“I’m cold and wet,” Shelly said. “Do we have time to buy a raincoat — maybe a sweater?”
He looked at his watch. “A good idea. More than enough time before we have to be at the airport. Let’s try that department store.”
He bought two more shirts, underwear, a light jacket as well as the raincoat. Just the basic items that would fit into the carry-on bag. Shelly did far better than that, shopping so well that she had to buy another small suitcase. Back in the train station Brian dug out the stub, retrieved Sven and their bags, then took a cab to the airport.
There were no problems at the check-in counter. They watched Shelly’s bag and the crated MI move slowly away on the belt as the airline clerk tore out sheets from their tickets and stapled them to the boarding cards.
“Might I see your passports, please?”
This first hurdle was easy enough to get over. All she wanted to do was look at the first page to see if the passports were current and had not expired. She smiled and passed them back. Shelly went through security first. He followed, clutching his passport and boarding pass, putting his bag on the belt of the X-ray machine before he stepped through the archway next to it. The machine bleeped and the security guard turned to him with a dark and suspicious look.
He took the coins from his pocket, even undipped and removed his brass belt buckle and put that on the tray as well. Stepped back through the arch, which bleeped again.
Then Brian realized what was happening. The magnetic field detected metal — and electronic circuitry.
“My head,” he said, pointing at his ear. “An accident, an operation.” Not a computer — keep it simple. “I have a metal plate in my skull.”
The guard was most interested in this. He used the magnetic field hand detector, which only bleeped when it was near Brian’s head. No weapon there; he was waved through. Everyone was just doing their job.
Including the customs officer. He was a dark-skinned man with an elegant mustache. When Brian gave him his passport he flipped the pages slowly, went back and repeated the action. Looked up and frowned.
“I do not see the visa entry showing where you entered Mexico.”
“Are you sure? Can I see the passport again?” He pretended to look through it and, with the great fear that he was making a total fool of himself, slipped a hundred-dollar bill between the pages. It is one thing to read about bribes — another to really attempt bribery. He was sure he would be under arrest within moments.
“I didn’t know I needed one. We crossed the border by car. I didn’t know about a visa.”
He pushed the passport back and watched with horror as the officer opened it.
“These things happen,” the officer said. “Mistakes can be made. But you will need two visa stamps. One to enter the country, one to leave. If the lady is with you she will need two stamps as well.”
The man looked bored as he returned the passport unstamped. Brian flipped through its empty pages — empty of money as well as visas — then realized what was happening.
“Of course. Two stamps, not one. I understand.”
They both understood. Three more hundred-dollar bills went the way of the first; there were two thuds and he had the passport back. Shelly’s was treated in the same way. They were through and on their way!
“Did I see what I thought I saw?” Shelly hissed in his ear. “You are a crook, Brian Delaney.”
“I am as surprised as you are. Let’s find our gate and sit down. This kind of thing is not easy on the nerves.”
The plane was only an hour late in leaving; the rest of the trip passed in a blur. They could only manage to doze on the plane and fatigue was beginning to tell. Havana was just a dimly lit transit lounge with hard plastic seats. The Aeroflot flight left two hours late this time. They ate some of the tasteless airline food, drank some Georgian champagne and finally fell asleep.
It was just after dawn in Shannon. The plane dropped down through the cloud-filled sky, came in low over cows grazing in green fields as they approached the runway. Brian pulled on his coat and took down his bag from the overhead rack. They left the plane in silence along with the rest of the weary travelers. Another transatlantic flight had arrived at the same time, so they were a long time shuffling along in the line of unshaven men, bleary-eyed women, whimpering and wailing children. Shelly went through first, had a visa stamped in her passport, turned to wait for him.
“Welcome home, Mr. Byrne,” the wide-awake and sprightly customs man said. “Been away on a holiday?”
Brian had been prepared for this moment and his accent was purest Wicklow without a trace of American. “You might say so — thousands wouldn’t. The food’s a shock and they seem to think that overcharging is a way of life.”
“That’s very interesting.” The man had the rubber stamp in his hand but he was not using it. Instead he raised cold blue eyes to Brian.
“Your current address?”
“Number 20 Kilmagig. In Tara.”
“A nice little village. Main Street with the primary school just across from the church.”
“Not unless they’ve jacked it up and moved it a half mile down the road, it isn’t.”
“True, true, I must have gotten it confused with someplace else. But there is still one little problem. That you are Irish I don’t doubt, Mr. Byrne, and I wouldn’t be one to deny a man access to the land of his birth. But the law is the law.” He signed to a garda, who nodded and strolled their way.
“I don’t understand. You’ve checked my passport—”
“I have indeed, most intriguing as well as puzzling it is. The date of issue is perfectly correct and all the visas appear to be in order. But I find one thing difficult to understand — which is why I am asking you to proceed with this garda to the office. You see this style passport has been replaced by the new Europas. This particular style passport hasn’t been issued for over ten years. Now don’t you find that interesting?”
“You better wait here for me,” Brian said weakly to Shelly as the big man in blue uniform led him away.
The interrogation room was windowless and damp. There was nothing on the drab walls except some water stains; a table and two chairs stood in the center of the worn wooden floor. Brian sat on one of them. His carry-on bag was on top of the box in the corner. A large policeman stood next to the door staring patiently into space.
Brian was depressed, chilled, and probably catching a cold. He rubbed his itching nose, pulled out his handkerchief and sneezed loudly into it.
“God bless,” the garda said, glancing at him then back to the wall again. The door opened and another big man came in. No uniform, but the dark suit and heavy boots were uniform enough. He sat down on the outer side of the table and put Brian’s passport down before him.
“I am Lieutenant Fennelly. Now, is this your passport, Mr. Byrne?”
“Yes, it is.”
“There are certain irregularities about it. Are you aware of that?”
Brian had had more than enough time to think about what he was going to say. Had decided on the truth, everything except the fact that he had been imprisoned by the military. He would keep to a highly simplified version of what had actually happened.
“Yes. The passport was out of date. I had some important business appointments, couldn’t wait to get a new one. So I made a few slight changes myself to bring it up to date.”
“Slight changes! Mr. Byrne, this passport has been so excellently altered that I sincerely doubt that it would have been detected had it not been the old model. What do you do for a living?”