“Probably.”
“I didn’t see him last night. I looked for him but didn’t see him. I did see that Doctor Koenig, though. I wonder if he’s in with Clare. It would be a good cover for him, traveling with wife and children…”
Her mouth opened, then snapped shut quickly. She looked away. She knew with absolute certainty that she had never mentioned Dr. Robert Koenig to Father Farrell. She might have been mistaken about the camera, that was possible, but she had never once mentioned the Philadelphia psychiatrist to him.
Then…
A phrase leaped at her: “Extraordinary that a pagan culture could produce such a structure.” He had said that at Gallarus Oratory, when she told him the little stone building was about a thousand years old. But a pagan culture had not produced it—Ireland had been Christian for centuries when Gallarus Oratory was constructed. And an oratory was by definition a chapel, a place for meditation and prayer, and specifically Christian. A priest would certainly know that.
He was not a priest.
She struggled to remain calm. What else had he said? There was something else, something that had struck a wrong note at the time but that she had not paid much attention to. About the persecution of priests in Ireland, how they were hunted during the days of the Penal Laws, how their lot did not improve too much under Cromwell. But that was all backwards! The persecution of Catholics began in earnest under Cromwell, and the Penal Laws did not come into being until long afterward, until William of Orange had defeated James II at the Battle of the Boyne, until the Irish under Patrick Sarsfield had finally capitulated at Limerick in 1691. He had the whole thing completely backwards, and it was not the mistake any Irishman would make, and certainly not an Irish priest.
He was not a priest!
He was talking, something about the scenery. She couldn’t listen to his words. It came to her in a rush now. The very day after they had snatched her purse, Father Farrell had made contact with her. He had carefully managed to get the seat next to her on the plane. He had drawn her out, learned the full details of her itinerary in Ireland. And when there was the mistake about her luggage, he had managed to get his hands on her passport. All he had needed, really, was the luggage check—but he had specifically asked for her passport, and sent her off to the lunch counter while he removed the photo and inserted the scrap of microfilm and sealed the passport up again…
So it had been in her passport throughout her entire trip. That was why the long-faced man in Cork had made no attempt to snatch it. The work had already been done. They had only needed to keep her under surveillance, to make certain that she kept to her schedule and got to Berlin on time.
That was why Father Farrell had stayed out of sight in Dingle until after she discovered what was happening. Koenig could have told him—he must have overheard her talk with Sara Trevelyan and then passed the word to Farrell, who had come along to keep an eye on things. And then Farrell—she shouldn’t think of him as Father Farrell now, he was no more a priest than she was—Farrell had come out of hiding and revealed himself, posing as her savior while he got his spy game back on the track again.
And she had blamed David!
Of course he wanted her to keep away from the police. Of course he wanted her to go to Berlin as scheduled while he stayed behind to “take care of everything.” And the nonsense about substituting another piece of film for the original microfilm—that had been a neat bluff. She was certain that the original scrap of film was right back where it had been, underneath her passport photograph. And she would go to Berlin, just as he had planned in the first place, playing as blind a role in the game of espionage as ever.
And Sara Trevelyan—oh, God, she had sent him straight for the woman! “Did you talk with anyone else, child?” Of course he had to know; he had to find out just how many people he ought to kill. The poor woman! And David—had he done anything to David? Oh, God, she couldn’t stand it! She wanted to scream. Her nerves were stretched so taut that she thought they would snap any minute.
No. She had to be calm, had to stay relaxed. That was her only chance. If she could keep him from knowing that she had seen through him, then perhaps she could get out of it all right. He would take her to Shannon, and once there she would find some way to get away from him, some way to reach the Irish or American authorities on her own—once she managed that, she would be in the clear. They could arrest Farrell—and she wondered what his name really was—and she could turn over the microfilm and find David and…
David.
Oh, God, and she had suspected him, she had got everything wrong. Had Farrell killed him? If that had happened she could never forgive herself. She couldn’t think about it, wouldn’t let herself think about it. She had to be calm. She had to act the same way with Farrell, had to play along with him, had to keep him from guessing that she knew.
If only she were an actress instead of a singer. If only she were a better liar.
“Ellen? Something on your mind?”
“Oh, no. No, I was just looking at the scenery. It’s really glorious, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” He reached over to pat her hand paternally, and she could barely manage to keep from flinching away from him. “You’re still nervous, aren’t you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh? You seemed nervous.”
“It’s just that I’m impatient to get to Shannon and out of the country. I keep worrying that he’ll try to ambush us there.” Lies, lies, and her voice sounded false to her own ears, and how could he fail to notice it? Oh, God!
“This is Conor Pass coming up. The view is glorious from here, Ellen. You can see Brandon Bay and Tralee Bay and Dingle Bay all from one spot. You can even see clear back to Dingle town when the visibility is right.”
“It must be breathtaking.”
“Oh, it is.” He slowed the car. “Why don’t we stop and have a look at it, Ellen?”
“We don’t want to waste time…”
“Ah, but surely we can afford a minute?”
“David—”
“He doesn’t even know you’ve left Dingle, child. And he’ll never suspect we’ve taken this road. Sometimes days go by without anyone driving a car along this route. Everyone goes the short way. There’s probably not another motor car within miles.”
A shiver went through her like a sword.
The car slowed to a stop. “Come,” he said, opening his door. “Let’s have a look at the scenery.”
She didn’t want to get out of the car. She was afraid. But she couldn’t argue with him, couldn’t let him see that she was frightened. That would certainly tip him off, and she couldn’t afford that.
She opened her door and got out of the car. She left her purse with the passport in it on the seat. He put the car in neutral, pulled up the hand brake, and left the car with the motor idling.
“This way,” he said, taking her gently, gently by the hand. “A grand view, isn’t it? That’s Brandon Bay on the left and Tralee Bay on the right, and the stretch of sand between them is Rough Point. It looks like Italy turned upside-downs doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.”
“You’re shaking, child. Not afraid of heights, are you?”
She wasn’t, but she clutched at the straw. “I always have been. I can’t help it—I get weak in the knees from looking down.”
“Oh, it’s a common fear,” he said “One of the most common, I believe. I understand they call it acrophobia. Fear of great heights, and one of the most common of the irrational fears. Although it’s not always irrational, is it?”
And, in the same conversational tone of voice, he said, “How long have you known, Ellen?”
“I don’t understand…”
“You’re not afraid of heights, you’re afraid of me. And quite rightly so, I’m afraid. How did you guess? You’re far too smart for your own good, child. You should have stayed stupid—you’d have saved your life that way. You could have gone to Berlin in perfect safety and nev
er gotten into any trouble at all. But now you know, don’t you? I must have made a slip or two along the way. The camera? Well, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
She backed away from him, her hands out in front of her, her eyes wide in terror.
With a terrible smile on his lips, he moved toward her.
Fourteen
There had to be a way out. She wouldn’t die, couldn’t die. There had to be a chance. The car—if she could get to the car, she could get away from him. The car was her only chance. But meanwhile he was coming for her, slowly, patiently, and he was going to kill her, and she had to stop him. One way or another she had to stop him.
She said, “You don’t have to kill me.”
“Don’t I? Of course I do.”
“No. No, if you kill me, then I can’t take the microfilm to Berlin for you. But if you let me live I’ll take it. Just as you planned. I’ll take it, I’ll let your men there take it from me, I’ll never breathe a word of it to anyone. I swear…”
He shook his head sadly.
“I mean it. I’ll do it, I’ll do it perfectly, you can trust me. You can stay with me in Shannon and put me on the plane yourself. I couldn’t possibly doublecross you that way because it would be easy for you to check on me. And then you could have someone meet the plane the moment it lands, and I’d give him the film right away. It would work—”
“No, Ellen.”
“But why not?”
“You could tell the pilot. Or you could slip away from me in Shannon. You’re a bright and resourceful girl, too much so for your own well-being. If only you had stayed stupid a day or two longer, then everything might have been different.”
“I wouldn’t try to get away from you. I—”
“And afterward, after it was over in Berlin, you would go straight to the American Embassy. You’d tell them names and descriptions and all sorts of things which I really don’t want them to know. The less those people know about me, Ellen, the better I like it.”
“Are you a Communist?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, come now! Certainly not. I’m afraid I’m far too fond of the things money buys to dream of a world without the profit motive. As a matter of fact, Ellen, it’s possible that your scrap of film will wind up in American hands after all. It just depends who’s prepared to pay the highest price for it. The Americans, the Russians, the Chinese—they’ll all have a chance to bid against each other in Berlin. I’ll be happy to do business with any of them.”
He wasn’t even a spy for patriotic reasons, she thought. That motive she might have sympathized with, but he was involved in all this spying and killing just to make a profit. That made him somehow more frightening and bloodless than ever. She could expect no mercy from him, and she knew it now. Her only chance was the car. And her only way of getting to the car, of having an opening, was to keep him talking. As long as she kept the conversation going she would be alive, and as long as she was alive there was a chance, however slight, that he would make a slip and give her an opening.
“How did you know, Ellen? The camera? That was a foolish mistake on my part. I searched your room last night, went through your luggage. So of course I knew that you had no camera with you, but I forgot how I’d learned as much. Is that what tipped you?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“Koenig. I never said a word to you about him, and then you mentioned him out of the blue. That was when I knew.”
“Ah. Another mistake.”
“You made other mistakes, too.”
“Oh, did I?” He seemed amused. “Tell me about them. I’ll have to learn to avoid them in the future.”
She told him about the Penal Laws, how he had mixed up his history. And how he had made the mistake about Gallarus Oratory.
He nodded, interested. “An old fault of mine,” he said. “When I get into a role, I have a lamentable tendency to carry it too far. I like the sound of my own voice too much, you see. Just a frustrated actor at heart, perhaps, but I tend to overdo things. You didn’t suspect then?”
“No.” And bitterly, she added, “I trusted you.”
“You should never trust anyone, Ellen. Not even an Irish priest.”
She remembered something he had just said. “You went to my room last night.”
“Yes. It was a simple matter to walk in. No one looks twice at a priest in this country. God, how I loathe them! Like crows in their black garb. Evil crows. I was raised by Jesuits. Not in this country. On the Continent. A bunch of evil crows. A flock of them. ‘God, S.J.’ Hah!”
“Why did you go to my room?”
“To look around. And I had another errand there, child.”
“Sara Trevelyan…”
He smiled. She had never seen such a hideous smile in her life. “Sara Trevelyan,” he echoed. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Not a car accident at all, as it happens. That made a good story, don’t you think? But a bit inconvenient to arrange. It was much easier to go to her room.” He smiled the same evil smile again. “She let me in without a second thought. Why? Because I was a priest. Who would shut the door on a priest? She had no idea who I was or why I had come to her, but she let me in.”
He was lost in the memory. He held his hands out in front of her and studied them intently. “I twisted her neck,” he said slowly. “Like a chicken.”
“Oh, God!”
Still smiling, he went on, “She fought me. She struggled well for so old a person. But I have very strong hands, and I strangled her slowly, very slowly. And all the while I looked into her eyes, and they were wide-open in terror, and then, do you know, they glazed over. It’s remarkable the way that happens. The light went right out of her eyes, and the life went right out of her, and that was all. All.”
She could barely breathe. The look in his eyes, the smile, the infinite calm with which he could speak so viciously. She had never met an utterly evil man before, had never experienced such a personality at close range. Only in books or at the movies—Richard Widmark pushing an old lady’s wheelchair down a flight of stairs, that sort of thing. She had never really believed such scenes, had never honestly thought that there were people on earth who could kill in such a chilling, coldblooded fashion.
But she was standing before one now.
She said, “And David?”
“No. No, I went looking for him. He was never alone long enough. I walked home behind him, to his rooming house. I had a knife for him, a very sharp knife. But there were people in the streets.”
“Thank God!…”
“Oh, don’t give thanks, Ellen. It’s a short reprieve at best. He knows little enough, but he knows you, and that means he knows too much. Dr. Koenig will be keeping him company today, and later this afternoon or evening the knife will find its mark. But you won’t even know about it by then, will you?”
“If you kill me, how will you get the microfilm to Berlin?”
“Koenig’s woman will take it in.”
“His wife?”
“Not exactly his wife. A partner, let us say.”
“Why didn’t you have her take it in the first place?”
“I’m afraid they know her too well in Berlin. But with your passport I don’t suppose she’ll have much trouble. She fits your description rather well, you know. Doesn’t look at all like you, but a passport description isn’t a very precise thing, is it? Height and weight and that sort of thing. And passport photos never look like anyone very much, do they? It would have been more convenient to use you, Ellen. That’s why we thought of it in the first place. But”—he shook his head sadly—“you’ve made that quite impossible, I’m afraid.”
He took a step toward her. Again she backed away. His hands, his awful hands—she pictured them around poor Sara Trevelyan’s neck, squeezing, and the picture made her sick to her stomach.
“You can’t kill me.”
“Oh, but I can. I have to, you see.”
“No…”
“I’ve
no choice.” He smiled that smile again. He was enjoying this. Well, let him enjoy it, she thought fiercely. As long as he talked, as long as he went on talking, she was still alive. When she stopped talking and he grew bored, she would be in danger. It was like a cat with a mouse, she thought. As long as the mouse fought and scampered and struggled, the cat went on playing with it and the mouse went on living. But as soon as the mouse ceased to struggle, the cat would grow bored with the whole affair and end the game by eating the mouse.
He was the cat and she was the mouse and he was playing with her, enjoying her fear, her desperate attempts to talk herself free. And as long as he kept enjoying the game…
But mice never escaped, she thought. That was the only trouble. The game always ended the same way, with the cat devouring the mouse. The mouse never won.
“How shall I kill you, Ellen?”
A new twist for the game. “Oh, no,” she stammered. “You have to let me live, you have to. I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll go to Berlin or disappear or hide or whatever on earth you want me to do. I’ll do anything at all.”
“Anything?”
“Anything,” she said. Her hands moved, indicating her slender young body. His eyes traveled the length of her body, then moved upward again to her face.
And he began to laugh.
“Why, Ellen! I honestly think you mean it.”
“I do. Anything—”
“Shame on you, child. Seeking to tempt a holy father to indulge in the sins of the flesh. May the Lord forgive you, child.”
“Stop it!”
He roared with laughter. He came closer to her again. She backed away, and he circled to his right, hemming her in. The cliff was to her rear now. She could not back up much further or she would fall over its edge. And he was very close to her.
“But I think your charms are wasted on me, dear.” He smiled. “I’m afraid that women don’t interest me that way. The only way you can give me pleasure, dear Ellen, is by dying an interesting death.”
She shivered. He wasn’t human.
“And how shall I kill you? Help me decide.”
Passport to Peril Page 13
