Tiara

Chapter One-2

“It has been an honor to meet you,” the Arab rose to shake his hand.

“Keep the faith,” Mansfield hugged him. “We are all within a heartbeat of meeting Allah.”

Mansfield left the restaurant, going to his BMW parked across the lot from the Arabs' Mercedes Benz. He quickly popped the trunk and pulled out a magnetic device, rushing over to the Arabs' vehicle and placing it on its underside. He darted back to his car and climbed inside, gunning the engine and cruising off the lot to a parking spot on the opposite side of the street. He was able to see the Mercedes from the rear view mirror as he activated the remote control device in the case on the seat beside him.

His logic was that Al Qaeda had refused to meet his price, making it seem as if Osama Bin Laden was their only source of financing, which he knew was a falsehood. Although he had overbid the job as he did not intend to kill the Princess, this was no longer the issue. Since they had tipped their hand, now Mansfield was a potential liability as he had knowledge of a possible attempt on her life. One of the extremists on the upper echelon might decide that Mansfield, in refusing to assist in the mission and knew of its existence, was an enemy of Allah who must be destroyed.

He waited until the five men exited the restaurant and got in the car. He figured that Al Qaeda would suspect either the Mossad or MI6 had discovered the presence of the terrorists and ordered the assassination. In either case, the name of Berlin Mansfield would most likely not come up as a possible suspect.

He opened the window and held the detonator out, pressing the button as the Mercedes Benz exploded with a deafening roar. He then put it back in its case and drove a block before putting it in a small sack and tossing it into a trash barrel on a street corner. He then headed back to his room at Claridge's in the Mayfair district, switching on the radio until he found a classical station to help lighten his mood.

Maybe Al Qaeda would be more accommodating in future.

* * *

The next morning, Jon Stevens and s***h Scimitar made their way along Great Eastern Street on the East End en route to the Hoxton Hotel. It was located in a trendier area of town frequented by young people, students and artists. The two men were somewhat surprised that their host had selected a place like this for an overnight stay, yet they also realized it was the least likely place someone like him would be found.

Fritz Hammer was a CIA legend, a Special Forces Captain in Vietnam who had over two hundred registered kills to his credit. He was sent to Iraq to direct traffic during Operation Desert Shield, taking down the remnants of Saddam Hussein's Republican Guard in the cleanup operations after the invasion. He then was sent to Serbia where he worked alongside militia forces loyal to the defunct Yugoslavian government before the country collapsed under civil war. He met Jon and s***h there, and sponsored their transfer to the Paramilitary Division where they were ranked among its top operatives. Hammer needed a favor and the men were glad to help.

“I'm sure you fellows are up to speed on the bombing last night,” Fritz said as he switched on the BBC broadcast on TV though muting the volume. Hammer walked around with a cane after suffering a hip injury during the Fall of Saigon. It did nothing to affect his career though he was notoriously grumpy on cold, humid days such as this.

“Yes sir, they mentioned that at least one of the victims was a known Al Qaeda operative,” Jon replied. He was an auburn-haired, athletically built man with lively green eyes and a quick smile. He was often mistaken for an artist or a student and would never be suspected of being one of the CIA's most accomplished assassins and saboteurs. s***h, a tall, lanky man with a swarthy look, was just as affable and every bit Jon's equal on the field.

“MI6 had a different take on how that went down,” Fritz replied. He was six feet tall with a blond crewcut and blue eyes, having reached 210 pounds after leaving the service though one could see it was solid muscle. “Their informants in Lebanon got word that they had been in contact with Berlin Mansfield to discuss a joint project. They don't know who it was that made the Al Qaeda agents, and of course everyone's denying any involvement. The overriding concern now is Mansfield. MI6 is on full alert, trying to determine whether Mansfield is in-country.”

“Berlin Mansfield,” Jon glanced over at s***h as they sat on armchairs facing Hammer, who was propped against the headboard of the comfortable double bed. “That's some heavy s**t. What do they figure him for, blowing up Big Ben? London Bridge?”

“We have no idea. What we are concerned with is the upcoming peace negotiations scheduled at the Hotel Europa this weekend. The entire thing is a train wreck waiting to happen, but it's gone too far to call off. Some of the biggest IRA godfathers in Northern Ireland are scheduled to be there, as well as the top Unionist leaders and delegates from Parliament. Death threats were coming from everywhere, but everyone finally realizes that an attack on one will be an attack on all. Even so, an international terrorist organization like Al Qaeda or someone like Mansfield wouldn't be concerned by any such repercussions.”

“Why would they be sticking their nose into something like that?” s***h wondered.

“The IRA's been doing business with the PLO (*Palestine Liberation Organization) for a number of years now. A peace agreement would result in a major loss of revenue. Plus an attack by Al Qaeda against the UK could easily be construed as a blow against British imperialism.”

“Makes sense. Do we get tickets to the ball?”

“I want you guys to conduct surveillance outside the hotel. There will be a small security detachment in place to protect Princess Jennifer and the delegates, but the police and MI6 will not be out in force because they don't want to scare off the IRA representatives. The reasoning is that MI6, the Constabulary and everyone else would be using the occasion to update their databases. Everyone knows that the IRA will be sending their own bodyguards along with their spokesmen, so for all attempts and purposes they'll be providing security for everyone.”

“Who in hell dreamed all this up?”

“Who knows. You can be sure the Brits'll have personnel on standby for ready deployment in case of emergency, but they'll be keeping the immediate vicinity clear to allay suspicion of a double-cross. I'll bet the police would probably have warrants on half the delegates if they had their way out there. Princess Jennifer and her people gave their word, and the Brits'll have to abide by it.”

“So how are we gonna get away with loitering on the street?”

“You two'll be hanging out at the Crown Bar across the street. Keep your eyes open, find a spot by the window, go on outside for a smoke and take a little stroll. You two have been on these kinds of assignments as many times as anyone else in the Company. You know exactly what to look for. You see anyone looking like they're setting up shop you'll move in, intercept their operatives and abort the operation.”

“Will we be carrying?”

“.22 caliber pistols at best. In the event there are any British agents in the Crown Bar, I wouldn't want them putting the make on you and having you intercepted. You have to understand, this war has been going on for a long time. Lots of British agents, soldiers and cops have seen close friends go six feet under during this conflict. Everyone realizes that having IRA men walking down Great Victoria Street is going to be like parading canaries before a row of alley cats. The UDA (*Ulster Defense Association) would love to plant a car bomb in front of the hotel if it weren't for the fact that some of their top guys'll be inside. We can't prepare for everything, but having you two out near the front of the place will provide some assurance.”

“What's the Company's interest here?”

“In case you hadn't noticed, the President is Irish-American. There's nothing he'd want more than to have his name associated with a peace agreement in Northern Ireland. There's even rumors he's planning to invite Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness to the White House. If anything were to go down and you two kept it from happening, rest assured you'd probably end up with executive jobs in Langley for the rest of your careers.”

“Like you?”

“That's it. Get out.”

“Good seeing you again.”

“Give my best to the Princess.”

“Sure will.”

* * *

In the fishing village of Dundalk just outside the Irish border, Mike O'Beirne had made arrangements to meet with a special guest. O'Beirne was one of the most important IRA godfathers in Ulster, and was generally considered to be semi-retired though highly respected by the Army Councils in each major city. He had been invited as one of the IRA delegates at the meeting at the Hotel Europa, and was contacted shortly thereafter by this visitor.

Despite the fact the man came alone, Mike had three cars of four-man fire teams posted around the property. When they found out who was visiting O'Beirne they were just as alarmed as he was, yet would not think of leaving the venerated leader to his own devices. They came armed to the teeth and stared around the countryside, wondering what contingencies the visitor might have made in ensuring his own security.

“So what brings you down here to Dundalk?” Mike asked, lighting his pipe as they sat in front of his fireplace in the stately cottage. They were both comfortable on the overstuffed recliners in the traditionally furnished living room.

“Business and pleasure,” Berlin Mansfield smiled. O'Beirne would have never recognized him from the last time they met. He was no more recognizable then than he was the time before that. Mike's red hair had grayed over the past ten years, and he had wrinkled considerably as a result of the tension caused by the Troubles. He remembered Mansfield from a bombing in London, and had briefly spent time with him as the operation progressed. He hardly considered Mansfield an acquaintance, and was more than surprised when Berlin called to arrange a visit.

“What pleasure could there be in this business of ours?” Mike wondered.

“You know my father was from Belfast. My roots are here.”

“Aye, but you were born in that splendid city you were named after. This business is your trade. Those of us involved in our struggle were forced into it.”

“Come now, Mike. There are more than a few who have profited well from it. You didn't pay for this lovely abode with a laborer's pension.”

“Laborers earn their keep. Your name's appeared in Forbes Magazine alongside those of Pablo Escobar and Osama Bin Laden.”

“Sometimes people pay me to stay out of their business. Did you wonder what that car bomb in London was about the other night?”

“And why would I be privy to that information?”

“You seem kind of defensive, and not all too friendly. Is there something that has offended you?”

“You know, I've only met you once in my life. Since then you've become the second most wanted man alive. You can't blame me for being a bit tentative here.”

“Relax. Please,” Mansfield smiled. “I come here as a friend, I assure you. I would have you tell your men outside that I came alone, but I wouldn't want them to take the situation for granted.”