MAEVE SAT in the June sunshine in the garden of a country pub west of London, reading the London Evening Standard:.
DUBLIN POLICE IN MAJOR COUP AGAINST PROVOS
Dublin police last night shot and killed six members of a Provisional IRA splinter group styling itself the “Irish Freedom Brigade, “ in a raid on a South Dublin house. The leader of the group, Michael Pearce, was thought to have taken his own life as police closed in.
The piece ran on, with a fairly accurate summary of the group’s activities over the past two years, not excluding her and Denny’s exploits. She had become quite used to news stories about the “Red Nun.” The English tabloids had had a field day when she had finally been identified. They had run photographs of her in habit and had even dug up her school pictures. Fortunately, there had been no recent likenesses available. They had identified Denny, too, but had not been able to come up with a photograph. The police artists’ impressions had not been accurate enough to hurt. She handed the newspaper back to Denny. “Just as well,” she said. “We’re lucky to have them off our backs. Now we can join up with our comrades in Europe.”
Denny shook his head. “I don’t know, Maeve. We’re low on just about everything in the way of matériel, except what’s in the caravan in Plymouth. Money, too. We’re going to have to do another bank, soon, and they’re getting tougher.” He looked terrible, she thought. He almost certainly had an ulcer; he had been living on stomach remedies for weeks. “I wouldn’t want to try getting through a ferryport or an airport just at the moment, either,” he said. Their last job had been only two days before, in Liverpool, and the country was very hot, now. “Besides, we’ve still got Robinson to do.” Denny was still smarting from the fiasco with Red O’Mahoney. They had made port in Oysterhaven, but the boat had sunk at dockside. Red had been badly burned.
“I know,” she said. “We’ll do that, no matter what. Maybe the curate will have something for us. Maybe that’s why he wanted this meeting.” They had not often seen the curate since their meeting at the London pub; most of their dealings had been over the telephone network.
At that moment he entered the garden from the pub. He walked straight over and sat down heavily at their table. Maeve thought he looked a bit drunk; his entrance had certainly been incautious.
“So?” she said.
“You’ve read the papers?” he said.
“Of course.”
“We’re done, then. There’s no one even to contact.”
Maeve tensed. “You’ve no other network on this side?”
He shook his head. “None. Michael was my only contact.”
It was the only time he’d ever referred to Michael Pearce as anything but the monsignor. “Michael Pearce was your brother, wasn’t he?” He had hinted as much when he assigned the curate as their contact.
Pearce nodded. “Yes. He was a brave man, Michael. Didn’t let the bastards take him alive.”
“So what resources do you have, now?” she asked quietly.
He looked at her, surprised. “None. Oh, I’ve a bit of money in a London savings bank, but I can’t touch it, now, not with them after me.”
“Why would they be after you?” Maeve asked, starting to worry.
“Oh, nothing about the cause, at least I don’t think so. Another thing entirely. Some books I cooked.”
Maeve exchanged glances with Denny, and they both began looking about the pub as casually as possible. “I think we’d better leave here. How did you come?”
“Train to the station and a taxi.”
They got up and moved without hurrying to the car. They put Patrick Pearce into the front seat next to Maeve, who drove. She turned down the first lane they came to and drove toward a grove of trees.
“Where are we going?” Pearce asked, suddenly taking note of his surroundings.
“We’ve got some gear buried down in the trees, there,” Maeve said smoothly. She met Denny’s eyes in the rear view mirror. He nodded. They couldn’t have anything further to do with this fool, who could easily have brought the police down on them with this stupid meeting.
She parked in the trees. “This way,” she said, striking out along a footpath. Pearce nodded, but he looked very tense, she thought. Oh, well, in a few minutes he would be relaxed. Pearce followed her, with Denny bringing up the rear. A dozen yards along the path she heard a grunt, followed quickly by a gargling sound. She turned, relieved that it was over. Then she threw herself sideways into some brush, clawing at her handbag. Denny was standing in the path, both hands to his throat, trying to stem a pulsing stream of blood. Pearce was coming toward her with a knife.
She had her hand in the pocketbook, but the gun was catching on the lining. She shot him twice in the face, right through the bag. He fell down beside her in the brush, rolled halfway over, and died. She leapt to her feet and ran for Denny. He was on his knees, now, in a muddy puddle of his own blood. He was trying to say something, but the wind was not getting past the bubbling slash in his throat. He was mouthing something. She knew what it was. His lips were repeatedly forming one word, “Robinson.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, then dodged out of his way as he fell forward on his face. She couldn’t be covered with his blood, she stepped carefully around the puddle on the way to the car.
In the village she quickly found the station and a phone box. She dialed a Cork number; it answered and the beeps started; she fed the machine all the ten-pence pieces she had, and the beeping stopped.
“Yes?”
“This is Sister Concepta.”
“You don’t sound well.”
“The priest and the curate have just given each other the last rites.”
There was a silence. “Don’t give me any details, now,” he said. “You know about the Dublin parish.”
“Yes.”
“There won’t be any more postings from there, nor from here. I’m shutting down the diocese.”
“I understand.”
“What are your plans?”
“I expect I’ll apply to an order on the continent when I’m finished here.”
“Finished?”
“You’ll recall that one major sinner remains that we have not ministered to.”
He was silent again. “I remember,” he said, finally. “You know where he is, of course.”
“It was all over Sunday’s Observer.”
“I think we’d better perform this particular ritual together,” he said.
She brightened. “I could certainly use assistance.”
“Do you have the matériel?”
“Yes, the caravan and a car are stored at a garage in the city in question.”
“Good. Can you be there by six tomorrow evening?”
“No problem.”
“I’ll get the afternoon plane. I’ll meet you at the main station at six. The event doesn’t begin until Saturday. That’ll give us thirty-six hours to plan.”
“That should be plenty.”
“Until we meet, then.”
“Yes.” She hung up and leaned against the wall, relieved. She wouldn’t be alone in this after all. She would have the support of the leader who had brought her into this. A train pulled into the station, pointing west. She ran for the ticket kiosk.