Trafford Publishing: The Connemara Connection

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The Connemara Connection

by Nancy Bradley

295 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0344; ISBN 1-55369-531-3; US$26.50, C$30.00, EUR22.00, £15.50

Chilling suspense in the romantic west country of Ireland; IRA terrorists smuggle explosives and plot to assassinate the Queen; a horse-back trek over the mountains of Connemara; a young CIA agent and beautiful Irish girl seek to foil the IRA's plans; in the end, in the midst of terror, they find themselves in love. Good triumphs over evil.

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about the book about the author sample excerpts catalogue info

About the Book

The Connemara Connection is a novel of suspense. The setting is the west coast of Ireland, the Connemara peninsula, in the early 1990's. Charley Gibson, a young CIA agent, is sent there to try and find how, and by whom, the IRA are smuggling explosives into Northern Ireland. It is suspected that an American girl is involved in bringing financial support. Therefore the involvement of our Central Intelligence.
The book opens introducing us to a group of IRA members as they plan the transfer of bomb material from a Libyan freighter off the coast of Connemara. they are Wolfe Morrison, his wife Sheila, her brother Sean and the leader, Ben. Wolfe is an idealist, committed to the dream of freedom, and Sheila is undyingly loyal to him and to the cause. Sean is a young man twisted by hate and Ben is a fierce and desperate veteran of the Irish struggles. It develops that their plan involves not only the smuggling, but the kidnapping of the Queen while she is making a secret visit with her husband to an isolated fishing lodge deep in Connemara. Their plan is to send one of their members, Kevin, to go with the American fiel, Bettina, as tourists taking a horseback trek across the mountains from Clifden on the west to Galway and then into the North. While under this cover, they will pick up the stuff and carry it over to Galway, seemingly two tourists taking the trek for recreation.
Wolfe and Sheila and Sean will make contact with the Libyan freighter. Ben, meanwhile, is planning the kidnapping to take place at the Ussher during the time they are all there for the smuggling effort.
Charley has been selected for this job because, as a child, he had lived with his parents in Ireland, where his father had been Ambassador. After his father's assassinatoin by the IRA, he had come back, as a young teen-ager, with his widowed mother to go on the pony trek across Connemara. Now, fifteen years later, it is thought that his knowledge of the area will be useful in finding the smugglers.
Arriving in Clifden, he finds that the same man, Jamey Leary, still conducts the trek over the mountains. In a flashback, we go on the earlier ride with Charley and his mother. Charley, and Jamey's eleven year old daughter, Megan, become fast friends and are involved in a frightening adventure in a cave by the black lake at Ussher House, where the riders spend three nights of their journey. Charley had gone back to America convinced that he was forever in love with Megan and would someday come back to her.
Now, in Clifden, while looking for his local contact, he finds Jamey organizing a trek over the mountains to Galway. Happily, Megan, now a beautiful young woman is still helping him. His knowledge of the countryside convinces him that if the IRA are getting from Clifden to Galway, avoiding the heavily guarded roads, they could likely be going with Jamey's group. He is given orders to sign on for the ride.
During the next four days, traversing the wild and beautiful country of Connemara, Charley is attacked by Kevin, falls in love with Megan, discovers the contact point and identifies Kevin. Kevin murders Bettina, Wolfe is tragically killed. Ben's group mistake Megan, standing by the shore of the black lake in raingear and headscarf, for the Queen, whose habt they have found was to wait, with her two Corgis, by the shore at dusk for her husband to return from fishing. They gag Megan and carry her off into hiding, where mercifully, Charley finds her and once again they are trapped in the cave under the rocks by the lake.
Discovering their mistake, Ben and Sean decide just to blow up the whole place and kill the Queen, instead of trying the kidnap trick again. This effort is fortunately foiled by Charley and Megan, who find their way torturously through a passage from the cave, just in time to stop the bomb from going off. Charley's contact from Dublin, alarmed at silence from Charley's radio, arrive in time to capture those of the IRA still alive. It is pretty bloody at this point, but all ends well, with the wicked dead, the Corgis watching over the safely sleeping Queen, and Megan promising to marry Charley as soon as her broken bones can heal.

About the Author

Nancy Weyl Bradley lives with her husband Gene and three dogs and two horses in McLean, Virginia. She began her professional life as a graphic artist, then, while raising two children and innumerable ponies, she painted seriously, started a community art center, completed six one-day, one hundred mile horseback rides, foxhunted in Londoun County, Virginia and began writing articles for publication in horse-oriented magazines.
With the advent of the computer, realizing the joy of writing withough making (and correcting) four carbons of everything, she published her first novel, The Kremlin Contract, (p. Zebra Books). After a few years working on the invention of a piece of computer software, she joined with her husband in founding an educational institute: Journey in Faith. Her recently completed third novel, The Connemara Connection, was written after a horse trek in Connemara. She is presently at work on a fourth book, a novel based in rural Indiana at a time when the Ku Klux Klan was still a force for evil
A new pony is expected to join the horses soon; grandchildren Caroline and William are big enough to ride now.

Sample Excerpts

CHAPTER ONE

The dying sun, reflecting off the high corrugated metal wall, sent a dull gold light through the window. Sheila pushed the curtain aside to watch down the street. A cigarette butt smoldered in a rusty lid on the windowsill. "Damn," she muttered, "Damn them -" She took the last cigarette from her pocket and lit it, cupping her hands around the warmth of the match. She had been waiting since five o'clock and no word from any of them. "Damn," she said again and pulled the curtain back over the window and a cold greyness settled over everything in the room.
Grey like my mind she thought, grey and dull. The lads should have been done with it by now, and back. She was too tired to worry properly; she had worried too many times and what good had it ever been? Still it went on, still they fought and still they died. And still their land lay under the hand of the bloody English, did it not? Sure, her Wolfe had the desire for freedom like a faith in him, more real, she thought, than his faith in the Blessed Virgin. Her hand made the sign of the cross, all independent of her mind, and she knew it was a prayer for him and her brother she was making. So tired she was; it was one of those days when she knew it would never end. The great wall would always cut Belfast in half just the way her life was cut in half by the endless fighting. Not that she wasn't a fighter herself; what else had she ever known? Her Da was dead in the first troubles, twenty years since. All she remembered of him was strong arms and the smell of Old Bush in her face when he held her and said, "I'm coming back, luv, never doubt it, and bring ye a dolly to play with -" Then it was only Mum, always crying, her face drawn and thin, her tired arms lifting the baby to wash him, and always the men at night in the back, talking, planning.
The baby - her little brother - now the man, Sean, who was feared by them all; so mean he was, so hard, driving them all on, just as though he believed that by the sheer force of their hate they could rid themselves, one fine day, of the Brits and their filthy RUC forever.
Wolfe said they would, but, then, Wolfe always hoped, even in the darkest times, and when he smiled in his dream, it was like the warmth of sunshine. Ah, Wolfe, my luv, she thought, pray God you get your wish, pray God you live this night and always. At least this night, and your arms around me and the bed warm with our love -
Darkness fell before she left the window and her heart was lead in her breast. Then the sound of guns fired behind the wall. It's always the same, she thought, always the hate and the fighting. Standing by the sink she heard a sound at the door; a wee sound, surely not Wolfe or Sean. "Who is it?" Her voice was like a knife cutting the air. She pulled the tiny lad into the room. "Child, what are you doing out alone? Cum in -"
"Wolfe sent me," he said. "They daren't cum here. I'm to tell ye where they are." Eight years old, maybe, Willy was thin as a string bean and his white skin was grey with the kind of grime only a litt le boy can find and cover himself with. He should be playing in the streets with his mates, kicking a football for sport, not running their dangerous errands in the night.
Kneeling beside him, she puther arms around his skinny shoulders. "Does your Mum know you're out?" she asked him, and even as she said it she knew that Maggie would risk her life or her child's, if it would help the cause. She was Wolfe's sister, and as strong as he to fight, but without the gentleness he had with him, and without the sorrow and the pain. The child had Wolfe's eyes; it was eerie to see the same light in them, the blue of the sky shining through the dark. He would be another one, sure, another heir to the struggle, another Wolfe Tone fighting to drive the enemy from the land. She wondered if her Wolfe had been different if they hadn't named him that - Wolfe Tone Morrison, like a mantle on his shoulders.
"Sure she knows," Willy said. "And who else would they send? No one knows how I go through the streets. And who would be caring?" The matter-of-fact little speech was so much an echo of Wolfe that she could cry. Of course they'd send Willy; as he said, who'd be caring if a little lad ran through the street at night.
"Are they all right?" she finally asked. The question had been on the back of her tongue since she opened the door; she was cold afraid to hear the answer.
"Billy's been hit . " He dropped his eyes from her for a moment. "The bloody RUC saw him. He'd not got the bum lit right and had to go back -" He bithis lip. "I saw him fall, Sheila, and he was bleedin' - I think he's dead." It was a whisper now. "Wolfe and Sean got away, but they*d been seen; that's why they couldn't come, nothere, and be followed -"
So Billy was dead, the wild one, the lad who would go anywhere, do anything; he was gone. There were no tears in her heart for him, just a red rage that burned her like a fire. "You must stay here, Willy. Keep locked and don't answer if anyone cums. I'm going to them."
"Aye, they said you must," Willy nodded. "They've got news, they said. They're at O'Shaunessy's, in back the pub. You'll not want to go straight though - I'll tell ye how." His knowledge of the streets that crossed the wounded city was encyclopedic. She couldn'thelp thinking that in a day when children played and laughed in the streets he would have been a great one athide and seek; there was no alley, no hidden doorway he hadn't found. She memorized his instructions while he chewed greedily on a cold sausage sandwich. *You're our bravest, best lad," she said. "Go to bed now. Mum will get you tomorrow."
The streets were dark, but still noisy. In an alley she heard voices and hurried past. A dark shawl covered her head and shoulders and hid the small 45 caliber gun she had tucked in the waist of her skirt. Even on this side of the wall a woman, or a man, was not safe. Here and there a solitary figure hurried through the dark and gunfire punctuated the night with its sharp staccato song. If they had gotten Wolfe or Sean she would have killed them. She laid her hand on the cold hard metal that pressed into her side and prayed for a chance to use it on them. She was proud of the hate in her soul; she carried it like a banner with her through the awful days and endless nights. Her cheeks were hot and her eyes glistened. Ourselves alone, she thought, only our own selves to throw off the bonds of slavery - the filthy prods! The Brits with their paid gunmen! Constabulary, they call them. Hired killers, if you ask me!
She slipped down the last alley. A big tom-cat, offended by the interruption of his nightly prowl, snarled in the corner of a doorway. She stiffened at the sound and her hand flew again to the gun ather side. The cat, perhaps feeling remorse, spoke in a mild miaow, and she laughed. Lord help me, she thought, must I jump at every sound I hear? Sure I near shot the poor old cat for his troubles. "Sorry, Tommy," she whispered and leaned to give him a pat. He spat ather for her efforts and wenthis way.
She felt her own way down the dark alley, counting the doorways by touch; like a blind man, she thought. In this poor land perhaps the blind were the lucky ones; they couldn't see their lovely city torn in half, nor see the hungry children on the street and the jobless men drinking their despair in dirty corners until blessed oblivion covered their shame. Sure, Wolfe would be having his and Sean, too, and could she blame them? Billy most likely dead, and they barely escaped alive themselves. She could feel the beat of her heart; her breathe came in quick stabs and burnther throat. Wolfe was alive! and Sean, and they HAD done it. Willy said it was a good one; they had brought ambulances, and black smoke had come out the windows. Five engines from the Fire Force had come. Sirens had screamed, police had run around like sheep got loose. Willy had been sure there was trouble from it. How many did it kill, and how many were dead? That's what mattered...

From Chapter 14

... She sat on the wet ground, holding his head in her lap. The shallow breathing made no sound; she could hear her own heart beating. Under the mud his face was white as chalk, vulnerable it looked, and so at peace. Her tears dropped on his cheek; pale lines ran through the dirt. She could see Jamey, far down the hill, pushing his pony dangerously fast over the rough ground. The rest of the ride straggled behind him and he paid them no mind. How long till he could get back? How many hours to get Charley safe to hospital where they could know -?
Then he began to tremble, long shudders going through his body. Holy God, don't let him go into shock! She pulled off her sweater and tried to wrap it around him. The pack on his back was in the way; he'd been lying on it, heavy thing that it was. Hurting him, it must have been and she so dull not t o get it off. He was a dead weight and she had hard work to get the straps undone and pull the pack from under him. Still he didn't move, just the cold tremors shaking him; wet and cold he was, and helpless lying there in the muck.
Finally the back pack was from under him and he lay stretched flat on the turf. Mother of God, she was tired! She lay beside him, rubbing his hands for warmth. She was afraid to move him; she should lower his head and get some blood to that pale, white face - what did they tell you in Girl Guides? Face pale, raise the tail? It didn't sound a bit funny now, looking at the still, chalky features lying there calm as death and as cold, indeed, as the grave. She rested her head on the backpack. She wouldn't rest on his shoulder, for all she longed to feel him close, lest she hurt him more.
Bloody uncomfortable it was! Was it rocks he carried there, or bricks? She undid the buckles and dumped it on the ground. A long, black box with a dial and buttons and a coiled antenna, a sleek black notebook, zippered shut - what did the lad want with stuff like that , here on the high mountain? She laid them carefully on a dry, flat rock and closed the case. For long she sat on it, imagining Jamey firing up the Rover, racing to Ussher, calling the ambulance - how many minutes? How long she sat there she had no idea. A lifetime, it seemed, and still he lay there, no more, no less alive. Cruel, it was, to have found him again, only to lose him like this.
She jumped at the noise. It was a choking sort of sound in the middle of the quiet breathing. Another cough and the breathing became a rasping, gasping struggle. Still the white face without expression. She ripped his anorak open and his shirt. Then her hand felt the hard leather strap going under his arm. The gun lay there, dark and menacing, close to his body. Charley carrying a gun? Here? His breath was quieter again, the choking left off; except for the stone-white of his skin he might have been asleep, only.
She laid the nasty thing out beside the radio (?) and the notebook, trying to put together in her mind what she was looking at. She picked up the zippered notebook; her fingers held the tab of the zipper for a moment. Holy Mother, forgive me for a snoop and a cheat, she murmured, and opened the book. Pages covered with close-written words, lists of names there were, and numbers she didn't understand. What jumped from the pages and stopped her reading further were the words, "Central Intelligence Agency" at the heading of a letter. No business she had, looking at people's private papers, or their private guns, for that matter.
Slowly she closed the book, put it and the radio and the gun back into the pack; if they were not meant for her to see, surely much less they were for others. Her mind flew to the night at the Hare. "Who's the new man signed on?" he'd asked her. "I thought we were the last?" What was it to bloody Kevin? The wind blew cold again; through the clear blue of the open sky it penetrated to the marrow of her bones and it seemed to cut through her like a knife in her heart. Far off the scream of a siren broke the stillness. "Charley, luv," she whispered. "Don't leave me now -"
There wasn't anything but a grey fog, everywhere, and he couldn't breath in it. It was cold, and a brightness shone through the fog. His chest hurt and the effort of breathing was too much for him. Just as well give it up; it was too hard. But if he gave it up, Megan would die, because only he could save her. He saw her, far above him, and he saw a blazing ball in the sky coming after her. It was so bright he couldn't look at it and she didn't even see it. "Don't leave me now -" she begged and he reached out for her. The bright light was screeching now, it hurt his ears.
He couldn't see anything but the light, though he realized now that his eyes were closed. If only he could open them - but it was too hard. "I love you so -" she said, and he opened his eyes. The sun made a halo around her head and she was leaning over him and her bright tears fell on his face like a blessing.

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