No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(34)

“Yeah. Muslims. I didn’t trust them at all.”

“Right. Well, trust or not, they’ve connected me to some Somali expats on the continent who are willing to make a trade. A group called Al-Shabaab. They’re going to end up with the hostages, which I assume they’ll use to actually stop the American drone strikes in Somalia. I don’t really care. What’s critical is that a real Islamic group is going to end up with them, so, like the Bitcoins Kevin was just talking about, we’ll be washed.”

Colin tugged on his beard, thinking. He said, “How are you going to get the Americans to pay? I mean, without giving them the hostages?”

“Oh, they’ll pay. We have all the leverage. They might not give it all to us, but we’ll get enough to fund the coming fight.”

Kevin said, “You talked about a trade. Are the Somalis paying as well?”

“Yes. But not in money.”

Here Seamus paused, knowing his next words might not be well received, given Colin’s apprehension about being hunted.

Kevin said, “What then?”

Seamus said, “Tell me, why did our ancestors take up arms against the British?”

Colin’s face soured. “Spare me the history quiz.”

“Just answer.”

Kevin said, “Because of the famine. Because of the way they treated us, letting us starve to death. Because they put a boot to our head for centuries. Because we wanted to be free.”

“Exactly. And that’s the problem with freeing the final six counties. The British have learned. They give in with a dribble of political theater and we lap it up like kittens. We need the boot to return to kindle the fire of the population.”

Colin said, “What does that mean?”

“The Somalis will conduct an attack that will rival the ’93 Bishopsgate bombing. We’ll take credit for it. Because we won’t have any direct fingerprints, there will be no way to find us, but the RIRA will declare it our work.”

Kevin said, “And? That’s it?”

“No. What do you think the Brits will do? I’ll tell you what: They’ll bring back the Black and Tans. Belfast will turn into a police state. They’ll start kicking in doors, conducting extrajudicial killings, torture, you name it. Just like they used to. And the people will see the truth.”

Colin raised his voice, saying, “Just because of a single attack? How could you keep this secret from us? It’ll make us hunted men. We won’t do anything but spend our time running.”

“The attack will be very spectacular, but no. It alone will not suffice. It is just the fuse. We are the bomb. We are the vanguard. I have no intention of running. We’ll take our money from the hostages and start a new front. The final one. We will end up in the history books alongside the gallant men of the Easter Rebellion. And yes, some of us will die.”

Colin’s face grew dark, his hands clenched. Bigger and stronger than Seamus, he leaned forward. “Why didn’t you tell us this before, when we were laying the groundwork? When we were building the infrastructure to capture the hostages? Or are Kevin and I the last to know?”

What Seamus lacked in physical prowess, he more than made up in intensity. He matched Colin’s glare and said, “I’m telling you now. You want out, feel free to drive back to Cork. Go get drunk in the pubs until you puke. I’m giving you a chance to unite the land. To do something with your life.”

Seamus knew he was at a crossroads. He would either become the undisputed leader of the new war, or his cell of men would splinter. He waited, the tension thick in the room. It was broken by a cell phone ringing, one of several on the windowsill. Kevin picked it up, saw the number, and said, “It’s our contact at Molesworth.”

Seamus took the phone without looking, maintaining his staring contest with Colin. The bearded man broke first, turning away as if the conversation didn’t matter. Seamus smiled and brought the phone to his ear. “What’s up?”

“You told me to call if something strange happened.”

“Yeah? So what happened?”

The contact was a janitor who worked inside the NATO fusion cell. He’d been the man who’d provided most of the tactical information about Nick Seacrest’s pattern of life.

“We had a man here asking about Seacrest.”

“You’ve had a platoon of men doing that. We expected Scotland Yard and the FBI to be all over the command.”

“No, no. This guy wanted to talk to Seacrest. He had no idea he was missing. On top of that, he wasn’t cleared. He was a walk-in.”

The words alarmed Seamus. Strange was right. “Has the disappearance leaked? Was he press?”

“No. He’s retired military. Even with the investigation, the command’s managed to keep the disappearance secret.”

“What did he want to talk to Seacrest about?”

“I don’t know. The man wasn’t ever let in. Whatever he told them, he did it at the gate. They turned him away. I got a copy of his visitor’s pass, though. If you want to follow up. It has his name and where he’s staying.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I want it. Send it to me.”

He hung up, wondering if it was a complete coincidence. Even if it was, he’d put too much time and effort into this project not to be sure. He picked up a different phone and manipulated it, dialing his brother in Brussels using the Internet instead of the cell network.