The woman, with flecks of gray in her hair and apprehension filling her round brown face, carefully approached and untied McBride‘s gag.
“Thank you, sister. And isn‘t it a good deed you‘ve done for me this fine morning?”
8:05 a.m.
Joe O’Reilly cleared his throat with a little cough, gaining the others’ attention. “The trial is over. We need to move on to the sentencing. Protocol calls for a firing squad. Somehow, I don‘t believe that would be meeting with the American authorities‘ approval. As the presiding officer of the court which convicted him, I‘m open to suggestions.”
O‘Reilly nodded as Dermot raised his hand. “Let‘s do him like he did John Devoy. Flat on the floor and stick a bullet in his ear.” O’Reilly noticed several men silently nod approval.
Hugh O’Donnell quickly spoke up. “A bullet in the brain is too clean and quick for the likes of Tommy McBride. I say we stick a pole up his arse till it comes out his mouth and then roast him slowly over a bonfire on the beach.”
O’Reilly laughed along with his men. “And wouldn‘t you be thinking that McBride has that waiting for him in eternity anyway? The local fathers wouldn’t approve a bonfire that big.”
Even before the trial, knowing that a firing squad was not feasible, O‘Reilly had been giving thought as to how Tommy McBride should die. The problem was, Joe really wasn‘t a killer. He had been Mick‘s assistant, not an Apostle. That is why O’Higgins had put him in charge when he reconstituted the Squad. “You‘re a bright lad, Joe,” Kevin had said. “You were always at the Big Fella‘s side. You had to have learned something even if, like me, you didn‘t shoot anyone.” But he hadn‘t learned enough, O’Reilly thought, to come up with a suitable death for Tommy McBride.
O’Reilly had heard the Big Fella promise Cockran that McBride‘s death would not be easy. But what the hell did Mick mean by that? O’Reilly didn‘t know. He wished he did.
O’Reilly looked over at Bobby Sullivan, who was sitting wordlessly in the corner, his face expressionless. He hadn‘t forgotten that Bobby had been the first one to offer Cockran a weapon back in Los Angeles after McBride had confessed to killing Cockran‘s wife.
“Bobby, would you be having any suggestions?”
“Aye, I would. Thanks for asking. I‘ve got ideas both as to how. And who. Let‘s discuss the ‘who‘ first. Because if I can‘t persuade you that I‘m the one to do it, you can all go to hell and figure out your own way. Agreed?”
The other men murmured and O’Reilly said, “Go ahead, we‘ll hear you out.”
“I have an older sister named Mary. She lives alone now in Dublin. Waits tables at Bewley‘s. But when she was married, she still lived in Donegal. There was a bank robbery. She was taken hostage by Tommy McBride and his gang. Raped by all of them. Thank the Lord, we got her back but she was never the same. The doctor said she must have been barely four weeks pregnant when it happened but, after McBride and his boys finished with her, she lost the child a month later and couldn‘t have more. Donegal Town is not a large place. Everyone knew what happened to her. Her husband was Joe Flaherty. The craven bastard told me he couldn‘t bear all the whispering behind their backs. Said it was always worse for the man when it happened to his woman. Imagine! He couldn‘t bear it! What did he think Mary was going through? So they moved to Dublin and within six months her husband left her and moved to America. Bought himself an annulment. Claimed they never lived as man and wife. That‘s one of the reasons I signed up for this mission, Joe. I won‘t be traveling back with you boys. Not before I make a little side trip to Detroit to pay my respects to my former brother-in-law.”
O’Reilly watched as Bobby Sullivan smiled for the first time in a long while. A cold smile. He knew all the Apostles were killers, but he never wanted that smile directed at him.
“Tommy McBride is an unexpected bonus and wouldn‘t I be kicking myself if I passed up the chance to take care of him as well? So, is it agreed? Am I his executioner?”
O’Reilly looked at the other three. “All those in favor, raise your right hand.”
Four hands shot into the air as one and O’Reilly said “It‘s unanimous. Now, tell us how.”
Bobby smiled again, a smile that made you glad you weren‘t his former brother-in-law.
“And would you be up for some fishing with an old sailor I met the other day from Donegal?
8:15 a.m.
Tommy McBride looked down at the unconscious housekeeper. The dumb biddy had said she was going to tell her hotel manager about the poor man kept bound in his room. He had grabbed her from behind and choked her until she passed out. She was breathing evenly now but she would stay silent for a while. From the laughter through the thin walls, he thought they were all in the next room. Soon, a guard would be reposted outside his room. Fortunately for him, they had not taken his wallet. He didn‘t expect there were taxis in this part of town but if he could steal a motorcar and make his way to the train station, he was home free.
McBride checked his appearance in the cracked mirror. He winced. The ugly red blotches on his face were almost gone but one of his eyes was still half closed. He looked like he had come out on the short end of a bar room brawl. On the waterfront, he just might fit in.
McBride quietly opened the door and cautiously peered out, looking both ways. He quietly closed the door behind him and walked softly down the hall. When he reached the exit door and opened it, he abandoned all caution, tearing down the steps two at a time. He went from the third floor to the first in less than thirty seconds. Slightly out of breath, he paused to regain his composure before stepping out into the dingy, threadbare lobby.
“Your key, sir?” the desk clerk said as McBride walked to the hotel‘s front entrance.
“My friends are still upstairs. I left the key with them. They‘ll be down soon.”
Five steps later and McBride was free. The skies outside were overcast and a light drizzle was falling. McBride turned up the collar of his shirt, pulled his soft cap lower and began his search for a motorcar. His search was soon rewarded. One block away from the waterfront, he found a beat-up Model A pick-up truck parked just off the street in a dimly-lit alley.
In the rain, no one else was around. The truck driver was doubtless inside the small bar one door down. The only establishment which showed any signs of life. McBride was pleased. Luck was with him. Maybe the keys would even be in the truck. It didn‘t matter. Crossing the ignition wires would pose no problem. McBride had done it before.
The truck‘s engine coughed to life and McBride eased in the clutch and moved the truck slowly forward. McBride was ten feet from the alley‘s end when a large black Chevrolet pulled to a halt, blocking the alley. His eyes widened in fear when the driver‘s door opened and a man stepped out, a silenced automatic pistol in his right hand. He remembered well those cold blue eyes, that hard face, that broken nose. McBride knew that even if that merciless bastard were cutting his heart out, his expression would never change. He didn‘t know why he believed that. He just knew he was lucky to be alive after the same man had caught him escaping. He also knew he never wanted to be alone in the same room with him again. Ever.
His hands frozen to the wheel, McBride watched as he walked up to the truck.
“Top of the morning to you, Tommy,” he said in a flat, neutral tone. “We missed you. We had a special treat planned. Keep your hands in plain sight and step down from the truck.”
McBride did so and then it happened. He hadn‘t believed it possible. The man smiled. McBride shivered. He couldn‘t explain why but he wanted him to stop smiling.
75.
I Wasn’t At No Bloody Trial
Pacific Ocean off San Diego
Sunday, 25 August 1929
11:00 a.m.
Tommy McBride awoke with a splitting headache. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs but it only made his headache worse. His arms were bound behind him. His feet were tied as well. He was wearing some kind of life preserver.
It was bulky and the collar kept him from resting his head against the wall. As his thoughts began to clear, he could see he was below decks in some kind of boat. His senses returning, he noticed that it reeked of fish.
The hold of the boat was dimly lit through several grimy portholes. He heard a noise and then a hatch opened, sunlight streamed in and one of the bloody Free Staters came down the ladder. He severed the bonds around his ankles and roughly pushed him up the ladder. It was a glorious day. A high blue sky, temperature in the high-seventies, a light breeze at ten to fifteen miles per hour. McBride squinted, adjusting his eyesight to bright sunlight. McBride could see he was on a fishing trawler that had endured many years of hard service.
The other four members of Michael Collins‘ old Squad were assembled at the stern of the vessel. Joe O’Reilly and his captor from that morning were standing near the stern of the boat talking to two others McBride didn‘t know. The other two men were reaching into a bucket tossing large chunks of raw meat over the side of the boat. The man behind him pushed McBride roughly forward, bringing him to a halt.
O’Reilly spoke first. “Tommy McBride, you have been tried and found guilty in a court martial convened by the Irish Republican Brotherhood for the murder of John Devoy.”
“What trial?” McBride asked. “I wasn‘t at no bloody trial.”
“The prisoner will remain silent while sentence is passed or I will have you gagged,” O’Reilly said in a quiet voice. “You have also been tried and found guilty for the rape and murder of Nora Cockran, the wife of a member of the Squad.”
“Go on, you‘re joking. When was that bastard ever a member of your murder gang?”
McBride‘s headache intensified as a big fist reached around from behind him and cuffed him hard on the side of his head. “That‘s your last warning, boyo.” Bobby Sullivan said.
O’Reilly resumed speaking. “Finally, you have been tried and convicted for the rape of Mary Flaherty, the sister of a member of the Squad.”
“Who the fuck would she be? I can‘t be responsible for every Irish lass who drops her knickers and invites me inside. Besides, it‘s not rape if they enjoy it and I‘ll bet she did. I know I brought Cockran‘s whore off and I‘ll wager I did the same with Mary whatshername.”
McBride howled as he felt a searing pain in his right thigh. He looked down at a thin metal rod protruding from the middle of his leg attached to a thin filament. He looked up to see the man with a broken nose smiling at him. In agony, he watched while the man calmly placed another spear into the front of a long pistol-like device.
“The sentence, Joe, the sentence. Let‘s hear it. I‘ve got work to do,” the man said.
“The sentence for each crime is death in the manner chosen by the designated executioner which, in your case, Tommy, is Bobby Sullivan.”
McBride chilled. It couldn‘t be. It just couldn‘t be. Yet, he thought through the pain, he dimly remembered that the bank manager in Donegal had been named Michael Sullivan, a prominent Free State supporter. They had robbed his bank two weeks after the job in Galway. Mrs Flaherty, the bank manager’s newly wed daughter, was the second woman on Blackthorn‘s list and McBride‘s second Free State spoil, his first shag after the Cockran woman. Once he had taken his turn with her, he had urged the others on, telling them with a laugh, “Have at her, boys. There‘s plenty of room left in the banker‘s daughter. Her treasure vault is wide open to take more deposits.” McBride felt his bladder release once it dawned on him that Mary Flaherty‘s maiden name was Sullivan, the same name as the cold-eyed, spear gun-wielding Apostle in front of him.
“Move him to the edge,” Sullivan directed. “Make sure his wrists are secured.”
The trawler had slowed to five knots and McBride could hear Bobby Sullivan clearly. “I‘ve been doing some reading in the last few days, Tommy. About the fish in these waters. There‘s tuna, dolphin, swordfish. Even sharks. People are afraid of sharks, you know that, Tommy? They think sharks attack humans. But that‘s really not true. Sharks only feed on other fish. They never sleep. They don‘t attack humans as a rule unless they mistake you for a fish. Or, possibly, if you‘re bleeding from a wound.”
McBride chilled again and looked down at the growing red stain on his pant leg..
“I‘ve also read,” Sullivan continued, “that a shark attack is relatively painless.”
Sullivan smiled. “And wouldn‘t you want to be knowing why? It seems that the first chunk they take out of you, your system goes into shock, and you’re numb after that. But I also read that this doesn‘t always happen if your system has suffered an injury before the shark attack. In that event, your system is already dealing with the initial injury so that any more damage simply intensifies the pain.”
McBride watched in horror as he saw the face of Bourke Cockran appear beside Bobby Sullivan who turned and offered the spear gun to him. My god, no! McBride thought.
“Thanks, Bobby,” Cockran said quietly, “but this is your show. Anything I‘d do would be too quick and painless. Besides, Joe told me about your sister. You go ahead.”
Sullivan nodded and, with no further warning, fired the spear gun once more. McBride screamed in agony again as the spear point ripped into the tender area where his groin merged into the top of his right thigh. More blood spurted.
“It‘s time to go shark hunting, boys,” Sullivan said. “Toss him over the side. I think he‘s bleeding enough now but get more raw meat out of the storage locker and toss it overboard with him, just in case.”
McBride pleaded with the others to shoot him; to let him die now. Cockran turned his back. The only reply was Bobby Sullivan‘s cold voice, “You lived like an animal, McBride. Now die like one. Do it, boys.”
The water was surprisingly warm, McBride thought as he landed on his back, sunk beneath the surface and bobbed back up. Once he did, the collar of the life preserver cushioned his head and kept it tilted at an angle out of the water. He watched as the trawler slowly turned and headed back toward the distant shore. He shouted for them to stop; to come back. To let him die like a man. But, in only ten minutes, the trawler was a distant speck on the horizon and Tommy McBride was alone. The last two human faces he saw were Bobby Sullivan and Bourke Cockran standing at the trawler‘s stern, both men staring at him with open, cold and expressionless eyes.
McBride floated on his back in the placid sea. The salt water coming in contact with the wounds from his dual impalement increased his pain. With his hands tied behind him, he could do nothing; he was helpless; all he could do was float there, bleed and wait. It seemed like forever since they had left him. The sun beat down on him and his lips were parched and cracked. Once, he blacked out, only to awaken with a start, fresh pain reminding him where he was.
McBride was surprised he never saw the shark‘s fin. Instead, he was startled when he felt a bump, and then another. The third time wasn‘t a bump. It was a bite, but much more than a bite. A large, flesh-rending tear which ripped away a good portion of his upper leg. Sullivan had been right. His system didn‘t shut down with shock. And the pain, which he thought he couldn‘t bear before, only intensified as a second shark joined the first.
No one heard him scream.
3:30 p.m.
Cockran stood at the boat‘s stern looking back. The sun was lower in the sky. Sullivan had walked away and the other men kept their distance, sensing his need to be alone. It was over, he thought, at last it was over. Perhaps the healing could begin again. Without the infection of McBride and Smythe beneath, the scar tissue this time should be stronger. He thought of his father who had lost two young wives. The second, Cockran‘s mother, had died giving birth to him. But his father had loved the son whose birth caused her death, even though his heart had been broken. Eventually his heart healed and twelve years later he married Anne Ide, a good woman, the wife who had finally outlived him. Nora was gone only seven years now. He had his revenge at last. But more importantly, he now realized, he had time for Mattie to decide if hi
s good points outweighed the bad. With revenge out of the way, he had time to accomplish something more with Mattie. He had his father‘s example to follow.
For the first time in a long time, Cockran felt light-hearted. It was only three more weeks until Paddy came home. He couldn‘t wait. They had sand castles to build. He hoped Mattie would be there with them. A Scot should know all about castles.
76.
He Didn’t Finish The Scone
Dublin, Ireland
Friday, 27 September 1929
8:30 a.m.
A tall, gaunt man, wearing a dark suit and wire-rimmed spectacles, sat alone in a corner in the back room at Bewley‘s enjoying a full Irish breakfast served by his favorite waitress, Mary Sullivan, a bright ray of sunshine who always seemed so cheerful and happy no matter how gloomy the day outside. Bacon, sausage, fried eggs, tomatoes, toast, marmalade and a scone he was saving to conclude the meal, all accompanied by a pot of Irish breakfast tea. He was more than mildly concerned. He was agitated. He should have heard something before now. He should have heard something at least two, if not three, weeks before. He wasn‘t certain how next to proceed, but he knew something had to be done. Four million dollars was a serious matter.
“I don‘t want to spoil your breakfast but I thought you might find this interesting.”
Eamon de Valera stopped his fork in midflight, placed the bite of egg back on the nearly empty plate beside the still untouched scone, and looked up into the face of Kurt von Sturm.
“You! What are you doing here?” de Valera asked.
Sturm smiled. “I‘m on holiday. I plan to do a spot of fishing. Ireland is such a beautiful country in the fall. Don‘t you agree?”
“Where is my money?” de Valera asked. “Where is McBride?”
The DeValera Deception Page 39