"For Christ's sake, why didn't you say so sooner? Fetch him and be quick about it. Half the county police force are searching for me, and they'll be here any minute like as not."
Five minutes later Callan tapped on the back door. By then Shaughnessey had retrieved the canvas holdall from the attic and watched while the man checked its contents. No effort was made to conceal the gun - in fact, when Shaughnessey turned from opening the door to Callan it was pointing at both of them.
"Lock the door," Dorfman said. He cocked the rifle at Callan. "You by yourself?"
Callan nodded.
"Good, come over here and have a drink. You're to tell me everything - understand that? And be damn quick about it. It's ten minutes we've got at the most.
Callan would have liked to have asked a few questions of his own first, but was disinclined to interrogate a man who sat with a gun in his lap. Especially a man who watched every move with cut-glass eyes in a face like a battlefield. So he told what he knew. Which was just part of the story. Big Reilly never told anybody everything. Callan knew of the rifles concealed in the boathouses and knew some people had been hidden in the cottages down by the wharf. And that Steve Cassidy was to drive a lorry to Germany for them - but that was about all.
"Was to have driven a lorry?" Dorfman inquired.
"Did you not know? Cassidy was taken by the police - last Tuesday I think - to the Holy Cross Jail."
Dorfman swore savagely.
"And you'll not have heard the news tonight, I suppose?"
Dorfman fingered his injured face. "Do I look as though I've sat with a pint in my hand all night?"
"There's been an explosion at the Holy Cross - Cassidy's been killed."
Dorfman took him through the whole story once more, all the while throwing anxious glances at the clock above the bar. Twice he made Callan stop - sending Shaughnessey to the front door to listen - the rifle trained at the man's spine all the while. But the sounds were just night noises, nothing to worry about, and at half past eleven Dorfman left, slipping out the back way and loping quickly down to the waterfront and the borrowed Cortina.
His head ached badly and for a moment he wondered whether the bruises had been worth it. He had learned less than he had hoped - a good deal less. He coasted through the village until past the last cottage, then he wound the engine up and slipped through the gears - anxious to get back to the Gardai station at Mellick as fast as he could. This man Cassidy had been going to drive a lorry to Germany. Had been - now he was dead. Killed. Murdered perhaps? Murdered because he had talked? Or killed before he had a chance to?
Dorfman hammered the engine, rolling the car fast around the twisting bends, foot hard down on the accelerator and headlights full beam as the car straddled the road. A truck to Germany? Leaving yesterday, according to Callan. But without Cassidy, had it gone anywhere? A lorry big enough to carry a bomb. To carry a bomb all the way to Germany?
2340 Sunday
The man known as Abou and one of his commandos had flown to Zurich the previous night. Both men had traveled economy class and had used their own passports, though neither bore the name Abou Assam.
Arriving in Zurich in the early hours of the morning had left them with time to kill, so they had dozed until dawn in the airport lounge. Numerous other transit passengers were doing the same thing, so it was not an art which invited suspicion; and at 0700 they breakfasted in one of the airport's cafeterias until 0745, when they parted company.
The commando had not wanted to go. By choice he would have remained even for the last leg of their desperate journey. But Abou had shaken his head and sent the man away. Nothing remained to be done which could not be accomplished by one man as easily as two. And that man was Abou himself. The responsibility was his and would remain so until the end. Besides, flexibility was more important than ever now and another man would only be something else to think about. So Abou had sent him home and promised to join him there in two days.
After which Abou had caught the morning shuttle to BonnCologne, landing there at 1050 precisely. He wore a dark business suit and a black leather coat, and again traveled on his own passport. At the airport he hired a year-old Audi from Avis, paid for the transaction in Deutschmarks and arranged to deliver the car to their Brussels office in a week's time. Then he drove to the Regent and booked in.
He had chosen the hotel carefully. Four weeks ago he had spent three days in Cologne, driving around the old city in a hired car, timing his journeys and measuring distances to the exact half-kilometre. Cologne to Aachen, Aachen to Bonn, and then back to the airport. He had been tempted to stay at the Intercontinental, or even the Excelsior Ernst on Cathedral Square. They were both large and impersonal and the anonymity appealed to him. Dressed in a suit and equipped with a briefcase he could be any one of a hundred businessmen who frequented such places. But the heavy city traffic had deterred him and finally he had settled on the Regent at Melatengurtal 15, in the western suburb of Braunsfeld. Not so grand, of course, but with two hundred beds almost as large and with such a huge garage that there was no danger of his car being blocked in the morning. And Braunsfeld gave good access to the autobahn, fifty kilometres to Aachen and even less to Bonn.
During what was left of the afternoon he rested in his room. At 1800 hours he switched on the television for the evening news. The broadcast devoted itself to the summit conference. Familiar faces flickered across the screen as film showed the delegates arriving on the previous day. Carter from the States with a staff of two hundred. Giscard d'Estaing from France and Callaghan from Britain. Schmidt greeting the Japanese and the Canadians arriving two hours later. All were now in Bonn. Abou listened intently, alert for any hint of a change in plans. But none was given. Formal meetings would commence in the morning and the commentators speculated on the agenda. There was a lot of talk about the energy crisis and the international recession - would the dollar go down and would the Deutschmark go up? And what about the Japanese yen? Abou smiled. By now Suzy would have delivered her ultimatum. The delegates would be alerted to a subject far more urgent. But that was their secret - and his.
He listened to the same news on the radio and at 1930 took a shower. It helped pass the time and the hot water soothed him. He dressed carefully, glancing increasingly often at his watch and becoming more and more nervous. But at 2000 hours the call came through.
"A call from Belgium," the telephonist announced.
He accepted it impatiently and waited for the voice at the other end. A man's voice, belonging to one of the three commandos who had not taken part in the raid on Holy Cross. But then how could he have, when he had followed Mick Malone's truck all the way from Pallas Glean?
“Liege," was all the man said before the line went dead.
Liege! Fifty miles from the border. Malone was almost in Germany! He was making good time - good enough anyway. Provided he crossed the border tonight the Plan was safe!
Smiling with relief, Abou picked up his black leather coat and went out to dinner. There was an adequate restaurant at the Regent, of course, but he decided against it, preferring to limit his time in the hotel, especially time spent in the public rooms. He would also be inviting attention by having a meal served in his room. So he drove back into Cologne, parked on the southern side of the cathedral, and ate Swiss food at the Schweitzer Stuben.
As he ate, his thoughts wandered occasionally, to Suzy Katoul and Mick Malone and to the commandos making their ways home, but for the most part he ate contentedly, flicking through the pages of the European edition of Time magazine.
Only once was his sense of well-being disturbed. He looked up and caught someone watching him. The man looked away immediately, but all the same Abou was conscious of having been thoroughly inspected. He pretended not to have noticed, but after three or four minutes he turned a page and glanced across to where the man sat. A meal had been served and the man ate stolidly, an open book propped on the table in front of him to denote that he too dined alone. H
e was about fifty, with the bulky frame common to prosperous middle-class Germans. Expensively dressed, Abou noticed, clothes too good for a policeman. A businessman perhaps, staying overnight with a call to make in the morning before hurrying back to his factory? With a face which reminded Abou of Khrushchev.
After his meal Abou paid his bill, collected his black leather coat and made his way to the door. Khrushchev remained absorbed in his book, absentmindedly shovelling food into his mouth as if his thoughts were captured by what he read.
Outside, Abou sauntered past the floodlit cathedral to a spot thirty yards away, where he stopped to look back at the entrance to the Schweitzer Stuben. Two men came out and hurried down the road in his direction, passing him and going on around the corner. Neither was Khrushchev. A man and a woman alighted from a cab and went into the restaurant. Abou stamped his feet and blew on his fingers. Five minutes became ten and ten became twenty. And then, when there was still no sign of Khrushchev, Abou grunted his satisfaction and walked hurriedly away to the rented Audi.
He was back in his room in time to see the late night news. But the pictures and the commentaries were much as earlier - nothing had changed - there was no "news." Abou smiled. He knew differently, and as he switched his light out and prepared for sleep he wondered if Mick Malone had yet reached Aachen.
2350 Sunday
Throughout its long history Aachen has been a spa. The classical pump room in the middle of the town even commemorates the first visitor, Candidus Caius, a Roman captain, in AD 150. And in the following years thousands flocked to bathe in the hottest springs in Northwest Europe. In the eighteenth century it was mostly the English, and at 11:50 on that Sunday night it was Mick Malone.
His face was grey with pain and he was close to exhaustion. Two hundred and fifty miles of highway and autobahn and the problem of crossing three borders had robbed him of more strength than he would have thought possible. The borders had been worst. The endless delays, the waiting around, tension mounting every time his luggage was searched and his papers examined - all had conspired to sap his frail strength.
Landing in France had been unnerving and crossing into Belgium had been worrying. Twice police had stopped him on the open road for a snap inspection of his papers and both times his cab had been searched. But the most terrifying part had been getting into Germany itself. The nightmare at the border had lasted two hours. Two hours during which his guts twisted with worry as he watched men take his cab apart and sweep the detectors back and forth over every inch of the vehicle. And then the now familiar discussion about his cargo of lead batteries. But worse was to come. The German officials had been adamant about breaking the lead seals on the padlocks. The cargo, it seemed, was to be examined physically. Mick had protested, not so much as to draw suspicion upon himself, but enough for the men concerned to seek a second opinion. And in the end German respect for international convention had rescued him, senior customs officials had overruled their more zealous subordinates. If the regulations of the Common Market Customs Union were to be breached, then no such breach would take place on German soil. And Mick had breathed a long sigh of relief, for any doubt that it was him they hunted had long since vanished from his mind.
From Aachen he was to go to the address just outside the town given to him by the tall dark man at Pallas Glean. He was to go straight there the man had said, immediately after clearing customs. But Mick needed something hot inside him to revive his strength - a bowl of soup would do, but his twisted guts demanded something. And besides food, there was the phone call which he had to make - to Molly's sister back in Cork.
He parked not far from the cathedral and, clutching his canvas bag, went in search of a meal. It was a cold night and the streets were deserted. He pulled the duffel jacket tight about his body and scurried past Charlemagne's cathedral to the corner of the Kupuzinergraben - which was where the police car pulled alongside.
Instinct rooted him to the spot as the two policemen climbed out, one moving quickly behind him while the bigger one faced him.
"Personal-Ausweiss bitte."
Mick was too tired and too weak to make a run for it and that probably saved him. But he feared the worst. "Look," he stammered, "I don't suppose there's any chance of you speaking English?"
"Your identity papers, please."
Mick recognised it as another routine inspection and sighed with relief. "Sweet Mother of Christ - what a country this is for showing your papers." He unzipped the bag and produced his travel documents. "Is there any place nearby where a man can get a meal at this time of night?"
But the policeman didn't answer. He compared the passport photograph to the man under the street lights and then flicked carefully through the travel papers. Something about the man worried him. He had looked frightened to death when they had stopped him and now he appeared to be unwell. Not fit enough to drive further tonight.
"You are staying in Aachen?"
Mick was recovering from his initial shock. He managed a tired smile. "Something warm in my belly and a good night's sleep," he nodded. "I'll not be driving further tonight, that's for sure."
"You have a hotel reservation?"
"What - and me with a bunk in my cab?" Mick shook his head.
The policeman shrugged. It seemed in order. He smiled. "Most of the restaurants are closed by now. Try one of the hotels on the Friedrich-Wilhelm Platz - you'll probably get something there." Then, seeing Mick's bewilderment, he added, "Just around the next corner - first on your left."
Mick had survived another crisis, but his nerves wouldn't stand many more. He found a coffee bar open at the first hotel he tried, and settled for soup and a piece of apple pie washed down with a cup of hot coffee. After which, feeling a good deal stronger, he went to the desk and explained that he wanted to telephone Cork in Ireland.
The clerk took the number and asked Mick to wait, showing him the telephone booth to which he would route the call once he had obtained an answer.
It was a hell of an hour to phone, Mick thought, Molly's sister would be hopping mad. He grinned wryly. But it would be worth the lash of her tongue to speak to Molly again. And it was the only way. Phone the sister tonight and tell her to get Molly to the phone in the morning when he would phone again.
But the clerk had a problem. A two hour delay on all calls to Ireland. Mick ground his teeth with disappointment. That was something he hadn't bargained for. Two hours! He was dog-tired now, if he didn't sleep soon he'd just about fall over. And he still had to find the address outside the town. But the clerk was helpful. He could book a call now for first thing in the morning. Well now, and wouldn't that be the best thing of all? But it would need to be early. Say 8:00 a.m. The clerk nodded and Mick gave him a ten Deutschmark tip. It was probably too much he decided afterward, but if it helped get him through to Molly he'd not begrudge a penny of it.
He hurried back to the lorry park and once back in the cab studied the map given to him by the man at Pallas Glean. Within ten kilometres of the town itself, the man had said. Up in the hills somewhere. Mick sighed, racked with tiredness. Go there tonight and come back again in the morning to make the phone call? Now where was the sense in that? Why not sleep here and then find this place after speaking to his sister-in-law in the morning? Sure and wasn't that the best thing to do? He'd be fresh then and have the daylight to guide him.
But the man had insisted that he go straight there. Tonight. And stay under cover until ten in the morning when someone would make contact. Mick shook his head. It made more sense to do it this way. He had to speak to Molly. And weren't his eyes closing even now with tiredness? Convinced at last, Mick clambered up into the bunk behind the seats and five minutes later he was sound asleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Of war men ask the outcome, not the cause."
Seneca, Hercules Furens (1st c), 407, tr. Frank Justus Miller
The Seventh Day
0040 Monday
The Mellick Gardai doctor had sewn nin
e stitches into the cut above Dorfman’s eyebrow. After he had finished, he wrapped a blanket round Dorfman's shoulders and mixed a painkiller with a sleeping draft in a mug of tea.
Dorfman pulled a face as he swallowed it down. "Keep mixing them like that and Guinness have nothing to worry about." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Is the car ready?"
The doctor sighed. He had done all he could. If the man insisted on traveling through the night that was his business. Anyone with an ounce of sense would kip here, even if it meant sleeping in a cell, at least he'd get a proper night's rest that way. "Yes," he nodded. "The car's ready."
Dorfman thanked him and went out to meet the driver. "How long to Dublin?" he asked as he slid into the back seat. "Three hours, if we're lucky." "Make it two and a half and I'll buy you a beer in O'Caffety's. And be sure to wake me as soon as we're there." And with that Dorfman closed his eyes and squirmed down in the seat, trying to get comfortable and waiting for the sleeping draft to take effect.
The journey took two hours and forty minutes and they reached Holy Cross at 3:10 in the morning. The driver kept his promise about waking his passenger, but with the utmost difficulty. Dorfman finally awoke with a splitting headache, muttering and cursing Micky Finn for being an Irishman. Then he blinked out at the floodlit ruins of the detention block and limped into the main prison for his meeting with the Deputy Governor.
The interview started badly. The Deputy Governor sat bleary-eyed behind his desk, protesting in acid terms to the three CID men, who insisted that Dorfman be given every cooperation. But a horse can be taken to water and not be made to drink and the Governor was still in a truculent mood when Dorfman was shown into the office. Introductions were little more than muttered exchanges and not until they had all finished mugs of scalding hot coffee did the temperature thaw.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 30