H.M.S. Unseen (39 page)

“Good lock,” he said, then, turning to Ben, added, “Will you have a jar?”

It was not until that moment that Ben realized the young man was extremely drunk, and would be a bit lucky to make it to the car deck, never mind the road out of Rosslare. “No, I won’t thank you,” he said. “It’s a bit early for me.”

“Early? Jaysus, I t’ought it was a bit late.”

Ben smiled. The Irishman was a handsome kid, with black hair and a narrow, serious face. He smoked deeply, taking inward breaths that pulled the tobacco fumes deep into his lungs. Ben judged him to be a man with a lot on his mind, despite his youth.

“Now what might you be doing on this terrible bloody ship at this time of the night?” he asked with that disarming frankness of the Irish.

“I missed the earlier ferry, and had to hang around Fishguard,” replied Ben. “How about yourself?”

“I’ve been attending to a bit of business. Late finish. Had to get down from London on the train. Takes for bloody ever. You change at Swansea.”

“Should have got a plane,” said Ben.

“Not worth it. Costs a fortune. And I live in the south. Waterford. When I’m there, like. Someone’ll pick me up at Rosslare.”

Ben had not had a harmless chat like this for literally years. It was against everything he knew. Idle chatter. Loose thoughts. Leaving an impression upon another person. Matters that are forbidden to men who work undercover. He had to stop himself spilling out any salient facts, and he told himself to tell only lies. That way he would be more or less immune to indiscretion.

“What line of country are you in?” asked the Irishman, but before Ben could answer, he leaned over, quite suddenly, thrust out his hand, and added, “Paul, Paul O’Rourke. You don’t live in Ireland, do you?”

Ben shook his hand, and said, “Ben Arnold. I’m from South Africa. Mining’s my trade.”

“Oh, roight. I’m in politics meself.” And he drew deeply on his Guinness.

There was silence between the two for almost a minute, then: “Now then. You, sir, I can see, are a man of the world, so you’ll not mind my mentioning this. But there’s been a lot of trouble in your country over the years…you know, the poor native blacks striving to get some of their lands back from the whites who took it away. What do you think about that? About a people who were savagely dispossessed, and are trying to assert themselves, to get a dacent loife?”

“Well,” said Ben, “we don’t quite look at it like that. You see there were almost no indigenous blacks in South Africa when the whites settled it. They have arrived from the north over the years, trying to get work in a country built from scratch by Europeans, Dutch, and English.”

“Jaysus. I t’ought the buggers had always been there.”

“Paul. You thought wrong. South Africa was always white.”

“Is that why it’s so bloody rich, unlike the rest of Africa?”

“I suppose so. All its industry was built by the whites. My own corporation employs thousands of black workers…but I’m not saying we didn’t make mistakes. We did. We should have provided more opportunity, years ago, to bring the best of the blacks onside, into white society. Apartheid was never right. And it turned out to be very damaging.”

“I read a lot about it in college,” said Paul. “Before I dropped out. I was doing a degree in world politics at UCD. But I missed the part about the blacks being itinerant workers, visitors to the white state.”

“Well, that’s what they were. And that’s how most of ’em got there in the beginning. Streaming over the borders from places like Nyasaland. And, of course, many more immigrants came over from India.”

Again there was silence. Then Ben asked quietly, “And what was it, Paul, that was so pressing in your life, you decided to abandon your university degree?”

“Oh, not much really. I just got caught up in politics.”

“What kind of politics? You thinking of running for office sometime?”

“Perhaps sometime I might. But I got into the more practical end of t’ings.”

Ben sensed that Paul O’Rourke was about to say more than he should. He watched the boy, smoking nervously, gulping great swallows of Guinness, his hand trembling slightly.

“My people are Republicans,” he said. “We’ve always believed in a united Ireland. My dad was an activist, so was his dad, and his.”

“What kind of activists?”

“Well my great-grandda came to Dublin with Michael Collins from Cork in 1916. He died in the fighting at the post office; the English gunned him down. My great-uncle was wounded, but he got away. He was with the group that retreated to Bolands Bakery. I t’ink about it every time I go to Dublin…they never had a chance against the English artillery…but Jaysus, the lads were brave on that day…”

Ben nodded, said nothing. “My whole family is Sinn Fein,” said Paul. “It just means in Gaelic, ‘Ourselves Alone.’ We want Ireland to be one country, with no English here at all…that’s why there’s the IRA…that’s our military wing.”

“I know,” said Ben. “Are you a member?”

Paul was silent. Shook his head, then said, “Let’s just say I’m sympathetic.”

He gulped some more Guinness. “I don’t think you’d understand, Mr. Arnold,” he said. “We’re from different sides of the tracks. You belong to the rich ruling class. I belong to an organization struggling to break free from a cruel and wicked oppressor.”

“You think the English are cruel and wicked?”

“We’ve nothing to thank them for. They raped and pillaged this country for centuries. And by whose right? The right of their bloody guns, that was their only right. But you’ll find that England’s first colony is destined to be her last. And it may be our guns that finally put an end to it.”

“When did you first get interested?”

“I t’ink I must have been about thirteen. There was a little party at my granddad’s house down in Schull on the Cork coast, and some English people were invited back from the pub. I remember they were all singing songs, each person taking turns…and when it came time for the Englishmen to sing, they did ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.’

“At that moment my grandfather went berserk. I was standing right next to him, and he smashed the flat of his hand down on the table, and shouted, ‘I’LL NOT HAVE THAT SONG SUNG IN THIS HOUSE…I’LL NOT HAVE IT! DAMN YOU…DAMN YOU TO HELL!’

“Well, the party broke up right then. Everybody left, but the next day I asked my dad what had upset Grandpa so much. And he told me that song was an English marching song, and the Black and Tans used to sing it.”

“Who were the Black and Tans?”

“Oh, that was the English occupying army in southern Ireland, before we drove them out. My dad told me they had shot grandpa’s mother and both of his sisters when he was about fourteen years old down in Cork. He said Grandpa stood on the doorstep of the house, covered in the blood of his own dead mother, and he could hear the English soldiers marching off, singing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.’”

“Does that mean you want to become a terrorist, a soldier of the IRA?”

“I’m not sure. And I can’t explain it. You’d never understand what it feels like to be prepared to die for something you believe in, Mr. Arnold. I hate the English, and so does everyone in my family. They’ll never be forgiven for what they’ve done in Ireland. And it’s up to just a few us to get the last of them out of here. And the best way to do that is to bomb their bloody country until they leave.”

“I should be careful, Paul. It’s a lonely life you’re considering. Hunted by the English, the feeling that every man’s hand is turned against you. And the constant danger of high explosives and British Army marksmen. Worse yet, you end up not daring to trust anyone.”

“I’ve already studied the subject pretty carefully, Mr. Arnold. I’m brave enough, and I think I might be smart enough…I have helped in a few missions, but never in a real way. My father commanded an IRA squad, but he never told us what he had done.”

“Well, I think you should take it very carefully, Paul. It’s a big step. And you’ll have a lot of time to regret it if it turns out to be wrong for you. Also, you might get killed.”

“Ah, you say that because you can’t quite understand what it’s like to believe in something and be ready to die for it. It burns right into you, the hatred, and the feeling of being right, being justified. All terrorists are men apart.”

“So they are, Paul,” replied Benjamin Adnam.
“
So they are.”

1600. Wednesday, April 5.
Office of the National Security Advisor.
The White House.

Admiral Arnold Morgan was on the secure line to CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia.

“Yeah. Well, I don’t know where the hell he is, or where the hell he’s headed. But I know he was in Scotland last night. And I have no real reason to suspect he may be trying to get into the United States, but he might be…

“Yup. I got a picture the Mossad wired for us. Yup, it’s on the way over. Excellent quality…well, I’d be inclined to get some guys into the main airports of entry from Britain…flights from the northern airports, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Manchester…just because they’re nearer to his last-known position. Yeah, but we’d better watch flights in from London Heathrow and Gatwick. Just in case he heads south first. The Brits are watching all those airports.

“Yeah…I’ve sent a physical description. Remember he’s a Navy officer…usually looks smart. And he speaks with a very correct British accent. But remember, too, he’s no fool and is unlikely to oblige us by looking like a gentleman…right…right…well, I guess New York, Washington. Possibly Philly…possibly Boston…maybe Chicago.

“Yeah, alert immigration, the passport guys, for anyone fitting this description…okay…no I’m not sure…for all I know he might be going back to the Middle East…but he could be coming here…yeah, possibly Kansas…right…no…I don’t think he’ll have a visa…he won’t have time to get one. No…he’d forge a passport…but the modern U.S. visas are almost impossible to forge accurately…I’d guess he wouldn’t dare to try that…too big a risk. If he does try to enter the U.S.A., we’re looking for a guy with no visa, traveling just as a visitor, for less than ninety days.

“Okay…let’s stay right on top of this…remember, this bastard is the worst terrorist in history…and, if he comes here, I want the fucker caught. So does the President…so don’t screw it up.”

Arnold Morgan banged the phone down, yelled for coffee. Then yelled for Kathy O’Brien. Three seconds later, when the door didn’t open, he strode toward it, snapping, “Dumb-ass broad!” just as the President of the United States entered, chuckling, “Who me?”

“Christ, no, sir. Sorry. It’s just that bastard Adnam really gets to me. I’ve no proof, and it’s a real long shot, but he just could be on his way here.”

“Hell, that we don’t need.”

“Not if he plans to blow up another warship or a goddamned aircraft, or even an airport…he really spooks me…I just think the fucker might do anything.”

“I agree. If your theories are right, we might be in big trouble. Yet again. We gotta catch him, Arnold. What’s the latest?”

“Well, I just heard from Iain MacLean in Scotland.”

“Oh, yeah. What does he think?”

“Well, it was Iain who alerted us Adnam was in Scotland. He thinks he’s trying to locate Laura.”

“Jesus. You don’t think he’s trying to kill Bill, do you?”

“Hell. I hadn’t even thought about that. But when a guy’s killed as many people as Adnam, you don’t know what he might do.”

“We must find him, Arnold. Christ, he’s just killed the Vice President, among others. You got Langley on the case?”

“Absolutely.”

“Keep it tight, Arnie. We gotta get him. Use as many people as it takes. How ’bout Kansas? You think we need guys out there?”

“Not yet. He probably won’t even come here. I don’t want to alert the entire country. Right now I thought we’d just get a tight grip on all the incoming flights from Britain. We got good photos, good description…we might just have a shot at picking him up.”

“Okay, buddy. I’ll leave it to you. Keep me informed.”

“Aye, sir.”

Back on the
Beatrix Königin
, Ben Adnam had said good-bye to Paul O’Rourke and was making his way down to the car deck. They had passed the flashing light to port that marks the channel into Rosslare, and now they were reversing, beyond the harbor wall into their berth on the Irish quayside. It seemed to take forever, but at 0710 on Thursday, April 6, Commander Adnam drove the rented Audi out onto Irish soil, making his way through the dock to the kiosk in front of the customs shed, which was completely empty.

All of the cars from Fishguard just drove straight through, following the “Exit” signs, up the steep hill and out onto the main road to Wexford and, one hundred miles north, Dublin. It was growing light, and Ben could see he was driving over a long, flat coastal plain, with only few houses and little traffic. Thankfully, the fleet of heavy trucks from Wales was far behind, and Ben settled down to drive fast, along the wide, lonely Irish roads, up to Enniscorthy, then to Ferns, and Gorey and Arklow, through the Wicklow Mountains to the southern suburbs of Ireland’s capital city. Given the speed of the first part of the journey, he anticipated it would take him two hours. But as he proceeded north up the east coast, the rain began again, and the traffic grew heavier.

By the time he reached the outskirts of Dublin he was in a rainswept morning rush hour, bumper to bumper all along the N11. Up ahead he could see his landmark, the towering aerial tower of Ireland’s television station RTE. He was looking for the next right after that, at the Catholic church, and he finally turned into exclusive Anglesea Road at 1000.

Five minutes later he crossed Ballsbridge, swung right again into Shelbourne Road, and ran down to the Berkeley Court Hotel in Lansdowne Road. He drove straight in to the rear parking lot, checked in, and crashed onto his bed on the fourth floor. Exhausted. Hungry. Too tired to eat. But safe. And anonymous. In a new country, in which he had never even shown his passport.

Ben slept until midday, picked up the credit cards he had asked to be sent, and left the hotel in a light drizzle. He took a cab to Grafton Street and used his Royal Bank of Scotland credit card to purchase a raincoat and an umbrella in Brown Thomas, Dublin’s excellent answer to Harrods and Saks Fifth Avenue.