But, she wanted to talk to Moynihan, now before they went out to dinner. It was obviously of importance in Goessler's scheme that this minefield business be exposed — or McBride was on the wrong trail altogether. If he was, then they were all wasting their time and Moynihan would have to make demands of Goessler, get out of him the stuff that would dynamite the meetings between Dublin and London.
It didn't seem like much, a drunken Scotsman's deposition before a disciplinary hearing, but that was their trouble — they didn't know what was important and what was not. Goessler had offered them a scheme he said was foolproof, had been more than a year in the making, and could not fail. They'd been greedy for it on both sides of the border, especially when Guthrie was the big prize. Guthrie was a winner, and he had to go — especially now, when he looked like keeping Dublin in that bloody Anglo-Irish Agreement. That had to be stopped.
She plucked the receiver off the rest as McBride went into an off-key version of a Neil Diamond song. She hesitated, listening, then dialled rapidly, tugging the cord she held in her left hand in time to each ring of the receiver at the other end. Seven, eight, nine — she was about to put it down when Moynihan answered.
"Listen, I haven't much time. He's found something that might or might not be important. Has it anything to do with a minefield, for God's sake?"
"Minefield? Goessler just called me, told me everything was satisfactory, fat bastard—"
"Never mind that!" she whispered fiercely. "Listen. The Germans opened a channel through the British minefield in November 1940 — it must have something to do with the invasion plan. Where does that put us?" There was an exclusive, secretive emphasis on the last word.
"Christ, Claire, I don't know—"
"We have to get one up on Goessler. We can't afford for McBride to be following the wrong scent, that bloody bastard Guthrie has everyone dancing to his tune—!" She realized her hoarse, fierce whisper had grown louder, more intense, and glanced at the open door, paused to listen to McBride's whistling. Beethoven now. McBride the musical eclectic—
"What do you want me to do?" Moynihan was resignedly subordinate.
"How does Goessler know what McBride is doing? He must have someone inside—"
"Could be."
"Find out, then. For God's sake, Sean, go over there tomorrow and find out how Goessler is keeping his eye on McBride—" And then McBride was standing in the doorway, towelling his hair, another big towel draped round him. He was grinning perplexedly. That's right, McBride — eight-thirty. Thank you." She turned to him. "The restaurant — I was just checking the reservation," she explained.
He crossed to her, kissed her. She eased her lips into softness, responsiveness, as their mouths met.
"You'll have to learn, my darling, that I can organize dinner, if we're going anywhere with this affair—" The statement became almost a question. She kissed him again, moving her open mouth against his. His hand slipped inside her robe, kneading her breast.
She laughed, pushed him playfully away. "I'm hungry."
"Not as hungry as I am," he said with evident meaning, looking for something in her face, her eyes. She blenched inwardly at the intensity of his gaze. Then, even as she smiled, she dismissed him, removed him to a distance in her imagination where he was merely the instrument of her purpose.
Sir Charles Walsingham was studying papers at home. He was seated on a green-covered sofa, legs crossed, malt whisky at his elbow on a leather-inset table, subdued lighting from the standard lamps and the wall-lighting falling yellowly on the material on his lap. The hands which sifted the reports and transcripts seemed little to do with him, operating robotically. The big room, richly carpeted, elegantly appointed — Walsingham had inherited the bulk of his mother's estate some years before, and purchased the lease of this flat and a country cottage — was close as a bandage around him. He felt a pressure round his temple like the onset of a migraine. He knew that unless he drank a great deal more of the Glenmorangie he would not sleep much.
McBride had worked first from the German end, turning up clues in the Bundesarchiv in Koblenz — so said the rushed report of an SIS agent in West Germany, via a contact in the BfV. The head of the intelligence branch of the British security machine had agreed to carry out the investigation for Walsingham without question. He would expect the same co-operation from the DS, counter-intelligence. Unlike many former heads of the two branches of the service, Walsingham worked smoothly and closely with his opposite number.
Then McBride had come to England, to find that Gilliatt had died of a heart attack — no doubt about that, apparently, from the report of one of his own men who had interviewed the doctor who had signed the death certificate. Then to Ireland, and Drummond—
Walsingham shifted his body on the sofa in discomfoit. McBride was homing like an arrow. What had he been doing in East Berlin, whom had he met, what discovered? That report would take a lot longer to prepare, and might never be satisfactory, though SIS were attempting the task.
Drummond sent him back to England with the daughter, who once — falsely? — had some connection with known IRA men. Another Dugdale, they'd thought, but not so, Irish Special Branch had confirmed a couple of years before. Drummond had refused to amplify his telephone call, claiming when interviewed that morning by a Special Branch man from London that he merely wished Walsingham — who had been concerned in the Emerald affair — to know that McBride was digging into a past that might "create certain local difficulties".
And McBride was now at Admiralty Records, Hackney; and had been reading the MILFORD HAVEN/DMS files. Close, but how close?
Walsingham went on sitting, sipping his whisky, and staring at the papers in front of him. He arrived at his decision close to midnight. He had not spoken to Guthrie as yet, reversing his decision of the previous day. He would again postpone that conversation. Instead, clumsy and obvious though it was, he would remove temptation from McBride.
He got up heavily and crossed to the telephone. He dialled the number of the duty operations room in Curzon Street House, and spoke to Clarke, the Surveillance Director.
"John — the McBride matter. I want the records removed from Hackney tonight, and McBride's notebooks must be recovered. And I want McBride watched from now on. All contacts, everything." He paused while Clarke suggested the operatives he would deploy. "Good. Oh, and the East Germans. I want to know whether there are any unaccounted for, or who've just moved onto the patch. No, I don't think anything, but I want to be sure. Oh, and watch the girl, too — just in case."
He stood by the telephone for some moments after ending the call, remembering his one trip on a submarine, to pick up McBride's father and Gilliatt off Brest. A nasty business. He was going to wipe all trace of Emerald from the records, for the second time. He felt as if he were wiping out McBride — dear Michael — betraying the best field-agent he had ever known and one of his few friends.
But, better that than what he might have to do to the son if he went on with it, turned up some of the real dirt. That he could hardly bear to consider, even though it was there at the back of his mind, waiting for a summons to the fore-brain. He had hated sending the father to Brest, dangerously underbriefed and underprotected, but the son—
Let him stop, he told himself almost in a prayer. Let Michael's son stop now.