by Pat Mullan
“I suppose he got away.”
“Yeah, he was long gone when the cardinal was discovered. Apparently Cardinal Volpe was due at some important meeting at the Vatican and, when he didn’t show, they sent somebody to check on him. Otherwise we wouldn’t have known a thing until tomorrow.”
“Has this hit the news yet?”
“Damn right. Turn on your TV. It’s on every network. There was another bombing in Iraq today. About a hundred people died. And the green zone was attacked. But the cardinal’s murder pushed all that off the headlines. Look at the BBC, CNN, Fox, Sky. Half their top reporters are on their way to Rome. This will dominate the news for a long time. Even RTE are sending Charlie Crowe. And it’s big when they send Charlie. Watch the evening newspapers.”
“I have to get to Father Cormack. Warn him. The paparazzi will be on his tail.”
“Is he back?”
“Yes, he came back with me.”
“How the hell did you manage that?”
“It’s a long story.”
“You know we need to interview him. The case on Terry Joyce is still open. We have nothing to indict him. But we want a statement from him.”
“He knows that. And he’ll give it to you. Let him settle for a couple of days.”
“What’s the matter with you? I thought you have throttled him if you’d got your hands on him. Now it sounds like you’re protecting him.”
“I’m not. I’ll explain. Can we meet somewhere?”
“I need to see you now. Something I can’t talk about over the phone. Can I come over?”
“Sure.”
“OK. In about an hour’s time.”
As Tom Buckley walked through the door into Ed Burke’s apartment an hour and a half later, the enticing aroma of something cooking filled his nostrils and set his appetite raging.
“We’re eating. You’re welcome to join us,” said Ed as he ushered Tom inside.
They turned the corner into the open plan kitchen and living space and found flames licking the side of a large wok as Maria stirred.
Smiling, she said to Tom, “Grab a bowl and take a seat.”
Maria set the wok in the center of the table, announcing, “I hope you like Chinese. Noodles, vegetables, shrimp, chicken.”
“Hey, this is gourmet dining for me, Maria,” said Tom, as Ed filled his glass with the chardonnay, “You know, I don’t know why I came over here. You’ve knocked it totally out of my head.”
Dinner over, they retreated to the living room. It was difficult to focus on matters of life and death so Ed broke the silence.
“You’re right about the news. It’s on every network, every minute. They’re hardly taking time for commercials. And they’ve gathered every pundit and opinion maker for instant analysis. And the conspiracy theorists are out of the closet again.”
“Hey, you’ve got to expect that. This is the biggest story in some time.”
“And they seem to have found out about Father Flaherty. They’re even calling him The Avenger.”
“That was bound to happen.”
“Unfortunately! And you know what comes after Rome, don’t you?”
“Here!”
“Well, this is where it started. And this is where they’ll come. Every damn network will be crawling over the place in the coming weeks.”
“I’ve been told that the Japanese are here already!”
“Well, I called Father Cormack. Told him to keep his head low. He’s completely distraught over Cardinal Volpe. The cardinal was his mentor, even more than that. Tom, there’s a deep dark story behind all of this. It’s centuries old. Started long before the church took shape. I’m hoping that I can get Father Cormack to tell the story.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s staying at Castle Cormack.”
“That figures.”
“You will leave him alone for a few days.”
“Hell, we’ll be distracted enough with all these news reporters crawling all over us. But you can tell him that we want him in soon to make a statement. Anyway, none of this is why I came here.”
Ed sat back and let that sink in for a minute, then said, “You mean, whatever you couldn’t talk to me about over the phone.”
“That’s right. It’s about Father Flaherty. We know where he’s been hiding out.”
“Great! How did you find out?”
“Nothing magical. Good old slogging detective work, that’s all. We’ve traced him to a house in Rathgar. Peter McDaid, a fellow he went to the seminary with. Left before ordination. A loner, real odd. Shares much of the same right wing extreme religious views as Father Flaherty. But very successful. He’s an architect.”
“So McDaid let him hide out at his place.”
“Yeah, McDaid is a sympathizer. If he was crazy like Flaherty, I’m sure he’d have done the same.”
“What are you planning to do?”
“Nothing!”
“I don’t understand.”
“OK. We’ve staked out McDaid’s house. He doesn’t know that we’ve discovered him. So he can’t alert Father Flaherty. We’re hoping he’ll come back there after Rome.”
“You want him back?”
“That’s right! Look, there’s little chance of him being tried in Italy if he claims refuge in the Vatican. Since the Lateran treaty of 1929, Italy has recognized the Vatican as a sovereign state. No extradition treaty exists between them. This has happened before and it ended in a stalemate. Italy wanted the Vatican to turn over someone for crimes committed in the Italian state and the Vatican refused, citing in its defense Article 11 of the Lateran treaty which says "central bodies of the Catholic Church are free from every interference on the part of the Italian state." So we don’t stand a chance if he hides out over there.”
“How are you certain they won’t arrest him in Rome anyway?”
“Because we know that he boarded a plane an hour ago!”
“What!”
“We found out how he got to Rome. Don’t ask.”
“I know, just good old slogging detective work.”
“Father Flaherty used to be in a religious order, the Marists. Remember that money clip we found in Cong, some kind of souvenir he got when he was overseas with the order. He spent a few years in Rome and he had a special Vatican passport when he was there. That’s why he knows the place and why he’s been able to go to ground there.”
“So that’s how he got to Rome.”
“The Vatican passport. Show it at any customs and they’ll wave you though. It’s magic. They don’t even look at it. Flaherty kept that passport when he had the mental breakdown. They should have taken it away but they didn’t. Another administrative screw-up.”
“So he flew from here to Rome.”
“No, he was more cautious than that. He didn’t want to be risked being recognized by someone at Dublin Airport. So he went north and took the ferry from Larne to Cairnryan in Scotland. Once there he flew from Glasgow to Rome.”
“And is he returning the same way?”
“Exactly. He’s on a flight to Glasgow as we speak.”
“And you’re going to let him through.”
“We’ve got McDaid’s house staked out. We’re pretty sure that’s where he’s headed. We’ll take him there.”
“Incidentally, not that it matters now, I found out that he has a sister.”
“We know. We found out too. She’s a nun, Sister Brigid. Out in the west. In Connemara. He’s had no contact with her for years, as far as we know. She may not know a thing about all of this.”
“So you haven’t contacted her?”
“We haven’t seen the need.”
“I’d like to be there when you take him.”
“Ed, I can’t do that. I’m not even supposed to be briefing you like this. But, dammit, we owe you and I won’t let the system screw you like it did the last time. But, I honestly can’t have you there at the stakeout.”
“OK. But I want to talk with him.”
“Well, maybe there’s a way we can work that out. But not right away.”
“When do you think he’ll get to McDaid’s? That’s if you’ve called it right.”
“He’ll be in Glasgow this evening. Probably B&B it overnight. Get the ferry tomorrow morning. So he’ll be in Larne about three or four o’clock. I figure he’ll take his time, stay over in the north for the night, and get here sometime day after tomorrow. And we’ll be waiting for him.”
With that, he stood up, “Look, I’ve overstayed my welcome. I gotta go,” and he gave Maria a huge hug, “Best meal I’ve had in a long time. I’ll be expecting an invite soon again,” and laughed loudly as Ed let him out the door.
58
As Tom Buckley opened the bottle of Ballygowan still water and took a slug, his mobile phone rang.
“Buckley.”
It was Chief Superintendent Flood, head of the Special Detective Unit and his boss, checking in.
“No, it’s all quiet here. McDaid came home about eight o’clock.”
“I hope you’re right about this. This is a political hot-seat we’re in. Flaherty’s not just any criminal. He’s a priest for Christ’s sake, and a serial killer as well. Had a call from the Taoiseach. Apparently he got a call from our brand new cardinal. So they’re breathing down our necks!”
“I don’t think he’ll show up to-night. But we’ll keep a car here all night, just in case. The PSNI confirmed that he came in on the ferry to Larne and then caught a bus to Derry. They lost him after that. I guess he wasn’t their top priority.”
“I want this man caught!”
“I’ll have the full team in place by five am. We’ll get him.”
“Take him alive. I don’t want him dead. Some people might prefer that and I want to disappoint them. Do you understand?”
“My feelings exactly. No one will use a weapon unless it’s to save a life. And there’s no evidence that Flaherty uses any. His weapons of choice have been ropes and knives. And fire!”
“Call me as soon as he shows up and keep me informed all the way.”
The call ended and Tom checked his watch. Eleven fifteen pm. He called his two men in the car parked diagonally across the street from McDaid’s.
“I’m outa here. I’ll be back at five with the rest of the team. Anything develops in the meantime, call me. And you know the drill: stay invisible! “
At exactly five am, Tom Buckley’s team of six arrived. The night before they had parked two unmarked cars on McDaid’s street and one on the matching street behind where McDaid’s garden abutted his neighbours; so as not to arouse attention with the unusual movement of cars into the street at that early hour. Two of the team relieved the men who’d completed the all night stake-out. Tom and his team had familiarized themselves with the traffic movement on this street. Some cars would leave early, taking people to work. Others would begin to come and go during late morning and throughout the day as mothers took kids to school and other activities. A few cars never moved; they were only used for weekend getaways. The team realized that they must blend into this flow. They’d brought their own tea and sandwiches, assuming that this could be a long one. Most stake-outs were.
By early afternoon even the most patient of the team were getting restless. Tom Buckley sat in the car nearest to McDaid’s and he had to provide encouragement. He reckoned that if Father Flaherty had stayed overnight and caught an early bus, maybe even hitched a ride, it would be late afternoon before they’d see him.
He was right. At exactly twenty minutes to four, Joe Breen elbowed him in the ribs. Tom looked across at McDaid’s in time to see the back of a man as he opened the front gate and walked up to the front door. He removed a backpack, laid it on the ground beside him, and fished in his pockets. Finding what he wanted, obviously the house key, he reached up and inserted it in the lock, turned the doorknob and opened the door. Without a glance over his shoulder, he picked up the backpack, entered the house and closed the door behind him. The actions of a man who felt completely secure.
“That’s him!” Elated that his judgement was right, Tom contacted the team, confirmed the sighting, and asked them to stand by for his instructions. They already had a game plan, worked out as soon as they had discovered that McDaid’s was the priest’s safe house. Then he called the Chief to update him.
In the middle of his call to the Chief, Breen nudged him again and Tom looked where Breen was pointing. A car had pulled into the empty parking place in front of McDaid’s and a man got out. He looked around and they saw that it was McDaid.
“Looks like we’ve got a complication, Chief. McDaid’s home. He doesn’t usually make it home till seven or eight in the evening.”
“You have planned for this possibility, haven’t you?”
“We have. But it would have been simpler if he hadn’t shown up. I’ll keep you updated. We’ll be going in there in about fifteen minutes.”
At ten minutes past four, Tom and four of his team approached the front of McDaid’s house. The other two got out of their car and stationed themselves outside the entrance to the house that abutted McDaid’s on the street to his rear. Confirming that everyone was in place and ready, they moved. They knew that this was not a ‘ring the bell and ask permission’ exercise. They had to get in to McDaid’s, and move fast to subdue and take Flaherty so they had came with the equipment needed to break down the door.
When they reached the front door, they saw that McDaid had made it easy for them. He’d left the heavy outer door open and the inner vestibule door, half glass on the top half, was locked. A large bay window looked out of the red brick to the right of the door.
Tom directed one of his team to bust in through the bay window and the other two to break the vestibule door. He called the team guarding the rear and told them to stand by, that he was moving on a count of ten.
Peter McDaid and Father Flaherty were downstairs in the kitchen at the back when they heard the breaking glass and the smashing front door and the shouts.
“This is the gardai! Stay where you are. Do not move!”
McDaid had talked with Father Flaherty about what to do if this ever happened. He would block the gardai while Father Flaherty would escape out the back and over the fence into his neighbour’s garden. He’d placed a ladder against the fence, in case the unthinkable happened. He always knew the risk he was taking giving shelter to Father Flaherty when he knew the gardai were scouring the country for him.
“Go! Go! Go!” he yelled as Father Flaherty hesitated.
He opened the utility closet in the kitchen and grabbed the shotgun he’d acquired recently and stashed there. He was no expert with a gun but he knew that the gardai couldn’t be sure of that. He could hear some of them thump up the stairs and then footsteps heading his way. He pushed Father Flaherty through the back door of the kitchen and turned to face the guard who’d rushed in from the drawing room, fully kitted with an Uzi sub-machine gun, assault gear, bullet–proof vest, the works.
“Drop the gun!”
But McDaid raised the gun to his shoulder, aiming directly at the guard’s face. The garda knew he was in a stand-off and held his ground. He was only supposed to shoot if his life was in danger.
So he gave the order again, “Drop the shotgun on the floor and stand back!”
But McDaid sensed that, given the culture within the Gardai and the fact that they’d screwed up and shot dead one of their own in a recent exercise, he had the advantage. At least the time to give Father Bernard a head start.
Father Bernard Flaherty had fled across the back lawn, picked up the ladder where it had fallen, leant it against the fence separating the two properties, climbed fast, reached the top and jumped. But he lost his balance, hit the ground hard and came down with full force on his left arm. Biting his lip to prevent his own screams, he had barely enough time to push himself into the old garden shed as the two guards who were manning the rear burst though the outer door that led from the street to the g
arden, and leaped over the fence into McDaid’s garden. Father Flaherty, holding his arm, ran out into the street, and walked fast in the opposite direction. The streets were busy now with people coming home from work and others heading out for the evening. Luckily he’d taken his backpack as he left and he stopped briefly, found a scarf and made a sling for his left arm. He could see it swelling already and he feared that he’d broken it. As he blended into the crowd sirens pierced the air. Reinforcements on the way. A case of locking the stable door after the horse had gone. He decided he needed to go north and west, cross the canal, reach the south side of the Liffey and try to get a ride west from some kind traveller. At the next corner he took a chance and went into the little corner grocery store, almost extinct in the land of the Celtic Tiger. He bought a pack of paracetamol and, once outside, popped four of them in his mouth. Then, head down and covered with his woollen cap, he headed west.
The clatter of feet descended the stairs as McDaid and the Garda faced each other. Tom Buckley moved past the Garda and faced McDaid,
“I’m Detective Tom Buckley,” and he flashed his identification at him, “now, put down the shotgun, Mr. McDaid. You’re only making things worse for yourself.”
Peter McDaid realized that he couldn’t maintain the standoff much longer and he’d given Father Flaherty his head start. So he lowered the gun. Two Gardai rushed him, one took away the shotgun and the other hand-cuffed him.
“Where’s Father Flaherty?” asked Tom.
“I don’t know,” lied McDaid.
“Did he get past you?” Buckley asked the two gardai who’d entered the house from the back garden.
“No, we didn’t see him.”
“OK. Search this house again. Top to bottom, every closet, every cupboard. Check the attic as well. And take him out of here,” pointing to McDaid.
