They boarded Flight EI 177 separately and sat three rows apart, not joining up again until they had gone through the green customs channel at Dublin airport an hour later. Outside it was raining and dark, but Bond felt quite ready for the lengthy drive to County Mayo. While Heather went off to see if the main airport shop was open, where she could buy clothes, Bond hired a car at the rental desk. They had a Saab available – his preference as a Bentley Turbo was out of the question – and he filled in the necessary forms, using his Boldman licence and credit card. A red-uniformed girl smiled like a true Irish colleen and had just told him she would take him down to the car when he turned to see Heather a few yards away, leaning against a pillar. She looked stunned, her face chalk white. As Bond came up to her, he saw a copy of the Dublin Evening Press in her hand.
‘What is it, Heather old love?’ He spoke gently.
‘Ebbie,’ she whispered. ‘Look.’ She raised the newspaper for him to see the headlines. ‘It must be Ebbie. The bastards.’
Bond felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. In bold print, two inches high, the headlines shouted, GIRL BATTERED TO DEATH AND MULTILATED IN HOTEL GROUNDS. He scanned the report. Yes, it was the Ashford Castle Hotel in County Mayo, and the girl, who was unidentified, had been battered to death. Part of her body had been mutilated. Yes, Bond thought, it had to be number three – Ebbie Heritage, or Emilie Nikolas. Smolin, if indeed it was Colonel Maxim Smolin behind the murders, must have two teams operating. As he glanced at the trembling Heather, Bond knew they were not safe anywhere.
‘We’ll have to move fast,’ he told her softly. ‘Now, follow that nice girl in the red uniform.’
5
JACKO B
It was not merely what in Ireland is called ‘soft weather’. The rain lashed against the windscreen so that the tail lights of other vehicles were barely visible. Bond drove with excessive care while Heather sat hunched next to him, crying.
‘It’s my fault . . . three of them gone . . . Ebbie now. Oh, Christ, James . . .’
‘It’s not your fault. Get that out of your head,’ he said, but he understood how she felt, having heard the whole story from her in her office only a few hours ago.
With the news of another violent death spread over the front page of the Evening Press, Bond knew it would be folly to head straight for Ashford Castle. He turned on to the airport exit road, was narrowly missed by a battered yellow Cortina with a wire coathanger for an aerial, and then turned off before reaching the main road which runs into Dublin from the north. There was a sign to the International Airport Hotel, and he knew the place well. He parked the car near the hotel entrance and looked at Heather.
‘Stop crying.’ It was a quiet command, not ruthless or uncaring, but a command nevertheless. ‘Stop crying and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.’
At that moment, if asked he would not have been able to tell anyone what he expected to do, but he needed Heather’s confidence and co-operation. She sniffed and looked at him with red eyes.
‘What can we do, James?’
‘First we’re going to book into this hotel, just for the night. I’m not taking advantage of the situation, Heather, but we’ll have to book one room. One room, and I lie on a sofa pulled across the door. We are Mr and Mrs Boldman. I’m taking a double room only for your protection. All right?’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘Then do something with your face and we’ll go in looking like an ordinary English couple – or maybe an Irish couple, depending on what sort of voice I’m in.’
Inside, Bond managed a soft Dublin accent. He booked the room, commenting on the weather to the somewhat straitlaced girl at the reception desk.
The room was comfortable, but without frills; a one-night stopover place. Heather flopped on to the bed. She was no longer crying but looked tired and frightened.
Meanwhile, Bond had made some quick decisions. M had pushed him towards this job and underlined that he had no official status, but he had his own contacts, even here in the Republic of Ireland. As long as he did not cross lines with the Embassy, he saw no reason for not taking advantage of them.
‘We’ll get food shortly,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, why don’t you freshen up in the bathroom while I make a couple of calls.’
Even if Smolin was after them, with the entire HVA, GRU and KGB backing him up, it was unlikely the telephones of the International Airport Hotel had an intercept on them. Dredging his memory, Bond dialled a local number and was answered after three rings by a woman who did not give the number.
‘Is Inspector Murray in?’ Bond asked, still using the Dublin accent.
‘Who wants him?’
‘One of his lads, tell him. He’ll be knowing when he speaks.’
She made no comment, and a few seconds later he heard the deep voice of Inspector Norman Murray of the Garda’s Special Branch.
‘Norman, Jacko B here.’
‘Oh? Jacko is it? And where are you, Jacko?’
‘Not over the water, Norman.’
‘Lord love you, what the hell are you doing here, then? Not mischief, I hope – and why didn’t I know you were in the country?’
‘Because I didn’t advertise. No, not mischief, Norman. How’s the charming Mrs Murray?’
‘Bonny. Rushing around all day and playing squash half the night. She’d be sending her love to you if she knew we’d talked.’
‘Don’t think she should know.’
‘Then you are on mischief. Official mischief?’
‘Not so you’d notice, if you follow me.’
‘I follow you.’
‘You owe me, Norman.’
‘That I know, Jacko. Only too well. What can I do for you?’ There was a slight pause. ‘Unofficially, of course.’
‘For starters, the Ashford Castle business.’
‘Oh Jasus, that’s not in our court, is it?’
‘Could be. Even then, it would be unofficial. Have they identified the girl yet?’
‘I can find out. Ring you back, shall I?’
‘I’ll call you, Norman. You’re there for the next hour or so?’
‘You’ll get me here. I’ll be home after midnight. I drew the late shift this week, but the wife’s out with her squash pals.’
‘You hope.’
‘Away with you, Jacko. Call me back in ten or fifteen minutes. Okay?’
‘Thanks.’ Bond quickly rang off, praying that Murray would not run a check with the Embassy. You could never be sure how Branch people would react, either side of the water. He dialled another number. This time a jaunty yet oddly guarded voice answered.
‘Mick?’ Bond asked.
‘Which Mick would you be wanting?’
‘Big Mick. Tell him it’s Jacko B.’
‘Jacko, you rogue,’ the voice roared at the other end of the line, ‘where are you then? I’ll bet you’ll be after sitting in some smart hotel with the prettiest girl any red-blooded man would fancy right there on your knee.’
‘Not on my knee, Mick. But there is a pretty girl.’ He glanced up as Heather came out of the bathroom, her face scrubbed. ‘A very pretty girl,’ he added for Heather’s benefit. She did not smile, but grabbed her handbag and retreated into the bathroom again.
‘There, what did I tell you?’ Big Mick’s voice gave a great guffaw. ‘And if there’s a woman in the picture, Jacko B, then there’s trouble, or I don’t know you at all.’
‘Could be, Mick. Just could be.’
‘What can I do for you, Jacko?’
‘Are you in work, Mick?’
He gave another hearty laugh. ‘Sort o’ in and out. This and that, if you know what I mean.’