Hardly ideal company for the patriotic playwright. Who was the fella with him though?
Connors took a slug out of the glass and watched the playwright talking. The other one looked like a Yank. The playwright might be softening him for a few jars or maybe a bit in the theatre line. That was one of his plays, At the Wall. Connors was pleased with his memory. A play about what might have happened if the leaders in the Rising hadn't been shot in 1916. Maybe it'd go down well in the States. Hardly though. That fella had a good tan, typical Yank. Looked after himself with the hair and the clothes. How did the Yanks make good suits like that?
The way he sat on the chair suggested to Connors that he was fit and stronger than the suit might indicate. There was something about the consistency in his posture. They had been in the pub for fifteen minutes, but the tanned man didn't slouch. He still looked none too happy about something, but the vexed look he had when he came in was gone now. He now looked merely annoyed at a nuisance of some kind. Hard to put an exact age on the Yank.
Connors wished he had heard the few sharp words the two exchanged when the Yank had come in first. All he could make out was the Yank-or whoever he was-saying something about screw-ups. The playwright had snapped back at him once or twice. After that they seemed to settle down a bit, with the playwright giving him a few big salesman smiles. Wouldn't trust him as far as… Aha, maybe the playwright had fixed him up with a colleen, but she hadn't obliged when push came to shove. No, there was more to it. The Yank looked like he was working at staying polite. Like Paul Newman after missing a honey shot in The Hustler. Cool dude. Under control…
The tanned man made his call from a phone in the hallway leading to the pub. He spoke slowly.
'Your job is on for tomorrow. Confirmed. Follow your normal route. Your car will withstand even a minute search so don't sweat it. It's right inside part of the vehicle's structure.'
'Why are you telling me that?' The voice was less anguished than bitter.
'So you'll have confidence. So you'll look confident. Is that too simple a proposition for you?'
'When I get there…?'
'You leave the key, just the car key, under the right front tire. The car'll be back in the same spot within the hour.'
The tanned man heard breathing over the line.
'Why did you tell me this? Why not just get me to do it without knowing about it?'
The tanned man recognised the bitterness clearly now, but he didn't resist the sarcasm in return.
' 'The unexamined life isn't worth living' and all that.'
He hung up.
Connors watched as the Yank stood up abruptly. He gave a parting glance to the playwright. Another big crooked smile from your man. Must have one up on the Yank: probably stuck him for the price of the drinks. Connors was out the door before him. He put on his raincoat and a cap to alter his appearance outside. He stood looking into a window full of crafts, waiting for either or both of the men to come out. Almost three minutes passed before the Yank came out. Must have gone to the jacks. No sign of the playwright though, damn and blast him. So what about this Yank, Connors thought. So what? He had hoped that the playwright would be with him, but that'd be too tidy by far. He saw the Yank squint in the daylight as he paused by the door to the pub.
Connors decided to follow the Yank. He could always say that this Yank had acted suspiciously. The playwright might still be in the pub for hours. Connors watched the Yank cross Dawson Street and then step into a lane which was a short-cut to Moles-worth Street. He thought that for a Yank, the tanned man stepped out nicely and seemed to know his way better than the rest of them who stood around Dawson Street with their snake-skin wives blocking the path, lost just a few hundred yards from the hotel. Connors bet on the Shelbourne Hotel.
The tanned man had already taken in the skulking presence of the man pretending to be interested in the shop opposite. He had been in the pub too. He became aware of a little congestion in his sinuses. He felt the shoulder strap bite as he shrugged. He was certain this was the first time he had been followed since he arrived. The guy was either a cop or a heavy that the playwright had called in. Not drinking enough to be serious about his stay and not meeting anyone, which is why he'd have been nursing his drink so long. Didn't look like a cop.
More pieces fell into place in parallel lines of thought as the tanned man took up a brisk pace. He began a flush out. There was no way that the Brits would have a man tailing him here in Dublin. He stepped into the arched passageway with a piece of Molesworth Street framed in light at the end. He felt he should decide by the end of this tunnel. The playwright had been almost ingratiating by the time he left the pub. Was that a prelude to being set up? And he had been all too obliging about putting the fear on that cop with the stolen car and the dope.
He approached the end of the tunnel and, without turning to look behind, headed for Kildare Street. He thought of his time frames for what he must do. By tomorrow, Saturday, at about two o'clock in the afternoon he would know whether he could report success or failure. He'd be on the plane to Amsterdam, armed with this success, to lever agreement out of his liaison. A unit in Armagh had guaranteed to target a patrol for Sunday as conclusive proof. They'd hear of it before the evening was out from Hilversum or the BBC and the liaison would set up the meeting with the cover from the embassy.
Ahead of him was Leinster House, the Parliament. Laughable that the National Museum was next to it. Could they be distinguished really? He knew that there were armed guards and army units in the Parliament and he allowed for that. His mind cleared with the arrival of his chance.
As he walked into the foyer of the museum, the thought struck the tanned man that his follower might well be looking for a chance to kill him. The image of the playwright's face with its barely hidden condescension went through his mind. Was he capable of sending in an assassin? The museum was surprisingly bright. Light fell in from the large expanse of skylight. It made the tanned man think of a church. He could see but four other visitors in this large hall. On the balconies which faced out onto the main exhibition hall, he heard the talk of other unseen visitors. An elderly museum guard nodded at him and resumed his measured, meditational walk. He stepped into the floor proper and strolled by the cases with early Christian artefacts in them. He passed spearheads and pots from the Iron Age. He tried to remember the run of the museum from when he had visited it as a child. It was probably all changed.
He mounted steps leading to a balcony overlooking the hall. There he was, this rather tired-looking follower, now in shirtsleeves gazing too intently at golden necklaces, of all things. Why would he follow him around the museum and not wait near the front door? Must be expecting some cloak and dagger meeting. He looked at his watch. The museum closed in another twenty minutes. He turned the corner to meet with a museum guard who looked restive, whistling faintly between tongue and teeth. He had come circuitously back to the stairs. With luck, the guy following him would be a few rooms behind him now. Across to the entry hall. His shadower would be checking rooms.
Connors' feet were bothering him. The Yank looked as if he had just got out of bed and could run a few miles. In all honesty, well, to himself at least, Connors admitted that the Yank hadn't acted in any suspicious way. There was still time to go back and check on the twit he was supposed to be following. Likely if he checked out a few of the pubs like O'Neill's or Davy Byrne's, he'd soon find what's-his-face again. The Yank hadn't so much as looked around. This struck Connors as a bit odd, that he should know where he was going. But he ended up going to the museum, so that was that. Why go to the museum when it was ready to close? He should have phoned in. He should have stuck with the other fellow. He should have watched outside the bloody museum. What class of meeting could a body have in a museum anyway? He should have spent the extra tenner and bought real shoes.
Connors had seen the Yank go up the stairs and into a room before he himself crossed the floor of the hall. He stood behind a display case near to the toilets and watched for the Yank. Follow-around be damned.
What Connors saw in five minutes sparked a faint lightness in his chest. The Yank had come back down the stairs and looked around once before leaving. Either the Yank knew he was being followed or he was looking for someone he expected to meet. Connors counted to thirty. Then he crossed the hall and retrieved his coat and jacket. He wondered if his guess about the Shelbourne Hotel would prove true. He could check this fella out from there.
Connors left the museum, elbowing into his coat. It was nearly five o'clock. There was no sign of the man. Connors strode to the railings which girdled the museum as it ran along Kildare Street. He looked up and down the street and across at Moles-worth Street. The Yank was gone. The dying leper's vomit, the curse of the seven snotty… Had he stepped into a taxi or a doorway? Connors was about to let go a volley of curses aloud when a movement in a shop window opposite caught his eye. An assistant was taking an antique plate from a display in the window, all the while talking to a customer. Though Connors could not see the face well, he recognised the suit.
