No Fortunate Son (11 page)

K
evin Fegan pulled a sheet of paper out of the printer and handed it to Seamus. “This is a paper wallet. It doesn’t look like much, but it’ll hold all of the Bitcoins.”

Seamus looked at the printout. In the center was an orange rectangle with a QR code. Sticking out of the end of the rectangle was a smaller tail with another QR code. He said, “I’m supposed to trust this thing?”

“Better than online. Someone could hack your account, or we could be tracked. This way, you can move the money anywhere you want, between different accounts, and it’s air-gapped.”

“How does it work?”

“Once we get the Bitcoins in our online wallet, we scan that big QR code and simply send the coins to that address. To remove them, we set up a new online wallet and scan the smaller code.”

“Why’s it shaped like this?”

“That’s just the Web design. You’re supposed to cut it out and fold it up like some stupid origami thing. Turn it into a ‘real’ wallet. All that really matters are the QR codes. You could cut just those out if you wanted, but make no mistake—if you lose those codes, it’s the same as losing a real wallet. Your Bitcoins are gone forever.”

Seamus said, “This is the weirdest crap I’ve ever seen. You sure Bitcoins are real and untraceable?”

“Oh, they’re real all right, and after I send them through the Bitcoin Fog website, they’ll be clean. The only hang-up is that we’ll have to do small amounts each time. Like no more than ten thousand dollars’ worth.”

“That’s not a problem. How long will it take the Americans to come up with the Bitcoins?”

“They’ll want to keep it secret, so they’ll be buying them in small lots. To not spike, I’d say a few days. A week at the most.”

Peering over Kevin’s shoulder, Colin said, “All of that sounds good, but this’ll only work if we stay alive to spend it. Tricking the Americans into thinking a Muslim group took the hostages will only last as long as they never talk. You said before that wouldn’t happen, but killing them won’t stop the hunt for us. It’s a very dangerous game.”

“I never said
I
was going to kill them.”

Colin crossed his arms. He said, “I think it’s high time you let us in on your secret plan.”

Seamus looked at Kevin. He nodded in agreement. Seamus considered, then said, “Okay. I suppose you deserve to know the whole scope of what we’re about to do. Remember our contacts in Croatia? The ones who got us the weapons a few years ago?”

“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.

“Braden, it’s Seamus.”

He heard a laugh. “That damn VOIP app comes up with a different number every time you call. I always expect it to be a telemarketer.”

“How goes the planning?”

“Good. These Serbs are no joke, and the lasses they’re using for the recce are pure blades. I don’t know how they find them, but they turn heads.”

“And the diversion?”

“I took the explosives and pre-positioned them. They’re ready to be primed. The packages are tucked away with Clooney and Smythe. They’re just sitting around waiting on me to return.”

“That’s what they get for botching the North Carolina capture. They get to play backup again. The Serbs okay with the plan?”

“Yeah. If this diversion goes off like we promised, they’re more than okay. The target is pretty prominent, and they’re going to need all the help they can get diverting the French police.”

“How soon do they want to go?”

“They’re in no rush. Why all the questions?”

“I need their help.”

He explained what he’d been told minutes earlier.

“You want them to break some legs? They won’t be too keen on that.”

“Tell them the man is about to screw up their heist. Tell them it will affect the diversion, and anyway, all I want to do is confirm what this guy is up to. No contact. Just follow and report.”

Seamus heard nothing for a moment, then, “Okay. I’ll give it a go.”

“Get them on a train to the UK. They need to move fast. The only handle I have is the DoubleTree hotel in Cambridge, and I don’t know how long he’ll stay. Tonight for sure, but that’s all I’ve got.”

Braden agreed and Seamus broached something he didn’t want to. He said, “You did that right, didn’t you? Was there anything you left? Any clue?”

“Fuck no, Seamus. Your damn information proved incorrect. He was supposed to be alone. Instead he met that girl. I was forced to take them both.”

Seamus said, “Okay, okay. I had to ask. There’s too much at stake.”

“I did it right. Left the ferry clue and cleansed the site. It isn’t me.”

“I believe you. Remember why we’re doing this. Get the Serbs moving.”

His brother said good-bye the same way he always did. “For Brian.”

Seamus replied, “For Brian. Let’s make these fuckers pay.”

C
aptain McKinley Clute heard the footsteps coming across the floor and he sat up, trying to see through a small hole in his hood. He managed to cock it just right, flipping his head to keep it in place, but caused a string of drool to fly up from the cloth gag in his mouth.

He stared at the door, hearing the footsteps approach, wondering if it would be his or Kaelyn’s that was opened.

It was his.

He heard the boots clomp across the floor and tensed his stomach, curling into a ball. In the past, they’d kicked him just because they could, and he’d taken to protecting himself whenever they approached.

His hood was ripped off, the command “Rise” echoing in his ears. He blinked his eyes, getting used to the light, and stood. This could be either good or bad.

Sometimes he met Kaelyn in the central den to eat—the only time he saw her—both being forced to their knees, hands tied behind their backs, a rabid bit of punching and shouting to keep him off-balance. He’d begun to believe it was just harassment, designed to ensure he didn’t entertain the notion of fleeing, but the pain was real all the same.

He shuffled through the door, hands behind his back and head bowed. He reached the den of the apartment and saw his sister on her knees, looking up at him in concern, her mouth gagged like his. The sight brought a sense of relief, for one because he knew he wasn’t getting a beating, and two, because he could see she was okay, even with the cloth cinched tight into her mouth.

A hand was placed on his shoulder and he was made to kneel like
Kaelyn. The flex ties were switched, with their ankles bound together and their hands released, then the gags removed. A bowl was placed in front of each of them, some sort of oatmeal-like gruel with the color and consistency of wet concrete.

The man who’d led out McKinley said, “Eat. Fifteen minutes.”

The man turned away and sat on a rusted metal chair, the only furniture in the room. He pushed the chair onto its hind legs, the back leaning into the wall precariously. He crossed his arms, staring at both of them. The other man stood inside Kaelyn’s doorframe behind them, out of sight, making McKinley want to protect his kidneys from an unseen kick.

McKinley dipped the spoon into the paste and took a bite, wincing at the acrid smell but knowing it would be the only sustenance he was given. He brushed Kaelyn’s arm on the way down, receiving no punishment, even though he knew they’d seen it.

It confirmed something in his mind. He’d put some serious thought into their captivity, not having anything else to occupy his time, and while it was alternately brutal and barely tolerable, he was sure it was all scripted. There was a reason they were separated for twenty-three hours a day. It was to instill a sense of hopelessness and prevent any collusion, the same reason they spent their days in the dark with a hood on their head. His beatings appeared random but were designed solely to convince him that his captors were on the ragged edge and prone to snapping at the slightest provocation. To prevent him from even thinking about escape. But they never touched Kaelyn.

The gags were the final proof in his theory. They’d never had them crammed in their mouths for the entire trip, through hours on boats, planes, and cars, sometimes drugged, but most of the time not. They’d been subjected to the indignity only when they were first tied up in the apartment, the drool running freely from the cloth to the floor. Which meant one thing: The captors were afraid of the damage the noise would do if they started screaming. That, along with the beatings to keep him cowed, told him they were very, very close to other people who had no idea what was going on. Perhaps in the apartment next door.

He didn’t know where they were, not even the country, having
woken up in the trunk of a car and been brought into the building in the dark, but he was sure it wasn’t some murky safe house full of thugs. He’d been forced to walk up four floors, and he now believed he was surrounded by innocent civilians. People he might be able to contact, if only to get them to investigate. To call the police.

He surveyed the room again, focusing on the locks of the front door. He saw the bolt lock was worked by a key and felt his hopes dim. He couldn’t break through that, and they always kept it bolted. He surreptitiously glanced around, eating his cement, and realized something was missing.

The explosives were gone.

The first time he’d eaten in the room, he’d seen packages of RDX stacked against the wall, the white crystal spilling out of one waxed paper container, the chemical name
CYCLOTRIMETHYLENETRIN
ITRAMINE
clearly stenciled on the outside, something he’d seen in predeployment training for IEDs in Afghanistan. A powerful explosive, it had been invented in World War II and was the weapon of choice for terrorists.

Next to the packages had been an assortment of equipment that would have made his Marine Corps IED instructors shiver: cell phones, electronic wiring, detonation cord, and containers designed to camouflage and increase the fragmentation of the blast. Things that had made him wonder if he was the bait for an ambush. The goat tied to the tree, waiting for the tiger to enter so it could be killed.

The fact that he’d been allowed to see it at all meant that they had no intention of him or Kaelyn being a witness, able to report what they’d experienced. No intention of them surviving whatever was planned. The goat never survived, whether the tiger escaped or not.

Now the explosives were all gone. And they were waiting to be chained to a tree.