Manhattan Dreams A novel

Madeline Robertson is an Irish woman living in Lower Manhattan when her ex-husband, Daniel Robertson, arrives on the scene. When he struggles with his dealings with an off-shoot of the old IRA, she faces a new kind of war that threatens to get out of control.


3. Manhattan Dreams-Part Three


Tommy Rice watched the vehicles go by. He had hatred in his blood; he had waited until there was the perfect time to attack people in London. He knew the IRA would be under the radar of Scotland Yard; MI5; and MI6. By 1970, the plots to get rid of the English in Dublin, Ireland, was under the leadership of Damon Kress, a politician whose right-ring views fuelled the flames of intense hatred. Tommy headed towards a secret location where he would be part of the IRA. Suddenly he saw Roberta Kendall, an Irish woman who had killed three English soldiers with an assault rifle last month in a revenge attack, after her husband, Danny Kendall, had died. "You shouldn't be here, Tommy", she said. "It's my time to deal with the dead, Roberta; it's what can happen to all of us who hate the English". She walked near the Irish Embassy that was guarded by security guards holding their rifles in their warm hands. Tommy lit a cigarette. He smoked faster than normal; he was nervous. "England has dominated Ireland for too long. It's time for action-not words", Roberta stated. Tommy finished smoking. He nodded. "You can come to my apartment. Gordon March, Ken Franklin, and Debra Oliver, will be there. Our group will be destroy England...and all of Ireland shall be free to have our independence", Tommy said. And Roberta kissed him, then smiled.


Dublin, Ireland, 1971

Seamus walked down the cobbled road that led to the ​Sharp Boar's Pub​. He was cold. He wore a grey-wool coat, blue flares, red socks, and black shoes on his feet. He opened the front door, and went inside. He walked along the black carpet that led to the front entrance; he saw a hot flame of a fireplace was heating the pub up. Several people were asleep on black chairs. Couples were eating dinner by candlelight. A woman greeted him. "Welcome back, Seamus", Anne Donaldson said. "Thank you, Anne. Are there any tables free?", he asked her. "Yes, table 67", she answered. Seamus nodded. "I'll take that table. Can I see the menu, please". Anne showed it to him, then Seamus sat down. "I'll have the Irish stew, garlic bread, and a beer". Anne smiled, then she wrote down the order with a black pen. "It won't be long", she said. And Seamus felt the heat of the fireplace, and waited for his dinner to arrive.


The boy threw a jagged rock across the broken road.

"Fred! Get", his mother yelled.

"Yes, Mum", he sighed. He approached the arched walls. It was a dark evening, as Fred saw his sister, Jane, was cooking dinner in the kitchen. "I don't want you to die, especially when the IRA are here in Dublin", Jane said. "Father isn't here Jane. He's in Belfast with the other members. I doesn't care about us", Fred stated. He watched Jane stir the pot of vegetables with a light brown spoon with her small, right hand; he was hungry. "Take a seat, Fred", Jane said. The first signs of heavy rain fell downward onto the Dublin roads. The television was off in the lounge room. Fred, who was thirteen, got up. He headed upstairs to his bedroom. He opened the door, and was dressed in his red pyjamas. By seven o'clock PM, he went to the toilet. Afterwards, he headed downstairs. Then he sat back down on the seat, and waited for his dinner to be cooked.


Seamus savoured his meal. As he ate, four IRA soldiers arrived at the Pub. "So, Seamus, it's been a long time", Fergus O' Neil said. "I don't want the war coming here", he told him. "You can't escape from us", Fergus said. He smiled. Then he sighed. "There hasn't been any deaths for two months. The Irish people know if there's a bombing on Irish soil; or American soil", Seamus said. He drank his beer. Fergus waved at the waitress. "Some more garlic bread, please. And some Irish strew". Seamus looked around. The rain was heavier than before.

Then he knew what he must do: survive.


London, England, February 8, 1971

4:00 PM.

MI6 Agent Jane Paulson glanced at her boss.

"We have to prevent another IRA bombing, Mark". The MI6 Head Director of Investigations, Mark Graham, sat on his black, leather, seat. "I know that, Jane. Please close the door, and take a seat". Jane nodded. By 4:07 PM, Jane sat down. Mark Graham gave his protégé a CLASSIFIED black and white file. "Take a look at the pictures", he said. Jane looked at them. The first person she saw was of Seamus. "I know him. Seamus. He's an IRA bomber. The rumour is that he left them after three Londoners were killed in a bombing on Christmas Day, 1969. He then disappeared, and went into hiding". Mark Graham nodded. "The attack happened when everyone was on edge. Seamus headed to Lower Manhattan, America, on January 1, 1970, for a vacation, according to James K. Marks, Jr., the Head of the FBI. He vanished before he stayed too long in the United States; he was a man who is like a ghost, so to speak". Jane nodded. Her long, black hair was freshly cut; her hazel eyes searched the other photographs. "I know this woman. Ann Cable. She's a London-born terrorist who lives in Dublin, Ireland. She's a dangerous woman. She is paid a lot of money for 'jobs' across the United States, and the United Kingdom". Mark nodded. "If she's in London, Dublin, or Lower Manhattan, I can find her". And Mark smiled. "That's why I asked you to come, Jane. You can do the job without any kind of problems. I have another meeting at five o'clock, so I'll see you later on. Good-bye!". And Jane smiled, then walked to the door. She opened it, and knew what her mission was.


London, England, February 9, 1971

MI5 Agent Davis Westwood shivered. He gripped the .9mm gun in his left hand. He was overly anxious about the 'job'. He looked around to see if anyone was watching him. He breathed heavily. Time was short. His fear of death seemed to be recurring, like a fevered dream, in bed. Agent Westwood glanced at his watch. It was 5:09 PM. He remembered his American girlfriend, Carole Avery Lynch, had died from a heart attack during their honeymoon in Hawaii; he went into a deep depression afterwards. Carole was only twenty-three; Westwood was twenty-four. He closed his eyes. When he first worked for MI5, he couldn't tell anyone what his job was. Before he could react, a loud bomb was detonated. Westwood screamed, and as his body fell to the hard ground, he died from his injuries. Seconds later, the terror of the IRA had caused more heartache all across England.

Page 3.




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