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The big black hired car swept out of Dublin, heading south along the twisting coast road towards Kinsale. The driver was a local man, born in Cobh and lately released by the British from the Maze Prison in Northern Ireland. Beside him sat a silent blonde-haired man with a flat, expressionless face and the cold eyes of a professional killer. Alone in the back seat, wrapped in a heavy coat and scarf, Kazakov stared sightlessly at the Irish countryside. He was no longer sure just how far his independent organization had been infiltrated by the men of 2 Dzerzhinsky Square---the KGB headquarters in Moscow. They made little secret now of the fact that they were trying to kill him. His associates in the Shadow Syndicate would have realized that his power was failing; perhaps they had turned on him already. He could trust no one. The course of injections that he had undergone to limit the progress of the disease had failed and the cancer was growing unchecked; he would die soon anyway. What weighed most heavily on him was not the fear of death, but the frustration of having so little time left in which to wreak vengeance on his enemies.
The occupants of the car saw little of the vaunted Irish green, for as they went south the storm-driven clouds flowed over the high ground and the gray, dripping stone walls of the villages nestled for protection against the folds of the hills. On the other side of the road, a steel-colored sea under a low, leaden sky surged against the rocky coastline.
The big car ate up the miles. They passed a sign, "O'Malley's Tavern 300 yards-"Where Every Pint Tells A Tale", then came down the long hill towards the town of Kinsale with its boats moored in the estuary. The car surged through the narrow streets and a little way up into the surrounding hills. The driver pulled the car into the walled, graveled churchyard. The bodyguard got out and opened the door for Kazakov. They had arrived just as the mass was ending. A piper tuned his pipes by bouncing a few notes off the gray walls. Then the church doors opened and the pallbearers, shuffling as they accustomed themselves to the weight of the casket, came out into the cold rain. The local I.R.A. unit formed up, the Irish tricolor fluttering in the day's soggy chill. A handful of the faithful trudged behind the piper along the narrow road out of the village.
A man in a long tweed overcoat, leaning on a walking stick, limped over to Kazakov. He was in his sixties with a battered, broken-veined, ruddy face and bloodshot eyes.
"I am McCarthy, Brigadier in the Cork Brigade. We haven't met before. I've been in the North."
He was a Cork man: his accent rasped through clearly when he spoke. Kazakov knew he would have no time for the Dublin Command.
"You will come with us," said McCarthy. "'Tis not more than a short step to see the boy buried."
They followed the procession to a lonely graveyard on the side of a hill. The body was lowered and prayers were said. Kazakov looked into the bitter, hard faces of the young men. All but three were thinly disguised in black berets, dark glasses, and camouflage jackets. They stood to attention behind the Irish flag. There were very few women present and no tears were shed: too many of their men had already been buried in this war. A bent old man stepped forward and recited a few prayers in Gaelic. Then the stones rattled down on the casket and the earth swallowed up another body.
McCarthy had been leaning throughout the proceedings on his walking stick. He limped over to the priest. "It's a grand job you did for him, Father," he said.
"I could do nothing less," the old priest replied vehemently. "The boy was a patriot, he died for us all."
"He did that," McCarthy agreed. "Aye, he did that, and his death won't go unavenged."
The mourners shuffled away. Only the fighting men were left now in the churchyard, standing in the cold mist with the gray sea crashing below. McBridge knew what Kazakov was thinking. There had been scenes like this enacted again and again throughout Ireland's turbulent history when agents from all over the world came to recruit the Wild Geese, the famous Irish mercenaries, to fight in their wars. To escape the prying eyes of the English agents a ploy was used: the recruiters followed the funeral processions and there by some graveside they made their choice of men. Kazakov had come on a similar mission. He could no longer trust the Shadow Syndicate.
"Do you have the people I asked for?" Kazakov asked.
"I do," the Irishman replied. He signaled with his stick and three men came forward. "Seamus Flynn," he said, pointing his stick at the chest of the man he had just named.
Flynn was small, square-jawed, broad-chested, red-haired, with powerful arms too long for his squat body. His thick, muscular neck was almost sunk into his shoulders. He had wicked little eyes and the dark brow of a man with a violent temper. He was in his forties, with ginger beard stubble on his face, and he moved with the bow-legged, balanced gait of a man who had worked all his life among horses.
"He's one of our best," McCarthy told the Bulgarian. "We've been resting him. They had his face on every wanted poster in the North at one time, but he took a bullet in a gunfight eighteen months ago and the Brits think they killed him then. He's not known in America, so he'll do what you need him for. These are the other two. "He pointed to two cold-eyed youths barely out of their teens. "Declan O'Donnell and Siobhan Callaghan. They're good lads, trained gunmen from the Belfast Brigade. They'll work well under Flynn."
McCarthy put his arm around Kazakov's shoulders and moved him out of earshot. "Know this," he said. "Flynn is one of our best, he's very experienced and he has the devil's cunning when it comes to war and combat, but he has a wild temper and he's hard to control. I want him back alive. Ireland still has use for him. As to the two young pups, well, if anything was to happen to those two I wouldn't be unduly concerned, they are replaceable. Now, you have something for us, I believe?"
They made their way back to the car. Kazakov's bodyguard opened the trunk lid, pulled away the carpeting, and unscrewed the floor panel. He lifted it out, revealing a neatly ordered row of brand new Armalite AR 18 rifles, their metal barrels gleaming dully through the protective grease coating. "Ah, good," McCarthy approved. "I thought it would be Kalishnikovs, we're running short of ammunition for those."
Kazakov knew and had counted on the fact that the Soviets, particularly the KGB, had supplied weapons and training to the I.R.A., but were becoming wary of forging too close an association. The I.R.A. was achieving a reputation for wildness that made the Arabs seem tame. With that, and the noticeable cutting back of support from the United States, the supply of weapons was becoming a problem.
"I've brought you some Dutch V40 Fragmentation Grenades as well and there is ammunition for the rifles under the back seat," Kazakov said. "I'll bring you more when I return your men. And I have my operative for you." He indicated the tall blonde man. "He's been trained by the Czechs to handle virtually all kinds of explosives."
"Are you sure he isn't known by the British?" McCarthy asked. "He'll have to walk through their security services to kill the man we're after."
"He doesn't appear on their files," Kazakov affirmed. "The British don't know of his existence. He has passports, documents, everything for his cover, but like your Flynn, if possible, I want him back."
"It's a fair exchange then," McCarthy replied as his men unloaded the weapons. "Will you stay overnight? The Bristol Hotel in Kinsale is very comfortable---I've reserved a room for you."
"No, I want to get back as soon as possible."
McCarthy looked into the gaunt face, saw the cold glittering fanatic's eyes that he had known amongst this own people, and didn't argue.
"Are your men ready to leave?" Kazakov said.
"They are."
Kazakov got into the front beside the driver. The three men put their travel bags into the trunk and climbed silently into the back seat. The car headed back towards Dublin as night fell.
"Where are we going?" one of the young men asked. He was frightened of Kazakov, of the pale, skull-like face and the smell of death on the man.
"Los Angeles, California," Kazakov said. "I'll tell you what I require of you when we get there."
Kazakov turned back and watched the headlights gleaming off the rain-slicked tarmac of the empty road. He was ready to take out insurance on the bargain that he had struck with Dragov.428Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgYrZPySRFS
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Kathy waited for her brother at a diner on Wilshire Boulevard. Three days in L.A. and she was missing Dragov terribly. She visualized his strong features and her fingers traced his profile on the window beside her. She compared Dragov to the other men in the diner and found the pale, slim California beach boys wanting. They lacked his authority, his exciting, dangerous aura. Dragov brought her a new vitality, a self-awareness, that she had not had before. She realized that he had never committed himself with words. Even when they parted at Harborview he had been stiff, almost abrupt, with her but she had felt his arms around her. Womanlke, she was convinced he loved her.428Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPiNJyuug8e
She looked up. Michael was making his way to the table. "Hey, Kath," he greeted her fondly, unzipping his windbreaker as he sat down. "You been waiting long? Sorry for being late, Kathy. You won't believe the traffic I had to wade through on the 405. It's like the whole city decided to drive at once!" 428Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFWcbPFwD54
"Don't worry about it," she said.
She saw that he was looking at the profile that she'd drawn on the window and hastily wiped it away with a table napkin.
"Kathy," Michael warned, having recognized the drawing, "if you stop to think about it for one minute, you'll see there's nothing for you in that relationship. You're getting mixed up with a guy who's got no future."
"I'm not thinking of the future with him," Kathy answered stubbornly. "Just the present." Kathy didn't yet dare to examine the areas of her relationship with Dragov that she couldn't understand. And for all her regard for her brother, he'd been out of her life too long to come back now and start questioning that.
"O.K.," Michael said, realizing this and changing the subject. "The sale of the candlestick is going through. I've arranged with Dragov's Finnish attorney to make two payments. One now and the other half when Mischa Barton's been delivered to us. Did you get in touch with Matt?"
"Yes, he's got our foot back in the door. The message from the committee is if we're successful they're interested in being involved."
"Well, we're going to need their support," Michael reasoned. "The kind of publicity we want for Ms. Barton is much too big for us to handle alone. Besides, I'll want expert medical help when it comes to conditioning her mind so she can cope with her exposure to the media. She might have some personality issues or emotional scars to deal with."
"She won't have to do much more than face the cameras," Kathy said. "It's the fact that we rescued her from Pescadero when no one else could, that's important."
"You told me Dragov's under a lot of pressure in Harborview." Michael sighed. "I've been getting the feeling that the ability to control events could be taken out of our hands. Freeing Mischa from Pescadero might reopen old wounds or create new ones. It could potentially do more harm than good if she's not ready to face the challenges awaiting her outside."
Kathy could see that her brother was worried. But he had always been cautious while she'd been headstrong.
"Listen," she said. "You've gotten a lot further with your career than I have with mine. You should drop out of this, but I'm going on. I've thought about it, Michael. It's not just ambition, I'm not looking for fame, it's just that I truly believe in what we're doing and the time has come for me to translate this belief into action." She sat back, pushing away the coffee that the waitress had brought.
Michael knew that his sister was being completely open with him.
"Why don't you stay out of harm's way until this thing breaks?"
Michael shook his head. "I'm staying with you, but you have to promise me that we'll take it step by step and if things look like they're getting out of hand, you gotta agree to call it off."
"Alright," Kathy agreed.
Michael glanced at his watch. He was expecting a phone call from Dragov, but he didn't want to tell Kathy that. Now that she was away from him, he wanted to keep them as far apart as possible. "I've got to go back to my hotel room and see to a couple of things," he said. "What are you going to do now?"
"Well, the bank wants my signature on the money transfer and I've got to check on the accommodation you've arranged for us in Rio. When I've finished that, I thought I'd go and see Dorothy Harrington.
Dorothy Harrington had been their family's only remaining contact in the U.S.A.: her letters had been part of their childhood.
"She's old and sick, Michael. I guess she needs a visit. Will you come one day?"
"Yes, as soon as this is over. You buy the food on your way home," Michael said, getting up. "I'll cook you a great supper."
"By the way, did you see anyone outside your hotel room when you left?" Kathy asked.
"No, should I have?"
"It's nothing," she shrugged her shoulders uncertainly. "I just thought I saw someone watching us."
"That little town put a good scare into you, didn't it?"
Kathy nodded. "Yes, I must've been mistaken."
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