No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(58)

“You sure you got the geolocation feature on?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s there. I tested it on Google Maps before I took the video. It spotted me right where I was supposed to be.”

“And it’s on Wi-Fi? Not the cell network?”

Braden let a little aggravation come through. “Yes, just like you told me. How about a little trust?”

“Sorry. We have to give them just a taste. Make them work for it. Make them feel smart. We can’t be obvious.”

“Well, I did what Kevin said to do. I can’t tell you how smart it is.”

“It’ll be good enough. Where are the captures?”

“In the apartment.”

“They under control?”

“Yeah, but that Marine recognized the explosives. He knows this won’t end well.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“No. Not as long as I keep people there. We had to smack him around a bit, but they’ll do what’s necessary to survive.”

“Do they know what’s planned?”

“Of course not. But they suspect. Even a chicken suspects when you show it the axe.”

“Keep them under control. We’re close. The diversion goes, the Serbs get their jewels, the Americans spin around in confusion trying to figure out how we set a trap, we kill a hostage, and then the money will flow. I promise, the money will flow.”

“When do I send the Snapchat? I have to let Ratko know. He has to be ready.”

“I don’t know just yet. Let me figure out what the f*cking Somali has in mind. Probably tomorrow. Are the Serbs in town yet?”

“No, damn it. I told them I would give them a warning. They aren’t here and won’t execute tomorrow.”

“Okay, fine. Calm down. Give them two days.”

“I will, but you’d better be ready to execute. They’re not of a mind to give us favors.”



* * *

Seamus hung up the phone and threw it into the car seat next to him. He crossed the M50 and headed into downtown Dublin on Long Mile Road. He wove about, getting closer to the River Liffey. Wanting to ensure he was on his own, and clean from any surveillance, he wound around St Stephen’s Green until he found a parking spot on the south side. He sat in the vehicle for a moment, checking the ebb and flow of traffic, looking for a correlation of someone parking because he had. He saw nothing, feeling a growing satisfaction for what he was about to accomplish.

Better men than him had defended this sacred ground in the 1916 Easter Uprising, and he would make them proud. They had sacrificed themselves in a futile attempt at rebellion against the English crown, and their deaths had been the catalyst for the freedom of the first twenty-six counties of Ireland. He would be the catalyst for the final six.

He exited quickly, entering the park through a central gate, getting lost among the tourists. He moved purposely through it, taking the winding paths seemingly at random to prevent anyone from anticipating and jumping ahead of him.

He circled around, reaching a central bridge spanning a neck of water connecting two lakes. A choke point. He crossed it, then sat on a park bench on the other side, surveying his back trail. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

He exited the green at the northwest corner, walking through a large stone archway and into a shopping district full of tourists, the lane jammed with stores of all types.

He continued north, hoping the Africans weren’t drawing too much attention.

When Frog, his Croatian arms contact, had initially set up the introductions, they were supposed to meet in London, a much more hospitable area for Somalis to blend into the population. But that was also supposed to be next week.

Frog had told him the Somalis had arrived in London and were anxious to conduct business. Seamus had said there was no way he could break free to go to London, and the next thing he knew, Frog had coordinated for one to travel here. To Dublin.

It was the last scenario Seamus wanted. He had no desire to be connected to the Somali in his own land. The risks were too great for someone remembering, and so he’d been forced to think about where to meet. To find a place where they could at least reasonably blend in and also limit the risk of running into someone he knew. He’d decided to send him to a pub. Not just any pub, but the biggest tourist trap pub in Dublin. The Temple Bar.

The streets surrounding the Temple Bar area were once the quarter for locals to go to drink the night away—as the signs proclaimed, the “cultural center of Dublin”—but as happens in every city of note, tourists began going for the “local” atmosphere. Soon enough, the locals went elsewhere, leaving the tourists the victor.

At six in the evening, the bar would be packed with people from all over the world, and with any luck, the Somali would—if not blend in—at least not be noticed because the tourists wouldn’t understand how strange it was. The only ones looking would be the waitstaff, and they’d seen plenty of strange events at the Temple Bar. Most involving vomit.

He threaded his way through the alleys, eventually reaching Temple Lane South. He walked toward the Liffey, passing pub after pub, all proclaiming authentic Irish something or other. Irish stew and music, or T-shirts full of leprechauns, and the tourists of the world over ate it up.

The original Temple Bar after which the area was named owned a corner and, like most Irish pubs, was chopped up into a multitude of different rooms. He’d instructed Frog to tell the Somali to head to the beer garden in back, away from the live music, both so they could hear each other and to get away from the drunks he knew would be slobbering to sing along with the Irish verses.