Kelly put up the collar of her long green cashmere coat and kept a wary hand on her bag. She walked quickly, her heels tapping on the sidewalk like a blind man’s cane. She looked over her shoulder, left and right, more to check that there were no potential muggers nearby than because she feared she was being followed. She found Filbin’s and stood for a while looking through its murky leaded windows. Behind the polished wood bar stood a diminutive barman, polishing a glass like he expected a genie to appear and grant him three wishes. Kelly pushed open the door and walked into the warm and smoky atmosphere of the bar. Several customers looked up to see who the intruder was and their gazes lingered. Even wrapped up in her coat she was still something special to look at, especially in a downmarket bar like Filbin’s. She ignored the avaricious stares and walked to the end of the bar closest to the door, her hand still on the clasp of her bag. The elf-like barman walked over to her, still polishing his glass. “What can I get you, my dear?” he asked.
She leaned forward. “Are you Shorty?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
The barman laughed. “What do you think?” he replied, and put the clean glass on a shelf. He grinned at two young men who were huddled over pints of Guinness. “She wants to know if I’m Shorty!” The three men laughed together and Kelly felt her cheeks redden.
Kelly waited for the laughter to die down, then leaned her elbows on the bar. She motioned with her finger and Shorty moved closer. “My name’s Kelly Armstrong,” she whispered. “Fergus O’Malley said I should speak to you.”
Shorty’s mouth dropped. “You’re O’Malley’s niece?” he said. “Jesus, I wouldn’t believe an ugly old sod like him could be related to a looker like you.”
“Why, thank you, I think,” smiled Kelly.
Shorty frowned. “But Armstrong is a Prod name? What’s a good Catholic girl doing with a name like Armstrong?”
“I married an American,” she explained. “And he’s neither Catholic nor Protestant.” Shorty nodded thoughtfully. “So, can you help me or not?” Kelly asked.
Shorty looked around the bar, saw that there were no customers waiting to be served, and motioned to a table in the corner. “Sit over there,” he said. “What can I get you?”
Kelly said she’d have a Coke and went over to the table to wait for the barman. Shorty joined her, gave her a glass of Coke and sipped a malt whisky from a balloon glass. He smacked his lips appreciatively, all the time his eyes never leaving Kelly’s face. He shook his head in wonder. “Fergus O’Malley’s niece,” he mused. “Who’d have thought it?”
Kelly was beginning to tire of the man’s attitude. “My uncle told you I’d be coming?”
“Aye, that he did.”
“And what I wanted?”
“Aye.” He took another sip of whisky, the creases deepening in his brow. “You wouldn’t be offended if I asked you for identification, would you?” he said.
Kelly wondered how Shorty would react if she produced her FBI credentials, but instead she showed him her driving licence. Shorty studied it and then handed it back to her. “Well?” she said.
Shorty placed his glass on the table and folded his arms. “The person you’re looking for doesn’t want to be found,” he said quietly. Kelly said nothing. “By anyone,” he added. Kelly raised an eyebrow. “Your uncle said it was important, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was about.”
“He doesn’t know,” Kelly said. They were both speaking in low voices, their heads bent forward.
“Would you like to tell me?” asked Shorty.
“I can’t do that,” she said. “Do you know what she’s involved in?”
“No,” admitted Shorty.
“But you know how to reach her?”
Shorty didn’t reply. A customer stood up at a nearby table, put on his coat and left.
“You trust my uncle, don’t you?” Kelly pressed. Shorty nodded. “And he told you to help me, didn’t he?” Shorty nodded again. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He tapped it on the table, then opened it and took out a card. He looked at the handwritten telephone number on the card and handed it to her. “I can reach her at this number?” asked Kelly.
Shorty shook his head. “No, but it’s the number of a man who might be able to help you — if you can persuade him that you’re to be trusted.” He drained his glass, stood up and went back to the bar. Kelly slipped the card into the pocket of her coat and left. The two young men drinking Guinness watched her go. So did FBI agent Don Clutesi, his eye pressed to the camcorder on its tripod at the window overlooking Filbin’s. Clutesi didn’t recognise the woman, but she was clearly a cut above the normal type of customer who frequented the bar. Clutesi wondered if she was a hooker on the make. Young, blonde and pretty, what other reason could she have had for visiting a bar alone? She’d spoken to Shorty but Clutesi hadn’t picked up anything from the listening devices. Either they’d been out of range or they’d been whispering. Clutesi made a note in his incident book and stretched his arms above his head. He was tired, but there was another two hours to go before he was due to be relieved. Then he had to go back to Federal Plaza to meet the agent from Phoenix.
An FBI driver was waiting outside JFK holding a sign with Cole Howard’s name on it, and he carried Howard’s bag to the car. They made polite conversation on the drive into Manhattan, about the Mets, the weather, and the murder of three DEA agents in the Bronx that afternoon.
The driver took Howard into Federal Plaza and helped him obtain a visitor’s pass which Howard clipped to the breast pocket of his suit. The receptionist rang the Counter-Terrorism Division to tell them that Howard was on the way up, then she told him which floor to go to. The driver nodded goodbye and Howard headed to the elevator.
When the doors hissed open a small, shrewish woman with grey hair and a reluctance to look him in the eye took him along to Mulholland’s office. Ed Mulholland was in his fifties, with a craggy, lined face and a grey, military crewcut. He had a bone-crushing handshake and looked as if he worked out a lot.
“Cole, good to see you. Jake Sheldon speaks very highly of you. You want coffee? Tea?”
Howard shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”
Mulholland looked over Howard’s shoulder. “Katie, can you get Hank along for this, please? And ask Frank Sullivan and Don Clutesi to sit in, too. Thanks.”
As the secretary scurried away, Mulholland motioned to two grey sofas which were set at right angles to each other in the far corner of his office. The sofas faced a low, square brass and glass table on which were scattered half a dozen law-enforcement magazines. “Let’s sit over there, shall we, Cole, it’ll give us a bit more elbow room.” As the two men walked across the office, Mulholland slapped Howard on the back, a friendly pile-driving blow which almost rattled his teeth. “I’m really glad to have you on the team, Cole, you’ve done some great work on this. Great work.”
Mulholland reminded Howard of a crusading general who’d happily lead his men into battle, rushing towards a hail of bullets in the sure and certain knowledge that he couldn’t be touched, while all around him his adoring troops fell dying and wounded. He inspired confidence, but Howard felt that he was a bit too gung-ho, and too lavish with his praise. Howard put his briefcase by the side of one of the sofas and sat down, smoothing the creases of his trousers. Mulholland pulled over a high-backed swivel chair and placed it facing the sofas. A balding man of medium height in a cheap brown suit came into the office. Mulholland introduced him as Hank O’Donnell, Jr, director of the Counter-Terrorism section. O’Donnell looked more like a career bureaucrat than an anti-terrorism agent, and when Howard shook hands with him he noticed that his fingers were stained with ink as if he’d been writing with a leaky pen. He had a file under his arm. As O’Donnell moved to sit down on one of the sofas, Howard saw that the seat of the man’s pants were shiny as if he spent a lot of time sitting down.
Another man entered the office and Mulholland introduced him as an agent from the Counter-Terrorism (Europe) Division. Frank Sullivan was tall with sandy hair, a sallow complexion and a sprinkling of freckles across his snub nose. He explained that Don Clutesi was out on a surveillance operation and that he would be back in the office within the hour. Sullivan sprawled on the sofa while Mulholland eased himself into the chair like some omnipotent monarch taking his throne.