Bogie, Birdie, Dormie, Death: The Romantic Irish Golf Mystery

By David E. Scherer

Golf innovator Jud Slade is found murdered in Ireland, and Danny Swift Jr. is on the next plane from America. Jud was his fathers friend and lifelong personal caddy, and Dan Swift Sr. needs his son for support and as a stand-in for Jud in an upcoming tournament, the recently relocated British Open. Once arrived, Danny meets Siobhan Delaney, the vivacious owner of a local inn. Despite the unfortunate circumstances, Danny grows fond of Siobhan.

However, she has enough on her mind. Not only is she running a successful business, but she has a childhood companion involved in political violence, an alcoholic mother, and now, a mysterious murder in her hometown. Danny is unexpected, but the feelings they share are impossible to ignore. As Danny becomes more and more infatuated with this lovely colleen, he delves deeper into the untimely death of Jud and finds himself lost in Irish folklore.

Following deaths that appear to be additional murders, Danny and Siobhan enlist the help of the eminent journalist Carlton Claridge. His extensive knowledge of Irish culture and golf history may help them catch a killer whose riddles keep Danny in the dark. Professional golfers are in danger, but so are those outside the game, as age-old Irish violence threatens to run rampant through the quiet streets near the Gap of Dunloe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475935547

David E. Scherer

David E. Scherer has had a deep fascination with Ireland and all things Irish, ever since his initial visit in the 1950s. Currently, he resides in Crystal River, Florida, with his wife and lifelong friend, Martha.

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Copyright © 2010, 2012 by David E. Scherer

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-3552-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-3553-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-3554-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012923068

iUniverse rev. date: 12/07/2012

Contents

PART ONE

Prologue

Kinsale Harbor

On in Regulation

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

On in Regulation

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

On in Regulation

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

PART TWO

Prelude I

Prelude II

Prelude III

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

On in Regulation

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

On in Regulation

Epilogue

For Bucky

PART ONE

Prologue

Melton’s Quarry

New Westmorland, Massachusetts

Wednesday, June 17

10:10 p.m.

Barely a mile beyond the little stone shed where they had dismembered the ambitious Arab, the unpaved road ended at the quarry’s rim. The black BMW 525i braked to a gentle halt. Leaving the headlights on, Morton Sharp, a huge man in his midforties, opened the driver’s-side door and eased his enormous bulk out from under the wheel. The headlights clearly illuminated the barricades guarding the edge of the quarry, and for the moment, the owner of Sharp Sports Enterprises made no attempt to leave the vicinity of the car. Instead, he stood still and cocked his head, as if listening for anyone who might be stirring nearby, but the occasional call of a night bird was all that greeted his ears. Had anyone else actually been on the scene this warm June evening, he might have found Sharp’s behavior furtive. However, there was no one within miles of this remote property Morton Sharp used for a variety of clandestine purposes.

Scratching a scraggly little mustache with one beefy finger, Sharp lumbered around the front of his car, his gray trousers illuminated by the beams of the headlights. Again he paused and surveyed the area. Then, with a grunt of apparent satisfaction, he opened the door on the passenger’s side.

He took a deep breath. Gingerly he reached in and removed the blanket concealing something on the seat. He doubled up the blanket and spread it out on the ground. A large metal box sat on the passenger seat bolted to the front of the glove compartment by two metal rods. Sharp surveyed this peculiar object, nodding with evident satisfaction, and then, after glancing around suspiciously yet again, he flipped the latches on the box and lifted the top to reveal hundreds of Styrofoam peanuts.

Okay now, easy does it, he cautioned himself in a low voice as he slowly began to remove some of the Styrofoam from the box, dropping it piece by piece on the floor of the car. Shortly he found what he was looking for and removed it with both hands—a small black velvet sack with drawstrings tied in a bow knot. Slowly the huge man knelt down and gently placed the little bag on the blanket, pursing his lips and exhaling heavily, as if having just completed an enormous task fraught with great danger. He glanced about distrustfully one final time.

Relax, Mort, he called out to himself impatiently, as if to emphasize that he was indeed very much alone in a very isolated locale and all his security measures were silly as well as superfluous. There’s no one within miles of this place, babe! Lighten up. Enjoy the show.

Possibly reassured by the dying echoes of his own voice and the silence that followed, he struggled to his feet and, after a couple of deep breaths, walked forward very slowly to the nearest of the oversized sawhorses that served as barricades, putting out his left arm as if to brace himself against some fluke vacuum that might suck him over the edge—or a sudden, perverse compulsion that might overwhelm him and cause him to hurl himself down into the fearsome depths of the quarry. He glanced back and forth between the barricade and the edge, seemingly calculating the distance between, which was a matter of some ten yards. A glance toward the farther rim of the excavation that was just barely illuminated by the beams of the headlights revealed a distance of perhaps three hundred feet—a distance that appeared to suit his purposes.

Okay, let’s do it, he urged himself aloud. Let’s see if there’s anything to all this bullshit about Nitro-Gorgon.

Returning to the blanket, he knelt once again, carefully untying the knot and opening the little sack. Reaching in, he removed what appeared to be an ordinary golf ball. He placed the sack on the blanket and gently placed the ball on top. Then, rising, he returned to the car, replaced the Styrofoam, and carefully closed the strange box and the car door. These tasks completed, he took a couple more deep breaths. Then Sharp squatted and firmly gripped the ball in his right hand. He straightened, shaking his hand ever so gently and calculating the ball’s weight. Raising it carefully to eye level, he next studied its appearance, shaking his head and smiling in grudging admiration.

Titleist number one. Damn near perfect! he explained as if he were a commentator, holding out the ball and addressing some unseen audience to impress upon them the ingenuity of Morton Sharp’s latest masterpiece of deception.

Everything’s exactly like the real thing, he announced, except—huh, well now, what’s this? A third little black dot over the L making a triangle with the two dotted i’s. Can’t really blame the manufacturer for that, now can we?

He paused as if waiting for an imaginary response, and hearing none, he continued, The third dot, you see, represents the identifying mark Mr. Sharp always places with a blue marker on the balls he plays. It must have been present on the sample Titleist supplied to the firm in Brno. The narrator laughed condescendingly. Those peasants assumed it was a modification intended for the finished product. He dismissed the phantom audience with an abrupt wave of his other hand. No harm done, Mort. No one is going to get a good look at these balls except a handful of crazy Irishmen, and they certainly couldn’t give less of a damn.

Rising and cradling the hand grasping the ball with his other hand, he made his way across the short distance to the barricade. He paused and took yet another series of deep breaths and licked his lips.

Okay, here we go: one, two, three, he counted aloud. Rearing back, he threw the ball as hard as he could upward and outward—but perhaps not as far outward as he intended—into the night sky. He took a couple of steps back. After what seemed an interminable interval, the ball reappeared on its downward flight, gleaming briefly in the beams of the headlights—not all that far from where the huge man stood—before disappearing again into the blackness below.

Sharp stepped back again and squatted, putting his fingers in his ears momentarily before apparently changing his mind and removing them, staring all the while at the insects gyrating in the beams of the car’s headlights. He waited. Nothing.

Ah, don’t tell me, for Christ’s sake, he murmured, starting to rise.

Then he violently flinched and froze in a deep defensive crouch, his neck muscles quivering, his head trying to claw its way down between his shoulders as a blue-violet flash radiated up from the chasm, for a brief moment painting the bugs with an unearthly iridescence. The flash was followed in a second or two by the deafening crack-thump of an explosion far below—an explosion that echoed like thunder, thumping louder and louder around the sheer walls of the quarry and then around again.

Sharp straightened and staggered backward, his mouth agape. Almost instantaneously there was a rushing of cold air, a shuddering of the ground, and the sharp crack of a second explosion that was higher in pitch and seemingly closer at hand, and the earth opened almost at his feet. Like a glacier calving, nearly ten feet of the quarry wall sank majestically into the darkness, the sawhorse tumbling after. The gradually diminishing roar of falling stone lasted nearly thirty seconds, accompanied by the patter from a small shower of rock fragments raining down from above and causing the big man to flinch again and then lift his arms for protection.

The roar died away. The shower slowed and stopped, and then it was still. Even the birds were shocked into silence, but the huge man kept his arms raised, flexing them now in celebration—his fists punching the air and then signaling number one.

Ho-ly shee-it! he exclaimed, looking around as if the invisible audience was there again and needed such a critique to fully appreciate the enormity of what they had just witnessed.

Only then did the narrowness of his escape dawn on him, for with a speed belied by his gigantic size, he scrambled into the driver’s seat, jerked the car into gear, and backed the car down the gravel road some fifty feet without even closing the passenger door. For almost a minute he stared out the windshield at the beams of the headlights before whispering in a tone of awe the single word, Gorgon.

He looked at his watch—9:55 p.m. He cut the headlights, closed the passenger door, turned on the vanity light, and activated the cellular phone using the control panel above the mirror. The car’s stereo speaker system made a number of beeping sounds as the huge man reached into his breast pocket for the little notebook. Turning to the letter O, he found the inscription Angel Hotel under the single word O’Neill, followed by a series of numbers. From memory he dialed another series of numbers first and following a sequence of electronic noises from the car’s speaker system, more numbers yet.

Sharp punched in a few more numbers and heard a dial tone. Now Sharp dialed the numbers in the book and waited as a further assortment of beeps and clicks assaulted his ear. A voice came on the line.

Angel Hotel. There was a pause of nearly ten seconds, and then the voice continued somewhat incongruously, This hotel closes on Sundays and holidays in accordance with local regulations.

When you reopen on Monday, what sorts of beer will be served on draught in the public room? Sharp recited in a bored tone of voice.

We have the Guinness and there’s the Harp Lager, but we’re expectins’ a shipment of Smith’icks next week, the voice replied, adding what must have been an unexpected rebuke, judging from Sharp’s angry expression. And you’re late. I thought you’d forgotten me and it bein’ past the middle of the night.

Sorry about that, the big man grunted in a sarcastic tone. I’ve just been running a quality control check on your merchandise. Are you free to talk now?

This is a secure phone, the voice confirmed. What about the merchandise?

Sharp leaned back in the seat, remembering the collapse of the quarry wall and the shower of rock fragments thrown up more than a hundred feet by the force of the explosion. This stuff is way beyond state of the art. Maybe they’ve found some way to ignite the nitrogen in the surrounding air. It’s a whole new concept. About a hundred times more powerful than Semtex. I think I’ll charge you double.

Ah, no you won’t, and the people I represent won’t be findin’ that amusin’. We’re payin’ you a king’s ransom as it is. I assume you are tryin’ to make a jest.

Your people will be very pleased when this shipment arrives, Morton Sharp continued, ignoring the comment. That’s what I need to talk to you about.

I still think it’s very unwise to be changin’ our normal procedure, aye, unwise and dangerous as well. It’ll be very crowded at the hotel, what with the tournament and all. Under no circumstances can we actually be meetin’, so there will have to be a drop of some sort, and that I don’t care for at all.

Morton Sharp found a cigarette and lit it with the car lighter.

Are you still there? the voice asked.

Tell me about bag storage at the Dunloe Gap Hotel, he finally demanded.

There’s a stone clubhouse just off the eighteenth green. The men’s grill and an observation deck are on the top floors. The office and the locker rooms are on the ground floor, and the bags are stored in the cellar.

How do you get down there? Sharp asked, dragging deeply on his cigarette.

The storage room? There are the stairs at the end of the hall. Right across from the men’s locker room they are, stairs leadin’ up to the grill and stairs leadin’ down to the storage areas.

Sounds like you’ve cased this place pretty well.

I got started at Dunloe Gap, came the reply. I grew up there.

Really? Sharp replied flatly. What kind of security are we talking about?

Next to none. The two doors on the outside are locked after the grill closes at ten, but with the tournament, they’ll probably be stayin’ open till twelve or maybe later for hotel guests. Sure, and it’s too dangerous for an exchange. People will be comin’ and goin’ at all hours.

No one said anything about an exchange. I don’t expect to lay eyes on that ugly face of yours, have no fear. Once I’m in the building, can I get down to bag storage?

Just walk down the stairs.

Tell me about the bag you’ll be carrying.

So that’s the game, the voice went on. Well, Long John has this God-awful orange item with the word Powerbilt all on the front. His name is inscribed on the back pocket. And that’s the place to be puttin’ the merchandise, if this is the way it must be done. I keep all his regular balls in one of the front pockets. There’ll be nothing back there but a spare sweater and his pills. I’ll see to it.

Morton Sharp reached into the vanity compartment between two seats of the car and found a black magic marker. Under the number for the Angel Hotel in his address book, he wrote the words, Orange, Powerbilt, John Nolan, back pocket.

Who else will have access to the bag? he asked.

Anyone can get down there, but no one is havin’ any business with the bag but me.

What’s Nolan’s schedule look like? Sharp demanded.

Hold on a minute. I’ve got it right here. There was a brief pause. Ah, now the Pro-Am is the twenty-ninth—that’s a Monday. Everyone’s at Dunloe Gap. He plays his first round there as well on Tuesday. On Wednesday he’s at Waterville, Thursday—

Okay, enough already, Sharp interrupted. We’ll make it Monday night after the Pro-Am. His bag will still be at Dunloe Gap.

Aye. As I was explainin’, he’s playin’ there the next day.

Perfect. Morton Sharp exhaled a stream of smoke against the windshield of the car and nodded. Just make sure the bag is there after the Pro-Am, and the next morning there’ll be a little surprise waiting for you. Treat the bag too roughly and you’ll get a big surprise instead. I’m warning you this Gorgon is an entirely new concept in explosives. It makes anything we have now look like baking soda.

I’ll be removin’ the merchandise to a secure place late that evenin’. Rest assured I’ll be takin’ no chances. A note of concern had crept into the voice on the phone. So just how touchy are these balls?

About as fragile as a heavy crystal like that Waterford of yours. You can drop one on a heavy carpet, they tell me, and nothing will happen. Drop one out of a second-story window on the sidewalk and one more clean, white shirt will do you. That’s assuming they find enough of you to piece together for a viewing. Sharp grinned again. Just to be safe, arrange for delivery of my fee before you try to use one of these little beauties.

Very amusin’, the voice returned. As soon as I’m gettin’ the merchandise, a call will be placed to the islands. Tell me again the brand name we’re usin’.

Titleist, as we agreed. One dozen marked with three black dots. I have more if you should need them later.

Right, Titleist. Long John plays a Maxfli, so there’ll be no confusion there. The bag will be in the storage area at the bottom of the stairs by four o’clock Tuesday afternoon. I’ll see to it. And I’ll stay clear till midnight. That way I’m hopin’ no one will connect us.

What’s to connect if I give you a wide berth the rest of the week?

Right. There was a pause, and then the voice came again with just a touch of menace to it. Just put the balls in the bag and be on your way. If anything is missin’, I’ll know where to look.

Sharp frowned slightly and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. I told you I’ll give you and your man a wide berth.

I know what you said. Just keep your hands off his equipment. I never should have told you about it in the first place.

What about the other guy? The technician. He’ll be there, won’t he?

Judd Slade? Aye. He’s carryin’ for Dan Swift when he’s not fine tunin’ everyone’s equipment, but I’m not after knowin’ Swift’s schedule.

The huge man jotted down the name Judd Slade in heavy, bold letters under his other notes. It will be easy enough to find him. He circled Slade’s name several times as he spoke and then idly added a couple of embellishments. Okay then, Monday night in the bag room at Dunloe Gap. Give me till midnight.

I’m still not likin’ it, but I guess I’ve got no choice.

That’s right, you’ve got no choice. And with that, Morton Sharp pressed the end button to terminate the connection. He waited a moment, dialed another number, picked up his notebook, and began to doodle again.

After a couple of rings, a man picked up and said simply, Yeah? in a hoarse whisper.

I’m picking up a rental car at Shannon, Wednesday, about eight at night. Avis.

In your name?

Company name. Make it a BMW. I want someone to leave a package for me in with the spare tire. Same as last time.

That’s it?

Two magazines. Put a Carswell on it.

You got it, the hoarse voice confirmed.

Morton Sharp pushed the end button again and leaned back against the seat, apparently deep in thought. Then he lifted his notebook and looked again at what he had written under the numbers for the Angel Hotel: the words Orange, Powerbilt, John Nolan, back pocket and the name Judd Slade, now totally obliterated by the heavy black strokes of his marker.

Kinsale Harbor

County Cork, Republic of Ireland

Monday, June 22

4:45 p.m.

The burly man with the bandaged arm flipped the cap off a dripping bottle of Harp Lager, handed it to Hawkes, and eased himself down into his deck chair. He placed his own bottle on the deck beside him, and using a large, old-fashioned lighter, he lit a cigarette. Over the stern of the fishing boat, Old Head Kinsale pitched up and down as the boat rode the easy swells. Hawkes took a long pull on the beer and slouched further down in his chair. A casual observer might have thought the two men were old friends enjoying a quiet day of fishing and relaxation with not a care in the world. Such an observer would have been wrong.

Sometimes I think I ought to just chuck it and spend the rest of my life lazing around like this, Hawkes commented to no one in particular. He hoisted the bottle again, as if to punctuate his remark.

You never struck me as the fishing sort.

Never had time for it, that’s all.

All the writin’, is it? His companion laughed sardonically and then took a deep drag and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. Takes your every waking moment, what?

Don’t laugh, Hawkes protested mildly. I actually edit some of the copy they give me. I keep a couple of files on the laptop—fiddle with them on the airplanes.

Clever cover, that. Skye Hawkes, freelance author. Always on the go.

Interviewing the great and the near great for the Turnip Growers’ Journal. This week it’s a slice of life on the Irish Senior Tour. Hawkes chuckled.

Oh, is it now? There’s a nice coincidence.

Hawkes cocked an ear astern where the gargling of the boat’s exhaust vied with the cries of the gulls for his attention. I assume we’re secure this far out.

Quite, the burly man assured his companion. They couldn’t hear us now if they had all the bloody equipment at the weather station. He nodded toward the deck house. Old Flaherty up there has done the occasional job for me for years. He’s deaf as a post to boot."

Part of the job description, I bet. Hawkes took another deep swallow. So, what do you have for me?

The burly man studied the label of his own bottle as if looking there for the answer to this question before replying. Nothing your chaps don’t already know, I’d wager. The trail was pretty cold by the time we got on it, and I wouldn’t give tuppence for local inquiries. He turned a florid face toward his companion. But there is no evidence of any foreign presence.

No Syrian, Libyan, or Iranian involvement?

Not bloody likely in Belfast. The burly figure flipped his cigarette butt over the side, as if to punctuate his comment.

Any suspected Arab infiltration of Catholic paramilitary groups? The IRA, for instance?

You’d be more interested in the Sons of Wolfe Tone.

Tell me why.

The established groups have no sympathies with the Islamic revolution. The bloody Sons of Wolfe Tone, now they’re less picky, but what happened last time was spontaneous. The deaths resulted from an incident involving a drum.

A drum? Like a musical instrument?

An icon to the Orangemen. One of your innocent little lambs decided to urinate on it. No provocation there, what? The little girl was with him, and the nun tried to go to their assistance when the stoning began.

Jesus Christ! Hawkes laughed wryly, shaking his head in apparent disbelief, as he stared out over the water. What a bunch of animals.

The twelfth of July is always an ugly scene in Belfast. It never goes by without some kind of violence.

All because some king crossed some river three hundred years ago, right? Hawkes asked.

Makes a lot of bloody sense, doesn’t it? Well, that’s the Irish for you. He fished another cigarette from his pocket and lit it before continuing. The boy was ten years old, the girl only a year older.

Children, Hawkes mused softly. Goddamned children.

You’ve seen worse, his companion replied. Here and there, what?

Hawkes tossed his empty bottle over the side without replying. So what do I need to know?

The Friends, Six too, I imagine, the foreign office certainly, everyone up to the PM is going bonkers about the possibility of terrorism next month in Belfast. There’s the open scheduled nearby.

The British Open. You going?

The burly man only laughed. The open—just north of Belfast at Royal Carnlough—on the Shoals o’ Michael. First time across the Irish sea in ages and it falls the same weekend as the big parade. Good planning, what?

Obviously your people will be taking steps.

The burly man nodded. The Orange Lodges are bringing over some rabble-rousing preacher from Newcastle to stir things up. He won’t get through customs wherever he tries. Who would think a holy man like that would be carrying a couple of grams of cocaine?

Never can tell in this sinful world.

The parade route will be cordoned off, and a military police battalion is being slipped in at the last moment to guard the route and keep the parade out of the Catholic neighborhoods.

Hawkes continued to stare over the stern. A few small sailboats were tacking gaily about at the entrance to the little harbor. They won’t have any sympathies with the loyalist marchers?

Not these lads. They’re special. Don’t care whose skulls they break.

What about your Sons of Wolfe Tone?

There will be increased patrols and stepped up surveillance along the border. We’ve a list of trouble makers, and if any of them come north, we’ll scoop them up beforehand.

Our State Department will probably want to put out a warning to tourists coming over for the tournament. Most of the hotels will be in Belfast, won’t they?

The burly man nodded. They should be told to stay well clear of the parade route. It will be published in all the papers. If they’re up at the links by Sunday noon, there’ll be no problem.

I’ll pass that along when the time comes.

Right. The stocky man got up and went to the rail. Taking a final drag, he flipped his butt away before drawing up a small net and removing another dripping bottle of beer. He opened it and gave it to Hawkes. Returning to the rail, he lowered the net into the waters and looked down for a long moment. The Lusitania, he finally announced as if he could actually see the broken ship down in the murky depths.

What about it?

Right on this very spot it was they sank the Lusitania.

Terrible tragedy, I hear.

The burly man straightened. Bloody ship was loaded with contraband. You hear that too?

Hawkes smiled wanly and shook his head. No. Old Miss Tobey neglected to mention that in her lecture.

They thought the u-boats would let them pass—what with all the women and children.

Ah, yes, Hawkes intoned. Husbands and wives—little children lost their lives.

Sad, the burly man opined.

It’s always sad when a great ship goes down. Usually an unpleasant surprise for the innocent passengers too.

Ah, but when old Sodomy Insane puts hostages up on the roof of his command bunker then it’s a different song, what? He found another bottle of beer for himself in a paper bag resting against the gunwale and opened it. The bombing in Iraq, the troubles in Ulster—none of this is what you’re really after, or we wouldn’t be bobbing about out here where no one can hear us.

Hawkes straightened slightly and leaned forward. What can you tell me about a man named Judah Jeremiah Slade?

And who would be interested in this Mister uh?

Slade. A number of people, myself included.

Company business or personal reasons? The burly man took a long swallow from his bottle.

Hawkes stared at him—perhaps weighing his reliability—and pursed his lips before continuing. Let me tell you a little story that you might find interesting too, for personal reasons.

Ah, might I now?

Some guys at one of our university laboratories stumbled on something quite by accident not so long ago.

Isn’t that always the way? Like Zyklon B, what?

Yeah. Hawkes chuckled briefly. Penicillin seems a more commendable example. In any case, what I’m talking about is a very strong substance, absolutely frictionless, and impervious to wear. The only way it can be worked is with chemical solvents. A diamond drill won’t even scratch it. Bullets literally bounce off without a mark.

Imagine a vest made from that stuff, the burly man mused.

So far they have been able to shape it into some sort of little tiles and that’s about it. But the possibilities are intriguing. Armor plate, for example.

Or nose cones on reentry vehicles. Pity the Queen’s space program hasn’t progressed that far. But why might this be of personal interest to me?

Your contacts stretch into some interesting places. You might know someone outside the Queen’s space program who could find this story interesting.

The burly man with the bandage lit another cigarette. In the way of a curiosity?

Hawkes took another drink from his bottle and smiled. As soon as the Pentagon got wind of this stuff, they scooped up the project, wrapped it in the heaviest security imaginable, and hid it under a mountain somewhere.

Hardly surprising, that.

Yeah, but such was not always the case. At the outset there was no reason to suspect what the professors were doing had any conceivable military application. These guys set out to develop something for the transportation of exotic foodstuffs like caviar, if you can believe that. The Pentagon couldn’t have cared less.

His companion sat down carefully on the edge of his deck chair. Behind him a huge thunderhead was heaving its billowing battlements high into a brilliant eastern sky. Unconsciously, the burly man lowered his voice. Am I to understand then some of this miraculous stuff might be on the loose?

Could be. There was next to no security and only the sketchiest record kept of inventory at that stage.

What’s this got to do with Judd Slade?

A certain Dr. Kaplan was one of the people involved in the project. Suddenly he’s disappeared just as an investigation has turned up some interesting discrepancies. Six of these indestructible little tiles may be missing—may have been for as long as four months. Maybe more. The records would have been child’s play to alter.

And Slade may be somehow involved.

He may be privy to some of the details, yes.

But the whereabouts of Dr. Kaplan and his bloody tiles are still unknown? Shoddy work that, old chap, the burly man chided ironically.

Not my problem, old chaps, Hawkes parroted back with equal irony. I’m not meant to know about any of this yet. In the company’s defense, however, the situation is complicated by some ugly divorce proceedings between the eccentric Dr. Kaplan and his young wife—his third young wife, it turns out.

He’s dodging the alimony.

Could be. The doctor’s disappearance may have nothing to do with the investigation. He may just have dropped out of sight to avoid some horrific alimony payments—in triplicate by now, of course. He may be totally unaware of the hue and cry about the tiles. But if any of them are missing, he’s got to be the one.

And Judd Slade?

The two of them have known each other for years. There was some contact in Chicago in April. Slade may be projected as some kind of conduit. I understand he’s quite a globe trotter too. Eyebrows raised slightly, Hawkes nodded at his companion.

Aye. To a lot of the same places, come to think of it. The burly man slid back slowly into his chair and rubbed his lower lip thoughtfully with the thumbnail of his left hand. Judd Slade is it? Imagine that, he finally mused.

A minute went by, and the two men sat and nursed their beers in silence before the burly man spoke again. Supposing that I could find someone with an interest in your story. What then? What might be your official role in all of this?

I’ve been called back to Washington for some sort of meeting the first of the week. I assume by now they’ve got it all worked out themselves. After I give them my report on the situation in Belfast, I’ll be briefed officially and sent back to recover the tiles if they’re here. I’ve more or less become the company’s man in Ireland; it figures they’ll make me responsible. For appearance’s sake they’ll arrange an assignment for one of the magazines covering your little affair out at Dunloe Gap.

So it was no joke about life on the senior tour.

No joke. Hawkes leaned forward. Listen, friend, this could be the big one—the score of a lifetime. But once I get briefed and come back officially on company business, well it gets much trickier for me, and His voice trailed off regretfully.

A lot can happen to Judd Slade before you get to Kerry. Leaning down, the burly man ground out the butt of his cigarette on the damp deck.

Hawkes’s tone was suddenly cold. That’s what I’m counting on.

On in Regulation

(Special to the Irish Daily Mail)

by

Carlton Claridge

Sunday June 21. Edinburgh (RNS). A well-placed source close to the Conservative leadership has revealed to this writer that both the Queen and a former prime minister were instrumental a number of years ago in influencing members of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews to move for the return of this year’s Open Championship to Northern Ireland. Curtailment of tax exemptions and a possible review of the whole financial status of the R and A were apparently two of the levers Mrs. Thatcher may have used to move the executive committee of the club from its formerly obdurate stand that only the rota of courses on the home island would continue to host the affair.

To pry the open away from its traditional venues, regardless of the merits of Royal Carnlough, is unfortunate. To move it to an area of political unrest, regardless of the need to demonstrate the equality of British citizens throughout the United Kingdom, is unsound. To reschedule it coincidentally with a day always associated with sectarian violence in Ulster, regardless of the promise of increased security, is unthinkable.

Not that Royal Carnlough is an undeserving arena for a major golf tournament. It is certainly as deserving as Royal Portrush, which served as the setting for the 1951 championship, and it is indeed a very fair test of golf in the wildly sublime environment of the Shoals o’ Michael. But such a test in such an atmosphere might better have been administered a week from now to the seniors rather than on the twelfth of July to the field for the open.

This observer has always felt, and in a not entirely flippant way, that golf transcends life. When we recall the violence in Belfast on the twelfth of July last, we can only pray that the drama of the most prestigious event in all golf, if not all of sport, will temporarily outweigh local political and religious prejudices a fortnight from now and the open will be allowed to take place in peace and amity. Better, however, if it had stayed at home across the Irish Sea.

As alluded to above, the seniors are shortly to be put to a test of their own in another, less-deserving Irish locale. Following a week of idleness, County Kerry in the Irish Republic will host a weeklong tournament for the grand old men starting July 1 and employing a novel if not entirely appropriate format borrowed from America. Burdened with the very awkward appellation, The All-Around Kerry Senior Sweepstakes, the event consists of a professional and amateur exhibition, followed by four days of medal play on four different courses and a championship round again at medal play limited to the low twenty-four and ties after the fourth round.

The courses consist of two layouts much favored by this writer, Waterville and the old course at Ballybunion, and two that do not seem deserving of all this attention, the Killeen course in Killarney and the Lake Course at Dunloe Gap. The Killeen course has long been known as a layout where aesthetics play a far more important role than challenge while the undeniable challenges of that museum of horrors at Dunloe Gap are attributed largely to gothic contrivances that have no place on a championship golf course. Sad to say, however, Dunloe Gap will be the principal venue for the All-Around Kerry Senior Sweepstakes, since it has been chosen as the site for the exhibition—in which this writer cum golfer will serve as partner to Trevor Hudson—as well as one preliminary round and the eighteen-hole finale itself.

An associate, Henry Longhurst, once remarked that the area around Killarney would be a lovely place to die. It is, indeed, far preferable to go straight to heaven from the worst golf course in the world than from the best hospital, which may well become this writer’s very fate a week from tomorrow, somewhere in the vicinity of the ninth hole at Dunloe Gap, a parcel of demonic landscape known as Golgotha by the members. A 450-yard par 4, the ninth requires a tee shot that must carry a full 275 yards across a rocky gorge and a fairway-wide bunker to a miniscule landing area sloping down sharply on either side to a morass of boulders. The golfer who somehow manages a successful tee shot must then hit a long approach up and across yet another gorge to an elevated green perched on a narrow plateau and guarded by two of the deepest greenside bunkers in the civilized world. All great golf holes have a personality all their own. To those that have played it, Golgotha projects brooding malevolence—a kind of evil magnetism.

In the late seventies, according to a local golf historian, a friendly four-ball match involving Tom Weiskoff, Tommy Watson, Jack Nicklaus, and Dunloe Gap’s venerable professional Murphy Poole recorded a half at this hole with a pair of sixes. It will be on this hole and the two that follow it—the Cave of the Winds, a par three that twists its way 198 yards down the middle of a narrow rocky gorge completely devoid of grass and the admittedly splendid eleventh East of Eden, a par-five wandering 545 yards through mounds and bunkers and thence over a bog to a huge three-tiered green—that this tournament will be won or lost on Sunday.

I look for a very strong showing from Long John Nolan, who has seemingly regained the Herculean length of his youth and has recently been playing the most exciting golf of his entire career. His lead in the Irish Masters as of yesterday evening was an insurmountable six strokes, and he seems to have easily bagged that trophy. If Long John falters in the AAKSS, challenges might be expected from Nigel Armstrong, neophyte Dan Swift, Chris Battle, Manny Delgado, and possibly Trevor Hudson. This writer will post daily reports from the scene. There will be more about the Open Championship in this column next week.

And that is thirty from Carlton Claridge.

Chapter 1

Golgotha, the Lake Course at Dunloe Gap

County Kerry, the Republic of Ireland

Thursday, June 25

10:10 p.m.

In the brilliant moonlight, a solitary horseman came up the narrow trail and passed by the bombed-out barracks. Pausing just before the stone bridge spanning the stream, the stocky rider glanced down for a moment at the rushing waters and pulled thoughtfully on his short red beard. Then he leaned forward in the saddle as if to get a better view of the trail ahead before spurring his mount into an easy canter. He clattered over the bridge. There was a sharp bend in the trail, and the stocky young man seemed suddenly aware of movement along the skyline ahead, for he leaned forward again and then nodded as if he recognized the silhouette of another rider coming in his direction. He reined his horse back to a walk.

The second rider approached at a trot, a strikingly handsome young woman even a casual onlooker would have noted—though for that matter the last tourist and guide had left the Gap of Dunloe hours previously. Siobhan Delaney was dressed in jeans with a dark shawl wrapped about her shoulders. Her long black hair hung free down the back of her plaid shirt, swinging from side to side with the motion of her mount.

I recognize Cunla, but who is this dark stranger I see astride her? the beautiful young woman inquired in a low husky voice.

Good evenin’ to ye, Siobhan, the stocky rider responded, peering into Siobhan Delaney’s face—her dark, wide-set eyes unnaturally large and expressive beneath full eyebrows. Your mum said you would be out here, alone with your thoughts, he continued. That bein’ the case, I knew ye wouldn’t be ridin’ down toward Kate Kearney’s cottage.

I wanted to be free of that lot in the bar, but glad I always am to see thee, Johnny. Welcome home. We’ve been expecting you.

Glad it is I am to be home. And handy it is that I find you here, as you shall see. I have somethin’ to tell you, somethin’ which has waited too long. First I want to show you somethin’, somethin’ you’ll find both beautiful and wondrous strange.

Oh? Siobhan replied with an apparent note of curiosity in her voice. You never change, Johnny O’Neill. Always full of surprises, you are.

It’s not far. Just this way. Come along then.

He spurred his pony, eased by the young woman, and started off again at a trot. Siobhan turned her mount and followed. Crossing the ridge line, they headed down into the next little valley. The bearded young Irishman peered intently at the terrain along the left side of the trail, and shortly, with what must have been a grunt of recognition, he halted again and dismounted. Reaching back over his shoulder, he shifted his backpack slightly and removed a large flashlight. It’s just through here, he said, taking the reins of both Icelandic ponies and leading them off the trail and up the rocky incline toward a small copse of trees. The two little creatures gave their bridles a shake as if to question this unusual procedure but picked their way obediently up among the rocks and into the trees.

Siobhan leaned forward and patted her mount reassuringly on its neck. It’s all right Kate. It’s all right, girl.

The lads would come through here, you see, the young man explained, glancing quickly in both directions before parting the lower boughs of two holly trees, flicking on the light, and leading the reluctant ponies into an ominous shadow that proved to be the dark mouth of a cave. For sixty years they’ve been replantin’ these trees to provide cover for the entrance. The black and tans could barricade both ends of the gap, but the lads would just use this cave as a tunnel and pop in or out as neatly as you please.

And that’s how they got on to the grounds to kill Admiral Broadbent? Siobhan Delaney asked, her words echoing in the tunnel as a counterpoint to the ringing of the ponies’ hooves on the stony floor.

Ironic, isn’t it? he replied, flashing the light about the walls and ceiling of the cave. The lads used this same tunnel, first sneakin’ into the Gap of Dunloe to attack the barracks and forty years later sneakin’ out to get the admiral.

Aye, and it was a terrible waste either way, Siobhan sighed.

Perhaps, came the reply.

The admiral always said he was a friend of the Irish people. He turned Broadbent Castle into a hotel and put a lot of people to work. He intended to bring some prosperity to this corner of Ireland, Siobhan argued.

O’Neill brought the ponies to a halt.

You can’t deny his intentions were good, Siobhan continued. But the stocky young Irishman’s only response was to switch off the light.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions; you know that, he finally responded.

I also know if we are to be judged only by the consequences of our actions and not by our intentions, then we are all surely damned. If you wish to cite authority, I’ve been into all the books upstairs at Killykerry House as well.

Johnny O’Neill paused a long moment in the darkness before replying. There were reasons, complicated reasons.

Ah, sure, and aren’t there always reasons? Reasons and slogans and silly, brave songs. But the result never changes—bloodshed and senseless, senseless violence. One could hear the steely edge to her voice now.

And I suppose the murders of the nun and the two school children in Belfast last year—stoned to death and all over some bloody drum—I suppose that makes sense to you! he countered loudly.

Siobhan Delaney waited till the echo of his angry words had died away before answering in a calm but forceful tone. Of course it doesn’t. You know me better than that, John O’Neill. What happened last twelfth of July was obscene. But so was the senseless murder of Admiral Broadbent. The man was doing all he could personally to help our people.

The stocky young man took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. Then he spoke in a quiet voice as well. But that’s just the point—personally. Personally he could do about next to nothin’ to benefit all the Irish people. But what he represented, now—

Two hundred Irish people at work, Siobhan interrupted. Why, Mum and I, we can still thank him for a couple thousand punts a year from the pony rides, you know that.

If you’ll just let me finish. It’s what the admiral represented. What he did personally was next to nothin’ when—

Nothing, ye say?

Nothin’ when you consider the entire Irish nation. What he represented—aye, now that could do almost everythin’ to hurt us. What’s two hundred jobs compared to an entire nation’s economy? What’s a few pony rides against a United Ireland?

How can ye be saying that? Siobhan Delaney demanded.

Don’t you see? The admiral led us away from the path we must follow—our own path. Aye, he creates two hundred jobs at the hotel and those two hundred—and their families—well, now that’s eight hundred Irish folk. I’ll grant ya that, maybe even a thousand, but a thousand are now content to tolerate an English presence in Ireland. He closes his stable and encourages local people—sure and it’s your mum and yourself I’m talkin’ about, and me as well, I won’t deny that either. He lets us all provide the pony rides in the gap and there’s a couple of hundred more who are after forgettin’ it’s our God-given right to make a decent livin’ in the first place. Who’s Admiral Broadbent to grant us permission to exist?

Siobhan sighed. I know what’s coming now. It’s like an old song.

Right you are. Now there was a touch of steel in his voice as well. Ireland will never be a united nation as long as it depends on the whims of the English for its very existence. Admiral Broadbent was a far more dangerous enemy to Ireland than all those homicidal maniacs in the north. He took away our self-reliance. He made us forget our cause.

So, it must always be with blood and never with understanding or cooperation. There was a bitter note of resignation in Siobhan’s voice now.

It’s not that simple. Do you hear? the young man shouted, his impassioned words again echoing loudly in the tunnel.

There was silence as the echo of Johnny’s words died away. Then, sadly, Siobhan whispered, Oh, Johnny, what are we doing? We haven’t seen each other for months, and here we are shouting at each other in the darkness—arguing about something that happened when we were both wee babes.

There was a long silence again as he considered her words. Aye, you’re right. I don’t know what came over me.

Sure, but isn’t it just like the old days? The two of us screaming at each other and having a row over something neither of us understands.

O’Neill switched the flashlight on again and beamed it down at the stone floor. Then, tugging lightly on the bridles, he started to lead the ponies toward a faint light ahead. Abruptly, just as they reached the end of the passage, he stopped, again holding his hand up in warning. Wait a minute now, he said in a low voice. Listen!

Siobhan heard nothing—then the distant call of a night bird and a slow dripping sound nearby. Ah, and it’s nothin’ but my nerves, he admitted.

Johnny O’Neill led the ponies out what turned out to be a second mouth to the cave. Mind your head now. There’s this big boulder as you come through, he warned, but Siobhan was already leaning to one side in the saddle to avoid the rock spur guarding the entrance to the tunnel. O’Neill led the ponies to the right of the boulder through another group of thick holly trees and on to a ledge overlooking the Lake Golf Course at the Dunloe Gap Hotel.

O’Neill looked slowly around the brightly moonlit valley, sighed loudly, and produced a handkerchief with which he wiped his eyes and then blew his nose loudly. Ah, and isn’t it grand? I can’t ever be seein’ it without the tears wellin’ up in my eyes.

Siobhan Delaney, who had been staring intently at the bearded young Irishman during this display of emotion, now followed his gaze. The valley formed a vast amphitheater residing between two ranges of hills: one steep, rocky wall enclosing the Gap of Dunloe, a narrow section of which they had just passed through, and the even-higher wooded hillside soaring up darkly behind the glittering lights of the hotel on a ledge above the golf course some three miles away. In the lustrous moonlight, they could see the vast stands of tall trees guarding some of the holes on the far side of a small arm of Killarney’s Upper Lake, which wandered through the middle of the course. Here and there small oases formed by greens and tees and narrow stretches of fairway were also visible scattered among the vast areas of sand and extensive patches of gorse and wild rambling brambles.

For all those fellas may say—bright enough fellas or they wouldn’t be writin’ in all the papers and magazines, now would they? Peter Dobreiner, Herbert Warren Wind, and now this Carlton Claridge fella who’s goin’ to play here next week—for all their condemnation and abuse, it’s still grand and I love it, that I do.

Siobhan turned to him again and smiled. I know. You always have.

And so do most of the fellas who moan and curse their way around out there, goin’ through the tortures of the damned. They always came back, and they remember to their dyin’ day every birdie they earn, or far more likely, every par they almost make. He gave a rueful little laugh, and the beautiful, dark-haired young woman chuckled as well.

"A caddy is earnin’ his wage out there for sure. A careless caddy can get killed on this course—but it’s havin’ its rewards as well. A fella can play well and have some luck; he might be tippin’ twenty pounds after a round in the way of a celebration. And those that come to grief might give you twice as much out of gratitude for all the hazardous ordeals they put you through.

But there’s what I wanted you to see, he went on, and he gestured at the high, rocky bluff dominating the center of the valley as it stretched away over a half mile toward a steeply arched stone bridge spanning the Upper Lake on their left. Kerry’s answer to Ayers Rock.

The huge mountain of boulders was crowned in the middle by three rock chimneys, the tallest of which reached its peak a hundred feet above the valley floor, considerably higher than the ledge on which they had paused. It’s a good thing these little creatures are so sure footed, O’Neill remarked, and remounting Cunla, he led the way gingerly down the rock-strewn slope to the valley floor below.

Siobhan followed. The two riders crossed a broad meadow skirting the edge of a particularly thick copse of trees and eventually reaching a cart path almost at the base of the sheer rock face. They turned to the right on the path, away from a tee box aligned with a deep defile among the rocks.

Cave of the Winds, O’Neill called out as he pointed down the narrow, rocky corridor leading into the darkness at the heart of the mesa. Instead he led the way a quarter mile farther along the base of the cliff before drawing to a halt a bare twenty feet from the rocky escarpment looming high above them. Golgotha, he announced.

Golgotha—what an exceedingly strange name to find on a golf course.

It means place of the skull, he explained.

The place our dear Lord was crucified, Siobhan continued, glancing up at the rocky hillside beneath which they had stopped. The full moon was now playing games with the myriad of small clouds racing across the night sky. The total absence of trees in the immediate vicinity created an appearance of unearthly desolation. Siobhan shivered slightly.

A lot of good golfers have been crucified here as well.

No, I meant the real Golgotha, you silly young man. The one in the Holy Land, she chided.

Right you are, and the name Golgotha, you’ll be knowin’, goes back even further than the crucifixion, he informed her. It had sinister connotations even in pagan times. Aye, and speak of the sinister, now wait just a minute. He glanced at the rocky hillside and then at the sky and waited as two small clouds scudded toward the moon. Look now! Just now! He pointed once again.

In the blessed name of God, Johnny, what have you done? Siobhan involuntarily took in the reins, and her mount stumbled backward a few yards as she stared at the undulating shadows on the boulders.

O’Neill laughed. Can you see it? Sure, and they say that St. Patrick rid Ireland of all the serpents. The moving shadows on the rocky surface did indeed give the momentary impression of the slithering back of some gross snake, and Siobhan shuddered as she stared in fascination. Then the clouds were gone.

Only a handful of people have ever seen that. O’Neill informed her. No one comes out here at night. This way now. He urged Cunla forward and following the cart path, led the way along the base of the monolith. Siobhan and Kate followed again in silence.

After a hundred yards, he stopped, and without looking back, he signaled Siobhan to halt as well. Siobhan did as directed and followed his glance. A golf cart was sitting unattended in the park at the base of a series of high wooden stairways leading up the rocky wall.

Hello. Someone’s gone off and left his golf cart.

Siobhan craned her neck to see the top of the stairways. Maybe we better not be going up there. I don’t like it, Johnny.

He can’t still be up there. Sure and he would have figured out where the pin will be in the time we’ve been here. Cart must have broken down and someone abandoned it.

O’Neill and Siobhan dismounted. The stocky Irishman tied the ponies’ bridles to the ball washer in the cart park, removed his backpack, and taking Siobhan’s arm, started toward the stairs that led up from the cart park to the edge of the ninth green. Watch your step now, it’s quite steep.

Golgotha they call it? It does look sinister. Why do we have to go up there? Siobhan shivered slightly and wrapped her shawl tighter about her shoulders with her free arm, making no attempt to mount the