Dublin Odyssey

by Michael P. Cooney

  “What you already have? You holding out on me, Mickey Devlin?”

  “Nothing firm.”

  “I’ll get that other pair of eyes to help put the whole thing together.”

  “Okay, Mick. Ya know, if I can help, I’m here.”

  “I know, Shelle. I’ll get back to ya on that one. Gotta go, kiddo.”

  “Be safe, Mick. And you got my word. Not a whisper on this until you say so.”

  “Thanks, Shelle. Talk to ya.”

  After Michelle hangs up, she calls her travel agent.

  “Hey, Chris. How’s business?”

  “Pretty good, actually. You looking for a getaway weekend, Shelle? Got some decent bargains to the Bahamas.”

  “Not this time, Chris. I’m thinking about Ireland. Dublin, Ireland. What can you do for me, say tonight?”

  “Tonight? From Philly?”

  “That would be the best for me.”

  “I think I can help ya out, Shelle. Can I call right back?”

  “Sure I’m at work.”

  “All right! I’ll get back.”

  Michelle hangs up and is already starting to second-guess herself about flying to Ireland and blindsiding Mickey. I have to think about this one.

  Thanks to Michelle, more of the pieces are starting to fit together. Mickey calls Secret Service Special Agent Greg Miller. Over the years, Mickey has successfully worked two presidential details and a VP detail. Successful in that no one was hurt or killed. Mickey waits for Greg to pick up. Come on, Miller, pick up.

  “Miller.”

  “Hey, Greg. Mickey Devlin. Got a minute?”

  “Yep! Hi, Mick. Sure, what’s up? Ya know, I was talking to your Detective Sly Cliver yesterday. Seems like a pretty sharp guy.”

  “He is. Sly’s one of the good ones. Did he fill you in on the Drum homicide?”

  “He did and then some. Sounds like Drum had some interesting hobbies. But I don’t see enough for us to get too bent out of shape over it. Like the PPD, we’re kinda shorthanded around here. Can’t run on every little ‘what could be,’ right? Got the vice president giving speeches in three cities and the president flying around the world.”

  “I know. I’m calling you from Ireland. I’m over here on official PD business.”

  “Official PD business. Man! For your commissioner to?”

  “I know, he wouldn’t spend the money unless it was to his advantage. Blah. Blah. Blah. That’s what everybody says.”

  “That’s ‘cause it’s true, friend.”

  “I guess. But here’s why I called. I’m hearing that the president will be giving a speech in Dublin’s Merrion Square at twelve noon this Saturday.”

  Miller doesn’t respond right away.

  “By your silence, I take it I’ve struck a nerve, Greg. Am I right?”

  Mickey can sense Greg taking off his good-buddy-Mickey hat and putting on his official-business-Secret Service hat.

  “Mick. Are you asking me to confirm that for you? ‘Cause if you are—”

  Mickey interrupts Greg in mid-sentence.

  “Greg, I’m not asking you to confirm or deny anything. I’m just calling to share some intel with another law enforcement agency. Make it on or off the record. I don’t really care. That’s your call.”

  “Sorry, Mick. I’d be glad to hear whatever you want to share.”

  “Got a pen?”

  “Okay, Mick. Fire away.”

  Mickey gives Greg the blow by blow of what he’s got on the Drum brothers, Professor Michael Collins, the blast that injured O’Clooney, and the Garda’s past involvement with Patrick and Jerry Drum. When he finishes, he refrains from asking Greg for any commentary or analysis of the intel. He knows Greg couldn’t give it anyway.

  “Oh, before I forget. Back in 1991, somebody from your agency had a sit-down with Jerry Drum. You may want to track down a copy of that interview.”

  “Didn’t know that. I will.”

  “Okay, my friend. I got business to attend to and you have yours. I’ll tell you, come hell or high water, I do intend to be in Merrion Square this Saturday around twelve noon. If anybody cares, I’ll be wearing my Phillies ball cap. Oh, and before I forget, I wouldn’t make your color of the day red. Other folks may be planning to use red that day. And if I’m right, they’re not coming to play nice.”

  “I understand, Mick. ‘Nough said. Well then, be safe. And go Phillies.”

  “Go Phillies, Greg.”

  Mickey hangs up, then checks the time. Twenty after nine. Who needs sleep? Mickey decides to go out to Saint James Hospital to see Kevin, pick up Paddy Drum’s photo, hopefully talk to the Garda sketch artist, and get some answers. He’s also hoping Kevin may have some ideas what IWP on the notepad might mean.

  Greg hangs up and tears off the page of the legal pad he’s been doodling on, mostly circle designs, while Mickey was talking to him. He crumbles it into a tight ball, and lobs it into the trash can a few feet away. “Score!”

  CHAPTER 32

  “On an unknown path every foot is slow.”

  Irish Proverb

  Mickey gets to Saint James in record time. He’s stopped at the front desk by a security sergeant. The sergeant calls up to the ICU and talks to Matt Kelly. Matt clears the way for Mickey to come up to Superintendent O’Clooney’s room. He takes the lift to the third level where he’s met by Matt.

  “Captain. How are you, sir?”

  “Doin’ good, Matt, thanks.”

  “Ya look a lot better than what people were saying. If you don’t mind me saying, sir.”

  Mickey smiles. “I feel a lot better, too. Is Kevin awake?”

  “Yes, sir. Oh, here’s the photograph you requested.”

  Matt hands Mickey a messenger-size white envelope. Mickey opens it and pulls a black-and-white glossy out.

  “That’s Patrick Drum?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did Kevin see this?”

  “Yes again, sir. I got it from the superintendent’s office. It’s got his initials on the back.”

  Mickey slides the photo back into the envelope.

  “We’re in worse shape than even I thought. Let’s go see Kevin.”

  Mickey follows Matt back to Kevin’s room. When Kevin sees Mickey, he sits up in bed, turns off the television, and greets him.

  “Hi, Mick. I see Matt gave you Paddy Drum’s photo.”

  Mickey slides the photo back out of its envelope and hands it to Kevin.

  “That’s not the man I talked to out at the Drum ranch.”

  Kevin looks at the photo a few seconds, then hands it back to Mickey.

  “Then who the hell were you talking to? Didn’t you say the guy took you to the house and shared boyhood stories ‘bout his brother Jerry?”

  “I did. Ya know, I had a funny feeling about that guy. Why would he put on like he’s Paddy? If that wasn’t Jerry’s brother, who I now know he wasn’t, and the guy who stopped by the ME’s office in Philly wasn’t either. Then—I’m starting to get a little bit anxious about old Paddy Drum’s well-being.”

  “ME’s office? Paddy Drum stopped by the ME’s office in Philly?”

  “Thought I told you ‘bout that, Kev.” Mickey knew that wasn’t true. And he felt bad about that.

  “You might have. My mind is still a little slow. Anyway. You may be on to something. I can now give you a wee bit more than what I told you on the phone.”

  “And I’ll fill you in on what I was told happened at Philly’s ME’s Office. You first.”

  “Deal! I had our scene team start to excavate part of that mound of dirt over what we believe is a swimming pool. They only got down three meters on one end when they had to stop.”

  “Don’t tell me. They found a 5292.”

  “What? A 52 what?”

  “5-2-9-2. A dead one.”

  “Oh, I get it. More Philly cop talk. They found two 5-2-9-2s. So far, that is. They backed off to wait for the Castleknock coroner to arrive. Should have a positive identifi
cation in the morning.”

  “Oh well. Nothing we can do about that.”

  Mickey takes out his notebook and flips to the page where he wrote down the results of Michelle Cunay’s research.

  “Kev, before I forget. Can you find out if the President is bringing the First Lady with him? And if his motorcade will be the normal twenty-seven-vehicle configuration?”

  “I’m certain I can at the very least prod my cohorts to give me that much information without violating protocol.”

  “Okay! Let’s run this stuff up the flagpole and see if it flies.”

  He points to each word or set of words in his notebook and starts to sum up for Kevin.

  “Most of this appears to be code. US Secret Service code. Bamboo is code for the president’s motorcade. Stagecoach is code for his limo. Castle is code for the White House. Flotus stands for First Lady of the United States. The other number seven could be the seventh vehicle in the president’s motorcade. That’s the ‘follow-up car.’ It’s where backup Secret Service agents ride. And the number nine we believe is the ninth car in the motorcade, the SWAT car. I believe I’ve already figured out that 12H255 is twelve noon on the twenty-fifth of May. And I was reminded that State House Bell refers to the original name given to our Liberty Bell, housed in Philadelphia. The one the late Jerry Drum tried to whack.”

  “You and your Ms. Cunay figured all this out yourselves, in a couple of hours?”

  “Michelle did the bulk of the work. She’d love to talk to you sometime.”

  “And I’d love to meet her, too. That’s nothing short of amazing. We have a whole department of eggheads that do that kinda thing. I doubt they could have deciphered this in a week.”

  “That was the easy part. The hard part is what does it all mean? Kevin, here’s what I want to bounce off of you. I’ve hit a wall with”—Mickey points to the three letters he circled on the page, IWP—”got any thoughts?”

  Kevin stares at the page with all of Mickey’s little notes and circled words.

  “Let’s narrow this thing down to the basics. Looks like you’ve got the when—the twenty-fifth of May at twelve hundred hours. And from what I can tell you’ve also figured out the who—the possible targets, the US President and the First Lady. The where looks like Merrion Square, the White House, and the Liberty Bell. At first glance, it seems like a mismatch of locations. One would have to ask if all of them are targets or only one is the real target. With the others merely thrown in to confuse someone.”

  “Oookay! And where do you fall?”

  “Not sure yet. Let’s see what else you got. Let’s talk about the where again. You believe that part of the where is Merrion Square. Right so far?”

  “So far.”

  “Let’s say your Merrion Square thing is correct. Merrion Square, is here in Dublin. So—”

  “I get it, Kev. Big picture.”

  “So Merrion is here. The White House and the Liberty Bell are in America. Where’s the A? I still don’t see how IWP fits in so far.”

  Mickey grins. “You’re a genius, Kevin.”

  “That may be. But…”

  “Big picture. True! Merrion is in Dublin. But Dublin is in Ireland. That’s the I in IWP. The White House is in America but more accurately it’s in Washington. That’s the W. And…”

  Kevin, drawn into Mickey’s evaluation, yells, “Philadelphia! The Liberty Bell is in Philadelphia. The P, in IWP—Ireland, Washington, and Philadelphia.”

  “Bingo! Looks like we have the when, what, where, and at least some of the who. And it’s just like ‘The Greek’ to mix up the puzzle with a country, Ireland; a non-state, Washington, DC; and a city, Philadelphia.”

  “And the how?”

  “I think we already got a taste of the how, C-4. But knowing the Greek as I do, that’s a long way from being his only tool. The guy was a sniper with the Special Forces. Sniping is how he took out four Philly cops back in ‘91. And if what you suspected about Paddy Drum being party to other terrorists’ plots, like the IRA, well—anything goes with that bunch.”

  “The problem now has become—where is the Greek? Where is our hillside bomber? And how many more of these people are out there? I’m thinking somewhere between six and ten to pull off what looks like a multi-theater mission.”

  Kevin listens and then responds this way. “A chain is only as strong as its weakest link.”

  “You lost me, Kevin. What’s with the chain analogy?”

  “If you’re right, and I’m sure you are, your Greek isn’t acting alone; we know that. If we can’t find him, the strongest link, maybe our time would be better spent going after the help.”

  “The help. Sure. The weak link.”

  Mickey thinks aloud. “John ‘Tex’ Deforrest. Mister cowboy hat.”

  “Cowboy hat?”

  “The grad assistant working in Collins’ office at Trinity. He could be the weak link. He turned three shades of red—see, there’s that red thing again—when I pressed him about knowing Patrick Drum and his boss’s whereabouts. But he did finally give up that Collins was going on vacation, and that he and one of his students, Ramzi, were going up to Howth to check on a boat.”

  Mickey gingerly takes out the page of directions to Howth that Tex wrote down. He had placed it at the back of his notebook to keep it pristine.

  “Thought I might need a sample of Tex’s prints down the line. Just one of those gut feelings again. So I got him to give me this.”

  “Always thinkin’, aren’t you, partner?”

  “Hard to stop sometimes. You’re in the same business, Kev. You know how that goes.”

  “I do. I surely do. My wife hates it, but…”

  “My wife is used to it by now. Kev, can you have your scene guys compare the trace on this”—Mickey hands the paper to Kevin with his handkerchief—”with the trace they’ll find on that white cowboy hat in the Volvo?”

  “Absolutely! But I’d be surprised if they’ll be able to compare it to anything. So far, my guys haven’t lifted one useable print. Someone used bleach and some other chemical on every surface. Ever door handle, every light switch, and even the handle on the toilet was wiped clean.”

  “That means my prints won’t show up either. Sounds like whoever was living out there wasn’t coming back, Kev.”

  “Then why did they, whoever they are, leave the canvas bag and notepad with what, we believe, could be incriminating evidence? Stuff that could bring them down. Intel that could foil their plans.”

  “As a ruse maybe? Also sounds like something the Greek would do. He’s famous for feeding the press misinformation. If that’s true, then what we think we figured out means nothing. Means we’ve been spinning our wheels for zip.”

  “Somebody’s playing mind games, Mick.”

  “Kev. If no trace is gonna show up at Drum’s, how ‘bout having the name John Deforrest run through the system? Nickname is Tex. Probably comes from Texas oil money. He’s got that ‘my daddy’s rich’ haughtiness about him. Just a guess. Maybe he’ll show up as an exchange student or in the customs database. Ya know. Passport records. I’d like to get an address on the guy. “

  Kevin calls for Matt Kelly who is sitting just outside his ICU hospital room.

  “Come in here, lad.”

  Matt quickly comes in Kevin’s room. “Yes, sir.”

  “Hand me one of those hospital mail envelopes over there.” Matt hands the envelope to Kevin, who slides in the page with the directions from Deforrest on it.

  “Get this to Lieutenant McKee at Crime Scene. Tell him to compare what he gets from it to whatever he lifts from the hat in the Volvo. He’ll know what that means. Tell him to handle it like evidence. And then tell him I want to run the name John Tex Deforrest. He’s an American and a grad student at Trinity. I want to know where he lives. Think you can handle that?”

  “Yes, Superintendent.”

  “Hold on, Matt.”

  Mickey takes out one of his new PPD business cards and presses th
e four fingers and thumb of his right hand on the ink side.

  “Open that envelope, Matt.”

  Mickey drops the card in the envelope.

  “Tell McKee he can eliminate the prints on that card as one of the bad guys.”

  “What are you waiting for, lad? Get going. Godspeed.”

  Matt takes the envelope and leaves straightaway. Mickey watches him go.

  “Matt on overtime, Kev?”

  “Student Garda don’t get overtime. Why, you a union man, Mick?”

  Mickey avoids his whole FOP-isn’t-the-enemy speech and his years of union activities.

  “Just saying.”

  “No need to worry, Mick. I’ll take care of the lad. He’s from good stock. His gram, Kathleen, was in the first class of women Garda back in 1959.”

  “You’ve had women on the job since ‘59?”

  “We have. Matt’s gram was one of twelve women in a class of fifty-six recruits. A real trailblazer, she was. Back then, they wore skirts. Not anymore.”

  “The Garda was a little ahead of the Philly PD in that department. We didn’t have females actually working the street until ‘76. Before that, we did have women in our Juvenile Aid Unit and a couple detailed to Homicide. They were some of the best. But they didn’t work patrol and weren’t in uniform.”

  “Really—’76?”

  “We had a mayor and commissioner who fought having ‘lady cops’ on the job tooth and nail. Cost us big time, financially, because of all the civil lawsuits. Our image suffered. And judging from the caliber of some, not all, of the women we have up and down the ranks, we lost some good people who would have made good cops. A lot from cop families, like your Matt.”

  “I’m certain you did. Live and learn, right, Mick?”

  “I hear ya.”

  “So where ya headed now, Mick?”

  “Back to my place to catch some shut-eye. That’s my hope anyway.”

  “So we’ll talk later then?”

  “Sure, Kev. Later!”

  Mickey takes the lift back down to ground level and walks to his rental. He takes the scenic route back to Saint Stephen’s Green, passing the Guinness Brewery, Christ Church, and Dublin Castle.