Paradigm Shift.
It was a two-word phrase used to describe fundamental changes of an extreme and radical nature that create upheaval and a complete revision of accepted thought within a given branch of the sciences. The Copernican theory that Earth and the other planets revolved around the sun was one example that during the 16th Century completely overturned the accepted tenets of both the church and astronomy and forced a complete rethink of man’s previously exalted position within the Ptolemaic universe.
The development of the science of quantum mechanics by such figures as Einstein and Planck was another example: a group of radical new theories that quickly threatened to superseded classical physics as a means to prove the existence of matter at a sub-atomic level, something that would have proven impossible to explain using earlier, universally-accepted concepts.
In Lowenstein’s case, it had been nothing more than an idea… a crazy theory he’d conceived and developed within the safety of his own mind that he’d used to keep himself sane over so many years of imprisonment and torture at the hands of the Nazis. A theory concerning an extrapolation of his original project, following it through on a grand scale of application to provide the means to exact cold, cruel vengeance on an even grander one. Paradigm had been the name he’d given to a theoretical project he’d not thought of in several years… a memory that came flooding back to him now as this man sat before him, offering him this perfect opportunity for revenge.
“I want paper and pencils…” he declared, sitting up once more with a strange expression on his face. “A drawing table and a slide rule will do for a start.”
“I can have whatever you need within forty-eight hours,” Donovan assured, knowing now that they had him.
“Get me that…” Lowenstein demanded, his eyes as cold as his tone. “Get me that and give me a week. Come and see me after that, and I’ll give you my answer…”
Halfway down the corridor outside, ten minutes later, Donovan was met by another man approaching from the opposite direction. A tall man in his late forties, he wore a similarly-expensive suit below thinning hair, a greying moustache and round, wire-framed glasses that covered a thoughtful gaze. Allen Dulles, currently the head of the Switzerland office, was considered something of a rising star within the ranks of the OSS.
A close personal friend and protégé of Donovan’s, the man believed he too would one day hold the post of director – something that in Realtime indeed came to pass following the formation of the organisation that would eventually rise from the ashes of the OSS: the Central Intelligence Agency.
“That sure is one angry Jew,” Dulles observed with a wry smile as the two friends met in the middle of the walkway.
“You were listening…” Donovan observed, making a statement rather than asking a question.
“Sounded like it went well to me. You think he’ll take the bait?”
“I know people…” Donovan assured with a nod. “He’ll take it.”
“I sure hope so…” Dulles shrugged in a matter-of-fact manner. “It’s be a real shame if and he had to have a car accident on the way to the British Embassy…”
Lying on his bed once more, Lowenstein felt better that he had in a long time. The pain and anguish he felt over the loss of his parents at the hands of the Nazis still burned into his soul, but the light had focus now in a promise of revenge… focus enough to turn his rage into a beam as sharp and powerful as any laser.
Paradigm… the ideas began to swirl about in his head once more, although this time there was more to it than the simple, distracted musings of a man in denial of the pain and torture around him. Could it be made to work? If it could be made to work at all, the development alone would take decades and consume billions in research dollars.
But success would also bring about a structural change that befitted the scientific grandeur of its title and into the bargain, it would also give Lowenstein the means with which to not only avenge his family but also provide the United States with the capability to wipe Germany from the face of the earth without the Nazis being able to fire a single shot in return, and that was something that would be worth any expense.
Sitting up, he realised that someone had taken his food tray from the floor and placed it on the small table by his head. He had no recollection of anyone picking it up, yet there it was for all the world to see. He suddenly felt very hungry, and with a bitter, twisted mutation of hope in his heart, Samuel Lowenstein rose from his bed and sat down at the table, ready to enjoy his breakfast for the first time in quite a while.
8.Loose Ends
Bluestack Mountains, NE of Lough Eske,
County Donegal, Republic of Ireland
November 24, 1942
Tuesday
The small, one-room inn of white-painted stone was set back from the verge on the T18 trunk road coming down from Ballybofey to Donegal. It lay right at the centre of the Barnsmore Gap, leading straight through the Bluestack Mountains, and acted as a way station for travellers heading south-west into the city. Surprisingly, there were no customers on that Tuesday evening however, something the men in the Ford Tudor sedan were banking on as it pulled up out front.
IRA Chief of Staff and head of its Southern Command, Stephen Hayes was the last of four men to climb from the vehicle, the driver and two bodyguards taking up sentry positions with Thompson machine guns at the ready as he walked slowly toward the front door of the pub, his own hand clasped around the butt of a pistol inside the long, tan trench coat he wore against the cold.
“That’s a lot of firepower for a friendly meeting, brother…” Seán McCaughey called softly from the barely opened doorway, the muzzle of a large Webley revolver poking out from the darkness within. “I wasn’t aware there was a war on between the North and the Republic now… there somethin’ we need to talk about before I let ye in?”
“Just takin’ precautions, Seán… just precautions,” Hayes assured quickly, coming to a halt a few yards from the entrance. He lifted both hands away from his body and held them high, showing they were clearly empty of any weapon as he affected as close an approximation of a friendly smile as he could manage under the circumstances. “There’s a lot o’ rumours and wild stories getting’ about at the moment over what happened on The Finn last month, and I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt over a misunderstandin’.”
“Aye, we wouldn’t be wantin’ that at all, would we…?” McCaughey replied caustically. “And just so we’re all on the same page about that, Stephen, stand right still there, for a moment…”
McCaughey opened the door wide, displaying little more than complete darkness within, but the signal was noted all the same and a second later there was a thud and a sharp, tinkling sound as a slug starred the rear window of the sedan they’d just arrived in and slammed into the bodywork inside. None of those present heard any hint of a shot or had any idea which direction the bullet come from.
“We’ve a couple o’ friends out there keepin’ an eye on things,” McCaughey explained with a sneer, stepping out into the light for the first time with the Webley held at his waist, its aim steady as a rock. “They’ve each got one o’ those silenced carbines the Yanks have been sendin’ over lately. Good for three hundred yards or more and they’ll be long gone before anyone finds what’s left of y’all. You’ll be welcome inside, Stephen – I promise you that – and we’ll see you safe and sound back to your car after, but if one o’ your boys takes one step closer to the pub that they already are, they’ll need a teaspoon to pick up what’s left o’ their brains. Never mind that it’s getting dark neither… Richard Kransky’s out there, and you know damn well he could shoot the bollocks off of a gnat at three hundred yards… at midnight…” He took two steps to one side, leaving the dark doorway clear. “If your boys want to live, they’ll stay where they are… we understand each other…?”
Hayes stared long and hard at McCaughey, meeting and holding his gaze with an equally strong one in return. Both men were command
ers in their own territories, and neither was accustomed to being defied or disrespected. Hayes was clearly bristling at being forced into a situation where he was neither in control or confident in his own safety. He also recognised however, that McCaughey was a true zealot: a type he’d encountered often in his time with the IRA. He knew well enough that there was no point arguing with a zealot, and that the only option at that moment was go acquiesce and bide his time until an opportunity presented itself.
“Aye, Seán…” he said finally with a sigh, nodding in tired resignation. “Aye, we understand each other right enough.”
“Then come on in and we’ll have a chat…” McCaughey invited, lowering the revolver and stuffing it into the pocket of his trousers. “We’ll put a kettle on for ye…”
“Wait out here, fellas,” Hayes called out to his colleagues, stepping through the doorway as the other three stared uneasily at the starred hole in the back window of their transport.
An olive-drab-painted helicopter howled past overhead at that moment, flying quite low and following the line of the road right through the Barnesmore Gap as it thundered off to the north-east, the white stars and unit numbers of its US Army livery bright and clear as it passed. The sudden roar and clatter of its radial engine caused both men to wince at the noise and instinctively duck their heads, although American aerial activity had become so commonplace over the last few weeks that the sightings were no longer producing the interest they originally had.
There was barely enough space for more than a dozen tables inside, each surrounded by a number of chairs, while three or four wooden stools stood up by the bar at the far end of the room. A fire crackled in one corner, warming the place nicely, while a few lanterns hanging about here and there, providing barely-sufficient lighting.
“You too, Tomás…?” Hayes asked in dismay as his eyes adjusted to the gloom within the pub and he spotted Glynn standing up by the bar. “They’ve dragged you into this foolishness now?”
“Mornin’ to you too, Mister Hayes,” Glynn replied with forced familiarity, his expression as hard as his eyes were cold. “It’s a sad day indeed when a man’s inclined to trust those Ulster bastards more than he does his own side, but that’s where we’re at right now, sure enough. It’s not a situation I’m happy about, but here I am all the same…” He lifted a set of glasses and a large bottle of whisky and walked over from the bar, setting all of it down in the middle of the table in front of Hayes. “I couldn’t find any tea or coffee: I figured it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Like I said to Seán out there,” Hayes began carefully, taking a seat and pouring drinks for all of them, “there’s a lot o’ tall tales people are spreadin’ about out there. Listenin’ to all that shite is a fine way to get good men hurt or killed for no reason…”
“And that’s why we had two of our own boys pointin’ guns at us and tryin’ to take us right back to the bloody Germans?” Seán Michaels chimed in for the first time, his voice rising from a dark corner of the room. “Boys who said they were workin’ for Southern Command…?”
“Jaysus, Seán,” Hayes exclaimed, slightly startled by the man’s previously unnoticed presence as he slumped into a chair and lifted one of the whiskies. “Y’ could scare the life out of a fella doin’ that!” He took a sip of the alcohol, trying desperately to keep his hand from shaking. “I’m tellin’ y’all straight right now, if those boys you met up with crossin’ The Finn did what you’re sayin’, then they were no boys o’ mine…!”
“You callin’ us liars, Hayes…?” Michaels snarled angrily, rising from his seat in the darkness and taking a few angry steps forward. “You think we’re makin’ this shite up…? We were right there! Right there as that Nazi bastard took Eoin away and murdered poor bloody Brendan in cold blood! We were there! Where the fook were you…?”
The lanterns in that corner had been intentionally extinguished in that corner, and Hayes couldn’t make out every detail as he stared at Michaels’ silhouette, but there was the evil glint of something metallic in the man’s hand, and knowing his reputed skill with a straight razor, it didn’t take a genius to guess what Michaels was holding at his side.
“I’m not doubting you boys,” Hayes backpedalled quickly, raising a hand in a silent request for calm. “No one is callin’ any of you liars… All I’m sayin’ is that anyone who did that to y’ was definitely not workin’ under my orders, or the orders of anyone else in Southern Command.” He placed the half-empty glass back on the table, its base rattling faintly with the now-obvious shake in his hands. “I’m tellin’ y’ straight, boys… I’d stake me life on it…!”
“You are stakin’ yer life on it!” Glynn pointed out angrily as he thudded down into a seat directly opposite Hayes, making no bones about his intentions as he slammed a Colt .45 automatic down on the table in front of him and left his hand resting on it. “My fookin’ oath y’are…! I held a fookin’ knife to Jamie Riordan’s fookin’ head, and that Loyalist bastard swore on his mother’s life that the orders they got to withdraw came from Southern Command… came from you…!” There was spittle spraying faintly from his lips as he spat those words, such was his fury as he remembered the terror he’d felt that day at Lisburn Barracks. “Like I said before; it’s a fine thing to be believin’ your enemies over those who’re s’posed to be yer friends! Maybe I should put a gun to your head and see what we find out?”
All of them paused for a moment as another set of engines roared past overhead at low level, this time in the form of a pair of F-4 Corsairs, heading in the same general direction as the earlier helicopter. Their passing rattled the framework of the inn and sent dust trickling down in clouds from the rafters overhead as the floorboards trembled under the shuddering force of the sound.
“Gentlemen, there’s no need for all o’ this, I promise ye!” Hayes declared the moment the noise had died down once more, sounding genuinely frightened now. “None of you have anything to fear from me or anyone else here in the south.”
“Is that why you’ve had the whole of what’s left of Southern Command out lookin’ us?” McCaughey asked pointedly, sitting down beside Glynn and no less angry, although he was doing a better job of keeping it in check. “The Garda, the army and even the bloody Americans… all of ‘em just looking out for us… to keep us nice and safe, like…?”
“Well, you’ve not exactly made any friends since you’ve been back either, Seán: most of ‘em don’t know what happened there at The Finn… all they know is you fellas killed some of your own and disappeared soon as you had the chance. Now some people… not me, y’ understand…” Hayes added quickly, “…but some people might think those were the actions of guilty men, and maybe they wanna take the law into their own hands and get some revenge…” He almost smiled then, suddenly seeing the way through to a plausible explanation for the huge manhunt they’d started since the incident at Lifford. “I had the boys out lookin’ for you to try and bring you in safe – just like you said – and keep y’all that way until we can sort this whole mess out.”
“The only thing that needs sortin’ out is doin’ something to get Eoin out of St Mary’s bloody College!” Glynn growled darkly, bring up a subject that had been foremost in his thoughts since he’d managed to make it back across the border from Northern Ireland and met up with Michaels, McCaughey and the rest. “All this manpower out and about lookin’ for us… what’s Southern Command been doin’ to get him out of there and safe back with us over here?”
“Tomás, what can we do right now?” Hayes asked with deceptive honesty. “It’s a real difficult time at the moment, what with the Germans rattling their sabres on the other side of the border and the Yanks increasing their forces every day on this side. The whole of the North’s under martial law at the moment, with no sign o’ that ending any time soon, and both sides are dying for an excuse to start a proper fight! We do anything to jeopardise what Dublin’s worked out with the Americans on this, and they’ll round us up like nothin’
we’ve ever seen before, right across the country!” He sighed softly, the next statement true at least, as far as it went. “I’m sorry about Eoin… I really am. He was a friend o’ mine, and if there’s anything I could do to get him out of there, I’d be over there myself tomorrow…”
“You know he’ll be executed as soon as they’re done with him,” Glynn said with disgust, as angry with himself as anyone else for the feelings of impotence he felt over his inability to save a man he’d called a friend for many years.
“Aye, they will at that,” Hayes grimaced, mostly in recognition that there was some tough truth to be given also. “He also knew the risks involved in this business, boys, just like all of you. I’m real sorry about it, but there’s just nothing we can do right now for him.”
“So we just leave him to die by the hand of those black-shirted bastards?” Michaels snarled angrily, also sensing the futility of the situation.
“Look…” Hayes began again, thinking perhaps he now had an opportunity to make some progress. “…Tell you what: you fellas come on back with us to Donegal. We’ll put you all up somewhere safe and we can talk about it all in the mornin’. I’ll have the intel boys look over the situation in detail and we’ll see if we can come up with something that might be done for Kelly.”
“That simple…?” McCaughey asked sceptically. “That simple, after all you’ve just said?”
“He was my friend too, Seán,” Hayes pointed out again, concealing the greater lie with a suitable dose of honesty. “It’ll be hard, but maybe we can work somethin’ out. You boys have a far better knowledge of the situation over there that we do; with your help, maybe we can pull something off.” It was a dangerous gambit, but in Hayes’ mind it was a powerful argument nevertheless, and one which was based enough in reality to make it a tempting proposition indeed.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 41
