Chapter One
While he sat alone at the bar of Eamon’s Pub nursing a glass
of dark brown Guinness, Joe realized that his initial efforts to
uncover dissident activity had led him nowhere. In his role as
a new agent in a strange place and having broken up with
Mary, he felt very much alone.
“Not seen you here before,” the barman said. He set a
glass under the tap and began filling it.
“On vacation,” Joe lied as he watched the golden
liquid foam up.
“On holiday, is it? From the southern States would be
my guess.” Joe nodded with a shrug.
“We see Brits, Germans, French and some Dutch in
here, but it’s uncommon to have a Yank.”
“I’ll try to fit in.”
“Aye,” the bartender replied. “Not a bad plan.”
When Joe first entered the dimly lit, varnished woodpaneled
pub that smelled of beer and cigarettes and cool,
damp mustiness of the harbor and the sweat of Irishmen who
had been at sea all day, some of the patrons had given him
the once-over. That they didn’t much like strangers had been
his impression since arriving in Northern Ireland a few days
2
ago. Given his purpose for being there, he did not expect to
like them much either.
He heard someone banging open the front door and
turned to see a hulking figure. Rain matted the man’s black
hair and dripped from his seaman’s foul weather jacket. The
man peered around in the dim light and frowned when he
apparently spotted someone. Joe watched as he strode toward
a table where several women were seated, drinking and
talking. One of them looked concerned as she saw him
approach, and the group immediately quieted. A young
woman with red hair to her shoulders, who had her back
toward the door, turned to see him.
“So here y’are, Fiona,” he bellowed. It brought all the
customers to silence. The redhead’s companions looked at
her with some distress.
“Aye, Seamus, how’re you keeping?”
“How would you think? Me out on the stinking
trawler all day and you not at the dock to greet me?”
“I sent word, Seamus,” she said with firm calmness,
but there was a spark of anger in her greenish blue eyes. “I
and my friends here were to have our ladies’ night out. You
know we come here on Tuesdays.”
“And I said you were to meet me at the dock.” He
laid his meaty hand on her chair, jerked her back from the
table and grabbed her wrist. “Now come along, I say.”
There was no mistaking it was a threat to the woman, and
Joe stood up, feeling that someone should intervene. He
could take the bully if it came to it. In his opinion, a man
who would treat a woman that way and embarrass her in a
room full of people surely does not deserve her.
3
But realizing that, as a stranger, it was not his place,
he forced himself to stand still. The first rule of being
undercover, he remembered, is to keep a low profile and
never get involved.
“If you, Seamus O’Leary, ever want me to ‘come
along’ as you say,” she said, “it would be best for you to act
the gentleman and leave us to finish our craic.” She tried to
pull her arm away. “Understand?”
They stared at one another for a long moment.
O’Leary abruptly released her wrist, scowled at the
onlookers and walked out. Mumbling a curse, he disappeared
into the rainy gloom, slamming the heavy oak door behind
him. Even though Joe had been in Ballycastle o nly a few
days, he already had observed O’Leary aboard the fishing
trawler that docked near his own boat. The gruff way the
man ordered his crew around was indication enough of what
kind of person he was, and this incident with the girl proved
it.
The ladies regained their composure and once again
engaged one another, but in more serious, less animated talk.
Drinking several big swallows of stout to help himself calm
down, Joe could not keep from glancing at the redhead
named Fiona. As she spoke, a strand of hair fell across her
cheek. She brushed it back, exposing the faint outline of a
scar running from a high cheekbone toward her slightly
upturned, thinly delicate nose. Continuing to address the
women, she shook her fist, accentuating her point.
One of her companions noticed Joe’s attention and
nodded in his direction. Fiona turned to look directly in his
eyes. It was only an instant before he looked down selfconsciously.
Though she continued her entreaty to her
4
companions, he was jolted by their visual exchange and drew
in a deep breath. It had been only a glimpse, a snapshot, a
flash, but in it he had seen in her intense blue-green eyes an
intriguingly attractive presence.
“Could you tell me who that red-haired lady is?” he
asked on the publican’s next trip by. The bald, bulbous man
glanced over at her, and then with a raised eyebrow stared
back at Joe.
“Fiona Brennan. And as you saw, O’Leary’s spoken
for her. That, my friend, is all you need to know.”
Joe nodded and sipped his drink. Since his arrival in
Ballycastle, he had made no headway in his efforts to locate
anyone in the Irish Republican Army. He had singled out
O’Leary as the type but had nothing more to go on. He
glanced at the woman once more. Perhaps, he thought, being
O’Leary’s girl, she might have some peripheral connection
or at least some knowledge of the IRA. So by getting to
know her he could learn something. Of course, as the barman
had warned, any attention he might show could be risky.
Being as pretty and attractive as she was, however, seeing
more of her might make life interesting.
After having escaped his rather possessive girlfriend,
Mary and leaving her back home in Birmingham, Alabama,
he knew this was no time to be getting involved again.
Glancing over at the attractive Fiona once more, he guessed
she was in her late thirties, a decade younger than himself.
What this beauty saw in that Seamus character, he could not
imagine. Joe noticed Eamon watching him with disapproval.
“She’s O’Leary’s girl,” the barman repeated. “’Tis
well you mind my meaning.” He took Joe’s glass and wiped
the bar. “Another?”
5
Joe nodded reluctantly and watched his glass being
filled. He felt a gust of wind behind him as the door opened
again, and a massive figure filled the entrance.
“Evening, Big Ryan,” said the bartender.
“Eamon,” the man replied as he shook off his wet
jacket. Joe rarely encountered someone so much taller than
himself, but the newcomer, with graying blond stringy hair
and great bushy eyebrows, stood at least six-feet six.
Probably the result of Viking genes rather than Celtic, Joe
guessed. The giant waved and exchanged brief pleasantries
with one or two at the rail before taking a seat at a small
table close by.
“Your usual then?”
“Oh, aye.”
Joe watched Eamon draw a pint of Guinness, letting
half a glass stand until the foam went down and then topping
it off.
“So, how’re you keeping?” the publican asked,
delivering the mug of dark brown stout.
“Too idle, you know.” The tall man shook his head.
“Aye, retirement’s not easy. Tried it myself for a year
before tending bar.” Eamon wiped the table and headed back
to his post behind the counter.
A couple of seaman in yellow foul-weather jackets
stopped to speak to the big fellow, who greeted them with an
affable smile. Joe noted they spoke to the giant with an
attitude of deference and respect. When the pair left, he
decided to try approaching him. If there was to be an
opportunity today to meet someone local, this was it. He
took his half-empty glass and walked over. The man seemed
self-absorbed in thought.
6
“Hello. Could I bother you a moment?” The man
looked up and squinted at him. “I’ve got a boat in the
marina,” Joe continued, “and I’m trying to find a mechanic.”
“Well, that wouldn’t be me,” the big man replied,
giving Joe a critical stare. “But I might give you a name or
two.”
“Great! I’m new around here and don’t know my way
around very well.”
“A misplaced Johnny Reb, by your talk.”
“Joe Anderson.” He stuck out his hand. The big man
glanced at it a full second before extending his own big
rough hand that swallowed Joe’s.
“Ryan McLeod.”
Joe glanced at an empty chair. “May I?” he ventured,
getting a slight shrug and nod in response.
“I’ve rented a forty-foot sloop,” Joe went on, daring
to sit down, “and I’m hoping to do some sailing.”
“Sailing yacht, you said? And your crew?”
“All by myself,” Joe replied. “Just puttering around
on my own.”
“Well, I hope you know these waters,” Ryan said.
“Seas and weather can be a might rough and changeable.”
He eyed Joe seriously. “Difficult for any man, especially
one who doesn’t know them.”
“I imagine you’ve spent some time at sea?”
Ryan grinned. “Twenty-six years in the Merchant
Marine. And I was harbourmaster here afterwards. ”
“I’ll bet you’ve got some stories.”
“Aye.” The big man paused to finish off his stout.
While he sat alone at the bar of Eamon’s Pub nursing a glass
of dark brown Guinness, Joe realized that his initial efforts to
uncover dissident activity had led him nowhere. In his role as
a new agent in a strange place and having broken up with
Mary, he felt very much alone.
“Not seen you here before,” the barman said. He set a
glass under the tap and began filling it.
“On vacation,” Joe lied as he watched the golden
liquid foam up.
“On holiday, is it? From the southern States would be
my guess.” Joe nodded with a shrug.
“We see Brits, Germans, French and some Dutch in
here, but it’s uncommon to have a Yank.”
“I’ll try to fit in.”
“Aye,” the bartender replied. “Not a bad plan.”
When Joe first entered the dimly lit, varnished woodpaneled
pub that smelled of beer and cigarettes and cool,
damp mustiness of the harbor and the sweat of Irishmen who
had been at sea all day, some of the patrons had given him
the once-over. That they didn’t much like strangers had been
his impression since arriving in Northern Ireland a few days
2
ago. Given his purpose for being there, he did not expect to
like them much either.
He heard someone banging open the front door and
turned to see a hulking figure. Rain matted the man’s black
hair and dripped from his seaman’s foul weather jacket. The
man peered around in the dim light and frowned when he
apparently spotted someone. Joe watched as he strode toward
a table where several women were seated, drinking and
talking. One of them looked concerned as she saw him
approach, and the group immediately quieted. A young
woman with red hair to her shoulders, who had her back
toward the door, turned to see him.
“So here y’are, Fiona,” he bellowed. It brought all the
customers to silence. The redhead’s companions looked at
her with some distress.
“Aye, Seamus, how’re you keeping?”
“How would you think? Me out on the stinking
trawler all day and you not at the dock to greet me?”
“I sent word, Seamus,” she said with firm calmness,
but there was a spark of anger in her greenish blue eyes. “I
and my friends here were to have our ladies’ night out. You
know we come here on Tuesdays.”
“And I said you were to meet me at the dock.” He
laid his meaty hand on her chair, jerked her back from the
table and grabbed her wrist. “Now come along, I say.”
There was no mistaking it was a threat to the woman, and
Joe stood up, feeling that someone should intervene. He
could take the bully if it came to it. In his opinion, a man
who would treat a woman that way and embarrass her in a
room full of people surely does not deserve her.
3
But realizing that, as a stranger, it was not his place,
he forced himself to stand still. The first rule of being
undercover, he remembered, is to keep a low profile and
never get involved.
“If you, Seamus O’Leary, ever want me to ‘come
along’ as you say,” she said, “it would be best for you to act
the gentleman and leave us to finish our craic.” She tried to
pull her arm away. “Understand?”
They stared at one another for a long moment.
O’Leary abruptly released her wrist, scowled at the
onlookers and walked out. Mumbling a curse, he disappeared
into the rainy gloom, slamming the heavy oak door behind
him. Even though Joe had been in Ballycastle o nly a few
days, he already had observed O’Leary aboard the fishing
trawler that docked near his own boat. The gruff way the
man ordered his crew around was indication enough of what
kind of person he was, and this incident with the girl proved
it.
The ladies regained their composure and once again
engaged one another, but in more serious, less animated talk.
Drinking several big swallows of stout to help himself calm
down, Joe could not keep from glancing at the redhead
named Fiona. As she spoke, a strand of hair fell across her
cheek. She brushed it back, exposing the faint outline of a
scar running from a high cheekbone toward her slightly
upturned, thinly delicate nose. Continuing to address the
women, she shook her fist, accentuating her point.
One of her companions noticed Joe’s attention and
nodded in his direction. Fiona turned to look directly in his
eyes. It was only an instant before he looked down selfconsciously.
Though she continued her entreaty to her
4
companions, he was jolted by their visual exchange and drew
in a deep breath. It had been only a glimpse, a snapshot, a
flash, but in it he had seen in her intense blue-green eyes an
intriguingly attractive presence.
“Could you tell me who that red-haired lady is?” he
asked on the publican’s next trip by. The bald, bulbous man
glanced over at her, and then with a raised eyebrow stared
back at Joe.
“Fiona Brennan. And as you saw, O’Leary’s spoken
for her. That, my friend, is all you need to know.”
Joe nodded and sipped his drink. Since his arrival in
Ballycastle, he had made no headway in his efforts to locate
anyone in the Irish Republican Army. He had singled out
O’Leary as the type but had nothing more to go on. He
glanced at the woman once more. Perhaps, he thought, being
O’Leary’s girl, she might have some peripheral connection
or at least some knowledge of the IRA. So by getting to
know her he could learn something. Of course, as the barman
had warned, any attention he might show could be risky.
Being as pretty and attractive as she was, however, seeing
more of her might make life interesting.
After having escaped his rather possessive girlfriend,
Mary and leaving her back home in Birmingham, Alabama,
he knew this was no time to be getting involved again.
Glancing over at the attractive Fiona once more, he guessed
she was in her late thirties, a decade younger than himself.
What this beauty saw in that Seamus character, he could not
imagine. Joe noticed Eamon watching him with disapproval.
“She’s O’Leary’s girl,” the barman repeated. “’Tis
well you mind my meaning.” He took Joe’s glass and wiped
the bar. “Another?”
5
Joe nodded reluctantly and watched his glass being
filled. He felt a gust of wind behind him as the door opened
again, and a massive figure filled the entrance.
“Evening, Big Ryan,” said the bartender.
“Eamon,” the man replied as he shook off his wet
jacket. Joe rarely encountered someone so much taller than
himself, but the newcomer, with graying blond stringy hair
and great bushy eyebrows, stood at least six-feet six.
Probably the result of Viking genes rather than Celtic, Joe
guessed. The giant waved and exchanged brief pleasantries
with one or two at the rail before taking a seat at a small
table close by.
“Your usual then?”
“Oh, aye.”
Joe watched Eamon draw a pint of Guinness, letting
half a glass stand until the foam went down and then topping
it off.
“So, how’re you keeping?” the publican asked,
delivering the mug of dark brown stout.
“Too idle, you know.” The tall man shook his head.
“Aye, retirement’s not easy. Tried it myself for a year
before tending bar.” Eamon wiped the table and headed back
to his post behind the counter.
A couple of seaman in yellow foul-weather jackets
stopped to speak to the big fellow, who greeted them with an
affable smile. Joe noted they spoke to the giant with an
attitude of deference and respect. When the pair left, he
decided to try approaching him. If there was to be an
opportunity today to meet someone local, this was it. He
took his half-empty glass and walked over. The man seemed
self-absorbed in thought.
6
“Hello. Could I bother you a moment?” The man
looked up and squinted at him. “I’ve got a boat in the
marina,” Joe continued, “and I’m trying to find a mechanic.”
“Well, that wouldn’t be me,” the big man replied,
giving Joe a critical stare. “But I might give you a name or
two.”
“Great! I’m new around here and don’t know my way
around very well.”
“A misplaced Johnny Reb, by your talk.”
“Joe Anderson.” He stuck out his hand. The big man
glanced at it a full second before extending his own big
rough hand that swallowed Joe’s.
“Ryan McLeod.”
Joe glanced at an empty chair. “May I?” he ventured,
getting a slight shrug and nod in response.
“I’ve rented a forty-foot sloop,” Joe went on, daring
to sit down, “and I’m hoping to do some sailing.”
“Sailing yacht, you said? And your crew?”
“All by myself,” Joe replied. “Just puttering around
on my own.”
“Well, I hope you know these waters,” Ryan said.
“Seas and weather can be a might rough and changeable.”
He eyed Joe seriously. “Difficult for any man, especially
one who doesn’t know them.”
“I imagine you’ve spent some time at sea?”
Ryan grinned. “Twenty-six years in the Merchant
Marine. And I was harbourmaster here afterwards. ”
“I’ll bet you’ve got some stories.”
“Aye.” The big man paused to finish off his stout.
(End of the excerpt from Chapter One)
To purchase the novel please click here.