The Freedom Trap [= The Mackintosh Man]

I

The bus drew up and because I was now screened from the house, some of the tension left me. However, so preoccupied had I been with my discovery, I had neglected to look at the destination board of the bus. Damn silly omissions of that kind can be the death of one, and I felt a bit of a fool as I sat down. I took Fatface’s wallet from my breast pocket and riffled through the bank notes. Most of them were British Bank of England fivers but there were some Irish pound notes, so I took one of those as I didn’t know if British currency was acceptable in Ireland.

The conductor came up and I held out a pound note. ‘All the way,’ I said casually.

‘Right you are,’ he said. ‘That’ll be two-and-tuppence.’ He gave me the ticket and counted the change into my hand. I hung on to it until he had moved away and then examined it. It was interesting to see that half the coinage was British, so it seemed as though all the currency in Fatface’s wallet would be readily negotiable.

So here I was, going ‘all the way’ and with not a notion in my head about where I was going. It was bloody ridiculous! I looked at the passing scene and found nothing to tell me where the devil I was. Ireland! What did I know about Ireland?

The answer came without much thought — practically nothing! Ireland was a page in the atlas I hadn’t bothered to study, and Irishmen were comic characters given to fighting. There were also vague ideas of revolution and civil war — the Black and Tans and armed insurrection — but that had been a long time ago, although I had read of recent trouble in Northern Ireland.

The bus stopped to take on passengers and before it started again a fire engine went by with a clanging bell, going the other way at a hell of a clip. Necks were craned to follow its passage and I smiled. During my getaway a gun had gone off and someone had screamed, so there was probably someone in the house with a gunshot wound, a circumstance which Fatface might have difficulty in explaining away.

The bus trundled on, going God knows where. We passed a place called Cratloe which didn’t sound particularly Irish, but there was a sign pointing the other way to Bunratty, which did. A big jet came over — a commercial air liner, not a military job — and circled widely, losing altitude and obviously intending to land somewhere nearby. From nowhere a name clicked in my mind — Shannon Airport. That was the Irish international airport, but I hadn’t a clue where in Ireland it was.

I mentally added an item to the list of things urgently required — maps.

We pressed on and the sun came out, shining through the rain to make a rainbow. There were more houses here, and a racecourse — and then a magic word — Limerick. So that’s where I was! It didn’t make a great deal of difference; all I knew of Limerick was the one about the girl from Khartoum. But it was a big, busy city and that was something to be thankful for; I could get lost in a town of this size.

I got off the bus before it reached the centre of town and the conductor looked at me in a puzzled way — but that might have been my imagination. The reason I dropped off was that I had seen a biggish bookshop which could give me what I wanted most of all — information. I walked back the hundred yards to the shop and went inside, drifting casually from counter to counter until I found what I wanted.

It was there in plenty. There were a score of guidebooks to choose from, and any number of maps from folded sheets to bound volumes. I disregarded the antiquarian and literary guides and settled for a closely printed compendium of information. I also bought a single sheet motoring map which would fold for the pocket, a writing pad, a packet of envelopes and a newspaper, paying with one of Fatface’s fivers. I took this booty into a tea-shop next door and settled to examine it over a pot of weak tea and a few stale buns — it was that kind of tea-shop.

The map told me that Limerick was at the head of the Shannon estuary and, as I had suspected, not very far from Shannon Airport. The house from which I had escaped was to the north of Limerick, somewhere between Sixmilebridge and Cratloe, very handily placed for Fatface and his crew, a mere fifteen minutes’ drive from the airport.

I poured another cup of lukewarm tea and opened the newspaper to find that Slade and Rearden were still very much in the news and even on the front page, but that might have been because Detective-Inspector Brunskill had arrived in Dublin, which would make for local interest. There was a photograph showing him getting off the aircraft and when questioned about what he expected to find, he said, tight-lipped, ‘No comment.’ Detective-Inspector Forbes was just back in London from Brussels where he reported, ‘No joy!’

Of course, Slade made the running in the newspaper much more than I did; a spy has more glamour than a jewel thief. But, from the way Brunskill and Forbes were running around, I wasn’t being neglected. Those two had been picked because they could identify me by sight, and it seemed they had a lot of travelling still to do because Rearden had been seen in the Isle of Man, Jersey, the Côte d’Azure, Ostend, Manchester, Wolverhampton, Regent Street, Bergen and Middle Wallop. I wondered if Detective-Sergeant Jervis was just as busy.

The tea-shop was empty so I pulled out the wallet and opened it. First I counted the money; it was important and I couldn’t get far without it. There was a total of £78, mostly in British fivers, which was most welcome. There was also a British driving licence which was even more welcome. I wanted to be mobile which meant hiring a car, something I couldn’t do without producing a driving licence. It was made out in the name of Richard Allen Jones, which sounded phoney on the face of it, although the name could have been genuine. There are a few Joneses around; there must be for the rest of us to keep up with.

There was a letter which made no sense at all because it was written in an unknown language. I tasted the words on my tongue and thought I detected faintly Slavic overtones but I could have been wrong; eastern languages are my strong point. I pondered over it for some time then carefully put it away without becoming any the wiser.

The thin notebook was of more interest because it contained a few addresses scattered through the pages — some in Ireland, some in England and others in France, Italy and Spain. It gave me a jolt to find the address of Anglo-Scottish Holdings Ltd, in London; Mackintosh’s cover was blown wide open.

There were two Irish addresses, one in the Irish Republic at a place called Clonglass in Connemara, and the other in Belfast. Both places were a hell of a long way from Limerick, and Belfast was across the frontier in Northern Ireland. It was thin stuff to work on but it was all I had and it would have to do.

I paid for the tea and asked for, and got, a handful of loose change; then I went to look for a telephone box, which I found difficult until I discovered that the Irish paint them green. I didn’t make a call from the first box I found but took a note of the number and then went in search of another from which I put a call through to Anglo-Scottish in London. It was only a few minutes before I heard the voice of Mrs Smith: ‘Anglo-Scottish Holdings Limited.’ Her voice was warm and friendly, but that might have been an illusion on my part — I hadn’t spoken to a woman for a year and a half, apart from the one who doped me.

I said, ‘Your telephone might be tapped — I think it is. Find a safe phone and ring this number as soon as possible.’ I gave her the number of the other box and rang off before she could answer.

Ultra-cautious maybe, but I’m still around to prove it’s the best method. Besides, if she rang me I wouldn’t have to keep stuffing small coins in the slot during what might be a lengthy conversation. I trudged back to the first telephone kiosk and found it occupied, so I sneered at the woman through the glass until she went away, then I went inside and fiddled with the directory while waiting for the ring.

All things considered she was prompt; the bell rang within ten minutes. I picked up the telephone, and said, ‘Stannard.’

‘What are you doing in Limerick?’ Her voice wasn’t as warm as it had been.

‘What the hell do you think I’m doing?’ I said grumpily. ‘I want to speak to Mackintosh.’

‘He’s not available.’

‘Make him available,’ I snapped.

There was a pause. ‘He’s in hospital,’ she said. ‘He was in a car accident.’

‘Oh! How serious?’

‘The doctors don’t expect him to live,’ she said flatly.

A yawning cavity opened in the pit of my stomach. ‘Christ!’ I said. ‘That’s bad. When did it happen?’

‘The day before yesterday. It was a hit-and-run.’

Bits of a deadly jigsaw began to fall into place. That was about the time that Fatface Jones had become so certain I wasn’t Rearden — and he’d had Mackintosh’s address in his notebook. ‘That was no accident,’ I said. ‘His cover was blown.’

Mrs Smith’s voice sharpened. ‘Impossible!’

‘What’s so impossible about it?’ I demanded.

‘Only the three of us knew.’

‘That’s not so,’ I contradicted. ‘I’ve just hammered one of the Scarperers and he had the Anglo-Scottish address written down in a notebook. That’s why I thought you might have a tap on your phone.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Take very good care of yourself, Mrs Smith.’

I had every reason for saying that, even apart from natural humanity. If Mackintosh died and the Scarperers also killed Mrs Smith then I’d be well and truly up that gum tree. The very best that could happen was that I’d be taken back to gaol to serve the rest of the sentence.

And there would be more. They would nail me for an assault on a prison officer; I had kicked the Chief Screw in the face and caused him to break his leg and they’d put me away for another five years because of that.

With Mackintosh and Mrs Smith gone I wouldn’t have a hope of proving anything. Mackintosh’s tight security system had just blown up in my face. I had lowered the telephone and a quacking noise came from the ear piece. I raised it again, and said, ‘What was that?’

‘How could they have known the address?’

‘That doesn’t matter right now,’ I said. ‘This whole operation has gone sour on us and the best we can do is to cut our losses.’

Her voice sharpened. ‘What happened to Slade?’

‘He got away,’ I said wearily. ‘God knows where he is now. Probably stowed away in the hold of a Russian freighter bound for Leningrad. It’s a bust, Mrs Smith.’

‘Wait a minute,’ she said, and there was an abrupt silence which lasted a full five minutes. I became aware of a man standing outside the kiosk tapping his foot impatiently and glaring at me. I gave him the stony stare and turned my back on him.

Mrs Smith came back on the line. ‘I can be at Shannon Airport within three hours. Is there anything you need.’

‘By God there is,’ I said. ‘I need money — lots of it; and a new identity.’

‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t resume your real identity,’ she said. ‘I have your suitcase here with your clothing and passport. I’ll bring them with me.’

‘Stay away from the Anglo-Scottish office,’ I warned her. ‘And watch out for strange men on your tail. Do you know how to shake surveillance?’

Her voice was cold. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. Meet me at Shannon in three hours.’

‘That’s not on. Airports aren’t for men on the run. They’re apt to be full of men in my line of business. Don’t forget I’m on the run from the police and that Brunskill has just arrived in Ireland.’ I turned and looked past the queue that was forming. Take a taxi to the St George Hotel — I’ll meet you outside. I might even have a car.’

‘All right — and I’ll bring the money. How much do you want?’

‘As much as you can lay your hands on conveniently. Can you really make it in three hours?’

‘If I’m not held up talking to you,’ she said acidly, and rang off.

I put down the telephone and pushed open the door. The first man in the queue said sarcastically, ‘And where would it be you’d be telephoning to? Australia?’

‘No,’ I assured him blandly. ‘Peking.’ I pushed past him and walked up the street.

II

Hiring a car proved to be easy — the British licence was good enough. A hired car is not notoriously speedy but I managed to get a Cortina 1500 which would be enough to get me out of trouble — or into it — reasonably quickly.

I arrived at the St George Hotel early and parked on the other side of the road and about a hundred yards along. Several taxis drew up but no Mrs Smith appeared but finally she arrived and only fifteen minuses late. She stood on the pavement when the taxi departed with two suitcases at her side and the hall porter from the hotel dashed out to succour her. I saw her shake her head and he went back into the hotel, a disappointed man, while she looked uncertainly about her. I let her stew for a while because I was more than curious to see if anyone was taking an undue interest in her.

After ten minutes I came to the conclusion that if I didn’t pick her up then someone else would because she looked too damned fetching in stretch pants, open-neck shirt and short jacket, so I entered the traffic stream and swung around to pull up in front of the hotel. I wound down the nearside window, and said, ‘Give you a lift, ma’am?’

She leaned down to look into the car, and her green eyes were snapping. ‘Where have you been?’ she said curtly. ‘I’ve been standing here like a fool. I’ve already slapped down three passes.’

‘It’s the Irish,’ I said. ‘They can’t resist a pretty girl. Get in; I’ll put the bags into the boot.’

‘Three minutes later we were rolling on our way out of Limerick and towards Cratloe. I said, ‘You made good time. You must have just caught the plane at the right moment.’

She stared ahead through the windscreen. ‘I flew in my own plane.’

‘Well, well!’ I said. ‘The intrepid aviatrix. That might prove useful — but for what, I don’t know.’

‘I didn’t like something you said on the telephone,’ she said.

‘What was that?’

‘You were talking about cutting losses. I didn’t like that at all.’

‘I don’t like it much,’ I said. ‘But there are precious few leads to follow and I have no great hopes.’

‘Why did you let Slade get away?’

‘I didn’t,’ I said. ‘He was taken.’

‘There must have been something you could have done.’

I glanced sideways at her. ‘Would you have relished cutting his throat while he slept?’

She gave me a startled glance. ‘Why, I... ’ She fell into silence.

I said, ‘It’s easy criticizing from the sidelines. These Scarperers are efficient — more efficient than any of us realized. Slade thought they might be a Russian outfit — Russian subsidized, anyway; possibly Russian trained. One thing is certain; they’re no gang of ordinary criminals.’

‘You’d better tell me about it,’ she said. ‘But first tell me where we’re going now.’

‘I want to have a look at the house in which we were incarcerated. We may be able to pick up something, but I doubt it; the last I heard the boss man was shouting about abandoning the place. Anyway, this is the way it went.’

One thing about Irish roads is that they’re traffic free and we made good time, so much so that I was only halfway through my tale of woe by the time I saw the first fire engine. ‘This is it,’ I said, and pulled off the road well away from the scene of action.

It was a shambles. Mrs Smith took one look at the smoking shell of the house, and said, ‘I don’t know about the boss abandoning the house, it looks as though it abandoned him. Why should he burn it down?’

‘He didn’t,’ I said immodestly. ‘I did.’ I stuck my head out of the window and hailed a passing cyclist coming from the scene of the crime. ‘What’s happened here?’

The cyclist, a gnarled old man, wobbled across the road and lurched to a halt. ‘A wee bit of a fire,’ he said, and gave me a gap-toothed grin. ‘Reminds me of the Troubles, it does.’

‘Anyone hurt?’

‘Indeed there was. They found a poor gentleman in the middle of it all — burnt to a crisp.’

‘That’s dreadful,’ I said.

The old man leaned forward and peered at me. ‘A friend of yours, could he be?’

‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I was just passing and saw the fire engines.’

‘A natural curiosity,’ he agreed. ‘But there’s a mystery going on, there is. There were other men in that house and they’ve all run away. The garda are wondering why.’

‘The garda?‘

‘The natural enemies of good men,’ said the ancient. ‘The men in blue.’ He pointed up the road. ‘In England you call them the police.’

About a hundred yards away was a police car — they’re unmistakable — with a policeman walking towards it. I glanced at Mrs Smith. ‘Should we be on our way, darling? We have to be in Roscommon tonight.’

‘Roscommon, is it?’ said the old man. ‘But it’s on the wrong road you are.’

‘We’re calling in to see friends in Ennis,’ I said. The man was as sharp as a tack.

‘Ah, then it’s straight ahead.’ He took his hand from the side of the car. ‘May you have luck in Ireland — you and your beautiful lady.’

I smiled at him and let out the clutch and we drove slowly past the police car. I looked at the mirror and checked that it showed no inclination to follow before I said, ‘If they do a thorough autopsy of that corpse they’re likely to find a bullet.’

‘Did you kill him?’ asked Mrs Smith. Her voice was as cool and level as though she had asked if I had slept well.

‘Not me. It was an accident, more-or-less; he shot himself in a scuffle.’ I checked the mirror again. ‘He was right, you know.’

‘Who was?’

‘The old man. You are beautiful.’ I gave her no time to worry about it but went straight on. ‘How’s Mackintosh?’

‘I telephoned the hospital just before I left London,’ she said. ‘There was no change.’ She turned to me. ‘You don’t think it was an accident?’

‘How did it happen?’

‘He was crossing a street in the City late at night. A man found him by the side of the road. Whoever hit him didn’t stop.’

‘The man Jones knew I wasn’t Rearden about the same time,’ I said. ‘I don’t think it was an accident’

‘But how did they know?’

‘I didn’t tell them so it must have been either you or Mackintosh,’ I said.

‘It wasn’t me,’ she said quickly. ‘And why should it have been him?’ I shrugged and she was silent for a while before she said slowly, ‘He’s always been a good judge of men but... ’ She stopped.

‘But what?’

‘But there was £40,000 in that Swiss numbered account and you had the number.’

I glanced at her. She was staring straight ahead, her body held rigid, and a pink spot glowed on her cheek. ‘That’s all we need,’ I said. ‘So you think I sold out to the Scarperers, is that it?’

‘Can you think of any other explanation?’

‘Not many,’ I admitted. ‘Talking about money — how much did you bring?’

‘You’re taking this too damned coolly.’ Her voice had an edge to it.

I sighed and drew the car to a halt by the roadside. I put my hand beneath my jacket and brought out the gun I had taken from Jones — butt first. I offered it to her on the palm of my hand. ‘If you’re so certain I sold out then we may as well get it over with quickly,’ I said. ‘So take this and let me have it.’

Her face whitened when she first saw the pistol, but now she flushed pink and lowered her eyelids to avoid my gaze. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘It’s just as well you did,’ I said. ‘Or you might be still thinking it. There are only the two of us, and if we can’t trust each other we’ll get nowhere. Now, you’re sure you couldn’t have let fall even a hint of the operation?’

‘I’m positive,’ she said.

I put away the gun. ‘I didn’t,’ I said. ‘So that leaves Mackintosh.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ she said.

‘Who did he see just before this so-called accident?’

She thought about it. ‘He saw the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition. They were both worried about the lack of news of Slade. There’s an election coming up and the PM thought the Leader of the Opposition should be informed of developments.’

‘Or the lack of them,’ I said. ‘I suppose he might do that — it’s not a party issue. Anyone else?’

‘Yes; Lord Taggart and Charles Wheeler. Wheeler is a Member of Parliament.’

‘I know of Taggart,’ I said. ‘He was Slade’s boss at one time.’ The name, Wheeler, rang a faint bell. ‘What did he talk to Wheeler about?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘If Mackintosh were to tell anyone of the operation would you expect him to inform you?’

‘He never kept anything from me that I know of.’ She paused, then said, ‘But he had the accident before he could get to me.’

I mulled it over and got nowhere. I sighed, and said, ‘I’m damned if I’m going to keep calling you Mrs Smith and neither am I going to call you Lucy. What is your name?’

‘All right,’ she said resignedly. ‘You may call me Alison.’

‘What do we do now, Alison?’

She said decisively, ‘We check on the Irish addresses you found in Jones’s notebook. First, at Clonglass, and then at Belfast if necessary.’

‘That might not be too easy. The Clonglass reference wasn’t as much an address as a mention — just a scribbled memorandum; “Send Taafe to the House at Clonglass”.’

‘We’ll try it anyway,’ she said. ‘It’s not far.’

III

We booked in for the night at a hotel in Galway, but pushed on immediately to Clonglass which was about 25 miles further west along the coast. From the bare look of the map there didn’t seem to be any likelihood of finding an hotel west of Galway, especially late at night, so we played safe.

Clonglass proved to be a wide place in the road overlooking a small inlet from the main bay. The houses were scattered, each with its thatched roof tied down against the advent of the western gales, and each with its peat stack handy to the door. It didn’t look too promising.

I drew the car to a halt. ‘What do we do now? I wouldn’t know where to start in a place like this.’

She smiled. ‘I do,’ she said, and got out of the car. An old woman was toiling up the road, swathed in black from head to foot and with a face like a frost-bitten crab apple. Alison hailed her and damned if she didn’t proceed to jabber away in a strange language.

As always when one eavesdrops on a conversation in a foreign language it seemed as though they were discussing everything from the current price of potatoes to the state of the war in Vietnam and it seemed to go on interminably, but presently Alison stepped back and the old woman resumed her trudge up the road.

I said, ‘I didn’t know you could speak Irish.’

‘Oh, yes, I have the Gaelic,’ she said casually. ‘Come on.’

I fell into step. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To the place where the gossip is,’ she said. ‘The local shop.’

The shop was instantly familiar. I had seen many like it in the back-blocks of Australia and the more remote parts of the African veld. It was what I used to call as a child an ‘anything shop’ selling anything and everything in minute quantities to a small population. This shop had an added attraction; it had a bar.

Alison went into her Irish routine again and the words washed around my ears without penetrating, and then she turned to me, and asked, ‘Do you drink whiskey?’

‘Indeed I do.’

I watched with fascination as the bartender did his best to empty the bottle into a glass. In Ireland a glass of whiskey is a tenth of a bottle and the men are noble drinkers. Alison said, ‘One of them is for him — his name is Sean O’Donovan. You talk to him and I’ll join the ladies at the other end of the shop. Men can talk to each other better over a drink.’

‘Talk to him!’ I said. ‘That’s easy, but what do I do when he talks back?’

‘Oh, Sean O’Donovan speaks English,’ she said, and drifted away.

‘Yes,’ said O’Donovan in a soft voice. ‘I have the English. I was in the British army during the war.’ He put the glasses on the counter. ‘You’ll be here for a bit of a holiday?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Having a look around — a travelling holiday. You have a beautiful country, Mr O’Donovan.’

He cracked a grin. ‘You English have always shown a fancy, for it,’ he said sardonically. He lifted his glass and said something in Irish which I didn’t catch but the action was obvious so I returned the toast in English.

We talked for a while about the things a man talks about to a bartender in bars, and finally I got down to the meat of it. ‘All over Ireland I’ve been crossing the tracks of a friend of mine,’ I said casually. ‘But I haven’t caught up with him. I was wondering if he’s been here. His name is Jones.’ That sounded silly, but I said it all the same.

‘Would he be a Welshman?’ asked O’Donovan.

I smiled. ‘I doubt it. He’s English.’

O’Donovan shook his head. ‘I have not heard of the man. He may be at the Big House, but they keep to themselves entirely.’ He shook his head. ‘They buy their provisions in Dublin and not a thought do they give to the local trader. My father, now, who had this place before me, supplied the Big House all his days.’

That sounded promising. I said sympathetically, ‘Standoffish, are they?’

He shrugged. ‘Not that Himself is here often. He comes only once or twice a year — from the Other Island, you know.’

It took me a good twenty seconds to realize that O’Donovan meant England. ‘So the owner is English?’

O’Donovan gave me a sidelong glance. ‘It would seem he is another Englishman who has taken a fancy to a piece of Ireland.’ I looked at O’Donovan’s tough face and wondered if he was an active member of the IRA; he appeared to like Englishmen only in so far as they stayed in England, although he chatted pleasantly enough to me.

He held up his hand. ‘I said “seems” and that is what I meant, for I was reading in the paper only the other day that the man is not English at all.’

‘So he gets his name into the newspapers?’

‘And why wouldn’t he? He speaks in the Parliament of the Other Island. Now isn’t that a strange thing, and him not an Englishman.’

‘It is, indeed,’ I said. My acquaintanceship with members of the British Parliament was limited, to say the least of it, and I didn’t know the rules of entry. ‘So what is he if he isn’t English?’

‘Ah, now; that I forget entirely. Some small place far away in Europe he comes from. But it’s a rich man he is. He has all the money in the world that the American Kennedys haven’t laid their fists on already. He comes here in his big yacht which is now anchored in the bay and it’s as big as the British royal yacht, if not bigger. Such a pleasure boat has never been seen in these waters before.’

A wealthy and foreign Member of Parliament! It wasn’t as promising as I had thought, although it had its curiosity value.

O’Donovan shook his head. ‘Maybe Mr Wheeler is richer than the Kennedys, after all.’

Wheeler!

Every nerve cell in my cerebrum sprang to attention simultaneously. That was the name of the MP Mackintosh had seen the day before being hit by the car. I put down my glass slowly. ‘I think we’ll have another, Mr O’Donovan.’

‘And that’s a kindly thought,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking you’ll be from the newspapers yourself.’ I opened my mouth to speak, and he winked at me. ‘Hush, now; you’ve no need to fear I’ll give you away. We’ve had other London reporters here — ay, and one American — all trying to find out things about the Wheeler man to publish in their papers but not one of them had the wit that you have — to bring an Irish girl with you to do a bit of talking in the Gaelic.’

‘I thought it might smooth the way,’ I said prevaricatingly.

He leaned over the counter and looked into the shop where Alison was talking animatedly to a group of black-shawled women. ‘Ah, but she did not learn her tongue in the West; in Waterford, maybe.’

‘I believe she mentioned that she lived there,’ I said guardedly. ‘But she lives in Dublin now.’

O’Donovan nodded in satisfaction, pleased to have been proved right. He picked up the glasses, and then paused, looking over my shoulder. ‘Look, now; here comes Seamas Lynch from the Big House. I’ll not tell him what you are.’

I turned and looked at the man who was walking up to the bar. He was a black Irishman, dark as a Spaniard, and tall, lean and muscular. O’Donovan put our whiskey on the counter, and said, ‘And what will you have, Seamas?’

‘I’ll have a half,’ said Lynch.

O’Donovan picked up a glass and turned to fill it, throwing a question over his shoulder. ‘Seamas, when is Himself leaving in his big boat?’

Lynch shrugged. ‘When he takes it into his head to do so, Sean O’Donovan.’

O’Donovan put the glass in front of Lynch. I observed that half an Irish single whiskey was about as big as an English double. ‘Ah, it’s nice to be rich,’ he said. ‘And have all the time in the world.’

I said, ‘Maybe the House of Commons isn’t sitting.’

‘Then he should be talking to his constituents — and he has none here,’ said O’Donovan. He turned to Lynch. ‘This gentleman is having a fine time seeing Ireland.’

Lynch looked at me. ‘So you think Ireland is a fine place, do you?’

It wasn’t what he said but the way he said it that made my hackles rise; his tone of voice held a thinly veiled contempt. I said, ‘Yes; I think it’s a very nice country.’

‘And where are you going next?’ asked O’Donovan.

I had an inspiration and told a true story. ‘I believe my grandfather on my mother’s side was harbour master at Sligo many years ago. I’m going up there to see if I can trace the family.’

‘Ach,’ said Lynch. ‘Every Englishman I meet tells me of his Irish ancestry.’ His contempt was now open. ‘And they all claim to be proud of it. You’d think from the way of it that the British Parliament ought to be in Dublin.’

I nearly lost my temper but kept my voice even. ‘Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s because your Irish girls can’t find good husbands at home so they have to cross the Irish sea,’ I said coolly.

Lynch’s face darkened and his hand tightened on his glass. As he straightened up from leaning on the counter O’Donovan said sharply, ‘Seamas, that’s enough, now. You’ve got as good as you’ve given, which does not happen too often, so put your glass back in your mouth or on to the counter. I’ll have no breakages in my house unless it’s your head with a bottle I’ll be holding.’

Lynch sneered at me and turned his back. O’Donovan said, not very apologetically, ‘You’ll understand the English are not well liked hereabouts.’

I nodded. ‘And with good reason, from some of the things I’ve heard. As it happens, I’m not English — I’m Australian.’

O’Donovan’s face lightened. ‘Are you, now? I ought to have known from your pleasant ways and your good manners in the face, of provocation. That’s a great country — it is, indeed.’

I finished my drink as I saw Alison giving me a come-hither look. O’Donovan watched approvingly as I sank the full Irish measure in four seconds flat. I put down the empty glass. ‘It’s been nice talking to you, Mr O’Donovan,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back.’

‘And you’ll be welcome,’ he said.

I went to join Alison at the door. As I passed Lynch he stuck his foot out backwards but I neatly evaded it and carried on. I wasn’t looking for a fight. Alison opened the door and went outside. I was about to follow her but stood aside as a big man entered. He walked past me and then paused uncertainly.

I ran for it. It was Taafe, and while his thought processes might have been slow they hadn’t stopped altogether. While he was making up his minuscule mind about what action to take I dashed outside and grabbed Alison’s arm. ‘Run for the car!’ I said urgently. ‘We’ve found trouble.’

What I liked about Alison was her quick comprehension. She wasted no time insisting on having an explanation, but immediately took to her heels and ran. She must have been in superb physical condition because she could cover the ground faster than I, and within a hundred yards she was ten yards ahead.

Behind I heard boots thumping the ground as someone chased behind and I reckoned the someone was Taafe. It was now dusk and the light was ebbing from the western sky which is why I didn’t see the fishing net spread out to dry about twenty yards from where we had left the car. I got my feet tangled in the netting and pitched forward to the ground.

That made it easy for Taafe. I heard the crunch of his boots as he ran up, and then the rasp of the engine as Alison started the car. The next thing I knew was Taafe had put the boot into me good and solid. He had boots like a skinhead, probably steel-tipped, and one of them crunched into my side with terrifying force. He made no sound apart from a heavy breathing.

I rolled over, desperately trying to free my feet, and his foot whistled past my head so closely that I felt the draught. If he kicked me in the head it would be lights-out for Stannard — maybe permanently. The engine of the car roared and then we were illuminated as Alison switched on the headlights.

I looked up and saw Taafe loom over me, his teeth drawn back over his lips in a snarl as he manoeuvred for another kick. I rolled frantically and saw a stab of light from the direction of the car, and heard a report as from a dud firecracker. Taafe made a gargling sound in his throat and suddenly collapsed on top of me. He made horrible noises as I heaved him off and then he writhed on the ground clutching his left knee.

I ripped the netting from my feet and ran to the car. The passenger door was open and Alison was revving the engine impatiently. As I tumbled in she was putting a small pistol into the glove compartment and, before I got the door closed, she was away, swinging the car around and barely avoiding Taafe who still wriggled on the ground.

I gasped, ‘Where did you shoot him?’

‘In the kneecap,’ she said. Her voice was as steady and cool as though she was discussing a shot on the target range. ‘It seemed the best thing to do. He was going to kill you.’

I turned and looked back. Although it was dark I could see someone bending over Taafe. It was someone tall and lean and it could very well have been Seamas Lynch.

IV

‘Wheeler,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘What can you tell me about him?’

It was next morning and we were having breakfast in my bedroom. If the management thought this an irregular procedure they showed no sign of it, and, in view of the previous evening’s brouhaha, I didn’t feel like being pinned down to a static and open position in the public dining room.

She spread marmalade on toast. ‘MP for Harlingsdon East, very wealthy, not too popular with fellow Commons members, so I understand.’

‘And a foreigner?’

She wrinkled her brow. ‘I believe he is. But he must have arrived in England a long time ago. He’ll be naturalized, of course.’

‘Can a foreign-born person become an MP?’

‘Oh, yes; there have been quite a few,’ Alison said indistinctly past the toast

‘An American President must be American born,’ I said. ‘What about an English Prime Minister?’

‘I don’t think there’s any rule about it,’ she said. ‘We’d have to look it up in Erskine May.’

‘What’s his standing? In politics, I mean? Is he a Minister or anything like that?’

‘He’s a very vociferous back-bencher.’

I snapped my fingers. ‘That’s where I saw his name before. He was blowing off steam after Slade and I escaped. Going on about “gangsters in our English streets”. I read about him in the Sunday Times.’

‘Yes,’ said Alison. ‘He made quite a noise about it in the House. The PM put him down quite firmly.’

I said, ‘If what I’m thinking is correct then he’s got a hell of a nerve. Try this on for size. Mackintosh sees Wheeler and he’s hit by a car — a hit-and-run car. I take a notebook from Jones which mentioned Clonglass. In Clonglass we run across Wheeler; we also ran into Taafe — and too bloody hard, if I might say so — and I know that Taafe is one of the Scarperers. Wouldn’t you think it would be too much of a coincidence for Wheeler not to be implicated with the Scarperers?’

Alison buttered another piece of toast; the girl had a healthy appetite. ‘I’d say he’s in it up to his neck,’ she said concisely. She paused. ‘What I don’t understand is why Taafe didn’t shout; he didn’t make a sound even when I shot him.’

‘I don’t think he can shout,’ I said. ‘I think he’s dumb. I’ve never heard him speak. Let me have a look at that pistol of yours.’

She leaned over, picked up her bag, and produced the pistol. It was a very natty little weapon, only .22 in calibre and with a total length of less than four inches — hardly the gun for accurate shooting in uncertain light at any range over twenty feet. I said, ‘Did you intend to hit Taafe in the kneecap?’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘He had one foot off the ground but even then these bullets are so small that if I’d hit him anywhere else it wouldn’t bring him down. I could have gone for a head shot, of course, but I didn’t want to kill him.’

I looked at her with respect. As I had thought, Mackintosh gathered around him people with talents. ‘So you did intend to hit him where you did.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, and put the ridiculous little gun away.

I said, ‘Let’s get back to Wheeler. What kind of a foreigner is he? Or was he? Where did he come from?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t taken much interest in him. But the details ought to be in Who’s Who.’

‘I’m thinking of Slade,’ I said. ‘He was taken out of the house near Limerick four days ago. That yacht is very convenient. If it has been anchored at Clonglass for more than four days and Wheeler decides to take off on a Baltic cruise this summer then there’ll be a bloody good chance that Slade is on board. It’s just a hypothesis, mind you.’

‘I like it.’

‘I’ve got a few more. What about this one? Let’s say there’s a man called X who is either a Russian or favours the Russian philosophy; and let’s say he devotes his time to springing Russian spies from British gaols. He’d need assistance and where would he get it?’ Alison opened her mouth to answer but I ploughed on. ‘There’s a fair amount of anti-British feeling in Ireland, especially now that Northern Ireland has blown up, and the IRA is still an active force. I detected a bit of that ill feeling last night.’

‘Was that the man you were talking to at the bar?’

‘He was Seamas Lynch and he seemed to hate my guts on principle. What’s more, he works for Wheeler and I think I saw him helping Taafe when we left last night. But I digress. Let’s say Mr X organizes the Scarperers from elements of the IRA. He has the money to get it started but from then on it’s self-financing because the Scarperers don’t confine their attention to spies. The IRA need the money and it’s a better way of getting it than holding up banks, so they’re happy. Mr X is also happy because the IRA are doing a good job for him. How does that strike you?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Mr X being Wheeler?’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Self-made millionaires aren’t usually enthusiastic communists.’

‘How did he make his money?’

‘I think he made his first fortune in the property boom of the 1950s and early ‘60s. Then he got into the property market in the United States and made another fortune. Time had a front cover article about him; they called him “Wheeler-Dealer.” Since then he’s diversified into nearly everything you can think of that makes money.’

‘And he still has time to be a Member of Parliament! He’s a busy little man.’

‘Too busy to be a Russian spy,’ said Alison.

‘Maybe.’ I had my own reservations about that. I said, ‘I’d like to know how Mackintosh is getting on. Will you telephone?’

‘I was going to,’ she said. ‘I think we ought to get rid of the car. It will have been seen at Clonglass.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ll go out and get another. I don’t think you ought to walk the streets of Galway just now.’

‘But... ’

‘They’re not likely to know much about me yet,’ she said. ‘We weren’t conspicuously together last night.’

‘Providing Sean O’Donovan has kept his mouth shut,’ I said.

‘I’ll have to chance it,’ she said, and picked up the telephone.

She put a call through to London and talked to someone at the hospital. Her words were brief and she did more listening than talking but I knew what was happening by the expression of her face. She put down the handset and said bleakly, ‘Still no change. He’s fighting hard — but he would.’

I lit a cigarette. ‘Have you known him long?’

‘All my life,’ she said. ‘He’s my father.’

V

That led to an argument. My immediate reaction was to say that I’d get on with the job myself while she went back to London.

‘Damn it!’ I said. ‘You ought to be there. You’ll never forgive yourself if he dies in your absence.’

‘And he’d never forgive me if Slade gets away because I’m too damned sentimental,’ she said. ‘You don’t know my father very well, Owen, if you think he’d want that. He’s a hard man.’

‘And you’re a hard woman,’ I said. ‘A chip off the old block.’

She said tautly, ‘An unnatural daughter?’

‘I think you ought to go back,’ I said stubbornly.

‘And I’m staying,’ she said, equally stubbornly. ‘I have two jobs to do here. One is to help you to get Slade. You can’t run up against this crowd by yourself.’

‘And the other?’

‘To stop you getting yourself killed, you damned fool!’

I was turning that over in my mind while she opened her suitcase and impatiently ripped open a brown-paper parcel, revealing more money than I’ve seen anywhere outside a bank. For a moment that diverted me. ‘How much have you got there, for God’s sake?’

‘Five thousand pounds,’ she said, and tossed me a bundle of fivers. ‘There’s five hundred. We might get separated and you’ll need the money.’

I said drily, ‘Her Majesty’s Treasury is becoming unreasonably reckless. Do I sign a receipt?’

‘I’m going’ to find out what I can about Wheeler,’ she said. ‘Don’t move out of this room.’

She stuffed the rest of the money into one of those oversized bags women carry and stormed out of the room before I could say another word. I sat down bonelessly on the bed and looked at the bundle of notes, one hundred sheets thick, and the only thought in my head was the irrelevancy that she had called me by my given name for the first time.

She was away for two hours and came back with news — Wheeler’s yacht was on the move, heading south. She didn’t know if Wheeler was on board or not.

She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket, a printed page from a book. ‘I bought an old copy of Who’s Who. It was a bit too big to lug around so I tore out the relevant page.’

She passed it to me and pointed out the paragraph. Charles George Wheeler, aged 46, was born in Argyrokastro, Albania. Albania! He was a Member of Parliament with three honorary doctorates, a member of this, an associate of that, a fellow of the other. A flat in London, a country house in Herefordshire; clubs so-and-so and such-and-such — my eye skipped down the page until I was suddenly arrested by an entry — Interests — penal reform, for God’s sake!

I said, ‘How does he come by the name of Charles George Wheeler?’

‘He probably changed it by deed poll.’

‘Do you know when he arrived in England from Albania?’

‘I know nothing about him,’ said Alison. ‘I’ve had no occasion to study him.’

‘And his yacht has gone south. I’d have thought he’d have gone north — to the Baltic.’

‘You’re still assuming that Slade is aboard.’

‘I have to,’ I said grimly.

Alison frowned. ‘He might be going to the Mediterranean. If so, he’ll refuel somewhere in the south, perhaps Cork. I have a friend in Cork: an old lady — an honorary aunt. We can fly to Cork from Shannon.’

‘There’ll be more coppers than tourists at Shannon Airport,’ I said. ‘I can’t risk it.’

‘Airports are big places. I can get you through,’ Alison said confidently.

‘And how will you account for me to your old aunt?’

Alison smiled. ‘I could always twist Maeve O’Sullivan around my little finger.’

VI

We sneaked into Shannon Airport quite easily and unobtrusively. It seemed to me that their security was lousy, but the places are so big and the perimeters so extensive that to make them leakproof would swallow all the profits. Within fifteen minutes, after a bit of radio natter, we were in the air heading for Cork while I watched Alison’s expert handling of the controls. She flew the plane — a Piper Apache — like she did everything else — with an economy of movement and a total lack of showmanship. I wondered what it was like to have Mackintosh as a father. Some girls might have found it a traumatic experience.

Maeve O’Sullivan lived in Glanmire on the outskirts of Cork. She was very old, but still quick and sharp-eyed and shrewd as the proverbial barrel-load of monkeys. She crowed with delight as she saw Alison and gave me a glance which stripped me to the bone in two seconds. ‘You’ve been away too long, Alison Mackintosh.’

Alison smiled. ‘Smith,’ she said.

‘And so it is — so it is. A sassenach name for a Celt, more’s the pity.’

‘This is Owen Stannard,’ said Alison. ‘He’s working for my father.’

The wise old eyes regarded me with renewed interest. ‘Is he, now? And what devil’s business is that young rip up to now?’

The idea of a man as hard-bitten as Mackintosh being referred to as a young rip made me want to smile, but I manfully repressed it. Alison gave me a warning glance. ‘Nothing that should concern you,’ she said tartly. ‘He sends you his love.’ I mentally agreed with her that it would not be a kindness to tell the old lady of his condition.

‘You’re just in time for your tea,’ said Mrs O’Sullivan, and went off in a bustle into the kitchen with Alison close behind her. I sat down in a big armchair which swallowed me in comfort, and looked at my watch. It was six-thirty — early evening — less than twenty-four hours had passed since Alison had punctured Taafe in the kneecap.

‘Tea’ proved to be an enormous meal with many dishes thrust upon us, interspersed with brisk and depreciatory comments on the poor appetites of young folk these days. When I called the old lady Mrs O’Sullivan she laughed and said, ‘You call me by my name, young man, and I’ll feel easier,’ so I called her Maeve, but Alison called her Aunt Maeve.

‘There’s something I must tell you, Aunt Maeve,’ said Alison. ‘Owen, here, is wanted by the garda, so no one must know he’s here.’

‘The garda, is it?’ cried Maeve. ‘It’ll not be dishonest, I know; but is this Alec’s doing?’

‘In a way,’ said Alison. ‘It is important.’

‘I’ve held my tongue about more things than you’ve ever spoken in your life, girl,’ said Maeve. ‘You don’t know what it was like here in the old days, and now the crazy men are at it again in the North.’ She looked up with sharp black-button eyes. ‘It’s nothing to do with that, is it, now?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Nothing to do with Ireland at all, really.’

‘Then I’ll keep my peace,’ she said. ‘You are welcome in this house, Owen Stannard.’

After tea we washed up and Maeve said, ‘I’m an old woman and I’m wanting my bed. Make yourselves easy, the pair of you.’

‘I’d like to use the telephone,’ said Alison.

‘It’s there when you want it. Put your sixpences in the box — I’m saving up for my old age.’ Maeve shouted with laughter.

‘It’ll be more than sixpences, Aunt Maeve,’ said Alison. ‘I’ll be telephoning to England and more than once.’

‘Rest easy, girl. If you talk to Alec, ask him why he never comes to Ireland these days.’

‘He’s a busy man, Aunt Maeve.’

‘Aye,’ said Maeve. ‘And when men like Alec Mackintosh get busy it’s time for normal folk to find a deep hole. But give him my love, and tell him he doesn’t deserve it.’

She went off and I said, ‘She’s quite a character.’

‘I could tell you stories about Maeve O’Sullivan that would make your hair curl,’ said Alison. ‘She was very active during the Troubles.’ She picked up the telephone. ‘Let’s hear what the Harbourmaster has to say.’

The Harbourmaster was most obliging. Yes, Artina was expected. Mr Wheeler had arranged for refuelling. No, he didn’t really know when she would arrive but if previous visits by Mr Wheeler were anything to go by then Artina would be staying in Cork for a couple of days.

As Alison put down the telephone I said, ‘Now I have to think of a way of getting aboard. I wish I knew more about Wheeler’s craft.’

‘Give me a few hours and I’ll have all you need to know,’ said Alison. ‘The telephone is a wonderful invention. But first I must ring the hospital.’

It was a time for rejoicing because Alec Mackintosh was fighting his way through to life again. Alison was radiant. ‘He’s better! The doctor said he was better! His condition has improved and they think there’s a chance now.’

‘Is he conscious? Is he able to speak?’

‘No, he’s still unconscious.’

I thought back. If Mackintosh had been unconscious all this time it would be quite a while before the doctors let him speak to anyone, even if he was able and willing. I’d have given a lot to be able to hear what he’d said to Wheeler the day before the hit-and-run.

‘I’m glad he’s better,’ I said sincerely.

Alison picked up the telephone again, suddenly all businesslike. ‘And now to work.’

I left her to it, only answering her questions from time to time. I was busily engaged in developing my hypothesis which was beginning to blossom into a very strange shape indeed. If I was right then Wheeler was a most odd fish and a very dangerous man — more dangerous to state security, even, than Slade.

I was deep in thought when Alison said, ‘I’ve done all I can now; the rest will have to wait for morning.’

She flipped open the notebook which was full of shorthand notes, page after page. ‘What do you want first — Wheeler or the yacht?’

‘Let’s have the yacht.’

She leafed through the pages. ‘Here we are. Name — Artina; designed by Parker, built by Clelands on the Tyneside; she was two years old when Wheeler bought her. She’s a standard design known as a Parker-Clelands which is important for reasons I’ll come to later. Overall length — 111 feet, beam — 22 feet, cruising speed — 12 knots, speed flat out — 13 knots. She has two Rolls-Royce diesel engines of 350 horse-power each. Is this the sort of stuff you want?’

‘Just right.’ I could begin to build up a picture. ‘What’s her range?’

‘I haven’t got that yet, but it’s coming. A crew of seven — skipper, engineer, cook, steward and three seamen. Accommodation for a maximum of eight passengers.’

‘How is the accommodation arranged?’

‘That will be coming tomorrow. The plans of her sister ship were published a few years ago. They’re being photographed and sent by wire to the Cork Examiner where we can pick them up tomorrow, together with some photographs of the ship.’

I regarded Alison with admiration. ‘Wow! Now that’s something I wouldn’t have thought of doing.’

‘The newspaper is a very efficient information gatherer and transmitter. I told you I could pull strings.’

‘What about Wheeler?’

‘There’s a detailed account coming to the Examiner on the telex, but this is the meat of it. He fought the Italians when they moved into Albania before the war.’ She looked up. ‘He’d be about 14 years old then. He fled with his family into Jugoslavia and again fought against the Italians and the Germans during the war both in Jugoslavia and Albania towards the end of the war. He left Albania in 1946 when he was somewhere in his early twenties and settled in England. Was naturalized in 1950. Started to deal in property just about that time and that was the beginning of his fortune.’

‘What kind of property?’

‘Offices. That was about the time they first began to put up the big office blocks.’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘I talked to a financial editor; he said there was something funny about the first deals Wheeler made.’

‘That’s interesting,’ I said. ‘Tell me more.’

‘According to this editor it wasn’t easy to see how Wheeler had made a profit. He evidently had made a profit because he suddenly had the money to go bigger and better, and he never looked back right from the early days.’

‘I wonder how he paid his taxes,’ I said. ‘It’s a pity we can’t subpoena his tax inspector. I’m beginning to see the light. Tell me, when he was fighting in the war — did he fight for the Cetniks or the Partisans? The Nationalists or the Communists?’

‘I don’t have that here,’ said Alison. ‘It will be coming by telex, if it’s known at all.’

‘When did he enter politics?’

She consulted her notes. ‘He fought a by-election in 1962 and lost. He fought in the general election of 1964 and got in by a fair margin.’

‘And I suppose he lashed out generously for party funds,’ I said. ‘He’d do that, of course. Any known connections at present with Albania.’

‘Nothing known.’

‘Russia? Any communist country?’

Alison shook her head. ‘He’s a dinkum capitalist, mate. I don’t see it, Owen. He’s always popping off with anticommunist speeches in the House.’

‘He’s also against prisoners escaping from gaol, if you remember. What about this prison reform bit?’

‘He used to be a prison visitor, but I suppose he’s got too big for that now. He’s generous in his subscription to various prison reform societies, and he’s a member of a House committee studying prison reform.’

‘My God, that would come in useful,’ I said. ‘Did he visit prisons in that capacity?’

‘I suppose he might.’ She put down the notebook. ‘Owen, you’re building up quite a structure on a weak foundation.’

‘I know.’ I stood up and paced the room restlessly. ‘But I’ll add another layer on my hypothesis. I once talked to a multimillionaire, one of the South African variety; he told me that the first quarter-million is the hardest. It took him fifteen years to make £250,000, three years to bring it up to the round million, and in the next six years he reached the five million mark. The mathematicians would say he was riding an exponential curve.’

Alison was getting a little impatient. ‘So what?’

‘The first quarter-million is hardest because our potential millionaire has to make all his own decisions and has to do his own research, but once he has money he can afford to hire regiments of accountants and platoons of lawyers and that makes decision making a lot easier. It’s the starting of the process that’s the snag. Go back to your financial editor — the one who smelled something funny in Wheeler’s first deals.’

Alison picked up her notes again. ‘I haven’t anything more than I’ve already told you.’

‘Let’s take our man X,’ I said. ‘He’s not a Russian — let’s call him an Albanian — but he still favours the Russians. He comes to England in 1946 and is naturalized in 1950. About that time he starts dealing in property and makes money at it, but at least one man can’t see how he did it. Let’s assume the money was fed to him from outside — perhaps as much as half a million. X is a sharp boy — as sharp as any other potential millionaire — and money makes money. So he begins to roll in the time-honoured capitalistic way.’

I swung around. ‘In 1964 he entered politics and got himself a seat in the Commons where he’s now an enthusiastic and keen back-bencher. He’s forty-six years old and still has another twenty-five years of political life in him.’

I stared at Alison. ‘What would happen if he were to attain high position in the Government? Say, Chancellor or Minister of Defence — or even Prime Minister — in 1984, which seems to me to be an appropriate date? The boys in the Kremlin would be laughing their heads off!’