Ted Bell - Warlord

"Done," McMahon said with a smile that revealed stained and crooked teeth. He then poured himself another drink.

"Where, exactly, is the house located?"

"Heard of the Dog, a small river in County Sligo?"

"No."

"Not really a river, more like a stream. A tributary that runs off the River Mourne. Follow the Dog to a town called Plumbridge. The house is three miles due north of the town center. It's an old place called the Barking Dog Inn. A farmer's sheepdog drowned in that river one night. Some say you can still hear him barking when the moon's full, under that old wooden bridge. The house stands in a wood, not too far from the bend in the river. It's due east of the only bridge over the Dog for miles. A wooden bridge."

"We'll be in touch, Mr. McMahon," Congreve said, ending the meeting.

The famous criminalist stood up and followed his friend Hawke through the crowd gathered at the smoke-filled bar and out into the wet night. Ambrose could not possibly have been more excited than he was at this moment. McMahon was a thoroughly reprehensible character, but, possibly, he had just provided them with unbelievably valuable information.

Nothing less than confirmation that there had indeed been a "third man" as he and Constable Drummond had insisted from the start right up to the very end. Not only did he exist, he was still very much alive. Active, if one could believe McMahon, in this dangerous New IRA uprising. And he was apparently operating within a few miles of where they stood at this very moment.

STANDING OUTSIDE, CONGREVE SAID, "WE'VE got our 'pawn,' Alex. Smith! It has to be. Still alive after all these years? Astounding. Still functioning? It beggars belief."

"We don't have him yet, but by heaven we may have just gotten a whole lot closer. McMahon's evidence is all hearsay, of course. No proof of any of it. But if we could prove murder out on Mutton Island, and tie Smith to it, well, then-"

"Yes, my thoughts exactly. I'm not quite sure where to begin. What do you think, Alex. Mutton Island first? Or confirm the presence of this IRA safe house? The Barking Dog Inn."

They started walking through the misty rain to the hired car. An ungainly little beast called a Ford Mondeo. It certainly wasn't the Locomotive. In fact, Hawke had taken to calling it "the caboose." Once inside, Hawke pulled a map from the car's glove box.

Hawke said, "Mutton Island is only one hour's drive from here. And not far offshore. Let's get out there as quickly as possible. Hire a fishing boat. See what's to be seen, if indeed anything is. After that, we'll turn our efforts toward an investigation of this bloody Barking Dog Inn. We'll need time, men, and weapons to set that operation up properly. I'll have to make all the necessary arrangements with British Army forces in the event it's determined a full-scale raid on the safe house is warranted."

"Quite right. But, still, you must admit it's a breakthrough. Smith still at it, Alex? In Northern Ireland?" Congreve said.

"We'll find out, I suppose, when we check in at the Barking Dog Inn. If Smith is among the plotters there when we take it, and we manage to take him alive, I'll have some extremely good news for the Prince of Wales."

"You're not going to call him now? With what we've just heard?"

"I think not."

"Why? He'll be jubilant."

"I simply don't trust this fellow McMahon. Throw enough money and booze at him and he'll say what he thinks you want to hear. This could still be the wildest of goose chases."

"I don't think so, Alex. You know that feeling, when you've finally got the bone in your teeth?"

"Not really."

"Well, I do. And I've got it now."

"Good feeling or bad feeling?"

"For a copper? Best feeling there is."

"Can you hold that thought until we get to Mutton Island?"

"Can and will."

I REALLY THINK I AM GOING to be sick, Alex," Congreve said. It was later on the night of their unpleasant but highly intriguing meeting with the bomber McMahon. "And if you think I'm joking, you're about to see highly visible proof to the contrary."

His friend Hawke was at the helm of the ridiculously small and wildly pitching fishing boat. Sheer insanity. A night crossing to Mutton Island in a vessel less than twenty feet in length. Barmy, of course, but then Alex Hawke never gave a damn about weather when it came to boats. Sheeting rain, massive rollers, howling wind. Ideal for night crossing to some godforsaken island, was his view.

Surely this could have waited until morning?

Hawke. Just the name was a clue. The man was possessed of a keen sense of every small thing about him, above it all, often seeing what others didn't, missed opportunity and lurking death. He owned an icy courage that bordered on the bizarre, especially at moments like this. Hawke often reminded Ambrose of Winston Churchill, during the war, going out for his morning battlefield stroll, nonchalantly smoking his signature cigar in no-man's-land, blissfully ignoring the German bullets whistling by his head.

Both men mortal, to be sure, but they didn't act like they were. Not at all.

"Just don't get any on my shoes!" Hawke said loudly. You had to shout to be heard over the keening sounds of wind and wave. Remaining on your feet was no small feat, Congreve thought miserably, no pun intended.

Hawke eyed his friend. In the dim overhead light of the tiny wheelhouse, Congreve's normally cherubic pink face looked the ugly, varicolored shades of a nasty bruise. He was seasick all right, but he'd be on solid ground soon. Hawke imagined his old friend could likely manage three solo circumnavigations of the earth without ever acquiring his sea legs.

Ambrose said, "Don't be crude. Makes no sense to come out on a night like this, Alex. In this disgusting vessel. Every inch smells of fish guts and worse."

"It's a fishing boat."

"Well. Don't they, at bare minimum, these fishing blokes, at least hose them down every other decade or so?"

"Not usually. No need, really. The stench is part of the charm. Hold on, brave landsman, here comes a fairly sizable roller. Hard a'lee, me lads!"

They plowed through the huge wave just before it crested, black and white water roaring over the bow, smashing the wheelhouse, the whole damn boat awash. A miracle the window glass didn't blow out and slash them both to ribbons. Congreve spit seawater out of his mouth and shouted into Hawke's ear.

"Can't you slow down? Or just pull over?"

"Constable, you cannot just 'pull over' in a boat."

"Oh, for God's sake, you know what I mean. Just stop the damn thing until this storm blows over."

"That is called 'heaving to.' It would be much worse to do so, I assure you. Instead of slamming through these waves, we'd be getting slammed by them."

"And we're not now? Why on earth couldn't we have waited till morning, then?" Congreve asked, staggering on the heaving deck, trying to keep his feet under him and the contents of his stomach out of sight where they properly belonged.

"Going to get much worse around midnight. This is just the leading edge of the low pressure front. You'll be seeing Force 8 gales out here tomorrow."

"How much farther to the damned island?"

"Island of the damned, from what I've read."

"Alex, please. You are not amusing."

"Mutton Island is just now coming up on our port bow, actually. Wait for the next lightning strike and you'll see the cliffs off to our left. I've checked the map and found a protected spot to beach the boat. Luckily, it's in the lee of this wind."

"Thank God."

"No, thank me. God had absolutely nothing to do with it. Experience has taught me he really doesn't care for me much. Has it in for me, actually."