dealing with the Irish, literary license and other liberties should not only be tolerated but expected.
St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York has been described with care and accuracy. However, as in any work of fiction, especially in one set in the future, dramatic liberties have been exercised in some instances.
The New York police officers represented in this novel are not based on real people. The fictional hostage negotiator, Captain Bert Schroeder, is not meant to represent the present New York Police Department Hostage Negotiator, Frank Bolz. The only similarity shared is the title of Hostage Negotiator. Captain Bolz is an exceptionally competent officer whom the author has had the pleasure of meeting on three occasions, and Captain Bolz’s worldwide reputation as innovator of the New York Plan of hostage negotiating is well deserved. To the people of the city of New York, and especially to the people whose lives he’s been instrumental in saving, he is a true hero in every sense of the word.
The Catholic clergy represented in this work are not based on actual persons. The Irish revolutionaries in this novel are based to some extent on a composite of real people, as are the politicians, intelligence people, and diplomats, though no individual character is meant to represent an actual man or woman.
The purpose of this work was not to write a roman a clef or to represent in any way, favorably or unfavorably, persons living or dead.
The story takes place not in the present or the past but in the future; the nature of the story, however, compels the author to use descriptive job titles and other factual designations that exist at this writing. Beyond these designations there is no identification meant or intended with the public figures who presently hold those descriptive job titles.
Historical characters and references are for the most part factual except where there is an obvious blend of fact and fiction woven into the story line.
Book I
Northern Ireland
Northern Irish peace
activist and winner of
the Nobel Peace Prize
CHAPTER 1
“The tea has got cold.” Sheila Malone set down her cup and waited for the two young men who sat opposite her, clad in khaki underwear, to do the same.
The younger man, Private Harding, cleared his throat. “We’d like to put on our uniforms.”
Sheila Malone shook her head. “No need for that.”
The other man, Sergeant Shelby, put down his cup. “Let’s get done with it.” His voice was steady, but his hand shook and the color had drained from under his eyes. He made no move to rise.
Sheila Malone said abruptly, “Why don’t we take a walk?”
The sergeant stood. The other man, Harding, looked down at the table, staring at the scattered remains of the bridge game they’d all passed the morning with. He shook his head. “No.”
Sergeant Shelby took the younger man’s arm and tried to grip it, but there was no strength in his hand. “Come on, now. We could use some air.”
Sheila Malone nodded to two men by the fire. They rose and came up behind the British soldiers. One of them, Liam Coogan, said roughly, “Let’s go. We’ve not got all day.”
Shelby looked at the men behind him. “Give the lad a second or two,” he said, pulling at Harding’s arm. “Stand up,” he ordered. “That’s the hardest part.”
The young private rose slowly, then began to sink back into his chair, his body trembling.
Coogan grasped him under the arms and propelled him toward the door. The other man, George Sullivan, opened the door and pushed him out.
Everyone knew that speed was important now, that it had to be done quickly, before anyone’s courage failed. The sod was wet and cold under the prisoners’ feet, and a January wind shook water off the rowan trees. They passed the outdoor privy they had walked to every morning and every evening for two weeks and kept walking toward the ravine near the cottage.
Sheila Malone reached under her sweater and drew a small revolver from her waistband. During the weeks she had spent with these men she had grown to like them, and out of common decency someone else should have been sent to do it. Bloody insensitive bastards.
The two soldiers were at the edge of the ravine now, walking down into it.
Coogan poked her roughly. “Now, damn you! Now!”
She looked back toward the prisoners. “Stop!”
The two men halted with their backs to their executioners. Sheila Malone hesitated, then raised the pistol with both hands. She knew she would hit only their backs from that range, but she couldn’t bring herself to move closer for a head shot. She took a deep breath and fired, shifted her aim, and fired again.
Shelby and Harding lurched forward and hit the ground before the echo of the two reports died away. They thrashed on the ground, moaning.
Coogan cursed. “Goddamn it!” He ran into the ravine, pointed his pistol at the back of Shelby’s head, and fired. He looked at Harding, who was lying on his side. Frothy blood trickled from his mouth and his chest heaved. Coogan bent over, placed the pistol between Harding’s wideopen eyes, and fired again. He put his revolver in his pocket and looked up at the edge of the ravine. “Bloody stupid woman. Give a woman a job to do and …”
Sheila Malone pointed her revolver down at him. Coogan stepped backward and tripped over Shelby’s body. He lay between the two corpses with his hands still held high. “No! Please. I didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t shoot!”
Sheila lowered the pistol. “If you ever touch me again, or say anything to me again … I’ll blow your fucking head off!”
Sullivan approached her cautiously. “It’s all right now. Come on, Sheila. We’ve got to get away from here.”
“He can find his own bloody way back. I’ll not ride with him.”
Sullivan turned and looked down at Coogan. “Head out through the wood, Liam. You’ll pick up a bus on the highway. See you in Belfast.”
Sheila Malone and George Sullivan walked quickly to the car waiting off the lane and climbed in behind the driver, Rory Devane, and the courier, Tommy Fitzgerald.
“Let’s go,” said Sullivan.
“Where’s Liam?” asked Devane nervously.
“Move out,” said Sheila.
The car pulled into the lane and headed south toward Belfast.
