Private Dublin

Chapter 69

I slept fitfully. While the world was awake, working, studying and playing, I was lying in a darkened converted attic in the tiny riverside home. I had nothing but the clothes I’d hurriedly gathered when I’d fled the house in Fitzwilliam Square. I’d abandoned the rest, my computer and passport there, and could not risk a return.

I had nightmares when sleep overtook me. Images of fallen comrades, colleagues, victims of crime. Their faces filled my mind, which made the horrifying dreams so vivid they would wake me, and then I’d spend a while listening to the steady flow of traffic on the highway outside. I couldn’t stop wondering how someone as seemingly intelligent as Andi could support such violence against innocent people. I was deeply troubled by the memory of Adel and his family at the refugee center, how close they had come to burning to death. Surely no one with the slightest shred of decency in them could sanction such persecution. I was also distressed to reflect upon how normal Andi had seemed to me while we’d worked together. I wished I could believe she wasn’t in her right mind when she acted as she did and could rationalize her treachery that way. But instead, she’d seemed proud when Mo-bot had exposed her treachery, portraying it as somehow justified in pursuit of the greater good.

Eventually the drone of cars going by would lull me to sleep and I’d fall right back into nightmares until the next fitful episode of waking.

Finally, at 5:13 p.m., I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore. Even if my mind didn’t feel at peace, I knew that my body had been partially restored. I showered again, eager to wash away troubling memories, and once dry, I put on yesterday’s jeans and top, which felt slick with sweat and grime.

I left the house and walked along the riverside to a long bridge, crossing it to reach the docklands leisure center, office and shopping development on the other side. I found a men’s clothing store and brightened the shop assistant’s day twenty minutes before closing by purchasing a whole new wardrobe.

I returned to the cottage on Pigeon House Road to deposit my purchases and change into fresh clothes. After that I felt much better and left the house for Featherblade, a steakhouse near the National Gallery that was reputed to serve the best burgers in Dublin. I wanted to avoid crowds, so I placed a click and collect takeout order and ate the burger while sitting on the wall of College Park, watching people go by.

Justine tried calling, but I didn’t want to talk to her when my mind was so unsettled and I knew a conversation would likely involve overt lying, which I wasn’t prepared to do.

She sent me a message asking if I was okay, and I replied saying I was fine but that I was tied up with something. I knew she wouldn’t want me out here alone, facing impossible odds. After what she’d been through, she knew at first hand exactly how dangerous these people were.

As I ate, I studied the satellite map, which showed the streets around the Byrne and Fitzgerald building, and Street View images that allowed me to see the detail of the block itself. I finished my burger, which was excellent though I found little joy in it, got to my feet and headed for Harcourt Street, near St Stephen’s Green, where Byrne and Fitzgerald’s Dublin office was located.

After a twenty-minute walk, I arrived in the bustling business district. One side of the street was taken up by tramlines, and the sidewalks were crowded with people heading home or on their way to more entertaining parts of the city. Here unbroken four-story redbrick terraces lined the streets. The beautiful, historic buildings in excellent condition were home to the law and accountancy firms that dominated the neighborhood.

Byrne and Fitzgerald was in a contemporary office complex that had been constructed at the end of a more traditional terrace. The law firm was located on the fourth floor of the six-story building. There was a security guard at the desk in the main reception and I had no desire to risk being caught, so I walked the block and found a ramp to an underground parking lot beneath the building. A metal grille blocked the entrance, but I found a fire escape nearby and watched and waited until a car approached from inside. It was driven by a weary-looking man in a crumpled shirt. He paused the car while he swiped his keycard over a reader, which prompted the grille to rise.

I pressed back into the shadows of the fire escape as the car passed and then quickly hurried down the ramp, ducking to avoid the grille as it closed.

I turned my head away from the security camera mounted on the wall, which was pointed toward the keycard-reader, and continued into the underground car park.

I prayed the security guard wasn’t particularly attentive as I passed another camera on my way to the elevators. I called one, but when it arrived, saw I needed a keycard to make it rise. The fire stairs were secured the same way, so I returned to the elevator and climbed through the escape hatch in the roof.

I used the elevator shaft service ladder to get to the fourth floor and arrived, breathless and sweating. I located the emergency release for the elevator doors and managed to force them open. I stepped out into a wood-paneled lobby. Behind an impressive, sweeping reception desk a wall-hung sign confirmed that this was Byrne and Fitzgerald.

I pulled out my phone and called Mo-bot, who answered immediately.

“I’m in,” I said.

“Good,” she replied. “They have no remote server access, which is very unusual. So, they will have an on-site server room. Find it.”

I went through the double doors that led to the main office and found an open-plan space with corridors that linked to private offices and common areas with kitchens, coffee stations and meeting rooms. It took me a few minutes to locate the server room, which was locked, but I was able to force the door with my shoulder.

“I’ve found it,” I told Mo-bot.

“Sounded noisy,” she responded. “Are you sure you’re alone?”

“For now,” I said. “So let’s be quick.”

“Can you see a terminal?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, going to a bank of four machines. “Let me put you on camera.”

I positioned my phone so she could see the screen and she talked me through the security protocols once she understood the nature of the system. It was a privilege to work with some of the best law-enforcement personnel in the world, but Sci and Mo-bot were in a league of their own, recognized as leaders within their respective fields.

Mo-bot demonstrated her capabilities now, getting me past the server security measures and into the law firm’s database.

I soon found the billing system, which had been Sci’s suggestion. He said crooked lawyers sometimes covered up document trails to conceal the identity of the principal issuing instructions, but they would always record client billing. I looked up the Longshore Holdings incorporation work and discovered it had been paid by Carrington International. While I dug around for the bills in relation to the purchase of the three Dublin warehouses by Longshore Holdings, Mo-bot went to work on Carrington International.

“It’s domiciled in Gibraltar,” she said.

“It also paid for the property deals on the warehouses,” I revealed, and started to search the system for the bills for work on Andi’s employment contract with Private.

“And it paid for Andi’s legal work,” I told Mo-bot.

“Carrington International is owned by Carrington Construction Limited, which is domiciled in Malta, which is in turn owned by King Finch Financial, a company based in England,” she said. “According to Companies House, the ultimate beneficial owner of King Finch is Lawrence Finch.”