Exceptional Merit (10 page)

Keegan thumbed through the rest of the paper as he took a sip of his coffee.  He briefly read the sports section, scanning the highlights of the Islanders victory the previous evening over the Red Wings.  Articles started to appear about the Yankees and Mets as spring training was only a few weeks away.

After closing the paper, Keegan opened his desk drawer and examined a print out of the radio run.  It had been over two weeks since the radio car team pulled up on him as he secreted the guns in the car.  He carefully read every word, as he had done every day for the past two weeks, looking for some kind of clue.  He wanted to believe it had been a coincidence, but his instincts told him he had better be careful.  Who could've called and what did they know?

The only other person who knew what he was doing was Dan and there would be no reason for Dan to
drop a dime
on him.  Reading the print out, he could see the person was close enough to have gotten his description and the license plate to the car.  He remembers constantly looking around, so how had he missed them?  There had not been anybody watching from that close, he would have noticed.  He was sure of that.  Unless it had been a passing motorist who called from a cell phone, he thought.  If they left a call back number, he could have traced the number and find out whom it belonged to, but they did not.

A knock at the door interrupted Keegan's thoughts.  He quickly put the computer printout back in his desk drawer and invited the person on the other side of the door to enter.  “Jimmy, here's a copy of the
fives
that you asked for,” said one of the detective's in Keegan's squad, as he handed Keegan a stack of pink papers.

“Thanks a lot, Pete.”

Detective Pete Smyth walked out of the door, closing it behind him.  Keegan read through the DD-5's, which was the name of the form used by the department to document anything done in an ongoing case after the initial report had already been filed.  Most of the time, a five would have an interview with a witness, a canvass of an area or something else of value to an investigation.  The
fives
that Keegan had asked for were concerning the murder of Judge Boden.  An outsider to the police department would assume after an arrest is made in a case, the case is over but that is not necessarily true, especially, in high profile cases.  The arrest can sometimes be made in the beginning of a case.

Over the course of the last few weeks, Keegan's men had been working on finding out as much as they could about Judge Boden’s assassin.  They conducted an in depth profile on his family, and any known associates both in this country and abroad.  It was imperative to find out if he acted alone or had co-conspirators still at large.  Especially
, if they were still here on American soil.  Keegan read through the fives, one by one, and signed his name in the space captioned, Supervisory Officer.  Most of them didn't reveal any new information.  They were mostly interviews with neighbors who claimed not to have known the assassin too well.  They mostly said he kept to himself, had few visitors and no family they were aware of.

There had been only one lead a couple of weeks ago which had unveiled a co-conspirator in the Boden homicide.  That subject was nowhere to be found.  Keegan believed he must have fled the country before the assassination was even carried out.  After signing off on the paperwork with nothing of interest jumping out at him, Keegan put them in a basket so they could be filed away in the case folder.

He once again opened his desk drawer, trying to figure out if it was time for him to walk away from his secret life or should he just be a little more careful.  The more he thought about it, the more concerned he was for the welfare of his family.  Maybe sometime soon he would tell Dan O'Brien that his days of running guns are over.  Although he knew Dan would be greatly disappointed, he figured Dan would thank him for his many years of service and tell him to keep in touch.  Or, maybe, he wouldn't even have to quit, if peace was truly so close.

After contemplating a few minutes, Keegan decided he was being paranoid.  If anyone had any information about gun running to the I.R.A., that information would eventually come across his desk.  Being the second in command at the Terrorist Task Force, he would be made aware of any investigations involving the transportation of arms to any terrorist group.  Keegan had once again convinced himself his secret was safe.

Louis Castillo sat at his desk at the Internal Affairs Bureau.  He was reading the case folder he had been working on
regarding James Keegan.  Castillo wondered why anyone would get involved in a war in which they really had no personal involvement with.  He wondered how long Keegan had ties with the I.R.A. and what exactly he did for them.

He checked Keegan's personal access code for the department's
Finest
computer system.  Castillo learned that Keegan hadn't used his code to get information on anything in months except for the radio run he had called up on Keegan a couple of weeks ago.  It didn't make sense that Keegan was selling information to the I.R.A.  The I.R.A. had never operated outside of the British Isles, so he wouldn't have any valuable information for them.  So what was he doing?  There was no doubt in Castillo's mind that Keegan was somehow involved with them, but what exactly was he doing and for how long had it been going on?  Castillo had discretely followed Keegan every night for the last two weeks as he left his office, and every single night, Keegan went straight home.

Castillo thought for sure that by now he would have made another contact with the bartender at McBride's.  Castillo stared at O'Brien's photo wondering how deeply O'Brien was involved with the I.R.A.  He then stared at Keegan's photo.  Looking down at his personnel folder, he could see Keegan was the department's dream cop.  He had received over fifty citations for excellence and heroism in the line of duty.  He was a standout cop and detective in every unit that he ever worked.  He had broken dozens of high profile cases and made over six hundred career arrests.  He only had three unsubstantiated civilian complaints lodged against him and had never been sued or ever had charges and specifications filed against him.  Castillo knew he had better have Keegan dead to right before telling his supervisors too many details.

Castillo filled out a notice to appear for Police Officers Laura Reed and Kenneth Williams.  It was easy enough for Castillo to track down which officers handled the job he had called in that night in Manhattan.  All department autos had numbers and there always had to be a record of which officers were assigned to each vehicle on every tour.  He decided to make the appearance for February 27.  This way he could make sure he did a day tour on the final payday of the month.  Plus, since his regular days off were Friday and Saturday he would make a longer
swing
for himself.  He hoped that Officer Reed would be able to fill in some of the missing pieces for him by telling him what had been in the gym bag.  Castillo knew that one cop would not be willing to tell on another cop, so he had to come up with a plan that would make Reed tell him what she saw.  At least he had some time to come up with a plausible story.

At roll call that afternoon, before the four p.m. to midnight shift, the roll call Sergeant handed Reed and Williams their notifications to appear at the Internal Affairs Bureau on February 27.  The notification instructed them to appear at ten hundred hours on that day and to report to a Detective Castillo.  The notification also ordered them to bring their memo books for January 15 and to wear the uniform of the day.  Both officers, upon receiving their notifications, flipped through the pages of their memo books. They wanted to see if anything eventful happened that night.  All police officers were required to keep a memo book.  It was a log consisting of the jobs they responded to, people they stopped and questions, summonses they issued, any arrests they made, and any other police related services they may have rendered.

After looking over their memo books for the day in question, they decided they were being called in on what must've been an allegation made by the lawyer they had arrested at the end of their tour for driving while intoxicated.  The lawyer had told them they would be sorry if they arrested him.

“I can't wait to see the allegation this asshole made against us,” said Williams to his partner.

“He probably said we tried to shake him down or some horseshit like that.  This job is something else.  We're out there doing our job and yet they'll entertain an allegation made by a drunk.”

“Relax Kenny, we don't even know for sure he made an allegation, besides, we didn't do anything wrong.  We'll just have to wait until next week to see what this is all about,” trying to put her partner at ease.

The date on the personnel orders was February 19.  Keegan read the orders carefully; making sure none of the members of his team had been omitted.  Receiving medals weren't the thrill they once were to Keegan, but he still did feel a sense of accomplishment when they were posted in the orders.  The medal which came down today would be his forth Commendation.  A Commendation is a pretty high medal and Keegan thought how many police officers go through their entire career without receiving a medal that high.  He went over to the copy machine and ran off a copy of the personnel orders and put it in his jacket pocket.  It was almost six o'clock and time for Keegan to sign out.  Keegan spent over an hour and a half in traffic on the way home that night and never noticed the nondescript department auto following him most of the way home.

Kate had warmed up his dinner as she and the kids had eaten almost two hours earlier.  The kids were upstairs tending to their homework and Keegan thought this would be a good time for him to take out his scrapbook.  Keegan never allowed his children to see his scrapbook.  It was a conscious decision.  Maybe someday he would, when they were older.  He wanted to shield them from the brutality of the real world or maybe he thought they just wouldn't understand how much it meant to him.  He always said one day when he felt it was appropriate he would show them his many accomplishments over his career.

Keegan went into the living room and retrieved the scrapbook from the bottom cabinet of the chestnut colored entertainment center.  He sat down on the ivory sectional, grabbed the remote and turned on the hockey game. 
He took a quick glance to the top of the staircase to make sure the children were not coming downstairs.  He set the book down on the glass topped coffee table, setting aside an assortment of Dr. Seuss books, and opened it up.  He noticed a reddish stain on the beige and light green area rug that he was pretty certain was not there this morning. 
No doubt, a spill from Kerry.
She always sat in that spot watching her television shows while drinking her juice and having a snack.

Keegan took the copy of the personnel orders from his pocket, wrote the date of the order and the words Commendation # 4 on the top of the page.  Looking through the book, he reminisced about all the times he had been in the newspapers, reading the articles which he had clipped out.  It seemed every time Keegan took the scrapbook out he read every article he had in there.  He also had a copy of the personnel orders for every medal he had received.  He had photos of the many
Cop of the Month
awards he’d earned, as well as numerous
Certificates of Excellence,
he’d been awarded
from different Police Commissioners.

His crowning jewel to date, however, would undoubtedly be the photo of him shaking hands with the President of the United States
, which appeared in hundreds of newspapers across the country.  After breaking the case of the attempted courthouse bombing, Keegan and his family were invited to the White House to meet the President.  The photo was published everywhere.  Not just newspapers, but also periodicals like TIME magazine and it was also the cover of the department’s trade magazine which was mailed out to over thirty five thousand police officers in New York City.  Keegan had the original photograph, which was signed by the President, hanging in his office.

Kate watched as her husband read through his scrapbook.  She remembered how, when they were first married, she used to be so interested in her husband's war stories about which bad guy he had locked up that night.  In more recent years, however, she saw his job as a threat to their marriage and only feigned interest when he would tell her anything related to his work.  “Were you in the newspaper again today or something?”

Kate was trying to figure out what her husband was putting in the book.

“No, that medal finally came down today from the terrorist cell we locked up.”

“I'm so proud of you, Jim.”

It was the truth.  Not many women could honestly say that their husband is a real hero.

“I know you are, sweetheart.”

He put the scrapbook away and embraced his wife.

******************************

Northern Ireland

The Toyota was driving through Ireland's hills and valleys in a suburb north of Belfast.  There was too much anger and hatred in the driver's eyes to take in the countryside's overwhelming beauty.  There were so many rich shades of green to be seen through
the hills, separated by the winding and twisting roads.  There were ancient castles, charming thatched cottages and small mountain ranges in the distance.  It is said there are fifty shades of green to be seen in Ireland.  The man saw none of this.  He had shoulder length dirty blond hair and a medium build.  His boyish face was offset by the coldness in his slate gray eyes.  He had seen and caused more bloodshed in his twenty one years than most people see in a lifetime.  He wore a pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt under a black field jacket which concealed the Russian made, nine millimeter handgun tucked in his waistband.

He was having a hard time getting used to shifting the vehicle's gears with his right hand. 
Goddamned yanks
, he thought to himself,
why do they have to do everything backwards
?  He had driven to an abandon barn house outside the town of Balleymena, twenty miles north of the Northern Irish capital of Belfast.  Twenty miles away seemed to be another world from all the violence in Belfast.  As the Toyota approached, the three men inside the barn opened the barn and the vehicle was driven inside.  The doors were quickly closed behind him.

The barn was constructed of grey, brown and tan stones.  The roof was crude at best and in need of repair.  The structure itself was easily over a hundred years old.  There was nothing warm or inviting about it.  On the inside were a couple of desks and a workbench.  A ladder, used to climb up to the loft where materials were stored, lay on the floor.

Eamon Quinn was the first to greet him.  Quinn was a field general for the I.R.A.  There were very few who actually got to meet him.  He was a brilliant strategist who had devoted over thirty years of his life to the cause of freedom in Northern Ireland.  Quinn was a man in his mid-fifties whose full head of gray hair looked awkward against his dark eyebrows.  He was of medium height and weight and was clean shaven.  “It is good to see ya looking so well, Gerald Flynn.”

Gerald Flynn had practically been born into the I.R.A.  His uncle was one of thirteen people shot and killed by the British during a peaceful civil rights march in Derry in the early 1970's, before Gerald had been born.  His father had been arrested when Gerald was a young boy under the prevention of terrorism act, which enabled the British troops to arrest anyone and hold them for up to a week without ever charging them with a crime.  Gerald's father died in a prison riot during his week of internment and was never charged with any sort of crime.  He, himself, had been arrested at the age of nineteen and spent a year in the H-blocks of Long Kesh prison where his only brother was still serving out a five year sentence for possession of explosives.  Gerald Flynn brushed his long hair back with his hand as he exited the auto.

“Ello, Eamon, I see you're doing a lot better than Owen.”

Flynn’s remark referred to his comrade.  Flynn stared at the cast on Owen’s leg, which extended from his lower leg to his upper thigh.

Owen Dunn sarcastically responded, “It's good to see you too, ya fucker, ya.”

“Did we identify the bastard who kneecapped him yet?”  Flynn wanted to know.  “I'll take care of him
me self, if you just give the order, Eamon.”

Declan McKee quickly interjected.  “You can't always be so hot headed Gerald.”

McKee was Quinn's right hand man and second in command.  He was in his early forties and stood about five and a half feet tall.  He had dark hair and a dark beard.  There was a large scar above his left eye; a reminder of the prison time he served in his youth.  McKee was the most knowledgeable man the I.R.A. had in the field of explosives.  He had been building bombs and training others to do so for close to twenty five years.  This would not be the first time he would lecture Flynn.  Most likely not the last either, he realized.  “Sometimes it makes more sense to think before we react.  You do understand that lad, do you not?”

“When we find out who kneecapped Owen we should deal with him swiftly and justly,” argued Flynn.

Gerald Flynn wanted nothing more than to avenge the assault on his childhood friend.  Owen Dunn had gotten into his car one night last week, unaware there was a Unionist guerrilla hiding in his backseat.  He was kidnapped and brought down by the shipyards in Belfast.  Once there, he had been tied up, tortured and beaten by two masked gunmen over a two hour period.  They believed Owen was an active member of the I.R.A.  If they had known for sure, they would've killed him on the spot.  After two hours of him denying any involvement, they had told him they were going to kneecap him anyway, just in case he was an I.R.A. soldier.

Kneecapping was used often enough by the I.R.A. to send out a message.  It was usually reserved for someone who talked too much or for someone who tried to leave the organization.  The motto
,
once in, never out,
was often told to someone before the gun was put to the back of their kneecap.  When shooting someone in the back of the knee it would cause the person excruciating pain as it would shatter the kneecap, often beyond repair.

Eamon Quinn put an assuring hand on Flynn’s shoulder.  “Don't worry
Gerald; those who are responsible will be dealt with accordingly.  In the mean time, you have some training to do for your trip across the Atlantic.”

The barn house was used by the I.R.A. for many reasons.  It was used as a safe house for those on the run.  It was also used as a training camp of sorts, equipped with a target range, and a storage facility for arms, ammunition and hundreds of pounds of explosives.  Declan McKee had put together many bombs in that very barn house over the years.

Declan and Eamon carried out stanchions to place the targets on.  They placed them about fifty feet downfield and fifteen feet apart.  Flynn took of his field jacket and placed it on the car before joining the other two men outside.  Flynn walked out and without saying a word pulled the gun from his waistband, firing first at the target on the left then at the target on the right.  Flynn fired at three round intervals as he had been taught.  After firing the initial three rounds at each target, he dropped to one knee continuing to fire three round bursts, alternating targets.

In all of Eamon Quinn's years in the I.R.A., he had never seen a more deadly accurate shot than Flynn.  He figured Flynn's accuracy was certainly one of the factors that had made him the I.R.A.'s top assassin.  He didn't have to get as close to his target as the others did.  Flynn could hit a target fifty feet away with a handgun with the same accuracy as someone firing from the same distance with a rifle.

“He's a remarkable shot, is he not Dec?”

“Aye.  He is at that, Eamon.  He is at that.  I just fear he might take matters into his own hands.  Especially if he knew that we already know who capped Owen.”

“No need to worry about that.  He is as good a soldier as he is a marksman.  He won't do anything until he's given the order to do so.  I may even let him go ahead with the hit before we send him to the States.”  Quinn let this idea slip, testing his comrade's reaction.

“Eamon, he's leaving tomorrow.  He's too important for the plan overseas to chance him getting caught over here.”

“He won't get caught and, besides, he is the best we have, ya know.”

That was a point McKee couldn’t argue.  As much as he did not want Flynn to be involved in the retaliation, it was ultimately Quinn’s decision and he knew that.  “Well it's your call, now isn't it Eamon.”  He reluctantly gave his support.

“Nice shooting Gerald.”

Quinn examined the targets whose centers had been blown out.  “However, you're not going to be able to use a Russian made gun in the United States.  Why don't ya give this gun a try?”

He handed Flynn a Beretta, model 92F.  He also handed him an extra magazine.  While Flynn was occupied loading the nine millimeter rounds into the magazine, McKee and Quinn replaced the targets with fresh ones.  They also added about a dozen or so stanchions around the original two and marked only one of the targets with a big letter X.

The field outside the barn was an ideal place to practice.  There was only one unpaved, dead end road which
leads to the barn and there wasn't anybody around for miles to hear the gunshots.  The only real danger of getting caught was by a helicopter which could fly over head.  “How does it feel?”

Flynn weighed the gun in his hand and felt the grips.  “I like me own gun better, but I'll give er a go.”

Flynn put his field jacket back on and slipped the extra magazine in the left hand pocket.  Flynn had his back to the targets and couldn't see what was being done.  He slipped the Beretta in his waistband and waited for an order.

“Whenever you're ready Gerald, walk away,” was Eamon Quinn’s initial command.  As Flynn was walking in the opposite direction of the target, he heard Quinn's next order.  “Identify your target
s and eliminate them.”

Flynn pulled the Beretta from his waistband and turned towards the targets in one fluent motion.  Without hesitating, he identified the target and let four three round bursts go into the center of the target from a range of over seventy feet.  He had seen no other marked target and therefore only fired at the one marked by the
letter X, out of the fifteen in the distance.  All twelve rounds he fired hit their mark in the dead center but the drill wasn't yet over.

“Make your getaway.  Run towards the barn, head around back and get into the car.”

Flynn followed his orders knowing his drill had been a success.  He ran as hard as he could to the barn which was about fifty feet away.  When he got to the far side of the barn he made the right as instructed.  His heart almost stopped when he saw two British troops around the corner.  Instinctively, he brought the Beretta up to eye level and emptied the gun on the first soldier on the left.  Without missing a beat, his thumb hit the magazine release, while his left hand inserted the fresh magazine into the gun.  He released the slide and continued his onslaught in three round bursts.  After the first series of bursts, he threw himself into a somersault, came up on his right knee and continued to alternate targets with three round bursts.  In less than ten seconds, Flynn had emptied his gun, reloaded and hit his targets without missing a shot.

Had they been actual soldiers instead of dummies Quinn had made, they would've had no chance of survival against this killing machine.  This was, however, a new lesson to Flynn to never assume you're home free.  You must always expect the unexpected.  He also realized he should have reloaded his gun right away.  Had he been facing live adversaries with only three rounds in his gun, he could have had serious problems.

Flynn knelt over as he caught his breath.  McKee and Quinn looked on, pleased at what they had witnessed.  “Let's go back inside and go over the details of your trip Gerald.”

The men collected the targets and the dummies and brought them inside just in case a chopper would happen to fly over.  It was better being safe then having attention brought unnecessarily to the barn house.  Owen Dunn had remained inside while Gerald had been training.  Owen was seated at a desk, putting together a rather large gelignite bomb.  McKee had taught Dunn how to make a bomb a few years ago and Dunn had become quite skilled at it.  The men gathered around a table off to the side of the barn.  Quinn picked up the manila envelope that had been lying in the middle of the table.  He opened the envelope and counted out five thousand American dollars and handed it to Flynn.  “This should be more than enough to last you a few weeks in New York.”

“I'll make sure it does Eamon,” Flynn assured him.

Quinn took out numerous documents from the envelope and examined them.  He had a United States passport and a New York State driver’s license baring Flynn's image, in the name of Sean Murphy from Woodside, Queens.  There were also various other documents such as bogus credit cards, a social security card and a college identification card all in the name of Sean Murphy.  If anyone were to stop Flynn in New York, there would be no question as to his identity.

“Study these good now lad, you must know the information backwards and forwards.  For the next few weeks you are Sean Murphy.  Know your address, your phone number, your ma’s maiden name.  Every bit of information in that packet you best learn.  Know it like the back of your hand.  Do ya understand Gerald?  ”

Flynn nodded in agreement.  “Aye, I do.  Sean Murphy it is.”

Eamon Quinn handed the assassin a piece of paper.  “Once in New York you will go to a bar in Manhattan.  Here's the address.  You'll see the bartender, his name is Dan O'Brien.  He's good people; he's been running many things from that end for years.  He'll fill you in on anything else you might need to know.  And Gerald, make sure you get to know the area of the job inside and out.  Your escape is essential.  You're much too valuable to us to rot your life away in a Yank prison.”

“That's one thing you don't have to worry about, Eamon.  There is no way I'm going to prison over there, I'd sooner die, I would.”

Eamon Quinn knew Flynn was not exaggerating; he was being genuine.  Quinn had mixed emotions about sending Flynn to the United States.  Flynn had become a legend in his own time within the I.R.A.  Though few had ever actually met him, Flynn's legend was well known throughout their ranks.  He had over a dozen hits under his young belt and the Brits had no idea of his involvement other than an arrest a couple of years back for rioting and assault.  Quinn knew it was a great risk sending his top assassin to another country to carry out a hit in unfamiliar surroundings.  He also knew, unfortunately, that Flynn was probably the only one in the I.R.A. who could possibly pull it off and still manage to get away.