Chapter Two Thousand Five Hundred Seventy-Seven
12th August 1976
Belfast, Ireland
Having barely made it through Ohio State on an athletic scholarship and not quite good enough to go pro, Ed O’Neill had attended Law School driven by the horrifying thought of being the sort of sad sack lamenting his life having peaked while still playing ball in College or worse, Highschool, to anyone forced to listen. Seriously, no one on earth wanted to be that guy. He had discovered a real problem was that the career of a Lawyer was both exhausting and boring in equal turns though. Getting recruited by the Bureau had been one of the most welcome turns that his life had taken. They were actively looking for people who would not be hiding the little detail that being a third or fourth generation American didn’t make them any less loyal to the Kaiser and the wrong country. The result was something that Ed had seen in his class at Quantico. Recruits of Irish extraction were sought after, but there had been a large number of Blacks and Hispanics who suddenly had opportunities that would never have been available before. Ed had no idea just how far it would take him from home when he had been assigned to the Legal Attaché at the US Embassy in Dublin.
Never piss off the Gardai, remember that you have absolutely no authority anywhere in Ireland and that the Irish would remember any perceived insult until the end of time. Those were the rules that Ed had been told as soon as he had landed in Ireland. It was especially tricky for someone in Ed’s position. The Federal Bureau of Investigation was way out of its jurisdiction, so they needed the cooperation of Garda Síochána and the goodwill of people as they investigated cases with American interests involved. That was the reason for the rules and why Ed’s job was so ticklish. It was thought that because he was an Irish mutt from Ohio, Ed would have an easier time than many Americans. As he had already discovered, the truth was quite the opposite really. While maintaining stony silence in the face of Law Enforcement was a long-held tradition in Ireland and Ed had discovered that his name did not make him any friends. There was also the other occupational hazard in the form of the worst sort of scumbag in Dublin, those who were members of what had once been the Irish Republican Army but had turned to organized crime on both sides of the Atlantic, somehow being able to have the best legal representation in the form of Jack Kennedy.
It had been his tangling with Kennedy that had resulted in Ed getting sent north to Belfast to follow up on some sort of manure that Washington had cooked up. It seemed that Kennedy’s younger brother was a rising star in one of the major Irish political parties and their Justice Ministry had gotten involved. As if Ed needed more proof as to just how far the rot in Dublin went, he didn’t care if saying so was gaining him a reputation as a hothead.
Belfast though, it was an entirely different beast.
As they walked up the stairs of the apartment building that was on the sixth floor and had no elevator. Ed recalled the feeling of certain neighborhoods in Cleveland or Baltimore that he had been in where the people, the buildings and even the weather gave you the feeling that you didn’t belong there and would do anything to get rid of you. That was the feel that Ed had of Belfast as he and his partner, Thorley Grayson, who was twenty years older than Ed and through a series of unlikely events had been assigned to Ireland despite being the very picture of the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant Man from Upstate New York. He looked far more like someone who made business deals on a golf course rather than a Senior Special Agent of the FBI, that was both good and bad. Grayson seemed oblivious to the precarious situation that he and Ed had found themselves in. Walking to the end of a narrow hallway, Ed saw the address they were looking for. A steel door hung in a steel frame that was set in concrete. There was no room for a battering ram in the hallway, so nothing short of a cutting torch or explosives would make it through that door.
Grayson pounded on it with the flat of his knuckles, but where a wood door would seem ready to shake to pieces under that treatment, this only resulted in a dull thudding. A few minutes later there was the sound of several bolts being drawn and the door opened only a crack, which was only as far as the chain allowed, the occupant, a young woman with short dark hair and blue eyes peered out at them. Ed caught a glimpse of a spartan apartment, what would be expected of a University Student, which was what she was.
“Margret Morgan?” Grayson asked, holding his badge out so she could see it.
“Please don’t call me that” The woman replied in an annoyed tone that was obvious to Ed even when said with an Irish accent.
“Whatever you prefer to be called, we just have a few questions” Greyson said, and Ed figured that she was seconds from slamming the door in their face.
“What do your friends call you?” Ed asked.
“Anne” The woman replied, not taking her eyes off Greyson. It was obvious that while she didn’t trust either of them, it was Greyson who she regarded as a threat. He could also tell that everyone on this floor of the building was listening in. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if this conversation went badly.
“Okay, Anne” Ed said, “We understand that you worked at Malone’s Public House last summer, we just want to know about that.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Anne asked.
“Not much” Ed replied, “There have been questions about the Congressmen who met regularly in the banquet room there.”
“Oh” Anne said, “We were always told to keep at least an arm’s length from that lot.”
“Sure” Ed said sarcastically. For whatever reason, Washington wanted them to track down the women who had worked at the Irish themed restaurant in Boston and they all said the same things.
“Have you ever been to Berlin?” Greyson asked, probably out of impatience with what they had been getting.
“I wish” Anne replied, “I’ve heard it’s very posh.”
“Thank you, Miss Morgan” Ed said, “If you could…”
Ed was cut off by Greyson’s next question. “You understand that you are considered an American citizen, we have no record of you filing an income tax return?” He said, which resulted in the door being slammed and loudly bolted.
“Good one” Ed said to Greyson.