Carlos nodded. “It’s not the type of insertion I’m used to, General, but I guess I’m in a new world.”
“Get used to it, Carlos. Your days of ‘dropping in’ through a HALO insertion are likely over.” The ‘high altitude, low opening’ parachute drop had been Carlos’s favorite part of being a Recon Marine.
“You’ve just earned a desk, like I did a few years back,” General Connor continued, “and you’ve crossed the big forty. It’s not easy to accept. You and I have to put Trojan together piece by piece and we can’t expect much help from anyone outside. The Pentagon certainly won’t like our carte blanche mandate to call on their special ops assets without even telling them how we intend to use them.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Carlos replied. “That was the primary reason I decided to retire. A sergeant major wouldn’t get much cooperation from the puzzle palace. Maybe as Deputy Director Castro from Homeland Security I’ll fare better.”
“Don’t count on it,” Pug said, “but if you start to miss the Corps, check your bank account. Your current salary should help ease the pain.” He laughed. “Anyway, keep in touch while you’re in Ireland. You have full authority to go where, and do what, you need. But you’re not 007. No license to kill, at least not in Ireland on this trip. If you need additional backup, just contact me. I want Wolff dead. That would be the exception to my earlier statement. If he’s in Ireland, which I strongly doubt, then kill him. President Cumberland takes office day after tomorrow. If you can locate Wolff, let’s try to get this done before the change occurs.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Carlos stood and headed for the door, pausing to look back and grin. “Or rather, ‘yes, sir,’” he said. “Got to change the language too, I suppose.”
“Carry on, Sergeant Major,” Pug had replied with a loose salute. Carlos had flown out the next day and waited two days for contact from Donahue. In the interim, President Cumberland had died.
As the Irish evening began to descend, a black Mercedes approached St. Stephen’s Green, pulled up sharply, and the back door opened. A burly, red-faced man quickly got out. Even though Castro was expecting the vehicle, the manner of approach had all the earmarks of an abduction, and his pulse began to quicken.
“Welcome to Ireland, Mr. Castro, is it?” he said, a slight sneer on his face and his tone anything but welcoming.
As Castro slipped into the backseat, another man slid over to the far side and Red-face quickly climbed in, sandwiching him in the middle. As the car sped away, he flinched when the man to his right pulled out a blindfold.
“Not to worry,” the second man said, “we’ll treat you better than your lads did the Dutch tourists.” After several seconds of silence, Red-face spoke again. “How’d you like Ryan’s Pub? I noticed you didn’t try the Guinness.” Carlos had assumed from the moment he stepped off the plane that he might be under observation. He’d confirmed it the night before in the pub.
“No, I didn’t,” Castro responded, “but you did. And your companion left a bit early, didn’t he?”
The male pissing ritual completed, they rode in silence for about twenty-five minutes, the sounds of the city varying as they traversed multiple suburban communities. Castro tried to estimate, by sound and timing, the direction and possible location of their destination. Eventually, the vehicle seemed to enter an enclosure and the ambient noise grew quiet.
“Right, here we are now,” Red-face announced. Helped out of the car, Castro was led blindfolded several feet where he was guided into the back seat of another vehicle. Immediately, the second vehicle exited the building, and the sounds of city traffic once again were audible. In about three minutes, the blindfold was removed. Even though it was full dark outside and the vehicle windows were heavily tinted, Castro blinked to clear his eyes.
Only one man was in the back seat with him and the vehicle was much larger inside, a limousine, by all appearances. He glanced to his right and immediately recognized the other man. Two men were in the front seat behind the sound proof glass enclosure that separated the two compartments.
“So, my old friend Colonel Connor gave you my file, did he?” the man next to him said.
Castro didn’t respond.
“Come now, Mr. Castro, let’s not play games. You haven’t much time before your flight. You recognized me. Surely you’ve read my file and seen my picture. And Pug Connor sent you to discuss a mutual friend.”
Castro nodded, and then stared directly into Donahue’s eyes, neither man blinking. “I know who you are, Mr. Donahue.”
According to American intelligence documents which the general had provided to Castro, most of which were received from British Special Branch and the SAS surveillance unit, Kevin Donahue was, or at least had been, a brigade commander in the Provisional Wing of the Irish Republican Army, better known as the PIRA or Provos. In the seventies in Northern Ireland, he’d been suspected of at least a dozen killings and knee-cappings, plus several bombings. More recently, there was American and British intelligence community speculation, but no proof, that he had been behind the assassination of the American vice president and the British prime minister about six months earlier.
For the past decade, there had been an uneasy truce in Ireland and the IRA had refrained from their traditional course of open rebellion, which they had followed through much of the previous century. Still, the former IRA leaders remained in the shadows, fearing retribution from the British intelligence community.
“Colonel Connor asked me to present his compliments and to ask how you were. He specifically asked about your progress with the current peace accords.” General Connor had told Castro not to mention the recent promotion to general.
“I keep my nose in the wind,” the older man answered. “You know how it was in the American west. The gunslingers often became the town marshal, didn’t they? Corporate security is a big business, no matter what side of the fence one chooses. I’ve made a few contacts. Even in America. Big bucks riding on security in America these days.”
“Indeed, security operations are springing up everywhere. Perhaps that brings us to the subject of our meeting, an international weapons operative who goes by the name of Jean Wolff,” Castro replied.
“What makes the ‘ office of public relations’ interested in Wolff?” Donahue asked.
Carlos kept his surprise at Donahue’s knowledge of their new designation hidden beneath a stoic mask. “Let’s just say he’s been active in our neck of the woods. My boss said you might have some knowledge of his activities.”
Donahue was silent for several seconds, then nodded. “Right then, let’s get down to business,” the older man said, turning his body slightly to face toward Castro. “What’s in it for us if I can provide a lead to Wolff?”
“My bosses’ undying appreciation,” Castro replied. “Maybe the more appropriate question is, ‘why would you be willing to give him up’?”
“There’s no love lost between Wolff and the Irish. The bastard has double-crossed us in the past and I thought it might be an opportunity to pay him back. If you’re interested, I’m willing to help. If not, then we can just drop you at the airport. As to what’s in it for us, just tell Connor that I’ll chalk it up and call in the chit some day.”
“I’m listening,” Castro said. Glancing out the window, he confirmed that they were heading in the direction of the airport on the north side of Dublin.
Donahue anticipated his concern. “Not to worry, Mr. Castro. We’ve retrieved your suitcase from the hotel and are happy to escort you to your flight. We also made certain you were booked on Aer Lingus, and not on a KLM flight. Although you’ll undoubtedly check, there are no surprise packages in your suitcase, either. Dutch airline flights are rather dangerous these days, so I hear. Far safer on Aer Lingus.”