“It’s not the PIRA I’m interested in,” Andy pointed out as they sat in the car that was now double-parked in front of the hotel, much to the irritation of the concierge.
“I know,” O’Conner shot back. “Which is where my mom and her relatives come into play. You see, she’s second-generation Italian American. The G in my middle name stands for Giovanni.” When he didn’t expand upon this point, Andy couldn’t help but return the redhead’s steady gaze with a questioning look, which caused O’Conner to grin. “Let’s just say my Uncle Paul is extremely well connected. If anyone can arrange a meeting between you and the people you’re interested in, he can.”
Realizing he’d gotten just about everything out of O’Conner that the man was willing to divulge, and eager to make good his escape before the American had an opportunity to begin delving into what was so important about the Russian expat Andy had been dispatched to meet, he threw open his door and began to exit O’Conner’s small, beat-up old car. In doing so, the car door he was holding was nearly ripped off its hinges by a cabbie who, after swerving in order to miss it and him, stuck his arm out of the window of his cab and gave Andy the finger.
O’Connor just grinned as the Brit was given a down-home New York welcome. “We’re scheduled to meet the Sealion at his shop in Little Odessa tomorrow at ten o’clock sharp,” he called out to Andy as he was making his way to the curb.
Pausing after he’d reached the relative safety of the pavement, damn, no, sidewalk, Andy turned back; quizzically regarding the American. “The Sealion?”
Rather than answering, O’Conner flashed Andy another lopsided smile. “The second you lay eyes on him, you’ll know how he got that name.” With that, O’Conner once more popped the trunk and watched as Andy retrieved his suitcase and the computer Major Sanderson had given him. After agreeing on a time to meet the next day, he slipped back into his Pinto and drove off, whilst Andy found himself wondering as he watched him go just how much he dare share with an American whose sympathies for his distant Irish cousins could very well trump his sense of duty.
“How did you know?” Spence asked when she saw Andy had finished going over her findings.
“The anagrams,” he replied as he eased back in his seat and looked up from the screen of his monitor. “The Sealion advertises using his handle but never uses that name when communicating with his clients. He used a_lesion as a screen name during the Kirkland Affair, on_a_isle when he did that job in Devon, and, to cover whatever he’s up to with the people up in Northumberland, he’s been signing himself off as is_on_ale. That, coupled with a grudge he seems to have with anything or anyone who’s English, should have tipped me off a hell of a lot sooner than this.”
Pausing, Andy averted his gaze a moment before giving his head a quick shake and grunting. “I’m slipping,” he muttered. “If I’d missed something this bloody obvious back in Belfast I’d be nothing more than a name on a weathered plaque. I must be getting old,” he concluded somberly.
“Not old,” Spence chirped brightly as she came to her feet and graced Andy with a smile. “Distinguished.” With that, she pivoted about and headed back to her own desk, making something of a show of allowing Andy to watch her as she went and leaving him to wonder if it was smart to allow his mind to wander off into territory that had until recently been unthinkable.
Little Odessa actually turned out to be Brighton Beach, a section of Brooklyn that earned its name from the large number of Russian-speaking Jews who had been drawn there in the 1970s, joining a well-established Jewish community centered on the Holocaust survivors who had preceded them.
The shop O’Conner parked in front of, like so many others along the main drag, could just as easily have been in the Ukrainian city of Odessa, the area it was named after, for the signs and advertisements covering just about every square inch of the windows were almost all in Cyrillic text.
“Don’t let the Sealion fool you,” O’Conner warned as they were preparing to get out of the beat-up Pinto he’d parked once again at an awkward angle. “Once he’s sure about the people he’s dealing with, he’ll do his best to put you at ease by acting as if you’re a long-lost relative. The truth is, if my Uncle Paul is right, and he usually is when it comes to matters like this, the Sealion does some contract work on the side for the Russian mafia.”
Andy didn’t need the NYPD officer to elaborate as to the nature of that work. He was able to figure that out all on his own.
Upon entering the shop, the two men were greeted by a woman wearing a babushka who broke out into a warm, inviting grin as soon as she saw O’Conner. “It has been too long, Stefan. I was beginning to think you had forgotten us.”
Without pausing, O’Conner made his way around the counter and accepted a hearty hug from the woman. “How could I forget you, my little kitten?”
Stepping back, the woman waved him off. “You are all alike, you Irish, full of manure.”
“It’s blarney we’re full of,” O’Conner countered.
“You, you are different. It is the manure you heap upon my son.”
After sharing a good laugh over this, the woman tilted her head toward a doorway behind her. “As always, he’s in the back tinkering with his precious machines.”
Without another word, O’Conner glanced over to where Andy had been watching. With nothing more than a quick flick of his eyes, the American indicated he was to follow.
With the exception that it wasn’t nearly as clean or orderly, the room Andy entered bore an eerie resemblance to Sanderson’s lair back in Northern Ireland. Even its sole occupant, a stocky man with a peasant’s build and short dark hair, was seated at a bench twiddling with a computer in much the same way Sanderson had been when Andy had walked in on the Royal Signals major. But that was where all similarities ended, for when the man spun about in his seat, the expression he greeted Andy with was anything but friendly.
“Why wasn’t I told about this?” the Sealion spat out with a brusqueness meant to be intimidating. “The one who calls himself The Mick always notifies me whenever there’s something you Irish want me to look at for them, and buy if it’s of value.”
Andy wasn’t in the least bit thrown by the Russian’s challenge. With a well-practiced ease that now came as natural to him as breathing, he started to grin. “I expect this Mick you’re talking about didn’t call you because I don’t work for him or his lot.”
Now it was the Sealion’s turn to draw back ever so slightly as he stared at Andy quizzically. “You are IRA, no?”
“No.”
Despite his best effort, the Sealion couldn’t help but flinch as he shot a quick, quizzical glance over at O’Conner as if trying to determine if he had been had.
Sensing things were on the verge of going south, O’Conner stepped in. “He’s not with the Provisional wing of the IRA. My friend here is with Arm Saoirse Náisiúnta na hÉireann, the Irish National Liberation Army.”
The Russian’s frown upended. “Ah, I have heard of them,” he beamed as he stood, crossed the room, and reached out to shake the hand of a man he assumed was a fellow Marxist. “It is a pleasure to meet someone with the balls to give the English what they deserve.”
Just as O’Conner had predicted, Andy knew straight off why the Russian was called Sealion, for the thick, droopy mustache that dwarfed his face was more befitting a Cossack and reminded Andy of a sea lion’s long whiskers.