Jake opened another folder. “Records of British Secret Intelligence Service, SIS, or MI6 as it is sometimes called, indicated numerous appearances in Dromahair by O’Rourke during and since his appointment as Quartermaster General of the IRA. The purpose of these visits isn’t known.”
When the news broke of Laurence O’Rourke’s alleged association with the British government and the suspicions of his spying on the IRA, his affiliation with Sinn Fein was terminated, and the IRA hired assassins with orders to kill O’Rourke in a “messy and public” manner. An example needed to be made.
Jake saw Kaplan looked bored. “Are you getting this or did I lose you along the way?”
Kaplan smiled. I don’t know, Jake. That’s a lot to take in. You sound like my 9th grade history teacher…boring. Is this shit really important?”
“This shit should be important to you. You might have to improvise in the field and having full background information will help you make better decisions. I always made sure I gave the Navy Seals a thorough briefing before each mission.”
“I knew you worked for Bentley, is this what you did?”
“Sometimes. When I worked for Bentley I mainly did research and wrote reports for him. He’d brief the Joint Chiefs and the President. Before Bentley though I worked in the field and briefed face to face on occasion.”
Kaplan sighed. “Okay, go on.”
“According to SIS records, O’Rourke had been recruited as a spy by a man known as the Commander. He’s not a commander at all but rather a behavioral psychiatrist, who once worked for British Intelligence as a handler for British operatives. O’Rourke had shown much promise but proved to be the Commander’s ultimate failure. The Commander now works in Belfast for the Northern Ireland Secretary of State, who just also happens to be a former director of British Secret Intelligence and had been the director when O’Rourke was recruited by the Commander.”
“Now isn’t that coincidental?” Kaplan said.
“O’Rourke’s objectives as specified by SIS were unclear, but it is believed that he went rogue. Since he became such a high-ranking public figure, SIS had left him alone until he announced he had earth-shattering news that would bring the New Northern Ireland Assembly to its knees. That announcement was made six days ago. Right before the attempt on his life in Savannah—”
Kaplan interrupted. “Something we now know had nothing to do with O’Rourke’s plan to undermine the Assembly.”
“Exactly.
Jake reclined in his leather seat and closed his eyes. His wounds were healing. It’d only been four days since the shootout but with the marvels of modern medicine, and the help of a CIA physician, his shoulder only ached. His side was tender to the touch but not really painful. Otherwise, only mental and emotional scars remained from the St. Patrick’s Day mayhem.
The drain of the last few days caught up with him fast. Within minutes he was asleep, the aircraft emergency booklet still in his hand.
CHAPTER 65
O’Rourke entered the Parliament Building through a rear service entrance after timing the rounds of security guards. He knew where he was going, he had done this before — many times.
The five chandeliers in the Great Hall had been turned off for the night. One large chandelier, made from cast iron and gilded in twenty-four-karat gold was accompanied by four smaller replicas. Without the illumination from the chandeliers, the walnut, cream and golden Italian marble floor lost most of its luster and charm.
He climbed the east stairwell behind the Senate Chamber to the third floor. He opened the door slightly to peer out. He heard voices and saw some of the cleaning crew waxing the floors. When the cleaners were out of sight, O’Rourke darted across the hall into a utility closet, where he found coveralls matching those worn by the maintenance personnel. He also found something extra, the thirdfloor electrical circuit box.
O’Rourke knew the element of surprise would work in his favor, giving him a clear upper hand.
He had arrived back in Ireland faster than anticipated. He’d driven all night from Savannah to Hartford, Connecticut, where he stopped to rest, paying for a five-hour day-stay at a small motel. He had proceeded on to his source — an ally from earlier days — in Quebec City, Quebec, Canada, where he’d boarded a twin-engine turboprop owned by his ally and equipped with long-range fuel cells for the trans-Atlantic flight.
The Beechcraft King Air 350 had landed at Ronaldsway Airport just outside of Castletown on the Isle of Man, a territory of the United Kingdom located in the Irish Sea halfway between England and Ireland. After clearing Customs with the fake identification supplied to him by his source, O’Rourke had hopped a train to Douglas where he boarded the afternoon steam packet ferry to Belfast.
There, under the cover of darkness, he had hailed a taxi to take him to the Belfast Airport. When he found a suitable, nondescript vehicle in the long-term parking lot, he broke into it, hotwired it, and drove to Stormont Estate.
He cracked open the door to the utility closet, dressed in coveralls and carrying a toolbox, he scanned the hallway. Nobody. He noticed the stairwell door across the hall slowly opening and pulled the closet door shut leaving only a tiny crack.
He stood in the dark closet staring through the thin slit of light from the crack in the door. He spotted a man, dressed in black, carrying a silenced pistol. O’Rourke couldn’t tell what type but it really didn’t matter.
He didn’t recognize the man but he knew who he was. An assassin paid to kill him.
The man in black entered the room, and both the Commander and the Secretary of State jumped in unison.
The Commander’s face furrowed in irritation. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The man said nothing, just looked around the room.
“Who is this man?” the Secretary asked.
“This is the asset we hired to take care of O’Rourke and Collins.”
“What’s he doing here? He can’t be seen here. We have too much to lose.”
The Commander looked into the intruder’s eyes. “Like I said, what are you doing here?”
The man moved to the window and parted the sheers with his silencer. “He’s here. He’s in the building.”
“What? Who’s here? O’Rourke?” the Secretary shouted. “Where is he now?” The Commander’s voice rose.
“He’s on this floor. I followed him into the building and up the stairwell,” said the man in black. “He’s here somewhere. I came in here because he will be here soon.”
The Commander walked over to the coat rack and rifled through his coat pockets. He pulled out a small pistol and tucked it inside the back of his waistband.
“Well, I guess we better get ready for him then before he—”
The room went dark.
The exterior floodlights of the Parliament Building left the room with just enough light to see shapes and figures against the stark white walls.
“What happened?” yelled the Secretary.
The man in black said, “It’s him. He’s cut the power, but only to this floor. See, the outside lights are still on.”
The Commander lifted the phone off the hook. “Phones are dead as well.”
The Secretary raised his voice. “What are we going to do?”
The Commander and the man in black said in unison, “We wait.”
O’Rourke watched the man in black go into the Secretary’s office. He had to take action and he knew he had to do it quickly. He couldn’t afford to allow the three men time to formulate a plan.
He decided to smoke out the rats. He saw a one-liter can of acetone in the closet. The irritant and flammable properties of the acetone made it his best option. He grabbed the can from the closet, removed the screw-on cap and stuffed a rag into the spout. The rag quickly absorbed the acetone. He could feel the vapors burning his nostrils.