Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 44, No. 4, April 1980

At fourteen minutes past ten Condon signalled he was ready to make a deal. Superintendent Foley drew near.

“I want to talk to O’Malley.” Condon shouted.

“O’Malley? You mean President O’Malley?”

“That’s what I said. President O’Malley or no deal.” Condon closed the window.

This request caused much consternation and hot a little activity, but by eleven-thirty a helicopter landed on the stretch of grass beside Sandymount Strand. A police car took President Thomas O’Malley to the Rehabilitation Clinic.

After turning out his pockets in the glare of arc lights, O’Malley was instructed by Arne Condon to drop his coat. The President of Eire let his jacket, fall to the ground. Fine rain glued the white shirt to his shoulders.

“Take off your shoes,” Condon ordered through, the slightly open window. Sandra was asleep, her head drooping against the young man’s chest. O’Malley stooped to untie his laces. Shay Kelly stepped forward offering his arm for balance. A shot cracked. “Get back, Cop!!” Condon yelled, “That was just to let you know I’m not hangin’ in here for laughs. Okay, You!” he addressed O’Malley. “Come in through the front entrance, turn right along the corridor until you come to the door marked: INFANTS. Knock three times.”

The crowd of onlookers had eddied and changed from housewives with children to people expelled, from the pubs by closing time. Above, on a roof here and there across the street from the Clinic, a shadow separated itself from the chimney stacks. The Army sharp shooters were in position.

Shortly after midnight, Thomas O’Malley came out. There was a surge towards him and he lifted his arms to halt the advance, his movements as jerky in the photo flash as a Chaplin two reeler. Once inside the shelter where’ the parents waited, a blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, a mug of steaming coffee thrust into, his hand. Questions came all at once.

“The children seem alright,” O’Malley said. “The boy Stevie Connors and Mary Murray are asleep on a sort of floor mat. Sandra Flynn seems to be a permanent fixture on Condon’s lap.” A soft cry came from Mrs. Flynn whose face was against her husband’s tweed shoulder. “The child seems happy enough. Condon’s still in his teens. He’s not really a bad boy — just misguided. A malaise of today, I’m afraid.” He patted the woman’s arm. “No, Sandra is a dote, Mrs. Flynn, you should be proud of her. It’s the therapist, Miss Costelloe, has me worried,” He turned to Superintendent Foley. “See what you can do about getting a doctor in to her. Yvonne, the teacher-girl is doing her best but the woman is flushed and having difficulty with her breathing.”

“Yes Sir, the cardiac unit as well as an emergency van are here, have been since shortly after four o’clock yesterday evening,” Superintendent Foley sounded defensive.

“Yes. Well — they’ll do more good if the woman can be moved out to one of them. Now for his demands: Condon wants Ryan and Slattery released and brought to Dublin Airport where a 727 will be laid on with a crew and full petrol tanks. And, oh yes, he wants a million pounds — sterling — old notes.”

“Quite an ambitious ‘wants list’ for a beardless lad.” Foley’s voice was dry.

“Beardless or not, he’s the man with the clout. If everyone isn’t ready to go by twelve noon tomorrow he will shoot one child.” A woman stifled a scream, another began to cry. “An hour later he’ll shoot another and so on until his demands are met. I said I’d give him the answer as soon as possible,” O’Malley continued. “I warned him it might take awhile to get everyone concerned together let alone get an answer, but he wouldn’t give a minute past twelve.” The press, who had jammed themselves into the shelter entrance, fled to the nearest telephone or darkroom.

A television cameraman, deformed by his equipment like some surealistic hunchback of Notre Dame, taped the police car carrying the President as it shrieked a path through the bottleneck of flesh and vehicle on its way to Leinster House. Soon the parties concerned would gather within its historic walls: the Prime Minister, the Garda Commissioner, the President of the Central Bank, several Senators and officials from the State run airlines, Aer Lingus. And they would argue back and forth fully aware that by capitulating and granting Arne Condon’s demands they would be helping to make the world safe for ‘hi-jackers’, into which category by a slight stretch of the imagination, Condon fell. There was, of course, nothing else to do. Young children were at risk and not ordinary healthy children. Arne Condon’s demands would have to be met as quickly and as expeditiously as was humanly possible.

It was three a.m. by the time Shay Kelly let himself into the house on Tritonville Road. His wife, Maura, was still awake. “How’s it going, Love?” she asked as he came in. “You must be starved. It won’t take a minute to—”