Despite everything, despite her shouts of abuse and despite Kathleen's meeker protests, the search went ahead. Every piece of furniture in the house was moved, upstairs and down. Drawers were emptied, cupboards ransacked, cushions prodded and mattresses examined. Even the loose floorboards in the kitchen were lifted - although nothing was hidden there, nor had been for eight long years.
"You've no right!" Molly followed them from room to room. "You've no right at all. Frightening quiet-living folk half to death. Is it a warrant you've got, because I've seen no sight of one. You come in here—"
"Mrs. Malone?" the man said quietly from behind.
She whirled round to face him. He was dressed in a suit and an open shirt, and something had happened to his face, as if he had been in an accident. "My name's Dorfman."
"Your name's a black-hearted devil!" she told him angrily, waving a hand about her. "If this is any of your doing—"
"There's nothing here, sir," one of the policemen said.
"Very well. Please put everything back to Mrs. Malone's satisfaction."
"Satisfaction!" Molly's face was crimson. "That's a fine kind of word to be using when you've—"
"Mrs. Malone, I'm sorry," said the man with the bruised face. He stood smiling at her - him as big as a house and twice as ugly. "The policemen will tidy up and leave everything as it was - and then they will go."
"And so I should think," she wiped her dry hands in her apron and glared up at him. "That's how you got that face is it? Barging in on people and throwing your weight around." She caught sight of one of the policemen rearranging bits and pieces on the dresser. "And leave that alone—the whole house will need a good clean, but not from the likes of you."
The man looked to Dorfman for instructions. Dorfman nodded and the man departed, others with him, a car door slammed outside and an engine started as Molly walked to the kitchen door. The temper which had sparked her courage was cooling now, and she looked at Dorfman with apprehensive eyes. There was more to come, she sensed that and it frightened her.
He twisted his bruised face into another grin. "Do you think we could have a cup of tea and a bit of a chat?"
Kathleen snorted. "Some nerve! Who are you anyway? You're not from these parts. Gardai, are you?"
"Sort of," he admitted, still looking at Molly.
"There's only one sort," Kathleen said acidly.
Molly stood at the table, watching Dorfman's face and wondering what he wanted. Instinct told her he was trouble. He was another like Big Reilly. Whenever men like that appeared, it was always bad news they brought. She tried to keep her voice from trembling. "You're making the place untidy there. You'd better sit down. You'll not be gone without saying what's on your mind - I can see that from your face."
Dorfman sat by the fire and exchanged uneasy glances with the boy and the other woman.
"We're sisters," Kathleen announced, as if explaining why she was there. She sat on a hard backed chair at the table, watching him carefully in case he walked off with the coal scuttle.
"Hello," Dorfman said without getting up. The boy worried him. There was no telling what might come up in the next half hour, but none of it was gossip for the playground.
Molly set cups into saucers and poured the tea, her hand trembling and her mouth set in a straight line across her white face. "Michael," she nodded at a cup and the boy carried it carefully across to Dorfman.
As gently as he knew how Dorfman said, "You're away back to school are you?"
"Not now." The boy returned to stand by his mother as she sat at the table. He rested one hand lightly on her shoulder, while the other made a small fist at his side. About twelve, Dorfman guessed, not much older, frightened to death and trying hard not to show it. "I'll stay with my Mum," the boy said, a slight tremor in his voice. He cleared his throat. "It's what my Dad would want."
Dorfman accepted the inevitable with the best grace possible. "Good lad." He twisted his bruised lips into a smile. "That's what any dad would want."
Molly reached up and patted the boy's hand, catching his eye with an encouraging glance of her own, while the sister's nod was barely perceptible. Then all three turned to look back at Dorfman.
The tea was too hot to drink. He put it carefully on the floor by his feet. He wondered how to begin. A good interrogator never specifies charges, nor reveals the extent of his knowledge. A good interrogator would break this little party up and talk to them one at a time. But they were frightened enough already, and he wanted them on his side. He wanted them to cooperate willingly - not hold back.
"Mrs. Malone - I want to talk to you about Liam Reilly," he began quietly. "You know him of course?"
"I met him," Molly replied cautiously.
"A likeable man," Dorfman's eyes twinkled. "Nobody I've met will have a word said against him. You'll be the same, I'll be bound?"
"I like him well enough."
Dorfman nodded. "Did you ever meet that friend of his? Pat - Pat Brady?"
Molly fidgeted, biting her thumbnail, wondering where this was all leading. They were IRA - Big Reilly's men - she knew that well enough and knew what Mick would say if he heard she'd been gossiping to the Gardai. So she said nothing.
Dorfman sighed. "Mrs. Malone, I'm trying to help. I'm sorry you were upset by a car load of policemen. Having them trample over one's house is enough to frighten anyone. That wasn't my idea." He attempted another smile. "And I promise you one thing - there's nothing you can say about Liam or Pat, or even Big Reilly himself, that will get them into trouble."
Kathleen didn't trust him. "Then why ask about them?"
"Ask?" He seemed surprised. "It's more discussing we were surely? I just said how popular they are - Liam, Pat and Big Reilly." He paused, but if to gain a reaction he must have been disappointed. Nobody said a word, not a head as much as shook in agreement. He began to reconsider his views on splitting them up. Even now it was not too late. "Did you hear the news last night?" he asked, his tone still conversational. "There was an explosion at the Holy Cross."
"And what's that to do with the likes of us?" Molly asked with a show of determination.
Dorfman shrugged. "It's just that a man was killed. Someone you might have known. Steve Cassidy. He worked with your husband at the factory round the corner."
"Oh my God!" Molly gnawed at her clenched fist. She had heard something, but she had not taken any notice. There were always bits and pieces about explosions - especially in the north. But someone who had worked with Mick! She remembered meeting Cassidy once, a slim young man with thin yellow hair, but she had not known him - not the way Mick must have done.
"An accident," Kathleen said. "According to the news I heard."
Dorfman nodded. "A tragic one," he said, then his voice hardened as he asked, "Mrs. Malone, where is your husband?"
"Mick?" Her fear was obvious. "And what's it to do with you?"
"Where is he, Mrs. Malone?"
"He's working away from home. Overseas. He's not even in Ireland."
"I'm glad," Dorfman said.
Molly bit her tongue to stop herself asking why. Her misgivings grew by the second. There was something threatening about this man. Yet he sipped his tea and watched her over the rim of his cup, as calm and casual as one of Mick's mates dropped in for a bit of a chat. And he was trying to be helpful, she sensed that. But his eyes missed nothing. She glanced at the letter on the table, now back in its envelope, stained by a splash of tea over the word "Bank." Carefully she slid her cup over it and looked up to find him still watching her.
"Do you know why I'm glad, Mrs. Malone?"
She was too frightened to answer. Her last reserves of temper and courage ebbed away as if sucked dry by the staring eyes in the bruised face.
"Because a lot of people have been killed in the last few days," he said. "Liam Reilly for one."
"Oh no! Liam killed?"
"And Pat Brady. And Big Reilly himself, along with eight fishermen."
"Sweet Mot
her of God! What are you saying?" She couldn't believe him. It was a lie - a terrible lie. Hadn't Big Reilly sat in that very chair no more than a week ago?
"All murdered," the man went on relentlessly, a hard edge to his voice. "And Steve Cassidy's death wasn't accidental - whatever they said on the radio. Cassidy was murdered, Mrs. Malone."
Why was she shaking? She was on the verge of tears and for no real reason. Mick wasn't amongst them. Mick was safe. Mick was in Germany. She shook her head. "I don't understand. Why are you here? What's this to do—"
"Where's your husband, Mrs. Malone?" the man pursued her relentlessly.
"Away - he's away in Germany - for the factory—"
"Are you sure? Can you prove it?"
"Prove?" she struggled to understand. "Prove? But why? Mick's done nothing. I don't understand," she turned to Kathleen for support.
"Mick's in danger," the man said quickly. "We're trying to contact him. The factory is helping—"
"Danger?" It was the only word she heard. "But how? Why? I tell you Mick's done nothing. He's not a well man—"
"We're trying to help," the man said insistently. "If you know anything—"
"Know? What should I know?" Molly was beside herself with worry. "I tell you he's done nothing wrong. I know that."
"I do too, Mrs. Malone." Dorfman was on the point of believing her, but he had to be sure, so he gambled. "But the men who killed Reilly and the others will - will hurt Mick if they reach him before we do—"
"Oh merciful God!" Molly gripped the boy in her terror.
"So if you know anything—"
Kathleen jumped up. "For pity's sake you're frightening her half to death. Can't you see that? And the boy too."
"I'm sorry but I must contact Mick Malone." Dorfman brushed past her and placed his hands on Molly's shoulders. "It's a matter of life and death."
Molly's eyes blurred with tears as she stared at the letter on the table. It had all started with that! That and the phone call.
"He phoned," she wept, pushing Dorfman away. "He telephoned this morning."
"What time? When? From Germany?" Dorfman hammered her with questions.
Suddenly the boy screamed. "Leave her alone. You bully! Leave her alone." Tiny fists pumped into Dorfman's face. "Leave my Mum alone."
He grabbed the boy and held the trembling body at arm's length.
Kathleen said, "He phoned my place. Early - and he's phoning back this afternoon."
"What time?"
"We don't know what time! Sometime this afternoon. We were going to my place after giving the boy his dinner—"
Dorfman felt a surge of relief - and pity, as he looked at Molly sobbing and the boy's white frightened face. "Remember what you said earlier?" he asked the boy, softening his voice so as not to frighten him. "About doing what your Dad would want? Remember that? Well, he'd want you to do this. I promise. We're all on his side. All of us. You, me, your Mum and your Aunt here. We're all on his side, aren't we?"
The boy stopped struggling and turned bewildered eyes to his mother's tear-stained face and then back to the man who held him.
"I promise," Dorfman said earnestly.
Even Kathleen was weakening. "I hope your soul burns in hell, Mister, if you're not telling the truth."
"Of course it's the truth," Dorfman said urgently. "Now come on, help your sister get ready. We're all going to police headquarters."
"But the phone call!" Molly protested.
"We'll have it transferred. Don't worry. Now hurry up, we haven't a minute to spare."
Mick was enjoying himself. He swerved out on to the fast lane and sent the ambulance thundering down the autobahn, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Other vehicles edged out of his path, and Mick chuckled with excitement. Now wasn't this the only way to travel? And didn't the tall dark man think of just about everything?
Just drive, the man had said, drive like the devil himself was chasing you - all the way to Bonn. There'll be road blocks and goodness knows what else - but just drive. Nobody ever stops an ambulance. And if anyone did, he was simply to say "Orders of Major Ross." That's all - like a password - the tall dark man had smiled as he said it - that's all, but it would be enough.
At Bonn he was to park near the railway station, lock the ambulance up and go to the Konigshof Hotel in Adenaurallee. There he was to wait in the lobby and the "courier" from Switzerland would collect him within an hour.
"Then Bonn is my final destination?" Mick had asked eagerly.
The tall dark man had taken his meaning at once. "Don't worry. Reilly will cash both policies today."
The tall dark man had left shortly afterward, driving back down the rutted track in the crimson red Audi. But he had given Mick some very definite instructions. He was to wait one hour exactly. Then he was to set off like a bat out of hell. And the man had shown him another thing. The switch he was to set when he left the ambulance. It was mounted next to the radio on the dashboard. "Switch it on when you leave, lock up and just walk away."
"It's not a bomb, is it?" Mick had asked in sudden alarm. He had fallen out with the Movement about that. He didn't hold with it. Fighting soldiers and armed police was one thing - indiscriminate bombing another - and he'd not be a party to that.
"It's an electronic homing device," the man had pointed to the aerial. "Someone will be collecting the vehicle tonight. In the dark. That switch operates a signal our people will tune into. It will save them time in tracing the ambulance, that's all. That's why it's not too important where you park it. The nearer the station the better, but anywhere in the city centre will do."
Mick looked at the switch and chuckled. God, there was never another man like this one. Electronic homing devices! Whoever heard the like. But then wasn't that the man all over? Didn't he think of just about everything?
The road was blocked ahead. Just like the man said it would be. Near Duren - and sure enough there was a signpost. Mick slowed down to sixty miles an hour as the traffic ahead of him bunched up like the webs in a concertina. All three lanes in _ front were blocked. "Keep going" the man had said. "Whatever you do, keep going." But how the devil did a man do that when every lane there was blocked with traffic? Mick eased his foot from the accelerator until his speed fell to forty. He was fast approaching the tail end of traffic now and would have to decide quickly. His headlamps blazed full beam and the blue lights on the roof revolved like spinning tops. Then he swung the wheel and mounted the central divider. Cars flashed past on the other side of the autobahn and the ambulance bucked wildly as he drove with two wheels still on the road surface and two on the divider itself. He added the blare of his horn to the scream of the sirens and pushed his foot hard down on the floor. Forty crept back up to fifty and fifty became fifty-five.
He could see the road block now - maybe a mile ahead. Soldiers too! A whole truck full of soldiers. Mary Mother of God, armed bloody soldiers. He held his speed, swerving inward to avoid a truck with its tailboard too near the divider. Half a mile to go. The soldiers had seen him. They were moving the truck. Moving out of his way or turning to block his path? Sweet Jesus Christ - will you get out of the way! Ahead of him the truck straddled the divider, facing away from him so that he could see the troops in the back. He hammered his hand down on the horn. Two hundred yards to go. The truck lurched - and pulled clear. Praise be to God! And there was a man waving him through. Half-a-dozen men waving him through. As if he was a jockey riding the Derby winner and they were gamblers with fortunes to come. Sixty yards. The traffic ahead had been cleared from the outside lane and he bumped all four wheels back down on the road surface. Then he blazed through the gap at sixty miles an hour.
Thirty miles to Bonn. Past the turn off to Cologne. And him still going flat out. Fast enough to be there well within the hour - road blocks or no road blocks.
Marlene Vesper was nineteen. She was a pretty girl who spoke three languages in addition to her native German: French fluently, Italian passably and English with a
strong American accent. Normally she enjoyed her work as a telephonist on Bonn's International Exchange. The pay was good and the working conditions suited her, and the occasional spell of overtime did not unduly interfere with her love life. But today was different. Today was very definitely different.
For some reason all direct dialling to overseas countries had been suspended from seven o'clock this morning. The consequence of which was that all such calls were re-routed via the exchange, and the delay and inconvenience this was causing telephone users meant that Marlene had suffered more abuse in the last few hours than in the whole of her previous experience.
What she did not know, at least until later, was that the restriction on overseas calls related not just to Bonn, but to the whole of the Federal Republic. Not that knowing would have helped. Her customers would still have given her trouble about the delays - especially the delays to the Republic of Ireland.
When Marlene had arrived that morning she had been amazed to see the number of others reporting for duty. Normally the crew she worked with comprised twenty girls and two supervisors. But this morning more than twice that number had arrived, men as well as girls, all of whom had received phone calls and telegrams telling them to report for extra duty as a matter of urgency. And the surprises had not ended there.
A grim-faced supervisor had led them not into the exchange itself, but to a conference room normally reserved for instruction courses, and when the telephonists had seated themselves a man had hurried in to speak to them. His complexion was a dull grey colour and his eyes were red-rimmed, as if he had slept badly, or not at all. And he was a policeman he said, although he wore no uniform.
All overseas calls were to be monitored. Bugged, tapped, listened-in to, however they liked to describe it. The telephonists were to accept and process calls but the "common circuit" switch was to be left open at all times to enable the supervisors to dip in and out of conversations without clicking the line. And today the "supervisors" were in fact a squad of policemen already at work in the exchange.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 33