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
‘He’s everything, our Maxim: a mole within a warren of moles, working with the HVA, which has to work with the KGB, yet all the time doing little jobs on the side because he’s really a member of the GRU.’
‘You have the man to a T.’ Murray beamed at them. ‘You know what they say about the GRU? They say it costs a rouble to join, and two roubles to get out. Almost an Irish saying, that. It’s very difficult to become a GRU officer. It’s even more difficult to jump over the wall once you’re in because there really is only one way out – in a long box. They’re very fond of training foreigners, and Smolin is only half Russian. They tell me he holds great power in East Germany. Even the KGB men there are in awe of him.’
‘Well, Norman? Have you something new to tell us about him?’ asked Bond.
‘You know, Jacko, the whole world thinks that we have only one problem on this divided island, the North and the South. They’d be wrong and I’m sure you’re aware of it, so. Your man Basilisk arrived in the Republic two days ago. Now, Jacko, when I heard of that terrible thing at Ashford Castle, I recalled there’d already been two just like it over the water, and a little quotation came to mind.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘There’s something most pertinent been written about your Soviet General Staff Chief Intelligence Directorate – your GRU. The fella was a GRU defector, name of Suverov. He was writing about people who can’t keep quiet, who leak secrets. He wrote, “The GRU knows how to rip such tongues out!” Interesting, Jacko?’
Bond nodded, looking solemn. The historians of the intelligence services tended to dismiss the GRU as having been swallowed by the KGB. ‘The GRU (Soviet Military Intelligence) is completely dominated by the KGB’, one writer had maintained. Another had written, ‘It is an academic exercise to consider the GRU as a separate entity’. That was wrong on both counts. The GRU fights hard to keep a separate identity.
‘Penny for them, Jacko?’ Murray was making himself comfortable on the bed.
‘I was only thinking that the cream of the GRU are richer and more deadly than their opposite numbers in the KGB. Men like Smolin are better trained, and have no scruples at all.’
‘And Smolin’s here, Jacko and . . .’ He paused and the smile vanished from his face to be replaced by a hard look, ‘And we’ve lost the bastard, if you’ll pardon the language again, Miss Dare.’
‘Arlington,’ Heather mumbled without conviction. Bond saw that she looked both nervous and a little sad.
Norman Murray lifted his hand and tilted it. ‘Dare, Wagen, Sharke, so who’s counting?’ He yawned and stretched. ‘It’s been a long night. I must away to my bed.’
