Dublin
Wilderness checked them both into the Shelbourne.
Then he called Bernard Alleyn.
“Pawn to Queen’s Bishop 2.”
“Ah … you’re back. Another language or a refresher course?”
“Neither. I’m here to see you.”
“OK. Hmmmm … How about lunch tomorrow?”
“I’d prefer tonight.”
“Tonight? Alright. It’ll be after nine. You’re in Duke Street?”
“No, I’m at the Shelbourne. Room 202.”
Nothing in Bernard’s words conveyed a hint of suspicion. Innocence or training? The guileless guile of a man who’d lived a double life for twelve years and surely suspected everyone and everything.
When they’d rung off, Wilderness said to Eddie, “When he gets here give it thirty seconds of polite and chummy, then lose yourself for an hour.”
“Glad to, but I’ve never been to Dublin before.”
“This is Ireland Ed—Dublin—there’s a pub every twenty yards. Or have you changed the habit of a lifetime?”