"No," Baktayev said, holding up his arm to stop Kasparov. "We don't have time for this. I will deal with him myself, but later."
Kasparov nodded. Baktayev turned back inside. "Albek," he said to a bearded man who sat near a workbench covered with Kalashnikov rifles. The man looked up. "Anzor and I are leaving now. We will be gone for most of the day. Do not let Sharpuddin leave under any circumstances."
"What do I do if he tries?"
"Stop him. Any way you can."
Albek nodded. "I will take care of it, General. Where are you going?"
"To do some reconnaissance."
11:34 a.m. Eastern Time
Southbound on Rt. 40 – Main St.
Victoria, Virginia
Baktayev craned his neck as Kasparov drove through a small, desperate-looking town made up of empty brick storefronts with haphazardly hung out of business banners, sidewalks with clumps of weeds growing between joints in the concrete, and medians with tall, uncut grass. Every building in the one mile stretch of real estate that was marked as Main Street had an antiquated and uncared for appearance, even the court-like building marked City Hall. Overall, Baktayev was surprised. This was the kind of place that he was used to seeing in cities throughout Russia, not the kind of place he had expected to encounter in the United States of America, a country as famous for its wealth as it was infamous for its military excursions around the world. "What happened here?" he asked.
Kasparov shrugged. "A drug called meth, General. The Americans are their own worst enemies. The manufacturing jobs that supported areas like this left for places in other countries with cheaper workers and the idle minds and hands of those who lived here found solace in drugs and alcohol."
"Hmm."
Kasparov turned left and entered a residential area as the town itself came to an end. Here the situation seemed much the same. Small houses with unkempt yards and broken down cars dotted the ill-maintained streets. "This is where I live."
Baktayev sat forward and looked at a one-floor, wood-sided house that appeared to be no bigger than two, maybe three rooms at the most. Tall trees that loomed over the property had covered the exterior of the house in a brownish dust, and a cracked concrete porch with two plastic lawn chairs led to a badly dented screen door.
Kasparov pulled the white cargo van he was driving into the property's pine needle covered driveway and shifted the vehicle into reverse. Backing out, he returned in the direction they had come and said, "I moved here five years ago. I knew that I had chosen the perfect place when I received your first letter from Sheikh Kahraman."
Baktayev nodded. "You've done well, Anzor."
A mile after making a right back onto the main road through the town of Victoria, Kasparov pulled the vehicle to the side of the road a few dozen yards away from a one-story brick building with narrow, metal-rimmed windows. It was clear from the obvious disrepair of the exterior that it suffered from the same blight as the rest of the town. Baktayev smiled as he read the sign that stood in the building's foreground.
"W.N. Page Junior High School," he said aloud. "Praise be to Allah and his servant Sheikh Kahraman. It is perfect."
"Wait until you see the inside."
Chapter Forty-Nine
2:49 p.m. Local Time – Thursday
Over The Atlantic Ocean
500 Miles from Waterford Airport – Ireland
Constance gripped the upholstered armrest tighter, her face as white as her knuckles, as turbulence bumped the Embraer Legacy 500. She had never been comfortable on airplanes, but had finally gotten used to the large commercial jetliners they'd frequented in their travels. The smaller business class jet they were currently on seemed to have reawakened her fear. Declan smiled at her. "It'll be grand," he mouthed.
Compared to the average commercial airliner the plane belonging to Fintan's company, McGuire & Lyons Industries, was testimony to the expense of private aviation. Its interior was a palette of soft shades of gray and featured plush leather seating, multiple LED monitors for both in-flight entertainment and corporate duties, lay-flat accommodations for overnight trips, and a generous number of windows big enough to give the cabin an open and airy feeling. It was easily the most comfortable and well-equipped aircraft Declan had ever seen.
"We should be in Waterford within the hour," he said, looking across at his wife, trying to be reassuring. She managed a smile but said nothing. On top of her fear of flying and everything else that had happened, she hadn't slept since the previous day. He knew that she had to be near rock bottom both emotionally and physically. Even once they landed in Waterford, there was still a three hour drive north to County Monaghan before she'd be able to rest. The jet lurched violently, causing their drinks to turn over, spilling liquor and water across the lavish wooden surface of the collapsible table standing in between their seats. Constance hurriedly unbuckled her seat belt and rushed towards the lavatory at the rear of the cabin.
Fintan opened his eyes and looked over from the seat across the aisle as the door slammed closed. "Will she be alright?"
"Aye," Declan said vacantly. "It's been a rough couple of days, so."
"Aye, sounds like it."
Declan had told Fintan and his assistant Dean Lynch about everything that had happened, on the first leg of their flight. They'd left the U.S. at 3 a.m. Eastern time via a small airport located in Bath County, Virginia, just over the state line from Declan's cabin, and had traveled six hours to the Azores, where they had refueled the plane before leaving again for Ireland.
The lavatory door opened and Constance came out, retaking her seat shyly. "Sorry. I thought I was going to be sick."
Fintan spoke first. "It's alright, love. Soon enough you'll be in the care of the staff at the McGuire family's country home. You'll be back to tip top in a matter of hours. You can put all of this mess behind you for a while."
"Thank you for your hospitality," she said, without making eye contact. "I think I'd just like to get some sleep."
"Understood. You'll have your choice of seven bedrooms all with warm sheets right out of the dryer."
Declan leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He still felt bad about her being involved, but he tried to keep self-doubt from overtaking him. Maybe she'd have been happier if she'd married someone else. Maybe he should have known better than to think that his life could ever be normal. Maybe the Beatles wouldn't have broken up if he hadn't joined the IRA when he was fourteen. That line of thinking was absurd given their current situation and he banished the thoughts from his head. They were counterproductive and would do nothing to help. He was determined to identify the leaders of the forces against them, and once he found them, he would find a way to exploit their weaknesses and bring them down.
While he would never say that his years in the IRA were good times–he certainly carried the scars and the guilt of the wrong he'd done–he couldn't say that in some ways he wasn't thankful for them. It was those formative years that had made him the man he was today, the kind of man who could survive the situation he currently found himself in. It was what he had been trained to do. Kidnappings, assassinations, bombings, any means necessary to bring his target crashing down from the bottom up. It was state-sponsored terrorism, Soviet style.
His thoughts were interrupted when the door to the pilot compartment swung open and banged loudly against the wall. He opened his eyes to see Dean Lynch stride towards them, his expression serious.
"We have a problem, governor."
All eyes were on the former British paratrooper and retired Irish Garda as he took a seat in front of Fintan, across the aisle from Declan.
"Captain Cummings just received word from ground support that we're to be boarded as soon as we land. Apparently your situation has gone public and someone in the States has informed the authorities in Ireland. It seems our aircraft being registered in Ireland and having taken off near locations associated with you was enough to attract someone's attention," he finished, looking at Declan.
/> Fintan tapped the screen of his smartphone. "I dare say it has gone public, old son," he said, handing the phone to Declan. "It looks like your friends have decided to enlist the aid of the public at large in their search for you even more so than they already have."
Declan tapped the screen and the phone's BBC News app came to life, displaying the headline: Former IRA terrorist officially named a suspect in US bombing; murders of Israeli and lead investigator.
He moved a hand through his hair as he thumbed through the article containing two paragraphs that identified him as a former member of a Provisional Irish Republican Army unit that once targeted the city of London in a plot to bring down the British Government, a plot that had been abandoned in 1993 when the Black Shuck Unit had been targeted and killed by their own.
"I guess Shane couldn't delay them any longer," Fintan said.
"Apparently not. It says here that I'm wanted for taking part in the Brighton bombing in 1984."
Constance's face was ashen. The bombing had taken place at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, England on October 12th 1984 and was an attempt by the Provisional IRA to assassinate then Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. The attack had largely gone as planned and five people in Thatcher's party had been killed, with a further thirty-one injured. Thatcher herself had narrowly escaped injury. "Are you?" Constance asked incredulously.
"No. I was only fifteen at the time. I was still taking pot shots at passing motorcades. I guess they decided to fancy things up a bit in hopes of convincing folks I'm a really bad guy."
"A bit of media make believe, more than likely," Fintan said. "Da' was all over the bombing in Brighton, but you had nothing to do with it. I guess it could be safely said that that was before your time. Might as well pin the Mountbatten and Warrenpoint attacks on you as well. What were you then? Ten years old? Old enough, I suppose."
Declan shot him the middle finger and mouthed a good natured screw you.
The attacks Fintan was referring to had occurred in August of 1979 and had resulted in the assassination of Lord Louis Mountbatten, a member of the Royal Family, as he made for Donegal Bay in Ireland aboard his yacht, and eighteen soldiers in the British Army's Parachute Regiment as they had approached Narrow Water Castle near the border town of Warrenpoint in Northern Ireland. In total, the two separate attacks were responsible for twenty-two deaths and had been the single greatest loss of life for the British Army during the Troubles.
"This might be a joke to all of you, but I'm not laughing!" Constance said, her voice shrill, tears in her eyes.
"You're right. You're right," Declan said, reaching out to her. "It's not funny and we're not laughing about it. A lot of people died on those days, but I had nothing to do with it. These people that are after us are just trying to make me look as bad as possible."
She pushed his hands away. "We're going to be raided by a SWAT team when we land! Declan, you're going to be arrested and taken to jail, and probably me too, if they don't just shoot us dead!" She stood up and looked around frantically as if there was some way off the plane.
"It's okay," Declan said, standing to meet her and placing his hands on her shoulders. "They're not going to shoot us unless we put up a fight."
"But if they arrest you, they'll take you back," she said, embracing him and crying, "and those people will find a way to kill you."
She was right. He would be taken back to the U.S., but he doubted he'd ever make it to trial.
As if he could read minds, Fintan said, "She's right, mate. You and I both know there'd never be a trial. You'd meet with an unfortunate gang riot in some prison somewhere, or else there'd be a bad traffic accident while they were transporting you. Something like that, anyway. Might even accuse you of trying to escape and just shoot you in the back."
Constance sobbed into Declan's T-shirt.
"How long 'til we land?" Fintan asked Lynch, who stood and walked quickly toward the cockpit.
"Thirty minutes, Governor," he answered as he reemerged a few seconds later, shutting the door behind him.
"Tell Captain Cummings to call ground support and arrange it so that we'll be landing from the east. I have an idea."
"Yes, sir," Lynch said, and disappeared back into the cockpit.
Declan looked at Fintan and Constance lifted her head to do the same.
"This plane was built specially for me," he said. "Cost a bloody fortune and it sits most of the time, but it may just have been worth it after all. Help me up."
Constance moved away from Declan, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, and grabbed hold of the two forearm crutches Fintan supported himself with when he walked. Declan took hold of Fintan's hands and lifted him, supporting him with a hand under each arm as Constance strapped a cane around each of his forearms.
Making his way slowly towards the rear of the jet, Fintan said, "In most jets the staircase is at the front, but I had it installed in the rear on this one because of my condition."
Declan thought back to when they'd entered the plane and Fintan was right. They had entered on a ramp from the rear of the plane. He hadn't thought much about it at the time, but now it was obvious to him that it was because of Fintan's occasional use of a wheelchair.
"My da' was a big fan of Mr. Cooper's apparently successful jump back in the early seventies. You remember that, love?" Fintan said, looking at Constance with a smile.
"Yeah, D.B. Cooper. What American doesn't? 1972 I think—wait a minute," Constance said, stopping suddenly. "You're not suggesting that we jump out of this plane, are you?"
"No, of course not, love," Fintan said, continuing to smile, "not all of us, anyway. Just Declan. He's the one they're after."
"There's no way! Nobody even knows if Cooper survived! His money washed up in a river! Declan, you can't seriously consider this!"
Declan kept moving towards the rear of the plane. "It's a moot point unless you have a parachute," he said, looking over his shoulder at Fintan.
"Well, it just so happens," Fintan said, opening a door next to the lavatory, "that I have several. Like I said, Da' was a fan and more than a bit paranoid. As the wealthiest member of the 'Ra's army council, he had good reason. The company jet back then was an old Boeing, not that different from the one Cooper hijacked."
"But your dad wasn't even involved in the company. Your uncle ran it." said Declan.
Fintan's company, McGuire & Lyons Industries, founded by his great-grandfather and a business partner, had been around since the late 1800s and had made the family a fortune during the heyday of shipbuilding in Belfast's harbors. The company had since branched out and was involved worldwide in a plethora of technical fields and was among the top industrial engineering firms in the world. Declan didn't know how many people the company employed or how much its annual revenue was, but he wouldn't be surprised to learn that it was in the thousands and hundreds of millions respectively.
"True, but that didn't stop Da' from taking advantage of its resources," Fintan said, "much to my uncle's chagrin. Da' was convinced the Brits would try to assassinate him if they found out who he was. He kept emergency preparations everywhere, including parachutes on the plane."
"Christ, Fintan, they've got to be what, at least twenty years old?"
"No, not actually, I suffered a fit of paranoia of my own once, like father, like son, I suppose. I had Lynch replace them with the latest and greatest about six years ago. He's maintained them ever since."
"This is mad," Declan said, smiling, as he took one of the black-bagged chutes out of the storage compartment and checked it over.
"But you've never jumped out of a plane! This isn't something you can just do," Constance said, grabbing him by the shoulder as if she could shake him back into his right mind.
"Actually, I have, over the Wakhan Valley in Afghanistan, multiple times. Russian special forces insist on all their soldiers being able to jump over any kind of terrain."
"Russians, what are you talking about?" Her face twisted into a painful question
.
"I'll explain later," he said, looking at Fintan. "'What's the plan?"
"Right then," Fintan said. "The runways in Waterford run east and north. We're going to fly south of the island and circle around it bringing us in from the east. Now we'll have to make a wide turn and that should put us over the southern part of Wales. That's where you'll exit."
"That'll put me on the mainland where I can link up with Shane."
"Exactly. It's probably barking mad, but it's the best plan we've got unless you fancy a trip to Mountjoy Prison or some such."
"Aye, it's mad."
"And what about me?" Constance said. "'They're looking for me, too, and I'm not jumping out of this plane!"
"I think we can get by with that. While I'm sure they'd love to get their hands on you it appears they're assuming you're going to be with Declan."
"And you didn't actually see anything. All you know is what I've told you. The best they could hope for would be to use you against me and that would be extremely difficult with all of this going public," Declan said, turning his attention from Constance to Fintan. "Can you get her by the police with the French passport I have for her?"
"This whole thing is a crapshoot, to be honest, but I am a member of parliament. That'll give me a lot of leverage. Once they see you're not on board I'll insist they got a bogus tip and proceed to throw a real fit. As long as her French is good and the paperwork is realistic, we should be grand."
"Her French is fluent and the paperwork is the real deal."
"Then we're golden, old son."
"Quit talking about me like I'm not even here. This whole thing is insane," Constance said, moving between Declan and Fintan. "You can't be serious!" She stood perfectly still, staring him directly in the eye. Declan could tell from her expression that she was feeling both desperation and fear, a volatile mixture.
"Look, it's like Fintan says," he said, taking her by the shoulders and trying his best to sound reassuring. "If they catch me, I'll be extradited back to the U.S. and I'll never make it to trial. Abe's dead. Levi's dead. I'm the only one left that knows Baktayev is in the U.S. If I'm out of the way, then there's no one left to stop them. Whoever these people are, they didn't break Baktayev out of prison for his company. They have plans for him and he's only good at one thing: killing innocent people."
Black Ops Bundle: Volume One Page 31
