Free Chaos Theory by Graham Masterton Page A

throat, and that sudden rush of bright red blood.

Nine
     
    ‘ Y ou had a lucky escape, then?’ asked Denis O’Connell, as he passed Adeola a cup of coffee.
    ‘It wasn’t luck. My bodyguard took the force of the blast, and he died.’
    ‘Grim business, this sectarian violence. As if we haven’t seen enough of it here. As my old father used to say – religion, I don’t believe in it.’
    ‘I’m not so sure this was religious. I don’t honestly know why that young man wanted to kill me. One of the inspectors from Al Ameen said he was half-Albanian and half-Greek, and that he had flown to Dubai from Athens. For the express purpose of assassinating me, it seems.’
    ‘Well, I suppose you never know with these Middle Eastern characters,’ said Denis O’Connell. ‘They have some very curious politics, I’d say. At least in Ireland we know where we stand. Whatever it is, we couldn’t care two monkeys about it.’
    Adeola was meeting with Denis O’Connell on the last leg of her trip back to the United States. They were sitting in the gloomy, high-ceilinged lounge of the Parknasilla Hotel in County Kerry. Outside the window the sky was grey and overcast, and palm trees rustled in a strong, damp wind.
    Denis O’Connell was a short, thickset man with curly black hair. His eyes were bulging and bright blue, and he had a bulbous nose that looked as if God had been left with a little too much nose-putty but blobbed it on regardless. He wore the tan pants from an expensive Italian summer suit, and a blue striped shirt by Charvet, the same French tailor who used to make shirts for the late Taoiseach Charlie Haughey. He was drinking a Beaune that retailed at 345 a bottle.
    Adeola said, ‘What about Paraguay? You obviously care quite a few monkeys for what’s been going on there.’
    ‘I was in Ascensíon only the once, two years ago.’
    ‘And you said your devotions in the Cathedral Blas San de Dia.’
    ‘Yes, I did. And what a wonderful building that is. Very inspiring. I only wish my dear old mother had still been alive to see it.’
    Adeola looked across the lounge. In the far corner, Rick and Nesta were sitting, with a tray of coffee between them, staring out of the window like a married couple who could no longer think of anything to say to each other. Adeola knew that close behind her, where the archway led through to the bar, Miko was stationed, and that Jimmy and Charles were keeping watch outside. This might be a highly respectable hotel on the south-west coast of Ireland, but her security arrangements here at Parknasilla had to be as tight as they were in Prague or Panama City.
    Adeola said, ‘I wonder what your mother thought of the company you were keeping when you said your prayers that morning. Five Muslims. Strange place to meet with Muslims, the largest Roman Catholic cathedral in Paraguay . . .’
    Denis O’Connell gave her a sly smile. ‘They were my hosts. They were doing nothing more than showing me the sights, so they were. And very gracious they were too.’
    ‘You wouldn’t have been discussing a possible trip to Paraguay by Michael Doody and Vincent O’Donovan to train the Jihadi in the making of explosive devices?’
    ‘Adeola, I’m shocked that you should even think such a thing! The idea of it! And who told you?’
    Adeola didn’t look amused. She was wearing a black trouser suit today and a grey silk shirt, with no jewellery apart from a three-stranded pearl necklace. She knew what a clown Denis O’Connell could be, and she had wanted to appear as grave as possible. There was nothing funny about Muslim terrorists using the mountains of Paraguay as a hideout and a training camp. Operatives from Al-Qaeda were there, as well as Hezbollah, and Hamas, and Islamic Jihad. German intelligence had called the area ‘a ticking time bomb’.
    ‘Denis,’ said Adeola, ‘I know that I’m not going to change your political affiliations, nor am I trying to. But I’m asking you not to