The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series)

by Chuck Barrett

  He felt himself shaking. A woman was calling his name, a soft unfamiliar voice.

  “Jake, wake up. Jake, Jake, wake up.”

  He opened his eyes. Isabella Hunt’s large hazel eyes met his. They looked like Beth’s eyes. She gave him a warm smile.

  “You were having a bad dream,” she whispered.

  “I wish it was a bad dream. Unfortunately it was real,” he replied. He looked at Kaplan’s empty seat and asked, “Where’s Gregg?”

  “He’s in the back. He couldn’t sleep so he went back and laid out the maps and files on the table. He’s been going over them for hours.”

  He turned around and saw Kaplan studying the information he gave him at CIA Headquarters.

  “We just received word from SIS in London,” said Isabella. “They spotted O’Rourke in Belfast. An operative followed him to Stormont. He lost him but found where O’Rourke hid his car. He’ll wait for O’Rourke to return, then follow him.

  “They read your dossier. Bentley faxed it to SIS on a scrambled fax line. They believe your assessment is correct and will have an SIS operative meet us in Sligo. Langley said the SIS is, and I quote, ‘at our disposal.’”

  “How long before we get there?” he asked.

  “The pilot said we’re less than two hours out. We caught a nice tailwind in the jet stream and are making good time.”

  Hunt had been with the CIA Clandestine Service for seven years. She started as an analyst and moved up quickly when she got a break on a case she had researched. A female operative on the mission was injured. Due to time constraints, Hunt was allowed to go undercover as her replacement. She won a commendation from her superiors and was recruited as a full-time operative.

  The thirty-five-year-old daughter of an interracial marriage, she was fluent in several languages. She had an athletic build, with firm, muscular arms and legs, a result of her years on a swimming scholarship at Amherst College in Amherst, Massachusetts.

  Her physical appearance, along with her language skills, made her versatile in mission assignments. Her dark complexion and black hair had allowed her to blend in with the locals on missions in Central and South America, as well as Egypt and the Middle East. Her hazel eyes were easily concealed with brown contacts. She had been credited with seven kills, all flawlessly executed and four “extractions.” Extraction being a politically correct way of referring to abduction, kidnapping, whatever term one wanted to use.

  He unbuckled his seat belt and said, “I’m going to talk to Gregg.”

  Hunt smiled at him and said, “Okay, I’ll be there in a minute. I need to make a call to Langley first.”

  “You know, behind that gruff exterior is a likable Isabella—just waiting to get out.”

  “Yeah? Well, don’t get used to it.”

  He walked toward the back of the jet. He noticed Kaplan staring at something in his hands. As he got closer he noticed it was the gold cross Annie had been wearing around her neck the day she died.

  “Gregg, are you okay?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m fine.” Kaplan quickly put the cross in his shirt pocket.

  “I know it must be hard losing Annie. I don’t know what I’d do if Beth died.”

  “Jake, you can’t lose something you never had. Obviously, I didn’t know her at all.”

  “Gregg, you once told me you were a good listener. Well, I think I’m a damn good listener too, if you want to talk about it.”

  * * * Kaplan surprised himself as he began to tell Jake about his past. There was something about the young investigator that he liked. Maybe it was because, despite his privileged upbringing, he remained humble. Maybe it was because Jake didn’t want to ride on his father’s coattails and worked hard to prove himself. Or maybe it was because Jake was one of the few honest people he’d ever met—honest to a fault.

  Hunt sat down across from Jake and Kaplan. She pulled out the folder Jake had made for her and held it up. “Why don’t you go over this with us now and how you came up with it?”

  “When Kaplan and I were in Savannah, the day Beth was shot,” Jake paused, then went on, “Collins asked about some location and O’Rourke mentioned ‘the ridge of two demons.’ Well, that’s the name of the town called Dromahair. It means Ridge of Two Demons and O’Rourke owns property there. In fact, the O’Rourke clan has owned property there for centuries.”

  “Yeah, I got that much in the briefing at Langley,” Hunt said. “They also said that every time O’Rourke was stopped, both coming and going, he was clean. Maybe he was just going home to visit family or something.”

  “Okay, follow me here with a little history and some folklore or legend about the O’Rourke clan and the Friary at the Abbey of Creevelea.”

  Hunt nodded and leaned forward to look at the files while Jake talked.

  Kaplan listened.

  After thirty minutes and several interruptions from Hunt, Jake finished and asked, “Any questions?”

  “Yeah, two. Number one, how accurate is this history?” asked Isabella.

  “Fair question,” Jake said. “As with older history, there will be minor variations in dates and names and beliefs among historians. For the most part, though, it is all historically accurate.”

  “What about the folklore?” she asked.

  “It’s really more like mythical folklore or urban legend. Folklore gets started somewhere, and usually, probably most of the time, there is an element of truth to it. Stories or rumors handed down over time. Undocumented, word-of-mouth-only secrets that have been handed down from generation to generation.

  “But somewhere along the line in that hand-me-down chain, someone leaks the secret outside the privileged circle. Sometimes it is pure fiction, never happened, never existed. But other times, historical facts lead to the plausibility of the myth or legend. Did that clear it up for you?”

  “Oh yeah, clear as mud, Jake.” Hunt smiled.

  “I have another question.”

  ”Another one?” Jake asked. “Go ahead, ask away.”

  “Okay, last question, for now.” she said. “How the hell did you come up with an Al Qaeda connection?”

  CHAPTER 67

  Collins watched O’Rourke run through the darkness of the Stormont Estate back to the car he had hidden on Stoney Road. Flames burst from the third-story windows along the front of the Parliament Building. What he couldn’t see nor did he care about were the dozens of people responding to the fire. Guards, janitors, firemen—all running through the Stormont grounds. Fire trucks rushed up Prince of Wales Boulevard toward the Parliament Building and would find a gruesome scene.

  The scene would eventually be reported as the assassination of the Secretary of State of Northern Ireland. The news would also state that the assassin, mortally wounded by the Secretary’s assistant, had fatally shot the man known as the Commander, and then died, lying in a puddle of his own blood.

  Standing in the shadows beside the estate, Collins noticed someone.

  Someone else was watching O’Rourke.

  He had been in this business long enough to realize that this new stranger was either an assassin or, more likely, an MI6 operative tasked to follow O’Rourke to his ultimate destination. Either way, the threat had to be neutralized.

  Collins’s journey to Belfast was fast, thanks to his client having flown out to the trawler in a Bell 427 helicopter equipped with longrange tanks. After refueling, the client flew him to his villa in La Coruña, in the northwest corner of Spain.

  The client refueled the Bell helicopter and flew him to Wexford, Ireland. There, he arranged a car for Collins and a substantial sum of cash. He then sent Collins on his way, calling the score settled and severing their relationship.

  Collins was now a tainted commodity.

  He watched O’Rourke get into the car, turn around and head back down Stoney Road toward Upper Newtownards Road. He saw the man in the other car turn around with his headlights off and follow O’Rourke down Stoney Road.

  Collins, in turn, d
rove slowly along Stoney Road in the cover of darkness, waiting for the right opportunity to eliminate the intruder.

  He pulled out his Blackberry, checked for new messages. The tone of the new messages was the same as those he had received before he left the United States.

  Angry and threatening messages.

  He had to make it right. He had to capture O’Rourke and discover his secret, then kill him. Then he would have fulfilled all of his contracts. He knew his future business had been all but destroyed by Jake Pendleton’s interference. A debt he promised himself to repay later.

  While he drove, tailing the stranger and O’Rourke, he typed in message after message on his Blackberry. Inquiries for information along with reassurances to others were the bulk of his messages.

  He received a reply from his message to his Provisional IRA contact.

  Contract on O’Rourke withdrawn.

  * * * Dozens of cars sped westward on the M1 expressway leaving the lights of Belfast behind.

  O’Rourke was unaware he was being followed but knew he had to be mindful about his trip to Dromahair. He couldn’t arouse any suspicions, he couldn’t afford to be stopped. Normally a much shorter trip, the one-hundred-seventy-six-kilometer drive would take him over three hours. The media reports had made him too easily recognized—plastering his picture across every television screen and newspaper around the globe. He had seen the newscasts, he knew he was a wanted man. He could no longer travel in anonymity.

  He wasn’t concerned with the headlights behind him. There were too many cars on the expressway. A tail would be nearly impossible to detect.

  The M1 expressway ended at Dungannon, turning into the A4 highway. The number of cars on the highway had thinned down considerably on this rural section at the late hour. The rolling grassy hills with their ancient stone walls were hidden from view by the cover of darkness. He noticed several cars behind him, some turned off the highway, some turned onto the highway.

  Two cars turned off the A4 in Augher, but three more joined up at Clogher. All the cars on the A4 looked the same, headlights behind him and taillights in front of him.

  His first stop was Enniskillen, County Fermanagh, to make sure he wasn’t tailed and to conduct some business. He pulled out his cell phone, checked for service, then placed a call.

  He left the A4 in Enniskillen and navigated his way to High Street. His destination was the Demon’s Lair Bar and Bistro. He parked across the street which was about a hundred feet away from the bar. Cars moved up and down the street. Several patrons stood in the doorway smoking, drinking and laughing. The muffled sound of a band could be heard from the back of the bar.

  He got out of the car, put on his overcoat and cap, flipped up the collar, and walked in the front door. The dim lighting and his tweed cap helped him conceal his identity, not that any of the revelers were on the lookout for Laurence O’Rourke.

  It was very late and the crowd had thinned to nothing but the hard-core drinkers. A heavy haze of cigarette smoke, thick enough to permeate clothing and skin, hung in the air. The band in the back bar announced the last call for drinks.

  He looked at the bartender and motioned to him with a slight nod of the head. The bartender gave him a similar nod and O’Rourke moved nonchalantly up to the balcony. Five minutes later the bartender walked up with a pint of Irish ale in each hand. He handed one to O’Rourke, then sat down and sipped on the other.

  * * * Collins drove down High Street, spotting both O’Rourke’s car and the car of the man who had followed O’Rourke. The man sat in the dark gray Saab 9-5 sedan waiting for O’Rourke to return from the bar.

  Collins parked a block away and walked back toward the unmarked Saab. Whoever the man was, he was a potential threat. One he had to eliminate. He needed to get to O’Rourke first.

  The stranger had parked in the dark shadows in an attempt to conceal his presence. The car was parked too close to the bar for Collins to use his gun, the flash would attract unwanted attention. He devised an alternative plan. One he had successfully used before.

  Three years earlier, in Germany, Shamrock was contracted to kill a drug dealer on the outskirts of Berlin. The man had three bodyguards, two escorting him inside an office and one outside waiting in the vehicle. The mark had gone into a bookkeeper’s office. It was late one winter afternoon, and Shamrock used the drunkard’s ruse to get close to the bodyguards without raising suspicion. The ruse worked because he was seen as a drunken annoyance and not as a threat. It worked so well, gaining close access to the bodyguard in the vehicle that he used it to access the office where he pulled two silenced automatic pistols and shot the two remaining bodyguards, the mark and the bookkeeper.

  Down the street from the Demon’s Lair pub, he pulled out a cigarette, pantomimed looking for a lighter, then staggered along the sidewalk pretending to be drunk, singing an Irish drinking song.

  He continued singing as he approached the bar. The few revelers standing in the doorway looked toward his approaching shadow. He threw his hands up at them, enticing them to join in the song. They sang in unison.

  The revelers’ voices were trailing away when he staggered onto the slate gray Saab. He leaned against the sedan as if he was too drunk to go any further. Then he tapped on the driver’s window.

  The driver, a tall bald man, lowered his window and pushed Collins away from the car.

  “Okay, pal, get away from my car. Move along,” he yelled.

  Collins leaned in close, held out his cigarette and slurred, “Do you have a light?”

  “No, I don’t smoke. Now get away—”

  Before the man in the Saab could react, Collins reached into the window, placed his hands on each side of the man’s head and continued singing.

  As the man protested, Collins jerked the man’s head hard to the right. The man fell limp in his seat.

  Collins felt a twinge shoot through his left shoulder. He put his hands on the man’s neck and felt for a pulse on the carotid artery. Nothing. He propped the man back up in his seat.

  He reached into the dead man’s pocket and retrieved his wallet and identification. He located the man’s pistol, slipped it into his pocket and then he staggered back the way he came, still singing.

  Collins walked back to his car and moved it so he could spot O’Rourke as he exited the Demon’s Lair. He opened the wallet and looked at the bald man’s ID. SIS. He had just killed an SIS operative.

  A smile spread across his face. It wasn’t the first one he’d killed and likely wouldn’t be the last. He pulled the man’s pistol from his pocket—a Walther PPK—the James Bond weapon of choice.

  CHAPTER 68

  The CIA jet descended from forty-one thousand feet into the Sligo Airport at Strandhill, Ireland. The Challenger lined up for a straight-in approach to Runway 11.

  The jet touched down just before four a.m. local time, and taxied to a section of the ramp where a car was waiting for them. The only sign of life at that time of morning in Sligo.

  The night sky was clear and dark and the air was cold and biting. No hint of dawn. The only sounds were those of the turbine engines winding down to a stop, crackling in the cold air as they cooled.

  Hunt, Kaplan and Jake stepped from the aircraft stairs to the tarmac and were greeted by a man with a strong British accent, who flashed his credentials. “Matthew Sterling, SIS.”

  He looked at Hunt. “You must be Isabella Hunt.” Throwing a quick glance at Jake and then Kaplan, he said, “And one of you must be Jake Pendleton.”

  Jake stepped forward and stuck out his hand. “I’m Jake.” Hunt immediately took the lead. “Let’s get started, we’re running out of time. Did you get the headsets I asked for?”

  Sterling nodded. “All business, I see.”

  “Always. That way she won’t forget she’s in charge,” Jake jabbed.

  Kaplan stuck out his hand. “She has no manners either. I’m Gregg Kaplan.”

  The three men laughed.

  She ignored them. �
��What about O’Rourke—any more word on him yet?”

  Sterling looked from Jake to Hunt and said, “We spotted him at Stormont last night, our operative followed him to Enniskillen where our guy last reported in. We haven’t heard from him since and that’s been over an hour.”

  “We’re cutting this one closer than I thought,” Jake said. “I really didn’t think he could get here that fast.”

  “So much for in and out before he arrives, huh, Einstein?” Kaplan laughed.

  Sterling paused and gave Hunt a grim look.

  She said, “And what?”

  “There was a fire at the Stormont Parliament Building a few hours ago, about the same time O’Rourke was there. We found the Secretary of State, his assistant, along with another man, shot to death. It was made to look like an assassin shot the Secretary and his assistant and then was shot by the assistant in the melee. We think O’Rourke probably killed them all and staged the room before setting it on fire.”