Page 164 of Hang on St. Christopher

“For the sake of your little girl, do exactly that.”

I showed him the tape. “It seems we’re at a stalemate here. If I go public, bad things will happen to me. If bad things happen to me, this tape goes public.”

“Stalemates are okay. A stalemate has kept the peace in Europe for forty-five years. Peace is coming, Duffy. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Don’t you fuck it up either. I’m not a man to be trifled with.”

I looked him in the eyes to make sure he believed me, to make sure he’d tell his superiors not to mess with me.

I paused on the stairs and looked at him. “A 750 Norton? Seriously? Everybody knows you can’t trust a Norton.”

I went upstairs and locked the front door. I drove the Buick to Dulles and booked my ticket. I bought a Lisa Simpson doll for Emma and fancy chocolates for Beth.

DC to Glasgow direct.

Flight touching down at three in the morning. A bleak, dark, wet Scottish morning, but a morning in the UK, where the CIA would not be able to lift me so easily.

I’d be as good as my word, and later on today I’d make multiple copies of the tape I’d made, and give them to my family solicitor with instructions to send to the media in the event of my untimely death.

I went to a bank of phone booths and called Donnelly’s supervisor at Langley.

“Who is this?” he asked.

“It’s the man who tied Kevin Donnolly up in his basement in Middle Bay, Virginia. I’ve left enough food and water for a day or two, but he’d appreciate it if you came and rescued him as soon as possible,” I said, and hung up.

I found the BMW unscathed in the medium-stay car park.

I drove through Glasgow until I found a phone box.

I sat in the car in the rain, thinking.

No, you don’t get to murder Micks on my watch for free.

Notcompletelyfor free, anyway.

The phone box was covered in ads for prostitutes, and it reeked of urine. Standard stuff for this part of town.

I dialed Brendan O’Roarke’s number.

“Who is this? You know what time it is?”

“They’re going to try to hit you in the next two weeks. Vary your routine. Leave the bloody country if you can. They’re coming for you. This is not a joke.”

“Who is this?”

“A concerned citizen.”

“I recognize this voice.”

“Don’t say any names.”

“I won’t. Is this a warning, then?”

“It’s a tip I heard, that’s all. Watch out, and tell your big brother to watch out too.”

I hung up.

Aye, I don’t hold with Brits and Americans going around killing Irishmen.

---