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“O’Brien has a handful of Boston PD officers on his payroll,” Farrell said. “We need to find out who they are.”
“How are you going to bring down Seamus with that information?”
“That’s not your concern,” Farrell said.
“The hell it’s not.”
“Nolan is risking his life,” Christophe said.
“And if he turns on us?” Farrell asked.
“Then this plan is already doomed.”
Farrell cursed under his breath and Marchand continued. “Word is that Seamus has been dabbling in bank robbery.”
“I’ve heard the same thing.”
“When?” Farrell prodded.
“Recently.”
“Can you be more specific?” Farrell asked.
Nolan shrugged. “Nothing definitive. Just gossip that he might have pulled a couple small jobs and that he’s showing an interest in criminal statutes.”
“We think he’s planning a bigger take now that he’s gotten his feet wet. If so, he’s bound to use his law enforcement contacts for cover,” Christophe said.
“I’m still not clear,” Nolan said.
“O’Brien has a history of running if things get hot,” Farrell said.
“I’ve never seen Seamus run,” Nolan said.
“He’s been well-protected, first by Donati and Rossi and lately by the lack of leadership in Boston,” Christophe said. “But Farrell is right: O’Brien’s history suggests a predisposition to flight.”
“What history?”
“He was connected to an IRA bombing in Dublin in 1989. He came to the States in 1990,” Farrell said.
Nolan hid his surprise, trying to reconcile the man he knew, a larger than life figure in the neighborhood, both feared and beloved depending on who you talked to, as a former IRA operative who fled before he could be arrested.
Farrell took a drink of his beer and grimaced. “We think he’ll run if he loses his cover for a high-profile target like a bank, especially if the officers in question decide sharing the details of his operation is preferable to spending time behind bars with all the criminals they put there.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Marchand considered the question. “These situations are fluid. The plans we make don’t always come to fruition as expected. In that case, we must be flexible, willing to reconsider the situation in the context of new information.”
Farrell looked at Nolan. “What Christophe here is trying to tell you is that we don’t know shit. We’re playing a game of chess with a terrorist who could either surrender or blow up the board and all of its pieces. There are no guarantees.”
Nolan didn’t like the idea of no guarantees, not with Will and Bridget in the line of fire, but he didn’t have a better idea.
“I’ll try to get the names,” he said. “But it’s not going to be easy. Seamus does most of his work at the Cat. There’s no office to raid, no computer whose hard drive we can duplicate when he’s not looking, not that I know of anyway.”
“He has to have the names somewhere,” Farrell said. “Fewer possible hiding spots should narrow the field.”
“Easy for you to say.” Farrell Black didn’t know Seamus O’Brien. Seamus was old-school, distrustful of people and technology, characteristics that made a lot more sense in light of his background with the IRA. For all Nolan knew, the only record that existed of Seamus’s men at BPD was in his head.
“We understand it will be difficult, but we have faith in you.” Christophe set something on the table between them. “This may help.”
