by Gordon Ryan
“What about the media?” Barrington asked.
“Let’s speak with Vice . . . uh, President Snow first,” Tiarks said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes over the next forty-eight hours. He’s about to reap the whirlwind and he had no part in the decision. What a state of affairs. Two dead presidents in four months. For better or worse, we’ve got yet another president. God help us!”
“And God help him,” Barrington added.
Chapter 3
Dublin, Ireland
January
Carlos Hernandez Castro was dressed in slacks, pull-over golf shirt, and a dark blazer. At five feet, ten inches tall, with a muscular upper body, he looked more like a halfback than a wide receiver. His dark hair was closely cropped, a twenty-year affectation instilled by the military. He had deep-set, dark brown eyes and a swarthy complexion, compliments of years in the field and multiple generations of Spanish, Central American Indian, and the occasional European ancestor. His smile was rare, but when delivered, had been known to win a few bucks from his colleagues when put to the test against some unsuspecting female.
He descended the front steps of the American Embassy in Dublin at a hurried pace, turned west, and strode briskly down Pembroke Street toward St. Stephen's Green and a pre-arranged meeting. Once there, he stood on the northeast corner for about five minutes, during which his mind wandered over the events of the past sixty days. Major changes had recently occurred in his life. The death of President Cumberland two days ago only compounded the confusion. Carlos had already departed on this assignment, having no ability to speak with General Connor about the new development. That would have to wait for his return.
Strictly speaking, Carlos was still a Sergeant Major in the United States Marine Corps, but he was on terminal leave, pending his retirement on February 28, 2013. Officially, he was in Ireland in the capacity of his new position as Deputy Director, Office of Public Relations and Information, Department of Homeland Security. In fact, Carlos was second in charge of the president’s new terrorism task force, code name Trojan. Juggling his multiple official and unofficial roles was something he found amusing, and about as convoluted as his life story.
Entering the United States illegally over thirty years earlier with his mother and two siblings, after walking the length of Mexico from their rural village in Guatemala, Carlos had matured well beyond his age. He used this new found confidence to immediately take command of his Los Angeles barrio—at least, command of the ‘under twelve” age bracket, the training ground for prospective gang members. He stayed in charge for several years until the police began to wonder about several recently absent gang leaders and the unknown teenager who had apparently assumed control. In less than four years, everyone living in the barrio of East Los Angeles knew of the boy who had come to be called CC.
After one of his increasingly frequent incarcerations in juvenile hall, a benevolent youth gang detective saw something others had not. Seeking to kill two birds with one stone, he gave CC the hard news—he was headed for one of three places: jail, the cemetery, or the military. When the detective explained that CC could join the biggest, baddest gang in the world, the United States Marine Corps, seventeen-year-old Carlos Castro signed up.
Within two years, his peers in the Corps had joined forces to beat the crap out of him and, in the process, a different Castro had surfaced. Still tough, still seeking leadership, and still the best one-on-one street fighter he knew, Carlos was learning to work within the confines of a team. And now he had a new family, had earned his stripes as a Recon Marine, and had been recognized by his command structure—for all the right reasons—as a leader. As a Recon Marine, he was with his peers, the best of the best, despite the Navy SEALS claim to the title.
Twenty-five years later, Carlos had become an American citizen, risen to the highest attainable enlisted rank in the Corps, and earned two bronze and one silver star and a host of lesser decorations. He had also acquired an Associate’s degree in Middle Eastern Languages from the Defense Language Institute, a Bachelor’s in History and a Master’s in Economics from the University of Phoenix at various locations during his career, and most recently, a law degree from Loyola University’s evening law school. The man who had started as a young, illegal Hispanic immigrant had completed his transformation. Becoming a senior executive in the Department of Homeland Security was merely a bonus.
The most unique aspect of this transformation, Carlos thought as he waited for his Irish rendezvous, was that he was still doing the same thing: seeking out and intimidating or killing his, or his country’s, enemies. A law degree hadn’t changed that hard-won talent, but it had provided one other professional characteristic that set him apart from most of his peers: he could write a grammatically correct after-action report.
Three days earlier, in a meeting with his boss, General Pádraig ‘Pug’ Connor, in their new offices in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building across the street from the White House, Pug had briefed him on the man he was to meet.
“His name is Kevin Donahue. He’s in his mid-sixties now, but don’t underestimate the man. I’ve met with him before, several years ago. He was a brigade commander in the IRA, essentially a terrorist similar to what we’re fighting now, but with a different purpose. Paradise wasn’t his goal, but a united Ireland was, and in those days, he had no qualms about placing a bomb in the public square. Those lads hadn’t agreed to be the bomb, but they certainly wreaked havoc.”
“From what I understand, they’ve been at peace for a decade, notwithstanding the claimed assassination of the vice president and prime minister last year. What does he have to offer us now?” Carlos asked.
“The main tool of intelligence: information. He just might know where to locate the elusive Jean Wolff. There’s no need for you to go armed. And you’re not a credentialed diplomat in Ireland. If they wanted to kill you, they would, but those days are, for the most part, gone. I won’t say you should trust him, but he’ll most likely tell you the truth. He’ll tell you nothing if he doesn’t want to, or doesn’t know, but he has no reason to lie. Just give him my regards and see what he brings to the table. In my message to him through our resident CIA agent at the embassy, he knows what we need. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of days for him to make contact. In the meantime, if this is your first visit to Ireland, enjoy yourself. Some great old Irish pubs throughout Dublin.”
Carlos nodded. “It’s not the type of insertion I’m used to, General, but I guess I’m in a new world.”
“Get used to it, Carlos. Your days of ‘dropping in’ through a HALO insertion are likely over.” The ‘high altitude, low opening’ parachute drop had been Carlos’s favorite part of being a Recon Marine.
“You’ve just earned a desk, like I did a few years back,” General Connor continued, “and you’ve crossed the big forty. It’s not easy to accept. You and I have to put Trojan together piece by piece and we can’t expect much help from anyone outside. The Pentagon certainly won’t like our carte blanche mandate to call on their special ops assets without even telling them how we intend to use them.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Carlos replied. “That was the primary reason I decided to retire. A sergeant major wouldn’t get much cooperation from the puzzle palace. Maybe as Deputy Director Castro from Homeland Security I’ll fare better.”
“Don’t count on it,” Pug said, “but if you start to miss the Corps, check your bank account. Your current salary should help ease the pain.” He laughed. “Anyway, keep in touch while you’re in Ireland. You have full authority to go where, and do what, you need. But you’re not 007. No license to kill, at least not in Ireland on this trip. If you need additional backup, just contact me. I want Wolff dead. That would be the exception to my earlier statement. If he’s in Ireland, which I strongly doubt, then kill him. President Cumberland takes office day after tomorrow. If you can locate Wolff, let’s try to get this done before the change occurs.”
; “Aye, aye, sir.” Carlos stood and headed for the door, pausing to look back and grin. “Or rather, ‘yes, sir,’” he said. “Got to change the language too, I suppose.”
“Carry on, Sergeant Major,” Pug had replied with a loose salute. Carlos had flown out the next day and waited two days for contact from Donahue. In the interim, President Cumberland had died.
As the Irish evening began to descend, a black Mercedes approached St. Stephen’s Green, pulled up sharply, and the back door opened. A burly, red-faced man quickly got out. Even though Castro was expecting the vehicle, the manner of approach had all the earmarks of an abduction, and his pulse began to quicken.
“Welcome to Ireland, Mr. Castro, is it?” he said, a slight sneer on his face and his tone anything but welcoming.
As Castro slipped into the backseat, another man slid over to the far side and Red-face quickly climbed in, sandwiching him in the middle. As the car sped away, he flinched when the man to his right pulled out a blindfold.
“Not to worry,” the second man said, “we’ll treat you better than your lads did the Dutch tourists.” After several seconds of silence, Red-face spoke again. “How’d you like Ryan’s Pub? I noticed you didn’t try the Guinness.” Carlos had assumed from the moment he stepped off the plane that he might be under observation. He’d confirmed it the night before in the pub.
“No, I didn’t,” Castro responded, “but you did. And your companion left a bit early, didn’t he?”
The male pissing ritual completed, they rode in silence for about twenty-five minutes, the sounds of the city varying as they traversed multiple suburban communities. Castro tried to estimate, by sound and timing, the direction and possible location of their destination. Eventually, the vehicle seemed to enter an enclosure and the ambient noise grew quiet.
“Right, here we are now,” Red-face announced. Helped out of the car, Castro was led blindfolded several feet where he was guided into the back seat of another vehicle. Immediately, the second vehicle exited the building, and the sounds of city traffic once again were audible. In about three minutes, the blindfold was removed. Even though it was full dark outside and the vehicle windows were heavily tinted, Castro blinked to clear his eyes.
Only one man was in the back seat with him and the vehicle was much larger inside, a limousine, by all appearances. He glanced to his right and immediately recognized the other man. Two men were in the front seat behind the sound proof glass enclosure that separated the two compartments.
“So, my old friend Colonel Connor gave you my file, did he?” the man next to him said.
Castro didn’t respond.
“Come now, Mr. Castro, let’s not play games. You haven’t much time before your flight. You recognized me. Surely you’ve read my file and seen my picture. And Pug Connor sent you to discuss a mutual friend.”
Castro nodded, and then stared directly into Donahue’s eyes, neither man blinking. “I know who you are, Mr. Donahue.”
According to American intelligence documents which the general had provided to Castro, most of which were received from British Special Branch and the SAS surveillance unit, Kevin Donahue was, or at least had been, a brigade commander in the Provisional Wing of the Irish Republican Army, better known as the PIRA or Provos. In the seventies in Northern Ireland, he’d been suspected of at least a dozen killings and knee-cappings, plus several bombings. More recently, there was American and British intelligence community speculation, but no proof, that he had been behind the assassination of the American vice president and the British prime minister about six months earlier.
For the past decade, there had been an uneasy truce in Ireland and the IRA had refrained from their traditional course of open rebellion, which they had followed through much of the previous century. Still, the former IRA leaders remained in the shadows, fearing retribution from the British intelligence community.
“Colonel Connor asked me to present his compliments and to ask how you were. He specifically asked about your progress with the current peace accords.” General Connor had told Castro not to mention the recent promotion to general.
“I keep my nose in the wind,” the older man answered. “You know how it was in the American west. The gunslingers often became the town marshal, didn’t they? Corporate security is a big business, no matter what side of the fence one chooses. I’ve made a few contacts. Even in America. Big bucks riding on security in America these days.”
“Indeed, security operations are springing up everywhere. Perhaps that brings us to the subject of our meeting, an international weapons operative who goes by the name of Jean Wolff,” Castro replied.
“What makes the ‘office of public relations’ interested in Wolff?” Donahue asked.
Carlos kept his surprise at Donahue’s knowledge of their new designation hidden beneath a stoic mask. “Let’s just say he’s been active in our neck of the woods. My boss said you might have some knowledge of his activities.”
Donahue was silent for several seconds, then nodded. “Right then, let’s get down to business,” the older man said, turning his body slightly to face toward Castro. “What’s in it for us if I can provide a lead to Wolff?”
“My bosses’ undying appreciation,” Castro replied. “Maybe the more appropriate question is, ‘why would you be willing to give him up’?”
“There’s no love lost between Wolff and the Irish. The bastard has double-crossed us in the past and I thought it might be an opportunity to pay him back. If you’re interested, I’m willing to help. If not, then we can just drop you at the airport. As to what’s in it for us, just tell Connor that I’ll chalk it up and call in the chit some day.”
“I’m listening,” Castro said. Glancing out the window, he confirmed that they were heading in the direction of the airport on the north side of Dublin.
Donahue anticipated his concern. “Not to worry, Mr. Castro. We’ve retrieved your suitcase from the hotel and are happy to escort you to your flight. We also made certain you were booked on Aer Lingus, and not on a KLM flight. Although you’ll undoubtedly check, there are no surprise packages in your suitcase, either. Dutch airline flights are rather dangerous these days, so I hear. Far safer on Aer Lingus.”
Castro nodded.
“Now, what was I saying? The identity of an arms merchant, was it? Would that fall within Colonel Connor’s new area of concern?” “He’s of interest to several organizations, Mr. Donahue. My boss heads one of those. Let’s stop dancing. Do you know where Wolff is located?”
Donahue looked at his watch before responding, then he leaned forward and tapped on the window, alerting the driver with a pre-arranged signal. “Diplomacy’s not your long suit, is it, Mr. Castro? You could learn something from your boss. But of course, Connor is already Irish, so it comes naturally. As for Wolff, I might be of some assistance. I’ll get back to you.”
The vehicle left the side street they were on and quickly entered the M1, a dual carriageway, the Irish equivalent of a freeway, and increased speed toward the airport.
They drove in silence for about ten minutes, pulling up in front of the Dublin International Airport terminal. Donahue turned toward Castro and smiled. “Here we are, Mr. Castro.”
The driver was already at the boot of the car, placing Castro’s suitcase on the footpath in front of the international terminal.
“You’re a hard man, Mr. Donahue,” Carlos said, looking directly at the former IRA operative. “Any message for my boss?”
“Tell the general congratulations on his promotion and new assignment. I look forward to meeting him in person again one day. In a peaceful context, of course,” he said, chuckling.
Castro broke into a smile, his first friendly gesture of the meeting. “General Connor said you might surprise me.”
“Satellites can’t see everything. With all your American high-tech capability, you lads seem to have forgotten the good to be had from a bit of fossicking around by a man with a good nose. Of course, you knew that in east L
A, didn’t you? All good intelligence still comes from a man, or a woman, on the ground. Fortunately, ‘Paddy’ has been emigrating throughout the world for two centuries, but they all remember where they or their parents were born. Best intelligence network in the world, bar none. Maybe the Jews are as good, but they don’t frequent the pubs.”
He paused, offering Castro a handshake. “Perhaps we’ll meet again, Mr. Castro. Now that we’re friends, perhaps you’ll allow me to call you CC. I’ll get in touch with you about our mutual friend. I should hear something soon—probably sooner than you think. Have a safe trip home, lad. The world’s become a dangerous place, even for innocent bystanders. By the way, since you and your boss are into, what did you call it, public relations, do you think your new president, Bill Snow, will survive his own public relations storm? From the sound of it, Cumberland took the easy way out and Snow has to carry the can for the decision to shoot down the terrorists. From my perspective, it was the only decision to make, you know.”
“Gracious of you to concur,” Castro replied. “But one can never tell about the public, or the politicians. One thing’s for certain—the next lot of fanatics will think twice.”
Donahue shook his head. “Don’t be naïve, lad. The terrorists won that round. And you lost an eighty-million-dollar fighter and a fifteen-million-dollar pilot. You’re still a bit young, lad, but if you’ve read that the old Irish groups were terrorists, it would seem that these jihadists have put a whole new light on political action. In my father’s day, they brought the bomb in a suitcase. These new fanatics are the bomb. Someone bent on a trip to paradise is hard to deter. Not much defense against that, lad. Safe journey, Carlos.”
Castro exited the vehicle, then stood by his suitcase and watched as Donahue departed the terminal drive. He then picked up the bag and turned to enter the building.
