clean blood from her skin and hands, and he got only one-word replies to his series of questions. Her eyes slipped closed, and he checked her pulse before he cleaned his own hands. He stowed her clothes and the used wipes in the plastic bag from a trash can and shoved that in one of their duffels.
Without moving her too much, Alexei got the shower curtain from beneath her and wrapped her in the coverlet and blanket from the bed. He ran the shower to rinse blood from the curtain, averting his eyes as the trickle of red spiraled down the drain. He re-hung the curtain and returned to her side.
“Hey,” he said, brushing her hair off her face, “talk to me.”
“Why?”
“So I know you’re alive.”
“I’d laugh, but that would hurt.”
“You want some pain meds?”
She shook her head.
He looked into the medical kit again and took out another vial and a fresh syringe.
“What’s that?” she asked, eyes open and more alert.
“A stimulant. We need to get to the airport and away from here. When the authorities find O’Riordan’s body, I want us long gone.”
He peeled the covers away from her hip, used an alcohol swab on a spot, and gave her the shot. Before he re-covered her, he kissed her hip. Her eyes had closed again.
“You still with me?” he asked.
“After all this time, where would I go?”
Alexei smiled but hoped that was her sense of humor returning, not delirium.
“Feckin’ Paddy O’Riordan pulls a feckin’ gun on me after I didn’t bother to frisk him. Feckin’ bastard.”
Not delirium, but she hadn’t quite come out of the Dochartaigh character’s brogue.
“He didn’t usually carry a gun, so why would you frisk him? And, apparently, it did him no good.”
When she looked at him, he saw the cocktail of drugs had kicked in. Her eyes were wide awake, her breathing a little fast. “I’m thinking I’ll leave breaking a significant law out of our next report to the government.”
“When the police ultimately identify O’Riordan, they’ll discover his past, which they’ll conclude caught up with him,” Alexei said. “Can you get dressed, or do you want my help?”
“Like it better when you undress me.”
“Already did that.”
“Oh, not sexy at all, dumping alcohol on an open wound. Bad foreplay.” She pushed herself up to sit on the side of the bed, swayed, and waved off the hand he used to steady her.
“I can dress myself. Whatever you gave me is working like a charm.”
50
Getting Along
Directorate Headquarters
Somewhere near Washington, D.C.
Nelson looked up from reading the psychiatrist’s report when Mai Fisher entered his office. She always bounced back quickly. Maybe there was a slight hitch in her gait, and maybe she eased herself into the chair with an unaccustomed slowness.
The incident in Las Vegas had received a day’s notice in the local press: “IRA Terrorist Found Dead at MW Convention.” No suspects, no mentions of a woman near the scene. Of course, he’d sent the usual clean-up team to make sure of that. In truth, the Las Vegas PD lost interest when the FBI stepped in, and even they weren’t pursuing leads. However, the false ID Mai had confiscated from the body, provided, according to her report, by “politicians of Irish descent” would give him excellent blackmail material when he’d need it.
Mai’s interview with him today was the final arc of a circle of a hospital stay, a psychiatric review, and an operational review board hearing. He concluded her expression was one of boredom. But she was always like that.
“Any questions?” he asked.
“Aren’t you supposed to be asking them?”
He shrugged, canted an eyebrow.
“Okay,” she said. “What if he were going to threaten me only?”
He wondered if she felt she had to maintain the illusion she had a conscience. “With a suppressor on the gun? Not likely. He drew a gun; he shot you, you shot him. Self-defense. Case closed.”
“I liked Paddy. Once,” she said.
Another shrug. “Friends become enemies. Happens. If the RUC knew who offed him, they’d give you a medal.”
“Which I’d shove up the nearest constable’s arse.”
Ah, there was the Mai Fisher he knew and tolerated for the sake of his best friend. His eyes fell on a line from the psychiatrist’s report: “Recovery is within expected parameters.” Good enough.
“All right,” Nelson said, “we’re done. Get some rest.”
“I’ve been resting for two weeks.”
“No, you’ve been annoying Analysis. Rest is the order for now. Next item of business. Someone queried the MI-5 and -6 about Siobhan Dochartaigh. Did you speak with anyone else besides Carroll?”
“No, but given the crowd, someone might have overheard me give Carroll that name.” She frowned and said. “Could it have been the FBI?”
“I thought of that, but since I want to keep them unaware of this mission, I only asked for confirmation any surveillance had ended. They assured me it had.”
“Maybe the FBI is onto Carroll,” Mai said.
“I don’t think the FBI is a player. In more ways than one. What’s your theory?”
“Someone from one of the groups we’ve been examining has Carroll on their radar. They saw us talking and decided to check me out. However, you don’t exactly ring up the British intelligence services and ask ab
out a wanted IRA shooter without raising some eyebrows. There are channels.”
Nelson smiled at her. He liked withholding the obvious.
“I see,” she said. “Someone had a contact inside. I assume the legend held.”
“I guess we’ll know the next time you encounter him. MI-6 told us who made the search inside MI-5. A career man, though with ultra-conservative leanings. We’re investigating to see if we can pin down who contacted him.”
Mai shook her head. “A career man who’s maybe been doing this a while? He won’t leave a trail.”
“Your legend is well-documented. I don’t anticipate a problem. You will share this information with your partner.”
“And get a two-hour lecture on being careful? I think not.”
“If you don’t, I will, and you get to explain. Again, I don’t think it’s a serious issue, but he’s the senior operative. He needs to know it’s in play. Final item. The President wants an update. Let’s see… How did he put it?”
Nelson dropped into his best imitation of a southern drawl. “At Miz Fisher’s earliest opportunity.” Nelson leered and waggled his eyebrows.
“Well,” Mai said, “at least his taste in women has improved.”
The White House
President Geoff Randolph wore half-glasses to read the summary Mai had pulled together. The glasses made him appear studious and, well, presidential.
“I see you’ve identified a subject,” Randolph said.
Time for some espionage double-speak. “A cursory contact only. Future meets will determine if he is, indeed, a subject.”
“How’d you arrive at your conclusions about his personality?”
“I’m a trained profiler. Based on archetypes, that’s my best guess as to personality.” She hadn’t mentioned the B&E.
“Archetypes?”
