Seekers

Excerpt from CHAPTER 1
1864 Head of the Snake
HE froze. Down the hallway, he could see the door to G Unit was ajar. Ryan always arrived at the office door at dawn and unlocked it. As the Superintendent of G Unit, this was his privilege.
There were four other keys, one for each of his four subordinate Detective Sergeants. The other twenty detectives in the G Unit each had a desk and chair issued to them and nothing else. The janitorial staff cleaned during the day at Ryan’s insistence, so there was no key for janitors. Security of the files, especially the confidential informant files, was taken seriously. The Sergeants knew to inform Ryan if anyone was staying late or coming in early.
Could some rebels, perhaps the violent Fenians, have slipped past the sentries of Dublin Castle and sprung the lock?.
His question was answered when the rustle of papers echoed out the door and down the murky marble hall.
Someone is going through our files.
Those Fenian rebels could be looking for our confidential informant records or preparing another cowardly torch and run.
There’s no time to get help. They’d get away.
This was the only door to the Dublin Metropolitan Police (DMP) office of G Unit of Investigation. If the intruders lit a fire in the office, they would come rushing out this door into the hall.
They can come at me or away from me. One or two might be armed.
Detective Ryan pulled his .442 Tranter revolver from his shoulder holster. He didn’t cock the hammer for fear the noise would alert the intruders. He checked the five chambers — loaded. If they ganged up on him, then they might have ten or twelve bullets against his five. He’d never get a chance to reload. He was confident he was a better marksman, but anyone’s odds in a close-quarters shoot-out were not good. He looked around for something to block the door and saw nothing in the weak light. The key. He could lock them in, but the lock was a flimsy, standard issue. One kick, and they’d be out. Later, he’d have to take the blame for a shoddy lock.
He breathed deeply to calm himself.
If they were to be caught, he had to do it.
It was 1864. Ryan had enjoyed a long career catching Irish criminals, climbing the ladder to Superintendent. He looked forward to retirement soon. No one would criticize him for withdrawing right now, but he knew he’d have to live with himself. If there were only one or two, he could get the drop on them. Surprise was often a decisive advantage.
Ryan kept his head down and crept up to the door. He popped up and took a quick look.
Across the room of empty desks, in the corner, was one man hunched over his desk, surrounded by piles of files, with one lit kerosene lamp.
He pulled back, listening for a foot shuffle or a file drawer opening. Nothing. Just paper rustling.
Only one man. I have the element of surprise. I can take him.
He exhaled. In a single motion, he cocked his revolver and rose to a firing crouch. If they pulled out a weapon, he would fire without hesitation. He scanned the dim room from side to side before crossing the threshold. There was only the man at the desk.
The desk under the window. That’s Mallon’s desk.
John Mallon, Ryan’s hand-picked recruit, had covered his desk with stacks of reports and dossier folders. He read a report, jotted something down, pulled a folder from the large pile, and placed it on one of the smaller piles. With his back to Ryan, Mallon was absorbed in his process.
Ryan let out a long breath and swore.
He’s given me a fright. He deserves a gigging.
Ryan backed off the hammer of the Tranter and holstered the weapon. Mallon blithely continued going through the papers. Ryan grinned as he padded up behind his protege. It was like hunting lovesick frogs. Stealth and a quick jab was all that was needed.
He gave Mallon a slap on the back. “Good morning, Mr. Mallon. What are you working on that brings you in so early?”
Mallon jumped. He sputtered. A police report slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. He swung around towards the voice, knocked over his teacup and plate, and scattered crumbs of soda bread across his desk. He recognized Ryan and stiffened.
Ryan contained his laughter.
Mallon, a serious young man, found his voice and composure rapidly. He responded as he picked up the debris from his desk, “Good morning, sir. I’m going over last night’s police reports. The Fenian rebels trashed a storefront and tried to torch it last night. The beat officers think they know who did it. I’m going over their reports. It may be the work of that new group, the Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB).”
Ryan did not call attention to his junior’s discomfiture, that would not have been gentlemanly. “What do you think we should do about these IRB men?”, Ryan asked, in the tone of an elementary school teacher, who sensed a teaching moment was coming.
“I was pulling dossiers on the criminals, Sir.”
“They ‘think’ they recognized the men, eh? You know that’s not evidence?”
“It’s enough to bring them in for questioning. We need to get the perpetrators.”
“No, we don’t. The Irish who did this violence are all ignorant Irish ploughboys who take their directions from an IRB cell leader. Tell me, Mr. Mallon, how do you kill a snake?”
Mallon promptly answered, “Chop off its head, I suppose. but I don’t see the relevance, Sir.”
“As the saying goes, ‘Chop off the head and body withers.’ That’s how we’ve dealt with Irish rebel groups for the past hundred years. You can bring these men in but don’t threaten them. Offer to let them go if they answer your questions. Ask them what you really want to know, ‘Who’s your leader?’. Those are the ones we want.”