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Timothy Seamus Flynn chuckled softly, flipping the morning paper over and dropping it beside his half-empty coffee cup as he surveyed the Dublin morning. He was pleased—no, more than pleased. He was absolutely delighted with the results of his gerry-rigged device. The stuffy lords of Champignons wouldn’t look down their aristocratic noses at the likes of Tim Flynn again. And that snotty British bitch was missing in the rubble, that honorable miss whoever who’d been so shocked when he’d grabbed her arse. Serve the bloody cunt right, he thought, grinning.
“More coffee, sir?” The waitress had reappeared at his elbow.
“No, love. This is enough for now. I’ve got a plane to catch.”
And the waitress forgot her sore feet and miserable cold and smiled back at that engaging grin.
five
It was a cold night in Northern Ireland. Colder than London, colder than New York, with a chill wind that blew right through the thick woolens and into one’s backbone. Maggie leaned against the rough side of the building, huddling in the heavy cape she’d borrowed from Holly, and wondered whether the cold was all on the outside. Part of her wanted to run back to the carefully hidden rental car, part of her wanted to be back in her austere apartment in New York. But she was made of sterner stuff than that.
“This is the place,” Randall said. He was only a tall shadow in the darkness beside her, his elegant suit traded for rumpled corduroys and a thick fisherman’s sweater. He had an uncanny ability to take on protective coloration. She could remember the time they’d spent in Eastern Europe, more than six years ago. In Gemansk he’d donned the persona of an Eastern Bloc factory worker when he’d taken on the rough clothing their contact, Vasili, had brought him. Tonight he looked like any number of Irish workers they’d passed on their long hike to this remote little corner of County Down, a little taller than most, a little quieter than most, but nothing remarkable.
Maggie only wished she felt as anonymous as Randall. Her faded jeans and thick rust-color sweater would have been at home anywhere, and the thick green cape was as Irish as the cold North wind around her. But with her wheat-color hair, turquoise eyes, and Nordic face there was no way she could blend in with the Celts around her. So like Ian had on his arrival in Ireland, she kept her head down, allowing herself only furtive glances.
Andrews and Holly were safe and warm, miles away in a small hotel in the heart of Downpatrick. Neither of them could be trusted to find Rory O’Banion—their faces were too well known. Holly was on the current cover of Queen, splashed all over newstands from Land’s End to northern Scotland. And Andrews, with his usual taciturn brevity, announced that his face was not unknown to local members of the IRA.
Randall had nodded, looking at Maggie, and she’d had no choice. So here she was, out in the middle of nowhere with the man she least trusted in the world, with the knowledge that her life might depend on him before the night was through.
Of course, with her efficient little Colt 380 tucked under her sweater, she could well take care of herself. If they got into trouble she could even manage to let off a stray bullet that might accomplish whatever revenge she still wished to take. But no, she couldn’t do that. Last night’s conversation had been unsettling. She couldn’t take her revenge until she forced a complete admission from Randall. And now wasn’t the time to worry about it. If they were going to get through this and find Tim Flynn, she couldn’t waste her energies on Randall’s guilt or innocence. For the time being she had to put all thought of it out of her mind.
It was a noble resolution, easier said than done when Randall moved next to her. “Do you want to come in with me?”
“What do you think?” Neither the cold nor her fear made her voice tremble, it was smooth and calm in the chilly night air. Maggie could smell the scent of the sea, the strong salt tang carried on the night air, and she wished to God she was somewhere warm, by the blue Pacific, and not standing in a lonely village buffeted by North Atlanti
c winds.
“I think you’re coming with me,” Randall said. “You know what I like about you, Maggie?”
“I don’t give a damn.”
She could have saved her breath. “I like your bravery in the face of danger,” he continued.
“Randall,” she said, unable to help herself, “I’m scared shitless.”
“I know, Maggie,” he said gently. “That’s what makes you so brave. Let’s go find this O’Banion.”
It was a small pub, dark and crowded, the noise and smoke and smell of peat and beer and sweat almost overpowering. The rich Irish voices filled the room, and for a moment Maggie knew a moment of pleasure in the lilting accents. Until the noise quieted suddenly and a score of suspicious faces turned their way as they moved as unobtrusively as possible over to the bar. The level of noise rose a bit, nowhere near the previous din, as Maggie and Randall ordered large, warm glasses of Guinness.
“Yuch,” Maggie whispered to Randall.
He smiled at her. “Don’t you like warm beer?”
“It reminds me of The Barretts of Wimpole Street. Sybil starred in a remake as Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Her father used to torment her, and one of his favorite tricks was to force her to drink mugs of stout. I never realized what torture it was.” She took another sip and shuddered.
“You have a brown foam mustache on your upper lip,” he whispered. “If this were any other place and time I’d lick it off.”
“If it were any other place and time I’d kick you in the balls like I did four months ago.”
“Don’t push your luck, Maggie,” he said. “Once is the only time you’re going to get away with it.”
She licked the foam off her lip by herself, took another sip, and once more shivered. And then looked up into the most gorgeous pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen.
“I take it the little lady doesn’t care for our local brew,” the man said, his voice a rich lilt. He had come up beside them, a welcoming smile on his face, and Randall smiled back, an easy grin that was as phony as Sybil Bennett’s raven hair. The newcomer was a handsome man, with shaggy brownish-red hair, a beard, and a wiry, well-knit body that was just above medium height.
“Beer has never been my thing,” Maggie said, putting the mug down on the polished walnut bar.
“Then you’re missing a treat,” he assured her, and his eyes suddenly made her wish she hadn’t eschewed makeup entirely. His look was flattering enough—she only wished she felt she deserved it. “My name’s Rory O’Banion,” he continued in that rich, Irish voice. “And I’m wondering what it is I can be doing for you?”
