Skellig Michael

By George Beatty

On its surface Skellig Michael reads like a fast-paced international thriller involving crimes in high office, terrorism threats, espionage, corporate takeover battles, sex, lust, poignant romance, chase scenes, and shootouts. But readers who probe deeper may find the novel more provocative and complex than they initially thought. And in the end they may decideas the protagonists themselves dothat the rocky landscape of the novel is a metaphor for life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 25, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469118635

George Beatty

George Beatty, a graduate of Princeton and Harvard Law School, practiced law in Washington, DC from 1957 to 1987, and later moved to Denver where he and his wife now live. His previously published literary works include a novel, two essays and a poem.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

Closing Note

For Noelle

Prologue

When he was eight Michael Ardmore went to sea on board a trawler manned by his grandfather, one of his Cornish uncles, and two French cousins. They fished for three months, working their way from County Galway in western Ireland to the coast of Normandy and back, with stops on the way to sell their catch and lay in supplies. The fishing was hard work. But that was all right, Michael enjoyed it. And there were new adventures in every port, things he never would have dreamed ofdoing, like learning to talk French and meeting the Archangel.

His grandfather woke him early that day, well before sunrise. They left Cancale on the flood tide and headed east under running lights, reaching the causeway to Mont-Saint-Michel an hour before the tide crested. Michael looked up at the huge stone building towering over them. He knew it was a church, but set against the gray sky it looked more like a castle—a fortified castle an army could defend for years. He was thinking about the best way to block off the causeway when he suddenly heard his grandfather talking to him.

… fought the Devil in heaven, driving him down to earth. Look, lad, now!

The church and its spire were still in shadow, but as his grandfather spoke the first rays ofthe rising sun reached the statue on top of the spire, turning the tarnished metal into a gleaming angel: radiant, wings spread, sword uplifted. For an instant—just long enough to imprint the image in his memory for life—Michael saw the Archangel spotlighted in the darkness.

Then daylight diffused the wonder of it and his curiosity took over. What’s Saint Michael standing on? he asked.

The dragon, his grandfather said. The dragon’s the Devil, the way I explained.

But you said the Devil came down to earth. Why’s he still up there?

To show the world the saint won.

By cutting off the dragon’s head, that’s what he did?

Aye. But there’s a problem, lad.

What?

It keeps growing back.

Michael thought about that for a while. Then he looked up at the spire, now fully lighted by the morning sun. How do you know Saint Michael won if that’s what happens?

It’s confusing, I grant you, his grandfather said. He won the battle but the war’s still going on, do you see? He has to—

Granddad, we can play a game! He’s got different kinds of angels, just like an army. They attack the dragons with single jumps or double jumps, or sometimes maybe sidewise jumps, because it depends what kind of angel they are, how they jump.

A right idea, lad. Angels and dragons—it’ll be a fine Irish game. We’ll make a board together, shall we?

With a power of angels, but not too many dragons?

Aye, lad, with a power of angels.

Chapter 1

As his car neared the Key Bridge underpass on the George Washington Parkway, Charles Rockwell looked up from the memo he was reading in the back seat. Across the Potomac, to the northeast, the sun was just surfacing over the Georgetown skyline, lighting the stone turrets of the university through the heavy summer haze that had settled in a month early this year. It was going to be another blistering Washington day.

When he reached his Pentagon office at 6:30 Rockwell found a CIA courier waiting for him at the door with a sealed envelope. He signed for it, strode across the office, and sat down in a large leather swivel chair behind his desk.

General Pershing’s desk, really. He needed to remember that.

He opened the top drawer and pulled out the knife he’d brought back from Okinawa years ago. Deftly, he slit the throat of the CIA envelope to get at the contents. Thirty seconds later he hit an intercom button on his desk.

In a small room twenty yards away, Brian Callahan heard his buzzer and stopped pouring coffee in midstream. He took a quick swallow, then put his mug down and headed out the door.

Good morning, he said as he walked into Rockwell’s office. What’s—

We’ve got a problem.

Where?

Algeria. Langley’s just confirmed the report on that French-owned plant in Oran. No question, they’re producing TPZ for sale to Gadhafi.

Callahan shook his head and sat down.

How bad is it? Rockwell said.

"Worse than the plague threat in ‘82. When we got the field report last week I checked with Harrison. He says triprotylzenocide is insidious—no smell, no taste, no color, harmless and hard to identify in liquid form. But combine it with cyanic acid and all hell breaks loose.

His guys at Edgewood spent three days scoping it out on their computers. They figure a single RX-4 missile armed with TPZ and cyanic acid will produce a million cubic feet of poison gas on impact, enough to wipe out Tel Aviv or do serious damage in Cairo based on their dispersion rate analysis. Round numbers, they think one missile could kill half a million people.

Rockwell grimaced but said nothing.

Which French company owns the plant? Callahan asked.

Langley says it’s Societe Mondiale.

Desmonts again?

Who else, Rockwell said. He picked up his knife and rammed it into a leather sheath. Man’s a goddamned menace, worse than Mitterrand. Dealing with them is hopeless.

Callahan could understand the reaction. Six months ago, when they’d tried to stop Desmonts from shipping a new generation of surface-to-air missiles to Gadhafi’s ground forces in southern Libya, they had followed protocol and accomplished zilch. Rockwell had persuaded the White House to raise the issue during the President’s December meeting with Mitterrand—only to be told by the French ambassador two weeks later that Mitterrand and Desmonts had discussed the matter ‘fully and frankly, with inconclusive results.’ It figured. Why would the French government want to alienate the head of a major French company when kissing off the President of the United States was easier and less risky?

Callahan looked up, aware that he was starting to drift. His boss had lowered his head and was staring at his desk.

Thirty seconds passed. Rockwell reached for the defused 50mm shell he used as a paperweight and began shuttling it between his hands. Finally, he plunked it down on a stack of papers.

Screw the rules, he said. There’s too much at stake to let the politicians get involved.

What do you—

Off the record?

Understood.

I want to send Desmonts a message he can’t miss, simple and direct: he does the deal, he’s dead; he gives it up, no one hassles him. I’m talking about a message he can’t trace—one that’ll scare the shit out of him. Any problems, Brian?

There were all kinds of problems. But the President had brought Rockwell into the administration to get results, and Rockwell had hired him for the same reason. Who was he to raise questions? Hell, he’d skated around problems before. He could do it again.

Nothing we can’t deal with, he said. He stood and pivoted toward the door.

Minutes later he returned with a file folder which he handed to his boss. From last December, he said, when we were trying to stop the SAM deal. The CIA did a real job for us, lots of detail.

Rockwell read the CIA report and dropped it on his desk. Desmonts thinks he’s Don Juan. We should use a woman to send the message.

The way this reads, she’d have to be a knockout, Callahan said. I can’t see Kelly doing it, or Simonton either. Frankly, there’s no one else I’d trust.

What about his takeover advisor? Bennett, the American in London, she sounds—

I hate to go outside like that, someone we don’t know.

Sometimes that’s a plus, Rockwell said. She might work. Check her out.

Okay, I will, Callahan said.

He had a sudden idea. He retrieved the CIA report and opened it to the last page. After rereading the paragraph on the Frenchman’s hobbies, he shut the file folder and stood up.

I may have a way to handle this, he said. I want to make some calls from home tonight—just a few personal calls about a fishing trip.

Do I need to know—

You don’t want to know, Callahan said. Anything backfires on this project, I was off on my own.

His boss nodded at him. He nodded back, then headed for the door, taking the file folder with him.

One more thing, Rockwell said.

He stopped and turned.

That file—did you log it out?

Nope. No one’s looked at this since December.

Chapter 2

That evening Callahan tried to call one of his college roommates, a fishing guide who lived on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. When he got no answer, he called his other roommate in West Hartford, Connecticut. They talked for almost thirty minutes.

The call was the last item on his agenda. After hanging up he stripped, turned on his ceiling fan, and stretched out on his bed, falling asleep almost immediately.

A week later Callahan had dinner with an old FBI friend at the AV, an inexpensive restaurant in a marginal area ofdowntown Washington. Midway through their meal his friend handed over a plain white envelope.

Bennett’s biography, the FBI man said. Only thing that baffles us is why she’s not married. She’s smart, sexy, and straight.

Sounds promising, Callahan said. Where—

She’s been over here for two weeks, based at the Lowell in New York. Goes back to London, where she lives, on June 6th.

Do you know what flight?

PanAm 102. First class, no less.

When he got home that evening Callahan called PanAm reservations, and then Ben Goldman, the college roommate who lived in West Hartford. Could you possibly switch your plans around? he asked Ben. Postpone the fishing for a few days so Michael could go over on the sixth?

I’ve got it all set up, Brian. Changing the dates would be a real—

As a personal favor?

You put it that way, I’ll do my best, Goldman said.

If you can switch to the sixth, ticket him to London on PanAm 102, Callahan said. I pulled rank and persuaded one of their agents to make a protective first-class reservation for him—it’s in their computer as RDLX41Y. But don’t tell him I had anything to do with it, okay?

What in God’s name—

It’s time we got Michael married, Callahan said. The woman’s going to be on that plane. She doesn’t know it yet, but she just got seat 3-B, next to the one they’re holding for Michael.

Callahan hung up and nodded to himself. This was the way to play it. Show Michael the fly first, float it by him just like a natural. If he didn’t like what he saw, there’d be other ways to get the job done.

* * *

Michael Ardmore was mired in a Friday night traffic jam at JFK. From his third-row window seat he could see a long line of other 747’s on the opposite runway, waiting to take off. Stretching his lanky frame, he settled back and began flipping through his June issue of Fly Fisherman.

When he’d boarded the plane the svelte blond stewardess had looked him over, taking in his frayed denim shirt, old corduroys, and battered leather boat shoes. Then she’d smiled, as if to say that not many of her first-class passengers had the guts to dress that way, and would he like to talk later on?

Sure he’d like to talk—provided he didn’t pass out from hunger first. At the rate they were moving it was going to be 10:30 before any serious food appeared, and when it finally did come it would probably be a fiasco, some pseudo-French concoction. He’d blown his opportunity by using the ticket Ben had sent him. He should have traded it in at JFK for a rare cheeseburger with raw onions, a cold Bud, round-trip coach seats, and $5,000 in change.

Fine way to think, when he was sitting on a million bucks of Vezina Sealants stock, all because of Ben. Frigging stock was unbelievable; it must have increased fifteen percent a year since Ben took them public. And he’d borrowed what against the equity, two hundred thousand now? Amazing that a man could live that way, then leave his kids enough stock to pay off the loan and pocket half a million, all tax-free. Face it, he was damn well-off, not having to eat cheeseburgers to make ends meet.

They were swinging onto a new runway when he got a familiar warning signal. A second later cramps grabbed him. The spasms were worst in his guts, the pain so intense that he doubled over and almost passed out. He was coughing convulsively when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Can I help? his seatmate asked.

He coughed again, came up for air, and breathed deeply for ten seconds. It’s okay now, he said. Sorry if I scared you.

You sure?

Positive.

He managed to throttle himself until the pain subsided, then shifted into sleep, still sitting upright.

In the middle of the night he got up to piss. Thirty minutes later a flight attendant woke him again. We’re going to be encountering heavy turbulence for the next two hours, she said. I tried to fasten your seatbelt without disturbing you, but I couldn’t do it. He buckled up and immediately went back to sleep.

In the darkness he felt confined. Solid walls surrounded him; the air was stale. A light turned on and he saw people with blurred features standing nearby. Then it all came into focus. He was in a crowded elevator, stuck between floors of some tall building.

Time was running out. Another five minutes and he’d be late for his meeting. He knew it was an important meeting; why couldn’t he remember what floor it was on?

The elevator plummeted. He gasped for air and broke out in a cold sweat, expecting to crash at any second. But suddenly a brake kicked in, and seconds later the car stopped.

When he got out he saw the number 59 painted on the wall in front of him in bright red numerals three feet high. He would never make his meeting if he tried to walk down from the fifty-ninth floor, so he turned the corner to look for another elevator and found himself in a long corridor lined on each side with comfortable chairs, some already occupied by people he’d seen in other parts of the building. His legs gave way, forcing him to sit down in one of the empty chairs. He needed to rest; the meeting would have to wait.

How late was he? Worse yet, why couldn’t he tell the time? The clock in his head had always worked perfectly—he’d carried it with him through time zones all over the world and never had to reset it. But now it was useless.

The tall, good-looking woman seated next to him tossed her chestnut hair and pushed up the sleeve of her jacket to look at her watch, turning slightly to keep him from seeing it. Then she squinted in his direction and stuck out her tongue like one child taunting another, boasting that she knew how to tell time and he didn’t. The curved scar on the tip of her tongue gloated at him.

He couldn’t stand the sight of her any longer so he walked down the hall to take another piss. But when he opened the men’s room door he was in London. It had to be London—he was standing face-to-face with Big Ben.

He better sit down and sort this out.

on a plane, that’s where he really was, flying to London to meet up with Ben. That’s why he’d noticed the poster of Big Ben when he was walking to the head. The clock had a message for him.

He got up to take another look. Staring at the clock face, he saw that Big Ben’s hands were moving widdershins. Why? Clocks went backwards when you traveled west, but he was going east so there had to be another explanation. Was he looking at a mirror, seeing a reflection of the Big Ben poster?

Then it all clicked into place. Big Ben was moving backwards to tell him what time it was over the ocean. To warn him: dawn was coming.

Skellig Michael! he shouted, bolting awake.

His seatmate started, jerking back her arms and shoulders. Why the sudden movement? A while ago she’d stuck out her tongue, jeering at him, but then what? Had he told her off? No, it was something that happened later—when he got up to piss and was slipping past her into the aisle. He dimly recalled stumbling. Had he grabbed her to keep from falling? Grabbed her thigh, maybe?

He rubbed his eyes with the forefingers of both hands. Still clearing out the cobwebs, he said. I apologize if I gave you a rough night.

That’s okay.

I talk in my sleep sometimes. I hope I didn’t say—

Nothing to worry about. You were very polite, actually, when you stepped on my foot. Told me you’ve always been a lousy sleepwalker.

A flight attendant came by offering vodka eye openers, but they both opted for ice water instead.

What takes you to London? he asked his seatmate.

I live there now—I’ve been in the States on business. And you?

Meeting a client. I’m a guide.

That’s a new twist, she said. I’ve met all kinds of people flying the Atlantic, but never an honest-to-god guide. What—

Fly fishing.

Where do you go?

All over, he said. Norway to New Zealand.

Must be quite a life, fishing around the world like that. I used to do some—

The plane plunged. They both rose off their seats, jammed against their seatbelts. He lunged for her glass in midair but missed, knocking it sideways and drenching her with ice water.

When the plane leveled off again he could see large water stains on her silk blouse and shantung jacket, designer clothes that he’d probably ruined. Her eyes—deep, dark-brown pools that glistened on the surface—were hard to read; he had no way of telling if she was angry, annoyed, or simply surprised. There was only one way to find out. Wade in.

First I step on you, then I try to drown you. You deserve better than that.

Hey, you tried to grab it. It could have been worse. She paused for a second. Don’t go away; I’ll be back.

When she went to dry off he leaned toward his window and shaded his eyes with both hands. Far ahead of them he could see the first thin band of light, creating a horizon of clouds. Then layers of pure color that stretched across the sky. And suddenly, daylight.

Racing into daybreak this way made it a new event, distinct from mundane dawn. What was it like for the astronauts, seeing daylight explode their first time around? Maybe they got a glimpse of Genesis.

He glanced out his window again and saw a break in the cloud cover. Two minutes later patches of ocean appeared, and then the sky cleared almost completely, giving him a superb view. A mile to their left and slightly ahead of them he saw a jagged mountain peak rising abruptly from the sea.

He heard his seatmate returning. What have you spotted? she asked, anything special?

Here, switch with me, he said, stepping into the aisle to let her take his window seat. Leaning over her shoulder he said, That’s Skellig Michael, the site of an old Irish monastery. It’s one of my fav—

Ah, that’s what it was, what you shouted when you … What do you call it again?

Skellig Michael.

I’m impressed, she said. They must have really wanted to reach up to God—to live on that rock like mountain goats.

You’re right. If you ever get to western Ireland, take a boat out there and climb to the top. You’ll never forget it.

He shut his eyes for a moment. The pitch of the plane engines changed, the vibrations increased. The cool breeze on his face turned cold. And then it all came back.

He was on the deck of his grandfather’s trawler, standing watch on their third day at sea, teeth chattering, shoulders shaking in the cold morning fog. Suddenly, off their starboard bow, the fog turned dark, like thunderheads before a storm. The darkness took shape and a huge black hulk bore down on them.

A ship, he cried. We’re going to ram it!

The fog’s blinded you, lad, his grandfather called out from the wheelhouse. That’s Skellig Michael. I told you the Archangel would lead us there.

His grandfather docked at a small pier, and together they walked up the peak, climbing steep rock stairs until they came to the ruins ofthe monastery on top. Our people built three churches for Saint Michael on rocks like this, his grandfather said. This one, St. Michael’s Mount off Cornwall, and Mont-Saint-Michel in France. God willing, I’ll show you all of them before we’re through.

As they walked through the ruins his grandfather talked about their Celtic ancestors, telling him more in ten minutes than the sisters at St. Anne’s had taught him in three years. Celts everywhere were linked by culture and tradition, his grandfather said; they were