“I wasn’t aware that Mr. Sullivan wasn’t on board the aircraft when it crashed.”
“We believe Sullivan went to Savannah a day early,” the Commander explained. “But as of now, his whereabouts remain unknown. All those on board have been tentatively identified and Sullivan was not among them.”
“He could be a problem. You need to find him, extract the information we need from him and then have him eliminated. Those documents O’Rourke possesses could ruin everything we’ve worked on the last several years. Might I remind you that those documents could also land us both behind bars — or worse?”
“I have already made arrangements for someone to handle Sullivan.”
CHAPTER 23
The woman listened to the man on the phone. “I’m telling you for the last time, we had nothing to do with the plane crash. It was either an accident or someone else sabotaged that airplane. What would I have to gain? If anything, I would rather have O’Rourke alive. We had nothing to do with this.”
The man was the “unofficial” chief of staff of the Provisional IRA.
Mairéad Brady, newly elected president of Sinn Fein, the first woman ever elected, was sure of one thing, the man did have information about the crash of Laurence O’Rourke’s airplane. She also knew the band of members known as the Provos had a lot to lose with the death of O’Rourke.
Sinn Fein, founded in 1905, is the oldest political movement in Ireland. Representing Irish Republicans, Sinn Fein works for Irish people as a whole to attain national self-determination.
Brady, a determined woman, worked her way to the top of the Irish Republican food chain by her aggressive nature and the backing of her political ally at the time, Laurence O’Rourke.
When the news had leaked that O’Rourke was a British spy — a sleeper who had infiltrated the IRA — the Provos initially wanted to have O’Rourke killed. Not a pretty, clean death but a long, slow, agonizing, and above all public death. A message sent to the world of his betrayal. Several unsuccessful attempts had already been made on his life. But the existence of a secret location containing mysterious evidence against Sinn Fein had surfaced. Evidence of extreme significance to all of Northern Ireland. The site and its contents were sought after, but known only to O’Rourke.
Mairéad Brady also wanted to know the location. She needed the contents destroyed. The hidden information, if revealed, threatened all the work and progress Sinn Fein had accomplished over the last several years. It threatened the sanctity of the New Northern Ireland Assembly.
O’Rourke’s demise was good news for her.
Good news for Sinn Fein.
Good news for the future of Northern Ireland.
She hung up the phone and punched the speed dial button and hoped for an answer on the other end. After the third ring a familiar voice answered. It wasn’t the voice of the man she was calling, though, but that of a man she despised.
“Commander, is the Secretary in?” she asked.
“Hold the line.” She heard a click, followed by recorded music. She counted to three before the music ended.
“Mairéad Brady, how may I be of assistance to you on such a dreary evening?” the Secretary asked.
“I called to express my condolences about O’Rourke and to inform you that certain parties to whom I have spoken have disavowed any involvement in his death.”
“I’m certain they have,” he said. “They would no doubt prefer Mr. O’Rourke alive. It is you, madam, I am concerned with. You have everything to lose and nothing to gain with O’Rourke alive. What is your involvement with O’Rourke’s death?”
“Mr. Secretary, I assure you we had nothing to do with this incident and I resent your implications to that effect.”
“Be that as it may, it does lead one to wonder, with his death arising at such an opportune moment for Sinn Fein. Maybe, though, it was just a stroke of good fortune on your behalf.”
She bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood. Her face flushed with rising emotion. “I don’t consider anyone’s death to be fortunate. I called as a matter of respect and decorum. Good night, Mr. Secretary.” She hung up without affording the man a reply.
He was right, though, and she knew it. That’s why she was so upset. She regretted making the call. She had wanted O’Rourke dead. Sinn Fein, unofficially, wanted O’Rourke dead. He was a threat. A threat that could only be dealt with in one way. That’s why she had commissioned the assassination of Laurence O’Rourke.
CHAPTER 24
Farid Nasiri reached up and removed his headdress, and heard the familiar buzzing of his Blackberry announcing the arrival of another message. He read his messages. The one that caught his attention was the email from the Iranian singles web site announcing a personal message awaiting him on the web site.
He put down his Blackberry and turned on his laptop computer. After it booted, he opened the web browser and logged onto the singles site.
Circumstances not as grave as they seem — rendezvous still on. Will contact with place and time. Michael Sullivan, Personal Assistant to Laurence O’Rourke
The Persian felt a burden lift from his shoulders and he rejoiced in the good news. His euphoria was short lived as he wondered who Michael Sullivan was and, more importantly, how he knew about the deal and the method of contact. Could this be a trap? The CIA had been after him for years, but he’d managed to avoid their trickery. He decided he would proceed with caution and expect the unexpected.
He picked up his cell phone and called Salim Malik.
The Persian explained the fortunate turn of events and the anticipation of successful completion of his assignment.
Malik’s only response was, “For your sake, I hope you don’t fail us again.”
The phone line went dead.
CHAPTER 25
Kaplan and Annie rode down Broughton Street on their way to the crash site. Motorcycle riding became a passion for Kaplan after he bought his first motorcycle in college — a Honda 250 street bike. Since then he had owned several motorcycles.
He bought his first Harley Davidson when he was in the Army, a Sportster 1200. His previous bike was a Dyna Wide Glide — very sporty but lacking the comfort he wanted for longer road trips. Then two years ago, he’d bought a Fat Boy.
Annie had pulled her auburn hair into a ponytail before sliding on her half-shell motorcycle helmet. She wore blue jeans, a black fitted Hard Rock Café t-shirt and a black leather Harley jacket.
As they reached the apex of the Talmadge Bridge, he held out his left hand, pointing in the distance to the commotion associated with the crash site.
“I see it.” She said. “Now, both hands on the handlebars, please.”
After they picked up the NTSB observer passes from Carol Martin at the Westin, they drove toward the accident site.
A Georgia state trooper waved them through the first checkpoint when they produced their FAA identification badges and NTSB observer’s passes. The second check point was closer to the crash site. The trooper stopped them and would not let them proceed on the motorcycle, demanding they park and walk the remaining distance to the crash site.
He and Annie walked down the dusty gravel road a hundred yards until they reached the access point to the wreckage. They carefully stepped on and over the broken limbs and branches the bulldozers had knocked down while clearing a path for the cranes.
When they reached the marsh clearing, they saw several people scurrying around performing their duties. Two men were strapping silver duct tape on two strange looking chests. One man, with combover hair flying wildly in the wind and a pocket protector full of mechanical pencils, was measuring debris from the wreckage, and then logging it on a sketch pad.