No Deals, Mr. Bond

by John Gardner

  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.’

  Bond knew what he meant. He had known Big Mick Shean for the best part of fifteen years, and while the Irishman walked a slender tightrope as far as the law was concerned, Bond had a dozen reasons to trust him, and any one of his companions, with his life. Bond had trained him in certain crafts such as back-watching, on-the-ground surveillance and losing a tail.

  ‘Would you have any clean wheels, Mick?’ He knew that if Big Mick did not have a car he could soon get one.

  ‘I might have.’

  ‘You’ll need maybe three, with a couple of fellas to each.’

  There was only a short pause, half-a-beat too long.

  ‘Six fellas and three sets of wheels. What’s in it?’

  ‘A couple of days’ work. Usual rates.’

  ‘Cash?’

  ‘Cash.’

  ‘And danger money?’

  ‘If there’s danger.’

  ‘With fellas like you there’s always danger, Jacko. What’s the deal?’

  ‘Straight and true as a dog’s hind leg. I might be needing you to look after me and the girl – at a distance.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Probably in the morning. As I say, two days, maybe three.’

  ‘Give us a ring about midnight, Jacko. If it’s you, the cars have to be respectable . . .’

  ‘And reliable.’

  ‘I was just going to say that, so.’

  ‘We want a nice little country drive, that’s all.’

  Big Mick appeared to hesitate again. His voice had dropped and was serious when he next spoke. ‘It’s not to go into the North at all, Jacko, is it?’

  ‘The opposite direction entirely, Mick. No worries on that score.’

  ‘Lord love you, Jacko. We don’t do politicals, if you follow me.’

  ‘I’ll call back around midnight.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Bond cradled the telephone just as Heather came out of the bathroom again. She had repaired her face and her hair was now perfect. He smiled at her warmly.

  ‘What a pity, you look so good, Heather.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Because I’d like to take you out to dinner. Dublin boasts some excellent restaurants. Unfortunately . . .’

  ‘We daren’t show our faces.’

  ‘No. I fear it’ll have to be sandwiches and coffee here in the room. What would you like?’

  ‘Could we have a bottle of wine instead of coffee?’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  He called
room service and discovered they had smoked salmon sandwiches, which he ordered with the best bottle of Chablis on the list. He also retrieved the baton and his gun from the getaway case. He didn’t intend being caught by the oldest trick in the book, a substitute for the waiter bringing their order – one of the few details they got right in bad movies. Before the waiter arrived, he picked up the telephone again and dialled Inspector Murray as he had promised. The call was short. He knew exactly how long it would take Murray to get a trace on his number and so pinpoint him at the International Airport Hotel. In the field you never trust anybody.

  ‘Norman? Jacko. You have anything?’

  ‘It’ll be in the morning papers, Jacko. But there’s something else I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘Just give me what’s going in the papers.’

  ‘Local girl, Jacko. No form. Part-time chambermaid, name of Betty-Anne Mulligan.’

  ‘Ah. They got any ideas down there?’

  ‘None at all. Good girl. Twenty-two years. No current boyfriends. Family’s cut up no end.’

  ‘And the mutilation?’

  ‘I think you know, Jacko. You’ve had a couple on your side of the water. Betty-Anne Mulligan’s head was bashed in and she had not a tongue in her mouth. Removed after death. It was very professional they tell me.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Only the clothes she was wearing. The raincoat and headscarf.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Not hers, Jacko me boy, not hers. They belonged to a guest at the hotel. It was a lovely bright day when Betty-Anne went in to work. The rains came mid-afternoon and she had a long walk home. Two miles and no coat or covering for her head. A guest took pity on her . . .’

  ‘What name?’

  ‘Miss Elizabeth Larke – with an e, Jacko. Would you be knowing anything about that?’

  ‘No,’ Bond answered honestly, ‘but I might by tomorrow. If I do I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘Good man, now . . .’

  Bond had been looking constantly at his watch. He had about thirty seconds before he might be traced.

  ‘No, Norman. There’s no time. Your questions will have to wait. Will the guest’s name be in the papers?’

  ‘It will not. Neither will the news about the tongue.’

  ‘Good. Oh, and Norman, this is completely unofficial. I’ll be in touch.’

  He heard Murray exclaim, ‘Jacko . . .’ as he rang off. For a full minute he sat looking at the telephone, then the waiter knocked at the door, interrupting his thoughts.

  ‘Heather, did you often have meetings with Ebbie? I think I asked you before, but I need more details.’

  They ate the sandwiches, and drank a ’78 Chablis. It was a good year but vastly overpriced. Heather held out her glass for more.

  ‘We met two or three times a year.’

  ‘And observed the field rules?’

  ‘Yes. We were very careful. We booked hotels under names we concocted . . .’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘She was always Elizabeth. I was Hetty. Our surnames were birds and fish. She was a bird, I was a fish.’

  ‘Ah. Did you keep a list?’

  ‘No. Each time we met we arranged the name for the next meeting.’ She laughed, a jolly, almost schoolgirl laugh. ‘Ebbie and I were very close. She was the best friend I ever had. In my time I’ve been Miss Sole, Miss Salmon, Miss Crabbe. We changed the spelling slightly, as in Miss Pyke, spelled with a y.’

  ‘And what are you this time?’

  ‘You’ve made me Miss Arlington, but I would have gone as Hetty Sharke, with an e.’

  ‘What about the bird?’

  Her eyes brimmed, and he thought she was about to break down again so he told her gently to take her time. She nodded, gulped and tried to talk. Then she had another go and managed to speak in a small voice.

  ‘Oh, we laughed a lot. She’s been Elizabeth Sparrow, Wren, Jay, Hawke, with an e.’

  ‘And this time?’

  ‘Larke.’

  ‘With an e, naturally.’

  ‘Yes.’ So Miss Larke, safely staying at the Ashford Castle Hotel, was Ebbie Heritage. Had she just been kind, lending the poor little chambermaid her raincoat and scarf, or had she spotted someone, and if so would she now get out fast?

  ‘Did you have a fallback if anything went wrong?’

  Heather nodded. ‘Every time. But this was an emergency. We made plans for something like this the first time we met after our rehabilitation. If anything went wrong, or I didn’t show, she was to have gone to Rosslare, to the big hotel that looks over the harbour, the Great Southern. That was in case we had to make a dash for it on the ferry. But, now . . .’ She trailed off, the tears close again.

  Bond looked at his watch. It was gone eleven. For a second he wanted to put Heather out of her misery, to tell her that Ebbie was alive and well. But experience told him to keep the information very close to his chest.

  ‘Look, Heather, tomorrow’s going to be a tough day. I’m going downstairs for a few minutes. You are not to open the door to anyone except me. I’ll give you a Morse V knock – tap-tap-tap-bang – twice. If anyone else comes, keep silent. And don’t answer the telephone. Get yourself ready for bed. I’ll avert my eyes when you open up . . .’

  ‘Oh, Lord, James, I’m a big girl. I’ve been in the field, remember.’

  She giggled, which signalled a tiny doubt in Bond’s mind. Here was a trained field agent, who had been entrusted with possibly the most important target in the Cream Cake operation, yet she appeared to be slightly drunk on less than half a bottle of Chablis. That just didn’t ring true. She seemed to be an enthusiastic amateur trying hard for professional recognition. He slipped into his jacket.

  ‘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 – t
he 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?’