So Harvard decided to take a chance. He did not have a hell of a lot to lose. Almost broke already, with no financial prospects for the future, maybe, just maybe, this was the break he needed, the opportunity to end his miserable run of bad luck and turn his fortunes around. A chance to hit for half a million dollars and start a new life. Go back to his brothers, buy back his stock, become a productive executive in the business their father and grandfather and great-grandfather had built.
There was just one covenant he had to make with himself. If at any time it appeared that what he was doing was in any way further endangering or threatening Adriana Marshall, he would back off at once. He did not particularly like Adriana, but if he could not help her, he certainly did not want to harm her.
That decided, he called Georgette at the concierge desk. “Georgette, I want you to get me a round-trip first-class ticket on the earliest flight to London, with the return open. I want to keep my room, so don’t check me out. Charge the ticket to my room account. Call me as soon as the arrangements are made.”
Hanging up, he could not help smiling briefly to himself. The way she had looked at him so frankly had not escaped his attention.
With only a carry-on bag, Harvard flew to London on a British Air flight. At Heathrow, he paused long enough to telephone a former college roommate in Belfast to arrange a meeting, then paid cash for a seat on one of the hourly commuter hops across the Irish Sea to Northern Ireland. It was nine P.M. when he touched down at Aldergrove Airport and taxied into the city. Checking into the Midland Hotel, he quickly unpacked his extra clothes before hurrying out into the nippy Belfast night.
Mooney’s Pub was only a block away, as his old roommate had said it would be, and that roommate was waiting for him with a wide, almost leering smile and a clamorous greeting. “Jimmy Harvard, you bloody Yankee! Did they finally run you out of Shy-cago?”
“Tyrone Buchanan, you Irish scoundrel!” Harvard greeted him back. The two men embraced and then Harvard stepped back and patted Tyrone’s ample midsection. “Who’s the father, Buck?”
“It’s the bloody beer, Jimmy. Best in the world! My only remaining vice.”
Harvard’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? And what happened to all the others?”
“Gone,” Tyrone said sadly. “Smothered by the bonds of holy matrimony and the awesome responsibilities of parenthood. Here, let me show you pictures of my family—”
They sat in a private booth with a stained-glass door, drinking dark ale, and for a few minutes talked of times past and things changed, before smiling a little sadly at each other about a good life once lived but now gone forever.
“Ah, Jimmy, we’re a long ways from Notre Dame,” Tyrone finally said with a sigh.
“Yes, we are,” Harvard agreed.
Tyrone sat back and tilted his head a little. “So. You said your trip was important.”
“Are you still in the civil service here, Ty?” Harvard asked.
“Yes, I am,” his friend replied soberly. He lowered his voice, as if by habit. “It’s difficult at times, me being a Catholic and the great majority of government offices being held by Protestants. But a few others and myself try to keep some sort of balance that will enable the peace discussions to continue. No matter what you hear from the press, Jimmy, we all, Protestants and Catholics alike, want the bloodshed to stop. It’s the politicians, not the people, that can’t seem to pull it together.”
Harvard nodded solemnly. “I remembered all the talks we had about the troubles, as you called them, when we were back in school. I remembered the plans you had to go into government to see if you could make a difference. That’s why I thought of you when I needed help in something.” Harvard lowered his own voice. “What’s the INF?”
Tyrone Buchanan’s expression darkened. “The Irish National Front. A splinter group that broke off from the IRA when the peace talks began. Its leader is a man named Brian Kenna. He’s very popular, very charismatic, and very much against any compromise with the British in Northern Ireland. What’s your interest in him, Jimmy?”
“You know about the Marshall kidnapping, of course. Five million dollars in ransom is being demanded. I have very good information that the INF is behind it.”
Tyrone sat back, pursing his lips for a moment. “That’s a theory no one’s come up with, but it certainly makes sense. The IRA has refused to fund any of Kenna’s activities, and it’s a known fact that he’s desperately short of operating money. Five million would keep his group afloat for a long time.” Tyrone’s eyes fixed on Harvard. “How are you involved, Jimmy?”
“Our families are close,” Harvard lied. “I’m trying to get her back before her father has to pay the ransom.” He paused a beat, then asked, “Do you think this Kenna will kill her if things don’t go his way?”
Tyrone shook his head emphatically. “Never. He’s too smart for that. If he killed the girl, he’d be branded a murderer and a terrorist by most of the world. Brian Kenna wants to be a political force. He wants the people to love him, think he’s a hero. He probably won’t even publicly admit the kidnapping.”
“You don’t think any attempt by me to rescue her would result in her death?”
“No. Your death, perhaps. What’s your plan, Jimmy?”
“I’m hoping you can help me locate an INF contact in Monaco. I don’t care who or what the contact is: agent, informant, arms buyer, go-between, anything, as long as there’s a connection.”
“And if you locate such a person, what then?” Tyrone wanted to know.
Harvard shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to improvise from there.” Harvard leaned forward with an urgency that surprised his friend. “This is very important to me, Ty. Please help me if you can.”
Tyrone stared at him long and steadily. “All right,” he said at last, “I’ll try. I have friends in the constabulary; perhaps they can help.”
Harvard sat back, silently nodding his gratitude. And for the first time felt an inkling of fear at what he was doing.
At noon the next day, Tyrone picked Harvard up at the hotel and drove him outside the city to Ulster Prison.
“I’ve arranged this through a friend, who arranged it through a friend, who arranged it through another friend,” the Irishman said. “There’s no guarantee that it’ll work.”
At the old, fortress-like, stone-constructed prison, the two were met by Chief Warden Charnley, a robust man with a cherub face belied only by flat, hard eyes that had seen more misery in their time than they should have.
“We’ve a fellow in solitary that might be of some use to you, Mr. Harvard,” he said. “His name’s Denny Yougal. He’s been in strict isolation for a couple of weeks now, so there’s a good chance he won’t be aware of the kidnapping.”
“Will he cooperate, do you think?” Harvard asked.
“On something like this, possibly. I have a way I use now and then to get low-priority information. I think it’s perfect for this situation.”
Charnley pressed a button on his desk and Denny Yougal was brought in by a guard sergeant. He was a pudgy, kinky-haired young man with an attitude of innocence and false conviviality.
“Denny, my boy,” said Charnley, “this gentleman here wants to locate an INF contact in Monaco. Any level will do, even a runner. Give us a name like a good lad, will you?”
Denny managed a puzzled expression. “I don’t know no such people as that, Chief Warden,” he said, as benignly as he could. “I couldn’t even name an INF member here in Belfast. I’m completely nonpolitical, I am.”