“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!”
Eyes turned to Rafferty, instinctively knowing that he understood something, as yet unrevealed.
Addressing Holliday, Rafferty spoke very deliberately.
“In ‘41, there were two executions of IRA members that we’d turned as King’s agents. The bodies were badly beaten… but without external signs of the fatal injury.”
There was no way he could lighten the blow.
“They had been executed with a pistol up the rectum.”
Stunned silence.
Shocked silence.
Disbelieving silence.
The MO spoke first.
“That’s what I have found. I think they killed Erasmus quickly and then realised their error. They then disposed of the others by… that method.”
“He calls it the Silencer.”
Dalziel broke from his thoughts.
“Who calls it the Silencer?”
The dark shadow on Rafferty’s face was very obvious.
“Brown… Seamus Michael Brown. IRA executioner and second most wanted man in Ireland. And, interestingly, he’s a Brit.”
“What?”
“Conceived and delivered in Liverpool, Admiral. British born and bred.”
DCI Leonard was in police mode immediately.
“Where and when was this, Squadron Leader?”
“North Coast of Éire, 5th December… Thank you, Doc. Full autopsy on each, reports as quick as possible.”
The Squadron communications office was closer than his own sanctuary, so Viljoen led the group into the large room, grabbing at a map and setting it down on the table for all to see.
“We found her here,” he indicated the precise spot from memory, “But she certainly would have drifted with the current, so didn’t start there.”
The five of them pored over the map.
“My God!”
Rafferty’s outburst attracted their attention, his face draining of colour in an instant, as his mind raced to work out what he could say and, more importantly, what he couldn’t say.
‘Oh fuck it!’
He decided to say everything he knew.
“All Anger.”
Leonard had been present during that conversation and immediately understood.
“Oh my eye, yes. All Anger.”
The others did not understand.
“Our friends in the Republic have had the answer all along but just didn’t realise it.”
Leonard took the lead.
“They intercepted a message that spoke of ‘All Anger’, a simple code that they boiled down to a small hamlet in Limerick, one that had appeared suspicious for some time. An easy mistake to make.”
Eyes turned back to Rafferty as he completed the story.
“G2 received intelligence about ‘All Anger’, a simple anagram code, employed when the IRA was less proficient in such matters. Our friends worked out that it meant ‘Glenlara’.”
He left out the part about the broken German code as a courtesy to G2.
“The Irish Intelligence put two and two together and went for Glenlara, Limerick, where there had been some trouble prior to, completely missing this Glenlara,” he fingered the map, drawing attention to the coastal village that sat uncomfortably close to the location of the Sunderland Flying boat, “And I will bet that right here sits an IRA force… and more besides.”
Dalziel got that message loud and clear.
Rafferty gave voice to his thoughts.
“Judas?”
“Bound to be, the bastards always stick together.”
“Judas? I don’t understand.”
Blackmore spoke for the rest of the group but his mind was already awakening a memory from a distant briefing.
“Judas Reynolds. A real bad man. He and Brown are bosom pals and where one is… well, the other won’t be far away. According to our intelligence, Judas is head of the IRA’s Mayo Brigade.”
They were all suddenly drawn to the map.
Dalziel was the only one who spoke.
“Glenlara, County Mayo.”
There was a Mexican standoff, the Soviet Naval Marines with their superior firepower and training lined up in support of their officer, the more numerous IRA group murmuring and threatening their new allies.
Naval Captain-Lieutenant Ilya Nazarbayev stood before the bound and kneeling man, his Tokarev pistol pressed firmly against the sweating temple.
“By the authority of my command and under Soviet Naval Regulations, I find you guilty of murder and I pass a sentence of death, to be carried out immediately.”
The growl rose again from IRA throats, one given more spine by the appearance of Judas Patrick Reynolds, striding purposefully through the snow, fresh from a successful visit to the nearby straipachs, although the young whore who serviced the sexual needs of the senior IRA man was declared strictly off-limits to anyone else and they would be at risk of losing their fleshier parts should they ignore Judas’ warning.
“What the fuck do ya think ya’re fucking doing, Ilya?”
Nazarbayev’s eyes never strayed, did not blink, the barrel of his automatic pressed so hard against Brown’s forehead as to sink into the flesh and leave a dent.
“This…this… whatever it is… has been found guilty of the murder of five English airmen. I am about to carry out the sentence.”
“Oh no ya fucking ain’t.”
Reynolds’ Tommy gun was suddenly levelled at the Marine officer and the danger mounted for all, as both sides tried to support their leader with more aggressive posturing and sounds of encouragement.
“Now, we’ve a situ-fucking-action here, Ilya. You isn’t gonna kill my man; that’s a fact now. You pull tha trigger and you’ll die, as will yer men and many of ma boys. That means no base for yer Navy, no more subs… fuck all, ma son. So put the pistol down, boyo.”
Judas Patrick was an animal, but he was no fool, and he saw resolve in the Marine officer’s eyes.
He tried another tack.
“I will deal with him maself. He’s not under your command… or your fucking regulations for that matter. He’s my man. I’ll deal with it.”
The words found a chink and entered into Yuri’s thoughts and the Tokarev withdrew from the petrified man’s forehead.
“That’s good, Ilya, that’s real good, boyo.”
Unusually for Judas, he made a difficult decision that proved a turning point.
“Ok ma Lads, knock it off now. Back to your beds. Show’s over.”
The IRA men reluctantly started to move away, each second bringing more relaxation to the watching Soviet naval infantry.
Nazarbayev withdrew his pistol completely.
“Stand down, men. Stand down.”
A few men from both sides remained, either out of curiosity or to watch and protect their leader. There was no need. The tension had gone.
Hauling Brown to his feet, Nazarbayev pushed the bound man towards the IRA chief.
“Take him, but I will hold you to your word, Patrick. Punish him for his crime.”
“My word on it, Ilya.”
Nazarbayev left the scene quickly, turning into his quarters before the returning Soviet political officer, still adjusting his trousers after his own pleasures, could interfere with proceedings.
Judas slipped a knife into Brown’s bonds and cut his number two free.
“Make yourself scarce for now, Seamus. Stay up at the Boyson’s til I send for ya.”
Brown rubbed his wrists and spat in the direction of Nazarbayev’s billet.
“What about that bastard then, Patrick, I want ’im, I fucking want ’im bad.”