Mack slept for most of the transatlantic crossing. Five hours later he was still asleep when the flight attendant awakened him and suggested a few scrambled eggs and Irish bacon with soda bread for breakfast. They’d be landing at Dublin in thirty-five minutes.
Revived by a tall glass of orange juice, “Jeffery Simpson” adjusted his wig and enjoyed one of the great airline breakfasts.
The hell with cereal and yogurt,
he thought.
This is the game for me.
They landed in Dublin on Sunday morning at 9:30 A.M. local. Mack picked up his bag and moved into his first serious test at a foreign immigration desk. He lined up and presented his U.S. passport. The official in the booth smiled and opened it, checked the photograph against Mack’s face, and asked, “How long will you stay in Ireland, Mr. Simpson?”
“Maybe a week.”
The official stamped the passport, confirming a Dublin port of entry, and said, “Welcome, sir. Have a grand visit.”
Mack moved outside and joined the short line for a taxi. He jumped aboard the first available cab and asked to be taken to the Shelbourne Hotel in St. Stephen’s Green. Traffic was light, and after seven miles and twenty minutes, they were moving through the outskirts of the relatively small city.
They crossed the Liffey, turned left, and ran along the south bank toward the outskirts of Ballsbridge. Up ahead Mack could see precisely what he was seeking—a large used-car dealership with a lot of flags flying and obvious activity.
He allowed the driver to drive perhaps four hundred yards farther, and then said in the best Irish accent he could manage, “Will you stop right here, sir? I’ve decided to have a quick cup of coffee with my aunt.”
“No problem. That’ll be twenty-four euros.”
Mack pulled a few notes out of his pocket and gave the man thirty. He climbed out of the cab and walked back to the car dealership, strolling slowly down the line of cars, not wishing to attract the immediate attention of an overeager salesman.
That represented his first failure of the journey. Michael McArdle, the owner, was upon him, telling him the Ford Fiesta at which he was currently staring was probably the greatest buy in the entire history of motorized commerce. “I’ll tell you something about this particular car,” he said. “It’s four years old and used to be owned by a local lady. It’s got only sixteen thousand miles on the clock, and I’ve serviced every last one of ’em meself. This particular car represents one of the great bargains of me life.
“Am I asking twenty t’ousand for it? Nossir, I’m not. Am I askin’ fifteen t’ousand for it? Nossir, I’m not. I’ll tell you what, twelve t’ousand buys it! And could anyone ever be fairer than that?”
“Depends,” said Mack. “How about ten thousand for cash?”
“Well, I’d have to let the check clear first.”
“I said cash. Bank notes. Ten thousand euros,” said Mack.
“I’ll take dat,” said Michael McArdle. “I’ll take dat, even though it’s like a dagger to me heart, to part with this car for that money . . . When do you need it?”
“Now.”
“Now! Christ! I have to do the paperwork, register it, fill in the forms. That’ll mean tomorrow.”
“Guess I came to the wrong place. See you,” replied Mack.
“Now wait a minute, sor,” said the proprietor of McArdles. “I’ll have to see what I can do. But I need to fill out a government form. I’ll want good identification.”
“No problem. I got a passport and a driver’s license right here. I don’t have to get my photograph done?” asked Mack.
“Jaysus, no. They don’t need that. Just the numbers.”
“You sure this thing runs okay?”
“I’m sure enough to give you the two-year McArdle guarantee,” he said. “And we’ve been here for half a century. This car breaks down in the first five t’ousand miles, you can have your money back and you can keep the car.”
Mack laughed. “Come on, Michael, let’s get this thing done.”
A half hour later, the Ford Fiesta in “moondust silver” with AC pulled out onto the road and swung left for Lansdowne Road. It was registered with the government authorities in the name of Patrick O’Grady who (a) did not exist himself, (b) had an address that was also nonexistent, and (c) possessed an Irish driver’s license that had never been issued to anyone.
Mack had managed to coerce a map of Ireland out of Michael McArdle, who confirmed that deals as generous as this would most certainly be the death of him. But nonetheless he hoped the wind would always be at Mr. O’Grady’s back.
Mack hit the gas pedal, and was happy to discover the Ford engine was as sharp and fine-tuned as Michael had claimed. He swung up to the Merrion Road, turned right after crossing Ballsbridge, and cut through to the main road to the southeast, heading straight for the Wicklow Mountains.
In the whole of Ireland, he had but one contact, a man named Liam O’Brien in the little Wicklow town of Gorey. And he came by that name only by the luckiest of circumstances. In the final days of his life, before he died in the tank, Charlie O’Brien had mentioned that he and his wife were planning a vacation in Ireland. Mack had asked him where they were staying, and Charlie had responded by telling him he had a long-lost cousin he had never met, in the town of Gorey. “He keeps a hardware store,” said Charlie. “But my father swears to God he was a senior member of the IRA. Liam’s father, who died years ago, was my dad’s brother.”
Mack had somehow remembered that, and in the long days he spent alone after Anne had left had decided that here was a man who might know a gunsmith in England, because there was no question of trying to acquire a rifle anywhere else and then attempting to bring it through Britain’s red-hot customs and immigration.
To his great delight he had seen that Gorey was on the main Dublin road south, the N11, and in that moment had decided to take the ferry to England from Rosslare in County Wexford, rather than from Dun Laoghaire on the south side of Dublin. Gorey stands thirty-four miles north of Rosslare Harbor.
The trouble was, O’Brien’s hardware store was unlikely to be open, and Mack elected to get into the town, locate the store, and then try to get a number for Charlie’s cousin. He would not call from the magic cell phone, because he was already thinking like a man on the run. Mack actually found it hard to believe that no one had yet committed a crime, except against the Irish motor taxation authorities. And he did not really count that.
He drove through the Wicklows, running east of the Great Sugar-loaf Mountain, which rose above the highway. The Ford Fiesta then whipped past the range of hills that led up to the Devil’s Glen. It was a fast new road, and swept straight around the historic old port of Ark-low, County Wicklow’s busiest town, with history dating back to the second century.
Mack crossed the River Bann and ran into quiet little Gorey at around two o’clock Sunday, lunchtime. “Quiet little Gorey” is, however, a mild deception, because in this hillside town in southern Wicklow, there beats the heart of Irish Republicanism. It was for years a stronghold of the IRA. Indeed, when they blew that double-decker bus to smithereens in London a few years back, the perpetrator was from Gorey.
Mack Bedford did not, of course, know this; otherwise, he might have stepped more carefully. He could see there were a few shops open, and several bars, the iron grip of the Catholic Church having been released somewhat in southern Ireland in recent years. However, there was no luck at the hardware store, which he located on a small side street forty yards off the main road that ran through the middle of town.
It was very definitely closed, and the only information Mack acquired was the name, L. O’Brien and Sons, Hardware and Paint. Mack headed up the road to the church and found a telephone kiosk. He could see the phone book in there, and parked and scanned down the columns. He found the store, and right below it, he located another L. O’Brien of the same address. Plainly, this was the private number, and the family lived above the store. Mack considered this a stroke of good fortune because there were about seven thousand O’Briens in the phone book.
He went back to the car and boldly dialed the number of one of the most dangerous former IRA commanders in the country. A somewhat gruff voice answered, a noncommittal, “Yes?”
Mack decided to speak in his regular American accent and said:
Is that Mr. O’Brien?
Who’s asking?
I was a close friend of your American cousin Charlie O’Brien.
Oh, you were?
I was. I was with him in Iraq just before he died, and I told him I was coming to Ireland and then to England.
And what can I do to help you?
Well, sir, I am going shooting in England this fall, and I was trying to locate a gunsmith in London. Charlie said you might be able to help.
Who you planning to shoot?
Liam O’Brien laughed.
Just a few pheasants and grouse.
Of course. Well, why not try one of the main gunsmiths in London, Holland and Martin? Maybe even Purdey’s?
I . . . I suppose I could. But I was hoping for something kinda unobtrusive. Well, if I’m any judge, you’re looking for a different kind of a gun. And it’s not against anyone’s law for me to steer you right.
I wouldn’t want to break the law, Mr. O’Brien.
No, of course not. I never wanted to meself. But I’ll tell you what, I’ll come downstairs at an agreed time, and I’ll hand you a piece of paper with your man’s name, address, and number on it. I’ll have to phone him, and give him a name. It’s going to cost you two thousand euros, and I don’t want to see your face, or know your real name. Take it or leave it.
I’ll take it. As for the time, how about now? I’m in Gorey.
Park yourself outside the shop in five minutes. And do not look at my face. Do you have the cash?
I do.
Men who want illicit rifles usually do, eh?
Mr. O’Brien chuckled again. Mack Bedford liked doing business here in Ireland. No bullshit, right?
He drove back around to O’Brien Hardware and Paint and parked outside. One minute later, a figure moved fast out of a side door and positioned himself next to the car. One piece of paper was handed to Mack Bedford, which he swiftly read. The hand that gave him that piece of paper was still there, slightly open, and Mack pressed twenty 100-euro bills into it.
“Very trusting of you, sir. Especially as you don’t know the value of the information I just gave you.”
“It better be good,” said Mack.
“It had?”
“Yes, O’Brien. Because if it’s not, I’ll come back and probably kill you.”
“It’s good,” said the Irishman. “There’s still a little bit of honor among thieves.” He chuckled again, the same distinctive merriment Mack had heard on the phone.
“And what name shall I give him, for identification when you get there?”
Mack still never turned his face toward the man, and he said, without hesitation, “McArdle, Tommy McArdle.”
“I’ll make the call. Your man’s about a half hour west of London. He’s the best private gunsmith in England. . . . Stay safe, Tommy, and for Jaysus’ sake, shoot straight.”
“See ya, Liam,” called Mack, chuckling as he pulled away, still staring dead ahead, never having cast his eyes on the roguish Liam O’Brien, and never having allowed the Irishman to see him.
He pressed on south, heading directly to the ancient town of Enniscorthy, with its mighty round-towered Norman castle and spectacular Roman Catholic cathedral, designed by Augustus Pugin, who also designed the Houses of Parliament in London.
He ran through Enniscorthy, which was much more tourist-busy than Gorey, and he crossed the River Slaney on the one-way bridge. He turned right and followed the meandering course of the river on the fast, flat, wide road to Wexford town. There’s a bypass here, and the road hooks right on a split highway, moving traffic swiftly down to the port of Rosslare.