Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (28 page)

"Nothing to eat, thank you, just a pot of hot tea," he said in a pronounced British accent to the waiter who had appeared beside the table.

"The same," Simard said, as he sat back in his chair and brought a leg up to rest over his knee.

"Good morning, Lane," Kemiss said, as he set the newspaper aside. "Thank you for meeting me on such short notice."

"David, this is Jones Forester. When you called yesterday and told me what you needed I couldn't think of anyone more apt to help than Jones, so I brought him along."

"How do you do?" Forester said with a nod.

Kemiss returned the nod and extended his hand. The Brit grabbed it and gave it a firm squeeze. Kemiss could tell right away that the man was former military. The look in his eyes as he shook hands told him so.

"Jones here has a unique perspective on all things British," Simard said. "After our days at Oxford together he spent several years in the army and then joined the Metropolitan Police Service in London where he retired as the Deputy Commissioner. He works for the British Embassy here in Washington now as the Police Attaché. His military career includes a tour in Ireland, but he only likes to talk about that when he gets a few drinks in him."

The men chuckled.

"I'm sure they have a twelve year old scotch or something here that's sure to loosen his tongue," Kemiss said with a smile, before his face turned grave again.

Sensing that the conversation was about to turn serious, Lane Simard straightened up in his chair and said, "Why don't you start by telling us a little more about what you need and how you think we can help."

Kemiss sat forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the table. "We're dealing with a matter of national security here so I'm sure I don't have to tell either of you that anything I say isn't to leave this table."

Simard and Forester both grimaced and nodded. Kemiss could tell they knew how the game was played. It was always about deniability. That's why he'd chosen a meeting place away from his offices. In the 701 Restaurant there were no guest logs and no witnesses that were likely to know who Simard or Forester were. Neither man was high enough in the pecking order to frequent the establishment.

"As you both probably know from news reports, the United States was again hit by terrorists the other night. This time the target was a university and we believe that the attackers were aided by someone on the inside. I've been asked by the Richmond Field Office of the FBI to pull a few strings and see if I can't help them out with a particular matter."

"The attack was an attempted assassination, was it not?" Forester said. "News reports have said that the Israeli that was killed was the target and not the university itself."

Kemiss nodded. "That's partially true. Whoever committed the attack was indeed trying to kill Abaddon Kafni, but our sources indicate that whoever financed the deal also wanted to make a statement."

"And you think it was this Irishman you mentioned," Simard said. "What was his name again?"

"Declan McIver. He was close to Kafni and was familiar with his security personnel, which in the FBI's working theory allowed him to move about without suspicion."

Forester tilted his head at the mention of an Irishman, his expression revealing that the reason for his being invited had suddenly become clear to him.

"And why is the FBI so stumped with him that they need my help?" Simard asked, the old agency rivalry audible in his voice.

"The problem is with his background."

Simard raised an eyebrow.

"He hasn't got one," Kemiss continued. "He immigrated from Ireland in the mid-nineties and turned up in Boston working as part of Kafni's security detail, but nothing in his personal history indicates any military or police experience that would lead him to such a position."

"So the feebs think it's a whitewash and they want to get their hands on the real thing?"

Kemiss nodded. "I've seen the file myself and it's about as vague as they come."

"So what
do
you know about this guy?" Simard asked.

"He left Kafni's employ shortly after September the 11
th
. He and his wife now own a small business in Roanoke, Virginia, and according the neighbors and employees they're only two-point-five kids short of being the perfect family."

"Doesn't sound like much of a threat," Forester said.

"Well you wouldn't think so, but he's certainly proven otherwise. Saturday night, four undercover men were sent to question him. Those four men are now dead and Mr. McIver hasn't been seen since."

"He killed four men?" Forester said with an air of incredulity. "Who were they? Were they trained to handle a fight or were they just your average gumshoes?"

Kemiss shrugged and grimaced. "All of them were experienced, but to what degree I don't know. Two of them were taken down hand to hand, the other two shot from a distance."

As an experienced politician, Kemiss knew how to stick to a well-prepared message, whether it was true or not, and this time he was lying through his teeth. He was making it all up as he went along and hoping his position would be enough to convince the two men in front of him that any holes in the narrative were due to a lack of actual field experience. As an ex officio member of the Senate Intelligence Committee he dealt with these types of issues frequently, but always from behind a desk and no matter how detailed the reports in front of him were, they still lacked a certain immediacy. It was like watching a football game from the booth as opposed to watching it from the sidelines, an entirely different point of view.

"Sorry about your men," Forester said. "Nasty business, terrorism always has been."

Kemiss waved off the condolences. He couldn't care less about the men Castellano had hired, they were pawns, useful when they were needed but certainly not missed now that they were gone. "I don't want your sympathy; I want you to help me catch this guy. I was supposed to be a guest at Kafni's speech the other night and although we didn't agree on much, I considered him a friend. I could have been killed and he was, so I'm taking this personally. I want to see this McIver's head on the end of a stick. Now, if you did duty in Ireland, what can you tell me? This guy isn't just some lowly potato farmer who came here for a better job. There's more to him and I want you to help me find it. It's imperative that we know who this guy is."

"So what are the ideas that are being thrown around?" Simard asked.

"There have been a few tips called in that they're looking seriously at, one in particular that I think you might be able to help with, Mr. Forester. How much do you know about the IRA?"

"Heavens, everything," Forester said. "I spent thirty-six months with 14 Intelligence in the eighties. But if you're thinking this man is IRA, then the question isn't how much I know about them, but how much you know."

Kemiss shrugged. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, the group you're most likely referring to is the Provisional IRA and they had upwards of ten thousand men at one point. A lot of whom are still out there somewhere, although probably living on the dole since the peace accords. Their particular expertise isn't very useful in the job market. These men are far from being professional operators. They were third and fourth tier revolutionaries with too much time on their hands because of the high level of unemployment in Northern Ireland. The entire organization was riddled with spies, known locally as 'touts'. By the mid-seventies they couldn't sneeze without us knowing where every bit landed."

"But it's a documented fact that they had ties with the PLO and other jihadi organizations that might want to take out someone like Abaddon Kafni."

"Oh, yes." Forester nodded. "Indeed. That lot never had any love affair with the Israelis and there were definitely ties to other terrorist organizations. Qaddafi was a major weapons supplier, the Syrians and Palestinians too, sometimes we'd even let a shipment get through to protect informers or track the weapons, but that's about it."

"I'm telling you the men that were sent to question him were experienced men and this guy took all four of them out without suffering a scratch, as far as we can tell."

"So he got lucky," Simard said. “When you have the element of surprise, that happens, David. Those men weren't expecting an attack."

"No offense intended, senator, but to hell with your experienced backgrounds," Forester said sitting back in his chair and crossing his ankles. "Our men make your boys look like they could use a lollie."

Kemiss let the insult slide. "That was my next thought...that this guy was British Special Forces or something."

Forester shook his head as if he didn't believe what he was hearing. “Unlikely,” he said.

"Well, tell me it's not possible."

"It's not
impossible
, but it's damned unlikely. Her majesty's government was very careful about allowing Ulstermen to join the ranks of the military in those days. Most that were allowed to serve did so in more support-orientated positions, and they did it in places far away from Ireland. Occasionally we'd pick out some men we thought were particularly suited to becoming spies for us and we'd send them home to join up with the subversives, but we didn't want to be training our enemies like you lot did in Afghanistan with the
Mujahideen
, just so you could stick it to the Ruskies."

"You all were involved in Afghanistan, too,” Kemiss said, again ignoring the insult. “I refuse to believe this guy just got lucky. Somewhere and at some point this guy was trained by someone."

"The IRA could have trained him themselves. They always operated in what was known as Active Service Units or ASUs," Forestor said, "usually four men to a team, and they were almost always trained at terror camps in the Republic of Ireland or Libya, if the leadership in Belfast could manage to get their men out of the country without us tracking them. That didn't happen very often, especially in the latter days. We had some information that the Soviets were involved at one point, but it was pretty thin."

"Sounds like there's certainly more to him then what you see on the surface, but who could he possibly be working for?" Simard said. "From what you say he doesn't need money and that's the only reason I can come up with that would lead him to ally himself with anyone who'd be interested in taking out an Israeli or committing a terrorist attack against the United States. The IRA were nationalists, they had no interest in any country beyond the borders of Ireland. The few attacks they committed outside of Ireland were all British targets and were designed for the same purpose as their attacks in Northern Ireland, to force the British out of 'their' country."

"The IRA certainly did a lot to influence the
jihadis
," Forester put in, "but there's no connection there anymore. The
jihadis
would detonate a bomb in Belfast or Dublin just as quick as they would in London or New York and the Micks know it."

"So you guys can't help me?" Kemiss said, his face becoming a cold stone.

"Oh, we're not saying that," Simard said hurriedly. "We're just not sure about the IRA idea."

"Like I said, senator, it's not impossible to think that this guy somehow slipped through the net and was either enlisted or part of a paramilitary group. I have some contacts on the inside still. If it will help, I'll have them run his name against everything they have access to and see what comes up. We certainly used our share of spies in Northern Ireland, maybe he was one of them. I should be able to let you know in a day or two."

"Fine, thank you."

"Don't mention it. You can owe me one," Forester said with a toothy smile. "Honestly, I doubt anything will come of it. That kind of information used to be stored at Brigade Headquarters in Lisburn or even the RUC headquarters on Knock Road, but not anymore. Not since the peace accords and the supposed end of the Troubles. Now it's all stored in Thames House, I suspect. If you really want to find out what's in this guy's past, Lane here would be able to help you more than I. He's the man with the connections to the JIC."

Kemiss knew JIC was an acronym for the Joint Intelligence Committee, a part of the British Cabinet Office that was responsible for directing the national intelligence-collecting services of the United Kingdom.

"That's why I called you," Kemiss said, looking at Simard.

Simard shifted in his seat and sat forward to rest his elbows on the table. "I can certainly take a look and see what there is to find. It will take a few days, though. I'll have to tread carefully. I'm only there as an observer unless something being discussed affects U.S. security."

Kemiss glared. "This affects U.S. security, for sure. Let me know what you find as soon as you get it. You get this done for me and you'll have all the favors you could ever need from my office."

Simard smiled. "I'll be in touch."

11:27 a.m. Eastern Time – Monday

Southbound on Rt. 122

Moneta, Virginia