The Secrets of Nine Irish Sons: The Forces of Stones

About the book . . .

This is the final book in the trilogy

The Secrets of Nine Irish Sons

Book I The Beginning

Book II The Rose Oisín

Book III The Forces of Stones

This compilation is a story about an Irish family from a fictional Village in Aghadoe, Ireland, whose dashing good looks, charming personalities, and joyous love of life becomes the envy and unquenchable obsession of another family---one very rich, incredibly shallow, and unmercifully corrupt.

The heroine, Mary Elizabeth O’Malley is blessed with a mysterious gift that becomes the fixation of a vicious assassin whose passionate lust to control her, leads to a deceptive plot that leaves her and her husband isolated and abandoned in Latin America.

As the evil McStanish and his vindictive son struggle for supremacy, their criminal empire continues to spill over into the lives of the people in Aghadoe. Their uninvited entanglement drives each of the nine Irish sons to seek justice according to his own conflicted sense of duty, outrage, and moral values.

After Mary's captivity of twenty years comes to an end, the saga picks up with the mysterious kidnapping of her husband, Luke O'Malley. He is imprisoned in a drug compound in Panama where he escapes only to be lost among the indigenous Indians who live deep in the Darien Gap. His survival becomes a daily quest in his unfamiliar and terrifying habitat.

As the O'Malley sons continue on their pursuit for understanding and revenge, they are persistently affected by Ireland's perpetuating mysticism as their family histories, ancient legends, and village leaders deeply influence their lives. They develop unique and highly honed espionage skills, and their amazing accomplishments have broadened their partnerships with the CIA, FBI, and British Secret Service. In this trilogy, they come face to face with the worst crimes known to the world. In the end they discover an amazing lineage of brave and noble ancestors.

The Fenian Cycle, Oisín

The Fenian Cycle, Oisín pronounced uh-sheen, known by many cycle names including the Ossianic Cycle, is a body of prose and verse centering on the exploits of the mythical hero Fionn mac Cumhaill and his warriors the Fianna Éireann.

It is the third of four major cycles of Irish mythology:

the Mythological Cycle,

the Ulster Cycle,

the Fenian Cycle,

and the Historical Cycle.

The Fenian cycle is often called the Ossianic cycle because Fionn's son, Oisín, was supposed to have written most of the poems in the cycle. The cycle also contains stories about other Fianna members, including Caílte, Diarmuid, Oisín's son Oscar, and Fionn's enemy, Goll mac Morna.

The Secrets of

Nine Irish Sons III

The Forces of Stones

By

Laura Joyce Moriarty

From Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia.

For my son Dan

Are there no stones in heaven . . .

Shakespeare

Copyright 2011 by Laura Joyce Moriarty

Registered U.S. Copyright Office

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Requests for permission to make copies

of any part of this work

Should be mailed to the following address:

info@fourrosesandbrownpublishing.com

The O'Malley Family

Bébinn

Ancient ancestor from the Stone Age

and first mother of the

Ó Máille clan Mayo County

Chiefs of Fir Umaille

Jones & Brigid O'Malley

Sons

Liam O'Malley

Gabriel O'Malley

George O'Malley

Luke O'Malley

Sean O'Malley

Daughters

Bridgette O'Malley Brown

Colleen O'Malley Joyce

Geraldine O'Malley Jameson

Polly Marie O'Malley Moynihan

Nellie Anne O'Malley Heaney

Luke O'Malley

Born 1947

Disappeared in 1987

Quarryman

Married at 25 to Mary Elizabeth Moran

Father of Nine Irish Sons

Mary Elizabeth Moran O'Malley

Born 1954

Married at 18 to Luke O'Malley

Able to see the truth through her visions

Disappeared in 1987

Rescued in 2007

Mother of Nine Irish Sons

Luke Niall O'Malley, Jr.

First Born Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1973

Quarryman

Becomes the Mayor of Aghadoe

Widower with three young daughters

Wife murdered with bad drugs during childbirth

Had an affair with Julie McStanish Nash to uncover

the truth behind his parent's disappearance and wife's murder

Dr. Peter Fionn O'Malley

Second Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1974

General Medicine Practice

Married to Sharon, an epidemiologist

Three children

Michael Quinn O'Malley

Third Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1975

The Rose Oisín

Poet

Quarryman

Worked undercover for Interpol

Matthew Colin O'Malley

Fourth Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1977

Artist & Designer

Quarryman

Married, Peg [Margaret Mary] Ferris,

an American Historian who takes over the family's

library of ancient literature housed in the new

headquarters

Edward Moran [Teddy] O'Malley

Fifth Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1978

Latin School Teacher

Takes over the archive in the new headquarters.

Wants to work in the field

Kevin Dermot O'Malley

Sixth Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1980

CEO and Owner of a Private Espionage Firm

Divorced

Believes his ex-wife had his daughter

Brian [Brice] Conner O'Malley

Seventh Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1983

Twin brother of Joseph Patrick

Salesman for the Quarrymen

Joseph Patrick O'Malley

Eighth Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1983

Twin brother of Brian [Bryce]

Works with Kevin

Contracted with AT&F and covers as an FBI agent

Timothy Shane O'Malley

Ninth Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1985

Works with Kevin as a spy.

Contracted with the CIA.

Secretly learned Spanish dancing

Micah and Joanna Nolan Frieze

Born in Ireland during the late 1800s

Migrated to Poland to work in textiles.

Micah brother to Reiley

Reiley Frieze

Born 1890

Changes name to Reiley Freeze

Brother of Micah

Joins the British Secret Service, March 1914.

Becomes the Ace of Spies – a.k.a. The Rose

Returns to find Micah and Joanna Nolan Frieze in

Cardiff, Wales in 1926

Father of bastard son, Micah [Mickey] Freeze

with his brother's wife Joanna Monahan Nolan.

Fathers illegitimate daughter [Madeline] with

Maggie O'Meaera

Grandfather of Mary Elizabeth Moran O'Malley

Maggie Quinn O'Meaera

Married to John O'Meaera

Mother of Madeline O'Meaera Fitzgerald McStanish

Grandmother of Mary Elizabeth Moran

Madeline O'Meaera Fitzgerald McStanish

Had a miscarriage at fifteen from affair with a priest,

Robert Francis Fitzgerald - murdered in 1945

Married Jeremy McStanish

Had a son by Jeremy, Chris Martin

Born Dec. 31, 1945 - Separated but did not divorce McStanish in 1948

In 1953 had an affair with Tadhg Báetán -- the Druid

Had daughter, Mary Elizabeth Moran, raised by her sister Bridgette Moran in Aghadoe.

Mickey Freeze

Born 1927

Illegitimate son of Joanna & Reiley Freeze

Half-brother to Madeline McStanish

Air Force Ace Flyer, and

spy for the British during WW II

Dies 2007

Father of Marilyn who is poisoned by bad drugs during pregnancy by the same doctor who killed Lucy O'Malley.

Secret Godfather of Aghadoe

Arch enemy of Jeremy McStanish

John O'Meaera

Bricklayer

Married to Maggie

Tadhg Báetán

Also known as The Druid

Had affair with Maggie O'Meaera

Father to Mary O'Malley

Grandfather of the Nine Irish Sons

Scholar and paragon

Carries stones and stories from Bébinn

Travels the globe studying religion

Jake Sherman

Born 1945

Dies drunk at a train depot.

Ellie Edwards Sherman

Born 1959

Married in 1977

Has two sons and four daughters

Eddy Sherman

Born 1978

a.k.a. Father Edwin Shaw

Dies at 29 of congestive heart failure

Jimmy Sherman

Born 1979

Begins working for Mickey Freeze at age 8

Jeremy McStanish

Born 1928

Arch enemy of Luke O'Malley & Mickey Freeze

Married Madeline O'Meaera --- Mother of Chris Martin Second marriage a sham, to

the duchess, Claudia Van Ecklignberg

Claudia Van Ecklignberg

Imprisoned by McStanish in 1958 at 15 years old.

Had daughter, Julie McStanish in prison

Sent to Insane Asylum by McStanish when near death

Chris Martin

a.k.a. Chris McStanish, Chris Mansfield

Born 1945

Son of Jeremy McStanish

Son of Madeline O'Meaera McStanish

Julie McStanish Nash

Born 1959

Daughter of Jeremy McStanish

& Claudia Van Ecklignberg

Camilla Demasthines

Widow of ruthless Anastascios Demasthines

Known killer, smuggler & warlord

Father Henry

Parish priest in Aghadoe

Alexis Dering

Born 1802

Catholic missionary priest who deserts his mission,

and lives with native Indians in South America.

Marries an Indian woman and has many children

Joseph Alexis Dering a.k.a. Alejo Don Alexander

Born 1835

First Son of Alexis Dering and Indian wife

Fathered Twins

Rico Don Alexander

First son of Joseph Alexis Dering

a.k.a. Alejo Don Alexander

Born 1867

WWI War Profiteer

Fathered Twins

José Santiago Alexander

Second son of Joseph Alexis Dering

a.k.a. Alejo Don Alexander

Born 1867

No Children

Rico Don Alexander, Jr.

Son of Rico Don Alexander

Born 1907

Twin brother to José Santiago Alexander, Jr.

Fathered Twins

José Santiago Alexander, Jr.

Son of Rico Don Alexander

Born 1907

Twin brother to Rico Don Alexander, Jr.

--

Don Alexander

Son of Rico Don Alexander, Jr.

Twin Brother to Santiago

Born 1945

Santiago Alexander

Son of Rico Don Alexander, Jr.

Twin Brother to Don Alexander

Born 1945

Nindearo

An abandon child from the Dearing line.

P r o l o g u e

Dublín 1963

Every family has a storyteller---the one who watches and keeps an eye on the activities and feelings of the rest of the family. I am that person. My family thinks of me as a very pleasant, but unemotional bystander that can be counted on to jump when they need something---which I'm always willing to do. Yet, they don't really know me. They think I'm a bit of a dandy.

I suppose I look like one. When I was very young, I didn't think of myself as good looking, and I would get angry if I was teased about it---usually by my brothers.

They got a kick out it, because the girls always chased after me. They took me everywhere with them because I was a girl magnet. I couldn't walk into a room without bunches of them overwhelming me with attention.

I didn't like it because I knew I was a not some demigod---just a guy with all the bad lazy habits guys had and every time some really popular gal latched on to me, I felt like I was being played---treated like a servant. It was always all about appearances and expectations.

I found that I couldn't figure out which ones I liked and which ones just wanted to use me to show off and make themselves more popular. I always hoped that one day I would walk into a classroom or a dance and the eyes would be focused on someone else. Instead, I would be bombarded with requests from all kinds of girls . . . Please meet me for lunch---please go to the dance with me, . . . What I wanted was to watch the girls interact with each other so I could decide if I really wanted to date one of them.

Finally, when I was in college, something that my father thought very strange since I was the family muscle, I got lucky.

I had walked into the cafeteria and saw a girl sitting alone. She was pleasant enough looking . . . actually a very pretty lady. I asked her if I could join her and then asked her why she ate alone. Her response was that she wasn't the most popular student to ever hit the campus and I said, that makes us a good match because it seems that I am. She thought that was so funny. What a wonderful laugh she had. We just couldn't stop talking.

After a bit, I asked her how she acquired her unpopularity since, number one, I didn't find her unattractive at all, and second, I had been trying to figure out something to gain some of that unpopularity. Once again, she laughed hysterically. She said, didn’t you notice the ribbon with a bow in my hair?

Well I guess . . . I really hadn't thought about it . . .

Don't worry. I won't be offended with anything you say about it. Everyone thinks it's so childish. They think I'm trying to look like a six year old on purpose. And I suppose the way I dress is a little prudish.

Is there some reason why you don't keep up with the fads?

Actually, I wanted to find out if she had a peevish personality or was a little weird now that she mentioned it.

I wear it because my mother likes it, she said. She thinks it's adorable. She said she wore one just like it and ended up marrying the best looking man on campus. Of course, that was twenty years ago when all the gals wore ribbons.

Ah, you think you'll catch a frog that'll turn into a prince?

No, not at all. But when I try to change she looks like she's so brokenhearted. The truth is she's dying now. They expect she won't live out the year. I figure I'll have plenty of years of my life to dress the way I want, but for now she's the best mother in the world, so I just do it to please her.

I understand exactly. I do a lot of things just to please my family.

Like what? she asked.

Well they think I'm a big tough guy and . . . I don't know if I should admit it but they ask me to take on some of the bad guys---you know, like beat them up. I guess because we fight all the time amongst ourselves, they think I'm the strongest. So when some little kid gets bullied or some old lady gets robbed, who do they call? Me!

Maybe you're popular with them too.

But I'm not really the person they think I am. Not that I really mind doing the favor. It's not that at all. It's just that they have such a strange perception of me.

Do you understand them? I mean do you do as they ask to avoid showing your real self?

I guess you can tell me if I change a lot around them.

So I'm going to meet them?

Why not? And when I meet your mother I'll try not to show my ugly, lazy, shiftless side.

I certainly hope you show your funny, lighthearted side. She could use some cheering up. I'm writing her biography. Once a week I make her tell me all about her secrets. It sounds to me like you're the listener in the family too. It's a great gift to hear others even if they don't hear you, so you can tell their stories someday.

Later, when I took her home, the first person she met was my brother, Gabriel. She asked him a lot of questions while I listened. He would smile and answer them. But when we were on our way back to the campus, she said, He's the most heartbroken man I've ever met. I wonder why he's so sad. I think you should write down what we learn about your family tonight.

Do you think it's because he's left the priesthood?

No, she said.

That was it. I was hooked from that day forward.

George, The Chronicler

O n e

The Great Grandmother in Dublín

When Maggie O'Meaera had been married for a little over a year, she had just about given up on the idea of having children---her only real desire in life. Not only was John O'Meaera an extremely incompetent and hesitant husband, he was about as romantic a lover as a dead fish and they seldom had sex. He was rarely home and Maggie never knew if it was because he was avoiding her, because he was angry, or just wasn't interested in her. It never occurred to her that she intimidated him when they were alone together.

Each night after work, he spent hours at the local pub with his friends. She didn't complain. In fact, you might say that her indifference to the situation was assumed by him as encouragement. He wasn't great company when he was there and easier to live with when he had his private time to himself.

She wondered if she would ever have an interesting or fulfilling life. Then one day when she was least expecting a fateful change, she felt a powerful magnetic force overcome her as if she had absolutely no control over her own destiny. It had happened on the dreariest of days, when she was walking along the ferry's dock, that she noticed a man that made her insides quiver and any sense of fidelity fly right out the window. She was alone and suddenly cemented in the same spot for so long that she completely forgot herself and her life. It could have been any other day from a year ago when she would stand for an hour waiting for a bus home or even years ago when she was a child just standing alone looking at the sea. Inside, it was as if her marriage and all that she knew of her daily existence evaporated into the mist.

She was waiting for the afternoon ferry to arrive which was carrying a special shipment of plaster molds she had ordered from Paris. A gorgeous man who was dressed like a duke was also waiting for the ferryboat---she assumed to return to his castle back in France.

To a casual observer, the two figures looked like a married couple so completely stuck in stone and hateful of each other they had to be more than an arm's length apart so they wouldn't accidentally touch.

They both had been standing in the thick fog looking completely mysterious, and yet, neither bothered to hide their obsessive stares. Reiley Freeze had only returned to Ireland to see that his father's and mother's bodies had been removed from a pauper's grave and settled in a proper burial site with tombstones, and to have a huge section of land their family had lost to a corrupt foreclosure restored to his name. His business had not taken more than three hours and he had not stayed to visit or catch up on gossip.

It was 1929. The First World War had been over for nearly a decade and despite the wild financial markets, and seemingly endless world wealth, he had been informed that a sudden doom was inevitable. He was being sent to France and then Germany to reacquaint himself with the languages and become familiar with the national reformations. He was to understand that according to their intelligence, another World War could break out which would include most all the previous countries fighting the first one, along with some new ones, and he was to collect as much information as possible on suspected collaborations.

Though he felt absolutely no threat, he was not looking forward to the trip. In fact, he was almost completely bored and depressed with his assignment. But on the other hand, had absolutely no interest in returning to a farmer's life in Ireland. He had grown used to his wealth and prestige. He loved doing his research and even though most of his life was spent sitting and listening in on corrupt conversations, or writing encrypted messages for the British Secret Service, he had plenty of time to study history, science, and archeology. And he had become especially interested in hieroglyphics.

Maggie too had been bored until she recently discovered her passion for plaster moldings. In fact, she had become as forlorn as a woman married to the wrong man could be. She and her husband had nothing in common and she knew she was a constant source of frustration to him. He was completely annoyed by her energetic habits and generally bugged her about her work.

Except for the hope that she would have children, she would have gotten a divorce, as even as a Catholic, she was not embarrassed by the prospect and would go about her life just as easily with or without a husband if she couldn't have children. Her typical day consisted of housework, shopping, and cooking, all of which took her only a few hours each day, so she decided to begin a serious career in plaster artwork as her mother before her had done. Her skill and talent was obvious from the beginning and it pushed her to extremes, working in her basement late into the night. She had replicated some of her mother's work and it had all sold instantly. She was enjoying her recognition and the sense of freedom it gave her.

A foghorn blasted from far away and she snapped out of her daydream about the man looking at her. She became nervous. She had never considered herself beautiful ---though she really had nothing to compare her looks with for all the Catholic women in her neighborhood looked pretty much alike in their drab housedresses. Absolutely no one she knew ever looked like any of the pictures in glamour magazines left in hair salons or libraries. She had a lovely complexion, a perfect smile, and beautiful blue eyes, but her ferocious black hair constantly frizzed and looked like a bird's nest. She had been shy about it since she was a child, and now that she was married and focused on her industrious habits, hadn't thought about her looks for a long time, nor ever dreamt about a lover. She certainly didn't imagine that a man like the one she was staring at could ever conceive of making love to her.

He was as elegant looking as a man could be. She had never seen a man dressed in truly fine clothes. She had never even seen one with a perfectly manicured haircut---in fact, one that looked like something out of a Victorian novel. He was the prince charming all women dreamt of and Maggie was completely awed.

When a uniformed man came out of the ticket office announcing that the fog had delayed the ferry arrival for at least a few hours she was completely devastated. She didn't care if she had to stand there forever as long as she could look at the handsome man. Then the uniformed man used a bullhorn to shout that no ferries could depart from the port until morning, and then, only if the fog had cleared. People were wandering off quickly and yet she stood frozen in her spot.

Suddenly, Reiley Freeze took Maggie O'Meaera's arm and escorted her into the ferry station's coffee shop. She did not resist this stranger's advance.

Come with me. Even a frog would want to get out of this soup, he said.

She didn't say anything. He walked her to the back of the café and lightly tucked her into a booth facing the wall and then sat next to her. He ordered coffee and scones.

My name is Maggie O'Meaera and I'm married, she shot out.

Reiley laughed. I'm not planning to seduce you---unless of course, you bat your eyelashes at me? he added with a gigantic smile.

Then why are we squished up together and facing the wall? she asked.

It's just a habit. You see, I'm a spy and I have to be careful.

I'd ordinarily doubt a crazy story like that, for in all my life, I have never heard such an outrageous thing.

But?

But in all my life, I have never seen a man as exquisite and artful looking as yourself, so how could I doubt such a thing? It must be true for you look like a spy or something just as fanciful. And, so what is it you have to be careful of?

Other spies, of course. If I face a wall and there are no mirrors or items that can reflect my face, then I don't have to worry that someone is reading my lips. If we face the wall and speak softly, no one will be tempted to listen in as our conversation will be too hard to understand. The words will be muffled.

How can you be sure?

I'm sure. Of course, there are ways two people can be heard across relatively long distances---say from one end of this dock to the other. In ancient times, kings and queens spoke to each other from identical stone hollows. They would awe their subjects by speaking directly with each other while no one else could hear them across long altars. It was just a trick of the stones---to capture their conversation.

Do you know of any other tricks---with stones in particular?

There are many ancient beliefs about the power of stones. Especially in the past, many believed that they could be used to communicate with other worlds or ancestors. It comes from the strange power of stones to transform---you know like a piece of coal changing into a diamond.

How can that be true?

It is mysterious to even scientists---to think that some mess of compressed carbon from decayed plants and animals, can change into a perfectly brilliant diamond. Even if it takes millions of years and intense heat, turning rubbish into diamonds is beyond our imagination. And yet, a diamond is formed in such a state deep in the earth.

Then part of a diamond could have come from decayed human remains?

If one were a mystic, I suppose all diamonds have some genetic originality from humans.

It's too complicated for me, but I am a sculptor of stones. I believe in their mysterious powers. One of my ancestors was cremated and I have her ashes. I have examined them under a magnifying glass and the ashes are strange looking tiny balls. That is what we decompose to---tiny balls of stones.

You would make a good student and great detective. But I assume you are more interested in the stones themselves.

I am. I even experimented with her ashes once. I took a tablespoon full and put them into the plaster I used for a small sculpture to see if it had any affect. I tried to copy something I saw in a book. But it came out differently than the picture and most mysteriously, looked like something I'd never seen before. I was so frightened by the outcome that I put it away in my attic and haven't looked at it for a long time. I plan to look at it when I am old or leave it to a museum. They might know something I don't.

Looked like an ancient relic?

Something like that.

Reiley spoke of many mysteries and Maggie listened, but her mind quickly drifted off on other things. She wanted this man to be the father of her first child. He was not just good looking and well educated. He was brilliant. A child of his would be a jewel. She was about to conjure up some way to ask him to father her first child, so turned her mind back to his words. Then every time he finished a sentence, she batted her eyelashes.

T w o

The Obvious Invitation

He hadn't missed the obvious invitation. So he put his arm around her and pulled her close---so close that she could barely keep from reaching up to his neck and kissing him in public.

On a day like today, there is even less likelihood of being obvious, for no one would suspect a thing of two people trying to get a little warm. Especially coming in out of the fog; the mist has a way of dampening idle curiosity. It frightens people. It's when most crimes are committed and even without knowing that fact, people tend to move in and out of it as quickly as possible with their minds on their own safety. It's all about habits.

Reiley nearly buckled over with laughter at her combined expression of horror and flickering eyelashes.

You don't believe me?

I do believe you. I'm just suddenly worried about you. How awful your life must be. I can't imagine it. You must be frightened all the time.

Actually not at all.

Not at all? Aren't spies shot? I thought spies are often shot.

They are indeed. But being shot is the least of my worries.

What worries you then?

Sending a message that is not understood. My life is nothing compared to the numbers of people whose lives might be lost if I am not exactly sure that I am right and that my messages are clearly understood. One wrong word and a war could be started. That is what I worry about.

What about the people who love you?

There are none left in the world that love me---or should I say that are my family and that love me. I have a son born now with my name, but his mother is married to my brother and I have made no claims on him. You can only imagine there is no love lost there. My parents are both dead and there is no other family left alive---at least that I know of yet. My old friends have all gone their own way and I was not around to nurture those relationships. Someday I suppose my son will love me, but I expect we won't share that love until we are gone from this earth.

Would it help you with your work if you knew that someone loved you? She had inadvertently tugged at his coat sleeve. She hadn't meant to, but had felt some force inside her as if she was destined to be close to this man.

It might. But it could cause me worry as well. I cannot be worried about personal issues with so many larger ones looming over my head. No one can love one without expecting something in return. I cannot give something back. It would have to be only imagined.

In other words, you could not be tethered to anyone or you could be put at risk or put others at risk?

I believe you understand, he said while he took in the common clothes and yet exquisite face and manners of his companion.

What is your full name? he asked.

Margaret Marie Quinn O'Meaera, but I have always used Maggie.

Maggie, have you ever been inside a fine hotel?

No. She had hesitated and he was about to say something, but she realized she might make a mistake and was quick to recover.

I can't even imagine that I would be dressed well enough to be seen in such a place, she said.

Let's go see if anyone cares.

They left the dark coffee shop, and once they walked away towards the streets, he called a taxi. When they boarded, he said, The Gresham.

Maggie was stunned from the moment they stepped outside the taxi.

It will be this place that I will visit when I want to feel your presence. You will always be here with me. No one will ever know. You will never have to worry about me.

She walked up and down in front of the hotel and felt the moldings that decorated the façade. Reiley did not understand her excitement over the stones on the building, but was glad to see her response to the elegance. When they entered Maggie sat in the lobby and stared at the incredible Waterford crystal chandeliers long after Reiley had booked a room. He had plenty of time to kill so was in no hurry. He was thinking about whether he wanted to know what was going on in her head, and yet, knew that asking would be the beginning of a desire to know more later. She seemed to understand his situation better than he.

When she finally removed her imitation French cloche in their private room, Reiley realized that the woman strongly resembled his mother. While this made her more endearing to him, for his mother was the saint that saved him from his father, it also made him less interested in sex. He called and ordered up a bottle of champagne. It might be the only time in her life that she'll ever taste champagne, he thought. He opened his small attaché and removed something that he slipped in his pocket and excused himself to the bathroom. He left the piece of luggage open in case she was curious. She had the right to know that she would be sleeping with a killer, and Maggie guessed that it was done purposely. She quickly slipped over to look inside and was shaken by the contents. Small and large guns were housed in their leather cases. She opened a small velvet box and inside found diamond and precious stone cufflinks and tie clips. He had removed an overnight shaving kit but she could still smell the scent of his cologne, and marveled at the many paper journals and small books.

She moved back over to the side of the bed close to the window. She was almost put off, but was torn by the strong connection she felt to the man's body.

The doorbell rang with the waiter and she opened it to let him roll in a dinner cart. Every item was set in crystal or fine silver. The little table included a strange dish of hot salmon and asparagus covered in a yellow sauce in a silver serving dish, an unusual looking light pâté on a flowered plate with some greens and crackers, fresh cut strawberries, scones, a crystal cream and sugar set, and a large bucket of ice for the champagne. She watched the servant prepare the food and drink with his back to her---the most chivalrous thing she had ever seen a waiter do.

Reiley reentered the room and handed the man a large tip. The man bowed and exited as subtly as a cat would move from its spot of comfort when its presence was no longer wanted. Reiley had taken out his vials of mysterious potions and thought about using the aphrodisiac. He had only used one of the mysterious concoctions first given to him by his friend Ben, the British Secret Service agent who had owned the bookstore in £ódz, Poland.

He had spent many a lonely evening staring at them---each with its own unique precious stone embedded in the crystal lids. Twice in fifteen years he had used the one with the black onyx---the one that caused instant death, and then only when he was beside himself with fear and felt he had no other options. He looked at the one he had in his hand---the stone was a sapphire---blue for bliss. He was supposed to use the aphrodisiac on potential enemies that he needed to question, but had not run into such a situation. He knew he needed it himself. Once he saw the woman's hair unleashed in its huge masses of black tangles in the light, he would be obsessed with the image of his mother. As he stood before the two champagne glasses, he thought, the woman might need some too. She may have been frightened by the weapons.

And so he poured a little less than a drop of the potion into her glass as Maggie had gone to the bathroom herself, wondering if she was up to the affair with a killer. She washed as best she could, trying not to disturb personal items left for him. She decided to go ahead and undress. She was petrified that he wouldn't want to make love to her. His voice had cooled as soon as she had removed her coat and hat. She decided that being naked might change his mind.

She put on the hotel's guest robe and when she went back into the room, Reiley had turned off the lights and opened the drapes. Only thick white fog glistened through the large picture window. He lit the two candles on the table and the room smelled of mysterious food. They sat across from each other and ate, occasionally looking outside into the dense mist They both relaxed quickly and stopped talking. She was the first to feel the effects of the drink. Her eyes started fluttering and she said, I felt so cold when I first came into the room. I had to put my overcoat back on. Now, even while I sit in this single robe, I feel so warm.

Reiley had already removed his shoes, belt, and tie. He got up and took off his white silken shirt and placed it on the back of his chair.

You keep looking at my hair. It's such an embarrassment, she said as she almost started weeping.

"Here. I have something you'll like. He went to his attaché and took out a jar of pomade that he had been carrying around with him ever since he bought it from the barber in Berlin. He only used it for black-tie occasions, and had rarely attended them. He sat down next to her and put some drops of it in his palm and then massaged it into her hair. The effect was almost instantaneous as the wild mass slowly rolled into large shiny ringlets just like the ones found on expensive dolls.

You can keep it if you like.

I'll not be needing it for any other such special occasions, she said humorously, but I may want to smell it from time to time.

My mother's maiden name was Quinn by the way, he said absentmindedly.

The potion had taken hold and within seconds they were both lost in extreme love making. Madeline Quinn O'Meaera was born nine months later.

T h r e e

Maggie's Limbo

The next ten years passed without hope for change---without economic security---without joy, and especially without fantasies or dreams. But there was also no internal strife within the walls of the O'Meaera home. Maggie bent to John's demands and he was content once the second child was born.

When Maggie O'Meaera woke up one day and discovered that her husband was dead, she was shocked. Mr. O'Meaera had passed away in the middle of the night from a massive heart attack at only forty-five years old. As far as she knew, there had been no signs of heart trouble.

Maggie was surprised that she experienced a kind of numbness---no grief, nor relief from the event. She had been resigned to the life she had been handed. There had been no romance, but there was friendship and each time she was pregnant, they basically went their separate ways. This was fine with Maggie. She knew he was obsessed with some secret of his own and she loved the sense of freedom she enjoyed when she wasn't feeling beholding.

From the moment John first saw Madeline, he knew he was not her father. She resembled none of the pictures of any of his relatives and looked nothing like him. But he figured as long as she was born to him, he would claim her as his own, and something inside him made fathering additional children mundane. He never approached Maggie on the subject and she was glad, for she would have told him the truth. Despite Madeline's presence, which was a daily reminder of the unspoken resentments that existed between them, life had gone on without unpleasant incivility.

Meanwhile, Reiley Freeze was walking his way out of Russia into Finland, looking for a suitable place to stop and recover from a brutal imprisonment and contemplating suicide when he received the telegram from Denihey on O'Meaera's death. It was the best news he had ever had except for the anonymous announcement of Mickey's birth. It helped him make his final decision to quit the Service for good and return to Ireland. The thought of Maggie being widowed inspired him to regain his health and good looks which had suffered tremendously in prison. Despite his efforts to forget his attachment to her, she had been family to him and he couldn't resist following her life, receiving monthly updates from his old friend and past partner in the Service, Francis Denihey.

So he drew some money out of a Swiss bank account that he had set up with an alias and set out a plan to cover his tracks and make it back to £ódz just in case anyone there was still alive. It was going to be a dangerous return to Poland because it was in the middle of WW II, but he didn't mind the test of his spirit and skills. He was never going to go back to spying, but he didn't mind finding out if he could if he had to.

Meanwhile, he had had Denihey set up a safety deposit box in Dublin and sent instructions that Maggie was to have access to it if she went into the Queen's Bank and signed a card and left a picture of herself and Madeline. She could leave messages but she never did---always afraid that she might write something that sounded needy. She never removed any of the money until a couple of years after John passed away---only to tide her over until Madeline could work. She was surprised when she opened the envelope, and found that there was more than enough to tide her and the whole family over for at least ten years even if no one worked.

She waited until Madeline was 14 to return to the bank. She hadn't wanted her to work. She was going to go pick up a nice sum of money and try to convince Madeline to go to college. This time, when she opened the box, she panicked. It was exactly as she had left it the last time she opened it---two years had passed without an annual correspondence from Reiley.

She hadn't yet thought about remarriage except to him and now that was probably not going to happen. She was so weak-kneed she could barely walk home. When she arrived, she went up to her attic and took her private treasures out of a locked trunk. She opened the jar of pomade and smelled the grease that had turned her into a vision of beauty. Now I'm sure he's dead, Now I'm sure he's dead---the words repeated over and over as if some external force was chiseling them into her body permanently. It was at this moment when she finally started to mourn.

No one knew what was going on with her, but family and friends all wondered why her grief seemed to kick in so long after her husband had passed. They often thought it was because Maggie O'Meaera had more work than she could handle on her own. To the outsider, their marriage had been one of compatibility---even contentment even if there was no obvious bliss, as some of Maggie's siblings would say. They annoyed her with their constant prodding to remarry.

They had no idea that her dead spouse was as much a detriment to her accomplishments as a help. She missed the familiarity they had, but was hard pressed to accept the idea that she needed to be married again. If a new husband was anything like John O'Meaera, a nice-looking bricklayer, she could foresee a man who did what was expected at work, did not care to excel or take on new responsibilities, and once home wanted to be waited on hand and foot. She never did know why John spent so much time away from home with his friends. It was as if he enjoyed being private as payback. Worse, he could have made plenty more if he had spent as much of his spare time working as she did. If she hadn't had her art to keep extra money coming in, the family would have been as poor as the rest of those in her neighborhood. Besides, John had interfered with her consistent disciplinary habits and was too lenient with the children.

Another year passed and still there were no letters in the box. She was becoming depressed about her situation and decided that she would try to find a companion of sorts---someone she could talk with on Saturday evenings ---someone who would appeal to her ego and that could give her something to look forward to at the end of a hard week.

She couldn't help herself from noticing an attractive man now and again---fantasizing that he could be molded into her heart's desire. There was one in the neighborhood who was polite, clean, good looking, and liked children---but that she suspected was unemployed---not something she could tolerate. And yet, he looked for work constantly---or at least she thought that was what he did every day when he walked past her porch in the morning and back again in the evening. No one in the neighborhood knew what he did.

She was beyond curious about his situation, so one day she stopped him as he picked up a ball that had landed by his feet and threw it back to the kids in the street.

Good afternoon Mr. Denihey, she cheerfully yelled out as she saw that his eyes had diverted away from her house.

Ah! Good afternoon Mrs. O'Meaera. How have you been? Did you need any help with anything?

Very kind of you to ask sir. But frankly, I was wondering if you needed any help. I hear you've been unemployed for a long while. I was wondering how you are managing?

He slowly drifted up towards her porch.

It's an embarrassing thing for sure to have your neighbor's gossip. It is true that I have been contemplating some new employment, but not for the reasons that most suspect. I have been privately working for an old friend---an archeologist. I provided research for him from Trinity, and sent it to him overseas. But he has passed away. The only reason I decided to stay on here is that I have a distant cousin who owns my flat and has allowed me to use it. Meanwhile, I am still quite comfortable.

Mr. Denihey, I think I may have some work for you---a kind of research one might say.

If you need anything mam, I'd be glad to help out without remuneration.

As soon as he said passed away, Maggie O'Meaera knew that he was the man who would sneak a note into her home with this or that message about her safety deposit box. She froze for a moment. She was going to make sure.

I'm thinking of something that will compensate you as well as any clerking position---that is if you interested?

Maggie invited Mr. Denihey into her home for tea. They stopped in the foyer where she hung her shawl on a tall black coat rack that appeared to be handcrafted from wrought iron and was extremely elegant. He placed his hat and jacket on the rack, and looked out the front bay window that he had passed a thousand times wondering how the red geraniums would look from inside the house. He was not disappointed. As the warm sun was setting, the petals glistened and shimmered in the light behind the thin Irish lace curtains that tossed around the window seat in the breeze.

The high ceiling of the parlor had been decorated with a beautiful white plaster sculpting of roses. The floor was polished pine that glistened so brightly that he was afraid to walk on it and leave dust. The furniture was very plain with pale blue-gray slipcovers and each piece was covered with handmade white linen dusters.

They went into the kitchen which was completely unlike the front room of the house and didn't reflect the same taste---it was as if two completely different people lived in the house---and yet, everything seemed freshly painted and her husband had been dead for years. His reaction to the kitchen was immediate as he took in the contrast. In the center of the unusually large room was a long wooden table. The cabinets were painted various shades of green. The dishes were plain except for an exquisite tiny green ivy and rose trim. There were lovely brightly colored decorative plates, figurines, and vases on display through all the glass cabinet doors. Sitting on the windowsill just an arm's length from the stove sat a perfectly brilliant Waterford cream and sugar set and matching salt and pepper set. Denihey felt emotional as Reiley Freeze had told him of the gifts he had bought for her on the morning after their romantic evening at The Gresham and then had secretly stuffed into her bag with an enchanting love note. Everything was perfectly placed and sparkling clean.

F o u r

The Birth of the Spy Network

Hers was the home he had been searching for his whole life. He saw this robust woman who Reiley had loved in a completely new light. He had previously assumed that Reiley's love was passionate---but restrained as it might be for a common Irish wench---not a true devotion. Now he saw something completely different. She was the epitome of everything he had missed his whole life. She was eloquence and intelligence, filled with energy and creativity---independence and practical sensibilities. He was stunned with his sense of jealousy of Reiley.

He