The Dead Yard Read Free

me."
    "Well, it won’t make any difference. You will be convicted," he said.
    "Listen, mate, if you came here to give me a lecture you can piss off," I said, lifting up my

trouser leg and scratching under the straps that held the artificial foot to my calf. I’d lost

the foot five years before in a lovely piece of jungle surgery in Mexico. It had saved my life

and I was thoroughly unself-conscious about it now.
    The man smiled, picked at a piece of fluff on his shirt, looked behind him at the secretary,

cleared his throat.
    "I imagine, Brian, that you do not want to spend the next ten years in some ghastly prison on

the mainland," he said softly.
    "No, I bloody don’t," I said, trying to conceal my surprise with passion.
    He pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
    "Do you smoke?"
    I shook my head. He lit himself a cigarette, offered one to the woman, who also declined. But

he had me now. It was an interesting situation and I had to admit that I was intrigued. No guard

had accompanied the two Brits. They did not appear flustered, angry. There was no pompous talk.

Something was going on. Were they releasing me? Maybe Dan Connolly from the FBI had heard about

my predicament and pulled a few strings.
    "You’ve been living in America?" the man asked.
    "What the hell is your name?"
    "Jeremy Barnes," he said, blowing a Gauloise in my direction.
    "Oh, and I’m Samantha Caudwell," the woman said in an even more upper-class accent than

Jeremy’s. The sort of snide Queen’s English Olivia de Havilland used when she was badgering Errol

Flynn in those films from the 1930s.
    The smoke from the cigarette drifted over. Only pseuds and poseurs smoked Gauloises. Jeremy,

however, seemed not to be either of these.
    "You’ve lived in Paris," I said, surprising Jeremy with a good guess. Jeremy looked a little

taken aback but quickly recovered his poise.
    "Yes, yes indeed. They told us you were good," Jeremy said.
    "Who’s they?"
    "The FBI. The U.S. Marshals Service. We’ve read your file, Brian, or should I say, Michael. We

know everything about you."
    "Aye?" I said, trying to appear casual.
    "Yes. Shall I tell you what we know?"
    "Maybe you should tell me a wee bit about yourself first," I said.
    "No, I don’t think so, old chap. Would you like a drink?" Jeremy asked and threw a flask onto

the cot.
    "I’d like water."
    Jeremy tossed me the water bottle.
    "Good idea. Water first, then the brandy," Jeremy said.
    "Ok."
    I drank the half-liter bottle of water, unscrewed the hip flask, and took a sip of brandy. I

threw the flask back.
    "Your name is not Brian O’Nolan. Your real name is Michael Forsythe. You went to America in

1992 to work for Darkey White. You ended up killing Darkey White and wiping out his entire gang.

You turned informer and the American government set you up with a new identity. I gather that

recently you’ve been living in Chicago," Jeremy intoned placidly.
    I said nothing.
    "You speak fluent Spanish. That, and only that, can possibly account for your desire to take a

vacation in the Canary Islands," Jeremy mocked.
    "I’ll ask again. Who the hell are you?" I demanded.
    "Mr. Forsythe, I am the person who could get you out of this cell, today. Right now in fact.

In the next five minutes you will have to make a decision. That decision will be either to come

with me or stay here, get tried, get convicted, and then spend the next few years in the

Columbaro Maximum Security Prison in Seville. Perhaps you’ll choose the prison. Miguel de

Cervantes began
Don Quixote
there. A fascinating place, apparently."
    "Who do you work for?" I insisted.
    Jeremy finished his cigarette. Slowly lit another.
    "What do you see?" Samantha asked from behind Jeremy.
    "What do I see?" I repeated.
    "Yes. Tell us," Jeremy said.
    I sighed. Leaned back. What game were they playing?
    I looked the two of them over. They were relaxed, confident, obviously serious. This was a

test.
    "Ok, I’ll play if you