Passport to Peril

Thirteen

From Gallarus Oratory they drove almost all the way back to Dingle town before cutting off to the left. Then they were on a rough, narrow road heading northeast between two groups of mountains. He pointed out the Brandon Mountains to their left, the Central Dingle range to the right.

“This is one of the prettiest drives in all of County Kerry,” he told her. “There’s a rough beauty to this peninsula that can’t be surpassed anywhere in Ireland. They filmed Playboy of the Western World here, you know. In Inch, on the southern shore of Dingle peninsula. And the Blasket Islands are just offshore at the western tip of the peninsula. They’re uninhabited now. They ran into a couple of bad fishing seasons, and in nineteen fifty-three the government moved all the islanders over to the mainland. But some of the folk still talk of returning to the islands again. They’re a hardy people who only know a hard life. Long hours of work and little pleasure, and always the danger of shipwreck.”

He talked easily, and she relaxed in her seat beside him and thought that everything was going to be all right now. She was having a nice ride, watching lovely scenery, safe in the company of this gentle priest. And it would all be over soon. Shannon, then Berlin, then New York — and it would be over, like a bad dream, and she would be safe.

And someday, she thought, she would quite forget David Clare.

“Have you spent much time in this part of the country?”

“Some,” he said. “Family, you know. On my mother’s side. It was a grand place to come in the summer, for the swimming and fishing.”

“I suppose County Clare is very beautiful too.”

“Oh, indeed.”

“I suppose it takes a foreigner to appreciate an area, though. Don’t you think so? A native is apt to take anyplace for granted. I know I’m that way at home. America’s a grand country, and there are so many exciting places in it, and yet because I live there I rather take them for granted. I suppose you’d be that way yourself, in Ireland.”

“Perhaps. I was more the sightseer in Africa than I am in my own native land.”

“I guess everyone’s that way.” She looked out the window. The car had reached the summit of a hill, and she looked at the valley spread out below. Bare rocks, the lush green of the grass, the ribbons of piled stone fences, the stones arranged without mortar like the stones of Gallarus Oratory, though in a much less precise fashion.

“I suppose that’s why you never visited the oratory before,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, I mean that it’s odd you never went to Gallarus Oratory before. If you weren’t from Ireland, you’d probably have made a great point of seeing it on your first visit to Dingle. But instead you came here often and never did get to the oratory until last night.”

“That’s an interesting thought.”

“And I’m the same way. I’ve lived in New York ever since graduation, and do you think I’ve ever been to the Statue of Liberty? No tourist would think of missing it, but I’ve never gone, and I probably never will get around to it. I keep meaning to, but I know I’ll always be in New York and the statue will always be there, and so it’s easy to put it off. Though I almost went a couple of years ago. Maybe you read about the time that some lunatics were going to blow it up? And the Washington Monument, and I forget what else?”

“Yes, it was in the Dublin papers. And then just recently some of my own countrymen blew up the Nelson Pillar in O’Connell Street, of course.”

“I know. Anyway, after that happened — or after it didn’t happen, I mean — well, I was going to go to the Statue of Liberty, because for a while it looked as though it might not be there forever. But I didn’t. Did you have a subscription to the Dublin papers while you were in Africa?”

“Pardon me?”

“Well, you said the bomb scare was in the Dublin papers, but then you must have been in Tanzania at the time, mustn’t you? Did you have a subscription or did a relative just send you the papers now and then?”

“Oh,” he said. “Yes, that’s it. My cousin sent me parcels from time to time, things one couldn’t get where we were, and he’d use the papers as packing material. So I’d get to read them now and then. It kept me in touch after a fashion.”

“It must be strange to be away so long.”

“Yes.”

She lapsed into silence. When she got home, she thought, she would have to go to the Statue of Liberty. She really meant it this time. She would go just like all the tourists, and she would walk up the steps inside and everything. Could you still walk up the arm? She seemed to remember that those stairs had long been closed, but she wasn’t certain.

“Look at the view, Ellen.”

“Oh, it’s beautiful!”

“It is, isn’t it? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, coming to such a beautiful country without a camera?”

“Oh, but I’m no photographer. And I did have my tape recorder. Oh, I almost forgot. You’ll take care of my things, won’t you? The guitar and the suitcase and the tape recorder? I won’t need them in Berlin, I can borrow a guitar, but you’ll ship them to me in New York?”

“I’ll take care of everything.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” She looked out the window, then glanced at him again. “How did you know I didn’t bring a camera?”

“You told me.”

“I did?” She frowned, unable to remember. “When?”

“On the plane. You made light of it at the time. Don’t you remember?”

“It’s funny, but I don’t. I must have been chattering like a magpie that morning.”

“You were upset over what had happened the night before.”

“I must have been.”

“And that may explain why you’ve forgotten talking about the camera. Your mind was on the purse-snatching incident, and so you don’t remember what you’d said to me.”

“That must be it.” She sat for a few more moments in silence. Then she said, “I wonder what he’s doing right now.”

“Clare? Looking all over Dingle for you, I suspect.”

“Probably.”

“I didn’t see him last night. I looked for him but didn’t see him. I did see that Doctor Koenig, though. I wonder if he’s in with Clare. It would be a good cover for him, traveling with wife and children...”

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut quickly. She looked away. She knew with absolute certainty that she had never mentioned Dr. Robert Koenig to Father Farrell. She might have been mistaken about the camera, that was possible, but she had never once mentioned the Philadelphia psychiatrist to him.

Then...

A phrase leaped at her: “Extraordinary that a pagan culture could produce such a structure.” He had said that at Gallarus Oratory, when she told him the little stone building was about a thousand years old. But a pagan culture had not produced it — Ireland had been Christian for centuries when Gallarus Oratory was constructed. And an oratory was by definition a chapel, a place for meditation and prayer, and specifically Christian. A priest would certainly know that.

He was not a priest.

She struggled to remain calm. What else had he said? There was something else, something that had struck a wrong note at the time but that she had not paid much attention to. About the persecution of priests in Ireland, how they were hunted during the days of the Penal Laws, how their lot did not improve too much under Cromwell. But that was all backwards! The persecution of Catholics began in earnest under Cromwell, and the Penal Laws did not come into being until long afterward, until William of Orange had defeated James II at the Battle of the Boyne, until the Irish under Patrick Sarsfield had finally capitulated at Limerick in 1691. He had the whole thing completely backwards, and it was not the mistake any Irishman would make, and certainly not an Irish priest.

He was not a priest!

He was talking, something about the scenery. She couldn’t listen to his words. It came to her in a rush now. The very day after they had snatched her purse, Father Farrell had made contact with her. He had carefully managed to get the seat next to her on the plane. He had drawn her out, learned the full details of her itinerary in Ireland. And when there was the mistake about her luggage, he had managed to get his hands on her passport. All he had needed, really, was the luggage check — but he had specifically asked for her passport, and sent her off to the lunch counter while he removed the photo and inserted the scrap of microfilm and sealed the passport up again...

So it had been in her passport throughout her entire trip. That was why the long-faced man in Cork had made no attempt to snatch it. The work had already been done. They had only needed to keep her under surveillance, to make certain that she kept to her schedule and got to Berlin on time.

That was why Father Farrell had stayed out of sight in Dingle until after she discovered what was happening. Koenig could have told him — he must have overheard her talk with Sara Trevelyan and then passed the word to Farrell, who had come along to keep an eye on things. And then Farrell — she shouldn’t think of him as Father Farrell now, he was no more a priest than she was — Farrell had come out of hiding and revealed himself, posing as her savior while he got his spy game back on the track again.

And she had blamed David!

Of course he wanted her to keep away from the police. Of course he wanted her to go to Berlin as scheduled while he stayed behind to “take care of everything.” And the nonsense about substituting another piece of film for the original microfilm — that had been a neat bluff. She was certain that the original scrap of film was right back where it had been, underneath her passport photograph. And she would go to Berlin, just as he had planned in the first place, playing as blind a role in the game of espionage as ever.

And Sara Trevelyan — oh, God, she had sent him straight for the woman! “Did you talk with anyone else, child?” Of course he had to know; he had to find out just how many people he ought to kill. The poor woman! And David — had he done anything to David? Oh, God, she couldn’t stand it! She wanted to scream. Her nerves were stretched so taut that she thought they would snap any minute.

No. She had to be calm, had to stay relaxed. That was her only chance. If she could keep him from knowing that she had seen through him, then perhaps she could get out of it all right. He would take her to Shannon, and once there she would find some way to get away from him, some way to reach the Irish or American authorities on her own — once she managed that, she would be in the clear. They could arrest Farrell — and she wondered what his name really was — and she could turn over the microfilm and find David and...

David.

Oh, God, and she had suspected him, she had got everything wrong. Had Farrell killed him? If that had happened she could never forgive herself. She couldn’t think about it, wouldn’t let herself think about it. She had to be calm. She had to act the same way with Farrell, had to play along with him, had to keep him from guessing that she knew.

If only she were an actress instead of a singer. If only she were a better liar.

“Ellen? Something on your mind?”

“Oh, no. No, I was just looking at the scenery. It’s really glorious, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” He reached over to pat her hand paternally, and she could barely manage to keep from flinching away from him. “You’re still nervous, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh? You seemed nervous.”

“It’s just that I’m impatient to get to Shannon and out of the country. I keep worrying that he’ll try to ambush us there.” Lies, lies, and her voice sounded false to her own ears, and how could he fail to notice it? Oh, God!

“This is Conor Pass coming up. The view is glorious from here, Ellen. You can see Brandon Bay and Tralee Bay and Dingle Bay all from one spot. You can even see clear back to Dingle town when the visibility is right.”

“It must be breathtaking.”

“Oh, it is.” He slowed the car. “Why don’t we stop and have a look at it, Ellen?”

“We don’t want to waste time...”

“Ah, but surely we can afford a minute?”

“David—”

“He doesn’t even know you’ve left Dingle, child. And he’ll never suspect we’ve taken this road. Sometimes days go by without anyone driving a car along this route. Everyone goes the short way. There’s probably not another motor car within miles.”

A shiver went through her like a sword.

The car slowed to a stop. “Come,” he said, opening his door. “Let’s have a look at the scenery.”

She didn’t want to get out of the car. She was afraid. But she couldn’t argue with him, couldn’t let him see that she was frightened. That would certainly tip him off, and she couldn’t afford that.

She opened her door and got out of the car. She left her purse with the passport in it on the seat. He put the car in neutral, pulled up the hand brake, and left the car with the motor idling.

“This way,” he said, taking her gently, gently by the hand. “A grand view, isn’t it? That’s Brandon Bay on the left and Tralee Bay on the right, and the stretch of sand between them is Rough Point. It looks like Italy turned upside-downs doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.”

“You’re shaking, child. Not afraid of heights, are you?”

She wasn’t, but she clutched at the straw. “I always have been. I can’t help it — I get weak in the knees from looking down.”

“Oh, it’s a common fear,” he said “One of the most common, I believe. I understand they call it acrophobia. Fear of great heights, and one of the most common of the irrational fears. Although it’s not always irrational, is it?”

And, in the same conversational tone of voice, he said, “How long have you known, Ellen?”

“I don’t understand...”

“You’re not afraid of heights, you’re afraid of me. And quite rightly so, I’m afraid. How did you guess? You’re far too smart for your own good, child. You should have stayed stupid — you’d have saved your life that way. You could have gone to Berlin in perfect safety and never gotten into any trouble at all. But now you know, don’t you? I must have made a slip or two along the way. The camera? Well, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

She backed away from him, her hands out in front of her, her eyes wide in terror.

With a terrible smile on his lips, he moved toward her.