Ted Bell - Warlord

"Another whiskey afore you go?"

"You got your money. Have as many as you like."

Hawke pushed back from the table and stood, wrapping his woolen scarf round his neck. "Ambrose?" he said.

Congreve ignored him, staring at McMahon. "Mr. McMahon, one more question if you don't mind. A moment ago you mentioned an island."

"Did I then?"

"Yes, you did. You said 'rumor had it he lived all alone on some bloody island.'"

"Ah, I did say that, didn't I? What about it?"

"Do you by any chance remember the name of that island?"

McMahon grinned, showing a mouth stuffed with large yellowed teeth. "It was a long time ago, Detective Inspector. Nigh on thirty years now. Memories fade."

"Think harder."

"It would cost you a bottle of Mr. Jameson's finest."

Congreve signaled to the barmaid, ordered another bottle of whiskey.

THE NAME OF THE ISLAND, THOMAS McMahon, if you please."

"Right. Lamb Island, I think. Or, maybe Sheep Island it was. Hell, man, I dunno. Something like that."

"Think, Mr. McMahon. I need to know the exact name of that island," Congreve pressed.

"Mutton Island. That was it, all right. Mutton Island. Off Sligo."

Congreve stood and paid the barmaid, taking the bottle of Irish whiskey from the tray and placing it before the old IRA man.

"As Mr. Hawke said, if you think of anything else, please call. I will make it well worth your while. Good night, Mr. McMahon."

"You two figuring on going out there any time soon? Mutton Island, I mean."

"We're determined to locate Mr. Smith, dead or alive. If, as you say, he lived on Mutton Island around the time of the murders, I suspect it will be the first place we look. I bid you good evening, sir." Ambrose started to get to his feet. The Irishman shot him a look.

"Wait," McMahon said. "Sit down."

Ambrose did. "What is it?"

"I wasn't going to say anything about this. But I figure this is me only chance. If you gents are willing to pay me some serious money, I'd be willing to part with some very serious information."

"We're all ears, Mr. McMahon," Hawke said. "This is your one chance."

"You fellas heard of something called 'the Real IRA'?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Ambrose said. "They ambushed and killed two British policemen in an attack on the Massereene Barracks last March. They don't acknowledge the Good Friday Agreement of 1998 and the long-standing peace. I'm afraid these people are determined to provoke more bloodshed and I think it is abominable."

"Yer afraid with good reason," McMahon said, downing his whiskey and pouring another. "They've got something in the works, y'see. In the late planning stages. And-"

"Mr. McMahon, with all due respect," Hawke said, "how are you in a position to know what these people are planning? Ever since their Omagh bombing killed twenty-nine people and injured two hundred twenty others, they've been considered a credible terrorist organization both in the United Kingdom and the United States. Believe me, we watch their every move very carefully."

"But you ain't on the inside, are ye, Mr. Hawke?"

"And you are?"

"Aye. I'm up to me old tricks. Building fireworks for them. Old habits die hard, y'see. They're using land mines, homemade mortars, and car bombs now, and I'm privy to a lot of stuff I shouldn't know about because I keep me ears open."

"And now you offer to betray their trust for money, Mr. McMahon. One naturally wonders how reliable such information might be, seeing as how selling legitimate information will place you in a very dangerous position. You know what the IRA does to traitors as well as I do. Why are you doing this, one wonders."

"I'll tell ye why! These bastards betrayed me, they did. Betrayed all of us! They use my skills but there is no respect anymore. They let me take the fall for Lord Louis, spend half me bleeding life in prison. Now they look at me as if I ain't there. Besides, they're bringing in weapons from foreigners now, and I'm sure me days are numbered."

"Foreigners? Collaborating with the IRA?" Hawke said, leaning forward. "Foreigners from where?"

"I forget."

"Look, here, McMahon. How much money do you want?" Hawke asked, up to here with the man.

"Enough to leave Ireland for good and start a new life for meself. What's left of it, anyway. I want to die in a nice warm bed, with the cool hand of a fair colleen on my brow if not elsewhere." He downed his drink, licking his lips, pouring himself another.

"Tell us what you know. We'll bicker later. But if we think your information is valuable and believable, we will provide you with sufficient funds to resettle outside Ireland. Agreed?"

"Aye."

"Well, then?"

"There's a safe house. I go there now and then to make product deliveries, if you take my meaning. There's a huge cache of weapons in that basement. Their arsenal, if you take my meaning. Enough to blow up half of Ireland. For the last month or so, it's been a bloody frenzy there. People coming and going all hours, day and night, most of 'em masked. Lot of high-level boys talking late into the night. Planning."

"Planning what?"

"I ain't privy. You'd have to ask the man himself. Smith is in charge."

Smith?

Hawke and Congreve, stunned, looked at each other in shock.

"Smith?" Hawke said, keeping his voice steady.

"That's what I said, didn't I. Maybe I just signed me own death warrant, but there, I've said it, and fuck all."

Congreve said, carefully, "Smith is still involved with the IRA? We were under the impression his involvement ceased thirty years ago, after the Mountbatten murder."

"Ceased? Why do you say that? Why, they practically anointed him the bloody King of Eire after he pulled that killing off. Mountbatten was just the beginning for our Mr. Smith. He was always in for the long haul."

Hawke said, "The long haul?"

"That's what I said."

Hawke leaned forward, making sure he had the man's attention. "Mr. McMahon, this is a very serious matter. Please try to concentrate. What other acts of terrorism against Britain and the Crown was Mr. Smith involved with?"

"Too many to recall, to be honest. But I can name a few for certain."

"Please."

"That Christmas bombing at Harrods in London that killed five and injured almost a hundred. 1983 it was, I believe. That was Smith. The next year, he almost got Lady Thatcher and her entire Cabinet down at that hotel in Brighton. So many others. The mortar round fired into Downing Street back in '91…"

"Good Lord," Congreve said, leaning back in his chair, trying to digest what he'd just heard. Smith, still out there? Still attacking Britain? It was almost inconceivable he could have gone this long without attracting the attention of the Secret Service or Scotland Yard.

Hawke said, "You say he's in the midst of planning another operation. What do you know about it?"

"Only that it's big, like I said earlier."

"A bomb, you said."

"Aye. But a bomb like nothing seen in these parts. A Big Bertha of a bomb that will wreak more havoc and kill more people than in all the years since 'The Troubles' began is what I hear."

"A conventional weapon?" Hawke asked, glaring at the man.

"I can't say. I'd tell ye if I knew. Honest I would. Maybe brought in by Smith himself. He's traveling all the time, and I don't mean down to Brighton for the sea air."

"When is this operation?"

"Soon. I hear a month or two, but it could be sooner."

Congreve said, "This safe house. In order to get your money, you must tell us its exact location. Once we have confirmed that, you'll be paid. How much do you want?"

"I was thinking twenty thousand pounds sterling would do me quite nicely."

"Think fifteen thousand pounds sterling and you have a deal."