‘Right, Miss Heather Dare. No door opening, except at my knock; and no answering of the telephone. I won’t be long.’
Downstairs, Bond went into the bar and bought a vodka and tonic, offering an English ten pound note. The change came entirely in Irish money, as though there were no difference in the rate of exchange, so he persuaded the barman to give him three pounds’ worth of ten pence pieces to feed one of the telephone boxes in the foyer.
He took his time checking the bar, coffee shop and foyer, even walking into that odd well, furnished with black imitation leather seats, that occupied most of the foyer like some kind of bunker. There was nobody there who raised his suspicions. Not a smell, nothing untoward, as his old friend Inspector Murray would have said. When he was absolutely certain, he went over to the telephones near the door, looked up the Ashford Castle Hotel in the directory and dialled the number.
‘I’d like to speak to one of your guests, Miss Larke,’ he told the distant switchboard operator. ‘Miss Elizabeth Larke.’
‘Just one moment.’ There was a click on the line, then she said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, Miss Larke checked out.’
‘When? I’m really calling for a friend who was to meet her at your hotel, a Miss Sharke, S-h-a-r-k-e. There wouldn’t be a message left for her?’
‘I’ll have to put you through to Reception.’
There was a short pause then another voice announced, ‘Reception.’
Bond repeated his question. Yes, Miss Larke had left a message to say she had gone on ahead.
‘You don’t know where?’ Bond asked.
‘It’s a Dublin address.’ The girl paused as though uncertain whether she should give it. She relented and rattled off Ebbie’s Dublin address near Fitzwilliam Square.
Bond thanked her, rang off and then dialled the Garda Special Branch number in Dublin Castle.
‘Jacko again, Norman,’ he said when Murray came on the line.
‘You just caught me. I was getting out early. Hang on a minute.’ The minute stretched a little. Murray was putting a trace on the call.
‘Right, man. I wanted a word with you anyway.’
‘That you’ll get, probably tomorrow, Norman. One question: do you think the boys in Mayo will have finished with Miss Larke – the guest who was so kind with her raincoat?’
Another pause: one, two, three. Murray was holding on to give the engineers time.
‘Well?’ prompted Bond.
‘I suppose so, if they had her forwarding address. I spoke to the Super in charge of the case. She was no suspect; as gentle as a lamb, he said. Lamb and Larke, eh?’ he said with an explosion of laughter.
‘Thanks, Norman.’
Bond quickly put down the telephone. Murray knew him as Jacko B on an official basis. The name had been Bond’s telephone crypto for the Republic of Ireland – his ‘blower name’ as old hands called it – for a long time. In fact, he thought, it must be wearing thin now, but nobody had thought of changing it. They had worked together a couple of times, and Murray had no illusions about the Service he was dealing with when Jacko B contacted him. They had an edgy, suspicious, though firmly defined relationship. In all probability Murray would, after three conversations and having no idea of his whereabouts, be on to the Resident at the Embassy in Merrion Road.
It was not yet midnight, but Big Mick was never very far away from a telephone. Piling the loose change on top of the public telephone, Bond dialled the number. Mick answered straight away.
Once the bona fides were established, he said, ‘I have the cars and the men. Just give me the details, Jacko.’
Bond gave him the number of the hire car, then said, ‘Around ten, maybe ten-thirty, tomorrow, you should pick us up near the Green. We’ll have parked and be walking up from Grafton Street. What have you got, Mick?’
‘A maroon Volvo, a dark blue Audi and an old Cortina, duncoloured, with plenty of go under the bonnet. Where are we going and how do you want us?’
‘We’ll be taking the direct route to Rosslare. I want one of you well ahead, let’s say the Cortina, with the Volvo and Audi close to me. Box me in if you can, Mick. Don’t make it too tight, nothing out of the ordinary. Flash me if we have any persistent company. Flash twice if you see a dark complexioned man with close-cropped hair and a square face who struts rather than walks . . .’
‘He won’t be doin’ much strutting in a motor.’ Big Mick sounded caustic.
‘He’s military; Germanic. That’s the only description I can give you,’ Bond said wearily, realising that a word picture of Maxim Smolin was not the easiest thing to produce over the telephone. He had seen the man only once, in Paris about three years ago; seen him once and been through his file a dozen times. There were seven covert photographs in the file but they did not help. Dragging his thoughts back to Big Mick Shean, Bond said, ‘See you tomorrow, and thanks, Mick. Will money from the usual place be okay?’
‘You’re a gentleman, Jack. Tomorrow, then.’
He cradled the telephone and was about to go up to the room again when he thought of one more chore. Perhaps he was being over-cautious, but he could not help feeling most uneasy. On the way to the elevator he paused by the internal guest telephone and dialled their room number. He frowned as he heard the engaged tone. Heather had disobeyed him and the knowledge added to his present anxiety. When he reached the bedroom, Bond gave the Morse Code V knock twice, quickly. The door opened, and a pink and white figure scampered back to the bed. He closed the door, put on the chain and turned to look at her, lying there with a half smile on her face. On the bedside table the telephone was off the hook. He nodded towards it.
‘Oh.’ She smiled more widely, moving from under the bedclothes so that they dropped back, revealing a bare arm, shoulder and part of one breast. ‘I’m terrible with telephones, James. I can’t stand not answering them, so I took it off the hook.’ She replaced the instrument and looked at him from the bed, the sheet and blankets falling to reveal both breasts. ‘If you want to sleep here, James, I wouldn’t complain.’
She looked so vulnerable that it took a great deal of will power for Bond to refuse the offer.
‘You’re a sweet girl, Heather, and I’m flattered. Exhausted, but flattered, and tomorrow’s another day. It’ll be a tough old day as well.’
‘I just feel so . . . so alone and bloody miserable.’ And, with that, Heather turned over, pushed her head into the pillow and pulled the sheets up.
Bond quietly removed one of the spare pillows from the bed, and took off his jacket and trousers. He wrapped himself in the short silk robe from his getaway case and then in a blanket he found in the wardrobe. Then he literally stretched himself across the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the butt of his automatic pistol.
Eventually he drifted into sleep.
Suddenly he woke with a start. It was five o’clock and someone was gently trying the handle of the door.
6
BASILISK
Silently, James Bond rolled out of his blanket, drawing the pistol as he did so. The door handle turned slowly, then stopped, but by that time Bond was at Heather’s side of the bed, shaking her naked shoulder with his gun hand. The other he pressed gently over her mouth. She made small grunting noises as he bent low and whispered that they had company, that she should keep silent and get on to the floor, out of sight. She nodded and he took his hand away. He returned to the door, keeping to one side. More than once he had seen what bullets could do to people through doors. Gingerly he slipped the chain, then, standing well back, sharply pulled the door open.