Free The Death of an Irish Consul by Bartholomew Gill Page B

ago.
    Mallon continued, “The flight is from Birmingham via Dublin. I’ve circled the names of all the passengers who boarded at Dublin.”
    Rattei and “Garcia” had taken the flight from Birmingham.
    “Check this name”—McGarr underlined the Rattei on the list—“and see where he went tonight. He departed from Shannon within the last six hours.”
    Mallon called over a Garda patrolman who set about the task.
    “As far as we can determine, Garcia has not left the country, although a jet that was carrying an American basketball team to Russia stopped at the airport to refuel. They left with one more passenger than they had when they landed.”
    “How many blacks aboard?” asked Gallup.
    “Nearly all of them.”
    “See if you can check with the airline about who the additional passenger was. When the plane lands in Russia, the airline telex should be able to tell us his name.
    “Also, put a general alarm out for this Garcia bloke. He’s six feet tall, seventeen stone, balding, speaks English with a Jamaican accent, no doubt. His other name may possibly be Foster. If it’s not, we can hold him for possessing a false passport.”
    Mallon wrote these instructions on a small pad, then said, “Otherwise, this Garcia could have left on any of the small private planes that used the airport today. We’ve checked all fifty-three flight plans and passenger lists, but anybody wanting to smuggle him out of the country had only to put Garcia aboard without logging him on the list. We have no regular agency to check the veracity of private plane flight plans or passenger lists. They go and come as they please.”
    Mallon handed McGarr yet another sheet of paper. “This is my preliminary fingerprint report. Both occupants were wearing leather gloves.”
    Again McGarr and Gallup exchanged glances. Foster, if indeed the black man were Foster, would certainly wear gloves throughout any assignment such asthe execution of Hitchcock and Browne. But McGarr wondered why Rattei hadn’t, like Foster, used an alias. The latter, being a professional, should have insisted upon it.
    McGarr’s thoughts then ran to Hitchcock. He probably would have gone to great pains to prepare that dinner for Rattei. Officially, Rattei was his boss. Rattei was probably used to eating well. And Hitchcock might have felt some guilt regarding his involvement with Tartan Oil Limited.
    At the end of the room, a Garda patrolman ripped a sheet from the autowriter of the telex, walked over, and handed it to Mallon, who read, “Rattei, Enrico: Shannon to Dublin to Birmingham, where he changed to Caledonian that flew him to Aberdeen.”
    “Back to the oil fields,” said Gallup.
    McGarr smiled. “Good job, Lieutenant.” He then looked the young man in the eye. “Well?”
    “I accept your offer.”
    “What did the wife say?”
    “She said, ‘Ah, Dublin!’”
    “That’s fine. Now then,” McGarr turned to Liam O’Shaughnessy, “Lieutenant Mallon will report to you on”—it was Wednesday—“Monday next, Liam. He’ll have our car with him.” McGarr meant the one which O’Shaughnessy and Ward had driven out to Dingle. It was parked outside the office now. “That way he’ll have transportation and Hughie won’t have to lug us back to Dublin.”
    Ward was relieved. He allowed his shoulder to rest against the wall.
    McGarr checked his watch. “Do you reckon we can catch a shuttle back to Dublin, Lieutenant?”
    Mallon looked at the clock on the wall. “Within the hour.”
    “When’s your plane, Ned?”
    “Two hours,” Gallup replied glumly.
    “Then I’ll stand us a round or two in the bar,” said the chief inspector. “You too, Mallon. A celebration, what?”
    Mallon smiled and ripped the top sheet off the scratch pad.
    Sitting in a lounge booth on the second floor of the terminus, McGarr looked out on the expanse of concrete runway. The landing lights diminished into the distance until both lines seemed to merge. A plane taxied