"Then we wouldn't have made the connection between Taggart and Simms," I said.
"I'm not sure how important that is in the larger scheme of things. What you have to understand is that there always will be a divide in Ireland. The solution is managing it."
"And managing it is more important than recovering the stolen weapons?"
"Fifty automatic weapons are serious, I grant you. But I had an opportunity to maintain an equilibrium, possibly for years. What's fifty guns, which may or may not ever be used, against that?"
"I get nervous when people who work for outfits like MI-5 use words like equilibrium when they mean murder, even if the victims are killers themselves. Call it what it is; don't try to dress it up. At best, you're a vigilante," I said.
"And at worst?" She traced a line on the glass, her finger leaving an arc in the condensation.
"That's not for me to say. Uncle Dan once told me that we all know the worst of ourselves, and that it's only the truly evil who let themselves off the hook."
"I saved lives. I did."
"Yes," I said, but at what cost to her soul? I wasn't the one to judge her, I knew that much.
We stopped at an intersection as a column of trucks crossed in front of us. A sign pointed toward Lurgan, where tomorrow at this time the Royal Black Knights would be gathering at Brownlow House to honor their American cousins and do whatever secret societies did. Some sort of ritual perhaps? Funny clothes, handshakes, odd titles? I wondered if Cosgrove was a worshipful master of some sort, and if he'd enjoy being saluted as such. Maybe I should drop in and give all those Protestant bigwigs a real Boston Irish surprise.
"What do you know about the Royal Black Knights? Are they really a harmless bunch of lodge brothers?"
"Harmless implies a lack of power, which they are not short of. They are a step above the Orange societies and provide stability among the professional classes. Not dangerous but hardly harmless."
"All heavy hitters?"
"Pardon me?"
"Important men. Movers and shakers."
"Ah, I see. Yes. I can't think of any leader in business or government, not to mention the military, who isn't a member."
"And you would know. You probably have files on all of them."
"Lists of members, certainly. Some names are too important to keep dossiers on. At least in the official files."
"Really? Well, maybe you won't have to worry about losing your job if you know all those secrets."
"It wouldn't be my job I'd be worried about," Slaine said.
"What do you mean?"
"My position offers certain protections. But I do have enemies, and it might be difficult to sort out who was responsible if one of them got to me. After what happened today, have you rethought the matter of the bomb at the hotel?"
"No. It must have been Taggart, right? He had a supply of plastic explosive."
"I don't buy it. Think about it. He must have already set up Jenkins's death and planned the trap for all of us. Then why go through all the trouble of planting that bomb to kill me the night before? It doesn't make sense. He's the one suspect we can eliminate."
"You're right," I said. "Simms?"
"I don't see why. He's already taken care of Brennan and Burnham. As far as he knows, we haven't made the connection between him and Taggart yet."
"So who else wants you dead?"
"That could be a long list. The real question is who needed me dead now?"
I didn't have an answer for that. Thinking about all the people who'd like to kill you doesn't make for cheery conversation, so I let it drop as Slaine gazed at her reflection in the window. I couldn't tell if there were tears in her eyes or if it was the rain splattering against the glass.
We passed the Lug o' the Tub Pub and the boreen leading to Grady O'Brick's cottage. We pulled up in front of Simms's house. Rain dripped off the thatch but the smell of a fire promised warmth. I knocked on the heavy wooden door as Slaine and I huddled beneath the overhanging thatch, water catching our backs.
"Yes?" Mrs. Simms said, opening the door wide. "Are you looking for Adrian?"
"Yes, ma'am, we are. May we come in?" She stood there, the wind blowing rain into the house and carrying her loose black hair into swirls around her head.
"Of course, forgive me," she finally said, as if she'd just woken up. "Lieutenant Boyle, isn't it? Here, let me take your coats, it's a sinful night to be out."
"This is Subaltern Slaine O'Brien," I said, shaking the water off my trench coat. She nodded at Slaine as she helped her with her raincoat with no trace of animosity. From the little I'd seen of her, and from what I'd heard about her, I didn't expect a warm welcome for two Catholics. But Slaine was in a British uniform, and that probably helped. She hung our coats on pegs near the door, and gestured to chairs near the fire.
"Please, sit." She clutched a shawl at her breast as she sat on a straight-back chair, leaving the two cushioned seats for her guests. It was all very cordial but there was something about her hair and the way she gripped the shawl that looked wrong. Before, she had been very prim and tidy. Now she looked like a wild woman, her hand crushing the shawl in her grip.
"We need Adrian's help," Slaine said, smoothing out her skirt. "Have you seen him today?"
"He's my husband, isn't he?" she said, evading the question. "All the same, I don't think you should count on him for much help."
"We're all on the same side, Mrs. Simms," I said. "I know there are differences here that go back centuries but we do have a common enemy."
"You know, I said the same thing to Adrian just this morning. That whatever happened in the past, we all have to do our part now."
"This morning?" Slaine said. "Was that when you saw him last?"
"Oh no, I've seen him since then. What do you need him for?"
"It's important," Slaine said.
"German agents," I said. "We need him to help us find German agents." I watched her face as she looked back and forth, at us, around the room, to the door leading to what had to be the kitchen, as if she expected Adrian to walk in at any moment. "Are you expecting someone? Is Adrian here?"
"Do you think I don't know where my own husband is? Do you think I'm mad, is that it? He's my husband, he is. A good, God-fearing Protestant. No more, no less. A man I'll spend my life with, right here, in this house. Not off to some other land."
"Mrs. Simms?" Slaine prompted. Something about the woman's conversation was odd.
A faint odor penetrated my senses. Not the scent of the peat fire, not the smell of a cigarette. Something else.
"When you marry," Mrs. Simms said, cautioning Slaine, "you expect your husband to be who he says he is. But all men have secrets, I suppose. One secret, even a shameful one, could be forgiven. But not another. Not one that betrays everything you hold dear."
She began to cry, with big gulping sobs. She let go of the shawl, her hand covered her mouth, and the shawl slipped from her heaving shoulders. Her blouse was stained dark red between her breasts, but there was no wound. Then I recognized the odor. Cordite lingered in the air, the faintly peppery smell of spent gunpowder drawing out another terrible and familiar scent.
"Have Finch drive to the pub and call Carrick," I said to Slaine as I walked to the kitchen door. Mrs. Simms was hunched over now, silent, her head buried in her hands. I entered the narrow room, the smell of death heavy in the air. Gunpowder and blood, whiskey and piss. Adrian Simms faced me, seated at the end of a small kitchen table, his face tilted toward the ceiling, his mouth slack. His revolver lay on the table, surrounded by a box of shells and cleaning gear. Bore brush, rags, an old toothbrush, and solvent. A bottle of whiskey had been tipped over, the amber liquid soaking into the tabletop. A broken glass lay on the floor.