The little red sedan made its way slowly along one of the narrow winding roads to the north of Dingle town. Ellen sat slumped in her seat, exhausted. Father Farrell, evidently quite practiced at hearing confessions, had listened to her full story with a sympathetic ear. She had thought at first that it might be almost too preposterous to tell him. He was, after all, a gentle priest from rural Ireland, a man who had spent the past few years living as a missionary in a tiny African community. What would he know of the world of spies and international intrigue? And how could he help her?
But he soon showed that he was able to understand this sort of thing. “It sounds to me as though you are in very serious trouble,” he told her. “You still have your passport? And the photograph, and the scrap of film?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s fortunate. Because I suspect that film is very valuable, or they would never have gone to so much trouble. You were wise not to go to the police.”
“Perhaps I should go to them now, Father.”
“No, I think not.” He hesitated. “The police in our smaller cities are an unsophisticated lot, Ellen. They’re country folk, and they’re used to dealing with the sort of crimes that occur in villages. Spies and stolen plans are a wee bit over their heads.”
“But they could contact someone—”
“Would they?” He shook his head. “It’s a sad thing for a fellow Irishman to say, but I wouldn’t trust them if I were you. Small-town gardai are traditionally suspicious of foreigners, you see. They would very likely detain you. At best they would order your immediate deportation, probably shipping you back to New York.”
“At least I’d be safe there.”
“Perhaps. But you wouldn’t get much in the way of protection before you were deported, and things could go badly for you. This Clare fellow seems daring and resourceful and quite ruthless. And suppose that you were deported? What do you think your own countrymen would do?”
“I don’t understand.”
He slowed the car to permit a small boy to lead a band of sheep across the road. Then, resuming speed, he said, “Consider how it will look to the American officials. They will find out that you met David Clare at a pub in Dublin, that you consorted willingly with him for several days, that the two of you met again in Dingle. From their point of view, it will look as though you were a willing agent of the spy gang all the way.”
“But that’s insane!”
“Of course it is, child, but will they see it that way? I doubt it. Remember, you were invited to Berlin. Then and only then you decided to come to Ireland, and you met with Clare the very first day in Dublin. It will look like collusion to them, don’t you see? And then they’ll suspect that the two of you had a falling out or that you developed cold feet at the last moment. And that that’s why you turned in the film.”
“What would they do?”
He shrugged. “Different governments operate differently. I suspect at the least they would suspend your passport indefinitely and forbid you to travel. And of course they would put you through a long and grueling interrogation. And meanwhile you would have exposed yourself to a great deal of danger. Do you see what I mean?”
“Yes, but…”
“But what?”
“But I still don’t know what I can do to avoid it. I can’t see David again. He knows now, you see. And I can’t go on to Berlin. I certainly can’t give them the film. I wouldn’t do anything like that!”
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
“Then what can I do?”
He considered this for a moment, guiding the little car through a narrow passage, then heading up a sharp incline toward the peak of a little hill. She reached for a cigarette, then paused to ask him if he minded her smoking. He said that he did not. She lit the cigarette and rolled down the window part way so that the little car would not become thick with smoke.
“Ellen?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking about your situation. I’m not as worldly as I might be, to be sure, but I have traveled a bit. And even a missionary got a taste of the unrest in Africa, the interplay of political forces. So I may be able to advise you and to help you.”
She said nothing.
“The first step is to make you safe from harm. That’s the most important consideration for the time being. You need a place to hide for the night. A place where you can sleep safely while I go back to Dingle and try to learn something more about your situation. I can move around town without arousing suspicions, you see. Clare and his gang would never suspect a black-robed Irish priest of having an interest in their dirty little scheme.”
“It would be dangerous for you.”
“I think not. And with any luck at all I should be able to come up with some sort of solution. Now if there were only a place where you could hide, a sanctuary from the elements…”
Sanctuary. She said, “Gallarus Oratory!”
“What’s that?”
“Gallarus Oratory,” she repeated. “Oh, Miss Trevelyan was there just this morning.” Quickly she described the ancient structure. “Of course, it’s a major tourist attraction, but I don’t think there would be people there at night, do you?”
“I doubt it. Probably few enough there this afternoon, in weather like this.”
“Well, it should be comfortable. It’s watertight after a thousand years, it says so in the guide book. And David would never think of looking for me there.”
“You never mentioned it to him?”
“I can’t remember. I might have said that Miss Trevelyan was going there, but nothing beyond that. He wouldn’t have any idea that I would think to go there. And he wouldn’t suspect that I would go anywhere in a car. I don’t have a car, and I don’t know anyone with a car, so he wouldn’t realize that I would be able to get out of Dingle.”
“It does sound good,” he said. “Do you know how to find it?”
“No. It’s somewhere north of Dingle, but I don’t—”
“There’s a county map in the glove box, I believe. Can you reach it for me?”
She passed him the map. He slowed the car to a stop at the side of the road and unfolded the map, holding it against the steering wheel and studying it intently. “Gallarus Oratory,” he said. “Gallarus Oratory. Well, here’s Dingle, and the roads north—ah, here it is now, Gallarus Oratory. Yes, I should think we can find it with little difficulty.”
“It shouldn’t be far. Miss Trevelyan reached it by bicycle.”
“No, not far at all. We’ve even come in the right direction, though we’ll want to take the next road off to the left.” He refolded the map, and she returned it to the glove compartment. He started the engine and eased the car back onto the road.
She was quick to recognize the oratory. It was just like the picture in Sara Trevelyan’s guide book, and it did look like an inverted rowboat. The state of preservation was remarkable.
The little building was quite deserted. He parked the car, and they walked to the entranceway through the rain. The doorway was just high enough for her to get through without stooping, and Father Farrell had to bend down to get inside. It was dark within, and damp, although air and light filtered through from a deeply splayed loophole window at the rear of the structure. The building was small on the inside, about fifteen feet by ten. The floor was composed of bare earth, packed down hard over the years. She would be quite safe here, she thought. No one would think to look for her here.
“I’ve a blanket in the car,” he said. “I’ll fetch it for you. And my mother packed me a lunch that I never did get around to eating. I think you should be comfortable here.”
She waited. He returned with a heavy blanket and a large brown paper bag. Seeing him, she thought of David that morning, with his own blanket over his arm and their picnic lunch in one hand. She had been so happy then, so very much in love. And only a matter of hours ago.
She felt as though she had lived years since then.
“I think you’ll be comfortable.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“It may get a bit cold.”
“I’ll be all right.”
He spread the blanket on the ground for her. “A remarkable building,” he said. “How old is it, do you happen to know?”
“I’m not sure. Over a thousand years.”
“Extraordinary that a pagan culture could produce such a structure. And just by piling one stone on top of another.” He shook his head in wonder. “I’m sure you’ll be safe here. Does anyone know of your discovery besides David?”
“I assume the other members of his gang. I don’t know how many of them there are.”
“Besides them, I mean. Did you tell the woman everything?”
“Sara Trevelyan? Yes, I did.”
“And anyone else?”
“No. Does it matter?”
“It might,” he said. “I should think that the fewer people who know, the better off you are. I think there may be a way out for you that wouldn’t involve all that trouble with the authorities.” He smiled sadly. “As a priest, perhaps I should advise you to cooperate with the authorities. But the Irish clergy have a long history of opposition to government. We were hunted down like common criminals in the old days, you know. During the Penal Law days, they paid five pounds for the head of a priest, and no questions asked. And after Cromwell came the situation didn’t improve all that much either, from what I’ve heard. So I’m not too great a believer in trusting governmental authority without question. You may be better off avoiding them entirely. You might even have to go on to Berlin as planned.”
“But how could I do that? I can’t let them get the film.”
“There should be a way out. I’ll have to think about it, Ellen. I’m going back to Dingle now. I’ll spend the night there, wander about, see what I can learn. I’ll come by for you in the morning. Do you think you’ll be all right here until then?”
“I’m sure I will.”
“You won’t be nervous, all alone here in the middle of nowhere?”
“No, I’ll be all right.” She swallowed. “I was a lot more nervous in Dingle. I’ll be fine now.”
After he had left, after she could no longer hear the putt-putt of the little red Triumph sedan, she walked to the narrow doorway and looked out at the countryside. Night was coming fast. She wondered, now, how she would be able to stand it. She was exhausted but felt she would be unable to sleep. She had not eaten in hours, and yet the thought of food left her with a weak feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She ran her hands over the thick stone walls of the oratory. One of the most perfect and well-preserved of early-Christian church buildings in Ireland—that was how Sara Trevelyan’s guide book had described it. Now, though, she saw it not as an architectural masterpiece but as a temporary refuge. She might have been moved by the building, coming on it as a tourist, but in her present situation she could not react to it in that fashion. She was grateful for it as a place to hide in, a roof over her head, a secure corner where she could hide and wait for Father Farrell.
It was growing dark. Would animals enter the place at night? At least, she thought, she was safe from snakes. There really weren’t any in Ireland, venomous or otherwise. Not, she had learned, because of the work of good St. Patrick; there had never been snakes in Ireland, as the island had separated from the European land mass before snakes had evolved, and so they had never appeared there.
An interesting fact, she thought, but one that would not do much to help her get through the night. What other animals might come around? She didn’t know; the only sort she had seen in the country were domestic animals, cows and horses and pigs and goats and sheep, wandering at will in the country roads and over the green countryside. She didn’t suppose she had anything to fear from them.
A fire would keep animals away, but how could she build one? There was nothing inside the oratory, no wood, and any wood lying about outside would be far too wet to burn. Besides, she realized, a fire might do more harm than good. It could attract attention, and that was the last thing she wanted.
She walked through near darkness to the blanket Father Farrell had spread out upon the floor for her. She opened the paper bag and examined three thick ham sandwiches. She took a bite of one and chewed it and had trouble swallowing it. She put the sandwiches away and closed the bag.
She stretched out. The ground was very hard. She looked around at darkness. She was tired, so tired…
It was still pitch dark when she awoke, surprised that she had fallen asleep. She was hungry now and ate all three sandwiches. She wished there were something to drink. She went outside. It had stopped raining, but the sky was still fully overcast, with neither the moon nor the stars visible. She wondered what time it was.
Her thoughts kept her company for the next few hours. They were bad companions at best. She thought about David Clare, and how she had felt about him, and what he really was. She was furious with him, angrier still at herself for being so easily taken in.
She cried bitterly, fought against the tears, then gave in and cried some more. She felt more foolish than ever, sitting outside an ancient building in the dark of an Irish night, far from everyone, far from home, crying like a child. But she went on crying, and when the tears stopped she felt somehow better, more sure of herself.
After a while she lay down on the blanket again and slept. She tossed with dreams, all of them bad, and when she awoke a second time it was morning and the sun’s rays swept in through the little doorway. She was hungry again and wished that she had thought to save one of the sandwiches for the morning.
She went outside, into the chilly dawn, holding the blanket around her shoulders. She stood there waiting for Father Farrell, and when she heard the first sounds of an automobile engine she started down the hill toward the road to greet him. Then she realized that it might not be him, that it could in fact be anybody, and she withdrew into the embracing sanctuary of the oratory until the red Triumph came into view.
He brought breakfast—some soft rolls, some cold sausage, a whole quart of milk. After she had eaten they left the oratory and got into his car.
“Some bad news first,” he said. “I’m afraid it confirms all the worst that you’ve thought about Clare. That woman you’d spoken with…”
“Sara Trevelyan?”
He nodded. “There was an auto accident in town. A woman was struck down by a car—”
“Oh, no!”
“I’m afraid it’s true. The woman was Miss Trevelyan, and it seems she was killed instantly. Hit-and-run, of course; the police have no clue to the driver.” He shook his head sadly. “They assume it was an accident. You and I know better. It seems evident that the poor woman was purposely and deliberately murdered and that your David Clare had a hand in it.”
“That’s—that’s horrid! Why would he…”
“You spoke to her. He must have known it. His kind don’t like to leave witnesses alive, I understand. And so he killed her. He’s probably killed before, and one murder more or less…”
She hardly listened to the priest’s words. It was almost impossible to believe that the gentle retired schoolteacher from Cornwall was dead. She had been so intensely alive, so young and vital in spite of her years, that it seemed incredible that she could be dead.
And the thought of David’s doing the deed, of David at the wheel of a speeding car, bearing down on the woman, the car’s bumper hurtling into her, lifting her up, hurling her forward…
She could not bear to think of it.
David. She saw now that she had all along been hoping against hope that somehow she could have made a mistake, that he was innocent. In spite of everything, a portion of her mind had still loved him in a way, had still hoped to find him vindicated. She had never been entirely able to believe that he was what he now appeared to be, a spy and a killer.
But it was true. Already an innocent person had been sacrificed to him. And he would kill her just as easily, just as dispassionately.
“I’ve come up with a plan,” Father Farrell was saying. “I’ve had all night to work it out, and I think it may go fairly well. You see, it’s necessary for you to get away from here as quickly as you possibly can. And it’s also absolutely necessary for you to avoid contact with the authorities. But at the same time you don’t want to be giving aid of any sort to Clare and his crew of villains. I think I’ve found an answer.”
“What?”
“I’ll drive you to Shannon. I’ll stay with you there, keep you out of sight until it’s time for your plane to leave. You’ll get on your flight to Berlin right on schedule.”
“But…”
“What could be simpler? While you’re in the air, I’ll return to Dingle. I’m sure I can contrive to have Clare arrested, at least detained for the time being. After all, I’m an Irish priest, and he’s a foreigner. I can invent some excuse, I’m sure. Say that he tried to pick my pocket. Accuse him of public blasphemy.” His eyes twinkled. “Almost any excuse will do, actually. It’s a far cry from the days when Priests were hunted for sport. The authorities are Irish now, and they listen when we speak. I won’t have to put Clare away for any great length of time. Just long enough so that you can get to Berlin before he gets in touch with his colleagues over there.”
“And then?”
“Then they’ll have no way to know that the plans are changed. They’ll snatch your passport one way or another, according to plan. They’ll open it up and take out the scrap of film and find a way to return the passport to you. You’ll do your part in the Berlin folk festival, receive a full measure of applause, no doubt, and then find your way back to New York.” His eyes narrowed. “I fear you’ll take bad memories of Ireland with you. But I hope they’ll fade in time and that you’ll remember the good things about our nation and forget the bad.”
She thought for a moment. “There’s one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, I can’t really pass on the information, can I? I mean, I wouldn’t want to be a part of their spying. Don’t you see?”
“Of course I see. And you won’t.”
“But…”
From a pocket he drew forth a small scrap of film similar in appearance to the one she had found beneath her passport photograph. “Just ordinary film,” he announced. “But at first glance it looks quite like that devilish item from your passport. Of course, once they examine it through a viewer they’ll know a mistake’s been made, but even then they won’t expect you’ve had anything to do with it. And in the meantime I’ll forward the real microfilm to the American authorities. Anonymously, of course.” He chuckled. “When the men in Berlin realize they’ve been had, it won’t be you who comes in for their fire. They’ll suspect Clare has done them out of the goods, and they’ll probably come gunning for him. So you’ll be entirely in the clear, and no one will ever connect you with what has happened.”
“I see.”
“I think it’s a good plan, Ellen. Of course, I’ve not had much experience in this sort of thing, but I do think it might work.”
“Yes,” she said. “It might.”
“There’s no other way. You have to go to Berlin or you’ll arouse suspicion. And you have to stay away from Clare. And of course, if there’s nothing in your passport when you get to Berlin…”
“Yes. I understand.”
“I brought a tube of glue,” he said. “Let me have the passport and photo and all.” She gave them to him. “And the piece of film,” he added. “I’ll want to get that to the right people.”
She gave him the film, and he opened up the passport and went to work on it. “You might get the blanket from the building. And pick up any papers left behind.”
“I forgot all about that.”
She hurried back to the oratory, folded the blanket carefully, picked up the debris from last night’s dinner and this morning’s breakfast, stuffed everything into a paper bag, and carried the bag and blanket to the car. He opened the trunk and put everything inside, then handed her passport to her. “All set,” he said. “I have the other piece of film, I’ll take care of it. And I suspect it’s time the two of us got started for Shannon. We’ll take the northern route across the peninsula to Tralee. If he’s thought to set up a roadblock, he’ll have blocked the southern road. That’s the more usual route, the one your bus took coming to Dingle. From Tralee we’ll drive straight to Shannon.”
“You could leave me in Tralee. I could take a bus…”
He touched her hand. “No chance of that,” he said. “You’re in trouble, and I’m going to help you get out of it. I’m on vacation, remember. My time is my own.” His lips narrowed. “I can’t think of a better way to spend it.”