Private Dublin

Chapter 35

The clear sky of a crisp evening was dotted with stars and there was a slight chill in the air, so Andi laid a fire in the living-room fireplace of the house in Fitzwilliam Square. We sat there working at a large table beside the pizza boxes that had contained our dinner.

I was reviewing the publicly available information on Lawrence Finch. He was powerful, well connected, and his multi-billion-euro property empire gave him deep pockets. Horse racing seemed to be more than a hobby to him. It provided him with an entry into high society, which bolstered the power and influence he’d obtained through his businesses. There were photo-library images of him photographed with European and Middle Eastern royalty, and movers and shakers from all walks of life and from all over the world. He was precisely the sort of person Propaganda Tre would recruit. I zipped everything I’d found on him into a digital folder and called Mo-bot. It was early afternoon in Los Angeles.

“Jack,” she said when she answered the video call. She was in the tech room at Private’s Los Angeles headquarters, and I could see a couple of her staff behind her. “How are you?”

“Still alive,” I replied. “I’m here with Andi Harris from the London office.”

Andi, who had been reviewing filings from Lawrence Finch’s companies, rose and walked around the table to crane into shot.

“Hi,” she said. “I’ve taken some of your online seminars on tech trends, but we’ve never met.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mo-bot responded. “What can I do for you?”

“We found the shooter,” I said. “He’s a former cop called Sam Farrell. Worked a special unit in the Garda here in Ireland.”

Mo-bot sat up a little straighter and made a note of the man’s name.

“Sam Farrell,” she remarked. “Former cop. Wow.”

“Now works security for a guy called Lawrence Finch. He’s an Irish property developer and racehorse enthusiast,” I said. “He’s offering to help, but he fits the profile for Propaganda Tre, so I’d like you to dig into him. See if you can find any links to Monaco or Rome and how far we can trust him, because my working assumption is not at all.”

“Will do,” Mo-bot replied. “Have you spoken to Justine recently?”

“Not since last night,” I replied.

“You should give her a call,” Mo-bot said. “I think you might be pleasantly surprised.”

I was puzzled by these cryptic words but didn’t need any excuse to phone Justine.

“Will do,” I assured her.

“I’ll keep you posted on Farrell and Finch,” Mo-bot said, before she disconnected.

I called Justine immediately, and Andi returned to the other side of the table and resumed her research. I stepped out of the room into the hallway as the phone rang. I pulled the door shut to give myself some additional privacy when Justine answered.

She was smiling, which instantly buoyed my spirits.

“Hey, Jack,” she said. Her tone was lighter than it had been since the shooting.

“Mo told me you’ve got a surprise or something,” I replied.

“Watch,” she said, and I saw her place the phone down on a surface nearby.

She steadied herself and then walked to the bright window. She wore a hospital gown and her legs looked pale and weak, but she was walking. She reached the sill and leaned against it for a moment before starting the return journey. Her forehead was pricked with beads of sweat, and she was breathing heavily, but there was a look of grim determination on her face. I felt myself inwardly urging her on, praying for her success as though her journey across that hospital room was the 100-meters Olympic final. She made it finally, breathing a sigh of relief when she rested her hands on the bed.

“What do you think?” she asked, reaching for her phone.

“Amazing,” I replied.

“Well, I think you’ve done enough.” A nurse came into view and blocked Justine’s path. “You need to get back in bed and I need to reconnect your lines, so you’ll have to hang up.”

“Sounds like you’re being well looked after,” I said, and the nurse gave the camera a withering look.

“I know it isn’t much, but it feels like a million miles to me,” Justine said.

“I’m so happy for you, Jus, and proud too. But listen to the nurse. Don’t push yourself too hard. You need to focus on your recovery,” I said.

“I won’t,” she replied. “I promise. Got to go.”

She hung up and I pocketed my phone. I was relieved to see her walking, but my happiness was blighted by a sense of anger. She should never have been in that hospital bed in the first place. I was furious at the man who’d wounded her so badly, and angry at the people who had sent him. I needed to track him down. Again.