The Romanov Conspiracy

by Glenn Meade

  Jackson selected a cigarette from a silver case, an irritated look on his face. “The devil only knows. He’s of Irish background, with a name like that. And if I’m to believe London HQ he’s a lieutenant colonel in the Canadian army. The title’s honorary, mind you. Apparently, he formed his own machine-gun battalion to fight on the western front, volunteers all of them.”

  Smith cracked his knuckles as he watched Boyle approach with a purposeful stride. “He’s a right cocky sod, acting like he’s running the bloody show. Who does he think he is?”

  Jackson tapped his cigarette and lit it with a match. “If London’s telling us to extend him every help we can, Boyle must have friends in high places. He could be liaising with Scotland Yard for all I know, seeing as he’s got a special license to carry a firearm.”

  “I’ve heard a rumor from one of the NCOs serving in Dublin Castle, sir.”

  Jackson blew out smoke. “Spit it out, Smith, I’m listening.”

  “He claims he heard of Boyle in Belfast, and he still has relatives up north. That his family were piss-poor and emigrated to Canada, where the young Boyle became a bit of a legend.”

  “Go on.”

  “He says Boyle has as many talents as backgrounds. Amateur heavyweight boxing champion of the USA, former Yukon gold miner. Not to mention that he’s a millionaire, with business interests in America and Russia. I think that covers most of it.”

  Jackson stroked his mustache. “If all that’s true then he can’t be here on police work, can he? And it still doesn’t tell us what Boyle is up to with Lydia Ryan. He has to know she’s one of the rebels on our wanted list.”

  “Where did he get his information, sir? He knew exactly when the Marie-Ann was due to arrive and told us Ryan would be on board. Then he orders us not to arrest either her or her mates, but just to follow them. I don’t get his drift.”

  Jackson offered Smith a conniving grin as Boyle approached. “Neither do I. But I think it’s time we showed Mr. Boyle who’s boss in this neck of the woods, don’t you? You briefed the men?”

  “Yes, Captain. They’re ready for the ambush.”

  “Good. We can’t have a dangerous rebel like Ryan running around the country, doing as she pleases. She’s for the hangman’s noose if I have my way.” Jackson took a fierce drag on his cigarette, picked up the binoculars again, and studied the trawler eagerly as Boyle finally joined them, tipped his hat, and climbed into the back of the Ford.

  “Gentlemen, good morning to you.” He had a boxer’s physique and a ferocious energy about him, and although his voice sounded North American there was a hint of Ulster in Boyle’s tight-lipped demeanor. His left eyelid was half closed—the result of a scar that looked like a badly stitched wound, which gave him an odd, grinning expression. “Well, any sign of her yet?”

  Jackson tossed him the binoculars. “The blue and white trawler on its way into harbor. It’s the Marie-Ann. You’ll see some people moving about, and one of them appears to be a woman.”

  Boyle took the binoculars and studied the vessel. He saw a couple of men moving about on the prow. When he glimpsed a raven-haired woman by the cabin his heart skipped. “That’s Lydia Ryan, all right, I’m pretty sure of it.”

  Jackson said, “We’re not ungrateful for your intelligence, Boyle, but look here, you must know that Ryan’s wanted for arms smuggling and shooting dead two of our comrades. They were personal friends of mine.”

  Boyle tipped back his hat and watched as the Marie-Ann glided toward the harbor. “Your friends should have been more careful. What do you know about Lydia Ryan?”

  “Very little. Our information on her is scanty.”

  Boyle put down the binoculars and almost laughed. “No wonder you lot are making a mess of Ireland. Ryan’s American-born, with an Irish father and English mother. Her folks returned to Ireland when their daughter was twelve and bought a stud farm in County Kildare. She was engaged to a local man who enlisted with the British but he was posted as missing in action at the beginning of the war.”

  “Am I supposed to feel sorry for her, Boyle?” Jackson said.

  “No, I’m just filling in the gaps. Ryan was never political but after 1916, when your lot executed the Irish republican leaders, that’s when she and her brother, Finn, decided to throw in their lot with the rebel cause.”

  Boyle peered through the binoculars once more and added, “On occasion she’s a driver for Michael Collins, one of the republicans’ top men. She’s also one of his best gun-runners. It’s no secret the Irish are hoarding guns in case they take on the British army again. In fact, Miss Ryan’s got a weapons cache on board, destined for her republican friends.”

  Jackson licked his lips and began to perspire, as he always did when the scent of trouble was in the air. He took back his binoculars and studied the trawler as it came in to dock. “So, she could be caught red-handed. What else do you know about her?”

  “Enough to write a book. But that’s plenty for now. Are your men in place and ready to follow her?”

  Jackson nodded. “Yes, we’ve got relay teams. The penalty for arms smuggling is hanging, Boyle. What do you want with her?”

  Boyle observed the Marie-Ann prepare to dock, the crew ready with their tie-up ropes. He winked, tapped the side of his nose. “My business, I’m afraid. And there’ll be no one caught red-handed, Jackson. Just follow my orders.”

  Jackson bristled. “I’m not sure I Iike the tone of your voice, Boyle.”

  “I’m not too fond of yours either, but you have your instructions. Observe and follow, that’s the order of the day.” Boyle removed a Colt pistol from a shoulder holster under his coat and checked that it was loaded.

  “Are you planning on using that thing?” Smith asked him.

  “Not if I can help it. As I told you, gentlemen, this is an intelligence-gathering exercise. I want to know where Ryan goes. And your men better keep well back when they’re tailing her, or I have a gut feeling that the lady’s liable to kill us all. On that point, just one more thing.”

  Jackson looked irritated, raised an eye. “And what’s that?”

  Boyle smiled, looked from Smith to Jackson, an infinitely dangerous look in his eyes as he tipped back his hat with the Colt. “Harm a hair on her head and I’ll personally shoot you both.”

  18

  Lydia shivered, feeling cold but invigorated as she stood at the prow of the Marie-Ann, her face washed with salt spray. The trawler chugged through the waves into Howth, dozens of brightly painted fishing vessels crowding the harbor.

  She wore a man’s donkey jacket with leather elbow patches, coarse wool pants, and waders, her raven hair hidden under a cloth cap. A strong breeze wafted down from the craggy headland and for a moment it overpowered the smell of salt air and fish, and instead the air was exotically scented with fragrant yellow gorse, smelling like coconut.

  The wheelhouse door snapped open and Finn joined her. “You look miles away. What are you thinking?”

  Lydia wrapped her arms around herself as if to keep out the chill and nodded toward the lighthouse, the huge cliffs scattered with shrieking gulls. “Do you smell the gorse? It’s a scent I never forgot. Sunday afternoons Sean and I would take the tram to Howth Head for a stroll and a picnic.”

  Finn grimaced and nodded at their night’s work, the fish catch in the hold, covering their arms cargo. “Me, I’m thinking be grateful we’re home. I couldn’t stand another night stinking of fish, or I’d be liable to kill someone.”

  Lydia scanned the town’s harbor. “We’re not home yet, Finn. Start saying your prayers that there’s no trouble waiting. Where’s Dinny?”

  “On his way.”

  The wheelhouse door opened and the captain stepped out. His beer belly overhung his leather belt, and he had a stubbled face and a wild head of Celtic hair that looked as if he’d seen a ghost. He came over to join them, clutching a pair of binoculars.

  “Well, what’s the story, Dinny?” Lydia asked.

  The
captain peered through his binoculars before resting them on his belly and pointing to a granite building on the harbor road. “The green curtain’s closed in the top left window of the chandler’s office, our signal from the lads there’s no sign of trouble onshore.”

  Lydia shielded her eyes and saw the window’s drawn green curtain, then she borrowed the binoculars to study the other harbor buildings. “You’re sure about the harbormaster’s staff?”

  “The senior clerk is one of ours, so he’ll make sure no one bothers us taking the goods from the harbor. The British patrol the port a few times a day but it looks all clear to me. If there were any patrols about, we’d get the signal and head back out to sea until they’ve gone.”

  Lydia handed back the binoculars. “Why do I have the feeling that it all sounds too good?”

  Dinny grinned. “Because you’re as cautious as a week-old lamb, Lydia Ryan. And rightly so, but I think we’re fine to chance it.”

  “Once we dock we need to get those crates on board the trucks as fast as we can. I want them well concealed by the catch and everything covered with the tarpaulins.”

  “It’ll be done, Lydia.” The captain tipped his cap and turned back to the wheelhouse. The trawler men began uncoiling ropes, preparing to tie up.

  Before Lydia knew it the harbor wall came up to meet them and she felt a sharp bump as the Marie-Ann ground against the buffers. The crew shouted orders and ropes flew through the air as the boat was pulled alongside the harbor wall, next to the rungs of an iron ladder.

  Lydia checked that the shiny black Mauser was loaded before she replaced it in her pocket. She put an open palm to her brother’s face, let it linger a moment. “If there’s even a sign of trouble, you keep well out of it, Finn, do you hear?”

  He looked as if his pride was hurt. “So you always tell me. But I can fight as well as any man, Lydia.”

  “Of course you can, but you’re worth far more to the movement alive than dead, Finn Ryan. Now, start getting that fish out of the hold so we can unload the rifles.”

  And Lydia winked and patted him fondly on the cheek before she clambered up the metal rungs to the harbor.

  When she reached the dockside it thronged with people. It was Friday morning and trawlers big and small were unloading their catches, buyers from the Dublin fish markets swarming all over the harbor.

  A Ford truck with a canvas rear cover and laden with boxes of chipped ice reversed down the dockside. It came to a halt and two men jumped out, wearing greasy oilskin aprons and capes. One of them kept watch on the dock as the second, a strapping fellow with huge hands, red hair, and freckles, strolled over and tipped his cap at Lydia. “You made it, boss. We were beginning to think you’d forgotten all about us.”

  “Save the chitchat until after we’re done, Mattie.”

  The man snapped at his comrade. “Let’s get shifting, Paddy.”

  They went to work, aided by the trawler crew who removed the crates of ice chips. They filled them with fish while several crew members maneuvered the arms crates onto the dockside and loaded them on the back of the truck. Then the crates of iced fish were stacked on top before the stinking, oily tarpaulins were thrown over the cargo.

  The job done, Lydia slid into the truck’s cabin. Finn joined her, followed by the burly, red-haired young man, who moved into the driver’s seat and started the engine while his comrade sat on the truck tailgate.

  Lydia studied the dock. It thronged with dozens of trucks and horses and carts. Near the coast road a tram trundled past on its way up to Howth Head, sparks exploding like fireworks from the overhead electric lines.

  “What’s up?” Finn asked.

  Lydia shook her head. “Not a Tommy in sight. It’s almost too perfect. There’s not even a cloud in the sky. Call it intuition, but all of a sudden I’ve got goose bumps.”

  The red-haired driver smiled. “That’s the Celt in you, always looking for an omen. But if the Brits are waiting they’ll get more than they bargained for. We’ve got a rifle and a Bergmann machine gun behind the seats.”

  “There’ll be no shooting, Mattie, not unless I tell you. Rifles are replaceable, lives aren’t.” Lydia touched the driver’s arm. “If the Brits are going to try anything, they’ll probably do it as we leave the harbor, so keep your eyes peeled.”

  Across the street from the harbor, Joe Boyle observed the truck exit the port and turn onto the main Howth road that led toward Dublin, Lydia Ryan seated in the cabin.

  Jackson tossed away an unfinished cigarette. “Just following Ryan makes no sense, Boyle. We need to arrest her. What’s your bloody game?”

  Boyle kept his eyes on the departing Ford, the suspension weighed down with the heavy cargo. “That’s privileged information, Jackson. All you have to do is obey orders. Now stamp your foot on that pedal before we lose them.”

  19

  Ten minutes later on the road to Dublin, Lydia began to relax. She removed her cap and let her hair down just as they approached a junction with a signpost that said Sutton Crossroads.

  Suddenly a Triumph motorcycle with a sidecar overtook the truck. The driver and passenger wore helmets, scarves, and goggles, and they waved and tooted their horn in good spirits as they roared across the junction at high speed.

  Finn said, “Now there’s a pair in a hurry. Someone’s likely to cause themselves an injury.”

  A mile farther on their truck rounded a curve in the main coast road, the salty marshes of Dublin Bay stretching away to the left. Ahead of her Lydia saw the motorcycle and sidecar lying on its side in the middle of the road, the rear wheels still spinning. The driver lay sprawled on his back and the sidecar passenger knelt beside him. When he saw the truck he frantically waved them down.

  Finn said, “I told you. Dance with the devil and you’ll pay for the tune.”

  Mattie tensed as he slowed the truck. “This isn’t our problem, Lydia. What if it’s a trap? Do you want me to drive round them?”

  Lydia was uncertain as she observed the stricken man, his passenger waving desperately. Her conscience played at her but she took no chances as she felt for the Mauser in her pocket. “Pull up about twenty yards ahead of the motorcycle. Keep the engine running and be alert.”

  Mattie skirted round the accident scene and braked to a halt. Lydia cocked the Mauser, tucked it into her palm, and rolled down her shirt sleeve to conceal the weapon. She scanned the road front and back but it was empty. “Stay here while I see what’s up.”

  “Be careful, Lydia.”

  “I intend to.”

  Mattie reached behind the seat, ready to grab the Bergmann as Lydia stepped down from the cabin and approached the passenger.

  He was about thirty, with chopped blond hair and blue eyes. He looked worried, his accent Irish. “Thank heaven you stopped. We were going a bit fast and the bloody bike went out of control as we came round the curve. I think my friend’s back is broken.”

  Lydia looked over at the driver sprawled on the pavement. He was groaning, his eyes closed behind his goggles. “Have you tried to move him?”

  Lydia heard a soft, distinctive click as the man prodded something in her side.

  “Yeah, but he’s a right lazy sod.” The blond was grinning at her now, his accent suddenly London Cockney. He clutched a Smith & Wesson revolver in his hand and kept his back to the truck so that the occupants couldn’t see his weapon.

  “All right, you Fenian cow, do exactly as I say. Walk toward my mate. Try to signal your friends and we’ll plug you. Not that anyone can help—we’ve got you ambushed.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Lydia saw a flash of khaki uniforms crouched behind a wall across the road. She tried to gauge their chances but knew the odds were poor. She saw Finn and Mattie stare back at her, unaware of what was going on, but uncertainty in their faces.

  The blond jabbed her with his revolver as they approached the man on the ground. “Kneel down like you’re taking a look at my mate, then call your friends out of the truck,
tell them you need help. Try anything and you’ll all get plugged, you hear?”

  Lydia heard a snigger and glanced down at the motorcycle driver, who remained still. She noticed a small revolver hidden in his gloved hand. “Blimey, get on with the act, Benny.” He smirked up at Lydia. “I like the trousers, love, they really show off your backside.”

  “Go to the devil,” Lydia replied.

  The blond grinned, his back still to the truck, his gun trained on her. “Bloody heck, but we’ve got a right martyr here, Frank. Don’t worry, darling, we’ll part those legs of yours back at Dublin Castle—a good night in the bed will put manners on you, and I’m the man to do it.”

  A steely look ignited in Lydia’s eyes. “There’s one slight problem.”

  “Yeah, and what’s that?” the blond grinned.

  “You’ll never live long enough.”

  Lydia’s right hand came up, and the Mauser cracked once as she shot the blond through the left eye, killing him instantly.

  She turned to the second man, frantically raising himself from the ground as if struck by electricity. He raised his gun. “You witch …”

  Lydia shot him twice in the chest, punching him back across the pavement. She spun round and shouted to Mattie and Finn, “Ambush, troops across the road, get out of the truck!”

  In an instant Mattie hauled out the Bergmann machine gun from behind the seat but a shot rang out, hitting him in the chest, his body jolting and then it fell still.

  Finn jumped out of the cabin clutching a pistol just as Lydia raced to join him, shots exploding, bullets hammering the truck, the man on the tailgate tarpaulin struck in the arm as he clambered for cover.

  Lydia managed to drag the Bergmann from under Mattie’s body and ducked down behind the vehicle. “Keep your head low, Finn, or you’ll lose it!”

  A volley of shots rang out from across the road and Lydia hefted the Bergmann in her arms. Choosing her moment, she stepped out from behind the truck, squeezed the trigger, and the machine gun danced in her hands.