Porter crossed his arms. “It feels like I’ve been doing most of the talking. That doesn’t seem quite fair. It’s clear that you have a client who claims to have been one of the men who pulled the robbery off.”
“I can’t officially confirm that for the purposes of this meeting,” Finn said.
Porter rolled his eyes. “How quaint. We’re going to go through the absurd charade of using hypotheticals? Fine. Hypothetically, why would your client come forward at this point? What’s happened now? Is he afraid that someone is selling the paintings out from under him?”
Finn shook his head. “I don’t think he even knew that someone was trying to sell the paintings. But the other man involved in the robbery must have found out, and he’s come back.”
“Come back? Come back from where?” Porter asked. Then he smiled again and answered his own question. “ Ireland.”
Finn just stared at him.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Finn, I’m not looking for an admission to use in court. It makes sense, though. The IRA was successful in the art theft business, but they got too greedy in this case. This was the greatest art theft in history. There was no insurance to provide a ransom, and within hours, it was international news. It would have been virtually impossible for them to sell the paintings on the open market. They would have had to sit on them for a long time. Like twenty years. Even if those in the IRA had wanted to get the paintings, it would have been problematic with their organization crumbling and Bulger on the run. It would also have been difficult to move the paintings, so they most likely remained here in Boston.”
“But now someone is trying to sell them,” Kozlowski said. “That would probably get those who were once in the IRA pretty pissed off.”
“So it appears,” Porter said. “I assume you gentlemen have heard about the untimely demise of Vincent Murphy and Eddie Ballick? Of course you have. And if your hypothetical client is tied in with all this, he can’t be feeling too comfortable right now, can he?”
Finn and Kozlowski looked at each other, and Kozlowski raised his eyebrows.
Porter reached into a file he had brought with him into the room and pulled out a picture. It was the face of a man Finn had never seen before, but it fit the description Lissa had given them of the man who’d attacked her and kidnapped Sally. He had dark hair and black eyes that stared into the camera with an evil, lifeless gaze. “Have you seen this man before?”
Finn shook his head. No,” he said honestly. “Who is he?”
“His name is Liam Kilbranish,” Porter said. “He is a former IRA operative. Our terrorism task force picked up information from their British counterparts recently that he fled Ireland, headed to the US.”
“I thought the IRA was dead,” Finn said.
“It is,” Porter said. “The ceasefire was reached under the Good Friday Agreement in 1998. There were years of negotiations that followed, with the major sticking point being the process of disarming all paramilitary organizations in Northern Ireland, including the IRA. In 2005, the IRA finally capitulated, and international weapons inspectors verified the decommissioning of the IRA’s arsenal. By late 2006 the independent monitoring commission ruled that the IRA was no longer a threat.”
“But that’s not the whole story?” Finn asked.
“It never is, is it?” Porter said. “This is a struggle that went on for more than three quarters of a century. Most of those involved in the fight have been willing to put down their arms and work to maintain the peace. That’s a significant achievement.”
“But not all?” Finn said. He pointed to the picture. “Not him?”
“As with any cause, there will always be those few who refuse to accept anything but total victory. There is a small cadre of former IRA operatives who are still looking to ruin the peace and begin the fighting all over again. Kilbranish is one of them. His family was killed when he was a boy.”
“Why was he headed to the United States?” Finn asked.
“I think you can figure that out,” Porter said. “Kilbranish is known for two things: his brutality, and his skill as an art thief. If he thought there was a way to recover the Gardner paintings, he wouldn’t hesitate. The IRA has no weapons and no money. If the troubles are to start fresh, they would need an enormous influx of cash. Our informants tell us that once the offer to sell the paintings was made, this group of IRA leftovers paid a hundred thousand dollars for confirmation that the offer was genuine. They received that confirmation.”
“How?”
“Paint chips and dated photographs. The photographs could be doctored, but the paint chips can be tested to provide a reasonable degree of certainty. It looks as though the offer was genuine.”
“So these people are going to buy the art back?” Finn asked.
Porter laughed. “Hardly. They have no more to pay. Besides, if our theories are right, Kilbranish was involved in the original theft. He would view the paintings as rightfully his. He’s here to bring the paintings back his own way.”
There was silence for a moment. Finn wished there were windows in the conference room; he felt as though the walls were closing in on him.
“Let me be very clear, Mr. Finn: if your client helped Kilbranish rob the Gardner, and Kilbranish doesn’t have the paintings now, your client is a dead man. You know what he did to Murphy and Ballick. He’ll do the same to your client. Of course, you already know that, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. He needs to come in. We can help him.”
Finn thought about Sally in the hands of the man Porter was describing. It made him feel sick. “He can’t come in.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Finn said.
“If he’s worried about being prosecuted for the robbery, I’m sure we can work something out on that. Particularly if the paintings are recovered.” Porter was practically drooling, and Finn saw Hewitt shoot a questioning look toward him.
“It’s not that,” Finn said. “Although some sort of an agreement that he wouldn’t be prosecuted would be needed. There are other considerations, though.”
“Like what?” Porter demanded. “If he doesn’t come in, he’ll be dead in a matter of days. It’s that simple.”
“I wish it was that simple.” Finn took out a card and handed it to him. “Let me think about it and we may be back in touch.”
Porter reached into his jacket and pulled out two cards of his own. He handed Finn and Kozlowski each one. “I hope you will be.” He walked over to the door and opened it for them. Just as they got to the door, though, he closed it slightly, blocking their path. “There is one thing you should explain to your hypothetical client, Mr. Finn,” he said. “If he does not come forward, and we find him… all bets are off. I have no doubt in those circumstances that the Justice Department will bring its full weight to bear on him and anyone else involved.”
Finn looked at Porter. When they stood next to each other the size difference was striking, and yet the FBI agent no longer seemed small. There was an intensity to him that was intimidating. “I understand, Agent Porter. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Chapter Thirty-One
She had known fear before. It had been a constant companion of hers; like a shadow that faded from time to time, but was always present. She had never known fear like this, though.
The basement was dark. She could feel the mold and mildew surrounding her. On her skin; in her hair; in her nose; growing all around her, choking off her air. It gave her panic a physical presence, and she tried unsuccessfully to put it out of her consciousness.
She had to focus. The one thing that had kept her alive through her short and difficult life was her ability to keep her head, even as everything around her was falling apart. She needed that strength now, but every time she tried to take a deep breath to settle herself, the stench of decay invaded her lungs, carrying with it a new wave of terror.