Warlord

NINETEEN

MULLAGHMORE, NORTHERN IRELAND, AUGUST 1979

THE MONTHS PASSED QUICKLY. NOT SURPRISING, Smith thought, what with his normal responsibilities coupled with all the travel, meticulous planning, and intelligence gathering he had done, plus certain "extracurricular" activities he had been conducting out on the island. Weekend jaunts from his remote digs off the coast, slipping into Mullaghmore harbor of an evening for a quick look round before fading away, returning by boat to his perfect hideaway on Mutton Island.

The fishing village of Mullaghmore overlooked a small harbor. A few commercial boats and pleasure boats bobbed at their moorings on warm summer days. Only twelve miles away lay the border with Northern Ireland, so the town was a popular vacation spot for terrorist IRA volunteers.

It was also the vacation home of one of the Royal Family's most venerated and public figures, Lord Louis Mountbatten. A powerful member of the family, it was Lord Louis who had arranged the courtship of his nephew Prince Philip and then Princess Elizabeth, now the reigning monarch.

If Mountbatten was sanguine about his security, it was with good reason. There had never been a single attempt on his life. The only terrorist attack in Mullaghmore had come one night courtesy of some lads at the pub. They'd sneaked down to the harbor and drilled holes in the bottom of Shadow V, Mountbatten's beloved fishing boat, hoping she'd sink with the morning tide.

She didn't.

A mile or so away from town, atop a hill known as "Fairy Rock," which overlooked the bay, stood Classiebawn Castle, the summer home of Lord Mountbatten. It had been the site of many jolly family holidays for over thirty years. It was not a castle, really, just a large Victorian mansion. But it had a turret, and it was the home of a Royal, so historically, it had been called a castle. Built in 1874, it overlooked the forbidding rock-faced cliffs and the tide-washed strands of Donegal Bay, with the windswept island of Inishmurray visible in the near distance, and the open sea in the far.

IT HAD RAINED LIKE MAD every day all summer long. But tonight, stars appeared and the clouds seemed to be scudding away; a slice of yellow moon glimmered on the dark bay. The forecast for tomorrow was sunny. Good boating weather, with any luck at all, Mountbatten thought, closing the seaward bedroom windows before retiring, and about time, too.

Smith, standing in the stern of the small fishing boat, was reassured by the sound of her motor chugging steadily. The Rose of Tralee, she was called. The two IRA men, Tom McMahon and Francie McGirl, had provided her, no questions asked.

Smith, his balaclava pulled down over his face, put a pair of high-powered binoculars to the eyeholes. He raised the glasses to the great manse atop Fairy Rock. Though it was quite late, lights still shone in a few of the upper windows, and he could make out Mountbatten's flag fluttering from its standard atop the turret. The banner only flew when the lord of the manor was in residence.

Smith's most recent intelligence indicated a number of family members in residence in addition to Mountbatten himself. His grandson, Nicholas; Lady Brabourne; Lady Patricia, her husband and son; and Timothy Knatchbull. There were others, but their names were not known to him.

It didn't matter. Only one of them mattered.

McMahon, at the helm, was running just above idle speed. They had kept their navigation lights on, after some debate, as it was felt the chances of anyone taking notice of Rose of Tralee were slimmer. Still, they'd taken precautions. The rucksack filled with fifty pounds of high-powered explosives was weighted with lead. It sat tethered to the transom where it could easily be lowered silently and sunk should they be approached by the local Gardai patrol boat, whose schedule was famously unpredictable.

None of the three men were armed.

The two IRA Provos were attired as if returning from a long day of offshore drift fishing for salmon, and they had taken the trouble to fill the live well with fresh fish. The nets were piled on the deck aft of the small pilothouse. On the boat's stern, she bore Sligo as her hailing port. Their story was, should they need one, that they'd been offshore fishing, had engine trouble, and were pulling into Mullaghmore for the night, hoping to make repairs next morning, and to return to Sligo Harbor by noon.

McGirl, with a professional touch Smith admired, periodically squirted oil onto the hot manifold, and the engine was smoking nicely, believably, should anyone official approach and start asking questions.

"There she is," Smith said quietly, pointing at a green runabout moored at one end of the town dock. It was well past midnight and no one was about. The little houses dotted on the hillside seemed fast asleep, not a light in a single window. Only the pub at the other end of the town dock showed any signs of life. But this was, Smith reflected, Ireland after all.

There was a dim, flickering lamp on a post at the far end of the dock, casting yellow light on the Shadow V. She was no gentlemen's yacht, just a simple twenty-seven-footer, completely open at the stern, with a rounded cuddy cabin forward. She looked good for family outings and lobstering, which is exactly how Mountbatten used her.

"Tom," Smith said softly, eyeing the closing distances and the speed of his boat, full knowing this precise moment posed the highest risk of failure. "Circle round and come up from behind her at idle speed. We'll take Shadow dead slow on our starboard side. Gently, please, Tom, ever so gently."

"Done," Tom said over his shoulder.

McMahon throttled back to dead slow and did as the assassin had asked. He ghosted to a stop just as they came dead abeam of Mountbatten's boat, rubbing up against her wooden hull soundlessly. Smith reached across the narrow distance and grabbed the gunwale of Mountbatten's boat, bringing them to a stop.

"Good enough, then, gentlemen," Smith said, quickly and quietly, lifting and deftly placing the fifty-pound rucksack on the teak deck of the open cockpit of the Shadow V. The two IRA men looked at each other. This Smith was surprisingly strong. He was tall and slender, a bookish bloke, they'd imagined. But he clearly took care of himself.

McMahon stepped out of the pilothouse, shook his hand, and said, "Well, then. Good luck, Mr. Smith. Succeed, and we'll build a bloody statue of you in Belfast Square someday maybe. Won't look anything like you, of course, so no worries there."

"Or have my name on it, I should hope," Smith said as he smiled.

McGirl squeezed Smith's shoulder and said, "Best of the best, mate. Be dog wide, sir, and don't get yerself caught. Pray for sunshine tomorrow, ye can be certain they'll not be leaving this dock if it's bucketing rain again in the morn."

"Oh, I've been praying for sunshine tomorrow all my life," Smith said, pulling the two boats, which had drifted apart, a bit closer together for boarding.

"Aye. Prayin's one thing."

"There'll be blood in the water tomorrow, no matter which side God is on, McGirl," Smith said, easily stepping over the Rose of Tralee's gunwale and climbing into Shadow V's cockpit, staying low.

The whole exchange had taken less than a minute. He heard McMahon engage the throttle, and the Rose slipped off into the dead quiet harbor, not a Gardai patrol in sight. As he'd hoped, the IRA had been both willing and helpful. They'd played their part to perfection. Now the fate of the devils who had destroyed his world was in his hands alone.