Francis hotel, Friday, June 19, 1992 Leaning forward in an armchair in the living room of his suite and jabbing a finger at the two men standing in front of him, Carlo yelled, “You told me there would be no problems!” Sean, the older of the two men, seemed unruffled by Carlo’s outburst. “The plan was good. We watched the Morgans go into the restaurant. Mick stayed with the car while I boarded the yacht. No problem getting the captain to let me on. I hid the bomb in a locker. It should have exploded.” “You were sloppy!” His black eyes cold, Sean merely looked at him. “I am never sloppy,” he said. “Then what happened?” “They must have discovered the bomb before they left the dock area. The yacht needed to accelerate before the mercury switch would cause the bomb to explode.” “I’m not interested in your excuses!” Carlo raged. “And you’re supposed to be the best—ex-IRA—I’m paying you enough to do the job right!” What was he going to say to Papa? His plans were ruined.
