Last Op

by Jamie Fredric

  His choices were to either make it look like an accident, or perhaps it would be cleaner, neater to just sink the boat. The depth of the water was close to three hundred feet at this spot. If it sank, it would take a long time to discover. Then again, there might be an oil slick visible along the surface. He decided to go with the accident version, hoping a search would end when charred debris was found, along with the remains of Brady Farrell.

  He went to the window, pulling a curtain aside, seeing Farrell starting to come around. The man had been part of the group for three years, having been recruited by Quinn. As he looked at Farrell, Quinn began to wonder if he’d be able to do it, to carry out Labeaux’s request.

  He turned away and sat on one of the benches, reaching for the remaining bottle of beer. Gulping down half the liquid, he realized there was only one thing to do. He could not defy Labeaux’s wishes, or his orders, without risking his own life. The plan was much bigger, much more important than either he or Farrell.

  He swallowed the last mouthful of Kilkenney. He and Delaney would prepare the rental boat for its destruction, then they’d return to the Isle of Lundy, meeting up with his other men.

  Located twelve miles off the coast of Devon, where the North Atlantic meets the Bristol Channel, the Isle of Lundy was a mere three miles long and only three quarters of a mile across. Months before, Quinn and his men sailed along the coastline finding a small hidden cove on the northeast side of the island.

  There they’d wait, having time to memorize locations of each building at St. Mawgan, review the present plan, assemble the IEDs, and recheck all weapons.

  Another cove, that was closer to the base and had a campground, was a perfect location for bringing in the Zodiac. Following Labeaux’s orders, Quinn had rented a camper specifically for storing the devices. When the final word came from Labeaux, they’d be ready for their most dangerous, and possibly their last chance to free Northern Ireland from England. Their group was small, but with exact planning, and with help from the inside, success was within their grasp.

  None of them had ever worked with nor even seen a nuclear weapon. They’d have to be insane not to know the hazards involved. They were willing to take the gamble, because to have these weapons so close at hand, and on English soil, could not have been more perfect for what they were about to do for their cause.

  *

  Tolcarne Beach

  Newquay

  1245 Hours

  A continuous drizzle started two hours earlier. Weather along the English coast can change rapidly. Today it brought with it larger swells and a lower temperature.

  Labeaux struggled to hang onto the rope as the Zodiac sped toward shore. With it still being daylight, and even though it was raining, trying to race across the beach in a raincoat would make his trek that more difficult. He had to make himself look less conspicuous once they reached Tolcarne Beach.

  Less than one mile north of Newquay Harbor, Tolcarne Beach had the best location for the access Labeaux needed to return to Newquay. With the weather change, that meant fewer locals and tourists would be on the beach.

  His decision the night before to not return to the harbor proved to be correct. But he couldn’t get a picture out of his mind of two men watching them when they left the harbor this morning. Were they there by coincidence? His snap decisions had saved him in past operations. He counted on it being correct again.

  At the rate the tide was retreating, Delaney would only be able to bring the rubber boat within two hundred feet of the cliff located on the north side of Tolcarne. Labeaux would have to find his own way around the cliff base then get to the walkway behind the bath houses lining the backside of the beach. The bath houses were individual changing facilities, three rows high. Doors on each row were painted different colors, making them good landmarks.

  Delaney slowed the engine, aiming the Zodiac toward the beach at the base of the cliff. He put the engine into neutral, then immediately picked up a paddle from the bottom of the boat and leaned over the side, testing the depth of the water. It was still too deep for Labeaux to try making it to shore, but it was time to raise the prop out of the water.

  Delaney struggled, paddling against the tide. Finally, the bottom of the boat rubbed against sand.

  “Get out now!” he shouted to Labeaux as he jumped over the side, getting ready to turn the boat around.

  Without replying, Labeaux sat on the gunnel then swung his legs over the side. As soon as his shoes hit sand, he reached for his briefcase, then started running for cover beneath the cliff.

  Delaney didn’t wait to see if Labeaux made it. Grabbing hold of the rope encircling the Zodiac, he pulled hard, trying to get the boat off sand and into the surf. Once he had, he jumped back in as the boat started floating on the tide. Lowering the engine, he restarted it then kicked it into gear.

  *

  Labeaux had another seventy yards to go before reaching the base of the cliff. He was breathing hard. Muscles in his legs started cramping as he struggled to keep going. His lungs burned. He had to stop, if only for a moment. Bending over, he tried to catch his breath. This operation was to be one of the most physical he ever designed, but in the end, he hoped it to be the most rewarding.

  Putting his briefcase next to his leg, he removed his raincoat then draped it across his shoulders. Brushing sand from the briefcase, he took a deep breath and began his trek toward the cliff.

  Once he reached it, he leaned against the cold, damp rock formation. Ignoring the feel of moss and slimy mollusks rubbing against his clothes, he concentrated on his next move. He still had to make his way to the main beach, then hike up the path to the road where his ride should be waiting.

  Staying close to the cliff wall, he walked at a normal pace until he started rounding the corner, when he suddenly stopped. Voices! Close to him. He backed up, trying to wedge himself in between the rocks jutting out from the cliff. Wrapping his arms around his briefcase, holding it against he chest, he could feel his pistol pressing against the leather.

  He closed his eyes, putting his head back against the rock, feeling drizzle on his face, when he realized there was silence again.

  Taking a short step forward, he looked around, seeing three people hustling toward the bath houses. Only tourists. Moving out from his hiding place, he stood watching and waiting to see if he was in the clear. Scanning the far side of the beach, he saw a few other people, but they weren’t close enough to be able to identify him.

  Pulling his sleeve back, he glanced at his watch. No more time to waste. Holding his briefcase close, he kept the flap open, allowing easy access to the Luger. The pistol was a semi-automatic, gas blow-back design, once owned by his father.

  He made a dash for the walkway, then stopped and looked up the hundred fifty yards he still had to traverse. Around the hairpin turn at the top, there was still another hundred fifty yards or so before he reached the main road, and all of it was uphill.

  *

  Parked on the wrong side of Ulalia Road, close to the corner of Narrowcliff, a black Range Rover’s windshield wipers intermittently swished back and forth.

  Colin Webb took a check of the time on the dashboard clock, then looked out the windshield across Narrowcliff. Still no sign of Labeaux. He took a final drag on his cigarette while he rolled down the window a few inches. He flicked the butt through the narrow opening and blew out a lungful of smoke.

  Grabbing hold of the leather-covered steering wheel, he readjusted himself in the seat, stretching his back muscles. Sitting back again, he glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing Victoria’s tired blue eyes staring at him from the back seat.

  Those eyes diverted their gaze to the side window. Her blond hair was piled on top of her head, held haphazardly by a gold hair clip. She rubbed her fingers across a small section of the vehicle’s window, wiping away built-up moisture.

  “There he is,” Webb said. He unlocked the passenger door before starting the engine.

  Victoria looked out
the windshield, spotting Labeaux hurrying across the road, clutching his briefcase. She moved closer to the armrest, while she wondered what would happen next.

  The past few months had been so unlike anything she could have imagined. Her once simple, quiet life had become turmoil. It was difficult for her to believe how she had managed to hide the truth, attempting to carry on a normal life with her husband. She was bewildered, but more than anything else, utterly terrified.

  Her life began to change soon after both her parents died. Colin revealed to her the truth about his natural parents...and being taken in by the Webbs. That news itself was shocking.

  His parents were among the innocent victims killed during a raid on their apartment building. Other children had survived that attack. Two of his good friends, who lived in the adjoining flats, also lost their parents, but unlike Colin who had no other family, the other two boys were found by relatives.

  It was never known how or why Sergeant Webb took Colin from Ireland. Perhaps it was the guilt he felt for the slaughter. In any event, the child’s survival was a miracle.

  The attack left the little boy in shock, with little memory of what happened. It was years before he began having flashbacks to the day when his parents died in a barrage of gunfire. He started remembering the sound of weapons, the screams, the blood. The last picture that came to his mind were the uniforms of the men who committed the atrocity--British military uniforms.

  A year after Sergeant Webb died, Colin disappeared. He’d been gone for almost three weeks before he finally returned. When he did, he had little to say, offering no explanation to Victoria. Grateful he was home, she never pressed the issue. But it was during the days and weeks that followed when he began to reveal his political beliefs and his loyalty to the IRA.

  Colin Webb had found his way back to Ireland, to his birthplace, looking for his two friends. He found only one. Callum Quinn. From that day forward, his path in life was set.

  *

  Labeaux got in, slamming the door. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. Glancing at Victoria over his shoulder, he asked Webb, “Have you noticed anyone paying attention to you since you’ve been waiting here or this morning when you let me and Farrell off at the harbor?”

  Webb shook his head. “No. No one.” He looked across Narrowcliff and asked, “Where’s Farrell?”

  “I left him with Quinn.”

  “What about the rental boat? Will...?”

  “That’s being taken care of.” Labeaux put the briefcase on the floorboard between his legs. “Now, drive to the country house.”

  “What about her?” Webb asked, motioning with his head. “Do you want me to take her home?”

  “Not yet. She can come with us.”

  Victoria, her voice shaking, pleaded, “I want to go home. I’ve done everything you asked, given you what you wanted. I want to go home!”

  Labeaux looked at Webb, and waved forward. Webb put the car in drive, then turned onto Narrowcliff.

  *

  They’d driven nearly five miles, passing through the civil parish and village of St. Newlyn East located southeast of Newquay. Hedgerows lined both sides of the road. There was finally a break in the wall on the south side, wide enough for vehicles. Webb slowed the Rover and made a right turn on a narrow, hard-packed dirt road.

  Grazing sheep and horses dotted a landscape of rolling green hills and crisscrossed by more hedgerows. Visibility of the countryside soon diminished as trees and brush along both sides of the roadway got thicker and taller, causing an umbrella effect over the road. Finally, the road widened and in the distance was an old farm house, made of stone blocks with a slate roof.

  The main part of the house was one level, comprised of kitchen and dining room, and at one time, was the servants’ quarters. The upper level housed the family’s bedrooms. The original windows were mullioned glass (small individual panes), some covered by vines of wild ivy. Above the blue door was a wooden sign naming the house: “Tafton Manor, 1639.”

  “Drive around back,” Labeaux said, looking at the house, his eyes moving from window to window.

  Small pebbles crunched beneath the tires as Webb drove toward the backyard. An old greenhouse jutted out from the stone house. Its windows were covered in dirt and grime making it impossible to see clearly inside.

  About thirty yards from the house was an old stone barn. At one time Tafton Manor was a dairy farm, where Friesian cows were raised. Known for their sweet milk, Friesians were originally imported from the Netherlands.

  Pulling up near the back door, Webb shut off the engine. Labeaux was the first one out of the Rover. He closed the door. He looked around the backyard. Nothing was out of place, no other sign of movement, no guns protruding from dark places. Webb’s car, a white four-seater Gilbern GT, was parked on the far side of the barn.

  Victoria pushed the driver’s seat forward, then climbed out. She stood next to the open door, wrapping a white raincoat tighter around herself. As Labeaux started to pass her, she grabbed his arm. “Why did you bring me here? I should be...”

  Labeaux twisted his arm away. “Come inside.” He said no more, but just turned and went to the house. Victoria had no choice but to follow him, with Webb staying close behind her. By the time the two of them reached the entry hall, Labeaux was already out of sight.

  A damp and musty smell pervaded the entry. Its walls and barrel-shaped ceiling were made of the same stone as the exterior of the house. A light shown from a room at the end of the hallway, accessed by a single door.

  Webb grabbed Victoria’s arm and walked toward the door, then he stopped, preventing her from entering.

  She leaned against the wall, placing a hand against her chest, feeling her heart pounding. She put her head back, and closed her eyes. She wondered how and why she let herself become so deeply involved. But the answer was there. She knew why. It was because of her husband.

  How stupid she’d been to think she could protect him from harm by giving her brother the papers. The day she handed those papers to Webb she realized no one would be able to protect her...or Jack.

  Webb opened the door and poked his head around the edge, confirming Labeaux was out of sight. Then he pulled her into the kitchen. “Here,” he said, as he pulled out a wooden chair. “Sit.”

  Victoria sat at the rough-hewn wooden table that was at least fifteen feet long and very old. The room itself was rectangular with a fireplace nearly big enough to stand in. The hearth was blackened from years of use. An iron tripod was still standing. Once a cauldron hung by a chain near the hottest part of the fire.

  She paid no attention to the room or its history. She focused on another doorway, seeing Labeaux sitting at a dining room table, thumbing through papers. He opened a map and laid it in front of him.

  “Why am I here?” Victoria asked him with a raised, nervous voice.

  Labeaux turned briefly to look at her, then returned to the map.

  Webb walked from behind her, then posted himself at the opposite end of the table, blocking her view of Labeaux. She slowly moved her eyes to Webb, who stared at her with little expression.

  Her eyes were wet with tears. She turned away. Keeping her hands in her lap, she twisted the belt of her raincoat.

  As Webb watched her, he thought about the years they lived together as a family, even after her parents died. When he told her of his past, of having been born in Ireland, she still treated him as a brother.

  It wasn’t until he revealed his loyalty to Ireland, and his involvement with the IRA that her attitude toward him changed. Although she never attempted to dissuade him, and never considered for one moment to report him to the authorities, she began to distance herself.

  Then she married the American. Commander Jack Henley. Webb couldn’t believe his luck. He contacted his friend, Callum Quinn. It was then the IRA began to set a plan in motion, but they needed more details about the air base at St. Mawgan. They knew weapons were being stored by NATO countries,
but secrecy surrounding the base left them without details. Colin Webb had become an invaluable asset.

  Hearing Labeaux call to him, he snapped his head around, giving Victoria a brief look. Then he went into the dining room.

  Labeaux continued looking at the map, as he said, “Put her in one of the bedrooms upstairs, and lock the door.” He glanced at his watch, and without looking at Webb, asked, “What time does her husband get home?”

  “Between five and six. Why?”

  “I want to be sure he’s at home when you take her back. Just leave her where you found her. She can make her own way home. Come back here after you’re done upstairs. I have something else for you to do.”

  As she was led up the staircase, Victoria feared the worst. Whatever the outcome, she had done this to herself. She prayed nothing would happen to her husband.

  Holding onto her hand, Webb opened the door, then led her into the bedroom.

  She looked at him pleadingly. “Colin, please!”

  He shook his head, then left, locking the door as he’d been instructed.

  *

  Labeaux listened to the footsteps going upstairs. He stood up, went into the kitchen, and walked across the brick floor to the old sink and spun the cold water knob. Pipes rattled briefly before discolored water sputtered from the faucet. He stood looking at the water until it ran clear, then he splashed two quick handfuls onto his face. He patted his face with a handkerchief and looked out the large multi-paned window.

  His plan was dangerously bold--in more ways than one. On Monday members of the IRA were about to carry out the operation. Their full payment had already been deposited into a Swiss bank. But one of his past ‘employers’ had been willing to pay twice the amount that had been paid by the IRA, and had already deposited their money in an offshore account.