Gordon Ryan - Uncivil liberties

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.”

Castro nodded.

“Now, what was I saying? The identity of an arms merchant, was it? Would that fall within Colonel Connor’s new area of concern?” “He’s of interest to several organizations, Mr. Donahue. My boss heads one of those. Let’s stop dancing. Do you know where Wolff is located?”

Donahue looked at his watch before responding, then he leaned forward and tapped on the window, alerting the driver with a pre-arranged signal. “Diplomacy’s not your long suit, is it, Mr. Castro? You could learn something from your boss. But of course, Connor is already Irish, so it comes naturally. As for Wolff, I might be of some assistance. I’ll get back to you.”

The vehicle left the side street they were on and quickly entered the M1, a dual carriageway, the Irish equivalent of a freeway, and increased speed toward the airport.

They drove in silence for about ten minutes, pulling up in front of the Dublin International Airport terminal. Donahue turned toward Castro and smiled. “Here we are, Mr. Castro.”

The driver was already at the boot of the car, placing Castro’s suitcase on the footpath in front of the international terminal.

“You’re a hard man, Mr. Donahue,” Carlos said, looking directly at the former IRA operative. “Any message for my boss?”

“Tell the general congratulations on his promotion and new assignment. I look forward to meeting him in person again one day. In a peaceful context, of course,” he said, chuckling.

Castro broke into a smile, his first friendly gesture of the meeting. “General Connor said you might surprise me.”

“Satellites can’t see everything. With all your American high-tech capability, you lads seem to have forgotten the good to be had from a bit of fossicking around by a man with a good nose. Of course, you knew that in east LA, didn’t you? All good intelligence still comes from a man, or a woman, on the ground. Fortunately, ‘ Paddy’ has been emigrating throughout the world for two centuries, but they all remember where they or their parents were born. Best intelligence network in the world, bar none. Maybe the Jews are as good, but they don’t frequent the pubs.”

He paused, offering Castro a handshake. “Perhaps we’ll meet again, Mr. Castro. Now that we’re friends, perhaps you’ll allow me to call you CC. I’ll get in touch with you about our mutual friend. I should hear something soon-probably sooner than you think. Have a safe trip home, lad. The world’s become a dangerous place, even for innocent bystanders. By the way, since you and your boss are into, what did you call it, public relations, do you think your new president, Bill Snow, will survive his own public relations storm? From the sound of it, Cumberland took the easy way out and Snow has to carry the can for the decision to shoot down the terrorists. From my perspective, it was the only decision to make, you know.”

“Gracious of you to concur,” Castro replied. “But one can never tell about the public, or the politicians. One thing’s for certain-the next lot of fanatics will think twice.”

Donahue shook his head. “Don’t be naive, lad. The terrorists won that round. And you lost an eighty-million-dollar fighter and a fifteen-million-dollar pilot. You’re still a bit young, lad, but if you’ve read that the old Irish groups were terrorists, it would seem that these jihadists have put a whole new light on political action. In my father’s day, they brought the bomb in a suitcase. These new fanatics are the bomb. Someone bent on a trip to paradise is hard to deter. Not much defense against that, lad. Safe journey, Carlos.”

Castro exited the vehicle, then stood by his suitcase and watched as Donahue departed the terminal drive. He then picked up the bag and turned to enter the building.

At the Aer Lingus flight center, Carlos worked his way to the front of the check-in counter. The young woman appeared barely twenty, her dark red hair cascading down her back as her fingers flew over the keyboard, her intense concentration masked by the bright smile on her face.

“That will do it, Mr. Castro. You’re all checked in, and, as I’ve already explained, upgraded to first class. You’re welcome to use our VIP lounge just inside the security area. Please have a wonderful flight.”

Apparently Donahue had made the final parting gesture, upgrading his flight accommodations. Carlos Castro smiled at the thought. He picked up his boarding pass and his leather laptop case, stepped away from the counter, and moved behind the line of passengers seeking to discard their luggage in care of the airlines, thereby freeing themselves to hit the duty-free shop.

Passing the roped-in area, Castro felt his Blackberry vibrate. He stepped out of the traffic aisle as best he could and clicked the icon, slowly reading the e-mail as people flowed around him, jostling for position.

Dear Irish Tourist:

Asshole convention will be held in East Timor first week in March. Attendees include a lone wolf, traveling as Juan Hernandez on a Portuguese passport. Remember, always wash your hands after attending an asshole convention… or bring your local wiper!

A friend of the Old Sod

Carlos smiled, clicked to store the message into the Save folder, and returned the Blackberry to its holder on his belt. He then cleared security, entered the VIP lounge, and took a seat near the overhead television. A room attendant dressed in the Aer Lingus uniform brought him a small plate of cheese and crackers and took his order for a Heineken. On the television, a discussion was in progress on Fox News’s “The Factor,” with Bill O’Reilly voicing his normal opinionated commentary. Carlos placed his laptop case on the small table beside his chair and watched the proceedings. He quickly recognized O’Reilly’s guest as Donald Read, a well-known liberal columnist syndicated across the nation.

“… in all respects, Bill, he should do the honorable thing and resign.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake? He was the legally elected vice president. That’s how our system works, whether the president has been in office for three years or, in this case, three hours. Why should he resign?”

“He campaigned for the presidency in the primary, Bill, and Cumberland beat him. Two others beat him also, so they should be given the opportunity to compete in a special election. Snow never appealed to mainstream America. They didn’t like him as governor of Arizona and they don’t like him now.”