Emerald Decision

by Craig Thomas

  Then he was struck by the sense that this man had known his father. Not just Gilliatt, and Emerald Necklace, perhaps — but his own father. Drummond's disconcertingly complete appraisal of him, imitating his daughter's intent look, reminded him of it. Drummond was looking for a likeness. He nodded.

  "You are like him, Mr McBride — your father, I mean." Then he seemed to notice his daughter for the first time. "Drink, Mr McBride? Claire?"

  "Coffee would be fine."

  The woman went out of the room. McBride's smile stretched, became strained under the continuing close scrutiny. Eventually, Drummond's gaze released him.

  "I'm sorry, McBride. You do remind me of him, very clearly. I am being made aware of how damned old I've got, and how long ago it all was! Forgive me."

  "You knew my father well—" It was not a question, and it was not the conversation that McBride had wanted to begin. Yet he sensed the life of memory in the upright, preserved old man, and something reached out to meet it, comprehend it. He suddenly had an intuition that the old man would tell him nothing without being asked.

  "Yes, I did. He worked for my little organization for some time, until—" Drummond shook his head, watched his daughter bring the fine bone china, the coffee. She served McBride with sugar-lumps from a silver bowl, with small silver tongs. He studied her strong hands, caught her perfume as she moved away again. She and her father disconcerted him, but he could not say precisely how or why. Formidable, perhaps?

  "Thank you," he murmured, and attended to Drummond, silently urging him on. "What happened, sir?"

  "To your father?" Drummond replied, watching his daughter pouring his coffee with the greediness of the old.

  "Yes."

  "You don't know, then? Your mother, I mean—" He sipped at the coffee, took two of the biscuits and rested them in his saucer.

  "My mother—" He looked at Claire Drummond, who had seated herself on the sofa, crossed her legs, and taken up the posture of an intent spectator. Disconcerting. "My mother told me nothing about my father, except that he died, before I was born. How and why I don't know."

  "And you never bothered to ask?" Drummond supplied quietly. "But now, in front of a mummified old man—" Claire Drummond smiled — "you are reminded of your ignorance, and intrigued to know more. Mm?" He sipped again at his coffee. McBride heard his dentures click against the rim of the cup. He felt taken over, subordinated, by the old man and his daughter.

  "Do you know what happened, sir?"

  Drummond shook his head. "I was in London — one of my rare trips, I'm glad to say. There was one hell of a flap on—"

  More to reassert himself than to raise the matter, McBride blurted out: "Smaragdenhalskette, you mean?" Drummond's eyes narrowed, more than anything at the German, McBride surmised.

  Drummond nodded.

  "I thought you must know quite a bit of it, when you rang," Drummond observed." The German invasion plan, eh?" McBride nodded. "Yes, your father was mixed up in it, in a way. So was I — and young Peter Gilliatt. But I'm not the one to be able to tell you—" He smiled at McBride's complete and child-like disappointment, his comical expression. "I wasn't privy to all of it, by any manner. It was masterminded — if you can call it that — from London by a man named Walsingham in Admiralty Intelligence."

  "But my father—?" The remainder of his coffee had grown a skin and he put his cup on a delicate side-table the woman had moved close to his chair.

  "Your father used to run off and do errands for Walsingham — and I was told nothing, I'm afraid. I know we were running around here like mad things during late November — about the time your father died — scared stiff the Germans were going to come, agents landing on every tide, that sort of thing, rumours of parachutists and so on, but nothing ever came of it, I'm afraid." McBride looked devastated. "I'm sorry about this, Professor McBride. You seemed to want to talk about your father when you rang — I was glad to be able to help, meet his son. But this other matter— I'm in almost as much ignorance as you, I'm afraid. I don't really know what happened here for almost a week before your father — died. I was in London, advising the Admiralty on this Irish thing. Without being told very much, I'm afraid."

  He finished his coffee, put it down, bit a biscuit in half.

  "My father, then—" McBride asked, his disappointment evident, interest in his father minimal, mere politeness. "What happened to him? Do you know that, sir?"

  "My investigations — on my return here — led me to the conclusion that he was murdered by the IRA," Drummond said levelly. Claire Drummond's head twitched as if her father had slapped her face.

  * * *

  At seven-thirty McBride was waiting for Claire Drummond in the bar of the one small hotel in Kilbrittain. The impulse to ask her to join him for dinner at the hotel had been simply that — a way of retaining some contact with Drummond rather than with the woman. Drummond had closed the conversation soon after the revelation of the manner of his father's death. He had ascertained as much from his network; the body had never been found. McBride's father had had more than one brush with the local IRA, who sometimes helped German agents hide out, fed them, sent them on their way to Dublin and the British mainland. Presumably, they had exacted the price of his interference, his contempt and animosity towards the Republican movement. Drummond had warned him often, but McBride had always disregarded the threat posed to him by the IRA.

  Drummond had been — forty years later— visibly moved by the narrative of Michael McBride's demise. Yes, Gilliatt had later helped his pregnant mother over to England, thence to neutral America where she claimed to have distant relatives. Drummond knew no more of her than that.

  Nor did he know anything more of Emerald Necklace. McBride was absorbed by the news of his father, and pressed few questions on Drummond during the rest of their conversation. He felt almost helplessly drawn to his father by Drummond's ignorance of the manner and detail of his death. The mention of IRA brought images of a hands-bound, kneeling figure, head hooded, being executed on a barren spot of country, bones growing white in passing seasons, namelessness—

  He could not take his book, or himself, seriously. His own ignorance, his mother's silence, seemed exaggerated and derided by Drummond's lack of knowledge. Somehow, he felt they had all let his unknown father die, were all responsible for the namelessness of it.

  Men in London, Drummond had added. He must pursue his researches in London. Many of them were dead, but Admiralty records might turn something up, Walsingham was still at the Home Office, so Drummond believed—

  But London was distant. Within maybe even ten — twenty? — miles of where they had talked, where he now sat, his father had died. He felt immeasurably sad, weighted with emotion that seemed to be attempting to catch up with itself, make up for lost time — to apologize for the years of light, dismissive feelings towards Michael McBride. He did not expect to be able to do anything; he expected only not to return to London. He felt he must not leave County Cork just in case his present, ennobling emotions deserted him with a change of location. But, what to do?

  Claire Drummond walked into the bar, brushing at her heavy dark hair, dressed now in a fur jacket and a dark skirt, and long boots. He smiled, — was about to rise, offer a drink before dinner, replenish his own whiskey, when she transferred her smile to the only other man in the room, the studiously-reading man at the bar.

  "Sean!" They embraced, kissed lightly, studied one another in an acquaintance from which he was excluded. "How long have you been in Kilbrittain?" she asked disapprovingly. Before he could reply, however, she turned to McBride. "Mr McBride, this is Sean Moynihan, an old friend of mine." Moynihan smiled, extending his hand.

  November 1940

  Michael McBride was drinking in a bar in Clonakilty — the uncarpeted public bar of a grey, dilapidated building that presented itself, rather unsuccessfully, as a residential hotel. The bar was sparsely populated in the early evening, the rain sliding down the uncurtained, grimy windows b
ehind his head, the spilled beer gleaming in wet rings on the stained wooden table. He felt a covert excitement simply in being there. The hotel was known as an IRA meeting-place, — had been since the twenties, and he was awaiting the arrival of a man called Rourke who was a known and vociferous Republican. He lived in an isolated cottage north of Ross Carbery, but had lately been doing his drinking in Clonakilty.

  And McBride knew, by a process of elimination that had taken him the best part of two days, that Rourke was the man with the sudden increase of grocery purchases. Words picked up, rumours, friends who had not seen Rourke for a couple of days, changes of habit, a stranger who was a cousin from Killarney — McBride had narrowed the field until there was only Rourke. And his stranger-friend-relative.

  If the man was German, then McBride would have him.

  He studied the barman's bald head in the Guinness-advert mirror behind the bar, watched him move into paler reflection of the glass in front of a cigarette advert framed and hung like a work of art. The barman was aware of McBride's unwelcome status as a stranger. A heavy-set man had come out of a back room, at his invitation, and studied McBride malevolently for whole minutes before disappearing again. McBride enjoyed the silent encounter, the ripples he was causing on this Republican pond. Other men studied him from time to time, but lost interest in his bland and silent exterior. He looked, sitting against the wall on a wooden bench, unthreatening. The possibility of his being a police informer could be decided by others.

  As he was buying his third pint of chilly, flat bitter, Rourke came into the bar with another man. Short, dark, possibly Irish. McBride was immediately disappointed, until he corrected himself in amusement. No Prussian-officer-looking German would be sent to Ireland, anyway. He returned to his seat, the barman's eyes on him as Rourke introduced his cousin Mike to the regulars. It was a charade, McBride concluded, a small, intense excitement nagging at his stomach, making him belch quietly. The barman seemed concerned to draw Rourke's attention to McBride. Eventually, Rourke turned his back to the bar, raised his glass while he studied McBride. He recognized him from Ross Carbery, and his connection with Devlin passed clear as a signal across Rourke's broad, lumpy face. His eyes narrowed.

  "Good evening to you, Mr Rourke — and to your cousin," McBride said amiably, raising his glass. The barman seemed to relax at once, then become more suspicious.

  "McBride," Rourke replied, putting down his glass, seeming at a loss. Almost visibly searching for a bolt-hole. Then the familiar territory of the bar seemed to reassert itself. McBride was on his own, impotent. The "cousin" seemed puzzled yet cognizant of some unease, even danger. He studied McBride, met his eyes for a moment when mutual professionalism passed between them like some Masonic recognition, then turned back to the bar and began whispering to Rourke.

  McBride stood up, his drink half-finished, and headed for the lavatory at the back of the hotel. As he emerged into the wet night, he was immediately aware of the stench from the urinal, the path wet and slippery under his feet, the noise of a passing car, the screech of a fiddle from an upstairs room. He was more aware, had shed a skin, felt the night dangerous and close around him. He went into the concrete urinal, feeling for a light-switch he suspected was not there, his hand scraping lightly across the rough brick of the wall. The poor light of one distant round-the-corner street lamp. He stood, shoulders hunched, waiting.

  The big shadow of a man, blocking the poor light at the corner of McBride's eye. The heavy-set man from the back room. McBride whistled softly, as if slightly embarrassed at his proximity. Then he made as if to pass the big man, who suddenly blocked his exit.

  "Something troubling you?" McBride asked pleasantly, tensing himself as the big man stepped back, allowing him to pass out of the urinal. McBride took two steps, hunched himself suddenly, and stepped to one side. The kidney-punch caught him a half-blow in the side, and he gasped. Then the man was on him in the yard, reaching his arms round him, seeking to aim a blow head-against-head, knee moving to strike the groin. Dirty, untidy fighting, just in case McBride was an expert.

  McBride felt himself losing balance, his feet scrabbling to retain purchase on the wet ground as the big man grabbed him, paining his ribs, making breathing difficult, noisy. McBride kept his head back, trying to avoid being stunned by a blow from the big man's forehead.

  Smell of dried sweat, old unwashed clothes, a meal on the man's breath. McBride's feet came up from the concrete as the man lifted him.

  McBride had gone into his embrace with one arm crooked against his chest, as if it were being carried in a sling. Now, as the man's head jabbed closer again, catching McBride on the chin and grinding his teeth together, he stabbed back as the nostrils moved into vision. He jammed his fingers into them, raking outwards. The man screamed in pain. McBride dropped to the floor, gagging for breath, then rose to one knee and drove his head into the man's abdomen, knocking him over. Noise of a gun skittering across the concrete, dislodged as the big man went down. McBride kicked him in the side of the head, carefully and weightedly, then leaned over him, recovering as if from a distance race.

  When his breathing became easier, he dragged the unconscious man behind the urinal, and let him drop behind a heap of beer-crates. The man wasn't dead — McBride would have regretted the unnecessary force needed to kill which might have been forced upon him by sheer physical size. He did not consider the possibility of some vendetta having been created in this wet, dark yard between himself and the IRA.

  He heard an engine start up, a car pull away. Rourke and his cousin, presumably, heading back to Ross Carbery. Then, suddenly, he knew what was on the point of happening, and he began running out of the hotel yard towards the motorcycle he had left in a ditch on the outskirts of Clonakilty.

  * * *

  Rourke was in the outhouse, with the scent of stored apples and a hidden poteen still and two sacks of potatoes. He'd been killed with a narrow sharp knife that might have served as an advertisement of the killer's nationality and profession. The blade had been inserted between the fourth and fifth ribs, and thrust into the heart. When it was removed, not much blood had emerged. Far less, McBride thought as he knelt over the body, than had drenched Caesar or dyed Agamemnon's bathtub. But those two had been killed by amateurs.

  McBride felt the short hair on the back of his neck rise, as if the German were still in the outhouse, or the cottage, or behind the nearest knoll. He assumed he'd be long gone, over the hills and far away, but he left the body and began a methodical search of the cottage. The stone walls seemed damp, the cottage long empty and uninhabited.

  The German had slept in the one bedroom, Rourke on the sofa, presumably. Supplies — courtesy of Devlin — had been laid in for an extended stay, possibly two weeks or more, and there was drink in abundance which wasn't poteen but beer and Old Bushmills. The German had refused to drink the stuff Rourke made in his outhouse. No maps, no radio, no clothes — except a rolled-up pair of socks that had been missed under the bed — no sign that the German would come back.

  Would he?

  Surely not — not for his socks, and if he had a radio, it wouldn't be buried at the house. He was running—

  Was he? Why? Because of one man, someone Rourke knew, seen briefly in a bar in Clonakilty and presumed to have been removed like a mote from his eye?

  And then McBride knew that the German was outside somewhere, waiting. Had seen and heard McBride arrive, had hidden the evidence of his presence as casually as he had removed the body to the outhouse—

  And was now waiting to move in.

  McBride shivered. He knew it — knew it. This was too good a place to abandon, even when the terrified Rourke had been disposed of. He was out there, somewhere—

  His head snapped round as he caught the light splashing on the cottage's stone wall — fiery red, followed by the crump of the explosion.

  A theatrical announcement by the German, blowing up the petrol tank of the motorbike. The challenge issued, the threat mad
e. He was outside.

  * * *

  Ashe could see Gilliatt down on the sweep deck of HMS Bisley, picking up the quarter deck telephone. He watched the sweep deck crew — the Buffer, the Chief Stoker and another stoker, a leading seaman and four ordinary seamen — at their stations, then he very consciously cleared his throat into the bridge telephone. He felt the insides of his mouth dry and old like an uninhabited cave, and sucked spit from his cheeks.

  "Number One, prepare to sweep in "J" formation to port. Set for deep sweep, twenty-five fathoms."

  "Aye, aye sir." Ashe watched him repeat the orders to the sweep deck crew, and in the moment before any man moved, Ashe envisaged the whole scene before him, and political horizons beyond. The Bisley was rolling gently with the swell in the grey dawn, the rest of the flotilla lying astern in echelon formation. Bisley would begin the sweep, moving ahead with extreme caution into a known minefield. Each ship of the flotilla would follow astern, safe in an already swept overlap, sweeping a similar safe area for the ship astern of it. The trawlers with which the flotilla had made rendezvous were in the shadow of each minesweeper, marksmen aboard each one to destroy the cut mines by gunfire when they bobbed like shiny black snails to the surface. When the initial sweep through Winston's Welcome Mat had been made, the flotilla would turn and make another sweep back on a north-easterly course to widen the channel for the cruiser and its three merchant ships.

  A more misty perspective, colder and more disheartening, lay behind the solidity of apparently unmoving men on the sweep deck, unmoving ships on a grey sea. Ashe's flotilla was opening a path to the heart of Britain, and he could not avoid the grandiose imagery because his fear, even despair, was similarly large, pressing down on his shoulders like grief or age. He tried to rid himself of his mood by shaking his head, but it persisted like a cataract over the eye, requiring surgery and not mere resolution.