“Go on,” I said carelessly, implying that all the stories in creation would not jog my memory.
“I heard a rumor that Roisin is dead. That she was executed for betraying the IRA. I spoke to a policeman in Dublin and he said he’d heard she was working for American intelligence and that she’d been sent to Ireland to discover who in America was sending guns to the IRA. He’d heard that she’d been shot in the head and buried in Ravensdale Forest.”
I shrugged. “I’m sorry. None of it means a thing.”
My denial had no effect. “The policeman told me it was Roisin who betrayed Seamus Geoghegan. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
“He’s the fellow the British are trying to extradite from America, right?”
“He’s friend of yours,” Kathleen accused me.
I laughed. “Let’s be serious? I’m a boat surveyor!”
“I met Seamus Geoghegan’s brother, Mr. Shanahan, in Derry. He was the one who told me about you and the IRA, and that wasn’t bar gossip. He told me his brother stayed in your apartment in Belfast once, and he said his brother met Roisin at your apartment. He told me!” The last three words were a protest at my obduracy.
I shook my head wearily. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t know Seamus Geoghegan and I’ve never met his brother and I don’t know your sister, and I’m really sorry.”
Kathleen dismissed my denials with an abrupt gesture. “Maybe it’s all true, Mr. Shanahan! Maybe she was in American intelligence and did betray Geoghegan! But does that make you a member of American intelligence too? Is that why you can’t talk to me?” She paused, eyes bright, desperate for an answer. “For God’s sake,” she went on, “my mother’s got a year to live! Maybe less! All she wants is to know the truth, that’s all! To be certain. Do you know what it’s like to grieve for a child, but not even to know if you need to grieve? Mom keeps thinking Roisin will come home, that she’s alive somewhere. For the love of God, Mr. Shanahan, I’m not a security risk! I just want to know, that’s all! You don’t even have to tell me anything! Just give me a nod, that’s all!”
The gas fire hissed. Kathleen stared up at me. I took a deep breath. “I really can’t help you,” I said.
“Oh, you bastard!” Kathleen Donovan said tiredly.
“I think you should go,” I said gently. “Can I drive you somewhere?”
“You can burn in hell.” She snatched up her coat and stood. For a moment I thought she was going to spit at me, then she turned and walked away. The front door of the apartment banged as she stormed out and, a moment later, I heard her footsteps clatter away on the pavement outside.
Oh dear Christ. I sat on the sofa, leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Roisin, Roisin, Roisin. God damn it. I remembered her smile, her laughter, her moments of tenderness, but she was dead, and I was a bastard. I could have told Kathleen the truth, all the truth, but I had long schooled myself against the truth. The truth makes a man vulnerable. The truth betrays. Lies are a shield, a fog, a maze in which to lose the curious. I told myself Kathleen Donovan could have been a stooge for British Intelligence, or even for the Provisional IRA. Maybe Brendan Flynn had sent Kathleen to see if I would betray my membership of the IRA, thus marking myself as a security risk and not to be trusted with the Libyan gold. And if I had so betrayed myself then Brendan would never have dared leave me alive with my knowledge of a missile in a Miami warehouse, and soon a Prove hit squad would have come to Nieuwpoort to leave my bullet-ridden body floating in the River Yser.
So, I reassured myself, I had been right to tell Kathleen nothing, because the first rule was to trust no one and the second rule was never to tell the truth, ever, for the truth is like gold. They were good rules, even if they did mean having to send a girl away in tears into a wet windy night, and even if it did mean drinking the rest of the bottle of Jameson to smear away the memory of Kathleen’s hurt face, and even if it did mean adding another sin to the tally of rotten sins.
Oh dear sweet God, I thought, but let the memories go away.
I heard nothing from Tunisia in November. December came and in the streets of Nieuwpoort the Christmas lights struggled to shine through the winter rains. I lived frugally and wondered if the whole deal had collapsed. Perhaps the Cubans had found other buyers for the Stingers, or perhaps Halil had found another yachtsman to deliver Corsaire to Miami. When Shafiq had first contacted me everything about the Stinger deal had been urgent and exciting, while now the whole scheme had slowed to a crawl, if not to utter immobility. Perhaps, after all, this was proving to be just another operation gone sour in the planning, only to be abandoned. Most operations ended like that. They began with a rush of enthusiasm that was slowly eroded by reality, but I did not break security by contacting Dublin to find out. Instead I just waited patiently and hoped that I had not destroyed my business for nothing.
Kathleen Donovan did not try to contact me again. Some nights, lying alone in the cold apartment, I regretted not telling her the truth, but took solace from my suspicion that she had been sent to prise me into indiscretion. Maybe, I told myself, the British had sent her, and maybe she had not been Roisin’s sister at all, but merely a lookalike recruited by the Brits. The British were ruthless bastards; too many IRA men had simply disappeared, vanished without trace from their homes on either side of the Irish border. I began to convince myself that British Intelligence, coming four years late on my cold trail, had sent the girl to trap me into indiscretion. And it had been a clever touch, I thought, to bring in Seamus Geoghegan’s name. Did Seamus have a brother? He had never mentioned one, but even if he had, would such a brother say I was in the IRA? I told myself Kathleen Doncovan’s story stank like rotting fish, but then I would recall her stricken eyes and my conviction of her falsity would waver. There had been an innocence about her that rang very true, yet I told myself that in the world of secrets the false always rang true.
The winter nights drew ever longer and still I heard nothing from either Tunisia or Dublin. If Michael Herlihy had paid the deposit on the Stingers then it was looking like a lost cause, unless, of course, the Libyans had found another way to deliver the five million dollars. That seemed the likeliest answer; that common sense had afflicted everyone involved and persuaded them of the stupidity of committing five million dollars to a small boat in a wide sea.
I eked out my own cash. I still made a little money surveying boats, but the waiting and the inactivity were eating into my savings and, as Christmas neared, I began to think of selling Rebel Lady. I had bought her for a song and, if I fetched her from Ireland to the stronger market of mainland Europe, I might be able to make a pretty profit on her even in a recession.
Then, just before Christmas, I was woken in the middle of a cold night by the chatter of the fax machine. I walked naked to the living room, switched on the light, and saw the message. I was requested to make a survey of a cruising yacht presently laid up in Marseilles. Would I please send an estimate of my travel costs and a statement of my usual fees to M. Jean Piguet. That name was the key, the ciphered message which meant Corsaire was ready, and that the golden voyage would happen after all.
I felt a pulse of excitement. I had not felt that surge of adrenalin for a long time. It was the seductive kick of danger and the anticipation of risk. The time had come to vanish.
I did not sleep any more that night. Instead I packed my sea-bag with what few belongings I wanted to carry into my new life, then waited for the winter dawn. At nine o’clock I went to one of the fishing harbor cafés and used its public phone to call Barcelona, then I made a long call to Brussels. Afterward, the dice thus irrevocably thrown, I threw my sea-bag into the back of the car and, just as Teodor had suspected, left Belgium for good.