Diamond Rain: Adventure Science Fiction Mossad Thriller (The Spy Stories and Tales of Intrigue Series Book 2)

by Michael James Gallagher

  “There’s no choice, Son. That’s how it is. Inside you can keep your name, but outside you are Thomas O’Flaherty and I’m Mary O’Flaherty. Now go find a way to tell your sister about it, will ya? That’s a good lad.”

  Mary looked at the boy as he slipped over the back of her bench seat and into the third bench with his sister.

  “Ma?” said Thomas, turning back to her.

  “Yes, Thomas?” she replied.

  “Are we ever gonna have a home again?”

  “Of course we are Thomas, don’t be silly. Play some games with your sister.”

  When they got to the ocean, Mary crossed herself. Stonington faced the Atlantic on the tip of Deer Island on the westernmost island in a diamond shaped group of islands including Waterman Cove, Sand Cove and a place called the Acadia National Park. In a population of only 1000, the town would remark on the O’Flahertys' arrival, but Mary felt sure the church would be the way to make friends.

  O’Hare drove right up onto the dock and pointed to a lobster boat that bore a blue peeling painted nameplate identifying it as ‘Four-Leaf Clover’. It was tied to a small orange buoy in the harbor about seventy-five feet away. Then he showed Dan a small skiff tied close to the bottom of the dock.

  “That’ll get you out there. It was a hell of a job getting the rights for you to trap lobster here, Dan,” said O’Hare.

  “Lobster? I’m a fisherman, Sean. What’s this all about?” asked Dan in a puzzled tone.

  “You didn’t give me much time, did you now? Beggars can’t be choosers. It’s take it or leave it and I’m done with you ‘fer’ good. We’re square,” said O’Hare.

  “Where’ll we live, Sean O’Hare?” asked Mary.

  “I found you a small basement in another lobster man’s home. They're good people. We’ll go there now. Don’t forget your new names, or I’m done for,” said O’Hare.

  Light at the End of the Tunnel

  Thomas floated through the years of becoming American. The loner in him drifted to the surface without any conscious effort on his part. He spent all his free time on his grandfather’s lobster boat; he even slept there on weekends. One August morning in 1979, while Thomas waited patiently to photograph an osprey that fished at sunrise in the bay, he noticed a man popping soundlessly out of the water near a neighbouring lobster boat. He’d heard about Billy, the guy who did three tours in ‘Nam’ in the Green Beret. “He went ‘native’,” the townspeople whispered. “He came back more ‘gook’ than American.”

  When Billy turned what Thomas could see of his head in the misty water, only the whites of his eyes emerged on a blink between the black and green camouflage he wore. Thomas snapped a photo through his new long lens. Billy heard the shutter and submerged, soon popping up on the other side of Thomas’ grandpa’s boat. Billy limbered up over the gunwale. Thomas stood. Billy took a step towards Thomas. “You got balls, kid. I must be gettin’ rusty in my old age. Nobody gets snaps of me coming out of the water. If they did, I’d be dead.”

  “I was waiting for an osprey. Saw you surface. Didn’t hear ya. Snapped it before I thought,” said Thomas.

  “I heard about you. You’re the Irish kid who sleeps on his grandpa’s lobster boat. I’m Billy.”

  “Don’t have to tell me that. Everyone knows who you are,” said Thomas.

  “I heard Ryan beat the crap out of ya in June, Thomas.”

  “Ryan was bothering my little sister Patsy.”

  “His family’s no good blood. How’d you like to whip his ass next time he bothers your sister?”

  “Would I,” replied Thomas.

  “You teach me how to take pictures of those wild birds in the mornings and I’ll train you good. No one’ll ever bother you or your sister again. Deal?”

  We shook on it like men, thought Thomas.

  Off and on for the next several years, Thomas learned about survival in the bush and trained in self defense, while Billy developed the expertise that would be his ticket back into the real world after Vietnam. Using the skills Thomas taught him, Billy published the first of many National Geographic articles. Much to Thomas’ surprise, Billy dedicated the article, The Osprey of Maine’s Inlets, to his mentor, Thomas O’Flaherty of Deer Island, Maine. Later in life, the dedication would get Thomas his first job as a photographer too. In September of his twenty-first year, Thomas would get a job as a ‘stringer’ for the Boston Globe on the strength of Billy’s recommendation and Thomas’ wildlife portfolio.

  Thomas’ training with Billy in the mornings spread around town that first summer. Without Thomas having to lift a finger against him in September, Ryan never bothered Patsy again. Billy’s friendship didn’t make Thomas any more sociable though, just more sure of himself. From that point on, Thomas accomplished everything he tried because Billy taught him the determination of the warrior. For Thomas’ ma, the problem was Thomas. He still chose to hide from the world and look at it from a safe distance through a lens.

  ****

  One September, after Thomas' family moved to Maine, an exchange student arrived from Montreal, Canada. He was French Canadian and his parents wanted him to learn English, but the school system in Montreal wasn’t succeeding in giving him both languages. As usual, their teacher asked new students to say something about themselves in front of the class before the new student took his seat. Jean Pierre, all skin and bones and legs, stammered and stumbled through a description in broken English of his past in Montreal. Completely out of character, but remembering how he’d felt when he made his own speech, Thomas stood up when Jean Pierre finished.

  “Hey, Lanky, that’s a great story. You and I’re gonna be friends.”

  A little embarrassed by his unexpected outburst, Thomas sat down. Taking Thomas’ cue, perhaps purposely starting a great friendship, the teacher made a place for the new boy beside Thomas. From day one, the two boys became inseparable. As the years passed, especially after Jean Pierre returned to Montreal, the two young people kept in touch. During their year together in Maine, Thomas tried to teach Billy’s lessons in self defense to Jean Pierre, but Jean Pierre didn’t take to discipline. He was an incredibly bright but, paradoxically, simple person. After science, his strength was laughter and he gave his love of hilarity to Thomas. From Jean Pierre, Thomas learned to laugh from the depths of his heart. This was a gift that Thomas received without even knowing it.

  After at first keeping up a written correspondence, Thomas visited Montreal when he was seventeen. From there his friendship with Jean Pierre was cemented into an important friendship.

  “What’s this place?” Thomas asked.

  “Vieux Montréal,” replied Jean Pierre, in French.

  “I know that means Old Montreal. I’m talking about the bar.”

  “Oh. Hotel Nelson. Dat guy on harmonica’s amazing, eh?” replied Jean Pierre, shouting over the din of the blues.

  Just then two young women arrived at their table and spoke to Jean Pierre. "Il y a la place," said the taller of the two while eyeing the only two seats left in the smoky room.

  “What’d she say, Lanky?”

  “Wait.”

  “Mais oui, mais oui,” answered Jean Pierre, his upbringing taking over as he slid one of the chairs out for the taller girl beside him.

  “You’re gonna wish you’d learned more French now, mon ami,” said Jean Pierre.

  “T’est pas un tête carré, toi. Pas d’anglais ici, la?” shouted the girl.

  “What’s she saying? How come she won’t speak English, Lanky?” asked Thomas.

  “Merde. She speaks English fine. Chooses not to. It’s politics, man. You don’t live here,” answered Jean Pierre.

  The second girl nudged Thomas, leaned towards him, kissed him on both cheeks and whispered in his ear.

  “My name’s Suzelle.” Thomas froze. She smells so good, he thought as she pulled away from him and started bobbing her head to the music. Before he got up the courage to speak, she grabbed his hand and dragged him onto a tiny danc
e floor in front of the band. After Thomas lurched around nervously for thirty seconds, the song ended. He prayed for a slow song before Jim Zeus, the harmonica player, began a ballad. Suzelle snuggled close to him. Her shampoo and perfume overwhelmed him. When the song ended, she spoke into his ear again, the feel of warm breath sending shivers down his spine.

  “You don’t told me your name?”

  “Sorry. Thomas. Thomas’s my name.”

  “Your accent’s British, non?”

  “Irish, not British ever, please.”

  “Irish?”

  “You know, Ireland.”

  “Ya. Irlandais. My granny’s Irlandais too. Is hot here. We go h’outside now, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll just tell Jean Pierre,” said Thomas as he spun his finger around in the air to let his friend know he’d be back.

  The Hotel Nelson took up most of the east side of Place Jacques Cartier under the watchful eye of Lord Nelson on his majestic column. It was a warm spring evening in Montreal and people flooded into the streets, escaping the drudgery of the long winter for the first time that year.

  “I see the ‘Brits’ hang over you here too, eh?”

  “Not you too. I'm sick of ‘polytic’. I wanna have fun, just fun,” said Suzelle.

  She took a hand-rolled cigarette out of her pocket and lit it while they walked down the cobblestone street to Rue St. Paul. Jugglers, musicians and portrait artists plied their wares to the passing Montrealers, practicing for the upcoming tourist season.

  “What’s that you’re smoking?” Thomas asked.

  Suzelle filled her lungs and jumped into Thomas’ arms, glued her lips to his, pried his lips open with her tongue and exhaled into his mouth filling his lungs with the pungent tasting mixture of tobacco and hashish. Smoke poured out of him when he coughed, unaccustomed to either of the substances. Then she kissed him again, deeply this time, still squeezing her slender hips around his waist, one of her arms around his neck. Thomas set her down on a park bench in front of a restaurant opposite Marche Bonsecours. No one paid them any heed. She continued puffing on her ‘splif’, as she called it and Thomas gave up resisting her kisses, allowing her to fill his lungs repeatedly.

  “I like you, Irlandais.”

  This time Thomas leaned into her and almost swallowed her with his embrace, their tongues hungry snakes thrusting and knotting around each other. Thomas’ head spun up and around when he let go of her. His eyes popped open and he hooted louder than usual.

  “Good, n’est-ce pas? Now we go dance,” she said as she got up, took his hand in hers and slipped under the grip of his arm over her shoulder.

  “I feel right here, Irlandais. Yer energie make me happy.”

  Thomas strutted a bit and then forgot about her as he lapsed into a series of hysterical cackles.

  “You’re so sweet. Not like les boys here in Montreal,” she said when he finished laughing and they resumed their stroll back to the bar under the Hotel Nelson. It took about half an hour to go through the line and get back to the bar when the bouncer at the door carded Thomas. His American seventeen-year-old's driver’s license didn’t pass muster and dragged him out of Suzelle’s hashish-induced haze.

  “No problem,” said Suzelle. “We can walk, non?”

  They strolled down by the harbor talking about anything and everything and Thomas fell more and more in love each second. For the first time in his life, he felt real desire stirring inside him. Again they sat on a bench in the dark after laughing about the descriptions of the oldest ocean going tugboat in the world, Daniel McAllister, on display near the edge of Vieux Montréal. This time Suzelle slipped her legs through the back of the bench and straddled Thomas. Her hot breath tickled his neck and his ears, then she starting grinding herself on him and kissing him, making his head spin. Her hands reached into his shirt through an open button and she scratched his nipples with her nails, the heat from her crotch unnerving him.

  Just when he thought she would stop and get off him, she took his hand and passed it under her silk blouse and placed it on her breast. The weight of her womanhood filled Thomas with a whirlwind of thoughts. He edged his hand up and touched her armpit. It was sweaty and excited him further, then he reached under the frilly part of her bra and cupped her breast in his hand. He groaned uncontrollably when Suzelle forced her hand between them and into his pants. The minute she touched him, he climaxed and pinched her nipple so hard she uttered a small screech with an intake of breath.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You’re sweet, Thomas. Non problem. Non talk,” said Suzelle.

  She hiked up her mini, took his hand and put it between her legs and rubbed herself on him as they kissed more and more deeply. Her orgasm pleased Thomas and the smell of love on his fingers excited him again, but she got up.

  “Time to go, mon Irlandais.”

  Intoxicated by his first sexual experience, Thomas followed Suzelle like a lost puppy to the bus stop on Rue Notre Dame, where she jumped on a waiting bus before Thomas realized he didn’t even have her phone number. He ran after the bus until the next stop and made a sign through the window, but Suzelle just offered a Gallic shrug in return and blew him a kiss. Life seeped out of Thomas as he watched the bus disappear, but he walked a little taller on the way back to Jean Pierre’s family home in Outremont. The walk took about an hour and a half and Thomas was glad of the few days he and his friend had spent walking around the city, but then, Thomas’ sense of place was uncannily strong. He’d just sat on the front steps when a taxi stopped and let Jean Pierre out.

  “I was worried sick, man. Where’d you get to?”

  Thomas couldn’t hide his excitement and pride.

  “She smelled so good, Lanky.”

  ”I’m sure man, but you left me there worrying about you,” said Jean Pierre, unable to cover up his feelings about his own experience.

  “You too.”

  “I’m a ‘bourgeois’ for her. All the activists’re Marxist here, man.”

  “That’s serious shit. Really Marxists?”

  “Ya, I’m serious. But, hey, it was closer than I usually get. I never get lucky like that. Did that guy Billy teach you that too?”

  “Was my first time, Lanky.”

  “D’jew go all the way?”

  “Close, man. I can still feel her crotch rubbing there.”

  “Gimme your hands,” said Jean Pierre as he took Thomas’ hands and sniffed them. “You really did get lucky, man. I can’t believe it.”

  “What the fuck, Jean Pierre? Let go of my hands. You?”

  “At first, all she wanted to do was talk about politics. Independence. Québec Libre.”

  “And-”

  “In the taxi, I thought she was gonna eat me alive, but nothing really came of it. I got her number though. Maybe, eh?”

  “Too bad I have to leave tomorrow and go back to Boston.”

  “I’ll try to get the other one’s address if you want. You’re good at writing letters. Who knows?”

  “Nah, she didn’t even want to give me her number. I ran after the bus but she just shrugged and blew me a kiss.”

  The two young men got up from the stairs and Jean Pierre unlocked the front door. They made their way into the kitchen where Jean Pierre’s mother had left cold roast beef sandwiches packed in stretch wrap out for them with a note saying not to make too much noise when they came in. They ate and cleaned up before going quietly upstairs.

  Thomas never did get in touch with his first love, but Jean Pierre remained a close friend. So close that years later, when Lanky got into MIT in a high technology program, and Thomas was jaunting around the globe taking pictures, Jean Pierre went to dinner at friends of Thomas’ family in Boston every few weeks and kept close tabs on his friend’s successes. Little did he know, their paths would cross often in the future.

  ****

  After graduating from high school, the next few years flashed by Thomas in a whirl of activity. His photographic work was getti
ng him quite a following and the contracts kept coming in. He got on well, in his loner’s way, with everyone in his town. But it wasn’t enough. The world beckoned. His mother was clear about her wishes for him.

  “A woman my age wants grandchildren some day, Thomas. And you’re never going to give me any when you only look at people through that lens,” said Thomas’ ma.

  “Once I make my way in the world, we can talk about grandchildren, Ma, not now,” replied Thomas.

  Thomas spoke these words again to his mother just before he took off for Bosnia in 1995, his first syndicated assignment as a war photographer. Billy’s influence remained strong. On the plane to his first war zone, Thomas sat silently, meditating the way Billy had taught him. He could pick up and slow down his heart rate better than most Buddhist monks his age. Billy had told him that controlling the heart rate often meant the difference between life and death in a firefight. Something that could give you an edge. I’m heading into the eye of a hurricane. I’m gonna need Billy’s skills to survive, thought Thomas as the pilot announced their descent into Sarajevo.

  Nine months later, Thomas was recalled by his editor while on a story with a group of Canadian peacekeepers. One of their officers had been kidnapped and a militia chained him to a post to stop the shelling of the area. Thomas had made a name for himself, risking his life to get close-ups of the young soldier in the rain. Riding on that success Thomas felt sure the message from his editor would be congratulations. Damn, cursed Thomas in his mind, just when I was getting somewhere here and I have to go home, but why?

  The ugliness of the Bosnian conflict did not prepare Thomas for the shock of identifying his ma and sister in a morgue in Boston. An old emptiness returned to the young man. He stopped venturing out and slept for weeks on end in the Four-Leaf Clover in an isolated inlet near Deer Island. Emotional paralysis ruined his ability to take any initiative. He couldn’t face his grandpa in jail. The DEA had caught him just days before the cartel found his ma and sister. Thomas found the letter Dan had left in a hiding place they’d arranged in case there was any trouble. It had been a joke at the time but now he was glad they’d done it. When he read the letter he knew instantly he was going to cut the connection between them. In it, Dan explained his complicated and harebrained scheme to Thomas and begged for his forgiveness. Thomas refused to visit him in prison.