23
NEW YORK » PORTADOWN
It was seven o'clock in the evening when Michael Osbourne stepped outside the CIA's New York Station in the World Trade Center and flagged down a taxi. It had been nearly two weeks since his return from London, and he was beginning to settle comfortably into the routine of his new life inside the Agency. He usually worked three days a week in Washington and two in New York. Counterintelligence was wrapping up its inquiry into the death of Kevin Maguire, and Michael was confident his version of events would be accepted: Maguire was under suspicion by the IRA before Michael's trip to Belfast, and his death, while unfortunate, was not Michael's fault.
The taxi crawled uptown through snarled traffic. Michael thought of Northern Ireland—of the dim lights of Belfast below the Black Mountain, of Kevin Maguire's broken body strapped to a chair. He rolled down the window and felt the cold air on his face. Sometimes he went a few minutes without thinking of Maguire, but at night, or when he was alone, Maguire's ravaged face always intruded. Michael was anxious for the information Maguire and Devlin had given him to bear fruit; if the Ulster Freedom Brigade was destroyed, Maguire's death would not be meaningless.
The taxi driver was an Arab with the untrimmed beard of a devout Muslim. Michael gave him an address on Madison Avenue, five blocks from the apartment. He paid off the taxi and walked the crowded sidewalks, stopping to gaze into store windows, checking his tail constantly. It was the nagging fear: that one day an old enemy would appear and take his revenge. He thought of his father, searching his car for bombs, tearing apart telephones, and checking his tail for physical surveillance until the day he died. The secrecy was like a disease, the anxiety like an old and trusted friend. Michael was resigned to the fact it would never leave him—the assassin called October had seen to that.
He walked west to Fifth Avenue, then turned right and headed uptown. The business of intelligence required remarkable patience, but Michael was beginning to grow restless when it came to October. Each morning he scanned the cables, hoping to catch some glimpse of him on a watch list—a sighting in an airport or a train terminal—but nothing had appeared. As more time elapsed, the trail would grow colder.
Michael entered his building and took the elevator up to the apartment. Elizabeth was already home. She kissed his cheek and handed him a glass of white wine.
"Your face is beginning to look almost normal again," she said.
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
She kissed his mouth. "Definitely a good thing. How are you feeling?"
He looked at her quizzically. "What the hell's gotten into you?"
"Nothing, sweetheart, I'm just happy to see you."
"It's good to see you too. How was your day?"
"Not bad," she said. "I spent the day preparing my main witness for testifying in court."
"Is he going to hold up?"
"Actually, I'm afraid he's going to get killed under cross."
"Are the children still awake?"
"They're going down now."
"I want to see them."
"Michael, if you wake them up, so help me God—"
Michael walked into the nursery and leaned over the cribs. The children slept end to end, head to head, so they could see each other through the slats. He stood there for a long time, listening to them breathing softly. For a few minutes he felt peace, a sense of contentment he had not known in a long time. Then the anxiety crept up on him again, the fear that his enemies might harm him or his children. He heard the telephone ringing. He kissed each of them and went out.
In the living room Elizabeth held out the telephone to him.
"It's Adrian," she said.
Michael took the phone from her hand. "Yeah?"
He listened for a few minutes without speaking, then murmured, "Jesus Christ."
He hung up the telephone.
"What's wrong?" Elizabeth said.
"I have to go to London."
"When?"
Michael checked his watch. "I can make a flight tonight if I hurry."
Elizabeth looked carefully at him. "Michael, I've never seen you like this before. What's wrong?"
Early the next morning, as the British Airways jet carrying Michael Osbourne neared Heathrow Airport, Kyle Blake and Gavin Spencer walked side by side along the Market High Street of Portadown. The sky was turning gray-blue in the east with the coming dawn. Streetlamps still burned. The air smelled of farmland and baking bread. Spencer moved with the long loose-limbed walk of a man with few cares, which was not the case that morning. Kyle Blake, a head shorter and several inches narrower, had the economy of movement of a battery-powered toy. Spencer spoke for a long time, constantly pushing his forelock of thick black hair from his forehead. Blake listened intensely, lighting one cigarette after the next.
"Maybe your eyes are playing tricks on you," Kyle Blake said, when he finally spoke. "Maybe they were telling you the truth. Maybe it was just a routine security alert."
"They gave the car a thorough going-over," Spencer said. "And they took their fuckin' time about it."
"Anything missing?"
Spencer shook his head.
"Anything there that shouldn't be there?"
"I searched the fuckin' thing from end to end. I didn't find anything, but that doesn't mean much. Those bugs are so small, they could put one in my pocket and I wouldn't know it."
Kyle walked in silence for a moment. Gavin Spencer was a smart man and a gifted operations chief. He was not the kind to see a threat that wasn't there.
"If you're right—if they were after you—that means they're watching the farmhouse."
"Aye," Spencer said. "And I just hid the first shipment of Uzis there. I need those guns to do the job on the ambassador. I can kill Eamonn Dillon with a handgun, but if I'm going to assassinate an American ambassador, I need considerably more firepower."
"What's the status of the team?"
"The last man leaves for England tonight on the Liverpool ferry. By tomorrow evening I'll have four of my best lads in London, waiting for the order to strike. But I need those guns, Kyle."
"So we'll get the guns."
"But the farmhouse is under watch."
"So we'll take out the watchers," Blake said.
"Those men are probably protected by the SAS. I don't know about you, but I'm not in the mood to tangle with the fuckin' SAS right now."
"We know they're out there somewhere. All we need to do is find them." Blake stopped walking and fixed a hard stare on Spencer. "Besides, if the bloody IRA can take on the SAS, so can we.
"They're British soldiers, Kyle. We were British soldiers once, remember?"
"We're not on the same side anymore," Blake said harshly. "If the British want to play games, we'll play fuckin' games."
24
LONDON
"It appears as though you have a leak somewhere in this building," Graham Seymour said.
They were seated around a table in a soundproof glass-enclosed cubicle in the CIA section of the embassy: Michael, Graham, Wheaton, and Douglas. When Graham spoke, Wheaton flinched, as though he had been threatened with a punch, and began squeezing his tennis ball. He was a man permanently prepared to take offense, and there was something in Graham's tone—in his bored insolent gaze—that Wheaton had never liked.
"What makes you so certain the leak came from this building?" Wheaton said. "Maybe the leak came from your side. Special Branch provides protection for the ambassador. We give them the schedule days in advance."
"I suppose anything's possible," Graham said.
"Why didn't you photograph the documents?" Wheaton said.
"Because there wasn't time," Graham replied. "I made the decision that he was worth more to us in the field than in custody. We had a quick look round, planted a tracking device on his car, and let him run."
"Who is he?" Michael asked.
Graham opened a secure briefcase and passed out several photographs of a large man with a t
hick head of black hair—one police mug shot and several grainy surveillance pictures.
"His name is Gavin Spencer," Graham said. "He used to be a rather senior man in the Ulster Volunteer Force. He was arrested once on a weapons charge, but the case was dismissed. He's a hard-liner. He quit the UVF at the outset of the peace process, because he was opposed to it."
"Where is he now?" Wheaton said.
"He lives in Portadown. He went there after we stopped him."
Douglas Cannon said, "What do we do now, gentlemen?"
"We find the source of the leak," Wheaton said. "We determine whether the leaker is committing an act of treason or if there is something else involved. And then we plug it."
Michael stood up and paced slowly around the small cubicle. "How many people in the embassy know the ambassador's schedule in advance?" he said finally.
"Depends on the day, but usually at least twenty," Wheaton said.
"And how many of those are men?"
"Slightly more than half," Wheaton said, irritation creeping into his voice. "Why?"
"Because of something Kevin Maguire told me before he died. He said when IRA Intelligence investigated the murder of Eamonn Dillon, they determined there had been a leak from within Sinn Fein headquarters. A young girl, a secretary, had befriended a Protestant woman and inadvertently leaked details of Dillon's schedule to her."
"What did the girl look like?" Graham asked.
"Early thirties, attractive, black hair, fair skin, gray eyes."
A smile crept over Michael's face. Graham said, "I've seen that look before. What are you thinking, Michael?"
"That from adversity comes opportunity."
It was five-thirty that afternoon when the phone on Preston McDaniels's desk purred softly. For an instant McDaniels considered not answering it; he was anxious to get to the restaurant so he could see Rachel. His voice mail would answer, and he could deal with it first thing in the morning. But the embassy had been buzzing with rumors all day—rumors of some sort of security problem, of staff being hauled before a panel of inquisitors on the top floor. McDaniels knew the bloodhounds of the media had a way of picking up the scent of rumors like that. Reluctantly, he reached down and snatched the receiver from its cradle.
"McDaniels here."
"This is David Wheaton," said the voice on the other end of the line. He did not bother identifying himself further; everyone in the embassy knew that Wheaton was the CIA's London Station chief. "I was wondering if we could have a word in private."
"Actually, I was just leaving. Is it something that could hold till the morning?"
"It's important. Mind coming upstairs right away?"
Wheaton hung up without waiting for an answer. There was something about the tone in his voice that disturbed McDaniels. He'd never liked Wheaton, but he knew it wasn't wise to cross him. McDaniels left his office, walked down the hall, and took the elevator upstairs.
When he entered the room he found three men seated along one side of a long rectangular table: Wheaton, Ambassador Cannon's son-in-law, Michael Osbourne, and a bored-looking Englishman. There was one empty seat opposite them. Wheaton jabbed the tip of his gold pen at the seat without speaking, and McDaniels sat down.
"I'm not going to beat around the bush," Wheaton said. "It appears there's a leak somewhere within the embassy concerning the ambassador's schedule. We want to find that leak."
"What does that have to do with me?"
"You're one of the people within the embassy who knows the ambassador's schedule in advance."
"That's right," McDaniels snapped. "And if you're asking whether I've ever breached confidentiality, the answer is an unequivocal no."
"Have you ever given anyone outside the embassy a copy of the ambassador's schedule?"
"Absolutely not."
"Have you ever discussed it with a reporter?"
"When it's a public event, yes."
"Have you ever given a reporter details, such as the route the ambassador might take to a meeting or the method of transportation? "
"Of course not," McDaniels replied irritably. "Besides, most reporters wouldn't give a hoot about a detail like that."
Michael Osbourne was flipping through a file.
"You're not married," he said, looking up from the file.
"No, I'm not," McDaniels said. "And why are you here?"
"We'll ask the questions, if you don't mind," Wheaton said.
"Are you seeing anyone?" Michael asked.
"I am, actually."
"How long have you been seeing her?"
"A couple of weeks."
"What's her name?"
"Her name is Rachel. Would you mind telling me what this is—
"Rachel what?"
"Rachel Archer."
"Where does she live?"
"Earl's Court."
"Have you ever been to her flat?"
"No."
"Has she ever been to yours?"
"That's none of your business."
"If it deals with security, it is our business, I'm afraid," Michael said. "Now, please answer the question, Mr. McDaniels. Has Rachel Archer ever been to your flat?"
"Yes."
"How many times?"
"Several times."
"How many times?"
"I don't know—eight times, ten, perhaps."
"Do you ever bring a copy of the ambassador's schedule home with you?"
"Yes, I do," McDaniels said. "But I'm very careful. It's never out of my possession."
"Has Rachel Archer ever been in your flat when you've brought home a copy of the ambassador's schedule?"
"Yes, she has."
"Have you ever shown her the schedule?"
"No. I've already told you that I've never done that."
"Is Rachel Archer in her early thirties, with black hair, fair
skin, and gray eyes?"
Preston McDaniels turned ashen. "My God," he said. "What
have I done?"
When the evening began it was Michael's idea. Wheaton at first went on the record in opposition, but by the end of that long night—after the teleconferences with Langley, after the tense meetings with the mandarins of MI5 and MI6, after the terse exchanges with Downing Street and the White House—Wheaton had claimed the idea as his own.
There were two issues to be resolved. Should they do it? And if they did, who would run the show? The first question was answered rather quickly. The second question was more difficult because it involved turf, and in the world of intelligence, turf is protected at all costs, oftentimes better than secrets. It was an American security issue dealing with the American ambassador. But Northern Ireland was a British matter, and the operation would take place on British soil. After an hour of strained negotiation, the two sides reached an agreement. The British would provide the street talent—the watchers and the technical surveillance artists—and when the time came they would provide the muscle. The Americans would run Preston McDaniels and provide the material for his briefcase—after close consultation with the British, of course.
The fight within the Agency was just as bitter. The Counter-terrorism Center had broken the case, and Adrian Carter wanted Michael to run the American end of things. Wheaton dug in his heels. In an acid cable to Headquarters he argued it was a London operation, requiring close cooperation from the host services, and London Station should take over the case from the CTC. Monica Tyler retreated to her office in the rarefied atmosphere of the Seventh Floor to contemplate her decision. Wheaton rallied old friends and old enemies to his cause. In the end she chose Wheaton, arguing that Michael had just returned to the Agency from a long absence and couldn't be expected to be operationally sharp. It would be Wheaton's show with Michael remaining in London in a supporting role.
Preston McDaniels went operational that night. From Wheaton's desk in the CIA station he telephoned Ristorante Riccardo Lane and asked to speak to Rachel Archer. An Italian-accented voice informed McDaniels she was busy
—"It's the dinner rush now, you know"—but McDaniels said it was urgent, and a moment later she came on the line. The conversation lasted precisely thirty-two seconds; Michael and Wheaton timed it to make certain and listened to it a dozen times, searching for God knows what. McDaniels said he couldn't stop by for a drink because he was working late. The woman expressed mild disappointment over the sound of crashing dishes and Riccardo Ferrari screaming obscenities in Italian. McDaniels asked if he could see her later. The woman said she would stop by after work and rang off.
The recording was beamed by satellite to Langley and sent the old-fashioned way—by motorcycle courier—to MI 5 and MI6. A linguist on the staff of MI5 concluded her English accent was a fake. The woman was almost certainly from Northern Ireland, he argued. Probably from outside Belfast.
Wheaton wasn't sure he trusted McDaniels. He insisted on full coverage, audio and visual, of every move he made. MI5 descended on his South Kensington flat and placed cameras and microphones in every room. Only the bedroom was exempted; Michael thought audio coverage would suffice, and Wheaton reluctantly agreed. A pair of MI5 watchers, an older man and a pretty girl, was dispatched to Ristorante Riccardo. By chance their quarry waited on them. She recommended the veal special and they pronounced it divine. The second team, for the sake of operational security, ordered spaghetti carbonara and chicken Milanese.
For their base camp, MI5 hastily procured a large furnished flat in Evelyn Gardens, a short distance from McDaniels. Michael and Wheaton, when they arrived late that night, were greeted by the stink of cigarettes and take-away curry. In the drawing room a half-dozen worried technicians fretted over their receivers and their video monitors. Bored watchers stared at a flickering television, watching a dreadful BBC documentary on the migratory patterns of gray whales. Graham Seymour sat at the piano, playing softly.
So thoroughly was McDaniels's flat bugged that when the woman known as Rachel Archer arrived the buzzer sounded like a hotel fire alarm. "Show time," Wheaton announced, and they gathered around the video monitors—all except for Graham, who remained at the piano, playing the final notes of "Clair de Lune."
Any lingering doubts about how Preston McDaniels would hold up were put to rest by the long kiss he gave her at the doorway. He fixed them drinks—white wine for her, a very large whisky for himself—and they sat on the couch in the drawing room, chatting in full view of one of the concealed video cameras. They began to kiss, and for an instant Michael feared she was going to make love to him on the couch, but McDaniels stopped her and led her to the bedroom. Michael thought there was something of Sarah in her and wondered whether there was something of McDaniels in him.