When we arrived at the airport, she parked in the multi-story short-stay car park and asked an attendant to direct us to the executive offices, located near Terminal 2.
We made our way to the contemporary building at the heart of the airport campus and checked in at reception. After a short wait in the bright, airy lobby, Amanda Doyle’s assistant, a man who introduced himself as Simon, took us up to the executive suite. He noted my American accent and made polite conversation about a trip he’d made to LA a few years back, and how Hollywood had left a huge impression on him. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk, but Andi was very adroit and stepped in to keep Simon engaged.
The executive offices were located on the fourth floor and the high windows offered unrivalled views of the main runway and aircraft stands.
Amanda Doyle was waiting for us in her large, modern corner office. Late forties, she had short brown hair and a serious demeanor, which wasn’t surprising given the nature of her job. She wore a black ankle-length skirt and a red blouse.
“Mr. Morgan, Ms. Harris, your colleague in London said you have an urgent request. Please take a seat.”
She directed us to three armchairs that were arranged opposite a couch.
“Tea? Coffee?” she asked.
“I’m okay,” I replied.
“Me too,” Andi added.
Amanda nodded at Simon, who shut the door behind him as he left the room.
“Thanks for giving us your time,” I said, easing myself into one of the chairs.
Andi sat beside me, and Amanda took the couch.
“It’s the least I can do,” she replied. “I know Private by reputation...” Andi shot me a “told you so” look “... so I wasn’t going to pass up the chance to meet the Jack Morgan.”
I smiled and glanced at the floor bashfully. I didn’t cope well with praise or notoriety.
“Well, thank you,” I said. “We believe the man behind the Academy shooting, the supposed Ecokiller, boarded an Aer Lingus flight from LAX to Dublin the day before yesterday.”
Amanda nodded. “We got the alert from the Garda, but it came too late to stop him at the border. It wouldn’t have mattered in any case.”
I frowned. “How do you mean?”
“We reviewed the gate footage,” Amanda replied. “He never left the plane. And we checked the cameras at passport control. No one matching the suspect’s description came through, and no one used the Colm Finlay passport.”
“Did he board another flight at LAX?” Andi asked.
Amanda shook her head. “We don’t think so. Pre-takeoff passenger count was two hundred and sixteen, but when we counted at the arrival gate, two hundred and fifteen got off, meaning the suspect managed to leave that aircraft without being detected somewhere between Los Angeles International and Dublin Airport.”
Chapter 22
Amanda took us to a security control room where we went to a small audio-visual suite that lay off the main office and reviewed the camera footage for ourselves. We spent another hour studying every single angle and found no sign of the shooter from any of the cameras trained on the aircraft from the moment it reached the stand. If he’d disembarked at Dublin Airport, he’d done so like a magician performing a vanishing act.
Disappointed, we sat in silence while Andi drove us back to the city. I wondered whether the man known to us as Colm Finlay had somehow faked his boarding of the flight to Dublin and had in fact taken another plane. If so, he could be anywhere in the world by now. But how did that explain the discrepancy in the headcount at LAX, after the aircraft door had been closed, with that at passport control in Dublin?
“How could he get off the plane without anyone or any cameras seeing him?” Andi asked. Her frown suggested she shared my frustration with the mystery.
“Either he was never on the plane and the headcount at LAX was wrong,” I suggested. “Or he jumped out somewhere over the Atlantic.”
Andi smiled at my unhelpful suggestions. “Or someone smuggled him off the aircraft,” she replied. “And we just haven’t figured out how.”
“An insider at the airport?” I said.
“Why not?” she responded. “This group has people everywhere, right?”
I nodded slowly. It was certainly possible.
Andi’s phone rang and Conor Roche’s name flashed on the central console screen. She answered the call on the car’s Bluetooth audio.
“Go ahead, Conor,” she said. “Jack is with me.”
“I couldn’t find anything on your tattoo, but I checked the Interpol alerts and this Propaganda Tre is linked to a street gang called the Dark Fates,” he said.
Andi glanced at me and I nodded. The Dark Fates had been Propaganda Tre’s paramilitary arm in Rome and Monaco, the muscle to the other group’s brain.
“Well, the Dark Fates started showing up on our radar here about a year ago. Street thugs, but more organized than the usual gangsters. Drugs, extortion, that sort of thing. There was an altercation in a pub called the Night Watch three weeks ago. Officers picked up a ketamine dealer who is tied to the Fates. Goes by the name of Joe McGee.”
“You got any known associates or an address?” I asked.
“I couldn’t possibly give you his address,” Conor replied. “That would breach all sorts of confidentiality laws. But I could brief you in person if you meet me at number three Bessborough Avenue, East Wall.”
Andi smiled. “Bit of an odd place to meet.”
“It is, it is, I’ll grant you,” Conor said, “but that’s just me. Odd. I’ll see you there sometime soon.”
He hung up and I made no attempt to hide my bafflement as I looked at Andi.
“East Wall is one of the rougher parts of the city. The road he named is a residential street. My guess is he just gave us McGee’s address without putting himself at risk if the call was recorded.”
“Smart,” I said, grateful for the renewed hope that came with Conor’s lead.
Chapter 23
The walls of the pub were steeped in the misery of ages. Once white, they were now brown with the stains left by decades of cigarette smoke, quite possibly exhaled by the very men who looked down at us from a mosaic of framed black-and-white photos. These mementos of Dublin’s industrial history were displayed in the White Horse, a pub on Bessborough Avenue, about thirty meters away from the short terrace that Conor Roche had identified for us in his call.
“I bet you’ve never been in a place like this before,” Andi said, grabbing a handful of peanuts from a pack she’d split open and placed on the table between us.
She’d also popped a packet of Taytos, which she’d told me were the best brand of potato chips in the world. Neither held any interest for me. My eyes were fixed on number three, not far from the eastern end of the terrace.
“Not exactly like it,” I replied, glancing round the old, rundown pub. “But there are places like this the world over.”
It was true. This place was a shelter from the storm of life for the locals who struggled against the bitter wind of poverty and the rain of misfortune. Hardship was writ large in the streets of East Wall, from the old cars, derelict warehouses, graffiti-covered brickwork, and homes in need of more than a touch of tender loving care. It showed on the face of the publican too, an alabaster-pale man in his fifties, whose skin was blemished with the red route map of burst blood vessels that were the hallmark of a heavy drinker. We were the only customers in his tiny establishment, and he was nursing a pint of ale that never seemed to run dry.
“Poor places?” Andi asked.
I nodded. “And hard. I’ve been in many of them.”