Nell (31 page)

He knew that Robbie Wilson, Sinn Fein's chief representative, was sensible. He would not walk away without bringing home the hope of peace for his constituents. Gerry Kelly was a firebrand, a retired member of the Irish Republican Army who had served multiple sentences in Long Kesh. In the end, he would be ruled by Wilson. Browne was the only unknown. The man had been a complete mystery until Jillian's bombshell.

“Sit down, gentlemen.” Putnam ushered them into the mahogany-paneled room. “I believe we may have an agreement.”

A rare smile crossed Wilson's lips. “Shall we cut to the chase, Mr. Putnam?”

Putnam frowned “I don't understand.”

Frankie interpreted. “Tell us what they can't stomach.”

Startled by his bluntness, Putnam stared across his desk into eyes as cold and unrelieved a gray as the bleak stones of Stormont Castle. Any hopes he had for a quick settlement evaporated. “Very well,” he said slowly. “They won't agree to disbanding the RUC.”

Frankie's eyes locked with Wilson's, and both men leaned back in their chairs.

“Without that, Catholics have no hope of receiving justice at the hands of law enforcement,” Wilson said.

“They want a gradual attrition,” explained Putnam, “a sort of affirmative action, if you will.”

“How would it work?” Frankie asked.

“All new police officers will be hired from the Catholic population until the number reflects the percentage of the Catholic population.”

Frankie shook his head. “We won't see Catholics on the force until the middle of the next century.”

Putnam leaned forward in his chair. “What do you propose, Mr. Browne?”

“Twenty percent of the force to take early retirement immediately. New recruits, from the Catholic population, will replace them.”

Putnam's forehead wrinkled. “What of the expense?”

“Benefits for retired police officers are significantly lower than salaries. The excess can go toward new recruits' salaries. It's a lot more than Catholics are makin' now. The way I see it, it's a wash.”

It took the prime minister less than a minute to make his decision. “All right,” he said. “Twenty percent to retire in order to make room for Catholic recruits. After that, a natural attrition with replacements pulled from the Catholic population until the requisite quota is met.”

Wilson looked puzzled. “Just like that? Don't y' have to talk with someone?”

Putnam shook his head. “The unionist position specifies no disbanding of the RUC. I haven't disbanded it.” Reaching for his pen, he made the necessary changes on the document and handed it, with a pen, to Robbie Wilson.

Wilson stood and took the pen, a lean, imposing man with thick, liberally salted dark hair. “Will you call a press conference?”

“I won't even wait until the ink is dry.”

When the three Sinn Fein leaders had affixed their signatures, Putnam walked them to the door. “Mr. Browne,” he said casually, “may I have a moment?”

Frankie's right eyebrow lifted. “Of course,” he said slowly. “Go ahead, lads,” he said to his party. “I'll catch up.”

Robbie Wilson narrowed his eyes behind his metal-rimmed glasses. “We'll wait for you.”

Frankie walked back to the mahogany-paneled office and settled himself in a leather chair. Putnam offered him a cigar. He declined.

“It appears that you have friends in high places, Mr. Browne, or should I say Mr. Maguire?”

Frankie stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

Putnam seated himself and leaned forward, his hands forming a pyramid on the desktop. “I won't leave you hanging, Mr. Maguire. You have been issued a full pardon for the murder of Terrence Fitzgerald.”

Frankie's head spun. Was he being set up? Every instinct told him to deny his name.

Wilson's next words were nearly as shocking. “Jillian Graham has requested that all charges against you be dropped.” He reached into the top drawer of the desk and laid out the legal document. “You are a free man, Mr. Maguire, if that is what you want. Of course, you may elect to keep your identity. You've been Danny Browne for more years than you were Francis Maguire.”

Frankie stared at him in disbelief. Only an Englishman would say such a thing. “Why?” he managed.

Thomas Putnam's dark eyes glinted. “You're a very lucky man to have Jillian Graham in your camp. We all are. There wasn't a chance in a lifetime of reaching an agreement like this without her. I'm most grateful.” He grinned. “Because of her, my approval ratings will soar. I'm only sorry it isn't time for reelection.”

Frankie scooped up the paper and stood. “I suppose I should thank you.”

“It would stick in your throat. Thank Jillian instead.”

Frankie nodded. “I will.”

“By the way,” Putnam asked, “were you innocent?”

Frankie took his time answering, and for a moment Thomas Putnam thought that Jillian may have been wrong.

“Aye,” he said at last. “Innocent of the killing but not of the hating. I hated Terrence Fitzgerald.”

“Why didn't you fight the charges?”

Frankie's mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “You wouldn't understand.”

Putnam sighed. “I suppose not. Do you think this will change anything?”

Frankie flashed his brilliant smile. “It must, Mr. Putnam. There is no other alternative for us.”

The prime minister sat in his chair for a long time. Frankie Maguire had gone, and with him he'd taken what was left of the warmth and light. The man had nerves of steel and his own lethal brand of Irish charm. Putnam was enough of a politician to know that Maguire would be a formidable opponent if they were ever on opposite sides. Jillian had unleashed a tiger. He only hoped she knew how to keep him pacified.

Thomas Putnam's press conference stunned the world. No one really believed either side would compromise. An understandable reserve held the population of Ulster in a wary grip. Four hundred years of discord could not be settled by the mere stroke of a pen, or could it?

Jillian's telephone at Stormont hadn't stopped ringing. Finally, at seven o'clock the following evening, she left the building and drove home. Mrs. Wilson brought her a pot of tea and a sandwich, mercifully asked no questions, and left her alone in her sitting room on Lisburn Road.

Frankie and the Sinn Fein delegation would not yet have returned from London. Thomas Putnam had called earlier in the day to tell Jillian that Frankie's pardon had been issued. There was nothing in the prime minister's voice to indicate how he had reacted to her interference, and, desperate as she was to know if Frankie was pleased or angry, nothing would make her ask.

When the housekeeper tapped softly on the door, Jillian's heart began to race. She had told Mrs. Wilson that she was home to only two people.

“Come in,” she called out.

Mrs. Wilson poked her head in. “It's Mr. Browne. Will you take it?”

“Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Wilson.” Cradling the receiver against her ear with shaking hands, Jillian cleared her throat. “Frankie?”

“Hello, lass. I called as soon as I could.”

His words flowed over her like warm honey, and her control shattered. She squeezed the receiver until her fingers ached. “Where are you?”

“At home.” There was a brief silence. “Connor misses you.”

She smiled into the phone. “Is it only Connor who misses me?”

“Perhaps I miss you a wee bit as well.”

Jillian laughed. “Can we do something about that?”

“What do you suggest?”

“I could come there.”

“Connor is here.”

“Is there a reason I shouldn't visit Connor?”

His voice was low, husky, intimate. “Not tonight. Not for what I have in mind.”

“Then come here.”

“Now, why did I think you'd never ask?”

“What about Connor?”

“I'll wait until he's asleep. Mrs. Flynn will look out for him.”

“Hurry,” she whispered.

“Jilly?” Her name on his lips crackled and leaped through the telephone wire.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Smiling, she hung up the phone. Suddenly, she was no longer drained with fatigue. Humming to herself, she started up the stairs to her bedroom. A sound in the hall and Mrs. Wilson's welcoming voice stopped her. She turned around and walked down the hallway. Casey was leading a very tall, very blond young man into the sitting room.

“Mum,” she said, her eyes lighting when she spied Jillian. “There is someone I'd like you to meet. This is Tim Sheehan.”

Jillian smiled graciously, walked forward, and extended her hand. “Hello, Tim. How are you?”

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Graham,” the boy answered politely, shaking her hand and releasing it as soon as possible. “Casey and I met at Trinity.”

“I see.” She looked at Casey. “Is there a holiday I missed?” Casey shook her head. “No, Mum. I brought Tim home to meet you because I love him and he loves me.”

A great rushing sound filled Jillian's ears. “I'm not sure that I understand,” she said slowly, “unless congratulations are in order. Is that what you're trying to tell me, Casey? Are you engaged?”

“No,” Tim and Casey said in unison.

Tim Sheehan linked his hand with Casey's. “Not that we've ruled it out, you understand. It's just that we haven't known each other very long.”

Jillian hoped her relief didn't show. Tim Sheehan looked like a perfectly respectable young man, but Casey was only twenty-one.

Casey was speaking again. “I brought Tim home with me because there is something you should know.”

Jillian, her heart sinking, tried to appear cheerful. “Very well. Shall I sit down?”

Casey nodded. “Perhaps we all should.” She waited until they were seated across from each other, Jillian directly opposite the two of them.

“Mum, Tim is Danny Browne's stepson.”

It took a moment to register. When it did, Jillian could no longer hide her relief. “That's it?” she asked. “That's all?”

“Danny Browne,” Casey repeated, “the Sinn Fein negotiator.”

“I'm not likely to forget who Danny Browne is, Casey,” said her mother.

“Then you approve?” Tim asked incredulously.

“I knew your mother well. That alone would be enough. Besides, why wouldn't I approve of a young man from Trinity?”

“I'm a nationalist, Mrs. Graham.”

Jillian leaned forward. “That's beside the point. We'll all have to work harder at accommodating each other from now on. As it so happens—”

A loud crack split the night sounds and crashed against the plate window. A wall of glass separated and shattered, hurling deadly, stilettolike shards in every direction.

Reacting instinctively, Tim reached for Casey, dragging her with him as he crossed the distance to where her mother sat, pushed the two of them to the floor, and dropped, covering as much of them as he could with his body.

“What is it?” Casey screamed.

His voice against her ear was deadly calm. “A bomb. Stay down. It hasn't gone off yet.”

The wait was no more than three seconds. A deafening boom shook the foundations, ripping apart the front pillars, demolishing the porch, and completely gutting the wood-beamed entry.

Jillian closed her eyes, clutched Casey's hand, and prayed.

Eventually, the shaking stopped. “Do you have a fire extinguisher?” Tim asked calmly.

Jillian nodded and enfolded a sobbing Casey in her arms. “In the kitchen.” She bit her lip. “Please, check on Mrs. Wilson.”

Tim disappeared down the hall and came back with a pale-faced Mrs. Wilson and the fire extinguisher. Calmly, he broke the seal and proceeded to douse the flames.

Jillian stared at the remains of her porch. Then she laughed hysterically and pulled Casey and her housekeeper into a breath-stealing embrace.

“You're not hysterical, are you, love?” Mrs. Wilson asked nervously, extricating herself from Jillian's bear hug.

“No, Mrs. Wilson,” Jillian assured her. “I'm just so grateful that we're all right.”

“Are you hurt, Jillian?” a quavering voice called out.

Jillian hurried to the door and helped the elderly Mrs. Byrne from next door over the rubble. Sirens bleated from down the road, louder and louder, until they stopped in front of the house. Neighbors came out of their houses and converged on Jillian's lawn. Police in riot gear circled the house and slowly approached what was left of the entrance.

***

Frankie heard the news on the car radio just as he crossed the barricade into the city center. Throwing the stick into fourth gear, he increased his speed and careened wildly around the corner of Donegall Road toward the east side. The horror of the events blurting from the car speakers held him in a grip of pure terror. This was exactly what he had feared, what he had hoped to keep from Jillian. The trauma of a near-death experience and the threat of more had destroyed his marriage. He would not allow it to destroy what he now had, not even if it meant giving up Jillian.

His expression was grim. The war in Ulster was far from over. Her job was finished. His wasn't. A compromise had been reached, an agreement that fulfilled her part of the bargain. He was still mired deeply in it, caught like a lamb pulled down into the sucking terror of bog mud. Splinter paramilitary groups would continue to terrorize those who promoted peaceful coexistence. Sinn Fein and the Catholics of Ulster would need his services for quite some time.

Tightening his hands on the steering wheel, Frankie cursed out loud. How had he come to this from those long-ago days in Kilvara when his dreams had included a university degree, a small clinic, and a girl with hair the color of sunlight?

A line of police cars barricaded the entrance to Jillian's street. Dimming his headlights, he applied the brakes, turned down a side street, and killed his engine. He waited several minutes before leaving the car to jog down a back alley and vault over the brick wall of the house bordering Jillian's. Dropping to a crouch position, he waited for the police patrol to pass by. Then he crept across the grass and hid in the shrubbery.

An ambulance was parked in the gravel driveway. There was no sign of Jillian. Frankie's heart lurched painfully in his chest. Sweat beaded his forehead. If she was hurt— His jaw locked. Christ, had he found her only to lose her again? He wanted desperately to show himself and demand to see her. Fear of what he might find kept him silent.

Time slowed. Every sensation intensified a thousand times, the beetle crawling up his arm, the cramp in his leg, the painful, living rhythm of his heart, the smell of turned soil, the wet of dew-soaked leaves. Closing his eyes, he imagined her as he'd last seen her, moss-green eyes, hair streaked with summer sun, freckles peppering her nose, the faint sheen of heat on the bones of her cheeks, those absurd too-large glasses perched on the end of her nose, her mouth— Enough!

With a muffled curse, Frankie forged his way through the shrubbery, stomped the mud from his shoes, and walked through the side door into the house. He heard noises from the kitchen. Striding down the long hall, he followed the sounds, pausing in the doorway. For one startling, incredulous instant, he thought his mind had played a trick on him. He had expected to see a terrified and incoherent Jillian on the verge of shock, bolstered by Mrs. Wilson and the RUC.

Instead, seated on one side of the rectangular oak table were three elderly ladies in their bathrobes and slippers. Two had something that looked like pink sponges in their hair. On the other side, hands clasped, were Tim and Casey. All were sipping tea and helping themselves to a plate piled high with biscuits. Jillian and Mrs. Wilson moved back and forth between the stove and the table, refilling tea pots and offering comfort.

“It was nothing, really, Mrs. Brooks,” he heard Jillian say. “Most of the damage was superficial and will be repaired by tomorrow evening.”

“Those dreadful people.” The old woman's voice quavered. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

Jillian set the kettle down on the table, knelt by her side on the floor, and took the liver-spotted hands in her own. “There have always been those who need time to see the good in something new.”

“Aren't you afraid for your family?”

Jillian tilted her head and thought before answering. “Whoever did this didn't intend to murder anyone. There is no damage beyond the porch. Don't be frightened, Mrs. Brooks.”

“I, for one, plan on staying right where I am,” said the woman with pink curlers in her blue-tinted hair. “No one will chase me from my home.”

Jillian stood. “I'm pleased to hear it. I have a phone call to make. Before I go, would anyone like more tea?”

A vicious poke from behind sent Frankie stumbling into the kitchen. “Who the hell are you?” demanded a man in the uniform of the Royal Ulster Constabulary.

Frankie found his balance at the same time as Jillian turned toward the door, saw him, and widened her eyes. “Frankie,” she said, and then to the policeman, “It's all right. I asked him to come.”

He waited until she stood directly before him. “You're all right,” he said, conscious of the curious eyes upon them.

“Yes.”

“I heard the news on the way over.”

She nodded. “I'm sorry if you were worried.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Christ, Jilly, of course I was worried.”

She lowered her voice. “Do you know who is responsible?”

He shook his head. “Probably someone who is unhappy with the progress we've made. There are hundreds of possibilities.”

“Then we won't worry about it.”

He was baffled. She said it as calmly as if her porch was blown to bits every evening. “You could have been killed.”

“And so can everyone who walks the Ormeau Road every day. I imagine the danger is greater in London or New York or Los Angeles. None of that should stop us from living.”

“Who were you going to call?”

“You.”

“Not the prime minister?”

She looked surprised. “No. Why would I call him?”

“To resign, of course. You were the target because of your position. When that ends, so will the bombs.”

“There has been only one bomb, Frankie, and my position will be over soon enough. I'll not leave before my time.”

Suddenly, he felt lighter, as if a terrible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. For the first time in years, a scene flashed before him, a wild-eyed girl, all arms and legs and temper, throwing herself on the back of a bully. She had defended him against her brother that long-ago day in the Kildare stables, and he still remembered the rage it had called up within him. The woman standing before him was a Fitzgerald with a strain of fighting O'Flaherty blood. Perhaps she had more of that child in her than he knew.

“Da?” Tim's voice intruded upon his thoughts.

Reluctantly, Frankie tore his eyes away from Jillian and smiled at his stepson. “I see that Casey found you, after all.”

“Aye.” Tim looked from Frankie to Jillian. “She told me you two knew each other.”

Frankie reached for Jillian's hand and drew her close to his side. “We do.”

“She called you Frankie,” Tim said. “Does she know?”

“Aye. She's always known.”

Casey's eyes were round with surprise. “Does Tim know about me?”

Frankie shook his head. “Not specifically. He knows why I changed my name and that I have a niece. That's the extent of it. Why don't you tell him?”

Tim frowned. “Tell me what?”

Casey smiled. “Francis Maguire is my uncle. His sister was my mother before Mum adopted me. I didn't know until my birthday, when I asked to see the records. It was a dreadful mix up, but it's sorted out now. I hope you don't mind,” she said anxiously.