The rain came down in a fine, cold mist. But that didn’t deter Major Colin Stewart from walking the drafty ramparts of the castle, his afternoon ritual.
With his hands cocked behind the protective confines of his rain slicker, Stewart briefly halted when the distinctive booming blast of an artillery piece sounded a single time nearby. He didn’t have to look at his wristwatch to know that it was one p.m. As he glanced over the stone wall beside him, he could just make out Princess Street through the mist. The wide paved thoroughfare was crowded with buses, trucks, and automobiles.
On the sidewalks scurrying pedestrians continued on their ways, oblivious to the inclement weather.
Modern buildings lined this walkway, and the major knew that he was looking at the dynamic new face of the ancient city of Edinburgh.
A wet gust hit him square in the face, and he turned his back on it to continue his introspective stroll. The outside world took on a radically new perspective when viewed from the walls of the castle. It was almost as if time halted here, allowing one to see it as a continuous flowing stream, with the tides of history providing the current.
The major’s current concern was centered on the daring robbery attempt that had recently occurred here.
He had only just learned the identity of the young intruder who was shot to death during this attempt.
Army intelligence, with the help of Scotland Yard, was able to match the deceased’s fingerprints with those of one Patrick Callaghan of Belfast. The twenty-four-year old had a long record of criminal activity, starting at the age of fifteen, when he was convicted of petty larceny.
After a brief stay in a detention home, he was again arrested, this time at the age of seventeen, for car theft. This brought him a two-year prison term.
Callaghan served only eighteen months of this sentence.
Following his early parole, he began working as a lorry driver and stayed relatively free from trouble, except for a minor conviction for public drunkenness.
Yet it was most likely at this time that he joined the Irish Republican Army.
It was on the eve of his twenty-first birthday that he was arrested outside of Armagh with a truckload of stolen Armalite rifles and ammunition. An IRA informer revealed that Callaghan had been very active in the organization and had smuggled many more than one load of weapons over the border in the trucks he drove. Though this fact could never be proved, Patrick Callaghan was convicted of gun-running and sent to Long Kesh for a five-year term without the possibility of parole. While in prison, he met Bernard Loughlin, the founder of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. Originally formed as a militant offshoot of the IRA, the IRB was philosophically a Marxist organization with close ties to terrorist groups in Libya and the Middle East. When Loughlin escaped from Long Kesh, Patrick Callaghan was at his side; a helicopter swooped down and carried them off to safety. Both men had since been at large and were believed to have participated in a number of snipings, car bomb attacks, and robberies in both the Republic of Ireland and the north.
There was no doubt in Colin Stewart’s mind that Callaghan was a bad seed from the very beginning. He was just the type that terrorist organizations such as the IRB loved to recruit, and his premature demise was certainly no great loss. Yet what really bothered Stewart was the fact that such a renowned terrorist was currently doing his dirty deeds on Scottish soil. Except for a few minor incidents in the past, the Irish “troubles” hadn’t paid their country a visit.
Scotland was primarily populated by a conservative Protestant element. To the average Scot, the religious war that had been plaguing Northern Ireland for centuries was a wasteful, foolish mess, one they wanted no part of. Colin remembered well an incident that occurred in Edinburgh several years ago, when a trio of IRA sympathizers were loose in the city, trying to stir up public support for their cause. Spray-painted revolutionary slogans soon covered almost every vacant wall in the city. Yet when a young Welsh soldier was shot to death while hiking Arthur’s Seat and a car bomb was found inside a car parked outside the castle, the people had had enough. With a minimum of commotion, a committee was formed to deal with the problem.
And the very next morning, all three IRA agents were found hung by their necks from light standards behind Usher Hall. That was the supposed end of the troubles in Edinburgh.
Was Patrick Callaghan’s presence inside the walls of the castle the other night indicative of a change of terrorist policy? Colin Stewart shuddered to think of the consequences for Scotland if this was true. Until more intelligence information was received, he could only pray that this was an isolated incident. Perpetually short of money to fund their revolution, the IRB most probably thought they could get away with carrying off the Scottish crown jewels. But now one of their ranks lay cold in the morgue, the royal regalia still secure as ever in their resting place as they had been for hundreds of years past. Surely they got the message that such a fantastic operation was ill-conceived from the very start.
Sincerely hoping that this was the case, Colin Stewart climbed down to the rampants that graced the western walls of the castle. The mist had all but stopped now, and he could just make out the harbor area and the gray waters of the Firth of Forth in the distance.
When he was active in the SAS, anti-terrorist operations had been his specialty. He had been at the Iranian embassy in London on May 6, 1980, when the SAS interceded to save the lives of twenty-one frightened hostages. As a devout student of religious fanaticism, he understood the warped sense of values that such groups based their actions upon. The only way to control such an organization was to root it out at its very base. That’s why Stewart’s next great concern was tracking down Patrick Callaghan’s accomplice.
Somehow this individual had succeeded in escaping from the heretofore all but impregnable confines of Edinburgh Castle. He was last seen scurrying over the walls of the Half Moon battery, where a blood trail led them as far as the gatehouse. The sentries there reported sighting no trespassers. But unless he just disappeared into thin air, he managed to elude them and vanish into the surrounding city.
Stewart immediately notified the metropolitan police.
He then personally called the local hospitals and clinics, who spread the word to every doctor in the city to report the treatment of any suspicious gunshot wounds to the castle at once. When twenty-four hours passed and these efforts failed to show results, Stewart feared the worst.
Still not ready to throw in the towel just yet, he received permission from headquarters to expand the search. To determine his next move,
Stewart tried to think like his prey. Since he now knew that the man was most probably Irish, there could be only one place where he would be attempting to flee to, and that was home. Now the Highlander had only to figure out how the wounded terrorist would manage such a feat.
The only way he’d be able to return to Ireland was by sea or air. If he chose to travel by sea, there could be any number of places where he could depart from.
Stewart would begin by asking army intelligence to initiate a sweep of every port on the western shore of Scotland, with most of their effort to be centered on Glasgow. Certainly a wounded young Irishman was bound to draw some attention, especially if he utilized public transportation.
Plane travel would be a bit easier to monitor. Since there were only so many airfields in the vicinity, they could be intensively covered. Again they would concentrate their efforts at the major public airports in Glasgow, Prestwick, and Edinburgh. Here passenger manifests could be scrutinized and all flights to Ireland carefully screened.
Since there was always the possibility that he’d attempt chartering a small plane from a private field, Colin Stewart would ask assistance from the R.A.F. One of their Nimrod AWACS platforms was on continuous patrol over the Irish Sea and would have a taped record of every single flight headed westward. In this way they could track down any unauthorized aircraft that left Scotland without filing an official flight plan.
Though
the possibilities were still very good that he would manage to escape their dragnet, Colin Stewart felt that it was absolutely necessary that they at least made the effort. A serious wrong had been done when one of the most hallowed shrines in all of Scotland had been violated. One of the perpetrators had already paid the ultimate price for this folly. And if Major Colin Stewart had anything to say about it, his accomplice would soon feel the iron hand of Scot justice also.
A little over two hundred miles to the southwest of Edinburgh castle lay the green rolling hills of County Caven in the northern portion of the Republic of Ireland.
Primarily made up of small farms. County Caven was a relatively poor district, where potatoes and lamb provided basic subsistence.
It was sixty-two years ago that a Belfast-based surgeon moved his new wife and infant son out of the city and into County Caven. He chose a two-hundredandfifty-acre plot of land outside the village of Cootehill on which to build his new home. No expense was spared on this estate, which included a magnificent manor house, barn, and several cottages for the help.
Here he planned to raise his newborn boy as a country gentleman, far away from the pollution and sectarian violence that had made Belfast all but uninhabitable.
No sooner was the last brick of the estate laid when the Great Depression hit Ireland with a vengeance. The surgeon had been planning to augment his medical practice by raising sheep and produce. But the new economic climate made such a dream impossible. After his savings were drained, he was forced to return in earnest to his old trade. He became a traveling country physician, going from village to village treating the sick, who most often could only pay him in trade goods, the setting of a broken leg costing a chicken and so forth. Meanwhile, his wife was charged with the vast responsibility of attempting to wring some sort of nominal existence from the land they had settled upon. As the years passed, she succeeded in this challenging endeavor, though the cost of this triumph drained her energy and ultimately broke her resolute spirit. was well into his forties, though no one knew his exact age for certain. One only had to take a close look at his face to know that he had seen much of life in his years. There were deep character lines etched on his cheeks, and with a black eye patch that covered his right eye and a long, brown ponytail, he almost resembled a modern-day pirate.
Bernard Loughlin was one of the original founders of the IRB, and one of the most ruthless men that the physician had ever met. Car bombs and snipings were his specialty. He had a callous disregard for human life, as long as it wore a British uniform. Yet he was a fair man in his own way, and a genius of strategy. He also knew how to judge a man’s character instantly and determine his worth to the cause. Together with Marie Barrett, who helped dictate political strategy, Bernard commanded a virtually invisible army of guerrilla warfare specialists, who yearly displayed their loyalty to the Brotherhood with a blood oath.
Though some of their methods were a bit distasteful, especially when the loss of innocent lives was concerned, Tyronne knew that this crudeness was but a temporary evil. The IRB was an army of change that wouldn’t lift its offensive until the goal was reached.
And since in any war loss of life was inevitable, they had to look beyond the bloody present to the day when all Ireland was one socialist state, united by the bonds of equality and brotherhood.
Proud to be a part of this movement, the physician followed the narrow earthen trail to the edge of the vegetable garden.
“Good morning to you, Marie Barrett. And what a lovely morning it truly is.”
The redhead looked up from the plant she was tending and returned the physician’s greeting.
“And a pleasant good morning to you. Doctor. Have you been out long?”
Tyronne leaned his wooden walking stick up against the white stone wall that surrounded the vegetable patch.
“Since sunrise, my dear. Even though I’ve been here almost three days, I don’t feel really at one with the place until I’ve properly walked the grounds. How are those tomatoes of yours coming along?”
Marie delicately picked off a stunted limb.
“I’ll be getting ready to tie them up to their sticks shortly.
They’re really growing, and this year we should have an excellent crop.”
“It’s that new variety that we imported from the States that’s done it my dear. That and your tender loving care of course.”
Marie smiled, then stood up straight and looked toward the house.
“I guess I should be checking on Sean. He was sound asleep when I poked my head in there earlier.”
“Good,” returned the physician.
“The lad needs his rest. Yet if we’re going to get any strength into him, we’re going to have to get him out of that bed eventually.
So come on, nurse, let’s see what we can do about it.”
Hand in hand the two innocently walked into the manor house. In the anteroom Tyronne removed his mud-stained boots and hung up his raincoat. Then he followed the redhead through the large kitchen and into the living room. This part of the house was decorated just like his mother had left it. The furniture here was a bit shabby with age, but still comfortable and functional. A twisting stairway took them to the second floor. Sean’s bedroom had been Tyronne’s as a child, and was set into the front portion of the house facing the meadow. They entered and found their patient propped up in bed with his vacant stare focused out the open window.
“Good morning. Scan. It’s a glorious morning out there,” greeted the physician.
Sean’s voice was hoarse and heavy.
“I was just thinking about Patrick again. He knew all the time that he didn’t have a chance of getting out of there. Yet he stood his ground all the same, and sprayed those damn Brits with bullets so that I could make good my own escape. If our situations had been reversed, I wonder if I could have met death so boldly.”
“Of course you would have, lad,” offered the physician.
“But as it turned out, fate had other plans for you. Patrick Callaghan was a good boy, and it’s a damn shame that he had to be taken from us. But he’s not the first and he won’t be the last to give up his life for the Brotherhood. So quit your selfish brooding, and start thinking about how you’re going to use this second chance at life to best advantage.”
This compassionate speech hit home, and Sean turned his glance away from the window.
“You’re right, Doc. I guess I should be grateful just to be here.”
“Damn right,” retorted the physician firmly.
“And one other thing, lad — if I were you, I’d be saying a little prayer of thanks for those wonderful parents of yours. Why, you’ve got your own mother’s blood pumping through your body, and if it wasn’t for your father, I would have never been there in time to save you.”
The mere mention of his father caused an introspective grin to crease Sean’s face.
“So the old fool finally came through.”
Tyronne Blackwater shook his head in disagreement.
“Liam Lafferty may be simple in his ways, but he’s a fine man in his own right. You should be very proud of him, lad, especially when you see with your own eyes the great gift he fished from the seas for us.”
Puzzled by this statement, Scan looked to Marie for clarification.
“What do you mean by that?”
The redhead teasingly smiled.
“Why don’t you come out to the barn and see for yourself. Do you think he can make it. Doc?”
“I don’t see why not,” answered the physician.
“It wasn’t one of his legs that was almost shot off.”
Determined to find out what they were talking about, Sean struggled to sit up straight. His heavily bandaged shoulder made this simple movement an effort, and Marie was quickly at his side to lend him a hand.
“Come on, Sean. It will do you good to stretch your legs and get some fresh air,” prompted the redhead.
Sean removed his legs from beneath the covers
, then remembered he was wearing only a t-shirt. Marie caught a quick glimpse of his naked torso and turned to get his pants for him.
“Come on, soldier. Since when are you the shy type?
After all, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Sean managed to get into his sweatpants on his own, and after slipping into some thongs, attempted to stand. It was at this point that he was overcome by a wave of dizziness. Alertly his escorts scrambled to his side to steady him.
“Breathe deeply, lad. This spell is only natural. It’s nothing to worry about,” offered the physician.
Sean filled his lungs with air, and just as quickly as it arrived, the spell passed. He nodded that he was fine, and even took a few tentative steps on his own to prove it.
“There’ll be no keeping you down now, Sean Lafferty,” observed Marie playfully.
By the time they descended the stairway and crossed through the living room, Sean’s stride had a new sense of confidence to it. It was as they began their way through the kitchen that his old personality began to show.
“You don’t suppose that there’d be a nice ice cold bottle of Guinness in the fridge, would you now?”
Tyronne Blackwater gave the redhead a sly wink as he answered.
“It’s a wee early for that, lad. Perhaps we’ll talk about that a bit later. But once we return from the barn, Marie will be happy to make you a hearty breakfast. Won’t you, my dear?”
The redhead nodded.
“Just name it and it’s yours, Sean.”
Sean seductively eyed the redhead’s curvaceous body.
“Well, since you’re offering, it has been a pretty long time.”
Not certain if he was joking or not, the physician interceded.
“I don’t know what’s worse for you, Sean Lafferty, a Guinness, or what naughtiness you have on your mind.”
“Well, Doc, you have been saying all along that I have to start thinking about getting back to my normal self once more,” offered Sean, who followed Marie out into the courtyard.
“Oh, to be young once again,” mumbled the physician as he continued outdoors himself.
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