Private Dublin

Chapter 18

Years of combat experience as a Marine and then as head of Private had taught me to sleep whenever the opportunity presented itself. I drifted off as the aircraft reached cruising altitude and woke for the breakfast service, about ninety minutes out from Dublin. I had a black coffee and watched the Emerald Isle come into view as we began our descent. I hadn’t had any dreams, at least none I could remember, but the sight of the distinctive green landscape on the very edge of a different continent prompted me to think of my last trip to Europe. My mind filled with images of me and Justine on what should have been a romantic vacation in Monaco, a trip that had ended in turmoil and danger.

I hadn’t intended to fall in love with a colleague, but I wasn’t sure a civilian would have been able to cope with the stresses, hazards and unpredictable nature of my work. Justine was one of the world’s leading criminal profilers and had years of experience of operating in this arena. She understood the landscape of law enforcement as well as she did the criminal mind, and recognized that sometimes we had to make personal sacrifices to do the right thing. Being away from her now in order to come to Ireland was one such sacrifice for me. My heart wanted to be with her, never leaving her side as she continued her recovery, but my experience as a detective and a veteran told me I had to neutralize this threat.

We continued our descent as we flew over the west coast of Ireland and moved from roiling seas crashing against rocky shores to a rich, fertile green landscape. I could see cows grazing in fields beneath puffball clouds, a tractor motoring up a gentle hill toward a field-stone barn, cars winding along single-lane roads that crisscrossed the landscape between high hedges, large expanses of wild bog and thick forests. In the distance, a town lay nestled between hills at the mouth of a wide estuary. This looked like a beautiful, peaceful country; it was hard for me to imagine such a bountiful, gentle environment as the source of the horror that had invaded my life. Then I recalled Ireland’s troubled past, both recent and ancient, and reminded myself that darkness can thrive wherever people’s hearts are turned by ambition, greed or anger.

Situated on the East Coast of Ireland at the mouth of the River Liffey, Dublin is home to a little over half a million souls and its mix of architecture reflects a history that stretches back more than a thousand years. Peppered among the post-war homes and contemporary retail parks and office blocks were castles and ruins so old they seemed to have merged with the landscape, making the myth and magic that are commonly associated with Ireland feel real. The flight touched down at 2:30 p.m. on a warm and sunny day.

I cleared Customs and Immigration in under an hour, and as I went into the Arrivals hall, I saw a woman holding up a sign with the word “Private” on it. She was early thirties, athletic, had long black hair tied in a ponytail, and wore a dark green pantsuit. Her keen gaze suggested a sharp mind and there was a flash of recognition in it when I approached.

“Mr. Morgan, my name is Andrea Harris. Emily Knighton sent me from the London office.”

She spoke with a London accent but there were Irish undertones to her voice. She stepped forward and shook my hand.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Harris,” I responded. “Call me Jack.”

“Everyone calls me Andi,” she said with a bright smile. “Welcome to Dublin, Jack.”