Hunt sat down across from Jake and Kaplan. She pulled out the folder Jake had made for her and held it up. “Why don’t you go over this with us now and how you came up with it?”
“When Kaplan and I were in Savannah, the day Beth was shot,” Jake paused, then went on, “Collins asked about some location and O’Rourke mentioned ‘the ridge of two demons.’ Well, that’s the name of the town called Dromahair. It means Ridge of Two Demons and O’Rourke owns property there. In fact, the O’Rourke clan has owned property there for centuries.”
“Yeah, I got that much in the briefing at Langley,” Hunt said. “They also said that every time O’Rourke was stopped, both coming and going, he was clean. Maybe he was just going home to visit family or something.”
“Okay, follow me here with a little history and some folklore or legend about the O’Rourke clan and the Friary at the Abbey of Creevelea.”
Hunt nodded and leaned forward to look at the files while Jake talked.
Kaplan listened.
After thirty minutes and several interruptions from Hunt, Jake finished and asked, “Any questions?”
“Yeah, two. Number one, how accurate is this history?” asked Isabella.
“Fair question,” Jake said. “As with older history, there will be minor variations in dates and names and beliefs among historians. For the most part, though, it is all historically accurate.”
“What about the folklore?” she asked.
“It’s really more like mythical folklore or urban legend. Folklore gets started somewhere, and usually, probably most of the time, there is an element of truth to it. Stories or rumors handed down over time. Undocumented, word-of-mouth-only secrets that have been handed down from generation to generation.
“But somewhere along the line in that hand-me-down chain, someone leaks the secret outside the privileged circle. Sometimes it is pure fiction, never happened, never existed. But other times, historical facts lead to the plausibility of the myth or legend. Did that clear it up for you?”
“Oh yeah, clear as mud, Jake.” Hunt smiled.
“I have another question.”
”Another one?” Jake asked. “Go ahead, ask away.”
“Okay, last question, for now.” she said. “How the hell did you come up with an Al Qaeda connection?”
CHAPTER 67
Collins watched O’Rourke run through the darkness of the Stormont Estate back to the car he had hidden on Stoney Road. Flames burst from the third-story windows along the front of the Parliament Building. What he couldn’t see nor did he care about were the dozens of people responding to the fire. Guards, janitors, firemen — all running through the Stormont grounds. Fire trucks rushed up Prince of Wales Boulevard toward the Parliament Building and would find a gruesome scene.
The scene would eventually be reported as the assassination of the Secretary of State of Northern Ireland. The news would also state that the assassin, mortally wounded by the Secretary’s assistant, had fatally shot the man known as the Commander, and then died, lying in a puddle of his own blood.
Standing in the shadows beside the estate, Collins noticed someone.
Someone else was watching O’Rourke.
He had been in this business long enough to realize that this new stranger was either an assassin or, more likely, an MI6 operative tasked to follow O’Rourke to his ultimate destination. Either way, the threat had to be neutralized.
Collins’s journey to Belfast was fast, thanks to his client having flown out to the trawler in a Bell 427 helicopter equipped with longrange tanks. After refueling, the client flew him to his villa in La Coruña, in the northwest corner of Spain.
The client refueled the Bell helicopter and flew him to Wexford, Ireland. There, he arranged a car for Collins and a substantial sum of cash. He then sent Collins on his way, calling the score settled and severing their relationship.
Collins was now a tainted commodity.
He watched O’Rourke get into the car, turn around and head back down Stoney Road toward Upper Newtownards Road. He saw the man in the other car turn around with his headlights off and follow O’Rourke down Stoney Road.
Collins, in turn, drove slowly along Stoney Road in the cover of darkness, waiting for the right opportunity to eliminate the intruder.
He pulled out his Blackberry, checked for new messages. The tone of the new messages was the same as those he had received before he left the United States.
Angry and threatening messages.
He had to make it right. He had to capture O’Rourke and discover his secret, then kill him. Then he would have fulfilled all of his contracts. He knew his future business had been all but destroyed by Jake Pendleton’s interference. A debt he promised himself to repay later.
While he drove, tailing the stranger and O’Rourke, he typed in message after message on his Blackberry. Inquiries for information along with reassurances to others were the bulk of his messages.
He received a reply from his message to his Provisional IRA contact.
Contract on O’Rourke withdrawn.
Dozens of cars sped westward on the M1 expressway leaving the lights of Belfast behind.
O’Rourke was unaware he was being followed but knew he had to be mindful about his trip to Dromahair. He couldn’t arouse any suspicions, he couldn’t afford to be stopped. Normally a much shorter trip, the one-hundred-seventy-six-kilometer drive would take him over three hours. The media reports had made him too easily recognized — plastering his picture across every television screen and newspaper around the globe. He had seen the newscasts, he knew he was a wanted man. He could no longer travel in anonymity.
He wasn’t concerned with the headlights behind him. There were too many cars on the expressway. A tail would be nearly impossible to detect.
The M1 expressway ended at Dungannon, turning into the A4 highway. The number of cars on the highway had thinned down considerably on this rural section at the late hour. The rolling grassy hills with their ancient stone walls were hidden from view by the cover of darkness. He noticed several cars behind him, some turned off the highway, some turned onto the highway.
Two cars turned off the A4 in Augher, but three more joined up at Clogher. All the cars on the A4 looked the same, headlights behind him and taillights in front of him.
His first stop was Enniskillen, County Fermanagh, to make sure he wasn’t tailed and to conduct some business. He pulled out his cell phone, checked for service, then placed a call.
He left the A4 in Enniskillen and navigated his way to High Street. His destination was the Demon’s Lair Bar and Bistro. He parked across the street which was about a hundred feet away from the bar. Cars moved up and down the street. Several patrons stood in the doorway smoking, drinking and laughing. The muffled sound of a band could be heard from the back of the bar.
He got out of the car, put on his overcoat and cap, flipped up the collar, and walked in the front door. The dim lighting and his tweed cap helped him conceal his identity, not that any of the revelers were on the lookout for Laurence O’Rourke.
It was very late and the crowd had thinned to nothing but the hard-core drinkers. A heavy haze of cigarette smoke, thick enough to permeate clothing and skin, hung in the air. The band in the back bar announced the last call for drinks.
He looked at the bartender and motioned to him with a slight nod of the head. The bartender gave him a similar nod and O’Rourke moved nonchalantly up to the balcony. Five minutes later the bartender walked up with a pint of Irish ale in each hand. He handed one to O’Rourke, then sat down and sipped on the other.