“Wilde’s Pub. Check it out tomorrow night. He’ll be expecting you. Your husband, Rod, is the key. Introduce yourselves.”

“Will do, sir.”

“And Sterling, never talk about the mission in public. Keep the conversation to unrelated topics. Music, backgrounds, etc. You never can tell who is listening.”

“Yes, sir. Rod and I both received extensive training related to this mission. We are aware of being cautious in public.”

"Outstanding. Give Rod this number. Use it if needed, but use Pearson or Cross as your primary communication link with me.”

“Got it, Chief.”

“Best of luck to you both,” O’Brien disconnected the call.

Wyl tapped the screen on his phone to disconnect. “It begins.” He gazed at Rod. “We’re meeting our contact tomorrow tonight at Wilde’s Bar.”

“Talk to me,” Rod said.

“O’Brien gave us a cell phone number to use for contact with him. Add this number to your phone.” Rod took his phone and keyed in the number Wyl dictated. “Use it only when necessary. We have another contact we will communicate with on a regular basis.”

“Who?”

“A musician named James Pearson. British. Lives in this complex. He plays at Wilde’s Bar, a gay pub. We’ll go tonight for supper and a pint and introduce ourselves when he takes a break. He’s expecting us. You’ll be the primary point of contact with him.”

“Me?” Rod’s surprise came out in his facial expression and voice tone.

“You’re the musician, babe. You and he speak the same language.  You are becoming friends with outsiders because of your common music background.”

For the first time, Rod realized the entire mission resembled a game with strict rules where losing may result in death.

“As far as the public is concerned, we’re a happy gay couple in Galway for a few weeks on our honeymoon.”

"Not much of a stretch,” Rod smiled. “Playing the honeymoon role won’t be a challenge, but…” Rod frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Wyl grasped Rod’s hand.

“Should we be armed?” Rod wondered what lay ahead.

“Not unless we encounter life-threatening situations. Guns can protect, but they can also draw attention. Gay honeymooners would not carry guns.”

Rod nodded. “I hoped for a no answer.”

“Let’s go check out the city. We can eat lunch while we’re out.”

“I’m eager to show you Ireland. Let’s start with the City Centre. Lots of shops and several pubs to choose from for a delicious meal.”

Wyl pulled Rod into a warm embrace. “Babe, Ireland will be fabulous because you’re here to show me. This is not how I pictured us traveling to a foreign country for the first time or our honeymoon, but I’m glad we’re here.”

Rod gazed into Wyl’s green eyes. “There is no place I would rather be than with you. Now grab your jacket, and let’s go.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

After lunch on Wednesday, Ailbe’s office phone rang. He glanced at the display. Dr. Riordan. The university president funneled information through one of the deans. This must be important. He cleared his throat and answered the call. “Dr. MacGowan.”

“Dr. MacGowan, President Riordan requests your presence in his office,” Dr. Riordan’s secretary said.

“May I ask what time?”

“Now would be ideal.”

“I will come as quick as I can.” Ailbe grabbed his coat and headed across campus to the Administration Building, a five-minute walk. The urgency of the meeting and the direct communication from the president’s office made him edgy. What happened for him to be summoned by the president? Not sure what to expect, Ailbe entered the President’s office suite. “Dr. MacGowan for Dr. Riordan.”

“One moment, Dr. MacGowan.” The secretary telephoned the president, and within seconds the office door opened.

“Ailbe…thanks for coming.” President Liam Riordan motioned into his office. Despite his six decades on the planet, he stood an imposing, statuesque man. Well-dressed and confident, he offered his hand.

Ailbe shook his hand as he entered the office. “I am pleased to meet with you again, Dr. Riordan.”

“Please, sit. I’m afraid I have rather tragic news to share with you.”

“Oh?” The leather creaked as Ailbe sat in one of the tufted leather chairs in front of the president’s desk. The so-called tragic news had reached him as soon as the deed occurred and Declan received the call.

Dr. Riordan sat in the other leather chair and faced Ailbe. “Garda found one of your students dead in the River Corrib this morning. They have little to go on.”

Knowing he needed to show surprised concern, he pinched between his eyes before focusing on the president. “I’m shocked, Dr. Riordan. May I ask which student?”

Dr. Riordan nodded, “Keenan Moynihan.”

Ailbe creased his brow in a feigned troubled expression. “One of my best students. His fellow students admired him. He anticipated a promising future in computer science. Did Garda find any leads at all?”

Dr. Riordan shook his head. “The tragedy is so far a complete mystery, Ailbe. University records show Mr. Moynihan possessed a clean background and excellent family support. I speculate it involved a mistaken identity.”

“I appreciate you sharing this tragic news with me, Dr. Riordan. I am shocked. My heart goes out to Keenan’s family. Can I do anything to help?”

“No, Ailbe, I wanted to share this unexpected event with you myself.”

“Thank you, Dr. Riordan. I will share the news with Keenan’s classmates. If I can help Garda, I am available.”

“I appreciate your concern and offer of assistance, Ailbe,” Dr. Riordan stood and offered his hand. “Please inform me of anything from Keenan's classmates. Sometimes, they can make a comment which gives us a lead.”

Ailbe shook the proffered hand. “I will keep my ears open, Dr. Riordan.”

* * *

Over an afternoon pint at O’Connell’s, Ailbe shared the news with. “I received a called to the president’s office today. He told me of Garda finding Keenan’s body in the river. Brilliant piece of work, Declan. Gardaí are stumped.”

Declan listened and smiled as Ailbe complimented his work. “That’s what mates are for, to handle problems. Oh, I’ll need to return the favor one day, but at least we made a point.”

“We did,” Ailbe said. “You should have seen their faces when I told the other students.” He took a sip of his cold Bulmers. “They are a frightened bunch of lads.”