Chapter Thirty-Five #2
Scardino said, “Nobody plays the long game like China. We’re showing our value to them; we’ll both be rewarded when this is all over.”
—
Court climbed off his Yamaha bike, walked it into a storage shed, then locked it up. It was just after noon; the air was cold and the wind was so still that the water here at the marina looked like a sheet of glass.
He walked up pier B with his helmet still on, his backpack in his hand swinging down by his ankle, then climbed aboard his sixty-three-foot Sea Ray sport cruiser at the end of the pier.
He stepped over a telltale, a thin strand of fishing line he’d lightly taped across the passageway between the swim platform and the aft deck.
The fact that it was still there, undisturbed, made him confident no one had been aboard in his absence, but still, after he unlocked the door to the companionway down to the saloon, he drew his pistol and cleared the area, flashing the light on the gun a few times, then checked the various holds and rooms belowdecks.
This done, he turned on the stereo, sat at a table in the saloon, and flipped on the monitor that displayed all the camera views around the boat, including two cameras on the hull under the water.
He checked for any activity on the cams since he’d left the boat, and saw that all was as it should be.
Satisfied he had no immediate threats to deal with, he put his unholstered pistol on the table next to the monitor, then lifted a seat cushion off a lounger next to him.
It came up easily and revealed a stowage area large enough for the twelve-gauge shotgun he retrieved from it.
This he put on the table, as well, and only now he felt ready to deal with anyone who might try to board from the dock onto the main deck above.
His immediate needs met, he pulled a burner phone he’d just purchased from his backpack and loaded the Signal app onto the device.
Five minutes after this, he looked down to his Casio G-Shock watch, checking the time, adding five hours to account for the curvature of the Earth, and then he dialed a number he had memorized.
The phone rang several times on the other end, but to his relief it was finally answered, and then a familiar voice spoke.
“Yes?” The accent was British, the tone raspy, with a hint of mistrust.
“Hey, Don. It’s me.”
Now the man brightened instantly. “Hello, lad. So good to hear your voice.”
“You, too.” Sir Donald Fitzroy had been Court’s handler for years, back when Court was a freelance assassin. They’d been in touch sporadically in the time since, having seen each other most recently in Mexico earlier in the year.
But Court hadn’t called the man to talk about Mexico. No, Court was interested in Fitzroy’s time in British intelligence, when he’d been a very highly placed MI5 officer serving in Northern Ireland.
“Where in the world are you right now?” Court asked.
“I’m on the Continent. You’d be proud of me. No danger or skullduggery. Too busy healing these old bones up from the last time I saw you, actually.”
“That skullduggery will get to you if you’re not careful.”
“Too true. My life is quite the opposite of the old days, lad. I have beautiful countryside to look at, music to listen to, a home that is small enough that I can almost take care of it myself, though I do have help.”
“How are you feeling?”
Fitzroy had Parkinson’s disease; he’d revealed this to Court on their last meeting, but Fitzroy had also been all but blown to bits during that same reunion, so the Parkinson’s had taken something of a backseat when it came to priorities at the time.
“I’m getting by, lad. Getting by. I must ask, why does it always seem that I only hear from you when the world is on fire?”
“Maybe because the world is always on fire.”
“Too true. What can a boring old man do for his dashing young friend?”
“I’m no longer young, and I was never dashing.”
“And I’m shite as a charmer. I did try, though.”
Court smiled, his eyes on the monitors showing him views around his boat. He was paranoid by nurture, not by nature, but in the past he’d been proven right in his paranoia with such regularity that it usually seemed a safe bet that danger was just around the corner.
He said, “I need to ask you about Northern Ireland.”
Fitzroy sniffed. “Vacation plans, have you?”
“For now, I just need a history lesson.”
“Well then, if it is ancient history you seek, I’m your man. I was there, right in the bloody middle of it.”
“Running MI5 operations, if I remember correctly.”
“A step removed from the top, but that was just because my hands had become too dirty, and the effects of my actions too valuable to put me behind a desk at Gower Street or Thames House. I lived most of the time on a military base in Bessbrook, down in South Armagh, or up in Belfast, but I did get out into the field with great regularity, of course.”
“I’ve got questions about a man from back then.”
“Our side or theirs?”
“Well,” Court said, “that’s actually one of my questions. I’m not sure. His name was Coyle.”
Sir Donald Fitzroy paused; Court sensed a hesitancy, but perhaps the man was simply unsure. Eventually, Fitz said, “Not an uncommon name there, is it?”
Now Court read the old man’s tone. “I hear it in your voice, Fitz. What does that name mean to you?”
Don Fitzroy let out a long sigh. “What have you gotten yourself into with this, lad?”
“You do know him?”
There was a long pause. Court scanned the monitors topside now; a sea bird flew by on this gray winter day. “If you know something, it could save some lives.”
“Tell me about your sudden interest in an old Ulster ghost.”