A Noble Killing

Chapter One

It was a ritual that even the burning sun could not curtail. Mass had ended and the respite from the oppressive heat, which the congregation had enjoyed, was over. The great wooden doors were thrown open and the light poured in like lava. A solitary, bearded worshipper escaped from the porch and crossed the plaza to rest on the wall in the shade of an olive tree. The rest of the congregation remained seated as the parish priest, the curate and the visiting bishop, who had said the mass, passed down the aisle. Standing at the entrance like hosts at a wedding, they greeted and blessed each member of the congregation as they left. Polished shoes kicked up the dry dust as the line shuffled past the clergy whispering ‘God bless you’ and ‘Lord preserve you’. The bishop was awarded special thanks for gracing their humble church with his presence on this their special Saint’s day. He had quickly won approval and fame throughout his diocese, during his short tenure, for this attention to detail, and was, consequently, much-loved.

As the last worshippers drifted across the plaza towards the only café-bar boasted by this tiny pueblo, the joyful secular lilt of Argentinian guitar and accordion music drifted into the languid air. There was a faded poster of Argentina’s new president, Juan Peron, half torn and dust-caked, clinging to the glass in the door. It was surrounded by brighter newer posters for Malboro and Camel cigarettes. The bishop and his assistants re-entered the church and the doors closed behind them. They changed out of their vestments into their white collars and black cassocks inside the cool sacristy. The bishop praised the parish priest for the size and enthusiasm of the congregation.

You are doing good work here, he added. Holy Mother Church is indebted to you.

The priest and his curate grinned self-consciously. Such praise filled them with pride but they knew that pride is a sin. The foreign lilt in the bishop’s pronunciation of their native Spanish intensified their affection for this man – their guide and mentor.

We should make haste to the presbytery, urged the priest. Evangeline will have our meal waiting for us.

You two go ahead, the bishop instructed. I need to say part of my Office. I will spend fifteen minutes alone in your beautiful church. That will allow me enough time to complete it on my journey home to Cordoba tonight.

––––––––

Evangeline knocked on the salon door.

Come in, called the curate.

I’m so sorry to disturb you Fathers but I have kept the food warm for over forty-five minutes and it is going to spoil. Also, please forgive me, but I have my own family waiting for me to feed them and I am over half an hour late already.

Go back in the kitchen, woman, and wait upon your bishop in his own good time.

Evangeline returned to the kitchen. The curate turned to his senior.

Father Rodriguez, what do you think is keeping His Worship?

I don’t know, Father. He did say he would only be fifteen minutes. Maybe one of us should go and remind him. On the other hand I am reluctant to disturb him at his Office.

Evangeline sobbed silently as she sat upon a stool in the heat of the kitchen. Her plans for a family saint’s day meal were in ruins. Her husband would be angry with her. She almost wished she had not volunteered to help out at the priests’ house But as a poor sinner how else might she gain grace?

Father Rodriguez stood up. The hands of the clock had moved on another twenty minutes.

Father Durantes, I think you had better go across and ask the bishop if he is ready for his meal yet.

As you wish, Father.

His cassock brushed the red dirt beneath his feet as father Durantes approached the church. He went to the side door which led into the sacristy. Even on his short walk his head felt the full power of the sun and three or four flies had tormented his eyes and ears all the way across.

The boom of the sacristy door closing behind him echoed in the body of the church. His eyes were taking time to adjust to the dark interior. He knew the layout so well that he had no need to wait until his blindness receded. He entered the main body of the church, his leather soles producing a disproportionate sound in the hollow space. He struggled to penetrate the gloom and scan the front row of pews where he fully expected to find the bishop deep in prayer. As his pupils relaxed and expanded he realised that the bishop was nowhere to be seen; neither in the rows of pews nor at the altar. Puzzled, though unconcerned, he walked slowly down the centre aisle. Halfway down he shuffled along a row of pews towards the side aisle which held the confessional boxes. He opened both doors of both boxes and peered inside. No Bishop Oxavi. Closing the second door of the second box, he felt something liquid and sticky on his palm. As he looked more closely, attempting to identify that which had stained his palm, he was distracted by his foot slipping. He stooped to investigate. He looked back at his hand. There was no doubt in his mind that the substance was blood. Looking down the side aisle he saw that there was a trail of blood leading to the back of the church. He followed it and it led him to the baptismal font which nestled in a rear alcove. Spread-eagled over the mouth of the font, blood dripping from his throat and groin, lay Bishop Oxavi.

Chapter Two

Bishop Oxavi had sighed deeply as Father Rodriguez and Father Durantes exited the church. He had no intention of reciting his Office. Indeed, he had no plans to pray. He needed time alone to prepare mentally for his meeting back in Cordoba tonight with Cardinal diRossi. DiRossi was on a pastoral visit from the Holy Father in Rome, Pope Pius XII. The dioceses of South America were the furthest flung yet most devoted followers of the One True Faith. These pastoral visits were closer to inspections. The intention was to ensure that the tenets of the faith were being strictly adhered to. Bishop Oxavi had no worries on that score. As a fairly recent appointee less than two years ago he was fully imbued with current orthodoxy. Soon after his arrival in Cordoba he had ruthlessly squashed a minor cult which had begun to spread a blend of Catholic ritual with indigenous Indian spiritualism. He had had the leaders arrested and any known adherents evicted from their properties. His concern tonight was to convince the Cardinal to have him re-instated to his former position in the Vatican. His exile here had been necessary at the time but more than two years had passed since then. The war was over. Europe was being reconstructed. Disaster at the Vatican had been averted. The actions of the heinous British assassins had been nullified. It was time for him to return. His intimate knowledge of Pius XII would be invaluable to the new Pius XII as he continued his holy mission.

His reasoning seemed flawless to himself. He felt sure that he would convince diRossi of his value to the Pope. Rising from his knees he eased himself back into the pew. Instantly, he sensed that he was not alone. He felt the faint texture of breath on his neck.

Don’t turn around, O’Shea, a deep voice uttered hoarsely in English.

Oxavi recognised the voice at once. How could he fail to do so? It was the voice of the devil. His own personal devil. The devil he had been convinced he had escaped when he had slipped out of Rome at the tail-end of the war. His reflexes forced him to attempt to turn and look at the face that had haunted his dreams. The tip of a knife blade pressed into the side of his neck.

Don’t do that. You know who I am and you know why I am here.

Mother of God, save me from this Satan. Holy Virgin, stay this killer’s hand.

Something about the bishop’s plea incensed the intruder. He rose angrily and locked his arm around the bishop’s throat. He dragged his captive from the pews and along the side aisle. Stopping beside the confessional he opened the door and threw the bishop in. The music of guitars and accordions drifted across the plaza into the tiny box room through the slim rectangular window.

If you want to speak to God or the Virgin, start with your confession!

I know this evil Satan, screamed the bishop. I name him before God and the Holy Mother Mary. He is Sean Colquhoun. A traitor to Ireland. A hired British assassin. A Pope killer.

Sean Colquhoun, for that indeed was the assailant’s name, alias Dr. Robert Hermann of Munich, alias Peter Schmidt, German refugee, stepped into the confessional. He took the bishop by the front of his cassock and slapped his face. He slapped it again and again until the bishop ceased his screaming. He threw the bishop into the seat and hissed, Say your confession.

The bishop sobbed uncontrollably and wiped blood from his nose.

You know how to begin, urged Colquhoun. Let’s hear it.

Bless me Father, he mumbled between sobs, ...for I have sinned, it is one day since my last confession.

Carry on.

I have nothing to confess...

Colquhoun’s interruption came in the form of another hard slap across the bishop’s face.

Repeat after me, he ordered. I, Brendan O’Shea, the current Bishop Oxavi of Cordoba...

I Brendan O’Shea, the current Bishop Oxavi of Cordoba...

...raped, repeatedly, Cornelius Colquhoun, an infant boy of Cork in Ireland.

I will not....

Again the back of Colquhoun’s hand smashed into O’Shea’s face.

Raped, repeatedly, Cornelius Colquhoun, the bishop continued fitfully, an infant boy of Cork in Ireland.

And today...

And today...

I will pay for my crime.

Whether or not O’Shea intended to repeat the last part of his enforced confession history would never know. Colquhoun reached out and wrenched him from his seat. He slashed his knife down the front of the bishop’s cassock, slicing it open. Reaching out, he seized O’Shea by the throat and pushed him back up against the wall of the confessional. With their faces touching Colquhoun whispered,

If thy right hand offendeth thee..........!

O’Shea felt the cold blade enter his groin and tear downwards. Blood poured from him as Colquhoun set about his task. In a matter of agonising moments the Bishop was irretrievably mutilated and being dragged out of the confessional, along the aisle to the rear of the church. As Colquhoun lifted O’Shea’s limp body onto the baptismal font he muttered something about the innocence of childhood. O’Shea experienced flashbacks to his own childhood of lost innocence. He was barely conscious as Colquhoun drew the slick blade across his throat and released his lifeblood into the stone font.

Chapter Three

What are you doing here?

The beard was now fuller and unkempt, much like the hair on the speaker’s head. The cell was crowded and the other male occupants drifted towards the iron bars to get closer to the female visitor.  Sean Colquhoun was obliged to get up from the floor beneath the tiny barred window where he had been squatting. He forced his way through the group and turned to face them down. Reluctantly, they drifted back to their spaces around the stone walls and sank to the dusty floor.

I’ve come to get you out of here.

Sean looked at the woman he had not seen since they had separated some fourteen months earlier. Lily Brecht, refugee from Nazi Germany; alias, Lily Brett, nurse of Leicester, England; alias Lily Hermann, wife of Dr Robert Hermann of Munich; Nazi agent turned British spy/assassin.

How do you intend to do that?

The Brits want you. I’m just here to ascertain your true identity for them.

The Brits might want me but the Argentines want me more.

Lily pushed back her thick, black hair from her forehead in a futile effort to cool herself. Down here, in the cell basement of Montevideo central police station the heat and stench were overpowering.

She handed Sean a water bottle. The other prisoners got to their feet and moved forward as they watched Sean drink greedily. Water ran over his chin and onto his chest.

Arriving in Buenos Aires, having escaped from Rome and the Gestapo group that had pursued them, Lily had been optimistic for her future with Sean, or the Peter Schmidt he had become. Their application to migrate to Uruguay had been accepted. Sean had set up in General Practice on the outskirts of Montevideo. Maybe a happy ending was in sight. But it had been a vain hope. Too much of the past came with them. Sean’s obsession with O’Shea dominated his every waking moment. Despite a strong physical relationship, nothing else had emerged. As co-habitants they seldom spoke, not even during intimacy. Sean’s brooding depression was only lifted when he was plotting to find O’Shea. Lily had decided to walk out and she would have done if Sean hadn’t beaten her to it. A photograph in a newspaper left in the surgery waiting room had triggered his departure. It had been of a certain Bishop Oxavi.

Four weeks had passed and Lily had heard nothing from or about Sean. Subsequently, the news had screamed across the wireless waves of the savage murder of the Bishop of Cordoba. Then, two weeks since the killing, the news came of Sean’s apprehension by a Uruguayan border patrol.

The Argentines have applied for my extradition. What can the Brits do?

They’ve counter-applied. They say they want you in connection with your early Irish activities against them.

Sean laughed hoarsely, humourlessly.

Argentina has prior call on me. Their application is bound to over-ride the British one.

You’re forgetting that the British are past masters in world diplomacy. They didn’t poach an Empire and learn nothing in the process. Their negotiators have been playing up newly elected Peron’s aggressive and uncomplimentary references to Uruguay during his election campaign. They have agreed to allow the British to interview you.

Big deal.

Well it is actually. They are being allowed to interview you under British legal jurisdiction.

What the hell does that mean?

It means you will be taken on board a British destroyer which is anchored in the River Plate. It means you won’t be coming back to this hell hole. Your next port of call will be Bermuda where a representative of Andrew Trubshaw will be waiting to greet you.

A tiny smile darted and died across Sean’s lips. The name Andrew Trubshaw took him back to his college days and then to the beginning of his life in wartime espionage and his association with Lily. He looked at Lily more closely, as if trying to remember the woman he had first come to know. Her firm figure and her perfect posture remained that of a young woman. Her face was darker now thanks to the Uruguayan sun, but still very attractive in an un-pretty way. Her hair was longer, tumbling around her shoulders, and her neck was smooth.

The Uruguayans won’t like it. The Argentines will go berserk. What about the Vatican? Are they going to keep quiet as a bishop killer escapes the gallows? And what are the Brits going to do with me? Are they going to hang me?

The Uruguayans are in on the deal. Britain has waved some trading concession with the Caribbean under their noses. Besides, they’re quite happy to see Peron outsmarted. The Vatican do not want to attract attention, for reasons you and I are well acquainted with. The British want you because they have a job for you.

For a moment Sean’s heart sank. He did not want to die upon the gallows in Buenos Aires, but still less did he want to re-commence his career as an assassin for the British Empire. The war was over. Nazi Germany lay in ruins. It was a sad fact that South America was being overrun with ex-Nazis and the peoples of this continent would suffer from that legacy for decades to come. But Sean wanted to opt out. He had done what he had to do and now he wanted an end to it. At heart he would like to return to Ireland. He would like to drive the country lanes around Cork. He would like to catch sight of the daughter he had not set eyes on since she was a babe-in-arms.

What shall I tell them? Lily asked.

Sean stared at her so intently that she blushed.

Tell them you couldn’t find me. Tell them I’m not here.

Chapter Four

Every man in the cell jumped to his feet as the clatter of military boots came pounding down the stone stairway. They pressed themselves against the wall as far as they could from the gaol bars. Six military policemen in the Uruguayan uniform crashed in amongst them, throwing men this way and that until they reached Sean Colquhoun. His arms were pinned behind him and he was frog-marched at the double out of the cell. Sean knew exactly what time it was because during his three week incarceration he had been able to accurately calibrate the movement of the sun across the cell floor. He was only a few minutes wrong when he told himself it was five a.m.  His escorts proceeded unheeded onto ground level and through every doorway they came to. Two civil policemen stood holding each doorway wide open. His removal was being facilitated by the authorities. As he stumbled into the dawning day he expected to see the shadow of the gallows on the police station yard. Instead, he found himself being thrown into the back of a military truck. His escorts climbed in beside him. The two men either side of him on the bench pressed in closely to restrict his opportunity for movement. The truck accelerated out of the prison yard and picked up speed as it moved along the empty streets of central Montevideo. Soon they were bouncing along poorly maintained roads, the fashionable area of the city now behind them. Sean knew that he could be on his way to a convenient disappearance; a bullet in the back of the skull and a shallow grave in an olive grove. However, he suspected that something else was in store for him.

The truck came to a halt and the tarpaulin covering the rear was pulled aside. Sean was dragged from his position on the bench and manhandled to the ground. His eyes scanned the older, northern barrio of Montevideo and he knew he was in a seldom used area of the port. With hardly a pause for breath his escorts set off at the double again, propelling Sean along between them. By now his legs trembled and his head span. His weeks of incarceration had drained him of his fitness. Between the bouncing shoulders and pounding boots of the MPs he became vaguely aware of a small tug ahead of them on the quayside.

Within moments he was being handed over to a smaller escort of four men. These did not wear a uniform but sported the garb of stevedores. Sean noticed that they were carrying pistols in their belts. No words were exchanged between the two parties and no paperwork was exchanged. He was immediately transferred to a tiny cabin in the bow of the tug and locked in. The tug was cast off and, in his weakened, disoriented state the movement made him immediately squeamish. The tug chugged noisily along. The stench of fuel filled Sean’s throat and lungs adding to his discomfort. Twenty minutes passed before the engine was throttled back and the tug slowed. He heard Spanish voices shouting and, more faintly, English voices calling in reply. H.M.S. Amazon, launched out of Birkenhead in 1926, welcomed Sean Colquhoun aboard.

His cabin, in comparison to his most recent accommodation, was luxurious. He was provided with hot water, towels, soap and a razor. As soon as he had washed and shaved he was escorted to the galley where a substantial meal of sausages, boiled potatoes and cabbage was laid before him. He was provided with pale ale to drink. When he had finished he asked for a pot of tea and it was served up to him. One man had accompanied him to the galley and now he asked Sean if he was ready to return to his cabin. He was about twenty-one or two years old. His wiry figure and ruddy complexion was the home to a North-East English accent. Sean had seldom encountered this Geordie brogue before and he had to ask the young sailor to repeat himself several times.

Am I going to be told what is happening to me? he asked.

Divn’t kna’, sir, the sailor briskly replied.

Who does?

Divn’t kna’, sir.

Where are we going?

Howay to your cabin, sir.

Am I not going to meet anyone in command?

Divn’t kna’, sir.

You’re not very well informed, are you able-seaman.

Divn’t kna’, sir.

The sailor’s fleeting smile let Sean know that the sailor was following his orders to remain obtuse.

Back at Sean’s cabin door the able-seaman asked if there was anything else he required.

Not just now. Sean was contemplating a long sleep on a comfortable mattress.

If you mind of anything, sir, just tug on the cord beside the porthole.

Sean nodded and went into his cabin. He guessed that his passage was not to be officially acknowledged. No-one above the rank of his able-seaman would have any contact with him throughout the coming journey. In fact, during the four-day trip he exchanged not one word with anyone else.

Chapter Five

The Royal Naval Dockyard is at the top end of Ireland Island on the extreme point of the fishhook shape that is Bermuda. The convoys of the Second World War had turned it into a bustling hive of activity. Since the end of the war traffic had slowed but the importance of Bermuda’s strategic position had been cemented in the minds of British and American politicians.  As H.M.S. Amazon cruised into dock, Sean stood on deck and watched British seamanship at its best as men stood hundreds of feet above the rolling ocean atop the bows of the ship and expertly flung coiled ropes onto the quayside. The ropes uncoiled as they unerringly flew to their destination beside the feet of waiting longshoremen. The ropes were secured around capstans and the great destroyer was finally docked.

The moment he stepped from the gangplank onto dry land his semi-isolation ended. A short man in a creased and stained white linen suit approached him enthusiastically and shook him by the hand.

Welcome to Bermuda, Dr. Colquhoun. This way, if you please. I have a vessel waiting for you.

Sean turned to look up at the rail of the towering destroyer. A certain able-seaman stood there. He looked down at Sean and gave an almost imperceptible wave. Sean nodded his head in acknowledgement and turned to follow his new guide.

The vessel was a motor launch which, from the ropes and nets stacked around the deck, appeared to ply its trade at in-shore fishing.

Sean had noticed the drop in temperature as he had moved from the southern to northern hemisphere aboard HMS Amazon. The seasons were on the turn in both hemispheres. As the spray from the waters of Great Sound, which they were cutting across, hit them in the face, he was glad of the thick jumper his able-seaman had given to him.

Rounding a point the helmsman swung the wheel to port, steering them into Little Sound and they finally tied up inside George’s Bay. It had been a trip of only a few minutes.

What’s your name? Sean directed at his guide.

Wheeler, the short man replied. When Sean stared, as if requiring more, the man smiled and said,

David. David Wheeler. We don’t much go in for first names in my world."

Wheeler went ahead of Sean, pulling himself up the steep steps to the quayside and then turned to wait.

Our car is over there.

Sean thought about asking where they were going but guessed that Wheeler would be under instructions not to say. In the short walk to the car Sean began to feel the faint warmth of the sun on his face. The white, two-door Austin 7 that awaited them sagged low on its suspension and had obviously had a hard war. It was as creased and stained as its driver’s linen suit. Wheeler jumped into the driver’s seat and Sean climbed in beside him. After a couple of turns of the ignition Wheeler turned to look at Sean. Without speaking he reached under his seat and pulled out a crank handle. He offered it to Sean with a smile. Sean took it and climbed out. With a couple of turns he had the engine running and he returned to his seat. Their journey was a short trip along George’s Bay Road followed by a left into Saratoga Road. It was no more than a third of a mile in total. After approximately five or six hundred yards along Saratoga, Wheeler took a right off the road onto a track that disappeared into a wooded area. After bouncing along for a couple of minutes a white stone house came into view in a clearing and Wheeler braked the car on the gravel in front of the pillared entrance. Sean waited for Wheeler to take the lead but he made no move. In response to a quizzical stare from Sean he said,

Here we are, sir. I suppose I should say, ‘you’re home’.

As the engine continued to growl Wheeler encouraged Sean, with a flick of his head, to get out of the car.

I’m sure you’ll find everything you need inside, sir.

Sean got out. As soon as his feet were on the gravel Wheeler hit the accelerator and was gone. Silence descended and Sean looked at the house. It had a porch and several downstairs rooms. He counted four upstairs windows on this side and guessed there must be as many at the rear. His boots crunching on the gravel were now the only sound he could hear as he approached the steps to the porch. The front door opened as his foot reached the first step and from the dark interior, into the bright daylight, stepped Lily.

Chapter Six

The meal of Caribbean beef stew that Lily had prepared for him had finally unwound the tiredness that had dogged him since his arrest by the Uruguayan border police. He had just enough energy to follow Lily’s directions to the main bedroom before tumbling into a fifteen hour sleep. When he awoke it was 3 a.m. but he was re-charged and ready for the day. As he sat up he realised that someone lay beside him. He knew instinctively that it was Lily. They had lived together as man and wife and he would recognise her breathing blindfold. He reached across and touched her back. His hand strayed and he quickly discovered that she was naked. In her deep sleep she was unaware of the source of the intensifying physical pleasure that was beginning to invade her dreams. Sean concentrated as his hand manipulations increased her rate of breathing and caused her to groan. Overwhelmed by her unconscious response, Sean found himself turning her onto her back and lowering himself on top of her. As she woke and whispered his name he was already entering her.

By the time Lily rose from her bed the following morning Sean had been abroad for four hours. He had spent the time exploring the locality. He had hiked back to George’s Bay where a few fishermen were unloading their catches.

He doubled back and crossed to the opposite shore of this narrow strip of land. He gazed out across Whitney Bay before striking south to West Whale Bay. Crossing back over to the east shore he turned at Evan’s Bay, back to the north and home. He encountered few people and little of interest. Small housing settlements huddled together around the bays and between the fields but there was no great industry here; no military installations; nothing obvious that Andrew Trubshaw might have chosen him to deal with.

When Lily caught sight of him crunching across the gravel to the front door, her stomach fluttered for a second. As usual, after sharing intense physical pleasure with Sean her hopes and expectations rose. Maybe this time their relationship would develop. Maybe!

Sean glanced at her as he pulled off his boots and headed to the kitchen.

Do you want a cup of tea? he asked.

He might have gone to her and embraced her; said something of the love they had enjoyed; asked her about herself. But no, all he asked was if she wanted a cup of tea.

No thank you, she replied. She watched him go through into the kitchen. She wondered again, as she had many times before, if there was a man left inside the physical frame. The war had damaged so many people but Sean seemed to have taken his tragedies harder than most.

There’s a file for you on the writing desk in the bay window, she called after him. She pulled on a cardigan and a pair of boots and went out.

Sean stirred his tea as he walked through to sit at the writing desk and look out through the bay window across the clearing to the trees. The file lay on the desk. He could see at once that it was an official British Secret Service file. Sean untied the red ribbon that secured the file and opened the brown cardboard cover. On top of the paperwork, which was an inch thick, there was a short handwritten note. He turned it over and found the signature of Andrew Trubshaw at the bottom.

London

September1947

If you’re reading this, Sean you have my congratulations on having escaped the Argentine gallows. I hope that the completion of your personal revenge mission has had the desired cathartic effect upon you. There is a project afoot which requires your attention. Your remarkable success in The Pious Killing Project leads me to believe that you are the best man for the task ahead. I also believe that you function best when partnered by Lily. I hope you will agree to working with her again despite the turmoil I believe your relationship has recently encountered.

My feeling is that, if we fail in this task, everything we achieved in winning the war will have been lost. All of those lives will have been sacrificed for nothing. As you probably know, we have a new Government here in Britain now. The wartime coalition fell apart when hostilities ended and the country chose a new direction. Mr Atlee leads a reforming Labour Government with a massive mandate from the people to carry out its programme. Despite that, there are many people vehemently opposed to the changes they foresee resulting from the implementation of the Government’s manifesto. For the most part the opposition is prepared to work within the constitution to fight back. However, we have gathered intelligence that a powerful and wealthy group of industrialists and aristocrats are planning to take matters into their own hands. Our worst fears are that a coup d’etat is being planned to overthrow the Government and install a fascist-like regime.

Our intelligence source has broken contact and gone completely off our radar. We fear that he has been discovered and summarily dealt with. It means that we are now in the dark, powerless to act against them.

Your role, and that of Lily, will be to infiltrate the group as co-conspirators and, ultimately to decapitate it.

Wheeler is our man in Bermuda and will act as a conduit between us. You can trust him completely. He may not look it but his war record is second to none.

The war might be over Sean, but the fight is never won.

Yours affectionately,

Andrew.

Chapter Seven

When Lily returned Sean was still seated at the writing desk. All around him on the floor papers were scattered. Because of the seeming mess it took a moment for Lily to spot that the papers were, in fact, sorted into separate, if untidy, bundles.

Later they sat opposite each other, on the rear porch, eating the lunch of fried snapper that Lily had prepared.

Have you read the file? Sean asked.

Yes I have.

What is your opinion?

Lily put down her knife and fork and sat back in her chair.

I think that if Andrew’s worst fears are correct and nothing is done to stop this then we are right back to 1933. Only this time instead of Germany you can read Britain.

I agree.

They ate in silence for