by Ted Bell
But once you drop in, then what? How the hell do you get through the sliding glass doors? Knock twice and smile? Mouth the word Domino’s with your hands behind your back? Pizza man?
He looked around the rooftop, pulling down on his right earlobe. Old habit. Back in the day, thinking of some damn way or other to get his SEAL platoon out of a fucking VC ambush without anybody else getting killed, he’d started the ear-pulling thing. Nervous tic.
The doors were the problem. Glass too thick, terrace too narrow to get any force behind a surprise kick. So you’re out there, she hears a thud and spins the chair, sees your ass, fires a short burst, and you’re punched back over the railing, lost in space, already deader than the deadest damn doornail in the history of doors.
He looked around the rooftop for inspiration.
Paint cans. There were a shitload of Rust-Oleum paint cans everywhere, some used, some full, all scattered about a big spattered canvas tarp the painters had laid down around the perimeter of the HVAC shit. Brushes in old cans full of paint thinner. So, the cans, Stoke. Something with the cans, okay? What?
He picked up a long piece of rope, one end tied to some unused scaffolding, the other end coiled up, about fifty feet of it. Good strong half-inch nylon. Rope. And a full gallon of paint tied to one end. That could work.
He smiled at the whole damn thing. Funny how your mind worked sometimes. Came up with some crazy shit you’d never even dream of. Over the years, he’d learned to just go with it, go with the flow, see where it would lead. Instinct. Why he was alive today. Snap decisions on the fly, right or wrong. Bet on yourself, like his mama always told him.
You jes bet on your own self, Stokely Jones. You hear me? Your own self. That’s all you got.
Secret of life.
He tied one end of the rope to a standpipe near the southeast side of the roof, a double bowline. Tied the other end to the big can of Rust-Oleum. Heavy as shit, as paint goes, most probably full of lead.
He swung it in a gradually increasing arc a few times, just to get the heft of the can. Felt good out there, the Rust-Oleum, at the end of his rope, so to speak. Like it might actually work.
So.
How does this go down?
Girl down there in his apartment, patient, even sipping chilled vino maybe, waiting for him in that comfy black leather Eames chair, fingering the trigger of the MAC-10 in her lap, eye on the door, thinking, Come to mama, Mr. Jones.
Meanwhile, the potential victim is standing up here on the damn roof right over her head, sixty stories up in the sky, half-blind and scared shitless by the acrobatic feat he was about to attempt, contemplating a surprise appearance without falling sixty stories to the ground or getting his crazy ass shot all to pieces.
He swung the heavy can in a tight circle, really hard a few times in ever increasing arcs, finally flinging the can way out into the sky and bringing it back toward the terrace to complete the arc, can coming back hard, right up under the eave of the roof, right into the glass of his doors, hearing it smash through, making a huge noise, and then grabbing the rim of the roof and just doing a Tarzan flip over the edge, hoping to Jesus he’d land on his feet inside the railing of his terrace, not outside.
He heard the phut-phut-phut of an automatic weapon equipped with a noise suppressor just after his feet hit the terrace. Rounds taking out what was left of the glass. He ducked, grabbed the SIG, and dove through the nearest jagged glass door, rolling behind the heavily upholstered leather sofa to his right. Silent rounds thudded repeatedly into the sofa as he crouched behind it, struggling to come to grips with what he’d seen in those few seconds before he went for the floor.
It wasn’t the blonde sitting in the chair.
No, it was some bald-headed fat guy, stark naked from the waist down, shooting at him. And the blond chick? She was on the floor, topless, kneeling between the guy’s legs. As Stoke dove, he’d seen her crabbing bare ass toward his front door, reaching up for the knob. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out this cozy little scenario. Chick gives guy head while they’re waiting for the shooting to start.
What the hell is it with these people?
He heard the door slam and knew she was gone.
He crawled around the edge of the sofa and quick-peeked. Chair was empty. The guy was backing toward the door, difficult because his pants were still down around his ankles, swinging the gun side to side at waist level. This wasn’t turning out right, his look said. He saw Stoke’s face appear for a split second and put another burst into the sofa, shredding Stoke’s beautiful leather furniture to pieces.
You can mess with me, Stoke thought, but not with my furniture. That really pisses me off. He shouted at the guy from behind the sofa.
“Pull your damn pants up, asshole, and tell me why you were getting a blow job in my favorite chair without even being invited in.”
Another burst, high and into the ceiling. Stoke peeked around the side. Saw the sweaty three-hundred-pound guy frantically reaching around behind him for the doorknob still at least five feet behind his fat ass, waddling backward like a goddamn duck with his pants down. Wasn’t pretty.
Stoke called out, “Here I come, chubby, ready or not.”
He popped up at the opposite end of the couch and put two rounds in the guy, one in each knee. Fat Boy screamed and collapsed to the floor. Hearing the MAC-10 clattering on his beautiful parquet floor, Stoke, seriously angry now, yanked his ruined sofa backward toward him and leaped right over the thing. He was squatting on top of the fat man with his gun in his face in less than two seconds.
At that moment two cops in black Kevlar outfits took the door down, putting their guns on Stoke, saying, “Police! Freeze, asshole! Drop the gun! Now!”
Stoke accidentally dropped his SIG on the fat guy’s face and backed away. The cops looked at the half-naked limp-dick white man on the floor, then up at the huge black guy in the New York Jets sweatshirt.
“This ain’t exactly what it looks like, Officers,” Stoke said, putting his hands up.
“This is Miami, asshole,” the older cop said. “It’s always exactly what it looks like.”
TWENTY-FOUR
MULLAGHMORE, NORTHERN IRELAND
ALEX HAWKE AND AMBROSE CONGREVE HAD flown Hawke’s plane across the Irish Sea, arriving in Northern Ireland at the tiny airport at Sligo. Very tiny. Only two flights a day, one to Dublin, one from Dublin. They had driven by hired car almost due north to the tiny fishing village of Mullaghmore, stopping briefly at a small inn for a Plowman’s lunch and a chance for Ambrose to get on the telephone and arrange for tonight’s meeting.
They now walked through the heavy rain past The Pennywhistle pub to the end of the Mullaghmore town’s wooden dock.
There they paused, looking down at the choppy black water. It was a dark, blustery night, and the scattered lights of the little fishing village shone like halos through the mist on the surrounding hillside. At the top of the hill behind them, Lord Mountbatten’s Classiebawn Castle was a looming, dark presence.
“This is it, then,” Congreve said, shining his flashlight into the dark water. “Shadow V was moored right here, the night before the murder. Usually she was moored to one of those buoys over there near the shore, but Mountbatten had ordered her moved right here to the dock that afternoon.”
“So they could get an early start pulling pots next morning,” Hawke mused.
“Precisely.”
Hawke looked over his shoulder, down the glistening length of the dock to the noisy Pennywhistle. “So the bomber carried a fifty-pound bomb the length of this dock? Past the pub? Even on a dark night that would carry considerable risk of discovery.”
“True. That is why we surmised he arrived at the crime scene via hired boat. From Sligo most likely, as it’s the nearest harbor. Much less conspicuous, a boat, especially at night. Simply come alongside the Shadow V, his confederates drop him off, he climbs right aboard Mountbatten’s vessel with his package. The hired boat, an anonymous
fishing vessel, steams away, never to be seen again. The killer plants the bomb in the bait well with the lobster pots and disappears down the dock and up into the woods.”
“Makes sense.”
“There’s an old Norman watchtower up there. Splendid view of the entire bay. I’ll show it to you in the morning. We found reason to believe he slept there. Bits of day-old food, cigarette stubs, a book of matches. Sleeps on the ground, wakes up at dawn, and climbs to the top. Follows Mountbatten’s movements with binoculars all next morning from atop the tower. That’s where the killer, whoever he was, detonated the bomb, in my opinion.”
“That was in your official report?”
“It was indeed. Seen enough?” Ambrose said, rain streaming down his face.
“Yes. Let’s go have a pint and see if your old friend has decided in our favor.”
Ambrose, upon entering the pub and shedding his macintosh, saw his man standing at the far end of the long bar, staring into the smoky mirror, raising a glass of whiskey to his lips.
“There he is,” Congreve said to Hawke. “End of the bar. White-haired fellow.”
Hawke nodded, staring at the man. He’d never expected him to come.
“You never cease to amaze me, Constable.”
“I have hidden powers of persuasion. I keep them folded in my breast pocket. Get them from the Bank of England. May I suggest you take that table in the corner by the window? I think it best I have a word with him alone. Complete our financial transaction without causing him any embarrassment. Then we’ll join you.”
Hawke sat, staring at the raindrops running down the window and the hazy harbor lights beyond, letting his friend conduct his business in privacy. A pretty barmaid agreed to bring him a pint of Guinness and he sipped it slowly, not knowing how long this evening might last.
Ten minutes later, Congreve appeared with a gaunt, white-haired man, tall and stooped, with very sad eyes.
“Alex, this is Thomas McMahon.”
Hawke got to his feet and shook the man’s gnarled hand, looking him in the eye. “Mr. McMahon, thank you for coming. I’m sure this can’t be pleasant for you. Won’t you sit down? Another whiskey?”
The man convicted of the murder of Lord Mountbatten nodded his assent and sat down, staring in stony silence at the scarred and battered tabletop. He was in his eighties and looked every day of it. Broken blood vessels made a map of his cheeks and long thin nose. His eyes were pale blue and watery. His hands trembled. A man who had traveled a hard road and seen more than enough of it.
Ambrose took the other chair and signaled the barmaid over.
“Three whiskeys, please,” he said, pushing his chair back to accommodate his rather expansive midriff. Then he said to McMahon, “Tom, Alex and I are old friends. He bears you no ill will for events in the past. We’ve come to Ireland to find answers to some old questions, that’s all. We’d be extremely grateful for any help you can give us.”
“I’ll say what I know. No more. I ain’t a tout.”
“That is all we ask,” Hawke said gently.
“I went to bloody prison for a crime I dinna commit.”
“The jury thought otherwise, Tom,” Ambrose said, putting a quieting hand on the old fellow’s trembling forearm. “Based on the evidence presented.”
“The jury was wrong. And so were you, damn you!” he said, raising his voice and peering fiercely into Congreve’s eyes.
Clearly the man had started drinking much earlier in the day.
Congreve kept his tone under control. “That is entirely possible. I did the best I could. It’s all any man can do.”
“Ah! You admit you may have been wrong, then, Detective Inspector?”
“I admit mistakes may have been made during the investigation and the trial. That’s all I will say.”
“I was seventy miles from the scene of the crime when the bloody bomb went off! You knew that. That was stated in court!”
“You were the bomb builder, Tom. The bomb was gelignite, your signature explosive. There were traces of it on your clothing when you were arrested.”
“I built bombs, f’crissakes. I had traces of gelignite in me clothes every day of the week. What does it prove? That my bomb killed Mountbatten? No. It proves nothing.”
“Tom, listen to me,” Congreve said quietly. “Mr. Hawke and I have come to Ireland to look at another suspect. Someone I was interested in at the time but was unable to build a case against. If we can find that man, and connect him to the murder, well, no guarantees, but it is very possible that your name could be cleared. At worst, your charge would be reduced to accessory to murder.”
“Would me sentence be reduced as well, then? Would I get me thirty years back? D’ya think so, sir?”
Hawke signaled the barmaid for another round and she delivered it promptly.
Hawke eyed the IRA terrorist, waiting until he had his undivided attention.
“Mr. McMahon. Chief Inspector Congreve is here because he thinks there is a possibility you may be innocent of some of the charges against you. Were I you, sir, I would treat him with a bit more respect. He is the only man on this planet in a position to right any wrongs that may or may not have been done to you. If you continue to address my friend in this abusive manner, we shall simply get up and leave you to your fate. Do you understand me?”
McMahon glared at Hawke for a second, saw the red glint of anger in the Englishman’s eye that many had seen before, and said, “Aye.”
“Good. In the summer before Lord Mountbatten was murdered, there were a series of brutal murders of young women in the north of Ireland. Were you aware of these murders?”
“Who wasn’t? There was a maniac on the loose.”
“Did you know any of the victims?”
“No. They was all pretty young girls. I was a happily married man and didn’t dabble. I didn’t drink then, never set foot in a pub.”
“Why do you say that word? Pub?”
“He met them in pubs, didn’t he?”
“Did he?”
“What everyone said. What do I know? I wasn’t there, was I?”
“Did you ever hear anyone call the murderer by name?”
“Not that I recall, no.”
“A stranger. Any other strangers you can recall that summer?”
“Aye, there was one. Another feller. Right crazy, that lot.”
“Crazy in what way?”
“Told me mates he wanted to kill Mountbatten.”
Hawke looked at Congreve. “Did this come out in the trial, Chief Inspector?”
“Yes. It was all hearsay, of course, just like this. The existence of this ‘stranger’ was never proved by the defense. No substantiation at all.”
“This crazy fellow, Mr. McMahon, exactly what did he want from your mates?” Hawke said.
“He wanted a bomb.”
“That’s all?”
“No. He said he needed a boat as well.”
“A boat? Why?”
“Why? So he could slip inside this harbor in the dark of night and plant a bomb on the Shadow V, that’s why. And that’s just what he bloody well did, too. Have a look at the testimony, you’ll see.”
“Where did he get the bomb?”
“From me mates. The bomb squad, we called ourselves back then. So we provided him with a bomb. That was the end of it.”
“Was it one of your bombs, Mr. McMahon?”
“Now, Mr. Hawke, how the devil would I know that? I wasn’t the only IRA man building explosive devices in them days, as I told you. We practically had a bomb factory going full steam. Are ye going to drink that whiskey there or let her evaporate?”
Hawke slid the untouched glass across the table. McMahon lifted it and threw it back.
“You have any idea what this so-called stranger looked like?”
“How could I? Never saw his face, did I. Even at our meetings. No one did.”
“Why not?”
“Always wore a balaclava, didn’t he? Secretive
bastard, so they all said. No address. Rumor had it he lived all alone on some bloody island.”
“Irish?”
“English.”
“How do you know he was English if, as you claim, you never saw his face?”
“His bleedin’ accent, that’s how. Spoke just like you, Mr. Hawke. A fuckin’ toff if ever I heard one.”
Irish whiskey was beginning to get in the way of this interview and Hawke looked across at Ambrose. They both knew it was time to end it.
“Did this particular toff bastard have a name, Mr. McMahon?” Hawke asked, his tone flat and devoid of inflection.
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“What was his, just out of curiosity?”
“Smith.”
“Smith. You’re sure of that?”
“I said Smith and I meant Smith.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. McMahon. If we have any further questions, we’ll be in contact with you again. If you should remember anything you believe might help this investigation, here is my mobile number and Chief Inspector Congreve’s. And, now, you’ll excuse us.”
“Another whiskey afore you go?”
“You got your money. Have as many as you like.”
Hawke pushed back from the table and stood, wrapping his woolen scarf round his neck. “Ambrose?” he said.
Congreve ignored him, staring at McMahon. “Mr. McMahon, one more question if you don’t mind. A moment ago you mentioned an island.”
“Did I then?”
“Yes, you did. You said ‘rumor had it he lived all alone on some bloody island.’”
“Ah, I did say that, didn’t I? What about it?”
“Do you by any chance remember the name of that island?”
McMahon grinned, showing a mouth stuffed with large yellowed teeth. “It was a long time ago, Detective Inspector. Nigh on thirty years now. Memories fade.”
“Think harder.”
“It would cost you a bottle of Mr. Jameson’s finest.”
Congreve signaled to the barmaid, ordered another bottle of whiskey.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE NAME OF THE ISLAND, THOMAS McMahon, if you please.”
