The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)
Page 1
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF
CONNIE JOHNSON HAMBLEY
THE TROUBLES
“The Troubles is a sweeping narrative that travels across generations and continents to paint a richly textured, historically accurate picture of a troubled country fighting to find its soul amid clashing loyalties and political chaos. Hambley skillfully unfolds several urgent mysteries at once, while giving us complex characters, gorgeous settings, and a prose that sings with the cadences of Ireland. (As a bonus, The Troubles also boasts the best descriptions of horse races you’ll find anywhere.)”
–ELISABETH ELO, AUTHOR OF NORTH OF BOSTON
“Seeking to escape her troubled and violent past, Jessica Wyeth journeys to a land where she is instead surrounded by powerful enemies. With danger on all sides, she struggles for the truth and wonders who to trust, as agents of a multi-generational terrorist conspiracy close in. Fast-paced action in this follow-up to The Charity that blends a love of horses, Ireland, and mystery. Highly recommended.”
–DALE T. PHILLIPS, DERRINGER AWARD NOMINEE AND AUTHOR OF THE ZACK TAYLOR MYSTERY SERIES
THE CHARITY
“The Charity reads like a wild cross-country ride...complete with twists and turns, stomach-lurching drops, and the steady thrum of adrenaline...It’s the thrill of the unraveling mystery, a hint of romance, and a terrifying glimpse into the clandestine terrorists in our midst that will keep readers glued to the pages of this thriller.”
–MASSACHUSETTS HORSE MAGAZINE
“From the storyline to the pacing to the writing to the character development...the book did what the best books do – it took me on a journey into several worlds I know little about. Boston IRA terrorists, horse breeding/racing, Kentucky small-town living – I felt like I have been in the middle of those worlds.”
–LEE CARLSON, AUTHOR OF PASSAGE TO NIRVANA
“I enjoyed the plot and the twists it took along the way...It’s rare for a mainstream novel to seamlessly incorporate an equine element, but Hambley did just that.”
–THE CHRONICLE OF THE HORSE
Published 2015 by Charylar Press in the United States of America
Copyright 2015 by Connie Johnson Hambley
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
2015905812
Hambley, Connie Johnson
The Troubles/Connie Johnson Hambley
p. cm.
PB ISBN: 978-0692417928
Epub ISBN: 978-1310494765
1. Family Secrets—Fiction 2. Adoption—fiction 3. Northern Ireland—Fiction
4. Irish Republican Army—Terrorism—Fiction 5. Horse Training—Fiction I. Title.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The opinions expressed within are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of any other person, corporation, or entity. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
To Scott,
Thirty years. Time flies.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ON JUNE 15, 1996, a red and white box truck parked in front of the Marks & Spencer store in the Arndale shopping district of Manchester, England. Phone calls made to news organizations and police ensured no bystanders remained in the area when the truck exploded at 11:17 a.m. The Irish Republican Army claimed responsibility.
Nearly twenty years later, the crime remains unsolved.
SATURDAY, JUNE 15, 1996
MANCHESTER, ENGLAND
UNITED KINGDOM
THE ARNDALE SHOPPING district of Manchester, England thrummed with activity. The next day’s Euro 96 football championship match between Russia and Germany promised to be a corker, and families rushed to get their shopping done before the anticipated Father’s Day visiting and game watching. Hot summer temperatures encouraged people to shed their jackets and walk rather than ride the Metrolink. Young and old filled the streets and shops.
Paddy and Tik ignored the crowds as they parked their red and white cargo truck in front of the Marks and Spencer store on Corporation Street. They didn’t need to speak or check to see what the other was doing. A quick glance at the dashboard clock was the only excess movement as Tik maneuvered the truck curbside, disregarding the double yellow lines. They pulled their hoodies over their heads and got out. Paddy walked down the street and around the corner. Tik turned a slow circle checking for surveillance cameras. Satisfied, he strode off in the opposite direction.
Tik rounded the corner of Cannon street and used a second set of keys to drive off in a waiting car. It took exactly ten minutes for him to pull into the underground car park of the Glenhoe Apartments and another six minutes to switch cars and drive the four blocks west to the Tavendish flat. Within twenty-two minutes, he had his hand on the phone and looked again at his watch. The second hand swept up and touched “XII.” He made his first call.
Paddy took twelve minutes to get to a phone, recite the carefully constructed sentences and precise words, and begin his escape from Manchester. Each man knew only enough about the other’s movements to understand why they had to carry out each step exactly right. Tik was to wait before he began his trek south.
He flipped on the telly and checked his watch again. It took only six minutes from his first call and sixteen minutes from Paddy’s for each channel to carry the same information—that police and news stations had received word that a truck carrying a large amount of explosives was parked near the Arndale shopping district and would explode in less than one hour. The newsreaders emphasized that the warning was immediately authenticated, as the callers, both male with Irish accents, used unique phrasing and a designated code word of the Irish Republican Army. The authorities urged people not to second-guess the warning in whatever complacency that may have grown over the past months during the IRA’s ceasefire. The code word and abandoned truck were all the anti-terrorist units needed to swing into high gear.
The Special Bulletins carried the same information. Civilians needed to evacuate the surrounding areas immediately. News commentators estimated that over seven thousand people were scrambling for cover. Their reports showed live images of mothers dragging crying children behind them and police with loudhailers pushing people away from the truck in bigger and bigger circles. The images on the screen blended with the sounds of sirens on the street below, skewing Tik’s sense of reality.
He expected to feel something. He did, sort of, but excitement wasn’t it. Neither was bloodlust. Tik leaned forward and methodically viewed each channel’s coverage, assessing the evacuation efforts. Images of people scurrying in fear gripped him.
“C’mon man! Move! Move!” he implored the figures on the screen, marveling at their stupidity. “Don’t stop there, woman! Grab yer kid and run, damn it!” He clicked around the stations in a twitch, never settling in to watch one for more than a few seconds.
A throng of screaming people flickered on the screen. Some clutched their handbags, others their children. The crowd ran up a street and parted as it passed an old man and woman. The elderly couple shuffled along, struggling to go faster. The man supported his wife at her elbow, urging her on, encouraging her progress, only to be
jostled and ignored by the fleeing masses.
Tik froze and stared at the telly, confused by what he saw. He expected people would help one another, wouldn’t leave anyone in peril. “Can’t you bloody well see they need help?” he screamed at the running crowd. They weren’t doing what they were supposed to do, what he had been told they would do. “What’s wrong with you people?” He pressed his face to the TV screen, craning his neck as if he could see around the corners of the building. “Feckin’ stupid idiots,” he said. Then the image changed, and Tik rhythmically clicked more stations to find another that showed the old couple.
Unsuccessful, he fidgeted in the cheap plastic chair until he could sit no longer. He jumped up and paced in a circle, never allowing his eyes to leave the television. Glancing at his watch, he counted down the minutes. The TV continued its live coverage, showing a robotic drone rolling its way around the truck. An odd telescoping neck held the single eye of a camera lens. Tik watched the robot jerk and whirl around the pocked pavement as the British tried to get as much film evidence as possible of the truck before the whole damn thing evaporated in the blast.
He looked at his watch, 11:15 a.m. He waited. Another minute ticked by. The only movement was a trickle of sweat that rolled down his temple. His mouth went dry.
At 11:17 a.m., the force of the blast raced down the street. Bits of glass and paper flittered by the window, pushed by a torrent of air. The building ticked and shifted as the shockwave hit.
He watched in mild fascination as a web of silver cracks streaked across the pane of glass while a mushroom cloud of dirt and masonry rose in the not-so-distant sky.
~ SIX WEEKS EARLIER ~
WEDNESDAY, MAY 8, 1996
ANTRIM, NORTHERN IRELAND
UNITED KINGDOM
MICHAEL CONANT LOOKED across the conference table at a man he had hoped to trust. They could not have been more different. Where Michael wore crisp khakis and couldn’t remember the last time he wore a tie, Aidan McGurnaghan, headmaster of Saint Mark’s School for the Disadvantaged, wore musty tweeds and shirts with soiled collars. Aidan relied upon his past to entitle him to his standing. Michael strove for his future by being rooted in the present. The fissures formed from the clash of a traditional, class-oriented culture and brash American one threatened to crack open.
Aidan stared at a spot on the table as he spoke. “Now then, tell me again how you view my role here.”
Portraits of past headmasters hung in neat rows on both sides of a dark, wood-paneled room. Engraved plaques displayed the names of Riobeard O’Shaughnessy, Daibheid Ui Neill, Padraig McGurnaghan. Tenures dated back over a century. Michael mused silently that the once lofty gene pool had run its course.
Michael was in no mood to babysit Aidan’s ego, but his instincts told him to stroke and warm the relationship as much as his gut revolted against it. Today’s meeting with the directors had to affirm a new direction for the school, and he desperately wanted it to go smoothly. He modulated his voice, determined not to be dismissed as too young or inexperienced.
“You take care of the day-to-day operations and make sure things run smoothly. You’re my eyes and ears here.” Michael nodded at the other men seated at the table to emphasize his compliment, hoping it did not sound gratuitous. “You’re an indispensible ally.”
Aidan sniffed, but allowed himself to be cajoled. “You’re making decisions that impact the running of the school. The financials are already under your control and you want more?”
“We need to stay focused on our objectives. As Headmaster, your actions clearly set a fine example for the staff during this admittedly difficult transition. It’s more than simply adding ‘for the Disadvantaged’ to the school’s name. We will redirect the school and those it touches. It takes time for these changes to take effect and for benefits to be noticed.” He studiously made eye contact with each director as he spoke, implicitly engendering their agreement.
Aidan cleared his throat and raised his narrow chin in an effort to express his indignation. “I’ve heard that you’ve kept me on as a point of continuity for the community, not as a vote for my competency. You’ve said I should feel secure in my job and that I have the support and confidence of the other directors here.” He swept his gaze over the men seated at the table. “Perhaps I should be clear on how I see your role, then,” he lowered his tinny voice for emphasis, “You might be able to pour money into our coffers, but you will never buy our history. You’ll have to stand on your own legs to build your legitimacy and reputation, and I daresay there’s not enough money in the world to do that.” Leaning back, he gave a hearty laugh, encouraging others to join in. Nervous laughter rippled around the table.
Aidan’s words signaled open mutiny to Michael’s new leadership. Their private talking, cajoling, negotiating, pleading, and, often, threatening, had boiled down into a thick sludge of distrust. Their feigned smiles and firm handshakes would no longer fool others. Business and fate threw them together. Not working together wasn’t an option.
Slowly, he willed his shoulders to relax, but the smile that grew on his face did not reach his eyes. Their visible feud undermined his authority. “That’s just your opinion, Aidan. I’ve kept my promises and I’ve kept this school from decay. We are continuing to be successful. I will not alter our course now.”
The tension between the two men escalated to a near boiling point when a figure at the far end of the table raised himself halfway out of his chair in a formal request to be acknowledged. The old man’s shock of white hair stood out in the darkened room. The intensity of his blue stare was matched only by Michael’s. Michael nodded permission to his uncle to speak.
Liam Connaught cleared his throat. “You two have framed your differences and solutions in more than one meeting, so there’s nothing new here. Aidan, you’re as pigheaded as your father and as bright as your mother. You need to stop thinking of ways to stop progress here and start thinking of ways to work with us.”
“Your nephew has spent millions on the campus. I want more to show for it than manicured lawns,” complained Aidan, failing to conceal his petulance.
“We do,” said Liam.
“What about our students?”
“What about them?”
“By allowing the right students to come to Saint Mark’s we carve out our future,” Aidan whined. “When I say right, I speak of the sons of fathers who have walked these halls and lead lives of success for which we educated them. Focusing on lesser families is not what the school is about.”
Liam sat back and looked at the headmaster, letting his shoulders slump as he shook his head back and forth. “We’ve been over this and will not start again. At this point you’ll need to question whether you can continue here or if you would be happier elsewhere.” He addressed the other men in the room. “I suggest you all do the same.”
Liam walked to the door, opening it with one hand and using the other in a graceful sweep of invitation. “All of you are invited to leave. For those of you who understand and accept our mission, you are invited back here tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. Goodbye.”
The startled silence remained until the men slowly rose from their chairs and walked out the door. Some gave Liam and Michael a hearty handshake and assurances that they would indeed be seeing them tomorrow. Others left with heads down and faces set in expressions of deep thought. They shook hands with a stiffened formality that evidenced their inner turmoil.
After the last footstep faded, only Michael and Liam remained. “Tomorrow will be an interesting day indeed.” Liam poured himself a Scotch, neat, from the decanter set in the middle of the conference table. One by one, he dropped ice cubes into another glass, added Scotch, and pushed it across the table.
Michael positioned himself at the window. The sun still high, he could see the departing directors walk down the brick path to their waiting cars. The waters of Lough Neagh shimmered just beyond the green sweep of the quad. “My estimate is half will come back,” Li
am began, almost reading Michael’s thoughts, “and some of those will be for curiosity only.”
Michael picked up the glass and sat down heavily next to Liam. “I memorized the bios you sent me on each director. Your insights were dead-on, as usual. I don’t know how I could do this without your help. I’m barely grasping the structure, and you’re finessing the right team members. The invitation to rejoin us tomorrow was the perfect test of loyalty. I wish I had thought of it.” He raised his glass in a silent toast. “Thank you for coming.”
“It’s me who should be thanking you. My brother stepped up to fill our father’s shoes as you are stepping up to fill his. Now that he’s has gone to his maker, it’s your turn.”
“His maker? I doubt even the devil wants him back.”
Liam chuckled. “He went astray, I’m afraid.”
“And what about you? Shouldn’t you be stepping into your brother’s role? To them, I’m the American. An outsider. You saw them today. They’ll never accept my leadership.”
“It’s not about them accepting you as leader, Michael. It’s about you accepting the responsibilities of leadership and all that goes with it. Magnus knew this.”
“My father’s ways will never be mine, and you know it. He was a butcher and a thief.”
“And if you believe the stories about me, I’m an old drunkard and a half-crazy obstructionist who cares more about his homes and mistresses than for any cause.” He paused, using the moment to heave a resigned sigh. “They’ll have an even harder time accepting me as their leader, Michael. I represent the past, what could have been, with all of the regrets of paths not taken. The Charity needs you. Without you clearly staking your claim to your father’s mission, there will be more blood spilled. To shrink away and hide would be cowardly at best and murderous at worse.”
Liam left the truth unspoken. Faith in Michael’s leadership of the school and his father’s organization was in jeopardy. The Charity was something Michael did not want to acknowledge, let alone be a part of. That multi-tentacle behemoth he feared only feigned slumber. He raked his fingers through his hair, his desperation clear. “I don’t want to walk in my father’s footsteps. You know the organization and the people. You should lead. I... I’d support you. I’d help you.”