“If there were bugs, they’d have had an exterminator of their own.”
“They had to move fast between the time Reva received the package and the hit, then her arrival.” She combed a hand through her hair as she went over the time line. “If they moved right in maybe they swept it out. But somebody was at the Flatiron. Seems to me that an op like this, double murder, would require a small, tight team. Don’t want too many in the know.”
“It’s Homeland,” Roarke reminded her. “Orders to sweep out a private residence wouldn’t require the exterminators being apprised of the reason.”
“Just following orders,” she mumbled and envisoned the bloody mess in Felicity Kade’s bed. What kind of person gave orders for that kind of brutality? Not assassination, she thought. No way to clean up vicious, bloody murder.
“Yeah, you’ve got a point. Still, if orders did come down, they could’ve missed something.”
They worked another two hours before he convinced her it was all he could do for the night. He talked her into bed, and when he was certain she slept, he got up, went back. And did more.
It wasn’t difficult to access his file as he was already into the main. They had less hard data on him than he’d anticipated. Hardly more, he noted, than was public knowledge—or that he’d adjusted, personally, for public knowledge.
There were a number of suspecteds, allegeds, probables running through his somewhat checkered career. Most of them were true enough, but there were a few sins ascribed to him that weren’t on his actual plate.
That hardly mattered.
It amused more than annoyed him to find that twice he’d been romantically involved with an operative assigned to him in the hopes of eliciting information.
He lit a cigarette, tipped back in his chair as he remembered the two women with some fondness. He supposed he couldn’t complain. He’d enjoyed their company, and was confident enough that though their primary mission had failed, they’d enjoyed his.
They didn’t know about his mother, and that was a tremendous relief. Officially, Meg Roarke was listed as his mother, and that was fine by him. What did it matter to the HSO who had birthed him? A young girl foolish enough to love and believe in a man like Patrick Roarke wasn’t of any interest.
Especially since she was long dead.
Since they hadn’t bothered to go back that far, or dig that deep, they didn’t know about Siobhan Brody, or his aunt and the rest of the family he’d discovered in the west of Ireland. His newfound relations wouldn’t be watched or approached or have their privacy invaded by the HSO.
But there was a fat file on his father. Patrick Roarke had been of considerable interest to the HSO, as well as Interpol, the Global Intelligence Council, and other covert organizations the HSO had pooled for data. He discovered that they’d considered recruiting him at one point, but had judged him too volatile.
Volatile, Roarke mused with a dark chuckle. Well, he could hardly argue with that.
They’d tied him to Max Ricker, and that was no surprise. Ricker had been a clever man, and his network spread all over the planet, and off, with rich pockets of weapons and illegals running among other business ventures. But he’d been entirely too vain to cover all of his tracks.
Patrick Roarke was considered one of Ricker’s occasional tools, and not a particularly deft one. Too fond of the drink and other chemicals. And not discreet enough to warrant a higher position, much less a permanent one on Ricker’s payroll.
But seeing the association in black-and-white made the fact that Eve had been the one to lock Ricker in a cage all the more gratifying.
He’d nearly closed the file again when he caught a notation about travel to Dallas. The time, the place made his blood run cold.
Patrick Roarke traveled from Dublin to Dallas, Texas, on circular route and under the name Roarke O’Hara. Arrived Dallas 5-12-2036 at seventeen-thirty. Was met at airport by subject known as Richard Troy aka Richie Williams aka William Bounty aka Rick Marco. Subjects traveled by car to Casa Diablo Hotel where Troy was registered as Rick Marco. Roarke rented a room under O’Hara.
At twenty-fifteen, subjects exited hotel and traveled by foot to the Black Saddle Bar, where they remained until oh two hundred. Transcription of conversation attached.
There was more—standard surveillance reports that covered three days with the two men coming and going, having meetings with others of their kind in bars, in dives.
A great deal of drinking and posturing, and bits and pieces discussed about movement of munitions from a base in Atlanta.
Max Ricker. Roarke didn’t need the transcript to tell him both his father and Eve’s had been on the fringes, at least, of Ricker’s network. They knew the men had met, in Dallas.
Days before, he thought, only days before Eve had been found, battered and broken, in an alley.
They’d known all that, he thought, and so had the HSO.
Subject Roarke checked out of hotel at ten thirty-five the following morning. He was driven by Troy to the airport where he took a shuttle to Atlanta.
Troy returned to hotel room shared with female minor. Surveillance on Roarke passed to Operative Clark.
“Female minor,” Roarke repeated. “You bastards. You bloody bastards, you had to know.”