Private Dublin

Chapter 84

I managed to call a taxi to collect me from Rathcoffey and asked the driver to take me back to Dublin, where I found a hotel on Mercer Street. The receptionist was too well trained to ask any questions about my odd check-in time or lack of luggage, and when I went up to my room, I showered and lay on the bed, falling into a deep sleep around 3 a.m. after my racing mind finally settled.

I dreamed about Andi, lying in the road, breathing her last, and even in the unreal realm of memory and the surreal landscape of dreams, I felt the tragedy of a bright soul wasted on corrupt ideology. I pitied her even though she’d played a key role in my attempted murder.

I woke at 7:52 a.m. to the sound of my phone, or more accurately Andi’s phone. Feeling groggy and exhausted, I rolled over to grab it from the nightstand.

“Hello,” I said when I answered.

“Mr. Morgan, it’s Conor Roche here. Have you seen the news?”

I put the phone on speaker and switched to the internet browser.

“No,” I replied, as I found the Irish Times website. “Why?”

“We’d like to ask you some questions about where you were last night.”

The moment the newspaper’s home page loaded, I knew exactly why he was calling. The lead story was the murders of two former police officers, and I featured prominently as the chief suspect in the investigation.

“I’d like to know how you ended up with Andrea Harris’s phone,” Roche said, and I looked at the device in my hand with a growing sense of resignation.

Mo-bot had warned me it tied me to the murders and that it could be used to trace my location. My refusal to dispose of it hadn’t purely been due to my lack of any other communication device. I wanted Mo to examine it for evidence on Propaganda Tre and would only have been parted from it reluctantly. However, as I realized the threat it now posed, I started to question that decision.

“I’ve got plans today,” I replied.

“It’s not a request anymore, Mr. Morgan,” Conor Roche told me. “You’re now a wanted man.”

“Can I ask you a question, Conor?” I said.

“Sure,” he replied. “Knock yourself out.”

“How long have you been a member of Propaganda Tre?”

There was a long silence.

“This isn’t helping you, Mr. Morgan,” he replied at last. “Your pursuit of wild conspiracies and shadows has led you to cross the line into serious crime.”

I suspected this call was being recorded.

“Can’t be honest because the line is tapped?” I tried.

“Tapped and traced,” he replied. “Knock, knock, Mr. Morgan.”

He hung up and I heard the tramp of boots outside my room. Then came the thunder of fists knocking against the hotel’s flimsy door, and I knew Conor and his people were already here.