“Omagh,” said Keller quietly.
Walsh said nothing.
“You were part of the operational team?”
Walsh nodded.
“Which car?” asked Keller. “Bomb, scout, or escape?”
“Bomb.”
“Driver or passenger?”
“I was supposed to be the driver, but there was a change at the last minute.”
“Who drove?”
Walsh hesitated, then said, “Quinn.”
“Why the change?”
“He said he was more on edge than usual before an operation. He said the driving would help calm his nerves.”
“But that wasn’t the real reason, was it, Liam? Quinn wanted to take matters into his own hands. Quinn wanted to put a nail in the coffin of the peace process.”
“A bullet in the head was how he described it.”
“He was supposed to leave the bomb at the courthouse?”
“That was the plan.”
“Did he even look for a parking space?”
“No,” said Walsh, shaking his head. “He went straight to Lower Market Street and parked outside S.D. Kells.”
“Why didn’t you do something?”
“I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“You should have tried harder, Liam.”
“You obviously don’t know Eamon Quinn.”
“Where was the escape car?”
“In the parking lot of the supermarket.”
“And when you got inside?”
“The call went back to the other side of the border.”
“‘The bricks are in the wall.’”
Walsh nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone the bomb was in the wrong place?”
“If I’d opened my mouth, Quinn would have killed me. Besides,” Walsh added, “it was too late.”
“And when the bomb went off?”
“It was shit city.”
The death and devastation ignited revulsion on both sides of the border and around the world. The Real IRA issued an apology and announced a cease-fire, but it was too late; the movement had suffered irreparable damage. Walsh settled in Dublin to look after the Real IRA’s interests in the burgeoning drug trade. Quinn went into hiding.
“Where?”
“Spain.”
“What did he do?”
“He hung out on the beach until the money ran out.”
“And then?”
“He called an old friend and said he wanted back in the game.”
“Who was the friend?”
Walsh hesitated, then said, “Muammar Gaddafi.”
17
CLIFDEN, COUNTY GALWAY
IT WASN’T REALLY GADDAFI, Walsh added quickly. It was a close confidant from Libyan intelligence whom Quinn had befriended when he was at the desert terror training camp. Quinn requested sanctuary, and the man from Libyan intelligence, after consulting with the ruler, agreed to allow Quinn into the country. He lived in a walled villa in an upscale Tripoli neighborhood and did odd jobs for the Libyan security services. He was also a frequent visitor to Gaddafi’s underground bunker, where he would regale the leader with stories of the fight against the British. In time, Gaddafi shared Quinn with some of his less savory regional allies. He developed contacts with every bad actor on the continent: dictators, warlords, mercenaries, diamond smugglers, Islamic militants of every stripe. He also made the acquaintance of a Russian arms dealer who was pouring weaponry and ammunition into every civil war and insurgency in sub-Saharan Africa. The arms dealer agreed to send a small container of AK-47s and plastic explosives to the Real IRA. Walsh took delivery of the shipment in Dublin.
“Do you remember the name of the man from Libyan intelligence?” asked Keller.
“He called himself Abu Muhammad.”
Keller looked at Gabriel, who nodded slowly.
“And the Russian arms dealer?” asked Keller.
“It was Ivan Kharkov, the one who was killed in Saint-Tropez a few years ago.”
“You’re sure, Liam? You’re sure it was Ivan?”
“Who else could it be? Ivan controlled the arms trade in Africa, and he killed anyone who tried to get in on the action.”
“And the villa in Tripoli? Do you know where it was?”
“It was in the neighborhood they call al-Andalus.”
“The street?”
“Via Canova. Number Twenty-Seven,” Walsh added. “But don’t waste your time. Quinn left Libya years ago.”
“What happened?”
“Gaddafi decided to clean up his act. He gave up his weapons programs and told the Americans and the Europeans that he wanted to normalize relations. Tony Blair shook his hand in a tent outside Tripoli. BP got drilling rights on Libyan soil. Remember?”
“I remember, Liam.”
Apparently, said Walsh, MI6 knew that Quinn was living secretly in Tripoli. The chief of MI6 prevailed upon Gaddafi to send Quinn packing, and Gaddafi agreed. He called a few of his friends in Africa, but no one would take Quinn in. Then he called one of his best friends in the world, and the deal was done. A week later Gaddafi gave Quinn a signed copy of his Green Book and put him on an airplane.
“And the friend who agreed to take Quinn?”
“Three guesses,” said Walsh. “First two don’t count.”
The friend was Hugo Chavez, president of Venezuela, ally of Russia, Cuba, and the mullahs of Tehran, thorn in the side of America. Chavez saw himself as a leader of the world’s revolutionary movement, and he operated a not-so-secret training camp for terrorists and leftist rebels on Margarita Island. Quinn soon became the star attraction. He worked with everyone from the Shining Path of Peru to Hamas and Hezbollah, sharing the deadly tricks of the trade he’d acquired during his long career matching wits with the British. Chavez, like Gaddafi before him, treated Quinn well. He gave him a villa by the sea and a diplomatic passport to travel the world. He even gave him a new face.
“Who did the work?”
“Gaddafi’s doctor.”
“The Brazilian?”
Walsh nodded. “He came to Caracas and performed the surgery in a hospital there. He gave Quinn a total reconstruction. The old pictures are useless now. Even I barely recognized him.”
“You saw him when he was in Venezuela?”
“Twice.”
“You went to the camp?”
“Never.”
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t cleared for the camp. I saw him on the mainland.”
“Keep talking, Liam.”
A year after Quinn arrived in Venezuela, a senior man from VEVAK, the Iranian intelligence service, paid a quiet visit to the island. He wasn’t there to see his allies from Hezbollah; he was there to see Quinn. The man from VEVAK stayed on the island for a week. And when he went back to Tehran, Quinn went with him.
“Why?”
“The Iranians wanted Quinn to build a weapon.”
“What kind of weapon?”
“A weapon that Hezbollah could use against Israeli tanks and armored vehicles in southern Lebanon.”
Keller looked at Gabriel, who appeared to be contemplating a crack in the ceiling. Walsh, unaware of the true identity of his small audience, was still talking.
“The Iranians set Quinn up in a weapons factory in a Tehran suburb called Lavizan. He built a version of an antitank weapon that he’d been working on for years. It created a fireball that traveled a thousand feet per second and engulfed the advancing armor in flames. Hezbollah used it against the Israelis in the summer of 2006. The Israeli tanks went up like kindling. It was like the Holocaust.”
Keller again cast a sidelong glance toward Gabriel, who was now staring directly at Liam Walsh.
“And when he finished designing the antitank weapon?” asked Keller.
“He went to Lebanon to work directly with Hezbollah.”
“What kind of work?”
“Roadside bombs, mainly.”
 
; “And then?”
“The Iranians sent him to Yemen to work with al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula.”
“I didn’t know there were ties between the Iranians and al-Qaeda.”
“Whoever told you that?”
“Where is he now?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“You’re lying, Liam.”
“I’m not. I swear I don’t know where he is or who he’s working for.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Six months ago.”
“Where?”
“Spain.”
“Spain is a big country, Liam.”
“It was in the south, in Sotogrande.”
“An Irish playground.”
“It’s like Dublin with the sun turned up.”
“Where did you meet?”
“A little hotel down by the marina. Very quiet.”
“What did he want?”
“He wanted me to deliver a package.”
“What kind of package?”
“Money.”
“Who was the money for?”
“His daughter.”
“I never knew he was married.”
“Most people don’t.”
“Where’s the daughter?”
“In Belfast with her mother.”
“Keep talking, Liam.”
The combined services of British intelligence had assembled a mountain of material on the life and times of Eamon Quinn, but nowhere in their voluminous files was there any mention of a wife or a child. It was no accident, said Walsh. Quinn the operational planner had gone to great lengths to keep his family a secret. Walsh claimed to have attended the ceremony at which the two were wed, and later he helped to manage the family’s financial affairs during the years Quinn was living abroad as a superstar of international terrorism. The package Quinn gave to Walsh in the Spanish resort of Sotogrande contained one hundred thousand pounds in used bills. It was the largest single payment Quinn had ever entrusted to his old friend.
“Why so much money?” asked Keller.
“He said it would be the last payment for a while.”
“Did he say why?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“I knew better.”
“And you delivered the payment in full?”
“Every single pound.”
“You didn’t keep a small service charge for yourself? After all, Quinn would have never known.”
“You obviously don’t know Eamon Quinn.”
Keller asked whether Quinn had ever stolen into Belfast to see his family.
“Never.”
“And they never traveled outside the country to see him?”
“He was afraid the British would follow them. Besides,” Walsh added, “they wouldn’t have recognized him. Quinn had a new face. Quinn was someone else.”
Which returned them to the subject of Quinn’s surgically altered appearance. Gabriel and Keller had in their possession the images that the French had captured in Saint Barthélemy—a few frames of airport video, a few grainy still photos captured by storefront security cameras—but in none was Quinn’s face clearly visible. He was a mop of black hair and a beard, a man to glimpse once and quickly forget. Liam Walsh had the power to complete Quinn’s portrait, for Walsh had sat across from him six months earlier, in a Spanish hotel room.
Gabriel had produced composite sketches under challenging circumstances, but never with a witness who was blindfolded. In fact, he was quite certain it was not possible. Keller explained how the process would work. There was another man present, he said, a man who was as good with a sketchpad and a pencil as he was with his fists and a gun. This man was neither Irish nor an Ulsterman. Walsh was to describe Quinn’s appearance for him. He could look at the man’s sketchpad, but under no circumstances was he to look at his face.
“What if I look accidentally?”
“Don’t.”
Keller removed the duct tape from Walsh’s eyes. The Irishman blinked several times. Then he stared directly at the figure seated on the opposite side of the table behind a sketchpad and a box of colored pencils.
“You just violated the rules,” said Gabriel calmly.
“Do you want to know what he looks like, or not?”
Gabriel picked up a pencil. “Let’s start with his eyes.”
“They’re green,” replied Walsh. “Like yours.”
They worked without a break for the next two hours. Walsh described, Gabriel sketched, Walsh corrected, Gabriel revised. Finally, at midnight, the portrait was complete. The Brazilian plastic surgeon had done a fine job. He had given Quinn a face without character or a memorable feature. Still, it was a face Gabriel would recognize if it passed him on the street.
If Walsh was curious about the identity of the green-eyed man behind the sketchpad, he gave no sign of it. Nor did he resist when Keller covered his eyes with a blindfold of duct tape, or when Gabriel injected him with enough sedative to keep him quiet for a few hours. They zipped him unconscious into the duffel bag and wiped down every item and surface in the cottage that any of them had touched. Then they hoisted him into the trunk of the Škoda and climbed into the front seat. Keller drove. It was his turf.
The roads were empty, the rain was sporadic, a torrential downpour one minute, a blustery mist the next. Keller smoked one cigarette after the next and listened to the news on the radio. Gabriel stared out the window at the black hills and the windswept moors and bogs. In his thoughts, however, there was only Eamon Quinn. Since fleeing Ireland, Quinn had worked with some of the most dangerous men in the world. It was possible he had been acting out of conscience or political belief, but Gabriel doubted it. Surely, he thought, Quinn was past all that. He had gone the way of Carlos and Abu Nidal before him. He was a terrorist for hire, killing at the behest of powerful patrons. But who had paid for Quinn’s bullet? Who had commissioned him to kill a princess? Gabriel had a long list of potential suspects. For now, though, finding Quinn would take precedence. Liam Walsh had given them ample places to look, none more promising than a house in West Belfast. A part of Gabriel wanted to search elsewhere, for he regarded wives and children as off-limits. Quinn, however, had left them no other choice.
At the eastern end of Killary Harbor, Keller turned onto an unpaved track and followed it into a dense patch of heather and gorse. He stopped in a small clearing, killed the lights and the engine, and popped the interior trunk release. Gabriel reached for the latch, but Keller stopped him. “Stay,” was all he said before opening the door and stepping into the rain.
By then, Walsh had regained consciousness. Gabriel listened as Keller explained what was about to transpire. Because Walsh had cooperated, he would be released with no further harm. Under no circumstances was he to discuss his interrogation with his associates. Nor was he to make any attempt to pass a message of warning to Quinn. If he did, said Keller, he was dead.
“Are we clear, Liam?”
Gabriel overheard Walsh murmuring something in the affirmative. Then he felt the rear end of the Škoda rise slightly as Keller helped the Irishman from the boot. The lid closed; Walsh shuffled blindfolded into the heather, Keller clutching one elbow. For a moment there was only the wind and the rain. Then from deep in the heather came two muted flashes of light.
Keller soon reappeared. He slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and reversed back to the road. Gabriel stared out the window as news from a troubled world issued softly from the radio. This time, he didn’t bother to ask how Keller felt. It was personal. He closed his eyes and slept. And when he woke it was daylight and they were crossing the border into Northern Ireland.
18
OMAGH, NORTHERN IRELAND
THE FIRST TOWN ON THE other side of the border was Aughnacloy. Keller stopped for gas next to a pretty flint church and then followed the A5 north to Omagh, just as Quinn and Liam Walsh had done on the afternoon of August 15, 1998. It was a few minutes aft
er nine when they breached the town’s southern outskirts; the rain had ended and a bright orange sun shone through a slit in the clouds. They left the car near the courthouse and walked to a café on Lower Market Street. Keller ordered a traditional Irish breakfast but Gabriel asked for only tea and bread. He glimpsed his reflection in the window and was dismayed by his appearance. Keller, he decided, looked worse. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and his face was sorely in need of a razor. Nowhere in his expression, however, was there any suggestion he had recently killed a man in a patch of heather and gorse in County Mayo.
“Why are we here?” asked Gabriel as he watched the first pedestrians of the morning, shopkeepers mainly, moving purposefully along the shimmering pavements.
“It’s a nice place.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“On several occasions, actually.”
“What brought you to town?”
“I used to meet a source here.”
“IRA?”
“More or less.”
“Where’s the source now?”
“Greenhill Cemetery.”
“What happened?”
Keller fashioned his hand into the shape of a gun and placed the barrel against his temple.
“IRA?” asked Gabriel.
Keller shrugged. “More or less.”
The food arrived. Keller devoured his as though he had not eaten in many days, but Gabriel picked at his bread without appetite. Outside, the clouds were playing tricks with the light. It was morning one minute, dusk the next. Gabriel imagined the street littered with shattered glass and human limbs. He looked at Keller and again asked why they had come to Omagh.
“In case you were having second thoughts.”
“About what?”
Keller looked down at the remnants of his breakfast and said, “Liam Walsh.”
Gabriel made no reply. On the opposite side of the street, a woman with one arm and burns on her face was attempting to unlock the door of a dress shop. Gabriel supposed she was one of the wounded. There were more than two hundred that day: men, women, teenagers, small children. The politicians and the press always seemed to focus on the dead after a bombing, but the wounded were soon forgotten—the ones with scorched flesh, the ones with memories so terrible that no amount of therapy or medication could put their minds at rest. Such were the accomplishments of a man like Eamon Quinn, a man who could make a ball of fire travel one thousand feet per second.