Seven hundred hectares in size, Phoenix Park, once a hunting preserve of a duke, was a popular destination for Dubliners seeking relief from the crowded streets, the noisy traffic, and the tourists that inundated the city from May to September. Aside from a zoo and flower garden the park also contained the official residence of the Irish president, the residence of the United States ambassador, and Garda Headquarters.
Called in by Deputy Commissioner Noel Clancy, Hugh Fitzmaurice settled into a chair in front of Clancy’s desk and smiled at his old friend.
“Am I here to be caned for some misdeed, Commissioner?” he asked.
“Nothing like that, Hugh,” Clancy replied with a laugh.
Almost totally bald and with a round, chubby face, Clancy had just celebrated his thirty-ninth year with the Garda. Twenty-five years ago, as a sergeant in the Criminal Investigation Bureau, he’d taken Fitzmaurice, then a new detective with five years in uniform service, under his wing and had shown him the ropes. For the next fifteen years Fitzmaurice, who was perfectly content to remain a detective, had worked for Clancy until he’d been promoted out of criminal investigations into upper management.
“You won’t be too long with me, then, will you?” Fitzmaurice said, glancing at his watch. He had two hours to get to Dun Laoghaire before George Spalding was due at the villa.
Clancy shook his head. “An American diplomat paid the commissioner a visit this morning, asking if we’d be so kind, should we happen upon him, to quietly turn over to them this George Spalding fellow you’ve been searching for.”
“Was any reason given?” Fitzmaurice asked.
“Supposedly, it’s a matter concerning their national security and thus very hush-hush.”
“I very much doubt that is the case,” Fitzmaurice replied.
Clancy lifted his head and stared down his nose at Fitzmaurice. “Explain your reasoning.”
Fitzmaurice gave Commissioner Clancy a quick summary of the investigation, including the information about Thomas Loring Carrier on the computer disk Sara Brannon had passed to him at the airport bookstore before being whisked away by the two American embassy staff members for a flight to the States.
“I did my own computer search on Carrier last night,” he added. “He is a well-connected, staunch supporter of current American foreign policy and a saber rattler for the war on terrorism. Revealing him to be a member of a smuggling ring during his service in Vietnam would be an embarrassment to both the Pentagon and the White House.”
“International affairs of state do not fall under our purview, Hugh,” Clancy said.
“No, sir, but arresting criminals does.”
Clancy leaned back in his chair. “Indeed. But is there sufficient reason to believe that the allegation about Carrier is well founded?”
“I have no reason to doubt Colonel Brannon,” Fitzmaurice replied. “Am I to do as the Yanks ask, and help them clean up their sticky little mess?”
“I see no need for that,” Clancy said. “We have to consider the Canadian authorities, after all. They have as great a claim on Spalding as the Americans. Take Spalding into custody, interrogate him, but do not charge him without my authorization.”
Fitzmaurice smiled as he pulled himself out of the chair.
“Find a way if you can,” Clancy added, “to make it appear that circumstances beyond our control made us unable to comply with the wishes of the Americans.”
“I’ll make it so.”
Fitzmaurice left Garda Headquarters in a hurry and headed down the motorway to Dun Laoghaire. When he arrived at the villa, the officer on station reported the Coast Guard had spotted Spalding’s boat forty-five minutes out. Fitzmaurice took a deep breath and relaxed. It gave him just enough time to put into play the scheme he’d worked up after leaving Clancy’s office. He sent the officer down to the slip along the beachfront to keep watch for Spalding, called the Canadian embassy, and spoke to Ronald Weber, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police liaison officer.
“Surely you’re acquainted with the George Spalding case,” Fitzmaurice said.
“I am,” replied Weber. “An American army officer requested our assistance in gathering information regarding one of his known associates.”
“Well, I’ve a bit of a sticky situation. Apparently, the Yanks now want us to seize up Spalding and surreptitiously turn him over to them.”
“Do you know where Spalding is?” Weber asked.
“We not only know where he is, we know where he’s hidden the vast fortune of ill-gotten gains your government would very much like to recover. It occurred to me that if the Americans spirit Spalding away, you may never hear of him again.”
“That would be unacceptable,” Weber said.
“However, if you were to participate in the arrest, I think it would be impossible for us to comply with their wishes.”
“Where are you now?” Weber asked.
“Close by,” Fitzmaurice replied. “But first, would you be willing to disavow any knowledge of what I’ve just told you?”
“You’ve told me nothing.”
“Excellent,” Fitzmaurice said. He gave Weber directions to the villa and said, “Be here in thirty minutes.”
After he rang off, Fitzmaurice stood on the cliff and scanned the bay with binoculars. The balmy late-summer day had drawn a vast number of boaters to the water, and leisure craft of every imaginable type were cutting through the gentle waves.
Not at all sure what type of boat he was looking for, he lowered the glasses and thought about Lieutenant Colonel Sara Brannon. He feared that only trouble awaited her upon her return to the States.
George Spalding cut the engines and swung the wheel to turn the boat. When Sapphire eased against the slip and came to a full stop, he moored the yacht fore and aft. For a long moment he stared up at the pale-blue villa and the steep, terraced gardens that stepped down to the narrow spit of shore. From dockside it was hard to imagine that Dublin was so close at hand. Here he’d have seclusion, quick access to the city, and, as George McGuire, the freedom to roam throughout the European Union as he pleased without fear of discovery.
He imagined a very good life ahead. When the house was ready, he’d apply for membership at the yacht club, buy a sweet racing dinghy, and, starting next year, spend his summers sailing in the bay. But in the short term, after he qualified for his final sea master’s certificate, he’d be busy with the house.
The builder had promised it done by the time the gloomy Irish winter set in, and Spalding planned to furnish it with the best that money could buy. He walked up the stone steps to the seaside entrance and unlocked the door. Inside, the musty smell of neglect greeted him. The previous owner had lived in it for fifty years without modernizing the interior. The bare wooden floorboards were scuffed and nicked, the large windows that faced the bay were covered with grime, and faded strips of wallpaper hung loosely below the crown molding that bordered the ceilings.
Spalding passed through the rooms, making mental notes of what kind of furnishings to look for, thinking it might be wise to hire an interior decorator after he returned from his qualifying cruise around Ireland. He heard footsteps on the staircase and turned to see a friendly-looking, smiling man reach the landing.
“Mr. McGuire,” the man said, “a moment of your time, if you please.”
“Who are you?” Spalding demanded, as a second man came up the stairs.
“Detective Inspector Fitzmaurice. And this is Inspector Weber of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Walk slowly in my direction with your hands in plain view.”
Spalding didn’t move. He could feel his stomach twist into a knot, his hands get clammy.
“There are police officers outside,” Fitzmaurice said. “It would be foolish not to do as I say.”