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‘Jacko? Hallo there.’

Even in the light from the corridor, he recognised Inspector Murray’s tall frame and the smiling shrewd face peering into the room.

‘What the hell!’

Bond stepped behind him. In one fast movement he shut the door and snapped the lights on, pushing the Garda Special Branch man just hard enough to put him off balance. Murray stumbled forward, grabbing for the bed, but Bond had him in a neck choke, the ASP’s muzzle just behind the policeman’s right ear.

‘What are you playing at, Norman? You’ll get yourself killed creeping about like that. Or have you got an armed posse surrounding the hotel?’

‘Hold it, Jacko! Hold it! I come in peace – alone and unofficial.’

Heather slowly appeared from the other side of the bed, her frightened eyes looking straight into the Inspector’s merry face.

‘Ah,’ he said, his mouth splitting into a friendly smile as Bond slightly relaxed his grip, ‘ah, and this would be Miss Arlington, would it, Mr Boldman? Or shall I call you Jacko B?’

Keeping the pistol close to Murray’s head, Bond released him from the choke. With his free hand he found the Garda issue Walther PPK in a hip holster. He removed the gun, sliding it well out of reach across the floor.

‘For a man of peace, you come well prepared, Norman.’

‘Oh, come on Jacko, I have to carry the cannon. You’re knowing that as well as I – and what’s a wee gun between friends?’

‘It could be death.’ Bond sounded cynical. ‘You knew I was here all the time then? And Miss Arlington?’

‘Ach, man, of course. But I kept it to myself. We just happen to have a red alert on at the moment and your face came up at the airport. Lucky I was on duty at the Castle when it came in on the Fax. I telephoned the Brits’ chief spook, old Grimshawe, at Merrion Road and asked if he had any extra bodies over here, or if he expected any. Grimshawe tells me the truth. We work better that way. It saves a lot of time. He said no spooks and no extra-curricular activities, so I believed him. Then you rang me, and I got interested.’ His eyes twinkled as he turned back towards Heather. ‘You wouldn’t be Miss Larke’s friend, Miss Sharke, would you, dear?’

‘What?’ Heather’s mouth hung open.

‘Because if you are, then it’s bloody bad security, and not up to the standards we’ve come to know and love. Names like Larke and Sharke attract attention. They’re stupid, which we are not.’

Bond stepped back. ‘Mark him well, dear, stupid he is not,’ he said, mimicking Murray’s accent, which was more lowland Scots than Dublin. As he always said, ‘I was born in the North, educated in the South, take my holidays in Scotland or Spain and work in the Republic. I don’t feel at home anywhere.’

‘It was rather stupid, Norman, to come trying my door handle at this time of night.’

‘And when else should I try it? Not in broad daylight, when I have to account for every movement I make.’

‘You could have knocked.’

‘I was going to knock, Jacko. Another thirty seconds and I’d have knocked. Tap, tap, bloody tap.’

The men looked at each other, neither believing the other.

‘I’m not here for the fun of it.’ Inspector Murray produced his cheerful smile. ‘I’m here because I owe you in a big way, Jacko, and I always repay.’

That was true. Four years ago, Bond had saved Murray’s life just on the Republic’s side of the border, not far from Crossmaglen; but that incident would remain buried in the secret archives of Bond’s Service.

Heather pulled the clothes off the bed, wrapping them around her and trying to pat her hair into shape at the same time. It was an interesting and revealing series of movements which had both men gazing at her in silence. When she was decent, Murray sat himself on the bed, swivelling his body in a vain attempt to watch both Bond and Heather at the same time.

‘Look, girl,’ he said, ‘Jacko will tell you that you can be trusting me.’

‘Don’t even think about trust, Miss Arlington.’ Bond’s face remained impassive.

Murray sighed. ‘All right. I’ll just be giving you the facts. Then I can get home to a cup of cocoa and my sleep.’

They sat as though staring each other out. Finally Murray spoke again.

‘Your Miss Larke, now – the one that lent the poor young girl her coat and scarf . . .’

‘What . . .’ Heather began, but Bond shook his head imperceptibly, signalling that she should not react.

‘Well, your Miss Larke appears to have gone to earth, as they say of foxes.’

‘You mean she’s not . . . ?’ Heather began again.

‘Shut up!’ snapped Bond.

‘My God, Jacko, can’t you be the masterful one when you’ve a mind?’ Murray grinned, took a breath, then started to speak again. ‘There was a Dublin address.’ He looked around, first at Heather and then at Bond, his face a picture of innocence. ‘A nice little address in Fitzwilliam Square.’ He waited but received no comment so with a shrug continued: ‘Well, as they would say in London, somebody’s gone and turned over the drum.’

‘You mean this Dublin address given by someone called Larke?’ Bond asked.

‘Whose name is not Larke, I suspect, but Heritage. Ebbie Heritage.’

‘This woman, Larke or Heritage . . .’ said Bond.

‘Ach come on, Jacko, don’t play the goat with me. You know bloody well, if you’ll pardon me Miss . . . er . . . Sharke?’

‘Arlington,’ said Heather decidedly. She seemed at last to have got herself under control.

‘Yes.’ Murray clearly did not believe a syllable of the name. ‘I’ve told you, the address provided by Miss Larke really belongs to a Miss Heritage. Both are missing. The apartment in Fitzwilliam Square’s been done over.’

‘Was it burglary? Vandalism?’ asked Bond curtly.

‘Oh, a bit of both. It’s one hell of a mess. I’d say a professional job dressed up to look like enthusiastic amateurs. The interesting thing is that there’s not a single piece of correspondence in the place. They even ripped up floorboards. Now what d’you think of that?’

‘You’ve come out here at dawn just to tell me this?’

‘Well, you showed interest in the Ashford Castle business. I thought you should know. Besides, me knowing what kind of work you’re engaged in, I thought there was something else I should put your way.’

Bond nodded for Murray to continue.

‘Did you ever hear of a fella called Smolin?’ Murray asked with supreme disinterest. ‘Maxim Smolin. Our branch in London, and I presume the people you work for as well, have him under the stupid code name of Basilisk.’

‘Mmm,’ Bond grunted.

‘You want this joker’s life history, or do you know it already, Jacko?’

Bond smiled. ‘Okay, Norm . . .’

‘And don’t you be after calling me Norm, either, or I’ll have you in the Bridewell on some trumped-up charge that’ll ban you from the Republic for life.’

‘Okay, Norman. Maxim Anton Smolin; born 1946 in Berlin of a German lady, Christina von Geshmann, by a Soviet General, called Smolin, whose mistress she was at the time. Alexei Alexeiovich Smolin. Young Smolin took his father’s name but his mother’s nationality. He was educated in Berlin and Moscow. His mother died when he was only a couple of years old. Is that your man, Norman?’

‘Go on.’

‘He entered the military via one of those nice Russian schools; I forget which one. It could have been the 13th Army. Anyway, he was commissioned young, then sent to the Spetsnaz Training Centre – for the lite, if you like that kind of élite killer. Young Maxim found his way by invitation into the most secret arm of the Military Intelligence, the GRU. That’s the only way you get into the GRU, unlike the KGB who’ll take you off the streets if you make them an offer. From there by a series of postings, Smolin came back to East Berlin. And he returned as a highranking field officer of the HVA, the East German Intelligence Service.