24
We did so, seeing old warriors talking to family and visitors touring the grounds. Uncomfortable, I asked Jennifer what the hell I was going to say. I mean, I couldn’t accuse an eighty-year-old man of kidnapping a US citizen. I was beginning to regret coming here. The only reason I had done so was because of the risk Kurt had taken to get the information. There was no way it would lead anywhere.
She smiled and placed her hand over mine. “This guy is you in forty years. Your blood. Just talk to him. If there’s something here, he’ll let you know. If not, then make an old veteran happy. Tell war stories.”
Her words were exactly what I needed to hear. I relaxed. I wasn’t the best at social stuff, as Jennifer would attest, but I had no trouble talking to soldiers.
Eventually an administrative assistant entered the coffee shop, followed by a man who stood ramrod straight. At least six feet tall, he was gaunt, as if eaten by an unknown disease, but his eyes were alive. Blue and full of mischief.
She pointed to us, and he walked over. I stood. “Mr. McKee, I’m Nephilim Logan. From the US.”
He said, “Well, I didn’t think you were a relative.” He shook my hand, then took Jennifer’s and actually kissed it.
He sat down and said, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? You Yanks just pick a name out of the reception book?”
Wanting a connection before I accused him of stealing my boss’s niece, I said, “Where did you serve? Malaysia? Borneo? Yemen?”
He looked at me with a new light and said, “You’re in the American Army.”
“Not anymore. But I was.”
“You’ll find few civilians here who even remember those places. It’s all about the blitz in World War II or Iraq and Afghanistan. The fights in between are forgotten.”
Jennifer said, “I’m a history buff, but the only thing I can get Pike interested in is a fight. It’s the one area he knows more than me.”
The old man said, “I was in Malaysia. Back when it was the Wild West, as you Yanks say. We were going to lose it to a bunch of Chinese. I’ll tell you, we’re fighting the same thing now in Afghanistan. We already quit in Iraq. Nobody listens to the history of the past. . . .”
From there I let him go, and we spent an hour telling war stories. He was a strong man with strong opinions, not unlike any old soldier from the United States. I learned he was from Belfast, Northern Ireland, and that he’d been torn during the troubles there. Being in the British Army had put him on the horns of a dilemma, with many treating him like a traitor. Because of it, he’d spent as much time as he could deployed, moving his family away from their ancestral homeland. The conflict was too close, and the wounds too deep. When his daughter had married, she had returned, but he never did.
I told him about my life in the Army, tours in Iraq and Afghanistan and other places, leaving out the top secret shit I’d done. He told me about his grandson, a man named Brian McKee who had served as well and had been killed in an IED attack in Basra, Iraq, in 2006. Eventually, the stories wound down, and he said, “I appreciate the visit, but you didn’t come here to talk about British success in Malaysia.”
I said, “No, sir, I didn’t.” And I laid it out for him, camouflaging the true problem by talking about a stolen rental car. Making up a story about how I had misunderstood the insurance requirements and now was trying to find the car instead of being forced to pay for it. I told him about the video tape, then asked why a motorcycle registered in his name would be in Cambridge.
He said, “I have no idea why. My daughter sometimes uses my name for things. Maybe she did something with a motorcycle, but she’s got nothing to do with Cambridge.”
Which was no help. I said, “Would she have loaned it out to someone? Given her bike to a friend?”
He thought a moment, then said, “No, but I could see Seamus pulling some crap like this.”
“Who is he?”
“My other grandson. Brian’s brother, and a waste of good flesh. He’s done nothing with his life. Brian joined the military, proud to serve. Seamus refused, going on about our Irish heritage and hating the British military. When Brian was killed in 2006, he went off the deep end, spouting his hatred of the United States for pulling us into Iraq, then talking about joining the Irish Republican Army and fighting the very country I served. I had nothing more to do with him.”
The conversation was a curveball but held enough to keep my interest. Enough to see where it went.
I said, “Is he—are you—Catholic?”
The old soldier laughed. “No. That’s what’s so stupid about Seamus. We’re Protestant, but he’s convinced he’s been shit on by Whitehall. He’s just crazy.”
I pulled a surveillance photo from the Eagle out of my bag, saying, “Is this Seamus?”
He looked at it and said, “Christ. No. That’s Braden. My other grandson. Seamus’s got his arse in the mix now?”
I heard the words and felt a spark. Rationally, I knew it was nothing. All I’d done was prove that the bike registration was correct, and the guy riding it was connected to the old soldier, but my sixth sense was telling me I had found a vein to mine. And my sixth sense was rarely wrong.
I said, “I don’t know. This is from where the car was taken. It’s all I have. Is Braden like Seamus? I mean, would he steal a car?”
“No. Not the Braden I know. But he always looked up to Seamus. Looked up to Seamus and Brian. He was a follower.”
I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to open up wounds for your family, but I’d like to talk to Braden. Do you know where I might find him?”
“No. My daughter would, but she’s out of the country for the winter. She won’t be back until the spring, and even then, I don’t know how much she’s kept in touch with them. After Brian died, everything changed. Braden used to visit, but I haven’t seen him in years.”
“What about Seamus?”
He scoffed. “I disowned that bloke years ago. He’s a bad seed, and always was.” He stood and stretched his legs. “I have an old address for Braden. It’s from two or three years ago, but maybe it’ll help.”
“You don’t mind giving it to us?”
“Hell no. I’ve got more in common with you than I do with them. Promise me one thing, though.”
“What?”
“You find out they took your car, break them down and teach them a lesson. Something I failed to do.”
I nodded. “Sir, if they have the car I’m thinking about, I promise they’ll regret taking it.”