“Like when RUCs dragged him out and beat him? Like they did ‘Seán Martin’?”
“Yes, exactly like that.”
Molly took the opportunity to change the subject. “Mum, did Da write The Blood-Dimmed Tide?”
“Your father?” Mum hooted with laughter. “No! He hates to talk about it. You saw him try to play the Top Secret card for talkin’ to you, didn’t you?”
They both laughed.
Molly steered back onto the freeway, and Mum steered the conversation back to her topic. “Molly, your da and you girls showed me what was most important in life: love. When you find that, it doesn’t matter what you need to ‘accomplish.’ You need to act on it, take that leap of faith, or you might lose it.”
“You want me to ring Nate?”
“Who said anythin’ about Nate?”
Molly fell silent. Obviously she meant Zachary.
If Molly was honest, she’d have to admit it: deep down, she knew seeing her future with Zachary hadn’t meant dating him indefinitely. It’d meant marrying him.
“Mum, do you believe God has a plan for our lives?”
“Of course, love. God is always in control.”
“What if . . . I’ve ruined mine?”
Mum’s laugh was high and incredulous. “D’ye hear yourself, love? You’re one of the most amazin’, capable women I’ve ever known, but if you went up against God, who would win?”
She didn’t have to go up against God. She was up against Zachary, and all they’d done to one another.
And when it came down to it, when she was ready to marry, she’d always wanted to marry Zachary.
That was precisely why seeing him again was hard, why she still hurt. Why some part of her still loved him. In the end, he was the one she’d wanted — still wanted — to have there for support, and to be there for him through those times, too, even up to a police beating. Knowing Zachary’s penchant for antagonizing cops — like that time they’d been stopped for speeding in DC and he’d got his fine doubled — that was a possibility, though not as much as it had been for her parents.
“Wait a minute,” Molly said, sitting up straighter. “Da’s beatin’ was ‘exactly’ like ‘Seán Martin’s’?”
“Did I say that?” Mum asked.
“Mum. Did you write The Blood-Dimmed Tide?”
“Oh, I have to go — my popcorn’s ready!” And Mum clicked off.
Molly glanced at her mobile and the picture of her mum there. No. She’d sooner believe Mum had been abducted by aliens than written The Blood-Dimmed Tide. Although . . . they’d been extra cagey about their IRA involvement this go-round, but she’d dismissed that as trying to keep themselves and Bridie’s family clear of the Canavans. Now their friends were in the book, along with Da’s life.
On the other hand, alien abduction did seem the most likely explanation if Mum had urged her to marry Zachary. That was all but impossible.
After all this time, she wanted to marry him. But how could she shackle herself to someone who would never respect her?
Wednesday night, Grace pressed herself into the alleyway’s shadows as best she could. Every heartbeat pulsed in her stomach, a rhythm of nausea. Piecing together the components of this mission had taken four days. They didn’t have time to start over.
She glanced up at Ed, but his balaclava brought back memories — not all of them reassuring. Grace shuffled farther into the building’s shadows, willing herself not to remember.
That time he’d nearly got caught by the British Army at a weapons cache. She could taste the salt and metal of her own blood, biting through her lip to keep quiet.
Grace pressed the gun into Ed’s gloves. Focus on this job.
Being shot at by Royal Ulster Constabularies. She could still smell the gunpowder and terror.
Grace shoved the memory aside, straining to hear the approaching footsteps.
The fistfight with Ulster Defense Force. She could never forget the sickening crack of the punch that left Ed unconscious for what felt like forever.
The footsteps continued, growing louder.
Time. Stooping to petty crime was one reason they’d abandoned IRA splinter groups, but once in a while, non-political violence was necessary for the cause.
Finally their target was close enough. Grace signaled, and Ed moved out of the shadows, gun at the ready.
“Give it,” he said, his voice more gruff than usual with that American accent. “Everything.”
“Hey, man, I don’t have anything —”
“Watch, wallet. Keys. Now!”
Grace couldn’t see the man, but she heard the wallet slap the ground. Then the jangle of the keys. She restrained the jolt of celebration. They still had to get out of here.
“Phone, too,” Ed added.
“I — I need —” The man choked off. Heavy plastic clattered across the cement. “Not worth dying.”
“That’s right, buddy.”
Grace watched Ed stoop to collect the haul. Once he had, he flicked the gun at the man. “Run.”
Retreating footsteps echoed through the alleyway where Grace hid. Ed took off running past Grace, and she followed to where Pearse waited in his idling car. Grace and Ed piled into the backseat, and Pearse pulled away.
Grace held out a hand for the wallet, careful to handle it only with gloves. The license in its window read “Jimmy McCorkle.” Next was his work ID: JIMMY MCCORKLE, FOREMAN, PRECISION DEMOLITION.
Ed passed the key ring to Pearse at the first red light. Pearse flipped through the keys until he found one and held it aloft. “This one.”
Grace yanked the cash from the wallet and rolled down the window.
“Not takin’ the bank cards, Mam?”
Amateur. Eejit. She tossed the wallet out the window, and the phone, too. “Too easy to trace.”
“When do we hit the bunker?”
“Now, before he tells anyone at Precision he’s lost his keys. We can be in and out before they get down there.”
Pearse obeyed. Each mile, each minute that ticked by felt like a year. Had he alerted someone yet? Finally, miles outside of town, Pearse took a left into a tiny gravel parking lot. Grace climbed from the car, peering through the dark at the unmarked shipping container sheltered by a hill and a pile of sandbags. This was Precision Demolition’s magazine bunker?
Pearse shut off the car. Grace and Ed trailed after him to the bunker. Pearse tapped a raised silver circle on a metal plate on the door. “Hockey puck locks.”
“Gloves, ya spanner.”
Pearse tugged on latex gloves. He stuck the key in the keyhole on the side and turned it. The silver hockey puck portion pulled free, and the metal plate swung open. He unlocked the lower lock as well and gave the puck to Ed.
“C-4’s on the left, past the water-gels.” A silent conversation passed between them. “Next time, Da,” Pearse said with a nod. “I’ll show you.”
A smile stole across Ed’s face. He clapped Pearse on the shoulder before heading into the storage container. Grace suppressed a groan. They wouldn’t need explosives next time if they had enough snipers.
A siren wailed in the distance. “Ninety to the dozen,” Grace called, though they didn’t need the urging to go faster.
Pearse glanced over some paperwork while Ed’s torch beam bounced around the back. Pearse clapped. “They left today’s papers.” He made a note on the top sheet. Grace shone her torch on the requisitions from the day. Her son had changed a 1 to a 4, accounting for the lot they were stealing.
“They won’t notice the blastin’ caps.” He grabbed half a dozen from a shelf near the door. “Let’s scarper.”
Grace took the detonators and helped lock the shipping container. Now they were ready.
Thursday morning, Molly finished the last of her follow-up calls on their cold cases with nothing new to report. And nothing new on the Zachary front, either, since he hadn’t called, texted or emailed with status updates or a confession that he’d always respected h
er on a professional level.
Probably because he hadn’t.
The phone on Kent’s desk rang. “Malone!” he called. “Can you take this? It’s the Luxembourgish consul’s office.”
The phone rang again. Molly slowly turned her chair to him. “Isn’t that your case?”
“Yeah, but — can’t you?”
Ring.
Molly kept her gaze level. “Stand up and work this case yourself.”
“But — but —”
Molly pointed at the phone on the next ring. “If you don’t answer, you’ll miss your chance. I’m not doin’ it for you.”
Kent looked at her and the phone, his eyes wide with panic. “I can’t!”
“If you don’t, no one else can, and the criminals will go unpunished.”
Ring.
“Do it,” Molly urged.
Kent yanked the receiver off the cradle. “Hello?” He straightened with a little gasp. “Mr. Consul, thank you so much for calling personally. . . . Yes, sir, one minute.” He snatched up a pen and began writing furiously. “I think I can. Thank you — this is exactly what we were hoping for.” Kent hung up his phone and stood, practically dancing from foot to foot.
“Well?” Molly asked.
“The consul said he appreciated your diligence and set up a meeting with the assistant director of the state intelligence service — he’s in town this week.”
“The Service de Renseignement de l’État?”
Kent pointed at her like she’d guessed the answer right in a board game. “Yeah, that. We’re having lunch.” He checked his watch. “In half an hour.” He shoved into his jacket — and he was in such a hurry, he put it on upside down.
“There’s no guarantee he’ll give us what we need, Kent.”
“The Consul said he would — said he’d talked to him about the case, and the guy said he’d bring the file.” He took off his jacket and righted it. “How is the Luxembourgers’ relationship to the Belgians?”
She dug up what she could remember from her research internship in Brussels. “Luxembourg’s had an economic union with Belgium for nearly a century.”
“You know that off the cuff?” Kent half-laughed, shaking his head. “Man, that’s exactly why I like working with you.”
“How’s that?”
“You — you know everything: crime stats, languages, policing, tac-ops, international relations.” Kent trailed off, his gaze drifting away. “I know I’ve been throwing a lot your way lately. Maybe I just got spoiled when we were at Quantico. All of us did. No matter what the question was, we always knew Malone had the answer.”
“Um . . . thank you.”
“Aren’t you working on a cold case with a Belgian connection?”
He knew what cold cases she’d been working on — rather, not working on so she could help him? “I am.”
“Krier, right? Can you give me a brief of anything you could use from them, and I’ll ask the consul about it?”
Molly smiled and pulled up her case file. Hope for Kent yet indeed.
Kent hurried off with her notes, leaving Molly free to work on her own cases for the afternoon. Kent swooped back in, still bounding with enthusiasm, a few minutes before five, just as Molly finished up her last FD-302 and made the day’s final email check.
Among the new messages was one vaguely familiar sender. Raymond Hassan. Was that one of her cold cases, or —? Your man from Ireland’s Independent Monitoring Commission. Had he found something on the Canavans after all? She hurried to open the email.
Special Agent Malone,
I received this email today. It may be a coincidence, but there’s quite a bit of overlap between the case you described and the one below. Hope this helps.
After a break in the text and a series of assorted email headers, showing the message had made its rounds before reaching Hassan, a forwarded message followed.
A quick skim, and Molly grabbed her mobile and dialed Zachary.
Zach was on the elevator when his phone rang: Molly’s number. He still didn’t know how to answer her question from Tuesday — what did she want, a parade in her honor? — but this had to be about work. “Hey, Molly.”
She didn’t bother with a greeting. “I got an email from the Canavans’ son. He said —”
“I’ll be right there.” Zachary ended the call. He jogged off the elevator at the next floor and then halfway up the stairs to Molly’s cubicle before it registered that the case wasn’t the reason he was running.
He’d pretend that was the reason until Molly gave him a better excuse to run to her side. Three minutes after she called, he was at her desk.
Kent was still there, looking the part of FBI agent filing paperwork instead of fan boy at loose ends. Did the audience make things less awkward for them, or more?
Molly glanced up and startled to see him. Too late to back out. Zach nodded a greeting. “What’s up?”
Molly gestured toward her monitor, and Zach leaned down to read.
I wasn’t sure who to turn to, but I’ve only just realized how involved my parents were in paramilitaries in the 1980s, and a few recent incidents have me worrying they’re at it again.
Earlier this week, they sent me an email saying they have “events” coming up, and I should be sure to watch the international news, especially in the next fortnight. My mam said I’d finally come to understand where Ireland stood on the world stage, as they had, and what a necessary sacrifice really was. She closed her email with her favorite quote, “Ireland unfree will never be at peace,” and then she added, “and neither will the rest of the world.”
Normally, I’d dismiss this as her usual away-in-the-head ramblings, but something about this seemed more serious, so I gave her a ring to make sure she was all right. When she didn’t answer, I sent a neighbor over to see her. He tried several times, but never caught anyone at home.
I hate to do this to my parents, but I don’t feel as though I’ve a choice.
Donal Canavan
“The next fortnight,” he repeated. He scrolled to the email headers. “Donal’s email is dated a week ago.”
“Somethin’ in the next week.”
Zach leaned against Molly’s desk. They had to step up their efforts. “Grace invited us over, right?”
“Not for another week.” After Donal’s deadline.
“Reschedule for tomorrow night.”
Molly’s frown looked doubtful. “Tomorrow night?”
“You think they’d go for tonight?”
She shook her head. “I don’t — it’ll be hard enough to get in tomorrow.”
“We have to. Let’s say I have to go out of town. An on-site consult or something.”
“In the middle of plannin’ a weddin’?”
Kent cleared his throat. Before they could explain their wedding was all part of the assignment, he stood. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow. Maybe we’ll catch up with Brel.”
“Sure.” Molly beamed at him.
Zach waited until Kent was well away before he spoke. “What’s gotten into him?”
“Can’t say; not complainin’. He’s been on fire since the Luxembourgish Consul rang us back today. He’s even looked into my cold cases.”
“Wow.” He hadn’t thought Kent had that in him. “Hope he keeps that up.”
“Me too.” She held up her cell phone. “So I’m convincin’ the Canavans to let two undercover agents into their house while they’re in the midst of executin’ an attack.”
He brushed aside her worry. “Piece of cake.”
She nailed him with a skeptical frown but dialed, holding her phone so Zach could hear both sides of the conversation.
Getting this close to her was not wise, but he’d never had much sense when it came to Molly. Zach knelt next to her chair to hover at her shoulder. He could be here for support. Not just because he really, really wanted to be here.
“Molly,” Grace answered. Terrorists shouldn’t be allowed to sound cheery, ever. “H
ow’s about ye?”
“Hi, Grace.”
“Tell me you have good news — did you get Jason to postpone the weddin’?”
Definitely hadn’t discussed that. Zach checked her response; Molly rolled her eyes in an I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it message. “Not yet — but we’ve a kink in our schedule.”
“Do you? What’s this, so?”
“Jason’s bein’ called away on business.”
He gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. She shrugged him off.
“How long is he leavin’ you alone to plan your weddin’?”
She glanced at Zach, a flash of panic crossing her face. Before he could help her, she continued with the perfect mix of dread and heartache in her tone. “Three weeks.”
Was that her tactic for getting him as far away as she could? Zach pushed the thought aside and grabbed a slip of paper to scribble a note — leaving this weekend?
“And he’ll be leavin’ this weekend,” she added. “So we can’t go to dinner next week.”
“Pity. Where’s he goin’?”
“On-site consult for a client in California.” She sighed. “And Jason was so lookin’ forward to your hospitality and authentic Irish cuisine.” Molly smiled at Zach.
Man, she was beautiful. He returned her playful grin.
Grace was quiet a moment. “He’s too kind. Perhaps youse could come to dinner Sunday night?”
“She’d choose the best time for her,” Zach whispered in Molly’s other ear. “By then it might be too late.” He lingered there, close enough to smell that familiar scent of home.
Molly focused on her conversation. “Actually, Jason’s leavin’ Saturday mornin’.” She paused a beat before making a suggestion. “We might be able to come tomorrow night, though.”
“Oh, that’s kind, but we couldn’t take your last night with him.”
Saints & Suspects Page 24
