by Craig Thomas
"My God—" Walsingham breathed. His sleepless night assailed him now with a new weariness, and the confident assertion of McBride's imminent demise he had given Guthrie seemed hollow and laughable. When they learned Ryan's driver was dead, and Ryan not accounted for among the bombed bodies, they'd been forced to assume that Ryan was on McBride's tail on his own. A foolish assumption.
But — shot to death? And where was McBride now?
"You think he—?" he began, but Exton appeared to have been waiting for the question.
"No, I think it was the girl."
"Drummond's daughter? Why?"
"McBride has no history of marksmanship, didn't have a gun. It had to be the girl. Trouble is, we don't know anything about her."
"I–I'll talk to her father. Where is McBride now?"
"We don't know, sir." Formality masked failure, and it angered Walsingham.
"Find him — quickly." Then, realizations overpowered him in a gang of hot, swift sensations. "Quickly. I'll — get back to you."
Walsingham put down the telephone. It clattered into its rest. It was damp with his palm's perspiration. He pressed his quivering hand to the blotter, leaving a pale imprint on its clear green surface. The girl, the girl—
Organization?
He was as physically aware of Guthrie as if the man had entered the room. Organization. McBride the pawn, digging up the dirt, the Provisional IRA's own shovel. Who? Organization—
It was all part of a plan. Guthrie opened the door, after knocking.
"Everything all right, Charles? Your wine's getting warm—"
"Yes, yes — just give me a few minutes!" Guthrie appeared pale and startled. "I'll talk to you then," Walsingham added, dismissing and mollifying him. Guthrie's face was frowned with thought and dark expectation as he went out. Walsingham picked up the telephone, dialled the operator, and requested Drummond's number in Kilbrittain, County Cork.
Drummond? Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Drummond's daughter? It was sufficiently preposterous to be true. And they knew nothing about her. Guthrie was a dead man, next week's crucial meetings were a dead duck — he was dead. Emerald. His idea—
He tapped nervously on the desk, drum-rolling with his stiff, crooked fingers, until the noise was the flight of horses. Then he was told his call was through. Drummond sounded close as the next room, but wary in tone.
"Yes, Charles? What can I do for you?"
Walsingham wanted no other option than to go for the throat.
"Is your daughter a member of the Provisional IRA, Robert?" Silence, or perhaps a click in the back of Drummond's throat like fingers tapping out morse. "Is she?" Silence, complete except for the humming of the connection. "Robert, I think she's just killed one of my men. He was watching McBride — just keeping a friendly eye, on your advice — and now he's dead. Shot dead at point-blank range. McBride doesn't have a gun. Does she?"
The smaller admission seemed easier. "Yes — yes, I taught her to shoot as a girl."
"Is she a member of the IRA?"
"Yes—" The word seemed part of a forgotten language, dredged up from deep memory. Drummond, Walsingham sensed, was going to pieces on the other end of the line, collapsing. A worm-eaten, hollow deception so old it was ready to fall down. "Yes, she is. I–I don't know what to say—"
"Who else? Do you know anyone else in her — cell?"
"A man called Moynihan." Neutral tones, blind to persons and consequences. "Moynihan is in England now."
"For God's,sake!" Walsingham began, then cut off his blame. "Anything else?"
"No, I don't know anything else!" The voice was plaintive and broken. Then the connection was severed and the receiver buzzed in Walsingham's ear. He slammed it down. He had no doubt, immediately, that Claire Drummond and the man Moynihan already had McBride. He picked up the receiver again to dial London, and recollected, with a chill, personal feeling of anxiety that created no outward-moving ripples, his first meeting with Churchill concerning Emerald in late November 1940.
* * *
McBride lay on the crumpled, unmade bed in the small double room of the private hotel in Haywards Heath, Sussex, his eyes still bandaged with a wet cloth, apparently asleep at last. Claire Drummond, rubbing her strained arm, watched him intently, as if feeding off his helplessness. She had turned inland from the coast, gone to earth in Haywards Heath instinctively, and summoned Moynihan to follow her from Eastbourne. Now, it was early afternoon and he still had not arrived.
Her arms and shoulders still ached from the frantic effort needed to drag the body across the car park, lift it and tip it over the wall down into an enclosed, unfrequented courtyard behind the multi-storey car park. Then the additional effort of moving the blinded, stunned McBride over to the passenger seat of the Nissan so that she could drive.
When they arrived at the hotel the previous evening and she parked the car behind the converted private house in a quiet residential street built at the turn of the century, McBride was still in the identical, retreated state; as if time had stopped for him, or he was suffering some catatonic epilepsy. She fitted him with her sunglasses, walked him to the stairs, and locked the door of their room thankfully behind them. Now she was worried, hungry, and frightened — though she would not admit any recognition of the last sensation. McBride's eyesight should have returned to normal by now, he should be awake. Like this, he was useless—
Where was Moynihan? Where?
When he knocked on the door, a little after two-thirty, and called her name softly, she pounced to the door like an animal, afraid of her own nerves, and let him in. She took in immediately the evidence of his sleepless night, and the healing scar on his cheek.
"Making sure I wasn't going to be picked up?" she asked with mustered contempt, looking at her watch. He nodded.
"No point in us both going down, is there? I'm not wanted for murder. You are."
"What?" Her hand fluttered round her mouth like a wounded bird.
"Don't worry, there's nothing in the papers yet. But they'll guess you did it, darling, won't they now?" His eyes moved to take in McBride for the first time. "What's the matter with him?"
"His eyes — he was blinded by the shots. And he's in shock—" Moynihan appeared disturbed by the information. "Don't worry. He'll come out of it."
"He'd better."
"Where do we take him, now we've got him?" She glanced at the bed again. McBride still appeared to be asleep, but she lowered her voice. McBride, stretched on the bed, shoeless but otherwise fully dressed, was an object, an implement. She did not even recollect their sexual encounters. She felt weary, afraid, and yet cleaner, more honest in the daylight.
"Chelmsford, Braintree, Brentwood — they're all out." Moynihan ticked them off on his fingers. He wanted to keep the woman on edge, not in full control. "We'll take him straight to the Cheltenham place."
"No!"
"Yes. We'll have to risk the long drive. There's more chance of the pigs picking us up if we try to head back into London, or along the coast. Cheltenham."
"Very well." The woman seemed subdued to Moynihan, worn down beyond anything other than token resistance. He luxuriated in his new superiority. "When will he be ready to travel?"
"In the boot? Any time." She smiled. "You watch him while I go and get something to eat." She glanced at the closed window of the room. "I could smell fish and chips two hours ago — I closed it. It was driving me up the wall." Moynihan smiled even though he suspected she was ingratiating herself before some further attempt to take command of the situation. "You've had food, I take it?" He nodded. "Watch him carefully — and hire a new car. One with a big boot."
She went out, tugging on her coat as she did so. Moynihan watched the door for a time after it had slammed behind her, then went to inspect the sleeping McBride, lifting the wet bandage. Black scorch marks, and ingrained powder in the skin round the eyes and across the cheeks like black pepper or the stubble of a beard. It was unlikely McBride was blind, but it wasn't his eyes the
y wanted anyway. He strolled over to the window, and watched the quiet street until he was certain there was no one interested in his parked car or the walking woman. A Volvo, he thought, should satisfy her demand for a large boot to stow McBride for the journey. Stupid woman — there was no telephone in the room. He'd have to wait until her return.
Behind him as he looked out of the window, McBride could see his shadow against the light from the window. The image was wet and underwater and indistinct, but he was profoundly grateful that he wasn't blind. He went on watching Moynihan from the corner of the wet bandage that the Irishman had not properly replaced until his turning from the window caused McBride to close his eyes again. The returning darkness terrified him. Like a recent nightmare, he could not shake it off or diminish its impact.
* * *
"Rudi, my dear fellow, do stop fidgeting and sit down," Goessler said with an affability that was half-assumed. "Our good fortune in the sudden death of Mr Gilliatt has now been balanced by your misfortune in losing Moynihan and the Herr Professor and his mistress."
Lobke resented the implicit blame with a pout, and an insolent slumping of his frame into the hotel room's other armchair. The room seemed to have been partially commandeered by their mutual shopping, piled in one corner and in front of the wardrobe and on the second bed. Goessler was drinking a cold beer from the room's icebox, and masking his irritation and fears behind the rim of the glass. Outside, it was raining as evening came on. Lobke's arm was still in a sling. Flying glass from the Eastbourne explosion had sliced through his jacket and sweater and his flesh. He'd spent hours in hospital casualty before Goessler was able to take him back to London. He'd sat on the pavement clutching his bleeding arm while McBride and the Drummond woman headed for the car park, helpless and angry and in pain.
"But what do we do?" he asked plaintively.
"When you have recovered your strength and your temper, Rudi, we will take a trip to Cheltenham. That is where they will take him now, I'm certain. We must meet Professor McBride just once more, I think, to ensure that Moynihan and that damned woman have not jumped the gun." He waved his arms expansively round the room. "I'm certain there is nothing to worry about. McBride should be quite ready to talk to the newspapers about his discoveries—" He broke off to finish the glass of lager. He smacked his full lips loudly. "I do not think even the Provisional IRA can now make a mess of our scheme, Rudi. At least, I hope not. Guthrie will have resigned by the end of next week, and American pressure on Britain will raise an outcry that could even lead to demands for the total withdrawal of troops from the province. American pressure could be sustained for years. And where America leads, many follow. Ulster will be more of a running sore than it has ever been." He inspected his empty glass like a jewel or fine crystal, holding it delicately. "A quite satisfactory conclusion, I think — don't you, Rudi?"
* * *
He'd had to appear awake eventually, to avoid suspicion. As soon as he stirred, he registered that Moynihan ducked back out of his vision. The woman gave him two sleeping pills almost immediately, and he groggily accepted them, pretending to swallow both of them but keeping one under his tongue until she and Moynihan were satisfied that he had gone to sleep once more, and left the room together to order and sign for the hire car, locking him in.
He sat up, and spat out the second tablet. His head ached dully and his neck was stiff. His eyeballs still felt peeled and bald and naked, but he could see clearly now and they no longer ached intolerably. His face felt gritty and raw with the powder burns. He groaned, stifling the sound, as he stood up and his whole body protested. Slowly, each step a new and uncertain quest for balance, he crossed to the window and looked down into the street. Some passing traffic but not much, and only a few people about. Some children playing shrill, unskilled football, in bright cagoules and yellow and red plastic boots. He leaned against the window, the cold glass cooling his head. The room was on the first floor. He unlatched the window, and raised it.
Leaning out, he could see a narrow flower-bed like a margin along the fasade of the house. He had no plan, no idea of his whereabouts, and a desire to escape from Moynihan and the woman that came and went like a distant, illusory mirage. Weakness and betrayal unnerved him like an anaesthetic. He could not imagine who had been using him beyond Moynihan and the woman; so keen was the sense of betrayal he felt emanating from Claire Drummond that it bounded his horizon. She had used him. They wanted his researches to put at the disposal of the IRA — which meant Guthrie was the real target.
He teetered in the window frame, and grabbed the sill, steadying himself. He lifted one leg tiredly over the sill, and sat astride it, looking down and registering the flower-bed winking larger and smaller, undulating in width like a moving snake. He swung his other leg out, then turned to look back into the room as if he had forgotten something. His hands gripped the sill, his arms taking his weight while his legs dangled free. Then he dropped, his feet almost immediately striking the wet earth that resisted his impact, causing him to double over and fall sideways into a sitting position. The thorns of a blown rose stabbed through his trousers, keeping his attention fixed on his immediate circumstances. He felt as if he had been sleepless for days.
Slowly, cautiously he stood up, aware of the body that might default on him rather than any danger from Moynihan and the woman. He felt chilly now that the rain was soaking through his shirt. He stepped out of the flowerbed suddenly angry, a spurt of self-pity acting like adrenalin. He was going to get away from them, he'd see the bitch in hell before—
Moynihan was standing right beside him, his automatic drawn and thrust into McBride's side. The Irishman was angry and malevolent but already McBride didn't care, the last energy draining from him so that he slumped against Moynihan who had to strain to hold him upright.
"You bastard," Moynihan breathed in his ear, but McBride's head had slumped forward and he had regained unconsciousness.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Prisoners of Circumstance
October 198-
Walsingham felt caged and hampered by his room at the Home Office, sensed the heavy furnishings and dark panelling press upon his immediate concerns and make incongruous Exton's reports and his very presence. Exton, the complete functionary, was out of place there, too modern, too mechanical. Yet what he brought with him into the room promised some scarcely expected solution. At least it was a map with the names of places added, and footpaths clearly marked.
Walsingham was crippled in will by the sense of Nemesis that had assailed him all the way back from Guthrie's house — Guthrie left small and vulnerable and ridiculously youngly dressed on the steps, waving feebly — and would not leave him even here, on home ground. McBride was in the hands of the IRA, Emerald would come out and he would be finished. The justice of it impressed him.
"You can't trace this East German on your list — Goessler, you say?" he murmured, standing at the window watching legged umbrellas hunch down Birdcage Walk and across the Park. The sun of the early afternoon — how chilly it had been in Guthrie's study — had vanished like an omen, and the soaking, persistent drizzle had taken its place, seemingly for good.
The German connection — origin?
"No, sir. He hasn't flown out again, so he must still be in the UK. He hasn't booked out of his hotel room."
"That doesn't mean he'll go back there."
"No, sir."
"We have nothing on him — SIS has nothing on him?" Someone slipped on wet leaves at the corner of the Walk and Horse Guards, splaying onto his back. An old man who had to be helped to his feet. To his dismay, Walsingham was appalled by the minor accident, suffered it psychosomatically.
"No, sir. He's never been in the field, he's always been what he pretended to be — an academic. SIS understanding of the home-birds in the HVA isn't what it might be, sir."
"I appreciate that, Exton. Now, where is he?" The old man down on the wet pavement started on his way again, leaving those who had assisted hi
m as if he had been cast adrift. His progress was painfully slow. "We have to know where he is. He introduced McBride to the whole business of—" He was about to say Emerald, and clamped his mouth round the word, stifling it, " — this German invasion plan. It must have been his inspiration, this operation. There's no other explanation. Would you say?"
He turned suddenly to face the impassive Exton.
"No, sir," Exton commented without expression.
"The object of the exercise has been achieved, Exton — the IRA now has the man with the proof it needs. But, Goessler wouldn't want to miss the end. He's not going to leave the cinema early on this occasion, just to dodge the anthem—" Walsingham smiled, his lips curling round the metaphor. "It's such a devious plan, he'll be incautiously delighted with its success. Hire cars?"
"The Branch have got men on it, sir. They're still checking. The hotel switchboard can't help, and he didn't hire one through the desk."
"You think he's in London, don't you?"
"Most likely, sir."
"No. I think he's somewhere out of the way, a long way away from the point of the explosion—" His face narrowed, grew older and more cunning. An old man with a feverish grip on life. "Find the car and we'll find him, Exton."
"Yes, sir. What about McBride, when we find him?"
"I have — an idea for McBride, Exton. Let's find him first."
He dismissed Exton with a gesture of his hand, then returned to the window. The build-up of traffic splashed a red tail-light glow on the wet street, and rain sparkled in headlights. The slow movement of the traffic was appropriate to some solemn occasion, a funeral. He remembered Churchill's state funeral. Emerald might even have been necessary. Churchill had thought it so.
Goessler. Clever Professor Goessler of the university, and of the HVA. It might still not be too late—
Walsingham felt weary, and oppressed by a sense of justice moving large and blind against him, blundering down his castles of deception. He hated the need for some kind of expiation in himself. He would win, had to win.