"I don't know. It's a mystery, and mysteries intrigue me. Why should someone here issue an order like that, eyes only for the President? Convoys were going down every day, and most of them were reported routinely to the Navy Department, weren't they?"
"They were. Mm. Hang on, Professor. I'll check it out." He picked up the telephone extension, and asked for a Washington number. To hide his growing excitement, McBride pretended to study the files he had earlier discarded. It was Hoskins" convoy, heading for the southern approach to Britain, through the minefield — and expecting that minefield to be swept for them. It hadn't been, and minelayers had sailed from Milford—
Gillis was talking to a friend in the Navy Department, apparently, mincing through the social niceties of silicone cocktail waitresses and the permissive London scene and families — a sudden moralistic tone invading Gillis's voice — and old times, then Gillis asked about Fitzgerald.
"Old buddy, you were hot on the period at Annapolis. Who was Fitzgerald?" He listened. McBride caught himself straining for the repJy, which was long and voluble. Then niceties again, after the explanation, then the connection severed with a chuckle by Gillis. "That guy, I could tell you—" He was struck by the intense, burning look in McBride's eyes. "I got you an answer. Boston banker thick with the President. Sent over on some fact-finding mission, maybe. Anyway, he was what they started calling a "Special Envoy" around that time." He shrugged. "Poor guy — seasick all the way, I bet, then he gets his ass blown off two days out from England."
"Yes," McBride said strangely. "Poor guy."
Minesweepers, minelayers, St George's Channel, an American envoy, a cover-up—
It had to be worth a million, maybe more. It had to be—
The man's name was Treacey. Moynihan had met him only three or four times in the last year, to receive instructions on policy initiation or to make reports on tactical progress. Treacey spent much of his time on the mainland as Operations Commandant. Ulster was not, officially, his concern or under his jurisdiction. Nevertheless, he represented Moynihan's superiors as he sat opposite him in the Bloomsbury hotel room, and Moynihan had to abide the man's anger, however much he inwardly squirmed and however unjustified he felt it to be. He concentrated on keeping his face inexpressive, neutral as Treacey's accusations stung him.
"Then Goessler had this man Hoskins killed in case you got to him — that's what you're suggesting, is it, Sean?" There was a weighted, clumsy irony, and the broad, loose face opened beneath the pudgy nose in what might have been a smile. It appeared to Moynihan as nothing more than a vehicle of threat; Treacey's smiles always did. He nodded. "Ah, Sean, the General Staff are concerned to gain control of this business." He paused, but not for any reply. His body and face impressed a tangible weight on the much smaller-framed Moynihan. "You've done very well up to now—" There was a lightness of tone that denied the truth of the compliment, " — but you're not in control here, Goessler is. Now, we may owe Herr Goessler and the organization he represents—" Moynihan was aware once more of the affection Treacey had for his own voice, his own ideas, " — and we're grateful to him for his present scheme. But he doesn't seem to want us to get hold of it. Time is getting short, as you well know, and if anything is to be done, then it will have to be done by us. We have to know the details of Goessler's scheme and put it into action ourselves. You understand me?"
Again, Moynihan nodded, despising the dryness he felt at the back of his throat. He did not want to swallow; his prominent Adam's apple would betray him if he did so. He could not even clear his throat without an admission of subordination.
"Yes, I understand." He was grateful for the ease and volume with which the words emerged. He sat more forward in his chair, matching the hunched posture of Treacey opposite him. "I agree with you. Goessler thinks we can't handle the operation. He's going to hand us the result like a sweet for a kid!"
"The indications are that the bloody meetings next week will reach an agreement. They'll agree to go on helping the British from Dublin — time's very short. What do you intend to do?"
"Hoskins obviously gave some indication to McBride, to lead him on. McBride's next move should be to act on what he knows or suspects. We have to go on watching him—"
"That might not be enough. What about the girl?" His face twisted in mistrust and contempt. Treacey loathed the Marxism which tinged the girl's attitudes. She was, for him, little different from Goessler and the East Germans and the PLO and the Russians — anyone who helped them for their own ends. The girl was English, anyway, even if she had been born in County Cork. Privilege, education, money enough to make her comfortable. Like Dugdale, an intellectual convert, or perhaps just a fanatical dilettante. He mistrusted her anyway. She should belong to the INLA, not the Provisional, with her ideology. "What about her? She's getting into bed with McBride. What does she know about his investigations?"
"She didn't see the notebooks before they were stolen."
"And who stole them?"
"It must have been Goessler — it was Goessler. Like removing Hoskins, to drive McBride along the right path." Treacey looked doubtful, disbelieving. "I'm certain it had to be Goessler," he added hurriedly, angry with himself for showing even that much weakness.
"So you may be, Sean. I hope to God you're right. The girl had better start going everywhere with McBride, instead of spending her time in department stores. Tell her that, from the General Staff." Treacey suddenly looked as if there were others behind him, physical presences who had impressed, disturbed him. He added: "If we bomb or shoot Guthrie, then we make a martyr of him, like Neave. He's got to be disgraced. But, they're getting impatient. They've given us — you, a week and no more. Then they're threatening to pick up Goessler themselves and squeeze it out of him."
"They can't—"
"I know. They shouldn't, but they will unless there's an alternative. Which means, you've created a Frankenstein. You were responsible for the adoption of this plan of Goessler's, and now you've got them so hooked on it they can't think of anything else except running it themselves. If it doesn't work, you'll be to blame, Sean." Treacey's upper lip was damp. His own standing with the General Staff in Belfast had evidently dropped. He wasn't speaking from strength and the realization of his weakness came as no comfort to Moynihan. They were hungry for a decisive blow against the Agreement, and very afraid of the following week's meetings. They had to have results, even if they invoked the wrath of the East Germans. They evidently saw Goessler's operation as the hammer-blow, the war-winning tactic, the final solution. Moynihan was afraid.
It was evident that Treacey blamed him exactly as he would have blamed the carrier of a disease that had infected him..He said, "I — they've just got to be patient. Goessler is someone we have to trust—"
"Is he someone we can trust?"
Moynihan nodded, then opened his hands. "I think so."
"Belfast is desperate for results. The feedback is worrying them. Guthrie may well carry the day. That's why you only have a week. Get something by then."
He stood up, as if anxious now to depart. Moynihan, busy with his own thoughts, did not bother to see him out. When Treacey had gone, however, he poured himself a large whiskey, swallowing it greedily, a suppressed tremor running through his body as if he had taken some unpalatable medicine or a poison. The room depressed and diminished him. It was no scene for grand designs, for solutions to problems. He wanted to go out, walk off his mood, but decided against it.