"Timeline for what?" DuPont said.
"That, I don't know. I'd recommend you call your buddy, John Taffer, and ask him."
"I'll certainly do that."
CJ turned to Eveleen. "What's the history of the IRA and splinter groups as far as obtaining arms and explosives from the states?"
"You think that's what's been going on here?"
"The United Irish Republican Army is organizing something and doing it outside the Irish borders. It's much too far away to be gathering and training manpower. Planning something in secret, though, is more effective if it's accomplished well away from the battlefield where it would require only leadership and a select few lieutenants."
"You make it sound like they're intending an all out assault in Northern Ireland."
"That may be exactly what I'm saying. I'm thinking that they're gathering arms here in the United States where no one pays attention and are getting ready to load and ship them to Northern Ireland, and I've a hunch that this place in Apollo Beach may be the warehouse."
DuPont sat back. "That's an awfully big leap, CJ. Can you really believe they'd come this far from their country to organize a takeover?"
"I doubt they're considering a takeover against the British government. That's not only stupid, it's suicidal. I imagine what they're trying to do is gain attention, maybe sympathy. Isn't that what it's usually about? And I'm surprised that you're surprised, Parker," CJ said. "You of all people should know how easy it is for nefarious-minded people to organize in secret in the United States, land of unlimited freedoms. With far right-wings, left-wings, KKK, white supremacists, drug runners, border jumpers, extremist groups of all kinds, who's going to look twice at a bunch of Irish and Irish Americans getting together in Central Florida? This is the perfect place to organize."
DuPont nodded. "I see your point."
"It wouldn't be the first time," Eveleen said.
Everyone looked at her. "This has been done before?" CJ said.
"A fishing boat was seized coming into Ireland from Boston in '84. It was loaded with tons of guns and explosives. I remember it because PIRA was blamed. Turned out it originated from the Irish Mafia in Boston."
"So PIRA had nothing to do with it?" DuPont said.
Eveleen shrugged. "In '90 some IRA supporters attempted to smuggle a home-made missile system into Ireland. About the same time there were the black market Stinger Missiles in Miami. Arms purchases in Alabama; also in Colorado. All linked to the IRA."
"Really?"
"Really. After the Battle of Bogside in '69, during which I went into labor and then gave birth to Douglas, PIRA, brand new at the time, received support from Irish Americans in the United States in the form of submachine guns, handguns and ammunition; a huge shipment. I was there for that one. There have been a lot more throughout the years: Boston, Miami, New Jersey, Detroit. The list goes on. Even support from people as far out as Montana."
She took a long sip of her tea and then continued.
"After theGood Friday Accord in '98, I got angry. I and three others started the United Irish Republican Army. When everyone laid down their arms in 2005, the so-called disarmament, I considered giving up. As far as I was concerned, we'd lost and I was discouraged. As far back as 2002 there had been talk about relocating UIRA headquarters to the United States. The actual move took place in 2004. In November of 2005, after the arms lay down, I joined them in a rather weak last ditch effort to revitalize myself in the cause. Florida weather, age, and concern about my retirement years, easily took over and by the end of 2006 I'd become a small business owner. In everything but name, I walked away from the United Irish Republican Army and ensconced myself in St. Petersburg and the Florida west coast. I love Ireland, always will, but I've no desire to go back there. Not even for a visit."
"Who are the other three?" CJ said.
"Other three?"
"You said that there were four founders of the UIRA. Who are the other three?"
"One is dead. Heart attack I'd heard, in 2007, or maybe '08. He'd not actually come over; stayed in Northern Ireland with his family."
"The other two?"
"Would rather not say."
"Are they here?"
"Yes."
"Active?"
"As far as I know, yes."
"As far as you know? I think you do know and it has to be one or both of them who put the hit out on Douglas and likely out on you and Rebecca as well."
She looked away. "I don't see... I don't know." She wiped at her face with a napkin. "With much regret I gave up my son because of it all in 1969. Now, 43 years later, I've lost my son again because of it, this time for good."
"Then you need to tell us who could possibly have ordered the hit."
She sat back, folded her arms over her chest and closed her eyes.
"I'm done!"
DuPont went back to tapping his spoon on the table while CJ rubbed at his shoulder. He wondered if maybe he had done something to it when he hit the truck.
DuPont pulled out his phone, punched at it and then put it to his ear.
"John," he said. "We've got new developments... Right. The Douglas O'Reilly case. We need to meet." He looked at Eveleen who was still turned away, her eyes closed. "No, not this afternoon. Crime doesn't take Saturday mornings off, John. Attempts are being made on people's lives in the apparent name of your little Irish operation. We need to meet now!"
He listened for a few seconds.
"I'm at what could have turned into a horrific crime scene if not for quick actions by an Arizona private eye."
He held the phone away from his ear while Agent Taffer spit out a phrase that included a profanity and the name, Washburn, which everyone at the table could hear.
"CJ Washburn. Yes. Who else do you think I'd be talking about?"
He listened for a few seconds.
"Downtown St. Petersburg." He recited the address. "We'll be waiting."
DuPont looked around the table. "Sorry about that. He'll be here in ten minutes or so. He lives in St. Petersburg and is right now at his kid's soccer match. I'm not going to feel bad about that. I can probably count on one hand, with fingers left over, the number of my kids' events I've been able to make it to over the last ten years and have stayed until the end. It comes with the job."
CJ thought about that statement and his own time on the force as a police officer during the formative years for Trish and Josh. He thought about his fights with Pat, his now ex-wife, concerning that very subject, and then he thought about his too-little-too-late attempt to fix it all by leaving the force and becoming a private investigator. He recalled Trish's disappointment and Josh's anger when it still ended in divorce.
He wondered if Detective DuPont and Agent Taffer were possibly heading down that same road.
And then he thought about Stella. Would they be different? They wouldn't have kids and she worked with him. Maybe it'd work.
"What are you going to do about your car, Eveleen?" Rebecca said.
Eveleen opened her eyes and turned her head toward where the car was still parked, the driver's door poking out of the trunk. "I have Triple A."
"You can still drive it," CJ said.
She presented him with her saddest smile and shook her head. "No way am I driving around St. Petersburg in anything that looks like that."
"You can use Doug's car," Rebecca said.
Eveleen looked at her for a few seconds, apparently thinking about the fact that her son would never drive it again. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind if my insurance company doesn't foot for a rental."
"And you do have Eddie," Rebecca said.
Eveleen closed her eyes again and took a deep breath. "Yes, I do have Eddie."
After a short bit of silence, CJ got up and retrieved a map from his car. He opened it on the table and said, "Any idea where in Apollo Beach this meeting place would be located? It would need to have waterfront access if the operation requires shipping arms to Northern Ireland."
CJ bent forward and looked closer. "Oh." He blinked a couple of times. "It looks like almost every home would have a backyard to the water, and it all feeds to the bay."
"Fifty-five miles of canals," DuPont said, "with access to Tampa Bay and, thus, the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean."
"These places must be expensive. There are hundreds of homes."
"Not top dollar, but close, CJ. And there are thousands of homes."
CJ sat back. "Somebody in this organization has deep pockets. Is there much commercial waterfront property or businesses?"
"I don't think so, at least not along the line that you're thinking. No warehouses with loading docks where one, unobserved, could load up a big ship worthy to sail or steam for 5,000 miles."
CJ considered that for a moment and then said, "But it is possible, I'd assume, to park a ship out in the bay somewhere and then shuttle a smaller boat to it from a house in Apollo Beach?"
"That would be anchor a ship out in the bay, CJ. Certainly it's possible. Realistically? I'm not seeing it."
"Why would it be so hard? You get a big house on the water. You truck in guns, ammo and such into your attached garage from where you can haul everything into your living room, or large bedroom. Nothing larger than could fit into a van or SUV. Hell, you could use the entire house if its only purpose is as a warehouse with a kitchen. That can be done in daylight hours, everyday for as long as it takes; in other words, weeks or months."
"It'd be a lot of activity in a residential neighborhood."
"Who's going to pay attention to a private vehicle coming and going from a garage once or twice a day? That's all that would be needed if these people are smart. Once you have everything staged, which can take as long as required, you bring in the sea-going vessel, park, er...ah, anchor it out a ways and then start shuttling until it's loaded. The shuttling can take place at night. Again, a little at a time."
"Great theory, my friend, but nothing but a theory. There's no meat there. It's just a supposition. Can't get a warrant on a supposition."
All the time he and the detective where discussing Apollo Beach, CJ was noticing Eveleen's seemingly uninterested attitude. When he first brought out the map, she'd given it a bare glance and then turned away as though activity elsewhere was of much greater importance.
"What was the true reason you gave up, Ms. Danohough?" CJ said.
"What do you mean," her voice said, but her face told him she knew exactly what he was asking.
"You said that after the arms were laid down in 2005, you gave up."
"It wasn't so much a lay down as a destruction. Everything was made unusable."
"And that made you angry."
"Yes."
"I thought you wanted only a peaceful solution, at least that's what you attempted to lead us to believe."
"The United States wants a peaceful solution to unrest around the world. I don't see them laying down and destroying their tanks, ships and planes. That would be stupid."
CJ responded only with a nod.
"When we laid down our arms and walked away it was the same as saying to the British government, 'You won. We'll do whatever you say.'"
"That's why you left Northern Ireland. You couldn't stand being under British rule. Why didn't you just move south, to Independent Ireland?"
"I considered it, actually, seeing as that was where I was born and raised, lived until the mid '80s. I didn't really want to go back there. My parents were gone. I had no other family. Also, I'd be doing exactly what the British wanted. 'If you don't like it, there's the border.' I'd heard that from the Protestants too many times."
"Why didn't you just stay?"
She didn't answer.
"Because this is where UIRA headquarters went." CJ pointed in a direction he thought was east. "Right over there, in Apollo Beach. It's hard to hide in Ireland or even Europe. You, or your cofounders, brought UIRA to North America. You know exactly where the warehouse-headquarters are located, don't you? You could tell us the square footage, maybe even a close estimate of the tonnage of military armament staged there right now."
She tightened her lips and looked away again. "I know nothing about military armament. There's no..."
"What's the address, Ms. Danohough?" Detective DuPont said.
But Eveleen Danohough's attention was no longer on the conversation. She'd become tense, her gaze suddenly focused on something down the street.
DuPont leaned toward her. "Ms. Danohough!"
In a sudden rush to get to her feet, Eveleen shoved her chair over backwards. It hit the cement sidewalk with a clank! CJ followed to where she was looking and then jumped to his feet as well, disturbing the table and sloshing drinks all around. The truck that had tried to run her down little more than an hour before was back, and coming toward them. The passenger window started coming down and the speed picked up.
"Everyone on the ground!" CJ yelled and grabbed for Rebecca. DuPont looked, saw what CJ and Eveleen were seeing and lunged at the older woman. Chairs scattered, Rebecca screamed and the four of them landed face-down, the two men partially covering the women in a gallant attempt to protect them. Gun was the only thing CJ could think of as the front grill of the truck came into view between his rental and the car parked in front of it. They were about to be exposed. In a split second reflex, he reached out and grabbed a table leg. As he flipped the table, with umbrella, on its side he saw an arm and then a hand in the window and then something, an object the size of a giant coffee mug, flying out. Only it wasn't a mug. It was a...
"Bomb!" CJ yelled as he tucked his head between his arms and into the space between Rebecca's shoulder blades. The last two things he thought about before the explosion was the pain in his side and the fact that Stella would have no one to meet her at the airport.
Chapter 19
There were hands on CJ, muffled voices, shoes shuffling, someone kneeling. "...you...k," a man said. CJ rolled off of Rebecca onto his back and looked past a face and then another face, past the branches of a tree and up at the sky. "Are...," one face said but CJ couldn't make out anything else. It was like the explosion was still roaring in his head.
He looked over and saw the other three stirring at about the same speed as him. DuPont sat up, said something, then put his hands up to his ears. CJ pointed to the detective's arm and said, "You're bleeding," but it sounded like he was talking from inside a barrel.
Both women were struggling to their hands and knees and CJ heard someone say, "Stay down! Don't..." After that the words trailed off into the barrel.
CJ looked past DuPont to his rental car. The hood was up and buckled, the front end mangled, collapsed to the ground, the front tire that he could see shredded, the rear tire flat. The rear end of the car parked in front of it was also badly damaged, tires flat. The table and umbrella, except for a corner of the umbrella that was shredded, seemed to be completely intact. There was no fire, no smoke. He looked at the rental again, at the tremendous damage and remembered the object flying toward them. How was it possible that they'd sustained no injuries beyond the detective's bleeding arm and their temporary, he hoped, loss of hearing? The roaring in his head was now a high-pitched ringing.
"It's best... don't move."
CJ looked up at the person speaking and recognized the manager from the coffee shop, the one who'd provided complimentary coffee and tea after the earlier event when the same truck had come after Eveleen. He understood why the man was recommending that he not move, however after assessing his body parts, testing his limbs and feeling the bandage on his head, CJ decided that sitting up would not be an issue. He rolled to his hands and knees and then sat back on his heels. His ribs were throbbing.
He noticed that one of the windows to the coffee shop was gone, the other intact. "Anyone hurt?" he asked of the manager, pointing at the window.
The manager shook
his head. "Lucky," was all CJ heard.
CJ turned his head and found that Rebecca was already propped in a chair, looking around, in a daze. Eveleen was sitting on the ground, her head between her raised knees, while Detective DuPont was on his feet, looking up and down the street, still apparently unaware that there was blood running down his arm, dripping from his fingertips.
"Parker," CJ said, noticing that the barrel effect seemed to be fading a bit. He wished the ringing would stop. When there came no response from the detective, CJ raised his voice. "Parker!"
DuPont turned to look at CJ.
CJ pointed to the detective's hand. "You're bleeding."
The detective looked down and started to pull his hand up to his face. That was as far as he got before he fell to his knees and then plopped over sideways against the table legs. CJ shoved the table aside and dropped down next to the detective, immediately checking for his pulse. Not only did he find a pulse, and a strong one at that, but he also discovered a nail sticking out of the side of the detective's head.
And then there came the sirens.
Chapter 20
CJ stood with his hands in his pockets watching expectant faces of people milling around inside Tampa International Airport, wanting to sit down because his cracked rib was giving him issues, not able to sit because, one, he was too nervous, too keyed up, and two, there were no seats except one near a woman with four kids. He sort of felt like they looked, wiggly and whiney. He certainly didn't need to join their fray.
"Are you always like this, Mr. Washburn?" said the FBI agent standing next to him.
Between the occasional ringing in one ear and the on and off pressure, CJ still had to focus when someone was talking to him. He wondered how long it would take for his hearing to return to normal. "Like this what?"
"It's as though you have an itch that you need to scratch but don't know how to put your hand down your pants without anyone noticing."
CJ turned his head to look at Special Agent Coulter. "When did the FBI start checking for the bullet point, well dressed comedian, on prospective agents' resumes?"
Sailing into Death (CJ Washburn, PI Book 2) Page 12
