“Design like that, Comrade Engineer, or build the Red Air Force some of them!”
The angry man left, leaving the design engineer both perplexed and thoughtful.
One of his older colleagues joined him and both watched the retreating pilot.
“Comrade Arushanian. Don’t trouble yourself. The PodPolkovnik has just had a narrow escape and he’s bound to be angry.”
“Well, he is certainly that, Comrade Piadyshev.”
Both men shared a modest laugh, as they both understood that they had contributed, in their own way, to Djorov’s close shave.
“I asked him what he would suggest.”
This time it was only the older man who laughed.
“Well, that would have done it for me too, you idiot! What were you thinking of?”
The sole answer was a shrug of defeat.
“I suppose his suggestion involved sticking something in a position within your back passage?”
“No, Comrade Piadyshev. He said we should give him some of those.”
Filipp Piadyshev followed the direction of Arushanian’s finger.
Almost mocking the designers and engineers of the Mikoyan Institute, two proven warriors of the sky, ex-German ME 262’s jet fighters, sat in efficient silence,
He was the third agent that Bryan had dispatched to the area. He also knew that he was the only one still alive, the other two having fallen victim to Judas Reynolds’ stark policy on anyone ‘out of place’ found in the locale.
Thomas O’Farrell, and that was his real name, was clearly a career criminal with an arrest record as long as the longest arm, and he had spent a great deal of time in Éire’s criminal institutions, mainly in solitary confinement..
In reality, Thomas Ryan O’Farrell, Sergeant in the Irish Army, was often detained, by prior arrangement, to permit him to take time to relax, his double life free from discovery, safe inside the protective custody of secure government facilities, as well as relaying whatever he had recently discovered about the Irish Republican Army.
His hurried deployment was not ideal, but Bryan had little choice in the matter, and so O’Farrell was dispatched with simple orders.
‘Confirm the existence of an IRA facility at Glenlara, establish numbers of personnel present and ascertain its purpose.’
Bryan, always honest with his agents, informed O’Farrell of the previous attempts at approaching the site and their terminal outcomes.
Immediately that he had received the call from Rafferty, Bryan had contacted his local man and sent him off to observe the site.
His body had been found the following evening, ostensibly run over by a very apologetic farmer, a man with suspected republican tendencies. He had no idea the man had been sleeping in the long grass, but was very apologetic and offered to write a letter of condolence to the destroyed corpse’s family, which offer was tactfully declined.
The second agent had been found drowned in one of the many ponds that littered the area.
That had been three days ago and the post-mortem, or at least the part that didn’t lie as a matter of public record, indicated that the man had suffered a significant beating that did not tally with the suggested contact with the rescuing boat that the local police had put forward as a reason for the additional injuries.
But, as far as the local police and their republican friends were concerned, accidental death by drowning was the official cause of death.
At this moment, that was of no significance, as Thomas Ryan O’Farrell had just made a startling discovery.
A large Allied seaplane had just flown close by to seaward and the few civilians that had been in sight had disappeared.
As the drone of aero engines receded, he adjusted the thick waterproof on which he lay, noting that the snow had recommenced its efforts to freeze him to death.
He pulled the white blanket up over him and settled back into his over watch.
And almost missed the biggest prize of all.
“Fucking hell!”
He scolded himself for the outburst and focussed the binoculars on the face of Judas Reynolds, stretching in the open doorway, a roaring fire behind him.
‘You fucking Fenian bastard you, Judas, Bryan will be…’
Another man came into view, not one O’Farrell recognised but one that made his heart miss a beat.
His mouth remained open but not a sound came. He didn’t trust himself even to think.
The door shut as quickly as it opened, but the picture of a Soviet naval officer was deeply ingrained on his mind.
As he tried to order his thoughts, the approaching IRA security party drew his attention.
He started into his concealment routine, safe in the knowledge that the men never deviated from their patrol path, probably because of the deep snow but, O’Farrell thought with a professional contempt, ‘they’re just playing at the fucking soldier game.’
It proved so again, and thirty minutes later he was back at the main road. A handset had been attached to the phone line that ran overhead and O’Farrell composed himself and his cryptic message as he pulled it from its hiding place.
Two hours later, acting on aa anonymous tip off, a police patrol caught a burglar in the act of stealing petrol from a shed in Aughalasheen and, in view of his attempts to resist arrest, as well as identifying him as a well-known criminal, transported the bleeding and insensible man to a holding cell at the Garda station in Walshe Street, Ballina.
The Inspector in charge of the patrol had been briefed on the need to get O’Farrell to the station and had initiated the beating to provide reason for the journey.
He would apologise that it got out of hand when the circumstances permitted but, none the less, he grudgingly respected the man, whoever he was, as did those others of his patrol that presently had their own appointments with the Police Doctor at Ballina, because of injuries sustained in the apprehension of Thomas O’Farrell.
The arrest, some might call it brawl, had been witnessed by one Noel Connolly, a young man for whom the pleasures of the straipach, the local whore, held no charm. He took his pleasures in the arms of an even younger farmhand in Aughalasheen.
On his return to Glenlara, Connolly mentioned the arrest, if only to boast how the unfortunate burglar had bested five beefy Garda before being felled by a blow from behind.
Brown, secretly back in the main camp for the evening, promised himself to find out what the Garda were doing in the area in the first place, and then went back to his quiet but animated discussion with Reynolds.
In the main, they turned a blind eye to Connelly’s ‘ungodly activities’, rarely even acknowledging them.
However, this night, both men stared after the disappearing IRA man and then shared a conspirator’s smile as cunning minds merged in a plan to dispose of a pressing problem.
Once the Garda had been attended to and, in the case of two of the bloodied men, had their wounds stitched, O’Farrell received the very best of attention himself, the police doctor’s examination and treatment exceedingly thorough.
In line with his wishes, the examination of his lower regions was conducted in private, the doctor insisting on being alone, despite the protestations of the guarding constables.
The period by themselves permitted him to swiftly write out a report on the pad she produced from her medical bag. They didn’t speak at all, except for matters that a doctor and burglar would converse about. However, the doctor was on the payroll of G2 and knew that she would meet another man later that night, a man who would want answers.