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“Check.”

The Knight, its work done, sat almost taunting Bryan; exposed, unsupported, alone, and vulnerable, and yet, so invulnerable.

The move had revealed the Black Queen, which now lay in check on Bryan’s King.

“Damn.”

“Indeed, Dan.”

Whilst not over yet, there was no way back for the Head of Irish Army Intelligence.

He capitulated in the time-honoured way.

Both men settled back into their chairs, sampling pipe and whisky in equal measure, the first part of their rituals complete.

The Library Director donned a professorial air as he examined a worn piece of paper.

“I believe that makes the tally sixty-three to twenty-one in my favour. A very precise ratio, Colonel.”

“I do so hate smart asses, so I do.”

Both men giggled comfortably, close friends who had enjoyed many such encounters.

Hayes leant forward and freshened Bryan’s glass.

“So, any further news on our government’s position?”

“No change, President de Valera has assured all parties of the neutrality of our country.”

Both men understood that the real position was somewhat more complicated than that, as it had been in the previous war.

“My contacts with British Special Branch and the Allied intelligence and special forces continue as ever, although with new names and new targets.”

Hayes sampled his whisky.

“And our own problem children? Are they still quiet?”

Throughout World War Two, Richard Hayes had assisted Irish G2 with cracking the codes used by German agents in their communications with the IRA, codes that still bore fruit for Irish Intelligence when the Republicans employed them.

“Well… you tell me, Richard. How did you get on with our problem?”

The problem in question was a number of messages crafted in a hitherto unknown code that defeated the best efforts of the Irish decoders.

Bryan has spent some time with another Hayes that very day, in an effort to pick at anything within the ex-IRA Chief of Staff’s memory that could help unlock the new messages.

In 1941, Hayes had been tried and sentenced for treason by an IRA court, accusations and circumstantial evidence leading them to believe he was a spy for the Garda.

He escaped and handed himself in to the Garda, seeking protection.

Subsequently imprisoned for five years, Stephen Hayes received frequent visits from the authorities in an effort to pick his brain clean.

Hayes had been the main author of the notorious ‘Plan Kathleen’, the IRA’s proposal to Germany for an invasion of Northern Ireland.

A large folder, containing all that G2 knew of the plan, sat on the generous sofa.

Richard Hayes cleared the chessboard away and, indicating the file, sought permission to examine it.

Bryan opened his palm in acquiescence.

The academic slid his glasses up his forehead and read steadily.

“The other decoded messages were simple, but of no substance. You concur?”

Hayes stopped reading.

“Yes, although there was some phraseology that intrigued.”

The Colonel’s interest piqued.

“I haven’t seen them myself so enlighten me please.”

“Two in particular, one of which was repeated in two of the messages.”

Setting aside the folder, Stephen Hayes removed a hand written note from his jacket pocket.

“Yes, here we are. Two messages speak of site security, unusual in itself. This one gives a radio frequency but God above only knows what for. I assume your boys are on that already?”

The Colonel nodded, his monitoring department having yielded nothing from the discovery.

“Ah yes, this one. All Anger, whatever that may be, is a priority. Suggests itself as a codeword for an operation to me.”

Something clicked somewhere, deep in the recesses of his brain and Colonel Bryan became uncomfortable, knowing that he knew something but not knowing what it was that he knew.

“May I use your phone, Richard?”

A simple nod from Hayes was all that was needed.

Bryan paused at the handset, placed it back in the receiver and backtracked to the door.

On opening it, he was confronted by a very eager looking young man, dressed in a well cut suit and smartly turned out.

“Mulranny, have the car ready in five minutes. We’re going back to Kilmainham.”

Kilmainham Jail was a large institution renowned for its harsh environment and regime. Closed in 1924 it had fallen into apparent disuse, which was exactly the way G2 liked it to be viewed.

Retrieving the phone, Bryan made the arrangements.

“Dr Fogarty? Bryan here. Something’s come up and I need to chat with our friend again.”

“No, that will not do, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, tonight.”

“Thank you Dr Fogarty.”

Replacing the receiver, Bryan returned to the chess table and downed the rest of his whisky.

“I’m going to need that file, Richard. I’ll have a copy sent to you first thing in the morning… but for now, I need it.”

Reluctantly, the older man closed the folder and offered it up.

“I don’t suppose you are going to share, are you?”

“If I knew what it was, I would. All I know is that the answer is in the Kathleen file and Stephen Hayes is going to tell me tonight.”

“Can you get me that copy tonight?”

Bryan laughed.

“Keen aren’t you? May I use your phone again?”

There was no opposition to that, so a copy was swiftly organised, to be delivered to the Academic’s home within the hour.

“Right, I’ll see what our canary has to say. You know how to get hold of me if you find anything.”

The two friends shook hands and parted.

Chapter 106 – THE COLONELS

I want no mercy… I’ll have no mercy… I’ll die as many thousands have died, for the sake of their beloved land and in defence of it. I’ll die proudly and triumphantly, in defence of republican principals and the liberty of an oppressed people.

– William Allen, Irish Republican.
0819 hrs, Thursday, 8th November 1945, airborne over the Western Approaches, approximately one mile north of the Irish mainland.

NS-D had spotted its stricken sister immediately, the familiar white shape standing out against the grey rock of the coastline.

The Mayo Republicans had dragged the damaged Sunderland north-eastwards and away from Glenlara, putting some two miles distance between the two before damaging the watertight hull and leaving the sea to do the rest.

However, the sea had contrary ideas and gently pushed NS-X into a modest bay three miles east of the IRA camp.

As had been agreed in the early morning briefing, in the event that the missing aircraft had been discovered, NS-D set herself down on the ocean and taxied as close as possible to the silent Sunderland, guns trained in case of trouble.

Each of the rescue aircraft had an extra dinghy aboard, so four of the crew made the short journey between aircraft.

NS-D’s location report was received with mixed feelings back in Castle Archdale.

The open hatch invited the rescuers in, but all they found was a silence laden with death, for all aboard were beyond help.

Splitting up to search different areas, the Flying Officer in charge climbed the stairs to the palace, finding both pilots very obviously dead at their controls. Other bodies lay around the Flight Engineer’s board at the rear of the space.

Elsewhere, other rescuers-turned-undertakers located the rest of the crew, each man pale and long dead.

The commander of NS-D instructed that the dead crew should be transferred to his aircraft, detailing two more men to go and assist, as well as to ensure that all secrets from equipment and charts were either recovered or destroyed.