The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series) Read online

  Jake wondered if the water taxis would operate in these conditions, but that question was answered as a ferry eased into the dock, blasting its horn to announce its arrival.

  “How much longer?” He called into the room.

  “Don’t rush me,” Beth said from the bathroom. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes. My hair doesn’t like this humid Savannah air. I’m going to have to pin it up. Tell me about the walk-through and your meeting.”

  “Oh, nothing out of the ordinary, just Uzis scattered at the crash site?

  “Uzis? You mean, like the gun?”

  “Yes, precisely like the gun. This guy O’Rourke had two bodyguards and they were packing some serious firepower. Uzis. Beretta pistols, with silencers no less.”

  Jake walked into the room and closed the door to the balcony. “There were a few other things worth noting, too.”

  “Yeah, like what, babe?” She asked, while she struggled to fix her hair.

  “Are you asking just to placate me or are you really interested in what went on today?”

  She stuck her head out of the bathroom. “Maybe a little of both.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Come on, Jake, what other things?” She moved back into the bathroom.

  “Little things, really. After the aircraft took off from Dallas, the crew got a cabin door warning light and instead of turning around they just leveled off and made a quick stop at Longview, Texas.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “It’s certainly out of the ordinary, but it does happen from time to time. Then controller gave him a through clearance in and out of Longview.”

  Beth stuck her head out of the bathroom door. “Come on, Jake. You know I don’t know what that means.”

  “A through clearance is basically a clearance to make an approach at the airport, stop for a short time interval and a clearance to depart by a certain time. It’s what it sounds like, a clearance through an airport. But I haven’t seen a controller use a through clearance in years. It completely blocks an airport, nobody in or out until the through clearance aircraft has departed, which is something controllers usually don’t want to do.”

  Jake stepped into the doorway to the bathroom. Beth leaned forward to the mirror putting on mascara. She wore a white terry cloth robe.

  “Five minutes, Jake. That’s all I need.”

  “I’m just looking.”

  “How about the meeting? How’d it go? Was Pat boring again?”

  “The meetings are boring—not Pat. He’s just reads the same damn script with adjustments for each individual accident. It’s boring and dry. Puts everyone to sleep.”

  “Did Pat give you anything new this time?”

  “Nope. I’m working with Dave on the Structures group and heading the Air Traffic Control and Operations groups. I’ll be working with some woman named Donna Greene from the Arlington, Texas, Field Office.” Jake spun her eye liner pencil on the counter.

  “I need that Jake. Now don’t mess me up or it’ll just take longer. So, why is someone from the Arlington office on an accident in Savannah, Georgia?”

  “Ms. Greene will get the information about the aircraft and crew and the owner from Dallas. Then she’ll get the ATC data from the facilities involved and send it to me here. She’ll get maintenance logs and training records and anything else we may need.”

  She turned to Jake. “What time do you start in the morning?”

  “Seven.”

  “That’s not too early.”

  She removed her robe and hung it up in the closet. ”How do I look?

  “You look wonderful as always. Better take a coat though, it’ll get chilly tonight.”

  “How long do you think this investigation is going to take?”

  “I imagine we’ll be here at least a week, maybe more. Maybe less.”

  “Well, then I’m not waiting around. I have too much to do. I’ll stay until the day after St. Pattys then I’m going home. You’ll just have to wing it without me.”

  “Why can’t you stay? It’ll only be another couple of days after that, I’m sure.”

  “Because I sick and tired of your job always cancelling our plans. I’m making plans of my own.”

  She walked out of the room.

  CHAPTER 17

  The elevator door opened. Jake and Beth walked out into the lobby. McGill was waiting in the foyer with Ben, Dave and Carol.

  Dave shouted, “Hey, pretty boy, you noticing a common thread here? We’re always waiting around for you to show up.”

  “Whatever.” Jake rolled his eyes at the group. “Kirkland bail on us again?”

  “I made the cursory offer, but you know how he is,” McGill said. “C’mon, let’s go. The ferry’s this way.”

  The receptionist informed them that the water taxis would run until two a.m. The hours had been extended past the usual last run at midnight due to the extra crowds for the holiday.

  The group walked out the side door from the Westin. The fog had thickened to the point River Street was no longer visible, not even the glow from the lights.

  The landing was situated at the end of a U-shaped drive located between the Westin and the Savannah International Trade and Convention Center. They walked down to the ramp at the landing, as the Savannah Belles Ferry vessel Juliette Gordon Low pulled into the dock. The ferry, formerly a tug, was about forty feet long with a large black smokestack protruding upward immediately behind the pilothouse. The cabin had been converted into a seating area with painted bench seats.

  Crossing the river in the fog gave Jake an eerie feeling as the lights from the hotel dock disappeared. Although there was plenty of room inside the ferry for passengers to sit, most wanted to stand on the deck as the ferry made the crossing. Dave and Ben stood on the bow. Jake, Beth and Carol stayed inside. Carol recapped her day with the media to Beth. Jake stared out the window looking at McGill, who stood just outside the port-side door, talking on his cell phone.

  The single beam of the tug’s spotlight shone into the darkness ahead revealing nothing. After two minutes of what seemed like an eternity in the black void, the sky brightened. The lights from River Street came into view. The captain pulled the ferry up to the City Hall landing and docked next to the Hyatt.

  Jake grabbed Beth’s hand and they followed McGill and the others on the short walk up River Street to the pub. River Street, he found, was not paved but rather constructed entirely of cobblestones, historic but rough on pedestrians and vehicles. The stones were laid by slaves nearly two centuries ago and were actually ballast stones taken from the bowels of the ships as they docked on the riverfront to load cotton from the warehouses.

  Cotton warehouses sprang up along the Savannah River in the early 1800s. Carts were used to carry cotton down to the ships but kept getting stuck in the soft sand. So, Savannahians unloaded the ballast from ships returning from England and used the rocks to line the waterfront and create ramps down the bluff from Bay Street. Masonry walls were constructed along the sandy bluff lining the ramps creating a barrier to prevent erosion.

  Walkways built over the ramps were used by merchants and buyers to observe and inspect the cotton as it was carted down below. These walkways make up Factor’s Walk. Cotton merchants, or factors, built a row of warehouses along River Street between East Broad Street and Bull Street. Known as Factor’s Row, these warehouses were later converted to offices, shops, hotels, restaurants and pubs.

  River Street was bustling with tourists. Peddlers confronted pedestrians and pushed their goods.

  Still two days away, vendors were already gearing up for the big St. Patrick’s Day celebration.

  Beth smiled at Jake. “Isn’t this exciting? Look at all the stuff.”

  She pointed at an older man. “Look. He’s making flowers out of palmetto fronds.”

  Street performers lined the street playing guitars, some singing, in hopes that passersby would throw spare change into the open guitar cases. Three young black me
n sang “Amazing Grace.” A cappella.

  Jake elbowed Beth. “Get a load of this guy.” He pointed to a religious fanatic carrying his Bible in one hand and his doomsday sign in the other while shouting words from “Revelations” at the top of his lungs.

  McGill led the group up the walkway between the river and the Hyatt, avoiding the crowded tunnel for easier walking. As they came around the end of the hotel, he gestured to the first building across River Street, Kevin Barry’s Pub.

  The pub occupied the bottom two stories of a five-story building. The other stories were accessible only from the Bay Street side at the top of the bluff. The pub had two entrances on the front facing River Street with two windows between the doors. American flags, Irish flags, and POW/MIA flags hung from the roof of the second floor balcony bar. Below the windows was a row of shamrocks and musical notes, all in vivid green.

  Irish music spilled out onto the streets from the live entertainers who lent Kevin Barry’s its authenticity and Irish flavor. The group entered the main bar and a waitress cheerfully told them to find any open tables downstairs or upstairs. A U-shaped bar extended from the rear of the room towards the front with bar stools lined along the outside, fast-moving bartenders served patrons from a walkway extending down the middle.

  Beth stumbled slightly on the uneven rough-cut timber floor.

  Jake caught her by the arm. “Careful there, Grace.”

  “I don’t get out very often. Can you tell?” She said.

  They laughed.

  The dark stone and brick walls, low rough-cut lumber ceilings and low lighting added to the dimness of the room. A haze of cigarette smoke cast a halo around the lights. The group wandered around downstairs looking at pictures on the walls. The crowd was loud as they tried to talk over the Irish band playing on a small stage in another room.

  McGill located a place for them then Dave and Ben helped him push three of the round tables together to make one table large enough for everyone to sit together. They all pulled up chairs and sat down.

  The barmaid approached and pulled out her pad. “Will this be on separate tabs?”

  McGill spoke first, “Black and Tans for everybody. First round’s on me.”

  She smiled and put away her pad. “Okay, six Black and Tans it is.”

  Jake grabbed her by the sleeve. “What’s a Black and Tan?”

  She grinned. “You’ll like it. The bartender makes it with half a mug of Harp’s pale lager, and half with Guinness Draught, a dark stout beer. It’s a great combination.”

  “Sounds good—bring ’em on.”

  The waitress walked toward the bar. Jake turned to thank McGill when he noticed McGill staring at a man at the bar. The man was tall, exceptionally tall, with mile-wide shoulders and a white triangular-shaped forelock in his hair. Even in the dim lighting he noticed something strange about the man’s eyes. The irises were different colors—a brilliant sapphire blue iris in the left eye and brown in the right.

  McGill was still looking at the big man. Jake leaned in towards him and asked, “Do you know that guy?”

  The waitress returned with their first round, placing the mugs in front of McGill and Jake first before serving the rest of the group. McGill broke eye contact with the stranger, looked at Jake and shook his head. “No, he just looks freaky. I knew a family like that in Ireland, but I haven’t seen anyone like that since my aunt’s funeral.”

  Jake grinned and raised his mug. “Well, if you don’t quit staring at him, you’re gonna piss him off. He might come over here and kick your ass.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. And he looks big enough to kick it all the way back to Atlanta.”

  They laughed.

  Beth was eavesdropping. “It’s called Waardenburg’s Syndrome. It’s quite common on my father’s side of the family. I’m sure he’s probably self-conscious about it.”

  Jake looked over at the stranger again and then turned to Beth. “Maybe he’s one of your relatives.”

  He laughed and winked at McGill, then turned back toward the bar. The man was gone. He looked around the room. The stranger was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hey, Beth, does that Whataburger syndrome also let you vanish into thin air?”

  “Waardenburg—smart ass.”

  McGill laughed at Jake. “Yeah, smart ass. He’s gone now anyway.”

  The conversation at the table turned to the crash scene and some of the details that were observed during the initial stakedown. Beth and Carol objected a couple of times at the more graphic details. The conversation was interrupted periodically by the waitress as she delivered more rounds of Black and Tans. Carol raised her hand in protest and stopped drinking after the second round.

  The group got louder with each drink. Ben asked, “Who was this guy O’Rourke anyway?”

  McGill quickly spoke up. “Laurence O’Rourke is a bastard, I tell ya. When I was but a wee tyke, he started his killing for the IRA. The Irish Republican Army, for those of you who don’t know.”

  His Irish brogue now thickened by the alcohol, he said, “Mr. O’Rourke worked his way up the ranks in the IRA very fast. Innocent people died because of him. His plans backfired about as often as they succeeded. IRA men died. The Constabulary men died. He was promoted to the IRA’s internal security unit called the Nutting Squad.”

  “What’s a Nutting Squad?” Dave asked.

  “It’s like … maybe like internal affairs with the police but with much graver consequences. They police their own. Anyway, as a member of the Nutting Squad, O’Rourke killed many IRA members for squealing when the Constabulary arrested them.”

  Jake interrupted, “Sounds like you knew him personally, Pat?”

  McGill picked up his glass and looked around the table, his eyes hard. “The bastard was a ruthless murderer. He was arrested in 1978, and thrown in prison where he participated in the ‘Dirty Protest’ at the H-Block. He was released, then arrested again in 1982. And once again he was thrown in the Maze. Then in September of 1983, I did meet Mr. Laurence O’Rourke. ”

  There was a long silence as he stopped talking. McGill took several hard swallows from his fifth Black and Tan of the night. Still gazing at the ceiling, his eyes glassed over, McGill finished his story.

  “My family, my cousins’ family—we were always IRA sympathetic. Even though my uncle never participated, we supported the IRA’s efforts in many ways. In 1983, there was a prison break from the Maze and Laurence O’Rourke hid in our basement for three days while authorities combed the countryside. I was sixteen at the time. Three months later, my aunt, my cousin and I moved to the States to get away from the Troubles. We moved here, to Savannah.”

  Jake studied McGill’s face, now as grim as it had been jovial earlier in the evening, deep furrows in his brow and hatred in his eyes. “I don’t get it, what makes him so special?”

  “That’s what I’m getting to. Mind your horses…Jake.”

  Jake threw up his hands. “Sorry.”

  “O’Rourke left the internal security unit when he was appointed IRA Quartermaster General,” McGill said. “His job was to obtain, conceal and maintain the stores of weapons and arms of the IRA. Then, around 1995, he left the IRA and joined Sinn Fein where he spent several years working toward unifying Ireland. The 1998 Good Friday Peace Accord was the first real step toward peace. But even it had problems.

  “Now the IRA has disarmed. The only way there will ever be peace is through mutual giving. The unilateral disarming of the IRA …”

  McGill dropped his head and stared into his beer mug.

  Beth elbowed Jake in the ribs and taking the hint, Jake said, “Come on, folks, it’s getting late, we have a busy day tomorrow, and we should head back to the ho—”

  McGill interrupted, “A spy! Now he’s a spy. You see, it all makes sense now. All those loyal IRA men he killed or that were killed when one of his plans backfired. He was a British spy.”

  “That was this guy, the guy on our plane? I remember reading ab
out him in the paper a few weeks ago but I couldn’t remember his name. I didn’t realize that was this guy,” Dave said.

  McGill mumbled, “The bastard, the bastard.”

  The ferry ride back to the Westin was relatively quiet. McGill muttered about Laurence O’Rourke while Carol urged him to drink the coffee she had talked the bartender out of prior to their departure from Barry’s.

  Ben and Dave were talking about the accident, both making “educated guesses” about the angle of impact and speed at impact— using their hands to simulate airplanes angling downward. They discussed what time the flatbeds should show up to start removing the wreckage and relocating it to the Gulfstream hangar.