11
Standing behind a man working a laptop, Seamus McKee saw Colin return. He said, “What were they talking about?”
“Nothing. Trying to figure out why they have bags on their heads.”
“They’ll know that soon enough.”
He returned to the man on the computer. “Christ, Kevin, you said this Reddit thread would catch their attention. They still haven’t responded. Are they that stupid?”
“The ragheads don’t send riddles. This isn’t Belfast. They aren’t used to your signature.”
“Well, maybe we’ll have to acquaint them.”
Colin said, “We don’t have a drone strike yet, and even if we do, I still don’t think this will work.”
Seamus smiled. “A little late for that.”
“They won’t deal. And there will be no end to the search.”
“As long as the press is in the dark, they’ll deal. Remember the US Iran-Contra scandal? When President Reagan tried to exchange arms for hostages? After all of his tough talk about smashing terrorists? Just like Whitehall when they handed out those secret immunity deals to the Irish traitors in ’98. Doesn’t matter which government. They’re always willing to deal.”
Seamus McKee was a dying breed. A leader of a splinter group of the fading Irish Republican Army, he was one of the last who still believed Irish unity could be achieved through violence. In his eyes, Northern Ireland was an affront to every person of Celtic blood, and he was determined to see the final six counties under it returned to Irish control. Or at least punish those who disagreed.
Calling themselves the Real IRA, they’d been fighting since the Provisional IRA had called a cease-fire in 1998. When the cowards in the PIRA put down their arms, preferring to grovel for a half-step political solution, the RIRA split off and continued the campaign of violence. Car bombs, land mines, mortar attacks, and assassinations were all in its repertoire. Its goal: a unified Ireland—just like Michael Collins had envisioned so many years ago. Others could quit under the strain, but Seamus McKee never would.
The fight had been going on for decades—centuries, really—but Seamus and his brother Braden had been at it just under ten years. In that time Seamus had carved out a leadership niche and had proven his dedication to the cause. There was no shortage of will to attack, but operations cost money, and the cash flow had become harder and harder to maintain. Gone were the days of passing the hat in the pub, with even Americans of Irish descent supporting the cause.
For the most part, the younger generation didn’t really think about Northern Ireland, and the older generation had grown complacent, satisfied with a country of twenty-six counties instead of the total island of thirty-two. Because of it, the RIRA’s primary source of income was from crime. Gaining small-scale payoffs from extorting drug dealers and businesses, they spent more effort trying to collect operational funds than on the operations themselves.
In order to increase the flow of money, Seamus had had some of his men migrate to the continent, working with a team of Serbian jewel thieves who were experts in their chosen field. Called the Pink Panthers by Interpol, they’d pulled off some spectacular heists. While their nickname implied buffoonery, the operations were anything but. In less than a decade they’d netted over five hundred million dollars in places as far flung as Dubai and Tokyo, conducting hits that looked more fit for a Hollywood movie than real life.
Even with that, the Serbs were the undisputed leaders of the team. They used Seamus’s men for their specific skills but took most of the profits, leaving him little to show for the risk. But through it he’d learned that there was money to be made if one found something valuable enough to steal. He’d decided to graduate from material things. After all, at the root, what was more valuable than life?
While his men thought the entire operation was about money, for him it was personal. Make no mistake, he intended to earn enough funds to keep them in operations for decades, but he also had some lessons for the special relationship between Britain and the United States. Lessons only his brother Braden knew about.
Kevin turned from the computer, a Reuters press report on the screen. “Looks like they just conducted a strike in Yemen. Hit a wedding party by mistake. Talk about perfect timing.”
Seamus smiled. “You see, you can always count on the Yanks. They don’t take any shit. Unless something valuable is at stake.” He turned to Colin and said, “Execute the plan. Get the package in the air. Time to show we’re serious.” To Kevin, “Go ahead and send the message.”
Kevin pulled up the Whitehouse.gov contact page and filled out the return information using the name of one Abu Mustafa. He typed a message, then turned around and looked at Seamus, waiting on permission.
Dialing his phone, a concerned look on his face, Colin said, “You sure that can’t be traced? The government owns that website and the United States will bring everything they have to bear. The NSA is no joke.”
Kevin said, “I’d try to explain it to you, but it would be wasted effort. Just consider it magic, and me Gandalf. It can’t be traced. Unlike me, the NSA isn’t a magician.”
Seamus said, “Send it.”
With Colin talking in the background, Kevin posted the message. Seamus waited until Colin was done and asked, “Any issues?”
“No. They’re ready to leave Honduras. They’d already made the tape. Now it’s just a matter of cutting the limbs. The issue is whether we’ve gone too far too soon. This is going to cause the US to explode.”
Seamus bristled, saying, “What is your fucking problem? Are you afraid of them? Afraid of the fight? They are no more powerful than England. No more powerful than the intelligence agencies we’ve been fighting for years. They know nothing of us. They’re babies in our fight. They’ll never figure it out. The secret is the power we hold. They will be looking for the wrong people, and in the meantime someone will pay for them. One way or the other.”
“What about later? When the hostages say it wasn’t a bunch of ragheads who held them? How long can we hold up under that pressure? Christ, all they have to say is we had Irish accents.”
“The hostages will never talk. It’ll work out. Worst case, we blame the Serbs. We’re paying them enough.”
Colin said, “One more weak link. Those bastards will sell their own mothers. They have no cause.”
“You’re wrong. They have the omertà. They will never utter a word. I’m more worried about you.”
Colin said nothing under Seamus’s withering gaze. He eventually nodded, wanting to break the contact.
Seamus held his glare one moment longer, then said, “Call Braden. Tell him to deliver the package as soon as it arrives.”
Colin began dialing and Seamus said, “Let the games begin.”
* * *
Twenty-eight hours later a nondescript two-door Fiat pulled over on rue Royale, a large expanse of park separating the driver from the US embassy in Brussels, Belgium. A man exited carrying a small Styrofoam ice chest, just large enough for a six-pack of soda. The Belgium weather was blustery, and he didn’t look out of place wearing a hat and scarf, his cheekbones the only thing visible just below the sunglasses on his face.
He entered the park and walked through until he reached rue Ducale, the rear of the US embassy just in front of him, local national guards surveying everyone who exited. He circled the block, coming south down boulevard du Régent. He passed the Russian embassy and saw the black chain-link fence and the Belgian guards protecting the front entrance to the US embassy. He continued to approach, nodding to the guards and proceeding around the fence, just one more pedestrian walking the boulevard.
When he reached the front of the embassy, still outside the fence, he bent over and placed the ice chest on the ground, in full view of the guards and the cameras, then walked rapidly away. Before the guards could react, he was gone.
A suspicious package alert was called, requiring a response from the Brussels police force bomb squad. They used their robots and other technical kit, setting back Seamus’s plan by another four hours and aggravating the hell out of the drivers on boulevard du Régent, now closed in the name of safety. Finally, after enough exploration, a man in a full-on blast suit stiffly advanced, looking like a character from a Saturday morning cartoon. He bent over the container, searching all around for hidden triggers. When he saw none, he removed the lid. Then he fell back.
At first, the men in his squad thought he’d tripped but when they saw him crawling away they became agitated. One zoomed a camera in on the Plexiglas shield of his helmet.
It was covered in vomit.