On Tuesday evening, Keenan Moynihan walked along Old Dublin Road to his flat. Tired from the long day, he talked on his cell phone with his friend and classmate, Fergus Rafferty to pass the time.
“Aye, Fergus. Tis a queer coincidence our projects all align. I talked with Dr. MacGowan this morning about it.” Despite Dr. MacGowan’s explanation, Keenan remained troubled by his discovery. He and Fergus discussed the possible connections before he went to Dr. MacGowan's office, so he didn’t violate his promise to keep the situation secret.
“So what did MacGowan say?” Fergus said.
“He said I received extra credit because I discovered the overlap. I'm not to mention it to the other lads so they can discover it for themselves. I don’t buy it, Fergus. I think he’s talking a load of Blarney.”
Keenan paused as the motor noise of an approaching vehicle behind him made conversation difficult. “Hang on, Fergus.”
The van sped ahead of where he stood before tires squealed to a quick stop. Back doors opened and two men in dark clothes and hood masks ran for Keenan.
“Shite.” Panic flooded Keenan. “Call the police, Fergus. I think thugs are after me.” Keenan panted as he ran full speed away from the toughs. His backpack, loaded with books, slowed his pace as it slapped against his back.
The straps dug into his shoulders as something grabbed and pulled him backward. He landed on his back atop the backpack. His head thunked against the pavement, and things went fuzzy. Two strong hands grabbed his arms, pulled him up, and dragged him backward.
“Oy.” Keenan’s senses returned, and he struggled to break free. “What the feck…” He flailed his legs, but the toughs subdued him. His breath fogged in the cool evening air as he panted from physical exertion and morbid fear.
“Lemme go, you fekkers,” Keenan shouted.
“Shut up, kid,” one of the masked men growled as they muscled him into the back of the van, knocking the cell phone from his hand. One thug sat on Keenan’s legs and pinned his arms to the floor. The other pulled the doors closed with a metal thunk.
The van accelerate as a foul-smelling rag covered Keenan's nose and mouth. He gasped for air twice…
Fergus listened in horror through the phone. “Keenan…Keenan…” Tires squealed, and engine noise faded. More engine noise increased before the call went dead.
Fergus ran from the dormitory toward the area where Keenan walked each day, hoping to see a sign of his friend. As he crossed the bridge, passing car headlights revealed the metal and plastic fragments in the street. The remains of Keenan’s cell phone, no doubt. Another vehicle ran over those fragments. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 112.
“Emergency Services. What is your emergency?”
“Somebody kidnapped my friend!”
“Kidnapped?”
“Yes. He and I chatted about something he discovered in our class, and he yelled something about thugs chasing him. I found what may be his cell phone smashed in the street.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m between the hospital and the university on Old Dublin Road.”
“I’ll send an officer straight away.”
* * *
A jogger discovered a body caught in the brush on the river’s edge Wednesday morning before dawn. Keenan Moynihan, face down in the River Corrib. A single bullet to the head.
CHAPTER TEN
Chief Superintendent Ciaran O’Brien studied the report on the dead GMIT student found in the river. A gunshot wound to the head left a lot of unanswered questions. This Wednesday started with a challenge. At 10:30, his phone rang.
O’Brien’s assistant, Sergeant Padraig Healy, poked his head in the doorway. “You should answer, sir. It’s the commissioner calling.”
A call from the top-ranking Gardaí official? O’Brien wondered what he did to warrant a call from the commissioner. “O’Brien.”
“Chief Superintendent. How are you this fine morning?”
The friendly greeting caught O’Brien off guard. Commissioner Seamus Kane’s authoritative tone often meant business, but this morning sounded almost pleasing. “Um…doing fine, sir.”
“Excellent. I’m sure you’re wondering why I called. I have a favor to ask of you and your department.”
“Of course, sir. What can I do for you?”
“Recent developments have led us to a possible connection between Dr. Ailbe MacGowan and cybercrime against Ireland’s largest bank. He is a professor at GMIT.”
O’Brien’s impression of a college professor didn’t match a criminal, cyber or otherwise. “A cybercrime involving a bank, you say. And this professor is the supposed perpetrator?”
“He is one of Ireland’s top computer programming instructors. His students are sought out by tech firms all over the world.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, Commissioner, how much money is involved.”
The commissioner coughed. “We have been unable to uncover any fund transfers, so no money changed hands. But we have evidence of the security breach, and the breach appears to have come from somewhere in Galway. None of the criminals in our database have the knowledge and/or skills to pull this off. A student is a possibility, but we’re betting McGowan is somehow involved.”
"I am happy to help, Commissioner. And coincidentally, joggers discovered the body of a GMIT student in the River Corrib early this morning. Details are sketchy, but we are investigating. The death appears to be a homicide.”
“Is the student connected to MacGowan?”
“We have no specifics yet, Commissioner. I received the preliminary police report about an hour ago.”
“Keep me informed about the circumstances, O’Brien. I called for another matter relating to MacGowan and his suspected involvement in the recent hacking of the Irish banking system. I contacted the British about this matter. Since Northern Ireland is still part of Great Britain, they are concerned. I believe you have two British agents at your disposal?”
