Ted Bell - Warlord

"Look. Let me cut past the chase to the outcome. I don't want to waste time here, Mr. Smith. Anyone who you'd be interested in killing would likely not be anyone of interest to us. So, any notion of us helping you, or-"

"Oh, I think you'll consider my intended victim someone of enormous personal interest. I would not be here were that not true."

"Who is it then, for the love of God?" Billy said, draining his whiskey. The Provo commander was beginning to believe his Dublin colleague had found someone who could be genuinely useful. What the man said next confirmed that belief.

"I intend to murder Lord Louis Mountbatten."

There was a moment of astonished silence, and then Billy and three other IRA soldiers broke into laughter, long and loud. Pushing back from the table, Billy said, "You? You're going to kill Mountbatten? Yer a bloody fool. You must be insane. No one can get within a thousand miles of that imperial toff. We've looked into it, believe me."

"It can be done."

"You seem pretty sure of that."

"For some months now I've been spending a good deal of time here in Northern Ireland gathering intelligence on the British Army and, at the same time, deciding how best to assassinate that pompous bastard. In point of fact, I know precisely how to do it."

"Why in God's holy name do you want to kill him?"

The Provos couldn't see it, but deep red anger flushed Smith's face beneath his balaclava. His breathing became shallow. His temples were throbbing and his heart was thudding with an abiding anger and hatred, seeded in his boyhood, that over the years had grown into a now uncontrollable passion.

But Smith managed to keep his emotions in check as he spoke. It would not do to have these men realize the depths of his madness, nor his willingness to kill anyone who thwarted him or got in his way. He needed them too much.

"Personal reasons," Smith said quietly. "Suffice it to say, I hate these English Royals as much as you do, if not more."

"Listen to me, Mr. Smith, traveling IRA sympathizer with yer fluty toff accent. You think we wouldn't have taken out Lord Louis long before this if we thought it was possible? It ain't, believe me. There's no way to get close enough to a member of the Royal Family to even spit on 'em."

"That's not a good enough reason not to try, if one wants something badly enough. I, for one, want it more than badly enough, believe me."

"Shall we just kill this crazy bugger and have a drink? Or let him speak his piece, mates? We've already got his information," Billy McKee said.

"Let the bugger speak his mind if he's a mind to," Sean, the man next to Smith, said. "We come all this way out here t'night, why not? Worth a laugh."

The others nodded, and McKee leaned forward over the table, shoving the whiskey bottle out of his way with his beefy forearm.

"So let me make sure I've got this straight," Billy said, smiling. "You yourself intend to do the dirty deed. Alone."

"Correct."

"But we get all the credit. The Irish Republican Army claims sole responsibility for the execution? In the unlikely event you're successful."

"Correct."

"Why kill him, in particular? Aside from the fact that he's an arrogant, preening, aristocratic bastard who made a mess of your bloody country and now bedevils our own?"

Smith looked down into his lap, his shoulders heaving.

For the first time, the Provos could sense the burning hatred and powerful passion for revenge that had driven this man to them. It was in his body language. Murderous hatred poured off him in hot waves.

"Vengeance will be mine!" he cried, looking up and slamming his fist down on the table with enough force to upset their liquor glasses. "Do you people understand me? Listen closely, Mr. McKee. I want to murder all these Royal bastards. Every fucking one of them. Why, if I could, I would roam the graveyards of England digging up British monarchs long dead and crushing their bones to dust beneath my heels. And smash every last one of their bloody skulls against their own tombstones!"

The four men stared at him in stunned silence.

"Good enough for me," McKee said, astounded at the depths of the man's feelings. "What say the lads?"

"Aye," they murmured, nodding their heads as Smith had expected. They now knew they had little to lose, and the world to gain, after all.

"What'll you be needing then, from me?" McKee asked.

"Explosives, for starters," Smith said, getting his emotions once more under control.

"What kind of explosives?"

"Untraceable. Compact. Easily transportable. Waterproof. Completely reliable. What do you recommend?"

"How close you think you can get to the fella?"

"Very close."

"Within five hundred yards?"

"Closer. But I'd err on the side of more is more. Leave nothing to chance."

"Fifty pounds of gelignite ought to do it, mate."

"Familiar with gelignite. Never used it, however."

"We use it all the bloody time. A kind of blasting gelatin, easily moldable, dissolved in nitroglycerine and mixed with wood pulp and potassium nitrate. Very stable. And very cheap. And very fuckin' serious."

"I'll need a remote detonator."

"You bloody well will unless you plan to join his bleeding lordship in hell," the Provo said, earning a few guffaws and bottoms up around the table.

Smith said, "It's done, then? That's it? You'll help me?"

"When I'm completely satisfied you are who you say you are, yes. That envelope of yours looks pretty good to me. But we're all still alive because we are extremely thorough in our investigations. Until then you'll be ensconced in a little locked room upstairs. Pip and Scottie McBain standing outside will rotate. Feed you and make sure you don't stray from yer quarters. Understood?"

"Completely. I'd do the same myself."

"All right, then."

Smith took a breath, then said, "All right, then. Good. Thank you."

"We're done here, looks like, mates. You'll be hearing from us, one way or the other, Mr. Smith. Let's hope, for your sake, you're an honest man. Or you'll not leave this house alive."

"I never claimed honesty, sir, only truthfulness."

"Sounds like ruddy Mahatma Gandhi himself, don't he, boys?"

"Mahatma never killed a flea," one of the Provos said as they all rose from the table. "Much less the last Viceroy of India. But here's a queer bloke seeming determined to do just that!"

"Bloody unlikely, ain't it, Pad?"

"Dunno. This one's got a look in his eye like I've never seen. He just might do it. He could bloody well pull off the impossible."

MULLAGHMORE, NORTHERN IRELAND, AUGUST 1979

THE MONTHS PASSED QUICKLY. NOT SURPRISING, Smith thought, what with his normal responsibilities coupled with all the travel, meticulous planning, and intelligence gathering he had done, plus certain "extracurricular" activities he had been conducting out on the island. Weekend jaunts from his remote digs off the coast, slipping into Mullaghmore harbor of an evening for a quick look round before fading away, returning by boat to his perfect hideaway on Mutton Island.

The fishing village of Mullaghmore overlooked a small harbor. A few commercial boats and pleasure boats bobbed at their moorings on warm summer days. Only twelve miles away lay the border with Northern Ireland, so the town was a popular vacation spot for terrorist IRA volunteers.

It was also the vacation home of one of the Royal Family's most venerated and public figures, Lord Louis Mountbatten. A powerful member of the family, it was Lord Louis who had arranged the courtship of his nephew Prince Philip and then Princess Elizabeth, now the reigning monarch.

If Mountbatten was sanguine about his security, it was with good reason. There had never been a single attempt on his life. The only terrorist attack in Mullaghmore had come one night courtesy of some lads at the pub. They'd sneaked down to the harbor and drilled holes in the bottom of Shadow V, Mountbatten's beloved fishing boat, hoping she'd sink with the morning tide.