He was having a hard time getting used to shifting the vehicle's gears with his right hand. Goddamned yanks, he thought to himself, why do they have to do everything backwards? He had driven to an abandon barn house outside the town of Balleymena, twenty miles north of the Northern Irish capital of Belfast. Twenty miles away seemed to be another world from all the violence in Belfast. As the Toyota approached, the three men inside the barn opened the barn and the vehicle was driven inside. The doors were quickly closed behind him. The barn was constructed of grey, brown and tan stones. The roof was crude at best and in need of repair. The structure itself was easily over a hundred years old. There was nothing warm or inviting about it. On the inside were a couple of desks and a workbench. A ladder, used to climb up to the loft where materials were stored, lay on the floor. Eamon Quinn was the first to greet him. Quinn was a field general for the I.R.A. There were very few who actually got to meet him. He was a brilliant strategist who had devoted over thirty years of his life to the cause of freedom in Northern Ireland. Quinn was a man in his mid-fifties whose full head of gray hair looked awkward against his dark eyebrows. He was of medium height and weight and was clean shaven. “It is good to see ya looking so well, Gerald Flynn.”
