Too Secret Service: Part One

by Declan Finn

“We have a situation.”

  “Da? Tell me more.”

  “It involves PHOENIX and STRONGBOW.”

  “Really?” the voice inquired, a touch of humor to his voice. “Why not just call them the alpha and the omega?”

  “MONIAK,” Grant warned, “this isn’t the time for your particular style of humor.”

  “VIPER, old friend, whenever you are about to go ballistic, it is time for my humor. You used to have one yourself, then they turned you into one of the pakkidim.”

  “I still know a little Hebrew, MONIAK, and I’m not a bureaucrat yet. And it’s not me going ballistic that I’m worried about, it’s the entire Eastern hemisphere.”

  “Tell me more,” asked the man code named MONIAK, Russian for “monster”. And he, too, would be heading for Ireland.

  The little island of almost five million started to look very crowded.

  * * * *

  Wayne slowly slid his book into the pouch in front of him, angled the chair back, and closed his eyes. It had been a long day for him, Catherine knew. Getting shot at was fun when they didn’t hit you, but the adrenaline letdown wasn’t the best sensation in the world. Catherine watched as Williams drifted off to a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Catherine took out the hotel receipt she had recovered from the black sedan driver’s wallet. She took her credit card and popped the air phone out from in front of her. She punched in the country and area code from the receipt.

  The phone on the other end rang twice, followed by a man saying, “Doyle Hotel. Kevin speaking. How may I help you?”

  Catherine turned away from Wayne, speaking as low as possible. “You can book me room number…” Catherine read him the number from the receipt “five-oh-six.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss, the room is occupied. May I do something else?”

  “Yes. Make me a reservation for the nearest room, preferably something connecting.”

  “That I can do, ma’am. Does room five-oh-eight sound all right? It’s the adjoining room.”

  “It would be perfect.”

  “Your name?”

  “Mariah Lunar.”

  After she finished giving the rest of the information, she placed the phone gently in the cradle. She squared herself in the chair and turned to flag down a stewardess and saw Wayne’s blue eyes looking at her.

  “‘And they call the wind Mariah,’” he half-sang. The right corner of his lip strained to keep from smiling.

  “What?”

  “It’s a song my father liked. I could probably give you half the song without pause.”

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I was. But I have a funny sleep pattern. I wake up whenever someone talks in a low, almost conspiratorial whisper.” He grinned. “I take it that your real name is flagged at hotels because of your father, the friendly IRA man?”

  She nodded. “Should I even ask how you knew?”

  “It was only logical.” He straightened out the chair. “The Republic of Ireland has had more IRA prisoners than Ulster for over two decades, no reason why they should stop now. And if it’s something I know from experience, if you want to catch the parent, trail the offspring. How long have you been doing this?”

  Catherine gave a heartfelt sigh. “Since I was twenty…about thirteen years. It really wasn’t a serious problem until the last five.”

  The lies came easy to her. After all, how many times had it really happened? Probably too often…. In fact, she may have read this story from a newspaper a few years back. Who knew? Who cared as long as he didn’t suspect the lie?

  Wayne nodded solemnly. “He can’t duck as fast as he used to.”

  Actually, Wayne took everything Catherine said with a shot of Vodka. But if he didn’t question her, he would look suspicious. Besides, if he needed any real help, there would be people in the IRA who wouldn’t look too fondly on having their land vaporized. If she was telling him the truth, about any of it, she could come in handy. Besides, what were the odds that she was involved with his business?

  “While you’re at it,” he said, “If your father hears anything about the President’s visit in January, let me know.”

  Catherine nodded. Of course, that “concern” he showed could be an act. After all, he needs to show concern for the President. He’s Secret Service. That doesn’t mean he’s not guilty.

  But Catherine didn’t believe it any more than Wayne did her. She was a professional liar, and spotted lies easily enough.

  Partner or Prey? she wondered as Wayne picked up the air phone in front of him. Williams made reservations at a hotel before he drifted back to sleep.

  * * * *

  MONIAK boarded the first plane to Dublin. It was the first time in a while he’d needed to return. The IRA fragment groups weren’t really fragments, more like slivers of shattered glass. The Irish peace accords had settled most of the nonsense that had been caused by the British Army and the British government. All they really needed now was to teach the boorish Orangemen a few manners and everything would be fine.

  MONIAK’s hair was a combination of silver and gold, while his eyes were blue-green. Anyone could’ve easily spotted his slightly-more-than-average shoulder span with his height—five-foot nine. He had an easy smile, and was well respected around his community.

  “Welcome aboard, sir,” said one of the flight attendants.

  MONIAK flashed his white teeth at her in a sincere grin. “Thank you, ma’am. At what time will we be arriving, Ireland time?”

  “Approximately eight o’clock, sir.”

  Chapter 10

  Thursday, November 10th

  At seven in the morning—Ireland time—the Aer Lingus flight from Dulles taxied to a complete stop. Wayne’s chair wobbled from side-to-side, but he didn’t even stir. He hadn’t for over two hours. She was halfway tempted to take his pulse, but she knew better. She smiled as she bent down to reach into the canvas bag. She felt along the side of her Glock 7, and then clicked the safety off.

  “That’s one way to wake someone up,” he said, his eyes still closed.

  She put the safety back on and straightened. “I’m getting an idea about how your sleep pattern works. Just how dangerous is the life you lead, Agent Williams?”

  “That would be telling.” The Irishism sounded better in a light brogue.

  Wayne waited, as always, to let the other passengers pass by. He had no interest in pushing past dozens of people only to wait for a taxi. He looked over at Catherine. She probed the aisles, looking for someone in particular. She found him and locked eyes with Wayne, caressing his cheek softly as Michael DeValera passed.

  “One of those guys glancing at you again?” Wayne asked a breath below a whisper.

  “Definitely, darling,” she said, a few decibels above Michael’s earshot.

  “Understood.”

  She broadened her smile. “I knew you would.”

  Once DeValera got off the plane, she took her hand away from Wayne’s cheek. “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

  “It’s no problem,” Williams reassured her. “I can assure you I’ve had far more unpleasant experiences in my life.” He looked back. The crowd started to thin. They were unloading first class before anyone else.

  “Let’s be off,” he said, stepping into the aisle.

  Wayne turned back and helped her out of her seat even though he was stiff. No matter how many flights he took, he could never easily recover from the resulting atrophy in his legs. He pulled down their bags and handed the traveling case to Catherine. She had to decide where to go. She didn’t want to lose the man with her photo, but Williams was now part of the equation. Williams was also a variable, the one with the photo wasn’t. Catherine would have to drop Williams and move on to the other target.

  “When would you like to drop me?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts as they stepped into the terminal.

  She smiled at him. “I’d like to take you to my father and tell him I got married—but I doubt you ha
ve time for that. So how does right now strike you?”

  He gave a small bow. “Strikes me perfectly. I take it you have no qualms about shooting any leering male as long as you’re not five miles above the Earth?”

  “We understand each other perfectly.”

  * * * *

  Wayne sat back in the taxi as it pulled away from the curb. It had been years since Wayne was last in Ireland. His first stop had to be the hotel. He needed a base of operations before he started laying waste to IRA property. Williams had given his driver instructions to head to the Doyle Hotel. It hadn’t been the one he’d made reservations at; those could be broken easily. He didn’t want to give his fellow passenger the impression he was following her, because he wasn’t. The Doyle was within walking distance to the center of Dublin and he needed that easy access.

  Besides, it was a good thing to keep assets close at hand.

  * * * *

  Michael DeValera slipped into the back of his taxi after packing all of his checked luggage into the trunk. In Ireland, the taxis weren’t much different from New York cabs—except the drivers spoke English. He tightly held onto the bag with the bomb/alarm clock. There were very few things on his list of priorities. The lowest priority was blowing himself up. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his employer; it was more that his employer trusted no one, except maybe his walking brick wall.

  Michael shivered. Now that man gave him the creeps. Actually, he gave everyone the creeps, which was probably why Michael’s employer kept him around. Mike didn’t really appreciate the man’s humor, and the conversations weren’t even worth discussing. Maybe DeValera could get another one of these “alarm clocks” and take him out.

  It was an idea.

  * * * *

  Catherine followed the taxi of her admirer. He had been studying the photo too closely if he had been a tourist taking a snapshot of a Marine in Virginia. He’d been preparing himself for knowing her. Finding her.

  But if he’s trying to find me, what possible good leads could he find here?

  The answer was obvious. He knew she had taken out the one from the black sedan—the one who could laughingly be called an “assassin.”

  “Why exactly are we following this man, Miss?” asked her young driver. “If I may ask, that is.”

  Catherine smiled, remembering how much the Irish brogue sometimes eliminated the “H” from the “th.” She suspected he strengthened his brogue for the tourists, which is why it was so thick she could cut it with a garrote. “What do wives do here when they suspect their husbands?” she asked as she opened her traveling case.

  He smiled. “They usually shriek until their husbands confess or until they’re in bed,” the driver answered, as if he’d been through such an ordeal.

  “In America,” she replied, taking off her wig, “we tend to track them down and find proof before we start shrieking. Even then, it’s our lawyers who do the shrieking.” She packed the wig into the dark green, hard-shell traveling case.

  The driver beamed. “Ah, is that it, ma’am? Well, ‘tis a shame, really. Women folk losin’ the fine art o’ yellin’. A great shame. ’Tis an expensive shame, too. I mean, you comin’ all the way out here just to follow the bugger.”

  “I hope to get plenty of sightseeing done,” Catherine replied as she chose her next disguise carefully. “Even if he doesn’t leave his girlfriend’s apartment all weekend. I don’t intend to follow him a minute after I see him in her arms.”

  “Frankly, ma’am, if this bastard is movin’ behind yer back, he must be dumber than any member o’ British Parliament.”

  “I hope you don’t expect me to argue,” the assassin replied as she clamped the red wig across her head. The hair on this one flowed gently about her shoulders. It had a more bouncy quality than the flowing red wig of her Marine cap.

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I never expected you to.”

  “Good,” she said, pushing it into place. “I usually have to turn down a dozen men a night because I’m married.”

  “I can believe that, ma’am.”

  STRONGBOW popped out the violet-tinted contacts and exchanged them for a set of emerald green. She double-checked her complexion. She still looked Caucasian, but she wouldn’t turn bright red as some Irish would with exposure to the sun. Oh well, it wasn’t like the “admirer” would get that good a look at her.

  “What might you be doing back there, ma’am?”

  “You don’t think I’d go through Dublin hoping he won’t recognize me, do you? I took a class in makeup design as a part of my acting courses.”

  “Ah, yes. I have a sister who’s into acting,” he began. She let him talk as she took out a small, red eyeliner pencil and lightly dotted it across her upper cheekbones, making a small cluster of freckles beneath her eyes and over her nose.

  The taxi ahead of them stopped at a red light. Her driver came to a stop three cars back and a lane over.

  “How do I look?” she asked, interrupting her loquacious driver.

  He turned. Catherine felt the urge to get him to a trauma unit, because he looked like he was in shock. “Good job, ma’am,” he said hoarsely.

  She smiled. “Thank you.” She pointed past the windshield. “The light’s changed.”

  He slowly turned back and headed out as Catherine slipped the green sweater over her head, revealing a black, lightweight turtleneck. She rolled the collar up her throat, and then packed away the sweater in the canvas bag with her gun.

  * * * *

  “Here are your room keys, sir,” the lady at the Doyle Hotel’s front desk told Wayne Williams. “You have room two-oh-nine on the second floor, sir.”

  “T’ank you, ma’am,” Wayne said in a light, seemingly natural brogue.

  “Might I ask how you knew we’d have a room fer you?”

  He smiled. “’Tis the first week o’ November. How many people go on holiday about now?”

  She smiled. “Ah, I see, sir. Understood. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  He nodded. “As do I, ma’am, as do I.”

  Wayne took the stairs as Michael DeValera walked through the glass doors of the front lobby, striding along the thick carpet as the baggage handlers carried his three bags. The lobby was made of fine wood paneling. The lounge on his left was on an elevated platform three steps off the ground, surrounded by brass bars. Unlike America, there were ashtrays on almost every linen-covered coffee table.

  He strode up to the front desk with his reservation receipt in hand. He had booked his reservation specifically for room 506, where his dead compatriot had stayed only days before. It was obvious that STRONGBOW might soon arrive. After all, Michael’s dead associate from the black sedan might not have had a chance to burn his hotel receipt as DeValera had ordered him to.

  As the woman at the front desk processed his reservations, DeValera once again glanced at the picture of the assassin STRONGBOW. He leaned against the desk as another brass bag cart rolled up behind a striking redhead. He scanned the photo quickly, and then glanced at the woman approaching the desk. No, the lady’s hair was too short, its color too light, and the complexion wasn’t half as dark as STRONGBOW’s. Besides, the famous assassin didn’t have freckles, or bright green eyes, for that matter. The redhead had rounded shoulders, and appeared too short to be any relation to STRONGBOW.

  * * * *

  Wayne stepped into his room, closing the door behind him. He threw the latch and created a triple-locked barrier to the outside world. The room was very plush considering he was down the hall from the weight room: two double wide beds, a TV inside a cabinet/dresser, a large, accommodating bathroom, two chairs, a coffee table, a night stand, a table, and a view across the street. It was—probably—far more than he’d need, but he’d take what he could get. Besides, credit card companies only charged the victims of credit card fraud the first fifty dollars of their debt.

  He tossed his suitcase on the nearest bed, not even bothering to open it. Instead, he went directly to the telephone
and punched in several numbers from memory. After three rings, the woman on the other end picked up.

  At the other end came a lyrical voice. “Interpol. Maureen McGrail speaking.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Wayne asked.

  There was a long pause at the other end. For a long moment, he could almost hear the piano keys of “As Time Goes By” filling in the silence.

  “It can’t be.”

  He let out a slow, gentle breath. “It is, Maureen. I’m sorry to bother you, but–”

  “Bother?” she asked, incredulous. “I thought you were dead, W—”

  “No names!” he whispered quickly. “Not on an open line.”

  Maureen didn’t say anything for a moment. “My people aren’t going to be happy you’re back, are they?”

  “They’re going to be far happier with my presence this time ’round. Because, you see, this time, I’m here to save their sorry little butts from having a nuclear bomb in Belfast. I guarantee you that the usual IRA lads that might be on the payroll do not have their finger on the trigger.”

  There was another long pause. When she came back on the line, her voice was lower. “How about Trinity College?”

  “I’m good with that. I’ll be on the main lawn.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  * * * *

  MONIAK stepped off the plane, carrying his only small bag. His checked baggage was like steel boxes, unable to be tampered with by anyone other than himself. All he’d ever need was stuffed right inside. The first step was to hunt down STRONGBOW.

  That would be a cute trick.

  It would indeed. After STRONGBOW had killed both men in Langley, it was impossible to tell where she had gone. Since she wasn’t supposed to exist, the credit card numbers she had been issued by the CIA had been sent through a paper shredder almost the instant she received them. The numbers had been committed to her memory, and the cards committed to her wallet. She was made to be untraceable.