"No — Barbarossa was on the road by then." Goessler seemed tempted by the racks of suits, studied a conservative brown one, held it out from the rack while Lobke guarded the parcels — aware, briefly, of the irony of the IRA bomb-panic that inspired the assistant's concern. Goessler swiftly selected jacket and trousers, and returned to Lobke without trying on the jacket. An Arab passed them, carrying four jackets, followed by his veiled wife. Both East Germans watched the couple, shaking their heads, smiling.
"Will McBride be of sufficient use to us?"
"The good Professor? Of course. He will be back in London within a couple of days. Then he will begin to look at Admiralty records, and we all know what he will discover there—" Goessler grinned in a way that was almost good-natured, kindly. He looked at his suit, nodded. "I believe the Americans would call it dirty for dirty. Oh yes, my dear Rudi — and how dirty it all is!"
Someone who spoke German looked at Goessler then at a nearby Oriental, and nodded in complicity.
A bell began ringing. Neither Goessler nor Lobke heeded it, Lobke already collecting his parcels and unbought clothes and heading for the topcoats next to the suits. Goessler shook his head as the younger man walked away, followed him clutching his own prospective purchases. The bell went on ringing. People moved past them.
Lobke was pulling himself into a leather topcoat when the assistant approached them, the young woman who had reminded Lobke not to leave his packages unattended.
I'm sorry, but the bell means you must leave the store," she announced calmly. Goessler seemed to attend to the bell for the first time, cocking his head as if to hear it more clearly. Lobke, one arm hitched into the topcoat, looked stunned.
"I am sorry—" Goessler said, watching the customers trooping towards the exits, canteen staff passing down one of the escalators, the blue overalls of the sales staff more evident than ever. The doors out into Oxford Street and Orchard Street were wide open.
"Would you please put down all the items you haven't paid for — just on the floor, and leave by the Orchard Street exit." She pointed across the shop. The bell insisted.
Lobke looked betrayed, mocked. He let his arm sag back out of the coat, studied the mound of cellophane-wrapped garments on the floor by his feet, and looked to Goessler as to a parent, who would somehow reverse the logic of events. Goessler laid down his own unpurchased items, picked up the bags that belonged to both of them, and simply nodded.
"Thank you," he said to the assistant. Their corner of the ground floor seemed suddenly empty. Lobke trailed after him, joining the orderly flow towards Orchard Street. He was sulking, pouting at Goessler.
"Damn," he muttered. "Shit and damn."
"There is an irony, my dear Rudi — perhaps it serves us right, you know?"
"Will we be able to come back in?" Lobke asked eagerly.
"Not for hours — the police will be here to search the store thoroughly. That will take the rest of the afternoon. I suppose it serves us right. Dear Herr Moynihan and his friends. We must look on the bright side, Rudi."
They came out into Orchard Street. Someone was holding a placard high, instructing the staff of M. & S. to congregate on the forecourt of the Selfridge Hotel, across the other side of Orchard Street. Customers drifted away towards Oxford Street.
"Come, Rudi," Goessler offered. "We will try Selfridge's." Lobke appeared unconsoled. "After all, if there is a bomb in the store, you may have arranged its shipment to Herr Moynihan yourself!" Goessler laughed, slapping Lobke on the back.
McBride was sitting in an armchair beside the fireplace when Drummond arrived. Maureen was sewing, looking up in occasional disapproval at the plaster adorning McBride's forehead. She had been gruffly solicitous when he returned the previous night after unsuccessfully scouting for the vanished German; then, when she thought him asleep, her hands had traced his face and shoulders and hair again and again in delicate butterfly-touches, something she would not do, feeling herself not permitted, when he was conscious. Waking was a barrier between them; he was never helpless enough when his eyes were open.
"You're all right?" Drummond asked while Maureen made tea for him. McBride nodded, seemed instantly to regret the motion of his head, and grinned tiredly.
"He wanted to kill me," McBride observed without emotion. "He could have run at first, but he wanted to kill me. And he was an expert." He had lowered his voice and kept his eyes on the door to the tiny kitchen. "Now, why do they send that kind of man, all of a sudden, do you suppose?"
"I wonder if the man they landed last night was of the same ilk?" Drummond murmured.
"Another one?" Drummond nodded.
"Oh, yes — becoming quite a popular holiday resort, the Cork coast. That's four we haven't traced, four in the last couple of weeks. Hardly a sniff of them, from Cork to Bantry, but they're all in the area somewhere."
"Are they working as a team?"
"I don't know. Your chap was on his own — before last night. Perhaps the others are, too?" He spread his hands as if warming them at the fire. "Whether they're here on the same job would be a more profitable speculation, perhaps."
Maureen McBride brought in the teacups on a tray, and poured out tea for the three of them. Drummond was polite, but made no attempt to engage her in conversation while he drank. For some obscure reason, Maureen McBride disturbed him. Her silences were not abstractions so much as vivid, careful attention. He felt as if he were being spied upon; and he felt that too little of the woman appeared on the surface, a sense of her withholding herself, to disarm his suspicions as to her opinion of him.
When he had finished his tea, he said: "If you're fit, I think we should have our own scout about, don't you?" He watched Maureen for signs of agitation, but she merely studied her sewing. Mending one of McBride's shirts, it appeared. McBride nodded in reply.
"You've checked out the cottage?"
"Oh, yes. I think he had a pushbike in one of the outhouses."
"Yes, I let the tyres down with a skewer."
"He came back for it. His puncture kit was on the floor, and the bowl of water to look for the bubbles." McBride looked crestfallen. "Don't worry. It just shows he wasn't going far, mm? He ran off, then came back after you'd left. Cool customer. He must intend staying on for a bit yet."
He stood up.
"Goodbye, Captain Drummond," Maureen said suddenly. Drummond nodded to her, and went out to wait for McBride in the car. McBride studied his wife as if he had just received a new and surprising insight into her character. He crossed to her, pulled her to her feet and kissed her quickly.
"Now, don't worry. Drummond will look after me."
"I'm not worried. But, take care, just for a bit of a change, will you?" She touched his face, once, with her right hand. He did not seem to resent the gesture, kissed her again.
"All right, I'll be careful, Maureen." He saw concern flicker in her eyes despite her control, and witnessed in that moment the small, important distance they had travelled back towards each other since the beginning of his work for Drummond and the British. He had acquired a mistress she could not rival, and she accepted that. To himself, he had emerged from some chrysalis state into a self his pre-war personality could not match. He kissed her again, more gently and in understanding, and squeezed her to him as if to erase all distance between them. Then he let her go as Drummond sounded his car-horn, and his attention, she could see, was instantly elsewhere. The moment had only a diminished and awkward meaning for him. "I'll be back tonight," he said almost guiltily, and went out. She watched him shut the door behind him, shutting her off.