A Fanfare of Tales

By Patrick C. Reidy

Twenty-five years after the end of the Cold War, Colum Johnston is looking forward to reuniting with his former comrades and reliving the old days when they were all secret Moscow agents. As he prepares for the party and reflects on the past, he has no idea that an exchange at the dinner table that night will transform the future for one of them.

In a captivating collection of short tales, Patrick Reidy shares tales about ordinary people living within a world surrounded by murder, romance, infidelity, and the unexpected. Bradley Coyne and his Irish wife, Kathleen, are supportive when their daughter announces she is planning a trip to Ireland to retrace her mothers roots. But when life comes full circle, Kathleen is suddenly transported back into her past and into a life-changing moment. When journalist Oscar Mulcahy receives a wedding invitation, he never expects to be drawn into an unsolved murder mystery by the mother of the victims and ultimately to a cemetery where the answers lie.

A Fanfare Of Tales shares a compilation of short stories that highlight the adventures of diverse characters as each encounters unforeseen challenges.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524665975

Patrick C. Reidy

Patrick C. Reidy is a native of Limerick City residing in Cork. He is a chartered secretary and accountant, with a long interest in writing. He holds a degree in hospitality education and lectured in Cork Institute of Technology. He is married to Cora, and they have five children and sixteen grandchildren. He has articles published in business journals and “The Cork Holly Bough” with short stories in “Irelands Own” and the “Bealtaine 2005” publication of short stories.

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© 2017 Patrick C. Reidy. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/08/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-6598-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-6597-5 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Introduction

Old Spies’ Reunion

Illegal Harvest

Lost and Found and Friendship

Love Changes

Windfall and Fallout

The Boy Soprano

Lady Luck

A Safe Harbour … A Christmas Tale.

Out of the Depths …

That’s Life

Disciplined.

Lucky Mischance

The Wills that Men Make…

Arrogance at Work.

The Cemetery Lane Case (Phobia)

A Face in the Crowd

A Small Prize for Murder

Not One of the Crowd

To my wife Cora, our five children, their spouses and their children. All wonderful people.

Introduction

I have always had a fondness for short stories and have been writing them for a very long time now. When one least expects it the plot or idea for a story creeps into one’s mind. It gathers strength and takes different and often surprising directions and almost demands to be written. For this reason I cannot say that my stories follow a given thread. They seem to me to be each quite different, from the other. There is a certain element of random about them, jumping from a crime story to a romantic tale. Having said this I do find that different life experiences and locations do inject themselves into the situations and storylines. Memory recalls the atmosphere of the different times and places and invariably the story in my mind happens in such places though not named. Thoughts and attitudes are reflective of those different times and experiences with their enlightenment and constraints, their joy their sadness their reality

Irish history in the earlier part of the twentieth century cannot be said to have been the best of times. Those whose parents lived then are well aware of the limitations brought about by two world wars, the rising of 1916 the struggling economy and the effort involved in building a nation. I would have been aware through my parents and teachers of what those times entailed and the effect on the population. A glimmer of this finds its way into my stories as does the better social and economic times in which I grew up.

‘Write about what you know’ they say and this has value but it must also in no way constrain the imagination. The phrase creative writing is well chosen and a writer can move characters and situations in interesting and imaginative ways for the benefit of the story and the reader. I hope I have been successful in doing just that.

I delight in writing my stories and value the encouragement received throughout my life from teachers, family and friends as well as those who accepted my work for publication.

Patrick C. Reidy

Old Spies’ Reunion

F OR THE TWO MEN, THE invitation to the reunion of former comrades was to prove an eventful and illuminating evening. A bit unusual, mind you, to have an old boys night out when all the old boys had been secret agents at one time or another. What would or could be the nature of the many conversations? All double entendre, cautious and safe perhaps, and non-committal. Old habits die hard, as they say.

However, some twenty-five years had elapsed since the cold war ended and each spy had found his or her way into private life. The transition into what could be called normality for many of them was not easy. Years of shadowy existence did not easily swap with an open and trusting lifestyle.

The two men, Colum Johnston and Martin Blaze, were now close friends. This was not always so, because of the nature and constraints of their calling. But each could still recall the tense and dangerous events of a certain night years ago that made them lifelong friends. That episode took place in the outskirts of Moscow at a small country cottage still vivid in their memories.

If anyone could be called the hero of that night, it would be Colum Johnston unassuming, tall athletic and experienced both in the field and Intelligence areas. He was the central controller of the group of Moscow agents that, under various guises and covers, fed information back to London during those surreal years. Information was a highly valued product. Very devious and clever minds in London sifted agent reports, drew conclusions, and instigated action, some of which had changed history. Among this upper echelon in London were individuals who were extremely pragmatic, even ruthless.

It was during those shady days and among Johnston’s Moscow group of agents that the killings took place. Over many years, his operation had gone like clockwork, and then things drastically changed. Month by month, one of his agents died. Johnston was convinced that each of them was murdered. The list of names was still engraved in Johnston’s mind: Spenser Mulvey, a one-time college professor; Mark Liston, an American agent; and Peter Leitrim and Julie Henderson. Leitrim’s assassination was horrific. He had been first brutally beaten and then shot. Julie was just one year into her service when her car plunged into a crater in the road disguised by the powers that be as sewage repairs. Johnston, having made discreet enquiries, could find no reason for the presence of such an excavation that led to an obviously staged accident. These victims had all served well in very trying times and had died within the same ten weeks. Russian police showed no interest in investigating.

All of the deaths were described in the Russian papers as mishaps. Colum Johnston could only conclude that there was a traitor or a mole somewhere in the system. He decided that a trip to London was indicated to meet directly with his superior, Brigadier Gerard Franklin. He gave no notice of his trip. Arriving at headquarters he was pleased that no changes had been made to the lift codes. The receptionist was surprised to see him.

Didn’t expect to see you. You should have called

Is Franklin in his office?"

Yes but is on the phone to the Minister

Ignoring this Johnston crashed into Franklins Office causing that gentleman no small annoyance.

How dare you barge in here like this Franklin said covering the mouthpiece of the phone

We need to talk Johnston said matching his superior’s anger.

Franklin reluctantly excused himself to the Minister promising to call back. Calming himself he faced Johnston

You’ve left your post. Your place is in Moscow. So tell me why you are here

All of my written reports on the killings of my operatives have not resulted in a restructuring of the Moscow operation. Is everyone asleep here? You agreed that somewhere in the scheme of things the covers of the dead agents had been blown, and promised a thorough investigation with assurances of new covers and relocation if necessary. You people here in London have procrastinated on these promises. The life of yet another agent, Rachel Doyle, could have been saved had the changes been implemented.

Colum Franklin was now more conciliatory I have done my best. I have spoken many times to Sir Malcolm Jameson. He is an impatient man as you know and lectured me on how widespread his responsibilities are. He did promise to act. I assure you I will try very hard again.

Johnston visit proved futile and in the end felt compelled to act unilaterally by warning all agents of their danger. As speedily as possible, he arranged new names and places for them. The last of these to be contacted was Martin Blaze. He lived in a country cottage just outside Moscow. Johnston was becoming increasingly concerned for his safety, as he had links as an interpreter and radio contact with all those who had died. The sooner he changed his profile and place of residence, the better. Blaze was a few years younger than Johnston, of small stature, very bright and loyal.

Johnston set out at ten o’clock on a bitterly cold evening to meet with him. The cottage had a large front garden bounded by a wall. After parking his car in the shelter of trees off the road, he made a cautious approach, not wishing to startle the occupant. A dim light shone through the curtain of the front window, and through a gap, he could see the shadowy figure of Blaze moving about.

There was a small gate to a pathway leading to the front door, and as he opened this, the bright headlights of a car swung round the bend. Johnston dived for cover over the low wall and fell to the ground, taking meagre shelter behind some grass and a cluster of weeds. Tall and broad, he hoped these would conceal him.

Then crawling towards the cottage door, he drew his gun and lay still. The car had stopped. Clearly it was not just a passing vehicle.

Two furtive figures got out. In the lights of the car, Johnston saw the men were armed. Lying flat in the grass, he primed his gun. As he dared to raise his head to observe, a wave of searing heat passed through his hair and his scalp felt a scald. A loud crash of glass followed as the bullet hit the cottage window. He heard Blaze scream, and his heart sank.

Rolling over, he could hear the sound of running water from the small river that flowed nearby. He edged carefully to the sloping bank and took refuge there. He earnestly hoped that Blaze was not fatally hurt, realizing that had that first shot hit him instead, Blaze would have survived.

A return shot from the house reassured him. And a scream from one of the intruders indicated Blaze had found his mark.

Clinging for support to a small bush, Johnston looked into the darkness. The light from the window showed a hooded figure stealthily creeping nearer the house. He took careful aim and found his target. Silence now reigned. Discretion told Johnston to remain concealed.

After some fifteen minutes, the front door opened and the slim, youthful figure of Blaze appeared, limping. He was bent over and holding his thigh.

Blaze, its Johnston here, Johnston said in the darkness "Be careful. I’m not sure we got them all.

Let’s hope so, Blaze replied, his voice weak as he threw himself to the ground in pain.

They both waited a while longer and then got up to investigate. They discovered two dead bodies, both holding guns, lying in the tall grass.

They are on to all of us! gasped Johnston. I came to warn you. It seems I was cutting it fine. You must get packed and out of here without delay after we get that wound strapped up.

Blaze lifted a bloody hand from his leg and winced.

They proceeded into the cottage and, using some sheeting, bound the wound and applied a tourniquet for safety. It was a deep wound and cause for concern. The fact that Blaze could still move about was a good sign.

The dead KGB guys had to be dealt with. This slowed matters down. Going over to the Russians’ car, he drove it nearer the house. With no small effort, they manoeuvred the dead men into the front seats and steered the car close to the water’s edge.

Getting out, he and Blaze tipped it over the edge. The water was deep and the flow carried it several yards before it sank. This action was sure to delay any investigation when the men failed to report back to their base. The cottage held many secrets so it was with reluctance they set it ablaze. It would attract attention but might also distract.

Getting the wounded man back to England was a long haul over a circuitous route. His career as a spy was over.

Johnston survived and saw out his final years of service in Moscow successfully. There were no more spy killings, as the new details of agents’ locations and covers were never recorded or registered. London was very cool with Johnston for acting unilaterally but grudgingly admitted his actions were effective.

Over their years of retirement, he and Blaze met frequently. The wound suffered by Blaze and the delay in getting medical aid at the time left him seriously disabled. He’d eventually lost the leg and was confined to a wheelchair. In due course, he had a prosthesis fitted. Neither of the men married. Years in espionage service left little room for relationships, and the Moscow environment had no place for a James Bond romantic lifestyle.

*     *     *

The invitation to the old boys’ function had Blaze on the phone. After some discussion, they agreed they should attend. Blaze thought it would be good to meet up with old buddies and reminisce about times past. It was impossible for these men to forget those bizarre, often heroic years, including the fear, the risk-taking, and the achievements against great odds.

As he got ready for the party, Johnston touched the crown of his head and recalled his near miss of getting a bullet in the brain that night years ago.

The hotel had allocated a block of rooms for all those coming to the event, and Johnston had reserved two for Blaze and himself. His taxi arrived and he instructed the driver to drive over to collect Blaze at his house. He was pleased to see his friend walk using his prosthetic limb and not need the wheelchair.

The trip to the central London hotel was a short one.

It was a noisy gathering comprised mostly of men. There were few female agents back then, and the ladies attending had mostly been headquarters staff at the time. The bar was lined with people getting drinks, ignoring the formal sherry reception. The two friends ordered whisky and sat observing the scene. Hard to recognise some of the old boys with twenty five years added. Many came over to shake their hands and the evening got off on a surprisingly cordial note

The tables seated ten and had place cards. Blaze and Johnston were honoured to be seated with the big boys from back then. They recognised all but two of them. Brigadier Gerard Franklin greeted them and introduced or recalled for them the names of the others at the table. In a central position sat a fairly decrepit old man, once broad, now stooped You will have heard this man’s name I believe, Sir Malcolm Jameson, my superior and supreme head of operations in the old days. We are so glad Sir Malcolm that you have paid us the compliment of joining us

It was true that Blaze and Johnston had ever only heard of this man as the top director of operations, such were the tight security arrangements in the height of the cold war. Hands were shaken and there were smiles and nods all round. The other stranger at the table was introduced as Roger Hewson. He was seated on the other side of Jameson, who smiled at him put his arm on his shoulder and quipped

Roger, our Master spy he seemed to gloat over the term. Hewson didn’t look pleased, on the contrary looked quite uncomfortable but shrugged off the remark with a smile. "Hardly