He would write to her tonight. Tonight, from Aachen. Tell her that he was all right and that she was to keep quiet about the money. But by the time she got his letter the first five thousand would have arrived! And maybe the second too. Mary Mother of Christ, what would she do? Like as not she'd send it right back to them, and what would happen then?
But the tall dark man at Pallas Glean had said not to contact anyone. No matter what. That was part of the bargain, to do things his way. But then, he didn't know Molly. Clever as a box load of monkeys the man might be, but even the plans of brilliant men were upset by the whims of a woman. Christ, if only they hadn't sprung it on him the way they had - given him time to think about it - maybe explain some of Molly's little ways to them.
He puffed on a cigarette and concentrated. If she sent the money back, couldn't that just start the bank looking for Big Reilly and the tall dark man himself now? And they wouldn't like that, that's for sure. He would have to contact her. But how? They had no phone at home, so he couldn't call her. A telegram perhaps? Could he send a telegram from France to Ireland? Maybe he could, but not on a Sunday, and she would get the check in the morning.
A road sign showed Veurne ten kilometres ahead. Veurne in Belgium. He would cross the border soon. He checked his watch, pleased to be making such good time, but his pleasure dampened by worry about Molly. He had to speak to her before she got the morning mail - it was the only way. Then he could explain - put her mind at rest - let her know they would soon be together again, even if not in Ireland - provided she kept quiet about the money.
And still wrestling with that problem, Mick changed down a gear and joined the queue of traffic stretching a mile back from the customs checkpoint on the Belgian border.
1330 Sunday
No one said very much after Max had taken Suzy away. Smithers delivered another long telex and Ross grunted and swore his way through it. Then he signed one corner and old dog face retired, looking as grim as death itself. Elizabeth was going to some trouble to avoid my eye and had been like that since I arrived. I kept having dreams about Elizabeth. Something which had happened while I was drugged. They were very nice dreams and in other circumstances I might have settled down to enjoy them, but at that moment my mind was too full of Suzy Katoul and a ten megaton bomb.
"Well," Ross said finally, 'What do you make of it?"
"Take those pills away and she'll crack wide open," the doctor said.
"That's by way of being a clever twist for you, isn't it?" I said bitterly.
"Okay, Harry," Ross grunted. "We haven't time for recriminations, but if it's any help to you we're sorry as hell about what happened to you."
"Shove it."
"Been tough, huh? You don't like us or our set-up. So what's the alternative? So long as men exploit mixed-up kids like Suzy Katoul, there'll be people like us trying to stop them. Is that so bad?"
He was good. I especially liked the way "screwed-up bitch" had become "mixed-up kid."
"You'd have made a fortune selling soap."
"Harry, be reasonable for Chrissakes. We're on the same side in this."
"Don't bank on it."
"So, what should we do?" he challenged angrily. "Sit on our butts and let Katoul blow the world to pieces? Turn a blind eye and let half a million people fry?"
"No - no of course not, but—"
"But the way we operate offends your sensibilities, is that it?" he said scornfully. "Katoul was right about you - it's time you made up your mind whose side you're on."
I remained silent, knowing the truth of it. I was being pushed toward the most painful decision of my life. Suzy was part of it, of course, but so was Ross himself. I've spent thirty years as a liberal journalist, campaigning against the excessive powers of political police. As far as I am concerned the only difference between the KGB, CIA, SIS, Special Branch and all the rest of them is one of degree - they're all repressive. But so is bombing the hell out of people with a ten megaton bomb.
Ross had become adept at reading my mind because he said: "Seems to me that guys like you spend so much time uncovering Watergates, you forget you wouldn't be allowed to do that in half the countries in the world."
I smiled at the half truth. "What's this - a recruiting campaign?"
He scowled. "We're going to hit so much flak in Bonn you'll think it's a re-run of the last war. You know that, don't you?"
I stirred uneasily. Whenever Ross said "we" something bad happened. I remembered how it was my fault that Israel was going to blast nuclear bombs all over the Middle East. I closed my eyes.
"We're all tired, Harry," he said with heavy sarcasm. "But we're all dead if we don't crack this fast."
"Twenty-four hours ago," I said without opening my eyes, "I was suspect number one, remember - the man in the pale grey suit."
Elizabeth's golden voice said: "We had to be sure Harry - that's all."
"Yeah, nothing personal."
There was a long pause, but even with my eyes closed I could sense the exchange of glances. Then Ross said, "Tubby Hayes was an agent for Red China."
I opened my eyes.
He nodded. "It's true. Paul LeClerc turned over the Hayes place in Paris. Found a transmitter, code books, propaganda material, everything."
Elizabeth said, "And Tubby Hayes linked Suzy Katoul to the man in the pale grey suit."
According to a dictionary, the state of being punch-drunk is induced by successive blows to the head. That may be one way, but four days with Ross and Elizabeth can do the same job. I said, "Whatever happened to the Palestinian Marxist Front?"
"It's still there," Ross said grimly. "But Red China's behind it. That's where all the muscle's coming from. If the summit gives in to Katoul, Red China's got itself into the Mediterranean."
I closed my eyes again. On the face of it Red China had just commenced a whirlwind romance with the West. What Nixon had started, others were finishing. You couldn't open a paper without seeing an American politician kissing a Chinese baby. I said as much to Ross.
"Oh? How many times do I tell you? Don't believe everything you read in the papers."
"Washington will be upset. They've just sold them a CocaCola plant."
"If that bomb explodes anywhere near this summit, Washington loses a hell of a lot more than a bottling plant. America loses her President."
I opened one eye. "You think the bomb's in Germany?"
"Think about it. If you were going to blackmail a summit, where would you put the bomb?"
"Makes it more personal," I agreed, watching his face. If Ross could read me, then I could read him. He was leading up to something. All this reasonableness and "we're all on the same side" bit wasn't because he wanted to borrow a fiver. Then he came straight out with it.
"Harry, I need a favour. If my people will agree to it, will you help handle the press crowd in Bonn? Would you do that for me, Harry?"
I opened both eyes very wide. A remark like that deserves all the attention you can give to it. Something like eight hundred journalists would be camped in Bonn for the summit. And for every newsman, there would be at least one little man in a grey raincoat from the German Constitutional Protection Office, and for every grey raincoat there would be a visiting security man. Add in a few genuine spies and the local Germans would be outnumbered three to one. And in a little over twelve hours the Deir Yassin Memorial would issue a statement selling the biggest story since Nuremberg. Pandemonium would not begin to describe what was going to happen in Bonn - even before the bomb went off! Pressmen would tear the city apart checking that story. And all of that was quite apart from any personal feelings I might have on the subject. Yes, when he tried, Ross really was something special.
I smiled at him. "Sure I'll handle the press for you, old buddy. I'll organise community singing on the Friedenplatz, and when I tell them our little secret we'll all hold hands and chant the countdown together."
"Are you saying the summit will turn Katoul down?"
"For Go
d's sake!" I said, exasperated. "There won't even be a summit. By the time we reach Bonn the politicians will have cancelled it. They'll be safely tucked up in their deep shelters somewhere with a month's supply of booze and caviar."
"You think so? Well you're damned well wrong. Everyone's there now. Sweating bricks maybe, but no-one's bolted yet."
"So they're going to give in?"
He sighed and scratched his head. "I don't know. That's the God's honest truth. This stuffs out of my league. But my guess is they'll stay put until the nine o'clock press conference. That gives us more than a day to find the bomb and—"
"The cavalry'll ride out to rescue us."
He gave me his sour look. "Okay, I'll give you another reason. If the politicians get the hell out of there, what's to stop this Deir Yassin mob from saying why?"
"Ah." There was a grain of sense in that - the grains politicians use to build castles in the air with.
"Makes sense, doesn't it?" Ross nodded at my expression. "So all we want is you to help calm the press."
"Ask the doctor - he'll give them a tranquilliser."
He finally lost his temper. "Listen dummy! If LeClerc's evidence stands up, someone from Washington will turn Peking into chop suey by lunchtime. You know how close that takes us to World War Three? Can you imagine the kinds of instructions going out from Bonn right now?"
I stared into his white face and tried not to imagine anything - just knowing what I knew frightened me to death.
I tried to explain. "Once that bulletin hits the streets, there's just no way you'll stop those press boys—"
"Dammit, you can try! They trust you, Harry. They know you're not one of us. If you can just get to a few of the big names and give us time. Right now there's a manhunt going on all over Europe that—"
"They don't even know what they're looking for."
He snarled with temper. "Then you damn well find out! From that little girl in the back room. Because if you don't, I swear I'll break her in half before we hit Bonn. You know what we did in Nam to people who held out on us? We hung them head first from a gunship at two hundred feet. A lot of people died that way and if you think I won't do that to her, you don't know me at all."
I winced under the blaze of his eyes. "That's murder."
"Don't make me cry. You want to know what else LeClerc found in Paris? Your little blonde doll - Monique Debray tortured to death. So don't talk to me about murder, or I'll bust your mouth open with this tin hand of mine. Will you begin to realise what we're up against for Chrissakes? Half a million people could be murdered tomorrow and that's just for starters. And don't think you'll be nursing your lily-white conscience when that happens, because I'll make damned sure you're right in there with the rest of us."
It was then that Suzy screamed. The thin piercing sound rose and clung to the air like a bird in flight. Then it peaked again and I was stumbling toward the door just as fast as my india rubber legs would carry me.
She lay across the sofa in the other room. Her dress was torn at one shoulder and her skirt was up over her knees. The weal marks of a hand blazed on her cheek and Smithers crouched over her like a threatening animal.
"You bastard!" I reached for his shoulder, but Max grabbed me as the doctor and Ross bundled into the room after me.
Smithers swung round to face us. "She was going to give herself a shot. We fought for the syringe and—"
"Okay," Ross said. He stepped forward and picked a broken syringe from the floor. Then he turned to me. "I'll give you three hours, Harry. Then we'll do things my way."
Then they all left, Max last of all, closing and locking the door after him, and I turned to face my daughter.
1915 Sunday
News of the destruction of the Aileen Maloney cast a shadow darker than a black cloud over Conlaragh. The village, still recovering from the loss of Liam Reilly and Pat Brady, went into a kind of numbed mourning. like a family with its breadwinner lost, people closed ranks and huddled together for mutual security. A special midday mass was heard in the old grey church and the pub opposite remained closed until evening as a sign of respect. The blinds were drawn in every cottage and barely a car was seen on the streets - and those that were came from outside the area. The village, it seemed, was stunned senseless by the news.
All sorts of theories were advanced to account for the explosion. The Aileen Maloney had hit an old mine? Her engines had overheated and blown up? She had collided with an unknown and unnamed ship which had neither stopped, nor reported the accident? But the marine salvage experts who spent the day gathering wreckage and recovering two of the bodies discounted them all. Especially when one of the bodies found was that of Pat Brady - and even more so when police pathologists estimated that Brady had been murdered at least four days before.
Word of the "accident" was sent to the Inishmore Fishing Company's offices in Dublin and the single row of cottages owned by the company was roped off— until such time as the police finished their enquiries. But police enquiries were leading nowhere. Conlaragh had always been a close-knit community and this latest catastrophe bound it together like melted wax. Traditionally Conlaragh discouraged outsiders - and the Gardai had been outsiders for as long as folk could remember.
All of which was explained to Dorfman when he arrived in Dublin.
"But why keep quiet about it?"
The CID man smiled. "And there's you with an Irish grandfather. You've lived too long from these shores, Mister, or you'd not so much as ask."
But when Dorfman still frowned, the man was compelled to add some explanation. "Reilly was IRA - or used to be though he's kept clear of trouble for a few years now. But the saying goes, once a soldier always a soldier. There's no retiring from the IRA - at least not with both kneecaps intact. And well the village knows it. If that boat was on IRA business, the village will be getting a visitor - and not just from us."
"So the village is frightened?"
The man rubbed his brow as if to stimulate thought, or at least the right words. "Not frightened exactly - unless they're the ones who blew the Aileen Maloney sky high - and that idea's not even worth bothering with." He shook his head. "Right now they're shaken. Shocked and sickened by the whole thing. The Reilly boys were well liked in Conlaragh. They'll be sorely missed - the other men too." He declined Dorfman's offer of a cigarette. "It's numbed the. village is now - but tomorrow it'll want its revenge."
"Revenge? For God's sake, what chance has a village got—"
"We want the answers as badly as you. I'm simply explaining the problem."
And Dorfman listened to explanations for another half hour before he formulated his idea. The Irish CID were far from keen on it. Three of them discussed it in his hearing and then two retired to consider their verdict. But they agreed in the end - with reservations - and they did lend him a car.
It was just after six when he booked into the pub at Conlaragh. After a hurried wash he whistled cheerfully on his way down to the bar, where he ordered a pint of beer. And ten minutes later he was arrested.
"Is that your car outside?" the uniformed Gardai constable asked.
Dorfman continued to examine the sporting prints above the hearth, as if he hadn't heard. But everyone else had. There were eight of them, including the landlord behind the bar, all men and all locals. Too small to have its own police station, Conlaragh was administered from Mellick seven miles away, and on ordinary days a Gardai car showed itself briefly in the High Street and was gone a minute later in a puff of exhaust. But this was far from an ordinary day and police had buzzed like flies on the waterfront since early morning.
"Excuse me," the constable raised his voice a fraction. "Is that your car?"
Dorfman turned, startled, almost spilling his beer. "What? You mean me?"
"The car outside - does it belong to you?" The policeman stood a yard away, facing Dorfman squarely, tensed up as if expecting trouble.
The door from the street opened and another policeman entered, l
ooking about him carefully, letting his gaze dwell on every man there, as if to commit their faces to memory.
Dorfman leaned against the bar and took his time answering. "In a manner of speaking," he said.
"And what the devil's that supposed to mean?"
"It belongs to a friend of mine," Dorfman growled, a threatening note creeping into his voice.
Afterward the locals said you could tell he was a dangerous man just by looking at him. But his voice really clinched it. Growled like a dog, they said, a tethered one.
Another policeman entered, this time from the yard at the rear. He stood with his back to the door. Both exits were blocked - and Dorfman knew it.
"Is your name Sean Sullivan?" asked the constable.
"And what the hell's it to do with you?" Dorfman snapped, and turned to the landlord. "I'll have another pint—"
"You'll not have time to drink it," the constable warned. "You're coming back to Mellick with us."
Things happened quickly then. Dorfman set his back to the bar and caught the constable with a right hook hard enough to loosen every tooth in his head. But the others must have expected it because they threw themselves into the fight like savages. A boot lashed and Dorfman was sent sprawling into the sawdust. He was up quickly to head butt the second policeman with enough force to break his nose. Then the air shrieked with whistles as more uniformed men crashed through the doors like a tidal wave.
The betting afterward was that if there had been only three or four of them he would have seen them off but six was too many for one man, even a man like this who fought like a trapped animal. He was floored in about the fifth minute and handcuffs were jammed round his wrists before he was even on one knee. And when they got him upright, he had a gash four inches long above one eye and blood poured from his nose faster than a spring tide. But at least three policemen looked every bit as bad.
They held him against the bar and rummaged through his pockets, looking for a gun some thought, but all they found was the key to his car. Then they marched him outside and sat him in the back of the Gardai car with men wedged on either side like bookends. The villagers watched from the door of the pub - watched a policeman back the visitor's car on to the road - watched other Gardai cars appear from the waterfront - watched the rest of the battle squad climb into the cars and the whole convoy set off for Mellick seven miles away. It was a day never forgotten in Conlaragh.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 28