“Where did you get that?” snapped the flight instructor.
“You know damn where, Rayburn… from your smelly cockpit. So quit the b.s. and tell me whose blood it is that stains this chart.”
“I don’t have to say one word to you,” retorted the Irishman.
“In fact, I think I’m going to call the police.”
As Rayburn turned for the house, Colin Stewart spoke up firmly.
“Do you really think that’s wise, Mr.
Rayburn? After all, abetting a known IRB operation is a felony in this country that will earn you a minimum three-year stay at the Long Kesh Prison.”
Halted by this revelation, the pilot pivoted abruptly.
“I’m not associated in any way with the IRB, mister,” he said, his voice quivering.
“That may be so,” Stewart replied.
“But the individual you flew back from Scotland most definitely is. So unless you start talking right now, I don’t have any choice but to go to the Republic authorities.”
With any anger on his part long vented, Patrick Rayburn emotionally collapsed, on the verge of tears.
“I’m nothing but a hardworking family man, mister.
Do you have any idea what organizations like the Brotherhood do to squealers?”
“Just tell me the name of this fellow you flew back from Scotland,” urged Stewart.
“And the IRB never has to be any the wiser.”
Knowing full well that he had been caught red handed the pilot began whimpering.
“I never thought I was doing anything wrong, I swear to you. So I didn’t file an official flight plan. Big deal. With all that cash he was waving in my face, I really didn’t think it would matter.”
“Who was waving that cash, Mr. Rayburn?” continued Colin Stewart resolutely.
“He told me that he got shot in a hunting accident,” reflected the pilot.
“I should have known that the bastard’s cash was tainted.”
“For God’s sake, man, what was. his name?”
“It’s Sean Lafferty,” offered the emotionally drained pilot.
“Though I had never laid eyes on him before, he said that he grew up nearby and could produce some local references, if needed.”
With the great tension of the moment finally dissipated, Stewart felt his tone soften.
“Did you get any of these references?”
“Are you kidding?” returned the pilot.
“The only references he needed was that wad of punts he was soon shoving into my hand.”
With the name of the suspected terrorist now firmly embedded in his mind, Colin Stewart nodded appreciatively.
“Thank you, Mr. Rayburn. You’ve been most helpful. And I realize it’s not much, but you can rest assured that neither Sean Lafferty nor any other member of the IRB will ever learn what you shared with me this afternoon.”
There was an expression of defeat in the pilot’s dark eyes as he looked up and sighed.
“Mister, it really doesn’t matter. I was a marked man the moment I put that cash in my pocket.”
The last Colin Stewart saw of the dejected pilot was as he somberly made his way back into the cottage. It took only a single snap of the Highlander’s fingers to cause his men to suddenly materialize out of the surrounding forest. Flashing them a thumbsup, he beckoned them to join him beside their automobile.
“We’ve got the bastard, all right,” revealed the relieved senior officer.
“His name’s Sean Lafferty, and since he supposedly grew up in this area, he shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Angus, how about driving us into Dundalk, and seeing if the local postal exchange office has a listing for Mr. Lafferty in their directory?”
“You’ve got it Major,” replied the brawny corporal, who slid into the driver’s seat while his coworkers climbed in behind him.
The Rose-and-Thistle Pub, on the shores of Dundalk, was on the southern outskirts of the city. Because it was so close to the docks, it was frequented mainly by fishermen and longshoremen, though an occasional tour bus stopped by from time to time to give its passengers an authentic taste of the real Ireland.
Liam Lafferty had originally stopped by the pub to get a quick pint before dinner. He was halfway through his third Guinness of the evening when Billy Kelly and Henry Morrison entered the bar and sat down beside him. Like Liam, both individuals were weather-faced fishermen who had been plying their ancient trades for too many decades to count.
They were in the midst of a spirited argument regarding the wisdom of purchasing one of the new LORAN directional finders when a late-breaking television news story caused the grizzled bartender to signal them to be quiet. All three fishermen looked up to the set in time to see the photograph of an attractive middleaged women and two young girls flash up on the screen. It was accompanied by the voice of the newscaster.
“The Maguire’s bullet-ridden bodies were found on the banks of the Royal Canal near Ashtown. Dr. John Maguire, the noted nuclear physicist and director of Dublin’s Shamrock nuclear power station, is still missing.
Yet there is no reason to believe he was in any way responsible for the tragic deaths of his family, though the gardia have still not ruled out that such a link exists.
“In other news, three English soldiers lay dead in Armagh this evening, the victims of an exploding mine.
The incident took place on the anniversary of…”
As the bartender turned down the volume, Liam Lafferty somberly shook his head.
“Can you imagine such a horrible thing? Why, those two little girls never even had a chance to make it out of preschool.”
“It certainly is a tragic waste,” observed Billy Kelly.
“Who could be so twisted as to do such a thing?”
“I say it was the father,” offered Henry Morrison, as he sipped off the creamy head of his stout.
“Now what leads you to say such a ridiculous thing,
Henry Morrison?” countered Liam.
The bald-headed fisherman retorted, “It’s the radiation that did it. Dr. Maguire was so overloaded with the stuff from working at that power plant that he went crazy and did away with his family just for spite’s sake. They’ll be finding his body next, all glowing and green with decay, floating in a bog. You’ll see.”
Liam grimaced.
“Henry Morrison, I always thought you were a wee bit daft, but now I’m certain.”
“It’s all that sun that did it to him,” explained Billy Kelly.
“I say it’s from drinking too much poteen,” suggested the grinning bartender.
Henry Morrison would have no part of this kidding as he continued.
“You guys, might laugh at me, but I’m serious. That radiation’s bad stuff. They don’t know half of its side effects, and who knows how much of the world’s current insanity is caused by it?
“You’d better listen closely, gents, because this world’s too full of toxic chemicals and radioactive pollutants.
Who knows what that flier that they tacked up by the pier side this afternoon was referring to. If you ask me, the Yanks most probably lost some kind of dangerous chemical that for all we know could have fallen right over our heads.”
Puzzled by this statement, Liam interrupted him.
“What flier are you talking about, Henry?”
Billy Kelly provided an answer.
“That’s right, Liam, you had already left when those two soldiers tacked it up. Seems the Americans want to know if any of us saw anything suspicious in the night skies last week.
They’re even willing to offer a cash reward for any information that they deem relevant.”
Shocked by this revelation, Liam fought to hold his tongue.
“A reward, you say? That’s incredible!”
“Lord only knows what they lost out there,” reflected Henry Morrison.