Illegal Action

56

As Michael emerged into the arrivals lounge at Cork airport he saw a tall, casually dressed figure with the obvious air of a police officer standing waiting. “Maloney,” said the officer, offering his hand. “You’ll be Mr. Fane.” Michael felt like a visiting dignitary as he walked out of the airport behind Maloney, into the clear Irish light and climbed into an unmarked police car parked outside. In the driving seat was a much younger officer who introduced himself as Rodrigues. In spite of his Portuguese name, Garda Rodrigues had hair the colour of a satsuma and a face of freckles. Maloney was clearly in charge. Michael was relieved to see the message from London had got through and that, exceptionally, both Garda men were wearing side arms.

“Now, Mr. Fane. How can we help you?” Maloney asked and Michael realised with a sinking feeling that they had been given no background briefing, just the general instruction to take him where he wanted to go. He was in charge and he didn’t feel ready for the responsibility.

“We need to go first to Shillington airport,” said Michael in a voice more confident than he felt.

Maloney gave a mild groan and explained that he and Rodrigues had just come from near there. “Never mind,” he said with a wry smile. “They also serve who only sit and drive.”

Let’s hope that’s all we have to do, thought Michael.

As they drove along, the two Gardai sitting in the front of the car, Maloney pointed out local landmarks while Rodrigues drove in silence. The countryside they were travelling through had a wild, undomesticated aspect, made harsher by the bright light filtered through banks of high grey clouds. Crumbling stone walls ran along the edges of the fields, with the occasional rusting iron bedstead blocking up a gap. This was hinterland Ireland, Michael realised, a world away from the Cork coast one read so much about, the Republic’s new Riviera.

Then Michael’s phone rang. It was Peggy, speaking fast. “Where are you?”

He asked Maloney, then relayed their location to Peggy.

“Listen carefully,” she said. “Liz has got a message through. She’s at a country house called Ballymurtagh but she said they’re leaving soon for Shillington airport. Try to get there before they go. Greta Darnshof is there. She’s turned out to be a Russian—we think she’s probably the Illegal we’ve been looking for. She’s dangerous, and she’s armed. The Garda are sending more officers to cover the airport and to the house. But you’ll probably be there first. Try and get Liz out of it in any way you can. But be careful.”

She rang off and Michael, his palms damp where he was holding the phone and his stomach churning painfully now, explained the change of destination.

“Ballymurtagh?” asked Maloney incredulously. “That old place?”

“That’s what they said. And we’ve got to hurry. How far is it from here?”

Maloney shrugged. “About ten miles. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

Rodrigues spoke up. “Less than that if I use the siren.” He looked questioningly in the rear-view mirror.

Michael shook his head. “Better not. There’re other people there, and they may not be friendly.”

Rodrigues gave a sideways look at Maloney and raised an eyebrow.

Michael explained. “I’m here to collect my colleague. She’s called Liz Carlyle, but she’s using the name of Jane Falconer. There’s also a Danish woman there named Darnshof, who is really a Russian, and some other Russians. According to the call I just had, they may not want my colleague to leave. At least one of them is armed. There could be trouble.”

Rodrigues blew through his teeth and looked at his partner again, this time with alarm. “No one said anything to us about Russians.”

“It’ll be fine,” said Maloney to his younger partner, but when the older man turned towards Michael his face was sombre. “What exactly do you want us to do? Is the priority getting your colleague out of there, or dealing with these other people?” he asked.

“Getting my colleague,” he said, remembering Brian Ackers’ orders. But Michael, just fending off panic now, realised they might have to do both.

As they changed direction and turned on to another road, the radio crackled. Maloney answered and, listening to the transmissions, Michael realised that this was turning into a major incident and he was at the centre of it.

A pulsating sound overhead, a shadow, and then a helicopter passed over the car, barely 500 feet above the ground, and flew off into the distance. “Is that one of yours?” asked Michael, pointing through the windscreen.

Rodrigues shook his head. “No. But right now I wish it was.”