Private Dublin

Chapter 20

Andi had rented us a beautiful four-story redbrick townhouse in Fitzwilliam Square, an upscale, historic Georgian area in the heart of Dublin. Set in the center of a long terrace, the house faced south, overlooking mature trees that lined the edge of a well-manicured garden. We were within a stone’s throw of several embassies and there was a visible police presence in the area, as well as national and private security patrols around the grand buildings that flew the flags of other nations. I spotted Hungary, South Africa and Canada as Andi navigated the streets to our assigned parking spot outside of our temporary home.

I grabbed my bag from the trunk and Andi led me inside an elegantly decorated house, complete with period features. Intricate plaster reliefs surrounded the light fittings, a picture rail ran around the tops of the walls, and there were elaborate marble surrounds to the two fireplaces I could see from the hallway. Floorboards were old and worn and covered with oversized rugs, and the furnishings were all antique. Andi took me upstairs to a similarly refined bedroom on the second floor. A king-size bed stood against the wall to my left, directly opposite two large sash windows overlooking the garden in the center of the square. There was an en suite bathroom off the other side of the room. I placed my bag on a couch that was set between the windows.

“Nice view,” I remarked, looking down at the green space. Beyond the stately surrounding trees was a long wide stretch of lawn that formed the green heart of the neighborhood, with a further avenue of trees on the other side of it. The terrace of brick-built town houses on the far side of the square looked much the same as the one that stretched away to either side of us.

“My room’s even better,” Andi responded. “I’m directly above you. I didn’t imagine a progressive boss would object to his subordinate having the best room.”

I smiled. “No objections at all.”

“Good,” she replied. “Do you want to shower before we get going?”

I nodded. “I’ll be quick.”

She left the room and shut the door behind her. I took in my new accommodation as I undressed. A large Persian rug covered most of the floorboards. The wool was worn in places, suggesting a long history rather than neglect. Black-and-white photos of Dublin’s gracious center dotted the walls, and the walnut dresser had a polished brass ship’s compass as a centerpiece. Someone had gone to great lengths to give this place the welcoming feel of a high-end boutique hotel. The ethos continued in the bathroom, which was well stocked with quality toiletries and luxurious towels.

I wrapped one around me as I stepped from the shower, feeling much better for having shed the residue of a transatlantic flight. I put on a white shirt and dark gray two-piece suit.

“Looking sharp,” Andi remarked, as I came downstairs.

She was leaning against the wall by the front door.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To see an old friend,” she replied enigmatically, but her mysterious expression broke immediately into a smile. “An old cop friend. I can’t lie. Never been able to keep a straight face. Even as a joke or to wind up my big boss.”

“Must make you terrible at poker,” I remarked.

“I wouldn’t go near cards. Or magic tricks,” she said seriously.

She exhaled dramatically as though releasing a pent-up burden. I wasn’t sure whether it was part of her patter or if she was genuinely troubled by dishonesty.

“We’re going to see Conor Roche. He’s a police intelligence officer with the Garda. He and I worked together on a joint operation when I was with the Metropolitan Police in London.”

Andi drove us west through the city. We took the route along Parnell Road, passing charming old terraces, post-war houses and shopping centers. Even though there was the diverse architecture found in any European capital, Dublin seemed to have been constructed on a human scale, its atmosphere warm and homely. This city of half a million souls could make even strangers feel like they belonged. After a while we joined the South Circular Road, which took us north through the commercial district, over a stone bridge that spanned the River Liffey. Finally, after driving through a large park, we reached Garda Headquarters, made up of several huge brownstone blocks that looked like old army barracks. The complex was set on a large, high-security campus.

We parked in the visitors’ lot, which was beside the main gate, and after Andi had pulled into a space and killed the engine, she sent a text message. She received a reply a moment later.

“He’s on his way.”

I watched a couple of joggers running round the perimeter of the park opposite, and saw a car go through the security protocols at the main gate of the Garda Headquarters, which involved an undercarriage search using a camera and a sweep with a sniffer dog.

“There he is,” Andi said a few minutes later, when a man in an aviator jacket, navy blue pullover and jeans sauntered out of the main building.

I watched him stop at a silver BMW in the staff lot and rummage inside for a stick of gum, which he chewed lazily as he approached.

Andi and I stepped out of the car. Conor Roche couldn’t have been more than thirty, but up close he looked rugged, his face as craggy as the west coast cliffs I’d flown over on my way here. He was lean, his cheeks almost pinched-looking, and his head was topped by a crop of curly brown hair.

“Conor, this is Jack Morgan,” Andi said.

He stepped forward and offered me his hand. “Mr. Morgan, it’s an honor to meet you. The Moscow operation was incredible.”

He had a thick Dublin accent.

“Nice to meet you too, Detective Roche. And, please, call me Jack.”

“Conor,” he replied, before turning to Andi. “What can I do for you?”

“Jack and our chief profiler were attacked in Los Angeles a couple of days ago,” she said.

Conor nodded. “The Academy shooting. LAPD sent an alert saying the shooter skipped to Dublin.”

“Yeah,” I responded.

Andi showed Conor a photo of the suspect on her phone. “Recognize him?”

“Dublin is a small place compared to London, but we don’t all know each other,” Conor protested.

“You’re police intelligence. Can’t be too many assassins with the stones to gun down innocents in a foreign country,” Andi remarked.

Conor frowned. “True. But I still don’t know him.”

“What about the tattoo?” I asked, and Andi swiped to a magnified image of the distinctive fleur-de-lys inside a Jerusalem Cross. “This is the insignia of a criminal group I encountered in Italy called Propaganda Tre.”

Conor shook his head. “Never seen it before, but I’ll run a search and ask around.”

“We’d appreciate it,” Andi said.

“Thanks,” I added. “Anything you can find out would be a great help.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said as he backed away.

We watched him head through the gates toward the central wide two-story building. Andi said, “Sorry. I hoped he’d be able to give us something immediately. He always has his ear to the ground.”

“I’m not surprised he doesn’t know anything. Propaganda Tre is another level of devious,” I replied.

She nodded. “Airport?” she suggested.

“Airport,” I confirmed.