“Nice view,” I remarked, looking down at the green space. Beyond the stately surrounding trees was a long wide stretch of lawn that formed the green heart of the neighborhood, with a further avenue of trees on the other side of it. The terrace of brick-built town houses on the far side of the square looked much the same as the one that stretched away to either side of us.
“My room’s even better,” Andi responded. “I’m directly above you. I didn’t imagine a progressive boss would object to his subordinate having the best room.”
I smiled. “No objections at all.”
“Good,” she replied. “Do you want to shower before we get going?”
I nodded. “I’ll be quick.”
She left the room and shut the door behind her. I took in my new accommodation as I undressed. A large Persian rug covered most of the floorboards. The wool was worn in places, suggesting a long history rather than neglect. Black-and-white photos of Dublin’s gracious center dotted the walls, and the walnut dresser had a polished brass ship’s compass as a centerpiece. Someone had gone to great lengths to give this place the welcoming feel of a high-end boutique hotel. The ethos continued in the bathroom, which was well stocked with quality toiletries and luxurious towels.
I wrapped one around me as I stepped from the shower, feeling much better for having shed the residue of a transatlantic flight. I put on a white shirt and dark gray two-piece suit.
“Looking sharp,” Andi remarked, as I came downstairs.
She was leaning against the wall by the front door.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To see an old friend,” she replied enigmatically, but her mysterious expression broke immediately into a smile. “An old cop friend. I can’t lie. Never been able to keep a straight face. Even as a joke or to wind up my big boss.”
“Must make you terrible at poker,” I remarked.
“I wouldn’t go near cards. Or magic tricks,” she said seriously.
She exhaled dramatically as though releasing a pent-up burden. I wasn’t sure whether it was part of her patter or if she was genuinely troubled by dishonesty.
“We’re going to see Conor Roche. He’s a police intelligence officer with the Garda. He and I worked together on a joint operation when I was with the Metropolitan Police in London.”
Andi drove us west through the city. We took the route along Parnell Road, passing charming old terraces, post-war houses and shopping centers. Even though there was the diverse architecture found in any European capital, Dublin seemed to have been constructed on a human scale, its atmosphere warm and homely. This city of half a million souls could make even strangers feel like they belonged. After a while we joined the South Circular Road, which took us north through the commercial district, over a stone bridge that spanned the River Liffey. Finally, after driving through a large park, we reached Garda Headquarters, made up of several huge brownstone blocks that looked like old army barracks. The complex was set on a large, high-security campus.
We parked in the visitors’ lot, which was beside the main gate, and after Andi had pulled into a space and killed the engine, she sent a text message. She received a reply a moment later.
“He’s on his way.”
I watched a couple of joggers running round the perimeter of the park opposite, and saw a car go through the security protocols at the main gate of the Garda Headquarters, which involved an undercarriage search using a camera and a sweep with a sniffer dog.
“There he is,” Andi said a few minutes later, when a man in an aviator jacket, navy blue pullover and jeans sauntered out of the main building.
I watched him stop at a silver BMW in the staff lot and rummage inside for a stick of gum, which he chewed lazily as he approached.
Andi and I stepped out of the car. Conor Roche couldn’t have been more than thirty, but up close he looked rugged, his face as craggy as the west coast cliffs I’d flown over on my way here. He was lean, his cheeks almost pinched-looking, and his head was topped by a crop of curly brown hair.
“Conor, this is Jack Morgan,” Andi said.
He stepped forward and offered me his hand. “Mr. Morgan, it’s an honor to meet you. The Moscow operation was incredible.”
He had a thick Dublin accent.
“Nice to meet you too, Detective Roche. And, please, call me Jack.”
“Conor,” he replied, before turning to Andi. “What can I do for you?”
“Jack and our chief profiler were attacked in Los Angeles a couple of days ago,” she said.
Conor nodded. “The Academy shooting. LAPD sent an alert saying the shooter skipped to Dublin.”
“Yeah,” I responded.
Andi showed Conor a photo of the suspect on her phone. “Recognize him?”
“Dublin is a small place compared to London, but we don’t all know each other,” Conor protested.
“You’re police intelligence. Can’t be too many assassins with the stones to gun down innocents in a foreign country,” Andi remarked.
Conor frowned. “True. But I still don’t know him.”
“What about the tattoo?” I asked, and Andi swiped to a magnified image of the distinctive fleur-de-lys inside a Jerusalem Cross. “This is the insignia of a criminal group I encountered in Italy called Propaganda Tre.”
Conor shook his head. “Never seen it before, but I’ll run a search and ask around.”
“We’d appreciate it,” Andi said.
“Thanks,” I added. “Anything you can find out would be a great help.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said as he backed away.
We watched him head through the gates toward the central wide two-story building. Andi said, “Sorry. I hoped he’d be able to give us something immediately. He always has his ear to the ground.”
“I’m not surprised he doesn’t know anything. Propaganda Tre is another level of devious,” I replied.
She nodded. “Airport?” she suggested.
“Airport,” I confirmed.
Chapter 21
Andi took Chesterfield Avenue, a road that cut through Phoenix Park, a broad expanse of parkland planted with ancient oaks and other mature trees. I exchanged messages with Emily Knighton in London, asking her to try and get us an appointment with someone from Dublin Airport security. We moved into a residential suburb before turning onto a large highway that cut through open countryside to the north-east of the city. Emily messaged as we left the highway and joined the airport service road to say that Amanda Doyle, the head of security, had agreed to meet us.
“Emily got us in to see the director of security,” I told Andi as I typed a short message of thanks.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” she replied. “Emily is quite persuasive, and the Private name opens a lot of doors.”
I knew we had a good reputation with law enforcement and our clients, but it had never occurred to me that our brand awareness and value was more widespread than that.
“It shouldn’t be a shock,” Andi continued. “You’ve built an incredible organization and staffed it with some of the best ex-cops and soldiers in the world. Not that I’m boasting, of course.”
“Sounds a little boastful,” I replied.
She smiled. “Maybe a little. Word of your exploits filters out, Jack. And the rest of us aren’t doing too badly, even if our successes don’t always make the headlines. You should be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”
I didn’t pay much mind to superstition, but I did believe pride went before a fall and wasn’t interested in reflecting on what I’d achieved. It was more than a job. Helping people to right wrongs was my calling, and as long as there were cases to solve, I wouldn’t ever stop. I didn’t say anything to Andi though because I didn’t want her to think I was ungrateful for her kind words.