“Christ! A mechanic and a custodian.”
“Sir?”
“It’s not getting any easier, Gunny. Still can’t connect the dots.”
“Wish I could help more, sir.”
Grant looked over Baranski’s shoulder, noticing two men walking past the lifeboat building. They were still too far away for facial recognition, but Grant could see one carrying a briefcase. He was average height and wearing a black raincoat. The other man was about the same height, but large-framed. He had on a dark sports coat, dark slacks.
Not getting a response from Grant, Baranski said, “Sir?”
“Don’t turn around, Gunny.” Baranski remained still.
The two strangers were more than half-way to Grant and Baranski when they stopped near a moored motor boat. It was no more than eighteen feet in length, and had one outboard engine. A small cabin with a wood door was on the port side, and the wheel was starboard of that. The cabin was small, used only for accessing two bunks tucked under the bow, one port, one starboard.
As the larger man bent down to undo one of the mooring lines, his jacket opened. That’s when Grant saw the shoulder holster.
The man with the briefcase climbed into the boat, immediately sitting on a bench seat on the port side just aft of the cabin. He grabbed the collar of his raincoat, holding it closed against his throat.
The other man came onboard and started the engine. Climbing onto the bow, he undid the last mooring line, then pushed the boat away from the breakwater before going to the wheel.
“Come on, Gunny.”
Without questioning, Baranski walked with Grant toward the end of the breakwater, the narrow entrance to the harbor.
“There’s a small boat getting ready to leave the harbor,” Grant said. “Try to get a look at any numbers or markings without being too conspicuous.”
“Yes, sir.”
With their arms resting on top of the stone wall, Grant and Baranski looked out across Newquay Bay, hearing the sound of the boat engine getting louder as it approached. Grant turned around, leaned back against the wall, then linked his fingers behind his head.
The speed limit for boats entering and leaving the harbor was four knots, slow enough that Grant hoped he could get a good look. As the boat started passing between the breakwaters, Grant strained his eyes, trying to identify or at least take a mental photograph of either man.
The “raincoat” seemed to be in his early or mid-forties, white or blond hair, clean shaven. The “packer” had short light brown hair, large build. Not a helluva lot to go on.
As Grant turned, “raincoat” looked up at him for a brief moment, not with recognition, just...looking. Then he immediately put his head down and shifted his body so he was facing the bow.
In that brief instant, Grant knew it was somebody he’d seen before, but he couldn’t pull the picture from his brain.
Once clear of the harbor, the driver wasted no time putting the engine into high, heading for open water.
“Get any markings?” Grant asked, as he continued watching the boat.
“Did, sir. From the ID number, it’s definitely a rental. I’ve rented boats from one of the shacks down near the lifeboat building. Same series of numbers.”
“Let’s go,” Grant said. “Maybe we can get a name.”
As they walked, Baranski asked, “What makes these men suspicious, sir?”
“A raincoat and a sports jacket. The guy with the raincoat was carrying a briefcase. The guy in the sports jacket was packin’. Not exactly what I’d call fishing gear, Gunny, except possibly for the weapon.”
Baranski laughed. “Roger that, sir!”
The closer they got to the kiosk, Grant started rethinking his idea to get a name from the boat rental agent. He couldn’t take a chance of arousing suspicion.
Only one kiosk was open for business. Grant stepped to the counter. An older gentlemen was sitting on a stool in the corner, stuffing tobacco in a pipe. His gray hair was just long enough to curl around his ears.
“Good morning,” Grant said.
The man stood and laid the pipe and tobacco pouch on the stool. “Morning to you,” he answered as he came to the window. “What can I do for you today?” he asked in a thick Cornish accent.
“My friend and I noticed a motor boat leaving the harbor a little while ago. That’s about the size we’re interested in.”
“Do you want to rent it for today?”
“We’re hoping we can.”
“Those gentlemen paid for three hours.” He pulled a pocket watch from his jacket. “They’re scheduled to return at two.”
Grant turned and looked in the harbor, then back at the old man. “And that’s the only boat you’ve got?”
“No, but it’s the only one coming in early.”
“How many passengers does it take? Six?”
“Four to six.”
“Tell you what,” Grant said. “We have to check with our girlfriends. If they give the okay, we’ll be back in an hour.”
“Sure you don’t want to leave a deposit?”
Grant shook his head. “We’ll take our chances. Thanks for your help.”
“You’re Yanks, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, we are.”
“Thought so,” the old man responded as he turned away, and struck a match against the edge of the counter.
Grant looked at Baranski and winked. “Guess we got enough information. Let’s go.”
They went up South Quay Hill, walking along the narrow path on the left side of the road, staying close to a stone wall. Once at the top of the hill, Grant said, “Well, Gunny, this is where we part company. Sure appreciate you meeting me under these circumstances.” He extended a hand to the marine.
“You let me know if I can help with anything further, sir. Don’t feel like I’ve done much so far.”
“Need you to be eyes and ears, Gunny. If you need to contact me, I’m at the Atlantic Hotel, but by early morning, I plan to move on base.”
“All right, sir.”
“One more thing, Gunny.”
“Sir?”
“Who’s your C.O.?”
“That’d be Lieutenant Colonel Donaldson, sir.”
“I’m gonna have to bring him in on this. Security will have to be tightened.”
“Should I have him call you, sir?”
Grant shook his head. “You just put him on alert. I’ll call him when I get back to EOD.” He stepped closer to Baranski, staring dead on into the marine’s eyes. “Don’t take any chances. I need you on this one.”
“Yes, sir. Understand, sir.” With a slight wave, Baranski started walking toward Fore Street, saying over his shoulder, “Good luck, sir!”
Grant turned to look out over the harbor and Newquay Bay, hesitating long enough to give Baranski a good head start. While he waited he wondered what the odds were seeing those two men leaving in the boat. His instinct was telling him they were somehow involved.
He glanced at his watch. Talking with the Brit CID agent would have to wait. He only had time to get back to the base, put in a call to Torrinson, then ream Henley’s ass for not telling him about his brother-in-law. Henley could have personal reasons for keeping his mouth shut, but there wasn’t any excuse when it came to the security of nukes.
He headed for downtown and the car park. His intention was to return to the harbor well before fourteen hundred hours.
Chapter 8
Celtic Sea
Two miles off the Cornish coast, due west of Newquay, a forty foot catamaran with twin, two hundred twenty-five hp engines, drifted on three foot swells in the Celtic Sea.
Standing at the port side stern, Callum Quinn rested his forearms on the stainless steel rail. Worn black work boots stuck out from beneath his tan trousers. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up. His blond hair was neatly trimmed, but was still just below his ears. Not accustomed to being without a beard or mustache, he’d occasionally run his fingers across his jaw. It
had been five months since he last changed his appearance.
Two years prior, Reese Larkin and five fellow members of the Provisional IRA attempted to plant bombs in the crowded tourist area of Piccadilly Square. Two tourists were killed in the shootout. British commandos killed four of the members and captured Larkin. After precise planning, and catching the British police completely off guard, Quinn and his small band freed Larkin.
Today, Quinn’s blue eyes roamed the horizon. He finally saw a small motorboat off the port side. He lifted the binoculars hanging around his neck, then he focused on the approaching craft.
Turning toward the cabin, he called to Shaun Delaney as he pointed, “There’s the boat, port side. Ready the ladder.”
Delaney attached the stainless steel, three-step boarding ladder to the deck at midships, then stood back, waiting and watching as the smaller craft pulled alongside.
The engine sputtered as the boat’s driver backed down, maneuvering it closer to the larger boat. Standing at the bow, the passenger balanced himself as the boat rocked in the swells. He tossed a rope to Delaney, who tugged on it until the boat was alongside, then he tied the end to the railing near the ladder.
Moving cautiously, the passenger grabbed hold of the ladder and stepped onto the bottom rung. Quinn extended a hand to assist the new arrival onto the deck.
Delaney untied the rope and tossed it onto the deck of the smaller craft. Brady Farrell steered the boat away, circling around to the fantail, where he would remain until the meeting ended.
Callum Quinn wouldn’t expect any small talk with Victor Labeaux. It was all strictly business. “Come into the cabin,” Quinn directed, noticing a thin leather briefcase Labeaux was carrying, also noticing the bulge of a pistol inside it.
Labeaux followed Quinn into the cabin. The space wasn’t elaborate: Two bench seats, one port, one starboard, a two-burner stove, a small round sink and fridge. A “captain’s” chair on the starboard side was positioned in front of the wheel.
Labeaux tried to maintain his balance while he looked at Shaun Delaney sitting in the captain’s chair.
Delaney gave Labeaux a sideways glance before swiveling the chair around, again facing the bow, continuing to keep watch. So far, he hadn’t seen any other boats in the area.
Quinn motioned with his hand for Labeaux to sit on the bench on the starboard side.
Labeaux put the briefcase on his lap, waiting for Quinn to sit. Instead, Quinn went to the small fridge under the sink, taking out two bottles of Kilkenney beer, offering one to Labeaux, who declined.
Quinn put the extra bottle on a folding table, then he opened his bottle. Taking a long swig, he sat on the bench seat behind the table.
Labeaux looked at the younger man. “Are you finished? Can we get started, Callum?”
Quinn nodded. “Were you successful?”
“I have the information I was waiting for,” Labeaux responded, unlocking the briefcase. He removed some papers then held them at arm’s length.
Quinn reached across the table. “Is the information accurate?”
Labeaux nodded. Removing a handkerchief from his inside pocket, he patted sweat on his brow and dabbed at his mouth. Being on any boat always made him nauseous. He replied, “They’re copies of the originals, confirmed by my source.”
Quinn perused the top paper. A very precise diagram showed building locations: airport tower, EOD compound, barracks, U.S. Marines’ compound, RAF compound and barracks, two large hangars. Although it wasn’t labeled, he knew by looking at it--the underground storage facility for the nuclear weapons.
He turned the paper, laying it upside down. The second page showed the schedule of all flights for the next five days.
And finally, he was looking at page three. The critical schedule showed delivery of specific weapons, arriving from the U.S. and the Netherlands.
Quinn slowly sucked on his beer. That brief moment gave him a chance to look at Labeaux, the leader of the whole operation. If he passed this man on the street, he’d most likely ignore him. He looked like an average, working-class man, not the cunning terrorist he was. A terrorist who was for hire, taking on any job, working for any country, and always for a very high price.
Anyone who worked with him, assisted him, hired him, understood their responsibilities, understood his demands, understood they could not deviate from his plans. If they did, whether the operation was successful or not, someone would pay dearly, if only to set an example.
The only thing that might make someone take notice, if one could get close enough, would be Labeaux’s eyes, which Quinn could only describe as completely emotionless, empty. But behind those blue eyes was a mind that kept him alive through all the most dangerous circumstances...the terrorist attacks that he himself had planned. Labeaux didn’t just devise the attacks. His ego demanded his complete, intense, personal involvement.
On this present operation Labeaux was hired by top members of the Irish National Liberation Army. Formed in 1974, the INLA became an Irish republican socialist paramilitary group, whose intent was to remove Northern Ireland from the United Kingdom, by any means necessary.
Quinn finally asked, “And have you taken care of...?”
“Only Carter. I felt it best to wait to eliminate the others. There is already an investigation into Carter’s death. The local constabulary have had his flat under guard. One death is enough for now.”
“Will you need help? I can send a couple of men...”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Quinn sipped on the beer as he looked again at the papers, this time seeing a blank page. “You haven’t been able to find the schedule for when the Americans change their guards?”
Labeaux shook his head. “From what I’ve been told, there is no set pattern. It’s different every day, as part of their security.”
Quinn was concerned. “But won’t that interfere with...?”
Looking down, considering the question, Labeaux answered, “I doubt it.”
He folded his hands on top of the briefcase, and said, “I expect you to design the explosives for diversion purposes. I’ve already marked on the base diagram paper where I want them placed.”
Quinn picked up the first page, noticing small red dots at different locations around the perimeter. He looked up when Labeaux said, “I assume more than one of your men has the necessary expertise.”
“Sure. Callahan and Logan have many years between them with such experience.”
“In addition,” Labeaux continued, “I want them to devise at least two IEDs (improvised explosive devices) that are more complicated to defuse. The American EOD men will probably have that task.”
“It’ll be taken care of. What about guards posted at the two gates?”
“I think it best you use the back gate, the one closer to the beach, since it’s more remote. You should be able to take that guard out easily enough.”
Quinn glanced again at the third page, noticing a handwritten note at the bottom. “What’s this note, this date and time?”
“That’s when I want the devices placed at the locations I’ve designated. You’ll have plenty of time but you must be finished by four in the morning. The RAF guards patrol regularly, but they rely heavily on the fence and barbed wire. You see on the diagram there are two guard towers. Each has one guard, rotating every three hours.
“I expect you to be completely ready, and I don’t just mean the devices. You and your men must be mentally ready. Do you understand?”
“Don’t worry.” Quinn, usually arrogant and intimidating in his own right, remembered he’d been taken down a notch the first time he met Labeaux.
“Now, the plane we’re waiting for arrives at two in the afternoon.”
Quinn was caught completely off guard. “A daytime attack?”
“Yes. A daytime attack.”
“But I don’t have enough men to pull that off!”
Labeaux remained calm. “Timing will be everything, Callum, and it m
ust be perfect.” He let that sink in before adding, “I haven’t told you, but I’ll be participating in this event.”
For the second time during this meeting, Quinn was surprised, or maybe shocked. “You? Where will you be? What do you plan on doing?”
“I have others involved who’ve been vital in this planning. They’ll be arriving soon, one of whom knows how to fly.
“That’s all I’ll say for now.” He stood, locked his briefcase then tucked it under his arm, giving his last order to Quinn. “Now, I want your man to take us in the Zodiac to another location along the coast. I’ve arranged to be met there. When the Zodiac returns, destroy the rental boat.” Pausing, he thought briefly about the two men he spotted on the breakwater this morning. It worried him but his initial decision when designing the plan was correct. Perhaps this minor change might help throw the English off their investigation, if only for a short amount of time.
He gave his instructions to Quinn then left the cabin, immediately walking to the stern. He called to Farrell in the rental boat, waving for him to come closer. “Come around!”
Without question, Farrell maneuvered around to the port side.
Labeaux leaned near the rail, with one hand holding it in a death grip. “We’ll be leaving that boat here and going to shore in the Zodiac. Come on board.”
Farrell tossed the rope to Delaney, then he climbed the ladder, ready to assist in lowering the Zodiac.
*
A few minutes later Quinn stood by the railing, watching Delaney maneuver the Zodiac away from the catamaran with Labeaux sitting close to the side, holding onto the rope. Quinn had to smile, thinking everyone had a demon or two in the closet. Labeaux’s demon seemed to be water.
Glancing back towards the stern, Quinn saw that Farrell was unconscious, with his arms stretched overhead, his wrists tied to the railing. The unsuspecting Farrell had been distracted by attending to his task with the Zodiac, when Delany came up behind him, and knocked him unconscious with a hand chop to his neck.
Once the Zodiac was out of sight, Quinn went back inside the cabin to begin preparations for making the rental boat disappear as he’d been instructed. Kneeling in front of the bunk on the port side, he removed a cushion and tossed it on the opposite bunk. Lifting up the wooden seat, he held it open with one hand as he looked through boxes of grenades, timers, flares, fuses, chemical pencils. Opened larger boxes lined the starboard side. He and his men had already starting assembling IEDs.
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