The Romanov Conspiracy (20 page)

A steely look ignited in Lydia’s eyes. “There’s one slight problem.”

“Yeah, and what’s that?” the blond grinned.

“You’ll never live long enough.”

Lydia’s right hand came up, and the Mauser cracked once as she shot the blond through the left eye, killing him instantly.

She turned to the second man, frantically raising himself from the ground as if struck by electricity. He raised his gun. “You witch …”

Lydia shot him twice in the chest, punching him back across the pavement. She spun round and shouted to Mattie and Finn, “Ambush, troops across the road, get out of the truck!”

In an instant Mattie hauled out the Bergmann machine gun from behind the seat but a shot rang out, hitting him in the chest, his body jolting and then it fell still.

Finn jumped out of the cabin clutching a pistol just as Lydia raced to join him, shots exploding, bullets hammering the truck, the man on the tailgate tarpaulin struck in the arm as he clambered for cover.

Lydia managed to drag the Bergmann from under Mattie’s body and ducked down behind the vehicle. “Keep your head low, Finn, or you’ll lose it!”

A volley of shots rang out from across the road and Lydia hefted the Bergmann in her arms. Choosing her moment, she stepped out from behind the truck, squeezed the trigger, and the machine gun danced in her hands.

As Boyle approached Sutton Crossroads, the Model T slowed. He heard sharp cracks of gunfire, followed by the distinct
rat-tat-tat
of a machine gun. “What the blazes … ?”

Instinctively he reached for his Colt in its shoulder holster but next to him Jackson already had his Webley out and he stuck it in his ribs. “There’s been a change of plan, Boyle.”

“What are you talking about?”

Jackson grinned. “We had an ambush waiting for Ryan and her friends. They’re outnumbered, so it shouldn’t last long. I’m making it my business that Ryan’s going to hang.”

“You stupid idiot,” Boyle said through clenched teeth.

Jackson struck Boyle across the mouth with the Webley, drawing blood. “You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when you’re talking to an officer of the crown, Boyle. Relieve him of his pistol, Smith.”

“With pleasure.” Smith grinned, leaned over, and snatched Boyle’s Colt.

A dangerous look sparked in Boyle’s eyes, something dark and deep that was infinitely threatening. “You’ll pay for your stupidity, Jackson. You’ve no idea what you’ve just done.”

Jackson scoffed. “We’ll see about that. My superiors are going to be bloody pleased when they learn I’ve captured a bunch of republicans.” He checked his pocket watch. “We don’t want to walk into a crossfire, so we’ll bide our time until the firing dies.”

The barrage rose in intensity, the rattle of machine-gun fire mixed with the crackle of small arms. Boyle sat with his fists clenched, barely able to control his fury.

Jackson grinned. “Relax, Boyle. This shoot-out’s going to be over soon. With luck we won’t have to bother about hanging Ryan.”

Five minutes later there was a lull in the shooting, then it started up again with ferocious intensity. Johnson impatiently consulted his watch. “What’s the bloody delay? It ought to be over by now.”

The sound of a motorcycle engine ruptured the air and a rider appeared, driving at speed through the crossroads. He skidded to a halt in front of Jackson.

The rider pushed up his goggles. “They broke through our ambush, sir. They had a machine gun and kept our men pinned down with fire and made their escape.”

“What?”

“But they didn’t get far. We’d set up another blockade round the next bend and caught them again. Two of the Fenians are dead and
the other two are wounded. We’re taking them to Dublin in one of our trucks.”

The motorcycle rider roared off and as Jackson and Smith turned back to the car, Boyle stepped out. He glared at them, his hands resting on his hips, fury in his eyes.

Jackson said, “You’re under arrest, Boyle. You’re not going anywhere.”

Without warning, Boyle’s left hand came up and tore the revolver out of Jackson’s hands, breaking two fingers in the process.

He screamed and Boyle’s right fist smashed into his jaw, a cracking sound like bone shattering as the force sent Jackson flying across the car’s hood.

Smith watched, grinding his teeth, as if relishing the fight to come. He crouched into a fighting stance, tucked his head, and balled his big fists. “Plucky, aren’t you? Let’s see you fight someone your own size.”

He came in swinging with his fists but Boyle sidestepped, kicked Smith hard below the kneecap, and then slammed his fist into the back of Smith’s neck.

Smith staggered, grunting in pain, but quickly regained his balance and went to grab his gun.

Boyle brought up the Webley, cocked it, and aimed at Smith’s forehead. “Stay out of it, son, unless you want a hole drilled in that thick skull of yours. Toss your gun on the ground. Hand me back my Colt, the butt first, nice and slow, then step away.”

Smith did as he was told, then raised his hands and stepped back.

Boyle crossed to Jackson and said, “I thought I told you not to harm the woman.”

Jackson was still on the ground, clutching his jaw, but a raging defiance blazed in his eyes as he glared at Boyle. His speech was slurred, as if his jaw was dislocated. “With any luck Ryan’s dead. Just who do you think you are, you bloody Irish pig?”

“That’s easy. I’m the man who’s going to teach you a lesson.”

And with that Boyle raised the Colt and shot Jackson twice, once below each kneecap.

20

Three hours later Boyle was pacing outside a secure room in Dublin’s Mater Hospital on the north side of the city.

Two armed Royal Irish Constabulary detectives guarded the corridor, a part of the hospital often reserved for recovering republican prisoners from nearby Mountjoy Jail.

Boyle turned as the door opened and a nun wearing a crisply starched white gown and wimple came out. She carried a stainless steel surgical dish and some bloodied gauze. “You can go in now, sir. But the doctor said for no more than a few minutes.”

“Thanks.” Boyle stepped quietly into the room. It was softly lit and smelled of disinfectant. Rain drummed against the window, which had thick metal bars. An armed constable with a bushy mustache sat nearby, reading a newspaper. He folded it away when Boyle entered and gave a silent nod.

Boyle moved over to where an elderly nun with a wrinkled face and bony hands stood over Lydia Ryan’s bed, taking her pulse. One of Ryan’s wrists was handcuffed to the metal frame despite her bandaged wounds, and she was sleeping, her long hair fanned out on the pillow, looking as if she were floating on water. “How is she, Sister?”

The elderly nun scowled at him, her skin the color of old parchment. “Resting after surgery. You can’t question her, if that’s why you’re here.”

“I didn’t intend to, Sister. I wanted to see how she’s doing.”

“It’s Matron to you. Are you the scoundrel who shot her?”

“No, I shot the British officer in the ward down the hall, the one with the shattered kneecaps.”

The matron looked confused, taking in Boyle’s accent, uncertain as to where his loyalties might lie. He tossed his hat on a metal locker by the bed. “It’s a long and complicated story, Sister, don’t ask me to explain. But take my word for it, this woman was never meant to be harmed.”

The nun’s face lightened. “May God forgive me for saying so, but maybe you did right shooting that army thug. His kind has ruined this country.”

Boyle stared down at Lydia Ryan’s sleeping face, her long eyelashes dark against her pale skin. “What’s the prognosis?”

“A gunshot wound to her left shoulder. There’s no serious damage, so she’ll recover. Her brother’s a different matter. Bullets shattered his left leg. He’ll be lucky to walk again.”

Boyle studied Lydia. Her face looked incredibly peaceful in repose, a familiarity about her dark looks that was almost uncanny, and without thinking he gently placed a hand against her cheek. In the silence that followed he became suddenly conscious of two things: the rain drumming hard against the glass and the nun’s stare. He drew his hand away.

“Do you know her, my son?”

Boyle’s gaze returned to the patient. “We’ve never met, but she reminds me of my dead daughter.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The nun blessed herself, took a set of rosary beads from her habit, and shuffled them in her bony hands. “Prayer always helps, you know.”

Boyle’s face tightened with a flash of remembered grief, an infinite sadness there. “You know what they say about God. Once you lose a child, then all the angels you can dance on the head of a pin mean nothing. It makes it hard to believe in him.”

The nun put a hand on his arm and he felt its bony grip. “But he still believes in
you
, my son, always remember that.”

Struck by the pious strength in the nun’s words, Boyle picked up his hat. “Any idea where I can find a cabbie to take me to Sackville Street? I’ve got an appointment to keep.”

“There’s a rank outside the hospital’s main entrance, but on a wet
night like this you may have a while to wait.” The nun searched Boyle’s face, as if he confused her. “Who are you, sir?”

Boyle tugged on his hat. “Funny, that’s a question I’ve been asking myself for years. But keep those rosary beads moving, Sister, they may help me yet.”

21

Twenty minutes later a cabbie dropped Boyle outside the Gresham Hotel on Dublin’s Sackville Street. The rain was coming down in sheets as he went to his suite on the top floor.

When he let himself in, Hanna Volkov was already there, seated on a red chaise longue, the fire lit and blazing, the room decorated with heavy velvet curtains.

She looked younger than her thirty years and with her splendid figure and finely chiseled Slavic cheekbones, she had a presence made for the stage. She exuded calm and elegance, her sapphire blue eyes wide and expressive.

He shook his wet hat. “Rain’s the one thing you can always be sure of in this country. I’m beginning to think that every child born on this island ought to be given an umbrella at birth.”

Hanna smiled and stood. “You Irish seem to have a fixation about the weather, Joe.” Her voice was soft but husky, her English perfect but with a noticeable Russian accent.