Too Secret Service 1 Read online

  But that was why MONIAK had been called in. He was the only one who would know how to find her.

  After all, he had trained her.

  * * * *

  STRONGBOW stood behind her “admirer” as the woman behind the front desk told him, “Here you go, Mister Dredd. Room five-oh-six, as you requested.”

  Now, what are the odds it’s a coincidence that Herr “Dredd” requested the exact same room my would-be killer stayed in only two days before?

  Since STRONGBOW didn’t believe in coincidences, she really didn’t care what the odds were.

  Dredd walked away, his baggage carrier behind him. Catherine cautiously walked up to the front desk, as though she were the shy and retiring sort. “Lunar. I have a reservation.”

  The woman—her name plate identified her as Marilyn—had to lean over to hear Catherine. “Could you repeat that again, ma’am?”

  STRONGBOW repeated herself as she watched Dredd wait for the elevator. She wanted to make sure he was safely tucked away in his room before she set foot on his floor.

  He was in the elevator when Marilyn said, “Here is your room key, ma’am. Room five-oh-eight. Will t’ere be anyt’ing else I can do for you?”

  “What floor is the pool on?” she asked softly. Not that she cared, but she would look silly letting the elevators go by her for the next three minutes.

  “T’ey would be on the t’ird floor.”

  “And the exercise room?”

  “Next floor up.” Marilyn asked, “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but are you sure you even want to be bothered with the weights?”

  Catherine gave a weak smile. With her slouched appearance, she looked far weaker than anyone could give her credit for. She still loved all those hours in acting classes at Manhattan’s school for the Performing Arts.

  “Just in case.” Catherine told her, picking up her key card. Electronic locks wouldn’t be too much of a problem, but they were most annoying. Catherine thanked her and moved toward the elevators. She walked around a decorative silver column built into the wall. The up elevator closed its doors before she could reach it. Even better. She actually considered taking the stairs—they were right next to the elevators—but it wouldn’t look in character for the persona she created for Mariah Lunar, resident of Ohio. Ohio? Yes, it was about as good a place as any to be shy and retiring.

  The elevator doors opened and she stepped in.

  Wayne Williams passed the elevator doors as they closed. He was glad he didn’t bother waiting. Too oppressive and limiting. He didn’t want to be trapped inside an elevator with people ready to kill him. It was paranoid, but even paranoids had real enemies.

  Wayne wondered if the hotel had received a special bargain on red carpet. The ground floor was covered with it. He shrugged as he carried his suitcase out the door with him. To any observer, it simply looked like he was on a business trip with a very large briefcase.

  The parking lot wasn’t especially large. They were obviously used to many overseas guests who preferred to walk or take a taxi during their vacation. A large yellow bus was already in park, its engine running. A large Celtic design spelled out “Brendan Tours” on the side of the bus.

  Wayne walked past it. He tried to remember the distance to Trinity College. It was, what, one, two miles away? He had more than enough time to get there. After all, even if Maureen arrived before Wayne did, it wasn’t as if she’d go anywhere before hearing what the Secret Service agent had to say.

  He stepped outside of the wrought-iron gate and hung a right, towards town. The scenery wasn’t bad, even if the purpose of the walk was.

  This would be a nice place to retire, assuming I live so long. Why can’t I ever come here when someone isn’t threatening to wipe out the President?

  That was another question he needed to answer: Why ten bombs? Why the warning? There were so many things that didn’t make sense; like: Why nuke Moscow? No one could profit from wiping out the capital of the old USSR. If someone wanted to really destroy Russia, it was just a matter of convincing the oligarchs to take their ill-gotten gains from raping the country’s resources, and flee to a foreign country.

  There were other problems, as well. Why did someone try to kill Secretary Stevens, assuming they hadn’t succeeded? Did they try to kill Wayne, or did they even know he was in the limo when they attacked? Such mishegas, as his father would say. Where was his father right now, anyway? Was he stationed in Italy, or was it London? No, he remembered, London, definitely. After what happened at the Vatican, Wayne wouldn’t have been surprised if his father had been transferred to punish him, too.

  Wayne stopped at the fork in the road. The street to his left went up a hill and curved, the right path flat, heading straight. Wayne went left, staying on the right-hand sidewalk as he walked the hill. The houses looked like they were straight out of The Quiet Man… a bit more modern perhaps than thatched roofs, but they still looked like they were late nineteenth century.

  He turned the corner, walking around the pub when he came to the top of the gentle slope. It flattened out, a small bridge running over a river twenty feet below street level. Evergreens and maples banked the small river. Wayne stopped at the center of the bridge and just looked out over the water. He figured that he inherited the love of the sea from his mother, the Navy JAG lawyer. The sound of smoothly running water had an amazingly calming effect. He closed his eyes and listened for a long, refreshing moment as the breeze gently tossed his hair.

  Honk!

  Wayne’s eyes flashed open as he came face-to-face with a small flock of low-flying ducks coming straight toward him. The quick headline of Killer Secret Service Agent Taken Out By Ducks flashed through his mind as he dropped to the ground. The ducks soared overhead as Wayne felt the air disturbance from their flight pattern.

  Wayne rose, hardly believing he was almost taken out by a flight of ducks. He turned to the retreating flock. “Quack you!”

  He shook his head and laughed. Wayne had killed men twice his size with his bare hands, and he had almost been taken out by ducks. No one would believe that anecdote in a hundred years.

  Williams continued down the street, still laughing from the attack of the killer ducks. He walked past several connected red brick houses. Each house had a different color door and a bright gold number on it. He remembered that the mailmen delivered mail according the house number, street number, and door color. One was a pastel purple, a bright green and… Was that one puce? Ugh.

  The street sloped downward this time. He let his body flow with the gravity. He passed another house that had a black sign with white letters: Order of the Markist Brothers. It was the only door on the block a typically bland dark brown. Some people had no taste.

  * * * *

  Catherine Miller stepped out of the elevator onto the fifth floor. She looked back toward her bleary-eyed bellhop as he followed. He was doing his best to look as though he hadn’t partied all night. He had black hair and matching blotches hanging from his eyelids. He had bright, fogged blue eyes that would’ve made an impression were they not concealed behind half-closed lids. He was a poor actor, but he at least tried. He was also built like a three-quarter back who should’ve been playing Rugby instead of hauling luggage in a brass cage on wheels, but that was life.

  She turned back. The wall opposite the elevator doors pointed left for even and right for odd. Catherine walked toward 508 and quickly jabbed the card in, feeling like she should’ve been sticking a knife into someone’s ribs. The small LED flashed green and she pushed down on the door handle.

  The room looked like every hotel she’d ever been in, only fancier than a Holiday Inn: TV in the cabinet, beds, table, etc. etc.

  “Thank you, Dylan,” she told the bellman. “Just leave them here. I can unpack myself.”

  The man nodded. He turned to leave when she gripped his shoulder. He turned back, and she gave him a twenty-dollar handshake. Actually, she gave him a twenty-euro handshake. She looked forward to the day
when Ireland made its own exit from the so-called European Union.

  The bellman gave a huge grin at the unexpected tip. He nodded vigorously. “T’ank you, ma’am. If there’s anything you need, I’ll arrange it.”

  “There is something you can do. Did you notice the guy ahead of me?”

  “The man who looks like the devil from an old Twilight Zone episode? Yes, ma’am.”

  God bless reruns on international cable. “Could you call and tell me when and if he leaves?”

  His eyebrows narrowed, and his eyelids opened. She was in luck. She had found someone who liked playing games. The glow behind his eyes told Catherine that he’d do it for free. Of course. Why not? What else was there to do? Haul luggage all day?

  “’Twould be a pleasure, ma’am,” he answered as he stuck the twenty- euro note into his pocket.

  Dylan took the bags off the cart and left. Catherine straightened up. While it was useful, slouching over was hard on her back. She twisted her torso left, then right, swinging her arms each way. Her vertebrae snapped back into place. She tossed herself onto the bed, stretching her limbs as though she were making a snow angel. She let herself relax and simply go limp. She needed access to the room only feet away from her. But patience was a weapon.

  * * * *

  Michael DeValera, currently known as Michael Dredd, set up his little alarm bomb.

  Gives the wake up call designed to put the user to sleep.

  Michael shook his head, incredulous he actually thought such terrible, James Bond lines. It was time to decide when to set the alarm. He glanced at his watch. It was eight-fifteen now. Nine o’clock would do just fine.

  Michael picked up the hotel’s alarm clock and dropped it behind the nightstand. He gingerly placed the bomb in its place. That done, it was time to leave. He went into the closet and pulled out his bags, tossing both of them on the bed. He took out each individual item and laid them out neatly on the spread. He finally pulled out a collapsible, brown leather bag, neatly folded. He opened it up and packed his clothes from the other two items inside. He didn’t want to be seen leaving the hotel with his luggage fifteen minutes after he arrived and forty-five minutes before the rooms went up in a blaze. Michael had previously loaded the two bags with magazines, books, a lot of useless garbage he picked up at the airport. All of his clothes could fit evenly into the leather.

  DeValera straightened up. He gave the room one last sweep before he remembered that he couldn’t have forgotten anything; he’d just arrived. He laughed and shook his head, chiding himself on his habit of double-checking a room. The room would be checked soon enough.

  * * * *

  The phone rang next to STRONGBOW’s head. She had it next to her ear by the time the first ring died away.

  “Miss Lunar, ma’am?” came the familiar voice of Dylan the bellman.

  “He’s gone out all ready?” she asked.

  “He has.”

  Catherine remembered that Irish was the only language without the word “Yes” in its vocabulary. “Thank you, Dylan.”

  “Welcome, ma’am. I’ll ring his room, then your room, should he come back.”

  Whoever this bellman was, he sure had a devious mind. She was just glad she had locks on all of her bags, in case he’d be devious for just anyone.

  “I’d appreciate it,” she answered.

  “The last thing I’d want to do would be to see you caught, ma’am, no matter what branch you work for.”

  Her eyebrows rose. That was it! He’d thought she was a law enforcement officer. Wonderful! Just because she even asked about keeping tabs on Dredd, he had assumed she was a cop. What was it her Irish tour guide had said once? “Everything’s innocent to the innocent mind.”

  “Thank you, Dylan, I’ll remember you should you ever get a parking ticket.”

  He hung up. Time for work. Catherine rolled onto her feet. The sneakers were comfortable, and guaranteed not to make noise. She decided to break through the door between the two rooms. The lock on her side was electronic, only able to be opened with her room key. The door popped open with a click. The door to the connecting room had a small square of metal where the lock would be on the other side. This was a problem.

  Before she continued, she rifled through her canvas bag and slipped on her tight-fitting leather gloves, the same ones she used whenever she stepped into a rental car. Oh, yeah, she’d have to wipe down the door handle. Later.

  Catherine walked toward the dresser. She gently took the lampshade off the lamp. She switched the light on and then cracked the bulb against the wall. She walked over to the connecting door, lamp in hand, and touched the bulb filaments against the metal patch. With a quick spark, the electronic lock disarmed and popped open.

  Catherine yanked the plug from the wall and tossed the lamp on the bed. She could always claim that the lamp bulb came broken when she arrived. She’d just have to put the shade back on later. The door opened wide. She stepped inside, mentally making a note to smooth over the carpet on her way out.

  The alarm clock read 8:27.

  Chapter 11

  Wayne’s watch read 8:28 as he strolled through St. Stephen’s Green. The bushes were lush, covered with multicolored flowers of preternatural brightness. The flora sprung up from every inch of dirt.

  It looks like the same rolling English drunk who made the rolling English road did a little work here for a time, Wayne thought as he walked yet another curve. It would’ve been easier if he had bypassed the park, but Wayne didn’t feel the need to hurry. If Maureen arrived late, Wayne wouldn’t have been missed. If Maureen arrived early…

  He reached the end of the park, stepping past the gate onto a street corner. Diagonally across from him was a brick-laid street swarming with people. It was some sort of market, Wayne remembered. Cars weren’t allowed to drive it.

  Now, was Trinity straight through the market, or off to the right, where the rest of the street continued? Right. Definitely right. The side entrance was right past a bookstore. Was it a Waterstone’s? Could’ve been; there was one on each side of the street, directly across from each other. The Irish were the only people Wayne knew who could get drunk on words alone. He remembered looking at a wall of Irish-authored titles in the Keohane’s Bookshop a block away. He asked the clerk if every other Irish citizen was an author. Only to have her reply that it was every citizen, but not yet all of them published.

  He walked down the street, admiring the mostly-stone work on many of the buildings. All of the store signs were remarkably low key. There weren’t any neon lights, nor flashy logos. They just said what they were and nothing more. Wayne barely even noticed he had walked by a church because it fit so well into the surrounding area. At some points, different shops were part of a string of buildings, and each building just sort of blended with one another.

  The street was cut in half by the gate of Trinity College. The campus ran longer than two blocks put together. The black rail-iron fence was embedded in three feet worth of rock, sealing the metal to the concrete. He didn’t cross the street, but he hung a left, heading toward the main gate. Coming from the side was a sure-fire way to spot other IRA men who might remember Wayne and may act…poorly.

  He walked into the intersection where three important buildings stood. There was the old English Parliament building, now an Irish bank. It was covered with columns, making it look more like an old Roman palace. On Wayne’s left, as he face the bank, was Peterson of Dublin, tobacconist. It was a pleasant sight after the health freaks in America. On his right, the iron gate of Trinity turned into two massive stone walls, the main entrance arranged as though it were the front to a castle wall.

  To Wayne’s utter dismay, no one was waiting for him.

  * * * *

  Catherine took one glance at Dredd’s things and knew that something was up. The luggage was laid out on the bed, and they were stuffed with books, magazines and newspapers. There weren’t any clothes.

  He abandoned the room.

&n
bsp; Alarm bells went off in her head. She wanted to search the room quickly then get the heck out of there.

  Catherine opened the nightstand drawer. She quickly flipped through the bible in case a holy murderer decided to stick something in there. She wasn’t looking for a message; Dredd would’ve found that already. She looked for something left behind by accident. She threw open the cabinet of the night stand and picked up the phone book. She threw the doorstop of a book on the bed. The pages parted on impact and the book opened to a page on architecture, covered with various markings. But what caught her eye wasn’t the subject, nor the circled numbers; it was a number written in the border. She recognized the area code for Ulster. It couldn’t be that easy, could it?

  Next to the numbers was written “BABGP#9”.

  Catherine knew that BA only stood for one thing in Ireland—aside from a Bachelor of Arts—British Army. She quickly memorized the markings and slammed the book closed. She bent down to return the book to where she found it when something caught her eye. In her room, she couldn’t see the entire back of her nightstand because it was concealed beneath a plug. All she found behind this clock was bright, gleaming wood.

  Catherine carefully picked up the clock. It was heavy for what it was supposed to be. No travel clock she knew of weighed at least two pounds. She examined the back. It wasn’t fastened securely. She put the exposed shell close to her nose and sniffed twice.

  STRONGBOW fought the urge to run. She knew the smell of C7 well enough to tell by the slightest trace, but this was a lot more than a trace. The assassin turned the clock over to look at the digital readout. She hit the alarm button and the numbers flashed to 9:00 a.m. She released the button and saw it was twenty minutes to nine. It would take at least that long to get everyone out of the building. If she disarmed the bomb—and it was iffy as to whether she could—Dredd would become suspicious and hang around Dublin. She needed him heading toward Ulster.