Collins drove down High Street, spotting both O’Rourke’s car and the car of the man who had followed O’Rourke. The man sat in the dark gray Saab 9–5 sedan waiting for O’Rourke to return from the bar.
Collins parked a block away and walked back toward the unmarked Saab. Whoever the man was, he was a potential threat. One he had to eliminate. He needed to get to O’Rourke first.
The stranger had parked in the dark shadows in an attempt to conceal his presence. The car was parked too close to the bar for Collins to use his gun, the flash would attract unwanted attention. He devised an alternative plan. One he had successfully used before.
Three years earlier, in Germany, Shamrock was contracted to kill a drug dealer on the outskirts of Berlin. The man had three bodyguards, two escorting him inside an office and one outside waiting in the vehicle. The mark had gone into a bookkeeper’s office. It was late one winter afternoon, and Shamrock used the drunkard’s ruse to get close to the bodyguards without raising suspicion. The ruse worked because he was seen as a drunken annoyance and not as a threat. It worked so well, gaining close access to the bodyguard in the vehicle that he used it to access the office where he pulled two silenced automatic pistols and shot the two remaining bodyguards, the mark and the bookkeeper.
Down the street from the Demon’s Lair pub, he pulled out a cigarette, pantomimed looking for a lighter, then staggered along the sidewalk pretending to be drunk, singing an Irish drinking song.
He continued singing as he approached the bar. The few revelers standing in the doorway looked toward his approaching shadow. He threw his hands up at them, enticing them to join in the song. They sang in unison.
The revelers’ voices were trailing away when he staggered onto the slate gray Saab. He leaned against the sedan as if he was too drunk to go any further. Then he tapped on the driver’s window.
The driver, a tall bald man, lowered his window and pushed Collins away from the car.
“Okay, pal, get away from my car. Move along,” he yelled.
Collins leaned in close, held out his cigarette and slurred, “Do you have a light?”
“No, I don’t smoke. Now get away—”
Before the man in the Saab could react, Collins reached into the window, placed his hands on each side of the man’s head and continued singing.
As the man protested, Collins jerked the man’s head hard to the right. The man fell limp in his seat.
Collins felt a twinge shoot through his left shoulder. He put his hands on the man’s neck and felt for a pulse on the carotid artery. Nothing. He propped the man back up in his seat.
He reached into the dead man’s pocket and retrieved his wallet and identification. He located the man’s pistol, slipped it into his pocket and then he staggered back the way he came, still singing.
Collins walked back to his car and moved it so he could spot O’Rourke as he exited the Demon’s Lair. He opened the wallet and looked at the bald man’s ID. SIS. He had just killed an SIS operative.
A smile spread across his face. It wasn’t the first one he’d killed and likely wouldn’t be the last. He pulled the man’s pistol from his pocket — a Walther PPK — the James Bond weapon of choice.
CHAPTER 68
The CIA jet descended from forty-one thousand feet into the Sligo Airport at Strandhill, Ireland. The Challenger lined up for a straight-in approach to Runway 11.
The jet touched down just before four a.m. local time, and taxied to a section of the ramp where a car was waiting for them. The only sign of life at that time of morning in Sligo.
The night sky was clear and dark and the air was cold and biting. No hint of dawn. The only sounds were those of the turbine engines winding down to a stop, crackling in the cold air as they cooled.
Hunt, Kaplan and Jake stepped from the aircraft stairs to the tarmac and were greeted by a man with a strong British accent, who flashed his credentials. “Matthew Sterling, SIS.”
He looked at Hunt. “You must be Isabella Hunt.” Throwing a quick glance at Jake and then Kaplan, he said, “And one of you must be Jake Pendleton.”
Jake stepped forward and stuck out his hand. “I’m Jake.”
Hunt immediately took the lead. “Let’s get started, we’re running out of time. Did you get the headsets I asked for?”
Sterling nodded. “All business, I see.”
“Always. That way she won’t forget she’s in charge,” Jake jabbed.
Kaplan stuck out his hand. “She has no manners either. I’m Gregg Kaplan.”
The three men laughed.
She ignored them. “What about O’Rourke — any more word on him yet?”
Sterling looked from Jake to Hunt and said, “We spotted him at Stormont last night, our operative followed him to Enniskillen where our guy last reported in. We haven’t heard from him since and that’s been over an hour.”
“We’re cutting this one closer than I thought,” Jake said. “I really didn’t think he could get here that fast.”
“So much for in and out before he arrives, huh, Einstein?” Kaplan laughed.
Sterling paused and gave Hunt a grim look.
She said, “And what?”
“There was a fire at the Stormont Parliament Building a few hours ago, about the same time O’Rourke was there. We found the Secretary of State, his assistant, along with another man, shot to death. It was made to look like an assassin shot the Secretary and his assistant and then was shot by the assistant in the melee. We think O’Rourke probably killed them all and staged the room before setting it on fire.”
Jake interrupted, “The body bag count just went up again. In a week and a half, O’Rourke has managed to be involved with what, fourteen deaths that we know of?”
“That we know of,” she said.
“I say it’s time for Operation Elimination.” Kaplan said.
Hunt said, “Alive, Kaplan — not dead or alive.”
“I’m just saying. People are dying and I don’t plan on being a statistic for his body count.”
“Remember the rules of engagement. Bentley was clear about that,” she said.
Sterling motioned toward the car. “The radios you asked for are in the car. We’ll ready them on our way to Dromahair. I suggest we get moving. O’Rourke could feasibly be there by now.”
Before they left Washington, Jake, Hunt and Kaplan had been outfitted with operative mission gear. They wore all black clothing, cargo-style pants and shirts made by Blackhawk with the new Integrated Tourniquet System, black assault boots with molded insoles, armored vests, flashlights, penlights, and strap-on headlamps.
The mission was planned to be a covert extraction of Laurence O’Rourke and removal of whatever contents the secret location held. Upon his capture, O’Rourke’s transfer to London would be by CIA jet. The need for a quiet withdrawal was deemed appropriate by SIS and the CIA.
Hunt, Jake and Kaplan had been issued Sig Sauer P226 Tactical 9mm pistols, each with three, fifteen-round clips and equipped with a threaded screw-on silencer. Sterling was armed with the stereotypical MI6 silenced Walther PPK.
When they arrived at Dromahair, they parked across the street from the locked gates to the ruins of the O’Rourke Banqueting Hall and killed the lights to the car.
A gray Fiat rental was parked across the street and appeared to be empty in the dark street. Sterling used night vision goggles to detect any movement. There was none. It was approaching five a.m. and still no sign of dawn.
His adrenaline flowed fueling his nervous energy. Jake leaned forward toward Sterling. “Take us over to the abbey and let us start scouting around while you two stay here. Gregg and I know what to do. O’Rourke will show up here first, not the abbey.”