63
The pub was pretty much empty, with two sots at the bar, veins popping on their noses from a lifetime of Guinness. I let Brett and Retro wander around, scoping the place out, and ordered three pints from the bartender.
An older lady who looked like she’d been pouring beer for a century, she said, “Americans?”
I said, “Yeah. We heard An Spailpin Fanac was the one pub we had to see in Cork City, but I guess it takes a while to pick up.”
She smiled at my butchering of the Gaelic tongue. “We have nightly music, but even in Ireland the bars are a little empty at four P.M. Come back at nine.”
I picked up the beers, saying, “Might do that. Thanks,” then went deeper into the pub looking for my teammates. I passed a small cubby on the right, seeing two men leaning across the table, deep in conversation.
I found my mates sitting in the far back. I passed the beers out and said, “Well? What did you find?”
Brett leaned forward conspiratorially and said, “Look over to the right.”
I did and saw a round vending machine. Nothing else. I said, “What?”
“That thing dispenses Pringles potato chip cans. Weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I looked at Retro, and he said, “It’s true. I got a picture.”
I said, “Who gives a shit? What about our target?”
Retro said, “Well, unless it’s those two guys up front dressed like bums, it’s got to be the two lovebirds in the cubby.”
I said, “Really? You’ve got the balls to insult someone else’s clothes?”
Retro got his callsign because of his dress. He consistently looked as if he were trying out for Saturday Night Fever, wearing clothes that were twenty or thirty years out of date. I used to think he just refused to buy anything new, but it had been going on as long as I’d known him, and I now secretly suspected he was purposely finding old stuff at Goodwill or other secondhand stores.
Brett chuckled and said, “We’ve recced the entire place. The back room is empty. You’ve seen everyone here. If that chick was telling the truth, it has to be one of those guys in the cubby.”
After finally convincing the National Command Authority that we had indeed rescued the Clute twins, things had accelerated almost out of my control, making me wonder if I was going to regret asking for help.
The support team had showed up just fine, and we’d done a thorough CSI-like scrub of the apartment, with one egghead taking DNA and other biometrics, and a couple of others going through the apartment with a fine-tooth comb. It reminded me of the cleaner in Pulp Fiction.
In the end, they didn’t get a whole lot. They would forensically check the phones and other electronics in more depth back in the rear, but the bad guys had used the same VOIP app that had stymied us in the past. The flip phone we found had one number: Braden’s.
The only thing of interest was a notebook with addresses. One was the safe house where I’d found Kylie’s pendant. Another was the hotel in Brussels that we’d broken into. A third was the death house that had almost killed Knuckles and Brett. After that, there were a few that I didn’t know, and all would need to be investigated, but one caught my eye. An address for someone named Clynne in Cork City, Ireland.
I’d left the support package to deal with the bodies, taking Jennifer and Nung with me to the Paris airport. I had no idea how they dealt with such things and half expected one of the eggheads to start pouring acid in the bathtub.
We had finally linked back up with the vaunted Taskforce Rock Star bird and the team, minus Knuckles. He’d taken a few licks and was headed home. Nothing major, but enough to keep him out of the fight. I texted him, calling him a * and poking him in the eye for leaving me high and dry yet again, and was surprised at the pleasure I got in his reply. Not the words. Just the fact that he could type them.
For the record, he sent a real vote of confidence: Don’t kill my men doing something stupid.
I’d sent back, Stupid? Who’s going home with stitches in his ass?
We’d taken off to Ireland and had learned in-flight that the Oversight Council was sending LTC Blaine Alexander and an Omega package. Which meant either they were finally taking me seriously, or they really, really didn’t trust me.
In an ordinary mission, when we’d built up enough evidence that a terrorist was to be taken off the board, Blaine would show up to control the operation, juggling everything from talking to the president to coordinating all the intricate cover concerns in the targeted country. In this case, we had very little, so his inclusion was a tad strange.
I didn’t mind. We’d butted heads in the past, but he was a good guy and someone I trusted. In the end, all it did was give me cover from the head shed, since technically he was in charge, so anything that happened would fall on him to explain.
I’d picked up Brett and Retro, so with Nung and Jennifer, that gave me almost a whole team. I’d decided not to fly to the Cork City airport because of the risk. It was beyond believable that our opposition had the place wired, but then again I would have never pegged them to set such a diabolical trap in Paris. I was taking no chances.
I redirected to Shannon airfield, about two hours north of Cork City. There were other, closer places, but Shannon had a long history of helping out US government flights, including CIA rendition aircraft, so I preferred the infrastructure in place. While we had all the requisite tail numbers and documentation, we also had a near-term history of some weird-ass flying, and they knew when to look the other way.
We’d landed and linked up with Blaine in the lobby of the Shannon airport fixed-base operator, a place that serviced private aircraft—usually rock stars or oil magnates. Blaine seemed a little hesitant, wondering how I’d treat him, since not too long ago he’d tried to lock me up on a mission in the US that had gone sideways. I decided to make him pay a little bit, putting on my war face and saying, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Taken aback, he’d lowered his outstretched hand and said, “You didn’t get the word?”
Jennifer had elbowed my kidney and shook her head. She said, “Yeah, we got the word and appreciate the assistance.”
Then she glared at me.
I grinned and he saw I was jerking his chain. I shook his hand, then he went about slapping the rest of the team. He got to Nung, and his face showed confusion.
I said, “You guys wouldn’t help, so I brought in an independent contractor. Nung, this is Blaine Alexander.”
Nung stuck out his hand, and Blaine said, “Pike, can I see you a minute?”
He’d stomped to the far end of the room, me following. He said, “Who the hell is that?”
“I told you. An independent contractor. He’s from Thailand and helped me with that Knuckles problem we had a year ago. You remember? The same one where you tried to fucking kill me?”
Which was an extreme exaggeration, but I wanted to rock him a little bit. It didn’t work.
He went into command mode. “Jesus, Pike, you’ve got a civilian working Taskforce problems? Have you lost your mind?”
“Hey, he’s handy in a scrape and can keep his mouth shut. He doesn’t know what we do. And honestly doesn’t care. As long as he gets paid.”
“Paid? What are you talking about? Does Kurt know this?”
“Uh . . . not yet.”
He turned in a circle, his hands on his head. “You have mercenaries working for the US government? Seriously?”
I said, “He’s not a mercenary.” Blaine looked at me like I was a child, and I said, “Okay, I guess he is a mercenary, but I needed the help. I pulled him in when I was PNG’d from the Taskforce.”
He said, “What’s the cost? What do we owe him?”
“Uh . . . we haven’t really discussed that yet. He wanted the jewels in the apartment in Paris, but the support team took them.”
His mouth fell open. “I . . . I’m really at a loss for words.”
I grinned. “Don’t worry. It’ll work out. Now that you’re here, you can break the news to Kurt.”
He said, “Screw that. He’s all yours. Let’s get to Cork City.”
We’d gotten a caravan of rentals, downloading whatever we thought we’d need from the Rock Star bird, pulling equipment out of the very walls themselves. The mission was pure reconnaissance, so we went heavy on that aspect. If we found anything, it would be Blaine’s job to coordinate a rescue force, while we faded to the background. I didn’t envy him for that. If it had been the UK, we could count on support from the SAS or some other organization much closer to our government, but here, I had no idea how he would effect a rescue. But that wasn’t my problem.
We’d established a tactical operations center in a hotel next to the River Lee in Cork City, then had set out to the address we’d found for Clynne. It was in a decidedly seedy part of town, and Blaine had wanted to do some type of Mission: Impossible break-in, implanting bugs and everything else. I’d told him, “We do the mission. You deal with higher.”
He’d said, “So, what do you recommend?”
“Knocking on the damn door. It’s worked for Jennifer and me so far.”
We’d driven to the address, leaving Nung fuming in the car yet again. Brett and Retro had staged left and right, and I’d taken Jennifer with me, both of us armed but our weapons concealed.
A skeleton-thin girl strung out on something, her hair listless and greasy, had answered the door. We’d asked for Clynne, and she’d snorted.
“He’s not here. Doing ‘business.’ You see that shit, you tell him I’m not waiting all night.”
I didn’t want to ask what she was waiting for, in fact didn’t want to get too close because I was sure she was carrying enough disease to cause the next Black Plague. I asked, “Where’s the business being conducted?”
And she’d given us the name of the pub. No subterfuge or questioning of our motives, which led me to believe the man known as Clynne wasn’t a master terrorist.
“You have a picture of him?”
She’d squinted, then said, “You don’t even know what he looks like? I thought you were friends.”
“I never said that.”
“I got no picture.”
I’d turned to go, and Jennifer, being quicker on the uptake than me, said, “Can I use your phone?”
I mentally kicked myself, knowing where she was going. The skeleton said, “He don’t have a phone. It was cut off months ago.”
I said, “Then can I have your cell?”
“No way. You want to call him, you pay me first.”
I withdrew my pistol and said, “You misunderstand. I don’t want to call him. I want to prevent you from doing that.”
Her eyes had widened, and she’d said, “I won’t call. I got no reason to.”
“Give it to me. I’ll give it to Clynne. You’ll get it back.”
She had done so, and now we were sitting in a pub, letting Clynne conclude his “business.”