Don Pendleton - Orange Alert

“But are they really backed by the Orange Order?” Delahunt asked. Looking over the frame of her tortoiseshell glasses at Kurtzman, who sat directly across the table from her, she added, “Anyone can plant a few scarves.”

“The Orange Order denies involvement,” Adams said in support of Delahunt’s thought.

“But it would be good for them if the demands in the communiqué were met,” Kurtzman said.

“Of course it would. IRA disarmament and irrefutable establishment of Northern Ireland? It would end the conflict. But there’s no way it’ll happen like this. If terrorists attack the United States, we won’t negotiate with them. We’ll retaliate like we did against the Taliban in Afghanistan.” Adams paused for a moment, as if for emphasis, before saying, “As soon as we can reasonably link someone to these agent killings, we’re sending Fontes a strike force to wipe out their network.”

There was silence around the table for a few moments while the team considered the actual evidence they had. It wasn’t much.

Kurtzman took a sip of coffee, gazing from face to face above the rim of his cup as he did so. “There are two questions, in particular, we must answer. First, why kill Marie Johnston? Taylor and Buckley were field agents, but Johnston was nothing more than an interpreter.”

“Because it’s not about the mission,” Delahunt replied, her words eliciting nods of agreement.

“Secondly,” Kurtzman continued in his patient, thoughtful manner, “is it plausible that a terrorist cell in Northern Ireland would have the means to attack the United States? We’re not talking a global organization like al Qaeda here. What’s the worst thing a breakaway group of the Orange Order could do?”

“Dirty bomb,” Tokaido said.

Delahunt leaned forward, said, “Anthrax mailings,” and then added in a rush, “You bet your ass they have the means. Maybe not for something as dramatic as 9/11, but a subway explosion, a dirty bomb, biological attacks—you don’t need a global infrastructure to pull off any of those.”

“But there are always clues ahead of time if you know where to look,” Tokaido said.

Kurtzman smiled, the pride he felt for his team evident on his face.

“What do you think about these?” Brognola asked no one in particular while reaching into his shirt pocket and tossing onto the table the three chains Bolan had pulled from his would-be ambushers the previous night. “Scapular medals. They lead me to believe that the three men guarding Oxford’s body were Catholics. The Orange Order is a Protestant group.”

“They were thugs,” Bolan answered. “Local hired help. Most likely not part of the core organization. We can’t draw any conclusions from those medals. Not without more intel.”

Wethers suddenly said, “They’re going to hit Randolph tomorrow.”

Before his colleagues could ask him to elaborate, he eplained, “Taylor in London, Buckley in Paris, Johnston in Pamplona. Look at a map and the time between killings. Randolph in Stuttgart is the next element in an obviously clear progression. One killer is making a circular sweep. Plus, we have Oxford’s transcript that says it was all coming down this week.”

“Katey is going back to Ireland,” Brognola said, “and, while she’s there, Cooper will go to Stuttgart to debrief Randolph. If Hunt is right,” he added, looking straight at Bolan, “it will be good for you to be there regardless of anything Randolph can tell you about his previous missions. He’s used Ireland as a gateway for defectors three times. Maybe he stepped on some toes during one of them.”

“You’re not suggesting someone other than Cypher is behind these hits,” Bolan said, more a statement than a question. “I agree with Hunt. Oxford’s message is clear. Cypher is the enemy. The question is, who is he? Oxford was undercover for more than a year, but Cypher doesn’t show up in his reports until three months ago. Where did this guy come from?”

Brognola had been involved with Bolan long enough to know that the man’s question was not rhetorical. The Executioner was on the hunt and there would be no rest until he found his answer. More likely than not, along the way, there would be hell to pay.

TEN HOURS AFTER HER MEETING with the team at Stony Man Farm, Katey Adams looked away from the window of the Hawker Horizon as it shot across the night sky. There was nothing outside for her to see. Ireland’s southwest shoreline was still almost an hour away. When they landed, it would be four in the morning, local time.

Adams sighed and turned toward the man napping in the oversized leather seat across the tiny aisle from her.

The first thing she had noticed about him when she’d stepped off the elevator at Stony Man Farm was how broad his shoulders were. And he was tall, easily six-three or -four. But the trait that had kept her looking back—and, if truth be told, she had fought the urge to stare throughout the entire meeting—was the intelligence that burned in his eyes so intensely that she wondered if they could peer straight into her soul.

He stirred and turned toward her in his sleep. His hair was cut short, but there was a lock in front that had slipped out of place, and Adams wanted very much to reach over and push it back.

His eyes snapped open, making her jump.

“We’re almost there. About an hour,” she said, recovering from having been caught staring. “I’ve always hated this flight.”

He pushed himself upright in the chair and rubbed his face with his hands.

“It’s not a problem for you to leave your job?” he asked as if there had been no break in the hour-long conversation they had shared upon takeoff.

“Actually, it is. The President wants his cabinet to hit the campaign trail, and I’m in charge of planning some of the trips. Daniel Foley’s visiting West Point next month. That’ll be a biggie, and I do have to get back to finish the advance work. I can’t stay in Ireland for more than a few days.”

“There’s no one you can give your work to?”

Adams shrugged. “I guess I could, but ever since 9/11, we’ve kept the specifics of cabinet trips secret until the very last moment. I’m the only one who knows the details of Foley’s and a few other itineraries, and passing them off at this point and trying to bring someone else up to speed might actually be harder than just getting them done myself. Especially in light of these new threats.”

“Tell me about the guy you’re going to visit.”

Adams smiled as she thought of Bryan McGuinness, the fiery editor of the Irish Independent, who had all but adopted her during her first year as CIA section chief in Dublin.

“We go way back, me and Bryan. When I was new in Ireland, he went out of his way to show me the good places to eat, to introduce me to the right people and just to make me feel at home. He did a lot of favors for me in those eight years.”

“Never asked anything in return?”

Adams shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking. I had him checked out when he kept pushing himself on me, and he is a member of the IRA, but we already knew that from his editorials. He never asked me to compromise myself in any way.”

The copilot spread the curtain separating the cockpit from the cabin and, without getting up from his seat, announced, “We’re starting our descent. After landing, we’ll take a two-hour break to refuel and get something to eat before going on to Stuttgart.”

“Okay,” Adams answered as the man turned back to the controls and said something into his headset mike that made the pilot next to him nod and grin.

“Good luck in Ireland,” Bolan said while fastening his seat belt.

Adams responded in kind, and then they were silent, each lost in his or her own thoughts about the upcoming assignments, until the plane touched down at Shannon airport.