Private Dublin

Chapter 36

The following morning, I rose early and joined Andi in the kitchen, where she was making coffee. I wasn’t a big breakfast eater and it seemed she wasn’t either, so a cup of the strongest java was sufficient to kickstart our days.

She’d opted for jeans and an oversized pullover, and I was probably overdressed by comparison, in a charcoal gray suit and white shirt.

“Anything from Maureen?” she asked, sipping her coffee while she leaned against the counter.

I was seated at the kitchen table, my mug of coffee cooling in front of me.

“Nothing yet,” I replied.

“So, we could be about to consort with the enemy?” Andi remarked playfully.

“Perhaps,” I replied. “He fits the bill.”

“That he does,” she agreed.

“So, we’ll be careful about what we tell him. See what we can learn about Sam Farrell without giving anything away,” I said, and Andi nodded.

Once we’d finished our drinks, we got into the Ford and headed out of Dublin. The city was still slumbering at 8:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning. As we went west along Long Mile Road, a broad, four-lane avenue, and past a school set in large grounds, I saw the turrets of a castle rising above the trees. Through the gates of the medieval structure stumbled a group of men who were obviously part of a bachelor party. The groom-to-be wore a bridal veil and they all sported bachelor tour T-shirts and carried pint glasses as they made their way onto the street.

Andi drove us through West Dublin, out past the industrial estates and retail parks, and soon we were beyond the city, traveling through the countryside on the motorway, which took us further inland. The sun was a brilliant gold against an azure sky, and unusually there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. This promised to be a hot day.

Lawrence Finch lived on the Ballagh Estate in a magnificent stately home called Ballagh House, a Palladian country seat built for a member of the Irish House of Commons in 1726. Internet research had revealed an impressive mansion with wings to either side, linked to the main building by long galleries. The estate around his home comprised over 1,000 acres and included Ballagh, a village of 150 souls. The property dated from the time of the Viceroy, or Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, when Ireland was under direct rule by the English. Like many of the big estates in England, Ballagh House’s influence extended beyond the boundaries of its property into the lives and society of the wider community. The grand house was not just a manifestation of wealth, but also of power.

We left the motorway some thirty miles from Dublin and took winding country lanes to the village, where we passed a young priest finishing a beautifully drawn chalkboard image advertising Mass and inviting people into his ancient stone church.

At some point the road leading from the village had been turned into an avenue of cedar trees, which now reached across from both sides to create a high honor guard of interwoven branches for every passing motorist. I thought of how these trees must have looked as saplings and how they now towered above us. It was a beautiful realization of a long-term vision and alerted me to the fact that we were approaching a very special place indeed.

Ballagh House could not be seen from the road, and its gatehouse was larger than most mansions. A security team of three men in dark suits did an excellent job of sweeping the car and even checked the underside of the vehicle with a drone on caterpillar tracks.

When they were done, the leader of the trio phoned the house, and for a moment I was worried Finch might have forgotten our arrangement, but I needn’t have been concerned. We were waved through, and Andi waited for the high wrought-iron gates to open before following the broad red tarmac drive through ancient woodland.

The house itself lay at the end of a three-mile approach and I glimpsed it first through the boughs of some ancient oaks. Its full grandeur only became apparent when the trees thinned and gave way to impeccably manicured lawns, stretching away to either side of the drive until they met white metal park railings with flower-filled meadows on the far side. Beyond the meadows were streams, a lake, and on the surrounding hillsides, paddocks filled with horses grazing.

The tarmac gave way to deep gravel as we neared the house, and the Ford crunched its way around a grand fountain in the middle of the turning circle. The photos I’d seen of Ballagh didn’t do the place justice, and the five-story home still fulfilled its original purpose of signaling its owner’s wealth and power. Andi slowed to a halt near a stone staircase leading up to the studded double doors of the grand entrance.

Lawrence Finch was waiting for us at the bottom of the steps and greeted us warmly as we stepped out of the car. After he’d said hello and welcomed us to his home, he turned to a taciturn man standing beside him. The guy had the unmistakable posture of a veteran and the hardened eyes of someone who’d witnessed death up close.

“This is Jackson Kyle,” Lawrence said. “He runs my security detail. The two of us will show you around Sam’s quarters and answer any questions you might have.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Would you like tea or coffee? A bite to eat, perhaps?”

Andi and I shook our heads.

“Well,” said Finch, “in that case, let’s get started.”