Private Dublin

Chapter 83

The van was on its roof and Raymond Chalmont had taken the only other vehicle, so I was stranded.

I used Andi’s thumb to unlock her phone again and changed her security ID to a six-digit PIN so I could access her phone independently. I left her body where it lay near Sam Farrell’s and set off on foot, using Google Maps to guide me cross-country.

I avoided roads in case Chalmont returned to the scene to finish me off, so I found myself traipsing on foot over heavy, damp earth between high trees that reached toward the brooding sky. The drizzle was growing heavier and I had no doubt a storm was coming. I was heading west toward the village of Rathcoffey, moving as fast as I could, hoping I could avoid the worst of the downpour and find some sort of transportation there.

I used Andi’s phone to call Mo-bot.

“Hello,” she said hesitantly.

“It’s me,” I replied.

“Jack,” she said, and then, to the people she was with, she remarked, “It’s Jack.”

I heard indistinct expressions of relief in the background.

“Is Justine there?” I asked.

“Yes,” Mo replied. “And Sci. Let me put you on speaker.”

The acoustics changed a moment later.

“Jack, thank God!” Justine said.

“You okay?” Sci asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “Sam Farrell and Andi Harris are dead. Raymond Chalmont shot them both.”

“Jeez,” Sci said.

“But you’re okay?” Justine asked.

“I’m fine,” I replied. “Seriously. Before she died, Andi told me Propaganda Tre is using Irish horse racing fixtures to launder money from its street operations. She said they had to make the change after we shut things down in Monaco.”

“You need to take this to the cops,” Sci insisted. “No amount of political clout is going to get them off two murders.”

“I can’t,” I replied. “We know Andi was released after someone intervened. Whether it was Conor Roche himself or someone higher up, it’s clear Propaganda Tre is well protected. If I take this information to the wrong person, they’ll just bury it and me alongside it.”

“You need to be careful, Jack,” Mo-bot responded. “Andi’s phone ties you to the scene of the murders and might be used to track you.”

“It’s all I’ve got right now,” I told her. “My only means of navigation and communication.”

She gave a disgruntled murmur but didn’t say any more.

“So, what’s your plan?” Justine asked.

“Confront Lawrence Finch in a way he can’t escape from,” I replied. “Force him to give up his network. Get him to reveal some information we can give to people we trust.”

“Eli Carver?” Justine suggested.

“Why not? He has a personal interest in all of this,” I replied. Carver had been the target of the Propaganda Tre assassination attempt in Monaco. “He will have people in the FBI who will listen to him. There’s no way an operation like this doesn’t touch the United States in some way, and if Lawrence Finch really is the head of Propaganda Tre, then he sanctioned the attempted hit on the Secretary of Defense.”

“He’s got horses running tomorrow,” Mo-bot said. “Including one in the Irish Derby, the largest of the five Classics.”

“Perfect. Then I know exactly where he’ll be,” I responded. “And how to get him to rise to the bait.”