Adrian McKinty - The Dead Yard

“I am perfectly aware of that, Michael. But you must understand that the Sons of Cuchulainn are a separate entity from the Boston Irish mob. The mob dislikes and distrusts anyone whose motives are political rather than fiduciary. They have very little time for fanatics. And the Boston mob itself is a rival to the New York organization and they maintain few links.

There will be at least two layers of separation between you and your former associates. You’ll be quite insulated from Seamus Duffy and his agents in New York. And in any case, from what Dan Connolly tells me, Duffy is more than occupied with his own internal problems rather than looking to settle old scores.

You’re yesterday’s news, Michael. It’s been five years. No one remembers you. That’s not to say that you won’t be taking any risks. No, we must be clear from the get-go. Oh, good God, no.

This will be extraordinarily risky indeed. Even if they never found out that your real name is Michael Forsythe, they would kill you at the drop of a hat if they discovered that you were linked to Her Majesty’s government in even the remotest way.”

She paused, ran her hand through that peachy auburn hair.

No rings on any finger. Not married, not engaged.

“Did you hear what I said, Michael?”

“I heard. You’re doing your case no good. What you’re basically saying is I’d have to be mad to take this job, because I could get killed in half a dozen ways,” I said, leaning back on the cot again and resting my arms over my eyes.

“Well, I’m not one for odds, but yes, I’d say that even a competently trained professional agent with years of experience would have a rather higher than average chance of being compromised in a time-imperative operation such as this one,” Samantha said.

I yawned in the face of her candor.

“And compromised means killed,” I said.

“I’m terribly sorry but I have to be frank. I feel it’s only fair that you appreciate the risks. Of course I do not think you will be killed or compromised in any way. It’s very unlikely that McCaghan would bring you into the inner circle. We just need tidbits of information, anything that will help prevent a potential bombing campaign. And yes, ordinarily, I’d do something dramatic, I’d leave the cell, give you a day or two to think it over, maybe get the Spanish to rough you up, hector you a bit, but as I’ve said time is a factor here. An ideal opportunity for an insertion has presented itself. If my plan is going to work at all you absolutely have to be in Revere tomorrow.”

“Revere Beach, Boston? You must be joking, honey. If I go near a Paddy neighborhood like that, I’ll be killed.”

She shook her head and gave me a brilliant smile.

“No, you won’t. I wouldn’t send you if I thought that. The Sons of Cuchulainn are beyond the pale in Irish American republican circles and after the IRA hit tomorrow, they’re going to be even more beyond the pale. They’ll be pariahs.”

“IRA hit?”

“Michael, please don’t worry about your former problems.

We’ll dye your hair black, give you dark green contact lenses, something like that; that’s not my field exactly, but we’ll gussy you up so that your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

“Sure.”

“You’ll only have to be in Boston for one day. Then we’ll fly you to an FBI field office in a secure location. And then in a week or so your formal assignment will begin. The most difficult part of an operation is the entry. Believe me, I’ve done dozens. And what we have going tomorrow is a perfect entry for you. It’s an opportunity not to be missed. Instead of months of preparation, we can get you buckets of credibility in a single night. Indeed, if we pull this off, I’d say the risks of being compromised are considerably reduced.”

“What exactly do you want me to do in Revere?”

“You’re going to save a girl’s life,” Samantha said with a cough.

“What?”

“The IRA is going to try to kill her father, and you’re going to save her,” she said, looking at the floor.

“That sounds bloody risky to start with.”

“Not really. Look, Michael, we need you. We had one other person in mind but…” her voice trailed off.

“Let me guess. He’s turned you down,” I said.

“Well, yes. That’s why this whole Spanish angle has been particularly fortuitous for us. You know, not everyone agrees with me, I’m taking a bit of a risk flying here to see you. There are some within the department who don’t agree with the idea of recruiting outsiders. Especially a potential loose cannon such as yourself.”

I was fed up with her now and I’d thought about it enough.

“While I really appreciate the faith you have in me, Samantha, thanks but no thanks. Now I think I’ve been pretty polite with you; if you would do me a favor and tell your pal in the Foreign Office that I still haven’t seen a lawyer and could they please arrange for me to see one ASAP I’d be much obliged.”

She looked disappointed.

“A lawyer?”

“Aye. I want to plead and get this shit over with.”

Samantha frowned, undid her ponytail, and let the hair hang down her back. She started doing her hair up again, glancing at me with what could almost be described as pity.

“Michael, obviously I haven’t made the entire situation transparent. You’re caught between a rock and a hard place. The Spanish government will see to it that you go to jail. And what’s more, when your time is up, the Spaniards will extradite you to Mexico, where I believe you are a fugitive from justice.”

That was her trump card. The one she’d been saving.

I sat up on the bed. Horrified.

I’d been arrested in Mexico on a charge of drug smuggling but I’d escaped from the remand prison before I’d come to trial. I could be looking at twenty years there for the drugs, plus God knows how much for bloody jailbreaking.

Cold fear ran down my back. I’d been so cavalier with Samantha because I knew the Spanish angle was bullshit. Who gets ten years for being a football hooligan? Even if I got convicted they’d sentence me to three or four and I’d do two at the most. Probably less. The Sun and the Daily Mirror would quickly be filled with horror stories about all the poor Brits and their mistreatment in Spanish jails. Even the worst offenders would never serve close to ten years. And me, a side player with zero physical evidence to back up the police case, I’d be out in easy time and probably well on my way to winning damages at the European Court of Human Rights.

But Mexico, that was another matter completely.

I was in a world of shit if I went back there.

“The FBI won’t let you send me to Mexico. We have a deal. I’m a protected witness,” I said, trying to keep the tension out of my voice.

Samantha read from the file in front of her and shook her head.

“You have been given exemption from the crimes you committed in the United States. You certainly could not have been given exemption for criminal acts committed in a third country. Last night I called up my counterpart in the Mexican intelligence service. He would be more than happy to have you back in Mexican custody and the Spanish government would be delighted to extradite you. They have excellent relations with Mexico, as you can imagine.”

I stared at her.

Any residual lust evaporated, replaced pound for pound with enmity. There was no way I was going back to Mexico. The place where Scotchy, Andy, and Fergal all had died in horrible circumstances. The thought of returning to that prison at all was like an ice dagger in the heart. You know what they do to gringos in Mexican prisons? Let your imagination do the work and then add a little on top because I’d already goddamn escaped.