Passport to Peril

by Lawrence Block

  “It was just luck that I remembered it. And that we found it. I was beginning to think I had sent us all around Robin Hood’s barn, but we’re here, aren’t we?”

  “That we are.” He straightened up. “I’ll, uh, go sit by the entranceway and keep watch. You’d better get out of those clothes and dry them over the fire. Not too close, or they’ll raise too much smoke. But get out of them for now, that’s the main thing.”

  He was on his way before she could object. She felt odd, undressing in the campfire light, and as she stepped out of her underthings she was conscious of David sitting in darkness near the mouth of the cave. He could turn around and see her and she would not know the difference.

  The thought made her giggle and blush at the same time. What earthly difference, she wondered, could it possibly make? Another Ellen Cameron would have been quite nervous at the thought of being undressed in the presence of a man. But that earlier Ellen Cameron no longer existed. She had passed away forever in the course of their escape, and the girl who had taken her place was made of sterner stuff.

  She placed her clothing on the bare earth by the side of the fire. David, she thought, was carrying chivalry beyond the bounds of good sense. He was as cold and wet and miserable as she, but an excess of gentlemanliness was leaving him at the front of the cave while she dried and warmed herself. She thought of summoning him back, then decided to wait, at least until her underthings were dry. They were all nylon and would dry quickly.

  When they had dried she put them on and called him back. He stopped halfway to the fire and offered to wait until she was dressed.

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” she said. “First things first. Besides, I think we know each other well enough to forget propriety a little.”

  “Of course, but if it bothers you…”

  “It doesn’t.”

  She noticed, though, how he avoided looking directly at her. She moved past him to the front of the cave. Later he called her back. He was dressed again, except for his trousers and socks. She put on her skirt and blouse and sat beside him and gazed into the fire. Like the sea, it exerted a definite hypnotic effect on her.

  “Tired, Ellen?”

  “A little. I don’t think I could sleep, though.”

  “Why not try? I’ll keep watch.”

  “Oh, I don’t—”

  “Just lie down and relax, then. I won’t let you sleep long. Don’t worry. But it’ll be good for you to get a little rest.”

  “How about you?”

  “If I get sleepy, I’ll wake you and let you stand watch. Fair enough?”

  “I guess so, but…”

  “Go ahead.”

  She stretched out on the hard ground, her eyes still fixed upon the fire. She let her mind wander, let her thoughts stray far and wide. Her eyes closed of their own accord, and sleep took her by surprise.

  All at once he was shaking her awake. She tried to fight him off, tried to slip back under the protective cloak of sleep, but he wouldn’t let her. Then she opened her mouth to cry out but his hand fastened over it.

  “Shhhh,” he cautioned. “They’re outside.”

  Her eyes widened, and she clutched his arm in fear.

  “About a dozen of them,” he said. “They have flashlights and guns. I haven’t seen any uniforms. They’re about a hundred yards away, spread out over the sides of the hills. I think it must be Farrell’s gang. The police wouldn’t have to be so silent about it. Are you feeling all right, Ellen?”

  “I guess so. Are they going to…to find us?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you come up front and have a look? Maybe you’ll recognize them.”

  She peered out from the cave’s entrance. At first she saw only shapes and lights, but then her eyes focused and she was able to make out the faces of the men. She recognized Farrell and Koenig and the thin man who had mugged her in London and tracked her in Cork. She was surprised how strangely calm she felt now. They had been running for so long, knowing only that their pursuers were at their backs. Now at least the crisis was approaching, and there was something comforting in the knowledge. They were in more danger now than they had ever been. But at least they did not have to run. At least they knew who was after them and where they were.

  She crawled back into the rear of the cavern. “It’s Farrell and Koenig,” she whispered. “I recognized them. How do you suppose they found us?”

  “They must have spotted the motorcycle.”

  “But we walked for miles…”

  He nodded. “And probably left a trail a yard wide,” he said. “Remember, they have lights. And we were in a hurry. I guess they didn’t have much trouble following us.”

  “Do they know we’re in this cave?”

  “I don’t think so. But they know we’re in one of the caves around here, and they’ll get to this one in a matter of time.” He was carefully scattering the campfire, beating out the little tongues of flame with his sweater. Then he picked up the gun.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing yet. But we’re in a good position for defense. They can’t rush us, the cave’s mouth is too narrow. We may be able to hold out.”

  “How many bullets do you have?”

  “Half a dozen. But they don’t know that.”

  “And when morning comes? When it’s light out?”

  “We’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

  He moved toward the mouth of the cave, and she followed after him. They crouched in the darkness, off to the side. She watched men moving cautiously, playing their powerful flashlights back and forth over the terrain. Koenig drew a revolver from a shoulder holster, pointed it off to the left. She steeled herself, and when the gunshot sounded she did not utter a sound. The shot was to scare them, she knew; Koenig hoped they would cry out at the noise, or shoot back, thus revealing themselves.

  One man was headed their way. Ellen looked at him, trying to remember if she had seen him before. He looked familiar, but she could not be certain. He moved ever closer to the mouth of the cave, and his flashlight shone into the cavern, illuminating the dark walls.

  He called out, “I think it’s this one!” A Scot, she guessed, by his accent. And he put one foot into the cave and swung his light their way, and David shot him in the throat.

  Blood poured from the wound, a red river staining the cavern floor. David grabbed the dead man and pulled him inside. He snatched up the flashlight and tore an automatic pistol from the corpse’s grasp. Ellen pressed flat against the wall. Some shots rang out from the field. David snapped off a quick shot in return, and the men outside dropped behind cover.

  “We’ve got a stalemate,” she heard David say softly. “They’ve got us bottled up and we can’t get out. But they can’t get in, either.”

  “Now what happens?”

  “We wait.”

  For a long moment nothing at all happened. She stared at the dead man, saw the barren stare in his eyes, the pool of drying blood. He looked unreal, as if he had never been alive at all. She looked at him and thought of the dead sheep in the roadway.

  They had two guns now, she thought. And the dead man had never fired his pistol, so it probably had a full load. How many shots did that mean? Six? Not all guns were six-shooters, she knew. She wanted to ask David how many bullets the gun held, but she did not want to break the silence, so she said nothing.

  Perhaps six bullets. And David had fired twice, so that left four in the revolver.

  Ten shots.

  “David Clare!” It was Farrell, bellowing across the field, his voice shattering the silence of the night. “Good shooting, Clare!”

  They said nothing.

  “But do you always shoot that well? And how many shots do you have left?”

  “Find out for yourself, Father.”

  The false priest roared with laughter. “Come on out here,” he called. “Surrender and we’ll let you live. The whole thing’s shot now anyway, Clare. All I’m interested in is the film
. Give us that and we’ll let you go.”

  “Sure you will.”

  “Why not? Killing bores me, Clare.”

  David didn’t answer this time. She saw his hand tighten on the grip of the revolver, saw the lines of tension in his face.

  “Clare! Our little girl thought you were the killer. Did she tell you?”

  “She told me.”

  “Funny, isn’t it? And now you’re going to die trying to save her. A girl who wouldn’t trust you an inch, and you’re going to die at her side.”

  “We’re neither of us dead yet, Father.”

  There was a pause. Then a volley of shots rang out, peppering the floor and the walls of the cave but none of them coming close to her or David. “They can’t get to us,” he told her. “They can waste bullets, but they can’t get to us.”

  “Clare! You think you’re sitting pretty, don’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  “How long will you last without sleep? Or food? Or water?”

  “We’ve got food and water. And we can last a long time without sleep, Father.”

  “Brave talk. You can make a deal. Throw out the film.”

  “You’re too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We already burned it, Father. And the passport. So you might as well collect your boys and go home.”

  There was a pause. “You’re a liar.”

  “So are you,” David shouted back. “Now cut the games. You want the film, and the passport, and us, you come get them. No deals.”

  “We’ll starve you out.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or we’ll hurry things up with tear gas.”

  “If you had tear gas you’d have used it already. Forget it.”

  Another roar of laughter. Farrell was insane, she realized. Absolutely insane. Even now, temporarily frustrated, he was enjoying himself immensely. It was all life and death, but he was happy as a child with a new toy. It was all a game to him.

  “We’ll get you when the sun comes up, Clare. We’ll have you trapped then, and we’ll be able to see.”

  “So will I. You want to lead the pack, Father? I never shot a priest before.”

  More laughter. More shots sounded out, but fewer this time. Again the bullets were all wide of the mark.

  “David?” Her voice was a whisper. “Do we have a chance?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You sounded so sure of yourself.”

  “He wants us to beg. I won’t give him the satisfaction.”

  “What he said…” She didn’t want to ask the questions but forced herself. “Will they be able to starve us out? Or will we fall asleep after a long enough wait?”

  “Maybe.”

  “David…”

  “They can’t stand out there with their guns forever. Someone has to pass by sooner or later. The longer we hold out, the longer we stay awake and alert, the better a chance we have.”

  She nodded, her teeth clenched. How very brave he was, she thought. He had managed such a confident air of defiance with Farrell, shouting at the false priest with assurance in his voice. And all the while he had known that the situation was virtually hopeless—

  “Make sure the fire is going,” he said suddenly. “Hug the wall and go back to it. I scattered it somewhat, but it should be burning. Add a little more wood to it.”

  “Why?”

  “If we have to give up, I want the passport burned. And their precious microfilm. I don’t want them to have it.”

  She swallowed. She was going to cry now, she knew it, she couldn’t help it. But she swallowed, and the tears stayed back.

  She said, “Shall I burn them now?”

  “No.”

  “In case there’s no time…”

  “No.” He took her hand. “If we get out of this alive, we’ll want to be able to turn that film over to the right people. Besides…” He laughed, and for the first time in her life she knew what gallows humor really meant. “And besides, they’ll never let you back into the States if you lose your passport.”

  When the noise first came from deep in the rear of the cave, she thought it was some small animal burrowing around there. But the noise came closer, slowly closer, and she could tell that it was a man making his way into the cavern. She huddled close to David, and he turned to cover the rear of the cave with his pistol.

  “If there’s a back entrance…”

  “We can still cover it,” he said.

  “Can we?”

  There was a dry cough behind them, out of sight. The cough was repeated. “Hold your fire,” a soft voice said. The words barely carried to the front of the cave.

  And then, from the darkness, a man emerged. He was not more than an inch or two over five feet tall, and his old face was deeply lined with wrinkles. Black hair peppered with gray stuck out from beneath a ragged cloth cap. He wore an ancient tweed jacket that reached almost to his knees, and in one hand he held an odd sort of gun, larger than a pistol, smaller than a rifle.

  “Ah,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper. “Sure, and it’s a fair Donnybrook, by the sound of it. What, and only two of you, and such a lot of them outside?” He shook his head sadly. “I thought it could be some of the boys, but ye aren’t faces I know, nor Irish by the look of ye. And if I’m not prying, could you be after telling me the nature of the row?”

  Nineteen

  The gnarled little old man did not demand details. The bare outline of their story, told by David in a hushed whisper, was enough to redden the old man’s face with righteous fury. “Sure, and they’re the very spawn of hell,” he said. “And masquerading as a priest in the bargain. Faith, Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland and now they’re after coming back!”

  “Can you get us out?”

  “I could.”

  “Will you?”

  “I will, but they’ll only be coming after you. That such children of the devil should be in Ireland! In Tipperary!”

  “What can we do?”

  The man’s eyes twinkled, and he instantly looked years younger. “Tell me,” he demanded, “could you hold out for another hour?”

  “Easily.”

  “And would you live to see these jackeens get their due?”

  “How?”

  “Why, I’ll call some of the boys around. They’ll be sleeping, but our boys wake easy. And every man has a gun, and some more than guns. They’ve all the odds on their side now, but we can even the odds a wee bit.”

  David said. “Those are professional assassins out there. They’re probably all good shots and used to this sort of thing.”

  “Oh, and is it professionals they are!” The little man drew himself straight up and puffed out his chest. “And are our boys such amateurs? And wasn’t I in Barry’s column myself, and in on the fun at Macroom? And wasn’t young Fergal O’Hara up fighting in the Six Counties ten years ago, and him only twenty-six years old this month? And didn’t Seamus Finn blow up half of Liverpool in 1940 with a bit of gelignite and an old alarm clock? Ah, it’s not such amateurs the boys are, lad. We’ve no uniforms and no aircraft, but we’re the Irish Republican Army, and if the rascals want a fight they’ll be after having one soon enough. We beat the Tans and we fought the Free Staters and we’ll be fighting in the North if we have to, and if such filth as them can shoot straight and fast, why, we can shoot twice as straight and twice as fast. And with Mauser pistols and Sten guns and such as will make their weaponry nothing at all. Professionals they are, are they? And in an hour’s time they’ll be so that they’ll never practice their profession again, not this side of hell. You wait here for me. Take my Mauser pistol, give them a spraying now and then. And I’ll be with you in an hour’s time, and may God wither my right arm if Mick O’Sullivan ever dodged a fight if it was a right one.”

  He was back in considerably less than an hour. They heard him moving quickly but quietly at the rear of the cave, and then he coughed his dry warning cough, paused, coughed aga
in. Then he appeared in the firelight. There was another gun in his hand, larger than the Mauser pistol, and his worn cloth cap was pitched at a rakish angle.

  “I gathered up eight of the boys,” Mick O’Sullivan said. “Eight good boys, and Paddy Dugan was after coming too, but his heart’s been troubling him and I told him we had plenty of men. Now keep a good ear open, lad. The boys are taking their positions now, and Seamus Finn’s down on the road, slashing their tires so that they won’t be making their escape in their autos. Listen for the hoot of an owl, then a pause, and then the hooting again. That means that everyone’s where he ought to be, behind the hedgerows and the thickets, guns and spotlights at the ready.”

  “Will eight men be enough?”

  “When it’s our boys,” O’Sullivan said, “three would be enough. But how could I let the others miss out on the fun, and all of them lads I’ve known for years?”

  They waited, silent now. Then they heard the hooting of an owl, and silence, and the hoot repeated.

  “The boys are ready,” O’Sullivan said. “And it’s for me to give the signal.” He flattened out on the floor of the cave, inched forward, his Sten gun out in front of him, his finger on the trigger. “Stand clear,” he advised, “but you’ll want to watch the show. The Molotov cocktails first, to give us some light to fire by. And to shake up these ‘professionals’ of yours. A bit of flame does that, you know. Scares them so that they don’t know where to shoot first.”

  O’Sullivan inched forward. There was a moment of utter silence, and then his thin old voice rang out over the countryside like a bugle.

  “Up the Republic!”

  And the slaughter began.

  It was no battle. It was a rout, a massacre. The instant O’Sullivan’s cry broke the stillness of the night, the fields erupted in violence. The bottles of gasoline came first, showering over ditches and hedgerows with bitter accuracy, exploding, brightening the fields with flames. Then shots rang out—the chatter of automatic weapons, the deadly blasts of rifles and handguns. Mills bombs, homemade canisters of destruction, hurtled down on Farrell and his men.