Fabian was the code name for Andrei Bekuv, and Jonathan was the C.I.A. man responsible for the safety of the two Russians while we were away. 'Bring cognac' was the check code that Mann had arranged with Jonathan personally (different for every message and committed to memory by the three of us). How Red had persuaded security to add a personal message of love was beyond my understanding.
'Did you decode Boston, Mass., for me?' Mann asked.
'Yes, sir,' said the courier. He was a diffident young man. 'I looked it up. It's a little town in Ireland — Drogheda, if that's the way you pronounce it.'
'Drogheda,' said Mann, and nodded. 'And I suppose the code for Boston, Mass., is Drogheda, Ireland.' The courier smiled politely. Mann took the message sheet, and a packet of matches, and made a thorough job of burning the paper to ash. Mann was like that: he liked a chance to show what a well-trained operator he was.
'Is there anything else?' said the courier.
'Henry Hope Dean; I want his blood group,' said Mann. 'He's a blood donor, so it shouldn't be difficult.'
'Drogheda in Ireland,' he said again when the courier had departed. 'Well, the Bekuvs are really talking.'
'Are you going to tell me what Bettercar is, or are we going to play secret agents all evening?'
'Easy baby,' he said, imitating Henry Hope Dean's anxious voice.
'I'm going to eat,' I said. 'See you later.'
'Bettercar Car Rentals is the agreed code for the 1924 Society,' said Mann, 'and I'm buying the drinks.'
Chapter Twelve
You turn left out of, Dublin airport, following the Belfast road. Major Mann had arranged for an Irish Special Branch officer to meet us at Drogheda. It was only a twenty-mile drive from the airport and Mann promised to do it in as many minutes, but he didn't count on the narrow, meandering route, the pot-holed surface or on the gigantic articulated trucks that had to reduce speed to a snail's pace in getting through the narrow streets of the villages en route. Nor did he expect the thunderstorm that greeted us. He cursed and fumed all the way. Finally he let me drive.
Drogheda, a colourless town of stone and slate, shone under the steady downpour of rain that in Ireland is called 'a soft day'. A soldier with an automatic rifle and a policeman in a flak jacket sheltered from the rain in the bank doorway. On the wall alongside them there was white spray-can writing: 'No Extradition'.
The Special Branch police inspector was waiting for us with the politeness and patience with which Irishmen meet delay. He was a tall, thin man with fair hair, and was dressed in the sort of dark, plain clothes that policemen wear when they want you to know that they are policemen. He got into the car and sat silent for a moment, wiping the rain off his face with a handkerchief. He removed his hat so that rainwater did not drip into the document case that he now opened on his knees. He found the papers he wanted and tapped them reassuringly. There was a roll of thunder that echoed through the town like a cannonade.
'Mr and Mrs Reid-Kennedy checked into the Gresham Hotel in Dublin four nights ago. His wife stayed there to do some shopping. She checked out yesterday. It's not easy to be sure which nights your man was there with her — the double room was paid for all the time.' He referred to his papers again. 'Mr Reid-Kennedy hired a small van from a hire company in O'Connell Street. He went to a fishing tackle and sporting-goods shop. They say he didn't buy a shot-gun or ammunition but we can never be sure of that, not in Ireland! He did buy a pair of thigh-length rubber boots. Waders — the sort anglers wear for river-fishing. And a waterproof jacket,'
'Rod? Line? Flies?' Mann asked.
'Just the boots and jacket. Then he drove the van up here. He didn't stay at any of the hotels in Drogheda, but two people saw the van he'd hired. A farm labourer saw it being driven back towards town at seven o'clock yesterday morning. He thumbed it, but the van wouldn't stop.'
'Did he identify Reid-Kennedy?' Mann asked.
'Positively. He was disappointed. In this part of the world, people always stop for a hitch-hiker, especially a local man. And it was raining too. Yes, a positive identification.'
The other?'
'The baker's delivery-man saw the empty van parked in the lane at the entrance to a farm — the O'Connor property. He had difficulty getting past, the lane is very narrow there.'
'Tell me about this farm,' said Mann. There was a sudden crackle of lightning that lit the whole street, freezing every movement with its cruel blue light.
'A syndicate of Germans own it,' said the policeman. 'A farm, beef cattle, about five hundred acres.'
There was another rumble of thunder. Down the street came tractors, stray dogs, schoolchildren, dilapidated cars and a religious procession; everyone braved the rain as if they did not notice it.
The policeman put his papers away and locked his case. 'The only thing that bothers me is the petrol. The hire company say he used enough to get as far north as Dundalk, or over the border even.'
Mann grunted and turned to watch a boy on a bicycle. The boy had a shoulder resting against a brick wall, and was flicking the pedals with his toe. 'Where is this O'Connor property?' Mann asked. 'Let's turn it over.'
The policeman looked at the rain. 'There's nothing hard and fast,' said the policeman. 'I'd better telephone Dublin if you want to search.'
'Nothing doing,' said Mann. 'These sort of people we're after could pay a thousand dollars for news about your phone call to Dublin.'
'I'm surprised you trust me,' said the policeman irritably.
'I
Condensation was steaming up the windscreen. The policeman produced a handkerchief and wiped a panel clear. 'Straight up this road,' he said eventually. I turned the ignition key, and after a couple of tries I got the car going. 'The next side road on the left,' said the policeman.
We turned off the main road, and climbed through silent villages and a lonely landscape. The rainwashed hilltops were shiny and unkempt in the afternoon light but the ruins of some long-forgotten abbey were only just visible in the gloomy folds of the valley floor. 'Tell me more about this farm,' said Mann.
'This might not be your man,' said the police inspector. 'This syndicate of Germans — Frankfurt, it was — bought the O'Connor farm about two years ago. There was talk of a stud, and then of flying lobsters to Paris but never did anything come of the talk. People called Gerding live there now — man, wife and grown-up son — people come to see them regularly… described as shareholders in the syndicate: well-dressed foreigners come, not just Germans: Americans, a Dutchman, some Swedes and a man who said he was from the Argentine — according to what the taxi-drivers tell us.'
Mann sniffed. 'Sounds like what we're looking for,' he said.
'No neighbours for miles around,' said the police inspector. 'The Gerdings are Protestants — keep themselves to themselves. Hard-working people, the neighbours say. They go into the village for petrol and bread and milk, and into Drogheda once a week for groceries.' He tapped my shoulder. 'We'd better leave the car by the gate. We'll get her stuck in the mud if we try the lane in this sort of weather. Have you got raincoats?'
The farmhouse was on the brow of a hill, with the outbuildings forming a rectangle on the shallower slope to the east of it. The track that was too muddy for our car followed the ridge of the hill. There was a magnificent view from here for anyone prepared to look into the blinding rainstorm. But in spite of the noise of the wind, the dogs heard us. Their barks turned to howls as Mann struggled with the rusty bolt on the farmyard gate.
'Not exactly what the Lufthansa ads would lead us to expect,' said Mann. He clawed at the bolt angrily and its sharp edge took the skin off his thumb. He swore.
The yard was also lacking that sort of orderliness that one expects from a syndicate registered in Frankfurt. The uneven cobblestones were strewn with spilled feed, matted hay, and puddles of rainwater over blocked drains. The farmhouse door was locked.
The birds have flown,' said the police inspector, but he unbuttoned his coat and loosened his jacket. It was the sort of thing a man might do if he was reassuring himself about the availability of his pistol.
I tried the window and slid it up without difficulty.
'Hullo there,' shouted the policeman through the open window. The wind blew the net curtain so that it
