Guthrie, casual in sweater and slacks and looking ten years younger than his age, was waiting for him on the steps of the house as the Daimler came to a noisy halt on the gravel drive. Guthrie came towards him, hand extended. The warmth of the handshake seemed to require response, seek comfort. Guthrie's eyes, as if scales of confidence had dropped from them, been surgically removed by the bright autumnal sunlight, were darting, nervous, worried. Walsingham, as he was ushered into the spacious hall of the house and his light overcoat taken from him by the assiduous Guthrie, merely confirmed with a nod that McBride was to be removed from the board. Guthrie, at the desired signal, appeared instantly more affable, relaxed. He took Walsingham into the drawing-room and introduced hmi to his younger, still-beautiful Eurasian wife. He'd married her before he'd entered politics in the election of 1951, while he was still serving with the Royal Navy in the Far East. She was lithe, gracious, able to put men at their ease without ever inviting more than their conversation. Guthrie poured the drinks.
The telephone call from Walsingham's office came while they were still eating the hors d" oeuvre, smoked chicken served with an avocado mousse and a slightly chilled white Burgundy. Walsingham took the call in Guthrie's study, which overlooked the extensive gardens at the back of the house. Two soldiers were talking to a police dog-handler on the terrace outside, but they disturbed Walsingham rather than reassured him. But the feeling was vague and obscure, and was dismissed as soon as Exton started speaking.
"Ryan is dead? Walsingham repeated bemusedly. The sun obviously did not enter this room until late afternoon, and the study felt chilly. Walsingham lowered himself gingerly onto the edge of Guthrie's walnut desk and fiddled immediately with the gold pen resting near the blotter. He did not, however, make any notes. "How?"
"Shot twice at point-blank range, through the head—"
"Wait, when was this?" Walsingham felt an urgency pluck at him.
"His body was found a couple of hours ago."
"Where?"
"Behind a multi-storey car park in Eastbourne. It had been thrown from one of the upper floors, but he was dead before that. The pathologist's report suggests yesterday afternoon or early evening — which is why we didn't hear from him last night."
"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—