“And that female agent, in my opinion, went to Ireland. Where the submarine was, and where another agent, a colleague and Special Forces guy, has just committed a murder on the way to his final destination, which might just be the Ritz Hotel.”
“Steady, kid. There’s too many gaps. Too few real links. Although I recognize the death of the Irish farmer is significant, and according to your story it does look as if the killer might have got off that submarine.”
“Arnie, will you cancel London?”
“Hell, no. I got a lot of security around me. I’ll be fine. You can’t let ’em rule you, kid, otherwise they’ve won. And we’re not gonna let that happen, right?”
Jimmy ended the phone call, and contemplated the sheer futility of trying to convince Admiral Morgan that he might be in danger. And he racked his brains to think of a link, or even a terror suspect who might have killed Jerry O’Connell.
He pulled up his most-wanted list of Middle Eastern hard men, guys suspected of heinous crimes against humanity, guys who’d killed and maimed in Israel, murdered in Jordan, committed atrocities in Iraq and Afghanistan and at various U.S. embassies in Africa.
Had one of them traveled to Ireland in the missing Kilo? And why Ireland? Arnie wasn’t going there. He tried to put himself in the shoes of the terrorist, and went through a process he had perfected years ago:
Jimmy leaned back reflectively as Jane reentered the room. “Could I ask why you’re talking to yourself?” she said brightly. “Aside from the fact that you might be losing your mind through overwork.”
“I’m not talking to myself,” he replied. “I’m processing information. Forming strategy.”
“Okay. It just sounded to me a lot like you were talking to yourself.”
“Perception, Jane, perception. Try to look beyond the obvious.”
“Well, I did. And you were obviously talking to yourself.”
“Jane, I was strategizing. And I still am. And I want to ask you a question. You are a terrorist, and you’re trying to get into England, unarmed, and with a passport. How do you do it?”
“Me? I get a flight to Heathrow, and walk through with my passport.”
“That’s what you won’t do. They make a record of that. Computerized. The security is unbelievable, and remember you’ve got to get out after you murder your target.”
“Okay, I’ll come in by car, off a ferry, from a different country. I know they’re not nearly as strict at the ferry ports.”
“Okay. Which country are you coming from? France? Holland? Spain?”
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“And how do you get in there?”
“I fly in.”
“Wrong. Then you run into that heavy European security again.”
“Okay. Well, how do I get in?”
“Ireland, by sea, Jane. It’s always been the soft option. For years they did not even have passports between the two countries. And it’s not much different now, even in England, not if you’re holding a European Union passport. Ireland’s the way into England.”
“How about flying into Ireland from a foreign country?” asked Jane.
“That’s much more difficult. The Irish adhere to the European rules as best they can. They want to know who you are, how long you’re staying, and the rest.”
“Well, how the heck do you get in then?” said Jane, tiring of the conversation.
“You get in by sea. There’s miles and miles of coastline, and the Irish have hardly any Coast Guard protection. You could land from deep water just about anywhere. You’d never try the same thing in England. Because they’d catch you. They arrest people all the time.”
“So the method for a killer is into Ireland by boat, then a ferry to England, and no one would know you were in the UK.”
“Precisely.”
“And you think Carla did that?”
“No. Carla’s not an assassin, though I doubt Matt Barker would agree. But her mate is. The one who killed Jerry O’Connell.”
Shakira’s fast Audi A6 came swiftly into London’s grandest square after their long journey halfway across England. They had made it in seven hours, which was superb driving considering that the general had elected to duck and dive through country roads and never to stick to a predictable route down the high-speed British motorways.
