dropped a hundred euro note on the table. “But I see here a cancellation, 11 a.m. tomorrow, OK?”
“I need changing room facilities,” Zoby said and watched the pro write out a receipt.
“Show this to Reception. She’ll take care of things.”
Zoby whistled as he drove and felt the sunshine on his day. He bought a guidebook on nearby country houses and found what he needed on his third visit. Standing in the parking area late afternoon, he surveyed the near deserted ground and surrounding forest, then hoisting a large holdall, he began to explore. At the end of a side path bordered by trees, he came to a walled garden with derelict greenhouses. The place looked neglected by estate workers; a lonely place, closed and silent save for birds.
Standing for a moment, he listened to the harsh escape of his breath. “This is it, Katherine,” he whispered aloud. “The place where you get to be a woman. Mind, you got to show me your spirit first. Show your fire and what you got.”
Under the lichen-coated glass of the furthest greenhouse he set to work clearing a space and hammering in four heavy wooden stakes, he whistled as he laboured, as tuneless as his thoughts. He hid the bag behind potting trays. It contained the scissors, the butchers’ knives, protective clothing, rubber boots, rope and masking tape. It was everything he needed for interrogating a hostile. That evening he went early to bed, went to sleep thinking of Katherine and her white veil.
Next day continued its sunny, balmy weather. Zoby felt calm and confident. Dressed in blazer and flannels, his face disguised, he presented himself at the golf club reception desk. His acquired day-pass gave access to the changing room, a clean, timber-clad place with a rear exit to the first tee. He nodded greeting to a couple of elderly members then sat fussing with his bag of kit, waiting for them to finish dressing and leave. Forty seconds later he had broken into three lockers. He felt the jagged rush of adrenalin as he searched. People were outside, people who could catch him. He found a heavy bunch of keys but as a precaution, he opened two further lockers, feeling in pockets, locating another car key then a third. At the first sound of voices from the corridor, he retrieved his bag and exited by the course entrance. He felt lucky, felt his breath calm as he approached the car park and pressed unlock on the first key. The hazard lights of a 3 series BMW blink their greeting and brought his contempt. “Too small,” he sneered. The second key flashed the lights of a Mercedes S Class 500. “Yes!” Zoby raised his fist and switched on his head radio. “Transportation for mission secured, Colonel. Making strategic withdrawal.” A minute later he was on the road to Dublin. He whistled as he drove, the mission was looking good, the Mercedes gliding like glass.
CHAPTER 8
Sean grunted, his eyes closed, his fingers resting against his forehead as he assessed and collated evidence relating to Poor Girl. Something sick had crawled from the darker side of humanity. It was his job to eradicate it. He drew on professional detachment to keep rational, but it didn’t stop a powerful desire to put a bullet in this person. He would not fail on this one, must not fail.
The first progress briefing was at 10.00 hours. It was a relief when the time came.
Blue Team sat in silence, emitting an odour of cigarette smoke, beer, perfume and close body confinement. Across the room Victoria Lawless leant back to wall by an open window, her expression flickering defensive hostility. How she had found their address or gained knowledge of the meeting from clamped-jaw Heidi, Sean found a credit to her ingenuity.
He placed his briefcase by the Nobo board and sat on a table. “Welcome team to this bright and sunny morning. For those who have never met, may I introduce our MI5 Liaison Officer, Victoria Lawless.”
The response came in a shuffle of chairs and a few
“I need changing room facilities,” Zoby said and watched the pro write out a receipt.
“Show this to Reception. She’ll take care of things.”
Zoby whistled as he drove and felt the sunshine on his day. He bought a guidebook on nearby country houses and found what he needed on his third visit. Standing in the parking area late afternoon, he surveyed the near deserted ground and surrounding forest, then hoisting a large holdall, he began to explore. At the end of a side path bordered by trees, he came to a walled garden with derelict greenhouses. The place looked neglected by estate workers; a lonely place, closed and silent save for birds.
Standing for a moment, he listened to the harsh escape of his breath. “This is it, Katherine,” he whispered aloud. “The place where you get to be a woman. Mind, you got to show me your spirit first. Show your fire and what you got.”
Under the lichen-coated glass of the furthest greenhouse he set to work clearing a space and hammering in four heavy wooden stakes, he whistled as he laboured, as tuneless as his thoughts. He hid the bag behind potting trays. It contained the scissors, the butchers’ knives, protective clothing, rubber boots, rope and masking tape. It was everything he needed for interrogating a hostile. That evening he went early to bed, went to sleep thinking of Katherine and her white veil.
Next day continued its sunny, balmy weather. Zoby felt calm and confident. Dressed in blazer and flannels, his face disguised, he presented himself at the golf club reception desk. His acquired day-pass gave access to the changing room, a clean, timber-clad place with a rear exit to the first tee. He nodded greeting to a couple of elderly members then sat fussing with his bag of kit, waiting for them to finish dressing and leave. Forty seconds later he had broken into three lockers. He felt the jagged rush of adrenalin as he searched. People were outside, people who could catch him. He found a heavy bunch of keys but as a precaution, he opened two further lockers, feeling in pockets, locating another car key then a third. At the first sound of voices from the corridor, he retrieved his bag and exited by the course entrance. He felt lucky, felt his breath calm as he approached the car park and pressed unlock on the first key. The hazard lights of a 3 series BMW blink their greeting and brought his contempt. “Too small,” he sneered. The second key flashed the lights of a Mercedes S Class 500. “Yes!” Zoby raised his fist and switched on his head radio. “Transportation for mission secured, Colonel. Making strategic withdrawal.” A minute later he was on the road to Dublin. He whistled as he drove, the mission was looking good, the Mercedes gliding like glass.
CHAPTER 8
Sean grunted, his eyes closed, his fingers resting against his forehead as he assessed and collated evidence relating to Poor Girl. Something sick had crawled from the darker side of humanity. It was his job to eradicate it. He drew on professional detachment to keep rational, but it didn’t stop a powerful desire to put a bullet in this person. He would not fail on this one, must not fail.
The first progress briefing was at 10.00 hours. It was a relief when the time came.
Blue Team sat in silence, emitting an odour of cigarette smoke, beer, perfume and close body confinement. Across the room Victoria Lawless leant back to wall by an open window, her expression flickering defensive hostility. How she had found their address or gained knowledge of the meeting from clamped-jaw Heidi, Sean found a credit to her ingenuity.
He placed his briefcase by the Nobo board and sat on a table. “Welcome team to this bright and sunny morning. For those who have never met, may I introduce our MI5 Liaison Officer, Victoria Lawless.”
The response came in a shuffle of chairs and a few
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