Faithless (58 page)

             
John stood and watched as Daz expertly brought the Solway Star to its moorings. As they tied up John said, "Well that's it then. Thanks for the lift."

             
"Very welcome squire. If you're ever on the run again, you know the man to come to."

             
John smiled thinly.

             
"I can't help but say," Daz added as John clambered off the yacht onto the jetty, "that you Commies will always fail. You always need the small businessman like me to save your bacon."

             
John grunted and made his way down the jetty to the harbour. He didn't look back at Daz.

John soon found the Isle of Man Steam Packet ferry terminal and booked a ticket to Dublin. He kept an eye out for police but saw none. No one was looking for Joe Boyd on the Isle of Man. He booked a cabin on the night sailing. He had about £300 left of the Soviet money after that. He went out into Douglas and found a cheap café where he ordered a cheap meal. He spent the rest of the day going round the shops - round Woolworths and Boots and WH Smiths. He went into another café and ordered a milky coffee. He picked up a used copy of the Manx Independent newspaper where someone had half done the crossword and spilled coffee on the football results. He couldn't settle. He went and spent some time sitting on the sea front. He was nobody anyone there wanted. No one who did want him knew where he was. Not the British, not the KGB. No one he loved either.

When it was time he filed onto the ship. He went to the bar and bought a pint of Guinness then after lingering with it until it was gone, retired to his cabin. There like Jonah, he
was deep in the belly of a metal whale - the walls hummed and vibrated with its internal rhythms. It was without windows. It was hot. All he felt was the endless throbbing of the engines as they churned through the Irish Sea. He fell asleep lulled by exhaustion and was pulled deep by hypnopompic visions into the inhuman fathoms below.

He awoke just before they docked at Dublin. He got an indifferent bacon and egg breakfast from the ship's restaurant and after that went to stand on deck watching the ship e
nter Dublin Bay. Dublin was spread out in front of him. The barber's pole chimneys of the Polbeg generating plant standing in welcome. The city was dim and grey under low clouds. He disembarked and no one took any notice. He began to grow confident that he would get away.

He made his way to Trinity College, walking up Pearse Street. The College was the same except that the advertising board had  a new exhibition. He followed the signs for the Department of Irish. A middle aged woman with dark hair was sitti
ng in the department office, typing. She looked up. "An féidir liom cabhrú leat?" she said.

             
"Sorry I don't speak Gaelic," said John.

             
"It's Irish."

             
"Sorry. I'm looking for someone."

             
"Who's that then?" smiled the woman.

             
" Eithne Ní Dhubhghaill," he said with his best effort at pronunciation. "She teaches here I think."

             
"She does that. She was around earlier. Who should I say is here?"

             
"Richard MacIntosh. From England."

             
"You sound Scottish, but I'm no expert on British accents."

             
John smiled. "From Scotland via England."

             
"Enough of my blethering. Let me ring her."  The woman dialled a number and spoke rapidly in Irish. She put the phone down." She'll be right here she says."

John went and stood outside the office in the corridor. Eithne approached fro
m behind him and he didn't see her before she gently touched his arm. He span round.

             
"You're very nervous," she said.

             
He laughed. "I guess so."

             
"You're a man I never expected to see again."

             
"I need your help."

             
"Do you? We'll probably not talk here. Come on let's get a coffee."

             
They walked to the lecturers' common room and she showed him where to sit while she got them both a coffee. He waited for her return. She was still smiling when she came back.

             
"You know," she said, "you look like someone."

             
"Really?" he said quietly.

             
"Let me think," she made a theatrical show of scratching her head and then she suddenly pointed at him. "I know - the guy on the news. The spy on the run - John Gilroy. When I first saw his picture, I thought, that's Richard McIntosh, map dealer. But then I thought it must be his double."

             
"I'm not really Richard of course."

             
"No," she said, "evidently. Nor Sergei."

             
"I couldn't come clean about who I was."

             
"Just as well you didn't. You wouldn't have survived the night. Taken to some remote part of the Wicklow Hills and had bits of you drilled through, other bits of you cut off. Before they killed you that is."

             
John looked at her to gauge her hostility. The exit sign looked very welcoming. 

             
She continued. "And who are you today Richard?"

             
He tried to smile. "Joe Boyd, salesman of used gaming machines."

             
She laughed out loud. "Fucks sake, who thought that one up? You Brits are ingenious, I'll give you that."

             
"It was the Russians actually."

             
She ran her finger round the top of her coffee cup. "So whose side are you on? I don't think you're on mine."

             
"Maybe not. But I hope you'll be on mine."

             
She took a sip of coffee. "Ah, I get it," she said, "the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I take it your ex chums in MI5 don't know you're here."

             
"I hope not. I don't think so."

             
"And you are counting on me as a wild Irish rebel not to turn you in?"

             
"I'm hoping you'll do more for me than that."

             
She looked sceptical. "What?"

             
"I need you to go to the Soviet Embassy. I need you to ask to speak to the KGB and tell them I'm here."

             
She sat back. "I see." She looked at him, playing with him. "How do you remember who you're supposed to be and who you're working for? Do you sometimes get mixed up about who you're betraying?"

             
He looked coldly at her. "Never."

             
"So you've always been a Soviet man, and the Brit thing was always a put on?"

             
"Always. I'm a Communist. Like my father before me."

             
"Ah," she said," I know a few Communists. We even have them here. Mostly very serious boring men. And you're not boring John Gilroy."

             
"So will you help me?"

             
She shrugged. "I'm minded to. MI5 has assassinated a lot of my friends."

             
"But?"

             
"I need to check it out with other people. I'm not free to act as I want."

             
"Why do you need to do that?"

             
"There's a command structure. There may be more we can gain from you than this."

             
"Ok. I understand that. So who will you talk to and when?"

             
"I'm going to talk to Pádraig. I don't think he'll be surprised to find you aren't really Russian. He might want to kill you anyway. I'll let you know."

             
She took out a piece of paper from her briefcase. She wrote the name of a small hotel on it. "It's not far. Go there. I'll come round about 6pm."

             
"Ok Eithne. But I need to tell you something."

             
"Yet more? Do tell."

             
"The night we met, someone took a photograph of us. Because they thought I was Russian I guess. Someone who works for MI5."

             
Her eyes narrowed. "Where?"

             
"When we were coming out of the club. Someone must have followed us out."

             
"A few people followed us out."

             
"I don't know who it is."

             
She got up suddenly. He couldn't read her expression. She said, "I'm teaching now. See you later."

John found the hotel and he booked in. The desk clerk gave him a key and wished him a good stay. John made to go up the stairs and then turned and said he'd left something in his car. He went out and booked into another hotel three streets away. In his room there he got a shower. The day dragged. At 5:30 he went out and sat in the pub opposite the hotel he was supposed to be staying at. He got a Guinness and looked through the window to see who entered the hotel. Just after 6pm he saw Eithne and Pádraig go in. He finished the dregs of his pint and got up quickly. He crossed the street and waited outside for them. Then Pádraig and Eithne  came back out of the door. Pádraig was scowling. Then he saw John. His face assumed a cold grin.  "Didn't trust us eh?" he said.

             
John shrugged. "Better to be safe than sorry. I thought you might turn up with the Police."

             
"The Garda? Are you joking? They work for the Free State government and therefore for the Brits. Let's go and get a drink comrade," he said to John. They re-crossed the road and sat in the pub he had just come out of. This time they found a snug well away from the entrance.

             
"So," said Pádraig, "The  man who took the photo you told her about. This MI5 spy - who is he?"

             
John shook his head. "I don't know. I was just shown the photograph and told an agent took it."

             
"I hate traitors," said Pádraig, "But for you I might make an exception. Once I'm sure you're not just planted here to fuck with our heads. All the double, triple agent stuff."

             
"A wilderness of mirrors," said John.

             
"Come again?"

             
"So you don't know who to trust," said John.

             
"Fucking rats. I'd execute every last one of them. After I'd castrated them. If I only knew who they were."

             
"That's why this needs to be kept very tight," said John.

             
"Don't be telling me my business, Mr Spy."

             
"So will you go to the Soviets? It's all I'm asking you," said John.

             
"Don't get  irritable. I have contacts through the Communist Party of Ireland. I can go to the Embassy. It won't even look suspicious to the Garda. They know I go in there on Party business."

             
"So no one but us three needs to know I'm here?"

             
Pádraig gestured to Eithne. "Just us. And Mickey. He's my right hand man."

             
"Was he at the club that night?"

             
"Yes, but don't worry he's no Brit grass. I've known him since I was 16 when we joined the IRA together."

             
"But he was at the club so it could be him."

             
Pádraig glared at him. "He's no spy." He drained his beer. "Listen we need to move you."

             
"I'm fine where I am."

             
"I need you in a safe house. We have places in Dublin that no one knows about. It's better. I need to take care of you. You're worth a shipload of Kalshnikovs at the least."

             
"So what now?" asked John.

             
"Be here at 9pm. Eithne will come back and meet you with Mickey. They'll drive you to the place."

             
"Am I allowed to know where it is?"

             
Pádraig laughed. "Nope. Next question?"