“Yes.”
“Go straight to it. There probably won’t be a bus leaving for an hour or more, but you can buy your ticket and hide there. You might try concealing yourself in the W.C. until your bus is ready. Not many men are up to storming into a ladies’ lavatory.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Oh, goodness, I haven’t really done anything, now have I? Get your purse, you don’t want to waste a minute now. I wish I hadn’t turned in my bicycle. You could ride it to the bus station. Hurry, now.”
She went to her room, snatched up her purse, dumped the passport and photo and microfilm into it. She rushed down the stairs, then hesitated for a moment in the doorway, afraid to step outside for fear that he would still be waiting there. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then walked quickly outside.
It was still raining, only a light but persistent drizzle now. She looked carefully both ways and saw no one who looked at all familiar. She turned to her left, toward the bus station, and began to walk as quickly as she could. She wanted to run, but if she ran people would notice her and wonder why she was running. And there were probably other men of David’s in town; she didn’t dare attract their attention.
The bus station. Just a few blocks farther, and she would get a ticket to Tralee and find out when the bus was leaving. She would do as Sara Trevelyan had suggested, would hide in the ladies’ restroom until the bus was due to leave. Should she buy a ticket clear through to Shannon? It might save her time at the Tralee station…
No, she decided against it. Once they realized she was gone they would be sure to make inquiries at the bus station, and she didn’t want David to know her ultimate destination. He might guess it anyway, of course, but there was no sense in making it easier for him. Once she was out of Dingle, the most dangerous part would be over. Of course, he could take a fast car and get to Shannon before her. He could be waiting there when she arrived, but she would stay in crowds, stay close to other people, and maybe he would be unable to do anything.
“Ellen!”
Her heart froze.
“Ellen, where are you going? You weren’t at the café. Wait a minute.”
She turned her head quickly. He was on the other side of the street, just half a block back. He stepped to the curb now, waiting for the traffic to clear so that he could come after her.
She ran.
“Ellen! Hey, hold on—where are you going? Ellen!…”
She ran like a thief.
Eleven
Out of breath, exhausted, she sagged against the side of a building and listened to the leaden pounding of her heart. She did not know how long she had been running or precisely where she had run to. Hers had been a mad dash for freedom, turning corners at random, dashing across streets just inches ahead of passing cars and cycles, racing blindly on with the conviction that nothing ahead of her could be half so horrible as the menace behind her.
And now she had lost him. She was free now, free and clear. He had been unable to follow her, and she was free.
But not safe.
She found a cigarette in her purse, a Woodbine, and she scratched a match and lit it. Not safe at all, she thought. Because the bus station still provided the only way out of town, and she didn’t dare go to it. He knew now, knew for certain that the game was over once and for all. He would not have to bother with deception any longer. Instead he would be desperate. He would have to get the scrap of microfilm from her, and he would have to make sure that she never told anyone what she had learned about him.
And what did that mean? A gun? A knife? A pair of strong, huge hands around her throat, squeezing, squeezing?…
She closed her eyes, shuddered, then opened them again and took another urgent drag on the cigarette. Whatever part of town she was in, it was probable that she was within half a dozen blocks of the bus station. Dingle was a small town, small enough so that she could be sure of reaching the bus terminal within a few minutes, walking. But now she didn’t dare go there. He would be having the place watched, either by himself or someone else. The moment she turned up there, someone would come after her. And she would never be able to run away again. She could barely stay on her feet, let alone walk anywhere. Running was out of the question for the time being.
She wondered, now that it was forever too late, if she could have bluffed David. She could have avoided seeing him as much as possible, could have pleaded a headache and spent as much time as possible in her room. And the alleged headache might have helped cover her change in mood. If she acted differently with him, she could have blamed it on the way she felt. Perhaps she could have carried it off, perhaps she could have kept him from ever suspecting that she knew the truth.
Could she have done it? Perhaps—she didn’t know. But now it was pointless to think about it, because now he could not help being aware of her knowledge. She had run away. It had saved her for the time being, but at the same time it had let David know exactly where she stood, exactly how much she knew.
Where could she go? The bus station was not safe. Neither was her room. The cafés and pubs of Dingle seemed equally unsafe. If she stayed where she was, sooner or later David or one of his agents would see her. Surely someone had a car, and they could cruise up and down the few streets of Dingle until they saw her. And then…
A church, she thought. She could wander into one of the churches and hide there. She wondered if you could still claim sanctuary, as criminals had in medieval times. Perhaps not, but would they dare to come after her in a church?
She began walking. Strand Street and the downtown section of Dingle were to her left, she was fairly sure, so she turned to the right and started slowly up the street. Perhaps there would be a church nearby. But she couldn’t stay huddled in a church forever. Sooner or later she would have to come out. Sooner or later she would have to take a chance and find some way to get out of Dingle.
A gust of wind blew up, driving sheets of rain into her. Already the sky was growing dark. In an hour or so it would be nightfall, and the protective cloak of darkness would be at once a hazard and a blessing. It would be harder for them to find her in the dark, but it would also be more difficult for her to find her way around. And where was she going to spend the night? She would grow hungry and thirsty and tired, and there was no place she could go for food or drink or rest.
A car approached, and she instinctively turned her face away from the street to avoid being recognized. The car slowed. David, she thought, and her heart sank. She couldn’t run any more. She just couldn’t run any more.
The car stopped. She turned in spite of herself and saw a priest climb out of the front seat of a small red Triumph sedan. Relief flooded over her in a wave. It was not David, it was a priest, and he could even help her find the church. And he would be someone to talk to, someone who would know what to do, how to help her.
“Miss? I’m afraid I’ve lost my way. Could you direct me to Saint Michael’s Church?”
She wanted to laugh—it was he who wanted directions. And then she looked at him again, a tall man with a broad forehead and strong features, and her jaw dropped in recognition.
The same spark of recognition illuminated his eyes. “Why, don’t I know you? Let me see—why, on the plane from London, wasn’t that it? Now you’d be the folk singer who nearly lost her guitar. You’re Ellen Cameron, aren’t you?”
“Father Farrell!”
“Yes, I thought I recognized you.” He smiled. “The girl who laughed so politely at my little stories. Why, this is a coincidence, isn’t it? Or did you say you were coming to Dingle? I seem to remember that you did, now that I think of it. And how have you enjoyed your trip to Ireland? I’ve had a grand time myself. All my family at home, and now I’ve come visiting relatives here in Dingle whom I haven’t seen in years.” He saw her face, then, and his eyes changed expression. “Why, you’re all upset, child. Is something the matter?”
“Oh, Father,” she said. She was panting for breat
h now, unable to speak. “Oh…”
“Why, you poor child, you’re in a state of sheer terror! Now nothing can possibly be that bad. I know you’re not a Catholic, but perhaps you’d care to talk about it anyway. It so often helps to discuss one’s problems with another, and we priests have had worlds of practice listening.”
“I don’t know where to begin.”
“Start anywhere you wish. But let’s not stand out in the rain while we talk. My brother made me the loan of his car. Rather a flashy thing for a man of the cloth, wouldn’t you say? But come, get in and we’ll talk about it. Come, Ellen.”
He led her around to the right-hand side, held the door for her, then walked around the little car and got behind the wheel. He turned the key in the ignition and began driving. For several moments she did not trust herself to speak.
“You can tell me,” he said.
And then the words poured out of her.
Twelve
The little red sedan made its way slowly along one of the narrow winding roads to the north of Dingle town. Ellen sat slumped in her seat, exhausted. Father Farrell, evidently quite practiced at hearing confessions, had listened to her full story with a sympathetic ear. She had thought at first that it might be almost too preposterous to tell him. He was, after all, a gentle priest from rural Ireland, a man who had spent the past few years living as a missionary in a tiny African community. What would he know of the world of spies and international intrigue? And how could he help her?
But he soon showed that he was able to understand this sort of thing. “It sounds to me as though you are in very serious trouble,” he told her. “You still have your passport? And the photograph, and the scrap of film?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s fortunate. Because I suspect that film is very valuable, or they would never have gone to so much trouble. You were wise not to go to the police.”
“Perhaps I should go to them now, Father.”
“No, I think not.” He hesitated. “The police in our smaller cities are an unsophisticated lot, Ellen. They’re country folk, and they’re used to dealing with the sort of crimes that occur in villages. Spies and stolen plans are a wee bit over their heads.”
“But they could contact someone—”
“Would they?” He shook his head. “It’s a sad thing for a fellow Irishman to say, but I wouldn’t trust them if I were you. Small-town gardai are traditionally suspicious of foreigners, you see. They would very likely detain you. At best they would order your immediate deportation, probably shipping you back to New York.”
“At least I’d be safe there.”
“Perhaps. But you wouldn’t get much in the way of protection before you were deported, and things could go badly for you. This Clare fellow seems daring and resourceful and quite ruthless. And suppose that you were deported? What do you think your own countrymen would do?”
“I don’t understand.”
He slowed the car to permit a small boy to lead a band of sheep across the road. Then, resuming speed, he said, “Consider how it will look to the American officials. They will find out that you met David Clare at a pub in Dublin, that you consorted willingly with him for several days, that the two of you met again in Dingle. From their point of view, it will look as though you were a willing agent of the spy gang all the way.”
“But that’s insane!”
“Of course it is, child, but will they see it that way? I doubt it. Remember, you were invited to Berlin. Then and only then you decided to come to Ireland, and you met with Clare the very first day in Dublin. It will look like collusion to them, don’t you see? And then they’ll suspect that the two of you had a falling out or that you developed cold feet at the last moment. And that that’s why you turned in the film.”
“What would they do?”
He shrugged. “Different governments operate differently. I suspect at the least they would suspend your passport indefinitely and forbid you to travel. And of course they would put you through a long and grueling interrogation. And meanwhile you would have exposed yourself to a great deal of danger. Do you see what I mean?”
“Yes, but…”
“But what?”
“But I still don’t know what I can do to avoid it. I can’t see David again. He knows now, you see. And I can’t go on to Berlin. I certainly can’t give them the film. I wouldn’t do anything like that!”
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
“Then what can I do?”
He considered this for a moment, guiding the little car through a narrow passage, then heading up a sharp incline toward the peak of a little hill. She reached for a cigarette, then paused to ask him if he minded her smoking. He said that he did not. She lit the cigarette and rolled down the window part way so that the little car would not become thick with smoke.
“Ellen?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking about your situation. I’m not as worldly as I might be, to be sure, but I have traveled a bit. And even a missionary got a taste of the unrest in Africa, the interplay of political forces. So I may be able to advise you and to help you.”
She said nothing.
“The first step is to make you safe from harm. That’s the most important consideration for the time being. You need a place to hide for the night. A place where you can sleep safely while I go back to Dingle and try to learn something more about your situation. I can move around town without arousing suspicions, you see. Clare and his gang would never suspect a black-robed Irish priest of having an interest in their dirty little scheme.”
“It would be dangerous for you.”
“I think not. And with any luck at all I should be able to come up with some sort of solution. Now if there were only a place where you could hide, a sanctuary from the elements…”
Sanctuary. She said, “Gallarus Oratory!”
“What’s that?”
“Gallarus Oratory,” she repeated. “Oh, Miss Trevelyan was there just this morning.” Quickly she described the ancient structure. “Of course, it’s a major tourist attraction, but I don’t think there would be people there at night, do you?”
“I doubt it. Probably few enough there this afternoon, in weather like this.”
“Well, it should be comfortable. It’s watertight after a thousand years, it says so in the guide book. And David would never think of looking for me there.”
“You never mentioned it to him?”
“I can’t remember. I might have said that Miss Trevelyan was going there, but nothing beyond that. He wouldn’t have any idea that I would think to go there. And he wouldn’t suspect that I would go anywhere in a car. I don’t have a car, and I don’t know anyone with a car, so he wouldn’t realize that I would be able to get out of Dingle.”
“It does sound good,” he said. “Do you know how to find it?”
“No. It’s somewhere north of Dingle, but I don’t—”
“There’s a county map in the glove box, I believe. Can you reach it for me?”
She passed him the map. He slowed the car to a stop at the side of the road and unfolded the map, holding it against the steering wheel and studying it intently. “Gallarus Oratory,” he said. “Gallarus Oratory. Well, here’s Dingle, and the roads north—ah, here it is now, Gallarus Oratory. Yes, I should think we can find it with little difficulty.”
“It shouldn’t be far. Miss Trevelyan reached it by bicycle.”
“No, not far at all. We’ve even come in the right direction, though we’ll want to take the next road off to the left.” He refolded the map, and she returned it to the glove compartment. He started the engine and eased the car back onto the road.
She was quick to recognize the oratory. It was just like the picture in Sara Trevelyan’s guide book, and it did look like an inverted rowboat. The state of preservation was remarkable.
The little building was quite deserted. He parked the car, and they walked to the entranceway through the rain. The doorway was j
ust high enough for her to get through without stooping, and Father Farrell had to bend down to get inside. It was dark within, and damp, although air and light filtered through from a deeply splayed loophole window at the rear of the structure. The building was small on the inside, about fifteen feet by ten. The floor was composed of bare earth, packed down hard over the years. She would be quite safe here, she thought. No one would think to look for her here.
“I’ve a blanket in the car,” he said. “I’ll fetch it for you. And my mother packed me a lunch that I never did get around to eating. I think you should be comfortable here.”
She waited. He returned with a heavy blanket and a large brown paper bag. Seeing him, she thought of David that morning, with his own blanket over his arm and their picnic lunch in one hand. She had been so happy then, so very much in love. And only a matter of hours ago.
She felt as though she had lived years since then.
“I think you’ll be comfortable.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“It may get a bit cold.”
“I’ll be all right.”
He spread the blanket on the ground for her. “A remarkable building,” he said. “How old is it, do you happen to know?”
“I’m not sure. Over a thousand years.”
“Extraordinary that a pagan culture could produce such a structure. And just by piling one stone on top of another.” He shook his head in wonder. “I’m sure you’ll be safe here. Does anyone know of your discovery besides David?”
“I assume the other members of his gang. I don’t know how many of them there are.”
“Besides them, I mean. Did you tell the woman everything?”
“Sara Trevelyan? Yes, I did.”
“And anyone else?”
“No. Does it matter?”
Passport to Peril Page 11