“SUNSHINE TRAVEL.” The voice on the phone was pleasant, eager to help.
“I wish to arrange a special holiday in a warm and sunny place.”
There was only a tiny pause. “What sort of holiday did you have in mind?”
“I have one or two ideas, but I’d like the advice of your managing director.”
“Who recommended our agency?” The voice was cooler, harder now.
“My bishop.”
“How many in your party?”
“Two. A priest and a nun.
“Are you interested in a retreat?”
“I’m more interested in something educational.”
“That could be very expensive.”
“The parish coffers will bear any expense nicely.”
“Your name?”
She paused and thought for a moment. “Sister Concepta.”
“Please hold.” He covered the phone with his hand and held a muffled conversation. “Where are you now?”
“In a call box in Grafton Street, across from Switzer’s.”
“Are you alone?”
“The priest is with me.”
“Get rid of him. Buy a newspaper, stand in front of Switzer’s for fifteen minutes, reading the paper. Then walk to the southwest corner of St. Stephen’s Green. There’s a call box there. Wait for a call.”
“Right.” She hung up the phone and turned. “Take this stuff,” she said, thrusting her packages upon him, “and go back to the hotel. Wait for me there.”
“Oh, no,” he replied. “I’m coming with you.”
“They insisted I come alone,” she said tightly, grateful that they had. “It’s the way it has to be.”
“Not a chance,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”
“Listen,” she said impatiently, “this is our only chance, the only contact we’ve got; everything depends on it. They want me alone; we’ll do it their way. Otherwise we’re done. Do you understand?”
He wavered, then gave in. “All right. Call me in an hour to let me know you’re okay.”
“I’ll call you when I can. We’ll both have to wait; this is their game, now, but if you haven’t heard from me by six o’clock tonight, consider that you’re on your own. Take the money and go.”
“Jesus, go where?”
“England would be best. Try for another contact there.”
He looked at her for a moment, then nodded and walked away, rearranging the bulky packages. She walked across the street, bought an Irish Times, walked to Switzer’s, stopped and, glancing at her watch, began to read the newspaper. There were two stories to interest her, both on the front page. The first made her smile; the second made her grind her teeth. Fifteen minutes later she started up Grafton Street toward the Green.
She walked quickly through the park, thinking, even in January, that it must be the most intensely gardened piece of ground on earth. She was certain that she was being followed. At the southwest corner she stood next to the call box. Ten minutes later it rang. She picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Look down the street toward the Shelburne Hotel. There’s a green van. Do you see it?”
“Get into the van; the back door.” The caller hung up.
She walked quickly to the van and opened the rear door. She was grabbed by two hooded men, yanked quickly inside and pushed roughly to the floor. “Be quiet and lie still,” a muffled voice said. She arranged herself as comfortably as possible on the metal floor. One man kept his foot on her back. The van drove for nearly half an hour, as best she could tell, making many turns. Finally it stopped, doors slammed, and she heard the rattle of a garage door. The van moved a few feet forward and she heard the door rattle again. She emerged from the van in a dark place that smelled of oil and grease. The two men marched her quickly through a door, down a hallway, and into another room. A man of about fifty, gray-haired, heavyset, sat facing her in a straight chair. She recognized Michael Pearce immediately from his photographs. So this was the wild revolutionary, the one the Provos had found too hot to handle. The only light filtered through drawn drapes.
“What, no hood?” she said.
“It doesn’t matter if you see my face,” the man said. There was a touch of the North in his accent. “Unless you have the right answers, this place is your last stop.” He nodded to one of the men, who removed his hood and began searching her. His hands lingered on her thighs and at her buttocks and crotch; she stood very still. He felt her breasts, then pinched her nipples, hard, and stood back.
“She’s clean,” he chuckled.
She caught him, roundhouse, full in the mouth with the back of her hand, staggering him. He pushed off the wall toward her, swearing and spitting blood. The gray-haired man simply held up a hand, and he stopped.
“Who are you?” he asked her.
“You don’t need to know my name,” she said. “All you need to know is that the Bishop sent me here.”
“Who’s the Bishop?”
“Call him and ask him. You’ve got the number.”
He rose and left the room, leaving her with the two guards, one of whom was dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief.
“Bitch,” he said. “I’ll have you for that.”
“You’ve had all you’re going to,” she replied. “Touch me again, and I’ll put your eyes out.”
The man came back and sat down. “So you want to join the Brigade, do you?”
“Not a bit of it,” she said. “Not yet, anyway. All we want is transport to a training camp and an education.”
“What sort of education?”
“Arms, explosives, the lot. Whatever’s going.”
“You expect us to pay for your training?”
“We’ll pay ourselves. You’ll get twenty-five thousand pounds when we’re on our way. We’ll make another, similar contribution to the camp.”
He laughed. “So you’re those two. I read your notices; pretty funny, they were. Amateurs.”
“Effective amateurs, I’d say. We won’t be amateurs for long.”
“Where is it you want to go?”
“I hear Libya’s nice this time of year.”
“One of you is hot. That’s going to make it more difficult.”
“What we’re paying should cover it. We want proper passports. I believe you can do that.”
He nodded. “You’re well informed. All right, we’ll run you out of here in about a week. You’ll fly to Lourdes on a charter flight; we’ll get you to Rome from there and then to the camp. Where are you staying?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“All right, be in the lobby of the Burlington Hotel tomorrow at three with passport photos of you and your mate. One of the lads will pick them up and tell you the day of your departure. You’ll have the passports and the name of a contact the day before you leave. We’ll want the money tomorrow.”
“You’ll have the money when we’re in Lourdes safely. I’ll telephone you the location.”
“Don’t you trust your brothers?”
“Of course, it’s just that you’ll be so much more concerned with the quality of the passports and our well-being if you’ve something to gain by our safe arrival in Lourdes.”
“Half tomorrow, the rest on your arrival.”
“I’ll give your man five thousand tomorrow with the passport photographs, the rest you’ll get as I’ve said.”
“Half tomorrow, the rest later; take it or leave it. Who else can you go to?”
“You take it or leave it. The Bishop would be very unhappy to learn that you’d passed up twenty-five thousand for the cause because of stupid bargaining.”
The man looked annoyed. “All right, done, but you’d better understand you won’t be out of our reach in Lourdes if we don’t hear from you.” He nodded to the two men. “All right, lads, take her back to the Green.”
“And you’d better understand that we’re going to be very nervous about anyone following us while we’re in Dublin. Such a person could get himself shot.”
The man rose. “Miss, I couldn’t care less where you go in Dublin. Just have the five thousand ready tomorrow at three. If you have any problems, you know the number, but watch yourself. If you lead the Gardai to any of our people I’ll see you done. They don’t cure death in Lourdes.” He left the room.
When she returned to the hotel he was pacing the lobby. “Okay? Is it okay?”
“Not here,” she said. “Upstairs.”
She was grimly quiet in the elevator. As soon as the door to the room was closed, she threw the newspaper at him. “You stupid bastard,” she hissed at him. “Nobody would’ve cared that you’re gone; nobody would’ve cared that I’ve gone; nobody would care if they knew we’d gone together; they’ve no idea who did the bank, and we’ve enough money to blow up the world, but you … you killed your own brother, and now they’re looking for you!”
His eyes were wide. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She picked up the newspaper and shoved it at him. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
He looked at the paper, his jaw slack, his eyes glazed, then he sank down onto a bed.
“Why did you do it?” she demanded, her voice tight. “He would never have done anything to hurt us. Never.”
Denny looked up at her, surprised. “Do it? Do Donal? Me? You must be mad.”
She stared at him blankly. “You didn’t kill him?”
He met her gaze. “I never even touched him. I wouldn’t, Maeve.”
She looked at him and knew he was telling the truth. Her mind was working quickly, now, and it could come to only one conclusion. She sat down next to him on the bed and put her hand on the back of his neck. He was beginning to cry softly. “It’s Mark Robinson, then,” she said. From what the paper said, it was someone who knew what he was doing. Robinson’d know. Nobody else could have had a thing against Donal. Nobody.”
The two of them were quiet for a long time, but for Denny’s sobbing. Finally, he composed himself and took a deep breath. “Maeve,” he sighed, “when we finish the training, I’m going to do Captain Robinson.”
She nodded. “I’ll help you,” she said.